Behold the young American, how cheerily he moves,
And proudly as a Paladin protecting those he loves!
His sinewy arm shall wrestle with nature for the spoil,
The giant trees shall feel his axe, his plough subdue the soil.
And now he eyes his waggon, with its snow-white cover veiled,
And steeds that like Bucephalus their master never failed.
But pride is merged in gladness, and his heart is beating high,
When through the veiling curtain, like stars in June's soft sky,
The loving eyes of childhood peer upon his way of toil,

And she, his gentle wife, looks forth to bless him with her smile;
Or by his side in pleasant talk they cheer the weary way,
And through the grand old forest aisles like Nature's pilgrims stray.

She smiles, that gentle lady, and yet a sigh will come,
When rises on her reverie the cherished scenes of home;
The clear and calm Connecticut, the school-house in the glade,
The church upon the village green, the old elm's chequered shade ;
The seat beneath the hawthorn when summer days were long,
The seat beside the hearth-stone when winter winds were strong;
The friends;-but here she pauses and forces back the tear,-
Her husband is beside her, and shall she grieve or fear?
Her husband is beside her, their children at her knee,

They go with blessings dowered to gain the birthright of the free;
A sovereignty unchallenged by earthly king or lord,—

A home of peace and plenty, brave Labor's just reward.

With Freedom's banner o'er them what foe will dare molest,
And in God's forest Temple how sweet the Sabbath rest!
And so in faith, in hope and love those Pioneers move on,
As though an angel led the way, toward the setting sun.

IX.

'Tis thus the Pilgrim spirit spreads,
And like the sun's uprising sheds
New joy and life along its way,
While subject nature owns its sway.

Still pressing onward far and fast,
The Alleghany's heights are passed;
And Mississippi's Valley vast,

Where Gaul and Britain, side by side,
And the Germanic Empire wide,

Might all find ample room and verge,
Now to the conquering hand of Toil
Render a richer harvest spoil

Than warrior's sword has ever reaped
From cities sacked and corpses heaped!

While every day new victors press

With courage to command success,

Borne on fresh life's strong, swelling tide.

X.

And what shall bar the victor's way?
Or who shall bid the surges stay?
Over the Rocky Mountains' height,
Like ocean in its tided might,

The living stream rolls onward, on ;—
And onward, on, that stream will pour,
And reach the far Pacific shore,

And fill the Plains of Oregon!

XI.

'Tis sweet to feel the breezes play, As eve succeeds to sultry day,

And bids the drooping world revive;

And sweet to see the morning light,

That wakes the sick to hopes more bright,

And shows the loved may live.

But sweeter dawns the Day of Rest
On forest glade and prairie breast,

And cheerful village neighborhood;

And o'er the city's crowded courts,
Her toiling streets and traffic ports,

Where tumult seems like solitude-
The stillness falls like dewy showers,
And gladdens faith's forsaken flowers,
And from the hushed and peaceful calm
The thirsty soul drinks heavenly balm.
And as the bell, like warder lone,
Breathes on the air its spirit tone,

And tells the toiling week is past,
What sweet relief the thought imparts
To burdened minds and weary hearts,
That all are called and free to cast
The weight of worldly cumberings by,
And seize, as 'twere the angel's wing,
That can each earnest votary bring
Nearer the heaven from whence it came
To hear on earth the Savior's name,
And bear the tidings to the sky,

That one great People bow to God's behest

Of cheerful week-day work and holy Sabbath Rest.

MY LIBRARY.

REV. ABEL STEVENS.

"On booke for to rede I me delite,

And to them give I faithe and full credence,

And in my heart have them in reverence."-CHAUcer.

In all my changes I have kept sacredly my books. How many happy hours do I owe them! In many a long journey, on horseback, in the wilderness, have I beguiled the weary day by converse with a favorite author. In sickness they have relieved me more than medicine; in sorrow they have been my solace; and in poverty my riches: and now, as I sit penning these lines, they are round about me, looking like the familiar faces of old friends, full of love, tried and true. Like the men who write them, they are of all characters, but we may select them as we choose our friends; and when once we select good ones, unlike men, they vary not, but are steadfast in their integrity.

I can never be solitary with good books about me; blessed society are they, ready at any moment to listen to our inquiries, and entertain us with their tranquil con

verse. By biographies, I can assemble round my winter hearth the men whose thoughts have stirred nations and impelled ages. While living, their company and converse were enjoyed only by those who moved in the same sphere of life; but in books they obey my bidding, and, divested of those forms of life which would only have embarrassed me, they become familiar friends, and teach me the lessons of their wisdom.

I have a few volumes of history. They crowd ages of existence into my evening hours: fields, cities, realms, with their armies, arts, and revolutions pass before me, within my humble walls, like a magnificent drama.

I have books of travel. Though their authors are in their graves, I have only to open their pages, when, as by magic, they appear before me; and I attend with breathless interest to the recital of their voyages, their adventures, the countries they visited, and all the scenes of novelty and marvel they witnessed. Thus in a few hours I sail over seas, and travel over continents, enjoying all the pleasures, and suffering none of the perils of the journey.

I have a few good volumes of poetry. The language of harmony and the bright ideals of genius, are addressed by them to the deepest susceptibilities of my heart.

I have books of religion. In them, men who have gone up to Heavon still instruct me in the way thither, and console me in the trials of my pilgrimage. And, above all, in the Book of books I have an exhaustless treasurethe most simple and beautiful construction of the English