BIRTHDAY IN PRISON, APRIL 12, 1839. This is the day that gave me birth In eighteen hundred seven; From worlds unseen I came to earth, Far from my native heaven. Thirty and two long years have pass'd, To grief and sorrow given; And now to crown my woes at last I am confined in prison. 'Tis not for crimes that I have done That to my foes I'm given, But to the world I am unknown, And my reward's in heaven. What troubled scenes may yet ensue To strew my path with sorrow, Is not for me to know, 'tis true, I boast not of to-morrow. One thing is sure, this life at best Is like a troubled ocean; I often wish myself at rest From all its dire commotion. But let its troubled bosom heave, Its surges beat around me; To truth, eternal truth, I cleave, Its floods can never drown me. ZION IN CAPTIVITY. A LAMENTATION. WRITTEN IN PRISON. Torn from our friends and captive led, 'Mid armed legions bound in chains, That peace for which our fathers bled Is gone, and dire confusion reigns. Zion, our peaceful happy home, Where oft we joined in praise and prayer, A desolation has become, And grief and sorrow linger there. Her virgins sigh, her widows mourn, Her children for their parents weep; In chains her priests and prophets groan, While some in deaths cold arms do sleep. Exultingly her savage foes Now ravage, steal and plunder, where A virgin's, tears, a widow's woes, Became their song of triumph there. How long, O Lord, wilt thou forsake The saints who tremble at thy word? Awake, O arm of God, awake-- And teach the nations thou art God. Descend with all thy holy throng, The year of thy redeem'd bring near; Haste--haste the day of vengeance on-- Bid Zion's children dry their tears. Deliver, Lord, thy captive saints, And comfort those who long have mourn'd; Bid Zion cease her dire complaints, And all creation cease to groan. OUR COUNTRY. AN EXTRACT. WRITTEN IN PRISON. Here nature too, her grandest works display; Sublimest themes inspire the Poet's lays, As if creative power in skill progressed, As onward still it moved towards the west. Till here it finished with a master hand Its mightiest works--to excel all other lands. In awful majesty our mountains rise, O'erlook the clouds, and tower amid the skies, Their lofty summits bid defiance bold, They fear no rival heights in older worlds. 'Tis true Himmaleh, (Asia's highest peak,) Has dared with Chimborazo to compete; But then our rocky summits--scarce explored Some nameless rival heights may yet afford; Whose towering pride shall seize the starry crown, And cast Himmaleh, humbled, to the ground.