Ye've trailed me through the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And, struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam.
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;-
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye, "Come not here !"

I loathe ye with my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye;

And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath
And fight ye till I die !

I ne'er will ask ye quarter,

I ne'er will be your slave;

But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath the wave.

XLVI-THE RISING OF THE NORTH.

BRYAN W. PROCTOR.

HARK-to the sound!

Without a trump, without a drum
The wild-eyed, hungry millions come,
Along the echoing ground.

From cellar and cave, from street and lane,
Each from his separate place of pain,

In a blackened stream,

Come sick, and lame, and old, and poor,
And all who can no more endure;
Like a demon's dream!

Starved children with their pauper sire,
And laborers with their fronts of fire,
In angry hum,

And felons, hunted to their den,

And all who shame the name of men,
By millions come.

THE SOLDIER'S TEAR.

The good, the bad, come hand in hand,
Link'd by that law which none withstand;
And at their head

Flaps no proud banner, flaunting high,
But a shout-sent upwards to the sky,
Of" Bread!—Bread!"

-To-night the poor

(All mad) will burst the rich man's door,
And wine will run

In floods, and rafters blazing bright
Will paint the sky with crimson light
Fierce as the sun;

And plate carved round with quaint device
And cups
all gold will melt, like ice

In Indian heat!

And queenly silks, from foreign lands
Will bear the stamps of bloody hands
And trampling feet:

And murder-from his hideous den
Will come abroad and talk to men,
Till creatures born

For good (whose hearts kind pity nursed)
Will act the direst crimes they cursed
But yester-morn.

XLVII-THE SOLDIER'S TEAR.

UPON the hill he turn'd

THOMAS H. BAYL

To take a last fond look

Of the valley and the village-church

And the cottage by the brook ; He listened to the sounds,

So familiar to his ear,

And the soldier leant upon his sword,

And wived away a tear.

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Beside that cottage porch

A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf

Which flutter'd in the breeze;
She breathed a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paused to bless her, as she knelt,
And wiped away a tear.

He turn'd and left the spot,

Oh, do not deem him weak;
For dauntless was the soldier's heart,
Though tears were on his cheek;
Go watch the foremost rank

In danger's dark career,

Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wiped away a tear.

XLVIII-LEONIDAS.

GEORGE CROLY.

SHOUT for the mighty men

Who died along this shore,

Who died within this mountain's glen!

For never nobler chieftain's head

Was laid on valor's crimson bed,

Nor ever prouder gore

Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day,
Upon thy strand, Thermopyla!

Shout for the mighty men,

Who on the Persian tents,

Like lions from their midnight den

Bounding on the slumbering deer,

Rush'd —a storm of sword and spear—

Like the roused elements,

Let loose from an immortal hand,

To chasten or to crush a land!

BYRON.

But there are none to hear;
Greece is a hopeless slave.
Leonidas no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now:
No warrior makes the warrior's
Upon thy sea-washed grav.

The voice that should be rad by mea
Must now be given by way and glen.

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XLIX.-BYRON.

POLLOK.

He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing source,

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd,
And open'd new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, wearying in her flight
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,

And soar'd untrodden heights, and seemed at home
Where angels bashful look'd. Others, though great.
Beneath their argument seem'd struggling whiles ;
He from far descending, stoop'd to touch

The loftiest thought; and proudly stoop'd, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks;
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,
And with the thunder talk'd, as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
Which as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed;
Then turn'd, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.

L.-THE DROWNED MARINER.

A MARINER sat on the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free;

E. OAKES SMITH.

Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale, And the phospor gleam'd in the wake of the whale, As it flounder'd in the sea;

The scud was flying athwart the sky,

The gathering winds went whistling by,

And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray,
Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

Wild the ship rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holdeth by the shroud;

And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face looking up at him;

With its pallid cheek and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? Did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

The mariner look'd, and he saw with dread,
A face he knew too well;

And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread,—
Was there a tale to tell?

The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed,—
And the mariner groaned, as well he need,
For ever down as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide
Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past:
A voice calls loud for thee:
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last;
The plunging ship on her beams is cast,-
O, where shall thy burial be?

* * * * * *

Alone in the dark, alone as the wave,
To buffet the storm alone;

To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle, and feel there is none to save!
God shield thee, helpless one!