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« Ye are the Salt of the Earth."
Salt of the earth, ye virtuous few,
Who season human kind;
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;
Your hands are ever pure.
Whene'er you touch the Poet's lyre,
A loftier strain is heard;
And every burning word.
Your's is the large expansive thought,
The high heroic deed;
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,
The hemlock bowl 'tis your's to drain,
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,
The patriot martyr lies.
Yet your's is all; thro' history's rolls
The kindling bosom feels;
The fond enthusiast kneels.
In every faith, thro' every clime,
Your pilgrim steps we trace;
Each hallow'd spot to grace:
And Paeans loud, in every tongue,
And choral hymns resound;
To time's remotest bound.
Proceed! your race of glory run,
Your virtuous toils endure!
And your reward is sure.
A. L. B.
EPIGRAM FROM THE GREEK.
Paphos may now two goddesses adore,
tHE PROPHECY OF NEREUS.
AN IMITATION OF HORACE, L. 1. ODE XV.
Surrounded by his vaunting host,
* Ingrato celcres obruit otio