I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings on, And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. O frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows! So come from every region, so enter, side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. NOT YET. Oh country, marvel of the earth! Oh realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth, Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness low? No, land of Hope and Blessing, No! And we, who wear thy glorious name, Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, When those whom thou hast trusted aim The death-blow at thy generous heart? Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo! Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No! And they who founded, in our land, The power that rules from sea to sea, Bled they in vain, or vainly planned To leave their country great and free? Their sleeping ashes, from below, Send up the thrilling murmur, No! Knit they the gentle ties which long These sister States were proud to wear, And forged the kindly links so strong For idle hands in sport to tear? For scornful hands aside to throw? No, by our fathers' memory, No! Our humming marts, our iron ways, Our wind-tossed woods on mountain-crest, The hoarse Atlantic, with its bays, The calm, broad Ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent-flow, And loud Niagara, answer, No! Not yet the hour is nigh when they Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, "Proud country, welcome to the pit! So soon art thou, like us, brought low!" No, sullen group of shadows, No! For now, behold, the arm that gave The victory in our fathers' day, Strong, as of old, to guard and save-- That mighty arm which none can stay-- On clouds above and fields below, Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No! _July_, 1861. OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.