Not for their hearths and homes alone,
But for the world their work was done;
On all the winds their thought has flown
Through all the circuit of the sun.
We trace its flight by broken chains,
By songs of grateful Labor still;
To-day, in all her holy fanes,
It rings the bells of freed Brazil.
O hills that watched his boyhood's home,
O earth and air that nursed him, give,
In this memorial semblance, room
To him who shall its bronze outlive!
And thou, O Land he loved, rejoice
That in the countless years to come,
Whenever Freedom needs a voice,
These sculptured lips shall not be dumb!
THE TENT ON THE BEACH
It can scarcely be necessary to name as the two companions whom I
reckoned with myself in this poetical picnic, Fields the lettered
magnate, and Taylor the free cosmopolite. The long line of sandy
beach which defines almost the whole of the New Hampshire sea-coast
is especially marked near its southern extremity, by the
salt-meadows of Hampton. The Hampton River winds through these
meadows, and the reader may, if he choose, imagine my tent pitched
near its mouth, where also was the scene of the _Wreck of
Rivermouth_. The green bluff to the northward is Great Boar's Head;
southward is the Merrimac, with Newburyport lifting its steeples
above brown roofs and green trees on banks.
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