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« Ye are the Salt of the Earth."

Salt of the earth, ye virtuous few,

Who season human kind;
Light of the world, whose cheering ray

Illumes the realms of mind;

Where Misery spreads her deepest shade,

Your strong compassion glows; From your blest lips the balm distils,

That softens mortal woes.

By dying beds, in prison glooms,

Your frequent steps are found; Angels of love! you hover near,

To bind the stranger's wound.

You wash with tears the bloody page,

Which human crimes deform; When vengeance threats, your prayers ascand,

And break the gathering storm, As down the summer stream of vice

The thoughtless many glide; Upward you steer your steady bark,

And stem the rushing tide.

Where guilt her foul contagion breathes,

And golden spoils allure;
Unspotted still your garments shine—

Your hands are ever pure.

Whene'er you touch the Poet's lyre,

A loftier strain is heard;
Each ardent thought is your's alone,

And every burning word.

Your's is the large expansive thought,

The high heroic deed;
Exile and chains to you are dear;

To you 'tis sweet to bleed.

You lift on high the warning voice,

When public ills prevail; Your's is the writing on the wall,

That turns the tyrant pale.

The dogs of hell your steps pursue,
With scoff, and shame, and loss;

The hemlock bowl 'tis your's to drain,
To taste the bitter cross.

E'en yet the steaming scaffolds smoke

By Seine's polluted stream; With your rich blood the fields are drench'd

Where Polish sabres gleam.

EVti now, through those accursed bars,

In vain we send our sighs,
Where, deep in Olmutz' dungeon glooms,

The patriot martyr lies.

Yet your's is all; thro' history's rolls

The kindling bosom feels;
And at your tomb, with throbbing heart,

The fond enthusiast kneels.

In every faith, thro' every clime,

Your pilgrim steps we trace;
And shrines are drest, and temples rise,

Each hallow'd spot to grace:

And Paeans loud, in every tongue,

And choral hymns resound;
And length'ning honours hand your name

To time's remotest bound.

Proceed! your race of glory run,

Your virtuous toils endure!
You come, commission'd from on high,

And your reward is sure.

A. L. B.

EPIGRAM FROM THE GREEK.

Paphos may now two goddesses adore,
Ten are the Muses, and the Graces four:
For such is Delia's wit, and mien, and face,
She's a new Muse, a Venus, and a Grace.

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tHE PROPHECY OF NEREUS.

AN IMITATION OF HORACE, L. 1. ODE XV.

Surrounded by his vaunting host,
As proudly from the Gallic coast,
With fragile barks across the flood,
Towards Albion's cliffs the Consul stood,
Half channel o'er, the favouring breeze *
Was sudden lull'd, and from the seas,
Prophet of ill! lo, Nereus rose,
Fate's awful secrets to disclose.
"In evil hour this warlike band +,
Devoted, quit their native land,
To meet, mid danger and mid toil,
The vengeance of yon hostile soil.—
On her bold brow Minerva's crest t,
Minerva's aegis on her breast,
Stern Neptune's trident in her hand,
See on yon rock Britannia stand;
Where at her feet the subject main
Roars with indignant surge in vain,
See round her croud her naval race
Triumphant in your late disgrace.

* Ingrato celcres obruit otio
Ventos, ut cancret 1'cra
Nereus fata.
+ Mala ducis avi domum, &c.
J Jam galeam Pullas, ct ipgida,
JJBtrusque, ct rabicai parat.

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