I tread where the TWELVE in their wayfaring trod;
I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN of GOD,-
Where His blessings were heard and His lessons were taught,
Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.

Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came,-
These hills HE toiled over in grief, are the same;
The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow,
And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow

And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,

But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet;
For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone,
And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.

But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode
Of humanity clothed in the brightness of God?
Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim,
It could gaze, even now, on the presence of HIM.

Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when,

In love and in meekness, He moved among men;
And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea
In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!

And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,

Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed Him to bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer?

Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near
To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of Thy love is the same even now
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.

Oh, the outward hath gone!—but, in glory and power,
The SPIRIT Surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same!

SONG OF THE FREE.

Living, I shall assert the right of FREE DISCUSSION; dying, I shall assert it; and, should I leave no other inheritance to my children, by the blessing of God I will leave them the inheritance of FREE PRINCIPLES, and the example of a manly and independent defence of them."-Daniel Webster.

PRIDE of New England!

Soul of our fathers!

Shrink we all craven-like,
When the storm gathers?

What though the tempest be
Over us lowering,

Where's the New Englander

Shamefully cowering?
Graves green and holy

Around us are lying,

Free were the sleepers all,
Living and dying!

Back with the Southerner's
Padlocks and scourges!
Go-let him fetter down
Ocean's free surges !
Go-let him silence

Winds, clouds, and waters
Never New England's own
Free sons and daughters!
Free as our rivers are
Ocean-ward going—
Free as the breezes are
Over us blowing.
Up to our altars, then,

Haste we, and summon
Courage and lovliness,

Manhood and woman!

Deep let our pledges be:
Freedom for ever!
Truce with Oppression,
Never, oh! never!
By our own birthright-gift,
Granted of Heaven-
Freedom for heart and lip,
Be the pledge given !

If we have whisper'd truth,
Whisper no longer;
Speak as the tempest does,
Sterner and stronger;
Still be the tones of truth
Louder and firmer,
Startling the haughty South
With the deep murmur:
God and our Charter's right,
Freedom for ever!

Truce with Oppression,

Never, oh! never!

LINES ON A PORTRAIT.

HOW beautiful! That brow of snow,
That glossy fall of fair brown tresses,
The blue eye's tranquil heaven below,
The hand whereon the fair cheek presses
Half-shadow'd by a falling curl

Which on the temple's light reposes-
Each finger like a line of pearl

Contrasted with the cheek's pure roses! There, as she sits beneath the shade By vine and rose-wreath'd arbor made, Tempering the light which, soft and warm Reveals her full and matchless form, In thoughtful quietude, she seems Like one of Raphael's pictur'd dreams, Where blend in one all radiant face The woman's warmth-the angel's grace!

Well-I can gaze upon it now,

As on some cloud of autumn's even, Bathing its pinions in the glow

And glory of the sunset heavenSo holy and so far away

That love without desire is cherish'd,
Like that which lingers o'er the clay
Whose warm and breathing life has perish'd
While yet upon its brow is shed
The mournful beauty of the dead!
And I can look on her as one
Too pure for aught save gazing on-
An Idol in some holy place,
Which man may kneel to, not caress-
Or melting tone of music heard
From viewless lip, or unseen bird.

I know her not. And what is all
Her beauty to a heart like mine,
While memory yet hath power to call
Its worship from a stranger-shrine?
Still midst the weary din of life

The tones I love my ear has met;
Midst lips of scorn and brows of strife

The smiles I love are lingering yet!
The hearts in sun and shadow known--
The kind hands lingering in our own
The cords of strong affection spun
By early deeds of kindness done-
The blessed sympathies which bind
The spirit to its kindred mind,-

Oh, who would leave these tokens tried For all the stranger-world beside?

Alfred B. Street.

A FOREST WALK.

A LOVELY sky, a cloudless sun,

A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers, O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won, To the cool forest's shadowy bowers; One of the paths all round that wind, Traced by the browsing herds, I choose, And sights and sounds of human kind In Nature's lone recesse: lose. The beech displays its marbled bark,

The spruce its green tent stretches wide,
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark,
The maple's scalloped dome beside:

All weave on high a verdant roof,
That keeps the very sun aloof,

Making a twilight soft and green
Within the columned, vaulted scene.

Sweet forest-odours have their birth

From the clothed boughs and teeming earth:

Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and dead,

Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern,

With many a wild flower's fairy urn,

A thick, elastic carpet spread; Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, Resolving into soil, is sunk;

There, wrenched but lately from its throne,

By some fierce whirlwind circling past, Its huge roots masse with earth and stone. One of the woodland kings is cast.