or iron, or some serviceable stuff That would have matched his sinewy

brown face. The elder, although such he hardly

seemed (Care makes so little of some five short

years), Had a clear, honest face, whose rough

hewn strength Was mildened by the scholar's wiser

heart To sober courage, such as best befits The unsullied temper of a well-taught

mind, Yet so remained that one could plainly

guess The hushed volcano smouldering un

derneath. He spoke : the other, hearing, kept his

gaze Still fixed, as on some problem in the

sky. “O CROMWELL, we are fallen on

evil times ! There was a day when England had

wide room For honest men as well as foolish kings; But now the uneasy stomach of the

time Turns squeamish at them both. There

fore let us Seek out that savage clime, where men

as yet Are free: there sleeps the vessel on

the tide, Her languid canvas drooping for the

wind; Give us but that, and what need we to

fear This Order of the Council ? The free

But, saved or lost, all things are in His

hand.” So spake he, and meantime the other

stood With wide gray eyes still reading the

blank air, As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw Some mystic sentence, written by a

hand, Such as of old made pale the Assyrian

king, Girt with his satraps in the blazing

feast. “HAMPDEN! a moment since, my

purpose was To fly with thee, - for I will call it

flight, Nor flatter it with any smoother

name, But something in me bids me not to

go; And I am one, thou knowest, who, un

moved By what the weak deem omens, yet

give heed And reverence due to whatsoe'er my

soul Whispers of warning to the inner ear. Moreover, as I know that God brings

round His purposes in ways undreamed by

us, And makes the wicked but his instru

ments To hasten on their swift and sudden

fall, I see the beauty of his providence In the King's order : blind, he will not

let His doom part from him, but must bid

waves

it stay

Will not say, No, to please a wayward

king, Nor will the winds turn traitors at his

beck : All things are fitly cared for, and the

Lord Will watch as kindly o'er the exodus Uf us his servants now, as in old time. We have no cloud or fire, and haply May not pass dry-shod through the

As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening

chirp He loved to hear beneath nis very

hearth. Why should we fly? Nay, why not

rather stay And rear again our Zion's crumbled

walls, Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were

built, By minstrel twanging, but, if need

should be,

we

With the more potent music of our

swords? Think'st thou that score of men beyond

the sea

it is to

Claim more God's care than all of

England here?
No: when he moves His arm,

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, 't is 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 teach

ers prate : Not so: there most is He, for there is

He Most needed. Men who seek for Fate

abroad Are not so near His heart as they who

dare Frankly to face her where she faces

them, On their own threshold, where their

souls are strong To grapple with and throw her; as I

once, Being yet a boy, did cast this puny

king, Who now has grown so dotard as to

deem That he can wrestle with an angry

realm, And throw the brawned Antæus of

men's rights. No, Hampden! they have half-way

conquered Fate Who go half way to meet her,

will I. Freedom hath yet a work for me to do; So speaks that inward voice which

never yet Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit To noble deeds for country and man

And, for success, I ask no more than

this, To bear unflinching witness to the

truth. All true whole men succeed ; for what

is worth Success's name,

unless it be the thought, The inward surety, to have carried out 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 beauti

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

like Astar new-born, that drops into its place, And which, once circling in its placid

round, Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.

“ What should we do in that small

colony Of pinched fanatics, who would rather

choose Freedom to clip an inch more from

their hair, Than the great chance of setting Eng

land free? Not there, amid the stormy wilderness, Should we learn wisdom ; or if learned,

what room To put it into act, else worse than

naught? We learn our souls more, tossing for an

hour Upon this huge and ever-vexëd sea of human thought, where kingdoms g®

-as

on

Like fragile bubbles yonder in the

stream, Than in a cycle of New England sloth, Broke only by some petty Indian war, Or quarrel for a letter more or less In some hard word, which, spelt in

either way, Not their most learnëd clerks can un

derstand. New times demand new measures and

new men ; The world advances, and in time out

grows 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 man is born into the world, whose

work Is not born with him ; there is always

work, And tools to work withal, for those who 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 unful

filled. Our time is one that calls for earnest

deeds: Reason and Government, like two

broad seas, Yearn for each other with outstretchëd

arms Across thisnarrow isthmus of the throne, And roll their white surf higher every

day. One age moves onward, and the next

builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log huts of those who tamed

the wild,

Rearing from out the forests they nad

felled The goodly framework of a fairer state; The builder's trowel and the settler's axe Are seldom wielded by the selssame

hand; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the aftertime. My soul is not a palace of the past, Where outworn creeds, like Rome's

gray senate, quake, Hearing afar the Vandal's trumpet

hoarse, That shakes old systems with a thunder

fit. The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for

change ; Then let it come: I have no dread of

what Is called for by the instinct of mankind; Nor think I that God's world will fall

apart Because we tear a parchment more or

less. Truth is eternal, but her effluence, With endless change is fitted to the

hour; Her mirror is turned forward to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. He who would win the name of truly

great Must understand his own age and the

next, And make the present ready to go Its prophecy, and with the future merge Gently and peacefully, as wave with The future works out great men's des

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

will ;

wave

their age

Than most men dream of; and a lie

may keep Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shiela uf some fair-seeming

name. Let us call tyrants, tyrants, and main

tain, That only freedone 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'er

came, The man stands not in awe of. I, per

chance, Am one raised up by the Almighty arm To witness some great cruth to all the

world. Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot, And mould the world unto the scheme

of God, Have a fore-consciousness of their high

doom, As men are known to shiver at the heart When the cold shadow of some coming

ill Creeps slowly o'er their spirits un

awares. Hath Good less power of prophecy than

Ill? How else could men whom God hath

called to sway Earth's rudder, and to steer the bark of

Truth, Beating against the tempest tow'rd her

port, Bear all the mean and buzzing griev

ances, The petty martyrdoms, wherewith Sin To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, The sneers, the unrecognizing look of

friends, Who worship the dead corpse of old

king Custom, Where it doth lie in state within the

Church, Striving to cover up the mighty ocean

With a man's palm, and making even

the truth Lie for them, holding up the glass re

versed, To make the hope of man seem further

off? My God! when I read o'er the bitter

lives Of men whose eager hearis were quite

too great To beat beneath the cramped mode of

the day, And see them mocked at by the world

they love, Haggling with prejudice for penny

worths Of that reform which their hard toil

will make The common birthright of the age to

come, When I see this, spite of my faith in

God, I marvel how their hearts bear up so

long; Nor could they but for this same

prophecy, This inward feeling of the glorious end. “Deem me not fond; but in my

warmer youth, Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and

brushed away, I had great dreams of mighty things to

come ; Of conquest, whether by the sword or

pen I knew not; but some conquest I would

have, Or else swift death : now wiser grown

in years, I find youth's dreams are but the flutter

ings Of those strong winds whereon the soul

shall soar In aftertime to win a starry throne; And so I cherish them, for they were lots, Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. Now will I draw them, since a man's

right hand, A right hand guided by an earnest soul, With a true instinct, takes the golden

prize From out a thousand blanks. What

men call luck

strives

Is the prerogative of valiant souls,
The fealty life pays its rightful kings.
The helm is shaking now, and I will stay
To pluck my lot forth; it were siu to

flee !"

O stars, ye saw our meeting,

Two beings and one soul, Two hearts so madly beating

To mingle and be whole !

O happy night, deliver

Her kisses back to me, Or keep them all, and give her

A blissful dream of me! 1842.

A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.

So they two turned together; one to 1

die, Fighting for freedom on the bloody

field ; The other, far more happy, to become A name earth wears forever next her

heart; One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers : for his spirit

wrought Order from Chaos; proved that right

divine Dwelt only in the excellence of truth ; And far within old Darkness' hostile

lines Advanced and pitched the shining

tents of Light. Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to

tell, That - not the least among

his

many claims To deathless honor - he was MIL

TON's friend, A man not second among those who

lived To show us that the poet's lyre de

mands An arm of tougher sinew than the

sword. 1843.

more;

αλγεινά μέν μοι και λέγειν εστίν τάδε άλγος δε σιγαν.

Æschylus, Prom. Vinct. 197. The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh

his end, Called his two eldest children to his

side, And gave them, in few words, his part

ing charge ! “My son and daughter, me ye see no The happy hunting-grounds await me,

green With change of spring and summer

through the year : But, for remembrance, after I am gone, Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake : Weakling he is and young, and knows

not yet To set the trap, or draw the seasoned

bow; Therefore of both your loves he hath

more need, And he, who needeth love, to love hath

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."

SONG.

O MOONLIGHT deep and tender,

A year and more agone, Your mist of golden splendor

Round my betrothal shone! O elm-leaves dark and dewy,

The very same ye seem, The low wind trembles through ye,

Ye murmur in my dream ! O river, dim with distance,

Flow thus forever by, A part of my existence

Within your heart doth lie!

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