"O come to me, my daughter dear !
Come sit upon my knee,
For looking in your face. Kathleen,
Your mother's own I see!"

209

"But give to me your daughter dear, Give sweet Kathleen to me,

Be she on sea or be she on land,
I'll bring her back to thee."

My daughter is a lady born,
And you of low degree,
But she shall be your bride the day
You bring her back to me."

He sailed east, he sailed west,
And far and long sailed he.
Until he came to Boston town,
Across the great salt sea.

"O, have ve seen the young Kathleen, The flower of Ireland?

Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue,
And by her snow-white hand!"

Out spake an ancient man, “I know
The maiden whom ye mean;
I bought her of a Limerick man,
And she is called Kathleen.

"No skill hath she in household work,
Her hands are soft and white,
Yet well by loving looks and ways
She doth her cost requite."

Soup they walked through Boston town,
And met a maiden fair,

A little basket on her arm

So snowy-white and bare.

"Come hither, child, and say hast thou
This young man ever seen?"
They wept within each other's arms,
The page and young Kathleen.

"O give to me this darling child,

And take my purse of gold."
"Nay, not by me," her master said,
"Shall sweet Kathleen be sold.

"We loved her in the place of one
The Lord hath early ta'en;
But, since her heart 's in Ireland,
We give her back again!"

O, for that same the saints in heaven
For his poor soul shall pray,
And Mary Mother wash with tears
His heresies away.

KOSSUTH.50

TYPE of two mighty continents! combining

The strength of Europe with the warmth and glow

Of Asian song and prophecy, - the shining

Of Orient splendors over Northern

snow!

Who shall receive him? Who, unblushing, speak

Welcome to him, who, while he strove to break

The Austrian yoke from Magyar necks, smote off

At the same blow the fetters of the serf,

Rearing the altar of his Father-land On the firm base of freedom, and thereby

Lifting to Heaven a patriot's stainless hand,

Mocked not the God of Justice with a lie!

Who shall be Freedom's mouth-piece? Who shall give

Her welcoming cheer to the great fugitive?

Not he who, all her sacred trusts betraying,

Is scourging back to slavery's hell of pain

The swarthy Kossuths of our land again!

Not he whose utterance now from lips designed

The bugle march of Liberty to wind, And call her hosts beneath the breaking light,

The keen reveille of her morn of fight,

Is but the hoarse note of the blood

hound's baying,

The wolf's long howl behind the bond

man's flight!

O for the tongue of him who lies at

rest

In Quincy's shade of patrimonial trees,

Last of the Puritan tribunes and the

best,

To lend a voice to Freedom's sympathies,

And hail the coming of the noblest guest

The Old World's wrong has given the New World of the West!

TO MY OLD SCHOOLMASTER.

AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE.

OLD friend, kind friend! lightly down
Drop time's snow-flakes on thy crown!
Never be the shadow less,
Never fail thy cheerfulness;
Care, that kills the cat, may plough
Wrinkles in the miser's brow,
Deepen envy's spiteful frown,
Draw the mouths of bigots down,
Plague ambition's dream, and sit
Heavy on the hypocrite,

Haunt the rich man's door, and ride
In the gilded coach of pride;-
Let the fiend pass!-what can he
Find to do with such as thee?
Seldom comes that evil guest
Where the conscience lies at rest,
And brown health and quiet wit
Smiling on the threshold sit.

I, the urchin unto whom,
In that smoked and dingy room.
Where the district gave thee rule
O'er its ragged winter school,
Thou didst teach the mysteries
Of those weary A B C's, -
Where, to fill the every pause
Of thy wise and learned saws,
Through the cracked and crazy wall
Came the cradle-rock and squall,
And the goodman's voice, at strife
With his shrill and tipsy wife,
Luring us by stories old,
With a comic unction told,
More than by the eloquence
Of terse birchen arguments
(Doubtful gain, I fear), to look
With complacence on a book! -
Where the genial pedagogue
Half forgot his roques to fiog,
Citing tale or apologue,
Wise and merry in its drift

As old Phædrus' twofold gift,

211

Had the little rebels known it, Risum et prudentiam monet! I, the man of middle years, In whose sable locks appears Many a warning fleck of gray, Looking back to that far day, And thy primal lessons, feel Grateful smiles my lips unseal, As, remembering thee, I blend Olden teacher, present friend, Wise with antiquarian search, In the scrolls of State and Church; Named on history's title-page, Parish-clerk and justice sage; For the ferule's wholesome awe Wielding now the sword of law.

Questioning the stranded years, Waking smiles, by turns, and tears, As thou callest up again

Shapes the dust has long o'erlain, -
Fair-haired woman, bearded man,
Cavalier and Puritan ;

In an age whose eager view
Seeks but present things, and new,
Mad for party, sect, and gold,
Teaching reverence for the old.

On that shore, with fowler's tact,
Coolly bagging fact on fact,
Naught amiss to thee can float,
Tale, or song, or anecdote;
Village gossip, centuries old,
Scandals by our grandams told,
What the pilgrim's table spread,
Where he lived, and whom he wed,
Long-drawn bill of wine and beer
For his ordination cheer,

Or the flip that wellnigh made
Glad his funeral cavalcade;
Weary prose, and poet's lines,
Flavored by their age, like wines,
Eulogistic of some quaint,
Doubtful, puritanic saint;
Lays that quickened husking jigs,
Jests that shook grave periwigs,
When the parson had his jokes
And his glass, like other folks;
Sermons that, for mortal hours,
Taxed our fathers' vital powers,
As the long nineteenthlies poured
Downward from the sounding-board,
And, for fire of Pentecost,
Touched their beards December's frost.

Time is hastening on, and we
What our fathers are shall be, -
Shadow shapes of memory!
Joined to that vast multitude
Where the great are but the good,
And the mind of strength shall prove
Weaker than the heart of love;
Pride of graybeard wisdom less
Than the infant's guilelessness,
And his song of sorrow more
Than the crown the Psalmist wore !
Who shall then, with pious zeal,
At our moss-grown thresholds kneel,
From a stained and stony page
Reading to a careless age,

With a patient eye like thine,
Prosing tale and limping line,
Names and words the hoary rime
Of the Past has made sublime?
Who shall work for us as well
The antiquarian's miracle?
Who to seeming life recall
Teacher grave and pupil small?
Who shall give to thee and me
Freeholds in futurity?

Well, whatever lot be mine,
Long and happy days be thine,
Ere thy full and honored age
Dates of time its latest page!
Squire for master, State for school,
Wisely lenient, live and rule;
Over grown-up knave and rogue
Play the watchful pedagogue;
Or, while pleasure smiles on duty,
At the call of youth and beauty,
Speak for them the spell of law
Which shall bar and bolt withdraw,
And the flaming sword remove
From the Paradise of Love.
Still, with undimmed eyesight, pore
Ancient tome and record o'er;
Still thy week-day lyrics croon,
Pitch in church the Sunday tune,
Showing something, in thy part,
Of the old Puritanic art,
Singer after Sternhold's heart!
In thy pew, for many a year,
Homilies from Oldbug hear,co
Who to wit like that of South,
And the Syrian's golden mouth,
Doth the homely pathos add
Which the pilgrim preachers had;
Breaking, like a child at play,
Gilded idols of the day,
Cant of knave and pomp of fool
Tossing with his ridicule,
Yet, in earnest or in jest,
Ever keeping truth abreast.
And, when thou art called, at last,
To thy townsmen of the past,
Not as stranger shalt thou come;
Thou shalt find thyself at home!
With the little and the big,
Woollen cap and periwig,
Madam in her high-laced ruff,
Goody in her home-made stuff,
Wise and simple, rich and poor,
Thou hast known them all before!