When the rude Cossack with an outstretch'd hand
Points his long spear across the narrow sea,—
"Lo! there is England!" when thy destiny
Storms on thy straw-crown'd head, and thou dost stand
Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,—
God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!

II.

1852.

Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!
Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,
Sole refuge to the overwearied brave
Who plann'd, arose, and battled to be free,
Fell undeterr'd, then sadly turn'd to thee;—
Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,
To rise again, and animate the slave,
When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye
Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain

Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled,
Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled
Around your cliffs; fleets marshall'd, till the main
Sink under them; and if your courage wane,
Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!

III.

At length the tempest from the North has burst,
The threaten'd storm, by sages seen of old;
And into jarring anarchy is roll'd

Harmonious peace, so long and fondly nursed
By watchful nations. Tyranny accursed

1853.

Has broken bounds,-the wolf makes towards the fold.
Up! ere your priceless liberties be sold

Into degrading slavery! The worst
That can befall you is the brunt of war,

Dealt on a shield that oft has felt the weight
Of foeman's blows.-Up! ere it be too late!

For God has squander'd all his precious store

Of right and mercy, if the time's so sore

That slaves can bring you to their own base state.

IV.

1854.

Far from the Baltic to the Euxine's strand,
Peals the vast clamor of commencing war;
And we, O England, on another shore,
Like brothers bound, with wistful faces stand,-
With shouts of cheer, with wavings of the hand,—
With eager throbbings of the heart, to pour
Our warlike files amid the battle's war,
And nerve the terrors of thy lifted brand.
Old wrongs have vanish'd in thy evil hours;

The blood that fell between us, in the fight,
Has dried away before a heavenly light.
We'll strew thy paths of victory with flowers,
Weep o'er thy woes, and cry, with all our powers,
Thy cause is God's, because thy cause is right!
63倍
1854.

SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT.

THIS gifted writer, who has won such an enviable reputation around the hearthstones of this country, under the name of "Grace Greenwood," was born in Pompey, Onondaga County, New York. Her maiden name was Sara Jane Clarke, which was changed by her marriage with Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia, in October, 1853; but the appellation by which she will be best known in American literature will be that under which she made her first appearance as an author,-"Grace Greenwood."

While she was a school-girl, her parents removed to Rochester, where she enjoyed the excellent educational advantages of that place. In 1843, she removed with her parents to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, where she resided until ber marriage. Soon after her removal thither, she appeared as an authoress, under the signature of "Grace Greenwood," in the columns of the "New York Mirror,” then under the editorial care of George P. Morris and N. P. Willis. Among her poetical pieces which attracted most admiration were Ariadne, The Horseback Ride, and Pygmalion. These were succeeded by various prose compositions, some of which appeared in "The National Era," published in Washington. In connection with her other literary labors, she was the editor of "The Lady's Book" for a year. Her first volume, entitled Greenwood Leares, was published in 1850. In 1851, she published a volume of Poems, and an admirable juvenile story-book, called History of my Pets. A second series of Greenwood Leaves was issued the following year; and also another juvenile work, called Recollections of my Childhood. In the spring of 1852, she visited Europe, and spent fifteen months in England and on the Continent. Soon after her return, she published a record of her travels, entitled Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe. In October, 1853, she entered upon the editorship of "The Little Pilgrim," a monthly magazine for children, published in Philadelphia by Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, to whom about this time she was married. In the fall of 1855, she published Merrie England, the first of a series of books of foreign travel for children. In the spring of 1856, a volume, entitled A Forcst Tragedy, and other Tales, appeared; and in the fall of 1857, Stories and Legends of History and Travel, being the second of the series mentioned above.

It will thus be seen that Mrs. Lippincott's life is any thing but an idle one; and we rejoice that she is thus keeping her talent bright by use, charming all her readers, both old and young, by her fine thoughts, expressed in a style of great ease, simplicity, and beauty.

THE HORSEBACK RIDE.

When troubled in spirit, when weary of life,

When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife,
When its fruits, turn'd to ashes, are mocking my taste,

And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste,

1 See some account of this in a note on page 427.

Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer,
With friendship's soft accents, or sympathy's tear.
No pity I ask, and no counsel I need,

But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed,
With his high archéd neck, and his nostril spread wide,
His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride!
As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein,
The strength to my spirit returneth again!

The bonds are all broken that fetter'd my mind,
And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind;
My pride lifts its head, for a season bow'd down,
And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown!

Now we're off-like the winds to the plains whence they came; And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame!

On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod,
Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod!
On, on like a deer, when the hound's early bay
Awakes the wild echoes, away, and away!
Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my cheer,
Till the rush of the startled air whirrs in my ear!

Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth his track,—

See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back!
Now a glen, dark as midnight-what matter?—we'll down,
Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us frown;
The thick branches shake, as we're hurrying through,
And deck us with spangles of silvery dew!

What a wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand
Such a steed in the might of his strength may command!
What a glorious creature! Ah! glance at him now,
As I check him a while on this green hillock's brow;
How he tosses his mane, with a shrill, joyous neigh,
And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play!
Hurrah! off again, dashing on as in ire,

Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire!
Ho! a ditch!-Shall we pause? No; the bold leap we dare,
Like a swift-wingéd arrow we rush through the air!

Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may praise,

Not the wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze,

Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race,

Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase,

Nor the sail, high heaving waters o'er,

Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore,
Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed

Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed!

THE ARMY OF REFORM.

Yes, ye are few,-and they were few
Who, daring storm and sea,
Once raised upon old Plymouth rock
"The anthem of the free."

And they were few at Lexington,
To battle, or to die,-

That lightning-flash, that thunder-peal,
That told the storm was nigh.

And they were few, who dauntless stood

Upon old Bunker's height,

And waged with Britain's strength and pride The fierce, unequal fight.

'Tis said that Persia's baffled king,
In mad, tyrannic pride,
Cast fetters on the Hellespont,

To curb its swelling tide:

But freedom's own true spirit heaves
The bosom of the main;

It toss'd those fetters to the skies,
And bounded on again!

The scorn of each succeeding age
On Xerxes' head was hurl'd,

And o'er that foolish deed has peal'd
The long laugh of a world.

Thus, thus, defeat, and scorn, and shame,

Is his, who strives to bind

The restless, leaping waves of thought,
The free tide of the mind.

THE POET OF TO-DAY.

What siren joy from thy high trust hath won thee,
O Poet of to-day ?-thou still unheard,
Though struggling nations cast their eyes upon thee,
And the roused world is waiting for thy word!

Why lingerest thou amid the summer places,
The gardens of romance, the haunt of dreams,
'Mid verdurous shadows, lit by fairy faces,

And fitful playing of soft, golden gleams?

Arouse! look up, to where above thee tower
Regions of being grander, freer, higher,
Where God reveals his presence and his power,
E'en as of old, in thunders and in fire.

Ah, when the soul of ancient song was blending
With the rapt bard's in his immortal strains,
'Twas like the wine drunk on Olympus, sending
Divine intoxication through the veins.

It brought strange, charméd words, and magic singing,
And forms of beauty burning on the sight,-
Young loves their flight through airs ambrosial winging,
And dark-brow'd heroes arming for the fight,-

The trumpet's "golden cry," the shield's quick flashing,
The dance of banners and the rush of war,-
Death-showers of arrows and the spear's sharp clashing,-
The homeward rolling of the victor's car!

But, ah! in all that song's heroic story,

Had sad Humanity one briefest part?

Sounds through the clang of words, the storm, the glory, One sharp, strong cry from out her bleeding heart?