They saw the princely crest,

They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast,

Borne down and trampled here!
They saw and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!

Praise to the mountain-born,
The brethren of the glen!

By them no steel array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field,
To break an empire's lance and shield!

Look on the white Alps round!

If yet, along their steeps,
Our children's fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps :
Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!

If, by the wood-fire's blaze,

When winter stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
Forget not then the shepherd race,
Who made the hearth a holy place!

Look on the white Alps round!
If yet the Sabbath-bell

Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound,
Think on the battle dell!

For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!

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So will thy people, with thankful devotion, Praise him who saved them from peril and sword,

Shouting in chorus, from ocean to ocean, Peace to the nations, and praise to the Lord.

HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY.

DISARMAMENT.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, the Quaker bard of America, was born at Haverhill, Mass., Dec. 17, 1807, and after spending his boyhood on a farm, began to write verses for publication. Soon he became editor, and has conducted several journals. He was prominent among the antislavery reformers of New England. His poems are among the greatest favorites of the American people, and are admired wherever the English language is used.

"PUT up the sword!" the voice of Christ

once more

Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,
O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped
And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped
With nameless dead; o'er cities starving slow
Under a rain of fire; through wards of woe
Down which a groaning diapason runs
From tortured brothers, husbands, lovers.

sons

Of desolate women in their far-off homes,
Waiting to hear the step that never comes !
O men and brothers! let that voice be heard.
War fails, try peace; put up the useless sword!

Fear not the end. There is a story told In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,

And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit
With grave responses listening unto it:
Once, on the errands of his mercy bent,
Buddha, the holy and benevolent,

Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look,
Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook.
"O son of peace!" the giant cried, "thy fate
Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate.”
The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace
Of fear or anger, in the monster's face,
In pity said, " Poor fiend, even thee I love."
Lo! as he spake the sky-tall terror sank
To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence
shrank

Into the form and fashion of a dove;
And where the thunder of its rage was heard,
Circling above him sweetly sang the bird :
"Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the
song,

"And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

"Not only these, the fanes o'erthrown,
Shall rise," they said, "but myriads more ;
The seed, far hence by tempests blown,
Still sleeps on yon expectant shore.
Send forth, sad Isle, thy reaper bands!
Assert and pass thine old renown:
Not here alone - - in farthest lands

For thee thy sons shall weave the crown."

They spake; and like a cloud down sank
The just and filial grief of years;
And I that peace celestial drank
Which shines but o'er the seas of tears.
Thy mission flashed before me plain,
O thou by many woes annealed!
And I discerned how axe and chain

Had thy great destinies signed and sealed!
That seed which grows must seem to die :
In thee, when earthly hope was none,
The heaven-born hope of days gone by,
By martyrdom matured, lived on ;
Concealed, like limbs of royal mould

In some Egyptian pyramid, Or statued shape mid cities old

Beneath Vesuvian ashes hid.

For this cause by a power divine

Each temporal aid was frustrated: Tyrone, Tirconnell, Geraldine,

In vain they fought, in vain they bled: Successive 'neath the usurping hand

Sank ill-starred Mary, erring James: Nor Spain nor France might wield the brand Which, for her own, Religion claims !

Arise, long stricken! mightier far

Are they who fight for God and thee
Than those that head the adverse war!
Sad prophet! lift thy face and see!
Behold, with eyes no longer wronged

By mists the sense exterior breeds,
The hills of heaven around thee thronged
With fiery chariots and with steeds.

The years baptized in blood are thine;

The exile's prayer from many a strand; The woes of those this hour who pine Poor aliens in their native land; Angels and saints from heaven down-bent Watch thy long conflict without pause; And the most holy sacrament

From all thine altars pleads thy cause.

O great through suffering, rise at last Through kindred action tenfold great! Thy future calls on thee thy past

(Its soul survives) to consummate.

Let women weep, let children moan: Rise, men and brethren, to the fight; One cause hath earth, and one alone: For it, the cause of God, unite.

Let others trust in trade and traffic!
Be ours, O God, to trust in thee!
Cherubic wisdom, love seraphic,

Beseem that land the truth makes free.
The earth-quelling sword let others vaunt;
Such toys allure the youth, the boy:
Be ours for loftier wreaths to pant,
The apostles' crown of faith and joy!

FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE SECOND CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF THE PLANTING OF NEW HAVEN, CONN., APRIL 25, 1838.

LEONARD BACON, one of the most prominent ministers of the Congregational Church in America, and a frequent contributor to the press, was born at Detroit, Mich., in 1802. Since 1825 he has been pastor of the Centre Church, New Haven, Conn., and is now Professor in the Divinity School of Yale College. He was one of the founders of the New York Independent, and on its original staff of editors. The following lines form the basis of the hymn beginning, "O God, beneath thy guiding hand." They were altered by the author in 1844, when he was one of a committee appointed by the General Association of Connecticut to make a collection of psalms and hymns for public worship.

THE Sabbath morn was bright and calm
Upon the hills, the woods, the sea,
When here the prayer and choral psalm
First rose, our fathers' God, to thee.

Laws, freedom, truth and faith in God,

Came with those exiles o'er the waves; And where their pilgrim feet have trod,

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The God they trusted guards their graves.

JAMES FLINT, for thirty years pastor of the East Church at Salem, Mass., was born at Reading, Dec. 10. 1779, graduated at Harvard College in 1802, and died March 4, 1855. He prepared a collection of hymns for the use of his church, which included several of his own. He was distinguished for the usefulness of his life, no less than for his active intellect, exuberant fancy, and intellectual culture.

FREEMEN, we our chartered rights
Hold from men who lived the lights,
And the bulwark on her heights,

Of their country, stood.