The sound was not familiar to mine ear.

But it was told me after that this man

Was one whom lawful violence * had forced
From his own home and wife and little ones,
Who by his labour lived; that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband's love, a father's anxiousness;
That from the wages of his toil he fed

The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued,.. talk of them, of joys

Which he had known.. oh God! and of thour
When they should meet again, till his full heart,
His manly heart, at last would overflow,
Even like a child's, with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly

It came, and merciful the ball of death,

* The person alluded to was pressed into the service.

For it came suddenly and shatter'd him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought

On those he loved so well.

He ocean-deep

Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter

Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know
What a cold sickness made her blood run back
When first she heard the tidings of the fight;
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She listened to the names of those who died;
Man does not know, or knowing will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness

She gazed upon her children, and beheld
His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,
Who art the widow's friend, her comforter!

HISTORY.

THOU chronicle of crimes! I read no more;
For I am one who willingly would love
His fellow-kind. O gentle Poesy,

Receive me from the court's polluted scenes,

From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war, Receive me to your haunts, . . that I may nurse My nature's better feelings, for my soul

Sickens at man's misdeeds!

I spake, when lo!

There stood before me, in her majesty,
Clio, the strong-eyed Muse. Upon her brow
Şate a calm anger. Go, young man, she cried,
Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul
Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet,

That love-sick Maids may weep upon thy page,

Pleased with delicious sorrow. Oh shame! shame! Was it for this I waken'd thy young mind?

Was it for this I made thy swelling heart

Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye
So kindle when that glorious Spartan died?
Boy! boy! deceive me not!... What if the tale
Of murder'd millions strike a chilling pang;
What if Tiberius in his island stews,

And Philip at his beads, alike inspire

Strong anger and contempt; hast thou not risen
With nobler feelings,.. with a deeper love
For Freedom? Yes, if righteously thy soul
Loathes the black history of human crimes
And human misery, let that spirit fill

Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy! to raise

Strains such as Cato might have deign'd to hear, As Sidney in his hall of bliss may

love.

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

It is the funeral march. I did not think

That there had been such magic in sweet sounds! Hark! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead tone! .. It awes the very rabble multitude;

They follow silently, their earnest brows

Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp
And pageantry of death that with such force
Arrests the sense;.. the mute and mourning train,
The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse,
Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke

A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek

At pride's last triumph. Now these measured

sounds,

This universal language, to the heart

Speak instant, and on all these various minds

Compel one feeling.