ROGER WILLIAMS.

BY FRANCES H. WHIPPLE.

ILLUSTRIOUS pioneer of liberty;

Parent and founder of the truly free!
No treachery deforms thy peerless story;
No deed of vengeance sullies thy pure glory.
Thy precept and example, hand in hand,
Went like fair sisters o'er the smiling land;
While the rude Indian, true to Nature's law,
Knew what was good, and trusted what he saw.
He met thee as a brother-gave his land—
And thou gav'st him an open honest hand;
Nor was his simple nature e'er deceived;
Nor his proud, noble spirit once aggrieved;
He was thy brother-thou, 'neath closest scan,
Mid all temptations, wert-an honest man :
Rhode Islanders, with virtuous pride, can tell
Thy line of life has but one parallel-
Thou, and the Son of Peace-the western sage-
Were the twin stars of your illiberal age.
When warlike fame as morning mist shall fly,
And blood-stained glory, as a meteor, die;
When all the dross is known, and cast away,
And the pure gold, alone, allowed to stay,
Two names will stand, the pride of virtuous men,
Our ROGER WILLIAMS, and good WILLIAM PENN.

21

TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE.

BY ALBERT G. GREENE.

THE dawn has broke, the morn is up,

Another day begun;

And there thy poised and gilded spear
Is flashing in the sun,
Upon that steep and lofty tower

Where thou thy watch hast kept,

A true and faithful sentinel,

While all around thee slept.

For years, upon thee, there, has poured
The summer's noon-day heat,

And through the long, dark, starless night,

The winter storms have beat;

But yet thy duty has been done,

By day and night the same,

Still thou hast met and faced the storm,

Whichever way it came.

No chilling blast in wrath has swept

Along the distant heaven,

But thou hast watched its onward course

And instant warning given ;

And when mid-summer's sultry beams

Oppress all living things,

Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes

With health upon its wings.

How oft I've seen, at early dawn,

Or twilight's quiet hour,

The swallows, in their joyous glee
Come darting round thy tower,
As if, with thee, to hail the sun
And catch his earliest light,
And offer ye the morn's salute,
Or bid ye both, good night.

And when, around thee or above,
No breath of air has stirred,
Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight
Of each free, happy bird,

Till after twittering round thy head

In many a mazy track,

The whole delighted company

Have settled on thy back.

Then, if perchance amidst their mirth,
A gentle breeze has sprung,
And prompt to mark its first approach,
Thy eager form hath swung,

I've thought I almost heard thee say,

As far aloft they flew,

"Now all away!-here ends our play,

For I have work to do!"

Men slander thee, my honest friend,

And call thee in their pride,,

An emblem of their fickleness,

Thou ever faithful guide.

Each weak, unstable human mind
A "weathercock" they call;
And thus, unthinkingly, mankind
Abuse thee, one and all.

They have no right to make thy name
A by-word for their deeds :-

They change their friends, their principles,
Their fashions, and their creeds;

Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known Thus causelessly to range;

But when thou changest sides, canst give

Good reason for the change.

Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course
The thoughtless oft condemn,

Art touched by many airs from heaven
Which never breathe on them,-

And moved by many impulses

Which they do never know,

Who, 'round their earth-bound circles, plod

The dusty paths below.

Through one more dark and cheerless night

Thou well hast kept thy trust, And now in glory o'er thy head

The morning light has burst.

And unto Earth's true watcher, thus,
When his dark hours have passed,
Will come "the day-spring from on high,"
To cheer his path at last.

Bright symbol of fidelity,

Still may I think of thee:

And may the lesson thou dost teach

Be never lost on me ;

But still, in sun-shine or in storm,

Whatever task is mine,

May I be faithful to my trust
As thou hast been to thine.

THE POET.

BY MRS. SOPHIA LITTLE.

He is happy; not that fame
Giveth him a glorious name;
For the world's applause is vain,
Lost and won with little pain:
But a sense is in his spirit,
Which no vulgar minds inherit;

A second sight of soul which sees

Into Nature's mysteries.

Place him by the ocean's side,

When the waters dash with pride;