II. 
Grasp the sword!—­its edge is keen,
 Seize the gun!—­its ball is true: 
Sweep your land from tyrant clean,—­
 Haste, and scour it through and through! 
  Onward, onward!  Freedom cries,
  Rush to arms,—­the tyrant flies.

III.

By the souls of patriots gone,
 Wake,—­arise,—­your fetters break,
Kosciusko bids you on,—­
 Sobieski cries awake! 
  Rise, and front the despot czar,
  Rise, and dare the unequal war.

IV.

Freedom calls you!  Quick, be ready,—­
 Think of what your sires have been,
Onward, onward! strong and steady,
 Drive the tyrant to his den. 
  On, and let the watchword be,
  Country, home, and liberty!

James G. Percival.

CHAPTER II.

SMOOTHNESS.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

I.

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening’s close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingled notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watchdog’s voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,—­
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

II.

Near yonder copse where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change, his place. 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

III.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire and talked the night away;
Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.