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O, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.

The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?

I call:-the hills reply again
That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;

An army now might thunder past,

And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,

In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,

For they have passed away.

Installation Hymn.-PIERPONT.

"LET there be light!"-When from on high,
O God, that first commandment came,
Forth leaped the sun; and earth and sky
Lay in his light, and felt his flame.

"Let there be light!"-The light of grace
And truth, a darkling world to bless,
Came with thy word, when on our race
Broke forth the Sun of Righteousness.

Light of our souls! how strong it grows!
That sun, how wide his beams he flings
As up the glorious sky he goes,

With light and healing in his wings!

Give us that light! O God, 'tis given!
Hope sees it open heaven's wide halls
To those who for the truth have striven;
And Faith walks firmly where it falls.

Churches no more, in cold eclipse,
Mourn the withholding of its rays;
It gilds their gates, and on the lips
Of every faithful preacher plays.

Doth not its circle clasp the brows
Of him who, in the strength of youth,
Gives himself up, in this day's vows,
A minister of grace and truth?

Long may it, Lord;-nor let his soul

Go through death's gloomy vale alone;

But bear it on to its high goal,

Wrapped in the light that veils thy throne.

The Wanderer of Africa.-ALONZO LEWIS.

HE launched his boat where the dark waves flow,
Through the desert that never was white with snow,
When the wind was still, and the sun shone bright,
And the stream glowed red with the morning light.

He had sat in the cool of the palm's broad shade,
And drank of the fountain of Kafnah's glade,
When the herb was scorched by the sun's hot ray,
And the camel failed on his thirsty way.

And the dark maids of Sego their mats had spread,
And sung all night by the stranger's bed;
And his sleep was sweet on that desert sand,
For his visions were far in his own loved land.

He was weary and faint in a stranger clime,

But his soul was at home as in youth's sweet time;
And he lay in the shade, by his cot's clear pool,
And the breeze which came by was refreshing and cool;

And the look of his mother was gentle and sweet,
And he heard the loved steps of his sister's light feet;
And their voices were soft, and expressive, and low,
Like the distant rain, or the brook's calm flow.

And this was the song which the dark maids sung,
In the beautiful strains of their own wild tongue :-
"The stranger came far, and sat under our tree;
We will bring him sweet food, for no sister has he."

And the stranger went forth when the night-breeze had died.
And launched his light bark on the Joliba's tide;
And he waved his white kerchief to those dark maids,
As he silently entered the palmy shades.

And the maidens of Sego were sad and lone,

And sung their rude song, like the death spirit's moan:-"The stranger has gone where the simoom will burn: Alas! for the white man will never return!"

A Legend.-J. G. WHITTIER.

THE hanter went forth with his dog and gun,
In the earliest glow of the golden sun;
The trees of the forest bent over his way,

gay;

In the changeful colors of autumn
For a frost had fallen, the night before,
On the quiet greenness which nature wore :-

A bitter frost!-for the night was chill,
And starry and dark, and the wind was still;

And so, when the sun looked out on the hills,
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills,
The unvaried green of the landscape fled,
And a wild, rich robe was given instead.

We know not whither the hunter went,
Or how the last of his days was spent;

For the noon drew nigh; but he came not back,
Weary and faint, from his forest-track;
And his wife sat down to her frugal board,
Beside the empty seat of her lord.

And the day passed on, and the sun came down
To the hills of the west like an angel's crown;
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill,
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill,
Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled
All over the west like a wave of gold.

Yet he came not back-though the stars gave forth
Their wizard light to the silent earth;
And his wife looked out from the lattice dim

In the earnest manner of fear for him;

And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood

To welcome his father back from the wood!

He came not back-yet they found him soon
In the burning light of the morrow's noon,
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death,

Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath;
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet,
Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet.

He slept in death;-but his sleep was one
Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon;
For his brow was black, and his open eye

Was red with the sign of agony ;

And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim, That an evil deed had been done on him.

They buried him where his fathers laid,

By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade;
Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead,
And beldames muttered while prayers were said;

And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed
The damp earth down on the hunter's breast.

The seasons passed; and the autumn rain
And the colored forest returned again:
'Twas the very eve that the hunter died;
The winds wailed over the bare hill-side,
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook
Their red leaves over the swollen brook.

There came a sound on the night-air then,
Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men,
And louder and shriller it rose again,

Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain;
And trembled alike the timid and brave,

For they knew that it came from the hunter's grave:

And, every year, when autumn flings

Its beautiful robe on created things,

When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain,
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again,

That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth,
Like the howl of a demon struggling forth.

They heard a Voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither." Rev. xi. 12.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

"YE have a land of mist and shade,
Where spectres roam at will;

Dense clouds your mountain heights invade,
And damps your valleys chill;—

But ne'er may midnight care, or wo,

Eclipse our changeless ray;
'Come hither,' if ye seek to know
The bliss of perfect day.

"Doubt, like the Bohan-Upas, spreads
A blight where'er ye tread;
And Hope, a pensive mourner, sheds
The tear o'er harvests dead:

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