Ah, I feel, Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer! I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumes About me and around—the very air Is glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts, Bright as the sparkles of a shooting star— A hand from which the electric fire of heaven Seems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine— Thy blessed voice, with its remembered tones Softened to more than mortal melody, Is thrilling through my heart, as ’twere the voice Of the lost Pleiad calling from its place In the eternal void—and our two souls Blend once again as erst they used to blend— The heavenly with the earthly! Fare thee well! Sweet spirit, fare thee well! the blessed words That thou, this night, hast whispered to me here, Above the mound that hides thy mortal form, Will purify my soul, and strengthen me To bear the ills and agonies of life, And point me to an immortality With thee in God’s own holy Paradise. * * * * * A SONG FOR A DOWN-TRODDEN LAND. BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK. Air—“Some love to roam o’er the dark sea-foam.” Fill high to-night, in our halls of light, The toast on our lips shall be “The sinewy hand, the glittering brand, Our homes and our altars free.” Ho! ho! ho! etc. Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail, And sleep in his chains for years, The sound of our mirth shall pass over earth With balm for a nation’s tears. Ho! ho! ho! etc. A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold, A smile for the girls we love; And for him who’d bleed, in his country’s need, A home in the skies above. Ho! ho! ho! etc. We have asked the page of a nobler age For a hope secure and bright, And the spell it gave to the stricken slave Was in one strong word—“Unite.” Ho! ho! ho! etc. Though the wind howl free o’er a single tree Till it bends beneath its frown— For many a day it will howl away Ere a _forest_ be stricken down. Ho! ho! ho! etc. By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled, By all that man deems divine, Our patriot band, for our own dear land, Like brothers shall all combine. Ho! ho! ho! etc.