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Dear to me the South's fair land,
Dear the central mountain hand,
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 WashingtonOne 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 Her soothing charm o'er lawn, and vale, and grove, the choir came to the last four lines of the last When there breathes up from all created things verse, the whole audience rose spontaneously, and
The sweet enthralling sense of thy deep love; there was an awful grandeur in the sound of the And when its softening power descends on me, thousands of voices exclaimingMy swelling heart shall spend an hour with Thee.
No! receive our solemn vow, 'One hour with Thee, my God! when softly night
While before thy throne we bow, Climbs the high heaven with solemn step and slow,
Ever to maintain as now,
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 feel
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
THERE'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. O, 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.
tough in trouble's darkest hour
His face He seems to shroud,
There's light behind the cloud !
From Chambers' Journal
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 North : 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 All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
When thou dost brightly soar.
Edwin S. HIGBIE. 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, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
MY EEN ARE DIM WI' 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,
Anthocht 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, 'Tis not the twilight beam,
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, Fain would we know thy far and hidden springs,
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!
BY J. G. WHITTIER.
From the National Era.
"I AM SO HAPPY!” THE MEN OF OLD.
I see the faded writing, dated oh! so long ago ; WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast !
The clear round text is fairly traced by childish
fingers slow ; Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art,
'T is but a simple record of inconstant hopes and If with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,
fears, Thou tread'st the solemn phantom of the past,
But one short sentence written there I blot with By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind
falling tears. To all the beauty, power, and truth, behind. Not without reverent awe should'st thou put by It is this," I am so happy.” But twenty year
The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms, have flown Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their Since those pleasant words were writ to a loving tombs
playmate gone; The effigies of old confessors lie,
This is the hand that traced them, they were innoGod's witnesses ; the voices of his will
cent and true, Heard in the distant march of centuries still ! This is the heart so buoyant then, as rosy moments Such were the men at whose rebuking frown,
flew. Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down;
I gaze upon the characters, I ponder o'er them yet; Such from the terrors of the guilty drew
The many intervening years I struggle to forget ; The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due.
0, but to realize them now for one short fieeting
hour, St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore
The dark, dark shadows of this life ceasing awhile In heaven's sweet peace !) forbid, of old, the sale
to lour! Of men as slaves, and from the church's pale Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor.
“I am so happy"-well-a-day! those strange and To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate,
thrilling words St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate- Sound soft and sweetly as the song of wild and Image of saint, the chalice and the pix,
woodland birds, Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks;
In twilight glades at evening fall, when, 'mid the " MAN 19 Worth MORE THAN TEMPLES !” he replied shiv’ring leaves, To such as came his holy work to chide.
A whispering of import sad our busy fancy weaves. And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare, And coining from the abbey's golden hoard
May I not be a child once more? My second birth The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer
must be Or threat of those whose ficrce zeal for the Lord No day-dream of a sickly mind, but blest reality ; Stifled their love of man " An earthen dish
Then, then again those glorious words with truth
“I am so happy'—traced within in characters of More than your Lord, and grudge his dying poor
light. What your own pride and not his need require ?
Souls, than these shining gauds, he values more ; Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires."
LAST WISHES OF A CHILD. O, faithful worthies ! resting far behind
The following beautiful little poem was written In your Dark Ages; since ye fell asleep
by James T. Fields for the Boston Book for 1850. Much labor has been done for human kind Shadows are scattered, wherein you groped blind; “ All the hedges are in bloom, Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap
And the warm west wind is blowingThrough peoples driven in your day like sheep;
Let me leave this stifled room,
Let me go where flowers are growing !
“ Look! my cheek is thin and pale, Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its head;
And my pulse is very low, Counting, too oft, its living members less
Ere my sight begins to fail, Than its walls' garnish and the pulpit's dress;
Take my hand and let us go. World-moving zeal with power to bless and feed “ Was not that the robin's song Life's fainting pilgrims to their utter need,
Piping through the casement wide ? Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed;
I shall not be listening long,
Take me to the meadow-side-
“ Bear me to the willow-brook Careless that in the shadow of its walls
Let me hear the merry millGod's living temple into ruin falls.
On the orchard I must look, We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still,
Ero my beating heart is still. Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, “ Faint and fainter grows my breathTo tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod
Bear me quickly down the lane ; The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell,
Mother dear, this chill is deathProclaiming freedom in the name of God,
I shall never speak again!” And startling tyrants with the fear of hell!
Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well, Still the hedges are in bloom, But to rebuke the age's popular crime,
And the warm west wind is blowing ; We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old Still we sit in silem gloomtime.
O'er her grave the grass is growing.
From the Journal of Commerce.
A CEMETERY WITHOUT A MONUMENT. Mayy 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.
Thou art anchored by the shore,
Hear the storm around thee roar;
Now around thee sports the whale,
As they pass.
Shall bend beneath the tide,
Where thy manly limbs abide ;
Though the edges of thy grave
When the Judgment signal 's spread;
And the seas give up their dead,
When the sinner is betrayed,
I'm thinking of the day, mother,
When with such anxious care, You lifted up your heart to Heaven
Your hope, your trust was there. Fond memory brings thy parting words,
While tears stole down your cheek; Thy long, last, loving look told more
Than ever words could speak.
No friend is near me now,
Or cool my burning brow;
Are all now torn from me;
They did not love like thee.
Unpitied and unblest ;
How sorely I'm distressed ;
You would not give me blame,
And bid me hope again.
How brightest hopes decay-
Has dashed them all away;
To rack with anguish wild-
The sorrows of thy child.
Since I deserted thee,
Beyond the deep blue sea !
And long to hear thee speak,
Upon my care-worn cheek.
Pervades my beating breast,
To its eternal rest;
There whispers in my ear
ALPHA. Ohio Penitentiary, Jan. 17, 1850.
From the Ohio State Journal. THE CONVICT TO HIS MOTHER.
I've wandered far from thee, mother,
Far from my happy home ;
In other climes to roam ;
And marked them on my brow,
I'm thinking of thee now.
When at thy tender side
And kissed me in your pride;
With hopes of future joy,
To deck thy darling boy. * These lines were written by a convict in the Ohio Penitentiary, and inscribed, "To my mother."
From the Missionary.
SLEDGE of the Lord, beneath whose stroke
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. As if a broken fife should strive
' To drown a cracked bassoon.
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, O, bring the Book of Light !
A very dismal place;
From the Oxford Edition of Milton's Work.. Is altered in the face ;
MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT.
I am old and blind !
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown; You think they are crusaders sent
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. A hat is going round.
Thy glorious face No! pay the dentist when he leaves
Is leaning toward me, and its holy light A fracture in your jaw,
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-placeAnd pay the owner of the bear
And there is no more night. That stunned you with his paw,
On And buy the lobster that has had
my Your knuckles in his claw.
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.
I have nought to fear ;
This darkness is the shadow of thy wing ;
Beneath it I am almost sacred-here
Can come no evil thing.
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 ;
Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now,
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.