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BY H. F. GOULD.
The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
In silence I'll take my way.
But I'll be as busy as they!”
Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
Of the quivering lake, he spread
He went to the windows of those, who slept,
By the light of the morn, were seen
All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair-
“Now, just to set them a-thinking,
Shall “tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"
BY J. G. BROOKS.
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;
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;