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By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That, living, we will be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not:

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not;
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide waves ingulf— fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us;

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.

To the charge!- Heaven's banner is o'er us.
This day shall ye blush for its story?

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Or brighten your lives with its glory?— Our women O, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken,

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home! and the world shall revere us,

As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up, with emotion,

Her inlands, her isles of the ocean:

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;

Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms. Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens

Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens.

LESSON CLXX.

Irish National Hymn.-J. C. MANGAN.

O! IRELAND! Ancient Ireland!

Ancient! yet forever young!

Thou, our mother, home and sireland
Thou at length hast found a tongue
Proudly thou, at length,

Resistest in triumphant strength.

Thy flag of freedom floats unfurled;
And, as that mighty God existeth,

Who giveth victory when and where he listeth, Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the world For this dull world still slumbers,

Weetless of its wants or loves,

Though, like Galileo, numbers

Cry aloud, "It moves! it moves ! "

In a midnight dream,

Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream

All march, but few descry the goal,

O! Ireland! be it thy high duty

To teach the world the might of moral beauty, And stamp God's image truly on the struggling soul.

Strong in thy self-reliance,

Not in idle threat or boast,
Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance

At the haughty Saxon host

Thou hast claimed, in sight

Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right.

Upon thy hills along thy plains

In the green bosom of thy valleys,

The new-born soul of holy Freedom rallies, And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy chains.

* Unknowing.

Deep, saith the Eastern story,
Burns in Iran's mines a gem,
For its dazzling hues and glory
Worth a Sultan's diadem.

But from human eyes

Hidden there it ever lies!

The ever-travailing Gnomes alone,

Who toil to form the mountain's treasure,
May gaze and gloat with pleasure without measure
Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder-stone.

So is it with a nation,

Which would win, for its rich dower,
That bright pearl, Self-liberation -

It must labor hour by hour.

Strangers, who travail' *

To lay bare the gem, shall fail;

Within itself must grow, must glow

Within the depths of its own bosom

Must flower in living might, must broadly blossom, The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's tree can blow.

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God will aid thee in thy need

The time, the hour, the power are near—

Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard

Of that illustrious band whom Heaven and man guard. And these words come from one whom some have called a Seer

*This accent is a poetic license.

LESSON CLXXI.

Lines written in 1821; on hearing that the Austrians had entered Naples-with scarcely a show of resistance on the part of the Neapolitans, who had declared their independence, and pledged themselves to maintain it. — MOORE. Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dăstardly veins, That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war, Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains!

On

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-on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny! -blasting them o'er : Fill-fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails,

From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore!

May their fate be a mock-word—may men of all lands
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,

Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be,

To think- as the damned haply think of the heaven

They had once in their reach,—that they might have been free.

Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom, whose heat
Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart,
That did not, like Echo, your war-hymn repeat,

And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start!

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When the world stood in hope-when a spirit that breathed
Full fresh of the olden time whispered about,

And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,
But waited one conquering word to flash out!

When around you the shades of your mighty in fame,

Filicaias and Petrarchs seemed bursting to view,

And their words and their warnings, — like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles-fell kindling on you!...

Good God! that in such a proud moment of life,
Worth ages of history-when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world..

...

That then-O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then

You should falter- should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life, to a glorious death!

It is strange!—it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er!"
If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss:
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than sully even chains by a struggle like this.

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ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and

weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tap

ping,

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