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And true hearts perish in the time

We bitterliest need 'em.
But never sit we down and say

There is nothing left but sorrow;
We walk the wilderness to-day,

The Promised Land to-morrow.

Our birds of song are silent now,

There are no flowers blooming; Yet life beats in the frozen bough,

And Freedom's Spring is coming! And Freedom's tide comes up always,

Though we may strand in sorrow; And our good bark, aground to-day,

Shall float again to-morrow!

Through all the long, dark night of years,

The people's cry ascendeth,
And earth is wet with blood and tears:

But our meek sufferance endeth!

The few shall not forever sway,

The many wail in sorrow!
The powers of hell are strong to-day,

But Christ shall reign to-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eye

With smiling Futures glisten!
For lo! our day bursts up the skies :

Lean out your souls, and listen !
The world rolls Freedom's radiant way,

And ripens with her sorrow:
Keep heart! who bear the cross to-day,

Shall wear the crown to-morrow!

O Youth, flame-earnest, still aspire

With energies immortal!
To many a heaven of desire

Our yearning opes a portal!
And though age wearies by the way,

And hearts break in the furrow,
We'll sow the golden grain to-day,

The harvest comes to-morrow!

Build up heroic lives, and all

Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call,

O chivalry of labor;
Triumph and Toil are twins; and aye,

Joy seems the cloud of sorrow;
And 'tis the martyrdom to-day,

Brings victory to-morrow !

xỞI.

THE GROVES OF BLARNEY.

R. A. MILLIKIN,

The groves of Blarney they look so charming,

Down by the purlings of sweet, silent brooks All decked by posies, that spontaneous grows there,

Planted in order in the rocky nooks. ’T is there the daisy, and the sweet carnation,

The blooming pink, and the rose so fair; Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly --

All flowers that scent the sweet, open air.

'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation,

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair;
There's no commander in all the nation

For regulation can with her compare.
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder

Could ever plunder her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel

And made a breach in her battlement.

There's gravel walks there for speculation,

And conversation in sweet solitude;
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or

The gentle plover, in the afternoon.
And if a young lady should be so engaging

As to walk all alone in those shady bowers, 'Tis there the courtier he may transport her

In some dark fort, or under the ground.

For 't is there's the cave where no daylight enters,

But bats and badgers are forever bred;
Being mossed by natur', that makes it sweeter

Than a coach and six or a feather bed.
'Tis there's the lake that is stored with perches,

And comely eels in the verdant mud;
Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches,

All standing in order for to guard the flood.

'Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in,

With the maids a stitching upon the stair;
The bread and biske'—the beer and whiskey,

Would make you frisky if you were there.
'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter

A washing praties forenent the door,
With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy,

All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore.

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OUR SYSTEM OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION SHOULD DISTINCTIVELY

INCULCATE A LOVE OF COUNTRY,

NEWTON BATEMAN.

The true American patriot is ever a worshipper. The starry symbol of his country's sovereignty is to him radiant with a diviner glory than that which meets his mortal vision. It epitomizes the splendid results of dreary ages of experiments and failures in sires ;

human government; and, as he gazes upon its starry folds undulating responsive to the whitpering winds of the upper air, it sometimes seems to his rapt spirit to recede further and further into the soft blue skies, till the heavens open, and angel hands plant it upon the battlements of Paradise. Wherever that ensign floats, on the sea or on the land, it is to him the very Shekinah of his political love and faith, luminous with the presence of that God who conducted his fathers across the sea and through the fires of the Revolution, to the Pisgah heights of civil and religious liberty. Its stars seem real; its lines of white symbol the purity of his heroic

those of red, their patriot blood shed in defense of the right. To defend that flag, is to him something more than a duty, it is a joy, a coveted privilege, akin to that which nerves the arm and directs the blow in defense of wife or child. To insult it, is worse than infamy; to make war upon it, more than treason.

A perfect civil government is the sublimest earthly symbol of Deity-indeed, such a government is a transcript of the divine will; its spirit and principles identical with those with which He governs the universe. Its vigilance, care and protection, are ub quitous--its strong hand is ever ready to raise the fallen, restrain the violent, and punish the aggressor. Its patient car is bent to catch alike the complaint of the rich and strong, or the poor and weak, while unerring justice presides at the trial and settlement of every issue between man and man.

Now, our government is not perfect, even in theory, and still less so in practice; but it is good and strong and glorious enough to inspire a loftier patriotism than animates the people of any other nation. What element is wanting to evoke the passionate love and admiration of an American citizen for his country? Is it ancestry? Men of purer lives, sterner principles, or braver hearts than our fathers, never crossed the sea. Is it motives? Not for war or conquest, but for civil and religious liberty, did our fathers approach these shores. Is it perils and obstacles? Wintry storms, and icy coasts, and sterile soils, prowling beasts, and savage men, and hunger, and nakedness, and disease, and death, were the greeting our fathers received. Is it patient endurance ? Not till the revelations of the final day, will the dauntless fortitude of our fathers, in the midst of

valling dangers and sufferings, be disclosed. Is it heroic achieveint? Again and again has the haughty Lion of St. George been

ought to the dust, and the titled chivalry of England overthrown is the resistless onset of the sons of liberty, led by “Mr. Washington!”

Is it moral sublimity? Behold Witherspoon in the Continental Congress; Washington at Valley Forge; Clay in the Senate of 1850. Is it that we have no historical Meccas ? Where shall a patriot muse and pray, if not by the shades of Vernon or Ashland—at Marshfield or the Hermitage. Have we no great names to go flaming down the ages? When will Henry's clarion voice be hushed, or Warren cease to tell men how to die for liberty --- when will Adams, and Franklin, and Jefferson, fade from history? Is it constitutional wisdom, excellence of laws, or incentives to individual exertion ? No other land can compare with ours in these respects. Is it grandeur of scenery ? God has made but one Niagara, one Missippippi, one Hudson. . Is it territorial extent ? Our domain stretches from ocean to ocean, and from lake to gulf.

By all these incentives let our school-boys be fired with an enthusiastic love for the dear land of their birth, the precious heritage of their fathers- let them leave the school-room for the arena of active life, feeling that next to God and their parents, their country claims and shall receive their best affections and most uncompromising devotion - let them realize that their conduct will bring honor or dishonor upon their country, as surely as upon their parents and friends - let them learn to identify themselves as citizens with the interests of the commonwealth, blushing at whatever disgraces her, exulting in all that contributes to her glory and renown let them feel that this great country is their country, that they have a personal proprietorship in the lustre of her history, the honor of her name, the magnificence of her commerce, the valor of her fleets and armies, the inviolability of her Constitution and laws, and the magnitude and beneficence of her civil, social and religious institutions.

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