,
The ploughman lies dumb.

Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,
O dreary death-train,
With pressed lips as bloodless
As lips of the slain!
Kiss down the young eyelids,
Smooth down the gray hairs;
Let tears quench the curses
That burn through your prayers.

Strong man of the prairies,
Mourn bitter and wild!
Wail, desolate woman!
Weep, fatherless child!
But the grain of God springs up
From ashes beneath,
And the crown of His harvest
Is life out of death.

Not in vain on the dial
The shade moves along
To point the great contrasts
Of right and of wrong:
Free homes and free altars
And fields of ripe food;
The reeds of the Swan's Marsh,
Whose bloom is of blood.

On the lintels of Kansas
That blood shall not dry;
Henceforth the Bad Angel
Shall harmless go by:
Henceforth to the sunset,
Unchecked on her way,
Shall Liberty follow
The march of the day.

YOUTH.

The ancient statue of Minerva, in the Villa Albani, was characterized
as the Goddess of Wisdom by an aged countenance. Phidias reformed this
idea, and gave to her beauty and youth. Previous artists had imitated
Nature too carelessly,--not deeply perceiving that wisdom and virtue,
striving in man to resist senescence and decay, must in a goddess
accomplish their purpose, and preserve her in perpetual bloom. Yet
even decay and disease are often ineffectual; the young soul gleams
through these impediments, and would be poorly expressed in figures of
age. Accepting, therefore, this ideal representation, age and wisdom
can never be companions; youth is wise, and age is imbecile.

Our childhood grows in value as we grow in years. It is to that time
that every one refers the influence which reaches to his present and
somehow moulds it. It may have been an insignificant circumstance,--a
word,--a book,--praise or reproof; but from it has flowed all that he
is. We should seem ridiculous in men's eyes, were we known to give
that importance to certain trifles which in our private and inmost
thought they really have. Each finds somewhat in his childhood
peculiar and remarkable, on which he loves to dwell. It gives him a
secret importance in his own eyes, and he bears it about with him as a
kind of inspiring genius. Intimations of his destiny, gathered from
early memories, float dimly before him, and are ever beckoning him on.
That which he really is no one kno