Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
The groves were God's first temples.
Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.