And mustered in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress;
To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.
Oh, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;
But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.
The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory
I loved to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when flaming high,
I saw our starry banners fly,
As challenging the haughty sky,
They went like battle o'er my soul: For I was so ambitious then,
I burned to be the slave of men.
I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free:
And loved it, like the conquering flight
Of angels, floating wide and bright,
Above the stars, above the fight,
Where nations warred for liberty;
And thought I heard the battle-cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.
I sailed upon the dark blue deep,
And shouted to the eaglet soaring; And hung me from a rocky steep, When all but spirits were asleep; And oh! my very soul would leap
To hear the gallant water's roaring: For every sound and shape of strife, To me, was but the breath of life.
But, I am strangely altered now-
I love no more the bugle's voice-
The rushing wave-the plunging prow-
The mountain with its clouded brow,
The thunder when the blue skies bow,
And all the sons of God rejoice-
I love to dream of tears, and sighs,
And shadowy hair, and half-shut eyes.
THE SAILOR.—Anonymous.
Upon the ocean's swelling tide,
Where mountain billows rave,
Behold the sailor's eye of pride
Glance o'er the angry wave:
High on the slippery bending mast
He reefs the snow-white sail,
And fears no angry threatening blast,
The lightning or the gale.
The sailor is a wanderer free,
And like the breeze will fly,
Far o'er the wide and trackless sea
With billows mounting high.
A lion-heart that feels no pain—
A soul that knows no care;
He gaily sings and toils for gain,
That others too may share.
He firmly braves the swelling sea,
To earn a scanty sum;
His soul is friendly, just and free,
As generous as the sun :-
Diffusing warmth to those in need,
From out his hard-earned store;
And when his purse is low indeed,
He gladly toils for more.
His hand is hard-his heart is soft,
And freely he bestows,
The mite received from Him above,
To cheer both friends and foes.
His life is toil-his morsels tough—
His hopes are dull and dim;
But though to us the outside's rough,
A diamond dwells within.
BEAUTIFUL SOLILOQUY.-Taylor.
Here's a beautiful earth and a wonderful sky, And to see them, God gives us a heart and an eye; Nor leaves us untouched by the pleasure they yield, Like the fowls of the heaven, or the beasts of the field The soul, though encumbered with sense and with sin, Can range through her own mystic chambers within; Then soar like the eagle to regions of light,
And dart wondrous thoughts on the stars of the night.
Yea more, it is gifted with vision so keen,
As to know the unknown and to see the unseen;
To glance at eternity's numberless days,
Till dazzled, confounded, and lost in the maze.
Nor will this suffice it, Oh wonderful germ,
Of infinite blessings vouchsafed to a worm!
It quickens, it rises, with boundless desires,
And heaven is the lowest to which it aspires.
Such, such is the soul though bewildered and dark,
A vital, etherial, unquenchable spark;
Thus onward and upward by nature it tends,
Then wherefore descends it? ah! whither descends;
Soon droops its light pinion, borne down by a gust,
It flutters, it flutters, it cleaves to the dust;
Then feeds upon ashes-deceived and astray;
And fastens and clings to this perishing clay.
For robes that too proud were the lilies to wear-
For food we divide with the fowls of the air-
For joy that just sparkles and then disappears,
We drop from heaven's gate to this valley of tears.
How tranquil and blameless the pleasures it sought.
While it rested within the calm region of thought!
How fraught with disgust and how sullied with wo,
Is all that detains and beguiles it below!
Oh Thou, who when silent and senseless it lay,
Didst breathe into life the inanimate clay,
Now nourish and quicken the languishing fire;
And fan to a flame that shall never expire!
TO-MORROW.- -Cotton.
To-morrow, didst thou say?
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow!
"Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of idiots-injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period nowhere to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis fancy's child, and folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft, my friend-arrest the present moment:
For be assured they all are arrant tell-tales:
And though their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless, as the winged couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly;
Because, though stationed on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved.
And know, for that thou slumberest on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hoodwinked justice, who shall tell thy audit?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio,
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
"Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
Oh! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.
30. ELIJAH'S INTERVIEW.— -Campbell.
On Horeb's rock the prophet stood-
The Lord before him passed;
A hurricane in angry mood
Swept by him strong and fast;
The forest fell before its force,
The rocks were shivered in its course,—
God was not in the blast;
Announcing danger, wreck, and death,
'Twas but the whirlwind of his breath.
It ceased. The air grew mute—a cloud
Came, muffling up the sun;
When, through the mountain, deep and loud
An earthquake thundered on;
The frighted eagle sprang in air,
The wolf ran howling from his lair,—
God was not in the storm;
"Twas but the rolling of his car,
The trampling of his steeds from far.
'Twas still again, and nature stood
And calmed her ruffled frame:
When swift from heaven a fiery flood
To earth devouring came :
Down to the depth the ocean fled;
The sickening sun looked wan and dead;
Yet God filled not the flame,—
"Twas but the terror of his eye
That lightened through the troubled sky.
He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And oped new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,
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