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He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall
never call retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his
judgment-seat : 0, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant
my feet !
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make
JULIA WARD Howe.
(On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the Constitutional Amenduent abolishing slavery.)
It is done!
How the belfries rock and reel !
How the great guns, peal on peal,
Ring, O bells !
Loud and long, that all may hear,
Ring for every listening ear
Let us kneel :
Lord, forgive us! What are we,
That our eyes this glory see,
For the Lord
He has smitten with his thunder
The iron walls asunder,
Loud and long
He has cast the mighty down;
Horse and rider sink and drown;
Did we dare,
Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?
And ships by thousands lay below,
And men in nations, all were his! He counted them at break of day, And when the sun set, where were they !
And where are they? and where art thou
My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now,
The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine!
”T is something, in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shaine,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest!
Must we but blush ? - our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead !
What, silent still ? and silent all ?
Ah no! the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, “Let one living head, But one, arise, we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain, — in vain ; strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal !
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhie phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave, Think ye he meant them for a slave ?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
We will not think of themes like these 1 It made Anacreon's song divine ;
He served, but served Polycrates, -
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish
hand, From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed,
In all save form alone, how changed ! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who but would deem their bosoms burned
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage ; For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh,
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name detiled from Slavery's mourn
Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not
blow? By their right arms the conquest must be
wrought ? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no ! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe ! Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the
same; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of
SONG OF THE GREEK POET.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung !
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades !
O that the present hour would lend
O those blessed times of old, with their chivalry
and state !
I love to read their chronicles, which such brave 0 THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD !
deeds relate ; O THE pleasant days of old, which so often peo
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their
legends told, ple praise ! True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our But, Heaven be thanked ! I live not in those
blessed times of old ! modern days : Bare floors were strewed with rushes, the walls
let in the cold ; ), how they must have shivered in those pleasant
THE REFORMER. days of old !
All grim and soiled and brown with tan, those ancient lords of old, how magnificent I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, they were !
Smiting the godless shrines of man They threw down and imprisoned kings, – to
Along his path. thwart them who might dare ? They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they took The Church beneath her trembling dome from Jews their gold,
Essayed in vain her ghostly charm : _bove both law and equity were those great lords Wealth shook within his gilded home of old !
With strange alarm.
the gallant knights of old, for their valor so
renowned ! Fith sword and lance and armor strong they
scoured the country round;
Fraud from his secret chambers filed
Before the sunlight bursting in :
To drown the din.