See him as he unselfish stands, Surrounded by his patriot bands— The admiration of all lands— Wave Freedom's banner high. He moves—acclaiming thousands wait To open wide each city gate. And trust to him their future fate— Assured redemption's nigh.

Whole-souled and brave as man can be, He fights alone for Liberty; Nor will he rest till Italy Shake off her tyrants' chains. This done he seeks not high estate; Success does not his soul elate; In lowliness he can be great, For meanness he disdains.

Can we to such a one deny Assistance? when to do or die He passes outward splendors by In singleness of heart? Forbid it, ye of British blood! Forbid it all who seek for good. Rise! show that you have understood An honest freeman's part!

Let not this noble Patriot's fate Be such as was Kossuth's the Great. May their magnific deeds create A glow of sympathy Which shall increase till every chain Enslaving man be snapped in twain, And universal Freedom reign In glorious majesty.



LINES SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE'S ACCOUNT OF LINCOLN'S DEPARTURE FROM SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, FOR WASHINGTON.

He stood—the noble Lincoln—calm, though, sad, About to part from those with whom he lived So many years in sweetest amity. Before him prospects which might well appal The stoutest heart. His country, fondly cherished, But erst so great and fair, the humbled victim Of black traitors' arts, and on the verge Of fearful ruin's widely yawning gulf. While recollections of domestic bliss, Such as but few enjoy, might well indeed Make him quite loth to leave his much loved home. With steady eye he views the concourse vast, Big thoughts fast welling from his inmost soul Too big for utterance. Yet a few choice words Steal forth and fall upon attentive ears: "Here have I lived for many, many years; Here were my children born, and one beneath The graveyard sod rests now in death, at peace! I know not when each dear familiar face Now left behind may glad my eyes again; But this I know—a duty greater far Than ever fell to man since Washington Held Governmental reins, now falls to me. Without God's aid he never could have known Success. Upon that Being placed he still His firm reliance, and succeeded well. Succeed I cannot without aid Divine Imparted to me in this hour of need. I place in God my trust; and oh, my friends, Pray you for me that I may have His help! Then shall success, such as we well may crave, Be mine for certain in this crisis dread. I bid you all affectionate farewell."

This heard with throbbing hearts the gazing throng; And, deeply moved within their bosom's depths, Responded soon, "We will all pray for you!" Upon this scene might Angels fondly gaze, And place 't on record in high Heaven's archives, That Lincoln, feeling his own weakness much, His burden cast upon the Lord of all.

Go thus, thou chosen one, and firmly stand For Truth and Freedom in the Halls of State! Let no time-serving policy be thine; But, placing round thee men of sterling worth, Grasp tight the reins of Constitutional sway. If go they will, let dupes of Slavery go, And reap the baneful fruit they've nurtured long. In this they'll find a certain, speedy cure, For madness such as they have always shown. Go, Lincoln, then, and if Canadians' prayers May aught avail, thou may'st their prayers command.

FEBRUARY, 1861.



"Sumpter has Fallen, but Freedom is Saved."

(New York Tribune, April, 1861.)

Thank God 'tis so! for now we know All compromise is ended. List Lincoln's call, then freemen, all Who have from braves descended.

Your Stripes and Stars, ye gallant tars, Keep proudly o'er you waving; Strike for the right with all your might, Stern danger freely braving!

Ye Soldier hosts, stand to your posts Like Anderson, unflinching. Those Southern foes need heavy blows To cure them of their "lynching."

A traitor's fate may them await, But yet their monstrous madness May work you woe for aught ye know, And fill the world with sadness.

Innocent blood—of this a flood For vengeance loud is calling! And God's light hand shall blast that land With plagues the most appalling,

Which dares to hold from love of gold Poor slaves in galling fetters! Rise, East—West—North! Your might put forth, For you are Freedom's debtors!



SONG.

MY LOVE IS NO GAY, DASHING MAID.

My love is no gay, dashing maid, With rosy cheeks and golden curls, Nor high-born lady well arrayed In glittering diamonds and pearls. Yet she is a lovely, loving wife, Who can blithely sing while working well; And so happy is our married life, That I on its pleasures fondly dwell. O my love is no gay, dashing maid, But a wife in matronly worth, arrayed.

I've seen young girls of beauty rare, With ruby lips and sparkling eyes, Use all their charms to form a snare By which to carry off a prize. I've noted the wedded life of such, Oft finding them slatterns void of love; And none need wonder so very much If I value high my turtle dove. For she is no vain, dashing maid, But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

Through years of matrimonial care, And constant toil from day to day, To me her face has still been fair, As if her charms would ne'er decay. And our house is full of girls and boys, The pledges sweet of a sacred love, Sent to keep young and bright the joys Which many with wealth oft fail to prove. O my love is no gay, dashing maid, But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.



THE SEWING MACHINE.

1861.

I sing the Sewing Machine, The blessings it brings to the fair. Some of those blessings I've seen, And therefore its praises declare. 'Tis a curious thing Of which I now sing, And poets have sung it before me; But if the theme's good, 'Twill be well understood I'm right in prolonging the story.

Well finished Sewing Machine! Whose form is so graceful and neat; Thou of inventions art Queen, And to look at thy work is a treat. Each nice burnished wheel, With the plate of pure steel, Thy gold bedecked arms and the gauges, All speak of the skill Which the genius at will Puts forth in the work that he wages.

Wonderful Sewing Machine! No visions of gloom and despair Float over my mind serene, As I thy performance compare To the old-fashioned stitch, The dread sorrows which Accompanied work by the fingers Of those forced to sew 'Midst a life full of woe. With pity my soul on it lingers.

Excellent Sewing Machine! Thy musical click-a-click-click, Removes far away the spleen From those who of toiling are sick. Thy task speeds along, While the fair ones in song Give vent to their feelings of gladness. How diff'rent I ween From the sight often seen By HOOD with a heart full of sadness.

[Footnote: See "Song of the Shirt."]

Dutiful Sewing Machine! Now cheerfully stitching away, Neatly and quickly, as seen In the things by my wife made to-day; Enraptured am I, For no heart-bursting sigh Escapes from the dear operator; But a smile of delight Is now alwavs in sight, Of happiness sweet indicator.

Beautiful Sewing Machine! How thankful am I to the man Through many years who has been Thus carefully forming thy plan! May smiles from the fair, Rid of much toil and care— Shine on him, in moments of anguish. May their tender hands To obey his commands Be ready, should he in life languish.



TABBY AND TIBBY.

As Tabby and Tibby were playing one day, I, watching their frolicksome mood, Greatly wondered they never got tired of play, But the secret I soon understood.

For, listening, I hear on the drum of the ear, These thoughts in cat language conveyed— The which I interpret lest it should appear Of telling the truth I'm afraid.

Said Tabby to Tibby: "Our master's downcast; Else why are his looks full of gloom? There's something like spectres in future or past, Which strangely before his mind loom.

"So, daughter, still further in frolic indulge, And thus chase his sadness away; Our motives we need not to mortals divulge; Then at it in right earnest play."

This said, she gave Tibby a sly, knowing wink, And straight on her haunches sat down, While Tibby, who is of all kittens the pink, Laid the counsel safe by in her crown.

And now, as if struck by electrical shock, The young one swift bounded aside, And then with an air which would true valor mock, Some strange soldiers' antics she tried.

Advancing, retreating, with rig well upreared, Her looks testify to her ire; And every manoeuvre, it is to be feared, Will bring some calamity dire.

But meantime, the mother in calmest content, And careless as cat could well be, Just waited till Tibby's flash-valor was spent, Yet now and then winking at me.

I judged from this fact that a wrinkle had struck, To the depths of her sage cat-like brain; And I thought of my beautiful kitten's ill-luck In entering on such a campaign.

The thought had scarce flashed through the chambers of mind, When she pounced like a tiger on prey! Oh, horror! but stop! with relief I now find They both were engaged in mere play.

But whether in play or real earnest, it seems Young Tibby's no match for her mother; So thus I now end this my first of cat dreams, Not caring to write such another.



LINES COMPOSED AT MR. M'LARTY'S, WEST MISSOURI, AUGUST 3, 1873.

McLarty, I can't leave your house, Your darling daughter, charming spouse, Without at least a single rhyme Commemorating that sweet time When I, with my beloved wife, Shared your dear home, with comforts rife.

And now I backward cast my eye O'er eight-and-twenty years, gone by, Since first to you the land I sold Which now you prize far more than gold. Ah, then with trees 'twas covered o'er Thousands of which are now no more; But in their stead rich, waving grain, On hill and dale and pleasant plain Abundant grows; and year by year Adds comforts to your home so dear.

Fair trout creek still flows softly by, Though not so pleasing to the eye, As when at first its stream I saw, So many, many years ago. For then no logs unshapely, rude, Did on that beauteous creek intrude; But o'er its smooth and gravelly bed It held its course, and murmur shed Like sweetest music on my ear, And made me long to live just here.

But urgent duty called me hence, To scenes less pleasing to the sense Of one who had a poet's eye For Nature's works. I bade good bye To what so quickly had become To me almost as dear as home.

And now, kind friends, we must return To that same home, while bosoms burn With platitude for kindness shown To those you had so little known.

We linger still: 'tis hard to part From you, when fondly heart to heart Beats now, as if for years we'd been Fast bound in friendship's bands serene.

God bless you all! we fervent pray, And make you happier every day! Should we in future meet no more, O, may we all reach Canaan's shore.



FAMILY PIECES

LINES TO MY MOTHER, WHO DIED WHEN I WAS ABOUT TWO YEARS OLD.

I had a mother once, and her dear name Has power even now to thrill my very frame, And call forth feelings which can only rise When Love doth view its object in the skies. So would I view thee, Mother, and rejoice That I have power to raise my feeble voice And tell what thoughts arise within my breast, As thus I view thee entered into rest.

O, say, my Mother, canst thou see thy son? Dost thou behold the poor, erratic one Who has been tossed on Life's tempestuous wave Till he has fairly longed to find his grave? I fain would know if, when I heave a sigh, Tears e'er bedim thy sympathetic eye? When I have drunk so deep of heartfelt woe, And: roved the vanity of all below, Oh, say, my Mother, hast thou felt a share Know'st thou what 'tis to be weighed down with care?

Why write I thus? for souls in heavenly bliss Feel not our woes—know not what sorrow is— Unless their past experiences they feel, To aid, by contrast, in producing weal. For it is written, "God shall wipe away Tears from all faces," in Eternal Day! Then let me rest content, and strive to show True patience, while I suffer here below, And follow Christ wherever he may lead: Thus proving faith sincere by every deed. O, then, whenever he may call me hence, I shall be willing to leave time and sense And mount aloft to dwell with God forever, To taste that bliss from which naught can me sever.

TO MY WIFE.

Ellen, dear, it is clear I have not half thy merits told; Sweet of life, lovely wife, More precious thou hast been than gold.

Listen now; truth I trow Will be my guide while I relate What pure love, sweetest dove, Thou still hast shown in marriage state.

When I'm ill thou dost fill The office of a comforter; Soothing sickness with such quickness That disease seems banished far.

If low spirits we inherit, Thou swiftly drivest them away By sweet song all day long, Until I feel quite young and gay.

Then our house, tidy spouse, Is kept by thee so trim and neat, That from home I'll not roam To try and find a snug retreat.

Of girls and boys, and many joys, We have, my dearest, quite our share; How to use them, not abuse them, Should always be our constant care.

But alas! how soon pass All present good desires away. Feel we weakness? then in meekness Let us unto our Father pray.

He is strong, and has long Upheld us by His mighty arm; O how glorious! Faith victorious Will us preserve always from harm.

Then let us pray, love, day by day, That our dear children may be brought Into His fold, ere they are old: Even as God himself hath taught.

O, what pleasure in rich measure We then should feel, my own true love! For naught ever could us sever, But all at last would dwell above—

By God's grace in that place Inhabited by Spirits bright. This secured, we allured, Might view by Faith the glorious sight.

TO THE SAME, WHEN AWAY FROM HOME

Oh, when will my beloved come To her own home again? Surely it will not be my doom To miss her always in each room, And of her loss complain.

Dear Chris and Jenny wish her home, And ask why she's not here; And I in quest of her would roam, But fear to miss her much-loved form, Which I would hope is near.

Yet I would not impatient be; Thou art on Mother tending. Thy love to her I like to see. It will not lessen mine to thee, Until my life is ending.

And should'st thou stay another week, A month, or even a year— Thy conduct past would loudly speak Thy faithfulness, thy spirit meek, And say I've naught to fear.

Then stay, my dear, till thou hast done All that thy mother needed; Yet just remember there is one Who will be sadly woe-begone, His loneliness unheeded.

For well I know that such a wife Is better far than gold; And all the joys of bachelor life, However free from care and strife, On my mind take no hold.

Just now her brother brings me word That I must go and see her. For all the joys this will afford May I be thankful to the Lord, And go from care to free her.

Within an hour I see her face Bedecked with smiles to greet me, But yet she seems in woeful case, For marks of toothache I can trace As she comes forth to meet me.

We spend the night with th' dear old folk, The moments quickly fly, While we link-armed start on a walk, But soon return to sing and talk— The fire all sitting by.

Upon the morrow then return To home, "sweet home," again. Our hearts afresh with love do burn, As we at hand our house discern, And all it does contain.

TO MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS, JAMES, CHRISTOPHER AND ALFRED.

Three lovely boys who bear my name, Have all upon me equal claim, And seem to ask a rhyme from me— A humble poet as you see. James, Christopher and Alfred, dear, You often do my spirit cheer, Each in his own most charming way, From hour to hour, from day to day. James by his often tuneful mood, And other things best understood By a fond parent, at the time, To he as sweet as music's chime. In him, though young, my eye can trace A something in his pretty face Which shows strong passion lurks within That childish breast—the fruit of sin. I also think I truly see A trait somewhat too miserly. I may be wrong—I hope I am, For 'twould be sad in my sweet lamb.

Then Chris, what must I say of him, Who shows us many a little whim? But with it all displays affection For one so young in much perfection, And can forget his sorrows all, Though his young heart he filled with gall. If but his mother seem to cry he upward turns his bright brown eye, And asks so earnestly a kiss That we're compelled to love our Chris.

Once, dear child, O strange to tell, From brother Willie's knee he fell And sadly burned his little arm, Which greatly filled us with alarm. He cried, as might have been expected, And quick relief was not neglected. But while his heart was fit to burst, He spied a wound on Mamma's hand, And though his own w as far the worst, The sight of Hers he could not stand. He ceased his crying, gave a sigh, "Poor Mamma's sore," [Footnote: A literal fact] became his cry. My darling child, this act of thine Makes me right glad to call thee mine.

But I must hasten; one remains Who well deserves my ablest strains. This is my Alfred—lovely babe A smiling cherub sure art thou, How can I best describe thy charms? How can I write about thee now? Nearly four months have passed away Since thou first saw the light of day; And in that time we've hardly had One tedious night with thee, my lad. By day thy chirruping and smiles Thy own dear mother's heart beguiles, And makes me run a dreadful risk Of falling to idolatry! But let me tell thee, little Frisk, This will not do for thee or me! 'Tis time to quit; I cease to write, And bid my precious babes good night!

TO ALFRED, JUST LEARNING TO WALK

1854

O, Alfred dear, thou wilt, I fear, Get burned before 'tis long; Thy little tricks with fiery sticks Have called forth this my song.

That roguish eye seems to defy All I can say or do. Thy chubby face does not disgrace The food thou art used to.

Come now, my boy, thy skill employ In walking to Papa; Well, now, my child, I own I smiled To see thee choose thy Ma.

But still I will that thou fulfill My just commands to thee; Sometime I shall soon make thee squall For disobeying me!

And now a walk or else some talk I do insist upon; But mind that chair or thou wilt fare Not cry well, my son!

Thy limbs are strong, so don't be long, Nor mind that little mountain; Ah, down he goes! and out there flows Big tear-drops from their fountain.

Fear not, my son, thou hast well done; I'll wipe thy tears away, And lie in hopes on Life's rough slopes Thou wilt not go astray.

Now come again, I can't refrain From tuning one more trial; Don't stagger on so woe-begone, But use some self-denial.

Thou wilt have need if thou succeed In life, to use it often, And I have found in moving round It does life's trials soften.

Mind thou the stove! nor further rove, For fear thou get a burning Let not thine eyes in such surprise Upon thy Pa be turning.

See, there at last thou hast got past The dangers which beset thee, So in my arms, proud of thy charms, I'll hug thee if thou let me.

I fain would hope that thou wilt cope With ills besetting mortals, Depending on God's Arm alone, And so reach Heaven's portals.

TO AMELIA MY LAST INFANT DAUGHTER

1854

On the fifth of chill November Came my Amie unto me, Adding one more lovely member To my numerous family.

Daughter, thou art welcome truly To the care we can bestow; May we do our duty duly While we stay with thee below.

Think not, daughter, we will slight thee, Since so many claim our love; Gladly—wish we to delight thee, As we look for help Above.

Thou art to us, little charmer, Dear as any child we own; And our love to each grows warmer For the sorrows we have known.

Take then, daughter, take our blessing, It comes forth from loving hearts; Though we shrink hot from confessing Oft we fail to act our parts.

TO FREDRIC

Fred, thou art six months old This very day! And I no more withold From thee a lay.

That rosy, smiling face— Thou need not fear— Has weeks since claimed a place 'Midst "rhyming gear."

Thy winning, childish pranks Make further claim To set thee in the ranks Of infant fame.

But when I think what troubles Thou hast passed through, The obligation doubles What I've to do—

In rhyming for thee, Fred, My dark-eyed boy; And I have left my bed To sing the joy.

I feel from day to day In seeing thee So full of lively play— Most sweet to see.

By such most lovely smiles, Such crowing, too, Ah, Fred, thy many wiles Have charmed me through!

'Tis true Ma lost much rest, By day and night, Through thee when so distressed. Which scarce seemed right.

But doubtless 'twill be seen To be for good, Since God our Friend has been, And by us stood.

Then, with this full in view I 'll close my rhyme, And hope that it may do Thee good some time.

TO MY DAUGHTER IDA, WHEN THREE MONTHS OLD.

1859.

Ida, it is a burning shame That thy short, sweet poetic name Has not a single lay called forth From my cranium since thy birth! Thy pale-face, brown-eyed style of beauty Every day points out my duty. Conscience, too, whispers 'tis not right That I this task should longer slight. So now I take thee on my knee And woo the Muse right eagerly, In earnest hope she'll lend her aid Until this tribute be well paid.

Ida, thou art of babes the best; This much at least must be confessed, Unless thy mother's words are wrong— Words shadowing forth Affection strong. Thou art indeed, sweet tempered pet, As good a child as I have met. And oh, my heart for thee' has bled, When thou wert forced to be spoon-fed, Because of Mamma's trying weakness. Yet this thou didst still bear with meekness, And ever from the first thy cries Had for companions tearful eyes, And such a mournful, piteous mien As is not in bad temper seen. When I saw this thou may'st be sure, I felt quite ready to endure Thy tediousness by night or day, While mother on a sick-bed lay. Now, as reward for all my toil, Thou cheerest me by many a smile. And while I gaze on thy sweet face Bedecked with every infant grace, My soul's best feelings are called Forth— I see in thee increasing worth.

Say, sweetly smiling, pretty creature, So perfect in each limb and feature, What means that dreamy sort of look Thou wear'st at times? Art thou then struck With wonder at our household ways? At brother's, sister's childish plays? I would give something just to know How thoughts within the mind can grow. I fancy sometimes thou art thinking On what's around thee or else drinking Thou fill of heavenly visions sweet, Such as would prove to me a treat: Art silent still? Ah, then, young Miss, Thou must eve'n give a parting kiss! Farewell, my dear, my lovely child, Fair Ida, with the look so mild!

TO MY WIFE, ON THE THIRTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING DAY

SEPT. 26, 1860.

A thousand joys, my darling wife, Be thine on this our marriage day! And now I'll sing; for such a life As we have led deserves a lay Fresh-gushing from a heart like mine— By thee well known to be sincere. O, where are charms compared with thine? Which, after years of toil appear More fresh and fair, Though much of care Has fallen daily to thy share.

On me old Time has marked his flight— My outward frame doth tell me this; But still, sweet dove, my heart's as light As when at first I found the bliss Of Ellen's love in silken bands. And what the future has in store I know not, but my soul expands Assured thou lov'st me more and more. This rapturous thought With blessings fraught By gold could never have been bought.

But love—such love as we now feel Ten thousand ills can face and foil, And passing years afresh reveal— We better are for cure and toil! I would not then my lot exchange For one where pampered luxury The hearts of man and wife estrange, And all is insincerity. A lot like this, Devoid of bliss, Dear wife, may we forever miss!

What though when let but forty-three I sober Grandpa have become? With thee, my Ellen, yes, with thee I can enjoy our humble home; And the dear children to us given, With those left by my first loved spouse, Can by God's blessing make a heaven For me in yet a poorer house! The world dreams not That in our cot We pure, substantial joys have got.

As thus I sing in gladsome strain Of my unmatched felicity, There comes an almost endless train From the deep founts of Memory, Of pleasing pictures which retain Poetic colors lich and rare. Yet fearing they might make me vain, I breathe to God this fervent prayer: Lord, shield me well, From potent spell Of syren Pleasures, and Pride quell!

Oh, let us humbly now renew Our vows to God, my sweetest love! He then will shed His grace like dew Upon us all, and bid the Dove Of steadfast Peace assure our souls. Thus may we battle on in life, And as each season forward rolls Feel stronger for the daily strife Until at last Our lot is cast With those who into heaven have passed.

TO THE SAME, ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR MARRIAGE.

SEPTEMBER 26, 1872.

Dear Bride of five-and-twenty years, I gladly give to thee this song. That thou wilt spurn it I've no fears, For love still reigns within thee strong, And will reign long as life shall last; For it has stood the fiery test Of anguished moments in the past— When out of pain came peaceful rest, Until our life Of toil and strife Is joyful still, my darling wife.

When last I penned a lay to thee I little dreamt that youthful charms Would cling to thee at forty-three; But now the thought my spirit warms That I can see thee lovelier grown! While fond affection constant beams Within thy lovely eyes, light brown, Thus realizing my young dreams. For then I thought The wife I sought Should bring to me what thou hast brought.

A face lit up with genial smiles, A heart to love through trials great, With winning ways, with pleasant wiles, To cheer me in life's troublous state. I pictured her both fair and neat, With voice so soft, with wifely skill, To make my home a snug retreat From many kinds of mortal ill. Such hast thou been, My own heart's queen, As good a wife as e'er was seen.

What though we've not attained to wealth? Have still to toil for daily bread? So long as God gives precious health, We have no worldly needs to dread,

For, day by day our table's filled, Our dearest children constant fed; With many comforts life to gild, Our years enjoyably have sped. Then we'll not care For larger share Of riches, which oft prove a snare.

Then, darling, let us battle on, The future may ev'n brighter prove; But if it does not we have won A glorious boon in such true love As well might smooth a harder life. And few, I trow, have lived so long wedded state with joys so rife. Then fear not, let our hearts be strong In Christ our Lord, And let His Word Yield us the comfort therein stored.

Now, as the ears flow swiftly by, With crosses manifold to hear, We still will look to Him on high, Who has permitted us to share So much of matrimonial bliss, And in that bond has kept us true. Let's deem it best His rod to kiss, And keep His promises in view. So, side by side Our lives may glide Till death bring us o'er Jordan's tide!

TO THE SAME, ON THE THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR MARRIAGE.

SEPTEMBER 26, 1877.

Full thirty years of wedded bliss, My darling wife, we have enjoyed; And still I can with rapture kiss Thy sweet, chaste lips—for I am void Of every fear that thou wilt fail To love me till our race is run. Our mutual love is still as hale As though we had but just begun To link our fate In marriage state, Where joys for sorrows compensate.

So, filled with sense of God's rich love, Let us those decades three review; For though we have with trials strove To keep our happiness still new, We've had Religion's holy aid Still shedding sunshine on our way, As we pursued our humble trade And struggled on from day to day. Our hearts imbued With gratitude Call loud for vows to God renewed.

Now looking back through all these years, 'Midst chequered scenes of daily life, A family of eight appears For thee to love and serve, my wife! Thou wert indeed a youthful bride, But weak in body—not in heart— As thou my cherished hearth beside Sat down, content to do thy part. And well I know No lot below Was e'er more free from earthly woe.

In this review I can't forget How oft in sickness, grief and pain, Thy loving heart our needs has met, While solace rich came in thy train. Nor when thyself on sick bed lay, Racked with Neuralgia's maddening pangs. How Patience kept the wolf at bay, And made him soon withdraw his fangs. My darling sweet, 'Tis surely meet I thee with song like this should greet!

Nor yet when by that dreadful fall Thy limbs were bruised, thy system shook, How easily I can recall Each winning smile, each tender look,

As I attempted to alleve Thy sufferings great for many days. And while I could not help but grieve, I saw thy meekness with amaze; For no dread pain Could triumph gain O'er thee, nor did'st thou once complain.

Then, O my darling, join with me To celebrate our Father's praise! For he has kept us lovingly From hankering after worldly ways. Raise then our Ebenezer high! Join, children, in my joyful song! Lay ever disagreement by, That you in, union may be strong. Thus let us wait At Wisdom's gate, Till Christ in turn shall each translate.



FAREWELL TO MY HARP

Farewell my rude Harp and my still ruder Lyre! For season your tones may not fall on my ear; At the bench will hard labor repress rhyming fire, And Fact over Fancy triumphant appear.

Yet I will remember the exquisite pleasure For full thirty years freely rendered by you; How oft in that time you have proved a rich treasure— Still constant abiding and evermore true.

Again and again bring afresh to my mind. How in youth your wild minstrelsy ravished my soul Till I became daily to musings inclined, And strong, gushing impulse that scarce brooked control.

I oft will recall how you chased away sadness, As sore family tumbles my heart did affright When a fond, faithful partner, whose presence was gladness Was reft from my side—turning day into night!

Nor forget soon the dirges you poured o'er the tomb Enclosing both her and our infant so dear; Whose soul-stirring notes dissipated my gloom, And since have refreshed me through many a year.

Ah, no! those sweet memories, fresh in me springing, Shall nerve to new efforts in God's holy cause; And hearing within me your melodies ringing, I'll steadfastly aim at observing His Laws.



THE END.