fire, flood, and earth, the vassals of his will?--yet mourn
I not thy parted sway, thou dim, discrowned king of day; for all those
trophied arts and triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, healed not a
passion or a pang entailed on human hearts. Go! let Oblivion's curtain
fall upon the stage of men! nor with thy rising beams recall life's
tragedy again! Its piteous pageants bring not back, nor waken flesh
upon the rack of pain anew to writhe, stretched in Disease's shapes
abhorred, or mown in battle by the sword, like grass beneath the
scythe! Even I am weary in yon skies to watch thy fading fire: test
of all sumless agonies, behold not me expire! My lips, that speak thy
dirge of death, their rounded gasp and gurgling breath to see, thou
shalt not boast; the eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, the majesty
of Darkness shall receive my parting ghost! The spirit shall return to
Him who gave its heavenly spark; yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
when thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine in
bliss unknown to beams of thine; by Him recalled to breath, who
captive led captivity, who robbed the grave of victory, and took the
sting from Death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up on Nature's awful
waste, to drink this last and bitter cup of grief that man shall
taste,--go! tell the night that hides thy face thou saw'st the last of
Adam's race on earth's sepulchral clod, the darkening universe defy to
quench his immortality, or shake his trust in God!"

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE."

A.D. 1154-1864.

A strong and mighty Angel,
Calm, terrible and bright,
The cross in blended red and blue
Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling,
Each on his broken chain,
Sang praise to God who raiseth
The dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,
"Wear this," the Angel said;
"Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign--
The white, the blue, the red."

Then rose up John de Matha
In the strength the Lord Christ gave,
And begged through all the land of France
The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle
Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,
The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,