"Freedom!" their battle-cry,—

Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?

Love is that orbit of the restless soul Whose circle grazes the confines of space, Bounding within the limits of its race Utmost extremes.

Lovers are Like walking ghosts, they always haunt the spot Of their misdeeds.

'Tis not how witty, nor how free, Nor yet how beautifull she be, But how much kinde and true to me.

Wages is a cunning device of the devil, for the benefit of tender consciences, who would retain all the advantages of the slave system, without the expense, trouble, and odium of being slave-holders.

'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran; They held—to be free is the birthright of man.