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Shout for the mighty men,

Who on the Persian tents,

Like lions from their midnight den
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rushed - a storm of sword and spear;
Like the roused elements

Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land!

But there are none to hear;
Greece is a hopeless slave.
LEONIDAS! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now:
No warrior makes the warrior's vow
Upon thy sea-washed grave.

The voice that should be raised by men
Must now be given by wave and glen.
And it is given! -the surge,

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The tree, the rock, the sand,
On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
of thine and thee!

The memory

The vision of thy band

Still gleams within the glorious dell
Where their gore hallowed, as it fell!

And is thy grandeur done?

Mother of men like these!

Has not thy outcry gone

Where Justice has an ear to hear?
Be holy! God shall guide thy spear,
Till in thy crimsoned seas

Are plunged the chain and scimitar;
GREECE shall be a new-born star!

VIII. THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.

ALONE, through gloomy forest shades,
A soldier went by night;

No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades,
No star shed guiding light.

Yet, on his vigil's midnight round,
The youth all cheerly passed!
Unchecked by aught of boding sound
That muttered in the blast.

CROLY.

THE FOURTH OF JULY.

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? —
In his far home, perchance -
His father's hall, his mother's bower-
'Midst the gay vines of France.

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Hush! hark! did stealing steps go by?
Came not faint whispers near?
No! -The wild wind hath many a sigh
Amidst the foliage sere.

Hark! yet again!- and from his hand
What grasp
hath wrenched the blade?
O, single, midst a hostile band,

Young soldier, thou 'rt betrayed!

"Silence!" in under-tones they cry,
"No whisper! - not a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh
Shall sentence thee to death!"

Still at the bayonet's point he stood,
And, strong to meet the blow,
He shouted, mid his rushing blood,
"Arm! arm! Auvergne!*.

the foe!"

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call-
He heard their tumults grow;
And sent his dying voice through all,-
"Auvergne! Auvergne! - the foe!"

807

MRS. HEMANS.

IX. THE FOURTH OF JULY.

To the sages who spoke, to the heroes who bled,

To the day and the deed, strike the harp-strings of glory! Let the song of the ransomed remember the dead, And the tongue of the eloquent hallow the story! O'er the bones of the bold

Be that story long told,

And on Fame's golden tablets their triumphs enrolled, Who on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world!

They are gone mighty men!—and they sleep in their fame ; Shall we ever forget them? O, never! no, never!

*Pronounced O-vern'.

Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great name,

And the anthem send down,

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Independence forever!" Wake, wake, heart and tongue!

Keep the theme ever young;

Let their deeds through the long line of ages be sung, Who on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner unfurled, And the beacon-fire raised that gave light to the world!

CHARLES SPRAGUE

X. THE SEED OF FREEDOM'S TREE.

Stanzas to the memory of the Spanish patriots, killed in resisting the Regency and the Duke of Angoulême.

BRAVE men, who at the Trocadero fell

Beside your cannons, conquered not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom, - and

ye have not died in vain ;

For, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honor, ay, embrace your martyred lot,

Cursing the bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!

What though your cause be baffled, freemen cast

In dungeons, dragged to death, or forced to flee?
Hope is not withered in Affliction's blast;

The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree!
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell!

Earth shudders at your victory! for ye

Are worse than common fiends from heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung Autochthones* of hell!

Go to your bloody rites again! Bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack!
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men!
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den! -
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal

With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,

To practice deeds with torturing fire and steel

No eye may search, no tongue may challenge or reveal!

* Pronounced or-tok'tho-neez. The word means of the land itself, or aboriginal inhabitants; natives of the soil as distinguished from settlers.

THE MARINER'S SONG.

Yet, laugh not in your carnival of crime

Too proudly, ye oppressors! Spain was free!
Her soil has felt the footprints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;
And these, even parting, scatter, as they flee,
Thoughts, influences, to live in hearts unborn;
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution, show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn!

Glory to those that die in this great cause!

Kings, bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:
No! manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangmen fingers can not touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb;
But Vengeance is behind, and Justice is to come!

809

CAMPBELL.

XI. -THE MARINER'S SONG.

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

"O! for a soft and gentle wind!"
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornëd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

XII. THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

YE who love the haunts of Nature, love the sunshine of the meadow, love the shadow of the forest, love the wind among the branches, and the rain-shower and the snow-storm, and the rushing of great rivers through their palisades of pine-trees, and the thunder in the mountains, whose innumerable echoes flap like eagles in their eyries,* - listen to these wild traditions, to this Song of Hiawatha !†

Ye who love a nation's legends, love the ballads of a people, that, like voices from afar off, call to us to pause and listen, speak in tones so plain and childlike, scarcely can the ear distinguish whether they are sung or spoken, listen to this Indian legend, to this Song of Hiawatha!

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Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, who have faith in God and Nature, who believe that in all ages every human heart is human; that, in even savage bosoms, there are longings, yearnings, strivings, for the good they comprehend not; that the feeble hands and helpless, groping blindly in the darkness, touch God's right hand in the darkness, and are lifted up and strengthened, listen to this simple story, to this Song of Hiawatha !

Ye who sometimes in your rambles through the green lanes of the country, where the tangled barberry-bushes hang their tufts of crimson berries over stone walls gray with mosses, pause by some neglected grave-yard, for a while to muse and ponder on a half-effaced inscription, writ with little skill of song-craft, homely phrases, but each letter full of hope and yet of heart-break, full of all the tender pathos of the Here and the Hereafter, and read this rude inscription, read this song of Hiawatha !

stay

Pronounced a'riz.

LONGFELLOW.

XIII.THE GRAVE.

BLEST are the dormant

In death! They repose
From bondage and torment,
From passions and woes,

+ Pronounced He-a-wa'tha, the second a as in fall.

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