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No chronicles but theirs shall tell

His mournful doom to future times :
May these upon his virtues dwell,

And in his fate forget his crimes !

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6:- ebb, cub, tube, bib, glib, babe, bulb, barb, blue, im

bibe, embark, imbue, disburse, un blessed.

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There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;

There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar :

I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean - roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin his control

Stops with the shore; - upon the watery plain

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into tħy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals,

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make

Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free,

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey

The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts :— not so thou !

Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where th’Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime The image of eternity — the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy

I wantoned with thy breakers -- they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea

Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear,

For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane as I do here.

LESSON XXIII.

EXERCISES IN ARTICULATION.

d:- bed, dead, did, made, grazed, hedged, judged, saved,

writhed, charmed, paved, heard, ebbed, rigged, would, could, should, damaged, modest, deadly.

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At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power.
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard ;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;
Then pressed that monarch's throne, a king ;-
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight in the forest-shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band

* Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were, “To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.”

True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,

On old Platæa's day;
And now there breathed that haunted air,
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on the Turk awoke

That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, “To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!” He woke to die 'midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots, falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band :
“ Strike till the last armed foe expires;
Strike for your altars and your fires ;
Strike for the green graves of your sires -

God, and your native land!”

They fought like brave men— long and well ;

They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered - but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won ;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath

Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its strokeCome in consumption's ghastly form The earthquake shock - the ocean storm Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine – And thou art terrible — the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear,

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come when its task of fame is wrought –
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought --

Come in her crowning hour and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men!

Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian Isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and fields of balm,

Blew o’er the Haytian seas.

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