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THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.

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The simple roof where prayer is made, Than Gothic groin and colonade; The living temple of the heart of man, Than Rome's sky-mocking vault, or many-spired

Milan!

XXII.

More dear thy equal village schools, Where rich and poor the Bible read, Than classic halls where Priestcraft rules, And Learning wears the chains of Creed; Thy glad Thanksgiving, gathering in The scattered sheaves of home and kin, Than the mad license following Lenten pains, Or holydays of slaves who laugh and dance in chains.

XXIII.

And sweet homes nestle in these dales,
And perch along these wooded swells;
And, blest beyond Arcadian vales,

They hear the sound of Sabbath bells!
Here dwells no perfect man sublime,
Nor woman winged before her time,
But with the faults and follies of the race,

Old home-bred virtues held their not unhonored place.

XXIV.

Here manhood struggles for the sake
Of mother, sister, daughter, wife,
The graces and the loves which make
The music of the march of life
And woman, in her daily round
Of duty, walks on holy ground.

No unpaid menial tills the soil, nor here

Is the bad lesson learned at human rights to

sneer.

XXV

Then let the icy North wind blow
The trumpets of the coming storm,
To arrowy sleet and blinding snow
Yon slanting lines of rain transform.
Young hearts shall hail the drifted cold,
As gayly as I did of old;

And I, who watch them through the frosty pane,
Unenvious, live in them my boyhood o'er again.

XXVI.

And I will trust that He who heeds
The life that hides in mead and wold,
Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads,
And stains these mosses green and gold,
Will still, as He hath done, incline
His gracious care to me and mine;

Grant what we ask aright, from wrong debar,
And, as the earth grows dark, make brighter every
star!

XXVII.

I have not seen, I may not see,

My hopes for man take form in fact,

But God will give the victory

In due time; in that faith I act. And he who sees the future sure,

The baffling present may endure,

And bless, meanwhile, the unseen Hand that leads The heart's desires beyond the halting step of deeds.

XXVIII.

And thou, my song, I send thee forth,

Where harsher songs of mine have flown

Go, find a place at home and hearth

Where'er thy singer's name is known;

Revive for him the kindly thought
Of friends; and they who love him not,

THE MAYFLOWERS.

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Touched by some strain of thine, perchance may

take

The hand he proffers all, and thank him for thy sake.

THE MAYFLOWERS.

The trailing arbutus, or mayflower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter.

SAD Mayflower! watched by winter stars,
And nursed by winter gales,
With petals of the sleeted spars,

And leaves of frozen sails!

What had she in those dreary hours,
Within her ice-rimmed bay,

In common with the wild-wood flowers,
The first sweet smiles of May?

Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said,
Who saw the blossoms peer
Above the brown leaves, dry and dead,
"Behold our Mayflower here!"

"God wills it: here our rest shall be,
Our years of wandering o'er,
For us the Mayflower of the Sea,
Shall spread her sails no more.'

Oh! sacred flowers of faith and hope
As sweetly now as then

Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,
In many a pine-dark glen.

Behind the sea-wall's rugged length,
Unchanged, your leaves unfold,

Like love behind the manly strength
Of the brave hearts of old.

So live the fathers in their sons,
Their sturdy faith be ours,
And ours the love that overruns
Its rocky strength with flowers.

The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day
Its shadow round us draws;
The Mayflower of his stormy bay,
Our Freedom's struggling cause.

But warmer suns ere long shall bring
To life the frozen sod;

And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring
Afresh the flowers of God!

BURIAL OF BARBOUR.

BEAR him, comrades, to his grave;
Never over one more brave

Shall the prairie grasses weep,

In the ages yet to come,

When the millions in our room,
What we sow in tears, shall reap.

Bear him up the icy hill,
With the Kansas, frozen still
As his noble heart, below,

And the land he came to till
With a freeman's thews and will,

And his poor hut roofed with snow!

One more look of that dead face,
Of his murder's ghastly trace!

BURIAL OF BARBOUR.

One more kiss, oh, widowed one! Lay your left hands on his brow, Lift your right hands up, and vow

That his work shall yet be done.

Patience, friends! The eye of God
Every path by Murder trod

Watches, lidless, day and night;
And the dead man in his shroud,
And his widow weeping loud,

And our hearts, are in his sight.

Every deadly threat that swells
With the roar of gambling hells,
Every brutal jest and jeer,
Every wicked thought and plan
Of the cruel heart of man,

Though but whispered, He can hear !

We in suffering, they in crime,
Wait the just award of time,

Wait the vengeance that is due;
Not in vain a heart shall break,
Not a tear for Freedom's sake
Fall unheeded: God is true.

While the flag with stars bedecked
Threatens where it should protect,

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And the Law shakes hands with Crime, What is left us but to wait,

Match our patience to our fate,

And abide the better time?

Patience, friends! The human heart
Everywhere shall take our part,
Everywhere for us shall pray;
On our side are nature's laws,
And God's life is in the cause
That we suffer for to-day.

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