I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice, and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night. SONNET. BY MRS. NORTON. LIKE an enfranchised bird, that wildly springs, Glad and exulting in its liberty: But like that helpless bird (confined so long, His weary wings have lost all power to soar), Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song, And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more, So from its former bonds released in vain, chain, THE PEASANT. BY WILLIAM HOWITT. THE land for me! the land for me! Where winter may come, where storms may rave 1 should hate to dwell in a summer land Where flowers spring up on every hand; Where the breeze is glad, the heavens are fair, But the taint of blood is every where. I saw a peasant sit at his door, When his weekly toil in the fields was o'er; 'Twas the golden hour of an April morn; The sabbath bells, with a holy glee, Through air, through earth, and the heart of man. S No feeble joy was that peasant's lot, But their mother, with breakfast call, anon Came forth, and their merry masque was gone ;'Twas a beautiful sight, as, meekly still, They sat in their joy on the cottage sill. The sire look'd on them,-he look'd to the skies ; I saw how his heart spake in his eyes; Lightly he rose, and lightly he trod, To pour out his soul in the house of God. And is that the man, thou vaunting knave! Thou hast dared to compare with the weeping slave? Away! find one slave in the world to cope He is not on thy lands of sin and pain Sear'd, scarr'd with the lash, cramp'd with the chain: In thy burning clime where the heart is cold, He is not in the East, in his gorgeous halls, But, O, thou slanderer false and vile! And thy craven soul shall wildly quake The indignant thrill like flame shall spread, For Freedom here is common guest, Then the land for me! the land for me' Where every living soul is free! Where winter may come, where storms may rave, But the tyrant dare not bring his slave! LIBERTY. BY GEORGE HILL. THERE is a spirit working in the world, The dungeon'd nations now once more respire The keen and stirring air of Liberty. The struggling giant wakes, and feels he's free. By Delphi's fountain-cave, that ancient choir Resume their song; the Greek astonish'd hears, And the old altar of his worship rears. Sound on, fair sisters! sound your boldest lyre,Peal your old harmonies as from the spheres. Unto strange gods too long we've bent the knee, The trembling mind, too long and patiently. LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. BY MOORE. FROM life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die ? Hark!-hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. |