'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; Must we but weep o'er days more blest? What, silent still! and silent all? In vain-in vain: strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet- The nobler and the manlier one? The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Trust not for freedom to the FranksThey have a king who buys and sells In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force and Latin fraud Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die; A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine! Ex. CXIII.-NAPOLEON. J. PIERPONT. HIS falchion flashed along the Nile; Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust;-nor wife, nor son, Has ever seen or sought his grave. Behind this sea-girt rock, the star, That led him on from crown to crown, Has sunk; and nations from afar Gazed as it faded and went down. High is his couch;-the ocean flood, As round him heaved, while high he stood, Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud, That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. Pause here! The far-off world, at last, Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its miters cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones. Hark! comes there, from the pyramids, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids' The world he awed to mourn him ?-No: The only, the perpetual dirge That 's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry,— The mournful murmur of the surge, The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. Ex. CXIV.-UNIVERSAL FREEDOM. HENRY WARE, JR, OPPRESSION shall not always reign: Then right shall over might prevail; Even now, that glorious day draws near, In earth and heaven its signs appear, Its dawn has flushed the eastern sky, It flashes on the Indian isles, So long to bondage given; Their faded plains are decked in smiles, Eight hundred thousand newly free, Pour out their songs of jubilee, That shout, which every bosom thrills, It rings in thunder o'er our hills, The waves reply on every shore, And "rocks" as it ne'er rocked before, What voice shall bid the progress stay Of truth's victorious car? What arm arrest the growing day, Or quench the solar star? What dastard soul, though stout and strong, And freedom's morning bar? The hour of triumph comes apace, The day has come, the hour draws nigh, Send forth the glad, exulting cry, From every hill, by every sea, In shouts proclaim the great decree, "All chains are burst, all men are free!" Ex. CXV.-THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. A BRACE of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in, wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, WOLCOT. With something in their shoes much worse than gravel: In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt, The knaves set off on the same day, Swift as a bullet from a gun; The other limped, as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon-peccavi cried- Made fit, with saints above, to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half way Hobbling, with out-stretched hands and bending knees; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat, "How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!" "Ods curse it," cried the other, "tis no jokeMy feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as any blubber. "Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear As for Loretto I shall not get there; No! to the devil my sinful soul must go, For hang me if I ha n't lost every toe. "But, brother sinner, pray explain How 'tis that you are not in pain: What power hath worked a wonder for your toes: While I just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, |