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With a man's palm, and making even the truth

Lie for them, holding up the glass reversed,

To make the hope of man seem further off?

My God! when I read o'er the bitter lives

Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great

To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day,

And see them mocked at by the world they love,

Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths

Of that reform which their hard toil will make

The common birthright of the age to come,

When I see this, spite of my faith in

God,

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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 it 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.

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to me!

Dost thou not know me, that I am thy brother?

Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt dwell

With me henceforth, and know no cara or want!"

1 Sheemah was silent for a space, as if 'T were hard to summon up a human voice,

And, when he spake, tne sound was of a wolf's:

"I know thee not, nor art thou what thou say'st;

I have none other brethren than the wolves,

And, till thy heart be changed from what it is,

Thou art not worthy to be called their kin."

Then groaned the other, with a choking tongue,

"Alas! my heart is changed right bit. terly;

'Tis shrunk and parched within me

even now!"

And, looking upward fearfully, he saw Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, Ugly and fierce, to hide among the woods.

STANZAS ON FREEDOM. MEN! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed, Slaves unworthy to be freed? Women! who shall one day bear Sons to breathe New England air,

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The sigh of some grim monster undes cried,

Fear-painted on the canvas of the dark, Shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine! Yet night brings more companions than the day

To this drear waste; new constellations burn,

And fairer stars, with whose calm height my soul

Finds nearer sympathy than with my herd

Of earthen souls, whose vision's scanty ring

Makes me its prisoner to beat my wings Against the cold bars of their unbelief, Knowing in vain my own free heaven beyond.

O God! this world, so crammed with eager life,

That comes and goes and wanders back to silence

Like the idle wind, which yet man's shaping mind

Can make his drudge to swell the longing sails

Of highest endeavor, this mad, unthrift world,

Which, every hour, throws life enough

away

To make her deserts kind and hospitable,

Lets her great destinies be waved aside By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels, Who weigh the God they not believe with gold,

And find no spot in Judas, save that he,

Driving a duller bargain than he ought, Saddled his guild with too cheap pre

cedent.

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