To-morrow let us do or die. - Thomas Campbell

Can all that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow? When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.

There shall he love when genial morn appears,
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.