There sped fiery Tell with his crossbow and dart,

The barb glowing crimson from Gessler's proud heart.

And close by his side, the beloved of his peers,

Bold Winkelried rode with his arms full of spears,

The same old self-sacrifice lighting his eye,

And "Make way for Liberty!" still was his cry.

There was Luther, no braver e'er rode to the field,

And the word of the Lord was his buckler and shield,

While the weapon he grasped was the same he had sped

In a moment of anger at Lucifer's head. There was Cromwell, that monarch who never wore crown,

With his Bible and sword and his Puritan frown,

And with him Charles-Albert, the Piedmontese star,

As he rode ere betrayed on the field of Novarre.

There, with garments still red from that last fatal day,

The ghost of Bozzaris sped fierce for the fray;

And close by his side, with an eye full of fire,

Rode Byron, still grasping his sword and his lyre,

And the war-kindling numbers which fell from his tongue

Like the notes of a wild battle-clarion

were flung!

And just in advance galloped Körner and Burns,

Unsheathing the war-song and falchion by turns!

There, gazing and listening, my spirit entranced

Leaped for joy as these poets for
Freedom advanced;

And I felt the warm thought through
my bosom descend,
That the bard to be true must be
Liberty's friend!

Then came a dim host to my vision unknown,

Like those lights which astronomers number alone;

I looked, and beheld the swift spread of the blaze

Which dazzled the stars with the pulse of its rays, As if through the darkness the lightning had played,

And in midst of its splendor been suddenly stayed:

There I read the great words spread like fiery wings

Where "weighed and found wanting" confronted the kings! And this army of spectres, led on by that light,

Like a cloud on a hurricane swept through the night;

And this was their cry coming down on the gale,

"The modern Belshazzars are weighed in the scale!"

A BIRTHDAY THOUGHT IN

ITALY.

INSCRIBED TO MISS S. R. B.

As once the trembling Lombard saw The swift barbarians' line of spears Wind down the Alps, thus here in

awe

I watch the approaching line of years. They come, the Goth and Vandal bands,

With savage tread and look uncouth;

With spear and mace and murderous brands,

They file toward the plains of youth.

Down into life's Etrurian vales,

O'er green campagnas broad and fair,

They sweep like bitter Norland gales, And fright the calm Italian air.

Had fanned him with the hottest airs that blow

Athwart the fierce Sahara fields below!

The wings were leaden-hued and ruffled all,

As if long beaten 'gainst some stormy wall,

Or blown contrary by belligerent gusts,

Then trailed for ages through the cinder dusts

On plains adjacent, where the Stygian pours,

Hissing forever on volcanic shores! She looked, and on her lips the curse was stayed!

Thrice all the vengeance which her soul had planned

E'en the best-directed feet
Oft may turn to stray and dally

'Mid the bowers that chill and cheat.

Reads the future from the past.

Huge and rough as thunder-smitten, Rise the barriers of the gate, With one sentence overwritten,— Simple letters full of fate.

On the arch through which you're speeding

There those two forbidding words Still shall flame, as over Eden

Blazed the red exiling swords. A lost realm recovered neverWith receding speed increased, Barred and branded there forever It shall glimmer in the east.

Youth is gone-a vanished gloryAnd, with stern and earnest view, Manhood needs take up the story,

And with valor bear it through.

All the world lies wide before you, Where to choose the wrong or right; And no future shall restore you

What you seize not now with might. Let each act be the sure token

Of the nobler life ahead:Let each thought in truth be spoken, Though the utterance strike you dead.

Where Temptation sits apart: Boldly tread the open highway Leading to the golden mart.