How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise! Blotted out! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin! It is done! In the circuit of the sun Shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, It shall give the dumb a voice, It shall belt with joy the earth! Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns, Who alone is Lord and God! FOOTNOTE: [24] By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of this author's works. THE PILGRIM FATHERS FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed, And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,-- Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame: Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,-- They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the free! The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared;--this was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--They sought a faith's pure shrine! Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found,--freedom to worship God! THE PRESENT CRISIS[25] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from East to West; And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb, To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time.