Of England's battle-line.

They set their faces to the blast, They trod the eternal snow,

No wares hath she to barter
For Bothnia's fish and grain ;
She saileth not for pleasure,
She saileth not for gain.

But still by isle or mainland

She drops her anchor down, Where'er the British cannon

Rained fire on tower and town.

Outspake the ancient Amtman,
At the gate of Helsingfors :
"Why comes this ship a-spying
In the track of England's wars?"

213

The promised land below.

Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed
By many an icy horn;
Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed,
And green with vines and corn.

They left the Winter at their backs
To flap his baffled wing,
And downward, with the cataracts,
Leaped to the lap of Spring.

Strong leader of that mountain band,
Another task remains,

To break from Slavery's desert land
A path to Freedom's plains.

The winds are wild, the way is drear,
Yet, flashing through the night,
Lo icy ridge and rocky spear
Blaze out in morning light!

Rise up, FREMONT ! and go before;
The Hour must have its Man;
Put on the hunting-shirt once more,
And lead in Freedom's van!
8th mo., 1856.

"God bless the ship, I say. The holy angels trim the sails That speed her on her way!

"Where'er she drops her anchor,
The peasant's heart is glad ;
Where'er she spreads her parting sail,
The peasant's heart is sad.

"Each wasted town and hamlet

She visits to restore;
To roof the shattered cabin,

And feed the starving poor.

"The sunken boats of fishers,

The foraged beeves and grain,
The spoil of flake and storehouse,
The good ship brings again.
"And so to Finland's sorrow
The sweet amend is made,
As if the healing hand of Christ
Upon her wounds were laid!"

Then said the gray old Amtman,
"The will of God be done!
The battle lost by England's hate,
By England's love is won!

ACROSS the frozen marshes

The winds of autumn blow, And the fen-lands of the Wetter Are white with early snow. But where the low, gray headlands Look o'er the Baltic brine,

That thundered on our shore; But when did kindness fail to find The key to Finland's door?

"No more from Aland's ramparts

Shall warning signal come, Nor startled Sweaborg hear again The roll of midnight drum.

In judgment or in mercy: as for me, If but the least and frailest, let me be

The curse from off your soil;

Who find thy service perfect liberty!

And hear the song of April brooks!