XXVIII.

Yet many a sad reality is there, That Fancy’s bright illusions cannot veil. Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air, But Slavery’s mien will tell its bitter tale; And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws Delusive quiet o’er full many a scene-- Deep as the brooding torpor of repose That follows where the earthquake’s track hath been; Or solemn calm on Ocean’s breast that lies, When sinks the storm, and death has hush’d the seamen’s cries.