Thy native home?

Must the feet of slaves

Pollute this glorious scene! It can not be.

Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths
Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom
In spots where man has never dared to tread;
So thy sweet influence still is seen amid

These beetling cliffs. Some hearts yet beat for thee,
And bow alive to Heaven: thy spirit lives,
Ay, and shall live, when even the very name
Of tyrant is forgot. Lo! while I gaze
Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow,
The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes
A crown of glory on his hoary head;

Oh! is not this a presage of the dawn

Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus I swear To live for Freedom, or with her—to die!

LESSON CXVI.

DON'T GIVE UP THE SHIP!

The unknown author of the following poem called it a Ballad. It is a glowing description of a sort of courage to which death is less for midable than submission. It it to be hoped that, before, long men will learn the difference between dying to injure and dying to benefit each other; the difference between that physical courage which fears noth ing, and that moral courage which begins and ends in the fear of God. The elements of true Patriotism are as yet but imperfectly understood.

What! have we not another shot

To thunder o'er the tide ?
I'd lavish untold gold could we
Pour but one more broadside.

Low droops our shot-torn pennon down
Upon its splintered mast―

These ragged sails shall never more,

Seem wings before the blast!

"And lo! she comes-that victor ship,
In triumph o'er the wave—

She comes to sound above our heads
The death-note of the brave.
But mark! her decks are dripping blood,
Her sails are rent asunder-
Ay, not in vain our last broadside
Pealed out its parting thunder.

"We've swept the wave a score of years,
The monarchs of the sea;

And shall we now bow down in shame,
And clasp the victor's knee?
The hand before whose cutlass bright
The best of foemen fell,
Shall never droop with manacles
Within a tyrant's cell.

"Our hearts are with our gallant bark-
For many a welcome hour
She's borne us o'er the ocean wave,
In all the pride of power.

Her planks have drank our comrades' blood, Our triumph they have known,

And they shall be our funeral pyre

Her fate shall be our own.

"And we will take a last embrace,

Our war cry raise once more, And rend the air in mockery

Of yon wild cannon's roar.

"Tis done our ship is sinking fast,

Her masts-how low they lean!

Their yards have kissed the leaping deepNow, Fire the magazine!"

One moment, and above the deck
The coiling wildfires climb;
And they have clung about the flag,
And round the masts they twine.
There rose a wild, terrific shout,
Then one loud, deafening roar,
And with that vessel's welcome weight
Old ocean bent no more.

LESSON CXVII.

CIRCASSIAN WAR SONG.

The extraordinary resistance of the tribes on the Black Sea to the Russian arms, has long since attracted the attention of every man who wishes well to Freedom. Five successive campaigns have scarce ad vanced the dominion of the Czar beyond the sea-coast. The Circas sians have made furious attacks on several Russian fortresses; and colossal as is the strength of Russia, and grasping as is her ambition, she has hitherto been baffled by these valiant Circassians. The piece is taken from BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

A shout from the mountains!

The hunters are near,

But their horn is not wound

For the chase of the deer;
The sons of Circassia

Have clasped on their mail,
They are blood-hounds that hang
On the Muscovite's trail.

We have marched through the midnight
We marched through the noon,

At evening we saw

The grim walls of Aboun;

Like a lion it basked

On the brow of the hill;

At midnight it roared,

But at morning was still.

We tamed it with fire,

And we choked it with blood;

Now, the gore-blackened ground Alone shows where it stood. Hurrah for the morn

When proud Ghelendik fell! What cared the Circassian

For shot or for shell!

Though her ramparts were blazing With rocket and gun,

The hearts of the sons

Of the mountain were one;
What if fire came like thunder,
And balls fell like hail,

Three thousand white skeletons
Now tell her tale.

Pale slaves of the Czar,
What ye sow ye shall
We care not for hunger,
We care not for sleep,
We are falcons,—we rush

reap;

Up the cannon crowned ridge,

Our feet are our wings,

And our bodies our bridge.

We laugh at your cannon,
We trample your gold,
We have rifles and hearts

That shall never be sold.

We saw the Black Eagle,
We see it no more,
We have reddened its plumage

In Muscovite gore.

We have cut off its talons,

And blunted its beak;

Let it frighten the Persian,

Or feed on the Greek,

Let it pounce on the Turk,
Or the Pole in his fen,
But no heart of Circassia
Shall gorge it again.

LESSON CXVIII.

THE REVELLERS.

The following Temperance Lyric first appeared in the OHIO BACKWOODSMAN. The Bacchanal is not the first who in "drinking to life" has encountered death.

Loud sounds of mirth and joyousness,
Broke forth in the lighted hall,
And there was many a merry laugh,
And many a merry call;

And the glass was freely passed around,
And the nectar freely quaffed;

And many a heart felt light with glee
And the joy of the thrilling draught.

A voice arose in that place of mirth,
And a glass was flourished on high;
"I drink to Life," said a son of earth,
"And I do not fear to die;

I have no fear-I have no fear-
Talk not of the vagrant, Death,
For he is a grim old gentleman,

And he wars but with his breath.

"Cheer, comrades, cheer! We drink to Life,
And we do not fear to die!"
Just then a rustling sound was heard,
As of spirits sweeping by;

And presently the latch flew up,

And the door flew open wide;

And a stranger strode within the hall,
With an air of martial pride.