deep anguish of her mournful lips
Interpreted her tears.

"Wo for my children, whom your gyves have bound
Through centuries of toil;
The bitter wailings of whose bondage sound
From many a stranger-soil!
Leave me but free, though the eternal sand
Be all my kingdom now--
Though the rude splendors of barbaric land
But mock my crownless brow!"

There was a sound, like sudden trumpets blown,
A ringing, as of arms,
When EUROPE rose, a stately Amazon,
Stern in her mailed charms.
She brooded long beneath the weary bars
That chafed her soul of flame,
And like a seer, who reads the awful stars,
Her words prophetic came:

"I hear new sounds along the ancient shore,
Whose dull old monotone
Of tides, that broke on many a system hoar,
Wailed through the ages lone!
I see a gleaming, like the crimson morn
Beneath a stormy sky,
And warning throes, my bosom long has borne,
Proclaim the struggle nigh!

"The spirit of a hundred races mounts
To glorious life in one;
New prophet-wands unseal the hidden founts
That leap to meet the sun!
And thunder-voices, answering Freedom's prayer,
In far-off echoes fail,
As some loud trumpet, startling all the air,
Peals down an Alpine vale!"

O radiant-browed, the latest born of Time!
How waned thy sisters old
Before the splendors of thine eye sublime,
And mien, erect and bold!
Pure, as the winds of thine own forests are,
Thy brow beamed lofty cheer,
And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morning Star,
Flashed on thy lifted spear.

"I bear no weight," so rang thy jubilant tones,
"Of memories weird and vast--
No crushing heritage of iron thrones,
Bequeathed by some dead Past;
But mighty hopes, that learned to tower and soar,
From my own hills of snow--
Whose prophecies in wave and woodland roar,
When the free tempests blow!

"Like spectral lamps, that burn before a tomb,
The ancient lights expire;
I wave a torch, that floods the lessening gloom
With everlasting fire!
Crowned with my constellated stars, I stand
Beside the foaming sea,
And from the Future, with a victor's hand
Claim empire for the Free!"

JEHOIAKIM JOHNSON.

A SKETCH.

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

What