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And when thy sons to fetters are consign’d,
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place
And thy sad floor an altar, for 't was trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface !
For they appeal from tyranny to God.

Lord Byron




Tone Vorliethe Mountains, reach a mighty voice :

"WO Voices are there, one is of the Sea,

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty !

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought’st against him, — but hast vainly striven :
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be

That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee !

W. Wordsworth



NCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee

And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of liberty.

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She was a maiden city, bright and free;
No gụile seduced, no force could violate;
And when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, --
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reach'd its final day :
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great has pass'd away.

W. Wordsworth


FRIEND ! I know not which way I must look

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,


Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grandeur now in Nature or in book

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry ; and these we adore :
Plain living and high thinking are no more :

The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

W. Wordsworth




ILTON! thou shouldst be living at this, hour :

England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men :
O! raise us up, return to us again ;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;

So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

W. Wordsworth.



THEN I have borne in memory what has tamed

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student's bower for gold,

some fears unnamed

I had, my Country! !- am I to be blamed ?
But when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ;
And I by my affection was beguiled :

What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child !

W. Wordsworth




N Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

of Iser, rolling rapidly.


But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven ; And louder than the bolts of Heaven

Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry !

Few, few shall part, where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

T. Campbell

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