O, idea of my boyhood's time!

The faith in which my father stood, Even when the sons of Lust and Crime Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood!

Still to those courts my footsteps turn, For through the mists which darken there,

I see the flame of Freedom burn, The Kebla of the patriot's prayer!

The generous feeling, pure and warm,
Which owns the rights of all divine,
The pitying heart,-the helping arm,
The prompt self-sacrifice, -are thine.

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,
How fade the lines of caste and birth!
How equal in their suffering lie

The groaning multitudes of earth!

Still to a stricken brother true,

Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; As stooped to heal the wounded Jew The worshipper of Gerizim.

By misery unrepelled, unawed

By pomp or power, thou seest a MAN In prince or peasant, slave or lord, Pale priest, or swarthy artisan.

-

Through all disguise, form, place, or

name,

Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, Through poverty and squalid shame, Thou lookest on the man within.

On man, as man, retaining yet, Howe'erdebased, and soiled, and dim, The crown upon his forehead set,

The immortal gift of God to him.

And there is reverence in thy look;

For that frail form which mortals wear The Spirit of the Holiest took,

And veiled his perfect brightness there.

Not from the shallow babbling fount
Of vain philosophy thou art;
He who of old on Syria's mount
Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the lis-
tener's heart,

In holy words which cannot die,

In thoughts which angels leaned to
know,
Proclaimed thy message from on high,—
Thy mission to a world of woe.

That voice's echo hath not died!
From the blue lake of Galilee,
And Tabor's lonely mountain-side,

It calls a struggling world to thee.

Thy name and watchword o'er this land
I hear in every breeze that stirs,
And round a thousand altars stand
Thy banded party worshippers.

Not to these altars of a day,

At party's call, my gift I bring; But on thy olden shrine I lay

A freeman's dearest offering:

The voiceless utterance of his will,

His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, That manhood's heart remembers still The homage of his generous youth. Election Day, 1843.

TO RONGE.

STRIKE home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root

Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then

Put nerve into thy task. Let other

men

Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit

The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal.

Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows

Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand, On crown or crosier, which shall interpose

Between thee and the weal of Father

land.

Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all,

Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall

They waited for that falling leaf

Of which the wandering Jogees sing: Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring.

O, if these poor and blinded ones
In trustful patience wait to feel
O'er torpid pulse and failing limb
A youthful freshness steal;

Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree
Whose healing leaves of life are shed,
In answer to the breath of prayer,
Upon the waiting head;

Not to restore our failing forms,

And build the spirit's broken shrine,
But, on the fainting SOUL to shed
A light and life divine ;

Shall we grow weary in our watch,
And murmur at the long delay?
Impatient of our Father's time
And his appointed way?

135

Or shall the stir of outward things
Allure and claim the Christian's eye,
When on the heathen watcher's ear
Their powerless murmurs die?
Alas! a deeper test of faith
Than prison cell or martyr's stake
The self-abasing watchfulness
Of silent prayer may make.

We gird us bravely to rebuke
Our erring brother in the wrong,-
And in the ear of Pride and Power
Our warning voice is strong.

Easier to smite with Peter's sword

Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer.

Life's " 'great things," like the Syrian lord,

Our hearts can do and dare.

But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side,
From waters which alone can save ;
And murmur for Abana's banks
And Pharpar's brighter wave.

O Thou, who in the garden's shade
Didst wake thy weary ones again,
Who slumbered at that fearful hour
Forgetful of thy pain;

Bend o'er us now, as over them,

And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee!

A DREAM OF SUMMER.

BLAND as the morning breath of June
The southwest breezes play;
And, through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summer's day.
The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.

The fox his hillside cell forsakes,

The muskrat leaves his nook, The bluebird in the meadow brakes Is singing with the brook.

"Bear up, O Mother Nature!" cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; "Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee!"

So, in those winters of the soul,

By bitter blasts and drear
O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole,
Will sunny days appear.
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how beneath the winter's snow
Lie germs of summer flowers !

The Night is mother of the Day,
The Winter of the Spring,
And ever upon old Decay

The greenest mosses cling.
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall;
For God, who loveth all his works,
Has left his Hope with all!

4th 1st month, 1847.

ΤΟ

WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL.

"Get the writings of John Woolman by heart." Essays of Elia.

MAIDEN! with the fair brown tresses Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, Floating on thy thoughtful forehead Cloud wreaths of its sky.

Youthful years and maiden beauty,
Joy with them should still abide, -
Instinct take the place of Duty,
Love, not Reason, guide.

Ever in the New rejoicing,
Kindly beckoning back the Old,
Turning, with the gift of Midas,
All things into gold.

And the passing shades of sadness
Wearing even a welcome guise,
As, when some bright lake lies open
To the sunny skies,

Every wing of bird above it,

Every light cloud floating on,

Glitters like that flashing mirror
In the selfsame si'n

But upon thy youthful forehead
Something like a shadow lies;
And a serious soul is looking
From thy earnest eyes.

With an early introversion,
Through the forms of outward things
Seeking for the subtle essence,
And the hidden springs.

Deeper than the gilded surface
Hath thy wakeful vision seen,
Farther than the narrow present
Have thy journeyings been.

Thou hast midst Life's empty noises
Heard the solemn steps of Time,
And the low mysterious voices
Of another clime.

All the mystery of Being

Hath upon thy spirit pressed,

Thoughts which, like the Deluge wa derer,

Find no place of rest:

That which mystic Plato pondered,
That which Zeno heard with awe,
And the star-rapt Zoroaster

In his night-watch saw.

From the doubt and darkness springing

Of the dim, uncertain Past, Moving to the dark still shadows O'er the Future cast,

Early hath Life's mighty question

Thrilled within thy heart of youth, With a deep and strong beseeching: WHAT and WHERE IS TRUTH?

Hollow creed and ceremonial,
Whence the ancient life hath fled,
Idle faith unknown to action,
Dull and cold and dead.

Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings,
Only wake a quiet scorn, -
Not from these thy seeking spirit
Hath its answer drawn.