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My children's busy thoughts are full of thee:
Thou'st chill'd the loving spirit in their hearts,
And on their lips hast placed the selfish finger-
They dare n know each other. All that is,
All that God bless'd my teeming bosom with,
Is priced and barter'd; ay, the very worth
Of man himself is weigh'd with senseless gold-
Therefore I hate thee, bright-brow'd wanderer!

Daughter of the sober twilight,
Lustrous planet, ever hanging
In the mottled mists that welcome
Coming morning, or at evening
Peeping through the ruddy banners
Of the clouds that wave a parting,
From their high aerial summits,
To the blazing god of day-
"Tis for thee I raise my pæan,
Steady-beaming Venus! kindler,
In the stubborn hearts of mortals,
Of the sole surviving passion
That enlinks a lost existence
With the dull and ruthless present.
Far adown the brightening future,
Prophetess, I see thee glancing-
See thee still amid the twilight
Of the ages rolling onward,
Promising to heart-sick mortals
Triumph of thy gracious kingdom;
When the hand of power shall weaken,
And the wronger right the wronged,
And the pure, primeval Eden
Shall again o'erspread with blossoms
Sunny bill and shady valley.
"Tis to thee my piny mountains
Wave aloft their rustling branches,
'Tis to thee my opening flowerets
Send on high their luscious odours,
"T is to thee my leaping fountains
Prattle through their misty breathings,
And the bass of solemn ocean
Chimes accordant in the chorus.
Every fireside is thy altar,
Streaming up its holy incense;
Every mated pair of mortals,

Happily link'd, are priest and priestess,
Pouring to thee full libations
From their overbrimming spirits.
Clash the loud-resounding cymbals,
Light the rosy torch of Hymen:

Bands of white-robed youths and maidens
Whirl aloft the votive myrtle!
Raise the choral hymn to Venus—
Young-eyed Venus, ever youthful,
Ever on true hearts bestowing
Pleasures new that never pall!

Brightest link 'tween man and Heaven,
Soul of virtue, life of goodness,
Cheering light in pain and sorrow,
Pole-star to the struggling voyager
Wreck'd on life's relentless billows,
Fair reward of trampled sainthood,
Beaming from the throne Eternal
Lonely hope to sinful mankind—
Still among the mists of morning,
Still among the clouds of evening,

While the years drive ever onward,
Hang thy crescent lamp of promise,
Venus, blazing star of Love!

O Mars, wide heaven is shuddering 'neath the strida
Of thy mail'd foot, most terrible of planets;
I see thee struggling with thy brazen front
To look a glory from amid the crust

Of guilty blood that dims thy haughty face:
The curse of crime is on thee.-Look, behold!

See where thy frenzied votaries march;
Hark to the brazen blare of the bugle,
Hark to the rattling clatter of the drums,
The measured tread of the steel-clad footmen!
Hark to the labouring horses' breath,
Painfully tugging the harness'd cannon;
The shrill, sharp clank of the warriors' swords,
As their chargers bound when the trumpets sound
Their alarums through the echoing mountains!
See the flashing of pennons and scarfs,
Shaming the gorgeous blazon of evening,
Rising and falling mid snowy plumes

That dance like foam on the crested billows!
Bright is the glitter of burnish'd steel,
Stirring the clamour of martial music;
The clank of arms has a witchery
That wakes the blood in a youthful bosom;
And who could tell from this pleasant show,
That flaunts in the sun like a May-day festal,
For what horrid rites are the silken flags,
For what horrid use are the gleaming sabres,
What change shall mar, when the battles join,
This marshall'd pageant of shallow glory?
For then the gilded flags shall be rent,
The sabres rust with the blood of foemen,
And the courteous knight shall howl like a wolf,
When he scents the gory steam of battle.

The orphan's curse is on thee, and the tears
Of widow'd matrons plead a fearful cause.
Each thing my bosom bears, that thou hast touch'd,
Is loud against thee. Flowers and trampled grass,
And the long line of waste and barren fields,
Erewhile o'erflowing with a sea of sweets,
Look up all helpless to the pitying heavens,
Showing thy bloody footprints in their wounds,
And shrieking through their gaunt and leafless trees,
That stand with imprecating arms outspread-
They fiercely curse thee with their desolation;
Each cheerless hearthstone in the home of man,
Where Ruin grins, and rubs his bony palms,
Demands its lost possessor. Thou hast hurl'd
Man's placid reason from its rightful throne,
And in its place rear'd savage force, to clip
Debate and doubt with murder. Therefore, Mars
I sicken in thy angry glance, and loathe
The dull red glitter of thy bloody spear!

I know thy look, majestic Jupiter!

I see thee moving mid the stars of heaven,
Girt with thy train of ministering satellites.
Proud planet, I confess thy influence:
My heart grows big with gazing in thy face;
Unwonted power pervades my eager frame;
My bulk aspiring towers above itself,

And restless pants to rush on acts sublime.
At which the wondering stars might stand ageze,

And the whole universe from end to end,
Conscious of me, should tremble to its core !
Spirit heroical, imperious passion,

That sharply sets the pliant face of youth,
That blinds the shrinking eyes of pallid fear,
And plants the lion's heart in modest breasts-
I know that thou hast led, with regal port,
The potent spirits of humanity

Before the van of niggard Time, and borne,
With strides gigantic, man's advancing race
From power to power; till, like a host of gods,
They mock my elements, and drag the secrets
Of my mysterious forces up to light,
Giving them bounds determinate and strait,
And of their natures, multiform and huge,
Talking to children in familiar way.
The hero's sword, the poet's golden string,
The tome-illuming taper of the sage,
Flash 'neath thy influence; from thee alone,
Ambitious planet, comes the marvellous power
That in a cherub's glowing form can veil
A heart as cold as Iceland, and exalt
To deity the demon Selfishness.
O planet, mingle with thy chilling rays,
That stream inspiring to the hero's soul,
One beam of love for vast humanity,
And thou art godlike. Must it ever be,
That brightest flowers of action and idea
Spring from the same dark soil of selfish lust?
Must man receive the calculated gifts
Of shrewd Ambition's self-exalting hand,
And blindly glorify an act at which

The host of heaven grow red with thoughtful shame?
Shall Knowledge hasten with her sunny face,
And weeping Virtue lag upon the path?
Shall man exultant boast advance of power,
Nor see arise, at every onward stride,
New forms of sin to shadow every truth?
Roll on, roll on, in self-supported pride,
Prodigious influence of the hero's soul;
I feel thy strength, and tremble in thy glare!

O many-ringed Saturn, turn away
The chilling terrors of thy baleful glance!
Thy gloomy look is piercing to my heart-
I wither 'neath thy power! My springs dry up,
And shrink in horror to their rocky beds;
The brooks that whisper'd to the lily-bells
All day the glory of their mountain homes,
And kiss'd the dimples of the wanton rose,
At the deed blushing to their pebbly strands,
Cease their sweet merriment, and glide afraid
Beneath the shelter of the twisted sedge.
The opening bud shrinks back upon its shell,
As if the North had puff'd his frozen breath
Full in its face. The billowing grain and grass,
Rippling with windy furrows, stand becalm'd;
Nor 'mong their roots, nor in their tiny veins,
Bestirs the fruitful sap. The very trees,
Broad, hardy sons of crags and sterile plains,
That roar'd defiance to the Winter's shout,
And battled sternly through his cutting sleet,
Droop in their myriad leaves; while nightly birds,
T'hat piped their shrilling treble to the moon,
Hang silent from the boughs, and peer around,

Awed by mysterious sympathy. From thee,
From thee, dull planet, comes this lethargy
That numbs in mid career meek Nature's power
And stills the prattle of her plumed train.
O icy Saturn, proud in ignorance,
Father of sloth, dark, deadening influence,
That dims the eye to all that's beautiful,
And twists the haughty lip with killing scorn
For love and holiness from thee alone
Springs the cold, crushing power that presses down
The infinite in man. From thee, dull star,
The cautious fear that checks the glowing heart,
With sympathetic love world-wide o'erfreighted,
And sends it panting back upon itself,
To murmur in its narrow hermitage.
The boldest hero staggers in thy frown,
And drops his half-form'd projects all aghast:
The poet shrinks before thy phantom glare,
Ere the first echo greets his timid song;
The startled sage amid the embers hurls
The gather'd wisdom of a fruitful life.-
Oh, who may know from what bright pinnacles
The mounting soul might look on coming time,
Had all the marvellous thoughts of genius-
Blasted to nothingness by thy cold sneer-
Burst through the bud and blossom'd into fruit?
Benumbing planet, on our system's skirt,
Whirl from thy sphere, and round some lonely sun
Within whose light no souls their ordeals pass,
Circle and frown amid thy frozen belts;
For I am sick of thee, and stately man
Shrinks to a pigmy in thy fearful stare!

FINALE-CHORUS OF STARS.

Heir of Eternity, mother of souls, Let not thy knowledge betray thee to folly! Knowledge is proud, self-sufficient, and lone, Trusting, unguided, its steps in the darkness. Thine is the learning that mankind may win, Glean'd in the pathway between joy and sorrow Ours is the wisdom that hallows the child, Fresh from the touch of his awful Creator, Dropp'd, like a star, on thy shadowy realm, Falling in splendour, but falling to darken. Ours is the simple religion of faith, The wisdom of trust in GoD who o'errules usThine is the complex misgivings of thought, Wrested to form by imperious Reason. We are forever pursuing the lightThou art forever astray in the darkness. Knowledge is restless, imperfect, and sad— Faith is serene, and completed, and joyful. Chide not the planets that rule o'er thy ways; They are Gon's creatures; nor, proud in thy reason Vaunt that thou knowest his counsels and him: Boaster, though sitting in midst of the glory, Thou couldst not fathom the least of his thoughts Bow in humility, bow thy proud forehead, Circle thy form in a mantle of clouds, Hide from the glittering cohorts of evening Wheeling in purity, singing in chorus; Howl in the depths of thy lone, barren mountaing Restlessly moan on the deserts of ocean, Wail o'er thy fall in the desolate forests, Lost star of paradise, straying alone!

A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

"The ice was bere, the ice was there, The ice was all around."-COLERIDGE.

O, WHITHER sail you, Sir JOHN FRANKLIN?
Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay.

To know if between the land and the pole
I may find a broad sea-way.

I charge you back, Sir JOHN FRANKLIN,
As you would live and thrive;

For between the land and the frozen pole
No man may sail alive.

But lightly laughed the stout Sir JOHN,
And spoke unto his men :

Half England is wrong, if he is right;
Bear off to westward then.

O, whither sail you, brave Englishman?
Cried the little Esquimaux.
Between your land and the polar st

My goodly vessels go.

Come down, if you would journey there,
The little Indian said;

And change your cloth for fur clothing,
Your vessel for a sled.

But lightly laughed the stout Sir JOHN,
And the crew laughed with him too:-
A sailor to change from ship to sled,
I ween, were something new!

All through the long, long polar day,
The vessels westward sped;

And wherever the sail of Sir JOHN was blown,
The ice gave way and fled.

Gave way with many a hollow groan,

And with many a surly roar,

But it murmured and threatened on every side; And closed where he sailed before.

Ho! see ye not, my merry men,

The broad and open sea?
Bethink ye what the whaler said,
Think of the little Indian's sled!

The crew laughed out in glee.
Sir JOHN, Sir JOHN, 't is bitter cold,
The scud drives on the breeze,
The ice comes looming from the north,
The very sunbeams freeze.

Bright summer goes, dark winter comes

We cannot rule the year;

But long e'er summer's sun goes down,
On yonder sea we'll steer.
The dripping icebergs dipped and rose,
And floundered down the gale;

The ships were staid, the yards were manned,
And furled the useless sail.

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The cruel ice came floating on,

And closed beneath the lee,

Till the thickening waters dashed no more;
'T was ice around, behind, before --
My GoD! there is no sea!
What think you of the whaler now?
What of the Esquimaux ?

A sled were better than a ship,
To cruise through ice and snow.
Down sank the baleful crimson sun,
The northern light came out,
And glared upon the ice-bound ships,
And shook its spears about.

The snow came down, storm breeding storm
And on the decks was laid:

Till the weary sailor, sick at heart,
Sank down beside his spade.

Sir JOHN, the night is black and long,

The hissing wind is bleak,

The hard, green ice is strong as death:-
I prithee, Captain, speak!

The night is neither bright nor short,

The singing breeze is cold,

The ice is not so strong as hope

The heart of man is bold!

What hope can scale this icy wall,

High o'er the main flag-staff?
Above the ridges the wolf and bear
Look down with a patient, settled stare,
Look down on us and laugh.

The summer went, the winter came

We could not rule the year;
But summer will melt the ice again,
And open a path to the sunny main,
Whereon our ships shall steer.

The winter went, the summer went,

The winter came around:

But the hard green ice was strong as death,
And the voice of hope sank to a breath,
Yet caught at every sound.
Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns?
And there, and there, again?

'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar,

As he turns in the frozen main.
Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux
Across the ice-fields steal:
GOD give them grace for their charity!
Ye pray for the silly seal.

Sir JOHN, where are the English fields,
And where are the English trees,
And where are the little English flowers
That open in the breeze?

Be still, be still, my brave sailors!
You shall see the fields again,

And smell the scent of the opening flowers
The grass and the waving grain.

Oh! when shall I see my orphan child?

My Mary waits for me.

Oh! when shall I see my old mother,

And pray at her trembling knee?

Be still, be still, my brave sailors!
Think not such thoughts again.
But a tear froze slowly on his cheek;
He thought of Lady JANE.

Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold,

The ice grows more and more; More settled stare the wolf and bear, More patient than before.

Oh! think you, good Sir JOHN FRANKLIN, We'll ever see the land?

"I' was cruel to send us here to starve, Without a helping hand.

"T was cruel, Sir JOHN, to send us here,
So far from help or home,

To starve and freeze on this lonely sea:
I ween, the Lords of the Admiralty
Would rather send than come.

Oh! whether we starve to death alone,
Or sail to our own country,

We have done what man has never done-
The truth is founded, the secret won-
We passed the Northern Sea!

ODE TO ENGLAND.

Он, days of shame! oh, days of wo!
Of helpless shame, of helpless wo!
The times reveal thy nakedness,
Thy utter weakness, deep distress.
There is no help in all the land;

Thy eyes may wander to and fro,
Yet find no succour. Every hand

Has weighed the guinea, poised the gold,
Chaffered and bargained, bought and sold,
Until the sinews, framed for war,

Can grasp the sword and shield no more.
Their trembling palms are stretched to thee;
Purses are offered, heaping hoards-
The plunder of the land and sea-
Are proffered, all too eagerly,

But thou must look abroad for swords.

These are the gods ye trusted in;
For these ye crept from sin to sin;

Made honor cheap, made station dear,
Made wealth a lord, made truth a drudge,
Made venal interest the sole judge

Of principles as high and clear
As heaven itself.

With glittering pelf

Ye gilt the coward, knave, and fool,

Meted the earth out with a rule

Of gold, weighed nations in your golden scales,

And surely this law never fails

What else may change, this law stands fast

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The golden standard is the thing

To which the beggar, lord and king And all that's earthly, come at last." O mighty gods! O noble trust!

They are your all; ye cannot look Back to the faith ye once forsook ; The past is dry and worthless dust;

Gold, gold is all! Ye cannot fill

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To see Britannia's threatening form,

That loomed gigantic 'mid the splendid haze
Through which they saw her tower-

As, at the morning hour,

The spectral figure strides across her misty hillsShrink to a pigmy when the storm

Reads the delusive cloud,

And shows her weak and bowed,

A feeble crone that hides for shelter from her ills.

O mother of our race! can nothing break

This leaden apathy of thine?

Think of the long and glorious line Of heroes, who beside the Stygian lake Hearken for news from thee!

Apart their forms I see,

With muffled heads and tristful faces bowed-
Heads once so high, faces so calin and proud!
The Norman fire burns low

In WILLIAM's haughty heart;
The mirth has passed away

From Cœur de Lion's ample brow;
In sorrowful dismay

The warlike EDWARDS and the HENRIES stand,
Stung with a shameful smart;

While the eighth HARRY, with his close-clutched hand,

Smothers the passion in his ireful soul;
Or his fierce eye-balls roll

Where his bold daughter beats her sharp foot-tip
And gnaws her quivering lip.
While the stern, crownless king who strode be

tween

Father and son, and put them both aside, With straight terrific glare,

As a lion from his lair,

Asks with his eyes such questions keen
As his crowned brothers neither dare
To answer or abide.
How shall he make reply,
The shadow that draws nigh,
The latest comer, the great Duke,

Whose patient valour, blow by blow,
Wrought at a Titan's overthrow,
And gave his pride its first and last rebuke?
What shall he say when this heroic band
Catch at his welcome hand,
And trembling, half in fear,
Half in their eagerness to hear,

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Ah! shameful, shameful task!
To tell to souls like these
Of her languid golden ease,
Of her tame dull history!
How she frowns upon the free,
How she ogles tyranny;
How with despots she coquets;
How she swears and then forgets:
How she plays at fast and loose
With right and gross abuse;
How she fawns upon her foes;
And lowers upon her friends;
Growing weaker, day by day,
In her mean and crooked way,
Piling woes upon her woes,
As tottering she goes

Down the path where falsehood ends. Methinks I see the awful brow

Of Cromwell wrinkle at the tale forlorn, See the hot flushes on his forehead glow,

Hear his low growl of scorn!

is this the realm these souls bequeathed to you,
That with all its many faults,
Its hasty strides and tardy halts,
To the truth was ever true?

Oh! shame not the noble dead,

Who through storm and slaughter led,
With toil and care and pain,
Winning glory, grain by grain,
Till no land that history knows
With such unutterable splendor glows!

Awake! the spirit yet survives

To baffle fate and conquer foes!
If not among your lords it lives,
Your chartered governors, if they
Have not the power to lead, away,
Away with lords! and give the men
Whom nature gives the right to sway,
Who love their country with a fire
That, for her darkness burns the higher-
Give these the rule! Abase your ken,
Look downward to your heart for those
In whom your ancient life blood flows,
And let their souls aspire!
Somewhere, I trust in God, remain,
Untainted by the golden stain,

Men worthy of an English sire;
Bold men who dare, in wrong's despite,
Speak truth, and strike a blow for right;
Men who have ever but their trust,

Neither in rank nor gold,

Nor aught that's bought and sold,
But in high aims, and God the just!
Seek through the land,

On every hand,

Rear up the strong, the feeble lop; Laugh at the star and civic fur,

1855.

The blazoned shield and gartered kneeThe gewgaws of man's infancy;

And if the search be vain,
Give it not o'er too suddenly-

I swear the soul still lives in thee!-
Down to the lowest atoms drop,
Down to the very dregs, and stir
The People to the top!

LIDA.

LIDA, lady of the land,

Called by men "the blue-eyed wonder," Hath a lily forehead fanned

By locks the sunlight glitters under. She hath all that's scattered round, Through a race of winning creatures, All-except the beauty found

By JOHNNY GORDON in my features. LIDA, lady of the land,

Hath full many goodly houses; Fields and parks, on every hand,

Where your foot the roebuck rouses; She hath orchards, garden-plots,

Valleys deep and mountains swelling, All except yon nest of cots,

JOHNNY GORDON'S humble dwelling.

LIDA, lady of the land,

Hath treasures, more than she remembers. Heaps of dusty gems that stand

Like living coals among the embers: She hath gold whose touch would bring A lordship to a lowly peasant;

All except this little ring,

JOHNNY GORDON'S humble present.

LIDA, lady of the land,

Hath a crowd of gallant suitors; Squires who fly at her command,

Knights her slightest motion tutors:
She hath barons kneeling mute,

To hear the fortune of their proffers;
All-except the honest suit
JOHNNY GORDON humbly offers.

LIDA, lady of the land,

Keep your wondrous charms untroubled, May your wide domain expand,.

May your gems and gold be doubled! Keep your lords on bended knee !

Take all earth, and leave us lonely, All except you take from me Humble JOHNNY GORDON only!

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