And ye, sable bands, forced hither against your will, kept down here now by a force hateful to nature, a will alien from God! It does sometimes seem as if the avenging angel wore your hue, and would place in your hands the sword to punish the cruel injustice of our fathers, the selfish perversity of the sons. Yet are there no means of atonement? Must the innocent suffer with the guilty? Teach us, O All-Wise, the clew out of this labyrinth; and if we faithfully encounter its darkness and dread, and emerge into clear light, wilt thou not bid us "go and sin no more"? Meanwhile, let us proceed as we can, _picking our steps_ along the slippery road. If we keep the right direction, what matters it that we must pass through so much mud? The promise is sure:-- Angels shall free the feet from stain, to their own hue of snow, If, undismayed, we reach the hills where the true olives grow. The olive groves, which we must seek in cold and damp, Alone can yield us oil for a perpetual lamp. Then sound again the golden horn with promise ever new; The princely deer will ne'er be caught by those that slack pursue; Let the "White Doe" of angel hopes be always kept in view. Yes! sound again the horn--of hope the golden horn! Answer it, flutes and pipes, from valleys still and lorn; Warders, from your high towers, with trumps of silver scorn, And harps in maidens' bowers, with strings from deep hearts torn,-- All answer to the horn--of hope the golden horn! There is still hope, there is still an America, while private lives are ruled by the Puritan, by the Huguenot conscientiousness, and while there are some who can repudiate, not their debts, but the supposition that they will not strive to pay their debts to their age, and to Heaven, who gave them a share in its great promise. ST. VALENTINES DAY. This merry season of light jokes and lighter love-tokens, in which Cupid presents the feathered end of the dart, as if he meant to tickle before he wounded the captive, has always had a great charm for me. When but a child, I saw Allston's picture of the "Lady reading a Valentine," and the mild womanliness of the picture, so remote from passion no less than vanity, so capable of tenderness, so chastely timid in its self-possession, has given a color to the gayest thoughts connected with the day. From the ruff of Allston's Lady, whose clear starch is made to express all rosebud thoughts of girlish retirement, the soft unfledged hopes which never yet were tempted from the nest, to Sam Weller's Valentine, is indeed a broad step, but one which we can take without material change of mood. But of all the thoughts and pictures associated with the day, none can surpass in interest those furnished by the way in which we celebrated it last week.