The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry,-- The mournful murmur of the surge,-- The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. J. Pierpont. CCVII. WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL. Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it--ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they're a-fire! And, before you, see-- Who have done it!--from the vale On they come!--and will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! In the God of battles trust! Die we may, and die we must;-- But, O! where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! J. Pierpont. CCVIII. THANATOPSIS.