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by a slave.
137
At his command the water blushed,
And all was turned to wine,
And in redundance flowed afresh,
And owned its God divine.
Behold the storms at his rebuke,
All calm upon the sea—
How can we for another look,
When none can work as he?
This is enough—it must be God,
From whom the plagues are driven;
At whose command the mountains nod
And all the Host of Heaven!
ON SPRING.
Hail, thou auspicious vernal dawn!
Ye birds, proclaim the winter's gone,
Ye warbling minstrels sing;
Pour forth your tribute as ye rise,
And thus salute the fragrant skies
The pleasing smiles of Spring.
Coo sweetly, oh thou harmless Dove,
And bid thy mate no longer rove
In cold, hybernal vales;
Let music rise from every tongue,
12*
