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COXXX.

THE STRUGGLE FOR FAME.

IF thou wouldst win a lasting fame,—

If thou the immortal wreath wouldst claim, And make the future bless thy name,

Begin thy perilous career,

Keep high thy heart, thy conscience, clear,
And walk thy way without a fear.

And if thou hast a voice within,
That ever whispers, "Work and win,"
And keeps thy soul from sloth and sin;

If thou canst plan a noble deed,
And never flag till it succeed,

Though in the strife thy heart should bleed;

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If thou canst see, with tranquil breast,
The knave or fool in purple dressed,
Whilst thou must walk in tattered vest;

If thou canst rise ere break of day,
And toil and moil till evening gray,
At thankless work, for scanty pay;

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Thou 'lt win the prize, thou 'lt reach the goal.

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N slumbers of midnight, the sailor-boy lay;

IN

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise
Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear,
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;
Joy quickens his pulse-all hardships seem o'er,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest
"O God, thou hast blest me I ask for no more."

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Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere!

He springs from his hammock —he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck
The masts fly in splinters
the shrouds are on fire!

O, sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss!

O! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid ;
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,

And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye

O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul!

Dimond.

CCXXXII.

ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES.

AY, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are!

From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war, Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains!

On-on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny! blasting them o'er:
Fill-fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails,

From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore.

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Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,

When each sword that the cowards let fall' from their hands, Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be,
To think- as the damned haply think of the heaven
They had once in their reach, –
free.

that they might have been

Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart,
That did not, like Echo, your war-hymn repeat,

And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start !

Good God! that in such a proud moment of life,

Worth ages of history

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One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world!

That then - O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then

You should falter should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death!

It is strange ! — it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er"
If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss,

Far nobler to live the brute-bondman of thee,
Than sully even chains by a struggle like this.

T. Moore.

CCXXXIII.

THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE BERLIN LANDSTURM.

FATHER of earth and heaven! I call thy name !

Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll;
Mine eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame;
Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul.

Or life, or death, whatever be the goal
That crowns or closes round this struggling hour,
Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole

One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower
On my young fame! O hear! God of eternal power!

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