:

And a music wild and solemn,
From the pine-tree's height,
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume
On the wind of night;

Make we here our camp of winter;
And, through sleet and snow,
Pitchy knot and beechen splinter
On our hearth shall glow.
Here, with mirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone

Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,
Childhood's lisping tone.

But their hearth is brighter burning
For our toil to-day ;
And the welcome of returning
Shall our loss repay,

When, like seamen from the waters,
From the woods we come,

Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters,
Angels of our home!

Not for us the measured ringing
From the village spire,
Not for us the Sabbath singing

Of the sweet-voiced choir:
Ours the old, majestic temple,
Where God's brightness shines
Down the dome so grand and ample,
Propped by lofty pines!

Through each branch-enwoven skylight,
Speaks He in the breeze,
As of old beneath the twilight

Of lost Eden's trees!

For his ear, the inward feeling

Needs no outward tongue;

THE LUMBERMEN.

He can see the spirit kneeling
While the axe is swung.

Heeding truth alone, and turning

From the false and dim,
Lamp of toil or altar burning
Are alike to Him.

Strike, then, comrades !—Trade is waiting
On our rugged toil;

Far ships waiting for the freighting
Of our woodland spoil!

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,
Bleak and cold, of ours,

With the citron-planted islands

Of a clime of flowers;

To our frosts the tribute bringing

Of eternal heats

In our lap of winter flinging
Tropic fruits and sweets.

Cheerly, on the axe of labor,
Let the sunbeams dance,
Better than the flash of sabre
Or the gleam of lance!
Strike!-With every blow is given
Freer sun and sky,

And the long-hid earth to heaven
Looks, with wondering eye!

Loud behind us grow the murmurs
Of the age to come;

Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,
Beafing harvest home!

Here her virgin lap with treasures

Shall the green earth fill;

Waving wheat and golden maize-ears
Crown each beechen hill.

23

Keep who will the city's alleys,
Take the smooth-shorn plain,—
Give to us the cedar valleys,
Rocks and hills of Maine!
In our North-land, wild and woody,
Let us still have part;

Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,
Hold us to thy heart!

O! our free hearts beat the warmer
For thy breath of snow;
And our tread is all the firmer
For thy rocks below.

Freedom, hand in hand with labor,
Walketh strong and brave;
On the forehead of his neighbor
No man writeth Slave!

Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's
Pine-trees show its fires,

While from these dim forest gardens
Rise their blackened spires.
Up, my comrades! up and doing!
Manhood's rugged play

Still renewing, bravely hewing
Through the world our way!

MISCELLANEOUS.