First prunes his purple vine, then hastes to till His garden, freshened by the chills of night, Where many a grateful tribute cheers his sight; The jasmine bent beneath his clustering bees, The green retiring herb, the lofty trees, That, gemmed with blooms and dew drops, on the air Waft their sweet incense to the God of pray’r. But noon advances, and he drives his flocks Where spots of verdure brighten ’mid the rocks; There spends the day; and, far above, inhales The love of Freedom with his mountain gales. Hark! to those sounds, which now the herds invite, Slow pacing homeward from the dizzy height; The shepherd’s evening call—and in each dell Tinkles the music of the pastoral bell. His labor done, a frugal meal prepared By her he loves, recruits his strength impaired; Breathing a pious prayer he sinks to rest, And rural visions charm his peaceful breast. Our second, and last, extract is one the spirit and force of which every devotee of Freedom, every true American heart cannot fail to acknowledge. Spirits of noble beings, who, arrayed In mortal clothing, once a proud part played Upon this nether orb! If ye retain No human sense of honor, joy, or pain; If, fixed in seats of blessedness, ye deem Earth’s goodliest pageantries an idiot’s dream; Yet in your bosoms not in vain was sown Deep as Life’s pulse the love of fair Renown; For still as Age to fleeting Age succeeds, Your track of Glory, your remembered deeds, A spark of fire ethereal shall impart, To rouse each godlike passion in the heart. Still, gallant Arnold! while the Switzer fights E’en to his blood’s last drop, to guard his rights; The right to tread his hills begirt with storm, Free as the winds that brace his nervous form; Your dying words, invincible he hears; When with gored bosom, grasping Austria’s spears, To glorious death you singly forced the way, And bade forever live red Sempach’s day; “The ranks are broken! charge! the cowards yield! My little orphans, Oh my Country! shield.” And You! in whose unconquerable mind The wide-expanded wish to serve Mankind Ruled as a master-passion; whether laid At ease, you wooed Mount Vernon’s pleasant shade, And the pure luxury of rural life; Or plunged, reluctant, into desperate strife, To breast the weight of tyrannous command. And stamp the badge of Freedom on your Land; Shall You, the meteor of a fickle day, Blaze for one moment, strike, and pass away? No—to her sons unborn shall cling your name, Linked to their country’s proudest hour of Fame; Till private, public worth, to Ruin hurled,