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[Greenawalt <cap...@pe...>]

Ed king behind the throne;-- The sails were set, the pennons flew, And
westward ho! for worlds unknown. --And these were they who gave us
birth, The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, Who won for us this virgin
earth, And freedom with the soil they gave. The pastor slumbers by the
Rhine,-- In alien earth the exiles lie,-- Their nameless graves our
holiest shrine, His words our noblest battle-cry! Still cry them, and
the world shall hear, Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea! Ye _have_ not
built by Haerlem Meer, Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee! * * * * * ART.
THE HEART OF THE ANDES. We Americans, amidst the confusion and stir of
material interests, are not inattentive to the progress of those claims
whose growth is as silent as that of the leaves around us, and whose
values find no echo in Wall Street. With the spring there has bloomed in
New York a flower of no common beauty. All the fashion and influence
there have been to hail this growth of our soil at its cloistered home
in Tenth Street. There is but one opinion of the beauty and novelty of
the stranger. It is of the "Heart of the Andes," by Mr. Frederick E.
Church, we speak. This artist, now known for some years as he who has
with most daring tracked to its depths the witchery and wonder of our
summer skies, and the results of whose two visits to So