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And these are Suns !-vast, central, living fires,
Lords of dependent systems, Kings of worlds,
That wait as satellites upon their power,
And flourish in their smile. Awake my soul,
5 And ineditate the wonder! Countless suns

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Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds!
Worlds, in whose bosoms living things rejoice,

And drink the bliss of being, from the fount

Of all-pervading Love.

What mind can know,

What tongue can utter all their multitudes,—
Thus numberless in numberless abodes,

Known but to Thee, blest Father? Thine they are, Thy children, and Thy care, and none o'erlooked 15 Of Thee! No, not the humblest soul that dwells Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course Amid the giant glories of the sky,

Like the mean mote that dances in the beam,
Amongst the thousand mirrored lamps which fling
20 Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall.
None, none escape the kindness of Thy care:
All compassed underneath Thy spacious wing,
Each fed and guided by Thy powerful hand.

Tell me, ye splendid Orbs!—as from

25 Ye mark the rolling provinces that own

your

thrones

Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes?
How formed, how gifted; what their powers, their state,
Their happiness, their wisdom? Do they bear
The stamp of human nature? Or has God

30 Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms,
And more celestial minds? Does Innocence
Still wear her native and untainted bloom?
Or has Sin breathed his déadly blight abroad,
And sowed corruption in those fairy bowers?
35 Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire?

And Slavery forged his chains, and Wrath, and Hate,
And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust,

Leagued their base bands to tread out Light and Truth
And scatter woe where Heaven had planted joy?

40 Or are they yet all Paradise, unfallen

And uncorrupt;-existence one long joy,
Without disease upon the frame, or sin

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Upon the heart, or weariness of life,

Hope never quenched, and age unknown,

And leath unfeared; while fresh and fadeless youth
Glows in the light from God's near throne of Love?

Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair!

Speak, speak! the mysteries of those living worlds
Unfold! No language! Everlasting light,
And everlasting silence! Yet the eye

May read and understand. The hand of God
10 Has written legibly what man may know,-
THE GLORY OF THE MAKER. There it shines,
Ineffable, unchangeable; and man,

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Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe,
May know and ask no more.

In other days,
When death shall give the encumbered spirit wings,
Its range shall be extended; it shall roam,

Perchance, amongst those vast mysterious spheres,
Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each

20 Familiar with its children,-learn their laws,
And share their state, and study and adore
The infinite varieties of bliss

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And beauty, by the hand Divine
Lavished on all its works.

Eternity

Shai tnus ro on with ever fresh delight;
No pause of pleasure or improvement; world
On world still opening to the instructed mind
An unexhausted universe, and time

30 But adding to its glories; while the soul,
Advancing ever to the source of light
And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns,
In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss.

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-Mason

LESSON CLXXVIII.-THE FATE OF TYRANNY.

Oppression dies: the tyrant falls :
The golden city bows her walls!

Jehovah breaks the avenger's rod.
The son of Wrath, whose ruthless hand
Hurls desolation o'er the land,

Has run his raging race, has closed the scene of blood. Chiefs, armed around, behold their vanquished lord; Nor spread the guardian shield, nor lift the loyal sword. He falls; and earth again is free:

Hark! at the call of Liberty,

All Nature lifts the choral song.
The fir-trees on the mountain's head,
Rejoice through all their pomp of shade;

The lordly cedars nod on sacred Lebanon:

Tyrant! they cry, since thy fell force is broke,

Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's stroke

.

Hell, from her gulf profound,

Rouses at thine approach; and all around,
Her dreadful notes of preparation sound.
See, at the awful call,

Her shadowy heroes all,

E'en mighty kings, the heirs of empire wide,
Rising with solemn state, and slow,
From their sable thrones below,
Meet and insult thy pride.

"What! dost thou join our ghostly train,
A flitting shadow light and vain?
Where is thy pomp, thy festive throng,
The revel dance, and wanton song?

Proud king! Corruption fastens on thy breast;

And calls her crawling brood, and bids them share the feast

"O Lucifer! thou radiant star;
Son of the Morn; whose rosy car

Flamed foremost in the van of day;

How art thou fallen, thou King of Light!
How fallen from thy meridian height!

Who saidst, The distant poles shall hear me and obey.
High o'er the stars my sapphire throne shall glow,
And, as Jehovah's self, my voice the heavens shall bow.'

He spake, he died. Distained with gore,
Beside yon yawning cavern hoar,

See where his livid corse is laid.

The aged pilgrim, passing by,

Surveys him long with dubious eye,

And muses on his fate, and shakes his reverend head "Just Heavens! is thus thy pride imperial gone

Is this poor heap of dust the King of Babylon?

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Is this the man, whose nod

Made the earth tremble; whose terrific rod
Levelled her loftiest cities? Where he trod,
Famine pursued and frowned;
Till Nature, groaning round,

Saw her rich realms transformed to deserts dry,
While, at his crowded prison's gate,
Grasping the keys of fate,
Stood stern Captivity.

Vain man! behold thy righteous doom;
Behold each neighboring monarch's tomb;
The trophied arch, the breathing bust,

The laurel shades their sacred dust:
While thou, vile outcast, on this hostile plain,
Moulder'st a vulgar corse, among the vulgar slain.

"No trophied arch, no breathing bust,
Shall dignify thy trampled dust:

No laurel flourish o'er thy grave.

For why, proud king, thy ruthless hand

Hurled desolation o'er the land,

And crushed the subject race, whom kings are born to save: Eternal infamy shall blast thy name,

And all thy sons shall share their impious father's shame.

"Rise, purple Slaughter! furious rise;
Unfold the terror of thine eyes;

Dart thy vindictive shafts around:

Let no strange land a shade afford,
No conquered nations call them lord;

Nor let their cities rise to curse the goodly ground.
For thus Jehovah swears; No name, no son,
No remnant shall remain of haughty Babylon.""

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Thus saith the righteous Lord:

My vengeance shall unsheathe the flaming sword;
O'er all thy realms my fury shall be poured.
Where yon proud city stood,

I'll spread the stagnant flood;

And there the bittern in the sedge shall lurk,
Moaning with sullen strain;

While, sweeping o'er the plain,
Destruction ends her work.

Yes, on mine holy mountain's brow,
I'll crush this proud Assyrian foe

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The irrevocable word is spoke.

From Judah's neck the galling yoke

Spontaneous falls, she shines with wonted state;
Thus by myself I swear, and what I swear is fate."

LESSON CLXXIX.-THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.

Thomas Campbell.

O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
Her whiskered panders and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn,
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland,-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,—
O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!-
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
'Revenge, or death,'-the watch-word and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin told their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :-
Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked-as Kosciusko fell.

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