In pastures green, O lead us still! 
And help us all to do thy will,
    And all our wants supply;
Help us in every grace to grow,
And when we quit thy fold below,
    Receive us all on high.

Then, by life’s river broad and bright,
Our blissful day will have no night;
    On that immortal plain
May all the Jackson scholars meet,
And all their loving teachers greet,
    And never part again.

THE INTELLECTUAL TELEGRAPH.

Addressed to Miss C. CASHO.

Dear friend!  O, how my blood warms at that word,
  And thrills and courses through my every vein;
My inmost soul, with deep emotion stirr’d—­
  Friend!  Friend! repeats it o’er and o’er again.

I’ll make a song of that sweet word, and sing
  It oft, to cheer me in my lonely hours,
Till list’ning hills, and dells, and woodlands ring,
  And echo answers, Friend! with all her powers.

’Tis truly strange, and strangely true; I doubt
  If any can explain, though all have seen,
How kindred spirits find each other out,
  Though deserts vast or oceans lie between.

Some golden sympathetic cords unseen,
  Unite their souls as if with bands of steel,
So finely strung, so sensitively keen,
  The slightest touch all in the circle feel.

Their pulses distance electricity,
  And leave the struggling solar rays behind,
The slightest throb pervades immensity,
  And instant reaches the remotest mind.

’Tis an inspiring, glorious thought to me,
  Which raises me above this earthly clod,
To think the cords which bind our souls may be
  Connected some way with the throne of God.

I sometimes think my wild and strange desires,
  And longings after something yet unknown,
Are currents passing on those hidden wires
  To lead me on and upward to that throne.

These visions often do I entertain,
  And, if they are but visions, and the birth
Of fancy, still they are not all in vain;
  They lift the soul above the things of earth.

They teach her how to use her wings though weak,
  And all unequal to the upward flight—­
The eaglet flaps upon the mountain peak,
  Then cleaves the heavens beyond our utmost sight.

LINES ON AN INDIAN ARROW-HEAD.

Rude relic of a lost and savage race! 
  Memento of a people proud and cold! 
Sole lasting monument to mark the place
  Where the red tide of Indian valor rolled.

Cold is the hand that fashion’d thee, rude dart! 
  Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow! 
And cold the dust of the heroic heart,
  Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow.

Unnumbered years have o’er their ashes flown;
  Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone;
All that remains is this rude pointed stone,
  To tell of nations mighty as our own.