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With spreading wing, untired and strong,
The admiration of the earth,
In grand simplicity she stands;
And she was nursed by rugged hands; But, past the fierce and furious war,
Her rising fame new glory brings, For kings and nobles coine from far
To seek the shelter of her wings. And like thee, rider of the cloud, She mounts the heavens, serene and proud, Great in a pure and noble fame, Great in her spotless champion's name, And destined in her day to be Mighty as Rome-more nobly free. My native land ! my native land !
To whom my thoughts will fondly turn; For her the warmest hopes expand,
For her the heart with fears will yearn. Oh!
may she keep her eye, like thee, Proud eagle of the rocky wild, Fix'd on the sun of liberty,
By rank, by faction unbeguiled; Remembering still the rugged road Our venerable fathers trod, When they through toil and danger press’d, To gain their glorious bequest, And from each lip the caution fell
those who follow'd, “Guard it well.”
AUTHOR OF “ POETICAL SKETCHES.”
BY MISS LANDON.
There is a dear and lovely power
Mine is not the hand that flings
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
BY THE REV. C. WOLFE,
Not a drum was heard,—not a funeral note,
While his corse to the ramparts we hurried Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried !
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him..
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
When the clock told the hour for retiring ;
Of the enemy sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory:
But we left him alone with his glory.
THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.
BY THOMAS MACAULEY.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all
glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of
Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of
dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh
pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of
the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning
daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our
joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought
thy walls annoy: Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the
chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long
array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish
spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of
our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in
his hand; And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's
empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his
blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his
gallant crest. He look”d upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern
and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from
wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save our
Lord the King.' * An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he
may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the
ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of