Bright on our twenty spears
Sunlight was flashing;
When through the Skager Rack
The storm-wind was driven,
And from our bending mast

The broad sail was riven:
Then, while the angry brine
Foamed like a flagon,
Brimful the yesty rime
Filled our brown dragon;
But I, with sinewy hand

Strengthened in slaughter,
Forth from the straining ship
Bailed the dun water.

The wild waters know my keel,
No storm restrains me;
But ah! a Russian maid
Coldly disdains me.

Firmly I curb my steed,

As e'er Thracian horseman;

My hand throws the javelin true,
Pride of the Norseman;

And the bold skater marks,
While his lips quiver,
Where o'er the bending ice
I skim the river:

Forth to my rapid oar

The boat swiftly springeth

Springs like the mettled steed
When the spur stingeth.
Valiant I am in fight,

No fear restrains me;
But ah! a Russian maid
Coldly disdains me.

Saith she, the maiden fair,
The Norsemen are cravens ?
I in the Southland gave
A feast to the ravens !
Green lay the sward outspread,
The bright sun was o'er us
When the strong fighting men
Rushed down before us.
Midway to meet the shock
My courser bore me,

And like Thor's hammer crashed
My strong hand before me;
Left we their maids in tears,
Their city in embers:

The sound of the Viking's spears

The Southland remembers !

I love the combat fierce,

No fear restrains me; But ah! a Russian maid Coldly disdains me.

THE quarry whence thy form majestic sprung

Has peopled earth with grace, Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,

A bright and peerless race;

But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before

A shape of loftier name

Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore,

The noblest son of Fame. Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained;

His gaze around is cast,

As if the joys of Freedom, newly gained,
Before his vision passed;

As if a nation's shout of love and pride
With music filled the air,

And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;

As if the crystal mirror of his life
To fancy sweetly came,

With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
Undimmed by doubt or shame;

As if the lofty purpose of his soul
Expression would betray,
The high resolve Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!

O, it was well in marble firm and white
To carve our hero's form,

Whose angel guidance was our strength in

fight,

Our star amid the storm!

Whose matchless truth has made his name

divine,

And human freedom sure,

His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,

While man and time endure ! And it is well to place his image there Upon the soil he blest:

Let meaner spirits, who its councils share, Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love To look on his pure brow,

And as, with solemn grace, he points above,

Renew the patriot's vow!

HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN

THE STAR OF CALVARY

It is the same infrequent star,
The all-mysterious light,
That like a watcher, gazing on
The changes of the night,
Toward the hill of Bethlehem took
Its solitary flight.

It is the same infrequent star;,
Its sameness startleth me,
Although the disk is red as blood,
And downward silently

It looketh on another hill, —
The hill of Calvary!

Nor noon, nor night; for to the west
The heavy sun doth glow;
And, like a ship, the lazy mist
Is sailing on below,

Between the broad sun and the earth
It tacketh to and fro.

II

Like columns on the mossy marge
Of some old Grecian fount,-
So pale they stand, so drearily,
On that mysterious Mount.
Behold, O Israel! behold,
It is no human One
That ye have dared to crucify.

What evil hath he done?

It is your King, O Israel!
The God-begotten Son!

A wreath of thorns, a wreath of thorns!
Why have ye crowned him so?
That brow is bathed in agony,

'Tis veiled in every woe:
Ye saw not the immortal trace
Of Deity below.

THE CLOUDS

I CANNOT look above and see

Yon high-piled, pillowy mass
Of evening clouds, so swimmingly
In gold and purple pass,

And think not, Lord, how thou wast seen
On Israel's desert way,

Before them, in thy shadowy screen,
Pavilioned all the day!

Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue
Which the Redeemer wore,

When, ravished from his followers' view,
Aloft his flight he bore;

When lifted, as on mighty wing,

He curtained his ascent,

And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing Above the firmament.

Is it a trail of that same pall
Of many-colored dyes,
That high above, o'ermantling all,
Hangs midway down the skies,
Or borders of those sweeping folds
Which shall be all unfurled
About the Saviour, when he holds
His judgment on the world?

For in like manner as he went,
My soul, hast thou forgot?
Shall be his terrible descent,
When man expecteth not!
Strength, Son of man, against that hour,
Be to our spirits given,

When thou shalt come again with power,
Upon the clouds of heaven!

IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE

IT is not death to die,

To leave this weary road,

And, midst the brotherhood on high, To be at home with God.

It is not death to close

The eye long dimmed by tears, And wake in glorious repose, To spend eternal years.

It is not death to bear

The wrench that sets us free

From dungeon-chain, to breathe the air Of boundless liberty.

It is not death to fling

Aside this sinful dust,
And rise on strong, exulting wing,
To live among the just.

Jesus, thou Prince of Life,

Thy chosen cannot die!
Like Thee, they conquer in the strife,
To reign with Thee on high.

GEORGE WASHINGTON BETHUNE

PARAPHRASE OF LUTHER'S HYMN

A MIGHTY fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;
Our helper he amid the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing.

For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great,
And, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,
Our striving would be losing, -
Were not the right man on our side,
The man of God's own choosing.
Dost ask who that may be?
Christ Jesus, it is he,

Lord Sabaoth his name,
From age to age the same,
And he must win the battle.

And though this world, with devils filled, Should threaten to undo us,

We will not fear, for God hath willed
His truth to triumph through us.
The Prince of Darkness grim, -
We tremble not for him;
His rage we can endure,
For lo! his doom is sure:
One little word shall fell him.

That word above all earthly powers,
No thanks to them, abideth;
The spirit and the gifts are ours
Through Him who with us sideth.
Let goods and kindred go,
This mortal life also;
The body they may kill,
God's truth abideth still,
His Kingdom is forever.

FREDERIC HENRY HEdge

DIES IRÆ

DAY of wrath, that day of burning,
Seer and Sibyl speak concerning,
All the world to ashes turning.

Oh, what fear shall it engender,

When the Judge shall come in splendor,

Strict to mark and just to render !

Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder,
Rending sepulchres asunder,
Shall resistless summons thunder.

All aghast then Death shall shiver,
And great Nature's frame shall quiver,
When the graves their dead deliver.

Volume, from which nothing 's blotted, Evil done nor evil plotted,

Shall be brought and dooms allotted.

When shall sit the Judge unerring,
He'll unfold all here occurring,
Vengeance then no more deferring.

What shall I say, that time pending?
Ask what advocate's befriending,
When the just man needs defending?

Dreadful King, all power possessing,
Saving freely those confessing,
Save thou me, O Fount of Blessing!

Think, O Jesus, for what reason
Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason,
Nor me lose in that dread season!

Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted,
On the cross Thy soul death tasted:
Let such travail not be wasted!

Righteous Judge of retribution !
Make me gift of absolution
Ere that day of execution!

Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken,
On my cheek shame's crimson token:
Let the pardoning word be spoken !

Thou, who Mary gav'st remission,
Heard'st the dying Thief's petition,
Cheer'st with hope my lost condition.

Though my prayers be void of merit,
What is needful, Thou confer it,
Lest I endless fire inherit.

Be there, Lord, my place decided With Thy sheep, from goats divided, Kindly to Thy right hand guided!

When the accursed away are driven, To eternal burnings given,

Call me with the blessed to heaven!

I beseech Thee, prostrate lying,
Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing,
Care for me when I am dying!

Day of tears and late repentance,
Man shall rise to hear his sentence:
Him, the child of guilt and error,
Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror !

ABRAHAM COLES

MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE
I AM old and blind!
Men point at me as smitten by God's
frown;

Afflicted and deserted of my kind,
Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong;

I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to Thee.