O, ideal of my boyhood's time!

The faith in which my father stood, Even when the sons of Lust and Crime Had stain'd thy peaceful courts with blood!

Still to those courts my footsteps turn;
For through the mists which darken there,
I see the flame of Freedom burn-
The Kebla of the patriot's prayer!

The generous feeling, pure and warm,
Which owns the rights of all divine-
The pitying heart-the helping arm-
The prompt self-sacrifice-are thine.

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,

How fade the lines of caste and birth!
How equal in their suffering lie
The groaning multitudes of earth!

Still to a stricken brother true,
Whatever clime hath nurtured him;
As stoop'd to heal the wounded Jew
The worshipper of Gerizim.

By misery unrepell'd, unawed

By pomp or power, thou seest a MAN In prince or peasant-slave or lordPale priest, or swarthy artisan.

Through all disguise, form, place or name,
Beneath the flaunting robes of sin,
Through poverty and squalid shame,
Thou lookest on the man within.

On man, as man, retaining yet,
Howe'er debased, and soil'd, and dim,
The crown upon his forehead set-

The immortal gift of God to him.

And there is reverence in thy look;

For that frail form which mortals wear The Spirit of the Holiest took,

And veil'd His perfect brightness there.

Not from the cold and shallow fount
Of vain philosophy thou art,
He who of old on Syria's mount

Thrill'd, warm'd, by turns, the listener's heart,

In holy words which cannot die,

In thoughts which angels lean'd to know,
Proclaim'd thy message from on high-
Thy mission to a world of wo.

That voice's echo hath not died!
From the blue lake of Galilee,
And Tabor's lonely mountain side,
It calls a struggling world to thee.

Thy name and watchword o'er this land
I hear in every breeze that stirs,
And round a thousand altars stand
Thy banded Party worshippers.

Not to these altars of a day,

At Party's call, my gift I bring;

But on thy olden shrine I lay
A freeman's dearest offering;

The voiceless utterance of his will

His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, That manhood's heart remembers still The homage of its generous youth.

MEMORIES.

A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl
With step as soft as summer air,
And fresh young lip and brow of pearl
Shadow'd by many a careless curl
Of unconfined and flowing hair :
A seeming child in every thing

Save thoughtful brow, and ripening charms, As Nature wears the smile of Spring

When sinking into Summer's arms.

A mind rejoicing in the light

Which melted through its graceful bower, Leaf after leaf serenely bright,

And stainless in its holy white,
Unfolding like a morning flower:

A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,
With every breath of feeling woke,
And, even when the tongue was mute,
From eye and lip in music spoke.

How thrills once more the lengthening chain
Of memory at the thought of thee!-
Old hopes which long in dust have lain,
Old dreams come thronging back again,
And boyhood lives again in me;

I feel its glow upon my cheek,

Its fulness of the heart is mine

As when I lean'd to hear thee speak,
Or raised my doubtful eye to thine.

I hear again thy low replies,

I feel thy arm within my own,
And timidly again uprise
The fringed lids of hazel eyes

With soft brown tresses overblown.
Ah memories of sweet summer eves,
Of moonlit wave and willowy way,
Of stars, and flowers, and dewy leaves,
And smiles and tones more dear than they!

Ere. this thy quiet eye hath smiled

My picture of thy youth to see,
When half a woman, half a child,
Thy very artlessness beguiled,

And folly's self seemed wise in thee,
Ftoo can smile, when o'er that hour
The lights of memory backward stream,
Yet feel the while that manhood's power
Is vainer than my boyhood's dream.

Years have pass'd on, and left their trace
Of graver care and deeper thought;
And unto me the calm, cold face
Of manhood, and to thee the grace

Of woman's pensive beauty brought,
On Life's rough blast for blame or praise

The school-boy's name has widely flown; Thine, in the green and quiet ways Of unobtrusive goodness known.

And wider yet in thought and deed
Our still diverging paths incline,
Thine the Genevan's sternest creed,
While answers to my spirit's need,
The Yorkshire peasant's simple line.
For thee the priestly rite and prayer,
And holy day and solemn psalm,
For me the silent reverence where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.

Yet hath thy spirit left on me

An impress Time has worn not out, And something of myself in thee, A shadow from the past, I see

Lingering even yet thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers.

Thus, while at times before our eye

The clouds about the present part, And, smiling through them, round us lie Soft hues of memory's morning skyThe Indian summer of the heart, In secret sympathies of mind,

In founts of feeling which retain Their pure fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain!

THE END.