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6 lose his

eyes; this work is done! What to him in

frend foeman,
of morn er det of Sun

Lay him low, thy him low,
In the clover on the snow!
What canes he? he cannot kura;



Lay hin low!

Geo. It loker



Come while our voices are blended in song,

Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove, Daughter of God! that sit'st on high

Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove, Amid the dances of the sky,

Speed o'er the far-sounding billow's of song, And guidest with thy gentle sway

Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love ; The planets on their tuneful way ;

Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long ! Sweet Peace ! shall ne'er again The smile of thy most holy face,

Brothers, we meet on this altar of thine, From thine ethereal dwelling-place,

Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Rejoice the wretched, weary race

Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine,
Of discord-breathing men ?

Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea ! Too long, O gladness-giving Queen ! Meadow and mountain, and forest and sea! Thy tarrying in heaven has been ;

Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Too long o'er this fair blooming world Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, The flag of blood has been unfurled,

Brothers, once more round this altar of thine! Polluting God's

pure day; Whilst, as each maddening people reels,

Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain ! War onward drives his scythéd wheels,

Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky ! Anil at his horses' bloody heels

Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main,

Bid the full breath of the organ reply ;
Shriek Murder and Dismay.

Let the loud tempest of voices reply ;
Oft have I wept to hear the cry

Roll its long surge like the earth-shaking main! Of widow wailing bitterly ;

Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky! To see the parent's silent tear

Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain !
For children fallen beneath the spear ;

And I have felt so sore
The sense of human guilt and woe,
That I, in Virtue's passioned glow,
Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)

The shape of man I bore !
Then come from thy serene abode,

OSCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Thou gladness-giving child of God !

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And cease the world's ensanguined strife,

And fiery hearts and arméd hands
And reconcile my soul to life;

Encountered in the battle-cloud.
For much I long to see,

Ah ! never shall the land forget
Ere I shall to the grave descend,

How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Thy hand its blessed branch extend,

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
And to the world's remotest end

Upon the soil they fought to save.,
Wave Love and Harmony !

Now all is calm and fresh and still ;

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! No solemn host goes trailing by

Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ;



Men start not at the battle-cry,

0, be it never heard again !

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare ! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown, — yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; For with thy side shall dwell, at last,

The victory of endurance born. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, –

The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

“Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you ?"
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose ;
My heart felt everything but calm repose ;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears ;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain ;
I raved at war and all its horrid cost,
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.

Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.
In stepped my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid ;
And stooping to the child, the old man said,
“Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again ;
This is youruncle Charles, come home from Spain."
The child approached, and with her fingers light
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.
But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier ! what's the world to me?

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here !


Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.





How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair !
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind ;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold ; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say, – past friendship to renew,

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing,
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more ;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rnde sound shall reach thine ear,

Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here;

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OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might,

In the days when earth was young ;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,

The strokes of his hammer rung:
And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,

As he fashioned the sword and the spear. And he sang : “Hurrah for my handiwork !

Hurrah for the spear and the sword ! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,

For he shall be king and lord.”
To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade

As the crown of his desire :
And he male them weapons sharp and strong,

Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,

And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang : “Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,

And hurrah for the metal true !"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart,

Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done ;
He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed,

In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said : “ Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man !”
And for many a'day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe ;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,

And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,

And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,

While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang : “Hurrah for my handiwork !"

And the red sparks lit the air ; “Not alone for the blade was the bright steel

made," – And he fashioned the first ploughshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And ploughed the willing lands;


“And everybody praised the duke

Who this great fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last ?”

Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he ; “But 't was a famous victory."


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