The throes of nations plead that right be tested— The Present grapple fairly with the Past, For Liberty’s pure zeal if unmolested, Will triumph at the last! Profane not Love in its divine seclusion, If true, its hope is sure, Born in weak hearts it is a chance illusion, That vainly would endure. For all things destined to survive, engender Their own progressive life, And Truth, forsaken by her last defender, Yet conquers in the strife. In its dim crypt of mould the seed implanted Will germinate and spring, Poised in her azure realm the lark undaunted Exultingly will sing! The prayer of wisdom in these later ages Is for unchartered right To turn, at will, her own elected pages, With unimpeded sight. To their own law abandon all things real, Nor, with incessant care, Strive to conform to thy perverse ideal What God created fair. * * * * * LAMENT OF THE GOLD-DIGGER. BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N. ’Tis the grief for their fate gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. CAMPBELL. ’Tis evening, and I stand alone On San Francisco’s desert shore, The wandering night-winds sadly moan, And shrieking sea-birds round me soar. The weary sun hath sunk to sleep Beyond the great Pacific’s wave, While here I stand and idly weep That I have been to gold a slave! O, curses on the maddening cry That echoed through my own green land, And sent me forth, unwept to die, Upon this lonely desert strand! With spirits fresh the hills I trod, And in the eager strife for gain Forgot my country and my GOD, And fevered fancies flushed my brain! It came at last, the bitter thought, That I was linked with toiling slaves, Whose very life-blood had been bought By selfish and designing knaves. But all too late conviction came, And with a down-cast, tearful eye. I thought with anguish and with shame I’d chased an echo here—to die! O, vain was all our strife for wealth, We ploughed the bed of many a stream, All idly, and with ruined health, Heaped curses on our fevered dream, That drove us from our homes away, Athwart the ocean’s furrowed breast, To find with terror and dismay That we were houseless Famine’s guests! My heart grows sick—my eye grows dim, As o’er the watery waste I gaze, And powerless droops each nerveless limb, And manhood’s pride and strength decays. Adieu, my childhood’s home, for fate Hath dimmed the brightness of my sky, I’ve “dug” my grave, and found too late I’ve chased an echo here—to die!