H HARP OF THE NORTH. BARP of the North! that mouldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring, 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 Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless eye. O, wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand O, wake once more! though scarce my skill command 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. MARCO BOZZARIS. "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, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Come when his task of fame is wrought; Of sky and stars to prisoned men; Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, But she remembers thee as one Talk of thy doom without a sigh; FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. LOVE OF LIBERTY. FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness, Of brotherhood is severed as the flax Like kindred drops been mingled into one. And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. THE SOURCE OF PARTY WISDOM. HAVE 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. REEDOM who loves, must first be wise and good; But from that mark how far they rove we see, JAMES A. GARFIELD. HO can in reason then or right assume 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. |