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TO RONGE.

STRIKE home, strong-hearted man! Down to the root
Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel.

Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then

Put nerve into thy task. Let other men

Plant, as they may, that better tree, whose fruit
The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal.
Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows
Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand,
On crown or crosier, which shall interpose
Between thee and the weal of Father-land.
Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all,
Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall
Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk
Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk.
Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear
The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear
Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light
Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night.
Be faithful to both worlds; nor think to feed
Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed.
Servant of Him whose mission high and holy
Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly,
Thrust not His Eden promise from our sphere,
Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span;
Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here, -
The New Jerusalem comes down to man!

Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him,

When the roused Tenton dashes from his limb
The rusted chain of ages, help to bind

His hands, for whom thou claim'st the freedom of the mind!

CHALKLEY HALL.*

How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze
To him who flies

From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam,
Till far behind him like a hideous dream

The close dark city lies!

Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng
The marble floor

Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din
Of the world's madness let me gather in
My better thoughts once more.

Oh! once again revive, while on my ear

The cry of Gain

And low hoarse hum of Traffic dies away,
Ye blessed memories of my early day

Like sere grass wet with rain ! —

Once more let God's green earth and sunset air
Old feelings waken;

Through weary years of toil and strife and ill,
Oh, let me feel that my good angel still

Hath not his trust forsaken.

* Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of THOMAS CHALKLEY, an eminent minister of the "Friends" denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, and his Journal, which was published in 1749, presents a quaint but beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the West Indies and Great Britain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his fellow men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around the ancient village of Frankford, frequently attracted me from the heat and bustle of the city.

And well do time and place befit my mood:
Beneath the arms

Of this embracing wood, a good man made
His home, like Abraham resting in the shade
Of Mamre's lonely palms.

Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years,
The virgin soil

Turned from the share he guided, and in rain And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain Which blessed his honest toil.

Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas,
Weary and worn,

He came to meet his children, and to bless
The Giver of all good in thankfulness
And praise for his return.

And here his neighbors gathered in to greet
Their friend again,

Safe from the wave and the destroying gales,
Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales,
And vex the Carrib main.

To hear the good man tell of simple truth,
Sown in an hour

Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle,
From the parched bosom of a barren soil,
Raised up in life and power:

How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales,

A tendering love

Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, And words of fitness to his lips were given,

And strength as from above:

How the sad captive listened to the Word,

Until his chain

Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt

The healing balm of consolation melt

Upon its life-long pain:

How the armed warrior sate him down to hear

Of Peace and Truth,

And the proud ruler and his Creole dame,
Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came,
And fair and bright-eyed youth.

Oh, far away beneath New England's sky,
Even when a boy,

Following my plough by Merrimack's green shore,
His simple record I have pondered o'er

With deep and quiet joy.

And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm

Its woods around,

Its still stream winding on in light and shade,
Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade -
To me is holy ground.

And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps
His vigils still;

Than that where Avon's son of song is laid,
Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade,
Or Virgil's laurelled hill.

To the grey walls of fallen Paraclete,

To Juliet's urn,

Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange grove,

Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love

Like brother pilgrims turn.

But here a deeper and serener charm

To all is given;

And blessed memories of the faithful dead

O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed

The holy hues of Heaven!

TO JOHN PIERPONT.

NoT as a poor requital of the joy

With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlelem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the airs of Palestine,

Not to the poet, but the man I bring

In friendship's fearless trust my offering:
How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see,
Yet well I know that thou hast deemed with me
Life all too earnest, and its time too short
For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport;
And girded for thy constant strife with wrong,
Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought

The broken walls of Zion, even thy song

Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought!

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