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TO FREEDOM.

BY JOEL BARLOW.

SUN of the moral world! effulgent source
Of man's best wisdom and his steadiest force,
Soul-searching Freedom! here assume thy stand,
And radiate hence to every distant land:

Point out and prove how all the scenes of strife,
The shock of states, the impassion'd broils of life,
Spring from unequal sway; and how they fly
Before the splendour of thy peaceful eye;
Unfold at last the genuine social plan,
The mind's full scope, the dignity of man,
Bold nature, bursting through her long disguise,
And nations daring to be just and wise.

Yes! righteous Freedom, heaven and earth and sea
Yield or withhold their various gifts for thee
Protected Industry beneath thy reign

Leads all the virtues in her filial train;
Courageous Probity, with brow serene,

And Temperance calm presents her placid mien;
Contentment, Moderation, Labour, Art,
Mould the new man and humanize his heart;
To public plenty private ease dilates,
Domestic peace to harmony of states.
Protected Industry, careering far,

Detects the cause and cures the rage of war,

And sweeps, with forceful arm, to their last graves, Kings from the earth and pirates from the waves.

'THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Ay, this is freedom!-these pure skies
Were never stain'd with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,

And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert-and am free.

For here the fair savannas know

No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,

The bison is my noble game;

The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.

Mine are the river-fowl that scream
From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.

With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumber'd with a train

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades.

Alone the fire, when frostwinds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,

With roaring like the battle's sound,
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:
I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die.

Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
And lonely river, seaward roll'd.

Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue,
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?

Broad are these streams-my steed obeys,
Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods-I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.

I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies

O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice, and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.

SONNET.

BY MRS. NORTON.

LIKE an enfranchised bird, that wildly springs,
With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye,
And a strong effort in his quivering wings,
Up to the blue vault of the happy sky,-
So my enamour'd heart, so long thine own,
At length from Love's imprisonment set free,
Goes forth into the open world alone,

Glad and exulting in its liberty:

But like that helpless bird (confined so long, His weary wings have lost all power to soar), Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song,

And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once

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So from its former bonds released in vain,

My heart still feels the weight of that remember'd

chain,

THE PEASANT.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

THE land for me! the land for me!
Where every living soul is free!

Where winter may come, where storms may rave
But the tyrant dare not bring his slave.

1 should hate to dwell in a summer land Where flowers spring up on every hand; Where the breeze is glad, the heavens are fair, But the taint of blood is every where.

I saw a peasant sit at his door,

When his weekly toil in the fields was o'er;
He sat on the bench his grandsires made,
He sat in his father's walnut shade.

'Twas the golden hour of an April morn;
Lightly the lark sprang from the corn;
The blossoming trees shone purely white,
Quiver'd the young leaves in the light.

The sabbath bells, with a holy glee,
Were ringing o'er woodland, heath, and lea:
'Twas a season whose living influence ran

Through air, through earth, and the heart of man.

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