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Yet calmly from his manhood to his age, He walks with faithful steps life's pilgrimage-Faithful to life's great duties-quick to share The sorrows or the joys that others bear. And throngs of such,—the true world-builders--press, To the retirements of the wilderness ;--And such the men, by life's great trials taught, And with a calm and holy wisdom fraught, Prepared, wisely, an empire's bounds to trace, Safely, to lay a solid empire's base. Still throngs the incoming crowd ;---with busy axe They mine the forest---turn the Indian tracks To roads---and, toiling'gainst the river's swell, The weary boatmen tug at the cordelle. The hills, whose sides the ripening harvest browns, Are turreted with thick and shining towns. On every hill, in every vale they rise, And through them with his arklike wagon plies The pedlar, with a richly various stock, School-book, and bible, hat, tin-ware, or clock; And trainbands gather in the grassy squares, By titled captains marshalled for the wars. Nor war alone into these haunts intrudes --Religion has her camps amid the woods.

Now that the leaves are greenesto---whence the light
That trembles through the forest and the night?
A little nearer!---and the gathering sound---
The voice of a great multitude ascends
Amid the old primeval silence round,
As incense to the heaven that o'er it bends.
Approach and join the forest worshippers.
The trees within the encircling tents uprise,
Mast-like, with straight, shorn shafts, towards the skies,
And in their broad and tufted summits stirs
The night breeze, “wandering at its own sweet will,"
Though all below, like ocean depths, is still.
Lamps in the leafy vaults are hung, whose light
Shuts out the moving moon and stars that go
Evenly along their way, obscured and white,
Shining with tranquil beam on all below.
And ranged in thick full ranks, with eager ear,
A thin, grayheaded man the people hear.
There in the midst of heaven's great works, his word
Is of their dying Saviour---risen, Lord.
No rhetorician's art taught him the tone,
That melts into each bosom, though 'twere stone.

The kindling of the aged eye and cheek,
The emotion from his bosom that would break,
And hardly is crushed down, the while he paints
“The tempted and the tried one” as he faints,

And says---thy will, not mine, be done;

Say who shall deem them weak,
If each desence of sin be broken down,
And stricken, toward the holy man they bend,

While he, with every word,

Like the old prophet of the Lord,
The quickening pulse of life into each heart doth send.

They kneel---the trees that God did plant above,

And His bare heavens looking through--

Kneel in the falling dew---
Kneel in the silent shadows of the wood---
While one low voice of the touched multitude,

With awed, mild earnestness imbued,
Implores of God their pardon and his love.
God's love !---the words like angel tones have touched their souls.

Thanks be to God !---the fervent summons rolls
Over the kneeling crowd---thanks unto God!--
Whose awful shadow is our safe abode.

They rise ;---as if one rushing spirit sent
A grateful anthem to the firmament,

A thousand voices join'd as one,

Went up to heaven's throne,
And the stars heard---the silent forests heard---
That strain of solemn praise to heaven's high Lord.

Nor deem their wisdom vain, who thus have found
In farthest solitudes a holy ground---
Who kneel in these green temples God hath built,
To seek His pardon for their common guilt.
Deem not their wisdom vain, who make the scene

Where heaven looks out from Nature's face,

The consecrated place,
Where the tried soul and guilty one may y lean

And look to Him for aid,
Whose presence is more near amid this sacred shade.

Deem not that wisdom vain which thus can make
The sense---not the soul's master---but the soul

Omnipotent to break
The senses to its own divine control.

But all too lo the memory lingers here
Mid scenes unfit perhaps for classic ear.

Yet not unfit---for half, New-England's child,
An empire thus has grown within the wild-
Silent and swift expanding 'neath the trees,
Like coral beds beneath the Indian seas
That silently and swiftly widen o'er
The unmeasured levels of the ocean's floor---
Expanding---towering up on every side---
Till the dark ridges through the ocean tide
Emerge, and all the waves are rent
By the foundations of a continent.
So grows the West.

Where Soto's weary bands
Sought for Peruvian domes and golden lands,---
Where slain by traitor knives, thy corpse, La Salle,
Lies on the waste without a grave or pall,---
Where Irving o'er the prairie's ocean space
Joined in the headlong bison's kingly chase,
Spreads, without landmarks---level like the sea,
A regal realm, and unpossessed and free.
And here the living keystone shall you

find The North and South in one strong arch to bind. Though far divided, here their sons have met, Their mingling blood a common soil hath wet, When on “the dark and bloody ground” they stood And side by side the coming peril wooed. Here the Kentuckian fearless met the foe, Turned from his brother's head the deadly blow, And far New-England's son laid the fell savage low. Here side by side, rearing an empire's wall, Unlike the Roman brothers they did fall. The hills and valleys where their fathers stood And fell, are sealed with their memorial blood,-And should the bands of empire break, the sod Against the unnatural strife would cry to God. Into those distant regions, memory From every clime hath borne her lengthening tie. Nor least--sacred to you and them alike-around The Pilgrim's sacred rock these ties are wound. Still holds and will, the strong fraternal chain, While Gratitude enshrines the name of Dane.

But soon these scenes in such faint colors cast
Will vanish in the moonlight of the Past.
A nation's crowded towns and cultured fields---
And rivers freighted with its burdened keels--
The later greatness on the historic page,
Will come between, and hide that earlier age.

And if some poring student should enquire---
Whence came---how fared---how lived---how died, his sire?
In vain will be the pious student's quest,
As their's who on some mound's broad summit rest,
And while the twilight's sinking glories gleam,
Of the vast tomb's lost builder vainly dream.

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Motherhood is a profession, and the most important one in the world. The medical profession may, perhaps, cure the sick, but mothers prevent sickness; the gentleman of the bar may end litigation, but mothers may keep it from beginning; the clergy may denounce vice, and paint its results, but mothers have almost the power given them to forbid the existence of vice. How is it then, that while Doctors, Lawyers, and Clergymen, study their professions for years, mothers devote scarce an hour to learn the duties and the glories of their place? Is it not a strange anomaly? a most wonderful phenomenon, though so common? You cry out upon medical quacks, denounce steam-doctors as foes to the human race, legalized murderers of their fellow men;-but look around you, and how many of the mothers within your ken are not quacks?-You feel horror-struck at him that ascends the holy desk to instruct others, being himself ignorant, passionate and sensual; but do those that take upon them the holy priesthood of nature, and become mothers, do they purge

their hearts, inform their heads, and rule their own kingdom of the body as one should that would take the empire of a child; body and soul both?– Teachers are meeting throughout our land, wishing to aid one another in their profession; but the first and most mighty of Teachers scarce knows as yet that she is one. • Motherhood is a profession founded by God, and amply endowed with all-enduring, all-doing love; holy and mighty instincts are attached to it, and joys beyond all price: but such gifts were not bestowed without a purpose, God has here, as elsewhere, required much of her to whom much is given; agonies, to which the pangs of the racked criminal are delights, cluster around the faithless mother; horrors, that even the glowing and burning kings of Padalon would shrink from, grow close and closer to her heart and brain. She that sees her boy dying inch by inch of the disease she has planted in him; she that looks upon her beggared son, and knows that her ill-temper and violence brought him to this pass: above all, she that looks, and lo! the child of her bosom growing in vice as he grows in stature; striding on from crime to decper crime,-the momentary resting spots by the path to hell,until at length the voice, whose infant whispers she taught and answered 10,-peals up from the Gulf and curses her for her lessons of guilt--what woe must she writhe under!

“An orphan's curse would drag to hell

A spirit from on high;"! And he, in his home of agony, feels not one tithe of the misery that bows her.

If this be so, (and our picture is scarce colored,) if body, intellect, and heart are, while yet pliant, taking their future character from the mother, why is it that she is allowed to assume her profession ignorant, and worse than ignorant? Women are looked on, one would think, as superfluities; luxuries at the best; made to sing, and dance, to love, and be loved, to make pudding, and sweep the house, and take care of the children,--but to do little or nothing of import. The husband must find bread to feed the little ones, and money to pay a stranger to teach the prattlers, but the wife is to see to her servants, and keep the children out of mischief,-that is all. But while this is all, let us not talk of our fathers as barbaric, because they knew not the dignity of woman; for, until we not only see, but feel their immense power in the world, the vast duties, and the need of a thorough discipline of their powers, we too are barbarians;-we too are afar off from an idea of their dignity.

But are not women taught all they need? Yes, all they need to find husbands, for, alas! they need but little for an ad

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