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“Not as we hoped !--but what are wel
Above our feeble dreams and plans
God lays, with wiser hand than man's,
The corner-stones of liberty.”
The Anglo-Saxon race, even in its ruder years, always possessed an inherent power of independence and self-government. Tell me not that now, when this stubborn vitality and surplus energy, expended so long in overrunning the world, are guided by intelligence and refined by Christianity, this same race is to be stricken with the palsy, because of a two years' war.
The two millions of boys now in the public schools, constitute a great “Union League," electrified by intelligence, cemented by the ties of one blood, one language, one course of instructionstrong in its power to perpetuate the Union as the great “Union Leagues” which the citizens of the nation are now organizing for its defense. Long before the completion of the Pacific Railroad, these new recruits, drilled in the public schools, will push their way across the continent, as the Saxons swarmed out from their northern hives, a vast army of occupation, cultivating the “National Homestead," and fortifying the whole line of communication by a cordon of school-houses that shall hold it forever as the heritage of free labor, free men, and a free nation.
So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way,
To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay;
To make the rugged places smooth, to sow the vales with grain,
And bear, with liberty and law, the Bible iu his train;
The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,
And mountain unto mountain call, PRAISE GOD, FOR WE ARE FREE!
HEAn the sledges with the bells, silver bells
What a world of merriment their melody foretells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle all the heavons, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight
Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells, golden bells,
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
Through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes, all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats on the moon!
O, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !
How it swells, how it dwells
On the Future ! how it tells of the rapture that impels
To the-swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.
Hear the loud alarum-bells, brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night how they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor, now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
0, the bells, bells, bells, what a tale their terror tells of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar! what a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling, and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells, iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
In the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats from the rust within their throats
And the people-ah, the people; they that dwell up in the steeple
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman; they are neither brute nor human,
They are ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls; and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pæan from the bells! and his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells ! and he dances and he yells;
Keeping tinie, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells, of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme, to the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells,
Of the beils, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
THE DAY IS DONE.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain.
COME to me, Oye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more ?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,
What to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
Aud the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks ?