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If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
5 Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest,
And when high noon hast gained; and when thou failest,
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise

10 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,

15 Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines.
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 20 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk

25 The earth and stately tread or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still

30 To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

CXXII. —SONG OF THE GREEKS.

Campbell.

[These stirring lines were written while the struggle between the Greeks and Turks was going on, which ended in the establishment of Greece as an Independent kingdom.]

1 Again to the battle, Achaians!
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, — the first garden of Liberty's tree, — It hath been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us.

2 Ah! what though no succor advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid? — Be the combat our own!
And we 'll perish or conquer more proudly alone!
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we shall be victorious,
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

3 A breath of submission we breathe not:

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not:
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us;
But they shall not to slavery doom us.
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves: —
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us :—
To the charge! — Heaven's banner is o'er us.

4 This day — shall ye blush for its story;
Or brighten your lives with its glory? —
Our women — Oh! say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be who would slacken
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth.
Strike home ! — and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

6 Old Greece lightens up with emotion!
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,
Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee ring.
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, —
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens!

CXXIIL—A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON.

Hood. 1 Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop — first let me kiss away that tear)—

Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear)—
Thou merry, laughing sprite!With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin —
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

2 Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he 'll tumble down the stair !)

Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he 'll set his pinafore afire !)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents — (stop the boy!

There goes my ink !)

3 Thou cherub — but of earth I

Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth,
(The dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!
(He 'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !)
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint ?)

4 Thou young domestic love!

(He 'll have that jug off with another shove !)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man!
(He 'll climb upon the table — that's his plan !)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,

(He's got a knife !)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick,
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown I)

5 Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy, and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove—

(I tell you what, my love,
I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

CXXIV. —THE FIRST PREDICTED ECLIPSE.

MlTChEl.

To those who have given but little attention to the subject, even in our own day, with all the aids of modern science, the prediction of an eclipse seems sufficiently mysterious and unintelligible. How, then, it was possi5 ble, thousands of years ago, to accomplish the same great object, without any just views of the structure of the system, seems utterly incredible.

Follow, in imagination, this bold interrogator of the skies to his solitary mountain summit; — withdrawn from 10 the world, surrounded by his mysterious circles, there to watch and ponder through the long nights of many, many

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