Alone the noble work hast done,
On thine own self relying.

The dragon lies beneath thy foot,
In death's convulsions dying,
With mortal wound thy weapon cut,
With thee the combat trying.

Thou Hercules of modern time,
With modern monsters doing,
And with a valor more sublime,
Thy noble work pursuing.

That ancient glorious battle field,
Where nations were contending,

To thee its destiny doth yield,
To thee in love 'tis bending.

The steed runs faster near the goal,
With mane erect and flowing,
Each eye ball flaming like a coal,
Or like a meteor glowing.

The end is nigh, but reached not yet, (The Bourbon still is reigning,)

The glories of the past forget,

Until that end attaining.

August 15, 1860.

Hope is an amaranthine flower,
A heavenly plant from Eden's bower,
From thence transplanted here:

It springs from an undying seed,
Of sun and showers it hath no need,
Immortal through the year.

Hope is our pilot when we ride,
A-drift upon the stormy tide,

And holds the rudder fast:

It masters the rebellious ship
When deep its creaking rafters dip
And brings us home at last.

Hope is an anchor which defies

The roughest seas the fiercest skies,

Calmly the vessel lies:

The tempest tuggeth at its chain

And tries to break, but all in vain

The fury of the skies.

Hope will not leave us when we die
Our partner to the rest on high
Where once it bloomed of old:
There will the amaranthine flower
Perennial grow in Eden's bower,
Brighter than burnished gold.

August 23, 1860.

O bird of the summer the night breeze is sighing, Through the leaves of the wood to whose shelter you fly :

O bird of the summer the daylight is dying,
And fade into purple the tints of the sky.

O bird of the summer when night time is over,
And the daisy shall open its leaves to the light,
When the morning breeze brushes the dew from the
clover,

And changes to gold the deep purple of night.

Then bird of the summer thy voice shall be lending Its notes to the choir which the morning shall

hail,

Harmonious and sweet from the meadows ascending,
In rapture above till the daylight shall fail.
Sept. 3, 1860.

'Twas Sabbath morn, as on the mountain's side, I stood and heard the Sabbath bells a ringing, Which mingled with the murmur of the tide,

Which past me was its crystal waters flinging.

It seemed as if from heaven the music came,
Unto the earth its gentle sweetness lending,
To kindle in the heart devotion's flame,

In prayer and praises its intenseness spending.

Songs from the valley rose of many a bird,

Within the wood their Sabbath music singing, With reverent love their songs of praise I heard, Which chimed with the bells at distance ringing.

The sky was bright, but o'er the golden day

Some fleecy clouds in broken fragments passing, The breeze of summer gently chased away,

And drove them to the horizon there amassing.

I caught the infection of the general song,

Gave to the air the joy which I was feeling,
Swelling the chorus of the tuneful throng,
An inward joy an uttered praise revealing.
Sept. 7, 1860.

THE REVIEW AT KNOWSLEY.
SEPT. 1, 1860.

The echoes of the bugle pealed

Through Knowsley's ancient trees,

P

As twice five thousand in the field,
Brave fellows stood at ease.

The couchant ox the echoes roused,

Chewing the verdant blade;

The stag did hear them as it browsed

Upon the distant glade.

Then from its perch the thrush did spring,

And to the thicket flew,

The warbling linnet ceased to sing

As the shrill bugle blew.

And Knowsley's Lord to welcome came

Those hardy Volunteers,

The Earl of Derby was his name,
The proudest of his peers.

Up to the lines as he did ride,

They welcomed him with cheers,

His noble son rode at his side,

And many noble peers.

Ten thousand men stood there in line,

Each with his rifle too,

Waiting for the accustomed sign,

When the shrill bugle blew.