 POETRY. R

Fsem tse Jackson ( Tenn. Repu6ticaa. OUR FATHERLAND.*
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Where hats of Casfre boors are seen, In lordlv Nlger's belt of green,

 By groves of tamarind,- Where lordly Niger, in the sun Starnates. until her stream Is dun,

 The Cafre is resign'd. Where Nile reflects an endless shade,- Grey liehen OCT her col!onaf.e,

 The pyramid on sand ;- These are but places for the dead, Where iaclals, xuitures, crows have fed,

 And not our fatherlaad.

 II. For lore the Greek did seek to find, By travel for his thirsty mind,

 Ard knowledge for his thirst,- Sweet knowledge, such as Memnon's Tyre, Kindled. in every soul of fire,

 By Theban genius nursd. Where the swart Arab in his guile, Stands by the pyramids of Nile,

 Upon Niles golden sand, The Greek, and Greek, but travelled OCT, In search of philosophic lore,

 Far from a fatherland. The future ages lengthen'd, cast, Throw back their shadows on the past,

 \ dial for the mind. The volcan roars, but is not heard. But still the volcan's flame is stirr'd,

 Roaring in depths confn'd. The futures seen, yet lis afar, Like the faint twinkle of a star,

 Upon benighted night ,-- Man rises in his strength t-the Past, Is now into the future cast.

 And darkness into light.

 " Such shadows are but in Gods form, Sent but to cheer our hearts, and warm,

 And make our works sublimes The marbles in yon mountain still, The granite's on yon distant hill,

 Gray grown with hoary time. To work, to work, with such as these, One must carve out work to please,

 A work that will endure. God help us on our journey here i- To feel, to know, to pray, to dare,

 This will a LtFs secure.

 V. What seek we here, if now We find, That GRANDEUR, that is not of mind,

 That Glory, not of soul, Venice, with more than childish cares, Pander'd her long eventful years,

 To one dark, fell control. Her marble columns, porticoes, And domes as vast as human woes,

 Are there,-her living fame; But generous action, wisdom stern, We cannot from those records learn,

 These Venice did not claim. Turn where We will,-te Greeian isles, Or scenes more pertum'd still by smiles,

 Borne on their Eastern gales. From Zembla's eheerless, rocky coast, Ice-ribbed with snows, and sleet and frost,

 To Cachmere's sunny vales; And we will see, the ruin'd mind, The wreck of all, that Is rein'd,-.

 The fane, without it's base; The fall'n column, the crumbling walls, How sfie gray iiehen on them falls,-

 Thus sinks the human race.

 VII. Rude palaces in sand we build, By worthless knowledge they are fill'd =

 And Temples holy call, That never yet the human mind, To consecration, e'er design'd,-

 UnhonoF'd let them fall. From nature let our work be cast, Nor beg inscriptions from the Past,-

 Its friezes from it's time. Trust to ourself i-all antique lore, Ofright belong to days of yore,-

 'Fis writ upon its rime.

 VIII. In labor, we must learn to wait !- For what reward but comes too late .-

 The chalice must ba arain'd For blessings, we must learn to ask, From tod above us, on our task,-

 Our hands must be unstain'd. Is there work the heart will iear' The stout and manly heart will dare,

 To do, what can be done. Then tell me not, oh {, tell me not That ages chain the immortal thought,

 Or change what is begun.

 K. Where the strong axe, with heavy stroke, Cuts the dark rind of Russian oak,

 Is this our fatherland, Or where the voice of tyrant-man. From kremlln comes, or Vatican,

 Strong armies to command ;- Or where the dasl<y Hindoo finds, Repose beneath the taInarinds,

 By Ganges' yellow stream Or where the axe of woodman e'er, Rouses from vale, or Mountain bare,

 The echo's idiot-dream.

 X. Where freedom breathes, restricted not, In glorious deed, or solemn thought,

 Is this our fatherland In orange groves, the Persian maid, Braids her dark hair beneath their shade,

 Stretch'd on the white, white sand: Her lover seeks her, there to find, In her embrace, each thought resign'd,-

 The lily in her hand But turn. vain man, and find in God, A Father,-and in his abode,

 A glorious FArHsRLANp.