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النشر الإلكتروني

Patriotism and Sympathy.

Too long, too long in freedom's land
Oppression holds her iron sway,-
O rescue from the tyrant's hand
His feeble, unresisting prey,
Until the voice of Liberty

Proclaims that all her sons are free.

Who toiled-who lived to bless mankind, and hurled
Oppression from the throne,

Where long she swayed, remorseless and alone,
Her scorpion sceptre o'er a shrinking world.
And though no sculptured marble guard his dust,
Nor mouldering urn' received the hallowed trust,
For him a prouder mausoleum towers,

That time but strengthens with his storms and showers,
The Land he Saved, the empire of the Free-

Thy broad and steadfast throne, Triumphant Liberty!

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The hour of Freedom.

XV.

WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.

THE hour of freedom! come it must-
O, hasten it in mercy, Heaven!
When all who grovel in the dust,

Shall stand erect, their fetters riven !

When glorious freedom shall be won
By every caste, complexion, clime;
When tyranny shall be o'erthrown,
And color cease to be a crime !

Friend of the poor-long suffering Lord!
This guilty land from ruin save!
Let Justice sheathe her glittering sword,
And Mercy rescue from the grave!

And ye who are like cattle sold,

And vilely trodden like the earth,

And bartered constantly for gold—

Your souls debased from their high birth :

Bear meekly still your cruel woes;

Light follows darkness-comfort, pain: So time shall give you sweet repose, And sever every hateful chain.

Te Deum.

Not by the sword your liberty
Shall be obtained, in human blood;
Not by revolt or treachery,-

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Revenge did never bring forth good:

God's time is best-'t will not delay

E'en now your cause is blossoming, And rich shall be the fruit:-the day Of your redemption loudly sing!

Te Deum.

XVI.

PATRICK.

O GOD, we praise thee, and confess
That thou the only Lord,
And everlasting Father art,

By all the earth adored.

The Graves of the Martyrs.

FELICIA HEMANS.

The kings of old have shrine and tomb,
In many a minster's haughty gloom;
And green along the ocean-side,

The mounds arise where heroes died;

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To thee all angels cry aloud;
To thee the powers on high,
Both cherubim and seraphim,
Continually do cry;

O holy, holy, holy Lord,
Whom heavenly hosts obey,
The world is with the glory filled
Of thy majestic sway.

But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;
For truth, for Heaven, for freedom's sake,
Resign'd the bitter cup to take,

And silently, in fearless faith,

Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they, Earth ?-by no proud stone

Their narrow couch of rest is known ;

The still sad glory of their name,

Hallows no mountain unto fame;

No-not a tree the record bears

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew'd
The ashes of that multitude:
It may be that each day, we tread,
Where thus devoted hearts have bled,
And the young flowers our children sow,
Take root in holy dust below.

Te Deum.

The apostles' glorious company,
And prophets crowned with light,
With all the martyrs' noble host,
Thy constant praise recite.

The holy church throughout the world,
O Lord, confesses thee,
That thou eternal Father art
Of boundless majesty.

Oh! that the many rustling leaves,
Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmost hearts be still'd,
With knowledge of their presence fill'd,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sarifice?
-But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim-love and awe repair,
So let it be !-like him, whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,
They sleep in secret,-but their sod,
Unknown to man, is mark'd of God!

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