Angels of good, they shed abroad
  The spirit of the dove;
For He who gave them, is a God
                Of love.

Angels of light—­they make a heaven
  Of such a world as this—­
They make the rugged pathway even,
                To Bliss.

Angels of Earth—­but we shall see
  These angels yet again;
Where angels, robed in purity,
                E’er reign.

AUSTRALIA; OR, THE NEW GOLDEN AGE.

In ancient days, in old, immortal Rome,
Where virtues, surnamed Roman, had their home;
When Virtue triumphed over Vice, and threw
Across their annals, a more lovely hue;
When every citizen was proud to be
The state’s fast friend, and venal bribes would flee;
When manhood wrote upon each lofty brow
That glorious seal which makes the meaner bow;
When Industry, Art, Science, Learning cast
That light o’er Rome which gilds her to the last;
The Roman minstrel caught the sacred flame,
And made that age the chosen child of fame: 
The Golden Age recalled the happy hour,
When man walked sinless in the first, sweet bower. 
Such was the glorious golden Age of yore,—­
That golden Age of virtue is no more. 
The modern, brighter, happier Age of Gold;—­
Oh! dost thou mean that Vice lies dead and cold
In her detested grave, where none will shed,
Not even her slaves, a tear above her, dead—­
That Virtue lives—­the rainbow child of heaven,
And holds the balance in these centuries even?

The Golden Age! the words are still the same,—­
The meaning once man’s glory—­now his shame. 
Hail thou new Golden Age!  O heavenly Age! 
Mankind sustains thee with a noble rage: 
All, all unite to gild thee with some rays
Of gathered light—­themselves with shining praise. 
See! how they rush, and leave sweet childhood’s home,
The serf his hut, the lordly man his dome,
Forsakes, with callous heart, each hallow’d scene,
The oft frequented tree, the shady green;
Swift, swift they fly to see the realms of gold,
And think to reap the joy their raving fancies told. 
Ye, isles of Britain! see them quickly leave
Your rocky coasts, and never deign to grieve. 
Ye, sunny shores of France! behold them start
Nor shed one teardrop, as your ships depart. 
Ye love-charmed bowers of Spain! your Houris’ eyes
Are rayless now—­for brighter lustre vies! 
Ye, boundless plains, and giant hills, that rise
In craggy pride, and prop Columbia’s skies,
Ye view your maddened sons, with guilty haste,
Roll from your shores and tempt the watery waste—­
Forgotten every claim that Virtue knows,
Despised the scenes, where early childhood rose,
Swift to the land of gold, they, joyful, flee,
Nor care the sacred joys of home again to see. 
Lo! where they rush, and leave the drooping land—­
Unseen the parting tear, the loved one’s waving hand. 
Thus they depart—­if those who walk the main,
But few shall view their native scenes again.