By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we will be victorious,

3.

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not,
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not;
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us;
But they shall not to slavery doom us:

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves—
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us;

To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

4. This day-shall ye blush for its story? Or brighten your lives with its glory?

Our women-O, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?

Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves

worth

Being sprung from, and named for, the god-like of

earth!

Strike home!—and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

5.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring.

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white

waving arms,

Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,--
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens!

LXIX.-FALL OF WARSAW

THOMAS CAMBELL.

1. O! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors1 and her fierce hussars Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet

horn;

Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

2. Warsaw's last champion from her hights surveyed

Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid

O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?

Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live!—with her to die!

3. He said; and on the rampart hights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm:
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,-
"Revenge, or death!" the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!

4. In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew ;-
O! bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed hot high career; Hope for a season bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell f

O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? Where was thine arm, O vengeance! where thy roa That smote the foes of Sion and of God? 5. Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Lenetra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
O! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell,-the Bruce of Bannockburn!

6. Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see
That man hath yet a soul,-and dare be free!
A little while, along thy saddening plains,
The starless night of Desolation reigns;
Truth shall restore the light by Nature given,
And, like Promethus, bring the fire of Heaven!
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled,
Her name, her nature, withered from the world!
TWANG'-ED, sounded with
quick, sharp noise.

I PAN-DOORS, a name given to a kind of light infantry soldiers in the Austrian service.

LXX. ST. PETER'S.

EUSTACE.

1. From the bridge and Castle de St. Angelo, a wide street conducts in a direct line to a square, and that square presents at once the court or portico, and part of the Basilica. When the spectator approaches the entrance of this court, he views four rows of lofty pillars sweeping off to the right and left in a bold semicircle.

2. In the center of the area formed by this immense

colonnade, an Egyptian obelisk, of one solid piece o granite, ascends to the hight of one hundred and this ty feet; two perpetual fountains, one on each side, play in the air, and fall in sheets round the basins of porphyry that receive them.

3. Before him, raised on three successive flights of marble steps, extending four hundred feet in length, and towering to the elevation of one hundred and eighty, he beholds the majestic front of the Basilica itself. This front is supported by a single row of Corinthian pillars and pilasters, and adorned with an attic, a balustrade, and thirteen colossal statues.

4. Far behind and above it, rises the matchless Dome, the justly celebrated wonder of Rome and of the world. The colonnade of coupled pillars that surround and strengthen its vast base, the graceful attic that surmounts this colonnade, the bold and expansive swell of the dome itself, and the pyramid seated on a cluster of columns, and bearing the ball and cross to the skies, all perfect in their kind, form the most magnificent and singular exhibition that the human eye perhaps ever contemplated. Two lesser cupolas, one on each side, partake of the state, and add not a little to the majesty of the principal dome.

5. The interior corresponds perfectly with the grandeur of the exterior, and fully answers the expectations, however great, which such an approach must naturally have raised. Five lofty portals open into