THE OLD CONSTITUTION. Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, The riches of the commonwealth For well she keeps her ancient stock, Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands, Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; 383 The sage may frown-yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again- While near her church-spire stands the Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, school! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her braveGushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry O, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here! Another hand thy sword shall wield, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THE OLD CONSTITUTION. Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, |