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The helmets gay with plumage

Torn from the pheasant's wings,
The belts set thick with starry gem

That shone on Indian kings,
The urns of massy silver,

The goblets rough with gold,
The many-colored tablets bright
With loves and wars of old,
The stone that breathes and struggles,

The brass that seems to speak; Such cunning they who dwell on high Have given unto the Greek.


"Hurrah! for Manius Curius,
The bravest son of Rome,
Thrice in utmost need sent forth,
Thrice drawn in triumph home.
Weave, weave, for Manius Curius
The third embroidered gown:
Make ready the third lofty car,
And twine the third green crown;

And yoke the steeds of Rosea

With necks like a bended bow, And deck the bull, Mevania's bull, The bull as white as snow.


"Blest and thrice blest the Roman
Who sees Rome's brightest day,
Who sees that long victorious pomp
Wind down the Sacred Way,
And through the bellowing Forum,
And round the Suppliant's Grove,

Up to the everlasting gates
Of Capitolian Jove.


"Then where, o'er two bright havens,

The towers of Corinth frown;
Where the gigantic King of Day

On his own Rhodes looks down;
Where soft Orontes murmurs
Beneath the laurel shades;
Where Nile reflects the endless length
Of dark red colonnades;
Where in the still deep water,

Sheltered from waves and blasts,

Bristles the dusky forest

Of Byrsa's thousand masts; Where fur-clad hunters wander Amidst the northern ice;

Where through the sand of morning-land

The camel bears the spice; Where Atlas flings his shadow

Far o'er the western foam,

Shall be great fear on all who hear

The mighty name of Rome."





HERE Martyn lies. In Manhood's early bloom
The Christian Hero finds a Pagan tomb.
Religion, sorrowing o'er her favorite son,
Points to the glorious trophies that he won.
Eternal trophies ! not with carnage red,
Not stained with tears by hapless captives shed,
But trophies of the Cross ! for that dear name,
Through every form of danger, death and shame,
Onward he journeyed to a happier shore,
Where danger, death, and shame assault no more.



Oh, Britain ! dear Isle, when the annals of story

Shall tell of the deeds that thy children have done, When the strains of each poet shall sing of their glory,

And the triumphs their skill and their valor have won ;

When the olive and palm in thy chaplet are blended, When thy arts, and thy fame, and thy commerce

increase, When thy arms through the uttermost coasts are ex

tended, And thy war is triumphant, and happy thy peace ;

When the ocean, whose waves like a rampart flow round

thee, Conveying thy mandates to every shore, And the empire of nature no longer can bound thee,

And the world be the scene of thy conquests no more :

Remember the man who in sorrow and danger,

When thy glory was set, and thy spirit was low, When thy hopes were o'erturned by the arms of the

stranger, And thy banners displayed in the halls of the foe,

Stood forth in the tempest of doubt and disaster,

Unaided, and single, the danger to brave, Asserted thy claims, and the rights of his master,

Preserved thee to conquer, and saved thee to save.

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