By the peaceful navies Commerce
Scatters grandly o'er the tide.
Shall we wake our dormant thunders
Where toil-laden ships are moored?
Young America - Old England -
Hand-in-hand, not sword to sword!

Have we not alike together

Prized the songs our poets sung Since the golden day when Genius First drew music from our tongue? Godlike Shakespeare, seerlike Milton, All now cry with one accord, Young America — Old England — Hand-in-hand, not sword to sword!

Has not Art shed equal splendors
On the treasures each possest
In the homely hues of Hogarth,
In the sacred dyes of West:
And not less on Powers than Flaxman
Phidian inspiration poured?
Young America -Old England -
Hand-in-hand, not sword to sword!

We have loved the same old legends Throwing charms around our lot, Through each tale of gentle Irving, Each romance of gorgeous Scott. And shall war pollute the cloudland, Battle dint the fairy sward?

"The daring mariner shall urge far o'er the Western wave." See page 5.

Young America

Old England

Hand-in-hand, not sword to sword!

Then shall Saxon bonds be sundered
By the sordid lust of gain?
Shall the realms of peace be ravaged
By the rulers of the main

For the greed of gold or glory?

No, forbid it, God the Lord! Young America-Old EnglandHand-in-hand, not sword to sword!

Charles Kent.

KN

A POET'S PROPHECY.

NOW that this theory is false; his bark
The daring mariner shall urge far o'er

The western wave,
a smooth and level plain,
Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.
Man was in ancient days of grosser mould,
And Hercules might blush to learn how far
Beyond the limits he had vainly set,
The dullest sea-boat soon shall wing her way.

Men shall descry another hemisphere,
Since to one common centre all things tend;
So earth, by curious mystery divine

Well balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres.
At our Antipodes are cities, states,
And throngéd empires, ne'er divined of yore.
But see, the sun speeds on his western path
To glad the nations with expected light.

Luigi Pulci. Tr. W. H. Prescott.

THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND.

OUR weeks they sailed, a speck in sky-shut seas,

FOUR

Life, where was never life that knew itself,
But tumbled, lubber-like, in blowing whales;
Thought, where the like had never been before
Since Thought primeval brooded the abyss;
Alone as men were never in the world.
They saw the icy foundlings of the sea,
White cliffs of silence, beautiful by day,
Or looming, sudden-perilous, at night
In monstrous hush; or sometimes in the dark
The waves broke ominous with paly gleams
Crushed by the prow in sparkles of cold fire.
Then came green stripes of sea that promised land
But brought it not, and on the thirtieth day
Low in the West were wooded shores like cloud.
They shouted as men shout with sudden hope;
But Biörn was silent, such strange loss there is
Between the dream's fulfilment and the dream,
Such sad abatement in the goal attained.
Then Gudrida, that was a prophetess,

Rapt with strange influence from Atlantis, sang:
Her words: the vision was the dreaming shore's.

Looms there the New Land:

Locked in the shadow

Long the gods shut it,

Niggards of newness

They, the o'er-old.