THE TRICOLOR CROSS. PARODIED FROM BERANGER'S "CROSS OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR." THOU took'st thy deep blue from the eyes of the soul, And thy white from the foam of the far rolling sea: But, Cross of the Billows! famed far as they roll, Why stain thy bright red with the blood of the free? Columbia beheld thee flaunt over her slain, When she call'd up the ghosts of Pym, Hampton, and Vane; And steep'd were thy folds in the blood of her brave, When France broke her chain, to dig tyrants a grave. Famed Red Cross of England, famed ever to be! Stain'd ever ?-No, Ocean! thy Tricolor Cross toss Defiance and havoc, defeat and despair; O'er the treason of priests, the rebellion of kings, THE PILGRIM FATHERS. A VOICE of grief and anger- A wild triumphant yell! For England's foes, on ocean slain, What is that voice which cometh The voice of men who left their homes To make their children free; Of men whose hearts were torches For Freedom's quenchless fire; Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth The sires of Franklin's sire. They speak the Pilgrim Fathers Have heard the worm complain, What saith the voice which boometh The children of your fathers Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane!" Land of the sires of Washington, Bring forth such men again! A GLIMPSE OF THE FUTURE. AN old man, to the field of graves Borne, in his parish-shroud, methought, Found, in the land of landless slaves, The bed of rest, which long he sought. But, after many years had flown, That old man rose out of his grave, And wonder'd at his native town, And found no honest man a slave. Where once that town of trouble stood, Nor hovel now, nor temple was, Where hovels once and temples stood; All, all had perish'd! for, alas! Redemption had been steep'd in blood! Remote, an engined city groan'd Where bad men toil'd in penal gloom; The Agnews there the Pelhams moan'd, The Melvilles plied the penal loom. Tyrants, not victims, justly bound In this sad land, where men have graves. But things which penal toil had wrought, The blessings of all climates brought To those sweet homes, by stream and wood. Instinct with life, almost they seem'd, And came and went, when call'd or sent Not only by his toiling hands, But chiefly by his god-like mind, THE BALLOT. THE sky had no voice, and the ocean was still- |