The star-bespangled heavenly scroll,
The boundless waters as they roll,-
I feel thy wondrous power to save
From perils of the stormy wave:
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I calmly rest and soundly sleep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine,
Or through the tempest's fiery breath
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee
The germ of immortality!

And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

6. John Howard Payne (1791-1852) was a dramatist who won lasting fame through his song Home, Sweet Home! This occurs in his opera Clari, the Maid of Milan, which was first produced at Covent Garden, London, in 1823.

HOME, SWEET HOME!

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,

Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,-

Give me them-and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile!

Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,

But give me, O, give me, the pleasures of home!
Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

7. George Morris (1802-1864) is remembered to-day for his poem Woodman, Spare That Tree.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'T was my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

The old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea-

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, spare that aged oak
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;

In all their gushing joy

Here, too, my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand-
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

8. Nathaniel Parker Willis (1807-1867) was born in New England and educated at Yale, but he identified himself with the literary life of New York City, especially with its periodical literature. He was sent abroad by the management of the Mirror in order to contribute European letters to the magazine. He founded the Home Journal, a weekly which is still popular. Professor Barrett Wendell considers him the most characteristic New York man of letters after the year 1832, the most typical of the school which flourished throughout the career of the Knickerbocker Magazine (1833-1864), and says: "In his palmy days he was the most popular American writer outside of New England." But his work has proved ephemeral, for it was almost wholly occasional. His Sacred Poems represent his best achievement.

THE BELFRY PIGEON

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell,
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.

In summer and winter, that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air;

I love to see him track the street
With his wary eye and active feet,
And I often watch him, as he springs,
Circling the steeple with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has passed,

And the belfry edge is gained at last;
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel,-
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell,-
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell,—
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon,
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning light,
When the child is waked with "nine at night,”
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,-
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirred,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast;
Then, drops again, with filmed eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen,
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;
And, daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, on such wings of gold,
I could my weary heart upfold;
I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved)

And while the world throngs on beneath,

Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;
And, never sad with others' sadness,
And, never glad with others' gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

ABSALOM

The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest, Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full,-when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery, how much

The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!