Just God! and shall we calmly rest, The Christian's scorn, the heathen's mirth,

Content to live the lingering jest

And by-word of a mocking Earth? Shall our own glorious land retain That curse which Europe scorns to bear?

Shall our own brethren drag the chain. 79 Which not even Russia's menials wear? Up, then, in Freedom's manly part,

From graybeard eld to fiery youth, And on the nation's naked heart

Scatter the living coals of Truth! Up! while ye slumber, deeper yet

The shadow of our fame is growing! Up! while ye pause, our sun may set In blood around our altars flowing!

Oh! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth,
The gathered wrath of God and man, 90
Like that which wasted Egypt's earth,
When hail and fire above it ran.
Hear ye no warnings in the air?

Feel ye no earthquake underneath?
Up. up! why will ye slumber where
The sleeper only wakes in death?

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Rise now for Freedom! not in strife
Like that your sterner fathers saw,
The awful waste of human life,
The glory and the guilt of war:
But break the chain, the yoke remove,
And smite to earth Oppression's rod,
With those mild arms of Truth and Love,
Made mighty through the living God!

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,
And leave no traces where it stood;
Nor longer let its idol drink

His daily cup of human blood;
But rear another altar there,

To Truth and Love and Mercy given, 110 And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's

1 The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimac, called by the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly Seventeen years a frontier town, and during thirty years endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of De Chaillons, and Hertel de Rouville, the infamous and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the village, which at that time contained only thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, and them Hertel de Rouville. The minister among of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a shot through his own door. In a paper entitled "The Border War of 1708," published in my collection of Recreations and Miscellanies, I have given a prose narrative of the surprise of Haverhill. (Author's Note.)

MEMORIES

A beautiful and happy girl,

With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl

Of unconfined and flowing hair; A seeming child in everything,

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,

As Nature wears the smile of Spring
When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light

Which melted through its graceful bower,

Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright,
And stainless in its holy white,

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Unfolding like a morning flower: A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, With every breath of feeling woke, And, even when the tongue was mute,. From eye and lip in music spoke. How thrills once more the lengthening chain

Of memory, at the thought of thee!
Old hopes which long in dust have lain,
Old dreams, come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;
I feel its glow upon my cheek,

Its fulness of the heart is mine,
As when I leaned to hear thee speak,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

I hear again thy low replies,

I feel thy arm within my own,

And timidly again uprise
The fringed lids of hazel eyes,

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With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah! memories of sweet summer eves,
Of moonlit wave and willowy way,
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than
they!

Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled
My picture of thy youth to see,
When, half a woman, half a child,
Thy very artlessness beguiled,

And folly's self seemed wise in thee; I too can smile, when o'er that hour

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The lights of memory backward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. Years have passed on, and left their trace, Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace

Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 50

And wider yet in thought and deed Diverge our pathways, one in youth; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on me

An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see,

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Lingering, even yet, thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eyes The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies The warm light of our morning skies,The Indian Summer of the heart!

In secret sympathies of mind,

In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 80 Our early dreams not wholly vain!

The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way,

Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay:

No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal,

Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's steel,

1 Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, Va., in reference to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive slave, who was seized in Boston without warrant at the request of James B. Grey, of Norfolk, claiming to be his master. The case caused great excitement North and South, and led to the presentation of a petition to Congress, signed by more than fifty thousand citizens of Massachusetts, calling for such laws and proposed amendments to the Constitution as should relieve the Commonwealth from all further participation in the crime of oppression. George Latimer himself was finally given free papers for the sum of four hundred dollars. (Author's Note.)

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. George's bank; Cold on the shores of Labrador the fog lies white and dank;

Through storm, and wave, and blinding

mist, stout are the hearts which man The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the seaboats of Cape Ann.

The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms,

Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling with the storms; Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves they roam, They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky home.

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