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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race.
Far, like the comet's way through infinite space,
Stretches the of untravelled path of light
Into the depths of ages: we may trace,
Afar, the brightening glory of its flight,
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight.

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WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way 2

Wainly the fowler’s eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side 2

There is a Power, whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certaun flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

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The Constancy of JWature contrasted with the Changes in Human Life.—DANA.

How like eternity doth nature seem
To life of man—that short and fitful dream!
I look around me;—no where can I trace
Lines of decay that mark our human race.
These are the murmuring waters, these the flowers
I mused o'er in my earlier, better hours.
Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come.
Long years have past since this was last my home !
And I am weak, and toil-worn is my frame;
But all this vale shuts in is still the same:
'Tis I alone am changed; they know me not:
I feel a stranger—or as one forgot.

The breeze that cooled my warm and youthful brow,
Breathes the same freshness on its wrinkles now.
The leaves that flung around me sun and shade,
While gazing idly on them, as they played,
Are .#. yet their frolic in the air;
The motion, joy, and beauty still are there—
But not for me!—I look upon the ground:
Myriads of happy faces throng me round,
Familiar to my eye; yet heart and mind
In vain would now the old communion find.
Ye were as living, conscious beings, then,
With whom I talked—but I have talked with men!
With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts I’ve met;
Seen honest minds by hardened craft beset;
Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow;
Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show.

...And fare thee well, my own green, quiet Vale.—DANA.

THE sun was nigh its set, when we were come Once more where stood the good man's lowly home. We sat beside the door; a gorgeous sight Above our heads—the elm in golden light. Thoughtful and silent for awhile—he then Talked of my coming.—“Thou’lt not go again From thine own vale; and we will make thy home Pleasant; and it shall glad thee to have come.” Then of my garden and my house he spoke, And well ranged orchard on the sunny slope; And grew more bright and happy in his talk Of social winter eve, and summer walk. And, while I listened, to my sadder soul A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole; Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man.

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He did not urge me. Looking in my face, As he each feeling of the heart could trace, He prest my hand, and prayed I might be blest,Where’er I went, that Heaven would give me rest.

The silent night has past into the prime
Of day—to thoughtful souls a solemn time.
For man has wakened from his nightly death,
And shut up sense to morning’s life and breath.
He sees go out in heaven the stars that kept
Their glorious watch while he, unconscious, slept,
Feels God was round him while he knew it not—
Is awed—then meets the world—and God’s forgot.
So may I not forget thee, holy Power!
Be to me ever as at this calla hour.

The tree tops now are glittering in the sun: Away! 'Tis time my journey was begun.

Why should I stay, when all I loved are fled, Strange to the living, knowing but the dead;

A homeless wanderer through my early home;
Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come 2
To pass each cottage, and to have it tell,
Here did thy mother, here a playmate dwell;
To think upon that lost one’s girlish bloom,
And see that sickly smile, and mark her doom!—
It haunts me now—her dim and wildered brain,
I would not look upon that eye again!

Let me go, rather, where I shall not find
Aught that my former self will bring to mind.
These old, familiar things, where’er I tread,
Are round me like the mansions of the dead.
No! wide and foreign lands shall be my range,
That suits the lonely soul, where all is strange.

Then for the dashing sea, the broad full sail!
And fare thee well, my own green, quiet vale.

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High walls and huge the body may confine,
And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze.

And massive bolts may baffle his design,
And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways:

*This sonnet, written during Mr. Garrison's despotic imprisonment, possesses a nobleness and an energy in the thought, a corresponding ease and originality in the expression, and an antique richness in its whole structure, wl.ich make it worthy of the happiest “Olden Times’ of the English Muse.

With all the heart, we bid its author God speed in his efforts in the cause of freedom. But it needs patience and prudence, as well as stern moral courage. The possible result of the Colonization Society, and the success which may attend the efforts for the entire abolition of slavery in this country, constitute the great problem, on the solution of which our prosperity, and perhaps even our existence as a nation, depends. Every man who can speak, every editor who can influence the public mind, should certainly be doing all in his power to hasten forward the period of complete emancipa

tion. “Speed it, O Father! Let thy kingdom come 1” Ep

Yet scorns the immortal mind this base controll
No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose:
Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole,
And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes!
It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale
It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers;
It visits home, to hear the fire-side tale,
Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours.
'T is up before the sun, roaming afar,
And, in its watches, wearies every star!

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[He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Plataea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of vio; His last words were—“To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.”)

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;
In dreams, his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,
Then pressed that monarch’s throne,—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke—to hear his sentry’s shriek,
“To arms they come: the Greek! the Greek l’”
He woke—to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band;—
“Strike—till the last armed foe expires,
Strike—for your altars and your fires,
Strike—for the green graves of your sires,
God—and your native land!”
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