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PRIDE OF ANCESTRY.
And as ladies and nobles the bold deed saw,
PRIDE OF ANCESTRY.-GEORGE CROly.
Y lack of noble blood!
Disqualifies my suit!—makes perjury
To play the mendicant! Farewell to love:
True, true,—I should have learnt humility!
By flinging dead men's dust in idiots' eyes;
I belt no broken and distempered shape
With shrivelled parchments plucked from mouldy shelves;
Yet, if I stooped to talk of ancestry,
I had an ancestor, as old and noble
As all their quarterings reckon,-mine was Adam.
The man who gave me being, though no Lord,
OUR DUTIES TO THE REPUBLIC.
And prouder am I, at this hour, to stand,
OUR DUTIES TO THE REPUBLIC.-JUDGE STORY.
HE Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own marvellous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece,
"The land of scholars and the nurse of arms,"
where Sister Republics, in fair procession,, chanted the praises of liberty and the Gods,-where and what is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has ground her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery. The fragments of her columns and her palaces are in. the dust, yet beautiful in ruins. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopyla and Marathon, and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own People. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done, by her own corruptions, banishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun,—where and what is she? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has but travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Cæsar had crossed the Rubicon; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep probings of the Senate-chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The Legions were bought and sold; but the People offered the tribute-money.
We stand, the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last, experiment of self-government by the People. We have begun it under
THE SPARTANS' MARCH.
circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the Old World. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning,-simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government and to self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The Government is mild. The Press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary than for the People to preserve what they have themselves created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France and the low lands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North; and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that America, • under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that she is to be added to the catalogue of Republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is: THEY WERE, BUT THEY ARE NOT? Forbid it, my countrymen! Forbid it, Heaven!
THE SPARTANS' MARCH.-FELICIA HEMANS.
"TWAS morn upon the Grecian hills, where peasants dressed
Sunlight was on Citharon's rills, Arcadia's rocks and pines.
But helms were glancing on the stream, spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam to the morn of a fearful
And the mountain echoes of the land swelled through the deepblue sky,
While to soft strains moved forth a band of men that moved to die.
They marched not with the trumpet's blast, nor bade the horn peal out,
And the laurel-groves, as on they passed, rung with no battle
They asked no clarion's voice to fire their souls with an impulse high,
But the Dorian reed, and the Spartan lyre, for the sons of liberty!
AFFAR', the Barmekide, the good vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,—
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say,
All but the brave Mondeer. He, proud to show
Bring me the man!" the calif cried. The man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords!" cried he;
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
And said: "Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit."
"Gifts!" cried the friend. He took; and, holding it High toward heaven, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I.owe to thee, Jaffar'!"
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
THOU that rollest above, round as the shield of m fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course?
The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks, and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls, and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But, to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yellow hairs flow on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west.