UP, laggards of Freedom!—our free… To the blaze of the sun and the wi… Will ye turn from a struggle so br… From a foe that is breaking, a fie… Whoso loves not his kind, and who…

Not always as the whirlwind’s rush On Horeb’s mount of fear, Not always as the burning bush To Midian’s shepherd seer, Nor as the awful voice which came

O Mother Earth! upon thy lap Thy weary ones receiving, And o’er them, silent as a dream, Thy grassy mantle weaving, Fold softly in thy long embrace

The firmament breaks up. In black… Light after light goes out. One e… Luridly glaring through the smoke… As in the dream of the Apocalypse… Drags others down. Let us not wea…

IN the solemn days of old, Two men met in Boston town, One a tradesman frank and bold, One a preacher of renown. Cried the last, in bitter tone:

THE years are but half a score, And the war-whoop sounds no more With the blast of bugles, where Straight into a slaughter pen, With his doomed three hundred men,

THEY sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled bro… Their failing eyes looked out. Gray Age and Sickness waiting the…

To the God of all sure mercies le… From the scoffer and the cruel He… Yes, he who cooled the furnace aro… And tamed the Chaldean lions, hat… Last night I saw the sunset melt…

The Persian’s flowery gifts, the… Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more; The woven wreaths of oak and pine Are dust along the Isthmian shore… But beauty hath its homage still,

Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, o… Formless and void the dead earth r… Deaf to Thy heaven’s sweet music,… To the great lights which o’er it… No sound, no ray, no warmth, no br…

Around Sebago’s lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to brea… The mirror which its waters make. The solemn pines along its shore, The firs which hang its gray rocks…

LIFT again the stately emblem on… Give to Northern winds the Pine-… Sons of men who sat in council wit… Answering England’s royal missive… Rise again for home and freedom! s…

Though flowers have perished at th… Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much, The good St. Martin’s summer. O gracious morn, with rose-red daw…

I shall not soon forget that sight The glow of Autumn’s westering da… A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, On Raphael’s picture lay. It was a simple print I saw,

ON RECEIVING A SPRIG… No more these simple flowers belon… To Scottish maid and lover; Sown in the common soil of song, They bloom the wide world over.