THE TWO VOICES. IV. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow- THOMAS CAMPBELL. 85 The Two Voices. TWO voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains-each a mighty voice: Thou fought'st against him—but hast vainly striven; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. An Ode. WHAT constitutes a State? WHAT Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. With powers as far above dull brutes endued As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain :— And sovereign Law, that State's collected will, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! No more shall freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave! SIR WILLIAM JONES. WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 87 WH While History's Muse. '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, Of her tears and her blood, Let the Rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!" THOMAS MOORE. ОН 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! 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 ! 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 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; But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 89 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. HE breaking waves dashed high THE 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; In silence and in fear ; They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 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 roaredThis was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair, 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, |