Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain
And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head
And folded wings and noiseless tread,
Watched by that valley of the dead.

The one, with forehead saintly bland
And lips of blessing, not command,
Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.

The other's brows were scarred and knit,
His restless eyes were watch-fires lit,
His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.

“ How long!” – I knew the voice of Peace,

Is there no respite ? — no release? When shall the hopeless quarrel cease ?

“O Lord, how long ! - One human soul
Is more than any parchment scroll,
Or any flag thy winds unroll.

“What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave, Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave ?

“O brother! if thine eye can see,
Tell how and when the end shall be,
What hope remains for thee and me.”

Then Freedom sternly said: “I shun
No strife nor pang beneath the sun,
When human rights are staked and won.

“I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock,
I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock,
I walked with Sidney to the block.

“ The moor of Marston felt my tread, Through Jersey snows the march I led, My voice Magenta's charges sped.

“ But now, through weary day and night, I watch a vague and aimless fight For leave to strike one blow aright.

« On either side my foe they own: One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown.

Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraid To speed thy coming through my aid ?

“Why watch to see who win or fall ? –
I shake the dust against them all,
I leave them to their senseless brawl.”

Nay,” Peace implored : “yet longer wait ; The doom is near, the stake is great : God knoweth if it be too late.

• Still wait and watch ; the way prepare Where I with folded wings of prayer May follow, weaponless and bare."

« Too late ! the stern, sad voice replied, “ Too late!” its mournful echo sighed, In low lament the answer died.

A rustling as of wings in fight,
An upward gleam of lessening white,
So passed the vision, sound and sight.

But round me, like a silver bell
Rung down the listening sky to tell
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

“ Still hope and trust,” it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!”

LINES,

WRITTEN ON THE ADOPTION OF PINCKNEY'S RESOLUTIONS, IN THE
HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, AND THE PASSAGE OF CALHOUN'S

BILL FOR EXCLUDING PAPERS, WRITTEN OR PRINTED, TOUCH-
ING THE SUBJECT OF SLAVERY FROM THE U. S. POST-OFFICE,”
IN THE SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES.

EN of the North-land ! where's the manly spirit

M

Sons of old freemen, do we but inherit

Their names alone ?

Is the old Pilgrim spirit quenched within us,

Stoops the strong manhood of our souls so low, That Mammon's lure or Party's wile can win us

To silence now !

Now, when our land to ruin's brink is verging,

In God's name, let us speak while there is time! Now, when the padlocks for our lips are forging,

Silence is crime !

What! shall we henceforth humbly ask as favors

Rights all our own? In madness shall we barter, For treacherous peace, the freedom Nature gave us,

God and our charter ?

Here shall the statesman forge his human fetters,

Here the false jurist human rights deny,
And, in the church, their proud and skilled abettors

Make truth a lie ?

Torture the pages of the hallowed Bible,

To sanction crime, and robbery, and blood ? And, in Oppression's hateful service, libel

Both man and God?

Shall our New Engiand stand erect no longer,

But stoop in chains upon her downward way, Thicker to gather on her limbs and stronger

Day after day?

O no; methinks from all her wild, green, mountains

From valleys where her slumbering fathers lie From her blue rivers and her welling fountains,

And clear, cold sky

From her rough coast, and isles, which hungry Ocean
Gnaws with his surges

from the fisher's skiff, With white sail swaying to the billows' motion

Round rock and cliff

From the free fireside of her unbought farmer

From her free laborer at his loom and wheel From the brown smith-shop, where, beneath the hammer,

Rings the red steel

From each and all, if God hath not forsaken

Our land, and left us to an evil choice, Loud as the summer thunderbolt shall waken

A People's voice

Startling and stern! the Northern winds shall bear it

Over Potomac's to St. Mary's wave; And buried Freedom shall awake to hear it

Within her grave.

O, let that voice go forth ! The bondman sighing

By Santee's wave, in Mississippi's cane, Shall feel the hope, within his bosom dying,

Revive again.

Let it go forth! The millions who are gazing

Sadly upon us from afar, shall smile, And unto God devout thanksgiving raising,

Bless us the while.