It might be asked, triumphantly, what land has ever been visited with the influences of liberty, that has not flourished like the spring? What people has ever worshiped at her altars, without kindling with a loftier spirit, and putting forth more noble energies? Where has she ever acted, that her deeds have not been heroic? Where has she ever spoken, that her eloquence has not been triumphant and sublime?

With respect to ourselves, would it not be enough to say that we live under a form of government and in a state of society to which the world has never yet exhibited a parallel? Is it, then, nothing to be free? How many nations, in the whole annals of human kind, have proved themselves worthy of being so? Is it nothing that we are republicans? Were all men as enlightened, as brave, as proud, as they ought to be, would they suffer themselves to be insulted with any other title? Is it nothing, that so many independent sovereignties should be held together in such a confederacy as ours? What does history teach us of the difficulty of instituting and maintaining such a polity, and of the glory that, of consequence, ought to be given to those who enjoy its advantages in so much perfection and on so grand a scale? For, can any thing be more striking and sublime than the idea of an imperial republic, spreading over an extent of territory more immense than the empire of the Cæsars in the accumulated conquests of a thousand years-without prefects or proconsuls or publicans-founded in the maxims of common sense- -employing within itself no arms but those of reason— and known to its subjects only by the blessings it bestows or perpetuates, yet capable of directing, against a foreign foe, all the energies of a military despotism,—a republic, in which men are completely insignificant, and principles and laws exercise, throughout its vast dominion, a peaceful and irresistible sway, blending in one divine harmony such various habits and conflicting opinions, and mingling in our institutions the light of philosophy with all that is dazzling in the associations of heroic achievement, and extended domination, and deepseated and formidable power!

Ex. XLIV.-SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

OUR band is few, but true and tried,—
Our leader frank and bold;

W. O. BRYANT.

The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.

Our fortress is the good green wood,
Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls and thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light, at midnight,
A strange and sudden fear:
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil:

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up;

And woodland flowers are gathered,

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly,

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads--

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb

Across the moonlight plain;

'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp-
A moment--and away,
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more,

Till we have driven the Briton
For ever from our shore.

PERCIVAL

Ex. XLV.-TO THE EAGLE.

BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing!
Thy home is high in heaven,

Where wide the storms their banners fling,
And the tempest clouds are driven.

Thy throne is on the mountain top;

Thy fields-the boundless air;
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop
The skies-thy dwellings are.

Lord of the boundless realm of air!
In thy imperial name,

The hearts of the bold and ardent dare,
The dangerous path of fame.

Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,

The Roman legions bore,

From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs,

Their pride, to the polar shore.

For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;

To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warrior prayed.

Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
The image of pride and power,

Till the gathered rage of a thousand years
Burst forth in one awful hour.

And then, a deluge of wrath it came,
And the nations shook with dread;

And it swept the earth till its fields were flame,
And piled with the mingled dead;
Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood,
With the low and crouching slave;
And together lay, in a shroud of blood,
The coward and the brave.

And where was then thy fearless flight ?-
"O'er the dark mysterious sea,

To the lands that caught the setting light,
The cradle of Liberty.

There, on the silent and lonely shore,

For ages, I watched alone;

And the world in its darkness, asked no more Where the glorious bird had flown.

"But then came a bold and hardy few,

And they breasted the unknown wave:

I caught afar the wandering crew,
And I knew they were high and brave.
I wheeled around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore;
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
My quivering pinions bore.

"And now that bold and hardy few

Are a nation wide and strong;

And danger and doubt I have led them through, And they worship me in song;

And over their bright and glancing arms

On field, and lake, and sea,

With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,

I guide them to victory."

Ex. XLVI.-THE EXILE.

CAMPBELL.

THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,—
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sighed, when, at twilight, repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion,
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go bragh!'

"Sad is my fate!"-said the heart-broken stranger"The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger: A home and a country remain not to me! Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of 'Erin go bragh!'

"Erin! my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But, alas in a far-foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more! O cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me!—or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?— Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they can not recall!

"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ;-
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!