From the homes of all, where her being began,

She took what she gave to Man :

Justice, that knew no station,

Belief, as soul decreed,

Free air for aspiration,

Free force for independent deed!

She takes, but to give again,
As the sea returns the rivers in rain;
And gathers the chosen of her seed
From the hunted of every crown and creed.
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;
Her France pursues some dream divine ;
Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;
Her Italy waits by the western brine;
And, broad-based under all,

Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood,
As rich in fortitude

As e'er went worldward from the island-wall!
Fused in her candid light,

To one strong race all races here unite: Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan; 'Twas glory, once, to be a Roman ;

She makes it glory, now, to be a Man !

For the pride of thine exultation
O'er peril conquered and strife subdued!
But half the right is wrested

When victory yields her prize,
And half the marrow tested

When old endurance dies.

In the sight of them that love thee,
Bow to the Greater above thee!

He faileth not to smite
The idle ownership of Right,
Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial,
And virtue schooled in long denial,
The tests that wait for thee

In larger perils of prosperity.

Here, at the Century's awful shrine,
Bow to thy Father's God - and thine!

I. — 4.

Behold she bendeth now, Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years: There is a solemn sweetness on her brow, And in her eyes are sacred tears. Can she forget, In present joy, the burden of her debt,

When for a captive race

She grandly staked and won

The total promise of her power begun,
And bared her bosom's grace

To the sharp wound that inly tortures yet?
Can she forget

The million graves her young devotion set,
The hands that clasp above

From either side, in sad, returning love?
Can she forget,

Here, where the Ruler of to-day,
The Citizen of to-morrow,
And equal thousands to rejoice and pray
Beside these holy walls are met,

Her birth-cry, mixed of keenest bliss and sorrow?
Where, on July's immortal morn

Held forth, the People saw her head
And shouted to the world: "The King is dead,
But lo! the Heir is born!"

When fire of Youth, and sober trust of Age,
In Farmer, Soldier, Priest, and Sage,
Arose and cast upon her

Baptismal garments,

never robes so fair Clad prince in Old-World air,

Their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred

honor!

II. - 4.

Arise! Recrown thy head,
Radiant with blessing of the Dead!
Bear from this hallowed place

The prayer that purifies thy lips,

The light of courage that defies eclipse,
The rose of Man's new morning on thy face!
Let no iconoclast

Invade thy rising Pantheon of the Past,

To make a blank where Adams stood, To touch the Father's sheathed and sacred blade, Spoil crowns on Jefferson and Franklin laid, Or wash from Freedom's feet the stain of Lin

coln's blood!

Hearken, as from that haunted hall
Their voices call:

"We lived and died for thee:
We greatly dared that thou might'st be;
So, from thy children still

We claim denials which at last fulfill,
And freedom yielded to preserve thee free!
Beside clear-hearted Right
That smiles at Power's uplifted rod,
Plant Duties that requite,
And Order that sustains, upon thy sod,
And stand in stainless might
Above all self, and only less than God !”

III.-1.

Here may thy solemn challenge end, All-proving Past, and each discordance die

Prepare for the work of the day!
Fallow thy pastures lie

And far thy shepherds stray,
And the fields of thy vast domain
Are waiting for purer seed

Of knowledge, desire, and deed, For keener sunshine and mellower rain! But keep thy garments pure : Pluck them back, with the old disdain,

From touch of the hands that stain ! So shall thy strength endure, Transmute into good the gold of Gain, Compel to beauty thy ruder powers, Till the bounty of coming hours Shall plant, on thy fields apart, With the oak of Toil, the rose of Art! Be watchful, and keep us so :

Be strong, and fear no foe:

Be just, and the world shall know ! With the same love love us, as we give; And the day shall never come, That finds us weak or dumb

To join and smite and cry

In the great task, for thee to die,
And the greater task, for thee to live!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE PEOPLE'S SONG OF PEACE.
FROM THE "SONG OF THE CENTENNIAL."

THE grass is green on Bunker Hill,

The waters sweet in Brandywine; The sword sleeps in the scabbard still,

The farmer keeps his flock and vine; Then, who would mar the scene to-day With vaunt of battle-field or fray?

The brave corn lifts in regiments
Ten thousand sabers in the sun;
The ricks replace the battle-tents,
The bannered tassels toss and run.
The neighing steed, the bugle's blast,
These be but stories of the past.

The earth has healed her wounded breast, The cannons plow the field no more; The heroes rest! O, let them rest

In peace along the peaceful shore ! They fought for peace, for peace they fell; They sleep in peace, and all is well.

The fields forget the battles fought, The trenches wave in golden grain: Shall we neglect the lessons taught,

And tear the wounds agape again? Sweet Mother Nature, nurse the land, And heal her wounds with gentle hand.

Lo! peace on earth. Lo! flock and fold,
Lo! rich abundance, fat increase,

And valleys clad in sheen of gold.
O, rise and sing a song of peace!
For Theseus roams the land no more,
And Janus rests with rusted door.

Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke,
Yet nearer flashed his ax's gleam;
Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,
As from a dream.

I looked

JOAQUIN MILLER.

NOT RIPE FOR POLITICAL POWER.

age,

THE men whose minds move faster than their
And faster than society's dull flight,
Must bear the ribald railings and the rage
Of those who lag behind it. As the light
Plays on the horizon's verge before its night
Can penetrate life's dark and murky stage;
As the tired hadgi, on his pilgrimage,

Hears, ere he sees, the fountain bubbling bright; As the sweet smiles of infants promise youth, And martyr sufferings herald sacred truth,

So Thought flung forward is the prophecy Of Truth's majestic march, and shows the way Where future time shall lead the proud array Of peace, of power, and love of liberty.

aside the dust-cloud rolled, The Waster seemed the Builder too; Upspringing from the ruined Old

I saw the New.

The outworn rite, the old abuse,

The pious fraud transparent grown, The good held captive in the use Of wrong alone,

These wait their doom, from that great law
Which makes the past time serve to-day ;
And fresher life the world shall draw
From their decay.

WHAT constitutes a State?
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.

No:-men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, -
Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,

Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain; These constitute a State;

And sovereign law, that State's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.
Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks;

And e'en the all-dazzling crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle,

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'T is folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

SIR WILLIAM JONES.

CARACTACUS.

BEFORE proud Rome's imperial throne In mind's unconquered mood,

As if the triumph were his own,

The dauntless captive stood.

None, to have seen his free-born air, Had fancied him a captive there.

Though, through the crowded streets of Rome,
With slow and stately tread,

Far from his own loved island home,
That day in triumph led,
Unbound his head, unbent his knee,
Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.

A free and fearless glance he cast
On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession passed
Of Rome's victorious power;
And somewhat of a scoruful smile
Upcurled his haughty lip the while.

And now he stood, with brow serene,
Where slaves might prostrate fall,
Bearing a Briton's manly mien
In Cæsar's palace hall;

Claiming, with kindled brow and check,
The liberty e'en there to speak.

Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand
The claim that look preferred,

But motioned with uplifted hand
The suppliant should be heard,

If he indeed a suppliant were

Whose glance demanded audience there.

Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,
From Claudius on his throne
Down to the meanest slave that bowed
At his imperial throne;
Silent his fellow-captive's grief
As fearless spoke the Island Chief :