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Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand,
The symbol of her chosen land.
Majestic monarch of the cloud,

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumpings loud
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,--
Child of the sun! to thee 't is given

To guard the banner of the free;
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke;
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn;
And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance;
And when the cannon-mouthings loud,
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud;
And gory sabres rise and fall,

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below

That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave,
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back,
Before the broadside's reeling rack:
Each dying wanderer of the sea,
Shall look at once to heaven and thee;

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And smile to see thy splendor fly,
In triumph, o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given ;
The stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.
For ever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

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LESSON CXXII.-GREECE IN 1820.-J.

BROOKS.

Land of the brave! where lie inurned
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valor burned,
And blazed upon the battle's fray;
Land where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopyle of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Hellas' consecrated shore !

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she rung;
Till every grove and every hill,
And every stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.
Land of dead heroes! living slaves!
Shall glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banner float above thy waves,
Where proudly it hath swept before?
Hath not remembrance then a charm
To break the fetter and the chain;
To bid thy children nerve the arın,
And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls! the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The light which beamed on Marathon,
Hath lost its splendor, ceased to play;
And thou art but a shadow now,
With helmet shattered, spear in rust;

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Thine honor but a dream, and thou
Despised, degraded in the dust!
Where sleeps the spirit, that of old
Dashed down to earth the Persian plume,
When the loud chant of triumph told
How fatal was the despot's doom?
The bold three hundred-where are they,
Who died on battle's gory breast?
Tyrants have trampled on the clay,
Where death has hushed them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill,
A glory shines of ages fled;
And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living, but the dead;
But 't is the dim sepulchral light,
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moon-beams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance;
Behold thy banner waves afar;
Behold the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief of high emprize,*
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise
In might, in majesty revealed.

In vain, in vain the hero calls;
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud;
His banner totters; see, it falls
In ruin, freedom's battle shroud;
Thy children have no soul to dare
Such deeds as glorified their sires;
Their valor's but a meteor's glare,
Which gleams a moment and expires.

Lost land! where Genius made his reign.
And reared his golden arch on high

Where science raised her sacred fane,
Its summit peering to the sky;
Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath-brooded long;

* Ypsilanti.

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And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
-The sons of science and of song.

Thy sun hath set, the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,
And spread its pall upon the sky;
Gone is thy glory's diadem,

And freedom never more shall cease
To pour her mournful requiem

O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

Bill

LESSON CXXIII.-THE WILD BOY.-CHARLES WEST

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He sat upon the wave-washed shore
With madness in his eye;

The surge's dash,-the breaker's roar,
Pass'd unregarded by ;

He noted not the billows' roll,

He heeded not their strife,

For terror had usurped his soul,
And stopped the streams of life.

They spoke him kindly,—but he gazed,
And offered no reply ;—

They gave him food, he looked amazed,
And threw the morsel by.

He was as one o'er whom a spell
Of darkness hath been cast;
His spirit seemed to dwell alone,
With dangers that were past.

The city of his home and heart,
So grand, so gaily bright,
Now touched by fate's unerring dart,
Had vanished from his sight.
The earthquake's paralyzing shake
Had rent it from its hold,-
And nothing but a putrid lake,
Its tale of terror told.

His kindred there, a numerous band,
Had watched his youthful bloom,-

In the broad ruin of the land,

All-all had met their doom!

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LESSON CXXIV.-THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY.-CARLOS WILCOX

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And thou to whom long worshipped nature lends
No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight,
Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends,

Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate;
None seek thy misery, none thy being hate;
Break from thy former self, thy life begin;
Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate,
And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within,
And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win.

With deeds of virtue to embalm his name,
He dies in triumph or serene delight;

Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame
At every breath, but in immortal might
His spirit grows, preparing for its flight:

The world recedes and fades like clouds of even,
But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright,
All intervening mists far off are driven;

The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold.
'Tis when the rose is wrapped in many a fold
Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there
Its life and beauty; not, when all unrolled.
Leaf after eaf its bosom rich and fair

Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air.

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