The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee.

But there came a voice from a distant shore,

He was called, — he is found midst his tribe no more:
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still, — he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow

In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him, we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step,- but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.

We looked for the maid of the mournful song, -
Mournful, though sweet, she hath left us long:
We told her the youth of her love was gone,

And she went forth to seek him, she passed alone.
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head:

rest,

yet she comes not back!

He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we
We looked for her eye

on the feast to shine, For her breezy step, but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.

We looked for the chief, who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here:
We looked for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We looked for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!

Where are they? Thou 'rt seeking some distant coast:
O, ask of them, stranger!— send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!

Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,

And to watch for a step, but the step was thine! Felicia Hemans.

Stand your homes and altars by;
On your own free thresholds die.

Clang the bells in all your spires;
On the gray hills of your sires
Fling to heaven your signal-fires.

From Wachusett, lone and bleak,
Unto Berkshire's tallest peak,
Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.

Oh, for God and duty stand,
Heart to heart and hand to hand,

Round the old graves of the land.

Perish party, perish clan;
Strike together while ye can,
Like the arm of one strong man.

Like that angel's voice sublime,
Heard above a world of crime,
Crying of the end of time,

With one heart and with one mouth,
Let the North unto the South
Speak the word befitting both:

"What though Issachar be strong!
Ye may load his back with wrong
Overmuch and over long;

"Patience with her cup o'errun, With her weary thread outspun, Murmurs that her work is done.

"Make our Union-bond a chain, Weak as tow in Freedom's strain Link by link shall snap in twain.

"Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope Bind the starry cluster up,

Shattered over heaven's blue cope!

"Give us bright though broken rays, Rather than eternal haze,

Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.

"Take your land of sun and bloom; Only leave to Freedom room

For her plough and forge and loom;

"Take your slavery-blackened vales; Leave us but our own free gales, Blowing on our thousand sails.

"Boldly, or with treacherous art, Strike the blood-wrought chain apart; Break the Union's mighty heart;

"Work the ruin, if ye will; Pluck upon your heads an ill

Which shall grow and deepen still.

"With your boudman's right arm bare, With his heart of black despair, Stand alone, if stand ye dare!

"Onward with your fell design; Dig the gulf and draw the line: Fire beneath your feet the mine:

"Deeply, when the wide abyss
Yawns between your land and this,
Shall ye feel your helplessness.

"By the hearth, and in the bed
Shaken by a look or tread,
Ye shall own a guilty dread.

"And the curse of unpaid toil, Downward through your generous soil Like a fire shall burn and spoil.

"Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, Vines our rocks shall overgrow,

Plenty in our valleys flow;

"And when vengeance clouds your skies,
Hither shall ye turn your eyes,
As the lost on Paradise!

"We but ask our rocky strand,
Freedom's true and brother band,
Freedom's strong and honest hand,

"Valleys by the slave untrod, And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, Blessed of our fathers' God!"

John Greenleaf Whittier.

SONG OF TEXAS.

MAKE room on our banner bright

That flaps in the lifting gale,

For the orb that lit the fight
In Jacinto's storied vale.
Through clouds, all dark of hue,

It arose with radiant face;
Oh, grant to a sister true,

Ye stars, in your train a place!