s every rational
intelligence, and sends it into the world, as if, "trailing clouds of
glory," we came "from God who is our home." We ask our writers for
children to throw this cheerful radiance upon the outset of their
pilgrimage, and relieve the sore pressure of care, and the anxious
burden of never ceasing responsibility, and the force of incessant
temptation, by the great and blessed conviction that we start from the
supreme good, and, if we go away from it, we not only come short of a
precious prize, but we forfeit a sacred birthright. All the ages,
nations, leaders, sages, heroes, apostles, have endowed us and our
children with a priceless heritage; and we are not to start in life as
if we were a set of beggars, aliens, slaves, or heathen. Rome has
thought to bless and enrich our America by putting the land under the
watch of the immaculate and supernatural Mother. I will not stop now to
fight against Rome, but will be content to say that our children have
from God a peculiar guardianship from the natural mother who bore them,
and from that natural humanity which is the daughter of God and the
recipient of all natural and supernatural graces. Mystical as this
thought may seem, when stated in general terms, every genuine American
poem and story is full of its meaning; and our best juvenile literature
is making it our household faith and love. We shall see good days, when
our children start from the true home feeling, and a sacred memory joins
hands with a brave and cheerful hope. Our good old mothers thought so;
and our books are good as they repeat their wisdom and renew their love.
We might weary our readers, if we tried to say what is in our minds of
the American mother in history, and the ideal mother that should charm
our books and pictures; but no more now.

DIOS TE DE.[1]

In the green and shadowy woodpath,
Where the Fly-bird's[2] golden hue,
Like a shower of broken fire,
Lights the forests of Peru,
'Mid primeval sward and tree,
Lives the bird, DIOS TE DE.

There the Indian hunter roaming
Softly through the massive shade,
By the Laurel and Cinchona
And the thick-leaved Balsam made,
Halts beneath the canopy
At the sounds, DIOS TE DE.

And the bow unbent reposes,
And the poisoned arrows rest,
And a gush of solemn feeling
Thrills with awe the savage breast,
While the bird unharmed and free
Rocks and sin