THE HELOT'S SONG.

GOD of Armies, break my chain;
Lead me to the' embattled plain,
Where thy daring sons advance,
Bend the bow, and wield the lance;—
Shafts are whizzing on the string!
Hark! the shouts of combat ring!
Nerve the limbs, the bosom steel;
Men their wounds no longer feel.
God of Armies, hear!

Long these eyes have pour'd a flood;
Others now shall weep in blood:
Now the fierce insulting foe
Shall partake the Helot's woe;
Gasping on the well fought field,
Tyranny her scourge shall yield.
Couch the javelin-urge the steed-
Try how gallant men can bleed.
God of Armies, hear!

Hear the proud exulting cry,
When the noble spirits fly,
Soaring from the mortal cage,
Only subject of your rage,

Baffled tyrants! 6 weep forlorn,

Break the scourge, your rage we scorn,

Mars, receive our votive breath,—

Give us freedom, give us death!'

God of Armies, hear!

When the bones on earth shall lie,

Weltering to the summer's sky,

Though no sepulture they find,

Though they whiten to the wind,

Yet exult not, haughty foe,
Deem them not a sight of woe:
On the field they shall remain,
Trophies of the glorious slain!
God of Armies, hear!

Strains of war let clarions sing,
Let the shouts of battle ring,
Let the volley'd weapons fly,
Dust of combat dim the sky!
In the dread conflicting hour,
Freedom, let me own thy power;
Freedom, take my parting breath,
Godlike trance, ennobled death!-
God of Armies, hear!

Freedom now revives, though late;
Maid divine, to wed with Fate;
For the nuptial pomp, around
Banners wave, and trumpets sound,
Veins of men libations pour,
Sacred to the genial hour:
Be their offspring death or life,
Lead me to the generous strife.
God of Armies, hear!

Mid the din of mortal harms,
Fold me, Freedom, in thine arms:
Let me in thy lap be laid

When the final debt is paid.

Still the foe, possess'd with dread,

Shall confess A MAN lies dead:
Valiant Helots, never yield-

Follow, follow to the field!

God of Armies, hear!

PRESTON.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

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;

[slaves And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's May be wash'd out in blood from our forefather's Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

[graves. And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succour advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd 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 dragg'd 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 shall be victorious!

Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious!

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheath 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 we blush for its story,
Or brighten our lives with its glory!

[spair,

Our women-Oh, say, shall they shriek in deOr embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their Accursed may his memory blacken,

[hair?

If a coward there be that would slacken, Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth

[earth. Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of Strike home-and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes.

[ring,

Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her islands, her isles of the ocean;
Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, [spring.
That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white
waving arms,

Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have crimson'd the beak of our ravens!

CAMPBELL.

CHEROKEE DEATH SONG.

THE sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away; Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow,— Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low: Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?

No, the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away

Now the fire rises fast, you exult in my pain,
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.
I go to the land where my father is gone,
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son ;
Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain,
And thy son, O Alknomook, has scorn'd to com-
plain.
MRS. HUNTER.

ILLINOIS DEATH SONG.

REAR'D midst the war-empurpled plain,

What Illinois submits to pain!

How can the glory-darting fire

The coward chill of death inspire!

The sun a blazing heat bestows,
The moon midst pensive evening glows,
The stars in sparkling beauty shine,
And own their flaming source divine.

Then let me hail the' immortal fire,
And in the sacred flames expire;
Nor yet those Huron hands restrain;
This bosom scorns the throbs of pain.