The nation’s strongest safeguards lie
In free and unencumbered homes;
Not in its hordes of vagrancy,
Nor in its proud, palatial domes;
Nor can the mercenary sword
  E’er cross with that the freeman draws. 
Nor oil upon the waters poured
  Perpetuate an unjust cause.

Eternal Justice, still prevail
  And stay this menace ere too late! 
Ere sturdy manhood droop and fail,
  The law, immutable, of fate;
No foe can daunt the stalwart heart
  Of him who guards that sacred ground
Where every hero owns a part,
  Where each an ample home has found.

No more shall battle’s lurid gleam
  The cloudless sky of peace obscure;
Nor blood becrimson field, or stream,
  Nor avarice grind down the poor;
But onward let thy progress be
  A pageant, beautiful and grand;
May He who e’er has guided thee
  Protect thee still, my native land!

Echoes from Galilee.

What means this gathering multitude,
  Upon thy shores, O, Galilee,
As various as the billows rude
  That sweep thy ever restless sea? 
    Can but the mandate of a King
    So varied an assemblage bring?

Behold the noble, rich, and great,
  From Levite, Pharisee and Priest,
Down to the lowest dregs of fate,
  From mightiest even to the least;
    Yes, in this motley throng we find
    The palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.

Is this some grand affair of state,
  A coronation, or display,
By some vainglorious potentate,—­
  Or can this concourse mark the day
    Of some victorious hero’s march
    Homeward, through triumphal arch?

Or, have they come to celebrate
  Some sacred sacerdotal rite;
By civic feast, to emulate
Some deed, on history’s pages bright? 
    Or can this grand occasion be
    Some battle’s anniversary?

But wherefore come the halt and blind? 
  What comfort can the pain-distressed
In such a tumult hope to find? 
  What is there here, to offer rest
    To those, whom adverse fate has hurled,
    Dismantled, on a hostile world?

Let us approach!  A form we see,
  Fairest beyond comparison;
For such an heavenly purity,
  From other eyes, hath never shown;
    Nor such a calm, majestic brow
    On earth hath ne’er appeared, till now.

Draw nearer.  Lo! a voice we hear,
  Resonant, soft, pathetic, sweet;
In ringing accents, calm and clear,
  He sways the thousands at his feet,
    With more than mortal eloquence,
    Or man’s compassion, in his glance.

Ah!  Strange, that such a form should stand
  In raiment soiled, and travel stained;
Yes, mark the contour of that hand,
  A hand by menial toil profaned. 
Can one from such a station reach
    All classes by sheer force of speech?

Can eloquence from mortal tongue
  Break through the barriers, which divide
The toiling and down-trodden throng
  From affluence, and official pride? 
    Then how can yonder speaker hold
    An audience so manifold?