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They knelt them on the desert sand,
By waters cold and rude,
Alone upon the dreary strand
Of Oceaned solitude :
They looked upon the high blue air,
And felt their spirits glow,
Resolved to live or perish there,
Two hundred years ago '

The Warrior's red right arm was bared,
His eyes flashed deep and wild;
Was there a foreign footstep dared
To seek his home and child?
The dark chiefs yelled alarm—and swore
The white man’s blood should flow,
And his hewn bones should bleach their shore,
Two hundred years ago!


But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim,

His arm was left alone—
The still, black wilds which sheltered him,

No longer were his own
Time fled—and on this hallowed ground

His highest pine lies low—
And cities swell where forests frowned

Two hundred years ago!

O D. E. 201

O! stay not to recount the tale—
Twas bloody—and 'tis past;
The firmest cheek might well grow pale,
To hear it to the last.
The God of heaven, who prospers us,
Could bid a nation grow,
And shield us from the red man's curse
Two hundred years ago!

Come, then—great shades of glorious men,
From your still glorious grave;
Look on your own proud land again,
Oh, bravest of the bravel
We call ye from each mouldering tomb,
And each blue wave below,
To bless the world ye snatched from doom
Two hundred years ago!

Then to your harps—yet louder—higher,
And pour your strains along–
And smite again each quivering wire,
In all the pride of song!
Shout for those godlike men of old,
Who daring storm and foe,
On this blest soil their anthem rolled,

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ALL hail! thou noble land,
Our fathers’ native soil!

O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore :

For thou, with magic might,

Canst reach to where the light

Of Phoebus travels bright

The world o'er 1

The Genius of our clime, From pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the great sublime; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim, Then let the world combine— O'er the main our naval line, Like the milky way, shall shine Bright in fame!


Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,

Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,-

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins !

And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,

Which no tyranny can tame

By its chains 4

While the language, free and bold,
Which the bard of Avon sung,

In which our Milton told
How the vault of heaven rung,

When Satan, blasted, fell with all his host ;

While this, with reverence meet,

Ten thousand echoes greet,

From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation’s soul,
Still cling around our hearts,
Between let Ocean roll,
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun:
Yet, still, from either beach,
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
*We are One !”

B Y G. W. D. O. A. N. E.

THAT silent moon, that silent moon, Careering now through cloudless sky, Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes Have passed beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walked in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallowed hand,
And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud licentious revelry,
Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,
With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve,
By rippling wave or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasped,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile, in quiet loneliness,
And hear each whispered vow and bless.

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