Look on him now-the slave! The restless thirst that mocks at quiet good; That the old forest wore, Nor yet the charm of song, may soothe his sleepless mood. Power's proud consciousness How should it ever bless, When still it prompts a dark and sleepless strife? And bear that spoil away, Had been the common stock in his old shepherd life. That taught sweet dreams, kind charities and love, Bidding the heart confide, Lifting the hope until its eye grew fix'd above! Once, once again, the song That stay'd the arm of wrong, Once more the sacred strain that charm'd the shepherds rude, Send it, sweet spirits!—ye Who lift man's destiny; Once more, oh, let it bless our solitude. Teach us that strife is woe, The love of lucre low, And but high hopes and thoughts are worthy in our aim; Teach us that love alone, Pure love, long heavenward flown, Can bring us that sweet happiness we claim. And with that sacred lore, The shepherd loved, once more Arouse the frolic beat of the hope-licensed heart,— Young maidens sang of love, And no cold bigot came to chide the minstrel's art. Then were these teachers still: This moon, yon quiet hill, The sea, and more than all, the swelling breeze that brings, With every hour like this, A dream of life and bliss, With healing to the sad heart on its wings. Then would the chanted strain Of the old bard again Bring cheerful thoughts once more around the evening fire; Then would the pure and young, Such as the minstrel sung, Once more rejoice to hear the young earth's infant lyre. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Born at Portland, Maine, 1807. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, And the first watch of night is given Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above, And earnest thoughts within me rise, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquer'd will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, O fear not in a world like this, THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Under the shore his boat was tied, Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, The Planter, under his roof of thatch, He said "My ship at anchor rides I only wait the evening tides, Before them, with her face upraised, Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And on her lips there play'd a smile As lights in some cathedral aisle "The soil is barren,—the farm is old;" His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, But the voice of nature was too weak; Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand. To be his slave and paramour PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. LISTEN, my children! and you shall hear Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend-"If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light,One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, |