Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts,

Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway

Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price On human hecatombs, and sell and buy

Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests,
With white, anointed, supplicating hands,

From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee,
Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down
Thy censers and thy cross, to clutch the throats
Of kinsmen by whose cradles they were born,
Or grasp the brand of Herod, and go forth
Till Rachel hath no children left to slay.
The very name of Jesus, writ upon

Thy shrines, beneath the spotless, outstretched wings
Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid
With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires
That rise above them, angry banners flout
The skies to which they point, amid the clang
Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise.

All things once prized and honored are forgot. The Freedom that we worshipped, next to Thee, The manhood that was Freedom's spear and shield, The proud, true heart, the brave, outspoken word, Which might be stifled, but could never wear The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie ;— All these are gone, and in their stead, have come The vices of the miser and the slave,Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power, Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence,

Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope,
Save as begun in self, and ending there.
With vipers like to these, O blessed God!

Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more,
Some shining seraph in Thy glory clad,
To wake the midnight of our sorrowing

With tidings of Good Will and Peace to men;
And if the star that through the darkness led
Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now,
Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist,
With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak
The unanswerable message of Thy will.

Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace!
Peace in our hearts and at Thine altars; Peace
On the red waters and their blighted shores;
Peace for the leaguered cities, and the hosts
That watch and bleed, around them and within;
Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;

Peace for the captive on his weary way,
And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness.
For them that suffer, them that do the wrong;
Sinning and sinned against-O God! for all-
For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land-
Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace!

THE LAST OF THE HOURS.

Daughter of light! thy gaze, methinks, is sad;

Thy hooded vesture hath no bloom of flowersWhy, 'mid so blithe a host, art thou not glad?

What grief hath stung thee, fairest of the Hours?

Is it that Heaven's own children, when their lot
Is bent to human circumstance, like thine,
Share the near sorrows which themselves have not,

And round the immortal brow earth's cypress twine?

When at the couch of pain the morning calls,
Thou art the last to chase the fevered dream;
When welcome night upon the weary falls,
Thine is the ling'ring, last, intrusive beam!

Of those that love and part, the vigils pale

Are they not thine?—and thine the watcher's sigh,

As, with wet eyes, she sees the misty sail

Sink down, with thee, beneath the twilight sky?

Hast thou not seen-nay see'st thou not, each day—
Youth, purity, and truth, and trust, depart—
Dreams vanish-struggles ended-hopes decay-

And change, cold as the grave, come o'er the heart?

Thou too art Death's own hour-the dim, the dreadIn whose wan light his shadow creepeth o'er

The opening, awful pathway we must tread,
And the loved places we shall know no more.

Yet not all sad thy round! The passing bell
Gives thee ofttimes sweet music as it rings-
There are deep joy-notes even in its knell,

For sorrow dieth, like the brightest things!

The dew that at the haunted even-tide

Thou weepest, as last mourner o'er the day, Last Hour of night! are not its tear-drops dried, By the wild morning's first exultant ray?

Though thine the woe of partings, know'st thou not—
Long absence over-joy come home anew?
'Mid hopes and dreams that leave us, why forgot
Are anguish, doubt, despair, departed too?

And e'en when life goes wasting, with thy sands,
And tears fall fast, and, in the noiseless tread,
The quivering whisper, the cold clasped hands,
And the wild prayer-half madness—may be read

Our mortal story's ending—even then

How oft, last Hour, is there a light that springs
Out of thy darkness, which the fears of men
Can dim not nor o'ershadow-but which flings

A glory, brighter than the noon-day's, round
The bed thou watchest, until grief and dread

Blaze into triumph, and the trumpet's sound Swells high with welcome as it calls the dead!

Let then the daughter of old Chaos wear

The robe of shadows and the mantled brow! Unbind thy tresses to the rosy air,

And to the Sun, with sunshine, answer Thou!

TRUTH AND REASON.

How beautiful the fantasy

That warmed the brain of him of old

The watcher of the midnight sky—
Who, as the stars above him rolled,

Untaught of dim Primeval Cause
And crowned will and sceptred laws,

Had glimpses of a spirit-band,
Careering through the trackless air,
Each shaping, with a giant's hand
The orbit of a blazing sphere!

A holier thought and not less bright
It is, that o'er the sands of time,
We walk not in the mystic light

Of Providence, far off, sublime,

Nor Fate, nor Chance, with baleful ray,
Kindles the lode-star of our way;