VIL The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day; Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars' past renown: Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown! VIII. Shut the proud, bright sunshine From the fading sight! There needs no ray by the bed of death, IX. The wreath is twined, the way is strewn, the lordly train are met. Χ. Silence! forth we bring him, In his last array; From love and grief the freed, the flown,— Way for the bier,—make way! Mrs. Hemans Death of the Old Year. Full knee-deep lies the winter-snow, And the winter-winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell, sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day :- He gave me a friend and a true, true love, And the new year will take them away. Old year you must not go; He frothed his bumpers to the brim; Old year you shall not die; He was full of joke and jest; His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold my friend Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes! o'er the snow Shake hands before you die! Old year we'll dearly rue for you: His face is growing sharp and thin ;- Close up his eyes-tie up his chin- That standeth there alone, Again to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves And the sword shall to glory restore us. II. Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid? Be the combat our own! For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. III. A breath of submission we breathe not: The sword we have drawn we will sheathe not! Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us; If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves: To the charge! Heaven's banner is o'er us. This day-shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory?— Our women-0, say, shall they shriek in despair, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion ! Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring, That were cold and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms. Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,— When the blood of yon Musselman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens! Campbell. The Bell of the Atlantic. Toll, toll, toll, thou bell by billows swung; And, night and day, thy warning words repeat with mournful tongue! Toll for the queenly boat, wrecked on yon rocky shore! Sea-weed is in her palace walls; she rides the surge no more. Toll for the master bold, the high-souled and the brave, Who long the tyrant ocean dared; but it vanquished them at last. Toll for the man of God, whose hallowed voice of prayer Amid the fierce and freezing storm, and the mountain billows' strife! Bright glows a picture on his breast, beneath th' unfathomed main. Toll for the absent sire, who to his home drew near, To bless a glad expecting group-fond wife and children dear! Toll for the loved and fair, the whelmed beneath the tide- Toll for the hearts that bleed 'neath misery's furrowing trace! Toll, toll, toll, o'er breeze and billow free, And with thy startling lore instruct each rover of the sea: Adams and Jefferson. Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. As human beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence; no more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the government; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration and regard. They are no more. They are dead. But how little is there of the great and good their country they yet live, and live forever. which can die! To They live in all that |