The sense of Evil, the stern cry of Right;
But Truth has steer'd me free, and I rejoice.

Not with the triumph that looks back to jeer
At the poor herd that call their misery bliss;
But as a mortal speaks when God is near,

I drop you down my answer: it is this:

I am not yours, because you prize in me
What is the lowest in my own esteem:
Only my flowery levels can you see,

Nor of my heaven-smit summits do

you

dream.

I am not yours, because you love yourself:
Your heart has scarcely room for me beside.
I will not be shut in with name and pelf;

I spurn the shelter of your narrow pride!

Not yours, because you are not man enough
To grasp your country's measure of a man.
If such as you, when Freedom's ways are rough,
Cannot walk in them, learn that women can!
Not yours, because, in this the nation's need,
You stoop to bend her losses to your gain,
And do not feel the meanness of your deed ;-

I touch no palm defiled with such a stain!
Whether man's thought can find too lofty steeps
For woman's scaling, care not I to know:
But when he falters by her side, or creeps,
She must not clog her soul with him to go.

Who weds me must at least with equal pace Sometimes move with me at my being's height: To follow him to his superior place,

His rarer atmosphere, were keen delight.

You lure me to the valley: men should call
Up to the mountains, where the air is clear.
Win me and help me climbing, if at all!
Beyond these peaks great harmonies I hear :-

The morning chaunt of Liberty and Law!
The dawn pours in, to wash out Slavery's blot;
Fairer than aught the bright sun ever saw,
Rises a Nation without stain or spot!

The men and women mated for that time
Tread not the soothing mosses of the plain;
Their hands are join'd in sacrifice subline;
Their feet firm set in upward paths of pain.

Sleep your thick sleep, and go your drowsy way!
You cannot hear the voices in the air!
Ignoble souls will shrivel in that day;

The brightness of its coming can you bear?

For me, I do not walk these hills alone:

Heroes who pour'd their blood out for the truth, Women whose hearts bled, martyrs all unknown, Here catch the sunrise of immortal youth

On their pale cheeks and consecrated brows :—
It charms me not, your call to rest below.
I press their hands, my lips pronounce their vows :
Take my life's silence for your answer-No!

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

POOR lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes!
Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse!
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree :
Spring and winter,
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Not a neighbour
Passing nod or answer will refuse,
To her whisper-

"Is there from the fishers any news?"

O, her heart's adrift, with one
On an endless voyage gone!
Night and morning,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos:
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,
And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing:

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos.
Hannah shudders,

For the mild southwester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound, a schooner sped:
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

"Tis November,

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews;
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,-
Whispering hoarsely-"Fishermen !
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views.
Twenty seasons,

Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea:

Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

THE CURTAIN OF THE DARK.

THE curtain of the dark

Is pierced by many a rent:
Out of the star-wells, spark on spark
Trickles through night's torn tent.

Grief is a tatter'd tent

Where through God's light doth shine: Who glances up, at every rent

Shall catch a ray divine.

SLEEP-SONG.

HUSH the homeless baby's crying,

Tender Sleep!

Every folded violet

May the outer storm forget. Those wet lids with kisses drying, Through them creep!

Soothe the soul that lies thought-weary, Murmurous Sleep!

Like a hidden brooklet's song,
Rippling gorgeous woods among,
Tinkling down the mountains dreary,
White and steep.

Breathe thy balm upon the lonely,
Gentle Sleep!

As the twilight breezes bless
With sweet scents the wilderness:
Ah, let warm white dove-wings only
Round them sweep!

O'er the agèd pour thy blessing,
Holy Sleep!

Like a soft and ripening rain,

Falling on the yellow grain:

For the glare of suns oppressing,
Pitying weep!

On thy still seas met together,
Charmed Sleep!

Hear them swell a drowsy hymning,
Swans to silvery music swimming,
Floating with unruffled feather
O'er the deep.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
Born at Ogden, New York, 1827—

EVENING AT THE FARM.

OVER the hill the farm-boy goes:
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows:
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,-

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the waggon-shed stand yoke and plough;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The cooling dews are falling;-

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,

And the whinnying mare her master knows,

T