326 MARCH, AT DENMARK HILL.
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.
It findeth here 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.
��c
��Young children, with their sparkling eyes,
Culled its fresh buds for me, Before they knew its hallowed name
Was Hospitality.
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