ODE TO PEACE.
DAUGHTER of God! that sit'st on high
Amid the dances of the sky,
And guidest with thy gentle sway
The planets on their tuneful way;
Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again
The smile of thy most holy face,
From thine ethereal dwelling-place,
Rejoice the wretched, weary race

Of discord-breathing men?
Too long, O gladness-giving Queen!
Thy tarrying in heaven has been;
Too long o'er this fair blooming world
The flag of blood has been unfurled,

Polluting God's pure day;

Whilst, as each maddening people reels, War onward drives his scythéd wheels, And at his horses' bloody heels

Shriek Murder and Dismay.

Oft have I wept to hear the cry
Of widow wailing bitterly;
To see the parent's silent tear
For children fallen beneath the spear;
And I have felt so sore

The sense of human guilt and woe,
That I, in Virtue's passioned glow,
Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)
The shape of man I bore!

Then come from thy serene abode,
Thou gladness-giving child of God!
And cease the world's ensanguined strife,
And reconcile my soul to life;

For much I long to see,
Ere I shall to the grave descend,
Thy hand its blessed branch extend,
And to the world's remotest end
Wave Love and Harmony!

WILLIAM TENNENT.

HYMN OF PEACE.

ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! |

Come while our voices are blended in song, Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove, Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove,

Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love; Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long! Brothers, we meet on this altar of thine, Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine,

Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea! Meadow and mountain, and forest and sea! Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Sweeter the incense we offer to thee,

Brothers, once more round this altar of thine!

Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain !

Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky! Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main, Bid the full breath of the organ reply;

Let the loud tempest of voices reply;

Roll its long surge like the earth-shaking main! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky! Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and arméd hands Encountered in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ;

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say, - past friendship to renew,

Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, And guessed some infant hand had placed it there, And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose; My heart felt everything but calm repose; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, And thought upon the past with shame and pain; I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused, And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared. In stepped my father with convulsive start, And in an instant clasped me to his heart. Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid; And stooping to the child, the old man said, "Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again; This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." The child approached, and with her fingers light Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be? Happy old soldier! what's the world to me?

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing,
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here;