And to leaven with fiery leaven

All the hearts of men for ever;

Yet all bars, whose hearts unblighted

Honor and believe the presage, Hold aloft their torches lighter, Gleaming through the realms benighted,

As they onward bear the message!


SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said,

That of our vices we can traine A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All conmon things, each day's events,

That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents,

Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,

That makes another's virtues less ; The revel of the ruddy wine,

And all occasions of excess;

The longing for ignoble things;

The strife for triumph inore than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings

Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,

That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes

The action of the nobler will;



All these must first be trampled down

Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown

The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;

But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,

The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

Chat wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,

Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear

Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear

As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern --unseen before —

A path to higher destinies.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past,

As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last

To something nobler we attain.


In Mather's Magnalia Christi,

Of the old colonial time,
May be found in prose the legend

That is here set down in rhyine.

A ship sailed from New Haven,

And the keen and frosty airs, That filled her sails at parting,

Were heavy with good men's prayers.

“ Lord! if it be thy pleasure

Thus prayed the old divine “ To bury our friends in the ocean,

Take them, for they are thine!”

But Master Lamberton muttered,

And under his breath said he, “ This ship is so crank and walty

I fear our grave she will be !

And the ships that came from England,

When the winter months were gone, Brought no tidings of this vessel

Nor of Master Lamberton.

This put the people to praying

That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom

He had done with friends so dear.

And at last their prayers were answered:

It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset

Of a windy afternoon,


When, steadily steering landward,

A ship was seen below,
And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,

Who sailed so long ago.

On she came, with a cloud of canvas,

Right against the wind that blew,
Until the eye could distinguish

The faces of the crew.

Then fell her straining topmasts,

Hanging tangled in the shrouds,
And her sails were loosened and lifted,

And blown away like clouds.

And the masts, with all their rigging,

Fell slowly, one by one,
And the hulk (lilated and vanished,

As a sea-mist in the sun !

And the people who saw this marrel

Each said unto his friend,
That this was the moulil oť their vessel,

And thus ber tragic end.

And the pastor of the village

Gave thanks to God in prayer,
That, to quiet their troubled spirits,

He had sent this Ship of Air.


A Mist was driving down the British Channel,

The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,

Streamed the red autuinn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,

And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon

Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover

Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speeding over,

When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,

Their cannon, through the night,
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim de-

The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their

stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations,

That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden,

Replied the distant forts,
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden

And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Ilim shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,

No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasura

Awaken with its call!

No more, surveying with an eye impartial

The long line of the coast,
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal

Be seen upon his post !

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,

In sombre harness mailed,

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