ucts, and many means of independence. The Government is mild. The Press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more ade quate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary than for the People to preserve what they have themselves created?
4. Already has the age caught the spirit of our institu tions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the lifeblood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France and the lowlands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North; and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that she is to be added to the catalogue of Republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is THEY WERE, BUT THEY ARE NOT? Forbid it, my countrymen! Forbid it, Heaven!
XLVIII.-LOVE OF COUNTRY AND HOME.
1 THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;-
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend;-
"Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found?"
Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around!
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
2. On Greenland's rocks, o'er rude Kamschatka's plains,
In pale Siberia's desolate domains;
When the wild hunter takes his lonely way,
Tracks through tempestuous snows his savage prey.
Or, wrestling with the might of raging seas,
Where round the Pole the eternal billows freeze,
Plucks from their jaws the stricken whale, in vain
Plunging down headlong through the whirling main;
His wastes of snow are lovelier in his eye
Than all the flowery vales beneath the sky,
And dearer far than Cæsar's palace-dome,
His cavern-shelter, and his cottage-home.
8. O'er China's garden-fields and peopled floods,
In California's pathless world of woods;
Round Andes' heights, where Winter, from his throne
Looks down in scorn upon the Summer zone;
By the gay borders of Bermuda's isles,
Where Spring with everlasting verdure smiles;
On pure Madeira's vine-robed hills of health;
In Java's swamps of pestilence and wealth;
Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackals drink
'Midst weeping willows, on Euphrates' brink;
4. On Carmel's crest; by Jordan's reverend stream,
Where Canaan's glories vanished like a dream;
Where Greece, a spectre, haunts her heroes' graves,
And Rome's vast ruins darken Tiber's waves;
Where broken-hearted Switzerland bewails
Her subject mountains and dishonored vales;
Where Albion's rocks exult amidst the sea,
Around the beauteous isle of Liberty;-
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest!
XLIX. THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.
1. 0, A WONDERFUL stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.
3. How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between ;
And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go,
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.
8. There's a magical isle up the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are staying.
4. And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so !--
There are trinkets and tresses of hair;
5. There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;
There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments that she used to wear.
6. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;
And we some times hear, through the turbulent roar,
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
7. O, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night—
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!
L.-TIME'S MIDNIGHT VOICE.
1. CREATION sleeps. 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from its loss. To give it, then, a tongue,
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood!
It is the signal that demands despatch:
2. How much is to be done! My hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? a fathomless abyss!
A dread eternity! How surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
How passing wonder He who made him such!
Who centred in our make such strange extremes
From different natures marvellously mixed,
Connection exquisite of distant worlds!
8. Distinguished link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt!
Though sullied, and dishonored, still divine
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!
A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost! At home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast,
And wondering at her own: how Reason reels!
4. O what a miracle to man is man,
Triumphantly distressed! What joy, what dread
Alternately transported, and alarmed!
What can preserve my life; or what destroy?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there!
Even silent night proclaims my soul immortal!
1. ONCE, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man; and Who was He?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled Thee. Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth;
This truth survives alone:-
8. That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe,-a smile, a tear!-
Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirit's rise and fall; We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all.
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