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Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,
The Roman legions bore,
Their pride, to the polar shore.
For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;
And the dying warriour prayed.
The image of pride and power,
Burst forth in one awful hour.
And then, a deluge of wrath it came,
And the nations shook with dread; And it swept the earth till its fields were flame,
And piled with the mingled dead. Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood,
With the low and crouching slave; And together lay, in a shroud of blood,
The coward and the brave.
And where was then thy fearless fight?
O’er the dark mysterious sea,
The cradle of Liberty.
For ages I watched alone,
Where the glorious bird had flown.
But then came a bold and hardy few,
And they breasted the unknown wave; I caught afar the wandering crew,
And I knew they were high and brave. I wheeled around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore; And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
My quivering pinions bore.
. And now that bold and hardy few
Are a nation wide and strong,
And danger and doubt I have led them through,
And they worship me in song;
On field and lake and sea,
I guide them to victory.'
TYoung Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile,) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames bad reached the powder.]
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on-he-would not go,
Without his father's word;
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud—'Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?
Unconscious of his son.
*Speak, father!' once again he cried,
If I may yet be gone!'-
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
In still yet brave despair
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?' While o'er him fast, through sail and shroua,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound
The boy-oh! where is he? -Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strow the sea!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
Was that young and faithful heart.
URGE me no more-your prayers are vain,
And even the tears ye shed:
The bands that once I led;
On swarthy Lybia's fatal plain,
Then will I seek once more a home, And lift a freeman's voice in Rome!
Accursed moment! when I woke From faintness all but death,
And felt the coward conqueror's yoke Like venomed serpents wreath
Round every limb;--if lip and cye Betrayed no sign of agony,
Inly I cursed my brcath-Wherefore of all that fought, was I
The only wretch who could not die?
To darkness and to chains consigned,
The captive's fighting doom,
Or plunge the soul in gloom?
Till darkness had familiar grown;
They led me forth-I thought, to die Oh! in that thought was ecstasy!
But no-kind Heaven had yet in store For me, a conquered slave,
A joy I thought to feel no more, Or feel but in the grave.
They deemed perchance my haughtier mood Was quelled by chains and soļitude;
That he who once was braveWas I not brave--had now become
Estranged from Honour, as from Rome.
They bade me to my country bear
The offers these have borne;-
Which never yet have sworn.
At length, I pledged a Roman's word Unshrinking to return.
I go-prepared to meet the worst, But I shall gall proud Carthage first.
They sue for peace,--I bid you spurn The gilded bait they bear,
I bid you still, with aspect stern, War, ceaseless war, declare.
Fools as they were, could not mine eye,
The struggles of despair?
To bribe you to your country's shame?
Your land (I must not call it mine;
No country has the slave;
And even his father's grave
But this not now)-beneath her lies
Proud Carthage and her destinies:
Is yours; she knows it well—and you,
Ay, bend your brows, ye ministers
Ye know no longer it is hers,
Ye know her freets are far and few,
And Rome, the bold and free,
Despite your weak and wasted powers.
One path alone remains for me;
My vows were heard on high;
For I return to die.
I have in Rome no chaste fond wife,
One word concentres for the slave--
PITT ON AMERICAN AFFAIRS IN 1775.
When your lordships have perused the papers transmitted us from America; when you consider the dignity, the firmness, and the wisdom with which the Americans have acted, you cannot but respect their cause. History, my lords, has been my favourite study; and, in the celebrated writings of antiquity, have I often admired the patriotism of Greece and Rome; but, my lords, I must declare and avow, that, in the master states of the world I know not the people, nor the senate, who, in such a complication of difficult circumstances, can stand in preference to the delegates of America, assembled in General Congress at Philadelphia.
I trust it is obvious to your lordships, that all attempts to impose servitude upon such men, to establish despotism over such a mighty continental nation, must be vain, must