THE LAND OF LIBERTY.

But stains are on their boasted store,-
Though Freedom's shrine be fair,
'Tis empty, or they bow before
A gilded idol there!

The South, the cloudless South,-expands
Her deserts to the day,

Where rose those yet unconquered bands
Who own no sceptre's sway;

But wherefore is the iron with

Our golden image blent,

For, see, the Harem-bars reach forth

Into the Arab's tent!

O! Earth bath many a region bright,
And Ocean many an isle,

But where on mortals shines the light
Of Freedom's cloudless smile?
The search is vain, from human skies
The Angel early fled,—

Our only land of freedom is

The country of the dead.

FRANCES BROWNE.

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THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT.

LOUD he sang the psalm of David!

He, a Negro and enslaved,

Sang of Israel's victory,

Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear

That I could not choose but hear.

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swarth Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas, in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen,
And an earthquake's arm of might
Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

LOVE'S LOOKS. THE MOURNERS.

But, alas! what holy angel

Brings the slave this glad evangel?
And what earthquake's arm of might
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?

LONGFELLOW.

LOVE'S LOOKS.

OH! turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays;
And though they beam so tenderly,
I feel I tremble 'neath their gaze.

Oh, turn those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,

I know their light is on my brow,
By the warm blood that mantles there.

F. A. BUTLER.

THE MOURNERS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF IMMERMANN.

THE leaves come whirling from the trees,
The autumn wind blows chill;

Know you the old decaying house
In the wood so deep and still?

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The yellow leaves lie thick around,
The winds wail all about,

A pale and lovely countenance
Looks from the window out.

That pale and lovely face, how calm
It looks in evening gray!
The lady who has spoke to none,
To none a word will say.

No serving-man hath she, no maid;
To no man's voice gives heed;
A sound is heard when day declines,
As of a coming steed.

Like a horse's tread it comes a-near;
She listens-forth she bends;
And lo; an old grey-headed knight
Before the door descends.

He climbs the stairs; and

Upon her brow imprest,

now, a kiss

"How art thou now, dear child?" said he,

And held her to his breast.

They sate them to a table of stone,
And looked with looks of woe:
"Sing me," said he, " that little song,
As thou didst long ago."

THE MOURNERS.

She answered, "Ah! how gay I was
When Love's young morning shone,
But now, old man, 'tis so no more,
My young friend he is gone!

"I deck my hair with rosemary,

My funeral crown to be!

Thou know'st, old man, thou knowest well, Thy only son was he!"

In a ghostly voice the old man spake,
In a ghostly voice replied:

"He fell in the joyous strength of youth-In the ocean-fight he died!"

"For the honour of my Lord he fell,

Mangled with sword and shot

I gladly gave my Lord my all-
My son withheld I not!

"My Lord is dead! thy love is dead! Like sorrow for us two!

The world plays another game,

With which we've nought to do!

"The world turns topsy-turvy now
And lauds the new as prime:
But we we have our bitter grief
And memory of old time!

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