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When dust to dust returns,

And the freed spirit seeks again its God,-
To those with whom the blessed ones have trod,
Are they then lost? No, still their spirit burns
And quickens in the race; the life they give
Humanity receives, and they survive

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,
To a dark world of doubt, despair and crime,
Re-echo through all time.

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,
None higher have been spoken.

Thy reverent eye could see,
Though sinful, weak, and wedded to the clod,
The angel soul still as the child of God

Heir of His love, born to high destiny:

Not for thy country, creed or sect speak'st thou,
But him who bears God's image on his brow,
Thy brother, high or low.

Great teachers formed thy youth,*
As thou didst stand upon thy native shore;
In the calm sunshine, in the ocean's roar,

Nature and God spoke with thee, and the truth
That o'er thy spirit then in radiance streamed,
And in thy life so calmly, brightly beamed,
Shall still shine on undimmed.

Ages agone, like thee,

The famed Greek with kindling aspect stood
And blent his eloquence with wind and flood
By the blue waters of the Egean Sea;
But he heard not their everlasting hymn,
His lofty soul with error's cloud was dim,

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.



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,
That sad, unmanly sight,—
The corse alone!

Have you not one true heart,
That thus from him ye part?
Are all,-all gone?

Reel back, ye cowering slaves!
Blanch, ye Athenian knaves,

With pallid fear!

Look where the true man stands,-
Look! for the dead commands,

The grey-haired seer!
Gaze on the patriot now,
With still unruffled brow,

In mourning robes;
Tremble! he fears ye not-
Stand back! he seeks the spot-

Grief his heart probes!

See how your soil he spurns,
A lofty soul he mourns,


Low bows his head.
Say, can ye longer sleep?
Weep! guilty cowards, weep!
Weep for the dead.

Ay ! let the rushing tear
Down every cheek appear,

In sorrow driven.

Pale are the lips that spoke,
Hushed are the tones that woke
Calm thoughts of heaven!
Haste matron, maid, and son,---
Cry to each slumbering one,
"Behold the slain."
Pass on through every street,
Bid every voice ye meet

Take up the strain !
Go, charge the flying Greek
That reverend form to seek,
That silent bier;
Let not the city's walls
Hold back your frenzied calls,
The world must hear!
Oh! ye have crushed the tie
Which bound that pulse; no sigh
Can break the spell;
In vain ye crowd around,
He hears no sob, no sound,





"Gone before

To that unseen and silent shore,
Shall we not meet as heretofore

Some summer morning?"-LAMB.

Another hand is beckoning us,

Another call is given;

And glows once more with Angel-steps
The path which reaches Heaven.

Our young and gentle friend whose smile
Made brighter summer hours,
Amid the frosts of autumn time

Has left us, with the flowers.

No paling of the cheek of bloom
Forewarned us of decay;

No shadow from the Silent Land
Fell around our sister's way.

The light of her young life went down,
As sinks behind the hill

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-
A sound which could not die.

And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,
To give to Heaven a Shining One,
Who walked an Angel here.

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
A true and holy book:

The measure of a blessed hymn,
To which our hearts could move;
The breathing of an inward psalm;
A canticle of love.

We miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;

We pause beside her door to hear
Once more her sweet" Good night!"

There seems a shadow on the day,
Her smile no longer cheers;
A dimness on the stars of night,
Like eyes that look through tears.
Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled;
That he whose love exceedeth ours
Hath taken home His child.

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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
Which once, o'er all that Eastern land,
As gifts on demon altars lay.

"Ah me!" the lonely stranger said,

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The hope which led my footsteps on,

And light from Heaven around them shed,
O'er weary wave and waste, is gone!
"Where are the harvest fields all white,
For Truth to thrust her sickle in?
Where flock the souls, like doves in flight
From the dark hiding place of sin?

"A silent horror broods o'er all-
The burden of a hateful spell-
The very flowers around recall

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,
Thy strength with human weakness share!"

He ceased; for at his very feet

In mild rebuke, a floweret smiled-
How thrilled his sinking heart to greet
The Star-flower of the Virgin's child!
Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew
Its life from alien air and earth,
And told to Paynim Sun and Dew

The story of the Saviour's birth.
From scorching beams, in kindly mood,
The Persian plants its beauty screened;
And on its pagan sisterhood,

In love, the Christian floweret leaned.
With tears of joy the wanderer felt
The darkness of his long despair
Before that hallowed symbol melt,

Which God's dear love had nurtured there.

From Nature's face, that simple flower

The lines of sin and sadness swept;
And Magian pile and Paynim bower
In peace like that of Eden slept.
Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old,
Looked holy through the sunset air;
And angel-like, the Muezzin told

From tower and mosque the hour of prayer.

With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn
From Shiraz saw the stranger part;

The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born
Still blooming in his hopeful heart!



What woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way

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-
This woke the mystic lyre!
This, this, awoke the lyre!

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?
Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,

Nor e'en the triumph's hour;
Love is the gifted and the strong
To wake that music's power!
His breath awakes that power!


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.


My wonder, then, was not unmixed
With merciful suggestion,
When, as my musing eye grew fixed
Upon the chair in question,
I saw its trembling arms enclose
A figure grim and rusty,

Whose doublet plain and plainer hose
Were somewhat worn and musty.
Now even those men whom nature forms
Only to fill the street with,
Once changed to ghosts by hungry worms,
Are serious things to meet with.
Your penitent spirits are no jokes,
And, though I'm not averse to
A cheerful ghost, they are not folks
One chooses to speak first to.

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,
And up the chimney crinkled,

While embers dropped, like falling stars,
And in the ashes tinkled.

I sate and mused; the fire burned low,
And, o'er my senses stealing,
Crept something of that ruddy glow
Which bloomed on wall and ceiling;
My pictures (they are very few,
The heads of ancient wise men,)

Smoothed down their knotty fronts, and grew
As rosy as excisemen.

Mine ancient, high-backed Spanish chair
Felt thrills through wood and leather

That had been strangers long since, while, 'Mid Andalusian heather,

The oak, that made its sturdy frame,
His happy arms stretched over

The ox, whose fortunate hide became
The bottom's polished cover.

It came out in that famous bark
That brought our sires intrepid,
Capacious as another ark
For furniture decrepid;

For as that saved of bird and beast

A pair for propagation,

So has the seed of these increased,
And furnished half the nation.

Kings sit, they say, in slippery seats;
But those slant precipices
Of ice, the northern sailor meets,
Less slippery are than this is;
To cling therein would pass the wit

Of royal man or woman,
And whatsoe'r can stay in it
Is more or less than human.

There is a buccaneerish air
About that garb outlandish-
Just then the ghost drew up his chair
And said, "My name is Standish."
There was a bluntness in his way
That pleased my taste extremely;
The native man had fullest play,
Unshackled by the seemly:
His bold, gray eye could not conceal
Some flash of the fanatic,

His words, like doughty blows on steel,
Rang sharply through my attic.

"I come from Plymouth, deadly bored
With songs and toasts and speeches
As long and flat as my old sword,
As threadbare as my breeches;
They understand us Pilgrims! they,
Smooth men with rosy faces,

Strength's knots and gnarls all pared away,
And varnish in their places!

"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;—
Such talk about their Pilgrim blood,
Their birthrights high and holy!—
A mountain stream that ends in mud
Methinks is melancholy.

He had stiff knees, the Puritan,
That were not good at bending;
The homespun dignity of Man
He thought was worth defending;
He did not, with his pinchbeck ore,
His country's shame forgotten,
Gild Freedom's coffin o'er and o'er
While all within was rotten.

These loud ancestral boasts of yours,
How can they else than vex us?
Where were your patriot orators
When Slavery grasped at Texas?
Dumb on his knee was every one
That now is bold as Cæsar;-
Mere pegs to hang an office on
Such stalwart men as these are!"

"Good sir," I said, "you seem much stirred,

The sacred compromises"

"Now God confound that dastard word,
My gall thereat arises!

Northward it has this sense alone,
That you, your conscience blinding,
Shall bow your fool's nose to the stone,
When Slavery feels like grinding.

"While knaves are busy with their charts
For new man-markets seeking,
You want some men with God-stirred hearts
And good at downright speaking.

The soul that utters the North should be
Too wide for self to span it,

As chainless as her wind-roused sea,
As firm-based as her granite.

'Tis true we drove the Indians out
From their paternal acres,
Then for new victims cast about,
And hung a score of Quakers;
But, if on others' rights we trad,
Our own, at least, we guarded,
And with the shield of faith in God
The thrusts of danger warded.

"O shame, to see such painted sticks
In Dane's and Winthrop's places,
To see your Spirit of Seventy-six'
Drag humbly in the traces,

With Slavery's lash upon her back,
And herds of office holders

To shout huzzas when, with a crack,
It peels her patient shoulders!
"We, forefathers to such a rout?
No, by my faith in God's word!"
Half rose the ghost, and half drew out
The ghost of his old broad-sword;
Then thrust it slowly back again,

And said, with reverent gesture,

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"Child of our travail and our woe,
Light in our day of sorrow,
Through my rapt spirit I foreknow
The glory of thy morrow;

I hear great footsteps through the shade
Draw nigher still and nigher,

And voices call like that which bade
The prophet come up higher."

I looked, no form my eyes could find,
I heard the cock just crowing,

And through the window-cracks the wind
A dismal tune was blowing;
Thought I, my neighbour Buckingham
Hath somewhat in him gritty,

Some Pilgrim stuff that hates all sham,-
Perchance he'll print my ditty.



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

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