4. Keep it before the people! That the poor man claims his meed,— The right of soil, And the right of toil, From spur and bridle freed! The right to bear, And the right to share, With you and me, my brother! By God, from heaven, To one as well as another! LX.-A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE," A. D. 1154-1864. J. G. WHITTIER. 1. A strong and mighty angel, The cross in blended red and blue 2. Two captives by him kneeling, 3. Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, 4. Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, 5. The gates of tower and castle Before him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew. 6. For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant 7. At last, outbound from Tunis, Freighted with seven score Christian souls 8. But, torn by Paynim hatred, 9. "God save us !" cried the captain, Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks 10. "Behind us are the Moormen ; 11. Then up spake John de Matha: Take thou the mantle which I wear, 12. They raised the cross-wrought mantle, 13. "God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill ; The good ship on a stormy sea 14. Then up spake John de Matha: 'My mariners, never fear! The Lord whose breath has filled her sail May well our vessel steer!" 15. So on through storm and darkness And lo! the third gray morning shone 16. And on the walls the watchers 17. And the bells in all the steeples To welcome home to Christian soil 18. So runs the ancient legend 19. With rudder foully broken, 20. Before her, nameless terror; The clouds are black above her, 21. The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong, She drifts in darkness and in storm, 22. But courage, O my mariners! Ye shall not suffer wreck While up to God the freedman's prayers 23. Is not your sail the banner Which God hath blest anew, 24. Its hues are all of heaven- The whiteness of the moonlit cloud, 25. Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, 26. Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted 27. Behind you, holy martyrs Uplift the palm and crown, 28. Take heart from John de Matha!— Sweep on through storm and darkness, 29. Sail on! the morning cometh ; And all the bells of God shall ring LXI. THE FATE OF EUROPEAN KINGS. THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. 1. I was one evening on the Ohio, when the river had been swollen with recent rains. The current was passing quickly, but with a placidity which reminded me of the old proverb, that "smooth water runs deep." From the various incidents that were going on in the boat about me, and the varying features of the scene through which we were gliding, I turned to one object, which, far more forcibly than the rest, attracted my attention. It was a sycamore tree, a noblelooking tree; noble in its proportions, noble in its profusion, noble in its promise. 2. And the birds were in it, on its topmost branches, striking out their wings, and uttering their quick notes of joy. O! with what a sweet thrill came forth the liquid song from that waving, sparkling foliage; and how confident it made the looker-on, that the tree from which it gushed in a thousand mingling streams would stand and flourish and put forth its beauty, and rejoice in the fragrant breath of the summer, and stoutly defy the shock of the winter, for years to come! 3. It was a dream. I looked downward; the roots were stripped. The earth had been loosened from them, and they glistened like bones, whitened, as they were, with the water which tumbled through them and about them and over them. One hold alone it seemed to have. But the sleepless element was busy upon that. Even while I looked, the soft mold slipped in flakes from the solitary stay which held the tree erect. 4. And there it stood, full of vigor, full of beauty, full of festive life, full of promise, with a grave, perhaps a fathom deep, opened at its feet. The next flood, and the last link must give way. And down must come the lord of the forest, with all his honors, with all his strength, with all his mirth; and the remorseless river shall toss him to the thick slime, and then fling him up again, tearing his tangled finery, and bruising and breaking his proud limbs, until, two thousand miles below, on some stagnant swamp, tired of the |