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I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies

O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice, and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.

SONNET.

BY MRS. NORTON.

LIKE an enfranchised bird, that wildly springs,
With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye,
And a strong effort in his quivering wings,
Up to the blue vault of the happy sky,-
So my enamour'd heart, so long thine own,
At length from Love's imprisonment set free,
Goes forth into the open world alone,

Glad and exulting in its liberty:

But like that helpless bird (confined so long, His weary wings have lost all power to soar), Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song,

And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once

more,

So from its former bonds released in vain,
My heart still feels the weight of that remember'd

chain,

THE PEASANT.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

THE land for me! the land for me!
Where every living soul is free!

Where winter may come, where storms may rave
But the tyrant dare not bring his slave.

1 should hate to dwell in a summer land Where flowers spring up on every hand; Where the breeze is glad, the heavens are fair, But the taint of blood is every where.

I saw a peasant sit at his door,

When his weekly toil in the fields was o'er;
He sat on the bench his grandsires made,
He sat in his father's walnut shade.

'Twas the golden hour of an April morn;
Lightly the lark sprang from the corn;
The blossoming trees shone purely white,
Quiver'd the young leaves in the light.

The sabbath bells, with a holy glee,
Were ringing o'er woodland, heath, and lea:
'Twas a season whose living influence ran

Through air, through earth, and the heart of man.

S

[graphic]

No feeble joy was that peasant's lot,
As his children gamboll'd before his cot,
And archly mimick'd the toils and cares
Which coming life shall make truly theirs.

But their mother, with breakfast call, anon Came forth, and their merry masque was gone ;'Twas a beautiful sight, as, meekly still,

They sat in their joy on the cottage sill.

The sire look'd on them,-he look'd to the skies ;

I saw how his heart spake in his eyes;

Lightly he rose, and lightly he trod,

To pour out his soul in the house of God.

And is that the man, thou vaunting knave!

Thou hast dared to compare with the weeping

slave?

Away! find one slave in the world to cope
With him, in his heart, his home and hope!

He is not on thy lands of sin and pain

Sear'd, scarr'd with the lash, cramp'd with the

chain:

In thy burning clime where the heart is cold,
And man, like the beast, is bought and sold!

He is not in the East, in his gorgeous halls,
Where the servile crowd before him falls,

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Till the bow-string comes, in an hour of wrath, And he vanishes from the tyrant's path.

But, O, thou slanderer false and vile!
Dare but to cross that garden-stile;
Dare but to touch that lowly thatch ;-
Dare but to force that peasant's latch ;-

And thy craven soul shall wildly quake
At the thunder-peal the deed shall wake;
For myriad tongues of fire shall sound,
As if every stone cried from the ground.

The indignant thrill like flame shall spread,
Till the isle itself rock 'neath thy tread:
And a voice from people, peer, and throne,
Ring in thine ears-"Atone! atone!"

For Freedom here is common guest,
In princely hall, and peasant's nest;
The palace is fill'd with her living light,
And she watches the hamlet day and night.

Then the land for me! the land for me'

Where every living soul is free!

Where winter may come, where storms may rave,

But the tyrant dare not bring his slave!

LIBERTY.

BY GEORGE HILL.

THERE is a spirit working in the world,
Like to a silent subterranean fire;
Yet, ever and anon, some monarch hurl'd
Aghast and pale, attests its fearful ire.

The dungeon'd nations now once more respire The keen and stirring air of Liberty.

The struggling giant wakes, and feels he's free.

By Delphi's fountain-cave, that ancient choir Resume their song; the Greek astonish'd hears, And the old altar of his worship rears.

Sound on, fair sisters! sound your boldest lyre,Peal your old harmonies as from the spheres. Unto strange gods too long we've bent the knee, The trembling mind, too long and patiently.

LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

BY MOORE.

FROM life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die ? Hark!-hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,

The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.

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