And there they died—a free-born race—
From their proud hills away,
While round them in its lonely pride
The far, free desert lay
And there, unburied, still they sit,
All statute like and cold,
Free, e'en in death, though o'er their homes
Oppression's tide has rolled!
BE STILL.
O throbbing heart, be still!
Canst thou not bear
The heavy dash of Memory's troubled tide,
Long sternly pent, but broken forth again,
Sweeping all barriers ruthlessly aside,
And leaving desolation in its train
Where all was fair?
Fair, did I say?—Oh yes!—
I'd reared sweet flowers
Of steadfast hope, and quiet, patient trust,
Above the wreck and ruin of my years;—
Had won a plant of beauty from the dust,
Fanned it with breath of prayer, and wet with tears
Of loneliest hours!
O throbbing heart, be still!
That cherished flower—
Faith in thy God—last grown, yet first in worth,
Will spring anew ere long—it is not dead,
'Tis only beaten to the breast of earth!
Let the storm rage—be calm—'twill lift its head
Some stiller hour!
LITTLEWIT AND LOFTUS.
John Littlewit, friends, was a credulous man.
In the good time long ago,
Ere men had gone wild o'er the latter-day dream
Of turning the world upside down with steam,
Or of chaining the lightning down to a wire,
And making it talk with its tongue of fire.
He was perfectly sure that the world stood still,
And the sun and moon went round;—
He believed in fairies, and goblins ill,
And witches that rode over vale and hill
On wicked broom-sticks, studying still
Mischief and craft profound.
"What a fool was John Littlewit!" somebody cries;—
Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please!
A humble man was John Littlewit—
A gentle, loving man;
He clothed the needy, the hungry fed,
Pitied the erring, the faltering led,
Joyed with the joyous, wept with the sad,
Made the heart of the widow and orphan glad,
And never left for the lowliest one
An act of kindness and love undone;—
And when he died, we may well believe
God's blessed angels bore
John Littlewit's peaceful soul away
To the beautiful Heaven for which we pray,
Where the tree of knowledge blooms for aye,
And ignorance plagues no more.
Squire Loftus, friends, was a cultured man,
You knew him-so did I:
He had studied the "Sciences" through and through,
Had forgotten far more than the ancients knew,
Yet still retained enough
To demonstrate clearly that all the old,
Good, practical Bible-truths we hold
Are delusion, nonsense, stuff!