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In other men, his, fresh as morning rose,

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles;
He from above descending, stooped to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.

He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks.
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Appenines;
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist-the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed—
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.

Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were ;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms
His brothers-younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed.

As some fierce comet of tremendous size,

To which the stars did reverence as it passed;
So he through learning and through fancy took
His flight sublime; and on the loftiest top

Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled, and worn,
As if he from the earth had labored up;
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,

He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much,
And praised and many called his evil good.
Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness:
And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame;
Beyond desire, beyond ambition full,—
He died-he died of what? Of wretchedness.
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump

Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank draughts
That common millions might have quenched-then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.

32. SONG OF MAC MURROUGH.-Scott.

Mist darkens the mountains, night darkens the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael:
A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,

It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill, or the glen, if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires, if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

Oh high-minded Moray!-the exiled!-the dear!-
In the blush of the dawning the standard uprear,
Wide, wide, on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when the dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake ?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call; "Tis the pibroch's shrill summons-but not to the hall

"Tis the summons of heroes to conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath, They call to the dirk, the claymore, the targo,

To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!

May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore
Or die like your sires and endure it no more!

33. WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?—Doane.

What is that, mother?

The lark, my child.

The morn has just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays,
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

The dove, my son.

And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,

Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove;

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The eagle, my boy
Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm, in his own mountain vigor relying;
Breasting the dark storm; the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine e;
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, mother?

The swan, my love.

He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down, by himself, to die.

Death darkens his eye and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swanlike and sweet it may waft thee home.

34. WOMAN.-Campbell.

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? Who hath not paused while beauty's pensive eye Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh? Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name?

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow: There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed, In self-adoring pride securely mailed;— But, triumph not, ye peace-enamored few! Fire, nature, genius, never dwelt with you! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between : 'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh! what were man ?-a world without a sun! Till hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, At starry midnight charmed the silent air: In vain the wild-bird caroled on the steep, To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure played; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ;

Still slowly passed the melancholy day,

And still the stranger wist not where to stray,The world was sad!—the garden was a wild! And man, the hermit, sighed-till woman smiled!

35. FREEDOM.-Cowper.

Fair freedom has a thousand charms to show,
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
The mind attains, beneath her happy reign,
The growth that nature meant she should attain ·
The varied fields of science, ever new,
Opening and wider opening on her view,
She ventures onward with a prosperous force,
While no base fear impedes her in her course.
Religion, richest favor of the skies,

Stands most revealed before the freeman's eyes:
No shades of superstition blot the day,
Liberty chases all that gloom away;
The soul emancipated, unoppressed,

Free to prove all things and hold fast the best,
Learns much; and to a thousand listening minds
Communicates with joy the good she finds;
Courage in arms, and ever prompt to show
His manly forehead to the fiercest foe:
Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace,
His spirits rising as his toils increase,
Guards well what arts and industry have won,
And Freedom claims him for her firstborn son.
Slaves fight for what were better cast away-
The chain that binds them, and a tyrant's sway
But they that fight for freedom, undertake
The noblest cause mankind can have at stake:
Religion, virtue, truth, whate'er we call
A blessing-freedom is the pledge of all.
Oh liberty! the prisoner's pleasing dream,
The poet's muse, his passion, and his theme;
Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse;
Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse;
Heroic song from thy sweet touch acquires
Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires:

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