In poverty his infant couch was spread;
His tender hands soon wrought for daily bread;
But from the cradle's bound his willing feet
The errand of the moment went to meet.
When learning's page unfolded to his view,
The quick disciple straight a teacher grew;
And, when the fight of freedom stirred the land,
Armed was his heart and resolute his hand.
Wise in the council, stalwart in the field!
Such rank supreme a workman's hut may yield.
His onward steps like measured marbles show,
Climbing the height where God's great flame doth glow.
Ah! Rose of joy, that hid'st a thorn so sharp!
Ah! Golden woof, that meet'st a severed warp!
Ah! Solemn comfort, that the stars rain down!
The hero's garland his, the martyr's crown!
Newport, Sept. 25, 1881.
Boston Globe.
HOME AT LAST.
BY ROSE TERRY COOK.
So long he prayed to come,
Lingered so long away;
Now, with the muffled beat of drum
And solemn dirges, at last he hath come,
Come home to stay.
Yes, he has come to stay!
The homesick heart is still,
The hurried pulse and the aching breast
Now in the lap of home shall rest;
He has his will.
No more of heat or chill,
No frost or evil blight,
The work of living a life is done,
The long fight over, the victory won,
He sleeps to-night.