Felicia Hemans

Anonymous, "To Mrs. Hemans" The Souvenir [Philadelphia] 1 (30 April 1828) 377.

Pride of our age, thy golden chords,
Touched by seraphic fire,
Breathe o'er our hearts the burning words
That sweep along our lyre.
And while we live, thy lofty strain,
Is bound around us as a chain,
It is not of the things that die.

What though Atlantic's foam-crowned wave
Rolls far between our land,
Encircling, in its fold, the grave
Of many an ardent band:
Yet o'er its blasts, and o'er their moan,
The lyre is heard to sigh,
Its breathings for our land and home,
"They are not of the things that die."

The "pilgrim spirits watch the swell,
As o'er the wave 'tis flung,
And over sea, and hill, and dell,
All, all our aspirations sent,
Our prayers which rise on high,
Are with thy peace and welfare blent,
"They are not of the things that die."

Go on, and add to glory's wreath
More garlands such as thine,
Dispel the clouds and chase the grief
From brows where peace should shine,
Till then thou shalt form a crown, which Fame,
With brightly beaming eye,
Will place above thy lofty name,
Among the things that never die.