And where are they? and where art thou,

My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left a poet here? For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise-we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain-in vain; strike other chords, Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble callHow answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served-but served Polycrates-
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades !

Oh! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells:
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-

I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die :
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

LORD BYRON.

HYMN OF THE DUNKERS.

KLOSTER KEDAR, EPHRATA, PENNSYLVANIA, 1738.

[Sister Maria Christina sings.]

AKE, sisters, wake! the day-star shines; Above Ephrata's eastern pines

The dawn is breaking,

cool and calm. Wake, sisters, wake, to prayer and psalm!

Praised be the Lord for

shade and light, For toil by day, for rest by night!

Praised be His name who deigns to bless

Our Kedar of the wilder

ness:

Our refuge when the spoiler's hand
Was heavy on our native land;
And freedom to her children due,
The wolf and vulture only knew.

We praised Him when to prison led,

We owned Him when the stake blazed red;

We knew, whatever might befall,
His love and power were over all.

He heard our prayers; with outstretched arm
He led us forth from cruel harm;
Still, whereso'er our steps were bent,
His cloud and fire before us went!

The watch of faith and prayer He set;
We kept it then, we keep it yet.
At midnight, crow of cock, or noon,
He cometh sure, He cometh soon.

He comes to chasten, not destroy,
To purge the earth from sin's alloy.
At last, at last shall all confess
His mercy as His righteousness.

The dead shall live, the sick be whole;
The scarlet sin be white as wool,
No discord mar below, above,
The music of eternal love!

Sound welcome trump, the last alarm!
Lord God of hosts make bare Thine amm,
Fulfill this day our long desire,

Make sweet and clean the world with fire!

Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight
The lies of time; be swift to smite,
Sharp sword of God, all idols down,
Genevan creed and Roman crown.

Quake, earth, through all thy zones, till all
The fanes of pride and priestcraft fall;
And lift Thou up in place of them
The gates of pearl, Jerusalem!

Lo! rising from the baptismal flame,
Transfigured, glorious, yet the same,
Within the heavenly city's bound
Our Kloster Kedar shall be found.
He cometh soon! at dawn or noon
Or set of sun, He cometh soon.
Our prayers shall meet Him on His way;
Wake, sisters, wake! arise and pray!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.

'HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and

stream,

The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore ;-
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth ;-
But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there has passed away a glory from the earth.

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss I feel-I feel it all.
Oh, evil day! if I were sullen,
While the earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,

And the children are pulling,

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm.

I hear, I hear, what joy I hear!
-But there's a tree, of many one,

A single field which I have looked upon,

Both of them speak of something that is gone;

The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat.

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,

But, trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;

The youth, who daily farther from the East
Must travel, still is nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her natural kind;
And, even with something of a mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate man,
Forget the glories he hath known

And that imperial palace whence he came.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :—

Not for these I raise

The songs of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised!

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,

Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
Nor man, nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy:

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither-
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!

We, in thought, will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from thy sight-

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy,

Which, having been, must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Think not of any severing of your loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight,

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live;
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears;
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TRUE FAITH.

LD Reuben Fisher, who lived in the lane,
Was never in life disposed to complain;
If the weather proved fair, he thanked God
for the sun,

And if it were rainy, with him 'twas all one;-
"I have just the weather I fincy," said he ;
"For what pleases God always satisfies me."

If trouble assailed, his brow was ne'er dark,
And his eye never lost its happiest spark.
"Twill not better fix it to gloom or to sigh;
To make the best of it I always shall try!

So, care, do your worst," said Reuben with glee,

see."

If his children were wild, as children will prove, His temper ne'er lost its warm aspect of love; "My dear wife," he d say, "don't worry nor fret; "Twill be all right with the wayward ones yet; 'Tis the folly of youth, that must have its way; They'll penitent turn from their evil some day.”

If a name were assailed, he would cheerily say,
"Well, well; we'll not join in the cry, anyway;
There are always two sides to every tale―
And the true one at last is sure to prevail.
There is an old rule that I learned when a lad-
'Deem every one good till he's proved to be bad.'”

And when in the meshes of sin tightly bound,
The reckless and luckless mortal was found,
Proscribed by every woman and man,
And put under rigid and merciless ban,

Old Reuben would say, wi h sympathy fraught,
"We none of us do half as well as we ought."

and pew.

I wish you'd heard that singin'-it had the old time ring;

The preacher said, with trumpet voice, "Let all the people sing!"

The tune was Coronation, and the music upward rolled,

Till I thought I heard the angels all striking harps of gold.

My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire;

I joined my feeble, trembling voice, with that melodious choir,

And sang as in my youthful days, "Let angels prostrate fall,

Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all."

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more;

I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore;

We walked a sweet path till the crossing ways met, And though we have parted, I'll cherish them yet; They'll go by their way and I ll go by mine Perhaps in the city ahead we shall join."

There were sickness and death at last in his cot,
But still Reuben Fisher in sorrow blenched not :
"Tis the Father afflicts: let Him do what He will;
What comes from His hand can mean us no ill;
I cheerfully give back the blessing He lent,
And through faith in the future find present content."

Then he lay on his death-bed at last undismayed;
No terror had death at which he was afraid;
"Living or dying, 'tis all well with me,
For God's will is my will," submissive said he.
And so Reuben died, with his breast full of grace,
That beamed in a smile on his time-furrowed face.
B. P. SHILLABER.

form,

And anchor in the blessed port forever from the

storm.

The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all the preacher said;

I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;
He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye
Went flashin' along from pew to pew, nor passed a
sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth. 'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations to Christ, and to His creed.

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews;

He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews,

And-though I can't see very well-I saw the falling

tear

That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very

near.

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place!

Ye shall join the loved and just ones
In that land of perfect day.
Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers,
Murmured in my rapturous ear;-
Evermore their sweet song lingers-
"We shall know each other there."

Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall

a

POOR little girl in a tattered gown,

Wandering alone through the crowded towr
All weary and worn, on the curb sat down,
By the side of the way to rest;

Bedimmed with tears were her eyes of brown,
Her hands on her bosom pressed.

The night was approaching-the winter's chill blast
That fell on the child as he hurried past,
Concealed the tears that were falling fast
From the poor little maiden's eye-
The blinding snow on her pale cheek cast,
Unheeded her plaintive cry.

Now hurriedly passing along the street,
She catches the sound of approaching feet;
And wearily rises, as if to entreat

Some aid from the passer by;
But slowly and sadly resumes her seat,
Repelled by the glance of his eye.

He saw the wind tempest resistlessly hurl
The gathering snow-flakes, with many a whirl,
Upon her bare head, where each soft-shining curl
Was swept by the breath of the storm;
But what did he care for the little girl-
His raiment was ample and warm!

He went to a charity meeting that night
And spoke, to the listeners' great delight,
Of how 'twas the duty of all to unite,
The suffering poor to relieve;
And held up his check for a thousand at sight,
So all of the crowd could perceive.

He handed the check to the treasurer, when
The audience applauded again and again,
But the angel who holds the recording pen
This sentence methinks did record:
"He doeth his alms to be seen of men,
Their praise is his only reward."

The paper next morning had much to say
Of how the "good gentleman” did display
His generous spirit, in giving away

So much for the poor man's cause.
He smiled as he read his own praise that day
And thought of the night's applause.

Near by, the same paper went on to repeat
A story they'd heard, of how, out on the street,
A watchman at dawning of morn on his beat,