All?-all, but one, that hung and burn'd alone,
And with mild lustre over Bethlehem shone.
Chaldea's sages saw that orb afar

Glow unextinguish'd;-'twas Salvation's Star.

LICENSE-LAWS.

"We license thee for so much gold,"

Says Congress,-they're our servants there,-
"To keep a pen where men are sold
Of sable skin and woolly hair;
For public good' requires the toil
Of slaves on freedom's sacred soil."
"For so much gold we license thee"-

So say our laws-" a draught to sell,
That bows the strong, enslaves the free,
And opens wide the gates of hell;
For public good' requires that some
Should live, since many die, by rum."
Ye civil fathers! while the foes

Of this destroyer seize their swords,
And Heaven's own hail is in the blows

They're dealing,-will YE cut the cords
That round the falling fiend they draw,
And o'er him hold your shield of law?

And will ye give to man a bill

Divorcing him from Heaven's high sway;
And, while God says, "Thou shalt not kill,"

Say ye, for gold, "Ye may,-ye may"?
Compare the body with the soul!
Compare the bullet with the bowl!

In which is felt the fiercer blast

Of the destroying angel's breath?

Which binds its victim the more fast?

Which kills him with the deadlier death?

Will ye the felon fox restrain,

And yet take off the tiger's chain?

The living to the rotting dead

The God-contemning Tuscan2 tied,

Till, by the way, or on his bed,

The poor corpse-carrier droop'd and died,

Lash'd hand to hand, and face to face,

In fatal and in loathed embrace.

Less cutting, think ye, is the thong

That to a breathing corpse, for life,

Four hundred dollars is the sum prescribed by Congress-the local legislature of the District of Columbia—for a license to keep a prison-house and market for the sale of men, women, and children. See Jay's "View of the Action of the Federal Government in Behalf of Slavery," p. 87.

2 Mezentius. See Virgil, Eneid, viii. 481-491.

Lashes, in torture loathed and long,

The drunkard's child, the drunkard's wife?
To clasp that clay, to breathe that breath,
And no escape! Oh, that is death!

Are ye not fathers? When your sons
Look to you for their daily bread,
Dare ye, in mockery, load with stones
The table that for them ye spread?
How can ye hope your sons will live,
If ye, for fish, a serpent give?

O holy God! let light divine

Break forth more broadly from above,
Till we conform our laws to thine,

The perfect law of truth and love;
For truth and love alone can save
Thy children from a hopeless grave.

HYMN.1

O Thou, to whom in ancient time

The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,

And prophets praised with glowing tongue;

Not now on Zion's height, alone,

Thy favor'd worshipper may dwell;
Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.

From every place below the skies,

The grateful song, the fervent prayer-
The incense of the heart-may rise

To heaven, and find acceptance there.

In this, thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,
To thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are roll'd.

To thee shall Age, with snowy hair,
And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee,
And Childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to thee.

O thou, to whom in ancient time

The lyre of prophet-bards was strung,

To thee, at last, in every clime

Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.

Written for the Opening of the Independent Congregational Church in Barton Square, Salem, December 7, 1824.

MY CHILD.

I cannot make him dead!
His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study-chair;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes,-he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchell'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair,
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin-lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watch'd over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When, at the cool, gray break

Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear;
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not there!

He lives!-In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

'Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.'

O no, no-let me lie

Not on a field of battle, when I die!

Let not the iron tread

Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head:
Nor let the reeking knife,

That I have drawn against a brother's life,
Be in my hand when Death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath
His heavy squadron's heels,

Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,
And the bald Eagle brings

The cluster'd stars upon his wide-spread wings,
To sparkle in my sight,

O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that Beauty's eye

Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,
And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance:
I know that bards have sung,

And people shouted till the welkin rung,

In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;
I know that o'er their bones

Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of these piles I've seen:

The one at Lexington, upon the green
Where the first blood was shed
That to my country's independence led;
And others, on our shore,

The Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;
Thy "Tomb," Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,

To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,—that would not be hard.-The Neighbors.

And which the waters kiss
That issue from the gulf of Salamis.
And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over, as they stroll,
Watch'd by some turban'd boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

The conquer'd flying, and the conqueror's shout.
But, as his eyes grow dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?

What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles?

What the roll

Of drums? No: let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead dries

The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depth! Or let me leave
The world when round my bed

Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer

And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits-spirits who have bless'd
The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

And in my dying hour,

When riches, fame, and honor have no power
To bear the spirit up,

Or from my lips to turn aside the cup

That all must drink at last,

O, let me draw refreshment from the past!
Then let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds

That I have scatter'd there, in virtuous deeds
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits of which to taste is heaven!
And though no grassy mound

Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground

Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps!-that those
Whom I have striven to bless,

The wanderer reclaim'd, the fatherless,

May stand around my grave,

With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave,

And breathe an humble prayer

That they may die like him whose bones are mouldering there.