»% * * * * • • • is&si^&i^^i^* © © re i«S f • i»^ V*J "*$* ^mm. 'rar^SSU. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ©^ap ©ojHjrtigljt 3§ u..JL». Shelf UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. i^r; J'J I'll oo \mm r M V ^ En^liy H3.HaH & Soils, TOT, M^^v^m W. J(nu TIFFANY'S Diamonds of Poetry and Prose, COMPRISING THE MOST UNIQUE, TOUCHING, PITHY, AND BEAUTIFUL LITERARY TREASURES. ICLEfiANTU mUlTSTHATED. Among the Brilliant Men and Women of Genius whose Very Choicest Productions enrich these pages are Shakespeare, Milton, Moore, Burns, Bryant, Byron, Shelley, Scott, Campbell, Hood, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Tennyson, Holmes, Hemans, Whittier, Saxe, Sigourney, Dickens, Lover, Everett, Bret Harte, Franklin, Macaulay, and about Two Hundred other Authors of established Fame. MANY RARE AND EXCELLENT PIECES OF PECULIAR MERIT WHOSE AUTHORSHIP IS UNKNOWN are included, MAKING A WONDERFULLY RICH Treasury for the Home Circle. • Rev, O. H. TIFFANY, 13. D., Editor. JUL 23 1887 . PHILADELPHIA: HUBBARD BROTHERS, Publishers. \ Ytt to !*■ ■A. ) Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by Hubbard Brothers, in the Office oi the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. s Publkhepg' Prefaee. -5*r- )N preparing "Diamonds of Poetry and Prose," the Publishers have co- operated heartily with the Editor in his effort to produce a book of unequalled excellence. He has gathered the "apples of gold;" they have set them in " pictures of silver." Particular attention has been given to every detail of the pub- lication. Paper has been prepared expressly for this volume. Its texture is firm and durable; its surface is elegantly finished; and its tone is delicate and pleasing to the eye. Typographical effects have been carefully studied at every point, the aim being to secure beauty in the page, with the greatest possible comfort to the reader. In the matter of binding, materials have been selected with reference to durability and elegant appearance, while the workmanship is in the best style of the art. 9 10 publishers' preface. Illustrative art has been taxed to the utmost in the adornment of the book, and in its pictorial embellishment. At greatly increased editorial and pecuniary expense, the illustrations are all made to elucidate the various poems and prose pieces of the text. They form an artistic commentary on the choice subject-matter, and give a charming and picturesque effect to the entire work. In addition to the numerous full-page illustrations, and those of smaller size, there is a superb steel-plate Frontispiece of Longfellow, the world- renowned and beloved American poet. Among the distinguished artists whose pictorial gems adorn these pages, are Bensell, Darley, Grey, Hill, Hennessey, Heine, Herrick, Kensett, Linton, Macdonough, McEntee, Moran, Parsons, Smillie, Sooy, Schell, Sweeney (Boz.), and many others equally skillful. In short, whatever care and generous expenditure has been able to do to secure completeness and elegance, has been done in this volume, and it is now presented to the consideration of an appreciative public. INDEX OF AUTHORS. ( PROSE) A.DELEB, Max, (Charles Heber Clarke). Catching the Morning Train . . 61 Andeesen, Hans Cheistian. The Little Match Girl 156 Anonymous. The Generous Soldier Saved . . 91 Jimmy Butler and the Owl . . . 101 Good-night Papa, . 118 Too Late for the Train 125 Yankee and the Dutchman's Dog. 131 United in Death 137 De Pint wid Old Pete ..... 143 Jenkins goes to a Picnic .... 163 Pledge with Wine . . . . . . 166 The Old Wife's Kiss ...... 244 The Last Station 271 Schooling a Husband 313 Lord Dundreary at Brighton . . 363 Regulus to the Roman Senate . . 370 Hypochondriac ........ 403 Mariner's description of Piano . 495 A Husband's Experience in Cook ing 519 The Life of a Child Fairy ... 529 Selling a Coat ........ 585 My Mother's Bible ...... 311 The Noble Revenge 624 The Grotto of Antiparos .... 636 Fingal's Cave 648 Winter Sports 667 Bailey, J. M., (Danbury News Man). Mr. Stiver's Horse ...... 112 Sewing on a Button ...... "169 Baxtee, Richaed. The Rest of the Just 545 Beechee, Heney Waed. 'Biah Cathcart's Proposal. . . . 293 Death of President Lincoln . . . 598 Loss of the Arctic ....... 683 Beekley, Bishop Geoege. Industry the Source of Wealth . 180 15 16 AUTHORS OF PROSE. Billings, Josh, (Henry W. Shaw). Manifest Destiny 457 Beown, Chaeles F., (Artemus Ward). Artemus Ward at the Tomb of Shakespeare ....... 152 Artemus Ward visits the Shakers 420 Bueke, Edmund. The Order of Nobility ..... 227 On the Death of his Son . . . . 231 Bunyan, John. The Golden City . . . . . . . 303 Bakee, Edwaed Dickinson. Worse than Civil War ..... 516 Chapin, Rev. Dr. Edwin Hubbell. The Ballot-Box ........ 617 Choate, Rufus. The Birth-day of Washington . 444 Clemens, Samuel L., (Mark Twain). Uncle DanTs Apparition and Prayer 121 European Guides 211 Jim Smiley's Frog ...... 510 Buck Fanshaw's Funeral . . „ . 671 Cozzens, Feedeeick S. The Dumb-Waiter ....... 279 Ceolt, Geoege. Constantius and the Lion . . . 239 Cumming, Rev. John, D. D. Voices of the Dead ...... 298 Cuetis, Geoege William. Ideas the Life of a People . . . 440 Dickens, Chaeles. Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma . . 71 Death of Little Joe 134 The Drunkard's Death ..... 189 Death of Little Nell 256 Pip's Fight 287 Recollections of my Christmas Tree 307 A Child's Dream of a Star . . . 345 The Pauper's Funeral ..... 365 Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room 375 Nicholas Nickleby leaves Dothe- boys' Hall ,399 Sam Weller's Valentine. .... 532 Diseaeli, Benjamin. T'he Hebrew Race 67 Jerusalem by Moonlight .... 568 De Quincet, Thomas. Execution of Joan of Arc. . . „ 145 DOUGHEETY, DANIEL. Pulpit Oratory ........ 81 Dwight, Timothy. The Notch of the White Moun- tains „ . „ . 423 Emmet, Robeet. A Patriot's Last Appeal .... 546 Emeeson, Ralph Waldo. Self-Reliance ......... 607 Eveeett, Edwaed, Hon. LL.D. Last Hours of Webster .... 153 Morning 355 The Indian to the Settler .... 463 The Pilgrim Fathers 524 The Clock-work of the Skies . . 630 Feanklin, Benjamin. Arrival in Philadelphia. .... 657 Feoude, James Anthony. The Coronation of Anne Boleyn 194 Gaefield, James A., President. Golden Gems (Selected from Ora- tions and Writings) .... 640 Geeenwood, Feancis W. P. Poetry and Mystery of the Sea . 175 Gough, John B. Buying Gape-seed 57. What is a Minority 270 Halibueton, Thomas C Soft Sawder and Human Natur. 646 Heevey, James. Meditation at an Infant's Tomb 321 Hawthoene, Nathaniel. Sights from a Steeple ..... 470 Holland, Josiah Gilbeet. Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 201 Holmes, Olivee Wendell. The Front and Side Doors ... 43 Sea-shore and Mountains . . . . 415 Howitt, Mes. Maey. Mountains .......... 427 Hugo, Victoe. Caught in the Quicksand .... 223 The Gamin .......... 275 Rome and Carthage ...... 350 AUTHORS OF PROSE. 17 Irving, Edward. David, King of Israel . . . . . 486 Irving, Washington. Baltus Van Tassel's Farm ... 49 Sorrow for the Dead ...... 88 Rural Life in England 284 A Time of Unexampled Prosperity 448 The Organ of Westminster Abbey 474 Sights on the Sea 574 The Tombs of Westminster . . 621 Jefferson, Thomas. The Character of Washington . 559 Jerrold, Douglas. Winter 55 Mrs. Caudle needs Spring Clothing 478 Mrs. Caudle on Shirt Buttons . . 499 Jones, J. William. The Responsive Chord 614 Kane, Elisha Kent. Formation of Icebergs .... - 627 Arctic Life . . . . 652 Kelly, Rev. William V. Sunrise at Sea . , . .... . . 337 Lamartine. Execution of Madame Roland . . 686 Landor, Walter Savage. The Genius of Milton . . . . . 487 Lincoln, Abraham. Dedication at Gettysburg . ; . . 141 Retribution 162 Macaulay, Thomas Babington. The Puritans 182 Milton. . . . 232 Images ........... 264 Tacitus ........... 390 Massillon, Jean Baptiste. Immortality 207 MacLean, Mrs. Letitia E. The Ruined Cottage 96 Milton, John. The Freedom of the Press ... 172 Truth . 198 Moseley, Litchfield The Charity Dinner 326 Making Love in a Balloon . . . 590 Park, Mungo. African Hospitality 66 Parker, Theodore. The Beauty of Youth ... .697 Phillips, Wendell. Political Agitation 506 Poe, Edgar A. The Domain of Arnheim .... 433 Poole, John. Old Coaching Days 579 Porter, Noah. Advice to Young Men 598 Prime, William C. Morality of Angling .... 39 Habits of Trout 643 Prentiss, S. S. New England. . , 105 Purchas, Samuel. Praise of the Sea 75 Richter, Jean Paul. The Two Roads 109 Riddle, Mrs. J. H. The Ghosts of Long Ago .... 99 Russell, William H. The Light Brigade at Balaklava 58 Ruskin, John. Improving on Nature . . . . ". 503 Book Buyers 660 Selected. Gathered Gold Dust 48 Diamond Dust 521 Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Divinity of Poetry . . . . 394 Shillaber, B. P., (Mrs. Partington.) Mouse Hunting 217 Sprague, William B. Voltaire and Wilberforce . . . 661 Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn. Children of the Desert 385 Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher. Zeph Higgins' Confession . . . 248 The Little Evangelist 359 Sumner, Charles. Progress of Humanity ..... 453 Scott, Sir Walter. Rebecca Describes the Siege ) . . 539 Talmage, Rev. T. De Witt, D. D. Dress Reform 550 Mother's Vacant Chair .... 555 Grandmother's Spectacles .... 675 Shooting Porpoises 704 18 AUTHORS OF PROSE. Taeson, Chaeles. Scene at Niagara ........ 234 Taylor, Jeeemy. Useful Studies ......... 292 Waenee, Chaeles Dudley. Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer 121 The Coming of Thanksgiving . . . 148 Our Debt to Irving 563 Washington, Geoege. Address to his Troops 408 Inaugural Address „ 603 Webstee, Daniel. Crime Self-Revealed 632 Whitchee, Feances Miriam. The Widow Bedott's Poetry . . 82 Whitney, Mes. Adeline D. T The Little Rid Hin . . « . 482 Whipple, Edwin P. The Power of Words. . . , . . 665 Wiet, William. The Blind Preacher .... . . 186 Wiley, Chaeles A. Caught in the Maelstrom . . . 412 Wylie, J. A. Defence of Pra Del Tor . . . . 690 INDEX OF AUTHORS. (POETRY) Adams, Charles F. The Puzzled Dutchman 151 Pat's Criticism 154 The Little Conqueror . . . . . 165 Der Drummer 297 Hans and Fritz ........ 311 Leedle Yawcob Strauss. .... 418 Addison, Joseph. Cato on Immortality 391 Akers, Elizabeth. Rock me to Sleep, Mother . . . 274 Alexander, Mrs. C. F. The Burial of Moses 289 Alger, H., Jr. John Maynard 406 Alger, William P., (Translator). The Sufi Saint 284 The Parting Lovers 356 Altbnburg, Michael. Battle Song of Gustavus Adol- phus 430 Anacreon. The Grasshopper King 42 Anonymous. Shall we know each other there ? 69 Song of the Decanter 87 The Farmer and the Counsellor . 100 Charley's Opinion of the Baby . 120 Socrates Snooks 124 Papa's Letter .... . . 168 Betty and the Bear 171 Love lightens Labor ..... 182 " Love me little Love me long ". 191 Scatter the Germs of the Beautiful 195 Old School Punishment The Poor Indian . Two Little Kittens Motherhood . . . Roll on thou Sun . Twenty Years Ago The Nation's Dead Call me not Dead . The Sufi Saint . . Putting up o' the Stove The Engineer's Story The Baggage Fiend . 209 227 229 229 234 261 266 269 284 290 295 300 19 20 AUTHORS OF POEMS. The Song of the Forge ... . 304 Civil War 318 Go feel what I have felt . . . . 3 IS Paddy's Excelsior ...... 323 Chinese Excelsior 324 Father Time's Changeling . . . 324 Prayers of Children 329 Now I lay me down to sleep . . 332 The Frenchman and the Rats . 335 The Parting Lovers . ..... 356 Annie Laurie 385 A Kiss at the Door 401 Clerical Wit . 401 Lines on a Skeleton 417 Song of the Stormy Petrel . . . 440 Paying her Way 452 The Chemist to his Love . . . . 469 No Sects in Heaven ...... 500 Evening brings us Home . . . 502 John Jankin's Sermon .... 543 The Laugh of a Child . . . . . 549 Dot Lambs what Mary Haf Got 567 St. John the Aged ....... 575 " The Penny ye meant to Gi'e." 581 The Mystic Weaver 587 Mrs. Lofty and I . 596 Our Skater Belle . 597 Searching for the Slain .... 602 The True Temple 615 The Drummer Boy ...... 616 Two Views 625 Our Lambs 629 Dorothy Sullivan 685 The Eggs and the Horses .... 694 The Maple Tree ........ 699 A Woman's Love . . . . . . . 702 A Mother's Love ....... 703 Arkwright, Peleg. Poor Little Joe 358 Allingham, William. The Fairies 515 Arnold, Edwin, (Translator). Call me not Dead ....... 269 Arnold, George. The Jolly Old Pedagogue, ... 258 A-Ytoune, William E. The Buried Flower ...*.. 272 Bache, Anna. The Quilting . 56 Barnard, Lady Anne. Auld Robin Gray ....... 173 Beattie, James. The Hermit ......... 595 Law 679 Bell, Chas. A. Tim Twinkleton'p '„ vrins ... 106 Bernard De Morlaix. - The Celestial Country ..... 650 BlCKERSTETH, EDWARD. The Ministry of Jesus ..... 703 Blake, William. The Tiger . 357 Boker, George H. Battle of Lookout Mountain , . 570 BONAR, HORATIUS. Life from Death. ....... 170 Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping , 268 Brainard, Mary G. He Knows 577 Brooks, Charles T., (Translator). Winter Song 596 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. Sonnet from the Portuguese . . 370 A Portrait . • . 388 The Cry of the Children .... 699 Brown, Emma Alice. Measuring the Baby ..... 520 Bryant, Wm. Cullen. Forest Hymn 37 Waiting by- the Gate 77 Song of Marion's Men 133 Thanatopsis , „ . . 214 " Blessed are they that Mourn ". 242 The Death of the Flowers ... 349 Robert of Lincoln 387 The Murdered Traveler .... 402 To a Water Fowl ....... 526 The Crowded Streets ..... 567 God in the Seas , 694 Buchanan, Robert. Nell. 393 Bungay, George William. The Creeds of the Bells , ... 309 Burns, Robert. Highland Mary. ....... 262 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo. 336 John Anderson. My Jo 466 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 21 Byron, Lord George Gordon. The Orient 224 The Sea 262 The Destruction of Sennacherib 296 His Latest Verses 484 Campbell, Thomas. Lord Ullin's Daughter 551 The Soldier's Dream 578 Canning, George. The Needy Knife-Grinder ... 228 Cary, Phoebe. Kate Ketchem 461 Dreams and Realities 485 Cary, Alice. My Creed 266 Carleton, Will. M. Gone with a handsomer Man . . 139 Goin' Home To-day 265 Betsy and I are out 381 Betsey Destroys the Paper . . . 383 The New Church Organ .... 588 Over the Hills to the Poor-House 679 Out of the Old House, Nancy . . 697 Case, Phila H. Nobody's Child ......... 302 Catlin, George L. The Fire-Bell's Story 554 Bread on the Waters ..... 612 Chalkhill, John, (Isaak Walton). The Angler 205 ClBBER, COLLEY. The Blind Boy 365 Cleveland, E. H. J. Shibboleth 583 Clough, Arthur Hugh. As Ships Becalmed 422 COATES, REYNELL. The Gambler's Wife 688 Cobb, Henry N. Father, Take my Hand .... 333 The Gracious Answer 334 Collins, William. Sleep of the Brave ...... 605 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Sunrise in Valley of Chamounix 663 Coles, Abraham, (Translator). Dies Irae . 456 Stabat Mater 504 Cook, Eliza. The Old Arm-Chair .... .285 Cooke, Philip P. Florence Vane 281 Coolidge, Susan. When 450 Cornwall, Barry, (Bryan W. Procter). The Blood Horse 42 The Poet's Song to his Wife . . 68 The Sea 362 The Owl 422 The Stormy Petrel ...... 439 Cranch, Christopher Pearse. By the Shore of the River ... 517 Cunningham, Allan. A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 587 Cutter, George W. The Miser 226 Dana, Richard Henry. The Pleasure. Boat ...,.., 60 Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanovitch. God 537 Dobell, Sydney. How's my Boy ? . . 353 Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes. Learning to Pray 331 The Minuet 340 Drake, Joseph Rodman. The American Flag ...... 467 Donnelly, Eleanor C. Vision of Monk Gabriel .... 659 Dufferin, Lady. Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 62 Duryea, Rev. William E. A Song for Hearth and Home . 548 Eager, Cora M. The Ruined Merchant 197 Eastman, Charles Gamage. A Snow-Storm 409 Effie, Aunt. The Dove Cote 232 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. The Snow-Storm. ....... 63 Mountain and Squirrel .... 590 Fawcett, Edgar. A Prayer for my Little One. . - 682 Fields, James T. The Tempest ......... 208 Ford, Mary A. A Hundred Years from Now . . 187 22 AUTHORS OF POEMS. Freiligrath, Ferdinand. The Lion's Ride 45o Freneau, Philip. Indian Death Song 518 Gage, Mrs. F. D. The Housekeeper's Soliloquy. . 78 Gardette, C. D. The Fire-Fiend 160 Garrett, Edward. The Unbolted Door 129 Gerot, Paul. The Children's Church 692 Gilman, Caroline. The American Boy 268 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. The Soul of Eloquence 97 The Church Window 358 Goddard, Julia. Hide and Seek 454 Goodrich, Orrin . Borrioboola Gha 525 Grahame, James, Rev. The Sabbath ' 610 Gray, Thomas. Elegy in a Country Church- Yard. 203 Hart, T. B. The Reveille 618 Harte, Francis Bret. Miss Edith helps things Along . 254 Fate 258 Jim 339 Dow's Flat 426 Bill Mason's Bride 518 Havergal, Frances Ridley. The Lull of Eternity 626 Hay, John. The Law of Death 547 Heine, Heinrich. The Fisher's Cottage .'..;. 253 Hemans, Felicia Dorothea. The Homes of England 64 Landing of the Pilgrims .... 205 The Meeting of the Ships ... 230 Hour of Death ........ 674 Henderson, William H. " No more Sea." 644 Heywood, Thomas. Song of Birds 374 Holland, Josiah Gilbert. Cradle Song 277 Gradatim . . 558 Where Shall Baby's Dimple Be? 689 Holmes, C. E. L. You put no Flowers on my Papa's Grave . 192 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. The wonderful One-hose Shay . 69 Under the Violets 267 Union and Liberty 273 A Tailor's Poem on Evening . . 445 Bill and Joe 458 The Last Leaf 542 Hood, Thomas. The Death-Bed 199 The Comet 260 I Remember 273 The Song of the Shirt ..... 282 The Bridge of Sighs 354 Ruth 367 Faithless Nelly Gray 405 No . 506 Nocturnal Sketch.. 609 Holty, Ludwig. Winter Song 596 Hoyt, Ralph. Old 431 Hugo, Victor. TheDjinns 468 Hunt, Leigh. Abou Ben Adhem 225 Ingelow, Jean. When Sparrows Build 471 Seven Times Two 619 Jones, J. A. The Gladiator 565 Jones, Sir William. What Constitutes a State? . . . 367 Key, Francis Scott. The Star-Spangled Banner . . . 466 King, Henry. Life 642 Kingsley, Charles. The Lost Doll. ........ 341 The Sands o' Dee 392 The Merry Lark 463 Knox, William. Why should the Spirit of mortal be Proud ? 411 Korner, Charles Theodore. Sword Song 312 Lampertius. A German Trust Song 589 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 23 Leighton, Robert. John and Tibbie Davison's Dispute 572 Leland, Chaeles G., (Translator). The Fisher's Cottage ...... 253 Levee, Chaeles James. Widow Malone 375 LONGFELLOW, HENEY WADSWOETH. The Old Clock on the Stairs. . . 40 The Bridge 51 The Rainy Day . . 88 Embarkation of the Exiles. . . 90 The Silent River 220 A Psalm of Life 241 Maidenhood 246 Resignation 251 Excelsior 322 Hiawatha's Journey 342 Hiawatha's Wooing 344 Hiawatha's Return 345 The Launching of the Ship. . . 389 The Arsenal at Springfield . . . 424 God's Acre 498 Evangeline on the Prairie. . . . 505 Day-dawn . 549 The Children's Hour 656 The Chamber Over the Gate . . 693 I The Day is Done ....... 706 Lovee, Samuel. The Angel's Whisper ..... 277 Lowell, James Russell. The First Snow-fall 137 The Rose 669 Lowey, Rev. Robeet, D. D. I Love the Morning Sunshine . . 275 Dust on her Bible 666 Lynn, Ethel. Why? 655 Lytton, Loed Edwabd Bulweb. There is no Death 451 Macdonald, Geoege. Baby , 82 Mackay, Chaeles. Little and Great 441 Cleon and 1 597 Clear the Way . 623 Mignonette, May. Over the Hills from Poor-House . 681 Millee, Joaquin. Kit Carson's Ride . 472 2 Millee, William E. Wounded. .......... 188 Milman, Heney Haet.. Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem. . • 502 MlLNES, RlCHAED MoNCKTON. London Churches ,..•••. 237 The Brook Side. ....... 247 Mitchell, William. The Palace o' the King, , ... 286 M'Callum, D. C. The Water-Mill , ....... 200 M'Keevee. Haeeiet B. The Moravian Requiem . , . . 225 Snow-flakes. ...... v . . 243 MONTGOMEEY, JAMES. My Country ......... 179 Servant of God, well done . , - 254 Night , . 301 The Pelican ......... 446 Mooee, Thomas. The Home of Peace ...... 337 The Meeting of the Waters. . . 484 The Light-House ....... 513 Echoes . 645 Moeeis, Geoege P. My Mother's Bible 523 Moulteie, John. The Three Sons . . 528 Muhlenbeeg, Rev. William A., D.D. I would not live alway. .... 353 Mulock, Dinah Maeia. Buried To-day ........ 243 Munfobd, William. To a Friend in Affliction .... 689 Naiene, Lady Caeolina. The Land o' the Leal . . , . . 421 Noeton, Caeoline E. Bingen on the Rhine. ..... 86 The King of Denmark's Ride. . 378 O'Beien, Fitz James. The Cave of Silver ...... 362 Osgood, Feances S. Labor is Worship 619 Palmee, John W. For Charlie's Sake. ...... 641 Payne, John Howaed. Home, Sweet Home ...... 628 24 / AUTHORS OF POEMS. Pebcival, James Gates. The Coral Grove 678 Pettee, Geoege W. Sleighing Song ........ 338 Pieepont, John". Not on the Battle-field. .... 531 Poe s Edgae Allen, The Raven t •. . 158 Annabel Lee . 553 The Bells .......... 593 Pollaed, Josephine. The First Party 414 Pbentiss, E. The Mystery of Life in Christ . 233 Peeston, Maegaeet J. The Hero of the Commune . . . 278 Feiest, Nancy Amelia Woodbuey. Over the River 142 Peoctoe, Adelaide Anne. A Legend of Bregenz 52 A First Sorrow ........ 179 A Woman's Question 356 Per Pacem ad Lucem 553 The Angel's Story. 637 Peout, Fathee. The Bells of Shandon. ..... 573 Raleigh, Sie Waltee. The Nymph's Reply to the Shep- herd ........... 381 Ralph, Rev. W. S. Whistling in Heaven 116 Raymond, Rossitee W. Ramblings in Greece ...... 696 Read, Thomas Buchanan. Drifting 210 Sheridan's Ride. ....... 536 The Closing Scene. 556 Robbins, Alice. Left Alone at Eighty ..... 372 Joe ....... . 514 ROSENGAETEN. Through Trials . 658 Baxe, John Godfeey. American Aristocracy 71 Song of Saratoga . 95 The Cockney ......... 193 Early Rising ......... 341 Blind Men and the Elephant . . 398 I'm Growing Old ...... . 438 Scott, Sie Waltee. Patriotism 233 Selected. Life (From Thirty-eight authors). 496 Shakespeaee, William. Hark, hark the Lark ..... 319 Airy Nothings 325 Mercy 379 Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius . 476 Selected Gems 634 Shelley, Peecy Bysshe. To Night .......... 242 The Cloud .......... 437 The Sun is Warm, the Sky . . . 601 Shillabee, B. P., (Mrs. Partington.) My Childhood's Home .... 196 SlGOUENEY, MES. LyDIA HUNTLEY. The Coral Insect . 146 The Bell of " The Atlantic " . . 184 Niagara ........... 647 Smith, Dextee. Ring the Bell Softy 282 Smith, Maey Riley. Sometime 373 Smith, James. The Soldier's Pardon 236 Smith, Hoeace. The Gouty Merchant ..... 216 Hymn to the Flowers . . . • . 255 Smith, Seba. The Mother in the Snow-Storm Snow, Sophia P. Annie and Willie's Prayer . Southey, Mes. Caeoline Bowles. The Pauper's Death-Bed . . . Southey, Robeet. The Cataract of Lodore The Ebb-Tide .... Spensee, Edmund. The Ministry of Angels Spoonee, A. C. Old Times and New Speague, Chaeles I See Thee Still . . . Stedman, Edmund Claeence The Door-Step . . . Stoddaet, William 0. The Deacon's Prayer Stoddaed, Richaed Heney. Wind and Ram ..... o . 414 Funeral of Lincoln ...... 600 513 395 216 248 418 702 429 144 320 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 25 Story, Robert. White, Henry Kirke. The Whistle . 283 The Star of Bethlehem . . . . 469 Suckling, Sir John, White, Mrs. Sallie J. The Bride . . . . . . . . . . 642 Little Margery ........ 330 Swinburne, Algernon Charles. Whitcher, Frances Miriam. Kissing her Hair ...... , 52 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles . 548 Taylor, Benjamin F. Whittier, John Greenleaf. The River Time ...... . . 64 Cobbler Keezar's Vision . . . . 44 The Old Village Choir .... . 677 Skipper Ireson's Ride .'.... 79 Taylor, Bayard. Trust . 230 The Quaker Widow ..... . 110 Barbara Frietchie ....... 317 Taylor, Jefferys. Benedicite . 350 The Milkmaid ....... . 199 The Poet's Reward 402 Tennyson, Alfred. The Vaudois Teacher ..... 405 Charge of the Light Brigade . . 59 The Barefoot Boy ...... 416' Song of the Brook ..... . 222 Maud Muller . 459 Enoch Arden at the Window . . 252 Mabel Martin 488 Death of the Old Year .... Break, Break, Break .... The Eagle 8 . New Year's Eve ....„.„ . 316 . 348 . 364 . 387 The Ranger Mary Garvin ......... The River Path 507 560 566 The Bugle ......... . 436 My Playmate 582 The Day Dream ...... . 480 The Countess 605 Lady Clare. ........ . 631 The Changeling 654 Thomas of Celano. Wilcox, Carlos. Dies Ira ......... , e 456 Doing Good True Happiness . . 219 Teurlow, Lord, (Edward Hovel). Willis, Nathaniel Parker. The Patient Stork ..... . 450 David's Lament for Absalom . . 305 Trowbridge, John Townsend. The Dying Alchemist 497 The Vagabonds ...... . 130 The Belfry Pigeon. ...... 613 Farm-Yard Song. ...... . 352 Woodworth, Samuel. The Charcoal Man ..... . 425 The Old Oaken Bucket. .... Wilson, Mrs. Cornwall, Baron. 549 Uhland, Johann Ludwig. Answer to the Hour of Death . 675 The Lost Church ...... . 622 Wordsworth, William. Vandyke, Mary E. Intimations of Immortality . . . 209 The Bald-Headed Tyrant . . . 687 The Reaper ......... 368 The Lost Love ........ 670 Watson, James W. Beautiful Snow ...... . 443 Yates, John H. Weatherly, G. The Old Ways and the New = . 104 "A Lion's Head." , . 181 The Model Church. ...... 544 Westwood, Thomas. Youl, Edward. The Voices at the Throne= . . . 527 Song of Spring ........ 98 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. HO. PAGE. I. FRONTISPIECE. (STEEL.) 4 II. "THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES." 38 III. THE GRASSHOPPER KING 42 IV. SUMMER . 68 V. DOMINION OVER THE FISH OF THE SEA 76 VI. MODERN TIMES IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN 104 VII. "A TYPE OF GRANDEUR, STRENGTH AND MAJESTY." 181 VIII. DRIFTING. 210 IX. •• TO HIM WHO IN THE LOVE OF NATURE." . 214 27 28 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. HO. PAGE. X. NIGHT 242 XI. "THUS DEPARTED HIAWATHA." 342 XII. " ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE FOREST." 344 XIII. " THE FIERCE, FOAMING, BURSTING TIDE." 362 XIV. " BLESSINGS ON THEE, LITTLE MAN." 416 XV. "I'M GROWING OLD." . . 438 XVI. "THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW." 443 XVII. PATIENCE 450 XVIII. THE CHEMIST ........ 469 XIX. FLYING FROM THE FIRE . 472 XX. THE CRAFTY OLD FOX 482 XXI. "ICE-BOUND TREES ARE GLITTERING." 596 XXII. GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS 636 XXIII. ARCTIC LIFE . 662 XXIV. GRANDPA AND HIS PETS. 656 XXV. WINTER JOYS 668 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE Vase (Ornament.) 7 Royal Necklace 8 Poet Laukeate . . • 9 An Outlook " 10 Entablatuee . . • 11 Heealdic Eagle «... . 14 sculptuee 15 commemoeative vase " 18 Aet Emblems . 19 Good Luck " 26 Repousse Woek . " 27 Cupid " 28 Tablet " 29 The Bjinn. " . 34 Studiousness 35 The Old Skippee . . . " Sitting in the boat at work.'" 39 Getting Ready .......... " You must first catch them." . 40 The Old Clock " Half-way up the stairs it stands." 41 The Blood Hoese " Full of fire, and full of bone." 42 Cobblee at Woek " Keezar sat on the hillside." 44 The Falls " Flashing in foam and spray. v ....... 45 The Aeched Beidge . " Down the grand old river Rhine. v 46 Poultey The Cobblee's Joy The Butch Mill The Cock The Beidge Heaet of the Alps Wintee in the Countey " The untrodden snow." . . . . Off foe a Sail " The ripples lightly toss the boat " Grand were the strutting turkeys." . . . , " Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar." . . . " Which the Dutch farmers are so fond of. v " Clapping his burnished wings, and crowing. " I had stood on that bridge at midnight." . , " Gfirt round with rugged mountains." . . . , 47 49 50 51 53 55 60 29 30 ILLUSTRATIONS. TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. Geaveyaed c . . . . " I've laid you, darling, down to sleep." . ... 63 Ancesteal Homestead . " The stately homes of England.'' 65 Mothee and Child " Look where our children start." 68 The Meadow Road " This morning the parson takes a drive. 1 ' . ... 71 Baeeiees or the Sea "A wall of defence." 76 Skippee Ieeson's Ride . ..... . " Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart." . 79 Chaleue Bay. " Looked for a coming that might not be." ... 80 Baby Deae " Where did you come from, baby dear?". ... 82 Bueial Place . . . "A voice from the tomb sweeter than song." ... 88 Embaekation op the Exiles . . . . . " Busily plied the freighted boats." 90 Peesident Lincoln " ' God bless you, sir,' said Blossom." ..... 94 Ruined Cottage ....." None will dwell in that cottage." 97 Vase of Flo wees " Learn of these gentle flowers." . . . . . „ . . 98 Jimmy Butlee dieected ......" You've no time to lose." 101 The Attack "I saw a pair of big eyes." . 103 The Twins on the Teain " My twins, 1 shall ne'er see again." . 108 Twinkleton on Teial . , " You deserted your infants." 108 Stivee's Hoese ..." His ears back, his mouth open." 113 Stivee's Hoese " He exercised me." 114 Stivee's Hoese " He turned about, and shot for the gate." . . . 116 Chaeley " Muzzer's bought a baby." 120 Chaeley and the Baby " Ain't he awful ugly." 120 Chaeley's Cey _. *" Nose ain't out of joy ent." 120 Chaeley's Haie Pulled. .... . " Zink I ought to love him !" , . . . 120 Chaeley and Biddy ........ " Be a good boy, Charley." 121 Chaeley's Comfoet " Beat him on ze head." 121 Me. Mann's Haste " Fly around." 126 Me. Mann's Steuggles "He began to sweat." 127 Me. Mann's Defeat. . " Glaring at the departing train." 129 Rogeb and I. "We are two travelers." 130 Suegeey " Chock up" 133 The Explanation " He's that 'handsomer than than you.' ". . . . 141 Pete by the" Chimney " Toasting his shins." 143 Pete in Reteeat " No,~sa, I runs." 143 Coeal Reef . " Who build in the tossing and treacherous main." 147 Nutting . " The squirrel is not more nimble." 149 Puzzled Dutchman "I'm a proken-hearted Deutscher." 151 Hans and Yawcob " I doosn't know my name." 152 Pat and the Doctoe "Pat, how is that for a sign?" 155 The Quack " The song that it sings is ' Quack, Quack. " . . 156 Lincoln's Monument " With malice towards none; with charity for all." 162 The Little Conqueeoe . "My arms are round my darling thrown." . . . 165 Betty and the Beae „ . " Seated himself on the hearth." 171 Betty and the Beae „ " The bear was no more." 172 The Sea " The calm, gently-heaving, silent sea." 176 Cliffs by the Sea " What rocks and cliffs are so glorious?" .... 178 Cyclone "It vanquished them at last." 185 Papa's Geave " Cover with roses each lowly green mound." . . 192 My Childhood Home "A little low hut by the river's side." . . . . . 196 ILLUSTRATIONS. 31 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. The Water-Mill " The mill will never grind again." 201 Old Church-Yard . ." Through the church-way path we saw him borne." 203 Angling.. .." The gallant fisher's life, it is the best of any." . 206 Forest Depths . . . , " The venerable woods" 215 The Silent River " Thou hast taught me, Silent River." 221 The Brook " I come from haunts of coot and hern" .... 222 Tower . " Sounds of low wailing from the tower ." . . . . 226 Nobility . " Nobility is a graceful ornament." 228 Two Kittens " The two little kittens had nowhere te go" . . . 229 Whittier's Birth-place " A picture memory brings to me ." 230 Dove-Cote " A pretty nursery." 233 The Old Church " I stood before ... a large church door." . . . 238 Maidenhood = " Maiden with the meek brown eyes." 246 The Brook Side « . . . . " I wandered by the mill" 247 Cataract of Lodore " How does the water come down at Lodoref". . 248 The Fisher's Cottage " We sat by the fisher's cottage" 253 Jolly Old Pedagogue "He took the little ones upon his knee" .... 259 Ships on the Sea " Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee." ..... 263 The American Boy " Look up, my boy." 268 Rock me to Sleep " Mother, come back from the echoless shore." . . 274 Ruined Church " The ruin lone and hoary." 281 Rural Comfort " In rural occupation there is nothing mean" . . 285 Mother's Chair " A sacred thing is that old arm-chair." .... 286 The Student " Spend not your time in that which profits not." 292 The Country Church " The steeplewas the only thing that folks could see." 294 Der Drummer " Who puts oup at der pest hotel?" 297 The Greeting " How you vas to-day." 297 At Business "Look, and see how nice." 297 In Society . . . " Und kiss Katrina on the mouth." 297 Indignation " Und mit a black eye goes away" 298 Gathering Night * • . . " When all around is peace." 302 The Forge "Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring." .... 304 The Church Bell " In mellow tones rang out a bell." 310 Hans and Fritz " Two Deutschers who lived side by side." .... 311 Dead on the Field " Till death united." 313 Singing Birds " The lark at heaven's gate sings." 319 Excelsior . " His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, flashed." . 322 Father Time " He lives forever, and his name is Time." . . . 325 Fruit Piece " The dinner now makes its appearance." . . . 329 Little Margery " Dr earning of the coming years." 330 Learning to Pray " Kneeling fair in the twilight gray ." 331 Rats at Work " The rats a nightly visit paid." 335 Sleighing "' Tis the merry, merry sleigh." •. . . 339 Hiawatha's Home " I will bring her to your wigwam." 342 The Breaking Sea " Break, break, break, on thy cold stones, sea." 348 Rabbit " They rustle to the rabbit's tread." 349 Triumphal Arch " Borne with her army." 351 Farm-yard " Into the yard the farmer goes." 352 Morning , " The east began to kindle." 355 32 ILLUSTRATIONS. TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE, The Tigee " Burning bright, in the forest of the night" . . 357 The Minster Window " The minster window, richly glowing." . . . . 358 Ship at Sea " I was born on the open sea." 362 Cave by the Sea " Seek me the cave of Silver." 363 Sickle and Sheaf "She cuts and binds the grain.'' 368 The Lover's By-way " We left the old folks have the highway." . . . 369 Birds " Notes from the lark 111 borrow." 374 King of Denmark's Ride " The king rode first." 380 Mirage " Bare as the surface of the desert." 386 Sands o' Dee " Never home came she." 392 Annie and Willie " Well, why Hant we pray ?" 396 The Elephant " Who went to see the Elephant." 398 The Glen " Far down a narrow glen." 403 The Burning Steamer " A noble funeral pyre." 407 Buried in Snow . " All day had the snow come down." 409 Frozen to Death " Cold and Dead." 410 Sea-Shore " The sea remembers nothing. It is feline." . . 415 Leedle Yawcob " I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart." 419 The Owl " The king of the night is the bold brown owl." . 423 Alpine Peaks " The far more glorious ridges." 428 The Old Man " Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing." 431 Approach to Arnheim " The channel now became a gorge." 434 Stormy Petrels . " The stormy petrel finds a home." . 439 Little and Great " Mighty at the last." 442 Pelicans " That lonely couple on their isle." 447 Mother and Babe " Love is a legal tender." 452 Maud Muller " Simple beauty and rustic health." 459 The Lark " The merry, merry lark was up and singing." . 463 Innovations of the White Man . . . " The red man %s thy foe." 465 Star of Bethlehem " One alone a Saviour speaks." 469 The Birds' Home " When sparrows build." 471 Interior of Westminster Abbey . . " These lofty vaults." 475 Terrace-Lawn " Every slanting terrace-lawn" 480 Meeting of the Waters " The bright waters meet." 484 The River Valley . . " You see the dull plain fall." 488 The Barn " The old swallow-haunted barns." 489 The Granary " Lay the heaped ears." 490 Mabel Martin " Mabel Martin sat apart." 490 The Horseshoe Charm "To guard against her mother s harm." .... 491 Mabel in Grief " Small leisure have the poor ." 492 The Champion " I brook no insult to my guest." 492 The Streaming Lights " The harvest lights of Harden shone." 493 The Betrothal " Her tears of grief were tears of joy." 494 God's Acre " The burial ground God 's acre." 498 The Comet " Save when a blazing comet was seen." .... 505 News from the Forest " Straggling rangers . . . homeward faring ." . . 508 Call to the Boat " To the beach we all are going" 509 In the Forest " Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling." . . 509 The Return " ' Robert ! ' ' Martha ! ' " all they say." .... 510 ILLUSTRATIONS. 33 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. Smiley's Frog " He was planted as solid as an anvil." 512 The Light House " The Light-house fire blazed." 513 The River Shore " I hear the keel grating" 518 Steam-train " Down came the night express." 519 Old-time Fire-place " A fire in the kitchen ." 520 Mother's Bible . .' "My Mothers hands this Bible clasped." . . . 523 Plymouth Rock " The ice-clad rocks of Plymouth." ....... 524 The Swan " Seek' st thou the plashy brink?" 527 Battle Monument . " The Battle Monument at Baltimore" 531 Sheridan's Ride " Here is the steed that saved the day." 536 Ancient Stronghold " Stone walls and bulwarks." 540 The Old Man " The last leaf upon the tree." 542 The Stream " She found a Lotus by the stream." 547 Scene of my Childhood " The rude bucket which hung in the well." . . . 549 Lord Ullin "Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore" .... 552 Birds at Home " By every light wind . . . swung ." 557 By The Fireside " Bight and left sat dame and goodman "... 561 The Surprise " What is this?" 562 The Forest Grave "On her wooden cross at Simcoe." 563 The River "No ripple from the water's hemP 566 The Lamb " Mary haf got one little lambs already" . . . 567 Battle of Lookout Mountain . . . . " Fortified Lookout." 570 Porpoise " Tumbling about the bow of the ship." .... 574 The Dead Soldier " The wounded to die." 578 The Playmates ..." The blossoms in the sweet May field." .... 582 The Tempest " The lightning flashing free." 587 Ballooning " The balloon was cast off." 591 The Mountain Torrent " The torrent is heard on the hillP 595 The Surf " I see the waves upon the shore." 601 Mount Vernon " Washington's modest home." 604 Draw-bridge " The dark tunnel of the bridge" ....... 605 Hay-boat . " The heavy hay-boats crawl." 605 The Abutment " The gray abutment' s wall." 606 The Evening Walk " The walk on pleasant Newbury 's shore ." . . . 607 Calmness " Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud." 610 The Cathedral Tower " Proud Cathedral towers." 615 The Shore " Never the ocean wave falters in flowing." . . . 619 Harvesting " Lo, the husbandman reaping." 620 Work in the Meadows " With meadows wide." . . • 625 Iceberg . . . „ . . " It then floated on the sea, an iceberg." .... 627 Home " My lowly thatched cottage" 628 Castle and Lawn " My lands so broad and fair." 631 The Ravens " Child and flowers both were dead." 639 Trout "I have killed many fish." 643 Cooking the Fish " Men have their hours of eating ." 644 The Rocky Shore " Not of the watery home thou tellest." 645 Fingal'sCave " The cave of musicP 649 Ecclesiastical Emblems " The cohort of the fathers." 652 Salt Meadows " The sweetness of the hay ." . . • 654 34 ILLUSTRATIONS. TITLE. QUOTATION. " The snowball 1 s compliments 11 ...... " Forth into the night he hurled it." . . . " Tracing words upon the sand." . 669 670 670 676 678 PAGE. At the Ferry . . . . " He set his horse to the river. 1 ' ......... 655 Day Dawn . ............ "Awake! it is the day. 11 661 Valley op Chamounix ..'....'." Green vales and icy cliffs. 11 ......... 664 The Gutter .......... c . "Spring to their cutters. 11 .......... 667 Rustic Games.. . u Its rough accompaniment of blind man's buff." 667 Snow Balling'. ......... " The snowball's compliments. 11 ........ 668 The Poet . ............ " Forth into the night he hurled it." ..... 669 The Maiden r ........ . The Rose . , ....... Blessedness ......... Grandmother's Spectacles . . . Beauties op the Deep ..... Work in the Field. ...... The Steamship . , The Bald-headed Tyrant - . < Mountaineer's Warfare . . . . . " A murderous rain of rocks. 1 ' , The Gateway ...... ,. .... " The chamber over the gate. 11 , Surges and Shore ........." These restless surges eat away the shores" . Greece. ............ . "' In Pcestum 1 s ancient fanes I trod." . . . . The Old House ..." Bid the old house good-bye." ....... Country Rambles . " Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do" The Holy Land " Pavement for his footstep." ....... Shooting Porpoises ... The Arab's Tent , . The Scribe ........ . . History Culture Iolanthe Dreaming . . , . . Music " Full of bliss she takes the token.'' .... " Kiss his moonlit forehead". ...... " She would often let her glasses slip down." " Deep in the wave is a coral grove". . . . " And so we worked together." " The great hull swayed to the current." . . " He rules them all with relentless hand" . 683 687 691 693 694 696 698 700 703 " Tickling them with shot." ......... 705 " Shall fold their tents like the Arabs" 707 708 709 713 722 723 (Ornament). yarn FOREST HYMN. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 3HE groves were God's first temples, ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, a,t least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn, — thrice happy if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, Thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns. Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century- living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride, Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here. — Thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 37 38 A FOREST HYMN. That run along the summit of these trees In music ; Thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Thee: Here is continual worship ; — nature, here, In the tranquility that Thou dost love, Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring that, midst its herbs, Wells softly -forth, and, wandering, steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of Thy perfection. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak, — By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated, — not a prince. In all that proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand hath graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me, — the perpetual work Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on Thy works, I read The lesson of Thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die ; but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses, — ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. 0, there is not lost One of Earth's charms ! Upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy, — Death,— jh& % ,3eats him- self Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid them- selves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in Thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble, and are still. God ! when Thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages ; when, at Thy call, Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities, — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power, His prides, and lay his strifes aud follies by? "The groves were God's first Temple.- MORALITY OF ANGLING. 39 O, from these sterner aspects of Thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements, to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of Thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. MORALITY OF ANGLING. WILLIAM C. PRIME. UT how about killing fish for sport? In the name of sense, man, if God made fish to be eaten, what difference does it make if I enjoy rthe killing of them before I eat them ? You would have none but a fisherman by trade do it, and then you would have him utter a sigh, a prayer, and a pious ejaculation at each cod or haddock that he killed ; and if by chance the old fellow, sitting in the boat at work, should for a moment think there was, after all, a little fun and a little pleasure in his business, you would have him take a round turn with his line, and drop on his knees to ask for- giveness for the sin of thinking there was sport in fishing. I can imagine the sad- faced melancholy-eyed man, who makes it his business to supply game for the market as you would have him, sober as the sexton in Hamlet, and forever moralizing over the gloomy neces- sity that has doomed him to a life of murder ? Why, good sir, he would frighten respectable fish, and the market would soon be destitute. The keenest day's sport in my journal of a great many years of sport was when, in company with some other gentlemen, I took three hundred blue-fish in three hours' fishing off Block Island, and those fish were eaten 40 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. the same night or the next morning in Stonington, and supplied from fifty to one hundred different tables, as we threw them up on the dock for any one to help himself. I am unable to perceive that I committed any sin in taking them, or any sin in the excitement and pleasure of taking them. It is time moralists had done with this mistaken morality. If you eschew animal food entirely, then you may argue against killing animals, and I will not argue with you. But the logic of this business is simply this : The Creator made fish and flesh for the food of man, and as we can't eat them alive, or if we do, we can't digest them alive, the result is we must kill them first, and (see the old rule of cooking a dolphin) it is some- times a further necessity, since they won't come to be killed when we call them, that we must first catch them. Show first, then, that it is a painful necessity, a necessity to be avoided if possible, which a good man must shrink from and abhor, unless starved into it, to take fish or birds, and which he must do when he does it with regret, and with sobriety and seriousness, as he would whip his child, or shave himself when his beard is three days old, and you have your case. But till you show this, I will continue to think it great sport to supply my market with fish. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STATES. H. W. LONGFELLOW. ?OMEWHAT back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; And, from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 41 By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber door, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" All are scattered, now, and fled, — Some are married, some are dead : And when I ask, with throbs of pain, " Ah ! when shall they all meet again ?'' As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roared ; " The stranger feasted at his board ; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased, !,: " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" There groups of merry children played; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; Oh, precious hours ! oh, golden prime And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told — 41 Forever — never ! Never — forever !" From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night ; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay, in his shroud of snow ; And, in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !." Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disap- pear, — Forever there, but never here ! The horologue of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" 42 THE BLOOD HORSE. THE GRASSHOPPER KING. FROM THE GREEK: OF ANACREON, B, C, 560. ^pAPPY insect, what can be $ In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine ! Nature waits upon thee still, £ And thy verdant cup does fill ; 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink and dance and sing, Happier than the happiest king ! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee ; All the summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice, Man for thee does sow and plough, Farmer he, and landlord thou I &&14? THE BLOOD HORSE. » ."""v . • BARRY CORNWALL. fg^AMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known ; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within ! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his paoe as swift as light. Look, — how round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float ; Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins, Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — ■ Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself ! He, who hath no peer, was born Here, upon a red March morn ; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine ! 'HE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. 43 And yet, — he was but friend to one, Who fed him at the set of sun By some lone fountain fringed with green ; With him, a roving Bedouin. He lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands I THE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. VERY person's feelings have a front-door and side-door by which they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. Some keep it always open ; some keep it latched ; some, locked ; some, bolted, — with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get in ; and some i nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This front-door • leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, and this into the interior apartments. The side-door opens at once into the sacred chambers. There is almost always at least one key to this side-door, This is carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom. Fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so universally, have duplicates of it. The wedding-ring conveys a right to one ; alas, if none is given with it ! Be very careful to whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. The fact of possessing one renders those even who are dear to you very terrible at times. You can, keep the world out from your front-door, or receive visitors only when you are ready for them ; but those of your own flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the side- door, if they will, at any hour and in any mood. Some of them have a scale of your whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of your sensibilities in semitones, — touching the naked nerve-pulps as a pianist strikes the keys of his instrument. I am satisfied that there are as great masters of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberg in their lines of performance. Married life is the school in which the most accomplished artists in this department are found. A delicate woman is the best instru- ment; she has such a magnificent compass of sensibilities! From the deep inward moan which follows pressure on the great nerves of right, to the sharp cry as the filaments of the taste are struck with a crushing sweep, is a range which no other instrument possesses. A few exercises on it daily at home fit a man wonderfully for his habitual labors, and refresh him im- mensely as he returns from them No stranger can get a great many notes 44 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. of torture out of a human soul ; it takes one that knows it well, — parent, child, brother, sister, intimate. Be very careful to whom you give a side- door key; too many have them already. COBBLER KEEZAES VISION. JOHN G. WHITTIER. HE beaver cut his timber With patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and crows Surveyors of highway, — When Keezar sat on the hillside Upon his cobbler's form, With a pan of coals on either hand To keep his waxed-ends warm. And there, in the golden weather, He stitched and hammered and sung, the In the brook he moistened his leather, In the pewter mug his tongue. Well knew the tough old Teuton Who brewed the stoutest ale, And he paid the goodwife's reckonings In the coin of song and tale. The'songs they still are singing Who dress the hills of vine The tales that haunt the Brocken, And whisper down the Rhine. COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 45 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples, Flashing in foam and spray, — " Why should folks be glum," said Keezar, When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad ?" Down on the sharp-horned ledges, Plunging in steep cascade, Tossing its white-maned waters Against the hemlock's shade. Woodsy and wild and lonesome, East and west and north and south Only the village of fishers Down at the river's mouth ; Only here and there a clearing, With its farm-house rude and new, And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew. No shout of home-bound reapers, No vintage-song he heard, And on the green no dancing feet The merry violin stirred. Small heed had the careless cobbler What sorrow of heart was theirs Who travailed in pain with the births of God, And planted a state with prayers, — Hunting of witches and warlocks, Smiting the heathen horde, — One hand on the mason's trowel, And one on the soldier's sword ! But give him his ale and cider, Give him his pipe and song, Little he cared for Church or State, Or the balance of right and wrong. " Tis work, work, work," he muttered, — And for rest a snuffle of psalms !" He smote on his leathern apron With his brown and waxen palms. 46 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. " for the purple harvests Of the days when I was young ! For the merry grape-stained maidens, And the pleasant songs they sung ! " for the breath of vineyards, Of apples and nuts and wine ! For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine !" A tear in his blue eye glistened, And dropped on his beard so gray. " Old, old am I," said Keezar, " And the Rhine flows far away !" But a cunning man was the cobbler ; He could call the birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges, And bring back the swarming, bees. All the virtues of herbs and metals, All the lore of the woods, he knew, And the arts of the Old World mingled With the marvels of the New. Well he knew the tricks of magic, And the lapstone on his knee Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles, Or the stone of Doctor Dee. For the mighty master, Agrippa, Wrought it with spell and rhyme From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the tower of Nettesheim. To a cobbler, Minnesinger, The marvelous stone gave he, — And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, Who brought it over the sea. He held up that mystic lapstone, He held it up like a lens, And he counted the long years coming By twenties and by tens. " One hundred years," quoth Keezar, " And fifty have I told: Now open the new before me, And shut me out the old !" Like a cloud of mist, the blackness Rolled from the magic stone, And a marvelous picture mingled, The unknown and the known. Still ran the stream to the river, And river and ocean joined ; And there were Jhe bluffs and the blue sea-line, And cold north hills behind. But the mighty forest was broken, By many a steepled town, By many a white-walled farm-house, And many a garner brown. Turning a score of mill-wheels, The stream no more ran free ; White sails on the winding river, White sails on the far-off sea. Below in the noisy village The flags were floating gay, And shone on a thousand faces The light of a holiday. Swiftly the rival ploughmen Turned the brown earth from their shares ; Here were the farmer's treasures, There were the craftsman's wares. Golden the goodwife's butter, Ruby the currant-wine ; Grand were the strutting turkeys, Fat were the beeves and swine. COBBLER KEEZAE'S VISION. 47 Yellow and red were the apples, And the ripe pears russet-brown, And the peaches had stolen blushes From the girls who shook them down. And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, That shame the toil of art, Mingled the gorgeous blossoms Of the garden's tropic heart. " What is it I see ?" said Keezar, " Am I here, or am I there ? Is it a fete at Bingen ? Do I look on Frankfort fair ? " Here's a priest, and there is a Quaker - - Do the cat and dog agree ? Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? Have they cut down the gallows-tree ? " Would the old folk know their children ? Would they own the graceless town, With never a ranter to worry, And never a witch to drown ?" Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, Laughed like a school-boy gay ; Tossing his arms above him, The lapstone rolled away. 44 But where are the clowns and puppets, And imps with horns and tail ? And where are the Rhenish flagons ? And where is the foaming ale ? "Strange things I know will happen, — Strange things the Lord permits ; But that droughty folks should be jolly Puzzles my poor old wits. ■" Here are smiling manly faces, And the maiden's step is gay, "Not sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. " Here's pleasure without regretting, And good without abuse, The holiday and bridal Of beauty and of use. It rolled down the rugged hillside, It spun like a wheel bewitched, It plunged through the leaning willows, And into the river pitched. There in the deep, dark water, The magic stone lies still, Under the leaning willows In the shadow of the hill. But oft the idle fisher Sits on the shadowy bank, And his dreams make marvelous pictures Where the wizard's lapstone sank. And still, in the summer twilights, When the river seems to run Out from the inner glory, Warm with the melted sun, 48 GATHERED GOLD DUST. The weary mill-girl lingers Beside the charmed stream, And the sky and the golden water Shape and color her dream. Fair wave the sunset gardens, The rosy signals fly ; Her homestead beckons from the cloud, And love goes sailing by ! GATHERED GOLD DUST. ^RITICS are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author. {Longfellow. We can refute assertions, but who can refute silence. (Dickens. Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries. (Franklin. The great secret of success in life is, for a man to be ready when his opportunity comes. (Disraeli. The truly illustrious are they who do not court the praise of the world, but per- form the actions which deserve it. (Tilton. Christ awakened the world's thought, and it has never slept since. (Howard. The Cross is the prism that reveals to us the beauties of the Sun of Righteousness. (Goulburn. Men have feeling : this is perhaps the best way of considering them. (Richter-. Fidelity is seventh-tenths of business suc- cess. (Parton. In the march of life don't heed the order of "right about " when you know you are about right. (Holmes. He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend : Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. (Shakespeare. The worst kind of vice is advice. (Coleridge. A self-suspicion of hypocrisy is a good evi- dence of sincerity. (Hannah More. A page digested is better than a volume hur- riedly read. (Macaulay. I am not one of those who do not believe in love at first sight, but I believe in tak- ing a second look. (Henry Vincent. A man is responsible for how he uses his common sense as well as his moral sense. (Beecher. When a man has no design but to speak plain truth, he isn't apt to be talkative. (Prentice. The year passes quick, though the hour tarry, and time bygone is a dream, though we thought it never would go while it was going. (Newman. Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a brightness over everything. It is the sweetener of toil and the soother of dis- quietude. (Irving. A profound conviction raises a man above the feeling of ridicule. (Mill. Our moods are lenses coloring the world with as many different hues. (Emerson. Men believe that their reason governs their words, but it often happens that words have power to react on reason. (Bacon. Minds of moderate calibre ordinarily con- demn everything which is beyond their range. (La Rochefoucault. Geology gives us a key to the patience of God. (Holland. Do to-day thy nearest duty. (Gfoeth*. Many of our cares are bat a morbid way of looking at our privileges. (Walter Scott. The greatness of melancholy men is seldom strong and healthy. (Bulwer. Cowardice asks, Is it safe ? Expediency asks, Is it politic ? Vanity asks, Is it popu- lar ? but Conscience asks, Is it right ? (Punshon. BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. God made the country and man made the town. (Cowper. Sorrows humanize our race. Tears are the showers that fertilize the world. (Ingelow. It is remarkable with what Christian fortitude and resignation we can bear the suffer- ing of other folks. (Dean Swift. One can neither protect nor arm himself against criticism. We must meet it defiantly, and thus gradually please it. (Goethe. Silence and reserve suggest latent power. What some men think has more effect than what others say. (Chesterfield. Stratagems in war and love are only honor- able when successful. (Bulwer. A man behind the times is apt to speak ill of them, on the principle that nothing looks well from behind. (Holmes. He who isn't contented with what he has wouldn't be contented with what he would like to have. (Auerbach. Architecture is a handmaid of devotion. A beautiful church is a sermon in stone, and its spire a finger pointing to Heaven. (Schaff. A sorrow's crown of sorrow, Is remembering happier things. (Dante. BALTUS VAN TASSELS FARM. WASHINGTON IRVING. 5CHABOD Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex ; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal I mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but within those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fer- tile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a 4 £Q BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm- house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church ; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abun- dance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war- rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever hungry family of wives and child- ren to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish- ing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit dis- dained to ask while living. As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of THE BRIDGE. 51 buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel, who was to inherit those domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. THE BRIDGE. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church tower ; And like the waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thought came o'er me, That filled my eyes with tears. How often, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky ! How often, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide vv^uuiu bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide ! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me, Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each having his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old, subdued and slow \ **} A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes ; The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. KISSING HER HAIR. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. jISSING her hair, I sat against her feet : Wove and unwove it, — wound, and found it sweet ; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, •r Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like J dim skies ; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, — Kissing her hair. Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, — Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea: What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would Love not relish worse ? Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me there, — Kissing her hair. A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. ADELAIDE ANNIE PROCTER. j^lgf IRT round with rugged mountains the Wmg. fair Lake Constance lies ; |11§* In her blue heart reflected, shine back Mm the starry skies ; 4 And watching each white cloudlet float 1 silently and slow, 7* You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below ! Midnight is there : and silence enthroned in heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town : For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand years and more. Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadows of ages on the deep ; Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred •legend know, Of how the town was saved one night, three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread ; And every year that fleeted so silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past. She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change ; Her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange ; And when she led her cattle to pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay. She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears ; Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years ; A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 63 She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war or strife ; Each day she rose contented, to the calm toils of life. Yet, when her master's children would clus- tering round her stand, She Bang them the old ballads of her own na- tive land ; And when at morn and evening she knelt before God's throne, The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. The men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the ground ; With anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round ; All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away ; The very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. One day, out in the meadow with strangera from the town, Some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down. Girt round with rugged mountains. And so she dwelt : the valley more peaceful year by year ; When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk. Yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream. At eve they all assembled, all care and doubt • were fled ; With jovial laugh they feasted, the board was nobly spread. -54 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. The elder cf the village rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, " We drink the downfall of an accursed land ! " The night is growing darker, ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own ! " The women shrank in terror, (yet pride, too, had her part,) But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more her towers arose ; What were the friends beside her ? Only her country's foes ! The faces of her kinsfolk, the day of childhood flown, The echoes of her mountains reclaimed her as their own ! Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth again,) Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pas- ture, and the plain ■ Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry, That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, and then if need be, die! " With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step she sped ; Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed ; She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her hand, She mounted and she turned his head toward her native land. Out — out into the darkness — faster, and still more fast ; The smooth grass flies behind her, the chest- nut wood is passed ; She looks up ; clouds are heavy : Why is her steed so slow ? — Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass them as they go. "Faster!" she cries, "Oh, faster!" Eleven the church-bells chime ; " God," she cries, " help Bregenz, and bring me there in time ! " But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine. Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallon check ? The steed draws back in terror, she leans above his neck To watch the flowing darkness, the bank is high and steep, One pause — he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein ; Her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, And see — in the far distance, shine out the lights of home ! Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again Towards the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the midnight rings, And out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battle- ments are manned ; Defiance greets the army that marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid. Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still. And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade, They see the quaint old carving, the charger and the maid. WINTER. 66 And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower, The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour : " Nine," " ten," " eleven," he cries aloud, and then (0 crown of fame !) When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's name. WINTER. DOUGLAS JERROLD. ,J|pHE streets were empty. Pitiless cold had driven all who had the shelter of a roof to their homes ; and the north-east blast seemed to howl in triumph above the untrodden snow. Winter was at the heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with excessive misery, suffered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the season. Human blood stagnated in the breast of want ; and death in that despair- ing hour, losing its terrors, looked in the eyes of many a wretch a sweet deliverer. It was a time when the very poor, barred from the commonest things of earth, take strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep humility of destitution, believe they are the burden and the offal of the world. It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with finest sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance ; and, whilst bestow- ing, feels almost ashamed that, with such wide-spread misery circled round him, he has all things fitting, all things grateful. The smitten spirit asks wherefore he is not of the multitude of wretchedness ; demands to know for what especial excellence he is promoted above the thousand thousand starving creatures : in his very tenderness for misery, tests his privilege of 56 THE Q,UILTING. exemption from a woe that withers manhood in man, bowing him down- ward to the brute. And so questioned, this man gives in modesty of spirit — in very thankfulness of soul. His alms are not cold, formal charities ; but reverent sacrifices to his suffering brother. It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth ; with no other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions ; all made pleasanter, sweeter, by the desolation around. When the mere worldling rejoices the more in his warm chamber because it is so bitter cold without, when he eats and drinks with whetted appetite, because he hears of destitution prowling like a wolf around his well-barred house, ; when, in fine, he bears his every comfort about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when such a man sees in the misery of his fellow-beings nothing save his own victory of fortune — his own successes in a suffering world. To such a man, the poor are but the tattered slaves that grace his triumph. It was a time, too, when human nature often shows its true divinity, and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its wretchedness in sympathy with suffering. A time, when in the cellars and garrets of the poor are acted scenes which make the noblest heroism of life; which prove the immortal texture of the human heart, not wholly seared by the branding-iron of the torturing hours. A time when in want, in anguish, in throes of mortal agony, some seed is sown that bears a flower in heaven. THE QUILTING, ANNA BACHE. fliHE day is set, the ladies met, And at the frame are seated, In order placed, they work in haste, To get the quilt completed ; While fingers fly, their tongues they ply- And animate their labors By counting beaux, discussing clothes, Or talking of their neighbors. Dear ! what a pretty frock you've on ;" " I'm very glad you like it;" I'm told that Miss Micornicon Don't speak to Mr. Micate." I saw Miss Belle, the other day, Young Green's new gig adorning ;" ; What keeps your sister Ann away ?" " She went to town this morning." 'Tis time to roll ;" " my needle's broke " So Martin's stock is selling." Louisa's wedding gown's bespoke ;" " Lend me your scissors, Ellen ;" That match will never come about ; ' " Now don't fly in a passion ;" Hair puffs they say are going out ;" " Yes, curls are all the fashion." The quilt is done, the tea begun, The beaux are all collecting ; The table's cleared, the music's heard, His partner each selecting ; — The merry band in order stand, The dance begins with vigor, And rapid feet the measure beat), And trip the mazy figure. GAPE-SEED. 57 Unheeded fly the minutes by, All closely stowed ; to each abode " Old time " himself is dancing, The carriages go tilting ; Till night's dull eye is op'ed to spy And many a dream has for its theme The light of morn advancing. The pleasures of the quilting. BUYING GAPE-SEED. JOHN B. GOUaH. ^#\| YANKEE, walking the streets of London, looked through a win- §Mfj^ clow upon a group of men writing very rapidly; and one of them $ilp? said to him in an insulting manner, " Do you wish to buy some X gape-seed?" Passing on a short distance the Yankee met a man, i; and asked him what the business of those men was in the office he J had just passed He was told that they wrote letters dictated by others, and transcribed all sorts of documents ; in short, they were writers. The Yankee returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men would write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the price, and was told one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was made ; one of the conditions of which was that the scribe should write just what the Yankee told him to, or he should receive no pay. The scribe told the Yankee he was ready to begin ; and the latter said, — " Dear marm :" and then asked, " Have you got that deown ?" " Yes," was the reply, "go on." " I went to ride t'other day : have you got that deown ?" " Yes ; go on, go on. 11 " And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon : have you got that deown?" " Yes, yes, long ago ; go on." " Why, how fast you write ! And I got into the wagon, and sat deown, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand : have you got that deown?" " Yes, long ago; go on." " Dear me, how fast you write ! I never saw your equal. And I said to the old mare, ' Go 'long, 1 and jerked the reins pretty hard : have you got that deown ?" " Yes ; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter." " Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered, 4 Go 'long, you old jade ! go 'long.' Have you got that deown ?" 58 THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA. " Yes, indeed, you pestersome fellow; go on.' 1 " And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her [continuing to repeat these words as rapidly as possible.] " Hold on there ! I have written two pages of ' licked her,' and I want the rest of the letter.' " Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked — [continuing to repeat these words with great rapidity.] " Do go on with your letter ; I have several pages of ' she kicked.' " [The Yankee clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time.] The scribe throws down his pen. " Write it deown I write it deown I" "leant!" " Well then, I won't pay you." [The scribe, gathering up his papers.] " What shall I do with all these sheets upon which I have written your nonsense ?" " You may use them in doing up your gape-seed. Good-by !" THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLA VA. WILLIAM H. EUSSELL. |pP|HE whole brigade scarcely made one effective regiment according to ^%i the numbers of continental armies ; and yet it was more than we jw ♦ could spare. As they rushed towards the front, the Russians opened on them from the guns in the redoubt on the right, with volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept proudly past, glitter- ing in the morning sun in all the pride and splendor of war. We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses ! Surely that handful of men are not going to charge an army in position ? Alas ! it was but too true — their desperate valor knew no bounds, and far indeed was it removed from its so-called better part — discretion. They advanced in two lines, quickening their pace as they closed towards the enemy. A more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who, without the power to aid, beheld their heroic countrymen rushing to the arms of death. At the distance of 1200 yards, the whole line of the enemy belched forth, from thirty iron mouths, a flood of smoke and flame, through which hissed the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by instant gaps in our ranks, CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. by dead men and horses, by steeds flying wounded or riderless across the plain. The first line is broken; it is joined by the second; they never halt or check their speed an instant. With diminished ranks, thinned by those thirty guns, which the Eussians had laid with the most deadly accu- racy, with a halo of flashing steel above their heads, and with a cheer which was many a noble fellow's death-cry, they flew into the smoke of the batteries, but ere they were lost from view, the plain was strewed with their bodies and .with the carcasses of horses. They were exposed to an oblique fire from the batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to a direct fire of musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their sabres flashing as they rode up to the guns and dashed between them, cutting down the gunners as they stood. We saw them riding through the guns, as I have said ; to our delight we saw them returning, after breaking through a column of Russian infantry, and scattering them like chaff, when the flank fire of the battery on the hill swept them down, scattered and broken as they were Wounded men and dismounted troopers flying towards us told the sad tale — demigods could not have done what we had failed to do. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. ALFRED TENNYSON. ALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns !" he said. Into the valley of death, Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade !' "Was there a man dismayed ? Not though the soldiers knew Some one had blundered : Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die : Into the valley of death, Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well : Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell, Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabers bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sab'ring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered : Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke Cossack and Russian Reeled from the saber-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back — but not, Not the six hundred. 60 THE PLEASURE BOAT. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell, "While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well, Came through the jaws of death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ? 0, the wild charge they mado 1 All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred ! THE PLEASURE BOAT. RICHARD HENRY DANA. fOME, hoist the sail, tho fast let go ! They're seated side by side ; Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; The bay is fair and wide. The ripple ; lightly tap the boat. Loose ! Give her to the wind ! »She shoots ahead ; they're all afloat The strand is far behind. The sunlight falling on her sheet, It glitters like the drift, Sparkling, in scorn of summer's heat, High up some mountain rift. The winds are fresh ; she's driving fast Upon the bending tide ; The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast, Go with her side by side. The parting sun sends out a glow Across the placid bay, Touching with glory all the show, — A breeze! Up helm ! Away ! Careening to the wind, they reach, With laugh and call, the shore. They've left their footprints on the baach, But them I hear no more. CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. f,l CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. MAX ADELER. pp FIND that one of the most serious objections to living out of town «~* lies in the difficulty experienced in catching the early morning train Jk by which I must reach the city and my business. It is by no means y a pleasant matter, under any circumstances, to have one's movements regulated by a time-table, and to be obliged to rise to breakfast and ^ to leave home at a certain hour, no matter how strong the temptation to delay may be. But sometimes the horrible punctuality of the train is productive of absolute suffering. For instance : I look at my watch when I get out of bed and find that I have apparently plenty of time, so I dress leisurely, and sit down to the morning meal in a frame of mind which is calm and serene. Just as I crack my first egg I hear the down train from Wilmington. I start in alarm ; and taking out my watch I compare it with the clock and find that it is eleven minutes slow, and that I have only five minutes left in which to get to the depot. I endeavor to scoop the egg from the shell, but it burns my fingers, the skin is tough, and after struggling with it for a moment, it mashes into a hopeless mass. I drop it in disgust and seize a roll ; while I scald my tongue with a quick mouthful of coffee. Then I place the roll in my mouth while my wife hands me my satchel and tells me she thinks she hears the whistle. I plunge madly around looking for my umbrella, then I kiss the family good-by as well as I can with a mouth full of roll, and dash toward the door. Just as I get to the gate I find that I have forgotten my duster and the bundle my wife wanted me to take up to the city to her aunt. Charging back, I snatch them up and tear down the gravel-walk in a frenzy. I do not like to run through the village : it is undignified and it attracts atten- tion ; but I walk furiously. I go faster and faster as I get away from the main street. "When half the distance is accomplished, I actually do hear the whistle ; there can be no doubt about it this time. I long to run, but I know that if I do I will excite that abominable speckled dog sitting by the sidewalk a little distance ahead of me. Then I really see the train coming around the curve close by the depot, and I feel that I must make better time ; and I do. The dog immediately manifests an interest in my movements. He tears down the street after me, and is speedily joined by five or six other dogs, which frolic about my legs and bark furiously. Sundry small boys as I go plunging past, contribute to the excitement by whistling $2 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. with their fingers, and the men who are at work upon the new meeting- house stop to look at me and exchange jocular remarks with each other. I do feel ridiculous ; but I must catch that train at all hazards. I become desperate when I have to slacken my pace until two or three women who are standing upon the sidewalk, discussing the infamous price of butter, scatter to let me pass. I arrive within a few yards of the sta- tion with my duster flying in the wind, with my coat tails in a horizontal position, and with the speckled dog nipping my heels, just as the train begins to move. I put on extra pressure, resolving to get the train or perish, and I reach it just as the last car is going by. I seize the hand- rail ; I am jerked violently around, but finally, after a desperate effort, I get upon the step with my knees, and am hauled in by the brakeman, hot, dusty and mad, with my trousers torn across the knees, my legs bruised and three ribs of my umbrella broken. Just as I reach a comfortable seat in the car, the train stops, and then backs up on the siding, where it remains for half an hour while the engineer repairs a dislocated valve. The anger which burns in my bosom as I reflect upon what now is proved to have been the folly of that race is increased as I look out of the window and observe the speckled dog engaged with his companions in an altercation over a bone. A man who permits his dog to roam about the streets nipping the legs of every one who happens to go at a more rapid gait than a walk, is unfit for association with civilized beings. He ought to be placed on a desert island in mid- ocean, and be compelled to stay there. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT, LADY DUFFERIN. j'M sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May morning, long ago, When first you were my bride ; The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; J And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day as bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. And your breath warm on my cheek; And I still keep listening for the words You never more will speak. ' Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near — The church where we were wed, Mary : I see the spire from here. THE SNOW-STORM. *iO But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest — For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends ; But, Oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary — My blessing and my pride ; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was g There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Tho' you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break — When the hunger pain was gnawing there, And you did it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore — Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, . Where grief can't reach you more'. I'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary — kind and true ! But I'll not forget you darling, In the land I'm going to ; They say there's bread and work for aL, And the sun shines always there — But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springing corn, and the bright May morn When first you were my bride. THE SNOW-STORM, EMEESON. gjSgNNOUNCED by all the trumpets of ft the sky, Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited i. air J Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed la a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake or tree or door ; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the worn:. And when his hours are numbered, and the world «4 THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. Is all his own, retiring as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. THE RIVER TIME. BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. >H ! a wonderful stream is the river Time, As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme And a broader sweep and a surge sub- 1 lime, As it blends in the ocean of years ! How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow, And the summers like birds between, And the years in the sheaf, how they come and they go On the river's breast with its ebb and its flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! There's a magical isle up the river Time, Where the softest of airs are playing, There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are straying. And the name of this isle is the " Long Ago," And we bury our treasures there ; There' are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, There are heaps of dust — oh ! we loved them so — There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are fragments of songs that nobody sings, There are parts of an infant's prayer, There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments our loved used to wear. There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, And we sometimes hear through the turbu- lent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone be- fore, When the wind down the river was fair. Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, All the day of our life until night ; And when evening glows with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing in slumbers awhile, May the greenwood of soul be in sight. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. FELICIA D. HEMANS. gHE stately Homes of England, v ~ How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land ; The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the d«mnd vji uome rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England ! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light. There woman's voice flows forrjj m song, Or childish tale is told ; Or lips move tunefully alone Some glorious page of old. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 6b The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours ! The cottage Homes of England ! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes. AN ENGLISH ANCESTRAL HOMESTEAD. Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn ; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. Through glowing orchards forth they pee^ Each from its nook of leaves ; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. 66 AFRICAN HOSPITALITY. The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall ! And green forever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God. AFRICAN HOSPITALITJ. MUNGO PAKK. WAITED more than two hours without having an opportunity of crossing the river, during which time the people who had crossed carried information to Man-song, the king, that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately sent over one of his chief men, who informed me that the king could not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into his country ; and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which he pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me further instructions how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village, where I found, to my great mortification, that no person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without victuals in the shade of a tree ; and the night threatened to be very uncomfortable — for the wind rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain — and the wild beasts are so very numerous in the neighborhood, that I should have been under the necessity of climbing up the trees and resting amongst *the branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I briefly explained to her ; whereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. Sir went out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. THE HEBREW RACE. 67 The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress — pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there without apprehension — called to the female part of her family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ themselves a great part of the night. They lightened their labor by songs, one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally trans- lated, were these : " The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn. Chorus — Let us pity the white man — no mother has he," etc. Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my compassionate landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waist- coat — the only recompense I could make her. THE HEBREW RACE. BENJAMIN DISRAELI. fiBAVORED by nature and by nature's God, we produced the lyre of IIS David ; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel ; they are our Olynthians, our Philippics. Favored by nature we still remain ; but in exact proportion as we have been favored by nature, we have been per- I secuted by man. After a thousand struggles — after acts of heroic « courage that Eome has never equalled — deeds of divine patriotism that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have never excelled — we have en- dured fifteen hundred years of supernatural slavery ; during which, every device that can degrade or destroy man has been the destiny that we have sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to learn that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion. Great poets require a public ; we have been content with the immor- tal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs ; they solace our afflic- 68 THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. tion. Great orators are the creatures of popular assemblies ; we were permitted only by stealth to meet even in our temples. And as for great writers, the catalogue is not blank. What are all the school-men, Aquinas himself, to Maimonides ? and as for modern philosophy, all springs from Spinoza ! But the passionate and creative genius that is the nearest link to divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though it can divert it ; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its inspired sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence, has found a medium for its expression, to which, in spite of your prejudices and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, the fancy teeming with combination — the imagination fervent with picture and emotion, that came from Caucasus, and which we have preserved unpolluted — have endowed us with almost the exclusive privilege of music; that science of harmonious sounds which the ancients recognized as most divine, and deified in the person of their most beautiful creation. THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. BARRY CORNWALL. OW many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine ? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours! Some weight of thought, though loath, On thee he leaves ; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves ; Some fears, — a soft regret For joy scarce known ; Sweet looks we half forget ; — All else is flown ! THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. 69 Ah ! With what thankless heart I mourn and sing ! Look, where our children start, Like sudden spring ! With tongues all sweet and low Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and time ! SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? ANONYMOUS. HEN we hear the music ringing In the bright celestial dome — When sweet angels' voices, singing, Gladly bid us welcome home To the land or" ancient story, Where the spirit knows no care ; In that land of life and glory — Shall we know each other there ? When the holy angels meet us, As we go to join their band, Shall we know the friends that greet us In that glorious spirit land ? Shall we see the same eyes shining On us as in days of yore ? Shall we feel the dear arms twining Fondly round us as before ? Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices, And my weary heart grows light. For the thrilling angel voices And the angel faces bright, That shall welcome us in heaven, Are the loved of long ago ; And to them 'tis kindly given Thus their mortal friends to know. Oh, ye weary, sad, and tossed ones, Droop not, faint not by the way ! Ye shall join the loved and just ones In that land of perfect day. Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers, Murmured in my raptured ear ; Evermore their sweet song lingers — " We shall know each other there." THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHA Y. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ?AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened, with- out delay — Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits — Have you ever heard of that I say ? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, Georgius Secundus was then alive — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, 70 THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will — Above or below, or within or without — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do, With an " I dew vum " or an "I tell yeou ") — He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn't break daown : — " Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — That was for spoke3, and floor, and sills ; He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs from logs from the " Settler's ellum" — Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em — Never an ax had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery -tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, Found in the pit where the tanner died. That was the way he " put her through." "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away. Children and grandchildren — where were^ they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen Hundred — it came, and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound- Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came — Running as usual — much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive ; And then came fifty — and Fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact there's nothing that keeps its youth,. So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large ; Take it. — You're welcome. — no extra charge.)* First of November — the Earthquake-day — There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay„ A general flavor of mild decay — But nothing local, as one may say, There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the? thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills,. And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,. And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,.. And spring, and axle, and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out ! First of November, 'Fifty-five ! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat- tailed, ewe-necked bay. " Huddup !" said the parson. — Off went they.. The parson was working his Sunday text — - Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 71 Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill — And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock — Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around ? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had- been to the mill and ground 1 You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once — All at once, and nothing first — Just as the bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is Logic. That's all I say. AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. JOHN a. SAXE. F all the notable things on earth, The queerest one is pride of birth Among our " fierce democracy !" A bridge across a hundred years, Without a prop to save it from sneers, Not even a couple of rotten peers, — A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, Is American aristocracy ! English and Irish, French and Spanish, Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration ! So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed In finding the circulation. Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it waxed, at the farther end, By some plebeian vocation : Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine, That plagued some worthy relation ! MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. CHARLES DICKENS. R. PICKWICK'S apartments in Goswell street, although on a limited scale, were not' only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor front, his bed-room was the second floor front ; and thus, whether 72 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the dressing- glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the relict and sole executrix of a de- ceased custom-house officer — was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no- fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor ; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour, on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatansville, would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at inter- vals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contem- plation ; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been able to discover. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time gone." "Why, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. "Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "very true; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. "Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again, " Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ?" " La, Mr. Pick- wick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!" "Well, but do you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 73 the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table ; " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pick- wick ; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir." " That's very true," said Mr. Pickwick ; " but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities ; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me." " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- border again. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him. "I do indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." " Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. " You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his com- panion, " that I never consulted you about this matter, and never men- tioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning — eh ?" Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose — a deliberate plan, too — ■ sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the way — how thoughtful — how considerate ! — " Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you think ?" " Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation "you're very kind, sir." "It will save you a great deal of trouble, won't it ?" said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; "and of course, I should take more trouble to please you then than ever ; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration- for my loneliness." "Ah to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; " I never thought of that. When I am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will." "I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. "And your little boy — " said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. " He, too, will have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, " a lively one, who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week, than he would ever learn, in a year.'* And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. " Oh, you dear — " said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. " Oh you kind, good, playful dear/' said Mrs. Bardell ; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. " Bless my soul," cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; — "Mrs. Bardell, my good woman — dear me, 74 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. what a situation — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should come—" "Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; "I'll never leave you — dear, kind, good, soul: " and with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. " Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, " I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing ; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms ; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative situation until the suspended anima- tion of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain ; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward, with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed. tl Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, "he's mad." " What is the matter?" said the three tongue-tied Pick- wickians. " I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. " Take away the boy — (here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) Now help me to lead this woman down stairs. " Oh, I'm better now," said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. " Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever gallant Mr. Tup- man. " Thank you, sir — thank you ;" exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. And down stairs she was led, accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. " I cannot conceive " — said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned — u I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when PRAISE OF THE SEA. 75 she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary, thing." " Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation/' continued Mr. Pickwick. " Very;" was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. — " There is a man in the passage now," said Mr. Tupman. " It's the man that I spoke to you about/' said Mr. Pickwick, " I sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass." PRAISE OF THE SEA. SAMUEL PUECHAS. ..cfe W/jm^ God hath combined the sea and land into one globe, so their joint |*lll combination and mutual assistance is necessary to secular happi- -*^^b ness and glory. The sea covereth one-half of this patrimony of man, whereof God set him in possession when he said, " Replenish the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth." .... Thus should man at once lose half his inheritance, if the art of navigation did not enable him to manage this untamed beast, and with the bridle of the winds and saddle of his shipping to make him serviceable. Now for the services of the sea, they are innumerable : it is the great purveyor of the world's commodities to our use ; conveyer of the excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffic, of all nations : it presents the eye with diversified colors and motions, and is, as it j^ere, with rich brooches, adorned with various islands. It is an open fielcrfor merchandise in peace ; a pitched field for the most dreadful fights of war ; yields diversity of fish and fowl for diet ; materials for wealth, medicine for health, simples for medicines, pearls, and other jewels for ornament ; amber and ambergris for delight ; " the wonders of the Lord in the deep " for instruction, variety of creatures for use, multiplicity of natures for contemplation, diversity of accidents for admiration, compendiousness to the way, to full bodies health- ful evacuation, to the thirsty earth fertile moisture, to distant friends pleasant meeting, to weary persons delightful refreshing, to studious and religious minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temperance, exercise of continence ; 76 PRAISE OF THE SEA. school of prayer, meditation, devotion and sobriety ; refuge to the dis- tressed, portage to the merchant, passage to the traveller, customs to the BARRIERS OF THE SEA. prince, springs, lakes, rivers to the earth; it hath on it tempests and calms to chastise the sins, to exercise the faith of seamen ; manifold WAITING BY THE GATE. 77 •affections in itself, to affect and stupefy the subtlest philosopher ; sustaineth movable fortresses for the soldier ; maintaineth (as in our island) a wall of defence and watery garrison to guard the state ; entertains the sun with vapors, the moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with a natural looking- glass, the sky with clouds, the air with temperateness, the soil with sup- pleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with moisture, the valleys with fertility : containeth most diversified matter for meteors, most multiform shapes, most various, numerous kinds, most immense, difformed, deformed, unformed monsters ; once (for why should I longer detain you ?) the sea yields action to the body, meditation to the mind, the world to the world, all parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts, navigation. WAITING BY THE GATE. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. |l|MESIDE the massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eter- nal shadow lie, "While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me. The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night ; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more, .And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. Behold the portals- open and o'er the thres- hold, now, There steps a wearied one with pale and fur- rowed brow ; His count of years is full, his alloted task is wrought ; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's cour- age and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. Again the hinges turn, and a youth, depart- ing throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair. Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly de- cays ! Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze ! Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where. I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ; But still the sun shines round me ; the even- ing birds sing on ; 78 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. And I again am soothed, and beside the an- cient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strews Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows ! So from every region, so enter side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride, Steps of earth's greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, that mark the dust- away. And some approach the threshold whose^ looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, with- in my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing; to depart ; And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood. and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges. turn for me. THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. MES. F. D. GAGE. ERE'S a big washing to be done — One pair of hands to do it — Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants, How will I e'er get through it ? Dinner to get for six or more, No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; And baby cross as he can live — He's always so on Monday. 'Tis time the meat was in the pot, The bread was worked for baking, The clothes were taken from the boil — Oh dear ! the baby's waking ! Hush, baby dear ! there, hush-sh-sh ! I wish he'd sleep a little, 'Till I could run and get some wood, To hurry up the kettle. Oh dear ! oh dear ! if P comes home, And finds things in this pother, He'll just begin and tell me all About his tidy mother ! How nice her kitchen used to be, Her dinner always ready Exactly when the noon-bell rang — Hush, hush, dear little Freddy ! And then will come some hasty words,. Right out before I'm thinking — They say that hasty words from wives. Set sober men to drinking. Now is not that a great idea, That men should take to sinning, Because a weary, half-sick wife, Can't always smile so winning ? When I was young I used to earn My living without trouble, Had clothes and pocket money, too, And hours of leisure double, I never dreamed of such a fate, When I, a-lass ! was courted — Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, house- keeper, chambermaid, laundress, dairywo- man, and scrub generally, doing the work - of six, For the sake of being supported ! SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 79 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. JOHN G. WHITTIER. \F all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, — On Apnleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, £ Witch astride of a human hack, el Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — The strangest ride that ever was sped "Was Ireson's out from Marblehead ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : " Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, Torr'd an futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt, By the women o' Marble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds, with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase. Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Maenads sang : " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torrd an' futhered an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marble'ead ! Small pity for him ! — he sailed away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 30 SKIPPER IEESON'S BIDE. Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own towns-people on her deck ! " Lay by ! lay by !" they called to him, Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! Brag of your catch of fish again !" And off he sailed through fog and rain ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed, Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue, Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol, glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore, Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, — Looked for the coming that might not be ! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? — Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent to the fish-horn's bray, Sea-worn grandsires, cripple bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head and fist, and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marble'ead I" Of voices shouting, far and near : " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marble'ead ! " Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, — " What to me is this noisy ride ? What is the shame that clothes the skin, To the nameless horror that lives within ? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! Hate me and curse me, — I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead !" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! The wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, " God has touched him ! why should we ?'* Said an old wife, mourning her only son, " Cut the rogue's tether, and let him run !" So with soft relentings, and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin, Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! FULPIT ORATORY. 31 PULPIT ORATORY. DANIEL DOUGHERTY. iHE daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judgment, but to touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the armory of the feelings the w T eapons with which to defend against sin, assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. And oh, how infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this armory ! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a master ! Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the bound- less world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man — all his temp- tations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awa"ke amid the glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy- hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. Ho can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross- like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer and his apostate legions ; in letting loose the mighty waters until they swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the- coming of that awful day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic voices tuned in celestial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never con- sumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of S2 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. contrition start and stream from every eye ; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as Felix quailed before St. Paul. BABY. GEORGE MACDONALD. HERE did you come from, baby m dear? if£y^p Out of the everywhere into here. \W % t Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear ? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands ? Love made itself into bonds and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? From the same box as the cherubs' wings. How did they all just come to be you ? God thought about me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear ? God thought about you, and so I am here. ■■ ctffr . THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. F. M. WHITCHER. ES, — he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham,) she says, I never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 83 she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it ? Well, I'll see if I can say it ; it ginerally affects me wonder- fully, seems to harrer up my feelin's ; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry ? How you talk ! used to make lots on't ; haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says : Teach him for to proclaim Salvation to the folks ; No occasion give for any blame, Nor wicked people's jokes. And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses. Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it ; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers : — He never jawed in all his life, He never was onkind, — i And (tho' I say it that was his wife) Such men you seldom find. (That's as true as the Scrip turs ; I never knowedhim to say a harsh word.) I never changed my single lot, — I thought 'twould be a sin — ■ (Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to ; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's fe'elin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels won- derfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her " Jack at a pinch," — seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get, — but I goes on to say — I never changed my single lot, I thought 'twould be a sin, — For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, I never got married agin. 84 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. If ever a hasty word he spoke, His anger dident last, But vanished like tobacker smoke Afore the wintry blast. And since it was my lot to be The wife of such a man, Tell the men that's after me To ketch me if they can. If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in — That's a fact, — he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think, — widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott, — and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know ; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin' ; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin, — so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I ? Oh !— If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in — I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. A wonderful tender heart he had, That felt for all mankind, — ■ It made him feel amazin' bad To see the world so blind. Whiskey and rum he tasted not — That's as true as the Scripturs, — but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house> THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 85 how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin ! did you ever ! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth —besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'- distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See, — where had I got to? Oh, I remember now, — Whiskey and rum he tasted not, — He thought it was a sin, — I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. But now he's dead ! the thought is killin', My grief I can't control- He never left a single shillin' His widder to console. But that wa'n't his fault — he was so out o' health for a number o' year aforer he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin' — however, it dident give him no great oneasiness, — he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, — begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house ! did you ever ! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper, — used to swear like all possest when he got mad, — and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't true), — I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! " His widder to console," — ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he, — " What did you stop so soon for?" — but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun, — she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern, — I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't, — said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie ! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell 86 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as toilers : — I'll never change my single lot, — I think 'twould be a sin, — The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Don't intend to get married agin. Excuse my cryin' — my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry — O-o-o-o-o-o ! BINGEN ON THE RHINE. CAROLINE E. . NORTON. WlWb SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in mk Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ; el But a comrade stood beside him, | while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land , Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, .For I was born at Bmgen — at Bingen on the Rhine. " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To 'hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun ; And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine ' " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad gallant tread ; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die ; And if a comrade seek her love, 1 ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; And to hang the old sword in its place (my fathers sword and mine,) For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine ! SONG OF THE DECANTER. 87 " There's another, not a sister ; in the happy- days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning,— Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ! Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison,) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yel- low sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bin- gen on the Rhine ! " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; - And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine : But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhine !" His voice grew faint and hoarse — his grasp was childish weak, — His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to speak : His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled ! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses strown ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! SONG OF THE DECANTER. There was an old decanter, and its mouth was gaping wide ; the rosy wine had ebbed away and left its crys- tal side ; and the wind went humming, humming; up and down the sides it flew, and through the reed-like, hollow neck the wildest notes it blew. I placed it in the window, where the blast was blowing free, and fancied that its pale mouth sang the queerest strains to me. " They tell me — puny con- querors ! — the Plague has slain his ten, and War his hundred thousands of the very best of men ; but I " — 'twas thus the bottle spoke — " but I have con- quered more than all your famous con- querors, so feared and famed of yore. Then come, ye youths and maidens, come drink from out my cup, the bev- erage that dulls the brain and burns the spirit up ; that puts to shame the conquerors that slay their scores below ; for this has del- uged millions with the lava tide of woe. Though, m the path of battle, darkest waves of blood may roll ; yet while I killed the body, I have damned the very soul. The cholera, the sword, such ruin never wrought, as I, in mirth or malice, on the innocent have brought. And still I breathe upon them, and they shrink before my breath ; and year by year my thousands tread THE FEARFUL ROAD TO DEATH. 88 SORROW FOR THE DEAD. THE RAINY DA Y. LONGFELLOW. |HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; l - It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the moldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains and the wind is never weary ; My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blasts And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. WASHINGTON IRVING. HE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open ; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 89 forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved — when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals — would accept of consola- tion that must be bought by forgetfulness ? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has its delights; and when the over- whelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies rudder- ing before him ? But the grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentle- ness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene ; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, — oh, how thrilling I — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate. There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent ; if thou art a hus- band, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happi- ness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth ; if 90 EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee ; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul ; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant in the grave and utter the unheard groan, and pour the un- availing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. FROM LONGFELLOW S " EVANGELINE. |lIEN disorder prevailed, and the tu- mult and stir of emb'arking. Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 91 So unto separate ships are Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair on the shore, Evangeline stood with her father. Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean Pled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, All escape cut off by the sea, and the senti- nels near them, Lay encamped for the night, the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the billowing- ocean, Dragging adown the beach the rattling peb- bles, and leaving Inland far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds re- turned from their pastures ; Scent was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders ; Lowing, they waited, and long at the well known bars of the farm-yard, — Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets ; from the Church no Angelus sounded, Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. THE GENERO US SOLDIER SA VED. THOUGHT, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift, — > no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post ; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was ! I know he only fell asleep one little second; — he was so young, and not strong, that boy of mine ! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen ! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty. Twenty- four hours the telegram said, — only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now ?" " We will hope, with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, sooth- ingly. " Yes, yes ; let us hope ; God is very merciful !" " ' I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, ' when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm ' — and he held it out so proudly before me — ' for my country, when it needed it. Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow.' " ' Go, then, my boy,' I said, ' and God keep you !' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan !" and the farmer repeated these words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. 92 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. " Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen ; doubt it not." Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. " It is from him," was all she said. It was like a message from the dead ! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it, and read as follows : — " Dear Father: — When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. At first it seemed awful to me ; but I have thought about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me ; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously ; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it, — to die for neglect of duty ! 0, father, I wonder that the very thought does not kill me ! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it ; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can not now. " You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look after her boy ; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own on our march. Towards night we went in on double quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, every body else was tired too ; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place ; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; but I did not know it until — well, until it was too late." "God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. " I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." " They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, given to me by circumstances, — ' time to write to you/ our good colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty ; he would gladly save me if he could ; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken- hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead. " I cannot bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them. THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 93 father ! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me ; it is very hard to bear ! Good-by, father ! God seems near and dear to me ; not at all as if he wished me to perish for ever, but as if he felt sorry for his poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with him and my Saviour in a better, — better life." A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owens heart. "Amen," he said solemnly, " Amen." " To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting for me ; but I shall never, never come ! God bless you all ! Forgive your poor Bennie." Late that night the door of the " back stoop " opened softly and a little figure glided out, and down the foot-path that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands, as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train ; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the bright lantern he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all ; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom. She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom, reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House. The President had but just seated himself to the task of overlooking and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes and folded hands, stood before him. " Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, " what do you want?" " Bennie's life, please sir!'' faltered Blossom. " Bennie ? Who is Bennie ?" "My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post." " Oh, yes ;" and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. 94 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. "I remember. It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable negligence." " So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely, " but poor Bennie was bo tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it LITTLE BLOSSOM AND PRESIDENT LINCOLN. was Jemmie's night, not his ; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired too." "What is this you say, child? Gome here ; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justifi- cation of an offence. Blossom went to him ; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and SONG OF SARATOGA. 95 turned up the pale, anxious face towards his. How tall he seemed ! and he was President of the United States, too. A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind ; bat she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom heard this order given : " Send this dispatch at once." The President then turned to the girl and said, " Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or — wait until to- morrow ; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death ; he shall go with you." "God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the request ? Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. Pie was called into the President's private room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said : " The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome them back ; and as farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks and he was heard to say fervently : " The Lord be praised /" SONG OF SARATOGA. JOHN G. SAXE. Springs?" The question is easy to ask : 4J^ But to answer it fully, my dear, f Were rather a serious task. ¥ And yet, in a bantering way, j As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, I'll venture a bit of a song, To tell what they do at the Springs. Imprimis, my darling, they drink The waters so sparkling and clear ; Though the flavor is none of the best, And the odor exceedingly queer : But the fluid is mingled you know, With wholesome medicinal things ; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink, — And that's what they do at the Springs ! 9o THE RUINED COTTAGE. The^ with appetites keen as a knife, They hasten to breakfast, or dine ; The latter precisely at three, The former from seven till nine. Ye gods ! what a rustle and rush, When the eloquent dinner-bell rings ! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat — And that's what they do at the Springs ! Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, Or loll in the shade of the trees ; Where many a whisper is heard That never is heard by the breeze ; And hands are commingled with hands, Regardless of conjugal rings : And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt — And that's what they do a,t the Springs ! The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, And music is shrieking away ; Terpsichore governs the hour, And fashion was never so gay ! An arm round a tapering waist — How closely and how fondly it clinpp ' So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz, And that's what they do at the Springs ! In short, — as it goes in the world, — They eat, and they drink, and they sleep ; They talk, and they walk, and they woo ; They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep ; They read, and they ride, and they dance ; (With other remarkable things :) They pray, and they play, and they pay, — • And that's what they do at the Springs ( THE R UINEJD CO TTA GE. MRS. LETITIA E. MACLEAN. K3NE will dwell in that cottage, for they say oppression reft it from an honest man, and that a curse clings to it ; hence the vine trails * its green weight of leaves upon the ground ; hence weeds are in that garden ; hence the hedge, once sweet with honeysuckle, is half dead ; and hence the gray moss on the apple-tree. One once dwelt there who had been in his youth a soldier, and when many years had passed, he sought his native village, and sat down to end his days in peace. He had one child — a little, laughing thing, whose large, dark eyes, he said, were like the mother's he had left buried in strangers' land. And time went on in comfort and content — and that fair girl had grown far taller than the red rose tree her father planted on her first Eng- lish birthday ; and he had trained it up against an ash till it became his pride ; it was so rich in blossom and in beauty, it was called the tree of Isabel. 'Twas an appeal to all the better feelings of the heart, to mark their quiet happiness, their home — in truth a home of love, — and more than all, to see them on the Sabbath, when they came among the first to church, and Isabel, with her bright color and her clear, glad eyes, bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer, and in the hymn her sweet voice audible ; her father looked so fond of her, and then from her looked up so thankfully to heaven ! And their small cottage was so very neat ; their garden filled with fruits and herbs and flowers ; and in the winter there was no fireside so cheerful as their own. THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. 97 But other days and other fortunes came — an evil power ! They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped for better times, but ruin came at last ; and the old soldier left his own dear home, and left it for a prison ! 'Twas in June — one of June's brightest days ; the bee, the bird, the butterfly, were on their lightest wing ; the fruits had their first tinge of summer light ; the sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad ; and the old man looked back upon his cot and wept aloud. They hur- ried him away from the dear child that would not leave his side. They led him from the sight of the blue heaven and the green trees into a low, dark cell, the windows shutting out the blessed sun with iron grating ; and for the first time he threw him on his bed, and could not hear his Isabel's good night ! But the next morn she was the earliest at the prison gate, the last on whom it closed ; and her sweet voice and sweeter smile made him forget to pine, notwithstanding his deep sorrow. She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers ; but every morning he could mark her cheek grow paler and more pale, and her low tones get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew was on the hand he held. One day he saw the sunshine through the grating of his cell — yet Isabel came not; at every sound his heart-beat took away his breath — yet still she came not near him ! But one sad day he marked the dull street through the iron bars that shut him from the world ; at length he saw a coffin car- ried carelessly along, and he grew desperate — he forced the bars, and he stood on the street free and alone ! He had no aim, no wish for liberty ; he only felt one want — to see the corpse that had no mourners. When they set it down, ere it was lowered into the new-dug grave, a rush of pas- sion came upon his soul, and he tore off the lid — he saw the face of Isabel, and knew he had no child ! He lay down by the coffin quietly — his heart was broken ! THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. JOHANN W. GOETHE. OW shall we learn to sway the minds of men By eloquence ? — to rule them, to persuade ? — 7 Do you seek genuine and worthy fame? Reason and honest feeling want no arts Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution ! And, when you speak in earnest do you Deed 98 SONG OF SPUING. A search for words ? Oh ! these fine holiday phrases, In which you robe your worn-out common- places, These scraps of paper which you crimp and curl And twist into a thousand idle shapes, These filigree ornaments, are good for nothing, — Cost time and pains, please few, impose on no one ; Are unrefreshing as the wind that whistles, In autumn, 'mong the dry and wrinkled leaves. If feeling does not prompt, in vain you strive. If from the soul the language does not come, By its own impulse, to impel the hearts Of hearers with communicated power, In vain you strive, in vain you study earnestly ! Toil on forever, piece together fragments, Cook up your broken scraps of sentences, And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling light, Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in ashes ; Startle the school-boys with your meta- phors, — And, if such food may suit your appetite, Win the vain wonder of applauding child- ren, — But never hope to stir the hearts of men, And mould the souls of many into one, By words which come not native from the heart ! ^■L-?. SONG OF SPRING. pEpAUD the first spring daisies HJI Chant aloud their praises ; Send the children up To the high hill's top ; EDWARD YOUL. Tax not the strength of their young hands To increase your lands. Gather the primroses, Make handfuls into posies; THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. 99 Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills : Pluck the violets blue, — Ah, pluck not a few ! Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven the violet instils ? Give the children holidays, (And let these be jolly days,) Grant freedom to the children in this joyous spring ; Better men, hereafter, Shall we have, for laughter Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes ring. Send the children up To the high. hill's top, Or deep into the wood's recesses, To woo spring's caresses. Ah, come and woo the spring ; List to the birds that sing ; Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; Pluck the daisies, Sing their praises ; Friendship with the flowers some noble thought begets. Come forth and gather these sweet elves, (More witching are they than the fays of old,) Come forth and gather them yourselves ; Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is more than gold. Come forth on Sundays ; Come forth on Mondays ; Come forth on any day ; Children, come forth to play : — Worship the God of nature in your childhood; Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; Worship him in your sports ; worship him ever ; Worship him in the wildwood ; Worship him amidst the flowers ; In the greenwood bowers ; Pluck the buttercups, and raise Your voices in his praise ! THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. MES. J. H. EIDDELL. |HE ghosts of the long ago — laid and buried, as you fancied, years and years since, friends, — though your present sight may fail to discern them, — they are traveling with you still, a ghastly com- pany. While you drive in your carriage along life's smoothest turn- pike-roads, or pace, footsore and weary, over the flinty by-paths of existence, past events are skipping on beside you, mocking, jeering, at your profound self-delusion. Shall fleet steeds leave them behind? Shall liveried servants keep them at bay ? Shall an unsuccessful existence, drawing to a still more unsuccessful close, be able to purchase their for- bearance ? Nay, invisible now, they shall be visible some day ; voiceless, they shall yet find tongues ; despised, they shall rear their head and hiss at you ; forgotten, they shall reappear with more strength than at their first birth; and when the evil day comes, and your power, and your energy, and your youth and your hope, have gone, they shall pour the overflowing drop into your cup, they shall mingle fennel with your wine, they shall pile the last straw on your back, they shall render wealth valueless and life a burden ; they shall make poverty more bitter, and add another pain, to that which already racks you; they shall break the 100 THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. breaking heart, and make you turn your changed face to the wall, and gather up your feet into your bed, and pray to be delivered from your tormentors by your God, who alone knows all. Wherefore, young man, if you would ensure a peaceful old age, be careful of the acts of each day of your youth ; for with youth the deeds thereof are not to be left behind. They are detectives, keener and more unerring than ever the hand of sensational novelist depicted; they will dog you from the hour you sinned till the hour your trial comes off. You are prosperous, you are great, you are " beyond the world," as I have heard peo- ple say, meaning the power or the caprice thereof; but you are not beyond, the power of events. Whatever you may think now, they are only biding their time ; and when you are weak and at their mercy, when the world you fancied you were beyond has leisure to hear their story and scoff at you, they will come forward and tell all the bitter tale. And if you take it one way, you will bluster and bully, and talk loud, and silence society before your face, if you fail to still its tattle behind your back ; while if you take it another way, you will bear the scourging silently, and cover up the marks of the lash as best you may, and go home and close your door, and sit there alone with your misery, decently and in order, till you die.. THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. Wj& COUNSEL in the " Common Pleas," Who was esteemed a mighty wit, Upon the strength of a chance hit, Amid a thousand flippancies, And his occasional bad jokes, In bullying, bantering, browbeating, Ridiculing and maltreating Women, or other timid folks ; In a late cause, resolved to hoax A clownish Yorkshire farmer — one Who by his uncouth look and gait, Appeared expressly meant by fate For being quizzed and played upon. So having tipped the wink to those In the back rows, Who kept their laughter bottled down, Until our wag should draw the cork — He smiled jocosely on the clown, And went to work. " Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at York ? " " Why — not, sir, as they do wi' you; But on four legs instead of two.'" " Officer," cried the legal elf, Piqued at the laugh against himself, " Do, pray, keep silence down below - there ! Now look at me, clown and attend, Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?" " Yees, very like, I often go there." " Our rustic's waggish — quite lanconic," (The counsel cried, with grin sardonic,) " I wish I'd known this prodigy, This genius of the clods, when I On circuit was at York residing. Now, farmer, do for once speak true, Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you Who doubtless think yourself so clever, Are there as many fools as ever In the West Riding ? " " Why no, sir, no ! we've got our share, But not so many as when you were there.'*' JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 101 JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. ^T was in the summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new pratie just dug from the "ould sod," and wid a light heart and a heavy bundle I sot off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I I trudged on and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the I thought that some day I might have a place of my own, wid a world of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer about the door ; and along in the afternoon of the sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, and I wanted to make his place that night, so I inquired the way at the tavern, and was lucky to find a man who was goin' part of the way an' would show me the way to find Dennis. Sure he was very kind indade, an' when I got out of his wagon he pointed me through the wood and tould me to go straight south a mile an' a half, and the first house would be Dennis's. " An' you've no time to lose now," said he, " for the sun is low, and mind you don't get lost in the woods." " Is it lost now," said I, " that I'd be gittin, an' me uncle as great a navi- gator as iver steered a ship across the thrackless say ! Not a bit of it, though I'm obleeged to ye for your kind advice, and thank yez for the ride." An' wid that he drove off an' left me alone. I shouldered me bundle bravely, an' whistlin' a bit of tune for company like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I went a long way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush an' trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad cess to it ! all of a sudden I came out of the woods at the very identical spot where I started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standin' on its head and kickin' up its heels to make divarsion of me. By this time it was growin' dark, and as there was no time to lose, I started in a second time, determined to keep straight south this time and no mistake. I got on bravely for a while, but och hone ! och hone ! it got so dark I couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and barked me shins, while " you've no time to lose now." 102 JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister ; an' after tumblin' and stumblin' around till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all of a trimble, to think. that I was lost intirely, an' that maybe a lion or some other wild craythur would devour me before morning. Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, " Whip poor Will ! " "Bedad," sez I, " I'm glad that it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though it seems it's more in sorrow than in anger they are doin' it, or why should they say, ' poor Will ? ' an' sure they can't be Injin, hay thin, or nayg-ur, for it's plain English they're afther spakin\ Maybe they might help me out o' this," so I shouted at the top of my voice, " A lost man ! " Thin I listened. Prisently an answer came. "Who? Whoo? Whooo?" " Jamie Butler, the waiver ! " sez I, as loud as I could roar, an' snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, " A lost man ! " . " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " said a voice right over my head. " Sure," thinks I, " it's a mighty quare place for a man to be at this time of night ; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar-bush for the children's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of them ? " All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered his inquiry. " Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I ; " and if it wouldn't inconvanience yer honor, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way to the house of Dennis O'Dowd ? " " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he. " Dennis O'Dowd," sez I, civil enough, " and a dacent man he is, and first cousin to me own mother." " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he again. "Me mother! " sez I, "and as fine a woman as iver peeled a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, and her father's name was Paddy McFiggin. "Who! Whoo! Whooo!" " Paddy McFiggin ! bad luck to yer deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, I say — do ye hear that? An' he was the tallest man in all county Tipper- ary,,excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith." " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " " Jim Doyle, the blacksmith," sez I, " ye good for nothin' blaggurd naygur, and if yez don't come down and show me the way this min't, I'll climb up there and break every bone in your skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is Jimmy Butler ! " JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 103 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he, as impident as ever. I said niver a word, but lavin' down me bundle, and takin' me stick in me teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin I got among the branches I looked quietly around till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me. " Whist," sez I, " and I'll let him have a taste of an Irish stick," and wid that I let drive and lost me balance an' came tumblin' to the ground, nearly breakin' me neck wid the fall. Whin I came to me sinsis I had a very sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half of me Sunday coat-tail torn off intirely. I spoke to the chap in the tree, but could git niver an answer, at all, at all. Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for by the powers I didn't throw me stick for nothin'. Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's. I wint on cautiously for a while, an' thin I heard a bell. " I, t( I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear the church bell. WHIST, SAYS I. Sure," sez I kept on toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on, thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like an ould country steeple-chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' and a house in sight wid a light in it. So, leaving the ould cow puffin' and blowin' in a shed, I went to the house, and as luck would have it, whose should it be but Dennis's. He gave me a raal Irish welcome, and introduced me to his two daughters — as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him my adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an owl. " An ould what ? " sez I. " Why, an owl, a bird," sez he. " Do ye tell me now ? " sez I. " Sure it's a quare country and a quare bird." And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that 104 THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW. hearty like, and dropped right into a chair between the two purty girls, and the ould chap winked at me and roared again. Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl. THE OLD WA YS AND THE NEW. JOHN H. YATES. >'VE just come in from the meadow, wife, where the grass is tall and green ; I hobbled out upon my cane to see John's new machine ; 4 It made my old eyes snap again to see that mower mow. y And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I I swung some twenty years ago. Many and many's the day I've mowed 'neath the rays of a scorching sun, Till I thought my poor old back would break ere my task for the day was done ; I often think of the days of toil in the fields all over the farm, Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, and the old pam come in my arm. It was hard work, it was slow work, a-swing- ing the old scythe then ; Unlike the mower that went through the grass like death through the ranks of men. I stood and looked till my old eyes ached, amazed at its speed and power ; The work that it took me a day to do, it done in one short hour. John said that I hadn't seen the half: when he puts it into his wheat, I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in bundles neat ; Then soon a Yankee will come along, and set to work and larn To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and send it into the barn. John kinder laughed when he said it * but I said to the hired men, " I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my threescore years and ten, That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the air, Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most any- where." There's a difference in the work I done, and the work my boys now do ; Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret in the new ; But somehow I think there was happiness crowded into those toiling days, That the fast young men of the present will not see till they change their ways. To think that I ever should live to see work done in this wonderful way ! Old tools are of little service now, and farmin* is almost play ; The women have got their sewin'-machines, their wringers, and every sich thing, And now play croquet in the door-yard, or sit in the parlor and sing. 'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the days so long gone by ; You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin' for you and I. There were cows to milk ; there was butter to make ; and many a day did you stand A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and wringin' em out by hand. NEW ENGLAND. 105 Ah ! wife, our children will never see the hard work we have seen, For the heavy task and the long task is now done with a machine ; No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower — there ! hear it afar ? A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass with the noise of a railroad car. Well ! the old tools now are shoved away ; they stand a-gatherm' rust, Like many an old man I have seen put aside with only a crust ; When the eye grows dim, when the step is weak,. when the strength goes out of his arm, The best thing a poor old man can do is to hold the deed of the farm. There is one old way that they can't improve, although it has been tried By men who have studied and studied, and. worried till they died ; It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold re- fined from its dross ; It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by the simple way of the cross. NEW ENGLAND. S. S. PEENTISS. fggSLOBIOUS New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life ; around thy hills and mountains, cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Kevolution ; and,, far away in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires ! But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign, river, to swell its waters with our home- sick tears. Here floats the same, banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds. • are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number. The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad repub- lic ! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles, freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion ; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth ; its household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly devolves the 106 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth ; of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods. We cannot do with less than the whole Union ; to us it admits of no division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood ; how shall it be separated ? — Who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart, the noblest instincts of our nature ? We love the land of our adop- tion : so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both ; and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the republic. Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden cord of union ! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance ! But no ! the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are too brilliant to be marred; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their greatest triumph, their most mighty development. And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her golden horns : — when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen ; — when galleries of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade ; then may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled pride and wonder. — " Lo ! this is our country ; — when did the world ever behold so rich and magnificent a city — so great 'and glorious a republic ! " TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. CHARLES A. BELL. IM TW1NKLETON was, I would have you to know, A cheery-faced tailor, of Pineapple Row; His sympathies warm as the irons he used, And his temper quite even, because not abused. As a fitting reward for his kindness of heart, He was blessed with a partner, both comely and smart, And ten " olive branches," — four girls and six boys — Completed the household, divided its joys. But another " surprise" was in store for Tim T., Who, one bright Christmas morning was sipping coffee, When a neighbor (who acted as nurse,) said with glee, " You've just been presented with twins ! Do you see?" " Good gracious !" said Tim, overwhelmed with surprise, For he scarce could be made to believe his own eyes ; His astonishment o'er, he acknowledged, of course, TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 107 That the trouble, indeed, might have been a deal worse. The twins were two boys, and poor Tim was inclined To believe them . the handsomest pair you could find, But fathers' and mothers' opinions, they say, Always favor their own children just the same way. " Would you like to step up, sir, to see Mrs. T. ?" The good lady said : " she's as pleased as can be." Of course the proud father dropp'd both fork and knife, And bounded up stairs to embrace his good wife. -Now, Mrs. Tim Twinkleton — I should have said — .An industrious, frugal life always had led, A.nd kept the large family from poverty's woes, By washing, and starching, and ironing clothes. But, before the young twins had arrived in the town, She'd intended to send to a family named Brown, Who resided some distance outside of the city, A basket of clothes ; so she thought it a pity That the basket should meet any further de- lay, A.nd told Tim to the depot to take it that day. He promised he would, and began to make haste, For he found that there was not a great while to waste, So, kissing his wife, he bade her good-bye, And out of the room in an instant did hie ; And met the good nurse, on the. stairs, com- ing up With the " orthodox gruel," for his wifej in a cup. '" Where's the twins ?" said the tailor, " Oh, they are all right," The good nurse replied: "they are looking so bright ! I've hushed them to sleep, — they look so like their Pop, — And I've left them down stairs, where they sleep like a top." In a hurry Tim shouldered the basket, and got To the rail-station, after a long and sharp trot, And he'd just enough time to say " Brown — Nornstown — A basket of clothes — " and then the train was gone. The light-hearted tailor made haste to return, For his heart with affection for his family did burn ; And it's always the case, with a saint or a sinner, Whate'er may occur, he's on hand for his dinner. " How are the twins ?" was his first inquiry; " I've hurried home quickly, my darlings to see," In ecstacy, quite of his reason bereft. " Oh, the dear little angels hain't cried since you left ! " Have you," my sweets ?" — and the nurse turned to where Just a short time before, were her objects of care. " Why — which of you children," said she, with surprise, " Removed that ar basket? — now don't tell no lies !" " Basket! what basket?" cried Tim with af- fright ; "Why, the basket of clothes — I thought it all right To put near the fire, and, fearing no harm, Placed the twins in so cozy, to keep them quite warm." Poor Tim roared aloud: "Why, what have I done? You surely must mean what you say but in fun! That basket 1 my twins I shall ne'er see again ! 108 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. Why, I sent them both off by the 12 o'clock train!" The nurse, at these words, sank into a chair And exclaimed, " Oh, my precious dears, you hain't there ! Go, Twinkleton, go, telegraph like wildfire!" " Why," said Tim, " they cant send the twins home on the wire f" " Oh dear !" cried poor Tim, getting ready to go; " Could ever a body have met with such woe ? Sure this is the greatest of greatest mistakes ; Why, the twins will be all squashed down into pancakes!" Tim Twinkleton hurried, as if all creation Were after him, quick, on his way to the sta- tion. " That's the man, — you wretch !" and, tight as a rasp, Poor Tim found himself in a constable's grasp. " Ah ! ha ! I have got yer, now don't say a word, Yer know very well about what has occurred ; Come 'long to the station-house, hurry up now, Or 'tween you and me there'll be a big row." " What's the charge?" asked the tailor of the magistrate, " I'd like to find out, for it's getting quite late ;" "So you shall," he replied, "but don't look so meek, — You deserted your infants, — now hadn't you. cheek?" Now it happened that, during the trial 'of the case, An acquaintance of Tim's had stepped into- the place, And he quickly perceived, when he heard irr detail The facts of the case, and said he'd go bail To any amount, for good Tim Twinkleton, For he knew he was innocent, " sure as a gun.' And the railway-clerk's evidence, given in. detail, Was not quite sufficient to send him to jail. It was to effect, that the squalling began Just after the basket in the baggage-van Had been placed by Tim T., who solemnly swore That he was quite ignorant of their presence- before. So the basket was brought to the magistrate's.; sight, THE TWO ROADS. 109 And the twins on the top of the clothes But the nurse said with joy, " Since you left looked so bright, she has slept, That the magistrate's heart of a sudden en- And from her the mistakes of to-day I have larged, kept." And he ordered that Tim Twinkleton be dis- Poor Tim, and the nurse, and all the small charged. fry. Before taking dinner, indulged in a cry. Tim grasped up the basket and ran for dear The twins are now grown, and they time and life, again And when he reached home he first asked Relate their excursion on the railway for his wife ; train. TEE TWO ROADS. RICHTER. ^T was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window. He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal — the tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile har- vest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs ; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his anguish : " youth, return ! my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I may choose the better road ! " But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such-," he said, "were the days of my wasted life ! " He saw a star shoot from heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. " Behold an emblem of myself! " he exclaimed; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who had entered life with 110 THE QUAKER WIDOW. him, but who having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy and honored on this New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son ; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven where they dwelt His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, " Come back, my early days ! Come back ! " And his youth did return ; for all this had been but a dream, visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young, his errors only were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own ; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, "0 youth return ! Oh, give me back my early days ! " THE QUAKER WIDOW. BAYARD TAYLOR. ,J|HEE finds me in the garden, Hannah ; |H come in ! 'Tis kind of thee To wait until the Friends were gone who came to comfort me, The still and qniet company a peace may give indeed, But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit ; He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple trees. I think he loved the spring : not that he cared for flowers : most men Think such things foolishness ; but we were first acquainted then, One spring ; the next he spoke his mind ; the third I was his wife, And in the spring (it happened so) our chil- dren entered life. He was but seventy-five : I did not think to lay him yet In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis better I should be Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in age — than he. We've lived together fifty years ; it seems but one long day, One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away ; THE QUAKER WIDOW. Ill And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet I used to blush when he came near, but then contentment home, I showed no sign ; So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the With all the meeting looking on, I held his days to come. hand in mine. It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was his for life : was to know Thee knows the feeling, Hannah ; thee, too, If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I hast been a wife. should go ; For father had a deep concern upon his mind As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so that day. green as ours ; But mother spoke for Benjamin ; she knew The woods were coming into leaf, tbe mea- what best to say. dows full of flowers ; The neighbors met us in the lane, and every Then she was still : they sat awhile : at last face was kind ; she spoke again, 'Tis strange how lively everything comes. " The Lord incline thee to the right !" and back upon my mind. " Thou shalt have him, Jane !" My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-- the least of shocks, dinner spread ; For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Or- At our own table we were guests, with father thodox. at the head, And Dinah Passmore helped us both ; 'twas I thought of this ten years ago, when daugh- she stood up with me. ter Ruth we lost : And Abner Jones with Benjamin : and now Her husband's of the world, and yet I could they're gone, all three ' not see her crossed. She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord hears a hireling priest ; disposes best. Ah, dear ! the cross was ours ; her life's a His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them happy one, at least. for His rest ; And that He halved our little flock was mer- Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's ciful, I see : as old as I. For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two. "Would thee believe it, Hannah ? once I felt are left with me. temptation nigh ! My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple Eusebius never cared to farm ; 'twas not his for my taste : call in truth, I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon And I must rent the dear old place, and go to at the waist. daughter Ruth. Thee'll say her ways are not like mine ; young How strange it seemed to sit with him upon people now-a-days the women's side ! Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more good old ways. fear than pride, Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps and then there came the simple tongue, A holy strength upon my heart, and I could The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when say the same. she was young ; 112 MR. STIVER'S HORSE. And it was brought upon my mind, remem- The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or bering her, of late, sin. That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight. Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth ; she's anx- ious I should go, I once heard Jesse Kersey say, " a spirit And she will do her duty as a daughter should clothed with grace, I know. And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must homely face." be resigned ; And dress may be of less account ; the Lord The Lord looks down contentedly unon a will look within : willing mind. MR. STIVER'S HORSE. J. M. BAILEY. jpHE other morning at breakfast, Mrs. Perkins deserved that Mr. Stiver, in whose house we live, had been called away, and wanted to know if I would see to his horse through the day. I knew that Mr. Stiver owned a horse, because I occasionally saw him drive out of the yard, and I saw the stable every day ; but what kind of a horse I didn't know. I never went into the stable for two reasons : in the first place, I had no desire to ; and secondly, I didn't know as the horse cared particularly for company. I never took care of a horse in my life, and had I been of a less hopeful nature, the charge Mr. Stiver had left with me might have had a very depressing effect ; but I told Mrs. Perkins I would do it. " You know how to take care of a horse, don't you ? " said she. I gave her a reassuring wink. In fact, I knew so little about it that I didn't think it safe to converse more fluently than by winks. After breakfast I seized a toothpick and walked out toward the stable. There was nothing particular to do, as Stiver had given him his breakfast, and I found him eating it; so I looked around. The horse looked around, too, and stared pretty hard at me. There was but little said on either side. I hunted up the location of the feed, and then sat down on a peck measure, and fell to studying the beast. There is a wide difference in horses. Some of them will kick you over and never look around to see what becomes of you. I don't like a disposition like that, ■and I wondered if Stiver's horse was one of them. "When I came home at noon I went straight to the stable. The MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 113 animal was there all right. Stiver hadn't told me what to give him for dinner, and I had not given the subject any thought; but I went to the oat box and filled the peck measure, and sallied up to the manger. When he saw the oats he almost smiled; this pleased and amused him. I emptied them into the trough, and left him above me to admire the way I parted my hair behind. I just got my head up in time to save the whole of it. He had his ears back, bis mouth open, and looked as if he were on the point of committing murder. I went out and filled the measure again, and climbed up the side of the stall and emptied it on top of him. He brought his head up so suddenly at this that I immediately got down, letting go of everything to do it. I struck on the sharp edge of a barrel, rolled over a couple of times, and then disappeared under a hay-cutter. The peck measure went down on the other side, and got mysteriously tangled up in that animals heels, and he w r ent to work at it, and then ensued the most dreadful noise I ever heard in all my life, and I have been married eighteen years. It did seem as if I never would get out from under that hay-cutter; and all the while I was struggling and wrenching myself and the cut- ter apart, that awful beast was kicking around in that stall, and making the most appalling sound imaginable. When I got out I found Mrs. Perkins at the door. She had heard the racket, and had sped out to the stable, her only thought being of me and three stove-lids which she had under her arm, and one of which she was about to fire at the beast. This made me mad. "Go away, you unfortunate idiot," I shouted; "do you want to knock my brains out ? " For I remembered seeing Mrs. Perkins sling a mis- sile once before, and that I nearly lost an eye by the operation, although standing on the other side of the house at the time. She retired at once. And at the same time the animal quieted down, but there was nothing left 01 that peek measure, not even the maker's name. 8 114 MB. STIVER'S HOKSE. I followed Mrs. Perkins into the house, and had her do me up, and then sat down in a chair, and fell into a profound strain of meditation. After a while I felt better, and went out to the stable again. The horse was leaning against the stable stall, with eyes half-closed, and appeared to be very much engrossed in thought. "Step off to the left," I said, rubbing his back. He didn't step. I got the pitchfork and punched him in the leg with the handle. He immediately raised up both hind-legs at once, and that fork flew out of my hands, and went rattling up against the timbers above, and came down again in an instant, the end of the handle rapping me with such force on the top of the head that I sat right down on the floor under the impression that I was standing in front of a drug store in the evening. I went back to the house and got some more stuff on me. But I couldn't keep away from that stable. I went out there again. The thought struck me that what the horse wanted was exercise. If that thought had been an empty glycerine can, it would have saved a windfall of luck for me. But exercise would tone him down, and exercise him I should. I laughed to myself to think how I would trounce him around the yard. I didn't laugh again that afternoon. I got him unhitched, and then won- dered how I was to get him out of the stall without carrying him out. I pushed, but he wouldn't budge. I stood looking at him in the face, think- ing of something to say, when he sud- denly solved the difficulty by veering and plunging for the door. I followed^ as a matter of course, because I had a tight hold on the rope, and hit about every partition stud worth speaking of on that side of the barn. Mrs. Per- kins was at the window and saw us come out of the door. She subse- quently remarked that we came out skipping like two innocent children. The skipping was entirely unintentional on my part. I felt as if I stood on the verge of eternity. My legs may have skipped, but my mind was filled with awe. I took that animal out to exercise him. He exercised me before I got through with it. He went around a ft?w times in a circle; then he EXERCISED ME. MR. STIVER'S HORSE. H5 stopped suddenly, spread out his fore-legs and looked at me. Then he leaned forward a little, and hoisted both hind-legs, and threw about two coal-hods of mud over a line full of clothes Mrs. Perkins had just hung out. That excellent lady had taken a position at the window, and when- ever the evolutions of the awful beast permitted, I caught a glance at her features. She appeared to be very much interested in the proceedings ; but the instant that the mud flew, she disappeared from the window, and a moment later she appeared on the stoop with a long poker in her hand, and fire enough in her eye to heat it red hot. Just then Stiver's horse stood up on his hind-legs and tried to hug me with the others. This scared me. A horse never shows his strength to such advantage as when he is coming down on you like a frantic pile- driver. I instantly dodged, and the cold sweat fairly boiled out of me. It suddenly came over me that I once figured in a similar position years ago. My grandfather owned a little white horse that would get up from a meal at Delmonico's to kick the President of the United States. He sent me to the lot one day, and unhappily suggested that I often went after that horse, and suffered all kinds of defeat in getting him out of the pasture, but I had never tried to ride him. Heaven knows I never thought of it. I had my usual trouble with him that day. He tried to jump over me, and push me down in a mud hole, and finally got up on his hind-legs and came waltzing after me with facilities enough to convert me into hash, but I turned and just made for that fence with all the agony a prospect of instant death could crowd into me. If our candidate for the Presidency had run one-half as well, there would be seventy-five post- masters in Danbury to-day, instead of one. I got him out finally, and then he was quiet enough, and took him up alongside the fence and got on him. He stopped an instant, one brief instant, and then tore off down the road at a frightful speed. I laid down m him and clasped -my hands tightly around his neck, and thought of my home. "When we got to the stable I was confident he would stop, but he didn't. He drove straight at the door. It was a low door, just high enough to permit him to go in at lightning speed, but there was no room for me. I saw if I struck that stable the struggle would be a very brief one. I thought this all over in an instant, and then, spreading out my arms and legs, emitted a scream, and the next moment I was bounding about in the filth of that stable yard. All this passed through my mind as Stiver's horse went up into the air. It frightened Mrs. Perkins dread- 116 WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. " Why, you old fool ! " she said, " why don't you get rid of him ? " " How can I ? " said I in desperation. " Why, there are a thousand ways," said she. This is just like a woman. How different a statesman would have answered. But I could only think of two ways to dispose of the beast, I could either swallow him where he stood and then sit down on him, or I could crawl inside of him and kick him to death. . But I was saved either of these expedients by his coming toward me so abruptly that I dropped the rope in terror, and then he turned about, and, kicking me full of mud, shot for the gate, ripping the clothes-line in two, and went on down the street at a horrible gallop, with two of Mrs. Perkins's garments, which he hastily snatched from the line, floating over his neck in a very picturesque manner. So I was afterwards told. I was too full of mud myself to see the way into the house. Stiver got his horse all right, and stays at home to care for him. Mrs. Perkins has gone to her mother's to recuperate, and I am healing as fast as possible. WHISTLING IN HE A VEN. W. S. EALPH. 'OUR'E surprised that I ever should say so ? Just wait till the reason I've given Why I say I shan't care for the music, Unless there is whistling in heaven. Then you'll think it no very great wonder, Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, Its music will not be complete. It was late in the autumn of '40 ; We had come from our far Eastern home Just in season to build us a cabin, Ere the cold of the winter should come ; And we lived all the while in our wagon That husband was clearing the place Where the house was to stand ; and the clear- ing And building it took many days. WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 117 So that our heads were scarce sheltered In under its roof, when our store Of provisions was almost exhausted And husband must journey for more ; And the nearest place where he could get them Was yet such a distance away, That it forced him from home to be absent At least a whole night and a day. You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, And the nearest was more than a mile ; And we hadn't found time yet to know them, For we had been busy the while. And the man who had helped at the raising Just staid till the job was well done ; And as soon as his money was paid him, Had shouldered his axe and had gone. Well, husband just kissed me and started — I could scarcely suppress a deep groan At the thought of remaining with baby So long in the house all alone ; For, my dear, I was childish and timid, And braver ones might well have feared, For the wild wolf was often heard howling, And savages sometimes appeared. But I smothered my grief and my terror Till husband was off on his ride, And then in my arms I took Josey, And all the day long sat and cried, As I thought of the long, dreary hours When the darkness of night should fall, And i was so utterly helpless, With no one in reach of my call. And when the night came with its terrors, To hide ev'ry ray of the light, I hung up a quilt by the window, And almost dead with affright, I kneeled by the side of the cradle, Scarce daring to draw a full breath, Lest the baby should wake, and its crying Should bring us a horrible death. There I knelt until late in the evening, And scarcely an inch had I stirred, When suddenly, far in the distance, A sound as of whistling I heard, I started up dreadfully frightened, For fear 'twas an Indian's call; And then very soon I remembered The red man ne'er whistles at all. And when I was sure 'twas a white man, I thought, were he coming for ill, He'd surely approach with more caution- Would come without warning, and still. Then the sounds, coming nearer and nearer, Took the form of a tune light and gay, And I knew I needn't fear evil From one who could whistle that way. Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, Then came a peculiar dull thump, As if some one was heavily striking An axe in the top of a stump ; And then,, in another brief moment, There came a light tap on the door, When quickly I undid the fast'ning, And in stepped a boy, and before There was either a question or answer, Or either had time to speak, I just threw my glad arms around him, And gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then I started back, scared at my boldness, But he only smiled at my fright, As he said, " I'm your neighbor's boy, Alick, Come to tarry with you through the night " We saw your husband go eastward, And made up our minds where he'd gone, And I said to the rest of our people, ' That woman is there all alone, And I venture she's awfully lonesome, And though she may have no great fear, I think she would feel a bit safer If only a boy were but near; " So, taking my axe on my shoulder, For fear that a savage might stray Across my path and need scalping, I started right down this way ; And coming in sight of the cabin, And thinking to save you alarm, I whistled a tune, just to show you I didn't intend any harm. 118 GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. " And so here I am, at your service ; But if you don't want me to stay, Why, all you need do is to say so, And should'ring my axe, I'll away." I dropped in a chair and near fainted, Just at thought of his leaving me then, And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle, As he said, " I guess I'll remain." And then I just sat there and told him How terribly frightened I'd been, How his face was to me the most welcome Of any I ever had seen ; And then I lay down with the baby, And slept all the blessed night through. For I felt I was safe from all danger Near so brave a young fellow and true. So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, Since such a good reason I've given, Why I think it the sweetest music, And wisli to hear whistling in heaven ? Yes, often I've said so in earnest, And now what I've said I repeat, That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, Its music will not be complete. GOOD-NIGHT PAPA, lippHE words of a blue-eyed child as she kissed her chubby hand and gplb looked down the stairs, " Good-night, papa ; Jessie see you in the ^W^ morning," & It came totbe a settled thing, and every evening as the mother j- slipped the white night-gown over the plump shoulders, the little one stopped on the stairs and sang out, " Good-night, papa," and as the father heard the silvery accents of the child, he came, and taking the cherub in his arms, kissed her tenderly, while the mother's eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for, strange to say, this man who loved his child with all the warmth of his great noble nature, had one fault to mar his manliness. From his youth he loved the wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fascination of manner that won him friends, he could not resist when surrounded by his boon companions. Thus his home was darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. Three years had the winsome prattle of the baby crept into the avenues of the father's heart, keeping him closer to his home, but still the fatal cup was in his hand. Alas for frail humanity, insensible to the calls of love ! With unutterable tenderness God saw there was no other way ; this father was dear to him, the purchase of his Son ; he could not see him perish, and, calling a swift messenger, he said, li Speed thee to earth and bring the babe." " Good-night, papa," sounded from the stairs. What was there in the voice ? was it the echo of the mandate, " Bring me the babe ? " — a silvery plaintive sound, a lingering music that touched the father's heart, GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. H9 as when a cloud crosses the sun. " Good-night, my darling; " but his lips quivered and his broad brow grew pale. " Is Jessie sick, mother ? Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes have a strange light." " Not sick," and the mother stooped to kiss the flushed brow; "she may have played too much. Pet is not sick ? " "Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; Jessie see you in the morning." " That is all, she is only tired," said the mother as she took the small hand. Another kiss and the father turned away; but his heart was not satisfied. Sweet lullabies were sung ; but Jessie was restless and could not sleep. "Tell me a story, mamma;" and the mother told her of the blessed babe that Mary cradled, following along the story till the child had grown to walk and play. The blue, wide open eyes, filled with a strange light, as though she saw and comprehended more than the mother knew. That night the father did not visit the saloon ; tossing on his bed, starting from a feverish sleep and bending over the crib, the long weary hours passed. Morning revealed the truth — Jessie was smitten with the fever. " Keep her quiet," the doctor said ; " a few days of good nursing, and she will be all right." Words easily said ; but the father saw a look on that sweet face such as he had seen before. He knew the messenger was at the door. Night came. "Jessie is sick; can't say good-night, papa; " and the little clasping fingers clung to the father's hand. " God, spare her ! I cannot, cannot bear it ! " was wrung from his suffering heart. Days passed ; the mother was tireless in her watching. With her babe cradled in her arms her heart was slow to take in the truth, doing her best to solace the father's heart ; "A light case ! the doctor says, Pet will soon be well." Calmly as one who knows his doom, the father laid his hand upon the hot brow, looked into the eyes even then covered with the film of death, and with all the strength of his manhood cried, " Spare her, O God ! spare my child, and I will follow thee." With a last painful effort the parched lips opened : " Jessie's too sick ; can't say good-night, papa — in the morning." There was a convulsive shudder, and the clasping fingers relaxed their hold ; the messenger had taken the child. Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands by the side of her father's couch ; her blue embroidered dress and white hat hang in his closet ; her 120 CHARLEY'S OPINION OF THE BABY. boots with the print of her feet just as she had last worn them, as sacred in his eyes as they are in the mother's. Not dead, but merely risen to a higher life; while, sounding down from the upper stairs, "Good-night, papa, Jessie see you in the morning," has been the means of winning to a better way one who had shown himself deaf to every former call. CH ABLETS OPINION OF THE BABY. UZZER'S bought a baby, Ittle bit's of zing; Zink I mos could put him Froo my rubber ring. Ain't he awful ugly? Ain't he awful pink? Jus come down from Heaven, Pat's a fib, I zink. Doctor told anozzer Great big awful lie; Nose ain't out of joyent, Dat ain't why I cry. Zink I ought to love him ! No, I won't! so zere; Nassy, crying baby, Ain't got any hair. UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 121 Send me off wiz Biddy Evry single day; ' Be a good boy, Charlie, Run away and play." Dot all my nice kisses, Dot my place in bed; Mean to take my drumstick And beat him on ze head. UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRA YER. FROM " THE GILDED AGE OF CLEMENS AND WARNER. tap HATE YER the lagging, dragging journey may have been to the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and a delight to the children, a world of enchantment ; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house, by house into the hungry Missis- sippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile- breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the farther shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever seen before. " Uncle Dan'l " (colored,) aged 40 ; his wife, " aunt Jinny," aged 30, "Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, " Young Mars" Washington Hawkins and u Young Mars " Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed 122 UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud- wreaths ; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light ; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. The little company assembled on the log were all children, (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they made about the river were in keeping with their character ; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Danl exclaimed : " Chil'en, dah's sumfin a comin' ! " All crowded close together and every heart beat faster. Uncle Danl pointed down the river with his bony finger. A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. " What is it ! Oh, what is it, Uncle Danl ! " With deep solemnity the answer came : " It's de Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling, in a moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro's voice lifted up its supplications : " Lord, we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we aint ready yit, we aint ready — let these po' chil'en hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take de ole niggah if you's got to hab somebody. — Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don't know whah you's a gwine to, we don't know who you's got yo' eye on, but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by the way UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 123 you's a tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' nah dat some po' sinner's a gwine to ketch it. But good Lord, dese chil'en don't b'long heah, dey's f'm Obeds- town whah dey don't know nuffin, an' yoa knows, yo' own sef, dat dey aint sponsible. An' deab Lord, good Lord, it aint like yo' mercy, it aint like yo' pity, it aint like yo' long-suffer in' lovin'-kindness for to take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sicb little chil'en as dese is when dey's so many ornery grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little clnTen away f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em off dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. Heah I is, Lord, heah I is ! De ole niggah's ready, Lord, de ole " The naming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted, (but rather feebly :) " Heah I is, Lord, heah I is ! " There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough " the Lord " was just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked, the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by degrees and pre- sently ceased altogether. u H'wsh ! Well now dey's some folks says dey aint no 'ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat prah ? Dat's it. Dat's it ! " " Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us ? " said Clay. " Does I reckon ? Don't I knoio it ! "Whah was yo' eyes ? Warn't de Lord jes' a comin' chow I chow ! chow ! an' a goin' on tumble — an' do de Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him ? An' warn't he a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'em ? An' d'you spec' he gwine to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it ? No indeedy ! " " Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan'l ? " " De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us ? " " Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l ? " " No sah ! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he aint 'fraid o' nuffin — dey can't nuffin tetch him." 224 SOCRATES SNOOKS. " Well what did you run for ? " " Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit, he do-no what he's 'bout — no sah ; dat man do-no what he's 'bout. You might take an' tah de head off'n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely fine it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt considable — ob eoase dey was ; but dey didn't know nufnn 'bout it — heal right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, (hair,) maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn." " I don't know but what they were girls. I think they were." " Now Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a saying what you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." " But how should /know whether they were boys or girls ? ' " Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say ? 'Sides, don't it call 'em de iTe-brew chil'en ? If dey was gals would'n dey be de she- brew chil'en ? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey do read." " Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that My ! here comes another one up the river ! There can't be two ! " " We gone dis time — we done gone dis time sho' ! Dey aint two, Mars day — dat's de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. Goodness, how de fiah an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, honey. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time you's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid you — ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah — de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you agin." He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far that he doubted, himself, if the Lord heard him when He went by. SOCRATES SNOOKS. ISTER Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, The second time entered the married relation : Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, And they thought him the happiest man in the land. But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, When one morning to Xantippe, Socrates said, " I thmk, for a man of my standing in life, This house is too small, as I now have a wife : So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy." " Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, " I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 12* Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, Say, our cow-honse, our barn-yard, our pig- pen." " By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." "Say our,'' Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. 41 1 won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!" Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib, If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, You are certain to prove the best man of the two. In the following case this was certainly true ; .For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe, And laying about her, all sides at random, The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, To ward off the blows which descended like rain — Concluding that valor's best part was discre- tion — Crept Under the bed like a terrified Hessian ; But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, Converted the siege into a blockade. At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate : And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, Said, " My dear, may we come out from un- der our bed?" " Hah ! hah !" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates Snooks, I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks : Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy hour, If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church, He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to search : Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, " My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches ?" TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. ^iiffHEISr they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed in unspeakable disappointment at the receding train, which was just pulling away from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train t was out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they could » act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage and discon- solately turned their horses' heads homeward. Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly : " It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready." " I was ready before you were," replied his wife. " Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great impatience, nearly jerking the horse's jaws out of place, "just listen to that ! And I sat in 126 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along until the whole neigh- borhood heard me." " Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking placidity which no one can assume but a woman, " and every time I started down stairs, you sent me back for something you had forgotten." Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much to bear," he said, " when everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush into the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you would want at least six months for preliminary preparations, and then dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town." Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns put off their visit to Aurora until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go, and the one who failed to get ready should be left. The day of the match came around in due time. The train was going at 10.30, and Mr. Mann, after attending to his business, went home at 9.45. "Now, then," he shouted, "only three-quarters of an hour's time. Fly around ; a fair field and no favors, you know." And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged into this room and flew through that one, and dived into one closet after another with incon- ceivable rapidity, chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on his way up stairs to pull off his heavy boots to save time. For the same rea- son he pulled off his coat as he ran through the dining-room, and hung it on a corner of the silver-closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he rushed through the hall and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had reached his own room he was ready to plunge into his clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau- drawer and began to paw at the things like a Scotch terrier after a rat. "Eleanor," he shrieked, "where are my shirts ? " " In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a refractory crimp into place. TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 127 " Well, but they ain't," shouted Mr. Mann, a little annoyed. " I've emptied everything out of the drawer, and there isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and after satisfying herself that the crimp would do, replied : " These things scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been looking into your own drawer." "I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, "why you couldn't have put my things out for me when you had nothing else to do all the morning." " Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting herself into an additional article of raiment with awful deliberation, "nobody put mine out for me. A fair field and no favors, my dear." Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. " Foul ! " he shouted in malici- ous triumph. " No buttons on the neck ! " "Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweet- ly, after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, impatient man, during which she buttoned her dress and put eleven pins where they would do the most good, " because you have got the shirt on wrong side out." When Mr. Mann slid cut of the shirt he began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three times before he got it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her necktie. " Where are my shirt-studs ? " he cried. Mrs. Mann went out into another room and presently came back with gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the boxes he could find in and around the bureau. Then she said, "In the shirt you just pulled off." Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. Mann hunted up and down the room for his cuff-buttons. " Eleanor," he snarled at last, " I believe you must know where those cuff-buttons are." 128 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. "I haven't seen them," said the lady settling her hat; " didn't you lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting-room last night ? " Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down stairs on the run. He stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmis- sion with more bumps than he could count with Webb's Adder, and landed with a bang like the Hell Gate explosion. " Are you nearly ready, Algernon ? " sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, leaning over the banisters. The unhappy man groaned. "Can't you throw me down the other boot ? " he asked. Mrs. Mann piteously kicked it down to him. " My valise ? " he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. " Up in your dressing-room," she answered. " Packed?" " I do not know ; unless you packed it yourself, probably not," she replied, with her hand on the door-knob ; " I had barely time to pack my own." She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, and he shouted, " Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest ? It has all my money in it." " You threw it on the hat-rack," she called. "Good-bye, dear." Before she, got to the corner of the street she was hailed again : " Eleanor ! Eleanor ! Eleanor Mann ! Did you wear off my coat ? " She paused and turned, after signaling the street-car to stop, and cried, " You threw it in the silver-closet." The street-car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more. But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, rushing out of the front-door every now and then, shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where she put the valise key, and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And when he went away at last, he left the kitchen-door, the side-door and the front-door, all the down-stairs windows and the front-gate wide open. The loungers around the depot were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, enter- prising man, with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and necktie flying, and his grip-sack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a door-key in his nand, dash wildly across the plat- form and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent, THE UNBOLTED DOOR. 129 wr a mrul mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at a pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car. THE UNBOLTED DOOR. EDWARD -Sfe- — CARE-WORN widow sat alone Beside her fading hearth ; ^ggM-, Her silent cottage never hears The ringing laugh of mirth. Six children once had sported there, but now the church-yard snow Fell softly on five little graves that were not bgo. She mourned them all with patient love ; But since, her eyes had shed Far bitterer tears than those which dewed The faces of the dead, — The child which had been spared to her, the darling' of her pride, The woful mother lived to wish that she had also died. Those little ones beneath the snow, She well knew where they are ; " Close gathered to the throne of God," And that was better far. But when she saw where Katy was, she saw the city's glare, The painted mask of bitter joy that need gave sin to wear. 9 GARRETT. Without, the snow lay thick and white-; No step had fallen there ; Within, she sat beside her fire, Each thought a silent prayer ; When suddenly behind her seat unwonted noise she heard, As though a hesitating hand the rustic latch had stirred. She turned, and there the wanderer stood With snow-flakes on her hair ; A faded woman, wild and worn, The ghost of something fair. And then upon the mother's breast the whitened head was laid, " Can God and you forgive me all ? for I have sinned," she said. The widow dropped upon her knees Before the fading fire, And thanked the Lord whose love at last Had granted her desire ; The daughter kneeled beside her, too, tears streaming from her eyes, And prayed, " God help me to be gcod to mother ere she dies." 130 THE VAGABONDS. They did not talk about the sin, The shame, the bitter woe ; They spoke about those little graves And things of long ago. And then the daughter raised her eyes and asked in tender tone, "Why did you keep your door unbarred when you were all alone ?" " My child," the widow said, and smiled A smile of love and pain, " I kept it so lest you should come And turn away again ! I've waited for you all the while — a mother's love is true ; Yet this is but a shadowy type of His who died for you!" E are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog ; — come here, you scamp -mind Jump for the gentleman, your eye! Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! — The rogue is growing a little old : Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank — and starved to- gether. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! A bed on tne floor, a bit of rosin, THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. 131 A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings ! Why not reform ? That's easily said ; But I've gone through such wretched treat- ment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach 's past reform ; And there are times when, mad with think- ing. I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think ? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink ; — The same old story ; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features, — You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures : I was one of your handsome men ! If you had seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast ! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog ! She's married since, — a parson's wife : 'Twas better for her that we should part,— Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent On the dusty road, a carriage stopped ; But little she dreamed, as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; It makes me wild to think of the change ! What do you care for a beggar's story ? Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? I had a mother so proud of me ! 'Twas well she died before Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below ? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain ; then Roger and I will start, I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, ' Aching thing, in place of a heart ? He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, No doubt, remembering things that were, — A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, ' And himself a sober, respectable cur. I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; — ■ The sooner the better for Roger and me ! THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG IKAM was a quiet, peaceable sort of a Yankee, who lived on the same farm on which his fathers had lived before him, and was generally considered a pretty cute sort of a fellow, — always ready with a trick, whenever it was of the least utility ; yet, when he did 132 THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. play any of his tricks, 'twas done in such an innocent manner, that his victim could do no better than take it all in good part. Now, it happened that one of Hiram's neighbors sold a farm to a tolerably green specimen of a Dutchman, — one of the real unintelligent, stupid sort. Von Vlom Schlopsch had a dog, as Dutchmen often have, who was less unintelligent than his master, and who had, since leaving his " fader- land," become sufficiently civilized not only to appropriate the soil as common stock, but had progressed so far in the good work as to obtain his dinners from the neighbors' sheepfold on the same principle. When Hiram discovered this propensity in the canine department of the Dutchman's family, he walked over to his new neighbor's to enter com- plaint, which mission he accomplished in the most natural method in the world. " Wall, Von, your dog Blitzen's been killing my sheep." " Ya ! dat ish bace — bad. He ish von goot tog : ya ! dat ish bad ! " " Sartin, it's bad; and you'll have to stop 'im." "Ya! dat ish alias goot ; but ich weis nicht." " What's that you say ? he was nicked f Wall, now look here, old fellow ! nickin's no use. Crop 'im ; cut his tail off close, chock up to his trunk ; that'll cure 'im." " Vat ish dat ? " exclaimed the Dutchman, while a faint ray of intelli- gence crept over his features. " Ya ! dat ish goot. Dat cure von sheep steal, eh ? " " Sartin it will : he'll never touch sheep meat again in this world," said Hiram gravely. " Den come mit me. He yon mity goot tog ; all the way from Yar- many : I not take von five dollar — but come mit me, and h^ld his tail, eh? Ich chop him off.* " Sartin," said Hiram: "I'll hold his tail if you want me tew; but you must cut it up close." " Ya ! dat ish right. Ich make 'im von goot tog. There, Blitzen, Blitzen ! come right here, you von sheep steal rashcull : I chop your tail in von two pieces." The dog obeyed the summons ; and the master tied his feet fore and aft, for fear of accident, and placing the tail in the Yankee's hand, re- quested him to lay it across a large block of wood. " Chock up," said Hiram, as he drew the butt of the tail close over the log. SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 133 "Ya! dat ish right. Now, you von tief sheep, I learns you better luck," said Von Vlom Schlopsch, as he raised the axe. It descended ; and as it did so, Hiram, with characteristic presence of mind, gave a sudden jerk, and brought Blitzen's neck over the log ; and the head rolled over the other side. " Wall, I swow ! " said Hiram with apparent astonishment, as he dropped the headless trunk of the dog ; "that was a leetle too close." " Mine cootness ! " exclaimed the Dutchman, "you shust cut 'im off de wrong end/" SONG OF MARION'S MEN. W. C. BRYANT. UR. band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold ; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree ; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea ; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near ! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear ; When, waking to their tents on fire; They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again ; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil ; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads, — The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 134 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlit plain ; 'Tis life to feel the night- wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp — A moment — and away- Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs ; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore. DEATH OF LITTLE JO. CHARLES DICKENS. ^0 is very glad to see his old friend ; and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangbsy, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half-a-crown ; that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds. "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquired the sta- tioner, with his cough of sympathy. " I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, " and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done. " Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yet as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being so good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, ' Ah Jo ! ' she ses. ' We thought we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she ses. And she sits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to give me somethink for to. ease me, wot he's alius a doin on day and night, and wen he comes a bendin over me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. Sangsby." DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 135 The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. " Wot I wos thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps ? " " Yes, Jo, please G-od," returns the stationer. " Uncommon, precious large, p'raps ? " says Jo, with eagerness. " Yes, my poor boy." Jo laughs with pleasure. " Wot I wos thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I was wery truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do it ; and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Wood cot once cried over it, and was alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it wery large, he might." " I shall say it, Jo ; very large." Jo laughs again. " Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, eir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. (Another scene. — Enter Mr. Woodcourt) " Well, Jo, what is the matter ? Don't be frightened." " I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, " I thought I was in Tom-All-alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" " Nobody." " And I an't took back to Tom-All-alone's, am I, sir ? " " No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I am wery thankful. " After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice : " Jo, did you ever know a prayer ? ; ' "Never knowd nothink, sir." " Not so much as one short prayer?" " No, sir. Nothing at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin wunst 136 DEATn OF LITTLE JO. at Mr. Sangsby's, and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other genlmen come down Tom- all- Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be talkin to theirselves, or a passin blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink, /never knowd what it wos all about." It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get- out of bed. " Stay, Jo, stay ! What now ? " " It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he re- turns, with a wild look. " Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo ?" " Where they laid him as wos wery good to me ; wery good to me- indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ' I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to- be laid along with him." " By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by." il Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I was to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him ?" " I will, indeed." " Thankee, sir ! Thankee, sir ! They'll have to get the key of the- gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step- there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. — It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin ? " "It is coming fast, Jo." Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. " Jo, my poor fellow ! " " I hear, you sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin — let me catch hold of your hand." " Jo, can you say what I say ? " "I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." "Our Father." "Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." "Which art in Heaven." UNITED IN DEATH. 137 "Art in Heaven!" — Is the light a comin', sir?" "It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." "Hallowed be — thy — name !" The light has come upon the benighted way. Dead. Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my Lords and Gentlemen. Dead, Eight Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day. THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. JAMES R. LOWELL. |JHE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan's down, And still fluttered down the snow. I etood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds > Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, . Saying, " Father, who makes it snow?** And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, " The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall !" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow. UNITED IN DEATH. MpHERE was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat gUt^ face to face on the bank of the stream ; the strife and the anger Ir had all gone now, and they sat still, — dying men, who but a few J hours before had been deadly foes, sat still and looked at each 138 UNITED IN DEATH. other. At last one of them spoke : " We haven't either of us a chance to hold on much longer, I judge." " No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and reckless- ness, " you did that last job of yours well, as that bears witness," and he pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was slowly oozing. " Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more ragged, — a deadly one. And then the two men gazed upon each other again in the dim light ; for the moon had come over the hills now, and stood among the stars, like a pearl of great price. And as they looked a soft feeling stole over the heart of each toward his fallen foe, — a feeling of pity for the strong manly life laid low, — a feeling of regret for the in- exorable necessity of war which made each man the slayer of the other ; and at last one spoke : " There are some folks in the world that'll feel worse when you are gone out of it." A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. "Yes," said the man, in husky tones, " there's one woman with a boy and girl, away up among the New Hampshire mountains, that it will well-nigh kill to hear of this ; " and the man groaned out in bitter anguish, " God have pity on my wife and children ! " And the other drew closer to him : " And away down among the cotton fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a little girl whose hearts will break when they hear what this day has done ; " and then the cry wrung itself sharply out of his heart, ".0 God, have pity upon them ! " And from that moment the Northerner and the Southerner ceased to be foes. The thought of those distant homes on which the anguish was to fall, drew them closer together in that last hour, and the two men wept like little children. And at last the Northerner spoke, talking more to himself than to any one else, and he did not know that the other was listening greedily to every word : — " She used to come, — my little girl, bless her heart ! — every night to meet me when I came home from the fields ; and she would stand under the great plum-tree, that's just beyond the back-door at home, with the sunlight making yellow-brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing in her eyes when she heard the click of the gate, — I see her now, — and I'd take her in my arms, and she'd put up her little red lips for a kiss ; but my little darling will never watch under the plum-tree by the well, for her father, again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a glimpse GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 139 of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet running over the grass to spring into my arms again ! " "And then," said the Southerner, " there's a little brown-eyed, brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool afternoons for her father, when he rode in from his visit to the plantations. I can see her sweet little face shining out now, from the roses that covered the pillars, and hear her shout of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little flying feet up and down the verandah again." And the ^Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and spoke now in a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying men were glazing fast : " We have fought here, like men, together. We are going before God in a little while. Let us forgive each other." The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away in a mur- mur from his white lips ; but he took the hand of his fallen foe, and his stiffening fingers closed over it, and his last look was a smile of forgive- ness and peace. When the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs of the dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with their hands clasped in each other, by the stream which ran close to the battle- field. And the little girl with golden hair, that watched under the plum-tree among the hills of New Hampshire, and the little girl with bright brown hair, that waited by the roses among the green fields of Georgia, were fatherless. GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN WILL CARLETON. John. 1 VE worked in the field all day, a plowin' the " stony streak ;" £3? I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse ; I've tramped till my legs are weak , J> I've choked a dozen swears, (so's not to tell Jane fibs,) When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs. I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats ; I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats ; And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin' feel, And Jane won't say to-night that I don't make out a meal. Well said ' the door is locked ! but here she's left the key, Under the step, in a place known only to her and me ; I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hus- tled off pell-mell ; But here on the table's a note, and probably this will tell. 140 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone astray ! The letter it says, " Good-bye, for I'm a going away ; I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've been true ; But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man than you." A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't much to say ; There's han'somer men than me go past here every day. There's handsomer men than me — I ain't of the han'some kind ; But a loverier man than I was, I guess she'll never find. Curse her ! curse her ! I say, and give my curses wings ! May the words of love I've spoken be changed to scorpion stings ! Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt, And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart's blood out ! Curse her ! curse her ! say I, she'll some time rue this day ; She'll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play ; And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever was born, And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn. As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time when she Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man than me ; And there'll be a time when he will find, as others do, That she who is false to one, can be the same with two. And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim, And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him, She'll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost ; And then she'll see things clear, and know what she has lost. And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind, And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind ; And maybe she'll sometimes long for me — for me — but no ! I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so. And yet in her girlish heart there was some- thin' or other she had That fastened a man to her, and wasn't en- tirely bad ; And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn't last ; But I mustn't think of these things — I've buried 'em in the past. I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse ; She'll have trouble enough ; she shall not have my curse ; But I'll live a life so square — and I well know that I can, — That she always will sorry be that she went with that han'somer man. Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes blur ; It seems when I look at that, as if 'twas holdin' her. And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat, And yonder's her weddin' gown ; I wonder she didn't take that. 'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me her "dearest dear," And said I was makin' for her a regular pa- radise here ; God ! if you want a man to sense the paina of hell, Before you pitch him in just keep him in hea- ven a spell l DEDICATION OF - GETTYSBURG CEMETEEY. 141 Good-bye ! I wish that death had severed us two apart. You've lost a worshiper here, you've crushed a lovin' heart. I'll worship no woman again ; but I guess I'll learn to pray, And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away. And if I thought I couM bring my words on Heaven to bear, And if I thought I had some little influence there, I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so, As- happy and gay as I was a half hour ago. Jane {entering). Why, John, what a litter here ! you've thrown things all around! Come, what's the matter now ? and what have you lost or found ? And here's my father here, a waiting for sup- per, too ; I've been a riding with him— he's that "hand- somer man than you." Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on, And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John. Why, John, you look so strange ! come, what has crossed your track ? I was only a joking, you know; I'm willing to take it back. '/ II John {aside). Well, now, if this aint a joke, with rather a bitter cream ! It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream ; And I think she " smells a rat," for she smiles at me so queer, I hope she don't ; good gracious ! I hope that they didn't hear ! 'Twas one of her practical drives — she thought I'd understand ! But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land. But one thing's settled with me — to appreci- ate heaven well, Tis good for a man to have some fifteen mi- nutes of hell. DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. PRESIDENT LINCOLN. m^ |i| OURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon 111 this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are en- gaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a por- 142 OVER THE RIVER. tion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth. OVER THE RIVER. N. A. W. PRIEST. SipjijgVER the river they beckon to me, sJBM. Loved ones who crossed to the other side ; .5 The gleam of their snowy robes I see, \ But their voices are drowned by 4» the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue , He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels that met him there — The gate of the city we could not see ; Over the river, over the river, My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — Darling Minnie ! I see her yet ! She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the further side, Where all the ransomed and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman, cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts — They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the vail apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for DE PINT WID OLD PETE. 143 And I sit and think when the sunset's gold is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the waters cold And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 1 shall hear the boat as it gains the strand . I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land. I shall know the ioved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting b9, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me. DE PINT WID OLD PETE. ;PON the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly darkey, sagp with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, <^p^i squatted on his bundle, toast- t ing his shins against the chim- J ney and apparently plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding upon inquiry, that he belonged to the Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy losing regiments at the Fort Donaldson battle, I began to interrogate him upon the subject. " Were you in the fight ? " "Had a little taste of it, sa." "Stood your ground, did you ?" " No, sa, I runs." " Kun at the first fire, did you ? " " Yes, sa, and would hab run soona, had I know'd it war comin'." "Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." "Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun." " Well, but have you no regard for your re- putation ? " " Yah, yah ! reputation's nuffin to me by de side ob life." " Do you consider your life worth more than other people's ? " " It is worth more to me, sa." " Then you must value it very highly." " Yes, sa, I does ; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, sa ; for what would dat be worth to a man wid de bref out of him? Self-preservation am de first law wid me." TOASTING HIS SHINS. NO, SA, I RUNS. 144 I SEE THEE STILL. " But why should you act upon a different rule from other men '(" 11 Because different men set different values upon their lives ; mine is not in de market." " But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you died for your country." " What satisfaction would dat he to me when de power ob feelin' was gone?" " Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you ? " " Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities." " If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the government without resistance." " Yes, sa ; dar would hab been no help for it." " Do you think any of your company would have missed you if you had been killed?" " Maybe not, sa ; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let Htane a dead nigga ; but I'd miss myself, and dat was de pint wid me." I SEE THEE STILL. CHARLES SPRAGUE. ROCK'D her in the cradle, And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. What fireside circle hath not felt the charm J Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er grow old,. the fond endearments of our earlier days We keep alive in them, and when they die 3)ur youthful joys we bury with them. I see thee still , Remembrance, faithful to her trust, Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; Thou comest in the morning light, Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night ; In dreams I meet thee as of old ; Then thy soft arms my neck enfold And thy sweet voice is in my ear : In every scene to memory dear, I see thee still. I see thee still; In every hallow'd token round ; This little ring thy finger bound, This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, This silken chain by thee was braided, These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee, Sweet Sister, thou didst cull for me ; This book was thine ; here didst thou read ; This picture — ah ! yes, here indeed I see thee still. I see thee still ; Here was thy summer noon's retreat, Here was thy favorite fireside seat ; This was thy chamber — here, each day, I sat and watch'd thy sad decay • Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie ; Here, on this pillow, — thou didst die. Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold: As then I saw thee, pale and cold, I see thee still. EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. Ul I see thee still. Thou art not in the grave confined — Death cannot claim the immortal Mind Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust, JBut Goodness dies not in the dust ; Thee, my Sister ! 'tis not thee Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; Thou to a fairer land art gone ; There, let me hope, my journey done, To see thee still ! EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. THOMAS DE QUINCEY. HAVING placed the king on his throne, it was her fortune thence- „Wm forward to be thwarted. More than one military plan was en- ' > W* 2 tered upon which she did not approve. Too well she felt that the •Sr end was now at hand. Still, she continued to expose her person | in battle as before ; severe wounds had not taught her caution ; and at length she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and finally given up to the English. The object now was to vitiate the coro- nation of Charles VII, as the work of a witch ; and, for this end, Joan was tried for sorcery. She resolutely defended herself from the absurd ac- cusation. Never, from the foundation of the earth, was there such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, and all its malignity of attack. 0, child of France, shepherdess, peasant girl ! trodden under foot by all around thee, how I honor thy flashing intellect, — quick as the lightning, and as true to its mark, — that ran before France and laggard Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and making dumb the oracles of falsehood ! " Would you examine me as a witness against myself?" was the question by which many times she defied their arts. The result of this trial was the condemnation of Joan to be burnt alive. Never did grim inquisitors doom to death a fairer victim by baser means. Woman, sister ! there are some things which you do not execute as well as your brother, man ; no, nor ever will. Yet, sister, woman ! cheer- fully, and with the love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowledge that you can do one thing as well as the best of men, — you can die grandly! On the twentieth of May, 1431, being then about nineteen years of age, Joan of Arc underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted before mid-day, guarded by eight spearmen, to a platform of prodigious height, constructed of wooden billets, supported by occasional walls of lath 10 14-f THE CORAL INSECT. and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every direction, for the creation of air-currents. With an undaunted soul, but a meek and saintly demeanor, the maiden encountered her terrible fate. Upon her head was placed a mitre, bearing the inscription, " Relapsed heretic, apostate, idolatress." Her piety displayed itself in the most touching manner to the last, and her angelic forgetfulness of self was manifest in a most remarkable degree. The executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing volumes. A monk was then standing at Joan's side. Wrapt up in his sublime office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even then, when the last enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment, did this noblest of girls think only for him, — the one friend that would not forsake her, — and not for herself; bidding him with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave her to God. "Go down," she said ; " lift up the cross before me, that I may see it in dying, and speak to me pious words to the end." Then protesting her innocence, and recommending her soul to Heaven, she continued to pray as the flames leaped up and walled her in. Her last audible word was the name of Jesus. Sustained by faith in Him, in her last fight upon the scaffold, she had triumphed gloriously ; victoriously she had tasted death. Few spectators of this martyrdom were so hardened as to contain their tears. All the English, with the exception of a few soldiers who made a jest of the affair, were deeply moved. The French murmured that the death was cruel and unjust. " She dies a martyr ! " " Ah, we are lost, we have burned a saint ! " " Would to God that ray soul were with hers ! " Such were the exclamations on every side. A fanatic English soldier, who had sworn to throw a fagot on the funeral-pile, hearing Joan's last prayer to her Saviour, suddenly turned away, a penitent for life, say- ing everywhere that he had seen a dove, rising upon white wings to , heaven from the ashes where she stood. THE CORAL INSECT. MRS. SIGOURNEY. pOIL on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, ■ Who build m the tossing and treach- f^gC^ erous mam ; Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye i With your sand-based structures and domes of rock ; Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, And your arches spring up to the crested mock, wave ; THE COKAL INSECT. 147 Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone ; Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd ; O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men. There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup ; There are foes that watch for his cradle breath ; And why need ye sow the floods with death ? With mouldering bones the deeps are white, From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; CORAL REEF BUILDERS. And the mountains exult where the wave hath been. But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? There are snares enough on the tented field, 'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield ; There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up; Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in, Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin ; From the land of promise ye fade and die, Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye; 148 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyra- mid, Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the* desolate main, While the wonder and prid& of your works remain. THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. SNE of the best things in farming is gathering the chestnuts, hickory- nuts, butternuts, and even bush-nuts, in the late fall, after the frosts have cracked the husks, and the high winds have shaken them, and the colored leaves have strewn the ground. On a bright October day, when the air is full of golden sunshine, there is nothing quite so exhilarating as going nutting. Nor is the pleasure of it altogether destroyed for the boy by the consideration that he is making himself useful in obtaining supplies for the winter household. The getting- in of potatoes and corn is a different thing ; that is the prose, but nutting is the poetry of farm life. I am not sure but the boy would find it very irksome, though, if he were obliged to work at nut-gathering in order to procure food for the family. He is willing to make himself useful in his own way. The Italian boy, who works day after day at a huge pile of pine-cones, pounding and cracking them and taking out the long seeds, which are sold and eaten as we eat nuts (and which are almost as good as pumpkin-seeds, another favorite with Italians), probably does not see the fun of nutting. Indeed, if the farmer-boy here were set at pounding off the walnut-shucks and opening the prickly chestnut-burs, as a task, he would think himself an ill-used boy. What a hardship the prickles in his fingers would be ! But now he digs them out with his jack-knife, and enjoys the process on the whole. The boy is willing to do any amount of work if it is called play. In nutting, the squirrel is not more nimble and industrious than the boy. I like to see a crowd of boys swarm over a chestnut grove ; they leave a desert behind them like the seventeen years locusts. To climb a tree and shake it, to club it, to strip it of its fruit and pass to the next, is the sport of a brief time. I have seen a legion of boys scamper over our grass-plot under the chestnut-trees, each one as active as if he were a new patent picking-machine, sweeping the ground clean of nuts, and disappear over the hill before I could go to the door and speak to them about it. Indeed I have noticed that boys don't care much for conversation with THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 149 the owners of fruit-trees. They could speedily make their fortunes if they would work as rapidly in cotton-fields. I have never seen anything like it except a flock of turkeys busily employed removing grasshoppers from a piece of pasture. NUTTIKGk The New England hoy used to look forward to Thanksgiving as the great event of the year. He was apt to get stents set him, — so much corn to husk, for instance, before that day, so that he could have an extra play- spell ; and in order to gain a day or two, he would work at his task with the rapidity of half-a-dozen boys. He had the day after Thanksgiving always as a holiday, and this was the day he counted on. Thanksgiving itself was rather an awful festival, — very much like Sunday, except for the enormous dinner, which filled his imagination for months before as completely as it did his stomach for that day and a week after. There was an impression in the house that that dinner was the most important event since the landing from the Mayflower. Heliogabalus, who did not resemble a Pilgrim Father at all, but who had prepared for himself in his 150 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. day some very sumptuous banquets in Rome, and ate a great deal of the best he could get (and liked peacocks stuffed with asafcetida, for on© thing), never had anything like a Thanksgiving dinner; for do you sup- pose that he, or Sardanapalus either, ever had twenty-four different kinds of pie at one dinner ? Therein many a New England boy is greater than the Roman emperor or the Assyrian king, and these were among the most luxurious eaters of their day and generation. But something more is necessary to make good men than plenty to eat, as Heliogabalus no doubt found when his head was cut off. Cutting off the head was a mode the people had of expressing disapproval of their conspicuous men. Nowa- days they elect them to a higher office, or give them a mission to some foreign country, if they do not do well where they are. For days and days before Thanksgiving the boy was kept at work evenings, pounding and paring and cutting up and mixing (not being allowed to taste much), until the world seemed to him to be made of fragrant spices, green fruit, raisins, and pastry, — a world that he was only yet allowed to enjoy through his nose. How filled the house was with the most delicious smells ! The mince-pies that were made ! If John had been shut up in solid walls with them piled about him, he couldn't have eaten his way out in four weeks. There were dainties enough cooked in those two weeks to have made the entire year luscious with good living, if they had been scattered along in it. But people were probably all the better for scrimping themselves a little in order to make this a great feast. And it was not by any means over in a day. There were weeks deep of chicken-pie and other pastry. The cold buttery was a cave of Aladdin, and it took a long time to excavate all its riches. Thanksgiving Day itself was a heavy day, the hilarity of it being so subdued by going to meeting, and the universal wearing of the Sunday clothes, that the boy couldn't see it. But if he felt little exhilaration, he ate a great deal. The next day was the real holiday. Then were the merry-making parties, and perhaps, the skatings and sleigh-rides, for the freezing weather came before the governor's proclamation in many parts of New England. The night after Thanksgiving occurred, perhaps, the first real party that the boy had ever attended, with live girls in it, dressed so bewitchingly. And there he heard those philandering songs, and played those sweet games of forfeits, which put him quite beside him- self, and kept him awake that night till the rooster crowed at the end of his first chicken-nap. What a new world did that party open to him ! I think it likely that he saw there, and probably did not dare say ten words to, some tall, graceful girl, much older than himself, who seemed to him THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 151 like a new order of being. He could see her face just as plainly in the darkness of his chamber. He wondered if she noticed how awkward he was, and how short his trousers-legs were. He blushed as he thought of his rather ill-fitting shoes ; and determined, then and there, that he wouldn't be put off with a ribbon any longer, but would have a young man's necktie. It was somewhat painful thinking the party over, but it was delicious, too. He did not think, probably, that he would die for that tall, handsome girl ; he did not put it exactly in that way. But he rather resolved to live for her, — which might in the end amount to the same thing. At least he thought that nobody would live to speak twice dis- respectfully of her in his presence. THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. CHARLES F. ADAMS. 'M a proken-hearted Deutscher, Vot's villed mit crief und shame. I dells you vot der drouple ish : I doosnt know my name. You dinks dis fery vunny, eh ? Ven you der schtory hear, You vill not vonder den so mooch, It vas so schtrange und queer. Mine moder had dwo leedle twins; Dey vas me und mine broder : Ve lookt so fery mooch alike, No von knew vich vrom toder. Von off der poys vas " Yawcob," Und " Hans " der oder's name : But den it made no tifferent ; Ve both got called der same. 152 ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. Veil ! von off us got tead, — Und so I am in drouples : Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so ! I gan't kit droo mine hed But vedder Hans or Yawcob, Vedder Tm Hans vot's lifing, Mine moder she don'd know. Or Yawcob- 'vot is tead/ ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. CHARLES F. BROWNE. |'VE been lingerin by the Tomb of the lamentid Shakspeare. is-jl?d It is a success. I do not hes'tate to pronounce it as such. You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. If you think its publication will subswerve the cause of litteratoor, you may publicate. I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the birth- f place of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as long as I kept out of Newgate she didn't care where I went. " But," I said, " don't you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived ? Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter,, about the Koses as groses, and the breezes as blowses — but a Boss poit — also a philosopher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything." Yes. I've been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birth-place of Shakespeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been dead over three hun- dred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of him. They cherish his mem'ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-place, &c, LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. 153 make it prof 'tible cherishin it. Almost everybody buys a pictur to put into their Albiom. " And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford, beside a Tombstone, " this marks the spot where lies William W. Shakes- peare. Alars ! and this is the spot where — " " You've got the wrong grave," said a man, — a worthy villager; " Shakespeare is buried inside the church." " Oh," I said, " a boy told me this was it." The boy larfed and put the shillin I'd given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and com- . menced moving backwards towards the street. I pursood and captered him, and, after talking to him a spell in a sarkastic stile, I let him w 7 ent. William Shakespeare was born in Stratford in 1564. All the com- mentators, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this, which is about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that his mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these commen- tators and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare's career, we shall not in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere lad little William attended the Grammar School, because, as he said, the Grammar School wouldn't attend him. This remarkable remark coming from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin there might be something in this lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet and George Barnwell. When his kind teacher went to London to accept a position in the offices of the Metropolitan Kailway, little William was chosen by his fellow-pupils to deliver a farewell address. "Go on, sir," he said, "in a glorous career. Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall be gratified! That's so." LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. EDWARD EVERETT. ||iKMONG the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable are those which have been quoted by a previous speaker : "I still live." They attest the serene composure of his mind, the Chris- tian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in upon himself, and explore, step by step, the dark passage, (dark to 154 PAT'S CRITICISM. us, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above), which connects this world with the world to come. But I know not what words could have been better chosen to express his relation to the world he was leaving, — " I still live." This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections of the people to whose services I have consecrated my days. " I still live." The icy hand of death is already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave them as the bequest of a dying friend. In the long and honored career of our lamented friend, there are efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one of the brightest pages of our history. But I greatly err if the closing scene, — the height of the religious sublime, — does not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend in interest the brightest exploits of public life. Within that darkened chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we shall not readily find the parallel. The serenity with which he stood in the presence of the King of terrors, without trepidation or flutter, for hours and days of expectation ; the though tfulness for the public business when the sands of life were so nearly run out ; the hospitable care for the reception of the friends who came to Marshfield ; that affectionate and solemn leave sepa- rately taken, name by name, of wife, and children, and kindred, and family, — down to the humblest members of the household ; the designation of the coming day, then near at hand, when " all that was mortal of Daniel Webster should cease to exist ; " the dimly-recollected strains of the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the soaring intellect; the feebly-murmured words of Holy Writ repeated from the lips of the good physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul ; the clasped hands ; the dying prayers. Oh ! my fellow-citizens, this is a consummation over which tears of pious sympathy will be shed ages after the glories of the forum and the senate are forgotten. PATS CRITICISM. CHAELES F. ADAMS. iHERE'S a story that's old, But good if twice told, Of a doctor of limited skill, Who cured beast and man On the "cold-water plan," Without the small help of a pill. PAT'S CRITICISM. 165 On his portal of pine When the doctor with pride Hung an elegant sign, Stepped up to his side, Depicting a beautiful rill, Saying, "Pat, how is that for a sign ' And a lake where a sprite, With apparent delight, Was sporting in sweet dishabille. " There's wan thing," says Pat, "You've lift out o' that, Which, be jabers ! is quoite a mistake- PAT, HOW IS THAT FOR A SIGN?' Pat McCarty one day, As he sauntered that way, Stood and gazed at that portal of pine It's trim and it's nate ; But, to make it complate, Ye shud have a foine burd on the lake. 156 THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. "Ah! indeed! pray then, tell, To make it look well, What bird do you think it may lack?" Says Pat, " Of the same I've forgotten the name, But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! quack 1' " THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. ^T was very cold, the snow fell, and it was almost quite dark; for it was evening — yes, the last evening of the year. Amid the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. It is true she had a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large slippers ; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the street, to avoid two carriages that were driving very quickly past. One of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when he should have children of his own. So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet that were red and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything from her the whole livelong day ; nobody had even given her a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a perfect picture of misery — poor little thing ! The snow-flakes covered her long, flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls round her throat ; but she heeded them not now. Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a savory smell of roast goose ; for it was New Year's Eve. And this she did heed. THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 157 She now sat down,, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she felt colder than ever ; yet she dared not return home, for she had not sold a match, and could not bring home a penny ! She would certainly be beaten by her father; and it was cold enough at home, besides — for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with straw and rags. Her littl® hands were nearly frozen with cold. Alas ! a single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers. So at last she drew one out. Ah ! how it sheds sparks, and how it burns ! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it,— truly it was a wonderful little sight ! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so brightly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out her feet to warm them likewise, when lo ! the flame expired, the stove vanished, and left nothing but the little half-burned match in her hand. She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and where it shone upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. A snow-white table-cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood a splendid china dinner-service, while a roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory fumes. And what was more delightful still to see, the goose jumped down from the dish, and waddled along the ground with a knife and fork in its breast, up to the poor girl. The match then want out, and nothing remained but the thick, damp wall. She lit yet another match. She now sat under the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was larger, and more superbly decked, than even the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on its green branches, and gay pictures, such as one sees on shields, seemed to be looking down upon her. She stretched out her hands, but the match then went out. The Christmas lights kept rising higher and higher. They now looked like stars in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a long streak of fire. " Somebody is now dying/' thought the little girl, — for her old grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her, that, when a star falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven. She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all round; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining 158 THE RAVEN. like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. '" Grandmother/' cried the little one, "oh, take me with you ! I know you will go away when the match goes out, — you will vanish like the warm stove, and the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas-tree ! " And she made haste to rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light that was brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful nor so large. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, far, far above mortal ken, where there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care to be found ; where there was no rain, no snow, or stormy wind, but calm, sunny days the whole year round. But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth ; she had been frozen on the last night of the old year. The new year's sun shone upon the little dead girl. She sat still holding the matches, one bundle of which was burned. People said : " She tried to warm herself." Nobody dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in what splendor she had entered, along with her grandmother, upon the joys of the New Year. THE RA YEN. EDGAR A. POE. ^j^j^NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I MMM pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — i» While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rap- ping at my chamber-door. " 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, " tapping at my chamber-door — Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore, — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, — Nameless here forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, -* Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door, — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door ; That it is, and nothing more." THE RAVEN. 159 Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your for- giveness I implore ; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide thf door : Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the still- ness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, " Lenore !" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, " Lenoee !" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window -lattice ; Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore, — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door, — Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the coun- tenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven ; Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore ?" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore!" Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little rele- vancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber- door With such name as " Nevermore !" But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feath- er then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have flown before, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, "Nevermore!" Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Follow' d fast and follow' d faster, till his songs one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore," Of — ' Never — nevermore !' " But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door, 160 THE FIRE-FIEND. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook my- self to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omi- nous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore !" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sylla- ble expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned in- to my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp- light gloating o'er She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! Then methought the air grew denser, per- fumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor, " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee, — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- ories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and for- get this lost Lenore !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore, — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore ! Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the an- gels name Lenore ; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting, — " Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- mon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore ! THE FIRE-FIEND. C. D. GARDETTE. SN the deepest dearth of Midnight, while the sad and solemn swell Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel Bell — Fainting, falteringly floating o' er the sable waves of air That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling — In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire- light's fitful gleaming, And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore-doomed to Care I THE FIRE-FIEND. 161 As the last long lingering echo of the Mid- night's mystic chime- Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore of Time — Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace — In a quivering sigh departed ; from my couch in fear I started : Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream's phantasmal Error Painted in the fitful fire, a frightful, fiend- ish, flaming face ! On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak, Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terr jr I awoke, And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor, Still in that dread Vision seemir/g, turned my gaze toward the gleaming Hearth, and — there ! — oh, God ! I saw It ! and from out Its flaming jaw It Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling stream of gore ! Speechless ; struck with stony silence ; fro- zen to the floor I stood, Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling blood : — Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips : — Till the Demon seemed to name me : — then a wondrous calm o'ercame me, And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff and gluey, And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse ! Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear : — Came a murmur like the murmur of assas- sins in their sleep : — Muttering, " Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am Demon of the Fire ! I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each blazing roof's my pyre, And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep ! 11 How I revel on the Prairie ! How I roar among the Pines ! How I laugh when from the village o'er the snow the red flame shines, And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life in every breath ! How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crackling rafter Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher ! higher ! higher ! Leap the High-Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death ! " I am Monarch of the Fire ! I am Vassal- King of Death ! World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon my breath ! With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face ! I command the Eternal Fire ! Higher ! higher ! higher ! higher ! Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantas- magoric lemans Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace !" Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, shrouded sleep, And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cra- dle of the Deep," Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke, And the martins, from the edges of its lichen- lidded ledges, Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn files marches, Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of cak. Through my ivy-fretted casement filtered in a tremulous note From the tall and stately linden where a Ro- bin swelled his throat : — Querulous, quaker-crested Robin, calling quaintly for his mate ! Then I started up, unbidden, from my slum- ber Nightmare ridden, With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central Fire, On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow of a Fate ! 162 RETRIBUTION. Ah ! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap, And no knot of oak was naming as it flamed upon my sleep ; But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had shone, Forked Shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carv- ed and olden — And I bowed, and said, "All Power is of God, of God alone !" RETRIBUTION. A. LINCOLN. ^L^ 9 rrjpHE Almighty has His own purposes. Woe unto the world because of offences ! for it must needs be that offences come ; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to JENKINS QOES TO A PICNIC. 163 both North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him ! Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, " The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether." With malice toward none ; with charity for all ; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in ; to bind up the nation's wounds ; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves, and with all nations. JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. >i =^ -- "•?■ .-^-~- 1 ARIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic. Maria Ann is my wife — unfortunately she had planned it to* go alone, so far as I am concerned, on that picnic excursion ;. but when I heard about it, I determined to assist. She pretended she was very glad ; I don't believe she was. " It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow," she said ; " and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and a dinner in the woods." On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o'clock. About three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to breakfast. I told her I wasn't hungry, but it didn't make a bit of differ- ence, 1 had to get up. The sun was up ; I had no idea that the sun began business so early in the morning, but there he was. " Now," said Maria Ann, " we must fly around, for the cars start at half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won't get anything more before noon." I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to be pounded to go around the pail of ice-cream, and the sandwiches to be cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so that I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and 164 JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There is a deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much. At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann's waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp- chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where. " Now," said Maria Ann, " we must run or we shall not catch the train." " Maria Ann," said I, "that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I can run with all this freight ? " " You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don't want a scene on the street, you will start, too/' So I ran. I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her para- sol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars ; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them. " Maria," I said, " how is this for a cool morning ride ? " Said she, " You are a brute, Jenkins." Said I, " You have made that observation before, my love." I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic goers. I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets were opened. At last dinner came — the "nice dinner in the woods," you know. Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they were worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and of course that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann's head, and pulled all the frizzles out trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece of raspberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn't want THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. 165 anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest of the after- noon. The day offered considerable variety, compared to every-day life, but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy it so much as I might have done. THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. jIUpWAS midnight ; not a sound was heard ; Within the — " Papa ! won't 'ou 'ook CHARLES F. ADAMS. An' see my pooty 'ittle house ? I wis' 'ou wouldn't wead 'ou book "- Within the palace, where the king Upon his couch in anguish lay " — 'Papa ! Pa-pa / I wis' 'ou'd turn An' have a 'ittle tonty play — " No gentle hand was there to bring The cooling draft, or bathe his brow ; His courtiers, and his pages gone" — " Turn, papa, turn ; I want 'ou now — Down goes the book with needless force, And, with expression far from mild, With sullen air, and clouded brow, I seat myself beside the child. 166 PLEDGE WITH WINE. Her little, trusting eyes of blue With mute surprise gaze in my face, As if, in its expression, stern, Reproof, and censure, she could trace ; Anon her little bosom heaves, Her rosy lip begins to curl ; And, with a quiv'ring chin, she sobs; " Papa don't 'uv his 'ittle dirl !" King, palace, book — all are forgot ; My arms are 'round my darling thrown- The thunder cloud has burst, and, lo ! Tears fall and mingle with her own. PLEDGE WITH WINE. **|||||jLEDG-E with wine — pledge with wine!" cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. " Pledge with wine," ran through the brilliant crowd. The beautiful bride grew pale — the decisive hour had come, — she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors. " Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the Judge, in a low tone, going towards his daughter, " the company expect it, do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette ; — in your own house act as you please ; but in mine, for this once please me." Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion's principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits — and to- night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman's opinion so soon. Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles towards Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of " Oh, how terrible ! " " What is it? " cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object. " Wait," she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, " wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, slowly pointing one jewelled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, " a sight that beggars all de- scription ; and yet listen ; I will paint it for you if I can : It is a lonely PLEDGE WITH WINE. 167 spot ; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around ; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water's edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce ; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds ; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast. " Genius in ruins. Oh ! the high, holy-looking brow ! Why should death mark it, and he so young ? Look how he throws the damp curls ! see him clasp his hands ! hear his thrilling shrieks for life ! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh ! hear him call piteously his father's name ; see him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister — his only sister — the twin of his soul — weeping for him in his distant native land. "See! " she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the un- tasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, over- powered, upon his seat ; " see ! his arms are lifted to heaven ; he prays, how' wildly, for mercy ! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping ; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and leave the living and dying together." There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again ; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct : she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. "It is evening now ; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lay gently on his forehead. He moves not ; his eyes are set in their sockets ; dim are their piercing glances ; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister — death is there. Death ! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back ! one convulsive shudder ! he is dead ! " A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping. 11 Dead! " she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and 168 PAPA'S LETTER. her voice more and more broken : " and there they scoop him a grave ; and there without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies — my father's son — my own twin brother ! a victim to this deadly poison." " Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, " father, shall I drink it now ? " The form of the old Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered — " No, no, my child, in God's name no." She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying : — "Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand ; who watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband ? '' His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer. The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms. Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impres- sion so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass. PAPA'S LETTER. ■ WAS sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard, " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. " But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer fing to do. Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I wite a letter too?" " Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty, now." " No, no, mamma ; me wite letter, Tan if 'ou will show me how." I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face- Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish, witching grace. i\ Hai \\ F \ SEWING ON A BUTTON. 169 But the eager face was clouded, Mamma sent me for a letter, As I slowly shook my head, Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go ?" Till I said, " I'll make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead." But the clerk in wonder answered, " Not to-day, my little man," So I parted back the tresses " Den I'll find anozzer office, From his forehead high and white, 'Cause I must do if I tan." And a stamp m sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light. • Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, Then I said, " Now, little letter, And the little feet were hastening — Go away and bear good news." By the busy crowd swept on. And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes. Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left and right, Leaving me, the darling hurried As a pair of maddened horses Down to Mary in his glee, At the moment dashed in sight. 41 Mamma's witing lots of letters ; I'se a letter, Mary — see !" No one saw the baby figure — No one saw the golden hair, No one heard the little prattler, Till a voice of frightened sweetness As once more he climbed the stair, Rang out on the autumn air. Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry stair. 'Twas too late — a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there, No one heard the front door open, Then the little face lay lifeless, No one saw the' golden hair, Covered o'er with golden hair. As it floated o'er his shoulders In the crisp October air. Reverently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Down the street the baby hastened Saw the stamp upon the forehead, Till he reached the office door. Growing now so icy cold. " I'se a letter Mr. Postman ; Is there room for any more ? Not a mark the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod ; " 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, But the little life was ended — Papa lives with God, 'ou know, " Papa's letter" was with God. SEWING ON A B UTTON J. M. BAILEY. }T is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a 170 LIFE FR0M DEATH. sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself,- 1 — " Well, if women don't have the easiest time I ever see." Then he comes back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner ; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor, and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile, he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man. LIFE FROM DEATH. HOBATIUS BONAR. |HE star is not extinguished when it sets | Upon the dull horizon ; it but goes To shine in other skies, then reappear In ours, as fresh as when it first The river is not lost, when, o'er the rock, It pours its flood into the abyss below ; Its scattered force re- gathering from the shock, It hastens onward with yet fuller flow. BETTY AND THE BEAR. 171 The bright sun dies not, when the shading orb Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray ; It still is shining on ; and soon to us Will burst undimmed into the joy of day. The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad ground ; Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth, 'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round. The dew-drop dies not, when it leaves the flower, And passes upward on the beam of morn ; It does but hide itself in light on high, To its loved flower at twilight, to return. The fine gold has not perished, when the flame Seizes upon it with consuming glow ; In freshened splendor it comes forth anew, To sparkle on the monarch's throne or brow. Thus in the quiet joy of kindly trust, We bid each parting saint a brief fare- well; Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust To the safe keeping of the silent cell. The day of re-appearing ! how it speeds ! He who is true and faithful speaks the word. Then shall we ever be with those we love — Then shall we be forever with the Lord. BETTY AND THE BEAR. j)N a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, A great big black grizzly trotted one m day, And seated himself on the hearth, and began To lap the contents of a two-gallon pan Of milk and potatoes, — an excellent meal, — And then looked about to see what he coul'd steal. The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frow, " Thar's a bar in the kitching as big's a cow !" " A what ?" " Why a bar !" " Well, murdet him, then !" " Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized, While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed. As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows, Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, " Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agm, Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the snout, Now poke with the poker, and poke his eyes out." So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty, alone. At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 172 THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. m ^JM^&S3i. Now when the old man saw the bear was no more, He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, And there was the grizzly, stretched on the floor. Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell All the wonderful things that that morning befell ; And he published the marvellous story afar, How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar! yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev sid it, Come see what we did, me and Betty, we did it." THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. JOHN MILTON. JOEDS and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the governors; a nation not slow and dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit ; acute to invent, subtile and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point that human capacity can soar to. Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle mewing- her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging and unsealing her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance ; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means. Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and pro- hibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple ; whoever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what praying there is for light and clear knowledge to be sent down among us, would think of other matters to be constituted beyond the discipline of AULD ROBIN GRAY. 173 Geneva, framed ,and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new light which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, if it come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, when as we are exhorted by the wise men to use diligence, "to seek for wisdom as for hidden treasures," early and late, that another order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by statute! When a man hath been laboring the hardest labor in the deep mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his reasons, as it were a battle ranged, scattered and defeated all objections in his way, calls out his adversary into the plain, offers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he please, only that he may try the matter by dint of argument; for his opponents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valor enough in soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty? She needs no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings, to make her victorious; those are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power ; give her but room, and do not bind her when she sleeps. A ULD ROBIN GRA Y ANNE BARNARD. Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarres, was born in 1750. Robin Gray chanced to be the name of a shepherd at Balcarres. While she was writing this ballad, a little sister looked in on her. " What more shall I do," Anne asked, " to trouble a poor girl ? I've sent her Jamie to sea, broken her father's arm, made her mother ill, and given her an old man for a lover. There's room in the four lines for one sorrow more. What shall it be?" "Steal the cow, sister Anne." Accordingly the cow was stolen. The second part, it is said, was written to please her mother, who often asked " how that unlucky business of Jeanie and Jamie ended." FIKST PART. HEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's a' at hame, Ma And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, The woes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. 'Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, But saving a crown he had naething else beside ; To mak the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound — they were baith for me. He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away ; 174 AULD ROBIN GRAY. My mother she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea — And auld Robm Gray came a-courting me. My father couldna w^ork, my mother couldna spin, I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me? " My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back, But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack ; His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee? Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ? My father urged me sair — my mother didna But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ; They gied him my hand — my heart was in the sea — And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he, Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to marry thee." Oh ! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say o' a', I gied him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'. I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee, For tho' my heart is broken, I'm young — wae's me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a sin, But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For oh ! Robin Gray he is kind to me. SECOND PART. The winter was come, 'twas simmer nae mair, And, trembling, the leaves were fleeing thro' th' air : " winter," says Jeanie, " we kindly agree, For the sun he looks wae when he shines upon me." Nae longer she mourned, her tears were a' spent, Despair it was come, and she thought it con- tent — She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale, And she bent like a lily broke down by the gale. Her father was vexed and her mother was wae, But pensive and silent was auld Robin Gray; He wandered his lane, and his face it grew lean, Like the side of a brae where the torrent has been. He took to his bed — nae physic he sought, But ordered his friends all around to be brought ; While Jeanie supported his head in its place, Her tears trickled down, and they fell on his face. " Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie," said he wi' a groan, " I'm no worth your sorrow — the truth maun be known ; Send round for your neighbors, my hour it draws near, And I've that to tell that it's fit a' should hear. " I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day, The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay; I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet of her vow, In mercy forgive me — 'twas I stole the cow. " I cared not for Crummie, I thought but o' thee — I thought it was Crummie stood 'twixt you and me ; POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 175 While she fed your parents, oh, did you not say You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray? " But sickness at hame and want at the door, You gied me your hand, while your heart it was sore ; I saw it was sore, — why took I her hand? Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land! " How truth soon or late comes to open day- light! For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white — White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me — Ay, Jeanie, I'm thankfu' — I'm thankfu' to dee. " Is Jamie come here yet ? " — and Jamie they saw — " I've injured you sair, lad, so leave you my a' ; J Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be ; Waste nae time, my dauties, in mourning for me." They kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face Seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace ; " Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, " forgi'en he will be— Wha wouldna be tempted, my love, to win thee ? " * * * * * The first days were dowie while time slipt awa', But saddest and sairest to Jeanie o' a' Was thinkin' she couldna be honest and right, Wi' tears in her e'e while her heart was sae light. But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, The wife o' her Jamie, the tear couldna stay ; A bonnie wee bairn — the auld folks by the 'fire — Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire. POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. DR. GREENWOOD, ^HE sea is his, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, in one of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expresses the whole of a vast subject by a few simple words. Whose else, in- deed, could it be, and by whom else could it have been made ? Who else can heave its tides and appoint its bounds ? Who else can J urge its mighty waves to madness with the breath and wings of the tempest, and then speak to it again in a master's accents and bid it be still ? Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabi- tants, and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and filled it from its deepest bed to its expanded surface, filled it from its centre to its remotest shores, filled it to the brim with beauty and mystery and power ? Majestic Ocean! Glorious Sea! thee. No created being rules thee or made 178 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. What is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable sea ? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm ; gently -heaving, silent sea ? What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resistless, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious " THE GENTLY-HEAVING SEA." grandeur of its deep rest, or the- wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is awful when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with the black clouds and the howling winds, and the thunder and the thunderbolt, and they sweep on, in the joy of their dread alliance, to do the Almighty's bidding. And it is awful, too, when it stretches its broad level out to meet in quiet union the bended sky, and show in the line of meeting the vast rotundity of the world. There is majesty in its wide expanse, sepa- rating and enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying two- thirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with its bays and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly-pouring tribute of every river, of every shore. There is majesty in its fulness, never diminishing and never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity, — for its whole vast substance is uniform in its local unity, for there is but one ocean, and the inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants of any other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime : who can sound it ? Its POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 177 strength is sublime : what fabric of man can resist it ? Its voice is sub- lime, whether in the prolonged song of its ripple or the stern music of its roar, — whether it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or thunders at the base of some huge promontory, or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies away, in the calm and fading twilight, in gentle murmurs on some sheltered shore. The sea possesses beauty, : in richness, of its own ; it borrows it from earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various dyes of their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of their shadows as they go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the moon and the glittering brother- hood of planets and stars, for they delight themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire; the moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to and fro, with the breezes and the waves, through the livelong night. It has a light, too, of its own, — a soft and sparkling light, rivaling the stars ; and often does the ship which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a Milky Way of dim and uncertain lustre, like that which is shining dimly above- It harmonizes in its forms and sounds both with the night and the day. It cheerfully reflects the light, and it unites solemnly with the darkness. It imparts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur to the thunder of heaven. What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of the sea ? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters where it dwells and rests, singing its spells and scattering its charms on all the coasts. What rocks and cliffs are so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing sea ? What groves and fields and dwellings are so enchanting as those which stand by the reflecting sea ? There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is unfathomed, and, perhaps, unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the world ? Who can tell what wells, what fountains, are there, to which the fountains of the earth are but drops ? Who shall say whence the ocean derives those in- exhaustible supplies of salt which so impregnate its waters that all the rivers of the earth, pouring into it from the time of the creation, have not been able to freshen them ? What undescribed monsters, what unimagi- nable shapes, may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never seeking — and perhaps never able to seek — the upper waters and expose themselves to the gaze of man ! What glittering riches, what heaps of gold, what stores of gems, there must be scattered in lavish profusion in 12 178 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. the ocean's lowest bed ! What spoils from all climates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth ? Who bears the keys of the deep ? And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart and mysterious to the mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, welter- ing, unsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of those lost ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting requiem ? CLIFFS BY THE SEA. What shrouds were wrapped round the. limbs of beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor of that secret tomb ? Where are the bones, the relics, of the brave and the timid, the good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, the sister, the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the washing, wasting, wandering sea ? The journeying winds may sigh as year after year they pass over their beds. The solitary rain-cloud may weep in darknesss over the mingled remains which lie strewed in that un- wonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to what spot their affections may cling ? And where shall human tears be shed throughout MY COUNTRY. 179 that solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery all. When shall it be resolved ? Who shall find it out ? Who but He to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom all nature bows ; He who shall one day speak, and be heard in ocean's profoundest caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall give up its dead ; when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and the isles shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, and there shall be no more sea ! A FIRST SORROW. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. fSpGpJRISE ! this day shall shine ''Qf$£i Forevermore, *|2 r^sf To thee a star divine On Time's dark shore. T Till now thy soul has been All glad and gay ; Bid it awake, and look At grief to-day ! No shade has come between Thee and the sun ; Like some long childish dream Thy life has run : But now the stream has reached A dark, deep sea, And Sorrow, dim and crowned Is waiting thee. Each of God's soldiers bears A sword divine : Stretch out thy trembling hands To-day for thine ! To each anointed priest God's summons came : O Soul, he speaks to-day, And calls thy name. Then, with slow, reverent step, And beating heart, From out thy joyous days Thou must depart, And, leaving all behind, Come forth alone, To join the chosen band Around the throne. Raise up thine eyes — be strong, Nor cast away The crown that God has given Thy soul to-day ! MY COUNTRY. JAMES MONTGOMERY. HERE is a land, of every land the pride, 2SI5] Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside, Where brighter suns dispense serener light, _ And milder moons imparadise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race 180 INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. The heritage of nature's noblest grace, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life : In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of love and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet. And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. " Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? " Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. DR. GEORGE BERKELEY. )M)USTKY is the natural sure way to success; this is so true, that it is impossible an industrious free people should want the necessaries and comforts of life, or an idle enjoy them under any form of govern- ment. Money is so far useful to the public, as it promoteth industry, and credit having the same effect, is of the same value with money; but money or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand, without producing labor and industry in the inhabitants, is direct gaming. It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible schemes, as may draw those who are less skilful into their own and the public ruin. But surely there is no man of sense and honesty but must see and own, whether he understands the game or not, that it is an evident folly for any people, instead of prosecuting the old honest methods of industry and frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table and play off their money one to another. The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches without industry or merit, the less there will be of either in that state : this is as evident as the ruin that attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from hand to hand in such a blind fortuitous manner, that some men shall from nothing acquire in an instant va^t estates, without the least desert; while others are as suddenly stripped oi plentiful fortunes, and left on the parish by their own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for on the one A TYPE OF GRANDEUR, STRENGTH AND MAJESTY. A LION'S HEAD." 181 hand but abandoned luxury and wantonness, or on the other but extreme madness and despair! In short, all projects for growing rich by sudden and extraordinary methods, as they operate violently on the passions of men, and encourage them to despise the slow moderate gains that are to be made by an honest industry, must be ruinous to the public, and even the winners themselves will at length be involved in the public ruin. . . . God grant the time be not near when men shall say, " This island was once inhabited by a religious, brave, sincere people, of plain, uncorrupt manners, respecting inbred worth rather than titles and appearances, assertors of liberty, lovers of their country, jealous of their own rights, and unwilling to infringe the rights of others ; improvers of learning and useful arts, enemies to luxury, tender of other men's lives, and prodigal of their own ; inferior in nothing to the old Greeks or Eomans, and superior to each of those people in the perfections of the other. Such were our ancestors during their rise and greatness ; but they degenerated, grew servile flatterers of men in power, adopted Epicurean notions, became venal, corrupt, injurious, which drew upon them the hatred of God and man, and occasioned their final ruin." a lion's head: 1 G. WEATHERLY. PON the wall it hung where all might see : A living picture — so the people said — A type of grandeur, strength and majesty — " A lion's head." Yet, if you gazed awhile, you seemed to see The eyes grow strangely sad, that should have raged ; And, lo ! your thoughts took shape uncon- sciously — " A lion caged." You saw the living type behind his bars, His eyes so sad with mute reproach, but still A very King, as when beneath the stars He roved at will. And then your thoughts took further ground, and ran From real to ideal, till at length The lion caged seemed but the type of man In his best strength ; Man grand, majestic in both word and deed, A giant in both intellect and will, Yet trammeled by some force he can but heed And cannot still ; Man in his highest attributes, but bound By chains of circumstance around him cast, Yet nobly living out life's daily round, Till work be past. So musing, shadows fall all silently And swift recall the thoughts that wan- dering fled : The dream has ended, and you can but see "A lion's head." 182 THE PURITANS. LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. C«p^ GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn, And thought with a nervous dread Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more Than a dozen mouths to be fed. There's the meals to get for the men in the field, And the children to fix away To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned ; And all to be done this day. It had rained in the night, and all the wood Was wet as it could be ; There were puddings and pies to bake, be- sides A loaf of cake for tea. And the day was hot, and her aching head Throbbed wearily as she said, " If maidens but knew what good wives know, They would not be in haste to wed ! " do you think I told Ben '■ Jennie, what Brown?" Called the farmer from the well ; And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow, And his eyes half bashfully fell ; " It was this," he said, and coming near He smiled, and stooping down, Kissed her cheek — "'twas this: that you were the best And the dearest wife in town ! " The farmer went back to the field, and the wife In a smiling, absent way Sang snatches of tender little songs She'd not sung for many a day. And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes Were white as the foam of the sea ; Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet And as golden as it could be. " Just think," the children all cried in a breath, " Tom Wood has run off to sea ! He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had As happy a home as we." The night came down, and the good wife smiled To herself, as she softly said: " Tis so sweet to labor for those we love, — It's not strange that maids will wed! " THE PURITANS. T. B. MACAULAY. HE Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal inter- ests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to 1 the will of the Great Being for whose power nothing was too J vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects THE PURITANS. 183 substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge of them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt : for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language — nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted poli- ticians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring Grod. Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, — the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the other proud, calm, in- flexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker ; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement he prayed with convulsions and groans and tears. He was half-maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, 184 THE BELL OF "THE ATLANTIC. or woke screaming from dreams of fire. Like Vane, he thought himself entrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. THE BELL OF " THE ATLANTIC 19 ( <4^, MES. SIGOURNEY. $OLL, toll, toll, toll ! Thou bell by billows swung, ,£?|§prb And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue ! Toll for the queenly boat, "Wrecked on yon rocky shore ! Sea-weed is in her palace halls — She rides the surge no more. Toll for the master bold, The high-souled and the brave, "Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave ! Toll for the hardy crew, Sons of the storm and blast, "Who long the tyrant ocean dared ; But it vanquished them at last. Toll for the man of God, Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair ! How precious were those tones, On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain billows' strife ! Toll for the lover, lost To the summoned bridal train, Bright glows a picture on his breast, Beneath the unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea : He cometh not, pale maiden — His heart is cold to thee I Toll for the absent sire, "Who to his home drew near, To bless a glad, expecting group- Fond wife, and children dear ! They heap the blazing hearth, The festal board is spread, But a fearful guest is at the gate ; — Room for the sheeted dead ! Toll for the loved and fair, The whelmed beneath the tide — The broken harps around whose strings The dull sea-monsters glide ! Mother and nursling sweet, Reft from the household throng ; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song, Toll for the hearts that bleed 'Neath misery's furrowing trace ; Toll for the hapless orphan left, The last of all his race I THE BLIND PREACHER. 185 Yea, with thy heaviest knell, From surge to rocky shore, Toll for the living — not the dead, Whose mortal woes are o'er. Toll, toll, toll ! O'er breeze and billow free; And with thy startling lore instruct Each rover of the sea. Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep, And bid him build his hopes on high- Lone teacher of the deep ! THE CYCLONE. THE BLIND PREACHER. WILLIAM WIRT. ^T was one Sunday, as I was traveling through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the roadside. Having frequently seen such objects before, in traveling through these States, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious wor- ship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the congregation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shriv- eled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of palsy ; and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled 186 THE BLIND PREACHER. pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees than were the lips of this holy man. It was a day of the administration of the sacrament ; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times ; I had thought it ex- hausted long ago. Little did I suppose that, in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; his trial before Pilate ; his as- cent up Calvary ; his crucifixion, and his death. I knew the whole history, but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored. It was all new, and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable, and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had such force of description, that the ori- ginal scene appeared to be at that moment acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet ; my soul kindled with a flame of indigna- tion, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness, of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon "for his enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do ! " — the voice of the preacher, which all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flow of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans and sobs and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi- ence down from the height to which he had wound them, without impair- ing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But — no; the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sen- A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 187 tence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Eous- seau: " Socrates died like a philosopher ; but Jesus Christ like a God." I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher, his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their genius : you are to imagine that you hear his slow, sol- emn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling mel- ody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house : the preacher, re- moving his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears), and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence : " Socrates died like a philosopher" — then pausing, raised his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to hea- ven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — " but Jesus Christ — like a God I " If he had been in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. MARY A. FORD. IHE surging sea of human life forever onward rolls, And bears to the eternal shore its daily freight of souls, Though bravely sails our bark to- day, pale Death sits at the prow, And few shall know we ever lived a hundred years from now. mighty human brotherhood ! why fiercely war and strive, While God's great world has ample space for everything alive ? Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed are waiting for the plow Of progress that shall make them bloom a hundred years from now. Why should we try so earnestly in life's short, narrow span, On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother-man ? Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish homage bow ? Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hun- dred years from now. 188 WOUNDED. Why prize so much the world's applause ? Why dread so much its blame ? A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame ; The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that dyes with shame the brow, Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred years from now. O patient hearts, that meekly bear your weary load of wrong ! O earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, striving, grow more strong ! Press on till perfect peace is won; you'll never dream of how You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hun- dred years from now. Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that freedom, right, and truth Alone may rule the universe, for you is end- less youth ! When 'mid the blest with God you rest, the grateful land shall bow Above your clay in reverent love a hundred years from now. Earth's empires rise and fall. Time ! like breakers on thy shore They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, and are no more. The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant brow Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from now. Our Father, to whose sleepless eye the past and future stand An open page, like babes we cling to thy protecting hand ; Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we may safely bow Beneath the shadow of thy throne a hundred years from now. WOUNDED. WILLIAM E. MILLER. ;ET me lie down If Just here in the shade of this can- non-torn tree, Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see The surge of the combat, and where I may hear The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer : Let me lie down. Oh, it was grand ! Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share ; The tempest, — its fury and thunder were there : Oa* cm, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and dead, With the foe under foot, and our flag over- head ; Oh, it was grand! Weary and faint, Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest, With this shot-shattered head and sabre- pierced breast? Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought, Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought, Wounded and faint. Oh, that last charge ! Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, Through without faltering, — clear through with a yell ! Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom, Like heroes we dashed, at the mandate of doom ! Oh, that last charge ! THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 183 It was duty ! Some things are worthless, and some others so good That nations who buy them pay only in blood. For Freedom and Union each man owes his part; And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart : It is duty. Dying at last ! My mother, dear mother ! with meek tearful eye, Farewell! and God bless you, for ever and aye! Oh that I now lay on your pillowing breast, To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest ! Dying at last ! I am no saint ; But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins " Our Father," and then says, " Forgive us our sins :" Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say " Amen !" Ah ! I'm no saint. Hark ! there's a shout. Raise me up, comrades ! We have conquered, I know ! — Up, on my feet, with my face to the foe ! Ah ! there flies the flag, with its star-span- gles bright, The promise of glory, the symbol of right ! Well may they shout ! I'm mustered out. God of our fathers, our freedom prolong, And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong ! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod, 1 die for the nation, the Union, and God! I'm mustered out. THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. CHAELES DICKENS. |||ppT last, one bitter night, he sunk down on the door-step, faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid ; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. And now the long-forgotten scenes of a mis-spent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home — a happy, cheerful home — and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him — so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more ; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again. He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The 190 THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. street was silent and empty ; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep. But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake and conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice rich food — they were before him ; he could see them all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them, — and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones ; that death was coming upon him by inches — and that there were none to care for or help him. Suddenly he started up in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what or 'why. Hark ! A groan ! — another ! His senses were leaving him : half-formed and incoherent words burst from his lips ; and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. He raised his head and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wan- dering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life ; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river side. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life, half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved ; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river. The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet, — so quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges, that were moored there, was distinctly audible LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 191 to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind urged him onward. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the water. Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface — but what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings ! Life — life — in any form, poverty, misery, starvation — anything but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his lead, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore — but one foot of dry ground — he could almost ■touch the step. One hand's breadth nearer, and he was saved — but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. Again he rose and struggled for life. For one instant — for one brief instant— the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast- flying clouds, were distinctly visible — once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned liim with its furious roar. A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was Lome to the grave ; and there it has long since mouldered away ! LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN 1569. sOVE me little, love me long ! Is the burden of my song : Love that is too hot and strong Burnetii soon to waste. Still I would not have thee cold, — Not too backward, nor too bold ; Love that lasteth till 'tis old Fadeth not in haste. Love me little, love me long ! j.s the burden ol my song. If thou lovest me too much, 'Twill not prove as true a touch ; Love me little more than such, — For I fear the end. I'm with little well content, And a little from thee sent Is enough, with true intent To be steadfast, friend. Love me little, love me lon^ . is the burden of my song. 192 YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. Say thou lovest me, while thou live I to thee my love will give, Never dreaming to deceive While that life endures ; Nay, and after death, in sooth, I to thee will keep my truth, As now when in my May of youth : This my love assures. Constant love is moderate ever, And it will through life persever ; Give me that with true endeavor, — I will it restore. A suit of durance let it be, For all weathers, — that for me, — For the land or for the sea : Lasting evermore. Winter's cold or summer's heat, Autumn's tempests on it beat; It can never know defeat, Never can rebel : Such the love that I would gain, Such the love, I tell thee plain, Thou must give, or woo in vain : So to thee — farewell ! YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. C. E. L. HOLMES. ITH sable-draped banners, and slow measured tread, The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead ; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests, Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love ; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move — A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny -haired child Besought him in accents which grief render- ed wild : " Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave — Why ! why ! did you pass by my dear papa's grave ? I know he was poor, but as kind and as true As ever marched into the battle with you — His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. He didn't die lowly — he poured his heart's blood, In rich crimson streams, from the top- crcwning sod Of the breastworks which stood in front oi the fight — And died shouting, ' Onward ! for God and the right!' O'er all his dead comrades your bright gar- lands wave, THE COCKNEY. 193 But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. If mamma were here — but she lies by his side, Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died." "Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, n This young orphan' d maid hath full cause for her grief." Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate The long line repasses, and many an eye Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's *' This way, it is — here, sir — right under this tree ; They lie close together, with just room for me." " Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green mound — A love pure as this makes these graves hal- lowed ground." " Oh ! thank you, kind sir ! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to- day ; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, ' Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too — I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day — How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest, And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast ; And when the kind angels shall call you to come, We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home, Where death never comes, his black banners to wave, And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." THE COCKNEY. JOHN G. SAXE. )T was in my foreign travel, 5 At a famous Flemish inn, ? That I met a stoutish person 1 With a very ruddy skin ; And his hair was something sandy, And was done in knotty, curls, And was parted in the middle, In the manner of a girl's. He was clad in checkered trousers, And his coat was of a sort To suggest a scanty pattern, It was bobbed so very short ; And his cap was very little, Such as soldiers often use ; o.nd he wore a pair of gaiters, And extremely heavy shoes. 13 I addressed the man in English, And he answered in the same, Though he spoke it in a fashion That I thought a little lame ; For the aspirate was missing Where the letter should have been, But where'er it wasn't wanted, He was sure to put it in ! When I spoke with admiration Of St. Peter's mighty dome, He remarked : " 'T is really nothing To the sights we' ave at 'ome !" And declared upon his honor, — Though, of course, 't was very queer, That he doubted if the Romans 'Ad the Aart of making beer! 194 THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN. Then we talked of the countries, When I left the man m gaiters, And he said that he had heard He was grumbling, o'er his gin, That h Americans spoke h English, At the charges of his hostess But he deemed it quite Aabsurd ; At that famous Flemish inn ; Yet he felt the deepest Amtrest And he looked a very Briton, In the missionary work, (So, methinks, I see him still,) And would like to know if Georgia As he pocketed the candle Was in Boston or New York ! That was mentioned in the bill ! THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN J. A. FKOUDE. f|||LOKIOUS as the spectacle was, perhaps, however it passed unheeded. yip Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew near. In an open space behind the constable there was seen approaching "a, white chariot," drawn by two palfreys in white j| damask which swept the ground, a golden canopy borne above it I making music with silver bells : and in the chariot sat the observed of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of England — queen at last ! — borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed incense of greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her honor, her self-respect, to win ; and she had won it. There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a light coronet of gold and diamonds — most beautiful — loveliest — most favored, perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas ! " within the hollow round of that coronet — " Kept Death his court, and there the antick sate Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp ; Allowing her a little breath, a little scene To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, Infusing her with self and vain conceit, As if the flesh which walled about her life Were brass impregnable ; and humored thus, Bored thro' her castle walls ; and farewell, Queen ! " Fatal gift of greatness ! so dangerous ever ! so more than danp-erous in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loos^ of the SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 195 great deeps of thought, and nations are in the throes of revolution ; when ancient order and law and traditions are splitting in the social earthquake ; and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro, those unhappy ones who stand out above the crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the victims of its alternating fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart and brain, intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos should find its way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion — if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of God's forgiveness. Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London — not radiant then with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor, wandering ghost, on a sad, tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a presence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well — for all of us — and therefore for her. Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling ? Did any vision flit across her of a sad, mourning figure which once had stood where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twi-. light of a life cut short by sorrow ? Who can tell ? At such a time that figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleet- ing as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of for- tune. SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. |CATTER the germs of the beautiful, j Let the pure, and the fair, and the graceful By the wayside let them fall, there °f$p£^f That the rose may spring by the ; In the loveliest lustre come. G. HOLLAND. fRAMP, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; how many of them? Sixty thousand ! Sixty full regiments, every man of which will, before twelve months shall have completed their course, lie down in the grave of a drunkard ! Every year during the past decade has witnessed the same sacrifice ; and sixty regiments stand behind this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from our children and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — the sounds come to us in the echoes of the army just expired ; tramp, tramp, tramp — the earth shakes with the tread of the host now passing ; tramp, tramp, tramp — comes to us from the camp of the recruits. A great tide of life flows resistlessly to its death. What in God's name are they fighting for ? The privilege of pleasing an appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of filling sixty thousand homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public with the burden of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, of detracting from the productive industries of the country, of ruining for- 202 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. tunes and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, of de- stroying both body and soul in hell before their time. The prosperity of the liquor interest, covering every department of it, depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot live without it. It never did live without it. So long as the liquor interest maintains its present prosperous condition, it wiii cost America the sacrifice of sixty thousand men every year. The effect is inseparable from the cause. The cost to the country of the liquor traffic is a sum so stu- pendous that any figures which we should dare to give would convict us of trifling. The amount of life absolutely destroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, the amount of bread transformed into poison, the shame, the unavailing sorrow, the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, the brutality, the wild waste of vital and financial resources, make an aggregate so vast — so incalculably vast, — that the only wonder is that the American people do not rise as one man and declare that this great curse shall exist no longer. A hue-and-cry is raised about woman-suffrage, as if any wrong which may be involved in woman's lack of the suffrage could be compared to the wrongs attached to the liquor interest. Does any sane woman doubt that women are suffering a thousand times more from rum than from any political disability ? The truth is that there is no question before the American people to-day that begins to match in importance the temperance question. The question of American slavery was never anything but a baby by the side of this ; and we prophesy that within ten years, if not within five, the whole country will be awake to it, and divided upon it. The organizations of the liquor interest, the vast funds at its command, the universal feeling among those whose business is pitted against the national prosperity and the public morals— these are enough to show that, upon one side of this matter, at least, the present condition of things and the social and political questions that lie in the immediate future are apprehended. The liquor interest knows there is to be a great struggle and is preparing to meet it. People both in this country and in Great Britain are beginning to see the enormity of this business — are beginning to realize that Christian civiliza- tion is actually poisoned at its fountain, and that there can be no purifica- tion of it until the source of the poison is dried up. Temperance laws are being passed by the various Legislatures, which they must sustain, or go over, soul and body, to the liquor interest and influence. Steps are being taken on behalf of the public health, morals, and prosperity, which they must approve by voice and act, or they must ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 203 consent to be left behind and left out. There can be no concession and no compromise on the part of temperance men, and no quarter to the foe. The great curse of our country and our race must be destroyed. Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of sixty thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, some are wild with hilarity and dance along the dusty way, some reel along in pitiful weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous impulses on one another, or on the helpless women and children whose destinies are united to theirs, some stop in wayside debaucheries and infamies for a moment, some go bound in chains from which they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding wrists, and all are poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. EXTRACT FROM GRAY'S ELEGY, THOMAS GRAY. pj^ULL many a gem of purest ray ser.ene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 4j>y Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; .Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 204 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The applause of listening senates to com- mand, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the mad'ning crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlet- tered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale re- late ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Haply some hoary -headed swain may say : — " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by- " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. " One morn I missed him on the customed b hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, — nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; " The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne ; — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. THE ANGLEE. 205 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; No further seek his merits to disclose, Heaven did a recompense as largely send; Or draw his frailties from their dread He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, abode, — He gained from heaven ('twas all he (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) wished) a friend. The bosom of his Father and his God. LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. FELICIA HEMANS. HE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear ; — They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared,^ This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim-band : Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? Bright j ewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ; They have left unstained what there they found, — Freedom to worship God. THE ANGLER. CHALKHILL. THE gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any ! 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife! And 'tis beloved by many ; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is ; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure. 206 THE ANGLER. In a morning, up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping ; Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping Then we go When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation, Where, in a brook, " O the gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any !" To and fro, With our knacks At our backs, To such streams as the Tnames, If we have the leisure. With a hook, — Or a lake, — Fish we take ; There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle. IMMORTALITY. 207 We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too ; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too ; None do here Use to swear: Oaths do fray Fish away ; We sit still, Watch our quill : Fishers must not wrangle. If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, i'o an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter ; Where, in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging ; We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow ; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath ; Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. IMMORTALITY. MASSILLON. jF we wholly perish with the body, what an imposture is this whole system of laws, manners, and usages, on which human society is founded ! If we wholly perish with the body, these maxims of charity, patience, justice, honor, gratitude, and friendship, which I sages have taught and good men have practised, what are they but 1 empty words possessing no real and binding efficacy? Why should we heed them, if in this life only we have hope? Speak not of duty. What can we owe to the dead, to the living, to ourselves, if all are or will be, nothing? Who shall dictate our duty, if not our own pleasures, — if not our own passions ? Speak not of morality. It is a mere chimera, a bugbear of human invention, if retribution terminate with the grave. If we must wholly perish, what to us are the sweet ties of kindred ? What the tender names of parent, child, sister, brother, husband, wife, or friend ? The characters of a drama are not more illusive. We have no ancestors, no descendants ; since succession cannot be predicated of nothing- ness. Would we honor the illustrious dead ? How absurd to honor that which has no existence ! Would we take thought for posterity ? How frivolous to concern ourselves for those whose end, like our own, must soon be annihilation ! Have we made a promise ? How can it bind nothing to nothing? Perjury is but a jest. The last injunctions of the dying, what 208 THE. TEMPEST. sanctity have they, more than the last sound of a chord that is snapped, of an instrument that is broken ? To sum up all : If we must wholly perish, then is obedience to the laws but an insane servitude; rulers and magistrates are but the phantoms which popular imbecility has raised up ; justice is an unwarrantable in- fringement upon the liberty of men, — an imposition, a usurpation ; the law of marriage is a vain scruple; modesty a prejudice; honor and probity, such stuff as dreams are made of; and incests, murders, parricides, the most heartless cruelties and the blackest crimes, are but the legitimate sports of man's irresponsible nature ; while the harsh epithets attached to them are merely such as the policy of legislators has invented, and imposed upon the credulity of the people. Here is the issue to which the vaunted philosophy of unbelievers must inevitably lead. Here is that social felicity, that sway of reason, that emancipation from error, of which they eternally prate, as the fruit of their doctrines. Accept their maxims, and the whole world falls back into a frightful chaos ; and all the relations of life are confounded; and all ideas of vice and virtue are reversed ; and the most inviolable laws of society vanish ; and all moral discipline perishes ; and the government of states and nations has no longer any cement to uphold it ; and all the harmony of the body politic becomes discord ; and the human race is no more than an assemblage of reckless barbarians, shameless, remorseless, brutal, de- naturalized, with no other law than force, no other check than passion, no other bond than irreligion, no other God than self! Such would be the world which impiety would make. Such would be this world, were a belief in God and immortality to die out of the human heart. THE TEMPEST. J. T. FIELDS. E were crowded in the cabin, IfS Not a soul would dare to sleep ,- ™Mz It was midnight on the waters And a storm upon the deep. 'T is a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, " Cut away the mast !" So we shuddered there in silence, — For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring, And the breakers talked with Death. As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, " We are lost !" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 209 But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, " Is n't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land ?" Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. >UR birth is but a sleep and a forget- ting ; The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home. Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy ; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows- He sees it in his joy. The youth who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended : At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Oh joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not, indeed, For that which is most worthy to be blest, — Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, in his With new-fledged hope still fluttering breast, — Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised, — But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day- Are yet a master light of all our seeing, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence ; truths that wake, To perish never, — Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, — Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT LD Master Brown brought his ferule down, And his face looked angry and red. " Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair. Along with the girls," he said. Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, With his head down on his breast, 14 210 DRIFTING. Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet That he loved, of all, the best. And Anthony Blair, seemed whimpering mere, But the rogue only made believe ; For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, And ogled them over his sleeve. DRIFTING. T. BUCHANAN READ. Y soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim ; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles ; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ;- With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With earth and ocean reconciled ; — The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Wichin the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies, — O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid ; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far off ships. Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — This happier one, t Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of aun. EUROPEAN GUIDES. 211 happy ship, No more, no more To rise and dip, The worldly shore With the blue crystal at your lip ! Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! happy crew, With dreamful eyes My heart with you My spirit lies Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! Under the walls of Paradise ! EUROPEAN GUIDES. S. C. CLEMENS. S^UEOPEAN guides know about enough English to tangle everything up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart, — the history of every statue, painting, cathe- dral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would, — and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts children to say " smart " things, and do absurd ones, and in other ways " show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstacies of admiration ! He gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more, — we never admired anything, — we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the face of the sublimest wonders a guide had to dis- play. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those people savage, at times, but we, have never lost our serenity. The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbe- cility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural to him. The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as 212 EUROPEAN GUIDES. if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation, — full of impatience. He said : — " Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come ! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo! — write it himself! — write it wis his own hand! — come I" He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger : — What I tell you, genteelmen ! Is it not so ? See ! handwriting Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself!" We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor examined the docu- ment very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest, — " Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this ?" " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" Another deliberate examination. "Ah, — did he write it himself, or,— or how?" " He write it himself ! — Christopher Colombo ! he's own handwriting, write by himself!" Then the doctor laid the document down and said, — " Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that." " But zis is ze great Christo— ■" " I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out! — and if you haven't, drive on !" We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said, — " Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us ! I show you beautiful, oh, mag- nificent bust Christopher Colombo ! — splendid, grand, magnificent !" He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it was beautiful, — and sprang back and struck an attitude : — " Ah, look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christopher Co- lombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal !" The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occasions : — " Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was ?" " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo I" EUROPEAN GUIDES. 213 "Christopher Colombo, — the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do r "Discover America! — discover America, oh, ze devil!" "Discover America? No, — that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christo- pher Colombo, — pleasant name, — is — is he dead ?" " Oh, corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred year !" "What did he die of?" " I do not know. I cannot tell." " Small-pox, think ?" " I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he die of." " Measles, likely ?" " Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of something." " Parents living ?" " Im-posseeble ! " Ah, — which is the bust and which is the pedestal ?" " Santa Maria ! — zis ze bust ! — zis ze pedestal !" "Ah, I see, I see, — happy combination, — very happy combination indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust ?" That joke was lost on the foreigner, — guides cannot master the sub- tleties of the American joke. We have made it interesting for this Koman guide. Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure ; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he con- sidered to be his greatest wonder till the last, — a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him : — "See, genteelmen ! — Mummy ! Mummy !" The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. " Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name was?" " Name ? — he got no name ! — mummy ! — 'Gyptian mummy!" " Yes, yes. Born here ?" " No. 'Gyptian mummy." "Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ?" 214 THANATOPSIS. Playing us Trying to "No! — not Frenchman, not Eoman! — born in Egypta !" " Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy, — mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed ! Is — ■ ah ! — is he dead ?" " Oh, sacre bleu ! been dead three thousan' year !" The doctor turned on him savagely : — " Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this ? for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn ! impose your vile, second-hand carcasses on us ! Thunder and lightning ! I've a mind to — to — if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out ! — or, by George, we'll brain you!" We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. However, he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored, as well as he could to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observa- tion was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to say. Our Eoman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering, subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts. THANATOPSIS. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. IHIiltB ^ m ' wno > i n the love of Nature, yijjM holds r Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language : for his gayer • * hours J She has a voice of gladness and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist " To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language." THANATOPSIS. 215 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements ; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak THE VENERABLE WOODS. Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world, — with The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, Fair form? ind hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Hock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in Densive quietness between ; The venera'me woods ; rivers that move In majesty, ana the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings. — Yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone ! So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou with- draw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men — The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off — Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. 216 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. HORACE SMITH. IjKfiN Broad Street buildings (on a winter 8m night), \f^f Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight dm Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing $ His feet rolled up in fleecy hose, J With t'other he'd beneath his nose The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops, Ships, shops, and slops ; Gum, galls, and groceries ; ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin ; When lo ! a decent personage in black, Entered and most politely said — " Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar, which I Observed in passing by ; And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks!" the gouty man replied ; " You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ; — " Ten thousand thanks how very few do get, In time of danger, Such kind attention from a stranger ! Assuredly, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf,) That there's no soul at home except my- self." "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave,) " Then he's a double knave: He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors ; And see, how easily might one Of these domestic foes, Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knavish tricks: Enter your room as I have done, Blow out your candles — thus — and thus — Pocket your silver candlesticks : And — walk off — thus " — So said, so done ; he made no more remark. Nor waited for replies, But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. eflla MES. C. B. SOUTHEY. |READ softly, bow the head ; In reverent silence bow ; No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger ! however great, With lowly reverence bow There's one in that poor shed, One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state , Enter — no crowds attend ; Enter — no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement, damp and coict No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. MOUSE-HUNTING. 217 No mingling voices sound — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppressed — again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh, change ! — Oh, wondrous change Burst are the prison bars — This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars ! Oh, change — stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod ! The sun eternal breaks — The new immortal wakes — Wakes with his God ! MO USE-HUNTING. B. P. SHILLABER. ^pT was midnight, deep and still, in the mansion of Mrs. Partington, — as |H| it was, very generally, about town, — on a cold night in March. So Mb profound was the silence that it awakened Mrs. P., and she raised f herself upon her elbow to listen. No sound greeted her ears, save i the tick of the old wooden clock in the next room, which stood there * in the dark, like an old crone, whispering and gibbering to itself. Mrs. Partington relapsed beneath the folds of the blankets, and had one eye again well-coaxed towards the realm of dreams, while the other was holding by a very frail tenure upon the world of reality, when her ear was saluted by the nibble of a mouse, directly beneath her chamber window, and the mouse was evidently gnawing her chamber carpet. Now, if there is an animal in the catalogue of creation that she dreads and detests, it is a mouse ; and she has a vague and indefinite idea that rats and mice were made with especial regard to her individual torment. As she heard the sound of the nibble by the window, she arose again upon her elbow, and cried " Shoo ! Shoo /" energetically, several times. The sound ceased, and she fondly fancied that her trouble was over. Again she laid herself away as carefully as she would have lain eggs at forty-five cents a dozen, when — nibble, nibble, nibble ! — she once more heard the odious sound by the window. " Shoo /" cried the old lady again, at the same time hurling her shoe at the spot from whence the sound proceeded, where the little midnight marauder was carrying on his depredations. A light burned upon the hearth — she couldn't sleep without a light, — and she strained her eyes in vain to catch a glimpse of her tormentor play- ing about amid the shadows of the room. All again was silent, and the clock, giving an admonitory tremble, struck twelve. Midnight! and Mrs. Partington counted the tintinabulous knots as they ran off the reel of Time, with a saddened heart. 218 MOUSE-HUNTING. Nibble, nibble, nibble! — again that sound. The old lady sighed as she hurled the other shoe at her invisible annoyance. It was all without avail, and " shooing " was bootless, for the sound came again to her wakeful ear. At this point her patience gave out, and, conquering her dread of the cold, she arose and opened the door of her room that led to a corridor, when, taking the light in one hand, and a shoe in the other, she made the circuit of the room, and explored every nook and cranny in which a mouse could ensconse himself. She looked under the bed, and under the old chest of drawers, and under the wash-stand, and " shooed " until she could "shoo " no more. The reader's own imagination, if he has an imagination skilled in limning, must draw the picture of the old lady while upon this exploring expedition, " accoutred as she was/' in search of the ridiculous mouse. We have our own opinion upon the subject, and must say, — with all due deference to the years and virtues of Mrs. P., and with all regard for personal attrac- tions very striking in one of her years, — we should judge that she cut a very queer figure, indeed. Satisfying herself that the mouse must have left the room, she closed the door, deposited the light upon the hearth, and again sought repose. How gratefully a warm bed feels, when exposure to the night air has chilled us, as we crawl to its enfolding covert ! How we nestle down, like an infant by its mother's breast, and 'own no joy superior to that we feel, — coveting no regal luxury while revelling in the elysium of feathers ! So felt Mrs. P., as she again ensconsed herself in bed. The clock in the next room struck one. She was again near the attainment of the state when dreams are rife, when, close by her chamber-door, outside she heard that hateful nibble renewed which had marred her peace before. With a groan she arose, and, seizing her lamp, she opened the door, and had the satisfaction to hear the mouse drop, step by step, until he reached the floor below. Convinced that she was now rid of him for the night, she returned to bed, and ad- dressed herself to sleep. The room grew dim ; in the weariness of her spirit, the chest of drawers in the corner was fast losing its identity and becoming something else; in a moment more — nibble, nibble, nibble! again outside of the chamber-door, as the clock in the next room struck two. Anger,, disappointment, desperation, fired her mind with a new deter- mination. Once more she arose, but this time she put on a shoe ! — her dexter shoe. Ominous movement ! It is said that when a woman wets her finger, fleas had better flee. The star of that mouse's destiny was set- ting, and was now near the horizon. She opened the door quickly, and, DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. 219 as she listened a moment, she heard him drop again from stair to stair, on a speedy passage down. The entry below was closely secured, and no door was open to admit of his escape. This she knew, and a triumphant gleam shot athwart her features, revealed by the rays of the lamp. She went slowly down the stairs, until she arrived at the floor below, where, snugly in a corner, with his little bead-like black eyes looking up at her roguishly, was the gnawer of her carpet, and the annoyer of her comfort. She moved towards him, and he not coveting the closer acquaintance, darted by her. She pursued him to the other end of the entry, and again he passed by her. Again and again she pursued him, with no better success. At last, when in most doubt as to which side would conquer, Fortune perched upon the banister, turned the scale in favor of Mrs. P. The mouse, in an attempt to run by her, presumed too much upon former success. He came too near her upraised foot. It fell upon his musipilar beauties, like an avalanche of snow upon a new tile, and he was dead forever ! Mrs. Partington gazed upon him as he lay before her. Though she was glad at the result, she could but sigh at the necessity which impelled the violence; but for which the mouse might have long continued a blessing to the society in which he moved. Slowly and sadly she marched up stairs, With her shoe all sullied and gory ; And the watch, who saw't through the front door squares, Told us this part of the story. That mouse did not trouble Mrs. Partington again that night, and the- old clock in the next room struck three before sleep again visited the eye- lids of the relict of Corporal Paul. DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. CARLOS WILCOX. )ULDST thou from sorrow find a IKflail sweet relief ? Or is thy heart oppress' d with woes untold ? Balm wouldst thou gather from corroding grief' 7 Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold. 'Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty ; not when, all un- roll'd, Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, 220 TO THE SILENT RIVER. Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy number'd hours To take their swift and everlasting flight ; Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd ; Do something — do it soon — with all thy might ; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself, inactive, were no longer blest. Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue, With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely kind ; Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit To light on man as from the passing air ; 'The lamp of genius, though by nature lit, If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; And learning is a plant that spreads and towers Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, That 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given To them that idly worship hills and groves, And burn sweet incense to the queen of hea- ven? Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, To measure worlds, and follow where each moves ? Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves ? Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece? Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would ap- pear But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim Thy want of worth, — a charge thou couldst not hear From other lips, without a blush of shame, Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd, Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know ; Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hand, unsparing and unwearied, sow Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flow'rs, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. TO THE SILENT RIVER. H. W. LONGFELLOW. IVER that in silence windest ijtfjfg Through the meadows bright and free, "Till at length thy rest thou findest I In the bosom of the sea ! Four long years of mingled feeling. Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. TO THE SILENT RIVER. 221 Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! Many a lesson deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver ; I can give thee but a song. Oft in sadness, and in illness I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide. 222 SONG OF THE BROOK. And in bitter hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap forward with thy stream. Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee. And have made thy margin dear. Friends my soul with joy remembers ! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 'Tis for this, then, Silent River ! That my spirit leans to thee ; Thou hast been a generous giver, Take this idle song from me. SONG OF THE BROOK ALFRED TENNYSON. COME from haunts of coot and hern I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. ! '. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying I babble on the With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbieak Above the golden gravel, CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 223 And draw them all along, and flow I make the netted sunbeam dance To join the brimming river, Against my sandy shallows. For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I slide by hazel covers ; I loiter round my cresses ; I love the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, For men may come and men may go, Among my skimming swallows ; But I go on forever. CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. VICTOR HUGO. jT sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch ; his soles stick in it ; it is sand 4; no longer ; it is glue. eJ The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change ; the immense strand is smooth and tran- quil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious. Anxious about what ? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in. He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right road ; he stops to take his bearings ; now he looks at his feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand ; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles ; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the left — the sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right ; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, anci that he has beneath him the terrible 224 THE ORIENT. medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress ; it is already too late ; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief ; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over. He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten ; which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which draws you by the feet ; which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep ; every movement he makes inters him ; he straightens up, he sinks in ; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs. Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast ; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath ; sobs frenziedly ; the sand rises ; the sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches his neck ; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it — silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them — night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand ; a hand comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave. THE ORIENT. FROM BYRON S BRIDE OF ABYDOS. fH$|NOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine : Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ! Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute. Where tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; THE MORAVIAN REQUIEM. 225 "Where the virgins are soft as the roses they Can he smile on such deeds as his children twine, have done ? And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 0, wild as the accents of lover's farewell 'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of Are the hearts which they bear and the tales the Sun, — which they tell ! ABO U BEN ADHEM. LEIGH HUNT. D B0U Ben Adhem, — may his tribe in- crease, — Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, " What writest thou ?" The vision raised its head, And with a look made all of sweet accord, Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." " And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd ; And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all th? r^st, THE MORA VI AN REQ UIEM. HARRIET B. M KEEVER. It is customary with the Moravians at Bethlehem, Pa., to announce the decease of a member of their com- munion, from the tower of the church adjoining the cemetery, by three appropriate strains of melody rendered by a trombone band. The closing strains designate the age and sex of the departed one. I heard it for the first time at sunset, in the cemetery, unexpectedly ; the effect was indescribable ; the custom is beautiful, sweetly ex- pressive of loving brotherhood. T twilight hour, when mem'ry's power Wakes up the visions of the buried past, From earth retreating, soft silence greeting, I wandered, where the weary rest at last. 15 The sun retiring, sad thoughts inspiring, I mused in solemn silence 'mid the dead; When softly stealing, death's call reveal- ing. Sounds of low wailing from the tower were sped. 226 THE MISER. First faintly swelling, the tidings telling, In notes of tenderest sorrow, one has gone We've lost another, a youthful brother ; Mourn for a home bereft, a spirit flown. The'' notes of anguish first seem to lan- guish, Like to the moaning of a parting sigh ; Then raptured swelling, a tale they're tell- ing. Of triumph over death, of victory. " Farewell to sorrow ! I'll wake to-morrow, When the long slumber of the tomb is o'er ; Then rising glorious, o'er death victorious, We'll meet, we'll meet, where partings are no more." Thus wails the trombone, and as its soft tone Breathes a sad requiem for death's fre- quent calls, 'Tis sweet to render this tribute tender, Whene'er a brother from among us falls. THE MISER. GEOEGE W. CUTTER. >N old man sat by a tireless hearth, Though the night was dark and chill, And mournfully over the frozen earth The wind sobbed loud and shrill. His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray, And dim, but not with tears ; And his skeleton form had wasted away With penury, more than years. A rush-light was casting its fitful glare O'er the damp and dingy walls, Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair, And the venomous spider crawls ; But the meanest thing in this lonesome room Was the miser worn and bare, Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb, On his broken and only chair. He had bolted the window and barred the door, And every nook had scanned ; And felt the fastening o'er and o'er. With his cold and skinny hand ; And yet he sat gazing intently round, And trembled with silent fear, And started and shuddered at every sound That fell on his coward ear. "Ha, ha !" laughed the miser: " I'm safe at last From this night so cold and drear, From the drenching rain and driving blast, With my gold and treasures here. I am cold and wet with the icy rain, And my health is bad, 'tis true ; Yet if I should light that fire again, It would cost me a cent or two. THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. 227 " But I'll take a sip of the precious wine : He turned to an old worm-eaten chest, It will banish my cold and fears : And cautiously raised the lid, It was given long since by a friend of mine — And then it shone like the clouds of the I have kept it for many years." west, So he drew a flask from a mouldy nook, With the sun in their splendor hid : And drank of its ruby tide ; And gem after gem, in precious store, And his eyes grew bright with each draught Are raised with exulting smile ; he took, And he counted and counted them o'er and And his bosom swelled with pride. o'er, In many a glittering pile. *' Let me see ; let me see !" said the miser then, Why comes the flush to his pallid brow, " 'Tis some sixty years or more While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? Since the happy hour when I began Why writhes he thus in such torture To heap up the glittering store ; now? And well have I sped with my anxious toil, What was there in the wine ? As my crowded chest will show : He strove his lonely seat to gain : I've more than would ransom a kingdom's To crawl to his nest he tried ; spoil, But finding his efforts all in vain, Or an emperor could bestow." He clasped his gold, and — died. THE POOR INDIAN! KNOW him by his falcon eye, His raven tress and mien of pride ; Those dingy draperies, as they fly, Tell that a great soul throbs inside ! ^ No eagle-feathered crown he wears, 1 Capping in pride his kingly brow ; * But his crownlesss hat in grief de- clares, 11 1 am an unthroned monarch now !" 1 noble son of a royal line !" I exclaim, as I gaze into his face, " How shall I knit my soul to thine ? How right the wrongs of thine injured race ? " What shall I do for thee, glorious one ? To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. Speak ! and say how the Saxon's son May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires !" He speaks, he speaks ! — that noble chief ! Erom his marble lips deep accents come ; And I catch the sound of his mighty grief, — " Pie gi' me tree cent for git some rumf THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. EDMUND BURKE. be honored and even privileged by the laws, opinions, and in- veterate usages of our country, growing out of the prejudice of * ages, has nothing to provoke horror and indignation in any man. Even to be top tenacious of those privileges is not absolutely a crime. The strong struggle in every individual to preserve posses- sion of what he has found to belong to him, and to distinguish him, is 228 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. one of the securities against injustice and des- potism implanted in our nature. It operates as an instinct to secure property, and to preserve communities in a settled state. What is there to shock in this? Nobility is a graceful orna- ment to the civil order. It is the Corinthian capital of polished society. Omnes boni nobili- tati semper favemus, was the saying of a wise and good man. It is, indeed, one sign of a liberal and benevolent mind to incline to it with some sort of partial propensity. He feels no ennobling principle in his own heart who wishes to level all the artificial institutions which have been adopted for giving a body to opinion and permanence to fugitive esteem. It is a sour, malignant, and envious disposition, without taste for the reality, or for any image or representa- tion of virtue, that sees with joy the unmerited fall of what had long flourished in splendor and in honor. I do not like to see anything destroyed, any void produced in society, any ruin on the face of the land. THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. GEORGE CANNING. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. jjjijIjfEEDY knife-grinder ! whither are you going < Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order. Bleak blows the blast; — your hat has got a hole in' t; So have your breeches ! Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- road, What hard work 't is crying all day " Knives and Scissors to grind !" Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives ? Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ? Or the attorney? Was it the squire for killing of his game ? or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit ? (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story. MOTHERHOOD. 229 KNTFE-G-RINDER. Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into Custody ; they took me before the justice ; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-stocks For a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honor's health A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir. . FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee dead first, — Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance, — Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast ! [Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthu- siasm and universal philanthropy .] TWO LITTLE KITTENS. WO little kittens, one stormy night, Began to quarrel and then to fight; One h*d a mouse, the other had none, And that was the way the quarrel " J7Z have that mouse," said the biggest cat. You'll have that mouse, we'll see about that." " I will have that mouse," said the eldest son. " You shan't have that mouse," said the little one. I told you before 'twas a stormy night When these two little kittens began to fight ; The old woman seized her sweeping-broom And swept the two kittens right out of the room. The ground was covered with frost and snow, And the two little kittens had nowhere to go, So they laid them down on the mat at the door, While the old woman .finished sweeping the floor. Then they both crept in, as quiet as mice, All wet with snow and cold as ice ; For they found it was better, that stormy night, To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel and fight. MOTHERHOOD. Y neighbor's house is not so high Nor half so nice as mine ; I often see the blind ajar, And tho' the curtain's fine, 'Tis only muslin, and the steps Are not of stone at all, And yet I long for her small home To give mine all in all. 230 THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. Her lawn is never left to grow, The children tread it down, And when the father comes at night I hear them clatter down The gravel walk — and such a noise, Comes to my listening ears, As my sad heart's been waiting for So many silent years. Sometimes I peep to see them Seize his coat, and hand, and knees, All three so eager to be first, And hear her call, " Don't teaze, Papa !" the baby springs — And then the low brown door Shuts in their happiness — and I Sit wishing as before. That my neighbor's little cottage, And the jewels of her crown Had been my own — my mansion With its front of freestone brown, Its damask, and its Honiton, Its lawn so green and bright, How gladly would I give them, For her motherhood, to-night. TRUST. JOHN G. WHITTIER. g|ig PICTURE memory brings to me : HHi ^ ^ 00 k across the years and see Myself beside my mother's knee. I feel her gentle hand restrain My selfish moods, and know again A child's blind sense of wrong and pain. But wiser now, a man gray grown, My childhood's needs are better known, My mother's chastening love I own. Gray grown, but in our Father's sight A child still groping for the light To read his works and ways aright. I bow myself beneath his hand ; That pain itself for good was planned, I trust, but cannot understand. I fondly dream it needs must be, That as my mother dealt with me, So with His children dealeth He. BIBTH-PLACE OF WHITTIEE. I wait, and trust the end will prove That here and there, below, above, The chastening heals, the pain is love ! THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. FELICIA HEMANS. PK||]pWO barks met on the deep mid- MMk When calms had stilled the -sea, the tide ; A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side. And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth ; And sweetly floated o'er the wave The melodies of earth. Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept ; While dancing step and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept. BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. 231 And hands were linked, and answering eyes "With kindly meaning shone ; 0, brief and passing sympathies, Like leaves together blown ! A little while such joy was cast Over the deep's repose, Till the loud singing winds at last Like trumpet music rose. And proudly, freely on their way The parting vessels bore ; In calm or storm, by rock or bay, To meet — 0, nevermore ! Never to blend in victory's cheer, To aid in hours of woe ; And thus bright spirits mingle here, Such ties are formed below. BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. r oCpo . Sl^iAD it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of succession, I §|§|1 should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the mediocrity *^*y* of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family ; I should have | J left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can be viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and every liberal accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon that provision which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied every deficiency, and symmetrized every disproportion. It would not have been for that successor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of merit in me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient living spring of generous and manly action. Every day he lived, he would have pur- chased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if ten times more he had received. He was made a public creature, and had no enjoyment whatever but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. But a Disposer, whose power we are little able to resist, and whose wis- dom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another manner, and — whatever my querulous weakness might suggest — a far better. The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honors ; I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth ! There, and prostrate there, I most unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, and in some degree submit to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate men. The patience of Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive struggles of 232 ™ E DOVE-COTE. our irritable nature, he submitted himself, and repented in dust and ashes. But even so, I do not find him blamed for reprehending, and with a con- siderable degree of verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbors of his who visited his dung-hill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his misery. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. In- deed, my lord, I greatly deceive myself, if in this hard season I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honor in the world. This is the appetite but of a few. It is a luxury, it is a privilege ; it is an indulgence for those who are at their ease. But we are all of us made to shun disgrace, as we are made to shrink from pain, and poverty, and disease. It is an instinct : and under the direction of reason, instinct is always in the right. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me are gone before me ; they who should have been to me as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation — which ever must subsist in memory — that act of piety which he would have performed to me ; I owe it to him to show, that he was not de- scended, as the Duke of Bedford would have it, from an unworthy parent. MILTON. T. B. MACAULAY. |0 Milton, and to Milton alone, belonged the secrets of the great deep, the beach of sulphur, the ocean of fire; the palaces of the fallen dominations, glimmering through the everlasting shade, the silent wilderness of verdure and fragrance where armed angels kept watch over the sleep of the first lovers, the portico of dia- mond, the sea of jasper, the sapphire pavement empurpled with celestial roses, and the infinite ranks of the Cherubim, blazing with adamant and gold. THE DOVE-COTE. . AUNT EFFIE S RHYMES. TjjjpERY high in the dove-cote The little Turtle Dove Made a pretty nursery To please her little love. She was gentle, she was soft And her large dark eye Often turned to her mate, Who was sitting close by. Coo," said the Turtle Dove, " Coo." said she, THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST. 233 " Oh, I love thee," skid the Turtle Dove, 'Neath the long shady branches "And I love thee." • Of the dark pine tree, How happy were the doves In their little nursery ! The young Turtle Doves Never quarreled in their nest ; JBIte fpBB Pisspg' s» For they dearly loved each other, 1]ll Though they loved their mother best. " Coo," said the Turtle Doves, " Coo," said she, And they played together kindly *& In their little nursery. Is this nursery of yours, Little sister, little brother, , =^^^^^^^^^?^iriifrPSii Like the Turtle Dove's nest ? — p Do you love one another ? Are you kind, are you gentle, i^W As children ought to be ? Then the happiest of nests |" Ifc-'l" Is your own nursery. PATRIOTISM. SIR WALTER SCOTT. t REATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST MRS. E. PRENTISS. flSHg WALK along the crowded streets, and fSk The eager, anxious, troubled faces ; 4im Wondering what this man seeks, what * that heart craves, J In earthly places. Do I want anything that they are want- ing? Is each of them my brother ? Could we hold fellowship, speak heart to heart, Each to the other ? 234 SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. STay, but I know not ! only this I know, And in the awful loneliness of crowds That sometimes merely crossing I am not lonely. Another's path, where life's tumultuous waves Ah, what a life is theirs who live in Christ ; Are ever tossing, How vast the mystery ! Reaching in height to heaven, and in its le, as He passes, whispers in mine ear depth One magic sentence only, The unfathomed sea. ROLL ON THOU SUN. ANONYMOUS. Ma. OLL on, thou Sun, forever roll, |ijl| Thou giant, rushing through the heaven! Creation's wonder, nature's soul, Thy golden wheels by angels driven ! The planets die without thy blaze, And cherubim, with star-dropt wing, Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays, Thou brightest emblem of their king ! Roll, lovely Earth, and still roll on, With ocean's azure beauty bound ; While one sweet star, the pearly moon, Pursues thee through the blue profound ; And angels, with delighted eyes, Behold thy tints of mount and stream, From the high walls of Paradise, Swift wheeling like a glorious dream. Roll, Planets ! on your dazzling road, Forever sweeping round the sun ! What eye beheld when first ye glowed ? What eye shall see your courses done ? Roll in your solemn majesty, Ye deathless splendors of the skies ! High altars, from which angels see The incense of creation rise. Roll, Comets ! and ye million Stars ! Ye that through boundless nature roam ; Ye monarchs on your flame-wing cars ; Tell us in what more glorious dome, — What orbs to which your pomps are dim, What kingdom but by angels trod, — Tell us where swells the eternal hymn Around His throne where dwells your God? SCENE AT NLAGARA FALLS. CHARLES TARSON. T is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter of a mile above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock — caught on the very verge of the Falls. Scarcely willing to believe his SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 235 own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. The terrible news spreads like lightning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surround- ing shores are covered with thousands of spectators. " Who is he ?" " How did he get there ?" are questions every person proposed, but answered by none. No voice is heard above the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals exceed the eloquence of words ; they are irresistible, and something must be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. A large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to Buffalo a car is dispatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel- bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-boat is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. One breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave sends it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to * scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a tear of pity on the scene. The silvery stars shine dimly through the cur- tain of blue. The multitude are gone, and the sufferer is left with his God. Long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss ; he clings to that rock with all the tenacity of life, and as he surveys the horrors of his position, strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He sees his home, his wife and children there ; he sees the home of his child- hood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast ; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers and curses die upon his lips. No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the scene of horror. Soon a shout is heard : he is there — he is still alive ! Just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes to the most favorable point of observation. She had driven from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed the river, night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her, fixed upon the object than she shrieks, " Oh, my husband!" and sinks senseless to the 236 THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. earth." The excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, and something must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer has clung for the last forty- eight hours. He instantly throws himself full length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little bark is watched, as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound coast ? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as the grave. His wife sees it, and is only restrained by force from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has spread his wings over that little bark ; the poor man's strength is almost gone ; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, above Niagara's eternal roar, "Lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of man. THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. JAMES SMITH. ^P^ILD blew the gale in Gibraltar one fll "KM . t . lr^M§k% ^ s a so ^^ er l a y stretched in his ^r- cell ; t And anon, 'mid the darkness, the moon's silver light j On his countenance dreamily fell. Nought could she reveal, but a man true as steel, That oft for his country had bled ; And the glance of his eye might the grim king defy, For despair, fear, and trembling had fled. But in rage he had struck a well-merited blow At a tyrant who held him in scorn ; And his fate soon was sealed, for alas ! honest Joe Was to die on the following morn . Oh ! sad was the thought to a man that had fought 'Mid the ranks of the gallant and brave, — To be shot through the breast at a coward's behest, And laid low in a criminal's grave ! The night call had sounded, when Joe was aroused By a step at the door of his cell ; ' Twas a comrade with whom he had often caroused, That now entered to bid him farewell. " Ah, Tom ! is it ■ you come to bid me adieu ? 'Tis kind my lad ! give me your hand ! Nay — nay — don't get wild, man, and make me a child ! — I'll be soon in a happier land !" LONDON CHURCHES. 237 With hands clasped in silence, Tom mourn- fully said, " Have you any request, Joe, to make ? — Remember by me 'twill be fully obeyed : Can I anything do for your sake ?" ' When it's over, to-morrow !" he said, filled with sorrow, " Send this token to her whom I've sworn All my fond love to share !" — 'twas a lock of his hair, And a prayer-book, all faded and worn. "Here's this watch for my mother; and when you write home," And he dashed a bright tear from his eye— •" Say I died with my heart in old Devon- shire, Tom, Like a man, and a soldier ! — Good bye !" Then the sergeant on guard, at the grating appeared, And poor Tom had to leave the cold cell, By the moon's waning light, with a husky " Good-night ! God be with you, dear comrade ! — fare- well !" Gray dawned the morn in a dull cloudy sky, When the blast of a bugle resounded ; And Joe ever fearless, went forward to die, By the hearts of true heroes surrounded. " Shoulder arms " was the cry as the pris- oner passed by : " To the right about — march !" was the word ; And their pale faces proved how their com- rade was loved, And by all his brave fellows adored. Right onward they marched to the dread field of doom : Sternly silent, they covered the ground ; Then they formed into line amid sadness and gloom, While the prisoner looked calmly around. Then soft on the air rose the accents of prayer, And faint tolled the solemn death-knell, As he stood on the sand, and with uplifted hand, Waved the long and the lasting farewell. " Make ready !" exclaimed an imperious voice :: "Present!" struck a chill on each mind ; Ere the last word was spoke, Joe had cause to rejoice, For " Hold ! — hold !" cried a voice from behind. Then wild was the joy of them all, man and boy, As a horseman cried, "Mercy! — Forbear!" With a thrilling " Hurrah ! a free pardon ! huzzah !" And the muskets rang loud in the air. Soon the comrades were locked in each other's embrace : No more stood the brave soldiers dumb : With a loud cheer they wheeled to the right- about-face, Then away at the sound of the drum ! And a brighter day dawned in sweet Devon's fair land, Where the lovers met never to part ; And he gave her a token — true, warm, and unbroken — The gift of his own gallant heart ! LONDON CHURCHES. EICHAED MONCKTON MILNES. STOOD, one Sunday morning, Before a large church door, The congregation gathered And carriages a score, — From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before. Her hand was on a prayer-book, And held a vinaigrette ; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set, — But above the Cross there glistened A golden Coronet. 238 LONDON CHURCHES. THE OLD CHUECH. For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide, Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide, — There might be good thoughts in her For all her evil pride. But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within On whose wan face was graven Life's hardest discipline, — The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin. The few free-seats were crowded Where she could rest and pray ; With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array, — God's house holds no poor sinners," She sighed, and crept away. CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. 239 CONSTANTIUS AND TEE LION. GEORGE CROLY. PORTAL of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle thrown over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. The lion roared and ramped against the bars of his den at the sight. The guard put a sword and buckler into the hands of the Christian, and he was left alone. He drew the mantle from his face, and bent a slow and firm look around the amphitheatre. His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised a universal shout of admira- tion. He might have stood for an Apollo encountering the Python. His eye at last turned on mine. Could I believe my senses ? Constantius was before me. All my rancor vanished. An hour past I could have struck the be- trayer to the heart, — I could have called on the severest vengeance of man and heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hopelessly doomed, the man whom I had honored- for his noble qualities, whom I had even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of giving way to the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of man; to see that noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn piecemeal before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I would have obtested heaven and earth to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would have thrown myself at the feet of Nero ; but I sat like a man of stone — pale — paralyzed — the beating of my pulse stopped — my eyes alone alive. The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a roar and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword glitter in the air : when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the lar- gest from Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of prodigious power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of his prey, crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim's throat. He was met by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible. A cry of natural horror rang round the amphitheatre. The struggle was now for an instant, life or death. They rolled over each other ; the lion, reared upon his hind feet, with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the man ; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. The sword now swung around the champion's head in bloody circles. They fell again, covered with blood and dust. The hand of Constantius had 240 CONSTANTTUS AND THE LION. grasped the lion's mane, and the furious bounds of the monster could not loose his hold ; but his strength was evidently giving way, — he still struck his terrible blows, but each was weaker than the one before ; till, collecting his whole force for a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion's throat, and sank. The savage beast yelled, and spouting out blood, fled howling around the arena. But the hand still grasped the mane, and the conqueror was dragged whirling through the dust at his heels. A Uni- versal outcry now arose to save him, if he were not already dead. But the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was still too terrible, and all shrank from the hazard. At last the grasp gave way, and the body lay motionless on the ground. What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a struggle at the portal ; a female forced her way through the guards, and flung herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused the lion ; he tore the ground with his talons ; he lashed his streaming sides with his tail ; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs ; but his approaching was no longer with a bound; he dreaded the sword, and came snuffing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still diminishing. The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into indignant clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign. I looked upon the woman's face ; it was Salome ! I sprang upon my feet. I called on her name, — called on her, by every feeling of nature, to fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies of all that loved her. She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, and, calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon me. She still knelt ; one hand supported the head, — with the other she pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the silence of death among the thousands around me. A fire flashed into her eye, — her cheek burned, — she waved her hand with an air of superb sorrow. " I am come to die," she uttered, in a lofty tone. " This bleeding body was my husband, — I have no father. The world contains to me but this slay in my arms. Yet," and she kissed the ashy lips before her, " yet, my A PSALM OF LIFE. 241 Oonstantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied the peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil that you abandoned your quiet home ! — Yes, cruel father, here lies the noble being that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the conflagration, that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how he might serve and protect you. Tears at length fell in floods from her eyes. " But," said she, in a tone of wild power, "he was betrayed, and may the Power whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down just retribution upon the head that dared " — I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of my own child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side, The height stunned me ; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of his white fangs above. An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck, — gore filled his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high in the air with a howl. He dropped ; he was dead. The amphitheatre thundered with acclamations. With Salome clinging to my bosom, Oonstantius raised me from the ground. The roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards ; the portal was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with garlands from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the arena. A PSALM OF LIFE. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. 10 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout andbravt^ Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. 242 TO NIGHT. In the world's broad field of battle, And, departing, leave behind us In the bivouac of Life, Footprints on the sands of time ; — Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Seeing, shall take heart again. Act, — act in the living Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Lives of great men all remind us Still achieving, still pursuing, We can make our lives sublime, Learn to labor and to wait. "BLESSED ABE THEY THAT MOURN." WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. DEEM not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears ; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest, But j oy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, — Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day. And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. TO NIGHT PEllCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. WIFTLY walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where all the long and lone daylight, Thou weav est dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight ! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought ! Blind with thy hair the eyes of day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand — Come, long-sought ! NIGHT. SNOW-FLAKES. 243 When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee ! When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on floor and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering, like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee ! Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me ? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied, No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon, — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! BUEIED TO-DAY. JURIED to-day When the soft green buds are burst- ing out, And up on the south-wind comes a shout Of village boys and girls at play In the mild spring evening gray. Taken away Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, From eyes that drew half their light from him, And put low, low underneath the clay, In his spring, — on this spring day. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. Passes away, All the pride of boy -life begun, All the hope of life yet to run ; Who dares to question when One saith "Nay." Murmur not, — only pray. Enters to-day Another body in churchyard sod, Another soul on the life in God. His Christ was buried — and lives alway : Trust Him, and go your way. SNOW-FLAKES. HARRIET B. M KEEVER. EAUTIFUL snow ! beautiful snow ! Falling so lightly, Daily and nightly, Alike round the dwelling of lofty and low. Horses are prancing, Children are dancing, Stirr'd by the spirit that comes with the snow. Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! Atmosphere chilling, Carriage wheels stilling, Warming the cold earth, and kindling the glow Of Christian pity For the great city, For wretched creatures, who freeze 'mid the snow. Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! Fierce the wind blowing, Deep the drifts strowing, Night gathers round us, how warm the red glow 244 THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. Of the fire so bright, On the cold winter night, As we draw in the curtains, to shut out the In that sweet eventide, Closely we gather, though keen the wind snow. Safely defended, Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow Kindly befriended, Round the dear fireside, Pity the houseless, exposed to the snow. THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. I|HE funeral services were ended ; and as the voice of prayer ceased, §, tears were hastily wiped from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs relieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the mourners prepared to take leave of the corpse. It was an old man who lay there, robed for the grave. More than three-score years had whitened those locks, and furrowed that brow, and made those stiff limbs weary of life's journey, and the more willing to be at rest where weariness is no longer a burden. The aged have few to weep for them when they die. The most of those who would have mourned their loss have gone to the grave before them ; harps that would have sighed sad harmonies are shattered and gone ; and the few that remain are looking cradleward, rather than to life's closing goal ; are bound to and living in the generation rising, more than in the generation departing. Youth and beauty have many admirers while living, — have many mourners when dying, — and many tearful ones bend over their coffined clay, many sad hearts follow in their funeral train ! but age has few admirers, few mourners. This was an old man, and the circle of mourners was small: two children, who had themselves passed the middle of life, and who had children of their own to care for and be cared for by them. Beside these, and a few friends who had seen and visited him while he was sick, and possibly had known him for a few years, there were none others to shed a tear, except his old wife ; and of this small company, the old wife seemed to be the only heart-mourner. It is respectful for his friends to be sad a few moments, till the service is performed and the hearse is out of sight. It is very proper and suitable for children, who have out- grown the fervency and affection of youth, to shed tears when an aged parent says farewell, and lies down to quiet slumber. Some regrets, some recollection of the past, some transitory griefs, and the pangs are over. THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. 245 The old wife arose with difficulty from her seat, and went to the coffin to look her last look — to take her last farewell. Through the fast falling tears she gazed long and fondly down into the pale, unconscious face. What did she see there ? Others saw nothing but the rigid features of the dead; she saw more. In every wrinkle of that brow she read the history of years ; from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, in joy and sorrow, in sickness and health, it was all there ; when those chil- dren, who had not quite outgrown the sympathies of childhood, were infants lying on her bosom, and every year since then — there it was. To others those dull, mute monitors were unintelligible ; to her they were the alphabet of the heart, familiar as household words. Then the future : " What will become of me ? What shall I do now?" She did not say so, but she felt it. The prospect of the old wife is clouded ; the home circle is broken, never to be reunited ; the visions of the hearth- stone are scattered forever. Up to that hour there was a home to which the heart always turned with fondness. That magic is now sundered, the key-stone of that sacred arch has fallen, and home is nowhere this side of heaven ! Shall she gather up the scattered fragments of the broken arch, make them her temple and her shrine, sit down in her chill solitude beside its expiring fires, and die ? What shall she do now ? They gently crowded her away from the dead, and the undertaker came forward, with the coffin-lid in his hand. It is all right and proper, of course, it must be done ; but to the heart-mourner it brings a kind of shudder, a thrill of agony. The undertaker stood for a moment, with a decent pro- priety, not wishing to manifest rude haste, but evidently desirous of being as expeditious as possible. Just as he was about to close the coffin, the old wife turned back, and stooping down, imprinted one long, last kiss upon the cold lips of her dead husband, then staggered to her seat, buried her face in her hands, and the closing coffin hid him from her sight forever ! That kiss ! fond token of affection, and of sorrow, and memory, and farewell ! I have seen many kiss their dead, many such seals of love upon clay-cold lips, but never did I see one so purely sad, so simply heart- touching and hopeless as that. Or, if it had hope, it was that which looks beyond coffins, and charnel-houses, and damp, dark tombs, to the joys of the home above. You would kiss the cold cheek of infancy ; there is poetry ; it is beauty hushed ; there is romance there, for the faded flower is still beauti- ful. In childhood the heart yields to the stroke of sorrow, but recoils again with elastic faith, buoyant with hope ; but here was no beauty, no poetry, no romance. The heart of the old wife was like the weary swimmer, whose strength 246 MAIDENHOOD. has often raised him above the stormy waves, but now, exhausted, sinks amid the surges. The temple of her earthly hopes had fallen, and what was there left for her but to sit down in despondency, among its lonely ruins, and weep and die ! or, in the spirit of a better hope, await the dawning of another day, when a Hand divine shall gather its sacred dust, and rebuild for immortality its broken walls ! MAIDENHOOD. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. AIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies m Like the dusk in evening skies ! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run ! Standing with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, "Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream ! Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 0, thou child of many prayers ! Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! Care and age come unawares ! Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. THE BROOK SIDE. 247 THE BROOK SIDE. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. WANDERED by the brook side, I wandered by the mill ; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still • There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not — no he came not ; The night came on alone ; The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne : The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree ; I watched the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind ; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind : It drew me nearer — nearer, We did not speak a word ; For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. 248 ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. ROBERT SOUTHEY. OW does the water Come down at Lodore ? ." From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell ; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills ; Through moss and through brake It runs and it creeps, For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling ; Now smoking and frothing, Its tumult and wrath in, Till, in this rapid race, On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. Zeph Higgins was quarrelsome, exacting, and stubborn to such a degree that he was repulsive to the village people. His first real trouble came in the death of his loving, patient wife — whose last request was that he would put away all hard feelings, and make up his old feud with the church. FKOM POGANUC PEOPLE. OTHING- could be rougher and more rustic than the old school- house, — its walls hung with cobwebs ; its rude slab benches and desks hacked by many a schooolboy's knife ; the plain, ink-stained pine table before the minister, with its two tallow candles, whose ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 249 dim rays scarcely gave light enough to read the hymns. There was nothing outward to express the real greatness of what was there in reality. From the moment the Doctor entered he was conscious of a present Power. There was a hush, a stillness, and the words of his prayer seemed to go out into an atmosphere thrilling with emotion, and when he rose to speak he saw the countenances of his parishioners with that change upon them which comes from the waking up of the soul to higher things. Hard, weather-beaten faces were enkindled and eager ; every eye was fixed upon him ; every word he spoke seemed to excite a responsive emotion. The Doctor read from the Old Testament the story of Achan. He told how the host of the Lord had turned back because there was one in the camp who had secreted in his tent an accursed thing. He asked, " can it be now and here, among us who profess to be Christians, that we are secreting in our hearts some accursed thing that prevents the good Spirit of the Lord from working among us ? Is it our hard feeling against a brother ? Is there anything that we know to be wrong that we refuse to make right — anything that we know belongs to God that we are withholding ? If we Christians lived as high as we ought, if we lived up to our professions, would there be any sinners unconverted ? Let us ' beware how we stand in the way. If the salt have lost its savor where- with shall it be salted ? Oh, my brethren, let us not hinder the work of God. I look around on this circle and I miss the face of a sister who was always here to help us with her prayers ; now she is with the general assembly and church of the first-born, whose names are written in heaven, with the spirits of the just made perfect. But her soul will rejoice with the angels of God if she looks down and sees us all coming up to where we ought to be. God grant that her prayers may be fulfilled in us. Let us examine ourselves, brethren; let us cast out the stumbling-block, that the way of the Lord may be prepared." The words, simple in themselves, became powerful by the atmosphere of deep feeling into which they were uttered ; there were those solemn pauses, that breathless stillness, those repressed breathings, that magnetic sympathy that unites souls under the power of one overshadowing con- viction. When the Doctor sat down, suddenly there was a slight movement, and from a dark back seat rose the gaunt form of Zeph Higgins. He was deathly pale, and his form trembled with emotion. Every eye was fixed upon him, and people drew in their breath, with involuntary surprise and suspense. 250 ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. " Wal, I must speak," he said. " Tm a stumbling-block, I've allers been one. I hain't never ben a Christian, that's jest the truth on't. I never hed oughter 'a'ben in the church. I've ben all wrong — wrong — ■ weong ! I knew I was wrong, but I wouldn't give up. It's ben jest my awful will. I've set up my will agin Grod Almighty. I've set it agin my neighbors — 'agin the minister and agin the church. And now the Lord's come out agin me ; He's struck me down. I know He's got a right — He can do what He pleases — but I ain't resigned — not a grain. I submit 'cause I can't help myself; but my heart's hard and wicked. I expect my day of grace is over. , I ain't a Christian, and I can't be, and I shall go to hell at last, and sarve me right !" And Zeph sat down, grim and stony, and the neighbors looked one on another in a sort of consternation. There was a terrible earnestness in those words that seemed to appall every one and prevent any from uttering the ordinary commonplaces of religious exhortation. For a few moments the circle was silent as the grave, when Dr. Cushing said, " Brethren, let us pray ;" and in his prayer he seemed to rise above earth and draw his whole flock, with all their sins, and needs, and wants, into the presence- chamber of heaven. He prayed that the light of heaven might shine into the darkened spirit of their brother ; that he might give himself up utterly to the will of God ; that we might all do it, that we might become as little children in the kingdom of heaven. With the wise tact which distinguished his ministry he closed the meeting immediately after the prayer with one or two serious words of exhortation. He feared lest what had been gained in impression might be talked away did he hold the meeting open to the well-meant, sincere, but uninstructed efforts of the brethren to meet a case like that which had been laid open before them. After the service was over and the throng slowly dispersed, Zeph remained in his place, rigid and still. One or two approached to speak to him ; there was in fact a tide of genuine sympathy and brotherly feeling that longed to express itself. He might have been caught up in this powerful current and borne into a haven of peace, had he been one to trust himself to the help of others ; but he looked neither to the right nor to the left ; his eyes were fixed on the floor ; his brown, bony hands held his old straw hat in a crushing grasp ; his whole attitude and aspect were repelling and stern to such a degree that none dared address him. The crowd slowly passed on and out. Zeph sat alone, as he thought; but the minister, his wife, and little Dolly had remained at the upper end of the room. Suddenly, as if sent by an irresistible impulse, Dolly RESIGNATION. 251 stepped rapidly down the room and with eager gaze laid her pretty little timid hand upon his shoulder, crying, in a voice tremulous at once with fear and with intensity, " 0, why do you say that you cannot be a Christian ? Don't you know that Christ loves you ?" Christ loves you ! The words thrilled through his soul with a strange, new power; he opened his eyes and looked astonished into the little earnest, pleading face. " Christ loves you," she repeated; "oh, do believe it!" " Loves me /" he said, slowly. " Why should He ?" " But He does ; He loves us all. He died for us. He died for you. Oh, believe it. He'll help you ; He'll make you feel right. Only trust Him. Please say you will !" Zeph looked at the little face earnestly, in a softened, wondering way. A tear slowly stole down his hard cheek. " Thank'e, dear child," he said. "You will believe it ?" ' I'll try." " You will trust Him ?" Zeph paused a moment, then rose up with a new and different expres- sion in his face, and said, in a subdued and earnest voice, " I will!' "Amen!" said the Doctor, who stood listening; and he silently grasped the old man's hand. RESIGNATION. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. IHERE is no flock, however watched and tended, 42g§^tj But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er de- ll fended, T But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted ! Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death ! What seems so is tran- sition : This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, • Whose portal we call Death. She is nlot dead,-^the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. 252 ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollu- tion, She lives whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though un- spoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her ; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child : But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though, at times, impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing The grief that must have way. ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. ALFRED TENNYSON. UT Enoch yearned to see her face again ; " If I might look on her sweet face So again And know that she is happy the thought Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below : There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon- blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strike Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward ; but behind, With one small gate that opened on the waste, Flourished a little garden square and walled : And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yew-tree, and all around it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it : But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence That which he better might have shunned, if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnished board Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ; And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms, Caught at and ever missed it, and they And on the left hand of the hearth he saw THE FISHERS COTTAGE. 253 The mother glancing often at her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord oi his rights and of his children's love, — ■ Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed. THE FISHERS COTTAGE. HENRY HEINE, translated by CHARLES G. LELAND. E sat by the fisher's cottage, And looked at the stormy tide W& The evening mist came rising, And floating far and wide. One by one in the lighthouse The lamps shone out on high ; And far on the dim horizon A ship went sailing by. We spoke of storm and shipwreck, — Of sailors, and how they live ; Of journeys 'twixt sky and water, And the sorrows and joys they givo. We spoke of distant countries, In regions strange and fair, And of the wondrous beings And curious customs there : 254 MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, Which are launched in the twilight hour ; And the dark and silent Brahmins, Who worship the lotos flower. Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland, — Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, — Who crouch round their oil fires, cooking, And chatter and scream and bawl. And the maidens earnestly listened, Till at last we spoke no more ; The ship like a shadow had vanished, And darkness fell deep on the shore. SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE. Suggested by the sudden death of the Rev. Thomas Taylor, who had preached the previous evening. JAMES MONTGOMERY. ERVANT of God, well done; Rest from thy loved employ ; The battle fought, the victory won, Enter thy master's joy." The voice at midnight came ; He started up to hear, A mortal arrow pierced his frame ; He fell, — but felt no fear. Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him in the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield : His sword was in his hand, Still warm with recent fight ; Ready that moment, at command, Through rock and steel to smite. At midnight came the cry, " To meet thy God prepare ! " He woke, — and caught the Captain's eye Then strong in faith and prayer, His spirit, with a bound, Burst its encumbering clay ; His tent at sunrise, on the ground, A darkened ruin lay. The pains of death are past, Labor and sorrow cease ; And life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ ! well done ; Praise be thy new employ ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour's joy. MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. F. BRET HARTE. »Y sister'll be down in a minute, and « says you're to wait, if you please; *^j% And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise her never to tease, Nor speak till you spoke to me first. I But that's nonsense ; for how would J you know Vfhat she told me to say if I didn't? Don't you really and truly think so ? " And then you'd feel strange here alone. And you wouldn't know just where to sit; For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit : We keep it to match with the sofa ; but Jack says it would be like you To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 255 ° Suppose you try ! I won't tell. You're afraid to ! Oh ! you're afraid they would think it mean ! Well, then, there's the album : that's pretty if you're sure that your fingers are clean. For sister says sometimes I daub it ; but she only says that when she's cross. There's her picture. You know it ? It's like her ; but she ain't good-looking, of course. "This is me." It's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me, you'd never have thought That once I was little as that ? It's the only one that could be bought ; For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I sat, — That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money for that. " What ? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this. There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front curls to friz. But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me ! Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do ! But don't come like Tom Lee,— " Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness ! he used to be here day and night, Till the folks thought he'd be her husband ; and Jack says that gave him a fright. You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they say. Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you ? and how poor are they ? " Ain't you glad that you met me ? Well, I am ; for I know now your hair isn't red ; But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said. But there I must go : sister's coming ! But I wish I could wait, just to see If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the wav that she used to kiss Lee." HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. . <^po . HOE ACE SMITH. AY-STARS ! that ope your eyes at morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation ; And dewdrops on her lovely altars sprinkle As a libation. Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, Pour from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high. Ys bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty The floor of nature's temple tesselate — W nat numerous lessons of instructive duty Your forms create ! 'Neath cloister'd bough each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to those domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane most catholic and solemn, Which God hath plann'd ; To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ; Its choir, the wind and waves ; its organ, thunder ; Its dome, the skv. QK 56 DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. There, as in solitude and shade, I wander Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God. Not useless are jfe, flowers, though made for pleasure, Blooming o'er hill and dale, by day and night; On every side your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight ! Your voiceless lips, flowers! are living preachers ; Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book ; Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, In loneliest nook. Floral apostles, that with dewy splendor Blush without sin, and weep without a crime ! Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er sur- render Your lore divine ! " Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, Array'd," the lilies cry " in robes like ours ; How vain your glory — Oh ! how transitory- Are human flowers !" In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, With which thou paintest nature's wide- spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all ! Posthumous glories — angel-like collection, Upraised from seed and bulb interr'd in. earth ; Ye are to me a type of resurrection And second birth ! Ephemeral sages — what instructors hoary To such a world of thought could furnish- scope ? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Were I, God ! in churchless lands remaining, Far from the voice of teachers and divines, My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining Priests, sermons, shrinest DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. CHARLES DICKENS. jY little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner f^, chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips, — " You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will never do that — never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now." Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, — followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made no noise, but there were sobs from among the group and sounds of grief and mourning. DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 257 For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. " When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." Those were her words. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mis- tress was mute and motionless forever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born ; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face ; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death. The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now ; and as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast, — the garden she had tended, — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday — could know her no more. "It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and give his tears free vent, " it is not on earth that heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed 17 258 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. in solemn terms above this bed ' could call her back to life, which of us would utter it ?" FATE. F. BEET HAUTE. |HE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, | The spray of the tempest is white in air, The winds are out with the waves at play — And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb : And the lion's whelps are abroad at play — And I shall not join the ckase to-day. But the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was built upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. GEORGE ARNOLD. |WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, ■ Tall and slender, and sallow and dry; Hi6 form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow, But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye ; And he sang every night, as he went to bed, " Let us be happy, down here below ; The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He taught his scholars the rule of three, Writing, and reading, and history, too ; He took the little ones upon his knee, For a kind old heart in his breast had he, And the wants of the littlest child he knew : " Learn while you're young," he often said; " There is much to enjoy, down here below ; Life for the living, and rest for the dead !" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, Speaking only in gentlest tones ; The rod was hardly known in his school — Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, And too hard work for his poor old bones ; Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said : " We should make life pleasant, down here below, The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, With roses and woodbine over the door ; His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, But a spirit of comfort there held reign, And made him forget he was old and poor ; " I need so little," he often said ; " And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. But the pleasantest times that he Uad, of all, Were the sociable hours he used to pass, With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall Making an unceremonious call, Over a pipe and a friendly glass : This was the finest pleasure, he said, Of the many he tasted here below , " Who has no cronies, had better be dead !" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Melted all over in sunshiny smiles; THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 259 He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles. " I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, '* I have lingered a long while, here below ; Leaving his tenderest kisses there, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown ; And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 'Twas a glorious world, down here below; " He took the little ones upon his knee." But my heart is fresh, if my youth is tied !" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, " Why wait for happiness till we are dead?' Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He sat at his door, one midsummer night, After the sun had sunk in the west, And the lingering beams of golden light Made his kindly old face look warm and bright 260 THE COMET. tht- While the odorous "Rest!" Gently, gently, he bowed his head d whispered, There were angels waiting for him, I know ; He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. THE COMET. THOMAS HOOD. ||8€||MONG professors of astronomy, ^ftj^o Adepts in the celestial economy, 45p'^» The name of Hersch el's very often i cited ; I" And justly so, for he is hand in glove 5 With every bright intelligence above, Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, Watching the stars, upon the house's top ; That once upon a time he got benighted. In his observatory thus coquetting, With Venus or with Juno gone astray, All sublunary matters quite forgetting In his flirtations with the winking stars, Acting the spy, it might be, upon Mars, — A new Andre ; Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping At Dian sleeping ; Or ogling through his glass Some heavenly lass, Tripping with pails along the Milky way ; Or looking at that wain of Charles, the Martyr's. Thus was he sitting, watchman of the sky, When lo ! a something with a tail of flame Made him exclaim, " My stars !" — he always puts that stress on my, — " My stars and garters !" " A comet, sure as I'm alive ! A noble one as I should wish to view ; It can't be Halley's though, that is not due Till eighteen thirty-five. Magnificent ! How fine his fiery trail ! Zounds ! 'tis a pity, though, he comes unsought, Unasked, unreckoned, — in no human thought ; He ought — he ought — he ought To have been caught With scientific salt upon his tail. " I looked no more for it, I do declare, Than the Great Bear ! As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead, It really entered in my head No more than Berenice's hair !" Thus musing, heaven's grand inquisitor Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor, Till John, the serving man, came to the upper Regions, with "Please your honor, come to supper." " Supper ! good John, to-night I shall not sup, Except on that phenomenon — look up." " Not sup !" cried John, thinking with con- sternation That supping on a star must be sfor-vation, Or even to batten On ignesfatui would never fatten. His visage seemed to say, " that very odd is," But still his master the same tune ran on, " I can't come down ; go to the parlor, John, And say I'm supping with the heavenly bodies." " The heavenly bodies !" echoed John, "ahem!" His mind still full of famishing alarms, " Zounds ! if your honor sups with them, In helping, somebody must make long arms." He thought his master's stomach was in danger, But still in the same tone replied the knight, " Go down, John, go, I have no appetite; Say I'm engaged with a celestial stranger." Quoth John, not much aufait in such affairs, "Wouldn't the stranger take a bit down stairs ?" "No," said the master, smiling, and no wonder, At such a blunder, TWENTY YEARS AGO. 261 " The stranger is not quite the thing you " A what ? A rocket, John ! Far from it ! think ; What you behold, John, is a comet ; He wants no meat or drink ; One of those most eccentric things And one may doubt quite reasonably whether That in all ages He has a mouth, Have puzzled sages Seeing his head and tail are joined together. And frightened kings ; Behold him ! there he is, John, in the south." With fear of change, that flaming meteor, John looked up with his portentous eyes, John, Each rolling like a marble in its socket; Perplexes sovereigns throughout its range." At last the fiery tadpole spies, " Do he ?" cried John ; And, full of Vauxhall reminiscence, cries, " Well, let him flare on, " A rare good rocket !" /haven't got no sovereigns to change !" TWENTY YEARS AGO. 'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the school-house play-ground, that sheltered you and me ; X But none were left to greet me, Tom ; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom ; bare-footed boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place, some twenty years ago. The old school-house is altered now ; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our pen- knives once defaced ; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro ; Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree ; I have forgot the name just now, — you ve played the same with me, On that same spot ; 'twas played with knive3, by throwing so and so ; The loser had a task to do, — there, twenty years ago. The river's running just as still ; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom ; the stream appears less wide ; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach, And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since twenty years ago. 'Twasby that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same ; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes ; 262 THE SEA. I thought of her I loved so well, those early- broken ties; I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the church -yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea ; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago, HIGHLAND MARY. EOBEET BUENS. 'E banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfaulds her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel 0' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, 0, fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary ! pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. THE SEA. FEOM BYEON'S "CHILDE HAEOLD." SfflffiHERE is a pleasure in the pathless r^A^ woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes £ By the deep sea, and music in its roar: «1 I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control THE SEA. 263 Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery- They melt into thy yeast of waves, which plain mar The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of remain Trafalgar. A shadow of man's ravage save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, Thy shores are empires, changed in all He sinks into thy depths with bubbling save thee ; groan, Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are Without a grave, Unknelled, uncoffined, and they? unknown. Thy waters washed them power while they were free, His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy And many a tyrant since ; their shores fields obey Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay And shake him from thee ; the vile strength Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou ; he wields Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, play, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth ■ — there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure " brow ; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests : in all time Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and . sublime, The image of Eternity, — the throne Of the Invisible ! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 264 IMAGES. Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathom- less, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane, — as I do here. IMAGES. T. B. MACAULAY. OGICIANS may reason about abstractions. But the great mass of _ J men must have images. The strong tendency of the multitude in rail ages and nations to idolatry can be explained on no other prin- ciple. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, wor- shipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having something more definite to adore produced, in a few centuries, the innumerable crowd of gods and goddesses. In like manner, the ancient Persians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. Yet even these trans- ferred to the sun the worship which, in speculation, they considered due only to the Supreme Mind. The history of the Jews is the record of a continued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible sanctions, and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible and tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which Christianity spread over the world, while Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more powerfully than this feeling. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so noble a conception; but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity, embodied in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces of the Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in the dust. Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Paganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The GOIN' HOME TO-DAY. 265 Virgin Mother and Cecilia succeeded to Venus and the muses. The fasci- nation of sex and loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity ; and the homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Eeformers have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with more than apparent and partial success. The men who demolished the images in cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were enshrined in their minds. It would not be difficult to show that in politics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can exercise a strong public feeling. The multitude is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most insignificant name than for the most important principle. GOUT HOME TO-BAY. WILL CAKLETON. Y busiijess on the jury's done — the quibblin' all is through — W I've watched the lawyers, right and left, and give my verdict true; I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in ; And if I do not know myself, they'll get me there ag'in. now the court's adjourned for good, and I have got my pay ; loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm goin' home to-day. I've somehow felt uneasy, like, since first day I come down ; It is an awkward game to play the gentle- man in town ; And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine, on Sunday rightly sets, But when I wear the stufi a week, it some- how galls and frets. I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper- salt and gray — I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home to-day. I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one — As well a3 any woman could — to see that things were done : For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't set her foot out doors, She's very careful, when I'm gone, to 'tend to all the chores. But nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay, And I will put things into shape, when I get home to-day. The mornin' that I come away, we had a little bout; I coolly took my hat and left, before the show was out. For what I said was naught whereat she ought to take offense ; And she was always quick at words, and ready to commence. But then, she's first one to give up when she has had her say ; And she will meet me with a kiss, when I go home to-day. My little boy — I'll give 'em leave to match him, if they can ; It's fun to see him strut about, and try to be a man ! 266 THE NATION'S DEAD. The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever want to see ! And then they laugh because I think the child resembles me. The little rogue ! he goes for me like robbers for their prey ; He'll turn my pockets inside out, when I get home to-day. My little girl — I can't contrive how it should happen thus — That God could pick that sweet bouquet, and fling it down to us ! My wife, she says that han'some face will some day make a stir ; And then I laugh, because she thinks the child resembles her. She'll meet me half-way down the hill, and kiss me, anyway ; And light my heart up with her smiles, when I go home to-day ! If there's a heaven upon the earth, a fellow knows it when He's been away from home a week, and then gets back again. If there's a heaven above the earth, there often, I'll be bound, Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and hugs 'em all around. But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it as it may, My heaven is just ahead of me — I'm goin' home to-day. MY CREED. ALICE CABY. hold that Christian grace abounds Where charity is seen ; that when We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds Of love to men. I hold all else, named piety, A selfish scheme, a vain pretence ; Where centre is not, can there be Circumference ? This I moreover hold, and dare Affirm where'er my rhyme may go, — Whatever things be sweet or fair, Love makes them so. Whether it be the lullabies That charm to rest the nursing bird, Or that sweet confidence of sighs And blushes, made without a word. Whether the dazzling and the flush Of softly sumptuous garden bowers, Or by some cabin door, a bush Of ragged flowers. 'Tis not the wide phylactery, Nor stubborn fasts, nor stated prayers, That makes us saints ; we judge the tree By what it bears. And when a man can live apart From works, on theologic trust, I know the blood about his heart Is dry as dust. , Csffip , THE NATION'S DEAD. 50UR hundred thousand men The brave — the good — the true, In tangled wood, in mountain glen, On battle plain, in prison pen, Lie dead for me and you ! Four hundred thousand of the brave Have made our ransomed soil their grave, For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you I UNDER THE VIOLETS. 267 In many a fevered swamp, By many a black bayou, In many a cold and frozen camp, The weary sentinel ceased his tramp, And died for me and you ! From Western plain to ocean tide Are stretched the graves of those who died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! On many a bloody plain Their ready swords they drew, And poured their life-blood, like the rain, A home — a heritage to gain, To gain for me and you ! Our brothers mustered by our side ; They marched, they fought, and bravely died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! Up many a fortress wall They charged — those boys in blue — 'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball ; The bravest were the first to fall ! To fall for me and you ! These noble men — the nation's pride — Four hundred thousand men have died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you 1 In treason's prison-hold Their martyr spirits grew To stature like the saints of old, While amid agonies untold, They starved for me and you ! The good, the patient, and the tried, Four hundred thousand men have died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you I A debt we ne'er can pay To them is justly due, And to the nation's latest day Our children's children still shall say, " They died for me and you ! " Four hundred thousand of the brave Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave, For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! UNDER THE VIOLETS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. oU3o ER hands are cold No more her her face is white ; come and go ; 3p££2? Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — ■ej Fold the white vesture, snow on •£ snow, J And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes; A. slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun, The acorns and the chestnuts fall, Doubt not that she will heed them all. For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel-voice of spring, That trills beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry. When, turning round their dial -track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pasa Her little mourners clad in black, The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 268 BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise ! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below ? Say only this : A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow. THE AMERICAN BOY. CAROLINE GILMAN. OOK up, my young American ! Stand firmly on the earth, Where noble deeds and mental power Give titles over birth. A hallow'd land thou claim'st my boy, By early struggles bought, Heaped up with noble memories, And wide, ay, wide as thought! What though we boast no ancient towers Where " ivied " streamers twine, The laurel lives upon our soil, The laurel, boy, is thine. And though on " Cressy's distant field," Thy gaze may not be cast, While through long centuries of blood Bise spectres of the past, — The future wakes thy dr earnings high, And thou a note mayst claim — Aspirings which in after times Shall swell the trump of fame. And when thou'rt told of knighthood's shield, And English battles won, Look up, my boy, and breathe one word — The name of Washington. BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. jH||EYOND the smiling and the weeping I shall be soon ; !^2§Ji Beyond the waking and the sleeping, Beyond the sowing and the reaping, HORATIUS BONAR. I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home t Sweet home I Lord, tarry not, hut come. CALL ME NOT DEAD. 269 Beyond the blooming and the fading I shall be soon ; Beyond the shining and the shading, Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the rising and the setting I shall be soon Beyond the calming and the fretting, Beyond remembering and forgetting, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the gathering and the strowing I shall be soon ; Beyond the' ebbing and the flowing, Beyond the coming and the going, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the parting and the meeting I shall be soon ; Beyond the farewell and the greeting, Beyond the pulse's fever beating, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the frost chain and the fever I shall be soon ; Beyond the rock waste and the river, Beyond the ever and the never, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Sweet home! Lord, tarry not, but come. CALL ME NOT BEAD, Translated from the Persian of the 12th Century by Edwin Arnold. E who dies at Azim sends This to comfort all his friends. — Faithful friend, it lies, I know, Pale and white, and cold as snow ; And ye say, " Abdallah's dead " — Weeping at the feet and head. I can see your falling tears ; I can see your sighs and prayers ; Yet I smile and whisper this : I am not the thing you miss ! Cease your tears and let it lie ; It was mine, it is not I. Sweet friends, what the women lave For the last sleep of the grave Is a hut which I am quitting, Is a garment no more fitting ; Is a cage from which, at last Like a bird my soul has passed. Love the inmate, not the room ; The wearer, not the garb — the plume Of the eagle, not the bars That kept him from the splendid stars. Loving friends, rise and dry Straightway every weeping eye ! What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a single tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell— one Out of which the pearl is gone. The shell is broken, it lies there ; The pearl, the all, the soul is here. 'Tis an earthen jar whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid The treasure of his treasury — A mind that loved him, let it lie, Let the shards be earth once more, Since the gold is in his store. Allah, glorious! Allah, good ! Now thy world is understood — Now the long, long wonder ends ; Yet we weep, my foolish friends, While the man whom you call dead In unbroken bliss instead Lives and loves you — lost, 'tis true, In the light that shines for you ; 270 WHAT IS A MINORITY? But in the light you cannot see, In undisturbed felicity — In a perfect paradise, And a life that never dies. farewell, friends, yet not farewell, Where I go, you too shall dwell, I am gone before your face — A moment's worth, a little space. When you come where I have stept, Ye will wonder why ye wept ; Ye will know, by true love taught, That here is all and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain — Sunshine still must follow rain ; Only not at death, — for death, Now I know, is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is, of all life, centre. Be ye certain all seems love, Viewed from Allah's throne above ; Be ye stout of heart, and come Bravely onward to your home ! La Allah ilia Allah. Yea ! Thou love divine ! Thou love alway { He that died at Azim gave This to those who made his grave. WHA TISA MINORITY'. JOHN B. GOUGH. 'HAT is a minority ? The chosen heroes of this earth have been in a minority. There is not a social, political, or religious privi- lege that you enjoy to-day that was not bought for you by the blood and tears and patient suffering of the minority, It is the minority that have vindicated humanity in every struggle. It is a minority that have stood in the van of every moral conflict, and achieved all that is noble in the history of the world. You will find that each generation has been always busy in gathering up the scattered ashes of the martyred heroes of the past, to deposit them in the golden urn of a nation's history. Look at Scotland, where they are erecting monuments — to whom ? — to the Covenanters. Ah, they were in a minority. Read their history, if you can, without the blood tingling to the tips of your fingers. These were in the minority, that, through blood, and tears, and bootings and scourgings — dying the waters with their blood, and staining the heather with their gore — fought the glorious battle of religious free- dom. Minority ! if a man stand up for the right, though the right be on the scaffold, while the wrong sits in the seat of government; if he stand for the right, though he eat, with the right and truth, a wretched crust ; if he walk with obloquy and scorn in the by-lanes and streets, while the falsehood and wrong ruffle it in silken attire, let him remember that wherever the right and truth are there are always Troops of beautiful, tall angels THE LAST STATION. 271 gathered round him, and God Himself stands within the dim future, and keeps watch over His own ! If a man stands for the right and the truth, though every man's finger be pointed at him, though every woman's lip be curled at him in scorn, he stands in a majority ; for God and good angels are with him, and greater are they that are for him, than all they that be against him. THE LAST STATION. ^E had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys on the road dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as danger- ous ; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered, and he did not recognize them. It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard-engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes, and shouted : — "Kal-a-ma-zoo!" One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes, and was quiet for a time. Then the wind whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he lifted his hand, and cried out : — " Jack-son ! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change cars !" The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes, and called out : — "Ann Arbor!" He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and conductor. One of the yard engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the 272 THE BURIED FLOWER. glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called out :-— " Yp-silanti ! Change cars here for the Eel Eiver Eoad I" " He is coming in fast," whispered one of the men. " And the end of his ' run ' will be the end of his life," said a second. The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head, and faintly said : — " Grand Trunk Junction ! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change cars!" He was so quiet after that that all the men gathered around the bed, believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, and whispered : — "De— " Not " Detroit," but Death ! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his lips. And the headlight on deaths engine shone full in his face, and covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring. THE BURIED FLO WEE. W. E. AYTOUN. jN the silence of my chamber, "When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean Mutters in its charmed sleep, Oft I hear the angel voices That have thrilled me long ago, — Voices of my lost companions, Lying deep beneath the snow. Where are now the flowers we tended? Withered, broken, branch and stem ; Where are now the hopes we cherished ? Scattered to the winds with them. For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! Nursed in hope and reared in love, Looking fondly ever upward To the clear blue heaven above ; Smiling on the sun that cheered us, Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again. 0, 'tis sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in, All the words we spoke in truth Severed, — were it severed only By an idle thought of strife, Such as time may knit together ; Not the broken chord of life \ I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 273 0, I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain All I loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again. Brighter, fairer far than living, With no trace of woe or pain, Robed in everlasting beauty, Shall I see thee once again, By the light that never fadeth, Underneath eternal skies, When the dawn of resurrection Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. UNION AND LIBERTY. 0. W. HOLMES. ;LAG of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through their battle-fields' thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illumined in story, Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame. Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry — Union and Liberty ! One Evermore ! Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar, let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail thee Bearing the standard of Liberty's van ? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, Striving with men for the birthright of man J Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw Then with the arms to thy million united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! Lord of the universe ! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun ! Thou hast united us, who shall divide us ? Keep us, keep us the Many in One ! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry — Union and Liberty ! One Evermore ! / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. THOMAS HOOD. REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. 18 He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the night rLad Dorne my breath away ! 274 ROCK ME TO SLEEP. I remember, I remember My spirit flew in feathers then, The roses, red and white, That is so heavy now, The violets, and the lily-cups, — Those flowers made of light ! And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day, — The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, Where I was used to swing, But now 'tis little joy And thought the air must rush as fresh To know I'm farther off from heaven. To swallows on the wing ; Than when I was a boy. ROCK ME TO SLEEP. ELIZABETH AKEES. fipiACKWARD, turn backward, Time, ^|ff|| in your flight, £W Make me a child again just for to- night ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Backwa"^ flow backward, ob, tide of the years .' I am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — Take them, and give me my childhood again ! I have grown weary of dust and decay, — Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of sowing for others to reap : — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 1 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, Mother, my heart calls for you ! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again. THE GAMIN. 275 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone ; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song ; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face^ Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep I THE GAMIN. VICTOR HUGO. j|||ABIS has a child ; the forest has a bird. The bird is called a spar- row ; the child is called a gamin. His origin is from the rabble. The most terrible embodiment of the rabble is the barricade, and the most terrible of barricades was that of Faubourg St. Antoine. \ The street was deserted as far as could be seen. Every door and J window was closed; in the background rose a wall built of paving stones, making the street a cul-de-sac. Nobody could be seen ; nothing could be heard; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre! From time to time, if anybody ventured to cross the street, the sharp, low whistling of a bullet was heard, and the passer fell dead or wounded. For the space of two days this barricade had resisted the troops of Paris, and now its ammunition was gone. During a lull in the firing, a gamin, named Gavroche, took a basket, went out into the street by an opening, and began to gather up the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guards who had been killed in front of the barricade. By successive advances he reached a point where the fog from the firing became transparent, so that the sharp- shooters of the line, drawn up and on the alert, suddenly discovered some- thing moving in the smoke. Just as Gavroche was relieving a Grenadier of his cartridges a ball struck the body. " They are killing my dead for me," said the gamin. A second ball splintered the pavement behind him. -276 I LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. A third upset his basket. Gavroche rose up straight on his feet, his hair in the wind, his hands upon his hips, his eyes fixed upon the National Guard, who were firing ; and he sang : " They are ugly at Naterre — 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; And beasts at Palaeseau — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridges which had fallen out, without losing a single one ; and advancing toward the fusilade, began to empty another cartridge-box. Then a fourth ball just missed him again ; Gavroche sang : "I am only a scribe, 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; My life one of woe — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche fired at, mocked the firing and answered each discharge with a couplet. The National Guards laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up ; hid himself in a door-way, then sprang out; escaped, returned. The insurgents, breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes ; the barricade was trembling, he was singing. It was not a child, it was not a man ; it was ^a strange fairy gamin, playing hide and seek with Death. Every time the face of the grim spectre approached, the gamin snapped his fingers. One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than ~the others, reached the will-o'-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, then fall. The whole barricade gave a cry. But the gamin had fallen only to rise again. A long stream of blood rolled down his face. He raised both arms in the air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, ■and began to sing : " I am buried in earth — 'tis the fault " He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement and did not stir •again. That little great soul had taken flight. I LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. EOBERT LOWRY. LOVE the morning sunshine — For 'tis bringing to the singing Of the early-matined birds, Daylight's treasure, without measure, Speaking joy with gentle words. I love the morning sunshine — For it lightens, warms, and brightens Every hillside tinged with gloom ; And its power, every hour, Calls e'en spirits from their tomb. CRADLE BOW 277 I love the morning sunshine — For its gushing, like the rushing Of a molten tide of gold, Bipples o'er me and before me, And my heart cannot be cold. I love the morning sunshine — For 'tis telling that the knelling Of each cycling day shall cease, And the dawning of a morning Never ending will bring peace. I love the morning sunshine — For it lies on Life's horizon, Pointing out an untombed swari, "Where the spirit shall inherit Golden daysprings from the Lord. THE AXGEL'S WHISPER. SAMUEL LOVEPw. And BABY was sleeping ; Its mother was weeping ; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling ; she cried, " Dermot. darling, come back to me!" Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : i; 0, blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning. For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. ' ' And while they are Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me 1 And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father ! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." And Said, The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing " I knew that the angels were whisper- ing with thee." CRADLE SOXG. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. w &m iH AT is the little one thinking about ? Ij Yery wonderful things, no doubt ; ^3=**s^% Unwritten histiry ' Unfathomed mystery ! Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods and winks As if his head were as fall of kinks, And curious riddles as any sphinx ! Warped by colic, ani wet hy tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years ; And he'll never know Wnere the summers g He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. Who can tell what a baby thinks ? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels its way 278 THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of the day ? Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony ; Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls, — Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! What does he think of his mother's eyes ? What does he think of his mother's hair ? What of the cradle-roof, that flies Forward and backward through the air ? What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, iSeeking it ever with fresh delight, Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, With a tenderness she never can tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds,— Words she has learned to murmur well ? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Over his brow and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips ! Softly sinking, down he goes ! Down he goes ' down he goes ! See ! he's hushed in sweet repose. THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. MARGARET J. PRESTON. ARCON! You, you Snared along with this cursed crew ? (Only a child, and yet so bold, Scarcely as much as ten years old !) Do you hear ? do you know Why the gens d'armes put you there, in the row, You with those Commune wretches tall, With your face to the wall ? " Know? To be sure I know! Why not? We're here to be shot ; And there by the pillar's the very spot, Fighting for France, my father fell. Ah, well !— That's just the way /would choose to fall, With my back to the wall !" " (Sacre ! Fair, open fight I say, Is something right gallant in its way, And fine for warming the blood; but who Wants wolfish work like this to do ? Bah ! 'tis a butcher's business !) How f (The boy is beckoning to me now : I knew that this poor child's heart would fail, Yet his cheek's not pale :) Quick ! say your say, for don't you see When the church-clock yonder tolls out Three, You are all to be shot ? — What ? ' Excuse you one moment f 0, ho, ho ! Do you think to fool a gen d'armes so ?" " But, sir, here's a watch that a friend, one day, (My father's friend) just over the way, Lent me ; and if you let me free — It still lacks seven minutes of Three — I'll come on the word of a soldier's son, Straight back into line, when my errand's done." " Ha, ha ! No doubt of it ! Off ! Begone ! (Now, good St. Dennis, speed him on ! The work will be easier since hes saved ; For I hardly see how I could have braved The ardor of that innocent eye, THE DUMB-WAITER. 279 As he stood and heard, While I gave the word, Dooming him like a dog to die.)" " In time ? Well, thanks, that my desire Was granted ; and now I'm ready ; — Fire One word ! — that's all ! — You'll let me turn my bach to the wall?" " Parbleu ! Come out of the line, I say, Come out! (Who said that his name was Ney?) Ha ! France will hear of him yet, one day !" THE DUMB-WAITER. FEEDEEICK S. COZZENS. ?E have put a dumb-waiter in our house. A dumb-waiter is a good thing to have in the country, on account of its convenience. If you have company, every thing can be sent up from the kitchen without any trouble; and if the baby gets to be unbearable, on account of his teeth, you can dismiss the complainant by stuffing him into one of the shelves, and letting him down upon the help. To provide for contingencies, we had all our floors deafened. In conse- quence, you cannot hear anything that is going on in the story below ; and when you are in an upper room of the house, there might be a demo- cratic ratification-meeting in the cellar, and you would not know it. Therefore, if any one should break into the basement, it would not disturb us; but to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass, I put stout iron bars on all the lower windows. Besides, Mrs. Sparrowgrass had bought a rattle when she was in Philadelphia ; such a rattle as watchmen carry there. This is to alarm our neighbor, who, upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with his revol- ver. He is a rash man, prone to pull trigger first, and make inquiries afterward. One evening Mrs. S. had retired, and I was busy writing, when it struck me a glass of ice-water would be palatable. So I took the candle and a pitcher, and went down to the pump. Our pump is in the kitchen. A country pump in the kitchen is more convenient ; but a well with buckets is certainly most picturesque. Unfortunately our well-water has not been sweet since it was cleaned out. First, I had to open a bolted door that lets you into the basement hall, and then I went to the kitchen door, which proved to be locked. Then I remembered that our girl always carried the key to bed with her, and slept with it under her pillow. Then I retraced my steps; bolted the basement door, and went up into the dining-room. As is always the 280 THE DUMB-WAITER. ease, I found, when I could not get any water I was thirstier than I supposed I was. Then I thought I would wake our girl up. Then I con- cluded not to do it. Then I thought of the well, but I gave that up on account of its flavor. Then I opened the closet doors : there was no water * there; and then I thought of the dumb-waiter! The novelty of the idea made me smile; I took out two of the movable shelves, stood the pitcher on the bottom of the dumb-waiter, got in myself with the lamp ; let myself down until I supposed I was within a foot of the floor below, and then let We came down so suddenly that I was shot out of the apparatus as if it had been a catapult ; it broke the pitcher, extinguished the lamp, and landed me in the middle of the kitchen at midnight, with no fire, and the air not much above the zero point. The truth is, I had miscalculated the distance of the descent, — instead of falling one foot, I had fallen five. My first impulse was, to ascend by the way I came down, but I found that im- practicable. Then I tried the kitchen door : it was locked. I tried to force it open ; it was made of two-inch stuff, and held its own. Then I hoisted a window, and there were the rigid iron bars. If I ever felt angry at anybody it was at myself, for putting up those bars to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass. I put them up, not to keep people in, but to keep people out. I laid my cheek against the ice-cold barriers, and looked at the sky; not a star was visible ; it was as black as ink overhead. Then I thought of Baron Trenck and the prisoner of Ohillon. Then I made a noise ! I shouted until I was hoarse, and ruined our preserving-kettle with the poker. That brought our dogs out in fall bark, and between us we made the night hideous. Then I thought I heard a voice, and listened : it was Mrs. Sparrowgrass calling to me from the top of the stair-case. I tried to make her hear me, but the infernal dogs united with howl, and growl, and bark, so as to drown my voice, which is naturally plaintive and ten- Ider. Besides, there were two bolted doors and double-deafened floors be- tween us. How could she recognize my voice, even if she did hear it ? Mrs. Sparrowgrass called once or twice, and then got frightened ; the next thing I heard was a sound as if the roof had fallen in, by which I understood that Mrs. Sparrowgrass was springing the rattle ! That called out our neighbor, already wide awake ; he came to the rescue with a bull- terrier, a Newfoundland pup, a lantern, and a revolver. The moment he saw me at the window, he shot at me, but fortunately just missed me. I threw myself under the kitchen table, and ventured to expostulate with him, but he would not listen to reason. In the excitement I had forgotten FLORENCE VANE. 281 liis name, and that made matters worse. It was not until tie had roused up everybody around, broken in the basement door with an axe, gotten into the kitchen with his cursed savage dogs and shooting-iron, and seized me by the collar, that he recognized me, — and then he wanted me to ex- plain it ! But what kind of an explanation could I make to him ? I told him he would have to wait until my mind was composed, and then I would let him understand the matter fully. But he never would have had the particulars from me, for I do not approve of neighbors that shoot at you, break in your door, and treat you in your own house as if you were a jail- bird. He knows all about it, however, — somebody has told him — some- body tells everybody every thing in our village. FLORENCE VANE, PHILIP P. COOKE. LOVED thee long and dearly, Florence Vane ; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again ; I renew in my fond vision My heart's dear pain, My hopes and thy derision, Florence Vane ! The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou did'st hark my story At even told, That spot, the hues elysian Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane ! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime ; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme ; Thy heart was as a river Without a main, Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane. But fairest, coldest wonder Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under ; Alas the day ! 282 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. And it boots not to remember Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane ! The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep. May their bloom in beauty vying Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. RING THE BELI SOFTL Y. DEXTER SMITH. ogSgOME one has gone from this strange world of ours, No more to gather its thorns with its flowers ; No more to linger where sunbeams must fade, Where on all beauty -death's fingers are laid ; Weary with mingling life's bitter and sweet, Weary with parting and never to meet, Some one has gone to the bright golden shore ; Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Some one is resting from sorrow and sin, Happy where earth's conflicts enter not in, Joyous as birds when the morning is bright, When the sweet sunbeams have brought us their light. Weary with sowing and never to reap, I Weary with labor, and welcoming sleep, ! Some one's departed to heaven's bright shore ; : Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Angels were anxiously longing to meet One who walks with them in heaven's bright street ; Loved ones have whispered that some one is blest, — Free from earth's trials and taking sweet rest. Yes ! there is one more in angelic bliss, — One less to cherish and one less to kiss ; One more departed to heaven's bright shore ; Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! THE SONG OF THE SHIFT THOMAS HOOD. ^j&ITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" " Work ! work ! work-! While the cock is crowing aloof: And work — work — work ! Till the stars shine through the roof! ! It's oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work ! " Work — work — work ! Till the brain begins to swim ! Work — work — work ! Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in my dream ! THE WHISTLE. 283 H Oh ! men with sisters dear ! Oh ! men with mothers and wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! Stitch — stitch— stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shkoud as well as a shirt ! " But why do I talk of death, That phantom of grisly bone ? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own — It seems so like my own, Because of the fast I keep : God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap ! " "Work — work — work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags : A shatter' d roof — and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! " Work — work — work ! From weary chime to chime ; Work — work — work ! As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand ! " Work — work — work ! In the dull December light ; And work — work — work ! When the weather is warm and bright : While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the Spring. " Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ; With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet: For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal ! " Oh ! but for one short hour ! A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief ! A little weeping would ease my heart — But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders the needle and thread !" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread : Stitch — stitch — stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — Would that its tone could reach the rich !- She sung this " Song of the Shirt !" THE WHISTLE. ROBERT STORY. OU have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood, While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline, — You have heard of the Banish boy's whistle of wood ? I wish that that Danish boy's whistle were mine." " And what would you do with it ? — tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beau- tiful face. " I would blow it," he answered ; " and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would here take her place." 284 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. " Is that all you wish it for ? — That may be " Yet once more would I blow, and the music yours divine Without any magic," the fair maiden Would bring me the third time an exqui- cried: site bliss : "A favor so light one's good nature secures" ; You would lay your fair cheek to this brown And she playfully seated herself by his one of mine, side. And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss." " I would blow it again," said the youth, " and the charm The maiden laughed out in her innocent Would work so, that not even Modesty's glee — check " What a fool of yourself with your whistle Would be able to keep from my neck your you'd make ! fine arm" : For only consider, how silly 't would be, She smiled, — and she laid her fine arm To sit there and whistle for — what you round his neck. might take." A SUFI SAINT. TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN BY WM. R. ALGER. HjIPdT heaven approached a Sufi Saint, WM& From groping in the darkness 1 'Vgjg jrrom groping in tne aarimess late, ^^^xf And, tapping timidly and faint, Besought admission at God's gate. Said God, " Who seeks to enter here?" 'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear. " If it be thou, without abide." Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, To bear the scourging of life's rods ; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's. He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked. Asked God, " Who now is at the door?" " It is thyself, beloved Lord," Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, But clasped and rapt in his reward. BUBAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. WASHINGTON IRVING. ilf^N rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 285 bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country ; and why the lat- ter have endured so many exces- sive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attribu- ted the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from " The Flower and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, und wrought up into some beautiful morality. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. ELIZA COOK. LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare | I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed To chide me for loving that old arm- it with sighs. chair ? 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, Not a tie will break, not a link will start; 286 THE PALACE 0' THE KING. Would you know the spell ? — a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. " In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear." She told me that shame would never betide With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day, When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray; 'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now, With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. THE PALACE 0' THE KING. WILLIAM MITCHELL. *T'S a bonnie, bonnie warl' that we're livin' in the noo, An' sunny is the Ian' we aften traivel thro'; But in vain we look for something to which our hearts can cling, For its beauty is as naething to the palace o' the King. We like the gilded simmer, wi' its merry, merry tread, An' we sigh when hoary winter lays its beau- ties wi' the dead: TIP'S FIGHT. 287 For though bonnie are the snawflakes, an' the down on winter's wing, It's fine to ken it daurna' touch the palace o' the King. Then again, I've juist been thinkin 1 that when a'thing here's sae bricht, The sun in a' its grandeur an' the mune wi' quiverin' licht, The ocean i' the simmer or the woodland i' the spring, What maun it be up yonder i' the palace o' the King. It's here we hae oor trials, an' it's here that he prepares A' his chosen for the raiment which the ran- somed sinner wears, An' it's here that he wad hear us, 'mid oor tribulations sing, " We'll trust oor God wha reigneth i' the palace o' the King." Though his palace is up yonder, he has king- doms here below, An' we are his ambassadors, wherever we may go ; We've a message to deliver, an' we've lost anes hame to bring To be leal and loyal-heartit i' the palace o' the King. Oh, it's honor heaped on honor that his cour- tiers should be ta'en Frae the wand'rin' anes he died for i' this warl' o' sin an' pain, An' it's fu'est love an' service that the Chris- tian aye should bring To the feet o' him wha reigneth i' the palace o' the King. An' let us trust him better than we've ever done afore, For the King will feed his servants frae his ever bounteous store. Let us keep closer grip o' him, for time is on the wing, An' sune he'll come and tak' us to the palace o' the King. Its iv'ry halls are bonnie, upon which the rainbows shine, An' its Eden bow'rs are trellised wi' a never fadin' vine. An' the pearly gates o' heaven do a glorious radiance fling On the starry floor that shimmers i' the pal- ace o' the King. Nae nicht shall be in heaven an' nae deso- latin' sea, An' nae tyrant hoofs shall trample i' the city o' the free. There's an everlastin' daylight, an' a never- fadin' spring, Where the Lamb is a' the glory, i' the pal- ace o' the King. We see oor frien's await us ower yonder at his gate: Then let us a' be ready, for ye ken it's gettin' late. Let oor lamps be brichtly burnin' ; let's raise oor voice an' sing, "Sune we'll meet, to pairt nae mair, i' the palace o' the King." PIP'S FIGHT. CHARLES DICKENS. OME and fight," said the pale young gentleman. What could I do but follow him ? I have often asked myself the question since : but what else could I do ? His manner was so final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a spell. 288 PIP'S FIGHT. " Stop a minute, though," he said, wheeling round before we had got many paces. " I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is ! " In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my stomach. The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestion- ably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him, and was going to hit out again, when he said, "Aha! Would you?" and began dancing backward and forward in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited experience. " Laws of the game ! " said he. Here he skipped from his left leg on to his right. " Eegular rules !" Here he skipped from his right leg on to his left. "Come to the ground and go through the preliminaries ! " Here he dodged backward and forward, and did all sorts of things, while I looked helplessly at him. I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him without a word to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satis- fied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to ab- sent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar. " Available for both," he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, busi- ness-like and blood-thirsty. Although he did not look very healthy — having pimples on his face, and a breaking-out at his mouth — these dreadful preparations quite appalled me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he had a way of spinning himself about that was fall of appearance. For the rest, he was a young gentleman in a gray suit (when not denuded for battle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of the rest of him as to development. My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every de- monstration of mechanical nicety, and eying my anatomy as if he were minutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my lifo as I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back, l^ok- THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 289 ing up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly fore- shortened. But he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at me out of a black eye. His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no strength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked down; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drink- ing out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air and show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit him ; but he came up again and again and again, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head against the w T all. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and turned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was ; but finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up : at the same time panting out, " That means you have won." He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the contest I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so far as to hope that I regarded myself, while dressing, as a species of savage young wolf, or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly wiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, "Can I help you?" and he said, "¥o, thankee," and I said, " Good afternoon," and he said, "Same to you." THE BURIAL OF MOSES. MRS. C F. ALEXANDER. "And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xxxiv. 6. Y Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave ; But no man dug that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. 19 That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the tramping, Or saw the train go forth ; Noiselessly as the daylight Comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on the cheek Grows into the great sun, — 290 PUTTING UP O' THE STOVE. Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves, — Bo, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns the hallowed spot ; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. Lo ! when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, "While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, "With costly marble dressed, In the great minster transept, "Where lights like glories fall, And the choir sings and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword ; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word ; . And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sa.gs As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor ? The hill-side for his pall, To lie in state while angels wait, "With stars for tapers tall ; And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave ; And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave, — In that deep grave, without a name, "Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again, — wondrous thought!— Before the judgment day ; And stand, with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, With the incarnate Son of God. lonely tomb in Mpab's land ! dark Beth-peor's hill ! Speak to these curious hearts o2 ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, — Ways that we cannot tell ; He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well. PUTTING UP a THE STOVE: OR THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER. HE melancholy days have come that no householder loves, Days of the taking down of blinds and putting up of stoves ; The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the shed, Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust are red ; The husband gropes amid the mass that he placed there anon, And swears to find an elbow -joint and eke a leg are gone. So fared it with good Mister Brown when his spouse remarked: " Behold ! PUTTING UP 0' THE STOVE. 291 Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold, Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place conveyed, And to black-lead and set them up, lo ! I will lend my aid." This, Mr. Brown he trembling heard, I trow his heart was sore, For he was married many years and had been there before, And timidly he said, " My love, perchance the better plan ,. 'Twere to hie to the tinsmith's shop and bid him send a man?" His spouse replied indignantly : " So , you would have me then To waste our substance upon riotous 'tin- smith's journeymen ? ' A penny saved is twopence earned,' rash prodigal of pelf, Go ! false one, go ! and I will black and set • it up myself." When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed his doom : " Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme down that broom," He cried ; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the doors he hove And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove. Bound 1. — They faced each other ; Brown, to get an opening, sparred Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious — on its guard. Brown led off with his left to where a length of stove-pipe stood And nearly cut his fingers off. (The stove allowed First Blood.) Round 2. — Brown came up swearing, in Grgeco-Roman style Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary while ; At last the leg he held gave way ; flat on his back fell Brown, And the stove fell on top of him and claimed the First Knock-down. * * * The fight is done and Brown has won; his hands are rasped and sore, And perspiration and black lead stream from his every pore ; Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove, He cries, "Where, my good angel, shall I put this blessed stove?" And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates the spot, And bids him keep his temper and remarks that he looks hot, And now comes in the sweet o' the day ; the Brown holds in his gripe And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five inch pipe ; He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife scornfully Tells him how she would manage if only she At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid in air, A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair, And on chair and supporters are the stove- pipe and the Brown, Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the crown ; While Mistress Brown she cheerily says to him, " I expec' 'Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your neck." Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was aware Of what might be called " a miscellaneous music in the air," And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained down Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathe- mas and — Brown. There was a moment's silence — Brown had fallen on the cat ; She was too thick for a book-mark but too thin for a mat, And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to his foot, And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot. 292 USEFUL STUDIES. " wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art !" Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling, start, And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost heart-strings gripe, " Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that pipe ?" Then fiercely starts that Mister Brown, as one that had been wode And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage glowed ; Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp and shrill), " I have not, madam, but, by — by — by the nine gods, I will !" He swung the pipe above his head, he dashed it on the floor, And that stove-pipe, as a stove-pipe, it did exist no more ; Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was stern and wan, As in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed: " Send for that tinsmith's man! " USEFUL STUDIES. JEREMY TAYLOR. plgPEND not your time in that which profits not; for your labor and your health, your time and your studies, are very valuable ; and it is a thousand pities to see a diligent and hopeful person spend himself in gathering cockle-shells and little pebbles, in telling sands upon the shores, and making garlands of useless daisies. Study that which is profitable, that which will make you useful to churches and commonwealths, that which will make you desirable and 'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. 293 wise. Only I shall add this to you, that in learning there are a variety of things as well as in religion : there is mint and cummin, and there are the weighty things of the law ; so there are studies more and less useful, and everything that is useful will be required in its time : and I may in this also use the words of our blessed Saviour, " These things ought you to look after, and not to leave the other unregarded." But your great care is to be in the things of God and of religion, in holiness and true wisdom, re- membering the saying of Origen, " That the knowledge that arises from goodness is something that is more certain and more divine than all demonstration/' than all other learnings of the world. 'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. HENRY WARD BEECHER. SipHEY were walking silently and gravely home one Sunday after- dUb noon, under the tall elms that lined the street for half a mile. -s^ir^ Neither had spoken. There had been some little parish quarrel, * and on that afternoon the text was, " A new commandment I } write unto you, that ye love one another." But after the sermon was done the text was the best part of it. Some one said that Parson Marsh's sermons were like the meeting-house, — the steeple was the only thing that folks could see after they got home. They walked slowly, without a word. Once or twice 'Biah essayed to speak, but was still silent. He plucked a flower from between the pickets of the fence, and unconsciously pulled it to pieces, as, with a troubled face, he glanced at Eachel, and then, as fearing she would catch his eye, he looked at the trees, at the clouds, at the grass, at everything, and saw nothing — nothing but Eachel. The most solemn hour of human experience is not that of Death, but of Life, — when the heart is born again, and from a natural heart becomes a heart of Love ! What wonder that it is a silent hour and perplexed ! Is the soul confused ? Why not, when the divine Spirit, rolling clear across the aerial ocean, breaks upon the heart's shore with all the mystery of heaven ? Is it strange that uncertain lights dim the eye, if above the head of him that truly loves hover clouds of saintly spirits? Why should not the tongue stammer and refuse its accustomed offices, when all the world —skies, trees, plains, hills, atmosphere, and the solid earth— springs forth in new color, with strange meanings, and seems to chant for the soul the 294 'BIAH CATHC ART'S PROPOSAL. glory of that mystic Law with which God has bound to himself his infinite realm, — the law of Love ? Then, for the first time, when one so loves that love is sacrifice, death to self, resurrection, and glory, is man brought into harmony with the whole universe; and, like him who beheld the seventh heaven, hears things unlawful to be uttered. The great elm-trees sighed as the fitful breeze swept their tops. The soft shadows flitted back and forth beneath the walker's feet, fell upon them in light and dark, ran over the ground, quivered and shook, until sober Cathcart thought that his heart was throwing its shifting network of hope and fear along the ground before him. How strangely his voice sounded to him, as, at length, all his emotions could only say, " Rachel, — how did you like the sermon ? " Quietly she answered, — " I liked the text." " ' A new commandment I write unto you, that ye love one another.' Eachel, will you help me to keep it ? " At first she looked down and lost a little color ; then, raising her face, she turned upon him her large eyes, with a look both clear and tender. It was as if some painful restraint had given way, and her eyes blossomed into full beauty. Not another word was spoken. They walked home hand in hand. He neither smiled nor exulted. He saw neither the trees, nor the long level rays of sunlight that were slanting across the fields. His soul was over- shadowed with a cloud, as if God were drawing near. He had never felt so solemn. This woman's life had been entrusted to him ! Long years,— the whole length of life, — the eternal years beyond, seemed in an indistinct way to rise up in his imagination. All he could say, as he left her at the door, was — " Rachel, this is forever — forever." She again said nothing, but turned to him with a clear and open face, in which joy and trust wrought beauty. It seemed to him as if a light fell upon him from her eyes. There was a look that descended and covered him as with an atmosphere ; and all the way home he was as one walking in a luminous cloud. He had never felt such personal dignity as now. He that wins such love is crowned, and may call himself king. He did not feel the earth under his feet. As he drew near his lodgings, the sun went down. The children began to pour forth, no longer restrained. THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 295 Abiah turned to his evening chores. No animal that night but had rea- son to bless him. The children found him unusually good and tender. And Aunt Keziah said to her sister, — " Abiah's been goin' to meetin' very regular for some weeks, and I shouldn't wonder, by the way he looks, if he had got a hope : I trust he ain't deceivin' himself." He had a hope, and he was not deceived ; for in a few months, at the close of the service one Sunday morning, the minister read from the pul- pit : " Marriage is intended between Abiah Cathcart and Kachel Liscomb, both of this town, and this is the first publishing of the banns." THE ENGINEERS STORY. e»fc> 0, children, my trips are over, The Engineer needs rest ; |* My hands is shaky ; I'm feeling • A tugging pain i' my breast ; But here, as the twilight gathers, I'll tell you a tale of the road, That'll ring in my head forever, Till it rests beneath the sod. We were lumbering along in the twilight, The night was dropping her shade, And the " Gladiator " labored — Climbing the top of the grade ; The train was heavily laden, So I let my engine rest, Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest. I held my watch to the lamplight — Ten minutes behind the time ! Lost in the slackened motion Of the up grade's heavy climb ; But I knew the miles of the prairie That stretched a level track, So I touched the gauge of the boiler, And pulled the lever back. Over the rails a-gleaming, Thirty an hour, or so, The engine leaped like a demon, Breathing a fiery glow ; But to me — ahold of the lever — It seemed a child alway, Trustful and always ready My lightest touch to obey. I was proud you know, of my engine, Holding it steady that night, And my eye on the track before us, Ablaze with the Drummond light. We neared a well-known cabin, Where a child of three or four, As the up train passed, oft called me, A playing around the door. My hand was firm on the throttle As we swept around the curve, When something afar in the shadow, Struck fire through every nerve. I sou»ded the brakes, and crashing The reverse lever down in dismay, Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces Ahead was a child at its play ! One instant — one awful and only, The world flew around in my brain, And I smote my hand hard on my forehead To keep back the terrible pain ; The train I thought flying forever, With mad irresistible roll, While the cries of the dying, the night-wind Swept into my shuddering soul. Then I stood on the front of the engine, — How I got there I never could tell, — My feet planted down on the crossbar, Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, One hand firmly locked on the coupler, And one held out in the night. While my eye gauged the distance, and measured The speed of our slackening flight. 296 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady ; I saw the curls of her hair, And the face that, turning in wonder, Was lit by the deadly glare. I know little more — but I heard it — The groan of the anguished wheels, And remember thinking — the engine In agony trembles and reels. One rod ! To the day of my dying I shall think the old engine reared back, And as it recoiled, with a shudder I swept my hand over the track ; Then darkness fell over my eyelids, But I heard the surge of the train, And the poor old engine creaking, As racked by a deadly pain. They found us they said, on the gravel, My fingers enmeshed in her hair, And she on my bosom a-climbing, To nestle securely there. We are not much given to crying — We men that run on the road — But that night, they said, there were faces, With tears on them, lifted to God. For years in the eve and the morning As I neared the cabin again, My hand on the lever pressed downward And slackened the speed of the tram. When my engine had blown her a greeting, She always would come to the door ; And her look with a fullness of heaven Blessed me evermore. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. orno LORD BYRON. HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; , And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and for- ever grew still. And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone ; The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temples of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! DER DRUMMER. 297 DER DRUMMER. CHAS. F. ADAMS. ^HO pnts oup at der pest hotel, ^fflaP Und dakes his oysders on der schell, mm&M? Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? Der drummer. Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, Drows down his pundles on der vloor, Und nefer schtops to shut der door ? Der drummer. Who dakes me py der handt, und say, " Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day ?" Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay ? Der drummer. Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, Und dells me, " Look, und see how nice?' Und says I gets "der bottom price?" Der drummer. Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, But lets dem go as he vas " short?" Der drummer. '■;>«: Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, — " Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine," — Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine? Der drummer. 298 VOICES OF THE DEAD. Who varrants all der goots to suit Und kiss Katrina in der mout' ? Der gustomers ubon his route, Der drummer. Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot ? Der drummer. Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut, Der drummer. VOICES OF THE DEAD. JOHN CUMMING. *E die, but leave an influence behind us that survives. The echoes of our words are evermore repeated, and reflected along the ages. It is what man was that lives and acts after him. What he said sounds along the years like voices amid the mountain gorges ; and what he did is repeated after him in ever-multiplying and never- ceasing reverberations. Every man has left behind him influences for good or for evil that will never exhaust themselves. The sphere in which he acts may be small, or it may be great. It may be his fireside, or it may be a kingdom ; a village, or a great nation ; it may be a parish, or broad Europe ; but act he does, ceaselessly and forever. His friends, his family, his succes- sors in office, his relatives, are all receptive of an influence, a moral influ- ence which he has transmitted and bequeathed to mankind ; either a bless- ing which will repeat itself in showers of benedictions, or a curse which will multiply itself in ever-accumulating evil. Every man is a missionary, now and forever, for good or for evil, whether he intends and designs it, or not. He may be a blot, radiating his VOICES OF THE DEAD. 299 dark influence outward to the very circumference of society, or he may be a blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and breadth of the world ; but a blank he cannot be. The seed sown in life springs up in harvests of blessings, or harvests of sorrow. Whether our influence be great or small, whether it be for good or evil, it lasts, it lives somewhere, within some limit, and is operative wherever it is. The grave buries the dead dust, but the character walks the world, and distributes itself, as a benediction or a curse, among the families of mankind. The sun sets beyond the western hills, but the trail of - light he leaves behind him guides the pilgrim to his distant home. The tree falls in the forest ; but in the lapse of ages it is turned into coal, and our fires burn now the brighter because it grew and fell. The coral insect dies, but the reef it raised breaks the surge on the shores of great conti- nents, or has formed an isle in the bosom of the ocean, to wave with har- vests for the good of man. We live and we die ; but the good or evil that we do lives after us, and is not " buried with our bones." The babe that perished on the bosom of its mother, like a flower that bowed its head and drooped amid the death-frosts of time — that babe, not only in its image, but in its influence, still lives and speaks in the cham- bers of the mother's heart. The friend with whom we took sweet counsel is removed visibly from the outward eye ; but the lessons that he taught, the grand sentiments that he uttered, the holy deeds of generosity by which he was character- ized, the moral lineaments and likeness of the man, still survive and ap- pear in the silence of eventide, and on the tablets of memory, and in the light of morn and noon and dewy eve ; and, being dead, he yet speaks elo- quently, and in the midst of us. Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous influence in the East. Napoleon still is France, and France is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther's dead dust sleeps at Wittenberg, but Martin Luther's accents still ring through the churches of Christendom. Shakspeare, Byron, and Milton,, all live in their influence for good or evil. The apostle from his chair, the minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman from his cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left be- hind them. " None of us liveth to himself; " — others are affected by that life ; — " or dieth to himself ;" — others are interested in that death. Our queen's crown may moulder, but she who wore it will act upon the ages which are 300 THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. yet to come. The noble's coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer of it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who will be made and moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and worthless ; but moral character has an immortality that no sword-point can destroy ; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind. What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that will never cease. What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak ; and the whole universe is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening; and all nature the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the pas- sions of mankind. Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, statesmen, are all influences that extend into the future ages. " The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle" still speaks. The Mantuan bard still sings in every school. Shakspeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated into every tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite is still felt in every academy. Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, they are influences fraught with power. How blest must be the recollection of those who, like the setting sun, have left a trail of light behind them by which others may see the way to that rest which remaineth for the people of God ! It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all pro- ceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy also. Gno forth, then, into the sphere that you occupy, the employments, the trades, the professions of social life ; go forth into the high places, or into the lowly places of the land ; mix with the roaring cataracts of social convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic life ; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will radi- ate abound you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficial influences. THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. wWAS a ferocious baggage-man, with ^ Atlantean back, %W^f ^ n d biceps upon each arm piled in (?/l» a formidable stack, That plied his dread vocation beside a railroad track. Wildly he tossed the baggage round the platform there, pellmell, And crushed to naught the frail bandbox where'er it shapeless fell, Or stove the "Saratoga" like the flimsiest eggshell. NIGHT. 301 On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly, And eke the trunk derisively called " Cottage by the Sea;" And pulled and hauled and rammed and jammed the same vindictively, Until a yearning breach appeared, or frac- tures two or three, Or straps were burst, or lids fell oft, or some catastrophe Crowned his Satanic zeal or moved his dia- bolic glee. The passengers surveyed the wreck with di- verse discontent, And some vituperated him, and some made loud lament, But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly spent. To him there came a shambling man, sad- eyed and meek and thin, Bearing an humble carpet-bag, with scanty stuff therein, And unto that fierce baggage-man he spake, with quivering chin : " Behold this scanty carpet-bag ! I started a month ago, With a dozen Saratoga trunks, hat-box, and portmanteau, But baggage-men along the route have brought me down so low. " Be careful with this carpet-bag, kind sir," said he to him. The baggage-man received it with a smile extremely grim, And softly whispered " Mother, may I go out to swim ?" Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wild, sardonic spleen, And into countless fragments flew — to his profound chagrin — For that lank bag contained a pint of nitro- glycerine. The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and stroked his quivering chin, And then he winked with one sad eye, and said, with smile serene, " The stuff to check a baggage-man is nitro- glycerine!" NIGHT. JAMES MONTGOMERY. jflGHT is the time for rest; How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams : The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Mix in fantastic strife ; Ah ! visions, less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are ! Night is the time for toil : To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang, and heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep : To wet with unseen tears Those graves of Memory, where sleep The joys of other years ; Hopes, that were Angels at their birth, But died when young, like things of earth. Night is the time to watch : O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind. 302 NOBODY'S CHILD. Night is the time for care : Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cassar's ghost. Night is the time to think : When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink Of yonder starry pole Discern beyond the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray : Our Saviour oft withdrew • To desert mountains far away ; So will his followers do, Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God. Night is the time for Death : When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease, Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends ; — such death be mine. NOBODY S CHILD. PHILA H. CASE. *m .... c^^SLONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, vA$J& With my torn old dress and bare JP^f cold feet - d^ All day I wandered to and fro, ? Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go ; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head ; Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? Is it because I'm nobody's child ? Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; Beautiful children, in robes so fair, Are caroling songs in rapture there. 1 wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me, Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering and nothing to eat. Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down In its terrible blackness all over the town.? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold hard pavements alone to die ? When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed. No dear mother ever upon me smiled — Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child! i No father, no mother, no sister, not one THE GOLDEN CITY. 303 In all the world loves me ; e'en the little dogs run When I wander too near them ; 'tis won- drous to see, How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! Perhaps 'tis a dream; but, sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, Watching for hours some large bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, And a host of white-robed, nameless things, Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird The sweetest voice that was ever heard — Calls me many a dear pet name, Till my heart and spirits are all aflame ; And tells me of such unbounded love, And bids me come up to their home above, And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, They look at me with their sweet blue eyes, And it seems to me out of the dreary night, I am going up to the world of light, And away from the hunger and storms so wild — I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. THE GOLDEN CITY. JOHN BUNYAN. OpOW just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after them, and behold the city shone like the sun ; the streets, also were paved with gold, and in them walked many men with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps, to sing praises withal. There were also of them that had wings, and they answered one another without intermission, saying, " Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord." And after that they shut up the gates ; which when I had seen, I wished myself among them. Now, while I was gazing upon all these things, I turned my head to look back, and saw Ignorance coming up to the river side ; but he soon got over, and that without half the difficulty which the other two men met with. For it happened that there was then in that place one Vain- Hope, a ferryman, that with his boat helped him over ; so he, as the other, I saw, did ascend the hill, to come up to the gate, only he came alone ; neither did any man meet him with the least encouragement. When he was coming up to the gate, he looked up to the writing that was above, and then began to knock, supposing that entrance should have been quickly admin- istered to him : but he was asked by the men that looked over the top of the gate, " Whence come you, and what would you have ?" . . He answered, " I have eat and drank in the presence of the King, and he has taught in 304 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. our streets." Then they asked for his certificate, that they might go in and show it to the King ; so he fumbled in his bosom for one, and found none. Then said they, " You have none !" but the man answered never a word. So they told the King, but he would not come down to see him, but commanded the two shining ones that conducted Christian and Hope- ful to the city to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, and have him away. Then they took him up and carried him through the air to the door that I saw on the side of the hill, and put him in there. Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of heaven, as well as from the City of Destruction. " So I awoke. It was a dream." THE SONG OF THE FORGE. tLANG, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers swing ; Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, The mighty blows still multiply, — ¥ Clang, clang! | Say, brothers of the dusky brow, What are your strong arms forging now ? Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now,— The coulter of the kindly plough. Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! May its broad furrow still unbind To genial rains, to sun and wind, The most benignant soil ! Clang, clang ! — our coulter's course shall be On many a sweet and sheltered lea, By many a streamlet's silver tide ; Amidst the song of morning birds, Amidst the low of sauntering herds, Amidst soft breezes, which do stray Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, Along the green hill's side. When regal Autumn's bounteous hand With wide-spread glory clothes the land, — When to the valleys, from the brow Of each resplendent slope, is rolled A ruddy sea of living gold, — We bless, we bless the plough. DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 305 Clang, clang ! — again, my mates, what grows Beneath the hammer's potent blows? Clink, clank ! — we forge the giant chain, Which bears the gallant vessel's strain Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; Secured by this, the good ship braves The rocky roadstead, and the waves Which thunder on her sides. Anxious no more, the merchant sees The mist drive dark before the breeze, The storm-cloud on the hill ; Calmly he rests, — though far away, In boisterous climes, his vessel lay, — Reliant on our skill. Say on what sands these links shall Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? By Afric's pestilential shore ; By many an iceberg, lone and hoar By many a balmy western isle, Basking in spring's perpetual smile : By stormy Labrador. Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, When to the battery's deadly peal The crashing broadside makes reply ; Or else, as at the glorious Nile, Hold grappling ships, that strive the while For death or victory ? Hurrah ! — cling, clang ! — once more, what glows, Dark brothers of the forge, beneath The iron tempest of your blows, The furnace's red breath ? Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured Around, and up in the dusky air, As our hammers forge the sword. The sword ! — a name of dread ! yet when Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, — While for his altar and his hearth, While for the land that gave him birth, The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, — How sacred is it then ! Whenever for the truth and right It flashes in the van of fight, — Whether in some wild mountain pass, As that where fell Leonidas ; Or on some sterile plain and stern, A Marston or a Bannockburn ; Or amidst crags and bursting rills, The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; Or as, when sunk the Armada's pride, It gleams above the stormy tide, — Still, still, whene'er the battle word Is liberty, when men do stand For justice and their native land, — Then Heaven bless the sword ! DA VID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. N. P. WILLIS. |HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like + the still, J Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream : the willow leaves With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems 20 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashioned for a happier world. King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem : and now he stood With his faint people, for a little space. Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 306 DAVIDS LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow, To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words: and as the Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh ! when the heart is full, — when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy, Are such a very mockery — how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! He prayed for Israel : and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those, Whose love had been his shield : and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom, — For his estranged, misguided Absalom, — The proud bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him — for him he poured In agony that would not be controlled Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave : and as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. His helm was at his feet : his banner soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him ; and the jeweled hilt Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested like mockery on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped hia blade As if a trumpet rang : but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The King stood still Till the last echo died : then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe : "Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die, — Thou who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair — How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom ! " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee — How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee — And hear thy sweet ' My father' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom ! " The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young : And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung, — But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come To meet me, Absalom ! " And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 307 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! " And now farewell. 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; And thy dark sin — oh ! I could drink the cup If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom !" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child ; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer : And as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly and composed the pall Firmly and decently, — and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. CHAELES DICKENS. HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree. Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises ; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top, — for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, — I look into my youngest Christmas recollections. All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower down, how thick the books begin to hang ! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with ! " A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe : like Y, who was always confined to a ■ yacht or a yew-tree ; and Z, condemned forever to be a zebra or a zany. But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk, — the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack climbed up to the giant's house. Jack, — how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swiftness ! Good for Christmas- time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the 308 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. tree mailing a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me infor- mation of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate her, after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding-Hood I should have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the animals were crammed in at the roof, and needed to have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in even there ; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch ; but what was that against it ? Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant ; the lady-bird, the butterfly, — all triumphs of art ! consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually tumbled forward and knocked, down all the animal creation ! consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stoppers ; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers ; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string. Hush ! Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree, — not Robin Hood, not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf, — I have passed him and all Mother Bunch's wonders without mention, — but an Eastern King with a glittering scimitar and turban. It is the setting in of the bright Arabian Nights. Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me ! All lamps are wonderful ! all rings are talismans ! Common flower- pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top ; trees are for Ali Baba to hide in ; beefsteaks are to throw down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick to them, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that unlucky one with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genii's invisible son. All olives are of the same stock of that fresh fruit, con- cerning which the Commander of the Faithful overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial of the fraudulent olive-merchant. Yes, on every object that I recognize among the upper branches of my Christmas tree I see this fairy light ! But hark ! the Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep ! THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 309 "What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set forth on the Christmas tree ! Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field ; some travelers, with eyes uplifted, fol- lowing a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men : a solemn figure with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand ; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking through the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, with ropes ; the same, in a tempest, walking on the waters ; in a ship, again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude ; again, with a child upon his knees, and other children around ; again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant ; again, dying upon a cross, watched by armed soldiers, a darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard, " Forgive them, for they know not what they do !" Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged ! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world ! A moment's pause, vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Eaiser of the dead girl and the widow's son, — and God is good ! THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. GEORGE W. BUNGAY. |OW sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! Each one its creed in music tells, In tones that float upon the air, As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; And I will put in simple rhyme The language of the golden chime ; My happy heart with rapture swells Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. " In deeds of love excel ! excel !" Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; " This is the church not built on sands, Emblem of one not built with hands ; Its forms and sacred rights revere, Come worship here ! come worship here ! In rituals and faith excel !" Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. " Oh heed the ancient landmarks well!" In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; " No progress made by mortal man Can change the just eternal plan : 310 THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. With God there can be nothing new ; Repent, believe, have faith, and then Ignore the false, embrace the true, Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! While all is well ! is well ! is well !" Salvation's free, we tell ! we tell !" Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. Shouted the Methodistic bell. " Ye purifying waters swell !" " In after life there is no hell !" In mellow tones rang out a bell ; In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; " Though faith alone in Christ can save, " Look up to heaven this holy day, Man must be plunged beneath the wave, Where angels wait to lead the way ; To show the world unfaltering faith There are no fires, no fiends to blight In what the sacred scripture saith : The future life ; be just and right. swell ! ye rising waters, swell !" No hell ! no hell ! no hell ! no hell !" Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. Rang out the Universalist bell. " The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well jJPf" '"'i',,""' lj|k My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell; I'll , ii 1 " ■ ■ . ii\i/i> " " No fetters here to clog the soul ; No arbitrary creeds control m ' raHfl The free heart and progressive mind, H M'l That leave the dusty past behind. H MI Speed well, speed well, speed well, speed m IS ii well !" B Pi Pealed out the Independent bell. v, J S " No pope, no pope, to doom to hell !" illHHiliHHIII^^H^B The Protestant rang out a bell ; " Great Luther left his fiery zeal Within the hearts that truly feel *' Not faith alone, but works as well, That loyalty to God will be Must test the soul !" said a soft bell ; The fealty that makes man free. " Come here and cast aside your load, No images where incense fell !" And work your way along the road, Rang out old Martin Luther's bell. With faith in God, and faith in man, And hope in Christ, where hope began ; " All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell Do well ! do well ! do well ! do well ;" Close by the cross !" exclaimed a bell ; Rang out the Unitarian bell. " Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, And deign to bless a world like this ; " Farewell ! farewell! base world, farewell J" Let mortals kneel before this shrine — In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; Adore the water and Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, j^ And the cold, proud world's scorn. k Thus struggle on from year to year, | Thy sole relief the scalding tear. Go, weep as I have wept O'er a loved father's fall ; See every cherished promise swept, Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way, That led me up to woman's day. Go, kneel as I have knelt: Implore, beseech and pray, Strive the besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay ; Be cast with bitter curse aside, — Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. Go, stand where I have stood, And see the strong man bow ; With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in bloo<3, And cold and livid brow ; Go catch his wandering glance, and see There mirrored his soul's misery. 320 Tritt DJUAUUJN'b' r&AY&K. Go, hear what I have heard, — The sobs of sad despair, As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, And its revealings there jt Have told him what he might have been, Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. Go to my mother's side, . And her crushed spirit cheer ; Thine own deep anguish hide, Wipe from her cheek the tear; Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, The gray that streaks her dark hair now, The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, And trace the ruin back to him Whose plighted faith in early youth, Promised eternal love and truth, But who, forsworn, hath yielded up This promise to the deadly cup, And led her down from love and light, From all that made her pathway bright. And chained her there mid want and strife, That lowly thing, — a drunkard's wife ! And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild, That withering blight, — a drunkard's child ! Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know All that my soul hath felt and known, Then look within the wine-cup's glow ; See if its brightness can atone ; Think of its flavor would you try, If all proclaimed, — ' Tis drink and die. Tell me I hate the bowl, — If ate is a feeble word ; I loathe, abhor, my very soul By strong disgust is stirred Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell Of the DARK BEVEBAGE OF HELL ! THE DEACON'S PRAYER. WILLIAM 0. STODDART. §ji|N the regular evening meeting Mp That the church-holds every week, J%p? One night a listening angel sat i To hear them pray and speak. It puzzled the soul of the angel Why some to that gathering came, But sick and sinful hearts he saw, With grief and guilt aflame. They were silent, but said to the angel, " Our lives have need of Him !" While doubt, with dull, vague, throbbing pain, Stirred through their spirits dim. You could see 'twas the regular meeting, And the regular seats were filled, And all knew who would pray and talk, Though any one might that willed. From, his place in front, near the pulpit, In his long-accustomed way, When the Book was read, and the hymn was sung, The Deacon arose to pray. First came the long preamble — If Peter had opened so, He had been, ere the Lord his prayer had heard, Full fifty fathom below. Then a volume of information Poured forth, as if to the Lord, Concerning His ways and attributes, And the things by Him abhorred. But not in the list of the latter Was mentioned the mocking breath Of the hypocrite prayer that is not a prayer, And the make-believe life in death. Then he prayed for the church; and the pastor ; And that "souls might be his hire'" — MEDITATION AT AN INFANT'S TOMB. 321 Whatever his stipend otherwise — And the Sunday-school ; and the choir ; And the swarming hordes of India ; And the perishing, vile Chinese ; And the millions who bow to the Pope of Rome ; And the pagan churches of Greece ; And the outcast remnants of Judah, Of whose guilt he had much to tell — He prayed, or he told the Lord he prayed, For everything out of Hell. Now, if all of that burden had really Been weighing upon his soul, 'T would have sunk him through to the China side, And raised a hill over the hole. 'Twas the regular evening meeting, • And the regular prayers were made, But the listening angel told the Lord That only the silent prayed. MEDITATION AT AN INFANT'S TOMB. JAMES HERVEY. >ONDER white stone, emblem of the innocence it covers, informs the beholder of one who breathed out its tender soul almost in the instant of receiving it. There, the peaceful infant, without so much as knowing what labor and vexation mean, " lies still and is quiet; it sleeps and is at rest." What did the little sojourner find so forbidding and disgustful in our upper world, to occasion its precipitate exit ? 'Tis written, indeed, of its suffering Saviour, that when he had tasted the vinegar mingled with gall, he would not drink. And did •our new-come stranger begin to sip the cup of life ; but, perceiving the bitterness, turn away its head, and refuse the draught ? Happy voyager ! no sooner launched, than arrived at the haven ! But more eminently happy they, who have passed the waves, and weathered all the storms of a troublesome and dangerous world ! who, " through many tribulations, have entered into the kingdom of heaven ; r and thereby brought honor to their divine Convoy, administered comfort to the com- panions of their toil, and left an instructive example. Highly favored probationer ! accepted, without being exercised ! It was thy peculiar privilege, not to feel the slightest of those evils which oppress thy surviving kindred ; which frequently fetch groans from the most manly fortitude or most elevated faith. The arrows of calamity, barbed with anguish, are often fixed deep in our choicest comforts. The fiery darts of temptation, shot from the hand of hell, are always flying in showers around our integrity. To thee, sweet babe, both these distresses and dangers were alike unknown. 21 322 EXCELSIOR. Consider this, ye mourning parents, and dry up your tears. Why should you lament that your little ones are crowned with victory, before the sword is drawn or the conflict begun ? Perhaps, the Supreme Disposer of events foresaw some inevitable snare of temptation forming, or some dreadful storm of adversity impending. And why should you be so dissatisfied with that kind precaution, which housed your pleasant plant, and removed into shelter a tender flower, before the thunders roared ; before the lightnings flew ; before the tempest poured its rage ? At the same time, let survivors, doomed to bear the heat and burden of the day, for their encouragement reflect, that it is more honorable to have entered the lists, and to have fought the good fight ; before they come off conquerors. They who have borne the cross, and submitted to afflictive providences, with a cheerful resignation ; have girded up the loins of their mind, and performed their Master's will, with an honest and persevering fidelity ; these, having glorified their Redeemer on earth, will, probably, be as stars of the first magnitude in heaven. EXCELSIOR. . cfoo. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. HE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with a strange device, Excelsior ! His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior ! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! " Try not the pass !" the old man said ; " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" — And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior ! " Oh ! stay," the maiden said, " and rest Thy weary head upon this breast !" A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 323 But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior ! " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last good-night ; — A voice replied far up the height. Excelsior ! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of St. Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior $ A traveler, — by the faithful hound, Half buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice, That banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! There, in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, — Excelsior I PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. o£po . $WAS growin dark so terrible fasht, Whin through a town up the moun- tain there pashed A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow ; As he walked, his shillalah he swung to and fro, Saying: "It's up to the top I am bound for to go, Be jabbers!" He looked mortal sad, and his eye was as bright As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night ; And niver a word that he said could ye tell As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, " It's up till the top of the mountain I'll go, Onless covered up wid this bodthersome shnow, Be jabbers!" Through the windows he saw, as he thra- veled along, The light of the candles and fires so warm, But a big chunk of ice hung over his head ; Wid a shnivel and groan, " By St. Patrick !" he said, " It's up to the very tip-top I will rush, And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush, Be jabbers !" " Whisht a bit," said an owld man, whose hair was as white As the shnow that fell down on that miser- able night ; " Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad, Fur the night is so dark and the walkin' is bad." Bedad! he'd not lisht to a word that was said, But he'd go to the top, if he went on his head, Be jabbers! A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes to be kissed, Axed him wouldn't he stop, and how could he resist ? So shnapping his fingers and winking his eye, While shmiling upon her, he made this re- pb r — " Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the top, But, as yer shwate self has axed me, I may as well shtop Be jabbers !" He shtopped all night and he shtopped all day, — 324 FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. And ye musn't be axin whin he did go away; Fur wouldn't he be a bastely gossoon To be lavin his darlint in the swate honey- moon ? Whin the owld man has peraties enough and to spare, Shure he moight as well shtay if he's com- fortable there, Be jabbers! THE CHINESE EXCELSIOR. FROM "THE BOY TRAVELERS. Too HAT nightee teem he come chop-chop One young man walkee, no can stop ; Maskee snow, maskee ice ; He cally flag wit'h chop so nice — Top-side Galah ! 'He muchee solly : one piecee eye Lookee sharp — so fashion — my ; He talkee large, he talkee stlong, muchee culio ; allee same gong. — Top-side Galah ! 'Insidee house he can see light, And evly loom got fire all light; He lookee plenty ice more high, Insidee mout'h he plenty cly — Top-side Galah ! 'Ole man talkee, " No can walk, Bimeby lain come, velly dark ; Have got water, velly wide ! " Maskee, my must go top-side, — Top-side Galah ! " Man-man " one girlee talkee he: " What for you go top-side look — see ? " And one teem more he plenty cly, But allee teem walk plenty high — Top -side Gaiah ! " Take care t'hat spilum tlee, young man, Take care t'hat ice, must go man-man." One coolie chin-chin he good-night ; He talkee, " My can go all light " — Top-side Galah ! T'hat young man die : one large dog see Too muchee bobbly findee he, He hand b'long coldee, all same like ice, He holdee flag, wit'h chop so nice — Top-side Galah ! FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. A STORY TOLD TO GRACIE. NE day in summer's glow, Not many years ago, A little babe lay on my knee, With rings of silken hair, And fingers waxen fair, Tiny and soft, and pink as pink could be. We watched it thrive and grow — Ah me ! We loved it so — And marked its daily gain in sweeter charms ; It learned to laugh and crow, And play and kiss us — so — Until one day we missed it from our arms. In sudden, strange surprise We met each other's eyes, Asking, " Who stole our pretty babe away ?" We questioned earth and air, But, seeking everywhere, We never found it from that summer day. But in its wonted place There was another face — A little girl's, with yellow curly hair About her shoulders tossed ; And the sweet babe we lost Seemed sometimes looking from her eyes eo fair. AIRY NOTHINGS. 325 She dances, romps, and sings, Ah, Blue-eves, do you see And does a hundred things Who stole my babe from me, Which my lost baby never tried to do ; And brought the little girl from fairy clime ? She longs to read in books, A gray old man with wings, And with bright eager looks Who steals all precious things ; Is always asking questions strange and new. He lives forever, and his name is Time. And I can scarcely tell, He rules the world they say ; I love the rogue so well, He took my babe away — Whether I would retrace the four years' My precious babe — and left me in its place track, This little maiden fair, And lose the merry sprite With yellow curly hair, Who makes my home so bright Who lives on stories, and whose name is To have again my little baby back. Grace ! AIRY NOTHINGS. SHAKESPEARE. >UR revels now are ended. These, our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air — into thin air ; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with sleep. 326 THE CHARITY DINNER. THE CHARITY DINNER. Time : half-past six o'clock. Place : The London Tavern. Occasion : Fifteenth Annual Festival of the So- ciety for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands. LITCHFIELD MOSELY. jN entering the room we find more than two hundred noblemen and gentlemen already assembled ; and the number is increasing every minute. The preparations are now complete, and we are in readiness to receive the chairman. After a short pause, a little door at the end of the room opens, and the great man appears, attended by an admiring circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands like a parcel of charity-school boys bent on beating the bounds. He advances smilingly to his post at the principal table, amid deafening and long-continued cheers. The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up ourselves to the enjoyments of eating and drinking. These important duties finished, and grace having been beautifully sung by the vocalists, the real business of the evening commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given, the noble chairman rises, and after passing his fingers through his hair, places his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, gives a short preparatory cough, accompanied by a vacant stare round the room, and commences as follows : " My Lords and Gentlemen: — It is with feelings of mingled pleasure and regret that I appear before you this evening : of pleasure, to find that this excellent and world-wide-known society is in so promising a condition ; and of regret, that you have not chosen a worthier chairman ; in fact, one who is more capable than myself of dealing with a subject of such vital im- portance as this. (Loud cheers.) But, although I may be unworthy of the honor, I am proud to state that I have been a subscriber to this society from its commencement ; feeling sure that nothing can tend more to the advancement of civilization, social reform, fireside comfort, and domestic economy among the Cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. (Tremendous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) Here in this England of ours, which is an island surrounded by water, as I suppose you all know — or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses the same fact, ' England bound in by the triumphant sea ' — what, down the long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes in arms, and arts, and song, than blankets ? Indeed I never gaze upon a blanket without my thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early childhood. Where should we all have been now but for those warm and fleecy coverings ? THE CHARITY DINNER. 327 My Lords and Gentlemen ! Our first and tender memories are all associated with blankets : blankets when in our nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, blankets in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads in our school-days, and blankets to our marital four-posters now. Therefore, I say, it becomes our bounden duty as men — and, with feelings of pride, I add, as Englishmen — to initiate the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat un- cultivated denizen of the prairie, into the comfort and warmth of blankets ; and to supply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, seasonable, luxurious and useful appendages. At such a moment as this, the lines of another poet strike familiarly upon the ear. Let me see, they are some- thing like this — ah — ah — " Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, And to — to do — a — v I forget the rest. (Loud cheers.) " My Lord's and Gentlemen ! I will not trespass on your patience by making any further remarks ; knowing how incompetent I am — no, no ! I don't mean that — knowing how incompetent you all are — no ! I don't mean that either — but you all know what I mean. Like the ancient Eoman lawgiver, I am in a peculiar position ; for the fact is I cannot sit down — I mean to say, that I cannot sit down without saying that, if there ever was an institution, it is this institution ; and therefore, I beg to propose, ' Prosperity to the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands.' " The toast having been cordially responded to, his lordship calls upon Mr. Duffer, the secretary, to read the report. Whereupon that gentle- man, who is of a bland and oily temperament, and whose eyes are con- cealed by a pair of green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and reads in the orthodox manner — " Thirtieth Half-yearly Report of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots to the Natives of the Cannibal Islands." The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat amid hearty ap- plause which continues until Mr. Alderman Gobbleton rises, and, in a somewhat lengthy and discursive speech — in which the phrases, ' the Cor- poration of the City of London,' 'suit and service,' 'ancient guild,' 'liber- ties and privileges,' and 'Court of Common Council,' figure frequently — states that he agrees with everything the noble chairman has said ; and has, moreover, never listened to a more comprehensive and exhaustive document than the one just read ; which is calculated to satisfy even the most obtuse and hard-headed of individuals. 328 THE CHARITY DINNER. Gobbleton is a great man in the city. He has either been lord mayor, or sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as a few words of his go a long way with his friends and admirers, his remarks are very favorably received. " Clever man, Gobbleton ! " says a common councilman, sitting near us, to his neighbor, a languid swell of the period. " Ya-as, vewy ! Wemarkable style of owatowy — gweat fluency," replies the other. But attention, if you please ! — for M. Hector de Longuebeau, the great French writer, is on his legs. He is staying in England for a short time, to become acquainted with our manners and customs. " Milors and Gentlemans ! " commences the Frenchman, elevating his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. " Milors and Gentlemans — You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have to say to me, ' Make de toast.' Den I say to him I have no toast to make ; but he nudge my elbow very soft, and say dat dere is one toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper ; and, darefore, wid your kind permission, I vill make de toast. ' De brevete is de sole of de feet," as your great philo- sophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de Pro- nouncing Dictionnaire; and, darefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point. Ven I was a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to promenade the streets of Marseilles et of Kouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, I nevare to have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. I was to begin de vorld as von garcon — or what you call in dis countrie von vaitaire in a cafe — vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillements at all to put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von old bleu blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself fit to be showed at; but, tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch for me since dat time and I have rose myself, seulement par mon industrie et perseverance. (Loud cheers.) Ah ! mes amis ! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von stranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same foo'd, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis ; and who is also, I for to suppose, a halter- man and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel dat I can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself ; but helas ! dat plassir are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great city, not von liveryman servant of von of you com- pagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentle- mans ! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, ' De ding of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more en- PRAYERS OF CHILDREN. 329 trancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beau- tiful lady ! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and, darefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, ' De Ladies ! God bless dem all ! ' " And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect tempest of cheers. A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is read, a vote of thanks is passed to the noble chairman ; and the Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands is at an end. PR A YERS OF CHILDREN. the quiet nursery chambers, — Snowy pillows yet unpressed ,— See the forms of little children Kneeling, white-robed, for rest. T All in quiet nursery chambers, J While the dusky shadows creep, Hear the voices of the children ; " Now I lay me down to sleep." In the meadow and the mountain Calmly shine the Winter stars, But across the glistening lowlands Stand the moonlight's silver bars. In the silence and the darkness, Darkness growing still more deep, their Listen to the little children, Praying God their souls to keep. " If we die " — so pray the children, And the mother's head droops low, One from out her fold is sleeping Deep beneath the winter's snow — " Take our souls ;" — and past the casement Flits a gleam of crystal light, Like the trailing of his garments, Walking evermore in white. Little souls that stand expectant, Listening at the gates of life, Hearing, far away the murmur Of the tumult and the strife, 330 LITTLE MARGERY. We who fight beneath those banners, In the warring of temptation, Meeting ranks of foemen there, Firm and true your souls to keep. Find a deeper, broader meaning In your simple vesper prayer. When the combat ends, and slowly Clears the smoke from out the skies ; When your hand shall grasp this standard When, far down the purple distance, Which to-day you watch from far, All the noise of battle dies ; When your deeds shall shape the conflict When the last night's solemn shadow In this universal war : Settles down on you and me, Pray to Him, the God of battles, May the love that never faileth Whose strong eyes can never sleep, Take our souls eternally ! i*6**v LITTLE MARGERY. MRS. SALLIE J. WHITE. EELING, white-robed, sleepy eyes. Peeping through the tangled hair, " Now I lay me — I'm so tired — Aunty, God knows all my prayer He'll keep little Margery." Watching by the little bed, Dreaming of the coming years, Much I wonder what they'll bring, Most of smiles or most of tears, To my little Margery. LEARNING TO PRAY. 331 Will the simple, trusting faith Will the woman, folding down Shining in the childish breast Peaceful hands across her breast, Always be so clear and bright? Whisper, with her old belief, Will God always know the rest, " God, my Father, knows the rest, Loving little Margery ? He'll take tired Margery ?" As the weary years go on, True, my darling, life is long, And you are a child no more, And its ways are dark and dim ; But a woman, trouble-worn, But God knows the path you tread ; Will it come — this faith of yours — I can leave you safe with Him, Blessing you, dear Margery ? Always, little Margery. If your sweetest love shall fail, He will keep your childish faith, And your idol turn to dust, Through your weary woman years, Will you bow to meet the blow, Shining ever strong and bright, Owning all God's ways are just? Never dimmed by saddest tears, Can you, sorrowing Margery ? Trusting little Margery. Should your life-path grow so dark You have taught a lesson sweet You can see no steps ahead, To a yearning, restless soul ; Will you lay your hand in His, We pray in snatches, ask a part, Trusting by him to be led But God above us knows the whole, To the light, my Margery ? And answers, baby Margery. LEARNING TO PRAY. MARY M. DODGE. |^pNEELING fair in the twilight gray, pH A beautiful child was trying to pray ; His cheek on his mother's knee, 4 His bare little feet half hidden, ¥ His smile still coming unbidden. And his heart brimful of glee. " I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, mamma ! I've had such fun to-day 1 hardly can say my prayers. I don't feel just like praying ; I want to be out-doors playing, And run, all undressed, down stairs. " I can see the flowers in the garden -bed, Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; And Sammy is swinging, I guess. Oh ! everything is so fine out there, I want to put it all in the prayer, — Do you mean I can do it by ' Yes ?' " When I say, ' Now I lay me,'-word for word, It seems to me as if nobody heard. Would ' Thank you dear God,' be right? He gave me my mammy, And papa, and Sammy, — mamma ! you nodded I might. 332 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. Clasping his hands and hiding his face, Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, The little one now began ; His mother's nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran : " Thank you for making this home so nice, The flowers, and my two white mice, — I wish I could keep right on ; I thank you, too, for every day — Only I'm most too glad to pray, Dear God, I think I'm done. " Now, mamma, rock me — just a minute — And sing the hymn with ' darling ' in it. I wish I could say my prayers ! When I get big, I know I can. Oh ! won't it be nice to be a man, And stay all night down stairs !" The mother, singing, clasped him tight, Kissing and cooing her fond " Good-night," And treasured his every word. For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. jfj^OLDEN head so lowly bending, '"Sj- Little feet so white and bare, Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, Lisping out her evening prayer. " Now I lay," — repeat it, darling — " Lay me," lisped the tiny lips Of my daughter, kneeling, bending O'er the folded finger tips. " Down to sleep,"-" To sleep," she murmured, And the curly head bent low ; " I pray the Lord," I gently added, " You can say it all, I know." " Pray the Lord," the sound came faintly, Fainter still — " My soul to keep ;" Then the tired heart fairly nodded, And the child was fast asleep, But the dewy eyes half opened When I clasped her to my breast, And the dear voice softly whispered, " Mamma, God knows all the rest." Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding Of the child-heart ! would that I Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, He who hears my feeblest cry. 0, the rapture, sweet, unbroken, Of the soul who wrote that prayer ! Children's myriad voices floating Up to Heaven, record it there. If, of all that has been written, I could choose what might be mine, It should be that child's petition, Rising to the throne divine. A GLASS OE COLD WATER. ARRINGTON. HEKE is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his child- ren ? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench oi sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green FATHER. TAKE MY HAND.' 333 glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play ; there God brews it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing ; and high upon the tall mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun ; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash ; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar ; the chorus sweeping the march of God : there he brews it — that beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain ; shining in the ice-gems till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun ; or a white gauze around the midnight moon. Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower ; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world ; and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven ; all checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water ; no poison bubbles on its brink ; its foam brings not madness and murder ; no blood stains its liquid glass ; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depth ; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair ; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it demon's drink, alcohol ! FATHER, TAKE MY HAND. HENEY N. COBB. IfflpHE way is dark, my Father! Cloud on cloud Is gathering thickly o'er my head, and loud The thunders roar above me. See, I stand Like one bewildered! Father, take my hand, And through the gloom Lead safely home Thy child ! The day goes fast, my Father ! and the night Is drawing darklydown. My faithless sight Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral band, Encompass me. Father ! take my hand, And from the night Lead up to light Thy child! The way is long, my Father ! and my soul Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal ; While yet I journey through this weary land, Keep me from wandering. Father, take my hand ; 334 THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. Quickly and straight Lead to heaven's gate Thy child ! The path is rough, my Father! Many a thorn Has pierced me ; and my weary feet, all torn And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy command Bids me press forward. Father, take my hand ; Then safe and blest, Lead up to rest Thy child ! The throng is great, my Father ! Many a doubt And fear and danger compass me about ; And foes oppress me sore. I cannot stand Or go alone. Father ! take my hand, And through the throng Lead safe along Thy child ! The cross is heavy, Father ! I have borne It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn And fainting spirit rise to that blest land Where crowns are given. Father, take my hand ; And reaching down Lead to the crown Thy child! THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. HENRY N. COBB. j|£iPpHE way is dark, my child! but leads mm to light. I would not always have thee walk by sight. My dealings now thou canst not un- derstand. I meant it so ; but I will take thy hand, And through the gloom Lead safely home My child ! The day goes fast, my child ! But is the night Darker to me than day ? In me is light ! Keep close to me, and every spectral band Of fears shall vanish. I will take thy hand, And through the night Lead up to light My child ! The way is long, my child ! But it shall be Not one step longer than is best for thee ; And thou shalt know, at last, when thou shalt stand Safe at the goal, how I did take thy hand, And quick and straight Lead to heaven's gate My child ! The path is rough, my child ! But oja ! how sweet Will be the rest, for weary pilgrims meet, When thou shalt reach the borders of that land To which I lead thee, as I take thy hand, And safe and blest With me shall rest My child ! The throng is great, my child ! But at thy side Thy Father walks : then be not terrified, For I am with thee; will thy foes com- mand To let thee freely pass ; will take thy hand, And through the throng Lead safe along My child! THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. 335 The cross is heavy, child ! Yet there was One Who bore a heavier for thee ; my Son, My well-beloved. For him bear thine ; and stand With him at last; and, from thy Father's hand, Thy cross laid down, Receive a crown, My child! THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. Sill FRENCHMAN once, who was a merry wight, Passing to town from Dover, in the night, Near the roadside an alehouse chanced to spy, And being rather tired as well as dry, Resolved to enter ; but first he took a peep, In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap. He enters : " Hallo ! Garcon, if you please, Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese, And hallo ! Garcon, a pot of porter, too !" he said, " Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed." His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left, Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft, Into his pocket put ; then slowly crept To wished-for bed ; but not a wink he slept— For on the floor some sacks of flour were laid, To which the rats a nightly visit paid. Our hero, now undressed, popped out the light, Put on his cap and bade the world good- night ; But first his breeches, which contained the fare, Under his pillow he had placed with care. Sans cereononie, soon the rats all ran, And on the flour-sacks greedily began ; At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round, Under the pillow soon the cheese they found ; And while at this they all regaling sat, Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap ; Who, half-awake, cries out, " Hallo ! hallc ! Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so ? 336 DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. Ah ! 'tis one big — one very big, huge rat ! Vat is it that he nibble — nibble at ?" In vain our little hero sought repose ; Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his nose ; And such the pranks they kept up all the night, That he, on end — antipodes upright , Brawling-aloud, called stoutly for a light. " Hallo ! Maison ! Garcon, I say ! Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay !" The bill was brought, and to his great sur- prise, Ten shillings was the charge : he scarce be- lieved his eyes. With eager haste, he quickly runs it o'er, And every time he viewed it thought it more. " Vy, zounds and zounds !" he cries, " I sail no pay ; Vat ! charge ten shelangs for what I have mange ? A leetel sop of portar, dis vile bed, Vare all de rats do run about my head ?" "Plague on those rats !" the landlord mut- tered out ; " I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout: I'll pay him well that can." "Vat's dat you •I'll pay him well that can." " Attend to me, I pray : charge forego, vat I am at, Vill you If from your house I drive away de rat?" " With all my heart," the jolly host re- plies. " Ecoutez, done ami; 1 the Frenchman cries. " First den — Regardez, if you please, Bring to dis spot a leetel bread and cheese : Eh bien ! a pot of portar, too ; And den invite de rats to sup vid you : And after dat — no matter dey be villing — For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang : And I am sure, ven dey behold de score, Dey'll quit your house, and never come no more." DUNCAN CRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. ROBERT BURNS. iUNCAN Gray cam' here to woo — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! On blythe Yule night when we were fu' — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Maggie coost her head fu' high, Looked asklent and unco sneigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh — Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Duncan sighed baith oot and in, Gart his een baith bleer't and blin' Spake o' lowpin o'er a linn — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Time and chance are but a tide — Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Slighted love is sair to bide — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't— Shall I, like a fule, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie dee ? She may gae to — France for me ! Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! How it comes let doctors tell — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Meg grew sick as he grew well — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Something in her bosom wrings, — For relief a sigh she brings, — And 0, her een they speak sic things ! Ha ha ! the wooing o't ' SUNRISE AT SEA. 337 Duncan was a lad o' grace — Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Maggie's was a piteous case — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Duncan could na be her death : Swelling pity smoored his wrath, Now they're crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha! the wooing o't ! THE HOME OF PEACE. THOMAS MOOEE. j&z KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, " If there's peace to be J- found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here!" It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence, reposed the voluptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- claimed, " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye ; Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, Which had never been sighed on by any but mine !" SUNRISE AT SEA. W, V. KELLY. j^gOW slowly the day dawns, yet how suddenly the sun rises ! Did you ever witness a sunrise at sea on a calm morning ? You look out of your port-hole before dawn and see the faintest possible hint of daylight yonder. You go on deck. The east gives a pale promise of the morning, just the first soft glimmer from the gates ajar of that heavenly chamber whence the sun will, by-and- by, come rejoicing. A low, doubtful, slowly-growing light, spreads encroaching on the shadows on the east. The sky beds itself on the dark gray sea, with a deep foundation of intense dark rich orange, and builds upwards with gradations of yellow, and green, and colors no one could name. Infinite changes gently succeed. Miracles of transforma- tion, glory passing into glory. The stars fade slowly, blinking at the 22 SLEIGHING SONG. increasing light, like old religions dying before the Gospel. So smooth is the water, it is certain that when the sun rises above the horizon he will stand with his feet on a sea of burnished glass. The clouds have bent a triumphal arch over the place of his coming, and one broad cloud makes a crimson canopy to the pavilion which awaits the king. Graceful, airy clouds hover like spirits that expect a spectacle; shortly they put on glorious robes, and their faces are bright, as if, like Moses, in some lofty place, they had seen God face to face : the meanest tattered cloud that lies waiting, like a beggar, at the gates of the morning, for the coming of the King from his inaccessible chambers of splendor, is dressed, while it waits, in glory beside which the apparel of princes is sordid and vile. For more than an hour, a long, long hour, you watch the elaborate unfolding pageant of preparation go on in the east. "With a trembling hush of culminating wonder, you await impatiently the grand uprise of the sun. Will he ever come ? You almost doubt. At last, when the ecstacy of expectation has grown intense, a thin, narrow flash of brilliant, dazzling fire shoots level along the sea, swift as lightning. Swiftly it rises and broadens till, in one moment, the dusk immensity above is kindled by it ; another moment, and the far-off, gloomy west sees it; in another, the whole heaven feels it ; and yet one moment more, and the wide circle of the level sea is molten silver. It is done, all done. The thing, so long preparing and approaching, bursts into completion. The day is full-blown in a moment. The few heavy piles of cloud on the horizon, look like castles in conflagration and consume away; the sun's burning gaze scorches from the rafters of the sky the light cobwebs of mist and fleece ; and now the sun has the clean temple of the heavens all to himself, paved with silver, domed with azure, pillared with light. SLEIGHING SONG. Or. W. PETTEE. ^INGLE, jingle, clear the way, Roguish archers, I'll be bound, 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh, ^^v^. As it swiftly scuds along Hear the burst of happy song, See the gleam of glances bright, Flashing o'er the pathway white. Jingle, jingle, past it flies, Little heeding who they wound ; See them, with capricious pranks, Ploughing now the drifted banks ; Jingle, jingle, mid the glee Who among them cares for me ? Jingle, jingle, on they go, Sending shafts from hooded eyes, — j Capes and bonnets white with sno^ , JIM. 339 Not a single robe they fold To protect them from the cold ; Jingle, jingle, mid the storm, Fun and frolic keep them warm Jingle, jingle, down the hills, O'er the meadows, past the mills, . Now 'tis slow, and now 'tis fast; Winter will not always last. Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh. JIM. m-s F. BRET HARTE. >AY there ! PV: Some on yon Might know Jim Wild? Well, — no offence: Thar aint no sense In gittin' riled ! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar : That's why I come Down from up thar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir ! you Ain't of that crew, — Blest if you are ! Money ? — Not much : That ain't my kind ; I ain't no such. Hum ? — I don't mind, Seem' it's you. Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him ? — Jess 'bout your size ; Same kind of eyes ! — Well that is strange : Why it's two year Since he come here, Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us ; Eh? The deuce you say I Dead? That little cuss ? What makes you star — You over thar ? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop But you must rar'? 340 THE MINUET. It wouldn't take Well, thar— Good by,— Derned much to break No more, sir, — I — You and your bar. Eh? What's that you say ? — Dead! Why, dern it ! — sho ! — Poor — little — Jim ! No ? Yes ! By Jo ! — Why there was me, Sold! Jones, and Bob Lee, Sold ! Why you limb, Harry and Ben, — You onery, No-account men : Derned old Then to take him! Long-legged Jim ! THE MINUET, MES. MARY M. DODGE. told me all about it, r Told me so I couldn't doubt it, How she danced — my grandma danced — Long ago. How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirt she spread, How she turned her little toes — Smiling little human rose ! — Long ago. Grandma's hair was bright and sunny ; Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! Really quite a pretty girl, Long ago. Bless her ! why she wears a cap, Grandma does, aud takes a nap Every single day ; and yet Grandma danced the minuet Long ago. Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, Always knitting grandpa's stocking — (Every girl was taught to knit Long ago,) Yet her figure is so neat, And her way so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now Bending to her partner's bow, Long ago. Grandma says our modern jumping, Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, Would have shocked the gentle folk Long ago. No — they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place, Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly courtesying back again, Long ago. Modern ways are quite alarming, Grandma says ; but boys were charming- Girls and boys, I mean, of course — Long ago. Bravely modest, grandly shy — What if all of us should try Just to feel like those who met In the graceful minuet Long ago ? With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a passion ? All would wear the calm they wore Long ago. In time to come, if I perchance, Should tell my grandchild of our dance, I should really like to say, " We did it, dear, in some such way. Long ago." EARLY RISING. 341 THE LOST DOLL. C. KINGSLEY. ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world ; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, f And her hair was so charmingly ¥ curled, | But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day ; And I cried for her more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay. I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day ; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arm's trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair's not the least bit curled ; Yet for old times' sake, she is still, dears The prettiest doll in the world. EARLY RISING. JOHN G. SAXE. bless the man who first invented l" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I; And bless him, also, that he didn't His great discovery to himself, nor try To make it — as the lucky fellow might — A close monopoly by patent-right ! Yes, — bless the man who first invented sleep, (I really can't avoid the iteration ;) But blast the man with curses loud and deep, "Whate'er the rascal's name or age or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off, — Early Rising ! " Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl ; Maxims like these are very cheaply said ; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all! " The time for honest folks to be abed Is in the morning, if I reason right ; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery, or else — he drinks ! Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; But then he said it — lying — in his bed, At ten o'clock, a. m., — the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 'Tis doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, — Awake to duty, and awake to truth, — But when, alas ! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep ! 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night ; 342 HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angel's sight, In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin ! So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, " Served him right ! — it's not at all surprising ; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!" HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. H. W. LONGFELLOW. _cfe '* SSBSJ^ unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman, Though she bends him, she obeys him, Though she draws him, yet she ' follows, Useless one without the other ! " Like a fire upon the hearth-stone Is a neighbor's homely daughter, Like the starlight or the moonlight Is the handsomest of strangers !" Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, And my Hiawatha answered Thus the youthful Hiawatha, Said within himself and pondered, Much perplexed by various feelings, Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, Dreaming still of Minnehaha, Of the lovely Laughing Water, In the land of the Dacotahs. " Wed a maiden of your people," Warning said the old Nokomis ; " Go not eastward, go not westward, For a stranger, whom we know not ! Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, Very pleasant is the firelight, But I like the starlight better, Better do I like the moonlight !' Gravely then said old Nokomis : " Bring not here an idle maiden, Bring not here a useless woman, Hands unskillful, feet unwilling ; Bring a wife with nimble fingers, " Thus departed Hiawatha To the land of the Dacotahs. HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 343 Heart and hand that move together, Feet that run on willing errands !" Smiling answered Hiawatha : " In the land of the Dacotahs Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all the women, I will bring her to your wigwam, She shall run upon your errands, Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, Be the sunlight of my people !" Still dissuading said Nokomis : " Bring not to my lodge a stranger From the land of the Dacotahs ! Very fierce are the Dacotahs, Often is there war between us, There are feuds yet unforgotten, Wounds that ache and still may open !" Laughing answered Hiawatha : " For that reason, if no other, Would I wed the fair Dacotah, That our tribes might be united, That old feuds might be forgotten, And old wounds be healed forever !" Thus departed Hiawatha To the land of the Dacotahs, To the land of handsome women ; Striding over moor and meadow, Through interminable forests, Through uninterrupted silence. With his moccasins of magic, At each stride a mile he measured ; Yet the way seemed long before him, And his heart outran his footsteps ; And he journeyed without resting, Till he heard the cataract's laughter, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to him through the silence. " Pleasant is the sound !" he murmured,- " Pleasant is the voice that calls me!" On the outskirts of the forest, 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, Herds of fallow deer were feeding, But they saw not Hiawatha ; To his bow he whispered, " Fail not !" To his arrow whispered, " Swerve not!" Sent it singing on its errand, To the red heart of the roebuck ; Threw the deer across his shoulder, And sped forward without pausing. At the doorway of his wigwam Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs, Making arrow-heads of jasper, Arrow-heads of chalcedony. At his side, in all her beauty, Sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; Of the past the old man's thoughts were, And the maiden's of the future. He was thinking, as he sat there, Of the days when with such arrows He had struck the deer and bison, On the Muskoday, the meadow ; Shot the wild goose, flying southward, On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; Thinking of the great war-parties, How they came to buy his arrows, Could not fight without his arrows. Ah, no more such noble warriors Could be found on earth as they were ! Now the men were all like women, Only used their tongues for weapons ! She was thinking of a hunter, From another tribe and country, Young and tall and very handsome, Who one morning in the Spring-time, Came to buy her father's arrows, Sat and rested in the wigwam, Lingered long about the doorway, Looking back as he departed. She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom ; Would he come again for arrows To the falls of Minnehaha ? On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy. 344 HIAWATHA'S WOOING. HIAWATHA'S WOOING. H. W. LONGFELLOW. |SS||T the feet of Laughing Water ^Mii® Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his should- ers ; And the maiden looked up at him, ¥ Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, " You are welcome, Hiawatha !" Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, With the gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle-feathers As he entered at the doorway. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered. Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty, In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful. " After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, " That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing water, Loveliest of Dacotah women ?" And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And made answer very gravely : "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it, " I will follow you, my husband !" This was Hiawatha's wooing ! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs ! From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water ; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam, Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, *' Fare thee well, Minnehaha !" And the ancient Arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying : " Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us f Just when they have learned to help ua, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger !" "On the outskirts of the forest, 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, Herds of fallow deer were feeding. " A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 345 HIAWATHA'S RETURN. , rs(y/r% t H. W. LONGFELLOW. the home- jLEASANT was tne journey ward Through interminable forests, Over meadow, over mountain, Over river, hill, and hollow. Short it seemed to Hiawatha, Though they journeyed very slowly, Though his pace he checked and slackened To the steps of Laughing "Water. Over wide and rushing rivers In his arms he bore the maiden ; Light he thought her as a feather, As the plume upon his head-gear ; Cleared the tangled pathway for her, Bent aside the swaying branches, Made at night a lodge of branches, And a bed with boughs of hemlock, And a fire before the doorway With the dry cones of the pine-tree. All the traveling winds went with them O'er the meadow, through the forest ; All the stars of night looked at them, Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber ; From his ambush in the oak-tree Peered the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Scampered from the path before them, Peeping, peeping from his burrow, Sat erect upon his haunches, Watched with curious eyes the lovers. Pleasant was the journey homeward 1 All the birds sang loud and sweetly Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, " Happy are you, Hiawatha, Having such a wife to love you ! " Sang the robin, the Opechee, " Happy are you, Laughing Water, Having such" a noble husband ! " From the sky the sun benignant Looked upon them through the branches, Saying to them, " my children, Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine, Rule by love, Hiawatha ! " From the sky the moon looked at them, Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, Whispered to them, " my children, Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble ; Half is mine, although I follow ; Ruled by patience, Laughing Water ! " Thus it was they journeyed homeward. Thus it was that Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, Brought the sunshine of his people, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all women In the land of the Dacotahs, In the land of handsome women. A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. CEAKLES DICKENS* pHEEE was once a child, and lie strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister who was a child too, and his constant companion. They wondered at the beauty of flowers ; 346 A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky ; they wondered at the depth of the water ; they wondered at the goodness and power of God ; who made them so lovely. They used to say to one another sometimes : Supposing all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry ? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water, and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their play-mates, the children of men, no more. There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw it first, cried out, " I see the star." And after that, they cried out both together,, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that before laying down in their bed, they always looked out once again to bid it good night ; and when they were turning around to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star !" But while she was still very young, oh, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand at the- window at night, and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed,. " I see the star !" and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, " God bless my brother and the star !" And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked out all alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and when there was a grave among the graves, not there before, and when the star made long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears. Now these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star ; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels ; and the star, opening, showing him a great, world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 347 But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither : " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " No !" She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, " Oh, sister, I am here ! Take me!" And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it was night ; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth the child looked out upon the star as the home he was to go to when his time should come ; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's angel gone before. There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and, while he was so little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched out his tiny form on his bed, and died. Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader : " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " Not that one, but another !" As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, " Oh, my sister, I am here ! Take me!" And she turned and smiled upon him, — and the star was shining. He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him and said : " Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son." Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " Thy mother !" A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and cried, " Oh, mother, sister, and brother, I am here ! Take me !" And they answered him, " Not yet !" — and the star was shining. He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was 348 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with- tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter !" And the man who had been a child, saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said : " My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her, God be praised !" — And the star was shining. Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he cried so long ago : "I see the star !" They whispered one another, " He is dying." And he said, " I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move towards the star as a child. And 0, my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me!" — And the star was shining ; and it shines upon his grave. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. ALFRED TENNYSON. REAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 349 And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. , ^p^\ . WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. fljfHE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. IfSSiMli^ 'The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, -And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? .Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers .Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain •Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen, And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youth- ful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 350 ROME AND CARTHAGE. BENEDICITE JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. OD'S love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! Whether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Or, out among the woodland blooms, The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine, — All keep thy memory fresh and green. Where'er I look, where'er I stray, Thy thought goes with me on my way, And hence the prayer I breathe to-day ; O'er lapse of time and change of scene, The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean. Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor The half-unconscious power to draw All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! Fair Nature's book together read, The old wood-paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead, — With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To hold the blessed angels fast. If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gracious heavens will heed from me, What should, dear heart, its burden be ? The sighing of a shaken reed, — What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need ? God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true, The Paraclete white-shining through His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew ! With such a prayer, on this sweet day, As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away ! ROME AND CARTHAGE. VICTOR HUGO. pyj^OME and Carthage ! — behold them drawing near for the struggle^ Wik that is to shake the world ! Carthage, the metropolis of Africa, is the mistress of oceans, of kingdoms, and of nations ; a magni- ficent city, burthened with opulence, radiant with the strange arts t and trophies of the East. She is at the acme of her civilization. She ^ can mount no higher. Any change now must be a decline. Rome is comparatively poor. She has seized all within her grasp, but rather from the lust of conquest than to fill her own coffers. She is demi-barbarous^ ROME AND CARTHAGE. 351 and has her ed- ucation and her fortune both to make. All is be- fore her, noth- ing behind. For a time these two nations exist in distinct view of each other. The one reposes in the noontide of her splendor ; the other waxes strong in the shade. But, lit- tle by little, air and space are wanting to each, for the develop- ment of each. Eome begins to systematically perplex Carth- age, and Carthage is an eyesore to Home. Seated on opposite banks of the Mediterranean, the two cities look each other in the face. The sea no longer keeps them apart. Europe and Africa weigh upon each other. Like two clouds surcharged with electricity, they impend. With their contact must come the thunder-shock. The catastrophe of this stupendous drama is at hand. What actors are met ! Two races, — that of merchants and mariners, that of laborers and soldiers ; two Nations, — the one dominant by gold the other by steel ; two Eepublics, — the one theocratic, the other aristocratic. Eome and Carthage ! Eome with her army, Carthage with her fleet ; Carthage old, rich, and crafty, — Eome, young, poor, and robust ; the past and the future ; the spirit of discovery, and the spirit of conquest ; the genius of commerce, the demon of war ; the East and the South on one side, the West and the North on the other ; in short, two worlds, — the civilization of Africa, and the civilization of Europe. They measure each other from head to foot. They gather all their forces. Gradually the war kindles. TRIUMPHAL ARCH AT ROME. 352 FARM- YARD SONG. The world takes fire. These colossal powers are locked in deadly strife* Carthage has crossed the Alps ; Rome the seas. The two Nations, per- sonified in two men, Hannibal and Scipio, close with each other, wrestle, and grow infuriate. The duel is desperate. It is a struggle for life. Eome wavers. — She utters that cry of anguish — Hannibal at the gates ! But she rallies, — collects all her strength for one last, appalling effort, — throws herself upon Carthage, and sweeps her from the face of the earth ! FARM-YARD SONG, J. T. TROWBRIDGE. ^VER the hill the farm -boy goes : His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in his giant hand ; In the poplar-tree above the spring The katydid begins to sing ; The early dews are falling : Into the stone-heap darts the mink, The swallows skim the river's brink, And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling — "Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !' Farther, farther over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co* ! co' !" Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day : Harness and chain are hung away ; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; The straw's in the stack, the. hay in the mow ; The cooling dews are falling : The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling — "Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' !" While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those who have gone astray — "Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co'! Now to her task the milkmaid goes ; The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicksome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling : The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, » When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling — " So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, " So, so, boss ! so, so !" To supper at last the farmer goes : The apples are pared, the paper is read, The stories are told, then all to bed : Without, the cricket's ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; HOW'S MY BOY? 353 The heavy dews are falling : The housewife's hand has turned the lock Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; The household sinks to deep repose ; But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" , I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. B. MUHLENBEBG. would not live alway ; I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here js Are enough for life's joys, full enough ■f. for its cheer. I would not live alway ; no, — welcome the tomb ! Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom ; There sweet be my rest till he bid me arise, To hail him in triumph descending the skies. Who, who Would live alway, away from his God- Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where rivers of pleasure flow bright o'er the plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ? There saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet ; While anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of tha soul. HOW'S MY BOY? SYDNEY DOBELL. 0, Sailor of the sea ! How's my boy — my boy ? " What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he ?" My boy John — " ' He that went to sea — What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. You come back from sea, And not know my John ? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. 23 How's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass button or no, sailor, Anchor or crown or no ! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton — " Speak low, woman, speak low !" And why should I speak low, sailor? About my own boy John ? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor ? — " That good ship went down." 354 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll De bound, Her owners can afford her ! I say, how's my John ? — " Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the men, sailor ? I'm not their mother — How's my boy — my boy ? Tell me of him and no other I ' How's my boy — my boy ? THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. #a_ NE more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashioned so slenderly — Young, and so fair ! Look at her garments, Clinging like cerements, Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing ; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing ! Touch her not scornfully ! Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly — Not of the stains of her ; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny, Into her mutiny, Rash and undutiful ; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, — One of Eve's family, — Wipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily. THOMAS HOOD. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb,— Her fair auburn tresses, — Whilst wonderment guesses, Where was her home ? Who was her father? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ? Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! Oh, it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed,— Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence ; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement* From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. MORNING. 355 The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch, Or the black, flowing river ; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled — Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world ! In she plunged boldly, — No matter how coldly The rough river ran, — Over the brink of it ! Picture it, — think of it Dissolute man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs, frigidly, Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them ; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly ! — Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest ! Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast ! Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness Her sins to her Saviour ! "Qggjim MORNING. EDWARD EVERETT. C&L fM&^> we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more per- $!Mm ceptible ; the intense blue of the sky began to soften ; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest ; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together ; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous trans- figuration went on. Hands of angels hidden from mortal eyes shifted 356 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. the scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of dawn. The blue sky now turned more softly gray ; the great watch- stars shut up their holy eyes ; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance ; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. THE PARTING LOVERS, TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY WILLIAM R. ALGER. ggHE says, " The cock crows, — hark !" He says, " No ! still 't is dark." She says, " The dawn grows bright," He says, " no, my Light." She says, " Stand up and say, Gets not the heaven gray?" He says, " The morning star Climbs the horizon's bar." She says, " Then quick depart: Alas ! you now must start ; But give the cock a blow Who did begin our woe !" A WOMAN'S QUESTION. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. EFORE I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, Question thy soul to-night for me. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret : Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet ? Or is thy faith as clear and free As that which I can pledge to thee ? Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine ? If so, at any pain or cost, 0, tell me before all is lost ! Look deeper still : if thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. THE TIGER. 357 Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil ? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still ? Speak now, lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit, change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange ? It may not be thy fault alone, — But shield my heart against thine own. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — Not thou, — had been to blame ? Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou Wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear, The words would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee, my fate : Whatever on my heart may fall, Remember I would risk it all ! THE TIGER. WILLIAM BLAKE. IGER ! tiger ! burning bright, ■ In the forest of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? In what distant deeps or skies Burned the ardor of thine eyes ? On what wings dare he aspire ? What the hand dare seize the fire ? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? What the hammer ? what the chain ? In what furnace was thy brain ? What the anvil ? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 358 POOR LITTLE JOE. When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did God smile his work to see ? Did He who made the lamb make thee ? Tiger! tiger! burning bright, In the forest of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry. THE CHURCH WINDOW. JNO. W. GOETHE. cfc HE minster window, richly glowing With many a gorgeous stain and dye, Itself a parable, is showing The might, the power of Poesy. Look on it from the open square, And it is only dark and dreary ; Yon blockhead views it always there, And vows its aspect makes him weary. But enter once the holy portal — What splendor bursts upon the eye ! There symbols, deeds and forms immortal, Are blazing forth in majesty. Be thankful, you who have the gift To read and feel each sacred story ; And, oh ! be reverent, when you lift Your eyes to look on heavenly glory. POOR LITTLE JOE. P. ARKWBJGHT. ROP yer eyes wide open Joey, For I've brought you sumpin' great. Apples f No, a heap sight better ! Don't you take no int'rest ? Wait ! Flowers, Joe — I know'd you'd like 'em — Ain't them scrumptious ? Ain't them high ? Tears, my boy ? Wot's them fur, Joey ? There — poor little Joe ! — don't cry ! I was skippm' past a winder, Where a bang-up lady sot, THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 359 All amongst a lot of bushes — Each one climbin' from a pot ; Every bush had flowers on it — Pretty f Mebbe not ! Oh, no ! Wish you could a seen 'em growin', It was sich a stunnin' show. Well, I thought of you, poor feller, Lyin' here so sick and weak, Never knowin' any comfort, And I puts on lots o' cheek. " Missus," says I, " If you please, mum, Could I ax you for a rose ? For my little brother, missus — Never seed one, I suppose." Then I told her all about you, — How I bringed you up — poor Joe ! (Lackin women folks to do it.) Sich a' imp you was, you know — Till yer got that awful tumble, Jist as I had broke yer in. (Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin' Blackm' boots frr honest tin. How that tumble crippled of you. So's you couldn't hyper much — Joe, it hurted when I seen you Fur the first time with yer crutch. " But," I says, " he's laid up now, mum, Tears to weaken every day ;" Joe, she up and went to cuttm' — That's the how of this bokay. Say ! It seems to me, ole feller, You is quite yerself to-night ; Kind o' chirk — it's been a fortnit Sence yer eyes has been so bright. Better f Well, I'm glad to hear it ! Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. Smellin of 'ems made you happy f Well, I thought it would, you know I Never see the country, did you ? Flowers growin' everywhere ! Some time when you're better, Joey, Mebbe I kin take you there. Flowers in heaven f 'M — I s'pose so ; Dunno much about it, though ; Ain't as fly as wot I might be On them topics, little Joe. But I've heard it hinted somewheres That in heaven's golden gates Things is everlastin' cheerful — B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. Likewise, there folks don't git hungry ; So good people, when they dies, Finds themselves well fixed forever — Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes ? Thought they looked a little sing'ler. Oh, no ! Don't you have no fear ; Heaven was made fur such as you is — Joe, wot makes you look so queer? Here — wake up ! Oh, don't look that way ! Joe ! My boy ! Hold up yer head ! Here's yer flowers — you dropped 'em Joey ! Oh, my God, can Joe be dead t THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. pME here, Tops, you monkey !" said St. Clare, calling the child up to him. Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery. " What makes you behave so ?" said St. Clare, who could not help being amused with the child's expression. 360 THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. "Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely; "Miss Feely says so." " Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you ? She says she has done every thing she can think of." " Lor, yes, Mas'r I old Missus used to say so, too. She whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my head agin the door; but it didn't do me no good ! I spects, if they's to pull every spear o' har out o' my head it wouldn't do no good, neither — I's so wicked ! Laws ! I's nothin' but a nigger, no ways !" "Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia; "I can't have that trouble any longer." " Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare. "What is it?" " Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use of sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just such ? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen are." Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva, who had •stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little glass room at the corner of the verandah, which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Topsy dis- appeared into this place. " What's Eva going about now ?" said St. Clare ; " I mean to see." And advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the glass door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the two children on the floor, with their side faces towards them, Topsy with her usual air of careless drollery and unconcern ; but opposite to her, Eva, her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes. " What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Why won't you try and be good ? Don't you love anybody, Topsy ?" " Dunno nothin' 'bout love ; I loves candy and sich, that's all," said Topsy. " But you love your father and mother ?" " Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva." " Oh, I know," said Eva, sadly ; " but had you any brother, or sister, or aunt, or — " " No, none on 'em — never had nothin' nor nobody." " But, Topsy, if you'd only try and be good, you might — " THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 361 " Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger if I war ever so good," said Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white, I'd try then." " But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia would love you, if you were good." Topsy gave a short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of ex- pressing incredulity. " Don't you think so ?" said Eva. " No ; she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger — she'd 's soon have a toad touch her ! There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do nothin'! /don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle. " Oh, Topsy, poor child, I love you !" said Eva, with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy 's shoulder; "I love you, because you haven't had any father, or mother or friends ; because you've been a poor, abused child ! I love you, and I want you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan't live a great while ; and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to be good for my sake — it's only a little while I shall be with you." The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears — large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little white hand. Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly love had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul ! She laid her head down between her knees, and wept and sobbed — while the beautiful child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner. " Poor Topsy!" said Eva, " Don't you know that Jesus loves all alike? He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves you just as I do — only more, because He is better. He will help you to be good ; and you can go to heaven at last, and be an angel forever, just as much as if you were white. Only think of it, Topsy ! you can be one of those spirits bright, Uncle Tom sings about." "0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!" said the child; "I will try; I never did care nothin' about it before." St. Clare, at that instant, dropped the curtain. " It puts me in mind of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true what she told me ; if we want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ did — call them to us, and. put our hands on them. 11 " I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia, " and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me ; but I didn't think she knew it." "Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; " there's no keep- 362 THE CAVE OF SILVER. ing it from them. But I believe that all the trying in the world to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you can do them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of repugnance remains in the heart — it's a queer kind of a fact— but so it is." " I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia ; " they are disagreeable to me — this child in particular — how can I help feeling so ?" " Eva does, it seems." " Well, she is so loving ! After all though, she's no more than Christ- like," said Miss Ophelia ; " I wish I were like her. She might teach me a lesson." " It wouldn't be the first time a little child has been used to instruct an old disciple, if it were so," said St. Clare. THE SEA. BARRY CORNWALL. HE sea! the sea! the open sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide region round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! I am where I would ever be ! With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go ; If a storm should come and wake the deep, What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. I never was on the dull tame shore, But I love the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest : And a mother she was, and is to me, For I was born on the open sea. THE CA VE OF SIL VER. FITZ-JAMES O BRIEN. EEK me the cave of silver ! B Find me the cave of silver ! • Rifle the cave of silver ! Said Ilda to Brok the Bold: So you may kiss me often ; So you may ring my finger ; So you may bind my true love In the round hoop of gold 1 'I love, O, how I love to ride Where every mad w; :ne moon si top LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON. 363 Bring me no skins of foxes ; Bring me no beds of eider ; Boast not your fifty vessels That fish in the northern sea ; For I would lie upon velvet, And sail in a golden galley, And naught but the cave of silver Will win my true love for thee. Rena, the witch, hath told me That up in the wild Lapp moun- tains There lieth a cave of silver, Down deep in a valley-side ; So gather your lance and rifle, And speed to the purple pastures, And seek ye the cave of silver As you seek me for your bride. I go said Brok, right proudly ; I go to the purple pastures, To seek for the cave of silver So long as my life shall hold ; But when the keen Lapp arrows Are fleshed in the heart that loves you, I'll leave my curse on the woman Who slaughtered Brok the Bold ! But Ilda laughed as she shifted The Bergen scarf on her shoulder, And pointed her small white finger Right up at the mountain gate ; And cried, my gallant sailor, You're brave enough to the fishes, But the Lappish arrow is keener Than the back of the thorny skate ! The Summer passed, and the Winter Came down from the icy ocean : But back from the cave of silver Returned not Brok the Bold ; And Ilda waited and waited, And sat at the door till sunset, And gazed at the wild Lapp mountains That blackened the skies of gold. I want not a cave of silver ! I care for no caves of silver ! far beyond caves of silver I pine for my Brok the Bold ! ye strong Norwegian gallants, Go seek for my lovely lover, And bring him to ring my finger With the round hoop of gold ! But the brave Norwegian gallants They laughed at the cruel maiden, And left her sitting in sorrow, Till her heart and her face grew old While she moaned of the cave of silver, And moaned of the wild Lapp mountains, And him who never will ring her With the round hoop of gold ! LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON. iRiWIGIiTON is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I — I muthn't forget to mention that I met those two girls that always 364 THE EAGLE. laugh when they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em — the young one — told me, when I was intwoduced to her, — in — in confidence, mind, — that she had often heard of me and of my middles. Tho you thee I'm getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning at Mutton's, she wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in widdles. Now I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't give her any vewy great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket handkerchief! " Good gwacious ! what'th the matter ?" said I. " Have you ever heard it before?" " Never," she said, " in that form; do please tell me the answer." So I told her, — When it ith a door ! Upon which she —she went off again into hystewics. I — I — I — never did see such a girl for laughing. I know it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as that. By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought he had heard the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said it was : When ith a door not a door ? — and the answer, When it ith ajar ! I— I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it — d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still — pwaps the last f-form is the betht. It — it seems to me to wead better. What do you think? Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New — Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me — the dog, you know, not the fellah, — he wath a lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle but I don't mind telling you. Why does a dog waggle his tail ? Give it up ? I think motht fellahs will give that up ! You thee the dog waggles his tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wathn't the tail would waggle the dog ! Ye-eth, — that'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I shall athtonish those two girls thome of these days. THE EAGLE. TENNYSON. ?E clasps the crag with hooked hands, I Close to the sun in lonely lands, -o^-^P Ringed with the azure world he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls : He watches from his mountain walls. And like a thunderbolt he falls. THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. m THE BLIND BOY. COLLEY CIBBER. SAY what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy ? What are the blessings of the sight, 0, tell your poor blind boy ! 4» You talk of wondrous things you You say the sun shines bright ; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night ? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play ; And could I ever keep awake With me 't were always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy : Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. CHARLES DICKENS. IHERE was no fire in the room ; but a man was crouching mechani- cally over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner ; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master ; for, though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale ; his hair and beard were grizzly, and his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled, her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip, and her eyes were bright and piercing. " Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up as the undertaker approached the recess. " Keep back ! d — n you — keep back, if you've a life to lose !" " Nonsense, my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes — " nonsense !" "I tell you," said the man," clenching his hands and stamping furiously on the floor — " I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry — not eat her — she is so worn away." 3b6 THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. The undertaker offered no reply to this raving, but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. " Ah !" said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman ; " kneel down, kneel down ; kneel around her every one of you, and mark my words. I say she starved to death. I never knew how bad she was till the fever came upon her, and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle ; she died in the dark — in the dark ! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets, and they sent me to prison. When I came back she was dying ; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it — they starved her!" He twined his hands in his hair, and with a loud scream rolled grovelling upon the floor, his eyes fixed, and the* foam gushing from his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly ; but the old woman, who had hith- erto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence ; and having unloosened the man's cravat, who still remained extended on the ground, tottered towards the under- taker. " She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic leer more ghastly than even the presence of death itself. " Lord, Lord ! well it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord ! — to think of it; it's as good as a play, as good as a play !" As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merri- ment, the undertaker turned to go away. " Stop, stop !" said the old woman in a loud whisper. " Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night ? I laid her out, and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak ; a good warm one, for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go ! Never mind : send some bread ; only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear ?" she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat as he once more moved towards the door. "Yes, yes," said the undertaker; " of course : anything, everything." He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, dragging Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day — the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half- quartern loaf, and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself —Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr. Bum- WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE. 36! hie had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the work-house wLo were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man ; the bare coffin having been screwed down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down stairs into the street. RUTH. THOMAS HOOD. |Pf HE stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss hath won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Bound her eyes her tresses fell, — - Which were blackest none could tell ; But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim ; — Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks. Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE? SIR WILLIAM JONES. HAT constitutes a state ? Not high-raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate ; Not cities proud with spires and turret-crowned ; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:— nnen, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long- aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ; These constitute a state ; And sovereign law, that state's collected wilL O'er thrones and globes elate, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill, Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; And e'en the all-dazzling crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks ; 368 THE DOOR-STEP. Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! No more shall freedom smile ? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'T is folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. THE REAPER. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. ■ gffia . EHOLD her single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass ! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; listen ! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands ; No sweeter voice was ever heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. That has been, and may be again ! Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; I listened till I had my fill ; And as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no mop- THE DOOR-STEP. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 385 |HE conference meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited, £SpQ To see the girls come tripping past Like snow-birds willing to be T mated. Not braver he that leaps the wall, By level musket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all Who longed to see me get the mitten. But no, she blushed and took my arm ! We let the old folks have the highwry, And started toward the Maple Farm, Along a kind of lovers' by-way. THE DOOR-STEP. 369 I can't remember what we said, 'Twas nothing worth a song or story, Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a ^lory. The little hand outside her muff— sculptor, if you could but mould it 1 So slightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keeD it warm I had to hold it. The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet Her face with youth and health was beaming. 24: To have her with me there alone, 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended : At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey endeu. 370 REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a " Thank you Ned," dissembled, But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, " Come, now or never, do it, do it !" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her ! Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, listless woman ! weary lover ! To feel once more that fresh wild thrill, I'd give — But who can live youth over ? SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE. ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. jfJKIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed 'The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Olist!" When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and hail missed, Half falling on the hair. 0, beyond meed ! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state ; since when, in- deed, I have been proud, and said, " My love, my REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. jLL does it become me, Senators of Rome, — ill does it become Regu- lus, after having so often stood in this venerable assembly clothed with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a captive, — the captive of Carthage. Though outwardly I am free, though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh, — yet the heaviest of chains, — the pledge of a Roman Consul, — makes me the bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them, in the event of the failure of this, their embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own ; — a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard ; a flame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, death cannot extinguish. Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled successes of our arms, — of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 371 our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping, — I will not speak. For live years, a rigorous cap- tivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of country, have been to me a recollection and a dream, — no more. But during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She has taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror into the heart of the Carthaginians, who have now sent me hither with their ambassadors to sue for peace, and to propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard the ambassadors. Their intimations of some unimaginable horror, I know not what, impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their suit. A wife and children, threatened with widowhood and orphanage, weeping and despairing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of the Senate-chamber : — Conscript Fathers ! shall not Regulus be saved ? Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the ambassadors brandish before our eyes ? With one voice you answer, No ! . . Countrymen ! Friends ! For all that I have suffered, — for all that I may have to suffer, — I am repaid in the compensation of this moment ! Unfortunate you may hold me ; but 0, not undeserving ! Your confidence in my honor survives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You , have not forgotten the past. Republics are not ungrateful. May the thanks I cannot utter bring down blessings from the gods on you and Rome ! Conscript Fathers ! There is but one course to be pursued. Abandon all thought of peace. Reject the overtures of Carthage. Reject them wholly and unconditionally. What ! give back to her a thousand able- bodied men, and receive in return this one attenuated, war-worn, fever- wasted frame, — this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale and sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, can ever restore to health and vigor ? It must not, — it shall not be ! ! were Regulus what he was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews and enervated his limbs, he might pause, — he might proudly think he were well worth a thousand of the foe ; he might say, " Make the exchange ! Rome shall not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis gone, — that impetu- osity of strength, which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate a phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burthen now. 372 LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. His battle-cry would be drowned in the din of the onset. His sword would fall harmless on his opponent's shield. But if he cannot live, he can at least die for his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. Consider : every indignity, every torture, which Carthage shall heap on his dying hours, will be better than a trumpet's call to your armies. They will remember only Regulus, their fellow-soldier and their leader. They will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily, — every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs — will flash on their remembrance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall Regulus, though dead, fight as he never fought before against the foe. Conscript Fathers ! There is another theme. My family, — forgive the thought ! To you and to Rome I confide them. I leave them no legacy but my name, — no testament but my example. Ambassadors of Carthage ! I have spoken, though not as you expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await me. Doubt not that you shall find, to Roman hearts, country is dearer than life, and integrity more precious than freedom ! LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. ALICE BOBBINS. HAT did you say, dear, — breakfast ? Somehow I've slept too late ; You are very kind, dear Effie ; Go tell them not to wait. I'll dress as quick as ever I can, My old hands tremble sore, And Polly, who used to help, dear heart, Lies t'other side of the door. Put up the old pipe, deary, I couldn't smoke to-day : I'm sort o' dazed and frightened, And don't know what to say. It's lonesome in the house here, And lonesome out o' door — I never knew what lonesome meant In all my life before. The bees go humming the whole day long, And the first June rose has blown ; And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day, Too old to be left alone ! Oh, heart of love ! so still and cold, Oh, precious lips so white ! For the first sad hours in sixty years, You were out of my reach last night. You've cut the flower. You're very kind ; She rooted it last May. It was only a slip ; I pulled the rose, And threw the stem away. But she, sweet, thrifty soul, bent down, And planted it where she stood ; " Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she said, " Asleep in this bit of wood." I can't rest, dear — I cannot rest ; Let the old man have his will, And wander from porch to garden-post — The house is so deathly still ; — SOMETIME. 373 Wander, and long for a sight of the gate She has left ajar for me ; We had got so used to each other, dear, So used to each other, you see. Sixty years, and so wise and good, She made me a better man ; From the moment I kissed her fair young face, Our lover's life began. And seven fine boys she has given me, And out of the seven not one But the noblest father in all the land Would be proud to call his son. Oh, -well, dear Lord, I'll be patient ! But I feel sore broken up ; At eighty years it's an awesome thing To drain su«h a bitter cup. I know there's Joseph, and John, and Hal, And four good men beside ; But a hundred sons couldn't be to me, Like the woman I made my bride. My little Polly — so bright and fair ! So winsome and good and sweet ! She had roses twined in her sunny hair, And white shoes upon her feet ; And I held her hand — was it yesterday That we stood up to be wed ? And — no, I remember, I'm eighty to-day, And my dear wife Polly is dead. SOMETIME. MARY EILEY SMITH. SOMETIME, when all life's have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things which our weak judg- ments here have spurned — ■!• The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet — Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deepest tints of blue, And we shall see how all God's plans were right, And how what seemed reproof was love most true. And we shall see how while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me ; How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, Because his wisdom to the end could see, And e'en as prudent parents disallowed Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And if sometimes commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink ; And if some friend we love is lying low Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, But wear your sorrows with obedient grace. And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friends, And that sometimes the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key. But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart * God's plans, like lilies, pure and white un- fold ; We must not tear the close shut leaves apart — Time will reveal the calyxes of gold ; And if through patient toil we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we will say, "God knew the best." 374 SONG OF BIRDS. As»l ^ - -i SONG OF BIRDS. THOMAS JACK, clouds, away ! and welcome, day ! With night we banish sorrow : ••^Sweet air, blow soft ! mount lark, aloft ! To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; Bird, prune thy wing ! nightingale, sing ! To give my love good-morrow : To give my love good-morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow. HEYWOOD. Wake from thy rest, robin red-breast ! Sing, birds, in every furrow ! And from each hill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow. Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! You pretty elves, among yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow: To give my love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow. MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 375 WIDOW MAIONE. CHARLES LEVER. »ID you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone ! Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone ! 0, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts: So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, And fortunes they all had galore, In store ; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone ! All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mistress Malone, 'T was known That no one could see her alone, Ohone ! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, (How quare ! It's little for blushing they care Down there,) Put his arm round her waist, — .Gave ten kisses at laste, — " 0," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own ! 0," says be, " you're my Molly Malone !" And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye ! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — For why ? But, " Lucius," says she, " Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone ! You may marry your Mary Malone." There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong ; And one comfort, it's not very long, But strong, — If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! 0, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone ! MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. CHARLES DICKENS. gEAR, me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick I" At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang f the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, * the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bed-room, he retired in company with a japanned candle- stick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned 376 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to another. " This is your room, sir," said the chambermaid. " Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire ; upon the whole, a more comfortable-Jooking apartment than Mr. Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect. " Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, no, sir." " Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half- past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to- night." " Yes, sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone. Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table down stairs. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs. The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore ; room after room did he peep into ; at length, just as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the dooi of the identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the table. Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downwards had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing, He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in — right at last. There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the drifts of air through which he had passed, and sank MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 377 into the socket, just as he closed the door after him. "No matter," said Mr. Pickwick, " I can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire." " It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the night-cap strings — " It is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, very droll." Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption : to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the light upon it. Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their "back hair." However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night ; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glim- mering away like a gigantic lighthouse, in a particularly small piece of water. " Bless my soul," thought Mr. Pickwick, " how very dreadful !" " Hem !" said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with auto- maton-like rapidity. " I never met with anything so awful as this." — thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his night-cap. " Never. This is fearful.'' It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair, and carefully enveloped it in a muslin night-cap with a small plaited border, and was gazing pensively on the fire. " This matter is growing alarming " — reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. " I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it's clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, she'll alarm the house, but if I remain here, the consequence will be still more frightful!" He shrank behind the curtains, and called out very loudly : — " Ha-hum." That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling up against the rush-light shade ; that she persuaded herself it must 378 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pick- wick, under the impression that she had fainted away, stone-dead from fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before. " Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. " Ha-hum." " Gracious Heaven I" said the middle-aged lady, "what's that?" " It's — it's — only a gentleman, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick from behind the curtains. " A gentleman !" said the lady with a terrific scream. " It's all over," thought Mr. Pickwick* " A strange man," shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door. "Ma'am" — said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his desperation, " Ma'am." " Wretch," — said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, " what do you want here ?" "Nothing, Ma'am — nothing whatever, Ma'am;" said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly. " Nothing !" said the lady, looking up. " Nothing, Ma'am, upon my honor," said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his night-cap danced again. " I am almost ready to sink, Ma'am, because of the confusion of addressing a lady in my night-cap (here the lady hastily snatched off her's), but I can't get it off, Ma'am, (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statement). It is evident to me, Ma'am, now, that I have mistaken this bed-room for my own. I had not been here five minutes, Ma'am, when you suddenly entered it." " If this improbable story be really true, sir," — said the lady, sobbing violently, "you will leave it instantly." " I will, Ma'am, with the greatest pleasure," — replied Mr. Pickwick. " Instantly, sir," said the lady. " Certainly, Ma'am," interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. " Cer- tainly, Ma'am. I — I — am very sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, " to have been the innocent occa- sion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, Ma'am." The lady pointed to the door. " I am exceedingly sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. " If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the lady. " Immediately, Ma'am ; this instant, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 379 opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing. " I trust, Ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again, " I trust, Ma'am, that my unblemished charac- ter, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this " — but before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him. MERCY. W. SHAKSPEARE. ^HE quality of mercy is not strained ; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown ; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power Th' attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, — It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's "When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this — That in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; And that same prayer should teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. CAROLINE E. NORTON. &ORD was brought to the Danish king, (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suf- fering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring ; (0 ! ride as though you were flying !) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl ; And his Rose of the Isles is dying. Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; (Hurry ! ) Each one mounted a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need ; (0 ! ride as though you were flying ! ) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; Worn-out chargers struggled and sank-. Bridles were slackened, and girtns were burst: But ride as they would, the king rode first ; For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. His nobles are beaten, one by one ; (Hurry !) They have fainted, and faltered, and home- ward gone ; nis little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage crying. The kins looked back at that faithful child ; 380 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. Wan was the face that answering smiled. They passed the draw-bridge with clattering din: Then he dropped ; and the king alone rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For, dead in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying. The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; (Silence !) No answer came, but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide ; The panting steed with a drooping crest Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eyeing, BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 381 The tears gushed forth, which he strove check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck ; to " 0, steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, To the halls where my love lay dying !" THE NYMPH 1 8 REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. SIR. WALTER RALEIGH. )F that the world and love were young, ) And truth in every shepherd's tongue, l These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, — In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. BETSY AND I ARE OUT WILL. M. CARLETON. RAW up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout, For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out, — We who have worked together so long as man and wife T* Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat'ral life. I "What is the matter," says you? I swan it's hard to tell ! Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well ; I have no other woman — she has no other man; Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me ; And we've agreed together that we can never agree ; Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime ; We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a time. There was a stock of temper we both had for a start ; Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us two apart ; I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone, And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own. 382 BETSY AND I ARE OUT. The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed, "Was somethin' concerning heaven — a differ- ence in our creed ; We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed the thing at tea — And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we couldn't agree. And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow ; She had kicked the bucket, for certain — the question was only — How ? I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad. And the next that I remember, it started in a joke ; But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl; And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul. And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way ; Always somethin' to ar'ge and something sharp to say, — And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o' dozen strong, And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. And there have been days together — and many a weary week — When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak ; And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the summer and fall, If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all. And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me ; And we have agreed together that we can never agree ; And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine ; And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign. Write on the paper, lawyer — the very first paragraph — Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half; For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day, And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay, Give her the house and homestead ; a man can thrive and roam, But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home. And I have always determined, and never failed to say, That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away. There's a little hard money besides, that's drawin' tol'rable pay, A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day, — Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at ; Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' her so much ; Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such ; True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young, And Betsy was always good to me exceptin' with her tongue. When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps, For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps ; And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken down, And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town. Once when I had a fever — I won't forget it soon — I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon — Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight ; BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 383 She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night. And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen. And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her acts, Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other facts. So draw up the paper, lawyer ; and I'll go home to-night, And read the agreement to her, and see if it's all right ; And then in the morning I'll sell to a tradin' man I know — And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go. And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't occur ; That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her, And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, When she and I was happy, before we quar- relled so, And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me ; And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll then agree ; And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer If we loved each other the better because we've quarrelled here. BETSY DESTBOYS TEE BABEB. f 'VE brought back the paper, lawyer, and fetched the parson here, To see that things are regular, and settled up fair and clear ; For I've been talking with Caleb, and Caleb has with me, And the 'mount of it is we're minded to try once more to agree. So I came here on the business, — only a word to say (Caleb is staking pea-vines, and couldn't come to-day.) Just to tell you and parson how that we've changed our mind ; So I'll tear up the paper, lawyer, you see it wasn't signed. And now if parson is ready, I'll walk with him toward home ; I want to thank him for something, 'twas kind of him to come ; He's showed a Christian spirit, stood by us firm and true ; We mightn't have changed our mind, squire, if he'd been a lawyer too. There ! — how good the sun feels, and the grass, and blowin' trees, Something about them lawyers makes me feel fit to freeze ; I wasn't bound to state particular to that man, But it's right you should know, parson, about our change of plan. We'd been some days a waverin' a little, Caleb and me, And wished the hateful paper at the bottom of the sea ; But I guess 'twas the prayer last evening, and the few words you said, That thawed the ice between us, and brought things to a head. You see, when we came to division, there was things that wouldn't divide ; There was our twelve-year-old baby, she couldn't be satisfied To go with one or the other, but just kept whimperin' low, " I'll stay with papa and mamma, and where they go I'll go." 384 BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. Then there was grandsire's Bible — he died on our wedding day ; We couldn't halve the old Bible, and should it go or stay ? The sheets that was Caleb's mother's, her sampler on the wall, With the sweet old names worked in — Try- phena, and Eunice, and Paul. It began to be hard then, parson, but it grew harder still, Talkin' of Caleb established down at McHenry'sville ; Three dollars a week 'twould cost him ; no mendin' nor sort of care, And board at the Widow Meacham's, a woman that wears false hair. Still we went on a talkin' ; I agreed to knit some socks, And make a dozen striped shirts, and a pair of wa'mus frocks ; And he was to cut a doorway from the kit- chen to the shed : " Save you climbing steps much in frosty weather," he said. He brought me the pen at last ; I felt a sinkin' and he Looked as he did with the agur, in the spring of sixty -three. 'Twas then you dropped in, parson, 'twasn't much that was said, , " Little children, love one another," but the thing was killed stone dead. I should like to make confession ; not that I'm going to say The fault was all on my side, that never was my way, But it may be true that women — tho' how 'tis I can't see — Are a trifle more aggravatin' than men know how to be. Then, parson, the neighbors' meddlin' — it wasn't pourin, oil ; And the church a laborin' with us, 'twas worse than wasted toil ; And I've thought and so has Caleb, though maybe we are wrong, If they'd kept to their own business, we should have got along. There was Deacon Amos Purdy, a good man. as we know, But hadn't a gift of laborin' except with the scythe and hoe ; Then a load came over in peach time from. the Wilbur neighborhood, " Season of prayer," they called it ; didn't do an atom of good. Then there are pints of doctrine, and views of a future state I'm willing to stop discussin' ; we can both afford to wait; 'Twon't bring the millenium sooner, disputin' about when it's due, Although I feel an assurance that's mine's the Scriptural view. But the blessedest truths of the Bible, I've learned to think don't lie In the texts we hunt with a candle to prove our doctrines by, But them that come to us in sorrow, and when we're on our knees ; So if Caleb won't argue on free-will, I'll leave alone the decrees. But there's the request he made ; you know it, parson, about Bein' laid under the maples that his own. hand set out, And me to be laid beside him when my turn comes to go ; As if — as if — don't mind me ; but 'twas that unstrung me so. And now, that some scales, as we think, have fallen from our eyes, And things brought so to a crisis have made us both more wise, Why Caleb says and so I say, till the Lord parts him and me, We'll love each other better, and try our best to agree. CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 385 ANNIE LA UEIE. JPWgAXWELTON braes are bonnie ^ Where early fa's the dew, : "* s *gC£ ] And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true, — Gie'd me her promise true, "Which ne'er forgot will be ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snaw- drift; Her throat is like the swan ; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on, — That e'er the sun shone on; And dark blue is her e'e ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; And like the winds in summer Her voice is low and sweet, — Her voice is low and sweet ; And she's a' the world to me ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. sighing, CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. SHE relation of the Desert to its modern inhabitants is still illustra- te tive of its ancient history. The general name by which the Hebrews called " the wilderness," including always that of Sinai, was "the pasture." Bare as the surface of the Desert is, yet the thin clothing of vegetation, which is seldom entirely withdrawn, especially the aromatic shrubs on the high hillsides, furnish suffi- cient sustenance for the herds of the six thousand Bedouins who constitute the present population of the peninsula. "Along the mountain ledges green, The scatter'd sheep at will may glean The Desert's spicy stores." So were they seen following the daughters or the shepherd-slaves of Jethro. So may they be seen climbing the rocks, or gathered round the pools and springs of the valleys, under the charge of the black-veiled Bedouin women of the present day. And in the Tiyaha, Towara, or Alouin tribes, with their chiefs and followers, their dress, and manners, and habi- tations, we probably see the likeness of the Midianites, the Amalekites, and the Israelites themselves in this their earliest stage of existence. The long strait lines of black tents which cluster round the Desert springs, 25 386 CHILDREN OF THE DESER'i. present to us ; on a small scale, the image of the vast encampment gathered round the one sacred tent which, with its coverings of dyed skins, stood conspicuous in the midst, and which recalled the period of their nomadic life long after their settlement in Palestine. The deserted villages, marked by rude enclosures of stone, are doubtless such as those to which the Hebrew wanderers gave the name of " Hazeroth," and which afterwards furnished MIRAGE IN THE DESEET. the type of the primitive sanctuary at Shiloh. The rude burial-grounds, with the many nameless head-stones, far away from human habitation, are such as the host of Israel must have left behind them at the different stages of their progress — at Massah, at Sinai, at Kibroth-hattaavah, " the graves of desire." The salutations of the chiefs, in their bright scarlet robes, the one " going out to meet the other," the " obeisance," the "kiss" on each side of the head, the silent entrance into the tent for consultations, are all graphically described in the encounter between Moses and Jethro. The ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 387 constitution of the tribes, with the subordinate degrees of sheiks, recom- mended by Jethro to Moses, is the very same which still exists amongst those who are possibly his lineal descendants — the gentle race of the Towara. NEW YEARS EVE. ALFRED TENNYSON. gSfe: fINGr out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light ; "7 The year is dying in the night ; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new ; Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; The year is going, le't him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land ; Ring in the Christ that is to be. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. W. C. BRYANT. MERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his ?name : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers, Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband singa, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; 388 A PORTRAIT. Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well. Thieves and robbers, while I am here. Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Chee, chee, chee. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Modest and shy as a nun is she, This new life is likely to be One weak chirp is her only note, Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Chee, chee, chee. Pouring boasts from his little throat ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Robert of Lincoln at length is made Spink, spank, spink ; Sober with work and silent with care ; Never was I afraid of man ; Off is his holiday garment laid, Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. Half- forgotten that merry air, Chee, chee, chee. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; -Six white eggs on a "bed of hay, Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might : Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Spink, spank, spink ; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : Keeping house while I frolic about. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Chee, chee, chee. Spink, spank, spink ; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Soon as the little ones chip the shell Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Six wide mouths are open for food ; Chee, chee, chee. A PORTRAIT. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 'One name is Elizabeth."— Ben Jonsos. WILL paint her as I see her, Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun. And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty. Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air ; And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. Face and figure of a child, — Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her. Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, — waiting still On the turnings of your will. Moving light, as all your things, As young birds, or early wheat, . When the wind blows over it. Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure, — Taking love for her chief pleasure. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 389 Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly, — just as she, When she nestles at your knee. Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks, — Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are. And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals. And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round the hair. And if reader read the poem, He would whisper, " You have done a Consecrated little Una." And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, " 'Tis my angel with a name !" And a stranger, when he sees her In the street even, smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily. And all voices that address her Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird. And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she passes, With the thymy -scented grasses. And all hearts do pray, " God love her !" Ay, and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure He doth. THE LA UNCHING OF THE SHIP. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. - ^j^ , — fjfiC&IAj is finished, and at length y™l^| Has come the bridal day ^g^f Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched ! •£ With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched ! J And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest, And far and wide With ceaseless flow His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea. Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand ; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see ! she stirs ! 390 TACITUS. She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms. And lo ! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, "Take her, 0, bridegroom, old and gray ; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms." How beautiful she is ! how fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, 0, ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer, The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Sail forth into the sea of life, Oh gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity, Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be ! For gentleness, and love, and trust, Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives ! Thou, too, sail on, ship of State ! Sail on, Union, strong and great ! Humanity, with all its fears, With all its hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel What workman wrought thy ribs of steel. Who made each mast, and sail and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, in what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; 'Tis but the napping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale. In spite of rock and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee — are all with thee. TACITUS. T. BABINGTON MACAULAY. \N the delineation of character, Tacitus is unrivalled among historians, and has very few superiors among dramatists and novelists. By the delineation of character we do not mean the practice of drawing up epigrammatic catalogues of good and bad qualities, and append i ing them to the names of eminent men. No writer indeed has done J this more skillfully than Tacitus ; but this is not his peculiar glory. All the persons who occupy a large space in his works have an individual- ity of character which seems to pervade all their words and actions. We know them as if we had lived with them. Claudius, Nero, Otho, both the Agrippinas, are masterpieces. But Tiberius is a still higher miracle of art. The historian undertook to make us intimately acquainted with a man singularly dark and inscrutable — whose real disposition long remain- CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 391 ed swathed up in intricate folds of factitious virtues, and over whose actions the hypocrisy of his youth and the seclusion of his old age threw a singular mystery. He was to exhibit the specious qualities of the tyrant in a light which might render them transparent, and enable us at once to perceive the covering and the vices which it concealed. He was to trace the gradations by which the first magistrate of a republic, a senator mingling freely in debate, a noble associating with his brother nobles, was trans- formed into an Asiatic sultan ; he was to exhibit a character distinguished by courage, self-command, and profound policy, yet defiled by all " th' extravagancy And crazy ribaldry of fancy." He was to mark the gradual effect of advancing age and approaching death on this strange compound of strength and weakness ; to exhibit the old sovereign of the world sinking into a dotage which, though it rendered his appetites eccentric and his temper savage, never impaired the powers of his stern and penetrating mind, conscious of failing strength, raging with capricious sensuality, yet to the last the keenest of observers, the most artful of dissemblers, and the most terrible of masters. The task was one of extreme difficulty. The execution is almost perfect. CATO ON IMMORTALITY. JOSEPH ADDISON. \T must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well ! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and in- ward horror, Of falling into naught ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; "Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, And intimates eternity to man Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us, — And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works, He must delight in virtue ; And that which He delights in must be happy, But when ? or where ? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. [Laying his hand on his sword.] 392 THE SANDS 0' DEE. Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me, This in a moment brings me to my end ; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secure in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years ; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 0KB THE SANDS 0' DEE. CHARLES KINGSLEY. MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o'Dee ! The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see ; The blinding mist came down and hid the land, And never home came she. " is it weed, or fish, or floating hair r A tress o' golden hair, 0' drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair„ Among the stakes on Dee. They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o* Dee. NELL. 393 NELL. ROBERT BUCHANAN. ^OUTIE a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind and true ! God will be good to faithful folk like you ! You knew my Ned ! A better, kinder lad never drew breath. We loved, each other true, and we were wed In church, like some who took him to his death ; A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost His senses when he took a drop too much. Drink did it all — drink made him mad when crossed — He was a poor man, and they're hard on such. Nan ! that night ! that night ! When I was sitting in this very chair, Watching and waiting in the candle-light, And heard his foot come creaking up the stair, And turned, and saw him standing yonder, white And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair ! And when I caught his arm and called, in fright, He pushed me, swore, and to the door he To lock and bar it fast. Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter, And— Nan ! — just then the light seemed grow- ing brighter, And I could see the hands that held his head, All red ! all bloody red ! What could I do but scream ? He groaned to hear, Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the wrist ; " Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell !" he hissed. And I was still, for fear. " They're after me — I've knifed a man !" he said. "Be still! — the drink — drink did it! — he is dead !" Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't weep ; All I could do was cling to Ned and hark, And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, But breathing hard and deep. The candle flickered out — the room grew dark — And — Nan! — although my heart was true and tried — When all grew cold and dim, I shuddered — not for fear of them outside, But just afraid to be alone with him. "Ned! Ned!" I whispered — and he moaned and shook, But did not heed or look ! "Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true !" At that he raised his head and looked so wild ; Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw His arms around me, crying like a child, And held me close — and not a word was spoken, While I clung tighter to his heart, and pressed him, And did not fear him, though my heart was broken, But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed him. Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold With sound o' falling rain- When I could see his face, and it looked old, Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain ; Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun, We never thought to hide away or run, Until we heard those voices in the street, That hurrying of feet, 394 THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had come. " Run, Ned !" I cried, but he was deaf and dumb !" " Hide, Ned !" I screamed, and held him ; " hide thee, man !" He stared with bloodshot eyes, and heark- ened, Nan ! And all the rest is like a dream — the sound Of knocking at the door — A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — A mist — a tramp — a roar ; For when I got my senses back again, The room was empty — and my head went round ! God help him ! God will help him ! Ay, no fear ! It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no wrong ; So kind ! so good ! — and I am useless here, Now he is lost that loved me true and long. . . . That night before he died I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried ; But when the clocks went " one," I took my shawl To cover up my face, and stole away, And walked along the silent streets, where all Looked cold and still and gray, And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square, But just as "three" was sounded close at hand I started and turned east, before I knew, Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the Strand, And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. Some men and lads went by, And turning round, I gazed, and watched 'em go, Then felt that they were going to see him die, And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow. More people passed me, a country cart with hay Stopped close beside me, and two or three Talked about it I I moaned and crept away ! Next came a hollow sound I knew full well, For something gripped me round the heart ! — and then There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! God ! God ! how could I sit close by, And neither scream nor cry ? As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, 1 listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled, And the day brightened, and his time had come . . . . . Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, but the knell Of the slow bell ! And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, And what I waited for I couldn't tell — At last there came a groaning deep and great — Saint Paul's struck " eight " — I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and fell ! THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. PEBCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. IIJOETBY is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feeling, sometimes associated with place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond all expression ; so that, even in the desire and the regret ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 395 they leave, there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object. It is, as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own ; but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, which the morning calm erases, and whose traces remain only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions of being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most enlarged imagination ; and the state of mind produced by them is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriot- ism, and friendship, is essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined organization, but they can colour all that they combine with the evanes- cent hues of this ethereal world ; a word, a trait in the representation of a scene or passion, will touch the enchanted chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever experienced those emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the huried image of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions which haunt the interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide — abide, because there is no portal of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations pf the divinity in man. ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PEA YER. SOPHIA P. SNOW. fWAS the eve before Christmas, " Good- night" had been said ; And Annie and Willie had crept into bed ; There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, For to-night their stern father's command had been given That they should retire precisely at seven — Instead of at eight — for they troubled him more With questions unheard of than ever before : He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, No such creature as " Santa Claus " ever had been, And he hoped, after this, he should never- more hear How he scrambled down chimneys with pre- sents each year. And this was the reason that two little heads So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten, 396 ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. Not a word had been spoken by either till then, When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, As he whispered, " Dear Annie, is 'ou fast aseep?" " Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, " I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes, For somehow it makes me so sorry because Dear papa has said there is no ' Santa Claus.' Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, For he came every year before mamma died ; But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray, And God would hear everything mamma would say, And maybe she asked Him to send Santa Claus here With the sack full of presents he brought every year." " Well, why tan't we pray dest as Mamma did den, And ask Dod to send him with presents aden ?" " I've been thinking so, too," and without a word more Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. " Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive ; You must wait just as still till I say the- ' Amen,' And by that you will know that your turn has come then." " Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, And grant us the favor we are asking of Thee. I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, And an ebony work-box, that shuts with a. spring. Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see,. That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he : Don't let him get fretful and angry again At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen." " Please, Desus, et Santa Taus turn down to- night, And bing us some presents before it is ight ; I want he should div' me a nice 'ittle sed, With bright shinin' unners, and all painted. red ; A box full of tandy, a book and a toy, Amen, and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads And with hearts light and cheerful, again. sought their beds. They were soon lost in slumber, both peace- ful and deep, And with fairies in Dreamland were roaming in sleep. Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten, Ere the father had thought of his children again. He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs, And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. " I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, " And should not have sent them so early to bed; But then I was troubled ; my feelings found vent, For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. But of course they've forgotten their troubles- ere this, ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 397 And that I denied them their thrice-asked-for kiss ; •But just to make sure, I'll steal up to their door, For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers ; His Annie's " Bless Papa " drew forth the big tears, And "Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears "Strange — strange — I'd forgotten," said he, with a sigh, * How I longed when a child to have Christ- mas draw nigh. " "I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said; " By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed." Then turned to the stairs and softly went down, Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing- gown, Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in the street — A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet ! Nor stopped he until he had bought every- thing, From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. Indeed he kept adding so much to his store, That the various presents outnumbered a - score ; Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load, With Aunt Mary's help in the nursery was stowed. Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, By the side of a table spread out for her tea ; A work-box well filled in the centre was laid, And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed : A soldier in uniform stood by a sled, " With bright shining runners and all painted red." There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, And birds of all colors were perched in the tree ; While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top, As if getting ready more presents to drop. And as the fond father the picture surveyed, He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid ; And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear, " I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year; I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before, What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent. more ! Hereafter, I'll make it a rule, I believe, To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, And, tripping down stairs, retired for the night. As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one, Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, And at the same moment the presents espied ; Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. They laughed and they cried in their inno- cent glee, And shouted for papa to come quick and see What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night, (Just the things that they wanted), and left before light : " And now," added Annie, in voice soft and low, " You'll believe there's a ' Santa Claus,' papa, I know ;" While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee, Determined no secret between them should be, 398 BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. And told in soft whispers how Annie had And knew just what presents my children said would please. That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago (Well, well let him think so, the dear little dead, elf, Used to kneel down and pray by the side of 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it my- her chair, self!" And that God up in heaven had answered Blind father ! who caused your stern heart to her prayer. relent, " Den we dot up and prayed dust as well as And the hasty words spoken, so soon to we tould, repent ? And Dod answered our prayers ; now wasn't 'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly He dood ?" up stairs, '• I should say that He was, if He sent you And make you His agent to answer their all these, prayers. BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. J. G. SAXE. 'T was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind,) That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The First approached the Elephant, And, happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl : " God bless me ! but the Elephant Is very like a wall!" The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried : " Ho ! what have we here So very round and smooth and sharp ? To me 'tis mighty clear NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. 399 This wonder of an Elephant The Sixth no sooner had begun Is very like a spear !" About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail The Third approached the animal, That fell within his scope, And, happening to take " I see," quoth he, " the Elephant The squirming trunk within his hands, Is very like a rope !" Thus boldly up and spake : " I see," quoth he, " the Elephant Is very like a snake !" And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, The Fourth reached out his eager hand, Each in his own opinion And felt about the knee : Exceeding stiff and strong, " What most this wondrous beast is like Though each was partly in the right,. Is mighty plain," quoth he ; And all were in the wrong ! '"Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree ! " MORAL. The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, So, oft in theologic wars Said : " E'en the blindest man The disputants, I ween, Can tell what this resembles most ; Rail on in utter ignorance Deny the fact who can, Of what each other mean, This marvel of an Elephant And prate about an Elephant Is very like a fan !" Not one of them has seen ! NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS 1 HALL. CHARLES DICKENS. |[HE news that the fugitive had been caught and brought back ran like wildfire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it remained until the afternoon, when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner and an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner), with a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new. " Is every boy here ?" Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak ; so Squeers glared along the lines to assure himself. " Each boy keep his place. Nickleby ! you go to your desk, sir !" There was a curious expression in the usher's face ; but he took his seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar — or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where his collar ought to have been. 400 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. " Now, what have you got to say for yourself? (Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear ; I've hardly got room enough.) " " Spare me, sir!" " Oh, that's all you've got to say, is it ? Yes, I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that." One cruel blow had fallen on him, when Nicholas Nickleby cried, "Stop!" " Who cried stop ?" "I did. This must not go on." " Must not go on !" "No! Must not ! Shall not ! I will prevent it ! You have dis- regarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's behalf ; you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon your- self, not I." " Sit down, beggar !" " "Wretch, touch him again at your peril ! I will not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as you. By Heaven ! I will not spare you, if you drive me on ! I have a series of personal insults to avenge, and my indignation is aggravated by the cruelties practiced in this foul den. Have a care ; for if you raise the devil in me, the consequences will fall heavily upon your head !" Squeers, in a violent outbreak, spat at him, and struck him a blow across the face. Nicholas instantly sprang upon him, wrested his weapon from his hand, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy. He flung him away with all the force he could muster, and the vio- lence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers over an adjacent form; Squeers, striking his head against the same form in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless. Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and having ascer- tained, to his satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas packed up a few clothes in a small valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front door, and struck into the road. Then such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys' Hall had never echoed before, and would never respond to again. When the sound had died away, the school was empty ; and of the crowd of boys not one remained. CLERICAL WIT. 401 A KISS AT THE DOOR. E were standing in the doorway, My little wife and I ; The golden sun upon her hair Fell down so silently ; A small white hand upon my arm, — What could I ask for more Than the kindly glance of loving eyes, As she kissed me at the door ? I know she loves with all her heart The one who stands "beside, And the years have been so joyous, Since first I called her bride ; We've had so much of happiness Since we met in years before, But the happiest time of all was when She kissed me at the door. Who cares for wealth of land or gold, For fame or matchless power ? It does not give the happiness Of just one little hour With one who loves me as her life — She says she loves me more — And I thought she did this morning, When she kissed me at the door. At times it seems that all the world, With all its wealth of gold, Is very small and poor indeed, Compared with what I hold ; And when the clouds hang grim and dark, I only think the more Of one who waits the coming step To kiss me at the door. If she lives till age shall scatter Its frosts upon her head, I know she'll love me just the same As the morning we were wed ; But if the angels call her, And she goes to heaven before, I shall know her when I meet her, — For she'll kiss me at the door. CLERICAL WIT PARSON, who a missionary had been, And hardships and privations oft had seen, While wandering far on lone and desert strands, Awsary traveler in benighted lands, Would often picture to his little flock The terrors of the gibbet and the block ; How martyrs suffer'd in the ancient times, And what men suffer now in other climes ; And though his words were eloquent and His hearers oft indulged themselves in sleep. He marked with sorrow each unconscious nod, Within th* portals of the house of God, And once this new expedient thought he'd take In his discourse, to keep the rogues awake — 26 Said he, " While traveling m a distant state, I witness'd scenes which I will here relate : 'Twas in a deep, uncultivated wild, Where noontide glory scarcely ever smiled ; Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness howl'd — Where bears frequented, and where panthers prowl' d ; And, on my word, mosquitoes there were found, Many of which, I think, would weigh a pound ! More fierce and ravenous than the hungry shark — They oft were known to climb the trees and bark ! " The audience seem'd taken by surprise — All started up and rubbed their wondering eyes ; 402 THE MURDERED TRAVELER. At such a tale they all were much amazed, Each drooping lid was in an instant raised, And we must say, in keeping heads erect, It had its destined and desired effect. But tales like this credulity appall'd ; Next day, the deacons on the pastor call'd, And begg'd to know how he could ever tell The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell. M Why, sir," said one, " think what a mons- trous weight ! Were they as large as you were pleased to state ? You said they'd weigh a pound ! It can't be true ; We'll not believe it, though 'tis told by you ! " " Ah, but it is ! " the parson quick replied ; " In what I stated you may well confide ; Many, I said, sir — and the story's good — Indeed I think that many of them would ! " The deacon saw at once that he was caught, Yet deem'd himself relieved, on second thought. " But then the barking — think of that, good man ; Such monstrous lies! Explain it if you can !" " Why, that, my friend, I can explain with They climbed the bark, sir, when they climbed the trees!" THE POETS REWARD. JOHN G. WHITTIER. " p^HANKS untraced to lips unknown | Shall greet me like the odors blown From unseen meadows newly mown, Or lilies floating in some pond, Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; The traveler owns the grateful sense Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, And, pausing, takes with forehead bare The benediction of the air. THE MURDERED TRAVELER. WILLIAM C. BRYANT. HEN spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again ; The murdered traveler's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen. The fragrant birch, above him, hun£ Her tassels in the sky ; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded careless by. The red bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead ; And fearless, near the fatal spot. Her young the partridge led. But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day. Were sorrowful and dim. They little knew, who loved him so. The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow Unarmed and hard beset; THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 403 Nor how, when round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red, The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead ; But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home ; And dreamed, and started as they slept, For joy that he was come. Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. Long, long they looked — but never spied His welcome step again. Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen. THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. OOD morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been ; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible 404 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. time with the ear-ache last night ; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst kind of a narvous headache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived. Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. ( Coughs) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side ? Then I have a crick at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.) Oh, dear ! what shall I do ! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. (Coughs) Oh this cough — it will be the death of me yet ! You know I had my ' right hip put out last fall at .the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; it's getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I r m so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion. What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week ? Why, the weacked old critter,, she kept a backing and hacking, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.) But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day — and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood — you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself. I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out — as it was a raining at the time — but I thought I'd risk it anyhow. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes — and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar jandars." (Coughs.) FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 405 THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. JOHN G. WHITTIEE. , ^4^ — u i^^S-, lady fair, these silks of mine HOIk Are beautiful and rare, j^HgNf, The richest web of the Indian loom, Which beauty's queen might wear. •f And these pearls are pure and mild J to behold, And with radiant light they vie ; I have brought them with me a weary way, Will my gentle lady buy ? " And the lady smiled on the worn old man, Through the dark and clustering curls, Which veiled her brow as she bent to view His silks and glittering pearls ; And she placed their price in the old man's hand, And lightly turned away ; But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call, " My gentle lady, stay ! " " Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem Which a purer lustre flings Than the diamond flash of the jeweled crown On the lofty brow of kings ; A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, Whose virtue shall not decay ; Whose light shall be as a spell to thee, And a blessing on thy way ! " The lady glanced at the mirroring steel Where her form of grace was seen, Where her eyes shone clear and her dark locks waved Their clasping pearls between. " Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, Thou traveler gray and old ; And name the price of thy precious gem, And my pages shall count thy gold." The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, As a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, From his folding robe he took. " Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price; May it prove as such to thee ! Nay, keep thy gold ; I ask it not ; For the Word of God is free." The hoary traveler went his way ; But the gift he left behind Hath had its pure and perfect work On that high-born maiden's mind ; And she hath turned from the pride of sin To the lowliness of truth, And given her human heart to God, In its beautiful hour of youth. And she hath left the gray old halls Where an evil faith had power ; The courtly knights of her father's train, And the maidens of her bower ; And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales, By lordly feet untrod, Where the poor and needy of earth are rich In the perfect love of God. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. THOMAS HOOD. EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms ; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms. Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, " Let others shoot ; For here I have my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot." 406 JOHN MAYNARD. The army-surgeons made him limbs ; And now you cannot wear your shoes Said he, " They're only pegs ; Upon your feats of arms !" But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs." " false and fickle Nellie Gray ! I know why you refuse ; Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, — Though I've no feet, some other man Her name was Nelly Gray ; Is standing in my shoes. So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay. " I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! But when he called on Nelly Gray ; For you will be my death ; — alas ! She made him quite a scoff ; You will not be my Nell !" And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off. Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got, " Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! And life was such a burden grown, Is this your love so warm ? It made him take a knot. The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform." So round his melancholy neck A rope he did intwine, Said she, " I loved a soldier once, And, for his second time in life, For he was blithe and brave ; Enlisted in the line. But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave. One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs ; " Before you had those timber toes And, as his legs were off, — of course Your love I did allow ; He soon was off his legs. But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now." And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town ; " Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! For, though distress had cut him up, For all your jeering speeches, It could not cut him down. At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches." A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died, — " Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, Of legs in war's alarms, With a stake in his inside. JOHN MA YNARD. H. ALGER, JR. I WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse, One bright midsummer day, The gallant steamer Ocean Queen Swept proudly on her way. Bright faces clustered on the deck, Or leaning o'er the side, Watched carelessly the feathery foam, That flecked the rippling tide. Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, That smiling bends serene, Could dream that danger, awful, vast, Impended o'er the scene — Could dream that ere an hour had sped, That frame of sturdy oak Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, Blackened with fire and smoke ? JOHN MAYNARD. 407 A seaman sought the captain's side, A moment whispered low ; The captain's swarthy face grew pale, He hurried down below Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp And clear his orders came, No human effort could avail To quench the insidious flame- The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip, And ghastly faces everywhere Looked from the doomed ship. " Is there no hope — no chance of life ?" A hundred lips implore : " But one,'' the captain made reply, " To run the ship on shore." No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, Or clouds his dauntless eye, As in a sailor's measured tone His voice responds, " Ay, Ay !" Three hundred souls, — the steamer's freight- Crowd forward wild with fear, While at the stern the dreadful flames Above the deck appear. John Maynard watched the nearing flames, But still with steady hand He grasped the wheel and steadfastly He steered the ship to land. "John Maynard," with an anxious voice, The captain cries once more, " Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, And we will reach the shore.'' A sailor, whose heroic soul That hour should yet reveal — By name John Maynard, eastern born, Stood calmly at the wheel. " Head her southeast!" the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar " Head her southeast without delay ! Make for the nearest shore!'' Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly, still Unawed, though face to face with death, " With God's good help I will!" The flames approach with giant strides, They scorch his hands and brow ; 408 WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS. One arm disabled seeks his side, Ah, he is conquered now ! But no, his teeth are firmly set, He crushes down the pain, — His knee upon the staunchion pressed, He guides the ship again. One moment yet ! one moment yet ! Brave heart thy task is o'er ! The pebbles grate beneath the keel, The steamer touches shore. Three hundred grateful voices rise, In praise to God that He Hath saved them from the fearful fire, And from the engulfing sea. But where is he, that helmsman bold ? The captain saw him reel — His nerveless hands released their task, He sunk beside the wheel. The waves received his lifeless corpse, Blackened with smoke and fire. God rest him ! Hero never had A nobler funeral pyre ! WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND, 1776. JP|HE time is now near at hand, which must probably determine whether g|il§ Americans are to be freemen or slaves; whether they are to have "*W~ any property they can cajl their own ; whether their houses and t farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned J to a state of wretchedness, from which no human efforts will deliver them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance, or the most abject sub- mission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or to die. Our own, our country's honour, calls upon us for a vigorous and manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our cause, and the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all our countrymen are now upon us, and we shall have their blessings and praises, if happily we are the instruments of saving them from the tyranny meditated against them. Let us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show the whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on his own ground, is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth. Liberty, property, life, and honour are all at stake ; upon your cou- rage and conduct rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country ; our wives, children, and parents expect safety from us only; and they have every reason to believe that Heaven will crown with success so just a cause. A SNOW-STORM. 409 The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance ; but remember they have been repulsed on various occasions by a few brave Americans. Their cause is bad — their men are conscious of it ; and, if opposed with firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our advantage of works and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and attentive — wait for orders — and re- serve his fire until he is sure of doing execution. A SNOW-STORM. CHARLES G. EASTMAN. t efo* T I. IS a fearful night in the winter time, As cold as it ever can be ;' The roar of the blast is heard, like the chime Of the waves on an angry sea ; The moon is full, but her silver light The storm dashes out with its wings to-night ; And over the sky from south to north Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth In the strength of a mighty glee. II. -all day, All day had the snow come down- As it never came down before ; And over the hills, at sunset, lay Some two or three feet, or more ; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone, 410 A SNOW-STORM. The windows blocked, and the well-curbs gone ; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, As it lay by the farmer's door. The night sets in on a world of snow, While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a fearful blow Is heard on the distant hill ; And the Norther ! See — on the mountain peak, In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek, He shouts on the plain, Ho, ho ! Ho, ho ! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will. His nose is pressed on his quivering feet ; Pray, what does the dog do there ? A farmer came from the village plain, But he lost the traveled way ; And for hours he trod, with might and main, A path for his horse and sleigh ; But colder still the eold wind blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, At last in her struggles floundered down, Where a log in a hollow lay. In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow, While her master urged, till his breath grew short, ■ill in. Such a night as this to be found abroad, In the drifts and the freezing air, Sits a shivering dog in the field by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair ! He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls ; He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; Then crouching low from the cutting sleet, With a word and a gentle blow ; But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight, His hands were numb, and had lost their might ; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day, With his coat and the buffalo. WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 411 IV. He has given the last faint jerk cf the rein To rouse up his dying steed, And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, For help in his master's need ; For a while he strives, with a wistful cry, To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, And whines when he takes no heed. The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er 'Tis the hour of midnight past ; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast ; The silent moon, with her peaceful light, Looks down on the hills, with snow all white; And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, Afar on the plain are cast. But cold and dead, by the hidden log, Are they who came from the town : The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, And his beautiful Morgan brown — In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand, The dog with his nose on his master's feet, And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down. WHY SHOULD THE' SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD WILLIAM KNOX. President Lincoln's Favorite Poem. >H ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast- flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid ; And the young and the old, the low and the high Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved ; The mother that infant's affection who proved ; The husband that mother and infant who blessed, — Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those who loved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ; The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn; The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep ; The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven ; The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven ; The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 412 CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the They grieved, but no wail from their slum- weed bers will come ; That withers away to let others succeed ; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness So the multitude comes, even those we be- is dumb. hold, To repeat every tale that has often been They died, aye ! they died ; and we things told. that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, For we are the same our fathers have been ; Who make in their dwelling a transient We see the same sights our fathers have abode, seen ; Meet the things that they met on their pil- We drink the same stream, and view the grimage road. same sun, And run the same course our fathers have Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and run. pain, We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; The thoughts we are thinking our fathers And the smiles and the tears, the song and would think ; the dirge, From the death we are shrinking our fathers Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. would shrink ; To the life we are clinging they also would 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a cling ; breath, But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the From the blossom of health to the paleness wing. of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; shroud, — They scorned, but the heart of the haughty Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be is cold ; proud ? CA TIGHT IN THE MAELSTROM, CHARLES A. WILEY. ^N the Arctic ocean near the coast of Norway is situated the famous Maelstrom or whirlpool. Many are the goodly ships that have been caught in its circling power, and plunged into the depths below. On a fine spring morning, near the shore opposite, are gathered a com- J pany of peasants. The winter and the long night have passed away ; and, in accordance with their ancient custom, they are holding a greeting to the return of the sunlight, and the verdure of spring. Under a green shade are spread, in abundance, all the luxuries their pleasant homes could afford. In the grove at one side are heard the strains of music, and the light step of the dance. At the shore lies a beautiful boat, and a party near are preparing for a ride. Soon all things are in readiness, and, amid the cheers of their CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 413 companions on shore, they push gayly away. The day is beautiful, and they row on, and on. Weary, at length, they drop their oars to rest; but they perceive their boat to be still moving. Somewhat surprised, — soon it occurs to them that they are under the influence of the whirlpool. Moving slowly and without an effort — presently faster, at length the boat glides along with a movement far more delightful than with oars. Their friends from the shore perceive the boat moving, and see no working of the oars ; it flashes upon their minds that they are evidently within the circles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them, " Beware of the whirlpool ! " But they laugh at fear, — they are too happy to think of returning: " When we see there is danger then we will return." Oh, that some good angel would come with warning unto them, " Unless ye now turn back ye cannot be saved." Like as the voice of God comes to the soul of the impenitent, "Unless ye mend your ways ye cannot be saved." The boat is now going at a fearful rate ; but, deceived by the moving waters, they are unconscious of its rapidity. They hear the hollow rumbling at the whirlpools centre. The voices from the shore are no longer audible, but every effort is being used to warn them of their danger. They now, for the first time, become conscious of their situation, and head the boat towards shore. But, like a leaf in the autumn gale, she quivers under the power of the whirlpool. Fear drives them to frenzy ! Two of the strongest seize the oars, and ply them with all their strength, and the boat moves towards the shore. With joy they cherish hope ! and some, for the first time in all their lives, now give thanks to God, — that they are saved. But suddenly, crash, goes an oar ! and such a shriek goes up from that ill-fated band, as can only be heard when a spirit lost, drops into perdition ! The boat whirls again into its death-marked channel, and skips on with the speed of the wind. The roar at the centre grinds on their ears, like the grating of prison doors on the ears of the doomed. Clearer, and more deafening is that dreadful roar, as nearer and still nearer the vessel approaches the centre; then whirling for a moment on that awful brink, she plunges with her freight of human souls into that dreadful yawning hollow, where their bodies shall lie in their watery graves till the sea gives up its dead ! And so, every year, ay, every month, thousands, passing along in the boat of life, enter almost unaware the fatal circles of the wine-cup. And, notwithstanding the earnest voices of anxious friends, " Beware of the gutter ! of the grave ! of hell!" they continue their course until the "force of habit" overpowers them; and, cursing and shrieking, they whirl for a time on the crater of the maelstrom, and are plunged below. 414 THE FIRST PARTY. WIND AND RAIN RICHARD H. STODDARD. ;ATTLE the window, Winds ! |§|||§ Rain, drip on the panes ! 8§Mn There are tears and sighs in our hearts and eyes, And a weary weight on our brains. The gray sea heaves and heaves, On the dreary flats of sand ; Arid the blasted limb of the churchyard yew, It shakes like a ghostly hand ! The dead are engulfed beneath it, Sunk in the grassy waves ; But we have more dead in our hearts to-day Than the Earth in all her graves! THE FIRST PARTY. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. ISS Annabel McCarty Was invited to a party, " Your company from four to ten,' the invitation said ; And the maiden was delighted To think she was invited To sit up till the hour when the bi£ folks went to bed. The crazy little midget Ran and told the news to Bridget, Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight, And said, with accents hearty, " 'Twill be the swatest party If ye're there yerself, me darlint ! I wish it was to-night!" The great display of frilling Was positively killing ; And, oh, the little booties ! and the lovely sash so wide ! And the gloves so very cunning ! She was altogether " stunning," And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride. They gave minute directions, With copious interjections Of " sit up straight !" and " don't do this or that — 'twould be absurd !" But, what with their caressing, And the agony of dressing, Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single word. There was music, there was dancing, And the sight was most entrancing, As if fairyland and floral band were holding jubilee ; There was laughing, there was pouting ; There was singiDg, there was shouting ; And old and young together made a carnival of glee. Miss Annabel McCarty Was the youngest at the party, And every one remarked that she was beau- tifully dressed ; Like a doll she sat demurely On the sofa, thinking surely It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest. The noise kept growing louder ; The naughty boys would crowd her ; " I think you're very rude indeed !" the little lady said ; And then, without a warning, Her home instructions scorning, She screamed : " 1 want my supper — and I want to go to bed!" THE SEA-SHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. 415 Now big folks who are older, Need not laugh at her, nor scold her, ifor doubtless, if the truth were known, we've often felt inclined To leave the ball or party, As did Annabel McCarty, Bnt we hadn't half the courage and couldn't speak our mind ! THE SEASHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. HAVE lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains. No, I am not going to say which is best. The one where your place is, is the best for you. But this difference is : you can domesticate mountains, but the sea is ferce naturce. You may have a hut, or know the owner of one, on the mountain-side ; you see a light half-way up its ascent in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share it, You have noted certain trees, perhaps ; you know the particular zone where the hemlocks look so black in October, when the maples and beeches have faded. All its reliefs and intaglios have electro typed themselves in the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory's chamber. The sea remembers nothing. It is feline. It licks your feet, — its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you ; but it will crack your bones and eat you, for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had happened. The mountains give their lost children berries and water ; the sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. The mountains have a grand, stupid, lovable tranquillity ; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelli- gence. The mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs awful to look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver scales 416 THE BAREFOOT BOY. until you cannot see their joints, — but their shining is that of a snake's belly, after all. In deeper suggestiveness I find as great a difference. The mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long gene- rations. The sea drowns out humanity and time ; it has no sympathy with either ; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous song for ever and ever. Yet I should love to have a little box by the sea-shore. I should love to gaze out on the wild feline element from a front window of my own, just as I should love to look on a caged panther, and see it stretch its shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and by-and-by begin to lash itself into rage, and show its white teeth, and spring at its bars, and howl the cry of its mad, but, to me, harmless fury. THE BAREFOOT BOY. JOHN a. WHITTIEE. LESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace! From my heart I give thee joy ; I was once a barefoot boy. Prince thou art — the grown-up man, Only is republican. Let the million-dollar ed ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye : Outward sunshine, inward joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy. ! for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools : Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl, and habitude jf the tenants of the wood : How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy. for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for! 1 was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade , Blessings on thee, little man.' LINES ON A SKELETON. 417 V or my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight, Through the day, and through the night Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too, All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 0, for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude ! O'er me like a regal tent, Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; "While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch ; pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man ! Live and laugh as boyhood can ; Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil, Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy J LINES ON A SKELETON. JEHOLD this ruin ! 'tis a skull, Once of ethereal spirit full ! This narrow cell was life's retreat, This space was thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous pictures filled this epot — What dreams of pleasure, long forgot ! Nor grief, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear, Has left one trace of record there. Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye : Yet start not at that dismal void ; If social love that eye employed, If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dew of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright When stars and sun have lost their light. 27 Here, in this silent cavern, hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; If falsehood's honey it disdained, And, when it could not praise, was chained : If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke, That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee When death unveils eternity. Say, did these fingers delve the mine, Or with its envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock or wear the gem, Can nothing now avail to them : But if the page of truth they sought, And comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that waits on wealth or fame! 418 YAWCOB STRAUSS. Avails it whether bare or shod Those feet the path of duty trod ? If from the bower of joy they To soothe affliction's humble bed If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurnec And home to virtue's lap returned, Those feet with angel wings shall vie. And tread the palace of the sky ! THE EBB-TIDE. -Sfer R. SOUTHEY. >LOWLY thy flowing tide Came in, old Avon ! Scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roamed thy green- wood side, Perceive its gentle rise. "With many a stroke and strong The laboring boatmen upward plie.d their oars ; Yet little way they made, tho' laboring long Between thy winding shores. Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabored boat falls rapidly along ; The solitary helmsman sits to guide, And sings an idle song. Now o'er the rocks that lay So silent late the shallow current roars ; Fast flow thy waters on their seawara way, Through wider-spreading shores. Avon, I gaze and know The lesson emblemed m thy varying way ; It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, So rapidly decay. Kingdoms which long have stood And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high Fortune's flood, They ebb to ruin fast. Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage. Alas ! how hurry ingly the ebbing year=» Then hasten to old age ! YAWCOB STRAUSS. CHARLES F. ADAMS. HAF von funny leedle poy, Vot gomes schust to mine knee ; Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, As efer you dit see. I He runs, und schumps, und schmashes I dings J In all barts off der house : But vot off dot? he vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. He get der measles und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot's oudt ; He sbills mine glass off lager bier, Poots schnuff indo mine kraut. He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, Dot vas der roughest chouse : I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. YAWCOB STRAUSS. 419 He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo, To make der schticks to beat it mit,- Mine cracious dot vas drue ! Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse. How gan I all dose dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup sooch a touse -. But nefer mind ; der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. He asks me questions sooch as dese : Who baints mine nose so red? Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So guiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, " Dake anyding, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 420 ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. CHARLES F. BROWN. ^^iS^" SH AKEB," sed X > "y° u see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to speak, and tie axes a shelter of you." "Yay," said the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another bein sent to put my horse and wagon under kiver. A solum female, lookin somewhat like a last year's bean-pole stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I hunger ? To which I asserted, " A few." She went orf, and I endeavored to open a conversation with the old man. " Elder, I spect," sed I. " Yay," he said. "Health's good, I reckon?" "Yay." " What's the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness— or do you devote your sarvices gratooitous ?" " Yay." " Storm nigh, sir ?" "Yay." " If the storm continues there'll be a mess underfoot, hay ?" "Yay." " If I may be so bold, kind sir, what's the price of that pecooler kind of wesket you wear, includin trimmins ?" "Yay." I pawsed a minit, and, thinkin I'd be faseshus with him and see how that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and told him that as a yayer he had no living ekel. He jumped up as if bilin water had been squirted into his ears, groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed : "You're a man of sin!" He then walked out of the room. Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and slick lookin galls as I ever met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the old one I'd met previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but their eyes spar- kled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin enuff THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. 421 to make a man throw stuns at his grandmother, if they axed him to. They commenst clearing away the dishes, casting shy glances at me all the time. I got excited. I forgot Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I, " My pretty dears, how air you ?" " We air well," they solumly sed. "Where is the old man?" said I, in a soft voice. "Of whom dost thou speak — Brother Uriah?" "I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. Shouldn't wonder if his name wasn't Uriah." "He has retired." "Wall, my pretty dears," sez I, "let's have some fun. Let's play puss in the corner. What say ?" "Air you a Shaker, sir?" they asked. "Wall, my pretty dears, I haven't arrayed my proud form in a long weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I'd jine 'em. As it is, I am willing to be Shaker protemporary." They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little skeery. I tawt 'em puss in the corner, and sich like plase, and we had a nice time, keepin quiet of course, so that the old man shouldn't hear. When we broke up, sez I : "My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a innersent kiss at partin ?" "Yay," they said, and I — yayed. THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. LADY NAIRNE. )'M wearin' awa', Jean, Like snow in a thaw, Jean ; — I'm wearin' awa To the Land o' the Leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean ; There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is ever fair In the Land o 1 the Leal. Yon've been leal and true, Jean ; Your task's ended now, Jean ! And I'll welcome you To- the Land o' the Leal. Then dry that tearful' ee, Jean ! My soul langs to be free, Jean ; And angels wait on me To the Land o' the Leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean ; And we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal ! But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean : The joy that's aye to last, In the Land o' the Leal. 422 THE OWL. A' our friends are gane, Jean ; We've lang been left alane, Jean We'll a' meet again In the Land o* the Leal. Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean ! This world's care is vain, Jean ; We'll meet, an' ay' be fain, In the Land o' the Leal. AS SHIPS BECALMED. ARTHUR H. CLOUGH. ^|KS ships becalmed at eve, that lay *HM§|o With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail, at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart des- cried. When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied ; Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so — but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew, to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered; Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed Or wist what first with dawn appeared. To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, Brave barks ! — in light, in darkness too ! Through winds and tides one compass guides : To that and your own selves be true. But blithe breeze ! and great, seas ! Though ne'er that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last. One port, methought, alike they sought, — One purpose hold where'er they fare ; bounding breeze, rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there. THE OWL. BARRY CORNWALL. ^N the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral owl doth dwell ; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he's abroad and well ! Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; All mock him outright by day ; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away ! 0, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl \ And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; And, with eyes like the shine of the moon- stone cold, THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 423 She awaiteth her ghastly groom ; Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still ; But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill ! ! when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl ! Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight! The owl hath his share of good : If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, He is lord in the dark greenwood ! Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride ; Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside ! So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl! We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl ! THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. pHE Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appropriated to a very narrow defile, extending two miles in length, between two *^spk huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or volcano in other countries of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have been accomplished by these agents. The change seems to have been effected when the surface of the earth extensively subsided ; when countries and continents assumed a new face; and a general commotion of the elements produced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less than this will 424 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. account for the sundering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast mountains ; or for the existing evidences of the immense force by which the rupture was effected. The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, standing perpen- dicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from eack other ; one about twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by the brook mentioned as the head-stream of the Saco ; the other half by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of frag- ments, partly blown out of the road, and partly thrown down by some great convulsion. When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale on which all the objects in view were formed was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular manner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss which seemed the product of ages, recalling to the mind the saxum vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose to a mountainous height. Before us the view widened fast to the southeast. Behind us it closed almost instantaneously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassable barrier of mountains. About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current ; and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white. The sun shone with the clearest splendor, from a station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; and the cascade glittered down the vast steep like a stream of burnished silver. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. H. W. LONGFELLOW. &HIS is the ArsenaL From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burn- ished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. AH ! what a sound will rise — how wild and dreary — When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies. THE CHARCOAL MAN. 425 I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone be- fore us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer ; Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse- man's song ; And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle bell with fearful din; And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin ; The tumult of each sacked and burning vil- lage; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And j arrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; The warrior's name would be a name ab- horred ; And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain. Down the dark future, through long genera- tions, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease : And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! " Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies ; But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. THE CHARCOAL MAN. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. fJHOUG-H rudely blows the wintry blast, ' And sifting snows fall white and fast Mark Haley drives along the street, Perched high upon his wagon seat ; His sombre face the storm defies, And thus from morn till eve he cries, — " Charco' ! charco' !" While echo faint and far replies, — " Hark, ! Hark, !" " Charco' !" — " Hark, '."-Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds. The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; His coat is darker far than that ; 'Tis odd to see his sooty form All speckled with the feathery storm ; Yet in his honest bosom lies Nor spot, nor speck, though still he cries, — " Charco' ! charco' !" And many a roguish lad replies, — "Ark, ho! ark, ho !" " Charco' !"-" Ark, ho !"-Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 426 DOW'S FLAT— 1856. Thus all the cold and wintry day He labois much for little pay ; Yet feels no less of happiness Than many a richer man, I guess, When through the shades of eve he spies The light of his own home, and cries, — " Charco' ! charco' !" And Martha from the door replies, — " Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !" " Charco' !"-" Mark, ho !"-Such joy abounds "When he has closed his daily rounds. The hearth is warm, the fire is bright, And while his hand, washed clean and white, Holds Martha's tender hand once more, His glowing face bends fondly o'er The crib wherein his darling lies, And in a coaxing tone he cries, "Charco' ! charco' !" And baby with a laugh replies, — " Ah, go ! ah, go !" " Charco' !"-" Ah, go ;" — while at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds. Then honored be the charcoal man ! Though dusky as an African, 'Tis not for you, that chance to be A little better clad than he, His honest manhood to despise, Although from morn till eve he cries, — " Charco' ! charco' !" While mocking echo still replies, — " Hark, ! hark, !" " Charco' ! Hark, !" Long may these sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! DOW'S FLAT— 1856. F. BRET HARTE. jOW'S Flat. That's its name, And I reckon that you Are a stranger ? The same ? Well, I thought it was true, For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view. It was called after Dow, — Which the same was an ass, — And as to the how That the thing came to pass, — Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass : You see this yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck ; He slipped up somehow On each thing that he struck. Why, ef he'd ha' straddled that fence-rail, the derned thing 'ed get up and buck. He mined on the bar Till he couldn't pay rates ; He was smashed by a car When he tunnelled with Bates ; And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States. It was rough — mighty rough ; But the boys they stood by, And they brought him the stuff For a house on the sly ; And the old woman — well, she did washing, and took on when no one was nigh. But this yer luck o' Dow's Was so powerful mean That the spring near his house Dried right up on the green ; And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen. Then the bar petered out, And the boys wouldn't stay -. And the chills got about, And his wife fell away ; But Dow in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way. One day, — it was June, And a year ago, jest, — This Dow kem at noon To his work, like the rest, With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a Derringer hid in hia breast. MOUNTAINS. 427 He goes to the well, For you see the dern cuss hed struck — And he stands on the brink, "Water?" — beg your parding, young And stops for a spell, man, there you lied. Just to listen and think ; For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir,) It was gold, in the quartz, you see, kinder made the cuss blink. And it ran all alike ; I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike ; His two ragged gals In the gulch were at play, And that house with the coopilow's his'n — And a gownd that was Sal's which the same isn't bad for a Pike. Kinder flapped on a bay ; Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, — as I've heerd the folks say. Thet's why it's Dow's Flat ; And the thing of it is And, — that's a pert hoss That he kinder got that Thet you've got, ain't it now ? Through sheer contrariness ; "What might be her cost ? For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin'; Eh ? !— Well, then, Dow,— and his luck made him certain to miss. Let's see,— well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow. Thet's so. Thar's your way To the left of yon tree ; For a blow of his pick But — a — look h'yur, say ! Sorter caved in the side, Won't you come up to tea ? And he looked and turned sick, No? Well then, the next time you're passin' ; Then he trembled and cried. and ask after Dow, — and thet's me. MOUNTAINS. MRS. MARY HOWITT. prpHERE is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the silll merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent ^p^ 1 features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into + the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled J with their vast solitude ! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks ! How our heart bounds to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of the gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts ! How inspiriting are the odors that breathe from the upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine ! how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture ! At the autumnal season, the ascents of our own mountains are most practicable. The heat of summer has dried up the moisture with which 428 MOUNTAINS. winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hollows ; and the atmosphere, clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever has not ascended our mountains knows little of the beauties of this beautiful is- land. Whoever has not climbed their long and heathy as- cents, and seen the trembling mountain flowers, the glowing moss, the richly tinted lichens at his feet ; and scented the fresh aroma of the uncultivated sod, and of the spicy shrubs; and heard the bleat of the flock across their solitary expanses, and the wild cry of the moun- tain plover, the ra- ven, ' or the eagle ; and seen the rich and russet hues of distant slopes and eminences, the livid gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit; and then stood panting on that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, but all silent as images of eternity ; and cast his gaze over lakes and forests, and smoking towns, and wide lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and reposing beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth which his own country possesses. But when we let loose the imagination from even these splendid scenes, and give it free charter to range through the far more glorious ridges of continental mountains, through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how ALPINE PEAKS. OLD TIMES AND NEW. 429 is it possessed and absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scenery and character ! OLD TIMES AND NEW. |WAS in my easy chair at home, About a week ago, I sat and puffed my light cigar, As usual, you must know. I mused upon the Pilgrim flock, Whose luck it was to land Upon almost the only Rock Among the Plymouth sand. In my mind's eye, I saw them leave Their weather beaten bark — Before them spread the wintry wilds, Behind, rolled Ocean dark. Alone that noble handful stood While savage foes lurked nigh — Their creed and watchword, " Trust in God, And keep your powder dry." Imagination's pencil then That first stern winter painted, When more than half their number died And stoutest spirits fainted. A tear unbidden filled one eye, My smoke had filled the other. One sees strange sights at such a time, Which quite the senses bother. I knew I was alone — but lo ! (Let him who dares, deride me ;) I looked, and drawing up a chair, Down sat a man beside me. His dress was ancient, and his air Was somewhat strange and foreign ; He civiny returned my stare, And said, " I'm Richard Warren. " You'll find my name among the list Of hero, sage and martyr, Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed The first New England charter. A. C. SPOONER. " I could some curious facts impart — Perhaps, some wise suggestions — But then I'm bent on seeing sights, And running o'er with questions." " Ask on," said I ; " I'll do my best To give you information, Whether of private men you ask, Or our renowned nation." Says he, "First tell me what is that In your compartment narrow, Which seems to dry my eye-balls up, And scorch my very marrow." His finger pointed to the grate, Said I, " That's Lehigh coal, Dug from the earth," — he shook his head — " It is, upon my soul !" I then took up a bit of stick, One end as black as night, And rubbed it quick across the hearth, When, lo ! a sudden light ! My guest drew back, uprolled his eyes, And strove his breath to catch ; " What necromancy's that?" he cried, Quoth I, "A friction match." Upon a pipe just overhead I turned a little screw, When forth, with instantaneous flash, Three streams of lightning flew. Uprose my guest : "Now Heaven me save,' Aloud he shouted ; then, " Is that hell-fire ?" " 'Tis gas," said I, " We call it hydrogen." Then forth into the fields we strolled ; A train came thundering by, Drawn by the snorting iron steed Swifter than eagles fly. 430 BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked, Jd ar streamed the smoky cloud ; Echoed the hills, the valleys shook, The flying forest bowed. Down on his knees, with hand upraised In worship, Warren fell; " Great is the Lord our God," cried he; " He doeth all things well. I've seen his chariots of fire, The horsemen, too, thereof; Oh may I ne'er forget his ire, Nor at his threatenings scoff." " Rise up, my friend, rise up," said I, " Your terrors all are vain, That was no chariot of the sky, 'Twas the New York mail train." We stood within a chamber small — Men came the news to know From Worcester, Springfield and New York, Texas and Mexico. It came — it went — silent and sure — He stared, smiled, burst out laughing ; "What witchcraft's that?" "It's what we call Magnetic telegraphing." Once more we stepped into the street ; Said Warren, " What is that Which moves along across the way As smoothly as a cat ? " I mean the thing upon two legb, With feathers on its head — A monstrous hump below its waist Large as a feather-bed. " It has the gift of speech, I hear; But sure it can't be human !" " My amiable friend," said I, " That's what we call a woman !" " A woman ! no — it cannot be," Sighed he, with voice that faltered : " I loved the women in my day, But oh ! they're strangely altered." I showed him then a new machine For turning eggs to chickens — A labor-saving hennery, That beats the very dickens ! Thereat he strongly grasped my hand, And said, " 'Tis plain to see This world is so transmogrified 'Twill never do for me. " Your telegraphs, your railroad-trains, Your gas-lights, friction matches, Your hump-backed women, rocks for coal, Your thing which chickens hatches, " Have turned the earth so upside down, No peace is left within it ;" Then whirling round upon his heel, He vanished in a minute. BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. MICHAEL ALTENBURG-. fJjjEAR not, little flock ! the foe Who madly seeks your overthrow, Dread not his rage and power ; What though your courage some- times faints ? •f His seeming triumph o'er God'g J saints Lasts but a little hour. Be of good cheer ; your cause belongs To Him who can avenge your wrongs. Leave it to Him, our Lord. Though hidden now from all our eyes, He sees the Gideon who shall rise To save us, and His word. As true as God's own word is true OLD. 431 Not earth or hell with all their crew Against us shall prevail. A jest and by-word are they grown ; God is with us, we are his own, Our victory cannot fail. Amen, Lord Jesus ; grant our prayer ! Great Captain, now thine arm make bare Fight for us once again ! So shall the saints and martyrs raise A mighty chorus to thy praise, World without end ! Amen. OLD. RALPH HOYT. Y the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; Oft I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape like a page pe- rusing : Poor, unknown, Py the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat, Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding ; Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat, Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding ; There he sat! Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. 432 OLD. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, ino one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin, gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care : Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. It was Summer, and we went to school, Dapper country lads, and little maidens, Taught the motto of the "dunce's stool," Its grave import still my fancy ladens : " Here's a fool ! " It was Summer and we went to school. When the stranger seemed to mark our play Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. I remember well, too well, that day ! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, "Would not stay, When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell : Ah ! to me her name was always Heaven ! She besought him all his grief to tell : (I was then thirteen and she eleven), Isabel ! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. " Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow ; Down it rolled ! " Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." "I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core : I have tottered here once more. " All the picture now to me how dear ; E'en this grave old rock, where I am seated, Is a jewel worth my journey here ; Ah, that such a scene must be completed With a tear ! All the picture now to me how dear ! " Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same : There's the very step I so oft mounted ; There's the window creaking in its frame, And the notches that I cut and counted For the game : Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same. " In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; Long my happy home that humble dwelling There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, There the spring, with limpid nectar swell- ing : Ah, forlorn ! In the cottage, yonder, I was born. " Those two gateway sycamores you see Then were planted just so far asunder. That long well-pole from the path to free, And the wagon to pass safely under : Ninety -three ! Those two gateway sycamores you see. "There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather : Past its prime ! There's the orchard where we used to climb. " There's the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails — In the crops of buckwheat we were raising : Traps and trails ! There's the rude three-cornered chestnut rails. "There's the mill that ground our yellow grain : Pond, and river still serenely flowing ; Cot, there resting in the shaded lane, Where the lily of my heart was blowing: Mary Jane ! There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. " There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable. But alas ! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's ta 1 e. Taken wing ! There's the gate on which I used to sv.'ing. THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 433 "I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. Yon green meadow was our place for play- ing. That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying ; She is dead ! I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. " Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Tracing silently life's changeful story, So familiar to my dim old eye, Points to seven that are now in glory There on high : Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! " Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Guided thither by an angel mother ; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; Sire and sisters, and my little brother, Gone to God ! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. " There I heard of "Wisdom's pleasant ways : Bless the holy lesson ! — but ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise — Those sweet voices — silent now forever ; Peaceful days ! There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. " There my Mary blessed me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; Broken band ! There my Mary blessed me with her hand. " I have come to see that grave once more, And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core ; I have come to see that grave once more. " Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." In his eye another pearl of sorrow ; Down it rolled, "Angel," said he sadly, " I am old." By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; Still I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; Poor, unknown ! By the wayside, on a mossy stone. THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. EDGAR A. POE. pHE usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visitor left the city early in the morning. During the forenoon he passed between shores of a tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed Jjr innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the vivid green of J rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided into that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a sense of retirement — this again in a consciousness of solitude. As the evening approached, the channel grew more narrow ; the banks more and more precipitous ; and these latter were clothed in richness, more profuse, and more sombre foliage. The water increased in transparency. The stream took a thousand turns, so that at no moment could its gleaming surface be seen for a greater distance than a furlong. At every instant the 28 434 THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. vessel seemed imprisoned within an enchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable walls of foliage, a roof of ultra-marine satin, and no floor APPKOACH TO AENHEIM. —the keel balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom bark which, by some accident having been turned upside down, floated in constant company with the substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. THE DOMAIN OF AENHEIM. 435 The channel now became a gorge — although the term is somewhat in- applicable, and I employ it merely because the language has no word which better represents the most striking — not the most distinctive — feature of the scene. The character of gorge was maintained only in the height and parallelism of the shores ; it was altogether lost in their other traits. The walls of the ravine through which the water still tranquilly flowed, arose to such an elevation, and were so precipitous as in a great measure, to shut out the light of day ; while the long plume-like moss which depended densely from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and more intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves, so that the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of very con- siderable extent when compared with the width of the gorge .... The visitor, shooting suddenly into this bay from out of the gloom of the ravine, is delighted, but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun, which •he- had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now confronts him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless vista seen through another chasm-like rift in the hills. But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, and descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices in vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat arise high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form is that of an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with the proud grace of the swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery paddle of satin-wood ; but no oarsman or attendant is to be seen. The guest is bidden to be of good cheer — that the Fates will take care of him. The larger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers what course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in the fairy bark. It slowly surges itself around until its prow points toward the sun. It advances with a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight ripples it creates break about the ivory sides in divinest melody, and seem to offer the only possible explanation of the soothing yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the bewildered voyager looks around him in vain. The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is ap- proached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen .... On drawing i36 THE BUGLE. nearer to this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet from the bay is discovered to the left — in which direction the wall is also seen to sweep, still following the general course of the stream. Down this new opening the eye cannot penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still bends to the left, until both are swallowed up. Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately covered and fret- ted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an ef- fulgence that seems to wreathe the whole surrounding forest in flames. This gate is inserted in the lofty wall ; which here appears to cross the river at right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main body of the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the left, the wall fol- lowing it as before, while a stream of considerable volume, diverging from the principal one, makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid descent into a vast amphitheatre, entirely begirt with purple mountains; whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout the whole extent of their circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts upon the view. There is a gush of entrancing melody ; there is an oppressive sense of strange sweet odor ; — there is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern trees — bosky shubberies — flocks of golden and crimson birds — lily-fringed lakes — meadows of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths and tuberoses — long intertangled lines of silver streamlets — and, upspring- ing confusedly from amid all, a mass of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic archi- tecture, sustaining itself as if by miracle in mid air ; glittering in the red sunlight with a hundred orioles, minarets, and pinnacles ; and seeming the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the Genii, and of the Gnomes. THE BUGLE, TENNYSON. |HE splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story : The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- ing. Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying., dying. THE CLOUD. 437 O hark ! O hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going ! sweet and far, from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. THE CLOUD. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. BEING fresh showers for the thirsty flowers, From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, "When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. While on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits ; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder ; It struggles and howls at fits. Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain and stream, The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine surprise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As, on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall, From the depths of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. That orbe*d maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer : And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these. 438 I'M GROWING OLD. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be, The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million colored bow ; The sphere-fire above, its soft colors move, Whilst the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and I change, but I cannot die. But after a rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air — I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like from the tomb, I arise and build it again host FM GEO WING OLD. JOHN G. SAXE. pY days pass pleasantly away, lllJjjgB My nights are blest with sweet- pb est sleep ; ^ I feel no symptoms of decay, I have no cause to mourn or weep ; My foes are impotent and shy, My friends are neither false nor cold ; And yet of late, I often sigh : " I'm growing old." My growing talk of olden times, My growing thirst for early news, My growing apathy to rhymes, My growing love of easy shoes, My growing hate of crowds and noise, My growing fear of taking cold ; All whisper in the plainest voice, I'm growing old. I'm growing fonder of my staff, I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, I'm growing fainter in my laugh, I'm growing deeper in my sighs, I'm growing careless of my dress, I'm growing frugal of my gold, I'm growing wise, I'm growing — yes, I'm growing old. I see it in my changing taste, I see it in my changing hair, I see it in my growing waist, I see it in my growing heir ; A thousand signs proclaim the truth, As plain as ever truth was told, That even in my vaunted youth, I'm growing old. Ah me ! my very laurels breathe The tale in my reluctant ears, And every boon the hours bequeathe But makes me debtor to the Years. E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare The secret she would fain withhold, And tell me, in " How young you are," I'm growing old. Thanks for the years whose rapid flight My sombre muse too sadly sings ! Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings: The light that beams from out the sky, Those heavenly mansions to unfold Where all are blest, and none may sigh " I'm growing old." " My days pass pleasantly away My nights are blessed with sweetest sleep; I feel no symptoms of decay, I have no cause to mourn or weep; My foes are impotent and shy, My friends are neither false nor cold And yet,, of late, I often sigh : * I'm growing old.' THE STORMY PETREL. 439 THE STORMY PETREL. BARRY CORNWALL. ■^^jjK thousand miles from land are we Tossing about on the stormy sea, From billow to bounding billow snow on the stormy @j >» cast, 4- Like fleecy I blast. The sails are scattered abroad like weeds ; The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains, The hull, which all earthly strength dis- dains, They strain and they crack ; and hearts like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. Up and down ! From the up and down ! of the wave to the billow's crown, And amidst the flashing and feathery foam The stormy petrel finds a home, A home, if such a place may be For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young and to teach them to spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing, O'er the deep ! o'er the deep ! Where the whale and the shark and the sword-fish sleep Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Who bringeth him news of the storm un- heard ! Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ; Yet he ne'er falters, — so, petrel, spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing. 440 IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. SONG OF THE STORMY PETREL. &k phe lark sings for joy in her own loved land, In the furrowed field, by the breezes fanned ; And so revel we In the furrowed sea, As joyous and glad as the lark can be On the placid breast of the inland lake, The wild duck delights her pastime to take ; But the petrel braves The wild ocean waves, His wing in the foaming billow he laves. The halcyon loves in the noontide beam To follow his sport on the tranquil stream, He fishes at ease In the summer breeze, But we go angling in stormiest seas. No song note have we but a piping cry, That blends with the storm when the wind is high. When the land birds wail We sport in the gale, And merrily over the ocean we sail. IDEAS TEE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. GEORGE W. CURTIS. 1HE leaders of our Revolution were men of whom the simple truth is the highest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly sagacious, sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the- truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first colonial Congress: "The Congress is the most honorable assembly of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too earnest to be rhetori- cians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a. temper that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and. studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech ; and they were profoundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the adroitest mere politicians never perceive, — that ideas are the life of a people; that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation; and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by teaching that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no- moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and. rotted the crops in the ground. LITTLE AND GREAT. 441 The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also. Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King, or Parliament, or the English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament: "Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine rights; their rights as men and citizens ; their rights from God and nature ! I am for enforcing these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet soldiers swarming over the sea,- but more steadily they saw that national progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had conformed to natural justice. They knew the coming wreck of property and trade, but they knew more surely that Borne was never so rich as when she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful as when they were poorest. Farther away they read the names of Assyria, Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They were merchant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivaled by their sails upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world. "Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the king who had built his grandest palace, and was to occupy it upon the morrow; but when the morrow came the palace was a pile of ruins. "Woe is me!" cried the King, "who is guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the sage at his side ; " but the mortar was made of sand and water only, and the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old empires, because the governors forgot to put justice into their governments.' LITTLE AND GREAT CHARLES MACKAY. TRAVELER through a dusty road, Strewed acorns on the lea ; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, To breathe his early vows ; And age was pleased, in heats of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. The dormouse loved its dangling twige The birds sweet music bore ; It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern ; A passing stranger scooped a well, Where weary men might turn, 442 LITTLE AND GREAT. He walked in it, and hung with care It shone upon a genial mind, A ladle at the brink ; And lo ! its light became He thought not of the deed he did, A lamp of life, a beacon ray, But judged that Toil might drink. A monitory flame. He passed again — and lo ! the well, By summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside. A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 'Twas old — and yet 'twas new, A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true. The thought was small — its issue great, A watch-fire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still. A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied, from the heart. The beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below ! BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 44.: A whisper on the tumult thrown, germ ! fount ! word of love ! A transitory breath, thought at random cast ! It raised a brother from the dust, Ye were but little at the first, It saved a soul from death. But mighty at the last ! BEA UTIFUL SNO W. JAMES W. WATSON. THE snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below ! Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet, Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along. Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! Whirring about in its maddening fun, It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around. The town is alive, and its heart in a glow To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song ! How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, — Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye. Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go Over the crest of the beautiful snow : Snow so pure when it falls from the sky. To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by; To be trampled and tracked by the thou- sands of feet Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. Once I was pure as the snow, — but I fell: Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven — to hell; Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy, Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living and fearing the dead. Merciful G-od ! have I fallen so low ? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sisters all, God, and myself I have lost by my fall. The veriest wretch that goe_s shivering by Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh; For of all that is on or about me, I know There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow 444 THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down; To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow! THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. RUFUS CHOATE. iB^fHE birthday of the "Father of his Country!" May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts ! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory ; ever re-kindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare ; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field ; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the convention that framed our Constitution ; which he guided and directed while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might. Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. " The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" Yes, first ! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation ; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life ! Yes ; others of our great men have been appreciated — many admired by all ; — but him we love ; him we all A TAILOR'S POEM ON EVENING. 445 love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements — no sectional prejudice nor bias— no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes ; when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Wash- ington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame,of patriotism, that devoted love of country which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated : " Where may the wearied eye repose, When gazing on the great ; Where neither guilty glory glows Nor despicable state ? Yes — one — the first, the last, the best. The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one.' 1 A TAILOB'S POEM ON EVENING, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ?AY hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe ! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, .Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout, Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments. Is that a swan that rides upon the water? no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling. 1 well remember, in my early years, When these young hands first closed upon a I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors ; They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir- loom From some remoter tailor of our race. 446 THE PELICAN. It happened I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me, — 0, most fearfully ! It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, .The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit. For such a pensive hour of soothing silence, Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom ; — I can feel With all around me ; — I can hail the flowers That spring earth's mantle, — and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of the legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion. THE PELICAN. JAMES MONTGOMERY. T early dawn I marked them in the sky, Catching the morning colors on their plumes ; Not in voluptuous pastime reveling there, Among the rosy clouds, while orient heaven Flamed like the opening gates of Paradise, Whence issued forth the angel of the sun, And gladdened nature with returning day : — Eager for food, their searching eyes they fixed On ocean's unrolled volume, from a height That brought immensity within their scope ; Yet with such power of vision looked they down, As though they watched the shell-fish slowly gliding O'er sunken rocks, or climbing trees of coral. On indefatigable wing upheld, Breath, pulse, existence, seemed suspended in them : They were as pictures painted on the sky ; Till suddenly, aslant, away they shot, Like meteors changed from stars to gleams of lightning, And struck upon the deep, where, in wild play, Their quarry floundered, unsuspecting harm ; With terrible voracity, they plunged Their heads among the affrighted shoals, and beat A tempest on the surges with their wings, Till flashing clouds of foam and spray con- cealed them. Nimbly they seized and secreted their prey, Alive and wriggling in the elastic net ; Which Nature hung beneath their grasping beaks, Till, swollen with captures, the unwieldy burden Clogged their slow flight, as heavily to land These mighty hunters of the deep returned. There on the cragged cliffs they perched at ease, Gorging their helpless victims one by one ; Then, full and weary, side by side they slept, Till evening roused them to the chase again. Love found that lonely couple on their isle, And soon surrounded them with blithe com- panions. The noble birds, with skill spontaneous,. framed A nest of reeds among the giant-grass, That waved in lights and shadows o'er the= soil. There, in sweet thraldom, yet unweening why, THE PELICAN. 447 The patient dam, who ne'er till now had known Parental instinct, brooded o'er her eggs, Long ere she found the curious secret out, That life was hatching in their brittle shells. Then, from a wild rapacious bird of prey, Tamed by the kindly process, she became That gentlest of all living things, — a mother; Gentlest while yearning o'er her naked young ; Fiercest when stirred by anger to defend them. While the plump nestlings throbbed against his heart, The tenderness that makes the vulture mild; Yea, half unwillingly his post resigned, When, home-sick with the absence of an hour, She hurried back, and drove him from her seat With pecking bill and cry of fond distress, Answered by him with murmurs of delight, Whose gutturals harsh, to her were love'a own music. lier mate himself the softening power con- fessed, Forgot his sloth, restrained his appetite, And ranged the sky and fished the stream for her, Or, when o'erwearied Nature forced her off To shake her torpid feathers in the breeze, And bathe her bosom in the cooling flood, He took her place, and felt through every nerve, Then, settling down, like foam upon the wave. White, flickering, effervescent, soon subsiding, Her ruffled pinions smoothly she composed ; And, while beneath the comfort of her wings, Her crowded progeny quite filled the nest, The halcyon sleeps not sounder, when the wind Is breathless, and the sea without a curl, — Nor dreams the halcyon of serener days. Or nights more beautiful with silent stars, 448 A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. Than, in that hour, the mother pelican, When the warm tumults of affection sunk Into calm sleep, and dreams of what they were, Dreams more delicious than reality. — He sentinel beside her stood, and watched With jealous eye the raven in the clouds, And the rank sea-mews wheeling round the cliffs. Woe to the reptile then that ventured nigh ! The snap of his tremendous bill was like Death's scythe, down-cutting everything it struck. The heedless lizard, in his gambols, peeped Upon the guarded nest, from out the flowers, But paid the instant forfeit of his life ; Nor could the serpent's subtlety elude Capture, when gliding by, nor in defence Might his malignant fangs and venom save him. A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. WASHINGTON IRVING. [N the course of a voyage from England, I once fell in with a convoy # of merchant ships, bound for the "West Indies. The weather was uncommonly bland; and the ships vied with each other in spreading sail to catch a light, favorable breeze, until their hulls were almost | hidden beneath a cloud of canvass. The breeze went down with the I sun, and his last yellow rays shone upon a thousand sails, idly flap- ping against the masts. I exulted in the beauty of the scene, and augured a prosperous voyage; but the veteran master of the ship shook his head, and pronounced this halcyon calm a "weather-breeder." And so it proved. A storm burst forth in the night; the sea roared and raged; and when the day broke, I beheld the gallant convoy scattered in every direction ; some dismasted, others scudding under bare poles, and many firing signals of distress. I have since been occasionally reminded of this scene by those calm, sunny seasons in the commercial world, which are known by the name of "times of unexampled prosperity." They are the sure weather-breeders of traffic. Every now and then the world is visited by one of these delusive seasons, when the "credit system," as it is called, expands to full luxu- riance: everybody trusts everybody; a bad debt is a thing unheard of; tb« broad way to certain and sudden wealth lies plain and open; and men are tempted to dash forward boldly, from the facility of borrowing. Promissory notes, interchanged between scheming individuals, are liberally discounted at the banks, which become so many mints to coin words into cash; and as the supply of words is inexhaustible, it may readily be supposed what a vast amount of promissory capital is soon in circulation. Everyone now talks in thousands; nothing is heard but A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 449 gigantic operations in trade; great purchases and sales of real property, and immense sums made at every transfer. All, to be sure, as yet exists in promise; but the believer in promises calculates the aggregate as solid capital, and falls back in amazement at the amount of public wealth, the " unexampled state of public prosperity !" Now is the time for speculative and dreaming or designing men. They relate their dreams and projects to the ignorant and credulous, dazzle them with golden visions, and set them maddening after shadows. The example of one stimulates another ; speculation rises on speculation ; bubble rises on bubble ; everyone helps with his breath to swell the windy superstruc- ture, and admires and wonders at the magnitude of the inflation he has contributed to produce. Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts contempt upon all its sober realities. It renders the stock-jobber a magician, and the exchange a region of enchantment. It elevates the merchant into a kind of knight- errant, or rather a commercial Quixote. The slow but sure gains of snug percentage become despicable in his eyes: no "operation" is thought worthy of attention that does not double or treble the investment. No business is worth following that does not promise an immense fortune. As he sits musing over his ledger, with pen behind his ear, he is like La Mancha's hero, in his study, dreaming over his books of chivalry. His dusty counting-house fades before his eyes, or changes into a Spanish mine ; he gropes after diamonds, or dives after pearls. The subterranean garden of Aladdin is nothing to the realms of wealth that break upon his imagina- tion. Could this delusion always last, the life of a merchant would indeed be a golden dream; but it is as short as it is brilliant. Let but a doubt enter, and the "season of unexampled prosperity" is at an end. The coinage of words is suddenly curtailed; the promissory capital begins to vanish into smoke; a panic succeeds, and the whole superstructure, built upon credit, and reared by speculation, crumbles to the ground, leaving scarce a wreck behind. "It is such stuff as dreams are made of." When a man of business, therefore, hears on every side rumors of fortunes suddenly acquired; when he finds banks liberal, and brokers busy ; when he sees adventurers flush of paper capital, and full of scheme and enterprise ; when he perceives a greater disposition to buy than to sell ; when trade overflows its accustomed channels, and deluges the country; when he hears of new regions of com- mercial adventure ; of distant marts and distant mines swallowing merchan- dise, and disgorging gold; when he finds joint stock companies of all kinds 29 450 WHEN. forming; railroads, canals, and locomotive-engines springing up on every side; when idlers suddenly become men of business, and dash into the game of commerce as the gambler would into the hazards of the faro-table ; when he beholds the streets glittering with new equipages, palaces conjured up by the magic of speculation ; tradesmen flushed with sudden success, and vying with each other in ostentatious expense; in a word, when he hears the whole community joining in the theme of ''unexampled prosperity," let him look upon the whole as a "weather-breeder," and prepare for the impending storm. THE PATIENT STORK. LORD THURLOW. MELANCHOLY bird, the long, long day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school, To patience, which all evil can allay. God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, And given thyself a lesson to the fool, Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh, There need not schools nor the professor's chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : He who has not enough for these to spare, Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair, — Nature is always wise in every part. WHEN. SUSAN COOLIDGE. ra^F I were told that I must die to-morrow, piP That the next sun fwf "Which sinks should bear me past all *f j,f fear and sorrow For any one, I All the fight fought, all the short jour- ney through, What should I do ? T do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone ; But rise and move and love and smile and pray For one more day. And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping How should I fear ? And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still Do Thou Thy will." PATIENCE. THERE IS NO DEATH. 451 I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All the night long ; and when the morning splendor Flushed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile — could calmly say, "It is His day." But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder Held out a scroll, On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clue, What should I do ? What could I do, oh ! blessed Guide and Master, Other than this ; Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, Nor fear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by Thee? Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me, Although unseen, Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee Or heavens serene, Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay. I may not know ; my God, no hand re- vealeth Thy counsels wise ; Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, No voice replies To all my questioning thought, the time to tell, And it is well. Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Thy will always, Through a long century's ripening fruition Or a short day's, Thou canst not come too soon ; and I cari wait If Thou come late. THERE 18 NO DEATH. *4^ . LORD LYTTON. StlMgHERE is no death ! The stars go down Mil To rise upon some fairer shore : And bright in Heaven's jewelled crown They shine forevermore. There is no death ! The dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellowed fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers, The granite rocks disorganize, And feed the hungry moss they bear ; The forest leaves drink daily life, From out the viewless air. There is no death ! The leaves may fall, And flowers may fade and pass away ; They only wait through wintry hours, The coming of the May. There is no death ! An angel form Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; He bears our best loved things away ; And then we call them "dead." He leaves our hearts all desolate, He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers ; Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bowers. The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones, Made glad these scenes of sin and strife Sings now an everlasting song, Around the tree of life. 452 PAYING HER WAY Where'er he sees a smile too bright, Or heart too pure for taint and vice, He beara it to that world of light, To dwell in Paradise. Born unto that undying life, They leave us but to come again ; With joy we welcome them the same, Except their sin and pain. And ever near us, though unseen, The dear immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life — there are no dead. PA YIN G HER WA Y. HjfjijlHAT has my darling been doing to-day, rTo pay for her washing and mend- How can she manage to keep out of debt For so much caressing and tend- ing ? How can I wait till the years shall have flown And the hands have grown larger and stronger ? Who will be able the interest to pay, If the debt runs many years longer? Dear little feet ! How they fly to my side White arms my neck are caressing; Sweetest of kisses are laid on my cheek ; Fair head my shoulder is pressing. Nothing at all from my darling is due — From evil may angels defend her — The debt is discharged as fast as 'tis made, For love is a legal tender. THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. 453 THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. CHARLES SUMNER. jET us, then ; be of good cheer. From the great law of progress we may derive at once our duties and our encouragements. Humanity has ever advanced, urged by the instincts and necessities implanted by God, — thwarted sometimes by obstacles which have caused it for a time — a moment onlv, in the immensity of ages — to deviate from its true line, or to seem to retreat, — but still ever onward. Amidst the disappointments which may attend individual exertions, amidst the universal agitations which now surround us, let us recognize this law, confident that whatever is just, whatever is humane, whatever is good, whatever is true, according to an immutable ordinance of Provi- dence, in the golden light of the future, must prevail. With this faith, let us place our hands, as those of little children, in the great hand of God. He will ever guide and sustain us — through pains and perils, it may be — in the path of progress. In the recognition of this law, there are motives to beneficent activity, which shall endure to the last syllable of life. Let the young embrace it : they shall find in it an everliving spring. Let the old cherish it still : they shall derive from it fresh encouragement. It shall give to all, both old and young, a new appreciation of their existence, a new sentiment of their force, a new revelation of their destiny. Be it, then, our duty and our encouragement to live and to labor, ever mindful of the future. But let us not forget the past. All ages have lived and labored for us. From one has come art, from another jurisprudence, from another the compass, from another the printing-press; from all have proceeded priceless lessons of truth and virtue. The earliest and most distant times are not without a present influence on our daily lives. The mighty stream of progress, though fed by many tributary waters and hidden springs, derives something of its force from the earliest currents which leap and sparkle in the distant mountain recesses, over pre- cipices, among rapids, and beneath the shade of the primeval forest. Nor should we be too impatient to witness the fulfilment of our aspi- rations. The daily increasing rapidity of discovery and improvement, and the daily multiplying efforts of beneficence, in later years outstripping the imaginations of the most sanguine, furnish well-grounded assurance that the advance of man will be with a constantly accelerating speed. The extending intercourse among the nations of the earth, and anions all the 454 HIDE AND SEEK. children of the human family, gives new promise of the complete diffusion of truth, penetrating the most distant places, chasing away the darkness of night, and exposing the hideous forms of slavery, of war, of wrong, which must be hated as soon as they are clearly seen. Cultivate, then, a just moderation. Learn to reconcile order with change, stability with progress. This is a wise conservatism ; this is a wise reform. Eightly understanding these terms, who would not be a conservative ? who would not be a reformer ? — a conservative of all that is good, a reformer of all that is evil; a conservative of knowledge, a reformer of ignorance ; a conservative of truths and principles whose seat is the bosom of God, a reformer of laws and institutions which are but the wicked or imperfect work of man ; a conservative of that divine order which is found only in movement, a reformer of those early wrongs and abuses which spring from a violation of the great law of human progress. Blending these two characters in one, let us seek to be, at the same time, Reforming Conservatives, and Conservative Reformers. HIDE AND SEEK flUflJiJIDE and seek ! Two children at play On a sunshiny holiday — " Where is the treasure hidden, I JULIA GODDARD. pray ! -am I near it or far away ? • Hot or cold ?" asks little Nell, With her flaxen hair all tangled and wild, And her voice as clear as a fairy bell That the fairies ring at eventide — Scrambling under table and chair, Peeping into the cupboards wide, Till a joyous voice rings through the air — " ho ! a very good place to hide !" And little Nell, creeping along the ground, Murmurs in triumph, " I've found, I've found !" Hide and seek ! Not children now — Life's noontide sun hath kissed each brow, Nell's turn to hide the treasure to-day ; Bo safely she thinks it hidden away, That she fears her lover cannot find it. Say, shall she help him ? Her eyes, so shy, Half tell the secret, and half deny ; And the green leaves rustle with laughter sweet, And the little birds twitter, " Oh, foolish lover, Has love bewitched and blinded thine eyes — So that the truth thou canst not discover ?" Then the sun gleams out, all golden and bright, And sends through the wood-path a clearer light; See the lover raises his eyes from the ground, And reads in Nell's face that the treasure is found. What are the angels seeking for Through the world in the darksome night ? A treasure that earth has stolen away, And hidden 'midst flowers for many a day, THE LION'S RIDE. 455 Hidden through sunshine, through storm, through blight, Till it wasted and grew to a form so slight And worn, that scarce in the features white Gould one trace likeness to gladsome Nell. But the angels knew her as there she lay, All quietly sleeping, and bore her away, Up to the city, jasper-walled — Up t: the :::y with golden street — Up to the city, like crystal clear, Where the pure and the sinless meet ; And through costly pearl-gates that opened wide, They bore the treasure earth tried to hide. And weeping mortals listened with awe To the silver echo that smote the skies, As "Found?" rang forth from Paradise. THE LION'S BIDE. FERDINAND FEEILIGEATH. |:y-HE lion is the desert's king; through his domain so wide * z ^f Right swiftly and right royally this l'i night he means to ride. ^° By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, close couches the grim y chief; The trembling sycamore above whis- r rr; with every leaf. At evening, on the Table Mount, wLtz ye can see no more The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom is speckled o'er With kraal fires ; when the Caffre wends home through the lone karroo ; When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the gnu ; Then bend your gaze across the waste — What see ye ? The giraffe, Majestic, stalks toward the lagoon, the turbid lymph to quaff: With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels him down to cool His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool. A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the lion sits astride Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so ride ° Had ever a steed so rare, caparisons of state To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate ? In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous greed ; His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed. Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and surprise, Away, away, in wild dismay, the camel leopard flies. His feet have wings ; see how he springs across the moonlit plain ! As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eyeballs strain ; In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast his life is fleeting ; The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating. Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the path of Israel traced — Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the waste — From the sandy sea uprising, as the water- spout from the ocean. A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the courser's fiery motion. Croaking companion of their flight, the vol- 4:56 DIES IRjE. Below the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly, And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race ; By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, their monarch's course they trace. They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear, the while With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's painted pile. On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and strength remain ! The steed by such a rider backed, may madly plunge in vain. Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and breathes his last ; The courser, strained with dust and foam, is the rider's fell repast. O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is descried : Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts doth ride. DIES IRJB. THOMAS OF CELANO, A. D., 1208. !>AY of wrath ! that day of burning, Seer and sibyl speak concerning, All the world to ashes turning ! Oh, what fear shall it engender, When the Judge shall come in splen- dor, Strict to mark and just to render ! Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder, Rending sepulchres asunder, Shall resistless summons thunder. All aghast then Death shall shiver, And great Nature's frame shall quiver, When the graves their dead deliver. Book, where actions are recorded, All the ages have afforded, Shall be brought and dooms awarded. Wh«Q shall sit the Judge unerring, He'll unfold all here occurring, No just vengeance then deferring. What shall J say, that time pending? Ask what advocate's befriending, When the just man needs defending ? Translated by Dr. Abraham Coles. Think, Jesus, for what reason Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason, Nor me lose in that dread season ! Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted ; On the cross Thy soul death tasted, — Let such travail not be wasted ! Righteous Judge of retribution ! Make me gift of absolution Ere that day of execution ! Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken, On my cheek shame's crimson token : Let the pardoning word be spoken ! Thou, who Mary gav'st remission, Heard'st the dying thief's petition, Cheer'st with hope my lost condition. Though my prayers be void of merit, What is needful, Thou confer it, Lest I endless fire inherit ! Be then, Lord, my place decided With Thy sheep, from goats divided, Kindly to Thy right hand guided! MANIFEST DESTINY. 45? When the accursed away are driven, Care for me when I am dying ! To eternal burnings given, Call me with the blest to heaven ! Day of tears and late repentance ! Man shall rise to hear his sentence : I beseech Thee, prostrate lying, Him, the child of guilt and error, Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing, Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror ! MANIFEST DESTINY. JOSH BILLINGS. A.NIFEST destiny iz the science ov going tew bust, or enny othei place before yu git thare. I may be rong in this centiment, but that iz the way it strikes me ; and i am so put together that when enny thing strikes me i immejiately strike back. Manifest destiny mite perhaps be blocked out agin as the condishun that man and things find themselfs in with a ring in their nozes and sumboddy hold ov the ring. I may be rong agin, but if i am, awl i have got tew sa iz, i don't kno it, and what a man don't kno ain't no damage tew enny boddy else. The tru way that manifess destiny had better be sot down iz, the exact distance that a frog kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him ; i don't kno but i may be rong onst more, but if the frog don't git ketched the destiny iz jist what he iz a looking for. When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and makes up hiz minde tew stay thare, that ain't manifess destiny enny more than having yure hair cut short iz ; but if he almoste gits out and then falls down in agin 16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in the same plase and dies and iz buried thare at low water, that iz manifess destiny on the square. Standing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked twice at one time, must feel a good deal like manifess destiny. Being about 10 seckunds tew late tew git an express train, and then chasing the train with yure wife, and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, and not getting az near tew the train az you waz when started, looks a leetle like manifess destiny on a rale rode trak. Going into a tempranse house and calling for a little old Bourbon on ice, and being told in a mild way that " the Bourbon iz jist out, but they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in Paris,'* sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov moste tempranse houses. Mi dear reader, don't beleave in manifess destiny until yu see it. Thare is such a thing az manifess destiny, but when it occurs it iz like the number ov rings on the rakoon's tale, ov no great consequense onla for 453 BILL AND JOE. ornament. Man wan't made for a machine, if he waz, it was a locomotiff machine, and manifess destiny must git oph from the trak when the bell rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold. Manifess destiny iz a disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal ; i have seen it in its wust stages cured bi sawing a cord ov dri hickory wood, i thought i had it onse, it broke out in the shape ov poetry ; i sent a speciment ov the disseaze tew a magazine, the magazine man wrote me next day az follers, u Dear Sur: Yu may be a phule, but you are no poeck. Yures, in haste. " BILL AND JOE. O. W. HOLMES. jJ&L jjOME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by- The shining days when life was new, And all was bright as morning dew, The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe. Your name may flaunt a titled trail, Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail ; And mine as brief appendix wear As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare ; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill. You've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes, With HON. and LL.D., In big brave letters, fair to see — Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe? You've worn the judge's ermine robe; You've taught your name to half the globe You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; You've made the dead past live again ; The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill. The chaffing young folks stare and say, " See those old buffers, bent and gray ; They talk like fellows in their teens ! Mad, poor old boys ! That's what means " — And shake their heads ; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe — How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side ; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes — Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. Ah, pensive scholar ! what is fame ? A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe ? The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go — How vain it seems, this empty show ! — Till all at once his pulses thrill : 'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you, Bill ! " And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears, — In some sweet lull of harp and song, For earth-born spirits none too long, — Just whispering of the world below, Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? MAUD MULLER. 459 No matter ; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear ; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? Read on the hearts that love us still, Hicjacet Joe. Hicjacet Bill. MAUD MULLER. J. G. WHITTIER. AUD Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her mer- ry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast — A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 460 MAUD MULLEK. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown, *' Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught Prom a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! That I the Judge's bride might be ! " He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. " My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. " I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each " And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. " A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. " And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. " Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay : " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, " But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sisters, proud and. cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, "When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go : And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, " Ah, that I were free again ! " Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. KATE KETCHEM. 461 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, « And gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,- A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then he took up her burden of life again, Saying only, " It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these : "It might have been !" Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! KATE KETCHEM. PHCEBE CAEY. l^^sATE Ketchem, on a winter's night, Went to a party, dressed in white. Her chignon in a net of gold Was about as large as they ever sold. Gayly she went because her " pap " Was supposed to be a rich old chap. But when by chance her glances fell On a friend who had lately married well, Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast — A wish she wouldn't have had made known, To have an establishment of her own. Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng, With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd, And, knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed. Then asked her to give him a single flower, Saying he'd think it a priceless dower. Out from those with which she was decked She took the poorest she could select, And blushed as she gave it, looking down To call attention to her gown. " Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear Flowers must be at this time of year. Then several charming remarks he made, Asked if she sang, or danced, or played ; And being exhausted, inquired whether She thought it was going to be pleasant weather. And Kate displayed her jewelry, And dropped her lashes becomingly ; And listened with no attempt to disguise The admiration in her eyes. At last, like one who has nothing to say, He turned around and walked away. 462 KATE KETCHEM. Kate Ketchem smiled, and said " You bet I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. " He's rich enough to keep me in clothes, And I think I could manage him if I chose. " He could aid my father as well as not, And buy my brother a splendid yacht. " My mother for money should never fret, And all that it cried for the baby should get ; " And after that, with what he could spare, I'd make a show at a charity fair." Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. " A girl more suited to my mind It isn't an easy thing to find ; " And every thing that she has to wear Proves her as rich as she is fair. " Would she were mine, and that I to-day Had the old man's cash my debts to pay ; " No creditors with a long account, No tradesmen waiting 'that little amount;' 41 But all my scores paid up when due By a father as rich as any Jew !" But he thought of her brother, not worth a straw, And her mother, that would be his, in law ; So, undecided, he walked along, And Kate was left alone in the throng. But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth, To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth ; And as for Kate, she schemed and planned Till one of the dancers claimed her hand. He married her for her father's cash — She married him to cut a dash. But as to paying his debts, do you know The father couldn't see it so ; And at hints for help Kate's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise And when Tom thought of the way he had wed, He longed for a single life instead, And closed his eyes in a sulky mood, Regretting the days of his bachelorhood ; And said in a sort of reckless vein, " I'd like to see her catch me again, " If I were free as on that night I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white I" She wedded him to be rich and gay ; But husband and children didn't pay. He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw, And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law- And oft when she had to coax and pout In order to get him to take her out, She thought how very attentive and bright He seemed at the party that winter's night. Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south v ('Twas now on the other side of his mouth:) How he praised her dress and gems in his. talk, As he took a careful account of stock. Sometimes she hated the very walls — Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls : Till her weak affections, to hatred turned, Like a dying tallow candle burned. And for him who sat there, her peace to mar* Smoking his everlasting segar — He wasn't the man she thought she saw, And grief was duty, and hate was law. So she took up her burden with a groan,. Saying only, " I might have known !" Alas for Kate ! and alas for Fudge ! Though I do not owe them any grudge; THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 463 And alas for any that find to their shame That two can play at their little game ! For of all hard things to bear and grin, The hardest is knowing you're taken in. Ah well ! as a general thing we fret About the one we didn't get ; But I think we needn't make a fuss If the one we don't want didn't get us. THE MERR Y LARK. CHARLES KINGSLEY. HE merry, merry lark was up and singing, And the hare was out and feeding on the lea. And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, When my child's laugh rang through me. Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard, And the lark beside the dreary winter sea, And my baby in his cradle in the church- yard Waiteth there until the bells bring me. TEE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. EDWARD EVERETT. fpPpHINK of the country for which the Indians fought ! Who can diib blame them ? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount "®^^" Hope, that glorious eminence, that 464 THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER, throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,"— as lie looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at a summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest, — could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger ? As the river chieftains — the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains — ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at if they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's axe — the fishing- place disturbed by his saw-mills ? Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain (rising as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,) — in company with a friendly settler — contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say, " White man, there is eternal war between me and thee ! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide unre- strained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food ; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. " Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these paper- rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou say est, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon ? They knew not what they did. " The stranger came, a timid suppliant, — few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear- skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and child- ren; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, ' It is mine.' " Stranger ! there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup ; the wnite man's dog barks at the red. man's heels. If I should leave the land THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 465 of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce Mohawk — the man-eater, — is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great water is before me. No, stranger; here I have lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. INNOVATIONS OF THE WHITE MAN. "Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps ; the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not dis- cover thine enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping- knife; thou shalt bund, 30 436 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. and I will burn, — till the white man or the Indian perish from the land. Go thy way for this time in safety, — but remember, stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee!' JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. ROBERT BURNS. OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand-in-hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. H! say, can you see, by the dawn's ] Now it catches the gleam of the morning's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming ? k> Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the rampart, we watched were so gallantly streaming : And the rocket's red glare, the bombs burst- ing in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o : er the tow- ering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 'Tis the star-spangled banner ! oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! And where is that band, who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave ; And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! THE AMERICAN FLAG. 467 Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall Then conquer we must, for our cause it is stand just, Between their loved homes and the war's And this be our motto, "In God is our desolation ; trust." -Blest with victory and peace, may the heav- And the star-spangled banner in triumph en-rescued land shall wave Praise the power that has made and pre- O'er the land of the free and the home of served us a nation. the brave ! TEE AMERICAN FLAG. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. sHEN Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light, Then, from his mansion in the sun, "She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land ! Majestic monarch of the cloud ! "Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, "When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high ! "When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn, To where thy sky-born glories burn, And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; "When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the- free heart's hope and home. By angel hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven I Forever float that standard sheet, "Where breathes the foe but falls before us, "With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! 468 THE DJINNS. THE DJINNS. VICTOR HUGO. jOWN, tower, | Shore, deep, Where lower 43^fa Clouds steep; j*^ Waves gray J. Where play y Winds gay— J All asleep. Hark a sound, Far and slight, Breathes around On the night — High and higher, Nigh and nigher, Like a fire Roaring bright. New on it is sweeping With rattling beat Like dwarf imp leaping In gallop fleet ; He flies, he prances, In frolic fancies — On wave crest dances With pattering feet. Hark, the rising swell, With each nearer burst ! Like the toll of bell Of a convent cursed ; Like the billowy roar On a storm-lashed shore — Now hushed, now once more Maddening to its worst, Oh God ! the deadly sound Of the djinns' fearful cry ! Quick, 'neath the spiral round Of the deep staircase, fly ! See, our lamplight fade ! And of the balustrade Mounts, mounts the circling shade Up to the ceiling high ! 'Tis the djinns' wild streaming swarm Whistling in their tempest flight ; Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, Like a pine-flame crackling bright ; Swift and heavy, low, their crowd Through the heavens rushing loud ! — Like a lurid thunder cloud With its hold of fiery night ! Ha ! they are on us, close without ! Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! With hideous din the monster rout, Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! The loosened rafter overhead Trembles and bends like quivering reed ; Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly ! Wild cries of hell ! voices that howl and shriek ! The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed heaven !— descends my lonely roof to seek ; Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host;— Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn From autumn bough and on mad blast borne! Up from its deep foundations it were torn To join the stormy whirl. Ah I all is lost ! Oh prophet ! if thy hand but now Save from these foul and hellish things, A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow, Laden with pious offerings. Bid their hot breath its fiery rain Stream on my faithful door in vain, Vainly upon my blackened pane Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings ! They have passed .'—and their wild legion Cease to thunder at my door ; Fleeting through night's rayless region, Hither they return no more. Clanking chains and sounds of woe Fill the forests as they go ; And the tall oaks cower low, Bent their flaming flight before. On I on ! the storm of wings Bears far the fiery fear, Till scarce the breeze now brings Dim murmuriugs to the ear ; Like locusts humming hail, Or thrash of tiny flail Plied by the pattering hail On some old roof-tree near. Fainter now are borne Fitful murmurings still As, when Arab horn Swells its magic peal, Shoreward o'er the deep Fairy voices sweep, And the infant's sleep Golden visions fill. Each deadly djinn, Dark child of fright, Of death and sin, Speeds the wild flight. Hark, the dull moan ! Like the deep tone Of Ocean's groan, Afar by night ! More and more Fades it now, As on shore Bipples flow — As the plaint, Far and faint, Of a saint, Murmured low. Hark ! hist I Around I list ! The bounds Of space All trace Efface Of sound. THE CHEMIST. THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 469 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. IfjfpHEN, marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the J*Sr& sky; j One star alone of all the train <\r Can fix the sinner's wandering J eye- Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks From every host, from every gem ; But one alone a Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck — I ceased the tide to stem ; When suddenly a "star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all ; It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm and danger's thrall,. It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored — my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, Forever and for evermore, The Star!— the Star of Bethlehem. THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. LOVE thee, Mary, and thou lovest me- Our mutual flame is like the affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies : I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'T is little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, living acid ; thou an alkali Endowed with human sense, that brought together, We might both coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen ! We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha. Would to Hea ven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime, 470 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret ! I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda ; in that case We should be Glauber's salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead, we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aquafortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash, — otherwise Saltpetre. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? We will. The day, the happy day is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine. SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. ifpOW various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many man- 1 sions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desper- « ate, dwell together within the circle of my glance. In some of the houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue — guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinct- ness, they would make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are descending. The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the sky, hang- ing heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, dis- appears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the approaching storm. All people hurry homeward — all that have a home; while a few lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at their leisure. And now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick, fiery glare. The large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. 471 smoke. There is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy- streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult which I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I will descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far distant points, like snowy -mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let me look once more at the green plain, and little hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm is riding in robes of mist, and at the town, whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead ; and turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects, I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But stay ! A little speck of azure has widened in the western heavens ; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world, and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the Rainbow ! WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. JEAN INGELOW. jHEN sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries. For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise ; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy fount runs free ; And the bergs begin to bow their heads, And plunge and sail in the sea. 0, my lost love, and my own, own love, And my love that loved me so ! Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore ; I remembered all that I said ; And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more Till the sea gives up her dead. Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow ; Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, And the end I could not know. 472 KIT CARSON'S RIDE. How could I tell I should love thee to-day, Whom that day I held not dear ? How could I tell I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear ? We shall walk no more through the sodden plain, With the faded bents o'erspread; We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; We shall part no more in the wind and rain Where thy last farewell was said ; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead. KIT CARSON'S RIDE. _o5fes JOAQUIN MILLER. UN ? Now you bet you ; I rather |H guess so. But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, boy, whoa. No, you wouldn't think so to look at his eyes, But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise ; — We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels, Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. " Forty full miles if a foot to ride, Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils Of red Camanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back, Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at his steed, 'And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground, — Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride, While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed, — " Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, And speed, if ever for life you would speed ; And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, And feet of wild horses, hard flying before I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore ; While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea, Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire." We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again, And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold, And gold-mounted Colt's, true companions for years, Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse. Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 473 Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray- nose and nose, Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows, Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. Twenty miles ! thirty miles ! — a dim distant speck — Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight. And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- light. I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, But Revels was gone ; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger ; I saw his head drooping Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair, "With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air. As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reach- ing higher, And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire, While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane Like black lances lifted and lifted again ; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs ; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes With a longing and love, yet look of despair, And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead. Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his head With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see, Was her father's, and once at the South Santafee Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down In a race where the world came to run for the crown ; And so when I won the true heart of my bride, — My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe, — She brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight, From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side; And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled. As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Pache", so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado 474 THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side, And await her, — and wait till the next hollow moon Hung her horn m the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape, — a love, — a desire, — Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, — Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel One instant for her in my terrible flight. Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under, And the howling of beasts like the sound of thunder, — Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died, — Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone, And into the Brazos I rode all alone — All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. Then just as the terrible sea came in And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed ^ In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. WASHINGTON IRVING. HE sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, For nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust, and an endless darkness. Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 475 INTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along 476 QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compress- ing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thick- ening round me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. SHAKESPEARE. Julius Caesar. — Act IV. Scene III. \AS81 US. — That you have wronged me doth appear in this : You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians, Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Brutus. — You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cassius. — In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its com- ment. Brutus. — Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cassius. — I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Brutus. — The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cassius. — Chastisement ! Brutus. — Remember March, the Ides of March remember ! Did not great Julius bleed, for justice' sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers ; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors, For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. Cassius. — Brutus, bay not me. I'll not endure it : you forget yourself, To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Brutus. — Go to ; you are not, Cassius. Cassius. — I am. Brutus. — I say you are not. QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 477 Cassius. — Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. Brutus. — Away, slight man ! Cassius. — Is't possible ? Brutus. — Hear me for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cassius. — ye gods ! ye gods ! must I en- dure all this ? Brutus. — All this ? Aye, more ; fret till your proud heart break ; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand, and crouch Under your testy humor ? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you ; for from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laugh- ter, When you are waspish. Cassius. — Is it come to this ? Brutus. — You say you are a better soldier : Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well ; for mine own part I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cassius. — You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ; I said an elder soldier, not a better ? Did I say "better"? Brutus. — If you did, I care not. Cassius. — When Caesar liv'd, he durst not thus have mov'd me. Brutus. — Peace, peace ! you durst not thus have tempted him. Cassius. — I durst not ? Brutus. — No. Cassius. — What ? Durst not tempt him ? Brutus — For your life you durst not. Cassius. — Do not presume too much upon my love ; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Brutus. — You have done that you should be sorry for, There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; For I can raise no money by vile means ; By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ; Dash him to pieces ! Cassius. — I denied you not. Brutus. — You did. Cassius. — I did not ; he was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart. A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Brutus. — I do not, till you practice them on me. Cassius. — You love me not. Brutus. — I do not like your faults. Cassius. — A friendly eye could never see such faults. Brutus. — A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cassius. — Come, Antony, and young Octa- vius, come ! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world : Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; Checked like a bondman ; all his faults ob- served, Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes ! There is my dagger, 47& MRS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. And here my naked breast ; within, a heart, Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold ; If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for, I know. When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov- edst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. Brutus. — Sheathe your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire : Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cassius. — Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? Brutus. — When I spoke that I was ill- tempered, too. Cassius. — Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. Brutus. — And my heart too. [Embracing.] Cassius. — Brutus ! Brutus. — What's the matter ? Casius. — Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful ? Brutus. — Yes, Cassius; and, from hence- forth, When you are over-earnest with your Bru- tus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. MRS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. DOUGLAS JERROLD. ijlJF there's anything in the world I hate — and you know it— it is, asking UU you for money. I am sure for myself, I'd rather go without a thing