JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. The nobler nature within him stirred "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet: All day long that free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Over Barbara Frietchie's grave Flag of Freedom and Union wave; Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down MR. WHITTIER TO HIS FRIENDS, ON THE CELEBRATION OF HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. Beside that mile-stone where the level sun, 12th mo., 1877. MY TWO SISTERS. There, too, our elder sister plied O, heart sore tried! thou hast the best How many a poor one's blessing went With thee beneath the low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings! As one who held herself a part Against the household bosom lean, Now bathed within the fadeless green Or from the shade of saintly palms, For months upon her grave has lain; In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. And yet, dear heart! remembering thee, Am I not richer than of old? Safe in thy immortality, 637 What change can reach the wealth I hold? What chance can mar the pearl and gold Thy love hath left in trust with me? Where cool and long the shadows grow, I walk to meet the night that soon I cannot feel that thou art far, Shall I not see thee waiting stand, And, white against the evening star, The welcome of thy beckoning hand? We sit beneath their orchard-trees, Their written words we linger o'er, No step is on the conscious floor! Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust The stars shine through his cypress-trees! That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose its own! THE POET'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF. And one there was, a dreamer born, A weapon in the war with wrong, That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring and grow. Too quiet seemed the man to ride A silent, shy, peace-loving man, To hold his way against the public frown, The bau of Church and State, the fierce mob's hounding down. For while he wrought with strenuous will He heard the fitful music still Of winds that out of dream-land blew. The din about him could not drown What the strange voices whispered down; Along his task-field weird processions swept, The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped. The common air was thick with dreams, He told them to the toiling crowd; Such music as the woods and streams Sang in his ear he sang aloud; In still, shut bays, on windy capes, He heard the call of beckoning shapes, And, as the gay old shadows prompted him, To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends grim. THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. O friends, with whom my feet have trod Glad witness to your zeal for God. I trace your lines of argument; I weigh as one who dreads dissent, But still my human hands are weak Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man. I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground I dare not fix with mete and bound Ye praise his justice; even such His pitying love I deem; RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.-ARTHUR WILLIAMS AUSTIN. We rise, and all, the distant and the near, Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear; SPRING. Who was it that so lately said, Old earth, that now in festal robes Appearest, as a bride new wed? Oh, wrapped so late in winding-sheetThy winding-sheet, oh! where is fled? Lo! 'tis an emerald carpet now, Where the young monarch, Spring, may tread. He comes, and, a defeated king, Old Winter to the hills is fled. The warm wind broke his frosty spear, And loosed the helmet from his head; And he weak showers of arrowy sleet From his strongholds has vainly sped. All that was sleeping is awake, And all is living that was dead. Who listens now can hear the streams Leap tinkling from their pebbly bed, Or see them, from their fetters free, Like silver snakes the meadows thread. The joy, the life, the hope of earth, They slept awhile, they were not dead: O thou, who say'st thy sore heart ne'er With verdure can again be spread; O thou, who mournest them that sleep, Low lying in an earthly bed; Look out on this reviving world, And be new hopes within thee bred! Arthur Williams Austin. AMERICAN. 641 Born in Charlestown, Mass., in 1807, Austin was graduated at Cambridge in 1825, studied law, and in 1856 was made Collector of the port of Boston under President Buchanan. An excellent Greek scholar, he has made some accurate and graceful translations from "The Greek Anthology." In 1875 he published a volume entitled "The Woman and the Queen: a Ballad, and other Specimens of Verse." FROM "THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY." RUFINUS: TO RHODA. Rhoda! to thee I send a garland, wove From flowers late gathered by these hands of mine: When crowned with these, abate thy lofty pride: SIMMIAS: EPITAPH ON SOPHOCLES. Around this place where Sophocles reclines, MARIANUS: TO A STATUE OF CUPID CROWNED. Where is that bow of yours, the wings, the dart, MARIANUS: THE LOVE-GROVE OF AMASIA. This Grove of Love hath charms; the western breeze Sends soothing murmurs through the well-pruned trees; On dewy meadow sparkling violets grow, |