Who can imagine the joy of those eyes when they once more beheld the distant coast of the New World! Fifteen years have passed,--years in which all nightmares became real, and liberty's sun had turned to blood,--since he saw the happy land fading behind him. Oh, America, thine old friend who first claimed thy republican independence, who laid aside his Quaker coat and fought for thy cause, believing it sacred, is returning to thy breast! This is the man of whom Washington wrote: "His writings certainly had a powerful effect on the public mind,--ought they not then to meet an adequate return? He is poor! He is chagrined!" It is not money he needs now, but tenderness, sympathy; for he comes back from an old world that has plundered, outlawed, imprisoned him for his love of mankind. He has seen his dear friends sent to the guillotine, and others are pining in British prisons for publishing his "Rights of Man,"--principles pronounced by President Jefferson and Secretary Madison to be those of the United States. Heartsore, scarred, white-haired, there remains to this veteran of many struggles for humanity but one hope, a kindly welcome, a peaceful haven for his tempest-tossed life. Never for an instant has his faith in the heart of America been shaken. Already he sees his friend Jefferson's arms extended; he sees his old comrades welcoming him to their hearths; he sees his own house and sward at Bordentown, and the beautiful Kirk-bride mansion beside the Delaware,--river of sacred memories, soon to be spanned by his graceful arch. How the ladies he left girls,--Fanny. Kitty, Sally,--will come with their husbands to greet him! How will they admire the latest bridge-model, with Lady Smith's delicate chain-work for which (such is his estimate of friendship) he refused three thousand pounds, though it would have made his mean room palatial! Ah, yes, poor heart, America will soothe your wounds, and pillow your sinking head on her breast! America, with Jefferson in power, is herself again. They do not hate men in America for not believing in a celestial Robespierre. Thou stricken friend of man, who hast appealed from the god of wrath to the God of Humanity, see in the distance that Maryland coast, which early voyagers called Avalon, and sing again your song when first stepping on that shore twenty-seven years ago: "I come to sing that summer is at hand, The summer time of wit, you 'll understand; Plants, fruits, and flowers, and all the smiling race That can the orchard or the garden grace; The Rose and Lily shall address the fair, And whisper sweetly out, 'My dears, take care:' With sterling worth the Plant of Sense shall rise, And teach the curious to philosophize. "The frost returns? We 'll garnish out the scenes With stately rows of Evergreens, Trees that will bear the frost, and deck their tops With everlasting flowers, like diamond drops."