Thau most men dream of; and a lie

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

name. Let us call tyrants, tyrants, and main

tain, That only freedon, 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, per

chance, 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 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

With a man's palm, and making even

the truth Lie for them, holding up the glass re

versed, To make the hope of man seem further

off? My God! when I read o'er the bitter

lives Of men whose eager hearis 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 penny

worths 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, I marvel how their hearts bear up so

long ; Nor could they but for this same

prophecy, This inward feeling of the glorious end. Deem me not fond; but in my

warmer youth, Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and

brushed away, I had great dreams of mighty things to

come; Of conquest, whether by the sword or

pen I knew not; but some conquest I would

have, Or else swift death : now wiser grown I find youth's dreams are but the flutter

ings Of those strong winds whereon the soul

shall soar In aftertime to win a starry throne ; And so I cherish them, for they were lots, Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. Now will I draw them, since a man's

right hand, A right hand guided by an earnest soul, With a true instinct, takes the golden

in years,

strives

Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings. The helm

is shaking now, and I will stay To plukke my lot forth; it were sin to

O stars, ye saw our meeting,

Two beings and one soul, Two hearts so madly beating

To mingle and be whole !

O happy night, deliver

Her kisses back to me, Or keep them all, and give her

A blissful dream of me! 1842.

A CHIPPEWA LEGEND. *

αλγεινά μέν μοι και λέγειν εστίν τάδε άλγος δε σιγαν.

Æschylus, Prom. Vinct. 197.

So they two turned together; one to 1

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 MIL

Ton's friend, A man not second among those who

lived To show us that the poet's lyre de

mands An arm of tougher sinew than the

sword. 1843.

The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh

his end, Called his two eldest children to his

side, And gave them, in few words, his part

ing charge ! “My son and daughter, me ye see no

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 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 valuahle " Algic Researches " of Henry R. Schoolcraft. Esq.

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 m my dream ! O river, dim with distance,

Flow thus forever by, A part of my existence

Within your heart doth lie!

ness

age ?

Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam

stood, Far from the other dwellings of their

tribe ; And, after many moons, the loneliness Wearied the elder brother, and he said, “ Why should I dwell here all alone,

shut out From the free, natural joys that fit my Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled

to hunt, Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet Have seen the danger which I dared

not look Full in the face ; what hinders me to

be A mighty Brave and Chief among my

kin?" So, taking up his arrows and his bow, As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, Until he gained the wigwams of his

tribe, Where, choosing out a bride, he soon

forgot, In all the fret and bustle of new life, The little Sheemah and his father's

charge. Now when the sister found her

brother gone, And that, for many days, he came not

back, She wept for Sheemah more than for

herself; For Love bides longest in a woman's

heart, And flutters many times before he flies, And then doth perch so nearly, that a

word May lure him back, as swift and glad

as light; And Duty lingers even when Love is

gone, Oft looking out in hope of his return; And, after Duty hath been driven forth, Then Selfishness creeps in the last of

all, Warming her lean hands at the lonely

hearth, And crouching o'er the embers, to shut

out Whatever paltry warmth and light are

With avaricious greed, from all beside. So, for long months, the sister hunied

wide, And cared for little Sheemah tenderly; Bui, daily more and more, the loneliGrew wearisome, and to herself she

sighed, “Am I not fair? at least the glassy

pool, That hath no cause to flatter, tells me

SO; But, O, how flat and meaningless the

tale, Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue ! Beauty hath no true glass, except it be In the sweet privacy of loving eyes.". Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the

lore Which she had learned of nature and

the woods, That beauty's chief reward is to itself, And that the eyes of Love reflect alone The inward fairness, which is blurred

aud lost Unless kept clear and white by Duty's

care. So she went forth and sought the

haunts of men, And, being wedded, in her household

cares, Soon, like the elder brother, quite for

got The little Sheemah and her father's

charge. But Sheemah, left alone within the

lodge, Waited and waited, with a shrinking

heart, Thinking each rustle was his sister's

step, Till hope grew less and less, and then

went out, And every sound was changed from

hope to fear. Few sounds there were :

the dropping of a nut, The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's

harsh scream, Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Sum

mer's cheer, Heard at long intervals, seemed but to

make

his eyes,

the snow,

The dreadful void of silence silenter. Soon what small store his sister left was

gone, And, through the Autumn, he made

shift to live On roots and berries, gathered in much

fear Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he

heard ofttimes, Hollow and hungry, at the dead of

night. But Winter came at last, and, when Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er

hill and plain, Spread its unbroken silence over all, Made bold by hunger, he was fain to

glean (More sick at heart than Ruth, and all

alone) After the harvest of the merciless wolf, Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and

gaunt, yet feared A thing more wild and starving than

himself: Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew

friends, And shared together all the winter

through. Late in the Spring, when all the ice

was gone, The elder brother, fishing in the lake, Upon whose edge his father's wigwam

stood, Heard a low moaning noise upon the

shore : Half like a child it seemed, half like a

wolf, And straightway there was something

in his heart That said, “ It is thy brother Sheemah's

voice." So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he Within a little thicket close at hand, A child that seemed fast changing to a

wolf, From the neck downward, gray with

shaggy hair, That still crept on and upward as he

looked. The face was turned away, but well he

knew

That it was Sheemah's, even his broth

er's face. Then with his trembling hands he hia And bowed his head, so that he might

not see The first look of his brother's eyes,

and cried, “O Sheemah! O my brother, speak

to me! Dost thou not know me, that I oni thy

brother? Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt

dwell With me henceforth, and knuw no care

or want!" Sheemah was silent for a space, as if

1 'T were hard to sunmun up a hunis:

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 prethren 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 chok

ing tongue, “Alas ! my heart is changed right bit.

terly; 'Tis shrunk and parched within me

even now !" And, looking upward fearfully, be saw Only a wolf that shrank away and ran, Ugly and fierce, to hide among the

woods.

saw,

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,

If yo near, without a blush,
Deeds to niake 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.

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 long

ing sails Of highest endeavor, — this mad, un

thrift world, Which, every hour, throws life enough

away To make her deserts kind and hospita

ble, 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. O Faith! if thou art strong, thine

opposite Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through

the arm Just lifted to achieve its crowning deed, And made the firm-based heart, that

would have quailed The rack or fagot, shudder like a leaf Wrinkled with frost, and loose upon its

stem. The wicked and the weak, by some dark

law,

COLUMBUS. The cordage creeks and rattles in the

wind, With freaks of sudden hush; the reel

ing sea Now thumps like solid rock beneath Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes

short, and, falling Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rus

tling down The broad backs of the waves, which

jostle and crowd To ning themselves upon that unknown

shore, Their used familiar since the dawn of

time, Whither this foredoomed life is guided To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring

poise One glittering moment, then to break

fulfilled.

the stern,

on

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