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Yet it is music in the language spoken

Of thine own land; and on her herald roll; As bravely fought for, and as proud a token As Cœur de Lion's of a warrior's soul.

Thy garb-though Austria's bosom-star would frighten
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine,
And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton,
A more becoming evening dress than thine;

Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather,
And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood,
As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather,
Or forest green for England's Robin Hood.

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's?
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong
As earth's first kings-the Argo's gallant sailors,
Heroes in history, and gods in song.

Is beauty? Thine has with thy youth departed;
But the love-legends of thy manhood's years,
And she who perished, young and broken-hearted,
Are-but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears.

Is eloquence?-Her spell is thine that reaches

The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, The secret of their mastery-they are short.

The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding,
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon,
Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding
The hearts of millions till they move as one:

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded
The road to death as to a festival;

And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded
With banner-folds of glory the dark pall.

Who will believe? Not I-for in deceiving
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream;
I cannot spare the luxury of believing

That all things beautiful are what they seem;

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour, With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing,

As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower;

With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as a bird's in air;
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil

That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair!

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree; And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain

Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee!

And underneath that face, like summer ocean's,

Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions,

Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all save fear.

Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter,
Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars;
Hatred of missionaries and cold water;

Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars;

Hope that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, Remembered and revenged when thou art gone; Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit

Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne!

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still her gray rocks tower above the sea That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave; "Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,

Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;

Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;

And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, Nor even then, unless in their own way.

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,

A "fierce democracie," where all are true
To what themselves have voted-right or wrong—
And to their laws denominated blue;

(If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;)

A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the West.

A justice of the peace, for the time being,
They bow to, but may turn him out next year;
They reverence their priest, but disagreeing

In price or creed, dismiss him without fear;

They have a natural talent for foreseeing

And knowing all things; and should Park appear

From his long tour in Africa, to show

The Niger's source, they'd meet him with "We know."

They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty;

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.

Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling;

Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching
The A B C from Webster's spelling-book ;

Gallant and godly, making love and preaching,
And gaining by what they call "hook and crook,"
And what the moralists call overreaching,

A decent living. The Virginians look

Upon them with as favourable eyes
As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise.

But these are but their outcasts. View them near

At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear,

And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced

With manly hearts, in piety sincere,

Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave.

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control
Is felt even in their nation's destiny;

Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul,
And looked on armies with a leader's eye;
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll,

Whose leaves contain their country's history,
And tales of love and war-listen to one

Of the Green-Mountaineer-the Stark of Bennington.

When on that field his band the Hessians fought,
Briefly he spoke before the fight began:
"Soldiers! those German gentlemen are bought

For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man,
By England's king; a bargain, as is thought.
Are we worth more? Let's prove it now we can ;
For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun,
OR MARY STARK'S A WIDOW!" It was done.

Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring,
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales,
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales

Of Florence and the Arno; yet the wing

Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales Through sun and snow; and in the autumn time Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime.

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