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In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,

Through burning climes I passed unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweetened every soil,
Made every region please;
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed,
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How with affrighted eyes
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep
In all its horrors rise!

Confusion dwelt in every face,

And fear in every heart,

When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs,
O'ercame the pilot's art.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free;
While in the confidence of prayer

My soul took hold on thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to thy will;

The sea, that roared at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths,
Thy goodness I'll adore;

And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv'st my life,

Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my dooin,
Shall join my soul to thee.

ADDISON.

9.-TO THE SKYLARK.

HAIL to the blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven or near it,
Pourest thy full heart,

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine;

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,

Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be;

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee.

Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

Better than all measures

Of delight and sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Abridged from SHELLEY.

10.-HOPE, THE FRIEND OF THE BRAVE.

FRIEND of the brave! in peril's darkest hour,
Intrepid Virtue' looks to thee for power';
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields,
On stormy floods' and carnage-covered fields',
When front to front the bannered hosts' combine,
Halt ere they close', and form the dreadful line'.
When all is still' on Death's devoted soil,
The march-worn soldier' mingles for the toil';
As rings his glittering tube', he lifts on high
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye,
Hails in his heart the triumph' yet to come,
And hears the stormy music' in the drum`!

And such' thy strength-inspiring aid that bore
The hardy Byron' to his native shore-

In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep',
'Twas his' to mourn misfortune's rudest' shock,
Scourged by the winds', and cradled on the rock',
To wake each joyless' morn, and search again
The famished haunts of solitary` men ;

Whose race', unyielding as their native storm",
Know not a trace' of Nature but the form`;
Yet, at thy' call, the hardy tar pursued',
Pale, but intrepid', sad', but unsubdued',
Pierced the deep woods', and, hailing from afār,
The moon's pale planet and the northern star';

Paused at each dreary cry', unheard before',
Hyænas' in the wild', and mermaids' on the shore';
Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime',
He found a warmer' world, a milder` clime,
A home' to rest, a shelter' to defend',
Peace' and repose', a Briton' and a friend`!

CAMPBELL.

11. THE MORAL CHANGE ANTICIPATED BY HOPE.

HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind,
The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,

Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see
The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;
I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan,
And learn the future by the past of man.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime;
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk;
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,
And shepherds dance at summer's opening day:
Each wandering genius of the lonely glen
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men,
And silent watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew as it tolls profound.

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam,
Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,

Truth shall pervade the unfathomed darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of despair.-
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed!
Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

CAMPBELL.

12.-ON THE DOWNFAL OF POLAND.

OH! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn:
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,—

Oh! Heaven! he cried,—my bleeding country save!—
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live!—with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death, the watch-word and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm !—

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :-
Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time.

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;— Hope for a season bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shrieked-as KOSCIUSKO fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air— On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;

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