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النشر الإلكتروني



He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free; |
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain |
That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, |
Can wind around him, | but he casts it off]
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. I
He looks abroad into the varied field

Of nature, and, though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, |
Calls the delightful scenery all his own. |

His are the moun'tains; and the valleys his; |
And the resplendent riv'ers: | his to enjoy |
With a propriety that none can feel, |
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, |
And, smiling, say,—“My Father made them all!" |

Are they not his by a peculiar right, |
And by an emphasis of in'terest his,

Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,

Whose heart with praise', | and whose exalted mind |
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love |
That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world |
So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man? |

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| ye may fill your garners, | ye that reap
The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good
In senseless riot; | but ye will not find

In feast', or in the chase', in song', or dance', |
A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd
Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, |
Appropriates nature as his Father's work, |
And has a richer use of yours than you. I
He is indeed a freeman: | free by birth
Of no mean city, plann'd or ere the hills

Were built, the fountains o'pen'd, or the sea' |
With all his roaring multitude of waves. I

His freedom is the same in ev'ry state; |
And no condition of this changeful life, |
So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry day
Brings its own evil with it, makes it less; |
For he has wings that neither sickness', pain',
Nor penury can cripple, or confine :|

No nook so narrow but he spreads them there
With ease, and is at large, the oppressor holds
His body bound, | but knows not what a range
His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain. ; |
And that to bind him, | is a vain attempt`, |
Whom God delights in, | and in whom he dwells,. }



There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin; |
The dew on his thin robe, was heavy, and chill ; |
For his country he sigh'd when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. I
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion ; |
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean, |
Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion, |
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. |

Sad is my fate! (said the heart-broken stranger) |
The wild-deer, and wolf to a covert can flee; |
But I have no refuge from famine, and danger: |
A home, and a country remain not to me
Never again in the green sunny bowers, |
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet
hours, |

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, |
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!|

Erin, my country! | though sad, and forsaken, |
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; |
But, alas! in a far foreign land, I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more. | O cruel fate! | wilt thou never replace me |

In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase' me? | Never again shall my brothers embrace me,

They died to defend me, or live to deplore, !|

Where is my cab'in-door, | fast by the wild, wood? |
Sisters, and sire, did ye weep for its fall? |
Where is the mother that look'd on my child hood? |
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all. ?
O my sad soul! long abandon'd by pleasure, |
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure! |

Tears, like the rain'-drops, may fall without meas`ure; |
But rapture, and beauty they cannot recall. ¡

Yet all its fond recollections suppressing, |
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw: |
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! |
Land of my forefathers! | Erin go bragh! |
Buried, and cold, when my heart stills her motion, |
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion— |
Erin ma vournin! Erin go bragh !* |



Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, |
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; |
Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot |
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. |

* Ireland my darling! - Ireland for ever!

We buried him darkly at dead of night,!
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, |
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclos'd his breast, |

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him; |
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, |
With his martial cloak around him.
Few, and short were the prayers we said; |
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; |
But we steadfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead; |
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. |

We thought, as we hallow'd his narrow bed, |
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, |

That the foe, and the stranger would tread o'er his head; |

And we far away on the billow. |

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, |
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; |

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on |
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. |

But half of our heavy task was done, |

When the clock told the hour for retiring; | And we knew by the distant, and random gun, | That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly, and sadly we laid him down |

From the field of his fame, fresh, and gory:| We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone', But left him alone in his glory. |

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The universe may be considered as the palace in which the Deity resides; and the earth, as one of its

apartments. In this, all the meaner races of animated nature mechanically obey him; and stand ready to execute his commands without hesitation. | Man alone is found refractory: | he is the only being, endued with a power of contradicting these mandates. The Deity was pleased to exert superior power in creating him a superior being; a being endued with a choice of good, and evil; and capable, in some measure, | of co-operating with his own intentions. | Man, therefore, may be considered as a limited creature, endued with powers, imitative of those residing in the Deity. He is thrown into a world that stands in need of his help; and he has been granted a power of producing harmony from partial confusion.

If, therefore, we consider the earth | as allotted for our habitation, | we shall find, that much has been given us to enjoy, and much to amend; that we have ample reasons for our gratitude, and many for our industry. In those great outlines of nature, to which art cannot reach, and where our greatest efforts must have been ineffectual, | God himself has finished every thing with amazing grandeur, and beauty. | Our beneficent Father has considered these parts of nature as peculiarly his own; as parts which no creature | could have skill, or strength to amend; and he has, therefore, made them incapable of altera'tion, or of more perfect regularity. The heavens, and the firmament | show the wisdom, and the glory of the Workman. Astronomers, who are best skilled in the symmetry of systems, | can find nothing there that they can alter for the better. God made these perfect, | because no subordinate being could correct their defects. | When, therefore, we survey nature on this side, į nothing can be more splendid, more correct, or amazing. We there behold a Deity residing in the midst of a universe, infinitely extended every way, animating all, and cheering the vacuity with his presence. | We behold an immense, and shapeless mass of matter, |

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