In the deep chambers of the soul,
To guilt there's no approving sound,-
But, ever heard, with fearful roll,

Stern truth's rebukes are echoing round, And ever deeper is their moan,

As conscience feels the voice her own.

Speak kindly to the little child,

Lest from his heart you drive away The light of love, whose visions mild Are opening like the dawn of day: Force not one cloud across the heaven A God of love to him hath given.

Speak kindly to each fallen one,

Nor harshly judge his sinful deed;
There lives no soul beneath the sun
That does not of compassion need;
Our race is erring at the best,
And judgment is not thy behest.

O, who can tell temptation's power
Upon poor souls that yield to wrong?
Where one may see the storm-clouds lower
Another hears a siren song.

My spirit loves the wind-god's wail,
But thine may shudder at the gale.

The soul is but a waiting lyre,

Whose deep vibrations varied are, Each answering to its quivering wire, And to the force its touches bear: Not careless, then, your hands should stray, For fearful is the harp ye play.

EXERCISE LV.

THE COMING OF THE PILGRIMS.

BEHOLD! they come those sainted forms, Unshaken, through the strife of storms; Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, And earth puts on its rudest frown;

But colder, ruder was the hand

That drove them from their own fair land,
Their own fair land, refinement's chosen seat,
Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat;
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned,
For all, but gentle charity, renowned.

With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart,
Even from that land they dared to part,
And burst each tender tie;

Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed,
Homes, where they fondly hoped, at last,
In peaceful age, to die;

Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned,
Their fathers' hallowed graves,

And to a world of darkness turned,
Beyond a world of waves.

They come that coming who shall tell?
The eye may weep, the heart may swell,
But the poor tongue in vain essays
A fitting note for them to raise.
We hear the after-shout that rings
For them who smote the power of kings:
The swelling triumph all would share;
But who the dark defeat would dare,
And boldly meet the wrath and woe
That wait the unsuccessful blow?

It were an envied fate, we deem,
To live a land's recorded theme,
When we are in the tomb:

We, too, might yield the joys of home,
And waves of winter darkness roam,

And tread a shore of gloom,

Knew we those waves, through coming time
Should roll our names to every clime

Felt we, that millions on that shore
Should stand, our memory to adore.
But no glad vision burst in light
Upon the pilgrims' aching sight;
Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled;
Deep shadows veiled the way they held;
The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame,
Their monument, a grave without a name

Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand,

On yonder ice-bound rock,

Stern and resolved, that faithful band,
To meet fate's rudest shock.

Though anguish rends the father's breast,
For them, his dearest and his best,
With him the waste who trod,

Though tears, that freeze, the mother shed
Upon her children's houseless head,
The Christian turns to God!

In grateful adoration now,

Upon the barren sands they bow.

What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer
As bursts in desolation there?

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power
As waits to crown that feeble hour?
There into life an infant empire springs!
There falls the iron from the soul;
There liberty's young accents roll
Up to the King of kings!

To fair creation's furthest bound

That thrilling summons yet shall sound;
The dreaming nations shall awake,
And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake!
Pontiff and prince, your sway

Must crumble from that day!

Before the loftier throne of heaven,

The hand is raised, the pledge is given

One monarch to obey, one creed to own,

That monarch, God, that creed, his Word alone.

Spread out earth's holiest records here,
Of days and deeds to reverence dear;
A zeal like this what pious legends tell?
On kingdoms built

In blood and guilt,

The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell ·
But what exploit with theirs shall page,
Who rose to bless their kind,

Who left their nation and their age,
Man's spirit to unbind ?

Who boundless seas passed o'er,
And boldly met, in every path,

Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath,

To dedicate a shore,

Where piety's meek train might breathe their vow,
And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow;
Where liberty's glad race might proudly come,
And set up there an everlasting home!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh! better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms, -
The lightning and the gale!

EXERCISE LVII.

DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIG TH,

Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred. — EVERett.

WHEN I am dead, no pageant train

Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live,
Nor take the boon I cannot give.

Ye shall not raise a marble bust
Upon the spot where I repose;
Ye shall not fawn before my dust,
In hollow circumstance of woes:
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath,
Insult the clay that moulds beneath.

Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of Power to rest,
Where man can boast that he has trod
On him that was "the scourge of God."

But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn,
A resting-place forever there:
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the King of kings,
And never be the secret said,
Until the deep give up his dead.

My gold and silver ye shall fling

Back to the clods that gave them birth;
The captured crowns of many a king,
The ransom of a conquered earth; -
For, e'en though dead, will I control
The trophies of the capitol.