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THE OLD CONSTITUTION.

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands,
And wintry hills, the school-house stands;
And what her rugged soil denies
The harvest of the mind supplies.

The riches of the commonwealth
Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health;
And more to her than gold or grain
The cunning hand and cultured brain.

For well she keeps her ancient stock,
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock;
And still maintains, with milder laws,
And clearer light, the Good Old Cause!

Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands,
While near her school the church-spire
stands;

Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule,

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,

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The sage may frown-yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again-
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

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,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.

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;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

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,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE OLD CONSTITUTION.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar,-
The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;—
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

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