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The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they!”

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
In diamond beads; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake, he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those, who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever be breathed, wherever he stepped,

By the light of the morn, were seen
Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees ;
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples and towers; and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there,
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,

“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit,” said he,
“This costly pitcher, I'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they've left for me

Shall “tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"



LAND of the brave! where lie inurned

The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned,

And blazed upon the battle's fray; Land where the gallant Spartan few

Bled at Thermopylæ 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 sung ; 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 arm,

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 splendour, ceased to play: And thou art but a shadow now,

With helmet shattered, spear in rust; Thine honour 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;

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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 valour'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;

* Ypsilanti.

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