Oh Mother Of A Mighty Race.

Oh mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years. With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step--the wild-deer's rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

Ay, let them rail--those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe.

They know not, in their hate and pride, What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades; What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;--

What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the West; How faith is kept, and truth revered, And man is loved, and God is feared, In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams.

There's freedom at thy gates and rest For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head, For the starved laborer toil and bread. Power, at thy bounds, Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.

Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. Deep in the brightness of the skies The thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet.

Thine eye, with every coming hour, Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn, Before thine eye, Upon their lips the taunt shall die.

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, And weltering oceans and trailing streams, That gleam where the dusky valleys lie.

But over its shadowy border flow Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born.

The souls of the happy dead repair, From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, And walk in the fainter glory there, With the souls of the living hand in hand.

One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, From eyes that open on earth no more-- One warning word from a voice once dear-- How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er!

Far off from those hills that shine with day, And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales The Land of Dreams goes stretching away To dimmer mountains and darker vales.

There lie the chambers of guilty delight, There walk the spectres of guilty fear, And soft low voices, that float through the night, Are whispering sin in the helpless ear.

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, Scarce weaned from the love of childish play! The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower That freshens the blooms of early May!

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, And I know, by thy moving lips, that now Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams.

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet! O keep where that beam of Paradise falls: And only wander where thou mayst meet The blessed ones from its shining walls!

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, With love and peace to this world of strife: And the light which over that border streams Shall lie on the path of thy daily life.

THE BURIAL OF LOVE.

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, Sat where a river rolled away, With calm sad brows and raven hair, And one was pale and both were fair.

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown, Bring forest-blooms of name unknown; Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, To strew the bier of Love, the child.

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, His eyes, that death may seem like sleep, And fold his hands in sign of rest, His waxen hands, across his breast.

And make his grave where violets hide, Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side, And bluebirds in the misty spring Of cloudless skies and summer sing.

Place near him, as ye lay him low, His idle shafts, his loosened bow, The silken fillet that around His waggish eyes in sport he wound.

But we shall mourn him long, and miss His ready smile, his ready kiss, The patter of his little feet, Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet;

And graver looks, serene and high, A light of heaven in that young eye, All these shall haunt us till the heart Shall ache and ache--and tears will start.

The bow, the band shall fall to dust, The shining arrows waste with rust, And all of Love that earth can claim, Be but a memory and a name.

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell A prisoner in this narrow cell; But he whom now we hide from men, In the dark ground, shall live again:

Shall break these clods, a form of light, With nobler mien and purer sight, And in the eternal glory stand, Highest and nearest God's right hand.