Thai most men dream of; and a lie may keep

Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shiela of some fair-seeming

name.

Let us call tyrants, tyrants, and maintain,

That only freedom. comes by grace of God,

And all that comes not by his grace must fall;

For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

"I will have one more grapple with the man Charles Stuart: whom the boy o'er

came,

The man stands not in awe of. I, perchance,

Am one raised up by the Almighty arm To witness some great truth to all the world.

Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot,
And mould the world unto the scheme
of God,
Have a fore-consciousness of their high
doom,

As men are known to shiver at the heart
When the cold shadow of some coming
ill
Creeps slowly o'er their spirits un-

awares.

Hath Good less power of prophecy than Ill?

How else could men whom God hath called to sway Earth's rudder, and to steer the bark of Truth, Beating against the tempest tow❜rd her port, Bear all the mean and buzzing griev

ances,

The petty martyrdoms, wherewith Sin

strives

To weary out the tethered hope of Faith, The sneers, the unrecognizing look of friends,

Who worship the dead corpse of old
king Custom,
Where it doth lie in state within the
Church,

Striving to cover up the mighty ocean

Is the prerogative of valiant souls,
The fealty life pays its rightful kings.
The helm is shaking now, and I will stay
To pluck my lot forth; it were sin to
flee !"

"

So they two turned together; one to die. Fighting for freedom on the bloody field:

The other, far more happy, to become A name earth wears forever next her heart;

One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers: for his spirit wrought

Order from Chaos; proved that right divine

Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; And far within old Darkness' hostile lines Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light. Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell,

That

not the least among his many claims To deathless honor- he was MILTON's friend,

A man not second among those who lived

To show us that the poet's lyre demands

An arm of tougher sinew than the sword.

1843.

SONG.

O MOONLIGHT deep and tender,
A year and more agone,
Your mist of golden splendor

Round my betrothal shone!

O elm-leaves dark and dewy,

The very same ye seem, The low wind trembles through ye, Ye murmur in my dream!

O river, dim with distance,
Flow thus forever by,
A part of my existence

Within your heart doth lie!

more;

The happy hunting-grounds await me, green

With change of spring and summer through the year:

But, for remembrance, after I am gone, Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake: Weakling he is and young, and knows

not yet

To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow; Therefore of both your loves he hath more need,

And he, who needeth love, to love hath right;

It is not like our furs and stores of corn, Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts,

And waters it, and gives sun, to be The common stock and heritage of all: Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that yourselves

May not be left deserted in your need."

For the leading incidents in this tale, I am indebted to the very valuable "Algic Researches of Henry R. Schoolcraft. Esq.

If ye near, without a blush,

Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains,
Answer! are ye fit to be
Mothers of the brave and free?

Is true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And, with leathern hearts, forget
That we owe mankind a debt?
No! true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And, with heart and hand, to be
Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth theyneeds must think;
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.

COLUMBUS.

THE Cordage creeks and rattles in the wind,

With freaks of sudden hush; the reeling sea Now thumps like solid rock beneath the stern,

Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes short, and, falling Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rustling down

The broad backs of the waves, which jostle and crowd To fling themselves upon that unknown shore,

Their used familiar since the dawn of time, Whither this foredoomed life is guided

on

To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring poise One glittering moment, then to break fulfilled.

How lonely is the sea's perpetual swing, The melancholy wash of endless waves,