The Titan by his wondrous skill
Fashioned a man from clay;
You formed a nation at your will,
And bent it to your sway!

He made a dull, insensate thing,
A form without a soul;
Your spirit, with life-stirring spring,
Electrified the whole.

Like him, your greatness did you wrong
Your virtue was your bane;
Each soared above the common throng,
Each found a prison chain.

Your aims alike were noble; well
Ye battled, till at length,

Each, having done his utmost, fell—
Dragged down by Force and Strength.

Ye fell, but gained a height sublime,
And more than mortal fame,
Binding upon the breast of Time
An ever glorious name!

No further may the semblance go-
Consumed by Zeus's frown,
Prometheus with supernal woe
In agony bowed down.

While you, oh! gentle sufferer, feel,

Though bending 'neath the rod,

A holy joy, the sign and seal

Of a sustaining God!

Within

PROMETHEUS VINCTUS.

your grated prison cell

A gracious guest abides,

And by the same low-spoken spell,
Which stilled the raging tides

Of fierce Tiberias, He exerts
A spirit-soothing calm,

And heals the sting of earthly hurts
With heavenly peace and balm.

Around you in unending play
The bounding billows roar,

And white with crest of seething spray
Break thundering on the shore.

These ocean surges well express
The love, the hope, the care
Which to you in your loneliness,
Your faithful people bear.

Chains and a prison cannot wrest
Your empire from its throne;
You find in every Southern breast
A kingdom and a home!

The stately land you strove to save,
In sable robes arrayed,

Majestic mourns beside the grave
Where all your hopes are laid.

But though she weeps her cherished dead,
With sorrow deep and true,

No tears of bitterness are shed

Like those that fall for you!

385

You hold her heart-strings in your hand,
And every blow and slur,

That strikes you helpless as you stand,
Falls doubly hard on her!

Heaven help us all! The New

year

dawns

Again with gladsome birth;
God grant ere many smiling morns
Have glorified the earth,

That one may break amid the stars,
Which by his blest decree,
Beaming across your prison bars,
Shall shine upon you, FREE!

THE LAND WE LOVE.

President Daris.

BY JANE T. H. CROSS.

THE cell is lonely, and the night

Has filled it with a darker gloom;

The little rays of friendly light,

Which through each crack and chink found room

To press in with their noiseless feet,

All merciful and fleet,

And bring like Noah's trembling dove,

God's silent messages of love

These, too, are gone,

Shut out, and gone,

And that great heart is left alone.

Alone with darkness and with love,

Around him Freedom's temple lies,

PRESIDENT DAVIS.

Its arches crushed, its columns low,

The night wind through its ruin sighs:
Rash, cruel hands, that temple razed,
Then stood the world amazed!

And now those hands-ah, ruthless deeds,
Their captive pierce-his brave heart bleeds.
And yet no groan

Is heard, no groan!

He suffers silently, alone.

For all his bright and happy home
He has that cell so drear and dark,
The narrow walls for heaven's blue dome,
The clank of chains for song of lark.
And for the grateful voice of friends—
That voice which ever lends

Its charm where human hearts are found-
He hears the key's dull, grating sound;

No heart is near,

No kind heart near,

No sigh of sympathy, no tear!

Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good!
Unnumbered hearts on thee await,

By thee invisibly have stood;

Have crowded through thy prison gate— Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars,

Nor floating "stripes and stars,"

Nor glittering gun or bayonet,

Can ever cause us to forget

Our faith to thee,

Our love to thee,

Thou glorious soul! thou strong! thou free!

NEW YORK NEWS.

387

Mrs. Jefferson Davis.

BY LOUISE.

DEAR lady, would I had the power
A wreath of poesy to twine,
All glowing with rich gems of thought
Worthy to lay upon thy shrine;
Giving thy virtues homage due,
Oh, Southern matron, brave and true!

Such task will poet pens employ,
For me, I may but ask to bring
My simple and untutored lay;
The poor, but earnest offering
Of sympathy, that warmly glows
For thee, in all thy bitter woes.

O! noble wife of him whose name
Is now a cherished household word,
By which all true and generous hearts

At home, abroad, are deeply stirred;
For him, for thee, our prayers are given,
At early morn and quiet even.

But most when at the twilight hour,
The thronging thoughts will sadly come

Of him, within his lonely cell

Of thee, within thy dreary homeHome! ah, the word but mocks thee now, And bids the tide of grief o'erflow.