LORD THURLOW

And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,

Tame and free-livers; Doubt not, thy music too

In the deep rivers ; And the whole plumy flight Warbling the day and night Up at the gates of light,

See, the lark quivers !

EBENEZER ELLIOTT $87. Battle Song

I AY, like our souls, is fiercely dark ;

What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more ; the cock crows hark !

To arms ! away ! They come ! they come ! the knell is rung

Of us or them ; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung

Of gold and gem. What collar'd hound of lawless sway,

To famine dear . What pensioned slave of Attila,

Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar,

Our blood to spill ? Wear they the livery of the Czar?

They do his will.

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