Listen to the supplications

Of the widowed ones of earth;
Listen to the cry of nations,

Ringing loudly, wildly forth,—
Nations bruised and crushed forever
By the iron heel of war.
God of Mercy, wilt thou never
Send deliverance from afar ?
Yes, a light is faintly gleaming
Through the cloud that hovers o'er;
Soon the radiance of its beaming,
Full upon our land will pour.
'Tis the light that tells the dawning
Of the bright Millennial Day,
Heralding its blessed morning
With its peace-bestowing ray.

God shall spread abroad His banner,-
Sign of universal peace;

And the earth shall shout Hosanna,
And the reign of blood shall cease.
Man no more shall seek dominion
Through a sea of human gore;
War shall spread its gloomy pinion
O'er the peaceful earth no more.

140. THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION.

O. M. MITCHELL.

Light traverses space at the rate of twelve million miles a minute, yet the light from the nearest star requires three years to reach the earth, and Herschel's telescope revealed stars two thousand three hundred times farther distant. The great telescope of Lord Ross pursued these creations of God still deeper into space, and, having resolved the nebula of the Milky Way into stars, discovered other systems of starsbeautiful diamond points, glittering through the black darkness beyond. When he beheld this amazing abyss-when he saw these systems scattered profusely throughout space-when he reflected upon their immense distance, their enormous magnitude, and the countless millions of worlds that belonged to them-it seemed to him as though the wild dream of the German poet was more than realized.

"God called man in dreams into the vestibule of heaven, saying, 'Come up hither, and I will show thee the glory of my house.' And to His angels who stood about His throne,

he said, 'Take him, strip him of his robes of flesh; cleanse his affections; put a new breath into his nostril; but touch not his human heart-the heart that fears, and hopes, and trembles.' A moment, and it was done, and the man stood ready for his unknown voyage. Under the guidance of a mighty angel, with sounds of flying pinions, they sped away from the battlements of heaven. Some time on the mighty angel's wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness, wildernesses of death. At length from a distance not counted, save in the arithmetic of heaven, light beamed upon them-a sleepy flame, as seen through a hazy cloud. They sped on, in their terrible speed, to meet the light; the light with lesser speed came to meet them. In a moment, the blazing of suns around them—a moment, the wheeling of planets; then came long eternities of twilight; then again, on the right hand and the left, appeared more constellations. At last the man sank down, crying, 'Angel, I can go no farther; let me lie down in the grave, and hide myself from the infinitude of the Universe, for end there is none.' 'End is there none?' demanded the angel. And from the glittering stars that shone around there came a choral shout, 'End there is none!' 'End is there none?' demanded the angel, again, and is it this that awes thy soul? I answer, End there is none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!'"

141.-THE INDIAN CHIEFTAIN.

EDWARD EVERETT.

White man, there is an eternal war between me and thee! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life. In these woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide, unrestrained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing water-falls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. Stranger! the land is mine. I understand not these paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did.

The stranger came, a timid suppliant-few and feeble-and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm him

self at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children;-and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchment over the whole, and says, "It is mine." There is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west ?-the fierce Mohawk-the man-eater-is my foe. Shall I fly to the east?-the great water is before me. No, stranger; here I have lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee.

Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction: for that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps: the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noon-day sun shall not discover thy enemy; and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror; and I will reap in blood. Thou shalt sow the earth with corn; and I will strew it with ashes. Thou shalt go forth with the sickle; and I will follow after with the scalping-knife. Thou shalt build; and I will burn;-till the white man or the Indian perish from the land.

142.-DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
LORD BYRON.

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

143. THE BIRDS.

THE BOBOLINK.

Anacreon of the meadow,
Drunk with the joy of spring!
Beneath the tall pine's joyful shadow
I lie and drink thy jargoning;
My soul is full with melodies,
One drop would overflow it,
And send the tears into mine eyes-
But what car'st thou to know it?
Thy heart is free as mountain air,
And of thy lays thou hast no care,
Scattering them gaily everywhere,
Happy, unconscious poet!

Upon a tuft of meadow grass,
While thy loved one tends the nest,
Thou swayest as the breezes pass,
Unburthening thine o'erfull breast
Of the crowded songs that fill it,
Just as joy may choose to will it.
Lord of thy love and liberty,
The blithest bird of merry May,
Thou turnest thy bright eyes on me,
That say as plain as eye can say—
"Here sit we, here in the summer weather,
I and my modest mate together;
Whatever your wise thoughts may be,
Under that gloomy old pine tree,
We do not value them a feather."

Now, leaving earth and me behind,
Thou beatest up against the wind,
Or, floating slowly down before it,
Above thy grass-hid nest thou flutterest
And thy bridal love song utterest,
Raining showers of music o'er it,
Weary never, still thou trillest,
Spring-gladsome lays,

As of moss-rimmed water-brooks
Murmuring through pebbly nooks
In quiet summer days.

My heart with happiness thou fillest,
I seem again to be a boy

Watching thee, gay, blithesome lover,
O'er the bending grass-tops hover,
Quivering thy wings for joy.

There's something in the apple blossom,
The greening grass and bobolink's song,
That wakes again within my bosom
Feelings which have slumbered long.
As long, long years ago I wandered,
I seem to wander even yet,

The hours the idle school-boy squandered,
The man would die ere he'd forget.
O hours that frosty eld deemed wasted,
Nodding his gray head toward my books,
I dearer prize the lore I tasted
With you among the trees and brooks,
Than all that I have gained since then
From learned books or study-withered men!

Dear hours! which now again I over-live,
Hearing and seeing with the ears and eyes
Of childhood, ye were bees, that to the hive
Of my young heart came laden with rich prize,
Gathered in fields and woods and sunny dells, to be
My spirit's food in days more wintery.

Yea, yet again ye come! ye come!
And, like a child once more at home
After long sojourning in alien climes,
I lie upon my mother's breast,

Feeling the blessedness of rest,

And dwelling in the light of other times.

TO A ROBIN.

Young warbler of the spring!

Scarce hath the earth put on her robe of green,
And the glad breeze swept o'er the vernal scene,
Ere thou dost sweetly sing.

How many years thy song

Hath poured its music on my slumbering hours, When morn's first breath is seen to stir the flowers, Bearing their sweets along!

Ah! now thy strain I hear,

Among thy mates, poured from thy warbling throat, Filling each grove with thy gay, cheerful note, Spring's feathered pioneer.