O

THE INFLUENCE OF FAME.

H, who shall lightly say that fame

Is nothing1 but an empty name,
While in that sound there is a charm,
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm;
As, thinking of the mighty dead,

The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part?

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When, but for those, our mighty dead,
All ages past a blank would be;
Sunk in Oblivion's2 murky bed-—

A desert bare-a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen,
The lofty marks of what hath been.

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When memory of the mighty dead

To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightèst rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality?

And 'mid the vales and swelling hills,
That sweetly bloom in Freedom's land,
A living spirit breathes, and fills

The freeman's heart, and nerves his hand;
For the bright soil that gave him birth,
The home of all he loves on earth,—

For this, when Freedom's trumpet calls,
He waves on high his sword of fire,—
For this, amid his country's halls,
Forever strikes the freeman's lyre!

His burning heart he may not lend
To serve a doting despot's sway;

A suppliant knee he will not bend,

Before these things of "brass and clay :"
When wrong and ruin call to war,
He knows the summons from afar;

On high his glittering sword he waves,
And myriads feel the freeman's fire,
While he, around their fathers' graves,
Strikes to old strains the freeman's lyre!

GEORGE LUNT.

LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

ROM life without Freedom, say, who would not fly?

FRO

For one day of Freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark! hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. From life without Freedom, oh! who would not fly? For one day of Freedom, oh! who would not die?

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue, for mankind, are heroes indeed.

And, oh! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!

A

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of
woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen1—at Bingen on the Rhine.

1 Bingen, (bing'en), a town of Ger- situated on the left bank of the Rhine many, noted for its superior wines, at the influx of the Nahe (nå').