321. At Port Royal The tent-lights glimmer on the land,
The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand
322. New Hampshire GOD bless New Hampshire! from her granite peaks
Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks.
The long-bound vassal of the exulting South
323. The Pine Tree LIFT again the stately emblem on the Bay State's rusted shield,
Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's tattered field.
Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board,
324. St. Martin's Summer Though flowers have perished at the touch
Of Frost, the early comer,
I hail the season loved so much,
325. A Memorial Oh, thicker, deeper, darker growing,
The solemn vista to the tomb
Must know henceforth another shadow,
326. The Two Angels God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above:
The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one was Love.
327. A Sabbath Scene SCARCE had the solemn Sabbath-bell
Ceased quivering in the steeple,
Scarce had the parson to his desk
328. The Bay Of Seven Islands FROM the green Amesbury hill which bears the name
Of that half mythic ancestor of mine
Who trod its slopes two hundred years ago,
329. Lexington 1775.
No Berserk thirst of blood had they,
330. Our River FOR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT 'THE LAURELS' ON THE MERRIMAC.
Once more on yonder laurelled height
331. Daniel Wheeler O Dearly loved!
And worthy of our love! No more
Thy aged form shall rise before
332. Barclay Of Ury Up the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
333. The Jubilee Singers VOICE of a people suffering long,
The pathos of their mournful song,
The sorrow of their night of wrong!
334. At Washington WITH a cold and wintry noon-light.
On its roofs and steeples shed,
Shadows weaving with t e sunlight
335. The Sisters ANNIE and Rhoda, sisters twain,
Woke in the night to the sound of rain,
336. Tauler Tauler, the preacher, walked, one autumn day,
Without the walls of Strasburg, by the Rhine,
Pondering the solemn Miracle of Life;
337. Arisen At Last I SAID I stood upon thy grave,
My Mother State, when last the moon
Of blossoms clomb the skies of June.
338. The Weary of jangling noises never stilled,
The skeptic's sneer, the bigot's hate, the din
Of clashing texts, the webs of creed men spin
339. The Witch's Daughter It was the pleasant harvest time,
When cellar-bins are closely stowed,
And garrets bend beneath their load,