which patriotism borrows its zeal from the prospect of office in which hungry sycophants throng with supplication all the departments of state: in which public men bear the brand of private vice, and the seat of government is a noisome sink of private licentiousness and public corruption.

Tell me not of the honor of belonging to a free country. I ask, does our liberty bear generous fruits? Does it exalt us in manly spirit, in public virtue, above countries trodden under foot by despotism? Tell me not of the extent of our country. I care not how large it is, if it multiply degenerate men. Speak not of our prosperity. Better be one of a poor people, plain in manners, reverencing God, and respecting themselves, than belong to a rich country, which knows no higher good than riches.

Earnestly do I desire for this country, that, instead of copying Europe with an undiscerning servility, it may have a character of its own, corresponding to the freedom and equality of our institutions. One Europe is enough. One Paris is enough. How much to be desired is it, that, separated, as we are, from the Eastern continent, by an ocean, we should be still more widely separated by simplicity of manners, by domestic purity, by inward piety, by reverence for human nature, by moral independence, by withstanding the subjection to fashion, and that debilitating sensuality, which characterize the most civilized portions of the Old World! Of this country, I may say, with peculiar emphasis, that its happiness is bound up in its virtue!

IX.-VISION OF LIBERTY.

A VISION passed upon my soul.
As I was gazing up to heaven,
As in the early hours of even;
I still beheld the planets roll,

And all the countless sons of light

Flame from the broad blue arch, and guide the

moonless night.

When, lo, upon the plain,

Just where it skirts the swelling main,

A massive castle, far and high,

In towering grandeur broke upon my eye.

Proud in its strength and years, the ponderous pile
Flung up its time-defying towers;

Its lofty gates seemed scornfully to smile
At vain assault of human powers,
And threats and arms deride.

Its gorgeous carvings of heraldic pride
In giant masses graced the walls above,
And dungeons yawned below.

Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove, Grave, silent chroniclers of Time's protracted flow.

Bursting on my steadfast gaze,
See, within, a sudden blaze!

So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,
That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top,

Nor makes the withered leaf to drop,
The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell

But soon it spread;

Waving, rushing, fierce, and red, From wall to wall, from tower to tower, Raging with resistless power;

Till every fervent pillar glowed,

And every stone seemed burning coal,

Instinct with living heat, that flowed

Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole.

Beautiful, fearful, grand,

Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.
At length a crackling sound began;

From side to side, throughout the pile it ran;
And louder yet, and louder grew,

Till now in rattling thunder-peals it flew;
Huge shivered fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke:

The shattered walls were rent and riven,
And piecemeal driven,

Like blazing comets through the troubled sky.
'T is done; what centuries had reared,
In quick explosion disappeared,

Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place,

Bright with more than human grace,
Robed in more than mortal seeming,
Radiant glory in her face,

And eyes with heaven's own brightness beaming, Rose a fair majestic form,

As the mild rainbow from the storm.

I marked her smile, I knew her eye;
And when, with gesture of command,
She waved aloft the cap-crowned wand,
My slumbers fled 'mid shouts of "LIBERTY!"

Read ye the dream? and know ye not
How truly it unlocked the word of fate?
Went not the flame from this illustrious spot,
And spreads it not, and burns in every state?
And when their old and cumbrous walls,
Filled with this spirit, glow intense,
Vainly they rear their impotent defense;
The fabric falls!

That fervent energy must spread,
Till despotism's towers be overthrown;
And in their stead,

LIBERTY stands alone.

X. THE GREEK WARRIOR.

OUR free flag is dancing

In the free mountain air,

And burnished arms are glancing,

And warriors gathering there;

And fearless is the little train

Whose gallant bosoms shield it;

The blood that warms their hearts shall stain

That banner, ere they yield it.

Each dark eye is fixed on earth,

And brief each solemn greeting;

There is no look nor sound of mirth,
Where those stern men are meeting.

They go to the slaughter,

To strike the sudden blow,
And pour on earth, like water,
The best blood of the foe;

To rush on them from rock and hight,
And clear the narrow valley,

Or fire their camp at dead of night,
And fly before they rally.

Chains are round our country pressed,
And cowards have betrayed her;
And we must make her bleeding breast
The grave of the invader.

Not till from her fetters

We raise up Greece again, And write, in bloody letters,

That tyranny is slain;

Oh! not till then the smile shall steal
Across those darkened faces,
Nor one of all those warriors feel
His children's dear embraces.
Reap we not the ripened wheat,
Till yonder hosts are flying,
And all their bravest, at our feet,
Like autumn sheaves are lying.
FROM BRYANT.

XI. MUSIC OF INDUSTRY.

THE banging of the hammer,
The whirling of the plane,
The crashing of the busy saw,
The creaking of the crane,

The ringing of the anvil,

The grating of the drill,
The clattering of the turning-lathe,
The whirling of the mill,
The buzzing of the spindle,

The rattling of the loom,

The puffing of the engine,

The fan's continual boom,

The clipping of the tailor's shears,
The driving of the awl;

The sounds of honest Industry,

I love, I love them all.

The clicking of the magic type,

The earnest talk of men,

The toiling of the giant press,
The scratching of the pen,
The tapping of the yard-stick,
The tinkling of the scales,
The whistling of the needle,
(When no bright cheek it pales,)
The humming of the cooking-stove,
The surging of the broom,
The pattering feet of childhood,
The housewife's busy hum,
The buzzing of the scholars,
The teacher's kindly call:
These sounds of active Industry,
I love, I love them all.

I love the plowman's whistle,
The reaper's cheerful song,
The drover's oft-repeated shout,
Spurring his stock along;
The bustle of the market man
As he hies him to the town;
The halloo from the tree-top

As the ripened fruit comes down; The busy sound of thrashers

As they clean the ripened grain;
The husker's joke and catch of glee
'Neath the moonlight on the plain;
The kind voice of the drayman,
The shepherd's gentle call:
These sounds of pleasant Industry,
I love, I love them all.

Oh, there's a good in labor,
If we labor but aright,
That gives vigor to the daytime,
A sweeter sleep at night;
A good that bringeth pleasure,
Even to the toiling hours;
For duty cheers the spirit,

As dew revives the flowers.

Then say not that Jehovah
Gave labor as a doom;
No! 't is the richest mercy

From the cradle to the tomb.