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Dear to me the South's fair land,
AN HOUR WITH GOD.

Dear the central mountain hand,
One hour with Thee, my God! when daylight breaks

Dear New England's rocky strand,
Over a world thy guardian care has kept,

Dear the prairied West.
When the fresh soul from soothing slumber wakes,
To praise the love that watched me while I slept ;

By our altars pure and free,
When with new strength my blood is bounding free,

By our Law's deep-rooted tree, The first, best, sweetest hour, I 'll give to Thee.

By the past's dread memory,

By our Washington One hour with Thee, when busy day begins

By our common kindred tongue, Her never-ceasing round of bustling care,

By our hopes-bright, buoyant, young, · When I must meet with toil, and pain, and sins,

By the tie of country strong, And through them all thy cross must bear;

We will still be one. 0, then to arm me for the strife, to be „Faithful to death, I'll kneel an hour to Thee.

Fathers ! have ye bled in vain?

Ages, must ye droop again? One hour with Thee, when rides the glorious sun

Maker, shall we rashly stain High in mid-heaven, and panting nature feels

Blessings sent by Thee?

No! receive our solemn vow,
Lifeless and overpowered, and man has done
For one short hour with urging life's swift wheels;

While before thy throne we bow,
In that deep pause my soul from care shall flee,

Ever to maintain, as now To make that hour of rest one hour with Thee.

“Union—Liberty!" One hour with Thee, when saddened twilight flings

The effect of the ode was truly sublime. When - Her soothing charm o'er lawn, and vale, and grove, the choir came to the last four lines of the last When there breathes up from all created things verse, the whole audience rose spontaneously, and

The sweet enthralling sense of thy deep love ; there was an awful grandeur in the sound of the And when its softening power descends on me, thousands of voices exclaimingMy swelling heart shall spend an hour with Thee.

No! receive our solemn vow, "One hour with Thee, my God! when softly night

While before thy throne we bow, Climbs the high heaven with solemn step and slow,

Ever to maintain as now,
When thy sweet stars, unutterably bright,

Union-Liberty!
Are telling forth thy praise to men below;
O, then, while far from earth my thoughts would

Choir and organ and harmony were drowned by flee, I'll spend in prayer one joyful hour with Thee !

the wild torrent of ejaculations; but it started feel ings not unsuited to the sacredness of the place of

meeting, and the light of the uplifted eye had to From the Journal of Commerce. struggle through tears, and there was not a man The following Ode breathes a spirit which must present who would not at that moment have cheer .commend itself to every patriotic citizen. It was

fully sacrificed life, fortune, and sacred honor-to written by the Rev. Dr. Gilman, of Charleston, and

Union-Liberty! was sung at the 4th of July celebration, in 1832, by the Union Party of that city. I had the satisfac

THERE'S LIGHT BEHIND THE CLOUD! tion to be present, and to assist in the choir. The procession had moved to the Baptist church to listen In the lone and weary nights, my child, to an oration by Col. Drayton, one of the influential

When all around is drear; men of the Unionists, while the Nullifiers were When the moon is hidden by the clouds, headed by the great Hayne, by Hamilton, and And grief and pain are nearothers. I recollect one sentence of Col. Drayton's speech, which it may not be amiss to mention. O, never think, my gentle boy, Endeavoring to demonstrate the impracticability of

In that gloomy, trying hour,

That thou art not protected still nullification, Col. Drayton said: “To be in the

By a kind Almighty Power! Union and out of it, simultaneously, is not in the power of Omnipotence itself.”

Soon will those dark clouds roll away,

And the glorious stars appear ;
Hail, our country's natal morn!

And the pensive moon, with her calm, pale light,
Hail, our spreading kindred born!

Will shine in beauty clear.
Hail, thou banner, not yet torn,
Waving o'er the free!

There is an Eye above, my child,
While this day, in festal throng,

That slumbers not, nor sleeps :
Millions swell the patriot's song,

There is a Friend in heaven, love
Shall not we the notes prolong?

Who still His vigil keeps.
Hallowed Jubilee!

And though in trouble's darkest hour
Who would sever Freedom's shrine ?

His face He seems to shroud,
Who would draw the invidious line? Believe-remember-0, my child,
Though by birth one spot be mine,

There's light behind the cloud !
Dear is all the rest

Chambers' Journal.

cover

REMEMBRANCE.

Or art thou near allied

To the bright spark that gilds the thunder-cloud ?Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above Yet moving voiceless through the heavens wide thee,

Piercing night's sable shroud. Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave !

Vain is each prying thought, Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

To find the source and nature of thy ray, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

For thou art ever with deep mystery fraught, Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

We cannot cast away. Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

He, whose stupendous plan Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves Worketh unchanging through all space and time,

For unknown ends, thy fitful flames doth fan, Thy noble heart forever, ever more?

And laws for thee assign. Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,

And He thy home hath cast From those brown hills, have melted into spring : 'Mid seas of ice, unchanged by Summer's rayFaithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

'Mid frigid deserts, stretching far and vast, After such years of change and suffering!

Where life can never stay. Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,

Yet doth thy nightly glow While the world's tide is bearing me along ; Glad the far dwellers of the dreary North : Other desires and other hopes beset me,

The Greenlander, amid the drifted snow, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

Doth hail thy coming forth. No later light has lightened up my heaven,

Thou cheerest Siberia's gloom, No second morn has ever shone for me ;

Sweden's cold clime, and Norway's ice-girt shore; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,

And northern men their hardy toils resume All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

When thou dost brightly soar.

Edwin S. HIGBIL. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, Exeter, N. Y., Feb. 9th, 1850.

And even Despair was powerless to destroy Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,

From Chambers' Journal Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

MY EEN ARE DIM W TEARS. Then did I check the tears of useless passion

My een are dim wi' tears, John Weaned my young soul from yearning after My heart is sair wi' wae, thine;

I lie an’ watch the stars, John,
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten

A wearying for the day;
Down to that tomb already more than mine. Yet it winna bring me rest, John,

An' it canna bring me peace,
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Till the clay is on my breast, John,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;

An' thocht and feeling cease!
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?

I hae looed ye weel and lang, John
Ellis Bell.

An' shall while I hae life;
But ye’ve caused me mony a pang, John,

Wha should hae been your wife.
From the Journal of Commerce.

Though ye never said a word, John,
THE AURORA BOREALIS.

My trusting heart to win,
Oft in the solemn night,

Ye hae leed before the Lord, John,
When Earth is veiled in darkness to the eye,

An' that is deeper sin !
There comes a sudden and mysterious light

Ye're hand leed seeking mine, John,
Within the azure sky!

When naebody could see;

And ye kissed it mony a time, John, 'Tis not the twilight beam,

An' wasna that a lee? Nor the pale radiance of the starry throng,

An' your een leed looking love, John,
Nor Cynthia's pensive ray, nor meteor's gleam,

Whene'er they turned on me;
Shooting the heavens along :

An' your gifts, what did they pruve, John,
But a strange, shifting glow,

But love—or treachery?
Bright'ning and fading, like to flickering flame- An' your step leed coming here, John,
High o'er the North, white columns upwards gom Sae aft in cauld an' rain,
Then die—then soar again.

For mony a happy year, John,
Light of the dreary North,

Whase memory is pain!

For I thocht the time would come, John, Fain would we know thy far and hidden springs,

When we nae mair would part;
And on what bidding thou dost issue forth
In ghostlike wanderings.

Yet ye gaed without ae word, John,

To ease my breaking heart !
Art thou the icy smile

Ye cam' o' your ain will, John,
Of Arctic oceans, streaming in the sky?

Ye saw that I was poor;
Or light from some unknown, volcanic pile,

Ye kenn'd I was nae light o' love,
Uptow'ring, huge and high,

Ye should hae passed our door.
On a far northern shore,

But I loo ye after a', John,
With giant craters gaping to a sea,

An' pray to God in heaven,
Fiery and vast, that deep within Earth's core

That I may be ta’en hame, John,
Burneth unceasingly?

An' your deceit forgiven!

From the National Era.

"I AM SO HAPPY!”
THE MEN OF OLD.
BY J. G. WHITTIER.

I see the faded writing, dated oh! so long ago; WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast !

The clear round text is fairly traced by childish

fingers slow; Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,

'Tis but a simple record of inconstant hopes and

fears, Thou tread'st the solemn phantom of the past,

By the great Future's dazzling hope made 'blind But one short sentence written there I blot with To all the beauty, power, and truth, behind.

falling tears. Not without reverent awe should'st thou put by It is this—“I ar

am so happy.” But twenty year The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms, have flown Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their Since those pleasant words were writ to a loving tombs

playmate gone; The effigies of old confessors lie,

This is the hand that traced them, they were inno God's witnesses ; the voices of his will

cent and true, Heard in the distant march of centuries still ! This is the heart so buoyant then, as rosy moments Such were the men at whose rebuking frown,

flew. Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down;

I gaze upon the characters, I ponder o'er them yet; Such from the terrors of the guilty drew

The many intervening years I struggle to forget; The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due.

O, but to realize them now for one short fileeting

hour, St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore

The dark, dark shadows of this life ceasing awhile In heaven's sweet peace !) forbid, of old, the sale

to lour! Of men as slaves, and from the church's pale Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. “I am so happy”—well-a-day! those strange and To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate,

thrilling words St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate- Sound soft and sweetly as the song of wild and Image of saint, the chalice and the pix,

woodland birds, Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks;

In twilight glades at evening fall, when, ʼmid the “ MAN 19 WORTH MORE THAN TEMPLES !” he replied shiv’ring leaves, To such as came his holy work to chide.

A whispering of import sad our busy fancy weaves. And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare, And coining from the abbey's golden hoard

May I not be a child once more? My second birth The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer

must be Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord No day-dream of a sickly mind, but blest reality; Stifled their love of man; “ An earthen dish

Then, then again those glorious words with truth

I
The last sad supper of the Master bore :
Most miserable sinners, do ye wish

“I am so happy”-traced within in characters of More than your Lord, and grudge his dying poor

light. What your own pride and not his need require ?

Souls, than these shining gauds, he values more; Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires."

LAST WISHES OF A CHILD. O, faithful worthies ! resting far behind

The following beautiful little poem was written In your Dark Ages; since ye fell asleep

by James T. Fields for the Boston Book for 1850.
Much labor has been done for human kind-
Shadows are scattered, wherein you groped blind; “ All the hedges are in bloom,
Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap

And the warm west wind is blowing-
Through peoples driven in your day like sheep ; Let me leave this stifled room,
Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light

Let me go where flowers are growing !
Though widening still is walled around by night;
With slow, reluctant eye, the church has read,

“ Look! my cheek is thin and pale, Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its head;

And my pulse is very low, Counting, too oft, its living members less

Ere my sight begins to fail, Than its walls' garnish and the pulpit's dress ;

Take my hand and let us go. World-moving zeal with power to bless and feed “ Was not that the robin's song Life's fainting pilgrims to their utter need,

Piping through the casement wide ? Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed;

I shall not be listening long,
Sect builds and worships, where its Wealth and

Take me to the meadow-side-
Pride
And Vanity stand shrined and deified,

6 Bear me to the willow-brookCareless that in the shadow of its walls

Let me hear the merry millGod's living temple into ruin falls.

On the orchard I must look, We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still,

Ere my beating heart is still. Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, “ Faint and fainter grows my breathTo tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod

Bear me quickly down the lane ; The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell,

Mother dear, this chill is death, Proclaiming freedom in the name of God,

I shall never speak again!" And startling tyrants with the fear of hell !

Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well, Still the hedges are in bloom, But to rebuke the age's popular crime,

And the warm west wind is blowing ; We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old Still we sit in silen gloomtime.

O'er her grave the grass is growing.

may indite

From the Journal of Commerce.

A CEMETERY WITHOUT A MONUMENT. Mary a tear has been dropped in memory of Capt. Ira Bursley, who, with his noble crew, after sending all the passengers ashore from the ill-fated Hottinguer, went down with her to the “ cemetery without a monument.”

Like the lamented Dustan, on board the Atlantic, he staid by his vessel until the last efforts were put forth to save the lives of others. One is reminded of Cooper's description of long Tom Coffin, which, though fiction, has proved the mournful truth concerning many a brave sailor. In looking over a volume of poems by Brainard, I copied his

LAMENT FOR LONG TOM.
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild ani stormy steep,

Elsinore !
Thy cruise is over now,

Thou art anchored by the shore,
And never more shalt thou

Hear the storm around thee roar;
Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.

Now around thee sports the whale,
And the porpoise snuffs the gale,
And the night winds wake their wail,

As they pass.
The sea-grass round thy bier

Shall bend beneath the tide,
Nor tell the breakers near,

Where thy manly limbs abide ;
But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be.

Though the edges of thy grave
Are the combings of the wave,
Yet unheeded they shall rave

Over thee.
At the piping of all hands,

When the Judgment signal's spread;
When the islands and the lands

And the seas give up their dead,
And the North and the South shall come:

When the sinner is betrayed,
And the just man is afraid,
Then Heaven be thy aid,

Poor Tom.

I'm thinking of the day, mother,

When with such anxious care,
You lifted up your heart to Heaven-

Your hope, your trust was there.
Fond memory brings thy parting words,

While tears stole down your cheek ;
Thy long, last, loving look told more

Than ever words could speak.
I'm far away from thee, mother ;

No friend is near me now,
To soothe me with a tender word,

Or cool my burning brow;
The dearest ties affection wove

Are all now torn from me;
They left me when the trouble came

They did not love like thee.
I'm lonely and forsaken now,

Unpitied and unblest ;
Yet still I would not have thee know

How sorely I'm distressed ;
I know you would not chide, mother,

You would not give me blame,
But soothe me with your tender word,

And bid me hope again.
I would not have thee know, mother,

How brightest hopes decay-
The tempter with his baneful cup

Has dashed them all away ;
And shame has left its venom sting

To rack with anguish wild
Yet still I would not have thee know

The sorrows of thy child.
0, I have wandered far, mother,

Since I deserted thee,
And left thy trusting heart to break,

Beyond the deep blue sea!
0, mother! still I love thee well,

And long to hear thee speak,
And feel again thy balmy breath

Upon my care-worn cheek.
But, ah! there is a thought, mother,

Pervades my beating breast,
That thy freed spirit may have flown

To its eternal rest;
And while I wipe the tear away,

There whispers in my ear
A voice that speaks of heaven and thee,
And bids me seek thee there.

Alpha. Ohio Penitentiary, Jan. 17, 1850.

From the Ohio State Journal. THE CONVICT TO HIS MOTHER.*

I've wandered far from thee, mother,

Far from my happy home ;
I've left the land that gave me birth,

In other climes to roam;
And time since then has rolled its years,

And marked them on my brow,
Yet I have often thought of thee-

I'm thinking of thee now.
I'm thinking on the day, mother,

When at thy tender side
You watched the dawning of my youth,

And kissed me in your pride;
Then brightly was my heart lit up

With hopes of future joy,
While your bright fancy honors wove

To deck thy darling boy. * These lines were written by a convict in the Ohio Penitentiary, and inscribed, "To my mother.”

From the Missionary.
MALLEUS DOMINI.
Is not my word, saith the Lord, like a hammer, that
breaketh the rock in pieces ?--Jeremiah xxiii. 29.

SLEDGE of the Lord, beneath whose stroke
The rocks are rent, the heart is broke,
I hear thy pond'rous echoes ring,
And fall, a crushed and crumbled thing.
Meekly, these mercies I implorc,
Through Him, whose cross our sorrows bore :
On earth, thy new-creating grace ;
In heaven, the very lowest place.
O, might I be a living stone,
Set in the pavement of thy throne!
For sinner saved, what place so meet,
As at the Saviour's bleeding feet?

G, W.D.

572
MUSIC GRINDERS. — BOOK OF LIGHT. —MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT.

From the Daily News. And in vain I ask my spirit
THE MUSIC GRINDERS.

Why this feeling of unrest.
You 're sitting on your window-seat,

But all day have been around me
Beneath a cloudless moon;

Voices that would not be still,
You hear a sound, that seems to wear

And the twilight shades have found me
The semblance of a tune-

Shrinking from a nameless ill.
As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

Seeing not despair's swift lightning

Hearing not the thunders roll,
And nearer, nearer still, the tide

Hands invisible are tightening
Of music seems to come,

Bands of sorrow on my soul.
There's something like a human voice,
And something like a drum ;

Out beneath the jewelled arches
You sit in speechless agony,

Let us bivouac to-night,
Until your ear is numb.

And to soothe day's dusty marches,
Poor“ home, sweet home,” should seem to be

Bring, 0, bring the Book of Light!
A very dismal place;
Your“ auld acquaintance," all at once,

From the Oxford Edition of Milton's Worku.
Is altered in the face;

MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT.
Their discords sting through Burns and Moore
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

I am old and blind !

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ; You think they are crusaders sent

Afflicted and deserted of my kind,
From some infernal clime,

Yet I am not cast down.
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,

I am weak, yet strong ;
To crack the voice of Melody,

I murmur not, that I no longer see ;
And break the legs of Time.

Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,

Father Supreme! to thee.
But, hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,

0, merciful One ! And silence, like a poultice, comes

When men are furthest, then thou art most near ; To heal the blows of sound;

When friends pass by, my weakness to shun, It cannot be—it is—it is !

Thy chariot I hear.
A hat is going round.

Thy glorious face
No! pay the dentist when he leaves

Is leaning toward me, and its holy light
A fracture in your jaw,

Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place-
And pay the owner of the bear

And there is no more night.
That stunned you with his paw,
And buy the lobster that has had

On my bended knee,
Your knuckles in his claw.

I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown ;

My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see But, if you are a portly man,

Thyself, thyself alone.
Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable

I have nought to fear ;

This darkness is the shadow of thy wing ;
To turn them out of town;
Then close your sentence with an oath,

Beneath it I am almost sacred-here

Can come no evil thing.
And shut the window down.

Oh! I seem to stand
And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,

Wrapped in the radiance from thy sinless land, Or, if you cannot make a speech,

Which eye hath never seen.
Because you are a flat,
Go very quietly in and drop

Visions come and go ;
A button in the hat !

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;

From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
BOOK OF LIGHT.*

Of soft and holy song.
GENTLEST sister, I am weary

It is nothing now,
Bring, 0, bring the Book of Light!

When heaven is opened on my sightless eyes, There are shadows, dark and dreary,

When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, Settling o'er my heart to-night.

The earth in darkness lies.
That alone can soothe my sadness,

In a purer clime,
That alone can dry my tears,

My being fills with rapture—waves of thought When I see no spot of gladness

Roll in upon my spirit-strains sublime
Down the dusky vale of years.

Break over me unsought.
Well I know that I inherit

Give me now my lyre !
All that sometimes makes me blest ; I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;

Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
* Poems of Alice and Phæbe Carey.

Lit by no skill of mine.

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