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The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors l
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow—
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Two Voices.

WO voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains—each a mighty voice:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice;
They were thy chosen music, Liberty l
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him—but hast vainly striven;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs, heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left—
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee?

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

JAn Ode.

HAT constitutes a State? Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:—Men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude— Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:— These constitute a State; And sovereign Law, that State's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this Heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore l No more shall freedom smile P Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent gravel

SIR WILLIAM JONES.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 87

"While History's JMuse.

HILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves,
Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,
With a pencil of light
That illumed all the volume, her Wellington's name.

“Hail, star of my isle !” said the Spirit, all sparkling
With tears, such as break from her own dewy skies—
“Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
I’ve watched for some glory like thine to arise.
For, though heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot,
And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame;—
But O ! there is not
One dishonoring blot
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name,

“Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne for whose wealthou hast stood,
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
And, bright o'er the flood
Of her tears and her blood,
Let the Rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name !”

THOMAS MOORE.

Oh, / Blame not the Bard.

H ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame,
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burned with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart 1

But alas for his country !—her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend 1
Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;
Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile where their country expires

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
Oh ! give but a hope—let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel !
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius should cover his sword.

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin l shall live in his songs;
Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hearthy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep !
THOMAS MOORE.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 89

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

HE breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods, against a stormy sky,

Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;--
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roared—
This was their welcome home !

There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim band:
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

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