began,

She took what she gave to Man;
Justice, that knew no station,
Belief, as soul decreed,
Free air for aspiration,

Free force for independent deed!
She takes, but to give again,
As the sea returns the rivers in rain;
And gathers the chosen of her seed
From the hunted of every crown and creed.
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;
Her France pursues some dream divine;
Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;
Her Italy waits by the western brine;
And, broad-based under all,

Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, As rich in fortitude

As e'er went worldward from the islandwall!

Fused in her candid light,

To one strong race all races here unite; Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan.

'T was glory, once, to be a Roman: She makes it glory, now, to be a man !

Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench

where Benjamin would sit

On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit:

He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees

Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees.

I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers: most men

Think such things foolishness,

- but we were first acquainted then, One spring: the next he spoke his mind; the third I was his wife,

And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life.

He was but seventy-five; I did not think to lay him yet

In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met.

The Father's mercy shows in this: 't is better I should be

Picked out to bear the heavy cross alone in age than he.

We've lived together fifty years: it seems but one long day,

One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away;

And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home,

So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come.

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know

If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go;

For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day,

But mother spoke for Benjamin, she knew what best to say.

Then she was still: they sat awhile: at last she spoke again,

"The Lord incline thee to the right!" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane!" My father said. I cried. Indeed, 't was not the least of shocks,

For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox.

I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost:

Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed.

She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest

Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a happy one, at least.

Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I,

Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I felt temptation nigh!

My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste;

I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib

bon at the waist.

How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side!

I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear than pride,

Till," in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came

A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same.

I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign;

With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine.

It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life:

Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, - thee, too, hast been a wife.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, -
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim

For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring.

Then a rhythmic pulse makes order
In the troops of wandering fancies:
Held in soft subordination,
Lo! they follow, lead, or fly.
The fields of their feet are endless,
And the heights and the deeps are open
To the glance of the equal sky;
And the Masters sit no longer
In inaccessible distance,

But give to the haughtiest question,
Smiling, a sweet reply.

TO M. T.

THOUGH thy constant love I share, Yet its gift is rarer;

In my youth I thought thee fair: Thou art older and fairer !

Full of more than young delight
Now day and night are;
For the presence, then so bright,
Is closer, brighter.

In the haste of youth we miss
Its best of blisses:
Sweeter than the stolen kiss

Are the granted kisses.

Dearer than the words that hide The love abiding,

Are the words that fondly chide,
When love needs chiding.

Higher than the perfect song
For which love longeth,

Is the tender fear of wrong,
That never wrongeth.

She whom youth alone makes dear
May awhile seem nearer:
Thou art mine so many a year,
The older, the dearer !

THE FALLOW FIELD

THE sun comes up and the sun goes down; The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town;

But if it be dark or if it be day,

If the tempests beat or the breezes play,

Still here on this upland slope I lie,
Looking up to the changeful sky.

Naught am I but a fallow field;
Never a crop my acres yield.
Over the wall at my right hand
Stately and green the corn-blades stand,

And I hear at my left the flying feet
Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat.

Often while yet the morn is red

I list for our master's eager tread.
He smiles at the young corn's towering
height,

He knows the wheat is a goodly sight,
But he glances not at the fallow field
Whose idle acres no wealth may yield.

Sometimes the shout of the harvesters
The sleeping pulse of my being stirs,
And as one in a dream I seem to feel
The sweep and the rush of the swinging
steel,

Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain
As they heap their wains with the golden
grain.

Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud,
Though on every tongue your praise is loud.
Our mother Nature is kind to me,
And I am beloved by bird and bee,
And never a child that passes by
But turns upon me a grateful eye.

Over my head the skies are blue;
I have my share of the rain and dew;
I bask like vou in the summer sun
When the long bright days pass, one by

There is no mountain-top so far and high,
No desert so remote, no vale so deep,
No spot by man so long untenanted,
But the pale moon, slow marching up the
sky,

Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep!

O Earth! art thou not weary of thy dead ?

WITH A ROSE FROM CONWAY CASTLE

ON hoary Conway's battlemented height,
O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose !
Through arch and court the sweet wind
wandering goes;

Round each high tower the rooks in airy flight

Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light; Low at my feet the winding river flows; Valley and town, entranced in deep repose, War doth no more appall, nor foes affright. Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls,

Where mosses creep, and ivies far and free