For to my ear methought the breeze

Bore Freedom's blessed word on;

THUS SAITH THE LORD: BREAK EVERY YOKE, UNDO THE HEAVY BURDEN!

RANTOUL.

NE day, along the electric wire

ON

His manly word for Freedom sped; We came next morn: that tongue of fire Said only, "He who spake is dead!”

Dead! while his voice was living yet,

In echoes round the pillared dome! Dead! while his blotted page lay wet

With themes of state and loves of home!

Dead! in that crowning grace of time,

That triumph of life's zenith hour!

Dead! while we watched his manhood's prime
Break from the slow bud into flower!

Dead! he so great, and strong, and wise,
While the mean thousands yet drew breath;
How deepened, through that dread surprise,
The mystery and the awe of death!

From the high place whereon our votes
Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell

His first words, like the prelude notes
Of some great anthem yet to swell.

We seemed to see our flag unfurled,
Our champion waiting in his place
For the last battle of the world, -
The Armageddon of the race.

Through him we hoped to speak the word
Which wins the freedom of a land;
And lift, for human right, the sword

Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand.

For he had sat at Sidney's feet,

And walked with Pym and Vane apart;
And, through the centuries, felt the beat
Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart.

He knew the paths the worthies held,
Where England's best and wisest trod:
And, lingering, drank the springs that welled
Beneath the touch of Milton's rod.

No wild enthusiast of the right,

Self-poised and clear, he showed alway
The coolness of his northern night,
The ripe repose of autumn's day.

His steps were slow, yet forward still

He pressed where others paused or failed;
The calm star clomb with constant will,
The restless meteor flashed and paled!

Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew
And owned the higher ends of Law;
Still rose majestic on his view

The awful Shape the schoolman saw.

Her home the heart of God; her voice
The choral harmonies whereby
The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice,
The rhythmic rule of earth and sky!

We saw his great powers misapplied
To poor ambitions; yet, through all,

We saw him take the weaker side,

And right the wronged, and free the thrall.

Now, looking o'er the frozen North

For one like him in word and act, To call her old, free spirit forth,

And give her faith the life of fact,

To break her party bonds of shame,
And labor with the zeal of him
To make the Democratic name
Of Liberty the synonyme, -

We sweep the land from hill to strand,
We seek the strong, the wise, the brave,
And, sad of heart, return to stand
In silence by a new-made grave!

There, where his breezy hills of home
Look out upon his sail-white seas,

The sounds of winds and waters come,

66

And shape themselves to words like these:

Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power Was lent to Party over-long,

Heard the still whisper at the hour

He set his foot on Party wrong?

"The human life that closed so well
No lapse of folly now can stain;
The lips whence Freedom's protest fell
No meaner thought can now profane.

Mightier than living voice his grave
That lofty protest utters o'er;
Through roaring wind and smiting wave
It speaks his hate of wrong once more.

"Men of the North! your weak regret
Is wasted here; arise and pay
To freedom and to him your debt,
By following where he led the way!"

J

BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE.

OHN BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE spake on his dying day: "I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free, With her children from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;

And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh. Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew

mild,

As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child!

The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart;
And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.
That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,
And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!
Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good!
Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood!
Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies ;
Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.
Never more may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear,
Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear.
But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale,
To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!

So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;

In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay. She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove; And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love!

THE RENDITION.

I

HEARD the train's shrill whistle call,

I saw an earnest look beseech,

And rather by that look than speech

My neighbor told me all.

And, as I thought of Liberty

Marched handcuffed down that sworded street,

The solid earth beneath my feet

Reeled fluid as the sea.