Where'er a human heart doth wear Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves, After a life more true and fair, There is the true man's birth-place grand, His is a world-wide fatherland! Where'er a single slave doth pine, Where'er one man may help another, Thank God for such a birthright, brother, That spot of earth is thine and mine! There is the true man's birth-place grand, His is a world-wide fatherland! A PARABLE. WORN and footsore was the Prophet, When he gained the holy hill; "God has left the earth," he murmured, "Here his presence lingers still. “God of all the olden prophets, Wilt thou speak with men no more? Have I not as truly served thee, As thy chosen ones of yore? "Hear me, guider of my fathers, Lo! a humble heart is mine; By thy mercy I beseech thee, Grant thy servant but a sign!" Bowing then his head, he listened For an answer to his prayer; No loud burst of thunder followed, Not a murmur stirred the air : But the tuft of moss before him Opened, while he waited yet, And, from out the rock's hard bosom, Sprang a tender violet. "God! I thank thee," said the Prophet; "Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy. "Still thou speakest with thy children Humbleness, and love, and patience "Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things, 1842. Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me, “But I looked for signs and wonders, "In her hand she held a flower, Which, beside my very threshold, She had plucked and brought to me." |