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When dust to dust returns,
And the freed spirit seeks again its God,-
While Hope and Virtue live.
The land-marks of their age,
High-Priests, Kings of the realm of mind are they,
A realm unbounded as posterity;
The hopeful future is their heritage;
Their words of truth, of love and faith sublime,
Such kindling words are thine,
Thou o'er whose tomb the requiem soundeth still, Thou from whose lips the silvery tones yet thrill In many a bosom, waking life divine;
And since thy Master to the world gave token
That for Love's faith the creed of fear was broken,
Thy reverent eye could see,
Heir of His love, born to high destiny:
Not for thy country, creed or sect speak'st thou,
Great teachers formed thy youth,*
Nature and God spoke with thee, and the truth
Ages agone, like thee,
The famed Greek with kindling aspect stood
And thy great teachers spake not unto him.
"In this town I pursued my theological studies. I had no professor to guide me, but I had two noble places of study. One was yonder beautiful edifice now so frequented as a public library; the other was the beach, the roar of which has so often mingled with the worship of this place, my daily resort, dear to me in the sunshine, still more attractive in the storm. Seldom do I visit it now without thinking of the work, which there, in the sight of that beauty, in the sound of those waves, was carried on in my soul. No spot on earth has helped to form me so much as that beach. There I lifted up my voice in praise amidst the tempest. There, softened by beauty, I poured out my thanksgiving and contrite confessions. There, in reverential sympathy with the mighty power around me, I became conscious of the power within. There, strug gling thoughts and emotions broke forth, as if moved to utterance by nature's eloquence of winds and waves. There began happiness surpassing all worldly pleasure, all gifts of fortune-the happiness of communing with the work of God."-Dr. Channing's Discourse at Newport.R.1.
A TRUE PATRIOT.
BY JAMES C. FIELDS.
It is related that when Socrates fell a victim to the passions of a partial tribunal, and a deluded people, and all his disciples were terrified into flight, his friend Isocrates had the honorable intrepidity to appear in the streets of Athens with the mourning garb.
Ha! leave ye, in affright,
Have you not one true heart,
Reel back, ye cowering slaves!
With pallid fear!
Look where the true man stands,-
The grey-haired seer!
In mourning robes;
Grief his heart probes!
See how your soil he spurns,
Low bows his head.
Ay ! let the rushing tear
In sorrow driven.
Pale are the lips that spoke,
Take up the strain !
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
To that unseen and silent shore,
Some summer morning?"-LAMB.
Another hand is beckoning us,
Another call is given;
And glows once more with Angel-steps
Our young and gentle friend whose smile
Has left us, with the flowers.
No paling of the cheek of bloom
No shadow from the Silent Land
The light of her young life went down,
The glory of a setting star
Clear, suddenly and still.
As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemedEternal as the sky;
And like the brook's low song, her voice-
And half we deemed she needed not
The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew;
And good thoughts, where her footsteps fell, Like fairy blossoms grew.
Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look;
We read her face, as one who reads
The measure of a blessed hymn,
We miss her in the place of prayer,
We pause beside her door to hear
There seems a shadow on the day,
One thought hath reconciled;
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
Where time the measure of his hours
By changeful bud and blossom keeps, And like a young bride crowned with flowers, Far Shiraz in her garden sleeps ;
Where, to her poet's turban stone,
The Spring her grateful gifts impart, Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown In the warm soil of Persian hearts; There sat the stranger, where the shade Of scattered date-trees thinly lay, While in the hot clear heaven delayed
The long, and still, and weary day. Strange trees and fruits above him hung, Strange odors filled the sultry air, Strange birds upon the branches swung, Strange insect voices murmured there.
And strange bright blossoms shone around, Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers, As if the Gheber's soul had found
A fitting home in Iran's flowers. Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard,
Awakened feelings new and sad,— No Christian garb, nor Christian word,
Nor church with Sabbath bell chimes glad,
But Moslem graves, with turban stones,
And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view, And grey-beard Mollahs in low tones
Chanting their Korar. service through.
As if the burning eye of Baal
The servant of his Conqueror knew, From skies which knew no cloudy veil,
The Sun's hot glances smote him through, The flowers which smiled on either hand
Like tempting fiends, were such as they
"Ah me!" the lonely stranger said,
The hope which led my footsteps on,
And light from Heaven around them shed,
"A silent horror broods o'er all-
The hoary magi's rites of hell! "And what am I, o'er such a land
The banner of the Cross to bear?
Dear Lord uphold me with thy hand,
He ceased; for at his very feet
In mild rebuke, a floweret smiled-
The story of the Saviour's birth.
In love, the Christian floweret leaned.
Which God's dear love had nurtured there.
From Nature's face, that simple flower
The lines of sin and sadness swept;
From tower and mosque the hour of prayer.
With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn
The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born
BY FELICIA D. HEMANS.
What woke the buried sound that lay
Along the Nile's green shore?
Oh! not the night, and not the storm, And not the lightning's fire
But sunlight's touch-the kind-the warm-
What wins the heart's deep chords to pour Their music forth on life,
Like a sweet voice, prevailing o'er
The sounds of torrent strife?
Nor e'en the triumph's hour;
The 225th anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims was celebrated at Plymouth on the 22d inst. with the usual empty declamation about their virtues, sufferings and sacrifices. Among those who made speeches at the dinner given on the occasion were Edward Everett and Rufus Choate,-men who have not an atom of
moral heroism in their composition, and who stand in this evil generation, where the time-serving and pusillanimous in all ages have stood. Respecting this matter, we find in the Boston Courier, of Tuesday last, the following original lines, which cut to the quick,' and which, though unaccompanied by any name or signature, we are almost certain were written by that true poet of Humanity and Freedom, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.-Liberator, for 2nd mo. 2, 1846.
AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES STANDISH.
My wonder, then, was not unmixed
Whose doublet plain and plainer hose
I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pounds."-Hamlet. Who knows, thought I, but he has come,
I sate one evening in my room
In that sweet hour of twilight,
By Charon kindly ferried,
To tell me of some mighty sum
When mingling thoughts,-half light, half gloom,- Behind the wainscot buried?
Throng through the spirit's skylight;
The flames by fits curl'd round the bars,
While embers dropped, like falling stars,
I sate and mused; the fire burned low,
Smoothed down their knotty fronts, and grew
Mine ancient, high-backed Spanish chair
That had been strangers long since, while, 'Mid Andalusian heather,
The oak, that made its sturdy frame,
The ox, whose fortunate hide became
It came out in that famous bark
For as that saved of bird and beast
A pair for propagation,
So has the seed of these increased,
Kings sit, they say, in slippery seats;
Of royal man or woman,
There is a buccaneerish air
His words, like doughty blows on steel,
"I come from Plymouth, deadly bored
Strength's knots and gnarls all pared away,
"We had some roughness in our grain;
The eye to rightly see us is
Not just the one that lights the brain
Of drawing-room Tyrtæuses;—
He had stiff knees, the Puritan,
These loud ancestral boasts of yours,
"Good sir," I said, "you seem much stirred,
The sacred compromises"
"Now God confound that dastard word,
Northward it has this sense alone,
"While knaves are busy with their charts
The soul that utters the North should be
As chainless as her wind-roused sea,
'Tis true we drove the Indians out
"O shame, to see such painted sticks
With Slavery's lash upon her back,
To shout huzzas when, with a crack,
And said, with reverent gesture,
"Child of our travail and our woe,
I hear great footsteps through the shade
And voices call like that which bade
I looked, no form my eyes could find,
And through the window-cracks the wind
Some Pilgrim stuff that hates all sham,-
FROM DREAM LOVE."
How slight is a smile or a kind word to the giver— how much it may be to the receiver. So little do we know of the thoughts and feelings of those who move about us, so little does the inward and hidden world correspond with the outward and apparent, that we cannot calculate our influence, and when we think that trivial offices of kindness, which cost us nothing, may make flowers to spring up in another's heart, we should be slow to refuse them. This passing jest may have built the climax to an argument, which shall turn a struggling soul from out the path of duty-that word of encouragement afforded the prompting impulse which shall last forever. We cannot help the bias which others take from us. No man can live for himself, though he bury himself in the most eremitical caverns. We, as it were, are an illimitable and subtly entangled chain in the vast mechanism of Nature. The vibration of one link sounds along the whole line.
Life is after all just what we choose to make it-and no man is so poor that he can not shape a whole world for himself even out of nothing. When I stand under the trees of another, and see the yellow morning gleaming through their tall shafts, and broken into a magnificent, illuminated oriel by the intervening leaves; when I look down the forest's sombre aisles, and hear the solemn groaning of the oaks, wrestling with the night blast, as if they struggled in prayer against an evil spirit-is it not my world that I behold, do I not own the silent stars that seem to fly through the clouds-and is not the large and undulating stretch of summer landscape mine, which my moving eye beholds? The power of enjoyment is the only true ownership that man can have in nature, and the landed proprietor may walk landless as MacGregor, though the world