Look on him now-the slave!
Since that sad knowledge gave

The restless thirst that mocks at quiet good;
The innocent joy no more,

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?
A sleepless strife to sway,

And bear that spoil away,

Had been the common stock in his old shepherd life.
Ah, me! would time restore
The ancient faith, the lore

That taught sweet dreams, kind charities and love,
Soothing the spirit's pride,

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,—
When, gathering in the grove,

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;
And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars;

And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

O no! from that blue tent above,
A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquer'd will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possess'd.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm!

O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary:

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all :
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

THE QUADROON GIRL.

THE Slaver in the broad lagoon
Lay moor'd with idle sail;
He waited for the rising moon,
And for the evening gale.

Under the shore his boat was tied,
And all her listless crew
Watch'd the gray alligator slide
Into the still bayou.

Odours of orange-flowers, and spice,
Reach'd them from time to time,
Like airs that breathe from Paradise
Upon a world of crime.

The Planter, under his roof of thatch,
Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,
He seem'd in haste to go.

He said "My ship at anchor rides
In yonder broad lagoon;

I only wait the evening tides,
And the rising of the moon."

Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,

Like one half curious, half amazed,
A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;

No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,
And her own long raven hair.

And on her lips there play'd a smile
As holy, meek, and faint,

As lights in some cathedral aisle
The features of a saint.

"The soil is barren,—the farm is old;"
The thoughtful Planter said;
Then look'd upon the Slaver's gold,
And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife
With such accursed gains;

For he knew whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak;
He took the glittering gold!

Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek,
Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,

He led her by the hand.

To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

LISTEN, my children! and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April in 'Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive

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,