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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,
Save the holy taper's light.

IX.

The wreath is twined, the way is strewn, the lordly train are met.
The streets are hung with coronals,-why stays the minstrel yet?
Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief,—
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!

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.
Old year you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:

He will not see the dawn of day :-
He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend and a true, true love,

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And the new year will take them away.

Old year you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest;
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste

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
And the New Year blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! o'er the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock,
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps-the light burns low-
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands before you die!

Old year we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?-
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin ;-
Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes-tie up his chin-
Step from the corpse, and let him in

That standeth there alone,

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Again to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land-the first garden of Liberty's tree-
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves.
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

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!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;

For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we will be victorious,

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!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us;
But they shall not to slavery doom us:

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;

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,
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from and named for, the godlike of earth!
Strike home! and the world shall revere us

As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion !
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

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 ruled her like a thing of life amid the crested wave!
Toll for the hardy crew, sons of the storm and blast,

Who long the tyrant ocean dared; but it vanquished them at last.

Toll for the man of God, whose hallowed voice of prayer
Rose calm above the stifled groan of that intense despair!
How precious were those tones on that sad verge of life,

Amid the fierce and freezing storm, and the mountain billows' strife!
Toll for the lover lost to the summoned bridal train !

Bright glows a picture on his breast, beneath th' unfathomed main.
One from her casement gazeth long o'er the misty sea:
He cometh not, pale maiden-his heart is cold to thee.

Toll for the absent sire, who to his home drew near,

To bless a glad expecting group-fond wife and children dear!
They heap the blazing hearth; the festal board is spread;
But a fearful guest is at the gate: room for the pallid dead!

Toll for the loved and fair, the whelmed beneath the tide-
The broken harps around whose strings the dull sea-monsters glide!
Mother and nursling sweet, reft from their household throng.
There's bitter weeping in the nest where breathed the soul of song.

Toll for the hearts that bleed 'neath misery's furrowing trace!
Toll for the hapless orphan left, the last of all his race!
Yea, with thy heaviest knell, from surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living,—not the dead, whose mortal woes are o'er!

Toll, toll, toll, o'er breeze and billow free,

And with thy startling lore instruct each rover of the sea:
Tell how o'er proudest joys may swift destruction sweep,
And bid him build his hopes on high-lone teacher of the deep.
Lydia H. Sigourney.

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

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