52

THE FAMILY

MEETING.

We are all here!

Even they-the dead-though dead, so dear;
Fond Memory, to her duty true,

Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remember'd face appears!
We see them, as in times long past,
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold,
They're round us, as they were of old-
We are all here.

We are all here!

Father, Mother,

Sister, Brother,

You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gather'd dead;
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
Oh! then, that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below;
So, in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-all here!

THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

HERE are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never touch'd by spades, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungather'd. It is sweet

To linger here, among the flitting birds

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds
That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass
A fragrance from the cedars thickly set

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of Liberty.

O FREEDOM! thou art not as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap

With which the Roman master crown'd his slave,
When he took off the gyves,
A bearded man,

Arm'd to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr'd

With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs

Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has launch'd
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven.
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep,

And his swart armourers, by a thousand fires,
Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound,
The links are shiver'd, and the prison walls
Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth,
As springs the flame above a burning pile,

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ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

And shoutest to the nations, who return
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birth-right was not given by human hands:
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
While yet our race was few, thou satst with him,
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
Thou by his side amid the tangled wood
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
Thine only foes: and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrows on the mountain side,
Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself,
Thy enemy, although of reverend look,
Hoary with many years, and far obey'd,
Is later born than thou; and as he meets
The grave defiance of thine elder eye,
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age;

Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His wither'd hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread,
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
With chains conceal'd in chaplets. Oh! not yet
May'st thou unbrace thy corslet, or lay by
Thy sword, nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps.
And thou must watch and combat, till the day

Of the new Earth and Heaven. But wouldst thou rest

THE STEAMBOAT.

A while from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees
Were young upon the inviolated Earth,

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

THE STEAMBOAT.

BY O. W. HOLMES.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,
She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
With heap'd and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast in ringing showers,
With every wave that swells;
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,
In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,

And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,

She thunders foaming by!

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green
That skirts her gleaming sides.

THE STEAMBOAT.

Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,
Who trims his narrow'd sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep
Her broad breast to the gale;
And many a foresail, scoop'd and strain'd,
Shall break from yard and stay,

Before this smoky wreath has stain'd
The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,
I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud
Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirl'd like winnowing chaff,
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;

Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

Oh, think of those for whom the night

Shall never wake in day!