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Our country lies bleeding-haste, haste to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven.
Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven.

LIBERTY PREFERRED BEFORE
PATRIOTISM.

BY COWPER.

THEE I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free;
My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and disposes much
All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine:
Thy unadulterate manners are less soft
And plausible than social life requires,
And thou hast need of discipline and art,
To give thee what politer France receives
From nature's bounty-that humane address
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starved by cold reserve,
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl

Yet being free, I love thee: for the sake
Of that one feature, can be well content,
Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To seek no sublunary rest beside.

But, once enslaved, farewell! I could endure
Chains no where patiently; and chains at home,
Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Then what were left of roughness in the grain
Of British natures, wanting its excuse

That it belongs to freemen, would disgust
And shock me. I should then with doubled pain
Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,
I would at least bewail it under skies

Milder, among a people less austere :

In scenes, which, having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.

THE FREE.

BY ELIZA COOK.

THE wild streams leap with headlong sweep
In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep;
All fresh and strong they foam along,
Waking the rocks with their cataract song,
My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance,

While I watch the waters dash and dance;
I burn with glee, for I love to see

The path of any thing that's free.

The sky-lark springs with dew on his wings,
And up in the arch of heaven he sings
Trill-la, trill-la-oh, sweeter far

Than the notes that come through a golden bar.

The joyous bay of a hound at play,

The caw of a rook on its homeward way,

Oh! these shall be the music for me,

For I love the voices of the free.

The deer starts by with his antlers high,
Proudly tossing his head to the sky;
The barb runs the plain unbroke by the rein,
With steaming nostrils and flying mane;
The clouds are stirr'd by the eaglet bird,
As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard,
Oh! these shall be the creatures for me,
For my soul was formed to love the free.
The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave,
May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave;
And the one whose lot is the desert spot
Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot.
The thrall and state at the palace gate
Are what my spirit has learn'd to hate :
Oh the hills shall be a home for me,
For I'd leave a throne for the hut of the free.

HIGHLAND LIBERTY DEFENDED

BY SCOTT.

SAXON, from yonder mountain high,
I mark'd thee send delighted eye,
Far to the south and east, where lay,
Extended in succession gay,

Deep waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes and groves between :-
These fertile plains, that soften'd vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael;
The stranger came with iron hand,
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now! See, rudely swell
Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
Ask we the savage hill we tread,
For fatten'd steer or household bread;
Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,
And well the mountain might reply,-
"To you, as to your sires of yore,
Belong the target and claymore!
I give you shelter in my breast,
Your own good blades must win the rest.
Pent in this fortress of the North,
Think'st thou we will not sally forth,

To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the prey!
Ay, by my soul! while on yon plain

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The Saxon rears one shock of grain; While, of ten thousand herds, there strays But one along yon river's maze,—

The Gael, of plain and river heir,

Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share.

'Tis vain-my tongue cannot impart
My almost drunkenness of heart,
When first this liberated eye

Survey'd earth, ocean, sun and sky,
As if my spirit pierced them through,
And all their inmost wonders knew!
One word alone can point to thee
That more than feeling-I was free!
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine:

The world-nay-heaven itself was mine!

Byron.

There is a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ;
If death that world's bright opening be,
O who would live a slave in this!

Moore.

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