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“Exile ! raise your drooping head, The Monarch of the Knout is dead!"

Send the welcome tidings forth,
O'er the pine woods of the North-
Finland ! arm you for the fight
With the hated 'Muscovite-
Swedes ! whom great Gustavus led,
Claim your own

-the Tyrant's dead ! Bear the tale to Schamyl Bey,

The grey old Lion of the Hill,
Where amid his wild array,

He defies the Russian still ;-
And the Lion's whelps will roar,
Like the waves that lash their shore :
Launch the news, like darts of fire,

To fair Warsaw's shattered wall,
And let every trembling spire

Thunder forth the tocsin-call;
Up, thou gallant Polish land !
Back the steed, and grasp the brand;
Let your lances shine like flame,-
On! in Kosciusko’s name !
Lord and peasant, boy and man,
Forward, forward to the van!
He who on your birthright trod,
Stands before wronged Poland's God !

Mourning woman ! lift your

voice From the black abyss of woe; Let your stricken soul rejoice

That the Spoiler's head is low-
Ye, who blistering tears have shed
For brothers, lovers, husbands dead-
Georgian, Turk, Circassian fair !
Dry the cheek and braid the hair,
In the festal song take part,
Send the chorus from the heart-
Polish lady, Polish lass,
Sing the dirge of Nicholas !


(0. MACKAY.) Charles Mackay, LL.D., is a native of Perth, but his boyhood was spent partly in

England and partly in Belglum. He was for some years editor of the Glasgow Argus, and afterwards of the Illustrated London News. He was born in 1812.

HARK ! how the furnace pants and roars ;
Hark! how the molten metal pours,
As bursting from its iron doors

It glitters in the sun !
Now through the ready mould it flows,
Seething and hissing as it goes,
And filling every crevice up,
As the red vintage fills the cup:

Hurrah! the work is done!

Unswathe him now. Take off each stay
That binds him to his couch of clay,
And let him struggle into day;

Let chain and pulley run,
With yielding crank and steady rope,
Until he rise from rim to cope,
In rounded beauty, ribbed in strength,
Without a flaw in all his length:

Hurrah! the work is done!

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Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,
His long, loud summons shall we hear,
When statesmen to their country dear,

Their mortal race have run:

When mighty monarchs yield their breath,
And patriots sleep the sleep of death,
Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,
And peal a requiem o'er their tomb:

Hurrah! the work is done!

Should foemen lift their haughty hand,
And dare invade us where we stand,
Fast by the altars of our land

We'll gather every one;
And he shall ring the loud alarm,
To call the multitudes to arm,
Froin distant field and forest brown,
And teeming alleys of the town:

Hurrah! the work is done!

And, as the solemn boom they hear,
Old men shall grasp the idle spear,
Laid by to rust for many a year,

And to the struggle run ;
Young men shall leave their toils or books,
Or turn to swords their pruning-hooks;
And maids have sweetest smiles for those
Who battle with their country's foes :

Hurrah! the work is done!

And when the cannon's iron throat
Shall bear the news to dells remote,
And trumpet-blast resound the note,

That victory is won;
While down the wind the banner drops,
And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops,
His sides shall glow with fierce delight,
And ring glad peals from morn to night :

Hurrah! the work is done!

But of such themes forbear to tell.
May never War awake this bell
To sound the tocsin or the knell !

Husbed be the alarum gun!

Sheathed be the sword ! and may his voice
Call up the nations to rejoice,
That War his tattered flag has furled,
And vanished from a wiser world!

Hurrah! the work is done!


Still may he ring when struggles cease,
Still may he ring for joy's increase,
For progress in the arts of

And friendly trophies won!
When rival nations join their hands,
When plenty crowns the happy lands,
When knowledge gives new blessings birth,
And freedom reigns o'er all the earth!

Hurrah! the work is done!



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is a native of Portland, Maine, U.S. of America,

and was born in 1807. He is Professor of Modern Languages and Belles Lettres in Harvard College, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

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ALL is finished ! and at length
Has come the bridal day
Of beauty and of strength.
To-day the vessel shall be launched !
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
And o'er the bay,
Slowly, in all his splendours dight,
The great sun rises to behold the sight.

The ocean old,
Centuries old,
Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,
Paces restless to and fro,
Up and down the sands of gold.

His beating heart is not at rest;
And far and wide,
With ceaseless flow,
His beard of snow
Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands,
With her foot upon the sands;
Decked with flags and streamers gay,
In honour of her marriage day,
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending
Round her like a veil descending,
Ready to be
The bride of the grey old sea.


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Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs !
She starts,-she moves,—she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms !

And, lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,
“Take her, O bridegroom, old and grey;
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms.”

How beautiful she is ! how fair
She lies within those arms, that press

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