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He looked around, he blushed, he laughed,
He sipped the sparkling wave;In it he read—" who drinks this draught,
Shall dig a murderer's grave!"

He started up, like one from sleep

And trembled for his life:
He gazed, and saw—his children weep,

He saw his weeping wife.

In his deep dream he had not felt

Their agonies and fears;
But now he saw them as they knelt,

To plead with prayers and tears.

But the foul fiend her hateful spell
Threw o'er his wildered mind, He saw in every hope a hell;He was to reason blind.

He grasped the bowl to seek relief;

No more his conscience said:
His bosom friend was sunk in grief,

His children begged for bread.

Through haunts of horror and of strife,
He passed down life's dark tide;He cursed his beggared babes and wife;He cursed his God—and died!

12. The Call Of Poland.Campbell.

Have ye sharpened your swords? for the battle is nigh— The morn of the conflict is breaking;Oh dark is the dawn, but slaughter's red eye, Shall enlighten the path you are taking, Bright hope in your bosoms awaking, That the vengeance which slept under muscovite sway, The treasure of years, shall be kindled to-day.

Tis freedom that calls you, though dim be the sun,

The darkness around you dispelling;
Though death-fires enshroud you and waste is begun.
She to deeds of high worth compelling,
Points to every loved altar and dwelling,
And demands from the sons of the noble in fame—
If the hell-mark of slave must still blacken their name?

By the glory our tyrants would quench, but in vain—
By the shades of your heroes departed—

By him who, undaunted, again and again
For the gaol of victory started,
Kosciusko, the lion-hearted—

By all that is worthy in man's little day,

Go dare as your fathers, or perish as they.

Have ye sharpened your swords for the banquet of death?Have ye made the blood-deep adjuration 1 Have ye dared on the hazard the stake of your breath?Again ye shall be a free nation— Not vain shall be your invocation;The call of each sword upon liberty's aid Shall be written in gore on the steel of its blade!

13. The Ocean.Anonymous.

Likeness of heaven! agent of power!
Man is thy victim! shipwrecks thy dower!
Spices and jewels, from valley and sea,
Armies and banners are buried in thee!

What are the riches of Mexico's mines,
To the wealth that far down in the deep water shines?
The proud navies that cover the conquering west—
Thou flingest them to death with one heave of thy breast!

From the high hills that view thy wreck-making shore,
When the bride of the mariner shrieks at thy roar;
When, like lambs in the tempest, or mews in the blast,
O'er ridge-broken billows the canvass is cast;

How humbling to one with a heart and a soul,
To look on thy greatness and list to its roll;
To think how that heart in cold ashes shall be,
While the voice of eternity rises from thee!

Yes! where are the cities of Thebes and of Tyre?
Swept from the nations like sparks from the fire:
The glory of Athens, the splendor of Rome,
Dissolved—and for ever—like dew in the foam.

But thou art almighty—eternal—sublime—
Unweakened, unwasted—twin brother of time!
Fleets, tempests, nor nations, thy glory can bow;
As the stars first beheld thee, still chainless art thou!

But hold! when thy surges no longer shall roll, And that firmament's length is drawn back like a scroll;Then—then shall the spirit that sighs by thee now, Be more mighty—more lasting, more chainless than thou!

14. The World.Anonymous.

How beautiful the world is! The green earth covered with flowers—the trees laden with rich blossoms—the blue sky, and the bright water, and the golden sunshine. The world is, indeed, beautiful, and He who made it must be beautiful.

It is a happy world. Hark! how the merry birds sing— and the young lambs—see! how they gambol on the hillside. Even the trees wave, and the brooks ripple, in gladness. Yon eagle!—Ah! how joyously he soars up to the glorious heavens —the bird of liberty, the bird of America.

"His throne is on the mountain-top;

His fields the boundless air;
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop

The skies—his dwellings are.

He rises, like a thing of light, Amid the noontide blaze:The midway sun is clear and bright— It cannot dim his gaze."

It is happy—I see it and hear it all about me—nay, I feel it —here, in the glow, the eloquent glow of my own heart. He who made it must be happy.

It is a great world. Look off to the mighty ocean when the storm is upon it;—to the huge mountain, when the thunder and the lightnings play over it; to the vast forest—the interminable waste;—the sun, the moon, and the myriads of fair stars, countless as the sands upon the seashore. It is a great, a magnificent world,—and He who made it,—Oh! He is the perfection of all loveliness, all goodness, all greatness, all gloriousness!

15. CATILINE, ON HEARING HIS SENTENCE OF BAN IS.IMENT.

Croly.

Banished from Rome! what's banished but set free From daily contact of the things I lothe? "Tried and convicted traitor!"—Who says this? Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head? Banished ?—I thank you for't. It breaks my chain! I held some slack allegiance till this hour— But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords; I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, To leave you in your lazy dignities. But here I stand and scoff you :—here I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face. Your consul's merciful. For this all thanks. He dares not touch a hair of Catiline. "Traitor!" I go—but I return. This trial! Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs, To stir a fever in the blood of age, Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel. This day's the birth of sorrows !—This hour's work Will breed proscriptions.—Look to your hearths, my lords, For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, Shapes hot from Tartarus!—all shames and crimes; Wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn; Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup; Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe, Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones; Till anarchy comes down on you like night, And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.

16. To A Child.Yankee.

Things of high import sound I in thine ears,

Dear child, though now thou mayest not feel their powei , But hoard them up, and in thy coming years

Forget them not, and when earth's tempests lower,

A talisman unto thee shall they be,

To give thy weak arm strength—to make thy dim eye see. Seek truth, that pure celestial truth—whose birth
Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred, shrined In reason's light: Not oft she visits earth,
But her majestic port, the willing mind, Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul, Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll.

Be free.—Not chiefly from the iron chain,
But from the one which passion forges—be

The master of thyself. If lost, regain

The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free.

Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet,

And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet.

Seek virtue. Wear her armor to the fight;

Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife, Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might

By each contending turbulent ill of life. Seek virtue.—She alone is all divine; And having found, be strong, in God's own strength and thine

Truth—freedom—virtue—these, dear child, have power,

If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain, And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour;

Neglect them—thy celestial gifts are vain— In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled; Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled.

17. "there's Death In The Pot."—Anonymous.

Hark! hark! the alarum has sped,

Dire pestilence stalks in the breeze,
Its pathway is strewed o'er with millions of dead—

It heeds neither mountain nor seas.
The Cossack and Turk to the ground it has brought,
To the Jew and the Gentile "there's death in the pot."

From Asia's dark morass it springs,
Upraised by the mandate of heaven •

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