Beside the convent's wicket-gate
In ancient times it bent,
And blossoms still on Asia's sands,
By the roving Arab's tent.
Upon Mount Bernard's cloud-wrapt cliff,
Where the bitter tempest blows,
It patient bides the chilling blast
Of everlasting snows.
And where our poor, red forest-race,
Beside their fathers' grave,
Had once a home, its foliage fair
Did o'er their cabins wave.
Here too it finds a genial soil,
And putteth forth each morn
A rose-cup in an evergreen,
That hath no hidden thorn.
It bloometh for the stranger's hand,
And when it shuts at night,
Doth leave behind a secret spell,
To make his visions bright.
Young children, with their sparkling eyes,
Culled its fresh buds for me,
Before they knew its hallowed name
Was Hospitality.
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MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL.
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