With the more potent music of our swords?

Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea

Claim more God's care than all of England here?

No: when he moves His arm, it is to

aid

Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed,

As some are ever, when the destiny Of man takes one stride onward nearer home.

Believe it, 'tis the mass of men He loves;

And, where there is most sorrow and most want,

Where the high heart of man is trodden down

The most, 't is not because He hides his face

From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate:

Not so there most is He, for there is

He

A noble purpose to a noble end, Although it be the gallows or the block? 'T is only Falsehood that doth ever need These outward shows of gain to bolster her.

Be it we prove the weaker with our swords;

Truth only needs to be for once spoke out,

And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm,

As makes men's memories her joyous slaves,

And clings around the soul, as the sky clings

Round the mute earth, forever beautiful,

And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth More all-embracingly divine and clear : Get but the truth once uttered, and 't is like

A star new-born, that drops into its place,

And which, once circling in its placid round,

The world advances, and in time outgrows

The laws that in our fathers' day were best;

And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme

Will be shaped out by wiser men than

we,

Made wiser by the steady growth of truth.

We cannot bring Utopia by force;
But better, almost, be at work in sin,
Than in a brute inaction browse and
sleep.

No map is born into the world, whose work

Is not born with him; there is always work,

And tools to work withal, for those who will;

And blessed are the horny hands of toil!
The busy world shoves angrily aside
The man who stands with arms akimbo
set,

Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task marked out

Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds:

Reason and Government, like two broad

The future works out great men's destinies;

The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay, wherein the footprints of their age

Are petrified forever: better those Who lead the blind old giant by the hand

From out the pathless desert where he gropes,

And set him onward in his darksome way.

I do not fear to follow out the truth,
Albeit along the precipice's edge.
Let us speak plain: there is more force

in names

Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep

Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair-seeming

name.

Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain

That only freedom comes by grace of God,

And all that comes not by his grace must fall;

For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

"I will have one more grapple with

the man Charles Stuart: whom the boy o'ercame,

chance,

Am one raised up by the Almighty arm To witness some great truth to all the

world.

есу,

This inward feeling of the glorious end.

"Deem me not fond; but in my warmer youth,

of God,

brushed away,

right;

It is not like our furs and stores of corn, Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts,

And waters it, and gives it sun, to be The common stock and heritage of all: Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that yourselves

May not be left deserted in your need."

Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam stood,

Far from the other dwellings of their tribe:

And, after many moons, the loneliness Wearied the elder brother, and he said, "Why should I dwell here all alone, shut out

From the free, natural joys that fit my age?

For the leading incidents in this tale I am indebted to the very valuable " Algic Researches "of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq.

Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to hunt,

Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet Have seen the danger which I dared not look

Full in the face; what hinders me to be A mighty Brave and Chief among my kin?"

So, taking up his arrows and his bow,
As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on,
Until he gained the wigwams of his
tribe,

Where, choosing out a bride, he soon forgot,

In all the fret and bustle of new life, The little Sheemah and his father's charge.

Whatever paltry warmth and light are left,

With avaricious greed, from all beside. So, for long months, the sister hunted wide,

And cared for little Sheemah tenderly; But, daily more and more, the loneliness Grew wearisome, and to herself she sighed,

"Am I not fair? at least the glassy pool, That hath no cause to flatter, tells me so; But, O, how flat and meaningless the tale, Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue! Beauty hath no true glass, except it be In the sweet privacy of loving eyes." Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the lore

Which she had learned of nature and the woods,

That beauty's chief reward is to itself, And that the eyes of Love reflect alone The inward fairness, which is blurred and lost

Unless kept clear and white by Duty's

care.

So she went forth and sought the haunts of men,

And, being wedded, in her household

cares,

Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot The little Sheemah and her father's charge.

But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge,

Waited and waited, with a shrinking heart,

Thinking each rustle was his sister's step, Till hope grew less and less, and then went out,

And every sound was changed from hope to fear.

Few sounds there were:-the dropping of a nut,

The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's harsh scream,

Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Summer's cheer,

Heard at long intervals, seemed but to make

The dreadful void of silence silenter. Soon what small store his sister left was gone,

And, through the Autumn, he made shift to live

On roots and berries, gathered in much fear

Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he heard ofttimes,

Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night. But Winter came at last, and, when the

snow,

Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er hill and plain,

Spread its unbroken silence over all, Made bold by hunger, he was fain to glean

(More sick at heart than Ruth, and all alone)

After the harvest of the merciless wolf, Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, yet feared

A thing more wild and starving than himself;

Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew friends,

And shared together all the winter through.

Late in the Spring, when all the ice was gone,

The elder brother, fishing in the lake, Upon whose edge his father's wigwamı stood,

Heard a low moaning noise upon the shore:

Half like a child it seemed, half like a wolf,

And straightway there was something in his heart

That said, "It is thy brother Sheemah's voice."

So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw,
Within a little thicket close at hand,
A child that seemed fast changing to a
wolf,

From the neck downward, gray with shaggy hair,

That still crept on and upward as he looked.

The face was turned away, but well he knew

That it was Sheemah's, even his brother's face.

Then with his trembling hands he hid his eyes,

And bowed his head, so that he might

not see

The first look of his brother's eyes, and cried,

"O Sheemah! O my brother, speak to me!

Dost thou not know me, that I am thy brother?

Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt dwell

With me henceforth, and know no care or want!"

Sheemah was silent for a space, as if 'T were hard to summon up a human voice,

And, when he spake, the sound was of a wolf's:

"I know thee not, nor art thou what thou say'st;

I have none other brethren than the wolves,

And, till thy heart be changed from what it is,

Thou art not worthy to be called their kin."