SONG

OF THE WARRIORS THE NIGHT PRECEDING THE BATTLE

OF BUNKER-HILL.

This night, ye hardy yeomen! wield
The spade, on glory's fallow field;
And ne'er shall garnered harvest yield

A richer meed of victory.
Toil on! toil on! ye true and brave,
Dig for yon foe his gory grave,-
Aye, share that pillow!—'tis to save

Your sires and sons from slavery.

Who sleeps when lustful tyrants wake?
Who in her peril will forsake
His country? let the dastard quake

At Lexington's artillery.
Toil on! toil on! 'tis glorious cheer--
Our swords well tried, the Briton near,
Fame's monument shall yeomen rear

'Neath heaven's starry canopy!

On Charles's tossing wave below
His vessel rides and he, the foe,
Unconscious of the whelming blow,

Shouts in his scornful revelry;
Toil on! toil on! the yeoman sings, —
Unheeded yonder red-cross flings
Its fires—we fear no wrath of kings,

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?

of your

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-
Which from patriots we inherit,

Shall, resistless, rise again.
Touch our soil—dare not! 'tis holy,

Every clod would rush to life;
Heroes from their cerements gory,

Starting, would renew the strife. Shame that men- -God's image wearing

Scorn his work and crush the Free;

A a

Men they are not, whose curst daring

Rivets chains of slavery.
Shrink ye traitors, for the sword,

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.

1826.

DEATH OF FISK,

AMERICAN MISSIONARY AT PALESTINE.

Went he unto that holy land,

In panoply arrayed,
With banner and with gleaming brand,

In that high and bold crusade?
Fought he where Christendom its hosts

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?
Did he at altars deemed divine,

With kings and warriors bend?
He wept where martyrs wept, and prayed

O’er the ruins of that land,
Where sleep, beneath the palm-tree's shade,

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.