And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm—

A cry of defiance, and not of fear

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore !
For, borne on the night-wind of the past,
Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

INDEPENDENCE BELL July 4th, 1776.

WHEN it was certain that the Declaration would be adopted and confirmed by the signatures of the delagates in Congress, it was determined to announce the event by ringing the old State-House bell, which bore the inscription: "Proclaim liberty to the land: to all the inhabitants thereof!" and the old bellman posted his little boy at the door of the hall to await the instruction of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the little patriot-scion rushed out, and, flinging up his hands, shouted "Ring! RING! RING!"

There was tumult in the city,

In the quaint old Quaker's town,
And the streets were rife with people
Pacing restless up and down;
People gathering at corners,

Where they whisper'd each to each,
And the sweat stood on their temples,
With the earnestness of speech.

As the bleak Atlantic currents

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore,

So they beat against the State-House,
So they surged against the door;
And the mingling of their voices
Made a harmony profound,
'Till the quiet street of chestnuts
Was all turbulent with sound.

“Will they do it?”

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"Dare they do it?"

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Who is speaking?"

· What's the news?"

What of Adams ?" "What of Sherman ?"

"Oh, God grant they won't refuse !"

'Make some way there!" "Let me nearer !"

So they beat against the portal,
Man and woman, maid and child;

And the July sun in heaven

On the scene look'd down and smiled;

The same sun that saw the Spartan

Shed his patriot blood in vain,

Now beheld the soul of freedom
All unconquer'd rise again.

See! See! The dense crowd quivers
Through all its lengthy line,
As the boy beside the portal

Looks forth to give the sign!
With his small hands upward lifted,
Breezes dallying with his hair,
Hark! with deep, clear intonation,
Breaks his young voice on the air.

Hush'd the people's swelling murmur,
List the boy's strong, joyous cry!
"Ring!" he shouts, RING! Grandpa,
Ring! Oh, RING for Liberty !"

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And straightway, at the signal,
The old bellman lifts his hand,
And sends the good news, making
Iron music through the land.

How they shouted! What rejoicing!
How the old bell shook the air,
Till the clang of freedom ruffled
The calmn gliding Delaware!
How the bonfires and the torches
Illumed the night's repose,
And from the flames, like Phoenix,
Fair Liberty arose !

That old bell now is silent,
And hush'd its iron tongue,

But the spirit it awaken'd
Still lives,-forever young.
And while we greet the sunlight,
On the fourth of each July,
We'll ne'er forget the bellman,
Who, twixt the earth and sky,

Rung out OUR INDEPENDENCE;

Which, please God, shall never die!

TREE OF LIBERTY.

HOMER B. SPRAGUE.

CONSCIENCE, illumined and quickened by the Word of God, is above Prelates and Councils, and Popes and Parliaments, and Constitutions and Kings. But, alas! how many and how terrible the sacrifices before this truth could become incarnated in any nation's fundamental law! In Babylonish furnaces, Jewish crucifixions, Roman amphitheatres, Waldensian persecutions, Spanish

Inquisitions, Thirty Years' Wars, Bartholomew n...da cres, Smithfield fires, its victims ever multiply. The lives of fifty million martyrs are in this Tree of Liberty; their ashes have been its only soil, their tears and blood have watered it, their death alone has given it life. Tree of Liberty! No garden plant grown beneath glass, warmed by artificial heat, fanned only by the gentle zephyrs, and tended alone by loving hands, no slender vine, no drooping willow, is this; but a gnarled oak! Its roots grasp the rock. Its head defies the storm. Many a winter has stripped its green. Persecution's axe has gashed it; its fires have swept it. War's tornadoes have torn it; its lightnings have riven it. Yet it stands, and thank God! it strikes its roots deeper and lifts its branches higher and broader, and beckons the nations to-day to rest beneath its shade and enjoy its shelter.

THE BALLAD OF VALLEY FORGE.

IT was a night in winter,

Some seventy years ago;

The bleak and barren landscape

Was blurred with driving snow.

In an old New England farm-house,
That snowy winter night,
In the spacious chimney corner,
Where the logs were blazing bright,

An aged man was sitting

In the cheery light and heat,
With his head upon his bosom,
And the watch-dog at his feet.

Beside him sat his grandson,

In a high-backed open chair,

And the glow of ten sweet summers Was golden in his hair.

The man was Nathan Baldwin,
And many a tale is told

Of how he marched and suffered
With hunger and with cold.

Tell me a story, Gran'ther;

Not that of Riding Hood, Nor how the robins buried The children in the wood;

"But how you fought the Indians So many years ago;

Or Valley Forge in winter,

And all about the snow."

"On the seventeenth of December (The day was still and bright) We crossed the swollen Schuylkill, With Valley Forge in sight.

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We saw the smoke of the forges,
We heard the anvil's ring:
You should have heard us, Abner,
And heard us shout and sing!

"Our huts were built by Christmas;
Rough logs: a slab the door :
The cracks with clay were plastered
The frozen ground the floor.

"All through the happy valley
The Christmas cheer was spread;
The farmers ate their turkeys,
And we our mouldy bread!