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Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven!

Let not the land, once proud of him,
Insult him now,

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,

A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, nought
Save power remains--

A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled :

When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame

Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!

THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS.12

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest
Goaded from shore to shore;

No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest,
The leaves of empire o'er.

Simple of faith, and bearing in their hearts The love of man and God,

THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS.

Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts,
And Scythia's steppes, they trod.

Where the long shadows of the fir and pine
In the night sun are cast,

And the deep heart of many a Norland mine
Quakes at each riving blast;

Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands,
A baptized Scythian queen,

With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands,
The North and East between !

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Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray
The classic forms of yore,

And Beauty smiles, new risen from the spray,
And Dian weeps once more;

Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds;
And Stamboul from the sea
Lifts her tall minarets over burial-grounds
Black with the cypress tree!

From Malta's temples to the gates of Rome,
Following the track of Paul,

And where the Alps gird round the Switzer's home

Their vast, eternal wall;

They paused not by the ruins of old time,

They scanned no pictures rare,

Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountaing climb

The cold abyss of air!

But unto prisons, where men lay in chains,
To haunts where Hunger pined,

To kings and courts forgetful of the pains
And wants of human kind,

Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of good,

Along their way, like flowers,

Or, pleading as Christ's freemen only could,
With princes and with powers;

Their single aim the purpose to fulfil
Of Truth, from day to day,
Simply obedient to its guiding will,
They held their pilgrim way.

Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old
Were wasted on their sight,

Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold
All outward things aright.

Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown
From off the Cyprian shore,
Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone,
That man they valued more.

A life of beauty lends to all it sees
The beauty of its thought;

And fairest forms and sweetest harmonies
Make glad its way, unsought.

In sweet accordancy of praise and love,
The singing waters run;

And sunset mountains wear in light above
The smile of duty done;

Sure stands the promise-ever to the meek
A heritage is given ;

Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek
The righteousness of Heaven!

THE MEN OF OLD.

WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!
Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art,

If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,
Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past,
By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind

THE MEN OF OLD.

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To all the beauty, power, and truth, behind. Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon

their tombs

The effigies of old confessors lie,

God's witnesses; the voices of his will,

Ileard in the slow march of the centuries still!
Such were the men at whose rebuking frown,
Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went
down;

Such from the terrors of the guilty drew

The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due.

St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore

In Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the sale

Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale
Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor.
To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate
St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate-
Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix,
Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks.

"MAN IS WORTH MORE THAN TEMPLES!" he replied

To such as came his holy work to chide.
And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare,
And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard
The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer
Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord
Stifled their love of man-" An earthen dish
The last sad supper of the Master bore:

Most miserable sinners! do ye wish

More than your Lord, and grudge his dying

poor

What your own pride and not his need requires? Souls, than these shining gauds, He values

more;

Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires!"

O faithful worthies! resting far behind
In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep,

Much has been done for truth and human kind----
Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind;
Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap
Through peoples driven in your day like sheep;
Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light,
Though widening still, is walled around by night;
With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read,
Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its Head;
Counting, too oft, its living members less
Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress;
World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed
Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need,
Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed
Sect builds and worships where its wealth and pride
And vanity stand shrined and deified,
Careless that in the shadow of its walls
God's living temple into ruin falls.

We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still,
Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will,
To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod
The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell,
Proclaiming freedom in the name of God,
And startling tyrants with the fear of hell!
Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well;
But to rebuke the age's popular crime,

We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time!

THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.

STILL in thy streets, oh Paris! doth the stain
Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain ;
Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,

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