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LIBERTY.

BY MOIR.

I mark'd her childhood on the breezy hill,
Her bright locks floating to the morning sky;
Joyous she laugh'd as the wild winds sped by.
The vision changed. As angel, calm and still
She sat, God's book before her, "'Tis his will."
She said, and rose, "His armour I should try;"
And forth she fared. Where'er she went her eye
Kindled desire high duties to fulfil.

The vision changed. 'Mid battle's slaughter'd ranks

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She raised awhile the bleeding warrior's head.
The foeman struck again. "I give thee thanks,"
She cried; Thy victim's with the glorious dead,
The body's worthless if the soul be free."-
'Who art thou then?"-She answered," Liberty."

Leave pomps to those who need 'em

Adorn but man with freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves,

That crawl, where monarchs lead 'em.

Moore.

MERCY.

The quality of Mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaver.
Upon this place beneath; it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes;
"Tis mightiest in the mightiest ;-It becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But Mercy is above this sceptered sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute of God himself

Shakspeare

Mercy.

ODE TO MERCY.

STROPHE.

BY COLLINS.

O THOU! Who sittest a smiling bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful side,
tentlest of sky-born forms, and best adored:
Who oft, with songs, divine to hear,

Wean'st from his fatal grasp the spear,

And hidest in wreaths of flowers his bloodless
sword!

Thou who, amidst the deathful field,

By god-like chiefs alone beheld,

Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

Pleading for him, the youth who sinks to ground:
See, Mercy, see! with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands,
And decks thy altar still though pierced with many
a wound!

ANTISTROPHE.

When he whom e'en our joys provoke,
The fiend of Nature, join'd his yoke,

And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey: Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road,

And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away I see recoil his sable steeds,

That bore him swift to savage deeds,

Thy tender melting eyes they own;

O maid! for all thy love to Britain shown,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,

To thee we build a roseate bower,

Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne.

HENRY VI. ON HIS LENITY.

BY SHAKSPEARE.

My meed hath got me fame, I have not stopp'd my ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears: I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies, Nor forward to revenge, 'though they much erred.

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