Urging the deathless soul, unshriven,
Of open guilt or secret sin,
Before the bar of that pure Heaven
The holy only enter in!
O, by the widow's sore distress,
The orphan's wailing wretchedness,
By Virtue struggling in the accursed
Embraces of polluting Lust,
By the fell discord of the Pit,
And the pained souls that people it,
And by the blessed peace which fills
The Paradise of God forever,

Resting on all its holy hills,

And flowing with its crystal
river, -

Let Christian hands no longer bear
In triumph on his crimson car
The foul and idol god of war;
No more the purple wreaths prepare
To bind amid his snaky hair;
Nor Christian bards his glories tell,
Nor Christian tongues his praises
swell.

And while the mist hung over dripping hills,

From the green hills, immortal in his lays.

And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all day long

Beat their sad music upon roof and pane,

We strove to cheer our gentle invalid.

The lawyer in the pauses of the storm Went angling down the Saco, and, returning,

Recounted his adventures and mishaps;

Gave us the history of his scaly clients, Mingling with ludicrous yet apt cita

tions

And for myself, obedient to her wish, I searched our landlord's proffered library,

A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures

Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them,

Watts' unmelodious psalms, - Astrology's

Last home, a musty pile of almanacs, And an old chronicle of border wars And Indian history. And, as I read A story of the marriage of the Chief Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt In the old time upon the Merrimack, Our fair one, in the playful exercise Of her prerogative, the right divine

As the flower-skirted streams of Staffordshire,

Where, under aged trees, the southwest wind

Of soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hair

sketched

Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be

Its plan and outlines, laughingly assigning

told,

To each his part, and barring our

Our youthful candidate forsook his

excuses

sermons,

With absolute will. So, like the

His commentaries, articles and creeds, For the fair page of human loveli

cavaliers

Whose voices still are heard in the Romance