THE FATHERLAND.

WHERE is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
O, yes! his fatherland must be

As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is,

Where God is God and man is man?

Doth he not claim a broader span

For the soul's love of home than this?

O, yes! his fatherland must be

As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where'er a human heart doth wear

Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,

Where'er a human spirit strives

After a life more true and fair,

There is the true man's birth-place grand,

His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where'er a single slave doth pine,

Where'er one man may help another, —

Thank God for such a birthright, brother, —

That spot of earth is thine and mine!

There is the true man's birth-place grand,

His is a world-wide fatherland!

A PARABLE.

WORN and footsore was the Prophet,
When he gained the holy hill;

"God has left the earth," he murmured, "Here his presence lingers still.

"God of all the olden prophets,

Wilt thou speak with men no more?

Have I not as truly served thee,

As thy chosen ones of yore?

"Hear me, guider of my fathers, Lo! a humble heart is mine; By thy mercy I beseech thee,

Grant thy servant but a sign!

Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer;

No loud burst of thunder followed,

Not a murmur stirred the air:

But the tuft of moss before him

Opened, while he waited yet,

And, from out the rock's hard bosom,

Sprang a tender violet.

"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet; "Hard of heart and blind was I,

Looking to the holy mountain

For the gift of prophecy.

"Still thou speakest with thy children
Freely as in eld sublime;

Humbleness, and love, and patience
Still give empire over time.

"Had I trusted in my nature,

And had faith in lowly things,

Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, And set free my spirit's wings.

"But I looked for signs and wonders,
That o'er men should give me sway,
Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay.

"Ere I entered on my journey, As I girt my loins to start,

Ran to me my little daughter,

The beloved of my heart;

"In her hand she held a flower, Like to this as like may be,

Which, beside my very threshold,

She had plucked and brought to me."