Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unworried minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:-- Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;-- And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. W. Collins. CCIII. NEW ENGLAND. Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, A fearless host: No slave is here--our unchained feet Walk freely, as the waves that beat Our coast. Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave To seek this shore; They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave;-- With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; But souls like these, such toils impelled To soar. Hail to the acorn, when first they stood. On Bunker's height, And, fearless stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! O! 't was a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light. There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore; Thou art the shelter of the free; The home, the port of liberty Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon Thy land, shall mother curse the son She bore.