Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land? Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 't is Truth alone is strong; And albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. We see dimly, in the Present, what is small and what is great; Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of Fate; But the soul is still oracular - - amid the market's din, 66 within : They enslave their children's children who make compromise with Sin!” Slavery, the earth-born Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood, Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey; Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play? 'Tis as easy to be heroes, as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves; Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime. Was the Mayflower launched by cowards? men behind their time? - steered by Turn those tracks toward Past, or Future, that make Plymouth Rock sublime? THE TWO FURROWS. 23 They were men of present valor — stalwart old icono clasts; Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's; But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that has made us free, Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. New occasions teach new duties! Time makes ancient good uncouth; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's bloodrusted key. THE TWO FURROWS. BY C. H. WEBB. THE spring-time came, but not with mirth; And, with it, the best hopes of earth The farmer saw the shame from far, And stopped his plough a-field; "Not the blade of peace, but the brand of war, "When traitor hands that flag would stain, The farmer sighed "A lifetime long The plough has been my trust; In truth it were an arrant wrong To leave it now to rust." With ready strength the farmer tore And to the village smith he bore That ploughshare stout and good. The blacksmith's arms were bare and brown, And loud the bellows roared; The farmer flung his ploughshare down — "Now forge me out a sword!" And then a merry, merry chime Good sooth, it was a nobler rhyme Than ever poet sung. The blacksmith wrought with skill that day; Not as of old that blade he sways, To break the meadow's sleep, The farmer's face is burned and brown, "OUT IN THE COLD.” Right well he wots what blessings crown "But better is to-day's success," Thus ran the farmer's word; "For nations yet unborn shall bless This furrow of the Sword." Harpers' Weekly. 25 "OUT IN THE COLD.” * WHAT is the threat? BY LUCY LARCOM. "Leave her out in the cold!" Loyal New England, too loyally bold: Out in the cold? Oh, she chooses the place, Rather than mate with the blood-reeking beast! Leave out New England? And what will she do, No; our New England can put on no airs, * Among the many propositions for compromise after the outbreak of the rebellion, perhaps none was more persistently urged by a certain class of politicians than the formation of a new "Union," from which New England was to be excluded, - left out in the cold, was the phrase. The proposers forgot that New England had stretched westward along the banks of the Ohio to the Mississippi. Life's a rough lesson she learned from the first, Not more distinct on his tables of stone On her foundations the One Law of Right. She is a Christian: she smothers her ire, Out in the cold, where the free winds are blowing; Out in the cold, where the strong oaks are growing; Guards she all growths that are living and great, Growths to rebuild every tottering State. "Notions" worth heeding to shape she has wrought, Out in the cold! she is glad to be there, There she will stay, while they bluster and foam, Freedom, dear-bought with the blood of her sons, See the red current! right nobly it runs! |