It is the classic jubilee;

Their servile years have rolled away;
The clouds that hovered o'er them flee;
They hail the dawn of freedom's day;
From heaven the golden light descends,
The times of old are on the wing,
And glory there his pinion bends,
And beauty makes a fairer spring;
The hills of Greece, her rocks, her waves,
Are all in triumph's pomp arrayed:
A light, that points their tyrants' graves,
Plays round each bold Athenian's blade.

The groves and gardens, where the fire
Of wisdom, as a fountain, burned,
And every eye that dared aspire
To truth, has long in worship turned:
The halls and porticoes, where trod
The moral sage, severe, unstained,
And where the intellectual god
In all the light of science reigned:
The port, from whose capacious womb
Her navies took their conquering road,
The herald of an awful doom

To all, who would not kiss her rod:
On these a dawn of glory springs,
These trophies of her brighter fame;
Away the long-chained city flings
Her weeds, her shackles, and her shame.
FROM PERCIVAL.

CLXXX.-GREEK WAR SONG.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree—
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;
For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the footprints of Mohammed's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves; Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid? Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone:

For we've sworn, by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That living, we will be victorious,

Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not:
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not;
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide; waves ingulf; fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.

To the charge! Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day! shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory?

Our women!, oh! say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,

If a coward there be that would slacken,

Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home! and the world shall revere us,

As heroes descended from heroes.

FROM CAMPBELL.

CLXXXI. THE PILGRIMS.-No. I.

THIS and the next extract may be spoken separately or as one. STAR CHAMBER; a despotic English court. CARR, VILLIERS; ambitious English courtiers. EL DORADO; a fabulous region of gold.

FROM the dark portals of the Star Chamber, and in the stern text of the acts of uniformity, the Pilgrims received a commission more efficient than any that ever bore the

royal seal. Their banishment to Holland was fortunate. The decline of their little company in a strange land, was fortunate. The difficulties which they experienced in getting the royal consent to banish themselves to this wilderness, were fortunate. All the tears and heart-breakings of that ever memorable parting at Delfthaven, had the happiest influence on the rising destinies of New England.

All this purified the ranks of the settlers. These rough touches of fortune brushed off the light, uncertain, selfish spirits. They made it a grave, solemn, self-denying expedition, and required of those, who engaged in it, to be so, too. They cast a broad shadow of thought and seriousness over the cause. And if this sometimes deepened into melancholy and bitterness, can we find no apology for such a human weakness?

It is sad, indeed, to reflect on the disasters which the little band of pilgrims encountered. It is sad to see a portion of them the prey of unrelenting cupidity, treacherously embarked in an unsound, unseaworthy ship, which they are soon obliged to abandon, and crowd themselves into one vessel. One hundred persons, besides the ship's company, in a vessel of one hundred and eighty tuns!

One is touched at the story of the long, cold, and weary autumnal passage; of the landing on the inhospitable rocks at this dismal season; of their being deserted, before long, by the ship which had brought them, and which seemed their only hold upon the world of fellow-men; a prey to the elements and to want, and fearfully ignorant of the numbers, the power, and the temper of the savage tribes that filled the unexplored continent upon whose verge they had ventured. But all this wrought together for good. These trials of wandering and exile, of the ocean, the winter, the wilderness, and the savage foe, were the final assurance of success.

It was these that put far away from our father's cause all patrician softness, all hereditary claims to pre-eminence. No effeminate nobility crowded into the dark and austere ranks of the Pilgrims. No Carr or Villiers would lead on the ill-provided band of despised Puritans. No well en

dowed clergy were on the alert to quit their cathedrals, and set up a pompous hierarchy in the frozen wilderness. No craving governors were anxious to be sent over to our cheerless El Dorados of ice and of snow. No. They could not say that they encouraged, patronized, or helped the Pilgrims.

Their own cares, their own labors, their own counsels, their own blood, contrived all, achieved all, bore all, sealed all. They could not afterward fairly pretend to reap where they had not sown. And, as our fathers reared this broad and solid fabric with pains and watchfulness, unaided, barely tolerated, it did not fall when the favor, which had always been withholden, was changed into wrath. It was not crushed, when the arm, which had never supported, was raised to destroy it. FROM EVERETT.

CLXXXII. THE PILGRIMS.-No. II.

METHINKS I see that one, solitary, adventurous vessel, the May-Flower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the exiled Pilgrims, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not in sight of the wished-for shore.

I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The laboring masts seem straining from their base. The dismal sound of the pumps is heard. The ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow. The ocean breaks and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel.

I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all

but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' voyage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth. I see them, weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, drinking nothing but water on shore, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this.

Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? Was it hard labor and spare meals? Was it disease? Was it the tomahawk? Was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea? Was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate?

And is it possible that none of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible, that, from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion. so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious? FROM EVERETT.

NEW EC. S.-27