Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means, which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that, which we possess, are invincible by any force, which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight alone. There is a just God, who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us.

The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. - Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable repeat it, sir, let it come!

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. peace, peace, but there is no peace.

and let it come! I

Gentlemen may cry,

The war is actually be

gun! The next gale, that sweeps from the north, will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? — Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! - I know not what course others may take; but as for me give me liberty, or give me death!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin his control

Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own;

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown!

The armaments, which thunderstrike the walls

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,

And monarchs tremble in their capitals —
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make

Their clay Creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war-

These are thy toys; and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, chang'd in all save thee
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts—not so thou,

Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play -
Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now !

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests! — in all time

Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark heaving boundless, endless, and sublime!
The image of Eternity! - the throne

Of the Invisible. Even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made! Each zone Obeys thee! Thou go'st forth; dread! fathomless! alone!

There was a sound of revelry by night;
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright

Byron.

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it? - No; 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet
But, hark! - that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is! - it is! -the cannon's opening roar !

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum,

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come! they

come ! "

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard;
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,

rose !

and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:

Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring, which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave, — alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure; when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,

Battle's magnificently-stern array!

- the day

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover,

Rider and horse, friend, foe,

-

heaped and pent,

in one red burial blent !

Ex. VIII. SATAN RALLYING THE FALLEN ANGELS.

Milton.

He scarce had ceased when the superior fiend

Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,

Behind him cast, the broad circumference

Hung on his shoulders, like the moon, whose orb,
Thro' optic glass, the Tuscan artist views,
At evening, from the top of Fiesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe.
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast
Of some great admiral, were but a wand,
He walked with to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marl: (not like those steps
On Heaven's azure !) and the torrid clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire.
Nathless he so endured till on the beach
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called
His legions, angel forms, who lay, entranced,
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades,

High over-arched embower; or scattered sedge
Afloat, when with fierce winds, Orion, armed,

Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,

While with perfidious hatred they pursued
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
From the safe shore, their floating carcases
And broken chariot wheels: so thick bestrown
Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood,
Under amazement of their hideous change.
He called so loud, that all the hollow deep
Of hell resounded.

"Princes! Potentates!

Warriors! the flower of heaven, once yours now lost,
If such astonishment as this can seize

Eternal spirits or have ye chosen this place,
To rest your wearied virtue, for the ease ye find
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven?
Or in this abject posture have you sworn
To adore the Conqueror? who now beholds
Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood,
With scattered arms and ensigns. Till, anon,
His swift pursuers, from heaven gates discern
The advantage, and descending, tread us down
Thus drooping; or with linked thunderbolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf.
Awake! arise! or be forever fallen! "

Ex. IX.

HYMN TO MONT BLANC.

Coleridge.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? so long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !

The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base

Rave ceaselessly, while thou, dread mountain form,
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines

How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the sky and black: transpicuous deep
An ebon mass! methinks thou piercest it
As with a wedge! But when I look again
It seems thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,