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If Honor, Justice, Truth, had not forsaken

The place long hallowed as their bright abode, The faith of treaties never had been shaken,

Our country would have kept the trust she owed; Nor Violence nor Treachery had taken

Away those rights which nature's God bestowed.

Fruitless thy mighty efforts-vain appealing
To grasping Avarice, that ne'er relents;
To Party Power, that shamelessly is stealing,
Banditti-like, whatever spoil it scents;
To base Intrigue, his cloven foot revealing,
That struts in Honesty's habiliments.

Our land-once green as Paradise-is hoary,
E'en in its youth, with tyranny and crime;
Its soil with blood of Afric's sons is gory,

Whose wrongs eternity can tell-not time;
The red man's woes shall swell the damning story,
To be rehearsed in every age and clime.

Yet, FRELINGHUYSEN, gratitude is due thee,
And loftier praise than language can supply:
Guilt may denounce, and Calumny pursue thee,
And pensioned Impudence thy worth decry;
Brilliant and pure posterity shall view thee,
As a fair planet in a troublous sky.

Be not dismayed. On God's own strength relying,
Stand boldly up, meek soldier of the cross;

For thee, ten thousand prayers are heavenward flying;
Thy soul is purged from earthly rust and dross.
Patriot and Christian, ardent, self-denying,
How could we bear resignedly thy loss?

Genius Slumbering.—PERCIVAL.

HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,
That once in transport drew his spirit on;
He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.

And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there;

There are who still remember how he bore
Upward his daring pinions, till the air

Seemed living with the crown of light he wore ;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.

He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
And the pressed lip, a darkened glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,
There hovers still the light of other days;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.

He will not sleep for ever, but will rise

Fresh to more daring labors; now, even now,
As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,

The gathered slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-opened eye, in fuller beams,
His wakened spirit streams.

Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,

Keen as the famished eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him, and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.

He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take

They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way, When he forgot the contest-shall they take, Now he renews the race, the victor's bay? Still let them strive-when he collects his might, He will assert his right.

The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,

Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher.

Genius Waking.—PERCIVAL.

SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound theeWhere is now thy fire?

Feebler wings are gathering round theeShall they hover higher?

Can no power, no spell, recall thee

From inglorious dreams?

O, could glory so appal thee,
With his burning beams!

Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;

With a proud and sure dominion,
Thou didst upward bear.

Like the herald, winged with lightning,

From the Olympian throne,

Ever mounting, ever brightening,
Thou wert there alone.

Where the pillared props of heaven
Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows-
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.

O, what rare and heavenly brightness
Flowed around thy plumes,
As a cascade's foamy whiteness
Lights a cavern's glooms!

Wheeling through the shadowy ocean,
Like a shape of light,

* With serene and placid motion,
Thou wert dazzling bright.

From that cloudless region stooping,
Downward thou didst rush,
Not with pinion faint and drooping
But the tempest's gush.

Up again undaunted soaring,

Thou didst pierce the cloud,

When the warring winds were roaring
Fearfully and loud.

Where is now that restless longing
After higher things?

Come they not, like visions, thronging
On their airy wings?

Why should not their glow enchant thee
Upward to their bliss?

Surely danger cannot daunt thee

From a heaven like this.

But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Hangs thy ruffled wing;

Like a dove tu winter shivering,

Or a feebler thing.

Where is now thy might and motion,
Thy imperial flight?

Where is now thy heart's devotion?

Where thy spirit's light?

Hark! his rustling plumage gathers

Closer to his side,

Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Ocean's hurrying tide.

Now his nodding beak is steady

Wide his burning eye

Now his opening wings are ready,

And his aim-how high!

Now he curves his neck, and proudly
Now is stretched for flight-
Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly,
And their flash-how bright!
Onward-onward over mountains,
Through the rock and storm,

Now, like sunset over fountains,
Flits his glancing form.

Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee-
Thou hast reached thy heaven-
Lingering slumber hath not reft thee

Of the glory given.

With a bold, a fearless pinion,

On thy starry road,

None, to fame's supreme dominion,
Mightier ever trode.

The Spirit of Poetry.-LONGFELLOW.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows-
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade,
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

As to the sunshine and the pure bright air

Their tops the green trees lift.

-Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods-the golden sun-
The flowers-the leaves-the river on its way-
Blue skies-and silve: clouds-and gentle winds-
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes-
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in-
Mountain-and shattered cliff-and sunny vale-
The distant lake-fountains-and mighty trees-
In many a lazy syllable repeating

Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill

The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,

My busy fancy oft imbodies it,

As a bright image of the light and beauty

That dwell in nature-of the heavenly forms

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