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BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. Thou art not idle : in thy higher sphere

Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks,

And strength, to perfect what it dreamed of here, I do not come to weep above thy pall,

Is all the crown and glory that it asks.
And mourn the dying out of noble powers;
The poet's clearer eye should see, in all

For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room Earth’s seeming woe, the seed of Heaven's flowers, For love and pity, and for helpful deeds;

Else were our sunmons thither but a doom Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep To life more vain than this in clayey weeds.

Of everlasting Soul her strength abides, From Nature's heart ber mighty pulses leap,

From off the starry mountain-peak of song, Through Nature's veins her strength, undying,

Thy spirit shows me, in the coming time,

An earth unwithered by the foot of wrong, tides.

A race revering its own soul sublime. Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness,

What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may Where force were vain, makes conquests o'er the

come, wave;

Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead And love lives on and hath a power to bless,

The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, When they who loved are hidden in the grave.

And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed. The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand And Glory's epitaph is writ in blood;

Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning, too, But Alexander now to Plato yields,

Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered stand, Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood.

Then leap to thread the free unfathomed blue : I watch the circle of the eternal years,

When that day comes, 0, may this hand grow cold, And read forever in the storied page

Busy, like thine, for Freedom and the Right; One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears,— 0, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold

One onward step of Truth from age to age. To face dark Slavery's encroaching blight!

The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain; This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier ;
The poet sings throngh narrow dungeon-grates;

Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwide; Man's hope lies quenched ;-and, lo! with steadfast Upon thy bearse I shed no useless tear,gain

For me weep rather thou in calm divine ! Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates.

Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross

Make up the groaning record of the past; But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss,

And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

BY LEIGI HINT.

No power can die that ever wrought for Truth;
Thereby a law of Nature it became,

Abou Ben Adhem (nay his tribe increase)
And lives unwithered in its sinewy youth,

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, When he who called it forth is but a name.

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone,

An Angel writing in a book of gold. The better part of thee is with us still;

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown,

And to the presence in the room he said, And only freer wrestles with the Ill.

- What writest thou ?" The vision raised its head, Thou livest in the life of all good things ;

Ånd, in a voice made all of sweet accord, What words thou spak’st for Freedom shall not die; Answered, “ The names of those who love the Lord!"

" And is mine one ?” said Abou. Thou sleepest not, for now thy Love hath wings

Nay, not so," To soar where hence thy hope could hardly fly.

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke nore low,

Put cheerly still, and said: "I pray thee, then, And often, from that other world, on this

Write me as one who loves his fellow-men." Some gleams from great souls gone before may The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night shine,

He came again, with a great wakening light, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And showed the names whom love of God had blest

And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

upon it;

THE WASTED FLOWERS.

snow-balls ; but at length, coming hand to hand,

they coped in a rage, and many bloody raps were On the velvet bank of a rivulet sat a rosy child.

liberally given and received. Her lap was filled with flowers, and a garland of

I went up to try if I could pacify them; for by rose-buds was twined around her neck. Her face this time a number of little girls had joined the afwas as radiant as the sunshine that fell

and

fray, and I was afraid they would be killed. So, adher voice was as clear as that of the bird which war.

dressing one party, I asked, "What are you fighting bled at her side.

those boys for? What have they done to you ?' The little stream went singing on, and with every

-0, naething at a', maun; we just want to gie gush of its music the child lifted a flower in its dim

them a gude thrashin'-that's a'.' pled hand, and with a merry laugh threw it upon its surface. In her glee she forgot that her treasures afresh ; and after fighting till they were quite ex.

My remonstrance was vain ; at it they went were growing less, and with the swist motion of hausted, one of the principal heroes stepped forth childhood, she flung them upon the sparkling tide, between the combatants, himself covered with blood until every bud and blossom had disappeared. Then

and his clothes all torn to tatters, and addressed the seeing her loss, she sprang to her feet, and bursting

opposing party thưs : Weel, I'll tell you what into tears, called aloud to the stream—« Bring back we'll do wi' yeif ye'll let us alane, we'll let you my flowers.” But the stream danced along, regard-alane.' There was no more of it; the war was less of her tears; and as it bore the blooming burden at an end, and the boys scampered away to their away, her words came back in a taunting echo along

play. its reedy margin. And, long after, amidst the wai).

That scene was a lesson of wisdom to me. I ing of the breeze and the fitful bursts of childish thought at the time, and have often thought since, grief, was heard the fruitless cry,—« Bring back tha: this trivial affray was the best epitome of war my flowers.''

in general, that I had ever seen. Kings and minisMerry maiden ! who art idly wasting the precious ters of state are just a set of grown-up children, moments so bountifully bestowed on thee-see in

exactly like the children I speak of, with only this the thoughtless impulsive child, an emblem of thy material difference, that instead of fighting out for self. Each moment is a perfumed flower. Let its themselves the needless quarrels they have raised. fragrance be dispensed in blessings on all around they sit in safety and look on, hound out their inno. thee, and ascend as sweet incense to its beneficentcent but servile subjects to battle, and then, after an Givek.

immense waste of blood and treasure, are glad to Else, when thou hast carelessly flung them from

make the boys' condition--if ye'll let us alane, thee, and seest them receding on the swift waters of

we'll let you alane.' Time, thou wilt cry in tones more sorrowful than those of the weeping child — Bring back my flowers.” And the only answer will be an echo from the shadowy past—- Bring back my flowers.” The Lowell offering..

THE FREE MIND.

BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.

Written by him while despotically imprisoned in Balti

more, in 1831, on a charge for libel; he having published EPITOME OF WAR.

an article against a New England merchant by the name
of Todd, who freighted a vessel with slaves for the New

Orleans market.
BY "THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD."

High walls and huge the body may confine, The history of every war is very like a scene I And iron grates obstruct the prisoner’s gaze, once saw in Nithsdale. Two boys from different And massive bolts may baffle his design, schools met one fine day upon the ice.—They eyed And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways : each other awhile in silence, with rather jealous and Yet scorns the immorta! mind this base control ! indignant looks, and with defiance on each brow.

No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose : • What are ye glowrin' at, Billy ?'

Swifter than light. it flies from pole, • What's that to you, Donald ? I'll look wbar

And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes ! I've a mind, an’ hinder me if you daur.'

It leaps from mount to mount ; from vale to vale To this a hearty blow was the return; and then

It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers; began such a battle! It being Saturday, all the boys It visits home, to hear the fire-side tale, of both schools were on the ice, and the fight in

Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. stantly became general. At first they fought at a 'Tis up before the siin, roaming afar, distance, with missile weapons, such as stones and And, in its watches, wearies every star!

THE REVELLERS.

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

There were sounds of mirth and revelry,
In an old ancestral hall,
And many a merrv laugh rang out,
And many a merry call;
And the glass was freely pass'd around,
And the red wine freely quaffd;
And many a heart beat high with glee,
And the joy of the thrilling draught,

In that broad and huge ancestral hall,
Of the times that were, of old.

He struck-and the stranger's guise fell off,
When a phantom before him stood,
A grinning, and ghastly, and horrible thing,
That curdled his boiling blood.
He stirred not again, till the stranger blew
A blast of his withering breath ;
'Then the Reveller fell at the Phantom's feet,
And his conqueror was-Death!

In that broad and high ancestral hall,
Of the times that were, of old.

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BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYAST.

A voice arose as the lights grew dim,
And a glass was flourished high,

TO A WATERFOWL.
I drink to Life !'' said a Reveller bold,
"* And I do not fear to die.
I have no fear-I have no fear-

Whither, 'midst falling dew,
Talk not of the vagrant, Death;

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, For he's but a grim old gentleman,

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue And wars but with his breath."

Thy solitary way? A boast well worthy a revel rout of the times that were, of old.

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, " We drink,” said all, “ We drink to life,

As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
And we do not fear to die!"

Thy figure floats along.
Just then a rushing sound was heard,
As of quick wings sweeping by;

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
And soon the old latch was lifted up,

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, And the door flew open wide,

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
And a stranger strode within the hall,

On the chafed ocean side.
With an air of martial pride ;
In visor and cloak, like a secret knight

There is a Power, whose care of the times that were, of old.

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,

The desert and illimitable air,-
He spoke : « I join in your revelry,

Lone wandering, but not lost.
Bold sons of the Bacchan rite,
And I drink the toast ye have fillid to drink,

Al day thy wings have fanned,
The pledge of yon dauntless knight;

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; Fill higher-Fill higher-we drink to life,

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
And we scorn the vagrant, Death,

Though the dark night is near.
For he's but a grim old gentleman,
And wars but with his breath."

And soon that toil shall end ;
A pledge well worthy a revel rout

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest Of the times that were, of old.

And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. ". He's a noble soul, that champion knight, And he wears a martial brow;

Thou’rt gone : the abyss of heaven Oh, he'll pass the gates of Paradise,

Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart To the regions of bliss below!"

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
The Reveller stood in deep amaze-

And shall not soon depart.
Now flash'd his fiery eye;
He muttered a curse—then shouted loud,

He, who, from zone to zone, 6. Intruder, thou shall die!"

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, And his sword leap'd out, like a Baron's brave In the long way that I must tread alone, of the times that were, of old.

Will lead my steps aright.

THE FAREWELL

of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters, sold

into Southern Bondage.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the Fever Demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air,-

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, --
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone-
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the Spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more!

Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !
Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lonem
By the holy love He beareth-
By the bruised reed He spareth-
Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters:-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them ;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me my stolen daughters!

WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER.

BY CAROLINE E. S. NORTON.

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and rack'd with pain,
To their cheerless homes again-
There no brother's voice shall greet them-
There no father's welcome meet them.

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice.swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

We have been friends together,

In sunshine and in shade,
Since first beneath the chesnut trees

In infancy, we played ;-
But coldness dwells within thy heart,

A cloud is on thy brow:
We have been friends together-

Shall a light word part us now?
We have been gay together ;-

We have laughed at little jests When the fount of love was gushing

Warm and joyous in our breasts ;But laughter now hath fled thy lips,

And sullen glooms thy brow: We have been gay together

Shall a light word part us now? We have been sad together ;

We have wept with bitter tears
O'er the grass grown graves, where slumbered

The hopes of early years.
The voices which are silent there

Would bid thee clear thy brow, -
We have been sad together-

Oh, what shall part us now?

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play-
From the cool spring where they drank-
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank-
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there-

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice.swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, –
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

pure

THE FEMALE MARTYR.

And, where the sickly taper shed

Its light through vapors, damp, confined,

Hush'd as a seraph's fell thy treadMary G-, aged 18, a “Sister of CHARITY,” died A new Electra by the bed in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence Of suffering human-kind ! of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, upon the sick.

To that pure hope which fadeth not away. « Bring out your dead !" the midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call ;

Innocent teacher of the high Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet

And holy mysteries of Heaven ! Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet

How turn'd to thee each glazing eye, Her coffin and her pall.

In mute and awful sympathy, “ What-only one !" The brutal hackman said,

As thy low prayers were given; As, with an oath, he spurn'd away the dead.

And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while,

An angel's features-a deliverer's smile!
How sunk the inmost hearts of all,
As rollid that dead-cart slowly by,

A blessed task !-and worthy one
With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall!

Who, turning from the world, as thou, The dying turn’d him to the wall,

Ere being's pathway had begun To hear it and to die !

To leave its spring-time flower and sun,
Onward it rollid; while oft its driver stay'd,

Had seal'd her early vow-
And hoarsely clamor'd, - Ho!-- bring out your dead.” Giving to God her beauty and her youth,

Her affections and her guileless truth.
It paused beside the burial-place;
- Toss in your load !”-and it was done.-

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here With quick hand and averted face,

Could be for thee a meet reward ; Hastily to the grave's embrace

Thine is a treasure far more dearThey cast them, one by one

Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear Stranger and friend—the evil and the just,

Of living mortal heard, Together trodden in the church-yard dust!

The joys prepared—the promised bliss aboveAnd thou, young martyr !-thou wast there The holy presence of Eternal Love !

No white-robed sisters round thee trodNor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer

Sleep on in peace. The earth has not

A nobler name than thine shall be. Rose through the damp and noisome air,

The deeds by martial manhood wrought, Giving thee to thy God;

The lofty energies of thought, • Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallow'd taper gave

The fire of poesyGrace to the dead, and beauty to the grave !

These have but frail and fading honors ;-thine Yet, gentle sufferer!-there shall be,

Shall Time unto Eternity consign,
In every heart of kindly feeling,
A rite as holy paid to thee

Yea—and, when thrones shall crumble down,
As if beneath the convent-tree

And human pride and grandeur fall,Thy sisterhood were kneeling,

The herald's line of long renownAt vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping

The mitre and the kingly crownTheir tearful watch around thy place of sleeping.

Perishing glories all!

The pure devotion of thy generous heart
For thou wast one in whom the light

Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part !
Of Heaven's own love was kindled well,
Enduring with a martyr's might,
Through weary day and wakeful night,

Far more than words may tell :
Gentle, and neek, and lowly, and unknown-
Thy mercies measured by thy God alone!

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;

In feelings, not in figures on a dial. Where manly hearts were failing, -where

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives The througtul street grew soul with death,

Who thinks most-feels the nublest-acts the best; O high soul'd martyr !-thou wast there,

And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest; Inhaling from the loathsome air,

Lives in one hour more than in years do some, Poison with every breath.

Whose blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. Yet shrinking not from offices of dread For the wrung dying, and unconscious dead.

P. J. BAILEY.

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