Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And summer to her courts. But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak. Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crown'd isles, We know not; in the temple of the Fates And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits THE UNKNOWN DEAD. THE rain is plashing on my sill, Beyond my streaming window-pane, The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. Some by the waters of the West, Claim from their monumental beds What worlds of all this world's distress, Their graves are like a lover's bower; JOHN ESTEN COOKE. MAY. HAS the old glory pass'd From tender May That never the echoing blast Dying away like the past, Welcomes the day? Has the old beauty gone From golden May That not any more at dawn Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, Is the old freshness dead Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! PAUL H. HAYNE. Born at Charleston, South Carolina, 1831 THE GOLDEN AGE. A SHIP with lofty prow came down A God had burst from sever'd chains, Plenty and smiling Peace sprung up Earth blossom'd like Hesperian fields,- Heaven with its calm supernal light And Misery in the enchanted realm Life pass'd away like holy dreams And melted as the sunset melts From haunted wood-shades genii flew, Nature and human hearts drank deep Earth, air, and heaven, entranced were,- Hung, like transparent dews, around Those golden years have pass'd, to come Their hopes that sleep, but are not dead, Time from the dungeon vault of Sin And glorious in his wrath cast off A God will reach from viewless realms And dark-robed Misery flee his face THE WHY OF A BLUSH. Two maples by the cottage porch I led her gently down the steps, And down the pathway's flickering shade, But still o'er tender cheek and brow 66 The same deep radiance warmly play'd. Enough, O Sweet!" I whisper'd low; "That heart is mine I yearn'd to win: No sunset flush, but love's pure dawn, Breaks from the kindled soul within!" EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. Born at Hartford, Conn: 1833 HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER'S FERRY. JOHN BROWN in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might. There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border-strife grew warmer, Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night; And Old Brown, Came homeward in the morning-to find his house burn'd down. Then he grasp'd his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom; Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band; And he and his brave boys vow'd-so might Heaven help and speed 'em !— They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land; And Old Brown, Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down. And the Lord did aid these men, and they labour'd day and even, Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seem'd charm'd, Till the ruffians kill'd one son, in the blessed light of Heaven, In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journey'd all unarm'd; |