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His listening brethren stood around,
To worship that celestial sound.
Within the hollow of that shell
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
And mortal alarms.
Of the thundering drum,
The soft complaining flute
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Sharp violins proclaim
For the fair disdainful dame.
But oh! what art can teach,
The sacred Organ's praise ?
To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race,
Sequacious of the lyre ;
When to her Organ vocal breath was given,
Mistaking earth for heaven!
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
To all the blest above ;
THE SAILOR'S SONG.
THE sea! the sea ! the open sea !
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea !
I love, O how I love to ride
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
The wares were white, and red the morn,
I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
IS falchion flashed along the Nile ;
His hosts he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle flag unrolled, - and froze. .
Here sleeps he now,
alone! Not one Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust; nor wife, nor son,
Has ever seen or sought his grave.
Behind this sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown, Has sunk; and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
High is his couch ; the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled ;
A stormy and unstable world.
Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here! The far-off world, at last,
Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.
Hark! comes there, from the pyramids,
And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him ? No.
The only, the perpetual dirge
That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry, —
WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL.
STAND! the ground's your own, my braves !
Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will
look for greener graves ?
- ye who will.
foes who kill for hire ? Will ye to your homes retire ?
To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. For his
hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice :- – Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more