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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

the sea,

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you

and me;

As he died to make men holy, let us die to make

men free,
While God marching on.

JULIA WARD Howe.

LAUS DEO!

(On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the Constitutional Amenduent abolishing slavery.)

It is done!
Clang of bell and roar of gun
Send the tidings up and down.

How the belfries rock and reel !

How the great guns, peal on peal,
Fling the joy from town to town !

Ring, O bells !
Every stroke exulting tells
Of the burial hour of crime.

Loud and long, that all may hear,

Ring for every listening ear
Of Eternity and Time !

Let us kneel :
God's own voice is in that peal,
And this spot is holy ground.

Lord, forgive us! What are we,

That our eyes this glory see,
That our ears have heard the sound !

For the Lord
On the whirlwind is abroad;
In the earthquake he has spoken ;

He has smitten with his thunder

The iron walls asunder,
And the gates of brass are broken !

Loud and long
Lift the old exulting song ;
Sing with Miriam by the sea :

He has cast the mighty down;

Horse and rider sink and drown;
He has triumphed gloriously !

Did we dare,
In our agony of prayer,
Ask for more than He has done ?

Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which

Now

Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain?
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ;
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,

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 !
Of the three hundred, grant but three
To make a new Thermopylæ !

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, -
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.

Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish

hand, From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed,

umanned.

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

anew

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

ful page.

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not
Who would be free themselves must strike the

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

shame !

BYRON,

SONG OF THE GREEK POET.

FROM

DON JUAN."

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung !
Eternal summer gilds them yet ;
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse ;

Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo farther west
Than your sires' “ Islands of the Blest."

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

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FRANCES BROWN.

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 :
Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head

To drown the din.

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