I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn ; Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back,

And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track.

Hard after them the sheriff looked in bitterness of soul,

Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll;

"Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest,

Judge ye if from their further work I be not well released."

Loud was the cheer, which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay,

As with kind words and kinder looks he bade me go my way;
For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen
And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men.

Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye,

A holier wonder round me rose, the blue walls of the sky,
A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay,
And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay.

Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be,
Who from the hands of evil men hath set His handmaid free!
All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid
Who takes the crafty in the maze which for the poor is laid!

I add the opening stanzas of an equally powerful and eloquent poem, with the few lines of explanation prefixed by the author.

MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA.

Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the citizens of Norfolk (Virginia) in reference to George Latimer, the alleged fugitive slave, the result

of whose case in Massachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro, Somerset, in England, in 1772.

The blast from Freedom's northern hills upon its southern way
Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay :-
No word of haughty challenging, nor battle-bugle's peal,
Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's steel.

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go-
Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow;
And to the land-breeze of our ports upon their errands far,
A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are spread for war.

We hear thy threats, Virginia! thy stormy words and high, Swell harshly on the southern winds which melt along our sky; Yet not one brown hard hand foregoes its honest labour here; No hewer of our mountain oak suspends his axe in fear.

Wild are the waves that lash the reefs along St. George's bank, Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and dank; Through storm and wave and blinding mist stout are the hearts which man

The fishing-smacks of Marble Head, the sea-boats of Cape Ann.

The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms Bent grimly o'er their straining-lines, or wrestling with the storms;

Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves they

roam,

They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky home.

What means the Old Dominion? Hath she forgot the day
When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's steel array?
How, side by side with sons of her's, the Massachusetts men
Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Cornwallis then?

Forgets she how the Bay States, in answer to the call

Of her old House of Burgesses spoke out from Fanueil Hall ? When echoing back her Henry's cry, came pealing on each breath Of northern winds the thrilling sounds of " Liberty or Death!"

What asks the Old Dominion? If now her sons have proved
False to their father's memory, false to the faith they loved;
If she can scoff at Freedom, and its Great Charter spurn,
Must we of Massachusetts from Truth and Duty turn?

We hunt your bondmen flying from slavery's hateful hell
Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound's yell—
We gather at your summons above our fathers' graves,
From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched slaves!

Thank God! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow,
The spirit of her early time is with her even now;

Dream not because her pilgrim blood moves slow, and calm, and cool,

She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool!

All that a Sister State should be, all that a free State may,
Heart, hand and purse we proffer, as in our early day;
But that one dark loathsome burthen, ye must stagger with
alone,

And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown!

If slavery be a reproach, and too just a reproach it is to the Southern States, surely the citizens of New England may justly pride themselves upon the poetry which has arisen out of the sin and shame of their brethren. Time will inevitably chase away the crime, for national crimes are in their very nature transient, whilst the noble effusions that sprang from that foul source, whether in the verse of the poet, or the speeches of the orator, are imperishable.

Another of my sins of omission is Mr. Halleck, a poet of a different stamp, with less of earnestness and fire, but more of grace and melody. How musical are these stanzas on the Music of Nature!

Young thoughts have music in them, love

And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind That lulls a morning dream. And there are angel voices heard In childhood's frolic hours, When life is but an April day Of sunshine and of flowers.

There's music in the forest leaves
When summer winds are there,
And in the laugh of forest girls
That braid their sunny hair.
The first wild bird, that drinks the dew

From violets of the spring,
Has music in his voice, and in

The fluttering of his wing.

There's music in the dash of waves

When the swift bark cleaves the foam;

There's music heard upon her deck
The mariner's song of home.

When moon and starbeams smiling meet
At midnight on the sea-

To-day the forest leaves are green,

They'll wither on the morrow;

And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long
To the widow's wail of sorrow;
Come with the winter snows and ask

Where are the forest birds?

The answer is a silent one

More eloquent than words.

The moonlight music of the waves
In storms is heard no more,

When the living lightning mocks the wreck
At midnight on the shore.

Still better than these verses are the stanzas on the death of his brother poet Drake:

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;

None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep;
And long where thou art lying
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven
Like thine are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine,—

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

This is a true and manly record of a true and manly friendship. There is no doubting the sorrow, honourable alike to the Departed and the Survivor. May he be so loved and so mourned!