Peace dwells not here, this rugged face That has its origin above, Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; Transmitted to the rolls of Time. O Time! whose verdicts mock our own, His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, The marks have sunk of DANTE's mind. JOHN G. SAXE. [U. s. A.] WISHING. Of all amusements for the mind, I wish -a common wish, indeed · I wish - that Sympathy and Love, And every human passion Would come and keep in fashion; That Scorn and Jealousy and Hate, And every base emotion, Were buried fifty fathom deep Beneath the waves of Ocean! L SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. The toiling, suffering sons of earth Are drowned in sweetest slumber. "The student rests his weary brain, "I bar the gates where cares abide, "Alas!" replied the other, "mine Is not a task so grateful; Howe'er to mercy I incline, To mortals I am hateful. "They call me 'Kill-joy,' every one, And speak in sharp detraction Of all I do; yet have I done "True!" answered Sleep, "but all the The moist winds breathe of crispéd while Thine office is berated, "T is only by the vile and weak That thou art feared and hated. "And though thy work on earth has given To all a shade of sadness; Consider - every saint in heaven Remembers thee with gladness!" SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. [U. S. A.] A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary In the soft light of an autumnal day, When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, And like a dream of beauty glides away. How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist, leaves and flowers In the damp hollows of the woodland Silent as a sweet wandering thought that only Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. ALFRED B. STREET, [U. S. A.] THE SETTLER. HIS echoing axe the settler swung And, rushing, thundering, down were flung The Titans of the wood; Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashed From out his mossy nest, which crashed With its supporting bough, And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed On the wolf's haunt below. Rude was the garb, and strong the frame Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: To form that garb the wild-wood game Contributed their spoil; The soul that warmed that frame disdained The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers, The winds that swelled their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast, the green arcade, The nestling vale, the grassy glade, Dark cave, and swampy lair: These scenes and sounds najestic made His world, his pleasures, there. His roof adorned a pleasant spot, Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not Throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell, All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at spring's first tinge, His shout and whistle broke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden-spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, And darkening thick the day His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, His fangs, with dying howl; And, with its moaning ery, Humble the lot, yet his the race, To fight, to bleed, to die! Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, By hope through weary years were led, And witnessed Yorktown's sun Blaze on a nation's banner spread, A nation's freedom won. CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH. [U. S. A.] STANZAS. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, We are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known, Mind with mind did never meet; I questioned not her peace with God, For I've seen men who meant not ill While agonizing judgments hung I could but say, with faltering voice "And though thou walk the shadowy vale She knew it well, and knew yet more My deepest hope, though unexprest, The hope that God's appointed sleep But heightens ravishment with rest. My children, living flowers, shall come And strew with seed this grave of thine, And bid the blushing growths of Spring Thy dreary painted cross entwine. Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, Shall rest in emblems of her own; Beauty still springing from Decay, The cross-wood budding to the crown. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. H. D. THOREAU. IF with light head erect I sing, source. But if with bended neck I grope, Making my soul accomplice there They have builded him an altar in the I hearing get, who had but ears, evening dews and damps; And sight, who had but eyes before; |