A Welcome to Mrs. H. B. Stowe, on her Return from Europe.

She comes, she comes, o'er the bounding wave, Borne swift as an eagle's flight; She comes, the tried friend of the slave,— Truth's champion for the right. Not as the blood-stained warrior comes, With shrill-sounding fife and drums; But peaceful by our quiet homes, The conquering heroine comes. Then welcome to our Pilgrim shore, Tho' sad affliction[6] meet thee; Three million welcomes from God's poor, The south winds bear, to greet thee. To thee, with chain-linked hearts we come, Which naught but death can sever, To thank thee for thy "Uncle Tom," Thy gentle-hearted "Eva." When the crushed slave himself shall own, Three million fetters broken, Shall mount before thee, to the Throne; Of thy true life, the token. Then welcome to our northern hills; Thy own New England dwelling; The birds, the trees, the sparkling rills, All, are thy welcome swelling.