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THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.

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THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.

(FOR MODERN GREECE).

BEFORE the fiery sun,

The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,
In the free air, and on the war-field won,
Our fathers crown'd the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood,

The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood
Had steep'd the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They call'd the glorious dead,

In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour'd rich odours o'er the battle-bed,
And bade them to the rite of Liberty.

They call'd them from the shades,

The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine

Flow'd to their names who taught the world to die,
And made the land's green turf a living shrine,

Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.

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THOUGHT, LIFE, AND DEATH.

So the rejoicing earth

Took from her vines again the blood she gave,
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth
From the free soil, thus hallow'd to the brave.

We have the battle-fields,

The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky,
We have the founts the purple vintage yields;—
When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?

Mrs. Hemans.

THOUGHT, LIFE, AND DEATH.

HAST thou seen, with flash incessant,
Bubbles gliding under ice,

Bodied forth and evanescent,

No one knows by what device?

Such are Thoughts. A wind-swept meadow

Mimicking a troubled sea

Such is Life; and Death, a shadow

From the rock, Eternity.

W. Wordsworth.

LIFE AND FAME.

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LIFE AND FAME.

THE flash at midnight!-'twas a light
That gave the blind a moment's sight,
Then sank in tenfold gloom;
Loud, deep, and long, the thunder broke,
The deaf ear instantly awoke,

Then closed as in the tomb:

An angel might have passed my bed,
Sounded the trump of God, and fled.

So life appears;-a sudden birth,
A glance revealing heaven and earth;
It is and it is not!

So fame the poet's hope deceives,
Who sings for after time, and leaves
A name-to be forgot.

Life is a lightning-flash of breath;
Fame-but a thunder-clap at death.

James Montgomery.

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NEVERMORE.

NEVERMORE.

O WORLD! O life! O time!

On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before,—
When will return the glory of your prime?

No more-Oh, never more!

Out of the day and night

A joy has taken flight:

Fresh spring, and summer, autumn, and winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief,—but with delight
No more-Oh, never more!

P. B. Shelley.

SUSPIRIA.

TAKE them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!

Take them, O great Eternity!
Our little life is but a gust,

That bends the branches of thy tree,
And trails its blossoms in the dust.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

DEATH'S HARVEST-TIME.

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DEATH'S HARVEST-TIME.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care;

Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer;—
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain— But who shall teach us when to look for thee!

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