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How huge you are ! how mighty and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine-whose smile
Makes glad—whose frown is terrible—whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again !- I call to you
With all my voice !- I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you !

Once scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow
O’er the abyss :-his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight
Of measuring the ample range beneath,
And round about absorb’d, he heeded not
The death that threaten'd him I could not shoot-
'Twas liberty !-I turned my bow aside,
And let him soar away!

Heavens, with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God
And bless him that it was so. It was free-
From end to end, from cliff to lake—twas free-
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun.

I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think I had no master save his own. And if o'ertaken in the narrow pass By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, While gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there—the thought that mine was free Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is the land of liberty! KNOWLES. DEATH OF MARMION.

Fast as shaft can fly,
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by.
Soon after, up the hill there rode

Two horsemen, drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand,
His arms were smeared with blood and sand;
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone;
Can that be haughty Marmion?
They doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :--
“Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where ?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare !
Redeem my pennon, - charge again!
Cry-Marmion to the rescue! -Vain !
Last of my race, on battle plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again !-
Yet my last thought is England's ;-fly-
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie.

Tunstall lies dead upon the field;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down,-my life is reft ;-

The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England 's lost.
Must I bid twice ?-hence, varlets ! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die."

The war that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,

And-Stanley! was the cry:
A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted “Victory!"-
“Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

SCOTT. AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

All hail ! thou noble land,
Our fathers' native soil !
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O’er the vast Atlantic wave to our shores;
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phæbus travels bright
The world o’er!

The genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conch the kindred league shall proclaim
Then let the world combine-
O’er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way, shall shine
Bright in fame!
Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravell’d seas to roam,-
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins !
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains ?
While the language free and bold
Which the bard of Ayon sung,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of Heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet.
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast :

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,
Between let ocean roll,
Our joint communion breaking with the sun :
Yet, still from either beach,
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
“ We are one!”

WASHINGTON ALLSTON. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

A NAVAL ODE.

Ye Mariners of England !

That guard our native seas :
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow:
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirit of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!-
For the deck was oft their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,-
As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.-CAMPBELL. THE TRIUMPHS OF OUR LANGUAGE.

Now gather all our Saxon bards,

Let harps and hearts be strung,
To celebrate the triumphs of

Our own good Saxon tongue;
For stronger far than hosts that march

With battle-flags unfurled,
It goes, with FREEDOM, THOUGHT, and TRUTH,

To róuse and rule the world.

Stout Albion learns its household lays

On every surf-worn shore,
And Scotland hears it echoing far

As Orkney's breakers roar-
From Jura's crags and Mona's hills

It floats on every gale,
And warms with eloquence and song

The homes of Innisfail.

On many a wide and swarming deck

It scales the rough wave's crest,
Seeking its peerless heritage

The fresh and fruitful West.
It climbs New England's rocky steeps,

As victor mounts a throne;
Niagara knows and greets the voice

Still mightier than its own.
It spreads where winter piles deep snows

On bleak Canadian plains,
And where, on Essequibo's banks,

Eternal summer reigns :
It glads Acadia's misty coasts,

Jamaica's glowing isle,
And bides where, gay with early flowers,

Green Texan prairies smile.

It lives by clear Itasca's lake,

Missouri's turbid stream, Where cedars rise on wild Ozark,

And Kanzas’ waters gleam • It tracks the loud swift Oregon

Through sunset valleys rolled,
And soars where Californian brooks

Wash down their sands of gold.
It sounds in Borneo's camphor groves,

On seas of fierce Malay,
In fields that curb old Ganges' flood,

And towers of proud Bombay:

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