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And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer.

Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The psalm was warrior David's song ;
The text, a few short words of might,-
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.

5. Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

6. A moment there was awful


When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!
God's temple is the house of peace!"

The other shouted, "Nay, not so,

When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers

That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!"
7. And now before the open door-

The warrior priest had ordered so-
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar

Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
Its long reverberating blow,

So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,
The great bell swung as ne'er before:
It seemed as it would never cease;

And every word its ardor flung

From off its jubilant iron tongue
Was, "War! WAR! WAR!"

8. "

Who dares ?"-this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came,—
"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,

For her to live, for her to die?"

A hundred hands flung up reply,

A hundred voices answered, "I!"


THOMAS BUCHANAN READ was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. In 1839 he went to Cincinnati, where he was employed in the studio of Clevenger, the sculptor, and here his attention was first called to painting, which he chose for his profession, and soon practiced with marked skill and success. He settled in New York City in 1841. After a few months he removed to Boston, where he remained until 1846, and then went to Philadelphia, where he practiced his profession, writing occasionally for periodicals, until 1850, when he first visited Europe. In the summer of 1853 he went abroad a second time, and settled in Florence, where until recently he has resided. In 1853 he issued an illustrated edition of his poems, comprising, with some new pieces, all he wished to preserve of volumes previously printed. In 1855, he published "The House by the Sea" and "The New Pastoral," the latter, in thirty-seven books, being the longest of his poems. The above is from his latest work, "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies." Mr. Read's distinguishing characteristic is a delicate and varied play of fancy. His verse, though sometimes irregular, is always musical. He excels in homely descriptions. The flowers by the dusty wayside, the cheerful murmur of the meadow brook, the village tavern, and rustic mill, and all tender impulses and affections, are his choice sources of inspiration.



IS echoing ax the settler swung


Amid the sea-like solitude,

And rushing, thundering, down were flung

The Titans' of the wood;

Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed
From out his mossy nest, which crashed
With its supporting bough,

And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed
On the wolf's haunt below.

2. Rude was the garb, and strong the frame
Of him who plied his ceaseless toil :
To form that garb, the wild-wood game
Contributed their spoil;

The soul that warmed that frame, disdained
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned
Where men their crowds collect;

The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,
This forest tamer decked.

3. The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees,

The streams whose bright lips kissed their flowers, The winds that swelled their harmonies

Through those sun-hiding bowers,

The temple vast-the green arcade,
The nestling vale, the grassy glade,
Dark cave and swampy lair;

These scenes and sounds majestic, made
His world, his pleasures, there.

4. His roof adorned a pleasant spot,

Mid the black logs green glowed the grain,
And herbs and plants the woods knew not,
Throve in the sun and rain.

The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low-the bleat-the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,
Which was the living chronicle

Of deeds that wrought the change.

5. The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge,

The rose of summer spread its glow,
The maize hung on its Autumn fringe,
Rude Winter brought his snow;

1 Tï' tans, fabled giants of ancient mythology; hence, whatever is enormous in size or strength.

And still the settler labored there,
His shout and whistle woke the air,
As cheerily he plied

His garden spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.

6. He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood
Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth, and melting wood,
Beneath its greedy wrath ;

He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine-tree with its foot,
And darkening thick the day

With streaming bough and severed root,
Hurled whizzing on its way.

7. His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,
The grim bear hushed its savage growl,
In blood and foam the panther gnashed
Its fangs with dying howl;
The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,
Its snarling wolf foe bit the ground,
And with its moaning cry,

The beaver sank beneath the wound,
Its pond-built Venice' by.

8. Humble the lot, yet his the race,
When Liberty sent forth her cry,
Who thronged in conflict's deadliëst place,
To fight-to bleed-to die ;

Who cumbered Bunker's' height of red,
By hope, through weary years were led,
And witnessed Yorktown's sun

1 Pond-built Venice. The city of Venice, one of the finest in Europe, is built on eighty-two small islands, separated by one hundred and fifty canals, which are crossed by three hundred and sixty bridges. The beaver constructs his habitation in the water, and the different parts have no communication except by water, and hence the poetical allusion. 'Bunker Hill, a height near


Charlestown, Massachusetts, celebra-
ted as the place where the first great
battle was fought between the Brit-
ish and Americans, on the memorable
17th of June, 1775.

3 Yorktown, Virginia, where was fought the final battle of the Revolutionary war, resulting in the surrender of Lord Cornwallis to General Washington, on the 19th of October, 1781.

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Blaze on a nation's banner spread,
A nation's freedom won.


ALBERT B. STREET was born in Poughkeepsic, a large and beautiful town on the Hudson, on the 18th of December, 1811. His father, Gen. Randall S. Street, was an officer in active service during our second war with England, and subsequently several years a representative in Congress. When the poet was about fourteen years of age his father removed to Monticello, Sullivan County, then what is called a "wild county," though extremely fertile. Its magnificent scenery, deep forests, clear streams, gorges of piled rocks and black shade, and mountains and valleys, called into life all the faculties that slumbered in the brain of the young poet. He studied law in the office of his father, and attended the courts of Sullivan County for one year after his admission to the bar; but in the winter of 1839 he removed to Albany, where he successfully practiced his profession. For several years past he has been State Librarian. The most complete edition of his poems was published in New York, in 1845. Mr. Street is a descriptive poet, and in his peculiar department he has, perhaps, no superior in this country. He writes with apparent ease and freedom, from the impulses of his own heart, and from actual observations of life and nature.





SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming; Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?


On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam ;
Its full glory, reflected, now shines on the stream;
'Tis the star-spangled banner, oh! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.


And where is the band who so vauntingly swōre,

'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,

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