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• Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread

Of my desponding tears; now lift once more,
My hunter of the hills, thy stately head,

And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!
I can bear all, but seeing thee sublued,
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

Go forth beside the waters, and along

The chamois-paths, and through the forests go; And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong,

To the brave hearts that midst the hamlet glow. God shall be with thee, my beloved !-Away! Bless but thy child, and leave me, I can pray!

Hle sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking

To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air; He caught her to his breast, while proud tears break

ing From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, And • Worthy art thou,' was his joyous cry, “That man fór thee should gird himself to die.

• My bride, my wife, the mother of my child !

Now shall thy name be armour to my heart;
And this our land, by chains no more defiled,

Be taught of thee to choose the betier part!
I go--thy spirit on my words shall dwell;
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps-Farewell!

And thus they parted, by the quież lake,

In the clear starlight: he, the strength to rouse of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,

To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs, Singing its blue half-curtain'd eyes to sleep, With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.


On, on, to the just and glorious strife!

With your swords your freedom shielding:
Nay, resign, if it must be so, even life;

But die, at least, unyielding.
On to the strife! for 't were far more meet

To sink with the foes who bay you,
Than crouch, like dogs, at your tyrants' feet,

And smile on the swords that slay you.
Shall the pagan slaves be masters, then,

Of the land which your fathers gave you?
Shall the Infidel lord it o'er Christian men,

When your own good swords may save you?
No! let him feel that their arms are strong,

That their courage will fail them never, Who strike to repay long years of wrong,

And bury past shame for ever. Let him know there are hearts, however bow'd

By the chains which he threw around them, That will rise, like a spirit from pall and shroud,

And cry.woe! to the slaves who bound them. Let him learn how weak is a tyrant's might,

Against liberty's sword contending ;
And find how the sons of Greece can fight,

Their freedom and land defending.
Then on! then on to the glorious strife!

your country shielding, And resign, if it must be so, even life;

But die, at least, unyielding.
Strike! for the sires who left you free!

Strike! for their sakes who bore you!
Strike! for your homes and liberty,
And the Heaven you worship o'er you!


your swords

NAPOLEON'S DREAM. SWEET is the English peasant's joy

To watch her husband sleeping,
And smile upon the blooming boy

To his loved bosom creeping ;
Her finger on her lip the while
Mingling fond caution with her smile-
For the dear father wearied came
From copse-wood to his gentle dame;
'T was cold, and wet the dreary day,
And long and cheerless was the way-

O transitory sorrow!
Slumbering beside the fagot's blaze,
On his calm mind no vision preys,

Care leaves him till the morrow. Yet sometimes o'er his sunburnt face A pleasant dream will shed its grace,

Sometimes a swelling tear; Full well can she, his happy mate, Link'd to his soul as to his fate, The transient images translate,

Vor feel one doubting fear;
The heart, the heart, oft prompts the themes,
Which sleep and memory mould to dreams;
As radiance that from diamonds gleams,

Is darted from above;
That smile the husband's fondness beams,

That tear the father's love.
But 't is no English cottage there,

That rears its lofty head;
No English wife with tender care

Watches her husband's bed:
No English peasant can he be
That slumbers there so heavily.
Though scarce the lamp can pierce the gloom,
That shrouds a high and stately room,
Its light a bending fair one shows;
A man who snatches short repose ;

And while St. Cloud's proud walls scarce catch the

Louisa wondering marks Napoleon's dream.

Strong were the features, sallow, wan,
And thoughtful, of the sleeping man;
In the fine mould of beauty cast,
Till passions wild and moody pass’d,
And nature's lovely work o'ercast.
Yet smiles, the lightning of the storm,
Would sometimes gild their darken'd form;
And never had a smile so bright
Dwelt on his lips with sunny light,
Not when the Austrian maid he woo'd,
As now beguiles his dreaming mood.
His very hand, high raised in air,
Its gladsome influence seems to share.
Thinks he of victory's laurel-bough?
Or of his mighty empire now?
In idolizing Paris crown'd ?
On Austerlitz red field renown'd?
Or, victor at the council board,
Deems he his rescued Spain restored ?
Oh, no! not this the usurper's smile;
Not this the statesman's crafty wile;
Not, this the conqueror's blood-earn'd bliss ;
No ! 't is a blameless transport this;
A joy unfelt of many years,
Unstain'd by guilt, unspoil'd by fears.
Treading a lone and seabeat shore,
He seems a thoughtful boy once more;
A thoughtful boy, in musings rapt,
In hope's delightful visions lapt;
He feels the very breezes blow
That fann'd his cheeks' enraptured glow ;
He hears the very surges beat
That wont to lave his careless feet;
And every wish and joy again
Of happy youth inspires his brain.

The rushing tide of love, of hope,

Ambition undefined,
Thoughts that the wealth of worlds would ope,

To yield it to mankind;
Wishes ihat would possess to give;
Power that might say, Be blest and live!
That would to all he loved impart

The boundless treasures of his heart;
Win but to save some land bedeck'd with flowers,
And Eden's bliss renew in Eden's blooming bowers.

Such are the thoughts that wake his smiles,
Such dreams his sleeping sense beguiles,
And such are young Ambition's wiles.
The sun that in the burning street

Pours death in every ray,
Darting through palms and plantains sweet,
Gives but a soft and balmy heat

Where leaf-born breezes play. ”T is as the war-flag closely furl'd

When reason reigns within; O'tis the world, the bitter world

That makes ambition sin.



Ah, see the brilliant smile is dead!
The hand is dropp'd, the joy is fled !
Some thought has indistinctly shown,

As in a misty glass,
Where all the cares that wait a throne,
And youthful hopes and virtues flown,

In dim confusion pass;
With comrades slain, a fearful hand,
Brothers who roam a foreign strand,

A fond forsaken wife,
A bleeding world, a suffering land,

His sorrows and his life.
Well may he sigh! but that convulsion

A deeper anguish cansed;
Almost it seem'd in dread revulsion

That Nature's functions paused.

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