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Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky; •

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores—

I change, but I cannot die.
For when after the rain, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

Sheliei.

THE SAXON TONGUE.

New gather all our Saxon bards,

Let harps and hearts be strung,
To celebrate the triumphs of

Our own good Saxon tongue;
For, stronger far than hosts that march

With battle-flags unfurled,
It goes with Freedom, Thought, and Truth,

To rouse and rule the world.

Stout Albion learns its household lays

On every surf-worn shore,
And Scotland hears its echoing far

As Orkney's breakers roar;
From Jura's crags and Mona's hills

It floats on every gale,

And warms with eloquence and song
The homes of Innisfail.

On many a wide and swarming deck

It scales the rough wave's crest, Seeking its peerless heritage—

The fresh and fruitful West. It climbs New England's rocky steeps,

As victor mounts a throne; Niagara knows and .greets the voice,

Still mightier than its own.

It spreads where winter piles deep snows

On bleak Canadian plains;
And where, on Essequibo's banks,

Eternal summer reigns.
It glads Acadia's misty coasts,

Jamaica's glowing isle;
And bides where, gay with early flowers.

Green Texan prairies smile.

It tracks the loud, swift Oregon,

Through sunset valleys rolled;
And soars where Californian brooks

Wash down their sands of gold.
It sounds in Borneo's camphor groves,

On seas of fierce Malay,
In fields that curb old Ganges' flood,

And towers of proud Bombay.

It wakes up Aden's flashing eyes,

Dusk brows, and swarthy limbs— The dark Liberian soothes her child

With English cradle hymns! Tasmania's maids are wooed and won

In gentle Saxon speech; Australian boys read Crusoe's life

By Sydney's sheltered beach.

It dwells where Afric's southmost cape Meets oceans broad and blue,

And Nieuveld's rugged mountains gird

The wide and waste Karroo.
It kindles realms so far apart,

That, while its praise you sing,
These may be clad with autumn's fruits

And those with flowers of spring.

It quickens lands whose meteor-lights

Flame in an arctic sky,
And lands for which the Southern Cross

Hangs its orbed fires on high.
It goes with all that prophets told,

And righteous men desired;
With all that great apostles taught,

And glorious Greeks admired;

With Shakspeare's deep and wondrous verse,

And Milton's loftier mind;
With Alfred's laws, and Newton's lore—

To cheer and bless mankind.
Mark, as it spreads, how deserts bloom,

And error flies away,
As vanishes the mist of night

Before the star of day!

But grand as are the victories

Whose monuments we see,
These are but as the dawn which speaks

Of noontide yet to be!
Take heed, then, heirs of Saxon fame!

Take heed! nor once disgrace,
With deadly pen or spoiling sword,

Our noble tongue and race.

Go forth, prepared in every clime
To love and help each other;

And judge that they who counsel strife
Would bid you smite—a brother.

Go forth, and jointly speed the time,
By good men prayed for long,

When Christian states, grown just and wise, Will scorn revenge and wrong;

When earth's oppressed and savage tribes

Shall cease to pine or roam,
All taught to prize these English words—

Faith, Freedom, Heaven, and Home!

Lyons.

MAW WAS MADE TO MOUKH.

When chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man whose aged step

Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"

Began the reverend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or, haply, pressed with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me to mourn

The miseries of man!

The sun that overhangs yon moors

Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride;—
I've seen yon weary winter's sun

Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.

Oh, man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!

Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!

Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions bum;

Which tenfold force give Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want—oh, ill-matched pair !--

Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of Fate,
In Pleasure's lap caress'd;

Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly bless'd:

But, oh! what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn,

Through weary life this lesson learn—
That man was made to mourn

Many and sharp the num'rous ills

Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,

Regret, remorse, and shame.
And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn—
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor o'er-laboured wight,

So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn,

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