On to the strife! for 'twere far more meet
To sink with the foes who bay you,
Than crouch, like dogs, at your tyrants' feet,
And smile on the swords that slay you.
Shall the pagan slaves be masters, then,
Of the land which your fathers gave you?
Shall the Infidel lord it o'er Christian men
When your own good swords may save you?
No! let him feel that their arms are strong,-
That their courage will fail them never,―
Who strike to repay long years of
wrong,
And bury past shame forever.
Let him know there are hearts, however bowed
By the chains which he threw around them,
That will rise, like a spirit from pall and shroud,
"wo!" to the slaves who bound them
Let him learn how weak is a tyrant's might
Against liberty's sword contending;
And find how the sons of Greece can fight,
Their freedom and land defending.
Then on! then on to the glorious strife!
With your swords your country shielding,
And resign, if it must be so, even life;
But die, at least, unyielding.
Strike for the sires who left you free!
Strike! for their sakes who bore you!
Strike! for your homes and liberty,
And the Heaven you worship o'er you!
The Spanish Patriot's Song.-ANONYMOUS.
HARK! Hear ye the sounds that the winds, on their pinions, Exultingly roll from the shore to the sea,
With a voice that resounds through her boundless dominions? 'Tis COLUMBIA calls on her sons to be free!
Behold, on yon summits, where Heaven has throned her,
How she starts from her proud, inaccessible seat;
With nature's impregnable ramparts around her,
And the cataract's thunder and foam at her feet!
In the breeze of her mountains her loose locks are shaken,
While the soul-stirring notes of her warrior-song,
From the rock to the valley, re-echo, “Awaken!
Awaken, ye hearts, that have slumbered too long!"
Yes, despots! too long did your tyranny hold us,
In a vassalage vile, ere its weakness was known;
Till we learned that the links of the chain that controlled us,
Were forged by the fears of its captives alone.
That spell is destroyed, and no longer availing.
Despised as detested, pause well ere ye dare
To cope with a people, whose spirits and feeling
Are roused by remembrance, and steeled by despair.
Go, tame the wild torrent, or stem with a straw [them;
The proud surges that sweep o'er the strand that confined
But presume not again to give freemen a law,
Nor think with the chains they have broken to bind them.
To heights by the beacons of Liberty lightened,
They're a scorn who come up her young eagles to tame; And to swords, that her sons for the battle have brightened, The hosts of a king are as flax to a flame.
The Three Warnings.-MRS. THRALE.
THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground.
'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that, in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the joc'und groom
With him into another room;
And, looking grave, "You must," says he,
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'
"With you! and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am? 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared.
My thoughts on other matters go,
This is my wedding-night, you know."
What more he urged I have not heard:
His reasons could not well be stronger:
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet, calling up a serious look,-
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,-
"Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave.
Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve,
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when I call again this way,
Well pleased, the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted, perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wisely, and how well It pleased him, in his prosperous course, To smoke his pipe, and pat his horse,The willing muse shall tell:
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace.
But, while he viewed his wealth increase,-
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,-
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" old Dobson cries, "So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies: 'Surely, my friend, you're but in jěst: Since I was here before
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore."
"So much the worse!" the clown rejoined: "To spare the aged would be kind :
Besides, you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings." "I know," cries Death, "that, at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least: I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable: Your years have run to a great length: I wish you joy, though, of your strength." "Hold!" says the farmer, "not so fast: I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies: "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dobson, "so it might; But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking story, faith;
Yet there's some comfort, still," says Death:
"Each strives your sadness to amuse:
I warrant you hear all the news."
"There's none," cries he; "and, if there were
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear."
"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,
"These are unreasonable yearnings:
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warnings:
So come along; no more we'll part."
He said, and touched him with his dart:
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.
The Mariner's Dream.-DIMOND.
Iri slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind
But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ;
While memory each scene gayly covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ;-
Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
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