Methinks thy sun-rise now is lighting up The far horizon of yon hemisphere With golden lightning. O’er the hoary top Of the blue mountain see I not appear Thy lovely dawn; while Pain, and crouching Fear, And Slavery perish under tottering thrones? How long, oh Liberty! until we hear Instead of an insulted people’s moans, The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering their groans? Is not thy Spirit living still in France? Will it not waken soon in storm and fire? Will Earthquake not ’mid thrones and cities dance, And Freedom’s altar be the funeral pyre Of Tyranny and all his offspring dire? In England, Germany, Italia, Spain, And Switzerland thy Spirit doth inspire The multitude—and though too long, in vain, They struggle in deep gloom, yet Slavery’s night shall wane! And shall _we_ sleep while all the earth awakes? Shall _we_ turn slaves while on the Alpine cones And vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaks The morning light of liberty?—What thrones Can equal those which on our fathers’ bones The demagogue would build? What chains so gall As those the self-made Helot scarcely owns Till they eat deeply—till the live pains crawl Into his soul who caused _himself_ to fall! Men’s freedom may be wrested from their hands, And they may mourn; but not like those who throw Their heritage away—who clasp the bands On their own limbs, and crawl and blindly go Like timorous fawns to their own overthrow. Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficult To think that we are free, yet be not so— To shatter down by one brief hour of guilt The holy fane of Freedom that our fathers built. * * * * * AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT. IN THREE CHIMERAS. BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. Chimera I. An anthem of a sister choristry! And like a windward murmur of the sea O’er silver shells, so solemnly it falls! A dying music, shrouded in deep walls, That bury its wild breathings! And the moon, Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon, Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud, Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud, Do minister unto her sickly trance, Fanning the life into her countenance. And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few, In the deep chasms of everlasting blue, Unmarshall’d and ungather’d, one and one, Like outposts of the lunar garrison.