THE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG.

"I dream of all things free,

Of a gallant, gallant bark

That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark."

Now launch the boat upon the wave-
The wind is blowing off the shore-
I will not live, a cowering slave,
In these polluted islands more.
Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea,
There is a better home for me.

The wind is blowing off the shore,
And out to sea the streamers fly-
My music is the dashing roar,

My canopy the stainless sky,—
It bends above, so fair a blue,

That heaven seems opening to my view.

I will not live, a cowering slave,
Though all the charms of life may shine
Around me, and the land, the wave,
And sky be drawn in tints divine.
Give lowering skies and rocks to me
If there my spirit can be free.

J. G. Percival.

YE ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH.

SALT of the earth, ye virtuous few,

Who season human-kind;

Light of the world, whose cheering ray
Illumes the realms of Mind:

Where Misery spreads her deepest shade,
Your strong compassion glows:
From your blest lips the balm distils,
That softens mortal woes.

By dying beds, in prison glooms,
Your frequent steps are found;
Angels of love! you hover near,
To bind the stranger's wound.

You wash with tears the bloody page
Which human crimes deform:

When vengeance threats, your prayers ascend,
And break the gathering storm.

As down the summer stream of Vice
The thoughtless many glide,
Upward you steer your steady bark,
And stem the rushing tide.

Where Guilt her foul contagion breathes,

And golden spoils allure,

Unspotted still your garments shine

Your hands are ever pure.

Whene'er you touch the poet's lyre,
A softer strain is heard;

Each ardent thought is yours alone,
And every burning word.

Yours is the large, expansive thought,

The high, heroic deed;

Exile and chains to you are dear-
To you 'tis sweet to bleed.

You lift on high the warning voice,
When public ills prevail;
Yours is the writing on the wall
That turns the tyrant pale.

And yours is all, through History's rolls, The kindling bosom feels;

And at your tomb, with throbbing heart, The fond enthusiast kneels.

In every faith, through every clime,
Your pilgrim steps we trace,

And shrines are dressed, and temples rise,
Each hallowed spot to grace;

And pæans loud, in every tongue,
And choral hymns resound,

And lengthening honors hand your name
To Time's remotest bound.

Proceed! your race of glory run,
Your virtuous toils endure!

You come, commissioned from on high,
And your reward is sure.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld.

TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.

On the Rejection of the Bill for Abolishing the Slave Trade, 1791.

CEASE, Wilberforce, to urge thy generous aim! Thy Country knows the sin, and stands the shame! The Preacher, Poet, Senator, in vain

Has rattled in her sight the negro's chain;

In vain, to thy white standard gathering round, Wit, Worth, and Parts, and Eloquence are found; In vain, to push to birth thy great design, Contending chiefs and hostile virtues join ;

All, from conflicting ranks, of power possessed
To rouse, to melt, or to inform the breast,
Where seasoned tools of Avarice prevail,
A Nation's eloquence, combined, must fail:
Each flimsy sophistry by turns they try;
The plausive argument, the daring lie,
The artful gloss that moral sense confounds,
The acknowledged thirst of gain that honor
wounds:

Bane of ingenuous minds! the unfeeling sneer
Which sudden turns to stone the falling tear:
They search assiduous, with inverted skill,
For forms of wrong, and precedents of ill;
With impious mockery wrest the sacred page,
And glean up crimes from each remoter age:
Wrung Nature's tortures, shuddering, while you
tell,

From scoffing fiends bursts forth the laugh of hell;
In Britain's senate, Misery's pangs give birth
To jests unseemly, and to horrid mirth-

Forbear! thy virtues but provoke our doom,
And swell the account of vengeance yet to come.
Anna Lætitia Barbauld.