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OF THE WARRIORS THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE BATTLE
This night, ye hardy yeomen! wield
A richer meed of victory.
Your sires and sons from slavery.
Who sleeps when lustful tyrants wake?
At Lexington's artillery.
'Neath heaven's starry canopy!
On Charles's tossing wave below
Shouts in his scornful revelry;
God builds the Patriot's sepulchre.
YE SPIRITS OF THE JUST.
YE spirits of the just, that soar
Beyond those starry fields sublime, Dwellers in light with whom are o'er
The pageants and the tears of time,Say, are the thoughts we entertain
Of yonder unknown worlds, untrue? Are those high mysteries but vain,
Dissolved, or unrevealed to you?
Prophets--a long and awful train,
Pilgrims, that bowed beneath the rod, And martyrs who from racks of pain Soared to the presence
God Earth gave ye not her poor renown;
Humility your only gem'Twas yours to seek a nobler crown,
Say, wear ye now that diadem?
Thou disembodied one whom here
'Twas ours, in fellowship, to know; Who, buoyed by Faith, without a fear,
Fled from endearments prized below; On the dear hopes that soothed thy bed,
Hath disappointment flung its pall? Or dost thou bosom now thy head
On Him, thou chosest as thy All?
Forbear-yon ministering one
Thine eyes, in flesh, shall never see ;
The dull cold sepulchre, its own,
Mortal! shall never yield to thee. See, on futurity's long night
A cheering beam of heaven is shed; Receive thou Revelation's light,
And not the visions of the dead.
TO THE HOLY ALLIANCE.
SLAVES of royalty advance!
Russia, leader of the host; Perjured Austria, crouching France,
Welcome, welcome to our coast! Aye, the welcome freemen show
To the base, we give to ye; Death to him whose coward blow
Strikes at heaven-born Liberty. Touch our soil, and that true spirit,
Spark, ethereal, given to Men-
Shall, resistless, rise again.
Every clod would rush to life;
Starting, would renew the strife. Shame that men- -God's image wearing
Scorn his work and crush the Free;
Men they are not, whose curst daring
Rivets chains of slavery.
Righteously unsheathed, shall never Rest, till wrath's red vials poured
On your crimes, blot ye forever.
Holy despots! not in regions
Warmed with Liberty's fair beam, Should the tyrant halt his legions,
Should the sword of bandits gleam: Haste to yon inglorious clime,
Where of earth abide the stain; Nations sunk in sloth and crime;
Haste to Naples, haste to Spain.
Rise ye Patriots, to recover
Vantage-ground, by treachery lost; Gallant veterans, fight over
Battles with the craven host; Mina, yet, the lion-hearted,
To redeem his race shall fly; Chiefs shall rally, though long parted,
Roused by RIEGO's dying cry.
DEATH OF FISK,
AMERICAN MISSIONARY AT PALESTINE.
Went he unto that holy land,
In panoply arrayed,
In that high and bold crusade?
Poured forth of warlike men, When Cæur-de-Lion smote the coasts
Of the scornful Saracen?
Or unto Helena's* proud shrine
Did the votary ascend?
With kings and warriors bend?
O’er the ruins of that land,
The seer and the patriarch band.
He trod not Olivet's ascent
With thought of high emprize; He went as sandalled pilgrims went,
In meek and lowly guise.
* The original building, erected A. D. 326, was destroyed at the beginning of the eleventh century, and rebuilt by a Greek empe ror in 1048. Nicephorus enumerates twenty-six churches and chapels, built by the empress Helena in the Holy Land.-Clarke's Travels.