On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic

Ο

NCE did she hold the gorgeous east in fee;

And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.

She was a maiden city, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate ;
And, when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

When her long life hath reached its final day;
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.

WILLIAM WOrdsworth.

Thoughts of

a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland

'WO voices are there; one is of the sea,

Two

One of the mountains; each a mighty voice:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft :
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Sonnet on Chillon

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind!

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart-
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd—

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

"When I have borne in memory

WHEN

WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country-am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart,

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ;
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Turn O Libertad

URN O Libertad, for the war is over,

TURN

From it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute, sweeping the world,

Turn from lands retrospective, recording proofs of the

past,

From the singers that sing the trailing glories of the past; From the chants of the feudal world—the triumphs of kings, slavery, caste;

Turn to the world, the triumphs reserv'd and to come— give up that backward world;

Leave to the singers of hitherto—give them the trailing past;

TURN O LIBERTAD

But what remains, remains for singers for you-wars to come are for you;

(Lo, how the wars of the past have duly inured to you— and the wars of the present also inure ;)

-Then turn, and be not alarm'd, O Libertad-turn your

undying face,

To where the future, greater than all the past,

Is swiftly, surely preparing for you.

Hymn

WALT WHITMAN.

Sung at the Completion of the Concord Monument,
April 19, 1836.

Y the rude bridge that arched the flood,

BY

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;

That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Freedom

YET.
YET, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but dying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind;
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ;
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,
Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth.
But the sap lasts.—and still the seed we find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North:
So shail a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.

LORD BYRON.

E

Nationality

ACH nation master at its own fireside—
The claim is just, and so one day 'twill be ;

But a wise race the time of fruit will bide,

Nor pluck th' unripen'd appie from the tree.

JOHN KELLS INGRAM.