For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake, Resign'd the bitter cup to take,
And silently, in fearless faith,
Bowing their noble souls to death,
Where sleep they, Earth ?-By no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;
The still, sad glory of their name
Hallows no mountain unto fame;
No, not a tree the record bears
Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.
Yet haply all around lie strew'd
The ashes of that multitude;
It may be that, each day, we tread
Where thus devoted hearts have bled,
And the young flowers now children sow
Take root in holy dust below.
O that the many rustling leaves
Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!
Would not our inmost hearts be still'd
With knowledge of their presence fill'd,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?
But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.
Yet what, if no light footsteps there
In pilgrim love and awe repair,
So let it be! Like him whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,
They sleep in secret, but their sod,
Unknown to man, is mark'd of God!
TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER
NOME to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplex'd me
Have vanish'd quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn,
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been harden'd into wood,-
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear,
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
LITTLE feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fearsMust ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn,
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary thinking of your road!
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long-
Have still so long to give or ask ;
I, who so much with book or pen
Have toil'd among my fellow-men,
Am weary thinking of your task,
O little hearts that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires :
Mine, that so long has glow'd and burn'd
With passions into ashes turn'd,
Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light
Direct from heaven-their source Divine:
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears!
How lurid looks this soul of mine!
Eager to spring upon the promised land, Fair smiles the way where yet your feet have trod But few light steps upon a flowery sod;
Round ye are youth's green bow'rs, and, to your
Th' horizon's line joins earth with the bright skies ;
Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy,
Friendship unwavering, love without alloy,
Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won,
Like angels, beckon ye to venture on:
And if o'er the bright scene, some shadows rise,
Far off they seem-at hand the sunshine lies.
The distant clouds-which of ye pause to fear?
Shall not a brightness gild them when more near?
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