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Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly; on evening's twilight calm,
Uplift the loud thanksgiving-pour forth the grateful psalm;
Let all dear saints with me rejoice, as did the saints of old,
When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told.

And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong!
The Lord shall smite their pride and break the jaw-teeth of the strong.
Wo to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour!
Wo to the wolves who seek the flock to raven and devour!

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FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

A MAN'S A MAN, FOR A' THAT.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

Is there for honest poverty,

Wha hangs his head and a' that? The coward slave we pass him by,

And dare be poor for a' that. For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, an'a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp,

The man's the gowd, for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden grey, and a' that? Gie fools their silk, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man, for a' that.
For a’ that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
An honest man, though ne'er sae poor,

Is chief o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares, and a' that, Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a cuif for a' that. For a' that, and a' that,

His ribband, star, and a' that ; A man of independent mind,

Can look, and laugh at a' that.

When the hours of Day are numbered,

And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light

Dance upon the parlour wall; Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strise, By the roadside fell and perished,

Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous

Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like,

Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,

Breathing from her lips of air. 0, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died !

The king can mak' a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that, An honest man's aboon his might,

Gude faith he manna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that,

His dignities and a' that! The pith o’ sense, and pride o' worth,

Are grander far than a' that.

Then let us pray

that come it may, As come it shall for a' that; That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,

Shall bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that; Whan man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be, and a' that.

That which thou with truckling spirit,

Bending to the crowd shall say,
Dust and darkness shall inherit,

Time shall hurl like chaff away-
But the silent earnest thought,
To thine inmost nature taught,
Shall not fade away to nought.

Longings in deep anguish working,

Powers like sudden flames that start,
And though baffled, still stay lurking,

Are the seed fields unto art :
Thence upsprings its glorious flower
In its will appointed hour,
And to heaven itself doth tower.

WM. W. STORY.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

LÍNES,

Or Smithfield, and that thrice-accursed flame

Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lakeWritten on reading several pamphlets published by New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer clergymen against the abolition of the gallows. Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear,

When guilt itself a human tear might claim

Bear witness, O Thou wronged and merciful One! The suns of eighteen centuries have shone

That earth's most hateful crimes have in Thy name

been done!
Since the Redeemer walked with men, and made
The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone,

Thank God! that I have lived to see the time
And mountain moss, a pillow for His head;
And He, who wander'd with the peasant Jew,

When the great truth begins at last to find
And broke with publicans the bread of shame,

An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, And drank, with blessings in His Father's name, Earnest and clear, that ALL REVENGE IS crime! The water which Samaria's outcast drew,

That man is holier than a creed-that all Hath now His temples upon every shore,

Restraint upon him must consult his good, Altar, and shrine, and priest—and incense dim

Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall, Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn,

And Love look in upon his solitude. From lips which press the temple's marble floor,

The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore! Through long, dark centuries, its way has wrought

Into the common mind and popular thought; Yet, as of old, when, meekly “doing good,"

And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore

The humble fishers listened with hushed oar,
He fed a blind and selfish multitude,

Have found an echo in the general heart,
And even the poor companions of His lot,
With their dim, earthly vision, knew Him not,

And of the public faith become a living part.
How ill are His high teachings understood !
Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest

Who shall arrest this tendency? Bring back
At His own altar binds the chain anew;

The cells of Venice and the bigot's rack ? Where He hath bidden to life's equal feast, Harden the softening human heart again, The starving many wait upon the few;

To cold indifference to a brother's pain? Where He hath spoken peace, His name hath been

Ye most unhappy men !-who, turn'd away The loudest war-cry of contending men;

From the mild sunshine of the gospel day, Priests, pale with vigils, in His name have blessed Grope in the shadows of man's twilight time, The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest,

What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, O'er those foul altars streaming with warm blood, And crossed its blazon with the holy sign;

Permitted in another age and clime?
Yea, in His name who bade the erring live, Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew
And daily taught His lesson-to forgive!

Rebuked the Pagan's mercy, when he knew Twisted the cord, and edged the murderous steel; No evil in the Just One?—Wherefore turn And, with His words of mercy on their lips, To the dark, cruel past?--Can ye not learn Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips, From the pure Teacher's life, how mildly free And the grim horror of the straining wheel;

Is the great Gospel of Humanity ?
Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb, The Flamen’s knife is bloodless, and no more
Who saw before his searing eye-balls swim

Mexitli's altars soak with human gore;
The image of their Christ, in cruel zeal, No more the ghastly sacrifices smoke
Through the black torment-smoke, held mockingly Through the green arches of the Druid's oak;
to him!

And ye of milder faith, with your high claim

Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name, The blood which mingled with the desert sand, Will ye become the Druids of our time? And beaded with its red and ghastly dew,

Set up your scaffold-altars in our land, The vines and olives of the Holy Land

And, consecrators of law's darkest crime, The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew

Urge to its loathsome work the hangman's hand ? The white-sown bones of heretics, where'er Beware-lest human nature, roused at last, They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear From its peeled shoulder your incumbrance cast, Goa's dark dungeons-Malta's sea-washed cell, And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood,

Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung, Rank you with those who led their victims round

Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung, The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of Hell! Abhorred of Earth and Heaven-a pagan brotherThe midnight of Bartholomew—the stake

hood!

HUNGER AND COLD.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL,

Cheeks are pale, but hands are red, Guiltless blood may chance be shed, But ye must and will be fed,

Hunger and Cold!

Sisters two, all praise to you,
With your faces pinched and blue;
To the poor man ye've been true

From of old :
Ye can speak the keenest word,
Ye are sure of being heard,
From the point ye're never stirred,

Hunger and Cold!
Let the Statesman temporize;
Palsied are his shifts and lies
When they meet your blood-shot eyes,

Grim and bold;
Policy ye set at naught,
In their traps ye'll not be caught,
Ye're too honest to be bought,

Hunger and Cold!

God has plans man must not spoil,

Some were made to starve and toil, Some to share the wine and oil,

We are told : Devils' theories are these, Stifling hope and love and peace, Framed your hideous lusts to please,

Hunger and Cold!

Scatter ashes on thy head,
Tears of burning sorrow shed,
Earth! and be thy Pity led

To Love's fold;
Ere they block the very door
With lean corpses of the poor,
And will hush for naught but gore, -

Hunger and Cold!

Bolt and bar the palace door;
While the mass of men is poor
Naked truth grows more and more

Uncontrolled;
Ye had nevet yet, I guess,
Any praise for bashfulness,
Ye can visit, sans court dress,

Hunger and Cold!
When the Toiler's heart ye clutch,
Conscience is not valued much,
He recks not a bloody smutch

On his gold:
Every thing to you defers,
Ye are potent reasoners,
At your whisper Treason stirs,

Hunger and Cold!

THINK OF OUR COUNTRY'S GLORY.

BY ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER,

Think of our country's glory,

All dimmed with Afric's tearsHer broad flag stained and gory,

With the hoarded guilt of years! Think of the frantic mother,

Lamenting for her child, Till falling lashes smother

Her cries of anguish wild!

Rude comparisons ye draw,
Words refuse to sate your maw,
Your gaunt limbs the cobweb law

Cannot hold;
Ye're not clogged with foolish pride,
But can seize a right denied,
Somehow God is on your side,

Hunger and Cold!

Think of the prayers ascending,

Yet shrieked, alas, in vain, When heart from heart is rending,

Ne'er to be joined again! Shall we behold unheeding,

Life's holiest feelings crushed ? When woman's heart is bleeding,

Shall woman's voice be hushed ?

Ye respect no hoary wrong
More for having triumphed long;
Its past victims, haggard throng,

From the mould
Ye unbury; swords and spears
Weaker are than poor men's tears,
Weaker than your bitter jeers,

Hunger and Cold!
Let them guard both hall and bower;
Through the window ye will glower,
Patient till your reckoning hour

Shall be tolled;

0, no! by every blessing

That Heaven to thee may lend Remember their oppression,

Forget not, sister, friend. Think of the prayers ascending,

Yet shrieked, alas, in vain, When heart from heart is rending,

Ne’er to be joined again!

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