What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?- The soil where first they trod : They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God! MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. Lines on Leaving Europe. BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast! Fling out your field of azure blue; Let star and stripe be westward cast, The wind blows fair! the vessel feels In whose white breast I seem to lie, I've seen your semblance in the sky, And longed, with breaking heart, to flee On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea! Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld! I turn to watch our foamy track, LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. My lips are dry with vague desire,— My cheek once more is hot with joy— My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire! Oh, what has changed that traveler-boy? As leaves the ship this dying foam, His visions fade behind-his weary heart speeds home! Adieu, O soft and southern shore, Where dwelt the stars long missed in heavenThose forms of beauty seen no more, Yet once to Art's rapt vision given! O, still the enamored sun delays, And pries through fount and crumbling fane, To win to his adoring gaze Those children of the sky again! Irradiate beauty, such as never That light on other earth hath shone, Hath made this land her home forever; And could I live for this alone— Were not my birthright brighter far Than such voluptuous slaves' can be― Held not the West one glorious star New-born and blazing for the free Soared not to heaven our eagle yet— Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget! Adieu, oh fatherland! I see Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim, And though to freer skies I flee, My heart swells, and my eyes are dim! In which it may have flowed before— 91 Dear mother, in thy prayer, to-night, There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the light— Comes 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 blazeAnd by a thread still fast on heaven, I know my mother lives and prays! 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 share the heart once only mine! Thou, who hast watched one treasure only- Room in thy heart! The hearth she left 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 wail of famine in beleaguered towns; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. 93 Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? Were half the power that fills the world with terror, The warrior's name would be a name abhorred; Down the dark future, through long generations, 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, THE The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps |