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HAEP OF r.
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,
When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,
At each according pause was heard aloud
Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed;
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,—
Heroes in heart and hand.
On old Platea's day;
As quick, as far, as they.
An hour passed on, the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his last;
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!
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;
They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled the ground with Moslem slain;
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother when she feels
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,
Of agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free.
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;
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
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
And she, the mother of thy boys,
The memory of her buried joys,—
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
That were not born to die.
LOYE OF LIBERTY.
OFOK a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Might never reach me more. My ear is pained,
Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
THE SOURCE OF PAETY WISDOM.
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
But from that mark how far they rove we see,
$HO can in reason then or right assume
A CURSE ON THE TRAITOR.
FOE a tongue to curse the slave,
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
And blasts them in their horn- of mightl
With joys that vanish while he sips,
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Just Prophet, let the damned one dwell
Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed,
He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND.
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.
ETERNAL SPIRIT OF THE CHAINLESS MIND.
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.
T" Bannockburn the English lay—
But soon the sun broke through the heath
Scots, who hae wi' Wallace bled,
Now's the day, and now's the hour,
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
By Oppression's woes and pains 1
Lay the proud usurpers low!
OTTR COUNTRY'S CALL.
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.
An iron tempest on the foe;
The arm that lays the panther low.
And ye who breast the mountain storm
Come, for the land ye love, to form
Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The blast as soon shall move the rock,
And ye, whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,
As mighty in your march as they;
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,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
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.