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CUPIDO.

'HE solid, solid universe
Is pervious to Love;

TH

With bandaged eyes he never errs,
Around, below, above.

His blinding light

He flingeth white

On God's and Satan's brood,

And reconciles

By mystic wiles

The evil and the good.

THE NUN'S ASPIRATION.

HE yesterday doth never smile,

THE

To-day goes drudging though the while,

Yet in the name of Godhead, I

The morrow front, and can defy;

Though I am weak, yet God, when prayed,
Cannot withhold his conquering aid.
Ah, me! it was my childhood's thought,
If He should make my web a blot
On life's fair picture of delight,

My heart's content would find it right.
But O, these waves and leaves,——
When happy stoic Nature grieves,-
No human speech so beautiful
As their murmurs mine to lull.
On this altar God hath built
I lay my vanity and guilt;
Nor me can Hope or Passion urge

Hearing as now the lofty dirge

Which blasts of Northern mountains hymn,

Nature's funeral, high and dim,——

Sable pageantry of clouds,

Mourning summer laid in shrouds.

Many a day shall dawn and die,
Many an angel wander by,

And passing, light my sunken turf,
Moist perhaps by ocean surf,
Forgotten amid splendid tombs,

Yet wreathed and hid by summer blooms.
On earth I dream;—I die to be:
Time! shake not thy bald head at me.
I challenge thee to hurry past,
Or for my turn to fly too fast.

Think me not numbed or halt with age,
Or cares that earth to earth engage,
Caught with love's cord of twisted beams,
Or mired by climate's gross extremes.
I tire of shams, I rush to be,

I pass with yonder comet free,-
Pass with the comet into space
Which mocks thy æons to embrace;
Æons which tardily unfold

Realm beyond realm,—extent untold;
No early morn, no evening late,-
Realms self-upheld, disdaining Fate,
Whose shining sons, too great for fame,
Never heard thy weary name;
Nor lives the tragic bard to say
How drear the part I held in one,
How lame the other limped away.

HYMN.

SUNG AT THE SECOND CHURCH, BOSTON, AT THE ORDINATION OF THE REV. CHANDLER ROBBINS.

E love the venerable house

WE Our fathers built to God;

In heaven are kept their grateful vows,
Their dust endears the sod.

Here holy thoughts a light have shed
From many a radiant face,

And prayers of humble virtue made

The perfume of the place.

And anxious hearts have pondered here
The mystery of life,

And prayed the eternal Light to clear

Their doubts, and aid their strife.

From humble tenements around
Came up the pensive train,
And in the church a blessing found
That filled their homes again.

For faith and peace and mighty love
That from the Godhead flow,
Showed them the life of Heaven above
Springs from the life below.

They live with God; their homes are dust;
Yet here their children pray,

And in this fleeting lifetime trust

To find the narrow way.

On him who by the altar stands,
On him thy blessing' fall,

Speak through his lips thy pure commands,
Thou heart that lovest all.

BOSTON.

Sicut patribus, sit Deus nobis.

READ IN FANEUIL HALL, ON DECEMBER 16, 1873, ON THE CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TEA IN BOSTON HARBOUR.

HE rocky nook with hill-tops three

THE

Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea
Took Boston in its arms;

The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore.

And where they went on trade intent
They did what freeman can,

Their dauntless ways did all men praise,
The merchant was a man.

The world was made for honest trade,—
To plant and eat be none afraid.

The waves that rocked them on the deep
To them their secret told;

Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep : "Like us be free and bold!"

The honest waves refused to slaves
The empire of the ocean caves.

Old Europe groans with palaces,
Has lords enough and more;-
We plant and build by foaming seas
A city of the poor;→

For day by day could Boston Bay
Their honest labour overpay.

We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights and shall ;—
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall.

For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?

The noble craftsman we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;

Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union never more again.

The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride

Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.

Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,

And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.

What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast,

Penn's town, New York, and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!

They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said "Good-day!

We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay!

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The world was made for honest trade,
To plant and eat be none afraid.

"For you," they said, "no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;

Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the West."

O happy town beside the sea,

Whose roads lead everywhere to all; Than thine no deeper moat can be,

No stouter fence, no steeper wall!

Bad news from George on the English throne:
"You are thriving well," said he;
"Now by these presents be it known,
You shall pay us a tax on tea;

'Tis very small,-no load at all,—
Honour enough that we send the call."

"Not so," said Boston, "good my lord,
We pay our governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your Highness knows our homely word,)
Millions for self-government,

But for tribute never a cent."

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