Are there words that can describe What thou wast, at liberty, When "The Lion of the tribe Of Judah" names his type in thee? Here, beneath thy keeper's hand, Where the blasts of winter freeze, Think'st thou of that palmy land, Thy mild country o'er the seas? Seen but through thy prison bars, Round thee set so strong and thick, Do not sun, and moon, and stars Make thy cowering spirit sick? Grace, and majesty, and power Were thy gifts by nature made; Yet, in one unhappy hour, All to lose, wast thou betrayed. When thou first was snared and caught, Never after to be free, How thy mighty spirit wrought In thee, like a troubled sea! But thou didst not, couldst not think Of the deep indignity, To which thou then wast doomed to sink-- Of the exile thou must be. Oh! that quenched and languid eye Tells me of a pining heart: Homesick prisoner, sooner die Than remain the thing thou art. Liberty to me and mine-- Liberty is life and breath! So no less to thee and thine-- Bonds to both but lingering death. THE TRAVELLER AT THE RED SEA. At last have I found thee, thou dark, rolling sea! I gaze on thy face, and I listen to thee, With spirit o'erawed by the sight and the sound, While mountain and desert frown gloomy around. And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold, Which God swept apart for his people of old-- That Egypt's proud army, unstained by their blood, Received on thy bed, to entomb in thy flood. I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down: A throng of pale spectres, no waters can drown, With banner and blades, seem to rise on the waves, As Pharaoh's bold hosts rushed in arms to their graves. But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw, At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe; And each sinks away in his billowy shroud, From him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud. I stand by the pass, the freed Hebrews then trod, Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod; And think how the song of salvation, they sang, With praise to his name, through the wilderness rang. Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide, Console, and rebuke in their wanderings wide, From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear, O still in life's maze, to thy pilgrim be near! Let sins, that would hold in their service, or slay The soul, that would break from their bondage away, Forever be drowned in the blood of thy Son, Who o'er sin and death hath the victory won.