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When nerved by revenge and despair!
Let the fetter be tightened!-the sooner 'twill break!
Trample on!—and the serf shall more quickly awake!




Ye may tread on the poor-but not long! Ye may torture the weak--while ye dare! "As I stood upon the forecastle and looked to-But wo!-for the arm of a People is strong wards the land, which soon seemed but a little streak in the horizon, and was fast sinking from our sight, I seemed to feel a heavy weight drop off me. The chains were gone. I felt myself a freeman; and as I watched the fast-receding shore, my bosom heaved with a proud scorn-a mingled feeling of safety and disdain. Farewell, my country!'-such were the thoughts that rose upon my mind, and pressed to find an utterance from my lips, and such a country! A land boasting to be the chosen seat of liberty and equal rights, yet holding such a portion of her people in hopeless, helpless, miserable bondage!'

Farewell my country! Much is the gratitude and thanks I owe thee! Land of the tyrant and the slave, farewell!'

"And welcome, welcome, ye bounding billows and foaming surges of the ocean! Ye are the emblems and the children of liberty-I hail ye as my brothers-for, at last, I too am free! - free!— free!"-Archy Moore, Vol. II. p. 146-7.

From my heel I have broken the chain!

I have shivered the yoke from my neck!
Free!-free! as the plover that rides on the main-
As the waters that dash o'er our deck!

In my bosom new feelings are born

New hopes have sprung up in my path--
And I leave to my country defiance and scorn,
The curse of a fugitive's wrath!

My country?-away!-for the gifts which she gave
Were the whip and the fetter-the life of a slave!

Thank God! that a limit is set

To the reach of the tyrant's control!

That the down-trodden serf may not wholly forget
The right and the might of his soul!
That though years of oppression may dim
The fire on the heart's altar laid,

Yet, lit by the breath of Jehovah, like Him
It lives, and shall live, undecayed!

Will the fires of the mountain grow feeble and die?
Beware!-for the tread of the Earthquake is nigh!

Proud Land!-there is vengeance in store

For thy soul-crushing despots and thee—
When Mercy, grown faint, shall no longer implore,
But the day of thy recompense be-

When thy cup with the mixture of wrath

Shall be full-the Avenger, in power,
Shall sweep like a tempest of fire o'er thy path,
Consuming the tree and the flower-

And thy mountains shall echo the shriek of despair,
While the smoke of thy torment shall darken the air!

Wo! wo! to the forgers of chains,

Who trample the image of God:

Calls for vengeance the blood of the bondman, which stains

The cursed and the verdureless sod!

My country!-the land of my birth!

Farewell to thy fetters and thee!
The by-word of tyrants-the scorn of the earth---
A mockery to all shalt thou be!
Hurra! for the sea and its waves!

Ye billows and surges-all hail!
My brothers henceforth-for ye scorn to be slaves,
As ye toss up your crests to the gale!
Farewell to the land of the charter and chain,"-
My path is away o'er the fetterless main!

How sweetly on the hill-side sleeps

The sunlight with its quickening rays!
The verdant trees that crown the steeps
Grow greener in its quivering blaze:
While all the air that round us floats

With subtile wing, breathes only life-
And, ringing with a thousand notes,
The woods with song are rife.
Why, this is Nature's holiday!

She puts her gayest mantle on-
And, sparkling o'er their pebbly way,
With gladder shout the brooklets run;
The birds and breezes seem to give

A sweeter cadence to their song-
A brighter life the insects live
That float in light along.
"The cattle on a thousand hills,"

The fleecy flocks that dot the vale,
All joy alike in life, that fills

The air, and breathes in every gale!
And who that has a heart and eye

To feel the bliss and drink it in,
But pants, for scenes like these, to fly
The city's smoke and din-

A sweet companionship to hold

With Nature in her forest-bowers,
And learn the gentle lessons told

By singing birds and opening flowers?
Nor do they err who love her lore-
Though books have power to stir my heart,
Yet Nature's varied page can more

Of rapturous joy impart !

No selfish joy-if Duty calls,

Not sullenly I turn from these-
Though dear the dash of waterfalls,

The wind's low voice among the trees,
Birds, flowers, and flocks-for God hath taught
-Oh, keep, my heart! the lesson still-
His soul, alone, with bliss is fraught,
Who heeds the Father's will!


"Like thee, oh stream! to glide in solitude Noiselessly on, reflecting sun or star,

Unseen by man, and from the great world's jar Kept evermore aloof-methinks 'twere good To live thus lonely through the silent lapse

Of my appointed time." Not wisely said, Unthinking Quietist! The brook hath sped Its course for ages through the narrow gaps Of rifted hills and o'er the reedy plain, Or 'mid the eternal forests, not in vainThe grass more greenly groweth on its brink, And lovelier flowers and richer fruits are there, And of its crystal waters myriads drink,

That else would faint beneath the torrid air.

Inaction now is crime. The old earth reels

Inebriate with guilt; and Vice, grown bold, Laughs Innocence to scorn. The thirst for gold Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels

In worship foul to Mammon, is contemned. He who hath kept his purer faith, and stemmed Corruption's tide, and from the ruffian heels Of impious tramplers rescued periled Right,

Is called fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers Maliciously assailed. The poor man's tears Are unregarded-the oppressor's might Revered as law-and he whose righteous way Departs from evil, makes himself a prey.

What then? Shall he who wars for Truth succumb To popular Falsehood, and throw down his shield, And drop the sword he hath been taught to wield In Virtue's cause? Shall Righteousness be dumb, Awe-struck before Injustice? No!-a cry,

"Ho! to the rescue!" from the hills hath rung, And men have heard and to the combat sprung Strong for the right, to conquer or to die!

Up, Loiterer! for on the winds are flung The banners of the Faithful!-and erect Beneath their folds the hosts of God's Elect

Stand in their strength. Be thou their ranks among. Fear not, nor falter, though the strife endure, Thy cause is sacred, and the victory sure.


(The middle of December-Thermometer at Zero.) This feels like winter! Ugh! how bitterly Cometh the keen northwester! In the west Dark clouds are piled in gloomy masses up, And from their folds comes freezingly the breath Of the Storm-Spirit, couched and shrouded there. But yestermorn the streams were murmuring With their low, silvery voices, pouring forth

Their own peculiar music on the air,

And glancing in the sunshine radiantly.

Now their clear tones are hushed-for the Frost-King
Hath thrown his fetter on them, and evoked

The voice of melody that dwelt with them
In the bright sunny hours, and they are staid
In their free current, frozen, murmurless.

Where stays the sunshine? Hath it learned that

Is chilled through all her veins, and for some grudge
That seemed forgotten long ago, resolved
To let it freeze for ever? Or, perchance,
The sun himself is frozen. If that cloud,
That hangs so like a pall along the sky,
Would move his body corporate, and begone
Back to his ocean-mansion, we might learn
Whether the sun be dead or slumbering.

Ho! bring my cloak, Katurah! Heap the wood
On the hot hearth-draw up the high-backed screen:
Let the winds whistle now, if so they will-
I care but little for their minstrelsy,
So I can shut from me their freezing breath.
Well-I am warm and quiet; but, i' faith,
I pity the poor wight that's forced to face
Old Boreas to-day. Necessity
Alone will call forth travellers, and-ugh! ugh!
This cough-ugh! ugh!-will kill me presently
An' I am not more careful. Oh, the seams
Around the doors and windows are unclosed.
List-List!-a roll of list! I will not freeze
In my own domicil. Heap on the wood,
And throw another mantle round me-there!

Hark! as I live, I hear the ringing sound Of the light skaters on the frozen lake— And see how merrily they wheel away In swift gyrations o'er the glassy ice, As if a power were given them to fly ! The happy dogs!-Heaven grant they may not freeze. I thought no boy would venture out to-day For sport or labor, an' he were not flogged For tarrying within. Well, after all, And I remember me when I was young, It may not be so very cold for themHow little cared I for the biting frost, So I might whirl upon the ringing steel Merrily on, surrounded by a group As happy as myself, all life and joy!

But s'death a few short years will make a change
In a man's sensitiveness, 'specially

When they bring with them gout and rheumatism,
Toothachs and agues, fevers and catarrhs-
And worse, far worse than aught, ay, than all else,
Dread hypochondria! They will find it so—
Those merry boys now skating on the lake-
If they, like me, indulge in turtle-soup,
Sauces, and pies, and cakes, and the whole round
Of eatables and drinkables which load

Their glutton-feeding table, who, like me,

Are cursed with wealth that brings but pain and care.
Would I were still a merry, penny less boy,
As light of foot and heart as I was once-
Free from dispepsy-free from every pain
Money has purchased for me!-then would I
Bind the bright skate upon my agile heel,
And skim-ugh! ugh!-I've added to my cold.


Oh, Bessie was a bonny girl

As ever happy mother kissed

And when our FATHER called her home, How sadly was she missed!

For grave or gay, or well or ill,

She had a thousand winning ways,

And mingled infant innocence

In all her tasks and plays.

How softly beamed her happy smile,

Which played around the sweetest mouth

That ever fashioned infant-words

The sunshine of the South, Mellowed and soft, was in her eye,

And gleamed its brightness o'er her hairAll creatures that had life, I ween, Did her affections share.

Our Bessie had a loving heart;

No living girl could gentler beAnd 'twas her happiness to sit

Upon her father's knee;

And as he talked of heavenly things,
And told of HIM who made the light,

Her eye, uplit with spirit-beams,

Grew brighter and more bright.

With reverent voice she breathed her prayer,
With gentlest tones she sang her hymn--
And when she talked of heaven, our eyes
With tears of joy were dim;
Yet in our selfish grief we wept

When last her lips upon us smiled-
Oh, could we, when our FATHER called,
Detain the happy child?

Our home is poor, and cold our clime,
And misery mingles with our mirth-
'Twas meet our Bessie should depart
From such a weary earth!
Oh, she is safe !-no cloud can dim
The brightness of her ransomed soul!
No trials vex, no tempter lure

Her spirit from its goal!

We wrapt her in her snow-white shroud-
We smoothed again her sunny hair,
And crossed her hands upon her breast-
Oh! she was wondrous fair!

We kissed her cheek, and kissed her brow;
And if aright we read the smile
That lingered on her pallid lips,
It told of Heaven the while!

She lived a radiant Presence, lent
To bless our hearts and glad our hearth;
She died-oh, bitter was the cup-

To wean us from the earth!
Dear God! Thy name be praised for her-
For sweetest memories of our child-
The angel called from earth to heaven
A spirit undefiled!



In Ocean's wide domains,

Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains,

With shackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews,

Deeper than plummet lies, Float ships with all their crews, No more to sink or rise.

There the black slave-ship swims, Freighted with human forms, Whose fettered fleshless limbs

Are not the sport of storms.

These are the bones of slaves; They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, We are the Witnesses!'

Within Earth's wide domains

Are markets for men's lives; Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves.

Dead bodies, that the kite

In deserts makes its prey;
Murders, that with affright
Scare schoolboys from their play!

All evil thoughts and deeds,
Anger, and lust, and pride;
The foulest, rankest weeds,

That choke Life's groaning tide!

These are the woes of slaves;

They glare from the abyss; They cry, from unknown graves, We are the Witnesses!'

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The stars come forth, a silent hymn of praise
To the great God, and, shining every one,
Make up the glorious harmony, led on
By Hesperus, their chorister each plays
A part in the great concert with its rays,
And yet so stilly, modestly, as none
Claimed to himself aught of the good thus done
By all alike, each shining in his place;
Each has his path, there moves unerringly,
Nor covets empty fame. Do we as they :
Let each soul lend its utmost light, each play
In the grand concert of humanity
Its destined part: then mankind on its way
Shall move as surely as those stars on high!


What is the Warrior's sword compared with thee?
A brittle reed against a giant's might!
What are the Tyrant's countless hosts? as light
As chaff before the tempest! though he be
Shut in with guards, and by the bended knee
Be-worshipped, like a God, thou still canst smite,
E'en then, with viewless arm, and from that height
Hurl him into the dust! for thou art free,
Boundless, omnipresent, like God, who gave
Thee for his crowning-gift to man and when
Thou work'st with thy best weapon, Truth's calm pen,
To punish and reform, exalt and save,
Thou canst combine in one the minds of men,
Which strength like that of God, united have!


There is a music which I love to hear
Beyond all other music 'neath the sky,
The deep sweet music of Humanity ;
Falling for ever on mine inward ear,
From ages past, and choristers now here
No longer, yet whose voices, sweet and high,
Like a Te Deum " to the Deity,

Fill the wide world, His temple, far and near!
Long had I, at the gates, sat listening,
Not daring yet to enter in, nor quite
Conceiving whence those blessed sounds could spring.
But now I, with a concourse infinite,

Have entered in at last, and with them sing
And shout Hosannas, worshipping aright!


True men and upright, of whate'er degree, With sweating brow, or crown upon your head, True sons of your great Father, missionéd

To do his work of love, to bind and free,
Who like Saint Peter hold the mystic key;
Who work his miracles, but words instead
Of spells make use of, quickening the dead,
The dead in soul, who deadest of all be!
Dearer to me your good opinion is
Than the poor plaudits of the ignorant crowd,
Groundless as hasty, brief as they are loud;
For Conscience, which but echoes Him in this,
Who lifts the meek up, and puts down the proud,
Approves your sentence, and confirms it His!


A foolish dreamer! well, e'en be it so-
And yet I am awake, or, waking, dream
Things truer, or which so unto me seem,
Than those who wake o' nights and no rest know,
Till they get rich, and life for money throw
Away and Love, its crowning grace supreme,
And God (Love's essence,) openly blaspheme,
Mocking him in his temple with vain show!
Perhaps I dream-I dream the world is fair,
Fairer than heart can know or tongue can say!
That Love doth greater treasures with it bear
Than wealth-and that no wealth were thrown

Could it a sense procure ye, though it were
But of a flower's beauty for one day!


Thou art the truest poet, Keats, for thou
Sing'st but for love, not guerdon : even as
The lark in morning's ear, whose music was
And is, and ever will be, still as now,
Unconscious of an effort, as the bough
Is of its perfume-but the world doth pass
Such by: 'tis hard of hearing, and, alas!
Harder of heart, and takes no count of how
A poet lives and dies, till he be gone;
Still, when he asks for bread, it gives a stone!
And accurate biographers search out

His life's least details, when his name has grown
A word of power, and a light about

It gathered, that attends not a King's throne!

Before a daisy in the grass I bend
My head in awe : I could not pluck it thence
Without a feeling of deep reverence,
As something God has made for a wise end!
My whole mind it requires to comprehend
The least work of Divine Intelligence,

My whole heart, with all feelings deep, intense,
Expression to its loveliness to lend!

But not so is it with the works of Man

On these I boldly lay my hand, on creeds
And dogmas, for these come within my span—
Therefore with these articulate blasts I fan
The chaff of Custom from Truth's genuine seeds,
Like the great wind, that where it listeth speeds!


E'en in my boyish days, ere yet a cloud
Of sadness rested on my path, except

To make it brighter, when away 't was swept
By the strong breath of Hope, so gay and proud,
E'en then I've turned aside from the vain crowd,
The forms and ceremonies, which intercept
The heart's diviner beatings, and have wept
For suffering Humanity aloud!

Aye, even then I made a boyish vow,
In Nature's own grand temple kneeling down,
Who set her sign in token on my brow,
That I allegiance only would avow

To him who wears upon his head the crown
Of genuine Manhood, be he king or clown!


The beggar's staff has often wider sway
Than the king's sceptre! higher empire far,
Far nobler subjects- his own thoughts, which are
Best ministers of good from day to day!
Content with these, still ready to obey,
He in his sphere moves stilly, like a star
Which makes all light about it, 'bove the jar
Of earth's vain cares, on his eternal way.
Till, thus become a spirit, spirits wait
Upon him, ever round that viewless throne,
Which He, on passions, early taught to own
Wisdom's supremacy, has raised a state
Wherein celestial powers have sway alone;
The Lord of his own Soul is truly great!


Glory enough 'twere for the greatest man

To write what men should in their mouths still have,
Day after day, when he is in his grave-
To be identified with things of span

And scope perdurable, that since began

The world high mention of mankind still crave:
Things with a soul of good in them to save
Them from oblivion, which nought else can-
Aye, glory 'twere enough to write a song,
That e'en the child upon its mother's knee
Should love to sing, and still remember long,
Long after, in the days that are to be!
And which to mind recalling, he feels strong,
Within, the heart of his Humanitie.


We do not work our wonders with the sword,
Dear Countrymen, nor claim aught on such plea,-
With mothers and with children on their knee,
With patient Thought, and Love, that can afford
To suffer, and by suffering record
His power to achieve all victorie;
With these, and with whatever else may be
Gentlest, and with the power of the Word,
We work our wonders which none can gainsay!
Unfailingly, as from the grass the flower,
The seed divine we scatter by the way,
Shall spring, and ripen in its destined hour-
Then shout, ye Nations, for the harvest-day
Is coming, and the Sun of Truth gains power!


Oh sight beyond all others passing-dear!
The love of Nature is the love of all
That's good, and beautiful, and rational-
And he, who has but taken pains to rear
A rose about his door, extends his sphere
Of being and enjoyment-he a call

ON SEEING A POOR MAN TO WHOM I HAD Has had, and caught the voice poetical


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I met the old man now so warmly clad
'Gainst winter, and, rejoicing, asked him how
He felt he answered better," while his brow
Kindled with gratitude, as though he had
Received the benefit, not I! what bad,
What sorry reckoners the rich must be,
In Joy's arithmetic, who unmoved see

The face, which they with smiles might make so glad,
In sorrow steeped! then to myself I said,
The clothing warms not him, but me- and yet
Not outwardly, it warms my heart instead!
Yet he, as though his only were the debt,
Thanks me still! see! how gently is man led
To Good, thus more than all he gave to get!

Which speaks through all her lovely works so clear.
And by that rose she leads, in gentle guise,
Him, by the hand, as 't were, upon the way,
And round him all life's fair humanities
Calls by degrees; for she will not betray
The heart that trusts her, but, with closer ties,
Towards her draws, nor lets it go astray!

MEANS OF CIVILIZATION. With things of little cost, of every day, As common as kind words and gentle looks, And daily greetings, and familiar books, That teach us wisdom while it seems but play : With means at hand still by life's daily way, As natural as flowers by the brooks,

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