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Dear to me the South's fair land,
Dear the central mountain hand,
Dear New England's rocky strand, Over a world thy guardian care has kept,
Dear the prairied West. :When the fresh soul from soothing slumber wakes, To praise the love that watched me while I slept ;
By our altars pure and free, When with new strength my blood is bounding free,
By our Law's deep-rooted tree, The first, best, sweetest hour, I'll give to Thee.
By the past's dread memory,
By our Washington, One hour with Thee, when busy day begins
By our common kindred tongue, Her never-ceasing round of bustling care,
By our hopes—bright, buoyant, young, When I must meet with toil, and pain, and sins,
By the tie of country strong, And through them all thy cross must bear ;
We will still be one. 0, then to arm me for the strife, to be Faithful to death, I'll kneel an hour to Thee.
Fathers ! have ye bled in vain ?
Ages, must ye droop again? One hour with Thee, when rides the glorious sun
Maker, shall we rashly stain High in mid-heaven, and panting nature feels
Blessings sent by Thee? .Lifeless and overpowered, and man has done
No! receive our solemn vow, For one short hour with urging life's swift wheels;
While before thy throne we bow, In that deep pause my soul from care shall flee,
Ever to maintain, as now To make that hour of rest one hour with Thee.
• Union—Liberty!” One hour with Thee, when saddened twilight flings
The effect of the ode was truly sublime. When
The sweet enthralling sense of thy deep love; there was an awful grandeur in the sound of the
No! receive our solemn vow,
While before thy throne we bow, Climbs the high heaven with solemn step and slow,
Ever to maintain as now, When thy sweet stars, unutterably bright,
Union-Liberty! Are telling forth thy praise to men below; 0, then, while far from earth my thoughts would flee,
Choir and organ and harmony were drowned by I'll spend in prayer one joyful hour with Thee ! the wild torrent of ejaculations; but it started feet
ings not unsuited to the sacredness of the place of
meeting, and the light of the uplifted eye had to From the Journal of Commerce.
struggle through tears, and there was not a man The following Ode breathes a spirit which must present who would not at that moment have cheer commend itself to every patriotic citizen. It was fully sacrificed life, fortune, and sacred honor—to written by the Rev. Dr. Gilman, of Charleston, and
Union-Liberty! was sung at the 4th of July celebration, in 1832, by the Union Party of that city. I had the satisfac
'S LIGHT BEHIND THE CLOUD! tion to be present, and to assist in the choir. The procession had moved to the Baptist church to listen In the lone and weary nights, my child, to an oration by Col. Drayton, one of the influential
When all around is drear; men of the Unionists, while the Nullifiers were When the moon is hidden by the clouds, headed by the great Hayne, by Hamilton, and And grief and pain are nearothers. I recollect one sentence of Col. Drayton's speech, which it may not be amiss to mention. 0, never think, my gentle boy, Endeavoring to demonstrate the impracticability of
In that gloomy, trying hour,
That thou art not protected still nullification, Col. Drayton said : “ To be in the
By a kind Almighty Power! Union and out of it, simultaneously, is not in the power of Omnipotence itself.”
Soon will those dark clouds roll away,
And the glorious stars appear ;
And the pensive moon, with her calm, pale light,
Will shine in beauty clear.
There is an Eye above, my child,
That slumbers not, nor sleeps :
There is a Friend in heaven, love
Who still His vigil keeps.
And though in trouble's darkest hour
His face He seems to shroud,
There's light behind the cloud!
Or art thou near allied
To the bright spark that gilds the thunder-cloud !Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above Yet moving voiceless through the heavens wide thee,
Piercing night's sable shroud. Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave !
Vain is each prying thought, Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
To find the source and nature of thy ray, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
For thou art ever with deep mystery fraught, Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
We cannot cast away. Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
He, whose stupendous plan Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves Worketh unchanging through all space and time,
For unknown ends, thy fitful flames doth fan, Thy noble heart forever, ever more?
And laws for thee assign. Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,
And He thy home hath cast From those brown hills, have melted into spring : 'Mid seas of ice, unchanged by Summer's rayFaithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers • Mid frigid deserts, stretching, far and vast, After such years of change and suffering !
Where life can never stay. Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
Yet doth thy nightly glow While the world's tide is bearing me along ;
Glad the far dwellers of the dreary Nor 1: Other desires and other hopes beset me,
The Greenlander, amid the drifted snow, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
Doth hail thy coming forth. No later light has lightened up my heaven,
Thou cheerest Siberia's gloom, No second morn has ever shone for me ;
Sweden's cold clime, and Norway's ice-girt shore ; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
And northern men their hardy toils resume
When thou dost brightly soar. All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
Edwin S. HIGBIL. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, Exeter, N. Y., Feb. 9th, 1850.
And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
From Chambers' Journal Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
MY EEN ARE DIM W TEARS. Then did I check the tears of useless passion
My een are dim wi' tears, John Weaned my young soul from yearning after My heart is sair wi' wae, thine ;
I lie an’ watch the stars, John,
A wearying for the day;
An' it canna bring me peace,
Till the clay is on my breast, John,
An' thocht and feeling cease!
I hae looed ye weel and lang, John
An' shall while I hae life;
Wha should hae been your wife.
Though ye never said a word, John,
My trusting heart to win,
Ye hae leed before the Lord, John,
An' that is deeper sin!
Ye're hand leed seeking mine, John,
When naebody could see;
And ye kissed it mony a time, John,
An' wasna that a lee? Nor the pale radiance of the starry throng,
An' your een leed looking love, John,
Whene'er they turned on me;
An' your gifts, what did they pruve, John,
But love-or treachery?
Sae aft in cauld an' rain,
For mony a happy year, John,
Whase memory is pain!
For I thocht the time would come, John,
When we nae mair would part ;
Yet ye gaed without ae word, John,
To ease my breaking heart !
Ye cam' o' your ain will, John,
Ye saw that I was poor;
Ye kenn'd I was nae light o' love,
Ye should hae passed our door.
But I loo ye after a', John,
An' pray to God in heaven,
That I may be ta’en hame, John,
An' your deceit forgiven!
From the National Era.
THE MEN OF OLD.
BY J. G. WHITTIER.
WELL Speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!
If with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,
The effigies of old confessors lie,
God's witnesses; the voices of his will
Heard in the distant march of centuries still!
Such from the terrors of the guilty drew
In heaven's sweet peace!) forbid, of old, the sale
And coining from the abbey's golden hoard The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord Stifled their love of man; "An earthen dish The last sad supper of the Master bore: Most miserable sinners, do More than your Lord, and grudge his dying poor What your own pride and not his need require? Souls, than these shining gauds, he values more; Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires."
O, faithful worthies! resting far behind
And Vanity stand shrined and deified,
And startling tyrants with the fear of hell!
We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time.
"I AM SO HAPPY!"
I SEE the faded writing, dated oh! so long ago; The clear round text is fairly traced by childish fingers slow;
'Tis but a simple record of inconstant hopes and fears,
But one short sentence written there I blot with falling tears.
It is this "I am so happy." But twenty years have flown
Since those pleasant words were writ to a loving playmate gone;
This is the hand that traced them, they were innocent and true,
This is the heart so buoyant then, as rosy moments flew.
I gaze upon the characters, I ponder o'er them yet; The many intervening years I struggle to forget; O, but to realize them now for one short fleeting hour,
The dark, dark shadows of this life ceasing awhile to lour!
"I am so happy”—well-a-day! those strange and thrilling words
Sound soft and sweetly as the song of wild and woodland birds,
In twilight glades at evening fall, when, 'mid the shiv'ring leaves,
A whispering of import sad our busy fancy weaves. May I not be a child once more? My second birth
No day-dream of a sickly mind, but blest reality; Then, then again those glorious words with truth I may indite
"I am so happy"-traced within in characters of light.
LAST WISHES OF A CHILD.
THE following beautiful little poem was written by James T. Fields for the Boston Book for 1850. "All the hedges are in bloom,
And the warm west wind is blowing-
Let me go where flowers are growing!
Piping through the casement wide?
"Bear me to the willow-brook
Let me hear the merry mill-
Ere my beating heart is still.
Still the hedges are in bloom,
And the warm west wind is blowing;
Still we sit in silem gloom
O'er her grave the grass is growing.
From the Journal of Commerce.
A CEMETERY WITHOUT A MONUMENT.
MANY a tear has been dropped in memory of Capt. Ira Bursley, who, with his noble crew, after sending all the passengers ashore from the ill-fated Hottinguer, went down with her to the " cemetery without a monument."
Like the lamented Dustan, on board the Atlantic, he staid by his vessel until the last efforts were put forth to save the lives of others. One is reminded of Cooper's description of long Tom Coffin, which, though fiction, has proved the mournful truth concerning many a brave sailor. In looking over a volume of poems by Brainard, I copied his
LAMENT FOR LONG TOM.
Let us think of them that sleep
Thy cruise is over now,
Thou art anchored by the shore,
And never more shalt thou
Hear the storm around thee roar;
Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.
The sea-grass round thy bier
Shall bend beneath the tide, Nor tell the breakers near,
Where thy manly limbs abide;
But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be.
At the piping of all hands,
When the Judgment signal 's spread; When the islands and the lands
And the seas give up their dead,
And the North and the South shall come :
From the Ohio State Journal.
THE CONVICT TO HIS MOTHER.*
I'VE wandered far from thee, mother,
I've left the land that gave me birth,
And time since then has rolled its years,
And marked them on my brow,
I'm thinking on the day, mother,
You watched the dawning of my youth,
And kissed me in your pride;
Then brightly was my heart lit up
While your bright fancy honors wove
To deck thy darling boy.
These lines were written by a convict in the Ohio
Penitentiary, and inscribed, "To my mother."
I'm thinking of the day, mother,
When with such anxious care,
I'm far away from thee, mother;
Are all now torn from me;
Yet still I would not have thee know
I know you would not chide, mother,
I would not have thee know, mother,
O, I have wandered far, mother,
But, ah! there is a thought, mother,
And while I wipe the tear away,
A voice that speaks of heaven and thee,
Ohio Penitentiary, Jan. 17, 1850.
From the Missionary.
Is not my word, saith the Lord, like a hammer, that breaketh the rock in pieces?-Jeremiah xxiii. 29.
SLEDGE of the Lord, beneath whose stroke
I hear thy pond 'rous echoes ring,
And fall, a crushed and crumbled thing.
Meekly, these mercies I implore,
Through Him, whose cross our sorrows bore: On earth, thy new-creating grace;
In heaven, the very lowest place.
O, might I be a living stone,
G. W. D.
From the Daily News. And in vain I ask my spirit
Why this feeling of unrest.
But all day have been around me Beneath a cloudless moon;
Voices that would not be still, You hear a sound, that seems to wear
And the twilight shades have found me The semblance of a tune
Shrinking from a nameless ill.
Seeing not despair's swift lightning
Hearing not the thunders roll, And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Hands invisible are tightening
Bands of sorrow on my soul.
Out beneath the jewelled arches
Let us bivouac to-night, Until your ear is numb.
And to soothe day's dusty marches,
Bring, 0, bring the Book of Light !
From the Oxford Edition of Milton's Worts Is altered in the face ;
MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT. Their discords sting through Burns and Moore Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.
I am old and blind! You think they are crusaders sent
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,
Yet I am not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong ;
I murmur not, that I no longer see ; And break the legs of Time.
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to thee.
0, merciful One! And silence, like a poultice, comes
When men are furthest, then thou art most near ; To heal the blows of sound;
When friends pass by, my weakness to shun, It cannot be—it is—it is !
Thy chariot I hear.
Thy glorious face
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-placeAnd pay the owner of the bear
And there is no more night.
On my bended knee,
I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see But, if you are a portly man,
Thyself, thyself alone. Put on your fiercest frown,
I have nought to fear; And talk about a constable
This darkness is the shadow of thy wing; To turn them out of town;
Beneath it I am almost sacred-here Then close your sentence with an oath,
Can come no evil thing. And shut the window down.
Oh! I seem to stand And if you are a slender man,
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Not big enough for that,
Wrapped in the radiance from thy sinless land, Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Which eye hath never seen.
Visions come and go;
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now, Bring, 0, bring the Book of Light!
When heaven is opened on my sightless eyes, There are shadows, dark and dreary,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, Settling o'er my heart to-night.
The earth in darkness lies. That alone can soothe my sadness,
In a purer clime, That alone can dry my tears,
My being fills with rapture-waves of thought When I see no spot of gladness
Roll in upon my spirit-strains sublime Down the dusky vale of years.
Break over me unsought. Well I know that I inherit
Give me now my lyre ! All that sometimes makes me blest ; I feel the stirrings of a gift divine ;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, * Poems of Alice and Phæbe Carey,
Lit by no skill of mine.