There to-night shall woman's glances, Star-like, welcome give to them, Fawning fools with shy advances Seek to touch their garments' hem, With the tongue of flatteryglozing deeds

which God and Truth condemn.

From this glittering lie my vision
Takes a broader, sadder range,
Full before me have arisen

Other pictures dark and strange; From the parlor to the prison must the scene and witness change.

Hark! the heavy gate is swinging On its hinges, harsh and slow; One pale prison lamp is flinging On a fearful group below Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does not show.

Pitying God! Is that a WOMAN

Ón whose wrist the shackles clash? Is that shriek she utters human,

Underneath the stinging lash? Are they MEN whose eyes of madness

from that sad procession flash?

Still the dance goes gayly onward! What is it to Wealth and Pride That without the stars are looking On a scene which earth should hide? That the SLAVE-SHIP lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide!

Vainly to that mean Ambition
Which, upon a rival's fall,
Winds above its old condition,
With a reptile's slimy crawl,

Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall

the slave in anguish call.

Vainly to the child of Fashion,
Giving to ideal woe

Graceful luxury of compassion,

Shall the stricken mourner go; Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beau

tiful the hollow show!

Nay, my words are all too sweeping:
In this crowded human mart,
Feeling is not dead, but sleeping:

Man's strong will and woman'sheart, In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their generous part.

And from yonder sunny valleys, Southward in the distance lost, Freedom yet shall summon allies Worthier than the North can boast, With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at severer cost.

Now, the soul alone is willing:

Faint the heart and weak the knee; And as yet no lip is thrilling

With the mighty words, "BE FREE!" Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel,

but his advent is to be!

Meanwhile, turning from the revel
To the prison-cell my sight,
For intenser hate of evil,

For a keener sense of right, Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, to-night!

"To thy duty now and ever!

Dream no more of rest or stay; Give to Freedom's great endeavor All thou art and hast to-day": Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice, or seems to say.

Ye with heart and vision gifted To discern and love the right, Whose worn faces have been lifted To the slowly-growing light, Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of night!

Ye who through long years of trial Still have held your purpose fast, While a lengthening shade the dial From the westering sunshine cast, And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last!

O my brothers! O my sisters i Would to God that ye were near, Gazing with me down the vistas Of a sorrow strange and drear; Would to God that ye were listeners to the Voice I seem to hear!

With the storm above us driving,

With the false earth mined below,→ Who shall marvel if thus striving We have counted friend as foe; Unto one another giving in the darknes blow for blow.

Let us draw their mantles o'er us
Which have fallen in our way;
Let us do the work before us,

Cheerly, bravely, while we may, Fre the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is not day!

LINES,

O Freedom's God! be thou to him!

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Speak through him words of power and fear,

As through thy prophet bards of old, And let a scornful people hear Once more thy Sinai-thunders rolled.

For lying lips thy blessing seek,

And hands of blood are raised to Thee, And on thy children, crushed and weak, The oppressor plants his kneeling knee.

Let then, O God! thy servant dare Thy truth in all its power to tell, Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear The Bible from the grasp of hell!

From hollow rite and narrow span

Of law and sect by Thee released, O, teach him that the Christian man Is holier than the Jewish priest.

Chase back the shadows, gray and old,
Of the dead ages, from his way,
And let his hopeful eyes behold

The dawn of thy millennial day;

That day when fettered limb and mind Shall know the truth which maketh free,

And he alone who loves his kind
Shall, childlike, claim the love of
Thee!

YORKTOWN.36

FROM Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still,

Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill: Who curbs his steed at head of one? Hark! the low murmur: Washington! Who bends his keen, approving glance Where down the gorgeous line of France Shine knightly star and plume of snow? Thou too art victor, Rochambeau !

The earth which bears this calm array
Shook with the war-charge yesterday,
Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and
wheel,

Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel;
October's clear and noonday sun
Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun,

And down night's double blackness fell, Like a dropped star, the blazing shell.

Now all is hushed: the gleaming lines Stand moveless as the neighboring pines;

While through them, sullen, grim, and slow,

The conquered hosts of England go: O'Hara's brow belies his dress,

Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless : Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes, Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes!

Nor thou alone: with one glad voice
Let all thy sister States rejoice;
Let Freedom, in whatever clime
She waits with sleepless eye her time,
Shouting from cave and mountain wood
Make glad her desert solitude,

While they who hunt her quail with fear;

The New World's chain lies broken here !

But who are they, who, cowering, wait
Within the shattered fortress gate?
Dark tillers of Virginia's soil,
Classed with the battle's common spoil,
With household stuffs, and fowl, and
swine,

With Indian weed and planters' wine,
With stolen beeves, and foraged corn,-
Are they not men, Virginian born?

O, veil your faces, young and brave!
Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave!
Sons of the Northland, ye who set
Stout hearts against the bayonet,
And pressed with steady footfall near
The moated battery's blazing tier,
Turn your scarred faces from the sight,
Let shame do homage to the right!

Deep as I felt, and stern and strong, In words which Prudence smothered long,

My soul spoke out against the wrong;

Not mine alone the task to speak
Of comfort to the poor and weak,
And dry the tear on Sorrow's cheek;

But, mingled in the conflict warm,
To pour the fiery breath of storm
Through the harsh trumpet of Reform;

To brave Opinion's settled frown,
From ermined robe and saintly gown,
While wrestling reverenced Error down.

Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, Cool shadows on the greensward lay, Flowers swung upon the bending spray.

And, broad and bright, on either hand, Stretched the green slopes of Fairy-land, With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned;

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Whence voices called me like the flow, Which on the listener's ear will grow, Of forest streamlets soft and low.

And gentle eyes, which still retain Their picture on the heart and brain, Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain.

In vain! -nor dream, nor rest, nor pause

Remain for him who round him draws The battered mail of Freedom's cause.

From youthful hopes, - from each green spot

Of young Romance, and gentle Thought, Where storm and tumult enter not,

From each fair altar, where belong The offerings Love requires of Song In homage to her bright-eyed throng,

With soul and strength, with heart and hand,

I turned to Freedom's struggling band,To the sad Helots of our land.

What marvel then that Fame should turn