BY FREDERICK W. THOMAS .

Here once Boone trod — the hardy Pioneer —
The only whiteman in the wilderness:
Oh! how he loved, alone, to hunt the deer,
Alone at eve, his simple meal to dress;
No mark upon the tree, nor print, nor track,
To lead him forward, or to guide him back:
He roved the forest, king by main and might,

IX.

But this glad generous glory did not fall
On ivied abbey or palatial stair,
On statued gallery or superb parterre,
On turreted castle or manorial hall;
It fell on simple cottages, rude and spare;
It fell on laboring lives low-bowed with care;
It fell where drave the rigorous plough and where
The unrusted hay-fork glittered by the granary-wall.
A few brave spirits that long have passed away,
A few brave spirits, on that far April day,
Fought, lost, and losing still most royally won.

V.

America, thou art not to blame
If slow humanity crawls and will not run
Toward lands more golden, that the wealthful sun
Of freedom richlier warms and shines upon!
America, in thy name
The best that men can do this hour is done!
Of progress in its onward flight
Thine are the sinewy fearless eagle-wings;
Thou art the foremost in the world's wide fight
For royaller royalties than fleshly kings.
On Europe, numbed with tyranny's cold spell,
The auroral light of thy great sunrise fell,

I.

Republic, made at length
Splendid for stately strength,
O thou at once our glory and hope and pride.
Hear us, for at thy knee
Gathering, we thrill to be
Children of those that in thy lordly cause once died!
Thou wert an ungrown power, in that far time
Of eager patriots, dying for the right:
But now, with mien imperial and sublime,
No more a youngling weak and slight,
Thou standest, viewed by many a neighbor clime,
Clothed with a terrible majesty like light,

A nameless power lives in thy verse,
A gleam of things divine!
And with meek looks and clasped hands
My spirit bows to thine.

Now beams thy soul-light on the heart,
Like morn-rise, soft and tender;
And now in wild, impassioned fire
Breaks forth with startling splendor.

We say, when gently steal along
Thy light, love-breathing numbers,
That Song's sweet angel whispering bends

Again thou comest like a star of brightness, —
As pure and tender, as serene and fair;
I hear thy tones of love, or joyous lightness!
I breathe thy presence like a balmy air!

They say that genius' sacred fount is gushing
Within thy soul of tenderness and truth;
That glory's sunlight even now is flushing
The still and dewy morning of thy youth.

Thou little dreamest that perchance above thee
Fame's envied chaplet trembles in the air,
While crowned with roses in the hearts that love thee,

They told me, when I knew thee first,
Thou wert not made for loving,
That next St. Valentine's would see
Thy truant heart a-roving; —

That thou wouldst weary of my love,
Turn from me, and for ever!
That I would meekly bow and weep,
But chide the rover never.

Ah! those were mournful prophecies,
To cloud the sky of youth;
And thou and I, we little thought
So soon to test their truth!

We need not to be told thou art
Of Rome's own glorious race;
We hear her song breathe in thy voice,
In thy form behold her grace,
And her pure and classic beauty
In thy rare and thoughtful face.

That speaks her ancient honor,
Her proud immortal dower;
It tells of her sad present,
Yet foretells her triumph hour, —
Hath the grandeur of her sorrow,
And the glory of her power.

We never met; yet to my soul
Thy name hath been a voice of singing,
And ever to thy glorious lays
The echoes of my heart are ringing.

We never met; yet is thy face,
Thy pictured face, before me now;
Strangely, like life, I almost see
The dark curls wave upon thy brow!

This face reveals that poet-life,
Still deepening, still rising higher,
A breathing from thy soul of song,

Moore tells us, in his dulcet lays,
A damsel, in the good old days,
Fell most imprudently in love
With some stray seraph from above;
And once — so runs the tragic story —
This youth revealed his perfect glory,
Which, bursting forth in lurid flashes,
Consumed that beauteous maid to ashes!

There was a maid of modern times,
Who warning took from these sad rhymes,
And dreaming not an angel might
With amorous sighs about her hover,
And asking not, and caring not,