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lipLYRP of the North! that mouldering long hast PPS hung

On the witch-ehn that shades Saint Fillan's I spring,

I And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,

O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd,

When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,
Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud.


At each according pause was heard aloud
Thine ardent symphony sublime and high!

Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed;
For still the burden of thy minstrelsy

Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless eye.

O, wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand

That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; O, wake once more! though scarce my skill command

Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway.

The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!

Sir Walter Scott.


rmidnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour ;* When Greece, her knee in suppliancc bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore . The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of trinmph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,—
True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood.
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,

On old Platea's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.

An hour passed on, the Turk awoke:

That bright dream was his last;
He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!
He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:


"Strike—till the last armed foe expires;
Strike—for your altars and your fires;
Strike—for the green graves of your sires,
God, and your native land!"

They fought, like brave men, long and well;

They piled the ground with Moslem slain;
They conquered, but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;

Come when the blessed seals
Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
And thou art terrible: the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
, And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free.
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.

Come wheu his task of fame is wrought; Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;

Come in her crowning hour—anil then tTiy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as tbe sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the laud-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,

Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee; there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry.

The heartless luxury of the tomb.

But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone.
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bolls;
Of thee her babes* first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage bod.
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks hor tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,—
And even she who gave thee birth,—
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's,—
One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

Fitz-greene Halleck.

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OFOK a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade.
Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
4?. Of unsuccessful and successful war.

Might never reach me more. My ear is pained,
My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which eartli is filled.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart.
It does not feel for man, the natural boud
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colored like his own; and having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else

Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored,
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart.
Weeps when she seees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man, seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush
And hang his head to think himself a man?
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, thau fasten them on him.

William Cowpee.


HA YE seen the sea lashed into fury and tossed into spray, and its grandeur moves the soul of the dullest man; but I remember that it is not the billows, but the calm level of the sea, from which all heights and depths are measured. When the storm has passed and the hour of calm settles on the ocean, when the sunlight bathes its smooth surface, then the astronomer and surveyor take the level from which to measure all terrestrial heights and depths. Gentlemen of the convention, your present temper may not mark the healthful pulse of our people when our enthusiasm has passed. When the emotions of this hour have subsided we shall find that calm level of public opinion below the storm, from which the thoughts of a mighty people are to be measured, and by which their final action will be determined. Not here in this brilliant circle, where fifteen thousand men and women are assembled, is the destiny of the Republican party to be declared. Not here, where I see the faces of seven hundred and fifty-six delegates waiting to cast their votes in the urn and determine the choice of the republic, but by four million Republican firesides, where the thoughtful voters, with wives and children about them, with the calm thoughts inspired by the love of home and country, with the history of the past, the hopes of the future, and a knowledge of the great men who have adorned and blessed our nation in days gone by—there God prepares the verdict that shall determine the wisdom of our work to-night. Not in Chicago, in the heats of June, but in the sober quiet that comes to them between now and November; in the silence of deliberate judgment will the great question be settled.

James A. Garfield.

nGTREEDOM who loves, must first be wise and
iss* good;

But from that mark how far they rove we see,
For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood.

$HO can in reason then or right assume
Monarchy over such as live by right
His equals, if in pow'r or splendor less,
In freedom equal.


FOE a tongue to curse the slave,

Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,

And blasts them in their horn- of mightl
May life's unblessed cup for him
Be drugged with treacheries to the brim,—
With hopes that but allure to fly,

With joys that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips.

His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame;
May he, at last, with lips of ilame
On the parched desert, thirsting, die,—
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh,
Are fading off, untouched, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!
And when from earth his spirit flies,

Just Prophet, let the damned one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell!

Thomas Moore.

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Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her truinpet-horn;
Tumultuous hoiTor brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man!

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, —
"O Heaven I " he cried, "my bleeding country save, —
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live! — with her to die!"


He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death!—the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! —

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew: —
O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear.
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; —■
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell.

Thomas Campbell.



EEN fields of England! whereso'er Ere your loved smile I cease to see,

Across this watery waste we fare. Sweet eyes in Eugland, dear to me.

Your image at our hearts we bear, Dcar home in England, safe and fast,

Green fields of England, everywhere. If but in thee my lot be cast,

The past shall seem a nothing past Sweet eyes in England, I must flee To thee^ dear holms if won at last;

Past where the waves' last confines be, Dear home in Eugland, won at last.

Arthur Hugh Clough.


frERNAL spirit of the ehainless mind! And when thy sons to fetters are consigned —

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art; To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom—

For there thy habitation is the heart— Their country conquers with their martyrdom,

The heart which love of thee alone can hind; And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Lord Byron.


T" Bannockburn the English lay—
The Scots they were na far away,
But waited for the break o' day'
That glinted in the east;

But soon the sun broke through the heath
And lighted up that field o' death,
When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath,
His heralds thus addressed :—

Scots, who hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has afteu led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach prond Edward's power-
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can till a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?
Let him follow me!

By Oppression's woes and pains 1
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!

Robekt Burns.


AY down the axe, fling by the spade;

Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade

For arms like yours are titter now; And let the hands that ply the pen

Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein

The charger on the battle-fleld.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green, Strike to defeud the gentlest sway

That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts—see

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we

Must beat the banded traitors back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,

And moved as soon to fear and flight; Men of the glade and forest! leave

Your woodcraft for the Held of fight.
The arms that wield the axe must pour

An iron tempest on the foe;
His serried ranks shall reel before

The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,

Come, for the land ye love, to form
A bulwark that no foe can break.

Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defence:

The blast as soon shall move the rock,
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand

Swift rivers, rising far away,
Come from the depth of her green land

As mighty in your march as they;
As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains

And sweep along the woods uptorn".

And ye who throng beside the deep,

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,

He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,

A helpless wTeck against his shore.,

Few, few were they whose swords of old,

Won the fair land in which we dwell; But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land,

Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Bight move hand in hand,

And glorious must their triumph be.

William Cullen Bryant.

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