What is this story, thus redolent of praise?
Why challenge Liberty herself to lend her voice?
Why must ye hallelujah anthems raise,
And bid the world in plaudits loud rejoice?
Why lift the banner with its star-lit folds,
And give it honors, grandest and the best,
Unless its blood-stripes and its stars of gold
Bring ransom to the toilers—to the weary rest?
O yes, there’s a secret in the stars
It was the emblem of our nation’s sire;
And from the record of his father’s stripes,
He gathered zeal which did his youth inspire.
Fearless and keen in the border battle,
Careless of risk while dealing blow for blow,
What did he care for yell or rifle-rattle
If he in peril only duty e’er could know!
As thus in youth he measured well his
And filled that measure ever full and true,
So then to him to lead the nation looked,
When all to arms in holy frenzy flew.
Great faith was that, to inspire our sires,
And honor him, so true, with chief command,
And fervid be our joy, while beacon-fires
Do honor to this hero through the land.
Strike, strike! O Liberty, thy silver
Bid nations many in the contest try!
Tell them, O, tell, of all thy mercy brings
For all that languish, be it far or nigh!
For all oppressed the time shall surely come,
When, stripped of fear, and hushed each plaintive cry,
All, all, will find in Washington
The model guide, for now—for aye, for aye.
* * * * *
A SUMMER ON THE GREAT LAKES.
By Fred. Myron Colby.
Where shall we go this year? is the annual recurring question as the summer heats draw near. We must go somewhere, for it will be no less unwholesome than unfashionable to remain in town. The body needs rest; the brain, no less wearied, unites in the demand for change, for recreation. A relief from the wear and tear of professional life is a necessity. The seaside? Cape May and York Beach are among our first remembrances. We believe in change. The mountains? Their inexhaustible variety will never pall, but then we have “done” the White Mountains, explored the Catskills, and encamped among the Adirondacks in years gone by. Saratoga? We have never been there, but we have an abhorrence for a great fashionable crowd. To say the truth, we are heartily sick of “summer resorts,” with their gambling, smoking, and drinking. The great watering-places hold no charms for us. “The world, the flesh, and the devil” there hold undisputed sway: we desire a gentler rule.
“What do you say to a trip on the Great Lakes?” suggests my friend, Ralph Vincent, with indefatigable patience.