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“MAKE way for liberty!” he cried;
Made way for liberty, and died 1–

It must not be ; this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power!
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield,—
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him, - Arnold Winkelried
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the rising storm;
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 't was no sooner thought than done
The field was in a moment won :-
“Make way for liberty 1" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp:
“Make way for liberty 1" he cried
Their keen points met from side to side;


He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty,
Swift to the breach his comrades fly ;
“Make way for liberty l’” they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow
Thus Switzerland again was free;
Thus death made way for liberty

ON MYSELF. — Cowley.

THIs only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honor I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
The unknown are better than ill known ;
Rumor can ope the grave.
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night.
My house a cottage more
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.
My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures yiel
Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space;
For he that runs it well twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, this happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
But boldly say, each night,
To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-day.


Voice of the summer wind,
Joy of the summer plain,
Life of the summer hours,
Carol clearly, bound along.
No Tithon” thou, as poets feign,
(Shame fall 'em, they are deaf and blind,)
But an insect lithe and strong,
Bowing the seeded summer flowers.
Prove their falsehood and their quarrel,
Vaulting on thy airy feet,
Clap thy shielded sides and carol,
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet. g

Thou art a mailed warrior, in youth and strength


* Among the many beautiful fables of the ancient Greeks was this one. The beauty of Tithonus, son of a king of Troy, gained for him the affection of one of the goddesses. He begged her, as a favor, to make him immortal, and his request was granted. But, as he had forgotten to ask to retain the vigor and beauty of youth, he soon became infirm and decrepid ; and, as life became insupportable to him, he begged the goddess to remove him from the world. As he could not die, she changed him into a grasshopper.



Armed cap-a-pie,
Full fair to see;
Unknowing fear,
Undreading loss.
A gallant cavalier,
“Sans peur et sans reproche,” +
In sunlight and in shadow,
The Bayard of the meadow.
I would dwell with thee,
Merry grasshopper,
Thou art so glad and free,
And as light as air;
Thou hast no sorrow or tears,
Thou hast no compt of years,
No withered immortality,
But a short youth, sunny and free.
Carol clearly, bound along,
Soon thy joy is over.
A summer of loud song,
And slumbers in the clover,
What hast thou to do with evil
In thine hour of love and revel,
In thy heat of summer pride
Pushing the thick roots aside
Of the singing, flowered grasses,
That brush thee with their silken tresses :
What hast thou to do with evil,
Shooting, singing, ever springing
In and out the emerald glooms;
Ever leaping, ever singing,
Lighting on the golden blooms?

* Without fear and without reproach; an epithet o to Bay

ard, a French knight distinguished for his courage and

is integrity

He died in 1524.


How Sparta thirsted after orient gold,
And bartered faith for wealth she dared not use,

Is as severe a tale as e'er was told
The pride of man to conquer and confuse.

Therefore forget not what that nature was,
That once availed the base desire to foil,

When sought the Ionian Aristagoras
To mingle Sparta in his distant broil.

How thick the perils of that far emprise,
How dim the vista cummingly displayed,

The king discerned, with clear and practised eyes,
And bade the stranger court Athenian aid.

To people as to prince, appeal was vain, –
Wain the dark menace, — vain the shadowy gibe, –

But the wise envoy would not bend again
His homeward steps till failed the wonted bribe.

A suppliant at the regal hearth he stood,
Nor ever thought that proffer to withhold

Because about them, in her careless mood,
Played the king's child,—a girl some nine years old,

Ten — twenty—forty talents rose the bait; —
Strange feeling glistened in those infant eyes,

That gazed attentive on the grave debate,
And seemed to search its meaning in surprise.

Yet fifty now had well secured the prey,
Had not a little hand tight clasped his arm,

And a quick spirit uttered, “Come away,
Father, — that man is there to do you harm.”

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