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THE TRICOLOR CROSS.

PARODIED FROM BERANGER'S "CROSS OF THE LEGION OF

HONOUR."

THOU took'st thy deep blue from the eyes of the

soul,

And thy white from the foam of the far rolling sea: But, Cross of the Billows! famed far as they roll, Why stain thy bright red with the blood of the free?

Columbia beheld thee flaunt over her slain,

When she call'd up the ghosts of Pym, Hampton, and

Vane;

And steep'd were thy folds in the blood of her brave, When France broke her chain, to dig tyrants a

grave.

Famed Red Cross of England, famed ever to be!
Bright Cross of the Tricolor! when wilt thou wave,
A meteor in darkness, from sea unto sea—
The symbol of justice, the hope of the slave?
Where, where wast thou waving when Poland arose,
Crying "God for Sarmatia!" to Liberty's foes?
Oh, not o'er the ranks of the sworn-to-be free,
Stain'd Cross of the Ocean, stain'd ever to be!

Stain'd ever ?—No, Ocean! thy Tricolor Cross
Shall yet shame the Tricolor dreadfully fair;
Through the ranks of th' oppressor its brightness shall

toss

Defiance and havoc, defeat and despair;

O'er the treason of priests, the rebellion of kings,
Our halcyon shall rise, with thy blue on his wings,
And sport with the billows wherever they roll,
Bright, bright as heav'n's depth in the eyes of the
soul.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

A VOICE of grief and anger-
Of pity mix'd with scorn-
Moans o'er the waters of the west,
Through fire and darkness borne;
And fiercer voices join it-

A wild triumphant yell!

For England's foes, on ocean slain,
Have heard it where they fell.

What is that voice which cometh
Athwart the spectred sea?

The voice of men who left their homes

To make their children free;

Of men whose hearts were torches

For Freedom's quenchless fire;

Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth The sires of Franklin's sire.

They speak!-the Pilgrim Fathers
Speak to ye from their graves!

For earth hath mutter'd to their bones
That we are soulless slaves !
The Bradfords, Carvers, Winslows,
Have heard the worm complain,
That less than men oppress the men
Whose sires were Pym and Vane!

What saith the voice which boometh
Athwart th' upbraiding waves?
"Though slaves are ye, our sons are free,
Then why will you be slaves?

The children of your fathers

Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane !"

Land of the sires of Washington,

Bring forth such men again!

A GLIMPSE OF THE FUTURE.

An old man, to the field of graves

Borne, in his parish-shroud, methought, Found, in the land of landless slaves, The bed of rest, which long he sought.

But, after many years had flown,

That old man rose out of his grave, And wonder'd at his native town,

And found no honest man a slave.

Where once that town of trouble stood,
And he the tyrant's frown had felt,
Men in sweet homes, by stream and wood,
Amid their own green acres dwelt.

Nor hovel now, nor temple was,

Where hovels once and temples stood; All, all had perish'd! for, alas! Redemption had been steep'd in blood!

Remote, an engined city groan'd

Where bad men toil'd in penal gloom; The Agnews there the Pelhams moan'd,

The Melvilles plied the penal loom.

Tyrants, not victims, justly bound

To labour's chain, alone were slaves:
And no good man was landless found

In this sad land, where men have graves.

But things which penal toil had wrought,
Converting crime itself to good,

The blessings of all climates brought

To those sweet homes, by stream and wood.

Instinct with life, almost they seem'd,

And came and went, when call'd or sent
By tranquil thought, that star-like beam'd
On each untiring instrument.

Not only by his toiling hands,

But chiefly by his god-like mind,
Man, sowing bliss, in distant lands,
Made earth a garden for mankind.

THE BALLOT.

THE sky had no voice, and the ocean was still—
A power and a terror chain'd valley and hill;
For the spirit of Burns, upon thunder-clouds borne,
Look'd down on his country in pity and scorn;
Because the descendants of Wallace were slow,
The bonds they had loosen'd to break at a blow.

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