FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 Division 6CO 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 Princeton Theological Seminary Library 
 
 http://archive.org/details/laysmyhomeOOwhit 
 

 
 LAYS OF MY HOME, 
 
 AM) OTHER 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 BT 
 
 JOHN O. WII ITT I E II 
 
 B06TI >N 
 
 WILLIAM I). TICKNOB 
 
 MDCCCXLIII. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, 
 
 By William D. Ticknor, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOELES, 
 
 WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 LA I 
 T1IK mtllMAOI .... 
 
 THK NOIiSKMKN .... 
 
 THK BALLAD I 
 
 THK fUNULAL TKIK Of THE BOKOHI 
 
 8T. JOHN ..... 
 
 ms 
 
 ITIN IN mi I 
 
 LUCT BOOPZ1 
 
 KOI. I.I.N 
 
 TO A KK1ENT), ON II I Kl HOPE 
 BAPHAKL 
 
 i:\cv 
 
 r»ii 
 1 
 
 11 
 
 S6 
 
 37 
 11 
 
 M 
 
 58 
 
 L1M B R LL P AMPHI.ETS Pl/B- 
 
 LIshkd BY CLERGYMEN A' PHI ABOLITION Of 
 
 THK OALLOWB ....... 
 
 G6 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE 
 
 THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON 
 
 CHALKLEY HALL ...... 
 
 TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND 
 MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA .... 
 
 LEGGETT'S MONUMENT 
 
 TO , WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN's JOURNAL 
 
 MEMORIES ....... 
 
 THE DEMON OF THE STUDY .... 
 
 THE RELIC 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND . 
 
 71 
 
 79 
 
 83 
 
 87 
 
 90 
 
 98 
 
 99 
 
 107 
 
 111 
 
 116 
 
 120 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN PI i: R PONT 
 
 Not as a poor requital of the 
 With which my cliiltlliDo.l heard that lay of thine, 
 Which like u echo »»t tl ■ ioe 
 
 At Bethlehem breathed i 
 
 to my <ar tin- \ 
 
 \ t to the Po.t. bat the Man I l>: 
 
 In friendship'- treat my offering : 
 
 Hon much it laeki I feel, and thoa wilt 
 
 w» 11 1 know that thou hast dci im d with DM 
 
 Life all too earned ami its time too short 
 For dreamy - iae end Fan 
 
 And girded tor th] with wrong, 
 
 Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought 
 
 The hroken wal 
 
 Hath a mde martial tone, a blow m every thought ' 
 Amesbiuv, loth of |th mo.. I 
 
LAYS. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE mki;i;im.\ 
 
 .ill Merrimi 
 
 lied slant* iae do* 
 W.i 
 
 e the winding Pon 
 The green hill in >Id, 
 
 And following down its wavy I 
 
 parkling waters bl< nd with tl 
 There 's nol ■ tree upon th; 
 Nor r ck, which thy returning I 
 As yet hath lefl abrupt and stark 
 Above thy evi tark ; 
 
 l 
 
M THE MERRIMACK. 
 
 No calm cove with its rocky hem, 
 No isle whose emerald swells begem 
 Thy broad, smooth current ; not a sail 
 Bowed to the freshening ocean gale ; 
 No small boat with its busy oars, 
 Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores ; 
 Nor farm-house with its maple shade, 
 Or rigid poplar colonnade, 
 But lies distinct and full in sight, 
 Beneath this gush of sunset light. 
 
 Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, 
 Stretching its length of foam afar, 
 And Salisbury's beach of shining sand, 
 And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand, 
 Saw the adventurer's tiny sail 
 Flit, stooping from the eastern gale ; a 
 And o'er these woods and waters broke 
 The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, 
 As brightly on the voyager's eye, 
 Weary of forest, sea, and sky, 
 Breaking the dull continuous wood, 
 The Merrimack rolled down his flood ; 
 Mingling that clear pellucid brook, 
 Which channels vast Agioochook 
 
 a The celebrated Captain Smith, after resigning the government 
 of the colony in Virginia, in his capacity of ' Admiral of New-Eng- 
 land,' made a careful survey of the coast from Penobscot to Cape 
 Cod, in the summer of 1614. 
 
THE MERRIMACK. 3 
 
 "When sj>rirm-tirne , s sun an<l shower unlock 
 
 The frozen fountains of the rock, 
 
 And mora abundant * 
 
 From thai pure la **1 
 
 Tributes from vale and mountain side — 
 
 V lark, eternal tide ! 
 
 . ondei ro 
 The itormy challenge of tfa 
 
 ■ • 
 
 hardy A 
 Planting upon the topm 
 The 
 
 And, while from out 
 
 rimaon cross unrolled, 
 
 1st roll <>t' drum and trumpet blai 
 And i brandishing in air, 
 
 1 1 that lone promont 
 
 The te in all h 
 
 ler, the flower of Islam 1 
 Whose barems lot i — 
 
 Who, when thi of war bad b 
 
 The Moslem chain his limbs around, 
 
 - the 
 ne of the bi 
 b Capt. 9 to the promontory not* call 
 
 nainr oi i inda, in memory of hii ntifbJ mia- 
 
 trc^s of thai name, who, while a captive ■ inople, iikc 
 
 Deadomaoa, •• Iot< d him lor the dangen he had passed." 
 
THE MERRIMACK. 
 
 "Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain, 
 Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain, 
 And fondly to her youthful slave 
 A dearer gift than freedom gave. 
 
 or 
 
 But look ! — the yellow light no more 
 Streams down on wave and verdant shore ; 
 And clearly on the calm air swells 
 The distant voice of twilight bells. 
 From Ocean's bosom, white and thin 
 The mists come slowly rolling in ; 
 Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim, 
 Amidst the sea-like vapor swim, 
 W^hile yonder lonely coast-light set 
 Within its wave-washed minaret, 
 Half quenched, a beamless star and pale, 
 Shines dimly through its cloudy veil ! 
 
 Home of my fathers ! — I have stood 
 Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood ; 
 Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade 
 Along his frowning Palisade ; 
 Looked down the Appalachian peak 
 On Juniata's silver streak ; 
 Have seen along his valley gleam 
 The Mohawk's softly-winding stream ; 
 The level light of sunset shine 
 Through broad Potomac's hem of pine ; 
 
THE MERRIMACK. 
 
 And autumn's rain' I banner 
 
 1 1 g lightly i ' 
 
 Jfet, 
 
 Thy wandering child l< . ■ i thee! 
 
 I ■ in his dreams dr. 
 
 lunnuring on its pebbly 
 The unfc well and i 
 
 1 : 
 
 Ami saw amidst tl:- 
 
 hi, 
 
 Thy bub 
 
 A . . . \ 
 
 The loved and I 
 
 red '_ r !-<>\ 
 d >till in childhood's moinL 
 Along whose b n ept 
 
 What 
 
 • nich the charnel 1. 
 Young, gentle i ch long h 
 
 And while the gazer Leaned I 
 
 ne d« ar familial i 
 lb' wept to find tli' ' u n — 
 
 A phantom and a dream 
 
THE NORSEMEN 
 
 Some three or four years since, a fragment of a statue rudely chis- 
 eled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, on 
 the Merrimack. Its origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The 
 fact that the ancient Northmen visited New England, some centuries 
 before the discoveries of Columbus, is now very generally admitted. 
 
 Gift from the cold and silent Past ! 
 
 A relic to the Present cast ; 
 
 Left on the ever-changing strand 
 
 Of shifting and unstable sand, 
 
 Which wastes beneath the steady chime 
 
 And beating of the waves of Time ! 
 
 Who from its bed of primal rock 
 
 First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block ? 
 
 Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, 
 
 Thy rude and savage outline wrought ? 
 
 The waters of my native stream 
 Are glancing in the sun's warm beam : 
 From sail-urged keel and flashing oar 
 The circles widen to its shore ; 
 
THE NO IIS EM EN. 
 
 And cultured field and Bteepled town 
 Slop illowed margin down. 
 
 5 •. while this morning breeze is bring 
 The mellow sound of church-bells ringing, 
 And rolling . and rapid jar 
 
 Of the fire-winged and - ear, 
 
 And fir >m the s ar 
 
 Come quick and blended <»n my • 
 
 A spell is in this old gi . — 
 
 My thought 
 
 A change 1 — the Bteepled town n<> m 
 
 along the Bail-thronged sin 
 Like palace-domes in sunset 1 
 Fade Bun-gilt Bpire and man id ! 
 
 trally rising a here th< • 
 ] the old, primeval wood j 
 Dark, shadow-like, on either hand 
 ] solemn waste expand : 
 
 It climbs the green and cultured bill, 
 It arches o'er the rauey's rill ; 
 And leans from cliff and <-niL r * '<> throw 
 
 1'- m ild arms o 1 r«aui below . 
 
 Unco one, the same bright river 
 
 FIOWI On, as it will flow foreV< I I 
 
 1 listen, and I hear the low 
 
 Sofl ripple where its era 
 J hear behind the pantht 
 
 The wild bird's scream L r '»cs thrilling by, 
 
THE NORSEMEN. 
 
 And shyly on the river's brink 
 The deer is stooping down to drink. 
 
 But hark ! — from wood and rook flung back, 
 What sound comes up the Merrimack ? 
 What sea-worn barks are those which throw 
 The light spray from each rushing prow ? 
 Have they not in the North Sea's blast 
 Bowed to the waves the straining mast ? 
 Their frozen sails the low, pale sun 
 Of Thule's night has shown upon ; 
 Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep 
 Round icy drift, and headland steep. 
 Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters 
 Have watched them fading o'er the waters, 
 Lessening through driving mist and spray, 
 Like white-winged sea-birds on their way ! 
 
 Onward they glide — and now I view 
 Their iron-armed and stalwart crew ; 
 Joy glistens in each wild blue eye, 
 Turned to green earth and summer sky : 
 Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside 
 Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide ; 
 Bared to the sun and soft warm air, 
 Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair. 
 I see the gleam of axe and spear, 
 The sound of smitten shields I hear, 
 
thi: [EX. 
 
 j • 
 nd Runic rliy: 
 
 S 
 I 
 
 I <ur 
 
 Rou:. 
 
 'I 
 
 : 
 
 — ■ 
 I 
 i in air — 
 
 I 
 
 Ami 1. gain : 
 
 T 
 
 A hruktn mass ofoomm 
 
 if it be * >1 limb 
 
 1 . — 
 
 i of War. 
 
 I h l*r.i_ r a i i the Runic 
 
 Or luve-awak 
 
10 THE NORSEMEN. 
 
 I know not — for no graven line, 
 Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, 
 Is left me here, by which to trace 
 Its name, or origin, or place. 
 
 Yet, for this vision of the Past, 
 This glance upon its darkness cast, 
 My spirit bows in gratitude 
 Before the Giver of all good, 
 Who fashioned so the human mind, 
 That, from the waste of Time behind 
 A simple stone, or mound of earth, 
 Can summon the departed forth ; 
 Quicken the Past to life again — 
 The Present lose in what hath been, 
 And in their primal freshness show 
 The buried forms of long ago. 
 As if a portion of that Thought 
 By which the Eternal will is wrought, 
 Whose impulse fills anew with breath 
 The frozen solitude of Death, 
 To mortal mind were sometimes lent, 
 To mortal musings sometimes sent, 
 To whisper — even when it seems 
 But Memory's phantasy of dreams — 
 Through the mind's waste of wo and sin, 
 Of an immortal origin ! 
 
THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 In the following ballad, the author bai iy the 
 
 etrong aBthnaiaan of tl 
 
 of ill-- clergy and mpathy a . 
 
 which the •• common ]>• 
 
 spiritiril di . 
 
 I 
 culion with 
 
 nidation tijM.ii a eome> 
 
 ill the history <>t' Puritan inti 
 
 lam, wh<> !. 
 impriaoned and d< prired of all his pr op e rt) I 
 two Qnakeri at his boat 
 
 .it church, which 
 
 I 
 which ina\ still be seen <>n lh 
 
 - •• fully emp 
 I I 
 
 An attempt waa 
 
 bai no shipmaster was found willing to oiivy them to the ■• 
 
 [ndiee. Vide S Biator 
 
 To the God of all sure mercies let my 
 
 to-day, 
 From the ■coffer and the cruel he hath plucked the 
 
 ■poil away, — 
 
12 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful 
 
 three, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid 
 
 free ! 
 
 Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison 
 
 bars, 
 Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale 
 
 gleam of stars ; 
 In the coldness and the darkness all through the long 
 
 night time, 
 My grated casement whitened with Autumn's early 
 
 rime. 
 
 Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; 
 Star after star looked palely in and sank adovvn the 
 
 sky; 
 No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed 
 
 to be 
 The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea ; 
 
 All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the 
 
 morrow 
 The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my 
 
 sorrow, 
 Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for 
 
 and sold, 
 Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the 
 
 fold! 
 
tiu: wallah of c.vssandra southwick. I| 
 
 Oh, the weakness of the I there — the shrinking 
 
 and the slim 
 
 And the lo i of the Tempter like whispers to me 
 
 " Why sit'st thou thus forlornly ! " the wicked mormur 
 . 
 thy bower of beauty, cold earth 
 maiden bed ? 
 
 M Where be the smiling faces, and and 
 
 Seen in thy I heard in the 
 
 Where be the yoi i the sun: 
 
 bath through 
 Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy I 
 
 thou her . I ndra ? — Bethink 
 
 with what mirth 
 Thy happy school . i the warm b 
 
 rth ; 
 How the crimson shadows I reheads * 
 
 and lair, 
 On eyes of menrj hid in golden hair. 
 
 Not for thee the hearth- not for thee kind 
 
 won 
 Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by lauc 
 
14 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA S0UTHW1CK. 
 
 No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, 
 For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunters 
 braid. 
 
 " Oh ! weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy fancies led, 
 
 With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; 
 
 To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and 
 sound ; 
 
 And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sack- 
 cloth-bound. 
 
 " Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things 
 
 divine, 
 Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine ; 
 Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory 
 
 lame, 
 Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their 
 
 shame. 
 
 " And what a fate awaits thee ? — a sadly toiling slave, 
 Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to 
 
 the grave ! 
 Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, 
 The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all ! " 
 
 Oh ! — ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's 
 
 fears 
 Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing 
 
 tears, 
 
THE BALLAD OF CA5SA.NDRA BOUTHWK K. 15 
 
 I wrestled down the evil t!, lent 
 
 pr;.;. . 
 To feel, oh, I! i ! — that Thou indeed 
 
 wert there ! 
 
 I thought of Paul Mud Silas, within Philippics cell, 
 And how from Peter 1 3 the pri 
 
 shackles 
 
 Till I seemed to bear tl 
 
 wh 
 
 And to (eel a bless d ; ■■■■ 
 
 1 for all ! — for tl 
 
 and love I !• 
 Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my e 
 
 melt ; 
 When. u G 
 
 my be 
 And I felt the r with all 
 
 Slow broke t'.< irning : again the 
 
 iked with ' bar and i ithin my 
 
 londy cell ; 
 The hoar frost melted on the wall, and upward from 
 
 the Bl 
 Came careless laugh and i , and tread of i 
 
 ing feet 
 
16 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open 
 
 cast, 
 And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I 
 
 passed ; 
 I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not 
 
 see, 
 How, from every door and window, the people gazed 
 
 on me. 
 
 And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my 
 
 cheek, 
 Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs 
 
 grew weak : 
 " Oh, Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her soul 
 
 cast out 
 The fear of man, which brings a snare — the weakness 
 
 and the doubt." 
 
 Then the dreary shadows scattered like a cloud in 
 
 morning's breeze, 
 And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering 
 
 words like these : 
 " Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a 
 
 brazen wall, 
 Trust still His loving kindness whose power is over all." 
 
 We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters 
 
 broke 
 On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of 
 
 rock ; 
 
THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 17 
 
 The merchants-ships lav idly there, in hard clear lines 
 
 (hi high, 
 Tracing with rope and slender spar their net-work on 
 
 the iky. 
 
 And then- wen annent Cltiw I -wrapped and 
 
 grave and cold, 
 And grim and stout tea-captain* with facea bronzed 
 
 and old, 
 And on hi-; home, with Etaweofft, his cruel clerk at 
 
 hand, 
 Sat dark and haughty Endicott, t 1m * ruler of the land. 
 
 And poiaoning with his evil words the ruler 9 ! ready 
 
 Tlic priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and 
 
 and jeer ; 
 It slinvd my soul, and from my lips (he leal I I 
 
 broke! 
 A-- if through woman's woaknnas a warning -pin; si 
 
 I cried, "The Lord rehuke thee, t r of tlie 
 
 meek, 
 Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the 
 
 weak ! 
 ( >" light the i\.i\k, <'<)id hearth-atooefl — go turn the 
 
 priaoo lock 
 
 Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, ihou wolf amid the 
 
 flock I" 
 
18 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper 
 
 red 
 O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger 
 
 spread ; 
 " Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, " heed 
 
 not her words so wild, 
 Her Master speaks within her — the Devil owns his 
 
 child ! '? 
 
 But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while 
 
 the sheriff read 
 That law the wicked rulers against the poor have 
 
 made, 
 Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood 
 
 bring 
 No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. 
 
 Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning 
 
 said : 
 Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker 
 
 maid ? 
 In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, 
 You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or 
 
 Moor." 
 
 Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when again he 
 
 cried, 
 " Speak out, my worthy seamen !" — no voice or sign 
 
 replied ; 
 
THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICk. 19 
 
 But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words 
 
 ill* t my i 
 " God bl< rve thee, my gentle girl and 
 
 dear ! " 
 
 A weight seemed lifted from my heart, — a pitying 
 friend was nigh, 
 
 I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in I 
 
 And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind 
 
 to 111'-, 
 Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring rf the 
 
 M Pile my ship with bars of silver — paek with 
 Spanish gold. 
 
 From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the ro 
 
 hold, 
 By the living <«<"i who made me ! — I would soonef in 
 
 youi 
 Smk shi|> and crow and cargo, than bear this child 
 
 •• Writ answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel 
 
 lan 
 Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the peo] 
 
 just applause. 
 "Like the herdsman ofTekoa, in Israel i I 
 Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver 
 
 1 ? " 
 
20 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 I looked on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half way- 
 drawn, 
 
 Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and 
 scorn ; 
 
 Fiercely he drew his bridle rein, and turned in silence 
 back, 
 
 And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring 
 in his track. 
 
 Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul ; 
 Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his 
 
 parchment roll. 
 " Good friends," he said, " since both have fled, the 
 
 ruler and the priest, 
 Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well re- 
 leased." 
 
 Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round 
 
 the silent bay, 
 As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go 
 
 my way ; 
 For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the 
 
 glen, 
 And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of 
 
 men. 
 
 Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed be- 
 neath my eye, 
 A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, 
 
THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 21 
 
 A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and wood- 
 land lay, 
 And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the 
 
 bay. 
 
 Thanksgiving to the Lord of life ! — to Bim all pr 
 be, 
 
 Who from the hands of evil men hath Bet h'.> handmaid 
 
 All |- I powi r ': 
 
 afraid, 
 Who taki -he poor 
 
 is laid ! 
 
 . oh, my soul, re . . 
 
 calm 
 
 Tplii't the loud thanksgn j — pour forth the grateful 
 
 p^a'in ; 
 id ■ all dear h.arts with me r< 
 
 df did, 
 When of tin- | .d angel the n -Id. 
 
 And weep ami howl, ye evil priests and mighty men 
 of w roi 
 
 The Lord shall smite the proud and lay II :> hand upon 
 
 the strong. 
 • the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! 
 Wo to the wolves who nek the flocks to raven and 
 
 devour : 
 
22 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 But let the humble ones arise, — the poor in heart be 
 
 glad, 
 And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise 
 
 be clad, 
 For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the 
 
 stormy wave, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save ! 
 
THE H NERAL TREE OF TH1 
 
 - lonely I 
 There lingers not a l>r< •«■/•• lo bf 
 The mirror which its m ike. 
 
 The iolemD pinea along il - 
 fin which hang it 
 painted on 
 
 Tli<* sun lookfl "*«r, u w\\ ha/y I 
 
 The mowy inouiitaurtopi which 
 
 P ■ the sky. 
 
 * r jinal iahabtmatl 
 
 of the coaatry ljwg between Agamenticus and l lulled 
 
 in a Bkirmish :it Windham, on tfw s \;\^<> lake, in tl 
 
 limed all die lands on l.oili si. l.-s of the PmODfOOOl r. 
 
 its iimutli .1! CtJOO, a^ his own. II<' w;\s »hp 
 
 • the white in.-n liad retired, the bui 
 beat down ■ yoeng tree natal n^ r<>..ts were turned up. placed th»* 
 body of their duel beneath them, and then releaeed the tree u< ipring 
 
 hack lr» its farmer poeitioa. 
 
24 FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 
 
 Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak, 
 Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, 
 Or snow-slide left its dusky streak ; 
 
 Yet green are Saco's banks below, 
 And belts of spruce and cedar show, 
 Dark fringing round those cones of snow. 
 
 The earth hath felt the breath of spring, 
 Though yet on her deliverer's wing 
 The lingering frosts of winter cling. 
 
 Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, 
 And mildly from its sunny nooks 
 The blue eye of the violet looks. 
 
 And odors from the springing grass, 
 The sweet birch and the sassafras, 
 Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. 
 
 Her tokens of renewing care 
 Hath Nature scattered everywhere, 
 In bud and flower, and warmer air. 
 
 But in their hour of bitterness, 
 What reck the broken Sokokis, 
 Beside their slaughtered chief, of this ? 
 
 The turf's red stain is yet undried — 
 Scarce have the death-shot echoes died 
 Along Sebago's wooded side : 
 
FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 25 
 
 And silent now the hunters stand, 
 Grouped darkly, where ■ swell of land 
 .Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. 
 
 I and the aze have -wept it h 
 :i, unclosing t: 
 Its light leaves in the vernal 
 
 With grave, cold looks, all st< rnly m 
 They break the damp turf at 
 
 and tu iati 
 
 They heave the stubborn trunk as 
 The firm — 
 
 rent beneath yawns dark and wide. 
 
 And there the fallen aid, 
 
 In tasselled L r ;n-!i of skins arrs 
 
 And girded with bis wampum-braid. 
 
 T i cross he loved is pressed 
 
 Beneath the heavy arms, n bich pi 
 
 Upon Ins scarred and naked bra 
 
 'T is done : the roots are backward • 
 Tin.' beechen tree stands up unbent — 
 
 The Indian's fitting monument ! 
 
 1 The Sokokifl were early coarerte to t!i-' Catholic faith, 
 then, poor to tli*- yeai 1 ? 5 o , had remoYed i<> the French lettkmanti 
 
 OB thfl St. FlUIienls. 
 
26 FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 
 
 When of that sleeper's broken race 
 Their green and pleasant dwelling-place 
 Which knew them once, retains no trace ; 
 
 O ! long may sunset's light be shed 
 As now upon that beech's head — 
 A green memorial of the dead ! 
 
 There shall his fitting requiem be, 
 In northern winds, that, cold and free, 
 Howl nightly in that funeral tree. 
 
 To their wild wail the waves which break 
 Forever round that lonely lake 
 A solemn under-tone shall make ! 
 
 And who shall deem the spot unblest, 
 Where Nature's younger children rest, 
 Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast ? 
 
 Deem ye that mother loveth less 
 These bronzed forms of the wilderness 
 She foldeth in her long caress ? 
 
 As sweet o'er them her wild flowers blow, 
 As if with fairer hair and brow 
 The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. 
 
 What though the places of their rest 
 No priestly knee hath ever pressed — 
 No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed ? 
 
FUNERAL TREE OF TH ."IS. SW 
 
 What though the re, 
 
 And thoughts of wailing 
 
 And curling in the place oj 
 
 .on hath I mil 
 
 The Indian's low ind — 
 
 And they have made il uncL 
 
 Tli- | all 
 
 His j)o\- 1 fall 
 
 Unheeded on thai great) palL 
 
 ( >. peeled, and hunted, and rei [led ! 
 
 !i, dark tenanl • Id ! 
 
 • .Nature owna her iimj 
 
 And Nature's < Sod, lo wh 
 
 Tli- • i< known — 
 
 "I'll- hidden lan;_ a : 
 
 Who, from its mai 
 form and creed, an 
 
 To lighl ih<' naked Bpii I 
 
 v»t with our partial eye shall scan — 
 Not with our pride and acorn Bheil han 
 
 The spirit of our brother man ! 
 
 » The brutal ami unchristian spirit of the early settlers oi N 
 Rngland toward the red man is strikingly illustrated in the conduct 
 
 of the man who shot down the Sokokis ch y he 
 
 always noticed the anniversary of that exploit, as •• the day on which 
 
 the dewl a j.r< sent."' — WlLLl /. 1/ 
 
ST. JOHN 
 
 The fierce rivalship of the two French officers, left by the 
 death of Razilla in the possession of Acadia, or Nova Scotia, 
 forms one of the most romantic passages in the history of the New 
 World. Charles St. Estienne, inheriting from his father the 
 title of Lord De la Tour, whose seat was at the mouth of the St. 
 John's river, was a Protestant ; De Aulney Charnisy, whose fort- 
 ress was at the mouth of the Penobscot, or ancient Pentagoet, was a 
 Catholic. The incentives of a false religious feeling, sectarian intol- 
 erance, and personal interest and ambition, conspired to render their 
 feud bloody and unsparing. The Catholic was urged on by the Je- 
 suits, who had found protection from Puritan gallows-ropes under his 
 jurisdiction ; the Huguenot still smarted under the recollection of 
 his wrongs and persecutions in France. Both claimed to be cham- 
 pions of that cross from which went upward the holy petition of the 
 Prince of Peace : " Father, forgive them." La Tour received aid in 
 several instances from the Puritan colonies of Massachusetts. Dur- 
 ing one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining arms and provi- 
 sions for his establishment at St. John, his castle was attacked by 
 De Aulney, and successfully defended by its high-spirited mistress. 
 A second attack, however, followed in the 4th mo. 1647. Lady La 
 Tour defended her castle with a desperate perseverance. After a 
 furious cannonade, De Aulney stormed the walls, and put the entire 
 garrison to the sword. Lady La Tour languished a few days only 
 in the hands of her inveterate enemy, and died of grief, greatly re- 
 gretted by the colonists of Boston, to whom, as a devoted Protestant, 
 she was well known. 
 
 " To the winds give our banner ! 
 Bear homeward again ! " 
 
ST. JOHN. 29 
 
 Cried the lord of Acadia, 
 B ( iharief of Eatieni 
 
 From the p m dlop 
 
 I [e gazed, m the sun, 
 From its bed in die ocean, 
 i up the St. John. 
 
 ie blue p 
 
 That shallop bad paaa 
 Where the m 
 
 Clung damp on her m 
 Bt BaTiour" had look'd 
 
 < I i the heretic sail, 
 A the ^mi^ of th< II,,' not 
 
 B 
 
 The pale, ghostly fath< 
 
 Remembered ber well, 
 And bad cursed her whfle pa 
 
 \\ ith taper and bell, 
 Bui the men of Monheg 
 
 ( H Papists abhon ' . 
 Had welcomed and feat 
 
 The heretic lord. 
 
 ■ The settlement of I 1 the island of Mount Desert was 
 
 Coiled St. Saviour. 
 
 b The isle of Honhegu was one of the first settl d on 
 Maine. 
 
30 ST. JOHN. 
 
 They had loaded his shallop 
 
 With dun-fish and ball, 
 With stores for his larder, 
 
 And steel for his wall. 
 Pemequid, from her bastions 
 
 And turrets of stone, 
 Had welcomed his coming 
 
 With banner and gun. 
 
 And the prayers of the elders. 
 
 Had followed his way, 
 As homeward he glided, 
 
 Down Pentecost Bay. 
 O ! well sped La Tour ! 
 
 For, in peril and pain, 
 His lady kept watch 
 
 For his coming again. 
 
 O'er the Isle of the Pheasant 
 
 The morning sun shone, 
 On the plane trees which shaded 
 
 The shores of St. John. 
 " Now, why from yon battlements 
 
 Speaks not my love ! 
 Why waves there no banner 
 
 My fortress above ? " 
 
 Dark and wild, from his deck 
 St. Estienne gazed about, 
 
ST. JOHN. 31 
 
 On fire-wasted awelu 
 And silent redoubt ; 
 From the low, shattered walls 
 
 Which the flame had o 1 
 There floated do banner, 
 There thunder** 1 no gun ! 
 
 But, beneath the lew arch 
 
 Of i 
 A pale priest 
 
 In his cloak and his hood. 
 
 With the hound of * lion, 
 La 1 r sprang te land, 
 On the throat of the Papist 
 
 I I : • aed ins hand. 
 
 11 Speak, son of the Woman, 
 
 ( »f BCarlet and sin ! 
 
 What irolf has been prow ling 
 
 M\ 
 Prom the grasp ot ^er 
 
 The Jesuit l». 
 Half in ICOrn, half in sorrow. 
 He smiled as lu- spoke : 
 
 14 No wolf, Lord of Estienne, 
 I I - ravaged thy hall, 
 But thy red-handed rival, 
 With tiro, steel, and hall ! 
 
32 ST. JOHN. 
 
 On an errand of mercy 
 
 I hither ward came, 
 While the walls of thy castle 
 
 Yet spouted with flame. 
 
 " Pentagoet's dark vessels 
 
 Were moored in the bay, 
 Grim sea-lions, roaring 
 
 Aloud for their prey." 
 " But what of my lady ? " 
 
 Cried Charles of Estienne : 
 " On the shot-crumbled turret 
 
 Thy lady was seen : 
 
 " Half- veiled in the smoke-cloud, 
 
 Her hand grasped thy pennon, 
 While her dark tresses swayed 
 
 In the hot breath of cannon ! 
 But wo to the heretic, 
 
 Evermore wo ! 
 When the son of the church 
 
 And the cross is his foe ! 
 
 " In the track of the shell, 
 In the path of the ball, 
 
 Pentagoet swept over 
 The breach of the wall ! 
 
 Steel to steel, gun to gun, 
 One moment — and then 
 
st. joh.v 
 
 Alone stood the victor, 
 
 Alone with 1 
 
 " Of its sturdy di 
 
 Thy lady alone 
 
 Saw the cross and the 
 Floal orer St John. 91 
 M Let the dastard look to it ! M 
 
 . 
 M Were D'Aulney Km. 
 I M free bei agai 
 
 M Alas, for thy lady ! 
 \ 
 N needed by her 
 
 Whom the Lord hath • 
 Nine da] . oce, 
 
 I [ei thraldom the ' 
 
 B it the tenth morning came, 
 
 And Death opened her d f ! " 
 
 Afl if suddenly smitten 
 
 La I _'jer'd hack ; 
 
 His hand grasped his sword-hilt, 
 
 I I - tori head grew black. 
 I I< iprang on the deck 
 
 is shallop again : 
 M We cruise now for vengeance ! 
 Give way ! M cried Bstienne. 
 
 3 
 
34 ST. JOHN. 
 
 " Massachusetts shall hear 
 
 Of the Huguenot's wrong, 
 And from island and creek-side 
 
 Her fishers shall throng ! 
 Pentagoet shall rue 
 
 What his Papists have done, 
 When his palisades echo 
 
 The Puritan's gun ! " 
 
 O ! the loveliest of heavens 
 
 Hung tenderly o'er him, 
 There were waves in the sunshine, 
 
 And green isles before him : 
 But a pale hand was beckoning 
 
 The Huguenot on ; 
 And in blackness and ashes 
 
 Behind was St. John ! 
 
M [8C i: LLA \ E0U8 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN TIN: BO »K OF A FRIEND. 
 
 ( ).\ page of thine I cannot tr 
 The cold and hear imon*plaoe — 
 
 ted and marbii 
 
 For ever aa th< m lin< i are i ■■ ai 
 
 Still with the thought of thee, will blend 
 
 Thai mmon friend, 
 
 Who. in I rt track baa m 
 
 pilgrim tent a ith mine, or laid 
 
 And hence my pen unfettered m< 
 
 In freedom which the heart approves — 
 
 The q< which friendship 
 
 And wilt thou prize my poor girl 
 
 For simple air and rati 
 
 And sign of haste and ear* — 
 
38 LINES WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 
 
 Oh ! more than specious counterfeit 
 
 Of sentiment, or studied wit 
 
 A heart like thine should value it. 
 
 Yet half I fear my gift will be 
 Unto thy book, if not to thee, 
 Of more than doubtful courtesy. 
 
 A banished name from Fashion's sphere — 
 
 A lay unheard of Beauty's ear, 
 
 Forbid, disowned, — what do they here ? — 
 
 Upon my ear not all in vain 
 
 Came the sad captive's clanking chain — 
 
 The groaning from his bed of pain. 
 
 And sadder still, I saw the woe 
 
 Which only wounded spirits know 
 
 When Pride's strong footsteps o'er them go. 
 
 Spurned not alone in walks abroad, 
 But in the " temples of the Lord " 
 Thrust out apart like things abhorr'd. 
 
 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 ; 
 
LI>ES WBITTBlf IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 
 
 But, mingled in the conflict warm, 
 To pour the fiery bi 
 Through the harsh trumpet 
 
 To brave < >pinii 
 
 From ermined robe and 
 
 ig hoary I ! 
 
 F v, 
 
 I . ard lay, 
 
 I 
 
 And, broad and bri| icr hand 
 
 ml, 
 With II" 1 ; 
 
 Wh' ' nr, 
 
 \ i mi the ear * ill grow, 
 
 And 
 
 T art and brain 
 
 Smih dng from that path of pain. 
 
 In vain ! — dot dream, nor rest, nor j 
 
 Remain for him who round him d 
 
 The battered mail 
 
 From youthful hopes — from each green 
 Of young Romance, and gentle thought, 
 
 Wh< and tumult enter not. 
 
40 LINES WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND, 
 
 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 
 Her notes of praise to those of scorn — 
 Her gifts reclaimed — her smiles withdrawn. 
 
 What matters it ! — a few years more, 
 Life's surge so restless heretofore 
 Shall break upon the unknown shore ! 
 
 In that far land shall disappear 
 
 The shadows which we follow here — 
 
 The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere ! 
 
 Before no work of mortal hand, 
 Of human will or strength expand 
 The pearl gates of the " better land ; " 
 
 Alone in that pure Love which gave 
 Life to the sleeper of the grave, 
 Resteth the power to " seek and save." 
 
 Yet, if the spirit gazing through 
 
 The vista of the Past can view 
 
 One deed to Heaven and virtue true ; 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 41 
 
 If through the wreck of 
 
 rlands wreathed from Folly's bov. 
 Of idle aims and miaspenl b 
 
 i ye can note ob 
 
 By Pride and Self profaned not — 
 
 A in the waste of thought, 
 
 Where deed or word hath r< ndered l< 
 
 ium of human a retchedm 
 And Gratitude looks forth to bl< as — 
 
 The simple burst of ten 
 From sad hi arts worn bj 
 
 ng on the hand of healing, — 
 
 ! ' r than < Hory's pom] . 
 
 That green and blessed — 
 
 A landmark in £ I — 
 
 Something of Time which may in 
 The purified and spiritual - i _r 1 1 1 
 To rest "ii \\ uh a calm delight 
 
 And when the summer winds shall swi 
 With their linht wings my pi 
 And mosses round my head- 
 
 I. as Freedom's rally: 
 
 Upon the young heart's altars shine 
 The very fires they caught from mine, 
 
42 LINES WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 
 
 If words my lips once uttered still 
 In the calm faith and steadfast will 
 Of other hearts, their work fulfill, 
 
 Perchance with joy the soul may learn 
 These tokens, and its eye discern, 
 The fires which on those altars burn, — 
 
 A marvellous joy that even then, 
 
 The spirit hath its life again, 
 
 In the strong hearts of mortal men. 
 
 Take, lady, then, the gift I bring, 
 
 No gay and graceful offering — 
 
 No flower-smile of the laughing spring. 
 
 Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh May, 
 With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay, 
 My sad and sombre gift I lay. 
 
 And if it deepens in thy mind 
 
 A sense of suffering human kind — 
 
 The outcast and the spirit-blind : 
 
 Oppressed and spoiled on every side, 
 By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride ; 
 Life's common courtesies denied : 
 
 Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, 
 Children by want and misery nursed, 
 Tasting Life's bitter cup at first. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 43 
 
 If to their strong appeals which come 
 From fireleas bearth — and crowded n 
 
 And the dark allej . — 
 
 Though dark the hands upraised to *'. 
 In unite beseeching agony) 
 Thou lend'sl thy w< 
 
 mainly on thy gentle shrine 
 When Love, and Mirth, and Friendship tn 
 Their vai , 1 r mine. 
 
LUCY HOOPER. a 
 
 They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead — 
 
 That all of thee we loved and cherished, 
 Has with thy summer roses perished ; 
 
 And left, as its young beauty fled, 
 
 An ashen memory in its stead — 
 The twilight of a parted day 
 
 Where fading light is cold and vain ; 
 The heart's faint echo of a strain 
 
 Of low, sweet music passed away. 
 That true and loving heart — that gift 
 
 Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound, 
 Bestowing, with a glad unthrift, 
 
 Its sunny light on all around, 
 Affinities which only could 
 Cleave to the pure, the true and good ; 
 
 And sympathies which found no rest, 
 
 Save with the loveliest and the best. 
 Of them — of thee remains there nought 
 
 But sorrow in the mourner's breast ? — 
 A shadow in the land of thought ? 
 
 a Died in Brooklyn, L. L, on the 1st of 8th mo., 1841, aged 24 years. 
 
I HOOPER. 45 
 
 No! — Kvi'ii jinj weak and trembling faith 
 Can lilt lor thee the veil which doubt 
 And human fear have drawn al 
 
 The all-awaiting scene of death. 
 
 I '. I : 
 
 And. save the absence of all ill, 
 
 And pain and weariness, which here 
 
 Summoned the sigh or wrung the I 
 
 I u ben, two summers back, 
 
 I I ir childhoi Mi rrimack, 
 I i thy dark eye wander i 
 
 in, sunny upland, rocky six 
 And heard thy low, soft roice alone 
 '.Midst lapse ol , and the tone 
 
 Of pine leav< a by the west-wind blown. 
 There's ooi a charm of soul <>r brow — 
 
 Of all we know and loved in thee — 
 But lives in holier beauty now, 
 
 B iptized in immortality ! 
 Not mine tb<- sail and freezing dream 
 
 miuIs that, with their earthly mould, 
 
 1 ■ off the loves and Id — 
 
 Unbodied — like a pale moonbeam, 
 
 As i -•■• . ai passionless, and cold ; 
 Nor mine the hope of Indra's son, 
 
 ( >i' Blumbering in oblivion 1 
 Life's myriads blending into one — 
 
 In blank annihilation b 
 
46 LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 Dust-atoms, of the Infinite — 
 
 Sparks scattered from the central light, 
 
 And winning back through mortal pain, 
 
 Their old unconsciousness again. 
 
 No ! — I have friends in Spirit Land — 
 
 Not shadows in a shadowy band, 
 
 Not others, but themselves are they. 
 And still I think of them the same 
 As when the Master's summons came ; 
 Their change — the holy morn-light breaking 
 Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking — 
 
 A change from twilight into day. 
 
 They 've laid thee 'midst the household graves, 
 Where father, brother, sister lie ; 
 
 Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, 
 Above thee bends the summer sky. 
 
 Thy own loved church in sadness read 
 
 Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, 
 
 And blessed and hallowed with her prayer, 
 
 The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. 
 
 That church, whose rites and liturgy, 
 
 Sublime and old, were truth to thee, 
 
 Undoubted, to thy bosom taken 
 
 As symbols of a faith unshaken. 
 
 Even I, of simpler views, could feel 
 
 The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; 
 
 And owning not thy creed, could see 
 
 How deep a truth it seemed to thee, 
 
I HOOPER. 17 
 
 And how thy fervent heart had thrown 
 
 'ii, 
 And kindled up, inl I warm, 
 
 A lift in I form, 
 
 As, when on Chebar'i banki of old, 
 The Hebtf >n rolled, 
 
 pirit filled the vast machuM — 
 A life M n ithin the * 
 
 we\\ ! A little time, and we 
 Who knew thee well, and loved thee h-rc, 
 
 one shall follow tl 
 A - pilgrims through I ur, 
 
 Which opens on eternity, 
 tall we cherish not tin- 
 All that is left our h< 
 The memory of thy lovelim 
 
 Shall round our weary pathway Bm 
 
 Like in light when the sun basset — 
 
 A Bweet ami tender radianoi 
 
 Thoughts of thy clear-eyed - duty, 
 
 Th. is scorn of all thm. — 
 
 The truth, tin- strength, the graceful beauty 
 
 Which blended in thy song. 
 All lovely things by thee beloved, 
 
 Shall whisper to our hearts of thee; 
 These green hills, where thy childhood roved — 
 
 Yon riveT winding to the sea — 
 The sunset light of autumn i 
 
48 LUCY HOOPER. 
 
 Reflecting on the deep, still floods, 
 Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves 
 
 Of rainbow-tinted woods, — 
 These, in our view, shall henceforth take 
 A tenderer meaning for thy sake ; 
 And all thou loved'st of earth and sky, 
 Seem sacred to thy memory. 
 
POLLEN. 
 
 OH HADING BII : VTE.' 
 
 Friend of my soul ! — m with i 
 I look up from ili 
 
 a dream thai thou art nigh, 
 Thy mild fa- 
 Thai presence seems before me now, 
 
 A [acid hea \ 
 When, dew-like, on the « arth '>■ 
 ;enda the quiet of the i 
 
 The calm brow through the parted hair, 
 The gentle lipa which knew do guile, 
 
 oing the blue eye'a thoughtful ca 
 Wiih the bland beauty of then- smile. 
 
 Ah me ! — at timea thai last dread scene 
 ( >f Pros! and Fire and moaning S 
 
 Will cast its shade of doubt between 
 The failing eyes of Faith, and thee. 
 
 l 
 
50 FOLLEN. 
 
 Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page, 
 Where through the twilight air of earth, 
 
 Alike enthusiast and sage, 
 
 Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth, 
 
 Lifting the Future's solemn veil, 
 The reaching of a mortal hand 
 
 To put aside the cold and pale 
 
 Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land ! 
 
 In thoughts which answer to my own, 
 In words which reach my inward ear 
 
 Like whispers from the void Unknown, 
 I feel thy living presence here. 
 
 The waves which lull thy body's rest, 
 The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod, 
 
 Unwasted, through each change, attest 
 The fixed economy of God. 
 
 Shall these poor elements outlive 
 
 The mind whose kingly will they wrought ? 
 Their gross unconsciousness survive 
 
 Thy godlike energy of thought ? 
 
 Thou livest, Follen ! — not in vain 
 Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne 
 
 The burden of Life's cross of pain, 
 
 And the thorned crown of suffering worn. 
 
FOLLEN. 51 
 
 Oh ! while Life's solemn mystery glooms 
 
 Around us like a dungeon's wall — 
 Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs, 
 
 Silent the heaven whieh bends o'er all ! — 
 
 While day by day our loved ours glide 
 
 In spectral silence, hushed and lone, 
 To the cold shadows which divide 
 The living from the dread I oknown ; 
 
 While even on the i 
 
 And on the lip which moves in vain, 
 The seals of thai stern i 
 
 Their undiscovered trust retain ; — 
 
 And only midst the gloom of death, 
 
 I mournful doubts and bauntu 
 Two pale, , 1 lope and Faith, 
 
 Smile dimly on us through their tears ; — 
 
 1 T something to a heart like mine 
 
 T<> think of thee as Living 
 To fi el thai such a light as thine 
 I lid not in utter darkness set. 
 
 I . dreary seems the untried way 
 Since thou hast left thy footprints there, 
 
 And beams of mournful beauty play 
 Round the sad Angel's sable hair. 
 
52 FOLLEN. 
 
 Oh ! — at this hour when half the sky- 
 Is glorious with its evening light, 
 
 And fair broad fields of summer lie 
 Hung o'er with greenness in my sight ; 
 
 While through these elm boughs wet with rain 
 The sunset's golden walls are seen, 
 
 With clover bloom and yellow grain 
 
 And wood- draped hill and stream between ; 
 
 I long to know if scenes like this 
 Are hidden from an angel's eyes ; 
 
 If earth's familiar loveliness 
 
 Haunts not thy heaven's serener skies. 
 
 For sweetly here upon thee grew 
 The lesson which that beauty gave, 
 
 Th' ideal of the Pure and True 
 In earth and sky and gliding wave. 
 
 And it may be that all which lends 
 The soul an upward impulse here, 
 
 With a diviner beauty blends, 
 And greets us in a holier sphere. 
 
 Through groves where blighting never fell 
 The humbler flowers of earth may twine ; 
 
 And simple draughts from childhood's well 
 Blend with the angel-tasted wine. 
 
POLLS*. 53 
 
 But be the prying vision veiled, 
 And let the seeking lips be dumb, — 
 
 Where even seraph eyes have failed 
 Shall mortal blindness seek to come ? 
 
 We only know that thou hasl L r <«ne, 
 
 And that the Bame returnl 
 Which bore thee from us, still L r 
 
 And we who mourn thee with it glide. 
 
 On all thou lookesl we shall look, 
 Ami to our -_ r a/«' ere 1 < > 1 1 -_ r shall turn 
 
 That page of < rod's mysterious I 
 
 \V<; so much wish, yet dread to learn. 
 
 With Him, before whose awful pow< r 
 Thy spirit bent its trembling knee, — 
 
 Who, in the silenl greeting oow< . 
 And forest leaf, looked out . — 
 
 We leave thee, w ith a trust 
 
 Which Time, nor Change, UOI I ><ath can : 
 While with thy childlike faith we lean 
 
 On Him wh< st name is Love ! 
 
TO A FRIEND, 
 
 ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. 
 
 How smiled the land of France 
 Under thy blue eye's glance, 
 
 Light-hearted rover ! 
 Old walls of chateaux gray, 
 Towers of an early day 
 Which the Three Colors play 
 
 Flauntingly over. 
 
 Now midst the brilliant train 
 Thronging the banks of Seine : 
 
 Now midst the splendor 
 Of the wild Alpine range, 
 Waking with change on change 
 Thoughts in thy young heart strange, 
 
 Lovely and tender. 
 
 Vales, soft, Elysian, 
 Like those in the vision 
 
 Of Mirza, when, dreaming, 
 
TO A FRIEND. ~>b 
 
 W the long hollow dell 
 T ched by the pr pell 
 
 Into an ocean swell 
 Will, 
 
 Cliffs wrapt in raon rs, 
 
 Splint 
 
 A itumn's blue heaven : 
 rock anil frozen - 
 Hung <»n ih»- 1:1 
 
 ag their hour I 
 
 ] lownwa i-driven ! 
 
 Rhine stream, by castle old 
 i*^ and ro 
 
 illy uowin 
 ping through ■ 
 
 ( )r ■ hep' the clni's an- seen 
 ( Per tin- h; 
 
 ( trim shadoa 
 
 ( »r. i ben S 
 
 ne 
 \ it, dim, an<l solemn, — 
 Hymns ever chanting low — 
 
 Censers swung to and t*r<> — 
 
 ■ m 
 Cornice' and column ! 
 
56 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Oh, as from each and all 
 Will there not voices call 
 
 Evermore back again ? 
 In the mind's gallery 
 Wilt thou not ever see 
 Dim phantoms beckon thee 
 
 O'er that old track again ? 
 
 New forms thy presence haunt — 
 New voices softly chant — 
 
 New faces greet thee ! — 
 Pilgrims from many a shrine 
 Hallowed by poet's line 
 At memory's magic sign 
 
 Rising to meet thee. 
 
 And when such visions come 
 Unto thy olden home, 
 
 Will they not waken 
 Deep thoughts of Him whose hand 
 Led thee o'er sea and land 
 Back to the household band 
 
 Whence thou wast taken ? 
 
 While at the sunset time, 
 Swells the cathedral's chime, 
 
 Yet, in thy dreaming, 
 While to thy spirit's eye 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Y \iins lie 
 
 Piled in the iky 
 
 Be the wild pictun 
 
 In ti, 
 And, thn 
 Him, who, 
 \ 
 
 All its lhir forms Bunrii . 
 
 _ 
 

 RAPHAEL. 4 
 
 I shall not soon forget that sight : 
 
 The glow of Autumn's westering day, 
 
 A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, 
 On Raphael's picture lay. 
 
 It was a simple print I saw, 
 
 The fair face of a musing boy ; 
 Yet while I gazed a sense of awe 
 
 Seemed blending with my joy. 
 
 A simple print : — the graceful flow 
 
 Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, 
 And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow 
 
 Unmarked and clear, were there. 
 
 Yet through its sweet and calm repose 
 
 I saw the inward spirit shine ; 
 It was as if before me rose 
 
 The white veil of a shrine. 
 
 a Suggested by a portrait of Raphael at the age of fifteen, in the 
 possession of Thomas Tracy, of Newburyport. 
 
RAPHAEL. 
 
 As if, as Gothland'i nge has told, 
 The hidden life, the man within, 
 
 .■•red from itf frame and mould, 
 By mortal c\ 
 
 Win it the lifting of thai 
 
 The waving of that pictured hand ? 
 
 L id-wreath on the iky, 
 
 I nt the walls expand. 
 
 The narrow room had vanished, — q 
 Broad, luminous, remained alone, 
 Through which all hues and f grace 
 
 And beauty looked OF ihone. 
 
 Around the mij ime 
 
 The marvels which his pencil wrought, 
 
 Those miracles of power whose fame 
 Is wide as human thought 
 
 There drooped thy more than mortal : 
 
 ( )h Mother, beautiful and mild ! 
 Enfolding in one dear embr 
 
 Thy Sai bur and thy Child ! 
 
 The rapt brow of the Desert John ; 
 The awful glory of that day 
 
 When all the Father's brightness shone 
 
 Through manhood's veil of clay. 
 
60 RAPHAEL. 
 
 And, midst grey prophet forms, and wild 
 Dark visions of the days of old, 
 
 How sweetly woman's beauty smiled 
 Through locks of brown and gold ! 
 
 There Fornarina's fair young face 
 Once more upon her lover shone, 
 
 Whose model of an angel's grace 
 He borrowed from her own. 
 
 Slow passed that vision from my view, 
 But not the lesson which it taught ; 
 
 The soft, calm shadows which it threw 
 Still rested on my thought : 
 
 The truth, that painter, bard and sage, 
 
 Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, 
 
 Plant for their deathless heritage 
 The fruits and flowers of time. 
 
 We shape ourselves the joy or fear 
 Of which the coming life is made, 
 
 And fill our Future's atmosphere 
 With sunshine or with shade. 
 
 The tissue of the Life to be 
 
 We weave with colours all our own, 
 
 And in the field of Destiny 
 We reap as we have sown. 
 
RAPHAEL. Gl 
 
 Still shall the soul around it call 
 The shadows which it gathered here, 
 
 And painted on rnal wall 
 
 Th ar. 
 
 Think yo the ootes of b 
 
 On Milt fill car h;r. 
 
 Think ye thai Rapfa ! throng 
 
 I i is vanished from b 
 
 Oh do ! — v 
 
 ( »r warmly toucbi d or coldly dim 
 Th'- pictures of the Past remain, — 
 
 .Man*- works shall follow him ! 
 
I 
 
 DEMOCRACY. 
 
 All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye 
 even so to them. — Matthew vii. 12. 
 
 Oh, fairest born of Love and Light, 
 Yet bending brow and eye severe 
 
 On all which pains the holy sight 
 Or wounds the pure and perfect ear ! 
 
 Beautiful yet thy temples rise, 
 
 Though there profaning gifts are thrown ; 
 And fires unkindled of the skies 
 
 Are glaring round thy altar-stone. 
 
 Still sacred — though thy name be breathed 
 By those whose hearts thy truth deride ; 
 
 And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed 
 Around the haughty brows of Pride. 
 
 Oh, ideal 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 ! 
 
DEMOCRACY. 63 
 
 Still to (bom tepa turn, 
 
 For through th< I ch darken there, 
 
 the flan* iom burn — 
 
 The Kcbla of the patriot's pru; 
 
 The gener ire and warm, 
 
 Which owns the <dl divine — 
 
 The pitying heart — the helping arm — 
 The prompt 
 
 ! th thy broad, impartial • 
 
 te the lii, ' and \>\. 
 
 equal in their Buffering lie 
 The groaning multitui rth ! 
 
 Still to a stricken brother true, 
 
 Whatever clime bath nurtured 1 
 A d to heal I 
 
 The worshipper m. 
 
 y unrepealed, una we d 
 pomp or power, tl 
 
 In prii, i or lord — 
 
 Pa!- r swarthy artisan. 
 
 Through all disi to, place or name, 
 
 .rath the Haunting I 
 
 Through poverty and squalid shame, 
 
 Thou lookest on U ;lhn. 
 
64 DEMOCKACY. 
 
 On man, as man, retaining yet, 
 
 Howe'er debased, 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 cold and shallow fount 
 
 Of vain philosophy thou art, 
 He who of old on Syria's mount 
 
 Thrilled, warmed, by turns the listener'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 wo. 
 
 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. 
 
DEMOCRA G5 
 
 Not to these altars of a day, 
 At Party's ceil, my gifl I bl 
 
 But on thy olden shrine- I lay 
 
 A freeman's dearest offei 
 The fi itterance of bis s ill — 
 
 Hi- pli i dotn and t<i Truth, 
 
 That manhood's heart remembera still 
 The homage of il ith. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON READING SEVERAL PAMPHLETS PUBLISHED BY CLER- 
 GYMEN AGAINST THE ABOLITION OF THE GALLOWS. 
 
 I. 
 
 The suns of eighteen centuries have shone 
 
 Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made 
 
 The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone, 
 And mountain moss, a pillow for his head ; 
 
 And He, who wandei'ed with the peasant Jew, 
 And broke with publicans the bread of shame, 
 And drank, with blessings in His Father's name, 
 
 The water which Samaria's outcast drew, 
 
 Hath now His temples upon every shore, 
 
 Altar and shrine and priest, — and incense dim 
 Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, 
 
 From lips which press the temple's marble floor, 
 
 Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore ! 
 
 ii. 
 Yet as of old, when, meekly " doing good," 
 He fed a blind and selfish multitude, 
 
LINES. 
 
 67 
 
 And even the poor companions of His lot 
 With their dim earthly vision knew Him not, 
 How ill are His high teachings understood ! 
 When He hath spoken Liberty, the p 
 
 At Mis own altar hinds the chain an 
 
 Where he hath bidd< 
 
 The Starving many wait UDOTJ tiie few : 
 
 Where II<- hath spoken Peace, II - aame hath I 
 
 ir-cry of contendi 
 
 . 
 
 The unsheathed •word, and laid the spear in n 
 
 th<- war-banner \\ ith uV 
 And crosaed its blazon with the b 
 
 1 1 - oame n ho bade the erring 
 And daily taughl II - lesson — I ' — 
 
 Twisted the cord and edged the mur 
 And, with ! 1 : mercy on their 1 . 
 
 I luiiL r's hum 
 
 And the grim horror of th< 
 Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb, 
 Who saw before his sear bh im 
 
 The image of their Christ, in cruel i 
 Through tiie black tomunt-sinoke, held mocking 
 him ! 
 
 in. 
 Th'' blood which mingled with uY - md, 
 
 And headed with its red and gh . 
 
 The vines ami olives of the Holy Land — 
 The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew — 
 
DO LINES. 
 
 The white-sown bones of heretics, where'er 
 They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear — 
 Goa's dark dungeons — Malta's sea-washed cell, 
 
 Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung 
 
 Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung, 
 Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of Hell ! 
 The midnight of Bartholomew — the stake 
 
 Of Smithfield, and that thrice-accursed flame 
 Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lake — 
 New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer 
 Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear, 
 
 When guilt itself a human tear might claim, — 
 Bear witness, O Thou wronged and merciful One ! 
 That Earth's most hateful crimes have in Thy name 
 been done ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thank God ! that I have lived to see the time 
 When the great truth begins at last to find 
 An utterance from the deep heart of mankind, 
 Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime ! 
 That Man is holier than a creed, — that all 
 
 Restraint upon him must consult his good, 
 Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall, 
 
 And Love look in upon his solitude. 
 The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught 
 Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought 
 Into the common mind and popular thought ; 
 And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore 
 The humble fishers listened with hushed oar, 
 
LINES. 
 
 found an ech< eneral h- 
 
 And of the public I B living part. 
 
 v. 
 Who shall arrest this tendenc 
 The <■• lis of \ < nice and the l>i<_ r < t 1 
 Harden the softening human hea 
 'I cold indiffl a brother 1 
 
 Se most unhappy men ! — \vli<>. turned an 
 Prom the mild sunshine of uV I ! 
 
 Grope in the shadows of Man's twilight I 
 Wha1 mean ye, thai with ghoul-like zesl ye br 
 
 •a ith warm M< 
 ' in anothi l clime . ; 
 
 Why cite that law with which tl w 
 
 B iuked the pagan's mercy, when be kir 
 
 ■ vil in the Jusl ( hue . : — Wh< irn 
 
 To the dark cruel past . ; — < Ian am 
 
 Prom the pure Teacher's life, how mildlj I 
 Is the [ pel of I luma 
 
 The Plamen's knife is bl Hess, and i 
 
 Mexitl soak with human . 
 
 No more the ghastly sacrific< b smoke 
 Through the green arches of the I ak ; 
 
 And ye of milder faith, with your high claim 
 Of prophet-utterance in the Holiesl name, 
 Will ye become the Druids of our time . ; 
 ■ up your scaffold-altars in our land. 
 And, consecrators of Law's darkesl crime, 
 
 Urge to its loathsome work the Hangman's hand ? 
 
70 LINES. 
 
 Beware — lest human nature, roused at last, 
 From its peeled shoulder your incumbrance cast, 
 
 And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, 
 Rank ye with those who led their victims round 
 The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound, 
 
 Abhorred of Earth and Heaven — a pagan brother- 
 hood ! 
 
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 
 
 i. 
 
 Far from 
 
 1; in, 
 
 Blown clover field an ell, 
 
 And green and meadow freahneae, fell 
 
 The ' of Ins ilrcam. 
 
 Again from the dew 
 
 Of slum: y morn 1 •■ 
 
 Again with merry bean be Inn 
 
 1 1 - light line in the ripplinj 
 Back cr >n ded a j — 
 
 1 1 . . i d the ball and on, 
 
 • [ 
 ter of ;i clergymen, giving in ejecount of Ins ettendei 
 
 nal. (who hail OOmmitted murder daring a tit of intoxication,) at the 
 
 time ui ln> em 1 1 1 1 ■ ' 1 1 . in w eeten Ne* , t ork. TWi vrib 
 the egonj t»t" th-' wreti bi d being lu> el ortire elU mpte el j>r:i 
 
 his appeal tor lii IT of a violent death; and. after &V 
 
 Jul: his belief thai the poor victim died without !. . . i t i » . 1 1 . 
 
 concludes with a warm culn'jy upon lb I I than 
 
 erei convinced oi its utility bj the awful dread and horror which it 
 inspired. 
 
72 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 
 
 And heard the shout of laughing boys 
 Come ringing down the walnut glen. 
 Again he felt the western breeze, 
 
 Its scent of flowers and crisping hay ; 
 And down again through wind-stirred trees 
 
 He saw the quivering sunlight play. 
 An angel in Home's vine-hung door, 
 He saw his sister smile once more ; 
 Once more the truant's brown-locked head 
 Upon his mother's knee was laid, 
 And sweetly lulled to slumber there, 
 With evening's holy hymn and prayer ! 
 
 ii. 
 He woke. At once on heart and brain 
 The present Terror rushed again — 
 Clanked on his limbs the felon's chain ! 
 He woke, to hear the church-tower tell 
 Time's footfall on the conscious bell, 
 And, shuddering, feel that clanging din 
 His life's last hour had ushered in ; 
 To see within his prison-yard, 
 Through the small window, iron-barred, 
 The Gallows shadow rising dim 
 Between the sunrise heaven and him, — 
 A horror in God's blessed air — 
 
 A blackness in His morning light — 
 Like some foul devil-altar there 
 
 Built up by demon hands at night. 
 
THE HUMAN SACK. 78 
 
 And, maddened by th ght, 
 
 Dark, horrible, confused, an" 
 
 A chaos of wild Weltering chair. . 
 
 All power <>t* check and 
 
 Dizzy aii'l blind, h 
 
 In vain he strove to breathe b pn 
 In vain he turned the holy I 
 
 ily heard the I 
 lk as the wind 
 
 [ream for him of • a, 
 
 \\ rule -'ill that baleful 
 With its hoarse murm 
 
 ' I D him and t!,. I [i i\. n ! 
 
 III. 
 Low on his dungeon floor be kn< • 
 
 Ami -in-' 
 
 Whose iron clasp Ik 
 II hot 
 
 And pear him, u ith tli< <k 
 
 And tone «'f one a hose formal 
 Unwarmed, unsoftew d of the ! 
 Is measured out by rule and : 
 With placid lip and tranquil blood, 
 Th<- I [angman 1 d, 
 
 B gsing with solemn texl and word 
 Th<- Gallows-drop and strangling cordj 
 Lending the sacred I iwe 
 
 Ami sanction to the crime of Law. 
 
74 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He saw the victim's tortured brow — 
 
 The sweat of anguish starting there — 
 The record of a nameless woe 
 In the dim eye's imploring stare, 
 Seen hideous through the long, damp hair — 
 Fingers of ghastly skin and bone 
 Working and writhing on the stone ! — 
 And heard, by mortal terror wrung 
 From heaving breast and stiffened tongue, 
 
 The choaking sob and low hoarse prayer ; 
 As o'er his half-crazed fancy came 
 A vision of th' eternal flame — 
 Its smoking cloud of agonies — 
 Its demon-worm that never dies — 
 The everlasting rise and fall 
 Of fire-waves round the infernal wall ; 
 While high above that dark red flood, 
 Black, giant-like, the Gallows stood : 
 Two busy fiends attending there ; 
 One with cold mocking rite and prayer, 
 The other, with impatient grasp, 
 Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp ! 
 
 y. 
 The unfelt rite at length was done — 
 
 The prayer unheard at length was said — 
 An hour had passed : — the noon-day sun 
 
 Smote on the features of the dead ! 
 
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 75 
 
 And he who stood the doomed bei 
 Calm ganger of the swelling tide 
 Of mortal agony and fear, 
 Heeding with curious eye and ear 
 What the keen 
 
 Of man'i extren* 
 
 And who in that dark anguish saw 
 
 An earnesl of the victim's I 
 The vengeful tern Pa law, 
 
 The kindling! ol Efc Elate — 
 
 The lii Bl drops of that fiery rain 
 
 Which beats the dark red realm of Pain, — 
 Did he uplift bit 
 
 A gainst il"' crime of Law, wl, 
 irother to that fearful giare, 
 Whereon I lope's moonlight m 
 
 Ami Faith's white blossoms never s 
 To the soft breath of Memory 1 : — 
 
 Which sent a spirit marred and stain 
 
 By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, 
 
 In madneai and in blindness stark, 
 
 Into the silent, unknown dark r 
 
 No — from the wild and shrinking dread 
 
 With which he saw the victim led 
 Beneath the dark veil which dh 
 Ever the living from the dead. 
 
 And Nature's solemn secret hii 
 The man of prayer can only draw 
 
 New reasons for his bloody Law : 
 
76 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 
 
 New faith in staying Murder's hand 
 
 By murder at that Law's command ; 
 
 New reverence for the Gallows-rope, 
 
 As human nature's latest hope ; 
 
 Last relic of the good old time, 
 
 When Power found license for its crime, 
 
 And held a writhing world in check 
 
 By that fell cord about its neck ; 
 
 Stifled Sedition's rising shout, 
 
 Choked the young breath of Freedom out, 
 
 And timely checked the words which sprung 
 
 From Heresy's forbidden tongue ; 
 
 While in its noose of terror bound, 
 
 The Church its cherished union found, 
 
 Conforming, on the Moslem plan, 
 
 The motley-colored mind of man, 
 
 Not by the Koran and the Sword, 
 
 But by the Bible and the Cord ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, Thou ! at whose rebuke the grave 
 Back to warm life its sleeper gave, 
 Beneath whose sad and tearful glance 
 The cold and changed countenance 
 Broke the still horror of its trance, 
 And waking, saw with joy above, 
 A brother's face of tenderest love ; 
 Thou, unto whcm the blind and lame, 
 The sorrowing and the sin-sick came, 
 
THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 77 
 
 And from thy very gUTflMDt'l bem 
 Drew lift and healing unto them, 
 
 The burden of Thy holy faith 
 
 Was lore and life, not hat ath 
 
 Man's demon ministers of 1 
 
 The fiends of his : 
 From Thy 
 
 To their dark home again* 
 Thy nam ■■ ! What, tin 
 
 Who in that Dame the 1 1 
 
 An aw fwl altar huilt bo Tb 
 With Bac Mood an 
 
 Oh, once again Thy healing lay 
 
 On the blind eyei which know T 
 And let the light of Thy pure 
 
 M It in upon his darkened thought 
 
 n his hard, cold heart, and show 
 
 The power « bioh in Porbearao 
 
 And let him feel thai Here] d 
 
 tter than old - 
 
 VII. 
 
 As on the White Sea's* charmed Bh< 
 
 The Pa - bis holy lull 
 
 * Amon? the Tartars, the Ces^naa is known si '. that i», 
 
 White Sea, Baku, «'n Ui Penan tide, i^ n marksbu tor it;, pi 
 ual tin-, scarcely discoverable under tin- pitch] ■nake from 
 
 the bitumen which kids it. It is the natural hre-ultar of the old 
 
 Persian worship. 
 
78 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 
 
 With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained o'er, 
 Yet knows beneath them, evermore, 
 
 The low, pale fire is quivering still ; 
 So underneath its clouds of sin, 
 
 The heart of man retaineth yet 
 Gleams of its holy origin ; 
 
 And half-quenched stars that never set, 
 Dim colors of its faded bow, 
 
 And early beauty, linger there, 
 And o'er its wasted desert blow 
 
 Faint breathings of its morning air. 
 Oh ! never yet upon the scroll 
 Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul, 
 
 Hath Heaven inscribed " Despair ! " 
 Cast not the clouded gem away, 
 Quench not the dim but living ray — 
 
 My brother man, Beware ! 
 With that deep voice which from the skies 
 Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, 
 
 God's angel cries, Forbear ! 
 
THE CYPEESS TREE OF < T.YLON. 
 
 Ins Batuta, ili' 1 oelel I If otsalman traveller of the foorte< 
 century, speaks ol t Cypress tree in Ceylon, universally l 
 by tin' natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only u certain 
 intervals, end be who bad the hap 
 
 ■M restored, at once, to youth and vigor. 'I rut several 
 
 venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motii 
 tree, patiently awaiting the (ailing of a I 
 
 Thbt sal in silent watchful] 
 
 The sacred c) press tree about, 
 An«l. from beneath old wrinkled brows 
 
 Their failing eyes looked out 
 
 Gn ' nd Sickness wailing tin 
 Through weary nighl and lingering day — 
 
 Grim as the idols at their side 
 Ann motionless as they. 
 
 Unheeded in the boughs ab 
 The sonj Ion's birdi eel ; 
 
 Unseen of them the island flow i 
 
 Bloomed brightly at their feet 
 
80 THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON. 
 
 O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, 
 The thunder crashed on rock and hill ; 
 
 The cloud-fire on their eye-balls blazed, 
 Yet there they waited still ! 
 
 What was the world without to them ? 
 
 The Moslem's sunset-call — the dance 
 Of Ceylon's maids — the passing gleam 
 
 Of battle-flag, and lance ? 
 
 They waited for that falling leaf, 
 
 Of which the wandering Jogees sing : 
 
 Which lends once more to wintry Age 
 The greenness of its spring. 
 
 Oh ! — 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 : 
 
THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEY 81 
 
 Shall we grow weary in our watch 
 
 And murmur at uY lay r 
 
 [mpatienl of o ir F ith< 
 
 And Hia app y \ 
 
 Allurr- and claim I 
 When 00 tin- beathen watci 
 
 Their poweiieei murn 
 
 A ' faith 
 
 Than prison < - « - 1 1 <»r m 
 
 Tli< 
 
 may DM 
 
 v. rd ua hrr. 
 
 irother in the a rong 
 And in the ear of P Power 
 
 r warning 
 
 ! '. Peter 1 
 
 Than " o humbling 
 
 at things,' 1 like the & i lord 
 I I D do and • 
 
 . ! we shrink from Jon 
 Prom waters which al< iwt : 
 
 And murmur for Abana'a hanks 
 i Pharpar's brighter ware. 
 
 (J 
 
82 THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLO>\ 
 
 Oh 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 ! 
 
CHALKLEY HALL. 
 
 1 1 i 
 1 
 
 ' — 
 
 IT re while the market murmurs, while men throng 
 
 The marble fl 
 Of Mammon 1 ! titer, from the crab and din 
 Of the world'l r in 
 
 My bl ttei thought! 
 
 ■ Chalklry Hall, near Frankford, Pa. the residence of Thomas 
 KLEY.an»: tfb denominate.; 
 
 was one o! ml, which 
 
 was j -onts a quaint but beautiful picture of a 
 
 dneas. He was the master of a 
 merchant vessel, and. in !. 
 
 Britain, omitted no opportun. - fhis 
 
 fellow men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in the 
 summer of 1838, the quiet and beauuful scenery around the ancient 
 Tillage of Frankford. frequently attracted me from the heat and tustle 
 of the 
 
84 CHALKLEY HALL. 
 
 Oh ! once again revive, while on my ear 
 
 The cry of Gain 
 And low hoarse hum of Traffic dies away, 
 Ye blessed memories of my early day 
 
 Like sere grass wet with rain ! — 
 
 Once more let God's green earth and sunset air 
 
 Old feelings waken ; 
 Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, 
 Oh, let me feel that my good angel still 
 
 Hath not his trust forsaken. 
 
 And well do time and place befit my mood : 
 
 Beneath the arms 
 Of this embracing wood, a good man made 
 His home, like Abraham resting in the shade 
 
 Of Mamre's lonely palms. 
 
 Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years, 
 
 The virgin soil 
 Turned from the share he guided, and in rain 
 And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain, 
 
 Which blessed his honest toil. 
 
 Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas, 
 
 Weary and worn, 
 He came to meet his children, and to bless 
 The Giver of all good in thankfulness 
 
 And praise for his return. 
 
CHALKLEY HALL. 85 
 
 And here his i thered in to greet 
 
 Their friend again, 
 from the wave and the destroyin a 
 b reap ontinm 
 
 rex the < ferrib main. 
 
 To hear the good man tell of nth, 
 
 Sown in an hour 
 ( )f weaki me far-off In«i 
 
 From the parched bosom of a bai 
 
 B . up in life and pon CT ! 
 
 How at those gath< 
 
 \ ■< odering love 
 
 Came o'er him, lik<- the gei n. 
 
 And \\<»rd> ot* fitness to his |i] 
 And strength as from abi i • 
 
 the sad captive listened to the Word, 
 
 [Jnul his chain 
 ( Jrew lighter, and his w< tnd< d spirit felt 
 The healing halm of consolation melt 
 
 Upon its Life-long pain : 
 
 How the armed warrior sate him down to i. 
 
 ( >!' Peace and Truth, 
 And the proud Ruler and hia I 
 Jewelled and gorgeous in her 
 
 And fair and bright-eyed youth. 
 
86 CHALKLEY HALL. 
 
 Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, 
 
 Even when a boy, 
 Following my plough by Merrimack's green shore, 
 His simple record I have pondered o'er 
 
 With deep and quiet joy. 
 
 And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm — 
 
 Its woods around, 
 Its still stream winding on in light and shade, 
 Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade — 
 
 To me is holy ground. 
 
 And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps 
 
 His vigils still ; 
 Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, 
 Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade, 
 
 Or Virgil's laurelled hill. 
 
 To the grey walls of fallen Paraclete, 
 
 To Juliet's urn, 
 Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange grove 
 Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love 
 
 Like sister pilgrims turn. 
 
 But here a deeper and serener charm 
 
 To all is given ; 
 And blessed memories of the faithful dead 
 O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed 
 
 The holy hues of Heaven ! 
 
TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND/ 
 
 . brothers ! — In the fight 
 
 ^ • ' : ul, 
 
 For better is j right 
 
 Than kingcraft's triple mail. 
 
 Than tyrant's Ian , or bigot's ban 
 More mighty is your simplest vrord; 
 
 The free heart of an honest man 
 Than crosier or the sword. 
 
 ( So — 1- • your bloat ! Church r 
 Tin* lesson it has learned so well ; 
 
 li moves not with its prayer 
 The gab i of 1 leaven or bell. 
 
 * It can scarcely i the suthot reiVrs to those 
 
 who an' Melting the rii'iitiii of political • tain, by 
 
 peaceful and christian means— the National Compl 
 Association, at the head of which H 
 minffham. 
 
TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Let the State scaffold rise again — 
 Did Freedom die when Russel died ? 
 
 Forget ye how the blood of Vane 
 From earth's green bosom cried ? 
 
 The great hearts of your olden time 
 Are beating with you, full and strong ; 
 
 All holy memories and sublime 
 And glorious round ye throng. 
 
 The bluff, bold men of Runnymede 
 Are with ye still in times like these ; 
 
 The shades of England's mighty dead, 
 Your cloud of witnesses ! 
 
 The truths ye urge are borne abroad 
 
 By every wind and every tide ; 
 The voice of Nature and of God 
 
 Speaks out upon your side. 
 
 The weapons which your hands have found 
 Are those which Heaven itself has wrought, 
 
 Light, Truth, and Love ; — your battle-ground 
 The free, broad field of Thought. 
 
 No partial, selfish purpose breaks 
 
 The simple beauty of your plan, 
 Nor lie from throne or altar shakes 
 
 Your steady faith in man. 
 
TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The languid pulse of Englan 
 
 And bounds beneath your words of pow< 
 Tin; beating of her million h< 
 a ith you at this hour ! 
 
 Ami Thou who, with undoubl 
 
 Through presenl cloud and gathering storm 
 Canst see the Bpan of Fn i dom'a 
 
 And Bunshine soft and warm, — 
 
 ( )li, pure Reformer ! — not in vi 
 Thy generous trust in human kind j 
 
 The good which bloodshed could 
 Thy peaceful zeal ihaJl fincL 
 
 P on ! — the triumph shall l><- woo 
 
 ( tf common rights and equal la 
 The glorioua dream of 1 1 ton, 
 
 Sidne) ' »ld ( !ause. 
 
 ' ' r and the Crown, 
 ag worn Labor*! b 
 And, plucking oot the highest down, 
 Lifting the lowest up. 
 
 i on ! — and we who may oot bo 
 The toil or glory of 3 our fight, 
 
 May ask, at least, in earnest pray< r, 
 I icd'a Messing on the Right ! 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 4 
 
 The blast from Freedom's northern hills, upon its 
 Southern way, 
 
 Bears greeting to Virginia, from Massachusetts Bay : — 
 
 No word of haughty challenging, nor battle-bugle's 
 peal, 
 
 Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horse- 
 men's steel. 
 
 No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our high- 
 ways go — 
 
 Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow ; 
 
 And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their er- 
 rands far, 
 
 A thousand sails of Commerce swell, but none are 
 spread for War. 
 
 We hear thy threats, Virginia ! thy stormy words and 
 high, 
 
 a Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the citizens 
 of Norfolk (Va.) in reference to George Latimer, the alleged fugi- 
 tive slave, the result of whose case in Massachusetts will probably 
 be similar to that of the negro Somerset in England, in 1772. 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 91 
 
 Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along 
 our sky : 
 
 Yet, not one brown, hard hand ts honest la- 
 
 bor here ; 
 
 No hewer of our mountain te in 
 
 Wild are the ware* which lash t! ■ 
 : i k , 
 
 and 
 dank ; 
 
 Through storm, and wave, and blind 
 the hearts a hicfa man 
 The fiahing-smac i I : 
 
 1 \;m. 
 
 Tin- N rth light, and a 
 
 for 
 
 the storms ; 
 I as the winds they drivt 
 
 tin y roam, 
 They laugh to scorn the Blaver'a th their 
 
 .y home. 
 
 What means the old Dominion ; I la: h - the 
 
 day 
 
 roquered valleys swept the Bri 
 array : 
 
92 MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 
 
 How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachusetts 
 
 men 
 Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Corn- 
 
 wallis, then ? 
 
 Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call 
 Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Fan- 
 
 euil Hall ? 
 When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing on 
 
 each breath 
 Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of ' Liberty 
 
 or Death ! ' 
 
 What asks the Old Dominion ? If now her sons have 
 
 proved 
 False to their father's memory — false to the faith they 
 
 loved ; 
 If she can scoff at Freedom, and its Great Charter 
 
 spurn, 
 Must we of Massachusetts from Truth and Duty turn ? 
 
 We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hateful 
 
 hell — 
 Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhounds' 
 
 yell- 
 We gather, at your summons, above our fathers' 
 
 graves, 
 From Freedom's holy altar horns to tear your wretched 
 
 slaves ! 
 
: TS TO VIRGINIA. 93 
 
 Thank God ! not vilely can M 
 
 bow, 
 spirit of her early time is with her even now ; 
 Dream not because her pilgrim blood a* . and 
 
 calm, and cool, 
 thus can stoop her chainleM neck, a 
 
 and tool ! 
 
 All that a si ■ [d do, all thai 
 
 DM . 
 
 I [eart, hand, and purse we 
 
 But that on»- dark loathsOUM 
 
 with alone, 
 And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have 
 
 -oWll ! 
 
 Hold, while ye may, your struggling -lav. s, and burden 
 
 ( Sod'i 
 With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and manh< 
 
 wild despair : 
 Cling closer to the ' that wr 
 
 your j > ' .- 1 i 1 1 < , 
 The blasting of Aim ith against a Ian 
 
 cha 
 
 Still shame your gallant ancesfv, \}\. 
 By watching round the shamHrs where hum;.:, 
 sold — 
 
94 MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 
 
 Gloat o'er the new-born child, and count his market 
 
 value, when 
 The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the 
 
 slaver's den ! 
 
 Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginian 
 
 name ; 
 Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest 
 
 weeds of shame ; 
 Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe — 
 We wash our hands forever, of your sin, and shame, 
 
 and curse. 
 
 A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's 
 
 shrine hath been, 
 Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's 
 
 mountain men : 
 The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering 
 
 still 
 In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill. 
 
 And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for 
 
 his prey 
 Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of grey, 
 How, through the free lips of the son, the father's 
 
 warning spoke ; 
 How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city 
 
 broke ! 
 
MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRCIN: 95 
 
 A hundred thousand r i L_ r ! 1 1 arms were lined up on high, 
 A hundred thousand roi< hack their loud 
 
 y ; 
 
 Through the thronged ton Ming 
 
 And up from bench and loom and \vl, me- 
 
 dia 
 
 The voice of free, broad Middl 
 
 of one — 
 The shaft of Bunk< L »n — 
 
 N 
 
 • ind 
 
 To where Nantucli 
 
 round ; 
 
 From rich and rural \ through the 
 
 calm rep 
 
 Ofcultup ud fringing woods the gi • N -hua 
 
 flow I, 
 To where Wochusett'a wintry blasts the n 
 
 larches stir, 
 
 Swelled up to heaven the thrilling cry I 
 Latimer ! ' 
 
 And sandy Barnstable rosu up, wet with the salt sea 
 
 spray — 
 And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragan- 
 
 sett Bay I 
 
96 MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 
 
 Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the 
 
 thrill, 
 And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down 
 
 from Holyoke Hill. 
 
 The voice of Massachusetts ! Of her free sons and 
 
 daughters — 
 Deep calling unto deep aloud — the sound of many 
 
 waters ! 
 Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power 
 
 shall stand ? 
 No fetters in the Bay State ! No slave upon her land ! 
 
 Look to it well, Virginians ! In calmness we have borne, 
 
 In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your 
 scorn ; 
 
 You 've spurned our kindest counsels — you've hunted 
 for our lives — 
 
 And shaken round our hearths and homes your mana- 
 cles and gyves ! 
 
 We wage no war — we lift no arm — we fling no torch 
 
 within 
 The fire-damps of the quaking mine beneath your soil 
 
 of sin ; 
 We leave ye with your bondmen — to wrestle while ye 
 
 can, 
 With the strong upward tendencies and God-like soul 
 
 of man ! 
 
-SACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 97 
 
 But for us and fur our children, the vow which we have 
 
 . en 
 For Freedom and humanity, a : 
 
 No slave-hunt in o — M ptTtffC on OW strand ! 
 
 No fetters in the Buy State — no slate upon uur Land ' 
 
LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. 
 
 " Ye build the tombs of the prophets." — Holy Writ. 
 
 Yes — pile the marble o'er him ! It is well 
 
 That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, 
 And planted in the pathway of his life 
 
 The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, 
 Who clamored down the bold reformer when 
 He pleaded for his captive fellow men, 
 
 Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought 
 Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind 
 
 In party chains the free and honest thought, 
 The angel utterance of an upright mind, — 
 
 Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise 
 
 The stony tribute of your tardy praise, 
 
 For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame 
 Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders 1 shame ! 
 
 
TO 
 
 WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN S JOURNAL. 
 
 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 a power like Midas, 
 
 All things into gold. 
 
 " Get the writings of John Woolman by heart. '' — Essays of Eli a . 
 
100 TO . 
 
 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 self-same sun. 
 
 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. 
 
TO . 101 
 
 All the mystery ot 
 
 1 1 <• 1 1 } i upon thy spirit pre nod — 
 Thoughts which, like the Deluge wand< 
 
 Find do place of n 
 
 That which mystic Plato pondi r 
 
 That which Zeno beard with ;; 
 Ami the star-* rapl Zon i 
 
 In bis night-watch 
 
 Prom the douht and darkness springing 
 
 ( )f the dim, uncertain I 
 
 Moving to the dark still ahad< 
 
 I »"■ r the Future c 
 Early hath Life's might] 
 
 Thrilled within thy heart of youth 
 With a deep and BtTOUg beseech 
 
 What and wbjuu i ra : 
 
 1 Follow creed and <■< reinonial 
 Whence the ancient life hath A 
 
 Idle faith unknown to act 
 
 Dull, ami cold, and dead. 
 
 Oracles, whose wire-worked meai 
 
 Only wake a quiet scorn, — 
 Not from these thj spirit 
 
 Hath its answer drawn. 
 
102 to . 
 
 But, like some tired child at even 
 On thy Mother Nature's breast, 
 
 Thou methinks, art vainly seeking 
 Truth, and Peace, and Rest. 
 
 O'er that mother's rushed features 
 Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, 
 
 Light and soft as woven moonbeams, 
 Beautiful and frail ! 
 
 O'er the rough chart of Existence, 
 Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, 
 
 Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, 
 And cool fountains flow. 
 
 And to thee an answer cometh 
 From the earth and from the sky, 
 
 And to thee the hills and waters, 
 And the stars reply. 
 
 But a soul-sufficing answer 
 
 Hath no outward origin ; 
 More than Nature's many voices 
 
 May be heard within. 
 
 Even as the dark Augustine 
 
 Questioned earth and sea and sky, a 
 And the dusty tomes of learning 
 And old poesy. 
 * August. Sililoq. cap. xxxi. " Interrogavi Terrain," &c. 
 
to . 103 
 
 But h 
 
 More than outward Nal 
 More 1 it the po< •" 
 
 Or t ; - thought. 
 
 Only in the gather* 
 
 ( )f a calm and waiting frame 
 Light and wisdom I 
 the seek< i 
 
 Not to ease and ainih -> quiet 
 
 I I ii that inward answer tend, 
 But tO works of love and <! 
 
 A 'a end, — 
 
 to idle dreams and trair 
 
 I . gth of face, and solemn 
 But to Faith, in daily strii ing 
 And performance shown. 
 
 Earnest toil and strong end. 
 
 ( H a spirit which within 
 Wrestles with familiar evil 
 
 And besetting sin. 
 
 And w ithout, with * 
 
 dy heart and weapon strong, 
 In the power of Troth assailing 
 
 ry form of i rung. 
 
104 to . 
 
 Guided thus, how passing lovely 
 Is the track of Woolman's feet ! 
 
 And his brief and simple record 
 How serenely sweet ! 
 
 O'er life's humblest duties throwing 
 Light the earthling never knew, 
 
 Freshening all its dark waste places 
 As with Hermon's dew. 
 
 All which glows in Pascal's pages — 
 All which sainted Guion sought, 
 
 Or the blue-eyed German Rahel 
 Half-unconscious taught : — 
 
 Beauty, such as Goethe pictures 
 Such as shines in Richter's lay, 
 
 Shed its living warmth and brightness 
 Round that poor man's way. 
 
 Not a vain and cold ideal 
 Not a poet's dream alone, 
 
 But a presence warm and real 
 Seen and felt and known. 
 
 When the red right hand of slaughter 
 Moulders with the steel it swung, 
 
 When the name of seer and poet 
 Dies on memory's tongue, 
 
To . 105 
 
 All bright thoughts and pure shall gather 
 H and that meek and _■ one — 
 
 Glorious, like tl 
 
 nding in the nin ! 
 
 Take the good man's book and pot 
 
 What Ltfl — 
 
 Blessed aa the band of beal 
 
 If it onl\ 
 
 I [ -I, 
 
 the fount of In ing ■ 
 And diviner I 
 
 If the pride of human reason 
 
 I meek and still reb 
 
 Quailing like the eye of P( 
 
 From th I — 
 
 If w itb readier ear thou h<< i 
 What the Inward Teacher saith, 
 
 I . ting with a willing spirit 
 And a childlike faith, — 
 
 Thou may'sl live to h!rss the gii 
 
 Who himself hut frail and weak, 
 
 Would at least the highest welfare 
 
 ek ; 
 
106 to . 
 
 And his gift, though poor and lowly 
 It may seem to other eyes, 
 
 Yet may prove an angel holy 
 In a pilgrim's guise. 
 
M J:.M OKIES. 
 
 A beat run. and happy «_ri rl 
 
 With mii'T air, 
 
 Ami i\->-\i young lip and bron 
 Shadowed by many a i url 
 
 ( >f unconfined and Sou iog bail : 
 A eming child in ever] thing 
 
 itflll brOW, and rip nib, 
 
 A \ ■ . m die of Spi 
 
 When sinking into Summer's arms. 
 
 A mind rejoicing in the light 
 
 Which melted through its graceful bowi r, 
 Leaf aft< • aely bright 
 
 And stainless in its holy white 
 
 Unfolding like a morning (lower: 
 A heart) which, like a fine-toned lute 
 
 With every breath of feetii 
 Ami, even a hen the long mute, 
 
 From eye and lip in music spoke. 
 
108 MEMORIES. 
 
 How thrills once more the lengthening chain 
 
 Of memory at the thought of thee ! — 
 Old hopes which long in dust have lain, 
 Old dreams come thronging back again. 
 
 And boyhood lives again in me ; 
 I feel its glow upon my cheek, 
 
 Its fulness of the heart is mine 
 As when I leaned to hear thee speak, 
 
 Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 
 
 I hear again thy low replies, 
 
 I feel thy arm within my own, 
 And timidly again uprise 
 The fringed lids of hazel eyes 
 
 With soft brown tresses overblown. 
 Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves, 
 
 Of moonlit wave and willowy way, 
 Of stars and flowers and dewy leaves, 
 
 And smiles and tones more dear than they ! 
 
 Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled 
 
 My picture of thy youth to see, 
 When half a woman, half a child, 
 Thy very artlessness beguiled, 
 
 And folly's self seemed wise in thee, 
 I too can smile, when o'er that hour 
 
 The lights of memory backward stream, 
 Yet feel the while that manhood's power 
 
 Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 
 
MORIES. 109 
 
 Med on, and left their trace 
 ( >i' graver care and deeper thought ; 
 And unto me the calm, i 
 
 < )!" iiruiii i. and ' 
 
 roman'a pensive beauty bro 
 ( )n I, ■ >r blame or pi 
 
 The Bcho y flown ; 
 
 Thine, in the green ;m<l qu i 
 
 mbtrurii i b know n. 
 
 And s ider yet in thought am] d< i 
 
 -till diverging paths incline, 
 Thine the ( Jen 
 While answers to mj need 
 
 The Yorkshire pea 'inc. 
 
 For thee the priestly rite and praj 
 And holy day and solemn psalm, 
 
 me the sileni reverence « Ik 
 .My brethren \ m and i 
 
 Yet hath thy spirit lefl on me 
 
 An impn n Time h is worn not out, 
 
 An<l something of myself in the-, 
 
 A shadow from the past, ! 
 
 Lingering even yet thy way shout ; 
 
 Not wholly can the heart unlearn 
 
 That leSSOn i r hours, 
 
 N t lias Time's dull footstep worn 
 T common dust that path ^t' flov 
 
110 MEMORIES. 
 
 Thus, while at times before our eye 
 
 The clouds about the present part, 
 And, smiling through them, round us lie 
 Soft hues of Memory's morning sky — 
 
 The Indian summer of the heart, 
 In secret sympathies of mind, 
 
 In founts of feeling which retain 
 Their pure fresh flow, we yet may find 
 
 Our early dreams not wholly vain 1 
 
THE DEMON OF THE STUDY/ 
 
 The Brownie sits in the Scotchman 9 ! room, 
 And eats his meat and drinks hii 
 
 And heat- the maid with her nmmed hroom, 
 And the lazy lout with his idle Hail, 
 
 But he sweeps the ' and threshes the corn, 
 
 And hies him away ere the break of dawn. 
 
 The shade of Denmark ll««l from the sun, 
 And the Cocklane ghost from the barn I 
 
 The fiend ofFausI \\;i- a faithful 
 Agrippa's demoo wrought in fear, 
 
 And the devil of Martin Luther 
 
 By the stoul Monk's tide in social chat 
 
 The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him 
 Who seven times crossed the deep, 
 
 Twined Closely each lean and withered limb, 
 
 Like the night-mare in one's sleep. 
 
 But he drank of the wine, and Sinbad 
 
 The <' v il weighl from his back at last. 
 
 * From unpublished i Qjutl Man."' 
 
112 THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 
 
 But the demon that cometh day by day 
 To my quiet room and fire-side nook, 
 
 Where the casement light falls dim and gray 
 On faded painting and ancient book, 
 
 Is a sorrier one than any whose names 
 
 Are chronicled well by good king James. 
 
 No bearer of burdens like Caliban, 
 
 No runner of errands like Ariel, 
 He comes in the shape of a fat old man, 
 
 Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell : 
 And whence he comes, or whither he goes, 
 I know as I do of the wind which blows. 
 
 A stout old man with a greasy hat 
 
 Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose, 
 And two grey eyes enveloped in fat, 
 
 Looking through glasses with iron bows. 
 Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can, 
 Guard well your doors from that fat old man ! 
 
 He comes with a careless " how d' ye do," 
 And seats himself in my elbow chair; 
 
 And my morning paper and pamphlet new 
 Fall forthwith under his special care, 
 
 And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat, 
 
 And, button by button, unfolds his coat. 
 
THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 113 
 
 And then he n i paper and hook, 
 
 In ;i low and husk 
 With the stolid samem sa of od look, 
 
 me w ho readi to himself alone ; 
 And hour after hour on mj • ime 
 
 Thai husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. 
 
 The j . the aucl i 
 
 The i_ r and !h<- lo\ • 
 
 The horrible murd< 
 
 The marriage lisl and the rif, 
 
 All reach my ear in th<- self-same tone, — 
 1 shudder al each, but the fiend reads on ! 
 
 ( >h ! swe< t as the lapse of water at noon 
 
 ( Per the moss) roota of son 
 The sigh of the wind in the woo la of J 
 
 ( )r Bound of flutes o'er a moonlight 
 Or the Ion aofl urn mce u hich w i 
 
 I\» float through th 
 
 So bv lear ia ih<' silvery I 
 
 i tf her in whose feal 
 As I sit at eve !»\ her side alone, 
 
 And we read l»_\ turns from th< — 
 
 Some tale perhaps of tin- olden li 
 Borne lover'a romance or quaint old rh. 
 8 
 
114 THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 
 
 Then when the story is one of woe, — 
 
 Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar. 
 
 Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low 
 Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; 
 
 And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, 
 
 And his face looks on me worn and pale. 
 
 And when she reads some merrier song, 
 Her voice is glad as an April bird's, 
 
 And when the tale is of war and wrong, 
 A trumpet's summons is in her words, 
 
 And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, 
 
 And see the tossing of plume and spear ! — 
 
 Oh, pity me then when, day by day, 
 
 The stout fiend darkens my parlor door ; 
 
 And reads me perchance the self-same lay 
 Which melted in music the night before, 
 
 From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet, 
 
 And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet ! 
 
 I cross my floor with a nervous tread, 
 I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, 
 
 I flourish my cane above his head, 
 And stir up the fire to roast him out ; 
 
 I topple the chains, and drum on the pane, 
 
 And press my hands on my ears, in vain ! 
 
THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 115 
 
 I 've studied Glanville and James t ; 
 
 And vizard blac which treat 
 
 ( )f demom of every name 
 
 •li a ( Christian man ia presumed 
 Bat n« \< r b hint and never a I 
 Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. 
 
 I V r with Brady and '1 
 
 laid the P them all, 
 
 I \>- nailed a nor* 
 
 A v parlor wall 
 
 • \\<»rn by a |( 
 
 At Salem coon in tb< 
 
 " Covjur< 
 
 Abirt ad lunm Jorum ! " — still 
 
 Like a visible nightmare be Bits by me — 
 
 Th< its ^kill ; 
 
 And I I i in my haunted room 
 
 The husky w beeze and th< - hum I 
 
 Ah! — commend me to Mary V 
 
 With herseven-fold plagu< - — to the wand< 
 
 To the tenors w hich haunt 
 The i'h: dnight curtains drew. 
 
 But charm him <»tl'. ye who charm him can, 
 That reading demon, that fat old man ! — 
 
THE RELIC 
 
 Pennsylvania Hall, dedicated to Free Discussion, and the cause 
 of human liberty, was destroyed by a mob in 1833. The following 
 was written on receiving a cane wrought from a fragment of the 
 wood work which the fire had spared. 
 
 Token of friendship true and tried, 
 From one whose fiery heart of youth 
 
 With mine has beaten, side by side, 
 For Liberty and Truth ; 
 
 With honest pride the gift I take 
 
 And prize it for the giver's sake. 
 
 But not alone because it tells 
 
 Of generous hand and heart sincere, 
 
 Around that gift of friendship dwells 
 A memory doubly dear — 
 
 Earth's noblest aim — man's holiest thought, 
 
 With that memorial frail inwrought ! 
 
THE IIUC. 117 
 
 Pure thoughts and sweet, li] - unfold 
 
 And pn cio is memories round it cling, 
 
 Even as the Prophet 1 ! rod of old 
 In 1" 
 
 And buds of f< eling pure and L r, ««d 
 
 Spring from its cold unconscious wood, 
 
 shrine — a brand 
 Plucked from its burning] — let it l>o 
 
 el from the hand 
 
 :. I : ! — 
 
 Flower <»t" a perished garland left, 
 Of life and beauty unb< 
 
 ( )h ! if the young enth lts 
 
 < Per weary iraste and sea the si 
 Which crumbled from the Forum 1 
 
 ( >r round tin- Parthen 
 
 re-bough from some \\ ild tr 
 Hung over old ThermopylsB : 
 
 [f leaflets from some he: 
 
 Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary, — 
 ( hr faded Bowers a rs bloom 
 
 ( )n fields renowned in story, — 
 Or fragment from the Alhambra 1 
 Oi the grey reek by Druids blessed ! — 
 
118 THE RELIC. 
 
 If Erin's shamrock greenly growing 
 Where Freedom led her stalwart kern, 
 
 Or Scotia's " rough bur thistle " blowing 
 On Bruce's Bannockburn — 
 
 Or Runnymede's wild English rose, 
 
 Or lichen plucked from Sempach's snows ! — 
 
 If it be true that things like these 
 
 To heart and eye bright visions bring, 
 
 Shall not far holier memories 
 To this memorial cling ? 
 
 Which needs no mellowing mist of time 
 
 To hide the crimson stains of crime ! 
 
 Wreck of a temple, unprofaned — 
 
 Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod, 
 
 Lifting on high with hands unstained 
 Thanksgiving unto God ; 
 
 Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading 
 
 For human hearts in bondage bleeding : 
 
 Where midst the sound of rushing feet 
 And curses on the night air flung, 
 
 That pleading voice rose calm and sweet 
 From woman's earnest tongue ; 
 
 And, Riot turned his scowling glance, 
 
 Awed, from her tranquil countenance ! 
 
THE RELIC. 119 
 
 That Temple now in ruin lies, — 
 
 The fire-Stain on red wall, 
 
 And open to the changing -kies 
 •lack and rooflen hall, 
 dos before a N ghl 
 
 buried Ri 
 
 But from thai ruin, as of old, 
 
 The fire-scorched stones th< ms< lying, 
 
 And from their ash* 
 
 bs 1 are replj ii 
 
 A voice which slavery cannot kill 
 Speaks from the crumbling arches -till! 
 
 Ami even thifl relic from thy Bhlilie 
 
 ( )h. ; m ! — hath to me 
 
 A potent power, a voice and 
 To testify of ih- 
 
 Ami u r i-as|MHLT i' methinkfl I feel 
 \ faith, a si . • al. 
 
 And not unlike thai mystic rod 
 
 ( >t old Btretched o'er the Egj ptian a 
 Which opened, in the strength of (iud, 
 A pathway for the sla 
 
 It yet may point the bondman f i Way 
 And turn the Bpoilei lVum his prey. 
 
EXTRACT FROM "A NEW ENGLAND 
 LEGEND." 
 
 How has New England's romance fled, 
 
 Even as a vision of the morning ! 
 Its rites fordone — its guardians dead — 
 Its priestesses, bereft of dread, 
 
 Waking the veriest urchin's scorning ! — 
 Gone like the Indian wizard's yell 
 
 And fire-dance round the magic rock, 
 Forgotten like the Druid's spell 
 
 At moonrise by his holy oak ! 
 No more along the shadowy glen, 
 Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; 
 No more the unquiet church-yard dead 
 Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, 
 
 Startling the traveller, late and lone ; 
 As, on some night of starless weather, 
 They silently commune together, 
 
 Each sitting on his own head-stone ! 
 The roofless house, decayed, deserted, 
 Its living tenants all departed, 
 
EXTRACT. 121 
 
 :]L r <-r rioga with midnigl ' 
 Of witch, <>r ghost, or goblin « • \ i 1 ; 
 N . blue flame sends out 'in flasl 
 
 Through cr i! — 
 
 i witch-grass round the hazel spring, 
 
 the night* 
 But there no more shall withered i 
 esh at ease their broom-stick of . 
 "».• hazel-shadowed n at 
 A 
 
 No more their mimic ton< b be heard — 
 The mew of <;<t — the chirp of ; 
 Shrill blending \s iih the 
 ( )i' tin' fell demon follow iog sib r ! 
 
 ! ood-man nails do d 
 
 A horse-shoe on his out* r d< 
 
 ) i • tome unseemly hag should lit 
 
 To his <<u n mouth her bridle-bit — 
 
 The good-** ife'a churn no more refu 
 
 Its wonted culinary 
 
 Until, with heated oeedle burned, 
 
 The w itch has to her place returned ! 
 
 Our w itches are no longer i 
 
 And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, 
 
 But young and gay and laughing c 
 
 With the heart's sunshine <»n the - — 
 
 Their sorcery — the light which dano 
 
 Where the raised lid unveils its glano 
 
122 EXTRACT. 
 
 Or that low breathed and gentle tone 
 
 The music of Love's twilight hours, 
 Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan 
 
 Above her nightly closing flowers, 
 Sweeter than that which sighed of yore, 
 Along the charmed Ausonian shore ! 
 Even she, our own weird heroine, 
 Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn — 
 
 Sleeps calmly where the living laid her ; 
 And the wide realm of sorcery, 
 Left by its latest mistress, free, 
 
 Hath found no gray and skilled invader : 
 So perished Albion's " glammarye," 
 
 With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, 
 His charmed torch beside his knee, 
 That even the dead himself might see 
 
 The magic scroll within his keeping. 
 And now our modern Yankee sees 
 Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries ; 
 And nought above, below, around, 
 Of life or death, of sight or sound, 
 
 Whate'er its nature, form or look, 
 Excites his terror or surprise — 
 All seeming to his knowing eyes 
 Familiar as his " catechize," 
 
 Or, " Webster's Spelling Book." 
 
 THE END. 
 
Poetical 111 o r k , 
 
 Publishtil in uniform $tyl /nijnr '""' ? 00 '^ ty Ji' 
 
 \Y 1 MIA II I). TICKNOR, 
 
 , POEMS, Narratiyi \m> Lyrical; by William Moth- 
 erwell, i vol. 1 6 
 
 " There is a strain of pleasing melancholy in mat M rwcll's 
 
 poems which reminds us <.t ihe "id English ballads. This little 
 
 work will | .'.lincnt 
 
 ami pleasmnl rersificaii 
 
 ris.- from the panMal of tins follDDfl without par- 
 ticipating in 1 1 • • - editor'! wonder thai il baa MM been reprinted 
 before. There is no fe< erwell, no mawkii 
 
 timentality, no straining aAer effect, but bii Fresh, 
 
 nature] and original, teeming with ipreasion, and rich 
 
 an I appropriate i 
 tin- fine Lmas inatiou i i from which t i 
 
 POEMS, by Ufred Teonyion. 9 rob. 
 
 " Tin- perusal of tins complete edition of tin- poet will make tin: 
 reader familiar with one of the moel deeplj imaginative ami af- 
 fecting barda <>t tin' d 
 
 M Of the living )ii>' -n ol England, we include not the few choice 
 spirits of Scotland, Tennyson a! tliis time occupies perhaps as 
 eminenl a rank as any. and is destined t" i high regard." 
 
 •• There are few Living poeta, who ean he compared with Tea a y a oo, 
 m ttose peculiar distinctive oualitiea, which raise tti<' trex poet 
 to that anich apprehenaioB <•! spiritual beauty, which rurniahea 
 him wild perpetual inspiration, and to the glad World an over- 
 flow;: 
 
POETICAL WOKKS. 
 
 3. REJECTED ADDRESSES, or the New Theatrum 
 
 Poetarum ; by Horace and James Smith ; from the 19th 
 
 London edition, carefully revised, with an original preface 
 
 and notes. 
 
 " Many who recollect this work from the time of its first ap- 
 pearance, will be glad to see it again, and those who now read 
 it for the first time will find in it a rich fund of humor." 
 
 " The Rejected Addresses contain the most successful poetical 
 parodies in our language, and although Poems are proverbially 
 unprofitable to the trade, we are confident this volume will prove 
 as salable as they have always been popular." 
 
 " Rejected Addresses is an attempt to imitate the style of the cel- 
 ebrated poets of the day, and so admirable is the imitation of 
 Sir Walter Scott, he wrote to the author that he must have 
 written the article ascribed to him and mislaid it, though he 
 had then forgotten about it." 
 
 4. THE AGE OF GOLD, and other Poems ; by George 
 Lunt. 
 
 " The first poem is a rare production for the present age, both in 
 its thought, and poetical arrangement ; it is a gem-like work, 
 stamped with truth and beauty, and having a high morale about 
 it, which perfects a composition possessing all the elements of 
 true poesy." 
 
 " Mr. Lunt's aim in the c Age of Gold ' has been to prove that 
 fancy and truth may be joined in wedlock ; and that the moral 
 of the verse may be as pure as its ornaments are enticing and 
 sweet." 
 
 " The author of this volume is so well known to the public as an 
 able and accomplished writer and poet, that nothing we can say 
 in his favor is likely to advance his reputation." 
 
 5. BIRDS AND FLOWERS, and other Country 
 
 Things ; by Mary Howitt. 2d edition ; with engravings. 
 
 Extract from the Preface. " This volume has been written lit- 
 erally among birds and flowers ; and has been my pleasant 
 occupatiou through the last summer months ; and now it is com- 
 pleted, my earnest wish is, that it may convey to many a young 
 heart a relish for the enjoyment of quiet country pleasures ; a 
 love for every living creature, and that strong sympathy which 
 must grow in every pure heart for the great human family." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 
 
 o. COPLAS DE DON JORGE MANRIQ1 
 
 from tin.- Spanish, with an [otrodactoi • on the 
 
 votional Pot u\ S a ; by I* 
 Henry W. Longfellow, author; of' 1 
 
 11 JJ;i; 5. "( Nitre .M' ■ 
 
 The 6bh ' i "I ihi^ little work i» to place in the I 
 rr> o? Spanish literature the mosl beautiful i 
 
 I ]iri:n< -.i wiih the t. 
 
 fKisccllanams DjoI\0. 
 
 OON] I F AN ENGLISH OPIUM EAT] 
 
 iu.iNu \-. i - from 
 
 the last London edition. 
 
 "The American publisher this work 
 
 which he « lo fulfil iu tln^ countn or in I 
 
 i to i^m- : I 
 
 tinted \\ ilh il Iwentj yea 
 
 ditional, In- trusts its i will do| be unw< 
 
 for i In- authorship and authenticity ol i I s, M the 
 
 former has been attributed wi D I tnd the 
 
 latter is belien d lo I e unqui slioo i 
 
 • De Quincy slates the pleasures and p i'mm 
 
 isl experience. Thi motive which impelled him la 
 the book was t" warn others of the Circean spells which the 
 drug cast round it-> rictims, and t<> expose many of the errors 
 and absurdities into which physicians had fallen fi 
 experimental kn< I i - ifessi is were 
 
 nut obtruded upon the public io excite interest or coauniseratioa 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 
 
 for himself, and to add one more book to the satanic and convul- 
 sive school of literature, for he allows that "nothing is more re- 
 volting to English feelings than the spectacle of a human being 
 obtruding on our notice the moral scars or ulcers, and tearing 
 away that ' decent drapery,' which time or indulgence to human 
 frailty,' may have drawn over them." The author deemed that 
 the class of opium eaters was much larger than most people sup- 
 posed, and that ignorance of its inevitable effects led many into 
 the practice to assuage pain. It is well known that Coleridge 
 died a martyr to it. 
 
 Of the literary merits of De Quincy's book, no reader of taste 
 can be insensible. There is a naturalness about the confessions 
 which impresses the reader with their truth. The style of the 
 work is excellent, — at times flowing along majestically, and 
 bearing upon its bosom the grandest and most beautiful thoughts 
 and images, and at others dashing by with a quick, rapid motion, 
 and sparkling with wit. There is a slender vein of autobiogra- 
 phy running through the book, wnich adds much to its interest, 
 and the reader closes it with an intense sympathy for the author, 
 and an earnest wish that he had amplified his confessions in a 
 larger volume." 
 
 COMBE ON THE CONSTITUTION OF MAN, con- 
 sideied in relation to External Objects, with an Additional 
 Chapter on the Harmony between Phrenology and Reve- 
 lation ; by Joseph A. Warne, A. M. 
 
 This valuable work has already reached the 14th edition in this 
 country, and has been very much enlarged. It is universally 
 acknowledged to be one of the most important books that has 
 yet appeared, as the subjects of which it treats are all entitled 
 to the highest consideration. Among its contents are embraced 
 remarks on the natural laws of man ; on the constitution of 
 man, and its relation to external objects ; on the sources of hu- 
 man happiness, and the conditions requisite for maintaining it ; 
 on the application of the natural laws to the practical arrange- 
 ments of life ; on the calamities arising from infringements of 
 the laws of nature ; on punishments, &c. &c. 
 
 This volume is published by William D. Ticknor, to whom orders 
 for single copies, or quantities at a liberal discount, may be ad- 
 dressed. Every family in our country should be supplied with 
 copies, and no public or private library should be without them. 
 
 MENTAL CULTURE ; or the Means of Developing 
 
 the Human Faculties ; by J. L. Levison. 
 
 Extract of a Letter to the Publishers, by a Minister in the vicinity 
 of Boston. — "lam gratified to learn that you have concluded 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WOKKS. 
 
 to republish Levisoa'i ilture. I have road it with 
 
 interest, and conceive thai the principles opon which be 
 recommends ihe education "I youth t" e those 
 
 which i correspond with the nature of mat Mas in 
 
 this couutry tbej are new, but the] will not, therefore, I 
 demned. This, sun ly, is tl m« hich an 
 
 old error should I"- pn new truth I nee on 
 
 whii p l 
 
 count* i of fortune telling," when il 
 
 it will be) that, hi discoverii r « bat 
 
 be is, il afford - 1 1 1 ■ • gi 
 Peelings, and Intellectual I 
 ri ndertng him wh 
 
 cannot be too strongl) rccoinmendi m with 
 
 mind, the material on • lu< h 
 gesting i" i!i« in the pn 
 
 > tli<' pointed roll d and 
 
 ■ 
 iallj prayi i . more 
 
 num< rous. I, ut 1 greet 
 
 us they ii", from the n ith up- 
 
 rooting the foundations of religion, thej :» ti. ir. i prool that that 
 philosophy is slandered in i ."lis. 
 
 /' Rev. J. P 
 it i-, iod< ed i r i v a] one who would know a hat i 
 
 or Itmr he may !>•• mat 
 
 \ TES r\Mi:\T. .h-t published, by William I). 
 
 Ticknor, :i beaatiful L9mo edition of tl 
 
 mi n i . printed od fine paper and 1 1 i lt<>- 
 
 pctlicr thr best one of tl r printed in the country 
 
 mis type, paper and bind 
 
 • Wf hope this beautiful volume will !"• found in all <>tir fam 
 in place of those dim and contraci which rendei the 
 
 I rola to iinattnu tno in n> outward appeal 
 
 I 1 1 
 
 " This volume is printed in the taste, ii is t-l.-ar and 
 
 handsome, without I eing formal or show y. As to size and 
 we have seen no copj "I the Testament better calculated for 
 genera] u / ! I ier. 
 
 "As regards printing, paper, and binding, this is th.> best edition 
 . in the country. Such a si/o has , anted." 
 
 / ! M l ' 
 
 " I receive I with much pleasure a ropy of your late edition of the 
 
 New Testaiiunt. It IS one of the most htaulil'ul looks that 1 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 
 
 have ever seen, and I rejoice that the same skill and taste in 
 typography, which have been so successfully employed in ren- 
 dering other subjects and books attractive, have been so happily 
 applied in this instance to the sacred writings. I attach a high 
 moral importance to such editions. I believe that among per- 
 sons not religiously interested in the Bible, respect and reverence 
 for it have been diminished by the uncomely form in which it is 
 most frequently seen." Extract of a letter from Rev. Andrew 
 P. Peabody. 
 
 Prices. Sheep binding, plain, Sl,00; Roan do. do. $1.50; Calf 
 do. do. Si, 73 ; do. do. gilt edge, $2.00 ; Turkey morocco, plain, $2,50 ; 
 do. do. gilt edge, $3,00. 
 
 PHILLIPS'S MINERALOGY. 
 
 IN PRESS, and will shortly be published, by William D. 
 Ticknor, a new edition of Phillips's Mineralogy, much 
 enlarged and improved ; edited by Francis Alger, member 
 of the American Academy of Sciences, of the Boston So- 
 ciety of Natural History, &c. &c. 
 
 The additions will consist of the new minerals discovered since the 
 date of the last Knglish edition, as made known in the principal 
 foreign and American scientific journals and reports, together 
 with all the important facts and observations which have been 
 communicated through the same sources that tend to enlarge our 
 knowledge of this most interesting department of natural science. 
 
 Much new matter has been added to the crystallographical part of 
 the treatise, and about fifty new figures have been added to the 
 Introduction, besides original drawings of natural crystals among 
 the descriptions of species. Considerable additions have also 
 been made to the chemical part, with the analyses of new and 
 interesting species by Messrs. Jackson and Hayes. The com- 
 position of the minerals will be given in the usual per centage 
 form, and then by formulae expressions the atomic proportions 
 of their ingredients. The aim has been by the editor to make 
 it a useful and acceptable treatise and text-book for the student. 
 
 The publisher would add that Phillips's Treatise has proved the 
 most popular book ever published on Mineralogy, and the late 
 fourth edition, by Mr. Allan, is now nearly out of print. Pro- 
 fessor Brande, in his Dictionary of Science, thus alludes to this 
 work. "One of the most useful practiced works on mineralogy, 
 and, in our language at least, the most available for the use of the 
 student, is Mr. Allan's edition of the elementary introduction to 
 that science by the late Mr. William Phillips." 
 
M 
 
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