THE PROGRESS OF FREEDOM.

(Hellas.)

IN the great morning of the world,
The Spirit of God with might unfurled
The flag of Freedom over chaos,

And all its banded anarchs fled,
Like vultures frighted from Imaus
Before an earthquake's tread.
So from Time's tempestuous dawn
Freedom's splendour burst and shone :
Thermopyla and Marathon

Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted,
The springing fire. The wingèd glory
On Philippi half alighted,

Like an eagle on a promontory.
Its unwearied wings could fan

The quenchless ashes of Milan.
From age to age, from man to man,
It lived; and lit from land to land
Florence, Albion, Switzerland.
Then night fell; and, as from night,
Re-assuming fiery flight,

From the west swift Freedom came,

Against the course of heaven and doom,

A second sun arrayed in flame,

To burn, to kindle, to illume.

From far Atlantis its young beams
Chased the shadows and the dreams.
France, with all her sanguine streams,

P

Hid, but quenched it not; again
Through clouds its shafts of glory rain
From utmost Germany to Spain.
As an eagle fed with morning

Scorns the embattled tempest's warning
When she seeks her aerie hanging
In the mountain-cedar's hair,
And her brood expect the clanging
Of her wings through the wild air,
Sick with famine ;-Freedom so
To what of Greece remaineth now
Returns; her hoary ruins glow
Like orient mountains lost in day;
Beneath the safety of her wings
Her renovated nurslings play,

And in the naked lightnings

Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes.
Let Freedom leave, where'er she flies,
A desert, or a paradise;

Let the beautiful and the brave

Share her glory, or a grave!

P. B. Shelley.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands :

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;-
I listened till I had my fill,
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

W. Wordsworth.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN HIS LIBRARY.

My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;

My never failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

R. Southey.

THE TABLES TURNED.

UP! up! my Friend and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

Come, hear the woodland Linnet,

How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher :

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless-

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.