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The armaments which thunder-strike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war-

These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts:-not so thou;-
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play,
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow:
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now!

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving-boundless, endless, and sublime,
The image of Eternity, the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone!



William Collins, one of the most ill-fated of poets, was born in Chichester in 1721, and died in 1759. His odes and eclogues are highly prized. That on The Passions is one of the finest in the language.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each-for Madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds!-his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
"Twas sad by fits-by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She called on Echo still through all her song.

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;

And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down;
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum, with furious heat.

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien;

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed:

And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing soft, from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound.

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole;
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay-
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulders flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung—

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs, and silvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.



D. F. M'Carthy is a native of Ireland, and a frequent contributor to the Dublin University Magazine.

OH! the orator's Voice is a mighty power

As it echoes from shore to shore

And the fearless Pen has more sway o'er men
Than the murderous cannon's roar.

What burst the chain far o'er the main,

And brightens the captive's den?

'Tis the fearless Voice and the Pen of Power-
Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!


Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

The tyrant knaves who deny our rights,

And the cowards who blanch with fear,

Exclaim with glee, "No arms have ye—
Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear!

Your hills are ours; with our forts and towers
We are masters of mount and glen."
Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear
Are the Voice and the fearless Pen!

Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand,

And your sentinels walk around

Though your matches flare in the midnight air, And your brazen trumpets sound;

Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among These listening warrior men;

And they'll quickly say, "Why should we slay Our friends of the Voice and Pen?"

When the Lord created the earth and sea,
The stars and the glorious sun,

The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke—
And the mighty work was done!

Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue,
Or a drop from the fearless Pen,

And the chains accursed asunder burst,
That fettered the minds of men!

Oh! these are the swords with which we fight, The arms in which we trust;

Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand,

Which time cannot dim or rust!

When these we bore, we triumphed before,With these we'll triumph again;

And the world will say, "No power can stay The Voice and the fearless Pen !"


Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

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