A massive castle, far and high,

In towering grandeur broke upon my eye. Proud in its strength and years, the ponderous pile Flung up its time-defying towers;

Its lofty gates seemed scornfully to smile
At vain assaults of human powers,

And threats and arms deride.

Its gorgeous carvings of heraldic pride,

In giant masses, graced the walls above;

And dungeons yawned below.

Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove, Grave, silent chroniclers of time's protracted flow.

Bursting on my steadfast gaze,
See, within, a sudden blaze!

So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,
That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top,

Nor makes the withered leaf to drop,
The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell.
But soon it spread,

Waving, rushing, fierce, and red,

From wall to wall, from tower to tower,

Raging with resistless power;

Till every fervent pillar glowed,

And every stone seemed burning coal,

Instinct with living heat that flowed

Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole.

Beautiful, fearful, grand,

Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.

At length a crackling sound began;

From side to side, throughout the pile it ran;

And louder yet and louder grew,

Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew ;

Huge shivered fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.
The shattered walls were rent and riven,
And piecemeal driven,

Like blazing comets, through the troubled sky. 'Tis done; what centuries have reared,

In quick explosion disappeared,

Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place,

Bright with more than human grace,

Robed in more than mortal seeming,

Radiant glory in her face,

And eyes with heaven's own brightness beaming,

Rose a fair majestic form,

As the mild rainbow from the storm.

I marked her smile, I knew her eye;

And when, with gesture of command, She waved aloft a cap-crowned wand, My slumbers fled 'mid shouts of "Liberty!"

Read

ye the dream? and know ye not

How truly it unlocked the world of fate?
Went not the flame from this illustrious spot,
And spread it not, and burns in every state?
And when their old and cumbrous walls,
Filled with this spirit, glow intense,
Vainly they rear their impotent defence:
The fabric falls!

That fervent energy must spread,

Till despotism's towers be overthrown, And in their stead

Liberty stands alone!

Hasten the day, just Heaven!

Accomplish thy design,

And let the blessings thou hast freely given,
Freely on all men shine,

Till equal rights be equally enjoyed,

And human power for human good employed;
Till law, not man, the sovereign rule sustain,
And peace and virtue undisputed reign.

HENRY WARE, JR.

"DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI."

OH! it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending;

Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for aye,— Glory that never is dim, shining on with light never ending,— Glory that never shall fade, never, oh, never, away!

Oh! it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,
Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands
of roses,

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.

Not to the shades shall the youth descend who for country hath perished;

Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her

smile;

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished; Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;

Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue-rolling sea; But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted forever; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.

Oh! then, how great for our country to die,—in the front rank to perish,

Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear! Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish; We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music

to hear.

JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.

WHAT'S HALLOWED GROUND?

WHAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod

By man, the image of his God,
Erect and free,

Unscourged by Superstition's rod

To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground, where, mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed :

:

But where's their memory's mansion? Is't

Yon church-yard's bowers?

No! in ourselves their souls exist,

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!-
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom,

Or genii twine, beneath the deep,
Their coral tomb.

But, strew his ashes to the wind,
Whose sword or voice has served mankind,
And is he dead whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high ?—

To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die.

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?
He's dead alone that lacks her light!
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight
The sword he draws:-

What can alone ennoble fight?
A noble cause!

Give that, and welcome War to brace

Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space!

The colors, planted face to face,

The charging cheer,

Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase,
Shall still be dear.

And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven!-but Heaven rebukes my zeal!
The cause of truth and human weal,
O God above!

Transfer it from the sword's appeal
To Peace and Love.

Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not.

The heart alone can make divine

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!—
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass round;

And your high-priesthood shall make earth.

All hallowed ground.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS.

HERE rest the great and good,—here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre,-green sods
Are all their monument; and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,