Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call

Of her old House of Burgesses spoke out from Fanueil Hall?

When echoing back her Henry's cry, came pealing on each breath

Of northern winds the thrilling sounds of
Death !"

'Liberty or

What asks the Old Dominion? If now her sons have proved False to their father's memory, false to the faith they loved ; If she can scoff at Freedom, and its Great Charter spurn, Must we of Massachusetts from Truth and Duty turn?

We hunt your bondmen flying from slavery's hateful hell-
Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound's yell-
We gather at your summons above our fathers' graves,
From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched
slaves!

Thank God! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow,

The spirit of her early time is with her even now;

Dream not because her pilgrim blood moves slow, and calm, and cool,

She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and tool!

All that a Sister State should be, all that a free State may,
Heart, hand and purse we proffer, as in our early day;
But that one dark loathsome burthen, ye must stagger with
alone,

And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown!

If slavery be a reproach, and too just a reproach it is to the Southern States, surely the citizens of New England may justly pride themselves upon the poetry which has arisen out of the sin and shame of their brethren. Time will inevitably chase away the crime, for national crimes are in their very nature transient, whilst the noble effusions that sprang from that foul source, whether in the verse of the poet, or the speeches of the orator, are imperishable.

Another of my sins of omission is Mr. Halleck, a poet of a different stamp, with less of earnestness and fire, but more of grace and melody. How musical are these stanzas on the Music of Nature!

Young thoughts have music in them, love

And happiness their theme;

And music wanders in the wind
That lulls a morning dream.
And there are angel voices heard
In childhood's frolic hours,
When life is but an April day
Of sunshine and of flowers.

There's music in the forest leaves
When summer winds are there,
And in the laugh of forest girls

That braid their sunny hair.

The first wild bird, that drinks the dew

From violets of the spring,

Has music in his voice, and in

The fluttering of his wing.

There's music in the dash of waves
When the swift bark cleaves the foam;
There's music heard upon her deck

The mariner's song of home.

When moon and starbeams smiling meet

At midnight on the sea—

米

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To-day the forest leaves are green,

They'll wither on the morrow;

And the maiden's laugh be changed ere long
To the widow's wail of sorrow.

Come with the winter snows and ask

Where are the forest birds?

The answer is a silent one

More eloquent than words.

The moonlight music of the waves

In storms is heard no more,

When the living lightning mocks the wreck
At midnight on the shore.

Still better than these verses are the stanzas on

the death of his brother poet Drake :

This is a true and manly record of a true and manly friendship. There is no doubting the sorrow, honourable alike to the Departed and the Survivor. May he be so loved and so mourned!