And, though all other deeds of thine, dear Father-land, should be

Washed out, like writing upon sand, by Time's encroach

ing sea,

That single word shall stand sublime, nor perish with

"Though the whole world sanction slavery, in God's

If hand and foot we must be bound by deeds our fathers

signed,

And must be cheated, gulled, and scorned because they too were blind,

Why, let them have their pound of flesh,- for that is in the bond,

But woe to them, if they but take a half-hair's breadth beyond!

Is water running in our veins? Do we remember

still

Old Plymouth rock, and Lexington, and glorious Bunker

Hill?

The debt we owe our fathers' graves, and to the yet

unborn,

Whose heritage ourselves must make a thing of pride or

scorn?

Gray Plymouth rock hath yet a tongue, and Concord is not dumb,

And voices from our fathers' graves and from the future

come;

They call on us to stand our ground, they charge us still

to be

Not only free from chains ourselves, but foremost to make free!

If we must stand alone, what then? the honor shall be

more;

But we can never stand alone, while heaven still arches

o'er,

While there's a God to worship, a devil to be de

nied:

The good and true of every age stand with us side by

Or, if it must be, stand alone! and stronger we shall

grow

With every coward that deserts to join the tyrant

foe;

Let wealth and trade and empire go for what the dross

is worth,

One man that stands for right outweighs the guilt of all the earth.

No, if the old Bay State were sunk, and, as in days of

yore,

One single ship within her sides the hope of Freedom

bore,

Run up again the pine-tree flag, and on the chainless.

sea

That flag should mark, where'er it waved, an island of

the free!

THE FALCONER.

I HAVE a falcon, swift and peerless
As e'er was cradled in the pine;

No bird had ever eye so fearless

Or wings so strong as this of mine ; The winds no better love to pilot

The clouds with molten gold o'errun,

Than him, a little burning islet,

A star above the sunken sun.

But better he loves the lusty morning,

When the last white star yet stands at bay,

And earth, half waked, smiles a child's forewarning Of the longed-for mother-kiss of day;

Then with a lark's heart doth he tower,

By a glorious, upward instinct drawn,No bee nestles deeper in the flower

Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.

What joy to see his sails uplifted

Against the worst that gales can dare, Through the nor'wester's surges drifted, Bold Viking of the sea of air! His eye is fierce, yet mildened over

With something of a dove-like ruth;

I am his master less than lover,

My brave sun-seeker's name is Truth.

Where'er some hoary owl of Error

Lags, though his native night be past,

And at the sunshine hoots his terror,

The falcon from my wrist I cast ; Swooping, he scares the birds uncleanly That in the holy temple prey,

Then in the blue air floats serenely

Above their hoarse anathema.