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Thy values leuwen, Jan Paeder formen Shall ever float on acne and tirver To all thini kerutuly cotes Prue Ir. Hachening fast on Crissow dew, And God love w as are love thee,

Thuice hots Flawer o dieta

Hlower of Liberty'

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POEMS OF PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM.

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
An angel-guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
“Where shall that land, that spot of earth be

found ?" Art thou a man ? - a patriot? - look around ; 0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

BREATHES THERE THE MAN.
FROM " THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL,“ CANTO VI.
BREATHES there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land !
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand ?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

JAMES MONTGOMERY,

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

MY COUNTRY.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there !

WILLIAM COLLINS

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside,
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night ;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth :
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime, the magnet of his sonl,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race,
The heritage of natare's noblest grace,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strow with fresh flowers the narrow way of life :)

THE BRAVE AT HOME. The maid who binds her warrior's sash

With smile that well her pain dissembles, The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and tremblos, Though Heaven alone records the tear,

And Fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

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Before the gates of Sutrium

Is met the great array ; A proud man was Lars Porsena

Upon the trysting-day.

For all the Etruscan armies

Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman,

And many a stout ally ; And with a mighty following,

To join the muster, came The Tusculan Mamilius,

Prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow Tiber

Was tumult and affright; From all the spacious champaign

To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city

The throng stopped up the ways ; A fearful sight it was to see

Through two long nights and days.

For aged folk on crutches,

And women great with child, And mothers, sobbing over babes

That clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters

High on the necks of slaves, And troops of sunburned husbandmen

With reaping-hooks and staves,

I wis, in all the Senate

There was no heart so bold
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,

When that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Consul,

Up rose the Fathers all ;
In haste they girded up their gowns,

And hied them to the wall.
They held a council, standing

Before the River-gate ;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,

For musing or debate.
Ont spake the Consul roundly :

“The bridge must straight go down ; For, since Janiculum is lost,

Naught else can save the town." Just then a scout came flying,

All wild with haste and fear :
“ To arms ! to arms! Sir Consul, –

Lars Porsena is here."
On the low hills to westward

The Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust

Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer fast and nearer

Doth the red whirlwind come ;
And louder still, and still more loud,
From underneath that rolling cloud,
Is heard the trumpets' war-note prou,

The trampling and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly

Now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,
In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright,

The long array of spears.
And plainly and more plainly,

Above that glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners

Of twelve fair cities shine ; But the banner of proud ('lusium

Was highest of them all, --
The terror of the Umbrian,

The terror of the Gaul.
And plainly and more plainly

Now might the burghers know,
By port and vest, by horse and crest,

Each warlike Lucumo :
There Cilnius of Arretium

On his fleet roan was seen ; And Astur of the fourfold shield, Girt with the brand none else may wield ; Toluminius with the belt of gold, And dark Verbenna from the hold

By reedy Thrasymene.

And droves of mules and asses

Laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep,

And endless herds of kine, And endless trains of wagons,

That creaked beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods,

Choked every roaring gate.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian,

Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages

Red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City,

They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came

With tidings of disinay.

To eastward and to westward

Have spread the Tuscan bands, Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote

In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia

Hath wasted all the plain ; Astur hath stormed Janiculum,

And the stout guards are slain.

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