To party claims,

And private aims,

Reveal that august face of Truth, Whereto are given

The age of heaven,

The beauty of immortal youth.

So shall our voice

Of sovereign choice

Swell the deep bass of duty done, And strike the key

Of time to be,

When God and man shall speak as one!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armèd hands Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah, never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave,— Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouth'd gun and staggering
wain ;

Men start not at the battle-cry,—

Oh, be it never heard again !

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again,-
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help'd thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,—
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage-door

Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found;

He came to ask what he had found
That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh,"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many hereabout; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes,"Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for."

Nor let the reeking knife,

And hears, as life ebbs out,

life,

Be in my hand when Death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath

His heavy squadron's heels,
Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,

And the bald eagle brings

The cluster'd stars upon his wide-spread wings

To sparkle in my sight,

Oh, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that Beauty's eye

Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,

And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;
I know that bards have sung,
And people shouted till the welkin rung,
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a

grave;

I know that o'er their bones

Have grateful hands piled monumental

stones.

Some of these piles I've seen :
The one at Lexington upon the green
Where the first blood was shed
That to my country's independence led;
And others on our shore,
The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;

Thy "tomb," Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss

That issue from the Gulf of Salamis.
And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in

green,

That, like a natural knoll,

shout;

But as his eye grows dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?

What to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Of drums? No, let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,

And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead dries
The death-damp as it gathers, and the
skies

Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depth! Or let me leave

The world when round my bed Wife, children, weeping friends are gatherèd,

And the calm voice of prayer And holy hymning shall my soul prepare

To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits,-spirits who have bless'd

The human brotherhood By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

And in my dying hour,

When riches, fame, and honor have no power

To bear the spirit up,

Or from my lips to turn aside the cup
That all must drink at last,

Oh, let me draw refreshment from the past!

Then let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track,

And see that all the seeds

That I have scatter'd there, in virtuous deeds

Have sprung up, and have given,

stroll,

Watch'd by some turban'd boy, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,

Heaven!

taste

And though no grassy mound
Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground
Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps!

that those

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

I AM monarch of all I survey;

My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach;

I must finish my journey alone; Never hear the sweet music of speechI start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, Friendship, and Love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard; Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more:

My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
Oh tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is the glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wingèd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,

And mercy-encouraging thought!— Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

WILLIAM COWPER.

TRUE GROWTH.

IT is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night— It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE.
SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame! All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents,

Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design,

That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine,

And all occasions of excess;

kept

Were not attain'd by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern-unseen before-
A path to higher destinies.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past

As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

The bitter north winds blow, And thus upon life's Red River

Our hearts, as oarsmen, row.

And when the Angel of Shadow

Rests his feet on wave and shore, And our eyes grow dim with watching And our hearts faint at the oar,

Happy is he who heareth

The signal of his release In the bells of the Holy City, The chimes of eternal peace! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR. OUT and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain, Through belts of dusky pine-land And gusty leagues of plain.

FAITHFULNESS.

"See that thou copy no man save in the matter of faithfulness."-WILLIAM PENN.

LISTEN not when men shall tell thee, Her is work for thee to do;

There thy field of labor lieth and the good thou should'st pursue: