A voice was heard that crush'd her galling yoke,
And the oppressor's iron power broke;

'Twas freedom's voice that rolled along her hills
Imparting music to her murmuring rills,
Bade Ossian's deathless harp again be strung,
To thrill and echo all her vales among,
Called up the past, the glorious record gave,
That swept oppression 'neath oblivion's wave.

Long, long had the foot of slavery crushed,
The soil that with a thousand beauties blushed-
The garden of the world, the fairest isle
That e'er reflected heaven's enchanting smile,
Till proud Columbia burst her bonds away,
And rose at once in freedom's halcyon day;
Asserted to the world she would be free,
And struck the blow that gave her liberty!

'Twas then Columbia welcomed freely home
The high born race of Erin doomed to roam,
And bade the exiles sit beneath the tree
That shadowed hearts thrice dear to liberty ;-
They came-and when the foe impressed this soil,
They shared with you, in blood, in sweat, and toil-
Beneath your stars they rush'd to deadly strife,
And struck with you for country, home and life.

And when in later wo pale Erin wept,

Your richest treasures o'er the Atlantic swept,
Dropt gems of feeling on the sainted isle.--
'Tis done-with you the merry peals arose,
And Erin now is plucking freedom's rose-
Her lovely mountain streams are bland and free,
Her fragrant winds are shouting Jubilee!
The roar of free born voices shake the earth,
And bless this land of freedom's earliest birth.

LOSS OF THE HORNET.

Like hungry lions roaring
At night-fall for their prey,
The growling winds are pouring
Their thunders on the bay.—

Their thunders on the ocean-
Their wings sweep from the land-

Air, earth, and sea, in motion,
Obey the loud command.

Obey their loud commander
And yell the death huzza,
Resolved to sink or strand her,
The war ship on her way.-

The war-ship on the billow
Repeats her plaintive gun,
Then makes the rocks her pillow-
Her voyaging is done.—

Done is her voyaging;

But sternly she went down
With her pennons bravely flying
And stars upon her crown.

Her stars with honor beaming
Lit up the deep below,
And still her flag is streaming
Where coral mountains grow.-

Where rise the coral mountains

With blooming sea-flowers dressed

By the deep ocean fountains
The Hornet moors at rest.

THE BIBLE.

Substance of an address, delivered in Duane-street church, Nov. 11th, 1830, before the 'NEW-YORK DISTRICT BIBLE SOCIETY.'

AMONG all the miracles of eternal Love, there is none greater than the miracle of revelation. I address a Bible Society-a class of philanthropists banded together for the thrice holy purpose of spreading the holy Scriptures through the habitations of the poor-through the Sabbath Schools-and far distant, if Providence shall open the way, over the wide seas. It will not, therefore, be unappropriate, to speak a few words about that wondrous book of God which has remained with us till the present time, through all the changes of rising and falling empire-through vicissitude and wo-through gloom and sun-shine. Listen ye lovers of this sacred treasure, while I feebly attempt to shadow forth its immortal beauty and the freshness of its eternal blessings.

Let me draw a picture of a world without a Bible.— But how shall I paint a world without a moral sun? Creation clouds itself in gloom. The stars sink away in their deep and rayless sockets-like the eyes of beauty quenched in death. The feeble taper of human life only burns and throws around it a faint halo of half visible illumination, disclosing only the black and heavy shadows around, like the walls of an impassable sepulchre, where the buried millions of earth await their change, which is only from a dubious animation to an unknown, untried, echoless annihilation or suspension of being;-nor need they wait long, for sad experience teaches them daily

that they stand like soldiers, whose ranks grow thinner and thinner under the blaze and storm of a battle-a battle in which all on both sides are slain, and no one left to howl a lamentation.

Amidst earth's millions no one appears happy. No one knows of an hereafter with certainty. The nations grope in darkness-thick darkness. But suddenly a ray of light shoots down from heaven, like the first born light of the virgin creation, and discloses wonders which had been hid for ages. Burning leaves of golden light follow each other in quick succession down from the empyrean. They remain with men, throwing their splendor on all around—while they leave, behind them, a line of living light which discloses a world to come-an eternity of happiness to the penitent beyond the dark vale of time.

I will leave this figure to consider for a moment the wonderful preservation of the gift of heaven to men.Passing by its preservation before the cannon of Scripture was completed, we look at it as it was slowly and painfully multiplied by the pen during the first centuries of Christianity. The Roman Church held the sacred volume in deposit. It was graven on parchment, and lay magnificently in the cloisters and cells of devotion. But, a storm of seven-fold fury was gathering in the north, and the Vandal flood, swelled by the barbarians of a thousand Tartar clans, came rolling down on beautiful and enervated Italy. Art sunk beneath the thundering cataract.— Palace, pillar, tomb, and temple were swept from their ancient locations. Every thing beautiful and grand, was lost in the whirlpool of savage war. The Collisseum itself

scarcely stood secure, while gloriousRome, letters, oratory, music, poetry, refinement, all struggled a moment, and then sunk in the abyss of Gothic destruction. What hand now could save the holy Bible, when books perished in one universal conflagration-and the orb of ancient science sunk behind the hills that skirted the Campania? The book of God seemed to be lost through the mental night which succeeded the overflowing of these destructive waters. But an astonishing providence presided over the precious bequest of the will and law of God. When the besom of barbarianism had swept over, and the world again seemed weary of ignorance, the Bible, buried like a strong tree by the mountain avalanche, shoots up again through the superincumbent ruins by its own native vigor, throwing up its fresh, emancipated branches to heaven. First, in the light of the reformation, the Bible appeared, a flame, ever burning, yet unconsumed. Then followed in its train, as the thousand lesser stars follow the evening star, the arts, sciences, literature, and a part, at least, of ancient erudition. But the Bible came forth-first-alone-entire.

was made in the majestic drapery of Inspiration. It was still the glorious thing which the martyrs hugged to their bosoms amidst the flames or when they were thrown to the wild beasts of pagan Rome.

I will now speak of the grandeur of the sacred writings. Every line from Genesis to the last amen of the apocalypse breathes a spirit not of this world—the grand spirit of its author. We should be startled to see a