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APRIL.

Shine they like thy sun of summer
Over midnight vale and hill.

We alone to thee are strangers,
Thou our friend and teacher art;
Come, and know us as we know thee;
Let us meet thee heart to heart!

To our homes and household altars
We, in turn, thy steps would lead,
As thy loving hand has led us

O'er the threshold of the Swede.

157

APRIL.

"The spring comes slowly up this way."

CHRISTABEL.

"Tis the noon of the spring-time, yet never a bird In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow;

Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white, On south-sloping brook-sides should smile in the light,

O'er the cold winter-beds of their late-waking roots
The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots;
And, longing for light, under wind-driven heaps,
Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel

creeps,

Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!

We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south! For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy month;

For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God,
Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod!
Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased
The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast,-
Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and

snow,

All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau,-
Until all our dreams of the land of the blest,
Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny southwest.
O, soul of the spring-time, its light and its breath,
Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this
death;

Renew the great miracle; let us behold

The stone from the mouth of the sepulchre rolled, And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old!

Let our faith, which in darkness and coldness has lain,

Revive with the warmth and the brightness again,
And in blooming of flower and budding of tree
The symbols and types of our destiny see;
The life of the spring-time, the life of the whole,
And as sun to the sleeping earth love to the soul!

STANZAS FOR THE TIMES-1850.

THE evil days have come,-the poor

Are made a prey;

Bar up the hospitable door,

Put out the fire-lights, point no more
The wanderer's way.

For Pity now is crime; the chain
Which binds our States

Is melted at her hearth in twain,
Is rusted by her tears' soft rain :
Close up her gates.

STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.

159

Our Union, like a glacier stirred
By voice below,

Or bell of kine, or wing of bird,
A beggar's crust, a kindly word
May overthrow!

Poor, whispering tremblers !—yet we boast
Our blood and name;
Bursting its century-bolted frost,
Each gray cairn on the Northman's coast
Cries out for shame!

O for the open firmament,
The prairie free,

The desert hillside, cavern-rent,
The Pawnee's lodge, the Arab's tent,
The Bushman's tree!

Than web of Persian loom most rare,
Or soft divan,

Better the rough rock, bleak and bare,
Or hollow tree, which man may share
With suffering man.

I hear a voice: "Thus saith the Law,
Let Love be dumb;
Clasping her liberal hands in awe,
Let sweet-lipped Charity withdraw
From hearth and home."

I hear another voice: "The poor
Are thine to feed;

Turn not the outcast from thy door,
Nor give to bonds and wrong once more
Whom God hath freed.'

Dear Lord! between that law and thee
No choice remains;

Yet not untrue to man's decree,

Though spurning its rewards, is he
Who bears its pains.

Not mine Sedition's trumpet-blast
And threatening word;

I read the lesson of the Past,
That firm endurance wins at last
More than the sword.

O, clear-eyed Faith, and Patience, thou So calm and strong!

Lend strength to weakness, teach us how The sleepless eyes of God look through This night of wrong!

A SABBATH SCENE.

SCARCE had the solemn Sabbath-bell
Ceased quivering in the steeple,
Scarce had the parson to his desk
Walked stately through his people,

When down the summer shaded street
A wasted female figure,
With dusky brow and naked feet,
Came rushing wild and eager.

She saw the white spire through the trees,
She heard the sweet hymn swelling

O, pitying Christ! a refuge give

That poor one in thy dwelling!

Like a scared fawn before the hounds,
Right up the aisle she glided,
While close behind her, whip in hand,
A lank-haired hunter strided.

A SABBATH SCENE.

She raised a keen and bitter cry,
To Heaven and Earth appealing;—
Were manhood's generous pulses dead?
Had woman's heart no feeling?

A score of stout hands rose between
The hunter and the flying;

Age clenched his staff, and maiden eyes
Flashed tearful, yet defying.

"Who dares profane this house and day?” Cried out the angry pastor.

"Why, bless your soul, the wench's a slave, And I'm her lord and master!

"I've law and gospel on my side,
And who shall dare refuse me?"
Down came the parson, bowing low,
"My good sir, pray excuse me !

"Of course I know your right divine
To own and work and whip her;
Quick, deacon, throw that Polyglott
Before the wench, and trip her!"

Plump dropped the holy tome, and o'er
Its sacred pages stumbling,

Bound hand and foot, a slave once more,
The hapless wretch lay trembling.

I saw the parson tie the knots,
The while his flock addressing,
The Scriptural claims of slavery
With text on text impressing.

"Although,” said he, "on Sabbath day,
All secular occupations

Are deadly sins, we must fulfil
Our moral obligations:

VOL. II.

11

161

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