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Saxon, from yonder mountain high, I mark'd thee send delighted eye, Far to the south and east, where lay, Extended in succession gay, Deep waving fields and pastures green, With gentle slopes and groves between :These fertile plains, that soften'd vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land. Where dwell we now! See, rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. Ask we the savage hill we tread, For fatten'd steer or household bread; Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, And well the mountain might reply, “ To you, as to your sires of yore, Belong the target and claymore! I give you shelter in my breast, Your own good blades must win the rest."'--. Pent in this fortress of the North, Think'st thou we will not sally forth, To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey ! Ay, by my soul! while on yon plain

The Saxon rears one shock of grain ;
While, of ten thousand herds, there strays
But one along yon river's maze, -
The Gael, of plain and river heir,
Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share.

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'Tis vain-my tongue cannot impart
My almost drunkenness of heart,
When first this liberated eye
Survey'd earth, ocean, sun and sky,
As if my spirit pierced them through,
And all their inmost wonders knew!
One word alone can point to thee
That more than feeling—I was free!
E’en for thy presence ceased to pine :
The world-nay-heaven itself was mine!


There is a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ;
If death that world's bright opening be,
() who would live a slave in this!




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 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.



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


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