HOPE.

HE night is mother of the day,
The winter of the spring,

And ever upon old decay
The greenest mosses cling.

Behind the cloud the starlight lurks;
Through showers the sunbeams fall
For God, who loveth all his works,
Has left his hope with all.

;

J. G. WHITTIER.

CONTENT.

'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and

bare,

As wildered and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,

And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crowned,
Green rushes were strewn on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round
And decked the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast,

Fresh fruits!-and she culled me the best;

Whilst thrown from my guard by some glances she cast, Love slily stole into my breast.

I told my soft wishes-she sweetly replied,

(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)

Freedom.

"I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied ;

Yet take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine."

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms,
I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek,
And locked the loved maid'in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep;
And if on the banks by the stream,
Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range on the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And mark out new themes for my muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have named her Content.

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CUNNINGHAM.

FREEDOM.

S true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,

And, with leathern hearts, forget

That we owe mankind a debt?

No! true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And, with heart and hand, to be
Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;

They are slaves who will not choose

Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,

Rather than in silence shrink

From the truth they needs must think;

They are slaves who dare not be

In the right with two or three.

J. R. LOWELL.

ON THE ABOLITION OF SLAVERY.

ROUDLY on Creçy's tented wold The lion-flag of England flew ; As proudly gleamed its crimson fold O'er the dun heights of Waterloo : But other lyres shall greet the brave; Sing now, that we have freed the slave.

The ocean plain, where Nelson bled,
Fair commerce plies with peaceful oar;
Duteous o'er Britain's clime to shed

The gathered spoil of every shore:
To-day, across th' Atlantic sea,
Shout-shout ye, that the slave is free.

And eloquence in rushing streams

Has flowed our halls and courts along,

Or kindled 'mid yet loftier dreams

The glowing bursts of glowing song:
Let both their noblest burden pour,
To tell that slavery is no more.

Abolition of Slavery.

Bright science through each field of space

Has urged her mist-dispelling car,

Coy nature's hidden reign to trace,

To weigh each wind, and count each star :
Yet stay, thou proud philosophy,
First stoop to bid mankind be free.

And freedom has been long our own,
With all her soft and generous train,
To gild the lustre of the throne,

And guard the labour of the plain :
Ye heirs of ancient Runnymede!

Your slaves-oh! could it be?-are freed.

Ah! for the tale the slave could speak,
Ah! for the shame of England's sway;
On Afric sands the maddened shriek,
'Neath Indian suns the burning day:
Ye sounds of guilt-ye sights of gore-
Away! for slavery is no more.

'Mid the drear haunts of force and strife, The ministers of peace shall stand, And pour the welling words of life

Around a parched and thirsty land; While, spread beneath the tamarind tree, Rise "happy homes, and altars free."

Ye isles, that court the tropic rays,
Clustered on ocean's sapphire breast;
Ye feathery bowers, ye fairy bays,

In more than fable now-"the blest:"
Waft on each gale your choral strain,
Till every land has rent the chain.

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O England, empire's home and head,
First in each art of peace and power,
Mighty the billow crest to tread,

Mighty to rule the battle hour,—
But mightiest to relieve and save,

Rejoice that thou hast freed the slave.

EARL OF CARLISLE.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

UR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.