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Dear mother, in thy prayer, to-night,
There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the lightComes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner !
Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! The ear of heaven bends low to her!
He comes to shore who sails with me!
The spider knows the roof unriven,
While swings his web, though lightnings blaze-
And by a thread still fast on heaven,
Dear mother! when our lips can speak-
And thou, with thy dear eyes on me― 'Twill be a pastime little sad
To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had
For all may flee, so feeling lingers! But there's a change, beloved mother! To stir far deeper thoughts of thine; I come-but with me comes another
To share the heart once only mine!
There are bright flowers of care bereft,
And hearts-that languish more than flowers! She was their light-their very air
Room, mother, in thy heart! place for her in thy prayer!
NATHANIEL P. WILLIS,
THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.
The Arsenal at Springfield.
THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise-how wild and dreary-
Will mingle with their awful symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus-
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer;
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song; And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts;
The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ;
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!"
Peace!-and no longer from its brazen portals
The holy melodies of love arise.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
The Battle Autumn (1862).
HE flags of war like storm-birds fly,
No earthquake strives below.
And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.
THE BATTLE AUTUMN (1862).
And still she walks in golden hours
What mean the gladness of the plain,
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain,
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear
She knows the seed lies safe below
She sees with clearer eye than ours
Oh, give to us, in times like these,
And make her fields and fruited trees
Oh, give to us her finer ear!
We, too, would hear the bells of cheer
JOHN G. WHIttier.
How Sleep the Brave!
OW sleep the brave who sink to rest
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
'OR Freedom's battle, once begun,