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And, oh, their joy, as it came near,
"T was, in itself, a joy to see-
While Fancy whisper'd in my ear,
"That torch they pass is Liberty!"
And each, as she received the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.
From Albion first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnish'd with the fire already,
Columbia caught the spark divine,
And lit a flame, like Albion's, steady.
The splendid gift then Gallia took,
And, like a wild Bacchante, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,
As she would set the world a-blazing!
And, when she fired her altar, high
It flash'd into the reddening air
So fierce, that Albion who stood nigh,
Shrunk almost blinded by the glare!
Next, Spain, so new was light to her,
Leap'd at the torch-but, ere the spark
She flung upon her shrine could stir,
"T was quench'd-and all again was dark.
Yet, no-not quench'd-a treasure, worth
So much to mortals, rarely dies-
Again her living light look'd forth,
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes!

Who next received the flame? alas!
Unworthy Naples.-Shame of shames,
That ever through such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touch'd the torch,
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting e'en to feel the scorch,
She dropp'd it to the earth-and fled.

And fallen it might have long remain'd;
But Greece, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd,
And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er
Her altar, as its flame ascended,
Fair laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar,
Who thus in song their voices blended :-

"Shine, shine for ever, glorious flame,
Divinest gift of Gods to men!

From Greece thy earliest splendour came,
To Greece thy ray returns again.

"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round;
When dimm'd, revive, when lost, return,
Till not a shrine through earth be found,
On which thy glories shall not burn!”

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

MOORE.

"I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she is; behold her, and judge for yourselves.There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain for ever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain for ever. Webster's Speech.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle pour'd
Its red and awful tide

Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main,

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honour'd saviours of the land!
O, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rush'd to battle then.

The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garner'd on the plain,
And muster'd, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress.

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?

I call the hills reply again
That ye have pass'd away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they not heed its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have pass'd away

M'LELLAN.

TYRE.

IN thought, I saw the palace domes of Tyre;
The gorgeous treasures of her merchandise;
All her proud people in their brave attire,
Thronging her streets for sport or sacrifice.
I saw the precious stones and spiceries;
The singing girl with flower-wreath'd instrument;
And slaves whose beauty ask'd a monarch's price.
Forth from all lands all nations to her went,
And kings to her on embassy were sent.

I saw, with gilded prow and silken sail,
Her ships that of the sea had government:

Oh gallant ships! 'gainst you what might prevail ! She stood upon her rock, and in her pride Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied.

I look'd again-I saw a lonely shore,

A rock amid the waters, and a waste

Of trackless sand:-I heard the bleak sea's roar,
And winds that rose and fell with gusty haste.
There was one scathed tree, by storm defaced,
Round which the sea-birds wheel'd with screaming
cry.

Ere long came on a traveller, slowly paced;
Now east, then west, he turn'd with curious eye,
Like one perplex'd with an uncertainty.

Awhile he look'd upon the sea, and then Upon a book, as if it might supply

The things he lack'd :--he read, and gazed again;

Yet, as if unbelief so on him wrought,

He might not deem this shore the shore he sought.

Again I saw him come :-'t was eventide ;-
The sun shone on the rock amid the sea;
The winds were hush'd; the quiet billows sigh'd
With a low swell;-the birds wing'd silently
Their evening flight around the scathed tree:
The fisher safely put into the bay,

And push'd his boat ashore;-then gather'd he His nets, and hasting up the rocky way,

Spread them to catch the sun's warm evening ray.
I saw that stranger's eye gaze on the scene;
"And this was Tyre!" said he; "how has decay
Within her palaces a despot been!

Ruin and silence in his courts are met,

And on her city-rock the fisher spreads his net!" MARY HOWITT.

THE HEAD OF MEMNON.

IN Egypt's centre, when the world was young, My statue soar'd aloft, a man-shaped tower, O'er hundred-gated Thebes, by Homer sung, And built by Apis' and Osiris' power.

When the sun's infant eye more brightly blazed, I mark'd the labours of unwearied Time; And saw by patient centuries up-raised, Stupendous temples, obelisks sublime!

Hewn from the rooted rock, some mightier mound, Some new colossus more enormous springs,

So vast, so firm, that, as I gazed around,

I thought them, like myself, eternal things.

Then did I mark in sacerdotal state,

Psammis the king, whose alabaster tomb (Such the inscrutable decrees of fate)

Now floats athwart the sea to share my doom.

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