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DEMOCRACY.

The generous feeling, pure and warm,
Which owns the rights of all divine—
The pitying heart-the helping arm-
The prompt self-sacrifice-are thine,

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,

How fade the cords of caste and birth!
How equal in their suffering lie
The groaning multitudes of earth!

Still to a stricken brother true,

Whatever clime hath nurtured him As stoop'd to heal the wounded Jew The worshipper on Gerizim,

By misery unrepell'd, unawed

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By pomp or power, thou see'st a MAN In prince or peasant-slave or lordPale priest, or swarthy artisan.

Through all disguise, form, place, or name,

Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, Through poverty and squalid shame, Thou lookest on the man within.

On man, as man, retaining yet,

Howe'er debased, and soil'd, and dim,

The crown upon his forehead set

The immortal gift of God to him.

And there is reverence in thy look;
For that frail form that mortals wear
The Spirit of the Holiest took,

And veil'd his perfect brightness there,

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DEMOCRACY.

Not from the cold and shallow fount

Of vain philosophy thou art;
He who of old on Syria's mount

Thrill'd, awed, by turns, the listener's heart,

In holy words which cannot die,

In thoughts which angels lean'd to know,
Proclaim'd thy message from on high-
Thy mission to a world of woe,

That Voice's echo hath not died!
From the blue lake of Galilee,
And Tabor's lonely mountain side,
It calls a struggling world to thee.

Thy name and watchword o'er this land
I hear in every breeze that stirs,
And round a thousand altars stand
Thy banded Party worshippers.

Not to these altars of a day,

At Party's call, my gift I bring;

But on thy olden shrine I lay
A freeman's dearest offering:

The voiceless utterance of his will-

His pledge to Freedom and to Truth,
That manhood's heart remembers still
The homage of his generous youth.

TO THE DEAD.

BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

How many now are dead to me
That live to others yet!

• How many are alive to me

Who crumble in their graves, nor see

That sickening, sinking look, which we
Till dead can ne'er forget.

Beyond the blue seas, far away,

Most wretchedly alone,

One died in prison, far away,

Where stone on stone shut out the day,
And never hope or comfort's ray
In his lone dungeon shone.

Dead to the world, alive to me,

Though months and years have pass'd;

In a lone hour, his sigh to me
Comes like the hum of some wild bee,
And then his form and face I see,

As then I saw him last.

And one with a bright lip, and cheek,

And eye, is dead to me.

How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek!

His lip was cold-it would not speak: His heart was dead, for it did not break:

And his eye, for it did not see.

Then for the living be the tomb,

And for the dead the smile;

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THE LAST READER.

Engrave oblivion on the tomb

Of pulseless life and deadly bloom,—
Dim is such glare: but bright the gloom
Around the funeral pile.

THE LAST READER.

BY OLIVER W. HOLMES.

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,
And read my own sweet songs;
Though nought they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have pass'd away,
But for that scarce-remember'd lay.

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I keep them like a lock or leaf,
That some dear girl has given ;
Frail record of an hour, as brief
As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadow'd hill.

They lie upon my pathway bleak,
Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek
The ringlets of his child.
The golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.

What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread

Oblivion's insect weaves;

THE LAST READER.

Though weeds are tangled on the stream,
It still reflects my morning's beam.

And therefore love I such as smile
On these neglected songs,

Nor deem that flattery's needless wile
My opening bosom wrongs;
For who would trample, at my side,
A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

It may be that my scanty ore

Long years have wash'd away,
And where were golden sands before,
Is nought but common clay;
Still something sparkles in the sun,
For Memory to look back upon.

And when my name no more is heard,

My lyre no more is known,

Still let mé, like a winter's bird,

In silence and alone,

Fold over them the weary wing,

Once flashing through the dews of spring.

Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap

My youth in its decline,

And riot in the rosy lap

Of thoughts that once were mine, And give the worm my little store, When the last reader reads no more!

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