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Hang o'er the inazy waltz, or pageant stage,
Each wayward wish of sickly taste to please,
The nightly res el and the noontide ease-
These, Europe. are thy toils, thy trophies these.

“So, when wide-wasting hail, or whelining rain
Have strowed the bearded hope of golden grain,
From the wet furrow, struggling to the skies,
The tall, rank weeds in barren splendor rise;
And strong, and towering o'er the mildewed ear,
Uncomely flowers and baneful herbs appear:
The swain's rich toils to useless poppies yield,
And Famine stalks along the purple field.
. And thou, the poet's theme, the patriot's

prayer : Where, France, thy hopes, thy gilded promise

where; When o'er Montpelier's vines, and Jura's snows, All goodly bright, young Freedom's planet rose ? What boots it now, (to our destruction brave,) How strong thine arm in war? a valiant slave. What boots it now that wide thine eagles sail, Fanned by the flattering breath of conquest's gale, What, that, high-piled within yon ample dome, The blood-bought treasures rest of Greece and

Rome? Scourge of the highest, bolt in vangeance hurled By Heaven's dread justice on a shrinking world,

Go, vanquished victor, bend thy proud helm down
Before thy sullen tyrant's steely crown.
For him in Afric's sands, and Poland's snows,
Reared by thy toil the shadowy laurel grows;
And rank in German fields the harvest springs
Of pageant councils and obsequious kings.
Such purple slaves, of glittering fetters vain,
Linked the wide circuit of the Latian chain;
And slaves like these shall every tyrant find,
To gild oppression, and debase inankind.

0, live there yet whose hardy souls and high Peace bought with shame, and tranquil bonds

defy ? Who, driven from every shore, and lords in vain Of the wide prison of the lonely main, Cling to their country's rights with freeborn zeal, More ong from every stroke, and patient of

the steel? Guiltless of chains, to them has Heaven consigned Th' entrusted cause of Europe and mankind : Or hope we yet in Sweden's martial snows That Freedom's weary foot may find repose ? No-from yon hermit shade, yon cypress dell, Where faintly peals the distant matin-bell; Where bigot kings and tyrant priests had shed Their sleepy venom o'er his dreadful head; He wakes, th' avenger-hark! the hills around,

Untamed Asturia bids her clario, sound;
And many an ancient rock, and fleecy plain,
And many a valliant heart returns the strain :
Heard by that shore, where Calpe's armed steep
Flings its long shadow o'er th' Herculean deep,
And Lucian glades, whose hoary poplars wave
In soft, sad murmurs over Inez' grave.
They bless the call who dared the first withstand
The Moslem wasters of their bleeding land,
When firm in faith and red with slaughtered foes,
I hy spear-encircled crown, Asturia, rose.
Nor these alone; as loud the war-notes swell,
La Mancha's shepherd quits his cork-built cell;
Alhama's strength is there, and those who till
(A hardy race !) Morena's scortched hill;
And in rude arins through wide Galicia's reign,
The swarthy vintage pours her vigorous train.
“Saw ye those tribes ? not theirs the plumed

The sightly trappings of a marshalled host;
No weeping nations curse their deadly skill,
Expert in danger, and inured to kill :-
But theirs the kindling eye, the strenuous aim ;
Theirs the dark cheek, with patriot ardor warm,
Unblanched by sluggard ease, or slavish fear,
And proud and pure the blood that mantles there.
Theirs from the birth is toil;-o'er granite stoep,

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Ánd heathy wild, to guard the wandering sheep,
To urge the laboring mule, or bend the spear
'Gainst the night-prowling wolf, or felon bear;
The bull's hoarse rage in dreadful sport to mock,
And meet with single sword his bellowing shock.
Each martial chant they know,each manly rhyme,
Rude, ancient lays of Spain's heroic time.
Or him in Xeres' carnage fearless found,
(His glittering brows with hostile spear-heads

bound ;) Of that chaste king whose hardy mountain train O’erthrew the knightly race of Charlemagne ; And chiefest him who reared his banner tall (Illustrious exile,) o’er Valencia's wall; Ungraced by kings, whose Moorish title rose The toil-earned homage of his wondering foes.

• Yes; every mould'ring tower and haunted


And the wild murmurs of the waving wood ;
Each sandy waste, and orange scented dell,
And red Buraba's field, and Lugo, tell,
How their brave fathers fought, how thick the

invaders tell.
• 0, virtue long forgot, or vainly tried,
To glut a bigot's zeal, or tyrant's pride ;
Condemned in distant climes to bleed and die
'Mid the dank poisons of Tlascala's sky;

Or when stern Austria stretched her lawless reign
And spent in northern fights the flower of Spain;
Or war's hoarse furies yelled on Ysell's shore,
And Alva's ruffian sword was drunk with gore.
Yet dared not then Tlascala's chiefs withstand
The lofty daring of Castilia's band;
And weeping France her captive king deplored,
And cursed the deathful point of Ebro's sword.
Now, nerved with hope, their night of slavery

Each heart beats high in freedom's buxom blast;
Lo, Conquest calls, and beckoning from afar,
Uplifts his laurel wreath, and waves them on to


-Wo to th' usurper then, who dares defy
The sturdy wrath of rustic loyalty.
Wo to the hireling bands, foredoomed to feel
How strong in labor's horny hand the steel.
Behold e'en now, beneath yon Bætic skies
Another Pavia bids her trophies rise. -
E'en now in base disguise and friendly night
Their robber-monarch speeds bis secret flight;
And with new zeal the fiery Lusians rear,
(Roused by their neighbor's worth,) the long-

neglected spear.
• So when stern winter chills the April showers,
And iron frost forbids the timely flowers,

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