And, furthermore, in fifty years or sooner,
We shall export our poetry and wine;

And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner,
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line.

If he were with me, King of Tuscarora,
Gazing as I, upon thy portrait now,

In all its medall'd, fringed, and beaded glory,
Its eyes dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow-

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic,
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings;
Well might he boast that we, the Democratic,
Outrival Europe-even in our kings.

For thou wert monarch born. Tradition's pages
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree,
But that the forest tribes have bent for ages,
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee.

Thy name is princely. Though no poet's magic
Čould make RED JACKET grace an English rhyme,
Unless he had a genius for the tragic,
And introduced it in a pantomime;

Yet it is music in the language spoken

Of thine own land; and on her herald-roll,
As nobly fought for, and as proud a token
AS CŒUR DE LION's, of a warrior's soul.

Thy garbfrighten

though Austria's bosom-star would

That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And George the Fourth wore, in the dance at Brigh

ton,

A more becoming evening dress than thine;

-Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather,
And fitted for thy couch on field and flood,
As Rob Roy's tartans for the Highland heather,
Or forest green for England's Robin Hood.

Is strength a monarch's merit? (like a whaler's)
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong
As earth's first kings-the Argo's gallant sailors,
Heroes in history, and gods in song.

Is eloquence? Her spell is thine that reaches
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport;
And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches,
The secret of their mastery-they are short.

Is beauty? Thine has with thy youth departed, But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, And she who perish'd, young and broken-hearted, Are-but I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears.

The monarch mind-the mystery of commanding, The godlike power, the art Napoleon,

Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding The hearts of millions till they move as one;

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded The road to death as to a festival;

And minstrel minds, without a blush, have shrouded
With banner-folds of glory their dark pall.

Who will believe-not I-for in deceiving
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream;

I cannot spare the luxury of believing

That all things beautiful are what they seem.

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the patriarch's, sooth a dying hour; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing

As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower;

With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful as a bird's in air;
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil

That e'er clinched fingers in a captive's hair?

That in thy veins there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that which bathes the Upas-tree; And in thy wrath, a nursing Cat o' Mountain

Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee? And underneath that face like summer's ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow-all, save fear, Love-for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipes in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred of missionaries and cold water;

Pride-in thy rifle trophies and thy scars;

Hope that thy wrongs will be by the Great Spirit
Remember'd and revenged when thou art gone;
Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit
Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE LIGHT OF STARS.

THE night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,

All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven
But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?
Oh no! from that blue tent above,
A hero's armour gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.

Oh star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light
But the cold light of stars:
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquer'd will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possess'd.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of Day are number'd,
And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul that slumber'd,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;

The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perish'd,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Utter'd not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.