Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands

And spicy Indian ports,

Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,

And summer to her courts.

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,

The only hostile smoke

Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine,

From some frail, floating oak.

Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow,

Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crown'd isles,
As fair and free as now?

We know not; in the temple of the Fates
God has inscribed her doom;

And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits
The triumph or the tomb.

THE UNKNOWN DEAD.

THE rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of Heaven are still;
And so, it falls with that dull sound
Which thrills us in the churchyard ground,
When the first spadeful drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.

Beyond my streaming window-pane,
I cannot see the neighbouring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower

The bell comes, muffled, through the shower.
What strange and unsuspected link
Of feeling touch'd has made me think—
While with a vacant soul and eye
I watch that gray and stony sky-
Of nameless graves on battle-plains,
Wash'd by a single winter's rains,
Where, some beneath Virginian hills,
And some by green Atlantic rills,

Some by the waters of the West,
A myriad unknown heroes rest?
Ah! not the chiefs who, dying, see
Their flags in front of victory,
Or, at their life-blood's noblest cost
Paid for a battle nobly lost,

Claim from their monumental beds
The bitterest tears a nation sheds.
Beneath yon lonely mound-the spot
By all save some fond few forgot—
Lie the true martyrs of the fight,
Which strikes for freedom and for right.
Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,
The lofty faith that with them died,
No grateful page shall further tell
Than that so many bravely fell;
And we can only dimly guess

What worlds of all this world's distress,
What utter woe, despair, and dearth,
Their fate has brought to many a hearth.
Just such a sky as this should weep
Above them, always, where they sleep;
Yet, haply, at this very hour,

Their graves are like a lover's bower;
And Nature's self, with eyes unwet,
Oblivious of the crimson debt
To which she owes her April grace,
Laughs gayly o'er their burial-place.

JOHN ESTEN COOKE.
Born at Winchester, Virginia, 1830—

MAY.

HAS the old glory pass'd

From tender May

That never the echoing blast
Of bugle-horns merry, and fast

Dying away like the past,

Welcomes the day?

Has the old beauty gone

From golden May

That not any more at dawn
Over the flowery lawn,

Or knolls of the forest withdrawn,
Maids are at play?

Is the old freshness dead
Of the fairy May?-

Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed!
Ah! the young maidens unwed!
Golden locks-cheeks rosy red-
Ah! where are they?

PAUL H. HAYNE.

Born at Charleston, South Carolina, 1831

THE GOLDEN AGE.

A SHIP with lofty prow came down
To Latium's strand-

A God had burst from sever'd chains,
To rule the land.

Plenty and smiling Peace sprung up
Beneath his tread,-

Earth blossom'd like Hesperian fields,-
Discord was dead.

Heaven with its calm supernal light
Had bless'd the spot,—

And Misery in the enchanted realm
Durst enter not.

Life pass'd away like holy dreams
Ön spring-tide eves,—

And melted as the sunset melts
From violet leaves.

From haunted wood-shades genii flew,
In twilight dim,-

Nature and human hearts drank deep
Their 'wildering hymn.

Earth, air, and heaven, entranced were,-
A cloudless clime

Hung, like transparent dews, around
That Golden Time.

Those golden years have pass'd, to come
In purer light,-

Their hopes that sleep, but are not dead,
Will chase the night.

Time from the dungeon vault of Sin
Will strongly burst,

And glorious in his wrath cast off
His chains accurst.

A God will reach from viewless realms
This mortal shore,—

And dark-robed Misery flee his face
For evermore.

THE WHY OF A BLUSH.

Two maples by the cottage porch
Grew crimson in the sunset light;
Was it their leaves' reflected glow
Which made her perfect face so bright?

I led her gently down the steps,

And down the pathway's flickering shade, But still o'er tender cheek and brow

66

The same deep radiance warmly play'd.

Enough, O Sweet!" I whisper'd low; "That heart is mine I yearn'd to win: No sunset flush, but love's pure dawn,

Breaks from the kindled soul within!"

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

Born at Hartford, Conn: 1833

HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY.

JOHN BROWN in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer,

Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might.

There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer,

Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night;

And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,

Came homeward in the morning-to find his house burn'd down.

Then he grasp'd his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;

Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band; And he and his brave boys vow'd-so might Heaven help and speed 'em !—

They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;

And Old Brown,
Osawatomie Brown,

Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.

And the Lord did aid these men, and they labour'd day and even,

Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seem'd charm'd,

Till the ruffians kill'd one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,

In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journey'd all unarm'd;