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THE 
 
 LADIES' BOOK 
 
 OP 
 
 READINGS AND RECITATIONS: 
 
 A 
 
 COLLECTION OF APPROVED EXTRACTS FROM 
 
 STANDARD AUTHORS, 
 
 INTENDED FOR THE USE OF HIGHER CLASSES IN SCHOOLS AND SEMI- 
 NARIES, AND FOR 
 
 FAMILY READING CIRCLES. 
 
 JOH^ W. S. HOWS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE LADIES' READER," "THE JUNIOR LADIES' READER," 
 "THE LADIES' FIRST HEADER," ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 
 "Let the ladies of ft country be educated properly, and they will not only make 
 
 and administer its laws, but form its manners and character." — Benjamin Bush. 
 
 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & 00. 
 . 1864. 
 
 / 
 
LAD READERS 
 
 PROF. HOWS' SERIES . *J> 
 
 COMPRISE THE FOLLOWING BOOKS. 
 
 HOWS' PRIMARY LADIES' READER ......*. 18mo. 
 
 HOWS' JUNIOR LADIES' READER 12mo. 
 
 HOWS' LADIES' READER 12me. 
 
 HOWS' LADIES' BOOK OF READINGS AND RECITATIONS, 12mo. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, 
 By JOHN" W. S. HOWS, 
 
 In the Clerk'a Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 %ACj 
 
 6 3 
 
PREFACE 
 
 To give completeness to my series of "Ladies' 
 Readers,"- is the design of the present compilation. 
 
 It was considered expedient to furnish, for the ex- 
 press use of the highest classes in Ladies' Schools, 
 a collection of "Extracts for Recitation," collected 
 from our best standard poets, of a character that 
 should render them acceptable to the intelligence 
 and good taste of Pupils, whose matured culture ren- 
 dered them capable of appreciating a higher caste 
 of selections than are usually adopted for Text-Books 
 in schools. To combine with this main object of a 
 suitable "Recitation Book" selections in prose, for 
 Beading Classes, have been added. 
 
 My aim has been, in this compilation, to furnish mat- 
 ter at once suggestive and interesting ; that should cul- 
 tivate pure taste, develop sound, healthy principles, 
 and convey solid information in an attractive form. 
 
 In collecting my materials, with such views, it was 
 not deemed advisable to call in the aid of mere 
 sensational or declamatory pieces, to give interest to 
 the Work. It seemed more in consonance with my 
 design to draw largely from those ancient "wells of 
 English underlled," from which students have drawn, 
 
* PREFACE. 
 
 and still do draw, for information and delight. Modern 
 authors, however, have not been passed over : they have 
 been freely used, and the poets of Continental Europe 
 have been called into requisition, when they could 
 subserve my purpose. This wide range of selection 
 has afforded an opportunity for giving unusual fresh- 
 ness and variety to my compilation, which, I trust, 
 will recommend it to the attention of intelligent 
 Teachers, and make it acceptable to the taste of culti- 
 vated Pupils. In avoiding the stereotyped selections 
 for such works, I could not avoid reproducing a few, 
 that, by general consent, are recognized as classics in 
 our language. No compiler of an American Text- 
 Book, for advanced Pupils, would be pardonable, if 
 Bryant's " Thanatopsis," " A Forest Hymn," and the 
 "Death of the Flowers," were omitted. In the same 
 category may be classed Kichard H. Dana's sublime 
 poem " On Immortality," and Coleridge's " Hymn to 
 Chamouni." These are the only selections in the 
 present volume, used in any other of my previously 
 issued compilations. 
 
 The closing book of my series of Ladies' Headers, 
 will follow immediately after the publication of the 
 present volume. It is prepared as the Introductory 
 one to the series, intended for very Juvenile Readers, 
 and has been prepared with great care to make it as 
 fresh, and as attractive, as youthful minds require in 
 the initiatory steps of educational training. 
 
 John W. S. Hows. 
 
 5 Cottage Place, New York, 
 January 1, 1864. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Baillie, Joanna. 
 Bancroft, George. 
 Barnes, Kev. Albert. 
 Barton, Bernard. 
 Bell, H. G. 
 Benjamin, Park. 
 Bet hunk, George. 
 
 BOKER, G. II. 
 
 Braddon, Miss M. E. 
 Brainard, John G. C. 
 Bronte, Charlotte. 
 Brown, Frances. 
 Browning, Mrs. 
 Bryant, William Cullen. 
 Butler, William A^an. 
 Byron, Lord. 
 
 Camoens. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas. 
 Chalmers, Dr. 
 Coleridge, Samuel T. 
 Collins, William. 
 Cook, Eliza. 
 Cowley, Abraham. 
 Cowper, William. 
 Coxe, A. Cleveland. 
 Crabbe, Geokoe. 
 Croly, George. 
 
 Dana, E. H. 
 
 Dante. 
 
 Db Medici, Lorenzo. 
 
 Doanb, Bishop. 
 
 Embury, Emma C. 
 Everett, Edward. 
 
 Ferguson, Samuel. 
 Fields, James T. 
 Forsyth, John. 
 Freiligratu. 
 
 Gessner. 
 Go ktiie. 
 Goldsmith, Olives. 
 
 Hale, Sarah Jane. 
 
 Hazlitt, William. 
 
 Headley, J. T. 
 
 Heine. 
 
 Hemans, Mrs. 
 
 Herbert, George. 
 
 Hf.rrick. 
 
 Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 
 
 Hogg, James. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 
 
 Hunt, Leigh. 
 
 Ingelow, Jean. 
 Irving, Washington. 
 
 Keble, John. 
 Kemble, Frances Anne. 
 Kirk land, Mrs. 
 Korner. 
 
 Lamartine. 
 Landon, Miss L. 
 
 E. 
 
 \ 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Locke, John. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 
 
 Lowell, James Eussell. 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington. 
 
 Mackay, Charles. 
 
 Maiiont, Francis [Father Front]. 
 
 Meredith, Owen. 
 
 Mickle, W. J. 
 
 Moir, David Macbeth. 
 
 Montgomery, James. 
 
 Motherwell, William. 
 
 Milman, Eev. Henry Hart. 
 
 Milton, Joiin. 
 
 Mulock, Miss. 
 
 Norton, Mes. 
 
 Osgood, Frances S. 
 
 Parsons, Thos. Wm, 
 Peabody, W. B. 0. 
 Peroiyal, James G. 
 Petrarca. 
 Pope, Alexander. 
 Prescott, William H. 
 Proctor. Adelaide A. 
 Proctor, William Bryan. 
 
 Bead, Thos. Buchanan. 
 Beed, Henry. 
 Eogers, Samuel. 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 schlegel. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter. 
 
 Sigourney, Mrs. 
 
 Simms, William Gilmore. 
 
 SlMOND, M. 
 
 Slingsby, Jonathan Freeh. 
 Smith, Alexander. 
 Smith, Elizabeth Oakes. 
 
 S0UTnEY, BOBERT. 
 
 Street, Alfred B. 
 Swain, John. 
 
 Tasso. 
 
 Taylor, Bayard. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred. 
 
 Thomson, James. 
 
 Ticknor, George. 
 
 Trench, Bichard Cheneyix. 
 
 tuckerman, henry t. 
 
 Uhland. 
 
 Walsh, Eobert. 
 
 Welby, Amelia B. 
 
 Whipple, Edwin P. 
 
 Whittier, J. Greenlkaf. 
 
 Wilcox, Carlos. 
 
 Willis, N. P. 
 
 Wilson, John [Christopher North]. 
 
 Wordsworth, William. 
 
 Toung, William. 
 
CONTEN TS 
 
 A Morning in Paradise John Milton, 13 
 
 Nature's Laws Alexander Pope. 15 
 
 Spring James Tlwmson. 11 
 
 Rural Sounds William Cowper. 19 
 
 Lord William Robert Southey. 20 
 
 Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant. 26 
 
 Evanpreline (Her Meeting with Gabriel) . Henry Wadsw or th Longfellow. 28 
 
 The Sea-Shore and the Mountains Oliver Wendell Holmes. 32 
 
 The Death of Beatrice Dante. 33 
 
 Dora Alfred Tennyson. 35 
 
 The Rocky Spring Goethe. 40 
 
 '• God made the Country, and Man the Town" William Cowper. 42 
 
 Vision of Heaven (from an unpublished Poem) A. Cleveland Coze, D. D. 43 
 
 The Cross in the Wilderness : Mrs. Hemans. 46 
 
 On an Old Wedding-Ring Bishop JDoane. 50 
 
 A Sketch of the Universe Oliver Goldsmith. 51 
 
 The Church-Floor George Herbert 55 
 
 A Forest Hymn William Cullen Bryant. 55 
 
 Maud Muller J. Greenleaf Whittier. 59 
 
 God Seen in All Things William Cowper. 63 
 
 The Water Party George Crabbe. 65 
 
 Early Lost, Early Saved George Bethune, D. D. 67 
 
 The Widow and her Son Washington Irving. 69 
 
 Arrival of the Crusaders at Jerusalem Tasso. 74 
 
 Intimations of Immortality William Wordsworth. 11 
 
 Returning Spring John Keble. 84 
 
 Hymn before Chamouny at Sunrise Samuel T. Coleridge. 85 
 
 The Love of Nature William Cowper. 88 
 
 The Bitter Gourd Leigh Hunt. 91 
 
 Evening in Paradise John Milton. 92 
 
 Insignificance of the Earth Dr. Chalmers. 94 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 What's Hallowed Ground ? Thomas CampbeU. 96 
 
 Summer James Thomson. 100 
 
 The Bridal Sir Walter Scott. 103 
 
 The Glove (a Tale) Schiller. 107 
 
 A View of Men and Manners William Coivper. 109 
 
 The Lotus-Eaters Alfred Tennyson. Ill 
 
 "William Penn George Bancroft. 113 
 
 Harmosan Richard Chenevix Trench. 116 
 
 " Hope springs eternal in the human breast" Alexander Pope. 117 
 
 Ignez de Castro — Camoens. 1 19 
 
 Hudson River Thos. W. Parsons. 12-4 
 
 The Prisoned Nautilus Oliver Wendell Holmes. 127 
 
 Darkness Lord Byron. 129 
 
 The Brothers Samuel Bogers. 131 
 
 Ode to a Mountain Oak Geo. H. Bolter. 134 
 
 Isabella of Spain and Elizabeth of England William H Prescott. 1?,1 
 
 Hymn of Praise Lamartine. 140 
 
 Over the Mountain Adelaide A. Proctor. 142 
 
 The White Man's Foot Henry W. Longfellow. 144 
 
 Autumn James Thomson. 150 
 
 Under the Holly Bough Charles Mackay. 153 
 
 Love of Home James Montgomery. 154 
 
 Hospitality Mrs. Kirkland. 1 56 
 
 Better Moments N. P. Willis. 157 
 
 The Luck of Edenhall Uhland. 159 
 
 Philosophy enlightened by Religion William Cowper. 161 
 
 The Death of the Flowers William Cullen Bryant. 163 
 
 Nature and Art Alexander Pope. 165 
 
 The Prince and his Falcon Richard Chenevix Trench. 167 
 
 A Solemn Conceit William Motherwell. 169 
 
 Swiss Mountain and Avalanche M. Simond. 171 
 
 Indian Names ■ Mrs. Sigoumey. 173 
 
 Winter James Thomson. 175 
 
 The Expulsion from Paradise John Milton. 177 
 
 The Rainbow Amelia B. Welby. 179 
 
 The Death of Virginia T. Babington Macaulay. 180 
 
 The Holy Land Henry T. Tuckerman. 182 
 
 Primeval Woods Charles Fenno Hoffman. 184 
 
 The Garonne, the Wye, and the Hudson Robert Walsh. 186 
 
 The Wreaths Eliza Cook. 188 
 
 Jacob's Dream Rev. Geo. Croly. 190 
 
CONTENTS. 9 
 
 PAG1 
 
 True Liberty WiUiam Cowper. 191 
 
 The Moorish Prince Freiligrath. 193 
 
 The English and the American River Emma C. Embury. 19G 
 
 Lady Barbara Alexander Smith. 200 
 
 The Colosseum John Forsyth. 203 
 
 Corinna at the Capitol (from a MS. Drama) William Young. 201 
 
 The Gray Forest Eagle Alfred B. Street. 207* 
 
 The Lad}- of Shallott Alfred Tennyson. 2 1 ] 
 
 The Sexton Park Benjamin. 217 
 
 The Sense of Beauty Mrs. Norton. 218 
 
 Ode for "Washington's Birthday. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 222 
 
 The Adirondack's J. T. Ileadley. 224 
 
 The Lay of the Rose Mrs. Browning. 226 
 
 A Morning among the Hills James G. Percival. 233 
 
 The Mississippi Mrs. Sarah Jane Hale. 236 
 
 The Lore-Lei Heine. 240 
 
 Hope William Cowper. 241 
 
 To Yiolets Herrick. 242 
 
 To the Daisy WiUiam Wordsworth. 242 
 
 Charity James Montgomery. 245 
 
 A Night at Sea Miss L. E. Landon. 246 
 
 The Inevitable Leigh Hunt. 250 
 
 Earth A. Cleveland Coxe, D. D. 251 
 
 The Literature of Mirth .Edwin P. WJiipple. 254 
 
 Merlin's Tale to Yivien Alfred Tennyson. 256 
 
 To the Dandelion James Russell Loicell. 259 
 
 The Closing Scene Thos. Buchanan Bead. 261 
 
 Charlemagne and the Hermit William Allan Butler. 263 
 
 The Sea-Bird's Song John G. C. Brainard. 265 
 
 To the Moon Goethe. 266 
 
 Folly and Innocence William Cowper. 2G8 
 
 Best Method of Reading Henry Reed. 269 
 
 The Cry of the Human Mrs. Browning. 272 
 
 Scene from The Deluge Gessner. 275 
 
 The Old Fisherman Miss Jean Ingelow. 282 
 
 Ivan the Czar Mrs. Hemans. 285 
 
 Immortality . Richard H. Dana. 288 
 
 The Opening of the Leaves John Swain. 289 
 
 " When Thou Sleepest" Charlotte Bronte. 290 
 
 Winter W'alk at Noon William Cowper. 293 
 
 Virtue alone is Happiness Alexander Pope, 297 
 
 1* 
 
10 CONTEXTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Xahant . . .N. P. Willis. 299 
 
 Ministering Angels Miss Adelaide A. Proctor. 303 
 
 The Drowned Mariner Elizabeth Oakes Smith. 304 
 
 Ode for the Berkshire Jubilee Frances A. Kemble. 306 
 
 Fair Wind James T. Fields. 310 
 
 The Unknown (a Hebrew Legend) Anonymous. 311 
 
 •The Kingdom of God Richard Chenevix Trench. 315 
 
 The Character of Hamlet William Hazlitt. 316 
 
 At the Sea-Side Miss Midock. 318 
 
 The Bells of Shandon Francis Mahony. 320' 
 
 The Fate of Macgregor § James Hogg. 322 
 
 Christmas Alfred Tennyson. 325 
 
 Ginevra Samuel Rogers. 326 
 
 The Universal Bounties of Providence Edward Everett. 329 
 
 A Colloquy with Myself Bernard Barton. 331 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots KG. Bell. 333 
 
 Oh 1 the Pleasant Days of Old Frances Brown. 338 
 
 Don Quixote George Ticknor. 340 
 
 The Arab to the Palm Bayard Taylor. 343 
 
 De Profundis Mrs. Browning. 345 
 
 Eosabelle Sir Walter Scott. 349 
 
 Ode to the Saviour Rev. Henry Hart Milman. 351 
 
 A Mother's Love Rev. Albert Barnes. 353 
 
 The Battle of Naseby \ . , Titos. Babington Macaulay. 354 
 
 A Poet's Supplication to his Lyre Abraham Cowley. 357 
 
 Cumnor flail W. J. Mickle. 358 
 
 The Maiden and the Rattlesnake. William Gilmore Simms. 362 
 
 To EveniDg William Collins. 366 
 
 My Fatherland Korner. 368 
 
 Mary, the Maid of the Inn Robert Southey. 370 
 
 Ode to Winter Thomas Campbell. 373 
 
 Casa Wappy David Macbeth Moir. 375 
 
 Shakspeare's Character and "Writings Schlegel. 379 
 
 Dream-Music; or, the Spirit-Flute Frances S. Osgood. 385 
 
 Prayer and Praise Lorenzo De Medici. 390 
 
 My Heart and I. . . . Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 392 
 
 My Stuffed Owl Mrs. Sigourney. 393 
 
 Vjuuss Jonathan Freke Slingsby. 398 
 
 The Traveller by Night Joanna Baillie. 400 
 
 Presentiments William Wordsworth. 401 
 
 The Presence of God Amelia B. Welby. 404 
 
OONTEE 11 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Causes of "Weakness in Men John Locke. 407 
 
 Address to a Wild Deer John Wilson. 409 
 
 A Storm William Bryan Proctor. 41 1 
 
 Evening Petrarca. 413 
 
 The Mother and Son Richard H. Dana. 415 
 
 Saul, and the Witch of Endor Lord Byron. 419 
 
 The Old Clock on the Stairs Henry W. Longfellow. 420 
 
 Seeing " The Word of Life" Owen Meredith. 422 
 
 The Winter Night W. B. 0. Peabody. 424 
 
 Shakspeare's Women Anonymous. 425 
 
 A Summer Noon Carlos Wilcox. 427 
 
 The Forging of the Anchor Samuel Ferguson. 430 
 
 The North and the South Mrs. Browning. 433 
 
 Samuel Lowgood's Revenge Miss M. E. Br addon. 434 
 
LADIES' 
 
 BOOK OF READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 A MORNING IN PARADISE.-John Milto*. 
 
 So all was clear'd, and to the field they haste. 
 But first from under shady arborous roof 
 Soon as they forth were come to open sight 
 Of day-spring, and the sun, who, scarce up-risen, 
 With wheels yet hovering o'er the ocean-brim, 
 Shot parallel to the earth his dewy ray, 
 Discovering in wide landscape all the east 
 Of Paradise and Eden's happy plains, 
 Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began 
 Their orisons, each morning duly paid 
 In various style ; for neither various style 
 Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise 
 Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung 
 Unmeditated ; such prompt eloquence 
 Flow'd from their lips, in prose or numerous verse, 
 More tunable than needed lute or harp 
 To add more sweetness ; and they thus began : 
 
 " These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
 Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, 
 Thus wondrous fair : Thyself how wondrous then, 
 Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
 
14 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
 
 Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
 
 Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
 
 And choral symphonies, day without night, 
 
 Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in heaven, 
 
 On earth join all ye creatures to extol 
 
 Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 
 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
 
 With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 
 Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 
 
 Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise 
 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 
 And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st. 
 
 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, 
 
 With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; 
 
 And ye five other wandering fires, that move 
 
 In mystic dance not without song, resound 
 
 His praise, who out of darkness called up light. 
 
 Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
 
 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 
 Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix 
 
 And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
 
 Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
 
 Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
 
 In honor to the world's great Author, rise ; 
 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncolor'd sky, 
 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
 
 Rising or falling still advance his praise. 
 
 His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow, 
 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 15 
 
 With every plant, ia sign of worship wave. 
 Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
 Join voices, all ye living souls : ye birds, 
 That singing up to heaven-gate ascend, 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 
 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep ; 
 Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 
 To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, 
 Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 
 Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still 
 To give us only good ; and if the night 
 Have gather' d aught of evil or concealed, 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark." 
 
 So pray'd they innocent, and to their thoughts 
 Firm peace recover' d soon, and wonted calm. 
 On to their morning's rural work they haste, 
 Among sweet dews and flowers ; where any row 
 Of fruit-trees over-woody reached too far 
 Their pamper' d boughs, and needed hands to check 
 Fruitless embraces ; or they led the vine 
 To wed her elm ; she, spous'd, about him twines 
 Her marriageable arms, and with her brings 
 Her dower, the adopted clusters, to adorn 
 His barren leaves. 
 
 NATURE'S LAWS— Alexander Pope. 
 
 Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, 
 And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit 
 As on the land while here the ocean gains, 
 In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains ; 
 Thus in the soul while memory prevails, 
 
16 LADIES' BOOK oV 
 
 The solid power of understanding fails ; 
 
 Where beams of warm imagination play, 
 
 The memory's soft figures melt away. 
 
 One science only will one genius fit ; 
 
 So vast is art, so narrow human wit : 
 
 Not only bounded to peculiar arts, 
 
 But oft in those confined to single parts. 
 
 Like kings, we lose the conquests gain'd before, 
 
 By vain ambition still to make them more : 
 
 Each might his several province well command, 
 
 Would all but stoop to what they understand. 
 
 First follow Nature, and your judgment frame 
 By her just standard, which is still the same : 
 Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 
 One clear, unchanged, and universal light, 
 Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, 
 At once the source, and end, and test of art. 
 Art from that fund each just supply provides ; 
 * Works without show, and without pomp presides : 
 In some fair body thus the informing soul 
 With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole, 
 Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains ; 
 Itself unseen, but in the effects remains. 
 Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, 
 Want as much more, to turn it to its use ; 
 For wit and judgment often are at strife, 
 Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 
 'Tis more to guide, than spur the muse's steed ; 
 Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed : 
 The winged courser, like a generous horse, 
 Shows most true mettle when you check his course. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 17 
 
 SPRING.— James Thomson. 
 
 Oh come ! and while the rosy-footed May 
 Steals blushing on, together let us tread 
 The morning dews, and gather in their prime 
 Fresh-blooming now'rs, to grace thy braided hair, 
 And thy lov'd bosom, that improves their sweets. 
 See, where the winding vale its lavish stores, 
 Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks 
 The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass, 
 Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank 
 In fair profusion decks. Long let us walk, 
 Where the breeze blows from yon extended field 
 Of blossom' d beans. Arabia cannot boast 
 A fuller gale of joy, than, lib'ral, thence 
 Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravish'd soul. 
 Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot, 
 Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd now'rs, 
 The negligence of nature, wide and wild, 
 Where, undisguis'd by mimic art, she spreads 
 Unbounded beauty to the roving eye. 
 Here their delicious task the fervent bees, 
 In swarming millions tend : around, athwart, 
 Through the soft air the busy nations fly, 
 Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube 
 Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul : 
 And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare 
 The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows, 
 And yellow load them with the luscious spoil. 
 
 At length the finish' d garden to the view 
 Its vistas opens, and its alleys, green. 
 Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye 
 Distracted wanders ; now the bow'ry walk 
 Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day 
 Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps : 
 
18 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 Now meets the bending sky ; the river now 
 Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake, 
 The forest dark'ning round, the glitt'ring spire, 
 Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. 
 But why so far extensive ? when, at hand, 
 Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, 
 And in yon mingled wilderness of flow'rs, 
 Fair-handed Spring unbosoms ev'ry grace ; 
 Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first ; 
 The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, 
 And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes ; 
 The yellow wall-flower, stain' d with iron brown ; 
 And lavish stock, that scents the garden round : 
 From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, 
 Anemonies, auriculas, enrich'd 
 With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves : 
 And full ranunculus, of glowing red. 
 Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays 
 Her idle freaks : from family dimis'd 
 To family, as flies the father-dust, 
 The varied colors run ; and while they break 
 On the charm'd eye, th' exulting florist marks, 
 With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. 
 No gradual bloom is wanting ; from the bud 
 First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes ; 
 Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, 
 Low bent, and blushing inward : nor jonquils 
 Of potent fragrance ; nor Narcissus fair, 
 As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still ; 
 Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks ; 
 Nor, shower' d from ev'ry bush, the damask-rose ; 
 Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, 
 W r ith hues on hues expression cannot paint, 
 The breath of nature and her endless bloom. 
 Hail ! Source of Being ! Universal Soul 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 19 
 
 Of heav'n and earth ! Essential Presence, hail ! 
 
 To Thee I bend the knee ; to Thee ray thoughts, 
 
 Continual, climb ; who, with a master-hand, 
 
 Hast the great whole into perfection touch' d. 
 
 By Thee the various vegetative tribes, 
 
 Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, 
 
 Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew : 
 
 By Thee dispos'd into congenial soils, 
 
 Stands each attractive plant, and sucks and swells 
 
 The juicy tide ; a twining mass of tubes. 
 
 At thy command the vernal sun awakes 
 
 The torpid sap, detruded to the root 
 
 By wintry winds, that now in fluent dance, 
 
 And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads 
 
 All this innum'rous-color'd scene of things. 
 
 As rising from the vegetable world 
 
 My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend, 
 
 My panting muse ! And hark ! how loud the woods 
 
 Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. 
 
 Lend me your song, ye nightingales ! oh pour 
 
 The mazy running soul of melody 
 
 Into my varied verse ! while I deduce, 
 
 From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, 
 
 The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme 
 
 Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves. 
 
 RURAL SOUNDS*— William Copper. 
 
 Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 
 Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
 The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, 
 That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
 Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
 The dash of Ocean on his winding shore, 
 
20 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 
 Un number' d branches waving in the blast, 
 And all their leaves fast flattering, all at once. 
 Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
 Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
 Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 
 Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
 In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
 Betrays* the secret of their silent course. 
 Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 
 But animated Nature sweeter still, 
 To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
 The livelong night : nor these alone, whose notes 
 Nice-fingered Art must emulate in vain, 
 But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
 In still repeated circles, screaming loud, 
 The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, 
 That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
 Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, 
 Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 
 And only there, please highly for their sake. 
 
 LORD WILLIAM— Robert SoimnsY. 
 
 No eye beheld when William plunged 
 Young Edmund in the stream, 
 
 No human ear but William's heard 
 Young Edmund's drowning scream. 
 
 Submissive all the vassals owned 
 The murderer for their lord ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. £] 
 
 And he as rightful heir possessed 
 The house of Erlingford. 
 
 The ancient house of Erlingford 
 
 Stood in a fair domain, 
 And Severn's ample waters near 
 
 Rolled through the fertile plain. 
 
 And often the wayfaring man 
 
 Would love to linger there, 
 Forgetful of his onward road, 
 
 To gaze on scenes so fair. 
 
 But never could Lord William dare 
 
 To gaze on Severn's stream ; 
 In every wind that swept its waves 
 
 He heard young Edmund's scream ! 
 
 In vain at midnight's silent hour, 
 
 Sleep closed the murderer's eyes, 
 In every dream the murderer saw 
 
 Young Edmund's form arise ! 
 
 In vain by restless conscience driven 
 
 Lord William left his home, 
 Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, 
 
 In pilgrimage to roam ; 
 
 To other climes the pilgrim fled, 
 
 But could not fly despair ; 
 He sought his home again, but peace 
 
 Was still a stranger there. 
 
 Slow were the passing hours, yet swift 
 
 The months appeared to roll ; 
 And now the day returned that shook 
 
 With terror William's soul. 
 
22 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 A day that William never felt 
 
 Return without dismay, 
 For well had conscience calendar' d 
 
 Young Edmund's dying day. 
 
 A fearful day was that ! the rains 
 Fell fast with tempest roar, 
 
 And the swollen tide of Severn spread 
 Far on the level shore. 
 
 In vain Lord "William sought the feast, 
 In vain he quaffed the bowl, 
 
 And strove with noisy mirth to drown 
 The anguish of his soul. 
 
 The tempest, as its sudden swell 
 
 In gusty howlings came, 
 With cold and death-like feelings seemed 
 
 To thrill his shuddering frame. 
 
 Reluctant now, as night came on, 
 His lonely couch he pressed ; 
 
 And, wearied out, he sunk to sleep — 
 To sleep — but not to rest. 
 
 Beside that couch, his brother's form, 
 Lord Edmund seemed to stand, 
 
 Such and so pale as when in death 
 He grasped his brother's hand ; 
 
 Such and so pale his face as when, 
 With faint and faltering tongue, 
 
 To William's care, a dying charge, 
 He left his orphan son. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 23 
 
 " I bade thee with a father's love 
 
 My orphan Edmund guard ; — 
 Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge I 
 
 Now, take thy due reward." 
 
 He started up, each limb convulsed 
 
 With agonizing fear ; 
 He only heard the storm of night, — 
 
 'Twas music to his ear. 
 
 When, lo ! the voice of loud alarm 
 
 His inmost soul appalls : 
 " What ho ! Lord William, rise in haste ! 
 
 The water saps thy walls !" 
 
 He rose in haste, beneath the walls 
 
 He saw the flood appear ; 
 It hemmed him round, 'twas midnight now — 
 
 No human aid was near. 
 
 He heard a shout of joy ! for now 
 
 A boat approached the wall, 
 And eager to the welcome aid 
 
 They crowd for safety all. 
 
 " My boat is small," the boatman cried, 
 " 'Twill bear but one away ; 
 
 Come in, Lord William, and do ye 
 In God's protection stay." 
 
 Strange feelings filled them at his voice 
 
 Even in that hour of woe, 
 That, save their lord, there was not one 
 
 Who wished with him to go. 
 
*24 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 But William leapt into the boat, 
 
 His terror was so sore ; 
 "Thou shalt have half my gold," he cried, 
 
 " Haste, haste to yonder shore !" 
 
 The boatman plied the oar, the boat 
 
 Went light along the stream ; 
 Sudden Lord William heard a cry 
 
 Like Edmund's drowning scream. 
 
 The boatman paused : " Methought I heard 
 
 A child's distressful cry !" 
 " 'Twas but the howling wind of night," 
 
 Lord William made reply. 
 
 " Haste — haste — ply swift and strong the oar ; 
 
 Haste — haste across the stream !" 
 Again Lord William heard a cry 
 
 Like Edmund's drowning scream I 
 
 " I heard a child's distressful scream," 
 
 The boatman cried again. 
 " Nay, hasten on — the night is dark — 
 
 And we should search in vain." 
 
 " God ! Lord William, dost thou know 
 
 How dreadful 'tis to die ? 
 And canst thou without pity hear 
 
 A child's expiring cry ? 
 
 " How horrible it is to sink 
 
 Beneath the closing stream, 
 To stretch the powerless arms in vain, 
 
 In vain for help to scream 1" 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 25 
 
 The shriek again was heard : it came 
 
 More deep, more piercing loud ; 
 That instant o'er the flood the moon 
 
 Shone through a broken cloud ; 
 
 And near them they beheld a child; 
 
 Upon a crag he stood, — 
 A little crag, and all around 
 
 Was spread the rising flood. 
 
 The boatman plied the oar, the boat 
 
 Approached his resting-place ; 
 The moonbeam shone upon the child, 
 
 And showed how pale his face. 
 
 "Now reach thy hand," the boatman cried, 
 
 " Lord William, reach and save !" 
 The child stretched forth his little hands, 
 
 To grasp the hand he gave. 
 
 Then William shrieked : the hands he felt 
 
 Were cold and damp and dead ! 
 He held young Edmund in his arms, 
 
 A heavier weight than lead ! 
 
 The boat sunk down — the murderer sunk 
 
 Beneath the avenging stream ; 
 He rose, he shrieked, no human ear 
 
 Heard William's drowning scream. 
 2 
 
26 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THANAT0P3IS.— William Culijln Bkyant. 
 
 To hiin who, in the love of Nature, holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language. For his gayer hours 
 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 unto 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 
 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 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 27 
 
 "With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 
 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 
 The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
 
 In majesty; and the complaining brooks, 
 
 That make the meadow 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, and the Barcan desert pierce ; 
 
 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 fall 
 
 Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 
 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 
 Will share thy destiny. 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 
 
23 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 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, 
 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. 
 
 EVANGELINE (HER MEETING "WITH GABRIED.-Henby W. Loxgfellow. 
 
 In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's 
 
 waters, 
 Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 
 Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 
 There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of 
 
 beauty, 
 And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the 
 
 forest, 
 As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they 
 
 molested. 
 There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, 
 Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 
 Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 
 Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld 
 
 him. 
 Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 
 
 repeated 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 29 
 
 Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 
 High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 
 Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the 
 
 suburbs 
 Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the 
 
 market, 
 Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watch- 
 ing*, 
 Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
 Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the op- 
 pressor ; 
 But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 
 Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, 
 Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
 Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The 
 
 dying 
 Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
 Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 
 Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, 
 Or such as hangs by night o 1 er a city seen at a distance. 
 Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and 
 
 silent, 
 Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 
 Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the gar- 
 den ; 
 And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 
 That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and 
 
 beauty. 
 Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the 
 
 east wind, 
 Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of 
 
 Christ Church, 
 While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 
 Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their 
 church at Wicaco. 
 
30 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her 
 
 spirit ; 
 Something within her said, — " At length thy trials are ended ;" 
 And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sick- 
 ness. 
 Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 
 Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 
 Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their 
 
 faces, 
 Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road- 
 side. 
 Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered. 
 Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; 
 Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 
 Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
 Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 
 Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped 
 
 from her fingers, 
 And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 
 Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 
 That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 
 On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man, 
 Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples ; 
 But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
 Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; 
 Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
 Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the 
 
 darkness, 
 Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. 
 Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverbera- 
 tions, 
 Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that suc- 
 ceeded 
 Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
 "Gabriel ! Oh, my beloved !" and died away into silence. 
 
READINGS AND RBCITATIONft 31 
 
 Then lie beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his child- 
 hood ; 
 Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 
 Village, and mountain, and woodlands : and, walking under 
 
 their shadow, 
 As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
 Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
 Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 
 Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unut» 
 
 tered 
 Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue 
 
 would have spoken. 
 Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 
 Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 
 Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into 
 
 darkness, 
 As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 
 All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 
 All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 
 All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 
 And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 
 Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank 
 
 thee!" 
 
 Still stands the forest primeval , but far away from its shadow, 
 Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
 Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church-yard, 
 In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
 Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 
 Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and 
 
 forever, 
 Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 
 Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from 
 
 their labors, 
 Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their 
 
 journey ! 
 
32 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE SEA-SHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS.-Oliyer Wendell Holmes. 
 
 I have lived by the sca-sliore 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 there is : you can 
 domesticate mountains, but the sea is ferce natures. 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 elec- 
 trotyped 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 jaw r s 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 intelligence. The moun- 
 tains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs awful to 
 look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver 
 scales 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 generations. 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 forever 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. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 THE DEATH OF BEATRICE.-Dantk. 
 
 A lady, young, compassionate, and fair, 
 Richly adorned with every human grace, 
 Watched o'er my couch, where oft I called on death; 
 And noticing the eyes with sorrow swollen, 
 And listening to the folly of my words, 
 Fear seized upon her, and she wept aloud. 
 Attracted by her moaning, other dames 
 Gave heed unto my pitiable state, 
 And from ray view removed her. 
 They then approached to rouse me by their voice, 
 And one cried, " Sleep no more I" 
 And one, " Why thus discomfort thee ?" 
 With that the strange, delirious fancy fled, 
 And, calling on my lady's name, I woke. 
 So indistinct and mournful was my voice, 
 By anguish interrupted so, and tears, 
 That I alone the name heard in my heart : 
 Then, with a countenance abashed, through shame, 
 Which to my face had mounted visibly, 
 Prompted by Love, I turned towards my friends, 
 And features showed so pale and wan, 
 It made beholders turn their thoughts on death. 
 " Alas ! our comfort he must have," 
 Said every one, with kind humility. 
 Then oft they questioned me, 
 
 " What hast thou seen, that has unmanned thee thus V y 
 And when I was in part restored, I said, 
 " Ladies, to you the vision I'll relate. 
 Whilst I lay pondering on my ebbing life, 
 And saw how brief its tenure, and how frail, 
 Love wept within my heart, where he abides ; 
 For my sad soul was wandering so, and lost, 
 That, sighing deeply at the thought, it said, 
 
34 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 * Inevitable death attends Madonna too. 1 
 
 Such consternation then my senses seized, 
 
 The eyes weighed down with fear were closed ; 
 
 And scattered far and wide 
 
 The spirits fled, and each in error strayed ; 
 
 And then imagination's powers, 
 
 Of recollection and of truth bereft, 
 
 Showed me the fleeting forms of wretched dames, 
 
 Who shouted, ' Death !' still crying, ' Thou shalt die V 
 
 Many the doubtful things which next I saw, 
 
 Wandering in vain imagination's maze. 
 
 I seemed to be I know not in what place, 
 
 And ladies loosely robed saw fleet along, 
 
 Some weeping, and some uttering loud laments 
 
 Which darted burning griefs into the soul. 
 
 And then methought I saw a gradual veil 
 
 Obscure the sun ; the star of Love appeared, 
 
 And sun and star seemed both to weep ; 
 
 Birds flying through the dusky air dropped down ; 
 
 Trembled the earth : 
 
 And then appeared a man, feeble and pale, 
 
 Who cried to me, ' What ! here ? Heard' st not the news ? 
 
 Dead is thy lady, — she who was so fair.' 
 
 I raised the eyes then, moistened with my tears, 
 
 And, softly as the shower of manna fell, 
 
 Angels I saw returning up to heaven : 
 
 Before them was a slender cloud extended, 
 
 And from behind I heard them shout, ' Hosanna !' 
 
 What more was sung I know not, or would tell. 
 
 Then Love thus spoke : ' Concealment here shall end ; 
 
 Come now, and see our lady who lies dead. 
 
 Imagination's fallacy 
 
 Then led me where in death Madonna lay ; 
 
 And after I had gazed upon her form, 
 
 Ladies I saw conceal it with a veil ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 35 
 
 And such true meekness from its features beamed, 
 It seemed to say to me, ' I dwell in peace.' 
 So meek in my affliction I became, 
 Seeing such meekness on her brow expressed, 
 That I exclaimed, ' O Death, I hold thee sweet, 
 Noble and kind henceforth thou must be deemed, 
 Since thou hast been united to Madonna ; 
 Piteous, not cruel, must thy nature be. 
 Behold desire so strong to be enrolled 
 Thy follower, my faith and thine seem one ! 
 Come, for the heart solicits thee !' 
 I then departed, all sad rites complete ; 
 And when I found myself alone, 
 With eyes upraised to the realms above I said, 
 Blessed is he beholds thee, beauteous soul !' 
 That instant, through your kindness, I awoke." 
 
 DORA.— Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
 William and Dora. William was his son, 
 And she his niece. He often looked at them, 
 And often thought, " I'll make them man and wife." 
 Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
 And yearned towards William ; but the youth, because 
 He had been always with her in the house, 
 Thought not of Dora. 
 
 Then there came a day 
 When Allan called his son and said, " My son : 
 I married late, but I would wish to see 
 My grandchild on my knees before I die ; 
 And I have set my heart upon a match. 
 Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
 To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
 
LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 She is my brother's daughter ; lie and I 
 Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
 In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
 His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; 
 For I have wished this marriage, night and day, 
 For many years." But William answered short : 
 " I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
 I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
 Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
 " You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
 But in my time a father's word was law, 
 And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't ; 
 Consider, William : take a month to think, 
 And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
 Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
 And never more darken my doors again !" 
 But William answered madly ; bit his lips, 
 And broke away. The more he looked at her 
 The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
 But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
 The month was out he left his father's house, 
 And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
 And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed 
 A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
 
 Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called 
 His niece and said : "My girl, I love you well ; 
 But if you speak with him that was my son, 
 Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
 _My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
 And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
 " It cannot be ; my uncle's mind will change !" 
 
 And days went on, and there was born a boy 
 To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
 And day by day he passed his father's gate, 
 Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 37 
 
 But Dora stored what little she could save, 
 And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
 Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
 On "William, and in harvest-time he died.- 
 
 Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
 And looked with tears upon her bpy, and thought 
 Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 
 " I have obeyed my uncle until now, 
 And I have sinned, for it was all through me 
 This evil came on William at the first. 
 But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
 And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
 And for this orphan, I am come to you. 
 You know there has not been for these five years 
 So full a harvest, let me take the boy, 
 And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
 Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 
 Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
 And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 
 
 And Dora took the child, and went her way 
 Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
 That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
 Far off the farmer came into the field 
 And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
 Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
 And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
 But her heart failed her ; and the reapers reaped, 
 And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
 
 But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
 The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
 And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
 That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
 To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
 Then when the farmer passed into the field 
 He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
 
38 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And came and said, " Where were you yesterday ? 
 
 Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ?" 
 
 So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
 
 And answered softly, " This is William's child !" 
 
 " And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
 
 Forbid you, Dora ?" Dora said again : 
 
 " Do with me as you will, but take the child 
 
 And bless him for the sake of him that's gone !" 
 
 And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
 
 Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
 
 I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
 
 You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
 
 To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy ; 
 
 But go you hence, and never see me more." 
 
 So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
 And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
 At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, 
 And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
 More and more distant. She bowed down her head, 
 Remembering the day when first she came, 
 And all the things that had been. She bowed down 
 And wept in secret ; and the reapers reaped, 
 And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
 
 Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
 Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
 Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
 To God, that helped her in her widowhood. 
 And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
 But, Mary, let me live and work with you ; 
 He says that he will never see me more." 
 Then answered Mary, "This shall never be, 
 That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself ; 
 And now, I think, he shall not have the boy, 
 For he will teach l.im harshness, and to slight 
 His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 39 
 
 And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
 And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
 But if lie will not take thee back again, 
 Then thou and I will live within one house, 
 And work for William's child until he grows 
 Of age to help us." 
 
 So the women kissed 
 Each other, and set out and reached the farm. 
 The door was off the latch ; they peeped and saw 
 The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
 Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
 And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 
 Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretched out 
 And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
 From Allan's watch and sparkled by the fire. 
 Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld 
 His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
 And Allan sat him down, and Mary said : 
 
 " Oh, father ! — if you let me call you so — 
 I never came a begging for myself, 
 Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
 For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 
 Oh, sir, when William died, he died at peace 
 With all men ; for I asked him, and he said, 
 He could not ever rue his marrying me. — 
 I had been a patient wife : but, sir, he said 
 That he was w r rong to cross his father thus ; 
 ' God bless him !' he said, ' and may he never know 
 The troubles I have gone through !' Then he turned 
 His face and passed — unhappy that I am ! 
 But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you 
 Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
 His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 
 And let all this be as it was before." 
 
 So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
 
40 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
 And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 
 
 " I have been to blame-^-to blame ! I have killed my 
 son ! 
 I have killed him — but I loved him — my dear son ! 
 May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
 Kiss me, my children !" 
 
 Then they clung about 
 The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. 
 And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
 And all his love came back a hundred-fold ; 
 And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child, 
 Thinking of William. 
 
 So those four abode 
 Within one house together ; and as years 
 Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
 But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 
 
 THE ROCKY SPEING.-Goethb. 
 
 See the rocky spring, 
 
 Clear as joy, 
 
 Like a sweet star gleaming I 
 
 O'er the clouds, he 
 
 In his youth was cradled 
 
 By good spirits, 
 
 'Neath the bushes in the cliffs. 
 
 Fresh with youth, 
 
 From the cloud he dances 
 
 Down upon the rocky pavement ; 
 
 Thence, exulting, 
 
 Leaps to heaven. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATION'S. 41 
 
 For a while he dallies 
 
 Round the summit, 
 
 Through its little channels chasing 
 
 Motley pebbles round and round ; 
 
 Quick, then, like determined leader, 
 
 Hurries all his brother streamlets 
 
 Off with him. 
 
 There, all round him in the vale, 
 
 Flowers spring up beneath his footstep 
 
 And the meadow 
 
 Wakes to feel his breath. 
 
 But him holds no shady vale, 
 
 No cool blossoms, 
 
 Which around his knees are clinging, 
 
 And with loving eyes entreating 
 
 Passing notice ; — on he speeds, 
 
 Winding snake-like. 
 
 Social brooklets 
 
 Add their waters. Now he rolls 
 
 O'er the plain in silvery splendor, 
 
 And the plain his splendor borrows ; 
 
 And the rivulets from the plain 
 
 And the brooklets from the hill-sides 
 
 All are shouting to him : " Brother, 
 
 Brother, take thy brothers too, 
 
 Take us to thy ancient Father, 
 
 To the everlasting ocean, 
 
 Who e'en now, with outstretched arms, 
 
 Waits for us, — 
 
 Arms outstretched, alas ! in vain, 
 
 To embrace his longing ones ; 
 
 For the greedy sand devours us ; 
 
 Or the burning sun above us 
 
42 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Sucks our life-blood ; or some hillock 
 Hems us into ponds. Ah ! brother, 
 Take thy brothers from the plain, 
 Take thy brothers from the hill-sides 
 With thee, to our Sire with thee !" 
 " Come ye all, then !"— 
 Now, more proudly, 
 On he swells ; a countless race, they 
 Bear their glorious prince aloft ! 
 On he rolls triumphantly, 
 Giving names to countries. Cities 
 Spring to being 'neath his foot. 
 
 Onward, with incessant roaring. 
 See ! he passes proudly by 
 Flaming turrets, marble mansions, — 
 Creatures of his fulness all. 
 
 Cedar houses bears this Atlas 
 On his oiant shoulders. Rustling, 
 Flapping in the playful breezes, 
 Thousand flags about his head are 
 Telling of his majesty. 
 
 And so bears he all his brothers, 
 And his treasures, and his children, 
 To their Sire, all joyous roaring, 
 Pressing to his mighty heart. 
 
 GOD MADE THE COUNTRY, AND MAN THE TOWN"-William Cowpee. 
 
 God made the country, and man made the town, 
 "What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 
 ThaU can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
 That life holds out to all, should most abound 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 43 
 
 And least be thrcaten'd in the fields and groves ? 
 Possess ye, therefore, ye, who, borne about 
 In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue 
 But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
 But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
 Your element ; there only can ye shine ; 
 There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
 Our groves were planted to console at noon 
 The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve 
 The moon-beam, sliding softly in between 
 The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, 
 Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 
 The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse 
 Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 
 Our more harmonious notes : the thrush departs 
 Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. 
 There is a public mischief in your mirth ; 
 It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, 
 Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 
 Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, 
 Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, 
 A mutilated structure, soon to fall. 
 
 VISION OP HEAVEN —Ret. A. Cleveland Coib. 
 
 And now the Heaven of Heavens, to view 
 
 Rose glorious as the light ! 
 Oh, it were idle to strive to tell, 
 But I can remember, remember well, 
 
 How wonderful seem'd the sight. 
 I was not there ; but saw afar 
 How happy the heavenly spirits are, 
 Like him of old, with a gulf between 
 My longing soul and the glorious scene ; 
 
44 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Oh, never shall pass that dreadful ravine 
 
 A soul defiled by sin ! 
 But there was I, and I could see 
 How desolate all without must be, 
 
 How rapturous all within. 
 
 It seem'd as if in Heaven, they all 
 Were keeping some high festival : 
 For far and near they thronging came, 
 Angels, and shapes of living flame, 
 That had been wandering with their peers, 
 Out, o'er remotest stars and spheres, 
 And roaming over fields of light, 
 Adoring ever, at the sight 
 Of wondrous things, beyond our seeing, 
 Creations bursting into being, _ 
 New suns and planets ever making, 
 And new-born light forever breaking. 
 
 And wonder seem'd their high employ 
 Forever, in their homes of joy; 
 These are thy works — the endless song 
 Forever roll'd those worlds along. 
 And now they came, to worship flying, 
 From stars beyond old Saturn lying ; 
 From far they came, all homeward winging, 
 And ever on their journey singing, 
 And trooping to their homes again 
 From realms beyond our utmost ken, 
 Legions on legions — from the coasts 
 " Of all thine empire, Lord of hosts ! 
 
 « * V!- * •& 
 
 The Heaven of Heavens is fill'd with One, 
 Of rays shot forth, and God the Sun : 
 For God is Love, and this is He, 
 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 45 
 
 That filietli all Immensity. 
 
 And seraphs in his sight are dim, 
 
 They are but beings out of Him ! 
 
 'Tis central Glory — and its beams : 
 
 'Tis Light's great Fountain — and its streams : 
 
 'Tis One — so great, so good, so bright, 
 
 And hosts inscrutable as light, 
 
 A Voice — and echoes of its sound ; 
 
 God, — and his living smiles around ! 
 
 But God forbid that I should dare 
 
 Discover, what I next saw there : 
 
 Or tell the music, or the word, 
 
 That from immortal tongues I heard. 
 
 I saw, but oh I must not tell, 
 
 The vision was unspeakable ! 
 
 Millions on millions, bright to see, 
 
 All crowding through Immensity : 
 
 Myriads on myriads, far away, 
 
 To keep the worship of that day, 
 
 That stood in serried, close array, 
 
 And bent, and sway'd them, to the breeze 
 
 Of soul-controlling harmonies ; 
 
 As if the heavenly fields were sown 
 
 With wavy light, to harvest grown. 
 
 I saw them like the elders fall, 
 
 Whom once in Patmos' lonely isle, 
 In dream apocalyptical 
 
 The Prophet saw, and quak'd the while : 
 But mine was nothing but a dream ; 
 
 A phantasy, a fearful vision, 
 Reflected in a troubled stream, 
 
 A soul that long'd for sights elysian ; 
 Mine was an agony of thought, 
 
46 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 By grief, and subtle fancy wrought, 
 And what I saw I only tell 
 As my deep slumber's miracle ; 
 For well I know, that nothing gives, 
 And nought is known by man that lives, 
 Nor ear hath heard, nor thought conceived, 
 Nor Fancy into vision weaved, 
 What joys the faithful have in store, 
 Where our clear Lord is gone before. 
 
 ■x- -x- -x- * -x- 
 
 Gone ! and the vision roll'd away, 
 As Heaven shall roll that dreadful day ! 
 The stars, with Earth's great star, the Sun, 
 Our God shall quench when time is done, 
 But in that day, that direful day, 
 When blotted out is every ray, 
 'Twill all be light, yes, glorious light, 
 To that unfathomable night, 
 That, in a moment, leap'd around, 
 And changed the vision of my swound. 
 
 THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS -Mm. Hkm^-s. 
 Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 
 
 In the rfed sunset, by a grassy tomb ; 
 His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, 
 
 And his arms folded in majestic gloom ; 
 And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound 
 Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 
 
 For a pale cross above its greensward rose, 
 Telling the cedars and the pines that there 
 
 Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes, 
 And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 
 
 Now all was hushed and eve's last splendor shone 
 
 With a rich sadness on the attesting stone. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 4.7 
 
 There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, 
 
 And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, 
 
 Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 
 Between the forest and the lake's bright wave ; 
 
 Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak, 
 
 On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 
 
 And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said, — 
 " I listened for the words, which years ago 
 
 Passed o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled 
 Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, 
 
 Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, 
 
 Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 
 
 " Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath ? 
 
 I was an eagle in my youthful pride, 
 When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, 
 
 To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. 
 Many the times of flowers have been since then — 
 Many, but bringing naught like him again ! 
 
 " Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came, 
 O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 
 
 Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, 
 
 Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low ; 
 
 But to spread tidings of all holy things, 
 
 Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wings. 
 
 " Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
 I and my brethren that from earth are gone, 
 
 Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 
 
 Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone ? 
 
 He told of One, the grave's dark bonds who broke, 
 
 And our hearts burned within us as he spoke. 
 
iS LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 " He told of far and sunny lands, which lie 
 Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell : 
 
 Bright must they be ! for there are none that die, 
 And none that weep, and none that say ' Farewell •' 
 
 He came to guide us thither ; but away 
 
 The Happy called him, and he might not stay. 
 
 " We saw him slowly fade — athirst, perchance, 
 For the fresh waters of that lovely clime : 
 
 Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, 
 And on bis gleaming hair no toucb of time — 
 
 Therefore we hoped — but now the lake looks dim, 
 
 For the green summer comes — and finds not him ! 
 
 " We gathered round him in the dewy hour 
 Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 
 
 From his clear voice at first the words of power 
 Came low, like moanings of a distant sea ; 
 
 But swelled, and shook the wilderness ere long, 
 
 As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 
 
 " And then once more they trembled on his tongue, 
 And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head 
 
 Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung — 
 Know'st thou not how T we pass to join the dead? 
 
 It is enough ! he sank upon my breast — 
 
 Our friend that loved us, — he was gone to rest ! 
 
 " We buried him where he was wont to pray, 
 By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 
 
 We reared this cross in token where he lay, 
 For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died ! 
 
 Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, 
 
 That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 4«J 
 
 u But I am sad ! — I mourn the clear light taken 
 Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, 
 
 The pathway to the better shore forsaken, 
 And the true words forgotten, save by one, 
 
 Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, 
 
 Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." 
 
 Then spoke the wanderer forth, with kindling eye : 
 "Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 
 
 Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, 
 And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot, 
 
 Heaven darkly works — yet, where the seed hath been, 
 
 There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. 
 
 " Hope on, hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
 Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; 
 
 And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, 
 After cold silent months the woods among ; 
 
 And by the rending of the frozen chains, 
 
 Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains. 
 
 " Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, 
 
 But as a lovely song, to leave no trace ; 
 Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken, 
 
 And the full dayspring rise upon thy race ! 
 And foding mists the better path disclose, 
 And the wide. desert blossom as the rose." 
 
 So by the Cross they parted, in the wild, 
 
 Each fraught with musings for life's after-day ; 
 
 Memories to visit one, the forest's child, 
 By many a blue stream in its lonely way, 
 
 And upon one, midst busy throngs to press 
 
 Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 
 
 3 
 
50 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 ON AN OLD WEDDING-ItlNG.-Bisiiop Doaw* 
 
 The Device.— Two hearts united. 
 
 The Motto.— Dear love of mine, ruy heart is thine. 
 
 I like that ring — that ancient ring, 
 
 Of massive form, and virgin gold, 
 As firm, as free from base alloy 
 
 As were the sterling hearts of old. 
 I like it — for it wafts me back, 
 
 Far, far along the stream of time, 
 To other men, and other days, 
 
 The men and days of deeds sublime. 
 
 But most I like it, as it tells 
 
 The tale of well-requited love ; 
 How youthful fondness persevered, 
 
 And youthful faith disdain'd to rove — ■ 
 How warmly he his suit preferr'd, 
 
 Though she, unpitying, long denied, 
 Till, softened and subdued, at last, 
 
 He won his " fair and blooming bride." 
 
 How, till the appointed day arrived, 
 
 They blamed the lazy-footed hours — 
 How, then, the white-robed maiden train 
 
 Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers — 
 And how, before the holy man, 
 
 They stood, in all their youthful pride, 
 And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows, 
 
 Which bind the husband to his bride : 
 
 AIL this it tells ; the plighted troth — 
 
 The gift of every earthly thing — 
 The hand in hand — the heart in heart — ■ 
 
 For this I like that ancient ring. 
 
RHADIHGS AND IlECITATIONS. 51 
 
 I like its old and quaint device ; 
 
 "Two blended hearts" — though time may wear them, 
 No mortal change, no mortal chance, 
 
 " Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them. 
 
 Year after year, 'neath sun and storm, 
 
 Their hope in heaven, their trust in God, 
 In changeless, heartfelt, holy love, 
 
 These two the world's rough pathway trod. 
 Age might impair their youthful fires, 
 
 Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather, 
 Still, hand in hand, they travell'd on — 
 
 Kind souls ! they slumber now together. 
 
 I like its simple poesy, too : 
 
 " Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !" 
 Thine, when the dark storm howls along, 
 
 As when the cloudless sunbeams shine, 
 " This heart is thine, mine own dear love !" 
 
 Thine, and thine only, and forever : 
 Thine, till the spring of life shall fail ; 
 
 Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. 
 
 Remnant of days departed long, 
 
 Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, 
 Pledge of devoted faithfulness, 
 
 Of heartfelt, holy love, the token : 
 What varied feelings round it cling ! — 
 For these, I like that ancient ring. 
 
 A SKETCH OF THE UNIYERSE.-Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 The world may be considered as one vast mansion, where 
 man has been admitted to enjoy, to admire, and to be grateful. 
 The first desires of savage nature arc merely to gratify the im- 
 portunities of sensual appetite, and to neglect the contempla- 
 tion ot things, barely satisfied with their enjoyment; the 
 
52 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 beauties of nature, and all the wonders of creation, have but 
 little charms for a being* taken up in obviating the wants of the 
 day, and anxious for precarious subsistence. 
 
 Our philosophers, therefore, who have testified such surprise 
 at the want of curiosity in the ignorant, seem not to consider 
 that they are usually employed in making provisions of a more 
 ■important nature — in providing rather for the necessities than 
 the amusements of life. It is not till our more pressing wants 
 are sufficiently supplied, that we can attend to the calls of 
 curiosity ; so that in every age scientific refinement has been 
 the latest effort of human industry. 
 
 But human curiosity, though .at first slowly excited, being at 
 last possessed of leisure for indulging its propensity, becomes 
 one of the greatest amusements of life, and gives higher satis- 
 factions than what even the senses can afford, A man of this 
 disposition turns all nature into a magnificent theatre, replete 
 with objects of wonder and surprise, and fitted up chiefly for 
 his happiness and entertainment ; he industriously examines all 
 things, from the minutest insect to the most finished animal, 
 and when his limited organs can no longer make the disquisi- 
 tion, he sends out his imagination upon new inquiries. 
 
 Nothing, therefore, can be more august and striking than the 
 idea which his reason, aided by his imagination, furnishes of 
 the universe around him. Astronomers tell us, that this earth 
 which we inhabit forms but a very minute part in that great 
 assemblage of bodies of which the world is composed. It is a 
 million of times less than the sun, by which it is enlightened. 
 The planets, also, which, like it, are subordinate to the sun's in- 
 fluence, exceed the earth one thousand times in magnitude. 
 These, which were at first supposed to wander in the heavens 
 without any fixed path, and that took their name from their 
 apparent deviations, have long been found to perform their cir- 
 cuits with great exactness and strict regularity. They have 
 been discovered as forming with our earth a system of bodies 
 circulating round the sun, all obedient to one law, and impelled 
 by one common influence. 
 
 Modern philosophy has taught us to believe, that, when the 
 great Author of nature began the work of creation, he chose to 
 operate by second causes; and that, suspending the constant 
 exertion of his power, he endued matter with a quality by 
 which the universal economy of nature might be continued, 
 without his immediate assistance. This quality is called at- 
 traction, a sort of approximating influence, which all foodiet?, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 53 
 
 whether terrestrial or celestial, are found to possess ; and which, 
 in all, increases as the quantity of matter in each increases. 
 The sun, by for the greatest body in our system, is, of conse- 
 quence, possessed of much the greatest share of this attracting 
 power; and all the planets, of which our earth is one, are, of 
 course, entirely subject to its superior influence. Were this 
 power, therefore, left uncontrolled by any other, the sun must 
 quickly have attracted all the bodies of our celestial system to 
 itself; but it is equally counteracted by another power of equal 
 efficacy ; namely, a progressive force which each planet received 
 when it was impelled forward by the divine architect upon its 
 first formation. The heavenly bodies of our system being thus 
 acted upon by tw r o opposing powers ; namely, by that of at- 
 traction, which draws them towards the sun, and that of im- 
 pulsion, which drives them straight forward into the great void 
 of space, they pursue a track between these contrary direc- 
 tions ; and each, like a stone whirled about in a sling, obeying 
 two opposite forces, circulates round its great centre of heat 
 and motion. 
 
 In this manner, therefore, is the harmony of our planetary 
 system preserved. The sun, in the midst, gives heat and light 
 and circular motion to the planets which surround it : Mercury, 
 Venus, the Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, perform their con- 
 stant circuits at different distances, each taking up a time to 
 complete its revolutions, proportioned to the greatness of the 
 circle which it is to describe. The lesser planets, also, which 
 are attendants upon some of the greater, are subject to the 
 same laws ; they circulate with the same exactness, and are in 
 the same manner influenced by their respective centres of 
 motion. 
 
 Besides those bodies which make a part of our peculiar 
 system, and which may be said to reside within its great cir- 
 cumference, there are others that frequently como among us 
 from the more distant tracts of space, and that seem like dan- 
 gerous intruders upon the beautiful simplicity of nature. These 
 are comets, whose appearance w T as once so terrible to mankind, 
 and the theory of which is so little understood at present ; all 
 we know is, that their number is much greater than that of the 
 planets, and that, like these, they roll in orbits, in some 
 measure obedient to solar influence. Astronomers have en- 
 deavored to calculate the returning periods of many of them ; 
 but experience has not, as yet, confirmed the veracity of their 
 investigations. Indeed, who can tell, when those wanderers 
 
54 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 have made their excursions into other worlds and distant sys- 
 tems, what obstacles may be found to oppose their progress, 
 to accelerate their motion, or retard their return? 
 
 But what we have hitherto attempted to sketch is but a 
 small part of that great fabric in which the Deity has thought 
 proper to manifest his wisdom and omnipotence. There are 
 multitudes of other bodies dispersed over the face of the 
 heavens, that lie too remote for examination ; these have no 
 motion such as the planets are found to possess, and are there- 
 fore called fixed stars ; and from their extreme brilliancy and 
 their immense distance, philosophers have been induced to 
 suppose them to be suns resembling that which enlivens our 
 system. As the imagination, also, once excited, is seldom con- 
 tent to stop, it has furnished each with an attendant system of 
 planets belonging to itself, and has even induced some to de- 
 plore the fate of those systems whose imagined suns, which 
 sometimes happens, have become no longer visible. 
 
 But Conjectures of this kind, which no reasoning can ascer- 
 tain nor experiment reach, are rather amusing than useful. 
 Though we see the greatness and wisdom of the Deity in all 
 the seeming worlds that surround us, it is our chief concern to 
 trace him in that which we inhabit. The examination of the 
 earth, the wonders of its contrivance, the history of its advan- 
 tages, or of the seeming defects in its formation, are the proper 
 business of the natural historian. A description of this earth, 
 its animals, vegetables, and minerals, is the most delightful en- 
 tertainment the mind can be furnished with, as it is the most 
 interesting and useful. I would beg leave, therefore, to con- 
 clude these commonplace speculations with an observation 
 which, I hope, is not entirely so. 
 
 A use, hitherto not much insisted upon, that may result from 
 the contemplation of celestial magnificence, is, that it will teach 
 us to make an allowance for the apparent irregularities we find 
 below. Whenever we can examine the works of the Deity at 
 a proper point of distance, so as to take in the whole of his 
 design, we see nothing but uniformity, beauty, and precision. 
 The heavens present us with a plan which, though inexpressibly 
 magnificent, is yet regular beyond the power of invention. 
 Whenever, therefore, we find any apparent defects in the earth, 
 instead of attempting to reason ourselves into an opinion that 
 they are beautiful, it will be wiser to say that we do not behold 
 them at the proper point of distance, and that our eye is laid 
 too close to the objects to take in the regularity of their con- 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 55 
 
 nection. In short, we may conclude that God, who is regular 
 in His great productions, acts with equal uniformity in the 
 little. 
 
 THE CHURCH-FLOOR.— Geokge Herbert. 
 
 Mark you the floor ? that square and speckled stone, 
 
 Which looks so firm and strong, 
 
 Is Patience : 
 
 And the other black and grave, wherewith each one 
 Is checkered all along, 
 
 Humility : 
 
 The gentle rising, which on cither hand 
 Leads to the quire above, 
 
 Is Confidence : 
 
 But the sweet cement, which in one sure band 
 Ties the whole frame, is Love 
 
 And Charity. 
 
 Hither sometimes Sin steals, and stains 
 The marble's neat and curious veins : 
 
 But all is cleansed when the marble weeps. 
 
 Sometimes Death, puffing at the door, 
 Blows all the dust about the floor : 
 
 But while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps. 
 Blest be the Architect, whose art 
 Could build so strong in a weak heart. 
 
 A FOREST HYMN— William Cttllen Bryant. 
 The groves w T ere 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, 
 
56 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Amidst the cool and silence, lie knelt down 
 
 And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks 
 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 
 Might not resist the sacred influences, 
 
 That, 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, at 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. Here are seen 
 No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks 
 Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes 
 Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show 
 The boast of our vain race to change the form 
 Of thv fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 The solitude. Thou art in 'the soft winds 
 
 That run along the summits 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 tranquillity 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 visits the strong roots 
 
 Of half the mighty forests, tells no tale 
 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 
 Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 
 
 Of thy perfections. 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 the 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 has 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 work?, I read 
 3* 
 
58 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 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. Oh, 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 — yea, seats himself 
 Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, 
 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 themselves 
 
 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 tempest, 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 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 50 
 
 Its cities ; who forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
 His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
 Oh, 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. 
 
 MAUD MULLER.-^John Green-leaf Wuittier. 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
 Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glow'd the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry 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 fill'd 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. 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 
 Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid ; 
 
 And ask'd a draught from the spring that flow'd 
 Through the meadow across the road. 
 
CO LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 She stoop'd where the cool spring bubbled up, 
 And filPd for him her small tin cup, 
 
 And blush' d as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bare, and her tatter'd gown. 
 
 " Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never quaff'd." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 
 
 Then talk'd of the haying, and wonder' d whether 
 The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
 And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 
 
 And listen'd, while a pleased surprise 
 Look'd from her long-lash'd hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud Muller look'd and sigh'd : " 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 day. 
 
 " And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe the poor, 
 And all should bless me who left our door." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 01 
 
 The Judge look'd back as lie climb'd the hill, 
 And saw Maud Mullcr 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 humm'd in court an old love-tuno 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the well, 
 Till the rain on the uuraked 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 watch'd a picture come and go : 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's hazel e^os 
 Look'd out in their innocent surori-u. 
 
62 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
 He long'd for the wayside well instead, 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnish'd rooms, 
 To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 
 
 And the proud man sigh'd, 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 unlearn'd and poor, 
 And many children play'd round her door. 
 
 But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 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 
 Stretch' d away into stately halls ; 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd, 
 The tallow candle an astral burn'd 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. C3 
 
 A manly form at her side she saw, 
 And joy was duty, and love was law. 
 
 Then she 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, 
 ^Yho 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 ! 
 
 GOD SEEN IN ALL THIXG3,-w"illiam Cowpeb. 
 
 Happy the man who sees a God employ'd 
 In all the good and ill that checker life ! 
 Resolving all events, with their effects 
 And manifold results, into the will 
 And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
 Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
 The least of our concerns (since from the least 
 The greatest oft originate) ; could chance 
 Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
 One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
 Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 
 Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
 The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
 
04 LADIES 1 BOOK OF 
 
 This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed 
 
 In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 
 
 And, having found his instrument, forgets, 
 
 Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 
 
 Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims 
 
 His hot displeasure against foolish men, 
 
 That live an atheist life : involves the heavens 
 
 In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, 
 
 And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
 
 Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, 
 
 And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. 
 
 He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 
 
 Blows mildew from between his shri veil' d lips, 
 
 And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, 
 
 And desolates a nation at a blast. 
 
 Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells 
 
 Of homogeneal and discordant springs 
 
 And principles ; of causes, how they work 
 
 By necessary laws their sure effects ; 
 
 Of action and reaction : he has found 
 
 The source of the disease, that nature feels, 
 
 And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 
 
 Thou fool ! will thy discovery of the cause 
 
 Suspend the effect, or heal it ? Has not God 
 
 Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? 
 
 And did he not of old employ his means 
 
 To drown it ! What is his creation less 
 
 Than a capacious reservoir of means 
 
 Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 
 
 Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him, 
 
 Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
 
 And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 
 
READING a AND RECITATION* 60 
 
 THE WATER PARTY.- Geobos <'■ 
 
 Sometimes a party, rowed from town, will land 
 < mi a small islet formed of shelly sand, 
 Left by the water when the tides are low, 
 ]>nt which the floods, in their return, o'erflow: 
 There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view 
 The watery waste, — a prospect wild and new ; 
 The now receding billows give them space 
 On either side the growing shores to pace ; 
 And then returning, they contract the scene, 
 Till small and smaller grows the walk between ; 
 As sea to sea approaches, shore to shores, 
 Till the next ebb the sandy isle restores. 
 
 Then what alarm ! what danger and dismay, 
 If all their trust, their boat, should drift away ; 
 And once it happened — Gay the friends advanced, 
 They walked, they ran, they played, they sang, they danced ; 
 The urns were boiling, and the cups went round, 
 And not a grave or thoughtful face was found ; 
 On the bright sand they trod with nimble feet, 
 Dry shelly sand, that made the summer-seat; 
 The wondering mews flew fluttering o'er the head, 
 And waves ran softly up their shining bed. 
 
 Some formed a party from the rest to stray, 
 Pleased to collect the trifles in their way; 
 These to behold they call their friends around; 
 No friends can hear, or hear another sound : 
 Alarmed, they hasten, yet perceive not why, 
 But catch the fear that quickens as they fly. 
 
 For lo ! a lady sage, who paced the sand 
 With her fair children, one in either hand, 
 Intent on home, had turned, and saw the boat 
 Slipped from her moorings, and now far afloat; 
 She gazed, she trembled, and though faint her call, 
 
GO LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 It seemed, like thunder, to confound them all. 
 Their sailor guides, the boatman and his mate, 
 Had drank, and slept regardless of their state. 
 "Awake !" they cried aloud ! " Alarm the shore ! 
 Shout all, or never shall we reach it more !" 
 Alas! no shout the distant land can reach, 
 Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach : 
 Again they join in one loud powerful cry, — 
 Then cease, and eager listen for reply ; 
 None came — the rising wind blew sadly by : 
 They shout once more, and then they turn aside, 
 To see how quickly flowed the coming tide ; 
 Between each cry they find the waters steal 
 On their strange prison, and new horrors feel ; 
 Foot after foot on the contracted ground 
 The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound; 
 Less and yet less the sinking isle became, . 
 And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame. 
 
 Had one been there, with spirit strong and high, 
 Who could observe, as he prepared to die, 
 He might have seen of hearts the varying kind, 
 And traced the movement of each different mind : 
 He might have seen, that not the gentle maid 
 Was more than stern and haughty man afraid ; 
 Such, calmly grieving, will their fears suppress, 
 And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address ; 
 While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud, 
 Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd. 
 The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried, 
 "Why would you urge me ? I at first denied." 
 Fiercely they answered : — " Why will you complain, 
 Who saw no danger, or were warned in vain V 
 A few essayed the troubled soul to calm, 
 But dread prevailed, and anguish, and alarm. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. C7 
 
 Now rose the water through the lessening sand, 
 And they seemed sinking, while they yet could stand; 
 The sun went down : they looked from side to side, 
 Nor aught except the gathering sea descried ; 
 Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew, 
 And the most lively bade to hope adieu ; 
 Children, by love then lifted from the seas, 
 Felt not the waters at the parents' knees, 
 But wept aloud ; the wind increased the sound, 
 And the cold billows, as they broke around. 
 
 " Once more, yet once again, with all our strength 
 Cry to the land — we may be heard at length !" 
 Vain hope, if yet unseen ! — but hark ! — an oar — 
 That sound of bliss ! comes dashing to their shore ; 
 Still, still the water rises ; " Haste !" they cry, 
 " Oh, hurry, seamen ; in delay we die !" 
 (Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived 
 The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.) 
 And now the keel just cuts the covered sand, 
 Now to the gunwale stretches every hand : 
 With trembling pleasure all confused embark, 
 And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark : 
 While the most giddy, as they reach the shore, 
 Think of their danger, and their God adore. 
 
 EARLY LOST, EARLY SAYED.-Rev. Geo. Bethuxe. 
 Within her downy cradle, there lay a little child, 
 And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her smiled ; 
 When a strife arose among them, a loving, holy strife, 
 Which should shed the richest blessing over the new-born life. 
 
 One breathed upon her features, and the babe in beauty grew, 
 With a cheek like morning's blushes, and an eye of azure hue ; 
 
68 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Till every one who saw her was thankful for the sight 
 Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever fresh delight. 
 
 Another gave her accents and a voice as musical 
 As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling streamlet's fall ; 
 Till all who heard her laughing, or her words of childish grace, 
 Loved as much to listen to her, as to look upon her face. 
 
 Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle mind, 
 And within the lovely casket the precious gem enshrined ; 
 Till all who knew her wondered that God should be so good 
 As to bless with such a spirit a world so cold and rude. 
 
 Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody, and truth, 
 The budding of her childhood just opening into youth; 
 And to our hearts yet dearer, every moment than before, 
 She became, though we thought fondly heart could not love her 
 more. 
 
 Then out spake another angel, nobler, brighter than the rest, 
 As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his breast : — 
 " Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mortal race, 
 But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er her face : 
 
 " Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her tongue, 
 And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips be wrung, 
 Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within 
 Tier form of earth-born frailty, ever know a sense of sin. 
 
 " Lull'cl in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far away, 
 Where there is no sin, nor anguish, nor sorrow, nor decay; 
 And mine a boon more glorious than all your gifts shall be — 
 Lo ! I crown her happy spirit with immortality !" 
 
 Then on his heart our darling yielded up her gentle breath ; 
 For the stronger, brighter angel, who loved her best, was 
 Death ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 60 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON.— Wamitotob Irving. 
 
 •' Pittie oltlo aire, within whoso silver haires 
 Honor and reverence evermore have raiu r n\l." 
 
 Marlowk's Tamburlaixe. 
 
 During my residence in the country, I used frequently to at- 
 tend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its moul- 
 dering monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with 
 the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of 
 solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy 
 in its repose : such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of na- 
 ture, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel 
 all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. 
 
 " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky I" 
 
 I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man, but there 
 are feelings that visit me in a country church, amidst the beau- 
 tiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else ; and 
 if not a more religious, I think I am a better, man on Sunday, 
 than on any other day of the seven. 
 
 But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon 
 the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around 
 me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble 
 and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepit old 
 woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. 
 She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. 
 The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. 
 Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. 
 Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not 
 take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps 
 of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friend- 
 ship, all society, and to have nothing left her but the hopes of 
 heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged 
 form in prayer — habitually conning her Prayer-Book, which her 
 palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit her to read, but 
 which she evidently knew by heart — I felt persuaded that the 
 faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before 
 the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chant- 
 ing of the choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was 
 so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood 
 on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, 
 and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow 
 
70 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 scenery. The church was surrounded by yew-trees, which 
 seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up 
 lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheel- 
 ing about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, 
 watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had 
 chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the 
 churchyard, where, by the number of nameless graves around, 
 it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled 
 into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for 
 the only son of a poor widow. AVhile I was meditating on the 
 distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the 
 very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the 
 funeral. They w r ere the obsequies of poverty, with which pride 
 had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without 
 pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The 
 sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There 
 were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe, but 
 there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. 
 It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman 
 whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was 
 supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort 
 her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and 
 some children of the village were running hand in hand, now 
 shouting with unthinking mirth, and sometimes pausing to 
 gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
 ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the de- 
 ceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother 
 had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her with- 
 ered hands' were clasped, as if in prayer ; but I could perceive, 
 by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the 
 lips, that she w r as gazing on the last relics of her son with the 
 yearnings of a mother's heart. 
 
 The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit 
 the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir, that breaks 
 so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection : directions 
 given in the cold tones of business ; the striking of spades into 
 sand and gravel, which at the grave of those we love is of all 
 sounds the most withering. The bustle around seemed to 
 awaken the mother from a wretched revery. She raised her 
 glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wdldness. As the 
 
READINGS AND RKCLTATiOXS. 71 
 
 men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, 
 she wrong her hands and broke into an agony of grief. The 
 poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavored 
 
 to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like con- 
 solation — ''Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely to 
 heart. " She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, 
 as one not to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
 cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental 
 obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness 
 of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him 
 who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 1 eonld see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my 
 eyes tilled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part 
 in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal an- 
 guish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I 
 remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
 gra\ e, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her 
 on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached 
 for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they 
 have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert 
 and dissipate their griefs. W r hat are the sorrows of the young! 
 Their growing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic 
 spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile 
 affections soon twine around new objects. But the sorrows of 
 the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe — the sor- 
 rows of the aged, with whom life at best is but as a wintry day, 
 and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a 
 widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the 
 last solace of her years ; — these are the sorrows which make us 
 feel the impotency of consolation. 
 
 It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way 
 homeward, I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : 
 she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her 
 lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars con- 
 nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
 childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and 
 by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small gar- 
 den, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and 
 led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had 
 grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. — " Oh, sir !" 
 
72 LADIES' BOOK 01" 
 
 said the good woman, "lie was such a likely lad, so sweet-tem- 
 pered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! 
 It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his 
 best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to 
 church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm, 
 than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud 
 of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity 
 and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
 small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
 long in this employ, when he was entrapped by a press-gang, 
 and carried off to sea. His parents received the tidings of his 
 seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the 
 loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, 
 grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The 
 widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer 
 support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a 
 kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain 
 respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one ap- 
 plied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy 
 days she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary 
 and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly sup- 
 plied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the 
 neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a 
 few days before the time at which these circumstances were 
 told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, 
 when she heard the cottage door that faced the garden suddenly 
 opened. A. stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eager- 
 ly and wildly around. He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was 
 emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by 
 sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened toward her, 
 but his steps were faint and faltering ; he sank on his knees be- 
 fore her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon 
 him with a vacant and wandering eye — " Oh my dear, dear 
 mother ! don't you know your son ! your poor boy, George !" 
 It was, indeed, the wreck of her once noble lad ; who, shattered 
 by wounds, by sickness, and foreign imprisonment, had, at 
 length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among 
 the scenes of his childhood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
 where joy and sorrow were so completely blended : still he was 
 alive ! — he was come home ! — he might yet live to comfort and 
 cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 73 
 
 and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, 
 the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient 
 
 He Btretched himself on the pallet where his widowed mother had 
 passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had re- 
 turned, crowded to see him, ottering every comfort and assist- 
 ance that their humble means afforded, lie, however, was too 
 weak to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother was 
 his constant attendant, and he seemed unwilling to be helped by 
 any other hand. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of 
 manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feel- 
 ings of infancy. Who that lias Buffered, even in advanced life, 
 in siekness and despondency — who that has pined on a weary 
 bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land — but has 
 thought on the mother " that looked on his childhood," that 
 smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness. Oh ! 
 there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, 
 that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither 
 to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weak- 
 ened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sac- 
 rifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every 
 pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult 
 in his prosperity : and, if adversity overtake him, he will be 
 the dearer to her by misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his 
 name, she will still love and cherish him ; and if all the world 
 beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. 
 
 Poor George Somers had known well what it was to be in 
 sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none 
 to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight ; 
 if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit 
 for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he 
 would start from a feverish dream, look anxiously up until he 
 saw her venerable form bending over him, when he would take 
 her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquil- 
 lity of a child. In this way he died. 
 
 My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was 
 to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary 
 assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on in- 
 quiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted 
 them to do every thing that the case admitted ; and as the poor 
 know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not ven* 
 ture to intrude. 
 
74 LADIES 1 BOOK OF 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my 
 surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to 
 her accustomed scat on the steps of the altar. 
 
 She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
 for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this 
 struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black rib- 
 bon or so — a faded black handkerchief — and one or two more 
 such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief 
 which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied 
 monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with 
 which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride ; 
 and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow 
 at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises 
 of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monu- 
 ment of real grief was worth them all. 
 
 I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 
 congregation, and they were moved at it. They exerted them- 
 selves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten 
 her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to 
 the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two aftor, she was 
 missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the 
 neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she 
 had quietly breathed her last, and gone to rejoin those she 
 loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends 
 are never parted. 
 
 ARRIVAL OF THE CRUSADERS AT JERUSALEM -Tasso. 
 
 The purple morning left her crimson bed, 
 
 And donned her robes of pure vermilion hue ; 
 
 Her amber locks she crowned with roses red, 
 In Eden's flowery gardens gathered new; 
 
 When through the camp a murmur shrill was spread : 
 
 " Arm ! arm I" they cried ; " Arm ! arm !" the trumpets 
 blew : 
 
 Their merry noise prevents the joyful blast ; 
 
 So hum small bees, before their swarms they cast. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 75 
 
 Their captain rules their courage, guides their heat, 
 Their forwardness he stayed with gentle rein ; 
 
 And yet more easy, haply, were the feat, 
 To stop the current near Charybdis' main, 
 
 Or calm the blustering winds on mountains great, 
 Than fierce desires of warlike hearts restrain ; 
 
 He rules them yet, and ranks them in their haste, 
 
 For well he knows disordered speed makes waste. 
 
 Feathered their thoughts, their feet in wings were dight ; 
 
 Swiftly they marched, yet were not tired thereby ; 
 For willing minds make heaviest burdens light ; 
 
 But when the gliding sun was mounted high, 
 Jerusalem, behold, appeared in sight ; 
 
 Jerusalem they view, they see, they spy ; 
 Jerusalem with merry noise they greet, 
 With joyful shouts, and acclamations sweet. 
 
 As when a troop of jolly sailors row, 
 
 Some new-found land and country to descry, 
 
 Through dangerous seas and under stars unknown, 
 Thrall to the faithless waves and trothless sky ; 
 
 If once the wished shore begin to show, 
 They all salute it with a joyful cry, 
 
 And each to other show the land in haste, 
 
 Forgetting quite their pains and perils past. 
 
 To that delight which their first sight did breed, 
 
 That pleased so the secret of their thought, 
 A deep repentance did forthwith succeed, 
 
 That reverend fear and trembling with it brought. 
 Scantly they durst their feeble eyes dispread 
 
 Upon that town where Christ was sold and bought, 
 Where for our sius he, faultless, suffered pain, 
 There where he died, and where he lived again. 
 
76 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Soft words, low speech, deep sobs, sweet sighs, salt tears 
 Rose from their breasts, with joy and pleasure mixed; 
 
 For thus fares he the Lord aright that fears ; 
 Fear on devotion, joy on faith is fixed : 
 
 Such noise their passions make, as when one hears 
 The hoarse sea-waves roar hollow rocks betwixt ; 
 
 Or as the wind in holts and shady greaves 
 
 A murmur makes, among the boughs and leaves. 
 
 Their naked feet trod on the dusty way, 
 
 Following the ensample of their zealous guide ; 
 
 Their scarfs, their crests, their plumes, and feathers gay 
 They quickly doffed, and willing laid aside ; 
 
 Their molten hearts their wonted pride allay, 
 
 Along their watery cheeks warm tears down slide, 
 
 And then such secret speech as this they used, 
 
 While to himself each one himself accused : — 
 
 " Flower of goodness, root of lasting bliss, 
 
 Thou well of life, whose streams were purple blood, 
 
 That flowed here to cleanse the foul amiss 
 Of sinful man, behold this brinish flood, 
 
 That from my melting heart distilled is ! 
 
 Receive in gree these tears, Lord so good ! 
 
 For never wretch with sin so overgone 
 
 Had fitter time or greater cause to moan." 
 
 This while the wary watchman looked over, 
 From top of Sion's towers, the hills and dales, 
 
 And saw the dust the fields and pastures cover, 
 As when thick mists arise from moory vales : 
 
 At last the sun-bright shields he 'gan discover, 
 And glistering helms, for violence none that fails ; 
 
 The metal shone like lightning bright in skies, 
 
 And man and horse amid the dust descries. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 Then loud he cries, ' k Oh, what a dust ariseth ! 
 
 Oh, how it shines with shields and targets clear ! 
 Up ! up] to arms ! for valiant heart despiseth 
 
 The threatened storm of death, and danger near ; 
 Behold your foes I 1 ' Then further thus deviseth : 
 
 " Baste ! haste ! for vain delay increaseth fear! 
 These horrid clouds of dust that yonder fly, 
 Your coming foes do'hide, and hide the sky." 
 
 The tender children, and the fathers old, 
 The aged matrons, and the virgin chaste, 
 
 That durst not shake the spear, nor target hold, 
 Themselves devoutly in their temples placed ; 
 
 The rest, of members strong and courage bold, 
 On hardy breasts their harness donned in haste ; 
 
 Some to the walls, some to the gates them dight; 
 
 Their kino- meanwhile directs them all aright. 
 
 IXTIMATIOXS OF LMMORTALITY-Wit-liam Wordsworth. 
 I. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common,sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light — 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore : 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen, I now can see no more. 
 
 n. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the rose ; 
 The moon doth with delio-ht 
 
78 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Look round lior when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 in. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong. 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep — 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong. 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng ; 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity ; 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou child of joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 shepherd boy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye blessed creatures! I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 My head hath its coronal — 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
 Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen 
 
READINGS AND RECITATION& ft} 
 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 This sweet May-morning. 
 
 And the children are culling 
 On every side, 
 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 
 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 
 — But there's a tree, of many one, 
 A single Held which I have looked upon — 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 
 
 The pansy at my feet 
 
 ] )oth the same tale repeat. 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 v. 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And cometh from afar. 
 
 Not in entire forgetful ncss, 
 
 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 en his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
80 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 VI. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own. 
 
 Yearnings she liath in her own natural kind ; 
 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the child among his new-born blisses — 
 A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art — 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral — 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 
 And unto this he frames his song. 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part — 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous sta~e' 
 With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
 That life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
READINGS A.ND RE< 'iTATIONS. 81 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immensity ! 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage ! thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind ! — 
 Mighty prophet ! Seer blest, 
 On whom those truths do rest 
 Which we arc toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ! 
 Thou over whom thy immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A presence which is not to be put by ! 
 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
 Why w 7 ith such 'earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 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, 
 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast- 
 4* 
 
LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 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. 
 
 x. 
 
 Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng, 
 
READINGS AND BBCITATION& 83 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now forever taken from my sight, 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower — 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind : 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which, having been, must ever be ; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering ; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 
 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears — 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
84 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 RETURNING SPRING-Jonx Keble. 
 
 Lessons sweet of Spring returning, 
 
 Welcome to the thoughtful heart ! 
 May I call ye sense or learning, 
 
 Instinct pure, or heav'n-taught art ? 
 Be your title what it may, 
 Sweet and lengthening April day, 
 While with you the soul is free, 
 Ranging wild o'er hill and lea ; 
 
 Soft as Memnon's harp at morning, 
 
 To the inward ear devout, 
 Touched by light with heavenly warning, 
 
 Your transporting chords ring out. 
 Every leaf in every nook, 
 Every wave in every brook, 
 Chanting with a solemn voice, 
 Minds us of our better choice. 
 
 Needs no show of mountain hoary, 
 
 Winding shore or deepening glen, 
 Where the landscape in its glory, 
 
 Teaches truth to wandering men. 
 Give true hearts but earth and sky, 
 And some flowers to bloom and die ; 
 Homely scenes and simple views 
 Lowly thoughts may best infuse. 
 
 See the soft green willow springing 
 
 Where the waters gently pass, 
 Every way her free arms flinging 
 O'er the moss and reedy grass. 
 Long ere winter blasts are fled, 
 See her tipp'd with vernal red, 
 And her kindly flower displayed 
 Ere her leaf can cast a shade. 
 
BBADINGS AND RK0ITATION& 85 
 
 Though the rudest band assail her, 
 
 Patiently she droops awhile, 
 But when showers and breezes hail her, 
 
 Wears again her willing smile. 
 Thus I learn contentment's power 
 From the slighted willow bower, 
 Ready to give thanks and live 
 On the least that Heaven may give. 
 
 If, the quiet brooklet leaving, 
 
 Up the stormy vale I wind, 
 Haply half in fancy grieving 
 
 For the shades I leave behind, 
 By the dusty wayside dear, 
 Nightingales with joyous cheer 
 Sing, my sadness to reprove, 
 Gladlier than in cultured grove. 
 
 Where the thickest boughs are twining 
 
 Of the greenest, darkest tree, 
 There they plunge, the light declining — 
 
 All may hear, but none may see. 
 Fearless of the passing hoof, 
 Hardly will they fleet aloof; 
 So they live in modest ways, 
 Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. 
 
 HTMN BEFOEE CHA1T0UM AT SUNRISE-Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
 In his steep course ? — so long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald, awful front, sovereign Blanc ; 
 The Arve and Arveiron, at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form, 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 
86 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 How silently ! Around thee and above, 
 Deep is the air, and dark; substantial black, 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
 As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 Thy habitation from eternity. 
 
 dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought- 
 Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy — 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! Not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears, 
 Mute thanks, and silent ecstasy. Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou, first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 
 Oh ! struggling with the darkness all the night, 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink — 
 Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
 Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald, wake ! Oh, wake ! and utter praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. ST 
 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 
 Forever shattered, and the same forever? 
 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
 
 Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 
 
 And who commanded — and the silence came — 
 
 " Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest 2" 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye, that, from the mountain's brow, 
 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 
 Torrents, mcthinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
 
 And stopped at once amid tlteir maddest plunge ! 
 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 
 Who made you glorious, as the gates of heaven 
 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
 
 " God !" let the torrents, like a sliout of nations, 
 
 Answer ; and let the ice-plains echo, " God !" 
 
 " God !" siug, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 
 
 Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
 
 And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 
 And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder "God!" 
 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 
 Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
 
 Utter forth " God !" and fill the hills with praise. 
 
 Thou, too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
 Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
 That — as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 
88 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears- 
 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
 
 To rise before me — rise, oh, ever rise ! 
 
 Else, like a cloud of incense, from the earth. 
 
 Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 
 
 Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
 
 Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky, 
 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
 
 " Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God." 
 
 THE LOVE OP ffATURE.-Wii.UAM Cowpek, 
 
 By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 
 Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel, 
 That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, 
 Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads 
 An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. 
 Its own revolvency upholds the world. 
 Winds from all quarters agitate the air, 
 And fit the limpid element for use, 
 Else noxious : oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams, 
 All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed 
 By restless undulation : e'en the oak 
 Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm ; 
 He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 
 The impression of the blast with proud disdain, 
 Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
 He held the thunder : but the monarch owes 
 His firm stability to what he scorns, 
 More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. 
 The law by which all creatures else are bound, 
 Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives 
 No mean advantage from a kindred cause, 
 From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease t 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 89 
 
 The sedentary stretch their lazy length 
 When Custom bids, but no refreshment find, 
 For none they need : the languid eye, the cheek 
 Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, 
 And wither' d muscle, and the vapid soul, 
 Reproach their owner with that love of rest, 
 To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves. 
 Not such the alert and active. Measure life 
 By its true worth, the comforts it affords, 
 And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. 
 Good health, and, its associate in the most, 
 Good temper ; spirits prompt to undertake, 
 And not soon spent, though in an arduous task ; 
 The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs ; 
 E'en age itself seems privileged in them 
 With clear exemption from its own defects. 
 A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 
 The veteran shows, and, gracing a gray beard 
 With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave. 
 Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 
 
 Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, 
 Farthest retires — an idol, at whose shrine 
 Who oftenest sacrifice are favor' d least. 
 The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, 
 Is Nature's dictate. Strange ! there should be found 
 Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, 
 Renounce the odors of the open field 
 For the unscented fictions of the loom ; 
 Who, satisfied with only pencill'd scenes, 
 Prefer to the performance of a God 
 The inferior wonders of an artist's hand ! 
 Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art ; 
 But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, 
 None more admires, the painter's magic skill, 
 Who shows me that which I shall never sec, 
 
90 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Conveys a distant country into mine, 
 
 And throws Italian lio-ht on Bullish walls : 
 
 But imitative strokes can do no more 
 
 Than please the eye — sweet Nature's, every sense. 
 
 The air salubrious of her lofty hills, 
 
 The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, 
 
 And music of her woods — no works of man 
 
 May rival these, these all bespeak a power 
 
 Peculiar, and exclusively her own. 
 
 Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast ; 
 
 'Tis free to all — 'tis every day renew'd ; 
 
 Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. 
 
 He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long 
 
 In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey 
 
 To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank 
 
 And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, 
 
 Escapes at last to liberty and light : 
 
 His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue ; 
 
 His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires : 
 
 He walks, he leaps, he runs — is wing'd with joy, 
 
 x\nd riots in the sweets of every breeze. 
 
 He does not scorn it, who has long endured 
 
 A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. 
 
 Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed 
 
 With acrid salts : his very heart athirst, 
 
 To gaze at Nature in her green array, 
 
 Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd 
 
 With visions prompted by intense desire : 
 
 Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
 
 Far distant, such as he would die to find — 
 
 He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Oi 
 
 THE BITTER GOURD.-Leigii Hunt. 
 
 Lokman the Wise, therefore the Good (for wise 
 Is but sage good, seeing with final eyes), 
 Was slave once to a lord, jealous though kind, 
 Who, piqued sometimes at the man's master mind, 
 Gave him, one day, to see how he would treat 
 So strange a grace, a bitter gourd to eat. 
 
 With simplest reverence, and no surprise, 
 The sage received what stretched the donor's eyes ; 
 And, piece by piece, as though it had been food 
 To feast and gloat on, every morsel chewed ; 
 And so stood eating, with his patient beard, 
 Till all the nauseous favor disappeared. 
 
 Vexed, and confounded, and disposed to find 
 Some ground of scorn, on which to ease his mind, 
 " Lokman !" exclaimed his master, — " In God's name, 
 Where could the veriest slave get soul so tame ? 
 Have all my favors been bestowed amiss? 
 Or could not brains like thine have saved thee this ?" 
 
 Calmly stood Lokman still, as duty stands. — 
 " Have I received," he answered, " at thine hands 
 Favors so sweet they went to mine heart's root, 
 And could I not accept one bitter fruit ?" 
 
 " Lokman !" said his lord (and as he spoke, 
 For very love his words in softness broke), 
 "Take but this favor yet : — be slave no more — - 
 Be, as thou art, my friend and counsellor : — 
 Oh, be ; nor let me quit thee, self-abhorred ; — 
 'Tis I that am the slave, and thou the lord." 
 
92 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 EVENING IN PARADISE.-John Milton. 
 
 Now came still evening on, and Twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
 Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale, 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung ; 
 Silence was pleas'd : now glowed the firmament 
 With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
 Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless liglit, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 
 
 When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair consort, the hour 
 Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, 
 Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
 Labor and rest, as day and night, to men 
 Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep, 
 Now falling with soft slumbrous weight, inclines 
 Our eyelids : other creatures all day long 
 Rove idle, unemploy'd, and less need rest ; 
 Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
 Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
 And the regard of heaven on all his ways ; 
 While other animals unactive range, 
 And of their doings God takes no account. 
 To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
 With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
 And at our pleasant labor to reform 
 Yon flowery arbors, yonder alleys green, 
 Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, 
 That mock our scant manuring, and require 
 More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth : 
 Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
 
READINGS AXD RECITATIONS. 
 
 That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth, 
 Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; 
 Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." 
 
 To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adornVl : 
 " My author and disposer, what thou bidst 
 Unargued I obey : so God ordains ; 
 God is thy law, thou mine : to know no more 
 Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. 
 With thee conversing I forget all time ; 
 All seasons, and their change, all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
 When first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
 Glistening with dew : fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
 Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird; and this fair moon, 
 And these the gems of heaven, her starry train : 
 But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
 With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
 On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
 Glistering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; 
 Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon, 
 Or glittering starlight ; without thee is sweet. 
 But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom, 
 This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes ?" 
 
 To whom our general ancestor replied : 
 " Daughter of God and man, accomplish'd Eve, 
 These have their course to finish round the earth, 
 By morrow evening, and from land to land 
 In order, though to nations yet unborn, 
 Minist'ring light prepar'd, they set and rise ; 
 Lest total darkness should by night regain 
 
94 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Her old possession, and extinguish life, 
 
 In nature, and all things ; which these soft fires 
 
 Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat 
 
 Of various influence foment and warm, 
 
 Temper or nourish, or in part shed down 
 
 Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
 
 On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
 
 Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 
 
 These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 
 
 Shine not in vain. Nor think, though men were none, 
 
 That heaven would want spectators, God want praise : 
 
 Millions of spiritual creatures w 7 alk the earth 
 
 Unseen, both when we w 7 ake, and when we sleep : 
 
 All these with ceaseless praise his works behold 
 
 Both day and night: how often from the steep 
 
 Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
 
 Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 
 
 Singing their great Creator ! oft in bands 
 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
 
 With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
 
 In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 
 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heaven." 
 
 INSIGNIFICANCE OF THE EARTH.-Bb. Chalmees. 
 
 Though the earth were to be burned up, though the trumpet 
 of its dissolution were sounded, though yon sky were to pass 
 away as a scroll, and every visible glory which the finger of the 
 Divinity has inscribed on it were extinguished forever — an 
 event so awful to us, and to every w T orld in our vicinity, by 
 which so many suns would be extinguished, and so many varied 
 scenes of life and population would rush into forgetful ness— 
 what is it in the high scale of the Almighty's workmanship ? A 
 mere shred, which, though scattered into nothing, would leave 
 the universe of God one entire scene of greatness and of majesty. 
 Though the earth and the heavens were to disappear, there are 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 95 
 
 other worlds which roll afar; the light of other suns shines 
 upon them; and the sky which mantles them is garnished with 
 other stars. Is it presumption to say that the moral world ex- 
 tends to these distant and unknown regions? that they are 
 occupied with people ? that the charities of home and of neigh- 
 borhood nourish there ? that the praises of God are there lifted 
 up, and his goodness rejoiced in ? that there piety has its temples 
 and its offerings? and the richness of the divine attributes is 
 there felt and admired by intelligent worshippers? 
 
 And what is this world in the immensity which teems with 
 them; and what are they who occupy it? The universe at 
 large would suffer as little in its splendor and variety by the 
 destruction of our planet, as the verdure and sublime magnitude 
 of a forest would suffer by the fall of a single leaf. The leaf 
 quivers on the branch which supports it. It lies at the mercy 
 of the slightest accident. A breath of wind tears it from its 
 stem, and it lights on the stream of water which passes under- 
 neath. In a moment of time the life, which we know by the 
 microscope it teems with, is extinguished ; and an occurrence 
 so insignificant in the eye of man, and on the scale of his obser- 
 vation, carries in it to the myriads which people this little leaf 
 an event as terrible and as decisive as the destruction of a 
 world. Now, on the grand scale of the universe, we, the occu- 
 piers of this ball, which performs its little roun d among the 
 suns and the systems that astronomy has unfolded — we may 
 feel the same littleness and the same insecurity. We differ from 
 the leaf only in this circumstance, that it would require the 
 operation of greater elements to destroy us. But these ele- 
 ments exist. The fire which rages within may lift its devour- 
 ing energy to the surface of our planet, and transform it into 
 one wide and wasting volcano. The sudden formation of elastic 
 matter in the bowels of the earth — and it lies within the agency 
 of known substances to accomplish this — may explode it into 
 fragments. The exhalation of noxious air from below may im- 
 part a virulence to the air that is around us ; it may affect the 
 delicate proportion of its ingredients ; and the whole of ani- 
 mated nature may wither and die under the malignity of a 
 tainted atmosphere. A blazing comet may cross this fated 
 planet in its orbit, and realize all the terrors which superstition 
 has conceived of it. We cannot anticipate with precision the 
 consequences of an event which every astronomer must know 
 to lie within the limits of chance and probability. It may 
 hurry our globe towards the sun, or drag it to the outer regions 
 
96 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 of the planetary system, or give it a new axis of revolution — 
 and the effect, which I shall simply announce without explain- 
 ing it, would be to change the place of the ocean, and bring 
 another mighty flood upon our islands and continents. 
 
 These are changes which may happen in a single instant of 
 time, and against which nothing known in the present system 
 of things provides us with any security. They might not an- 
 nihilate the earth, but they would unpeople it, and we, who 
 tread its surface with such firm and assured footsteps, are at 
 the mercy of devouring elements, which, if let loose upon us by 
 the hand of the Almighty, would spread solitude, and silence, 
 and death over the dominions of the world. 
 
 Now it is this littleness and this insecurity which make the 
 protection of the Almighty so dear to us, and bring with such 
 emphasis to every pious bosom the holy lessons of humility 
 and gratitude. The God who sitteth above, and presides in 
 high authority over all worlds, is mindful of man ; and though 
 at this moment his energy is felt in the remotest provinces of 
 creation, we may feel the same security in his providence as if 
 we were the objects of his undivided care. 
 
 It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysterious 
 agency. But such is the incomprehensible fact, that the same 
 Being, whose eye is abroad over the whole universe, gives vege- 
 tation to every blade of grass, and motion to every particle of 
 blood which circulates through the veins of the minutest ani- 
 mal ; that though his mind takes into his comprehensive grasp 
 immensity and all its wonders, I am as much known to him as 
 if I were the single object of his attention; that he marks all 
 my thoughts ; that he gives birth to every feeling and every 
 movement within me; and that, with an exercise of power 
 which I can neither describe nor comprehend, the same God 
 who sits in the highest heaven, and reigns over the glories of 
 the firmament, is at my right hand to give me every breath 
 which I draw, and every comfort which I enjoy. 
 
 WHAT'S HALLOWED GROUXD !-Tiiomas Campbell. 
 
 What's hallowed ground ! — Has earth a clod 
 Its Maker meant not should be trod 
 By man, the image of his God, 
 Erect and free, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIO 97 
 
 Unscourgod by Superstition's rod 
 To bow the knee ? 
 
 That's hallowed ground — where, mourned and missed, 
 The lips repose our love has kissed ; — 
 But where's their memory's mansion ? Is't 
 
 Yon churchyard's bovvers ? 
 No ; in ourselves their souls exist, 
 
 A part of ours. 
 
 A kiss can consecrate the ground 
 Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 
 The spot where love's first links were wound, 
 
 That ne'er are riven, 
 Is hallowed down to earth's profound, 
 
 And up to heaven ! 
 
 For time makes all but true love old : 
 The burning thoughts that then were told 
 Run molten still in memory's mould ; 
 
 And will not cool, 
 Until the heart itself be cold 
 
 In Lethe's pool. 
 
 What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
 In dews that heavens far distant weep, 
 
 Their turf may bloom ; 
 Or Genii twine beneath the deep, 
 
 Their coral tomb. 
 
 But strew his ashes to the wina, 
 
 Whose sword or voice has served mankind — 
 
 And is he dead, whose glorious mind 
 
 Lifts thine on high ? 
 To live in hearts we leave behind 
 
 Is not to die. 
 5 
 
98 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
 He's dead alone that lacks her light I 
 And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 
 
 The sword he draws : — 
 What can alone ennoble fight ? — 
 
 A noble cause ! 
 
 Give that ! and welcome War to brace 
 
 Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 
 
 The colors planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer, 
 Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 
 
 Shall still be dear ! 
 
 And place our trophies where men kneel 
 To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal I 
 The cause of Truth and human weal, 
 
 O God above ! 
 Transfer it from the sword's appeal 
 
 To Peace and Love. 
 
 Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
 Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine ; — 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 
 ■ Where they are not ; — 
 The heart alone can make divine 
 Religion's spot. 
 
 To incantations dost thou trust, 
 And pompous rites in domes august ? 
 See mouldering stones and metal's rust 
 
 Belie the vaunt, 
 That man can bless one pile of dust 
 
 With chime or chant. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 99 
 
 The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
 Thy temples, — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
 But there's a dome of nobler span, 
 
 A temple given 
 Thy faith, usurpers dare not ban ; — 
 
 Its space is Heaven ! 
 
 Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
 Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
 And God himself to man revealing, — 
 
 The harmonious spheres 
 Make music, though unheard their pealing 
 
 By mortal ears. 
 
 Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
 Can sin, can death your worlds obscure ? 
 Else why so swell the thoughts at your 
 
 Aspect above ? 
 Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 
 
 Of heavenly love ! 
 
 And in your harmony sublime 
 I read the doom of distant time ; 
 That man's regenerate soul from crime 
 
 Shall yet be drawn, 
 And reason on his mortal clime 
 
 Immortal dawn. 
 
 What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
 Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 
 
 Earth's compassed round ; 
 And your high-priesthood shall make earth 
 
 All hallowed ground. 
 
100 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 SUAQTER — James Thomson. 
 
 From brightening fields of ether fair disclos'd, 
 Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes, 
 In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth : 
 He comes attended by the sultry hours, 
 And ever-fanning breezes, on his way ; 
 While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring 
 Averts his blushful face, and earth and skies, 
 All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves. 
 
 Hence let me haste into the mid-wood shade, 
 "Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom 
 And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink. 
 Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak 
 Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large, 
 And sing the glories of the circling year. * * * 
 
 Now, flaming up the heavens, the potent sun 
 Melts into limpid air the high-rais'd clouds, 
 And morning fogs, that hover'd round the hills 
 In party-colored bands ; till wide unveil' d 
 The face of Nature shines, from where earth seems, 
 Far-stretch'd around, to meet the bending sphere. 
 
 Half in a blush of clustering roses lost, 
 Dew-dropping Coolness to the shade retires ; 
 There, on the verdant turf, or flowery bed, 
 By gelid founts and careless rills to muse ; 
 While tyrant Heat, dispreading through the sky, 
 With rapid sway, his burning influence darts 
 On man, and beast, and herb, and tepid stream. 
 
 Who can unpitying see the flow'ry race, 
 Shed by the morn, their new-flush'd bloom resign, 
 Before the parching beam ? So fade the fair, 
 When fevers revel through their azure veins. 
 But one, the lofty follower of the sun, 
 Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves, 
 
READINGS AND HESITATIONS. 101 
 
 Drooping all night; and, when he warm returns, 
 Points her enamor'd bosom to his ray. * * * 
 
 'Tis raging noon ; and, vertical, the sun 
 Darts on the head direct his forceful rays. 
 O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye 
 Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns ; and all 
 From pole to pole is undistinguish'd blaze. 
 In vain the sight, dejected to the ground, 
 Stoops for relief: thence hot-ascending streams 
 And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root 
 Of vegetation parch'd, the cleaving fields 
 And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose, 
 Blast fancy's bloom, and wither e'en the soul. 
 Echo no more returns the cheerful sound 
 Of sharpening scythe ; the mower, sinking, heaps 
 O'er him the humid hay, with flow'rs perfum'd : 
 And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard 
 Through the dumb mead. Distressful Nature pants. 
 The very streams look languid from afar ; 
 Or, through th' unshelter'd glade, impatient seem 
 To hurl into the covert of the grove. * * * 
 
 Welcome, ye shades ! Ye bowery thickets, hail ! 
 Ye lofty pines ! ye venerable oaks ! 
 Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep ! 
 Delicious is your shelter to the soul, 
 As to the hunted hart the sallying spring, 
 Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides 
 Laves, as he floats along the herbaged brink. 
 Cool thro' the nerves your pleasing comfort glides ; 
 The heart beats glad ; the fresh-expanded eye 
 And ear resume their watch ; the sinews knit, 
 And life shoots swift through all the lighten'd limbs. 
 
 Around th' adjoining brook, that purls along 
 The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock, 
 Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool, 
 
102 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Now starting to a sudden stream, and now 
 Gently diffus'd into a limpid plain ; 
 i A various group the herds and flocks compose ; 
 Rural confusion ! On the grassy bank 
 Some ruminating lie ; \vhile others stand 
 Half in the flood, and often bending sip 
 The circling surface. * * * 
 
 Still let me pierce into the midnight depth 
 Of yonder grove, of wildest, largest growth ; 
 That, forming high in air a woodland quire, 
 Nods o'er the mount beneath. At every step, 
 Solemn and slow, the shadows blacker fall, 
 And all is awful listening gloom around. 
 
 These are the haunts of meditation, these 
 The scenes, where ancient bards th' inspiring breath 
 Ecstatic, felt ; and, from this world retir'd, 
 Convers'd with angels, and immortal forms, 
 On gracious errands bent : to save the fall 
 Of virtue struggling on the brink of vice ; 
 In waking whispers, and repeated dreams, 
 To hint pure thought, and warn the favor'd soul 
 For future trials fated to prepare. * * * 
 
 Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds, 
 All ether softening, sober Evening takes 
 Her wonted station in the middle air ; 
 A thousand shadows at her beck. First this 
 She sends on earth ; then that of deeper dye 
 Steals soft behind ; and then a deeper still, 
 In circle following circle, gathers round, 
 To close the face of things. A fresher gale 
 Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream, 
 Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn ; 
 While the quail clamors for his running mate. 
 Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze, 
 A whitening shower of vegetable down 
 
HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 103 
 
 Amusivc floats. The kind impartial care 
 ()t* Nature naught disdains : thoughtful to feed 
 Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year, 
 From field to field the feathered seeds she wings. 
 
 His folded flock secure, the shepherd home 
 Hies, merry-hearted ; and by turns relieves 
 The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail ; 
 The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart, 
 Unknowing what the joy-mix'd anguish means, 
 Sincerely loves, by that best language shown 
 Of cordial glances, and obliging deeds. 
 Onward they pass, o'er many a panting height, 
 And valley sunk, and unfrequented : where 
 At fall of eve the fairy people throng, 
 In various game, and revelry, to pass 
 The summer night, as village stories tell. 
 But far about they wander from the grave 
 Of him, whom his ungentle fortune urg'd 
 Against his own sad breast to lift the hand 
 Of impious violence. The lonely tower 
 Is also shunn'd, whose mournful chambers hold, 
 So night-struck Fancy dreams, the yelling ghost. 
 
 Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge, 
 The glow-worm lights his gem; and through the dark 
 A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields 
 The world to Night. 
 
 THE BRTDAL — Sm Waltee Scott, 
 (feom " Lay of the Last Minsteel") 
 
 Breathes 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 ! 
 
104 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 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. 
 
 O Caledonia ! stern and wild, 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 Land of the mountain and the flood, 
 Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
 Can e'er untie the filial band 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ? 
 Still, as I view each well-known scene, 
 Think what is now, and what hath been, 
 Seems, as to me, of all bereft, 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 
 Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
 Although it chill my wither'd cheek ; 
 Still lay my head by Teviot stone, 
 Though there, forgotten and alone, 
 The bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 Not scorn'd like me, to Branksome hall 
 The minstrels came, at festive call ; 
 Trooping they came, from near and far, 
 The jovial priests of mirth and war : 
 Alike for feast and fight prepared, 
 
HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 105 
 
 Battle and banquet both they shared. 
 
 Of late, before each martial clan, 
 
 They blew their death-note in the van, 
 
 But now, for every merry mate, 
 
 Rose the portcullis' iron grate ; 
 
 They sound the pipe, they strike the string, 
 
 They dance, they revel, and they sing, 
 
 Till the rude turrets shake and ring. 
 
 Me lists not at this tide declare 
 
 The splendor of the spousal rite, 
 How muster' d in the chapel fair 
 
 Both maid and matron, squire and knight ; 
 Me lists not tell of owches rare, 
 Of mantles green, and braided hair, 
 And kirtles furred with miniver ; 
 What plumage waved the altar round, 
 How spurs, and ringing chainlets, sound : 
 And hard it were for bard to speak 
 The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek, 
 That lovely hue which comes and flies, 
 As awe and shame alternate rise. 
 Some bards have sung, the ladye high 
 Chapel or altar came not nigh ; 
 Nor durst the rites of spousal grace, 
 So much she feared each holy place. 
 False slanders these : I trust right well 
 She wrought not by forbidden spell : 
 For mighty words and signs have power 
 O'er sprites in planetary hour : 
 Yet scarce I praise their venturous part, 
 Who tamper with such dangerous art. 
 But this for faithful truth I say, 
 
 The ladye by the altar stood, 
 Of sable velvet her array, 
 
 And on her head a crimson hood, 
 5* 
 
106 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 With pearls embroidered and entwined, 
 
 Guarded with gold, with ermine lined-; 
 
 A merlin sat upon her wrist, 
 
 Held by a leash of silken twist. 
 
 The spousal rites were ended soon ; 
 
 'Twas now the merry hour of noon, 
 
 And in the lofty arched hall 
 
 Was spread the gorgeous festival. 
 
 Steward and squire, with heedful haste, 
 
 Marshall'd the rank of every guest ; 
 
 Pages, with ready blade, were there, 
 
 The mighty meal to carve and share ; 
 
 O'er capon, heron-shew, and craue, 
 
 And princely peacock's gilded train, 
 
 And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, 
 
 And Cygnet from St. Mary's wave, 
 
 O'er ptarmigan and venison, 
 
 The priest had spoke his benison. 
 
 Then rose the riot and the din, 
 
 Above, beneath, without, within ! 
 
 For, from the lofty balcony, 
 
 Eung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery ; 
 
 Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff'd, 
 
 Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd ; 
 
 Whisper'd young knights, in tone more mild, 
 
 To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
 
 The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam, 
 
 The clamor join'd with whistling scream, 
 
 And flapp'd their wings, and shook their bells, 
 
 In concert with the stag-hounds' yells. 
 
 Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, 
 
 From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine ; 
 
 Their tasks the busy sewers ply, 
 
 And all is mirth and revelry. 
 
KKAlUXc LSD RECITATIONS 107 
 
 THE GL0YE-(A TALEX-Sciiillbb. 
 
 Before his lion-court, 
 
 To see the grisly sport, 
 Sat the king ; 
 Beside him grouped his princely peers, 
 And dames aloft, in circling tiers, 
 
 Wreathed round their blooming ring. 
 
 King Francis, where he sat, 
 Raised a finger ; yawned the gate, 
 
 And slow, from his repose, 
 A lion goes ! 
 
 Dumbly he gazed around 
 
 The foe-encircled ground ; 
 
 And, with a lazy gape, 
 
 He stretched his lordly shape, 
 
 And shook his careless mane, 
 
 And — laid him down again. 
 
 A finger raised the king, 
 
 And nimbly have the guard 
 
 A second gate unbarred ; 
 
 Forth, with a rushing spring, 
 A tiger sprung ! 
 
 Wildly the wild one yelled, 
 When the lion he beheld ; 
 
 And, bristling at the look, 
 With his tail his sides he strook, 
 
 And rolled his rabid tongue ; 
 
 In many a wary ring 
 He swept round the forest king, 
 With a fell and rattling sound ; 
 
 And laid him on the ground, 
 Grovelling. 
 
108 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The king raised Lis finger ; then 
 Leaped two leopards from the den 
 With a bound ; 
 And boldly bounded they 
 Where the crouching tiger lay 
 Terrible ! 
 And he griped the beasts in his deadly hold ; 
 In the grim embrace they grappled and rolled ; 
 Rose the lion with a roar, 
 
 And stood the strife before ; 
 And the wild-cats on the spot, 
 From the blood-thirst, wroth and hot, 
 Halted still. 
 
 Now from the balcony above 
 A snowy hand let fall a glove : 
 Midway between the beasts of prey, 
 Lion and tiger, — there it lay, 
 The winsome lady's glove ! 
 
 Fair Cunigonde said, with a lip of scorn, 
 
 To the knight Delorges, " If the love you have sworn 
 
 Were as gallant and leal as you boast it to be, 
 
 I might ask you to bring back that glove to me !" 
 
 The knight left the place where the lady sat ; 
 
 The knight he has passed through the fearful gate ; 
 
 The lion and tiger he stooped above, 
 
 And his fingers have closed on the lady's glove ! 
 
 All shuddering and stunned, they beheld him there, — 
 
 The noble knights and the ladies fair ; 
 
 Bjit loud was the joy and the praise the while 
 
 He bore back the glove with his tranquil smile ! 
 
 With a tender look in her softening eyes, 
 That promised reward to his warmest sighs, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 109 
 
 Fair Cunigondo rose her knight to grace ; 
 
 He tossed the glove in the lady's face! 
 
 "Nay, spare me the guerdon, at least," quoth he ; 
 
 And he left forever that fair ladye ! 
 
 A VIEW OF MEN AND MAXNERS.-William Cowper. 
 
 I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
 Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd 
 My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 
 To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
 There was I found by one who had himself 
 Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, 
 And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
 With gentle force soliciting the darts, 
 He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live. 
 Since then, with few associates, in remote 
 And silent woods I wander, far from those 
 My former partners of the peopled scene ; 
 With few associates, and not wishing more. 
 Here much I ruminate, as much I may, 
 With other views of men and manners now 
 Than once, and others of a life to come. 
 I see that all are wanderers, gone astray 
 Each in his own delusions; they are lost 
 In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd 
 And never won. Dream after dream ensues ; 
 And still they dream that they shall still succeed, 
 And still are disappointed. Rings the world 
 With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, 
 And add two-thirds of the remaining half, 
 And find the total of their hopes and fears 
 Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay 
 As if created only like the fly, 
 That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon, 
 
110 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 To sport their season, and be seen no more. 
 
 The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, 
 
 And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. 
 
 Some write a narrative of wars, and feats 
 
 Of heroes little known ; and call the rant 
 
 A history: describe the man, of whom 
 
 His own coevals took but little note, 
 
 And paint his person, character, and views, 
 
 As they had known him from his mother's womb. 
 
 They disentangle from the puzzled skein, 
 
 In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, 
 
 The threads of politic and shrewd design, 
 
 That ran through all his purposes, and charge 
 
 His mind with meanings that he never had, 
 
 Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore 
 
 The solid earth, and from the strata there 
 
 Extract a register, by which we learn, 
 
 That he who made it, and reveal'd its date 
 
 To Moss, was mistaken in its age. 
 
 Some, more acute, aud more industrious still, 
 
 Contrive creation ; travel nature up 
 
 To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, 
 
 And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fix'd, 
 
 And planetary some ; what gave them first 
 
 Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. 
 
 Great contest follows, and much learned dust 
 
 Involves the combatants ; each claiming truth, 
 
 And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend 
 
 The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp 
 
 In playing tricks with nature, giving laws 
 
 To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. 
 
 Is't not a pity now that tickling rheums 
 
 Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight 
 
 Of oracles like these ? Great pity too, 
 
 That having wielded the elements, and built 
 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. m 
 
 A thousand systems, eacli in his own way, 
 They should go out in fume, and be forgot ? 
 Ah ! what is life thus spent ? and what are they 
 But frantic, who thus spend it ? all for smoke — 
 Eternity for bubbles, proves at last 
 A senseless bargain. When I see such games 
 Play'd by the creatures of a Power, who swears 
 That he will judge the earth, and call the fool 
 To a sharp reckoning, that has lived in vain ; 
 And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, 
 And prove it in the infallible result 
 So hollow and so false — I feel my heart 
 Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd, 
 If this be learning, most of all deceived. 
 Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps, 
 While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. 
 Defend me therefore, common sense, say I, 
 From reveries so airy, from the toil 
 Of dropping buckets into empty wells, 
 And growing old in drawing nothing up ! 
 
 THE LOTUS-EATERS— Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 " Courage !" he said, and pointed toward the land, 
 " This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
 In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
 In which it seemed always afternoon. 
 All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
 Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
 Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
 And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
 Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 
 
112 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 II. 
 
 A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 
 
 Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
 
 And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 
 
 Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
 
 They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 
 
 From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, 
 
 Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
 
 Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, 
 
 Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 
 
 in. 
 
 The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
 
 In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale 
 
 Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
 
 Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 
 
 And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 
 
 A land where all things always seem'cl the same ! 
 
 And round about the keel with faces pale, 
 
 Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
 
 The mild-eyed melancholy Lotus-eaters came. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
 Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
 To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
 And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
 Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
 On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
 His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 
 And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, 
 And music in his ears his beatino- heart did make. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATION& H3 
 
 They sat them clown upon the yellow sand, 
 Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
 And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
 Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
 Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
 Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
 Then some one said, " We will return no more ;" 
 And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
 Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 
 
 WILLIAM PENN— George Bancroft. 
 
 Penn, despairing of relief in Europe, bent the whole energy 
 of his mind to accomplish the establishment of a free govern- 
 ment in the new world. For that "heavenly end," he was 
 prepared by the severe discipline of life, and the love, without 
 dissimulation, which formed the basis of his character. The 
 sentiment of cheerful humanity was irrepressibly strong in his 
 bosom ; as with John Eliot and Roger Williams, benevolence 
 gushed prodigally from his ever-flowing heart; and when, in 
 his late old age, his intellect was impaired, and his reason pros- 
 trated by apoplexy, his sweetness of disposition rose serenely 
 over the clouds of disease. Possessing an extraordinary great- 
 ness of mind, vast conceptions, remarkable for their universality 
 and precision, and " surpassing in speculative endowments ;" 
 conversant with men, and books, and governments, with various 
 languages, and the forms of political combinations, as they 
 existed in England and France, in Holland, and the principali- 
 ties and free cities of Germany, he yet sought the source of 
 wisdom in his own soul. Humane by nature and by suffering ; 
 familiar with the royal family ; intimate with Sunderland^ and 
 Sydney; acquainted with Russel, Halifax, Shaftesbury, and 
 Buckingham ; as a member of the Royal Society, the peer of 
 Newton and the great scholars of his age, — he valued the 
 promptings of a free mind more than the awards of the learned, 
 and reverenced the single-minded sincerity of the Nottingham 
 shepherd more than the authority of colleges and the wisdom of 
 philosophers. And now, being in the meridian of life, but a 
 
114 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 year older than was Locke, when, twelve years before, he had 
 framed a constitution for Carolina, the Quaker legislator was 
 come to the New World to lay the foundations of states. 
 Would he imitate the vaunted system of the great philosopher ? 
 Locke, like William Penu, was tolerant ; both loved freedom ; 
 both cherished truth in sincerity. But Locke kindled the 
 torch of liberty at the fires of tradition ; Penh at the living 
 light in the soul. Locke sought truth through the senses and 
 the outward world ; Penn looked inward to the divine revela- 
 tions in every mind. Locke compared the soul to a sheet of 
 white paper, just as Hobbes had compared it to a slate, on 
 which time and chance might scrawl their experience ; to Penn, 
 the soul was an organ which of itself instinctively breathes 
 divine harnionies, like those musical instruments which are so 
 curiously and perfectly framed, that, when once set in motion, 
 they of themselves give forth all the melodies designed by the 
 artist that made them. To Locke, " Conscience is nothing else 
 than our own opinion of our own actions ;" to Penn, it is the 
 image of God, and his oracle in the soul. Locke, who was 
 never a father, esteemed " the duty of parents to preserve their 
 children to not be understood without reward and punish- 
 ment;" Penn loved his children, with not a thought for the 
 consequences. Locke, who was never married, declares mar- 
 riage an affair of the senses ; Penn reverenced woman as the 
 object of fervent, inward affection, made, not for lust, but for 
 love. In studying the understanding, Locke begins with the 
 sources of knowledge ; Penn with an inventory of our intellec- 
 tual treasures. Locke deduces government from Noah and 
 Adam, rests it upon contract, and announces its end to be the 
 security of property ; Penn, far from going back to Adam or 
 even to Noah, declares that " there must be a people before a 
 government," and, deducing the right to institute government 
 from man's moral nature, seeks its fundamental rules in the im- 
 mutable dictates " of universal reason," its end in freedom and 
 happiness. The system of Locke lends itself to contending fac- 
 tions of the most opposite interests and purposes ; the doctrine 
 of Fox and Penn, being but the common creed of humanity, for- 
 bids division, and insures the highest moral unity. To Locke, 
 happiness is pleasure ; things are good and evil only in reference 
 to pleasure and pain ; and to " inquire after the highest good is 
 as absurd as to dispute whether the best relish be in apples, 
 plums, or nuts ;" Penn esteemed happiness to lie in the sub- 
 jection of the baser instincts to the instinct of Deity in the 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 115 
 
 breast, good and evil to be eternally aud always as unlike as 
 truth and falsehood, and the inquiry after the highest good to 
 involve the purpose of existence. Locke says plainly, that, 
 but for rewards and punishments beyond the grave, " it is 
 certainly right to eat and drink, and enjoy what we delight in ;" 
 Penn, like Plato and Fenelon, maintained the doctrine so terri- 
 ble to despots, that God is to be loved for his own sake, and 
 virtue to be practised for its intrinsic loveliness. Locke derives 
 the idea of infinity from the senses, describes it as purely nega- 
 tive, and attributes it to nothing but space, duration, and num- 
 ber ; Penn derived the idea from the soul, and ascribed it to 
 truth, and virtue, and God. Locke declares immortality a mat- 
 ter with which reason has nothing to do, and that revealed 
 truth must be sustained by outward signs and visible acts of 
 power ; Penn saw truth by its own light, and summoned the 
 soul to bear witness to its own glory. Locke believed " not so 
 many men in wrong opinions as is commonly supposed, because 
 the greatest part have no opinions at all, and do not know what 
 they contend for ;" Penn likewise vindicated the many, but it 
 was because truth is the common inheritance of the race. 
 Locke, in his love of tolerance, inveighed against the methods 
 of persecution as " Popish practices ;" Penn censured no sect, 
 but condemned bigotry of all sorts as inhuman. Locke, as an 
 American lawgiver, dreaded a too numerous democracy, and 
 reserved all power to wealth and the feudal proprietaries ; Penn 
 believed that God is in every conscience, his light in every soul ; 
 and therefore, stretching out his arms, he built — such are his 
 own words — "a free colony for all mankind." This is the 
 praise of William Penn, that, in an age which had seen a popu- 
 lar revolution shipwreck popular liberty among selfish factions ; 
 which had seen Hugh Peters and Henry Vane perish by the 
 hangman's cord and the axe ; in an age when Sydney nourished 
 the pride of patriotism rather than the sentiment of philan- 
 thropy, when Russel stood for the liberties of his order, and 
 not for new enfranchisements, when Harrington, and Shaftes- 
 bury, and Locke, thought government should rest on property, 
 — Penn did not despair of humanity, and, though all history 
 and experience denied the sovereignty of the people, dared to 
 cherish the noble idea of man's capacity for self-government. 
 Conscious that there was no room for its exercise in England, 
 the pure enthusiast, like Calvin and Descartes, a voluntary exile, 
 was come to the banks of the Delaware to institute " the Holy 
 Experiment." 
 
116 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 HARMOSAN— Richard Chenevix Trench. 
 
 Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was 
 
 done, 
 And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won. 
 
 Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy, 
 Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to 
 die. 
 
 Then exclaimed that noble captive : " Lo, I perish in my thirst ; 
 Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst !" 
 
 In his hand he took the goblet ; but awhile the draught for- 
 bore, 
 Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foemen to explore. 
 
 Well might then have paused the bravest — for, around him, 
 
 angry foes 
 With a hedge of naked weapons did that lonely man enclose. 
 
 " But what fearest thou ?" cried the Caliph ; " is it, friend, a se- 
 cret blow ? 
 
 Fear it not ! our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealing 
 know. 
 
 " Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die 
 
 before 
 Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this reprieve is thine — no 
 
 more !" 
 
 Quick the Satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready 
 
 hand, 
 And the liquid sunk forever, lost amid the burning sand. 
 
 " Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup 
 I have drained : then bid thy servants that spilled water gather 
 up !" 
 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. H7 
 
 For a moment stood the Caliph as by doubtful passions stirred — 
 Then exclaimed: "Forever sacred must remain a monarch's 
 word. 
 
 14 Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give : 
 Drink, I said before, and perish — now I bid thee drink and 
 live !" 
 
 HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL IN THE HUMAN BREAST. "-Alexander Poi>k. 
 
 Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
 All but the page prescribed, their present state : 
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits know : 
 Or who could suffer being here below ? 
 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
 Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
 Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, 
 And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
 Oh, blindness to the future ! kindly given, 
 That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven : 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
 
 Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 
 Wait the great teacher, Death ; aud God adore. 
 What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
 Man never Is, but always To be bless'd : 
 The soul, uneasy, and confined from home 
 Rests and expatiates on a life to come. 
 
 Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
 
US LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
 Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heaven; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
 Some happier island in the watery waste, 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To be, contents his natural desire, 
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 G-o, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense, 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
 Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 
 Say, here he gives too little, there too much : 
 Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
 Yet say, if man's unhappy, God's unjust ; 
 If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, 
 Alone made perfect here, immortal there : 
 Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 
 Re-judge his justice, be the god of God. 
 In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; 
 All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
 Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes, 
 Men would be angels, angels would be gods, 
 Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
 Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 
 And who but wishes to invert the laws 
 Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 119 
 
 IGNEZ DE CASTRO *-Camoen8. 
 
 WniLE glory thus Alonzo's name adorned, 
 
 To Lisboa's shores the happy chief returned, 
 
 In glorious peace and well-deserved repose 
 
 His course of fame and honored age to close. 
 
 When now, O king, a damsel's fate severe, 
 
 A fate which ever claims the woful tear, 
 
 Disgraced his honors. On the nymph's lorn head 
 
 Relentless rage its bitterest rancor shed : 
 
 Yet such the zeal her princely lover bore, 
 
 Her breathless corse the crown of Lisboa wore. 
 
 'Twas thou, O Love, whose dreaded shafts control 
 
 The hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul ; 
 
 Thou ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloyed, 
 
 'Twas thou thy lovely votary destroyed. 
 
 Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, 
 
 In vain to thee the tears of beauty flow; 
 
 The breast, that feels thy purest flames divine, 
 
 With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine. 
 
 Such thy dire triumphs ! — Thou, Nymph, the while, 
 
 Prophetic of the god's unpitying guile, 
 
 In tender scenes by lovesick fancy wrought, 
 
 By fear oft shifted as by fancy brought, 
 
 In sweet Mondego's ever-verdant bowers, 
 
 Languished away the slow and lonely hours . 
 
 While now, as terror waked thy boding fears, 
 
 The conscious stream received thy pearly tears ; 
 
 And now, as hope revived the brighter flame, 
 
 Each echo sighed thy princely lover's name. 
 
 Nor less could absence from thy prince remove 
 
 The dear remembrance of his distant love : 
 
 Thy looks, thy smiles, before him ever glow, 
 
 * Dona Ignez de Castro, daughter of a Castilian gentleman who had 
 taken refuge in the court of Portugal, and privately married to Dona 
 Pedro ; she was, however, cruelly murdered, at the instigation of the 
 politicians, on account of her partiality to Castilians. 
 
120 LADIES BOOK OF 
 
 And o'er his melting heart endearing flow : 
 
 By night his slumbers bring thee to his arms, 
 
 By day his thoughts still wander o'er thy charms ; 
 
 By night, by day, each thought thy love's employ, 
 
 Each thought the memory or the hope of joy. 
 
 Though fairest princely dames invoked his love, 
 
 No princely dame his constant faith could move : 
 
 For thee alone his constant passion burned, 
 
 For thee the proffered royal maids he scorned. 
 
 Ah, hope of bliss too high ! — the princely dames 
 
 Refused, dread rage the father's breast inflames : 
 
 He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveys 
 
 The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs 
 
 The people's murmurs of his son's delay 
 
 To bless the nation with his nuptial day ; 
 
 (Alas ! the nuptial day was passed unknown, 
 
 Which but when crowned the prince could dare to own ;) 
 
 And with the fair one's blood the vengeful sire 
 
 Resolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire. 
 
 O thou dread sword, oft stained with heroes' gore, • 
 
 Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor, 
 
 What rage could aim thee at a female breast, 
 
 Unarmed, by softness and by love possessed ? 
 
 Dragged from her bower by murderous, ruffian hands, 
 Before the frowning king fair Ignez stands ; 
 Her tears of artless innocence, her air 
 So mild, so lovely, and her face so fair, 
 Moved the stern monarch ; when with eager zeal 
 Her fierce destroyers urged the public weal : 
 Dread rage again the tyrant's soul possessed, 
 And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confessed. 
 O'er her fair face a sudden paleness spread ; 
 Her throbbing heart with generous anguish bled, 
 Anguish to view her lover's hopeless woes ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 121 
 
 And all the mother in her bosom rose. 
 Her beauteous eyes, in trembling tear-drops drowned, 
 To heaven she lifted, but her hands were bound ; 
 Then on her infants turned the piteous glance, 
 The look of bleeding woe : the babes advance, 
 Smiling in innocence of infant age, 
 Unawed, unconscious of their grandsire's rage ; 
 To whom, as bursting sorrow gave the flow, 
 The native, heart-sprung eloquence of woe, 
 The lovely captive thus : — " O monarch, hear, 
 If e'er to thee the name of man was dear, — 
 If prowling tigers, or the wolf's wild brood, 
 Inspired by nature with the lust of blood, 
 Have yet been moved the weeping babe to spare, 
 Nor left, but tended with a nurse's care, 
 As Rome's great founders to the world were given ; 
 Shalt thou, who wear'st the sacred stamp of Heaven, 
 The human form divine, — shalt thou deny 
 That aid, that pity, which e'en beasts supply ? 
 Oh, that thy heart were, as thy looks declare, 
 Of human mould ! superfluous were my prayer ; 
 Thou couldst not then a helpless damsel slay, 
 Whose sole offence in fond affection lay 
 In faith to him who first his love confessed, 
 Who first to love allured her virgin breast. 
 In these my babes shalt thou thine image see, 
 And still tremendous hurl thy rage on me ? 
 Me, for their sakes, if yet thou wilt not spare, 
 Oh, let these infants prove thy pious care ! 
 Yet pity's lenient current ever flows 
 From that brave breast where genuine valor glows ; 
 That thou art brave let vanquished Afric tell, 
 Then let thy pity o'er mine anguish swell ; 
 Ah ! let my woes, unconscious of a crime, 
 Procure mine exile to some barbarous clime : 
 6 
 
122 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 Give me to wander o'er the burning plains 
 
 Of Lybia's deserts, or the wild domains 
 
 Of Scythia's snow-clad rocks and frozen shore ; 
 
 There let me, hopeless of return, deplore. 
 
 Where ghastly horror fills the dreary vale, 
 
 Where shrieks and howlings die on every gale, 
 
 The lion's roaring, and the tiger's yell, 
 
 There with mine infant race consigned to dwell, 
 
 There let me try that piety to find, 
 
 In vain by me implored from human-kind : 
 
 There in some dreary cavern's rocky womb, 
 
 Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom, 
 
 For him whose love I mourn, my love shall glow, 
 
 The sigh shall murmur, and the tear shall flow : 
 
 All my fond wish, and all my hope, to rear, 
 
 These infant pledges of a love so dear, — 
 
 Amidst my griefs a soothing, glad employ, 
 
 Amidst my fears a woful, hopeless joy." 
 
 In tears she uttered. As the frozen snow, 
 Touched by the spring's mild ray, begins to flow, — 
 So just began to melt his stubborn soul, 
 As mild-rayed pity o'er the tyrant stole : 
 But destiny forbade. With eager zeal, 
 Again pretended for the public weal, 
 Her fierce accusers urged her speedy doom ; 
 Again dark rage diffused its horrid gloom 
 O'er stern Alonzo's brow : swift at the sign, 
 Their swords unsheathed around her brandished shine. 
 Oh, foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, 
 By men of arms an helpless lady slain ! 
 
 Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire, 
 Fulfilled the mandate of his furious sire : 
 Disdainful of the frantic maiden's prayer, 
 On fair Polyxena, her last fond care, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 123 
 
 lie rushed, his blade yet warm with Priam's gore, 
 And dashed the daughter on the sacred floor ; 
 While mildly she her raving mother eyed, 
 Resigned her bosom to the sword, and died. 
 Thus Ignez, while her eyes to Heaven appeal, 
 Resigns her bosom to the murdering steel : 
 That snowy neck, whose matchless form sustained 
 The loveliest face, where all the Graces reigned, 
 Whose charms so long the gallant prince inflamed, 
 That her pale corse was Lisboa's queen proclaimed, — 
 That snowy neck was stained with spouting gore ; 
 Another sword her lovely bosom tore. 
 The flowers, that glistened with her tears bedewed, 
 Now shrunk and languished with her blood imbrued. 
 As when a rose, erewhile of bloom so gay, 
 Thrown from the careless virgin's breast away, 
 Lies faded on the plain, the living red, 
 The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled ; 
 So from her cheeks the roses died away, 
 And pale in death the beauteous Ignez lay. 
 With dreadful smiles, and crimsoned with her blood, 
 Round the wan victim the stern murderers stood, 
 Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, 
 Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power. 
 
 O sun, couldst thou so foul a crime behold, 
 Nor veil thine head in darkness, — as of old 
 A sudden night unwonted horror cast 
 O'er that dire banquet, where the sire's repast 
 The son's torn limbs supplied ? — Yet you, ye vales, 
 Ye distant forests, and ye flowery dales, 
 When, pale and sinking to the dreadful fall, 
 You heard her quivering lips on Pedro call ; 
 Your faithful echoes caught the parting sound, 
 And "Pedro! Pedro!" mournful sio-hed around 
 
124 LADIES BOOK OP 
 
 Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondego's groves 
 
 Bewailed the memory of her hapless loves ; 
 
 Her griefs they wept, and to a plaintive rill 
 
 Transformed their tears, which weeps and murmurs still 
 
 To give immortal pity to her woe, 
 
 They taught the rivulet through her bowers to flow ; 
 
 And still through violet beds the fountain pours 
 
 Its plaintive wailing, and is named Amours. 
 
 Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain : 
 
 Her gallant lord begins his awful reign. 
 
 In vain her murderers for refuge fly ; 
 
 Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply. 
 
 The injured lover's and the monarch's ire. 
 
 And stern-browed justice, in their doom conspire : 
 
 In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls in fire. 
 
 HUDSON RIVER -Thomas W. Parsons. 
 ■Rivers that roll most- musical in song 
 
 Are often lovely to the mind alone ; 
 The wanderer muses, as he moves along 
 
 Their barren banks, on glories not their own. 
 
 When to give substance to his boyish dreams, 
 He leaves his own, far countries to survey, 
 
 Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams, 
 "Their names alone are beautiful, not they." 
 
 If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour 
 A tide more meagre than his native Charles ; 
 
 Or views the Rhone when summer's heat is o'er, 
 Subdued and stagnant in the fen of Aries ; 
 
 Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling 
 His sullen tribute at the feet of Rome, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 125 
 
 Oft to his thought must partial memory bring 
 More noble waves, without renown, at home : 
 
 Now let him climb the Catskill, to behold 
 The lordly Hudson, marching to the main, 
 
 And say what bard, in any land of old, 
 Had such a river to inspire his strain. 
 
 Along the Rhine, gray battlements and towers 
 Declare what robbers once the realm possessed ; 
 
 But here Heaven's handiwork surpasseth ours, 
 And man has hardly more than built his nest. 
 
 No storied castle overawes these heights, 
 
 Nor antique arches check the current's play, 
 
 Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites 
 To dream of deities long passed away. 
 
 No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft 
 
 Of marble, yellowed by a thousand years, 
 
 Lifts a great landmark to the little craft, 
 
 A summer cloud ! that comes and disappears : 
 
 But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form, 
 
 Since the subsiding of the deluge rise, 
 And hold their savins to the upper storm, 
 
 While far below the skiff securely plies. 
 
 Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men 
 Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil, 
 
 Spread o'er the plain, or scatter through the glen, 
 Boeotian plenty on a Spartan soil. 
 
 Then, where the reign of cultivation ends, 
 
 Again the charming wilderness begins; 
 From steep to steep one solemn wood extends, 
 
 Till some new hamlet's rise the boscage thins. 
 
126 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And these deep groves forever have remained 
 Touched by no axe — by no proud owner nursed : 
 
 As now they stand they stood when Pharaoh reigned, 
 Lineal descendants of creation's first. 
 
 Thou Scottish Tweed, a sacred streamlet now 
 Since thy last minstrel laid him down to die, 
 
 Where through the casement of his chamber thou 
 Didst mix thy moan with his departing sigh ; 
 
 A few of Hudson's more majestic hills 
 
 Might furnish forests for the whole of thine, 
 
 Hide in thick shade all Humber's feeding rills, 
 And darken all the fountains of the Tyne. 
 
 Name all the floods that pour from Albion's heart, 
 To float her citadels that crowd the sea, 
 
 In what, except the meaner pomp of Art, 
 Sublimer Hudson ! can they rival thee : 
 
 Could boastful Thames with all his riches buy, 
 
 To deck the strand which London loads with gold, 
 
 Sunshine so bright — such purity of sky — 
 As bless thy sultry season and thy cold ? 
 
 No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee 
 
 In ancient scrolls ; no deeds of doubtful claim 
 
 Have hung a history on every tree, 
 
 And given each rock its fable and a fame. 
 
 But neither here hath any conqueror trod, 
 Nor grim invader from barbarian climes ; 
 
 No horrors feigned of giant or of god 
 Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 127 
 
 Here never yet have happy fields, laid waste, 
 The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit, 
 
 The cottage ruined, and the shrine defaced, 
 Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute. 
 
 " Yet 0, Antiquity !" the stranger sighs, 
 
 "Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view; 
 
 The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes, 
 Where all is fair indeed — but all is new." 
 
 False thought ! is age to crumbling walls confined, 
 To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones ? 
 
 Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, 
 More than old fortresses and sculptured stones ? 
 
 Call not this new which is the only land 
 
 That wears unchanged the same primeval face 
 
 Which, when just dawning from its Maker's hand, 
 Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race. 
 
 Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth 
 
 Glide past green Eden towards the unknown south, 
 Than Hudson broke upon the infant earth, 
 
 And kissed the ocean with his nameless mouth. 
 
 Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile ! 
 
 Thebes and the pyramids to thee are young ; 
 Oh ! had thy waters burst from Britain's isle, 
 
 Till now perchance they had not flowed unsung. 
 
 THE PRISONED NAUTILUS.-Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
 
 Sails the unshadow'd main, — 
 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 
128 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare, 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wreck' d is the ship of pearl ! 
 
 And every chamber' d cell, 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies reveal'd, — 
 Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd ! 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 
 Still, as the spiral grew, 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door, 
 Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the otcl no more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 
 Child of the wandering sea, 
 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
 
 While on mine ear it rings, 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings :- 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll ! 
 
 Leave thy low- vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea . 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 129 
 
 DAMNESS.-LOBD Btson. 
 
 I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 Ray less and pathless, and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; 
 Morn came and went — and came and brought no day, 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light : 
 And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 
 The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
 The habitations of all things wliich dwell, 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
 And men were gathered round their blazing homes 
 To look once more into each other's face ; 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
 Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : 
 A fearful hope was all the world contained ; 
 Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
 They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
 Extinguished with a crash — and all was black. 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
 And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
 Their chins upon their clinched hands, and smiled ; 
 A?id others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again 
 With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
 And gnashed their teeth and howled : the wild birds shrieked, 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
 
130 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brute* 
 
 Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 
 
 And twined themselves among the multitude, 
 
 Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
 
 And War, which for a moment was no more, 
 
 Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
 
 With blood, and each sat sullenly apart, 
 
 Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
 
 All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 
 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
 
 The meagre by the meagre were devoured, 
 
 Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one, 
 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 
 The birds and beasts and famished men at bay, 
 
 Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead 
 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
 
 But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 
 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
 
 Which answered not with a caress — he died. 
 
 The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two 
 
 Of an enormous city did survive, 
 
 And they were enemies ; they met beside 
 
 The dying embers of an altar-place 
 
 Where had been heaped a mass of holy things 
 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
 
 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 
 Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 
 Each other's aspects — saw, and shrieked, and died, — 
 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
 
 Unknowing who he was upon whose brew 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 131 
 
 Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 
 
 The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 
 
 A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay, 
 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still, 
 
 And nothing stirred within their silent depths ; 
 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropped 
 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 
 
 The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
 
 The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 
 
 And the clouds perished ! Darkness had no need 
 
 Of aid from them — She was the Universe. 
 
 THE BROTHERS— Samuel Kogees. 
 
 In the same hour the breath of life receiving, 
 They came together and were beautiful ; 
 But, as they slumbered in their mother's lap, 
 How mournful was their beauty ! She would sit, 
 And look and weep, and look and weep again ; 
 For Nature had but half her work achieved, 
 Denying, like a step-dame, to the babes 
 Her noblest gifts ; denying speech to one, 
 And to the other — reason. 
 
 But at length 
 (Seven years gone by, seven melancholy years) 
 Another came, as fair and fairer still ; 
 And then, how anxiously the mother watched 
 Till reason dawned and speech declared itself! 
 Reason and speech were his ; and down she knelt, 
 Clasping her hands in silent ecstasy. 
 
 On the hill-side, where still their cottage stands, 
 ('Tis near the upper falls in Lauterbrunn ; 
 
132 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 For there I sheltered now, their frugal hearth 
 Blazing with mountain-pine when I appeared, 
 And there, as round they sate, I heard their story.) 
 On the hill-side, among the cataracts, 
 In happy ignorance the children played ; 
 Alike unconscious, through their cloudless day, 
 Of what they had and had not ; everywhere 
 Gathering rock-flowers ; or, with their utmost might, 
 Loosening the fragment from the precipice, 
 And, as it tumbled, listening for the plunge ; 
 Yet, as by instinct, at the 'customed hour 
 Returning ; the two eldest, step by step, 
 Lifting along, and with the tenderest care, 
 Their infant brother. 
 
 Once the hour was past ; 
 And, when she sought, she sought and could not find ; 
 And when she found — "Where was the little one ? 
 Alas ! they answered not ; yet still she asked, 
 Still in her grief forgetting. 
 
 With a scream, 
 Such as an eagle sends forth when he soars, — 
 A scream that through the wild scatters dismay, 
 The idiot boy looked up into the sky, 
 And leaped and laughed aloud, and leaped again; 
 As if he wished to follow in its flight 
 Something just gone, and gone from earth to heaven : 
 While he, whose every gesture, every look 
 Went to the heart, for from the heart it came, 
 He who nor spoke nor heard — all things to him, 
 Day after day, as silent as the grave 
 (To him unknown the melody of birds, 
 Of waters — and the voice that should have soothed 
 His infant sorrows, singing him to sleep), 
 Fled to her mantle as for refuge there, 
 And, as at once o'ercome with fear and grief, 
 
READINGS AND LIMITATIONS. 133 
 
 Covered his head and wept. A dreadful thought 
 Flashed through her brain. "Has not some bird of prey, 
 Thirsting to dip his beak in innocent blood— - 
 It must, it must be so!" And so it was. 
 
 There was an Eagle that had long acquired 
 Absolute sway, the lord of a domain 
 Savage, sublime ; nor from the hills alone 
 Gathering large tribute, but from every vale ; 
 Making the ewe, whene'er he deigned to stoop, 
 Bleat for the lamb. Great was the recompense 
 Assured to him who laid the tyrant low ; 
 And near his nest in that eventful hour, 
 Camly and patiently, a hunter stood, 
 A hunter, as it chanced, of old renown, 
 And, as it chanced, their father. 
 
 In the South 
 A speck appeared, enlarging ; and ere long, 
 As on his journey to the golden sun, 
 Upward he came, the Felon in his flight, 
 Ascending through the congregated clouds, 
 That, like a dark and troubled sea, obscured 
 The world beneath. — " But what is in his grasp ? 
 Ha ! 'tis a child — and may it not be ours ? 
 I dare not, cannot; and yet why forbear, 
 When, if it lives, a cruel death awaits it ? — 
 May He who winged the shaft when Tell stood forth, 
 And shot the apple from the youngling's head, 
 Grant me the strength, the courage !" As he spoke, 
 He aimed, he fired ; and at his feet they fell, 
 The Eagle and the child — the child unhurt — 
 Though, such the grasp, not even in death relinquished. 
 
134 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 ODE TO A MOUNTAIN OAK— Geobge H. Bokbb. 
 Proud mountain giant, whose majestic face, 
 From thy high watch-tower on the steadfast rock, 
 Looks calmly o'er the trees that throng thy base, 
 How long hast thou withstood the tempest's shock ? 
 How long hast thou look'd down on yonder vale 
 Sleeping in sun before thee ; 
 Or bent thy ruffled brow, to let the gale 
 Steer its white, drifting sails just o'er thee ? 
 
 Strong link 'twixt vanish' d ages ! 
 Thou hast a sage and reverend look ; 
 
 As if life's struggle, through its varied stages, 
 Were stamp' d on thee, as in a book. 
 Thou hast no voice to tell what thou hast seen, 
 Save a low moaning in thy troubled leaves ; 
 And canst but point thy scars, and shake thy head, 
 With solemn warning, in the sunbeam's sheen ; 
 And show how Time the mightiest thing bereaves, 
 By the sere leaves that rot upon thy bed. 
 
 Type of long-suffering power ! 
 
 Even in my gayest hour 
 Thou'dst still my tongue, and send my spirit far, 
 To wander in a labyrinth of thought ; 
 For thou hast waged with Time unceasing war, 
 And out of pain hast strength and beauty brought. 
 Thou amidst storms and tempests hadst thy birth, 
 Upon these bleak and scantly-sheltering rocks, 
 Nor much save storm and wrath hast known on earth 
 Yet nobly hast thou bode the fiercest shocks 
 That Circumstance can pour on patient Worth, 
 
 I see thee springing, in the vernal time, 
 A sapling weak, from out the barren stone, 
 To dance with May upon the mountain-peak ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 135 
 
 Pale leaves put forth to greet the genial clime, 
 And roots shot down life's sustenance to seek, 
 While mere existence was a joy alone, — 
 
 Oh, thou wert happy then ! 
 On Summer's heat thy tinkling leaflets fed, 
 Each fibre toughen'd, and a little crown 
 Of green upon thy modest brow was spread, 
 To catch the rain, and shake it gently down. 
 
 But then came Autumn, when 
 Thy dry and tatter'd leaves fell dead ; 
 
 And sadly on the gale 
 
 Thou drop'dst them one by one, — 
 Drop'dst them, with a low, sad wail, 
 
 On the cold, unfeeling stone. 
 Next Winter seized thee in his iron grasp, 
 
 And shook thy bruised and straining form ; 
 Or lock'd thee in his icicles' cold clasp, 
 And piled upon thy head the shorn cloud's snowy fleece; 
 Wert thou not joyful, in this bitter storm, 
 That the green honors, which erst deck'd thy head, 
 Sage Autumn's slow decay, had mildly shed ? 
 Else, with their weight, they'd given thy ills increase, 
 And dragg'd thee helpless from thy uptorn bed. 
 
 Year after year, in kind or adverse fate, 
 Thy branches stretch' d, and thy young twigs put forth, 
 Nor changed thy nature with the season's date : 
 Whether thou wrestled'st with the gusty north, 
 Or beat the driving rain to glittering froth, 
 Or shook the snow-storm from thy arms of might, 
 Or drank tlie balmy dews on summer's night ; — 
 Laughing in sunshine, writhing in the storm, 
 Yet wert thou still the same ! 
 Summer spread forth thy towering form, 
 And Winter strengthen'd thy great frame. 
 
136 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Achieving thy destiny 
 On went'st thou sturdily, 
 Shaking thy green flags in triumph and jubilee ! 
 
 From thy secure and sheltering branch 
 
 The wild bird pours her glad and fearless lay, 
 
 That, with the sunbeams, falls upon the vale 
 
 Adding fresh brightness to the smile of day. 
 
 'Neath those broad boughs the youth has told love's tale, 
 
 And thou hast seen his hardy features blanch, 
 
 Heard his snared heart beat like a prison'd bird, 
 
 Fluttering with fear, before the fowler laid ; 
 
 While his bold figure shook at every word, — 
 
 The strong man trembling at a timid maid ! 
 
 And thou hast smiled upon their children's play ; 
 
 Seen them grow old and gray, and pass away ; 
 
 Heard the low prattle of the thoughtless child, 
 
 Age's cold wisdom, and the lessons mild 
 
 Which patient mothers to their offspring say ; — 
 
 Yet art thou still the same I 
 Man may decay ; 
 
 Race after race may pass away ; 
 The great may perish, and their very fame 
 
 Rot day by day, — 
 Rot noteless with their once inspired clay : 
 
 Still, as at their birth, 
 Thou stretchost thy long arms above the earth, — 
 
 Type of unbending Will! 
 Type of majestic, self-sustaining Power! 
 Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower, 
 May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill ! 
 Oh, let me learn from thee, 
 Thou proud and steadfast tree, 
 To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send ; 
 
 Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests bend: 
 
It LADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 137 
 
 But calmly stand like tlicc, 
 
 Though wrath and storm shake me, 
 Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn eud, 
 And, strong in Truth, work out my destiny. 
 
 Type of long-suffering Power ! 
 Type of unbending Will ! 
 
 Strong in the tempest's hour, 
 Bright when the storm is still ; 
 Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart, 
 Strengthen'd by every struggle, emblem of might thou art ! 
 Sign of what man can compass, spite of an adverse state, 
 Still, from thy rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate ! 
 
 ISABELLA OF SPAIX AXD ELIZABETH OF ENGLAND.-William H. Pbescott. 
 
 It is in the amiable qualities of her sex that Isabella's supe- 
 riority becomes most apparent over her illustrious namesake, 
 Elizabeth of England,* whose history presents some features 
 parallel to her own. Both were disciplined in early life by the 
 teachings of that stern nurse of wisdom, adversity. Both were 
 made to experience the deepest humiliation at the hands of 
 their nearest relative, who should have cherished and protected 
 them. Both succeeded in establishing themselves on the throne 
 after the most precarious vicissitudes. Each conducted her 
 kingdom, through a long and triumphant reign, to a height of 
 glory which it had never before reached. Both lived to see 
 the vanity of all earthly grandeur, and to fall the victims of an 
 inconsolable melancholy ; and both left behind an illustrious 
 name, unrivalled in the subsequent annals of the country. 
 
 But with these few circumstances of their history, the resem- 
 blance ceases. Their characters afford scarcely a point of con- 
 tact. Elizabeth, inheriting a large share of the bold and bluff 
 King Harry's temperament, was haughty, arrogant, coarse, and 
 irascible ; while with these fiercer qualities she mingled deep 
 dissimulation and strange irresolution. Isabella, on the other 
 hand, tempered the dignity of royal station with the most bland 
 
 * Isabel, the name of the Catholic queen, is correctly rendered into 
 English by that of Elizabeth. 
 
138 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 and courteous manners. Once resolved, she was constant in 
 her purposes ; and her conduct in public and private life was 
 characterized by candor and integrity. Both may be said to 
 have shown that magnanimity which is implied by the accom- 
 plishment of great objects in the face of great obstacles. But 
 Elizabeth was desperately selfish ; she was incapable of forgiv- 
 ing, not merely a real injury, but the slightest affront to her 
 vanity; and she was merciless in exacting retribution. Isa- 
 bella, on the other hand, lived only for others, — was ready at 
 all times to sacrifice self to considerations of public duty ; and, 
 far from personal resentments, showed the greatest condescen- 
 sion and kindness to those who had most sensibly injured her ; 
 while her benevolent heart sought every means to mitigate the 
 authorized severities of the law, even toward the guilty. 
 
 Both possessed rare fortitude. Isabella, indeed, was placed 
 in situations which demanded more frequent and higher dis- 
 plays of it than her rival ; but no one will doubt a full measure 
 of this quality in the daughter of Henry the Eighth. Eliza- 
 beth was better educated, and every way more highly accom- 
 plished than Isabella. But the latter knew enough to maintain 
 her station with dignity; and she encouraged learning by a 
 munificent patronage. The masculine powers and passions of 
 Elizabeth seemed to divorce her in a great measure from the 
 peculiar attributes of her sex ; at least from those which consti- 
 tute its peculiar charm ; for she had abundance of its foibles — a 
 coquetry and love of admiration which age could not chill ; a 
 levity most careless, if not criminal ; and a fondness for dress and 
 tawdry magnificence of ornament, which was ridiculous, or dis- 
 gusting, according to the different periods of life in which it 
 was indulged. Isabella, on the other hand, distinguished 
 through life for decorum of manners and purity beyond the 
 breath of calumny, was content with the legitimate affection 
 which she could inspire within the range of her domestic circle. 
 Far from a frivolous affectation of ornament or dress, she was 
 most simple in her own attire, and seemed to set no value on 
 her jewels, but as they could serve the necessities of the state; 
 when they could be no longer useful in this way, she gave 
 them away to her friends. 
 
 Both were uncommonly sagacious in the selection of their 
 ministers; though Elizabeth was drawn into some errors in 
 this particular by her levity, as was Isabella by religious feeling. 
 It was this, combined with her excessive humility, which led to 
 the only grave errors in the administration of the latter. Her 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 139 
 
 rival fell into no such errors ; and she was a stranger to the 
 amiable qualities which led to them. Her conduct was cer- 
 tainly not controlled by religious principle; and, though the 
 bulwark of the Protestant Faith, it might be difficult to say 
 whether she were at heart most a Protestant or a Catholic. 
 She viewed religion in its connection with the state, in other 
 words, with herself; and she took measures for enforcing con- 
 formity to her own views, not a whit less despotic, and scarcely 
 less sanguinary, than those countenanced for conscience' sake 
 by her more bigoted rival. 
 
 This feature of bigotry, which has thrown a shade over Isa- 
 bella's otherwise beautiful character, might lead to a disparage- 
 ment of her intellectual power compared with that of the Eng- 
 lish queen. To estimate this aright, we must contemplate the 
 results of their respective reigns. Elizabeth found all the ma- 
 terials of prosperity at hand, and availed herself of them most 
 ably to build up a solid fabric of national grandeur. Isabella 
 created these materials. She saw the faculties of her people 
 locked up in a death-like lethargy, and she breathed into them 
 the breath of life for those great and heroic enterprises which 
 terminated in such glorious consequences to the monarchy. It 
 is when viewed from the depressed position of her early days, 
 that the achievements of her reign seem scarcely less than 
 miraculous. The masculine genius of the English queen stands 
 out relieved beyond its natural dimensions by its separation 
 from the softer qualities of her sex. While her rival's, like 
 some vast, but symmetrical edifice, loses in appearance some- 
 what of its actual grandeur from the perfect harmony of its pro- 
 portions. 
 
 The circumstances of their deaths, which were somewhat 
 similar, displayed the great dissimilarity of their characters. 
 Both pined amidst their royal state, a prey to incurable de- 
 spondency rather than any marked bodily distemper. In Eliza- 
 beth it sprung from wounded vanity, a sullen conviction that 
 she had outlived the admiration on which she had so long fed, 
 — and even the solace of friendship and the attachment of her 
 subjects. Nor did she seek consolation, where alone it was to 
 be found, in that sad hour. Isabella, on the other hand, sunk 
 under a too acute sensibility to the sufferings of others. But, 
 amidst the gloom which gathered around her, she looked with 
 the eye of faith to the brighter prospects which unfolded of the 
 future; and when she resigned her last breath, it was amidst 
 the tears and universal lamentations of her people. 
 
140 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 HYMN OF PRAISE.-Lamaktinb. 
 
 A hymn more, O my lyre ! 
 Praise to the God above, 
 Of joy, and life, and love, 
 
 Sweeping its strings of fire ! 
 
 Oh, who the speed of bird and wind 
 And sunbeam's glance will lend to me, 
 
 That, soaring upward, I may find 
 My resting-place and home in Thee ? 
 
 Thou, whom my soul, 'midst doubt and gloom, 
 Adoreth with a fervent flame, — 
 
 Mysterious Spirit ! unto whom 
 Pertain nor sign nor name ! 
 
 Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go 
 Up from the cold and joyless earth, 
 
 Back to the God who bade them flow, 
 Whose moving spirit sent them forth : 
 
 But as for me, God ! for me, 
 The lowly creature of thy will, 
 
 Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, 
 An earth-bound pilgrim still ! 
 
 Was not my spirit born to shine 
 
 Where yonder stars and suns are glowing ? 
 
 To breathe with them the light divine, 
 From God's own holy altar flowing ? 
 
 To be, indeed, whate'er the soul 
 
 In dreams hath thirsted for so long, — 
 
 A portion of heaven's glorious whole 
 Of loveliness and song ? 
 
 watchers of the stars of night, 
 
 Who breathe their fire, as we the air, — 
 
 Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, 
 O, say, is He, the Eternal, there ? 
 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 141 
 
 Bend there around his awful throne 
 
 The seraph's glance, the angels knee ? 
 Or are thy inmost depths his own, 
 O wild and mighty sea? 
 
 Thoughts of my soul ! how swift ye go — 
 
 Swift as the eagle's glance of fire, 
 Or arrow's from the archer's bow — 
 
 To the far aim of your desire ! 
 Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, 
 
 Like spring-doves from the startled wood, 
 Bearing like them your sacrifice 
 Of music unto God ! 
 
 And shall there thoughts of joy and love 
 
 Come back again no more to me, — 
 Returning, like the Patriarch's dove, 
 
 Wing-weary, from the eternal sea, 
 To bear within my longing arms 
 
 The promise-bough of kindlier skies, 
 Plucked from the green, immortal palms 
 Which shadow paradise ? 
 
 All-moving Spirit ! freely forth, 
 
 At thy command, the strong wind goes 
 
 Its errand to the passive earth ; 
 
 Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, 
 
 Until it folds its weary wing 
 
 Once more within the hand divine : 
 
 So, weary of each earthly thing, 
 My spirit turns to thine ! 
 
 Child of the sea, the mountain-stream 
 
 From its dark caverns hurries on 
 Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, 
 
 Bv evening's star and noontide's sun, — 
 
142 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Until at last it sinks to rest, 
 
 O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, 
 And moans upon its mother's breast: 
 So turns my soul to thee ! 
 
 Thou who bidd'st the torrent flow, 
 Who lendest wings unto the wind, — 
 
 Mover of all things ! where art thou ? 
 Oh, whither shall I go to find 
 
 The secret of thy resting-place ? 
 Is there no holy wing for me, 
 
 That, soaring, I may search the space 
 Of highest heaven for thee ? 
 
 Oh, would I were as free to rise, 
 
 As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne, 
 
 The arrowy light of sunset skies, 
 Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, 
 
 Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, 
 Or aught which soars unchecked and free, 
 
 Through earth and heaven, — that I might lose 
 Myself in finding Thee ! 
 
 OVER THE MOrXTAIX— Adelaide Anne Peoctok. 
 
 Like dreary prison walls 
 
 The stern gray mountains rise, 
 Until their topmost crags 
 
 Touch the far gloomy skies : 
 One steep and narrow path 
 
 Winds up the mountain's crest, 
 And from our valley leads 
 
 Out to the golden west. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. I43 
 
 I dwell here in content, 
 
 Thankful for tranquil days ; 
 And yet, my eyes grow dim, 
 
 As still I gaze and gaze 
 Upon that mountain pass, 
 
 That leads — or so it seems— 
 To some far happy land, 
 
 Known in a world of dreams. 
 
 And as I watch that path 
 
 Over the distant hill, 
 A foolish longing comes 
 
 My heart and soul to fill, 
 A painful, strange desire 
 
 To break some weary bond ; 
 A vague, unuttered wish 
 
 For what might lie beyond ! 
 
 In that far world unknown, 
 
 Over that distant hill, 
 May dwell the loved and lost, 
 
 Lost — yet beloved still ; 
 I have a yearning hope, 
 
 Half longing, and half pain, 
 That by that mountain pass 
 
 They may return again. 
 
 Space may keep friends apart, 
 
 Death has a mighty thrall ; 
 There is another gulf 
 
 Harder to cross than all ; 
 Yet watching that far road, 
 
 My heart beats full and fast — 
 If they should come once more, 
 
 If they should come at last ! 
 
144 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 See, down the mountain side 
 
 The silver vapors creep ; 
 They hide the rocky cliffs, 
 
 They hide the craggy steep, 
 They hide the narrow path 
 
 That comes across the hill — 
 foolish longing, cease, 
 
 beating heart, be still ! 
 
 THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT— Heney W Tongfkllow. 
 In his lodge beside a river, 
 Close beside a frozen river, 
 Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 
 "White his hair was as a snow-drift ; 
 Dull and low his fire was burning, 
 And the old man shook and trembled, 
 Folded in his Wawbewyon, 
 In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, 
 Hearing nothing but the tempest, 
 As it roared along the forest, 
 Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 
 As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 
 
 All the coals were white with ashes, 
 And the fire was slowly dying, 
 As a young man, walking lightly, 
 At the open doorway entered. 
 Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, 
 Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 
 Bound his forehead was with grasses, 
 Bound and plumed with scented grasses ; 
 On his lips a smile of beauty, 
 Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 
 In his hand a bunch of blossoms 
 Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 
 
 I 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 145 
 
 "Ah, my son !" exclaimed the old man, 
 " Happy are my eyes to see you. 
 Sit here on the mat beside me, 
 Sit here by the dying embers, 
 Let us pass the night together. 
 Tell me of your strange adventures, 
 Of the lands where you have travelled ; 
 I will tell you of my prowess, 
 Of my mauy deeds of wonder." 
 
 From his pouch, he drew his peace-pipe, 
 Very old and strangely fashioned ; 
 Made of red stone was the pipe-head, 
 And the stem a reed with feathers ; 
 Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
 Placed a burning coal upon it, 
 Gave it to his guest, the stranger, 
 And began to speak in this wise : 
 
 " When I blow my breath about me, 
 When I breathe upon the landscape, 
 Motionless are all the rivers, 
 Hard as stone becomes the water !" 
 
 And the vouno- man answered, smiling : 
 " When I blow my breath about me, 
 When I breathe upon the landscape, 
 Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, 
 Singing, onward rush the rivers !" 
 
 " When I shake my hoary tresses," 
 Said the old man darkly frowning, 
 "All the land with snow is covered; 
 All the leaves from all the branches 
 Fall and fade and die and wither, 
 For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 
 From the waters and the marshes 
 Rise the wild goose and the heron, 
 Fly away to distant regions, 
 
146 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 
 And where'er ray footsteps wander, 
 All the wild beasts of the forest 
 Hide themselves in holes and caverns, 
 And the earth becomes as flintstone !" 
 
 " When I shake my flowing ringlets," 
 Said the young man, softly laughing, 
 " Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, 
 Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, 
 Back unto their lakes and marshes 
 Come the wild goose and the heron, 
 Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, 
 Sing the blue-bird and the robin, 
 And where'er my footsteps wander, 
 All the meadows wave with blossoms, 
 All the woodlands ring with music, 
 All the trees are dark with foliage !" 
 
 While they spake, the night departed ; 
 From the distant realms of Wahbun, 
 From his shining lodge of silver, 
 Like a warrior robed and painted, » 
 
 Came the sun, and said, " Behold me ! 
 Gheezis, the great sun, behold me !" 
 
 Then the old man's tongue was speechless, 
 And the air grew warm and pleasant, 
 And upon the wigwam sweetly 
 Sang the blue-bird and the robin, 
 And the stream began to murmur, 
 And a scent of growing grasses 
 Through the lodge was gently wafted. 
 
 And Segwun, the youthful stranger, 
 More distinctly in the daylight 
 Saw the icy face before him ; 
 It was Peboan, the Winter ! 
 
 From his eyes the tears were dowing, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 147 
 
 As from melting lakes the streamlets, 
 
 And his body shrunk and dwindled 
 
 As the shouting sun ascended, 
 
 Till into the air it faded, 
 
 Till into the ground it vanished, 
 
 And the young man saw before him, 
 
 On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, 
 
 Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, 
 
 Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, 
 
 Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, 
 
 Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 
 
 Thus it was that in the Northland 
 After that unheard-of coldness, 
 That intolerable Winter, 
 Came the Spring with all its splendor, 
 All its birds and all its blossoms, 
 All its flowers and leaves and grasses. * * * 
 
 And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 
 Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 
 Went forth from his gloomy doorway, 
 Stood and gazed into the heaven, 
 Gazed upon the earth and waters. 
 
 From his wanderings far to eastward, 
 From the regions of the morning, 
 From the shining land of Wahbun, 
 Homeward now returned Iagoo, 
 The great traveller, the great boaster, 
 Full of new and strange adventures, 
 Marvels many and many # wonders. 
 
 And the people of the village 
 Listened to him as he told them 
 Of his marvellous adventures, 
 Laughing answered him in this wise : 
 " Ugh ! it is indeed Iagoo ! 
 No one else beholds such wonders !" 
 
148 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 He had seen, he said, a water 
 • Bigger than the Big-Sea- Water, 
 Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 
 Bitter so that none could drink it ! 
 At each other looked the warriors, 
 Looked the women at each other, 
 Smiled, and said, " It cannot be so ! 
 Kaw !" they said, " it cannot be so !" 
 
 O'er it, said he, o'er this water 
 Came a great canoe with pinions, 
 A canoe with wings came flying, 
 Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, 
 Taller than the tallest tree-tops ! 
 And the old men and the women 
 Looked and tittered at each other ; 
 " Kaw !" they said, " we don't believe it !" 
 
 From its mouth, he said, to greet him, 
 Came Waywassimo, the lightning, 
 Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 
 And the warriors and the women 
 Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo ; 
 "Kaw !" they said, " what tales you tell us !" 
 
 In it, said he, came a people, 
 In the great canoe with pinions 
 Came, he said, a hundred warriors ; 
 Painted white were all their faces, 
 And with hair their chins were covered ! 
 And the warriors and the women 
 Laughed an^ shouted in derision, 
 Like the ravens on the tree-tops, 
 Like the crows upon the hemlocks. 
 " Kaw !" they said, " what lies you tell us 
 Do not think that we believe them !" 
 
 Only Hiawatha laughed not, 
 But he gravely spake and answered 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 149 
 
 To their jeering and their jesting: 
 " True is all Iagoo tells us ; 
 I have seen it in a vision, 
 Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
 Seen the people with white faces, 
 Seen the coming of this bearded 
 People of the wooden vessel 
 From the regions of the morning, 
 From the shining land of Wahbun. 
 
 " Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
 The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
 Sends them hither on his errand, 
 Sends them to us with his message. 
 Wheresoe'er they move, before them 
 Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, 
 Swarms the bee, the honey-maker ; 
 Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them 
 Springs a flower unknown among us, 
 Springs the White-Man's Foot in blossom. 
 
 " Let us welcome, then, the strangers, 
 Hail them as our friends and brothers, 
 And the heart's right hand of friendship 
 Give them when they come to see us. 
 Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
 Said this to me in my vision. 
 
 " I beheld, too, in that vision 
 All the secrets of the future, 
 Of the distant days that shall be. 
 I beheld the westward marches 
 Of the unknown, crowded nations. 
 All the land was full of people, 
 Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, 
 Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
 But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 
 In the woodlands rang their axes, 
 
150 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Smoked their towns in all the valleys, 
 
 Over all the lakes and rivers 
 
 Rushed their great canoes of thunder. 
 
 " Then a darker, drearier vision 
 Passed before me, vague and cloud-like ; 
 I beheld our nations scattered, 
 All forgetful of my counsels, 
 Weakened, warring with each other ; 
 Saw the remnants of our people 
 Sweeping westward, wild and woful. 
 Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 
 Like the withered leaves of autumn I" 
 
 AUTUMN— James Thomson. 
 
 Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, 
 "While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, 
 Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more, 
 Well-pleas'd, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost 
 Nitrous prepar'd; the various-blossom' d Spring 
 Put in white promise forth ; and summer-suns 
 Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, 
 Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme. * * 
 
 Hence from the busy joy-resounding fields, 
 In cheerful error, let us tread the maze 
 Of Autumn, unconfin'd; and taste, reviv'd, 
 The breath of orchard big with bending fruit. 
 Obedient to the breeze and beating ray, 
 From the deep-loaded bough a mellow shower 
 Incessant melts away. * * * 
 
 Turn we a moment Fancy's rapid flight 
 To vigorous soils, and climes of fair extent ; 
 Where, by the potent sun elated high, 
 The vineyard swells refulgent on the day ; 
 Spreads o'er the vale, or up the mountain climbs 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 151 
 
 Profuse ; and drinks amid the sunny rocks, 
 From cliff to cliff increas'd, the heightened blaze. 
 Low bend the weighty boughs ; the clusters clear, 
 Half through the foliage seen, or ardent flame, 
 Or shine transparent, while perfection breathes 
 White o'er the turgent film the living dew. 
 As thus they brighten with exalted juice, 
 Touch'd into flavor by the mingling ray; 
 The rural youth and virgins o'er the field, 
 Each fond for each to cull th' autumnal prime, 
 Exulting rove, and speak the vintage nigh. 
 Then comes the crushing swain : the country floats, 
 And foams unbounded with the mashy flood ; 
 That by degrees fermented, and refin'd, 
 Round the rais'd nations pours the cup of joy: 
 The claret smooth, red as the lips we press 
 In sparkling fancy, while we drain the bowl ; 
 The mellow-tasted Burgundy; and quick, 
 As is the wit it gives, the gay champagne. 
 
 Now, by the cool declining year condens'd, 
 Descend the copious exhalations, check'd 
 As up the middle sky unseen they stole, 
 And roll the doubling fogs around the hill. 
 No more the mountain, horrid, vast, sublime, 
 Who pours a sweep of rivers from his sides, 
 And high between contending kingdoms rears 
 The rocky long division, fills the view 
 With great variety ; but in a night 
 Of gathering vapor, from the baffled sense 
 Sinks dark and dreary. Thence expanding far, 
 The huge dusk, gradual swallows up the plain ; 
 Vanish the woods ; the dim-seen river seems 
 Sullen and slow, to roll the misty wave. 
 E'en in the height of noon opprest, the sun 
 Sheds weak and blunt his wide refracted ray ; 
 
152' LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Whence glaring oft, with many a broadened orb, 
 He frights the nations. Indistinct on earth, 
 Seen through the turbid air, beyond the life 
 Objects appear ; and, wilder'd, o'er the waste 
 The shepherds stalk gigantic. Till at last 
 Wreath' d dun around, in deeper circles still 
 Successive closing, sits the general fog 
 Unbounded o'er the world ; and, mingling thick, 
 A formless gray confusion covers all. 
 As when of old (so sung the Hebrew bard) 
 Light, uncollected, through the Chaos urg'd 
 Its infant way ; nor order yet had drawn 
 His lovely train from out the dubious gloom. * * 
 
 Oh, Nature ! all sufficient ! over all ! 
 Enrich me with the knowledge of thy works, 
 Snatch me to heaven ; thy rolling wonders there, 
 World beyond world, m infinite extent, 
 Profusely scatter 1 d o'er the blue immense, 
 Show me : their motions, periods, and their laws, 
 Give me to scan ; through the disclosing deep 
 Light my blind way ; the mineral strata there ; 
 Thrust, blooming, thence, the vegetable world; 
 O'er that the rising system, more complex, 
 Of animals ; and higher still, the mind, 
 The varied scene of quick compounded thought, 
 And where the mixing passions endless shift ; 
 These ever open to my ravish'd eye ; 
 A search, the flight of time can ne'er exhaust ! 
 But if to that unequal ; if the blood, 
 In sluggish streams about my heart forbid 
 That best ambition ; under closing shades, 
 Inglorious, lay me by the lowly brook, 
 And whisper to my dreams. From Thee begin, 
 Dwell all on Thee, with Thee conclude my song; 
 And let me never, never stray from Thee ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 153 
 
 UNDER THE HOLLY BOUGH -Chablbs Mackay. 
 
 A SOKtt FOR CHRISTMAS. 
 I. 
 
 Ye who have scorned each other, 
 Or injured friend or brother, 
 In this fast fading year ; 
 Ye who, by word or deed, 
 Have made a kind heart bleed, 
 Come gather here ! 
 Let sinned against, and sinning, 
 Forget their strife's beginning, 
 And join in friendship now — 
 Be links no longer broken ;— 
 Be sweet forgiveness spoken 
 Under the Holly Bough. 
 
 ii. 
 Ye who have loved each other, 
 Sister, and friend, and brother, 
 In this fast fading year : 
 Mother and sire and child, 
 Young man, and maiden mild, 
 Come gather here ; 
 And let your hearts grow fonder, 
 As memory shall ponder 
 Each past unbroken vow. 
 Old loves and yonder wooing 
 Are sweet in the renewing, 
 Under the Ho% Bough. 
 
 in. 
 Ye who have nourished sadness, 
 Estranged from hope and gladness, 
 In this fast fading year ; 
 Ye with o'erburdened mind 
 T* 
 
154 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Made aliens from your kind, 
 Come gather here. 
 Let not the useless sorrow 
 Pursue you night and morrow. 
 If e'er you hoped, hope now — 
 Take heart ; — uncloud your faces, 
 And join in our embraces 
 Under the Holly Bough. 
 
 LOVE OF HOME.— James Montgomery. 
 There is a land, of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 And milder moons emparadise 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 grace, 
 The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
 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, 
 Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life ; 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 155 
 
 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 ; 
 Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy home. 
 
 On Greenland's rocks, o'er rude Kamscha'tka's plains, 
 In pale Siberia's desolate domains ; 
 Where the wild hunter takes his lonely way, 
 Tracks through tempestuous snows his savage prey, 
 The reindeer's spoil, the ermine's treasures shares, 
 And feasts his famine on the fat of bears : 
 Or, wrestling with the might of raging seas, 
 Where round the pole the eternal billows freeze, 
 Plucks from their jaws the stricken w r hale, in vain 
 Plunging down headlong through the whirling main ; 
 — His wastes of ice are lovelier in his eye 
 Than all the flowery vales beneath the sky ; 
 And dearer far than Caesar's palace-dome, 
 His cavern shelter, and his cottage-home. 
 O'er China's garden-fields, and peopled floods ; 
 In California's pathless world of woods ; 
 Round Andes' heights, where winter, from his throne, 
 Looks down in scorn upon the summer gone ; 
 By the gay borders of Bermuda's isles, 
 Where Spring with everlasting verdure smiles; 
 On pure Madeira's vine-robed hills of health ; 
 In Java's swamp of pestilence and w r ealth ; 
 Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackals drink ; 
 'Midst weeping willows, on Euphrates' brink ; 
 On Carmel's crest ; by Jordan's reverend stream, 
 Where Canaan's glories vanished like a dream ; 
 Where Greece, a spectre, haunts her heroes' graves, 
 And Rome's vast rains darken Tiber's waves: 
 
156 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Where broken-hearted Switzerland bewails 
 Her subject mountains, and dishonored vales ; 
 Where Albion's rocks exult amidst the sea, 
 Around the beauteous isle of liberty ; 
 — 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. 
 
 HOSPITALITY— Mes. Caroline M. Eiekland. 
 
 Like many other virtues, hospitality is practised in its per- 
 fection by the poor. If the rich did their share, how would 
 the woes of this world be lightened ! how would the diffusive 
 blessing irradiate a wider and a wider circle, until the vast con- 
 fines of society would bask in the reviving ray ! If every forlorn 
 widow whose heart bleeds over the recollection of past hap- 
 piness made bitter by contrast with present poverty and sorrow, 
 found a comfortable home in the ample establishment of her 
 rich kinsman ; if every young man struggling for a foothold on 
 the slippery soil of life were cheered and aided by the coun- 
 tenance of some neighbor whom fortune had endowed with the 
 power to confer happiness; if the lovely girls, shrinking and 
 delicate, whom we see every day toiling timidly for a mere 
 pittance to sustain frail life and guard the sacred remnant of 
 gentility, were taken by the hand, invited and encouraged, by 
 ladies who pass them by with a cold nod — but wmere shall we 
 stop in enumerating the cases in w 7 hich true, genial hospitality, 
 practised by the rich ungrudgingly, without a selfish drawback 
 — in short, practised as the poor practise it — would prove a 
 fountain of blessedness, almost an antidote to half the keener 
 miseries under which society groans ! 
 
 Yes : the poor — and children — understand hospitality after 
 the pure model of Christ and his apostles. 
 
 The forms of society are in a high degree inimical to true 
 hospitality. Pride has crushed genuine social feeling out of too 
 many hearts, and the consequence is a cold sterility of inter- 
 course, a soul-stifling ceremoniousness, a sleepless vigilance for 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 157 
 
 self, totally incompatible with that free, flowing, genial inter- 
 course with humanity, so nourishing to all the better feelings. 
 The sacred love of home — that panacea for many of life's ills — 
 suffers with the rest. Few people have homes nowadays. The 
 fine, cheerful, every-day parlor, with its table covered with the 
 implements for real occupation and real amusement — mamma 
 on the sofa, with her needle — grandmamma in her great chair, 
 knitting — pussy winking at the fire between them — is gone. 
 In its place we have two gorgeous rooms, arranged for com- 
 pany, but empty of human life; tables covered with gaudy, 
 ostentatious, and useless articles — a very mockery of any thing 
 like rational pastime — the light of heaven as cautiously excluded 
 as the delicious music of free, childish voices; every member 
 of the family wandering in forlorn loneliness, or huddled in 
 some " back room" or " basement," in which are collected the 
 only means of comfort left them under this miserable arrange- 
 ment. This is the substitute which hundreds of people accept 
 in place of home ! Shall we look in such places for hospitality ? 
 As soon expect figs from thistles. Invitations there will be oc- 
 casionally, doubtless, for " society" expects it ; but let a country 
 cousin present himself, and see whether he will be put into the 
 state apartments. Let no infirm and indigent relative expect a 
 place under such a roof. Let not even the humble individual 
 who placed the stepping-stone which led to that fortune ask a 
 share in the abundance which would never have had a begin- 
 ning but for his timely aid. " We have changed all that !" 
 
 BETTER MOMENTS— N. P. Willis. 
 My mother's voice ! how often creeps 
 
 Its cadence on my lonely hours ! 
 Like healing sent on wings of sleep, 
 
 Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
 
 I can forget her melting prayer 
 While leaping pulses madly fly, 
 
 But in the still, unbroken air, 
 
 Her gentle tone comes stealing by — 
 
 And years, and sin, and manhood flee, 
 
 And leave me at my mother's knee. 
 
15S LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The book of nature, and the print 
 
 Of beauty on the whispering sea 
 Give aye to me some lineament 
 
 Or what I have been taught to be. 
 My heart is harder, and perhaps 
 
 My manliness hath drank up tears ; 
 And there's a mildew in the lapse 
 
 Of a few miserable years — 
 But nature's book is even yet 
 With all my mother's lessons writ. 
 
 I have been out at eventide 
 
 Beneath a moonlight sky of spring, 
 When earth was garnished like a bride, 
 
 And night had on her silver wing — 
 When bursting leaves, and diamond grass, 
 
 And waters leaping to the light, 
 And all that make the pulses pass 
 
 With wilder fleetness, thronged the night- 
 When all was beauty — then have I 
 
 With friends on whom my love is flung 
 Like myrrh on wings of Araby, 
 
 Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung ; 
 And when the beautiful spirit there 
 
 Flung over me its golden chain, 
 My mother's voice came on the air 
 
 Like the light dropping of the rain — 
 And resting on some silver star 
 
 The spirit of a bended knee, 
 I've poured out low and fervent prayer 
 
 That our eternity might be 
 To rise in heaven, like stars at night, 
 And tread a living path of light. 
 
 I have been on the dewy hills, 
 
 When niojht was stealing from the dawn, 
 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 159 
 
 And mist was on the waking rills, 
 And tints were delicately drawn 
 In the gray East — when birds were waking, 
 
 With a low murmur in the trees, 
 And melody by fits was breaking 
 
 Upon the whisper of the breeze, 
 And this when I was forth, perchance 
 As a worn reveller from the dance — 
 
 And when the sun sprang gloriously 
 And freely up, and hill and river 
 
 Were catching upon wave aud tree 
 The arrows from his subtle quiver — 
 
 I say a voice has thrilled me then, 
 Heard on the still and rushing light, 
 
 Or, creeping from the silent glen, 
 Like words from the departing night, 
 
 Hath stricken me, and I have pressed 
 On the wet grass my fevered brow, 
 
 And pouring forth the earliest 
 First prayer, with which I learned to bow, 
 
 Have felt my mother's spirit rush 
 Upon me as in by-past years, 
 
 And, yielding to the blessed gush 
 Of my ungovernable tears, 
 
 Have risen up — the gay, the wild — 
 
 As humble as a very child. 
 
 THE LUCK OF EDENHALL-Uhxand. 
 
 Or Edenhall the youthful lord 
 
 Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 
 
 He rises at the banquet board, 
 And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
 " Now brinor me the Luck of Edenhall !" 
 
160 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The butler hears the words with pain, — 
 The house's oldest seneschal, — 
 
 Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
 The drinking-glass of crystal tall; 
 They call it The Luck of EdenhalL 
 
 Then said the lord, " This glass to praise, 
 Fill with red wine from Portugal !" 
 
 The graybeard with trembling hand obeys ; 
 A purple light shines over all ; 
 It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 Then speaks the lord, and waves it light, — 
 " This glass of flashing crystal tall 
 
 Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
 She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, 
 Farewell then, Luck of Edenhall! 
 
 " 'Twas right a goblet the fate should be 
 Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
 
 We drink deep draughts right willingly ; 
 And willingly ring, with merry call, 
 Klin- ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall !" 
 
 First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
 Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
 
 Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
 
 Then mutters, at last, like the thunder's fall, 
 The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 " For its keeper, takes a race of might 
 The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 
 
 It has lasted longer than is right ; 
 
 Kling ! klang !— with a harder blow than all, 
 Will I try the Luck of Edenhall !" 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 161 
 
 As the goblet, ringing, flies apart, 
 
 Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
 And through the rift the flames upstart; 
 
 The guests in dust are scattered all 
 
 With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 
 
 In storms the foe, with fire and sword ! 
 
 He in the night had scaled the wall ; 
 Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord, 
 
 But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
 
 The shattered Luck of Edenhall ! 
 
 On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
 
 The graybeard, in the desert hall ; 
 He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton ; 
 
 He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
 
 The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 " The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside ; 
 
 Down must the stately columns fall ; 
 Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
 
 In atoms shall fall this earthly ball, 
 
 One day, like the Luck of Edenhall !" 
 
 PHILOSOPHY ENLIGHTENED BY RELIGION.-William Cowpee. 
 God never meant that man should scale the heavens 
 By strides of human wisdom, in his works, 
 Though wondrous : he commands us in his word 
 To seek him rather where his mercy shines. 
 The mind, indeed, enlighten'd from above, 
 Views him in all ; ascribes to the grand cause 
 The grand effect; acknowledges with joy 
 His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. 
 But never yet did philosophic tube, 
 That brings the planets home into the eye 
 
162 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Of Observation, and discovers, else 
 Not visible, his family of worlds, 
 Discover him that rules them ; such a veil 
 Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, 
 And dark in things divine. Full often too 
 Our "wayward intellect, the more we learn 
 Of nature, overlooks her Author more; 
 From instrumental causes proud to draw 
 Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake. 
 But if his Word once teach us, shoot a ray 
 Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal 
 Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, 
 Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized 
 In the pure fountain of eternal love, 
 Has eyes indeed ; and viewing all she sees 
 As meant to indicate a God to man, 
 Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 
 Learning has borne such fruit in other days 
 ^Pn all her branches : piety has found 
 Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer 
 Has flow'd from lips wet with Castilian dews. 
 Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage ! 
 Sagacious reader of the works of God, 
 And in his word sagacious. Such, too, thine, 
 Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, 
 And fed on manna ! And such thine, in whom 
 Our British Themis gloried with just cause, 
 Immortal Hale ; for deep discernment praised, 
 And sound integrity, not more than famed 
 For sanctity of manners undefiled. 
 
 All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades 
 Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind ; 
 Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 
 The man we celebrate must find a tomb, 
 And we that worship nim ignoble graves. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 163 
 
 Nothing is proof against the general curse 
 
 Of vanity, that seizes all below. 
 
 The only amaranthine flower on earth 
 
 Is virtue : the only lasting treasure, truth. 
 
 But what is truth ? 'Twas Pilate's question put 
 
 To Truth itself, that deigned him no reply. 
 
 And wherefore ? will not God impart his light 
 
 To them that ask it ? — Freely — 'tis his joy, 
 
 His glory, and his nature, to impart. 
 
 But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 
 
 Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 
 
 What's that, which brings contempt upon a book, 
 
 And him who w T rites it, though the style be neat, 
 
 The method clear, and argument exact ? 
 
 That makes a minister in holy things 
 
 The joy of many, and the dread of more, 
 
 His name a theme for praise and for reproach ? — 
 
 That, while it gives us worth in God's account, 
 
 Depreciates and undoes us in our own ? 
 
 What pearl is it, that rich men cannot buy, 
 
 That learning is too proud to gather up ; 
 
 But which the poor, and the despised of all, 
 
 Seek and obtain, and often find unsought ? 
 
 Tell me — and I will tell thee what is truth. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS— William Collen Betant. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows browi? and 
 
 sere. 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie 
 
 dead : 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
 
164 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub 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 sprung 
 
 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 wild-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 youthful beauty died, 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side ; 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the 
 leaf, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 165 
 
 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. 
 
 NATURE AND ART— Alexander Pope. 
 
 See man from nature rising slow to art ! 
 To copy instinct then was reason's part : 
 Thus then to man the voice of nature spake — 
 " Go, from the creatures thy instructions take : 
 Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield 
 Learn from the beasts the physic of the field ; 
 Thy arts of building from the bee receive ; 
 Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave ; 
 Learn of the little Nautilus to sail, 
 Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. 
 Here too all forms of social union find, 
 And hence let reason, late, instruct mankind : 
 Here subterranean works and cities see ; 
 There towns aerial on the waving tree. 
 Learn each small people's genius, policies, 
 The ant's republic, and the realm of bees ; 
 How those in common all their wealth bestow, 
 And anarchy without confusion know ; 
 And these forever, though a monarch reign, 
 Their separate cells and properties maintain. 
 Mark what unvaried laws preserve each state, 
 Laws wise as nature, and as fix'd as fate. 
 In vain thy reason finer webs shall draw, 
 Entangle justice in her net of law, 
 And right, too rigid, harden into wrong ; ■ 
 Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong. 
 Yet go ! and thus o'er all the creatures sway, 
 Thus let the wiser make the rest obey : 
 
166 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And for those arts mere instinct could afford,' 
 Be crown'd as monarchs, or as gods adored." 
 
 Great nature spoke ; observant man obey'd ; 
 Cities were built, societies were made : 
 Here rose one little state ; another near 
 Grew by like means, and join'd through love or fear. 
 Did here the trees with ruddier burdens bend, 
 And there the streams in purer rills descend ? 
 What war could ravish, commerce could bestow ; 
 And he return'd a friend, who came a foe. 
 Converse and love mankind might strongly draw, 
 When love was liberty, and nature law. 
 Thus states were form'd ; the name of king unknown, 
 Till common interest placed the sway in one. 
 'Twas virtue only (or in arts or arms, 
 Diffusing blessings, or averting harms), 
 The same which in a sire the sons obey'd, 
 A prince the father of a people made. 
 
 Till then, by nature crown'd, each patriarch sate, 
 King, priest, and parent, of his growing state : 
 On him, their second Providence, they hung, 
 Their law his eye, their oracle his tongue. 
 He from the wondering furrow call'd the food, 
 Taught to command the fire, control the flood, 
 Draw forth the monsters of the abyss profound, 
 Or fetch the aerial eagle to the ground. 
 Till drooping, sickening, dying, they began 
 Whom they revered as god to mourn as man : 
 Then, looking up from sire to sire, explored 
 One great First Father, and that first adored. 
 Or plain tradition, that this all begun, 
 Convey'd unbroken faith from sire to son ; 
 The worker from the work distinct was known, 
 And simple reason never sought but one : 
 Ere wit oblique had broke that steady light, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 167 
 
 Man, like his Maker, saw that all was right; 
 To virtue, in the paths of pleasure trod, 
 And own'd a father when he own'd a God. 
 Love all the faith, and all the allegiance then, 
 For nature knew no right divine in men ; 
 No ill could fear in God, and understood 
 A sovereign being, but a sovereign good. 
 True faith, true policy, united ran ; 
 That was but love of God, and this of man. 
 
 THE PRINCE AND HIS FALCON— Richard Ciienevix Trekch. 
 
 Beneath the fiery cope of middle day 
 
 The youthful Prince his train left all behind, 
 
 With eager ken gazed round him every way, 
 If springing well he anywhere might find. 
 
 His favorite falcon, from long aery flight 
 Returning, and from quarry struck at last, 
 
 Told of the chase, which with its keen delight 
 
 Had thus allured him on so far and fast, — 
 
 f 
 Till gladly he had welcomed in his drought 
 
 The dullest pool that gathered in the rain ; 
 
 But such, in fount of clearer wave, he sought 
 
 Long through that land of barrenness in vain. 
 
 What pleasure when, slow stealing o'er a rock, 
 
 He spied the glittering of a little fill, 
 Which yet, as if his burning thirst to mock, 
 
 Did its rare treasures drop by drop distil ! 
 
 A golden goblet from his saddle-bow 
 
 He loosed, and from his steed alighted down 
 
 To wait until that fountain, trickling slow, 
 Shall in the end his golden goblet crown. 
 
168 ' LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 When set beside the promise of that draught, 
 How poor had seemed to him the costliest wine, 
 
 That ever with its beaded bubbles laughed, 
 When set beside that nectar more divine. 
 
 The brimming vessel to his lips at last 
 
 He raised, when, lo ! the falcon on his hand, 
 
 With beak's and pinion's sudden impulse, cast 
 That cup's rare treasure all upon the sand. 
 
 Long was it ere that fountain, pulsing slow, 
 Caused once again that chalice to run o'er ; 
 
 When, thinking no like hindrance now to know, 
 He raised it to his parched lips once more : — 
 
 Once more, as if to cross his purpose bent, 
 The watchful bird — as if on this one thing, 
 
 That drink he should not of that stream, intent — 
 Struck from his hand the cup with eager wing. 
 
 But when this new defeat his purpose found, 
 Swift penalty this time the bird must pay : 
 
 Hurled down with angry force upon the ground, 
 Before her master's feet in death she lay : 
 
 And he, twice baffled, did meantime again 
 
 From that scant rill to slake his thirst prepare ; 
 
 When, down the crags descending, of his train 
 One cried, " Monarch, for thy life forbear ! 
 
 " Coiled in these waters at their fountain-head, 
 And causing them so feebly to distil, 
 
 A poisonous snake of hugest growth lies dead, 
 And doth with venom all the streamlet fill." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 169 
 
 Dropped from his hand the cup : — one look he cast 
 
 Upon the faithful bird before his feet, 
 Whose dying struggles now -were almost past, 
 
 For whom a better guardian had been meet ; 
 
 Then homeward rode in silence many a mile ; 
 
 But if such thoughts did in his bosom grow, 
 As did in mine the painfulness beguile, 
 
 Of that his falcon's end, what man can know? 
 
 I said, " Such chalices the world fills up 
 
 For us, and bright and without bale they seem — 
 
 A sparkling potion in a jewelled cup, 
 
 Nor know we drawn from what infected stream. 
 
 " Our spirit's thirst they promise to assuage, 
 And we those cups unto our death had quaffed, 
 
 If Heaven did hot in dearest love engage 
 
 To dash the chalice down, and mar the draught. 
 
 " Alas for us, if we that love are fain 
 
 With wrath and blind impatience to repay, 
 Which nothing but our weakness doth restrain, 
 As he repaid his faithful bird that day ; 
 
 " If an indignant eye we lift above, 
 
 To lose some sparkling goblet ill content, 
 Which, but for that keen watchfulness of love, 
 
 Swift certain poison through our veins had sent." 
 
 A S0LE.UX C0XCEIT— William Motherwell. 
 Stately trees are growing, 
 Lusty winds are blowing, 
 And mighty rivers flowing 
 On, forever on. 
 8 
 
170 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 As stately forms were growing, 
 As lusty spirits blowing, 
 And as mighty fancies flowing 
 
 On, forever on ; — 
 But there has been leave-taking, 
 Sorrow, and heart-breaking, 
 And a moan pale Echo's making, 
 
 For the gone, forever gone ! 
 
 Lovely stars are gleaming, 
 Bearded lights are streaming, 
 And glorious suns are beaming 
 
 On, forever on. 
 As lovely eyes were gleaming, 
 As wondrous lights were streaming, 
 And as glorious minds were beaming 
 
 On, forever on ; — 
 But there has been soul-sundering, 
 Wailing, and sad wondering ; 
 For graves grow fat with plundering 
 
 The gone, forever gone ! 
 
 We see great eagles soaring, 
 We hear deep oceans roaring, 
 And sparkling fountains pouring 
 
 On, forever on. 
 As lofty minds were soaring, 
 As sonorous voices roaring, 
 And as sparkling wits were pouring 
 
 On, forever on ; — 
 But pinions have been shedding, 
 And voiceless darkness spreading 
 Since a measure Death's been treading 
 
 O'er the gone, forever gone ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 171 
 
 Every thing is sundering, 
 
 Every one is wondering, 
 
 4.nd this huge globe goes thundering 
 
 On, forever on ; 
 But 'rnid this weary sundering, 
 Heart-breaking, and sad wondering, 
 And this huge globe's rude thundering 
 
 On, forever on, 
 I would that I were dreaming 
 Where little flowers are gleaming, 
 And the long green grass is streaming 
 
 O'er the gone, forever gone ! 
 
 SWISS MOUNTAIN AND AVALANCHE.-U. Simond. 
 
 After nearly five hours' toil, we reached a chalet on the top 
 of the mountain (the Wingernalp). This summer habitation of 
 the shepherds was still unoccupied ; for the snow having been 
 unusually deep last winter, and the grass, till lately covered, be- 
 ing still very short, the cows have not ventured so high. Here 
 we resolved upon a halt, and having implements for striking fire, 
 a few dry sticks gave us a cheerful blaze in the open air. A 
 pail of cream, or at least of very rich milk, was brought up by 
 the shepherds, with a kettle to make coffee and afterwards boil 
 the milk ; very large wooden spoons or ladles answered the pur- 
 pose of cups. The stock of provisions we had brought was 
 spread upon the very low roof of the chalet, being the best sta- 
 tion for our repas ckampetre, as it afforded dry seats sloping 
 conveniently towards the prospect. We had then before us the 
 Jungfrau, the two Eigers, and some of the highest summits in the 
 Alps, shooting up from an uninterrupted level of glaciers of more 
 than two hundred square miles ; and although placed ourselves 
 four thousand five hundred feet above the lake of Thun, and 
 that lake one thousand seven hundred and eighty feet above the 
 sea, the mighty rampart rose still six thousand feet above our 
 head. Between us and the Jungfrau the desert valley of Trum- 
 latenthal formed a deep trench, into which avalanches fell, with 
 scarcely a quarter of an hour's interval between them, followed 
 
172 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 by a thundering noise continued along the whole range ; not, 
 however, a reverberation of sound, for echo is mute under the 
 universal winding-sheet of snow, but a prolongation of sound, 
 in consequence of the successive rents or fissures forming them- 
 selves when some large section of the glacier slides down one 
 step. 
 
 We sometimes saw a blue line suddenly drawn across a field 
 of pure white ; then another above it, and another all parallel, 
 and attended each time with a loud crash like cannon, produ- 
 cing together the effect of long-protracted peals of thunder. At 
 other times some portion of the vast field of snow, or rather 
 snowy ice, gliding gently away, exposed to view a new surface 
 of purer white than the first, and the cast-off drapery gathering 
 in long folds, either fell at once down the precipice, or disap- 
 peared behind some intervening ridge, which the sameness of 
 color rendered invisible, and was again seen soon after in another 
 direction, shooting out of some narrow channel a cataract of 
 white dust, which, observed through a telescope, was, however, 
 found to be composed of broken fragments of ice or compact 
 snow, many of them sufficient to overwhelm a village, if there 
 had been any in the valley where they fell. Seated on the cha- 
 let's roof, the ladies forgot they were cold, wet, bruised, and 
 hungry, and the cup of smoking cafe an lait stood still in their 
 hand while waiting in breathless suspense for the next avalanche, 
 wondering equally at the death-like silence intervening between 
 each, and the thundering crash which followed. I must own, 
 that while we shut our ears, the mere sight might dwindle down 
 to the effect of a fall of snow from the roof of a house ; but, 
 when the potent sound was heard along the whole range of 
 many miles, when the time of awful suspense between the fall 
 and the crash was measured, the imagination, taking flight, out- 
 stripped all bounds at once, and went beyond the mighty reality 
 itself. It would be difficult to say where the creative powers 
 of imagination stop, even the coldest; for our common feel- 
 ings — our grossest sensations — are infinitely indebted to them ; 
 and man, without his fancy, would not have the energy of the 
 dullest animal. Yet we feel more pleasure and more pride in 
 the consciousness of another treasure of the breast, which tames 
 the flight of this same imagination, and brings it back to sober 
 reality and plain truth. 
 
 When we first approach the Alps, their bulk, their stability, 
 and duration, compared to our own inconsiderable size, fragility, 
 and shortness of days, strikes our imagination with terror ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 173 
 
 while reason, unappalled, measuring these masses, calculating 
 their elevation, analyzing their substance, finds in them only a 
 little inert matter, scarcely forming a wrinkle on the face of our 
 earth, that earth an inferior planet in the solar system, and that 
 system one only among myriads, placed at distances whose very 
 incommensurability is in a manner measured. What, again, are 
 those giants of the Alps, and their duration — those revolving 
 worlds — that space — the universe — compared to the intellectual 
 faculty capable of bringing the whole fabric into the compass 
 of a single thought, where it is a!l curiously and accurately de- 
 lineated ! How superior, again, the exercise of that faculty, 
 when, rising from effects to causes, and judging by analogy of 
 things as yet unknown by those we know, we are taught to 
 look into futurity for a better state of existence, and in the hope 
 itself find new reason to hope ! 
 
 We were shown an inaccessible shelf of rock on the west side 
 of the Jungfrau, upon which a lammergeyer (the vulture of 
 lambs) once alighted with an infant it had carried away from, 
 the village of Murren, situated above the Staubbach : some red 
 scraps, remnants of the child's clothes, were for years observed, 
 says the tradition, on the fatal spot. 
 
 INDIAN NAIIES.-Mrs. Sigouknkt. 
 
 Ye say they all have passed away, 
 
 That noble race and brave ; 
 That their light canoes have vanished 
 
 From off the crested wave ; 
 That, 'mid the forests where they roamed, 
 
 There rings no hunter's shout : 
 But their name is on your waters — 
 
 Ye may not wash it out. 
 
 'Tis where Ontario's billow 
 Like Ocean's surge is curled ; 
 
 Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 
 The echo of the world ; 
 
174 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Where red Missouri bringetli 
 Rich tribute from the West ; 
 
 And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 
 On green Virginia's breast. 
 
 Ye say their cone-like cabins, 
 
 That clustered o'er the vale, 
 Have disappeared, as withered leaves 
 
 Before the autumn's gale : 
 But their memory liveth on your hills, 
 
 Their baptism on your shore, 
 Your everlasting rivers speak 
 
 Their dialect of yore. 
 
 Old Massachusetts wears it 
 
 Within her lordly crown, 
 And broad Ohio bears it 
 
 Amid his young renown ; 
 Connecticut has wreathed it 
 
 Where her quiet foliage waves, 
 And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 
 
 Through all her ancient caves. 
 
 Wachusett hides its lingering voice 
 
 Within its rocky heart, 
 And Allegany graves its tone 
 
 Throughout his lofty chart. 
 Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, 
 
 Doth seal the sacred trust : 
 Your mountains build their monument, 
 
 Though ye destroy their dust. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 17 
 
 WINTER.— James Thomson. 
 
 See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year 
 Sullen and sad, with all his rising train ; 
 Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, 
 These ! that exalt the soul to solemn thought, 
 And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms ! 
 Congenial horrors, hail ! with frequent foot, 
 Pleas'd have I, in ray cheerful morn of life, 
 When nurs'd by careless solitude I liv'd, 
 And sung of Nature with unceasing joy, 
 Pleas'd have I wander'd through your rough domain ; 
 Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure ; 
 Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst ; 
 Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd, 
 In the grim evening sky. Thus pass'd the time, 
 Till through the lucid chambers of the south 
 Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and smil'd. 
 
 Now when the cheerless empire of the sky 
 To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields, 
 And fierce Aquarius stains th' inverted year; 
 Hung o'er the furthest verge of heaven, the sun 
 Scarce spreads through ether the dejected day. 
 Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot 
 His struggling rays, in horizontal lines, 
 Through the thick air ; as cloth'd in cloudy storm, 
 Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky ; 
 And soon descending to the long dark night, 
 Wide-shading all, the prostrat#world resigns. 
 Nor is the night unwish'd ; while vital heat, 
 Light, life, and joy, the dubious day fosake. 
 Meantime, in sable cincture, shadows vast, 
 Deep ting'd and damp, and congregated clouds, 
 And all the vapory turbulence of heaven, 
 Involve the face of things. Thus Winter falls 
 
176 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 A heavy gloom oppressive o'er the world, 
 Through Nature shedding influence malign, 
 And rouses up the seeds of dark disease. 
 The soul of man dies in him, loathing life, 
 And black with more than melancholy views. 
 The cattle droop ; and o'er the furrow 1 d land, 
 Fresh from the plough, the dun-discolored flocks, 
 "[Intended spreading, crop the wholesome root. 
 Along the woods, along the moorish fens, 
 Sighs the sad genius of the coming storm ; 
 And up among the loose disjointed cliffs, 
 And fractur'd mountains wild, the brawling brook, 
 And cave presageful, send a hollow moan, 
 Resounding long in listening Fancy's ear. * * * 
 
 Nature ! great parent ! whose unceasing hand 
 Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year, 
 How mighty, how majestic, are thy works! 
 "With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul, 
 That sees astonish'd ! and astonish'd sings ! 
 Ye too, ye winds ! that now begin to blow 
 With boisterous sweep, I raise my voice to you. 
 Where are your stores, ye powerful beings ! say, 
 Where your aerial magazines reserv'd 
 To swell the brooding terrors of the storm ? 
 In what far distant region of the sky, 
 Hush'd in deep silence, sleep ye when 'tis calm ? * 
 
 "Tis done ! dread W T inter spreads his latest glooms, 
 And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. 
 How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
 How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends 
 His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! 
 See here thy pictur'd life ! Pass some few years, 
 Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, 
 Thy sober Autumn fading into age, 
 And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 177 
 
 And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are tied 
 
 Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
 
 Of happiness ? those longings after fame ? 
 
 Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? 
 
 Those gay-spent festive nights ? those veering thoughts, 
 
 Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life ? 
 
 All now are vanish'd ! Virtue sole survives, 
 
 Immortal never-failing friend of man, 
 
 His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 
 
 'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 
 
 Of heaven and earth ! Awakening Nature hears 
 
 The new-creating word, and starts to life, 
 
 In every heighten'd form, from pain and death 
 
 Forever free. The great eternal scheme, 
 
 Involving all, and in a perfect whole 
 
 Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, 
 
 To reason's eye rehVd clears up apace. 
 
 THE EXPULSION FROM PARADISE -John Milton. 
 
 * * * They both descend the hill ; 
 Descended, Adam to the bower, where Eve 
 Lay sleeping, ran before : but found her wak'd ;' 
 And thus with words not sad she him receiv'd : 
 
 "Whence thou return'st, and whither went'st, I know; 
 For God is also in sleep ; and dreams advise, 
 Which he hath sent propitious, some great good 
 Presaging, since with sorrow and heart's distress 
 Wearied I fell asleep : but now lead on ; 
 In me is no delay ; with thee to go, 
 Is to stay here ; without thee here to stay, 
 Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me 
 Art all things under heaven, all places thou, 
 Who for my wilful crime art banish'd hence. 
 8* 
 
178 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 This further consolation yet secure 
 I carry hence ; though all by me is lost, 
 Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafe!, 
 By me the promis'd Seed shall all restore." 
 
 So spake our mother Eve ; and Adam heard 
 Well pleas' d, but answer' d not; for now, too nigh 
 The archangel stood ; and from the other hill 
 To their fixed station, all in bright array, 
 The cherubim descended ; on the ground 
 Gliding meteorous, as evening mist 
 Ris'n from a river o'er the marish glides, 
 And gathers ground fast at the laborer's heel 
 Homeward returning. High in front advanced, 
 The brandished sword of God before them blaz'd, 
 Fierce as a comet ; which with torrid heat, 
 And vapor as the Libyan air adust, 
 Began to parch that temperate clime ; whereat 
 In either hand the hastening angel caught 
 Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate 
 Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
 To the subjected plain; then disappear'd. 
 They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld 
 Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, 
 Wav'd over by that flaming brand ; the gate 
 With dreadful faces throng' d, and fiery arms. 
 Some natural tears they dropped, but wip'd them soon ; 
 The world was all before them, where to choose 
 Their place of rest, and Providence their guide : 
 They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 179 
 
 THE RAINBOW— Amelia B. Wklby. 
 
 I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, 
 That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, 
 Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon 
 When my heart was as light as a blossom in June ; 
 The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers, 
 The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers, 
 While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest 
 On the white wing of Peace, floated off in the west. 
 
 As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze, 
 That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, 
 Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
 Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 
 'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth, 
 It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, 
 And, fair as an angel, it floated as free, 
 With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 
 
 How calm was the ocean ! how gentle its swell ! 
 
 Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell ; 
 
 While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er, 
 
 When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore. 
 
 No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, 
 
 Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, 
 
 And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 
 
 'Neath the form of the angel that floated above. 
 
 How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings ! 
 How boundless its circle, how radiant its rings ! 
 If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air ; 
 If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there ; 
 Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole 
 As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my soul. 
 
180 LADIES' 
 
 Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, 
 It bent from the cloud and encircled the world. 
 
 There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives 
 Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, 
 When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose 
 Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. 
 And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, 
 The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; 
 It left my full soul, like the wing of a* dove, 
 All fluttering with pleasure and fluttering with love. 
 
 I know that each moment of rapture or pain 
 But shortens the links in life's mystical chain ; 
 I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, 
 Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave ; 
 Yet oh ! when Death's shadows my bosom encloud, 
 When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, 
 May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold 
 In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold ! 
 
 THE DEATH 0E VIRGINIA— T. Babington Macattlay. 
 
 Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside, 
 To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and 
 
 hide. 
 Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood, 
 Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood. 
 Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down : 
 Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. 
 And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell 
 And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet 
 
 child ! Farewell ! 
 Oh ! how I loved my darling ! Though stern I sometimes be, 
 
READINGS AND RKCITATIONS. 181 
 
 To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee ? 
 And how my darling loved me ! How glad she was to hear 
 My footsteps on the threshold when I came back last year ! 
 And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown, 
 And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my 
 
 gown ! 
 Now, all those things are over — yes, all thy pretty ways, 
 Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays; 
 And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return, 
 Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn. 
 The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls, 
 The house that envied not the wealth of Capua r s marble halls, 
 Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, 
 And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. 
 The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way ! 
 See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey ! 
 With all his wit, he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, 
 Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. 
 He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save 
 Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the 
 
 slave ; 
 Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow — 
 Foul outrage which thou know'st not, which thou shalt never 
 
 know. 
 Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one 
 
 more kiss ; 
 And, now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." 
 With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side. 
 And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died 
 
 Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath ; 
 And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death ; 
 And in another moment brake forth from one and all 
 A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall. 
 Some with averted faces shrieking fled home amain ; 
 
182 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Some ran to call a leech ; and some ran to lift the slain : 
 Some felt her lips and little wrist, if life might there be found ; 
 And some tore up their garments fast, and strove to stanch the 
 
 wound. 
 In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched ; for never truer blow 
 That good right arm had dealt in fight against a Volscian foe. 
 
 When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and 
 sank down, 
 And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown, 
 Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, 
 And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high. 
 " Oh! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, 
 By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; 
 And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, 
 Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line !" 
 So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way; 
 But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay, 
 And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan; and then, with 
 
 steadfast feet, 
 Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred Street. 
 
 THE HOLT LAND.— Hesky T. Tuckekman. 
 
 Through the warm noontide, I have roam'd 
 Where Csesar's palace-ruins lie, 
 
 And in the Forum's lonely waste 
 Oft listened to the night-wind's sigh. 
 
 I've traced the moss-lines on the walls 
 That Venice conjured from the sea, 
 
 And seen the Colosseum's dust 
 Before the breeze of autumn flee. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 183 
 
 Along Pompeii's lava-street, 
 
 With curious eye I've wander'd lone, 
 And mark'd Segesta's temple-floor 
 
 With the rank weeds of ages grown. 
 
 I've clamber'd Etna's hoary brow, 
 
 And sought the wild Campagna's gloom ; 
 
 I've hail'd Geneva's azure tide, 
 
 And snatch' d a weed from Virgil's tomb. 
 
 Why all unsatcd yearns my heart 
 
 To seek once more a pilgrim shrine ? 
 One other land I would explore — 
 
 The sacred fields of Palestine. 
 
 Oh, for a glance at those wild hills 
 
 That round Jerusalem arise ! 
 And one sweet evening by the lake 
 
 That gleams beneath Judea's skies ! 
 
 How anthem-like the wind must sound 
 
 In meadows of the Holy Land — 
 How musical the ripples break 
 
 Upon the Jordan's moonlit strand ! 
 
 Behold the dew, like angels' tears, 
 
 Upon each thorn is gleaming now, 
 , Blest emblems of the crown of love 
 
 There woven for the Sufferer's brow. 
 
 Who does not sigh to enter Nain, 
 
 Or in Capernaum to dwell ; 
 Inhale the breeze from Galilee, 
 
 And rest beside Samaria's well ? 
 
184 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Who would not stand beneath the spot 
 Where Bethlehem's star its vigil kept ? 
 
 List to the plash of Siloa's pool, 
 
 And kiss the ground where Jesus wept ? 
 
 Gethsemane who would not seek, 
 And pluck a lily by the way ? 
 
 Through Bethany devoutly walk, 
 And on the mount of Olives pray ? 
 
 How dear were one repentant night 
 Where Mary's tears of love were shed ! 
 
 How blest, beside the Saviour's tomb, 
 One hour's communion with the dead ! 
 
 What solemn joy to stand alone, 
 On Calvary's celestial height ! 
 
 Or kneel upon the mountain-slope 
 Once radiant with supernal light ! 
 
 I cannot throw my staff aside, 
 Nor wholly quell the hope divine 
 
 That one delight awaits me yet — 
 A pilgrimage to Palestine. 
 
 PEDEEVAL WOODS— Charles Fenxo Hoffman. 
 
 Yes ! even here, not less than in the crowd, 
 Here, where yon vault in formal sweep seems piled 
 Upon the pines, monotonously proud, 
 Fit dome for fane, within whose hoary veil 
 No ribald voice an echo hath defiled — 
 Where Silence seems articulate ; up-stealing 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 185 
 
 Like a low anthem's heavenward wail : — 
 Oppressive on my bosom weighs the feeling 
 Of thoughts that language cannot shape aloud ; 
 For song too solemn, and for prayer too wild, — 
 Thoughts, which beneath no human power could quail, 
 For lack of utterance, in abasement bow'd, — 
 The cayern'd waves that struggle for revealing, 
 Upon whose idle foam alone God's light hath smiled. 
 
 Ere long, thine every stream shall find a tongue, 
 
 Land of the Many Waters ! But the sound 
 
 Of human music, these wild hills among, 
 
 Hath no one save the Indian mother flung 
 
 Its spell of tenderness ? Oh, o'er this ground 
 
 So redolent of Beauty, hath there played no breath 
 
 Of human poesy — none beside the word 
 
 Of Love, as, murmured these old boughs beneath, 
 
 Some fierce and savage suitor it hath stirr'd 
 
 To gentle issues — none but these been heard ? 
 
 No mind, no soul here kindled but my own ? 
 
 Doth not one hollow trunk about resound 
 
 With the faint echoes of a song long flown, 
 
 By shadows like itself now haply heard alone ? 
 
 And Ye, with all this primal growth must go ! 
 
 And loiterers beneath some lowly spreading shade, 
 
 Where pasture-kissing breezes shall, ere then, have played, 
 
 A century hence, will doubt that there could grow 
 
 From that meek land such Titans of the glade ! 
 
 Yet wherefore primal ? wiien beneath my tread 
 
 Are roots whose thrifty growth, perchance, hath arm'd 
 
 The Anak spearman when his trump alarm'd ! 
 
 Roots that the Deluge wave hath plunged below ; 
 
 Seeds that the Deluge wind hath scattered ; 
 
 Berries that Eden's warblers mav have fed ; 
 
186 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 Safe in the slime of earlier worlds embalm'd : 
 
 Again to quicken, germinate, and blow, 
 
 Again to charm the land as erst the land they charm'd. 
 
 THE GAROXNE, THE WYE, AND THE HUDSON.-Bobkkt Walsh. 
 
 No impressions can be more lively, no sensations more rapid 
 and cheerful, than those of a young American, who, leaving 
 his country for the first time, arrives in the river Garonne on a 
 fine day of the month of June, after a sea-voyage of two months 
 accompanied by one unbroken train " of vapors and clouds 
 and storms." Such was exactly my case, and my imagination 
 was never so powerfully affected as by the scenery which I then 
 witnessed, and of which nothing of the same description ever 
 meets the eye of a traveller in this country. Vineyards spread 
 over lofty hills, — chateaux of white stone, built in a style of 
 magnificence, and surrounded by a display of cultivation al- 
 together unknown to us at home, — a multitude of country 
 mansions and of villages delightfully situated either near the 
 edge of the water or along the declivities of the hills ; a numer- 
 ous population of peasantry of an appearance equally novel, 
 and in an attire singularly grotesque ; all these present them- 
 selves to the view in continuous succession for twenty-one 
 leagues, — the distance from the entrance of the river to the city 
 of Bordeaux. This perspective, so strikingly contrasted with 
 " the sullen and monotonous ocean," appeared at the time suf- 
 ficient to indemnify me for all the cabin fatigues which I had 
 encountered, and gave me a most delicious foretaste of the 
 satisfactions which I was to derive from the bounties so pro- 
 fusely scattered over this fine region by the hand of nature. I 
 understood then for the first time the force of the exclama- 
 tion, la belle France, which I had so often heard in the mouth 
 of her sons, and began to form some idea of the nature of that 
 charm which operates upon them like the fascination of magic, 
 after any length of absence, and at any distance of space from 
 their native soil. 
 
 We- frequently sailed within a hundred feet of the shore, so 
 as to be enabled to converse with the proprietors of the country- 
 seats whom we occasionally observed sitting under the shade 
 of their trees, some of which overhung the banks of the river. 
 The clusters of small islands which we encountered, particularly 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 187 
 
 near the confluence of the Dordogne with the Garonne, and 
 which were covered with the most luxuriant vegetation, height- 
 ened the enchantment of the scene. Nothing is wanting to the 
 Garonne but a translucent wave to supply it with an assemblage 
 of features more smiling, variegated, and picturesque than those 
 which belong, perhaps, to any other river in the world. The 
 waters were turbid at the time we passed up, and I was in- 
 formed that this was the case during the greater part of the 
 year. I have contemplated since, but with emotions of pleasure 
 not by any means so vivid, the banks of the Hudson in this 
 country, and those of the Wye in England, both so justly cele- 
 brated for the magnificence and beauty of the views which they 
 afford. The character of the scenery is, indeed, totally distinct 
 in these rivers, and, perhaps, the preference which I give to 
 the first arises from the influence of a particular association of 
 ideas and circumstances. Who is it that has ever experienced 
 the sufferings of a long illness without being, on his convales- 
 cence, disposed to repeat with Akenside, — 
 
 " Fair is nature's aspect 
 When rural songs and odors wake the morn 
 To every eye ; but how much more to his 
 Round whom the bed of sickness long diffused 
 Its melancholy gloom! how doubly fair 
 When first with fresh-born vigor he inhales 
 The balmy breeze, and feels the blessed sun 
 Warm at his bosom, from the springs of life 
 Chasing oppressive damps and languid pain." 
 
 If I could well claim permission to digress so soon from my 
 immediate subject, it would be to talk of the navigation of 
 another stream — the Wye, which I have mentioned above. 
 The English have within their own island much of the finest 
 imagery of nature, embellished by the most perfect labors of 
 art, and by all the luxury of taste. But if I were to be called 
 upon to select any one portion of their scenery upon which I 
 could now dwell, and upon which I have dwelt with most 
 delight, it would be that of the Wye from Ross to Chepstow. 
 For " a picturesque tourist" it is a sort of bonne bouche, an 
 exquisite morceau, with which, moreover, the appetite could 
 scarcely ever be cloyed. The Wye is our Hudson in miniature, 
 but with features of a much softer character, and with Gothic 
 appendages which give to it all the additional and powerful in- 
 fluence over the fancy that belong to " wizard time and antique 
 story." The proportions of nature on the Hudson, for a course 
 of two hundred miles, are of the most gigantic magnificence, 
 
188 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 and the historical recollections connected with this river are to 
 an American of the most endearing and ennobling kind. The 
 progress of civilization, moreover, as yon trace it on its banks 
 so far in the interior of this continent, in the flourishing cities 
 of Hudson, of Athens, and of Albany, swells the mind, and re- 
 freshes the spirit of patriotism by the prospect of actual and 
 future improvements almost as stupendous to the imagination 
 as the rocks and mountains in their vicinity are to the eye. 
 
 The beauties of the English river are comprised within a 
 space of fifty miles; it winds itself like the Hudson almost 
 into labyrinths, and in a very narrow channel, presents rocks 
 and hills of equal ruggedness, although of dimensions much less 
 colossal. There is, however, about the Wye an indescribable 
 and unrivalled charm ; a peculiar u witchery" arising from an 
 admixture of the soft with the savage features of the landscape ; 
 and from the Gothic ruins which decorate its banks at intervals ; 
 among the rest those of Tintern Abbey, by far the most majes- 
 tic and imposing of all the decayed edifices of England. In the 
 navigation of this river you can descend from your boat to the 
 banks whenever you please, and you then rarely fail to find the 
 whole poetical assemblage 
 
 " Of lofty trees "with sacred shades 
 And perspectives of pleasant glades ; 
 The ruins too of some majestic piece 
 Boasting the power of ancient Eome or Greece, 
 Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie, 
 And though defaced, the wonder of the eye." 
 
 the wreaths.-eliza cook. 
 
 Whom do we crown with the laurel leaf? 
 The hero god, the soldier chief, 
 But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, 
 Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, 
 Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes, 
 Where clangor deafens and sulphur chokes : 
 Oh, who can love the laurel wreath, 
 Pluck'd from the gory field of death ? 
 
 Whom do we crown with summer flowers ? 
 The young and fair in their happiest hours. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 189 
 
 But the buds will only live in the light 
 Of a festive day or a glittering night ; 
 We know the vermil tints will fade — 
 That pleasure dies w r ith the bloomy braid : 
 And who can prize the coronal 
 That's form'd to dazzle, wither, and fall? 
 
 Who wears the cypress, dark and drear? 
 The one who is shedding the mourner's tear : 
 The gloomy branch forever twines 
 Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines. 
 'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart, 
 That hath seen its dearest hopes depart. 
 Oh, who can like the chap let band 
 That is wove by melancholy's hand ? 
 
 Where is the ivy circlet found? 
 
 On the one whose brain and lips are drown'd 
 
 In the purple stream — who drinks and laughs 
 
 Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs. 
 
 Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown, 
 
 With its gems of grape-juice trickling down ; 
 
 But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl, 
 
 It has stain for the heart and shade for the soul. 
 
 But there's a green and fragraflt leaf 
 Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief: 
 'Tis the purest amaranth springing below, 
 And rests on the calmest, noblest brow : 
 It is not the right of the monarch or lord, 
 Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword ; 
 For the lowliest temples gather a ray 
 Of quenchless light from the palm of bay. 
 
 Oh, beautiful bay ! I worship thee — 
 
 I homage thy wreath — I cherish thy tree; 
 
190 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And of all the chaplets fame may deal, 
 'Tis only to this one I would kneel : 
 For as Indians fly to the banian branch, 
 When tempests lower and thunders launch, 
 So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife 
 And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life. 
 
 JACOB'S DREAM —Rev. George Ceoly. 
 
 The sun was sinking on the mountain zone 
 That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine ! 
 And lovely from the desert rose the moon, 
 Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line, 
 Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine. 
 Up Padan-aram's height abrupt and bare 
 A pilgrim toil'd, and oft on day's decline 
 Look'd pale, then paused for eve's delicious air, 
 The summit gain'd, he knelt, and breathed his evening prayer. 
 
 Pie spread his cloak and slumber'd — darkness fell 
 Upon the twilight hills ; a sudden sound 
 Of silver trumpets o'er him seem'd to swell ; 
 Clouds heavy with the tempest gather'd round ; 
 Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound ; 
 Still deeper roll'd the darkness from on high, 
 Gigantic volume upon volume wound ; 
 Above, a pillar shooting to the sky, 
 Below, a mighty sea, that spread incessantly. 
 
 Voices are heard — a choir of golden strings, 
 Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose ; 
 Then chariot-wheels — the nearer rush of wings ; 
 Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows, 
 It thunders — the resplendent gates unclose ; 
 Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 191 
 
 Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crow n'd brows, 
 Millions on millions, brighter and more bright, 
 Till all is lost in one supreme, unmiiigled light. 
 
 But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand, 
 Like cherub kings, with lifted, mighty plume, 
 Fix'd, sunbright eyes, and looks of high command : 
 They tell the patriarch of his glorious doom ; 
 Father of countless myriads that shall come, 
 Sweeping the land like billows of the sea, 
 Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom, 
 Till He is given whom angels long to see, 
 And Israel's splendid line is crown'd with Deity. 
 
 TRUE LIBERTY— William Cowi>er. 
 
 But there is yet a liberty, unsung 
 By poets, and by senators unpraised, 
 Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers 
 Of earth and hell confederate take away : 
 A liberty which persecution, fraud, 
 Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind ; 
 Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 
 'Tis liberty of heart derived from Heaven, 
 Bought with His blood, who gave it to mankind, 
 And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
 By charter, and that charter sanctioned sure 
 By the unimpeachable and awful oath 
 And promise of a God. His other gifts 
 All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them his, 
 And are august ; but this transcends them all. 
 His other works, the visible display 
 Of all-creating energy and might, 
 Are grand no doubt, and worthy of the word, 
 That, finding an interminable space 
 
192 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Unoccupied, has filled the void so well, 
 And made so sparkling what was dark before. 
 But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, 
 Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, 
 Might well suppose the artificer divine 
 Meant it eternal, had he not himself 
 Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is, 
 And, still designing a more glorious far, 
 Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise. * * * 
 
 He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free, 
 And all are slaves besides. There's not a chain, 
 That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
 Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
 With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 Of nature, and though poor perhaps, compared 
 With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
 Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
 His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
 And the resplendent rivers : his to enjoy 
 With a propriety that none can feel, 
 But who, with filial confidence inspired, 
 Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
 And smiling say — " My Father made them all !" 
 Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
 And by an emphasis of interest his, 
 W T hose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 
 Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
 With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love, 
 That plann'd and built, and still upholds, a world 
 -^ So clothed with beauty for rebellious man ? 
 Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
 The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
 In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
 In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, 
 
READINGS AND RECITAJIONS. 193 
 
 A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd 
 Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, 
 Appropriates nature as his Father's work, 
 And has a richer use of yours than you. 
 He is, indeed, a freeman. Free by birth 
 Of no mean city; plann'd or ere the hills 
 Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea, 
 With all his roaring multitude of waves. 
 His freedom is the same in every state ; 
 And no condition of this changeful life, 
 So manifold in cares, whose every day 
 Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : 
 For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain, 
 Nor penury can cripple or confine. 
 No nook so narrow but he spreads them there 
 With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds 
 His body bound, but knows not what a range 
 His spirit takes unconscious of a chain; 
 And that to bind him is a vain attempt, 
 Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. 
 
 TEE MOORISH PRINCE -Ff.eiligrath. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 His lengthening host through the palm-vale wound 
 The purple shawl on his locks he bound ; 
 He hung on his shoulders the lion-skin ; 
 Martially sounded the cymbal's din. 
 
 Like a sea of termites, that black, wild swarm 
 Swept, billowing onward: he flung his dark arm, 
 Encircled with gold, round his loved one's neck : — 
 " For the feast of victory, maiden, deck ! 
 
 " Lo ! glittering pearls I've brought thee there, 
 To twine with thy dark and glossy hair ; 
 9 
 
194 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And the corals, all snake-like, in Persia's green sea, 
 The dripping divers have fished for me. 
 
 " See, plumes of the ostrich, thy beauty to grace ! 
 Let them nod, snowy white, o'er thy dusky face ; 
 Deck the tent, make ready the feast for me, 
 Fill the garlanded goblet of victory !" 
 
 And forth from his snowy and shimmering tent 
 
 The princely Moor in his armor went : 
 
 So looks the dark moon, when, eclipsed, through the gate 
 
 Of the silver-edged clouds she rides forth in her state. 
 
 A welcoming shout his proud host flings ; 
 
 And " welcome !" the stamping steed's hoof rings ; 
 
 For him rolls faithful the negro's blood, 
 
 And Niger's old, mysterious flood. 
 
 " Now lead us to victory, lead us to fight !" — 
 They battled from morning far into the night ; 
 The hollow tooth of the elephant blew 
 A blast that pierced each foeman through. 
 
 How scatter the lions ! the serpents fly 
 From the rattling tambour ; the flags on high, 
 All hung with skulls, proclaim the dead, 
 And the yellow desert is dyed in red. 
 
 So rings in the palm-vale the desperate fight ; 
 
 But she is preparing the feast for the night ; 
 
 She fills the goblets with rich palm-wines, 
 
 And the shafts of the tent-poles with flowers she twines. 
 
 With pearls, that Persia's green flood bare, 
 She winds her dark and curly hair ; 
 Feathers are floating her brow to deck, 
 And gay shells gleam on her arms and neck. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 195 
 
 She sits by the door of her lover's tent, 
 She lists the far war-horn till morning is spent ; 
 The noonday burns, the sun stings hot, 
 The garlands wither, — she heeds it not. 
 
 The sun goes down in the fading skies, 
 The night-dew trickles, the glow-worm flies, 
 And the crocodile looks from the tepid pool, 
 As if he, too, would enjoy the cool. 
 
 The lion, he stirs him aftd roars for prey, 
 
 The elephant-tusks through the jungles make way, 
 
 Home to her lair the giraffe goes, 
 
 And flower-leaves shut, and eyelids close. 
 
 Her anxious heart beats fast and high, 
 When a bleeding, fugitive Moor draws nigh : — 
 " Farewell to all hope now ! The battle is lost ! 
 Thy lover is captured, — he's borne to the coast, — 
 
 " They sell him to white men, — he's carried — " Oh, spare ! 
 The maiden falls headlong ; she clutches her hair ; 
 All quivering, she crushes the pearls in her hand ; 
 She hides her hot cheek in the burning-hot sand. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 'Tis fair-day ; how sweeps the tempestuous throng 
 To circus and tilt-ground, with shout and with song ! 
 There's a blast of trumpets, the cymbal rings, 
 The deep drum rumbles, Bajazzo springs. 
 
 Come on ! come on ! — how swells the roar ! 
 They fly, as on wings, o'er the hard, flat floor; 
 The British sorrel, the Turk's black steed, 
 From plumed beauty seek honor's meed. 
 
196 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And there, by the tilting-ground's curtained door, 
 Stands, silent and thoughtful, a curly-haired Moor : 
 The Turkish drum he beats full loud ; 
 On the drum is hanging a lion-skin proud. 
 
 He sees not the knights and their graceful swing, 
 He sees not the steeds and their daring spring ; 
 The Moor's dry eye, with its stiff, wild stare, 
 Sees naught but the shaggy lion-skin there. 
 
 He thinks of the far, far distant Niger, 
 And how he once chased there the lion and tiger ; 
 And how he once brandished his sword in the fight, 
 And came not back to his couch at night. 
 
 And he thinks of her, who, in other hours, 
 
 Decked her hair with his pearls and plucked him her 
 
 flowers ; — 
 His eye grew moist, — with a scornful stroke 
 He smote the drum-head, — it rattled and broke. 
 
 THE ENGLISH AND THE AMERICAN RIVER.-Emma c. Embttby. 
 
 AMERICAN. 
 
 It rusheth on with fearful might, 
 
 That river of the West, 
 Through forests dense, where seldom light 
 
 Of sunbeam gilds its breast : 
 Anon it dashes wildly past 
 The widespread prairie lone and vast, 
 Without a shadow on its tide, 
 Save the long grass that skirts its side ; 
 Again its angry currents sweep 
 Beneath some tall and rocky steep, 
 Which frowns above the darkened stream, 
 Till doubly deep its waters seem. 
 No rugged cliff may check its way, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 197 
 
 No gentle mead invite its stay — 
 Still with resistless, maddened force, 
 Following its wild and devious course, 
 
 The river rusheth on. 
 
 It rusheth on — the rocks are stirred, 
 
 And echoing far and wide, 
 h rough the dim forest aisles, is heard 
 
 The thunder of its tide ; 
 No other sound strikes on the ear, 
 Save when, beside its waters clear, 
 Crashing o'er branches dry and sear, 
 Comes bounding forth the antlered deer ; 
 Or when, perchance, the woods give back 
 The arrow whizzing on its track, 
 Or deadlier rifle's vengeful crack : 
 No hum of busy life is near, 
 And still uncurbed in its career 
 
 The river rusheth on. 
 
 It rusheth on — no firebark leaves 
 
 Its dark and smoking trail 
 O'er the pure wave, which only heaves 
 
 The bateau light and frail ; 
 Long, long ago the rnde canoe 
 Across its sparkling waters flew ; 
 Long, long ago the Indian brave 
 In the clear stream his brow might lave : 
 But seldom has the white man stood 
 Within that trackless solitude, 
 Where onward, onward dashing still, 
 With all the force of untamed will, 
 
 The river rusheth on. 
 
 It rusheth on — no changes mark 
 How many years have sped 
 
198 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Since to its banks, through forests dark, 
 
 Some chance the hunter led ; 
 Though many a season has passed o'er 
 The giant trees that gird its shore — 
 Though the soft limestone mass, impressed 
 By naked footstep on its breast, 
 Now hardened into rock appears, 
 By work of indurating years, 
 Yet 'tis by grander strength alone 
 That Nature's age is ever known. 
 "While crumbling turrets tell the tale 
 Of man's vain pomp and projects frail, 
 Time, in the wilderness displays 
 Th' ennobling power of length of days, 
 And in the forest's pathless bound, 
 Type of Eternity, is found — 
 
 The river rushing on. 
 
 ENGLISH. 
 
 It floweth on with pleasant sound — 
 
 A vague and dreamlike measure, 
 And singeth to the flowers around 
 
 A song of quiet pleasure ; 
 No rugged cliff obstructs the way 
 Where the glad waters leap and play, 
 Or if a tiny rock look down 
 In the calm stream with mimic frown, 
 The waves a sweeter music make, 
 As at its base they flash and break : 
 It speedeth on, like joy's bright hours, 
 Traced but by verdure and by flowers ; 
 And whether sunbeams on it rest, 
 Or storm-clouds hover o'er its breast, 
 Still in that green and shady glen, 
 Beside the busy haunts of men, 
 
 The river singeth on. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 199 
 
 It floweth on, past tree and flower, 
 
 Until the stream is laving 
 The ruins of some ancient tower, 
 
 With ivy banners waving : 
 Methinks the river's pleasant chime 
 Now tells a tale of olden time, 
 When mail-clad knights were often seen 
 Upon its banks of living green, 
 And gentle dames of lineage high 
 Lingered to hear Love's thrilling sigh ; 
 Haply some squire, whose humble name 
 Was yet unheralded by fame 
 Here wove ambition's earliest dreams : 
 While then, as now, 'neath sunset gleams, 
 The river singeth on. 
 
 It floweth on — that gentle stream — 
 
 And seems to tell the story 
 Of old-world heroes, and their dream 
 
 Of fame and martial glory ; 
 The war-cry on its banks has pealed, 
 Blent with the clang of lance and shield ; 
 Waked to new life by war's alarms, 
 Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms, 
 Have sallied forth in proud array, 
 With hearts impatient for the fray : 
 Though, nature's voice is little heard, 
 When pulses are thus madly stirred, 
 Yet, while in brightness it gives back 
 The glittering sheen that marks their track, 
 The river singeth on. 
 
 Yet, as above the sunniest fate 
 
 Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow, 
 So sadder scenes the fancy wait, 
 
200 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Since dreams from truth we borrow : 
 A well-worn path, now grass-o'ergrown 
 And hid by many a fallen stone, 
 To yonder roofless chapel led 
 Where sleep the castle's honored dead ; 
 Full often that pure stream has glassed 
 The funeral train, as slow it passed ; 
 Hark ! as the barefoot monks repeat 
 The " Requiescat," wild and sweet, 
 
 The river singeth on. 
 
 The vision fades, the phantoms flee, 
 
 And naught of all remaineth ; 
 The river runneth fast and free, 
 
 The wind through ruins plaineth : 
 The feudal lord and belted knight, 
 And spurless squire and lady bright, 
 Long since have shared the common lot — <. 
 All, save their haughty name, forgot. 
 The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine, 
 Flaunting beneath the glad sunshine ; 
 The fallen fortress, ruined wall, 
 And crumbling battlement, are all 
 That still are left to tell the tale 
 Of those who ruled that fairy vale : 
 But Nature still upholds her sway, 
 And flowers and music mark the way 
 
 The river sinsjeth on. 
 
 LADY BARBARA— Alexander Smith. 
 Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara, — 
 High-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold ! 
 'Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer shaw, 
 In soft green light his passion he has told. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 201 
 
 When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold, 
 
 The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear 
 
 Framed passion-trembled ditties manifold ; 
 
 Silent she sat his am'rous breath to hear, 
 
 With calm and steady eyes, her heart was otherwhere. 
 
 He sighed for her through all the summer weeks ; 
 Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs 
 Bore glorious apples with smooth-shining cheeks, 
 Earl Gawain came and whispered, " Lady, rouse ! 
 Thou art no vestal held in holy vows, 
 Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath." 
 Her father's blood leaped up into her brows — • 
 He who exulting on the trumpet's breath, 
 Came charging like a star across the lists of death, 
 
 Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke : 
 
 And then she sat, her hands clasped round her knee : 
 
 Like one far-thoughted was the lady's look, 
 
 For in a morning cold as misery 
 
 She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea ; 
 
 Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud, 
 
 High on the poop a man sat mournfully : 
 
 The wind was whistling through mast and shroud, 
 
 And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud : — 
 
 " Didst look last night upon my native vales, 
 Thou Sun ! that from the drenching sea has clomb ? 
 Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails, 
 Upon the salt sea must I ever roam, 
 Wander forever on the barren foam ? 
 Oh happy are ye, resting mariners, 
 Death, that thou wouldst come and take me home ! 
 A hand unseen this vessel onward steers, 
 And onward I must float through slow moon-measured 
 years. 
 
 9* 
 
202 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 " Ye winds ! when like a curse ye drove us on, 
 
 Frothing the waters, and along our way, 
 
 Nor cape, nor headland, through red mornings shone, 
 
 One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray, 
 
 One howled, * Upon the deep we are astray.' 
 
 On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight : 
 
 In one short hour my hair was stricken gray, 
 
 For all the crew sank ghastly in my sight 
 
 As we went driving on through the cold starry night. 
 
 " Madness fell on me in my loneliness, 
 
 The sea foamed curses, and the reeling sky 
 
 Became a dreadful face which did oppress 
 
 Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. 
 
 It fled, when I burst forth into a cry — 
 
 A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep, 
 
 I hid, but in all corners they did pry, 
 
 And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap ; 
 
 They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep. 
 
 " Strange constellations burned above my head, 
 Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew, 
 Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled, 
 As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through, 
 Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue." 
 The lady sighed, u Far, far upon the sea, 
 My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! 
 The wind blows shrill between my love and me." 
 Fond heart ! the space between was but the apple-tree. 
 
 There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands 
 She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest ; 
 Like washing water on the figured sands, 
 His being came and went in sweet unrest, 
 As from the mighty shelter of his breast 
 The Lady Barbara her head uprears 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 203 
 
 With a wan smile, " Methinks I'm but half blest, 
 
 Now when I've found thee, after weary years, 
 
 I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am with tears." 
 
 THE COLOSSEIDI.-John Fobsytu. 
 
 A colossal taste gave rise to the Colosseum. Here, indeed, 
 gigantic dimensions were necessary ; for though hundreds could 
 enter at once, and fifty thousand find seats, the space was still 
 insufficient for Rome, and the crowd for the morning games 
 began at midnight. Vespasian and Titus, as if presaging their 
 own deaths, hurried the building, and left several marks of their 
 precipitancy behind. In the upper walls they have inserted 
 stones which had evidently been dressed for a different purpose. 
 Some of the arcades are grossly unequal ; no moulding preserves 
 the same level and form round the whole ellipse, and every order 
 is full of license, The Doric has no triglyphs nor metopes, and 
 its arch is too low for its columns : the Ionic repeats the entab- 
 lature of the Doric ; the third order is but a rough cast of the 
 Corinthian, and its foliage the thickest water-plants ; the fourth 
 seems a mere repetition of the third in pilasters ; and the whole 
 is crowned by a heavy Attic. Happily for the Colosseum, the 
 shape necessary to an amphitheatre has given it a stability of 
 construction sufficient to resist fires, and earthquakes, and light- 
 nings, and sieges. Its elliptical form was the hoop which bound 
 and held it entire till barbarians rent that consolidating ring ; 
 popes widened the breach ; and time, not unassisted, continues 
 the work of dilapidation. At this moment the hermitage is 
 threatened with a dreadful crash, and a generation not very re- 
 mote must be content, I apprehend, with the picture of this 
 stupendous monument. Of the interior elevation, two slopes, 
 by some called meniana, are already demolished ; the arena, the 
 podium, are interred. No member runs entire round the whole 
 ellipse ; but every member made such a circuit, and reappears 
 so often, that plans, sections, and elevations of the original work 
 are drawn with the precision of a modern fabric. When the 
 whole amphitheatre was entire, a child might comprehend its 
 design in a moment, and go direct to his place without straying 
 in the porticos, for each arcade bears its number engraved, and 
 opposite to every fourth arcade was a staircase. This multipli- 
 city of wide, straight, and separate passages, proves the atten- 
 tion which the ancients paid to the safe discharge of a crowd ; 
 
204 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 it finely illustrates the precept of Yitruvius, and exposes the 
 perplexity of some modern theatres. Every nation has under- 
 gone its revolution of vices ; and as cruelty is not the present 
 vice of ours, we can all humanely execrate the purpose of am- 
 phitheatres, now that they lie in ruins. Moralists may tell us 
 that the truly brave are never cruel ; but this moDument says 
 " No." Here sat the conquerors of the world, coolly to enjoy 
 the tortures and death of men who had never offended them. 
 Two aqueducts were scarcely sufficient to wash off the human 
 blood which a few hours' sport shed in this imperial shambles. 
 Twice in one day came the senators and matrons of Rome to the 
 butchery ; a virgin always gave the signal for slaughter ; and 
 when glutted with bloodshed, those ladies sat down in the wet 
 and streaming arena to a luxurious supper ! Such reflections 
 check our regret for its ruin. As it now stands, the Colosseum 
 is a striking image of Rome itself — decayed, vacant, serious, yet 
 grand — half-gray and half-green — erect on one side and fallen 
 on the other, with consecrated ground in its bosom — inhabited 
 by a beadsman ; visited by every caste ; for moralists, antiqua- 
 ries, painters, architects, devotees, all meet here to meditate, to 
 examine, to draw, to measure, and to pray. " In contemplating 
 antiquities," says Livy, " the mind itself becomes antique." It 
 contracts from such objects a venerable rust, which I prefer to 
 the polish and the point of those wits who have lately profaned 
 this august ruin with ridicule. 
 
 CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL— (Fkom a MSS. Drama.)— William Young. 
 
 Scene— The Capitol at Rome. Corinna, crowned with laurel, delivers these closing 
 portions of an Improvisation ; subject, Italian Glory. 
 
 Hail, shade of Dante ! Mark how spheres and circles 
 In mystic links, from Hell to Purgatory, 
 And thence to Paradise, transport him. Faithful 
 The story of his vision. What most dark 
 He floods with light. And lo ! his triple poem 
 Creates a world, complete, and animated, 
 And brilliant as a planet newly lit 
 High in the firmament. Dante from his poem 
 Looked for an end of exile, counting Fame 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 205 
 
 A mediator; but he died too soon, 
 Ere ever he could gather to his hand 
 His country's palm-leaf. — Ah ! not seldom is it 
 Man's fated life drags on through evil days ; 
 Glory may triumph, and on happier shore 
 At length he lands ; but just beyond the port 
 The tomb stands open — Destiny hath linked 
 Life's close with dawning bliss. {Solemn Music.) 
 Thus, ill-starred Tasso — 
 He whom your homage, Romans, had consoled 
 For long injustice ; he, the fair, the brave, 
 Dreaming of exploits, loving with the love 
 He sang so loftily — drew near these walls, 
 Low bent and grateful, as his heroes stood 
 Before Jerusalem. But on the eve 
 Of that proud day which should have seen him crowned, 
 Death bade him to her festival. Is Heaven 
 Jealous of Earthy that thus its favorites 
 Are summoned hence? (Solemn Music.) 
 
 Like Dante, in an age 
 More free than Tasso' s, Petrarch valorously 
 Chanted Italian independence. Famed 
 Elsewhere as lover, and as the bard of Love, 
 Sterner remembrances invest his name 
 With deathless lustre here. Better inspired 
 By his country was he, than by Laura's self. 
 
 (Martial Music.) 
 Our serene sky, our joyousness of clime, 
 Toned Ariosto's song. The rainbow he, 
 After our long protracted wars, in hue 
 Varied and brilliant. How he seems to sport 
 Familiarly with life ! Light-hearted, gentle, 
 His gay effusions tell of Nature's smile ; 
 Not of man's irony. (Joyous Music.) 
 
 O Buonarotti, 
 
206 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 O Raphael, Pergolese, Galileo, 
 
 And ye, intrepid voyagers, athirst 
 
 For lands untrodden, though more beautiful 
 
 Than this could Nature show you none ! come, join 
 
 Your triumphs to our poets' triumphs ! Sages, 
 
 Philosophers, and Artists, ye like them 
 
 Are children of the sun — that sun whose glow 
 
 Animates thought and fancy, kindles courage, 
 
 Lulls to repose in perfect bliss, and seems 
 
 To promise all, or over all to cast 
 
 Oblivion's veil. Know ye the land where blooms 
 
 The orange-tree impregnated with love ? 
 
 Say, have ye heard those soft melodious sounds 
 
 That are Night's symphony? Say, have ye breathed, 
 
 Those perfumes that voluptuously exhale 
 
 From air so pure, so mild ? O strangers, tell us 
 
 Is Nature lovely thus, and thus benign 
 
 In other lands ? Can other lands match this ? [Gay pastoral 
 
 Music.) 
 Genius is tranquil here, for Revery soothes 
 His agitation. Has he missed his aim? 
 She has a thousand fancies to suggest. 
 Is he oppressed by men ? Lo, Nature's voice 
 Welcomes him here. The very pangs of the heart 
 Are here consoled. — Yet are there griefs, and must be, 
 That even our skies, with all their consolations, 
 Cannot efface. What then ? Can sorrow come 
 Home to the soul in guise so nobly touching 
 As that which Rome presents ? Elsewhere, the living 
 Scarce can find room and verge for hurried course, 
 Impetuous desire. Here, ruins, deserts, 
 And desolate palaces, give ample space 
 To spirits of the dead. Is not Rome now 
 Their land of tombs ? How small a thing appears 
 Our indolent life ! The silence of the living 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 207 
 
 Is homage to the dead. We pass away ; 
 'Tis they remain. For them is fame ; for us 
 A destiny obscure, that makes no noise, 
 Hushed in the echoes of the past. To them 
 Are due our master-pieces. Genius, self 
 Is mourned among the mighty. (Grave Music.) 
 
 And, perchance, 
 Rome hath some charm that reconciles the mind 
 To the last, long sleep. We shrink not, terrified 
 At the grave's chilling loneliness. Thereon 
 Smiles the warm genial sun ; and all about us 
 Attendant Shadows troop ! Methinks, 'twere easy 
 From solitary city to go down 
 
 To subterranean. * * * I have done. Forgive me, 
 If I have saddened you. You chose the theme — 
 Italian Glory — and if Glory live 
 In sepulchres alone, do I not well, 
 Too partial Romans, dedicating thus 
 My closing words to Glory's last abode? (Serious Music.) 
 
 THE GRAY FOREST-EAGLE.-Alfred B. Street. 
 With storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye, 
 The gray forest-eagle is king of the sky ! 
 Oh, little he loves the green valley of flowers, 
 Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours, 
 For he hears in these haunts only music, and sees 
 Only rippling of waters and waving of trees ; 
 There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums, 
 The timid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums ; 
 And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along, 
 There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song ; 
 The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss, 
 And there's naught but his shadow black gliding across ; 
 
208 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 But the dark gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam 
 Of the fierce rock-lashed torrent, he claims as his home : 
 There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the flood, 
 And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood ; 
 From the crag-grasping fir-top, where morn hangs its wreath, 
 He views the mad waters white writhing beneath : 
 On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down, 
 With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown, 
 The kingfisher watches, where o'er him his foe, 
 The fierce hawk, sails circling, each moment more low : 
 Now poised are those pinions, and pointed that beak, 
 His dread swoop is ready, when, hark ! with a shriek, 
 His eye-balls red-blazing, high bristling his crest, 
 His snake-like neck arch'd, talons drawn to his breast. 
 With the rush of the wind-gust, the glancing of light, 
 The gray forest-eagle shoots down in his flight ; 
 One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck, 
 The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dripping wreck ; 
 And as dives the free kingfisher, dart-like on high 
 With his prey soars the eagle, and melts in the sky. 
 
 A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar, 
 
 Proclaim the storm-demon yet raging afar : 
 
 The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more red, 
 
 And the roll of the thunder more deep and more dread ; 
 
 A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air, 
 
 And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair : 
 
 The lightning darts zigzag and fork'd through the gloom, 
 
 And the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and boom ; 
 
 The gray forest-eagle, where, where has he sped ? 
 
 Does he shrink to his eyry, and shiver with dread ? 
 
 Does the glare blind his eye ? Has the terrible blast 
 
 On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast ? 
 
 No, no, the brave eagle ! ne thinks not of fright ; 
 
 The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 209 
 
 To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam, 
 To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream, 
 And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray, 
 And a clapping of pinions, he's up and away ! 
 Away, oh, away, soars the fearless and free ! 
 What recks he the sky's strife ? — its monarch is he ! 
 The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight ; 
 The blast sweeps against him, unwavered his flight ; 
 High upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form 
 Is lost in the black, scowling gloom of the storm. 
 
 The tempest sweeps o'er with its terrible train, 
 
 And the splendor of sunshine is glowing again ; 
 
 Again smiles the soft, tender blue of the sky, 
 
 Waked bird-voices warble, fann'd leaf-voices sigh ; 
 
 On the green grass dance shadows, streams sparkle and run, 
 
 The breeze bears the odor its flower-kiss has won, 
 
 And full on the form of the demon in flight, 
 
 The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight ! 
 
 The gray forest-eagle ! Oh, where is he now, 
 
 While the sky wears the smile of its God on its brow ? 
 
 There's a dark, floating spot by yon cloud's pearly wreatd, 
 
 With the speed of the arrow 'tis shooting beneath ! 
 
 Down, nearer and nearer it draws to the gaze, 
 
 Now over the rainbow, now blent with its blaze, 
 
 To a shape it expands, still it plunges through air, 
 
 A proud crest, a fierce eye, a broad wing are there ; 
 
 'Tis the eagle — the gray forest-eagle — once more 
 
 lie sweeps to his eyry : his journey is o'er ! 
 
 Time whirls round his circle, his years roll away, 
 
 But the gray forest-eagle minds little his sway ; 
 
 The child spurns its buds for youth's thorn-bidden bloom, 
 
 Seeks manhood's bright phantoms, finds age and a tomb ; 
 
 But the eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd, 
 
210 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ! 
 
 The green, tiny pine-shrub points up from the moss, 
 
 The wren's foot would cover it, tripping across ; 
 
 The beech-nut down dropping would crush it beneath, 
 
 But 'tis warm'd with heaven's sunshine, and fann'd by its breath 
 
 The seasons fly past it, its head is on high, 
 
 Its thick branches challenge each mood of the sky ; 
 
 On its rough bark the moss a green mantle creates, 
 
 And the deer from his antlers the velvet-down grates ; 
 
 Time withers its roots, it lifts sadly in air 
 
 A trunk dry and wasted, a top jagg'd and bare, 
 
 Till it rocks in the soft breeze, and crashes to earth, 
 
 Its blown fragments strewing the place of its birth. 
 
 The eagle has seen it up-struggling to sight, 
 
 He has seen it defying the storm in its might, 
 
 Then prostrate, soil-blended, with plants sprouting o'er, 
 
 But the gray forest-eagle is still as of yore. 
 
 His flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd, 
 
 Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ! 
 
 He has seen from his eyry the forest below 
 
 In bud and in leaf, robed with crimson and. snow. 
 
 The thickets, deep wolf-lairs, the high crag his throne, 
 
 And the shriek of the panther has answer'd his own. 
 
 He has seen the wild red man the lord of the shades, 
 
 And the smoke of his wigwams curl thick in the glades ; 
 
 He bas seen the proud forest melt breath-like away, 
 
 And the breast of the earth lying bare to the day ; 
 
 He sees the green meadow-grass hiding the lair, 
 
 And his crag-throne spread naked to sun and to air; 
 
 And his shriek is now answer'd, while sweeping along, 
 
 By the low of the herd and the husbandman's song ; 
 
 He has seen the wild red man off-swept by his foes, 
 
 And he sees dome and roof where those smokes once arose ; 
 
 But his flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd, 
 
 Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 211 
 
 An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high, 
 
 Is the gray forest-eagle, that king of the sky ! 
 
 It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth — 
 
 By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth ; 
 
 There rock'd by the wild wind, baptized in the foam, 
 
 It is guarded and cherish'd, and there is its home ! 
 
 When its shadow steals black o T er the empires of kings, 
 
 Deep terror, deep heart-shaking terror it brings ; 
 
 Where wicked Oppression is arm'd for the weak, 
 
 Then rustles its pinion, then echoes its shriek ; 
 
 Its eye flames with vengeance, it sweeps on its way, 
 
 And its talons are bathed in the blood of its prey. 
 
 Oh, that eagle of Freedom ! when cloud upon cloud 
 
 Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud, 
 
 When lightnings gleam'd fiercely, and thunderbolts rung, 
 
 How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung ! 
 
 Though the wild blast of battle swept fierce through the air 
 
 With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there ; 
 
 Unquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on, 
 
 Till the rainbow of Peace crown'd the victory won. 
 
 Oh, that eagle of Freedom ! age dims not his eye, 
 
 He has seen Earth's mortality spring, bloom, and die ! 
 
 He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall, 
 
 He mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all : 
 
 He has seen our own land with wild forests o'erspread, 
 
 He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head ; 
 
 And his presence will bless this, his own, chosen clime, 
 
 Till the archangel's fiat is set upon time. 
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT— Alfred Tennyson. 
 PART I. 
 
 On either side the river lie 
 
 Long fields of barley and of rye, 
 
 That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
 
212 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 And through the field the road runs by 
 
 To many-tower' d Camelot; 
 And up and down the people go, 
 Gazing where the lilies blow 
 Round an island there below, 
 The island of Shalott. 
 
 Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
 Little breezes dusk and shiver 
 Through the wave that runs forever 
 By the island in the river 
 
 Flowing down to Camelot. 
 Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
 • Overlook a space of flowers, 
 And the silent isle embowers 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 By the margin, willow-veil'd, 
 Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
 By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
 The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd, 
 
 Skimming down to Camelot : 
 But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
 Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
 Or is she known in all the land, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott? 
 
 Only reapers, reaping early 
 In among the bearded barley, 
 Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
 . From the river winding clearly, 
 Down to tower'd Camelot ; 
 And by the moon the reaper weary, 
 Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
 Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy 
 Lady of Shalott." 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 213 
 
 PART II. 
 
 There she weaves by night and day 
 A magic web with colors gay. 
 She has heard a whisper say, 
 A curse is on her if she stay 
 
 To look down to Camelot. 
 She knows not what the curse may be, 
 And so she weaveth steadily, 
 And little other care hath she, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And moving through a mirror clear 
 That hangs before her all the year, 
 Shadows of the world appear. 
 There she sees the highway near 
 
 Winding down to Camelot : 
 There the river eddy whirls, 
 And there the surly village-churls, 
 And the red cloaks of market-girls, 
 
 Pass onward from Shalott. 
 
 Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
 An abbot on an ambling pad, 
 Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, 
 Or long-haired page in crimson clad, 
 
 Goes by to towerM Camelot ; 
 And sometimes through the mirror blue 
 The knights come riding two and two : 
 She hath no loyal knight and true, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 But in her web she still delights 
 To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
 For often through the silent nights 
 A funeral, with plumes and lights, 
 And music, went to Camelot : 
 
214 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Or when the moon was overhead, 
 Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
 " I am half-sick of shadows," said 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
 He rode between the barley sheaves, 
 The sun came dazzling through the leaves 
 And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
 
 Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
 A red-cross knight forever kneel'd 
 To a lady in his shield, 
 That sparkled on the yellow field, 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 The gem my bridle glitter' d free, 
 Like to some branch of stars we see 
 Hung in the golden galaxy. 
 The bridle-bells rang merrily, 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot : 
 And from his blazon'd baldric slung, 
 A mighty silver bugle hung, 
 And as he rode his armor rung, 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 All in the blue unclouded weather 
 Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
 The helmet and the helmet-feather 
 Burn'd like one burning flame together, 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot. 
 As often through the purple night, 
 Below the starry clusters bright, 
 Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
 
 Moves over still Shalott. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 215 
 
 His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; 
 On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; 
 From underneath his helmet flow'd 
 His coal-black curls as on he rode, 
 
 As he rode down to Caraelot. 
 From the bank and from the river 
 He flash' d into" the crystal mirror, 
 " Tirra lirra," by the river 
 
 Sang Sir Lancelot. 
 
 She left the web, she left the loom, 
 She made three paces through the room, 
 She saw the water-lily bloom, 
 She saw the helmet and the plume, 
 
 She looked down to Camelot. 
 Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
 The mirror cracked from side to side ; 
 " The curse is come upon me," cried 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 In the stormy east-wind straining, 
 The pale-yellow woods were waning, 
 The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
 Heavily the low sky raining 
 
 Over tower'd Camelot ; 
 Down she came and found a boat 
 Beneath a willow left afloat, 
 And round about the prow she wrote 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And down the river's dim expanse — 
 Like some bold seer in a trance, 
 Seeing all his own mischance — 
 With a glassy countenance 
 Did she look to Camelot. 
 
216 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And at the closing' of the day, 
 She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
 The broad stream bore her far away, 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Lying, robed in snowy .white 
 That loosely flew to left and right — 
 The leaves upon her falling light — 
 Through the noises of the night 
 
 She floated down to Camelot : 
 And as the boat-head wound along 
 The willowy hills and fields among, 
 They heard her singing her last song, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
 Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
 Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
 And her eyes were darken' d wholly, 
 
 TurnM to tower'd Camelot ; 
 For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
 The first house by the water-side, 
 Singing, in her song she died, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Under tower of balcony, 
 By garden-wall and gallery, 
 A gleaming shape she floated by, 
 A corse between the houses high, 
 
 Silent into Camelot. 
 Out upon the wharfs they came, 
 Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
 And round the prow they read her name, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 217 
 
 Who is this ? and what is here ? 
 And in the lighted palace near 
 Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
 And they cross'd themselves for fear, 
 
 All the knights at Came lot : 
 But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
 He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
 God in his mercy lend her grace, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott." 
 
 THE SEXTON.— Pabk Benjamhc. 
 
 Nigh to a grave that was newly made, 
 Lean'd a sexton old on his earth-worn spade. 
 His work was done, and he paused to wait 
 The funeral train through the open gate : 
 A relic of bygone days was he, 
 And his locks were white as the foamy sea, — 
 And these words came from his lips so thin : — 
 " I gather them in ! I gather them in ! 
 
 " I gather them in ! for, man and boy, 
 Year after year of grief and joy, 
 I've builded the houses that lie around 
 In every nook of this burial-ground. 
 Mother and daughter, father and son, 
 Come to my. solitude one by one, — 
 But, come they strangers or come they kin, 
 I gather them in ! I gather them in ! 
 
 " Many are with me, but still I'm alone ! 
 I am king of the dead, — and I make my throne 
 On a monument-slab of marble cold, 
 And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 
 10 
 
218 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Come they from cottage or tome they from hall,— 
 Mankind are my subjects, — all, all, all! 
 Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin, — 
 I gather them in ! I gather them in ! 
 
 " I gather them in, — and their final rest, 
 
 Is here, down here in the earth's dark breast ;" — 
 
 And the sexton ceased, — for the funeral train 
 
 Wound mutely over that solemn plain : 
 
 And I said to my heart, — When time is told, 
 
 A mightier voice than that sexton's old 
 
 Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din, — 
 
 " I gather them in ! I gather them in !" 
 
 THE SEXSE OP BEAUTY.-Hrs. Nobtos. 
 Spirit ! who over this our mortal earth, 
 Where naught hath birth 
 Which imperfection doth not some way dim 
 Since earth offended Him — 
 Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wings 
 Dost shower down light o'er mean and common things ; 
 And, wandering to and fro, 
 
 Through the condemn'd and sinful world dost go, 
 Haunting that wilderness, the human heart, 
 With gleams of glory that too soon depart, 
 Gilding both weed and flower ; — 
 What is thy birth divine ? and whence thy mighty powe- 
 
 The sculptor owns thee ! On his high pale brow 
 
 Bewildering images are pressing now ; 
 
 Groups whose immortal grace 
 
 His chisel ne'er shall trace, 
 
 Though in his mind the fresh creation glows ; 
 
 High forms of godlike strength, 
 
 Or limbs whose languid length 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 219 
 
 The marble fixes in a sweet repose ! 
 
 At thy command, 
 
 His true and patient hand 
 
 Moulds the dull clay to beauty's richest line, 
 
 Or with more tedious skill, 
 
 Obedient to thy will, 
 
 By touches imperceptible and fine, 
 
 Works slowly day by day 
 
 The rough-hewn block away, 
 
 Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile 
 
 Wakes into statue-life and pays the assiduous toil ! 
 
 Thee the young painter knows, — whose fervent eyes, 
 
 O'er the blank waste of canvas fondly bending, 
 
 See fast within its magic circle rise 
 
 Some pictured scene, with colors softly blending, — 
 
 Green bowers and leafy glades, 
 
 The old Arcadian shades, 
 
 Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown, 
 
 And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one 
 
 Appear to bless his sight 
 
 In fancy's glowing light, 
 
 Peopling that spot of green earth's flowery breast 
 
 With every attitude of joy and rest. 
 
 Lo ! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth 
 
 (Like an uprising star in the cold north) 
 
 Some face which soon shall glow with beauty's fire : 
 
 Dim seems the sketch to those who stand around, 
 
 Dim and uncertain as an echo'd sound, 
 
 But oh ! how bright to him, whose hand thou dost inspire ! 
 
 Thee, also, doth the dreaming poet hail, 
 Fond comforter of many a weary day — 
 When through the clouds his fancy's ear can sail 
 To worlds of radiance far, how ftir, away ! 
 
220 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 At thy clear touch (as at the burst of light 
 
 Which morning shoots along the purple hills, 
 
 Chasing the shadows of the vanished night, 
 
 And silvering all the darkly gushing rills, 
 
 Giving each waking blossom, gemm'd with dew, 
 
 Its bright and proper hue) — 
 
 He suddenly beholds the checker'd face 
 
 Of this old world in its young Eden grace ! 
 
 Disease, and want, and sin, and pain, are not — 
 
 Nor homely and familiar things : — man's lot 
 
 Is like his aspirations — bright and high ; 
 
 And even in the haunting thought that man must die, 
 
 His dream so changes from its fearful strife, 
 
 Death seems but fainting into purer life ! 
 
 Nor only these thy presence woo, 
 
 The less inspired own thee too ! 
 
 Thou hast thy tranquil source 
 
 In the deep well-springs of the human heart, 
 
 And gushest with sweet force 
 
 When most imprison' d ; causing tears to start 
 
 In the worn citizen's o'erwearied eye, 
 
 As, with a sigh, 
 
 At the bright close of some rare holiday, 
 
 He sees the branches wave, the waters play — 
 
 And hears the clock's far distant mellow chime 
 
 Warn him a busier world reclaims his time ! 
 
 Thee, childhood's heart confesses, — when he sees 
 
 The heavy rose-bud crimson in the breeze, 
 
 When the red coral wins his eager gaze, 
 
 Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays, 
 
 Thee, through his varied hours of rapid joy, 
 
 The eager boy, — 
 
 Who wild across the grassy meadow springs, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 221 
 
 And still with sparkling eyes 
 
 Pursues the uncertain prize, 
 
 Lured by the velvet glory of its wings ! 
 
 And so from youth to age — yea, till the end — 
 
 An unforsaking, unforgetting friend, 
 
 Thou hoverest round us ! And when all is o'er, 
 
 And earth's most loved illusions please no more, 
 
 Thou stealest gently to the couch of death ; 
 
 There, while the lagging breath 
 
 Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh 
 
 Consoling visions from thy native sky, 
 
 Making it sweet to die ! 
 
 The sick man's ears are faint — his eyes are dim — 
 
 But his heart listens to the heavenward hymn, 
 
 And his soul sees — in lieu of that sad band, 
 
 Who come with mournful tread 
 
 To kneel about his bed, — 
 
 God's white-robed angels, who around him stand, 
 
 And wave his spirit to " the Better Land !" 
 
 So, living, — dying, still our hearts pursue 
 
 That loveliness which never met our view ; 
 
 Still to the last the ruling thought will reign, 
 
 Nor deem one feeling given — was given in vain! 
 
 For it may be, our banish'd souls recall 
 
 In this, their earthly thrall 
 
 (With the sick dreams of exiles), that far world 
 
 Whence angels once were hurl'd ; 
 
 Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense, 
 
 Vague, as permitted by Omnipotence, 
 
 Foreshows the immortal radiance round us shed, 
 
 When the imperfect shall be perfected ! 
 
 Like the chain'd eagle in his fetter'd might, 
 
 Straining upon the heavens his wistful sight, 
 
222 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Who toward the upward glory fondly springs, 
 With all the vain strength of his shivering wings, — 
 So chain'd to earth, and baffled — yet so fond 
 Of the pure sty which lies so far beyond, 
 We make the attempt to soar in many a thought 
 Of beauty born, and into beauty wrought ; 
 Dimly we struggle onwards : — who shall say 
 Which glimmering light leads nearest to the day ? 
 
 ODE FOB, WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 Welcome to the day returning, 
 
 Dearer still as ages flow, 
 W T hile the torch of Faith is burning, 
 
 Long as Freedom's altars glow ! 
 See the hero whom it gave us 
 
 Slumbering on a mother's breast; 
 For the arm he stretched to save us, 
 
 Be its morn forever blest ! 
 
 Hear the tale of youthful glory, 
 
 While of Britain's rescued band 
 Friend and foe repeat the story, 
 
 Spread his fame o'er sea and land ; 
 Where the red cross, proudly streaming, 
 
 Flaps above the frigate's deck, 
 Where the golden lilies, gleaming, 
 
 Star the watch-towers of Quebec. 
 
 Look ! The shadow on the dial 
 Marks the hour of deadlier strife ; 
 
 Days of terror, years of trial, 
 Scourge a nation into life. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 223 
 
 Lo, the youth, become her leader ! 
 
 All her baffled tyrants yield ; 
 Through his arm the Lord hath freed her; 
 
 Crown him on the tented field ! 
 
 Vain is Empire's mad temptation"! 
 
 Not for him an earthly crown ! 
 He whose sword hath freed a nation 
 
 Strikes the offered sceptre down. 
 See the throneless Conqueror seated, 
 
 Ruler by a people's choice ; 
 See the Patriot's task completed ; 
 
 Hear the Father's dying voice ! 
 
 " By the name that you inherit, 
 
 By the sufferings you recall, 
 Cherish the fraternal spirit ; 
 
 Love your country first of all ! 
 Listen not to idle questions 
 
 If its bands may be untied ; 
 Doubt the patriot whose suggestions 
 
 Strive a nation to divide !" 
 
 Father ! We, whose ears have tingled 
 
 With the discord-notes of shame, — 
 We, whose sires their blood have mingled 
 
 In the battle's thunder-flame, — 
 Gathering, while this holy morning 
 
 Lights the land from sea to sea, 
 Hear thy counsel, heed thy warning ; 
 
 Trust us, while we honor thee 1 
 
224 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE ADIRONDACKS-'FOREST MUSIC-PAINT-BRUSH OF AUTUMN.- 
 J. T. Headlet. 
 
 But there is one kind of forest music I love best of all — it is 
 the sound of wind amid the trees. I have lain here by the hour, 
 on some fresh afternoon, when the brisk west wind swept by in 
 a gust, and listened to it. All is comparatively still, when, far 
 away, you catch a faint murmur like the dying tones of an organ 
 with its stops closed — gradually swelling into clearer distinct- 
 ness and fuller volume, as if gathering strength for some fearful 
 exhibition of its power ; until, at length, it rushes like a sudden 
 sea overhead, and every thing sways and tosses about you. For 
 a moment an invisible spirit seems to be near — the fresh leaves 
 rustle and talk to each other — the pines and cedars whisper omi- 
 nous tidings, and then the retiring swell subsides in the distance, 
 and silence again slowly settles on the forest. A short interval 
 only elapses when the murmur, the swell, the rush, and the re- 
 treat are repeated. If you abandon yourself entirely to the in- 
 fluence, you soon are lost in strange illusions. I have lain and 
 listened to the wind moving thus among the branches, until I 
 fancied every gust a troop of spirits, whose tread over the bend- 
 ing tops I caught afar, and whose rapid approach I could dis- 
 tinctly measure. My heart would throb and pulses bound, as 
 the invisible squadrons drew near, till as their sounding chariots 
 of air swept swiftly overhead, I ceased listening, and turned to 
 look. Thus troop after troop they came and went on their 
 mysterious mission — waking the solitude into sudden life, as 
 they passed, and filling it with glorious melody. 
 
 THE PAINT-BRUSH OF AUTUMN. 
 
 The trees have a melancholy aspect about them — they appear 
 to be conscious that their glory is departing ; and every leaf, as 
 it loosens itself from the stem where it has nodded and swayed 
 the live-long summer in joy, and flutters to the earth, seems to 
 lie down as a sad memorial of the departed year. 
 
 But for once in autumn I have had none of these feelings. 
 Roaming through this glorious region, and along the foot of 
 these mountains, I have seen summer die as I never saw it die 
 before. There has been a beauty and brightness and glory about 
 the changing foliage this year, I never before witnessed. No 
 drenching rains faded the colors before their time, and amid the 
 clear weather and slight frosts the summer has died like the 
 dolphin, changing from beauty to beauty ; and Autumn has 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 225 
 
 seemed the most frolicsome fellow of all the year. Stand in 
 one of these deep valleys, and look around you on the shores 
 and hill-slopes and mountain ridges ! Autumn, with his brush 
 and colors has been painting with the most reckless prodigality 
 and in endless variety of beauty and brightness. There is no 
 end to his whims and conceits — the changed landscape seems 
 the work of one in his most joyous, frolicsome mood. There 
 stands a single maple-tree; Autumn approached it last night, 
 and, apparently from a mere whim, threw his brush over the top, 
 making it a scarlet red one- third of the way down, while the 
 other portion he left green as in its spring-time. He simply 
 put a red cap on it and passed on. On another, he ran his brush 
 along a single limb, which flashes out from the deep bosom of 
 green in singular contrast. Yonder is an open grove which he 
 has hurried through, touching here and there a tree with his 
 reckless brush, till it is spotted up with all the colors of the 
 rainbow. He has painted one all yellow, another all red, a third 
 left untouched, and a fourth sprinkled over with a shower of 
 colors, as if he had simply shaken his brush over it in mirth. 
 
 He has brought out colors where you never discovered any 
 thing but barrenness before. A yellow wreath is running along 
 a rock and festooning a tree, where yesterday was only an hum- 
 ble unseen vine. He painted it in a single night. He has trod 
 the gloomy swamp also, and lit up its solemn arcades with bright- 
 ness and beauty. The bushes that lifted themselves modestly 
 beside the dark fir-trees, unnoticed before, he has touched with 
 his pencil, while the evergreens, which he always avoids, stand 
 in their native greenness — and lo, a yellow lake is spread under 
 their sombre tops, as if a flood of molten gold had suddenly 
 been poured through them. He has tipped the bush that dips 
 the water with his pencil, and lo, the liquid mirror blushes with 
 the reflection at morning. Like a giant he has stood at the 
 base of the sky-seeking mountain, and swept his brush, with a 
 bold stroke all over its forest-covered sides, till it fairly dazzles 
 the eye as the evening sunbeams flood it. There, wdiere the 
 ridges stoop into a long steady slope, he has wrought on a 
 grander scale. The different nature of the soil has given birth 
 to several varieties of timber, which lie like so many separate 
 strata for miles along the mountain-side ; and here he has swept 
 his brush in long stripes of yellow and red and green and gold, 
 till acres of carpeting spread away on the vision, while here and 
 there separate clumps of trees have been touched with variega- 
 ted hues, to serve asfio-ures in the magnificent ground-work. It 
 10* 
 
226 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 is astonishing how well Autumn understands the effect of light, 
 especially as he works so much in the dark. But there, on the 
 bold spur of that hill, right where the sunlight falls at evening 
 through a gorge in the western range, he has laid on his richest 
 and most gorgeous colors. And when the western sky is 
 melting and flowing into fluid gold, and the glowing orb of day 
 is swimming in its own splendor as it sinks to rest, it pours its 
 full brightness upon that already bright projection, till it is con- 
 verted into a throne of light. 
 
 Thus does this frolicsome Autumn roam abroad, with brush 
 and colors in hand, obeying no law but that of beauty. But 
 while he paints on such a grand scale, and with such long 
 sweeps, and so rapidly, too, finishing millions of acres in a sin- 
 gle night, he omits none of the details. Each leaf is as care- 
 fully shaded, and as delicately touched, as if miniature painting 
 was his only profession. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE ROSE— Mrs. Elizabeth Babbktt Browning. 
 
 " discordance that can accord ; 
 
 And accordance to discord." 
 
 The Romaunt of the Rose. 
 
 A rose once passed within 
 
 A garden April-green, 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 And the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 A white rose, delicate, 
 
 On a tall bough and straight^ — 
 
 Early comer, April comer, 
 
 Never waiting for the summer; 
 
 Whose pretty gates did win 
 
 South winds to let her in, 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 All the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 " For if I wait," said she, 
 
 " Till times for roses be, — 
 For the musk-rose and the moss-rose, 
 Royal red and maiden blush-rose, — 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 227 
 
 " What glory then for me, 
 
 In such a company ? 
 Roses plenty, roses plenty, 
 And one nightingale for twenty ! 
 
 " Nay, let me in," said she, 
 
 " Before the rest are free, 
 In my loneness, in my loneness, 
 All the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 " For I would lonely stand, 
 
 Uplifting my white hand, 
 On a mission, on a mission, 
 To declare the coming vision. 
 
 " See mine, a holy heart, 
 
 To high ends set apart, — 
 All unmated, all unmated, 
 Because so consecrated. 
 
 " Upon which lifted sign, 
 
 What worship will be mine ! 
 What addressing, what caressing, 
 What thanks and praise and blessing ! 
 
 " A wind-like joy will rush 
 
 Through every tree and bush, 
 Bending softly in affection, 
 And spontaneous benediction. 
 
 " Insects, that only may, 
 
 Live in a sunbright ray, 
 To my whiteness, to my whiteness 
 Shall be drawn, as to a brightness. 
 
 " And every moth and bee 
 Shall near me reverently, 
 
228 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Wheeling round me, wheeling o'er me 
 Coronals of motioned glory. 
 
 " I ween the very skies 
 Will look down in surprise, 
 When low on earth they see me, 
 With my cloudy aspect dreamy. 
 
 " Ten nightingales shall flee 
 Their woods, for love of me, — 
 Singing sadly all the suntide, 
 Never waiting for the moontide. 
 
 " Three larks shall leave a cloud, 
 To my whiter beauty vow'd, — 
 Singing gladly all the moontide, 
 Never waiting for the suntide." 
 
 So praying did she win 
 South winds to let her in, 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 And the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 But out, alas for her ! 
 
 No thing did minister 
 To her praises, to her praises, 
 More than might unto a daisy's. 
 
 No tree nor bush was seen 
 To boast a perfect green, 
 Scarcely having, scarcely haying 
 One leaf broad enow for waving. 
 
 The little flies did crawl 
 Along the southern wall, 
 Faintly shifting, faintly shifting 
 Wings scarce strong enow for lifting. 
 
READINGS AND RKCITATIONS. 
 
 The nightingale did please 
 
 To loiter beyond seas. 
 Guess him in the happy islands, 
 Learning music from the silence. 
 
 The lark, too high or low, 
 
 Did haply miss her so — 
 With his nest down in the gorses, 
 And his song in the star-courses ! 
 
 Only the bee, forsooth, 
 Came in the place of both — 
 Doing honor, doing honor 
 To the honey-dews upon her. 
 
 The skies looked coldly down 
 
 As on a royal crown ; 
 Then, drop by drop, at leisure, 
 Began to rain for pleasure ; 
 
 Whereat the earth did seem 
 To waken from a dream ; 
 Winter frozen, winter frozen, 
 Her unquiet eyes unclosing — 
 
 Said to the rose, " Ha, Snow ! 
 
 And art thou fallen so ? 
 Thou who wert enthroned stately 
 Along my mountains lately ! 
 
 " Holla, thou world-wide snow ! 
 
 And art thou wasted so ? 
 With a little bough to catch thee, 
 And a little bee to watch thee !" 
 
 Poor rose, to be unknown ! 
 Would she had ne'er been blown, 
 
230 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 All the sadder for that oneness. 
 
 Some word she tried to say, 
 Some sigh — ah, wellaway ! 
 But the passion did o'ercome her, 
 And the fair frail leaves dropp'd from her- 
 
 Dropp'd from her, fair and mute, 
 
 Close to a poet's foot, 
 Who beheld them, smiling lowly 
 As at something sad yet holy : 
 
 Said, " Verily and thus 
 
 So chanceth eke with us, 
 Poets, singing sweetest snatches, 
 While deaf men keep the watches — 
 
 " Vaunting to come before 
 
 Our own age evermore, 
 In a loneness, in a loneness, 
 And the nobler for that oneness ! 
 
 " But if alone we be, 
 
 Where is our empiry ? 
 And if none can reach our stature, 
 Who will mate our lofty nature ? 
 
 "What bell will yield a tone, 
 
 Saving in the air alone ? 
 If no brazen clapper bringing, 
 Who can bear the chimed ringing ? 
 
 " What angel but would seem 
 To sensual eyes glint-dim ? 
 
 And without assimilation, 
 
 Vain is interpenetration ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 231 
 
 " Alas ! what can wc do, 
 
 The rose and poet too, 
 Who both antedate our mission 
 In an unprepared season ? 
 
 " Drop, leaf — be silent, song — 
 
 Cold things we came among! 
 We must warm them, we must warm them, 
 Ere we ever hope to charm them. 
 
 " Howbeit," — here his face 
 
 Lightened around the place, 
 So to mark the outward turning 
 Of his spirit's inward burning — 
 
 " Something it is to hold 
 
 In God's worlds manifold, 
 First reveal'd to creatures' duty, 
 A new form of His mild beauty ; 
 
 " Whether that form respect 
 
 The sense or intellect, 
 Holy rest in soul or pleasance, 
 The chief Beauty's sign of presence. 
 
 " Holy in me and thee, 
 
 Rose fallen from the tree, 
 Though the world stand dumb around us, 
 All unable to expound us. 
 
 " Though none us deign to bless, 
 
 Blessed are we nathless ; 
 Blessed age and consecrated, 
 In that, Rose, we were created ! 
 
 " Oh, shame to poets' lays, 
 Sung for the dole of praise — 
 
232 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Hoarsely sung upon the highway, 
 With an c obolum da miki P 
 
 " Shame, shame to poet's soul, 
 
 Pining for such a dole, 
 When heaven-called to inherit 
 The high throne of his own spirit ! 
 
 " Sit still upon your thrones, 
 
 O ye poetic ones ! 
 And if, sooth, the world decry you, 
 Why, let that same world pass by you ! 
 
 " Ye to yourselves suffice, 
 
 Without its flatteries ; 
 Self-contentedly approve you 
 Unto Him who sits above you, 
 
 " In prayers that upward mount, 
 
 Like to a sunned fount, 
 And, in gushing back upon you, 
 Bring the music they have won you! 
 
 " In thanks for all the good 
 
 By poets understood — 
 For the sound of seraphs moving 
 Through the hidden depths of loving ; 
 
 " For sights of things away, 
 Through fissures of the clay,— 
 Promised things, which shall be given 
 And sung over up in heaven ! 
 
 " For life, so lonely vain, — 
 For death, which breaks the chain, — 
 For this sense of present sweetness, 
 And this yearning to completeness !" 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 233 
 
 A MORNING AMONG THE HILLS.-Jameb G. Praaviu 
 
 A night had pass'd away among the hills, 
 And now the first faint tokens of the dawn 
 Show'd in the east. The bright and dewy star, 
 Whose mission is to usher in the morn, 
 Look'd through the cool air, like a blessed thing 
 In a far purer world. Below there lay, 
 Wrapp'd round a woody mountain tranquilly, 
 A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light, 
 That now came up from out the unseen depth 
 Of the full fount of day, and they were laced 
 With colors ever brightening. I had waked 
 From a long sleep of many changing dreams, 
 And now in the fresh forest air I stood 
 Nerved to another day of wandering. 
 Before me rose a pinnacle of rock, 
 Lifted above the wood that hemm'd it in, 
 And now already glowing. There the beams 
 Came from the far horizon, and they wrapp'd it 
 In light and glory. Round its vapory cone 
 A crown of far-diverging rays shot out, 
 And gave to it the semblance of an altar 
 Lit for the worship of the undying flame, 
 That center'd in the circle of the sun, 
 Now coming from the ocean's fathomless caves, 
 Anon would stand in solitary pomp 
 Above the loftiest peaks, and cover them 
 With splendor as a garment. Thitherward 
 I bent my eager steps ; and through the grove, 
 Now dark as deepest night, and thickets hung 
 With a rich harvest of unnumber'd gems, 
 Waiting a clearer dawn to catch the hues 
 Shed from the starry fringes of its veil 
 On cloud, and mist, and dew, and backward thrown 
 
234: LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 In infinite reflections, on I went, 
 Mounting with hasty foot, and thence emerging, 
 I scaled that rocky steep, and there awaited 
 Silent the full appearing of the sun. 
 
 Below there lay a far-extended sea, 
 Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it, 
 And toss'd it round the high-ascending rocks, 
 And swept it through the half-hidden forest tops, 
 Till, like an ocean waking into storm, 
 It heaved and welter'd. Gloriously the light 
 Crested its billows, and those craggy islands 
 Shone on it like to palaces of spar 
 Built on a sea of pearl. Far overhead, 
 Thy sky, without a vapor or a stain, 
 Intensely blue, even deepen'd into purple, 
 When nearer the horizon it received 
 A tincture from the mist that there dissol ved 
 Into the viewless air, — the sky bent round, 
 The awful dome of a most mighty temple, 
 Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less 
 Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence — 
 I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts 
 Of wonder and of joy that then came o'er me, 
 Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful, 
 So bright, so glorious ! Such a majesty 
 In yon pure vault ! So many dazzling tints 
 In yonder waste of waves, — so like the ocean 
 With its unnumber'd islands there encircled 
 By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle, 
 Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds 
 To bathe in purest sunbeams, seem'd an ospray 
 Hovering above his prey, and yon tall pines, 
 Their tops half -mantled in a snowy veil, 
 A frigate with full canvas, bearing on 
 To conquest and to glory. But even these 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 235 
 
 Had round them something of the lofty air 
 In which they moved ; not like to things of earth, 
 But heighten'd, and made glorious, as became 
 Such pomp and splendor. 
 
 Who can tell the brightness, 
 That every moment caught a newer glow, 
 That circle, with its centre like the heart 
 Of elemental fire, and spreading out 
 In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky 
 And on the ophaline waves, crown'd with a rainbow 
 Bright as the arch that bent above the throne 
 Seen in a vision by the holy man 
 In Patmos ! who can tell how it ascended, 
 And flow'd more widely o'er that lifted ocean, 
 Till instantly the unobstructed sun 
 Ptoll'd up his sphere of fire, floating away — 
 Away in a pure ether, far from earth, 
 And all its clouds, — and pouring forth unbounded 
 His arrowy brightness ! From that burning centre 
 At once there ran along the level line 
 Of that imagined sea, a stream of gold — 
 Liquid and flowing gold, that seem'd to tremble 
 Even with a furnace heat, on to the point 
 Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapor 
 Parted away, and melting into air, 
 Rose round me, and I stood involved in light, 
 As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapp'd me 
 In its innocuous blaze. Away it roll'd, 
 Wave after wave. They climb'd the highest rocks, 
 Pour'd over them in surges, and then rush'd 
 Down glens and valleys, like a wintry torrent 
 Dash'd instant to the plain. It seem'd a moment, 
 And they were gone, as if the touch of fire 
 At once dissolved them. Then I found myself 
 Midway in air ; ridge after ridge below, 
 
236 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Descended with their opulence of woods 
 Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake, 
 Flash'd in the sun, and from it wound a line, 
 Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge 
 Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks 
 Was round me — but below how beautiful, 
 How rich the plain! a wilderness of groves 
 And ripening harvests ! while the sky of June — 
 The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air, 
 That makes it then a luxury to live, 
 Only to breathe it, and the busy echo 
 Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks, 
 Stole with such gentle meanings to my heart, 
 That where I stood seem'd heaven. 
 
 THE MISSISSIPPI— Mrs. Sarah Jane Hale. 
 
 Monarch of rivers in the wide domain 
 Where Freedom writes her signature in stars, 
 And bids her eagle bear the blazing scroll 
 To usher in the reign of peace and love, 
 Thou mighty Mississippi ! — may my song- 
 Swell with thy power, and though an humble rill, 
 Roll, like thy current, through the sea of time, 
 Bearing thy name, as tribute from my soul 
 Of fervent gratitude and holy praise, 
 To Him who poured thy multitude of waves. 
 
 Shadowed beneath those awful piles of stone, 
 Where liberty has found a Pisgah height, 
 O'erlooking all the land she loves to bless, 
 The jagged rocks and icy towers her guard, 
 Whose splintered summits seize the warring clouds, 
 And roll them, broken, like a host o'erthrown, 
 Adown the mountain's side, scattering their wealth 
 Of powdered pearl and liquid diamond drops — 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 237 
 
 There is thy source, great river of the West ! 
 
 Slowly, like youthful Titan gathering strength 
 To war with Heaven and win himself a name, 
 The stream moves onward through the dark ravines, 
 Rending the roots of over-arching trees, 
 To form its narrow channel, where the star, 
 That fain would bathe its beauty in the wave, 
 Like lover's glance steals trembling through the leaves 
 That veil the w r aters with a vestal's care : 
 And few of human form have ventured there, 
 Save the swart savage in his bark canoe. 
 
 But now it deepens, struggles, rushes on ; 
 Like goaded war-horse, bounding o'er the foe, 
 It clears the rocks it may not spurn aside, 
 Leaping, as Curtius leaped adown the gulf, 
 And rising, like Antaeus from the fall, 
 Its course majestic through the land pursues, 
 And the broad river o'er the valley reigns ! 
 
 It reigns alone : the tributary streams 
 Are humble vassals, yielding to its sway ; 
 And when the wild Missouri fain would join 
 A rival in the race — as Jacob seized 
 On. his red brother's birthright — even so 
 The swelling Mississippi grasps that wave, 
 And, rebaptizing, makes the waters one. 
 
 It reigns alone — and earth the sceptre feels : 
 Her ancient trees are bowed beneath the wave, 
 Or, rent like reeds before the whirlwind's swoop, 
 Toss on the bosom of the maddened flood, 
 A floating forest, till the waters, calmed, 
 Like slumbering anaconda gorged with prey, 
 Open a haven to the moving mass, 
 Or form an island in the dark abyss. 
 
 It reigns alone : old Nile would ne'er bedew 
 The lands it blesses with its fertile tide. 
 
238 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Even sacred Ganges, joined with Egypt's flood, 
 
 Would shrink beside this wonder of the West ! 
 
 Ay, gather Europe's royal rivers all — 
 
 The snow- swelled Neva, with an empire's weight 
 
 On her broad breast, she yet may overwhelm ; 
 
 Dark Danube, hurrying, as by foe pursued, 
 
 Through shaggy forests and from palace walls, 
 
 To hide its terrors in a sea of gloom ; 
 
 The castled Rhine, whose vine-crowned waters flow, 
 
 The fount of fable and, the source of song ; 
 
 The rushing Rhone, in whose cerulean depths 
 
 The loving sky seems wedded with the wave ; 
 
 The yellow Tiber, choked with Roman spoils, 
 
 A dying miser shrinking 'neath his gold ; 
 
 And Seine, where Fashion glasses fairest forms ; 
 
 And Thames, that bears the riches of the world : 
 
 Gather their waters in one ocean mass — 
 
 Our Mississippi, rolling proudly on, 
 
 Would sweep them from its path, or swallow up, 
 
 Like Aaron's rod, these streams of fame and song ! 
 
 And thus the peoples, from the many lands, 
 Where these old streams are household memories, 
 Mingle beside our river, and are one — 
 And join to swell the strength of Freedom's tide, 
 That from the fount of Truth is flowing on, 
 To sweep earth's thousand tyrannies away. 
 
 How wise, how wonderful the works of God ! 
 And, hallowed by his goodness, all are good. 
 The creeping glow-worm, the careering sun, 
 Are kindled from the effluence of his light ; 
 The ocean and the acorn-cup are filled 
 By gushings from the fountain of his love. 
 He poured the Mississippi's torrent forth, 
 And heaved its tide above the trembling land — 
 Grand type how Freedom lifts the citizen 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 239 
 
 Above the subject masses of the world — 
 And marked the limits it may never pass. 
 Trust in his promises, and bless his power, 
 Ye dwellers on its banks, and be at peace. 
 
 And ye, whose way is on this warrior wave, 
 When the swoln waters heave with ocean's might, 
 And storms and darkness close the gate of heaven, 
 And the frail bark, fire-driven, bounds quivering on, 
 As though it rent the iron shroud of night, 
 And struggled with the demons of the flood — 
 Fear nothing ! He who shields the folded flower 
 When tempests rage, is ever present here. 
 Lean on " Our Father's" breast in faith and prayer, 
 And sleep — his arm of love is strong to save. 
 
 Great Source of being, beauty, light, and love, 
 Creator — Lord — the waters worship thee ! 
 Ere thy creative smile had sown the flowers — 
 Ere the glad hills leaped upward, or the earth, 
 With swelling bosom, waited for her child — 
 Before eternal Love had lit the sun, 
 Or Time had traced his dial-plate in stars, 
 The joyful anthem of the waters flowed : 
 And Chaos like a frightened felon fled, 
 While on the deep the Holy Spirit moved. 
 
 And evermore the deep has worshipped God; 
 And bards and prophets tune their mystic lyres, 
 While listening to the music of the floods. 
 Oh, could I catch this harmony of sounds, 
 As borne on dewy wings they float to heaven, 
 And blend their meaning with my closing strain ! 
 
 HaTk ! as a reed-harp thrilled by whispering winds, 
 Or naiad murmurs from a pearl-lipped shell, 
 It comes — the melody of many waves ! 
 And loud, with Freedom's world-awaking note, 
 The deep-toned Mississippi leads the choir. 
 
240 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The pure, sweet fountains chant of heavenly hope ; 
 The chorus of the rills is household love ; 
 The rivers roll their song of social joy ; 
 And ocean's organ voice is sounding forth 
 The hymn of Universal Brotherhood ! 
 
 THE LORE-LEI— Heine. 
 
 A witch, who, in the form of a lovely maiden, used to place herself on the re- 
 markable rock, called the Lurleyherg, overlooking the Rhine, and, by her magic 
 songs arresting the attention of the boatmen, lured them into the neighboring whirl- 
 pool. 
 
 I know not whence it rises, 
 
 This thought so full of woe ; 
 But a tale of times departed 
 
 Haunts me, and will not go. 
 
 The air is cool, and it darkens, 
 
 And calmly flows the Rhine, 
 The mountain-peaks are sparkling 
 
 In the sunny evening-shiue. 
 
 And yonder sits a maiden, 
 
 The fairest of the fair ; 
 With gold is her garment glittering, 
 
 And she combs her golden hair : 
 
 With a golden comb she combs it ; 
 
 And a wild song singeth she, 
 That melts the heart with a wondrous 
 
 And powerful melody. 
 
 The boatman feels his bosom 
 
 With a nameless longing move ; 
 He sees not the gulfs before him, 
 
 His gaze is fixed above, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONa 241 
 
 Till over boat and boatman 
 
 The Rhine's deep waters run : 
 And this, with her magic singing, 
 
 The Lore-lei has done ! 
 
 HOPE— COWPER. 
 
 Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all 
 That men have deem'd substantial since the fall, 
 Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe 
 From emptiness itself a real use ; 
 And while she takes, as at a father's hand, 
 What health and sober appetite demand, 
 From fading good derives, with chemic art, 
 That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. 
 Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth, 
 Pants for the place of her ethereal birth, 
 On steady wings sails through the immense abyss, 
 Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss, 
 And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here, 
 With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. 
 Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast 
 The Christian vessel, and defies the blast. 
 Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure 
 His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure. 
 Hope ! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy, 
 Whom now despairing agonies destroy, 
 Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, 
 What treasures centre, what delights in thee. 
 Had he the gems, the spices, and the land 
 That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; 
 The fragrant grove, the inestimable mine, 
 Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of thine. 
 11 
 
242 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 TO VIOLETS— Herriok. 
 
 Welcome, maids of honor, 
 
 You do bring 
 
 In the Spring, 
 And wait upon her. 
 
 She lias virgins many, 
 
 Fresh and fair ; 
 
 Yet you are 
 More sweet than any. 
 
 Y' are the Maiden Posies, 
 
 And so graced, 
 
 To be placed, 
 'Fore damask roses. 
 
 Yet though thus respected, 
 
 By and by 
 
 Ye do lie, 
 Poor girls, neglected. 
 
 TO THE DAISY— William Wordsworth. 
 
 "Her divine skill taught me this : 
 That from every thins I saw 
 I could some instruction draw, 
 And raise pleasure to the height 
 Through the meanest object's sight: 
 By the murmur of a spring. 
 Or the least hough's rustelling; 
 By a daisy whose leaves spread 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or a shady bush or tree, 
 She could more infuse in me, 
 Than all Nature's beauties can 
 In some other wiser man." 
 
 George "Wither. 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went, 
 From hill to hill in discontent 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent — 
 Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 243 
 
 But now my own delights I make, 
 My thirst at every rill can slake, 
 And gladly Nature's love partake, 
 Of thee, sweet Daisy ! 
 
 Thee, Winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
 
 That she may sun thee ; 
 Whole summer-fields are thine by right ; 
 And Autumn, melancholy wight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again, 
 
 Yet nothing daunted 
 Nor grieved, if thou be set at naught : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their sacred mews 
 
 The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose ; 
 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Her head impearling ; 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 . The poet's darling. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly, 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie 
 Near the green holly, 
 
244 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And wearily at length should fare ; 
 He needs but look about, and there 
 Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 
 His melancholy. 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Some apprehension ; 
 Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
 Some memory that had taken flight ; 
 Some chime of fancy, wrong or right ; 
 
 Or stray invention 
 
 If stately passions in me burn, 
 
 And one chance look to thee should turn, 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 A lowlier pleasure ; 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common life our nature breeds ; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
 When thou art up, alert and gay, 
 Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 
 
 With kindred gladness ; 
 And when at dusk, by dews oppressed, 
 Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 All seasons through, another debt, 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 To thee am owing ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 245 
 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense; 
 A happy, genial influence, 
 Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
 Nor whither going. 
 
 Child of the year ! that round dost run 
 Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun, 
 As ready to salute the sun 
 
 As lark or leveret — 
 Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain, 
 Nor be less dear to future men 
 Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 
 
 Art Nature's favorite. 
 
 CHARITY.— James Montgomery. 
 
 Could I command, with voice or pen, 
 The tongues of angels and of men, 
 A tinkling cymbal, sounding brass, 
 My speech and preaching would surpass ; 
 Vain were such eloquence to me, 
 Without the grace of charity ? 
 
 Could I the martyr's flame endure, 
 Give all my goods to feed the poor — 
 Had I the faith from Alpine steep 
 To hurl the mountain to the deep — 
 What were such zeal, such power, to me 
 Without the grace of charity ? 
 
 Could I behold with prescient eye 
 Things future, as the things gone by — 
 Could I all earthly knowledge scan, 
 And mete out heaven with a span — 
 Poor were the chief of gifts to me 
 Without the chiefest — charity. 
 
246 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Charity suffers long, is kind — 
 
 Charity bears a humble mind — 
 
 Rejoices not when ills befall, 
 
 But glories in the weal of all ; 
 
 She hopes, believes, and envies not, 
 
 Nor vaunts, nor murmurs o'er her lot. 
 
 The tongues of teachers shall be dumb, 
 Prophets discern not things to come, 
 Knowledge shall vanish out of thought, 
 And miracles no more be wrought ; 
 But charity shall never fail — 
 Her anchor is within the veil. 
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA.-Miss L. E. Landon. 
 The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 
 
 Has vanished from the waters, where it flung 
 A royal color, such as gems are throwing 
 
 Tyrian or regal garniture among. 
 'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming, 
 
 Thro' the slight vapor trembles each dim star ; 
 I turn away — my heart is sadly dreaming 
 Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 By each dark wave around the vessel sweeping, 
 
 Farther am I from old dear friends removed ; 
 Till the lone vigil that I now am keeping, 
 
 I did not know how much you were beloved. 
 How many acts of kindness little heeded, 
 
 Kind looks, kind words, rise half reproachful now ! 
 Hurried and anxious, my vexed life has speeded, 
 
 And memory wears a soft accusing brow* 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
RKADINGS AND KKC1TAT10NS. 247 
 
 The very stars are strangers, as I catch them 
 
 Athwart the shadowy sails that swell above ; 
 I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them 
 
 At the same moment with a mutual love. 
 They shine not there, as here they now are shining; 
 
 The very hours are changed. — Ah, do ye sleep ? 
 O'er each home pillow midnight is declining — 
 
 May some kind dream at least my image keep ! 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 Yesterday has a charm, To-day could never 
 
 Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till it parts 
 How it turns back with tenderest endeavor 
 
 To fix the past within the heart of hearts. 
 Absence is full of memory, it teaches 
 
 The value of all old familiar things ; 
 The strengthener of affection, while it reaches 
 
 O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 The world, with one vast element omitted — 
 
 Man's own especial element, the earth ; 
 Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted 
 
 By that great knowledge whence has power its birth. 
 How oft on some strange loveliness while gazing, 
 
 Have I wished for you — beautiful as new, 
 The purple waves like some wild army raising 
 
 Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning, 
 Up springs the flying-fish like life's false joy, 
 
248 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorning 
 
 Whose very light is fated to destroy. 
 Ah, so doth genius, on its rainbow pinion 
 
 Spring from the depths of an unkindly world ; 
 So spring sweet fancies from the heart's dominion — 
 Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is furled. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Whatever I see is linked with thoughts of you. 
 
 No life is in the air, but in the waters 
 
 Are creatures, huge, and terrible, and strong ; 
 The sword-fish and the shark pursue their slaughters, 
 
 War universal reigns these depths along. 
 Like some new island on the ocean springing, 
 
 Floats on the surface some gigantic whale, 
 From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, 
 
 Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 I read such fairy legends while with you. 
 
 Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading, 
 
 The moon is whitening the dusky sails, 
 From the thick banks of clouds she masters, shedding 
 
 The softest influence that o'er night prevails. 
 Pale is she like a young queen pale with splendor, 
 
 Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too deep 
 The very glory that she wears is tender, 
 
 The very eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you ? 
 
 Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning 
 Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes ; 
 
 The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorning 
 What toil upon a path so sunny lies. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 249 
 
 Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their weather 
 
 Calls into life an energy like Spring's ; 
 But memory and moonlight go together, 
 Reeflcted in the light that either brings. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Do you think of me, then ? I think of you. 
 
 The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking 
 
 But the watch pacing silently and slow ; 
 The waves against the sides incessant breaking, 
 
 And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. 
 The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle 
 
 Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air ; 
 While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle, 
 
 The only light on board to guide us — where? 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 Far from my native land, and far from you. 
 
 On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's shimmer 
 
 In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea, 
 But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale glimmer 
 
 Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves to be. 
 All that the spirit keeps of thought and feeling, 
 
 Takes visionary hues from such an hour; 
 But while some fantasy is o'er me stealing, 
 
 I start — remembrance has a keener power : 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 
 From the fair dream I start to think of you. 
 
 A dusk line in the moonlight — I discover 
 
 What all day long vainly I sought to catch ; 
 Or is it but the varying clouds that hover 
 
 Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that watch ? 
 No ; well the sailor knows each speck, appearing, 
 
 Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand ; 
 To that dark line our eager ship is steering. 
 
 Her voyage done — to-morrow we shall laud. 
 11* 
 
250 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE INEYITABLE.-Leigh Hunt. 
 
 The royal sage, lord of the Magic Ring, 
 Solomon, once upon a morn in spring, 
 By Cedron, in bis garden's rosiest walk, 
 Was pacing with a pleasant guest in talk, 
 When they beheld, approaching, but with face 
 Yet undiscerned, a stranger in the place. 
 
 How he came there, what wanted, who could be, 
 How dare, unushered, beard such privacy, 
 Whether 'twas some great Spirit of the Ring, 
 And if so, why he should thus daunt the king ? 
 (For the ring's master, after one sharp gaze, 
 Stood waiting, more in trouble than amaze), 
 All this the courtier would have asked ; but fear 
 Palsied his utterance, as the man drew near. 
 
 The stranger seemed (to judge him by his dress) 
 One of mean sort, a dweller with distress, 
 Or some poor pilgrim ; but the steps he took 
 Belied it with strange greatness ; and his look 
 Opened a page in a tremendous book. 
 
 He wore a cowl, from under which there shone, 
 Full on the guest, and on the guest alone, 
 A face, not of this earth, half veiled in gloom 
 And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of doom, 
 Which, ever as they came, before them sent 
 Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment, 
 With sense of change, and worse of change to be, 
 Sore sighing, and extreme anxiety, 
 And feebleness, and faintness, and moist brow, 
 The past a scoff, the future crying " Now !" 
 All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the hair ; 
 All that makes dying vehemence despair, 
 Knowing it must be dragged it knows not where. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 251 
 
 The excess of fear and anguish, which had tied 
 The courtier's tongue, now loosed it, and he cried, 
 "O royal master! Sage! Lord of the Ring, 
 I cannot bear the horror of this thing : 
 Help with thy mighty art. Wish me, I pray, 
 On the remotest mountain of Cathay." 
 
 Solomon wished, and the man vanished. Straight 
 Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate. 
 
 " Solomon," with a lofty voice said he, 
 " How came that man here, wasting time with thee ? 
 I was to fetch him, ere the close of day, 
 From the remotest mountain of Cathay." 
 
 Solomon said, bowing him to the ground, 
 " Angel of Death, there will the man be found." 
 
 THE EARTH— Kkv. A. Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 The Earth, it is a little ball 
 
 That sails thro' ether clear, 
 And beautiful it moves, through all 
 
 The silent atmosphere ; 
 Ten thousand, thousand miles away 
 
 From any sister star, 
 It is a lonely thing, they say, 
 
 Yet shineth from afar ; 
 To each remotest star it smiles, 
 
 And nieth all the time, 
 And all its airy way, beguiles, 
 
 With some celestial chime. 
 
 Oh, do not smile ! it is not vain, 
 Though envy sneer, and doubt complain ; 
 They do not dream who say they hear 
 The music of each little sphere 
 
252 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 On some clear evening, when aloft 
 The stars are out, and shining soft. 
 Oh, Earth, it is a lonely thing 
 Through empty regions wandering, 
 Yet charm'd forever, by a sound 
 From all the deep blue Heaven around ; 
 The Heaven above, the Heaven below, 
 The Heaven wherever she may go, 
 The starry vault through which she flies, 
 The deep unfathom'd, pathless skies. 
 
 Oh, Earth, it is a little gem, 
 
 The green Earth, and the bright ; 
 An emerald, in a diadem 
 
 Of sapphire, blue as night, 
 As night — when all the stars are dim, 
 
 Because the moon shines fair, 
 And Nature sends her holy hymn, 
 
 Up, through the stilly air. 
 And now I know that angels bright 
 Are ever with it, in its flight, 
 And dance around it, as it rolls, 
 And spinneth on its silver poles. 
 They flit anear its azure coasts, 
 The legions of the Lord of Hosts ; 
 Ten thousand, thousand, angel wings 
 Are with it in its journeyings, 
 And these are they, whose simple smile 
 Is starlight to the little isle ; 
 And oft their troops are visible 
 
 In changing columns, quick and glancing, 
 As if the skies, by miracle, 
 
 Were full of angel-lustres dancing. 
 And these, in bright successive changes, 
 The boy that through the woodland ranges 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 253 
 
 Beholds appall'd, and in Iris fear 
 Believes the judgment-day is near, 
 While duller wits are gravely set 
 With glass, and brazen tourniquet, 
 And eyes asquint, — at what they call 
 Naught but Aurora-Boreal ; 
 Unweeting that the sign is there, 
 As God in flesh, did once declare, 
 That all the world might know before, 
 How earth should rock, and ocean roar, 
 And nations quake, and empires wail, 
 And man's strong heart with terror fail. 
 
 The Earth, it is a tiny thing, 
 
 That hath all colors bright ; 
 And zones, that gird it like a ring, 
 
 With green and snowy white! 
 And ocean gives it fields of blue, 
 
 And mountains boss it fair ; 
 It carries every blessed hue 
 
 Through all the deep of air. 
 Oh yes, I'm coming nearer, nearer, 
 I see my little dwelling clearer, 
 And yonder — yes — it is the moon 
 Upgleaming from her highest noon ! 
 
 I saw the fairy vision ope, 
 Such as ye ken through the telescope : 
 Now, 'twas a globe of frost-work hung 
 High up in air, the stars among; 
 Then as it came to daylight more, 
 'Twas a blister'd orb of silver ore ; 
 And lo ! as the nearer sunbeams steal, 
 'Tis an orange stripp'd of its golden peel ; 
 And so was the night-queen lost in light ; 
 Oh, ye should look on the moon at night ! 
 
254 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 I saw it was only our planet's shade, 
 
 That men call night, and are sore afraid ; 
 
 And ever, 'tis so, with the mortal breast, 
 
 With the gloom of its own dark soul distressed ; 
 
 He feareth a shadow, that only can be 
 
 A speck in the sunshine of happiness free; 
 
 For man, like his planet, must ever be going 
 
 Half dark, and half light, on his wonderful way, 
 While ever his God, like the sunlight, is throwing 
 
 His merciful, glorious, unquenchable ray. 
 
 THE LITERATURE OF MIRTH.-Edwin P. Whipple. 
 
 The ludicrous side of life, like the serious side, has its litera- 
 ture ; and it is a literature of untold wealth. Mirth is a Proteus, 
 changing its shape and manner with the thousand diversities of 
 individual character, from the most superficial gayety, to the 
 deepest, most earnest humor. Thus, the wit of the airy, feather- 
 brained Farquhar glances and gleams like heat-lightning; that of 
 Milton blasts and burns like the bolt. Let us glance carelessly 
 over this wide field of comic writers, who have drawn new forms 
 of mirthful being from life's ludicrous side, and note, here and 
 there, a wit or humorist. There is the humor of Goethe, like his 
 own summer morning, mirthfully clear; and there is the tough 
 and knotty humor of old Ben Jonson, at times ground down at 
 the edge to a sharp cutting scorn, and occasionally hissing out 
 stinging words which seem, like his own Mercury's, " steeped in 
 the very brine of conceit, and sparkle like salt in fire." There is 
 the lithe, springy sarcasm, the hilarious badinage, the brilliant, 
 careless disdain, which sparkle and scorch along the glistening 
 page of Holmes. There is the sleepy smile that sometimes lies 
 so benignly on the sweet and serious diction of old Isaak Walton. 
 There is the mirth of Dickens, twinkling now in some ironical 
 insinuation, — and anon winking at you with pleasant malicious- 
 ness, its distended cheeks fat with suppressed glee, — and then, 
 again, coming out in broad gushes of humor, overflowing all 
 banks and bounds of conventional decorum. There is Sydney 
 Smith, — sly, sleek, swift, subtle, — a moment's motion, and the 
 human mouse is in his paw ! There, in a corner, look at that 
 petulant little man, his features working with thought and pain, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 255 
 
 his lips wrinkled with a sardonic smile ; and, see ! the immor- 
 tal personality has received its last point and polish in that toil- 
 ing brain, and, in a straight, luminous line, with a twang like 
 Scorn's own arrow, hisses through the air the unerring shaft of 
 Pope, — to 
 
 " Dash the proud gamester from his gilded car, 
 And bare the base heart that lurks beneath a star." 
 
 There, moving gracefully through that carpeted parlor, mark 
 that dapper, diminutive Irish gentleman. The moment you 
 look at him, your eyes are dazzled with the whizzing rockets 
 and hissing wheels, streaking the air with a million sparks, from 
 the pyrotechnic brain of Anacreon Moore. Again : cast your 
 eyes from that blinding glare and glitter to the soft and beauti- 
 ful brilliancy, the winning grace, the bland banter, the gliding 
 wit, the diffusive humor, which make you in love with all man- 
 kind, in the charming pages of Washington Irving. 
 
 Let us now turn to the benevolent mirth of Addison and 
 Steele, whose glory it was to redeem polite literature from moral 
 depravity, by showing that wit could chime merrily in with 
 the voice of virtue, and who smoothly laughed away many a 
 vice of the national character, by that humor which tenderly 
 touches the sensitive point with an evanescent grace and genial 
 glee. And here let us not forget Goldsmith, whose delicious 
 mirth is of that rare quality which lies too deep for laughter ; 
 which melts softly into the mind, suffusing it with inexpressible 
 delight, and sending the soul dancing joyously into the eyes to 
 utter its merriment in liquid glances, passing all the expression 
 of tone. And here, though we cannot do him justice, let us re- 
 member the name of Nathaniel Hawthorne, deserving a place 
 second to none in that band of humorists, whose beautiful depth 
 of cheerful feeling is the very poetry of mirth. In ease, grace, 
 delicate sharpness of satire, in a felicity of touch which often 
 surpasses the felicity of Addison, in a subtlety of insight which 
 often reaches farther than the subtlety of Steele, — the humor of 
 Hawthorne presents traits so fine as to be almost too excellent 
 for popularity, as, to every one who has attempted their criti- 
 cism, they are too refined for statement. The brilliant atoms 
 flit, hover, and glance before our minds, but the subtle sources 
 of their ethereal light He beyond our analysis, — 
 
 "And no speed of ours avails 
 To hunt upon their shining trails." 
 
250 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And now let us breathe a benison on these our mirthful bene- 
 factors, these fine revellers among human weaknesses, these 
 stern, keen satirists of human depravity. Wherever Humor 
 smiles away the fretting thoughts of care, or supplies that anti- 
 dote which cleanses 
 
 " The stuff (1 bosom of that perilous stuff 
 That weighs upon the heart," — 
 
 wherever Wit riddles folly, abases pride, or stings iniquity, — 
 there glides the cheerful spirit, or glitters the flashing thought, . 
 of these bright enemies of stupidity and gloom. Thanks to 
 them, hearty thanks, for teaching us that the ludicrous side of 
 life is its wicked side, no less than its foolish ; that in a lying 
 world there is still no mercy for falsehood ; that G-uilt, however 
 high it may lift its brazen front, is never beyond the lightnings 
 of scorn ; and that the lesson they teach agrees with the lesson 
 taught by all experience, that life in harmony with reason is the 
 only life safe from laughter ; that life in harmony with virtue is 
 the only life safe from contempt. 
 
 MERLIN'S TALE TO VIVIEN— Alfred Tennyson. 
 (Feosi "Idyls or the King. 1 ') 
 
 " There lived a king in the most Eastern East, 
 Less old than I, yet older, for my blood 
 Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
 A tawny pirate anchored in his port, 
 Whose bark had plundered twenty nameless isles ; 
 And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, 
 He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
 All fighting for a woman on the sea. 
 And pushing his black craft among them all, 
 He lightly scattered theirs and brought her off, 
 With loss of half his people arrow-slain ; 
 A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, 
 They said a light came from her when she moved : 
 And since the pirate would not yield her up, 
 The king impaled him for his piracy ; 
 Then made her Queen : but those isle-nurtured eye3 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 257 
 
 Waged such unwilling though successful war 
 
 On all the youth, they sickened; councils thinned, 
 
 And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew 
 
 The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 
 
 And beasts themselves would worship ; camels knelt 
 
 Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back 
 
 That carry kings in castles bowed black knees 
 
 Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, 
 
 To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 
 
 What wonder, being jealous, that he sent 
 
 His horns of proclamation out through all 
 
 The hundred under-kingdoms that he swayed 
 
 To find a wizard who might teach the king 
 
 Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen 
 
 Might keep her all his own : to such a one 
 
 lie promised more than ever king has given, 
 
 A league of mountain full of golden mines, 
 
 A province with a hundred miles of coast, 
 
 A palace and a princess, all for him : 
 
 But on all those who tried and failed, the king 
 
 Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 
 
 To keep the list low and pretenders back, 
 
 Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
 
 Their heads should moulder on the city gates. 
 
 And many tried and failed, because the charm 
 
 Of nature in her overbore their own : 
 
 And many a wizard brow bleached on the walls : 
 
 And many weeks a troop of carrion crows 
 
 II ung like a cloud above the gateway towers." 
 
 And Vivien, breaking in upon him, said : 
 " I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks, 
 Your tongue has tripped a little : ask yourself. 
 The lady never made unwilling war 
 With those fine eyes : she had her pleasure in it, 
 
258 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And made her good man jealous with good cause. 
 
 And lived there neither dame nor damsel then 
 
 Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as tame, 
 
 I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair ? 
 
 Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, 
 
 Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, 
 
 Or make her paler with a poisoned rose ? 
 
 Well, those were not our days : but did they find 
 
 A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee?" 
 
 She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck 
 Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes 
 Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's 
 On her new lord, her own, the first of men. 
 
 He answered laughing, " Nay, not like to me. 
 At last they found — his foragers for charms — 
 A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
 Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; 
 Read but one book, and ever reading grew 
 So grated down and filed away with thought, 
 So lean his eyes were monstrous ; while the skin 
 Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. 
 And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, 
 Nor ever touched fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, 
 Nor owned a sensual wish, to him the wall 
 That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men 
 Became a crystal, and he saw them through it, 
 And heard their voices talk behind the wall, 
 And learned their elemental secrets, powers 
 And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright eye 
 Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, 
 And lashed it at the base with slanting storm ; 
 Or in the noon of mist and driving rain, 
 When the lake whitened and the pine-wood roared, 
 
II MA DINGS AND RECITATIONS. 259 
 
 And the cairned mountain was a shadow, sunned 
 The world to peace again : here was the man. 
 And so by force they dragged him to the king. 
 And then he taught the king to charm the Queen 
 In such-wise, that no man could see her more, 
 Nor saw she save the king, who wrought the charm, 
 Coming and going, and she lay as dead, 
 And lost all use of life : but when the king 
 Made proffer of the league of golden mines, 
 The province with a hundred miles of coast, 
 The palace and the princess, that old man 
 Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, 
 And vanished, and his book came down to me." 
 
 TO THE DANUELION.-^James Kussell Lowell. 
 
 Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold ! 
 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold — 
 
 High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
 An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
 
 Which not the rich earth's ample round 
 May match in wealth ! — thou art more dear to me 
 Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 
 
 Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
 Through the primeval hush of Indian seas ; 
 
 Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
 Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease. 
 
 'Tis the Spring's largess, w r hich she scatters now 
 To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand ; 
 Though most hearts never understand 
 To take it at God's value, but pass by 
 The offered wealth with unrewarded eve. 
 
260 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; 
 To look at tliec unlocks a warmer clime ; 
 
 The eyes thou givest me 
 Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 
 
 Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
 Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
 In the white lily's breezy tent, 
 His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first 
 From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 
 
 Then think I of deep shadows on the grass ; 
 Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 
 
 Where, as the breezes pass, 
 The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways ; 
 Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
 Or whiten in the wind ; of waters blue, 
 
 That from the distance sparkle through 
 Some woodland gap ; and of a sky above, 
 Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 
 
 My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; 
 The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 
 
 Who, from the dark old tree 
 Beside the door, sang clearly all day long ; 
 
 And I, secure in childish piety, 
 Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
 
 With news from heaven, which he did bring 
 Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
 When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 
 
 Thou teachest me to deem 
 More sacredly of every human heart, 
 
 Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 261 
 
 Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 
 Did we but pay the love we owe, 
 
 And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
 On all these living pages of God's book. 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE— Thomas Buchanan Eead. 
 
 Within this sober realm of leafless trees, 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, 
 
 Like some tann'd reaper in his hour of ease, 
 When all the fields arc lying brown and bare. 
 
 The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills 
 O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 
 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
 On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 
 
 All sights were mellow'd, and all sounds subdued, 
 The hills seem'd farther, and the streams sang low; 
 
 As in a dream, the distant woodman hew'd 
 Uis winter log with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile arm'd in gold, 
 Their banners bright with every martial hue, 
 
 Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 
 
 On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight ; 
 
 The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint ; 
 And, like a star slow drowning in the light, 
 
 The village church-vane seem'd to pale and faint. 
 
 The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew, — 
 Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, — 
 
 Silent till some replying wanderer blew 
 
 His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 
 
262 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest 
 
 Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young ; 
 
 And where the oriole hung her swaying nest 
 By every light wind like a censer swung ; 
 
 Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
 
 The busy swallows circling ever near, 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
 
 An early harvest and a plenteous year ; 
 
 Where every bird which charm' d the vernal feast 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 
 
 To warn the reapers of the rosy east, 
 
 All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 
 
 Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 
 
 And croak'd the crow through all the dreary gloom ; 
 
 Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
 Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom, upon the bowers ; 
 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ; 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
 
 Sail'd slowly by — pass'd noiseless out of sight. 
 
 Amid all this, — in this most cheerless air, 
 
 And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, 
 Firing the floor with his inverted torch, — 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 
 
 The white-hair'd matron, with monotonous tread, 
 
 Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
 Sat like a Fate, and watch'd the flying thread. 
 
 She had known Sorrow. ITe had walk'd with her, 
 Oft supp'd, and broke with her the ashen crust, 
 
 And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 
 
READINGS AM) BBCITATION& 203 
 
 While yet her eheek was bright with summer bloom, 
 Her eountry summon'd, and she gave her all, 
 
 And twice war bow'd to her his sable plume; 
 He gave the swords to rest upon the wall. 
 
 Re-gave the swords, — but not the hand that drew, 
 
 And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
 
 Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
 
 Like the low murmurs of a hive at noon ; 
 Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 
 
 At last the thread was snapp'd, her head was bow'd : 
 Life droop'd the distaff through his hands serene; 
 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, 
 While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 
 
 CHARLEMAGNE AND THE HERMIT -William Allan Butler. 
 
 Charlemagne, the mighty monarch, 
 
 As through Metten wood he strayed, 
 Fouud the holy hermit Hutto, 
 Toiling in the forest glade. 
 
 In his hand the woodman's hatchet, 
 By his side the knife and twine, 
 
 There he cut and bound the fagots 
 From the gnarled and stunted pine. 
 
 Well the monarch knew the hermit, 
 
 For his pious works and cares 
 And the wonders which had followed 
 
 On his vigils, fasts, and prayers. 
 
2(U LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Much he marvelled now to see him 
 Toiling there, with axe and cord, 
 
 And he cried in scorn, " Oh, Father ! 
 Is it thus you serve the Lord ?" 
 
 But the hermit, resting neither 
 Hand nor hatchet, meekly said — 
 
 " He who does no daily labor 
 May not ask for daily bread ; 
 
 " Think not that my graces slumber 
 While I toil throughout the day, 
 
 For all honest work is worship, 
 And to labor is to pray. 
 
 " Think not that the heavenly blessing 
 From the workman's hand removes, 
 
 Who does best his task appointed 
 Him the Master most approves." 
 
 While he spoke, the hermit, pausing 
 For a moment, raised his eyes 
 
 Where the over-hanging branches 
 Swayed beneath the sunset skies. 
 
 Through the dense and vaulted forest 
 Straight the level sunbeam came, 
 
 Shining like a golden rafter 
 
 Poised upon a sculptured frame. 
 
 Suddenly, with kindling features, 
 While he breathes a silent prayer, 
 
 See the hermit throws his hatchet 
 Lightly upward in the air. 
 
 Bright the well-worn steel is gleaming, 
 As it flashes through the shade, 
 
RBADBfGS AM> RECITATIONS. 2(35 
 
 And, descending, lo ! the sunbeam 
 
 Holds it dangling by the blade ! 
 
 " Sec, my son," exclaimed the hermit, 
 
 " See the token sent from heaven, 
 Tims to humble, patient effort, 
 
 Faith's miraculous aid is given. 
 
 " Toiling, hoping, often fainting, 
 
 As we labor, Love divine 
 Through the shadows pours its sunlight, 
 
 Crowns the work — vouchsafes the sign." 
 
 Homeward slowly went the monarch, 
 
 Till he reached his palace hall, 
 Where he strode among his warriors, 
 
 He the bravest of them all. 
 
 Soon the Benedictine Abbey 
 
 Rose beside the hermit's cell, 
 He, by royal hands invested, 
 
 Ruled as Abbot long and well. 
 
 Now, beside the rushing Danube, 
 
 Still its ruined walls remain, 
 Telling of the hermit's patience, 
 
 And the zeal of Charlemao-ne. 
 
 THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG.-Joim G. C. Brainakd. 
 On the deep is the mariner's danger, 
 
 On the deep is the mariner's death ; 
 Who, to fear of the tempest a stranger, 
 Sees the last bubble burst of his breath? 
 'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 
 Lone looker on despair ; 
 The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 The only witness there. 
 12 
 
26'6 LADIES BOOK OF 
 
 Who watches their course, who so mildly 
 Careen to the kiss of the breeze ? 
 
 Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly 
 Are clasp'd in the arms of the seas ? 
 'Tis the sea-bird, <fcc. 
 
 Who hovers on high o'er the lover, 
 And her who has clung to his neck ? 
 
 Whose wing is the wing that can cover 
 With its shadow the foundering wreck ? 
 'Tis the sea-bird, <fec. 
 
 My eye in the light of the billow, 
 My wing on the wake of the wave, 
 
 I shall take to my breast, for a pillow, 
 The shroud of the fair and the brave. 
 I'm a sea-bird, &c. 
 
 My foot on the iceberg has lighted, 
 
 When hoarse the wild winds veer about ; 
 My eye, when the bark is benighted, 
 Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. 
 I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 
 Lone looker on despair ; 
 The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
 The only witness there. 
 
 TO THE MOON-GOETHE. 
 
 Fillest hill and vale again 
 Still, with softening light ! 
 
 Loosest from the world's cold chain 
 All my soul to-night ! 
 
 Spreadest round me, far and nigh, 
 Soothingly, thy smile ; 
 
READING- AND KKflTAT! 2(37 
 
 From thee, as from friendship's eye, 
 Sorrow shrinks the while. 
 
 Every echo thrills my heart ; — 
 
 Glad and gloomy mood, 
 Joy and sorrow, both have part 
 
 In my solitude. 
 
 River, river, glide along ! 
 
 I am sad, alas ! 
 Fleeting things are love and song, — 
 
 Even so they pass ! 
 
 I have had and I have lost 
 
 What I long for yet ; 
 Ah ! why will we, to our cost, 
 
 Simple joys forget ? 
 
 River, river, glide along, 
 
 Without stop or stay ! 
 Murmur, whisper to my song, 
 
 In melodious play, — 
 
 Whether on a winter's night 
 
 Rise thy swollen floods, 
 Or in spring thou hast delight 
 
 Watering the young buds. 
 
 Happy he, who, hating none, 
 
 Leaves the world's dull noise, 
 And, with trusty friend alone, 
 
 Quietly enjoys 
 
 What, forever unexpressed, 
 
 Hid from common sight, 
 Through the mazes of the breast 
 
 Softly steals by night ! 
 
268 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 FOLLY AND INNOCENCE.-William Cowpbb. 
 
 View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes, 
 Folly and Innocence are so alike, 
 The difference, though essential, fails to strike. 
 Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, 
 A simpering countenance, and a trifling air ; 
 But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 
 Delights us, by engaging our respect. 
 Man, Nature's guest by invitation sweet, 
 Receives from her both appetite and treat ; 
 But if he play the glutton and exceed, 
 His benefactress blushes at the deed ; 
 For Nature, nice, as liberal to dispense, 
 'Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense.* * * 
 
 That pleasures, therefore, or what such we call, 
 Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all ; 
 And some, that seem to threaten virtue less, 
 Still hurtful in the abuse, or by the excess. 
 
 Is man then only for his torment placed 
 The centre of delights he may not taste ? 
 Like fabled Tantalus, condemn' d to hear 
 The precious stream still purling in his ear, 
 Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet cursed 
 With prohibition, and perpetual thirst ? 
 No, wrangler — destitute of shame and sense ! 
 The precept, that enjoins him abstinence, 
 Forbids him none but the licentious joy, 
 Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy. 
 Remorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid 
 In every bosom where her nest is made, 
 Hatch'd by the beams of Truth, denies him rest, 
 And proves a raging scorpion in his breast. 
 No pleasure ? Are domestic comforts dead ? 
 Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled?. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 2G9 
 
 Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame 
 
 Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame ? 
 
 All these belong to virtue, and all prove, 
 
 That virtue has a title to your love. 
 
 Have you no touch of pity, that the poor 
 
 Stand starved at your inhospitable door ? 
 
 Or if yourself too scantily supplied 
 
 Need help, let honest industry provide, 
 
 Earn, if you want ; if you abound, impart : 
 
 These both are pleasures to the feeling heart. 
 
 No pleasure ? Has some sickly eastern waste 
 
 Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast ? 
 
 Can British Paradise no scenes afford 
 
 To please her sated and indifferent lord ? 
 
 Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run 
 
 Quite to the lees ? And has religion none ? 
 
 BEST METHOD OF READIXG.-Heney Keed. 
 
 It is not unfrequently thought that the true guidance for habits 
 of reading is to be looked for in prescribed courses of reading, 
 pointing out the books to be read, and the order of proceeding 
 with them. Now, while this external guidance may to a certain 
 extent be useful, I do believe that an elaborately prescribed 
 course of reading would-be found neither desirable nor prac- 
 ticable. It does not leave freedom enough to the movements 
 of the reader's own mind ; it does not give free enough scope to 
 choice. Our communion with books, to be intelligent, must be 
 more or less spontaneous. It is not possible to anticipate how 
 or when an interest may be awakened in some particular subject 
 or author, and it would be far better to break away from the 
 prescribed list of books, in order to follow out that interest 
 while it is a thoughtful impulse. It would be a sorry tameness 
 of intellect that would not, sooner or later, work its way out of 
 the track of the best of any such prescribed courses. This is 
 „the reason, no doubt, why they are so seldom attempted, and 
 why, when attempted, they are so apt to fail. 
 
 It may be asked, however, whether every thing is to be left to 
 chance or caprice ; whether one is to read what accident puts in 
 
270 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 the way — what happens to be reviewed or talked about. No ! 
 far from it : there would in this be no more exercise of rational 
 will than in the other process : in truth, the slavery to chance is 
 a worse evil than slavery to authority. So far as the origin of a 
 taste for reading can be traced in the growth of the mind, it will 
 be found, I think, mostly in the mind's own prompting; and the 
 power thus engendered is, like all other powers in our being, to 
 be looked to as something to be cultivated and chastened, and 
 then its disciplined freedom will prove more and more its own 
 safest guide. It will provide itself with more of philosophy than 
 it is aware of in its choice of books, and will the better under- 
 stand its relative virtues. On the other hand, I apprehend that 
 often a taste for reading is quenched by rigid and injudicious 
 prescription of books in which the mind takes no interest, can 
 assimilate nothing to itself, and recognizes no progress but what 
 the eye takes count of in the reckoning of pages it has travelled 
 over. It lies on the mind, unpalatable, heavy, undigested food. 
 But reverse the process ; observe or engender the interest as best 
 you may, in the young mind, and then work with that — expand- 
 ing, cultivating, chastening it. 
 
 POETICAL AND PROSE READING. 
 
 The disproportion usually lies in the direction of prose 
 reading to the exclusion of poetry. This is owing chiefly to the 
 want of proper culture ; for although there is certainly a great 
 disparity of imaginative endowment, still the imagination is 
 part of the universal mind of man, and it is a work of education 
 to bring it into action in minds even the least imaginative. It 
 is chiefly to the wilfully unimaginative mind that poetry, with 
 all its wisdom and all its glory, is a sealed book. It sometimes 
 happens, however, that a mind well gifted with imaginative 
 power loses the capacity to relish poetry simply by the neglect 
 of reading metrical literature. This is a sad mistake, inasmuch 
 as the mere reader of prose cuts himself off from the very high- 
 est literary enjoyments; for if the giving of power to the mind 
 be a characteristic, the most essential literature is to be found in 
 poetry, especially if it be such as English poetry is, — the em- 
 bodiment of the very highest wisdom and the deepest feeling 
 of our English, race. I hope to show in my next lecture, in 
 treating the subject of our language, how rich a source of en- 
 joyment the study of English verse, considered simply as an 
 organ of expression and harmony, may be made ; but to read- 
 ers who confine themselves to prose, the metrical form becomes 
 
READINGS AX I) RECITATIONS. 271 
 
 repulsive instead of attractive. It has been well observed by a 
 living writer, who has exercised his powers alike in prose and 
 verse, that there are readers " to whom the poetical form merely 
 and of itself acts as a sort of veil to every meaning which is not 
 habitually met with under that form, and who arc puzzled by a 
 passage occurring in a poem, which would be at once plain to 
 them if divested of its cadence and rhythm; not because it is 
 thereby put into language in any degree more perspicuous, but 
 because prose is the vehicle they arc accustomed to, for this par- 
 ticular kind of matter ; and they will apply their minds to it in 
 prose, and they will refuse their minds to it in verse." 
 
 The neglect of poetical reading is increased by the very mis- 
 taken notion that poetry is a mere luxury of the mind, alien 
 from the demands of practical life — a light and effortless amuse- 
 ment. This is the prejudice and error of ignorance. For look 
 at many of the strong and largely-cultivated minds which we know 
 by biography and their own works, and note how large and pre- 
 cious an element of strength is their studious love of poetry. 
 Where could we find a man of more earnest, energetic, practical 
 cast of character than Arnold? — eminent as an historian, and 
 in other the gravest departments of thought and learning, active 
 in the cause of education, zealous in matters of ecclesiastical, 
 political, or social reform ; right or wrong, always intensely 
 practical and single-hearted in his honest zeal; a champion for 
 truth, whether in the history of ancient politics or present ques- 
 tions of modern society ; and, with all, never suffering the love 
 of poetry to be extinguished in his heart, or to be crowded out 
 of it, but turning it perpetually to wise uses, bringing the poetic 
 truths of Shakspeare and of Wordsworth to the help of the 
 cause of truth ; his enthusiasm for the poets breaking forth 
 when he exclaims : " What a treat it would be to teach Shak- 
 speare to a good class of young Greeks in regenerate Athens ; to 
 dwell upon him line by line and word by word, and so to get 
 all his pictures and thoughts leisurely into one's mind, till I 
 verily think one would, after a time, almost give out light in 
 the dark, after having been steeped, as it were, in such an atmos- 
 phere of brilliance !" 
 
 TRAGIC POETRY. 
 
 Tragic poetry has been well described as " poetry in its deep- 
 est earnest." The upper air of poetry is the atmosphere of sor- 
 row. This is a truth attested by every department of art — the 
 poetry of words, of music, of the canvas, and of marble. It is 
 
272 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 so, because poetry is a reflection of life ; and when a man weeps, 
 the passions that are stirring within him are mightier than the 
 feelings which prompt to cheerfulness or merriment. The smile 
 plays on the countenance ; the laugh is a momentary and noisy 
 impulse ; but the tear rises slowly and silently from the deep 
 places of the heart. It is at once the symbol and the relief of 
 an o'ermastering grief; it is the language of emotions to w 7 hich 
 words cannot give utterance, — passions whose very might and 
 depth give them a sanctity we instinctively recognize by veiling 
 them from the common gaze. In childhood, indeed, when its 
 little griefs and joys are blended with that absence of self-con- 
 sciousness which is both the bliss and the beauty of its inno- 
 cence, tears are shed without restraint or disguise ; but when the 
 self-consciousness of manhood has taught us that tears are the 
 expression of emotions too sacred for exposure, the heart will 
 often break rather than violate this instinct of our nature. Tragic 
 poetry, in dramatic, or epic, or what form soever, has its orig- 
 inal, its archetype, in the sorrows which float like clouds over 
 the days of human existence. Afflictions travel across the earth 
 on errands mysterious, but merciful, could we but understand 
 them ; and the poet, fashioning the likeness of them in some sad 
 story, teaches the imaginative lesson of their influences upon 
 the heart. 
 
 THE CRT OP THE TTTTVA'Nr— Mes. Elizabeth Baeeett Browning. 
 
 "There is no God," the foolish saith — 
 
 But none, "There is no sorrow:'' 
 And n at are oft the cry of faith 
 
 In bitter need will borrow. 
 Eyes, which the preacher could not school, 
 
 By wayside graves are raised, 
 And lips say, "God be pitiful," 
 
 That ne'er said, "God be praised." 
 Be pitiful — 
 Be pitiful, God ! 
 
 The tempest shooteth from the steep 
 The shadow of its coming : 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 273 
 
 The beasts and birds anear us creep, 
 
 • As power were in the human ! 
 
 Tower! — while above, the mountain's shake, 
 
 We spirits tremble under ! 
 The hills have echoes — but we make 
 No answer to the thunder. 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, God. 
 
 Perhaps the war is in the plains ; 
 
 Earth feels new scythes upon her: 
 We reap our brothers for the wains, 
 
 And call the harvest honor ! 
 Draw out confronted line to line, 
 
 The natures all inherit; 
 Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, 
 
 Clay, clay ; and spirit, spirit. 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, O God. 
 
 Perhaps the plague is in the town — 
 
 And never a bell is tolling ; 
 And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon, 
 
 Nod to the death-cart's rolling. 
 The strong man calleth for the cup, 
 
 The young maid brings it weeping : 
 The wife from her sick babe looks up, 
 
 And shrieks away its sleeping. 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, God. 
 
 We tremble by the harmless bed 
 
 Of one loved and departed. 
 Our tears drop on the lids that said, 
 
 Last night, " Be stronger-hearted 1" 
 12* 
 
274 LADIES : BOOK OF 
 
 Clasp, clasp the friendly lingers close — 
 
 We stand here all as lonely, 
 
 To see a light on dearest brows 
 
 Which is the daylight only. 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, God. 
 
 The happy children come to us 
 
 And look up in our faces ; 
 They ask us, was it thus and thus, 
 
 When we were in their places ? 
 We cannot speak : we see anew 
 
 The hills we used to live in — 
 And feel our mother's smile press through 
 
 The kisses she is giving. 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, God; 
 
 We pray together at the kirk 
 
 For mercy, mercy solely — 
 Hands weary with the evil work, 
 
 We lift them to the Holy. 
 The corpse is calm below our knee, 
 
 Its spirit bright before thee : 
 Between them, worse than either, we — 
 
 Without the rest or glory ; 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, O God. 
 
 We leave the communing of men 
 
 The murmur of the passions, 
 And live alone, to live again 
 
 To endless generations. 
 Are we so brave ? The sea and sky 
 
 In silence lift their mirrors, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 275 
 
 And, glass'd therein, our spirits high 
 Recoil from their own terrors. 
 
 I3e pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, God. 
 
 We sit on hills our childhood wist, 
 
 Woods, hamlets, streams beholding, 
 The sun strikes through the farthest mist, 
 
 The city's spires to golden. 
 The city's golden spire it was, 
 
 When hope and health were strongest, 
 And now it is the kirkyard grass 
 
 We look upon the longest. 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, God. 
 
 But soon all vision waxeth dull : 
 
 Men whisper, " He is dying J" 
 We cry no more, " Be pitiful" — 
 
 We have no strength for crying. 
 No strength, no need ! Oh, eyes of mine, 
 
 Look up, and triumph rather. 
 So, in the depth of God's divine, 
 
 The Son adjures the Father, 
 
 Be pitiful — 
 
 Be pitiful, O God. 
 
 SCENE FEOil THE DELUGE -Gessner. 
 i. 
 Now beneath the flood of might 
 
 Shrouded the marble turrets are, 
 And 'gainst each insular mountain height 
 The black, big waves are billowing far ; 
 And, lo ! before the surging death, 
 Isle after isle still vanisheth ! 
 
27G LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Remains one lonely speck above 
 
 The fury of the climbing flood : 
 A grisly crowd still vainly strove 
 
 To win that safer altitude ; 
 And the cries of despair still rang on the air, 
 As the rushing wave pursued in its pride, 
 And dashed them from its slippery side ! 
 
 Oh, is not yonder shore less steep, 
 Ye happier few ? escape the deep ! 
 Upon its crest the crowd assembles, — 
 Lo ! the peopled mountain trembles ! 
 The rushing waters exalt it on high ; — 
 
 Shaken and shivered from brow to base, 
 It slides amain, unwieldily, 
 Into the universal sea ; 
 And instantly the echoing sky 
 
 Howls to the howl of the hapless race 
 That burden the hill, or under it die ! 
 
 Yonder, the torrent of waters, behold ! 
 Into the chaos of ocean hath rolled 
 The virtuous son, with his sire so old ! 
 He, strengthened with duty, and proud of his 
 strength, 
 Sought from that desolate island, now sunken, 
 To conquer the perilous billows at length, — 
 But their very last sob the mad waters have 
 drunken ! 
 
 To the deluge's dire, unatonable tomb 
 
 Yon mother abandons the children she tried, 
 
 In vain, to preserve ; and the watery gloom 
 
 Swells over the dead, as they float side by side : 
 And she hath plunged after! — how madly she died! 
 
HEADINGS AND 3. '.^CITATIONS. 277 
 
 II. 
 From forth the waters waste and wild 
 The loftiest summit sternly smiled ; 
 And that but to the sky disclosed 
 
 Its rugged top, and that sad pair, 
 Who, to this hour of wrath exposed, 
 
 Stood in the howling storm-blast there. 
 Scmin, the noble, young, and free, 
 
 To whom this world's most lovely one 
 Had vowed her heart's idolatry, — 
 His own beloved Zemira, — set 
 On this dark mountain's coronet ; — 
 
 And they were 'mid the flood alone ! 
 
 Broke on them the wild waters ; — all 
 The heaven was thunder, and a pall; 
 
 Below, the ocean's roar ; 
 Around, deep darkness, save the flash 
 Of lightning on the waves, that dash 
 
 "Without a bed, or shore. 
 And every cloud from the lowering sky 
 Threatened destruction fierce and nigh ; 
 And every surge rolled drearily, 
 With carcasses borne on ooze and foam, 
 Yawning, as to its moving tomb 
 It looked for further prey to come. 
 
 Zemira to her fluttering breast 
 
 Folded her lover ; and their hearts 
 Throbbed on each other, unrepressed, 
 
 Blending as in one bosom, — while 
 The raindrops on her faded cheek 
 
 With her tears mingled, but not a smile ; — 
 In horror, nothing now can speak, — 
 
 Such horror nothing now imparts ! 
 
278 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 " There is no hope of safety, — none, 
 My Semin, — my beloved one ! 
 Oh, woe, oh, desolation ! Death 
 Sways all, — above, around, beneath : 
 Near and more near he climbs, — and, oh, 
 Which of the waves besieging so 
 Will whelm us ? Take me to thy cold 
 And shuddering arms' beloved fold ! 
 My God ! look ! what a wave comes on ! 
 
 It glitters in the lightning dim, — 
 It passes over us !" — 
 
 'Tis gone,- 
 
 And senseless sinks the maid on him. 
 
 in. 
 
 Semin embraced the fainting maid, — 
 
 Words faltered on his quivering lips, 
 And he was mute, — and all was shade, 
 
 And all around him in eclipse. 
 Was it one desolate, hideous spot ? 
 A wreck of worlds ? — He saw it not ! 
 He saw but her, beloved so well, 
 
 So death-like on his bosom lay, 
 Felt the cold pang that o'er him fell, 
 
 Heard but his beating heart. Away, 
 Grasp of hard Agony's iron hand ! 
 
 Off from his heart thine icy touch ! 
 Off from his lips thy colorless band ! 
 
 Off from his soul thy wintry clutch ! 
 
 Love conquers Death, — and he hath kissed 
 
 Her bleached cheeks, by the cold rain bleached ; 
 
 He hath folded her to his bosom ; and, list ! 
 His tender words her heart have reached : 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 279 
 
 She hath awakened, and she looks 
 
 Upon her lover tenderly, 
 Whose tenderness the Flood rebukes, 
 
 As on destroying goeth he. 
 
 1 O God of Judgment !" she cried aloud, 
 
 " Refuge or pity is there none ? 
 Waves rave, and thunder rends the cloud, 
 
 And the winds howl, — c Be vengeance done !' 
 Our years have innocently sped, — 
 
 My Semin, thou wert ever good : 
 Woe's me ! my joy and pride have fled ! 
 
 All but my love is now subdued ! 
 And thou, to me who gavest life, 
 Torn from my side, I saw thy strife 
 With the wild surges, and thy head 
 
 Heave evermore above the water, 
 Thine arrns exalted and outspread, 
 
 For the last time, to bless thy daughter ! 
 The earth is now a lonely isle ! 
 
 Yet 'twere a paradise to me, 
 Wert, Semin, thou with me the while, — 
 
 Oh, let me die embracing thee ! 
 Is there no pity, God above ! 
 For innocence and blameless love ? 
 But what shall innocence plead before thee ? 
 Great God ! thus dying, I adore thee !" 
 
 IV. 
 
 Still his beloved the youth sustains, 
 As she in the storm-blast shivers : — 
 
 " 'Tis done ! no hope of life remains ! 
 No mortal howls among the rivers ! 
 
 Zemira ! the next moment is 
 
2S0 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Our last, — gaunt Death ascends ! Lo ! he 
 Doth clasp our limbs, and the abyss 
 Yearns to embrace us eagerly ! 
 
 " We will not mourn a common lot, — 
 Life, what art thou, when joyfulest, 
 
 Wisest, noblest, greatest, best, — 
 
 Life longest, and that most delightest ? 
 
 A dewdrop, by the dawn begot, 
 
 That on the rock to-day is brightest, 
 
 To-morrow doth it fade away, 
 
 Or fall into the ocean's spray. 
 
 " Courage ! beyond this little life 
 
 Eternity and bliss are rife. 
 
 Let us not tremble, then, my love, 
 
 To cross the narrow sea, — but thus 
 Embrace each other ; and above 
 
 The swelling surge that pants for us 
 Our souls shall hover happily, 
 Triumphant, and at liberty ! 
 
 "Ay, let us join our hands in prayer 
 To Plim whose wrath hath ravaged here: 
 His holy doom shall mortal man 
 Presume to judge, and weigh, and scan ? 
 He who breathed life into our dust, 
 May to the just or the unjust 
 Send death ; but happy, happy they 
 Who've trodden Wisdom's pleasant way ! 
 
 " Not life we ask, Lord ! Do thou 
 Convey us to thy judgment-seat ! 
 
 A sacred faith inspires me now, — 
 
 Death shall not end, but shall complete. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 281 
 
 Peal out, yc thunders ; crush and scathe ! 
 Howl, desolation, ruin, wrath! 
 Entomb us, waters ! — Evermore 
 Praised be the Just One ! We adore ! 
 Our mouths shall praise him, as we sink, 
 And the last thought our souls shall think !" 
 
 Her soul was brave, — her soul was glad, — 
 
 Her aspect was no longer sad, — 
 
 Amid the tempest and the storm, 
 
 She raised her hands, — she raised her form : 
 
 She felt the great and mighty hope, 
 
 And she was strong with death to cope : — 
 
 " Praise, O my mouth, the Lord Most High ! 
 
 My eyes, weep tears of ecstasy, 
 
 Until ye're sealed by death, — then ye 
 
 Shall gaze on heaven's felicity ! 
 
 Beloved, but late from us bereaved, 
 
 We come to you, for whom we grieved : 
 
 Anon, and we again shall meet 
 
 Before God's throne and judgment-seat. 
 
 The just assembled I behold: 
 
 Lo ! Mercy's courts for them unfold ! — 
 
 Howl, desolation ! Thunder, peal ! 
 
 Ye are but voices to reveal 
 
 The justice of the Lord Most High : 
 
 Break on us, waves ! Hail 1 Death is nigh ! 
 
 And nearer yet he comes, and raves 
 
 Upon the blackness of the waves. 
 
 O Semin ! now he grasps my throat ! — 
 
 Semin ! embrace me, — leave me not ! 
 
 The billow lifts me,— help !— I float 1" 
 
282 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 VI. 
 
 " I do embrace thee !" the youth replied, — 
 " Zemira ! I embrace thee ! Death ! 
 
 Thee also I embrace !" he cried,. — 
 
 " I welcome thee with my parting breath ! — 
 
 Lo ! we are here ! All lauded be ** 
 
 The Just One everlastingly !" 
 
 They spake, — while them the monstrous deluge spray 
 Swept in each other's arms, away, — away! 
 
 THE OLD FISHERITAX.-Miss Jean Ingklow. 
 
 There was a poor old man 
 Who sat and listened to the raging sea, 
 And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs 
 As like to tear them down. He lay at night : 
 And " Lord, have mercy on the lads," said he, 
 " That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine ; 
 For when the gale gets up, and when the wind 
 Flings at the window, when it beats the roof, 
 And lulls and stops and rouses up again, 
 And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave, 
 And scatters it like feathers up the field, 
 Why then I think of my two lads : my lads 
 That would have worked and never let me want, 
 And never let me take the parish pay. 
 No, none of mine ; my lads were drowned at sea — 
 My two — before the most of these were born. 
 I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife 
 Walked up and down, and still walked up and down, 
 And I walked after, and one could not hear 
 A word the other said, for wind and sea 
 That ragged and beat and thundered in the nicjht — 
 The awfulest, the longest, lightest night 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 283 
 
 That ever parents had to spend. A moon 
 That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. 
 Ah, me ! and other men have lost their lads, 
 And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, 
 And got them home and dried them in the house, 
 And seen the driftwood lie along the coast, 
 That was a tidy boat but one day back, 
 And seen next tide the neighbors gather it 
 To lay it on their fires. 
 
 " Ay, I was strong 
 And able-bodied — loved my work; — but now 
 I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sunk; 
 I am in all men's way ; I trouble them ; 
 I am a trouble to myself: but yet 
 I feel for mariners of stormy nights, 
 And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay, 
 If I had learning I would pray the Lord 
 To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ; 
 Book-learning is a world too hard for me : 
 But I make bold to say : ' O Lord, good Lord, 
 I am a broken-down poor man, a fool 
 To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ, 
 As I hear say from others that can read, 
 How, when Thou earnest, Thou didst love the sea, 
 And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure 
 Thou knowest all the peril they go through, 
 And all their trouble. 
 
 " ' As for me, good Lord, 
 I have no boat ; I am too old, too old — 
 My lads are drowned ; I buried my poor wife ; 
 My little lasses died so long ago 
 That mostly I forget what they were like. 
 Thou knowest, Lord, they were such little ones ; 
 I know they went to Thee, but I forget 
 Their faces, though I missed them sore. 
 
284 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 " ' O Lord, 
 
 I was a strong man; I have drawn good food 
 
 And made good money out of Thy great sea ; 
 But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now, 
 Although I be so old, I miss my lads, 
 And there be many folk this stormy night 
 Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, 
 Comfort them; save their honest boys, their pride, 
 And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, 
 Best sound — the boat-keels grating on the sand.' 
 
 " I cannot pray with finer words ; I know 
 
 Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn ; 
 
 Too old, too old. They say I want for naught, 
 
 I have the parish pay ; but I am dull 
 
 Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through. 
 
 God save me, — I have been a sinful man, — 
 
 And save the lives of them that still can work, 
 
 For they are good to me ; ay, good to me. 
 
 But, Lord, I am a trouble ! and I sit, 
 
 And I am lonesome ; and the nights are few 
 
 That any think to come and draw a chair, 
 
 And sit in my poor place and talk awhile. 
 
 Why should they come, forsooth ? Only the wind 
 
 Knocks at my door ; oh, long and loud it knocks, 
 
 The only thing God made that has a mind 
 
 To enter in." 
 
 Yea, thus the old man spake, 
 These were the last words of his aged mouth — 
 But One did knock. One came to sup with him, 
 That humble, weak old man ; knocked at his door 
 In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. 
 I tell you that One knocked while it was dark, 
 Save where their foaming passion had made white 
 Those livid seething billows. What He said 
 In that poor place where He did talk awhile, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 285 
 
 I cannot tell ; but tins I am assured, 
 That when the neighbors came the morrow morn, 
 What time the wind had bated, and the sun 
 Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile 
 He passed away in, and they said : " He looks 
 As he had woke and seen the face of Christ, 
 And with that rapturous smile held out his arms 
 To come to Him !" 
 
 IVAN THE CZAll .*— Mrs. Hemans. 
 He sat in silence on the ground, 
 
 The old and haughty Czar, 
 Lonely, though princes girt him round, 
 
 And leaders of the war ; 
 He had cast his jewelled sabre, 
 
 That many a field had won, 
 To the earth beside his youthful dead — 
 
 His fair and first-born son. 
 
 With a robe of ermine for its bed 
 
 Was laid that form of clay, 
 Where the light a stormy sunset shed 
 
 Through the rich tent made way ; 
 And a sad and solemn beauty 
 
 On the pallid face came down, 
 Which the lord of nations mutely watched 
 
 In the dust with his renown. 
 
 Low tones at last, of woe and fear, 
 
 From his full bosom broke — 
 A mournful thing it was to hear 
 
 How then the proud man spoke ! 
 
 * Ivan, the Czar, or Emperor, of Eussia, surnamed the Terrible, from his passion and 
 cruolty, when old, besieged Novogorod. His Boyards, or nobles, perceiving his inca- 
 pacity, entreated him to give the command to his son. He was so enraged at this 
 request, that although his son. threw himself at his feet, he struck him with such force 
 that he died in two days. Ivan survived him only two or three months. 
 
286 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 The voice that through the combat 
 Had shouted far and high, 
 
 Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 
 Burdened with agony. 
 
 " There is no crimson on thy cheek, 
 
 And on thy lip no breath ; 
 I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 
 
 They tell me this is death ! 
 And fearful things are whispering 
 
 That I the deed have done, 
 For the honor of thy father's name, 
 
 Look up, look up, my son ! 
 
 " Well might I know death's hue and mien- 
 
 But on thine aspect, boy ! 
 What, till this moment, have I seen, 
 
 Save pride and tameless joy ? 
 Swiftest thou wert to battle, 
 
 And bravest there of all — 
 How could I thifik a warrior's frame 
 
 Thus like a flower should fall ? 
 
 " I will not bear that still cold look — 
 
 Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
 Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 
 
 All, save this calm, from thee ! 
 Lift brightly up, and proudly, 
 
 Once more thy kindling eyes ! 
 Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 
 
 I say to thee, Arise ! 
 
 " Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 
 
 Thou didst not ! and art gone, 
 In bitterness of soul, to dwell 
 
 Where man must dwell alone. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 287 
 
 Come back, young fiery spirit ! 
 
 If but one hour, to learn 
 The secrets of the folded heart 
 
 That seemed to thee so stern. 
 
 " Thou wert the first, the first fair child 
 
 That in mine arms I pressed : 
 Thou wert the bright one that hast smiled 
 
 Like summer on my breast ! 
 I reared thee as an eagle, 
 
 To the chase thy steps I led, 
 I bore thee on my battle-horse, 
 
 I look upon thee — dead ! 
 
 " Lay down my warlike banners here, 
 
 Never again to wave, 
 And bury my red sword and spear, 
 
 Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
 And leave me ! — I have conquered, 
 
 I have slain : my work is done ! 
 Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not — 
 
 Thou too art mute, my son !" 
 
 And thus his wild lament was poured, 
 
 Through the dark resounding night. 
 And the battle knew no more his sword, 
 
 Nor the foaming steed his might. 
 He heard strange voices moaning 
 
 In every wind that sighed ; 
 From the searching stars of heaven he shrank- 
 
 Humbly the conqueror died. 
 
288 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 IMMORTALITY .— Ricuaed H. Dana. 
 Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? 
 And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
 Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts that know no bounds, 
 But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
 The Eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — 
 Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? — 
 Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms 
 Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? — 
 Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne, 
 Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
 Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed 
 In glory ? — throne, before which, even now, 
 Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, 
 Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed?— 
 Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense. 
 Thou awful, unseen Presence — are they quenched, 
 Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
 By that bright day which ends not; as the sun 
 His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? 
 
 And with our frames do perish all our loves ? 
 
 Do those that took their root and put forth buds, 
 
 And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 
 
 Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 
 
 Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers ? 
 
 Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, 
 
 And make it send forth winning harmonies — 
 
 That to the cheek do give its living glow, 
 
 And vision in the eye the soul intense 
 
 With that for which there is no utterance — 
 
 Are these the body's accidents? — no more? — 
 
 To live in it, and when that dies, go out 
 
 Like the burned taper's flame ? 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 289 
 
 Oh, listen, man ! 
 A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
 " Man,- thou shalt never die ! " Celestial voices 
 Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, 
 By angel fingers touched when the mild stars 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 The song of our great immortality : 
 Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
 The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
 Join in this solemn, universal song. 
 Oh, listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
 From all the air ! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 
 'Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories ; Night, 
 Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
 Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : 
 Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
 All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
 As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
 By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
 Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
 The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth 
 Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
 To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE LEAVES.-John Bwain. 
 
 The book of nature's glory, 
 
 The volume vast and old, 
 Another true-love story 
 
 Beginneth to unfold ; 
 The earth with thousand voices — 
 
 The earth no longer grieves ; 
 But blest with hope, rejoices 
 
 At the opening of the leaves. 
 
 13 
 
290 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The cottage windows brighten 
 
 More early in the morn ; 
 The cherry-branches whiten, 
 
 The apple-bloom is born ; 
 Old age to look advances, 
 
 And looking, love receives ; 
 The heart of childhood dances 
 
 At the opening of the leaves. 
 
 Man opens halls of splendor, 
 
 And palaces of skill, 
 And man to man can render 
 
 Honor with right good-will ; 
 If songs of praise be given — 
 
 If honor man receives, 
 Oh ! lift the heart to Heaven 
 
 For the opening of the leaves. 
 
 Oh ! how the book of glory, 
 
 The volume vast and old, 
 Its ever true love-story 
 
 Continues to unfold ! 
 The earth with all its voices — 
 
 The earth no longer grieves, 
 But worshipping rejoices 
 
 At the opening of the leaves. 
 
 "WHEN THOU SLEEPESI "— Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 When thou sleepest, lulled in night, 
 
 Art thou lost in vacancy ? 
 Does no silent inward light, 
 
 Softly breaking, fall on thee ? 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 291 
 
 Does no dream on quiet wing 
 
 Float a moment 'mid that ray, 
 Touch some answering mental string, 
 
 "Wake a note and pass away ? 
 
 When thou watchest, as the hours 
 
 Mute and blind are speeding on, 
 O'er that rayless path, where lowers 
 
 Muffled midnight, black and lone ; 
 Comes there nothing hovering near, 
 
 Thought or half reality, 
 Whispering marvels in thine ear, 
 
 Every word a mystery, 
 
 Chanting low an ancient lay, 
 
 Every plaintive note a spell, 
 Clearing memory's clouds away, 
 
 Showing scenes thy heart loves well ? 
 Songs forgot, in childhood sung, 
 
 Airs in youth beloved and known, 
 Whispered by that airy tongue, 
 
 Once again are made thine own. 
 
 Be it dream in haunted sleep, 
 
 Be it thought in vigil lone, 
 Drink' st thou not a rapture deep 
 
 From the feeling, 'tis thine own ? 
 All thine own ; thou need'st not tell 
 
 What bright form thy slumber blessed ; 
 All thine own ; remember well 
 
 Night and shade were round thy rest. 
 
 Nothing looked upon thy bed, 
 
 Save the lonelv watch-light's gleam ; 
 
292 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Not a whisper, not a tread 
 
 Scared thy spirit's glorious dream. 
 
 Sometimes, when the midnight gale 
 Breathed a moan and then was still, 
 
 Seemed the spell of thought to fail, 
 Checked by one ecstatic thrill ; 
 
 Felt as all external things, 
 
 Eobed in moonlight, smote thine eye ; 
 Then thy spirit's waiting wings 
 
 Quivered, trembled, spread to fly ; 
 Then th' aspirer wildly swelling 
 
 Looked, where 'mid transcendency 
 Star to star was mutely telling 
 
 Heaven's resolve and fate's decree. 
 
 Oh ! it longed for holier fire 
 
 Than this spark in earthly shrine ; 
 Oh ! it soared, and higher, higher, 
 
 Sought to reach a home divine. 
 Hopeless quest ! soon weak and weary 
 
 Flagged the pinion, drooped the plume, 
 And again in sadness dreary 
 
 Came the baffled wanderer home. 
 
 And again it turned for soothing 
 
 To th' unfinished, broken dream ; 
 While, the ruffled current smoothing, 
 
 Thought rolled on her startled stream. 
 I have felt this cherished feeling, 
 
 Sweet and known to none but me ; 
 Still I felt it nightly healing 
 
 Each dark day's despondency. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 293 
 
 WINTER WALK AT NOON. -William Cowpek. 
 There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
 And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased 
 With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave ; 
 Some chord in unison with what we hear 
 Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. 
 How soft the music of those village bells, 
 Falling at intervals upon the ear 
 In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 
 Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 
 Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 
 With easy force it opens all the cells 
 Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard 
 A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 
 And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 
 Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 
 That in a few short moments I retrace 
 (As in a map the voyager his course) 
 The windings of my way through many years. 
 Short as in retrospect the journey seems, 
 It seem'd not always short ; the rugged path, 
 And prospect oft, so dreary and forlorn, 
 Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. 
 Yet feeling present evils, while the past 
 Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, 
 How readily we wish time spent revoked, 
 That we might try the ground again where once 
 (Through inexperience, as we now perceive) 
 We miss'd that happiness we might have found ! 
 Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, 
 A father, whose authority, in show, 
 When most severe, and mustering all its force, 
 Was but the graver countenance of love ; 
 Whose favor, like the clouds of spring, might lower, 
 
294 v LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And utter now and then an awful voice, 
 
 But had a blessing in its darkest frown, 
 
 Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. 
 
 "We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand 
 
 That rear'd us. At "a thoughtless age, allured 
 
 By every gilded folly, we renounced 
 
 His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent 
 
 That converse, which we now in vain regret. 
 
 How gladly would the man recall to life 
 
 The boy's neglected sire ! a mother too, 
 
 That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, 
 
 Might he demand them at the gates of death. 
 
 Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed 
 
 The playful humor ; he could now endure 
 
 (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears), 
 
 And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 
 
 But not to understand a treasure's worth, 
 
 Till time has stolen away the slighted good, 
 
 Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 
 
 And makes the world the wilderness it is. 
 
 The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, 
 
 And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold, 
 
 Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 
 
 The night was winter in his roughest mood ; 
 The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, 
 Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
 And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
 The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 
 And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
 Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
 The dazzling splendor of the scene below. 
 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; 
 And through the trees I view the embattled tower, 
 Whence all the music. I again perceive 
 The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 295 
 
 And settle in soft musings as I tread 
 
 The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
 
 Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
 
 The roof, though movable through all its length 
 
 As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 
 
 And, intercepting in their silent. fall 
 
 The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 
 
 No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
 
 The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
 
 With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd ; 
 
 Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
 
 From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
 
 From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, 
 
 That tinkle in the wither' d leaves below. 
 
 Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
 
 Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
 
 May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 
 
 May give a useful lesson to the head, 
 
 And Learning wiser grow without his books. 
 
 Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
 
 Have oft-times no connection. Knowledge dwells 
 
 In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
 
 Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
 
 Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, 
 
 The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, 
 
 Till smooth'd, and squared, and fitted to its place, 
 
 Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. 
 
 Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much ; 
 
 Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
 
 Books are not seldom talismans and spells, 
 
 By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
 
 Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. 
 
 Some to the fascination of a name 
 
 Surrender judgment, hoodwink'd. Some the style 
 
 Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds 
 
296 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. 
 While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 
 The insupportable fatigue of thought, 
 And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice, 
 The total grist unsifted, husks and all. 
 But trees and rivulets, whose rapid course 
 Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, 
 And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, 
 And lanes in which the primrose ere her time 
 Peeps through the moss, that clothes the hawthorn root, 
 Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, 
 Not shy, as in the world, and to be won * 
 By slow solicitation, seize at once 
 The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. 
 What prodigies can power divine perform 
 More grand than it produces year by year, 
 And all in sight of inattentive man ? 
 Familiar with the effect we slight the cause, 
 And in the constancy of nature's course, 
 The regular return of genial months, 
 And renovation of a faded world, 
 See nought to wonder at. Should God again, 
 As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race 
 Of the undeviating and punctual sun, 
 How would the world admire ! but speaks it less 
 An agency divine, to make him know 
 His moment when to sink and when to rise, 
 Age after age, than to arrest his course ? 
 All we behold is miracle ; but seen 
 So duly, all is miracle in vain. 
 Where now the vital energy that moved, 
 While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph 
 Through the imperceptible meandering veins 
 Of leaf and flower? It sleeps; and the icy touch 
 Of unprolific winter has impress'd 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 297 
 
 A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. 
 
 But let the months go round, a few short months, 
 
 And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, 
 
 Barren as lances, among which the wind 
 
 Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, 
 
 Shall put their graceful foliage on again, 
 
 And more aspiring, and with ampler spread, 
 
 Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. 
 
 Then each, in its peculiar honors clad, 
 
 Shall publish even to the distant eye 
 
 Its family and tribe. * * * 
 
 From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, 
 
 Is Nature's progress, when she lectures man 
 
 In heavenly truth ; evincing as she makes 
 
 The grand transition, that their lives and works 
 
 A soul in all things, and that soul is God. 
 
 The beauties of the wilderness are his, 
 
 That make so gay the solitary place, 
 
 Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms, 
 
 That cultivation glories in, are his. 
 
 He sets the bright procession on its way, 
 
 And marshals all the order of the year; 
 
 He marks the bounds, which Winter may not pass, 
 
 And blunts his pointed fury ; in its case, 
 
 Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ, 
 
 Uninjured, with inimitable art ; 
 
 And, ere one flowery season fades and dies, 
 
 Designs the blooming wonders of the next. 
 
 YIETUE ALONE IS HAPPINESS.-Pope. 
 Know then this truth (enough for man to know), 
 " Virtue alone is happiness below." 
 The only point where human bliss stands still, 
 And tastes the good without the fall to ill ; 
 13* 
 
298 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Where only merit constant pay receives, 
 
 Is bless'd in what it takes, and what it gives ; 
 
 The joy unequall'd, if its end is gain, 
 
 And if it lose, attended with no pain : 
 
 Without satiety, though e'er so bless'd, 
 
 And but more relish' d as the more distress'd : 
 
 The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears, 
 
 Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears : 
 
 Good, from each object, from each place acquired, 
 
 Forever exercised, yet never tired ; 
 
 Never elated, while one man's oppress'd ; 
 
 Never dejected, while another's bless'd : 
 
 And where no wants, no wishes can remain, 
 
 Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain. 
 
 See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow ! 
 Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know 
 Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, 
 The bad must miss, the good untaught will find ; 
 Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, 
 But looks through nature, up to nature's God ; 
 Pursues that chain which links the immense design, 
 Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine ; 
 Sees that no being any bliss can know, 
 But touches some above, and some below ; 
 Learns from this union of the rising whole, 
 The first, last purpose of the human soul ; 
 And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, 
 All end, in Love of God and Love of man. 
 
 For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal, 
 And opens still, and opens on his soul; 
 Till lengthen'd on to faith, and unconfined, 
 It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. 
 He sees why nature plants in man alone 
 Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown 
 (Nature, whose dictates to no other kind 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 299 
 
 Are given in vain, but what they seek they find) ; 
 Wise is her present ; she connects in this 
 His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss ; 
 At once his own bright prospect to be bless' d ; 
 And strongest motive to assist the rest. 
 
 Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine, 
 Gives thee to make thy neighbor's blessing thine. 
 Is this too little for the boundless heart? 
 Extend it, let thy enemies have part ; 
 Grasp the whole world of reason, life, and sense, 
 In one close system of benevolence : 
 Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree, 
 And height of bliss but height of charity. 
 
 God loves from whole to parts : but human soul 
 Must rise from individual to the whole. 
 Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, 
 As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake ; 
 The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, 
 Another still, and still another spreads ; 
 Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will embrace; 
 His country next, and next all human race ; 
 Wide and more wide, the o'erflo wings of the mind 
 Take every creature in, of every kind ; 
 Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty bless'd, 
 And heaven beholds its imacre in his breast. 
 
 NAHANT.-N. P. Willis. 
 
 If you can imagine a buried Titan lying along the length of 
 a continent, with one arm stretched out into the midst of the 
 sea, the place to which I would transport you, reader mine, 
 would lie as it were in the palm of the giant's hand'. The small 
 promontory to which I refer, which becomes an island in certain 
 states of the tide, is at the end of one of the long capes of 
 Massachusetts, and is still called by its Indian name, Nahant. 
 Not to make you uncomfortable, I beg to introduce you at once 
 to a pretentious hotel, " squat like a toad" upon the unsheltered 
 
300 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 and highest point of this citadel in mid-sea, and a very great 
 resort for the metropolitan New Englanders. Nahant is perhaps, 
 liberally measured, a square half-mile ; and it is distant from 
 what may fairly be called mainland, perhaps a league. 
 
 Road to Nahant there'is none. The oi polloi go there by 
 steam ; but when the tide is down, you may drive there with a 
 thousand chariots over the bottom of the sea. As I suppose 
 there is not such another place in the known world, my tale will 
 wait while I describe it more fully. If the Bible had been a 
 fiction (not to speak profanely), I should have thought the 
 idea of the destruction of Pharaoh and his host had its origin 
 in some such wonder of nature. 
 
 Nahant is so far out in the ocean, that what is called the 
 " ground swell," the majestic heave of its great bosom going on 
 forever like respiration (though its face may be like a mirror 
 beneath the sun, and wind may not have crisped its surface for 
 days and weeks), is as broad and powerful within a rood of the 
 shore as it is a thousand miles at sea. 
 
 The promontory itself is never wholly left by the ebb ; but, 
 from its western extremity, there runs a narrow ridge, scarce 
 broad enough for a horse-path, impassable for the rocks and sea- 
 weed of which it is matted, and extending at just high-water 
 mark from Nahant to the mainland. Seaward from this ridge, 
 which is the only connection of the promontory with the conti- 
 nent, descends an expanse of sand, left bare six hours out of the 
 twelve by the retreating sea, as smooth and hard as marble, and 
 as broad and apparently as level as the plain of the Hermus. 
 For three miles it stretches away without shell or stone, a sur- 
 face of white, fine-grained sand, beaten so hard by the eternal 
 hammer of the surf, that the hoof of a horse scarce marks it, 
 and the heaviest wheel leaves it as printless as a floor of granite. 
 This will be easily understood when you remember the tremen- 
 dous rise and fall of the ocean swell, from the very bosom of 
 which, in all its breadth and strength, roll in the waves of the 
 flowing tide, breaking down on the beach, every one, with the 
 thunder of a host precipitated from the battlements of a castle. 
 Nothing could be more solemn and anthem-like than the succes- 
 sion of these plunging surges. And when the " tenth wave" 
 gathers, far out at sea, and rolls onward to the shore, first with 
 a glassy and heaving swell, as if some mighty monster were 
 lurching inland beneath the water, and then, bursting up into 
 foam, with a front like an endless and sparry crystal wall, ad- 
 vances and overwhelms every thing in its progress, till it breaks 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 301 
 
 with a centupled thunder on the beach — it has seemed to me, 
 standing there, as if thus might have beaten the first surge 
 on the shore after the fiat which u divided sea and land." I am 
 no Cameronian, but the sea (myself on shore) always drives me 
 to Scripture for an illustration of my feelings. 
 
 The promontory of Nahant must be based on the earth's 
 axle, else I cannot imagine how it should have lasted so long. 
 In the mildest weather the ground swell of the sea gives it a fil- 
 lip at every heave that would lay the "castled crag of Drachen- 
 fels" as low as Memphis. * * * 
 
 Here we are, then, in the " Swallow's Cave." The floor de- 
 scends by a gentle declivity to the sea, and from the long dark 
 cleft stretching outward you look forth upon the broad Atlantic 
 — the shores of Ireland the first terra firma in the path of your 
 eye. * * * 
 
 We recline, as it were, in an ebon pyramid, with a hundred 
 feet of floor and sixty of wall, and the fourth side open to the 
 sky. The light comes in mellow and dim, and the sharp edges 
 of the rocky portal seem let into the pearly arch of heaven. 
 The tide is at half-ebb, and the advancing and retreating waves, 
 which at first just lifted the fringe of crimson dulse at the lip of 
 the cavern, now dash their spray-pearls on the rock below, the 
 " tenth" surge alone rallying as if in scorn of its retreating fel- 
 lows, and, like the chieftain of Culloden Moor, rushing back 
 singly to the contest. And now that the waters reach the en- 
 trance no more, come forward and look on the sea ! The swell 
 lifts ! — would you not think the bases of the earth rising beneath 
 it ? It falls ! — would you not think the foundation of the deep 
 had given way? A plain, broad enough for the navies of the 
 world to ride at large, heaves up evenly and steadily as if it 
 would lie against the sky, rests a moment spell-bound in its 
 place, and falls again as far — the respiration of a sleeping child 
 not more regular and full of slumber. It is only on the shore that 
 it chafes. Blessed emblem ! it is at peace with itself! The rocks 
 war with a nature so unlike their own, and the hoarse din of 
 their border onsets resounds through the caverns they have rent 
 open ; but beyond, in the calm bosom of the ocean, what heav- 
 enly dignity ! what godlike unconsciousness of alarm ! I did 
 not think we should stumble on such a moral in the cave ! 
 
 By the deeper bass of its hoarse organ, the sea is now play- 
 ing upon its lowest stops, and the tide is down. Hear ! how it 
 rushes in beneath the rocks, broken and stilled in its tortuous 
 way, till it ends with a washing and dull hiss among the sea- 
 
302 LADI1S' BOOK OF 
 
 weed, and, like a myriad of small tinkling bells, the dripping 
 from the crags is audible. There is fine music in the sea ! 
 
 And now the beach is bare. The cave begins to cool and 
 darken, and the first gold tint of sunset is stealing into the 
 sky, and the sea looks of a changing opal, green, purple, and 
 white, as if its floor were paved with pearl, and the changing 
 light struck up through the waters. And there heaves a ship 
 into the horizon, like a white-winged bird lying with dark breast 
 on the waves, abandoned of the sea-breeze within sight of port, 
 and repelled even by the spicy breath that comes with a wel- 
 come off the shore. She comes from " merry England." She 
 is freighted with more than merchandise. The home-sick exile 
 will gaze on her snowy sail as she sets in with the morning 
 breeze, and bless it ; for the wind that first filled it on its way 
 swept through the green valley of his home ! What links of 
 human affection brings she over the sea ? How much comes in 
 her that is not in her " bill of lading," yet worth, to the heart 
 that is waiting for it, a thousand times the purchase of her 
 whole venture ! * * * Undine, or Egeria ! Lurly, or Are- 
 thusa ! whatever thou art called, nymph of this shadowy cave ! 
 adieu ! * * * 
 
 So! Here we are on the floor of the vasty deep ! What a glo- 
 rious race-course ! The polished and printless sand spreads away 
 before you as far as the eye can see, the surf comes in below, 
 breast-high ere it breaks, and the white fringe of the sliding wave 
 shoots up the beach, but leaves room for the marching of a Per- 
 sian phalanx on the sands it has deserted. Oh, how noiselessly 
 runs the wheel, and how dreamily we glide along, feeling our 
 motion but in the resistance of the wind, and by the trout-like 
 pull of the ribbons by the excited animal before us. Mark the 
 color of the sand ! White at high-water mark, and thence 
 deepening to a silver gray as the water has evaporated less — a 
 slab of Egyptian granite in the obelisk of St. Peter's not more 
 polished and unimpressible. Shell or rock, weed or quicksand, 
 there is none ; and mar or deface its bright surface as you will, 
 it is ever beaten down anew, and washed even of the dust of 
 the foot of man, by the returning sea. You may write upon 
 its fine-grained face with a crowquill— you may course over its 
 dazzling expanse with a troop of chariots. 
 
 Most wondrous and beautiful of all, within twenty yards of 
 the surf, or for an hour after the tide has left the sand, it holds 
 the water without losing its firmness, and is like a gray mir- 
 ror, bright as the bosom of the sea. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 303 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS— Miss Adelaide A. Proctor. 
 
 Angels of light, spread your bright wings and keep 
 
 Near me at morn : 
 Nor in the starry eve, nor midnight deep, 
 
 Leave me forlorn. 
 
 From all dark spirits of unholy power 
 
 Guard my weak heart. 
 Circle around me in each perilous hour, 
 
 And take my part. 
 
 From all foreboding thoughts and dangerous fears 
 
 Keep me secure ; 
 Teach me to hope, and through the bitterest tears 
 
 Still to endure. 
 
 If lonely in the road so fair and wide 
 
 My feet should stray, 
 Then through a rougher, safer pathway guide 
 
 Me day by day. 
 
 Should my heart faint at its unequal strife, 
 
 Oh, still be near — 
 Shadow the perilous sweetness of this life 
 
 With holy fear. 
 
 Then leave me not alone in this bleak world, 
 
 Where'er I roam ; 
 And at the end, with your bright wings unfurled, 
 
 Oh, take me home ! 
 
304 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE DROWNED MARINER— Elizabeth Oakes Smith. 
 
 A mariner sat in the shrouds one night, 
 
 The wind was piping free ; 
 Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale, 
 And the phosphor gleam' d in the wake of the whale, 
 
 As it flounder' d in the sea ; 
 The scud was flying athwart the sky, 
 The gathering winds went whistling by, 
 And the wave, as it tower' d, then fell in spray, 
 Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray. 
 
 The mariner sway'd and rock'd on the mast, 
 
 But the tumult pleased him well : 
 Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, 
 And the monsters watch'd as they hurried past, 
 
 Or lightly rose and fell — 
 For their broad damp fins were under the tide, 
 And they lash'd as they pass'd the vessel's side, 
 And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim, 
 Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 
 
 Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes 
 
 Like an uncurb'd steed along ; 
 A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, 
 As her gallant prow the water ploughs, 
 
 But the ship is fleet and strong ; 
 The topsails are reef 'd, and the sails are furl'd, 
 And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world, 
 And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; 
 But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood. 
 
 Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, 
 
 And holds him by the shroud ; 
 And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 305 
 
 The gaping deep the mariner sees, 
 
 And the surging heareth loud. 
 Was that a face, looking up at him, 
 With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim ? 
 Did it beckon him down ? Did it call his name? 
 Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came. 
 
 The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread, 
 
 A face he knew too well ; 
 And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, 
 And its long hair out on the waves was spread — 
 
 Was there a tale to tell ? 
 The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed, 
 And the mariner groan'd, as well he need — 
 For ever down, as she plunged on her side, 
 The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide. 
 
 Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past ; 
 
 A voice calls loud for thee : 
 There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last ; 
 The plunging ship on her beam is cast — 
 
 Oh, where shall thy burial be ? 
 Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken; 
 Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken ; 
 Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee, 
 For thou art alone on the raging sea. 
 
 Alone in the dark, alone on the wave, 
 
 To buffet the storm alone ; 
 To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, 
 To struggle and feel there is none to save ! 
 
 God shield thee, helpless one ! 
 The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past ; 
 The trembling hands on the deep are cast ; 
 The white brow gleams a moment more, 
 Then slowly sinks — the struggle is o'er. 
 
306 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Down, down where the storm is hush'd to sleep, 
 
 Where the sea its dirge shall swell ; 
 Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep, 
 And the rose-lipp'd shell its music keep ; 
 
 There thou shalt slumber well. 
 The gem and the pearl lie heap'd at thy side ; 
 They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride, 
 From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow, 
 As they slowly sunk to the wave below. 
 
 A peopled home is the ocean-bed ; 
 
 The mother and child are there : 
 The fervent youth and the hoary head, 
 The maid, with her floating locks outspread, 
 
 The babe, with its silken hair : 
 As the water moveth, they lightly sway, 
 And the tranquil lights on their features play : 
 And there is each cherish'd and beautiful form, 
 Away from decay, and away from the storm. 
 
 ODE FOR THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE —1843— Frances A. Kemblb. 
 
 "In Berkshire, in 1848, a jubilee was held, for the purpose of gathering together, on 
 their native soil, all the sons of that picturesque mountain district, scattered over 
 the wide surface of the United States. The summons was enthusiastically obeyed. 
 And some came thither from beyond the. waters of the Mississippi; "and some 
 came from beyond the great chasm* of a thirty years 1 absence. And the occasion was 
 very touching and solemn. Bryant, himself a'Berkshireman, was solicited to cele- 
 brate it, but "having declined doing so, the task devolved on one most unworthy 
 of it, save for the love and reverence which she bears to the beautiful region that has 
 been to her emphatically a home in a strange land." — Fbances A. Kemble. 
 
 Darkness upon the mountain and the vale; 
 
 The woods, the lakes, the fields, are buried deep 
 In the still, silent, solemn star-watch'd sleep ; 
 No sound, no motion ; — and o'er hill and dale 
 A calm and lovely death serins to embrace 
 Earth's fairest realms and heaven's unmeasured space. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 307 
 
 The forest slumbers, leaf, and branch, and bough, 
 High feathery crest and lowliest grassy blade ; 
 All restless wandering wings are folded now 
 
 That swept the clouds, and in the sunshine play'd ; 
 The lake's wild waves sleep in their rocky bowl ;• 
 Unbroken stillness streams from Nature's, soul, 
 And night's black star-sown wings brood o'er the whole. 
 
 In the deep trance of the hush'd universe, 
 The dark death-mystery doth man rehearse : 
 Now for awhile cease the swift thoughts to run 
 From task to task — tired labor overdone, 
 With lighter toil than that of brain or heart, 
 In the sweet pause of outward life takes part ; 
 And hope and fear, desire, love, joy, and sorrow, 
 Wait 'neath sleep's downy breast the coming morrow. 
 Peace on the earth, profoundest peace in Heaven, 
 Praises the God of peace by whom 'tis given ! 
 
 But hark ! the woody depths of green 
 
 Begin to stir ; 
 Light breaths of life creep close between 
 
 Oak, beech, and fir ; 
 Faint rustling sounds of trembling leaves 
 
 Whisper around ; 
 The world at waking slowly heaves 
 
 A sigh profound. 
 And showers of tears, night-gather' d in her eyes, 
 Fall from fair Nature's face as she doth rise. 
 
 A ripple roughens on the lake ; 
 The silver lilies rocking wake ; 
 The sapphire waves lift themselves up and break 
 Along the laurell'd shore ; 
 
 * The Indian name of an exquisite lake, situated between the villages of Lenox 
 and Stockbridge, signifies "the Bowl." It lies like a cup of sparkling life in the 
 bosom of the mountains. 
 
308 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And woods and waters, answering each other, make 
 Silence no more. 
 
 And lo ! the East turns pale. 
 Night's dusky veil 
 
 Thinner and thinner grows, 
 Till the bright morning star 
 From hill to hill afar 
 This beacon shows. 
 Gold streaks shoot up the sky ; 
 Higher, and yet more high 
 
 The glory streams, — 
 Flushes of rosy hue, 
 Long lines of palest blue, 
 
 Bright amber gleams ; 
 From the black valleys rise 
 
 The silver mists like spray, 
 Upcurling to the skies 
 They catch the ray. 
 Light floods the heavens, light pours upon the earth ; 
 In glorious light the glorious day takes birth. 
 Hail to this day that brings ye home, 
 
 Ye distant wanderers from the mountain land ! 
 Hail to this hour that bids ye come 
 
 Again upon your native hills to stand ! 
 Hail ! hail ! from rocky peak 
 And wood-embowered dale, 
 A thousand loving voices speak ! 
 Hail ! home-turn'd pilgrims, hail ! 
 Oh, welcome ! From the meadow and the hill glad 
 greetings rise. 
 From flowering stream and rapid running rill, 
 Bright level lake, and dark, green wood-depth still, 
 And the sharp thunder-splintered crag that strikes 
 Its jagged rocky spikes 
 Into the skies. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 309 
 
 Gray Lock,* cloud-girdled from his purple throne, 
 
 A welcome sends ; 
 And from green, sunny fields a warbling tone 
 
 The Housatonic blends. 
 
 Welcome ! ye absent long, and distant far, 
 
 Who, from the roof-tree of your childhood turn'd, 
 Have waged 'mid strangers life's relentless war, 
 
 While at your hearts the holy home-love burn'd. 
 Ye that have ploughed the furrows of the foam, 
 
 And reap'd hard fortunes from the briny sea, 
 The golden grain-fields, rippling round your home, 
 
 Roll their rich billows from wild tempests free ! 
 Ye from those western, deadly blooming fields, 
 
 Where pestilence in plenty's bosom lies, 
 The hardy rock-soil of your mountains yields 
 
 Health's rosy blossoms to these purer skies ! 
 
 3r* tt % *J» *K •& 
 
 Ye that have prosper'd, bearing hence with you 
 
 The virtues that command prosperity, 
 To the green threshold of your youth ; ah ! come, 
 
 And hang your trophies round your early home ! 
 Ye that have suffered, and whose weary eyes 
 
 Have turned with sadness to your happier years, 
 Come to the fountain of sweet memories, 
 
 And by its healing waters dry your tears ! 
 Ye that departed, young and old, return ! 
 
 Ye who went forth with hope, and hopeless, come, 
 If still unquench'd within your hearts hath burn'd 
 
 The sacred love and longing for your home. 
 
 Hail! hail! 
 Bright hill and dale 
 With joy resound ! 
 
 Gray Lock is the picturesque name of a mountain, of majestic proportions. 
 
310 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Join in the joyful strain : 
 Ye have not wept in vain ; 
 The parted meet again ; 
 The lost shall yet be found. 
 
 And may God guard thee, oh ! thou lovely land ! 
 
 Danger nor evil nigh thy borders come. 
 Green towers of freedom ! may thy hills still stand ; 
 
 Still be thy valleys peace and virtue's home ; 
 The blessings of the stranger rest on thee ; 
 And firm as Heaven be thy prosperity. 
 
 PAIR WIND.— James T. Fields. 
 
 Oh, who can tell, that never sail'd 
 
 Among the glassy seas, 
 How fresh and welcome breaks the morn 
 
 That ushers in a breeze ! 
 " Fair wind ! fair wind !" alow, aloft, 
 
 All hands delight to cry, 
 As, leaping through the parted waves, 
 
 The good ship makes reply. 
 
 While fore and aft, all stanch and tight, 
 
 She spreads her canvas wide, 
 The captain walks his realm, the deck, 
 
 With more than monarch's pride ; 
 For well he knows the sea-bird's wings, 
 
 So swift and sure to-day, 
 Will waft him many a league to-night 
 
 In triumph on his way. 
 
 Then welcome to the rushing blast 
 
 That stirs the waters now — 
 Ye white-plumed heralds of the deep, 
 
 Make music round her prow ! 
 
HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 3H 
 
 Good sea-room in the roaring gale, 
 
 Let stormy trumpets blow ; 
 But chain ten thousand fathoms down 
 
 The sluggish calm below ! 
 
 THE UNKNOWN-A HEBREW LEGEND.-Anonymous. 
 
 Ours was a gate of high renown, 
 
 Though deemed the worst of that Christian town, 
 
 For the flock of Judah's scattered fold 
 
 Had their dwellings there from times of old, 
 
 And there many goods were bought and sold ; 
 
 But chiefly in its midst abode 
 
 The light of Israel's eyes : 
 Much prized at home, far famed abroad — 
 
 Ben Ezra, named the Wise. 
 
 High was his seat and great his sway 
 In our synagogue on the Sabbath day ; 
 Deep was his skill in points perplexed, 
 In case of conscience, or Talmud text, 
 
 But deeper far in men. 
 Sinner and saint that skill could sift, 
 Could measure each Rabbi's grace and gift, 
 And never a Gentile's depth or drift 
 
 Escaped Ben Ezra's ken. 
 
 He knew the import of every trace 
 
 Life's currents leave on the human face ; 
 
 He saw of each soul the losing side, 
 
 Where the wall was weak, or the breach was wide. 
 
 And if there lurked some human pride 
 
 Amid his light and lore, 
 When ancient nobles and traders shrewd, 
 And Christian priests of the loftiest mood, 
 
312 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Sought counsel at his door, 
 Concerning borrowers and heirs, 
 And the rest of rich men's heavy cares, 
 What marvel ! — Wisdom itself hath snares. 
 
 Ben Ezra's house was free from strife, 
 Though he had a sister and a wife ; 
 Poor simple souls, whose thoughts and looks 
 Were seldom if ever bent on books ; 
 They had been far relations born, 
 
 And friends from childhood's time, 
 And our people held them both to be 
 But feeble boughs of a goodly tree — 
 
 For even in days of prime 
 Cerpah and Ruth looked wan and worn, 
 And no man for their love was lorn ; 
 Therefore Ben Ezra, whose sage mind 
 Small difference saw in woman-kind, 
 Like a prudent and a kindly brother, 
 Maintained the one, and wed the other. 
 
 They had kept the goodman's hearth aud board 
 
 In household trim and cheer, 
 His robe from rents and his books from dust, 
 His lamp, and perchance his heart, from rust, 
 
 For many a quiet year ; — 
 While he read on through learned pages, 
 And counselled men and talked with sages, — 
 
 And thought it quite their sphere. 
 Forth went Ben Ezra all alone 
 
 As closed the year's first day, 
 He passed the gallows, the grave, the gate, 
 And paused at length, though the hour was late, 
 
 Where our silent sleepers lay. 
 It was his wish to gaze a space 
 On the peace of his kindred's resting-place, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 313 
 
 But the Rabbi saw through the gathering gloom 
 A stranger stand by his Mother's tomb. 
 
 He was a man of aspect fair, 
 
 But coldly, sternly sage ; 
 And the jet of youth was on his hair, 
 
 And his eye had known no age. 
 Yet never a greeting word spoke he, 
 Nor bowed his head, nor bent his knee, 
 As the pride of our synagogue drew near ; 
 But " Son of the scattered — welcome here ! 
 As one to whose wisdom souls are known — 
 
 The wide land talks of thee; 
 And now, by our after meeting-day, 
 I charge thee to tell me who are they 
 
 That come this year to me?" 
 
 Ben Ezra's heart was high and bold, 
 But its veins at the stranger's voice grew cold ; 
 For the tomb's broad shadow could not hide 
 The scythe and the sand-glass by his side. 
 
 And now at the funeral gates came in, 
 A form like a walking shred ; 
 
 Sapless and thin at every part, 
 
 And narrow it was at head and heart 
 As a spider's new-spun thread ; 
 But its look, as the Rabbi well discerned, 
 Was that of Ben Solomon the learned, 
 Who then sat deep in his famous dispute 
 On the mysteries of a Chaldee root ; 
 Whereat we marvelled and were mute. 
 
 He named the Sage : — Then a dwarfish shape 
 
 That crawled along the clay, 
 As if it had neither trust nor share 
 In aught that did not centre there, 
 
 Through the tombstones made its way. 
 14 
 
314 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 Ben Ezra started as near it drew, 
 For the rich Ben Ophir's face he knew, 
 His people's prince, on whose busy hands 
 Lay a weight of son-in-laws and lands. 
 
 He named the Prince : — Then two that towered 
 
 Above the common frame, 
 Of stately presence and regal port, 
 
 As the heirs of a monarch, came ; 
 Like the conqueror's look when the fight is done, 
 Like the Pilgrim's step when his rest is won, 
 Were their look and step, but "By the Law !" 
 Said the Rabbi, " these I never saw." 
 
 " How," said the Lord of the dead, " is this, 
 
 O man, that thou canst see 
 So clearly all who rise or fall, 
 
 Save the souls who divell with thee .*" 
 
 The deep voice died in a distant sound, 
 
 There was naught but the tombs and twilight round ; 
 
 And still by the cold recording stone 
 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra stood alone ! 
 
 There were ashes on our heads that year, 
 
 And in every court a suit — 
 For Solomon quoted texts no more, 
 And rich Ben Ophir's lands and store 
 
 Were cause of fierce dispute. 
 Yet Ezra sat by his winter fire, 
 
 And heeded not the strife ; 
 For his board and his lamp and his books were there, 
 
 But neither his sister nor wife. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 315 
 
 THE KINGDOM OE GOD .— Richakd Cheneyix Trench. 
 
 I say to thee, do thou repeat 
 
 To the first man that thou mayest meet 
 
 In lane, highway, or open street, 
 
 That he, and we, and all men move 
 
 Under a canopy of love, 
 
 As broad as the blue sky above; 
 
 That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
 And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
 That death itself shall not remain ; 
 
 That weary deserts we may tread, 
 A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
 Through dark ways underground be led ; 
 
 Yet, if we will our Guide obey, 
 The dreariest path, the darkest way, 
 Shall issue out in heavenly day. 
 
 And we, on divers shores now cast, 
 Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, 
 All in our Father's house at last. 
 
 And ere thou leave him, say thou this 
 Yet one word more, They only miss 
 The winning of that final bliss, 
 
 Who will not count it true that love^ — 
 Blessing, not cursing — rules above, 
 And that in it we live and move. 
 
 And one thing further let him know- 
 That to believe these things are so, 
 This firm faith never to forego ; 
 
316 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Despite of all which seems at strife 
 With blessing, all with curses rife — 
 That this is blessing, this is life. 
 
 THE CHARACTER OE HAMLET.-William Hazlitt. 
 
 It is the one of Shakspeare' s plays that we think of the oftenest, 
 because it abounds most in striking reflections on human life, 
 and because the distresses of Hamlet are transferred, by the 
 turn of his mind, to the general account of humanity. What- 
 ever happens to him, we apply to ourselves, because he applies 
 it to himself as a means of general reasoning. He is a great 
 moralizer ; and what makes him worth attending to is, that he 
 moralizes on his own feelings and experience. He is not a 
 commonplace pedant. If Lear is distinguished by the greatest 
 depth of passion, Hamlet is the most remarkable for the in- 
 genuity, originality, and unstudied development of character. 
 Shakspeare had more magnanimity than any other poet, and 
 he has shown more of it in this play than in any other. There 
 is no attempt to force an interest : every thing is left for time 
 and circumstances to unfold. The attention is excited without 
 effort ; the incidents succeed each other as matters of course ; 
 the characters think, and speak, and act just as they might do, 
 if left entirely to themselves. There is no set purpose, no 
 straining at a point. The observations are suggested by the 
 passing scene — the gusts of passion come and go like sounds of 
 music borne on the wind. The whole play is an exact tran- 
 script of what might be supposed to have taken place at the 
 court of Denmark at the remote period of time fixed upon, be- 
 fore the modern refinements in morals and manners were heard 
 of. It would have been interesting enough to have been ad- 
 mitted as a bystander in such a scene, at such a time, to have 
 heard and witnessed something of what was going on. But 
 here we are more than spectators. We have not only "the out- 
 ward pageants and the signs of grief," but " we have that within 
 which passes show." We read the thoughts of the heart, we 
 catch the passions living as they rise. Other dramatic writers 
 give us very fine versions and paraphrases of nature ; but 
 Shakspeare, together with his own comments, gives us the 
 original text, that we may judge for ourselves. This is a very- 
 great advantage. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 317 
 
 The character of Hamlet stands quite by itself. It is not a 
 character marked by strength of will or even of passion, but by 
 refinement of thought and sentiment. Hamlet is as little of the 
 hero as a man can well be; but he is a young and princely 
 novice, full of high enthusiasm and quick sensibility — the sport 
 of circumstances, questioning with fortune, and refining on his 
 own feelings, and forced from the natural bias of his disposition 
 by the strangeness of his situation. He seems incapable of de- 
 liberate action, and is only hurried into extremities on the spur 
 of the occasion, when he has no time to reflect — as in the scene 
 where he kills Polonius ; and again, where he alters the letters 
 which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are taking with them to 
 England, purporting his death. At other times, when he is 
 most bound to act, he remains puzzled, undecided, and scep- 
 tical ; dallies with his purposes till the occasion is lost, and finds 
 out some pretence to relapse into indolence and thoughtfulness 
 again. For this reason he refuses to kill the king when he is 
 at his prayers ; and, by a refinement in malice, which is in truth 
 only an excuse for his own want of resolution, defers his revenge 
 
 to a more fatal opportunity. 
 
 * * * * *** **## 
 
 The moral perfection of this character has been called in 
 question, we think, by those who did not understand it. It is 
 more interesting than according to rules ; amiable, though not 
 faultless. We confess we are a little shocked at the want of 
 refinement in those who are shocked at the want of refinement 
 in Hamlet. The neglect of punctilious exactness in his behavior 
 either partakes of the "license of the time," or else belongs to 
 the very excess of intellectual refinement in the character, which 
 makes the common rules of life, as well as his own purposes, 
 sit loose upon him. He may be said to be amenable only to 
 the tribunal of his own thoughts, and is too much taken up with 
 the airy world of contemplation, to lay as much stress as he 
 ought on the practical consequences of things. His habitual 
 principles of action are unhinged and out of joint with the 
 time. His conduct to Ophelia is quite natural in his circum- 
 stances. It is that of assumed severity only. It is the effect 
 of disappointed hope, of bitter regrets, of affection suspended, 
 not obliterated, by the distractions of the scene around him ! 
 Amidst the natural and preternatural horrors of hi-s situation, 
 he might be excused in delicacy from carrying on a regular 
 courtship. When " his father's spirit was in arms," it was not a 
 time for the son to make love in. He could neither marry 
 
31 S LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Ophelia, nor wound her mind by explaining the cause of his 
 alienation, which he durst hardly trust himself to think of. It 
 would have taken him years to have come to a direct explanation 
 on the point. In the harassed state of his mind, he could not 
 have done much otherwise than he did. His conduct does not 
 contradict what he says when he sees her funeral : — 
 
 "I loved Ophelia ; forty thousand brothers 
 Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
 Make up my sum." 
 
 AT THE SEA-SIDE— Miss Mulock. 
 
 O solitary shining sea 
 
 That ripples in the sun, 
 O gray and melancholy sea, 
 
 O'er which the shadows run ; 
 
 O many-voiced and angry sea, 
 Breaking with moan and strain, — 
 
 I, like a humble, chastened child, 
 Come back to thee again ; 
 
 And build child-castles and dig moats 
 
 Upon the quiet sands, 
 And twist the cliff-convolvulus 
 
 Once more, round idle hands ; 
 
 And look across that ocean line, 
 
 As o'er life's summer sea, 
 Where many a hope went sailing once, 
 
 Full set, with canvas free. 
 
 Strange, strange to think how some of them 
 
 Their silver sails have furled, 
 And some have whitely glided down 
 
 Into the under world ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 319 
 
 And some, dismasted, tossed, and torn, 
 
 Put back in port once more, 
 Thankful to ride, with freight still safe, 
 
 At anchor near the shore. 
 
 Stranger it is to lie at ease 
 
 As now, with thoughts that fly 
 More light and wandering than sea-birds 
 
 Between the waves and sky : — 
 
 To play child's play with shells and weeds, 
 
 And view the ocean grand 
 But as one w T ave that may submerge 
 
 A baby-house of sand ; 
 
 And not once look, or look by chance, 
 With old dreams quite suppressed, 
 
 Across that mystic wild sea-world 
 Of infinite unrest. 
 
 O ever solitary sea, 
 
 Of which we all have found 
 Somewhat to dream or say — the type 
 
 Of things without a bound — 
 
 Love, long as life, and strong as death ; 
 
 Faith, humble as sublime ; 
 Eternity, whose large depths hold 
 
 The wrecks of this small Time ; 
 
 Unchanging, everlasting sea ! 
 
 To spirits soothed and calm 
 Thy restless moan of other years 
 
 Becomes an endless psalm. 
 
320 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE BELLS OF SHANDON.*— Feakcis Mahohy (Father Protjt). 
 
 "Sabbata pango, 
 Funera plarigo, 
 Solemnia clango." 
 
 — Inscription on an old bell. 
 
 With deep affection 
 And recollection 
 I often think of 
 
 Those Shandon Bells, 
 Whose sounds so wild would, 
 In days of childhood, 
 Fling round my cradle 
 
 Their magic spells. 
 On this I ponder 
 And still grow fonder, 
 
 Sweet Cork, of thee, 
 With thy bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chimin' 
 Full many a clime in, 
 Tolling sublime in 
 
 Cathedral shrine, 
 While at a glibe rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate, 
 But all their music 
 
 Spoke naught like thine ; 
 For memory dwelling 
 On each proud swelling 
 Of thy belfry knelling 
 
 Its bold notes free, 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 Sound more grand on 
 
 * An abbey near Cork, celebrated for its chime of bells. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 321 
 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells tollin' 
 Old Adrian's mole in, 
 Their thunders rollin' 
 
 From the Vatican, 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of Notre Dame ; 
 But thy sounds are sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber 
 
 Pealing solemnly ; 
 Oh, the bells of Shan don 
 They sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow, 
 While in town and kiosk, O, 
 In St. Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air 
 Calls men to prayer 
 From the tapering summit 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 Such empty phantom 
 I freely grant them, 
 But there's a phantom 
 
 More dear to me — 
 
 'Tis the bells of Shandon 
 
 That sound so grand on 
 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 4.* 
 
322 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE FATE OF MACGIIEGOR.-James Hogg. 
 
 u Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen ; 
 The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond ; 
 The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay; 
 Arise ! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away." 
 
 Stern scowled the Macgregor, then, silent and sullen, 
 He turned his red eye to the braes of Strath fillan : 
 " Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismissed ; 
 The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest." 
 
 " Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying, 
 Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon; 
 Of riding and running such tidings they bear, 
 We must meet them at home else they'll quickly be here — ' 
 
 "The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him; 
 And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him ; 
 This night I am bound to relinquish the fray, 
 And do what it freezes my vitals to say. 
 Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind ; 
 Thou knowest in the strife I was never behind, 
 Nor ever receded a foot from the van, 
 Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of man : 
 But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and my all ! 
 An oath which I cannot, and dare not recall — 
 Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile, 
 To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle. 
 
 " Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone, 
 I called to remembrance some deeds I had done, 
 When entered a lady, with visage so wan, 
 And looks, such as never were fastened on man. 
 I knew her, O brother ! I knew her too well ! 
 Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell 
 As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remained, 
 So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained, 
 I knew not — but ages seemed short to the while, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 323 
 
 Though, proffer the Highlands, nay, all the green isle, 
 
 With length of existence no man can enjoy, 
 
 The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly ! 
 
 The thrice-threatened pangs of last night to forego, 
 
 Maco-reo-or would dive to the mansions below. 
 
 Despairing and mad, to futurity blind, 
 
 The present to shun and some respite to find, 
 
 I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile, 
 
 To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle. 
 
 " She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone, 
 The glory and name of Macgregor were gone ; 
 That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo 
 Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo, 
 Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon 
 Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun : 
 That a feast on Macgregors each day should be common, 
 For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond. 
 
 " A parting embrace, in one moment she gave ; 
 Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave ! 
 Then flitting illusive, she said, with a frown, 
 1 The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own !' " 
 
 "Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind: 
 The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind, 
 Come, buckle thy panoply — march to the field — 
 See, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield ! 
 Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride, 
 When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side. 
 This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue ; 
 Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood will glue ; 
 Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing, 
 When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring." 
 
 Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, 
 Macgregor' s red eye shed one sparkle of light : 
 It faded — it darkened — he shuddered — he sighed, — 
 " No ! not for the universe !" low he replied. 
 
324 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Away went Macgregor, but went not alone : 
 To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone. 
 They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene, 
 And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene ! 
 O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curled, 
 And rocked them on sides of a far nether World. 
 
 All silent they went, for the time was approaching ; 
 The moon the blue zenith already was touching ; 
 No foot was abroad on the forest or hill, 
 No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill : 
 Young Malcolm, at distance couched, trembling the while- 
 Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle. 
 
 Few minutes had passed, ere they spied on the stream 
 A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem ; 
 Her sail was the web of the gossamer's, loom, 
 The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom ; 
 A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast, 
 Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste. 
 Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, 
 No torrent, no rock, her velocity stayed ; 
 She wimpled the water to weather and lee, 
 And heaved as if born on the waves of the sea. 
 Mute Nature was roused in the bounds of the glen ; 
 The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den, 
 Fled panting away, over river and isle, 
 Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle. 
 
 The fox fled in terror ; the eagle awoke 
 As slumbering he dozed on the shelve of the rock; 
 Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew, 
 And screwed the night-heaven till lost in the blue. 
 
 Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, 
 The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch. 
 He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain, 
 As begging for something he could not obtain ; 
 She raised him indignant, derided his stay, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 325 
 
 Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away. 
 
 Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, 
 Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side ; 
 " Macgregor ! Macgregor !" he bitterly cried ; 
 " Macgregor ! Macgregor !" the echoes replied. 
 He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, 
 His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream ; 
 But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain, 
 Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain. 
 They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away — 
 Macgregor is vanished forever and aye ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS.— Alfked Tennyson. 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
 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, let 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 the want, the care, the sin, 
 The faithless coldness of the times ; 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
326 LADIES 1 BOOK OF 
 
 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 disease, 
 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. 
 
 GIXEVEA— Samuel Rogers. 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance 
 To Modena, where still religiously 
 Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
 Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs* 
 Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), 
 Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate, 
 Dwelt in*of old by one of the Orsini. 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
 Will long detain thee ; through their arched walks, 
 Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse 
 Of knights and dame=, such as in old romance, 
 And lovers, such as in heroic song, 
 Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, 
 That in the spring-time as alone they sat, 
 Venturing together on a tale of love, 
 
 * Affirming itself to be the very bucket which Tassoni, in his mock heroics, has cele- 
 brated as the cause of war between Bologna and Modena five hundred years ago. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 327 
 
 Read only part that day. A summer sun 
 
 Sets ere one-half is seen ; but ere thou go, 
 Enter the house — prithee, forget it not — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
 The very last of that illustrious race, 
 Done by Zampicri* — but by whom I care not. 
 He, who observes it, ere he passes on, 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
 That he may call it up, when far away. 
 
 She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
 Her lips half-open, and her finger up, 
 As though she said, " Beware !" Her vest of gold 
 'Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 
 Ati, emerald stone in every golden clasp ; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 A coronet of pearls. But then her face, 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 
 The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
 It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
 Like some wild melody ! 
 
 Aione it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, 
 An oaken chest, half-eaten by the -worm, 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. 
 That by the way — it may be true or false — 
 But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, 
 
 When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 
 She was an only child ; from infancy 
 
 The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. 
 
 Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, 
 
 * Commonly called Domenichino. 
 
328 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 That precious gift, what else remained to hiin ? 
 
 The young Ginevra was his all in life, 
 
 Still as she grew, forever in his sight ; 
 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
 She was all gentleness, all gayety, 
 Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
 But now the clay was come, the day, the hour; 
 Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
 And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 
 Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast, 
 When all sate down, the Bride was wanting there. 
 Nor was she to be found ! Her Father cried : 
 u 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" 
 And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back and flying still, 
 Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
 Nor from that hour could any thing be guessea, 
 But that she was not! — Weary of his life, 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Orsini lived ; and long was to be seen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
 Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
 When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 
 Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, 
 When on an idle dav, a day of search, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 329 
 
 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
 
 That mouldering chest was noticed, and 'twas said 
 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra ; 
 
 " Why not remove it from its lurking place ?" 
 
 'Twas done as soon as said, but on the way 
 
 It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, 
 
 With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
 
 All else had perished — save a wedding ring 
 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 
 Engraven with a name, the name of both, " Ginevra." 
 
 There then she had found a grave ! 
 Within that chest — had she concealed herself, 
 Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, 
 When a spring lock that lay in ambush there, 
 Fastened her down forever ! 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL BOUNTIES OF PROVIDENCE -Edward Eveeett. 
 
 A celebrated sceptical philosopher of the last century — the 
 historian, Hume — thought to demolish the credibility of the 
 Christian revelation, by the concise argument, — " It is contrary 
 to experience that a miracle should be true, but not contrary to 
 experience that testimony should be false." Contrary to expe- 
 rience that phenomena should exist which we cannot trace to 
 causes perceptible to the human sense, or conceivable by human 
 thought [ It would be much nearer the truth to say that within 
 the husbandman's experience there are no phenomena which 
 can be rationally traced to any thing but the instant energy of 
 creative power. 
 
 Did this philosopher ever contemplate the landscape at the 
 close of the year, when seeds, and grains, and fruits have ripened, 
 and stalks have withered, and leaves have fallen, and winter has 
 forced her icy curb even into the roaring jaws of Niagara, and 
 sheeted half a continent in her glittering shroud, and all this 
 teeming vegetation and organized life are locked in cold and 
 marble obstructions, and after week upon week, and month upon 
 month, have swept, with sleet, and chilly rain, and howling 
 
330 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 storm, over the earth, and riveted their crystal bolts upon the 
 door of nature's sepulchre, — when the sun at length begins to 
 wheel in higher circles through the sky, and softer winds to 
 breathe over melting snows, — did he ever behold the long-hidden 
 earth at length appear, and soon the timid grass peep forth ; and 
 anon the autumnal wheat begin to paint the field, and velvet 
 leaflets to burst from purple buds, throughout the reviving forest, 
 and then the mellow soil to open its fruitful bosom to every grain 
 and seed dropped from the planter's hand, — buried, but to spring 
 up again, clothed with a new, mysterious being; and then, as 
 more fervid suns inflame the air, and softer showers distil from 
 the clouds, and gentler dews string their pearls on twig and 
 tendril, did he ever watch the ripening grain and fruit, pendent 
 from stalk, and vine, and tree ; the meadow, the field, the pas- 
 ture, the grove, each after his kind, arrayed in myriad-tinted 
 garments, instinct with circulating life ; seven millions of counted 
 leaves on a single tree, each of which is a system whose exquisite 
 complication puts to shame the shrewdest cunning of the human 
 hand ; every planted seed and grain, which had been loaned to 
 the earth, compounding its pious usury thirty, sixty, a hundred 
 fold, — all harmoniously adapted to the sustenance of living nature, 
 the bread of a hungry world ; here, a tilled corn-field, whose yel- 
 low blades are nodding with the food of man ; there, an unplanted 
 wilderness, — the great Father's farm, — where He " who hears 
 the raven's cry" has cultivated, with his own hand, his merciful 
 crop of berries, and nuts, and acorns, and seeds, for the humbler 
 families of animated nature ; the solemn elephant, the browsing 
 deer, the wild pigeon whose fluttering caravan darkens the sky, 
 the merry squirrel, who bounds from branch to branch in the 
 joy of his little life, — has he seen all this? Does he see it 
 every year, and month, and day ? Does he live, and move, and 
 breathe, and think, in this atmosphere of wonder, — himself the 
 greatest wonder of all, whose smallest fibre and faintest pulsa- 
 tion is as much a mystery as the blazing glories of Orion's belt ? 
 And does he still maintain that a miracle is contrary to 
 experience ? If he has, and if he does, then let him go, in the 
 name of Heaven, and say that it is contrary to experience that 
 the august Power which turns the clods of the earth into the 
 daily bread of a thousand million souls could feed five thousand 
 in the wilderness. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 331 
 
 A COLLOQUY WITH MYSELF -Bernard Barton. 
 
 As I walked by myself, I talked to myself, 
 
 And myself replied to me ; 
 And the questions myself then put to myself, 
 
 With their answers, I give to thee. 
 Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself 
 
 Their responses the same should be, 
 Oh ! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself, 
 
 Or so much the worse for thee. 
 
 What are Riches ? Hoarded treasures 
 
 May, indeed, thy coffers fill ; 
 Yet, like earth's most fleeting pleasures, 
 
 Leave thee poor and heartless still. 
 
 What are Pleasures? When afforded 
 But by gauds which pass away, 
 
 Read their fate in lines recorded 
 On the sea-sands yesterday. 
 
 What is Fashion ? Ask of Folly, 
 She her worth can best express. 
 
 What is moping Melancholy ? 
 Go and learn of Idleness. 
 
 What is Truth? Too stern a preacher 
 For the prosperous and the gay ! 
 
 But a safe and wholesome teacher 
 In Adversity's dark day. 
 
 What is Friendship ? If well founded, 
 Like some beacon's heavenward glow ; 
 
 If on false pretensions grounded, 
 Like the treacherous sand below. 
 
332 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 What is Love? If earthly only, 
 
 Like a meteor of the night ; 
 Shining but to leave more lonely 
 
 Hearts that hailed its transient light : 
 
 But when calm, refined, and tender, 
 Purified from passion's stain, 
 
 Like the moon, in gentle splendor, 
 Ruling o'er the peaceful main. 
 
 What are Hopes, but gleams of brightness, 
 Glancing darkest clouds between ? 
 
 Or foam-crested waves, whose whiteness 
 Gladdens ocean's darksome green. 
 
 What are Fears ? Grim phantoms, throwing 
 Shadows o'er the pilgrim's way, 
 
 Every moment darker growing, 
 If we yield unto their sway. 
 
 What is Mirth ? A flash of lightning, 
 Followed but by deeper gloom. 
 
 Patience ? More than sunshine brightening 
 Sorrow's path, and labor's doom. 
 
 What is Time ? A river flowing 
 
 To Eternity's vast sea, 
 Forward, whither all are rowing, 
 
 On its bosom bearing thee. 
 
 What is Life ? A bubble floating 
 
 On that silent, rapid stream ; 
 Few, too few, its progress noting, 
 
 Till it bursts, and ends the dream. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 333 
 
 What is Death, asunder rending 
 
 Every tie we love so well ? 
 But the gate to life unending, 
 
 Joy, in heaven ! or woe, in hell ! 
 
 Can these truths, by repetition, 
 
 Lose their magnitude or weight? 
 Estimate thine own condition, 
 . Ere thou pass that fearful gate. 
 
 Hast thou heard them oft repeated ? 
 
 Much may still be left to do : 
 Be not by profession cheated ; 
 
 Live — as if thou knewest them true. 
 
 As I walked by myself, I talked to myself, 
 
 And myself replied to me ; 
 And the questions myself then put to myself, 
 
 With their answers, I've given to thee. 
 Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself 
 
 Their responses the same should be, 
 Oh ! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself, 
 
 Or so much the worse for thee. 
 
 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.-H. Q. Bell. 
 
 I looked far back into other years, and lo ! in bright array, 
 I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. 
 
 It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, 
 
 And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the 
 
 footstep falls ; 
 And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow passed, 
 And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. 
 No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim, 
 The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. 
 
334: LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, 
 In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects 
 
 please ; 
 And little recked they when they sang, or knelt at vesper 
 
 prayers, 
 That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more dear 
 
 than theirs ; 
 And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine, 
 Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart line ; 
 Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, 
 And as they flew they left behind a long-continuing light. 
 
 The scene was changed. It was the court — the gay court of 
 
 Bourbon — 
 And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers 
 
 throng ; 
 And proudly kindles Henry's eye — well pleased, I ween, to see 
 The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry : — 
 Gray Montmorency, o'er whose head has passed a storm of 
 
 years, 
 Strong in himself and children stands, the first among his peers ; 
 And next the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights 
 
 assailed, 
 And walked ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts 
 
 have failed — 
 And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their 
 
 might, 
 For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light. 
 Here Louis, Prince of Conde, w T ears his all-unconquered sword, 
 With great Coligni by his side — each name a household word ! 
 And there walks she of Medicis — that proud Italian line, 
 The mother of a race of kings — the haughty Catharine ! 
 The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine make — 
 A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake ; 
 But fairer far than all the rest, who bask on fortune's tide, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 335 
 
 Effulgent in thu light of youth, is she, the new-made bride ! 
 
 The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond, deep love of one — 
 
 The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but 
 begun — 
 
 They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, 
 
 They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak. 
 
 Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its bril- 
 liant hours, 
 
 She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and its 
 flowers ? 
 
 The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, 
 And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay ; 
 And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes 
 Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise. 
 No marvel that the lady wept — there was no land on earth 
 She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her 
 
 birth ; 
 It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends — 
 It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends — 
 The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she 
 
 had known 
 The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendors of a 
 
 throne ; 
 No marvel that the lady wept — it was the land of France — 
 The chosen home of chivalry — the garden of romance ! 
 The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her 
 
 bark; 
 The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark ! 
 One gaze again — one long, last gaze — " Adieu, fair France, to 
 
 thee !" 
 The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea. 
 
 The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, 
 And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood 
 
336 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, 
 That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. 
 The touch of care had blanched her cheek— her smile was 
 
 sadder now, 
 The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow ; 
 And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field; 
 The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could 
 
 not wield. 
 She thought of all her blighted hopes — the dreams of youth's 
 
 brief day, 
 And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play 
 The songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay Navarre, 
 The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar : 
 They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into 
 
 smiles, 
 They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic 
 
 broils :— 
 But hark ! the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle-cry ! 
 They come — they come — and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hol- 
 low eye ! 
 And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words 
 
 are vain, 
 The ruffian steel is in his heart — the faithful Rizzio's slain ! 
 Then Mary Stuart brushed aside the tears that trickling fell : 
 u Now for my father's arm S" she said ; " my woman's heart, 
 
 farewell !" 
 
 The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small, lonely isle, 
 
 And there, within the prison-walls of its baronial pile, 
 
 Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to 
 
 sign 
 The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ancestral 
 
 line : — 
 "My lords! my lords!" the captive said, " were I but once 
 
 more free, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 337 
 
 With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause and 
 
 me, 
 That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, 
 And once more reign a Stuart Queen o'er my remorseless foes !" 
 A red spot burned upon her check — streamed her rich tresses 
 
 down, 
 She wrote the words — she stood erect — a queen without a 
 
 crown ! 
 
 The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore, 
 And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen 
 
 once more ; 
 She stayed her steed upon a hill — she saw them marching by — 
 She heard their shouts — she read success in every flashing eye ; 
 The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away ; 
 And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — where are 
 
 they ? 
 Scattered and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone — 
 
 God ! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has 
 
 won ! 
 Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part; 
 Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart. 
 
 The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman 
 
 stood, 
 And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip 
 
 with blood. 
 With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, 
 And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched the hearts 
 
 of all ; 
 Rich were the sable robes she wore — her white veil round her 
 
 fell— 
 And from her neck there hung the cross — the cross she loved 
 
 so well ! 
 
 1 knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom — 
 
 15 
 
338 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 I saw that grief bad decked it out — an offering for the tomb ! 
 I knew tbe eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly 
 
 shone — 
 I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every 
 
 tone — 
 I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold — 
 I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of mould ! 
 Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, 
 I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile — 
 Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn, 
 A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born ! 
 
 Alas ! the change ! she placed her foot upon a triple throne, 
 And on the scaffold now she stands — beside the block, alone ! 
 The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd 
 Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her foot- 
 steps bowed ! 
 Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul is passed 
 
 away ; 
 The bright — the beautiful — is now a bleeding piece of clay ! 
 The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er, 
 Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor ! 
 The blood of beauty, wealth, and power — the heart-blood of a 
 
 queen — 
 The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth hath seen — 
 Lapped by a dog ! Go ! think of it in silence and alone ; 
 Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne ! 
 
 OH! THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD !-Feaxces Bbo^n. 
 
 Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so often people praise ! 
 True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our modern days : 
 Bare floors were strewed with rushes — the walls let in the cold ; 
 Oh ! how they must have shivered in those pleasant days of 
 old! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 339 
 
 Oh ! those ancient lords of old, how magnificent they were ! 
 They threw down and imprisoned kings — to thwart them who 
 
 might dare ? 
 They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they took from Jews their 
 
 gold — 
 Above both law and equity were those great lords of old ! 
 
 Oh ! the gallant knights of old, for their valor so renowned ! 
 With sword and lance, and armor strong, they scoured the 
 
 country round ; 
 And whenever aught to tempt them they met by wood or wold, 
 By right of sword they seized the prize — those gallant knights 
 
 of old ! 
 
 Oh ! the gentle dames of old ! who, quite free from fear or pain, 
 Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see their champions 
 
 slain ; 
 They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which made them strong 
 
 and bold — 
 Oh ! more like men than women were those gentle dames of 
 
 old! 
 
 Oh ! those mighty towers of old ! with their turrets, moat, and 
 
 keep, 
 Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons dark and deep. 
 Full many a baron held his court within the castle hold ; 
 And many a captive languished there, in those strong towers 
 
 of old. 
 
 Oh ! the troubadours of old ! with their gentle minstrelsie 
 
 Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er their lot might be — 
 
 For years they served their ladye-love ere they their passion 
 
 told— 
 Oh wondrous patience must have had those troubadours of 
 
 old! 
 
340 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Oh ! those blessed times of old I with their chivalry and state ; 
 I love to read their ehronicles which such brave deeds relate ; 
 I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their legends told — 
 But, Heaven be thanked ! I live not in those blessed times of 
 old! 
 
 DON QUIXOTE —George Ticknob. 
 
 At the very beginning of his great work, Cervantes announces 
 it to be his sole purpose to break down the vogue and authority 
 of books of chivalry, and at the end of the whole, he declares 
 anew, in his own person, that " he had no other desire than to 
 render abhorred of men the false and absurd stories contained 
 in books of chivalry ;" exulting in his success, as an achieve- 
 ment of no small moment. And such, in fact, it was ; for we 
 have abundant proof that the fanaticism for these romances was 
 so great in Spain, during the sixteenth century, as to have be- 
 come matter of alarm to the more judicious. At last they were 
 deemed so noxious, that, in 1553, they were prohibited by law 
 from being printed or sold in the American colonies, and in 
 1555 the same prohibition, and even the burning of all copies 
 of them extant in Spain itself, was earnestly asked for by the 
 Cortes. The evil, in fact, had become formidable, and the wise 
 began to see it. 
 
 To destroy a passion that had struck its roots so deeply in 
 the character of all classes of men, to break up the only read- 
 ing which at that time could be considered widely popular and 
 fashionable, was certainly a bold undertaking, and one that 
 marks any thing rather than a scornful or broken spirit, or a 
 want of faith in what is most to be valued in our common na- 
 ture. The great wonder is, that Cervantes succeeded. But 
 that he did there is no question. No book of chivalry was 
 written after the appearance of Don Quixote in 1605 ; and 
 from the same date, even those already enjoying the greatest 
 favor ceased, with one or two unimportant exceptions, to be re- 
 printed ; so that, from that time to the present, they have been 
 constantly disappearing, until they are now among the rarest 
 of literary curiosities; — a solitary instance of the power of 
 genius to destroy, by a single well-timed blow, an entire de- 
 partment, and that, too, a flourishing and favored one, in the 
 literature of a great and proud nation. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 341 
 
 The general plan Cervantes adopted to accomplish this ob- 
 ject, without, perhaps, foreseeing its whole course, and still less 
 all its results, was simple as well as original. In 1605, he 
 published the First Part of Don Quixote, in which a country 
 gentleman of La Mancha — full of genuine Castilian honor and 
 enthusiasm, gentle and dignified in his character, trusted by his 
 friends, and loved by his dependents — is represented as so com- 
 pletely crazed by long rea'ding the most famous books of chiv- 
 alry, that he believes them to be true, and feels himself called 
 on to become the impossible knight-errant they describe, — nay, 
 actually goes forth into the world to defend the oppressed and 
 avenge the injured, like the heroes of his romances. 
 
 To complete his chivalrous equipment, — which he had begun 
 by fitting up for himself a suit of armor strange to his century, — 
 he took an esquire out of his neighborhood; a middle-aged 
 peasant, ignorant and credulous to excess, but of great good- 
 nature ; a glutton and a liar ; selfish and gross, yet attached to 
 his master ; shrewd enough occasionally to see the folly of 
 their position, but always amusing, and sometimes mischievous, 
 in his interpretations of it. These two sally forth from their 
 native village in search of adventures, of which the excited 
 imagination of the knight, turning windmills into giants, soli- 
 tary inns into castles, and galley-slaves into oppressed gentle- 
 men, finds abundance wherever he goes ; while the esquire 
 translates them all into the plain prose of truth with an admi- 
 rable simplicity, quite unconscious of its own humor, and ren- 
 dered the more striking by its contrast with the lofty and 
 courteous dignity and magnificent illusions of the superior per- 
 sonage. There could, of course, be but one consistent ter- 
 mination of adventures like these. The knight and his esquire 
 suffer a series of ridiculous discomfitures, and are at last brought 
 home, like madmen, to their native village, where Cervantes 
 leaves them, with an intimation that the story of their adventures 
 is by no means ended. ■ 
 
 The latter half of Don Quixote is a contradiction of the 
 proverb Cervantes cites in it, — that second parts were never yet 
 good for much. It is, in fact, better than the first. It shows 
 more freedom and vigor ; and, if the caricature is sometimes 
 pushed to the very verge of what is permitted, the invention, 
 the style of thought, and, indeed, the materials throughout, 
 are richer, and the finish is more exact. 
 
 But throughout both parts Cervantes shows the impulses 
 and instincts of an original power with most distinctness in 
 
34:2 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 his development of the characters of Don Quixote and Sancho ; 
 characters in whose contrast and opposition is hidden the full 
 spirit of his peculiar humor, and no small part of what is most 
 characteristic of the entire fiction. They are his prominent 
 personages. He delights, therefore, to have them as much 
 as possible in the front of his scene. They grow visibly upon 
 his favor as he advances, and the fondness of his liking for 
 them makes him constantly produce them in lights and rela- 
 tions as little foreseen by himself as they are by his readers. 
 The knight, who seems to have been originally intended for a 
 parody of the Amadis, becomes gradually a detached, separate, 
 and wholly independent personage, into whom is infused so 
 much of a generous and elevated nature, such gentleness and 
 delicacy, such a pure sense of honor, and such a warm love for 
 whatever is noble and good, that we feel almost the same at- 
 tachment to him that the barber and the curate did, and are 
 almost as ready as his family was to mourn over his death. 
 
 The case of Sancho is again very similar, and perhaps in 
 some respects stronger. At first, he is introduced as the op- 
 posite of Don Quixote, and used merely to bring out his mas- 
 ter's peculiarities in a more striking relief. It is not until we 
 have gone through nearly half of the First Part that he utters 
 one of those proverbs which form afterwards the staple of his 
 conversation and humor ; and it is not until the opening of the 
 Second Part, and, indeed, not till he comes forth in all his 
 mingled shrewdness and credulity, as governor of Barataria, 
 that his character is quite developed and completed to the full 
 measure of its grotesque yet congruous proportions. 
 
 Cervantes, in truth, came at last to love these creations of 
 his marvellous power as if they were real, familiar personages, 
 and to speak of them and treat them with an earnestness and 
 interest that tend much to the illusion of his readers. Both 
 Don Quixote and Sancho are thus brought before us, like such 
 living realities, that at this moment the figures of the crazed, 
 gaunt, dignified knight, and of his round, selfish, and most 
 amusing esquire, dwell bodied forth in the imaginations of 
 more, among all conditions of men throughout Christendom, 
 than any other of the creations of human talent. The greatest 
 of the great poets — Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, Milton — have 
 no doubt risen to loftier heights, and placed themselves in more 
 imposing relations with the noblest attributes of our nature ; 
 but Cervantes — always writing under the unchecked impulse of 
 his own genius, and instinctively concentrating in his fiction 
 
HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 343 
 
 whatever was peculiar to the character of his nation — Las shown 
 himself of kindred to all times and all lands ; to the humblest 
 degrees of cultivation as well as to the highest ; and has thus, 
 beyond all other writers, received in return a tribute of sym- 
 pathy and admiration from the universal spirit of humanity 
 for one of the most remarkable monuments of modern genius. 
 But though this may be enough to fill the measure of human fame 
 and glory, it is not all to which Cervantes is entitled ; for, if we 
 would do him the justice that would have been dearest to his 
 own spirit, and even if we would ourselves fully comprehend 
 and enjoy the whole of his Don Quixote, we should, as we read 
 it, bear in mind that this delightful romance was not the result 
 of a youthful exuberance of feeling, and a happy external con- 
 dition, nor composed in his best years, when the spirits of its 
 author were light and his hopes high ; but that — with all its 
 unquenchable and irresistible humor, with its bright views of 
 the world, and his cheerful trust in goodness and mercy — it 
 was written in his old age, at the conclusion of a life nearly 
 every step of which had been marked with disappointed ex- 
 pectations, disheartening struggles, and sore calamities ; that 
 he began it in a prison, and that it was finished when he felt 
 the hand of death pressing heavy and cold upon his heart. 
 If this be remembered as we read, we may feel, as we ought 
 to feel, what admiration and reverence are due, not only to the 
 living power of Don Quixote, but to the character and genius 
 of Cervantes; if it be forgotten or underrated, we shall fail 
 in regard to both. 
 
 THE ARAB TO THE PAIX-Bayakd Taylor. 
 Next to thee, fair gazelle, 
 Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; 
 
 Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
 
 Whose fleetness shall bear me. again to thee ; 
 
 Next to ye both, I love the Palm, 
 
 With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 
 
 Next to ye both, I love the tree 
 Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
 With love, and silence, and mystery ! 
 
344 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
 With any under the Arab sky ; 
 Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 
 
 The marble minarets that begem 
 
 Cairo's citadel-diadem 
 
 Are not so light as his slender stem. 
 
 He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance, 
 As the Almehs lift their arms in dance — 
 
 A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 
 That works in the cells of the blood-like wiue. 
 
 Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
 Dreaming where the beloved may be. 
 
 And when the warm south winds arise, 
 He breathes his longing in fervid sighs, 
 
 Quickening odors, kisses of balm, 
 
 That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. 
 
 The sun may flame, and the sands may stir, 
 But the breath of his passion reaches her. 
 
 O Tree of Love, by that love of thine, 
 Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 
 
 Give me the secret of the sun, 
 Whereby the wooed is ever won ! 
 
 If I were a king, O stately Tree, 
 A likeness, glorious as might be, 
 In the court of my palace I'd build for thee ! 
 
 With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, 
 And leaves of beryl and malachite ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 345 
 
 With spikes of golden bloom ablaze, 
 And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase. 
 
 And there the poets, in thy praise, 
 
 Should night and morning frame new lays — 
 
 New measures sung to tunes divine ; 
 But none, Palm, should equal mine ! 
 
 DE P110FUNDIS— Mus. Browning. 
 
 The face which, duly as the sun, 
 Rose up for me with life begun, 
 To mark all bright hours of the day 
 With daily love, is dimmed away, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 The tongue which, like a stream, could run 
 Smooth music to the roughest stone, 
 And every morning with " Good-day" 
 Made each day good, is hushed away, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 The heart which, like a staff, was one 
 For mine to lean and rest upon ; 
 The strongest on the longest day 
 With steadfast love is caught away, — 
 And yet my days go on, go ou. 
 
 And cold before my Summer's done, 
 And deaf in Nature's general tune, 
 And fallen too low for special fear, 
 And here, with hope no longer here, 
 While the tears drop, my days go on. 
 
 15* 
 
346 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The world goes whispering to its own, 
 " 'Tis anguish pierces to the bone." 
 And tender friends go sighing round, 
 " What love can ever cure this wound ?" 
 My days go on, my days go on. 
 
 The past rolls forward on the sun 
 
 And makes all night. Oh dreams begun, 
 
 Not to be ended ! Ended bliss ! 
 
 And life that will not end in this ! 
 
 My days go on, my days go on. 
 
 Breath freezes on my lips to moan : 
 As one alone, once not alone, 
 I sit and knock at Nature's door, 
 Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, 
 Whose desolated days go on. 
 
 I knock and cry, . . . Undone, undone ! 
 Is there no help, no comfort ? None ? 
 No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains 
 Where others drive their loaded wains ? 
 My vacant days go on, go on. 
 
 This Nature, though the snows be down, 
 Thinks kindly of the bird of June, 
 This little red hip on the tree 
 Is ripe for such. What is for me, 
 Whose days so winterly go on ? 
 
 No bird am I to sing in June, 
 
 And dare not ask an equal boon, 
 
 Good nests and berries red are Nature's, — 
 
 To give away to better creatures, — 
 
 And yet ray days go on, go on. 
 
EEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 347 
 
 I ask less kindness to be done, 
 Only to loose these pilgrim-slioon 
 (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet, 
 Cool, deathly touch to these tired feet, 
 Till days go out which now go on. 
 
 Only to lift the turf unknown 
 From off the earth where it has grown, 
 Some cubit-space, and say, " Behold, 
 Creep in, poor heart, beneath that fold, 
 Forgetting how the days go on." 
 
 What harm would that do ? Green anon 
 The sward would quicken, overshone 
 By skies as blue ; and crickets might 
 Have leave to chirp there day and night 
 While my new rest went on, went on. 
 
 From gracious Nature have I won 
 Such liberal bounty ? May I run 
 So, lizard-like, within her side, 
 And there be safe, who now am tried 
 By days that painfully go on. 
 
 A voice reproves me thereupon, 
 
 More sweet than Nature's when the drone 
 
 Of bees is sweetest, and more deep 
 
 Than when the rivers overleap 
 
 The shuddering pines, and thunder on. 
 
 God's voice, not Nature's — night and noon 
 He sits upon the great white throne, 
 And listens for the creatures' praise. 
 What babble we of days and days ? 
 The Bay-spring He, whose days go on. 
 
34:8 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 He reigns above, lie reigns alone ; 
 Systems burn out and leave His throne : 
 Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall 
 Around him, changeless amid all ! — 
 Ancient of days, whose days go on ! 
 
 He reigns below, he reigns alone, 
 And having life in love foregone 
 Beneath the crown of sov'reign thorns, 
 He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns 
 Or rules with Him, while days go on ? 
 
 By anguish which made pale the sun, 
 I hear him charge his saints that none 
 Among the creatures anywhere, 
 Blaspheme against him with despair, 
 How T ever darkly days go on. 
 
 — Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown ! 
 No mortal grief deserves that crown. 
 
 supreme Love, chief misery, 
 The sharp regalia are for Thee 
 Whose days eternally go on. 
 
 For us, . . . whatever's undergone, 
 Thou knowest, wiliest what is done : 
 Grief may be joy misunderstood : 
 Only the good discern the good, 
 
 1 trust Thee while my days go on. 
 
 Whatever's lost it first was w T on ; 
 
 We will not struggle nor impugn. 
 
 Perhaps the cup was broken here 
 
 That Heaven's new wine might show more clear, 
 
 I praise Thee while my days go on. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 349 
 
 I praise Thee while my days go on ; 
 
 I love Thee while ray days go on ! 
 
 Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, 
 
 With emptied arms and treasure lost 
 
 I thank Thee while my days go on ! 
 
 And, having in thy life-depth thrown 
 Being and suffering (which are one), 
 As a child drops some pebble small 
 Down some deep well and hears it fall 
 Smiling: ... so I ! Thy days go on ! 
 
 ROSABELLE — Sir Walter Scott. 
 Oh, listen, listen, ladies gay ! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay 
 
 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 " Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, 
 
 And, gentle lady, deign to stay ! 
 Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 
 
 "The blackening; wave is edg-cd with white; 
 
 To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; 
 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
 
 Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 
 
 " Last night the gifted Seer did view 
 A wet shroud swathed round lady gay ; 
 
 Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch ; 
 Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?" 
 
 " 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 
 
 But that my lady-mother there 
 Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 
 
350 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 " 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
 
 But that my sire the wine will chide 
 If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." 
 
 — O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 
 
 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
 And redder than the bright moonbeam. 
 
 It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
 It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 
 
 'Twas seen from Dry den's groves of oak, 
 And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, 
 
 Each baron, for a sable shroud, 
 Sheath'd in his iron panoply. 
 
 Seem'd all on fire within, around, 
 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 
 Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 
 
 And glimmer' d all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 
 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold, 
 But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 
 
 And each Saint Clair was buried there 
 With candle, with book, and with knell ; 
 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 351 
 
 ODE TO THE SAYIOUR.-Kkv. Ebkbi Bast Milmajt. 
 
 For Thou wert born of woman ! Thou didst come, 
 Holiest ! to this world of sin and gloom, 
 Not in Thy dread omnipotent array; 
 And not by thunders strewed 
 Was Thy tempestuous road; 
 Nor indignation burned before Thee on Thy way. 
 But Thee, a soft and naked child, 
 
 Thy mother undefiled 
 In the rude manger laid to rest 
 From oft' her virgin breast. 
 
 The heavens were not commanded to prepare 
 A gorgeous canopy of golden air, 
 
 Nor stoop'd their lamps the enthroned fires on high : 
 A single silent star 
 Came wandering from afar, 
 Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky ; 
 The eastern sages leading on, 
 
 As at a kingly throne, 
 To lay their gold and odors sweet 
 Before Thy infant feet. 
 
 The earth and ocean were not hush'd to hear 
 Bright harmony from every starry sphere ; 
 Nor at Thy presence brake the voice of song 
 From all the cherub-choirs, 
 And seraphs' burning lyres, 
 Pour'd thro' the host of heaven the charmed clouds along. 
 One angel-troop the strain began ; 
 
 Of all the race of man 
 By simple shepherds heard alone 
 That soft ITosanna's tone. 
 
352 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame 
 To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came; 
 Nor visible angels mourn'd with drooping plumes ; 
 Nor didst Thou mount on high 
 From fatal Calvary, 
 With all Thy own redeem'd, outbursting from their tombs, 
 For Thou didst bear away from earth, 
 
 But one of human birth, 
 The dying felon by Thy side, to be 
 In Paradise with Thee. 
 
 Nor o'er Thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake ; 
 A little while the conscious earth did shake, 
 At that foul deed by her fierce children done ; 
 A few dim hours of day 
 The world in darkness lay, 
 Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun. 
 While Thou didst sleep within the tomb 
 
 Consenting to Thy doom ; 
 Ere yet the white-robed angel shone 
 Upon the sealed stone. 
 
 And when Thou didst arise, Thou didst not stand 
 With devastation in thy red right hand, 
 Plaguing the guilty city's murderous crew ! 
 But Thou didst haste to meet 
 Th}^ mother's coming feet, 
 And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few. 
 Then calmly, slowly, didst Thou rise 
 
 Into Thy native skies, 
 Thy human form dissolved on high 
 In its own radiancy. 
 
DINGS AN1> RECITATIONS. 353 
 
 A MOTHER'S LOVE —Rev. Aluert Barnes. 
 
 Many of us — most of us who are advanced beyond the period 
 of childhood — went out from that home to embark on the 
 stormy sea of life. Of the feelings of a father, and of his in- 
 terest in our welfare, v e have never entertained a doubt, and 
 our home was dear because he was there ; but there was a pe- 
 culiarity in the feeling that it was the home of our mother. 
 While she lived there, there was a place that we felt w T as home. 
 There was one place where we would always be welcome, one 
 place where we would be met with a smile, one place where we 
 would be sure of a friend. The world might be indifferent to us. 
 We might be unsuccessful in our studies or our business. The 
 new friends which we supposed we had made might prove to 
 be false. The honor which we thought we deserved might be 
 withheld from us. We might be chagrined and mortified by 
 seeing a rival outstrip us, and bear away the prize which we 
 Bought But there was a place where no feelings of rivalry 
 were found, and where those whom the world overlooked would 
 be sure of a friendly greeting. Whether pale and wan by 
 study, care, or sickness, or flushed with health and flattering- 
 success, we were sure that we should be w r elcome there. Though 
 the world w T as cold towards us., yet there was one who always 
 rejoiced in our success, and always was affected in our reverses; 
 and there was a place to which we might go back from the 
 storm which began to pelt us, where we might rest, and be- 
 come encouraged and invigorated for a new conflict. So have 
 I seen a bird, in its first efforts to fly, leave its nest, and stretch 
 its wings, and go forth to the wide world. But the wind blew 
 it back, and the rain began to fall, and the darkness of night 
 began to draw on, and there was no shelter abroad, and it 
 sought its way back to its nest, to take shelter beneath its 
 mother's wings, and to be refreshed for the struggles of a new 
 day ; but then it flew away to think of its nest and its mother 
 no more. But not thus did w T e leave our home when we bade 
 adieu to it to go forth alone to the manly duties of life. Even 
 amidst the storms that then beat upon us, and the disappoint- 
 ments that we met with, and the coldness of the world, we felt 
 still that there ivas one there who sympathized in our troubles, as 
 well as rejoiced in our success, and that, whatever might be 
 abroad, when we entered the door of her dwelling, we should 
 be met with a smile. We expected that a mother, like the 
 
354 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 mother of Sisera, as she "looked out at her window," waiting 
 for the coming of her son laden with the spoils of victory, 
 would look out for our coming, and that our return would re- 
 new her joy and ours in our earlier days. 
 
 It makes a sad desolation when from such a place a mother 
 is taken away, and when, whatever may be the sorrows or the 
 successes in life, she is to greet the returning son or daughter 
 no more. The home of our childhood may be still lovely. The 
 old family mansion — the green fields — the running stream — the 
 moss-covered well — the trees — the lawn — the rose — the sweet- 
 brier — may be there. Perchance, too, there may be an aged 
 father, with venerable locks, sitting in his loneliness, with every 
 thing to command respect and love ; but she is not there. Her 
 familiar voice is not heard. The mother has been borne forth 
 to sleep by the side of her children who went before her, and 
 the place is not what it was. There may be those there whom 
 we much love, but she is not there. We may have formed 
 new relations in life, tender and strong as they can be ; we may 
 have another home, dear to us as was the home of our child- 
 hood, where there is all in affection, kindness, and religion, to 
 make us happy, but that home is not what it was, and it will 
 never be what it was again. It is a loosening of one of the 
 cords which bound us to earth, designed to prepare us for our 
 eternal flight from every thing dear here below, and to teach 
 us that there is no place here that is to be our permanent 
 home. 
 
 THE BATTLE OE NASIBY.— Thomas Babington Macatxlay. 
 Oh ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the Xorth, 
 With your hands and your feet, and your raiment all red ? 
 And wherefore do your rout send forth a joyous shout? 
 And whence are the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread ? 
 
 Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
 
 And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod ; 
 
 For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, 
 
 Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God. 
 
 It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 
 
 That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 355 
 
 And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, 
 And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. 
 
 Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, 
 The General rode along us to form us for the fight ; 
 When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout 
 Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. 
 
 And hark ! like the roar of the billow on the shore, 
 The cry of battle rises along their charging line : 
 For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church ! for the Laws ! 
 For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine ! 
 
 The furious German comes, with his trumpets and his drums, 
 
 His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall ; 
 
 They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp your pikes ! Close your 
 
 ranks ! 
 For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or to fall. 
 
 They are here — they rush on — we are broken — we are gone — 
 Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 
 Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right ! 
 Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it to the last ! 
 
 Stout Skippen hath a wound — the centre hath given ground. 
 But hark ! what means this trampling of horsemen in the rear ? 
 What banner do I see, boys ? 'Tis he ! thank God ! 'tis he, boys ! 
 Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is here ! 
 
 Their heads are stooping low, their pikes all in a row : 
 Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes, 
 Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accursed, 
 And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 
 
 Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
 Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar. 
 
356 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And lie — he turns ! he flies ! shame to those cruel eyes 
 That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. 
 
 Ho, comrades ! scour the plain, and ere ye strip the slain, 
 
 First give another stab to make the quest secure; 
 
 Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad pieces and 
 
 lockets, 
 The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 
 
 Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were 
 
 gay and bold, 
 When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day ; 
 And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks 
 Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 
 
 Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven, and hell, 
 
 and fate ? 
 And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades ? 
 Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches, and your oaths ? 
 Your stage-plays and your sonnets ? your diamonds and your 
 is? 
 
 Down ! down ! forever down, with the mitre and the crown ! 
 With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope ! 
 There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham stalls ; 
 The Jesuit smites his bosom, the Bishop rends his cope. 
 
 And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her children's ills, 
 And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword ; 
 And the Kings of earth in fear shall tremble when they hear 
 What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the 
 Word! 
 
READINGS AND lUTITATIONS. 357 
 
 A POET'S SUPPLICATION TO J ITS LYUE.-Abkaham Cowunr. 
 
 Awake, awake, my Lyre! 
 And tell thy silent master's humble tale 
 
 In sounds that may prevail ; 
 Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : 
 
 Though so exalted she 
 
 And I so lowly be 
 Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. 
 
 Hark! how the strings awake: 
 And, though the moving hand approach not near, 
 
 Themselves with awful fear 
 A kind of numerous tremfcling make. 
 
 Now all thy forces try ; 
 
 Now all thy charms apply ; 
 Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 
 
 Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure 
 Is useless here, since thou art only found 
 
 To cure, but not to wound, 
 And she to wound, but not to cure. 
 
 Too weak, too, wilt thou prove 
 
 My passion to remove ; 
 Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. 
 
 Sleep, sleep again, ray Lyre ! 
 For thou canst never tell my humble tale 
 
 In sounds that will prevail, 
 Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
 
 All thy vain mirth lay by, 
 
 Bid thy strings silent lie, 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die. 
 
358 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 CUITNOR HALL -W. J. Mickle. 
 The dews of summer night did fall, 
 
 The moon (sweet regent of the sky) 
 Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
 
 And many an oak that grew thereby. 
 
 Now naught was heard beneath the skies, 
 The sounds of busy life were still, 
 
 Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
 That issued from that lonely pile. 
 
 " Leicester, 1 ' she cried, " is this thy love 
 That thou so oft has* sworn to me ; 
 
 To leave me in this lonely grove, 
 Immured in shameful privacy ? 
 
 No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, 
 Thy once-beloved bride to see ; 
 
 But be she alive, or be she dead, 
 
 I fear, stern Earl ! 's the same to thee. 
 
 Not such the usage I received 
 When happy in my father's hall ; 
 
 No faithless husband, then, me grieved, 
 No chilling fears did me appall. 
 
 I rose up with the cheerful morn, 
 
 No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; 
 
 And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
 So merrily sung the live-long day. 
 
 Say that my beauty is but small, 
 Among court ladies all despised, 
 
 Why didst thou rend it from that hall, 
 Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized ? 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 359 
 
 And when you first to me made suit, 
 
 How fair I was, you oft would say ! 
 And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, 
 
 Then left the blossom to decay. 
 
 Yes ! now neglected and despised, 
 
 The rose is pale, the lily's dead ; 
 But he that once their charms so prized, 
 
 Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. 
 
 For know, when sickening grief doth prey, 
 
 And tender love's repaid with scorn, 
 The sweetest beauty will decay : 
 
 What floweret can endure the storm ? 
 
 At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, 
 
 Where every lady's passing rare, 
 The eastern flowers, that shame the sun, 
 
 Are not so glowing, not so fair. 
 
 Then, Earl, why didst thou leave those beds 
 
 Where roses and where lilies vie, 
 To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 
 
 Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 
 
 'Mong rural beauties I was one ; 
 
 Among the fields wild flowers are fair ; 
 Some country swain might me have won, 
 
 And thought my beauty passing rare. 
 
 But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), 
 
 Or 'tis not beauty fires thy vows ; 
 Rather Ambition's gilded crown 
 
 Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 
 
360 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
 (The injured surely may repine), 
 
 Why didst thou wed a country maid, 
 
 When some fair princess might be thine ? 
 
 Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
 And, oh ! then leave them to decay ? 
 
 Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 
 
 Then leave me to mourn the live-long day ? 
 
 The village maidens of the plain 
 
 Salute me lonely as I go : 
 Envious they mark my silken train, 
 
 Nor think a countess can have woe. 
 
 . 
 The simple nymphs ! they little know 
 
 How far more happy's their estate ; 
 To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; 
 
 To be content, than to be great. 
 
 How far less blessed am I than them, 
 Daily to pine and waste with care ! 
 
 Like the poor plant, that, from its stem 
 Divided, feels the chilling air. 
 
 Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy 
 The humble charms of solitude ; 
 
 Your minions proud my peace destroy, 
 By sullen frowns or pratings rude. 
 
 Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, 
 The village death-bell smote my ear ; 
 
 They winked aside, and seemed to say, 
 ' Countess, prepare — thy end is near.' 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 361 
 
 And now, when happy peasants sleep, 
 
 Here sit I lonely and forlorn; 
 No one to soothe me as I weep, 
 
 Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 
 
 My spirits flag, my hopes decay; 
 
 Still that dread death-bell strikes my ear; 
 And many a boding seems to say, 
 
 'Countess, prepare — thy end is near/" 
 
 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved 
 
 In Cumnor Hall, so long and drear ; 
 Full many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
 
 And let fall many a bitter tear. 
 
 And ere the dawn of day appeared, 
 
 In Cumnor Hall so long and drear, 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
 
 And many a cry of mortal fear. 
 
 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, 
 
 An aerial voice was heard to call ; 
 And thrice the raven flapped his wing 
 
 Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 The mastiff howled at village door, 
 
 The oaks were shattered on the o-reen *, 
 
 Woe was the hour, for never more 
 That hapless Countess e'er was seen. 
 
 And in that manor, now no more 
 
 Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; 
 For ever since that dreary hour 
 
 Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 
 16 
 
362 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 The village maids, with fearful glance, 
 Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall ; 
 
 Nor ever lead the merry dance 
 Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 Full many a traveller oft hath sighed, 
 And pensive wept the Countess' fall ; 
 
 As wandering onward they've espied 
 The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 THE MAIDEN AND THE RATTIESNAKE.-William Gilmobe Slmm 3 . 
 
 " He does not come, — he does not come," the maiden 
 murmured, as she stood contemplating the thick copse spread- 
 ing before her, and forming the barrier which terminated the 
 beautiful range of oaks which constituted the grove. How 
 beautiful was the green and garniture of that little copse of 
 wood ! The leaves were thick, and the grass around lay folded 
 over and over in bunches, w T ith here and there a wild flower 
 gleaming from its green, and making of it a beautiful carpet 
 of the richest and most various texture. A small tree rose from 
 the centre of a clump around which a wild grape gadded 
 luxuriantly ; and, w T ith an incoherent sense of what she saw, she 
 lingered before the little cluster, seeming to survey that which, 
 though it seemed to fix her eye, yet failed to fill her thought. 
 Her mind w r andered, — her soul was far away ; and the objects 
 in her vision were far other than those which occupied her 
 imagination. Things grew indistinct beneath her eye. The 
 eye rather slept than saw. The musing spirit had given holiday 
 to the ordinary senses, and took no heed of the forms that rose, 
 and floated, or glided away, before them. In this way, the leaf 
 detached made no impression upon the sight that was yet bent 
 upon it ; she saw not the bird, though it whirled, untroubled 
 by a fear, in wanton circles around her head, — and the black 
 snake, with the rapidity of an arrow, darted over her path with- 
 out arousing a single terror in the form that otherwise w^ould 
 have shivered at its mere appearance. And yet, though thus 
 indistinct were all things around her to the musing mind of the 
 maiden, her eye was yet singularly fixed, — fastened, as it were, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 363 
 
 to a single spot, gathered and controlled by a single object, and 
 glazed, apparently, beneath a curious fascination, 
 
 Before the maiden rose a little clump of bushes, — bright 
 tangled leaves flaunting wide in glossiest green, with vines trail- 
 ing over them, thickly decked with blue and crimson flowers. 
 Her eye communed vacantly with these; fastened by a star-like 
 shining glance, — a subtle ray, that shot out from the circle of 
 green leaves, — seeming to be their very eye, — and sending 
 out a fluid lustre that seemed to stream across the space be- 
 tween, and find its way into her own eyes. Very piercing and 
 beautiful was that subtle brightness, of the sweetest, strangest 
 power. And now the leaves quivered and seemed to float 
 away, only to return, and the vines waved and swung around in 
 fantastic mazes, unfolding ever-changing varieties of form and 
 color to her gaze ; but the star-like eye was ever steadfast, 
 bright, and gorgeous gleaming in their midst, and still fastened, 
 with strange fondness, upon her own. How beautiful, with 
 wondrous intensity, did it gleam, and dilate, growing larger and 
 more lustrous with every ray which it sent forth! And her 
 own glance became intense, fixed also ; but, with a dreaming 
 sense that conjured up the wildest fancies, terribly beautiful, 
 that took her soul away from her, and w ? rapped it about as 
 with a spell. She would have fled, she would have flown; 
 but she had not power to move. The will was wanting to her 
 flight. She felt that she could have bent forward to pluck the 
 gem-like thing from the bosom of the leaf in which it seemed to 
 grow, and which it irradiated with its bright white gleam ; but 
 ever as she aimed to stretch forth her hand and bend forward, 
 she heard a rush of wings and a shrill scream from the tree 
 above her, — such a scream as the mock-bird makes, when, 
 angrily, it raises its dusky crest and flaps its wings furiously 
 against its slender sides. Such a scream seemed like a warning, 
 and, though yet unawakened to full consciousness, it startled 
 her and forbade her effort. More than once, in her survey of 
 this strange object, had she heard that shrill note, and still had 
 it carried to her ear the same note of warning, and to her mind 
 the same vague consciousness of an evil presence. But the 
 star-like eye was yet upon her own, — a small, bright eye, quick 
 like that of a bird, now steady in its place, and observant seem- 
 ingly only of hers, now darting forward with all the clustering 
 leaves about it, and shooting up towards her, as if wooing her 
 to seize. At another moment, riveted to the vine which lay 
 around it, it would whirl round and round, dazzlingly bright 
 
3tJ4 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 and beautiful, even as a torch waving hurriedly by night in the 
 hands of some playful boy ; but, in all this time, the glance was 
 never taken from her own : there it grew, fixed, — a very prin- 
 ciple of light, — and such a light, — a subtle, burning, piercing, 
 fascinating gleam, such as gathers in vapor above the old grave, 
 and binds us as we look, — shooting, darting directly into her 
 eye, dazzling her gaze, defeating its sense of discrimination, and 
 confusing strangely that of perception. She felt dizzy ; for, as 
 she looked, a cloud of colors, bright, gay, various colors, floated 
 and hung like so much drapery around the single object that 
 had so sectored her attention and spellbound her feet. Her 
 limbs felt momently more and more insecure, — her blood grew 
 cold, and she seemed to feel the gradual freeze of vein by vein 
 throughout her person. 
 
 At that moment a rustling was heard in the branches of the 
 tree beside her, and the bird, which had repeatedly uttered a 
 single cry above her, as it were of warning, flew away from his 
 station with a scream more piercing than ever. This movement 
 had the effect, for which it really seemed intended, of bringing 
 back to her a portion of the consciousness she seemed so totally 
 to have been deprived of before. She strove to move from be- 
 fore the beautiful but terrible presence, but for a while she 
 strove in vain. The rich, star-like glance still riveted her own, 
 and the subtle fascination kept her bound. The mental ener- 
 gies, however, with the moment of their greatest trial, now 
 gathered suddenly to her aid; and with a desperate effort, but 
 with a feeling still of most annoying uncertainty and dread, she 
 succeeded partially in the attempt, and threw her arms back- 
 wards, her hands grasping the neighboring tree, feeble, totter- 
 ing, and depending upon it for that support which her own 
 limbs almost entirely denied her. With her movement, how- 
 ever, came the full development of the powerful spell and 
 dreadful mystery before her. As her feet receded, though but 
 a single pace, to the tree against which she now rested, the 
 audibly-articulated ring, like that of a watch when wound up 
 with the verge broken, announced the nature of that splendid 
 yet dangerous presence, in the form of the monstrous rattle- 
 snake, now but a few feet before her, lying coiled at the bottom 
 of a beautiful shrub, with which, to her dreaming eye, many of 
 its own glorious hues had become associated. She was at 
 length conscious enough to perceive and to feel all her danger ; 
 but terror had denied her the strength necessary to fly from 
 her dreadful enemy. There still the eve glared beautifully 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS 3G5 
 
 bright and piercing upon her own; and, seemingly in a spirit 
 
 of sport, the insidious reptile slowly unwound himself from his 
 coil, bnt only to gather himself up again into his muscular 
 rings, his great flat head rising in the midst, and slowly nod- 
 ding, as it were, towards her, the eye still peering deeply into 
 her own ; — the rattle still slightly ringing at intervals, and giv- 
 ing forth that paralyzing sound, which, once heard, is remem- 
 bered forever. 
 
 The reptile all this while appeared to be conscious of. and to 
 sport with, while seeking to excite, her terrors. Now, with its 
 flat head, distended mouth, and curving neck, would it dart 
 forward its long form towards her, — its fatal teeth, unfolding on 
 either side of its upper jaw, seeming to threaten her with an in- 
 stantaneous death, while its powerful eye shot forth glances of 
 that fatal power of fascination, malignantly bright, which, by 
 paralyzing with a novel form of terror and of beauty, may 
 readily account for the spell it possesses of binding the feet of 
 the timid, and denying to fear even the privilege of flight. 
 Could she have fled ? She felt the necessity ; but the power 
 of her limbs was gone! and there still it lay, coiling and un- 
 coiling, its arching neck glittering like a ring of brazed copper, 
 bright and lurid; and the dreadful beauty of its eye still fas- 
 tened, eagerly contemplating the victim, while the pendulous 
 rattle still rang the death-note, as if to prepare the conscious 
 mind for the fate which is momently approaching to the blow. 
 Meanwhile the stillness became death-like with all surrounding 
 objects. The bird had gone with its scream and rush. The 
 breeze was silent. The vines ceased to wave. The leaves 
 faintly quivered on their stems. The serpent once more lay 
 still ; but the eye was never once turned away from the victim. 
 Its corded muscles are all in coil. They have but to unclasp 
 suddenly, and the dreadful folds will be upon her, its full length, 
 and the fatal teeth will strike, and the deadly venom which they 
 secrete will mingle with the life-blood in her veins. 
 
 The terrified damsel, her full consciousness restored, but not 
 her strength, feels all the danger. She sees that the sport of 
 the terrible reptile is at an end. She cannot now mistake the 
 horrid expression of its eye. She strives to scream, but the 
 voice dies away, a feeble gurgling in her throat. Her tongue is 
 paralyzed ; her lips are sealed ; once more she strives for flight, 
 but her limbs refuse their office. She has nothing left of life 
 but its fearful consciousness. It is in her despair that, a last 
 effort, she succeeds to scream, a single wild cry, forced from 
 
366 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 her by the accumulated agony ; she sinks down upon the grass 
 before her enemy, — her eyes, however, still open, and still look- 
 ing upon those which he directs forever upon them. She sees 
 him approach, — now advancing, now receding, — now swelling 
 in every part with something of anger, while his neck is arched 
 beautifully like that of a wild horse under the curb ; until, at 
 length, tired as it were of play, like the cat with its victim, she 
 sees the neck growing larger and becoming completely bronzed 
 as about to strike, — the huge jaws unclosing almost directly 
 above her, the long tubulated fang, charged with venom, pro- 
 truding from the cavernous mouth, — and she sees no more ! 
 Insensibility came to her aid, and she lay almost lifeless under 
 the very folds of the monster. 
 
 In that moment the copse parted, — and an arrow, piercing 
 the monster through and through the neck, bore his head for- 
 ward to the ground, alongside of the maiden, while his spiral 
 extremities, now unfolding in his own agony, were actually, in 
 part, writhing upon her person. The arrow came from the fugi- 
 tive Occonestoga, who had fortunately reached the spot, in sea- 
 son, on his way to the Block-House. He rushed from the copse 
 as the snake fell, and, with a stick, fearlessly approached him 
 where he lay tossing in agony upon the grass. Seeing him ad- 
 vance, the courageous reptile made an effort to regain his coil, 
 shaking the fearful rattle violently at every evolution which he 
 took for that purpose ; but the arrow, completely passing 
 through his neck, opposed an unyielding obstacle to the endea- 
 vor ; and finding it hopeless, and seeing the new enemy about to 
 assault him, with something of the spirit of the w T hite man un- 
 der like circumstances, he turned desperately round, and stri- 
 king his charged fangs, so that they w r ere riveted in the wound 
 they made, into a susceptible part of his own body, he threw 
 himself over with a single convulsion, and, a moment after, lay 
 dead beside the utterly unconscious maiden. 
 
 TO EVENING.— William Collins. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 
 
 May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear 
 
 Like thy own solemn springs, 
 
 Thy springs, and dying gales ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. ?>C>7 
 
 Nymph reserved, — while now the bright-hairM sun 
 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts 
 
 With brede ethereal wove, 
 
 O'erhang his wavy bed, 
 
 Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat 
 With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 
 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 
 His small but sullen horn, 
 
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum, — 
 
 Now teach me, maid composed, 
 
 To breathe some soften'd strain 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale, 
 May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 
 
 As musing slow I hail 
 
 Thy genial love return. - 
 
 For when thy folding-star arising shows 
 His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
 
 The fragrant Hours, and Elves 
 
 Who slept in buds the day, 
 
 And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge 
 And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still 
 
 The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; 
 Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, 
 
 Whose walls more awful nod 
 
 By thy religious gleams. 
 
3G8 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain 
 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
 
 That, from the mountain's side, 
 
 Views wilds and swelling floods, 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; 
 And hears their simple bell ; and marks o'er all 
 
 Thy dewy fingers draw 
 
 The gradual dusky veil. 
 
 While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 
 
 While Summer loves to sport 
 
 Beneath thy lingering light ; 
 
 While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 
 
 Affrights thy shrinking train 
 
 And rudely rends thy robes ; 
 
 So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 
 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 
 
 Thy gentlest influence own, 
 
 And love thy favorite name ! 
 
 MY J?ATHERLAND.-K5ener. 
 
 Where is the minstrel's fatherland ? — 
 Where noble spirits beam in light ; 
 Where love-wreaths bloom for beauty bright ; 
 Where noble minds enraptured dream 
 Of every high and hallowed theme : 
 
 This toas the minstrel's fatherland ! 
 
 How name ye the minstrel's fatherland ? — 
 Now o'er the corses of children slain 
 She weeps a foreign tyrant's reign ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 309 
 
 She once was the hind of the good oak-tifee, 
 The German land, the land of the free: 
 So named we once my fatherland ! 
 
 Why weeps the minstrel's fatherland ? — 
 
 She weeps, that, for a tyrant, still, 
 
 Her princes check their people's will ; 
 
 That her sacred words unheeded fly, 
 
 And that none will list to her vengeful cry : 
 Therefore weeps my fatherland ! 
 
 Whom calls the minstrel's fatherland ? — 
 
 She calls upon the God of heaven, 
 
 In a voice which Vengeance's self hath given ; 
 
 She calls on a free, devoted band; 
 
 She calls for an avenging hand : 
 Thus calls the minstrel's fatherland! 
 
 What will she do, thy fatherland? — 
 
 She will drive her tyrant foes away ; 
 
 She will scare the bloodhound from his prey ; 
 
 She will bear her son no more a slave, 
 
 Or will yield him at least a freeman's grave : 
 This will she do, my fatherland ! 
 
 And what are the hopes of thy fatherland? — 
 
 She hopes, at length, for a glorious prize ; 
 
 She hopes her people will arise ; 
 
 She hopes in the great award of Heaven ; 
 
 And she sees, at length, an avenger given : 
 And these are the hopes of my fatherland ! 
 16* 
 
370 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 MART, THE MAID OP THE INN.-Bobebt Sottthey. 
 
 Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes 
 Seem a heart overcharged to express ? 
 
 She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ; 
 
 She never complains, but her silence implies 
 The composure of settled distress. 
 
 No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; 
 
 Cold and hunger awake not her care ; 
 Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak 
 On her poor withered bosom, half bare ; and her cheek 
 
 Has the deadly pale hue of despair. 
 
 Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, 
 
 Poor Mary, the maniac, has been ; 
 The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way, 
 No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 
 
 As Mary, the maid of the inn. 
 
 Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight, 
 
 As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
 Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, 
 And Mary would walk by the abbey at night, 
 
 When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 
 
 She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, 
 
 And she hoped to be happy for life ; 
 But Richard was idle and worthless, and they 
 Who knew her, would pity poor Mary, and say 
 
 That she was too good for his wife. 
 
 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, 
 
 And fast were the windows and door ; 
 Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burned bright, 
 And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, 
 They listened to hear the wind roar. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 371 
 
 " 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fireside, 
 
 To hear the wind whistle without." 
 " A fine night for the abbey," his comrade replied, 
 " Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried 
 
 Who should wander the ruins about. 
 
 " I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear 
 
 The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; 
 And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, 
 Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, 
 
 For this wind might awaken the dead." 
 
 " I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 
 
 " That Mary would venture there now." 
 " Then w T ager and lose," with a sneer he replied, 
 " I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, 
 And faint if she saw a white cow." 
 
 " Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" 
 
 His companion exclaimed with a smile ; 
 " I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, 
 And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 
 From the alder that grows in the aisle." 
 
 With fearless good humor did Mary comply, 
 
 And her way to the abbey she bent; 
 The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, 
 And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, 
 
 She shivered with cold as she w r ent. 
 
 O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, 
 
 Where the abbey rose dim on the sight ; 
 Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid, 
 Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 
 Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. 
 
372 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 All around her was silent, save when the rude blast 
 
 Howled dismally round the old pile ; 
 Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed, 
 And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 
 
 Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle. 
 
 Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, 
 
 And hastily gathered the bough — 
 When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear — 
 She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear, 
 
 And her heart panted fearfully now ! 
 
 The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head ; — 
 
 She listened ;. — -naught else could she hear. 
 The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, 
 For she heard in the ruins — distinctly — the tread 
 Of footsteps approaching her near. 
 
 Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 
 
 She crept to conceal herself there ; 
 That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, 
 And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, 
 
 And between them — a corpse did they bear ! 
 
 Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdle cold ! 
 
 Again the rough wind hurried by — 
 It blew off the hat of the one, and behold ! 
 Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled ! 
 
 She fell — and expected to die ! 
 
 " Curse the hat!" he exclaims ; " Nay, come on and first hide 
 
 The dead body," his comrade replies — 
 She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, 
 She seizes the hat, frar her courage supplied, 
 And fast through the abbey she flies. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 373 
 
 She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, 
 
 She gazed horribly eager around ; 
 Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, 
 And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, 
 
 Unable to utter a sound. 
 
 Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, 
 For a moment the hat met her view ; — 
 Her eyes from that object convulsively start, 
 For, God ! what cold horror thrilled through her heart, 
 When the name of her Richard she knew! 
 
 Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, 
 
 His gibbet is now to be seen ; 
 Not far from the inn it engages the eye, 
 The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, 
 
 Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn. 
 
 ODE TO WINTER— Thos. Campbell. 
 
 When first the fiery-mantled Sun 
 His heavenly race began to run, 
 Round the earth and ocean blue 
 His children four the Seasons flew : — 
 
 First, in green apparel dancing, 
 The young Spring smiled with angel-grace ; 
 
 Rosy Summer, next advancing, 
 Rush'd into her sire's embrace — 
 Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 
 
 Forever nearest to his smiles, 
 On Calpe's olive-shaded steep 
 
 Or India's citron-cover'd isles. 
 More remote, and buxom-brown, 
 
 The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; 
 A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 
 
 A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
 
374 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 But bowling "Winter fled afar 
 To hills that prop the polar star; 
 And loves on deer-borne car to ride, 
 With barren darkness at his side, 
 Round the shore where loud Lofoden 
 
 Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
 Round the hall where Runic Odin 
 
 Howls his war-song to the gale — 
 Save when adown the ravaged globe 
 
 He travels on his native storm, 
 Deflowering Nature's grassy robe 
 
 And trampling on her faded form ; 
 Till light's returning Lord assume 
 
 The shaft that drives him to his northern field, 
 Of power to pierce his raven plume 
 
 And crystal-cover'd shield. 
 
 Or sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
 The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
 When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye 
 Implores thy dreadful deity — 
 Archangel ! Power of desolation ! 
 
 Fast descending as thou art, 
 Say, hath mortal invocation 
 
 Spells to touch thy stony heart : 
 Then, sullen Winter ! hear my prayer, 
 
 And gently rule the ruin'd year ; 
 Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare 
 
 Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear : 
 To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
 
 Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, 
 And gently on the orphan head 
 
 Of Innocence descend. 
 
 But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! 
 The sailor on his airy shrouds, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 375 
 
 When wrecks and beacons strew the steep 
 And spectres walk along the deep. 
 Milder yet thy snowy breezes 
 
 Pour on yonder tented shores, 
 Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 
 
 Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
 O winds of Winter ! list ye there 
 
 To many a deep and dying groan? 
 Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 
 
 At shrieks and thunders louder than your own ? 
 Alas ! e'en your unhallow'd breath 
 
 May spare the victim fallen low ; 
 But Man will ask no truce to death, 
 
 No bounds to human woe. 
 
 CASA WAPPY .*— David Macbeth Moir. 
 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
 
 Our fond, dear boy — 
 The realms where sorrow dare not come, 
 
 Where life is joy ? 
 Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, 
 Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
 Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Despair was in our last farewell, 
 
 As closed thine eye ; 
 Tears of our anguish may not tell 
 
 W T hen thou didst die ; 
 Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 
 Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
 Of our unfathomed agony ; 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 * The self-appellative of a beloved child. 
 
376 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Thou wert a vision of delight, 
 
 To bless us given ; 
 Beauty embodied to our sight — 
 
 A type of heaven ! 
 So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
 Even less thine own self, than a part 
 Of mine, and of thy Mother's heart, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thy bright, brief day knew no decline — 
 
 'Twas cloudless joy ; 
 Sunrise and night alone were thine, 
 
 Beloved boy ! 
 This moon beheld thee blithe and gay ; 
 That found thee prostrate in decay ; 
 And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 
 
 Earth's undeiiled, 
 Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 
 
 Our dear, sweet child ! 
 Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
 Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
 Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 • Do what I may, go where I will, 
 Thou meet'st my sight ; 
 There dost thou glide before me still — 
 
 A form of light ! 
 I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
 I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
 Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATION& 377 
 
 Methinka thou smil'st before me now, 
 
 With glance of stealth ; 
 The hair thrown back from thy full brow 
 
 In buoyant health ; 
 I see thine eyes' deep violet light — 
 Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright — 
 Thy clasping arms so round and white — 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 
 
 Thy bat— thy bow— 
 Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball ; 
 
 But where art thou ? 
 A corner holds thine empty chair ; 
 Thy playthings, idly scattered there, 
 But speak to us of our despair, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Even to the last, thy every word — 
 
 To glad — to grieve — 
 Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird 
 
 On Summer's eve ; 
 In outward beauty undecayed, 
 Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 
 And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night 
 
 The chamber fills ; 
 We pine for thee, when morn's first light 
 
 Reddens the hills ; 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
 All — to the wall-flower and wild-pea — 
 Are changed ; we saw the world thro' thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
378 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 
 
 Of casual mirth, 
 It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 
 
 An inward birth ; 
 We miss thy small step on the stair ; 
 We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; 
 All day we miss thee — everywhere — 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 
 
 In life's spring-bloom, 
 Down to the appointed house below — 
 
 The silent tomb. 
 But now the green leaves of the tree, 
 The cuckoo, and " the busy bee," 
 Return — but with them bring not thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 'Tis so ; but can it be — while flowers 
 
 Revive again — 
 Man's doom, in death that we and ours 
 
 For aye remain ? 
 Oh ! can it be, that, o'er the grave, 
 The grass renewed should yearly wave, 
 Yet God forget our child to save ? — 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 It cannot be ; for were it so 
 
 Thus man could die, 
 Life were a mockery — thought were woe — 
 
 And truth a lie ; — ■ 
 Heaven were a coinage of the brain — 
 Religion frenzy — virtue vain — 
 And all our hopes to meet again, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 379 
 
 Then be to us, clear, lost child ! 
 
 With beam of love, 
 A star, death's uncongenial wild 
 
 Smiling above ! 
 Soon, soon, thy little feet have trod 
 The skyward path, the seraph's road, 
 That led thee back from man to God, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, 
 
 Fond, fairest boy, 
 That Heaven is God's, and thou art there, 
 
 With him in joy ; 
 There past are death and all its woes ; 
 There beauty's stream forever flows; 
 And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Farewell then — for a while, farewell — 
 
 Pride of my heart ! 
 It cannot be that long we dwell, 
 
 Thus torn apart. 
 Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; 
 And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
 Beyond the grave, I'll meet with thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 SHAKSPE ARE'S CHARACTER AND WRITINGS.-Schlegel. 
 
 Shakspeare is the pride of his nation. A late poet has, 
 with propriety, called him " the genius of the British Isles." 
 He was the idol of his contemporaries : during the interval, in- 
 deed, of Puritanical fanaticism, which broke out in the next 
 generation, and rigorously proscribed all liberal arts and litera- 
 ture, and during the reign of the Second Charles, when his 
 works were either not acted at all, or if so, very much changed 
 and disfigured his fame was awhile obscured, only to shine forth 
 
380 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 again about the beginning of the last century with more than 
 its original brightness ; and since then it has but increased in 
 lustre with the course of time ; and for centuries to come (I 
 speak it with the greatest confidence), it will, like an Alpine 
 avalanche, continue to gather strength at everv moment of its 
 progress. * * w 
 
 From all the accounts of Shakspeare which have come down to 
 us, it is clear that his contemporaries knew well the treasure 
 they possessed in him ; and that they felt and understood him 
 better than most of those who succeeded him. An idea, how- 
 ever, soon became prevalent, that Shakspeare was a rude and 
 wild genius, who poured forth at random, and without aim or 
 object, his unconnected compositions. Ben Jonson, a younger 
 contemporary and rival of Shakspeare, who labored in the sweat 
 of his brow, but with no great success, to expel the romantic 
 drama from the English stage, and to form it on the model of 
 the ancients, gave it as his opinion that Shakspeare did not blot 
 enough, and that as he did not possess much school-learning, he 
 owed more to nature than to art. The learned and sometimes 
 rather pedantic Milton was also of this opinion, when he 
 says — 
 
 " Our sweetest Shakspeare, fancy's child, 
 Warbles his native wood-notes wild." 
 
 Yet it is highly honorable to Milton that the sweetness of 
 Shakspeare, the quality which of all others has been least al- 
 lowed, was felt and acknowledged by him. The modern editors, 
 both in their prefaces, which may be considered as so many 
 rhetorical exercises in praise of the poet, and in their remarks 
 on separate passages, go still farther. Judging them by princi- 
 ples which are not applicable to them, not only do they admit 
 the irregularity of his pieces, but on occasions they accuse him 
 of bombast, of a confused, ungrammatical, and conceited mode 
 of writing, and even of the most contemptible buffoonery. 
 Pope asserts that he wrote both better and worse than any 
 other man. All the scenes and passages which did not square 
 with the littleness of his own taste, he wished to place to the 
 account of interpolating players ; and he Avas in the right road, 
 had his opinion been taken, of giving us a miserable dole of a 
 mangled Shakspeare. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at if 
 foreigners, with the exception of the Germans latterly, have, in 
 their ignorance of him, even improved upon these opinions. 
 They speak in general of Shakspeare's plays as monstrous pro- 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 381 
 
 ductions, which could only have been given to the world by a 
 disordered imagination in a barbarous age ; and Voltaire crowns 
 the whole with more than usual assurance, when he observes 
 that Hamlet, the profound master-piece of the philosophical 
 poet, " seems the work of a drunken savage." That foreigners, 
 and in particular Frenchmen, who ordinarily speak the most 
 strange language of antiquity and the Middle Ages, as if can- 
 nibalism had only been put an end to in Europe by Louis 
 XIV., should entertain this opinion of Shakspeare, might be 
 pardonable; but that Englishmen should join in calumniating that 
 glorious epoch of their history, which laid the foundation of 
 their national greatness, is incomprehensible. Shakspeare 
 Hourishcd and wrote in the last half of the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth and first half of that of James I. ; and, consequently, 
 under monarchs who were learned themselves, and held litera- 
 ture in lionor. The policy of modern Europe, by which the 
 relations of its different States have been so variously inter- 
 woven with each other, commenced a century before. The 
 cause of the Protestants was decided by the accession of Eliza- 
 beth to the throne ; and the attachment to the ancient belief 
 cannot, therefore, be urged as a proof of the prevailing dark- 
 ness. Such was the zeal for the study of the ancients, that 
 even court ladies, and the queen herself, were acquainted with 
 Latin and Greek, and taught even to speak the former ; a de- 
 gree of knowledge which we should in vain seek for in the 
 courts of Europe at the present day. The trade and navigation 
 which the English carried on with all the four quarters of the 
 world, made them acquainted with the customs and mental 
 productions of other nations ; and it would appear that they 
 were then more indulgent to foreign manners than they are in 
 the present day. Italy had already produced all, nearly, that 
 still distinguishes her literature, and in England translations in 
 verse were diligently, and even successfully, executed from the 
 Italian. Spanish literature, also, was not unknown, for it is 
 certain that Don Quixote was read in England soon after its 
 first appearance. Bacon, the founder of modern experimental 
 philosophy, and of whom it may be said, that he carried in his 
 pocket all that even in this eighteenth century merits the name 
 of philosophy, was a contemporary of Shakspeare. His fame as 
 a writer did not, indeed, break forth into its glory till after his 
 death ; but what a number of ideas must have been in circu- 
 lation before such an author could arise ! Many branches of 
 human knowledge have, since that time, been more extensively 
 
382 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 cultivated, but such branches as are totally unproductive to 
 poetry : chemistry, mechanics, manufactures, and rural and 
 political economy, will never enable a man to become a poet. 
 I have elsewhere examined into the pretensions of modern en- 
 lightenment, as it is called, which looks with such contempt on 
 all preceding ages ; I have shown that at the bottom it is all 
 little, superficial, and unsubstantial. The pride of what has 
 been called the existing maturity of human intensity, has 
 come to a miserable end; and the structures erected by 
 those pedagogues of the human race have fallen to pieces like 
 the baby-houses of children. 
 
 With regard to the tone of society in Shakspeare's day, it 
 is necessary to remark that there is a wide difference between 
 true mental cultivation and what is called polish. That arti- 
 ficial polish which puts an end to every thing like free original 
 communication, and subjects all intercourse to the insipid 
 uniformity of certain rules, was undoubtedly wholly unknown 
 to the age of Shakspeare, as in a great measure it still is at 
 the present day in England. It possessed, on the other hand, 
 a fulness of healthy vigor, which showed itself always with 
 boldness, and sometimes, also, with petulance. The spirit of 
 chivalry was not yet wholly extinct, and a queen who was far 
 more jealous in exacting homage to her sex than to her throne, 
 and who, with her determination, wisdom, and magnanimity, 
 was in fact well qualified to inspire the minds of her subjects 
 with an ardent enthusiasm, inflamed that spirit to the noblest 
 love of glory and renown. The feudal independence also still 
 survived in some measure; the nobility vied with each other 
 in splendor of dress and number of retinue, and every great 
 lord had a sort of small court of his own. The distinction of 
 ranks was as yet strongly marked — a state of things ardently to 
 be desired by the dramatic poet. In conversation they took 
 pleasure in quick and unexpected answers ; and the w r itty sally 
 passed rapidly like a ball from mouth to mouth, till the merry 
 game could no longer be kept up. This, and the abuse of the 
 play on words (of which King James was himself very fond, 
 and w r e need not, therefore, wonder at the universality of the 
 mode), may doubtless be considered as instances of bad taste ; 
 but to take them for symptoms of rudeness and barbarity, is 
 not less absurd than to infer the poverty of a people from their 
 luxurious extravagance. These strained repartees are frequently 
 employed by Shakspeare, with the view of painting the actual 
 tone of the society in his day ; it does not, however, follow 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 
 
 that they met with his approbation ; on the contrary, it clearly 
 appears that he held them in derision. Hamlet says, in the 
 scene with the Gravedigger, " By the Lord, Horatio, these 
 three years I have taken note of it : the age is grown so 
 picked, that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of 
 the courtier, he galls his kibe." And Lorenzo, in the Merchant 
 of Venice, alluding to Launcelot : 
 
 "O dear discretion, how his words are suited! 
 The fool hath planted in his memory 
 An army of good words : and I do know 
 A many fools, that stand in better place, 
 Gurnuh'il like him, that for a tricksy word 
 Defy the matter. 1 ' 
 
 Besides, Shakspeare, in a thousand places, lays great and 
 marked stress on correct and refined tone of society, and lashes 
 every deviation from it, whether of boorishness or affected fop- 
 pery ; not only.does he give admirable discourses on it, but he 
 represents it in all its shades and modifications by rank, age, or 
 sex. What foundation is there, then, for the alleged barbarity 
 of his age? — its offences against propriety? But if this is to 
 be admitted as a test, then the ages of Pericles and Augustus 
 must also be described as rude and uncultivated ; for Aris- 
 tophanes and Horace, who both were considered as models of 
 urbanity, display, at times, the coarsest indelicacy. On this 
 subject, the diversity in the moral feeling of ages depends on 
 other causes. Shakspeare, it is true, sometimes introduces us 
 to improper company ; at others, he suffers ambiguous expres- 
 sions to escape in the presence of women, and even from 
 women themselves. This species of petulance w T as probably not 
 then unusual. He certainly did not indulge in it merely to 
 please the multitude, for in many of his pieces there is not the 
 slio-htest trace of this sort to be found : and in what virgin 
 purity are many of his female parts worked out ! When we 
 see the liberties taken by other dramatic poets in England in 
 his time, and even much later, we must account him compara- 
 tively chaste and moral. * * * 
 
 Had no other monument of the age of Elizabeth come down 
 to us than the works of Shakspeare, I should, from them alone, 
 have formed the most favorable idea of its state of social cul- 
 ture and enlightenment. When those who look through such 
 strange spectacles as to see nothing in them but rudeness and 
 barbarity, cannot deny what I have now historically proved, 
 they are usualty driven to this last resource, and demand : 
 " What has Shakspeare to do with the mental culture of his 
 
384: LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 age ? He had no share in it. Bom in an inferior rank, igno- 
 rant and uneducated, he passed his life in low society, and 
 labored to please a vulgar audience for his bread, without ever 
 dreaming of fame or posterity." 
 
 # * * * * * 
 
 Shakspeare's father was a man of property, whose ancestors 
 had held the office of alderman and bailiff in Stratford; and in 
 a diploma from the Heralds' Office for the renewal or confirma- 
 tion of his coat of arms, he is styled gentleman. Our poet, the 
 oldest son but third child, could not, it is true, receive an aca- 
 demical education, as he married when hardly eighteen, proba- 
 bly from mere family considerations. This retired and un- 
 noticed life he continued to lead but a few years ; and he was 
 either enticed to London from wearisomeness of his situation, or 
 banished from home, as it is said, in consequence of his irregu- 
 larities. There he assumed the profession of .a player, which 
 he considered at first as a degradation, principally, perhaps, be- 
 cause of the wild excesses into which he was seduced by the 
 example of his comrades. It is extremely probable, that the 
 poetical fame which in the progress of his career he afterwards 
 acquired, greatly contributed to ennoble the stage, and to 
 bring the player's profession into better repute. Even at a 
 very early age he endeavored to distinguish himself as a poet 
 in other walks than those of the stage, as is proved by his ju- 
 venile poems of Adonis and Lucrece. He quickly rose to be a 
 sharer or joint proprietor, and also manager of the theatre for 
 which he wrote. That he was not admitted to the society of 
 persons of distinction is altogether incredible. Not to mention 
 many others, he found a liberal friend and kind patron in the 
 Earl of Southampton, the friend of the unfortunate Essex. His 
 pieces were not only the delight of the great public, but also in 
 great favor at court : the two monarchs under whose reigns he 
 wrote were, according to the testimony of a contemporary, quite 
 " taken" with him. Many were acted at court ; and Elizabeth 
 appears herself to have commanded the writing of more than 
 one to be acted at her court festivals. King James, it is well 
 known, honored Shakspeare so far as to write to him with his 
 own hand. All this looks very unlike either contempt or ban- 
 ishment into the obscurity of a low circle. By his labors as a 
 poet, player, and stage-manager, Shakspeare acquired a con- 
 siderable property, which, in the last years of his too short life, 
 he enjoyed in his native town in retirement, and in the society 
 of a beloved daughter. Immediately after his death a menu- 
 
RBlDINGS AND RECITATIONS. 385 
 
 ment was erected over his grave, which may be considered 
 sumptuous for those times. 
 
 In the midst of such brilliant success, and with such dis- 
 tinguished proofs of respect and honor from his contemporaries, 
 it would be singular, indeed, if Shakspeare, notwithstanding* the 
 modesty of a great mind, which he certainly possessed in a 
 peculiar degree, should never have dreamed of posthumous fame. 
 As a profound thinker, he had pretty accurately taken the 
 measure of the circle of human capabilities, and he could say 
 to himself, with confidence, that many of his productions would 
 not easily be surpassed. What foundation, then, is there for 
 the contrary assertion, which would degrade the immortal art- 
 ist to the situation of a daily laborer for a rude multitude? 
 Merely this, that he himself published no edition of his whole 
 works. We do not reflect that a poet, always accustomed to 
 labor immediately for the stage, who has often enjoyed the tri- 
 umph of overpowering assembled crowds of spectators, and 
 drawing from them the most tumultuous applause, who the 
 while was not dependent on the caprice of crotchety stage 
 directors, but left to his own discretion to select and determine 
 the mode of theatrical representation, naturally cares much 
 less for the closet of the solitary reader. During the first forma- 
 tion of a national theatre, more especially, we find frequent 
 examples of such indifference. 
 
 DREAM-MUSIC, OR THE SPIRIT-FLUTE.-Frances S. Osgood. 
 
 There, pearl of beauty ! lightly press, 
 With yielding form, the yielding sand ; 
 
 And while you sift the rosy shells 
 Within your dear and dainty hand, 
 
 Or toss them to the heedless waves, 
 
 That reck not how your treasures shine, 
 
 As oft you waste on careless hearts ■ 
 
 Your fancies, touched with light divine — 
 17 
 
386 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 I'll sing a lay, more wild than gay — 
 
 The story of a magic flute : 
 And as I sing, the waves shall play 
 
 An ordered tune, the song to suit. 
 
 In silence flowed our grand old Rhine — 
 For on his breast a picture burned, 
 
 The loveliest of all scenes that shine, 
 
 Where'er his glorious course has turned. 
 
 That radiant morn the peasants saw 
 A wondrous vision rise in light, 
 
 They gazed, with blended joy and awe — 
 A. castle crowned the beetling height. 
 
 Far up amid the amber rnist, 
 
 That softly wreathes each mountain-spire, 
 The sky its clustered columns kissed, 
 
 And touched their snow with golden fire : 
 
 The vapor parts — against the skies, 
 In delicate tracery on the blue, 
 
 Those graceful turrets lightly rise, 
 As if to music there they grew. 
 
 And issuing from its portal fair, 
 
 A youth descends the dizzy steeps ; 
 
 The sunrise gilds his waving hair, 
 From rock to rock he lightly leaps : 
 
 He comes — the radiant angel boy ! 
 
 He moves with more than human grace ; 
 His eyes are filled with earnest joy, 
 
 And heaven is in his beauteous face. 
 
 And whether bred the stars among, 
 Or in that luminous palace born, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 3^7 
 
 Around his airy footsteps hung 
 The light of an immortal mora. 
 
 From steep to steep he fearless springs, 
 
 And now he glides the throng amid, 
 So light, as if still play'd the wings 
 
 That 'neath his tunic sure are hid. 
 
 A fairy flute is in his hand — 
 
 He parts his bright, disordered hair, 
 And smiles upon the wondering band, — 
 
 A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air. 
 
 Anon, his blue, celestial eyes 
 
 He bent upon a youthful maid, 
 Whose looks met his in still surprise, 
 
 The while a low, glad tune he played. 
 
 Her heart beat wildly — in her face 
 
 The lovely rose-light went and came ; 
 She clasped her hands with timid grace, 
 
 In mute appeal, in joy and shame. 
 
 Then slow he turned — more wildly breathed 
 
 The pleading flute, and by the sound 
 Through all the throng her steps she wreathed, 
 
 As if a chain were o'er her wound. 
 
 All mute and still the group remained, 
 And watched the charm, with lips apart, 
 
 While in those linked notes enchained, 
 The girl was led, with listening heart. 
 
 The youth ascends the rocks again, 
 
 And in his steps the maiden stole, 
 While softer, holier, grew the strain, 
 
 Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul ! 
 
388 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And fainter fell that fairy tune ; 
 
 Its low, melodious cadence wound, 
 Most like a rippling rill at noon, 
 
 Through delicate lights and shades of sound 
 
 And with the music, gliding slow, 
 
 Far up the steep their garments gleam ; 
 
 Now through the palace-gate they go, 
 And now — it vanished like a dream ! 
 
 Still frowns above thy waves, O Rhine ! 
 
 The mountain's wild terrific height, 
 But where has fled the work divine 
 
 That lent its brow a halo light ? 
 
 Ah ! springing arch and pillar pale 
 
 Had melted in the azure air ; 
 And she — the darling of the dale — 
 
 She too had gone — but how, and where ? 
 
 Long years rolled by, and lo ! one morn, 
 Again o'er regal Rhine it came — 
 
 That picture from the dream-land borne, 
 That palace built of frost and flame. 
 
 Behold ! within its portal gleams 
 
 A heavenly shape — oh, rapturous sight 1 
 
 For lovely as the light of dreams 
 
 She glides adown the mountain height ! 
 
 She comes — the loved, the long-lost maid ! 
 
 And in her hand the charmed flute ; 
 But ere its mystic tune was played, 
 
 She spake — the peasants listened mute : 
 
 Sh.e told how in that instrument 
 
 Was chained a world of winged dreams ; 
 
READINGS AND QKCITATIONS. 389 
 
 And how the notes that fr in it went 
 
 Revealed them as with lightning gleams — 
 
 And how its music's magic braid 
 
 O'er the unwary heart it threw, 
 Till he or she whose dream it played 
 
 Was forced to follow where it drew. 
 
 She told how on that marvellous day 
 
 Within its chanmnsf tune she heard 
 A forest fountain's plaintive play, 
 
 A silver trill from far-off bird — 
 
 And how the sweet tones, in her heart, 
 
 Had changed to promises as sweet, 
 That if she dared with them depart, 
 
 Each lovely hope its heaven should meet. 
 
 And then she played a joyous lay, 
 
 And to her side a fair child springs, 
 And wildly cries, " Oh, where are they, 
 
 Those singing birds, with diamond wings V 9 
 
 Anon a loftier strain is heard — 
 
 A princely youth beholds his dream, 
 And, by the thrilling cadence stirred, 
 
 Would follow where its wonders gleam. 
 
 Still played the maid — and from the throng, 
 
 Receding slow, the music drew 
 A choice and lovely band along — 
 
 The brave, the beautiful, the true ! 
 
 The sordid, worldly, cold, remained, 
 To watch that radiant troop ascend — 
 
 To hear the fading fairy strain — 
 
 To see with heaven the vision blend ! 
 
390 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine, 
 
 That sculptured dream rose calm and mute : 
 
 Ah, would that now once more 'twould shine, 
 And I could play the fairy flute. 
 
 PMTER AND PRAISE— Lorenzo de Medioi. 
 All nature, hear the sacred song ! 
 
 Attend, earth, the solemn strain! 
 Ye whirlwinds wild that sweep along, 
 
 Ye darkening; storms of beatino* rain, 
 Umbrageous glooms, and forests drear, 
 And solitary deserts, hear ! 
 Be still, ye winds, whilst to the Maker's praise 
 The creature of his power aspires his voice to raise ! 
 
 Oh, may the solemn-breathing sound 
 
 Like incense rise before the throne, 
 Where he, whose glory knows no bound, 
 Great Cause of all things, dwells alone ! 
 'Tis he I sing, whose powerful hand 
 Balanced the skies, outspread the land ; 
 Who spoke, — from ocean's stores sweet waters came, 
 And burst resplendent forth the heaven-aspiring flame. 
 
 One general song of praise arise 
 
 To him whose goodness ceaseless flows; 
 Who dwells enthroned beyond the skies, 
 
 And life and breath on all bestows ! 
 Great Source of intellect, his ear 
 Benign receives our vows sincere : 
 Rise, then, my active powers, your task fulfil, 
 And give to him your praise, responsive to my will! 
 
 Partaker of that living stream 
 
 Of light, that pours an endless blaze, 
 
UK A DINGS AND RECITATIONS. 391 
 
 Oh, let thy strong reflected beam, 
 My understanding, speak his praise I 
 
 My soul, in steadfast love secure, 
 
 Praise him whose word is ever sure : 
 To him, sole just, my sense of right incline: 
 Join, every prostrate limb ; my ardent spirit, join 1 
 
 Let all of good this bosom fires, 
 
 To him, sole good, give praises due : 
 Let all the truth himself inspires 
 
 Unite to sing liim only true : 
 To him my every thought ascend, 
 To him my hopes, my wishes, bend : 
 From earth's wide bounds let louder hymns arise, 
 And his own word convey the pious sacrifice I 
 
 In ardent adoration joined, x 
 
 Obedient to thy holy will, 
 Let all my faculties combined, 
 
 Thy just desires, God, fulfil ! 
 From thee derived, Eternal King, 
 To thee our noblest powers we bring: 
 Oh, may thy hand direct our wandering way ! 
 Oh, bid thy light arise, and chase the clouds away I 
 
 Eternal Spirit, whose command 
 
 Light, life, and being gave to all, 
 Oh, hear the creature of thy hand, 
 
 Man, constant on thy goodness call ! 
 By fire, by water, air, and earth, 
 That soul to thee that owes its birth, — 
 By these, he supplicates thy blest repose : 
 Absent from thee, no rest his wandering spirit knows. 
 
392 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 M\ r HEART AND I— Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 Enough ! we're tired, my heart and I. 
 We sit beside the headstone thus, 
 And wish that name were carved for us. 
 
 The moss reprints more tenderly 
 The hard types of the mason's knife, 
 As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life 
 
 With which we're tired, my heart and I. 
 
 You see we're tired, my heart and I. 
 We dealt with books, we trusted men, 
 And in our own blood drenched the pen, 
 
 As if such colors could not fly. 
 
 We walked too straight for fortune's end, 
 We loved too true to keep a friend ; 
 
 At last we're tired, my heart and I. 
 
 How tired we feel, my heart and I ! 
 
 We seem of no use in the world ; 
 
 Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
 About men's eyes indifferently; 
 
 Our voice which thrilled you so will let 
 
 You sleep ; our tears are only wet : 
 W'hat do we here, my heart and I ? 
 
 So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 
 
 It was not thus in that old time 
 
 When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime 
 To watch the sunset from the sky. 
 
 "Dear love, you're looking tired," he said ; 
 
 I, smiling at him, shook my head : 
 ; Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. 
 
 So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 
 
 Though now none takes me on his arm 
 To fold me close and kiss me warm 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 393 
 
 To each quick breath end in a sigh 
 
 Of happy languor. Now, alone, 
 
 We lean upon this graveyard stone, 
 Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 
 
 Tired out we are, my heart and I. 
 
 Suppose the world brought diadems 
 
 To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 
 Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try. 
 
 We scarcely care to look at even 
 
 A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 
 We feel so tired, my heart and I. 
 
 Yet who complains ? My heart and I ? 
 
 In this abundant earth no doubt 
 
 Is little room for things worn out : 
 Disdain them, break them, throw them by ! 
 
 And if before the days grew rough 
 
 We once were loved, used — well enough, 
 I think, we've fared, my heart and I. 
 
 MY STUFFED OWL— Mks. Sigoitrnet. 
 
 In the long and quiet evening, 
 While a storm of snow in Aries, 
 Bowing low the drooping branches, 
 Whitened every roof and pavement, 
 I had weary grown with reading, 
 And the deep, unbroken silence 
 Settled heavy o'er my heart-strings. 
 Then I laid the book beside me, 
 Mused amid the glimmering lamplight, 
 Gazing on the wall and pictures 
 Till the revery was broken, 
 Lonely revery, as I deemed it, 
 
 17* 
 
394 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 By two eyeballs glaring on me, 
 Round, unwinking in their sockets, 
 Eyeballs of the bird of Pallas, 
 Of the great white bird of Pallas, 
 Seated on my parlor table ! 
 
 When I last had looked upon him 
 
 I believed him gravely gazing 
 
 On the wealth of green-house flowers 
 
 That beneath him, in their vases, 
 
 Grew and flourished, fresh with fragrance. 
 
 He had seemed to make a neighbor 
 
 Of the jonquil and the crocus, 
 
 Hyacinths in pink and purple, 
 
 Hyacinths in blue and saffron ; 
 
 Orange-trees, and sweet Ilissus, 
 
 And the cyclamen of Persia, 
 
 Folding back its snowy petals 
 
 With a sort of graceful gladness, 
 
 Like an innocent white rabbit ; 
 
 He, my Owl, mcthought had viewed them 
 
 With a patronizing pleasure, 
 
 And I started at perceiving 
 
 Fixed on me those grave, round eyeballs, 
 
 As if curiously inquiring : 
 
 " Are you thinking of your daughter, 
 
 Thinking of her recent bridal, 
 
 And the happy home she maketh 
 
 For her chosen life's companion ? 
 
 Are you thinking of the music 
 
 That from yonder shut piano 
 
 She, with fairy, flying fingers, 
 
 Used to summon forth to cheer you ?" 
 
 Then meth ought those large eyes twinkled 
 With a pitiful emotion ; 
 
READING.- AXD R IMITATIONS. 395 
 
 And, as sympathy is precious, 
 
 Even from unexpected quarters, 
 
 Even from most inferior creatures, 
 
 Quick I drew my seat beside him, 
 
 Laid my hand upon his shoulder, 
 
 Softly said: " My Koko-Koho * 
 
 Sing a song or tell a story, 
 
 To amuse my lonely hearth-stone ; 
 
 For the hearth-stone must be lonely 
 
 Where is neither son nor daughter, 
 
 Face of youth or voice of infant !" 
 
 Though, in truth, that term of hearth-stone 
 
 Now is obsolete and ancient, 
 
 And the most correct cognomen, 
 
 Howsoe'er the poets murmur, 
 
 Should be register or furnace. 
 
 Then his snowy mustache trembled, 
 And from out that beak majestic 
 Came the strangest elocution, 
 All monotonous and inbred 
 (Not like that which in my childhood, 
 When a guest at quaint old farm-house, 
 Used to scare me from my slumbers — 
 Hideous hooting of a screech-owl), 
 But monotonous and inbred, 
 Perched upon my parlor-table, 
 Thus intoned the bird of Pallas : 
 
 "Where the rugged coast of Plymouth 
 Battles stoutly with the ocean, 
 In a hollow, doddered oak-tree, 
 Like a Druid I was nurtured 
 In the wisdom of my people, 
 
 * Indian name for tho OwL 
 
396 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Wisdom that hath made them sacred, 
 At the shrine of great Minerva. 
 
 " Musing in my studious cloister, 
 
 Oft I listened as the oak-tree, 
 
 When the west wind stirred its branches, 
 
 Lectured to its merry leaflets 
 
 From the annals of its childhood : 
 
 ' I remember, I remember,' 
 
 Thus it said, in tones maternal, 
 
 ' When the ' May-Flower,' the explorer, 
 
 Small, and brown, and tempest-beaten, 
 
 Landed on yon rocky bastion, 
 
 All New England's solemn fathers. 
 
 I have heard the first-born echo 
 
 Of their axe amid the forest ; 
 
 Heard their hymns of mournful cadence, 
 
 When the winter and the famine 
 
 Smote them in their earth -floored hovels. 
 
 I have looked on saintly Carver, 
 
 Heard the prayers of Elder Brewster, 
 
 Seen the stalwart form of Standish, 
 
 And sweet Rose, his blue-eyed consort ; 
 
 Seen the Winslows and John Aldex, 
 
 And the plumed and painted chieftains, 
 
 Gazing on the pale-faced strangers 
 
 Who from their own lands should sweep them, 
 
 Like the mist when day ariseth. 
 
 " l Five times twenty and one over, 
 Were there of those pilgrim- settlers : 
 Three days ere the holy Christmas, 
 Nine days ere the infant morning 
 Of the year M-D-C-X-X., 
 Came those fathers of New England, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS 397 
 
 Planters of a mighty nation, 
 To the snow-clad beach of Plymouth. 
 Learn the dates, my dearest children, 
 History is but lame without them ; 
 Do not say they're dry and useless, 
 That's the talk of idle students.' " 
 
 Still, my friend, the owl continued : 
 " Pleased I listened to the oak-tree, 
 Teaching thus her docile offspring, 
 For the droppings of all knowledge 
 To the thoughtful mind are precious. 
 In my solitary kingdom, 
 Rights I had, but men destroyed them ; 
 Right unto my cloistered homestead, 
 Right of hunting 'mid the birds' nests, 
 Right of spoil in rat and micedom ; 
 To the air and to the water, 
 To the breath that Nature gave me ; 
 Rights I had, and men destroyed them : 
 Slew and stuffed me as a trophy, 
 Hung me up 'mid toys and trappings, 
 For a mock and for a marvel. 
 But, like ghost of buried blessings, 
 I will haunt their midnight visions, 
 ^Yith a stony stare transfix them, 
 Be an incubus to vex them." 
 
 Then, he seemed to choke with passion, 
 And I pressed his claw and whispered 
 Gently, as to petted baby, 
 " Be not angry, Koko-Koho ; 
 Be a good and patient emblem 
 Of the emptiness that waits us 
 When we rest on earthly pleasures, 
 
398 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 And forget to look above them. 
 Many a stuffed and lifeless skinship 
 Sitteth by us at our revels, 
 Like the shrivelled, solemn mummies 
 That the race of ancient Egypt 
 Made the Mentors of their banquet. 
 So, good-night, my Koko-Koho, 
 Bird of Pallas, Bird of Wisdom, 
 Rest thee in my quiet parlor ; 
 I am weary and would slumber, 
 But I thank thee for thy kindness, 
 For thy kindness and the legend 
 Told amid this dreamy lamp-light, 
 Making lonely evening pleasant." 
 
 VISIONS. — Jonathan Feeke Slixgsbt. 
 "A dream, and fruitless vision/ 1 — Skakspeare. 
 
 Visions of beauty ! dreams of my childhood ! 
 
 Come back again in your witching array ; 
 Sweet as the warblings of birds in the wild wood, 
 
 Fresh as the dew-beads in mornings of May. 
 Oh ! let my spirit dreamily wander 
 
 Once again back to those far-away hours ; 
 Love as I loved then, purer and fonder, 
 
 Heaven all sunshine and earth strewed with flowers. 
 
 Visions of glory ! bright as the noonday, 
 
 Come back again in your richness and truth; 
 Gorgeous and warm as the sun of a Jane day, 
 
 Wild as the mountain-stream — Visions of youth ! 
 Oh ! let my spirit bathe in your splendor ; 
 
 Life throbbing strongly through heart and through vein, 
 Love — a deep passion, holy and tender ; 
 
 Pleasure — the life-wine my soul sought to drain. 
 
READINGS AND R10ITATK 399 
 
 Visions of greatness, knowledge, and power! 
 
 Come back again as ye were in my prime; 
 Mellow in promise of fruit from the flower, 
 
 Fame from the lay — Manhood's ripe Autumn time. 
 Oh ! let my spirit cling in its longing 
 
 Still to those visions that flattered and fled; 
 Let me repeople my heart with the thronging 
 
 Of phantoms that cheated, of hopes that are dead. 
 
 Visions ! all visions ! How sad to remember 
 
 Beauty and glory and greatness when gone — 
 Spring, Summer, Autumn, all past — and December 
 
 With snow-flake and cloud coming gloomily on ! 
 Echo of strings long untouched by the finger, — 
 
 Odor of life when its flowers decay, 
 Memory — how fondly the soul loves to linger 
 
 Through thy dim shadow-land wandering away. 
 
 Visions ! all visions ! — the dreams of the sleeper. 
 
 Man walks in shadows from cradle to tomb, 
 In shadows that ever grow darker and deeper 
 
 As his life-sun goes down to its setting in gloom.' 
 The Past all illusion — the Present flits from us ; 
 
 It dies as we grasp it and turns into Past. 
 The Future, all darkness, gives only one promise — 
 
 When our journey is over, the grave-rest at last. 
 
 Oh! let my spirit slumber no longer, 
 
 Lapped in those visions delusive and sad. 
 Awake ! — let thy ken become clearer and stronger 
 
 To pierce those life-shadows, my soul, and be glad. 
 All is not darkness — from regions elysian 
 
 Through the grave, as it opens, a light thou canst view. 
 Evanish ye shadows ! dissolve every vision ! 
 
 For all things in heaven are real and true. 
 
400 LADIES' BOOK OF. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER BY NIGHT.-JoanxaBaili.ib. 
 
 — Still more pleased, through murky air, 
 He spies the distant bonfire's glare ; 
 And, nearer to the spot advancing, 
 Black imps and goblins round it dancing ; 
 And nearer still, distinctly traces 
 The featured disks of happy faces, 
 Grinning and roaring in their glory, 
 Like Bacchants wild of ancient story, 
 And making murgeons to the flame, 
 As it were playmate in the game. 
 Full well, I trow, could modern stage 
 Such acting for the nonce engage, 
 A crowded audience every night 
 Would press to see the jovial sight ; 
 And this, from cost and squeezing free, 
 November's nightly travellers see. 
 
 Through village, lane, or hamlet going, 
 The light from cottage window, showing 
 Its inmates at their evening fare, 
 By rousing fire, where earthenware 
 With pewter trenchers, on the shelf, 
 Give some display of worldly pelf, 
 Is transient vision to the eye 
 Of him our hasty passer by; 
 Yet much of pleasing import tells, 
 And cherished in his fancy dwells, 
 Where simple innocence and mirth 
 Encircle still the cottage hearth. 
 Across the road a fiery glare 
 Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare, 
 Where furnace blast and measured din 
 Of heavy hammers, and within 
 
READINGS AND RBOITATK -}i»l 
 
 The brawny mates their labor plying, 
 From heated bar the red sparks Hying, 
 Some idle neighbors standing by 
 With open mouth and dazzled eye : 
 The rough and sooty walls with store 
 Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er, 
 And rusty blades and bars between, 
 All momently are heard and seen. * * * 
 
 Yet this short scene of noisy coil 
 
 But serves our traveller as a foil, 
 
 Enhancing what succeeds, and lending 
 
 A charm to pensive quiet, sending 
 
 To home and friends, left far behind, 
 
 The kindliest musings of his mind ; 
 
 Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain, 
 
 A dimness o'er the haggard train 
 
 A mood and hour like this will throw, 
 
 As vex'd and burdened spirits know. 
 
 Night, loneliness, and motion are 
 
 Agents of power to distance care; 
 
 To distance, not discard ; for then 
 
 Withdrawn from busy haunts of men, 
 
 Necessity to act suspended, 
 
 The present, past, and future bletfded, 
 
 Like figures of a mazy dance, 
 
 Weave round the soul a dreamy trance, 
 
 Till jolting stone of turnpike gate 
 
 Arouse him from the soothing state. 
 
 PRESENTIMENTS— William Wordswoeth. 
 
 Presentiments ! they judge not right 
 Who deem that ye from open light 
 
 Retire in fear of shame ; 
 All heaven-born instincts shun the touch 
 
402 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Of vulgar sense, — and, being such, 
 Such privilege ye claim. 
 
 The tear whose source I could not guess, 
 The deep sigh that seemed fatherless, 
 
 Were mine in early days; 
 And now, unforced by time to part 
 With fancy, I obey my heart, 
 
 And venture on your praise. 
 
 What though some busy foes to good, 
 Too potent over nerve and blood, 
 
 Lurk near you — and combine 
 To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
 This hides not from the moral muse 
 
 Your origin divine. 
 
 How oft from you, derided powers ! 
 Comes faith that in auspicious hours 
 
 Builds castles, not of air ; 
 Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
 Flow from your visionary skill, 
 
 And teach us to bew T are. 
 
 The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, 
 That no^philosophy can lift, 
 
 Shall vanish, if ye please, 
 Like morning mist ; and, where it lay, 
 The spirits at your bidding play 
 
 In gayety and ease. 
 
 Star-guided contemplations move 
 
 Through space, though calm, not raised above 
 
 Prognostics that ye rule ; 
 The naked Indian of the wild, 
 And haply, too, the cradled child, 
 
 Are pupils of your school. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 403 
 
 But who can fathom your intents, 
 Number their signs or instruments? 
 
 A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
 A subtile smell that Spring unbinds, 
 Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 
 
 An echo, or a dream. 
 
 The laughter of the Christmas hearth, 
 With sighs of self-exhausted mirth, 
 
 Ye feelingly reprove ; 
 And daily, in the conscious breast, 
 Your visitations are a test 
 
 And exercise of love. 
 
 When some great change gives boundless scope 
 To an exulting nation's hope, 
 
 Oft, startled and made wise 
 By your low-breathed interpretings, 
 The simply meek foretaste the springs 
 
 Of bitter contraries. 
 
 Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
 Pervade the lonely ocean far 
 
 As sail hath been unfuiTd ; 
 For dancers in the festive hall 
 What ghastly partners hath your call 
 
 Fetched from the shadowy world ! 
 
 'Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, 
 Embolden'd by a keener sense ; 
 
 That men have lived for whom, 
 With dread precision, ye made clear 
 The hour that in a distant year 
 
 Should knell them to the tomb. 
 
 Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
 Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 
 
404 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Truth shows a glorious face, 
 While on that isthmus which commands 
 The councils of both worlds, she stands, 
 
 Sage spirits ! by your grace. 
 
 God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
 All changes of the element, 
 
 Whose wisdom fix'd the scale 
 Of natures, for our wants provides 
 By higher, sometimes humbler guides, 
 
 When lights of reason fail. 
 
 THE PRESENCE OF GOD.-Amelia B. Welby. 
 
 O Thou, who ning'st so fair a robe 
 
 Of clouds around the hills untrod — 
 Those mountain pillars of the globe, 
 
 Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O God ! 
 All glittering round the sunset skies, 
 
 Their trembling folds are lightly furled, 
 As if to shade from mortal eyes 
 
 The glories of yon upper world ; 
 There, while the evening star upholds 
 In one bright spot their purple folds, 
 My spirit lifts its silent prayer, 
 For Thou, the God of love, art there. 
 
 The summer flowers, the fair, the sweet, 
 
 Upspringing freely from the sod, 
 In whose soft looks we seem to meet 
 
 At every step thy smiles, O God ! 
 The humblest soul their sweetness shares, 
 
 They bloom in palace hall, or cot ; 
 Give me, Lord ! a heart like theirs, 
 
 Contented with my lowly lot ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 405 
 
 Within their pure, ambrosial bells, 
 In odors sweet, thy Spirit dwells ; 
 Their breath may seem to scent the air — 
 Tis Thine, God ! for Thou art there. 
 
 List ! from yon casement low and dim 
 
 What sounds are these that fill the breeze ? 
 It is the peasant's evening hymn 
 
 Arrests the fisher on the seas : 
 The old man leans his silver hairs 
 
 Upon his light-suspended oar, 
 Until those soft, delicious airs 
 
 Have died like ripples on the shore. 
 Why do his eyes in softness roll ? 
 What melts the manhood from his soul ? 
 His heart is filled with peace and prayer, 
 For Thou, God ! art with him there. 
 
 The birds among the summer blooms 
 
 Pour forth to Thee their strains of love, 
 When, trembling on uplifted plumes, 
 
 They leave the earth and soar above ; 
 We hear their sweet familiar airs 
 
 Where'er a sunny spot is found ; 
 How lovely is a life like theirs, 
 
 Diffusing sweetness all around ! 
 From clime to clime, from pole to pole, 
 Their sweetest anthems softly roll, 
 Till, melting on the realms of air, 
 Thy still, small voice seems whispering there. 
 
 The stars, those floating isles of light, 
 
 Round which the clouds unfurl their sails, 
 
 Pure as a woman's robe of white 
 
 That trembles round the form it veils, 
 
406 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 They touch the heart as with a spell, 
 
 Yet, set the soaring fancy free, 
 And oh, how sweet the tales they tell ! 
 
 They tell of peace, of love, and Thee ! 
 Each raging storm that wildly blows, 
 Each balmy gale that lifts the rose, 
 Sublimely grand, or softly fair, 
 They speak of Thee, for Thou art there. 
 
 The spirit oft oppressed with doubt, 
 
 May strive to cast Thee from its thought, 
 But who can shut thy presence out, 
 
 Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought ! 
 In spite of all our cold resolves, 
 
 Whate'er our thoughts, where'er we be, 
 Still magnet-like the heart revolves, 
 
 And points, all trembling, up to Thee ; 
 We cannot shield a troubled breast 
 Beneath the confines of the blest, 
 Above, below, on earth, in air, 
 For Thou, the living God, art there. 
 
 Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread, 
 
 Where soaring Fancy oft hath been, 
 There is a land where Thou hast said 
 
 The pure of heart shall enter in ; 
 In those far realms, so calmly bright, 
 
 How many a loved and gentle one 
 Bathes its soft plumes in living light 
 
 That sparkles from thy radiant throne ! 
 There souls, once soft and sad as ours, 
 Look up and sing 'mid fadeless flowers ; 
 They dream no more of grief and care, 
 For Thou, the God of peace, art there. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATION?. 407 
 
 CAUSES OF WEAKNESS IN .MEN.-John Locke. 
 
 There is, it is visible, great variety in men's understandings, 
 and their natural constitutions put so wide a difference between 
 some men in this respect, that art and industry would never be 
 able to master ; and their very natures seem to want a founda- 
 tion to raise on it that which other men easily attain unto. 
 Amongst men of equal education there is a great inequality of 
 parts. And the woods of America, as well as the schools of 
 Athens, produce men of several abilities in the same kind. 
 Though this be so, yet I imagine most men come very short of 
 what they might attain unto in their several degrees, by a 
 neglect of their understandings. A few rules of logic are 
 thought sufficient in this case for those who pretend to the high- 
 est improvement ; whereas I think there are a great many natu- 
 ral defects in the understanding capable of amendment, which 
 are overlooked and wholly neglected. And it is easy to per- 
 ceive that men arc guilty of a great many faults in the exercise 
 and. improvement of this faculty of the mind, which hinder them 
 in their progress, and keep them in ignorance and error all their 
 lives. Some of them I shall take notice of, and endeavor to 
 point out proper remedies for, in the following discourse. 
 
 Besides the want of determined ideas, and of sagacity and 
 exercise in finding out and laying in order intermediate ideas, 
 there are three miscarriages that men are guilty of in reference 
 to their reason, whereby this faculty is hindered in them from 
 that service it might do and was designed for. And he that 
 reflects upon the actions and discourses of mankind, will find 
 their defects in this kind very frequent and very observable. 
 
 The first is of those who seldom reason at all, but do and 
 think according to the example of others, whether parents, 
 neighbors, ministers, or who else they are pleased to make 
 choice of to have an implicit faith in, for the saving of them- 
 selves the pains and trouble of thinking and examining for 
 themselves. 
 
 The second is of those who put passion in the place of reason, 
 and being resolved that shall govern their actions and argu- 
 ments, neither use their own, nor hearken to other people's 
 reason, any farther than it suits their humor, interest, or party; 
 and these, one may observe, commonly content themselves with 
 words which have no distinct ideas to them, though, in other 
 matters, that they come with an unbiased indirTcrency to, they 
 
408 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 want not abilities to talk and hear reason, where they have no 
 secret inclination that hinders them from being intractable to it. 
 
 The third sort is of those who readily and sincerely follow 
 reason, but for want of having that which one may call largo, 
 sound, round-about sense, have not a full view of all that relates 
 to the question, and may be of moment to decide it. We arc 
 all short-sighted, and very often see but one side of a matter ; 
 our views are not extended to all that has a connection with it. 
 From this defect, I think, no man is free. We see but in part, 
 and we know but in part, and therefore it is no wonder we con- 
 clude not right from our partial views. This might instruct the 
 proudest esteemer of his own parts how useful it is to talk and 
 consult with others, even such as come short with him in 
 capacity, quickness, and penetration ; for, since no one sees all, 
 and we generally have different prospects of the same thing, 
 according to our different, as I may say, positions to it, it is not 
 incongruous to think, nor beneath any man to try, whether 
 another may not have notions of things which have escaped 
 him, and which his reason would make use of if they came into 
 his mind. The faculty of reasoning seldom or never deceives 
 those who trust to it ; its consequences from what it builds on 
 are evident and certain ; but that which it oftenest, if not only, 
 misleads us in, is, that the principles from which we conclude, 
 the grounds upon which we bottom our reasoning, are but a 
 part ; something is left out which should go into the reckoning 
 to make it just and exact. * * * * 
 
 In this we may see the reason why some men of study and 
 thought, that reason right, and are lovers of truth, do make no 
 great advances in their discoveries of it. Error and truth are 
 uncertainly blended in their minds ; their decisions are lame and 
 defective, and they are very often mistaken in their judgments. 
 The reason whereof is, they converse but with one sort of men, 
 they read but one sort of books, they will not come in the hear- 
 ing but of one sort of notions ; the truth is, they canton out to 
 themselves a little Goshen in the intellectual world, where light 
 shines, and, as they conclude, day blesses them ; but the rest 
 of that vast expansum they give up to night and dark- 
 ness, and so avoid coming near it. They have a petty traffic 
 with known correspondents in some little creek; within that 
 they confine themselves, and are dexterous managers enough of 
 the wares and products of that corner with which they content 
 themselves, but will not venture out into the great ocean of 
 knowledge, to survey the riches that nature hath stored other 
 
READINGS AND KKOTATIONS. 409 
 
 parts with, no less genuine, no less solid, no less useful, than 
 what has fallen to their lot in the admired plenty and suf- 
 ficiency of their own little spot, which to them contains what- 
 soever is good in the universe. Those who live thus mewed 
 up within their own contracted territories, and will not look 
 abroad beyond the boundaries that chance, conceit, or laziness, 
 has set to their inquiries, but live separate from the notions, 
 discourses, and attainments of the rest of mankind, may not 
 amiss be represented by the inhabitants of the Marian Islands, 
 which, being separated by a large tract of sea from all com- 
 munion with the habitable parts of the earth, thought them- 
 selves the only people of the world. And though the strait- 
 ness and conveniences of life amongst them had never reached so 
 far as to the use of fire, till the Spaniards, not many years since, 
 in their voyages from Acapulco to Manilla brought it amongst 
 them, yet, in the want and ignorance of almost all things, they 
 looked upon themselves, even after that the Spaniards had 
 brought amongst them the notice of variety of nations abound- 
 ing in sciences, arts, and conveniences of life, of which they 
 knew nothing, they looked upon themselves, I say, as the 
 happiest and wisest people in the universe. 
 
 ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER— John Wilson (CinusTOPiiER North). 
 
 Magnificent creature! so stately and bright! 
 In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight ; 
 For what hath the child of the desert to dread, 
 Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming head ; 
 Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale 2 — 
 Hail ! king of the wild and the beautiful ! — hail ! 
 Hail ! idol divine ! — whom nature hath borne 
 •O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the morn, 
 Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and moor, 
 As the vision glides by him may blameless adore ; 
 For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free, 
 Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee. 
 Up ! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne ! 
 O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone — 
 IS 
 
410 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 A throne which the eagle is glad to resign 
 
 Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. 
 
 There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast, 
 
 Lo ! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest ; 
 
 And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hiil ! 
 
 In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still ! — 
 
 Though your branches now toss in a storm of delight 
 
 Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height, 
 
 One moment — thou bright apparition — delay I 
 
 Then melt o'er the crao-s, like the sun from the dav. 
 
 His voyage is o'er — as if struck by a spell. 
 He motionless stands in the hush of the dell ; 
 There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast, 
 In the midst of his pastime enamored of rest. 
 A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race — 
 A dancing ray chain' d to one sunshiny place — 
 A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven — 
 A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven. 
 
 Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee : 
 Magnificent prison inclosing the free ; 
 With rock wall-encircled, with precipice crown'd — 
 Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. 
 Mid the fern and the heather kind nature doth keep 
 One bright spot of green for her favorite's sleep ; 
 And close to that covert, as clear to the skies 
 When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, 
 Where the creature at rest can his image behold, 
 Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold. 
 
 Yes : fierce looks thy nature, e'en hushed in repose — 
 In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, 
 Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, 
 With a haughty defiance to come to the war. 
 Xo outrage is war to a creature like thee ; 
 The buglehorn fills thy wild spirit with glee, 
 As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, 
 
READINGS AXI) RECITATIONS. 411 
 
 And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. 
 In the beams of thy forehead, that glitter with death, 
 In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath, — 
 In the wide raging torrent that lends thee its roar, — 
 In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more, — 
 Thy trust — 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign : 
 — But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? 
 On the brink of the rock — lo ! he standeth at bay, 
 Like a victor that falls at the close of the day — 
 While the hunter and hound in- their terror retreat 
 From the death that is spurn'd from his furious feet ; 
 And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, 
 As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 
 
 A STOILtf.— William Bryan Proctor. 
 
 The spirits of the mighty sea 
 
 To-night are waken'd from their dreams, 
 And upward to the tempest flee, 
 
 Baring their foreheads where the gleams 
 Of lightning run, and thunders cry, 
 Rushing and raining through the sky ! 
 
 The spirits of the sea are waging 
 Loud war upon the peaceful night, 
 
 And bands of the black winds are raging 
 Through the tempest blue and bright ; 
 
 Blowing her cloudy hair to dust 
 
 With kisses, like a madman's lust. 
 
 What ghost now, like an Ate, walketh 
 Earth — ocean— air? and aye with time, 
 
 Mingled, as with a lover talketh ? 
 Methinks their colloquy sublime 
 
 Draws anger from the sky, which raves 
 
 Over the self-abandoned w r aves ! 
 
412 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Behold ! like millions massed in battle, 
 The trembling billows headlong go, 
 
 Lashing the barren deeps, which rattle 
 In mighty transport till the) r grow 
 
 All fruitful in their rocky home, 
 
 And burst from frenzy into foam. 
 
 And look ! where on the faithless billows 
 Lie women, and men, and children fair ; 
 
 Some hanging, like sleep, to their swollen pillows, 
 With helpless sinews and streaming hair, 
 
 And some who plunge in the yawning graves ! 
 
 Ah! lives there no strength beyond the waves? 
 
 'Tis said, the moon can rock the sea 
 From frenzy strange to silence mild — 
 
 To sleep — to death — but where is she, 
 While now her storm-born giant child 
 
 Upheaves his shoulder to the skies? 
 
 Arise, sweet planet pale — arise ! 
 
 She cometh — lovelier than the dawn 
 In summer, when the leaves are green — 
 
 More graceful than the alarmed fawn, 
 Over his grassy supper seen : 
 
 Bright quiet from her beauty falls, 
 
 Until — again the tempest calls ! 
 
 The supernatural storm — he waketh 
 Again, and lo ! from sheets all white, 
 
 Stands up unto the stars, and shaketh 
 Scorn on the jewell'd locks of night. 
 
 He carries a ship on his foaming crown, 
 
 And a cry, like hell, as he rushes down ! 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 413 
 
 And so still soars, from calm to storm, 
 
 The stature of the unresting sea : 
 So doth desire or wrath deform 
 
 Our else calm humanity — 
 
 Until at last we sleep, 
 
 And never wake nor weep 
 (Hush'd to death by some faint tune), 
 In our grave beneath the moon ! 
 
 EVENING.— Pktraroa. 
 
 In the still evening, when with rapid flight 
 
 Low in the western sky the sun descends 
 
 To give expectant nations life and light, 
 
 The aged pilgrim, in some clime unknown 
 
 Slow journeying, right onward fearful bends 
 
 With weary haste, a stranger and alone ; 
 
 Yet, when his labor ends, 
 
 He solitary sleeps, 
 
 And in short slumber steeps 
 
 Each sense of sorrow hanging on the day, 
 
 And all the toil of the long past way : 
 
 But, oh, each pang, that wakes with morn's first ray, 
 
 More piercing wounds my breast, 
 
 When heaven's eternal light sinks crimson in the west! 
 
 His burning wheels when downward Phoebus bends 
 And leaves the world to night, its lengthened shade 
 Each towering mountain o'er the vale extends; 
 The thrifty peasant shoulders light his spade, 
 With sylvan carol ga} r and uncouth note 
 Bidding his cares upon the wild winds float, 
 Content in peace to share 
 His poor and humble fare, 
 
4U LADIES 1 BOOK OF 
 
 As in that golden age 
 
 We honor still, yet leave its simple ways ; 
 
 Whoe'er so list, let joy his hours engage : 
 
 No gladness e'er has cheered my gloomy days, 
 
 Nor moment of repose, 
 
 However rolled the spheres, whatever planet rose. 
 
 When as the shepherd marks the sloping ray 
 
 Of the great orb that sinks in ocean's bed, 
 
 While on the east soft steals the evening gray, 
 
 He rises, and resumes the accustomed crook, 
 
 Quitting the beechen grove, the field, the brook, 
 
 And gently homeward drives the flock he fed ; 
 
 Then, far from human tread, 
 
 In lonely hut or cave, 
 
 O'er which the green boughs wave, 
 
 In sleep without a thought he lays his head : 
 
 Ah ! cruel Love ! at this dark, silent hour, 
 
 Thou wak'st to trace, and with redoubled power, 
 
 The voice, the step, the air 
 
 Of her, who scorns thy chain, and flies thy fatal snare. 
 
 And in some sheltered bay, at evening's close, 
 
 The mariners their rude coats round them fold, 
 
 Stretched on the rugged plank in deep repose : 
 
 But I, though Phoebus sink into the main, 
 
 And leave Grauada wrapped in night, with Spain, 
 
 Morocco, and the Pillars famed of old, — 
 
 Though all of human kind, 
 
 And every creature blessed, 
 
 All hush their ills to rest, 
 
 No end to my unceasing sorrows find : 
 
 And still the sad account swells day by day ; 
 
 For, since jthese thoughts on my lorn spirit prey, 
 
 I see the tenth year roll ; 
 
 Nor hope of freedom springs in my desponding soul. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. ■ 415 
 
 Thus, as I vent my bursting bosom's pain, 
 
 Lo ! from their yoke I see the oxen freed, 
 
 Slow moving homeward o'er the furrowed plain : 
 
 Why to my sorrow is no pause decreed ? 
 
 Why from my yoke no respite must I know? 
 
 Why gush these tears, and never cease to flow ? 
 
 Ah me ! what sought my eyes, 
 
 When, fixed in fond surprise, 
 
 On her angelic face 
 
 I gazed, and on my heart each charm impressed? 
 
 From whence nor force nor art the sacred trace 
 
 Shall e'er remove, till I the victim rest 
 
 Of Death, whose mortal blow 
 
 Shall my pure spirit free, and this worn frame lay low. 
 
 THE MOTHER AND SON.-Kichard H. Dana. 
 
 " The sun not set yet, Thomas ?" 
 
 " Not quite, Sir. It blazes through the trees on the hill yon- 
 der as if their branches were all on fire." 
 
 Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and, with his hat still 
 over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes toward the set- 
 ting sun. It was only the night before that he had heard his 
 mother was ill, and could survive but a day or two. He had 
 lived nearly apart from society, and, being a lad of a thought- 
 ful, dreamy mind, had made a world to himself. His thoughts 
 and feelings were so much in it that, except in relation to his own 
 home, there were the same vague notions in his brain, con- 
 cerning the state of thino-s surroundino; him, as we have of a 
 foreign land. 
 
 He had passed the night between tumultuous grief and numb 
 insensibility. Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak 
 motion, like one who was quitting his sick-chamber for the first 
 time, he began his way homeward. As he lifted his eyes up- 
 ward, the few stars that were here and there over the sky seemed 
 to look down in pity, and shed a religious and healing light 
 upon him. But they soon went out, one after another, and as 
 the last faded from his sight, it was as if something good and 
 holy had forsaken him. The faint tint in the east soon became 
 a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting upward, burst over every 
 
416 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 living thing in full glory. The sight went to Arthur's sick heart, 
 as if it were in mockery of his sorrow. 
 
 Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over his eyes, he 
 was carried along, hardly sensible it was day. The old servant, 
 Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went on talking in a low, 
 monotonous tone ; but Arthur only heard something sounding 
 in his ears, scarcely heeding that it was a human voice. He 
 had a sense of wearisomeness from the motion of the carriage ; 
 but in all things else the day passed as a melancholy dream. 
 
 Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have men- 
 tioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he shuddered 
 ai}d turned pale, for he knew the hill near him. As they wound 
 round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and he was in a few 
 minutes in the midst of the scenery near his home. The river 
 before him, reflecting the rich evening sky, looked as if poured 
 out from a molten mine ; and the birds, gathering in, were shoot- 
 ing across each other, bursting into short gay notes, or singing 
 their evening songs in the trees. It was a bitter thing to find 
 all so bright and cheerful, and so near his own home, too. His 
 horses' hoofs struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound 
 went to his heart ; for it was here his mother took her last leave 
 of him, and blessed him. 
 
 As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of 
 strangeness that every thing should be just as it was when he 
 left it. An undefined thought floated in his mind, that his 
 mother's state should produce a visible change in whatever he 
 had been familiar with. But the boys were at their noisy 
 games in the street; the laborers returning together from their 
 work, and the old men sitting quietly at their doors. He con- 
 cealed himself as well as he could, and bade Thomas hasten on. 
 
 As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in about 
 it, and there was a melancholy gusty sound in the trees. Ar- 
 thur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb. He entered the 
 parlor. There was the gloom and stillness of a deserted house. 
 Presently he heard a slow, cautious step overhead. It was in 
 his mother's chamber. His sister had seen him from the win- 
 dow. She hurried down, and threw her arms about her brother's 
 neck, without uttering a word. As soon as he could speak, he 
 asked, " Is she alive ?" — he could not say, my mother. " She is 
 sleeping," answered his sister, " and must not know to-night 
 that you are here : she is too weak to bear it now." " I will 
 go look at her, then, while she sleeps," said he, drawing his 
 handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy had made 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 417 
 
 him shed the first tears which had fallen from him that day, and 
 he was more composed. 
 
 He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe upon him ; 
 and, as he drew near his mother's bedside, and looked on her 
 pale, placid face, he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should dis- 
 turb the secret communion that the soul was holding with the 
 world into which it was soon to enter. His grief, in the loss 
 which he was about to suffer, was forgotten in the feeling of a 
 holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of invisible 
 spirits, ascending and descending. His mother's lips moved 
 slightly as she uttered an indistinct sound. He drew back, and 
 his sister went near to her, and she spoke. It was the same 
 gentle voice which he had,- known and felt from his childhood. 
 The exaltation of his soul left him, — he sunk down, — and his 
 sorrow went over him like a flood. 
 
 The next day, as soon as his mother became composed enough 
 to see him, Arthur went into her chamber. She stretched out 
 her feeble hand, and turned toward him, with a look that blessed 
 him. It was the short struggle of a meek spirit. She covered 
 her eyes with her hand, and the tears trickled down between 
 her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became tranquil, she 
 spoke of the gratitude she felt at being spared to see him before 
 she died. 
 
 " My dear mother," said Arthur, — but he could not go on. 
 His voice choked, and his eves filled. " Do not be so afflicted, 
 Arthur, at the loss of me. We are not to part forever. Re- 
 member, too, how comfortable and happy you have made my 
 days. Heaven, I am sure, will bless so good a son as you have 
 been to me. You will have that consolation, my son, which 
 visits too few sons, perhaps : you will be able to look back upon 
 your conduct, not without pain only, but with a sacred joy. 
 And think hereafter of the peace of mind you give me, now 
 that I am about to die, in the thought that I am leaving your 
 sister to your love and care. So long as you live, she will 
 find you both father and brother to her." She paused for 
 a moment. "I have long felt that I could meet death with 
 composure ; but I did not know, — I did not know, till now 
 that the hour is come, how hard a thing it would be to leave 
 my children." 
 
 The hue of death was now fast spreading over his mother's 
 
 face. He stooped forward to catch the sound of her breathing. 
 
 It grew quick and faint. "My mother!" She opened her 
 
 eyes, for the last time, upon him ; a faint flush passed over her 
 
 is* 
 
418 LADIES 1 BOOK OF 
 
 cheek ; there was the serenity of an angel in her look ; her hand 
 just pressed his. It was all over. 
 
 His spirit had endured to its utmost. It sank down from its 
 unearthly height; and, with his face upon his mother's pillow, 
 he wept like a child. He arose with a softened grief, and, step- 
 ping into an adjoining chamber, spoke to his aunt. " It is past," 
 said he. " Is my sister asleep ? Well, be it so : let her have 
 rest : she needs it." He then went to his own chamber, and 
 shut himself in. 
 
 It is an impression, of which we cannot rid ourselves if we 
 would, when sitting by the body of a friend, that he has still a 
 consciousness of our presence ; that, though he no longer has a 
 concern in the common things of the world, love and thought 
 are still there. The face which we had been familiar with so 
 long, when it was all life and motion, seems only in a state of 
 rest. We know not how to make it real to ourselves that in the 
 body before us there is not a something still alive. 
 
 Arthur was in such a state of mind as he sat alone in the 
 room by his mother, the day after her death. It was as if her 
 soul was holding communion with spirits in Paradise, though it 
 still abode in the body that lay before him. He felt as if sancti- 
 fied by the presence of one to whom the other world had been 
 opened, — as if under the love and protection of one made holy. 
 The religious reflections which his mother had early taught 
 him gave him strength : a spiritual composure stole over him, 
 and he found himself prepared to perform the last offices to the 
 dead. 
 
 When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step and fixed 
 eye, though his face was tremulous with the struggle within 
 him. He went to his sister, and took her arm within his. The 
 bell struck. Its heavy, undulating sound rolled forward like a 
 sea. He felt a beating through his frame, which shook him so 
 that he reeled. It was but a momentary weakness. He moved 
 on, passing those who surrounded him as if they had been 
 shadows. While he followed the slow hearse, there was a 
 vacancy in his eye, as it rested on the cotfin, which showed 
 him hardly conscious of what was before him. His spirit was 
 with his mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk back, 
 and turned pale; but, dropping his head upon his breast, and 
 covering his face, he stood motionless as a statue till the service 
 was over. 
 
 It was a gloomy and chilly evening when he returned home. 
 As he entered the house from which his mother had gone for- 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 419 
 
 ever, a sense of dreary emptiness oppressed him, as if his abode 
 had been deserted by every living thing. Be walked into his 
 
 mother's chamber. The naked bedstead, and the chair in which 
 she used to sit, were all that were left in the room. As he 
 threw himself back into the chair, he groaned in the bitterness 
 of his spirit. A feeling of forlornness came over him, which 
 was not to be relieved by tears. She, whom he watched over 
 in her dying hour, and whom he had talked to as she lay before 
 him in death, as if she could hear and answer him, had gone 
 from him. Nothing was left for the senses to fasten fondly on, 
 and time had not yet taught him to think of her only as a spirit. 
 But time and holy endeavors brought this consolation ; and the 
 little of life that a wasting disease left him was passed by him, 
 when alone, in thoughtful tranquillity; and among his friends 
 he appeared with that gentle cheerfulness which, before his 
 mother's death, had been a part of his nature. 
 
 SAUL, AND THE WITCH OF ENDOR.-Lord Byron. 
 Thou, whose spell can raise the dead, 
 
 Bid the prophet's form appear : 
 " Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
 King, behold the phantom seer !" 
 
 Earth yawned ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
 Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
 Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
 His hand was withered, and his veins were dry; 
 His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there, 
 Shrunken, and sinewless, and ghastly bare : 
 From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, 
 Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came. 
 Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
 At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
 
 u Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
 Who is he that calls the dead ? 
 Is it thou, O king ? Behold, 
 Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
 
420 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 Such are mine ; and such shall be 
 Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
 Ere the coming day is done, 
 Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
 Fare thee well, but for a day, 
 Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
 Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
 Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
 And the falchion by thy side 
 To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
 Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
 Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.-Henky W. Longfellow. 
 
 Somewhat 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 !" 
 
 Halfway 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 !" 
 
 By day its voice is low and light, 
 But in the silent dead of night, 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 421 
 
 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 !" 
 
 Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
 Through clays of death and days of birth, 
 Through every swift vicissitude 
 Of changeful time, unchanged it stood, 
 And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
 It calmly repeats these 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, — 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 From that chamber, clothed in white, 
 
 The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
 
422 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 There in that silent room below, 
 The dead lay in his shrond of snow ; 
 And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
 Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
 " 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 !" 
 
 Never here, forever there, 
 Where all parting, pain, and care, 
 And death and time shall disappear, — 
 Forever there, but never here ! 
 The horologe of Eternity 
 Sayeth this incessantly : 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 SEEING "THE W0R1> OF LIFE. "-Owen Meeedith. 
 If Jesus came to earth again, 
 
 And walked and talked in field and street, 
 Who would not lay his human pain 
 
 Low at those heavenly feet ? 
 
 And leave the loom, and leave the lute, 
 And leave the volume on the shelf, 
 
 To follow him, unquestioning, mute, 
 If 'twere the Lord Himself? 
 
II KADI. WiS AND RECITATIONS. 423 
 
 How many ;i brow with care o'erworn, 
 How many a heart with grief o'erladcn, 
 
 How many a man with woe forlorn, 
 How many a mourning maiden, 
 
 Would leave the baffling, earthly prize, 
 Which fails the earthly weak endeavor, 
 
 To gaze into those holy eyes, 
 And drink content forever ! 
 
 His sheep along the cool, the shade, 
 
 By the still water-course He leads ; 
 His lambs upon his breast are laid, 
 
 His hungry ones he feeds. 
 
 And I, where'er He went, would go, 
 
 Nor question where the path might lead, 
 
 Enough to know that here below, 
 I walked with God. indeed ! 
 
 If this be thus, Lord of mine, 
 
 In absence is thy love forgot ? 
 And must I, when I walk, repine, 
 
 Because I see thee not ] 
 
 If this be thus, if this be thus, 
 
 Since our poor prayers yet reach thee, Lord, 
 Since we are weak, once more to us 
 
 Reveal the living Word ! 
 
 Oh, nearer to me, in the dark 
 
 Of life's low hours, one moment stand, 
 
 And give me keener eyes to mark 
 The moving of thy hand. 
 
42tL LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE WINTER NIGHT -W. B. 0. Pjmjk^t, 
 'Tis the high festival of night ! 
 The earth is radiant with delight ; 
 And, fast as weary clay retires, 
 The heaven unfolds its secret fires, 
 Bright, as when first the firmament 
 Around the new-made world was bent, 
 And infant seraphs pierced the blue, 
 Till rays of heaven came shining through. 
 
 And mark the heaven's reflected glow 
 
 On many an icy plain below ; 
 
 And where the streams, with tinkling clash, 
 
 Against their frozen barriers dash, 
 
 Like fairy lances fleetly cast, 
 
 The glittering ripples hurry past ; 
 
 And floating sparkles glance afar, 
 
 Like rivals of some upper star. 
 
 And see, beyond, how sweetly still 
 The snowy moonlight wraps the hill, 
 And many an aged pine receives 
 The steady brightness on its leaves, 
 Contrasting with those giant forms, 
 Which, rifled by the winter storms, 
 With naked branches, broad and high, 
 Are darkly painted on the sky. 
 
 From every mountain's towering head 
 A white and glistening robe is spread, 
 As if a melted silver tide 
 Were gushing down its lofty side ; 
 The clear, cold lustre of the moon 
 Is purer than the burning noon ; 
 And day hath never known the charm 
 That dwells amid this evening calm. 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 425 
 
 The idler, on his silken bed, 
 
 May talk of nature, cold and dead; 
 
 But we will gaze upon this scene, 
 
 Where some transcendent power hath been, 
 
 And made these streams of beauty flow 
 
 In gladness on the world below, 
 
 Till nature breathes from every part 
 
 The rapture of her mighty heart. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S WOUEN.-Anonymo™. 
 Beyond me and above me, far away 
 
 From colder poets lies a land Elysian — 
 The haunted land where Shakspeare's ladies stray 
 
 Through shadowy groves and golden glades of vision ; 
 And there I wander oft, as poets may, 
 
 Cooling the fever of a hot ambition, 
 'Mong ghostly shades of palaces divine, 
 And pray at Shakspeare's soul as at a shrine ! 
 
 Fair are those ladies all, some pure as foam, 
 And sadder some than earthly ladies are; 
 
 From Juliet, calm and beautiful as home, 
 
 Whose love was whiter than the morning star, 
 
 To Egypt, when the rebel lord of Rome 
 
 Lolled at her knee and watched the world from far — 
 
 Selling his manhood for a woman's kiss, 
 
 But fretting in the heyday of his bliss. 
 
 There Portia argues love against the Jew, 
 With quips and quiddities of azure eyes ; 
 
 Fidele mourns for Posthumus untrue, 
 
 And wanders homeless under angry skies ; 
 
 There white Ophelia moans her ditties new, 
 Sad as the swan's weird music when it dies : 
 
4l>6 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 There roaming hand in hand, as free as wind, 
 Walk little Celia and tall Rosalind. 
 
 And slender Julia walks in man's attire, 
 
 Praising her own sweet face which Proteus wrongs; 
 
 Miranda, isled from kisses, strikes the lyre 
 Of her own wishes into fairy songs ; 
 
 And stainless Hero, flashing into fire, 
 
 Chides with her death the lie her love prolongs ; 
 
 With buxom Beatrice, whose heart denies 
 
 The jest she still indorses with her eyes ! 
 
 Shipwrecked Marina wanders through the night, 
 Blushing at sound, and trembling for the morn, 
 
 And blue-eyed Constance rises up her height 
 To fortify her hope with words of scorn ; 
 
 The lass of Florizel in tearful plight, 
 
 Still seeks her hope in labyrinths forlorn ; 
 
 And high upon a pinnacle, I see 
 
 Cordelia weeping at the wild king's knee ! 
 
 And in the darkest corner of the land 
 Walks one with blacker brows and looks of pain, 
 
 Heart-haunted by the shade of past command — 
 The pale-faced queen, who .sinned beside the Thane; 
 
 And still she moans, and eyes a bloody hand 
 That once was lily-white without a stain ; 
 
 Robbed of the strength which helped the Thane to climb, 
 
 When growing with the grandeur of his crime. 
 
 But in the centre of a little hall, 
 
 Roofed by a patch of sky with stars and moon, 
 Titania sighs a love-sick madrigal, 
 
 Throned in the red heart of a rose of June; 
 And round about, the fairies rise and fall 
 
 Like daisies' shadows to an elfin tunc ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATK £27 
 
 Behind them, 'plaining through ;i citron grove, 
 Moves gentle Ilennia, chasing hope and love. 
 
 1 dream in this delicious land, where Song 
 
 Epitomized all beauty and all love, 
 Familiar as my mother's face, the throng 
 
 Of ladies through its shady vistas move ; 
 Time listens to the sorrow they prolong, 
 
 And Fancy weeps beside them, and above 
 Broods Music, wearing on her golden wings 
 The darkness of sublime imao-inin^s. 
 
 Oh, let me, dreaming on in this sweet place, 
 
 Draw near to Shakspeare's soul with reverent eyes, 
 
 Let me dream on, forgettiug time and space, 
 Pavilioned in a golden paradise, 
 
 Where smiles are conjured on the stately face, 
 And true-love kisses mix with tears and sighs ; 
 
 Where each immortal lady still prolongs 
 
 The life our Shakspeare calentured in songs. 
 
 And in the spirit's twilight, when I feel 
 Hard-visaged Labor recommending leisure, 
 
 Let me thus climb to fairy heights and steal 
 
 Soft commune with the shapes all poets treasure ; 
 
 Wrapped up in luscious life from head to heel, 
 
 Swimming from trance to trance of speechless pleasure, 
 
 And now and then, not erring, dream of bliss 
 
 Whose brimful soul rims over in a kiss ! 
 
 A SUMAiEft XOOX— Carlos Wilcox. 
 
 A sultry noon, not in the summer's prime, 
 When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, 
 But near its close, when vegetation stops, 
 And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, 
 
42 S LADIES 1 BOOK OF 
 
 Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms, 
 Its images of silence and of rest, 
 The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; 
 The husbandman has gone to his repast, 
 And, that partaken, on the coolest side 
 Of his abode, reclines in sweet repose. 
 Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand, 
 The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, 
 And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe, 
 No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, 
 "While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, 
 The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath 
 Brushes along the surface with a shade 
 Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. 
 The slender stalks their heavy bended heads 
 Support as motionless as oaks their tops. 
 O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still ; 
 E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung 
 By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, 
 Rest in the general calm. The thistle-down, 
 Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside 
 Some shading object, in a silver shower 
 'Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, 
 Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends ; 
 And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, 
 Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. 
 White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct 
 From the resplendent sky, a single cloud, 
 On the soft bosom of the air becalm'd, 
 Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still, 
 On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side; 
 Or in the polish'd mirror of the lake, 
 In which the deep reflected sky appears 
 A calm, sublime immensity below. 
 
 No sound nor motion of a living thing 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. ±29 
 
 The stillness breaks, but such as serve to soothe, 
 Or cause the soul to feel the stillness more. 
 The yellow-hammer by the way-side picks, 
 Mutely, the thistle's seed ; but in her flight, 
 So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread 
 To rise a little, closed to fall as far, 
 Moving like sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves, 
 With each new impulse chimes a feeble note. 
 The russet grasshopper at times is heard, 
 Snapping his many wings, as half he flies, 
 Half-hovers in the air. Where strikes the sun, 
 With sultriest beams, upon the sandy plain, 
 Or stony mount, or in the close, deep vale, 
 The harmless locust of this western clime, 
 At intervals, amid the leaves unseen, 
 Is heard to sing with one unbroken sound, 
 As with a long-drawn breath, beginning low, 
 And rising to the midst with shriller swell, 
 Then in low cadence dying all away. 
 Beside the stream, collected in a flock, 
 The noiseless butterflies, though on the ground, 
 Continue still to wave their open fans 
 Powder' d w r ith gold ; while on the jutting twigs 
 The spindling insects that frequent the banks 
 Rest, with their thin, transparent wings outspread 
 As when they fly. Ofttimes, though seldom seen, 
 The cuckoo, that in summer haunts our groves, 
 Is heard to moan, as if at every breath 
 Panting aloud. The hawk,, in mid-air high, 
 On his broad pinions sailing round and round, 
 With not a flutter, or but now and then, 
 As if his trembling balance to regain, 
 Utters a single scream, but faintly heard, 
 And all ao-ain is still. 
 
430 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 THE FORGING OF THE AXCHOR.-Samuel Ferguson. 
 
 Come, see the Dolphin's Anchor forged ; 'tis at a white heat 
 
 now ; 
 Th<* billows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the 
 
 forge's brow 
 The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; 
 And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, 
 All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; 
 Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass 
 
 there. 
 
 The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound 
 
 heaves below, 
 And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe ; 
 It rises, roars, rends all outright— O Vulcan, what a glow ! 
 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright, the high sun shines 
 
 not so ! 
 The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show ; 
 The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row 
 Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the 
 
 foe; 
 As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster 
 
 slow 
 Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow — 
 " Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out — leap out :" bang, bang, 
 
 the sledges go ; 
 Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; 
 A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; 
 The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders strow 
 The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains 
 
 flow : 
 And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, 
 
 punt " Ho !" 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 431 
 
 Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load ! 
 Let's forge a goodly Anchor, a bower, thick and broad ; 
 For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I l>odc, 
 And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road; 
 The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured 
 From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board ; 
 The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the 
 
 chains, 
 But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains, 
 And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high, 
 Then moves his head, as though he said, ft Fear nothing — here 
 
 am I !" 
 Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, 
 Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ! 
 But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, 
 The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we ; 
 Strike im. strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ! 
 Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be 
 
 sped; 
 Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, 
 For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; 
 Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, 
 For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing 
 
 seaman's cheer; 
 Then weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and 
 
 home, 
 And Bobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 
 
 In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, 
 A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. 
 A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, 
 What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green 
 
 sea ! 
 Oh, deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? 
 The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now 
 
432 LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 To go plump plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, 
 And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging 
 
 tails ! 
 Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, 
 And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory 
 
 horn ! 
 To leave the subtle sw order-fish, of bony blade forlorn, 
 And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn ; 
 To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian 
 
 isles 
 He lies, a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed miles; 
 Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls, 
 Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far-astonished shoals 
 Of his back-browsing ocean calves ; or haply in a cove, 
 Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, 
 To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands, 
 To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 
 
 O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal 
 
 thine ? 
 The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line : 
 And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, 
 Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play ; 
 But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave, 
 A fisher's joy is to destroy, — thine office is to save. 
 
 O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand 
 Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping- 
 band, 
 Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, 
 With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient 
 
 friend — 
 Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps 
 round thee, 
 
READINGS AXD RECITATION& !:;.; 
 
 Thine iron aide would swell with pride, thou'dat leap within 
 the sea ! 
 
 (Jive honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, 
 To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland — 
 Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard 
 
 grave 
 So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — 
 Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, 
 Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among ! 
 
 THE .NORTH AND THE SOUTH.— Mbs. Euzabbth Barrett Browning. 
 
 HANS CHKI8TIAS ANDKUSFA's VISIT TO ITALY, MAY, 1SC1. 
 I. 
 
 " Now give us lands where the olives grow," 
 
 Cried the North to the South, 
 " Where the sun with a golden mouth can blow 
 Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard-row !" 
 
 Cried the North to the South. 
 
 "Now give us men from the sunless plain," 
 
 Cried the South to the North, 
 " By need of work in the snow and the rain 
 Made strong and brave by familiar pain !" 
 
 Cried the South to the North. 
 
 " Give lucider hills and intenser seas," 
 
 Said the North to the South, 
 " Since ever by symbols and bright degrees 
 Art, childlike, climbs to the dear Lord's knees," 
 
 Said the North to the South. 
 
 * This is Die last Poem written by Mrs. Bmwning, shortly before her death. 
 19 
 
434 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 " Give strenuous souls for belief and prayer," 
 
 Said the South to the North, 
 " That stand in the dark on the lowest stair, 
 While affirming of God, 'He is certainly there, 1 " 
 
 Said the South to the North. 
 
 "Yet oh, for the skies that are softer and higher!" 
 
 Sighed the North to the South, 
 " — For the flowers that blaze, and the trees that aspire, 
 And the insects made of a song or a fire !" 
 
 Sighed the North to the South. 
 
 " And oh, for a seer, to discern the same !" 
 
 Sighed the South to the North, 
 " — For a poet's tongue of baptismal flame, 
 To call the tree and the flower by its name !" 
 
 Sighed the South to the North. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The North sent therefore a man of men 
 
 As a grace to the South, — 
 And thus to Eome, came Andersen ; 
 " — Alas, but must you take him, again ?" 
 
 Said the South to the North. 
 
 SAMUEL L0WG00FS REYEXGE.-Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 
 From the first to the last we w r ere rivals and enemies. Per- 
 haps it was on my part that the hatred, which eventually became 
 so terrible a passion between us, first arose. Perhaps it was, 
 perhaps it was ! At any rate, he always said that it was 
 so. I am an old man, and the past has much of it faded out; 
 but that portion of my life which relates to him is as fresh in 
 my mind to-night as ever it was fifty years ago, when his 
 Gracious Majesty George the Second was king, and Christopher 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 435 
 
 Weldon and I were junior clerks together in the great bouse of 
 Tyndale and Tyndale, shipowners, Dockside, Willborough. 
 
 He was very handsome. It was hard for a pale-faced, sullow- 
 complexioned, hollow-eyed, insignificant lad, as 1 was, to sit at 
 the same desk with Christopher Weldon, and guess the com- 
 parisons that every stranger entering the counting-house must 
 involuntarily make, as he looked at us, — if he looked at us, 
 that is to say ; and it was difficult not to look at Christopher. 
 Good heavens ! I can see him now, sealed at the worn, old, 
 battered, ink-stained desk, with all the July sunlight streaming 
 through the dingy office windows, down upon his waving 
 clusters of pale golden hair, with his bright blue eyes looking 
 out, through the smoky panes, at the forests of masts, dangling 
 ropes, and grimy sails, in the dock outside; with one girlish, 
 white hand carelessly thrown upon the desk before him, and the 
 delicate fingers of the other twisted in his flowing curls. He 
 was scarcely one-and-twenty, the spoiled pet of a widowed 
 mother, the orphan son of a naval officer, and the darling idol 
 of half the women in the seaport of Willborough. It was not 
 so much to be wondered at, then, that he was a fop and a 
 maccaroni, and that the pale golden curls, which he brushed off 
 his white forehead, were tied on his coat collar with a fine 
 purple ribbon on Sundays and holidays. His cravat and ruffles 
 were always of delicate lace, worked by his loving mother's 
 hands; his coats were made by a London tailor, who had once 
 worked for Mr. George Sclwyn and Lord March; and he wore 
 diamond shoe-buckles and a slender court sword sometimes out 
 of office hours. 
 
 I, too, was an orphan ; but I was doubly an orphan. My 
 father and mother had both died in my infancy. I had been 
 reared in a workhouse, had picked up chance waifs and strays 
 of education from the hardest masters, and had been drafted, at 
 the age of ten, into the offices of Tyndale and Tyndale. Errand- 
 boy, light porter, office drudge, junior clerk — one by one I had 
 mounted the rounds in this troublesome ladder, which for me 
 could only be begun from the very bottom ; and, at the age of 
 twenty-one, I found myself — where ? In a business character, 
 I was on a level with Christopher Weldon, the son of a gentle- 
 man. How often I, the pauper orphan of a bankrupt corn- 
 chandler, had to hear this phrase, — the son of a gentleman. In 
 a business character, I say, I, Samuel Lowgood, who had worked, 
 and slaved, and drudged, and been snubbed, and in spite of all, 
 had become a clever accountant and a thorough arithmetician 
 
436 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 — throughout eleven long, weary years — was in the same rank 
 as Christopher Weldon, who had been in the office exactly four 
 weeks, just to see, as his mother said, whether it would suit 
 him. 
 
 He was about as much good in the counting-house as a wax 
 doll would have been, and, like a wax doll, he looked very 
 pretty ; but Messrs. Tyndale and Tyndale had known his father, 
 and Tyndale senior, knew his uncle, and Tyndale junior, was 
 acquainted with his first cousin, who lived at the court end of 
 London ; so he was taken at once into the office, as junior clerk, 
 with every chance, as one of the seniors told me confidentially, 
 of rising much higher, if he took care of himself. 
 
 He knew about as much arithmetic as a baby ; but he was 
 very clever with his pen, in sketching pretty girls, with pow- 
 dered heads, flowing sacques, and pannier hoops ; so he found 
 plenty of amusement in doing this, and reading Mr. Henry 
 Fielding's novels behind the ledger; and the head clerks left 
 him to himself, and snubbed me for not doing his work as well 
 as my own. 
 
 I hated him. I hated his foppish ways and his haughty man- 
 ners. I hated his handsome, boyish, radiant face, with its 
 golden frame of waving hair, and its blue, beaming, hopeful 
 eyes. I hated him for the sword which swung across the stiff 
 skirts of his brocaded coat; for the money which he jingled in 
 his waistcoat pockets ; for the two watches which he wore on 
 high days and holidays; for his merry laugh ; for his melodious 
 voice ; for his graceful walk ; for his tall, slender figure ; for his 
 jovial, winning ways, which won everybody else's friendship. 
 I hated him for all these ; but, most of all, I hated him for his 
 influence over her. 
 
 She was a poor dependent upon the bounty of the house of . 
 Tyndale and Tyndale, and she had the care of the town residence 
 belonging to the firm, which communicated with the offices. 
 
 People knew very little about her, except that she was the 
 daughter of a superannuated old clerk, who had gone stone- 
 blind over the ledgers of Tyndale and Tyndale, and that she 
 lived with her father in this dreary, old, deserted, unoccupied 
 town house. Once or twice in a year, the brothers would take 
 it into their heads to give a dinner party in this disused dwell- 
 ing, and then the great oak furniture was polished, and clusters 
 of wax candles were lighted in the twisted silver sconces, and the 
 dim pictures of thf> Tyndales dead and gone, shipowners and 
 merchants in the days of William and Mary, were uncovered ; 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 437 
 
 but, at other times, Lucy Maiden and her blind old father had 
 the great place, with its long, dark corridors, and its lofty 
 chambers into which the light rarely penetrated, all to them- 
 selves. The house joined the offices, and the offices and the 
 house formed three sides of a square, the dockside forming the 
 fourth. The counting-house in which Christopher Weldon and 
 I sat was exactly opposite the house. 
 
 I watched him the morning when he first saw her — watched 
 him without his being aware of it. It was a blazing July day ; and, 
 when she had arranged her father's room, and her own, and the 
 little sitting-room which they shared together, which formed a 
 range of apartments on the second story, she came to her win- 
 dow, and, opening it to its widest extent, sat down to her needle- 
 work. She eked out the slender income which the firm allowed 
 her father, by the sale of her needlework, which was very beauti- 
 ful. A screen of flowers, in great stone jars, sheltered the 
 window, and behind these she placed herself. 
 
 He saw her in a moment, and his pen fell from his listless 
 hand. 
 
 She was uot beautiful. I know that she was not beautiful. 
 I think that many would have scarcely called her even a pretty 
 girl ; but to me, from the first to the last, she was the fairest, 
 the clearest, and the loveliest of women, and it is so difficult to 
 me to dispossess myself of her image, as that image shone 
 upon me, that I doubt if I can describe her as she really was. 
 
 She was very pale. The dreary, joyless life she led in that 
 dark old house, in the heart of a dingy seaport town, had per- 
 haps blanched the roses in her cheeks, and dimmed the sunlight 
 in her thoughtful brown eyes. She had very light hair — hair 
 of the palest flaxen, perfectly straight and smooth, which she 
 wore turned back over a roll, and fastened in one thick mass, at 
 the back of her head. Her eyes, in utter contrast to this light 
 hair, were of the darkest brown, so dark and deep, that the 
 stranger always thought them black. Her features were small 
 and delicate, her lips thin, her figure slender, and below the 
 average height. Her dress, a little quilted petticoat, with a gray 
 stuff gown, and a white apron. 
 
 His pen fell out of his hand, and he looked up at her win- 
 dow, and began to hum the air of a favorite song in the new 
 opera, about thieves and ragamuffins, which had got Mr. Gay 
 and. a beautiful duchess into such disgrace, up in London. 
 
 He was such a conceited beau and lady-killer, that he could not 
 rest till she had looked at the office window by which he sat. 
 
43 S LADIES' BOOK OS" 
 
 The song attracted her, and she lifted her eyes from her work, 
 and looked down at him. 
 
 She started, and blushed — blushed a beautiful rosy red, that 
 lighted up her pale face like the reflection of a fire ; and then, 
 seeing me at my desk, nodded and smiled to me. She and I 
 had been friends for years, and I only waited till I should rise 
 one step higher in the office, to tell her how much I loved 
 her. 
 
 From that day, on some excuse or other, Christopher Weldon 
 was always dangling about the house. He scraped acquaintance 
 with her blind old father. He was a pretty musician, and he 
 would put his flute in his pocket, after office hours, and stroll 
 over to the house, and sit there, in the twilight, playing to the 
 father and daughter for the hour together, while I hid myself 
 in the shadow of the counting-house doorway, and stood watch- 
 ing them. Oh ! how I hated him, as I saw, across the screen 
 of plants, the two fair heads side by side, and the blind old 
 father nodding, and smiling, and applauding the music. How 
 I hated that melodious opera of Mr. Gay's ! How I hated him, 
 as they stood on the step of the hall door, between the tall iron 
 extinguishers under the disused oil lamp, wishing each other 
 good-night ! I thought that I could see the little white hand 
 tremble, as it fluttered an adieu to him, as he strode away 
 through the dusky evening. 
 
 Should I dog his steps, and, when he got to a lonely place 
 upon the narrow quay, dart suddenly upon him, and push him 
 into the water ? — push him in where the barges lay thickly 
 clustered together, and where he must sink, under their keels, 
 down into the black stream ? Heaven knows I have asked my- 
 self this question ! 
 
 For months I watched them. Oh, misery ! what bitter 
 pain, what silent torture, what a long fever of anguish and 
 despair ! 
 
 How could I do him some dire injury, which should redress 
 one atom of this mighty sum of wrong which he had done me ? 
 — fancied wrong, perhaps ; for if he had not won her love, I 
 might never have won it. But I prayed, — I believe I was 
 wicked and mad enough even to pray for some means of doing 
 him as deadly an injury as T thought he had done me. 
 
 He looked up at me one day, in his gay, reckless fashion, 
 and said, suddenly pushing the ledger away from him, with a 
 weary sigh, — 
 
 " Samuel Lowgood, do you know what a tailor's bill is ?" 
 
READINGS A.\D RECITATIO] 430 
 
 I cursed him in my heart for his insolence in asking me 
 the question ; but I looked down at my greasy, white coat- 
 sleeve, and said, — 
 
 w I have worn this for five years, and I bought it second-hand 
 of a dealer on the quay." 
 
 " Happy fellow !" he said, with a laugh ; " if you want to see 
 a tailor's bill, then, look at that." 
 
 He tossed me over a long slip of paper, and I looked at the 
 sum total. 
 
 It seemed to me something so prodigious, that I had to look 
 at it ever so many times before I could believe my eyes. 
 
 " Thirty-seven pounds, thirteen and fourpence halfpenny. I 
 like the fourpence halfpenny," he said ; " it looks honest. 
 Samuel Low T good, my mother's heart would break if she saw 
 that bill. I must pay it in a fortnight from to-day, or it will 
 come to her ears." 
 
 " How much have you got towards paying it ?" I asked. 
 
 My heart beat faster at the thought of his trouble, and my 
 face flushed up crimson; but he was leaning his forehead 
 gloomily upon his hand, and he never looked at me. 
 
 " How much have I got towards it ?" he said, bitterly. 
 " This." And he turned his Avaistcoat pockets inside out, one 
 after the other. "Never mind," he added, in his old, reckless 
 tone, u I may be a rich man before the fortnight's out." 
 
 That evening he was dangling over at the house as usual, and 
 I heard " Cease your Funning," on the flute, and saw the two 
 fair heads across the dark foliage of Lucy Maiden's little flower- 
 garden. 
 
 I was glad of his trouble, I was glad of his trouble ! It was 
 small, indeed, to the sorrow and despair which I wished him ; 
 but it was trouble, and the bright, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy 
 knew what it was to suffer. 
 
 The days passed, and the fortnight was nearly gone, but he 
 said no more about the tailor's bill. So one day as we sat as 
 usual at the desk, I working hard at a difficult row of figures, 
 he chewing the end of his pen, and looking rather moodily 
 across the court-yard, I asked him, — 
 
 " Well, you have got rid of your difficulty?" 
 
 "What difficulty?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 "Your tailor's bill. The thirty-seven, thirteen and fourpence 
 halfpenny ?" 
 
 He looked at me very much as if he would have liked to have 
 knocked me off the office stool ; but he said, presently, " Oh, 
 
4:4:0 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 yes, that's been settled ever so long!" and he began to whistle 
 one of his favorite songs. 
 
 "Ever so long!" His trouble lasted a very little time, I 
 thought. 
 
 But in spite of this he was by no means himself. He sat at 
 his desk with his head buried in his hands ; he was sharp and 
 short in his answers when anybody spoke to him, and we 
 heard a great deal less of the " Beggar's Opera," and " Polly." 
 
 All of a sudden, too, he grew very industrious, and took to 
 writing a great deal ; but he contrived to sit in such a manner 
 that I could never find out what he was writing. 
 
 It was some private matter of his own, I knew. "What could 
 it be? 
 
 Love-letters, perhaps ; letters to her ! 
 
 A fiendish curiosity took possession of me, and I determined 
 to fathom his secret. 
 
 I left the counting-house on some pretence, and, after a short 
 absence, returned so softly that he could not hear me, and, steal- 
 ing behind him, lifted myself upon tiptoe, and looked over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 He was writing over and over again, across and across, upon 
 half a sheet of letter paper, the signature of the firm, " Tyndale 
 and Tyndale." 
 
 What could it mean ? Was it preoccupation ? mere absence 
 of mind? idle trifling with his pen? The fop had a little 
 pocket mirror hanging over his desk. I looked into it, and 
 saw his face. 
 
 I knew then what it meant. My hatred of him gave me such 
 a hideous joy in the thought of what I had discovered, that I 
 laughed aloud. He turned round, and asked me savagely what 
 I was doing? and, as he turned, he crumpled the paper in his 
 hand, inking his pretty white fingers with the wet page. 
 
 " Spy ! sneak ! sycophant !" he said, " what are you crawling 
 about here for ?" 
 
 " I was only trying to startle you, Mister Weldon," I answered. 
 "What are you writing, that you're so frightened of my seeing? 
 Love-letters ?" 
 
 "Mind your own business, and look to your own work, you 
 pitiful spy," he roared out, " and leave me to do mine my own 
 way." 
 
 " I would, if I were you. It seems such a nice way," I 
 answered, meekly. 
 
 Two days after this, at half-past three o'clock in the after- 
 
READINGS AND II K( STATIONS. 441 
 
 noon, Christopher Weldon asked one of the senior clerks for a 
 quarter of an hours leave of absence. He wanted to sec a fel- 
 low round in the High Street, he said, and he couldn't see him 
 after four o'clock. 
 
 I felt my sallow face flame up into a scarlet flush, as my fel- 
 low-clerk made this request. Could it be as I thought? 
 
 He had been four months in the office, and it was the end of 
 November. The end of November, and almost dark at half- 
 past three o'clock. 
 
 They granted his request without the slightest hesitation. 
 He left his desk, took his hat up, and walked slowly to the 
 door : at the door he stopped, turned back to his desk, and 
 throwing his hat down, leaned moodily upon his folded arms. 
 
 " I don't know that I care much about seeing the fellow, 
 now," he said. 
 
 " Why, Chris," cried one of the clerks, " what's the matter 
 with you, man ? Are you in love or in debt, that you are so 
 unlike yourself?" 
 
 " Neither," he said, with a short laugh. 
 
 " What, not in love, Chris? How about the pretty little fair- 
 haired girl over the way ?" 
 
 " How about her ?" he said, savagely. " She's a cold-hearted 
 little coquette." 
 
 I slapped the ledger, on which T was at work, violently on to 
 the desk, and looked up at him. 
 
 "Christopher Weldon!" 
 
 "Your humble servant," he said, mockingly. "There's a 
 face ! Have I been poaching upon your manor, Samuel ?" 
 
 " If you want to see your friend before four o'clock, you'd 
 better be off, Chris," said the clerk. 
 
 He took up his hat once more, twirled it slowly round for a 
 few moments, then put it on his head, and, without saving a 
 word to any one, hurried out of the office and across the court- 
 yard. 
 
 She was standing at her open window opposite, with her 
 forehead leaning against the dingy framework of the panes, and 
 I watched her start and tremble as she saw him. 
 
 " If I'm to take these accounts into the Market-place, I'd 
 better take them now, hadn't I, Sir ?" I asked of the senior 
 clerk. 
 
 " You may as well." 
 
 There was a back way through some narrow courts and squares 
 which led from the dock-side to the High Street, in which the 
 
 19* 
 
442 LADIKS' BOOK OF 
 
 house Tyndale and Tyndale banked with was situated. I was 
 hurrying off this way, when I stopped and changed my mind. 
 
 11 He'll go the back way," I thought ; " I'll cut across the 
 Market-place by the most public road." 
 
 In five minutes I was in the High Street. Opposite the bank 
 there was a little tobacconist's, at which our clerks were ac- 
 customed to buy their pennyworths of snuff. I strolled in, and 
 asked the girl to fill my box. I was quite an old man in most 
 of my ways, and snuff-taking was a confirmed habit with me. 
 
 As she weighed the snuff, I stood looking through the low 
 window at the great doors of the bank opposite. 
 
 One of the doors swung back upon its hinges. An old man, 
 a stranger to me, came out. 
 
 Three minutes more. 
 
 " I am waiting for a friend," I said to the girl at the counter. 
 
 Two minutes more the doors opened again. I was right, 
 and I was not surprised. Christopher Weldon came out of the 
 bank, and walked quickly down the street. 
 
 It was too dark for me to see his face ; but I knew the tall, 
 slender figure and the dashing walk. 
 
 " I am not surprised ; I am only glad," I said. 
 
 During my long service in the house of Tyndale and Tyndale, 
 I had lived so hard as to have been able to save money from 
 my scanty earnings. I had scraped together, from year to year, 
 the sum of forty-eight pounds fifteen shillings. 
 
 " I will save a hundred," I had said, " and then I will ask her 
 to marry me." 
 
 But the only dream of my life was forever broken, and my 
 little hoard w r as useless to me now. 
 
 Useless to purchase love, perhaps, but it might yet bring me 
 revenge. 
 
 I put every farthing I possessed into my pocket the next 
 morning, and the first time I could find an excuse for going out, 
 hurried down to the bank. 
 
 " One of our clerks presented a check here yesterday," I 
 said. 
 
 The man looked up with an expression of surprise. 
 
 " Yes, certainly. There was a check cashed yesterday. 
 Your handsome, fair-haired junior brought it." 
 
 " Will you let me look at it ?" 
 
 " Well, upon my word, it's rather a strange — " 
 
 " Request. Perhaps. On the part of Messrs. Tyndale and 
 Tyndale, I—" 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 443 
 
 "Oh," he said, " if you are commissioned by the firm to — " 
 
 "Never mind/ 1 I said, "whether I am or not. As you think 
 my request a strange one, I'll put it in another way. Will yon 
 be so good as to look at the check yourself. ; " 
 
 " Yes, certainly. Here it is," he added, selecting a paper 
 from a drawer; " a check for forty. Payable to bearer." 
 
 " Look at the signature of the firm." 
 
 " Well, it's right enough, I think. I ought to know the sig- 
 nature pretty well." 
 
 " Look at the « y' in ' Tyndale.' " 
 
 He scrutinized the signature more closely, and lifted his eye- 
 brows with a strange, perplexed expression. 
 
 " It's rather stiff, isn't it f ' I said. " Xot quite old Tyn- 
 dale's flowing calligraphy. Very near it, you know, and a very 
 creditable imitation ; but not quite the real thing ?" 
 
 " It's a forgery !" he said. 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " How did you come to know of it ?" 
 
 " Never mind that," I answered. " Mr. Simmonds, have you 
 any sons ?" 
 
 "Three." 
 
 " One about the age of Christopher "Weldon, perhaps ?" 
 
 " One pretty nearly his age." 
 
 "Then you'll help me to save this young man, won't you?" 
 
 " How is it to be done ?" 
 
 " Cancel the check, and replace the money." 
 
 " My good young man, who's to find the money ?" 
 
 I drew a little canvas bag out of my pocket, and turned out 
 a heap of one-pound notes and spade guineas upon the clerk's 
 desk. 
 
 "Here's the exact sum," I said, " forty pounds, ready money, 
 for the slip of paper Christopher Weldon presented here at ten 
 minutes to four yesterday evening." 
 
 "But who finds this money?" 
 
 " I do. Christopher Weldon and I have been fellow-clerks 
 for four months and upwards. I have seen his mother. I know 
 how much she loves her handsome, fair-haired, only son. I 
 know a girl who loves him, and I don't mind forty pounds out 
 of my savings to keep this matter a secret. Mr. Simmonds, for 
 the sake of your own sons, let me have that slip of paper, and 
 cancel the check." 
 
 The old man caught my hand in his, and shook it heartily. 
 
 "Young Lowgood," he said, "there's not another lad in 
 
444: LADIES' BOOK OP 
 
 Willborough capable of such a geuerous action. If I were not 
 a poor old fellow, with a hard fight of it to get a living, I'd be 
 twenty pounds in this transaction ; but I respect and honor 
 you." 
 
 I burst out laughing as he let go my hand, and gave me the 
 forged check in exchange for the forty pounds I counted out 
 to him. 
 
 " Laugh away, laugh away," said the old man, " you've need 
 to have a light heart, Samuel Lowgood, for you're a noble 
 fellow." 
 
 In the back office there was a great chest which had been 
 disused for some years. The clerks let me have it for my own 
 use, and inside it I had a smaller iron clamped strong box of 
 my own, which I had bought of a broker on the quay. Into 
 this strong box I put the forged check. 
 
 Christopher Weldon' s high spirits entirely deserted him. It 
 was such pleasure to me to watch him slyly as I sat beside him, 
 apparently occupied only by my work, that I was almost tempted 
 to neglect my business. 
 
 No more "Beggar's Opera," no more " Polly," no more flute- 
 playing in the dusk of the evening over at the gloomy old 
 house. 
 
 " That lad Weldon is leaving off his giddy ways, and growing 
 industrious," said the clerks; "he'll get on in the World, de- 
 pend upon it." 
 
 "Let him — let him — let him," I thought, "let him grapple, 
 let him mount the ladder, and when he reaches the highest 
 round — then — then — " 
 
 In the following March there were some changes made in the 
 office. Tyndale and Tyndale had a branch house of business in 
 Thames Street, London, and into this house Christopher Wel- 
 don was drafted, with a salary nearly double that he had re- 
 ceived in Willborough. 
 
 The change came about very suddenly. They wanted some 
 one of gentlemanly appearance and polished manners in the 
 London office, and Weldon, they said, was the very man. 
 
 I hadn't spoken to Lucy Maiden for upwards of two months ; 
 but I thought I w 7 ould go and tell her this piece of news. 
 
 " I shall find out whether she really loves him," I thought. 
 
 She sat at her old place at the window, in the cold, spring 
 twilight, when I followed her father into the house and bade 
 her good-evening. 
 
 She was not paler, for she had always been pale ; nor graver 
 
RKADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 445 
 
 than usual, for she was always grave ; but, in spite of this, I saw- 
 that she had suffered. 
 
 My presence had no more effect upon her than if I had been 
 nothing more sentient than the clumsy, high-backed oak chair, 
 upon which I leaned as I stood talking to her. 
 
 She looked at me when I spoke, answered me sweetly and 
 gently, and then looked down again at her tedious work. 
 
 I knew that I had come, coward as I was, to stab this gener- 
 ous and innocent heart, but I could not resist the fiendish tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 " So our pretty fair-haired boy is going to leave us," I said, 
 by and by. 
 
 She knew whom I meant, and I saw the stiff embroidery 
 shiver in her hand. 
 
 " Christopher?" she faltered. 
 
 kk Young Mr. Weldon," I said. " Yes, the gentleman clerk. 
 lie's going away, never to come back here, I dare say.- He's 
 going into the London house to make his fortune." 
 
 She made no answer, nor did she ask me a single question. 
 She sat, going on with her work, sorting the gay-colored silks, 
 straining out her eyes in the dusky light over the difficult pattern ; 
 but I saw — I saw how deeply I had struck into this poor, pitiful, 
 broken heart, and I knew now how much she had loved him. 
 
 Ten years from that day, I stood in the same room — she 
 working at the same window — and asked her to be my wife. 
 
 " I do not ask," I said, " for the love which you gave to an- 
 other, ten years ago. I do not ask for the beauty which those 
 who speak to me of you, say is faded out of your mournful face. 
 Y'ou will always be to me the most beautiful of women ; and 
 your gentle tolerance will be dearer to me than the most pas- 
 sionate love of another. Lucy Maiden, will you marry me?" 
 
 She started up, letting her work fall out of her lap, and turn- 
 ing her face toward the window, she burst into a tempest of 
 sobs. 
 
 I had never seen her cry before. 
 
 At last she turned to me, with her face all drowned in tears, 
 and said — 
 
 " Samuel Lowgood, ten years ago, day after day, night after 
 night, I w r aited for another to say the words which have just 
 been said by you. I had every right to expect he should say 
 them. He never did — he never did. Forgive me — forgive me 
 — if it seems to break my heart afresh to hear them spoken by 
 another !" 
 
4:4:0 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 " He is a prosperous man, in London," I said ; " Lucy Mai- 
 den, will you be my wife V 
 
 She dried her tears ; and, coming slowly to me, put her little 
 cold hand into mine. 
 
 " Does that mean yes ?" I asked. 
 
 She only bent her head in answer. 
 
 u God bless you ! and good-night." 
 
 A year and a half after our marriage, we heard great news in 
 the old Willborough house. Christopher Weldon had married 
 a uobleman's daughter, and was about to become a partner in 
 the house of Tyndale and Tyndale. 
 
 A night or two after we heard this news, there came a great 
 rattling knock at the grim dragon' s-head knocker of the house 
 door. My wife and I lived in her old apartments, by permis- 
 sion of the firm, for I had advanced to be head clerk in the Will- 
 borough office. 
 
 I was sitting, going over some accounts that I had not been 
 able to finish in the day ; so she looked up at the sound of the 
 knocking, and said, — 
 
 "I'll answer the door, Samuel — you're tired." 
 
 She was a good and gentle wife to me, from the first to the 
 last. 
 
 Presently I started from ray desk, and rushed down the stairs. 
 I had heard a voice that I knew in the hall below. 
 
 My wife was lying on the cold stone flags, and Christopher 
 Weldon bending over her. 
 
 " Poor little thing !" he said. " She has fainted." 
 
 " This decides me — this decides me !" I thought ; " I'll have 
 my forty pounds' w r orth before long." 
 
 Christopher Weldon had come down to the house to aunounce 
 to us, its custodians, that he was about to occupy it, with his 
 wife, the Lady Belinda Weldon. 
 
 He brought a regiment of London upholsterers the next day, 
 and set them to work tearing the gloomy old rooms to pieces. 
 My lady came too, in her gilded chair, and gave orders for a 
 blue room here, and a pink room there ; cream-colored panelling 
 and gilt mouldings in this dnuving-room — pale green and silver 
 in the other ; and a prim housekeeper came, after her ladyship's 
 departure, to inform my wife that we must be prepared to leave 
 the house in a week. In a week the place was transformed ; 
 and at the end of the week, Christopher Weldon was to give a 
 great dinner party, at which Messrs. Tyndale and Tyndale were 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONa 447 
 
 to be present, to inaugurate his entering into partnership with 
 them. As senior clerk, I was honored by an invitation. 
 
 My enemy had mounted to the highest round of the ladder. 
 Rich, beloved, honored, the husband of a lovely and haughty 
 lady, partner in the great and wealthy house which he had en- 
 tered as a junior clerk — what more could fortune bestow upon 
 him ? 
 
 My time had come — the time at which it was worth my while 
 to crush him. 
 
 " I will wait till the dinner is over, and the toasts have been 
 drunk, and all the fine speeches have been made ; and when 
 Tyndale senior has proposed the health of the new partner, in a 
 speech full of eulogy, 1 will hand him the forged check across 
 the dinner-table." 
 
 The night before the dinner party, I was in such a fever of 
 excitement, that I tried in vain to sleep. I heard every hour 
 strike on the little clock in our bedroom. Tyndale and Tyndale 
 had given us a couple of empty offices on our being turned out 
 of the great house, and enough of their old-fashioned furniture 
 to fit them up very comfortably. 
 
 One — two — three — four — five — there I lay, tossing about. 
 The hours seemed endless ; and I sometimes thought the clock 
 in our room, and all the church clocks of Willborough, had 
 stopped simultaneously. 
 
 At last, towards six o'clock, I dropped off into a feverish, 
 troubled sleep, in which I dreamed of the forged check, which 
 I still kept locked in the strong-box inside the great chest in the 
 back office. 
 
 I dreamed that it was lost — that I went to the strong-box, 
 and found the check gone. The horror of the thought woke 
 me suddenly. The broad sunshine was streaming in at the win- 
 dow, and the church clocks were striking nine. 
 
 I had slept much later than usual. My wife had risen, and 
 was seated in our little sitting-room, at her accustomed em- 
 broidery. She was always very quiet and subdued, and gener- 
 ally sat at work nearly all day long. 
 
 My first impulse on waking was to look under my pillow for 
 my watch, and a black ribbon, to which was attached the key 
 of the strong-box. The key of the chest hung on a nail in the 
 office, as nothing of any consequence was kept in that. My 
 watch and the key were perfectly safe. 
 
 My mind was relieved ; but I was in a fever of excitement all 
 day. " I will not take the check out of its hiding-place till the 
 
448 LADIES' BOOK OF 
 
 last moment," I said ; " not till the moment before I put on my 
 hat to go to the dinner party." 
 
 My wife dressed me carefully in a grave snuff-colored suit, 
 which I generally wore on Sundays ; she plaited my ruffles, and 
 arranged my lawn cravat with its lace ends. I looked an old 
 man already, though I was little better than thirty-three years of 
 age ; and Christopher Weldon was handsomer than ever. 
 
 At four o'clock in the afternoon, the court-yard was all astir 
 with sedan chairs and powdered footmen. My wife stood in the 
 window, looking at the company alighting from their chairs at 
 the great door opposite. 
 
 " You had better go, I think, Samuel," she said ; " the Tyn- 
 dales have just arrived. Ah I there is my Lady Belinda at the 
 window. How handsome she is ! How magnificent she is, in 
 powder, and diamonds, and an amber satin sacque !" 
 
 " You've a better right to wear amber satin and diamonds 
 than she," I said. 
 
 " I, Samuel !" 
 
 " Yes. Because you're the wife of an honest man. She is 
 not." 
 
 I thought for love of him she would have fired up and contra- 
 dicted me ; but she only looked away and sighed. 
 
 " You will be late, Samuel," she said. 
 
 " I have something to fetch out of the back office, and then I 
 
 shall be ready," I answered. 
 
 * * \ * ~* * * 
 
 The fiend himself must be in the work. It was gone — gone, 
 every trace of it. At first, in my blind and maddened fury, I 
 blasphemed aloud. Afterwards, I fell on my knees over the 
 open chest, and wept — wept bitter tears of rage and anguish 
 It was gone ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 I had a brain fever after this, which confined me for nine 
 weeks to my bed. 
 
 Christopher Weldon lived and died a prosperous and success- 
 ful merchant — honored, courted, admired, and beloved. 
 
 My wife and I, childless and poor, used to sit at our windows 
 in the dusk, and watch his children at play in the courtyard be- 
 neath us, and hear the innocent voices echoing through the great 
 house opposite. 
 
 Thirteen years and five months after our wedding-day, Lucy 
 died in my arms: her last words to me were these : — 
 
 " Samuel, I have done my best to do my duty, but life for me 
 
READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 449 
 
 has never been very happy. Once only since onr marriage have 
 I deceived yon. I saved you, by that action, from doing a great 
 wrong to a man who had never knowingly wronged you. One 
 night, Samuel, you talked in your sleep, and I learned from your 
 disjointed sentences the story of Christopher Weldon's crime. 
 I learned, too, your purpose in possessing yourself of the only 
 evidence of the forgery. I learned the place in which you kept 
 that evidence ; and, while you slept, I took the key from under 
 your pillow, and opened the strong-box. The check is here." 
 
 She took it from a little black silk bag which hung by a rib- 
 bdn round her neck, and put it into my hand. " Samuel, hus- 
 band, we have read the gospel together every Sunday evening 
 through thirteen years. Will you use it now?" 
 
 " No, Lucy, no — angel — darling — no. You have saved him 
 
 from disgrace — me from sin." 
 
 ****** 
 
 Every clerk in the house of Tyndale and Tyndale attended 
 my wife's funeral. Not only were the clerks present, but pale, 
 mournful, and handsome, in his long black mourning cloak, 
 Christopher Weldon stood amidst the circle round the grave. 
 
 As we. left the churchyard he came up to me, and shook 
 hands. 
 
 " Let us be better friends for the future, Samuel," he said. 
 
 " My wife, when she died, bade me give you this," I answer- 
 ed, as I put the forged check into his hand. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 for the use of Common Schools. By John S. Hart, LL. D., 
 Principal of the Philadelphia High School, and Professor of 
 Moral, Mental, and Political Science in the same. 
 
 Hart's English Grammar. English Gram- 
 mar, or An Exposition of the Principles and Usages of the 
 English Language. By John S. Hart, A. M., Principal of 
 the Philadelphia High School, and Member of the American 
 Philosophical Society. .... 
 
 Hart's Class Book of Poetry. Class Book 
 
 of Poetry, consisting of Selections from Distinguished 
 English and American Poets, from Chaucer to the present 
 day. The whole arranged in chronological order, with Bio- 
 graphical and Critical Remarks. By John S. Hart, LL. D., 
 Principal of the Philadelphia High School. . 
 
 Hart's Class Book of Prose. Class Book 
 
 of Prose, consisting of Selections from Distinguished English 
 and American Authors, from Chaucer to the present day. 
 The whole arranged in Chronological order, with Bio- 
 graphical and Critical Remarks. By John S. Hart, LL. D., 
 Principal of the Philadelphia High School. . 
 
 Coleman's Historical Geography of the 
 
 Bible. An Historical Geography of the Bible. By Rev 
 Lyman Coleman. Illustrated by maps, from the latest and 
 most authentic sources, of various countries mentioned in the 
 Scriptures. New edition, with additions. 
 
 Published by E. H. BTJTLEB ft CO., Philadelphia. 
 
CATALOGUE OP STANDARD BOOKS. 
 
 Angell's Reader, No. 1. The Child's First 
 
 Book: containing Easy Lessons in Spelling and Reading. 
 Being the first of a series, complete in six numbers. By 
 Oliver Angell, A.M., Principal of the Franklin High 
 School, Providence. New Edition. 
 
 Angell's Reader, No. 2. The Child's Second 
 
 Book: containing Easy Lessons in Spelling and Reading. 
 Being the second of a series, complete in six numbers. By 
 Oliver Angell, A. M., Principal of the Franklin High 
 School, Providence. New Edition. 
 
 Angell's Header, No. 3. The Child's Third 
 
 Book: containing Easy Lessons in Spelling and Reading. 
 Being the third of a series, complete in six numbers. By 
 Oliver Angell, A.M., Principal of the Franklin High 
 School, Providence. New Edition. 
 
 Angell's Reader, No. 4. The Child's Fourth 
 
 Book: containing Easy Lessons in Spelling and Reading. 
 Being the fourth of a series, complete in six numbers. By 
 Oliver Angell, A.M., Principal of the Franklin High 
 School, Providence. New Edition. 
 
 Angell's Reader, No. 5. Angell's Fifth 
 
 Reader: containing Lessons in Reading and Spelling. Being 
 the fifth of a series, complete in six numbers. By Oliveb 
 Angell, A.M., Principal of the Franklin High School, 
 Providence. New Edition. . 
 
 Published by E. H. BUTLER & CO., Philadelphia. 
 
CATALOGUE OP STANDARD BOOKS. 9 
 
 Ajngell's Reader, No. 6. The Select Reader : 
 
 designed for the higher classes in Academics and Schools. 
 Being the sixth and last of the series. By Ohveb 
 Angell, A. M., Principal of the Franklin High School, 
 Providence. New Edition 
 
 Kendall's TTranography. Uranography; or 
 
 a Description of the Heavens, designed for the use of Schools 
 and Academies ; accompanied by an Atlas of the Heavens, 
 ehowing the Places of the Principal Stars, Clusters, and 
 Nebulae. By E. Otis Kendall, Professor of Mathematics 
 and Astronomy in the University of Pennsylvania, and Mem- 
 ber of the American Philosophical Society. The Uranogra- 
 phy contains 365 pages, 12mo., with 9 fine engravings. The 
 Atlas is in 4to., and contains 18 large maps. 
 
 Fleming and Tibbins' Pronouncing French 
 
 and English, and English and French Dictionary, abridged. 
 A New and Complete French and English, and English and 
 French Dictionary, on the basis of the Royal Dictionary, 
 English and French, and French and English. By Professor 
 Fleming, formerly Professor of English in the College Louis 
 le Grand, and Professor Tibbins, Professor, and author of 
 several lexicographical works. With Complete Tables of the 
 Verbs, on an entirely new plan, to which the verbs through- 
 out the work are referred. By P. W. Gengembre, Professor 
 of Foreign Languages in the Girard College. The whole 
 prepared by J. Dobson, Member of the American Philoso- 
 phical Society, of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Phila- 
 delphia, etc., etc. 
 
 Published by E. H. BUTLER & CO., Philadelphia. 
 
10 CATALOGUE OP STANDARD BOOKS. 
 
 Fleming and Tibbins' French and English, 
 
 and English and French Dictionary. 8vo. fine sheep. A 
 New and Complete French and English, and English and 
 French Dictionary, on the basis of the Royal Dictionary, 
 English and French, and French and English. By Professor 
 Fleming, formerly Professor of English in the College of 
 Louis le Grand, and Professor Tibbins, author of several 
 lexicographical works. With Complete Tables of the Verbs, 
 on an entirely new plan, to which the verbs throughout the 
 work are referred. By P. W. Gengembre, Professor of 
 Foreign Languages in Girard College. The whole prepared, 
 with the addition, in their respective places, of a very great 
 number of Terms in the Natural Sciences, Chemistry, Medi- 
 cine, etc., etc., which are not to be found in any other French 
 and English Dictionary, by J. Dobson, Member of the Ame- 
 rican Philosophical Society, of the Academy of Natural 
 Sciences, etc., etc. New edition, revised and corrected. 
 1 vol. 8vo 
 
 Nugent's French and English Dictionary. 
 
 A New Pocket Dictionary of the French and English Languages, 
 in two parts : 1. French and English ; 2. English and French. 
 Containing all the words in general use, and authorized by 
 the best writers. By Thomas Nugent, LL. D. 
 
 Torney's Syllabaire Frangais, or French 
 
 Spelling Book. Revised, corrected, and improved, with the ad- 
 dition of the most necessary verbs, adjectives, and idiomatical 
 phrases alphabetically arranged. By J. Meier, late Professor 
 of French and German in Yale University. . 
 
 Published by E. H. BUTLER & CO., Philadelphia. 
 
TATALOGUE OF STANDARD BOOKS. 11 
 
 Geograplrie Elementaire a l'Usage des 
 
 Ecoles et des Families. Illustre'e par 15 cartes et 30 Grav- 
 ures. Par Peter Parley 
 
 Histoire des Etats TJnis d'Amerique, avec 
 
 Notices des autres parties du Nouveau Monde. Par Samuel 
 G. Goodrich 
 
 Petite Histoire Universelle a I'Usage des 
 
 Ecoles et des Families. Par S. G. Goodrich. 
 
 Philosophie Proverbiale. Par Martin F. 
 
 Tupper, Pocteur en Droit, et Membre de la Socie'te* Royale. 
 Traduite en Francais d'apres la Dixieme Edition, par 
 George Metivier. Revu et corrige" par F. A. Bregy, Pro- 
 fesseur de Fran9ais a la Haute Ecole Centrale de Phila- 
 delphia 
 
 Donnegan's Greek and English Lexicon. 
 
 A New Greek and English Lexicon, on the plan of the Greek 
 and German Lexicon of Schneider ; the words alphabetically 
 arranged — distinguishing such as are poetical, of dialectic 
 variety, or peculiar to certain writers and classes of writers ; 
 with Examples, literally translated, selected from the classical 
 writers. By James Donnegan, M. D., of London. Revised 
 and enlarged by Robert B. Patton, Professor of Ancient 
 Languages in the College of New Jersey ; with the assistance 
 of J. Addison Alexander, D. D., of the Theological Seminary 
 at Princeton. 1 vol. 8vo. 1400 pp. 
 
 Published by E. H. BUTLER & CO., Philadelphia. 
 
12 CATALOGUE OF STANDARD BOOKS. 
 
 Becker's Book-Keeping. A Treatise on 
 
 the Theory and Practice of Book-keeping by Double Entry. 
 Designed to elucidate the Principles of the Science, and 
 impart a knowledge of the forms observed by Practical 
 Accountants, in the various departments of business. Bj 
 George J. Becker, Professor of Drawing, Writing, and 
 Book-keeping in the Girard College. 
 
 Becker 7 s Book-Keeping. Blanks. Second 
 
 Series 
 
 Third Series. 
 
 Fourth Series 
 
 Becker's System of Book-Keeping. A 
 
 Complete and Practical System of Double Entry Book-keep- 
 ing, containing three sets of Books, illustrative of the forms, 
 arrangements, and uses of all the principal and auxiliary 
 books employed in the various kinds of mercantile, mecha- 
 nical, and professional pursuits, designed as a Key to Becker's 
 Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Book-keeping, and as 
 a Guide for Teachers and Accountants ; to which is added a 
 complete set of Practical Business Forms, including the most 
 important in use by Forwarding and Commission Houses, a 
 number of miscellaneous forms adapted to various kinds of 
 business, Abbreviated Journal Forms, Executors' and Admi- 
 nistrators' Accounts, &c. By George J. Becker. 
 
 Booth's Phonographic Instructor. Being 
 
 an Introduction to the Compounding Style of Phonography. 
 By James C. Booth. A new edition. . 
 
 Published by E H. BT7TLEB & CO., Philadelphia. 
 
CATALOGUE OF STANDARD BOOKS. 13 
 
 Green's Gradations in Algebra. Grada- 
 tions in Algebra, in which the first Principles of Analysis are 
 inductively explained, illustrated by copious exercises, and 
 made suitable for Primary Schools. By Richard W 
 Green, A.M., author of "Arithmetical Guide," "Little 
 Reckoner," etc. .... 
 
 The Scholar's Companion. Containing 
 
 Exercises in Orthography, Derivation, and Classification of 
 English Words. Revised Edition, with an Introduction and 
 Copious Index. By Rdfcs W. Bailey. 
 
 Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary. A Cri- 
 tical Pronouncing Dictionary and Expositor of the English 
 Language. To which is annexed a Key to the Classical Pro- 
 nunciation of Greek, Latin, and Scripture Proper Names, &c. 
 By John Walker 
 
 Mann & Chase's Primary Arithmetic, Part 
 
 1. The Primary School Arithmetic ; designed for Beginners 
 Containing copious Mental Exercises, ^gcther with a large 
 number of Examples for the Slate. By Horace Mann, LL.D., 
 and Pliny E.. Chase, A.M., authors of "Arithmetic Practi- 
 cally Applied." . ... 
 
 Mann & Chase's Arithmetic, Part 2. The 
 
 Grammar School Arithmetic ; containing much valuable 
 Commercial Information, together with a system of Integral, 
 Decimal, and Practical Arithmetic, so arranged as to dispense 
 with many of the ordinary rules. By Horace Mann and Pliny 
 E. Chase, authors of " Primary Arithmetic." 
 
 Published by E H. BUTLER & CO., Philadelphia. 
 
14 CATALOGUE OF STANDARD BOOKS. 
 
 Mann & Chases Arithmetic, Part 3. 
 
 Arithmetic Practically Applied, for Advanced Pupils, and for 
 Private Reference, designed as a Sequel to any of the ordi- 
 nary Text-Books on the subject. By Horace Mann, LL.D., 
 the First Secretary of the Massachusetts Board of Education, 
 and Pliny E Chase, A.M 
 
 Historia Sacra, Epitome Historic Sacras; 
 
 with a Dictionary containing all the Words found in the 
 Work 
 
 Viri Komae. Viri Illustres Urbis Komse ; 
 
 to which is added a Dictionary of all the Words which occur 
 in the Book. ... . . 
 
 Coates's School Physiology. First Lines 
 
 of Physiology ; being an Introduction to the Science of Life, 
 written in popular language, designed for the use of Common 
 Schools, Academies, and General Readers. By Reynell 
 Coates, M.D., author of " First Lines of Natural Philosophy." 
 Sixth edition, revised, with an Appendix. 
 
 Parke's Arithmetic. Parke's Farmers' and 
 
 Mechanics' Practical Arithmetic. Revised and improved 
 edition. By Uriah Parke. . . . Price $0.34 
 
 Parke's Key to Parke's Farmers', Mer- 
 chants', and Mechanics' Practical Arithmetic. 
 
 Published by E. H. BT7TLEB & CO., Philadelphia. 
 
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