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 ■^M " «r '.««?' 
 
ROWN JEWELS 
 
 OR 
 
 Mi (xKMS OF IJinRATlRli 
 
 m 
 
 ART AND MUSIC 
 
 I'fv^^iX (/I'loNS or 
 
 BEING 
 
 '•'vf>M INI' WRITIXCS WD .MIMCAL 
 INI. Mnsi (I'.LKBkATi:!) Al liloKS, 
 
 I I'l: i: \Ki.ii;s'r riMi:s: 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 AND RURAL LIFE; LVRICS OF HEROISM. ADVEVPLR^AND p\tR oC ' 
 
 .TEWEI S OF SEXT1.MENT ; CHOICE SELEC . iOXS FRcm REeLi^T ' 
 
 LITERATURE. SORROW AND ADVERSITY. CHILDHOOD 
 
 AND YOUTH; DESCRIPTIONS OF PERSONS PLACES 
 
 AND HISTORIC EVENTS; MASTERPIECES OF 
 
 DRAMATIC LITERATURE; POETICAL 
 
 ROMANCE; WIT, HUMOR, ETC. 
 
 INCLUDING A BIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTHORS. 
 
 THE WHOLE FORMING 
 COMPILED I)Y 
 
 HENRY DAVENPORT NORTHROP. D. D.. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "MARVELOUS WONDERS OR Tuc- uru/^i t. .. 
 
 VVONPERb OF THE WHOLE WORLD." "EARTH. SEA AND SKY." Etc., Etc. 
 
 :iMHiiLi.isHHn \uT!i xniHRois <u^smii-n.m. HNCKAVINGs. 
 
 MCDERMID & LOGAN, 
 r/)NDON, ONTARIO. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1 887, by 
 
 J. R. JONES, 
 
 In the OflSce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888, by 
 
 J. K. JONES, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washii-^ton, I). C. 
 
 ■ '"^ o'!*;' 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 "Crown Jewels" has been pronounced the mostcaptivatintj title ever given to 
 any book, and this title is in keeping with the Jewels of Thought, Feeling and Sen- 
 timent, which sparkle on every page. This very attractive and valuable work em- 
 braces all that is of the greatest interest in Poetry, Prose, Art and Song. It covers 
 the whole field of literature in all languages from the earliest times. 
 
 Those Gems which have fascinated the world with their beauty are here gath- 
 ered into one magnificent cluster. The most brilliant Authors of every age, in 
 every department of literature, shine resplendent in one marvelous galaxy. The 
 book is a popular educator, a vast treasury of the noblest thoughts and sentiments, 
 and its Jewels should sparkle in every home throughout the land. 
 
 As Crown Jewels is pre-eminently a home book, it is appropriate that its first 
 department should be entided the Home Circle. Here, gathered into one rich 
 and beautiful bouquet, are fascinating descriptions of the pleasures of home life. 
 "The Cotter's Saturday Night," by Robert Burns; Daniel Webster's description 
 of the "Old Log Cabin;" the song of the "Merry Christmas Time," by Sir Wal- 
 ter Scott, and the "Old Familiar Faces," by Charles Lamb, are but specimens of 
 the captivating productions which embellish this part of the book. 
 
 The next department is Narratives and Ballads. There are songs that have 
 touched the hearts of whole nations. Every phase of human life has been pictured 
 in words and rhythms that entrance the reader. This part of the work may be 
 described as stories told in verse — such as "The Village Blacksmith," by Long- 
 fellow; "Bingen on the Rhine," by Mrs. Norton; and the "Sands of Dee," by 
 Charles Kingsley. The narrative portion of the work contains everything of 
 special interest stored in ancient or modern literature. 
 
 Under the title of Love and Friendship is a vast collection of heart-poems. 
 It is impossible, for want of space, to mention even the names of these beautiful 
 gems. Here are the finest things written by Moore, Byron, Goldsmith, Shake- 
 speare, Wordsworth, Ingelow, Tennyson, and a host of others. The great love 
 passion — its joys, its pathos, its hopes, its disappointments, its all-controlling power 
 — throbs in every line. 
 
 We come next to the Beauties of Nature — which is the native field of poetry. 
 The reader, looking with the eyes of the poet, is spell-bound amidst the beauties 
 of creation. He beholds landscapes of marvelous loveliness ; and gazes up at the 
 midnight heavens "where blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the 
 angels." With Thomson he beholds the magnificent panorama of the seasons ; With 
 
I 3I 
 
 Lowell he breathes the sweet air of leafy June, when "heaven tries the earth if it be 
 in tune." Birds and fountains sing to him, and the universe is clothed with new life. 
 
 The next part, entitled Heroism and Adventure, is remarkably spirited and 
 attractive. Narratives in both prose and poetry, excite to the highest pitch the 
 reader's admiration for the heroic and give this part of Crown Jewels an absorbing 
 interest. "The Heart of the Bruce," "The Draw-Bridge Keeper," "The Fate of Vir- 
 ginia," by Lord Macaulay, "Jim Bludso," and many other heroic adventures, make 
 the most daring creations of romance seem tame and powerless in comparison. 
 
 Sea Pictures comprise the most vivid descriptions of the sea ever gathered 
 into one volume. The jolly tar who braves the dangers of the great deep, the 
 treasures of coral and pearl hidden beneath the waves, the light-house that guides 
 the weary mariner, the awful grandeur of the ocean — these and many other themes, 
 treated by the most brilliant authors, render Sea Pictures peculiarly fascinating. 
 
 Under the title of Patriotism and Freedom the patriotic songs and epics 
 which have aroused nations and helped to gain victories are collected. 
 
 P^ollowlng these stirring appeals to the patriotic emotions is an unrivaled col- 
 lection sf the world's best thoughts, classified under Sentiment and Reflection. 
 Here are the famous "Elegy" of Gray; Longfellow's "Psalm of Life"; "Evening 
 Bells," by Moore ; "The Last Leaf," by Holmes; the song of the "Irish Famine;" 
 the "Wants of Man," by John Quincy Adams; Poe's mystic "Raven," etc., etc. 
 
 Ballads of Labor and Reform present a fine collection of songs and poems 
 peculiarly appropriate to the times. Here labor is dignified, and its magnificent 
 achievements celebrated. Hood's "Song of the Shirt," and Charles Mackay's 
 "Good Time Coming," are specimens of the numerous beautiful and touching 
 productions. 
 
 The next part of Crown Jewels treats of Rural Life. Here are exquisite pic- 
 tures of life in the country, such as the "Harvest Song," by Eliza Cook; "The 
 Farmer's Wife," by Paul Hayne; "The Horseback Ride," by Grace Greenwood; 
 "On the Banks of the Tennessee," by W. D, Gallagher;" the reader follows the 
 "Ploughman," and "Mowers;" he rambles away with the "Angler" and "Bare- 
 foot Boy," and returns to enjoy the hospitality of the " Jusy Housewife." 
 
 A number of exquisite productions are classified under the title of Sorrow 
 and Adversity. Here Dickens describes the "Last Hours of Little Paul Dom- 
 bey;" Charles Lewis tells " Bijah's Story;" Mrs. Stowe contributes a beautiful 
 selection entlded " Only a Year ; " Tom Hood with his " Bridge of Sighs " makes 
 the breast heave and the lip quiver. 
 
 The next department comprises Persons and Places. The great authors, ex- 
 plorers, heroes, statesmen, orators, patriots, and painters of ancient and modern 
 times are immortalized. Classic Athens ; sacred Jerusalem ; the golden Orient ; 
 sunny Italy; Thebes, with her hundred gates ; Naples, whose every adjacent cliff 
 "flings on the clear wave some image of delight;" the Isle?, of Greece, "where 
 burning Sappho loved and sung ; " Russia's village scenes and Scotland's High- 
 lan4,s and old abbeys, are all commemorated in a manner tjiat entrances the reader. 
 
be 
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 ind 
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 ing 
 ^ir- 
 ake 
 
 :rcd 
 
 the 
 
 lides 
 
 mes, 
 
 y, 
 
 epics 
 
 d col- 
 ction. 
 ening 
 -line;" 
 
 Then follow selection:i '"elating to Religious Life. In this department alone 
 are nearly one hundred gems, each with its own peculiar beauty and attraction, 
 by Pope, Cowper, Mrs. Sigourney, the Cary sisters, Newman, Ella Wheeler, and 
 scores of others. The songs which have been sung clear round the globe, which 
 have cheered the desponding, and brought peace to the troubled, are here set in 
 attractive array. 
 
 Under the title of Childhood and Youth is an admirable collection of pieces 
 interesting to young persons. Children and young people will read something, 
 and only the best reading matter should be placed in their hands. 
 
 In Dramatic Selections are the masterpieces of the world's great dramatists. 
 The sublime creations of Shakespeare, Coleridge, Knowles, Addison, Joanna Bai- 
 lie, and others, and the sparkling effusions of Sheridan, Jerrold, and their compeers, 
 are here presented for the instruction and delight of every reader. 
 
 Poetical Curiosities and Humorous Readings make up an extensive collection 
 of quaint, curious and witty productions which are greatly relished by all readers. 
 Irish wit, Scotch wit, German wit, Yankeewit, and every other kind of Avit are given 
 a place, and the great humorists, who have made the world healthier and better liy 
 making it laugh, here indulge in their favorite pastime. 
 
 By no possible arrangement could a greater variety of thoughts and topics be 
 presented, while the Gems, both those that are new and those that are old favorites, 
 are the finest, and most captivating in the literature of all ages. 
 
 In addition to the myriad of attractive features already named, the work is a 
 Treasury of the Choicest Music. A great variety of songs and popular pieces by 
 authors whose fame fills the earth, affords a source of entertainment for the home. 
 These have been selected with great care, and charm all lovers of music. The aim 
 has been to Insert only the finest melodies, the sweetest songs that musical genius 
 has produced. 
 
 This valuable work Is elegantly embellished with a Galaxy of the most 
 Beautiful Steel Plate Engravings, by artists of world-wide renown. The most 
 entrancing scenes are reproduced In these charming pages, forming a magnificent 
 picture gallery. Ckown Jewels is a work of Art, and each of its many superb 
 illustrations is a beauty and a delight. 
 
 The book contains a Biographical Dictionary, giving in concise form those 
 facts concerning the most renowned authors which the reading public desire to 
 know. This is a very valuble feature of the book. 
 
: 
 
 Publisher's Announcement. 
 
 'HIS magnificent work, which comprises many books in one volume, is a 
 vast treasury of the Choicest Gems of English Literature, in prose and 
 poetry. It contains those resplendent jewels of thought, feeling and 
 sentiment which fascinate, instruct and entertain the reader. 
 
 The following arc only a few of the many reasons why Crown Jewels is 
 more complete than any other work : 
 
 First. The elegant appearance of the work recommends it. It is indeed 
 a beautiful book. 
 
 Second. The selections possess the very highest merit, and are the best in 
 every department of literature. They are admirably suited to every home and 
 to every class of readers. 
 
 Third. No work so comprehensive and with such great variety of selections 
 M^as ever before published. It contains more than looo gems from 500 of the 
 world's most famous authors. 
 
 Fourth. The great masterpieces and favorite productions, which all persons 
 desire to possess, are gathered into this superb volume. 
 
 Fifth. It contains the latest and most fascinating pieces of the popular 
 writers of the day. 
 
 Sixth. The arrangement is admirable. There are eighteen departments, 
 thus affording a whole library of the choicest literature in one volume. 
 
 Seventh. There is something charming, instructive and entertaining for 
 old and young alike. 
 
 Eighth. The book is a treasury of the most captivating music, containing 
 a large collection of the finest melodies and sweetest songs. 
 
 Ninth. The work is furnished with a Biographical Dictionary of the authors. 
 
 Tenth. It is embellished with a galaxy of magnificent Steel-Plate Engravings, 
 which are alone worth the whole cost of the book. It is a superb work of art. 
 
 Eleventh. The Prospectus is very attractive, and shows at a glance the 
 great superiority of this book over other similar works that are illustrated with 
 cheap wood-cuts. 
 
 Twelfth. The price for such a rare volume is very low, and brings it 
 within the reach of ail. 
 
 :i 
 
POETICRL CONTENTS. 
 
 THE HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 PaKC 
 
 Love of Home James Montgomct_ • 17 
 
 Sweet Home John llo-xard Payne 17 
 
 Heaven on Earth Thomas Hood 17 
 
 IfThou Wertby My Side, My Love 
 
 Reginald Heber 17 
 
 Associations of Home Walter Conder 18 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night Robert Burns iS 
 
 The Happiest Spot Oliver Goldsmith 19 
 
 Friendliness of a Fire Mary Hoxuitt 19 
 
 Love Lightens Labor 20 
 
 Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers Allen 20 
 
 Nobody's Child Phila A. Case 20 
 
 Kisses Elizabeth Akers Allen 21 
 
 The Old House Louise Chandler Maul ton 21 
 
 The Dearest Spot of Earth is Home 
 
 \V. T. Wrighton 21 
 
 Which Shall It Be 22 
 
 Learning to Pray Mary E. Dodge 22 
 
 The House in the Meadow 
 
 Louise Chandler Moulton 23 
 
 Conduct at Home Hannah More 23 
 
 My Old Kentucky llom&... Stephen Collins I^oster 24 
 
 The Worn Wedding Ring... William Cox Bennett 24 
 
 Filial Love Lord Byron 24 
 
 John Anderson, My Jo Robert Burns 25 
 
 O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, lJc;\r... Gerald Massey 25 
 
 The Absent Ones Charles M. Dickinson 25 
 
 A Picture Charles Gamage Eastman 26 
 
 The Poet's Song to His Wife 
 
 Bryan Waller J'rocter ( Barry Cornzvall) 26 
 
 Ode to Solitude Alexander Pope 25 
 
 My Wife's a Winsome, Wee Thing. . . Robert Burns 26 
 
 The Reconciliation Alfred Tennyson 26 
 
 I Knew by the SnioVe That So GnicefuUy Curled 
 
 Thomas Moore 27 
 
 Adam to Eve John Milton 27 
 
 A Wish Samuel Rogers 27 
 
 The Happy Man James Thompson 28 
 
 My Mother's Picture William Cowper 28 
 
 Christmas Time ....Sir Walter Scott 28 
 
 The Old Hearthstone Sarah J. Hale 29 
 
 The Old Folks at "^om^.... Stephen Collins Foster 29 
 
 Homeward Bound Nathaniel P. Willis 29 
 
 I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 30 
 
 The Patter of Little Feet 30 
 
 The Fireside Nathaniel Cotton 30 
 
 The Happy Marriage Edtvard Moore 31 
 
 Be Kind 31 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb 31 
 
 Page. 
 
 .,2 
 
 33 
 
 The Wife Elizabeth Oake^ Smith 
 
 Ht)Usehold Treasures Thomas Greet 
 
 A Home in the Heart Eliza Cook 11 
 
 Farmer Gray's Photograph 32 
 
 The Graves of a Housthuld 
 
 Eelii:ia Dorothea Hcmaxs 
 
 The OM Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 
 
 The Stream of Life 34 
 
 Wife, Children, and Friends 
 
 Ullliam Robert Spencer 34 
 
 Home Voices 34 
 
 My Little Wife 35 
 
 Good Rye, Old House Millie C. Pomeroy 35 
 
 A Mother's LJluence 'irthur Henry Hallam 35 
 
 The Wife to Her Husband 36 
 
 Thanksgiving Day Thomas Berry Smith 36 
 
 The Three Di.-aresi Words. . . . .• Afary J. Muckle 3S 
 
 NARRATIVES AND BALLADS 
 
 Vision of nel.iliizzar Lord Byron 37 
 
 The Village Bhcksniith 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfelloiu 37 
 
 Young Locliinvar Sir Waller Scott 38 
 
 The Light of Other Days.. Thomas 3foore 38 
 
 Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns 39 
 
 The Nantucket Skipper James Thomas Fields 39 
 
 On the Funeral of Charles I . . William Lisle Bowles 59 
 The Painter Who Pleased Nobody and Every- 
 body John Gay i\o 
 
 Little Neil's Funeral Charles Dickens 40 
 
 Comin' Through the Kye 41 
 
 The Vagabonds .John T. Trowbridge 41 
 
 Over the Hill to the Poor house. Will Jf. Carleton 42 
 
 Song Thomas Hood 42 
 
 In the Summer Twiliglit 
 
 Harriet fresi oil Spofford 43 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter.. Thomas Campbell 44 
 
 The Field of Waterloo Lord Byron 41 
 
 The Pebble and the Acorn Hannah F. Gould 45 
 
 The Shepherd Boy Letitia E. Landon 45 
 
 MaudMuller .John G. Whittier 46 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine... Ca/o/jw^ Elizabeth Norton 47 
 
 The Sands of Dee Charles Kingsiey 48 
 
 A Name in the Sand Hannah F. Gould 48 
 
 Over the Hills from the Poor-house 
 
 May Mignonette 48 
 
 Mona's Waters 49 
 
 The Wreck of the Hesperus 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellotv 50 
 
 After Blenheim Robert Southey 51 
 
6 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Itnogene 
 
 Matthew Gregory l.enis 52 
 
 Old Grimes Albert G. Greene 53 
 
 The Sleeping Sentinel. ../^>'a«c/.^ De Hccs Janvier 5? 
 
 The Pied Piper of Hainelin Robert Browning 55 
 
 How They Brought the Good News From Ghent 
 
 to Ai.x Robert Brozunin% 55 
 
 Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 
 
 Rose Hartiuick Thorpe s8 
 
 The Miser Who Lost His Tre.isure 59 
 
 Tlie Death of Napoleon Isaac McLellan 59 
 
 Faithlesss Nelly Gray Thomas Hood 60 
 
 The Miser's Will George Birdseye 60 
 
 The Tale of a Tramp 61 
 
 Little Goldjnlliiir Will M. Carleton 61 
 
 The Wonderful "One Ho.ss Shay " 62 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 62 
 
 The Drummer Hoy's Burial 63 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Tliou'rt All tin; World to Me Gerald Massey 
 
 Tiie Queen William Cox Bennett 
 
 The Vale of Avoca Thomas Moore 
 
 Annabel Lee Edgar Allen Poe 
 
 To Mary in Heave'; Robert Burns 
 
 The Sailor's Farewell Edgar Thompson 
 
 Apostrophe to Love Robert Pollok 
 
 The Sailor's Return Edxcard Thompson 
 
 Yes or No Elizabeth Barrett Bowning 
 
 The Heart's Devotion Edward Btihuer Lytton 
 
 Nut Ours the Vows Bernard Barton 
 
 Had I a Heait for Falsehood Framed 
 
 Richard Brinsley Sheridan 
 The Minstrel's Song in Ella... Thomas Chatterton 
 
 The Hare-Bell... Charles Swain 
 
 Forsaken Robert Browning 
 
 The Lover's Departure .S7;' Walter Scott 
 
 The Smack in ScIiocjI W. P. Palmer 
 
 Fly to the Desert, Fly wiih .Me Thomas Moore 
 
 The Quiver Philip James Bailey 
 
 Othello's Defence William Shakespeare 
 
 Friendship Robert Blair 
 
 Euph rosy no Matthew Arnold 
 
 They Sin Who Tell Us Love Can Die 
 
 Robert Southey 
 
 To His Wife Thomas Haynes Bayley 
 
 Lament of the Irish Emigrant 
 
 Helen Selina Sheridan 
 
 The Fickleness of Phyllis William Shenstone 
 
 Love's Young Dream Thomas Moore 
 
 Maid of Athens Lord Byron 
 
 First Love's Recollections John Clare 
 
 Love and Friendship William Leggctt 
 
 The Heavenly Flame 
 
 Henry JFadsworlh Longfellow 
 
 Bill Mason's Bride P. Bret Harte 
 
 Bedouin Song Bayard Taylor 
 
 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer Thomas Moore 
 
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 65 
 65 
 65 
 66 
 66 
 67 
 67 
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 Page. 
 
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 .So 
 
 82 
 82 
 S3 
 
 Gentlest Girl Dean Alford 
 
 The Parting Kiss Robert Dodsley 
 
 No Heart Without its Mate Maria Brooks 
 
 On an Old Wedding-Ring 
 
 George Washington Poane 
 
 Edwin and Angelina Oliver Goldsmith 
 
 All for Love Lord Byron 
 
 Love Will Find out the Way 78 
 
 We Have Been Friends Together 
 
 Caroline Elizabeth Norton 
 
 Snlly in Our Alley Henry Carev 
 
 Amynta Sir Gilbert Elliott 
 
 Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English 
 
 Lucy William Wordsworth 
 
 Pearly Tears Richard Henry Stoddard 
 
 The Time of Roses Thomas Hood 
 
 Love's Pliilosophy Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 
 No Jewelled Beauty Is My Love - 'io 
 
 The Low-Backed Car Samuel Lover 81 
 
 If I Had Known 81 
 
 When Sparrows Build .Jean Ingelow 81 
 
 Severed Friendship Samuel Taylor Coleridge 82 
 
 Rory O'More Samuel Lover 
 
 The Pledge of Love 
 
 A Milkmaid's Song Sydney Dobell 
 
 Fetching Water from the Well S3 
 
 Kitty of Colerame 84 
 
 Sweet Meeting of Desires Coventry Patmore 84 
 
 The Lover's Coming .Jean Ingelow 84 
 
 Summer Days 84 
 
 Meeting Robert Browning 85 
 
 Forget Thee? John Moultrie 85 
 
 Genevieve Samuel Taylor Coleridge 86 
 
 The Courtin' James Russell Jewell 87 
 
 Constancy Allan Ramsay 87 
 
 Gone Before Phabe Gary 88 
 
 Happy Matches Isaac Watts SS 
 
 The Dead Friend Alfred Tennyson 
 
 A Benediction .John Grcenlief Wliitticr 
 
 To a friend Ralph W.ildo Emerson 
 
 Parted Friends James Montgomery 
 
 Anne HatliawMv go 
 
 The Widow's Wooer Emma C. Embury 90 
 
 On the Death of a Friend Fitz Greene Halleck 
 
 The Memory of tlie Heart Daniel Webster 
 
 Robin Adair Lady CaroHne A'eppcl 
 
 The Maid's Remonstrance Thomas Campbell 
 
 No Time Like the Old Time 92 
 
 The Maiden Sat at Her Busy Wheel 
 
 Emma C. Embury 
 
 Afton Water Robert Burns 
 
 The Wakeful Heart Dennar Stewart 
 
 Minnie Adair Lyman Goodman 
 
 Smile and Never Heed Me Charles Swain 
 
 The Lass of Richmond Hill .James Upton 
 
 United Lives Thomas Bailey Aldrich 
 
 Oh, Tell Me notof Lofty Fate... /Tw/w/a C. Embury 
 Somebody 94 
 
 89 
 89 
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 90 
 
 91 
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 92 
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 93 
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C0N1ENT3. 
 
 Page. 
 
 94 
 94 
 94 
 95 
 95 
 95 
 
 ary 
 'ails 
 'son 
 
 itticr 
 ■son 
 
 may 
 
 Though Lost to Sight to Memory Dear 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 Evening Sunfr Sidney Lanier 
 
 A Maiden's Ideal of allu.baiiJ Henry Carey 
 
 New Loveliness Edivard I'olloek 
 
 Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson 
 
 To a Sister Edward EverclC 
 
 The King's Motto 95 
 
 To Althea from Prison A"/, hard Lovelace 
 
 The Day i ; Fixed Henry Davenporl 
 
 The Shepherd's Lament William Ilaviilton 
 
 Lady Harbara Alexander Smith 
 
 Atalanta's Race William Morris 
 
 Place Your Hand in Mine, Wife 
 
 Erederiek Langbridgc 
 
 The Little Milliner Robert Buchanan 
 
 The Kxchaiigo Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 The Miller's Daughter Alfred Tennyson 
 
 A Love Knot A^ora Perry 
 
 A Spinster's Stint Alice Cary 
 
 O, Do Not Wanton vvidi Those Eycs..Ben /cwson 
 
 A Nymph's Reply Sir Halter Raleigh 
 
 Blest as the Immortal Gods Ambrose Phillips 
 
 The Whistle Robert Story 
 
 A Maiden with a Milking-Pail Jean Jngclow 
 
 The Eve (if St. Agnes .John A'eats 
 
 Farewell to His Wife Lord Pyron 
 
 Black-Eyed Susan John Gay 
 
 The Bloom was on the Alder, and the Tassel on 
 
 the Corn Don Piatt 
 
 Lament Sir Waller Srott 
 
 We parted in Silence .Julia Cratc/ord 
 
 Love and Time .Denis Elorencc MacCarthy 
 
 Hero to Leander Alfred Tenny.son 
 
 Farewell I but Whenever 'Thomas Moore 
 
 BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 The Greenwood William Lisle Potties 
 
 Thanatopsis llilliain Cullen Bryant 
 
 Ode ontheSpring Thomas Cray 
 
 The Late Spring Louise Chandler Moulton 
 
 God's First Temples William Cullen Pryant 113 
 
 In June Kora Perry 114 
 
 May Eve. Or Kate of Aberdeen 
 
 Jolin Cunningham 1 14 
 
 March William Cullen Bryant 114 
 
 They Come ! The Merry Summer Months 
 
 William Mothcrtvcll 115 
 
 April Henry Wadszcort/i Longfelloiu 115 
 
 The Vernal Season Inna L. Parbaiild 116 
 
 The Water I The Water !... William Motherwell 1 16 
 
 May James G. Pereival 116 
 
 The Summer Henry Wadsicorth Longfellow 117 
 
 The Midnight Wind William Mother-well 117 
 
 Wild Flowers Robert Nieoll 117 
 
 To the Dandelion .James Russell Lowell 117 
 
 The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 118 
 
 To a Daisy .James Montgomety 118 
 
 S,6 
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 99 
 99 
 
 lOI 
 
 loi 
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 1-3 
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 no 
 I II 
 III 
 
 I [2 
 I 12 
 
 113 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Changing World Charles of Orleans 
 
 On a Sprig of Hi'Uth Aiarian Grant 
 
 Willow Song Eelicia Dorothea Ilemans 
 
 The Wandering Wiud../'t//V/'ij Dorothea Ileii'.'.'.ns 
 
 The Rose. Isaac Watts 
 
 Chorus of Flowers Leigh Hunt 
 
 May Day .John Wolcot 
 
 To the Bramble Flower Ebenezer Elliott 
 
 A Day in June .James Russell I^onell 
 
 The Primeval Forest 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 To an Eaily I'rimrise Henry Kirke White 
 
 The Lily Mary Tighe 
 
 The Brave Old Oak. ..//tv/o' Euthergill ChorUy 
 
 The Cloud Percy P,ysshe Shelley 
 
 Come to These Scenes of Peace 
 
 William Liile Bowles 
 
 Songof the Summer Winds George Parley 
 
 Datlodils ...William H'ordszi'orth 
 
 Hymn to tho Flowers Horace Smith 
 
 American .S'r;ies William Cullen Bryant 
 
 Flower.")— The Genu of Nature. Thomas Campbell 
 Recollections of English Scenery.. C//i7;/i;.''/6'6"w;7A 
 The Grape- Vine Swing.. Ullliam Gilmorc Simms 
 
 My Heart Leaps Up William Wordsworth 
 
 The Close of Spring Charlolie Smith 
 
 Tlie Wood-Nymph 125 
 
 Nature's Chain Alexander Pope i2f, 
 
 The Little Beach Bird Richard Henry Dana 
 
 Tlie S wal lo w Charlotte SmiNi 
 
 Robert of Lincoln William Cullen Bryant 
 
 May to April Philip Erenaii 
 
 Songof Wood-Nymplis 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 
 
 Answer to a Child's Ou.';ti)n 
 
 Samuel laylor Ci>leridge 
 
 The Bobdlink Thomas Hill 
 
 The Katydid Oliz-er Wendell Holi::.:s 
 
 The Departure of the Nightingale 
 
 Charlotte Smith 
 
 Address to the Butterfly Samuel Rogers 
 
 The Rfdbicast John Bampfylde 
 
 The Skylatk James Hogg 
 
 The Cuckuo William Wordsworth 
 
 Night Birds Alonzo Lewis 
 
 The Mockiii,.j, Ihrd Calling Her Mate 
 
 Halt H hitman 
 
 The Stormy Petrel 129 
 
 The Thrush's Ne.st .John Clare \2.) 
 
 To a Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant 129 
 
 The Barn Owl Samuel Butler 129 
 
 The Squirrel Jlllliam Cowper 129 
 
 To the Cuckoo .John Logan 130 
 
 The Belfry Pigeon A'athaniel Parker II 'illis 1 30 
 
 The Eagle .James G. Pereival 130 
 
 The Lion's Ride Eerdinand Eydligrath 1 3 1 
 
 Lambs at Play Robert Bloomfeld 131 
 
 A Song in the Grove .James Thompson 132 
 
 ii.s 
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 119 
 119 
 119 
 119 
 
 l?o 
 1 2'i 
 120 
 
 120 
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 131 
 
 IJl 
 122 
 
 12: 
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 124 
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 12'S 
 
 12'j 
 
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 I?7 
 
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 128 
 
CONTExNTS. 
 
 1 ; 
 
 I i 
 
 I I 
 
 Page. 
 
 Summer Longings Denis Florence MacCarthy 13a 
 
 On a Goldfinch William Cowpcr 132 
 
 Tlie Robin Harrison Weir 132 
 
 The Blood Horse 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 133 
 
 September Rain Thomas ]\!c Keller 133 
 
 No Thomas Hood 133 
 
 Autumn Thomas Hood 134 
 
 Woods in Winter. Henry Wudsivorth Longfellow 134 
 
 September George Arnold 134 
 
 Winter Friedrich W. Krummachcr 134 
 
 The Little Beach IJird Richard Henry Dana 135 
 
 The Death of die Flowers.. William Cidlen Bryant 135 
 
 November Hartley Coleridge 135 
 
 What the Winds Bring 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stcdman 135 
 The Snowdrop 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornzuall) 136 
 
 TheSnow Storm Ralph 1! 'aldo Emerson 1 36 
 
 It Snows Sarah Josepha Hale 136 
 
 The Crickets Harriet McEzven Rimball 137 
 
 Snow-Flakes Henry Wadszcorth Longfcllozv 137 
 
 The Sleigh Ride Edmund Clarence Stedman 138 
 
 Christmas in the Wo;)ds ....Harrison Weir 138 
 
 Morning .John Cunningham 138 
 
 ACalmEve George Croly 138 
 
 Celestial Light .John Milton 139 
 
 The Two April Mornii-:gs...//;7//(7;« Wordszaorth 139 
 
 Day is Dying 
 
 Jfarian Evans Lezvcs Cross { George Eliot) 139 
 
 Advancing Morn .John Bainpfylde \.\o 
 
 A Winter Landscape .James Thompson 140 
 
 A Hymn to the Seasons .James Thompson 140 
 
 The Advent of Evening -ilfred B. Street 141 
 
 Moonrise Ernest Jc^tes 141 
 
 Dover Cliff. Ullliam .Shakespeare 141 
 
 A Lowering Eve George Croly 142 
 
 The Tempestuous Evening .John Scott 142 
 
 The Moon Was A-Waning .James Hogg 142 
 
 Night Edzvard Young 142 
 
 To a Star Lucretia Maria Davidson 143 
 
 The Night Flowering Ccreus 143 
 
 On Re crossing the Rocky Mountains 
 
 John C. Fremont 143 
 
 The Evening Star .John Leyden 144 
 
 The Scenes of Boyhood .John Logan 144 
 
 The Shepherd-Swain .James Beattie 144 
 
 Alpine Heights Fricderich W. lu-ummacher 145 
 
 Tea Comet .James Hogg 145 
 
 The Pumpkin .John Grccnleaf Whittier 145 
 
 ToScneca Lake .James Gates Percival 146 
 
 The Cataract of Lodore ...Robert Southey 146 
 
 The Rhine Lord Byron 147 
 
 Song of the River Charles Kingsley 147 
 
 Tweedside William Crawford 148 
 
 Niagara Lydia H Sigourney 148 
 
 The Fountain .James Russell Lowell 148 
 
 The Fall of Niagara .John G. C. Brainard 149 
 
 Page- 
 Invocation to Rain in Summer 
 
 William Cox- Bennett 149 
 
 The Brook-Side Lord Houghton 149 
 
 Ode to Leven Water T. George Smollett 149 
 
 The Rainbow William Wordszvorth 150 
 
 Song of the Brook Alfred Tennyson 130 
 
 Little Streams Mary Hozvitt 150 
 
 The Cataract and the Streamlet... /7tV7M;-a' Barton 151 
 
 Showers in Spring .James Thompson 151 
 
 The Angler's Song Isaac McLellan i^\ 
 
 Hymn of Nature William D. Peabody 15^ 
 
 Signs of Rain Edward Jenner 153 
 
 Before the Rain Thomas Bailey Aldrich 153 
 
 After the Rain Thomas Bailey Aldrich 1,53 
 
 The Angler's Wish I::aak Walton i;i3 
 
 Apostrojihe to the Ocean Lord Byron i;;3 
 
 Sunset at Norham Castle Sir Waller Scott 154 
 
 The Iceberg ./. O. Rockzvell 154 
 
 Mount Washington ; The Loftiest Peak of the 
 
 White Mountains Grenvi'le Mellcn 15^; 
 
 Palestine Thomas Moore 155 
 
 The Northern L\g]ns..Benjamin Franklin Taylor 155 
 
 The Supernatural .James Thompson 155 
 
 Hymn on Solitude .James Thompson 156 
 
 To a Wild Deer .John Wilson 156 
 
 The Sierras .Joaquin Miller 156 
 
 The Sea-Breeze and the Scarf. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wiho.v 157 
 
 Under the Leaves Albert Leighlon 15? 
 
 To the Skylark Percy Bysshe .Shelley 157 
 
 When the Hounds of Spring 
 
 Algernon Charles Szoinbur/ie 158 
 
 Remonstrance with the Snails 159 
 
 Almoml Blossoms Edzcin Arnold 159 
 
 The Grasshopper and Cricket .John Ideals i6o 
 
 The Planting of the Apple Tree 
 
 William Cullen Bryant 160 
 
 The Maize William W. Fosdick 160 
 
 Winter Pictures .James Russell Lozucll 161 
 
 The Midnight Ocean .John Wilson 162 
 
 Spring in the South Henry Nivirod (63 
 
 Three Summer Studies .James Warren Hope 163 
 
 A Snow Storm Charles Gamage Eastman 163 
 
 View from the Euganean Hills, North Italy 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley 164 
 
 The Winged Worshippers Charles Sprague 166 
 
 O Winter ! Wilt Thou Never Go 1. ...David Gray 166 
 
 The Heath Cock .Joanna Baillie 166 
 
 Moonlight on the Prairie 
 
 Henry Wadszvorth Longfellozii 167 
 
 God Everywhere in Nature Carlos Mlcox 167 
 
 HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 Lost in the Snow 168 
 
 John Maynard Horatio Alger, Jr. 168 
 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 169 
 
 Ullliam Cowpcr 169 
 
 Fall of Tecumseh i7» 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 9 
 
 ■lie 158 • 
 159 
 
 nold 159 
 lis 160 
 
 lit 160 
 h-l: 160 
 
 Page, 
 
 The Engineer's Story 172 
 
 TheMain Truck: or, A Leap fur Life 
 
 C- C. Collon 173 
 
 The Fate of Virginia Lord Macaulay 173 
 
 Jolinny Bartholomew 
 
 Thomas Dunn English 175 
 
 The French Army Retreating from Moscow 
 
 George Croly 175 
 
 Jim Bludso .John Hay 176 
 
 Death of Gaudentis 177 
 
 Tlie Battle of Ivry Lord Macau/ay 177 
 
 The Draw-Bricl<;e Keeper Ilciiry Abbey 178 
 
 On Board tlie Cumberland, ^L'^rch 7, 1S62 
 
 George H. Bokcr 179 
 
 The Great Discovery f'rederie Schiller 181 
 
 Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read 181 
 
 Norval .John Home 182 
 
 The Ride of Paul Venarez 182 
 
 The Relief of Lucknow Robert T. S. Lowell 183 
 
 By the Alma River 
 
 Dinah Maria Miilock Craik 1S4 
 
 The Trooper's Death R. W.Raymond 184 
 
 Balaklava Alexander Beaujort Meek 1S5 
 
 Cavalry Song Edmund Clarence Stcdman 1S5 
 
 The Nobleman and the Pensioner 
 
 Charles T. Brooke 186 
 
 My Wife and Child Henry R. Jackson 1S6 
 
 Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman 1S7 
 
 The Heart of the Bruce 
 
 ll'iliiam Edmundstone Aytoun 187 
 
 Hudibras' Sword and Dagger Samuel Butler 189 
 
 Flodden Field Sir Walter Scott 190 
 
 Naseby Lord Macaulay 192 
 
 Bannockbuin Robert Burns 193 
 
 Cattle of the RaUic Thomas Campbell 194 
 
 A Court Lady 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Broivning 194 
 
 Battle of Wyoming and Death of Gertrude 
 
 Thomas Campbell 195 
 
 Cadyow Castle Sir Walter Scott 197 
 
 James Fitz-Janies and Ellen Sir Walter Scott 199 
 
 The Sea Cave Lord Byron 201 
 
 Bristowe Tragedy ; or, the Death of Sir Charles 
 
 B;iwdin Thomas Chatterton 201 
 
 The Forging of the Anchor 
 
 Samuel Ferguson 205 
 
 The Battle of Alexandria 
 
 James Montgomery 206 
 
 The Ballad of Agincourt Michael Drayton 207 
 
 Ye Mariners of England Thomas Campbell 208 
 
 The Uureturning Brave Lord Byron 208 
 
 A'fred the Harjjer .John Sterling 209 
 
 The Wild Huntsman Sir Walter Scott 210 
 
 The Old Sergeant 
 
 Forceythe ]Villson 212 
 
 Wreck of the "Grace of Sutherland" 
 
 Jean Ingclow 214 
 
 George Nidiver 215 
 
 SEA PICTURES. 
 
 How's My Boy? Sydney Dobcll 
 
 All's Well Tliomas Ditnlin 
 
 The Sea-Bird's Song .John G. C. Brain.ird 
 
 The Mariner's Dream William Dim nd 
 
 The Treasures of t! e Deep 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans 
 
 To Certain Golden Fishes Hartley Coleridge 
 
 Our Boat to the Waves 
 
 William Ellery Channing 
 
 The Sea 
 
 Bryan Haller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 
 
 The Light-House Thomas Moore 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 
 
 Allan Cunningham 
 
 The Minute Gun R. S. Sharpe 
 
 Twilight at Ssa India B. Wclby 
 
 Ocean Robert Pollok 
 
 The Tempest .James Thomas Fields 
 
 The Bay of Biscay Andrew Cherry 
 
 The Sea-Limits Dante Gabriel Rosetti 
 
 On the Beach miliam Whitehead 
 
 By the Sea William Wordsworth 
 
 On the Lossof " The Royal George" 
 
 WJliam Cowper 
 
 The Shipwreck WJliani Falconer 
 
 The Sailor's Consolation William Pitt 
 
 The Disappointed Lover 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne 
 
 The Long Voyage Sim Slick, Jr. 
 
 Dover Beach M.itthezv Arnold 
 
 Address to the Ocean 
 
 Bryan H'aller Procter (Barry Cornwall 1 
 
 The Sea-Shore William Jl'ordsw }''th 
 
 The Coral Grove .James Gates f'crcival 
 
 The Inchcape Rock Robert Sr.dhey 
 
 ToSea! Tlio'ms Louell Beddoes 
 
 Song of the Emij;rants in Bermud i 
 
 Andrew M.irvell 
 
 Stanzas on th; Sei Bernard Barton 
 
 Saa-Weed Corneliits George Fenner 
 
 The Tar for Ail Weathers Charles Dibdin 
 
 The "Atlantic" ...Benjamin F. Taylor 
 
 The Shipwrecked Sailors James Montgomery 
 
 The Beacon Light .Julia Pardoe 
 
 At Sea John Townscnl Trowbridge 
 
 Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 S.imiiel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 Poor Jack Charles Dibdin 
 
 Napoleon and the British Sailor 
 
 Thomas Campbell 
 
 Sunrise at Sea Epes Sargent 
 
 The Storm George Alexander Stevens 
 
 The Sea in Calm and Storm George Crabbe 
 
 A Life on the Ocean Wave ,....Epes Sargent 
 
 Night at Sea ...Letitia Elisabeth London 
 
 Hilda, Spinning 239 
 
 Page. 
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 21S 
 219 
 
 219 
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 219 
 219 
 220 
 
 220 
 22a 
 222 
 223 
 
 222 
 
 2-'3 
 223 
 
 223 
 224 
 224 
 
 224 
 225 
 2^5 
 2 -'5 
 
 226 
 
 226 
 22S 
 22S 
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 227 
 228 
 228 
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 229 
 235 
 
 235 
 
 236 
 236 
 237 
 237 
 
 233 
 
lu 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 rage. 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus 
 
 Oliver Wendell llolmrs lyt) 
 
 The Dying Sailor George Crabhe 240 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 
 
 TIic American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake 241 
 
 Thu Star-Spanglcd Banner Francis S. Key 241 
 
 Frecduni Irrepressible 
 
 Sarah Jane Lippincoll (Grace Greenwood) 241 
 
 Independence Dull, July 4, 1776 242 
 
 Love of Coiulry Sir Walter Scott 243 
 
 Hail, Columbia Joseph Ilopkinson 243 
 
 General Warren's Address John Pierpont 244 
 
 The People's Song of Pea::e Joaquin Miller 244 
 
 On Laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill 
 
 Monument John Pierpont 244 
 
 Tiie Woods of Tennessee 244 
 
 Barbara Frietchie John Greenleaf Whitlier 245 
 
 The Marseillaise Roiigct de Lisle 245 
 
 An Incident of the French Camp 
 
 Robert Browning; 246 
 
 Rule Britannia James Thomson 246 
 
 The Blue and the Gray /'". 31. Finch 247 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Ilemans 24S 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Repu'jlic...y/<//j Ward Howe 249 
 
 The Drummer Boy 249 
 
 Scotland John Ley den 250 
 
 Arnold Winkelried James Montgomery 250 
 
 Die Wacht Am Rhein (The Watch on the Rhine) 250 
 
 The Patriot's Bride Sir CharlcsGavan Dujfy 251 
 
 The Pil>;riins Lydia Huntley Sigourncy 251 
 
 The Picket Guard Ethelin Elioi Beers 252 
 
 The Bivouac of the Dead Theodore O'Hara 252 
 
 SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 The Cre jle Lover's Song 254 
 
 Elegy Wtitten in a Country Church-Yard 
 
 Thomas Gray 
 
 Expectation Gerald Jl/assey 
 
 A Psalm of Life... Henry Wadszvorth Long/ellozu 
 Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore 
 
 254 
 255 
 256 
 256 
 
 The Magical Isle 256 
 
 True Nobility Alfred Tennyson 256 
 
 A Thing'of Beauty is a Joy FoKver.. John Reals 257 
 
 The Emigrant's Farewell Thomas Pringle 257 
 
 A Butterfly on a Ch'ld's Grave 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney 257 
 
 Theology in the Quarters J. A. Macon 257 
 
 The Widow and Child Alfred Tennyson 258 
 
 Oh 1 Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud ? 
 
 William Knox 258 
 
 Memory James Abram Garfield 258 
 
 The Wtight of a Word 259 
 
 Oriental Mysticism Leonard Woods 259 
 
 The Seasons of Life..! Thomas John Ouseley 260 
 
 The Village School-Master Oliver Goldsmith 261 
 
 The Inquiry Charles MaeKay 261 
 
 Patre. 
 
 From Childhood to Old Age 261 
 
 Observations of Rev. Gabe Tucker.../. A. Macon 362 
 
 The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes 262 
 
 Tiie Pauper's Death Betl .Caroline Anne Soulhey 262 
 
 If I Should Dit To-uii;lil 263 
 
 Better Tilings George McDonald 263 
 
 Woman's Will John Godfrey Sa.ve 263 
 
 An Angel in the Mou.ie Leigh Hunt 263 
 
 Wo dinan, Spare Th. it Tree 
 
 George Perkins Morris 264 
 
 The Long .\go Bayard F. Taylor 264 
 
 Roll Call V. G. Shepherd 265 
 
 Tlie Lark and Her Little Ones with the Owner 
 
 of a I'ield 265 
 
 The Orphan Boy Charles Swain 265 
 
 Will the New Year Come To-Night, Mamma?.... 
 
 Cora M. Eager 267 
 
 The Last Time That I Met Lady Ruth 
 
 Robert Duliccr Lytton {Oivcn I\Ieredith) 267 
 
 The Snow-l-'lako Hannah Flagg Gould 268 
 
 The Minstrel Girl John Greenleaf Whitlier 268 
 
 A Song of liie Mole 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris ( Uncle Remus) 2O8 
 
 Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother 
 
 Amelia Blanford Edwards 268 
 
 My Min 1 to Me a Kingdom Is William Byrd 2^9 
 
 The Blind Man William JJsle Bowles 271 
 
 Somebody's Darling Marie R. Lacoste 271 
 
 Tell Me, Ye Winged Winds Charles Muckay 271 
 
 The Collier's Dying Child 272 
 
 Wind and Rain Richard Henry Stoddard 272 
 
 Tlie Funeral Will M. Carleton 272 
 
 Nine Graves in Edinboro' Irwin Russell 273 
 
 When I Beneath the Cold Red Earth am Sleep- 
 ing William Motherwell 274 
 
 Alexander's Feast ; or, The Power of Music 
 
 John Dryden 274 
 
 Art and Nature William Shakespeare 275 
 
 Dcedaius ..John Sterling 276 
 
 Dickens in Camp Bret Harte 276 
 
 James Melville's Child Anna Stuart Menteath 276 
 
 Looking into the Future Thomas Campbell 277 
 
 On ly W^aiting Francis Laughton Alacc 277 
 
 The Wants of Man .John Quincy Adams 278 
 
 The Raven Edgar Allen Poc 279 
 
 'I'here's No DearUi of \\M\i\\\\:'s,s...GeraldMassey 2S1 
 
 Wliat I Live For (;. Linnccus Banks 281 
 
 Look Aloft .Jonathan Laivrence 282 
 
 The Death of Ab-ialom Nathaniel Parker Willis 283 
 
 Claude Melnotte's Apology and Defense 
 
 Lord Lytton 284 
 
 The Shaded Water William Gilmore Simms 284 
 
 The Portrait 
 
 Robert Bulwer Lytton (Owen Meredith) 286 
 
 A Mother's Wail Henry Timrod 287 
 
 A Common Thought Henry Timrod 288 
 
 Good-By, Proud \\ox\A...Ralph Waldo Emerson 288 
 
 The Deserted Village Oliver Goldsmith 288 
 
CONTKNrS. 
 
 n 
 
 Page. 
 
 Little Ned Robert Buchanan 289 
 
 The Dance of 1 )eatli 'I'/uoilurc M.irtin 290 
 
 Somebody's Mother 290 
 
 VVedduig Bells ClMrlolk M. Uiigdhs 290 
 
 The Weaver ^^^ 
 
 Tlie Present Coiidilion of Man Vindicated 
 
 .Ucxatidcr Pope 292 
 
 Tiie Hriclge Henry Wadsxvorth Lojv^fcllozu 293 
 
 The Polish lioy Inn S. HLphcns 293 
 
 LABOR AND REFORM. 
 
 Work Mary A\ I'rescott 295 
 
 The Three Fishers Charles Kiiiffs/ey 295 
 
 Tlie Sonji of the Shirt Thomas Hood 295 
 
 Wlial Might Be Done Charles Mackay 29) 
 
 Labor Frances Sargenl Osgood 296 
 
 The I'"actoiy Girl's Last Day 297 
 
 The Coral Insect Lydiu Huntley Sii^ourney 297 
 
 Ring Out, Wild Bells Alfred Tennyson 298 
 
 The Good Time Comins Charles Mackay 298 
 
 Endurance Elizabeth Akers Allen 299 
 
 Learn to Sweep //. .S'. Brooks 299 
 
 Rhymes for Hard Times Sorntan Mcl.eod 299 
 
 The Miner John Szvijt 300 
 
 A Lancashire Doxoiogy 
 
 Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 300 
 
 The Drunkard's Daughter 300 
 
 The Song of Steam George JK Cutter 301 
 
 301 
 
 301 
 
 302 
 302 
 
 302 
 
 303 
 3,»i 
 
 Duty 
 
 True Rest John Sullivan Dwight 
 
 Good Night Charles T. Brooks 
 
 Labor Song Denis I'lorcnce McCarthy 
 
 Ode to the Harvest Moon Henry Kirke White 
 
 Song of the Peasant Wife .• 
 
 Caroline Elizabeth Norton 
 
 A Sliepherd's Life Robert Bloontfield 
 
 Your Mission 304 
 
 Knocked About Daniel Connoly 304 
 
 Tubal Cain Charles Mackay 304 
 
 RURAL LIFE. 
 
 The Ploughman Oliver Wendell Holmes 306 
 
 The Mowers Myron B. Benton 306 
 
 The Songs of Oui I'^itlu rs 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Jlemans 307 
 
 The Useful Plough 30S 
 
 A Pasloial .John Byroin 308 
 
 The Old Mill Thomas Dunn /'nglish 309 
 
 Angling James Thomson 309 
 
 Milking Time Philip Morse 309 
 
 The Angler Thomas Buchanan Read 310 
 
 Millionaire and Barefoot Boy G. T.Lanigan 3]o 
 
 Tlie vShepherd-Boy Letilia E. Landon 310 
 
 The Busy Housewife 311 
 
 Ruth Thomas Hood 311 
 
 Rural Sounds William Cozvper 311 
 
 Health — The Handmaid of Hapjiincss 312 
 
 P.1K!?. 
 
 River Song F. />'. Sanbornc 312 
 
 Happy the Man Whose Wish and C;ire 
 
 yllexander Pope 31 j 
 
 Come to the Suns^'t 'I'roe 
 
 /''cHcia Dor<)thea llrmms 312 
 
 When tlio Cows Come Home Mtry E Xealey 31,; 
 
 (Cornfields Mary Howitt i\i, 
 
 Driving Home the Cows Kate P. Osgood 314 
 
 Town andC')nnlry William Coraper ,^14 
 
 My Heart's in the Higlil.mds Robert Burns 314 
 
 Hunting So. ig Paul Whitehead 314 
 
 The Cave.... .. .James M.upherson 314 
 
 1 larvest.Song Eliza Cook 315 
 
 The Farmer's Wife Paul Hamilton Hayne 315 
 
 River and Wood William B.irnes 316 
 
 Farm-Yard ':riowg.....john Toicnscud Tro:vbridge 316 
 
 The Hursuback Ride 
 
 Sarah Jane I.ippincolt {Grace Greenwood) 317 
 
 The House on the Hill Eugene J. Hall 317 
 
 On the Banks of the Tennessee 
 
 William D. Gallagher 318 
 
 The Happiness of Animals William Con'per 319 
 
 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 Go Where Glory Waits Thee Thomas Moore 320 
 
 Bijah's Story Charles Jf. Leivis 320 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs Thomas Hood 321 
 
 The Se.xton Park Benjamin 322 
 
 Good-Bye 322 
 
 Farewells... 322 
 
 On the Bridge oi S'v^Xx'A... Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 323 
 
 Parting Thomas Kibble Hervey 323 
 
 The Little Match-Girl. ../.'iz/w Christian .Indersen 323 
 
 Thou Art Gone to the Grave 
 
 Bishop Reginald Heber 324 
 
 The Lot of Thotisands Mrs. Hunter 325 
 
 The Little Grave 325 
 
 The Widowed Mother .John Wilson 325 
 
 The Maiden's Grave 326 
 
 Shipwrecked Htpes Hiram Rich 326 
 
 Man Was Made to Mourn Robert Burns 326 
 
 The Closing Scene Thomas Buchanan Read 327 
 
 The Death of the Old Year Alfred Tennyson 328 
 
 Only the Clothes She Wore .V G. Shepherd 32S 
 
 Very Dark 329 
 
 Tire Blessings of Adversity Samuel Daniel 329 
 
 Victory from Defeat 329 
 
 The Gambler's Wife Dr. Coates 330 
 
 A Thought 330 
 
 Only a Ye.ir Harriet Beecher Stowe 330 
 
 Break, Break, Break Alfred Tennyson 331 
 
 Moan, Moan, Ye Dying Gales Henry Neele 331 
 
 Retrospection Alfred Tennyson 331 
 
 Perished Mary Louise Ritter 331 
 
 The Female Co\\\'\cl.... Letilia Elizabeth Landon 331 
 
 The Dreamer 332 
 
 Losses Frances Brown 333 
 
12 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Paije. 
 
 The Pauper's Drive Thomas Noel 333 
 
 On the Frontier ./ Ed^ar Jones 333 
 
 Prince's Feather Mary E. Bradley 334 
 
 PERSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 To Thomas Moore Lord Bryon 337 
 
 Tiie Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe 337 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier George Henry Hokcr 337 
 
 George Washington .James Russel Lo-urll 338 
 
 Sir John Franklin George Henry lioker 339 
 
 Uenjamin Franklin William D. Tuppan 341 
 
 A Tribute to Samuel Adams 
 
 Robert Treat Paine 341 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 Francis F. Brown 341 
 
 Washington Allston 
 
 Henry Theodore Titckcrman 342 
 
 William Etlery Channing...y<jwcj Russell Lowell 342 
 
 Honor to Kane Fitz-James O'Brien 342 
 
 Gourde Lion at the IJier of Mis Fatlier 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans 344 
 
 Farragut Charles Dek'ay 345 
 
 Robert Burns Ebenezer Elliott 346 
 
 Napoleon I^ord Byron 346 
 
 Henjoiison Lucius Gary (L^ord /•'alkland) 346 
 
 Dante Thomas II 'illiam Parsons 346 
 
 John Milton .John Dryden 346 
 
 To Sliakespeare Charles Spragtie 346 
 
 Wasliii.gton Irving 347 
 
 To tlie Memory of Mv IJeloved Mastt-r, William 
 Shakespeare, and What He Halh Left Us... 
 
 Ben Jonson 347 
 
 Epitaph on Shakespeare John Milton 348 
 
 Marius Lydia Maria Child 348 
 
 Leatiier Stocking , ...John G. C. Brainard 349 
 
 The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 
 
 Llenry Wads:corth Longfellow 349 
 
 A Panegyric to Oliver Cromwell 
 
 Edmund Waller 349 
 
 Wolsey's Advice to Cromwell.. 
 
 William Shakespeare 350 
 
 Lord Macaulay Walter Savage l^andor 350 
 
 Joseph Mazzini 
 
 LMura C. Redden {Howard Glyulon) 350 
 
 Daniel Boone Lord Byron 351 
 
 A Welcome to "Boz" W. LL Venablc 351 
 
 To Victor Hugo Alfred Tennyson 352 
 
 The Burial of Moses Cecil LVances Alexander 353 
 
 To the Memory of Thomas Hood 
 
 Bartholometv Simmons 353 
 
 The Land of the West George L\ Morris 354 
 
 Monody on Samuel Patch Robert C. Sands ^54 
 
 The Orient Lord Byron 355 
 
 Liberty to Athens .James Gates Per cival 355 
 
 Jerusalem Before the Siege of Titus 
 
 Henry Hart Milman 355 
 
 Sunny Italy Edward C, Pinkney 356 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Mountains of Switzerland. /?oj'r Terry Cooke 356 
 
 Palestine John Greenleaf llliittier 356 
 
 Greece .James G. Brooks 357 
 
 N;iplcs Samifel Rogers 357 
 
 Melrose Abbey SVV Walter Scott 358 
 
 Thebes William Whitehead 358 
 
 The Isles of Greece Lord Byron 359 
 
 RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 Hymn of the Ti\xnkexs...John Greenleaf Uliittier 361 
 
 Intimations of Inmiortality.. William Wordsworth 361 
 
 True Faith B. P. Shillaher 363 
 
 The Model Church .John H. Yates 36^ 
 
 S'lall We Know Each Other There? 364 
 
 He Doeth His Alms to Be Seen of Men 364 
 
 The Weary Soul 365 
 
 The Messiah Alexander Pope 365 
 
 I Will Fear No Evil Horatius Bonar 366 
 
 'Twill Not Be Long 366 
 
 Lord, Help Me 367 
 
 " Peace I Leave With You " I\Lrs. 11 a ring 367 
 
 As Thou Wilt Herbert Schmolk 367 
 
 Over tlie River Nancy Woodbury Priest 368 
 
 Tile Father's Love I\Iary. Queen of Hungary 368 
 
 The Martyr's Hymn Martin Luther 369 
 
 Rnrk of Ages Ediuard LL Riee 369 
 
 Softly Woo Away Her Breath 
 
 Bryan Waller L'rocter (Barry Corniuall) 369 
 
 Resignation Henry Wads'worth Longfellow 370 
 
 Christ's Presence in the Hounc 
 
 James Freeman Clarke 370 
 
 Tiiere Is No Death Lord L.ytton 370 
 
 The Sabbath M -rniiig .John L.cyden 371 
 
 The Drowning Singer I\Lariannc L-'arningham 37 1 
 
 Abide with Me Henry I', L.yte 372 
 
 Faith and Hope Rembrandt J^eale 372 
 
 Now and Afterwards. Dinah Maria Murlock Craik 372 
 
 The Angels' Wiii.^per Samuel Lover 372 
 
 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid Sir Walter Scott 373 
 
 The Dying Christian to His Soul 
 
 Alexander Pope 373 
 
 Watchmnn, Wiiat of the Night? 373 
 
 The Changed Cross Mrs. Charles Hobart 374 
 
 Tlie Mini.stry of Angels Edmund Spenser 375 
 
 The Dying Saviour Paul Gcrhardt 375 
 
 For Love's Sake ^fargaret J. Preston 375 
 
 Different Minds L^ichard Chenevuv Trench 376 
 
 The Hour of Death Felicia Dorothea Hemans 377 
 
 The Religion of Hudibras Samuel Butler 377 
 
 Creative Power .Joseph Addison 377 
 
 No Sects in Heaven Mrs. Cleveland 378 
 
 Johnjankin's Sermon 379 
 
 We've Always Been Provided For 379 
 
 Mercy IWliam Shakespeare 380 
 
 Last Hymn Mary G. Brainard 380 
 
 A Father Reading the Bible 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans 380 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 13 
 
 Page. 
 
 okc 356 
 
 'icr 356 
 
 oks 357 
 
 ■ers 357 
 
 cott 358 
 
 cad 358 
 
 'ron 359 
 
 //<Vr 361 
 
 wr/A 361 
 
 'aher 363 
 
 rt/fi 3^0 
 
 364 
 
 364 
 
 365 
 
 Pope 36s 
 ^onar 366 
 
 366 
 
 367 
 
 i7;-»«,(r 367 
 
 '/;;/t)/^- 367 
 /'/•;Vi/? 368 
 nc;ary 3^8 
 
 '. Rice 369 
 
 nwaU) 
 
 369 
 
 'fclloxu 
 
 370 
 
 Clarke 
 
 370 
 
 I.ytton 
 
 370 
 
 Ltvdcn 
 
 371 
 
 II g ha in 
 
 371 
 
 '•'. /,j/tf 
 
 372 
 
 / Peale 
 
 372 
 
 fc O-rt/A 
 
 372 
 
 Lover 
 
 372 
 
 r Scott 
 
 373 
 
 r Pope 373 
 
 373 
 
 Ilobart 374 
 Spenser 375 
 criiardt 375 
 Pirston 375 
 7";>-«r/« 376 
 Hcinans 377 
 I Butler 377 
 4ddison 377 
 'cvcland 378 
 
 379 
 
 379 
 
 kespeare 380 
 rainard 380 
 
 Hemans 380 
 
 Page. 
 
 To a Family Hihle Felicia Dorothea Ileinans 381 
 
 The Phantom Isles ./<>//// Momell 381 
 
 Amazing, licaiiti ous Change. ../%«'/;/ Doddridge 381 
 
 Across the River Awry Larcoin 38a 
 
 A Prayer ./<:;//« Henry Newman 382 
 
 The Golden Rule 383 
 
 A Summer Evening /jrrtiir /fW/j 383 
 
 A Dyuij; Hymn Alice Gary 383 
 
 When Susan Coolidge 383 
 
 Grandmother's Bible Ilatlie A. Cooky 3S4 
 
 All's For the Best 384 
 
 Still Waters W. C. Richards 384 
 
 Answered Prayers Ella Wheeler 385 
 
 The Final Goal Alfred Tennyson 3S5 
 
 Safe to tlie Land Henry Alford 3S5 
 
 My Creed Theodore Tilton 3S5 
 
 Daniel Gray .Josiah Gilbert Holland 386 
 
 Parted Friends James Montgomery 3S6 
 
 "I Hold Still" 3S7 
 
 The Dew-Drop and the Stream 387 
 
 My Home 387 
 
 Birds of Passage Felicia Dorothea Hemans 388 
 
 Giving and Living 388 
 
 Nothingis Lost 388 
 
 The Maidtn's Prayer Nathaniel Parker Willis 3S9 
 
 Onward ./. A'. Lombard 389 
 
 We've All Our Angel Side 3S9 
 
 The Bright Side 350 
 
 Carving a Name Horatio Alget 390 
 
 The Hardest Time of All 390 
 
 My Ships J. W. Barker 391 
 
 UndertheSnow .John H. Bonner 391 
 
 Writing with Diamonds 391 
 
 Going and Coming Edward A. Jenks 392 
 
 Toll, Then, No More R. R. Bowker 392 
 
 Too Late .James Weston 392 
 
 The Two Weavers Hannah More 393 
 
 Field Lilies 393 
 
 The Way to Heaven .Josiah Gilbert Holland 394 
 
 Three Words of Strength Frederick Schiller 394 
 
 The Nautilus and the Ammonite 
 
 G, F. Richardson 394 
 
 The New Jerusalem David Dickson 395 
 
 Rest B. B. Thatcher 395 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 Many, Many Years Ago 71 Loker 396 
 
 A Visit from St. Nicholas Clement C. Moore 396 
 
 The Children Charles W.Dickinson 397 
 
 The Mountain and the Squirrel 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson 397 
 
 No Baby in the House Clara G. Dolliver 398 
 
 The Baby George Mac Donald 398 
 
 Saturday Afternoon Nathaniel Parker Willis 398 
 
 Happy Days of Childhood... yl//rt« Cunningham 398 
 
 We Are Seven William Wordsworth 399 
 
 What Does Little Birdie Say "i... Alfred Tennyson 400 
 
 Page. 
 
 Help One Another George E. Hunting 400 
 
 Teaching Public School 400 
 
 The Children's Hour 
 
 Henry Wadsivorth Longfellow 401 
 
 The Little Children 
 
 Hemy Wadsivorth Longfellow 401 
 
 To a Child From the Chinese 401 
 
 Day Dreams John Clare 401 
 
 Bai)y Louise Margaret Eytinge 402 
 
 Dreams and Realities Phirbe Cary 402 
 
 Little Goldenhair F. Bruce Smith 402 
 
 Boyhood Washington Allston 403 
 
 Seven Times One Jean Ingcloiv 403 
 
 The Piper William Blake 403 
 
 Baby's Shoes Wtlliain Cox Bennett 404 
 
 The Enchantress — A Spring-Time Lyric for 
 
 Mabel Thomas Bailey Aldrich 404 
 
 The Barefoot Boy .John Greenleaf Uhittier 404 
 
 The Goat and the Swing 
 
 John Toivnsend Trowbridge 405 
 
 Little Brown Hands M. H. Kraut 405 
 
 Robert Bruce and the Spider Eliza Cook 406 
 
 Lessons from Birds and Bees 406 
 
 Dare and Do 407 
 
 Ary Scheffer 407 
 
 By-and-By ./. W. Barker 407 
 
 Learn a Little Every Day 408 
 
 The Best That I Can 408 
 
 The Golden Stair W. D. Smith 408 
 
 I Would if I Could 408 
 
 Principle Put to the Test William Cowper 409 
 
 Tlie Little Sunbeam 409 
 
 Do Your Duty Luella Clark 409 
 
 The Battle of Life 410 
 
 Wanted, A Boy Mary B. Reese 410 
 
 The Pet Lamb William Wordsworth 410 
 
 The Sculptor Boy W. C. Doane 411 
 
 My Bird'sNest Luella Clark 411 
 
 "Little Nan" G. W. Thomas 412 
 
 "Little Nan" A. W.Dodge 412 
 
 The Fairies William Allingham 4 1 3 
 
 DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 
 
 Description of Jane de Montfort.../ort««a Baillie 415 
 
 Speech of Prince Edward in His Dungeon 
 
 Joanna Baillie 415 
 
 The Growth of Murderous Hate. . Joanna Baillie 4 1 5 
 
 Incantation Scene from " Remorse" 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 417 
 
 Scene from " Bertram "... Charles Robert Maturin 419 
 
 Scene from " Virginius" 
 
 James Sheridan Knowles 419 
 
 From "The Wife, A Tale of Mantua" 
 
 James Sheridan Knowles 422 
 
 Husband and Bride Thomas Beddoes 422 
 
 After Death, What? .Joseph Addison 425 
 
 The Murder William Shakespeare 426 
 
14 
 
 cont1':nts. 
 
 Tngr. 
 
 ADaRffcrot the Mind H'i7'i,r^>: \/!(i^/:r/>/'arr 427 
 
 Dreams U'ii/iniii S/ni/ci-s/taire 4sS 
 
 I.ovo's Kcsfacy 
 
 Hymn W'alhr I'rocicr {lU^iry i'ormvixll) 428 
 
 From " Olhc'llo " ll'ii'liiuii Si'idkrsfn'are 429 
 
 From "Julius Cxsar" U'i//iaiii S/i.drs/'ciirf 431 
 
 Cm ractacus //. niiii d liar ton 432 
 
 TIic Mistletoe Be iu;;li 432 
 
 Lucius Junius Hrutus' Oratiun Over the Body 
 
 of l.ucrctia John lloivard Payne 433 
 
 POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 Life 434 
 
 Tlie Bcautii-s of luiglish (Jrth(v^rnpliy 434 
 
 To my Infant Sou I'homas Hood 435 
 
 Tile Tu/zlcd Dutcliinan Charles F. Adams 435 
 
 Tlie Djinns I'ic/or Hiif;o 436 
 
 Tile Irisii Fxlipse Irxvin Russell 437 
 
 Mis. Lofty and 1 437 
 
 The Gouty Mercliantand llie Str.iii!j;er 
 
 Horace Smith 437 
 
 Blind Men and the Elephant 
 
 John (i'jJ/riy Sa.re 438 
 
 The Housekeeper's SoliKKiny.../]/;-,?. /•'. /). Gage 438 
 Collusion between a Akg .iter and a Water-Snaik 
 
 ./. //: Morris 438 
 
 A Receipt for Courtsliip .Jonathan Sicift 439 
 
 A For^ttful M.iii Matthew Prior 439 
 
 Very Deaf Jonathan Swift 440 
 
 An Original Epitaph 440 
 
 Case in the Constitutional Court 440 
 
 A Parson'.s Fate 440 
 
 The Bald-Pated Weliihman and the Fly 
 
 William Somcrville 440 
 
 Epitaph on a Miser .Jonathan Swift 441 
 
 Riddles .Jonathan Szvifl 441 
 
 Frencli Cooking 442 
 
 Saved by Mis Wit 442 
 
 Tlie Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Griiider.. 
 
 Gcnrirc Canning 442 
 
 Dcr Drummer Charles F, Adams 443 
 
 Tlie Butterfly's Ball Mrs. Henry Roscoc 443 
 
 Report of a Case, Not to be Found in any of the 
 
 Books William Cowfier 444 
 
 Gone with a Handsomer Man... Will M. Carleton 444 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of a ALid Dop; 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith 445 
 
 The Bagfjage-Fiend 446 
 
 Americin Aristocracy John Godfrey Saxc 446 
 
 Poor Little Joe 
 
 David L. Proiidfit ( Pele,z Arkivriffht) 447 
 
 The Bells Edgar Allen Poe 447 
 
 The Bells of Shandon 
 
 Francis Mahony(/\ither Proul i 448 
 
 Tim Twinkleton's Twins Charles A. Bell 449 
 
 The Old Village Choir 
 
 Benjamin Franklin Taylor 450 
 
 The Modern Belle t.sr 
 
 Aimt Tabitha Oliver Wendell Holmes 4^1 
 
 Tlie Irishwoman's Lament 451 
 
 Vision of the Monk Galiriel 
 
 Fleanor C. Donnelly 453 
 
 Let Us All Be Unhappy Together 
 
 Charles Dibdin 453 
 
 The Old Ways and th- New .John II. Yates 453 
 
 The Way to Sing Helen //unt Jackson (H- H.) 454 
 
 An Incomplete \\.^\\.\.\\\<.\\\... Richard A. Jackson 454 
 
 The Cosmic E.ijg 455 
 
 Holy Willie's Prayer Robert Burns 45s 
 
 Decei.ilier and M ly 456 
 
 Tiie Three Warnin-s Mrs. Thrale 456 
 
 To the Terrestial Gl (be 
 
 Ullliam Schwenck Gilbert 457 
 
 HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 45S 
 45S 
 459 
 
 460 
 
 4^3 
 463 
 
 A Love Letter from Dakota W. W. Fink 
 
 The Deacon's Confii-siuii V. ^S". Fmerson 
 
 The .Sofi Guitar P. //. /iorcne 
 
 The Knight and the Lady 
 
 Richard Afurris Barham 
 
 ( Thomas In-nildsby. Fsq. ) 
 
 The Baltle'of the Kegs Francis Hopldnson 
 
 " Please to King llie IJeile" Thomas Hood 
 
 A Sociable! 464 
 
 Shacob's Lament 464 
 
 The Declaration Xaihaniet Parker Willis 464 
 
 Pat's Love Letter Patrick Dolin 464 
 
 Tom Darling /../'". Wells. 465 
 
 Is It Anybody's Business ? 466 
 
 First Appearance 111 Type 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes 466 
 
 Sorrows of Werther 
 
 l^liliani Makeepcace Thackery 467 
 
 The Confession 467 
 
 The Well of St. Keyne Robert Southey 468 
 
 S<jlly Simpkin's Lament ThomasHood 468 
 
 The Ghost 4^9 
 
 Faithless Sally Broun Thomas Hood 470 
 
 Of a Certain Man Sir John Harrington 
 
 To My Nose 
 
 Alfred A. Forrester {Alfred Crozvquill) 
 The Proud Miss Macnride...../t»//« Godfrey Sa.re 
 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniflfles 
 
 Frances Miriam Whitcher 
 
 To the ''Sextant" Arabel.a M. Willson. 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy Richard Harris Barham 
 
 ( Thomas fngotdsby, Esq. ) 
 Darius Green and his Flying-Machine 
 
 John Townsenu Trowbridge 
 
 Pat's Criticism Charles K Adams 
 
 Socrates Snooks 479 
 
 The Retort George Perkins Morris 479 
 
 An Ax to Grind Benjamin Frankhn 480 
 
 Kris Kringle's Surprise Henry Davenport 480 
 
 470 
 
 470 
 471 
 
 472 
 472 
 
 473 
 
 475 
 478 
 
PROSE CONTENTS. 
 
 AHl-cti ins of Home Chartes Dickens 35 
 
 Tlic Uld I.o:; C.il)in Darnel Webster a; 
 
 Home of tliu VVorkint;in.iii 34 
 
 i6i 
 •7> 
 
 The Pilot ,/>//// //. Gawrh 
 
 (1o(Tl', the Rc'Kiculi.'.. '/'ininlliy D:vi':;ht 
 
 Cu'.iimhtis I'irsl iJiscovcrs I.iiiul in the Ni-w 
 
 World \l aslniii^ton /rrins,' 
 
 {■iMiidcur of llu! Oi:».;an U'al/,r Co/ton 
 
 Thv; StiirSpaiiK'ed Baiiiicr Fraiiris S. AW 
 
 Hnil Columhia ./iise/>/i llo^kin^on 
 
 Address at the Dedicatioii of (ijttysl)iii>; C'l'im;- 
 
 tery Uirahaiit f.iiieoln 
 
 I'.itriotism /■isiier Ames 
 
 On lifintj Found (luiliy of Treason 
 
 T/ioiius Franei<; iV^ii'^/ier 248 
 
 Oriental Mysticism Leonard Woods 259 
 
 Ideas the Life of a People 
 
 George Wi/liain Curtis 
 
 The Right Must C inqiier Thomas Carlyle 
 
 Nine Graves in Kdinboro' Irtvin Russell 
 
 Mosses from an Old Manse 
 
 Nathaniel Ifircfhorne 
 
 CominRand Goinjj flcnry Ward Hccchcr 
 
 The Ileroofthe Dutch Repuhlic 
 
 John I.ofhrop i^foHey 
 Nature's Artistic Power .John Kiiskin 
 
 I So 
 
 221) 
 241 
 
 346 
 
 2'J9 
 270 
 
 273 
 
 2SI 
 2S5 
 
 287 
 
 2S8 
 
 raRe. 
 
 Tlie Last Hours of Little Paul Domboy 
 
 Charles Dickens ^y^ 
 
 Washin^jton as a Civilian 3.58 
 
 The \VeU:ome to Lafayt^tto on his Return to 
 
 An>..Mii-a /osef>h T. nuclcini^ham 341 
 
 Kxtr.ict from an Oration on James A. Ci.ufield ... 
 
 Jam's a. /tlaine 343 
 
 (Jneen Elizabeth David /liinl 344 
 
 Sulferinss and Destiny of the Pilgrims 
 
 L'd:vard /irerell 348 
 
 Miria Theresa's Appeal to Hui\,.i.> 331 
 
 Maria 1)-' Medicis Receiving; the Rejiency 331 
 
 Monody on Sa luiel Patch 334 
 
 Festival in a Russian Vill.ige 35H 
 
 A Dream of the Universe Jean Paul Richter 376 
 
 Recollections of My Christmas Trie 
 
 Charles Dickens 4 1 4 
 Picking to Pieces the Characters of Other People 
 
 Richard Rrinstey Sheridan 4J3 
 
 Bubbles of the Day Douglas Jcrrold 427 
 
 The Newc.istle Apolheitary George Colman 467 
 
 Widow Hedott's Poetry 
 
 Frances Miriam Whitcher 477 
 
 Mrs. Caudle's Lecture on Shirt Buttons 
 
 Douglas Jet raid 479 
 
 An Ax to Grind Benjamin Franklin 4S0 
 
 15 
 

 ■#. 
 
 i^: 
 
 
 
 
 •»i,'SlS»*'*'„ 
 
 $<>■ 
 
 "V*», 
 
 C*^' JlA^ 
 
 
 *»»■>»* 
 
 f 
 
 
 * -'^ 
 
 IsV 
 
 i*" • 4^!^ 
 
 _■**?■ 
 
 
': M 
 
THE HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 LOVE OF HOME. 
 
 HERE is a land, of every land 
 the pride, 
 , Beloved by heavpn o'er 
 '\_,^^-yf all the world beside ; 
 ^ Where brighter suns dis- 
 V5 pense sercner light, 
 
 And milder moons em- 
 paradise the ni^ht ; 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, 
 
 truth, 
 Time-tutor'd age, andlove-exaltcd 
 
 youth. 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye 
 
 explores 
 The wealthiest isles, the most en- 
 chanting 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, 
 Touch'd 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 soften'd looks benignly blend 
 The sire, tlie son, the husband, brother, friend. 
 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. 
 Strews witii fresh flowers the narrow way of life ! 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
 An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ! 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? 
 Art thou a man?— a patriot?— look around ; 
 Oh thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 Tliat land thy country, and that spot thy home ! 
 
 James Montgomerv. 
 
 SWEET HOME. 
 
 ID pleasures and palaces though we mav 
 roam. 
 Re it ever so humble, there's no place like 
 ' home ! 
 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here. 
 Which, seek through the world, is n^'er UKt with 
 elsewhere. 
 
 m' 
 
 ,\n exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! 
 
 O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
 
 The birds singing gayly that came at my call ; — 
 
 O, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all ! 
 Home, home, sweet home I 
 There's no place like home ! 
 
 John H(jw.\kd P.wne. 
 
 HEAVEN ON EARTH. 
 
 ND has the earth lost its so spacious round, 
 The sky its blue circumference above, 
 riiat in this little chamber there are found 
 Both earth and heaven, my universe of 
 love, 
 All that my God can give me or remove. 
 
 Here sleeping save myself in mimic death ? 
 Sweet, that in thi^ smrll com|)ass I behoove 
 
 To live their living, and to breathe their breath ! 
 Almost I wish that, with one common si^h. 
 
 We might resign all mundane care and strife ; 
 And seek together that transcendent sky. 
 
 Where father, mother, children, husband, wife. 
 Together pant in everlasting iife ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 } 
 
 Home, home, sweet home ! 
 There's no place like home ! 
 
 IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE. 
 
 t F tliou wert by my side, my love, 
 1 low fast would evening fail, 
 In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
 Listening the nightingale ! 
 
 I miss thee, when, by Gunga's stream, 
 My twilight steps I guide. 
 But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 
 I miss thee from my side. 
 
 But when at morn and eve the star 
 Beholds me on my knee, 
 I feel, though thou art distant far, 
 Thy prayers ascend for me. 
 
 Then on, then on, where duty leads ! 
 My course be onward still. 
 O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. 
 O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 
 
 f hat course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 
 Nor mild Malwah detain ; 
 For sweet the bliss us both awaits 
 By yonder western main. 
 
 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say. 
 Across the dark blue sea ; 
 But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
 As then shall meet in thee ! 
 
 Reginald Heher 
 
 (17) 
 
18 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 i\ 
 
 
 ASSOCIATIONS OF HOME. 
 
 'HAT is not home, where day by day 
 I wear the bu.sy hours away; 
 Th.it is not home, where lonely night 
 Prepares mc for the toils of light; 
 'Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give 
 A home in which tiie heart can live. 
 It is a presence undefined, 
 O'ershadowing the conscious mind ; 
 Wiiere love and duty sweetly blend 
 To consecrate the name of friend : 
 Where'er thou art, is home to me, 
 And home without thee cannot be. 
 
 Walter Conder. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 ■*^ OVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 i^f Tiie short'ning winter-day is ne;ir a close ; 
 M l^ The miry beasts retreating; fr.ae the pleugh ; 
 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- 
 pose ; 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes. 
 
 This niglit his weekly niuil is at an end. 
 Collects his spades, his m.attorks, and his hoes. 
 
 Hoping tlvj morn in ease and rest to spend. 
 And wean,-, o'er the moor, Ills course does h.ameward 
 bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the slielter of an .aged tree ; 
 Th' e.xpcctar.t wee-things, toddlin stacher thro'. 
 
 To meet their Dad, wi' ilichtcrin noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, hlinkin bonnily. 
 
 His clane hearth-stane, his tliriftie wifie's smile, 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
 
 Does all his weary carking cares beguile, 
 An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 
 
 Wi' joy unf'ign'd brothers and sisters meet. 
 
 An' each fur other's welfare kindly spiers : 
 The social iiours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
 The parents, jiartial, eye their hopeful years. 
 
 Anticipation forward points the view. 
 The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, 
 
 Gars auld claes look amaist .as weel's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
 And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. 
 
 And ne'er, tlio' out o' sight, tojauk or play: 
 "And, oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway. 
 
 And mind your duty, duly, mom and night ! 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
 
 hnplore his counsel and assisting might : 
 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !" 
 
 But, hark I a rap comes? gently to the door ; 
 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
 Tells how a neebor had cam o'er the moor. 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
 Wi' lieart-stnick anxious care, inquires his name. 
 
 While Jenny hafHins is afraid to speak ; 
 Weel plcas'tl the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless 
 
 rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
 
 A strappa!! youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, ploughs, and kye. 
 The youngste. 's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
 
 But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
 The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 
 What makes the youth s.ie b.ashfu' an' sae grave ; 
 Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 
 
 O happy love I where love like this is found ! 
 
 () luart-fclt raptures ! bliss beyi^nd coniixire ! 
 I've pacCd much this weary, mortal rounil. 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare — 
 " If I leav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare. 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
 
 In other's amis breathe out the tender tale. 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning 
 
 gale!" 
 
 Rut now the supper crowns their simple board, 
 
 Tiie halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
 The soupe their only hawkie does afford. 
 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
 The d.ame brings forth in complimental mood. 
 
 To grace the l.ad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 
 And aft he's prest, and aft he calls it gude ; 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 
 
 The cheerful supper done, wi' serious face. 
 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
 
 The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart halTets wearing thin an' bare ; 
 Those str lins th.at once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 I le wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; 
 Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; 
 Or noble " Elgin " beats the heav'nward flame, 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compar'd with these, Italian trills are t.ame ; 
 
 The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
Till-: HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 19 
 
 ne, 
 
 ivorthless 
 
 ye; 
 ye. 
 
 y. 
 
 lave ; 
 
 grave ; 
 ;e the lave. 
 
 ! 
 re! 
 
 pare, 
 
 e, 
 
 the ev'ning 
 
 .rd, 
 .od: 
 
 )od ; 
 I'd, 
 k fell, 
 
 the bell. 
 
 Ide, 
 lolcmn air. 
 
 ts rise, 
 
 |e; 
 
 lie, 
 
 ise; 
 Lise. 
 
 Tlic priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
 
 How Ahram was the friend of God on high ; 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
 Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire : 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 
 I low guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 I low I le, who bore in I leaven tiie r.econd name. 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
 How his first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How He, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
 And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by 
 
 Heaven's command. 
 
 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
 Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
 
 Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride. 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
 The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 
 
 Tiie pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart. 
 
 May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
 And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 
 
 Then homeward all take offtheir sev'ral way ; 
 
 Tiie youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 
 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
 Tiiat He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
 Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 
 
 From scenes like these oldS":otia's grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad ; 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings ; 
 
 "An honest man's the noblest work of God :" 
 And ccrtes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
 What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 
 
 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may tliy hardy .sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
 And, oh, may Heaven tiicir simi»le lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
 And stand a wall of fire around their mucii-lo\ 'd isle. 
 
 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 
 That stream'd tliro' \V\allace's undaunted heart ; 
 WIio dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
 (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art. 
 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
 O never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 
 
 But still tiie patriot, and the patriot-hard, 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard i 
 
 RoiiKUr iiURNS. 
 
 THE HAPPIEST SPOT. 
 
 |UT where to find tiiat happiest spot below. 
 Who can direct, when all prcteiul to know? 
 The shuddering tenant of the fi i.i;id zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long niglits of revelry and ease : 
 The naked negro, panting at the line. 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
 And tlianks his gods for all the good tliev gpve. 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we nxiin, 
 His first, best countrj', ever is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
 And estimate the blessings which they share, 
 Though patriots (latter, still shall wisdom find 
 An equal portion djalt to all mankind ; 
 As different good, by art or nature given. 
 To different nations makes their blessings even. 
 
 Ol-IVER GOLUSMITll. 
 
 (3 
 
 FRIENDLINESS OF A FIRE. 
 
 FIRE'.S a good companionable friend, 
 A comfortable friend, wlio meets your face 
 Witii welcome glad, and makes the poorest 
 shed 
 As pleasant as a palace. Are you cold ? 
 He warms j-ou — weary? ho refreshes you — . 
 Hungry? he doth prepare your food for you — 
 Are you in darkness? he gives liglit to you — 
 In a strange land? he wears a face that is 
 Familiar from your childhood. Are you poor ? 
 What matters it to him. He knows no difference 
 Between an emperor and the poorest beggar ! 
 Where is the friend, that bears the name of ni;m, 
 W'ill do as much for you ? 
 
 Marv ITcnviTT. 
 
20 
 
 CROWN J i:\VKLS. 
 
 LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR, 
 
 •^^ GOOD wife rose from Jicr bed oivj morn, 
 I ^ And tIii)U<;;lit with a nervous tlrcad 
 
 Vt^ Of till' piles of clothes to lie washed, and more 
 
 Than ;i dozen mouths to he R-d. 
 There's the meals to j;et for tlie men in the field. 
 
 And the children to fix away 
 To school, and the milk to he skimmed and chnrned; 
 And all to he done this ilay. 
 
 It had ranted in the nij;ht, and all the wood 
 
 Was wet as it coukl be ; 
 There were pliddin.t;s iwul pies to bake, besides 
 
 A loaf of cake for tea. 
 And the day was hot, and her aching head 
 
 Throbbed wearily as she sr.id, 
 "If maidens but knew what j^ood wives know, 
 
 They would not be in haste to wed ! " 
 
 "Jennie, what do yon think I told Hen Hrown?" 
 
 Called the farmer from the veil ; 
 Antl a flush crept up to his bronzed brow, 
 
 And his eyes half bashfully fell ; 
 "It was this," he said, and coming near 
 
 lie smiled, and stooping down, 
 Kissed her cheek — " 'twas this, that y6u were the best 
 
 And the dearest wife in town ! " 
 
 The farmer went back to the field, and the wife 
 
 In a smiling, absent way 
 Sanji^ snatches of tender little son^s 
 
 She'd not sung for many a day. 
 And the ]i:xin in her head was gone, and the ck)thes 
 
 Were white as the foam of the sea ; 
 Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet, 
 
 And as golden as it could be. 
 
 "Just think," the children all called in a breatii, 
 
 "Tom Wood ha.s run off to sea ! 
 "He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had 
 
 As happy a home as we.'' 
 The night came down, and thv- good wife smiled 
 
 To herself, as she softly said : 
 " 'Tis : '^ sweet to labor for those w(? love, — 
 
 It's hot strange that maids will wed ! " 
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 kACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your 
 flight, 
 Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
 Take me again to your heart as of jt)re ; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ;— 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
 Take them, and give me my childluxxl again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
 We.uy of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
 Weary of sowing f ;r others to reap ; — 
 Rock me to slee|), mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
 Mother, () mother, my heart calls for you ! 
 Many a sunuiier t!ie grass has gnjwii green, 
 r.lossom'd and faded, our faces between ; 
 ^■et, with strong yearning .and p:'.ssionate pain, 
 I.ong I to-night for your presence again. 
 Come from the silence so long and s > deep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Over my heart in the days that ;ire flown, 
 \(j lo\e like mother-love ever has shone ; 
 \o other worship abides and endures, — 
 Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: 
 None lilce a mother i an charm aw;iy pain 
 From the sick so>il and the world-weary brain. 
 .Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with giild, 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
 r,et it drop over my forehead to-night, 
 Sli.iding my fiint eyes away from tlie light; 
 I'or with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
 Haply will'throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep; — 
 'i\ock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
 Since I last listen'd your lullaby song : 
 ^ing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
 Clasp'd to your heart in a loving embrace, 
 With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — ■ 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 El.IZAIiETlI AlCERS Al.MiN. 
 
 NOBODY'S CHILD. 
 
 LONE in the dreary, pitiless street, 
 With my torn old dress and bare cold feet, 
 All day I've wandered to and fro. 
 Hungry and shivering and nowhere to g > 
 
 The night's coming on in darkness and dread, 
 
 And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head ; 
 
 Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? 
 
 Is it because I'm nobody's child ? 
 
 Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
 And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; 
 I'eautiful children, in robes so fair, 
 Are caroling songs in rapture there. 
 I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
 Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
 
THE HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 Waiuleriii- alone in the merciless street, 
 Naked and shivering and nothing to eat. 
 
 Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down 
 
 In its tcrrihle blackness all over tlic town? 
 
 Shall I lay nic down 'neath the angry sky, 
 
 On tlie cold hard pavements alone to die? 
 
 When the beautiful children their prayers have said, 
 
 /Vnd mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed. 
 
 No dear mother ever upon me smiled— 
 
 Why U it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child I 
 
 No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
 In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run 
 When I wander too near them ; 'tis wondrous to see 
 How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! 
 Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but, sometimes, when I lie 
 Gazing far up in the dark blue sky. 
 Watching for hours some large bright star, 
 I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. 
 
 And a host of white-robed, nameless things, 
 
 Come fluttering o'er me in gildtd wings ; 
 
 A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
 
 Caresses gently my tangled hair. 
 
 And a voice like the carol of some wild bird 
 
 The sweetest voice that was ever heard— 
 
 Calls me many a dear pet name. 
 
 Till my heart and spirits are all aflame ; 
 
 And tells me of such unbounded love. 
 And bids me come up to their home above, 
 And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise. 
 They look at me with their sweet blue eyes. 
 And it seems to me out of tlie dreary night' 
 lamgoingup to the world of light, " ' ] 
 And away from the hunger and ttorms so wild— ' 
 I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. ' 
 Phi LA A. Case. I 
 
 KISSES. 
 
 •HE kiss of friendship, kind and calm, 
 May fall upon the brow like balm; 
 A deeper tenderness may speak 
 In precious pledges on the cheek ; 
 Thrice dear may be, when young lips meet. 
 Love's dewy pressure, close and sweet;— ' 
 But more than all the rest I prixe 
 The faithful lips that kiss my eyes. 
 
 Smile, lady, smile, when courtly lips 
 Touch reverently your finger-tips; 
 Blush, happy maiden, when you feel 
 The lips which press love's glowing seal; 
 But as the slow years darklier roll. 
 Grown wiser, the experienced soul 
 Will own as dearer far than they 
 The lips which kiss the tears away ! 
 
 Elizabeth Akeks Allen. 
 
 21 
 
 THE OLD H0U3E. 
 
 ' M standing by the \\ indow-sill, 
 
 Where we have stood of yore ; 
 The sycaniurc i.-; waving still 
 
 Us branches juar the door ; 
 And near me rreei's tlie v.ild rose-vine 
 On which our wre.-iths were hung,— 
 Still r(;uiid the porch its tendrils twine, 
 As when we botli were young. 
 
 The little p.Uh that used to lead 
 Down by the river shore 
 
 Is overgrown with brier aiui weed- 
 Not level as before. 
 
 But iliero's no change upon the hill. 
 From whence our voices rung— 
 
 'i'he violets deck liie siinuim siill, 
 As when we both were \oung. 
 
 And yonder is the old oak-tree, 
 
 Beneath whose sjjreading shade, 
 When our young hearts were light and five. 
 
 In innocence we played ; 
 And over there the meadow gate 
 
 On which our jilayinates swung, 
 Still standing in its rustic state. 
 
 As when we both were young. 
 
 LoflSE ClLV.NDLKR Mori.ToX. 
 
 THE DEAREST SPOT OF EARTH IS HOME. 
 
 *IIE dearest spot of earth to me 
 Is home, sweet home I 
 The fairy land I long to see 
 Is liome, sweet home ! 
 There, how charmed the sense of hearing ! 
 There, where love is so endearing ! 
 All the world is not so cheering 
 As home, sweet home ! 
 
 The dearest spot of earth to me 
 
 Is home, sweet home ! 
 The fairy land I long to see 
 
 Is home, sweet home ! 
 
 I've taught my heart the way to prize 
 
 My home, sweet home ! 
 I've learned to look with lovers' eyes 
 
 On home, sweet home ! 
 There, where vows are truly plighted ! 
 There, where hearts are so united ! 
 All the world besides I've slighted 
 
 For home, sweet home I 
 
 The dearest spot of earth to me 
 
 Is home, sweet home ! 
 The fairy land I long to see 
 
 Is home, sweet home ! 
 
 \V^ T. Wrighton. 
 
S2 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 WHICH SHALL IT BE? 
 
 The followiiiK poem is fnunikil upon an iiK iileiit wlnii' n rii li 
 lieii^lihor ortcrc'i! to in.ilic a poor family roinfortriMr, aii»l pio\iilc 
 Cor the chiM, if uiiu uf llic seven were given to liim. 
 
 'men shall it Ik? wliidi shall it he?" 
 1 looked at John,— John Kjuki-i! at tiio 
 (Dciir, patient John, who loves niu yet 
 As well as thoii;;h my lucks were jet.) 
 
 And when I found that I nuist speak, 
 
 My voice seemed straiij^ely low and weak ; 
 
 "Tell me a.!;aiii what Robert said ;" 
 
 And then I listening bent my head. 
 
 "Tiiis is his letter: 
 
 ' I will give 
 
 A house .nnd land while you shall live, 
 
 If, in return, fri.m out your seven, 
 
 One child to me for aye is yiveii.' " 
 
 I looked at John's old garments worn, 
 
 I thought of all that John had borne 
 
 Of lujverty, and work, and care, 
 
 Whicli I, though willing, could not slian- ; 
 
 Of seven hungry mouths to feed, 
 
 Of seven little children's need. 
 
 And then of this. 
 
 " Come, John," said I 
 "We'll choose amoifg them as they He 
 Asleep ;" so walking hand in har.d. 
 Dear John and I surveyed our band. 
 
 Fir^t to tlic cradle lightly ntcpped. 
 
 Where Lilian, llie baby slept ; 
 
 Mer damp curls hy, like gold alight, 
 
 A glory 'g.iinst the pillow white ; 
 
 Sofdy her fallier stooped to lay 
 
 His rough hand down in loving way. 
 
 When dream or whisper made her stir. 
 
 And huskily he said, " Not ^cr." 
 
 We stooped beside the trundle-l)ed, 
 
 And one long ray of lanip-liglU s!ud 
 
 Athwart the boyish faces there, 
 
 In sleep so pitiful and fair. 
 
 I sfiW on Jamie's rough red cheek 
 
 A tear undried ; ere John could six:ak, 
 
 "He's but a baby too," said I, 
 
 And kissed him as wc hurried by. 
 
 Pale, patient R(jbby's angel face 
 
 Still in his sleep bore suffering's trac ■ ; 
 
 " No, for a tliousand crowns, not /lii.i," 
 
 He whispered, while our eyes were dim. 
 
 Pfior Dick ! sad Dick ! our wayward son. 
 
 Turbulent, reckless, idle one, — 
 
 Could /ic be spared ? " Nay, he who gave 
 
 Bids us befriend him to die grave ; 
 
 Only a mother's heart can be 
 
 Patient enough f jr su.:h as he ; 
 
 And so," said Jolin, " I would not dare 
 
 To send him from her bedside prayer." 
 
 Then stole we softly up above, 
 
 .Vnd knelt by Mary, child of love ; 
 
 " Perhaps for /itr 'twoukl bi'tter be," 
 
 I said to Jcjhn. Quite silently 
 
 He lifted up a curl, that lay 
 
 Across her cheek in wilful way, 
 
 And shook his head : " Nay, love, not thee ;" 
 
 The while my heart beat audibly. 
 
 Only one more, our eldest lad. 
 
 Trusty and truthful, good ami glad, — 
 
 .So like his father : " No, John, no ; 
 
 I cannot, will not, let //»;« go ! " 
 
 .\nd so we wrote, in courteous way. 
 We could Ui/t give one child away ; 
 And afterward toil lighter seemed, 
 Thinking of that of which we dreamed ; 
 I lappy, in truth, that not one face 
 We nu'ssed from its accustomed place ; 
 Thankful to work for a// the scvcit, 
 Trusting then to o.nk in heaven. 
 
 1 V II 
 
 LEARNING TO PRAY, 
 
 NEELING, fair in the twilight gray, 
 A beautiful child was trying to pray; 
 [lis check on his mother's knee. 
 His bare little feet half hidden. 
 His smile still coming unbidden, 
 And his heart brimful of glee. 
 
 " I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, 
 
 mamma ! I've had such fun to-day 
 
 1 hardly can say my prayers, 
 I don't feel just like praying ; 
 
 I want to be out-doors playing, 
 And run, all undressed, down stairs, 
 
 " I can see the flowers in the garden-bed, 
 Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; 
 And Sammy is swinging, I guess. 
 Oh 1 everything is so fine out there, 
 I want to put it all in the prayer,— 
 Do you mean I can do it by ' Yes?' 
 
 "When I say, ' Now I lay me — word for word. 
 It seems to me as if nobody heard. 
 Would 'Thank you, dear God,' be right? 
 
 He gave me my mamma. 
 
 And papa, and Sammy — 
 O mamma ! you nodded I might." 
 
 Clasping his hands and hiding his face. 
 Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, 
 The little one now began ; 
 
 His mother's nod and sanction sweet 
 Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet. 
 And his words like music ran : 
 
 "Thank you for making this home fo nice, 
 The flowers, and my two white mice, — 
 
TIIK IIOMIC CIRCLK 
 
 2;{ 
 
 I wisli I could keep ri^ht on ; 
 
 1 thank you, too, for evtry clay — 
 
 Only I'm most too (jlad to prav. 
 Dual God, I tliink I'm done. 
 
 "Now, mamma, rock me— juft a minute— 
 And sing tlit; hymn with 'darling' in it. 
 I wish I could >ay my prayers ! 
 
 When I get liig, I know I can. 
 
 Oh ! won't it he nice to be a man 
 And stay all night down stairs !" 
 
 The mother, singing, clasped him tight. 
 Kissing and cooing her fond "Good-night," 
 And treasured his every word. 
 For well she knew that the artless joy 
 And love of her precious, innocent hoy. 
 Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. 
 
 Mary E. Dodge. 
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW 
 
 •T stands in n sunny meadow. 
 
 The house so mossy and brown, 
 Willi its cumbrous old stone chimneys, 
 And tile gray roof sloping down. 
 
 The trees fold their green arms arounil it,— 
 
 The trees a century okl ; 
 And the winds go chanting through them, 
 
 And the sunbeams droj) their gold. 
 
 The cowslips spring in the marshes, 
 
 The roses bloom on the hill. 
 And beside the brook in the pasture 
 
 The herds go feeding at will. 
 
 Within, in the wide okl kitchen, 
 
 The old folks sit in the sun. 
 That creeps through the sheltering woodl;iiio, 
 
 Till the day is almost done. 
 
 Their children have gone and left them • 
 
 They sit in the sun alone ! 
 And the old wife's ears are failiiifj 
 
 As she harks to the well-known tone 
 
 That won her heart in her girlhood. 
 That has soothed her in many a care, 
 
 And praises her now for the brightness 
 Her old face used to wear. 
 
 She thinks again of her bridal,— 
 How, dressed in her robe of white, 
 
 She stood by her gay young lover 
 In the morning's rosy light. 
 
 O, the morning is rosy as ever, 
 liut the rose from her cheek is fled ; 
 
 And the sunshine still is golden. 
 But it foils on a silvered head. 
 
 And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 
 Come back in her winter-time, 
 
 Till her feeble pulses tremble 
 With the thrill of s|)ri!ig-time's prime. 
 
 And looking forth from the window, 
 .Sill! thinks how the tri'; s have grown 
 
 Since, clad in her bridal whileness. 
 She crossed the old door-stone. 
 
 Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure, 
 And dimmed her hair's young gt^Kl, 
 
 The lo%e in her girlhood plightcil 
 I las never grown dim or old. 
 
 They sat in peace in the sunshiiio 
 
 Till the day was almost done, 
 And then, at its close, an angel 
 
 Stole over the threshold stone. 
 
 He folded their hands together,— 
 1 le touched their eyelids with balm. 
 
 Anil their last breath floated outward, 
 Like the close of a solemn psalm ! 
 
 Like a bridal pair they traversed 
 
 The unseen, mystical road 
 That leads to the Beautiful City, 
 
 Whose builder and maker is God. 
 
 Terhaps in that miracle country 
 They will give her lost youtli back, 
 
 And the flowers of the vanished spring-time 
 Will bloom in the spirit's track. 
 
 One draught from the living water:? 
 
 Mliall call back his manhood's prime 
 And etern: 1 years shall measure 
 
 The love that outlasted time. 
 
 But the shapes that they left behind them. 
 
 The wrinkles and silver hair, — 
 Made holy to us by the kisses 
 
 The angel had printed there, — 
 
 We will hide away 'neath the willows, 
 \\'lien the <lay is low in the west. 
 
 Where the sunbeams cannot find them. 
 Nor thi; winds disturb their rest. 
 
 And we'll suffer no telltale tombstone, 
 
 With its age and date, to rise 
 O'er the two who are old no longer. 
 
 In the Father's house in the skies. 
 
 Louise Chandlkk Moiilton. 
 
 CONDUCT AT HOME. 
 
 HE angry word suppressed, the taunting 
 thought ; 
 Subduing and subdued, the petty strife, 
 \ Which clouds the color of domestic life: 
 
 The sober comfort, all the peace which springs 
 From the large aggregate of little things ; 
 On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend, 
 The almost sacred joys of home depend. 
 
 Hannah More. 
 
CROWN ji:\vi:ls. 
 
 il 
 
 
 MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME 
 *ijT' • I IE sun slilncs briglit in our old Kentucky 
 
 'T is suinnier, the darkeys ari- K'ly ; 
 'f The corn top's ripe and llie nieaduw'n in the 
 b'oum, 
 
 While the birds ni.ike nuisic all tin- d;iy ; 
 The younj; folks roll on the liitlo Ci-.bin (lour, 
 
 All merry, all happy, all bright ; 
 liy'tnby hard times comes a knockin' at the door, — 
 
 Then, my okl Kentnrky home, good ni;;ht ! 
 Wi-i p no more, my lady ; <), weep no more to-day ! 
 We'll sins one soni; (or tiie old Kentucky homei 
 
 l'"or our old Kentucky home far away. 
 
 They hunt no more for the puSMun and the coon. 
 
 On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; 
 They sing no more by the glinnner of the moon, 
 
 On the bench by the old cabin (U)or ; 
 The day goes by, like the shadow o'er the iicart. 
 
 With sorrow where all was deliy;ht ; 
 The time has come, when llie darkeys have to part, 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
 
 The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, 
 
 Wherever the darkey may go ; 
 A few more days, and the troubles all will end. 
 
 In the field where the sugar-cane grow ; 
 A few more days to tote the weary load, 
 
 No mailer, il will never be light ; 
 A few more days till we totter on tlie road. 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
 
 Stephen Collins Foster. 
 
 THE WORN WEDDING-RING 
 
 J5^ 
 
 'OUR wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, 
 siiuuuors not a few, 
 Since 1 put it on your hnger first, have passed 
 o'er me and you ; 
 And, love, what changes we havi; seen, — \\hat cares 
 
 and pleasures, too, — 
 Since you became my own dear wife, when this old 
 ring was new I 
 
 O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my lifv. 
 When, thanks to Goil, your low, sweet "Yes" made 
 
 you my lo\ ing wife ! 
 Your heart w ill say the same, I know ; that day's as 
 
 dear to you, — 
 That day that maile me yours, dear wife, when this old 
 
 ring was new. 
 
 How well do 1 remember now your young sweet face 
 
 that day I 
 How fair you were, how der.r you were, my tongue 
 
 coukl h.irdly say ; 
 Nor how I doatecl on you ; (), how i)rond I was of ymi ! 
 But did I love you more than now, when this old ring 
 
 was new ? 
 
 No— no! no fairer were you then than .it this hour to 
 
 nio; 
 .\nd, d.;'.r its life to nie this day, how < oiild you deanr 
 
 be? 
 As swxvt your f.ice might lie that day as now il is, 'tis 
 
 true ; 
 nut dill I know your he.irt as well when this old ring 
 
 Was new ? 
 
 Years bring fresh links to hind us, wife,— young voices 
 
 th.it arc here ; 
 Young faces round our fire that make their mother's 
 
 yit more dear; 
 Young loving hearts your care each day makes yet 
 
 more like to you, 
 More like the loving heart made mine when liiis olil 
 
 ring was new. 
 
 The past is de.ir, its s\veetne.ss still our memories treas- 
 ure yet ; 
 
 The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not 
 now forget. 
 
 Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto hrart still 
 true. 
 
 We'll share as we have shared all else since this oUI 
 ring was new. 
 
 .\nd if r,od spares us 'mongst our sous and daughters 
 
 to grow old, 
 We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine 
 
 grow cold. 
 Your aged eyes will sec in mine all they've still shown 
 
 to you, 
 .\nd mine in yours all they have seen since this old 
 
 ring was new. 
 
 And O, when death shall come .it last to bid me to mv 
 
 rest, 
 May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that 
 
 breast ; 
 O, may my jiahing gaze be blessed with the dear sig!it 
 
 of you. 
 Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when this old 
 
 ring was new I 
 
 William Cox Bknnktt. 
 
 FILIAL LOVE. 
 
 HERE is a dungeon in whose dim drear light 
 What do I gaze on ? Nothing : look again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight,— 
 *f* Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
 It is not so ; I see them full and jilain, — 
 An old man and a female young and fair. 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar : but what doth she there, 
 With her unmantled neck, and bosom wiiite and hare ? 
 
 Full swells the deep pure fotmtnin of youn?: life, 
 Where on the heart -AnOifrotn \\v: heart we took 
 Our first and sweetest nurture, when tlie wife, 
 
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THE HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 25 
 
 Rk'St into mother, in tlie innocent look, 
 Or even tiic piping cry of lips that brook 
 No i)ain and small susiK-nse, ;i joy perceives 
 Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
 Slie sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
 What may the fruit be yet? I kncjw not — Cain was 
 Eve's. 
 
 Rut here youtii ofTers to old a2;c the food, 
 Tile milk of his own gift ; it is her sire 
 To wiiom she renders back the debt of blood 
 Born with her birth. No ! he shall not expire 
 Wiiile in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
 Of health and holy feelinsj can provide 
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
 Than Egypt's river ; — from that gentle side 
 Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
 no such tide. 
 
 The starry fable of the milky-way 
 Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray. 
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
 Reverse of her decree, than in the aby.s 
 Where sparkle distant worlds: — ( ), holiest nurse! 
 No drop of that clear struam its way shall miss 
 To tliy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 Widi life, as our freed souls rejoin the uiii\crse. 
 
 LoKIJ BVKON. 
 
 s 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 
 
 OIIN ANDERSON, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first accjuent. 
 Your locks were like the raven. 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent; 
 But now your brow is held, Jolin, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And monie a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither. 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go : 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 RonKRT Bi:k.vs. 
 
 AFFECTIONS OF HOME. 
 
 'I' F ever iiousehold afTections and loves are grace- 
 •§• ful things, they are graceful in the poor. The 
 JL ties that bind tiie wealthy and the proud to 
 I home, may be forged on earth, but those which 
 link the poor man to his humble hearth, are of 
 the true metal, and bear the stamp of heaven. The 
 man of high descent may love the iialls and lands of 
 his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies of his 
 
 birth and power ; the poor man's attachment to the 
 tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, 
 and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier 
 root, struck deep into a purer soil. His household 
 gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, 
 gold, or precious stones ; he has no property but in 
 the affections of his own heart ; and when they endear 
 bare floors and walls, despiteof toil and scanty meals, 
 that man has his love of home from God, and his rude 
 hut becomes a solemn place. 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 •f 
 
 0, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR! 
 
 LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! 
 
 We're growing old ; 
 But Time hath brought no sign, dear. 
 
 That hearts grow cold. 
 'Tis long, long since our new love 
 
 Made life ilivine ; 
 But age enricheth true love. 
 
 Like noble wine. 
 
 And lay thy cheek to mine, dear. 
 
 And take thy rest ; 
 Mine arms around thee twine, dear, 
 
 And make thy nest. 
 A many cares are pressing 
 
 On this dear head ; 
 But Sorrow's hands in blessing 
 
 Are surely laid. 
 
 O, lean thy life on mine, dear ! 
 
 'T will shelter thee. 
 Tiiou Wert a winsome vine, dear. 
 
 On my young tree : 
 And so, till boughs are leafless, 
 
 And songbirds flown. 
 We'll twine, then lay us, griefless. 
 
 Together down. 
 
 Gi;k.\ld Massey. 
 
 THE ABSENT ONES. 
 
 SHALL leave the old house in the autumn, 
 To traverse its threshold no more ; 
 Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones 
 That meet me each morn at the door ! 
 I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses. 
 
 And the gush of their innocent glee, 
 The group on its green, and the flowers 
 That are brought every morning to me. 
 
 I shall miss them at morn and at even. 
 
 Their song in the school and the street ; 
 I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 
 
 And the tread of their delicate feet. 
 When the lessons of life are all ended. 
 
 And death says, " The school is dismissed !'' 
 May the little ones gather around me, 
 
 To bid me good night and be kissed ! 
 
 Charles M. Dickinson. 
 
26 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 3 
 
 I* 
 
 it 
 
 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 'HE farmer sat in Iiis easy-cliair, 
 Smoking liis pipe of clay, 
 While liis liale old wife, willi busy care, 
 ■^ Was clearing the dinner away ; 
 
 A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, 
 On her grandfalher's knee was catching flies. 
 
 The old man laid his hand on her head, 
 
 With a tear on his wiinkled face ; 
 He thought how often her mother, dead. 
 
 Had sat in the self-same place. 
 As the tear stole down from his half-siiut eye, 
 "Dun't smoke !" said the child; " how it makes you 
 cry !" • 
 
 The housedog lay stretched out on the floor, 
 Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 
 
 The busy old wife, by the open door, 
 Was turning the spinning-wheel ; 
 
 And the old bravs clock on the mantel tree 
 
 Had plodded along to almost three. 
 
 Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 
 
 While close to his iieaving breast 
 The moistened l)row and the cheek so fair 
 
 Of his sweet grandchild were jiressed ; 
 His head, ben*: down, on her soft hair lay : 
 Fast asleep were they both, that summer day ! 
 
 Charles Gamagk Kast.man. 
 
 THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE, 
 
 *OW many summers, love. 
 
 Have I been thine? 
 How many days, thou dove, 
 
 H.ist thou been mine? 
 Time, like the winged wind 
 
 Wlien 't bends the flowers, 
 Hatii left no mark behind, 
 
 To count the hours ! 
 
 Some weight of thought, though loatli. 
 
 On thee he leaves ; 
 Some lines of care round botli 
 
 Perhaps lie weaves ; 
 Some fears, — a soft regret 
 
 l"or joys scarce known ; 
 Sweet looks we half forget ;— 
 
 All else is flown ! 
 
 Ah !— With what thankless heart 
 
 I mourn and sing ! 
 Look, where our children start, 
 
 Like sudden siiring ! 
 With tongues all sweet and low 
 
 Like a pleasant rhyme. 
 They tell how mucli I owe 
 
 To tliee and time ! 
 Bryan Waller Proctlr {Barry Cornwall.) 
 
 HOMES\CK. 
 
 eOME to me, O my Mother! come to me, 
 Thine own son slowly dying far away ! 
 Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, 
 blown 
 Hy great invisible winds, come stately ships 
 To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ; 
 They come, they rest awhile, they go away, 
 But, O my Mother, never comest thou ! 
 The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow. 
 That cold soft revelation pure as lighl. 
 And the pine-spire is mystically fringed. 
 Why am I from thee. Mother, far from thee ? 
 Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods 
 Jewelled from bough to bough ? O home, my home ! 
 O river in the valley of my home, 
 With mazy-winding motion intricate. 
 Twisting thy deathless music underneath 
 The polished ice-work — must I nevermore 
 Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch 
 Thy beauty changing with the changeful day, 
 Thy beauty constant to the constant change? 
 
 David Gray. 
 
 MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 
 
 'HE is a winsome wee thing, 
 She is a handsonv.; wee thing. 
 She is a bonnie wee thing, 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 
 I never lo'ed a dearer, 
 
 And neist my heart I'll wear her. 
 
 For fear my jewel tine. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 
 She is a handsome wee thing. 
 She is a bonnie wee thing. 
 This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
 
 The warld's wrack we share o't. 
 
 The warstle and the care o't : 
 
 Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
 
 And think my lot divine. 
 
 Rc)iii:kt Burns. 
 
 (a 
 
 THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 S through the land at eve we went, 
 And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
 We fell out, my wife and I, — 
 Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
 And kiss'd again with tears. 
 
 For when we came where lies the child 
 
 We lost in other years. 
 There above the little grave, 
 Oh, there above the little grave. 
 
 We kiss'd again with tears. 
 
 Alfred Tknnvso.n. 
 
THE HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 27 
 
 I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACE- 
 FULLY CURLED. 
 
 KNEW by tlic smoke that so gracefully curled 
 Above tlie ^reeii ehns, lli;it a cotta^je was near, 
 And I said, " If there's peace to be found in the 
 world, 
 A hi,>..t tliat is humble miylit liopc for it here ! " 
 
 It was noon, and on (lowers tiiat languished around 
 
 In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
 Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 
 
 But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. 
 
 And " Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, 
 "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, 
 
 *\\'ho would blush when 1 praised her, and weep if I 
 blamed, 
 How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! 
 
 " i,j the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips 
 In the gush of liie fountain, how sweet to recline, 
 
 And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, 
 Which had never been sighed on by any but mine! " 
 
 Tho.mas Mooke. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ADAM TO EVE. 
 
 FAIREST of creation, last and best 
 Of all God's works, creature in whom ex- 
 celled 
 ^ Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, 
 ^Holyi divine, good, amiable, or swet.1 1 
 .How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost. 
 Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote ! 
 Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress 
 The strict forbiddance, how to violate 
 The sacred fruit forbidden ! Some cursed fraud 
 Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown. 
 And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee 
 Certain my resolution is to die. 
 How can I live without thee, how forego 
 Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined, 
 To live again in these wild woods forlorn ? 
 Should God create another Eve, and I 
 Another rib afford, yet loss of thee 
 Would never from my heart ; no, no, I feel 
 The link of nature draw me : flesh of flesh, 
 Hone of my bone thou art, and from thy state 
 Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe. 
 
 However, I with thee have fixed my lot, 
 Certain to undergo like doom ; if death 
 Consort with thee, death is to me as life ; 
 So forcible within my heart I feel 
 The bond of nature draw me to my own. 
 My own in thee, for what thou ait is mine ; 
 Our state cannot be severed, we are one. 
 One flesh ; to lose thee were to lose myself. 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 INE be a cot beside the hill ; 
 •js I A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
 .J^A. A willowy brook that turns the mill, 
 ' With many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 
 Shalt twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew, 
 And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
 In russet gown and apron blue. 
 
 The village-rhurch among the trees, 
 When first our marriage vows were given. 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
 And point with taper spire to heaven. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 THE OLD LOG CABIN. 
 
 TT is only shallow-niinded pretenders who either 
 •g' make distinguished origin a matter of personal 
 «*» merit, or obscure origin a matter of personal re- 
 ' pioach. Taunt and scoffing at the luimljle con- 
 dition of early life alfect noliody in America but those 
 I who are foolish enough to indulge in them ; and they 
 I are generally sufiicieiitly punished by public rebuke. 
 I A man who is not asiianied of himself need net be 
 I ashamed of his early coiitlition. It did not happen to 
 I me to be born in a log cabin; but my elder brothers 
 I and sisters were born in a log cabin, raised among the 
 snow-drifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early, 
 that when the smoke first rose from its rude chimney 
 and curled over the fro;';en hills, there was no similar 
 evidence of a white man's habitation between it and the 
 settlements on the rivers of Canada. 
 
 Its remains still exist. I make to it an annual visit. 
 I carry my children to it, to teach 'them the hardships 
 endured by the generations which have gone before 
 them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the 
 kindred ties, the early afTections, and the touching nar- 
 ratives and incidents which mingle with all I know of 
 this primitive family abode. I weep to think that none 
 of those who inhabited it are now among the living ; 
 and if ever I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affec- 
 tionate veneration for him who reared it, and defended 
 it against savage violence and destruction, cherished 
 all the domestic virtues beneath its roof, and, through 
 the fire and blood of a seven years' revolutionary war, 
 shrunk from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to serve 
 his country, and to raise his children to a condition 
 better than his own, may my name, and the name of 
 my posteritj", be blotted forever from the memory of 
 mankind 1 
 
 Daniel Webster. 
 
1 1 >! 
 
 28 
 
 CROWN JKVVELS. 
 
 THE HAPPY MAN. 
 
 ! ' 
 
 'E'S not the Happy Man to whom is given 
 A plontcuus f(.)rtunc by intluls^cnt Heaven ; 
 Whose j;ilcled roofs on sliininj; cvjUinuis rise, 
 And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes ; 
 
 Whose tai)le flows with iiospitahle cheer, 
 
 And ail the varions bounty of the year ; 
 
 AVhose valleys snnle, whose gardens breathe the si)ring, 
 
 Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing; 
 
 For whom the cooling shade in Snnuner twines. 
 
 While his full cellars give their generous wine., ; 
 
 From whose wide fields unbountled Autunni puiir 
 
 A golden tide into his swelling stores ; 
 
 Whose winter laughs ; for whom the liberal gales 
 
 Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails ; 
 
 When yielding crowds attend, antl pleasure ser\es ; 
 
 While youth, and health, and vigor string his nerves. 
 
 Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combined. 
 
 Can make the I lappy Man, without the mind ; 
 
 When Judgment sits clear-sighted, and surveys 
 
 The chain of Reason with unerring ga/' ; 
 
 Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes, 
 
 His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise ; 
 
 Where soci;;I Love exerts her soft command. 
 
 And plays the passions with a tender hand. 
 
 Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife, 
 
 And all the moral harmony of life. 
 
 James Thompson. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 
 
 Y mother, when I learned that thou wast 
 dead, 
 
 ,, Say, was thou conscious of the tears I 
 
 * shed ? 
 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
 And, turning from my nursery-window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone. 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave .lie promise of thy quick return ; 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed. 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
 By expectation every day beguiled. 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
 B' though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more ; 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
 
 Drew me to school along the public way — 
 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, — 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours 
 
 When, Jjlaying witli thy vesture's tis.-iued flowers — • 
 
 The violet, the pink, the jessamine — 
 
 I pricked them iiilo paper w ilh a pin, 
 
 (.\nd thou wast hajipiir than myself the while — 
 
 Wouldstsofdy speak, and stroke my head and smile,) 
 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
 
 But no I What here we call our life is such, 
 
 So little to lie loved, and thou so much. 
 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 CHRISTMAS TIME. 
 
 EAP on more wood I— the wind is chill ; 
 Hut let it whistle as it will. 
 We'll keip our Christmas merry still 
 ICach age has deemed the new-born year 
 Tile ("litest time for festal cheer : 
 Ami well our Cliristiaii sires of old 
 Loved when the year its course bad rolled. 
 And brought blithe Christmas back again, 
 With all his hosiiitable train. 
 Domestic and religious rite 
 Gave iKjiior to the holy night : 
 On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
 On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; 
 Tiiat only night, in all the year. 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
 The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; 
 The hall was dressed with holly green ; 
 Forth to the wood did merry-men go. 
 To gather in the mistletoe. 
 Then o[)ened wide the baron's hall 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
 Tower laid his rod of rule aside, 
 And Ceremony doffed his pride. 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes, 
 That night might village partner choose ; 
 The l(jrd, underogating, share 
 The vulgar game of " post and pair.' 
 All hailed, with uncontrolled delight 
 And general voice, the happy night 
 That to the cottage, as the crown, 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 The fire, with welWried logs supplied. 
 Went roaring up the chinniey wide ; 
 The huge hall-table's oaken face. 
 Scrubbed tiil it shone the day to grace, 
 Bore then upon its massive board 
 No mark to part the seiiiire and lord. 
 Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
 By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
 
THE IIOMI-: CIRCLE. 
 
 29 
 
 Then the grim boar's head frowned on high, 
 Crested witli bays and rosemary. 
 Well can the [;reen-^arbetl ranijer tdl 
 How, when and where the monster fell ; 
 What d;),i^s before his deati' he tore, 
 And all the baiting of the Doar. 
 The wassail round, in go(jd brown bowls, 
 Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. 
 There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by 
 Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie ; 
 Nor failed old Scotland to produce. 
 At such high-tide, her savory goose. 
 Then came the merry maskers in, 
 And carols roared with blithesome din ; 
 If unnielodious was the song. 
 It was a hearty note, and strong. 
 Who lists may in their nunnming see 
 Traces of ancient mystery ; 
 White skirls supplietl liie masquerade, 
 And smutted cheeks the visors made : 
 But, {), what maskers richly dight 
 Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
 England was merry luigland, when 
 Old Christmas brought his sports again, 
 'T was Christm.as broached the mightiest ale : 
 'T was Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
 A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
 The poor man's heart through half the year, 
 .Sir Wai.ti;i< Scott, 
 
 THE OLD HEARTHSTONE, 
 
 ^' son, thou wilt dream the world is fiir. 
 And thy spirit will sigh to ro.im, 
 And thou must go ; but never, when there, 
 ^ Forget the light of home ! 
 
 Though pleasure may smile with a ray UKjre bright, 
 
 It dazzles to lead astray ; 
 Like the meteor's Hash, 'twill deepen the night 
 
 When treading thy lonely way: — 
 
 But the hearth of home has a constant fiame, 
 
 AikI pure as vestal fire — 
 'Twil! burn, 'twill burn forever the same, 
 
 For nature feeds the pyre. 
 
 The sea of ambition is tempest-toss'd. 
 And thy hojies may vanish like foam — 
 
 When sails are shiver'd and compass lost, 
 Then look to the light of home I 
 
 And there, like a star through midnight cloud, 
 
 Thou'lt see the beacon bright ; 
 For never, till shining on thy shroud. 
 
 Can be quench'd its holy light. 
 
 The sun of fame may guild the name, 
 
 But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; 
 And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, 
 
 Are beams of a wintry day : 
 
 How cold and dim those beams would be, 
 
 .Should life's poor wanderer come !— 
 
 My son, when the worUl is dark to thee, 
 
 Then turn to the light of home. 
 
 S.\R.\ir J, Hale. 
 
 THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 
 
 AY down upon de Swanee Ril)!)er, 
 
 Far, far away — 
 Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber— 
 
 Dare's wha de old folks stay. 
 All up and down de whole creation, 
 
 Sadly I roam ; 
 Still longing for de old iilantalion, 
 
 And for de old folks at home. 
 
 All de wodd am sad and dreary, 
 
 F.b'rywhere I roam ; 
 Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. 
 
 Far from de old folks at home. 
 
 All round de little farm I wandered. 
 
 When I was j-oung ; 
 Den many happy d.iys I squandered. 
 
 Many de songs I sung. 
 When I w;is inlaying wid my brudder, 
 
 Happy w.as I ; 
 Oh ! take me to my kind old mndder ! 
 
 Dare let me live and die ! 
 
 One little hut among de bushes — 
 
 One dat 1 love — 
 Still sadly to my memory rushes, 
 
 No matter where I rove. 
 When will I see de bees a-humming, 
 
 All round de comb ? 
 When will I hear de banjo tumming 
 
 Down in my good old home ? 
 
 Stephen Collins Foster. 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast. 
 Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
 Let star and stripe be westward cast, 
 And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! 
 Strain home ! O lithe and quivering spars 1 
 Point home my country's flag of stars ' 
 My mother, in thy prayer to-night 
 
 There come new words and warmer tears ; 
 On long, long darkness breaks the light, 
 
 Comes home the loved, the lost for years. 
 Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! 
 
 Fear not to-night, or storm or sea : 
 The ear of Heaven bends low to her ! 
 
 He comes to shore who sails with me. 
 The wind-tossed spider needs no token 
 
 How stands the tree when lightnings blaze ; 
 And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, 
 I know my mother lives and prays. 
 
 Nathaniel P. Willis. 
 
30 
 
 CROWN JEWIXS. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 REMEMRF.R, I rcnicnih.r 
 
 The iiousc where I \v;is lium, 
 The little window where tiu- sun 
 
 Came peepinji; in at morn. 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 
 Nor brought too lonj; a day ; 
 But now I often wisii the ni};ht 
 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white, 
 The violets, and the lily-cups — 
 
 Those flowers made of light ! 
 The lilacs where the robin built, 
 
 And where my brother set 
 The laburnum on his birthday — 
 
 The tree is living yet I 
 
 I remeinber, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swings, 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing; 
 My spirit flew in fe.ithers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky. 
 It was a childish ignorance. 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 To know I'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 Tno.MAs Hood. 
 
 From a broad window my neighbor, 
 Looks down on our little cot, 
 
 And watches the " poor man's blessing"- 
 I cannot envy his lot. 
 
 He has pictures, books, and music, 
 P-right fountains, and noble trees, 
 
 Rare store of blossoming roses, 
 r>irds from beyond the seas. 
 
 Rut never does childish laughter 
 His homeward footsteps greet ; 
 
 His stately halls ne'er echo 
 To the tread of innocent feet. 
 
 This child is our " sparkling picture " 
 A birdling that chatters and sings, 
 
 Sometimes a sleeping cherub, 
 (Our other one has wings.) 
 
 When the glory of sunset opens 
 
 The highway by angles trod. 
 And seems to unbar the city 
 
 Whose builder and maker is God — 
 
 Close to the crystal portal, 
 
 I see by the gates of pearl. 
 The eyes of our other angel — 
 
 A twin-born little girl. 
 
 And I ask to be taught and directed 
 To guide his footsteps aright ; 
 
 So to live that 1 may be ready 
 To walk in sandals of light — 
 
 And hear, amid songs of welcome, 
 From messengers trusty and fleet, 
 
 On the starry floor of heaven. 
 The patter of little feet. 
 
 u 
 
 THE PATTER OF LITTLE FEET. 
 
 P with the sun in the morning, 
 Away to the garden he hies, 
 To see if the sleeping blossoms 
 Have begun to open their eyes. 
 
 Running a race with the wind. 
 With a step as light and fleet. 
 
 Under my window I hear 
 The patter of little feet. 
 
 Now to the brook he wanders. 
 In swift and noiseless flight. 
 
 Splashing the sparkling ripples 
 Like a fairy water sprite. 
 
 No sand under fabled river 
 Has gleams like his golden hair, 
 
 No pearly sea-shell is fairer 
 Than his slender ankles bare. 
 
 THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 F solid happiness we prize. 
 
 Within our breast this jewel lies ; 
 
 And they are fools who roam : 
 The world has nothing to bistow ; 
 From our own selves our joys nuist flow, 
 And that dear place— our home. 
 
 Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
 But then how little do we need ! 
 
 For nature's calls are few : 
 In this the art of living lies. 
 To want no more than may suffice, 
 
 And make that little do. 
 
 We'll therefore relish with content 
 Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 
 
 Nor aim beyond our power ; 
 For, if our stock be very small, 
 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all. 
 
 Nor lose the present hour. 
 
 
THE HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 .*U 
 
 To be resigned when ills betide, 
 Patient when favors are denied, 
 
 And pleased with fivors liven ; 
 Dear Ciiloc, tliis is wisdom's part ; 
 T'lis is th:'.t incense of tlie licMrt, 
 
 Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 
 
 Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go ; 
 Its clie(iuered patlis of joy and wo 
 
 With cautious steps we'll tread ; 
 Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 
 Without a trouble or a fear. 
 
 And mingle with the dead : 
 
 Whiln conscience, like a faithful friend, 
 Shall through the gloomy vale .ittend, 
 
 And cheer our dying breath ; 
 Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
 Like a kind angel, whisp'jr peace, 
 
 And smooth the bed of death. 
 
 Nathaniel Cotton. 
 
 THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
 
 'OW blest has my time been! what joys have 1 
 known, 
 Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my 
 own ! 
 
 So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, , 
 
 That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 
 
 Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we 
 
 stray, 
 Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
 I low pk-asing their sport is ! the want(jn ones see. 
 And borrt)w their looks from my Jessy and mc. 
 
 To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen. 
 In revels all day with the nymphs on tiie green ; 
 Though i^ainful my absence, riiy doubts she beguiles, 
 And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. 
 
 What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue. 
 Her wit and good humor bloom all the year through ; 
 Time still, as he Hies, adds increase to her truth, 
 And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. 
 
 Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare. 
 And cheat, with false vou'S, the too credulous fair; 
 bi search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam! 
 To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 
 
 Edwaku Moore. 
 
 His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold ; 
 Thy father is passing away. 
 
 fie kind to thy mother, for, lo ! on her brow 
 
 May traces of sorrow be seen : 
 Oh, well may'st you cherish and cf)mfort her now, 
 
 For loving and kind hath she bei-n. 
 Remember thy mollier, for thee will she pray 
 
 As long a.s Clod giveth her breath ; 
 With accents (T kindness then cheer her lone way, 
 
 E'en to the dark valley of death. 
 
 He kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth. 
 
 If the smile of thy love be willidrawn ; 
 The flowers of feeling will fade at their birlli. 
 
 If the ^ew of aflection be gone. 
 He kind to thy brother, wherever you are. 
 
 The love of a brother shall be 
 An ornament, jiurL-r and richer by far, 
 
 Than pearls from the dei)tlis of the sea 
 
 He kind to thy sister, not many may know 
 
 The depth of true sisterly love ; 
 The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below 
 
 The surface that S[iarkles above. 
 Thy kindness shall bring to tliee many sweet hours. 
 
 And blessings thy pathway to crown, 
 Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers. 
 
 More precious than wealth or renown. 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
 days ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 BE KIND. 
 
 ' I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
 i Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; 
 All, all arc gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
 Closed are her doors on me, I nnist not see her ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
 Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly ; 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; 
 Fiarth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
 .Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 E kind to thy father, for when thou wa.^ young. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
 Who loved dice as fondly ;ls he ? ', Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling ? 
 
 He caught the first accents that fell from thy i So might we talk of the old familiar faces— 
 
 And joined hUhine innocent glee. ' "^^^ =°'"« ^^^^ ^""''^ '^i^^- '^"'' '^'"^ ^^""^ ^^""'^ '^^^ '"«' 
 
 Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, 
 His locks intermingled with gray, 
 
 ! And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
'; !i| 
 
 !■ i 
 
 32 
 
 CROWN JICWKLS. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 ^T^IJ, (.lay, like some swoet bird, content tii sinj; 
 I ^ In its small cai;e, siie niovctli to and fnj — 
 
 ^^ And ever and anon wi!! upward sprinj; 
 
 To Iier sweet lips, fresh fn ini tlie fount below, 
 Tlie murmur'd melody of pleasant thought, 
 
 Unconscious ntter'd, gentle-toned and low. 
 Lit;!it household duties, evennore inwrought 
 
 Willi placid fancies of one trusting heart 
 That lives but in her smile, and turns 
 
 From life's cold seeming and the busy mart, 
 With teiulerness, that heavenward ever yearns 
 To he refresh'd vviiere one pure altar burns. 
 Shut out from hence the mockery of life, 
 Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting wife. 
 Klizaueth O.vkes S.Mirn. 
 
 HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. 
 
 'OUSEHOLD treasures, household treasures, 
 
 ( lems of worth, say, w hat are they ? 
 W.'iIIs of jasper, doors of cedar, 
 
 Arras of superb array? 
 Caskets of the ct)stliest jewels. 
 
 Cabinets of ancient store. 
 Shrines where Art her incense offers, 
 
 Volumes of jirofoundest lore ? 
 
 Household treasures, iiome's true jewels, 
 
 Deem 1 better far than those : 
 Prattling children, blithe and ruddy 
 
 As the dew-bespangled rose. 
 Tempt me not with gold of Opiiir, 
 
 Wreathe not gems to deck my head; 
 Winsome hearthlings, home's fond angels, 
 
 Are the things I crave instead. 
 
 Household treasures, household treasures, 
 
 Gems of worth, say, what are they ? 
 All that wealth or grandeur proffer, 
 
 Soon, alas ! nnist know decay ; 
 But, 'midst amaranths unfading, 
 
 A\'ith the rose-stain'd cherubim, 
 Happy children, gone before us, 
 
 Swell the everlasting hymn. 
 
 Tiio.MAS Greet. 
 
 A HOME IN THE HEART. 
 
 H • ask not a home in the mansions of pride, 
 Where marble shines out in the pillars 
 and walls ; 
 Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly 
 cold, 
 And joy may not be found in its torch lighted hulls. 
 But seek for a bosom all honest and true. 
 Where love, once awaken'd, will never depart : 
 
 Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, 
 And you'll find there's no home like a home in the 
 heart. 
 
 Oh ! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere. 
 That will heighten your pleasure and solace your 
 care ; 
 Find a soul yon may trust ,is the kind and the just, 
 And In: sure the wide world holds no treasure so 
 rare. 
 Then thu frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot, 
 The cheek, searing tear-ilrops of Sorrow may start ; 
 Hut a star never dim sheds a halo for liim 
 Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 FARMER GRAY'S PHOTOGRAPH. 
 
 WANT you to take a jiicter o' me and my old 
 woman here, 
 Jest ;is we be, if you |)lease, sir — wrinkles, gray 
 haits and .all ; 
 
 We never was vain at our best, and we're going on 
 eighty ye.ir, 
 l)Ut we've gut some boys to be proud of, straight an' 
 handsome ;uid tall ; 
 They i-.re ccniing home this sunmier, the tiineteenth 
 day of July, 
 Tom wrote me, (Tom's a lawyer in Bostcjn since 
 forty-eigiit) ; 
 So we're going to try aiul surprise 'em, my old wife 
 and I — 
 Tom, Harry, Zay and Elisha, and the two girls, Jen- 
 nie and Kate. 
 I gue.ss you've liearn of E'lish.a — he preaches in Middle- 
 town, 
 I'm a Methody myself, but he's 'Piscopal, he says ; 
 Don't s'jiose it makes much difference, only he wears 
 a gown ; 
 An' I couldn't abide (bein' old and set) what / call 
 them rojiish ways. 
 But he's good, fjr / brought him up, and the others- 
 Harry 'n' Zay, 
 They're merchants down to the city, an' don't forget 
 mother 'n' me ; 
 They'd give us the fat of the land if we'd only come 
 that way. 
 And Jennie and Kate are hearty off, for they married 
 rich, you see. 
 Well, hid, that's a cur'us fix, sir. Do you screw it into 
 the head ? 
 I've hearn of this photography, an' I reckon it's scary 
 work. 
 Do you take the picters by lightnin' ? La, yes ; so the 
 neighbors said ; 
 .It's the sun that does it, old woman; 'n' he never 
 was known to shirk. 
 Wall, yes, I'll be readin' the Bible ; old woman, what'll 
 you do ? 
 
) Its nest, 
 iliuino ill the 
 
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 what / call 
 he others — 
 don't forget 
 1 only come 
 hey married 
 screw it into 
 on it's .scar\- 
 yes ; so the 
 n' he never 
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THK HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 33 
 
 Jest sit on the other side o' me, 'n' I'll take hold o' 
 your hand. 
 That's tiie way we courted, mister, if it's all the same 
 to you ; 
 And that's the wny we're a-goin', jilcase God, to the 
 light o' the better laud. 
 I never could look that thing in the face, if my eyes was 
 as good ;is gold. 
 'Tain't over? Do say! What, the work is ilone ! 
 Old woman, that beats the Dutch. 
 Jest think ! we've got our picters took, and we nigh 
 eighty year old ; 
 There am't many couples in our tcwn of our age tliat 
 can say as much. 
 You see on the nineteenth of ne.\t July our gcjlden wed- 
 ding comes on — 
 For fifty year in the sun and rain we've pulled at the 
 same old cart ; 
 We've never had any trouble to speak of, only our poor 
 son John 
 Went wrong, an' I drove him ofl", 'n' it ;ibout bmkr 
 the old woman's heart — 
 There's a drop of bitter in every sweet. And my (jid 
 woman and me 
 Will think of John when the rest come home. Vi'uuld 
 I forgive him, young sir? 
 He was only a boy, and I was a fool fur hein' so hard, 
 you see ; 
 If I could jist git him atween these arms, I'd stick to 
 him like a Durr. 
 And what's to pay for the sunshine that's painted my 
 gray old phiz ? 
 Nothin' ? That's cur'us! You don't work for the 
 pleasure of working, hey ? 
 Old woman, look here ! tliere's Tom in that face — I'm 
 blest if tlie chin isn't his ! 
 Good God ! s/ic Icnows him — it's our son John, the 
 boy that we drove away ! 
 
 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 'IIEY grew in beauty, side by side, 
 They fiU'd one home with glee ; 
 Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, 
 By mount, and stream, and sea. 
 
 The same fond mother bent at night 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
 
 She had each folded flower in sight — 
 Where are those dreamers now? 
 
 One, 'midst the forest of the west, 
 
 Ry a dark stream is laid — 
 The Indian knows iiis plact; of rest. 
 
 Far in the cedar shade. 
 
 The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, 
 He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
 
 He was the loved of all, yet none 
 O'er his low bed may weep. 
 3 
 
 One sleeps where southern vines are dre.ss'd 
 
 Above the noble slain : 
 He wrapt his colors rouiul his breast. 
 
 On a blood-red field of Spain. 
 
 And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
 Its leaves, by soft •.vinds faun'd ; 
 
 She faded 'nudst Italiim flowers — 
 The last of that bright band. 
 
 And parted thus they rest, who play'd 
 
 Meneath the same grei'ii tree ; 
 Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 
 
 Around one parent knee ! 
 
 They tiiat with smiljs lit up the hall, 
 And cheer'd with song the hearth — 
 
 Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 
 And nought beyond on earth ! 
 
 Felicia Dokotiiea Hkmans. 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare 
 To chide me for loving tiiat old arm-chair ; 
 I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 
 I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with 
 sighs. 
 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my hearth ; 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ; 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; 
 And gentle words that mother would give ; 
 To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
 She told me shame would never betide, 
 With truth for my creed and God for my guide ? 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ; 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat and watch'dher many a day. 
 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; 
 
 And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, 
 
 And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child. 
 
 Years roll'd on ; but the last one sped — 
 
 My idol was shatter'd ; my earth star fled ; 
 
 I learnt how much the heart can bear, 
 
 When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 
 
 'T is past, 't is past, but I gaze on it now 
 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; 
 
 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died : 
 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 
 Say it is folly ; and deem me weak, 
 
 While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
 
 But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear 
 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair, 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
34 
 
 CROWN ji-:wKr.s. 
 
 0! ,ili 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 STREAM descending to the sea, 
 Thy mossy banks between, 
 Tlie flow'rets blow the grasses grow 
 The leafy trees are green. 
 
 In garden plots the children play. 
 The fields the laborers till. 
 
 The houses stand on either hand, 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 O life descending into death, 
 Our waking eyes behold. 
 
 Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 
 Companions young and old. 
 
 Strong purposes our minds possess, 
 
 Our hearts affections fill, 
 We toil and earn, we seek and learn. 
 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 O end to which our currents tend, 
 
 Inevitable sea, 
 To which we flow, what do we know. 
 
 What shall we guess of thee? 
 
 A roar we hear upon thy shore. 
 
 As we our course fulfil ; 
 Scarce we divine a sun shall shine 
 
 And be above us still. 
 
 WIFE. CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 
 
 w 
 
 'HEN the black-lcttored list to the gods was 
 presented, 
 (The list of what Fate for each mortal in- 
 tends), 
 At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 
 And slipi'eil in three blessings — wife, children and 
 friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, 
 For justice divine could not compass its ends ; 
 
 The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated. 
 For earth becomes heaven with— wife, children and 
 friends. 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested. 
 The fund, ill secui'ed, oft in bankruptcy ends ; 
 
 But the heart issues bills which are never protested. 
 When drawn on the firm of— wife, children and 
 friends. 
 
 Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers, 
 The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends. 
 
 Drops a tear of regret as lie dying reinemhi!rs 
 How blessed was his home with — wife, children and 
 friends. 
 
 The soldier, whose deeds live immortril in story, 
 Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, 
 
 With transport would barter whole ages of glory 
 I"or one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Though .spice-broathing gales on his caravan hover, 
 Though for liim all Ara!)ia's fmgrance ascends. 
 
 The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 
 The bower where he sat with — wife, children and 
 friends. 
 
 The dayspring of youtn, still unclouded by sorrow, 
 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 Rut drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow 
 
 No warmth from the smile of— wife, children and 
 friends. 
 
 Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish 
 The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends ; 
 
 O'er me wave the willow, ;md long may it flourish, 
 Bedewed with the tears of— wife, children and friends. 
 
 Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver, 
 To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
 
 Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavor 
 The glass which I fill to — wife, children and friends. 
 
 WiLLIA.M RonERT Si'ENCER. 
 
 HOME VOICES. 
 
 AM so home-sick in this summer weatiier ! 
 Where is my home upon this weary earth ? 
 The maple trees are bursting into freshness 
 Around the pleasant place that gave me birth. 
 
 But dearer far, a grave for me is waiting. 
 Far up among the pine trees' greener shade ; 
 
 The willow boughs the hand of love has planted, 
 Wave o'er the hillock where my dead are laid. 
 
 Why go without me — oh, ye loved and loving? 
 
 Wliat has earth left of happiness or peace? 
 Let me come to you, where the heart grows calmer ; 
 
 Let me lie down where life's wild strugglings cease. 
 
 Earth has no home for hearts so worn and weary; 
 
 Life has no second spring for such a year ; 
 Oh ! for the day that bids me come to meet you ! 
 
 And, life in gladness, in that summer hear ! 
 
 HOME OF THE WORKINGMAN. 
 
 -^JV ESOLVE— and tell your wife of your good reso 
 m^ lution. She will aid it all she can. Her step 
 ^ V will be lighter and her hand will be busier all 
 day, expecting the comfortable evening at 
 home when you return. Household affairs will have 
 been well attended to. A place for everything, and 
 everything in its place, will, like some good genius, have 
 made even an humble home the scene of neatness, 
 arrangement and taste. The table will be ready at 
 the fireside. The loaf will be one of that order which 
 says, by its appearance, You may cut and come again. 
 The cups and saucers will be waiting for supplies. 
 The kettle will be singing ; and the children, happy 
 with fresh air and exercise, will be smiling in their 
 glad anticipation of that evening meal when father is 
 at home, and of the pleasant reading afterwards. 
 
TIIK.IIOMIC CIRCLE. 
 
 ■er, 
 
 :over 
 ;n and 
 
 211 :in" 
 
 rish 
 
 rish, 
 1 friends. 
 
 ing? 
 
 e? 
 
 rs calmer ; 
 
 ings cease. 
 
 weary ; 
 
 » 
 
 youl 
 
 fcar! 
 
 In. 
 
 MY LITTLE WIFE. 
 
 UR table is spread for two, to-night — 
 No guests our bounty share ; 
 The damask cloth is snowy white, 
 The services elegant and bright, 
 Our china quaint and rare ; 
 My little wife presides. 
 And perfect love abides. 
 
 The bread is sponge, the butter gold, 
 
 The miifTins nice and hot, 
 What though the winds without blow cold? 
 The walls a little world infold, 
 And the storm is soon forgot ; 
 In the fire-light's cheerful glow, 
 Beams a paradise below. 
 
 A fairer picture who has seen? 
 
 Soft lights and shadows blend ; 
 The central figure of the scene. 
 She sits, my wife, my queen — 
 Her head a little bent ; 
 And in her eyes of blue 
 I read my bliss anew. 
 
 I watch her as slie pours the tea, 
 
 With quiet, gentle grace ; 
 With fingers deft, and movements free, 
 She mixes in the cream for me, 
 A bright smile on her face ; 
 And, as she sends it up, 
 I pledge her in my cup. 
 
 Was ever man before so blest? 
 
 I secretly reflect. 
 The passing thought she must have guessed. 
 For now dear lips on mine are pressed, 
 An arm is round my neck. 
 Dear treasure of my life — 
 God bless her — little wife. 
 
 GOOD BYE, OLD HOUSE. 
 
 OOD bye, old house 1 the hurry and the bustle 
 Smothered till now all thought of leaving 
 
 you; 
 But the last load has gone, and I've a mo- 
 ment, 
 All by myself, to say a last adieu. 
 
 Good bye, old house ! I shall not soon forget you. 
 The witness of so much eventful time — 
 
 And walls have ears they say, I beg you cherish 
 Each secret that you may have heard of mine. 
 
 Strange faces will come in and gaze upon you, 
 Irreverent and careless of each spot 
 
 That held in sacred keeping household treasures, 
 Ah, well, you need not mind — it matters not. 
 
 They'll wonder why that nail was driven yonder 
 In reach of Freddy's hand, at Christmas time, 
 
 That he might hang, himself, his little stocking. 
 That notch marked Willie's height when he was 
 nine. 
 
 These marks that I have not the heart to trouble, 
 Johnny put there before he went away, 
 
 Wishing, meanwhile, that he might make them 
 double ; 
 Tliey meant the days he had at home to stay 
 
 Dear child ! it was that corner held his coffin 
 When trouble, toil and pain for him were done ; 
 
 And in that corner, too, I have knelt daily, 
 Striving to find the way that he has won. 
 
 'Twas in that comer Margaret was married, 
 And that white spot upon the smoky wall 
 Is wiiere her picture hung, — those three nails yon- 
 der 
 Were driven to hold her s?.ck, and scarf, and 
 "hawl. 
 
 And so, old house, you have for every blemish 
 A strange, peculiar story of your own ; 
 
 As our poor bodies do when we have loft them, 
 And powerless alike to make it known. 
 
 Good bye, good bye, old liouse ! the night is fall- 
 ing, 
 They'll think I've wandered from the path, I 
 guess. 
 One more walk through tlie rooms, ah ! how they 
 echo ! 
 How strange and lonely is their emptiness ! 
 
 Millie C. Pomerov. 
 
 A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE, 
 
 III' 
 
 I EN barren doubt like a late-coming snow 
 Made an unkind December of my spring, 
 That all the pretty flowers did droop for 
 woe, 
 
 And the sweet birds their love r.o more would sing ; 
 Then the remembrance of thy gentle f.iilh. 
 Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart ; 
 Fond feeling saved me from that utter scathe. 
 And from thy hope I could not live apart. 
 
 Now that my mind hath passed from wintry gloom. 
 And on the calm<^d waters once again 
 Ascendant faith circles with silver plume. 
 That casts a charmed shade, not now in pain, 
 Thou child of Christ, in joy I think of thee, 
 And mingle prayers for what we both may be. 
 
 Arthur Henry Haulam. 
 
3e 
 
 CROWN jicwrxs. 
 
 m 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 INGER not long. }Iomo is not home witliout 
 thcu : 
 Its dearest tokens do hut make me mourn. 
 O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, 
 Gently compel and liasten thy return ! 
 
 Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy stay- 
 ing, 
 
 Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, thougli dear. 
 Compensate for the grief thy long delaying 
 
 Costs the fond heart Ih.at sighs to have thee liere ? 
 
 Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming. 
 As evening sliadows stretch o'er moor and dell , 
 
 Wiien the wild bee hath ceasetl her busy humming, 
 And silence hangs on all things like a spell ! 
 
 How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, 
 As night grows dark and darker on tlie hill ! 
 
 How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! 
 Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still ? 
 
 Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth nie 
 Gazeth through tears that make its sjilendor dull ; 
 
 For O, I sometimes fear when thou art with me 
 Iwy cup of happiness is all too full. 
 
 Haste, haste thee home unto thy mouiitain dwelling, 
 
 Ha'Ste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! 
 Haste, as a skifF, through tempests wide and swelling, 
 
 I'Tjs to its haven of securest rest! 
 
 THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 'HE '.vhite moon peeps thro' my window-blind 
 As I'm sitting alone to-night. 
 Thinking of days I've left behind 
 'f In tlie years that have t.iken flight. 
 
 My heart is full (jf a nameless thrill 
 That my life has been so sweet. 
 And I fain would hurry to Zion's hill 
 And bow at tlie Giver's feet. 
 
 The year just going has brought me boon 
 
 As rich as the years gone by ; 
 The skies were clear as the harvest moon 
 
 When the golden crops were dry ; 
 
 The grain was garnered abundantly then, 
 
 For the wintry days ahead. 
 And I thank the Giver of good to men 
 
 For supplies of daily bread. 
 
 No fell disease with ghastly shrouds 
 
 Has come in grim disguise ; 
 No war has spread its baleful clouds 
 
 Athwart my azure skies ; 
 But the dove of peace — the white-winged dove — 
 
 Has built in my own roof-tree, 
 And the breezes have floated the banner of love 
 
 O'er all my land and sea. 
 
 So now I sing as best I can 
 
 My glad Thanksgiving song, 
 To Him who iiolds me by the hand, 
 
 And leads me safe along ; 
 I am not worthy his smallest gift, 
 
 But He giveth large and free. 
 And so a song of praise I lift 
 
 For His goodness unto me. 
 
 Tho.ma.s Berry Smith. 
 
 THE THREE DEAREST WORDS. 
 
 'HERE are three words that sweetly blend, 
 That on the heart are graven ; 
 A precious, soothing balm tlv.-y lend — 
 They're mother, home and heaven ! 
 
 They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers, 
 Which, placed on memory's urn. 
 
 Will e'en the longest, gloomiest hours 
 To golden sunlight turn ! 
 
 They form a chain whose every link 
 
 Is free from base alloy ; 
 A stream where whosoever drinks 
 
 Will find refreshing joy ! 
 
 They build an altar where each day 
 
 Love's offering is renewed ; 
 And peace illumes with genial ray 
 
 Life's darkened solitude ! 
 
 If from our side the first has fled. 
 
 And home be but a name. 
 Let's strive the narrow path to tread, 
 
 That we the last may gain ! 
 
 Mary J. Muckle. 
 
NfiRRflTlYES AND BflLLflDS. 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 HE king^ was on his tlironc, 
 The satraps thronj^rd the liall ; 
 A thousand briglit lamps 
 shone 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of >;old, 
 In Juilah deemed divine, 
 
 u 
 
 Jehovah's vessels Iiold 
 
 The godless heathen's wine ! 
 
 In that same hour and hall, 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless waxed his look, 
 
 And tremulous iiis voice. 
 " Let the men of lore appear. 
 
 The wisest of the earth, 
 And expound the words of fear. 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldcea's seers are good, 
 
 Ikit here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood, 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage, 
 
 They saw, — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth, — 
 He heard the king's command, 
 
 I le saw that writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright. 
 
 The prophecy in view : 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made, 
 His kingdom passed away, 
 He in the balance weighed. 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 The shroud, his robe of state ; 
 
 His canopy, the stone ; 
 The Mede is at his gate ! 
 The Persian on his throne ! '• 
 
 Lord Bvron. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 NDER a spreading cliestnut-tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands ; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp and black and long ; 
 
 His face is like the tan ; 
 Hi.i brow is wet with honest sweat, — 
 
 He earns whate'er he can, 
 Anil looks the whole world in tlie face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow ; 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
 Willi measured beat and slow. 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school, 
 
 Look in at liie open door ; 
 T.iey love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And liear the bellows roar, 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from the threshing floor. 
 
 He goes on .Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 He liears the parson pray and preach ; 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 
 
 Singing in Paradise ! 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, . 
 
 Onward through life he goes; 
 E.ich morning sees some task begin, 
 
 I'^ath evening sees it close ; 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thon hast taught ! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought ! 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 (•■57; 
 
1 i 
 
 W: '! 
 
 38 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 
 
 li 
 
 YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West, 
 Tlirougli all tlie wide Border his steed was 
 
 the best ; 
 And save his good broadsword he weapon 
 had none, 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! 
 
 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 
 
 He swam the Esk River where ford there was none ; 
 
 Rut ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 
 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ! 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — 
 For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,— 
 " O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 
 " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you dcnieil : 
 Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its tide ! 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! 
 There be maidens in Sctitland more lovely by far, 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar ! " 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, 
 He quaffed ofTthe wine, and he threw down the cup ! 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh. 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
 " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace ! 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 
 
 plume. 
 And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'T were better by 
 
 for 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin- 
 var!" 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
 When they reached the hall door, and the charger stooil 
 
 near, 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 
 " Snc is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" (juoth young 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mdunting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby 
 
 cl.in ; 
 Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 
 
 ran ; 
 There was racing and chasing on Caiinobie Lea, 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war^ 
 ILive ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. 
 
 FT in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days ar(jund me ; 
 The smiles, the tears, 
 Of boyhood's years, 
 The words of love then spoken ; 
 The eyes that shone, , 
 
 Now dimmed and gone, 
 The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
 Thus in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere .Slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad .Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends, so linked together, 
 I've Seen around me fall. 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 Some ban(iuet hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are (led, 
 Whose garlands dead. 
 And all but he departed ! 
 Thus in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad .Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 Thomas Moork. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE 
 
 HOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 And days o' lang syne ? 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes, 
 
 And pu't the gowans fine ; 
 But we've wandered mony a weary foot, 
 Sin' auld lang syne, 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 
 VVe twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
 
 Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
 Bat seas between us braiu hae roared. 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 
 
 30 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 
 For auld lang sync I 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine , 
 And we'll tak a right guid wiliie-waught, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld lang syne, my dear. 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 
 And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup. 
 
 As sure as I'll be mine ; 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 ill 
 
 THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER. 
 
 ANY a long, long year ago, 
 
 Nantucket skippers had a plan 
 Of finding out, though " lyini; low," 
 
 How near New York their schooners ran. 
 
 They greased the lead before it fell. 
 And then by sounding, through the night, 
 
 Knowing the soil that stuck so well, 
 They always guessed their reckoning right. 
 
 A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim. 
 Could tell, by tasting, just the spot, 
 
 And so below he'd "douse the glim,"— 
 After of course, his "something hot." 
 
 Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock. 
 This ancient skipper might be found ; 
 
 No matter how his craft would rock, 
 He slept,— for skippers' naps are sound. 
 
 The watch on deck would now and then 
 Run down and wake him, with the lead ; 
 
 He'd up, and taste, and tell the men 
 How many miles they went ahead. 
 
 One night 'twas Jotham Marden's watch. 
 
 A curious wag, — the pedlar's son ; 
 And so he mused, (the wanton wretch !) 
 
 "To-night I'll have a grain of 
 
 "We're all a set of stupid fools. 
 
 To think the skipper knows, by tasting, 
 What ground he's on ; Nantucket schools 
 Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting ! " 
 
 And so he took the well-greased lead, 
 And rubbed it o'er a box of earth 
 
 That stood on d>-ck,— a parsnip bed. 
 And then he sought the skipper's berth. 
 
 " Where are we now, sir? Please to taste " 
 The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, 
 And opened his eyes in wondrous haste. 
 And then upon the floor he sprung ! 
 
 The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, 
 Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, 
 " Nantucket's sunk, and here we are 
 
 Right over old Marm Hackett's garden ! " 
 
 James Thomas Fields. 
 
 ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES I. 
 
 AT NIGHT I.V ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR. 
 
 'HE castle clock had toll'd midnight, 
 With mattock and with spadu— 
 Ana silent, by the torches' light — 
 His corpse in earth we laid. 
 
 The coffin bore his name ; that those 
 
 Of other years might know, 
 When earth its secret should disclose, 
 
 Whose bones were laid below. 
 
 " Peace to the dead ! " no children sung, 
 Slow pacing up the nave ; 
 No prayers were read, no knell was rung. 
 As deep we dug his grave. 
 
 We only heard the winter's wind, 
 
 In many a sullen gust, 
 As o'er the open grave inclined, 
 
 We murmured, " Dust to dust ! " 
 
 A moonbea:7i from the arch's height, 
 Stream'd, as we placed the stone, 
 
 The long aisles started into light 
 And all the windows shone. 
 
 We thought we saw the banners then 
 
 Tiiat shook along the walls, 
 Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 
 
 Were gazing on the stalls. 
 
 'T is gone ! — Again on tombs defaced 
 Sits darkness more profound ; 
 
 And only by the torch we traced 
 The shadows on the ground. 
 
 And now the chilling, freezing air 
 ^Vithout blew long and loud ; 
 
 Upon our knees we breathed one prayer. 
 Where he slept in his shroud. 
 
 We laid the broken marble floor, — 
 
 No name, no trace appears I 
 And when we closed the sounding door. 
 
 We thought of him with tears. 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
40 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY AND 
 EVERYBODY. 
 
 ^ 
 
 EST men suspect your talc untrue. 
 Keep probability in view. 
 The traveler, leaping o er those bounds, 
 Th" credit of his book confounds. 
 Who vith Ins tongue hatii arniics routed 
 Makes even his real courage doubted : 
 But flattery never seems absurd ; 
 The flattered always takes your word : 
 Impossibilities seem just ; 
 They take the strongest praise on trust. 
 Hyperboles, though ne'er so great, 
 Will still come short of self-conceit. 
 
 So very like a painter drew, 
 That every eye the picture knew ; 
 1-Ie hit complexion, feature, air, 
 So just, the life itself was there. 
 No flattery with his colors laid, 
 To bloom restored the faded maid ; 
 He gave each muscle all its strength, 
 The mouth, the chin, the nose's lengtli. 
 His honest pencil touched with truth. 
 And marked the date of <ige and youth. 
 He lost his friends, his practice failed ; 
 Trutli should not always be revealed ; 
 In dusty piles his pictures lay, 
 P'or no one ?cnl the second pay. 
 Two bustof., fraught with eyery grace, 
 A Venus' and Apollo's face, 
 He placed in view ; resolved to please, 
 Whoever sat, he drew from these. 
 From these corrected every feature, 
 And spirited each awkward creature. 
 
 All things were set ; the hour was come. 
 His pallet ready o'er his thumb. 
 My lord api:x;ared ; and seated right 
 In proper attitude and light, 
 The painter looked, he sketched the piece, 
 Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece, 
 Of Titian's tints, of Guide's air ; 
 " Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there 
 Might well a Raphael's hand recjuire. 
 To give them all their native fire ; 
 The features fraught with sense and wit, 
 You'll grant are very hard to hit ; 
 But yet with patience you shall view 
 As much as paint and art can do. 
 Observe the work." My lord replied : 
 "Till now I thought my mouth was wide ; 
 Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; 
 Dear sir, for me, 't is far too young. " 
 " Oh ! pardon me," the artist cried, 
 " In this the painters must decide. 
 The piece even common eyes must strike, 
 I warrant it extremely like," 
 
 My lord examined it anew ; 
 No looking-glass seemed half so tnie. 
 
 A lady camj ; with borrowed grace 
 He fiom his Venus formed her face. 
 ] ler lover praised the painter's art ; 
 So like the picture in his heart ! 
 To every age some charm he lent ; 
 Even beauties were almost content. 
 Througti all the town his art tlu;y pr.iised ; 
 His custom grew, his price was raised. 
 I lad he the re.il likeness sliown. 
 Would any man tlie picture own ? 
 But when thus happily he wrought. 
 Each found the likeness in his thought. 
 
 John Gay. 
 
 LITTLE NELL'S FUNERAL 
 
 y^^ND now the bell— the bell 
 f ^^ She had so often heard by night and day, 
 ^^ And listened to with solemn pleasure, 
 E'en as a living voice — 
 Rung its remorseless toll for her, 
 So young, so beautiful, so good. 
 
 Decrepit age, and vigorous life. 
 And blooming youth, and helpless infancy. 
 
 Poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength 
 
 And health, in the full blush 
 
 Of promise, the mere dawn of life- 
 To gather round her tomb. Old men were there, 
 
 Wliose eyes were dim 
 
 And senses failing — 
 Grandanies, who might have died ten years ago. 
 And still been old— the deaf, the blind, the lame, 
 
 The palsied, 
 The living dead in many shapes and fonns, 
 To see the closing of this early grave. 
 
 What was the death it would .shut in. 
 To that which still could crawl and keep above it ! 
 
 Along the crowded path they bore her now ; 
 
 Pure as the new fallen snow 
 That covered it ; whose day on earth 
 
 Had been as fleeting. 
 Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven 
 In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot. 
 She passed again, and the old church 
 Received her in its quiet shade. 
 
 They carried her to one old nook. 
 Where she had many and many a time sat musing. 
 And laid their burden softly on the pavement. 
 The light streamed on it through 
 The colored window — a window where the boughs 
 Of trees were ever rustling 
 In the summer, and where the birds 
 Sang sweetly all day long. 
 
 Charles Dickkns. 
 
ised ; 
 
 It. 
 
 M Gay. 
 
 day, 
 ure, 
 
 strength 
 there, 
 
 ! ago, 
 tlie lame. 
 
 ove it ! 
 
 Heaven 
 
 musing, 
 tient. 
 
 boughs 
 
 CKKNS. 
 
r 
 
 •ii 'i 
 
 ij) bi 
 
 TH R 
 
 a THE 
 
 ;r E 
 
 1!. I 
 
I 
 
 
 •m 
 
A' a- 
 
 ViSf / 
 
 s0 
 
 
NARRATIVICS AND BALLADS. 
 
 41 
 
 
 COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 
 
 , IN n body mci't a body 
 
 Comiii' thruUKli tin.- rye, 
 C'liu a botly kiss a body, 
 
 Ncid a bddy cry ? 
 I'.vi'ry liissiu has brr laclilic — 
 
 Ne'er a ane ban 1 ; 
 Yft a' thi; lads tboy smile at me 
 
 When tuinin' through thu ryo. 
 
 Amang the train there is a swain 
 
 I dearly lo'e niysel' ; 
 Rut whaiir his banie, or vvlial his name, 
 
 I diniia caru tu tell. 
 
 Gin a body meet a body 
 
 Comin' frae the town. 
 Gin a Imdy f;reet a body, 
 
 Nei'tl a bddy frown? 
 Every l.issie has her laddie — 
 
 Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
 Yet a' the l;ids they smile at me 
 
 When comin' through the rye. 
 
 IJI' 
 
 THE VAGABONDS. 
 
 - E are two travelers, Roger and I. 
 
 Roger's my dog : — come lure, you scamp ! 
 Jump for the gentlemen — mind yuur eye ! 
 Over the table — look out for the lamp ! — 
 The rogue is growing a little old ; 
 
 I'ive years we've tram|)ed through wind and weather, 
 And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
 And ate and drank — and starved together. 
 
 We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! 
 
 A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
 A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! 
 
 The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) 
 Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 
 
 (This out-door business is bad for strings,) 
 Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. 
 
 And Roger and 1 set up for kings ! 
 
 No, thank ye, sir— I never drink ; 
 
 Roger and I are exceedingly moral — 
 Aren't we, Roger ? — see him wink ! — 
 
 Well, something hot, then — we won't quarrel. 
 He's thirsty, too — sec him nod his head ? 
 
 Wh.at a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
 He understands every word that's said — 
 
 And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 
 
 The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 
 
 I've been so sadly given to grog, 
 I wonder I've not lost the respect 
 
 (Here's to you, sir, !) even of my dog. 
 But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; 
 
 And this old coat, with its empty pockets, 
 
 And rags that smell of tobacco nnd gin, 
 He'll follow while he hiui eyes in his sockets. 
 
 There isn't another creature living 
 
 Would do it, and prove, ihrounh every ilis.-ister, 
 .So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 
 
 To such a miserable, thankless master ! 
 No, sir !— see him wag his tail ;ind grin ! 
 
 Ily deorge ! it makes my old eyes water ! 
 Tliat is, tliere's something in this gin 
 
 That chokes n fellow. Hut no matter I 
 
 We'll have some music, if you're willing, 
 
 And Roger (hem I what a plague ,i cough is, sir!) 
 Shall march .i little— .Start, you villain ! 
 
 .Stand straight ! Tiout face ! Salute your onicir ! 
 I'ut up that paw ! Dress ! Take your ri!le ! 
 
 (.Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now hold your 
 Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle. 
 
 To aid a pu(jr old patriot soldier ! 
 
 •March ! 1 1 alt ! Now show how the rebel shakes 
 
 Wben he stands up to hear his sentence. 
 Now t^ll us how many drams it takes 
 
 To honor a jolly new aciiu.iintance. 
 Five yelps — that's five ; he's mighty knowing ' 
 
 The night's before us, fill the glasses ! — 
 Quick, sir! I'm ill — my brain is going ! 
 
 .Some brandy ! — thank you ' — there ! — it passes ! 
 
 Why not reform ? That's easily saiil ; 
 
 Hut I've gone through such wretched treatment. 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
 
 And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
 That my poor stomach's i);ist reform ; 
 
 And liiere are times when, mad with thinking, 
 I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
 
 To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
 
 Is there a way to forget to think ? 
 
 At your age, sir, homo, fortune, friends, 
 A djar girl's love— but I took to drink ; — 
 
 The same old story ; you know how it ends. 
 If you could have seen these classic features — 
 
 You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then 
 Such a burning libel on God's creatures ; 
 
 I was one of your handsome men. 
 
 If you had seen her, so fair and young. 
 
 Whose head w\as happy on this breast ! 
 If you could have heard the songs I sung 
 
 When the wine went round, you wouldn't have 
 guessed 
 Th.at ever I, sir, should be straying 
 
 From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
 Ragged and penniless, and playing 
 
 To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 
 
 She's married since— a parson's wife : 
 
 'Twas better for her that we should part- 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life 
 Than a blasted home and a broken heart 
 
 1' 
 
42 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 i'! 
 
 IF 
 
 ' ■ , I 
 
 I have sct'ii her ? Once : I was weak and spent, 
 On the dusty road, a carria.s^c stopped : 
 
 Cut little she dreamed, as on she went, 
 Who kissed the cohi that her fingers dropped ! 
 
 You've set nie talkin.tj, sir ; I'm sorry ; 
 
 It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
 What do you care for a beggar's story I 
 
 Is it amusing? you find it strange? 
 I had a mother so proud of me ! 
 
 'Twas well she died before — Do you know 
 If the happy spirits in heaven can see 
 
 The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 
 
 Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
 
 This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
 I wonder, has he such a lum|)ish, leaden. 
 
 Aching thing, in place of a heart? 
 Me is sad sometimes, ai)d woukl weep, if he could, 
 
 No do'ibt remembering tilings that were — 
 A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
 
 And himself a sober, respectable cur. 
 
 I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — 
 
 You ra.scal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
 We must be fiddling and performing 
 
 For supper antl bed, or starve in the street. — 
 Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 
 
 But soon we shall go where lodgings are free. 
 And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; — 
 
 The sooner, the belter for Roger and me ! 
 
 John T. Tkowijkidgk. 
 
 OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 VER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' 
 my weary way — 
 I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle 
 gray— 
 I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've 
 
 told, 
 As many another woman, that's only half as old. 
 
 Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't make it quite 
 
 clear ! 
 Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so horrid 
 
 queer ! 
 Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, 
 But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. 
 
 What is tlie use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? 
 Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? 
 True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout, 
 But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. 
 
 I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day, 
 To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; 
 For I can earn my victuals, an' more to, I'll be bound. 
 If any ^ody only is urillin' to have me round. 
 
 Once I was young and han'some — I was, upon my 
 soul — 
 
 Once my cheeks were roses, my eyes as black as coal ; 
 
 And I can't remember, in them days, of heann' peo- 
 ple say, 
 
 For any kind of reason, that I was in their way. 
 
 'Taint no useof boastin', or talkin' over free, 
 liut many a house an' home was open then to me ; 
 Many a han'some offer I had from likely men. 
 And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. 
 
 And when to John I was married, sure he was good 
 
 and smart, 
 But he and all the neighbors would own I done my 
 
 part ; 
 For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong. 
 And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get 
 
 along. 
 
 And so we worked together : and life was hard but 
 
 gay, 
 With now an' then a baby, for to cheer us on our 
 
 way; 
 Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed lean an' neat. 
 An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. 
 
 So we worked for the child'r'n, and raised 'em every 
 
 one ; 
 Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought 
 
 to 've done. 
 Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good 
 
 folks condemn, 
 But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them. 
 
 Strange how much we think of our blessed little 
 
 ones ! — 
 I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my 
 
 sons ; 
 And God He made that rule of love; but when we're 
 
 old and gray, 
 I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the 
 
 other way. 
 
 Strange, another thing; when our boys an' girls was 
 
 grown, 
 And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there 
 
 alone ; 
 When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer 
 
 seemed to be. 
 The Lord of Hosts he came one day an' took him 
 
 away from me. 
 
 Still I was bound to struggle; an' never to cringe or 
 
 fall— 
 Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my 
 
 all; 
 And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a 
 
 word or frown, 
 Till at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife 
 
 from tovrn. 
 
NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 
 
 43 
 
 She was somewliat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant 
 
 smile — 
 She was (luite conceity, and carried a heap o' style : 
 But if ever I tried to be friends, 1 did with her, I 
 
 know ; 
 But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it 
 
 go. 
 
 She had an edication, an' that was good for her ; 
 But when she twitted meon mine 'twas carryin' things 
 
 too fur: 
 An' told her once 'fore company (an' it almost made 
 
 her sick), 
 That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rilh- 
 
 metic. 
 
 So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done — 
 They was a family of themselves, and I another one; 
 And a very little cottage for one family will do. 
 But I have never seen a house that was big enough 
 for two. 
 
 An' I never could speak to suit her, never could 
 
 please her eye, 
 An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try ; 
 But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, 
 When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could 
 
 go. 
 
 I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was 
 
 small, 
 And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for 
 
 us all ; 
 And what with her husband's sister, and what with 
 
 child'rn three, 
 Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room forme. 
 
 An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, 
 For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre 
 
 lot; 
 But all the child'rn was on me— I couldn't stand their 
 
 sauce — 
 And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there 
 
 to boss. 
 
 An' then I wrote to Rebecca — my girl who lives out 
 
 West, 
 And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty miles at 
 
 best ; 
 And one of 'em said twas too warm there, for any 
 
 one so old, 
 And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. 
 
 So they have sliirki d and slighted me, an' shifted me 
 
 about — 
 So they have well nigh soured me, an' wore my old 
 
 heart out ; 
 But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much 
 
 put down, 
 Till Charley went to the poor master, an' put me on 
 
 the town. 
 
 Over the hill to the poor-house — my child'rn dear, 
 
 good-bye ! 
 Many a night I've watched yon when only God was 
 
 nigh ; 
 And God 'II judge between us ; but I will al'ays 
 
 pray 
 That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. 
 
 Will M. Cakleton. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 LADY, leave thy silken thread 
 
 And flowery tapestry — 
 There 's living roses on the bush, 
 And blossoms on the tree. 
 Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand 
 
 Some random bud will meet ; 
 Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find 
 The daisy at thy feet. 
 
 'T is like the birthday of the world, 
 
 When earth was born in bloom ; 
 The liuht is made of many dyes, 
 
 The air is all perfume ; 
 There 's crimson buds, and white and blue — 
 
 The very rainbow showers 
 Have turned to blossoms where they fell. 
 
 And sown the earth with flowers. 
 
 There 's fairy tulips in the cast — 
 
 The garden of the sun ; 
 The very streams rt fleet the hues, 
 
 And blossom as they run ; 
 While morn opes like a crimson rose, 
 
 Still wet with pearly showers ; 
 Then, lady, leave the silken thread 
 
 Thou twinest into flowers. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 IN THE SUMMER TWILIGHT. 
 
 N the summer twilight. 
 
 While yet the dew was hoar, 
 I went plucking purple pansies 
 Till my love should come to shore. 
 The fishing-lights their dances 
 
 Were keeping out at sea, 
 And, "Come," I sang, " my true love. 
 Come hasten home to me !" 
 
 But the sea it fell a-moaning. 
 
 And the white gulls rocked thereon. 
 And the young moon dropped from heaven, 
 
 And the lights hid, one by one. 
 All silently their glances 
 
 Slipped down the cruel sea, 
 And, "Wait," cried the night and wind 
 and siorm — 
 
 "Wait till I come to thee." 
 
 Harkiut Prescott Spofford. 
 
 M 
 
44 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ei 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, " Hoatnian, do not tarry ! 
 And I'll give thee a silver pound 
 To row us o'er the ferry." 
 
 "Now who be yo. would cross I.ochgyle, 
 
 Tliis dark and stormy water?" 
 " O, I'm tlie chief of Ulva's isle, 
 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 
 
 "And fast before her father's men 
 Three ilays we've fled together, 
 For should he find us in the glen. 
 My blood would slain the heather. 
 
 "Mis horsemen hard behind us ride; 
 
 Should they our steps discover. 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 When they have slain her lover?" 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight : 
 
 " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready; 
 It is not for your silver bright. 
 
 But for your winsome lady. 
 
 " And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry : 
 So, though the waves are raging white, 
 I'll row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 
 Tho water-wraith was shrieking ; 
 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still, as wilder blew the wind. 
 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 Ad6wn tlie glen rode armed men — 
 
 Th-.-ir trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 "O, haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
 "Though tempests round us gather; 
 I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her — 
 When, O, too strong for human hand, 
 
 The tempest gatliered o'er her ! 
 
 And still they rowed amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing : 
 Lord Ullan reached that fatal shore; 
 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. 
 
 For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 
 
 His child he did discover ; 
 One lovely hand she stretched for aid. 
 
 And one was round iier lover. 
 
 " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 
 
 "Across this stormy water; 
 And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 
 My daughter!— O, my daughter ! " 
 
 'T was vain ; — the loud waves lashed the shore, 
 
 Return or aid preventing ; 
 The waters wild went o'er his child: 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 Tiio.MAS Campdkll. 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 TOP ! for thy tread is on an empire's dust ; 
 An eartluiuake's spoil is sepulchred below ; 
 Is tiie spot marked with no colossal bust ? 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal sIkjw? 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be. 
 
 1 low that red rain hath made the harvest grow 
 And this all the world has gained by thee. 
 Thou first and last of fields, king-making victory? 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night. 
 And Belgium's capital had gatiiered then 
 
 Her beauty and her chivalry ; and bright 
 The lamjw shone o'er fair women ami brave men : 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 
 Music arose, with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. 
 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 
 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it? No ; 'twas but the wind. 
 Or the car rattling c 'er the stony street : 
 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfmed ! 
 No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing hours with flying feet I — 
 
 But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 
 .•\nd nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. 
 
 Arm ! arm ! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
 Sat Brunswick's fated chiefli.ui ; he did hear 
 
 That sound the first amid the festival. 
 And caught its tone w ith death's prophetic ear : 
 And when they smiled because he tleemetl it near, 
 
 His heart more truly knew that pe.il too well 
 Which stretched his father on a bloody bier. 
 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell ; 
 
 lie rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell I 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 
 Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 
 Wiiich ne'er might be repeated : who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 
 
 And there was moiHiting in hot haste : the steed. 
 The mustering squadron, anil the clattering car, 
 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
 And swiftly forminjj in the ranks uf war ; 
 
NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 
 
 4.3 
 
 And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, 
 And near, tlie lieat of the alarming drum 
 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star ; 
 While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. 
 Or whisiK'Hng, with white lips, " The foe ! they come ! 
 they come !" 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 The midnight brought the signal sound of strife. 
 
 The morn the marshaling in arms — the day 
 
 Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 
 The earth is covered tiiick with other clay. 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
 Rider and horse— friend, foe— in one red inirial blent ! 
 
 Lord Bvkon. 
 
 u 
 
 THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN 
 
 AM a pebble ! and yield to none !" 
 Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ;- 
 " Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; 
 I am abiding, while ages (lee. 
 The pelting hail and the drizzling rain 
 Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; 
 And the tender dew-has sought to melt 
 Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. 
 There's none can tell about my birth, 
 For I'm old as tl)e big, round earth. 
 The children ol men arise, and pass 
 Out of the world, like the blades of grass ; 
 And many a foot on me has trod, 
 That's gone from sight, and under the sod. 
 I am a Pebble ! but who art thou. 
 Rattling along from the restless bough !" 
 
 The Acorn was shock'd at tiiis rude salute. 
 And lay for a moment abash'd and mute ; 
 She never before had been so near 
 This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; 
 And she felt for a time at a loss to know 
 How to answer a thing so coarse and low. 
 But to give reproof of a nobler sort 
 Than the angry look, or the keen retort. 
 At length she said, in a gentle tone, 
 
 "Since it has happen'd that I am thrown 
 From the lighter element where I grew, 
 Down to another so hard and new, 
 And beside a pevsonage so august, 
 Abased, I will cover my head with dust, 
 And quickly re'are from the sight of one 
 Wlioni time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, 
 Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, 
 Has ever subdued, or made to feel !" 
 And soon in the eartii she sank away 
 From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. 
 
 But it was not long ere the soil was broke 
 By the peering head of an infant oak ! 
 And, as it arose, and its branches spread. 
 
 The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said, 
 
 " A modest Acorn— never to tell 
 What was enclosed in its simple shell ! 
 That the pride of the forest was folded up 
 In the narrow space of its little cup ! 
 And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, 
 Wiiich proves that nothing could hide her worth ! 
 And, oh I how many will tread on me, 
 To come and admire the beautiful tree. 
 Whose head is towering toward the sky. 
 Above such a worthless thing as I ! 
 Useless and vain, a cuniberer here, 
 I have been idling from year to year. 
 But never from this shall a vaunting word 
 From the humbled Pebble again be heard, 
 Till something without me or within 
 Shall show the purpose for which I've been?" 
 The Pebble its vow could not forget. 
 And it lies there wrapt in silence yet. 
 
 Hannah F. Gould. 
 
 A HUNTING WE WILL GO. 
 
 HE dusky night rides down the sky. 
 And ushers in the morn : 
 The hounds all join in glorious cry, 
 f The huntsman winds his horn, 
 
 And a hunting we will go. 
 
 The wife around her husband throws 
 Her arms to make him stay ; 
 " My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows ; 
 You cannot hunt to-day." 
 
 Ytt a hunting we will go. 
 
 Away they fly to 'scape the rout. 
 Their steeds they soundly switch ; 
 
 Some are thrown in, and some thrown out. 
 And some thrown in the ditch. 
 
 Yet a hunting we will go. 
 
 Sly Reynard now like lightning flies. 
 
 And sweeps across the vale ; 
 And when the hounds too near he spies. 
 
 He drops his bushy tail. 
 
 Then a hunting we will go. 
 
 At last his strength to faintncss worn. 
 
 Poor Reynard ceases flight ; 
 Then hungry, homeward we return. 
 
 To feast away Uie night, 
 
 When a hunting we did go. 
 
 Ye jovial hunters, in the morn 
 Prepare then for the chase ; 
 Rise at the sounding of the horn 
 And health with sport embrace. 
 
 When a hunting we do go. 
 Henry Fielding. 
 
 t'it 
 
 i 
 
li 
 
 11 • 
 
 
 
 n 
 
 
 46 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 m 
 
 AUD Muller, on a summer's day, 
 Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic liealth. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far-ofTtown, 
 Wliitc from its hill-slope looking down, 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
 And a nameless longing filled lier 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 a draught from the spring that (lowed 
 Through the meadow across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. 
 And filled for him her small tin-cup. 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bar? and her tattered gown. 
 
 "Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never (juaffed." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 
 
 Then talked of the haying and wondered whether 
 Tiie cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown. 
 And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 
 
 And listened, while a jileased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud MuUer looked and sighed : "Ah, me I 
 That I the Judge's bride miglit 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." 
 
 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
 And saw Maud Muller standing still. 
 
 " A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
 Ne'i r 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 '.'old, 
 And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 
 
 So, closing his heai', the Judge rode on, 
 And .Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
 When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside tiie well, 
 Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
 Who lived for fashi(jn, as he for power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
 I lo watched a picture come and go : 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft when the wine in his glass was red, 
 I le longed for the wayside well instead ; 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
 To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 
 
 And tlie i^roud man sighed, with a secret pain, 
 "Ah, that I were free again ! 
 
 Free as when I rode that day. 
 
 Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 
 
 She wi'dded a man unlearned and jioor. 
 And many children played round her d«x)r. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and child-birth 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. 
 
NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 
 
 47 
 
 ; s 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
 Strttched away into stately Ii;ills ; 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnct turned, 
 The tallow candle an astral burned ; 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe ami mug, 
 
 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 forjudge. 
 
 For rich repiner and household drudge ! 
 
 God pity them both, and pity us all, 
 Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 
 
 For 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 jrravn aivay ! 
 
 John G. Whittif.r. 
 
 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 
 
 And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's 
 
 morn decline — 
 And one had come from Ringen — fair Dingen on the 
 
 Rliine. 
 
 " Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her 
 
 old age ; 
 For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a 
 
 cage, 
 For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
 .My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles 
 
 fierce and wild ; 
 And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty 
 
 hoard, 
 I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my 
 
 father's sword ; 
 And with boyish love I hung it where the bright !ic;ht 
 
 used to shine, 
 On the cottage wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with 
 
 drooping head. 
 When troops come marching home again with glad 
 
 and gallant tread. 
 But to look upon them proudly, with a cami and 
 
 steadfast eye, 
 For liL-r brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to 
 
 die ; 
 And if a comrade seek her love, I a.sk her in my 
 
 name, 
 To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, 
 And to hang the oUl sword in its place ( my f ither's 
 
 sword and mine ), 
 For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 ^^NT SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 
 I i^Jt There 'vas lack of woman's nursing, there 
 ^^ was dearth of woman's tears ; 
 
 But a comrade stood beside him, while his ', 
 life-blood ebbed away. 
 And bent, with pitying glances tohear what he might "There's another— not a sister; in the happy days 
 
 say. i gone by 
 
 The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com- \'ou'd have known her by the merriment that spark- 
 
 rade's hand, ' led in her eye ; 
 
 And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my na Too innocent for coquetry— too fond for idle scorn- 
 
 tive land ; | jng — 
 
 Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends O friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes 
 
 of mine. 
 
 I 
 
 heaviest mourning I 
 
 For I was born at Bingen— fair Bingen on the Tell her the last night of my life ( for, ere the moon be 
 
 Rhine. I risen, 
 
 My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of 
 "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet prison ) 
 
 and crowd around : j (ir^,^med I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun- 
 
 To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ]i^|,t gi^j^e 
 
 ground, ^^^ j,^^ vine-clad hills of Bingen— fair Bingen on the 
 
 That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day Rhine 
 
 was done, '< 
 
 Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the set- "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or 
 
 ting sun; | seemed to hear, 
 
 And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet 
 
 in wars — j and clear ; 
 
 The death-wounds on their gallant breasts, the last of And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting 
 
 many scars ; i hill, 
 
 I 
 
 
 l-M 
 
Ill 
 
 48 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 I'l 
 ' ii 
 
 ii 
 
 ^k 
 
 The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening ' 
 cahn and slill ; 
 
 And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, 
 witli friendly talk, 
 
 Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remem- 
 bered walk ! 
 
 And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — 
 
 But we'll meet no more at Biiigen — loved Ilingen on 
 the Rhine." 
 
 His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp 
 
 was cliildish weak — 
 His eyes put on a dying look— he sighed, and ceased 
 
 to speak ; 
 His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had 
 
 fled— 
 The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! 
 And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she 
 
 looked down 
 On the red sand of the battle-field, wiih bloody corses 
 
 strewn ; 
 \es, calmly on the dreadful scene her pale liglit 
 
 seemed to shine, 
 A3 it shown on distant Bingen — fair liingen on the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 Carolinh: Elizaiieth Norton. 
 
 Q 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE. 
 
 MARY, go antl call the cattle home, 
 And call tlie cattle home. 
 And call the cattle home. 
 Across the sands of Dee ;" 
 The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam. 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 Tlie western tide crept up along the sand. 
 And o'er and o'er the sand. 
 And round and round the sand. 
 As far as eye could see. 
 The rolling mist came down and hid the land, — 
 And never home came she. 
 
 '' O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
 A tress o' golden hair, 
 A drowned maiden's h;.ir 
 Above the nets at sea ? 
 Was never salmon yet tliat shone so fair 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 
 The cruel crawling foam, 
 The cruel hungry foam, 
 To her grave beside the sea ; 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee ! 
 
 Charles Ki.ng.sley. 
 
 A NAME IN THE SAND. 
 
 LON'E I walk'd the ocean strand ; 
 A [learly shell was in my hand : 
 I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand 
 My name — the year — the day. 
 As onward from the spot I pass'd, 
 One lingering look behind I cast: 
 A wave came rolling high and fast, 
 And wash'd my lines away. 
 
 And so, methought, 'twill shortly be 
 With every mark on earth from me : 
 A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
 
 Will sweep across the place 
 Where I have trod the sandy shore 
 Of Time, and been to be no more, 
 Of me — my day — the name I bore, 
 
 To leave nor track nor trace. 
 
 And yet, with Him who counts the sands 
 And holds the w.iters in his hands, 
 I know a lasting record stands. 
 
 Inscribed against my name. 
 Of all liiis mortal part has wrought ; 
 Of all tliis thinking soul has thought : 
 And from these fleeting moments caught 
 
 For glory or for shame. 
 
 Hannah F. Gould. 
 
 OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 [Sequel to " Over llie Hill to the roor-Hoiise." ] 
 
 ^^^ VER the hills lothcpoor house sad paths have 
 \ ^3 been made to-day, 
 
 P'^ For sorrow is near, such ns m.iketh the heads 
 
 ■^ of the yoinig turn gray. 
 
 Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered 
 
 breath — 
 The sorrow that leads to the chamber whose light has 
 
 gone out in death. 
 
 To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and Charley, 
 
 word sped 
 That nKjther was ill and fast failing, perhaps when they 
 
 heard, might be dead ; 
 I But e'en while they wrote she was praying that .some of 
 
 her children might come 
 To hear from her lips their last blessing before she 
 
 should start for her home. 
 
 To Susan, poor Susan ! how bitter the agony brought 
 
 by the call. 
 For deep in her heart for her mother wide rooms had 
 
 been left after all ; 
 And now, that slie thought, by her fireside one place 
 
 had been vacant for years — 
 And while "oer the hills she was speeding her 
 
 path might be traced by her tears, 
 
NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 
 
 49 
 
 Rebecca? she heard not the tidings, but those who 
 
 bent over lier knew 
 That led by the An^^el of Dciith, near the waves of 
 
 the river she drew ; 
 Delirious, ever she told them her mother was cooling 
 
 her head, 
 While, weeping, they thought that ere morning both 
 
 mother and child might be dead. 
 
 And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was quiv'ring 
 in aspen-like grief. 
 
 While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him like bil- 
 lows of wind o'er the leaf; 
 
 "Too late," were the words that had humbled his 
 cold, haughty pride to the dust. 
 
 And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, crowned 
 loving forgiveness with trust. 
 
 Bowed over his letters and papers, sat Thomas, his 
 
 brow lined by thought. 
 But little he heeded the markets or news of his gains 
 
 that they brought ; 
 His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new purpose 
 
 seemed born in his eye. 
 And Thomas went "over the hills," to the mother 
 
 that shortly must die. 
 
 To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the 
 
 mother's message that morn, 
 And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the sunlight 
 
 blushed over the corn ; 
 And, strangest of all, by his side, was the wife he had 
 
 "brought from the town," 
 And silently wept, while her tears strung with 
 
 diamonds her plain mourning gown. 
 
 For each had been thinking, of late, how they missed 
 
 tiie old mother's sweet smile. 
 And wond'ring how they could have been so blind 
 
 and unjust all that while ; 
 They thought of their harsh, cruel words, and longed 
 
 to atone for the past. 
 When sv/ift o'er the heart of vain dreams swept the 
 
 presence of death's chilling blast. 
 
 So into the chamber of death, one by one, these sad 
 
 children had crept. 
 As they, in their childhooa, had done, when mother 
 
 was tired and slept — 
 And peace, rich as then, came to each, as they drank 
 
 in her blessing, so deep. 
 That, breathing into her life, she fell back in her last 
 
 blessed sleep. 
 
 And when "o'er the hills from the poor-house," that 
 
 mother is tenderly borne, 
 The Ufa of her life, her loved children, tread softly, 
 
 and silently mourn, 
 For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as the ocean 
 
 is deep, 
 And into our lives, with sweet healing, the balm of 
 
 their bruising m:^ creep. 
 4 
 
 For swift come the flashings of temper, and torrents 
 
 of words come as swift. 
 Till out 'mong the tide- waves of anger, how often we 
 
 thoughtlessly drift ! 
 And heads that are gray with life's ashes, and fjet 
 
 that walk down 'mong the dead. 
 We send " o'er the hills to the poor-house " for love, 
 
 and, it may be, for bread. 
 
 Oh ! when shall we value the living while yet the 
 
 keen sickle is stayed, 
 Nor slight the wild Hower in its blooming, till all i'.s 
 
 sweet life is decayed ? 
 Yet often the fragrance is richest, when poured from 
 
 the bruised blossom's soul, 
 And " over the hills from the poor-house " the rarest 
 
 of melodies roll. 
 
 May Mignonette. 
 
 MONA'S WATERS. 
 
 Mona's waters are blue and bright 
 When the sun shines out like a gay youn^ 
 lover ; 
 But Mona's waves are dark as night 
 When the face of heaven is clouded over. 
 The wild wind drives the crested foam 
 
 Far up the steep and rocky mountain. 
 And booming echoes drown the voice. 
 The silvery voice, of Mona's fountain. 
 
 Wild, wild against that mountain's side 
 
 The wrathful waves were up and beating. 
 When stern Glenvarloch's chieftain came ; 
 
 With anxious brow and hurried grueling 
 He bade the widowed mother send 
 
 (While loud the tempest's voice was raging) 
 Her fair young son across the flood, 
 
 Where winds and waves their strife were waging. 
 
 And still that fearful mother prayed, 
 
 " Oh ! yet delay, delay till morning, 
 For weak the hand that guides our bark. 
 
 Though brave his heart, all danger scorning.' 
 Little did stern Glenvarloch heed ; 
 
 " The safety of my fortress tower 
 Depends on tidings he must bring 
 
 From Fairlee bank, within the hour. 
 
 "See'st thou, across the sullen wave, 
 
 A blood-red banner wildly streaming ? 
 That Hag a message brings to me 
 
 Of which my foes are little dreaming. 
 The boy inttst put his boat across, 
 
 (Gold shall repay his hour ^)f danger,) 
 And bring me back, with care and speed, 
 
 Three letters from the light browed stranger." 
 
 The orphan boy leaped lightly in ; 
 
 Bold was I. is eye and brow of beauty, 
 And bright his smile as thus he spoke . 
 
 " I do but pay a vassal's duty ; 
 
s 
 
 
 so 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Si 1.1 
 
 |-:'|. 
 
 'i:''|. 
 
 Fear not for me. O mother dear ! 
 
 See how ihe boat the tide is spurning ; 
 The storm will cease, the sky will clear, 
 
 And thou wilt watch me safe returning." 
 
 His bark shot on — now up, now down, 
 
 Over the waves — the snowy crested ; 
 Now like a dart it sped along, 
 
 Now like a white-winged sea bird rested ; 
 And ever when the wind sank low, 
 
 Smote on the ear that wom.in's wailing, 
 As long she watched, with streaming eyes, 
 
 That fragile bark's uncertain sailing. 
 
 He reached the shore — the letters claimed ; 
 
 Triumphant, heard the stranger's wonder 
 That one so young should brave alone 
 
 The heaving lake, the rolling thunder. 
 And once again his snowy sail 
 
 Was seen by her — that mourning mother ; 
 And once she heard his shouting voice — 
 
 That voice the waves were soon to smother. 
 
 Wild burst the wind, wide flapped the sail, 
 
 A crashing peal of thunder followed ; 
 The gust swept o'er the water's face, 
 
 And caverns in the deep lake hollowed. 
 The gust swept past, the waves grew calm. 
 
 The thunder died along the mountain ; 
 But where was he who used to play, 
 
 On sunny days, by Mona's fountain ? 
 
 His cold corpse floated to the shore. 
 
 Where knelt his lone and shrieking mother ; 
 And bitterly she wept for him. 
 
 The widow's son, who had no brother ! 
 Slic raised his arm — the hand was closed ; 
 
 With pain his stiffened fingers parted, 
 And on the sand three letters dropped ! — 
 
 His last dim thought — the faithful-hearted. 
 
 Glenvarloch gazed, and on his brow 
 
 Remorse with pain and grief seemed 'ilending ; 
 A purse of gold he flung beside 
 
 That mother, o'er her dead child bending. 
 Oh ! wildly laughed that woman then, 
 
 "Glenvarloch ! would ye dare to measure 
 The holy life that God has given 
 
 Against a heap of golden treasure ? 
 
 " Ye spurned my prayer, for we were poor ; 
 
 But know, proud man, that God hath oower 
 To smite the king on Scotland's throne, 
 
 The chieftain in his fortress tower. 
 Frown on ! frown on ! I fear ye not ; 
 
 We've done the last of chieftain's bidding. 
 And cold he lies, for whose young sake 
 
 I used to bear your wrathful chiding. 
 
 " Will gold bring back his cheerful voice. 
 That used to win my heart from sorrow ? 
 Will silver warm the frozen blood, 
 Or make my heart less lone to-morrow ? 
 
 Go back and seek j'our mountain home. 
 And when ye kiss your fair-haired daughter, 
 
 Remember him who died to-night 
 Beneath the waves of Mona's water." 
 
 Old years rolled on, and new ones came — 
 
 I'oes dare not brave Glenvarloch's tower ; 
 But naught could bar the sickness out 
 
 Tiiat stole within fair Annie's bower. 
 The o'erhlown floweret in the sun 
 
 Sinks languid down, and withers daily, 
 And so she sank — her voice grew faint. 
 
 Her laugh no longer sounded gaily. 
 
 Her step fell on the old oak floor 
 
 As noiseless as the snow-shower's drifting ; 
 And from her sweet and serious eyes 
 They seldom saw the dark lid lifting. 
 " Bring aid ! Bring aid !" the father cries ; 
 
 '' Bring aid !" each vassal's voice is crying ; 
 " The fair-haired beauty of the isles, 
 
 Her pulse is faint— her life is flying !" 
 
 He called in vain ; her dim eyes turned 
 
 And met his own with parting sorrow, 
 For well siie knew, that fading girl. 
 
 That he must weep and wail the morrow. 
 Her f.iint breath ce.ised ; the father bent 
 
 And gazed upon his fair-haired daughter. 
 What tliought he on.' The widow's son. 
 
 And the stormy night by Mona's water. 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
 
 T was the schooner Hesperus, 
 That sail'd the wintry sea ; 
 And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 
 To bear him company. 
 
 Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
 
 Her cheeks like the dawn of day ; 
 And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
 
 That ope in the month of May. 
 
 Th§ skipper he stood beside the helm, 
 
 With his pipe in his mouth, 
 And watched how the veering flaw did blow 
 
 The smoke, now west, now south. 
 
 Then up, and spake an old sailor. 
 Had sail'd the Spanish Main — 
 " I pray thee, put into yonder port. 
 For I fear a hurricane. 
 
 " Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
 And to-night no moon we see," 
 The skipper he blew a whiff" from his pipe, 
 And a scornful laugh laugh'd he. 
 
 Colder and louder blew the wind, 
 
 A gale from the northeast ; 
 The snow fell hissing in the brine. 
 
 And the billows froth'd like yeasL 
 
NARRATIVES AND- BALLADS. 
 
 51 
 
 Down came the storm, and smote amain 
 
 Tlie vessel in its strength ; 
 She shudder'd, and paused, like a frighted steed, 
 
 Tiien leap'd her cable's length. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, mv little daughter, 
 
 And do not tremble so ; 
 For I can weather the roughest gale 
 
 That ever wind did blow." 
 
 He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat. 
 
 Against the stinging blast ; 
 He cut a rope from a broken spar. 
 
 And bound her to the mast. 
 
 " O father, I hear the church bells ring ! 
 
 O say, what may it be ?" 
 " 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast," 
 
 And he steer'd for the open sea. 
 
 " O father, I hear the sound of guns ! 
 
 O say, what may it be ?" 
 "Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
 
 In such an angry sea !" 
 
 " O father, I see a gleaming light ! 
 O say, what may it he ?" 
 But the father answer'd never a word — 
 A frozen corpse was he ! 
 
 Lash'dto the helm all stiff and stark. 
 
 With his face to the skies. 
 The lantern gleam'd thro' the gleaming snow 
 
 On his fix'd and glassy eyes. 
 
 Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and prayed, 
 
 That saved she might be ; 
 And she thought of Christ, who still'd the waves, 
 
 On the lake of Galilee. 
 
 And fast through the midnight dark and drear. 
 Through the whistling sleet and snow. 
 
 Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, 
 Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 
 
 And ever, the fitful gusts between, 
 
 A sound came from the land ; 
 It was the sound of the trampling surf 
 
 On the rocks, and the hard sea-sand. 
 
 The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
 
 She drifted a dreary wreck. 
 And a whooping billow swept the crew. 
 
 Like icicles, from her deck. 
 
 She struck, where the white and fleecy waves 
 
 ^ook'd soft as carded wool ; 
 But the cruel rocks they gored her side 
 
 Like the horns of an angry bull. 
 
 Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice, 
 With the masts, went by the board ; 
 
 Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — 
 Ho ! ho ! the breakers roar'd. 
 
 At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
 
 A fisiierman stood aghast, 
 To sec tlie form of a maiden fair 
 
 Lash'd close to a drifting mast. 
 
 Tlie salt sea was frozen on her breast. 
 
 The salt tears in her eyes ; 
 And lie saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed 
 
 On the billows fall and rise. 
 
 Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
 
 In the midnight, and the snow ; 
 Christ save us all from a death like this, 
 
 On the reef of Norman's Woe ; 
 
 He.srv Wadswortii Lo.nhfellow. 
 
 AFTER BLENHEIM. 
 
 T was a summer evening, 
 
 Old Kaspar's work was done, 
 And lie before his cottage door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun ; 
 And iiy him sported on tiic green 
 His little grandchild Wilhehnine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 Roll something large and round, 
 
 Which he beside the rivulet 
 In playing there had found ; 
 
 He came to ask what he had found. 
 
 That was so large and smooth and round. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 
 
 Wlio stood expectant by ; 
 And tlien the old man shook his head. 
 And with a natural sigh, 
 " 'Tis some poor fellow's .skull," sai'l he, 
 " Who fell in the s!;reat victory. 
 
 " I find them in the garden. 
 
 For there s many hereabout ; 
 And often w'len I go to plough. 
 
 The ploui;hsi>are turns ihem out, 
 For many thousand men," said he, 
 "Were slain in that great victory." 
 
 " Now tell us what 'twas all about," 
 Young Peterkin he cries ; 
 And little Wilhelmine looks up 
 With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
 " Now tell us all about the war. 
 And what they fought each other for." 
 
 " It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
 " Who put the French to rout ; 
 But whit they fought each other for 
 
 I could not well make out. 
 But everybody said," quoth he, 
 " That 'twas a famous victory. 
 
62 
 
 CROWN J i:\VKLS. 
 
 ■...i\ 
 
 
 " My father lived at nii-nheim then, 
 
 Yon little stn-nni liard by ; 
 They burnt his dwcllinij to the ground, 
 
 And he was forced to ily ; 
 So with his wife and child ho fled, 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 "With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted f.ir and wide, 
 And many a cliilding mother then 
 
 And newborn baby died ; 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 " They say it was a shocking sight 
 After the field was won ; 
 Fur many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun ; 
 But things like that, you know, must l)e 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 " Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 
 And our good Prince Eugene." 
 
 " Wiiy 'twas a very wicked tiling !" 
 Said little Wilhelmine. 
 
 " Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, 
 
 " It was a famous victory. 
 
 " And everybody praised the Duke 
 
 Who this great fight did win." 
 " But what good came of it at last?" 
 
 (Juoth little Peterkin. 
 " Why, that I cannot tell," said he, 
 " But 'twas a famous victory." 
 
 ROEERT SOUTHEV. 
 
 ALONZO THE BRAVE AND THE FAIR 
 IMOGINE. 
 
 y^^ WARRIOR so bold, and a virgin so bright, 
 I ^1 Conversed as they sat on the green ; 
 
 ^^ They gazed on each other with tender delight ; 
 Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight— 
 The maiden's, the Fair Imogine. 
 
 "And, oh !" said the youth, "since to-morrow I go 
 
 To fight in a far distant land, 
 Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, 
 Some other will court you, and you will bestow 
 
 On a wealthier suitor your hand 1" 
 
 " Oh ! hush these suspicions," I'air Imogine said, 
 
 " Offensive to love and to me ; 
 For, if yon be living, or if you be dead, 
 I swear by tiic Virgin thiit none in your stead 
 
 Shall husband of Imogine be. 
 
 " If e'er 1, by lust or by wealth led aside, 
 Forget my Alonzo the Brave, 
 God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride, 
 Your giiost at the marriage may sit by my side, 
 J.Iay ta.x me with perjury, claim me as. bride, 
 And bear me away to the grave I" 
 
 To Palestine hasten'd the hero so bold. 
 
 His love she lamented him sore ; 
 But scarce had a twelvemonth elajised, when, behold! 
 A baron, all cover'd with jewels and gold. 
 
 Arrived at Fair Imogine's door. 
 
 His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain, 
 
 Soon made her untrue to her vows ; 
 He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her brain ; 
 He caught her affections, so light and .so vain. 
 
 And carried her home as his spouse. 
 
 And now had the marriage been blest by the priest ; 
 
 The revelry now was begun ; 
 The tables they groan'd with the weight of the feast. 
 Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, 
 
 wiien the bell at the castle toll'd— one. 
 
 Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found, 
 
 A stranger was placed by her side : 
 His air was terrific ; he utter'd no sound — 
 He spake not, he moved not, he luok'd not aro\md — 
 
 But earnestly gazed on the bride. 
 
 His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height, 
 
 His armor was sabie to view ; 
 All plea.iure and laughter were hush'd at his sight ; 
 The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright; 
 
 The lights in the chamber burn'd blue ! 
 
 His presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay ; 
 
 The guests sat in silence and fear ; 
 At length spake the bride — while she trembled— " I 
 
 pray 
 Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, 
 
 And deign to partake of our cheer." 
 
 The lady is silent ; the stranger complies — 
 
 His vizor he slowly unclosed ; 
 Oh, God ! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes ! 
 What words can express her dismay and surprise 
 
 When a skeleton's head was exposed ! 
 
 All present then utter'd a terrified shout. 
 All turn'd with disgust from the scene ; 
 
 The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept 
 out. 
 
 And sported his eyes and his temples about, 
 While the .spectre address'd Imogine : 
 
 " Behold me, thou false one, behold me !" he cried, 
 " Remember Alonzo the Brave ! 
 God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride, 
 My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side ; 
 Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride. 
 And bear thee away to the grave !" 
 
 Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound. 
 While loudly she shriek'd in dismay ; 
 
 Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawning 
 ground. 
 
 Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found 
 Or die spectre that bore her away. 
 
NARRATIVES AND liALLADS. 
 
 63 
 
 Not lonn lived tlie haron ; niul none, since that time, 
 
 1 o inliai)it the castle presuim; ; 
 For .liruni* Ics tell that, by oriler siihlinu'. 
 There Inii)^;ine sutlers the pain of her crime, 
 
 Ami niuurns Iter deplorable doom. 
 
 At midnight, (otir times in eac h year does her sprite. 
 
 When mortals in slumber aie bound, 
 Array'd in her bridal appard of white, 
 Appear in tiie hall with the skeleton knight, 
 
 And shriek as he whirls her aruiinil ! 
 
 While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the 
 grave. 
 Dancing round them the spectres are seen ; 
 Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave 
 lliey howl : "To the health of Alonzo the Hrave, 
 And his consort, the I'air Imoginc !" 
 
 Matthew Gregory I.kwis. 
 
 0": 
 
 («) 
 
 OLD GRIMES. 
 
 LD Grimes is dead, that good old man- 
 We ne'er shall see him more ; 
 e used to wear a long black coat, 
 All buttoned down before. 
 
 His heart was open as the day, 
 
 1 1 is feelings all were true ; 
 His hair was some inclined to gray — 
 
 He wore it in a queue. 
 
 Whene'er he heard the voice of p.iin. 
 His breast with pity burned ; 
 
 The large round head upon his cane 
 From ivory was turned. 
 
 Kind words he ever had for .ill ; 
 
 He knew no base design ; 
 His eyes were dark and rather small. 
 
 His nose was aquiline. 
 
 He lived at peace with all mankind. 
 
 In friendship he was true ; 
 His coat had pocket-holes behind. 
 
 His pantaloons were blue. 
 
 Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 
 
 He p.issed securely o'er. 
 And never wore a pair o' boots 
 
 I'"or thirty years or more. 
 
 lUit good Old Grimes is now at rest, 
 Nor fears misfor.une's frown ; 
 
 1 le wore a double-breasted vest — 
 The stripes ran up and down. 
 
 He modest merit sought to find, 
 
 And pay it its desert ; 
 He had no malice in his mind, 
 
 No ruffles on his shirt. 
 
 His neighbors he did not abuse — 
 
 Was sociable and gay ; 
 He wore large buckles oil his sIkks, 
 
 And changed them every day. 
 
 His knowledge, hid from public gaze. 
 
 He did not bring to view. 
 Nor make a noise town-meeting days. 
 
 As many people do. 
 
 His worldly goods ho never threw 
 
 In trust to fortune's chances. 
 Hut lived (as all his brothers do) 
 
 In easy circumstances. 
 
 Thus undisturbed by anxious cares , 
 
 His peaceful moments ran ; 
 And everybody said he was 
 
 A tine old gentleman. 
 
 Alhert (1. Grkkne, 
 
 THE SLEEPING SENTINEL 
 
 Ttic tncUlcnts lierc woven into Vf-rsf rulatc to William Si-ott, a 
 ynuiiK soldier from tlie Stale of Vciinmit, wliu, wliilu on <lu y m a 
 si'iulncl at tiiglit, fell asleep, ami, li;iviiiij been coiidemneil Id die, 
 was pardoned by the I'rcsidmt. Tlicv form a brief reninl i.f his 
 huinblu life at home and in Ihe field, and of his glorious dealt). 
 
 f Vj" 'WAS in the sultry summer-time, as war's red 
 |(T\ records sliow, 
 
 V^i/ When patriot armies rose to meet a fr.atri- 
 f cidal foe— 
 
 When, from the North and East and West, like the up- 
 heaving sea. 
 Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country 
 truly free. 
 
 Within a prison's dismal walls, where sh.idows veiled 
 
 decay — 
 In tetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay; 
 Heart-broken, hojieless, and tbrlorn, wiih short i.nd 
 
 feverish breath, 
 He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's 
 
 death. 
 
 Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a 
 
 care, 
 He roamed at will, and freely drew his native moun- 
 
 tiin air — 
 WHiere sp;irkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many 
 
 a woodl.ind font, 
 .\nd wavmg elms, and grassy slopes, give beauty to 
 
 \'ermont. 
 
 Where, dwelling m a humble cot, a tiller of the soil — 
 Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's 
 
 toil- 
 Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his sufTering, coun- 
 try's cry 
 Fired his young heart vvidi fervent zeal, for her to live 
 or die ; 
 
 'I r 
 
\v 
 
 64 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 lilll 
 
 I ; :i'. 
 
 Then left he all : a few foiul tears, hy fimimss h;iH lun- 1 Ami in the mklst, witli falterin}; ste|>H, and pale and 
 
 cealed, nnxiuiiM face, 
 
 A blcssnig, and a parting prayer, and Ik; was in the In tn:ina(les, between two guar»!s, a sciidier had hw 
 
 place, 
 A youth— led out to die;— .nnd yrf, ii was not death, 
 
 init sliaine 
 That stnotc his gallant heart with dread, and shook his 
 manly Iraniu. 
 
 field - 
 Tile field of strife, whose tiewsare blood, whose breezes 
 
 war's hot breath. 
 Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose hiis- 
 
 bundnian is death ! 
 
 Without a murmur, he endured a service new aiu! 
 
 haril ; 
 Tint, wearied with a toilsome nian:h, it chanced one 
 
 night, on guard, 
 He sank, exhausted, at his iH)st, and tiio gray mornini; 
 
 found 
 
 I lis prostrate fiinu — a sentinel asleei) upon the ground. ' .pi.„„ ^ ,. • • i. , 
 
 ^ lit. 1 hen came across his wavering sight strange pictures 111 
 
 the air ; 
 
 Still on, belore the niarshall'd ranks, the train pursued 
 
 its wiiy 
 I'p to the tiesignated spot, whereon a cofTui lay— 
 His Collin; ami with reeling hrain, despairing — deso- 
 late- 
 He took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate. 
 
 So in the silence of the night, aweary, on tlie sod, 
 Siink the disciples, watching near tlie sullenng Son of 
 
 Goil ; 
 Yet, Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy 
 
 eyes. 
 And thougli betray'd to rutliless foes, forgiving, bade 
 
 them rise. 
 
 But God is love — and finite minds can faintly com- 
 prehend 
 
 How gentle mercy, in His rule, may with stern justice 
 blend ; 
 
 And this poor soldier, seized ami bound, found none 
 to justify, 
 
 While war's inexhorable law decreetl that he must die. 
 
 He saw his distant mountain home ; he saw his mother 
 
 there ; 
 He saw his father bowed in grief, thnj' fast-dectining 
 
 years ; 
 He saw a nameless grave ; and then, the vision closed 
 
 — in tears. 
 
 Yet once again. In double file advancing, then, he 
 
 saw 
 Twelve comrades sternly set apart to execute the 
 
 law— 
 But saw no more , his senses swam— deep darkness 
 
 settled round— 
 And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's 
 
 sound. 
 
 •Twas nii;ht.-In a secluded room, with measured "^'^^^ suddenly was heard the noise of steed and 
 
 tread^-lmi slow. | wheels approach, 
 
 A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to A"'*' ^°"'"K ^\^ruiigh a cloud of dust, appeared a 
 
 ami fro; ! stately coach. 
 
 Oppressed, he ix,miered on a land by civil discord On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid 
 
 J . I course was bent, 
 
 On brothers .irmed in deadiv strife :-it was the Prcsi- Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's Presi- 
 
 dent 
 
 The woos of thirty millions filled his burdened heart 
 
 with grief, 
 Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him 
 
 their chief ; 
 And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive 
 
 cry 
 Of tliat poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doomed to die. 
 
 'Twas morning. — On a tented field, and through the 
 
 heated h.ize. 
 Flashed back, from lines of burnished amis, the sun's 
 
 effulgent blaze ; 
 WTiile, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly t(j 
 
 emerge 
 
 dent. 
 
 He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from 
 despair ; 
 
 .\nd from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent 
 the air ; 
 
 The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubi- 
 lee. 
 
 And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that 
 made him free. 
 
 'Twas spring— within a verdant vale, where War- 
 wick's crystal tide 
 Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either 
 
 side- 
 Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan 
 solitude — 
 
 A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defi- 
 dii^e. ' ance stood. 
 
NARRATIVI'S AND HALLADS. 
 
 05 
 
 Two threatcninij armies ' One invoked by iiijurud 
 
 Liherlv— 
 Which hore nhovi; its patriot ranks thi' Symbol uftlie 
 
 Free t 
 And one, a rebel hurcle, beneath a ll.uuitini; tlaj; uf 
 
 bars, 
 A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's 
 
 Stripes and Stars. 
 
 A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor 
 
 dense and (hiii, 
 Proclaimed, aloni; tiie echoing; hills, tin; conflict had 
 
 begun ; 
 And shot and shell, athwart the stream with fiendish 
 
 fury sped, 
 To strew among the living lines tiie dying and the 
 
 dead. 
 
 Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the 
 
 stern command, 
 "Charge I soldiers, charge !" and, at the word, with 
 
 shouts, a fearless band, 
 Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rusheii onward, 
 
 through the flood, 
 And upward o'er the rising ground, tiiey mnrked their 
 
 way in blood. 
 
 The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his 
 
 post — 
 While, unsustamed, two hundred stood, to battle witli 
 
 a host • 
 Then turning as the rallymg ranks, with murd'rous 
 
 fire replied, 
 They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through tla 
 
 purple tide. 
 
 The fallen ! And the first who fell in that uneciua! 
 
 strife. 
 Was he whom mercy sped to save when justice claimed 
 
 his life — 
 The pardon'd soldier ' And while ytt the conllict 
 
 mged around, 
 While yet his life-blood ebbed away through every 
 
 gaping wound- 
 While yet his voice grew tremulous, and deatli he- 
 
 diilimed his eye- 
 He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to 
 
 die ; 
 And in his last expiring breath, a prayer to heaven 
 
 was sent, 
 That God. with His unfailing grace, would bless our 
 
 President. 
 
 Francis De Haks Janvier. 
 
 n 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELlN. 
 
 AMELIN Town's in Brunswick. 
 Ily famous Hanover City j 
 The river Weser, deep and wide, 
 Washes its wall on the southern side , 
 
 A pletisanter s[)ot ymi nt^viT spied, 
 Hut when begins my dltly, 
 Almost fivo lutiulri.d yiars ago. 
 To see the townsfolk sullcr so 
 From vermin was a pity. 
 
 Rats! 
 They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 
 And bit the babies in the craillcs. 
 And ate the cheeses out of tiiu vats, 
 And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
 Made nests iaside men's Sunday hats. 
 And even spoiled tho women's chats, 
 Ily drowning their siKaking 
 With shrieking and stjueaking 
 In fifty different sharjJS and flats. 
 
 At last tlie people In a body 
 
 To the Town Hall came HtJcking : 
 
 " 'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy; 
 
 And as for our Corporation — shocking 
 To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
 For dolts that can't or won't determine 
 What's best to rid us of our vermin !" 
 At this the Mayor and Corporation 
 Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
 
 An hour they sate in council — 
 
 At length the Mayor broke silence : 
 " For a guilder I'd my eniiine gown sell ; 
 I wish I were a mile hence I 
 It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
 I'm sure my poor head aciies again, 
 I've scratched it so, .iiul all in vain. 
 
 for a trap, a trap, a trap 1" 
 
 Just as he said this, \vh:it should hap 
 
 At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? 
 
 " nies6 us," cried the M.iyor, " what's t'.iai?" 
 
 " Come in !"— the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; 
 
 And in did come the strangest figure ; 
 
 He advancetl to the council-table ; 
 
 And, " Ple.ise your honor," said he, " I'm able, 
 
 By means of a secret charm, to draw 
 
 All creatures living beneath the sun, 
 
 That creep or swim or fly or run. 
 
 After me so as you never saw ' 
 
 Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, 
 
 In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
 
 I^ast June, from his huge swarra of gnats ; 
 
 1 eased in Asia the Nizam 
 
 Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 
 
 And as for what your brain bewilders — 
 
 If I can rid your town of rats, 
 
 Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 
 
 " One? fifty thousand !" was the exclamation 
 
 CI the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 
 
w 
 
 1 
 
 ■J] 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 If 
 
 Into the strt'ct the piper stept, 
 
 Smiling first a little smile, 
 As if he knew \\ hat magic slept 
 In his (iiiict |>i;i-' tlie while ; 
 
 Then, like a miisic;il adept, 
 To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkKnl, 
 And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 
 Like a candle (lame where salt is sprinkled ; 
 And ere three shrill notes the jiipe littered, 
 You heard as if an amiy nuittered ; 
 And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 
 And tile grumbling grew to a mighty nuublin;; ; 
 And out of the houses ihe rats came tuml'ling. 
 Great rats, small rats, le;in rats, brawny rats, 
 Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 
 Grave old plodtlers, gay yoimg friskers, 
 
 Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
 Ct)cking tails and pricking whiskers ; 
 
 Families by tens anil dozens. 
 Brothers, sisters, hus!)ands, wives — 
 I'ollowed the piper for their lives. 
 I'rom street to street he piped advancing, 
 And step fur step they followed dancing, 
 Until they came to the river Weser, 
 Wherein all phmged and iierished 
 Save one who, stout as Julius Casar, 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 (As he the manuscript he cherished) 
 To Rat-land home his commentary, 
 Which was : ".\t the first shrill nt)tes of the pipe, 
 I heard a soinul as of scraping tripe. 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
 hito a cider-press's gripe — 
 And a moving away of pickle-tub boards. 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards. 
 Anil a thawing the corks t)f train-oil flasks. 
 And a breaking the htxips of butter-casks ; 
 And it seemed as if a voice 
 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
 Is breathed') called out, " O rats, rejoice ' 
 The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ' 
 So numch on, crunch on, take your luincheon. 
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! 
 And just as a bulky sugar-i)uncheon, 
 Already staved, like a gre.it sun shone 
 Glorious scarce an inch before me, 
 )ust as nuthought it said, ' Come, bore me ' '— 
 I found tlie Weser rolling o'er me." 
 You should have heard the Hanielin people 
 Ringing the bells till they rocked the stieple ; 
 " Go,'' cried the Mayor, "and get Ion;; pol.'s ! 
 Poke out the nests and block up the holes ' 
 Consult with carpenters and builders. 
 And le.ive in our town not even a Irac; 
 Of the rats !" — when suddenly, up tlie f.ice 
 Of tlie j)iper perked in the market j)!aee, 
 With a "First if you please, my thous.ind guilders !' 
 A thousand guilders ! the ]\Iayor looked blue ; 
 So did the 'Corporation too. 
 
 To pay this s«im to a wandering fellow 
 
 Wu'i a gypsy coat of red and yellow 1 
 
 " Beside," qu.ith the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 
 
 " Our business w.as done at the river's brink ; 
 
 We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. 
 
 And what's dead can't ciMiie to life, I think. 
 
 So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
 
 From the duty of giving you something to drink, 
 
 And a matter of money to put in your poke ; 
 
 But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
 
 Of them, as you very well. know, was in joke. 
 
 Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
 
 A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty I" 
 
 The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
 ■' No trifling I I can't wait ! beside, 
 I've promised to visit by dinner time 
 Bagdat, and accept the prime 
 Of the heail cook's pottage, all he's rich in. 
 For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 
 V/itli him I proved no bargain-driver; 
 With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! 
 And folks who put me in a jiassion 
 M:iy find me pipe to .inotlier fashion." 
 
 " How?" cried the Mayor, " d' ye think I'll brook 
 
 Being worse treated than a cook? 
 
 Insulted by a l.izy ribald 
 
 With idle pipe and vesti.re piebald ? 
 
 You tlire.iten us, fjllovv? Do your worst. 
 
 Blow )i)Ur pii^e there till you burst I" 
 
 Once more he stept into the street ; 
 
 And to liis lijjs again 
 Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane ; 
 
 And ere he blew three notes (such sweet. 
 Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
 
 Never gave the enraptured air) 
 There wa;i a rustling that seemed like a bustling 
 (Jf merry crowds jiistling at pitching antl hustling ; 
 .Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 
 Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering ; 
 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is 
 
 scattering. 
 Out came the children running : 
 All the little boys and girls. 
 With rosy cheeks and llaxen curls. 
 And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 
 Tripping and skipping, r.m merrily after 
 The wonderful music with shouting ami laughter. 
 
 The Mayor wiis dumb, and the Council stood 
 
 As if lliey were changed into blocks of wood, 
 
 Unable to move a step, or cry 
 
 To the children merrily skipping by. 
 
 And could only follow with the eye 
 
 That joyous nowd at the piper's back. 
 
 But how the Mayor was on the rack. 
 
 And the wretched Council's bosoms beat 
 
NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 
 
 57 
 
 As the piper turned from the High street 
 
 To where the Weser rolled its waters 
 
 Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! * 
 
 However, he turned from south to west, 
 
 And to Koppelberg 1 1 ill liis steps addressed, 
 
 And after liim the children pressed ; 
 
 Great was the joy in every breast. 
 
 " He never can cross that mighty top ! 
 
 He's forced to let the piping drop, 
 
 Ami we .shall .see our children stop !" 
 
 When lo, as they reached the mountain's side, 
 
 A wondrous pcjrtal opened wide, 
 
 As if a cavern w.is suddenly hollowed ; 
 
 Anil the piper advanced and the ciiililren followed ; 
 
 And when all were in, to the very last. 
 
 The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
 
 Did I say all' No! One was lame, 
 
 And could not dance the whole of the way ; 
 
 And in after years, if you would blame 
 
 I lis sadness, he was used to say, 
 
 " It's dull in our town since my playmates left, 
 
 I can't forget that I'm bereft 
 
 Of all the pleasant sights they see. 
 
 Which the piper also promised me ; 
 
 For he led us, he said, to a joyous land. 
 
 Joining the town and just at hand, 
 
 Wliere waters gushed and fruit-tret-s gru-w, 
 
 Ami flowers put forth a fairer hue. 
 
 And everything was strange and new ; 
 
 The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 
 
 And their dogs outran our fallow (Iolt, 
 
 And honey-bees had lost their stmgs, 
 
 And horses were born with eagles' wings , 
 
 And just as I became assured 
 
 My lame foot woulil be speedily curutl, 
 
 The music stopped and I stood still. 
 
 Anil found myself outside the Hill, 
 
 Left alone against my will. 
 
 To go now lini|>ing as before, 
 
 Anu never hear of that country more !" 
 
 RomcRT nRowNi.vr,. 
 
 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
 FROM GHENT TO AIX. 
 
 y .SPRANG to the stirrup, and Jori; and he ; 
 
 ?1 galloped, Dirck galloped, we gallopi-d all 
 three ; 
 "Good speed ! " cried the watch as the gate-bolts 
 unilrew, 
 "h[)eeil !" echoed the wall to us galloping tlTough ; 
 B.liiiul shut the postern, tin.- lights sank to rest. 
 And into the midnight wc galloped abreast. 
 
 Nut a word to e.ich other : we kept the great pace 
 Neck and neck, stride by stride, never changing our 
 place. 
 
 I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 
 Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, 
 Re-buckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit ; 
 Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 
 
 'Twas moonset at starting, but while we drew near 
 Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear ; 
 At Uoom, a great yellow star came out to see. 
 At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
 And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half 
 
 chime ; 
 So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time." 
 
 At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
 And against him the cattle stood black every one 
 To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
 And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, 
 With resolute shoulders each butting away 
 The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 
 
 And his low head and cre.st, just one sharp ear bent 
 
 back 
 For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
 .•\nd one eye's black intelligence — ever that glance 
 O'er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ! 
 .■\nd the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and 
 
 anon 
 His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 
 
 Ry Hasselt, Dirck groaned, and cried Joris, "Stay 
 
 spur ' 
 Your Rods galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 
 We'll remember at Aix ; " — for one heard the quick 
 
 wheeze 
 Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering 
 
 knees, 
 And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 
 As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 
 
 So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
 Past l.ooz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
 The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
 Neath oiir feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 
 
 chair. 
 Till over by Dalhelm a dome-spire sprang white, 
 .And "(iallop," gasped Joris, "for Ai.x is 'n sight'" 
 
 " Ht v they'll greet us ! "—and all in a moment h's 
 
 Ti )an 
 Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone. 
 And there '<as my Roland to bear the whole weight 
 Of the news which alone could save Ai.x from her 
 
 fate. 
 With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. 
 And with circles of red for his eye-sockets rim. 
 
 Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall, 
 Shook olfboth my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
 .Stood up in the stirrup, loaned, patted his ear, 
 Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without 
 peer ; 
 
 'I 
 
 M 
 
 
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 :|-i 
 
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 >g 1 
 
 k 
 
 It 
 
 lii 
 
 l| 
 
 si 
 
 ^i' 
 
 68 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise bad 
 
 or good, 
 Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 
 
 And all I remember, is friends flocking round. 
 
 As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the 
 
 ground, 
 And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 
 As I poured down his throat our last measures of 
 
 wine. 
 Which, (the burgesses voted by common consent,) 
 Was no more than his due who brought good news 
 
 from Ghent. 
 
 Robert Browicing. 
 
 CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 
 
 'LOWLY England's sun was settuig o'er llie hill- 
 tops far away. 
 Filling all the land with beauty at the close of 
 one sad day. 
 
 And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and ; ^^^^ ereat dark bell • 
 
 "At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must 
 
 die." 
 And her breath came fast and fiister, and her eyes 
 
 grow large and l)rigiit ; 
 In an undertone she nuirnuircd: — 
 
 "Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 
 With (lulck step she bounded forward, sprung within 
 
 the old church door, 
 Left the qld man thre.nding slowly paths so oft he'd 
 
 trod before ; 
 Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and 
 
 cheek aglow 
 Mounted up tlie gloomy tower, where the bell swung 
 
 to and fro, 
 As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray 
 
 of light. 
 Up and up -her white lips saying : — 
 
 " Curu'w must not ring to-night." 
 
 She has reached the topmost ladder: o'er her hangs 
 
 maiden fair — 
 He with footsteps slow anil weary, she with sumiy 
 
 floating hair ; 
 He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips 
 
 all cold and white, 
 Struggling to keei» I).;f-k the nuirmur- 
 
 "Curfew must Ui.* ring to-night." 
 
 Awlui is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down 
 
 to hell. 
 Lo, the ])onderous tongue is swinging— 'tis the hour ol 
 
 Curfew now, 
 ,\iul the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her 
 bre.ith, aiul paled iier brow. 
 ' Shall she let it ring ? No, never 1 flash her eyes with 
 "Sexton," Bes.sie's white lips faltered, puinlin- to tlio : sudden light, 
 
 prison old, I •'^^ ^''^" siirinfts, and grasps it finnly— 
 
 With its turrets t.iU and gloeiny, witli its walls dark, . "Curfew shall not Hug to-night 1 " 
 
 damp and coUl, | 
 
 "I've a lover in that pris(jn, doomed tins very night to '^>ut .she swung — far out-, the city seemed a speck of 
 
 die, i liirht below, 
 
 At the ringing of tlie Curfew, and nu e.'.rtlily help is There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell 
 
 nigli • sw uig to and fro, 
 
 Cromwell will not come till sunset," aiul l;er lips grew And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard 
 
 strangely white I not the bell, 
 
 As she bre.-ithed the husky whisper — | Sadly thought, "That twilight Cu.'few rang young 
 
 "Curfew must not ring to-night." B.isil's uneral knell." 
 
 .Still tl.,' maiden dung more firmly, i,.nd vith trembling 
 "Bessfie," calmly spoke the sexton— every word i^icrced ; y ^^^ white 
 
 her young heart ' ^^.^j^, ,^, j^^^jj i,er'heart's wil.l throbbing :— 
 
 Like the piercing of a.n arrow, like a d.adiy poisoned , "Curfew shall not ring to night" 
 
 dart— I 
 
 "Long, long years I've rung tlu' Cuife-w from that 
 
 gloomy, shadoweil tower , 
 
 It was c'lv, tlie bell ceas(-'d swaying, and the maideti 
 
 f ■ • . . . •. t . I I .1 . •!• u» stepped once more 
 
 Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight ... , '' ,, , , , , , 
 
 !• irmly on the dark old ladder where for hundred years 
 
 before 
 
 Hum.in fot)t had not been planted. The brave deed 
 
 that she had done 
 
 hour ; 
 I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, 
 Now I'm old I will not falter — 
 
 Curfew, It must ring to-night." 
 
 .Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting 
 
 Wild her eyes and pale her f:atuies, stern and white sun 
 
 her thoughtful brow, ( nnisoii .-ill the sky with beauty, .iged sires, with 
 
 As within her secret bosom liessie matle a solemn vow. heads of while, 
 
 She had listened while the judges read without a tear or , Tell the eager, listening children. 
 
 sigh: •• ' "Cui few df(l not ring that night." 
 
 
NARRATIVl'IS AND BALLADS. 
 
 59 
 
 O'er the distant liills came Cromwell ; Bessie sees liini, 
 
 and her brow, 
 Lately while with fear and anjjuish, has no anxious 
 
 traces now. 
 At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all 
 
 bruised and torn ; 
 And iier face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow 
 
 pale and worn, 
 Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with 
 
 misty lij;ht : 
 "Go I your lover lives," said Cromwell, 
 
 "Curfew shall not rinjj to-night.' 
 
 Wide they flung the massive portal ; led the prisoner 
 forth to die— 
 
 All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the dark- 
 ening luiglish sky 
 
 Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with 
 love-light sweet : 
 
 Kneeling on the turf beside him, l.iys his pardon at liis 
 feet. 
 
 In his brav-.', strong arms he clasped her, kissed the 
 face nptnrni'il and wliite. 
 
 Whispered, " D.-irling, yini have saved me — 
 Curfew will not ring tn-nigiit I " 
 
 kosK IIaktwick TiioKri-;. 
 
 THE MISER WHO LOST HIS TREASURE. 
 
 'T'S use that constitutes possession wholly ; 
 I ask those pecjple who've a passion 
 For heaping gold on gold, and saving solely, 
 How lliey excel the poorest man in any fasliion? 
 
 Diogenes is quite as rich as they. 
 
 True misers live like beggars, peujile ^-.ay ; 
 
 The man with hidden treasure yl-Isop drew 
 
 Is an example of the thing I mean. 
 
 In the next life he might be happy, true ; 
 
 But very little joy in this he knew ; 
 
 By gold the miser was so little blessed. 
 
 Not its possessor, but by it possessed ; 
 
 He buried it a fathom underground ; 
 
 His heart was with it; his delight 
 
 To ruminate upon it day and night ; 
 
 A victim to the altar ever bound. 
 
 He seemed so i>oor, yet not one hour forgot 
 
 The golden grave, the coiv:entraied spot ; 
 
 Whether he goes or comes, or eats or ilrinks. 
 
 Of gold, and gold alone, the miser thinks. 
 
 At last a ditcher marks his frequent walks, 
 And muttering talks, 
 
 Scents out the jilace, and clears the whole, 
 Unseen by any spies. 
 
 On one fine day the miser came, bis si ul 
 
 Glowing witli joy ; he found the empty nest ; 
 
 Burst into tears, and sobs, and cries, 
 
 He frets, and tears his thin gray hair ; 
 
 He's lost what he had loved the best. 
 
 A startled peasant passhig there 
 
 Inquires the reason of his sighs. 
 " My gold I my gold ! they've stolen all." 
 " Your treasure? what was it, and where?" 
 " Why, buried underneath this stone," 
 
 (A moan !) 
 "Why, man, is this a time of war ? 
 
 Why should you bring your gold so far? 
 
 I lad you not better much have let 
 
 The wealth lie in a cabinet. 
 
 Where you could find it any lu iir 
 
 In your own power ?" , 
 
 "What ! every hour? a wise man knows 
 
 Gold comes, but slowly, ([uickly goes ; 
 
 I never touched it." " Gracious me !", 
 
 Replied the other, " why, then, be 
 
 So wretched ? for if you say true, 
 
 You never touched it, plain the case ; 
 
 Put back that stone upon the pl.ice, 
 
 'Twill be the very same to you." 
 
 THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 The fifth of May c.inio .imi<l wind ami rain. Napoleon's passing 
 spirit was licliriously engage. 1 in a siiile more terrible than '.he 
 elements arouiul. The words " /c-tf il'itimri'," (head of the arniV,) 
 tile last wiiieh escaped from his lips, intimated that his thon^hts 
 were waleliing the current o( a heavy figlit. About eleven minutes 
 before six ill the evening. Napoleon expired. 
 
 "T^j"^ ILD was the night, yet a wilder night 
 I @ I Hting round the soldier's pillow ; 
 
 \^^ In his bosom there waged a fiercer tight 
 Than the fight on the wrathful billow. 
 
 A few fond mourners were kneeling by, 
 The few that his stern heart cherished ; 
 
 They knew, by his gla/ecl and unearthly eye, 
 That life had nearly perished. 
 
 They knew by his awful and kingly look, 
 
 r>y the order hastily spoken. 
 That he dreamed of days wluii the nations shook, 
 
 And the nations' hosts were broken. 
 
 He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, 
 And triumphed the Frenchman's "eagle ;" 
 
 And the struggling .Austrian fleil anew. 
 Like the iiare before the beagle. 
 
 The bearded Russian he scourged again. 
 
 The Prussian's camp was routeil. 
 And again, on the hills of haughty Spain, 
 
 His mighty armies shouted. 
 
 Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows. 
 
 At the pyramids, at the mountain. 
 Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, 
 
 And by the Italian fountain. 
 
 On the snowy clilts, where mountain-streams 
 
 Dash by the Switzer's dwelHng, 
 He led again, in lii.i dying dreams. 
 
 His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 
 
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 t^mmm 
 
 60 
 
 CROWN JlCWI'Xa 
 
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 M' 
 
 Again Marengo's field was won, 
 
 And Jena's bloody buttle ; 
 Again the world was overrun, 
 
 Made pale at his cannons' rattle. 
 
 He died at the close of that darksome day, 
 
 A day that shall live in story ; 
 In the rocky land they placed his clay, 
 
 "And 'eft him alone with his glory." 
 
 Isaac McLellan. 
 
 II 
 
 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 
 
 EX BATTLE was a soldier bold, 
 ,« And useil to war's alarms; 
 
 But a cainion-hall ttwk ofT his legs, 
 So he laid down his arms ! 
 
 Now as they bore him jfT the field, 
 
 Said he, " Let others shoot, 
 For here I leave my sc<:oi!d leg, 
 
 And the Forty-second Foot !" 
 
 The army-surgeons made him limbs : 
 Said he — "They're only pegs ; 
 
 But there's as wooden members quite 
 As represent my legs !" 
 
 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. 
 
 Her name was Nelly Ciray ! 
 So he went to pay her his devours 
 
 When he'd devoured his pay. 
 
 But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
 
 She made liini cjuile a .'Ncofl"; 
 And when slie saw his wooden legs, 
 
 Began to take them off! 
 
 "O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! 
 Is this your love so warm ? 
 The love tli.it loves a scarlet coat, 
 Should 'je more uniform !" 
 
 Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
 
 For he w.is blitiie and brave ; 
 But I will never have a man 
 
 With both legs in the grave ! 
 
 " Before you had those timber toes, 
 'N'our love I did allow, 
 But then you know, you stand upon 
 Another footing now !" 
 
 "O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! 
 I-'or all your cheering sjieeehes, 
 At duty's call 1 left my legs 
 In Badajos's breaches T' 
 
 "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet 
 ( )f legs in war's alarms, 
 And now you cannot wear your shoes 
 Upon your feats of arms 1" 
 
 "O, false and fickle Neliy Gray ; 
 I know why you refuse ; — 
 Though I've no feet — some other man 
 Is standing in my shoes ! 
 
 ' 1 wish I n'er had seen your face ; 
 But, now, a long farewell I 
 For you will be my death : — alas ! 
 You will not be my Nell .'" 
 
 Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 
 
 I lis heart so heavy got — 
 And life was such a burthen grown. 
 
 It made him take a knot ! 
 
 So round his melancholy neck 
 
 A rope he did entwine. 
 And, for his second time in life, 
 
 Enlisted in the Line 1 
 
 One end he tied around a beam, 
 
 And then removed his pegs, 
 And, as liis legs were olf— of course. 
 
 He soon was olf his legs ! 
 
 And there he hung till he was dead 
 
 As any nail in town — 
 For ti)<iu;;h distress had cut him up. 
 
 It could not cut him down ! 
 
 A dozen men sat on his corpse. 
 
 To lind iiut why he died — 
 And tliey buried Ben in four cross-roads, 
 
 With a sltil:c in his inside ! 
 
 Thomas Hoou, 
 
 THE MISERS WILL. 
 
 HIS tale is true, for S( the roconls show ; 
 'Tvvas in Cieiinany, not many years ago : 
 
 Young Erfurth loved. But ere the wedding 
 day 
 
 His dearest friend stole witli his bride away. 
 The woman filse that he h.id deemed so true. 
 The friend he trusted but an ingrate, too ; 
 What wonder that, his love to hatred grown. 
 His heart should seem to all mankind a stone? 
 .Ml kindred ties he broke, himself be banned. 
 And sought a solitude in stranger land. 
 
 Grief finds relief in something found to do, 
 The mind must find some object to pursue ; 
 And so, ere long, his being was controlled 
 By Hole, debasing, longing greed for gold. 
 How soon his little multiplied to much ! 
 His hand seemed gifted with a Midas touch ; 
 Yet still he kept himself unto himself. 
 None seeing but for increa.se i,-f liis pelf. 
 
NARRATIVES AND 15ALLADS. 
 
 Gl 
 
 Death came at last ; discovering ere he died, 
 His heart had yet one spot unpetrifictl ; 
 For, on his bed, his hand upon it still, 
 Tliere, open, lay the poor old miser's will. 
 
 Tlie will was read ; there to his brothers three 
 He left to each a thousand marks ; and lie, 
 Tlie friend who caused him all his giicfand shame, 
 Was, with his free forgiveness, left the same ; 
 But none of these, to wlioni sucli wealth he gave 
 Should follow his remains unto tlie grave 
 On pain of forfeit. 'Nealh his i;illow pressed 
 Was found a letter, sealed ; and thus addressed : 
 "To my dear native city of Berlin. " 
 
 The brothers heard, and thought it was no sin 
 To .stay away; besides, his absence long 
 Had cjuenclied the love not ever over-strong. 
 Wiiat did tlie faithless friend ? He knelt in tears. 
 Looked back in anguish o'er the vanished years, 
 Saw once again their happy ooyhood's time, 
 Their manliood's friendship, his repentetl crime. 
 "Oil, my wronged Erfurth, now in death so cold, 
 I've your forgiveness, care I lor your gold?" 
 And, at the funeral, striving to atone. 
 The single mourner tl-.ere, he walked alone. 
 
 The letter, opened at the Mayor's will, 
 
 Was found to hold the miser's codicil, 
 
 Wherein he gave his hoarded gokl and lands 
 
 To liim that disobeyed the will's ommands. 
 
 Should such tliere be — whose heart knew love or 
 
 pity— 
 Or, failing, all went to his native city. 
 
 And so the friend who stole his bride away ; 
 Who turned to night his joyous morn of day. 
 Humbly repentant, when his victim died, 
 Received his pardon and his wealth beside. 
 
 George Birdsevk. 
 
 THE TALE OF A TRAMP. 
 
 /^ ET me sit down a moment ; 
 •«• /• .\ stone's got into my shoe. 
 ■•• Don't you commence your cnssih' — 
 I ain't done nothin' to you. 
 Yes, I'm a tramii — what of it.' 
 
 Folks say we ain't no gooil — 
 Tramps have got to live, 1 reckon, 
 
 Though people don't think we should. 
 Once I was yoiuig and handsome ; 
 
 Had plenty of cash and clothes — 
 That was before 1 got to tipplin', 
 ..vvAntl gin got in my nose. 
 Way tldwn in the Lehigh Valley 
 
 Me and my people grew ; 
 
 I was a blacksmith, Captain, 
 
 Yes, and a good one, too. 
 
 Me and my wife, and Nellie — 
 
 Nellie was just si.\teen, 
 And she was the pootiest cretur 
 
 The Valley had ever seen. 
 Beaux ! Why she had a do/en, 
 
 Had 'em from near and fur ; 
 But they was mostly farmers — 
 
 None o'them suited her. 
 liut there was a city chap, 
 
 I landsome, young and tall — 
 Ah ! curse him ! I wish I had him 
 
 To strangle against yonder wall ! 
 He was the man for Nellie — 
 
 She didn't know no ill ; 
 Mother, she tried to stop it, 
 
 But you know young girls' will. 
 Well, it's the same old story — 
 
 Common enough, you say — 
 But he was a soft-tongued devil, 
 
 And got her to run away. 
 More than a month, or later. 
 
 We heard fruni the poor young thing — 
 He had run away and left her 
 
 Witiiout any weddin'-ring ! 
 B ick to her home we bnnight her, 
 
 Back to her mother's side ; 
 Filled with a ragin' fever, 
 
 .She fell at my feet and died ! 
 Frantic with shame and sorrow, 
 
 Her mother began to sink, 
 And died in less than a fortnight ; 
 
 That's when I took to drink. 
 Come, give me a glass now. Colonel, 
 
 And I'll be on my way, 
 And I'll tramp till I catch that scoundrel. 
 
 If it takes till the judgment day. 
 
 LITTLE GOLDEN-HAIR. 
 
 "~\ ITTLE Golden-hair was watching, in the wi:i- 
 tlow broad and high, 
 For the coming of her father, who had gone 
 the foe to fight ; 
 He had left her in the morning, and had told her n jt 
 to cry. 
 But to have a kiss all ready wli.-ii he came to her 
 at night. 
 
 She had wandered, all the day. 
 In her simple childish way, 
 And had asked, as time went on, 
 Where iier father could have g(.>ne. 
 
 She had heard the muskets firing, she had counted 
 every one, 
 Till the number grew so many that it was too great 
 a load ; 
 

 SB 
 
 62 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ^1 
 
 Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound of 
 shot or gu.!, 
 And she ga/cd with wistful waiting down the dusty 
 Concord road. 
 
 Little Golden-hair had listened, not a single week be- 
 fore, 
 While the heavy sand was falling on her mother's 
 coffin-lid ; 
 And she loved her father better for the loss that then 
 s*lie bore. 
 And thought of him and yearned for him, whatever 
 else she did. 
 
 So she wondered all the day 
 What could make her father stay, 
 And she cried a little too. 
 As he told her not to do. 
 
 And the sun sunk slowly downward and went grand- 
 ly out of sight. 
 And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be be- 
 stowed ; 
 But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight 
 grew to night, 
 And she looked, and looked, and listened, down 
 the dusty Concord road. 
 
 Then the night grew light and lighter, and the moon 
 rose full and round, 
 In the little sad face peering, looking piteously and 
 mild ; 
 Still upon the walks of gravel there v.-ps heard no 
 welcome sound, 
 And no father came there, eager for the kisses of 
 his chila. 
 
 Long and sadly did she wait, 
 Listening at the cottage-gate ; 
 Then she felt a quick alarm, 
 Lest he might have come to harm. 
 
 With no bonnet but her tresses, no companion but 
 her fears, 
 And no guidi- except the moonbeams that the path- 
 V ay dimly showed. 
 With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her 
 tears. 
 And alone she bravely started down thedustv Con- 
 cord road. 
 
 And for many a mile she struggled, full of weanness 
 and pain. 
 Calling loudly for her father, tiiat hnr voice he might 
 not miss ; 
 Till at last, among a number of the wo-.nded and the 
 slain, 
 Was the white face of the soldier, waiting for his 
 daughter's kiss. 
 
 Softly to his lips she crept. 
 Not to wake him as he sit pt ; 
 Tiien, with her young heart at rest, 
 Laid her head upon his breast. 
 
 And upon the dead face smiling, with the living one 
 near by. 
 All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams 
 gently flowed ! 
 One to live a lonely orphan, one beneath the sod to 
 lie- 
 They found them in the morning on the dusty Con- 
 cord road. 
 
 Will M. Cari.kton. 
 
 . THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY." 
 
 'AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
 That was built in such a logical way 
 It ran a hundred years to a day, 
 And then, of a sudden, it— -Ah, but stay, 
 
 I'll tell you what happened, without delay — 
 
 Scaring the parson into fits, 
 
 Frightening people out of their wits — 
 
 Have you ever heard of that, I say ? 
 
 Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, 
 Ccorgius Secundus was then alive — 
 Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
 That was the year when Lisbon town 
 Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
 And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
 Left without a scalp to its crown. 
 It was on the terrible earthquake-day 
 That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 
 
 Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, 
 
 There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — 
 
 In hub, tire, fclhje, in spring or thill. 
 
 In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
 
 In screw, bolt, thoroughhrace— lurking still, 
 
 Find it somewhere you must and will — 
 
 Above or below, or within or without — 
 
 And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
 
 A chaise breaks down, but does'nt wear out. 
 
 But the deacon swore — (as deacons do. 
 With an " I dew vum " or an " I tell yeou,")— 
 He would build one shay to beat the taown 
 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 
 It should be so built that it couldn' break daown :■— 
 " Fur," said the deacon, " 't's mighty plain 
 That the weakcs' place nius' Stan' the strain 
 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 
 
 Is oiily jest 
 To maku that place uz strong uz the rest." 
 
 So the deacon inquired of the village folk 
 Where hj could find the strongest oak. 
 That could n't be split, nor bent, nor broke — 
 
NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 
 
 63 
 
 That was for spokes, and floor, and sills ; 
 
 He sent for lancewood, to make tlic tliills ; 
 
 The crossbars were ash, from the straij^htest trees ; 
 
 Tlie panels of wliite-wood, that cuts like clieese, 
 
 But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
 
 The hubs from logs from the " Settler's ellimi," 
 
 Last of its timber— they couldn't sell 'em— 
 
 Never an ax had seen their chips. 
 
 And the wedges flew from between their lips, 
 
 Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 
 
 Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. 
 
 Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 
 
 Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
 
 Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; 
 
 Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide. 
 
 Found in the pit where the tanner died. 
 
 That was the way he " put her through." 
 
 " There ! " said the deacon, " naow she'll dew I " 
 
 Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
 
 She was a wonder, and nothing less I 
 
 Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 
 
 Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 
 
 Children and grandchildren — where were they ? 
 
 But there stood the .stout old one-hoss shay, 
 
 As fresh as nn Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 
 
 Eighteen hundred — it came, and found 
 
 The deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
 
 Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — 
 
 " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. 
 
 Eighteen hundred and twenty came — 
 
 Running as usual — much the same. 
 
 Thirty and forty at last arrive ; 
 
 And then came fifty — antl fifty-five. 
 
 Little of all we value here 
 
 Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year 
 
 Without both fe>jling and looking queer. 
 
 In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth. 
 
 So far as I know, but a tree antl truth. 
 
 (This is a moral that runs at large : 
 
 Take it. — Vou're welcome. — No extra charge.) 
 
 First of November — the earthquake day. — 
 
 There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
 
 A general flavor of mild decay — 
 
 But nothing local, as one may say. 
 
 There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art 
 
 Had made it so like in every part 
 
 That tiiere wasn't a chance for one to start. 
 
 For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. 
 And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 
 And the panels just as strong as the floor. 
 And the whipple-tree neither less nor more. 
 And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, 
 And spring, and a.xle, and hub eucore. 
 And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
 In another hour it will be worn out I 
 
 First of November, 'Fifty-five! 
 
 This morning the parson fakes a drive. 
 
 Now, small boys, get out of tlie way ! 
 
 Here conies the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
 
 Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
 
 " Huddup ! " said the parson.— Oif went they. 
 
 The parson was working his Sunday text- 
 Had got to "fifthly," and stopped perplexed 
 At what the— Moses — was coming ne.xt. 
 All at once the horse stood still, 
 Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
 — First a shiver, and then a tlirill, 
 Then something decidedly like a spill — 
 And the jiarson was sitting upon a rock. 
 At half-jxist nine by t!;e meet'n'-house clock — 
 Just the hour of the earthciuake shock 1 
 
 What do you think the parson found, 
 When he got up and stared anuitul ! 
 The poor old chaise in a hja|) or mound, 
 As if it had been to the mill and ground ! 
 Vou r.ee, of course, if you're not a dunce. 
 How it went to pieces all at once — 
 All at once, and nothing first- 
 Just as bubblc:s do when they burst. — 
 Fnd of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
 Logic is logic. That's all I say. 
 
 Ol.lVKR WeNDKI.I, Hni.MES. 
 
 (3 
 
 THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL. 
 
 LI. day long the stt)rni of battle through the 
 startled valley swept ; 
 All night long the stars in luaviMi o'er the 
 slain sad vigils kejn. 
 
 O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through 
 
 the night ! 
 O, tli<' luajis of mangled corses in tli.it <Ii:n sepulchral 
 
 light! 
 
 One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the 
 
 morning broke, 
 Hut not one of all thi; sleepers on tliat field of djath 
 
 awoke. 
 
 Slowly passed the golden hours of t!'.:it long bright 
 
 summer day, 
 .\nd upon that field of carnage still the dead unbuned 
 
 lay. 
 
 Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, 
 
 unceasing prayer, 
 For a little dust to hide them front the staring sun and 
 
 air. 
 
 But the focman held possession of the hard-won battle- 
 plain. 
 In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. 
 
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 I: II 
 
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 2''l 
 
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 1. J 
 
 1 
 
 ii 
 
 64 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Once again the i;ij;Iit dropped round tlictn— niglit so And a look ii;)on tlicir faces, lialf of sorrow, half of 
 
 holy and so calm 
 That the niooiihcanis hushud tlie spirit, like the sound 
 
 of prayer or psalin. 
 
 On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the 
 
 rest. 
 Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded 
 
 on his breast. 
 
 Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if 
 
 in sleep ; 
 E'en his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber 
 
 calm and deep. 
 
 For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to 
 
 the face. 
 And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added 
 
 naught of grace 
 
 To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless re- 
 
 pt)se, 
 Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying 
 
 foes. 
 
 And the broken drum beside him all his life's short 
 
 story told : 
 How he did his duty bravely till the iLath-tide o'er him 
 
 rolled. 
 
 Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of 
 
 stars, 
 While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet 
 
 Mars. 
 
 Hark ! a sound of stealtliy footsteps and of voices 
 
 whispering low. 
 Was it notliing but llie young leaves, or the brooklet's 
 
 murmuring flow ? 
 
 dread. 
 
 And they did not p.iuse nor falter till, with tlnobbing 
 hearts, they stood 
 
 Where the drummei- boy was lying in that partial soli- 
 tude. 
 
 They had brought some simple garments from their 
 
 wardrobe's scanty store, 
 .\nd two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they 
 
 bore. 
 
 Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the 
 
 pitying tears, 
 For they had no time for weejiing, nor for any girlish 
 
 fears. 
 
 And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden 
 shame 
 
 Changed the pallor of tlieir foreheads to a flush of lam- 
 bent flame. 
 
 For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of 
 
 sorest nee<l. 
 And tl'.ev felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the 
 
 deed. 
 
 But they smiled and kissed each other when their new 
 strange task was o'er, 
 
 And the form that lay before them its unwonted gar- 
 ments wore. 
 
 Then with slow anil weary laI)or a small grave they 
 
 hollowed out. 
 And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves 
 
 that lay about. 
 
 But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work 
 was done. 
 Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look ' And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the 
 
 round. 
 As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on 
 the ground. 
 
 Came two little maidens— sisters — with a light and 
 hasty tread. 
 
 sun. 
 
 Gently then those little maidens— they were children of 
 
 our foes — 
 Laiil the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed re 
 
 pose. 
 
 Ht 
 
LOVE Md FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 THOU'RT ALL THE WORLD TO ME. 
 
 EAVKN hath its crown 
 of stars, tlie uartli 
 Her glory- robo of 
 flowers— 
 ^^^ Thti sea its fjems — the 
 ^^ grand old woods 
 
 L Their son};s and 
 
 greening showers : 
 The birds have homes, 
 where leaves and 
 blooms 
 In beauty wreathe above; 
 High yearning heart , their 
 rainbow-dream — 
 And we, sweet ! we liave 
 love. 
 
 We walk not with the jewell'd great. 
 
 Where love's dear name is sold ; 
 Yet have we wealth we would not give 
 
 For all their world of gold ! 
 We revel not in corn and witie, 
 
 Yet have we from ab(jve 
 Manna divine, and we'll not pine, 
 
 W'hile we may live and love. 
 
 Cherubim, with cl.isping wings, 
 
 Ever about us be, 
 And, happiest of God's happy things. 
 
 There's love for you anil nij ! 
 Thy lips, that kiss to death, have turn'd 
 
 I.ifj's water into wine ; 
 The sweet life melting tiirough thy looks, 
 
 I lath made my life divine. 
 
 All love's de.ir promise hath been kept, 
 
 Since thou to m.- wert given ; 
 A ladder for my soul to climb, 
 
 And sunnner high in heaven. 
 I know, dear heart ! that in our lot 
 
 May mingle tears and sorrow : 
 Rut, love's rich rainbow's built from tears 
 
 To-day, with smiles to-morrow. 
 
 The sunshine from our sky may die, 
 
 The greenness from life's tree, 
 But ever, 'mid the warring storm, 
 
 Thy nest shall shelter'd be. 
 The world may never know, dear heart ! 
 
 What I have found in thee ; 
 But, though naught to the world, dear heart ! 
 
 Thou'rt all tlie world to me. 
 
 Ger.\ld Masskv. 
 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 ES, wife, I'd be a throned king, 
 That you might share my royal seat, 
 That titled beauty I might bring. 
 And princes' homage to your feet. 
 How (luickly, then, would noldes si-e 
 Your courtly grace, your regal mien ; 
 Even duchesses all blind should be 
 To flaw or speck in you, their (pieen. 
 
 Poor wish ! O, wife, a queen yiu are. 
 To those feet many a .suliject brings 
 A truer homage, nobler far 
 Than bends before the thrones of kings. 
 You rule a realm, wife, in this heart, 
 Where not one rebel fancy's seen, 
 Where hopes and smiles, howji)yous ! start 
 To own the sway of you, their queen. 
 
 How loyal are my thoughts by day ! 
 How faithful is each dre.-im of night I 
 Not one but lives but to obey 
 Your rule — to serve you, i:s delight ; 
 My hours— each instant— every breath 
 Are, wife, as all have ever been, 
 Your slaves, to serve you unto death; 
 O wife, you are indeed a queen ! 
 
 Wll.l-IAM Co.x DlONNim. 
 
 THE VALE OF AVOCA. 
 
 HERE is not in this wide world a valley so 
 svveet 
 As t!iat vale, in whose bosom the bright 
 waters meet ; 
 O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall faile from my heart ! 
 
 Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill — 
 O, no I it was something more c.xquisiie still. ■ 
 
 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were 
 
 near, 
 Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment more 
 
 dear, 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature improve. 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we !ove. 
 
 Sweet Vale of Avoca 1 how calm couldT rest 
 
 In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best ; 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world 
 
 should cease, 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 Il' 
 
 (65) 
 
 « 
 
I 
 
 hi'' 
 
 M 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 •|* T was mnny and many a year ago, 
 
 •y* In a kingdom l;y tlie sea, 
 
 «I» That a maiden tliere lived, wliom ymi may know 
 
 ' By tiie namu of Annabel I,ee ; 
 
 And this niaiilen sliu lived with no other tliouy;ht 
 
 Than to love, and be loved by mo. 
 
 I was a child, and she w.ts a child, 
 
 In this kinjjcUjm by tlie sea ; 
 Hut we loved Nsilh a love that was more than love, 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee — 
 With a love tliat the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingd(jm by the sea, 
 A wind bknv out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her high-born kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and rie. 
 Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know. 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night. 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of tliose who were older than we, 
 
 Of many far wiser than we ; 
 And neither the angels in heaven above. 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 1' or the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride 
 In the sepulchre there by the sea. 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 Ldcak Ali.kn Poi;. 
 
 That sarred hour can 1 forget — 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met 
 
 To live one day of parting love? 
 Eternity will noteflface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 't was our last 1 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 
 Tiie fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 
 
 Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray — 
 Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaimed the speed of wingOd day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 
 
 And fonilly broods with miser care I 
 Time but the i'-'oression stronger makes. 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary I dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 Robert Hurnsw 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Composed by Burns on tlie anniversary of the day on wliUii he 
 heard oftlie dcith of his early love, Mary Campbell. 
 
 HOU lingering star, with les.sening ray. 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 
 
 THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL. 
 
 -^ ' HE topsails shiver in the wind, 
 ■ ^ J\ The ship she casts to sea ; 
 
 S^ But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, 
 Are, Mary, moor'd by thee : 
 For though thy sailor's bound afar ; 
 Still love shall be his leading star. 
 
 Should landmen flatter when we're sailed, 
 
 O doubt their artful tales ; 
 No gallant sailor evcd fail'd. 
 
 If Cupid fill'd his sails: 
 Thou art the compass of my soul, 
 Which steers my heart from pole to pole. 
 
 Sirens in ev'ry port we meet. 
 More fell than rocks and waves ; 
 
 But sailors of the British fleet 
 Are lovers, and not slaves : 
 
 No foes our courage shall subdue. 
 
 Although we've left our hearts with you. 
 
 These are our cares ; but if you're kind, 
 We'll scorn the d.ishing main. 
 
 The rocks, the billows, and the wind, 
 The powers of France and Spain. 
 
 Now Britain's glory re>ts with yon. 
 
 Our sails are full — sweet girls, adieu f 
 
 Edward Thompson. 
 
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LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 67 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO LOVE. 
 
 *AIL, holy love, Ihou word Ih.nt sums nW bliss, 
 Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most 
 Thou givest ! spring-head of all folicity. 
 Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God ! 
 
 Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love ! 
 
 On earth mysterious, and mysterious still 
 
 In Heaven ! sweet chord that hamvonizes all 
 
 The haqis of Paradise ! 
 
 Hail, love 1 first love, thou word that sums all bliss ! 
 
 Tlie sparkling cream of all time's blessedness ; 
 
 The silken down of happiness complete ! 
 
 Discemer of the ripest grapes of joy, 
 
 She gathereih, and selecteth with her hand. 
 
 All finest relishes, all fairest sights, 
 
 All rarest odors, all divinest sounds. 
 
 All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul ; 
 
 And brings the holy mixture home, and fills 
 
 The heart with all superl.itives of l)liss. 
 
 RonERT POLLOK. 
 
 Yet the sin is on us both ; 
 
 Time to dance is not to woo ; 
 Wooing light makes fickle troth, 
 
 Scorn of me recoils on you. 
 
 Learn to win a lady's faith 
 
 Nobly, as the thing is high, 
 Bravely, as for life and death, 
 
 With a loyal gravity. 
 
 Lead her from the festive boards, 
 
 Point her to the starry skies, 
 Guard her, by your truthful words. 
 
 Pure from courtship's flatteries. 
 
 By your truth she shall be true, 
 
 Ever true, as wives of yore ; 
 And her " yes," once said to you. 
 
 Shall be yes forevcrmore. 
 
 Elizaheth Barrett Browninc;, 
 
 THE SAILOR'S RETURN. 
 
 •JJ\OOSE every sail to the breeze, 
 ••• f The course of my vessel improve ; 
 
 ^M I've done with the toils of the seas, 
 Ye sailors, I'm bound to my love. 
 
 Since Emma is true as she's fair. 
 My griefs I fling all to the wind : 
 
 'Tis a pleasing return for my care. 
 My mistress is constant and kind. 
 
 My sails are all fill'd to my dear ; 
 
 What tropic bird swifter can move ? 
 Who, cruel shall hoi .1 his career 
 
 That returns to the nest of his love ? 
 
 Hoist every sail to the breeze, 
 Come, shipmates, and join in the song ; 
 
 Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas. 
 To the gale that may drive her along. 
 
 Edward Thompson. 
 
 THE HEART'S DEVOTION. 
 
 ELL him, for years I never nursed a thought 
 
 That was not his ; — tliat on his wandering w;iy 
 
 Daily and nightly, poured a mourner's prayers. 
 
 Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share 
 
 His lowliest lot — walk by his side, an outcast — 
 
 Work for him, beg with him — live upon the liglit 
 
 Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown 
 
 The Bourbon lost. 
 
 Edward Bulwer Lvttcin. 
 
 I^ 
 
 YES OR NO. 
 
 ES," I answered you last night ; 
 "No," this morning, sir, I say. 
 Colors seen by candle-light 
 Will not look the same by day. 
 
 When the viols played their best, 
 I^mps above, and laughs below, 
 
 " Love me " sounded like a jest, 
 Fit for " yes " or fit for " no." 
 
 Call me false or call me free, 
 Vow, whatever light may shine, 
 
 No man on your face shall see 
 Any grief for change on mine. 
 
 NOT OURS THE VOWS. 
 
 OT ours the vows of such as plight 
 Their troth in sunny weather. 
 While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
 To walk on flowers together. 
 
 But we have loved as those who tread 
 
 The thorny path of sorrow. 
 With clouds above, and cause to dread 
 
 Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 
 
 That thorny path, those stormy skies. 
 
 Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 
 And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, 
 
 Each to the other dearer. 
 
 Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
 
 With mirth and joy may perish ; 
 That to which darker hours gave birth 
 
 Still more and more we cherish. 
 
 It looks beyond the clouds of time. 
 
 And through death's shadow portal ; 
 Made by adversity sublime. 
 
 By faith and hope immortal. 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 \ ' 
 
ii 
 
 68 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 r 
 
 
 fill 
 
 P! 
 
 In'; 
 
 'S' 
 
 HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. 
 
 AD I a heart for falsehood framed, 
 I ne'er could injure you ; 
 For though} our tongueno promise claimed, 
 Yourcharms would make me true : 
 To you no soul shall bear deceit, 
 
 No stranger offer wrong ; 
 But friends in all the aged you'll meet, 
 And lovers in the young. 
 
 For when they learn that you have blest 
 
 Another with your heart. 
 They'll bid aspiring passion rest, 
 
 And act a brother's part. 
 Then, lady, dread not here deceit. 
 
 Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
 For friends in all the aged you'll meet. 
 
 And brothers in the young. 
 
 Richard Brinslp:y Sheridan. 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. 
 
 0. 
 
 SING unto my roundelay ! 
 
 O, drop the briny tear with me ! 
 Dance no more at holiday. 
 Like a running river be. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Black his hair as the winter night, 
 
 White his neck as the summer snow. 
 Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 
 Cold he lies in the grave below. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Sweet his tongue as throstle's note. 
 
 Quick in dance as thought was he ; 
 Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
 O, he lies by the willow-tree ! 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willnwtree. 
 
 Hark I the raven flaps his wing 
 
 In the briered dell below ; 
 Hark 1 the death owl loud doth sing 
 To the nightmares as they go. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 See ! the white moon shines on high ; 
 
 Whiter is my true-love's shroud. 
 Whiter than the morning sky, 
 
 Whiter than the evening cloud. 
 
 My love Is dead, 
 Gone to his death bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Here, upon my true-love's grave. 
 Shall the garish flowers be laid, 
 Nor one holy saint to save 
 All the sorrows of a maid. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Come with acorn cup and thorn, 
 
 Drain my heart's blood all away ; 
 Life and all its good I scorn, 
 Dance by night, or feast by day. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Thomas Chattkrton. 
 
 THE HARE-BELL. 
 
 ^ Y sylvan waves that westward flow 
 A hare-bell bent its beauty low, 
 With slender waist and modest brow. 
 Amidst the shades descending. 
 A star look'd from the paler sky — 
 The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh 
 Forgot that love may look too high. 
 And sorrow without ending. 
 
 By casement hid, the flowers among, 
 A maiden lean'd and listen'd long ; 
 It was the hour of love and song. 
 
 And early night-birds calling : 
 A barque across the river drew — 
 The rose was glowing through and through 
 The maiden's cheek of trembling hue. 
 
 Amidst the twilight falling. 
 
 She saw no star, she saw no flower — 
 Her heart expanded to the hour ; 
 She reck'd not of her lowly dower 
 
 Amidst the shades descending. 
 With love thus fix'd upon a height. 
 That seem'd so beauteous to the sight. 
 How could she think of wrong and blight. 
 
 And sorrow without ending. 
 
 The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew, 
 And closed its eye of tender blue ; 
 No sun could e'er its life renew, 
 
 Nor star, in music calling. 
 The autumn leaves were early shed ; 
 But earlier on her cottage bed 
 The maiden's loving heart lay dead. 
 
 Amidst the twilight falling ! 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 FORSAKEN, 
 
 G9 
 
 n 
 
 EVER any more, 
 Wliile I live, 
 Need I hope to see his face 
 
 As before. 
 Once liis love grown chili, 
 
 Mine may strive- 
 Bitterly we reunibrace. 
 Single still. 
 
 VVas it something said, 
 
 Something done, 
 Vexed him? was it touch of hand. 
 
 Turn of head ? 
 Strange ! that very way 
 
 Love begun, 
 las little understand 
 
 Love's decay. 
 
 When I sewed or drew, 
 
 I recall 
 How he looked as if I sang 
 
 — Sweetly too. 
 If I spoke a word. 
 
 First of all 
 Up his cheek the color sprang. 
 
 Then he heard. 
 Sitting by my side, 
 
 At my feet, 
 So he breathed the air I breathed. 
 
 Satisfied ! 
 I, too, at love's brim 
 
 Touched the sweet. 
 I would die if death bequeathed 
 Sweet to him. 
 
 " Speak— I love thee best i " 
 
 He exclaimed — 
 " Let thy love my own foretell." 
 
 I confessed : 
 " Clasp my heart on thine 
 
 Now unbJamc-d, 
 Since upon thy soul as well 
 
 Hangeth mine ! " 
 
 Was it wrong to own, 
 
 Being truth.' 
 Why should all the giving prove 
 
 His alone .' 
 I had wealth and ease, 
 
 Beauty, youth— 
 Smce my lover gave me love, 
 
 I gave these. 
 
 That was all I meant, 
 
 — To be just, 
 And the passion I had raised 
 
 To content • 
 Since he chose to change 
 
 Gold for dust, 
 
 If I gave him what he praised. 
 Was it strange ? 
 
 Would he lov'd me yut, 
 
 On and on. 
 While I found some way undreamed 
 
 —Paid my debt ! 
 Gave more life and more, 
 
 Till, all gone. 
 He should smile-" She never seemed 
 
 Mine before. 
 
 What— she felt the while, 
 Mustlthink.? 
 
 Love's so di/Terent with us men." 
 He should smile. 
 " Dying for my sake- 
 White and pink ! 
 
 Can't we touch these bubbles then 
 But they break.'" 
 
 Dear, the pang is brief 
 
 Do thy part. 
 Have tliy pleasure. How perplext 
 
 Grows belief! 
 Well, this cold clay clod 
 
 Was man's heart 
 Crumble it -and what comes next> 
 
 Is it God .> 
 
 Robert BRowNrNc, 
 
 'i I 
 
 <B 
 
 ABSENT STILL 
 
 AV in melting purple dying ; 
 Blossoms, all around me sighinr. 
 fragrance, from the lilies stravinJ ■ 
 Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; ' 
 Ye but waken my distress ;' 
 I am sick of loneliness ! 
 
 Thou, to whom I love to hearken 
 Come, ere night around me darken ; 
 Though tiiy softness but deceive me 
 Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee- 
 
 Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, ' 
 
 Let me think it innocent ! 
 
 Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; 
 All I jsk IS friendship's pleasure; 
 Let the Shining ore lie darkling— 
 Bru.g .io gem in lustre sparkling • 
 
 Gifts and gold are naught to me, 
 I would only look on thee! 
 
 Absent still! Ah ! come and bless me . 
 
 Let tiiese eyes again caress thee. 
 
 Once m caution, I could fly thee • 
 
 Now, I nothing could deny thee.* 
 In a look if death there be 
 Come, and I will gaze on thee I 
 
 Maria Gowen Brooks. 
 
70 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 
 o 
 
 THE SMACK IN SCHOOL 
 
 DISTRICT school, not far away 
 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, 
 Was humming with its wonted noise 
 Of three-score mingled girls and boys, 
 Some few upon their tusks intent. 
 But more on furtive mischief bent. 
 The while the master's downward look 
 Was fastened on a copy-book ; 
 When suddenly, behind his back. 
 Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! 
 As 'twere a battery of bliss 
 Let off in one tremendous kiss 1 
 " What's that?" the startled master cries ; 
 "That, thir," a little imp replies, 
 " Wath William Willith, if you pleathe— 
 I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe !" 
 With frown to make a statue thrill, 
 The master thundered, " Hither, Will !" 
 Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, 
 With stolen chattels on his back. 
 Will hung his head in fear and shame, 
 And to the awful presence came — 
 A great, green, bashful simpleton. 
 The butt of all good-natured fun. 
 With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, 
 The threatener faltered — " I'm amazed 
 That you, my biggest pupil, should 
 Be guilty of an act so rude ! 
 Before the whole set school to boot — 
 What evil genius put you to't.?" 
 " 'Twas she herself, sir," .sobbed the lad, 
 " I did not mean to be so bad ; 
 But when Susannah shook her curls. 
 And whispered I was 'fraid of girls. 
 And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, 
 I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. 
 But up and kissed her on the spot ! 
 I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. 
 But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo — 
 I thought she kind o' wished me to ! " 
 
 W. P. PAL.MER. 
 
 ^ 
 
 FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME. 
 
 LY to the desert, fly with me. 
 Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
 But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt 
 Of tents with love or thrones without ? 
 
 Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
 The acacia waves her yellow hair. 
 Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
 For flowering in a wilderness. 
 
 Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
 The silvery-footed antelope 
 As gracefully and gayly springs 
 As o'er the marble courts of kings. 
 
 Then come — thy Arab maid will be 
 The loved and lone acacia-tree. 
 The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
 With their light sound thy loneliness. 
 
 Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart 
 An instant sunshine through the heart. 
 As if the soul that minute caught 
 Some treasure U though life had sought ; 
 
 As if the very lips and eyes 
 Predestined to have all our sighs, 
 And never be forgot again. 
 Sparkled and spoke before as then. 
 
 So came thy very glance and tone. 
 When first on me they breathed and shone ; 
 New, as if brought from other spheres. 
 Yet welcome as if loved for years. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE QUIVER. 
 
 (Sy^ESTUS. Lady ! I will not forget my trust. 
 "Vj^ (Apart) The breeze which curls the lakes's 
 M. bright lip but lifts 
 
 A purer, deeper, water to the light : 
 The ruflling of the wild bird's wing but wakes 
 A warmer beauty and a downier depth. 
 That startled shrink, that faintest blossom-blush 
 Of constancy alarmed ! — Love ! if thou hast 
 One weapon in shining armory. 
 The quiver on thy shoulder, where thou keep'st 
 Each arrowy eye beam feathered with a sigh ; — 
 If from that bow, shaped so like Beauty's lip, 
 Strung with its string of pearls, thou wilt twang forth 
 But one dart, fair into the mark I mean — 
 Do it, and I will worship thee for ever : 
 Yea, I will give thee glory and a name 
 Known, sunlike in all nations. Heart be still ! 
 
 Philip James Bailby.- 
 
 OTHELLO'S DEFENCE. 
 
 ^^\ OST potent, grave, and reverend signiors, 
 I A I My very noble and approved good masters, 
 ^X-^ That I have ta'en away this old man's daugh- 
 ter. 
 It is most true ; true, I have married her ; 
 The very head and front of my oflending 
 Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech. 
 And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace. 
 For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, 
 Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 
 Their dearest Jiction in the tented field : 
 And little of this great world can I speak. 
 More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; 
 And therefore little shall I grace my cause 
 In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, 
 I will a round unvarnished tale deliver 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 71 
 
 Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 
 What conjuration, and what mighty magic, 
 (For such proceeding I am charged witiial,) 
 I won his daughter witli. 
 
 Her father loved me, oft invited me ; 
 
 Still questioned me the story of my life, 
 
 From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
 
 Th.1t I have passed. 
 
 I ran it through, even from my boyish days, 
 
 To the very moment that he bade me tell it ; 
 
 Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, 
 
 Of moving accidents, by flood and field ; 
 
 Of hairbreadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach ; 
 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe. 
 
 And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, 
 
 And portance in my travel's history : 
 
 Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle. 
 
 Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch 
 
 heaven. 
 It was my hint to speak, such was the process : 
 
 And of the Cannibals that each other eat. 
 
 The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things ^o 
 
 hear 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
 But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; 
 Which ever as she could with haste despatch. 
 She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 
 Devour up my discourse : which, I observing, 
 Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
 To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart. 
 That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, 
 Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
 But not intentively : I did consent ; 
 And often did beguile her of her tears. 
 When I did speak of some distressful stroke 
 That my youth sufTer'd. My story being done. 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
 She swore — in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 
 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : — 
 She wished she had not heard it ; yet she wished 
 That heaven had made her such a man ; she thank'd 
 
 me ; 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 
 I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
 And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : 
 She loved me for the dangers I had passed, 
 And I loved her that she did pity them. 
 This only is the witchcraft I have used : 
 Here comes the lady, let her witness it. 
 
 William Shakspbare. 
 
 FRIEKjSHIP. 
 
 TNVIDIOUS grave! — how -lost thou rend in sunder 
 Y Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! 
 4» A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
 ■ Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ; 
 
 Sweetener of life, and solder of society, 
 
 I ov> e thee much. Thou hast deserved from me 
 
 Ff.r, far beyond what I can ever p;iy. 
 
 Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, 
 
 And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, 
 
 Anxious to please. — Oh ! when my friend and I 
 
 In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, 
 
 Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down 
 
 Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank. 
 
 Where the pure limpid stream has slid along 
 
 In grateful errors through the imderwood. 
 
 Sweet murmuring : melhouglit the shriil-tongued tlirush 
 
 Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
 
 Mellow'd his pipe, and softcn'd every note : 
 
 The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose 
 
 Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower 
 
 Vied with its fellow plant in lu.xury 
 
 Of dress Oh ! then, the longest summer's day 
 
 Seem'd too, too much in haste ; still the full lieart 
 Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness 
 Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed. 
 Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! 
 
 RoDERT Blair. 
 
 EUPHROSYNE. 
 
 MUST not say that thou wert true. 
 Yet let me say that thou wert fair. 
 And they that lovely face who view, 
 They will not ask if truth be there. 
 
 Truth — what is truth ! Two bleeding hearts 
 Wounded by men, by fortune tried, 
 Outwearied with their lonely parts, 
 Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 
 
 The world to them was stem and drear : 
 Their lot was but to weep and moan. 
 Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, 
 For neither could subsist alone ! 
 
 But souls whom some benignant breath 
 Has charm'd at birth from bloom and care, 
 These ask no love — these plight no faith, 
 For they are happy as they are. 
 
 The world to them may homage make. 
 And garlands for their forehead weave , 
 And what the world can give, they take — 
 But they bring more than they receive. 
 
 They smile upon the world ; their ears 
 To one demand alone are coy. 
 They will not give us love and tears — 
 They bring us light, and warmth, and joy. 
 
 On one she smiled and he was blest I 
 She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! 
 But 'twas not love that heaved his breast, 
 Fair child ! it was the bliss within. 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
I' I ' 
 
 w 
 
 72 
 
 CROWN JI-:VVELS. 
 
 THEY SIN WHO TELL US LOVE CAN DIE. 
 
 HEY sin who tell us love can die 
 With life n\\ other passions (ly — 
 All others are but vanity. 
 In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
 Nor avarice in the vaults of hell : 
 Earthly, these passions of the earth, 
 They perish where they had their birth ; 
 But love is indestructible. 
 Its holy flame for ever burneth ; 
 From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 
 Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
 At times deceived, at times oppressed. 
 It here is tried and purified, 
 Then hath in heaven its perfect rest. 
 It soweth here with toil and care, 
 Butthe harvest-time of love is there. 
 
 Robert Southev. 
 
 TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 H ! hadst thou never shared my hte. 
 More dark that fate would prove, 
 My lieart were truly desolate 
 Without thy soothing love. 
 
 But thou hast sufTer'd for my sake. 
 
 Whilst tills relief I found, 
 Like fearless lips that strive to take 
 The poison from a wound. 
 
 My fond affection tiiou hast seen. 
 
 Then judjje of my re^'ret, 
 To think more hapjiy thou hadst been 
 
 If we had never met. 
 
 And has that thought been shared by thee ? 
 
 Ah, no ! that smiling cheek 
 Proves more unchanging love for me 
 
 Than labor'd words could speak. 
 
 But there are true hearts which the sight 
 
 Of sorrow summons forth ; 
 Though known in days of past delight. 
 
 We know not half their worth. 
 
 How unlike some who have profess'd 
 
 So much in friendship's name, 
 Yet calmly pause to think how best 
 
 They may evade her claim. 
 
 Cut ah ! from them to thee I turn, 
 They'd make me loathe mankind. 
 
 Far better lessons I may learn 
 From thy more holy mind. 
 
 The love that gives a charm to home, 
 
 I feel they cannot take ; 
 We'll pray for happier years to come. 
 
 For one-another's sake. 
 
 Thomas Havnes Bavlv. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 'M sitting on the stile, Mary, 
 Where we sat side by side 
 On a bright May morning, long ago, 
 When first you were my bride ; 
 The corn was springing fresh and green, 
 
 And the lark sang loud and high ; 
 And the red was on your lip, Mary, 
 And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary, 
 
 The day as bright as then ; 
 The lark's loud song is in my ear, 
 
 And the corn is green again ; 
 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 
 
 And your breath warm on my cheek ; 
 And I still keep listening for the words 
 
 You never more will speak. 
 
 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 
 
 And the little church stands near — 
 The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
 
 I see the spire from here. 
 But the graveyard lies between them, Mary, 
 
 And my step might break your rest — 
 For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 
 
 With your baby on your breast. 
 
 I'm very lonely now, Mary, 
 
 For the poor make no new friends : 
 But, oh ! they love the better still 
 
 The few our Father sends ! 
 And you were all I had, Mary — 
 
 My blessing and my pride ; 
 There's nothing left to care for now, 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 
 
 That still kept hoping on. 
 When the trust in God had left my soul. 
 
 And my arm's young strength was gone ; 
 There was comfort ever on your lip. 
 
 And the kind look on your brow — 
 I bless you, Mary, for that same, 
 
 Tho' you cannot hear me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile 
 
 When your heart was fit to break — 
 When the hunger pain was gnawing there. 
 
 And you did it for my sake ; 
 I bless you for the pleasant word. 
 
 When your heart was sad and sore — 
 Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
 
 Where grief can't reach you more I 
 
 I'm bidding you a long farewell, 
 
 Mv Mary— kind and true ! 
 But I'll not forget you darling, 
 
 In the land I'm going to ; 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 78 
 
 They say there':, oread and work for all, 
 
 And the sun shines always there — 
 But I'll not forget old Ireland, 
 
 Were it fifty times as fair. 
 
 And often in those grand old woods 
 
 I'll sit and shut my eyes, 
 And my heart will travel back again 
 
 To the place where Mary lies ; 
 And I'll think I see the little stile 
 
 Where we sat side by side, « 
 
 And the springing corn, and the bright May morn 
 
 When first you were my bride. 
 
 Helen Selina Sheridan. 
 
 THE FICKLENESS OF PHYLLIS. 
 
 E shepherds, give ear to my lay. 
 
 And take no more heed of my sheep ; 
 They have nothing to do but to stray ; 
 I have nothing to do but to weep. 
 Vet do not my folly reprove ; 
 
 She was fair — and my passion begun ; 
 She smiled— and I could not but love ; 
 She is faithless — and I am undone. 
 
 Perhaps I was void of all thought : 
 
 Perhaps it was plain to foresee, 
 That a nymph so complete would be sought, 
 
 By a swain more engaging than me. 
 Ah ! love every hope can inspire ; 
 
 It banishes wisdom the while ; 
 And the lip of the nymph we admire 
 
 Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile. 
 
 She is faithless, and I am undone ; 
 
 Ye that witness the woes I endure. 
 Let reason instruct you to shun 
 
 What it cannot instruct you to cure. 
 Beware how you loiter in vain 
 
 Amid nymphs of a higher degree : 
 It is not for me to explain 
 
 How fair, and how fickle they be. 
 
 Alas ! from the day that we met, 
 
 What hope of an end to my woes ? 
 When I cannot endure to forget 
 
 The glance that undid my repose. 
 Yet time may diminish the pain : 
 
 The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, 
 Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain. 
 
 In time may have comfort for me. 
 
 The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose. 
 
 The sound of a murmuring stream. 
 The peace which from solitude flows. 
 
 Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. 
 High transports are shown to the sight. 
 
 But we are not to find them our own ; 
 Fate never bestow'd such delight, 
 
 As I with my Phyllis had known. 
 
 ye woods, spread your branches apace ; 
 To your deepest recesses 1 fly ; 
 
 1 would hide with the beasts of the chase ; 
 I would vanish from every eye. 
 
 Yet my reed shall resound through the grove 
 With the same sad complaint it begun ; 
 
 How she smiled— and I could not but love ; 
 Was faithless— and I am undone I 
 
 William Shenstone. 
 
 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 THE days are gone, when beauty bright 
 My heart's chain wove ; 
 y When my dream of lite, from morn till 
 night. 
 Was love, still love. 
 
 New hope may bloom. 
 And days may come. 
 Of milder, calmer beam ; 
 But there's nothing half so sweet in life 
 As love's young dream. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 f{l 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS. 
 
 AID of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, O, give me back my heart I 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 
 Hear my vow before I go. 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each j'Egean wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe ; 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone, 
 Think of me, sweet, when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul. 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 FIRST LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 (^THIRST-LOVE will with the heart remain 
 "Yx When its hopes are all gone by ; 
 
 M. As frail rose blossoms still retain 
 
 Their fragrance when they die : 
 And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind 
 With the shades 'mid which they sprung, 
 As summer leaves the stems behind 
 On which spring's blossoms hung. 
 
 John Clare. 
 
 ,!, I 
 
T 
 
 i^t 
 
 74 
 
 h 
 
 CROWN JKWKI^. 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 HI' birds, when winter shades the sky, 
 Fly o'er the seas away. 
 Where lauKhinK i^lcs in sunshine lie, 
 And summer breezes play ; 
 
 And tluis the friends that flutter near 
 
 While fortune's sun is warm 
 Are startled if a cloud appear. 
 
 And fly before the storm. 
 
 But when from winter's howling plains 
 
 Each other warbler's pa>t, 
 The little snow bird still remains, 
 
 And chirrups midst the blast. 
 
 Love, like that bird, when friendship's throng 
 
 With fortune's sun depart, 
 Still lingers with its cheerful song, 
 
 And nestles on the heart. 
 
 William Leggktt. 
 
 THE HEAVENLY FLAME. 
 
 A^OVE is the root of creation; God's essence. 
 •%• I" Worlds without number 
 
 -*» Lie in his bosom like children : He made them 
 
 for His purpose only — 
 Only to love and to be loved again. He breathed forth 
 
 His spirit 
 Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it 
 
 laid its 
 Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame 
 
 out of heaven ; 
 Quench, O quench not that fl.ime ! it is the breath of 
 your being. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 BILL MASON'S BRIDE. 
 
 "ALF an hour till train time, sir. 
 An' a fearful dark time, too ; 
 Take a look at the switch lights, Tom, 
 Fetch in a stick when you're through. 
 ' On time ?" well, yes, I guess so — 
 Left the last station all right — 
 She'll come round the curve a flyin' ; 
 Bill Mason comes up to-night. 
 
 You know Bill ? No ! He's engineer, 
 
 Been on the road all his life — 
 I'll never forget the mornin' 
 
 He married his chuck of a wife. 
 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck — 
 
 Just oflT work, every one ; 
 They kicked up a row in the village 
 
 And killed old Donevan's son. 
 
 Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, 
 Up comes a message from Kress, 
 
 Orderin' Bill to go up there, 
 And bring down the night express. 
 
 He left his gal in a hurry, 
 And went up on Number One, 
 
 Thinking of nothing but Mary, 
 And the train he had to run. 
 
 And Mary sat down by the window 
 
 To wait for the night express ; 
 And, sir, if she hadn't a' done so, 
 
 She'd been a widow, I guess. 
 For it must a' been nigh midnight 
 
 When the mill hands left the Ridge — 
 They come down — the drunken devils ! 
 
 Tore up a rail from the bridge. 
 But Mary heard 'em a workin' 
 
 And guessed there was somethin' wrongs 
 And in less than fifteen minutes, 
 
 Bill's train it would be along. 
 
 She couldn't come here to tell us. 
 
 A mile — it wouldn't a' done — 
 So she just grabbed up a lantern, 
 
 And made for the bridge alone. 
 Then down came the night express, sir, 
 
 And Bill was makin' her climb 1 
 But Mary held the lantern, 
 
 A-swingin' it all the time. 
 
 Well I by Jove 1 Bill saw the signal. 
 
 And he stopped the night express, 
 And he found his Mary cryin', 
 
 On the track, in her wedding dress ; 
 Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir. 
 
 An' holdin' on to the light — 
 liello ! here's the train — good-bye, sir, 
 
 Bill Mason's on time to-night. 
 
 F. Bret Harte. 
 
 ¥ 
 
 BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 ROM the desert I come to thee 
 On a stallion shod with fire ; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 In the speed of my desire. 
 Under thy window I stand. 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry : 
 I love thee, I love but thee, 
 With a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 Look from thy window and see 
 
 My passion and my pain ; 
 Hie on the sands below, 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night-winds touch thy brow 
 
 With the heat of my burning sigh. 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 
H 
 
 LOVE AND FRIKNDSniP. 
 
 7r> 
 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 
 Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars arc old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Boole unfold ! 
 
 My steps are nightly driven, 
 By the fever in my breast, 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 Open the door of thy heart. 
 
 And open thy chamber door. 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows coldi 
 And the stars are old. 
 And the leaves of the Judgment 
 Book unfold ! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
 
 ^j) 
 
 iRTB. 
 
 IS the last rose of summer 
 
 Left blooming alone ; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone ; 
 No flower of her kindred, 
 
 No rosebud is nigh, 
 To reflect back her blushes. 
 
 Or give sigh for sigh ! 
 
 I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 
 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 Since the lovely are sleeping, 
 . Go, sleep thou with them. 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 
 Thy leaves o'er the bed 
 Where thy mates of the garden 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may I follow, 
 
 When friendships decay. 
 And from love's shining circle 
 
 The gems drop away ! 
 When true hearts lie wither'd. 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 Oh ! who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone ? 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 GENTLEST GIRL 
 
 ^K NTLESTgirl, 
 
 I ^ ^ Thou wert a bright creation of my thought, 
 
 V ' In earliest childhood — and my seeking soul 
 
 y Wander'd ill-satisfled, till one blest day 
 Tiiine image pass'd athwart it — thou wert then 
 A young and happy child, sprightly as life ; 
 Yet not so bright or beautiful as that 
 Mine inward vision ;— but a whispering voice 
 
 .Said softly — This is siie wliom thou didst choose ; 
 
 And thenceforth ever, through the morn of life, 
 
 Thou wert my playmate— thou my only joy, 
 
 Thou my chief sorrow when I saw thee not. — 
 
 .\nd when my daily consciousness of life 
 
 Was bom anil died — thy name the last went up. 
 
 Thy name the first, before our Heavenly Guide, 
 
 For favor and protection. All the llcnvers 
 
 Whose buds I cherish'd, anil in summer heaU 
 
 Fed with mock showers, and proudly show'd their 
 
 bloom. 
 For thee 1 rear'd, because all beautiful 
 And gentle things reminded me of thee : 
 Yea, and the morning, and the rise of sun, 
 And the fall of evening, and the starry host. 
 If aught 1 loved, I loved because thy name 
 Sounded about me when I look'd on them. 
 
 Dean Alford. 
 
 M 
 
 THE PARTING KISS. 
 
 NE kind wish before we part. 
 Drop a tear and bid adieu : 
 Though we sever, my fond heart. 
 Till we meet, shall pant for you. 
 
 Yet, yet weep not so, my love, 
 Let me kiss that falling tear ; 
 
 Though my body must remove. 
 All my soul will still be here. 
 
 All my soul, and all my heart. 
 And every wish shall pant for you ; 
 
 One kind kiss, then, ere we part, 
 Drop a tear, and hid adieu. 
 
 Robert Dodslev, 
 
 NO HEART WITHOUT ITS MATE. 
 
 HE bard has sung, God never form'd a soul 
 Without its own peculiar mate, to meet 
 Its wandering half,, when ripe to crown the 
 whole 
 Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete ! 
 
 Bui thousand evil things there are that hate 
 To look on happiness : these hurt, impede. 
 
 And, leagued with time, space, circumstance and fate, 
 Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine, and pant, 
 and bleed. 
 
 And as the dove to far Palmyra flying 
 From where her native founts of Antioch beam. 
 
 Weary, exhjjusted, longing, panting, sighing, 
 Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream ; 
 
 So many a soul, o'er life's dreary desert faring. 
 Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaflT'd, 
 
 Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty, and despairing 
 
 Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest 
 
 draught. 
 
 Maria Brooks. 
 
 I'l 
 
 -Jl 
 
76 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 - H 
 
 i 
 
 ON AN OLD WEDDING-RING 
 
 Thk Dkvice— Two hearts united. 
 
 Thb Motto.— Dear love of mine, my heart is thine. 
 
 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 — f.jr 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 Ae his suit pnferr'd, 
 
 Though sAe, unpitying, long denied, 
 Till, soften'd and subdued at labt. 
 
 He won his "fair and blooming bride." — 
 
 How, till the appointed day arrived, 
 
 They blamed the lazy-fouted 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 tho.se vows, 
 
 Which bind the husband to his bride : 
 
 All this it tells ; the pliglted troth— 
 
 The gift of every earthly thing— 
 The hand in hand — the heart in heart- 
 
 For this I like that ancient ring. 
 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 tunder tear them. 
 
 Year after year, 'nenth sun and storm. 
 Their hope in heaven, tlieir trust in God, 
 
 In changeless, heartfelt, holy, love. 
 These two the woild'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 1" 
 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 springs of life shall fail ; 
 
 Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. 
 Remnant of days departed long. 
 
 Emblem jf 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. 
 
 George Washington Doanh. 
 
 ii 
 
 EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 
 
 'URN, gentle hermit of the dale. 
 And guide my lonely way 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 •f With hospitable ray. 
 
 For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 With fainting steps and slow ; 
 
 Wiiere wilds immeasurably spread. 
 Stem lengthening as I go." 
 
 ' Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 For yonder phantom only flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 Here, to the houseless child of want, 
 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but .scant, 
 
 I give it with good will. 
 
 Then turn to-night, and freely .share 
 
 Wh.ite'er my cell bestows ; 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare. 
 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 No flocks that range the valley free. 
 
 To t-Luighter I coiulemn ; 
 Taught by tiiat power that pities me, 
 
 I learn to pity them. 
 
 But fiom the mountain's grassy side, 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 A scrip, with ! erbs and fruits .supplied. 
 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 
 All eartli-born cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below. 
 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 Soft, as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell ; 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure, 
 
 The lonely mansion lay , 
 A refuge to the neighbo.ing poor, 
 
 And strangers led a-itray. 
 
 Around, in sympathetic mirth, 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
 The cricket cherubs in the hearth. 
 
 The crackling faggot flies. 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 77 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart, 
 To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the hermit spied, 
 With answering care opprest ; 
 " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 " The sorrows of thy breast? 
 
 From better habitations spurn'd, 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 
 Or unregarded love? 
 
 Alas 1 the joys that fortune bring.' 
 
 Are trifling ar.d decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 And what is friendship but a name : 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ! 
 A shade that follows wealth or famo, 
 
 And leaves the wretch to weep. 
 
 And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modern fair-one's jest, 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 And spurn the sex," he said : 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd. 
 
 Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view, 
 Like colors o'er the morning skies. 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast. 
 
 Alternate spread alarms ; 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 " And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried, 
 "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 
 Where heaven and you reside. 
 
 But let a maid thy pity share. 
 Whom love has taught to stray : 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he ; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 Xo win me from his tender arms, 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 And felt, or foign'd, a fl.ime. 
 
 Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 
 With richest prolTers strove ; 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd. 
 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 In humblest, simplest habit clad, 
 
 No wealth nor power had he : 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had ; 
 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 The blossom opening to the day. 
 
 The dews of heaven refined. 
 Could naught of purity display, 
 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 The dew, the blossoms of the tree, 
 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 Their charms were his ; but woe to me, 
 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 For still I tried each fickle art. 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 
 I triumph'd in his pain. 
 
 Till quite dejected with my scorn. 
 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died ! 
 
 But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
 
 And well my life shall pay ; • 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I'll lay me down and dio : 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did. 
 
 And so for him will I." 
 
 "Forbid it, Heaven !" the hermit cried. 
 And clasp'd her to his breast : 
 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide : 
 'Twas Edwin's self that prest ! 
 
 "Turn, Angelina, ever dear. 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here* 
 Restored to lovt and thee. 
 
 Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And every care resign ; 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 My life — my all that's mine ? 
 
 No, never from this hour to part. 
 
 We'll live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart. 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin s too." 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 J 
 
 I 
 
18 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ALL FOR LOVE. 
 
 TALK not to me of a name great in story ; 
 The days of our youth are tlie days of our 
 glory ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and- 
 twcnty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 
 
 wrinkled .' 
 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : 
 Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — 
 What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? 
 
 Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
 'Twas less for tiie sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 
 
 There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
 Herg!ance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 
 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 
 
 VER the mountains. 
 
 And under the waves, 
 Over the fountains, 
 
 And under tha graves. 
 Under floods which are deepest, 
 
 Which Neptune obey, 
 Over rocks which are steepest. 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Where there is no place 
 
 For the glow-worm to lie. 
 Where there is no place 
 
 For the receipt of a fly, 
 Where the gnat dares not venture, 
 
 Lest herself fast she lay, 
 If Love come he will enter, 
 
 And find out the way. 
 
 If that he were hidden. 
 
 And all men that are, 
 Were strictly forbidden 
 
 That place to declare : 
 Winds that have no abidings. 
 
 Pitying their delay. 
 Would come and bring him tidings, 
 
 And direct him the way. 
 
 If the earth should part him. 
 
 He would gallop it o'er ; 
 If the seas should o'erthwart him, 
 
 He would swim to the shore. 
 Should his love become a swallow, 
 
 Through the air to stray. 
 Love will lend wings to follow, 
 
 And will find out the way. 
 
 There is no striving 
 
 To cross his intent, 
 There is no contriving 
 
 His plots to prevent ; 
 The letter his heart's vows stating. 
 
 No closed gates delay 
 From the hand that is waiting ; 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. 
 
 E have been friends together, 
 III sunshine and in shade ; 
 Since first beneath the chestnut trees 
 In infancy we play'd. 
 But coldness dwells within thy heart — 
 
 A cloud is on thy brow ; 
 We have been friends together — 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been gay together ; 
 
 We have laugh d at little jests ; 
 For the fount of hope was gushing, 
 
 \Varm and joyous, in our breasts. 
 But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 
 
 And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
 We have been gay together — 
 
 Shall a light word part us now ? 
 
 We have been sad together — 
 
 We have wept, with bitter tears, 
 O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumber'd 
 
 The hopes of early years. 
 The voices which are silent there 
 
 Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
 We have been sad together — 
 
 O ! what shall part us now ? 
 
 Caroline Elizabeth Norton. 
 
 SALLY IN OUR AL'..EY. 
 
 F all the girls that are so smart, 
 
 There's none like pretty Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 There is no lady in the land, 
 
 Is half so sweet as Sally : 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Her father he makes cabbage'nets. 
 
 And through the streets does cry 'em. 
 Her mother she sells laces long. 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em : 
 But sure such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Of all the days that's in the week, 
 I dearly love but one day ; 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 79 
 
 And that's the day that comes betwixt 
 
 A Saturday and Monday ; 
 For then I'm dress'd all in my best, 
 To walk abroad with S.nlly ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master carries me to church, 
 
 And ofter am I blamed, 
 Because I leave him in the lurch, 
 
 As soon {IS text is named : 
 I leave the church in sermon time, 
 
 And slink away to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Henry Carey. 
 
 m 
 
 AMYNTA. 
 
 Y sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, 
 And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; 
 No more for Amynta fresh garland I wove ; 
 For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of 
 love. 
 
 Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ? 
 
 Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ? 
 
 Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook re- 
 store. 
 
 And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. 
 
 Through regions remote in vain do I rove, 
 And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! 
 Oh, fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 
 A love so well-founded, a passion so true ! 
 
 Alas ! 'tis too late at thy feet to repine ; 
 Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : 
 Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain. 
 The moments neglected return not again. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Elliot. 
 
 BEN BOLT. 
 
 ^^"^ON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt ? 
 vl9 1 Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, 
 Mt^ Who wept with delight when you gave her a 
 smile. 
 And trembled with fear at your frown? 
 In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 
 
 In a corner obscure and alone, 
 They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey, 
 And Alice lies under the stone. 
 
 Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Which stood at the foot of the hill, 
 Together we've lain in the noonday shade, 
 
 And listen'd to Appleton's mill : 
 The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The rafters have tumbled in, 
 And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze, 
 
 Has follow'd the olden din. 
 
 Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 
 
 At the edge of the pathless wood, 
 And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs. 
 
 Which nigh by the door-step stood ? 
 The cabin to ruin h.is gone, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The tree you would seek in vain ; 
 And where once the lords of the forest waved. 
 
 Grows grass and the golden grain. 
 
 And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 
 
 With the master so cruel and grim, 
 And the shaded nook in the running brook. 
 
 Where the children went to swim ? 
 Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 
 
 The spring of the brook is dry, 
 And of all the boys who were schoolmates then. 
 
 There are only you and I. 
 
 There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, 
 
 They have changed from the old to the new ; 
 But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth. 
 
 There never was change in you. 
 Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, 
 
 Since first we were friends — yet I hail 
 Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, 
 
 Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale. 
 
 Thomas Dunn English. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 [iii 
 
 'HE dwelt among the untrodden ways, 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A maid whom there were none to pnise. 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone. 
 
 Half hidden from the eye; 
 Fair as a star when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 VV'hen Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and oh. 
 
 The diflference to me ! 
 
 William Wordsworth, 
 
 .1' m 
 ^ 1 
 
 n 
 
 PEARLY TEARS. 
 
 OT what the chemists say they be, 
 Are pearls — they never grew ; 
 They come not from the hollow sea, 
 They come from heaven in dew. 
 
 Down in the Indian Sea it slips. 
 Through green and briny whirls, 
 
 Wliere great shells catch it in their lips, 
 And kiss it into pearls. 
 
 If dew can be so beauteous made, 
 
 Oh, why not tears, my girl ? 
 Why not your tears ? Be not afraid — 
 
 I do but kiss a pearl. 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 < •] 
 
80 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 THE TIME OF ROSES. 
 
 'T was not in the winter 
 
 Our loving lot w.is cast ; 
 It was the time of rosijs — 
 We plucked them as we passed ! 
 
 That churlish season never frowned 
 
 On early lovers yet ; 
 Oh no! — the world was newly crowned 
 
 With flowers svhcn first wo met. 
 
 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, 
 
 But still you held me f.ist ; 
 It w.ns the time of roses — 
 
 We plucked them as we passed ! 
 
 What else could peer my glowing cheek, 
 
 That tears b jg.iii to stud ? 
 And when I asked the like of love, 
 
 You snatched a damask bud — 
 
 And oped it to the dainty core, 
 
 Still blowing to the last ; 
 It was the time of ruses — 
 
 We plucked them as we passed ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 'HE fountains mingle with the river, 
 And the rivers with the ocean, 
 The winds of heaven mix forever 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 Nothing in the world is single, 
 All things by a law divine 
 In one another 's being mingle — 
 Why not I with thine? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven. 
 And the waves clasp one another ; 
 No sister-flower would be forgiven 
 If it disdained its brot'ier: 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
 And the moonbeams kiss tin; sea — 
 What are ;ill these kissings worth, 
 If thou kiss not me? 
 
 Pkijcy BvssiiE .Shelley. 
 
 NO JEWELLED BEAUTY IS MY LOVE. 
 
 n 
 
 v i 
 
 O jewelled beauty is my love, 
 
 Yet in her earnest face 
 There's such a world of tenderness. 
 
 She needs no other grace. 
 Her smiles and voice around my life 
 
 In light and music twine, 
 And dear, oh ! very aear to me 
 
 Is this sweet love of mine. 
 
 Oh joy ! to know there's one fond heart 
 Beats ever true to me ; 
 
 It sets mine leapfng like a lyre, 
 
 In sweetest melody ; 
 My soul up-springs, a deity ! 
 
 To hear her voice divine ; 
 •And dear, oh ! very dear to me 
 
 Is this sweet love of mine. 
 
 If ever I have sighed for wealth, 
 
 'Twas all for her, I trow ; 
 And if I win fame's victt)r-wreath, 
 
 I'll twine it on her brow. 
 Tiiere may be forms more beautiful, 
 
 And souls of sunnier shine. 
 But none, oh ! none so dear to me 
 
 As this sweet love of mine. 
 
 Gerald Massey. 
 
 THE LOW-BACKED CAR. 
 
 HEN first I saw sweet Peggy, 
 'Twas on a market day : 
 A low-backed car she drove, and sat 
 
 Upon a truss of hay ; 
 But when that hay was blooming grass. 
 
 And decked with flowers of spring, 
 No flower was there that could compare 
 
 With the blooming girl I sing. 
 As she sat in the low-backed car. 
 The man at the turnpike bar 
 Never asked for the toll, 
 But just rubbed his owld poll, 
 And looked after the low-backed car. 
 
 In battle's wild commotion, 
 
 The proud and mighty Mars 
 With hostile scythes demands his tithes 
 
 Of death in warlike c.irs ; 
 While Peggy, peaceful goddess, 
 
 Has darts in her bright eye. 
 That knock men down in the market town 
 
 As right and left they fly ; 
 While she sits in her low-backed car, 
 Than battle more dangerous far — 
 For the doctor's art 
 Cannot cure the heart 
 That is hit from that low-backed car. 
 
 Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, 
 
 Has strings of ducks and geese. 
 But the scores of hearts she slaughters 
 
 By far outnumber these ; 
 While she among her poultry sits, 
 
 Just like a turtle-dove. 
 Well worth the cage, I do engage, 
 
 Of the blooming god of love I 
 While she sits in her low-backed car. 
 The lovers come near and far. 
 And envy the chicken 
 That Peggy ispickin'. 
 As she sits in her low-backed car. 
 
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LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 81 
 
 O, I'd rather own that car, sir, 
 
 With Pegfjy I'M "ly side, 
 Tlian a coacli and four, and gold galore, 
 
 And a lady for my l)ri(le ; 
 For the lady would sit forninst me, 
 On a cushion madj with taste — 
 While Peggy would sit beside me, 
 With my ami around her waist, 
 While we drove in the low-backed car. 
 To be marri ,'d by Father Mahar ; 
 O, my lija;t would beat high 
 At lur glance and her sigh — 
 Though it beat in a low-backed car I 
 
 Samuel Lovek. 
 
 IF I HAD KNOWN. 
 
 'F I had known, oh, loyal heart. 
 
 When, hand to hand, we said farewell, 
 How for all time our paths would part, 
 What shadow o'er our friendship fell, 
 I should have clasped your hands so close 
 
 In the warm pressure of my own, 
 That memory still would keep its grasp — 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known, when far and wide 
 We loitered through the summer land. 
 
 What Presence wandered by our side. 
 And o'er you stretched its awful hand, 
 
 I should have hushed my careless speech. 
 To listen, dear, to every tore 
 
 That from your lips fell low and sweet — 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known, when your kind eyes 
 Met mine in parting, true and sad — 
 
 Eyes gravely tender, gently wise. 
 And earnest, rather, more than glad — 
 
 How soon the lids would lie above, 
 As cold and white as sculptured stone, 
 
 I should have treasured every glance — 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known how, from the strife 
 Of fears, hopes, passions, here below. 
 
 Unto a purer, higher life 
 That you were called, oh ! friend, to go, 
 
 I should have stayed my foolish tears. 
 And hushed each idle sigh and moan, 
 
 To bid you last a long godspeed— 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known to what strange place. 
 
 What mystic, distant, silent shore, 
 You calmly turned your steadfast face, 
 
 What time your footsteps left my door, 
 I should have forged a golden link 
 
 To bind the hearts so constant grown, 
 And kept it constant ever there — 
 If I had known. 
 
 f6) 
 
 If I had known that until Death 
 Shall with his finger touch my brow. 
 
 And still the quickening of the breath 
 That stirs with life's full meaning now. 
 
 So long my feet must tread the way 
 Of our accustomed piths alone, 
 
 I should have prized your presence more — 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known how soon for you 
 Drew near the enduigof the fi.;;ht, 
 
 And on your vision, fair and new, 
 Eternal peace dawned into sight, 
 
 I should have begged, as love's last gift. 
 That y:Hi, before God's great white throne, 
 
 Would pray fir your poor friend on earth — 
 If I had known. 
 
 WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. 
 
 t 
 
 HEN 
 
 build and the leaves break 
 
 sparrows 
 forth, 
 My old sorrow wakes and cries. 
 For I know there is dawn in the far, far 
 north, 
 And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
 Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, 
 
 And the icy fount runs free ; 
 And the bergs begin to bow their heads, 
 And plunge and sail in the sea. 
 
 Oh, my lost love, and my own, own love, 
 
 And my love that loved me so 1 
 Is there never a chink in the world above 
 
 Where they listen for wcrds from below ? 
 Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore ; 
 
 I remembered all that 1 said ; 
 And thou wilt hear me no more — no more 
 
 Till the sea gives up her dead. 
 
 Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 
 
 To the ice-fields and the snow ; 
 Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, 
 
 And the end I could not know. 
 How could I tell I should love thee to-day. 
 
 Whom that day I held not dear? 
 How could I tell I should love thee away 
 
 When I did not love thee a-near? 
 
 We shall walk no more through the sodden plain, 
 
 With the faded bents o'erspread ; 
 We shall stand no more by the seething main 
 
 While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
 We shall part no more in the wind and rain 
 
 Where thy last farewell was said ; 
 But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again 
 
 When the sea gives up her dead. 
 
 Jean Ingki.ow. 
 
 n 
 
82 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ei 
 
 SEVERED FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 LAS ! they had lietn friends in yduth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youtli is vain, 
 And lo be wroth with one we love, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 But never cither found another 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 Like clifls which had been rent asunder ; 
 A dreary sea now flows between ; 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 SA.MIIEL Taylor CoLEKiociE. 
 
 RORY OMORE; 
 
 OR, ALL FOR GOOD LUCK. 
 
 'OUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn— 
 He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the 
 
 dawn ; 
 
 He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to 
 please, 
 And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 
 " Now, Rory, be aisy ! " sweet Kathleen would cry. 
 Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye— 
 "With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I'm 
 
 about ; 
 Faith ! you've tazed me till I've put on my cloak inside 
 
 out." 
 "Och ! jewel," says Rory, "That same is the way 
 Ye'vc thrated my heart for this many n day ; 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
 For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 
 
 " Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like. 
 For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike : 
 The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound—" 
 "Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the 
 
 ground." 
 " Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; 
 Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you so! " 
 "Och ! " says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, 
 For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. 
 So, jewel, keep dhraming that same till ye die, 
 And bright morning will give dirty night the lilack lie ! 
 And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ! 
 Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory OiMore. 
 
 " Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough ; 
 Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and 
 Jim Duff; 
 
 And I've m.ide myself, drinking your health, quite n 
 baste— 
 
 So I think, after that, I may talk to tlic praste." 
 
 Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, 
 
 •So soft and so white, without freckK; or speck ; 
 
 And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with 
 light, 
 
 .•\nd he kissed her sweet lips — don't you think he was 
 right ? 
 
 "Now, Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no 
 more — 
 
 That's eight times to day that you've kissed me be- 
 fore." 
 
 " Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure f 
 
 For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 
 THE PLEDGE OF LOVE. 
 
 "^S OMEO — If I profane with my unworthy hand 
 1*^ [7b Juliet. 
 
 A V This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this— 
 My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, 
 To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. 
 /ttZ/W— Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too 
 much, 
 Wliich mannerly devotion shows in this ; 
 For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch. 
 
 And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. 
 Romeo — Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? 
 Jii/iet—Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. 
 Romeo— Oxh&n, dear saint, let lips do what hands do ; 
 
 They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. 
 y«/;V/— Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' 
 
 .sake. 
 Romeo —Then move not, while my prayer's effect I 
 take. 
 Thus from my lips, by yours, my.sin is purg'd. 
 
 [fussing her. 
 /«/«>/— Then have my lips the sin that they have took. 
 Romeo — Sin from my lips ? O trespass sweetly urged ! 
 
 Give me my sin again. 
 Juliet — You kiss by the book. 
 
 Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie. 
 
 And young affection gapes to be his heir ; 
 That fair, which love groan'd for, and would die. 
 
 With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair. 
 Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again. 
 
 Alike bewitched by the charm of looks ; 
 But to his foe suppos'd he must complain, 
 
 And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks : 
 Being held a foe, he may not have access 
 
 To breathe such vows as lovers used to swear ; 
 And she as much in love, her means much less 
 
 To meet her new-beloved any where : 
 But passion lends them pow'r, time means to meet. 
 Temp' ring extremities with extreme sweet. 
 
LOVK AND FRIENDSHIP, 
 A MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 S3 
 
 PULL, pull I and the pail is full, 
 And milking's done and over. 
 Who would not sit here under the tree? 
 What a fair, fair thing's a green field to see ! 
 Brim, brim, to the rim, ah tne I 
 I have set my pail on the daisies ! 
 It seems so light — can the sun be set ? 
 The dews must be heavy, my checks arc wet, 
 I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! 
 Harry is near, Harry is near. 
 My heart's as sick as if he were here, 
 My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet, 
 He hasn't uttered a word as yet, 
 But the air's astir with his praises. 
 My Harry ! 
 The air's astir with your praises. 
 
 He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone, 
 
 He's among the kingcups — he picks nio one, 
 
 I love the grass that I tread upon 
 
 When I go to my Harry I 
 
 He has jumped tlie brook, he has climbed the knoll, 
 
 There's never a faster foot I know. 
 
 But still he seems to tarry. 
 
 O Harry ! O Harry 1 my love, my pride. 
 
 My heart is leaping, my arms are wide ! 
 
 Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, 
 
 Roll up, and bring my Harry ! 
 
 They may talk of glory over the sea, 
 
 But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me. 
 
 My love, my lad, my Harry ! 
 
 Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, 
 
 What cares Dolly, whether or no. 
 
 While I can milk and marry ? 
 
 Right or wrong, and wrong or right, 
 
 Quarrel who quarrel, and fight wlio fight. 
 
 But I'll bring my pad home every night 
 
 To love, and home, and Harry ! 
 
 We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake. 
 
 There's beer in the barrel, theres bread in the bake. 
 
 The world may sleep, the world may wake. 
 
 But I shall milk and marry. 
 
 And marry, 
 
 I shall milk and marry. 
 
 Sydney Dobell. 
 
 FETCHING WATER FROM THE WELL. 
 
 ARLY on a sunny morning, while the lark was 
 singing sweet. 
 Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds 
 of lightly tripping feet. 
 'Twas a lowly cottage maiden going — why, let young 
 
 hearts tell — 
 With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water from the 
 
 well. 
 Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the quiet 
 lane. 
 
 And the breezes of the morning moved tlieni to and fro 
 
 again. 
 O'er tile sunshine, o'er tlie shadow, p.-is'^cd m:iidffi of 
 
 tile farm, 
 Witii a ciiarmi^d heart within licr, tliiiikiu;; i>f \\n ill 
 
 luir harm. 
 Ple.'isaut, surely, were Ikt niusiny;s, for ttie nodiling 
 
 Kavcs in vain 
 Soiiglit to press their brightening image on lier cviT- 
 
 l)usy brain. 
 Leaves and joyous birds went l)y her, like ii iliin, Iialf- 
 
 waking dream ; 
 And iier smil was only conscious of life's gladdest sum- 
 mer gleam. 
 At the old lane's shady turning lay a well of wator 
 
 bright. 
 Singing, soft, its hallelujah to llie gracious morning 
 
 light. 
 Fern-leaves, broad and green, bent o'er it where i'.s 
 
 silvery droplets fell, 
 And the fairies dwelt beside it, in the spotted foxglove 
 
 bell. 
 Back she bent the shading fern-leaves, dipt tiie pitclier 
 
 in the tiile — 
 Drew it, with the dripping waters il iwin;^ o'er its gla/.cd 
 
 side. 
 But before her arm could place it on Iilt shiny, w.ivy 
 
 hair. 
 By her side a youth was standing ! — Love rejoiced to 
 
 see the pair I 
 Tones of tremulous emotion trailed upon the morning 
 
 breeze, 
 Gentle words of heart-devotion whispered 'ncath the 
 
 ancient trees. 
 But tlie holy, blessed secrets it becomes me not to tell : 
 Life had met another meaning, fetching water from the 
 
 well 1 
 Down the rural lane they sauntered, He the burden- 
 pitcher bore ; 
 She, with dewy eyes down-looking, grew more beau- 
 teous than before I 
 When they neared the silent homestead, up he raised 
 
 the pitcher light ; 
 Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of wave- 
 lets bright : 
 Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of him 
 
 she'd bear, 
 Calling every burden blessed, if his love but lighted 
 
 there. 
 Then, still waving benedictions, further, further ofT lie 
 
 drew. 
 While his shadow seemed a glory that across the path- 
 way grew. 
 Now about her household duties silently the mai<len 
 
 went. 
 And an cver-rjidiant halo o'er her daily life was blent. 
 Little knew the aged matron as her feet like music fell, 
 What abundant treasure found she fetching water from 
 the well ! 
 
84 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 h, 
 
 N 
 
 \l 11' 
 
 ^rii 
 
 KITTY OF COLERAINE. 
 
 ^jr^S beautiful Kitty ono morning was tripping; 
 
 f ^ With a pitchi-T of milk, from tlic fair of 
 
 ^ta^ ColLTainc, 
 
 When she saw me she stumhlcd, tin,- pitcher 
 it tumblfd, 
 Aiul all the sweet Ijiittermilk watered the plain. 
 
 "O, what sliall I do now— 't was looking; at you now I 
 Sure, suri', such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet aj;ain ! 
 
 'Twas llie |uide of my <lairy : O Harney M'Cleary ! 
 \'ou're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." 
 
 I Sat down hesidc! her, and jjently did chiile her, 
 That surh a misfortune should );ive her such pain. 
 
 A kiss then I j^nve her ; and ere I did leave her, 
 She vowed for such i)leasure she'd break it again, 
 
 'Twas hay-makinj; season— I can't tell the reason — 
 Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain ; 
 
 For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster 
 Not a buttermilk pitcher was whole in Culcrainu. 
 
 SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. 
 
 GREW assured, before I asked, 
 
 'I'liat she'd be mine without reserve, 
 And in lur unclaimed graces basked 
 
 At leisure, till the time should serve — 
 With just enough of dread to thrill 
 
 The hope, and make it trebly dear: 
 Thus loath to speak the word, to kill 
 
 Either the hope or happy fear. 
 
 Till once, through lanes returning late. 
 
 Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; 
 And ei-e we reached her father's gate, 
 
 We paused with one preseniient mind ; 
 And in the dim and perfunieil mist 
 
 Th'.'ir coming stayed, who, blithe and free, 
 And very women, loved to assist 
 
 A lover's opportunity. 
 
 Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word ; 
 
 To faint and frail cathetiral chimes 
 Spake time in music, and we heard 
 
 The chafers rustling in the limes. 
 Her dress, that touched me where I stood ; 
 
 The warmth of her confided arm ; 
 Her bosom's gentle neighborhood ; 
 
 Her pleasure in her power to charm ; 
 
 Her look, her love, her form, her touch ! 
 
 The last seemed most by blissful turn — 
 Blissful but that it pleased too much, 
 
 And taught the wayward soul to yearn. 
 It was as if a harp with wires 
 
 Was traversed by the breath I drew ; 
 And O, sweet meeting of desires ! 
 
 She, answering, owned that she loved too. 
 
 Coventry Patmore. 
 
 THE LOVER'S COMING. 
 
 T LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
 'W' 1 ).u k, d.u k w.is till! burden, I saw not tlur gatv- ; 
 «l* "Now, if there be footsteps, becomes, my «jnc 
 I lover — 
 
 Hush, nighlin ;ale, hush ! O sweef nightingale, wait 
 Till 1 listen and hear 
 If a stip ilnweth near, 
 I'or my love lie is late ! 
 
 " The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 
 
 A cluster of stars hangs likj fruit in the tree, 
 Thi! fill of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 
 To what art thou listening, and what dost thou seu? 
 I.et the star-dusters glow. 
 Let the sweet waters flow, 
 And cross quickly to me. 
 
 " Vour night-moths that hover where honey brims over 
 
 From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
 Vou glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
 To him that comes darkling along the tough steep. 
 Ah, my sailor, make haste, 
 For the time runs to waste. 
 And my love lieth deep — 
 
 " Too deep for swifl telling ; and yet, my one lover, 
 
 I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 
 Dy the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
 clover ; 
 Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; 
 Dut I'll love him more, more 
 Than e'er wife loved before. 
 Be the days dark or bright. 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 SUMMER DAYS. 
 
 ' N summer, when the days were long. 
 We walked together in the wood : 
 
 Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 
 Sweet flutterings were there in our blood. 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 We strayed from morn till evening came ; 
 We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; 
 
 We walked mid poppies red as flame, 
 Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 
 
 And always wished our life the same. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long, 
 We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook ; 
 
 And still her voice flowed forth in song. 
 Or else she read some graceful book. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 And then we sat beneath the trees. 
 With shadows lessening in the noon ; 
 
 And in the sunlight and the breeze, 
 We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 
 
 While larks were singitig o'er the leas. 
 
LOVK AND 1<RIKNDSI1IP. 
 
 85 
 
 In summer, when the days were long, 
 On il.iinty chicken, snow-whitu lircnd. 
 
 We feasted, wiih no gracf Init scing ; 
 We plucked wild strawberries, ripe ami red, 
 
 In ^umnler, when the days were lonij. 
 
 We loved, and yet we knew it not — 
 For loviu); seemed like breathing then ; 
 
 Wo fonnil a luaven in every spot ; 
 Saw angels, too, in all ^ood men ; 
 
 And dreamed of God in )>;rov« and grot. 
 
 In summer, when the days are long, 
 Alone I wander, muse alone. 
 
 I sec her not ; but that old song 
 Undtr the fragrant wind is Mown, 
 
 In summer, when the days arc long. 
 
 Alone I wander in the wood : 
 But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 
 
 And half I see, so glad and good, 
 The honest daylight of her eyes. 
 
 That charmed nie under earlier skies. 
 
 In summer, when the days arc long, 
 I love her as we loved of old. 
 
 My heart is light, my step is strong ; 
 For love brings back those hours of gold, 
 
 In summer, when the days are long. 
 
 MEETING. 
 
 . «l» . 
 
 V HE gray sea, and the long black land ; 
 
 f^ J\ And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
 
 V y And the startled little waves, that leap 
 y In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
 
 As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
 And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 
 
 Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; 
 
 Three fields to cross, till a farm appears ; 
 
 A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
 
 And blue spurt of a lighted match. 
 
 And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears. 
 
 Than the two hearts, beating each to each. 
 
 RoDERT Browning. 
 
 aj 
 
 WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 
 
 HEN we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears. 
 Half broken-hearted, 
 
 To sever for years. 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold. 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 Sunk chill on my brow — 
 
 It felt like the warning 
 Of what I feel now. 
 
 ii 
 
 Thy vows are nil broken. 
 
 And liKht is thy lanic ; 
 I hear tli>' iianu' spoki i), 
 
 And share in its sli, inu;. 
 
 Thvy name Ihi'o beforo me, 
 
 A kiK'll to tiiinc ear; 
 A shudder comes o'er me — 
 
 Why wort thou so dear? 
 They know not 1 knew thee. 
 
 Who knew thee too well. 
 Long, long, shall I rue thee 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met— 
 
 In silence I grieve, 
 Th.it thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I slloukl iueet tlico 
 
 After long years. 
 How should I ^reet thee ?— 
 
 In silence and Ijars. 
 
 LOKI) RVRO.M. 
 
 FORGET THEE? 
 
 ORGETthee?"— If to dream by night, and 
 muse on thee by day. 
 If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's 
 heart can pay, 
 If pra>ers in abience breathed for thee to Heaven's 
 
 protecting power. 
 If wing(>d thoughts that flit to thee— a lliou.iand in an 
 
 hour, 
 If busy fancy blending thee with all my future lot— 
 If this thou call'st " forgetting," thou indeed sluilt be 
 forgot ! 
 
 •'Forget thee?"— Bid the forest-birds forget tluir 
 sweetest tunc ; 
 
 •' Forget tliee ? "—Bid the sea forget to swell beneath 
 the moon ; 
 
 Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink tlie eves re- 
 freshing dew ; 
 
 Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its 
 " mountains wild and blue ; ' 
 
 Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered 
 spot; — 
 
 When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shall 
 be forgot ! 
 
 Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and 
 
 fancy-free, ' 
 
 For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow K?ss 
 
 glad for me ; 
 Yet, while that heart is still unwon, O, bid not mine to 
 
 rove, 
 But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love ; 
 If these, preserved forpatient years, .it last Jivail me not, 
 Forget me then ;— but ne'er believe that thou canst be 
 
 forgot ! 
 
 John Moultrie. 
 
6G 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ei 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 LL thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again tiiat happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount 1 lay 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
 And she was ther", my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leaned against the armCid man, 
 The statue of the arniiid knight ; 
 She stood and listened to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 .She listen*';' with a flitting blush, 
 ''V:',.!» downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The lady of the land. 
 
 I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleadin;]; tone 
 With which I sang another's love 
 Interpreted mj own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely knight. 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods. 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den. 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a fiend, 
 This miserable knight ! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did, 
 He leaped amid a murderous band, 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The lady of the land; 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his knees; 
 And how she tended him in vain ; 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cavct 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; 
 
 —His dying words— but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 
 The music and the doleful tale. 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
 An undistinguishable throng. 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 Subdued and cherished long. 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 She blushed witli love, and virgin shame ; 
 And like a murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, — she stepped aside, 
 As conscious of my look she slept — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And bending back her head, looked up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'T was partly love, and partly fear. 
 And partly "t was a bashful art 
 That I might rather feel than see 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous bride. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Colekidgk. 
 
 THECOURTIN'. 
 
 , OD makes sech nights, all white an' still 
 F"ur 'z you can look or listen, 
 Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
 All silence an' all gliste 
 
 Zekel crep' quite unbeknown 
 An' peeked in thru' the winder, 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 87 
 
 An* there sot Huldy all alone, 
 'Ith no one nigh to hender. 
 
 A fireplace filled the room's one side 
 
 With half a cord o' wood in— 
 There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
 
 To bake ye to a puddin'. 
 
 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her ! 
 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
 
 An' in among 'em rusted 
 The old queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetched back from Concord busted. 
 
 The very room, coz she was in, 
 Seeniea warm from floor to ceilin' ; 
 
 An' she looked full ez rosy agin, 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
 
 On such a blessed creetur, 
 A dogrose blushin' to a brook 
 
 Ain't modester nor sweeter. 
 
 He was six foot o' man, A i, 
 
 Clean grit an' human natur' ; 
 None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 
 
 Nor dror a furrer stiaighter. 
 
 He'd sparked it with full twenty gals. 
 He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 
 
 Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
 All is, he couldn't love 'em. 
 
 But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
 
 All crinkly like curled maple. 
 The side she breshed felt full o'sun 
 
 Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 
 
 She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 
 
 Ez hisn in the choir; 
 My! when he made "Ole Hundred" ring. 
 
 She knowed the Lord was nigher. 
 
 An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, 
 
 When her new meetin' bunnet 
 Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
 
 O' blue eyes sot upon it. 
 
 She heered a foot, an' knowed it tii, 
 
 A raspin' on the scraper — 
 All-ways to once her feelin's flew 
 
 Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 
 
 Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 
 His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
 
 But hern went pity Zekle. 
 
 An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
 Ez tliough she wished him furder, 
 
 An' on her apples kep' to work, 
 Parin' away like murder. 
 
 "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?' 
 
 "Wall .... no ... . I come designin' — " 
 " To see my Ma ? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
 Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 
 
 To say why gals act so or so. 
 
 Or don't 'ould be presumin' ; 
 Mebby to mean yes an' say no 
 
 Comes nateral to women. 
 
 He stood a spell on one foot fust, 
 
 Then stood a spell on t'other. 
 An' on which one he f It the wust 
 
 He couldn't ha' told ye nutlier. 
 
 Says he, " Pd better call agin ;" 
 Says she " Think likely. Mister ;" 
 
 That last word pricked him like a pin, 
 An' .... Wal, he up an" kist her. 
 
 When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
 All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she was jes' the quiet kind 
 
 Whose naturs never vary. 
 Like streams that keep a summer mind 
 
 Snowhid in Jenooary. 
 
 The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
 
 Too tight for all expressin', 
 Till mother see how metters stood, 
 
 And gin 'em both her blessin'. 
 
 Then her red come back like the tide 
 
 Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
 An' all I know is, they was cried 
 
 In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 M 
 
 I 
 
 (H 
 
 CONSTANCY 
 
 T setting day and rising morn. 
 
 With soul that still shall love thee, 
 
 Pll ask of Heaven thy .safe return. 
 With all that can improve thee. 
 Pll visit aft the birken bush. 
 
 Where first thou kindly told me 
 Sweet t.iles of love, and hid thy blush. 
 
 Whilst round thou didst infold me 
 To all our haunts I will repair. 
 
 By greenwood shaw or fountain ; 
 Or where the summer day I'd share 
 
 With thee upon yon mountain ; 
 There will I tell the trees and flowers, 
 
 From thoughts unfeigned and tender, 
 By vows you're mine, by love is yours 
 
 A heart which cannot wander. 
 
 Allan Ramsav. 
 
88 
 
 CROWN JFAVKLS. 
 
 i 
 
 .H' 
 
 GONE BEFORE. 
 
 ' F still they kept their earthly place, 
 The friends 1 held in my embrace, 
 
 And g:ave to death, alas ! 
 Could I have learned that clear, calm faith 
 That looks beyond the boimds of death, 
 And almost longs to pass? 
 
 Sometimes I think, the things we see 
 Are sliadows of the things to be ; 
 
 That what we plan we build ; 
 That every hope that hath been crossed, 
 And ever>' dream we tiiought was lost, 
 
 111 heaven shall be fulfilled ; 
 
 That even the children of the brain 
 Have not been born rxnd died in vain, 
 
 Though here unclothed and dumb ! 
 But on some brighter, better shore. 
 They live, embodied evennore. 
 
 And wait for us to come. 
 
 And when on that last day we rise, 
 Caught up between tiie earth and skies. 
 
 Then shall we hear our Lord 
 Say, Thou host done with d(5ubt and death, 
 Henceforth, according to thy faitli, 
 
 Shall be thy faitli's reward. 
 
 Piiar.nH Cary. 
 
 HAPPY MATCHES. 
 
 'AY, mighty Love, and teach my song, 
 To whom thy sweetest joys lielong. 
 
 And who the happy pairs 
 Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands. 
 Find blessings twisted with their bands, 
 To soften all their cares. 
 
 Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains 
 That thoughtless fly into lliy chains 
 
 As custom leads the way : 
 If there be bliss without design. 
 Ivies and oaks may grow and twine. 
 
 And be as blest as they. 
 
 Not sordid souls of earthly mould. 
 Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, 
 
 To dull embraces move : 
 So two rich mountains of Peru 
 May rush to wealthy marriage too, 
 
 And make a world of love. 
 
 Not the mad tribe tliat hell inspires 
 With wanton flames ; those raging fires 
 
 The purer bliss destroy ; 
 On yEtna's top let furies wed. 
 And sheets of lightning dress the bed 
 
 T' improve the burning joy. 
 
 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms 
 None of the melting passions warms, 
 Can mingle hearts and hands : 
 
 Logs of green wood that quench the conLs 
 Are married just like Stoic souls. 
 With osiers for their bands. 
 
 Not minds of melancholy strain. 
 Still silent, or that still complain. 
 
 Can the dear bondage bless ; 
 As well may heavenly concerts spring 
 From two old lutes with ne'er a string, 
 
 Or none besides the bass. 
 
 Nor can the soft enchantments hold 
 Two jarring souls of angry mould. 
 
 The rugged and the keen : 
 Samson's young foxes might as well 
 In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell. 
 
 With firebrands tied between. 
 
 Nor let the cruel fetters bind 
 A gentle to a savage mind ; 
 
 For love abhors the sight : 
 Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, 
 For native rage and native fear 
 
 Rise and forbid deliglit. 
 
 Two kindest souls alone must meet, 
 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, 
 
 And fw'cds their mutual loves : 
 liright Venus on her rolling throne 
 Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, 
 
 And cupids yoke the doves. 
 
 Isaac Watts. 
 
 THE DEAD FRIEND. 
 
 'HE path by which we twain did go, 
 
 Which led by tracts that pleased us well, 
 
 Through four sweet years arose and fell, 
 
 From flower to flower, from snow to snow. 
 
 But where the path we walked began 
 To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 
 As we descended, following hope, 
 
 There sat the shadow feared of man ; 
 
 Who broke our fair companionship, 
 And spread his mantle dark and cold. 
 And wrapped thee formless in the fold. 
 
 And dulled the murmur on ihy lip. 
 
 When each by turns was guide to each. 
 And fancy light from fancy caught. 
 And thought leapt out to wed with thought 
 
 Ere thought could wed itself with speech ; 
 
 And all we met was fair and good, 
 And all was good that time could bring, 
 And all the secret of the Spring 
 
 Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 
 
 I know that this was life — the track 
 Whereon with equal feet we f.ired ; 
 And then, as now, the day prepared 
 
 The daily burden for the back. 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 89 
 
 But this it was that made me move 
 
 As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
 
 I loved the weight I had to bear 
 Because it needed help of love. 
 
 Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 
 When mighty love would cleave in twain 
 The lading of a single pain, 
 
 And part it, giving half to him. 
 
 But I remained, whose hopes were dim. 
 Whose life, whose thoughts were litttle worth, 
 To wander on a darkened earth. 
 
 Where all things round me breathed of him. 
 
 O friendship, equal-poised control, 
 O heart, wilh kindliest motion warm, 
 
 sacred essence, other form, 
 
 solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 
 
 Yet none could better know than I 
 How much of act at human hands 
 The sense of human will demands, 
 By which we dare to live or die. 
 
 Whatever way my days decline, 
 
 1 felt and feel, though left alone. 
 His being working in mine own, 
 
 Tlie footseps of his life in mine. 
 
 My pulses therefore beat again 
 
 For other friends that once I met ; 
 
 Nor can it suit me to forget 
 The mighty hopes that make us men. 
 
 1 woo your love : I count it crime 
 To mourn for any overmuch ; 
 I, the divided half of such 
 
 A friendship as had mastered time ; 
 
 Which masters time, indeed, and is 
 Eternal, separate from fears : 
 The all-assuming months and years 
 
 Can take no part away from this. 
 
 days and hours, your work is this, 
 To hold me from my proper place 
 A little while from his embrace. 
 
 For fuller gain of after bliss. 
 
 That out of distance might ensue 
 
 Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
 
 And unto meeting when we meet, 
 Delight a hundred fold accrue. 
 
 The hills are shadows, and they flow 
 From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
 They melt like mists, the solid lands, 
 
 Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 
 
 But in my spirit will I dwell, 
 And dream my dream, and hold it true ; 
 For though my lips may breathe adieu, 
 
 1 cannot think the thing farewell. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 A BENEDICTION. 
 
 ,OD'S love and peace be with thee, where 
 Soe'er this soft autumnal air 
 Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! 
 
 Whether through city casements comes 
 Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms. 
 Or, out among the woodland blooms. 
 
 It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face. 
 Imparting, in its glad emlirace, 
 Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 
 
 Fair nature's book together read. 
 
 The old wood-paths that knew our tread, 
 
 The maple shadows overhead — 
 
 The hills we climbed, the river seen 
 By gleams along its deep ravine — 
 All keep thy memory fresh and green. 
 
 If, then, a fervent wish for thee 
 
 Tlie gracious heavens will heed from me. 
 
 What should, dear heart, its burden be ? 
 
 The sighing of a shaken reed — 
 What can I more than meekly plead 
 The greatness of our common need ? 
 
 God's love — unchanging, pure and true — 
 The Paraclete white-sliining through 
 His peace — the fall of Hermon's dew ! 
 
 With such a prayer, on this sweet day. 
 As thou mayst hear and I may say, 
 I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 o 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 RUDDY drop of manly blood 
 The surging sea outweighs ; 
 The world uncertain comes and goes, 
 The lover rooted stays. 
 I fancied he was fled — 
 And, after many a year. 
 Glowed unexhausted kindliness. 
 Like daily sunrise there. 
 My careful heart was free again ; 
 O friend, my bosom said. 
 Through thee alone the sky is arched. 
 Through thee the rose is red ; 
 All things through thee take nobler form. 
 And look beyond the earth ; 
 The mill-round of our fate appears 
 A sun-path in thy worth. 
 Me too thy nobleness has taught 
 To master my despair; 
 The fountains of my hidden life 
 Are through thy friendship fair. 
 
 Ralph Wai.do Emerson- 
 
90 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON. 
 
 ER Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord! 
 The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, 
 Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's 
 sword. 
 
 Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; 
 And heaps her ivory palaces became, 
 Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, 
 Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame, 
 For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. 
 O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, I ord, shall beam, 
 
 And the sad city lift her crownless head, 
 And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam 
 
 In streets where broods the silence of the dead. 
 The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers. 
 On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers 
 To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers, 
 And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. 
 
 The bom in sorrow shall bring forth In joy ; 
 
 Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children home ; 
 He that went forth a tender prattling boy 
 
 Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come ; 
 And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear, 
 And H vmon's bees their honeyed stores prepare, 
 And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, 
 
 Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the 
 
 irradiate dome. 
 
 Henry Hart Milman. 
 
 ANNE HATHAWAY. 
 
 OULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng. 
 
 With love's sweet notes to grace your 
 song. 
 
 To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, 
 Listen to mine Anne Hathaway ! 
 She hath a way to sing so clear, 
 Phoebus might wondering stop to hear. 
 To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, 
 And nature charm, Anne hath a way ; 
 
 She hath a way, 
 
 Anne Hathaway ; 
 To breathe delight Anne hath a way. 
 
 When envy's breath and rancorous tooth 
 
 Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, 
 
 And merit to distress betray, 
 
 To soothe the heai t Anne hath a way ; 
 
 She hath a way to chase despair, 
 
 To heal all grief, to cui? all care. 
 
 Turn foulest night to fairest day. 
 
 Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way ; 
 
 She hath a way, 
 
 Anne Hathaway ; 
 To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. 
 
 Talk not of gems, the orient list, 
 The diamond, topaz, amethyst, 
 
 The emerald mild, the ruby gay ; 
 Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway ! 
 She hath a way, with her bright eye, 
 Tiicir various lustres to defy — 
 The jewels she, and the foil they, 
 So sweet to look Anne hath a way ! 
 
 She hath a way, 
 
 Anne Hathaway ; 
 To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. 
 
 THE WIDOWS WOOER. 
 
 E woos me with those honeyed words 
 
 That women love to hear. 
 Those gentle flatteries that fall 
 
 So sweet on every ear. 
 He tells me that my face is fair, 
 
 Too fair for grief to shade : 
 My cheek, he says, was never meant 
 
 In sorrow's gloom to fade. 
 
 He stands beside me, when I sing 
 
 The songs of other days, 
 And whispers, in love's thrilling tones, 
 
 The words of heartfelt praise ; 
 And often in my eyes he looks, 
 
 Some answering love to see — 
 In vain ! he there can only read 
 
 The faith of memory. 
 
 He little knows what thoughts awake 
 
 With every gentle word ; 
 How, by his looks and tones, the founts 
 
 Of tenderness are stirred, 
 The visions of my youth return, 
 
 Joys far too bright to last ; 
 And while he speaks of future bliss, 
 
 I think but of the past. 
 
 Like lamps in eastern sepulchres, 
 
 Amid my heart's deep gloom, 
 Affection sheds its holiest light 
 
 Upon my husband's tomb. 
 And, as those lamps, if brought once more 
 
 To upper air, grow dim, 
 So my soul's love is cold and dead. 
 
 Unless it glow for him. 
 
 Emma C. Embury. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 , REEN be the turf above thee. 
 Friend of my better days I 
 None knew thee but to love thee. 
 Nor named thee but to praise. 
 
 Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 
 
 From eyes unused to weep, 
 And long, where thou art lying, 
 
 Will tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 91 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
 
 Like thine, are laid in earth. 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 
 To tell the world their worth. 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 
 To clasp thine hand in mine, 
 Who shared the joy and sorrow, 
 
 Whose weal and wo were thine — 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 
 Around thy faded brow ; 
 But I've in vain essayed it, 
 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee, 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free, 
 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
 FiTZ Greene Halleck. 
 
 s, 
 
 ints 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. 
 
 ' F stores of dry and learned lore we gain, 
 We keep them in the memory of the brain ; 
 Names, things, and facts — whate'er we knowledge 
 call- 
 There is the common ledger for them all ; 
 And images on this cold surface traced 
 Make slight impression, and are soon effaced. 
 But we've a page, more glowing and more bright, 
 On which our friendship and our love to write ; 
 That these may never from the soul depart, 
 We trust them to the memory of the heart. 
 There is no dimming, no effacement there ; 
 Each new pulsation keeps the record clear ; 
 Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill. 
 Nor lose their lustre till tlie heart stands still. 
 
 Daniel Webster. 
 
 lU 
 
 ROBIN ADAIR. 
 
 HAT'S this dull town to me ? 
 Robin's not near — 
 He whom I wished to see. 
 
 Wished for to hear ; 
 Where's all the joy and mirth 
 Made life a heaven on earth, 
 O, they're all fled with thee, 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 Wh.1t made the assembly shine ? 
 
 Robin Adair : 
 What made the ball so fine ? 
 
 Robin was there : 
 What, when the play was o'er, 
 What made my heart so sore ? 
 O, it was parting with 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 But now thou art far from me, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 But now I never see 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Yet him I loved so well 
 Still in my heart shall dwell 
 O, I can ne'er forget 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 Welcome on shore sigain, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 Welcome once more again, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 I feel thy trembling hand ; 
 Tears in thy eyelids stand, 
 To greet thy native land, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Still I prayed for thee, love, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 When thou wert ftir at sea. 
 Many made love to me. 
 But still I thought on thee, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 Come to my heart again, 
 
 Robin Adair; 
 Never to part again, 
 
 Robin Adair; 
 And if thou still art true, 
 I will be constant too, 
 And will wed none but you, 
 
 Robin Adair ! 
 
 Lady Caroline Keppel. 
 
 n 
 
 THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 EVER wedding, ever wooing. 
 Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, 
 Read you not the wrong you're doing 
 
 In my cheek's pale hue? 
 All my life with sorrow strewing, 
 
 Wed, or cease to woo. 
 
 Rivals banished, bosoms plighted 
 Still our days are disunited ; 
 Now the lamp of hope is lighted, 
 
 Now half quenched appears, 
 Damped and wavering and benighted 
 
 Midst my sighs and tears. 
 
 Charms you call your dearest blessing. 
 Lips that thrill at your caressing. 
 Eyes a mutual soul confessing. 
 
 Soon you'll make them grow 
 Dim, and worthless your possessing. 
 
 Not with age, but woe ! 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 I 
 
u :! 
 
 4:,: 
 
 n 
 
 92 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. 
 
 'HERE is no time like the old time, when you 
 and I were young, 
 When the buds of April blossomed, and the 
 birds of springtime sung ! 
 The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are 
 
 nursed. 
 Hut, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened 
 first! 
 
 There is no place like the old place where you and I 
 
 were born ! 
 Wiiere we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of 
 
 the morn, 
 From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the 
 
 clinging arms that bore, 
 Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on 
 
 us no more 1 
 
 There is no friend like the old friend who has shared 
 
 our morning days. 
 No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his 
 
 praise ; 
 Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of 
 
 gold, 
 But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in 
 
 every fold. 
 
 There is no love like the old love that we courted in 
 
 our pride ; 
 Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading 
 
 side by side, 
 There are blossoms all around us with the colors of 
 
 our dawn. 
 And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of 
 
 day is gone. 
 
 There are no times like the old times — they shall never 
 
 be forgot ! 
 There is no place like the old place— keep green the 
 
 dear old spot ! 
 There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven 
 
 prolong their lives ! 
 There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our 
 
 loving wives ! 
 
 THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL. 
 
 ^~' HE maiden sat at her busy wheel, 
 ■ ^J\ Her heart was light and free, 
 V ^ And ever in cheerful song broke forth 
 Y Her bosom's harmless glee : 
 
 Her song was in mockery of love, 
 And oft I heard her say, 
 "The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek. 
 And her lip .so full and bright. 
 
 And I sighed to think that the traitor love 
 
 Should conquer a heart so light : 
 But she thought not of the future days of woe. 
 
 While she carolled in tones so gay — 
 "The gathered rose and the stoltn heart 
 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 A year passed on, and again I stood 
 
 By the humble cottage door ; 
 The maiden sat at her busy wheel, 
 
 But her look was blithe no more ; 
 The big tear stood in her downcast eye, 
 
 And witli siglis I heard her say, 
 "The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye 
 
 And made her cheek so pale : 
 The maid had forgotten her early song. 
 
 While she listened to love's soft tale ; 
 She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, 
 
 It had wasted her life awa\ — 
 And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose. 
 
 Had charmed but for a day. 
 
 E.MM.\ C. E.MDURY. 
 
 AFTON WATER. 
 
 (S^^LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
 -4^ braes ; 
 
 M. Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy 
 
 praise ; 
 My Mary's asleep by thy munnuring stream, 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear ; 
 I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills. 
 Far marked with the courses of clear-winding rills ! 
 There daily I wander as noon' rises high. 
 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
 Where wild in tlie woodlands the primroses blow ! 
 There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
 And winds by the cot where my M;iry resides ; 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
 As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave ! 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 RoiiERT Burns. 
 
LOVT'. AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 03 
 
 rills ! 
 
 e. 
 
 elow, 
 blow '. 
 
 ■I 
 me. 
 
 Mear wave 
 I braes; 
 
 p; 
 
 Iream. 
 Burns. 
 
 THE WAKEFUL HEART. 
 
 'READ lishtly, love, when over my head, 
 Beneath the daisies lyin.c;, 
 And tenderly press the grassy bed 
 Where the fallen rose lies dying. 
 
 Dreamless I sleep in the quiet ground, 
 
 Save when, your foot-fall hearing, 
 My heart awakes to the old-loved sound 
 
 And beats to tlie step that's nearing. 
 
 Bright shone t!ie moon, last eve, wlien you came — 
 
 Still dust for dust hath feeling — 
 The willow-roots whispered low the name 
 
 Of him who weeps wliile kneeling. 
 
 The lily-cup holds the falling tears, 
 
 The tears you shed above me ; 
 And I know through all these silent years 
 
 There's some one still to love me. 
 
 Oh, softly sigh ; for I hear the Found ' 
 
 And grieve me o'er your sorrow : 
 But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound — 
 
 I'll give it back to-morrow. 
 
 Whisper mc, love, as in moments fled, 
 Wliile I dream your liand mine taketh ; 
 
 For the stone speaks false tiiat says, " She's dead ;" 
 " I sleep, but my heart awaketh." 
 
 Dennar Stewart. 
 
 P 
 
 MINNIE ADAIR. 
 
 I thought her so pretty and called her my 
 own, 
 J As the rich sunlight played in and out of 
 ^'^ her curls, 
 
 As her little white feet 'mid the violets shone. 
 And her clear laughter rippled tlirough rubies and 
 pearls. 
 
 Through June's golden mazes 
 Of pansies and daisies 
 We wandered and warbled our s^ngs on the air ; 
 O, the birds, a whole tree full, 
 Were never more gleeful 
 Than I and my sweet little Minnie Adair ! 
 
 They come now and tell me that you're to be wed, 
 That rank has encircled your brow with its rays, 
 But when in your beautiful palace you tread, 
 With many to flatter you, many to praise, 
 Shall June's golden mazes 
 Of pansies and daisies, 
 And the bare-footed playmate who thought you so 
 fair — 
 
 Who wept at your sadness, 
 And shared in your gladness — 
 Be lost in their splendor, O Minnie Adair? 
 
 Lyman Goodman. 
 
 SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME. 
 
 HOUGM, when other maids stand by, 
 1 may deign thee no reply, 
 Tuin not then away, and sij;!) — 
 Smile and never heed me ! 
 If our love indeed, be sucli, 
 As must thrill at every touch. 
 Why sliould otiiers learn as mucli ? — 
 Smile, and never heed me ! 
 
 Even if, with maiden pride, 
 I should bid thee quit my side, 
 Take this lesson for tliy guide — 
 
 .Smile, and never heed me ! 
 But when stars and twili;;ht meet, 
 And tlie dew is falling sweet, 
 And thou hear'st my coming feet — 
 
 Then — thou then — mayst heed me ! 
 
 CnARi.HS Swain. 
 
 THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. 
 
 N Richmond Hill there lives a lass 
 
 More bright than May-day morn, 
 Whose charms all other maids .surpass — 
 A rose without a thorn. 
 
 This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet. 
 Has won my right good-wiil ; 
 
 I'd crowns resign to call her mine. 
 Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. 
 
 Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air. 
 And wanton through the grove, 
 
 O, whisper to my charming fair, 
 I die for her I love. 
 
 How happy will the shepherd be 
 Who calls this nymph his own ? 
 
 O, may her choice be fixed on me ! 
 Mine's fixed on her alone. 
 
 James Upton. 
 
 UNITEID LIVES. 
 
 S.\D are they who know not love, 
 
 But, far from passion's tears and smiles, 
 • Drift down a moonless sea, and pass 
 The silver coasts of fairy isles. 
 
 And sadder they whose longing lips 
 Kiss empty air, and never touch 
 
 The dear warm mouth of those they love, 
 Waiting, wasting, suffering much ! 
 
 But clear as amber, sweet as musk, 
 Is life to those whose lives unite ; 
 
 They walk in Allah's smile by day. 
 And nestle in his heart by night. 
 
 Thomas Bailev Aldrich. 
 
 I 
 
! iH': 
 
 91 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 OH ! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE. 
 
 W 
 
 tell me not of lofty fate, 
 Of glory's deathless name ; 
 The bosom love leaves desolate 
 Has naught to do with fame. 
 
 Vainly philosophy would soar — 
 Love's height it may not reach; 
 
 The heart soon learns a sweeter lore 
 Than ever sage could teach. 
 
 Man's sterner nature turns away 
 
 To seek ambition's goal ! 
 Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray. 
 
 May charm his weary soul ; 
 
 But woman knows one only dream — 
 
 That broken, all is o'er ; 
 For on life's dark and sluggish stream 
 
 Hope's sunbeam rests no more. 
 
 Emma C. Embury. 
 
 SOMEBODY. 
 
 OMEBODY'S courting somebody, 
 Somewhere or other to night ; 
 Somebody's whispering to somebody, 
 Somebody's listening to somebody, 
 Under this clear moonlight. 
 
 Near the bright river's flow. 
 Running so still and slow. 
 Talking so soft and low. 
 She sits with somebody. 
 
 Pacing the ocean's shore, 
 Edged by the foaming roar. 
 Words never used before 
 Sound sweet to somebody. 
 
 Under the maple- tree, 
 Deep though the shadow be, 
 Plain enough they can see, 
 Br ght eyes has somebody. 
 
 No one sits up to wait. 
 Though she is out so late, 
 All know she's at the gate, 
 Talking with somebody. 
 
 Tiptoe to parlor door ; 
 Two shadows on the floor ! 
 Moonlight, reveal no more — 
 Susy and somebody. 
 
 Two, sitting side by side. 
 Float with the ebbing tide, 
 "Thus, dearest, may we glide 
 Through life," says somebody. 
 
 Somewhere, somebody 
 Makes love to somebody, 
 Tonight. 
 
 THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT TO MEMORY 
 DEAR. 
 
 ' WEETHEART, good bye ! That flut'ring sail 
 Is spread to waft me far from thee ; 
 And soon, before the farth'ring gale 
 My ship shall bound upon the sea. 
 Perchance, all des'late and forlorn, 
 
 These eyes shall miss thee many a year ; 
 But unforgotten every charm- 
 Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 
 
 Sweetheart, good bye ! one last embrace I 
 
 Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever ! 
 Yet in this heart's most sacred place 
 
 Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever; 
 And still shall recollection trace, 
 
 In fancy's mirror, ever near, 
 Each smile, each tear, that form, that face — 
 Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 EVENING SONG. 
 
 OOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands. 
 And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea ; 
 How long they kiss in sight of all the lands— 
 Ah I longer, longer we. 
 
 Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, 
 As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, 
 And Cleopatra night drinks all. "Tis done. 
 Love, lay thine hand in mine. 
 
 Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart ; 
 
 Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands ; 
 O night ! divorce our sun and sky apart — 
 Never our lips, our hands. 
 
 Sidney Lanier. 
 
 A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND. 
 
 4> 
 
 , ENTEEL in personage. 
 Conduct and equipage, 
 Noble by heritage, 
 Generous and free : 
 
 Brave, not romantic ; 
 Learned, not pedantic ; 
 Frolic, not frantic ; 
 This must he be. 
 
 Honor maintaining, 
 Meanness disdaining, 
 Still entertaining. 
 
 Engaging and new. 
 Neat, but not finical ; 
 Sage, but not cynical ; 
 Never tyrannical. 
 
 But ever true. 
 
 Henry Carey. 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 00 
 
 i 
 
 NEW LOVELINESS. 
 
 E stnrs that look at me to-night, 
 
 How beautiful you seem ! 
 For I have found my spiiit's light, 
 
 The seraph of my dream. 
 Oh I never half so bright before 
 
 Have I beheld you shine. 
 For heaven itself looks lovelier, 
 
 To lover's eyes like mine ! 
 
 Alas ! I fear when midnight waits 
 
 To catch my voice, in vain 
 The list'ners at your golden gates 
 
 Will hear some other twain, 
 Whose hearts like ours, in melody. 
 
 Will sadly throb and sigh. 
 To see how calmly you behold 
 
 E'en lovers kiss, and— die ! 
 
 Edward Pollock. 
 
 SWEET AND LOW 
 
 • 
 
 WEET and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the western sea, 
 
 Low. low, breathe and blow, 
 
 Wind of the western sea ! 
 
 Over the rolling waters go, 
 
 Come from the dying moon and blow, 
 Blow him again to me ; 
 While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 
 
 Father will come to thee soon : 
 Rest, rest on mother's breast. 
 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 Father will come to his babe m the nest, 
 
 Silver sails all out of the west. 
 Under the silver moon ; 
 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 TO A SISTER. 
 
 ES, dear one, to the envied train 
 
 Of those around thy homage pay ; 
 But wilt thou never kindly dei,c;ii 
 To think of him that's far aw ay ? 
 Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile, 
 
 For many years I may not see ; 
 But wilt thou not sometimes the while. 
 My sister dear, remember me ? 
 
 But not in fashion's brilliant hall. 
 
 Surrounded by the gay and fair, 
 And thou the fairest of them all— 
 
 O, think not, think not of me there. 
 But when the thoughtless crowd is gone, 
 
 And hushed the voice of senseless glee. 
 And all is silent, still and lone. 
 
 And thou art sad, remember me. 
 
 Remember me — but, loveliest, ne'er 
 
 When, in his orbit fair and high, 
 The morning's glowing charioteer 
 
 Rides proudly up the biusiiinQ; sky ; 
 But when the waning moonbeam sleeps 
 
 At moonlight on that lonely lea. 
 And nature's pensive spirit weeps 
 
 In all her dews, remember me. 
 
 Remember me — but choose not, dear. 
 
 The hour when, on the gentle lake. 
 The sportive wavelets, blue and clear, 
 
 Soft rippling, to the margin break ; 
 But when the deaf'ning billows foam 
 
 In madness o'er the patliless sea, 
 Tiien let thy pilgrim fancy roam 
 
 Across them, and remember me. 
 
 Remember me — but not to join 
 
 If haply some thy friends should praise ; 
 'Tis far too dear, that voice of thine 
 
 To echo what the stranger says, 
 Tiiey know us not — but shouldst tliou meet 
 
 Some faithful friend of me and thee, 
 Softly, sometimes, to him repeat 
 
 My name, and then remember me. 
 
 Remember me — not, I entreat. 
 
 In scenes of festal week-day joy, 
 For then it were not kind or meet, 
 
 Thy thought thy pleasure should alloy. 
 But on the sacred, solemn day. 
 
 And, dearest, on thy bended knee, 
 When thou for those thou lovs't dost pray, 
 
 Sweet spirit, then remember me. 
 
 Edward Everett. 
 
 (3 
 
 THE RING'S MOTTO. 
 
 LOVER gave the wedding-ring 
 Into a goldsmith's hand. 
 "Grave me," he said, "a tender thought 
 Within the golden band." 
 The goldsmith graved 
 With careful art — 
 "Till death us part." 
 
 The wedding-bells rang gladly out. 
 
 The husband said, " O wife, 
 Together we shall share the grief, 
 The happiness of life. 
 I give to thee 
 My hand, and heart, 
 Till death us part." 
 
 'Twas she that lifted now his hand, 
 
 (O love, that this should be !) 
 Then on it placed the golden band, 
 And whispered tenderly ; 
 "Till death us join, 
 Lo, thou art mine 
 And I am thine I 
 
96 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 "And when death joins we never more 
 Sh;ill know an achinj; heart, 
 The bridal of that belter love 
 Death has no power to part; 
 That troth will be 
 For thee and me 
 Eternity." 
 
 So up the hill and down the hill 
 Through tifty chanjjinjj years, 
 They shared each other's happmess, 
 They dried each other's tears. 
 Alas I Alas ! 
 That death's cold dart 
 Such love can part ! 
 
 But one sad day — she stood alone 
 
 Beside his narrow bed ; 
 She drew the ring from ofTIier hand, 
 And to the goldsmith said : 
 " Oh, man who graved 
 With careful art, 
 •Till death us part," 
 
 " Now grave four other words for me — 
 ' Till death us join.' " He took 
 The precious };oldcn band once more, 
 With sokniii, wistful look, 
 And wrought with care, 
 For love, not coin, 
 "Till death us join." 
 
 IJJ 
 
 TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON, 
 
 HEN love with uncontined wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates. 
 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at my grates ; 
 
 When I he tangled in her hair 
 
 And fettered with her eye. 
 The birds that wanton in the air 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When flowing cups pass swiftly round 
 
 With no allaying Thames, 
 Our careless heads with roses crowned. 
 
 Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
 When thirsty gtief in wine we steep. 
 
 When healths and draughts go free, 
 Fishes that tipple in the deep 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 When, llnnct-like confined, 
 
 With shriller throat shall sing 
 The mercy, sweetness, majesty 
 
 And glories of my King ; 
 When I shall voice aloud how good 
 
 He is, how great should be, 
 The enlarged winds that curl the flood, 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 
 Nor iron bars a cage ; 
 Minds ituiocent and (juiet take 
 
 That for a hermitage : 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soul am free, 
 Angels alone, that soar above. 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 (3 
 
 THE DAY IS FIXED. 
 
 T last the happy day is named, 
 
 For hearts to be united, 
 And on that day will be fulfilled 
 
 The vows that have been plighted ; 
 The letter comes with eager haste. 
 
 To give the information. 
 And underneath the broken seal 
 
 Is found an invitation. 
 
 Three maidens fair the message scan — 
 
 Its lines with meaning freighted— 
 And, more than outward looks suggest, 
 
 Their breasts are agitated ; 
 Each hoped to win that promised hand. 
 
 And change her single station. 
 And each who sought receives at last, 
 
 Receives — the invitation ! 
 
 Henry Davenport. 
 
 (3 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT. 
 
 H, the poor shepherd's mornful fate. 
 
 When doomed to love and doomed to lan- 
 guish, 
 
 To bear the scornful fair one's hate. 
 Nor dare disclose his anguish 1 
 Yet eager looks and dying sighs 
 
 My secret soul discover. 
 While rapture, trembling through mine eyes, 
 
 Reveals how much I love her. 
 The tender glance, the reddening cheek, 
 
 O'erspread with rising blushes, 
 A thousand various ways they speak 
 A thousand various wishes. 
 
 For, oh ! that form so heavenly fair. 
 
 Those lanquid eyes so sweetly smiling, 
 That artless blush and modest air, 
 
 So fatally beguiling ; 
 Thy every look, and every grace. 
 
 So charm, whene'er I view thee. 
 Till death o'ertake me in the chase. 
 
 Still will my hopes pursue thee. 
 Then, when my tedious hours are past, 
 
 Be this last blessing given. 
 Low at thy feet to breathe my last. 
 
 And die in sight of heaven. 
 
 William Hamilton. 
 
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LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 97 
 
 LADY BARBARA. 
 
 ARL GAWAIN woued the Lady Barbara, 
 High-lhouglUcd Harbara, so wliie and cold ! 
 'iMong broad-branched beeches in the summer 
 shaw, 
 In soft green light his oassion he has told. 
 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 amorous breath to hear, 
 With calm and steady eyes ; her heart was otherwhere. 
 
 He sighed for her through the summer weeks ; 
 Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs 
 Bore glorious apples with smooth, shining cheeks, 
 Earl Gawain came and whispered, " Lady, rouse 1 
 Thou art no vestal held in holy vow.-i ; 
 Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath." 
 Her father's blood leapt up into her brows — 
 He who, e.xulting 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, he' 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 't was driven like a cloud ; 
 
 High on the poop a man sat mournfully : 
 
 The wind was whistling through mast and slinnid. 
 
 And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud : — 
 
 " Didst look last night upon my native vales, 
 Tiiou Sun! that from the drenching sea hast clomb? 
 Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails, 
 Upon the salt sea must I ever roam, 
 Wander forever on the barren foam ? 
 0, happy are ye, resting mariners ! 
 Deatii, that thou wouldst cume and take me Iiome ! 
 A hand unseen this vessel onward steers. 
 And onward I must float through slow, moon-measun.'d 
 years. 
 
 "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 praj-. 
 
 One howled, ' Upon the deep we are astray.' 
 
 On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight, 
 
 In one sliort hour my hair was stricken gray, 
 
 For all the crew sank giiastly in my sight, 
 
 .Vnd we went driving on through the cold, starry night. 
 
 " Madness fell on me in my loneliness. 
 The sea foamed curses, and the reeling sky 
 liLcame a dreadful face which did oppress 
 Ml' with the weight of its unwinking c^ye. 
 It lied, when I burst forth into a cry — 
 A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep ; 
 I liid, hut 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, tlirough the clear sea il jd, 
 As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling througli. 
 Angering to foam tiie smootii and sleeping blue." 
 T!'H h'ly sigiii.'d, "Far, far upon the sea. 
 My own Sir Artiiur, could I die with you ! 
 The wind blows shrill between my love and me." 
 Fond heart ! the space between was but tlu apple-tr^e. 
 
 There was a cry of joy ; with sj jking liands 
 .She fled to iiiin, like worn bird to lur iiest; 
 Like washing water on theligiired sands. 
 His being came and went in sweet unresc, 
 As from the mighty shelter of his bre.ast 
 The Lady I5arl)ara her head Uj)rcars 
 With a wan smile. "Metiiinks I'm but half blest: 
 Now when I've found llu.', after weary years, 
 I cannot see thee, love ! so b\l:rA I am with tears." 
 
 Alkx.vndek S.mith. 
 
 ATALANTAS RACE. 
 
 ATAL.\N'TA \lCTORIOUS. 
 
 XD there two runners did the sign abide 
 - Foot set to foot — a young man slim and fair, 
 Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs often 
 tried 
 In [ilaces where no man his strength may spare ; 
 Dainty his tiiin coat was, and on his hair 
 A golden circlet of renown he wore. 
 And in his hand an olive garland bore. 
 
 But on this day with whom shall he contend ? 
 A maid stood by him like Diana clad 
 When ill the woods she lists her bow to bend, 
 Too fair for one to look on and be glad. 
 Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, 
 If he must still behold her from afar ; 
 Too f lir to Lt the world live free from war. 
 
 She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; 
 Of all tormenting lines her face was clear. 
 Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set. 
 Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near : 
 But her fee trembled as a man in fear. 
 Nor from her loveliness one moment turned 
 His an.\ious face with fierce desire that burned. 
 
 Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's 
 clang. 
 Just as the setting sun made eventide. 
 Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang. 
 And swiftly were they running side by side ; 
 But silent did the tlironging folk abide 
 Until the turning-post was reached at last. 
 And round about it still abreast they passed. 
 
 I ' HI 
 
98 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 But when tlie people saw how close they ran, 
 When half-way to the starting-point they were, 
 A cry of joy broke forth, whereat t!ie man 
 Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near 
 Unto the very end of all his fear; 
 And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, 
 And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart did steal. 
 
 But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard 
 Her footsti-ps drawir.g n,'arer, and the sound 
 Of lluttering raiment, and thereat afeard 
 His flushed and eagerfacehe turned around. 
 And even then he felt her past him bound. 
 F'leet as tlie wind, but scarcely saw her there 
 Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 
 
 There stood she breathing like a little child 
 Aniiil some warlike clamor laid asleep. 
 For no victorious joy her red lips smiled. 
 Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; 
 No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep. 
 Though some divine thought softened all her face 
 As once more rang the trumjx;t through the place. 
 
 But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, 
 One moment gazed upon herpiteously. 
 Then with a groan his lingering feet diil force 
 To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; 
 And, changed like one who knows his time must be 
 But short and bitter, without any word , 
 
 He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; 
 
 Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, 
 Bared of its flowers, and tlirough the crowded place 
 Was silence now, and midst of it the maid 
 Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, 
 And he to hers upturned his sad white face ; 
 Nor did his eyes behold another f'iglit 
 Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. 
 
 ATALANTA CONQUERED. 
 
 Now has the lingering month at last gone by, 
 Again are all folk round the ruiming place, 
 Nor other seems t!)e dismal pageantry 
 Than heretofore, but that another face 
 Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race ; 
 For now, beheld of all, Milanion 
 Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. 
 
 But yet— what change is this that holds the maid ? 
 Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
 More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 
 Some happy hope of help and victory? 
 The others seemed to say, "We come to die. 
 Look down upon us for a little while. 
 That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." 
 
 But he — what look of mastery was this 
 He cast on her ? why were his lips so red ? 
 Why was his face so flushed with happiness? 
 So looks not one who deems himself but dead, 
 
 E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; 
 So rather looks a god well pleased to find 
 Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. 
 
 Why must ; he drop her lids before his gaze. 
 And even as she casts adown her eyes 
 Redden to note his eager glance of praise, 
 And wish th.it she were clad in other guise ? 
 Why must the memory to her heart arise 
 Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, 
 Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word ? 
 
 What makes these longings, vague, without a 
 name, 
 And this vain pity never felt before, 
 This sudden languor, this contempt of fame. 
 This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, 
 These doubts that grow each minute more and more? 
 Why does she tremble as the time grows near. 
 And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? 
 
 But while she seemed to hear her beating heart, 
 Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out, 
 And forth they sprang ; and she must play her part ; 
 Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt, 
 Though slackv;ning once, she turned her head about, 
 But then she cried aloud and faster fled 
 Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. 
 
 But with no sound he raised aloft his hand. 
 And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew 
 And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; 
 Then trembling she her feet together drew, 
 And in her heart a strong desire there grew 
 To have the toy ; some god she thought had given 
 That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. 
 
 Then from the course with eager steps she ran. 
 And in her colorless bosom laid the gold, 
 But when she turned again the great-limbed man 
 Mow well ahead she failed not to behold. 
 And mindful of her glory waxing cold, 
 Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit. 
 Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. 
 
 Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear, 
 She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, 
 And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair. 
 Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 
 Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 
 She sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
 Who now the turning-post had well nigh won. 
 
 Just as he sets his mighty hand on it, 
 White fingers underneath his own wre laid, 
 And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit. 
 Then he the second fruit cast by the maid ; 
 But she ran on awhile, then as afraid 
 Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no 
 
 stay 
 Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 99 
 
 Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, 
 Now far ahead the Argive could she see. 
 And in her garment's iiem one hand she wound 
 To keep the double prize, and strenuously 
 Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 
 To win the day, though now but scanty space 
 Was left betwixt him and tlie winning place. 
 
 Short was the way unto such wingtSd feet, 
 Quickly she gained upon him till at last 
 He turned about her eager eyes to meet, 
 And from his hand the third fair apple cast. 
 She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast 
 After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, 
 That in her hand it lay ere it was still. 
 
 Nor did she rest, but turned about to win 
 Once more, an unblest, woful victory — 
 And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin 
 To fail her, and her feet drag ht-avily ? 
 Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
 The goal is ? Why do her gray eyes grow dim ? 
 Why do these tremors run through every limb ? 
 
 She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, 
 Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth tiiis, 
 A strong man's arms about her body twined. 
 Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss. 
 So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss : 
 Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. 
 She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. 
 
 William Morris. 
 
 PLACE YOUR HAND IN MINE. WIFE. 
 
 IS five-and-twenty years to-day. 
 Since we were man and wife — 
 And that's a tidy slice, I say, 
 From anybody's life. 
 And if we want, in looking back, 
 
 To feel how time has flown. 
 There's Jack, you see, our baby Jack, 
 With whiskers of his own. 
 
 Place your hand in mine, wife — 
 We've loved each other true ; 
 And still, in shade or shine, wife. 
 There's love to help us through. 
 
 It's not been all smooth sailing, wife — 
 
 Not always laughing May ; 
 Sometimes it's been a weary strife 
 
 To keep the wolf away. 
 We've had our little tiffs, my dear ; * 
 
 We've often grieved and sigheil ; 
 One lad nas cost us many a tear ; 
 
 Our little baby died. 
 
 But, wife, your love along the road 
 Has cheered the roughest spell ; 
 
 You've borne your half of every load, 
 And often mine as well. 
 
 I've rued full many a foolish thing 
 
 Ere well the step was ta'en ; 
 I>ut, oh ! I'd haste to buy the ring 
 
 And wed you o'er again. 
 
 'Twas you who made mc own the Hand 
 
 That's working; all ahjn;^, 
 In ways we cannot understand. 
 
 Still bringing right from wrong. 
 You've ki.-pt me brave, and ki-jit me true ; 
 
 You've made me trust and pray ; 
 My gentle evening star were you. 
 That blessed the close of day. 
 
 Place your hand in mine, wife — 
 We've loved each other true ; 
 And still, in shade or shine, wife, 
 There's love to help us thnuigh. 
 
 Fui:ui:ricic Lancihridce. 
 
 ffl' 
 
 THE LITTLE MILLINER. 
 
 y girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, 
 A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair, 
 A sweet face pouting in a white straw bon- 
 net, 
 
 A tiny foot, and little boot upon it ; 
 
 And all her finery to charm beholders 
 
 Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, 
 
 The plain stuff-gown and collar white as snow, 
 
 .■\nd sweet red petticoat that peeps below. 
 
 But gladly in the busy town goes she. 
 
 Summer and winter, fearing nobody; 
 
 She pats the pavement with her fairy feet. 
 
 With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street ; 
 
 And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold, 
 
 A lucky si.xpence and a thimble old. 
 
 We lodged in the same house a year ago : 
 She on the topmost floor, I just below — 
 She, a poor milliner, content and wise, 
 I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise ; 
 And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love 
 The little angel on the floor above. 
 For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirred. 
 Her chamber door would open, and I heard — 
 And listening, blushing, to her coming down, 
 .viid palpitated with her rustling gown, 
 And tingled while her foot went downward slow. 
 Creaked like a cricket, passed, and died below ; 
 Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly, 
 I saw the pretty shining face go by. 
 Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet — 
 A sunbeam in the quiet morning street. 
 
 And every night when in from work she tript, 
 Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt. 
 That I might hear upon the narrow stair 
 Her low "Good evening," as she passed me there. 
 And when her door was closed, below sat I, 
 And hearkened stilly as she stirred on high — 
 
 i 
 
100 
 
 CROWN JICWICLS. 
 
 :!'ii 
 
 Watclicd the red fircl;j;!'.t r.liadnws in l!ic room, 
 
 Fashioned her face before r.ie in tIic;;I()oni, 
 
 And heard her close tlie window, locic tlie door, 
 
 Mo\iii<; a1;out more liglitly than hefori\ 
 
 And lliought, " She is undressing now I" ar.d, oh ! 
 
 l\Iy cheeks were hot, my lieart was in a glow ! 
 
 And I made pictures of her — standing Iiright 
 
 lU'fore the looking-glass in bed-gown white, 
 
 Unbinding in a kncjther yellow hair, 
 
 Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer ; 
 
 Tiil, last, the lloor creaked softly overlK.a<l, 
 
 'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed — 
 
 And all was luished. Yet still I hearkened on, 
 
 Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone ; 
 
 And saw her shinibering with lips apart, 
 
 One little hand upon her little heart, 
 
 The other pillowing a face that smiled 
 
 In slumber like the slumber of a child, 
 
 The bright hair shining roimd the small wl::te ear, 
 
 The soft breath stealing visible and clear, 
 
 And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam 
 
 Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. 
 
 How free she wandered in the wicked place. 
 Protected only by lier gentle face ! 
 Siie saw bad things — how could she choose but see ? — 
 Slie heard of wantonness and misery ; 
 The city closed around lier night and day, 
 Ikit lightly, happily, she went her way. 
 Nothing of evil that she saw or heard 
 Could touch a heart so innocently stirred — 
 ]!y simple hopes that cheered it through the storm, 
 And little llutterings that kept it warm. 
 No power had she to reason out her needs. 
 To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds ; 
 Eiit she was good and pure amid the strife 
 Ty virtue of the joy that was her life. 
 Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall, 
 Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall, 
 Slie floated, pure as innocent could be, 
 Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea, 
 Wliich breasts the billows, wafted to and fro, 
 I'^carless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow, 
 While the clouds gather, and the waters roar. 
 And mighty ships are broken on the shore. 
 All winter long, witless who peeped the while. 
 She sweetened the chill mornings with her sinile , 
 When the soft snow was falling dimly white, 
 Shining among it with a child's delight, 
 Bri^lit as a rose, tliough nipping winds might blow, 
 And leaving fairy footprints in the snow ! 
 
 'Twas when the spring was coming, whenthcsnow 
 Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow, 
 And girls were selling violets in the town. 
 That suddenly a fever struck me down. 
 The world was changed, the sen.se of life was pained, 
 And nothing hut a shadow-land remained ; 
 Death catne in a dark mist and looked at me, 
 I fell his breathing, though I could not see, 
 
 I But heavily I lay and did not stir, 
 j And had strange images and dreams of her. 
 Then came a vacancy ; with feeble breath, 
 I shivered under the cold touch of death, 
 And swooned among strange visions of the dead, 
 When a voice called from heaven, and he flinl ; 
 Anil suddenly 1 wakened, as it seemetl, 
 I'"rom a deep sleep wherein I had not dreamed. 
 
 And it was night, and I could see and hear, 
 And 1 was in the room I held so dear. 
 And unaware, stretched out upon my bed. 
 I hearkened for a footstep overhead. 
 
 But all was hushed. I looked around the room, 
 And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. 
 The wall was reddened by a rosy light, 
 A faint fire flickered, and I knew 't was night, 
 Because below there was a sound of feet 
 Dying away along the quiet street — 
 When, turning my pale face and sighing low, 
 I saw a vision in the cjuiet glow : 
 A little figure in a cotton gown. 
 Looking upon the fire and stooping down, 
 Her side to mc, her face illumed, she eyed 
 Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side — 
 Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see, 
 Her little hands clasped tight around her knee. 
 The fireligh.t gleaming on her golden head. 
 And tinting her white neck to rosy red, 
 Her features bri^^ht, and beautiful, and pure, 
 With childish fear and yearning half demure. 
 
 O sweet, sweet dream I I thought and strained r.-.:;'.c 
 
 eyes, 
 Fearing to break the spell with words and sigh.s. 
 
 Softly she stooped, her dear face sweetly fair, 
 Atid sweeter since a light like love was there, 
 Brightening, watching, more and more elate, 
 As the nuts glowed together in the grate. 
 Crackling with little jets of fiery light, 
 Till side by side they turned to ashes white — 
 Then up she leapt, her face cast off its fear 
 For rapture that itself was radiance clear, 
 And would have clapped her little hands in glco, 
 But, pausing, bit her lips and peeped at me, 
 And met the face that yearned on her so whitcly, 
 And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly, 
 While, raised on elbow, as she turned to flee, 
 " Polly !" I cried— and grew as red as she I 
 
 It was no dream ! for soon my thoughts 
 clear. 
 And she could tell mc all, and I could hear ; 
 How in my sickness friendless I had lain; 
 How the hard people pitied not my pain ; 
 How, in despite of what bad people said. 
 She left her labors, stopped beside my bed, 
 And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die; 
 How, in the end, the danger passed nie by ; 
 
 v: e 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 101 
 
 How she had sought to steal away before 
 
 Tlic sickness passed, and I was strong once more. 
 
 Ijy fits slie told the story in mine car, 
 
 And troubled at the telling with a fear 
 
 Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid. 
 
 Lest I should think her bold in wliat she did ; 
 
 But, lying v,:: my bed, I dared to say. 
 
 How I had watched and loved her many a day, 
 
 How dear she was to me, and dearer still 
 
 For that strange kindness done while I was ill, 
 
 And how I could but think that Heaven above 
 
 Had done it all to bind our lives in love. 
 
 And Polly cried, turning her face away, 
 
 And seemed afraid, and answered "yea "nor " nay ; 
 
 Then stealing close, with little pants and sij;hs. 
 
 Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes, 
 
 And seemed in act to fling her arms about 
 
 My neck; then, blushing, paused, in fluttering doubt ; 
 
 Last, sp. "^g upon my heart, sighing and sobbing — 
 
 That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing. 
 
 Ah ! ne'er shall I forget until I die, 
 How happily the dreamy days went by. 
 While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats. 
 Hearkening the pleasant murmur from the streets, 
 And Polly by me like a sunny beam, 
 And life all changed, and love a drosy dream ! 
 'Twas happiness enough to lie and see 
 The little golden head bent droopingly 
 Over its sewing, while the still time flew, 
 And my fond eyes were dim with happy clew ! 
 And then, when I was nearly well and strong. 
 And she went back to labor all day long. 
 How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes. 
 And hear the distant murmurs and the cries. 
 And think how pure she was from pain and sin — 
 And how the summer days were coming i;i ! 
 Then, as the sunset faded from the room. 
 To listen for her footstep in the gloom, 
 To pant as it came stealing up the stair. 
 To feel my whole life brighten unaware 
 When the soft tap came to the door, and when 
 The door was open for her smile again ! 
 Best, the long evenings ! — when, till late at ni-ht. 
 She sat beside me in the quiet light, 
 And happy things were said and kisses won, 
 And serious gladness found its vent in fun. 
 Sometimes I would draw close her shining head. 
 And pour her bright hair out upon the bed, 
 And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold. 
 While "here," I cried, " I count my wealth in gold !' 
 
 Once, like a little sinner for transgression. 
 She blushed upon my breast, and made confession : 
 How, when that night I woke and looked around, 
 I found her busy with a charm profound- 
 One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed, 
 The other was the person she loved best. 
 And if they burned together side by side. 
 He loved her, and she would become his bride ; 
 
 And burn iiid-jvcl they did, to h'T cl.li.^ht — 
 And had the I'retly ch;irni not i<io\L-n riglu? 
 Tl.tis iihk!i, ai'.d more, with liin;j!;;us jny, slu-said, 
 Wl'.ilc li-r coiifjssor, too, greu" r.';y red - 
 .Aiul ilcise tn;:;;etlier pressed two blissful faces, 
 As 1 abs(iKed liie sinner, wiih embraces. 
 
 And here is winter com j aj-^ain, winds blow, 
 The houses and the streets are wliite witii snow ; 
 And in the loiv^ and pleasant eviiitiih'. 
 Why, what is I'oily making at my side? 
 What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand, 
 We l)(ju;.;ht togetlier lately in the Strand ! 
 What but a dress to go to church in soon, 
 And wear right cjueenly 'neatli a lioneynioon ! 
 Antl who shall match her willi her new straw boun 
 1 ler tiny foot and little boot upon it ; 
 Embroidered petticoat and si'k gown new, 
 And shav.l she wears as few fniL' ladies do? 
 And she will keep, to charm away all ill, 
 The lucky si.\i)ence in her pocket still ; 
 And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather, 
 To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ! 
 
 R<)dp:rt Buchanan. 
 
 •t, 
 
 r 
 
 THE EXCHANGE. 
 
 'E pledged our hearts, my love and I — 
 I ill my arms the maiden clasping ; 
 I could not tell the reason why, 
 But, O, I trembled like an aspen I 
 
 Her father's love she bade me gain ; 
 
 I went, and shook like any reed ! 
 I strove to act the inai; — in vain 1 
 
 We had excliaiiged our hearts i;;;!eeil. 
 
 SAMl'Iil. TaVLOU Cdl.l l;llJl 
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 T is the iniiler's dau;.:ht!;r, 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so de;;r, 
 'i'hat 1 would be the jewel 
 'i'hat trembles at her ear : 
 I'or, liitlin ringlets tlay and r;i:.',iit, 
 I'd touch her neck so warm antl wlilte. 
 
 And I would be the girdle 
 
 About her dainty, dainty v,;ii,.t, 
 
 And her heart would beat against me 
 In sorrow and in rast : 
 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 
 I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 And I would be the necklace, 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 
 Upon her balmy bosom, 
 With her laughter or her sighs : 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 
 I scarce sliould be unclasped at night. 
 
 Al-fRKU Tknnvso.v. 
 
Jil 
 
 '"I 
 
 102 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 THE LOVE-KNOT. 
 
 'YING her bonnet under her chin, 
 She tied her raven ringlets in. 
 But not alone in the silken snare 
 Did she catch her lovely (loating hair, 
 For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 They were strolling together up the hill. 
 Where the wind came blowing merry and chill; 
 And it blew the curls a frolicsome race, 
 All over the happy peach-colored face. 
 'I ill scolding and laughing, she tied them in. 
 Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. 
 
 And it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
 Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume. 
 All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
 That ever imprisoned a romping curl, 
 Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 Tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 Steeper and steeper grew the hill. 
 
 Madder, merrier, chiller still, 
 
 The western wind blew yown, and played 
 
 The wildest tricks with the little maid. 
 
 As, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 
 She tied a young man's heart within. -i 
 
 O western wind, do you think it was fair 
 
 To play such tricks with her floating hair? 
 
 To gladly, gleefully, do your best 
 
 To blow her against the young man's breast, 
 
 Where he has gladly folded her in. 
 
 And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin ? 
 
 O Ellery Vane, you little thought. 
 An hour ago, when you birsought 
 This country lass to walk with you. 
 After the sun had dried the dew. 
 What terrible dinger you'd be in. 
 As she tied her bonnet under her chin. 
 
 Nora Perry. 
 
 One, two, three stars along the skies 
 Begin to wink their golden eyes — 
 I'll leave my threads all knots and ties. 
 
 O moon, so red ! O moon, so red ! 
 Sweetheart of night, go straight to bed ; 
 Love's light will answer in your stead. 
 
 A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands — 
 Stop trembling, little foolish hands, 
 And stop the bands, and stop the bands ! 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 0, DO NOT WANTON WITH THOSE EYES. 
 
 P 
 
 A SPINSTER'S STINT. 
 
 ' IX skeins and three, si.x skeins and three 1 
 Goo.l mother, so you stinted me. 
 And here they be — ay, six and three 1 
 
 Stop, busy wheel I stop, noisy wheel ! 
 Long shadows down my chambtr steal, 
 And warn me to make haste and reel. 
 
 'T is done — the spinning work complete, 
 
 heart of mine, what makes you beat 
 So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet ? 
 
 1 must have wheat and pinks, to stick 
 My hat from brim to ribbon, thick — 
 Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick I 
 
 DO not wanton with those eyes. 
 Lest I be sick with seeing ; 
 y Nor cast them down, but let them rise, 
 Lest shame destroy their bemg. 
 
 O, be not angry with those fires. 
 For tlun tlieir threats will kill me ; 
 
 Nor look too kind on my desire.s. 
 For then my hopes will spill me. 
 
 O, do not steep them in thy tears, 
 
 For so will sorrow slay me ; 
 Nor sjiread them as distract with fears ; 
 
 Mine own enough betray me. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 A NYMPH'S REPLY. 
 
 ' F all the world and love were young. 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
 These pretty pleasures might me move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
 When rivers ra;;e and rocks grow cold ; 
 And Philomel becometh dumb. 
 The rest complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall. 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; 
 All these in me no means can move 
 To come to thee and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, and love still breed. 
 Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
 Then these delights my mind might move 
 To live with thee and be thy love. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 103 
 
 BLEST AS THE IMMORTAL GODS. 
 
 ^ LEST as the immortal gods is he, 
 The youth who fondly siLs by thee, 
 And hears and sees thee ail the .vhile 
 Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 
 
 'T was this deprived my soul of rest, 
 And raised such tumults in my breast : 
 For while I gazed, in transport tost, 
 My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 
 
 My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
 Ran quick through all my vital frame ; 
 O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 
 My ears with hollow murmurs rung ; 
 
 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled ; 
 My blood with gentle horrors thrilled : 
 My feeble pulse forgot to plaj- — 
 I fainted, sunk, and died away. 
 
 From the Greek of S.\ppno, 
 by Ambrose Phillips. 
 
 a 
 
 THE WHISTLE. 
 
 ■ OU have heard," said a youth to his sweet- 
 heart, who stood. 
 While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at day- 
 light's decline — 
 " You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of 
 wood? 
 I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine." 
 
 "And what would you do with it?— tell me," she 
 said, 
 While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. 
 "I would blow it," he answered ; "and then my fair 
 maid 
 Would fly to my side, and would here take lier 
 place." 
 
 " Is that all you wish it for? That may be yours 
 Without any magic," the fair maiden cried : 
 
 "A favor so slight one's good nature secures ;" 
 And she playfully seated herself by his side. 
 
 "I would blow it again," said the youih, 'and the 
 charm 
 Would work so, that not even modesty's check 
 V, ould be able to keep from my neck your fine 
 arm ;" 
 She smiled — and she laid her fine arm round his 
 neck. 
 
 " Yet once more would I blow, and the music divine 
 Would bring me the third time an exquisite bliss ; 
 You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of 
 mine, 
 And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a 
 kiss." ' 
 
 The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, 
 
 " What a fool of yourself with your whistle you'd 
 make ! 
 For only consider, how silly 't would be 
 To sit there and whistle for — what you nii^lit 
 take !" 
 
 ROIIERT StOKY. 
 
 A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL 
 
 Uj 
 
 I. 
 
 HAT change has made the pastures sweet, 
 And reached the daisies at my feet, 
 
 And cloud that wears a golden hem ? 
 This lovely world, the hills, the sward — 
 They all look fresh, as if cur Lord 
 But yesterday had finished them. 
 
 And here's the field with light aglow : 
 How fresh its boundary lime-trees show ! 
 
 And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! 
 Between their trunks come through to me 
 The morning sparkles of the sea, 
 
 Below the level browsing line. 
 
 I .see the pool inore clear by half 
 Than pools where other waters laugh, 
 
 Up at the breasts of coot and rail. 
 I There, as she passed it on her way, 
 I saw reflected yesterday 
 
 A maiden with a milking-pail. 
 
 There, neither slowly nor in haste. 
 One hand upon her slender waist. 
 
 The other lifted to her pail — 
 She, rosy in the morning light. 
 Among the water-daisies white. 
 
 Like some fair sloop apper.red to Gail. 
 
 Against her ankles as she trod 
 The lucky buttercups ditl nod : 
 
 I leaned upon the gate to see. 
 The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; 
 A dimple came in either cheek, 
 
 And all my heart was gone from me. 
 
 Then, as I lingered on the gate. 
 And slie came up like coming fate, 
 
 I saw my picture in her eyes — 
 Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes ! 
 Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows 
 
 Among white-headed majesties 1 
 
 I said, " A tale was made of old 
 That I would fain to thee unfold. ' 
 
 Ah ! let me— let me tell the tale." 
 But high she held her comely head : 
 " I cannot heed it now," she said, 
 
 "For carrying of the milking-pail." 
 
 She laughed. What good to make ado ? 
 I held the gate, and she cam 3 through. 
 And took her homeward path anon. 
 
lot 
 
 CROWN JRWELS. 
 
 "i*i i t 
 
 Vriw\ tlie clear prxil Irt face liad (led ; 
 It restiil on my iKait iiistfad, 
 
 RcilcLluil uiicii llic inaiil was gone. 
 
 With liappy youtli, and work coiiti.iit, 
 So swuLt and stately, cm sIil- wlmU, 
 
 I\ij;lit careless of tliu uiUoltl tal.'. 
 Each step slie took I loveil h 'r more, 
 And followed tt) her dairy door 
 
 The maiden with the niilkini;-pail. 
 
 II. 
 For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, 
 How fine, how blest a thinj; is work ! 
 
 For Work does };ood when reasons fail — 
 flood ; yet the axe at every stroke 
 The echo of a name awoke — 
 
 Her name is Mary Martindale. 
 
 I'm };Iad that echo was not heard 
 Aright by other men. A bird 
 
 Knows tionbtless what his own notes tell ; 
 And I know not — init I can say 
 I felt as shamefaced all that day 
 
 As if folks heard her nanie right well. 
 
 And wlieii tlie west began to glow 
 I went —I could not choose but go — 
 
 To that same dairy on the hill ; 
 And while sweet Mary niowd about 
 Within, I came to lier without, 
 
 And leaned upon the window-sill. 
 
 The garden border whore I stood 
 
 Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. 
 
 I spoke— her answer seemed to fail. 
 I smelt the pinks— I could not see. 
 The dusk came down and sheltered me, 
 
 And in the dusk she heard my tale. 
 
 And what is left that I should tell ? 
 I begijed a kiss— I ])leaded well : 
 
 The rosebud lips did long decline ; 
 But yet, I think— I think 't is true- 
 That, leaned at last into tlie dew, 
 
 One little instant they were mine ! 
 
 O life ! hou' dear thou hast become ! 
 .She laughed at dawn, and I .vas dumb ! 
 
 But evening counsels best prevail. 
 Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, 
 Green be the pastures where she treads, 
 
 The maiden with the milking-pail ! 
 
 JiCAN Ingelow. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 
 
 T. AGNES* EVE— ah, bitter chill it was ! 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
 The hare limped trembling through the frozen 
 grass, 
 
 And silent was the (lock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told 
 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
 
 Like |Mt)U:i incense from a censer old, 
 .Seemed taking (ligh.t for heaven without a death. 
 Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he 
 saith. 
 
 I lis prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseUi from his knees, 
 
 .\nd back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
 
 Along the chapel isle by slow degrees ; 
 
 I'he sculptured dead on each sitle seemed to freeze, 
 
 Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; 
 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. 
 
 Me i)assetli by ; and his weak spirit f.uls 
 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 
 
 Northward he turncth through a little door, 
 
 .'\nd scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue 
 
 I'lattered to tears this aged man and poor ; 
 
 I<u[ no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
 
 The joys of all his life were said and sung: 
 
 His was harsh penance o;i St. Agnes' Eve : 
 
 Anotiier way he went, and soon among 
 
 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
 
 And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 
 
 That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
 And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
 Tlie silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; 
 The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
 The carved angels, ever eager eyed, 
 .Stand, where upon their heads the cornice rests. 
 With h..ir blown back, and wings put crosswiiie on 
 their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry, 
 
 Willi jilume, tiara, and all rich array, 
 
 Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
 
 The brain, ncw-stu(Ted, in youth, with triumphs gay 
 
 Of old romance. These let us wish away ; 
 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. 
 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. 
 
 On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. 
 
 As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' eve. 
 
 Young virgins might have visions of delight. 
 
 And soft adorings from their loves receive 
 
 Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
 
 If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
 
 As. supperless to bed they must retire. 
 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 
 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
 
 Of heaven with upward eyes for all tbr't they desire. 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; 
 The music, yearning like a god in pain, 
 She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. 
 Fixed on t!ie floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 lOo 
 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
 And back retired, not cooled by high disdain. 
 Rut she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; 
 She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 
 year. 
 
 She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; 
 The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Hoodwinked with fairy fancy; all amort 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire, 
 She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors. 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fue 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
 That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such 
 things have been. 
 
 He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : 
 All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
 Will storm his heart, love's feverous citacUl ; 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 Against his lineage ; not one breast affords 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 
 Tlie sound of merriment and chorus bland. 
 
 He startled her ; but soon .she knew his face, 
 
 .And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand, 
 
 .Siying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from ihis place ; 
 
 They are all here to-night, the whole bloodtiiirsly race ! 
 
 " Get hence I get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; 
 
 He had a fever late, and in tiic fit 
 
 He cursed thee and thine, both house and land ; 
 
 Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
 
 More tame for his gray hairs— alas me ! flit ! 
 
 Flit like a ghost away ! " "Ah, gossip dear. 
 
 We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit. 
 
 And tell me how — " "Good saints! not here, not 
 
 here ; 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 
 
 He followed through a lowly arch6d way. 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
 And as she muttered, " Well-a — well-aday !" 
 
 He found him in a little moonlight room, 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 " \ow tell me wliere is Matleline," said he, 
 "O, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 
 
 ".St. Agnes! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
 Yet men will nuirder upon holy d.iys; 
 Thou nnist hold water in a witch's sieve. 
 And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays. 
 To venture so. It fills me with ama^e 
 To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes eve ! 
 God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
 This very night ; good angels her deceive ! 
 But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 
 Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, 
 
 As spectacled she sits in chinnn-y nook. 
 
 But soon liis eyes grew brilliant, wlieii she told 
 
 His lady's purpose ; and he scarce coulil brook 
 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. 
 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
 
 Flusliing his brow, and in his paint'd heart 
 
 Made purple riot ; then doth he iinjjiose 
 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
 
 "A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
 
 Sweet lady, lot her pray, and sleep and dream 
 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, gt) ! I deem 
 
 Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 
 
 " I will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! " 
 Quoth Porphyro ; "(J, may I ne'er find grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer. 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
 Or look with ruITian passion in her face : 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. 
 And beard them, though they be more fanged than 
 wolves and bears." 
 
 " Ah I why wilt thou afiright a feeble soul ? 
 
 .\ poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing. 
 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
 
 Were never missed." Thus plaining, dodi she bring 
 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
 
 .So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or w')e. 
 
 Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 That he might see her beauty unespied, 
 
lOG 
 
 CROWN JEVVKLS. 
 
 i '1' 
 
 m 
 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
 
 While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, 
 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
 
 Never on such a night have lovers met, 
 
 Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt. 
 
 " It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; 
 "All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
 Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my ciiild, with paliencu kneel in prayer 
 The while. Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
 Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 
 
 So sayfng, she hobbled ofT with busy fear. 
 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly passed : 
 
 The dame returned, and whispered in his ear 
 
 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 
 The maiden's chaml)er, silken, husiied and chaste ; 
 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 
 
 Her fallv;ring hand upon the balustrade. 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmt^d maidi 
 Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
 She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ! 
 She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove, frayed 
 and fled. 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died ; 
 
 She closed the door, she panted, ail akin 
 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; 
 
 No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
 
 As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. 
 
 A casement high and triple-arched there was. 
 All garlanded with carven imageries 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
 A shielded 'scutcheon blushed with blood of queens 
 and kings. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; 
 She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 Save wings, for iieaven. Porpiiyru grew faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 
 
 Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees : 
 Unclasps her warmrsd jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; 
 Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
 Flown like a thought, until the morrow day ; 
 Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; 
 Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 
 
 Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
 And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness : 
 Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
 And breathed himself; then from the closet crept. 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
 And over the hushed carpet, silent, slept. 
 And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — how fast 
 she slept. 
 
 Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
 
 Made a dim, silver twilight soft he set 
 
 A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
 
 O for some drowsy morphean amulet I 
 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
 
 The kettle drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
 
 AfTray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
 In blanchfid linen, smooth, and lavendered ; 
 While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
 With jellies soother than the creamy curd. 
 And lucent syrups, tinct with cinamon ; 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
 F"rom Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one. 
 From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 
 
 These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreathdd silver. Sumptuous they stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night. 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 107 
 
 Filling tlie cliilly room willj perfume light, — 
 
 " And now, my love, my suraph fair, aw.ilcc ! 
 
 Tiiou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 
 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
 .Sank in her pillow. Shaded was Jier dream 
 I-y the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carjiet lies ; 
 It seemed he never, never could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
 So mused awhile, entoiled in woof(id phantasies. 
 
 .'K wakening up, he took her hollow lute — 
 Tumultuous — and, in chords that tendurest be, 
 He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
 In Provence called " La belle dame sans merci ; " 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
 Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan : 
 He ceased ; she panted quick — and suddenly 
 Her blue aflTrayOid eyes wide open shone : 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
 stone. 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. 
 
 There was a painful chang'. that nigh expelled 
 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; 
 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
 
 And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
 
 Wlio knelt with joined hands and piteous eye, 
 
 Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. 
 
 " .'Kh, Porphyro ! " she said, " but even now 
 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 
 
 Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; 
 
 How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! 
 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 
 Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 
 
 0, leave me not in this eternal woe. 
 
 For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
 
 Eliiereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
 
 Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 
 Blendeth its odor with the violet — 
 
 Solution sweet ; meantime the frost-wind blows 
 
 Like love's alarm pattering the sharp sleet 
 
 Against the window panes : St. Agnes' moon hath set. 
 
 'Tis dark ; quick pattereth the flaw blown sleet : 
 "This is no dieam, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
 'Tis dark ; the ic^d gusts still rave and beat : 
 "No dream? alas I alas ! and woe is mine ! 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade ajid pine. 
 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
 
 Though thou forsake St a deceived thing;— 
 
 A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpruni'd wing." 
 
 "My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
 
 Say, may 1 be for aye thy vassal blest? 
 
 Thy beauty's sliield, heart shaped and vermeil dyed? 
 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
 
 After so many lunirs of toil and quest, 
 
 A famished pilgrim— sav<(l by miracle. 
 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest, 
 
 Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 
 
 " Hark I 't is an elfin storm from faery land, 
 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 
 
 Arise, arise ! the morning is at h.ind ; — 
 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed : 
 
 Let us awa-y, my love, with happy speed ; 
 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see — 
 
 Drowned all in Rheni.sh and the sleepy mead : 
 
 Awake, arise, my luve, and fearless be, 
 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 
 
 .She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
 
 For there were sleeping dragons all aroinid. 
 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears ; 
 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, 
 
 In all the house was heard no human sound. 
 
 A chain drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; 
 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
 
 Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
 
 .•\nd the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
 
 Like phantoms to the iion porch tli*y glide, 
 
 Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide. 
 
 Hut his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 
 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; 
 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; 
 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans ; 
 
 And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled into the storm. 
 That night the baron dreamt of many a woe, 
 .\nd all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
 Of witch, anc' demon, and large coffin worm. 
 Were long be nightmared. Angela, the old. 
 Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 
 The beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 
 
 John Khats. 
 
 FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 (ST'f^ARE thee well ! and if forever, 
 "•#t^ Still forever, fare thee well ; 
 M. Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 
 ni 
 
! t i:l 
 
 108 
 
 CROWN jr.Wl'.LS. 
 
 ,: I 
 
 : I 
 
 ji'iii' 
 
 Would that breast were linred Ix'fDre tliee 
 Where thy lieail so oft halii lain, 
 
 While the placid slccii rame o'er thee 
 Which tliuu ne'er canst know again: 
 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
 Every inmost thouj^'ht could show ! 
 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 'T was nut well to spurn it so. 
 
 Tliiiu>;h the world for this commend thee — 
 Tliou.nh it smile upon the blow, 
 
 Kvrii its prai'ies nuist odend thee. 
 Founded ou another's woe : 
 
 Though my many faults deface<l me. 
 
 Could no otinr arm be found 
 Than the one which once embraced me, 
 
 To indict a cureless wound ? 
 
 Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not; 
 
 I.ove may sink by sK)W decay ; 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away : 
 
 Sllll thine own its life retaimth— 
 
 Still must mine, thou^di bleeding beat ; 
 
 And the undying thought which i)aineth 
 Is— that we no more may meet. 
 
 ThcFC are words of deeper sorrow 
 Than the wail abi<ve the dead ; 
 
 B<ith shall live, but every morrow 
 Wake us from a widowed bed. 
 
 And when thou wouldst solarc gather, 
 When our child's first accents flow, 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say " Fatlier !" 
 Though his care she must forego ! 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee, 
 When her lip to thine is pressed, 
 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
 Think of him thy love had blessed ! 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 Those thou nevermore nuiyst see, 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 All my faults perchance thou knowest, 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 
 All my hopes, whene'er thou goest, 
 Whither, yet with thee they go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow, 
 Bows to thee— by thee forsaken. 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now ; 
 
 But 't is done ; all words are idle — 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way without the will. 
 
 Fare thee well I thus disunited. 
 
 Torn from eveiy nearer tie, 
 Searcil in heait and lone, and b1i;^htcd, 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 I.OKl) r.VKll.N. 
 
 BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 
 
 •"Jl^l.I, in til'-' Downs the fleet was moored, 
 f ^^ The streamers waving in the winil, 
 ^^ When black-eyed Susan came aboard ; 
 " ( ), wlure siiall I my trn.' love finil t 
 Tell me, yi'jiivial sailors, till nic true 
 If my sweet William sails among the crew." 
 
 William, who high upon the yard 
 
 Koeked with the billow to ami fro, 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard 
 
 He sii^hetl, and cast his eyes below ; 
 The cord slides swifdy throii.^'h his glowmi; hands 
 And quick as lightning on the ileck he stands 
 
 So the sweet lark, high poised in air, 
 
 Shuts closer his pinions to his breast 
 If chance his mate's sinill call he hear, 
 
 And drops at once into her nest:— 
 The nobKst ciptain in the British fleet 
 Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 
 
 " O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me kiss off that falling r; 
 
 We only part to meet t 
 Cliange as ye list, ye win heart sh.iU be 
 
 The f.iilliful compass that still iioiiils to tlicc. 
 
 " Believe not what the landmen say 
 
 \\'ho tempt with doubts thy constant mind : 
 They'll tell thee, sailors v\hen away. 
 
 In every piTt a mistress find : 
 YfS, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 
 For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 " If to fair India's coast wc sail, 
 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
 
 Thy skin is ivory so white. 
 Thus every beauteous object that I view 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 "Though battle call me from thy arms. 
 Let not my pretty .Susan mourn ; 
 Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms 
 
 William shall to his dear return. 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 No longer must she stay aboard : 
 
 They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; 
 "Adieu ! " she cried ; and waved her lily hand. 
 
 JuiiN Gav. 
 
LOVE AND rRIKNlXSIIIP. 
 
 100 
 
 THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND THE 
 TASSEL ON THE CORN. 
 
 •jr HEARD Ihe bob-white whistle in tliu dewy 
 •®' bnatli of morn ; j 
 
 •I* The bloDtii was on the aklir imd liie tassil on ' 
 ' the corn. 
 
 I stood with beating heart beside the liabbling Mac-o 
 
 chee, 
 To see my love come down the glen to lieep lier tryst 
 
 with me. 
 
 I saw her pace, with (luiet grace, the sliaded i)ati) 
 
 along, 
 And pan>-e to plnck a (lower, or hear tlie thrush's song. 
 Denied by iier proud fatlier as a suitor to i)e seen. 
 She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little 
 
 ciiieen. 
 
 Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden 
 
 slione, 
 For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a yoiitli 
 
 unknown. 
 The rich and j,'reat about her thronged, and sou;.,!)t 
 
 on bended knee 
 For love this gracious princess gave, with all her 
 
 heart, to me. 
 
 So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she 
 stood, 
 
 Willi all the freshness of a girl in Hush of woman- 
 hood. 
 
 I trembled as I put my arm about her fortri divine. 
 
 And staniniercd, as in awkw.ird speech, 1 begged her 
 to be mine. [ 
 
 Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- 
 lit dream — 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the 
 rippling stream ; 
 
 'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south 
 winds sigh, 
 
 More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, 
 low reply. 
 
 The little hand I held in mine held all 1 had of life. 
 To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its 
 
 strife. 
 'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned 
 
 from above ; 
 My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me 
 
 her love. 
 
 Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are 
 
 dim with tears — 
 I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone 
 
 years, 
 For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy 
 
 morn, 
 With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the 
 corn. 
 
 Don Piatt. 
 
 LAMENT 
 
 VOeNO HinilLANnRR gUMMONI'II HPnM TIIK HinK OK IIIH 
 BKIIlh. BY I UK " MKRV CHCISS" III' fi <li| kIL'K [)tlU. 
 
 HI'! heath tliis night must li<- my bed, 
 The brae ken curtain for my lie.id, 
 .My lullaby the warder's tread, 
 
 l'"ar, far from love and liiei', .Mary; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid 
 My couch may In; my bloody plaid, 
 My V'spersong, thy w.ail, swcit n\aid! 
 It will not waken mi\ Mary ! 
 
 I may not, dare not, fancy now 
 
 The grief that cloutlii '.liy l()\ely brow, 
 
 I dare not think upon thy vow. 
 
 And all it promised me, Mary. 
 No fund regret must Norman know; 
 Wlun bursts Clan-/\l|)ine on the foe, 
 Mis heart must bj like bender bow, 
 
 His foot likL! arrow free, Mary. 
 
 A tinie will come with feeling fruuglu! 
 For, if I fall in b.ittle fought, 
 Thy hapless Iovit's dying thought 
 
 Sliall be a thougiit on thee, .Mary. 
 And if returned from con(|Uoreil Ibes, 
 How blithely will the evening close, 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose. 
 
 To my young briile and me, Mary ! 
 
 Sir \\^\i.ri;u Scott. 
 
 Ilj 
 
 WE PARTED IN SILENCE 
 
 E parted in silence, we parted by night. 
 On the banks of that lonely river; 
 Where the fragrant limes their boughs 
 unite, 
 We met — and we parted forever ! 
 The night-bird sung, and the stars above 
 
 Told many a touching story. 
 Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love. 
 Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 
 
 We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 
 
 With the tears that were past controlling ; 
 We vowed we would never, no, never forget, 
 
 And those vowsat the time were consoling ; 
 But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 
 
 Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
 And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 
 
 Has shrouded its fires forever. 
 
 And now on the midnight sky I look, 
 
 And my heart grows full of weeping ; 
 Each star is to me a sealed book. 
 
 Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
 We parted in silence — we parted in tears, 
 
 On the banks of that lonely river ; 
 But the odor and bloom of those bygone years 
 
 Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 
 
 Julia Crawford. 
 
no 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 J!' ■' 
 
 ? ! •- .1 
 
 Ir I 
 
 LOVE AND TIME. 
 
 ^ 'WO pilp;rims frnm tlie distant plain 
 /fT\ Come fjiiickly o'er the mossy ground. 
 Vjy One is a boy, with loci^s of gold 
 f Thick curling; round his face so fair ; 
 
 The otlier pilgrim, stern and old, 
 Has snowy beard and silver hair. 
 
 The youth with many a merry trick 
 
 Goes singing on his careless way ; 
 His old companion walks as quick, 
 
 Rut speaks no word by night or day. 
 Where'er the old man treads, the grass 
 
 Fast fadeth with a certain doom ; 
 Rut where the beauteous boy doth pass 
 
 Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. 
 
 And thus before the sage, the boy 
 
 Trips liglnly o'er the blooming lands, 
 And prt)udly bears a pretty toy — 
 
 A crj-stal glass with diamond sands. 
 A smile o'er any brow would pass 
 
 To see liim frolic in the sun — 
 To see him shake the crystal glass, 
 
 And make the sands more quickly run. 
 
 And now they leap the streamlet o'er, 
 
 A silver thread so white and thin, 
 Ai.d now they reach the open door, 
 And now they lightly enter in : 
 "God save all here " — that kind wish flies 
 
 Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; 
 "God save you kindly," Norah crie;. 
 
 " Sit down, my child, and rest and eat." 
 
 " Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good, 
 
 We'll rest awhile our weary feet ; 
 But though this old man needeth food, 
 
 There's nothing here that he can eat. 
 His taste is strange, he eats atone, 
 
 Reneath some ruined cloister's cope, 
 Or on some tottering turret's stone. 
 
 While I can only live on — hope ! 
 
 " A week ago, ere you were wcil — 
 
 It was the very night before — 
 Upon so many sweets 1 fed 
 
 While passing by your mother's door — 
 It was that dear, delicious hour 
 
 Wiien Ov\en here the nosegay brought, 
 And found you in the wooilliine bower — 
 
 Since then, indeed, I've needed naught." 
 
 A blush steals over Norah's face, 
 
 A smile comes over Owen's brow, 
 A tranquil joy illumes the place. 
 
 As if the moon were shining now; 
 The boy beholds the pleasing pain, 
 
 The sweet confusion he has done, 
 And shakes the crystal glass again, 
 
 And makes the sands more quickly run. 
 
 " Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound 
 
 Upon an endless path sublime ; 
 We pace the green earth round and round. 
 
 And mortals call us lovk and time ; 
 He seeks the many, I the few ; 
 
 I dwell with peasants, he with kings. 
 We seldom meet ; but when we do, 
 
 I take his glass, and he my wir.j,-3, 
 
 "And thus together on we go, 
 
 Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; 
 And time, whose lonely steps are slow, 
 
 Now sweeps along with lightning speed. 
 Now on our bright predestined way 
 
 We must to other regions pass ; 
 But take this gift, and night and d.ny 
 
 Look well upon its tnithful glass. 
 
 "How quick or slow the bright sands fall 
 
 Is hid from lovers' eyes alone, 
 If you can see them move at all, 
 
 Be sure your heart has colder grown. 
 'Tis coldness makes the glass grow dry. 
 
 The icy hand, the freezing brow ; 
 But warm the heart and breathe the sigh. 
 
 And then they'll pass you know not how." 
 
 She took the glass where love's warm hands 
 
 A bright impervious vapor cast, 
 She looks, but cannot see the sands. 
 
 Although .she feels they're falling fast. 
 But cold hours came, and then, al.is I 
 
 She saw them falling frozen through. 
 Till love's warm light suffused the glass. 
 
 And hid the loosening sands from view ! 
 
 Denis Florence MacCarthv. 
 
 HERO TO LEANDER. 
 
 GO not yet my love, 
 
 The night is dark and vast ; 
 J The white moon is hid in her heaven above 
 And the waves climb high and fast. 
 O, kiss me, kiss me, once again. 
 
 Lest thy kiss should be the last. 
 O, kiss me ere we part ; 
 Grow clf)ser to my heart. 
 My heart is warmer surely tiian the bosom of the main. 
 O joy ! O bliss of blisses I 
 
 My heart of hearts art thou. 
 Come, bathe me with thy kisses, 
 
 My eyelids and my brow. 
 Hark how the wild rain hisses, 
 And the loud sea roars below. 
 
 Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, 
 
 So gladly doth it stir; 
 Thy eye in drops of gladness swims. 
 
 I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh; 
 Thy locks are dripping balm ; 
 Thou shalt not wander hence to- night, 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I'll stay thee with my kisses. 
 Tonight the roaring brine 
 
 Will rend thy golden tresses; 
 The ocean with the morrow light 
 Will be both blue and calm ; 
 And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft 
 
 as mine. 
 
 No western odors wander 
 
 On the black and moaning sea, 
 And when thou art dead, Leander, 
 
 My soul must follow thee ! 
 O, go not yet, my love, 
 
 Thy voice is sweet and low ; 
 The deep salt wave breaks in above 
 
 Those marble steps below. 
 The turret stairs are wet 
 
 That lead into the sea. 
 Leander ! go not yet. 
 The pleasant stars have set : 
 O, go not, go not yet. 
 
 Or I will follow thee. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER. 
 
 'AREWELL ! but whenever you welcome the 
 hour 
 That awakens the night-song of mirth in your 
 bower, 
 Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
 
 And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. 
 
 His griefs may rtturn — not a hope may remain 
 
 Of the few that have brightened his pathway of 
 
 pain — 
 But he ne'er can forget the short vision th.t threw 
 Its enchantment around him while lingering with 
 
 you ! 
 
 And still on that evening when pleasure fills up 
 
 To the higiifst top sparkle each heart and each cup, 
 
 Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
 
 My soul, happy friends, will be with you that night ; 
 
 Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 
 
 And return to me, beaming all o'er with your 
 
 smiles — 
 Too blest if it tell me thsit, mid the gay cheer, 
 Some kind voice has murmured, " I wish he were 
 
 here !" 
 
 Let fate do her worst, tliere are relics of joy, 
 Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de- 
 stroy ; 
 Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
 And bring back the features which joy used to wear. 
 Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
 Like the vase in which roses have once been dis- 
 tilled— 
 Vou may break, you may shatter tlie vase, if you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 
1 1 
 
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 V:: 
 
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 U^' 
 
 ll 
 
 BEHUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 THE GREENWOOD. 
 
 WHEN 'lis 
 weather. 
 
 summer 
 
 ip And tlie yellow bee, with 
 
 fairy sound, 
 The waters clear is hummini; 
 
 round, 
 And the cuckoo sings unseen 
 And the 
 green— 
 
 O, tlien 't is sweet, 
 In some retreat, 
 To he.Tr tlie niurnuirin;? dove, 
 With those whom on eartli 
 
 alone we love, 
 And to wind through thcgreen- 
 wood together. 
 
 But when 't is winter weather, 
 
 And crosses grieve, 
 
 And friends deceive, 
 
 And rain and sleet 
 
 The lattice beat — 
 
 O, then 't is sweet 
 
 To sit and sing 
 Of the friends will) whom, in the days of spring. 
 We roamed througli the greenwood together. 
 William Lisle Bowlks. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 'O hini who, in the love of Nature, holds 
 
 Conuuunion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language : for his gayor hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
 In'..) his darker musings with a mild 
 And gjntle sympathy, that steals away 
 Til ir sharpness, ere he is aw.ire. When thoughts 
 ( >f the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad im.iges 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and ]iall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart. 
 Go forth under the open skj', and list 
 To nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth aiul her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes .1 still voice — yet a few days, and thee 
 Tile all-beholding sun shall see n<j more 
 In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 Where tiiy pale form was laid, with many tears. 
 Nor ill the enibraci^ cf ocean, sliuli e.\ist 
 
 Thy image. Earth, tnat nourished thee, shall claim 
 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to eartii again ; 
 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 
 To mix forever with the elements ; 
 
 To l)e a brotlier to the insensible rock, 
 
 And to the sluggish clod, wiiich the rude swain 
 
 Tiu'us with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 
 Shalt thou retire alone — nor coulds't ihou wish 
 eaves are wavuig i ,^ i -r ^ -i-i i i. i- i 
 
 ° I Couch more magnificent. 1 hou shalt Ii j down 
 - 
 
 With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings. 
 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
 
 I'air forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 
 
 Ail in one mighty sepulchre. The hills. 
 
 Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
 
 .Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 
 The venerable woods ; riven; that move 
 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 
 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured rouiiil 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, 
 
 Arc 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 
 
 Th.it slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 
 Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, 
 
 Or lose thyselfin the continuous woods 
 
 Where rolls the Oregon, aad hears no sound 
 
 Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ! 
 
 And millions in t!io-e 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 withdraw 
 
 la silence from 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 ciiase 
 
 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 lie who goes 
 
 In the full strength of years, matron and maid. 
 
 The bowed with age, the infart in the smiles 
 
 And beauty of its innocent age cutoff— 
 
 .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 palo realms of shade, where each shall take 
 (112) 
 
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BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 113 
 
 His chamber in the silent halls of tleatli, 
 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. 
 
 \VlLLIA.M CULLEN BrYANT. 
 
 £ 
 
 ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 O ! where the rosy-bosomed hours. 
 
 Fair Venus' train appear. 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers. 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 The attic warbler pours her tliroat. 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note. 
 
 The untaugiit harmony of spring : 
 While, whispering pleasure as tliey fly. 
 Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky, 
 
 Their gatiiered fragrance fling. 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader, browner shade ; 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beach 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade. 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardor of the crowd. 
 How low, how little are the proud. 
 
 How indigent the great ! 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of care : 
 
 The panting herds repose : 
 Yet hark, how through the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows ! 
 The insect youth are on the wing. 
 Eager to taste the honeyed spring. 
 
 And float amid the liquid noon : 
 Some lightly o'er the current skim. 
 Some show their gayly-gilded trim 
 
 Quick glancing to the sun. 
 
 To contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of man : 
 And they that creep, and they that fly, 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 But flutter thn.ugh life's little day, 
 
 In fortune's varying colors drest ; 
 Brushed by the hand of rough mischance ; 
 Or chilled by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave in dust to rest. 
 
 Methinks I hear in accents low 
 
 The sportive kind reply ; 
 " Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? 
 
 A solitary fly ! 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
 
 (S) 
 
 No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. 
 
 No painted plumage t.> display : 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flcjwn : 
 Thy sun is set, tiiy si)ring is gone — 
 We frolic while 't is .May." 
 
 Thomas Gray. 
 
 THE LATE SPRING. 
 
 ' HE stood alone amidst the April fields — 
 
 Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. 
 " The spring is late," .she said, " the faithless 
 spring. 
 That should have come to make the meadows f.Ar. 
 
 "Their sweet South left too soon, among the trees 
 The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; 
 
 For them no green boughs Wc\it — their memories 
 Of last year's April had deceived them so." 
 
 She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad 
 sprhig, 
 The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees. 
 " Thus God has dealt with me, his child," she said : 
 
 " I wait my spring time, and am cold like these. 
 " To them will come the fulness of their time ; 
 Their spring, though late, will make the meadows 
 fair ; 
 Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? 
 I am His own — doth not iny Father care ?" 
 
 LoLisii: Chandler Moulton. 
 
 GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES. 
 
 HE groves were God's first temples. Ere man 
 learned 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave. 
 And spread the roof above them — ere he framed 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 The sound of anthems — in the darkling wood. 
 Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 
 And oflored to the Mightiest, solemn thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the s.acred 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 mvisible 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, 
 Ofler one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
 Acceptance in liis ear. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 ! i 
 
 ') ■ 
 
 ! I 
 
 
 
 
114 
 
 CROWN JEWKLS. 
 
 i' I 
 
 9'' |l; 
 
 lllr^ 
 
 IN JUNE. 
 
 'O sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, 
 So sweet the clafTodils, so fair to see ; 
 So blithe and gay the humming-bird agoing 
 From flower to flower, a hunting with the 
 bee. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet 'he calling of the thrushes, 
 The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; 
 
 So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes, 
 The plover's piping note, now here, now there. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet from olTthe fields of clover, 
 The west-wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; 
 
 So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover. 
 Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. 
 
 So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes ; 
 
 Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear ; 
 And. water, hush your song through reeds and 
 rushes, 
 
 That I may know whose lover cometh near. 
 
 So loud, so loi'd the tb "shes kept their calling, 
 Plover or blacl.bird nt ver !ieedii)g me; 
 
 So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, falling, 
 O'er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous glee. 
 
 So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover. 
 
 Nor noisy mill stream, in its fret and fall. 
 Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover, 
 My lover calling through the thrushes' call. 
 
 "Come down, come down!" he called, and straight 
 
 the thrushes 
 
 From mate to mate sang all .it once, "Conic down!" 
 
 Ai\d while the water lau;.vlied through rcuds and rushes, 
 
 The blackbird chiri)ed, the plover piped, "Come 
 
 down !" 
 
 Then down and off, and through the fields of clover, 
 I followed, followed, at my lover's call ; 
 
 Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover. 
 The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall. 
 
 Nora Perry. 
 
 MAY-EVE. OR KATE OF ABERDEEN 
 
 'HE silver moon's enamoured beam 
 
 Steals softly through the night, 
 To wanton with the winding stream, 
 
 And kiss reflected light. 
 To beds of state go balmy sleep 
 
 ('Tis where you've seldom been), 
 May's vigil while the shepherds keep 
 
 With Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Upon the green the virgins wait. 
 
 In rosy chaplcts gay, 
 Till morn unb.irs her golden gate, 
 
 And gives the promised May. 
 
 Methinks I hear the maids declare. 
 The pronnsed May, when seen, 
 
 Not hall so fragrant, hall so fair, 
 As Kate ol Aberdeen. 
 
 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes. 
 
 We II rouse the nodduig grove; 
 The nested birds chall raise their firoats. 
 
 And hail the maid I love. 
 And see — the matip lark mistakes, 
 
 I le ciuits the tuP.ecl green : 
 Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 
 
 'Tis Kate ol Aberdeen. 
 
 Now lightsome o'er the level me.ad. 
 
 Where midnight fairies rove, 
 Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, 
 
 Or tune the reed to love : 
 For see, the rosy May draws nigh ; 
 
 She claims a virgin ciueeii ; 
 And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, 
 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 John Cinningha.m 
 
 MARCH 
 
 'HE stormy March is come at last. 
 
 With wind, and cloud, and c hanging skies 
 I hear the rushing ol the blast 
 '^ That through the snowy valley flies. 
 
 Ah ! passing few are they who speak. 
 Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee : 
 
 Yet, though thy winds are iond and bleak. 
 Thou art a welcome month to me. 
 
 For thou to northern lands .again. 
 The glad and glorious sun dost bnng. 
 
 And thou hast joined the gentle train, 
 And wear'st the gentle name ot Spring. 
 
 And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
 •Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day. 
 
 When the changed winds are soft and warm. 
 And heaven puts on the blue of May. 
 
 Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
 And the full springs, from frost set free. 
 
 That, brightly leaping down the hills. 
 Are just set out to meet the sea. 
 
 The years departing beauty hides 
 Of wintry storms the sullen threat : 
 
 Hut in thy sternest frown abides 
 A look of kindly promise yet. 
 
 Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies 
 And that soft time of sunny showers. 
 
 When the wide bloom, on earth that lies. 
 Seems of a brighter world than ours. 
 
 William Ccllen :1rv.\nt. 
 
IJKAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 115 
 
 THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER 
 MONTHS. 
 
 'HEY come ! the merry summer months of 
 beauty, song and flowers ; 
 They come! the gladsome months that bring 
 ^ thick leafiness to bowers. 
 
 Up, up, my heart! and walli abroad ; (ling cark and 
 
 care aside ; 
 Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters 
 
 glide ; 
 Or, unilerneath the siiadows vast of patriarchal 
 
 tree, 
 Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tran- 
 quility. 
 
 The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the 
 hand ; 
 
 And, lil*e the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet 
 and bland ; 
 
 The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courle- 
 ously ; 
 
 It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and wel- 
 come thee : 
 
 And mark how with thine own thin locks— they now 
 are silvery gray — 
 
 That blissful breeze is w.intoning, and whispering, 
 " Be gay !" 
 
 There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky 
 l)Ut hath its own wing'd mariners to i;ivt- it melody : 
 Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming 
 
 like red gold ; 
 And hark ! with shrill pi'pe musical, their merry cours'j 
 
 they hold 
 
 Still mingle music witli inv dreams, ns in the days gone 
 
 by. 
 When summer's loveliness and ligln f;i!l round nie dark 
 
 and cold, 
 I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse— a heart that hath 
 
 wa.xed old ! 
 
 \VlLI.I.\M .MorUKKWELL. 
 
 Ilj 
 
 APRIL 
 
 HF.N the warm sun, that brin;;s 
 .Seed-time and harvest, li.is returned ag.iin, 
 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where 
 springs 
 The first llower of the jilaiii. 
 
 I love the season well, 
 When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
 Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 
 
 The coming-in of storms. 
 
 From the earth's loosened mould 
 The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : 
 Though stricken to the he.T.rt with winter's cold. 
 
 The drooping tree revives. 
 
 The softly-warbled song 
 Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
 Are glancing in the golden sun, along 
 
 The forest openings. 
 
 And when bright sunset fills 
 The silvery woods with ligiit, the green slope tlu'ows 
 Its shadows in the hollows of the hills. 
 
 And wide the upland glows. 
 
 And when the day is gone, 
 
 God bless them all. those little ones, who. far above '" ^'i^' '''"^- '•''^^■' ^'"'' ^l^V' "'^■'■reachiiig far, 
 
 • ' ' I . t. II .1 . 1 .',,. ... ,i:.-.. I 1.., 
 
 this earth, 
 
 Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler 
 mirth. 
 
 Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed 
 wight like me. 
 
 To smell again these summer flowers beneath this sum- 
 mer tree ! 
 
 To suck once more in every breath their little souls 
 away, 
 
 And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright 
 summer day. 
 
 When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, 
 truant boy 
 
 Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty 
 heart of joy ! 
 
 I'm sadder now — I have had cause ; but O ! I'm proud 
 to tliink 
 
 That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet delight to 
 drink ; — 
 
 Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, un- 
 clouded sky. 
 
 Is hollouvd out, and the moon dips her liorn, 
 And twinkles many a star. 
 
 Inverted in the tide 
 •Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
 And the fair trees look over, side by side. 
 
 And see themselves below. 
 
 Sweet April, many a thought 
 Is wedded unto tiiee, as lu-arts are wed ; 
 Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought. 
 
 Life's golden fruit is shed. 
 
 HeNKV W.VrjSWOKTII LoNGFr.I-LOW. 
 
 n 
 
 THE VERNAL SEASON. 
 
 OW let me sit beneath the whitening thorn. 
 And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the 
 dale ; 
 
 And watch with patient eye 
 Thy fair unfolding charms. 
 
 II 
 
 HI 
 
 I 
 
 il 
 
 ill 
 
 I .; 
 
 O nymph, approach ! while yet the temperate sun 
 With bashful forehead, through the cool moist air 
 
IIG 
 
 CROWN JEWKLS. 
 
 is I 
 
 I 'i 
 
 tli 
 
 ' M 
 
 
 Tlirows his yoiin;^ maiden beams, 
 And with chaste i;issi;s woos 
 
 Tile eartli's fair Ijosoin ; while tlie streaniiiij; veil 
 Of lucid clouds, with kind anil frequent shade, 
 
 Protects thy modest blooms 
 
 From his severer blaze. 
 
 Sweet is thy reisn, but short : the red doR-star 
 Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe 
 
 Tfiy fjreens, thy flowerets all, 
 
 Remorseless shall destroy. 
 
 Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ; 
 For O I not all that autumn's lap contains. 
 
 Nor summer's ruddiest fruits. 
 
 Can aught for thee atone. 
 
 Fair spring? ! whose simplest promise more delights 
 Then all their largest wealth, and through the heart 
 
 Each joy and new-born hope 
 
 With softest influence breathes. 
 
 Anna L. H.vkii,\ulu. 
 
 THE WATER! THE WATER! 
 
 IE water! the water! 
 
 The joyous brook for me. 
 That tuneth through Uie quiet night 
 
 Its ever-living glee. 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 That sleepless, merry heart. 
 Which gurgles on unstintedly, 
 
 And loveth to impart 
 To all around it, some small measure 
 Of its own most perfect pleasure. 
 
 The water I the water ! 
 
 The gentle stream for me. 
 That gushes from the old gray stone 
 
 Beside the alder-tree. 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 That ever-bubbling spring 
 I loved and looked on while a child. 
 
 In deepest wondering — 
 And asked it whence it came and went. 
 And when its treasures would be spent. 
 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 Where I have shed salt tears, 
 In loneliness and friendliness, 
 
 A thing of tender years. 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 Where I have happy been, 
 And showered upon its bosom flowers 
 
 Culled from each meadow green ; 
 And idly hoped my life would be 
 So crowned by love's idolatry. 
 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 My heart yet burns to think 
 How cool thy fountain sparkled forth, 
 
 For parcht-d lip to drink. 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 Of mine own native glen — 
 The gladsome tongue 1 oft have heard, 
 
 Hut ne'er shall hear again. 
 Though fancy fills my ear for aye 
 With sounds that live so far away I 
 
 The water ! the water I 
 
 The mild and gla.ssy wave, 
 Upon whose broomy banks I've longed 
 
 To find my silent grave. 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 O, blest to me thou art! 
 Thus sounding in life's solitude 
 
 The music of my heart. 
 And filling it, despite of .sadness. 
 With dreamings of departed gladness. 
 
 The water I the water ! 
 
 The mournful, pensive tone 
 That whispered to my heart how soon 
 
 This weary life was done. 
 The water ! the water ! 
 
 That rolled so bright and free, 
 And bade me mark how beautiful 
 
 Was its soul's purity ; 
 And how it glanced to heaven its wave. 
 As wandering on, it sought its grave. 
 
 W1LLIA.M Motherwell. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 
 
 The winds that fan the flowers, 
 And with their welcome breathings fill the sail. 
 Tell of serener hours — 
 Of hours that glide nnfelt away 
 Beneath the sky of May. 
 
 The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 
 
 From his blue throne of air, 
 And where his whispering voice in music falls. 
 Beauty is budding there ; 
 The bright ones of the valley break 
 Their slumbers, and awake. 
 
 The waving verdure rolls along the plain. 
 
 And the wide forest weaves. 
 To welcome back its playful mates again, 
 A canopy of leaves , 
 And from its darkening shadows floats 
 A gush of trembling notes. 
 
 Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; 
 
 The tresses of the woods, 
 With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; 
 And the full-brimming floods. 
 As gladly to their goal they run. 
 Hail the returning sun. 
 
 James G. Percival. 
 
BEAUTIKS OF NATURK. 
 
 117 
 
 f 
 
 THE SUMMER. 
 
 N all places, then, and in all seasons, 
 
 Flowersexpandthelrlight and soul like wings, 
 Teacliiiig us, by liie most persuasive reasons, 
 
 Mow akin they are to human things. 
 And with childlike, credulous aflection. 
 We behold their tender buds expand, 
 Emblems of our own great resurrection. 
 Emblems of the bright and better land. 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 m: 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT WIND. 
 
 OURNFULLY! O, mournfully 
 This midnight wind doth sigh, 
 ike some sweet, plaintive melody 
 Of ages long gone by I 
 It speaks a tale of other years, 
 
 Of hopes that bloomed to die, 
 Of sunny smiles that set in tears, 
 And loves that mouldering lie ! 
 
 Mournfully ! O, mournfully 
 
 This midnight wind doth moan ! 
 It stirs some chord of memory 
 
 In each dull, heavy tone ; 
 The voices of the much-loved dead 
 
 Seem floating thereupon — 
 All, all my fond heart cherished 
 
 Ere death had made it lone. 
 
 Mournfully ! O, mournfully 
 
 This midnight wind doth swell 
 With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy — 
 
 Hope's passionate farewell 
 To the dreamy joys of early years. 
 
 Ere yet griefs canker fell 
 On the heart's bloom — ay ! well may tears 
 
 Start at that parting knell ! 
 
 William Motherwell. 
 
 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 ^EAUTIFUL flowers ! to me je fresher seem 
 From the Almighty hand that fashioned all, 
 Than those that flourish by a garden-wall ; 
 And I can image you as in a dream, 
 Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful gems ! that on the brow of earth 
 
 Are tixed, as in a queenly diadem ; 
 
 Though lowly ye, and most without a name. 
 Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth. 
 
 As light erewhile into the world came : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow ! 
 The wild red rose — the speedwell's peeping eyes — 
 Our own bluebell — the daisy, that doth rise 
 
 Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow ; 
 And thous.inds more, of blessed fnrms and dyes : — 
 
 I l.nvyeall! 
 
 Heautiful nurslings of the early dev! 
 l''anned in your lovi'liness, i)y evL-ry bree/e. 
 And shaded o'er by green and arching trees ; 
 
 I often wish that I were one of you, 
 Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas : — 
 
 I love ye all 1 
 
 Beautiful watchers I day and night ye wake I 
 The evening star grows dim anil lades aw;(y, 
 And morning conn s and goes, and tlieii tlie day 
 
 Within the arms of night its rest dotii take ; 
 Hut ye are watchful wheresoe'er we stray : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Beautiful objects of the wild-i)ee"s love ! 
 The wild-bird joys your o|)ening bloom to see, 
 And in your native woods anil wilds to be. 
 
 All hearts, to nature true, ye strangely move ; 
 Ye are so passing fair — so passing free : — 
 
 I love ye all ! 
 
 Reanliful children of the glen and dell — 
 Tiie dingle deep— the moorland stretching wide, 
 And of the mossy mountain's sedgy side ! 
 
 Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell ; 
 And, though the worldling, scorning, may deride .■ 
 
 I love ye all 1 
 
 RODERT NiCOLL. 
 
 1 
 
 'I 
 
 ©' 
 
 TO THE DANDELION. 
 
 EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the 
 way. 
 Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold. 
 First pledge of blithesome May, 
 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 
 Of heaven, and could som^ 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. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 II! 
 
 li 
 
 jMI 
 
113 
 
 CROWN Ji:WKLS. 
 
 :; IK 
 
 THE IVY GREEN. 
 
 1 1! a dainty plant is t!ic ivy Rreen, 
 Tiiat treepeth o'er ruins old ! 
 On rigiit choice food are liis meals, I ween, 
 In his cell so lone and cold. 
 Tlie wall must be crumbled, the stone decayeil, 
 
 To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
 And the mouldering dust that years have made, 
 Is a merry meal for him. 
 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant i;; the ivy green. 
 
 Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings. 
 
 And a staimch old heart has he ; 
 How closely he twineth, how tlosi- he clings, 
 
 To his friend the huge oak tree ! 
 Anil slily he trailcth along the ground, 
 
 And his leaves he gently waves, 
 As he joyously hugs and crawleth round 
 
 The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
 Creeping where grim deatli has bten, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
 Whole ages have lied, and their works decayed, 
 
 And nations have scattered been ; 
 But llie stout old ivy shall never f.ide 
 
 I'rom its hale and hearty green. 
 The brave old plant in its lonely days 
 
 Shall fatten on the past ; 
 For the statliest building man can raise 
 Is the ivy's food at last. 
 
 Creeping on where time has been, 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green ! 
 
 CiiAKLEs Dickens. 
 
 T 
 
 TO A DAISY. 
 
 HERIC is a flower, a litUe flower 
 With silver crest and golden eye. 
 That welcoines every changing hour. 
 And weathers every sky. 
 
 The prouder beauties of the field. 
 In gay but quick succession shine ; 
 Race after race their honors yield. 
 They flourish and decline. 
 
 But this small flower, to nature dear, 
 While moons and stars their courses run, 
 Enwreathes the circle of the year. 
 Companion of the sun. 
 
 The purple heath and golden broom, 
 On moory mountains catch the ;;ale ; 
 O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume. 
 The violet in the vale. 
 
 But this bold flo\^eret climbs the hill. 
 Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
 Plays on the margin of Uie rill. 
 Peeps round the fo.x's den. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Within the garilen's cultured round 
 It sharis the swei't <'arnation's bed ; 
 And blooms on consecrated ground 
 In honor of the dead. 
 
 The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
 TIu' wikl bee murnnirs on its breast , 
 The bl'ie-tly bends its pi'usiie stem. 
 Light o'er the skylark's n^jst. 
 
 'Tis Flora's page— in every place, 
 In every season, fresh and fair; 
 It opens with perennial grace. 
 And blo.ssoms everywhere. 
 
 On waste and woodland, rock and plain. 
 Its liumliK- buds imheeded rise ; 
 The rosj has but a summer reign ; 
 The daisy never dies ! 
 
 Jamks Montc;o.mekv. 
 
 THE CHANGING WORLD, 
 
 WRITTKN Willi. K A PRISONIiR IN I'.Nia.AND. 
 
 HE time hath laid his mantle by 
 
 Of wi.id and rain and icy chill. 
 And dons a rich embroidery 
 
 Of su:ilight poured on lake and hill. 
 No beast or bird in earth or sky, 
 
 Whose voice doth not with gladne.ss thrill, 
 l''or time hath laid his mantle by 
 
 Of winil and rain and icy chill. 
 
 River and fountain, brook and rill. 
 Bespangled o'er with livery gay 
 Of silver droplets, wind their way. 
 All in their new apparel vie, 
 For time hath laid his mantle by. 
 
 Charles ok Oklkans. 
 
 ON A SPRIG OF HEATH 
 
 LOWER of the waste ! the heath fowl shuns 
 l''or thee the brake and tanglod wood- 
 To thy protecting shade she runs, 
 Thy tender buds supply her food ; 
 Her young forsake her downy plumes. 
 To rest upon thy opening blooms. 
 
 Flower of the desert though thou art ! 
 
 The deer that range the mountam free, 
 The graceful doe, the stately hart. 
 
 Their food and shelter seek from thee ; 
 The bee thy earliest blossom greets. 
 And draws from thee her choicest sweets. 
 
 Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom 
 Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor ; 
 
 Though thou dispense no rich perfume, 
 Nor yet with splendid tints allure, 
 
 Both valor's crest and beauty's bower 
 
 Oft has thou decked, a favorite flower. 
 
DKAUTIKS OK NATURi:. 
 
 110 
 
 I'Idwct oftlic wild ! whosj purple >;low 
 AiIuniH lliu ilusky inotiiitain's sido, 
 
 Not th(j gay hue:; of Iris' 1k)\v, 
 Nor jjardcn':! artful vari.-d pridv, 
 
 Willi all its wealth of swjrls lould cheer, 
 
 Like thee, the iiardy mountaineer. 
 
 I'Mower of his heart ! thy fra;;ran<e mild 
 (^f peace and freedimi seem t>> hrealhe; 
 
 To pluck thy hlossimis in the wild, 
 And deck his hoiniet with the wreath, 
 
 Where tlwelt of old hirt rustic sires. 
 
 Is all his simple wish re(|uireH. 
 
 l''lower of his doar-loved native land ! 
 
 Alas, when distant far more dear ! 
 When he from some cold foreign strand, 
 
 Looks homeward through the hlinding tear, 
 How must his aching heart deplore, 
 That home and Ihec he sees no more ! 
 
 Marian CiRANr. 
 
 Itj 
 
 WILLOW SONG. 
 
 ILLOW ! in thy breezy moan 
 1 can hear a deeper tone ; 
 Through thy leaves come whispering low- 
 Faint sweet sounds of long ago— 
 
 Willow, sighing willow ! 
 
 Many a mournful tale of old 
 Heart-sick love to thee hath tt)ld 
 Gathering from thy golden bough 
 Leaves to cool his burning brow — 
 
 Willow, sighing willow I 
 
 Many a swan-like song to thee 
 Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ; 
 Many a lute its last lament 
 Down thy moonlight stream hath sent— 
 Willow, sighing willow ! 
 
 Therefore, wave and murmur on. 
 Sigh for sweet affections gone, 
 And for tuneful voices fled, 
 And for love, whose heart hath bled. 
 
 Ever, willow, willow ! 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 THE WANDERING WIND. 
 
 'HE wind, the wandering wind 
 
 Of the golden summer eves — 
 Whence is the thrilling magic 
 
 Of its tones amongst the leaves? 
 Oh ! is it from the waters. 
 
 Or from the long, tall grass? 
 Or is it from the hollow rocks 
 
 Through which its breathings pass? 
 Or is it from the voices 
 
 Of all in one combined. 
 That it wins the tone of mastery ! 
 
 The wind, the wandering wind ! 
 
 No, no! the strangi", sweet accents 
 
 That with it coiiu' and go. 
 They are not from tin: osiers. 
 
 Nor the fir-trees whi-.pering low. 
 
 They are not of the waters, 
 
 Nor of the caverned hill ; 
 'Tis the human love within us 
 
 That gives them power to thrill ; 
 They touch the links of memory 
 
 Around our sjiirits twined, 
 And we start, and weep, and trend)le. 
 
 To the wind, the wandering wind ! 
 
 I'klkia DokuriiKA IIicmans. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 ■^yoW fair is the rose ! that heautifnl flower, 
 |5| TliJ Klory of April and .May ; 
 Jl /" Uiit the leaves are beginning tofaile in an hour, 
 ^ And they wither and die in .i day. 
 
 N'el the rase has one powerful virtue to bo:i.st, 
 
 Al)ove all the (lowers of the field ; 
 When its leaves ;ue all de.id, and its fnie colors lost, 
 
 Still how sweet a perfume it will yield ! 
 
 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men. 
 
 Though they bloom and look gay like tin,' rose ; 
 
 Hut all our fond care to preserve them is vain. 
 Time kills them ;is fast as he goes. 
 
 Then I'll not be proutl of my youth nor my beauty, 
 
 .Since both of them wilher and fade ; 
 Hut gain a good name by well-doing my duty ; 
 
 This will scent like a rose when I'm ckad. 
 
 Isaac Watts. 
 
 10' 
 
 CHORUS OF FLOWERS 
 
 E are the sweet (lowers, 
 
 13orn of .sunny showers, 
 (Think, whene'er you see us, what our 
 beauty saith ;) 
 Utterance mute and bright, 
 Of some unknown delight. 
 We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : 
 All who see us love us — 
 We befit all places ; 
 Unto sorrow we give smiles— and unto graces, graces. 
 
 Who shall say that flowers 
 Dress not heaven's own bt)wers ? 
 Who its love without us, can fancy — or sweet floor? 
 Who shall even dare 
 To say we sprang not there— 
 And came not down, the Lord might bring one piece 
 of heaven the more ? 
 
 O I pray believe that angels 
 From those blue dominions 
 Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their gol- 
 den pinions. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 til! 
 
 n 
 
 I 
 
 mm 
 
120 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ;• i\ 
 
 MAY DAY. 
 
 •HK ilaisies peep from every fiuld. 
 And violets sweet their odor yielil ; 
 And purple blossom paints the tliorn, 
 And streams reflect the bhish of morn, 
 Then lads and lasses all, be gay, 
 For this is nature's holitlay. 
 
 Let lusty labor drop his flai', 
 Nor woodman's hook a tree assail ; 
 The ox shall cease its neck to bi>w, 
 And Clodden yield to rest the plough. 
 
 Behold the lark in ether float, 
 Wliile rapture swells the liquid note ! 
 What warbles lie, with merry cheer .'' 
 " Let love and pleasure rule the year !" 
 
 Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye. 
 And throws a smile around his sky ; 
 Embracing hill, and vale, and stream, 
 And warming nature with his beam. 
 
 The insert tribes in myr.iids pour, 
 Aiul kiss with zejMiyr every flower ; 
 Shall these our icy hearts reprove. 
 And tell us what are foes to love ? 
 Then lads and lasses all, be gay, 
 For this is nature's holiday. 
 
 JOII.N WoLCOT. 
 
 TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 
 
 'HY fruit full wi.ll the schoolboy knows, 
 
 Wild bramble of the bnikf ! 
 So put thou forth thy small white rose ; 
 
 I love it for bis s.iko. 
 Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 
 
 O'er all the fragrant bowers. 
 Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 
 
 Thy satin-threaded (lowers ; 
 For dull the eye, the heart is ilull, 
 
 Tb.'t cannot feel how fair. 
 Amid all beauty beautiful. 
 
 Thy tender blossoms are ! 
 How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 
 
 How rich thy branchy stem f 
 How soft thy voice when woods are still, 
 
 And thou sing'st hymns to them : 
 Wheiisflent showers are falling slow. 
 
 And 'mid the general hush, 
 A swi^c* lir lifts the little hough. 
 
 Lone whispering through the hush ! 
 The primrose to the grave is gone ; 
 
 The liawthorn flower is dead ; 
 The violet by the moss'd grey stone 
 
 Hath laid her weary head ; 
 
 Cut thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 
 
 In all thtir beauteous power, 
 The fresh green days of life's fair spring, 
 
 And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
 Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more 
 
 Thou bidd'st nie be a boy. 
 To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, 
 
 In freedom and in joy. 
 
 Ebenezkr Elliott. 
 
 A DAY IN JUNE. 
 
 ^^^ND what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 f ^^ Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
 
 ^^^ Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays ; 
 Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
 rCvery clod feels a stir of might. 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers 
 .And, groping blindly above it for light. 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
 The flush of light may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
 The cowslip startKs in !.iv adows green. 
 
 The buitercui) catches the sun in its chalice, 
 And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean 
 
 To be some hajipy creature's palace ; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest — 
 In the nice ear of nature, which song is the best ? 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 THE PR!f/IEVAL FOREST. 
 
 HIS is the forest priir.cval. The murmuring 
 pines and hemlocks. 
 Bearded with moss, and in garments green. 
 ^ indistinct in the twilight, 
 
 .Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and pro- 
 phetic. 
 Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their 
 
 bosoms. 
 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep voiced neigh- 
 boring ocean 
 Speaks, .\nd in accents disconsolate answers the wail 
 
 of the forest. 
 This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts 
 
 that beneath it 
 Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland 
 the voice of the huntsman ? 
 
 Henkv Wadswortii Longfeliow. 
 
 S.'';' 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 121 
 
 III 
 
 TO Art EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 ILD oflspriiig of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 WliDse nuxlcst form, so delicately fine, 
 Was nursed in wliirlini; st(jrnis. 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, wiicn youiij; spring first ciuestioned winter's sway 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. 
 Thee on this hank he threw 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the year. 
 Serene, thou openest to die nipping gale. 
 
 Unnoticed and alone. 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought fi)rth amid the storms 
 ( )f chill adversity ; in some lone walk 
 
 Of life she rears her head, 
 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 While every bleaching bree/e that on her blows, 
 
 Cliastens her spt)tless purity of breast, 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life. 
 
 Harry Kirkk Wiiite. 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 'OW withered, peiished seems tlic form 
 Of yt)n obscure unsightly root ! 
 Yet from the blight of wintry storm. 
 It hides secure the precious fruit. 
 
 The careless eye can find no grace. 
 
 No beauty in the scaly folds. 
 Nor see witliin the dark embrace 
 
 What latent loveliness it holds. 
 
 Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales. 
 
 The lily wraps lier silver vest. 
 Till vernal suns and vernal gales 
 
 Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. 
 
 Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap 
 The unilelightiug slighted tiling ; 
 
 There in the cold earth buried ileep. 
 In silence let it w.iit the spring. 
 
 Oh ! many a stormy night .shall close 
 In gloom upon the barren earth. 
 
 While still, in undisturbed repose, 
 L-ninjured lies the future biith. 
 
 Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear ! 
 
 The sun, the shower indeeil shall come, 
 Tlie promised verdant shoot appear. 
 
 And nature biil her blossoms bloom. 
 
 And thou, O virgin queen of spring ! 
 
 Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, 
 Bursting thy green sheath's silken string. 
 
 Unveil thy charms and perfume shed ; 
 
 Unfold thy robes of purest white. 
 
 Unsullied from their darksome grave. 
 
 And tliy soft petals' silvery liglil 
 In the mild breeze unfettered wave. 
 
 So faith shall seek the lowly dust 
 Where humble st)rrow loves to lie. 
 
 And bid her thus her hopes iiurust, 
 And watch with patient, cheerkil eye ; 
 
 And bear the long, cold wintry night. 
 And bear her own degraded doom ; 
 
 And wait till heaven's reviving light. 
 Eternal spring ! shall burst tiie gloom. 
 
 Mary Tu.iik. 
 
 o 
 
 THE BRAVE OLD OAK. 
 
 SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, 
 
 Who hath ruled in the greenwood long ; 
 Here's health and renown to his broad green 
 crown. 
 And his fifty arms so strong. 
 There's fear in his frown wiien the sun goes down, 
 
 And the fire in the west fades out ; 
 And he siioweth his might on a wild midnight. 
 When the storms through his branches shout. 
 
 Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, 
 
 Who stands in his pride alone ; 
 And still flourish he, a hale green tree, 
 
 When a hundred years are gone ! 
 
 In the days of old, when the spring with cold 
 
 Had brightened his branches gray, 
 Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, 
 
 To gather the dew of May. 
 And on that day to the rebeck gay 
 
 They frolicked with lovesome swains ; 
 They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid. 
 
 But the tree it still remains. 
 
 He saw the rare times when the Christm.is chimes 
 
 Were a merry sound to hear. 
 When the stpiire's wide hill and the cottage small 
 
 Were tilled with good English cheer. 
 Now gold hath the sway we all obey. 
 
 And a ruthless king is he ; 
 But he never shall send our ancient friend 
 
 To be tossed on the stormy sea. 
 
 Henry Fotherc.ii.l Chorlev. 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
 
 The sweet birds every one. 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 
 'I i^' 
 
 i ! 
 
 mm 
 
 T:!l' 
 
 • ; [li I 
 
 u 
 
 ■I j 
 
 11! 
 
122 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 I wield the flail uf the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under ; 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
 
 And their gr(jat pines grown aghast ; 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 
 
 Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits ; 
 Over earth and oc.an, with gentle motion, 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 
 
 The spirit he loves, remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack 
 
 When the morning star shines dead. 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
 An eagle alit, one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings ; 
 And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea be 
 neath, 
 
 Its ardors of rest and of love, 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above. 
 With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon. 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 
 
 Which only the angels hear. 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees, 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
 
 Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and thee. 
 
 I bind the sun's throng with a burning zone. 
 And the moon's widi a girdle of pearl ; 
 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 
 Over a torrent sea, 
 
 Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I march, 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
 When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. 
 
 Is the million-colored bow ; 
 The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove, 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of the earth and water. 
 
 And the nursling of the sky ; 
 I [lass through the pores of the ocean and shores • 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
 And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex 
 gleams. 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain. 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
 tomb, 
 
 I rise and upbuild it again. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shellev. 
 
 COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE. 
 
 V^j/ 
 
 OME to these scenes of peace. 
 Where, to rivers murmuring. 
 The sweet birds all the summer sing. 
 Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease 
 Stranger, does thy heart deplore 
 Friends whom thou wilt see no more ? 
 Does thy wounded spirit prove 
 Pangs of hopeless severed love? 
 Thee, the stream that gushes clear — 
 Thee, the birds that carol near 
 Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie 
 And dream of their wild lullaby ; 
 Come to bless thtse scenes of peace. 
 Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease. 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 (g) 
 
 SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. 
 
 OWN the glen, across the mountain. 
 O'er the yellow heath we roam, 
 Whirling round about the fountain, 
 Till its little breakers foam. 
 
 Bending down the weeping willows. 
 While our vesper hynui we sigh ; 
 
 Then unto our rosy pillows 
 On our weary wings we hie. 
 
 There of idlenesses dreaming, 
 .Scarce from waking we refrain. 
 
 Moments long as ages deeming 
 Till we're at our play again. 
 
 Geokce Daklev. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE 
 
 123 
 
 DAFFODILS. 
 
 WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 When all at once I saw a crowd — 
 
 A host of golden dalTcxlils 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars tiiat siiine 
 
 And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I, at a glance. 
 Tossing their heads in sjirightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 
 
 A poet could not but be gay 
 In such a jocund company ; 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little iliought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought. 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie, 
 
 In vacant or in pensive mood. 
 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
 
 And dances with the dalTodils. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 
 
 HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 AY-STARS ! that ope your eyes with morn to 
 twinkle 
 From rainbow gala.xies of eartli's creation, 
 And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
 As a libation ! 
 
 Y'j matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 
 
 Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye — 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high ! 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth 
 
 And tolls its perfume on tiie passing air. 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer. 
 
 Not to the domes where crumbling arch and colunm 
 
 Attest the feeblene.ss of mortal hand, 
 iUit to that fane, most catholic and solemn. 
 
 Which God hath planned , 
 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
 
 Whose quenchless iam|)s the sun and moon supply — 
 its choir the winds and waves, its organ tluuKLr, 
 Its dome tliJ sl<y. 
 
 There— as in solitude and shade I wander 
 
 Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 
 The ways of God — 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, 
 
 Each cu]) a pul|)it, and each leaf a book. 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
 
 I'rom loneliest nook. 
 
 Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 
 
 " Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," 
 O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 Your lore sublime ! 
 
 "Thuu wert not, Solomon I in all thy glory. 
 
 Arrayed,"' the lilies cry, " in robes like ours ; 
 How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory 
 
 Are human flowers !" 
 
 In the sweet-scenteil pictures, heavenly artist ! 
 
 With which tiiou paintest nature's wide-spread hall. 
 What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 Of love to all. 
 
 Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure ; 
 
 Hlooming o'er field and wave, by day and night. 
 From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
 
 For such a world of thought could furnish scope? 
 Each fading caly.x a memento tnori, 
 
 Yet fount of hope. 
 
 Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 
 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth. 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection. 
 
 And second birth. 
 
 Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining. 
 
 Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
 iSIy soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, 
 
 Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
 Horace S.mitii. 
 
 AMERICAN SKIES. 
 
 'HE sunny Italy may boast 
 
 The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
 And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 
 "f May thy blue pillars rise : — 
 
 I only know how fair they stand 
 About my own beloved land. 
 
 And they are fair : a charm is theirs. 
 That earth— the proud, green earth — has not, 
 
 With all the hues, and forms, and airs, 
 That haunt her sweetest spot. 
 
 We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, 
 
 And read of heaven's eternal year. 
 
 Oh ! when, amid the throng of men. 
 The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 
 
 How willingly we turn us then, 
 Away from this cold earth. 
 
 And look into thy azure breast. 
 
 For seats of innocence and rest. 
 
 William Cullkn Drvant. 
 
 .,;3i 
 
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 I'.JiS 
 
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 'Vi 
 
 Hi ! 
 
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 124 
 
 CROWN JEWELS • 
 
 FLOWERS— THE GEMS OF NATURE. 
 
 , EMS of the changing autumn, how beautiful ye 
 art! ! 
 Shining from your glossy stems like many a 
 golden star ; 
 
 Peeping through tlie long grass, smiling on the down. 
 Lighting up the dusky bank, just where the sun goes 
 
 down ; 
 Yellow flowers of autunm, how beautiful ye are ! 
 Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden. 
 
 Thomas CAMPUiiLL. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ENGLISH SCENERY. 
 
 •AUNTS of my youth! 
 
 Scenes of fund day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! 
 
 Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern 
 slopes. 
 
 To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 
 By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore 
 Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb, 
 There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun ; 
 And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf. 
 To look beneath upon the hollow way, 
 While heavily upward moved the laboring wain, 
 And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind, 
 To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone 
 The grating wheel. 
 
 Advancing Iiigher still, 
 The prospect widens, ar•^ the village church 
 But little o'er the lofty roofs around 
 Rears its gray belfry and its simple vnne ; 
 Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed 
 By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring ; 
 When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom 
 Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
 For even those orchards round the Norman farms. 
 Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit, 
 Console them, for the vineyards of the South 
 Surpass not these. 
 
 Where woods of ash and beech, 
 And partial copses fringe the green hill foot. 
 The upland shejiherd rears his modest home ; 
 There wanders by a little nameless stream 
 That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear. 
 Or after rain with chalky mi.xture tjray, 
 Butstill refreshing in its shallow course 
 The cottage garden ; most for use designed. 
 Yet not of beauy destitute. The vine 
 Mantles the little casement , yet the briar 
 Droi)s fragrant dew among the July flowers ; 
 And pansier rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks. 
 Grow among balm and rosemary and rue; 
 There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow 
 Almost uncultured ; some with dark green leaves 
 Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white, 
 Others like velvet robes of regal state 
 
 Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss 
 Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear 
 The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. 
 With fond regret I recollect e'en now 
 In spring and summer, what delight I felt 
 Among these cottage gardens, and how much 
 Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 
 By village housewife or her ruddy maid. 
 Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleased. 
 An early worshipper at nature's shrine, 
 I loved her rudest scenes— warrens, and heaths, 
 And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, 
 And hedgerows. bordering unfrequented lanes, 
 Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine. 
 
 Charlotte S.mith. 
 
 THE GRAPE-VINE SWING. 
 
 ITHE and long as the serpent train, 
 
 Springing and clinging from tree to tree. 
 Now dartnig upward, now down again, 
 With a twist and a twirl that are strange to 
 see ; 
 Never took serpent a deadlier hold. 
 Never the cougar a wilder spring, 
 Strangliug the oak with the boa's fold. 
 Spanning the beach with the condor's wing. 
 
 Yet no foe that we fear to seek — 
 
 The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace ; 
 Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek 
 
 As ever on lover's breast found place; 
 On thy waving train is a playful hold 
 
 Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade ; 
 While a tnaidcn sits in thy drooping fold, 
 
 And swings and sings in the noonday shade I 
 
 giant strange of our southern woods ! 
 
 1 dream of tiiee still in the well-known spot. 
 Though our vessel strains o'er tlie ocean floods, 
 And the northern forest beholds thee not ; 
 
 1 think of thee still with a sweet regret. 
 
 As the cordage yields to my playful grasp- 
 Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? 
 Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp? 
 
 WILLIA.M GiLMOKE SlMMS. 
 
 01 
 
 MY HEART LEAPS UP. 
 
 Y heart leaps up when I behold 
 A rainbow in the sky . 
 So was it when my life began, 
 So is it now I am a man. 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The child is father of the man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 125 
 
 THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 
 
 'HE Rarlands fade that spring so lately wove ; 
 Each simple flower, whicli she had nursed 
 in dew, 
 
 "^ Anemonics that spangled every grove, 
 
 The primrose wan, and harehtll mildly blue. 
 No more shall violets linger in the dell, 
 
 Or purple orchis variegate the plain, 
 Till spring again shall call forth every bell, 
 
 And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. 
 Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair 
 
 Are the fond visions of thy early day, 
 Till tyrant passion and corrosive rare 
 
 Bid all thy fairy colors fade away ! 
 Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; 
 Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? 
 
 Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, 
 
 Rest for a moment of the sultry hours. 
 And, though his path through thorns and roughness 
 lay. 
 
 Pluck the wild roSeor woodbine's gadding flowers ; 
 Weaving gay wreaths beneath some slieltering tree, 
 
 The sense of sorrow he a while may lose ; 
 So have I sought thy flowers, fair poesy ! 
 
 .So charmed my way with friendship and the muse. 
 But darker now grows life's unhappy &,\y, 
 
 Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come ; 
 Her pencil sickening fancy throws away, 
 
 And weary hope reclines upon the tomb. 
 And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, 
 U'iiere the pale spectre care pursues no more ! 
 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 THE WOOD-NYMPH. 
 
 Y'^HY should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen, 
 * 1 Lament that here, in this half desert scene. 
 
 IS 
 
 My lot is placed ? 
 At least the poet-winds are bold and loud — 
 At least the sunset glorifies the cloud, 
 And forests old and proud 
 Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste. 
 
 Nature, though wild her forms, sustains me still ; 
 The fo-mts are musical — the barren hill 
 
 Glows with strange lights ; 
 Through solemn pine-groves the small rivulets fleet 
 Sparkling, as if a nai.id's si'very feet, 
 
 In quick and ccy retreat. 
 Glanced through the star-beams on calm summer 
 ni.i;hts ; 
 
 .^nd the great sky, the royal heaven above, 
 Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love ; 
 
 While far remote. 
 Just where the .sunlight smites the woods with fire, 
 Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir, 
 
 Tlieir innocent love's desire 
 Poured in a rill of song from each harmonious throat. 
 
 NATURE'S CHAIN. 
 
 > OOK round our world ; behold the chain of love 
 Combining all below antl all above, 
 See ]>lastic nature working to this cr.d, 
 The single atoms each to other tend, 
 Attract, attracted to, the next in place. 
 Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. 
 .See matter next, with various life endued, 
 Press to one centre still, the general good. 
 See dying vegetables life sustain, 
 .See life dissolving vegetate again : 
 All forms th.1t perish other forms supply, 
 (By turns we catch the vital breath, antl die) ; 
 Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, 
 They rise, they break, and to that sea return. 
 Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to w-bole ; 
 One all extending, all-preserving soul 
 Connects each being, greatest with the least ; 
 Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast ; 
 All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; 
 The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown. 
 
 AUKXANDER PoPli. 
 
 THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. 
 
 'HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
 Why takest tliou its melancholy voice? 
 Wliy with that boding cry 
 f O'er the waves dost thou fly .' 
 
 (), rather, bird, with me 
 
 Through the fair land rejoice ! 
 
 Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
 Where tiie complaining sea shall s.idness bring 
 Thy spirit nevermore. 
 Come, ([uit with me the shore, 
 For gladness and the light, 
 Where birds of summer sing. 
 
 RicHAKi) Henrv Dana. 
 
 G 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 OME summer visitant, attach 
 
 To my reeit-roof thy nest of clay, 
 And let my ear thy music catch. 
 Low twittering underneath the thatch. 
 At the gray dawn of day. 
 
 As fables tell, an Indian sage. 
 
 The Hindustani woods among. 
 Could in his desert hermitage, 
 As if 't were marked in written page, 
 
 Translate the wild bird's song. 
 
 I wish I did his power possess. 
 
 That I might learn, flett bird, from thee, 
 What our vain systems only guess, 
 And know from what wild wilderness 
 
 Thou camest o'er the sea.' 
 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
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 126 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ROBERT OF LINCOLN 
 
 ffl 
 
 ERRILY swinging on brier nnd weed, 
 Near to the nest of iiis litilu dame, 
 Over the mountain-sivle or nieatl, 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : 
 nol)-o'-Iink, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
 Hidden among the summer flowers. 
 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 
 
 Wearing a briglit black wedding coat ; 
 White are his slioulders and wiiile his crest, 
 Hear Iiim call in his merry note : 
 Bob o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
 Sure there never was a bird so fine. 
 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife. 
 
 Pretty and quiet, wiUi plain brown wings, 
 Passing at home a patient life, 
 Broods in the grass while her husband sings ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Brood, kind creature; you need not fear 
 Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Modest and shy as a nun is she, 
 
 One weak chirp is her only note, 
 Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
 Pouring boasts from his little throat : 
 Bob o'-link, bob o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink, 
 Never was I afraid of man ; 
 Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you cm. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 
 
 Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
 There as the mother sits all day, 
 Robert is singing with all his might : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Nice good wife, that never goes out. 
 Keeping house with a frolic about. 
 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
 
 .Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
 Robert of Lincoln btbtirs him well, 
 Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 
 Bob o'-link, bobo'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 This new life is likely to be 
 Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
 
 Sober with work, and siltnt with care 
 OfT is his holiday garment laid, 
 Half forgotten that merry air, 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink : 
 Nobody knows but my mate and I 
 Where our nest and nestlings lie. 
 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 
 
 l'"un and frolic no more he knows ; 
 Robt-rt of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 
 Off he Hies, and we sing as he goes ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
 Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
 
 Wii.i-iAM CuLLEN Bryant. 
 
 llJ 
 
 e 
 
 MAY TO APRIL 
 
 ITHOUT your showers 
 I breed no flowers ; 
 Each field a barren waste appears ; 
 If you don't weep. 
 My blossoms sleep. 
 They take such pleasure in your tears. 
 
 I'niLii' Frenau. 
 
 SONG OF WOOD-NYMPHS. 
 
 OME here, come here, and dwell 
 
 In forest deep ! 
 
 Come here, come here, and tell 
 
 Why thou dost weep ! 
 Is it for love (sweet pain I) 
 That thus thou dar'st complain 
 Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, 
 Where nought else grieves ? 
 
 Come here, come here, and lie 
 
 By whispering stream ! 
 
 Here no one dares to die 
 
 For love's sweet dream ; 
 
 But health all seek, and joy. 
 
 And shun perverse annoy, 
 
 And race along green paths till close of day. 
 
 And laugh — alway ! 
 
 Or else, through half the year, 
 On rushy floor, 
 We lie by waters clear. 
 While sky larks pour 
 Their songs into the sun ! 
 And when bright day is done, 
 We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding com. 
 And dream — till morn I 
 Bryan Waller Proctor {Barry Cornwall). 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 127 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 © 
 
 ^O you nsk wh.nt the birds s.ay? The sparrow, 
 the (love, 
 The linnet, and thrnsli say, " I love, and I 
 love ! " 
 In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong ; 
 What it s.iys I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
 But green leaves, and blossorn, and sunny warm 
 
 weather, 
 And singing and loving — all come back together. 
 F'ut the lark is .so brimful of gladness and love, 
 The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
 Tiiat he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, 
 " I love my love, and my love loves me." 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 ^pi,AYEST songster of the spring! 
 I'®! '^^^ melodies before me bring 
 \^ Visions of some dream-built land. 
 Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 
 I might walk the livelong day. 
 Embosomed in perpetual May. 
 Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows. 
 For thee a tempest never blows ; 
 But when our northern summer's o'er, 
 By Delaware or Schuylkill's shore 
 The wild rice lifts its airy head. 
 And royal feasts for thee are spread. 
 And when the winter threatens tJiere, 
 Thy tireless wings yet own no fear, 
 But bear thee to more southern coasts, 
 Far beyond the reach of frosts. 
 Bobolink! still may thy gladness 
 Take from me all taints of sadness ! 
 
 Thomas Hill. 
 
 
 
 THE KATYDID. 
 
 LOVE to hear thine earnest voice. 
 
 Wherever tiiou art hid, 
 Tiiou testy little dogmatist, 
 
 Thou i>retty Katydid ! 
 Thou mindest me of gentlefolks — 
 
 Old gentlefolks are they — 
 Thou sayest an undisputed thing 
 
 In such a solemn w ay. 
 
 Thou art a female. Katydid ! 
 
 I know it by the trill 
 That quivers through thy piercing notes, 
 
 So petulent and shrill. 
 I think there is a knot of you 
 
 Beneath the hollow tree— 
 A knot of spinster Katydids — 
 
 Do Katydids drink tea ? 
 
 O, tell mo where did Katy live. 
 And what did Katy do ? 
 
 And was she very fair and young. 
 
 And yet so wicked too ? 
 Did Katy love a naughty man. 
 
 Or kiss more cheeks than one ? 
 I warrant Katy did no more 
 
 Than many a K.ite has done. 
 
 Oliver We.ndell Holmes. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 WEET poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 
 Farewell soil minstrel of the early year ! 
 Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 
 And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. 
 Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, 
 
 Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 
 The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, 
 And still protect the song she loves so well. 
 With cautious step the love lorn youth shall glide 
 
 Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; 
 And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide 
 
 The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
 For still thy voice shall soft afijctions move. 
 And still be dear to sorrow and to love ! 
 
 Charlotte .Smith. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 HILD of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight. 
 Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light, 
 And where the flowers of paradise unfold. 
 Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold : 
 
 There siiall thy wings, rich as an evening sky. 
 
 Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ; 
 
 Yet wert thou once a womi — a thing that crept 
 
 On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. 
 
 And such is man ! — soon from his cell of clay 
 
 To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. 
 
 Sa.mvel Rogers. 
 
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 THE REDBREAST 
 
 HEN that the fields put on their gay attire. 
 Thou silent sittest near brake or river's brim, 
 .Miilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert 
 dim ; 
 But when pale winter lights the social fire. 
 And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire. 
 Thou charmest us with thy soft and solemn hymn. 
 From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim ; 
 
 And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire, 
 Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch 
 
 The pittance due to thy well-warbled song : 
 Sweet bird, sing on I for oft near lonely hatch, 
 
 Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, 
 And oft for entrance 'neath the peaceful thatch. 
 Full many a tale have told and ditty long. 
 
 John Bampfvlde. 
 
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 128 CROWN JEWELS. " 
 
 THE SKYLARK. NIGHT BIRDS. 
 
 |IRD of the wilderness, 
 
 Hlithfsoine and cumberless, 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
 
 Embli m of happiness, 
 niest is thy dwelling-place — 
 O to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 Wild is thy lay and loud. 
 Far in the downy cloud. 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth ; 
 Where, on thy dewy wing, 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 
 
 O'er fell and fountain sheen, 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green, 
 O'er tiie red streamer that heralds the day, 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim. 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim. 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes. 
 
 Low in the heather blooms, 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness, 
 
 ]51est is thy dwelling-place — 
 O to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 James Hogg. 
 
 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 HLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 
 I hear thee and rejoice : 
 O cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
 Or but a wandering voice ? 
 
 Wiiile I am lying on the grass 
 Tiiy twofold shout I hear ; 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
 At once far off and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the vale 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the spi 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 No bird, but an invisible thing 
 A voice, a mystery. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still longed for, never seen ! 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 William Wardsworth. 
 
 'IGH overliead the stripe-winged nightkavvk 
 soars, 
 With loud responses to his distant love ; 
 And while the air fur insects he e.xplores. 
 In frequent swoop descending from above. 
 Startles, with whizzing sound, the fearful wight, 
 Who wanders lonely in the silent night. 
 
 Around our heads tlie bat, on leathern wings, 
 111 airy circles wheels his sudden flight ; 
 
 Tlie whippoorwill, in distant forest, sings 
 I ler loud, unvaried sung ; and o'er the night 
 
 The boding owl, upon the evening gale, 
 
 Sends forth her wild and melancholy wail. 
 
 The first sweet hour of gentle evening flies, 
 
 On downy pinions to eternal rest ; 
 Along the vale the balmy breezes rise, 
 
 I'anning the languid boiiglis ; while in the west 
 The last faint streaks of daylight die away. 
 And night and silence close the summer day. 
 
 Alon/.o Lewis. 
 
 THE MOCKING BIRD CALLING HER MATE, 
 
 throat ! O trembling throat ! 
 Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! 
 Pierce the woods, the earth ; 
 Somewhere listening to catch you, must be 
 the one I want. 
 
 Shake out, carols ! 
 Solitary here— the night's carols ! 
 Carols of lonesome love ! 1 )eath's carols ! 
 Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon ! 
 O, under that moon, where she droops almost down 
 
 into the sea ! 
 O reckless, despairing carols ! 
 
 But soft ! sink low ; 
 .Soft ! let me just murmur ; 
 
 And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea ; 
 I'or somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding 
 
 to me. 
 So faint— I must be still, be still to listen ; 
 Cut not altogether still, for then she might not cohk 
 
 immediately to me. 
 
 Hither, my love ! 
 Here I am ! Here! 
 
 With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you 
 This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. 
 
 Do not be decoyed elsewhere ! 
 That is the whistle of the wind— it is not my vcice; 
 That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray ; 
 Those are the shadows of leaves. 
 
 O darkness ! O in vain ! 
 
 O, I am very sick and sorrowful. 
 
 Walt Whitman. 
 
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, BKAUTIKS OF NATURE. 
 
 189 
 
 h 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL 
 
 'HK lark hIiiks for joy in her own loved land, 
 In the furrowed fuld, by the breezes fanned j 
 And so revtl we 
 In the furrowed sea, 
 As joyous nnd glad as the lark can be. 
 
 On the placid breast of the inland lake 
 The wild duck delights litr pastime to take; 
 
 But the petrel bravt-s 
 
 The wild ocean waves, 
 His wing in the foaming billow he laves. 
 
 The halcyon loves in the noontide beam 
 To follow his sport on the tranciuil stream ; 
 
 He fishes at ease 
 
 In the sunmier breeze, 
 iUit we go angling in stormiest seas. 
 
 No song-note have we but a piping cry, 
 
 That blends with the storm when tiie wind is high. 
 
 When the land-birds wail 
 
 We sport in the gale, 
 Andmerrily over the ocean we sail. 
 
 THE THRUSH'S NEST. 
 
 Yl^ITHIN a tliick and spreading hawthorn bush 
 1^1 That overhung a molehill large and 
 \AJ round, 
 
 I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 
 
 Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound 
 With joy — and oft an unintruding guest, 
 
 I watched her secret toils from day to day ; 
 How true she wraped the moss to form her nest, 
 
 And modelled it within with wood and clay. 
 
 And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, 
 Tliere lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, 
 
 Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue; 
 And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, 
 
 A lirood of nature's minstiels chirp and fly. 
 
 Glad as tlie sunshine and the laughing sky. 
 
 John Clare. 
 
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 TO A WATERFOWL 
 
 HITHER, 'midst falling dew. 
 While glow the heavens wiih the last steps 
 
 of day, 
 
 Far, through the rosy depths, dost thou 
 pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way. 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 As, darsly painted on the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 (9) 
 
 Seekest thou the ptasiiy brink 
 Of wredy lake, <>r ni.irno of river wiilc, 
 Or where the nx-kiiij; hi. lows rise iind sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side ( 
 
 There is a Pi>wer, whose care 
 Teaches the way along tb.i( pathless coast- 
 The desert and illimitable air — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned. 
 At that far height, the cold, lliin alniosphere ; 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 
 
 Though the dark niitjlit is near. 
 
 Ami soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a sunnner home, and rest 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend 
 
 Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on niy heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He, who, froP'. zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 William Culle.n Bryant. 
 
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 THE BARN OWL 
 
 HILE moonlight, silvering all the walls, 
 Through every opening crevice f.dls. 
 Tipping with white his powdery i)lume, 
 As shades or shifts the changing glo(jm ; 
 The owl that, watching in the barn, 
 
 Sees the mouse creeping in the corn. 
 Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes 
 As if he slept — until he spies 
 The little beast within his stretch — 
 Then starts, and seizes on the wretch ! 
 
 Samuel Butler. 
 
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 THE SQUIRREL 
 
 RAWN from his refuge in some lonely elm, 
 That age or injury has hollowed deep, 
 Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves. 
 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth. 
 To frisk a while and bask in the warm sun. 
 The squirrel, flippant, pert and full of play ; 
 
 He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird. 
 
 Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his 
 
 brush. 
 And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, 
 With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, 
 And anger insignificantly fierce. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
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130 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 ~'HE sclioolboy, wandering throujih the wood 
 Ta pull the primrose gay. 
 Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, 
 And imitates the lay. 
 
 What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
 
 ThciU fliest tliy vocal vale, 
 An animal finest in other lands, 
 
 Another spring to hail. 
 
 Sweet bird I thy bower is ever green. 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou h;!st no sorrow in thy song. 
 
 No wi.ilcr in thy year ! 
 
 O could I fly, I'd dy with thee ! 
 
 We'd mike, with joyful wing. 
 
 Our annual visit o'er the globe, 
 
 Companions of the spring. 
 
 John Logan. 
 
 I tread, like thee, the crowded street, 
 [^ut, unlike ine, when day is o'er, 
 Thoii canst dismiss the world, and soar ; 
 Or, at a half-felt v/ish for rest. 
 Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 I would that in such wings of gold 
 I could my weary heart upfold ; 
 I would I could look down unmoved 
 (Unloving as I am unloved;, 
 And while the world throngs on beneath, 
 Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe; 
 .\nd, never sad with others' sadness, 
 .\nd, never glad with others' gladness. 
 Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, 
 And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Wilms. 
 
 THE BELFRY PIGEON. 
 
 N the cross-beam under the Old .South bell. 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is there, 
 
 ^ Out and in with the morning air ; 
 
 I love to see him track the street. 
 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 
 And I often watch him as he springs, 
 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
 
 Till across tlie dial his shade has passed. 
 
 And the belfry edge is gained at last ; 
 
 'T is a bird 1 love, with its brooding note. 
 
 And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
 
 There's a human look in its swelling breast, 
 
 And the gentle curve (.fits lowly crest ; 
 
 And I often stop with the fear I feel — 
 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bcll- 
 
 Chinv o. liie hour, or funeral knell — 
 
 T! ^dove in tiie belfry must hear it well. 
 
 When the tongue swings out to the mit'night moon. 
 
 When the se.xton cheerly rings for noon, 
 
 When the clock strikes clear at morning light, 
 
 When the child is waked with "nine at night," 
 
 Wiien the chimes play soft in the .Sabbath air, 
 
 I'ilhng the spirit with tones of prayer — 
 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard. 
 
 He broods on his folded feet unstirred, 
 
 Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
 
 He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
 
 Then drops again, with filmed eyes, 
 
 And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 
 Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
 
 A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
 
 With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast to men; 
 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 
 THE EAGLE. 
 
 IRD of the broad and sweeping wing, 
 Thy home is high in heaven. 
 Where wide the storms their banners fiing, 
 .•\nd the tempest clouds are driven. ,. 
 Thy throne is on the mountain top ; 
 
 Thy fields, the boundless air ; 
 And hoary peaks, that proudly i>rop 
 The skies, thy dwellings are. 
 
 Thou sittesi like a thing of light. 
 
 Amid the noontide blaze : 
 The midway sun is clear and bright ; 
 
 It cannot dim thy gaze. 
 Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, 
 
 O'er the bursting billow, spread, 
 Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, 
 
 Like an angel of the dead. 
 
 Thou art perched ahjft on the beetling crag, 
 
 And the v/aves arc white below. 
 And on, with a haste that cannot lag. 
 
 They rush in an endless (low. 
 Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight 
 
 To lands beyond the sea, 
 And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, 
 
 Thou hurriest, wild and free. 
 Loid of the lx>undless realm of air, 
 
 In thy imperial name, 
 The heart of the bold and ardent dare 
 
 The dangerous path of fame. 
 Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, 
 
 The Roman legions bore. 
 From the river of Lgypt's cloudy springs, 
 
 Their pride, to the polar shore. 
 
 And where was then thy fearless flight? 
 
 O'e; the dark, mysterious sea. 
 To the lands that caught the setting light, 
 
 The cradle of liberty. 
 
 James G. Pkrcival. 
 
 »il|: i, 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 131 
 
 ight 
 Iht, 
 
 jigs, 
 ;ht, 
 
 iRClVAL. 
 
 THE LION'S RIDE. 
 
 'HE lion is tiic desert's king ; tiirongh his <loni;iiii 
 so wide 
 RiRlit swiftly .niid rij;ht royally this night he 
 ■^ means to ride. 
 
 By the sedgy brink, where the wild lierds drink, close 
 
 crouches tlie grim ciiief ; 
 The trembling sycamore above whispers with every leaf. 
 
 At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye can see no i strength remain ! 
 
 And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the 
 horrid race ; 
 
 Hy the footprints wet with gore and sweat, their mon- 
 arch's comse they trace. 
 
 They see him on his living throne, and (|uake with 
 
 fear, the while 
 With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's 
 
 Iiainted pile. 
 On! on! no ii;iuse, no rest, giraOe, while life and 
 
 The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom is 
 
 speckled o'er 
 With kraal fires ; when the CafTre wends home through 
 
 the lone karroo ; 
 When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the 
 
 stream the gnu ; 
 
 Then bend your gaze across the waste— what see ye? 
 
 The giralTe, 
 Majestic, stalks towards the laguun, the turbid lymph 
 
 to ciuafT; 
 With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels 
 
 him down to cool 
 His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul 
 
 and brackish pool. 
 
 A rustling sound, a roar, a bound — the lion sits astride 
 Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so ritle? 
 Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of state 
 To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits 
 elate ? 
 
 In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with 
 
 ravenous greed ; 
 His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the ! 
 
 steed. I 
 
 Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and -Krprisc, ' 
 Away, .away, in wild dismay, the cameleoiwrd Hies. 
 
 His loLt have wings; see how he springs across the; 
 
 moonlit plain ! i 
 
 As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eye- 1 
 
 balls strain ; I 
 
 In thick black streaims of purling blood, full fast his life ; 
 
 is llceting ; 
 The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous 
 
 1 Rating. 
 
 bike the cUnid th.at, through the wilderness, the path 
 
 of Israel traced — 
 Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the 
 
 w.iste — 
 Fictn the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout from 
 
 < ic'cm, 
 A wiiirting cloud of dust keeps pace with the courser's 
 
 iiery motion. 
 
 Cro;>king companion of their flight, the vulture whirs 
 
 (in high : 
 Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly, 
 
 The steed by such a rider backed may madly plunge 
 in vain. 
 
 Reejing upon the desert's vergi', lie falls, and breathes 
 
 his last ; 
 The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the riiUr's 
 
 fell repast. 
 
 O'er Mailagascar, eastward far, a faint (hish is descried : 
 
 Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts 
 
 doth ride. 
 
 I'"i:koin.\ni) l'"m;ii.uiR.\TH. 
 
 LAMBS AT PLAY. 
 
 ' AY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen 
 Spring's morning smiles, and soul enlivenin.aj 
 
 green — 
 Say, did you give that thrilling transport way, 
 Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play 
 Leaped o'er your path wilh animated pride, 
 Or gazed in merry clusters by your side? 
 Ye who can smile— to wisdom no disgrace — 
 At the arch meaning of a kitten's face; 
 If spotless innocence and infant mirth 
 E.xcites to praise, or gives relkclion birth ; 
 In shades like these pursue your favorite jcy. 
 Midst nature's revels, sports that never cloy. 
 A few begin a short but vigorous race, 
 And indolence, abashed, soon flies the place : 
 Thus challenged forth, see thither, one by one, 
 Froin,every side assembling playmates run ; 
 A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
 A starting crowd, impatient of delay ; 
 Like the fond clove from fearful prison freed, 
 Kach seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed ;" 
 Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong. 
 The green turf trembling as they bound along 
 Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, 
 Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme, 
 Then, panting, stop ; yet scarcely can refrain — 
 A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : 
 Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
 Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow. 
 Their little limbs increasing efTorts try ; 
 Like the thorn flower, the fair assemblage fly. 
 Ah, fallen roses ' .sad emblem of their doom ; 
 F"rail as thyself, they perish while they bloom ! 
 
 Robert Bloomkield. 
 
 ii 
 
 I'M 
 
 ¥■ 
 
 'H 
 
 I 
 
 i \ M 
 
 
 I'J 
 
I 
 
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 il 
 
 K 
 
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 J' I. 
 
 
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 1.32 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 A SONG IN THE GROv'L 
 
 ^^ NIGHTINGALE, best poet of the grove, 
 f^®" 1 That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to 
 %L^ tiiee, 
 
 ' ' Blest in the full possession of thy love : 
 
 lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me ! 
 
 *Tis mine, alas I to mourn my wretched fate : 
 
 1 love a maid who all my bosom charms. 
 Yet lose my days without this lovely mate ; 
 
 Inhuman fortune keeps her from my amis. 
 
 You, happy birds ! by nature's simple laws 
 Lead your soft lives, sustained by nature's fare ; 
 
 You dwell wherever roving fancy draws. 
 And love and song is all your pleasing care : 
 
 But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride. 
 
 Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame : 
 
 And hence, in vain I languish for my bride : 
 O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless tiame. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 o 
 
 SUMMER LONGINGS. 
 
 H ! my heart is weary waiting. 
 Waiting for the May- 
 Waiting for the pleasant rambles 
 Where the fragrant hnvvthorn-brambles, 
 With the woodbine alternating, 
 
 Scent the dewy way. 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 Waiting for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
 Longing for the May — 
 Longing to escape from study 
 To the young face fair and ruddy. 
 And the thousand charms belonging 
 
 To the summer's day. 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
 Longing for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 
 Sighing for the May — 
 Sighing for their sure returning. 
 When the summer beams are burning, 
 Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying. 
 
 All the winter lay. 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 Sighing for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
 Throbbing for the May- 
 Throbbing for the seaside billows, 
 Or the water wooing willows ; 
 
 Where, in laughing and in sobbing, 
 Glide the streams away. 
 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 
 Throbbing for the May. 
 
 Waiting sad, dejected, weary. 
 Waiting for the May ; 
 Spring goes by with wasted warnings — 
 Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings — 
 Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 
 
 Life still ebbs away ; 
 
 Man is ever weary, weary, 
 
 Waiting for the May ! 
 
 Denis Florence MacCarthy. 
 
 ON A GOLDFINCH. 
 
 'IME was when I was free as air. 
 The thistle's downy seed my fare, 
 
 My dnnk the morning dew ; 
 I perched at will on every spray. 
 My f<jnn gontccl. my plumage gay, 
 My strains forever new. 
 
 But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
 And form gentei-l, were all in vain, 
 
 And of a transient date ; 
 For caught and caged, and starved to death, 
 In dying sighs my little breath 
 
 .Soon passed the wiry grate. 
 
 Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
 And thanks for this effectual close 
 
 And cure of every ill ! 
 More cruelty could none express ; 
 And I, if you had shown me less. 
 
 Had been your prisoner still. 
 
 William Cowpek. 
 
 THE ROBIN. 
 
 ' EE yon robin on the spray ; 
 Look ye ! liow his tiny form 
 Swells, as when his merry 'ay 
 Gushes forth amid the storn. 
 
 Though the snow is falling fast, 
 Specking o'er liis co.it with white — 
 Though loud roars the chilly bl.ast, 
 And the evening's lost in night — 
 
 Yet from out the darkness dreary 
 Cometh still tiiat cheerful note ; 
 Praiseful aye, and never weary, 
 Is tl.at little warbling throat. 
 
 Thank him for his lesson's sake. 
 Thank God's gentle minstrel there. 
 Who, when storms make others quake, 
 Sings of days that brighter were. 
 
 Harrison Weir. 
 
 i * 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 133 
 
 f 
 
 THE BLOOD HORSE. 
 
 AMARRA is a dainty steed, 
 Strony;, black, atid of a noble breed, 
 Full of fire, and full of bone. 
 With all his line of fathers known ; 
 
 Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 
 
 Hut blown abroad by the pride within ! 
 
 His mane is like a river flowing, 
 
 And his eyes like embers glowing 
 
 In the darkness of tlie night, 
 
 And his pace as swift sis light. 
 
 Look — how round his straining throat 
 
 Grace and shifting beauty float ; 
 
 Sinewy strength is in his reins, 
 
 And the red blood gallops tiirough his veins : 
 
 Richer, redder, never ran 
 
 Through the boasting heart of man. 
 
 He can trace his lineage higiier 
 
 Than the Bourbon dare aspire — 
 
 Douglas, Guzman, or tiie Guelph, 
 
 Or O'Brien's blood itself! 
 
 He, who hath no peer, was bom 
 
 Here, upon a red Marcii morn. 
 
 But his famous fathers deail 
 
 Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, 
 
 And the last of that great line 
 
 Troa iiKe one of a race divine ! 
 
 And yet — lie was but friend to one 
 
 Who fed him at the set of sun 
 
 By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 
 
 With him, a roving Bedouin, 
 
 He lived (none else would he obey 
 
 Through all the hot Arabian day). 
 
 And died untamed upon the sands 
 
 Where Balkii amidst the desert stands. 
 
 Brvan W. Procter (Barry Cornwall). 
 
 Thankfully we sit and listen 
 To tile rain that's coming fast. 
 
 I )r(ipping — dropping 
 Like dissolving diamontis — popping 
 . 'Gainst the crystal window-pane. 
 
 As il seeking 
 Entrance-welronu-, and bespeaking 
 Our .itfection for the rain. 
 
 Quick, and cjuicker 
 Come the tlro]ipin,i;s— thick and thicker. 
 Pour the hasty torrents down : 
 Rusliiiig — rusliing — 
 From the loaden s|Knits a-gushing. 
 Cleansing all the streets in town. 
 
 Darkness utter 
 Gathers round ;— we close the shutter ; 
 Snugly slu-ltered k-t us keep. 
 Still unceasing 
 Falls tin- rain ; hut oh ! 'tis pleasing 
 'Neath sucll lulli.'jy to sleep. 
 
 How I love it ! 
 Let the miser money covet — 
 Let tile soldier seek tho fight ; 
 Give me only, 
 When I lie awake and U;nely, 
 Music made by rain at night. 
 
 THO.MAS MacKelleb. 
 
 NO! 
 
 p 
 
 SEPTEMBER RAIN. 
 
 ATTER— patter- 
 Listen how the rain-drops cl.itter. 
 Falling on the shingle roof; 
 How they rattle. 
 Like the rifle's click in battle, 
 Or the charger's iron hoof! 
 
 Cool and pleasant 
 Is the evening air at present. 
 Gathering freshness from the rain ; 
 l^mguor chasing. 
 Muscle, thew, and sinew bracing, 
 And enlivening the brain. 
 
 Close together 
 Draw the bands of love in weatlier 
 When the sky is overcast ; 
 Eyeballs glisten — 
 
 O sun— no moon ! 
 No n)(>rn — no noon — 
 
 No dawn — no dust — no jiroper time of day - 
 No sky — no earthly view — 
 No distance looking blue — 
 No road— no street— no " t'other side the way" — 
 No end to any row — 
 No indications where the crescents go — 
 No top to i'.ny steeple — 
 No recognitions of familiar people — 
 
 No courtesies for showing 'em — 
 No knowing 'em I 
 No traveling at all — no locomotion. 
 No inkling of the way — no notion — 
 ' No go" — by land or ocean — 
 No mail — no post — 
 No news from any foreign coast — 
 No park— no ring — no afternoon gentility — 
 
 No company — no nobility — 
 No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. 
 No comfortable feel in any member — 
 No shade, no shine, no butterflies, ko bee.>, 
 No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
 November ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 * i 
 
134 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 
 ■' "I 
 
 
 ! S' 
 
 I ,!S 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 HE autumn is old ; 
 The sear leaves are flying ; 
 He hath gathered up gold, 
 And now he is dying : 
 
 Old age, begin sighing ! 
 
 The vintage is ripe ; 
 The harvest is heaping ; 
 But some that have sowed 
 Have no riches for reaping — 
 Poor wretch, fall a-weeping 1 
 
 The year's in the wane ; 
 There is nothing adorning ; 
 The night has no eve. 
 And the day has no morning ; 
 Cold winter gives warning. 
 
 The rivers run chili ; 
 The red sun is sinking ; 
 And I am gtown old, 
 And life is fast shrinking ; 
 Here's enow for sad thinking ! 
 
 TllDMAS H()(lt). 
 
 But still wild music is abroad, 
 
 Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; 
 And gathered winds, in hoarse accord. 
 
 Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 
 
 Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear 
 Has grown familiar with your song ; 
 
 I hear it in the opening year — 
 I listen, and it cheers me long. 
 
 Henrv Wadsvvorth Longfellow. 
 
 'h 
 
 WOODS IN WINTER 
 
 HEN winter winds are piercing chill, 
 
 And through the wliite-thorn blows the 
 gale, 
 With solemn feet 1 tread the hill, 
 That over l)rows the lonely vale. 
 
 O'er the bare upland, and away 
 Through the long reach of desert woods. 
 
 The embraciiig sunbeams chastely play, 
 And gladden these deep solitudes. 
 
 On the gray maple's crusted bark 
 Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips ; 
 
 Whilst in tlie frozen fountain— hark ! — 
 His piercing beak the bittern dips. 
 
 Where, twisted round the barren oak, 
 The sununer vine in beauty clung, 
 
 And summer winds tiie stillness broke — 
 The crystal icicle is hung. 
 
 Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
 Pour out the river's gradual tide. 
 
 Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 
 And voices till the woodland side. 
 
 Alas ! how changed from the fair scene. 
 When birds sang out their mellow lay ; 
 
 And winds were soft, and woods were green. 
 And the song ceased not with the day I 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 HE cricki.-t chirps all day, 
 
 " O f.iirest summer, stay ! " 
 The squirrel eyes askance the chestnut.s 
 
 browning ; 
 The wild fowl fly afar 
 Above tlie foamy bar, 
 And hasten southward ere tlie skies are frowning. 
 
 Now comes a fragrant breeze 
 
 Through the dark cedar trees. 
 And round about my temples fondly lingers. 
 
 In gentle playfulness. 
 
 Like to the soft caress 
 Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. 
 
 Yet, though a sense of grief 
 
 Comes with the falling le.if, 
 .\nd memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, 
 
 In all my autumn dreams 
 
 A future summer gleams, 
 Passing the fairest glories of the present ! 
 
 George Arnold. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 N all thy trees, on every boug;h. 
 Thousands of crystals sp.irkle now. 
 
 Where'er our eyes aliyht ; 
 Firm on the spotless robe we tread, 
 Which o'er tliy beauteous form is spread, 
 Willi glittering hoar-frost brij^ht. 
 
 Our Father kind, who dwells above. 
 For thee this garment pure hath wove ; 
 
 I le watches over thee. 
 Therefore in peace thy slumber lake, 
 Our Father will the weary wake, 
 
 New strength, new light to see. 
 
 Soon to the breatli of spring's soft sighs, 
 I)elit;hied thou again wilt rise. 
 
 In wondrous life so /"air. 
 I Rel those sighs breathe o'er the puin. 
 Dear nature, then rise up again 
 
 With flowcr-wreatlis in thy hair. 
 
 Frielhich W. Krlmmacheh. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 135 
 
 n 
 
 MAY MORNING. 
 
 OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, 
 Comes dancing from the east, and leads with 
 
 her 
 
 The flowery May, who from her green lap 
 throws 
 The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
 
 Hail, beauteous May ! that doth inspire 
 Mirth and youtli and warm desire ; 
 Woods and groves are of thy dres'ing. 
 Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
 Thus we salute thee with our early song. 
 And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 'HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of 
 the year, 
 Of waili:v^ winds, and naked woods, and mea- 
 ■'i* duws broun and sere. 
 
 Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves 
 
 lie dead ; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 
 
 tread. 
 The robin and tlie 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 sister- 
 hood? 
 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race ol 
 flowers 
 
 Arc lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and i,uod of 
 ours. 
 
 The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold Novem- 
 ber 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-rost and the orchis died amid the sum- 
 mer glow : 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
 wood. 
 
 And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn 
 beauty stood. 
 
 Till fell the frost from tiie clear, cold heaven, as falls 
 the plague on men. 
 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone from up- 
 land, glade and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes Uie 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 frag- 
 rance Jate he bore, 
 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream 
 i!o more. 
 
 And then I think oi 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 cist 
 
 the leaf. 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 
 
 brief; 
 Yet not unmeet it was, Uiat one, like tlu.t young friend 
 
 ol ours 
 
 So .njuile and so beautiful, should perish with the 
 
 (lowers. 
 
 William Cullen Brva.st. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 'HE mellow year is hasting to its close 
 
 The little birds have almost sung their last, 
 Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast- 
 That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows ; 
 The patient beauty of the scentless rose. 
 Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, 
 Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, 
 And makes a little summer where it grows. 
 In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 
 The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
 The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 
 Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; 
 And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
 Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. 
 
 Hartley Ccjlekidge. 
 
 WHAT THE WINDS BRING. 
 
 HIGH is the wind that brings the cold? 
 
 The north-wind, Fredily, ;uul all the snow ; 
 And the sheep will scamper into tile fold 
 When the north begins to blow. 
 
 Which is the wind that brings the heat ? 
 
 The South-wind, Katy ; and corn will grow, 
 And p jaclies redden for you to eat, 
 
 When the south begins to blow. 
 
 Which is the wind that brings the rain ? 
 
 The east-wind, Arty ; anil far.mers know 
 That cows come sliivering uji the lane. 
 
 When the east begins to blow. 
 
 Which is the wind that brings the flowers ? 
 
 The west-wind, Rjssy ; and soft and low 
 The birdies sing in the sunmier hours 
 
 When the west begins to blow. 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedmam. 
 
 .ti'' 
 ti», 
 
 If 
 
 U 
 ».■■ 
 
 l] f' 
 
 lii 
 
 
1 ^! ■; 
 
 136 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 P 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 RETTY firstlin- of t!ic year ! 
 
 I Icnld of the host of (lowers ! 
 Hast thou left thy cavern ilrear, 
 
 III the hope of summer hours? 
 
 Rack unto tliy eartlien how.TS ! 
 Back to thy warm world below, 
 
 Till the stron!i;th of suns and showers 
 Quell the now relentless snow ! 
 
 Art still here ? — alive and blithe ? 
 
 Though the stormy night hatli fled, 
 And tile frost liatli passed Ir^^ scythe 
 
 O'er thy small, ur.slieitered head? 
 
 Ah ! some lie amidst the dead, 
 (Many a giant, stubborn tree — 
 
 Many a plant, its spirit shed), 
 That were better nursed than thee . 
 
 AV'hat hath saved thee? Thou wast not 
 
 'Ciainst tlie arri)wy winter furretl— 
 Armed in scale — but all fcjrgot 
 
 When the frozen winds were stirred. 
 
 Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 
 Should have hid thee in the earth, 
 
 Till the cuckoo's .song was heard, 
 Antl the Spring let loose her mirth. 
 
 Nature —deep and mystic word I 
 
 Mighty mother, still unknown ! 
 Thou didst sure the snowilrop gird 
 
 With an armor all thine own ! 
 
 Thou, who sent'st it forth alonj 
 To llie Cold ,ind sullen season, 
 
 (Like ;> thought at random thrown), 
 Sent it thus for some grave reason ! 
 
 If 'twere but to pierce the mind 
 
 With a single, gentle thought. 
 Who shall deem thee harsh or blind, 
 
 \\'ho that thou hast vainly wnjught? 
 
 Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
 From the snt)wdroi>— reader wise ! 
 
 Good is g« od, wherever taught, 
 On the ground t)r in the skies I 
 Brvan W. rRocTER, {Btiriy Corn-Mall.) 
 
 (H 
 
 THE SNOW STORM. 
 
 'NNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the .sky. 
 Arrives the snow, and driving o'er the fields. 
 Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river and the 
 heaven. 
 And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveler stopped, the cou'-ier's feet 
 Delayed, oil friends sfrntout, the housemates ;,it 
 Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed 
 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 
 
 Come sec the north-wind's masonry. 
 Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
 l'"uniished with tile, the fierce artificer 
 Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
 Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
 Speeding, the myriad-ha.ided, his wild world 
 So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 
 l"or number or proportion. Mockingly 
 On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
 A swan like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
 Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
 Maugre tlie farmer's sighs, and at the gate 
 A tapering turret overtops tlie work. 
 And when his hours are numbered, and the world 
 Is all his own, retiring, as he were not. 
 Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished art 
 To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
 nui!t in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
 The frolic architecture of the snow. 
 
 Ralph W.vldo Emerson. 
 
 IT SNOWS. 
 
 .' T snows I " cries the schoolboy — " Hurrah 1" 
 • ••©• and his shout 
 
 Is ringing through the parlor and hall. 
 While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's 
 
 And his playmates have answered his call : 
 ' It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy — 
 
 Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow. 
 Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy. 
 
 As he gathers his treasures of snow ; 
 Tueii lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, 
 While health and the riches of nature are theirs. 
 
 •'It snows!" sighs the imbecile — "Ah!" and his 
 breath 
 
 Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight ; 
 While from the pale aspect of nature in death. 
 
 He turns to the blaze of his grate : 
 .•\nd nearer, and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair 
 
 Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame — 
 He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air, 
 
 Lest it wither his delicate frame : 
 Oh, small is the pleasure existence can give. 
 When the fear we shall die only proves that wc live I 
 
 "It snows!" cries the traveler — "Ho!" and the 
 word 
 Has (juickened his steed's lagging pace ; 
 The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard— 
 
 Unfelt the sharp drift in his face ; 
 For bright through the tempest his own home ap- 
 peared — 
 Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see ; 
 There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table pre- 
 pared, 
 And his wife with their babes at her kne<\ 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 137 
 
 oof 
 
 door. 
 
 irld 
 
 hs; 
 
 e 
 
 lie world 
 
 tlart 
 
 )ne, 
 
 rk. 
 
 MEK50N. 
 
 Hurrah I" 
 
 id hall, 
 allow, he's 
 
 ill: 
 irjoy— 
 
 if the boy, 
 
 R heirs, 
 heirs. 
 
 ! " and his 
 
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 ath, 
 
 chair 
 
 A air, 
 
 /e, 
 
 It \vc live : 
 
 ' and ihe 
 
 ■d- 
 
 home ap- 
 
 ;e; 
 table pre 
 
 ni'jst thought ! how it lightens the grief-lsiden hour, 
 That those we love dearest are safe from its power ! 
 
 "It snows !' cries the belle— " Dear, how lucky!" 
 aiiil turns 
 
 I'rom her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; 
 I.ike the first rose of summer, her diiiiiiled cheek burns. 
 
 While musing on sleigiiride and ball : 
 There are visions of conquest, of splendor, and mirth, 
 
 Floating over each drear winter's day ; 
 But the timings of hope, on this storm beaten earth, 
 
 Will melt, like the snow-flakes, away ; 
 Turn, turn thee to heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ; 
 That world has a fountain ne'er opened in this. 
 
 "It snows !" cries the widow— "O God! "and her 
 sighs 
 Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; 
 Its burden ye'll read in her tear-swollen eyes, 
 
 On her cheek, sunk with fasting and care. 
 'Tis night— and her fatherless ask her fur bread- 
 But "He gives the young ravens their food," 
 And she trusts, till her dark heart adds horror to 
 dread. 
 And she lays on her last chip of wood. 
 Poor suflerer ! that sorrow thy God only knows— 
 'Tis a pitiful lot to be poor when it snows ! 
 
 Sarah Josepha Hale. 
 
 P 
 
 THE CRICKETS. 
 
 IPE, little minstrels of the waning year, 
 In gentle concert pipe ! 
 Pipe the warm noons ; the mellow harvest 
 near ; 
 The apples dropping ripe ; 
 
 The tempered sunshine, and the softened shade ; 
 
 The trill of lonely bird ; 
 The sweet, sad hush uii nature's gladness laid ; 
 
 The sounds through silence heard ! 
 
 Pipe tenderly the passing of the year; 
 
 The suniiuer's brief reprieve ; 
 The dry husk rustling round the yellow ear; 
 
 The chill of morn and eve ! 
 Pipe the nntr(.)ul)led trouble of the year; 
 
 Pipe low the painless pain ; 
 Pipe your uncoasiiig niclanclioly cheer ; 
 
 The yer.r is in the wane. 
 
 Harriet McEwen Kimball. 
 
 SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 UT of the bosom of the air. 
 
 Out of the cloud-folds of her garments 
 shaken, 
 Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
 Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
 Silent and soft and slow 
 Descends the snow. 
 
 Even as our cloudy fancies take 
 
 Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 
 Even as tlie troubled heart doth make 
 In the white countenance confession, 
 The troubled sky reveals 
 The grief it -feels. 
 
 This is the poem of the air, 
 
 Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
 This is the secret of despair, 
 Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
 Now whispered and revealed 
 To wood and field. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longkellow. 
 
 THE SLEIGH RIDE. 
 
 N January, when down the dairy the cream and 
 clabber freeze. 
 When snow drifts cover the fences over, we 
 farmers take our ease. 
 At night we rig the team, and bring the cutter out ; 
 Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it, and heap the furs 
 about. 
 
 Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, and 
 
 sleighs at least a score ; 
 There John and Molly, behind, are jolly — Nell rides 
 
 with me, before. 
 All down the village street we range us in a row : 
 Xowjingle.jingle, jingle, jingle, and over the crispy 
 
 snow ! 
 
 The windows glisten, the old folks listen to hear the 
 
 sleigh-bells pass ; 
 The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter, the 
 
 road as smooth as glass, 
 Our muffled faces burn, the clear north wind blows 
 
 cold. 
 The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, each in her lover's 
 
 hold. 
 
 Through bridge and gateway we're shooting straight- 
 way, their toll-man was too slow ! 
 
 He'll listen after our song and laughter as over the 
 hill we go. 
 
 The girls cry, "Fie! for shame !" their cheeks and 
 lips are red, 
 
 And so with kisses, kisses, kisses, they take the toll 
 instead. 
 
 Still follow, follow ! across the hollow the tavern 
 
 fronts the road. 
 Whoa, now ! ^11 steady ! the host is ready — he knows 
 
 the country mode ! 
 The irons are in the fire, the hissing flip is got ; 
 So pour ai.d sip it, sip it, sip it, and sip it while 
 
 'tis hot. 
 
 Push back the tables, and from the stables bring Tom, 
 the fiddler, in ; 
 
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 138 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 All take your places, and make your graces, and let 
 
 the dance begin. 
 The girls are beating time to hear the music sound ; 
 Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, and swing your 
 
 partners round. 
 
 Last couple toward the left ! all forward ! cotillion's 
 througli, let's wheel : 
 
 First tune the fiddle, then down the middle in old Vir- 
 ginia reel. 
 
 Play monkey musk to close, then take the "long 
 chass(5," 
 
 While in to supper, supper, supper, the landlord leads 
 the way. 
 
 The bells are ringing, the hostlers bringing the cutters 
 up anew ; 
 
 The beasts are neighing, too long we're staying, the 
 nigiit is halfway tlirough. 
 
 Wrap close the buffalo robes, we're all ; oard once 
 more ; 
 
 Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, away from the tav- 
 ern door. 
 
 So follow, follow, by hill and holl9W, and swiftly 
 
 homeward glide. 
 What midnight splendor ! how warm and tender the 
 
 maiden by your side ! 
 The sleighs drop far apart, her words are soft and 
 
 low ; 
 Now, if you love her, love her, love her, 'tis safe to 
 
 tell her so. 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS. 
 
 ROM under tiie bougiis in tiic snow-clad wood 
 The mijrie and the mavis are pucping, 
 Alike secure from the wind and the flood, 
 Yet a silent Ciiristinas keeping. 
 Still happy are tliey, 
 And their looks are gay, 
 And they frisk it from bough to bough ; 
 Since berries bright red 
 Hang over their head, 
 A right goodly feast, I trow. 
 
 There, under the boughs, in their wintry dress, 
 
 Haps many a tender greeting ; 
 Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress 
 Hath told the delight of meeting. 
 
 Though winter hath come 
 
 To his woodland home. 
 There is mirth with old Christmas cheer. 
 
 For 'neath the light snow 
 
 Is the fmit-fraught bough, 
 And each to his love is near. 
 
 Yes ! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle they. 
 Those children of song together — 
 
 As blissful by night, as joyous by day, 
 'Mid the snows and the wintry weather. 
 For tliey dream of spring, 
 And the songs they'll sing, 
 When the flowers bloom again in the mead; 
 And mindful are they 
 Of those blossoms gay. 
 Which have brought them to-day 
 Such help in their time of need ! 
 
 Harrison Weir, 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 ' N the b.irn the tenant cock. 
 
 Close to partlet perched on high, 
 Ikiskly crows (the shepherd's clock i) 
 Jocund that the morning's nigh. '' 
 
 Swiftly from the mountain's brow. 
 Shadows, nursed by night, retire : 
 
 And the peeping sunbeam now. 
 Paints with gold the village spire. 
 
 Philomel fors.akes the thorn, 
 
 Plaintive where she prates at night, 
 
 And tile lark, to meet the morn, 
 Soars beyond the shepherd's sight 
 
 From the balmy sweets, uncloyed, 
 (Restless till her task be done), 
 
 Now the busy bee's employed 
 Sipping dew before the sun. 
 
 Trickling through the creviced rock, 
 Where the limpid stream distils. 
 
 Sweet refreshment waits the (lock 
 When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 
 
 Colin 's for the promised corn 
 (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe). 
 
 Anxious ; — whilst the huntsman's horn. 
 Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 
 
 Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng 
 On the white eniblossomed spray 1 
 
 Nature's universal song 
 Echoes to the rising day. 
 
 John Cunningham. 
 
 A CALM EVE. 
 
 OOK on these waters, with how soft a kiss 
 Tiiey wt)o the pebbled shore ! then steal away, 
 Like wanton lovers — but to come again. 
 And die in music ! There, the bending skies 
 See all their stars — and the beach-loving trees. 
 Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers. 
 That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones, 
 Make pictures of themselves ! 
 
 George Croly. 
 
bi:autiks ok naturk. 
 
 139 
 
 CELESTIAL LIGHT. 
 
 ^ — • HUS with the year 
 /^ J\ Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 V ^ Day, or tlie sweet apiiroach of even or nmrn, 
 f Or siiiiit of vernal bloom, or sununer's nw.', 
 Or flocks, or herds, or liunian face divine ; 
 But cloud, instead, and ever-durinjf dark. 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men. 
 
 Cut off, and for the book of knowledge f.iir 
 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 
 Of nature's works, to me e.Npunged and r.ised. 
 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite sliut out. 
 
 So much the rather thou, celestial light. 
 
 Shine inward, and the mind througli all her powers 
 
 Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
 
 Purge and disperse, that J may see and tell 
 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight. 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 iIj 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 E walked along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said 
 " The will of God be done !" 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering gray; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass 
 And by the steaming rills, 
 We traveled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 "Our work," said I, "was well begun; 
 Tiien, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 So sad a sigli has brought ? " 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountahi-top, 
 To me lie made reply : 
 
 " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this, which, I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colors, and no other, 
 Were in the sky that April morn 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave, 
 And coming to the church st(<pped short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang : — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 Six feet in eartjj my Emma l.iy ; 
 And yet I loved her more — 
 For so it seemed— than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 And turning from her grave, I met 
 Beside the churchyard yew 
 A blooming girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 A basket on her head she bare ; 
 I ler brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair. 
 It was a pure delight 1 
 
 No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
 She seemed as happy as a wave 
 Tiiat dances on the sea. 
 
 There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confme ; 
 I looked at her, ami looked again : 
 And did not wish her mine ! " 
 
 — Matthew is in his grnvc, yet now 
 Methinks I see him stand, 
 As at that moment, with a hough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 DAY IS DYING. 
 
 AY is dying ! Float, O song, 
 Down the westward river, 
 Retiuiem chanting to the day — 
 Day, the mighty giver. 
 
 Pierced by shafts of time he bleeds. 
 
 Melted rubies sending 
 Through the river and the sky, 
 
 Earth and heaven blending ; 
 
 All the long-drawn earthly banks 
 
 l.'p to cloud-land lifting : 
 Slow between them drifts the swan, 
 
 'Twixt two heavens drifting. 
 
 Wings half open, like a flower 
 
 Inly deeper flushing, 
 Neck and breast as virgin's pure — 
 
 Virgin proudly blushing. 
 
 Day is dying ! Float, O swan, 
 
 Down the ruby river ; 
 Follow, song, in requiem 
 To the mighty giver. 
 Marian Evans Levi'us Cross ( George Eliof). 
 
 I7 
 
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 i 1 
 
 'i-i 
 
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140 
 
 CROWN JFAVKLS. 
 
 V".r '! 
 
 ! ''3 ri,;! 
 
 ADVANCING MORN. 
 
 •^^S when, to one, who long Iiath watched the 
 f ^^ morn 
 
 ^^ Atlvancing, slow forewarns th' ap|iro;uh of 
 day 
 (Whnt time the yoiniK and flowery-kirtled May 
 Hecks the ^reen heilge, and dewy urass unsiiorn 
 Willi cowslips jiale, and many a wliitenin;; tliorn) ; 
 And now the sini comes forth, with le\el ray 
 Gildinjf the hi.:^h-\vooil top, and mountain ;;ray ; 
 And, as he clinihs, the meailows '};iiis adorn ; 
 The rivers }j;listen to the dancinij beam. 
 
 The awakeiieil birds begin tln'ir amorous strain, 
 And hill anil vale with joy and fragrance teem ; 
 Such is the sight of thee ; thy wished return 
 To eyes, like mine, that hjng have waked to mourn. 
 That long have watched for light, and wept in vain ! 
 
 John Hami'kvluk. 
 
 A WINTER LANDSCAPE. 
 
 'H ROUGH the hushed air the whit' ning shower 
 descei.ds, 
 At first thin-wavering, till at last the (lakes 
 Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the 
 day 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
 Put on their winter robe of purest white : 
 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts 
 Along the mazy current. Low the wootls 
 Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun, 
 Faint from the west, emits his evening ray, 
 Earth's universal face, d;rep hid, and chill. 
 Is one white dazzling waste, that buries wide 
 The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox 
 Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 
 The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
 Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
 The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
 Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 
 The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 
 Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 
 In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves 
 His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
 His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 
 Against the window beats ; then, bri.^k, alights 
 On the warm hearth ; then hopping o'er the floor. 
 Eyes all the smiling family askance. 
 And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : 
 Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs 
 Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
 Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 
 Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
 By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs, 
 And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 
 Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine 
 Eye the bleak iieaven, and next, the glist'ning earth. 
 With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed. 
 
 Dig for the whithered herb through heaps of snow. 
 
 As thus the snows arise, and fold and fierce 
 .Ml winter drives along the darkened air. 
 In his own loose revolving fields the swain 
 I )isastered stands ; sees other hills ascend, 
 ( )f unknown joyless brow, ami other scenes, 
 Of horrid prospect, siiag the tr.ickless plain ; 
 Xor finds the river nor the forest, hid 
 Heneath the formless \\ ild ; but wanders on 
 From hill to dale, still more and more astray, 
 Im|)ati'_'iit flouncing through the drifted he;ips, 
 Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of 
 
 home 
 Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth 
 In many a vain attempt. I low sinks his soul ! 
 What black despair, what horror, fills his heart 1 
 When for the dusky spot which fancy foigned. 
 Mis tufted cottage rising through th;-- snow, 
 lie meets the roughness <jf tlie middle w.isti-, 
 Far from the track and blessed abode of nnn ; 
 While round him night rcsislL'SS closes fast, 
 And every tempest howling o'er his head 
 Renders the savage wilderness moro wild. 
 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind. 
 Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, 
 A dire descent ! beyond tiie power of frost ; 
 Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge 
 Smoothed up with snow ; and what is land unknown. 
 What water of the still unfrozen spring. 
 In the loose marsh or solitary lake. 
 Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 
 These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks 
 Heneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death. 
 Mixed with the tender anguisli nature shoots 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, 
 His wife, his children, and his friends, unseen. 
 In vain for him tlie ofiicious wife ))repares 
 The fire fair blazhig, and the vestment warm : 
 In vai.'i his little children, peeping out 
 Into the mingling storm, demand their sire 
 With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
 Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, 
 Xor fi lends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
 The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense. 
 And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
 Lays him along the siu)ws a stifiened corse, 
 Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast. 
 
 Jami:s Tho.mso.v. 
 
 A HYMN TO THE SEASONS. 
 
 'HESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
 Thy beauty walks, thy i^iderness and love. 
 
 Wide flush die fields ; the softeuii'.g air is baini ; 
 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
 
 And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 141 
 
 Then comes thy glory in the sumn;cr months, 
 With Iij;ht and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 
 Sliuots full perfection throuj^h the swelling year : 
 And oil thy voi :e in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 IJy brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
 Thy bounty sliines in autunni unconfined, 
 And spreads a common feast f<jr all that lives. 
 In winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms 
 Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
 Rilling sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
 And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 
 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine. 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simjile train, 
 Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art. 
 Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
 Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 
 And all so forming an hamionious whole ; 
 That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
 But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
 Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty I land, 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
 Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
 The fair profusion that o'ersj^reads the spring : 
 Flings from the sun direct the (laming day ; 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests forth ; 
 And, as on earth this gr.iteful change revolves. 
 With transport touches all the springs of life. 
 
 Ja.mes Thomson. 
 
 THE ADVENT OF EVENING. 
 
 'HE fire-flies freckle every spot 
 
 With fickle light that gleams and dies ; 
 The bat, a wavering, soundless blot, 
 f The cat, a pair of prowling eyes. 
 
 Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows 
 The deepening air and darkenmg ground ; 
 
 Hy its rich scent I trace the rose. 
 The viewless beetle by its sound. 
 
 Tlie cricket scrapes its ril>like bars ; 
 
 Ti.-e tree-toad purrs in whirring tone ; 
 And now the heavens are set with stars. 
 
 And night and quiet reign alone. 
 
 Alfred B. Street. 
 
 10 
 
 MOONRISE. 
 
 HAT stands upon the highland ? 
 What walks across the rise, 
 As though a starry island 
 Were sinking down the skies? 
 
 What makes the trets so golden ! 
 What decks the mountain side, 
 
 Like a veil of silver folden 
 Round the white brow of a bride? 
 
 The magic moon is breaking. 
 
 Like a conqueror, from the cast, 
 The waiting world awaking 
 
 To a golden fairy feast. 
 
 She works, with touch ethereal, 
 
 By changes strange to see, 
 The cypress, so funereal. 
 
 To a lightsome fairy tree ; 
 
 Black rocks to marble turning, 
 
 Like palaces of kings ; 
 On ruin windows burning, 
 
 A festal glor* (lings ; 
 
 Tlie desert halls uplighting, 
 
 While falling shadows glance, 
 Like courtly crowds uniting 
 
 For the banquet or the dance ; 
 
 With ivory wand she numbers 
 
 The starsalong the sky ; 
 And breaks the billows' slumbers 
 
 With a love-glance of her eye ; 
 
 Along the cornfields dances. 
 
 Brings bloom upon the sheaf ; 
 From tree to tree she glances, 
 
 And touches leaf by leaf; 
 
 Wakes birds that sleep in shadows; 
 
 Through their half-closed eyelids gleams ; 
 With her while torch through the meadows 
 
 Lights the shy deer to the streams. 
 
 The magic moon is breaking. 
 Like a conqueror, from the east, 
 
 And the joyous world partaking 
 Of her golden fairy feast. 
 
 ERNKSr JoNF'S. 
 
 DOVER CLIFF. 
 
 eOME on, sir ; here's the place : stand still I I low 
 fearful 
 And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low ! 
 The crows and choughs that wing the midway 
 air 
 Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down 
 Hangs one that gathers samphire, — dreadful trade ! 
 Metliinks he seems no l)igger than his head : 
 The fishermen, that walk upcjn the beach, 
 Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark. 
 Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
 Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge, 
 That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes. 
 Cannot be heard so high. — I'll look no more ; 
 Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
 Topple down headlong. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
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 142 
 
 CROWN J JEWELS. 
 
 A LOWERING EVE. 
 
 'HERE is a gloomy graiulcur in tlie sun, 
 Tliat Il'vcIs liis last light liloiig the shore ; 
 The clouds are rolhng downwards, stern and 
 f dun : 
 
 The long, slow wave is streaked witii red, like gore 
 
 On some vast field of battle ; and the roar 
 
 Of wave and wind comes like the battle's sound. 
 
 And now the sun sinks deeper ; and the clouds. 
 In folds of sullen fire, still heavier lower, 
 Till the whole storm the shore and ocean shrouds. 
 
 Georgf: Crolv. 
 
 THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. 
 
 'HERE'S grandeur in this sounding storm. 
 That drives the hurrying clouds along, 
 That on each other seem to throng, 
 And mix in many a varied form ; 
 While, bursting now and then between. 
 The moon's dim misty orb is seen. 
 And casts faint glimpses on the green. 
 
 Beneath the blast the forests bend, 
 And thick the branchy ruin lies, 
 And wide the shower of foliage flies ; 
 The lake's black waves in tumult blend, 
 Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, 
 And foaming on the rocky shore. 
 Whose caverns echo to their roar. 
 
 The sight sublime enrapts my thought, 
 And swift along the past it strays. 
 And much of strange event surveys. 
 What history's faithful tongue has taught. 
 Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill 
 The page with fabled change can fill 
 Of ill to good, or good to ill. 
 
 But can my soul the scene enjoy, 
 That rends another's breast with pain ? 
 O hapless he, who near the main. 
 Now sees its billowy rage destroy ! 
 Beholds the foundering bark descend. 
 Nor knows but that its fate may end 
 The moments of liis dearest friend ! 
 
 John .Scott. 
 
 THE MOON WAS A-WANING. 
 
 'HE moon was a-waning. 
 The tempest was over ; 
 Fair was the maiden, 
 
 And fond was the lover ; 
 But the snow was so deep 
 That his heart it grew weary ; 
 
 And he sunk down to sleep, 
 In the moorland so dreary. 
 
 Soft was the bed 
 
 She had made for her lover, 
 White were the sheets 
 
 And embroidered the cover ; m 
 But his sheets are more white, 
 
 And his canopy grander ; 
 And soundt r he sleeps 
 
 Where the hill-foxes wander. 
 
 Alas, pretty maiden. 
 
 What sorrows attend you ! 
 I see you sit shivering, 
 
 Wi'ih lights at your window ; 
 But long may you wait 
 
 Ere your arms shall enclose him ; 
 For still, still he lies. 
 
 With a wreath on his bosom ! 
 
 How painful the task 
 
 The sad tidings to tell you ! 
 An orphan you were 
 
 Ere this misery befel you ; 
 And far in yon wild. 
 
 Where the dead-t;ipers hover. 
 So cold, cold and wan, 
 
 Lies the corpse of your lover ! 
 
 jAMKr, Hogg. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 HESIC Ihoughts, O night ! are thine ; 
 From thee they canio like lovers' secret 
 sighs, 
 
 "f" W'hile others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign. 
 In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her spliere, 
 Her shepherd cheered ; of her enamored kss 
 Than I of thee, And art thou still unsung, 
 Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing ? 
 Immortal silence ! where shall I begin ? 
 Were end ? or how steal music from the spheres 
 To soothe their goddess ? 
 
 O majestic night ! 
 Nature's great ancestor ! day's elder-born ! 
 And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
 By mortals and immortals seen with :iwe ! 
 A starry crown thy raven brow adorns. 
 An azure zone thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's loom 
 Wrought through varieties of shape and shade. 
 In ample folds of drapery divine. 
 Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven throughout. 
 Voluminously pour thy pompous train ; 
 Thy gloomy grandeurs — nature's most august, 
 Inspiring aspect ! — claim a grateful verse ; 
 And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, 
 Drawn o'er my labor? past, shall clothe the scene. 
 
 WARD Young. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 143 
 
 TO A STAR. 
 
 *HOU brightly glittering star of even, 
 Thou gem upon the brow of heaven ! 
 Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free, 
 How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee ! 
 
 How calmly, brightly, dost thou shine, 
 Like the pure lamp in -irtue's shrine ! 
 Sure the fair world whi'jh thou may'st boast 
 Was never ransomed, never lost. 
 
 There, beings pure .is heaven's own air. 
 Their hopes, their joys, together share ; 
 While hovering angels touch the string. 
 And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 
 
 There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
 Illumed by heaven's refulgent lights ; 
 There, seasons, years, unnoiiced roll. 
 And unregretted by the soul. 
 
 Thou little sparkling star of even, 
 Thou gem upon an azure heaven 1 
 How swiftly will I soar to thee. 
 When this impr. jned soul is free ! 
 
 LucRETiA Maria Davidson. 
 
 Religion, too, that heavenly flower, 
 That joy of never-fatling worth, 
 
 Waits, like tlu'c, tlie darkest hour. 
 Then puts all her glor' js forth. 
 
 Then thy beauties are surpassed. 
 
 Splendid flowe-r, that bhjoni'st to die ; 
 
 For friendship and religion last, 
 When the morning beams on high. 
 
 THE NIGHT-FLOWERING CEREUS. 
 
 The night-flowering cereus is one of our most splendid hot- 
 house pI.Tnts, and is a native of Jamaica and some other of the 
 West India Islands. Its stem is creeping, and thickly fit with 
 spines. The flower is white, and very large, sometime', nearly a 
 foot in diameter. The most remarkahle circumstance •, ith regard 
 to the fl.jwt.r, is the short time which it lakes to expand, and the 
 rapidity with which it decays. It hcgins to open late in the even- 
 ing, flourishes for an hour or tw.,, then begins to droop, and he- 
 fore morning is completely dead. 
 
 ^!!X OW departs day's gairish light — 
 
 ReaiUeous flower, lift thy head 1 
 Rise upon the brow of night ! 
 Haste, thy transient lustre shed ! 
 
 Night has dropped her dusky veil — 
 
 All vain tliouglits be distant far, 
 While, with silent awe, we hail 
 
 Flora's radiant evening star. 
 
 Sec to life her beauties start ; 
 
 Hail! thou glorious, matchless flower! 
 Much thou sayest to the hi'art. 
 
 In the solemn, fleeting hour. 
 
 Ere we have our homage paid. 
 Thou wilt bow thine head and die ; 
 
 Thus our sweetest pleasures fade, 
 Thus our brightest blessings fly. 
 
 Sorrow's rugged stem, like thine, 
 Rears a flower thus purely bright ; 
 
 Thus, when sunny hours decline. 
 Friendship sheds her cheering light. 
 
 ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, 
 
 /T^ OXri years ago I wandered here, 
 
 "»*• ? In the inidsunimer of the year, — 
 
 ■^t" Life's summer too ; 
 
 A score of horsemen here we rode, 
 The nioinitain world its glories showed. 
 All fair to view. 
 
 These scenes in glowing colors drest. 
 Mirrored the life within my breast. 
 
 Its world of hopes ; 
 The whlsp>?ring woods and fragrant breeze 
 That stirred the grass in verdant seas 
 
 On billowy slopes. 
 
 And glistening crag in sunlit sky. 
 
 Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, 
 
 Were joys to me ; 
 My path wan o'er the prairie wide. 
 Or here on grander mountain-side, 
 
 To choose, all free. 
 
 The rose that w.aved in morning air, 
 Anil spreail its dewy fragrance there 
 
 In careless bloom. 
 Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, 
 O'er my g!ad life its color threw 
 
 And sweet perfume. 
 
 The buoyant hopes and busy life 
 Have ended all in hateful strife. 
 
 And thwarted aim. 
 The world's rude contact killed the rose, 
 No more its radiant color shows 
 
 False roads to fame. 
 
 Backward, amidst the twilight glow 
 Some lingering spots yet brightly show 
 
 On hard roads won, 
 . Where still some grand peaks mark the way 
 Touched by the light of parting day 
 
 And memory's sun. 
 
 But here thici clouds the mountains hide, 
 The dim horizon bleak and wide 
 
 No pathway shows, 
 And rising gusts, and darkening sky, 
 Tell of "the night th.at cometh," nigh, 
 
 The brief day's close. 
 
 John C. Fremont. 
 
 
 'i 
 
 ; 1 1 
 
 :' 
 
 'I 
 
144 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ^,1 
 
 i ■ ! 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 'OW sweet tliy mod ist light to view, 
 l'";iir star, to love aiul lovers ilear! 
 While trembling on the falling dew. 
 Like beauty shining through a tear. 
 
 Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream, 
 To mark tliat image trembling there, 
 
 Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam, 
 To see thy lovely face so fair. 
 
 Though, blazing o'er the arcli of nigiit, 
 The moon thy timid beams outshine, 
 
 As far as thine each starry light ;— 
 Her rays can never vie with thin 2. 
 
 Thine are the soft enchanting hou-s, 
 When twilight lingers on the jjlrin, 
 
 And whispers to the closing flowers 
 That soon the sun will rise again. 
 
 Thine is the breeze that, nnirmuiing bland 
 
 As music, wafts the lover's sigh, 
 And bids the yielding heart expand 
 
 In love's delicious ecstasy. 
 
 Fair star ! though I be doomed to prove 
 That rapture's tears are mi.xed with pain, 
 
 Ai:, still I feel 'tis sweet to love ! 
 But sweeter to be loved again. 
 
 John Levden. 
 
 THE SCENES OF BOYHOOD. 
 
 IS past ! no more the simimer blooms ! 
 Ascending in the rear, 
 Behold congenial autumn comes, 
 The sabbath of the year ! 
 What time thy holy whispers breathe, 
 The pensive evening shade beneath, 
 
 And twilight consecrates the floods ; 
 While nature strips her garment gay, 
 And wears the vesture of decay, 
 O let me wander through the sounding woods I 
 
 Ah ! well-known streams ! — ah ! wonted groves, 
 
 Still pictured in my mind ! 
 Oh ! sacred scene of youthful loves, 
 
 Whose image lives behind ! 
 While sad I ponder on the past, 
 The joys that must no longer last ; 
 
 Ihe wild-f.jwer strown on summer's bier, 
 The dying music of the grove, 
 And the last elegies of love, 
 Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear ! 
 Companions of the youthful scene, 
 
 Endeared from earliest days ! 
 With whom I sported on the green, 
 
 Or lovedthe woodland maze ! 
 Long-exiled from your native clime, 
 Or by the thunder-stroke of time 
 
 Snatched to the shadows of despair ; 
 
 I hear your voices in the wind, 
 
 Your forms in every walk 1 fnid ; 
 
 I .stretch my arms : ye vanish into air ! 
 
 My steps, wlien innocent and young, 
 
 These fairy paths pursued ; 
 And wandering o'er the wild, I sung 
 
 My fancies to the wood. 
 I mourned the linnet-lover's fate, 
 Or turtle from her murdered mate. 
 
 Condemned tiie widowed hours to wail : 
 Or while the mournful vision rose, 
 I sought to weep for imaged woes, 
 And sorrowed o'er the p'nintive tragic tale ! 
 
 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood 
 
 That hides me in its gIo<jm, 
 While lost in melancholy mood 
 
 I muse upon the tomb. 
 Their chequered leaves the branches shed ; 
 Whirling in eddies o'er my head. 
 
 They sadly sigh that winter's near : 
 The warning voice I hear behind. 
 That shakes the wood without a wind, 
 And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. 
 
 Nor will I court Lethean streams, 
 
 The sorrowing sense to steep ; 
 Nor drink oblivion of the themes 
 
 On which I love to weep. 
 Belated oft by fabled rill, 
 While nightly o'er the hallowed hill 
 
 Aerial music seems to mourn ; 
 I'll listen autunui's closing strain ; 
 Then woo the walks of youth again. 
 And ix)ur my sorrows o'er the untimely urn I 
 
 John Logan. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD-SWAIN. 
 
 HERE lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, 
 A shepherd-swain a man of low degree. 
 Whose sires, perchance, in fairyland might 
 T dwell, 
 
 .Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; 
 
 But he, I ween, was of the north cuuntrie ; 
 
 A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms ; 
 
 Zealous, yet modest ; innocent, though free ; 
 
 Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
 
 Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. 
 
 The shepherd-swain, of whom I mention made, 
 On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock ; 
 The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never swayed ; 
 An honest heart was almost all his stock ; 
 His drink the living water from the rock ; 
 The milky dams supplied his board, and lent 
 Their kindly fleece to baffle winters shock ; 
 And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent. 
 Did guide and guard their wanderings, whereso'er 
 they went. 
 
 James Beattie, 
 
 '■iii -: 
 
!•! 
 
 BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 145 
 
 ALPINE HEIGHTS. ' 
 
 N Alpine heiglits tlie love of Goil is shed ; 
 He paints tlie morning red, 
 The flowerets A'hi e anil ijlue, 
 And feeds theni with his dew, 
 On Alpine heights a loving I'.itlier dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath, 
 The loveliest breezes breathe ; 
 So free and pure the air. 
 His breath seems floating ihere. 
 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye. 
 
 Still vales and meadows lie ; 
 
 The soaring glacier's ice 
 
 Gleams like a paradise. 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets (low ! 
 
 There the bold chamois go ; 
 
 On giddy crags they stand. 
 
 And drink from his own hand. 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snow. 
 
 The sheep and wild goats go ; 
 
 There, in the solitude, 
 
 He fills their hearts with food. 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 
 
 On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his herd ; 
 
 His Shepherd is the Lord ; 
 
 For he who feeds the sheep 
 
 Will sure his offspring keep. 
 On Alpine heights a loving Father dw'.Hs. 
 
 Frederick W. Krumm.vcher. 
 
 TO A COMET. 
 
 I'^OW lovely is this wildered scene, 
 I§1 As twilight from her vaults so blue 
 1 r Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green, 
 ^•^ To sleep embalmed in midnight dew ! 
 
 All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, 
 Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky ! 
 
 And thou, mysterious guest of night. 
 Dread traveler of immensity ! 
 
 Stranger of heaven ! I bid thee hail ! 
 
 Shred from the pall of glory riven. 
 That flachest in celestial gale, 
 
 liroad pennon of the King of heaven I 
 
 Art thou the flag of woe and death, 
 Froin angel's ensign-staff" unfurltd ? 
 
 Art thou the standard of his wrath 
 Waved o'er a sordid sinful world ? 
 
 No, from that pure pellucid bepm, 
 That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, 
 (10) 
 
 No latent evil we can deem. 
 
 Bright herald of the eternal throne ! 
 
 Whate'er portends thy front of fire. 
 Thy streaming locks so lovely pale — 
 
 Or peace to man, or judgments dire, 
 Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail ! 
 
 Where hast thou roamed these thousand years T 
 Why sought these polar paths ;igain, 
 
 From wilderness (jf glowin.:^ spheres, 
 To fling thy vesture o'er the wain ? 
 
 And when thou scalest the milky way, 
 
 And vanishest from human \ lew, 
 A thou.sand worlds shall h.il tliy ray 
 
 Through wilds of yon empyreal blue ! 
 
 Oh I on that rapid prow to glide ! 
 
 To .-.ail the boundless skies with thee, 
 And plow the twinkling stars aside. 
 
 Like foam bells on a tranquil sea ! 
 
 To brush the embers from the sun, 
 
 The icicles from ofT the pole ; 
 Then far to other systems run. 
 
 Where otht-r moons and planets roll ! 
 
 .Stranger of heaven ! O let thine eye 
 Smile on a rapt enthusiasts dream ; 
 
 Eccentric as thy course on high. 
 And airy iiS thiiie ambient beam ! 
 
 And long, long may thy silver ray 
 
 Our northern arcli at eve adorn ; 
 Then, wheeling to the east away, 
 
 Light the gray portals of tl'.e morn I 
 
 J.\.MEs Hogg. 
 
 THE PUMPKIN. 
 
 FRUIT loved by boyhood ! tho old days re- 
 calling ; 
 f When wood-grapes were purpling and 
 brown nuts were falling ! 
 When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin. 
 Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! 
 When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts 
 
 all in tune. 
 Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon. 
 Telling tales of the fiiiry who traveled like steam 
 In a ]iumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team I 
 Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or better 
 E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! 
 I'^iirer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine. 
 Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine! 
 And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, 
 Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 
 That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below. 
 And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow. 
 And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
 Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie ! 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 |! r 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 ( 
 
 
 iff! 
 
146 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 I i '! 
 
 ii 
 
 ''hi 'H 
 
 III 
 
 frb- 
 
 TO SENECA LAKE. 
 
 X tliy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 Kf 1 Tilt; wild suaii spreads his snowy sail, 
 And round liis breast the ripples break, 
 ^•^ As down he bears before the gale. 
 
 On thy fair busom, wavelcss stream, 
 
 The dipping paddle echoes far, 
 And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
 
 And bright reflects the polar star. 
 
 The waves along thy pebbly shore, 
 As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, 
 
 And curl around tiie dashing oar, 
 As late the boatman hies him home. 
 
 How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
 Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
 
 And see the mist of mantling l)Iue 
 
 Float round the distant mountain's side. 
 
 At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
 
 A sheet of silver spreads below, 
 And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 
 
 Like clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 
 
 On thy fair besom, silver lake, 
 
 O, could I ever sweep the oar, 
 When early birds at morning wake. 
 
 And evening tells us toil is o'er ! 
 
 James Gates Percivai,. 
 
 ii 
 
 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 
 
 *0\V does the water 
 
 Come down at Lodore ! " 
 My little boy asked me 
 Thus, once on a time ; 
 And moreover he tasked me 
 To tell him in rhyme. 
 Anon at the word, 
 There first came one daughter, 
 And then came another, 
 To second and third 
 The request of their brother, 
 And to hear how the water 
 Comes down at Lodore, 
 With its rush and its n-ar, 
 
 As many a time 
 They had seen it before. 
 So 1 told them in rhyme. 
 For of rhymes I had store ; 
 And 't was in my vocation 
 For their recreation 
 That so I should sing ; 
 Because I was laureate 
 To them and the King. 
 
 From its sources which well 
 In the tarn on the fell ; 
 I'^rom its fountains 
 In the mountains, 
 
 Its rills and its gills ; 
 Through moss and through brake. 
 It nms and it creeps 
 For a while, till it sleeps 
 
 In its own little lake. 
 
 And thence at departing, 
 
 Awakening and starting, 
 
 It runs through the reeds, 
 
 And away it proceeds, 
 
 Through meadow and glade. 
 
 In Sim and in shade. 
 And through the wood-shelter, 
 Among crags in its flurry, 
 Helter-skelter, 
 Hurry-skurry. 
 Here it comes sparkling. 
 And there it lies darkling ; 
 Now smoking and frothing 
 Its tumult and wrath in. 
 Till, in this rapid race 
 On which it is bent. 
 It reaches the place 
 Of its steep descent. 
 
 The cataract strong 
 Then plunges along. 
 Striking and raging 
 As if a war waging 
 Its caverns and rocks among ; 
 Rising and leaping. 
 Sinking and creeping, 
 Swelling and sweeping. 
 Showering and springing. 
 i"'lying and flinging. 
 Writhing and ringing. 
 Eddying and whisking, 
 Spouting and frisking. 
 Turning and twisting, 
 
 Around and around 
 
 With endless rebound : 
 
 Smiting and fighting, 
 
 A sight to delight in ; 
 
 Confounding, astounding, 
 
 Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 
 
 Collecting, projecting. 
 Receding and speeding, 
 And shocking and rocking. 
 And darting and parting. 
 And threatling and spreading, 
 And whizzing and hissing. 
 And dripping and skipping. 
 And hitting and splitting, 
 And shining and twining, 
 Antl rattling and battling, 
 And shaking and quaking. 
 And pounng and roaring. 
 And waving and raving. 
 And tossing and crossing. 
 And flowing and going. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 147 
 
 And running and stunning, 
 And foaming and roaming, 
 And dinning and spinning. 
 And dropping and hopping, 
 And working and jerking, 
 And guggling and struggling, 
 And lieavinf); and clt-aving, 
 And moaning and groaning ; 
 
 And glittering and fnttering, 
 And gathering and fcathtring. 
 And whitening and brightening, 
 And quivering and shivering, 
 And hurrying and ■ kurrying, 
 " And thundering and floundering ; 
 
 Dividing and gliding and sliding, 
 
 And falling and bniwling and sprawling, 
 
 And driving and riding and striving, 
 
 And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
 
 And sounding and bounding and rounding, 
 
 And bubbling and troubling and doubling, 
 
 And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, 
 
 And clattering and battering and shattering ; 
 
 Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. 
 Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. 
 Advancing and prancing and glancmg and dancing. 
 Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, 
 And gleaming and stre;uning and steaming.and beam- 
 ing. 
 And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing. 
 And (lapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 
 And curling and whirling and purling and twirling. 
 And thumping and plumping and bumping and jump- 
 ing, 
 And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing ; 
 And so never ending, but always descending, 
 .Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending 
 All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar — 
 And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 
 
 RoiiKRT SoiTiir.v. 
 
 THE RHINE. 
 
 'HE castled crag of Drachenfels 
 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the vine, 
 And hills all rich with blossomed trees, 
 
 AnJfields which promise corn and wine, 
 And scattered cities crowning these. 
 
 Whose far white walls along them shine, 
 Have strewed a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy, wert thou with me. 
 
 And peasant-girls with deep-blue eyes. 
 And hands which offer early flowers, 
 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray. 
 And many a rock whicii steeply lowers. 
 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
 
 I'ut one thing want these banks oT Rhine — 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 
 
 1 send the' lilies given to nie, 
 
 Though long before thy hand they touch 
 1 know liiat they nuist witiiered be — 
 
 lUit yet reject them not as such ; 
 For I have cherished tliem as dear, 
 
 Hecause they yet may meet tliine eye. 
 Anil guide thy soul to mine e'en here, 
 
 When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
 And kn.•)^vest them gathered by t!i ; Kliine, 
 And .jifered from my heirt to thine ! 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows, 
 
 The charm of this enchanted ground, 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 
 Some fresher beauty varying roimd : 
 The haughtiest breast its wish niiglit bound 
 
 Through life to dwell delighted Iiere ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 
 To nature and to me so dear. 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 
 Still sweeten more these Vjaiiks if Rhine ! 
 
 I.o;;d Byron. 
 
 SONG OF THE RIVER 
 
 eLEAR and cool, clear and cool, 
 By laughing shallow and dreaming pool ; 
 Cool and clear, cool and clear. 
 By shining shingle and foaming weir ; 
 Under the crag where the ouzel sings, 
 And the ivied wall where the cluirch-bell rings, 
 Undefiled for the inidefiled ; 
 Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child ! 
 
 Dank and foul, dank and foul, 
 
 By the smoky town in its murky cowl ; 
 
 Foul and dank, foul and dank. 
 
 By wharf, and sewer, and slimy bank; 
 
 Darker and darker the further I go, 
 
 Baser and baser the richer 1 grow ; 
 
 Who dare sport with the sin-defiled ? 
 
 Shrink from me, turn rroin me, mother and child ! 
 
 Strong and free, strong ?nd free. 
 
 The flood-gates are open, away to the sea : 
 
 Free and strong, free and strong. 
 
 Cleansing my streams as I hurry along 
 
 To the golden sands and the leaping bar, 
 
 And the taintless tide that awaits me afar, 
 
 And I lose myself in the infinite main. 
 
 Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again, 
 
 Undefiled for the undefiled ; 
 
 Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child ! 
 
 Charles Kincsley. 
 
 j;i 
 
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 U 
 
 ' ! ! 
 
 1! 1 
 
 I . I I 
 
 Li 
 
 •I i 
 
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 V3 
 
 
 
148 
 
 CROWN JKWr.LS. 
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 HAT beauties iloes I'lora disclose ! 
 
 How sweet are lier smiles u\io\\ Tweed ! 
 Yet Mary's, still sweeter tliaii those, 
 Hotli nature and fancy exceed. 
 Nor daisy, nor swei't-hlusliing rose, 
 
 Not all the gay flowers of the field. 
 Not Tweed glidinc: gently through those. 
 Such beauty and i)leasure does yield. 
 
 The warblers ar . heard in the grove, 
 
 The linnet, tlie lark, and the thrush, 
 The blackbird, ;'.nd sweet-cooing dove, 
 
 With music em liant every bush. 
 Come, let us go forth to the mead. 
 
 Let us see how the primroses spring ; 
 We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 
 
 And love while the feathered folks sing. 
 
 How does my love pass the long day ? 
 
 Does Pilary not tend a few sheep? 
 Do they never carelessly stray, 
 
 While happily she lies asleep ? 
 Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ; 
 
 Kind natine indulging my bliss, 
 To relieve the soft pains of my breast, 
 
 I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 
 
 'Tis she does the virgins excel, 
 
 No beauty with her may comjxire : 
 Love's graces around her do dwell ; 
 
 .She's fairest where th(jusauds are fair. 
 Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray. 
 
 Oh ! tell me at noon where they teed ; 
 Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay 
 
 Or the p<leasanter banks of the Tweed ? 
 
 William Crawford. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 /.^■[^'LOW on forever, in th\- glorious robe 
 •®Y^ Of terror and of beauty. Yes, flow on, 
 M. L'nfathomed and resistless. God hath .set 
 
 His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. — And he doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
 Eternally, — bidding the lip of man 
 Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar ixjur 
 Incense of awe-struck praise. 
 
 The morning stars, 
 When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, 
 Heard thy deep anthem, — and those wrecking (ires 
 Th.-!! wait the archangel's signal to dissolve 
 The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name 
 Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears. 
 On tlnne unfathomed page. — Each leafy bough 
 That lifts itself \Vithin thy proud domain, 
 Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
 And tremble at the baptism. — Lo ! yon birds 
 Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing 
 
 Amid thy foam and mist. — 'Tis meet for them 
 To touch thy garment's hem — or lightly stir 
 The snowy leaflets of thy vapt)r wreath — 
 Who sport unhanned upon the fleecy cloiul, 
 .■\u(l listen at the echoing gate of heaven. 
 Without reproof. — But as for us — it seems 
 .Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak 
 I'amiliarly of thee. — Melhinks, to tint 
 Tliy glorious features with our pencil's point, 
 C)r woo thee to a tablet of a song. 
 Were profanation. 
 
 Thou dost make the .soul 
 A wondering witness of thy majesty ; 
 And while it rushes with delirious joy « 
 
 To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step, 
 And check its rapture with tlie humbling view 
 Of its (jwn nothingness, bidding it stand 
 In till- dread ])resence of the Invisible, 
 As if to answer to its God through thee. 
 
 LVDIA H. SiGOURNKV. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 ' NTO the sunshine, 
 Full of light, 
 Leaping and flashing 
 From morn to night ! 
 
 Into the moonlight, 
 
 Whiter than snow. 
 Waving so flower-like 
 
 When the winds blow ! 
 
 Into the starlight, 
 
 Rushing in spray, 
 Happy at midnight, 
 
 Happy by day ! 
 
 Ever in motion, 
 
 Blithesome and cheery, 
 Still climbing heavenward 
 
 Never a-wearj- ! 
 
 Glad of all weatliers. 
 
 Still seeming best. 
 Upward or downward 
 
 Motion thy rest ; 
 
 F'uU ofa nature 
 
 Nothing can tame, 
 Changed every moment, 
 
 Ever the same ; — 
 
 Ceaseless, aspiring ; 
 
 Ceaseless, content ; 
 Darkness or sunshine 
 
 Thy element. 
 
 Glorious fountain ! 
 
 Let my heart be 
 Fresh, changeful, constant. 
 
 Upward, like thee ! 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 149 
 
 THE FALL OF NIAGARA. 
 
 V~*HE thoughts arc strange tliat crowjl into my 
 ^JV lirain, 
 
 V ^ While I look upward to IIk-c. It would sccni 
 ''* As if God pourcil tliue from Ills liollow hand, 
 And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; 
 And spoke in tliat loud voice, which s^i. nn.il to him 
 Who dwelt in Patnios for his Saviour's sake, 
 The sound of many waters ; and had bade 
 Thy fliKxl to chronicle tlie ages ba^:k. 
 And notch His ages in the eternal rocks. 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, 
 That hear the ciuestion of that voice sublime? 
 ( ), what are the notes that ever rung 
 I'Vom war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side? 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
 In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him 
 Who drowned a world, and heaped tlie waters far 
 Above its loftiest mountains? — a light wave. 
 That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 
 
 John G. C. IJrain.vuu. 
 
 INVOCATION TO RAIN IN SUMMER. 
 
 GENTLE, gentle summer rain, 
 Let not the silver lily pine. 
 The drooping lily pine in vain 
 
 To feel that dewy touch of thine — 
 To drink thy freshness once again, 
 C) gentle, gentle summer rain ! 
 
 In heat the landscape quivering lies ; 
 
 The cattle pant beneath the tree ; 
 Through [larching fiir and purple skies 
 
 The earth looks up, in vain, for thee < 
 For thee — for thee, it looks in vain, 
 O gentle, gentle summer rain. 
 
 Come thou, and brim the meadow streams, 
 
 And soften all the hills with mist, 
 O falling dew 1 from burning dreams 
 
 By tiiee shall herb and flower be kissed. 
 And earth shall bless thee yet again, 
 O gentle, gentle summer rain. 
 
 William Cox Bknnktt. 
 
 THE BROOK-SIDE. 
 
 WANDERED by the brook-side, 
 I wandered by the mill; 
 1 could not hear the brook flow — 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 No chirp of any bird. 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 ^ 
 
 I sat beneath the clm-trcc ; 
 
 I watch'.d the long, long shade, 
 
 And, -IS it grew still longer, 
 
 I ilii! not feel afraid ; 
 
 I'"(ir 1 listened for a footfall, 
 
 I list-.'ned for a word — 
 
 But the lieating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not — no, he came not — 
 The night came on alone — 
 The little stars sat one by c^nc, 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 The evening wind passed by my clieek, 
 The leaves above were slirreil — 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I he.-inl. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing, 
 Wiien something stood behind ; 
 A hand was on my shoulder — 
 I knew its touch was kind : 
 It drew nie nearer — nearer — 
 We did not speak one word, 
 I'or the beating of our own hearts 
 Wiis all the sound we heanl. 
 
 I.OKi) Houghton. 
 
 ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. 
 
 N Leven's banks, while free to rove. 
 And tune the rural pipe to love, 
 I envied not the happiest swain 
 That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 
 
 Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave 
 My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 
 No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
 No rocks impede thy dimpling court.e, 
 Tiiat sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
 Witii white, round, polished jicbbles spread ; 
 While, lightly poised, the st:aly brood 
 In myriads cleave thy crystal Hood ; 
 The springing trout in speckled pride, 
 The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
 The ruthless pike, intent on war. 
 The silver eel, and mottled par. 
 Devolving from thy parent lake, 
 A charming maze thy waters make. 
 By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, 
 And edges flowered with eglantine. 
 
 Still on thy banks so gaily green. 
 May numerous herds and flocks be seen : 
 And lasses chanting o'er the pail. 
 And shepherds piping in the dale ; 
 And ancient faith that knows no guile, 
 And industry embrowned with toil ; 
 And hearts resolved, and hands prepared. 
 The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 
 
 T. Georgk Smollictt. 
 
 A ! 
 
 ,: li 
 
 ¥\ 
 
150 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 .; 'il I 
 
 ■• ! 
 
 THE LATTER RAIN. 
 
 HE latter rain — it falls in an.\ious haste 
 Upon the sun-dried fields and branches b.are, 
 Loosening with searching drops tlic rigid 
 waste 
 
 As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; 
 It pierces chestnut-hurr and walnut-shell ; 
 The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops; 
 Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ; 
 And all that once received the early rain 
 Declare to man it was nut sent in vain. 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
 SONG OF THE BROOK. 
 
 I* CO.MIi; from haunts of coot and hern ; 
 1 make a sudden sally, 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 I>y thirty hills I hurry down, 
 Or slip between the ridges ; 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town, 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm T flow 
 To join the briinmiiig river ; 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 l?ut I go on for ever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 In lillle sharps and trebles ; 
 
 1 bubble intii eddying bays, 
 1 babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curx'e my banks I fret 
 Hy many a field and fallow, 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 To join lh,j brimming river ; 
 
 For men m:iy come and men may go, 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out. 
 With here a blossom sailing, 
 
 And here and there a lusty trout. 
 And here and there a grayling ; 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel. 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel ; 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 
 I slide by hazel covers ; 
 
 I ni(»ve the sweet forget-me-not -i 
 That grow for happ>- lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
 Among my skimming swallows; 
 
 I make llie netted sunbe.im d.ince 
 Ag.iinst my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under iikkmi and stars 
 
 In brambly wildernesses ; 
 I linger by my shingly bars ; 
 
 1 loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 
 For iiKii may come and men may go. 
 
 Hut I go on for ever. 
 
 AM'REu Tennyson. 
 
 LITTLE STREAMS. 
 
 , ITTLE .streams are light and shadow, 
 Flowing through the pasture meadow, 
 IHowing by the green way-side. 
 Through the forest dim and wide. 
 
 Through tiie hamlet still and small — 
 
 By llie cottage, by the hall. 
 
 By the ruined abbey still ; 
 
 Turning here and there a mill, 
 
 liearing tribute to the river — 
 
 Little streams, I love you ever. 
 
 Summer music is there flowing — 
 I'lowering plants in them are growing; 
 Happy life is in them all. 
 Creatures innocent and small ; 
 Little birds come down to drink. 
 Fearless of their leafy biink ; 
 Noble trees beside them grow, 
 (ilooming them with branches low ; 
 And between, the sunshine, glancing, 
 In their little waves, is dancing. 
 
 Little streams have flowers a many, 
 Beautiiiil and fair as any ; 
 Typlia strong, and green bur-reed ; 
 Willow-herb, with cotton-seed ; 
 Arrow-head, with eye of jet ; 
 And the water-violet. 
 There the flowering-rush you meet, 
 And the plumy meadow-sweet ; 
 And, in places deep and stilly, 
 Marble-like, the water-lily. 
 
 I ,iltle streams, their voices cheery, 
 •Sound forth welcomes to the weary, 
 Mowing on from day to day. 
 Without stint and without stay ; 
 Here, upon their flowery bank. 
 In the old time pilgrims drank — 
 
 ir.'f 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 161 
 
 Here have seen, ns now, pa by, 
 Kiiiy-fishcr, and dra^on-lly ; 
 Those bright tilings that liavo tluir dwelling, 
 Where the little streams are welling. 
 
 Dcwn in valleys green and lowly, 
 Murmuring not and gliiling slowly ; 
 Up in mountain-hollows wilil, 
 !•' retting like a peevLsh child ; 
 Through the hamlet, where all day 
 In their waves t!io thililrcn play ; 
 Running west, or running east, 
 Doing good to man and beast — 
 Always giving, weary never. 
 Little streams, I love you ever. 
 
 Mauv IIowitt. 
 
 THE CATARACT AND THE STREAMLET. 
 
 I^ 
 
 OBLE the mountain stream, 
 Bursting in grandeur from its vantage-ground ; 
 
 Glory is in its gleam 
 Of brightness — thunder in its deafening sound ! 
 
 Mark, how its foamy spray. 
 Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected tlyes. 
 
 Mimics the bow of day 
 Arching in majesty the vaulted skies ; 
 
 Thence, in a summer-shower, 
 Steeping the rocks around— O ! tell me where 
 
 Could majesty and power 
 Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair? 
 
 Yet lovelier, in my view. 
 The streamlet flowing silently serene ; 
 
 Traced by the bri;^hter hue. 
 And livelier growth it gives — itself unseen ! 
 
 It flows through flowery meads. 
 Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse 
 
 Its quiet beauty feeds 
 The alders that o'ersliade it with their boughs. 
 
 Gently it murmurs by 
 The village churchyard : its low, plaintive tone, 
 
 A dirge-like melody. 
 For worth and beauty modest as its own. 
 
 More gaily jiow it sweeps 
 By the small school-house in the sunshine bright ; 
 
 And o'er the pebbles Icajw, 
 Like happy hearts by holiday made light. 
 
 May not its course express. 
 In characters which tiiey who run may read, 
 
 The charms of gentleness. 
 Were but its still small voice allowed to plead 
 
 What are the trophies gained 
 By power, alone, with all its iK)ise and strife, 
 
 To that meek wreath, unstained. 
 Won by the charities that gladden life ? 
 
 Niagara's streams might fail. 
 And human happiness be unilistnrljeil : 
 
 But I'-g)pt would turn pale. 
 Were her still Nile's o'erflmving bnunly curbed ! 
 
 BlOKNAKU B.\Rr()N. 
 
 SHOWERS IN SPRING. 
 
 'HE norlh-east sjjends his rage ; he now, s)uil up 
 Within his iron cave, the elfusive soulli 
 Warms the wide air, and o'er tlie void of 
 'f heaven 
 
 Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers di-.K iil. 
 At first, a dusky wreath lliey set in to rise, 
 .Scarce staining ether, but by swift (L;;rees, 
 In heaps on heaps the doubled vapor sails 
 Along tlio loaded sky, and, n'iin,:;!iiig deep, 
 .Sits on the horizon round, a seltLd gl.K.r.i ; 
 Not such as wintry storms on mortals slied. 
 Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, 
 And full of every hope, of every joy. 
 The wish of nature. Gradual siahs the breeze 
 Into a perfect calm, that not a breath 
 Is heard to quiver tluMUgii the closing \v(}ods. 
 Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves 
 Of aspen tall. The inicurling floods diffused 
 In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse, 
 Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all. 
 And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks 
 Drop the dry sprig, and, nuite-imiiloring, eye 
 The falling verdure. Hushed in short suspense, 
 The plumy people streak their wings with oil. 
 To throw the lucid moisture trickling off, 
 And wait the approacliing sign, to strike at once 
 Into the general choir. I'3ven mountains, vale.s, 
 .\nd forests, seem impatient to demand 
 The promised sweetness. Man superior walks 
 Amid the glad creation, musing praise 
 And looking lively gratitude. At last 
 The clouds coiisign their treasures to the fields. 
 And, sofUy shaking on the dimpled pool 
 Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow 
 In lani;e eniision o'er the freshened world. 
 The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard 
 By such as wander through the forest walks, 
 Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. 
 
 Jamks Thomson. 
 
 THE ANGLERS SONG. 
 
 " Tlivre is no life more pleasant than the life of Itie W(.II-i;i'v- 
 tinuil angler."— yjuot U'allon. 
 
 m 
 
 HEN first the flame of day 
 Crimsons tlie sea-hke mist. 
 And from the valley rolls away 
 The haze, by the sumbeam kissed. 
 Then to the lonely woods I pass, 
 
 With angling rod and line, 
 While yet the dew drops in the grass 
 Like llahhiDg diamonds shine. 
 
 '); I; 
 
I! 
 
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 IIP 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 1 
 
 
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 ■ ■ 1 
 
 
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 ir)2 
 
 CROWN J i:\VKLS. 
 
 How vast the mossy forest-halls, 
 
 Silent, and full of gloom ! 
 ThroiiHli the lii);h roof tlii; day huam falls, 
 
 Liki: tonh-Ught in n tomb. 
 The old trunks of trees rise romul 
 
 Like pillars in a cliurch or old, 
 And the wind (ills them with a sound 
 
 As if a bell were tolled. 
 
 Where falls the noisy stream. 
 
 In many a bnbblc brii;lu, 
 Alontj whoso grassy margin gleam 
 
 Flowers gaudy to the sight, 
 There silently I stand. 
 
 Watching my angle play. 
 And eagerly draw to the land 
 
 My speckled prey. 
 
 Oft, ere the carrion bird has left 
 
 His eyrie, the dead tree. 
 Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft 
 
 The cloud in heaven's bine sea. 
 Or ete tile lark's swift pinion speeds 
 
 Tc meet the misty day. 
 My foot hath shaken the bending reeds, 
 
 My rod sought out its prey. 
 
 And when th^ twilight, with a blush 
 
 Upon her clieek, goes by, 
 And evening's universal hush 
 
 Fuls all the darkened sky, 
 And steadily the tapers burn 
 
 In villages far away, 
 Then from the lonely stream I turn 
 
 And from the forests gray. 
 
 Isaac McLellan. 
 
 HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 ,OD of the earth's extended plains ! 
 
 The dark green fields contented lie : 
 The mountains rise like holy towers, 
 Where the man might commune with tiic 
 sky : 
 The tall cliff challenges the storm 
 That lowers on tlie vale below. 
 Where the shaded fountains send their streams. 
 With joyous music in their flow. 
 
 God of the light and viewless air ! 
 
 Where the summer breezes sweetly flow. 
 Or, gathering in their angry might. 
 
 The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
 All — from the evening's plaintive sigh. 
 
 That Iiardly lifts the drooping flower, 
 To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 
 
 Bring forth the language of Thy power. 
 
 God of the fair and open sky ! 
 How gloriously above us springs 
 
 The tented dome, of heavenly blue, 
 Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! 
 
 Kach brilliant star, that sparkles through, 
 Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
 
 In evening's purple radiance, gives 
 The beauty of its praise to Thee. 
 
 flod of the rolling orlis above ! 
 
 Thy name is written clearly bright 
 In the warm day's unvarying bla/e. 
 
 Or evening's golden shower of light. 
 I''or every fire that fronts tlu; si:n. 
 
 And every spark that walks alone 
 Arounil tile utninst ver!',e of heaven. 
 
 Were kindled at Thy burning throne. 
 
 God of the worlil ! the hour must come 
 
 And nature's self to dust return ; 
 1 ler crumbling altars nmst decay ; 
 
 Her inceiise-fircs shall cease to burn ; 
 But still her grand and lovely scenes 
 
 I lave made man's warmest praises flow ; 
 For hearts grow holier as they trace 
 
 The beauty of the world below. 
 
 William 11. Peabodv. 
 
 SIGNS OF RAIN. 
 
 KKASONS hUK NOT ACCHI'TINll AN INVIlAlKlN 1)1' A IKJKMI 
 TO MAKli AN KXCURSION WITH lll.M. 
 
 IE hollow winds begin to blow ; 
 
 2 The clouds k)ok black, tiie glass is low, 
 
 3 The soot flills down, the spaniels sleep, 
 
 4 And spiders from their cobwebs peep. 
 Last night the sun went pale to bed. 
 The moon in halos hid her head ; 
 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 
 For see, a rainbow spans the sky ! 
 The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 
 Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. 
 Mark how the chairs and table crack I 
 Old Betty's ner\es are on the rack ; 
 Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry. 
 The distant hills are seeming nigh. 
 How restless are the snorting swine I 
 The busy flies disturb the kine. 
 Low o'er the grass tlie sw.i'low wings, 
 The cricket, too, how sharp he sings ! 
 Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 
 Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws ; 
 Through t'.ie clear streams the fishes rise. 
 And nimbly catch the incautious flies. 
 The glowworms, numerous and light, 
 Illumed the dewy dell last night ; 
 At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 
 Hopping and crawling o'er the green ; 
 The whirling dust the wind obeys, 
 And in the rapid eddy plays ; 
 
 5 
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 19 
 
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 23 
 24 
 25 
 26 
 27 
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RKAUTIES OF NaTURK 
 
 163 
 
 99 The frog has changed his yellow vest, 
 
 30 /\ikI ill a russet eoat if ilressed. 
 
 31 TliDUgli Jtme, till! air is cold and still, 
 
 32 Till* mellow blackbird's voice is shrill ; 
 
 33 My dog, so nltered in his taste, 
 
 34 Ouils mutton-bones on grass to feast ; 
 
 35 And SCO yon rooks, how odd their llight I 
 
 36 They imitate the gliding kite, 
 
 37 And seem precipitate to fall, 
 
 38 As if they felt tlie piercing ball. 
 
 39 'T will surely rain ; I see with sorrow 
 
 40 Our jaunt must be put ofT to-morrow. 
 
 Edward Jennkr. 
 
 IG 
 
 BEFORE THE RAIN. 
 
 E knew it would rain, for all the morn, 
 A spirit on slender ropes (f mist 
 Was lowering its golden buckets down 
 Into the vapory amethyst 
 
 Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens — 
 Scooping the dew that lay in tlie flowers. 
 
 Dipping the jewels out of tile sea. 
 To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 
 
 We knew it would rain, forthc jioplars sliowed 
 The white of their leaves, the aniber gr.iin 
 
 Shrunk in the wind— and the lightning now 
 Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. 
 
 Tll()M.\S H.MI.KV Aluricm. 
 
 AFTER THE RAIN. 
 
 'HE rain has ceased, and in my room 
 The sunshine p(juis an airy (lood ; 
 And on the church's dizzy vane 
 The ancient cross is bathed in blood. 
 
 From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
 Anlicjuely carven, gray and high, 
 A dormer, facing westward, looks 
 Upon the village like an eye : 
 
 And now it glimmers in the sun, 
 A square of gold, a disk, a speck : 
 And in the belfry sits a dove 
 With purple ripples on her neck. 
 
 TH0M-\S B.MLEV AlDRICH. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S WISH. 
 
 T X these flowery meads would be, 
 ■'I' These crystal streams should solace me ; 
 «!• To whose hamionious bubbling noise, 
 ' I with my angle would rejoice. 
 
 Sit here, and see the turtle-dove. 
 Court his chaste mate to acts of love; 
 
 Or on that bank, feel the west wind 
 Hreathe health and plenty, please my mind 
 To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
 And then wash off by April showers : 
 
 Here, hear my Kenna sing a song. 
 There, see n blackbird feed her young, 
 
 Or a laverock build her nest ; 
 
 Here give my weary spirits rest. 
 
 And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 
 
 I^artli, or what poor mortals love : 
 Thus free from lawsuits, and the noise 
 Of princes' courts, 1 would rejoice: 
 
 Or with my Hryan .ind a book. 
 Loiter long ila>s near .Shawford Urook ; 
 There sit by him, and eat my meat. 
 There see the sun liolii rise and set ; 
 There bid good-morning to next day ; 
 There meditate my time away ; 
 And angle on, and beg to have 
 A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 
 
 l/..\.\lv W.M.TON. 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 HERI'' is a pleasure in the palliless woods, 
 There is a lapture on the lonely sliore. 
 There is society, wliere none intrudes, 
 "f By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; 
 1 love not man the less, 1 ut nature more, 
 I'Voiii these our interviews, in which I steal 
 Eroiii all 1 may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the imiverse, and feel 
 What 1 can ne'er e.xpress, yet cannot all conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep i;nd dark blue ocean — roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee m vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
 Stoi)S with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy cKl-i], nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own ; . 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths willi bubbling groan — 
 Witiiout a grave, unknelleil, uiicoffined, and unknown. 
 
 Thou gloriou's mirror, where tlie Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
 Culm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole ; or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sul)lime — 
 The image of eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of tlie deep are maile ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dreail, fathomless, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee, ocean I and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror- -'twas a pleasing 
 For I was, as it were, a child of thee. 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 I, 
 
 I 
 
 i 11 
 
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 iffit 
 
mi 
 
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 m 
 
 
 154 
 
 © 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 SUNSET AT NORHAM CASTLE 
 
 AY set on Norliam's castled steep, 
 And Tweed's f.iir river broad and deep, 
 
 And Cheviot's mountains lone ; 
 Tiie battled towers, the donjon keep, 
 Tlie loop-iiole grates where captives weep, 
 The flanking walls that round it sweep, 
 In yellow lustre shone. 
 
 The warriors on the turrets lni;h, 
 Moving athvvp.r", the evening sky, 
 
 Seemed forms of giant height; 
 Their armor, as it caught the rays. 
 Flashed back again tiie v^eslern blaze 
 
 In lines of dazzling light. 
 
 St. George's banner, broad and gay, 
 Now faded, as the failing ray 
 
 Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
 The evening gale had scarce the power 
 To wave it on the donjon tower. 
 
 So heavily it hung. 
 
 The scouts had parted on their search, 
 
 The castle gales were barred ; 
 Above the gloomy portal arch, 
 Timing his footsteps to a march, 
 The warder ki pt his guard. 
 Low hunnning, as he paced along, 
 Some ancient border-gathering song. 
 
 A distant tramping sound he hears ; 
 He looks abroad and soon a|)pears. 
 O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears 
 
 Beneath a pennon gay ; 
 A horseman, darting from the crowd. 
 Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
 Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 
 
 Before the dark array. 
 
 Beneath the sable palisade, 
 That closed the castle barricade. 
 
 His bugle-horn he blew ; 
 The warder hasted from the wall, 
 And warned the captain in the hall, 
 
 For well the blast he knew ; 
 And joyfully that knight did call 
 To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 THE ICEBERG. 
 
 'WAS night — our anchored vessel slept 
 Out on the glassy sea ; 
 And still as heaven the waters kept, 
 "^ And golden bright— as he. 
 
 The setting sun, went sinking slow 
 
 Beneath the eternal wave ; 
 And the ocean seemed a jiall to throw 
 Over the monarch's grave. 
 
 There was no motion of the air 
 
 To raise the sleeper's tress, 
 And no wave-building winds were there 
 
 On ocean's loveliness ; 
 But ocean mingled with the sky 
 
 With such an equal hue. 
 That vainly strove the 'wildered eye 
 
 To part their gold and blue. 
 
 And ne'er a ripple of the sea 
 
 Came on our steady gaze, 
 Save when S(jme timorous fish stole out 
 
 To bathe in the woven blaze — 
 When, fli)uting in the light that played 
 
 All over the resting main. 
 He would sink beneath the wave, and dart 
 
 To his deep, blue home again. 
 
 Vet, while we gazed, that sunny eve. 
 
 Across the twinkling deep, 
 A form came ploughing the golden wave. 
 
 And rending its holy sleep ; 
 It blushed bright red, while growing on 
 
 Our fixed, half-fearful gaze ; 
 But it w.-mdered down with its glow of light. 
 
 And its robe of sunny rays. 
 
 It seemed like molten silver, thrown 
 
 Tcjgetiier in floating flame ; 
 And as we looked, we named it then, 
 
 The fount whence all colors came : 
 There were rainbows furled with a careless gr:ue. 
 
 And tiic brightest red that glows ; 
 The purple amethyst there had place. 
 
 And the hues of a full-blown rose. 
 
 And the vivid green, as the sun-lit gr;iss 
 
 Where the pleasant rain hath been ; 
 And the ideal hues, that, thought-like, pass 
 
 Through the minds of fanciful men ; 
 They beamed full clear — and that form nioveii on, 
 
 Like one from a burning grave ; 
 And we dared not think it a real thing, 
 
 liul for the rustling wave. 
 
 The sun just lingered in our view, 
 
 I'>om the burning edge of ocean. 
 When by our bark that bright one passed 
 
 With a deep, disturbing motion : 
 The far down waters shrank away, 
 
 With a gurgling rush upheaving. 
 And the lifted waves grew pale and sad. 
 
 Their mother's bosom leaving. 
 
 Yet, as it passed our bending stern. 
 
 In its throne-like glory going. 
 It crushed on a hidden rock, and turned 
 
 Like an empire's overthrowing. 
 The uptorn waves rolled hoar — and, huge, 
 
 The far-thrown undulations 
 Swelled out in the sun's last, lingering smile. 
 
 And fell like battling nations, 
 
 J. O. KOCKWKLL. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 155 
 
 MOUNT WASHINGTON; THE LOFTIEST PEAK 
 OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 OUXT of tilt; cloutls, on wiiosi.' Olympian 
 height 
 The tall rocks brighten in tiie ether air, 
 ^ And spirits from the skies come down at 
 
 night, 
 To chant immortal songs to freedom there ! 
 Thine is the rock of other regions ; where 
 The world of life which blooms so far below 
 Sweeps a wide wiiste : no gladdening scenes appear, 
 Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow 
 Beneath the far ofT mountain, distant, calm, and slow. 
 
 Thine is the summit where the clouds repose. 
 Or, eddying wildly, round tiiy clilfs are borne ; 
 When tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws 
 His billowy mist amid the thunder's home ! 
 Tar down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come. 
 And bow the forests as they sweep along ; 
 While, roaring deeply from their njcky womb. 
 The storms come forth — and, hurrying darkly on, 
 Amid the echoing peaks, the revelry prolong ! 
 
 And, wb <\ the tumult of the air is fleil. 
 And quenched in silence al! the tenii)est flame, 
 There come the dim forms of the mighty dead. 
 Around the steep which bears the luni's n;nne. 
 The stars look down upon them — and the same 
 Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave, 
 Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, 
 And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave— 
 The richest, purest tear, that memory ever gave ! 
 
 Mount of the clouds, when winter round thee throws 
 The hoary mantle of the dying year. 
 Sublime, amid thy canopy of snows, 
 Tiiy towers in bright magnificence appear ! 
 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear 
 Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue ; 
 Wlieii, lo ! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear. 
 Thy battlements stand clotheil in heaven's own hue, 
 To swell as freedom's home on man's unbounded view. 
 
 Gkenvillk Meulun. 
 
 PALESTINE. 
 
 n 
 
 OW, upon Syria's land of roses 
 Softly the light of eve reposes, 
 And, like a glory, the broad sun 
 Hangs over sainted Lebanon, 
 Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, 
 
 And whitens with eternal sleet, 
 While summer, in a vale of flowers, 
 Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 
 
 To one who looked from upper air 
 O'er all the enchanted regions there, 
 
 I low beauteous must have been the glow, 
 
 The life, how sparkling from below ! 
 
 I'"air gard .'US, shining streams, with ranks 
 
 Of golden melons on their banks. 
 
 More golden where the sunlight falls ; 
 
 Clay lizards, glittering on the walls 
 
 Of ruined shrines, busy and bright 
 
 As they were all alive with light ; 
 
 And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 
 
 Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, 
 
 Wnth their rich, restless wings, tliat gleam 
 
 Variously in the crimson beam 
 
 Of the warm west— as if inlaid 
 
 With brilliants from the mine, or made 
 
 Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
 
 The unclouded skies of Peristan 1 
 
 And then, the mingling sounds th.at come. 
 
 Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum 
 
 Of the wild bees of Palestine, 
 
 IJanqueting, through the flowery vales ; — 
 And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, 
 
 And woods, so full of nighting.iles ! 
 
 Tiio.MAS Moore. 
 
 THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. 
 
 O claim the Arctic came the sun 
 With banners of the burning zone. 
 Unrolled upon their airy spars, 
 They froze beneadi the light of stars ; 
 And there they float, those streamers old. 
 Those nort'iKTu lights, forever cold ! 
 
 BliNJAMl.N' Tr.VNKLIN TaVLOR. 
 
 THE SUPERNATURAL. 
 
 'HOULD fate command me to the farthest verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barbarous 
 
 climes. 
 Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun 
 Cjilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
 Flames on the Atlantic isles : 'tis nought to me ; 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
 In the void waste, as in the city full ; 
 And where he vital breathes, there must be joy. 
 When even at last tlie solemn hour shall come, 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
 I cheerful will obey : there, with new powers, 
 Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
 Where universal love not smiles around. 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
 From seeming evil still educing good, 
 And belttr thence again, and better still. 
 In infinite progression. Rut I lose 
 Myself in him, in liglit inefiable; 
 Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise, 
 
 Ja.mes Thomson. 
 
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 156 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 HYMN ON SOLITUDE. 
 
 AIL, mildly pleasing solitude, 
 Companion of the wise and good, 
 But, from whose holy, piercing eye, 
 The herd of fools and villains fly. 
 Oh ! how I love with thee to walk. 
 And listen to thy whispered talk. 
 Which innocence and truth imparts. 
 And melts the most obdurate hearts. 
 
 A thousand shapes you wear with ease, 
 And still in every shape you please. 
 Now rapt in some mysterious dream, 
 A lone philosopher you seem ; 
 Now quick from hill to vale you fly. 
 And now you sweep the vaulted sky ; 
 A shepherd ne,\t, you haunt the plain. 
 And warble forth your oaten strain. 
 
 Thine is the balmy breath of morn, 
 Just as the dew-bent rose is born ; 
 And while meridian fervors beat. 
 Thine is the woodland dumb retreat ; 
 Hut chief, when evening scenes decay, 
 And the faint landscape swims away. 
 Thine is the doubtful soft decline, 
 And that best hour of musing thine. 
 Descending angels bless thy train, 
 Tlie virtues of the sage, and swam ; 
 Plain iimocence, in while arrayed, 
 Before thee lifts her fearless head: 
 Religion's beams arountl thee shine. 
 And cheer thy glooms with light divine : 
 About thee sports sweet liberty ; 
 And rapt Urania sings to thee. 
 
 Oil, let me pierce thy secret cell ! 
 And in thy deep recesses dwell ; 
 Perliaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, 
 VV'iien meditation has her fill, 
 I just may cast my careless eyes 
 Wliere London's spiry turrets rise, 
 Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain, 
 Then shield me in the woods again. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 TO A WILD DEER. 
 
 (-J ■•'IT couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee ! 
 ""U'l*" Magnificent prison inclosing the free ! 
 •IL With rock-wall encircled — witli precipice 
 
 crowned — 
 Which, awoke by the sini, thou canst clear at a bound. 
 'Mid the fern and the heather, kind nature doth keep 
 One briglit spot of green for her favorite's sleep ; 
 And close to that covert, as clear as 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 .is bold ! 
 How lonesome ! how wild ! yet the wildness is rife 
 With the stir of enjoyment— the spirit of life. 
 
 The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake. 
 Whose depths, at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake ! 
 As if in his soul tlie bold animal smiled 
 To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 No outrage is war to a cre.iture liice thee ! 
 
 The bugle-horn fills tliy wild spirit with glee. 
 
 As thou barest thy neck on th;' wings of the wind. 
 
 And the laggardly gaze hound is toiling behind. 
 
 In the beams of thy forehead tiiat glitter with death — 
 
 In feet that draw power fruin the toucli of the heath — 
 
 Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopjier sings. 
 
 And away in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 
 
 'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than 
 
 himself, 
 The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf — 
 The;; starts from his labor, unwearied and gay. 
 And circling his anlL'rs, buoms far, far away. 
 VVMiile high up the nKuiiilains, in silence remote. 
 The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note ; 
 The mellowing echo, on watcli in the skies, 
 Like a voice from the loftier climate replies. 
 With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, 
 There lies the wild cre.iture, e'en stately in rest ! 
 '.Mid the grandjur of nature, composed and serene, 
 And proud in his heart of the moinitainous scene. 
 He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven, 
 At noon sinking down on smootli wings to their haven, 
 In the wide-raging torrent that lends tiiee 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 st.ig 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 hunter and hound in their terror retreat 
 From the death tliat is spurned from his furious feet ; 
 And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, 
 As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 
 
 John Wilson. 
 
 THE SIERRAS. 
 
 IKE fragments of an uncompleted world, 
 From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spray. 
 To where the peaks of Darien lie curled 
 In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and 
 gray ; 
 The seamen nearing San Francisco Bay 
 Forget the compass here ; with sturdy hand 
 They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay 
 The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand. 
 The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land. 
 
 They stand white stairs of heaven — stand a line 
 Of lifting, endless, and eternal white; 
 
BEAUTIl S OF NATURE. 
 
 157 
 
 They look upon the far and (lashing brine, 
 Upon the boundless plains, tlie broken height 
 Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight 
 Of time is underneath their untopped lowers ; 
 They seem to push aside the moon at night, 
 To jostle and to lose the stars. Tiie flowers 
 Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers. 
 
 They stand a line of lifted snowy isles, 
 High held above a tossed and tumbled sea — 
 A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles ; 
 White pyramids of faith where man is free ; 
 White monuments of hope that yet .sliall be 
 The mounts of matchless and immortal song. 
 I look far down the hollow days ; I see 
 The bearded jirophets, simple-souled and strong, 
 That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding 
 throng. 
 
 Serene and satisfied ! suprenje ! as lone 
 
 As God, they loom like God's archangels churled : 
 
 They look as old as kings upon a throne ; 
 
 The mantling wings of night are crushed and 
 
 curled 
 As feathers curl. The elements are hurled 
 From off their bosoms, and are bidden go, 
 Like evil siiirits, to an under-world ; 
 They stretch from Cariboo to Me.xico, 
 A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. 
 
 JoA(jt'iN Miller. 
 
 THE SEA BREEZE AND THE SCARF. 
 
 'UN'G on the casement that loo' ed o'er the m.iin, 
 Fluttered a scarf of blue ; 
 And a gay, bold breeze paused to flatter and 
 tease 
 This trifle of delicate hue ; 
 " You are lovelier far than the i^roud skies are," 
 
 He said, with a voice that sighed ; ' 
 " You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea ; 
 Oh, why do you stay here and hide ? 
 
 " You are wasting your life in this dull, dark room ;" 
 
 And he fondled her silken folds. 
 "O'er the casement lean but a little, my queen, 
 And see what the great world holds ! 
 How the wonderful blue of your matchle.ss hue, 
 
 Cheapens both sea and sky ! 
 You are far too bright to be hidden from sight ; 
 Come, fly with me, darling, fly ! " 
 
 Tender his whisper and sweet his caress, 
 
 Flattereil and pleased was she, 
 The arms of her lover lifted her over 
 
 The casement out to sea ; 
 Close to his breast she was fondly pressed, 
 
 Kissed once by his laughing mouth ; 
 Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave, 
 
 While the wind went whistling south. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 UNDER THE LEAVES. 
 
 l-'T have I walked these woodland paths, 
 W'iiliout the blest foreknowing 
 That underneath the withered leaves 
 The fairest buds were growing. 
 
 To-day the south wind sweeps away 
 The types of autumn's splendor, 
 
 A..d sh.nvs the sweet arbutus flowers, 
 Spring's children, pure and tender. 
 
 O prophet-flowers ! — with lips of bloom, 
 
 Outvying in yuur beauty 
 Tlie i)early tints of ocean shells — 
 
 Ye teach me faith and duty ! 
 
 " Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to say, 
 '■ With love's divine foreknowing, 
 
 Th.it where mart sees but witliered leaves, 
 God sees sweet flowers growing." 
 
 Albert Laiguton. 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK. 
 
 'AIL to thee, blithe spirit ! 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 Tliat from heaven, or near it, 
 Potn-est tliy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 I'roni the earth thou springest, 
 Like a cloud of lire ; 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest, 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of tlu' setting sun. 
 O'er wlich clouds are brightening. 
 
 Thou tlost float and run ; 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven, 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 Of that silver sphere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 In the whi;e dawn clear, 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud. 
 As, when night is bare. 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains ou^ her beams, and heaven is over- 
 flowed. 
 
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 <ltt 
 
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158 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 What thou art we know not : 
 
 Wliat i.i niobt like tliec ? 
 From riinbow clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to sec, 
 As from tliy presence showers a rain c:f melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 Till the world is wrougl.t 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it ln^eded not ; 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With nuisic sweet as love, which overflows her 
 bower ; 
 
 Like a glow- worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scatteriiig imbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass wliich screen it from the 
 view ; 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 I]y warm winds dcflov-i.'red, 
 Till tlie scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too mucli sweet these heavy-winged 
 thieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 On the twinkling grass. 
 Rain-awakened flowers, 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous and fresh and clear thy music doth surpass. 
 
 Teach us, spiite or bird, 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine ; 
 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal, 
 
 Or triumphant chant, 
 Matched witli thine, would be all 
 
 But an empty vaunt — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
 What shapes of sky or plain ? 
 What love of thine own kind ? What ignorance of 
 pain ? 
 
 With thy clear, keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be ; 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never come near thee : 
 Thou lovest : but nti'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things niore true and deep 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not ; 
 Our .•■incerest biughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
 thought. 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 I late and pride and fear, 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better tlian all treasures 
 
 That in books are found. 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground I 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy lirain must know, 
 Such harmonious nuidness 
 From my lips would flow. 
 The world should listen then as I am listening now. 
 
 Percv nvssnK .Shellkv. 
 
 WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING. 
 
 ■^Y"^ 1 1 F.N the hounds of spring are on winter's 
 III traces, 
 
 \A^ The mother of months in meadow or iilain 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 With lisp of k'aves and ripple of rain ; 
 And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
 Is half assuaged fur Itylus, 
 For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces • 
 The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 
 
 Come with bows bent and with emptying of (luivers, 
 
 Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
 With a noise of winds and many rivers, 
 
 Witli a clamor of waters, and with inight ; 
 Bind (jii thy sandals, C^ thou most fleet, 
 Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ! 
 For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, 
 
 Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. 
 
 Wiiere shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, 
 I'old (Hir hands round her knees and cling? 
 
 O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, 
 Fne, or the strength of the streams that spring ! 
 
 For the stars and the winds are unto her 
 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 
 
 For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
 And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURl': 
 
 159 
 
 For winter's rains and ruins are over, 
 AnA all the season of snows and sins ! 
 
 Tlie days dividinjj; lover and lover, 
 The light that loses, tlie ni^lit that wins ; 
 
 And time remembered its grief forgotten, 
 
 And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 
 
 And in green underwood and cover 
 Blossom by blossom the spring Ijegins. 
 
 The full streams feed on flower of rushes. 
 
 Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot. 
 The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 
 
 From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
 And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
 And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
 
 The chestnut-husk at tlie chestnut-root. 
 
 And Pan by noon and nacclnis by night. 
 
 Fleeter of foot than th j fleet-foot kid. 
 Follows with dancing and fills with delight 
 
 The Mxnad and the Rassarid ; 
 And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 
 The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 
 And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
 
 The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 
 Over her eyebrows shading her eyes ; 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
 
 Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 
 The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
 
 The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 
 
 Algernon Charlks Swinri-kne. 
 
 REMONSTRANCE WITH THE SNAILS. 
 
 <^ 
 -^ ' ' E litde snails, 
 
 With slippery tails, 
 
 Who noiselessly travel 
 
 Along this gravel, 
 
 Ry a silvery path of slime unsightly, 
 
 I learn that you visit my pea-rows nightly. 
 
 Felonious your visit, I guess ! 
 
 And I give you this warning. 
 
 That, every morning, 
 
 ril strictly examine the pods ; 
 
 And if one I hit on, 
 
 Willi slaver or spit on, 
 
 Your ne.xt meal will be with the god.s. 
 
 1 own you're a very ancient race. 
 And Greece and Babylon were amid ; 
 
 You have tenanted many a royal dome, 
 And dwelt in the oldest pyramid ; 
 
 The source of the Nile ! — O, you iiave been there ! 
 
 In llie ark was your floodless bed ; 
 On tlie mocjnle.ss night (jf Marathon 
 
 You crawled o'er the mighty dead ; 
 r.iit still, though I reverenc'.' your ancestries, 
 I ilon't see why you siiould niblile my peas. 
 
 The meadows are yours — the hedgerow and br<-)ok. 
 
 You may bathe in their dews at morn ; 
 By the aged sea you may sound your shells, 
 
 On the mountains erect your horn ; 
 The fruits ;nul the flowers are your rightful dowers, 
 
 Then why — in tlie name of wonder — 
 Should my six pea-rows be the only cause 
 
 To excite your midnight plunder? 
 
 I have never disturbed your slender shells ; 
 
 You have hung round my aged walk ; 
 And each might have sat, till he died in his fat. 
 
 Beneath his own cabbage-stalk ; 
 But now you must fly from the soil of your sires ; 
 
 Then put on your liveliest crawl. 
 And think of your p<K)r little snails at home, 
 
 Now orplian.i or emigrants all. 
 
 Utensils domestic and civil and social 
 
 I give you an evening to ]iack up ; 
 lUit if the moon of this night does not rise on vour 
 fligiit, 
 
 To-morrow I'll hang each man Jack up. 
 You'll tliink of my peas and your thievish tricks, 
 With tears of slime, when crt)ssing the Sfy.v. 
 
 ALMOND BLOSSOM. 
 
 ^LOSSOM of the almond-trees, 
 April's gifts to April's bees, 
 Birthday ornament of spring. 
 Flora's fairest daughterling ;- 
 Coming when no flowerets dare 
 Trust the cruel outer air, 
 VYhtn the royal king-cup bold 
 Darts not don his coat of gold, 
 And the sturdy blackthorn spray 
 Keeps his t-ilver for the May ; — 
 Coming when no flowerets would, 
 Save thy lowly sisterhood, 
 Early violets, blue and white. 
 Dying for their love of light. 
 Almond blossom, sent to teach us 
 That the spring days soon will reach us, 
 Lest, with longing over-tried. 
 Wo die as the violets died — 
 Blossom, clouding all the tree 
 Willi thy crimson broidery. 
 Long btfore a leaf of green 
 On the bravest bough is seen — 
 Ah I when w inter winds are swinging 
 All thy red bells into ringing. 
 With a bee in every bell, 
 Almond bloom, we greet thee well ! 
 
 Edwin Arnold. 
 
 ! 1 
 
 ; 1 
 
 
160 
 
 CROWN JEVVFXS. 
 
 •i!,'- ■■<■ 
 
 ^i.--: 
 
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 THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 
 
 'HE ])octry of c.'irlli is never dead ; 
 
 When all the birds are faint with the hot sun 
 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
 From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 
 mead, 
 That is the grasshopper's — he takes iho lead 
 In summer luxury — he has never done 
 Witii his delights ; fur, when tired out with fun, 
 I le rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 
 The poetry of earth 'S ceasing never. 
 On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
 Has wrought a silence, from tlie stove there shrills 
 Tlie cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. 
 And seems, to one i:i drowsiness half lost. 
 The grasshopjier's among some grassy hills. 
 
 John Kkats. 
 
 THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 eOME, let us plant the apple-tree. 
 Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; 
 Wide let its hollow bed be made ; 
 There gently lay the roots, and there 
 Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 
 
 And press it o'er them tenderly, 
 As round the sleeping infant's feet 
 We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 
 So plant we the .apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree? 
 Buds, which the breath of summer days 
 Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 
 Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast 
 Shall haunt, and sing, and liide her nest ; 
 
 We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
 A shadow for the noontide hour, 
 A shelter from the summer's shower. 
 
 When we plant the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
 Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
 To load the May-wind's restless wings. 
 When, from the orchard row, he pours 
 
 Its fragrance through our open doors ; 
 
 A world of blossoms for the bee. 
 Flowers for the sic); girl's silent room, 
 For the gl.ad infant sprigs of bloom. 
 
 We plant with the apple-tree. 
 
 What |>lant we in this apple-tree? 
 Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
 And redden in the August noon, 
 And drop, when gentle airs come by. 
 That fan the blue September sky. 
 
 While children come, with cries of glee, 
 And seek them where the fragrant grass 
 Betrays their bed to those who pass, 
 
 At the foot of the apple-tree. 
 
 And when, above this apple-tree, 
 The winter stars are (juivering bright, 
 And winds go howling through the night, 
 Girls, whose young eyes o'erdow with mirth, 
 Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth. 
 
 And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
 Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 
 
 And golden orange of the line. 
 
 The fruit of the apple-tree. 
 
 The fruitage of this apple-tree 
 Winds and our (lag of stripe antl star 
 .Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
 Wiiere men shall wonder at the view, 
 And ask in what fair groves they grew ; 
 
 And sojourners beyond the sea 
 .Shall tliink of childhood's careless day 
 And long, long hours of summer play, 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree. 
 
 Each year shall give this apple-tree 
 A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
 A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
 And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower. 
 The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 
 
 The years shall come and pass, but we 
 Shall hear no longer, where we lie. 
 The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh. 
 
 In the boughs of the apple-tree. 
 
 ■ And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
 O, when its aged branches throw 
 Thin shadows on the ground below, 
 Shall fraud and force aud iron will 
 Oppress the weak and helpless .still ? 
 
 What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
 Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
 Of those who live when length of years 
 
 Is wasting this apple-tree ? 
 
 "Who plfinted this old api^le-tree ? " 
 The children of that distant day 
 Thus to some aged man shall say ; 
 And, gazing on its nu)ssy stem. 
 Tin'! gray-haired man siiall answer them : 
 "A poet of the land was he. 
 Born in the rude but good old times ; 
 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes 
 On planting the apple-tree." 
 
 William Cullkn Brvant. 
 
 THE MAIZE. 
 
 " Th.1t precious seed into tlic furrow cast 
 Karliest in spring-time crowns the harvest last.'' 
 
 PHUiBK Carv. 
 
 ^ZN[ SONG for the plant of my own native west, 
 I ^1 Where nature and freedom reside, 
 ^^ By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever 
 blest. 
 To the corn ! the green corn of her pride ! 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURl- 
 
 101 
 
 In climes of the east has the olive been sung, 
 And the grape bi.-en the theme of their lays ; 
 
 But for thee siiall a harp of tiie backwoods be strimg, 
 Thou briglu, ever beautiful maize ! 
 
 Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise, 
 
 And send up their pillars of smoke. 
 And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies. 
 
 O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak ; 
 Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm 
 swings 
 
 The axe till the old giant swavs, 
 And echo repeats every blow as it rings, 
 
 Shoots the green and the glorious maize ! 
 
 There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, 
 
 And the willow's gold hair then appears, | 
 
 And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst j 
 
 l?y the red bud, with pink-tinted tears. 
 And strijied the bolls which the poppy holds up | 
 
 For the dew, and the sun's yellow rays, 
 And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossoming cup, 
 
 In the wood, near the sun-loving maize ! 
 
 When through the dark soil the bright steel of the 
 plougli 
 
 Turns the mould from its unbroken bed 
 The i)lougliman is cheered by the finch on the bough, 
 
 And the blackbird doth follow his tread. 
 And idle, afar on the landscape descried, 
 
 The deep-lowing kine slowly graze. 
 And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside 
 
 Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize. 
 
 With spring-time and culture, in martial array 
 
 It waves its green broadswords on high, 
 And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray, 
 
 And the sunbeams, which fail from the sky ; 
 It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon, 
 
 And at night at the swift-flying fays, 
 Who ride through the darkness the beams of the 
 moon, 
 
 Through the spears and the flags of the maize ! 
 
 When the summer is fierce still its banners are green. 
 
 Each warrior's long beard groweth red, 
 His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and keen. 
 
 And golden his tassel-plumed head. 
 As a host of armed knights set a monarch at naught. 
 
 That defy the day-god to his gaze. 
 And, revived every morn from the battle that's fought. 
 
 Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize ! 
 
 Gut brown comes the autumn, and sear grows the 
 corn, 
 
 And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, 
 And but for the cock and the noontide horn 
 
 Old lime would be tempted to rest. 
 The humming bee fans ofl"a shower of gold 
 
 From the mullein's long rod as it sways, 
 And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold 
 
 The ears of the well-ripened maize ! 
 11 
 
 At length Indian summer, the lovely, doth come, 
 
 Willi its blue frosty nights, anil d^iys siill, 
 When distinctly clear sounds tlie walerf.iU's hum, 
 
 And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill ! 
 A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood. 
 
 And the hills are all mellowed in haze. 
 While Fall, creeping on like a mjnk 'neath his hood, 
 
 Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize. 
 
 And the heavy wains creak to the barns large and gray. 
 
 Where the treasure securely we hold, 
 Housed safe from the tempest, dry-sheltered away, 
 
 Our blessing more precious than gold ! 
 And long from this manna tiiat springs from the sod 
 
 Shall we gratefully give him the praise. 
 The source (jf all bounty, our Father and God, 
 
 Who sent us from heaven the maize ! 
 
 William W. Fosdick. 
 
 g 
 
 WINTER PICTURES. 
 
 OWN swept the chill wmd from the mountain 
 peak, 
 
 From the snow five thousand su.naiars old ; 
 
 On open wold and hill-top bleak 
 It had gathered all the cold, 
 Anei whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; 
 It carried a siiiver everywlicre 
 From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; 
 Tile litUe brook heard it and built a roof 
 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof 
 All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 
 Me groined his arches and matched his beams ; 
 .Slcndor and clear were his crystal spars 
 As the lashes of ligiit that trim the stars : 
 He sculptured every summer delight 
 In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 
 Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
 Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 
 Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees, 
 Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 
 Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
 But silvery mosses that downward grew 
 Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 
 With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; 
 Sometimes it was simply smooth aud clear 
 For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 
 He had caught the nodding bulrush tops 
 And hung them thickly with diamond drops, 
 Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun. 
 And made a star of every one. 
 
 Within the hall are song and laughter. 
 The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
 
 And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
 With the lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
 
 Through the deepgulf of the chimney wide 
 
 Wallows the yule-log's roaring tide ; 
 
 The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 
 And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
 
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 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 
 Hunted to death in its Raileries blind ; 
 
 And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
 Nowpausinj; now scalterin.tr away as in fear, 
 
 Go threading the soot-furcst's tangled darks 
 Like lierds of startled deer. 
 
 But the wind without was eapjer and sharp, 
 Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
 And rattles and rings 
 The icy strings, 
 Singing, in dreary monotone, 
 A Christmas carol of its own, 
 Whose l)urden still, as he might guess. 
 Was— " Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless ! " 
 The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
 As he shouted the wanderer away from tiie porch. 
 And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
 The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 
 Through the window slits of the castle old, 
 Build out its piers of ruddy li^.ht 
 Against tlie drift of the cold. 
 
 There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 
 The bare boughs rattled sliudderingly ; 
 The river was dumb and could not speak. 
 
 For the weaver winter its shroud had spun ; 
 A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
 
 From his siiiniiig feathers shed olTtlie cold sun ; 
 Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold. 
 As if her veins were sapless and old. 
 And she rose up decrepitly 
 For a last dim look at earth and sea. 
 
 Jamfs Russell Lowell. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT OCEAN. 
 
 'T is the midnight hour : — tlic beauteous sea, 
 
 Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven dis- 
 closes, 
 While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 
 l'"ar down within tlie watery sky repijses. 
 As if tile ocean's heart were stirred 
 With inward life, a sound is Imard, 
 Like that of dreamer murmuring in liis sleep ; 
 'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air. 
 That lies like a garment floating fair 
 Above the liapjjy deep. 
 The sea, I wocn, caniT' je fanned 
 By evening freshne.ss from the land, 
 For the land it is far away ; 
 But ( j(xl liatli willed that the sky-born breeze 
 In the centre of the loneliest seas 
 Should ever sport and play. 
 The mighty moon she sits above. 
 Encircled with a zone of love, 
 A zone of dim and tender light 
 That makes her wakeful eye more bright : 
 She seems to shine with a sunny ray, 
 And the night looks like a mellowed day! 
 
 The gracious mistriss of the main 
 
 Hath now an uiulisturbed reign, 
 
 And from her silent throne looks down. 
 
 As upon children of her own. 
 
 On the waves tliat lend their iM'iUle breast 
 
 In gladness for her couch of rest ! 
 
 John Wilson. 
 
 SPRING IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 PRING, with that nameless pathos in the air 
 Which dwells with all things fair. 
 Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 
 Is with us once again. 
 
 Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
 Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
 Into a royal court with green festoons 
 The banks of dark lagoons. 
 
 In the deep heart of every forest tree 
 
 The blood is all aglee, 
 
 Antl there's a look about the leafless bowers, 
 
 As if they dreamed of flowers. 
 
 Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
 Of winter in the land. 
 
 Save where the maple reddens on the lawn. 
 Flushed by the season's dawn ; 
 
 Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
 
 That age to childhood bind. 
 
 The elm puts on, as if in nature's scorn, 
 
 The brown of autumn corn. 
 
 As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
 That, not a span below, 
 
 A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
 And soon will burst their tomb. 
 
 In gardens you may note amid the dearth 
 
 The crocus breaking earth : 
 
 And near the snow-drop's tender white and green, 
 
 The violet in its screen. 
 
 But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
 Along the budding grass. 
 And weeks go by, before the enamored south 
 Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 
 
 Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn 
 In the sweet airs of morn ; 
 One almost looks to see the very street 
 Grow purple at his feet. 
 
 At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
 And brings, you know not why, 
 A feeling as when eager crowds await 
 Before a palace gate 
 
 Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, 
 
 If from a beech's heart 
 
 A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
 
 " Behold me ! 1 am May !" 
 
 Henry Timrod. 
 
BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 
 
 1(53 
 
 THREE SUMMER STUDIES, 
 
 MOKNINC. 
 
 'I IE cock has crowed. I hear tlie tloors un- 
 barred ; 
 Down to the grass-grown porch my way I 
 take, 
 And hear, besiile the well within the yard, 
 
 Full many an ancient, (iiiacking, splashing drake, 
 And gabbling goose, and noisy broo<i-hen — all 
 Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call. 
 
 The dew is thick upon the velvet grass. 
 The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops, 
 
 And as the cattle from the enclosure pass. 
 Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops 
 
 The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, 
 
 Which grow beside the well-known pastur .-oad. 
 
 A humid polish is on all the leaves — 
 The birds flit in and out with varied notes. 
 
 The noisy swallows twitter 'nealh the caves, 
 A partridge whistle through the garden floats. 
 
 While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, 
 
 As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. 
 
 Up comes the sun ! Through the dense leaves a spot 
 Of splendid light drinks up the dew ; the breeze 
 
 Which late made leafy music, dies ; the day grows hot. 
 And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees : 
 
 The burnished river like a sword-hlade shines, 
 
 Save where 't is shadowed by the solemn pines. 
 
 NOON. 
 
 Over the farm is brooding silence now^ 
 No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh. 
 
 No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow, 
 No croak of froy;s within the spreading marsh, 
 
 No l)rag;;ing cock from littered farmyard crows, — 
 
 Tile scene is steeped in silence and repose. 
 
 A trcnililing haze hangs over all the fields — 
 
 The panting cattle in the river stand, 
 Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yieKls ; 
 
 It scvnis a Sabb.ath through the drowsy land ; 
 So luished is all beneath the summer's spell, 
 1 pause and listen for some faint church-bell. 
 
 The leaves are motionless, the song-birds mute ; 
 
 Tlie very air seems sonmolent and sick : 
 Tile spreading branches with o'er-ripened fniit 
 
 Sliow in the sunshine all their clusters thick, 
 Willie now and then a mellow apple falls 
 With a dull thud within the orchard's walls. 
 
 The sky has but one solitary cloud 
 
 Like a dark island in a sea of light ; 
 The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed 
 
 Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight, 
 While over yonder road a (Uisty haze 
 Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze. 
 
 KVKNING. 
 
 That solitary cloud grows dark and wide. 
 While distant tiiimder rumbles in the air — 
 
 A fitful ripple break's tlie river's tide — 
 The lazy cattle are no lunger there. 
 
 Hut homeward come, in lung procession slow, 
 
 With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. 
 
 Darker and wider spreading o'er the west. 
 Advancing clouds, each in f uitastic form. 
 
 And niiirured turrets on the river's breast. 
 Tell in advance the coming of a storm — 
 
 Closer and brii^hter glares the lightning's (lash. 
 
 And louder, nearer sounds the thunder's crasii. 
 
 The air of evening is intensely hot, 
 The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows — 
 
 Now sullen raindrops pattcT down like shot, 
 Strike in the grass, or rattle mid tiie boughs. 
 
 A sultry lull, and then a gust again— 
 
 And now I see the thick advancing rain ! 
 
 It fairly hisses as it drives along, 
 
 And where it strikes breaks up in silvery spray 
 As if 't were dancing to th;; fitful song 
 
 Made by the trees, which twist tlKinselves and sw;y 
 In contest with the wind, that rises fist 
 I'litil the breeze becomes a furious blast. 
 
 And now, the sudden, fitful storm has flod, 
 Tlie clouds lie piled up in tiu; s|)lendid west. 
 
 In massive shaflow tipped with purplish red. 
 Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest ; 
 
 And on the bosom of yon still lagoon 
 
 I see the crescent of the pallid moon. 
 
 Jamks Harron Ilopr;. 
 
 A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 SCr.NK IN A VKKMONT WINTKR. 
 
 IS a fearful night in the winter time. 
 As cold .as it ever can be ; 
 The roar of the blast is heard like the chime 
 Of the waves on an angry sea. 
 The moon is full ; but her silver light 
 The st(jrm dashes out with its wings to-night ; 
 And over the sky from south to north 
 Xut a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
 In the strength of a mighty glee. 
 
 All day had the snow come down — all day 
 
 As it never came down before ; 
 And over the hills, at sunset, lay 
 
 Some two or three feet, or more ; 
 The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
 The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone; 
 The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, 
 And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, 
 
 As it lay by the farmer's door. 
 
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 164 
 
 CROWN JKVVKLS. 
 
 The ninht sets in on a world ofsiiow, 
 VVIiile the air grows siiarji aiul diill, 
 
 And tile warning roar of a fearful IjIuw 
 [s JK-ard on tlic distant hill ; 
 
 And th" northL-r, si-c ! on the mountain peak 
 
 In his hreatli how the old trees writhe and shriek ! 
 
 He shouts (i:i llie plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 
 
 He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
 And 1,'rowls with a savaj^e will. 
 
 Such a nij;ht as this to be found ahroail, 
 
 In the drifts and the freezing; air, 
 Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, 
 
 W'itli the snow in his shaggy hair. 
 He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls ; 
 He lifts his lieail, and moans and howls ; 
 Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, 
 His nose is pressed on his (jnivering feet — 
 
 Pray, what does the dog do there ? 
 
 A farmer came from the village plain — 
 
 But he lost tlie traveled way ; 
 And for hours he trod with might and main 
 
 A path for his hurse and sleigh ; 
 But colder still the cold winds blew, 
 And deeper still the deep drifts grew, 
 And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
 At last in lier struggles tloundered down. 
 
 Where a log in a noUow lay. 
 
 In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort. 
 
 She plunged in the drifting snow. 
 While her master urged, till his breath grew short, 
 
 With a word and a gentle blow ; 
 Gut the snow was deeji, and the tugs were tight ; 
 His hands were numb and had lust their might ; 
 So he wallowed back to his half-lilled sleigii. 
 And strove to shelter himself till day. 
 
 With his coat and the bullaio. 
 
 He has given the last faint jerk of the rein. 
 
 To rouse up his dying steed ; 
 And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain. 
 
 For help in his master's need. 
 For a while he strives with a wistful cry 
 To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
 And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
 The skirt of the InifTalo over his lap. 
 
 And whines when he takes no heed. 
 
 The wind goes down and the storm is o'er — 
 
 'T is the hour of midnight, past ; 
 The old trees writhe and bend no more 
 
 In the whirl of the rushing blast. 
 The silent moon with her peaceful light 
 Looks down on the hills with snow all white, 
 And the giant shadow of Camel's 1 lump. 
 The blasted pine and the ghostly stump. 
 
 Afar on the plain are cast. 
 
 But cold and dead by the hidden log 
 
 Are they who came from the town — 
 The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 
 
 And his beautiful Morgan brown- 
 In the wiile snow desert, far and grand. 
 With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand- 
 The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 
 And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, 
 Where she lay when she floundered down. 
 
 Charles Gamage Eastman. 
 
 VIEW FROM THE EUGANEAN HILLS,=! 
 ITALY. 
 
 NORTH 
 
 f|l 
 
 ANY a green isle needs must be 
 In the deep wide sea of misery. 
 Or the mariner, worn and wan, 
 Never thus could voyage on 
 Day and night, and night and day, 
 Drifting on his dreary way. 
 With the solid darkness black 
 Closing round his vessel's track ; 
 Whilst above, the sunless sky. 
 Big with clouds, hangs heavily. 
 And behind, the tempest fleet 
 Hurries on with lightning feet. 
 Riving sail and cord and plank 
 Till the ship has almost drank 
 Death from the o'erbrimming deep; 
 And sinks down, down, like that sleep 
 When the dreamer seems to be 
 Weltering through eternity ; 
 
 And the dim low line before 
 Of a dark and distant shore 
 Still recedes, as, ever still. 
 Longing with divided will, 
 But no power to .seek or shun, 
 He is ever drifted on 
 O'er the unreposing wave 
 To the haven of the grave. 
 
 Ay, many flowering islands lie 
 
 In the waters of wide agony : 
 
 To such a one this morn was led 
 
 My bark, by soft winds piloted. 
 
 — Mid the mountains Euganean 
 
 I stood listening to the poean 
 
 With which the legioned rooks did hail 
 
 The sun's uprise majestical : 
 
 Gathering round with wings all hoar, 
 
 Through the dewy mist they soar 
 
 Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
 
 Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 
 
 Flecked with fire and azure, lie 
 
 In the unfathomable sky. 
 
 So their plumes of purple grain. 
 
 Starred with drops of golden rain. 
 
 •Ttie lonely mountains wliich surround what was once there- 
 treat, and is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch, 
 
I once the re- 
 
 BEAUTIES OF NATURi:. 
 
 105 
 
 Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
 
 As in silent multitudes 
 
 On the morning's fitful gale, 
 
 Through the broken mist they sail ; 
 
 And the vapors cloven and gleamiiin 
 
 Follow, down the dark steep streaming, 
 
 Till all is bright and clear and still 
 
 Round the solitary hill. 
 
 Beneath is spread like a green sea 
 
 The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
 
 Bounded by the vaporous air. 
 
 Islanded by cities fair ; 
 
 Underneath day's azure eyes, 
 
 Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies — 
 
 A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
 
 Amphitrite's destined halls. 
 
 Which her hoary sire now p.ives 
 
 With his blue and beaming waves. 
 
 Lo! the sun upsprings behind, 
 
 Broad, red, radiant, half reclined 
 
 On the level quiverinjj line 
 
 Of the waters crystalline ; 
 
 And before th.nt chasm of light, 
 
 As within a furnace bright, 
 
 Column, tower, anil dimie, and spire 
 
 Shine like obelisks of fire, 
 
 Pointing with inconstant motion 
 
 From the altar of tlark oci-an 
 
 To the sappliire-tinted skies ; 
 
 As the flames of sacrifice 
 
 From the marble shrines did rise. 
 
 As to pierce the dome of gold 
 
 Where Apollo spoke of old. 
 
 Sun-girt city ! thou hast been 
 Ocean's child, and then his cjueen ; 
 Now is come a darker daj'. 
 And thou soon must be his prey. 
 If the power that raised thee here 
 Hallow so thy watery bier. 
 A less drear ruin then than now. 
 With thy conquest-branded brow 
 Stooping to the slave of slaves 
 P'rom ihy throne among the waves, 
 Wilt thou be when the sea-mew 
 Flies, as once before it flew, 
 O'er thine isles depopulate, 
 And all is in its ancient state. 
 Save where many a palace-gate 
 With green sea-flowers overgrown 
 Like a rock of ocean's own, 
 Topples o'er the abandoned sea 
 As the tides change sullenly. 
 The fisher on his watery way 
 Wandering at the close of day 
 Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
 Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
 Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
 Bursting o'er the starlight deep. 
 
 Lead a rapid mask of ikatli 
 O'er the waters of his path. 
 
 Noon descends arr)und me now ; 
 
 'T is the noon of autumn's glow, 
 
 When a soft and inirplc mist, 
 
 Like a vaporous amotliyst, 
 
 ( )r an :iir-dissolvcd star, 
 
 Minglin).'; Ii;.;lit anti frai^ranre, far 
 
 l''r(im the curved horizon's boinul 
 
 To the point of heaven's profound, 
 
 I'ills the ovirflowing sky ; 
 
 And the plains that silent lie 
 
 IJndernealh ; the kaves unsodik'ii 
 
 Where the infant frost has trodclcii 
 
 With his mornin,v;-winged fcL-t, 
 
 Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
 
 And the red anil golden vines, 
 
 I'iercing with their tiellised lines 
 
 The rough, dark-skii ted wilderness ; 
 
 The dun and bladed );rass no less, 
 
 Pointing from this hoary lower 
 
 In the windless air ; the (lower 
 
 Glimmering at my feet ; the line 
 
 Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 
 
 In the suutli dimly islanded ; 
 
 And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
 
 1 ligh between the clouds and sun ; 
 
 And of living tliiiijjs each one ; 
 
 And my spirit, wl.ii h so long 
 
 Darkened this swift dream of song — 
 
 Interpenetrated lie 
 
 By the glory of the sky ; 
 
 Be it love, light, harmony, 
 
 Odor, or the soul of all 
 
 Which from heaven like dew dotli fall. 
 
 Or the mind which feeds this verso 
 
 Peopling the lone universe. 
 
 Noon descends, and after noon 
 
 Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
 
 Leading the infantine moon 
 
 And that one star, which to her 
 
 Almost seems to minister 
 
 Half the crimson light she brings 
 
 From the sunset's radiant springs ; 
 
 And the soft dreams of the morn 
 
 (Which like winged winds had borric 
 
 To that silent isle, which lies 
 
 Mid remembered agonies, 
 
 The frail bark of this lone being) 
 
 Pass, to other sufferers fleeing. 
 
 And its ancient pilot, pain, 
 
 Sits beside the helm again. 
 
 Other flowering isles must be 
 
 In the sea of life and agony ; 
 
 Other spirits float and flee 
 
 O'er that gulf; even now, perhaps, 
 
 On some rock the wild wave wraps, 
 
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 CIU)\VN JICWKLS. 
 
 With fol(lin;j winds tlii-y w.illlng sit 
 
 I'or my bark, to pilot it 
 
 To some calm ami Moominj; cove, 
 
 W'lere for me, and tiinsc 1 love, 
 
 M.iy a windless bovvi r bo built, 
 
 Far from passion, pain, and i^tiilt, 
 
 In a dell mill lawny hills, 
 
 Which tlie wild sea-murmur fills, 
 
 And soft sunshine, and the sound 
 
 Of old forests echoinp- round. 
 
 And the liKht and smtu divine 
 
 Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 
 
 — We may live so happy there, 
 
 Tliat the spirits of the air, 
 
 Envyinj; us, may even entice 
 
 To our healing paradise 
 
 The poUulin}; multitude ; 
 
 Ikit their rage would be subdued 
 
 l?y that clime divine and calm, 
 
 And tile winds whose win;^s rain bahn 
 
 On the uplifted soul, and leaves 
 
 Under which the briyht sea heaves ; 
 
 While each breathless interval 
 
 In their whisperings musical 
 
 The inspired soul supplies 
 
 Witli its own deep melodies ; 
 
 And the love which heals all strife, 
 
 Circling, like the breath of life, 
 
 All things in that sweet abotle 
 
 With its own mild brotherhood. 
 
 They, not it, would change ; and soon 
 
 Every sprite beneath the moon 
 
 Would repent its envy vain, 
 
 And the eartii grow young again ! 
 
 Percy Uvsshe Sheli-kv. 
 
 THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT p-LEW INTO 
 CHURCH ULRING DIVINE SERVICE. 
 
 ,AV, guiltless pair, 
 
 What Seek ye from the fields of heaven? 
 
 Ye have no need of prayer ; 
 Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 
 
 Why perch ye here, 
 Where mortals to their Maker bend ? 
 
 Can your pi:re spirits fear 
 The God ye never could offend ? 
 
 Ye never knew 
 The crimes for which we come to weep. 
 
 Penance is not for you, 
 Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 
 
 To you 'tis given 
 To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; 
 
 Beneath the arch of heaven 
 To chirp away a life of praise. 
 
 Then spreail each wing 
 Far, l.ir al)t)ve, o'er l.ikes and lands, 
 
 And Join the choirs that sing 
 In yon blue dome not re.ired with hands. 
 
 Or, if ye stay, 
 To note the consecrated hour. 
 
 Teach me the airy way, 
 And Lt mo try your envied power. 
 
 Above the crowd 
 On upw.iid wings coukl I but lly, 
 
 I'd bathe in yon bri<{lit cloud, 
 And seek the stars that gem the sky. 
 
 'T were he.'iven indeed 
 Through lields of trackless light to soar, 
 
 On nature's ciiarms to feed. 
 And nature's own grejit r«od adore. 
 
 Charles .Si'RAiarK. 
 
 WINTER : WILT THOU NEVER CO? 
 
 WINTKR '■ wilt thou never, never go ? 
 O summer! but I weary for thy coming, 
 Longing once more to hear the l.uggie 
 
 How, 
 
 .'Vnd frugal bees laboriously humming. 
 
 Now the east-winil diseases the infirm, 
 
 And must crou< h in corners from rough weather ; 
 
 .Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm — 
 
 When the fired clouds, comijacted, blaze togclher, 
 
 .'\nd the large sun dips red behind the hills. 
 
 I, from my window, can behold this pleasure ; 
 
 And the eternal moon, what time she fills 
 
 Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, 
 
 With queenly motions of a bridal mood, 
 
 Through the white spaces of infinitude. 
 
 David Gr \v. 
 
 
 THE HEATH-COCK. 
 
 , OOD morrow to thy sable beak 
 
 And glossy plumage dark and sleek, 
 Thy crimson moon and azure eye. 
 Cock of the heath, so wildly shy : 
 I see thee slyly cowering through 
 That wiry web of silvery dew, 
 That twinkles in the morning air. 
 Like casements of my lady fair. 
 
 A maid there is in yonder tower. 
 Who, peeping from her early bower, 
 Half siiows, like thee, her simple wile, 
 Her braided hair and morning smile. 
 The rarest things, with wayward will, 
 Deneath the covert hide them still ; 
 The rarest things to break of day 
 Look shortly forth, and shrink away. 
 
1J1'AUTII;S OK NATUKM 
 
 167 
 
 A flfctinB moment of cleli;;I)t 
 I suiiiiLil nit; in Ikt chcerin;? sij;ht ; 
 As sliort, I wccii, tlio time will Ijo 
 That I sliall |);uK-y IxiUl with thtr. 
 Through Siiowduii's mist ri'd lii-ams the day, 
 The climliiiiK lu-nl-ljoy iliaiits his lay, 
 The gnat-llics ilancc tluir sunny rinj; - 
 Thou art already on the winij. 
 
 Joanna Haili.ik. 
 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 I'ROM " I'.VANl.Bl.INR." 
 
 "^RAUTIFUL was the nigiit. Ikhind the black 
 wall of the forest, 
 Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 
 On the river 
 
 Fell here and there throngh the branches a trenuiloiis 
 gleam of the moonliglit, 
 
 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and tle- 
 vious spirit. 
 
 Nearer and round about her, tlie manifold flowers of 
 the garden 
 
 Poured out their souls In odors, that were their prayers 
 and confessions 
 
 L'lito the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthu- 
 sian. 
 
 Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shad- 
 ows and night-dews, 
 
 Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the 
 magical moonlight 
 
 .Sttfuied to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 
 
 As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of 
 the oak-trees. 
 
 Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure- 
 less prairie. 
 
 Silent it lay, with a silvery liaze upon it, and fire-llies 
 
 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infmite 
 numbers. 
 
 Over her livad the stars, the thoughts of God in the 
 heavens, 
 
 Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel 
 and worship. 
 
 Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of 
 'liat temple, 
 
 As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, 
 "Upharsin." 
 
 And the soul of the maiden, between tlie stars antl the 
 fire-flies, 
 
 Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Oabriel ! O my 
 beloved ! 
 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold 
 thee ? 
 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not 
 
 rea<h me ? 
 Ah I how often thy feet have trod this path to the prai 
 
 rie I 
 Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the wcwkI- 
 
 lands ariiimd me I 
 Ah ! how often beneath this oak, nlurnin;; from labor, 
 Thou hast lain down to re.sl, and to ihe.im of mo in 
 
 thy slumbers. 
 When shall these eyes behcjld, these arms be folded 
 
 about thee?" 
 Loud and sudden and near the note of a whii>-poor- 
 
 will sounded 
 Like SI flute in the w»K)ds ; and anon, through llu- 
 
 neighboring thickets. 
 Farther and farUier away it floated and dropjied into 
 
 silence. 
 "I'atienee!" whispered the oaks from oracular cav- 
 erns of darkness; 
 And, from the UDonlit meadow, a si;;!) respomlcd, 
 
 "To-morrow ! " 
 
 Hii.NRV WaDSWORTII Lo.NGKIil.l.DW. 
 
 GOD EVERYWHERE IN NATURE. 
 
 'OW desolate were nature, and how voiil 
 f-©^ Of every charm, how like a nakei! waste 
 Of Africa, were not a j)resent Ood 
 Hehcld employing, in its various scenes, 
 llis active might to animate and adorn! 
 What life and beauty, when, in all liiat breathes. 
 Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work? 
 When it is viewed unfolding every bud. 
 Each blossom tingeing, shaping every leaf, 
 Wafting each cloud that pns-.es o'er tlie sky, 
 Rolling each billow, moving every \vin;j 
 That fans the air, and every warbling throat 
 Heard iu tlie tuneful woodlands ! In tlie least 
 As well as in the greatest of his works 
 Is ever uianif^ st his presence kind ; 
 As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen 
 Quick to and fro within a foot of air, 
 Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more, 
 As in the systems of resplendent workls, 
 Through time revolving in unbounded space. 
 His eye, while comprehending in one view 
 The whole creation fi.xes full on me ; 
 As on me shines the sun w itli his full blaze, 
 While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same. 
 His hand, while holding oceans in its palm. 
 And compassing the skies, surrounds my life, 
 Guards the poor rushlight from the blast of death. 
 
 Caklos Wilcox. 
 
HEROISM SND ilDYENTURE. 
 
 ':< 
 
 THE PILOT. 
 
 lOHN MAYNARD was well known 
 in the Lake district as a God fearing, 
 honest, and intelligent man. He 
 was pilot on a steam- boat from De- 
 troit to Buffalo. One summer after- 
 noon — at that time those steamers 
 seldom carried boats — smoke was 
 seen ascending from below; and 
 the captain called out, "Simpson, 
 go below and see what the matter 
 is down there." 
 Simpson came up with his face as 
 pale as ashes, and said, " Captain, the ship is on fire !'' 
 Then "Fire ! fire ! fire !" on sliipboanl. 
 All hands were called up ; buckets of water were 
 dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large 
 quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found 
 useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers 
 rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, " How far 
 are we from Buffalo?" 
 "Seven miles." 
 
 " How long before we can reach there?" 
 " Three quarters of an hour at our present rate of 
 Steam." 
 
 "Is ther t any danger ?' ' 
 
 " Dangu • 1 Here, pp_ ihe smoke bursting out ! — go 
 forward, i( yoi' v.ould save your lives !" 
 
 Passengers and crew — men, women, and children — 
 crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard 
 stood at the helm. The flamus burst forth in a sheet 
 of fire; clouds of smoke arose. 
 
 The captain cried out through his trumpet, "John 
 Maynard !" 
 "Ay, ay, sir!" 
 "Are you at the helm?" 
 "Ay, ay, sir!" 
 " How does she head ?" 
 " South-east by east, sir." 
 
 " Head her south-east, and run heron shore," said 
 the captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she :ip 
 proached the shore. Again the captain cried out, 
 "John Maynard !" 
 The response came feebly this time, " Ay, ay, sir I" 
 "Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" ht 
 said. 
 « By God's help, I will !" 
 
 The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp ; 
 one hand was disabled ; — his knee upon the stanchion, 
 his teeth set, his other hand upon the wliuel, he stood 
 firm as a rock. He beached the ship ; every man, 
 woman and child was saved, as John Maynard 
 dropped, and Lis spirit took its flight to God. 
 
 John 15, Goijgii. 
 
 LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 'HE cold winds swept tiiL" moinitain's height, 
 And pathless was the dreary wikl. 
 And, 'mid the cheerless lioui^ of night, 
 'f A mother wan<lcred with her child. 
 
 As through the drifted snows siie pressed, 
 The babe was sleeping on her breast. 
 
 And coklor still the winds did blow. 
 
 And darker hours of nii^lu came on, 
 And deeper grew tile drifts of snow — 
 
 Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone- 
 " O God, she cried, in accents wild, 
 " If I must perish, -save my child ! " 
 
 She stripped her mantle from her breast, 
 And bared her bosom to the storm. 
 
 And round the child she wrr.pped the vest, 
 And smiled to think her b.ihe was warm. 
 
 With one cold kiss, o.n tear she shed, 
 
 And sunk upon a snowy bed. 
 
 At dawn, a traveler passed by : 
 
 She lay beneath a snowy veil ; 
 The fro t of death was in her eye ; 
 
 Her chcok was cold, and hard, and pale — 
 He moved the robe from off the child ; 
 The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled. 
 
 JOHN MAYNARD. 
 
 WA.S on Lake Erie's broad expanse. 
 One l)riy;lit midsunuiier day. 
 The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 
 "f* Swept proUiily on her w.iy. 
 Bright faces clustered on the deck. 
 
 Or leaning o'er the side. 
 Watched carelessly the feathery foam, 
 That fleck id the rippling tide. 
 
 Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, 
 
 That smilii i; bcntls serene. 
 Could dream that danger, awful, vast. 
 
 Impended o'er the scene — 
 Could dream that ere an hour had sped, 
 
 Tiiat frame of sturily oak 
 Would sink beneati: the lake's blue waves, 
 
 Blackened with fire and smoke ? 
 
 A seaman sought the captain's side, 
 
 A moment whispered low ; 
 The captain's swarthy face grew pale, 
 
 He hurried down below. 
 Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp 
 
 And clear his orders came, 
 No human efforts could avail 
 
 To queni h tiie insidious (lame. 
 
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HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 169 
 
 The bad news quickly reached the deck, 
 
 It sped from lip to lip, 
 And ghastly faces everywhere 
 Looked from the doomed ship. 
 " Is there no hope — no ciiance of life ? " 
 
 A hundred lips implore ; 
 " But one," the captain made reply, 
 " To run the ship on shore." 
 
 A sailor, whose heroic soul 
 
 That hour sliould yet reveal — 
 By name John RIaynard, eastern born — 
 Stood calmly at tlie wheel. 
 " Head her soutii-east ! " the captain shouts, 
 
 Above the smothered roar, 
 " Head her soutli-east without delay ! 
 Make for the nearest shore ! " 
 
 No terror pales the helmsman's cheek. 
 
 Or clouds his dauntless eye, 
 As in a sailor's measured tone 
 
 His voice responds, " Ay, Ay ! " 
 Three hundred souls — the steamer's freight — 
 
 Crowd forward wild with fLur, 
 While at the stem the dreadful flames 
 
 Above the deck appear. 
 
 John Maynard watched the Hearing flames, 
 
 lUit still, with steady hand 
 He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly 
 
 He steered the ship to land. 
 "John Maynard," willi an anxious voice, 
 
 The captain cries once more, 
 " Stand by the wheel five minutes yet. 
 
 And we will reach the shore." 
 Tlirough flames and smoke that dauntless heart 
 
 Responded firmly, still 
 Unawed, though face to face with death, 
 
 "With God's good help I will ! " 
 
 The flames appro.ich with giant strides. 
 
 They scorch h'S hands and brow ; 
 One arm disabled seeks his side, 
 
 Ah, he is concjucred now ! 
 Dut no, his teeth are firmly set, 
 
 I le crushes down the pain — 
 His knee upon the stanchion pressed, 
 
 I le guides the ship again. 
 
 One moment yet ! one moment yet ! 
 
 Brave heart, thy task is o'er I 
 Tlie pebbles grate beneath the keel. 
 
 The steamer touches shore. 
 Three hundred grateful voices rise, 
 
 In praise to God, that He 
 Hath saved them from the fearful fire, 
 
 And from the ingulfing sea. 
 
 Rut where is he, that helmsman bold ? 
 
 The captain saw him reel — 
 His nerveless hands released their task, 
 
 He sunk beside the wheel. 
 
 The wjive received his lifeless corpse, 
 
 Blackened with smoke and fire. 
 God rest him 1 Hero never had 
 
 A nobler funeral pyre I 
 
 HOK.VTIO Al.GKK.Jk. 
 
 THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 ' OHN GILPIN was a citizen 
 Of credit and renown, 
 A train-band captain eke was he 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
 " Though wedded we have been 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 " To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Cell at Edmonton 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 " My sister, and my sister's child, 
 Myself and children three. 
 Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 
 On horseback after we." 
 
 He soon replied, "I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one, 
 And you are she, my dearest dear; 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 " I am a linen-draper bold, 
 
 As all tlie world doth know, 
 And my good friend the calender 
 Will lend his horse to go." 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, " That's well said ; 
 
 And for that wine is dear. 
 We will be furnished witli our own. 
 
 Which is both bright and clear." 
 
 John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 
 
 O'erjoyed was he to find 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent. 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought, 
 
 But yet was not allowed 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 .Should say that slie was proud. 
 
 .So three doors off the chaise was stayed. 
 
 Where they did all get in ; 
 Six precious souls, and all .agog 
 
 To dash through thick and thin. 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 
 
 Were never folk so glad ; 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 <>t 
 
170 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ,i II '( 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 Seized fast the flowing mane, 
 
 And up lie got, in haste to ride, 
 But soon came down again ; 
 
 For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, 
 
 I lis journey to begin, 
 When, turning round liis head, he saw 
 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 So down he came ; for loss of time, 
 Although it grieved him sore, 
 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he knew 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 
 Were suited to their mind, 
 Wiien Retty screaming came down stairs, 
 
 " The wine is left behind ! " 
 
 " Good lack ! " quoth he—" yet bring it me, 
 My leathern belt likewise, 
 In which I bear my trusty sword 
 When I do exercise." 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 
 
 I lad two stone bottles found, 
 To hold the licjuor that she loved, 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear, 
 « Through which the belt he drew, 
 And hung a bottle on eacli side. 
 To make liis balance true. 
 
 Then over all, that he might be 
 
 Equipped from top to toe. 
 His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, 
 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 Upon his nimble steed, 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet. 
 The snorting beast began to trot. 
 
 Which galled him in his seat. 
 
 So fair and softly, John he cried, 
 
 Hut John he cried in vain ; 
 That trot became a gallo)^ soon, 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 So stooping down, as needs he must 
 
 Who cannot sit upright. 
 He grasped the mane with both his hands^ 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 His horse, which never in that sort 
 
 Had handled been before. 
 What thing upon his back had got 
 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or nought ; 
 
 Away went hat and w ig ; 
 1 le little dreamt when he set out 
 
 Of running such a rig. 
 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
 
 Like streamc- long and gay, 
 Till, loop and button failing both, 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 
 Tlie bottles Ik; had slung ; 
 A bottle swinging at each side, 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children screain;(l, 
 
 Up flew the wiiulows all ; 
 And every soul cried out, "Well done ! " 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
 Away went Gilpin— who but he? 
 
 1 lis fame soon spread around ; 
 He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 
 
 'Tis for a thousand pound ! 
 
 And still, as fast as he drew near, 
 
 'Twas wonderful to view 
 How in a trice the turnpike men 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low, 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 
 Were shattered at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road. 
 
 Most piteous ti) be seen. 
 Which made his liorse's flanks to sniolce 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seemed to carry weight, 
 
 With leathern girdle bniced : 
 For all might see tlie bottle necks 
 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 
 These gambols he did play, 
 Until he c.ime ui\U> the Wash 
 
 Of Edmonton so gay. 
 
 And there he threw tlie wash about 
 
 On both sides of the way, 
 Just like unto a trundling mop, 
 
 Or a wild joose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony spied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 " Stop, stop, John Gil])in ! — Here's the hcuse"- 
 
 They all aloud did cry ; 
 "The dinner waits, and we are tired :" 
 
 Said Gilpin — " So am I ! " 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 171 
 
 But yet liis horsi was iKjt a whit 
 
 Inclined to tarry there ; 
 For why? liis owner had a house 
 
 Full ton miles ofT, at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew, 
 
 Shot by an arclier strong ; 
 So did he fly — which brin;;s me to 
 
 The middle of my song, 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore against his will, 
 Till at his friend the calender's 
 
 His horse at last stood still. 
 
 The calender, amazed to see 
 
 His neighbor in such tiim, 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 
 
 And thus accosted him : 
 
 "What news? what news? your tidings tell — 
 Tell me you must and shall — 
 Say why bareheaded you are come. 
 Or why you come at all ?" 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit. 
 
 And loved a timely joke ; 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 In merry guise he spoke : 
 
 " I came because your horse would come ; 
 And, if I well forbode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here — 
 They are upon tiie road." 
 
 Tlie calender, right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 Returned him not a single word, 
 
 But to the house went in. 
 
 Wlience straight he came with hat and wig ; 
 
 A wig that flowed behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear, 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 Thus sliowed his ready wit, 
 "My head is twice as big as yours. 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 " But let me scrape the dirt away 
 That hangr. upon your f.ice ; 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 He in a hungry case." 
 
 Said John, " It is my wedding day, 
 
 And all the world would stare 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
 
 And I should dine at Ware." 
 
 So turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 " 1 am in haste to dine ; 
 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 
 
 Vou shall go back for mine." 
 
 Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast, 
 
 For which he paid full dear ; 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 
 Did sing most loud and clear. 
 
 Whereat liis horse did snort, as he 
 
 Had heard a lion roar, 
 And g.ilioped off with all his might. 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went Gilpin's h.it and wig : 
 He lost them sooner than at first ; 
 
 For why ? — tiiey were too big. 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 
 Her husband posting down. 
 Into the country far away, 
 
 Shu pulled out half a-crown ; 
 
 And thus unto the youth she said. 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 "This shall be yours when you bring back 
 My husband safe and well." 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 Jolm coming back again ! 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 
 
 By catching at his rein ; 
 
 But not performing what he meant. 
 
 And gladly would have done, 
 The friglited steed he frighted more. 
 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away, 
 
 Went post-boy at his heels, 
 The postboy's horse right glad to miss 
 
 The lumbering of the wheels. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 With post-boy scampering in the rear, 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : — 
 
 ' Stop thief! stop thief ! a highwayman !" 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that passed that way 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space ; 
 The tollmen thinking as before 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did, and won it too. 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 Nor stopped till where he had got up 
 
 He did again get down. 
 
 Now let us sing, " Long live the king. 
 
 And Gilpin, long live he ; 
 And, when he next doth ride abroad, 
 
 May I be there to see !" 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
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 119 > r ' 
 
 172 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Ilj" 
 
 FALL OF TECUMSEH. 
 
 lAT hetivy-hoofed coursers tlie wilderness 
 roam, 
 To the war-bl.ist indignantly tramping ? 
 Tlieir mouths are all white, as if froste'' 
 with foam, 
 The steel-bit impatiently champing. 
 
 'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, 
 
 Conducting the free and the fearless. 
 Ail ! see them rush forward, with wild disdiiin. 
 
 Through paths unfrequented and cheerless. 
 
 From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, 
 
 Announcing the chivalrous sally ; 
 The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, 
 
 To pour his response to the valley. 
 
 One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, 
 And nought but tlie war-whoop given ; 
 
 Tlie next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred. 
 As if by the lightning riven. 
 
 The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke, 
 
 The blood-stilled gasp of the elying, 
 Weie screened by the curling sulphur-smoke. 
 
 That upward went wildly flying. 
 
 In the mist that hung over the field of blood, 
 The chief of the I.orsenien contended ; 
 
 His rowels were bathed in the purple flood, 
 That fast from his charger descended. 
 
 That steed reeled, and fell, in the van cf the fight. 
 But the rider repressed not his daring. 
 
 Till met by a savage, whose rank and might 
 Were shown by the plume he was wearing. 
 
 The moment was fearful ; a mightier foe 
 Had ne'er swung a battle-axe o'er hnn ; 
 
 But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, 
 And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. 
 
 O ne'er may the nations again be cursed 
 With conflict so dark and ajipalling ! — 
 
 Foe grappled with foe, till the life blood burst 
 From their agonii ;d bosqms in falling. 
 
 Gloom, silence, and solitude, nst on tiie spot 
 Where the hopes of the red man perished ; 
 
 But the fame of the hero who fell shall not. 
 By the virtuous, cease to be cherished. 
 
 He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, 
 
 With a spirit most loving and loyal ; 
 And long shall the Indian warrior sing 
 
 The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal. 
 
 The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye. 
 In his arm slept the force of tiie thunder, 
 
 But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by, 
 And left the freed captive to wonder. 
 
 Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps. 
 With a rudely-built tumuKius o'er him ; 
 
 And the bright-blossomed Thames, in its majesty, 
 sweeps 
 By the mound where his followers bore him. 
 
 THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 
 
 O, children, my trips are over. 
 The engineer needs rest ; 
 My hand is shaky ; I'm feeling 
 A tugging pain i' my breast ; 
 But here, as the twilight gathers, 
 I'll tell you a tale of the road, 
 That'll ring in my head forever. 
 Till it rests beneath the sod. 
 
 We wore himbering along in the twilight, 
 The night was dropping iier siiade, 
 
 Andt'iie "Gladiator" labored- 
 Climbing the top of the grade ; 
 
 The train was heavily laden, 
 So I let my engine rest, 
 
 Climbing the grading slowly. 
 
 Till we reached the upland's crest. 
 
 I held my watch to the lamplight — 
 
 Ten minutes behind tlie time ! 
 Lost in the slackened motion 
 
 Of the up-grade's heavy climb ; 
 But I knew the miles of the j^rairie 
 
 Tliat stretched a level track, 
 So I touched the gauge of the boiler, 
 
 And pulled the lever back, 
 
 0\er the rails a-gle.aming, 
 
 Thirty an hour, or so. 
 The engine leaped like a demon. 
 
 Breathing a fiery glow ; 
 But to me— ahold of the lever — 
 
 It seemed a child alway, 
 Trustful and always ready 
 
 My lightest touch to obej-. 
 
 I was proud, you know, of my engine, 
 
 Holding it steady that night, 
 And my eye on the track before us, 
 
 Ablaze with the I^rummonil liglit. 
 We neared a well-known cabin, 
 
 Where a child of three or four. 
 As the up train passed, oft called me, 
 
 A playing around the door. 
 
 My hand was firm on the throttle 
 
 As we swept around the curve, 
 Wlien something afar in the shadow, 
 
 Struck fire through every nerve. 
 I .sounded the brakes, and crashing 
 
 The reverse lever down in dismay, 
 Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces 
 
 Ahead was the child at its play ! 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 17;^ 
 
 One instant — one, awful and only, 
 
 Tlic world flew ruinul in my brain, 
 And I sniotc my iiaiid hard on my foreh^'ad 
 
 To keep baclc the terrible pain ; 
 The train I thought flyin}; forever. 
 
 With mad irresistible roll, 
 While the cries of the dying, the night wiiul 
 
 Swept into my shuddering soul. 
 
 Then I stood on the front of the engine — 
 
 I low I got there 1 never could tell — 
 My feet planted down on the crossbar. 
 
 Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail. 
 One hand firmly locked on the coupler. 
 
 And one held out in the night, 
 While my eve gauged the distance, andnie>nsured 
 
 The speed of our slackening (light. 
 
 My mind, tiiank the Lord ! it was steady ; 
 
 I saw the curls of her hair. 
 And the face that, turning in wonder, 
 
 Was lit by the deadly glare. 
 I know little more — i)ut I iieard it — 
 
 The groan of the anguished whc^'ls. 
 And remember thinking — the engine 
 
 In .agony trembles and reels. 
 
 One rod ! To the day of my dying 
 
 I shall think the old engine reared back. 
 And as it recoiled, with a shudder 
 
 I swept my hand over the track ; 
 Then darkness fell over my eyelids, 
 
 But I heard the surge of the train, 
 Aiid the poor old engine creaking, 
 
 As racked by a deadly pain. 
 
 They found us, they said, on the gravel, 
 
 My fingers enmeshed in her hair, 
 And she on my bosom a-climbing, 
 
 To nestle securely tliere. 
 We are not much given to crying — 
 
 We men that run on the road- 
 Rut that night, they said, there were faces, 
 
 With tears on them, lifted to God. 
 
 For years in the eve and the morning 
 
 As I neared the cabin again. 
 My hand on the lever jiressed downward 
 
 And slackened the speed of the train. 
 When my engine had blown her a greeting, 
 
 She always would come to the door ; 
 And her look with a fullness of heaven 
 
 Blesses me evermore. 
 
 THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE. 
 
 LD Ironsides at anchor lay, 
 In the harbor of Mahon ; 
 A dead calm rested on the baj — 
 The waves to sleep had gone ; 
 
 u 
 
 When little Ilal, the captain's son, 
 
 A lad t)()th brave and good, 
 In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, 
 
 And on the main truck stood ! 
 
 A shudder shot through every vein—' 
 
 All eyes were turned on high ! 
 There stt)od the boy, with dizzy brain, 
 
 Hctween the sea and sky ; 
 No hold iiad he above, below ; 
 
 Alone he stood in air : 
 To tliat far height none dare<l to go — 
 
 No aid could reach him tlien.'. 
 
 We gazed, I)ut not a man could speak, 
 
 With liorror all aghast— 
 In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, 
 
 We watched tlie (juivering mast. 
 Tile atmosphere grew thick and hot, 
 
 And of a lurid hue ; — 
 As riveted unto the spot. 
 
 Stood ofiicers and crew. 
 
 The father came on deck : — he gasped, 
 
 " t>h, God ; thy will be done ! " 
 Then suddenly a rifle grasped, 
 And aimed it at his son. 
 'Jump, f;ir out, l)oy, into the wave ! 
 
 Jump, or I fire," he said ; 
 ' That only chancj your life can save ; 
 Jump, jump, boy 1 " He obeyetl. 
 
 He sunk — he rose — he lived — he moved — 
 
 And for the ship struck out. 
 On board we hailed the lad beloved. 
 
 With many a manly shout. 
 His father drew, in silent joy, 
 
 Those wet arms round his neck. 
 And folded to his heart his boy — 
 
 Then fainted on the deck. 
 
 C. C. Coi.TON. 
 
 iIj 
 
 THE FATE OF VIRGINIA. 
 
 1 1 Y is the Forum crowded ? What means 
 lliis stir in Rome? " 
 "Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is 
 dragged here from her home. 
 On fair Virgniia, Cl.iudius has cast bis eye of blight ; 
 The tyr.uit's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right. 
 Oh, shame on Roman manhood ! Was ever plot more 
 
 clear? 
 Uut look ! the maiden's father comes ! Behold Vir- 
 ginius here ! " 
 
 Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside. 
 To wliere the reeking shambles stood, piled up with 
 
 horn and hide. 
 Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle 
 
 down — 
 Virginius caught the whittle up, and Iiid it in his gown. 
 
171 
 
 CROWN Jl'AVr.LS. 
 
 !' i ; I 
 
 
 u . ■ 
 
 And tlicn liis eyes grew very dim, and Iiis throat l>c;<an 
 
 to swell, 
 And in a lioarse, dianjicd voice lie spake, " Farewell, 
 
 sweet child, farewell ! 
 The house th.it was the hapjiiest within th? Roman 
 
 walls — 
 
 Then up sprang AppiusCLnidins : " Stop him, alive or 
 
 dead ! 
 Ten thousand poimds of copper to ttu' man who brin.;;s 
 
 hislvad!" 
 He looked upon his clients — but none would work his 
 
 will ; 
 The house that envied not the weallli of Capua's mar- . He looked upon his lictors — hut llu'y treniljled ai,(; 
 
 ble iialls, 
 Now, for the hrijilitiK'SS of thy smilo, must have eternal 
 
 Rloom, 
 And for the nnisic of thy voice, the sik'Uce of the tomb. 
 
 "The time is come. The tyrant points his eaj^er hand 
 this way ; 
 
 See how his eyes j;loat on thy gritf, like a kite's upon 
 the prey ; 
 
 With all his wit lie little deems that, spurned, be- 
 trayed, ben 'ft, 
 
 Thy fuller hath, in his despair, one fearful refuse left ; 
 
 He little deems that in this hand, I clutch w hat still 
 cm save 
 
 Thy j^eiitle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of 
 the slave ; 
 
 Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and 
 blow — 
 
 stood still. 
 And as Vir^jinius thr(iu.:,h the press his way in silenc ; 
 
 cLft, 
 Ever tlu- niij;hty nniltitude fell b.icU to ri.u;ht and left; 
 .And he hath passed in saA'ty unto his woful home, 
 And there taken horse to t •!! the camp wh.it deeds arc 
 
 done in Home. 
 
 I.dui) Mac.ml.w. 
 
 GOFFE, THE REGICIDE. 
 
 N the course of Philip's war, which involved al- 
 most all tiic Indian tribes in New Kngland, and 
 amonjj others those in the neighl)orhood nf 
 Hadley, the inhabitants thought it proper to ob- 
 serve the ist of September, J675, as a day of fastinj; 
 Foul outrage, which thou knowest not-which thou , .^„j ^^^^.^.^ ^vhile they were in the church, and 
 
 shall 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. 
 
 employed in their worship, they were surprised by a 
 band of savages. The people instantly betook them 
 selves to their arms,— which, according to thecuslotn 
 of the times, they had carried with them to the chiirdi, 
 — and, rushing out of the house, attacked their in- 
 vaders. The panic under which they began the con 
 diet was, however, so great, and their number was so 
 disproportioned to that of their enemies, that they 
 1 1 
 
 fought doubtfully at first, and in a short time bei;an 
 Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath ; ' evidently to give way. At this moment an ancient 
 And through the crowded I'"uruin was stillness as of man, with hoary locks, of a most venerable and dig- 
 deatli ; j nified aspect, and in a dress widely differing from 
 
 And in another moment break forth from one and all 1 that of the inhabitants, appeared suddenly at their 
 A cry as if the \'olscians were coming o'er the wall ; head, and with a firm voice and an e.\amplc of tin- 
 
 Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tot- 
 tered nigh. 
 
 And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife 
 on high : 
 
 " O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, 
 
 By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us 
 twain ; 
 
 And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and 
 mine, 
 
 Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Cl.iudian 
 line ! " 
 
 daunted resolution, reanimated their spirits, led them 
 again to the conflict, and totally routed the savages. 
 When the b.ittle was ended, the stranger disappeared ; 
 and no person knew whence he had come, or whither 
 he had gone. Therelief was so timely, so sudden, so 
 unexpected, and so providential ; the appearance 
 and the retreat of him who furnished it were so unac- 
 countable ; his person was so dignified and com- 
 manding, his resolution so superior, and his inter- 
 ferance so decisive, that the inhabitants, without any 
 uncommon e.xercise of credulity, readily believed him 
 
 So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, ;ind went to be an angel .sent by Heaven for their preservation. 
 
 his w.- 
 
 Nor was this opinion seriously controverted until it 
 
 But first he cast one haggard glanci! to where the body was discovered, several years afterward, that GofTe 
 
 lay. 
 And writhed, and groaned a f:_;irful gro.in, and then, 
 
 with steadfast feet, 
 Strotle right across the market-place ui'.to the Sacred 
 
 Street. 
 
 and Whalley had been lodged in t!ie hoii-^e of Mr. 
 Russell. Then it was known that their deliverer was 
 GofTe, Whalley having become superannuated .some 
 time before the event took place. 
 
 Timothy Dwight. 
 
 :i-^ 
 
III'.ROISM AND ADVKNTURK 
 
 175 
 
 JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW. 
 
 'HF journals this muniiii!.;; nrc full of a tali- 
 Ufa tt-rrilile ride tliroiinh a tniiiicl I y rail ; 
 Anil people are called on to note and ad- 
 t mire 
 
 How a hundred or more, through the sniokecloud 
 
 and fire, 
 Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives — 
 Mothers saved to tlieir children, and husbands to 
 
 wives, 
 liut of him who performed such a notable deed 
 (Jiiite little the journalist );ives us to read. 
 In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold, 
 There is nothing except, in few syllables told. 
 His nanie, which is Johnny Bartholomew. 
 
 Away in Nevada— they don't tell us where, 
 Nor docs it nuich matter — a railway is there, 
 Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines. 
 With glimpses at linus of the wildest of scenes — 
 Now passing a bridge seeming fme as a thread, 
 Now shooting past clifis that impend o'er the head, 
 Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within, 
 Wiiose tlarkness is roused at the clatter and din ; 
 And ran every day with its train o'er the road. 
 An engine that steatlily draggeil on its load. 
 And was driven by Johnny Hartholomew. 
 
 With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train. 
 While the sparks fell around and btiliiiul him like 
 
 rain. 
 As he came to a spot where a curve to the right 
 Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in 
 
 sight. 
 And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken. 
 Felt a (juick sense of danger come over him then. 
 Was a train on the track ? No ! A peril as dire — 
 Tiie further extreme of liie tunnel on fire ! 
 And the volume of smoke as it gathered and rolled, 
 Sliook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold, 
 But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew. 
 
 Beat faster flis heart, though its current stood still, 
 And his nerves felt ajar but no tremulous thrill ; 
 And Ills eyes keenly gleamed through their partly 
 
 closed lashes. 
 And his lips— not with fear— took the color of ashes. 
 " If we falter, these people behind us are dead ! 
 So close the doors, fircnnn— we'll send her ahead ! 
 Croud on the steam till she rattles and swings ! 
 Open the throttle-valve ! Give her her wings !" 
 Sliinited he from his post in tlu! en;;ineer's room. 
 Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom, 
 This man they call Johnny Bartholomew. 
 
 Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath, 
 On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of l")eatli. 
 On, on through that horrible cavern of hell. 
 Through flames that arose and through timbers that 
 fell. 
 
 Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire 
 That writhed and that hi^s(■d in their anguish and 
 
 ire, 
 With a rush and a roar like a wild ti-mprst's blast, 
 To the free nir beyond tlnin in s.ili ty they passed t 
 While the clang of the bell and the steam pipe's shrill 
 
 yell. 
 Told the joy at escape from lint underground hell, 
 Of the man they calleil Johnny Bartholnmew. 
 
 Did the passengers get up a sei^^lce of plate ? 
 Hid some oily-tongued orator ;it the man prate ' 
 Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his 
 
 knees ? 
 Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze? 
 And wh' re was he born ? Nhe handsome? Has he 
 A wife for his bosom, a child for his kmv ? 
 Is he young ? Is he old ? Is he tall ? I ; he short ? 
 Well, ladies, the journals t( II naught of the sort, 
 And all that they give us a'>out him to day. 
 After telling the tale in a conimonpl.ire way. 
 Is — the man's name is J;)hnny Bartholomew. 
 
 TllDMAS niN.S I^NCll.ISH. 
 
 THE FRENCH ARMY RETREATING FROM 
 MOSCOW. 
 
 mAGNIFICENCE of ruin ! what has time 
 In all it ever gazed upon of war, 
 Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime, 
 Seen, with that battle's vengeance to com- 
 pare ? 
 How glorious shone the invader's pomp afar I 
 Like pampered lions from the spoil they came ; 
 The land before tlvm silence and despair, 
 The land behind them massacre and tlnm" ; 
 Blood will have tenfold blood. What are tiiey now? 
 A name. 
 
 Homeward by hundred thousands, cohunn-decp. 
 Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the (hjod, 
 WliLii mighty torrents from their channels leap, 
 Rushed '.hrough the land the haughty nuiltitudo. 
 Billow oi, fndless billow ; on through wood, 
 O'er nigged lill, down simless, marshy vale, 
 The de.ith-devoted moved, to clangor rude 
 Of drum and h<.rn, and dissonant clash of mail, 
 Glancing disastrous light before that simhemi pale. 
 
 Again they reached thee, Borodino ! still 
 Upon the loaded soil t!io carnage lay, 
 Tlie human hirvest, now stark, stiff", and rhill, 
 I'Yiend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to day ; 
 In vain the startled legions burst away ; 
 The land was all one naked sepulchre ; 
 The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay, 
 Still did the hoof ami wheel their passage tear, 
 Througli cloven helms and arms, and corpses mould 
 ering drear. 
 
 GiiORC.E Crolv. 
 
 ) 
 
 ;»i 
 
 
 1 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 i\ 
 
 K 
 
 1 
 
 m^ 
 
176 
 
 CROWN JIIVVICLS. 
 
 •li 
 
 JIM BLUDSO. 
 
 y^ JY AI-L. no ! I liin't tell wliert- he lives, 
 ill Hecaiisc lio iloii't live, yon sec : 
 \Ay Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 
 Of liviii' like you and nie. 
 VVhar have you been fur the last liiree years 
 
 That yuu haven't heard folks tell 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, 
 The ninht of the " Prairie Belie ? " 
 
 He warn't no saint — them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike — 
 One wife of Natchez under tlie-IIill, 
 
 And another one here, in I'ike. 
 A careless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward man in a row- 
 But lie never pinked, and he never lied, 
 
 I reckon he never knowed how. 
 
 And this was all the religion he had — 
 
 To treat his engine well ; 
 Never be passed on the river ; 
 
 To mind the pilot's hell ; 
 And if ever the " Prairie ndl " took fire, 
 
 A thousand times he swore 
 He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 
 All boats has tlipir day on the Mississip', 
 
 And her day came at last— 
 The "Movastar" was a better boat. 
 
 But the " Belle," she wouldn't he pas.sed. 
 And so came tarin' along tiiat night, 
 
 The oldest craft on the line, 
 With a nigger squat on htr safety-valve. 
 
 And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. 
 
 The fire bust out as she cleared the bar. 
 
 And burnt a hole in the niglit. 
 And quick as a flash she turned, and made 
 
 For that wilier-bank on the right. 
 There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out 
 
 Over all the infernal roar, 
 " I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot's ashore ! " 
 
 Thro' the hot, black breath of the burning boat 
 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard. 
 And they all had trust in his cussedness, 
 
 And knowed he would keep his word. 
 And sure's you're born, they all got off 
 
 Afore the smoke-stacks fell, 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the " Prairie Belle." 
 
 He warn't no saint — but at judgment 
 
 I'd inn my chance with Jim 
 'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 
 That wouldn't shook hands with him. 
 
 He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing, 
 And went for it Ihar and tiirti ; 
 
 And Christ ain't a-goin;,,' to he too hard 
 On a man that died for men. 
 
 John Hav, 
 
 RAMON, 
 
 /J'^RUNK and senseless in his placf, 
 ■^ J I'rone and sprawlin;' on his face, 
 
 •■^^ More like brute than any man 
 Alive or dead - 
 By his great pum|> out of gear. 
 Lay tile peon engineer, 
 Waking only just to hear, 
 
 Overllead, 
 Angry tones that called his name. 
 Oaths and cries of bitter.blame— 
 Woke to hear all this, and waking, turmil .and fled ! 
 
 "To the man who'll bring to tne," 
 fried Intentlaiil Harry Li'> — • 
 Harry Lee, tlio ICnglisii forem.in of the mine — 
 " liring the sot alive or dead, 
 I will give to him," he s.-iid, 
 " I'iftern lunulred/^'.w.v down. 
 Just to set tile rasc.il's crown 
 Underneath this heel of mine : 
 Since hut death 
 Deserves the man whose deed. 
 Be it vice or want of heed. 
 Stops the pumps that gi\e us breath— 
 Sl<jps llie pumps that suck the death 
 I'Vom the poisoned low^r levels of the mine!" 
 
 No one answered, for a cry 
 IVom the shaft rose uj* on high ; 
 .^nd shudling, scramhling, tumbling from below 
 Came the miners each, the bolder 
 Mounting on the weaker':; shoulder, 
 Grajipling, clinging to their hold or 
 
 Letting go, 
 As the weaker gasped and fell 
 I'runi the ladder to the well — 
 To til J poisonerl ])it of hell 
 
 Down below ! 
 
 "To the man who sets them free," 
 Cried the foreman, 1 larry Lee — 
 Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine — 
 " Brings them out and sets them free, 
 
 I will give that man," said he, 
 " Twice that sum, who with a rope 
 Face to face with death shall cope. 
 Let him come w ho dares to hope ! " 
 " 1 lold your peace I " some one replied, 
 .Standing by the foreman's side ; 
 " There has one already gone, whoe'er he be I" 
 
 Then they held their breath with awe, 
 Pulling on the rope, and saw 
 
ni:R01SM AND ADVKNTURK. 
 
 ,177 
 
 Fiilnlin.i; fi^^iins re-iippcar, 
 
 On tlu- l)liu k r(i|)(.' swiiiKin;,' clear, 
 
 Fastened liy some skilliil liaiul from below ; 
 Till a S( ore llic level ^jaiiud, 
 Aiiil hut 'inc alone remained — 
 lie the hero an<l th, last, 
 lie whose skilful hand niadi (ast 
 
 The lonj; line that hroii^iht tliem hack to hope nnd 
 cheer I 
 
 lfn);j;ard, };aspin^, down droppeil he 
 At the feet of Harry Lee — 
 Harry I.ee, the English foreman of the mine ; 
 " I have come," he gasped, "to (■lain\ 
 lloth rewards. Senor, my name 
 
 Is Uanton ! 
 I'm the drunken en.i;ineer — 
 I'm the coward, Seflor— " Here 
 He fell over, hy that sign 
 Dead as stone ! 
 
 Urkt Hak tk. 
 
 DEATH OF GAUDENTIS, 
 
 The followliiR; Inscrljition was found in the Catacomlis upon tlie 
 tomb of the Architect uf the Culiscuiii : , 
 
 Thus thou kccpcst thy promises, U Vespasian I the rcwardliii,' 
 with ilcatli of liiin, tlie crown of thy glory hi Rome. Oo rejoici', 
 r.aiiilentisl tlic cruel tyrant promised much, but Christ gave 
 thee all, who prepared thee such a mansion. i 
 
 §KFORE Vespasian's regal throne ; 
 
 Skilful Gaudcntis stood ; 
 " Build me," the haughty monarch cried, j 
 
 " A the.atre for blood. ' 
 
 I know thou'rt skilled in mason's work, j 
 
 Thine is the power to frame 
 Rome's Coliseum vast and wide, 
 An honor to thy name. 
 
 "Over seven acres spread thy work, 
 
 And hy the gods of Rome, \ 
 
 Thou shall hereafter by my side 
 
 Have thy resplendent home. 
 A citizen of Roman rights, 
 
 Silver and golden store, 
 These shall be thine ; let Christian blood 
 
 But stain the marble Hoor." 
 
 So rose the Amphitheatre, 
 
 Tower and arch and tier ; 
 There dawned a day when martyrs stood 
 
 Within that ring of fear, 
 r.ut strong their quenchless trust in God, 
 
 And strong their human love, 
 Their eyes of faith, undimmed, were fixed 
 
 On temples far above. 
 
 And thousands gazed, in brutal joy, 
 
 To watch those Christians die — 
 Rut one beside Vespasian leaned, 
 
 With a strange light in his eye. 
 
 (12) 
 
 Wh.it thoughts w IK'd up within hi.s breost, 
 
 As on that group Ir- ga/ccl, 
 What gleams of holy li.Jit from heavi n. 
 
 Upon his dark soul bla/ed 1 
 
 Had he by password gained nocess 
 
 To the ilark C".it,i(oiiil>, 
 And learnt'd the hope ol C hrist's beloved. 
 
 Beyond the rack, the tomS? 
 The protid Vespasian t)'er hin) beiuls, ■ 
 
 " .My prireli'ss arihili-ct, 
 To-day I will announce to all 
 
 Thy privilege elect— 
 
 A free-made «:iti/en of Rome." 
 
 Calmly (laudentis rose. 
 And folding, o'er his breast, his arms, 
 
 Tmni'd to the ."^.iviour's fo/s ; 
 And in a siren;;;!!! not all hi ; own, 
 
 Willi life and death in \ i>\v, 
 The fj.irkss architect exclainicd, 
 
 " I am a Christian too." 
 
 Only a f^'w brief monu-nts p.xssed. 
 
 And brave (i.uuL'nti.-. lay 
 Within tile .Aniphitlieatie, 
 
 A lifeless mass iS clay. 
 \'^spasian proniis, d hini the rights 
 
 Of proud Imperial Rome ; 
 But Christ with martyrs crowned him king. 
 
 Beneath heaven's cloudless dome. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 
 
 V*^ OW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 
 
 I f glories are I 
 
 J ^ And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King 
 
 Henry of Navarre ! 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and the 
 
 dance. 
 Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O 
 
 pleasant land of France ! 
 And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of 
 
 the waters. 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning 
 
 daughters ; 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, 
 For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy 
 
 walls annoy. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance 
 of war. 
 
 Hurrah! hu.rah! for Ivry ami King Henry of N.a- 
 varre! 
 
 Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of 
 day, 
 
 We saw the army of the League drawn out in long ar- 
 ray ; 
 
 With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers. 
 
 And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egniont's F'lemish 
 spears! 
 
 11 
 
 t. " \n 
 
1; p;i 
 
 I ii 
 
 Kr'l; 
 
 ml 
 
 178 
 
 CROWN JKWELS. . 
 
 There rode the bnxxl of false Lorraine, the curses of our 
 land! 
 
 And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in 
 his hand ; 
 
 And, as we looked on them, we tiiought of Seine's em- 
 purpled flood, 
 
 And then we thought on vongence, and all along our 
 
 van, 
 " Remember St. Bartholomew ! " was passed from man 
 
 to man ; 
 But out spake gentle TTenry, then — " No Frenchman k 
 
 my foe ; 
 
 And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his ; Down, down with every foreigner ! but let your brftli- 
 
 blood ; I rengo." 
 
 And we cried unto the living God, who rules tiie late j Oh, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or i.i 
 
 of war, war, 
 
 To fight f >r his own holy name, and I lenry of Navarre. • As our sovereign lord, King I lenry, the s(ildier of \.i- 
 
 varre ? 
 The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor I 
 
 drest, I 
 
 And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gal- j 
 
 lant crest. I ,, ■ ,„ -t- . /■ i ■ i ,. • . . 
 
 ,, , , , ,. , , . . ,. illo! rhilip, send for chanty thy Mexican pistoles, 
 
 lie looked upon his peotile, and a tear was in his eve ; „,, , ' ' , ■' . ■' \ ' 
 
 ,. , , , ,1 . •, I 1- I .' Ihat Antwerp monks may sing a mass for In v poor 
 
 He looked upon the traitors, aiul his glance was stern i , , • ' 
 
 , , . , spearmcns souls. 
 
 and higli. ,t ■ n . it c ., , t , , 
 
 IIo! gallant nobles of the League, look that votir 
 
 I lo ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matioiis of LiiceriiL- ! 
 Weep, weep and rend your hair for those who never 
 shall return ! 
 
 Right gr.-'.ciously, he smiled on us, as rolled from wing ' 
 
 arms be brigiit ! 
 
 to wing, i , , I , , rr- ^ ■ 1 
 
 ... 1, !■ • 1 r • 1 I 11^ I ,IIo! Iniighers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and wan 
 
 Down all our line, 111 deafening shout, God save our , , . , . 
 
 lord, the King!" 
 
 "And if my standard-bearer fall — as fall full well he 
 
 may, 
 For never saw T promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
 Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the 
 
 ranks of war, , i i . • i , ,-• ,, 
 
 ... .„ . , .1 1 1 . r >.' , And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of N.i- 
 
 And be your onflamme, to-<lav, tlij helmet of Na- ■^. .> > o j 
 
 ,, ' varre ! 
 
 ^'^'^'^^' LoKD Macai-lav. 
 
 to-night ; 
 ! For our God hath cnished the tyrant, our God liatli 
 
 raised the slave. 
 And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of 
 
 the brave. 
 Then glory to His holy name, from ' horn all glories are ! 
 
 THE DRAW-BRIDGE KEEPER. 
 
 Hurrah! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled 
 
 din 
 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drumi, and roaring History a.ul poetry celebrate no sublimcr act of devotion th.in 
 
 culverin ! 
 
 The fiery Duke is pricking fast acro.ss St .Vndre's plain, 
 
 With all the liire'ling chivalry of Guelders and Al- 
 mayne. 
 
 Nov.', by the lips of tlio.se ye love, fair gentlemen of 
 I'rance, 
 
 Charge for the golden lilies now — upon them with the 
 lance ! 
 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thous.and sircars 
 in rest, 
 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- 
 white crest. 
 
 And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a 
 guiding star, 
 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Na- 
 varre. 
 
 Now, God be jiniised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath 
 turned his rein, 
 
 D'Auniale hath cried for cjuartcr — tiie I'lonilsii Count 
 is slain ; 
 
 Their ranks pre breaking like thin clouds befcjre a Bis- 
 cay gale ; 
 
 The field is heaped with bleeding steeils, and flags, Jind 
 cloven mail. 
 
 ©' 
 
 tluit (if Ailitrt G. Drccker, the watclim.nii of the Passaic Rivtr 
 ilraw-liridgc, oil tlie New York aiul Newark Railroail. TIic truin 
 was due, and he was clwsiiig the draw when his liule cli;M Ml 
 into the ilccp water. It wonUI have been easy tnouyli to rcicui 
 hitn, if ti'.e f.ithcr could have ta'.cn tlie time, but already liii' 
 lluindeiing train was at hand. Itwasaeri!el ag.>ny. His clii'ii 
 could be saved only at tlie cost of Oilier lives committed lo lis 
 eare. The hravo man did Iiis duty, bi:t tlic rhi'd was drowned. 
 Tlie pass at Thermopylae was not more lieroically kept. 
 
 RECKER, the draw-bridge keeper openei' 
 wide 
 The dangerous gate to let the vessel 
 through ; 
 His little son was standing by his side, 
 Above Passaic river, deep and blue ; 
 While in the distance, like a moan of pain. 
 Was heard the whistle of the coming train. 
 
 .'\t once brave Drecker worked to swing it back— 
 The gatelike bridge, that seems a gate of death ; 
 
 Nearer and nearer, on the slender track, 
 C line the swift engine, puffing its white breath. 
 
 Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw 
 
 His darling boy fall headlong from the draw. 
 
 Either at once down in tlie stream to spring 
 And save Iiis son, and let the living freight 
 
 I *. ": 
 
long otir 
 rom man 
 icliman i . 
 )ur Virotli- 
 ^hip or i.', 
 li(_-r of N:i- 
 
 Luccriie ! 
 who nevor 
 
 stoles, 
 
 .•)r lliy poor 
 
 : th;U your 
 
 :h and ward 
 
 ir God halh 
 
 the valor o( 
 
 U glories are! 
 leiiry of Na- 
 
 Macai;i.av. 
 'ER. 
 
 ,f devolion thr.n 
 PasHaic Rivvr 
 lioad. Tlie train 
 liule cli:M Ml 
 n(iUt;li to rescue 
 Ib'.it alr>'.-r<ly llie 
 ,,„y. His clii:'! 
 ;ommiUc(\ to lis 
 ■,,1 was (Irowncil. 
 kept. 
 
 :eper opeiict' 
 L the vessel 
 
 tun, 
 liin. 
 
 Ig it back- 
 lie of death ; 
 
 lite breath. 
 
 law 
 
 Idraw. 
 
 HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 179 
 
 Rt'.sh on to death, or to his work to ding, 
 
 And leave liis boy unheiped to meet his fate ; 
 Wliicli shou'd lie do ? Were yon, as lie was tried, 
 Would not your love outweight all else beside? 
 
 And yet the clii'd to him was full as dear 
 
 As yours may be to you — tlie liglit of eyes, 
 A presence like a brigluer atmosphere, 
 
 Tlie household starth.it siionein love's mild skies- 
 Yet side by side with duty, stern and Rrini, 
 Even his child became as nought to him. 
 
 For Drecker, being great of soul, and true. 
 Held to his work, and did not aid his boy, 
 
 Wlio in tlie deep, dark water sank from view. 
 Then from the father's life went forth all joy ; 
 
 Rut, as he fell back, pallid with his pain. 
 
 Across the bridge, in safety, p.issed the train. 
 
 And yet the man was poor, and in his breast 
 Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord ; 
 
 True greatness needs no title and no crest 
 To win from men just honor and reward ; 
 
 Nobility is not of rank, but mind — 
 
 And is inborn, and common in our kind. 
 
 He iM most noble whose humanity 
 Is least corrupted. To be just and good 
 
 Tlie birthright of the lowest born may be ; 
 Say what we can, we are one brotherhood. 
 
 And rich, or poor, or famous or unknown. 
 
 True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone. 
 
 IIenrv AnriKV. 
 
 ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, 
 MARCH, 7. 1862. 
 
 TAND to your guns, men ! " Morris cried ; 
 Small need to pass the word ; 
 Our men at quarters ranged themselves 
 Before the drum was heard. 
 
 And then began the sailors* jests : 
 "What thing is that, I say? " 
 "A 'long-shore meeting-house adrift 
 A standing down the bay ? " 
 
 "So sliot your guns and point them straight ; 
 Before this day goes by. 
 We'll try of what her metal's made." 
 A cheer was our reply. 
 
 " Remember, boys, this fl.tg of ours 
 Has seldom left its place ; 
 And where it falls, the deck it strikes 
 Is covered with disgrace. 
 
 Irmg 
 
 tci: 
 
 tht 
 
 "lask b'lt this; or sink or swim, 
 Or live or nobly die, 
 
 My last sight upon earlh may be 
 To see that ensign (iy ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass 
 
 Came moving o'er the wave. 
 As .jloomy as ii passing hearse. 
 
 As silei:t as the grave. 
 
 Her ports were closed ; from stem to stern 
 
 No sign of life appeared : 
 We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, 
 
 Joke' — eve^'v thing, but feartil. 
 
 She reached our range. Our broadside rang ; 
 
 Our heavy pivots roared ; 
 And shut and shell, a fiu: of hell, 
 
 Against htr side we poured. 
 
 Gods mercy ! from her sloping roof 
 
 The iron tempest glanced. 
 As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, 
 
 And round her leaped and danced ; 
 
 Or wlien against her dusky hull 
 
 We struck a fair, full blow. 
 The mightv, solid iron globe s 
 
 Were crumbled up like snow. 
 
 On, on, with fast increasing speed, 
 
 The silent monster came, 
 Tiiough all our starboard battery 
 
 Was one long line of flame. 
 
 .She heeded not ; no guns she fired ; 
 
 Straigiit o:\ (air bows she bore ; 
 Through riving plank and crashing frame 
 
 ller furious way she tore. 
 
 Alas ! our beautiful, keen bow, 
 
 That in the fiercest blast 
 So gently folded back the seas, 
 
 Tliey hardly felt we passed. 
 
 Alas! al.'is ! my Cumberland, 
 
 Tiiat ne'er knew grief before, 
 To be so gored, to feel so deep 
 
 Tlie tusk of that sea-boar ! 
 
 Once more she backward drew apace ; 
 
 Once mure our side she rent, 
 Then, in t!io wantonness of hate, 
 
 Her broadside through us sent. 
 
 The dead and dying round us lay. 
 
 Hut our foetnen lay abeam ; 
 Her open port-holes maddened us. 
 
 We tired with shout at»d scream. 
 
 We felt our vessel settling fast ; 
 We knew our time was brief; 
 " Ho ! man the pumps ! " But they who worked 
 And fought not, wept with grief. 
 
 i!i->^ 
 
ISO 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 i I 
 
 •-■i 
 
 From captain down to powder-boy, 
 
 No hand was idle then : 
 Tu o soldiers, but by ch.ince aboard, 
 
 Fought on like sailor men. 
 
 And when a gun's crew lost a hand. 
 
 Some bold marint; stepped out, 
 And jerked his braided jacket olT, 
 
 And hauled the gun about. 
 
 Our forward magazine was drowned, 
 
 And uj) from llie sick-bay 
 Crawled <n;t the wtnmdecl, nd with blood, 
 
 And round us gasping lay ; — 
 
 Yes, cheering, ral'ing us by name, 
 
 •Slruggling wiih fiiiiing breath 
 To keep their shipmates at the post 
 
 Where glory strove with death. 
 
 With decks afloat and powder gone, 
 
 The last broadside we ga\ e 
 From the guns' heated iron lips 
 
 Burst out beneath the wave. 
 
 So sponges, rammers, and handspikes — 
 
 As men-of-war's men should— 
 We placed within their proper racks, 
 
 And at our quarters stood. 
 
 " Up 1o the spar deck ! save yourselves ! " 
 Cried SeliVidge. " L'p, my men ! 
 God grant th.at some of us may live 
 To liglit yon ship again ! " 
 
 We turned : we did not like to go ; 
 
 Yi.'t staying sremed but vain, 
 Knee-deep in water ; so we left ; 
 
 Some swore, some groaned with pain. 
 
 We reached the deck. There Randall stood : 
 
 " Another turn, men — so I " 
 Calmly he aimed his piv(jt gun : 
 
 " Now, Tenny, let her go ! " 
 
 It did our sore hearts good to hear 
 
 The song our pivot sang. 
 As rushing on from wave to wave 
 
 The whi'ring bomb-shell sprang. 
 
 Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, 
 Anel waved his cap in sjiort ; 
 " Well done ! well aimed ! 1 saw that shell 
 Go through -m open port ! " 
 
 It was our last, our deadliest shot ; 
 
 The deck was overflown ; 
 The poor ship staggered, lurched to port. 
 
 And gave a living groan. 
 
 Down, down, as headlong through the waves 
 Our gallant vessel rushed ; 
 
 A thousand gurgling watery sounds 
 Around my senses gushed. 
 
 Then I remember little more ; 
 
 One look to heaven I gave. 
 Where, like an angel's wing, I saw 
 
 (3ur spotless ensign wave. 
 
 I tried to cheer. I cannot say 
 
 Whether I swam or sank ; 
 A blue n'.ist closed around my eyes, 
 
 And everything was blank. 
 
 When I awoke, a soldier lad. 
 
 All dripping from the sea. 
 With two great tc'ars upon his cheeks, 
 
 Was bending over me. 
 
 I tried to speak. He understood 
 
 The wish I coukl not speak. 
 He turned me. There, th;mk God ! the Hag 
 
 Still fluttered at the peak ! 
 
 And there, while thread shall hang to thread, 
 
 Oh, let that ensign fly! 
 The noblest constellation set 
 
 Against the northern sky — 
 
 A sign that we who live may claim 
 
 Tiie peerage of the brave ; 
 A monument that needs no scroll, 
 
 For those beneath the wave. 
 
 Georgk H. Hokkr. 
 
 COLUMBUS FIRST DISCOVERS 
 THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 LAND IN 
 
 HK breeze liad been fresh all day, with more 
 sea than usual, and they had niadegreatiiio- 
 gress. At sunset they h;;d stood again totlie 
 '^ west, and were ploughing the waves at a 
 rapid rate, the I'inta keeping the head, from her su- 
 perior sailing. The greatest animation prcv.Tikd 
 throughout the ships : not an eye was closed that 
 night. As the evening darkened, Columii : took his 
 station on the top of the castle or cabin on a lii,;;li 
 poop of his vessel, ranging his eye along the dusky 
 horizon, and maintaining an intense and unriniittiiij; 
 watch. About ten o'clock, he thought he belickl a 
 light glimmering at a great distance. Fearing liis 
 eager hopes might deceive him, he called to Pedro 
 Gutierrez, gentleman of the king's bedchamber, and 
 inquired whether he saw such a light ; the latter re- 
 plied in the aflirmative. Doubtful whether it niisht 
 not yet be some delusion of the fancy, Coliiiiibiis 
 called Rodrigo Sanchez, of Se^iovia, and made the 
 same inquiry. By the time the latter had ascended 
 the round-house, the liglit had disappeared. They 
 saw it once or twice afterwards in sudden and passing 
 
 'I H 
 
HEROISM AND ADVKNTURE. 
 
 181 
 
 K H. HOKER, 
 
 Frederic SciiiLLiiu. 
 
 glpims, as if it were a torch in the bark of a fisher- j Yea, trust tlie guiding God, and go along the float- 
 man, rising and sinking wiili the waves, or in the ing graves ; 
 
 h;ind of some person on sliore, borne up and down as Though hid till now, yet now liehold the new world 
 he walked from house to house. So transient and o'er the seas ! 
 
 uncertain were tlit-se gleams, that few attached any ^ With genius, nature stands in soli nin tM',i<.n slill, 
 importance to them ; Columbus, however, considered : And ever what the one foretells, the oilar shall fiil- 
 them as certain signs of land, and, moreover, that the fill, 
 
 land was inhabited. 
 
 They continued their course until in the morning, 
 when a gun from the Pinta gave the joyful signal of 
 land. It was first descried by a mariner named Ko- 
 dri"0 de Triana ; but the reward was afterwards ad- 
 jiulged to the admiral for having previously perceived 
 the lii,'ht. The land was now clearly seen about two 
 leagues distant ; whereupon they took in sail, and 
 lay to, waiting impatiently for the dawn. 
 
 The thoughts and feelings of Columbus in this little 
 space of time must have been tumultuous and in- 
 tense. At length, in spite of every difTicnlty and 
 danger, he had accomplished his object. The great 
 mystery of the ocean was revealed ; his theory, which 
 
 u 
 
 SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 
 
 P from the South at break of day, 
 15ringiiig to Winchester fresh dismay. 
 The afliighted air with a sluiddur burc, 
 Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door. 
 
 The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar. 
 
 Telling the battle was on once nujre. 
 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 And wider still those billows of war 
 Thundered aUiig the horizon's bar ; 
 And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 
 
 had been the scofT of sages, was triumphantly estah 
 
 lished ; he had secured to himself a glory durable as ; i^i^king thebU)c>d of llu' listener cold, 
 
 the world itself. | As he thought of llie st;,ke in tiiat liery fray, 
 
 It is dilTicult to conceive the feelings of such a man '■ ^nd Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 at such a moment, or the conjectures which must I 
 
 have thronged upon his mind, as to the land before I But there is a road from Winchester town, 
 him, covered with darkness. That it was fruitful was ' A good, broad liigliu ay leading down ; 
 evident from the vegetables which floated from its , And there ihrougli the iiush of the morning light, 
 shores, He thought, too, that he perceived the fra- ! A steed as l-lack as the steeils of night, 
 grance of aromatic groves. The moving light he | ^V:is seen to i)ass, as with eagle flight. 
 had beheld proved it the residence of man. But j As if he knew the terrililo need, 
 what were its inhabitants ? Were they like those of. ' I^' stretciied away with his utmost speed ; 
 the other parts of the globe; or were they some ^ I liUs rose and fell ; but liis heart was gay, 
 strange and monstrous race, such as the im- j With Sheridan lifteen miles away, 
 agination was prone in those times to give to all re- g^;,i ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^,^ -^j ,,,,^f^^ thunderi:i- scutli, 
 mote and unknown regions? Had he come upon I 
 
 some wild island (ar in the Indian Sea ; or was this ! 
 
 The dust, lil^e smoke from the canrion's nuuitli ; 
 
 Or the trail of a cornet, swcei)ing faster and faster, 
 the famed Cipango itself, the object of his golden | j,^,^^^^^;,,^, ^^ ^^.^j^^^^ j,,^ j^,„^, ^^ji^^^^^.,. 
 
 fancies? A thousand speculations of the kind must j ,^,,^ ,^^,,^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ .^,,j ^,,g ^^^,^^^ ^f ^,,^. ^^^^.^.^ 
 have swarmed upon hnn, as, with his anxious crews, ] ^y^^^ [,^,.^ung like prisoners assaulting t'u ir w;..!,;. 
 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field c:dt ; 
 
 he waited for the night to pass away, wondering 
 whether the morning light would reveal a savage wil- 
 derness, or dawn upon spicy groves, and glittering 
 fanes, and gilded cities, and all the tplendor of orien- 
 tal civilization. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 THE GREAT DISCOVERY. 
 
 'TEER on, bold sailor ; wit may mock thy soul 
 that sees the land. 
 And hopeless, at the helm, may droop the 
 weak and weary hand ; 
 Yet ever, ever to the west, for there the coast must 
 lie. 
 
 Every nerve of the charger was strained to fu'.i p 
 With Sheridan only ten miles away. 
 
 Under his spurning feet, the road 
 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. 
 
 And the landscape .sped away behind 
 
 Like an ocean flying before tiie wind. 
 
 And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
 
 Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 
 
 But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 
 
 He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. 
 
 With Sheridan only five miles away. 
 
 The first that the General saw were the groups 
 Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; 
 
 And dim it dawns, and glimmery dawns, before thy ! What was done — what to do — a glance told him both, 
 reason's eye ; I And striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 
 
 
 n 
 
 U 
 
 &' 
 
182 
 
 CROWN JEWELS, 
 
 He daslied do«ii the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, 
 And tlie wave of retreat checked its course tliero, he- 
 
 c.iuse 
 The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
 With foam and \vi:h du.^t tlie lilack cliarjjt r was yray ; 
 Hy the flash of his eye, and his reii nostril's play, 
 He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
 " I have brought you Sheridan all tli<; way 
 From Winchester down, to save the day." 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
 Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
 And when their statues are placed on high, 
 Under the dome of the Union sky — 
 The American soldiers' Temple of F.ime, 
 There with the glorious General's name, 
 lie it said in letters both bold and brigiit : 
 " Here is the steed that saved the day 
 By carrying Sheridan into the liglit, 
 From Winchester — twenty miles away ! " 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Ri;aij 
 
 THE RIDE OF PAUL VENAREZ. 
 
 ffi 
 
 NORVAL 
 
 Y name is N'orval : on the Grampi iii liill 
 My father feeds his flocks a l"i ugal .-^wain, 
 Whose constant care was to increase his 
 store, 
 And keep his only son, myself, at home. 
 Fur I had heard of battles, and I longed 
 'i'o follow to the held some warlike lord : 
 Aad Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. 
 This moon which rose last night, round as my shield, 
 Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light 
 A band of fieice barbarians, from the hills, 
 Rushed like a torrent down upon the vale. 
 Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds (led 
 For safety and for succor. I alone. 
 With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, 
 Hovered about the enemy, and marked 
 The road he took, then hastened to my friend: 
 Whom widi a troop of fifty chosen men, 
 I met advancing. The pursuit I led, 
 Till we o'ertouk the spoil encumbered foe. 
 We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was drawn 
 An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief. 
 Who wore that day the arms which now I wear. 
 R. turning home in triumph, I disd..ined 
 Tile shepherd's slothful life ; and having heard 
 That our good king had summoned his bold peers 
 To lead their warriors to the Carron side, 
 I left my father's house, and took with me 
 A chosen servant to conduct my .steps — 
 Von trembling coward, who forsook his master. 
 Journeying with this intent, I passed these; towers 
 And, Heaven-directed, rame this day to do 
 The happy deed that gilds my humble name. 
 
 JotiN Home. 
 
 FAUI, VENAREZ heard them say, in the frontier 
 town, tlwt day, 
 Tliat a band of Red Plume's warriors was 
 upm the trail of death ; 
 Heard them tell of murder done — three men killed at 
 
 Rocky Run. 
 "They're in danger up at Crawford's," said Venare,^, 
 under breath. 
 
 "Crawford's" — thirty miles away— was a settlement, 
 thai lay 
 In a grojn and pleasant valley of the mighty wildcr- 
 ni'ss ; 
 Half a sore of homes was there, and in one a maiden 
 fr.ir 
 i Held the heart of Paul Veiiarez— " Paul Venarez' lit- 
 j tie Hess." 
 
 ; .So no wonder he grew pale when he heard the settler's 
 tale 
 Of the men ht- had seen murdered yesterday, at 
 Rocky Run. 
 " Not a soul will dream," he said, "of the danger tliai's 
 ahead ; 
 liy my love for little Bessie, I must see that some- 
 thing's done." 
 
 , Not a moment he d^ilayed, when his brave resolve w,w 
 ! maile. 
 
 ; " Wiiy, my man," his comrades told him when tlicy 
 j knew his daring plan, 
 
 " Vou are going straight to death." But he answered, 
 "Save your breath, 
 I may fail to get to Crawford's but I'll do the best I 
 1 can." 
 
 O'er the forest rail he sped, and his thoughts flew on 
 ahead 
 To the little band at Crawford's, thinking not of dan- 
 ger near. 
 
 i"()h, (;od hjp me .save, "cried he, " litde Bess ! " And 
 I fast and five 
 
 I Trusty Nell bore on the hero of tlie far-away frontier. 
 
 ' Low and hnver sank the sun. He drew rein at Rocky 
 Run ; 
 "Here these men met death, my Nellie," and he 
 ! stn iked his horse's mane : 
 
 ] " So will they we go to warn, ere the breaking uf tlis 
 j morn, 
 
 j If we fail, God help us, Nellie!" Then he gave his 
 I horse the rein. 
 
 ! .Sharp and keen a rifle-shot woke the echoes of the spot. 
 ! "Oh, niy Nellie, I am wounded," cried Venarez with;i 
 
 moan, 
 .'\nd tin; warm blood from his side spurted out in a red 
 tide. 
 And he trembled in the saddle, and his face had ashy 
 grown. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 183 
 
 "I will snve them yet," he cried. " Bessie Lee sliall 
 know I diud ' 
 
 For her sake." And then he halted in the shelter of 
 a liill : 
 From his buckskin shirt he took, with weak hands a 
 little book ; 
 And he tore a blank leaf from it. " This," said ho 
 "shall'-, my will." 
 
 From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen 
 of oak 
 In the red blood that was dripping from the wound 
 below the heart. 
 "Rouse," he wrote, "before too late. Red Plume's 
 warriors lie in wait. 
 Good-by, Hess ! God bless you always." Then he 
 felt the warm teare start. 
 
 Then he made his message fast, love's first letter, and 
 its last ; 
 To his s..-' lie-bow he tied it, while his lips were white 
 with pain. 
 "Bear my message, if not me, safe to little Bess," said 
 he. 
 Then he leaned down in the saddle, and clutched 
 hard the sweaty mane. 
 
 Just at dusk, a horse of brown, flecked with foam, came 
 panting down 
 To the setdement at Crawford, and she .stopped at 
 Bessie's door. 
 But her rider seemed asleep. Ah, his slumber w;w -so 
 deep 
 Bessie's voice could never wake him, if she called 
 forever more. 
 
 You will hear the story told by the young and by the 
 old 
 In the settlement at Crawford's, of the niglit when 
 Red riunie came ; 
 Of the sharp and bloody fight ; how the chief fell, and 
 the flight 
 Of the panic-stricken warriors. Then they speak 
 Venarez' name 
 
 III an awed and reverent way, as men utter " Let us 
 pray," 
 As wu speak the name of heroes, thinking how they 
 lived anil died ; 
 So his memory is kept green, while his face and heaven 
 between 
 Grow the flowers Bessie planted, ere they laid her by 
 ills side. 
 
 THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 
 
 THAT last day in Lucknow fort ! 
 We knew that it was the last ; 
 J That tlie enemy's lines crept surely on, 
 And the end was coming fast. 
 
 To )ield to that foe meant worse than Jcatli ; 
 
 And the men and we all worked on ; 
 It w:is one day nxin; of sintike and roar, 
 
 And then it would all be done. 
 
 There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 
 
 A fair, young, gentle thing, 
 Wasted with fever in the siege. 
 
 And her mind was wandering. 
 
 She lay on the ground, in her .Scottish plaid, 
 
 And I took her bend on my knees ; 
 "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," slv; 
 said, 
 
 "Oh ! then please waukcn me." 
 
 She slept like a child on her father's floor, 
 
 In the flecking of woodbine-shade, 
 When die Iiouse-dog sprawls by tlu; open door. 
 
 And the mother's wheel is stayed. 
 
 It was smoke and roar anil powder-stench, 
 
 And hojielessly wailing for dealli ; 
 .\nd the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, 
 
 Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 
 
 I sank to sleep ; and I had my dream 
 
 Of an English village-lane, 
 And wall and garden ; — but one wild scream 
 
 Brought me back to the roar again. 
 
 There Jessie Brown stood listening 
 
 Till a sudden gladness broke 
 All over her face ; and she caught my hand 
 
 And drew me near as she spoke : — 
 
 "The Hielanders ! O, dinna ye hear 
 
 The slogan far awa ? 
 The McGregor'.s — O, I ken it weel ; 
 
 It's the grandest o' thtm a' ! 
 
 "God bless the bonny Hielanders ! 
 
 We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cried ; 
 And fell on her knees ; and thanks to God 
 
 Flowed forth like a full flood tide. 
 
 Along the battery-line her cry 
 
 Hail fallen among the men, 
 And they started back ; — they were there to die ; 
 
 But was life so near them, then ? 
 
 They li.stened for life ; the rattling fire 
 
 l''ar off, ai,d the far-off roar. 
 Were all ; and the colonel shook his head, 
 
 And they turned to their guns once more. 
 
 But Jessie said, "The slogan's done ; 
 
 But wiiina ye hear it noo ? 
 T/if Campbells are coinin' ! It's no a dream • 
 
 Our succors hae broken through ! " 
 
 We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 
 
 But the pipes we could not hear ; 
 So the men plied their work of hopeless w;r, 
 
 And knew that the end was near. 
 
 i 
 
;i i 
 
 : 
 
 
 
 
 wm^ 
 
 •184 
 
 It was not long ere it made its way — 
 
 A thrilling, ceaseless sound : 
 It was no noise from the strife afar. 
 
 Or tJie sappers under ground. 
 
 Jt ivas the pipes of the Highlanders ! 
 
 And now they played Auld Lang Syne/ 
 It came to our men like the voice of God, 
 
 And they shouted along the line. 
 
 And they wept, and shook one-another's hands, 
 
 And the women sobbed in a crowd ; 
 And every one knelt down where he stood. 
 
 And wc all thanked God aloud. * 
 
 That happy time, when we welcomed them. 
 
 Our men put Jessie first ; 
 And the general gave her his hand, and cheers 
 
 Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 
 
 And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, 
 Marching round and round our line ; 
 
 And our joyful cheers were broken with tears. 
 As the pipes played Auld I.avg Syne. 
 
 RonEKT T. S. Lowell. 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 BY THE ALMA RIVER. 
 
 "Yy'Y'ILLIE, fold your little hands ; 
 I W I Let it drop— that "soldier" toy : 
 ^^J' Look where fathers picture stands — 
 Fatiier, that here kissed his boy 
 Not a month since— father kind, 
 Who this nigiit may (never mind 
 Mother's sob, my Willie dear) 
 Cry out loud that He may hear 
 Who is God of battles — cry, 
 " God keep father safe this day 
 By the Alma River!" 
 
 Ask no more, child. Never heed 
 Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk ; 
 
 Right of nations, trampled creed. 
 Chance-poised victory's bloody work ; 
 
 Any flag i* the wind may roll 
 
 On thy heights, Sebastopol ! 
 
 Willie, all to you and me 
 
 Is that spot, whate'er it be, 
 
 Where he stands — no other word-:-- 
 
 Stands — God sure the chikl's prayers hcard- 
 Near the Alma River. 
 
 Willie, listen to the bells 
 
 Ringing in the town to-day ; 
 That's for victory. No kntU swells 
 
 For the many swejit awriy— - 
 Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep. 
 We, who need not— just to keep 
 Reasc clear in thought and brain 
 Till the morning comes again ; 
 
 Till the third dread morning tell 
 Who they were that ft)Ught and— fell 
 By the Ahna River. 
 
 Come, we'll lay us down, my child ; 
 
 Poor the bed is— poor and hard ; 
 But tiiy father, far exiled, 
 
 Sleeps upon the open sward. 
 Dreaming of us two at home ; . 
 Or, beneath the starry dome. 
 Digs out trenches in the dark, 
 Wiiere he buries — Willie, mark ! — 
 Wiiere he buries those who died 
 Figlitini;;— fiyhting at his side — 
 By the Alma River. 
 
 Willie, W'illie, go to sleep ; 
 
 God will help us, O my boy ! 
 He will make the dull hours creep 
 
 I'"aster, and scud news of joy ; 
 When I need not shrink to meet 
 Those gre;it placards in liio street, 
 That for weeks will ghastly stare 
 In sonic eyes — child, say that prayer 
 Once again — a different one — 
 Say, " O God ! Tiiy will be done 
 By the Alma River." 
 
 Dinah Maria Mulock Ckaik. 
 
 THE TROOPER'S DEATH. 
 
 'HE weary night is o'er at last I 
 We ride so still, we ride so fast ! 
 We ride where death is lying. 
 ^ The morning wind doth coldly pass, 
 Landlord ! we'll take another glass. 
 Ere dying. 
 
 Thou, springing grass, that art so green, 
 Shalt soon be rosy red, I ween. 
 My blood the hue supplying ! 
 I drink the first glass, sword in hand, 
 To him who for the Fatherland 
 Lies dying I 
 
 Now ciuickly comes the second draught, 
 And that shall be to freedom quaffed 
 
 While freedoni's fues are (lying ! 
 The rest, t) land, our hope and (aith ! 
 We'd drink to thee with latest breath, 
 Though dying ! 
 
 My darling ! — ah, tl»e glass is out ! 
 The bullets ring, the riders shout — 
 
 No time for wine or sighing ! 
 There ! bring my love the shattered glas.s — 
 Charge ! on the foe ! no joys surpass 
 Such dying I 
 
 JFrom ih« German. Translation of 
 R. W. Raymonu. 
 
 ;■ ;if ■;' 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 185 
 
 BALAKLAVA. 
 
 THE ciiarge nt Balaklava ! 
 
 O that rash and fatal charge ! 
 Never was a fiercer, braver, 
 Tlian that cliarge at Balaklava, 
 On the battle's blootly marge ! 
 All the day the Russian columns. 
 
 Fortress huge, and blazing banks. 
 Poured their dread destructive volumes 
 On the French and English ranks^ 
 On the gallant allied ranks ! 
 Eartii and sky seemed rent asunder 
 By the loud incessant thunder ! 
 \Vhen a strange but stern connnand — 
 Needless, heedless, rash command — 
 Came to Lucan's little band — 
 Scarce six innulred men and horses 
 Of those vast contending forces : — 
 ' England's lost unless you save her ! 
 Charge the pass at Balaklava ! " 
 
 O that rash and fatal charge, 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 Far away the Russian eagles 
 
 Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, 
 And their hordes, like howling beagles. 
 
 Dense and countless, round tliem yell ! 
 Thundering cannon, deadly mortar. 
 Sweep the field in every quarter ! 
 Never, since the days of Jesus, 
 Trembled so the Chersonesus ! 
 
 Here behold the Gallic Lilies- 
 Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — 
 Float as erst at old Ramillies ! 
 And beside them, lo 1 tiie Lion ! 
 With her trophied cross, is flying ! 
 Glorious standards ! — shall they waver 
 On the field of Balaklava ? 
 No, by heavens ! at that command — 
 Sudden, rash, but stern command — 
 Charges Lucan's little band ! 
 
 Brave six hundred ! lo ! tliey charge, 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 
 Down >on deep and skirted valley. 
 
 Where the crowded cannon play — 
 Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, 
 Cossack, Calniuck, savage Kalli— 
 
 Down that gorge they swept away ! 
 D (wn that new Thermopylae, 
 Flashing swords and helmets see 1 
 Underneath the iron shower, 
 
 To the brazen cannon's jaws, 
 Heedless of their deadly power, 
 
 Press they without fear or pause — 
 
 To the very cannon's jaws ! 
 Gallant Noland, brave as Roland 
 
 At the field of Roncesvalles, 
 
 Dashes down the fatal valley, 
 
 Dashes on the bolt of death, 
 
 Shouting with his latest breath, 
 ' Charge, then, gallants I do not waver, 
 
 Charge the pass at Balaklava !" 
 
 O that rash and fatal charge, 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 
 Now the bolts of volleyed thunder 
 Rend that little band asunder. 
 Steed and rider wildly screaming, 
 
 Screaming wildly, sink away ; 
 Late so proudly, proudly gleaming, 
 
 Now but lifeless clods of clay — 
 
 Now but bleeding clods of clay ! 
 Never, since the days of Jesus, 
 Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! 
 Yet your remnant, brave six hundred, 
 Presses onward, onward, onward, 
 
 Till they storm the bloody pass — 
 
 Till, like brave Leonidas, 
 
 They storm the deadly pass. 
 Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, 
 In that wild shot-reiided valley — 
 Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, 
 Awful pass at Balaklava ! 
 
 O tiiat rash and fatal charge. 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 
 For now Russia's rallied forces, 
 Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, 
 Trampling o'er the reeking corses, 
 
 Drive the thinned assailants back, 
 
 Drive the feeble remnant back, 
 
 O'er their late heroic track 1 
 Vain, alas I now rent and sundered. 
 Vain your struggles, brave two hundred ! 
 
 Thrice your nmiiber lie asleep. 
 
 In that valley dark and deep. 
 Weak and wounded you retire 
 From that hurricane of fire — 
 That tempestuous storm of fire- 
 But no soldiers, firmer, braver. 
 
 Ever trod the field of fame, 
 Than the Knights of Balaklava — 
 
 Honor to each hero's name I 
 Vet their country long shall mourn 
 l-'or her rank so rashly shorn— 
 So gallantly, but madly shorn 
 
 In that fierce and fatal charge. 
 On that battle's bloody marge. 
 
 Alexander Beaufort Meek, 
 
 CAVALRY SONG. 
 
 UR good steeds snufTthe evening air, 
 Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; 
 The foeman's fires are twinkling there ; 
 He leaps to hear our sabres jingle I 
 
 r I 
 
 B. 
 
I8G 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 J,iM 
 
 :i^i< i 
 
 .5 
 
 
 tl 
 
 ] 
 
 10 
 
 i'l.' 
 
 
 
 
 
 ,; lit ■ ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 iMai 
 
 ^'« 
 
 Halt! 
 Each carbine send its whizzing ball ; 
 Now, cling ! clang ! forward all, 
 Into the fight ! 
 
 Dash on beneath the smoking dome; 
 
 Through level lightnings gallop nearer I 
 One look to heaven ! No thoughts of home : 
 The guidons that we bear are dearer. 
 
 Charge ! 
 Cling ! clang I forward all ! 
 Heaven help those whose horses fall* 
 Cut left and right ! 
 
 They flee before our fierce attack ! 
 
 They fall ! they s|)read in broken surges. 
 Now, comrades, bear our womided back 
 And leave the foeman to his dirges. 
 
 Whekl ! 
 The bugles sound the swift recall : 
 Cling! clang! backward all ! 
 Home, and good-night ! 
 
 Edmind Clarenck Stedman. 
 
 THE NOBLEMAN AND THE PENSIONER. 
 
 LD man, God bless you ! does your pijie 
 taste sweetly ? 
 A beauty, by my soul ! 
 A red-clay flower-pot, rimmed with gold 
 so neatU ! 
 What ask you fur the bowl ? " 
 
 " O, sir, that bowl for worlds I would not part with ; 
 
 A brave man gave it me, 
 Who won it— now what think you ? — of a bashaw 
 
 At Belgrade's victory. 
 
 "There, sir, ah ! there was booty worth tiie showing — 
 
 l-ong life to Prince Eugene ! 
 Like after-grass you might have seen us mowing 
 
 The Turkish ranks down clean." 
 
 " Another time I'll hear your storj- ; — 
 
 Come, old man, bo no fool ; 
 Take these two ducats — gold for glor'— 
 
 And let me have the bowl ! " 
 
 " I'm a poor churl, as you may say, sir ; 
 
 My pension's all I'm wortli : 
 Yet I'd not give that bowl away, sir, 
 
 For all the gold on earth. 
 
 "Just hear now ! Once, as we hussars, all merry. 
 
 Hard on the foe's rear pressed, 
 A blundering rascal of a janizary 
 
 Shot through our captain's breast. 
 
 "At once across my horse I hove him— 
 
 The same would he have done — 
 And from the smoke and tumult drove him 
 
 Safe to a nobleman. 
 
 " I nursed him, and, before his end, bequeathing 
 
 His money and this bowl 
 To me, he jiressed my hand, just cc.-isliI his breathin„', 
 
 And .so he di^d, brave soul ! 
 
 " The money thou must give mine host — so thought 1 - 
 
 Three pluiidcrings suflered he : 
 And, in rjm.inbrance of my old friend, brought I 
 
 The pipe away with me. 
 
 " Henceforth in all campaigns with me I Ixjre it. 
 
 In (light or in ])ursuit ; 
 It was a lu/ly thing, sir, and I wore it 
 
 .Safe-sheltered in my boot. 
 
 " This very limb, I lost it by a .shot, sir. 
 
 Under tiie walls of Prague : 
 I'irst at my precious pipe, be sure, I caught, sir, 
 
 And then picked up my leg." 
 
 " Von move me even to tears, old sire : 
 
 \'k'liat was tlie brave man's name ? 
 Ti II me, that 1, too, may admire. 
 
 And venerate his fame." 
 
 " They called him only the brave Walter ; 
 
 His farm lay near the Rhine." — 
 " (lod bless your old eyes ! 't was my father, 
 
 And that same farm is mine. 
 
 " Come, friend, you've seen some stormy weather, 
 
 With niv is now your beil ; 
 We'll drink of Walter's gr.'ii)es together. 
 
 And eat of Walter's bread." 
 
 " Now — done ! I march in, then, to-morrow ; 
 
 You're his true heir, I see ; 
 .■\nd when I die, >our Ih.inks, kind master, 
 
 The Turkish pipe shall be." 
 
 From the CciiHau of Pi'EKri:i,. Translation of 
 
 ClIAUI.KS T. liKCJOKS 
 
 MY WIFE AND CHILD. 
 
 [Written ill the year i?4'i, in Mexico, the author being at that 
 time Colonel ofvhc ist Regiment Georgia Voluiitccrs.j 
 
 'HE tattoo beats — the lights are gone, 
 The camp around in slumber lies, 
 The night with solemn pace moves on. 
 The sliadows thicken o'er the skie;; ; 
 Rut sleep my weary ey^s hath flown. 
 And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 
 
 I think of thee, O darling one. 
 Whose love my early life hath blest — 
 
 Of thee and him — our baby son — 
 Who slumbers on thy gentle bixist. 
 
 God of the tender, frail, and lone, 
 O, guard the tender sleeper's rest ' 
 
 And hover gently, hover near 
 
 To li'.T whosi w;itchful eye is wet - 
 To mother, wife— ths doubly dear, 
 
HEROISM AND ADVKNTURE. 
 
 187 
 
 In whose young; lieart have freshly mot 
 Two strf'anis of love so deep and clear, 
 And cjjeer her drooping spirits yet. 
 
 Now, while she kneels before thy throne, 
 
 O, teacli her. Ruler of the skies. 
 That, while hy thy behest ahjne 
 
 Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, 
 No tw'ar is wept to Tiiee unknown, 
 
 lio hair is lost, no sparrow dies ! 
 
 That Thou canst stay the ruthless liand 
 Of dark disease, and soothe itsjjain ; 
 
 That only by Thy stern commands 
 The battle's lost, the soldier's slain ; 
 
 That from the distant sea or hind 
 Tiiou bring'st the wanderer home ai;,iin. 
 
 And when upon her pillow lone 
 
 Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, 
 
 May happier visions beam upon 
 The brightening current of her breast, 
 
 No frowning look or angry tone 
 Disturb the Sabbath of her rest ! 
 
 Whatever fate these forms may show, 
 Loved with a passion almost wild, 
 
 By day, by night, in joy or woe, 
 Ry fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled. 
 
 From every danger, every foe, 
 O God, protect my wife and child ! 
 
 Henry R. Jackson. 
 
 Ilj 
 
 MONTEREY. 
 
 E were not many — we who stood 
 Before the iron sleet that day ; 
 Yet many a gallant spirit would 
 Give half his years if but lie could 
 Have been with us at I^Ionterey. 
 
 Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 
 
 In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 
 Yet not a single soldier quailed 
 When wounded comrades round them wailod 
 
 Their dying shout at Monterey. 
 
 And on, still on our colunri kept, 
 
 Tlirough walls of flame, its withering way ; 
 Where fell the dead, the living stcpt. 
 Still charging on the guns which swept 
 
 The slippery streets of Monterey. 
 
 The foe himself recoiled aghast. 
 
 When, striking where he strongest lay, 
 We swooped his flanking batteries past. 
 And, braving full their murderous blast. 
 Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 
 
 Our bainiers on those turrets wave. 
 
 And there our evening bugles play ; 
 Where orange boughs above their grave, 
 Keep green the memory of the brave 
 Who fought and lell at Monterey. 
 
 We are not many — we who pressed 
 Beside the brave who fell that day ; 
 
 But who of us has not confesseil 
 
 He'd rather share their warrior rest 
 Than not have been at Monterey ? 
 
 Charles Fk.nno Hoi tman. 
 
 THE HEART OF THE BRUCE. 
 
 T was upon an April morn. 
 
 While yet the frost lay hoar, 
 We heard Lord James's bugle-horn 
 Sound by the rocky shore. 
 
 Then down we went, a hundred knights, 
 
 AH in our dark array. 
 And flung our armor in the ships 
 
 That rode within the bay. 
 
 We spoke not as the shore grew less, 
 
 But ga/ed i:i silence back, 
 Where the long billows swept away 
 
 The foam behind our track. 
 
 And aye the purple hues decayed 
 
 I'pcjn the fading hill, 
 And but one heart in all that ship 
 
 Was tranquil, cold, and si.ill. 
 
 The good Lord Douglas paced the deck, 
 
 And O, his face was wan 1 
 ITnlike the flusli it used to wear 
 
 Wlien in the batde-van. 
 
 "Come hither, come hither, my trusty khight, 
 
 Sir Simon of the Lee , 
 There is a ireit livs near my sjuI 
 I fain would tell to thee. 
 
 "Thou know'st the worJs King Robert spoke 
 
 Upon his dying day : 
 How he b ide take his noble heart 
 And carry it far away ; 
 
 " And lay it in the holy soil 
 
 Where once the Saviour trod. 
 Since he might nut bear the blessed Cros.s, 
 Nor strike one blow for God. 
 
 " Last night as in my bed I lay, 
 I dreamed a dreary dream : — 
 Methought I saw a pilgrim stand 
 In the moonlight's quivering beam. 
 
 " His lol'.e was of the azure dye. 
 Snow-while his scattered hairs, 
 And even such a cross he bore 
 As good St. Andrew bears. 
 
 " ' Why go ye forth. Lord James,' he said, 
 ' With spear and belted brand ? 
 Why do you lake its dearest pledge 
 From this our Scottish land ? 
 
 m 
 
Pi 
 
 w 
 
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 m i' 
 
 
 Jm'l 
 
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 m 
 
 I 'ilil 
 
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 iiil:i' 
 
 188 
 
 '" The sultry breeze of Galilee 
 
 Creeps tliruuijh its groves of palm, 
 Tliu olives oil the Holy Mount 
 Stand glittering in the culm; 
 
 " 'But 't is not tlieri; tlirit Scotland's heart 
 Sliall rest, by God's decree, 
 Till the great angel calls the dead 
 To rise from earth and sea 1 
 
 " ' Lord James of Douglas, mark my rei e ! 
 Tliiit heart sliall pass once more 
 In fiery fight against the foe, 
 As it was wont of yore. 
 
 '"And it shall pass beneath the Cross, 
 
 And save King Robert's vow ; 
 
 But other hands shall bear it back, 
 
 Not, James of Douglas, thou ! ' 
 
 " Now, by thy knii;Iitly faith, I pray, 
 Sir Simon ol the Lee — 
 For truer friend Iiad never man 
 Than thou hast been to me — 
 
 " If ne'er upon the IToly Land 
 'T is mine in life to tread, 
 Bear thou to Scotlaiul's kindly earth 
 The relics of her dead." 
 
 The tear was in Sir Simon's eye 
 As he wrung the warrior's hand — 
 " Betide me wer.l, betide me woe, 
 I'll hold by thy command. 
 
 " But if in battle-front, Lord James, 
 'T is ours once more to ritle, 
 Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend. 
 Shall cleave me from thy side ! " 
 
 And aye we sailed and aye we sailed 
 
 Across the weary sea. 
 Until one morn the coast of .Spain 
 
 Rose grimly on our lee. 
 
 And as we rounded to the port, 
 Beneath the watch-tower's wall, 
 
 We heard the clash of the atabals, 
 And the trumpet's wavering call. 
 
 "Why sounds yon eastern music here 
 So wantonly and long, 
 And whose the crowd of armed men 
 That round yon standard throng ? " 
 
 "The Moors have come from Africa 
 To spoil and waste and slay. 
 And King Alonzo of Castile 
 Must fight with them to-day." 
 
 " Now shame it were," cried good Lord James, 
 "Shall never be said of me 
 That I and mine have turned aside 
 From the Cross in jeopardie I 
 
 CROWN Ji:VVKLS. 
 
 'Have down, have down, my merry men all- 
 Have down unto the plain , 
 We'll let t!ie Scottish lion loose 
 Within the fields of Spain ! " 
 
 " Now welcome to me, noble lord. 
 Thou and thy stalwart power , 
 Dear is the si;;ht of a Cliristian knight. 
 Who comes in such an iiour ! 
 
 " Is it for bond or faith you come, 
 Or yet for golden fee? 
 Or bring ye 1'" ranee's lilies here, 
 {)r*lie flower of Burgundie ? " 
 
 " God greet thee well, thou valiant king. 
 Thee and the belted peers — 
 .Sir James of I >oir^las am I called, 
 And these are Scottish spears. 
 
 " We do not fight for bond or plight, 
 Nor yet for golden fee ; 
 But for the sake of our blessed Lord, 
 Who died upon the tree. 
 
 "We bring our great King Robert's heart 
 Across tile weltering wave, 
 T<j lay it in llie holy soil 
 Hard by the Saviour's grave 
 
 "True ])ilgniiis we, by land or sea. 
 Where ilanger bars the way , 
 And therefore are \ie here, Lord King, 
 To ride with tin e this day ' " 
 
 The King has bent his stately head. 
 
 And tiie tears were in his eyne— 
 
 "God's blessing on thee, iioblo knight, 
 
 For this brave thoiiglit of thine ! 
 
 " I know thy name full well, Lord James ; 
 And honored may I be. 
 That those who fought beside the Bruce 
 Should fight this d.iy for nie ! 
 
 " Take thou the leading of the van. 
 And charge the Moors amain , 
 There is not such a lance as thine 
 In all the host of Sp.ain ! " 
 
 The Douglas turned towards us then, 
 O, but his glame was high ! — 
 " There is not one of iill my nu n 
 But is as bold as I. 
 
 " There is not one of all my knights 
 But bears as true a spear — 
 Then onward, Scottish gentlemen. 
 And think King Robert's here ' " 
 
 The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew. 
 
 The arrows flashed like flame. 
 As spur ill side, and spear iu rest, 
 
 Against the foe we came. 
 
HI'IROISM AND ADVKNTURE. 
 
 And many a bearded Saracen 
 
 Went down, both liorse and man ; 
 
 Fi)r thri)ii;.;li tlieir ranks we rude liUt. eorn, 
 So furiously we ran ! 
 
 But in beiiind our patii tiiey closed, 
 
 Tiiouj^h fain to \vt us tliruui;li. 
 For they were fcirty lliousanil men, 
 
 And we were wondrous few. 
 
 Wo niij;lit not see a lance's Ienj;tli, 
 
 So dense was tlicir array, 
 I'ut the long fell sweep of liie Scottisli blade 
 
 Still held them hard at bay. 
 
 "Make in! make in ! " Lord nou;;las cried — 
 " .Make in, my brethren dear ! 
 Sir William of .St. Ckiir is d(jwn ; 
 We may not leave him here ! " 
 
 But thicker, thicker grew the swarm, 
 
 And sharper shot the rain, 
 And the horses reared amid the press, 
 
 But they would not charge again. 
 
 " Now Jesus help thee," said Lord James, 
 " 'I'linu kind ;md true St. Clair ! 
 And if I may not brin.y; thee off, 
 I'll die beside thee there !" 
 
 Then In his stirrups up he stood, 
 
 So lion-like and bold. 
 And held the precious heart aloft. 
 
 All in its case of gold. 
 (' 
 
 He flung it from him, far ahead, 
 
 And never spake he mt)re. 
 But— "Pass thou first, thou dauntless heart, 
 As thou wert wont of yore ! " 
 
 The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, 
 
 And heavier still the st(jur, 
 Till the spears of Spain came shivering in, 
 
 And swept away the Moor. 
 
 " Now praised be God, the day is won ! 
 They fly, o'er flood and fell — 
 Why dost thou draw the rein so hard. 
 Good knight, that fought so well?" 
 
 " O, ride ye on, Lord King ! " he said, 
 " And leave the dead to me, 
 For I must keep the dreariest watch 
 That ever I shall dree 1 
 
 " There lies, above his master's heart, 
 The Douglas, stark and grim ; 
 And woe is me I should be here, 
 Not side by side with him ! 
 
 " The world grows cold, my arm is old, 
 And thin my lyart hair. 
 And all that I loved best on earth 
 Is stretched before me there. 
 
 " O Hothwill banks, that bloom so bright 
 nenia'Ji the sun of Ma\ ! 
 The heaviest cloud tliat iver blew, 
 Is bound for you this day. 
 
 "And .Scotland ! thou mayst viil tl-y head 
 In sorrow and in pain. 
 The sorfst stroke Ujion tliy bmw 
 Ilath fallen this ilay in Sp.iin 
 
 " We'll bear them back unto our ship. 
 We'll bear them o'eT the sea, 
 And l.iy them in the lialluwed earth 
 Within our own ccjuntiie. 
 
 " And be thou strong of heart. Lord King, 
 l"or this I tell thee sure, 
 The sod that drank the n(^nglas' blood 
 Shall never bear the Moor ! " 
 
 The King he lighted from his horse. 
 
 He ihnig Ills braiul away, 
 And took the Doujjlas by the hand. 
 
 So stately as he lay. 
 
 " God give thee rest, thou valiant soul ! 
 That fi)Uj;iit So well for .Spain ; 
 I'll rather half my land were gone, 
 So thou Wert here again ! " 
 
 We bore the good Lord James away, 
 
 And the priceless heart we b(;re, 
 And heavily we steered our ship 
 
 Towards the .Scottish shore. 
 
 No welcome greeted our return, 
 
 Nor clang of marli;il tread, 
 But all were dumb and hushed as death 
 
 Before the mighty dead. 
 
 We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, 
 
 The heart in fair Melrose ; 
 And woful men were we that day — 
 
 God grant their souls repose ! 
 
 William Ed.mundston'k Avtoun 
 
 HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER. 
 
 ' IS puissant sword unto his side. 
 
 Near his undaunted heart was tied. 
 With basket hilt that would hold broth. 
 And serve for fight and dinner botii. 
 In it 1 e melted lead for bullets 
 To shoot at foes, and sometimes jjuUets, 
 To whom lie bore so fell a grutch 
 He ne'er gave quarter to any such. 
 The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, 
 For want of fighting was grown rusty, 
 And ale into itself, for lack 
 Of somebody to hew and hack. 
 The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, 
 The rancor of its edge had felt ; 
 
HiO 
 
 CROWN JICWIXS. 
 
 I''or of iIk- I')Wfr I'lul two liMiuIful 
 It had (l(.'V(iun.'Ll, it was so iiiaiifiil; 
 And so iiiiii It scorncil to lurk in cusct 
 As if it ilurst not siiow its f.ici;. 
 
 Tliis swortl n dagger liad, liis page, 
 That was Imt liltle for his age, 
 And thtTcfoii! waited en liiin so 
 y\s dwarfs iiiiU) kiiight-crrants do. 
 It was a serviccaMe dudgeon, 
 Killicr for fi^litinjj or fur drudghig. 
 W'liL'n it iiad stabbed or broke a hi-ad. 
 It would scrape trcni'iicrs or chip bread, 
 Toast cheese or bacon, thou.^h it were 
 To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care ; 
 'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth 
 Set leeks and onions, and so-forth : 
 It had been 'prentice to a brewer. 
 Where this and mnre it ilid endure ; 
 Hut left the trade, as niai'y more 
 Have lately done on the same score. 
 
 .Samuel Dltler. 
 
 FLODDEN FIELD. 
 
 [Tlic battle was fouRlit In Soiitcmlier, 151J, lictwcc-n the forces 
 of LiigLinil and Scutland. Tl:i-' hitter wcro wcirstcil, ami King 
 James slain with ei:j;lit t!<"iisari<l (if his men. I.oril Surrey coiu- 
 mandol the Hn^dish troops.] 
 
 xrjNT MOMENT then Lord Marniion stayed, 
 I ^^ And brealheil his steed, his men arrayed, 
 ^^ Then forward moved his Iiand, 
 
 Until, Loril Surrey's rear-guard won, 
 I !e halted by a cross of stone, 
 Th It on a hillock standing- lone, 
 Uid all the field connnand. 
 
 Hence might they see the fiiM array 
 
 C»f either hust for deadly fray ; 
 
 Their marshalletl lines stretclied east and we,--.!. 
 
 And fronted north and south, 
 And distant salutation past 
 
 From the loud cannon-moutli ; 
 Not in the close successive rattle 
 That breathes the voice of modern bntt'-^ 
 
 But slow and far between. — 
 
 The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed ; 
 " Here, by this cross," he gently said, 
 
 " You well may view the sci'ue ; 
 Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : 
 O, think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 
 Thou wilt not ?— well — no less my care 
 Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare — 
 You, DIount and Eustace, arc her guard, 
 
 With ten picked archers of my tiain; 
 With England if the day go hard. 
 To Bi rwick speed amain — 
 Btit, if we conquer, cruel maid, 
 My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 
 
 When here we meet again." 
 
 He waited not Tir answer there. 
 
 And wotiM not mark l!ie m.iiil's despair, 
 
 Nor heed tli<! discontented look 
 I'rom either scpiire; but s[>urred amain, 
 And, dashin;.r throti;;h the battle-plain. 
 
 His way to Surrey took. 
 
 nionnt and I'itz-Eust.ice rested still 
 Willi l.atly Clare upon the hill ; 
 On which (for far the <!ay was spent) 
 The western simbe.iins now were bent. 
 The cry they heanl, its meaning knew. 
 Could pi. tin their distant comrades view 1 
 .Sadly to I'.lount did Eustace say, 
 " Unworthy odice here to stay ! 
 No hope of gilded spurs to day. — 
 But, see! look up— on I"lodden bent 
 The Scotti:;h foe has fired his tent." 
 
 And sudden, as he spoke, 
 Eroin the sli.irp riJges of the hill. 
 All dowinv:;rd to the banks of Till 
 
 W.is wreathed in sable smoke. 
 Volumcd and vast, and rolling far. 
 The clotid enveloped Scotlantl's war. 
 
 As down the hill they broke; 
 Nor m.irtial ! lunit, nor minstrel tone, 
 .Announced tlair march ; their tread alone, 
 At litnes their warning trutnpet blown. 
 
 At times a stifled hum, 
 Told Iui;.;Iand from his mountain-throne 
 
 King James did rushintr come — 
 Scarce could they hear ;ec their foes, 
 Until at Weapon point lose. 
 
 They close in clouds c .^Ke and dust. 
 
 With sword-sway and with lance's thrust ; 
 
 And such a yell was there. 
 Of sudden atid ]H)rtentous birth, 
 As if men fought upon the earth 
 
 And fiends in upper air : 
 O, life and death were in the shout. 
 Recoil and rally, chari^e and rout, 
 
 And triiiiTi;ih and despair. 
 Long look'.'tl the anxiotis squires ; their eye 
 Could iti the darkness naught descry. 
 
 At length the freshening western blast 
 Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
 And, first, the ridge of mangled spears 
 Above the brightening cloud appears ; 
 And in the smoke the pennons flew. 
 As in the storm the bright sea-mew. 
 Then marked they, dashing broad and far, 
 The broken billows of the war. 
 Arid plumed crests of chieftains brave 
 Floating like foam upon the wave ; 
 
 But naught distinct they see : 
 Wide r.iged the battle on the plain ; 
 Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; 
 
 In,! ■'!; 
 
IIKROISM AND AUVENTURR 
 
 101 
 
 Crests roso, r.m! sti><)peil, and rose ngaln, 
 
 Willi niul ilisorilcrly. 
 Aniiil the sciiiu of tumult, lii;;h 
 Tluy saw Lord Miriinuii's f.ilion fly; 
 Aiul slaiiilt ss Tun t, ill's hriniur uliilf, 
 Aiul Miliuiiiul lI.iuard'sliiMi lirij;tit, 
 Still l)i.'ar tluiii br.vt ly in tlie fijn ; 
 
 AlllK)iit;h ni^aiiist tlicm come 
 Of gallant GurdDiis many a one, 
 Anti many a sliihl-orn IIi:;lilandman, 
 And many a rnt;:,'cd Hiirdcr clan, 
 
 With Ituntlry and with Home. 
 
 Far on the left, imseen the while, 
 Stanley broke Luniox anil Ar^yle; 
 Thon;;h tluMe the wi'Stern nimintaiiieer 
 Kuslii d with liare liosmn on the spear. 
 And (limi; the feeble tar;^e a .ide. 
 And with both hands the bruadswonl plied, 
 'T was \ain :— 'ait fortime, on tlu; ri(;ht, 
 Willi (kkle smile, thei nd Siotl.ind's I'lyht. 
 'riieii fell that spotless banner white, 
 
 The Howard's lion fell ; 
 Vet still Lord M.irmion's falcon flew 
 Widi wavering nij;ht, while fiercer ^rew 
 
 Around the battle-yell. 
 The IJorder slogan rent the sky ! 
 A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 
 l.ouil were tlio clanging bli)ws ; 
 Advanced — forced bark — now low, now hi,;h, 
 
 The pemion sunk and rose ; 
 As bends the bark's mast in die gale, 
 When rent are rigi^^ing, shrouds, and sail, 
 
 It wavered mid the foes. 
 No longer Rloinit the view ronid bear : — 
 "By heaven and nil its saints, I swear, 
 I will not see it lost ! 
 Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May bid your beads, and patter prayer- 
 
 I gallop to the host." 
 And to the fray ho rode amain, 
 Followed by all the archer train. 
 The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
 Made, for a space, an opening large— 
 
 The rescued banner rose, 
 lUit darkly dosed the war around, 
 I.iko pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 
 
 It sunk among the f les. 
 Tiuii Lnsta(\; mountjd l<ii) ; — yet stayed, 
 .•\s loath to li-ave tli" helpless maid, 
 
 When, fast as shaft can lly. 
 Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
 The loose rein dangling from his head, 
 Housing and saddle bloody red. 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; 
 And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
 A look and sign to Clara cast, 
 To mark he would return in haste, 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 
 Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
 Left in that dreadlul hour alone : 
 
 Pinhanie her reason stoops or reels ; 
 I'enhance a r()ur,i;:;e, not her own, 
 Braces her mind to disperiite tone. — 
 
 The scattered van of England wheels ; — 
 .She only said, iis loud in air 
 The tumult roared, " Is Wilton there?" — 
 They (ly, or, maddened by disp.iir, 
 I'ight but to die—" Is Wilton there ? " 
 
 With that, straight up th ■ hill then' rod<! 
 Two horsemen tlreiuheil with gore, 
 
 And in their arms, a helpless load, 
 A wounded knight tin y bore. 
 
 His hand still strained the broken brand; 
 
 His arms were smeared with blood and sand. 
 
 Uragged from among the horses' feet. 
 
 With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
 
 The fili'on-crest and plumage gone. 
 
 Can that be hau:;lity Marminii ! .... 
 
 Voung Uloun: his armor did unlace. 
 
 And, ga/ing on his ghastly f.ice, 
 .Said — " I'>y .St. George, he's gone ! 
 
 That spi'.ir-wound has our master sped — 
 
 And see the deep cut on his liead ! 
 Ciood-night to M.irmion." — 
 
 " riunirtiired P.lount ! t!iy brawling cease; 
 
 1 le opes his eyes," said Eustace, " peace ! " 
 
 When, dofil'd his casque, he f..lt free air. 
 Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :■ - 
 "Where's Hariy I'.Iount? I'it/.-laistace where? 
 Lingi.r ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
 Redeem my peinion — charge again ! 
 Cry—' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — vain ! 
 L.nst of my race, on l-attle-plain 
 That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — 
 Vet my last thought is England's :— lly. 
 To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
 Tell him his sijuadrons up to bring : — 
 Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
 Trunstall lies d^ad upon tlie field. 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield : 
 Edmund is down ;— my life is reft ; — 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire — 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 I'ull upon Scotland's central host, 
 Or victory anil ICngland's lost. 
 Must I bid twice? — hence, varlets ! fly I 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
 They parted, and alone he lay : 
 Clare drew her from the sight away. 
 Till [lain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
 And h.alf he mumiured — " Is there none, 
 
 Of all my halls have nurst, 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring, 
 Of bh;ssed water from the spring. 
 To slake my dying tliirst? " 
 
 
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 192 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 O woman ! in our hours of ease, 
 
 Uncertain, coj-, and hard to please, 
 
 And variable as the sliade 
 
 By the hght quiverinjj aspjn made ; 
 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 
 A ministering angel thou ! 
 
 Scarce were tlie pitjing accents said, 
 
 When, with the Baron's castjuc, tlie niaitl 
 
 To the nigh stream'et ran ; 
 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and foars ; 
 The plaintive voice alone she hears, 
 
 Sees l)ut the dying man. 
 She stoopfd her by the runnel's side. 
 
 But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
 For, oozing from tlie mountain's side, 
 Wiiere waged the war, a dark-red tide 
 
 Was cun'.Iing m the streamlet blue. 
 Where shall s!ie turn ! behold her mark 
 
 A little fountain cell. 
 Where water, clear as diamond-spark. 
 
 In a stone basin fell. 
 Above, some half-worn letters say, 
 'Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pray 
 For the kind soul of Sybil Grey, 
 
 Who built tills cros.; and well." 
 She filled the helm, and b.ack she hied, 
 And with surprise and joy espied 
 
 A monk supporting ^hlrmion's head ; 
 A pious man whom duty brouglit 
 To dubious verge of battle fought, 
 
 To .shrive the dying, bless the dead. 
 
 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave. 
 And, as she stooped l;is brow to lave — 
 " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
 "Or injured Constance, bathes my head ? " 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose — 
 * Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 
 I must redress her woes. 
 Short space, few words are mine to spare ; 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " — 
 
 " Alas ! " she said, " the while— 
 O, think of your immortal weal ! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
 
 She— died at Uo\y Isle."— 
 Lord Marmion started from the ground, 
 As light as if he felt no wound ; 
 Though in the action burst the tide 
 In torrents from his wounded side. 
 "Then it was truth ! " he said, — " I knew 
 That the dark presage must be true. — 
 I would the fiend, to whom belongs 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongs. 
 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
 And priests slain on the altar stone, 
 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not b ~ !— this dizzy trance — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 
 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
 Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk. 
 Supported by tlie trembling monk. 
 
 With fruitless labor, Clara bound. 
 
 And strove to stanch the gushing wound : 
 
 Tlij monk, with unavailing cares. 
 
 Exhausted all the Cinirch's prayers. 
 
 Ever, he said, tliat, close and near, 
 
 A l.idy's voice was in his ear, 
 
 And that the priost he could not hear, 
 
 I'^or that she ever sung, 
 " In the lost battle, borne down by t!ie (lying. 
 Where mingles war's ratt e wit!i groans of the 
 dying ! " 
 
 .So the notes rung :- • 
 " ,-\void thee, fiend ! — with cruel hand, 
 .Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
 (), look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's grace Ciivine : 
 
 (), think on faith and bliss : — 
 r.y many a death-bed I have been, 
 And many a sinner's parting seen, 
 
 But never aught like this." 
 
 The war, that for a space did fail, 
 
 Xow trebly thundering swelled the gale, 
 
 And — Stanley ! w.is the cry : — 
 A light on Marmion's visage spread, 
 
 And fired his glazing eye : 
 With dying hand above his head 
 He took the fragment of his blade, 
 
 And shouted " \'ictory ! " — 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on !" 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 SiK W.vi.TKR Scott. 
 
 NASEBY. 
 
 BV OBADIAII BlNn-THi:lR-KINGS-IN-CHAIN5-ANP -I lII:lK-^0I;I.l:s• 
 ^VITll-LINKS-01•■-IK0.N ; SliROtA.Sr I.N iKliTO.N'S Ki:i.l MK.NT. 
 
 WHEREFORE come ye forth, in triumph 
 from the North, 
 • With your hands and your feet and your 
 ^ raiment all red ? 
 
 .\nd wherefore dotli your rout send forth a joyous 
 
 shout ? 
 .\nd whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye 
 tread ? 
 
 O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 
 
 .And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod ; 
 
 I'or we trampled on the throng of the haughty and tlio 
 
 strong. 
 Who sat in the high places and slew the saints of God. 
 
 It was about the noon of a glorious day in June, 
 That we saw their banners dance and their cuinisses 
 shine, 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 193 
 
 And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts 
 
 hair, were gay and bold. 
 
 And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to- 
 
 Rhine. I day ; 
 
 i And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the 
 Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his ; rocks 
 
 sword, I Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 
 
 The General rode along us to form us to the fight ; I 
 When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven, 
 
 •1 «''o"t i hell and fate ? 
 
 Among the godless horsemen upon tiie tyrant's right. ; r^^d the fingers that once were so busy with your 
 
 bl des. 
 
 And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 
 Tlie cry of battle rises along tlieir charging line ! 
 For God ! for the cause !— for the church ! for tiie laws ! 
 For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of tlie 
 Rhine ! 
 
 The furious German comes, with his clarions and his 
 
 drums. 
 His braves of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall ; 
 
 Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your 
 
 oaths ! 
 Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds 
 
 and your spades ? 
 
 Down ! down ! forever down, with the mitre and the 
 
 crown ! 
 I With the Helial of the court, and the Manmaon of the 
 
 Tliev are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes ! [ _,, . ' . ^ r i i n .1 • •. • t^ 
 
 V,, . , _ 1 . , 1 There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wall in Dur- 
 
 ham's stalls : 
 
 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 tin; | 
 
 right ! 
 .Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it to the 
 
 last ! 
 
 Stout Skippon hath a wound ; the centre hath given 
 
 ground : 
 Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling of horsemen 
 
 on our rear? 
 Whose banner do I sec, boys ? 'T is he ! thank God ! 
 
 'I is he, boys ! 
 Dear up another minute 1 Brave Oliver is here. 
 
 Their heads all stooping low, their points 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 accurst, 
 And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 
 
 Fast, fiLSt the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
 Thfir coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple 
 
 liar ; 
 .^nd he — he turns, he flies : — shame on 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 
 
 sliiii). 
 First give another stab to make your search secure ; 
 Tlien shake from sleeves and pockets their broadpieces 
 
 and lockets. 
 The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 
 (13) 
 
 The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the bishop rends his 
 cope. 
 
 And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her children's 
 
 ills, 
 .\nd tiemlile when she thinks on the edge of England's 
 
 sworil ; 
 And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they 
 
 hear 
 What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses 
 
 and the Word I 
 
 Lord ^L^cAL■LAV. 
 
 BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 Robert Druce's address to his army. 
 
 'COTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 
 Or to victoria 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
 
 See the front o' battle lower ; 
 
 See approach proud Edward's power : 
 
 Chains and slaverie ! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
 \\Mia can fill a coward's grave ? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
 
 Let him turn and flee ! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law, 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
 Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? 
 
 Let him follow me ! 
 
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 194 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 By oppression's woes and pains ! 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our denrest veins, 
 
 But they shall be free ! 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 Tyr.ants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! 
 
 Let us do, or die ! 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 F Nelson and the North, 
 Sing the glorious day's renown, 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 All the might of Denmark's crown. 
 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 
 
 By each gun the ligiited brand, 
 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 
 Led them on — 
 
 Like leviathans afloat. 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine , 
 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line ; 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime : 
 
 As they drifted on tiicir jiatli, 
 
 There was silence deep as death ; 
 
 And the boldest held his breath. 
 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flushed 
 
 To anticipate; the scene ; 
 
 And her van the fleeter rushed 
 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 
 " Hearts of oak," our captains cried ; when each gun 
 
 From its adamantine lips 
 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack. 
 
 Till the feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; — 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom ; — 
 
 Then cease — and all is wail, 
 
 As they strike the shattered sail ; 
 
 Or, in conflagration pale. 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Outspoke the victor then, 
 
 As he hailed them o'er the wave, 
 
 " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 
 And we conquer but to save : — 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring. 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
 
 With tlie crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our king." 
 
 Then Denmark blest our chief, 
 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 
 And the sounds of joy and grief. 
 
 From her people wildly rose. 
 
 As death withdrew his shades from the day; 
 
 While the sun looked smiling brigiit 
 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight. 
 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, old England, raise ! 
 For the tidings of thy might. 
 By the festal cities' blaze. 
 While the wine cup shines in light ; 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 
 Let us think of them that sleep, 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore I 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 
 Once so faithful and so true. 
 
 On the deck of fame that died— 
 
 With the gallant good Riou : 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
 
 Whilo the billow mournful rolls. 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave ! 
 
 Thomas Campdell. 
 
 A COURT LADY. 
 
 'ER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with pur- 
 ple were dark. 
 Her cheeks' pale opal burnt witii a red and 
 restless spark. 
 
 Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race 
 Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. 
 
 Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, 
 Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners 
 and life. 
 
 She stood in the early morning, and said to her maid- 
 ens, " Bring 
 
 That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of 
 the king. 
 
 "Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the 
 
 mote, 
 Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp nie the 
 
 small at tlie throat. 
 
 " Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten 
 
 the sleeves, 
 Liices to tirop from their rays, like a powder of snow 
 
 from the eaves," 
 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 195 
 
 Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her 
 up in a flame, 
 
 While straight, in licr open carriage, slie to the hospi- 
 tal came. 
 
 In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end, 
 "Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place 
 of a friend." 
 
 Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a 
 
 young man's bed : 
 Bloody tile band on his brow, and livid the droop of 
 
 his head. 
 
 "Art thou a Lombard, my brother ? Happy art thou !" 
 
 she cried, 
 And smiled like Italy on him : he dreamed in her face 
 
 and died. 
 
 Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second : 
 He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons 
 were reckoned. 
 
 Wounds in liis body were sore, wounds in his life were 
 
 sorer. 
 "Art thou a Romagnole ? " Her eyes drove lightnings 
 
 before her. 
 
 " Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten 
 
 the cord 
 Able to bind thee, O strong one — free by the stroke of 
 
 a sword. 
 
 " Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life over- 
 cast 
 
 To ripen our wine of the present (too new) m glooms 
 of tile past." 
 
 Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a fare like a 
 
 gid's, 
 Young, and pathetic with dying — a deep black hole in 
 
 the curls. 
 
 "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, 
 
 dreaming in pain, 
 Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of 
 
 the slain?" 
 
 Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks wilh 
 
 her hands : 
 " Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she 
 
 siiould weep as she stands." 
 
 On slie passed toa Frenchman, his arm carried oflTby 
 
 a ball : 
 Kneeling, . . " O more than my brother ! how shall I 
 
 thank you for all ? 
 
 "Each of tlie heroes around us has fought for his 
 
 land and line. 
 But thou has fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong 
 
 not thine. 
 
 " Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dis- 
 possessed ; 
 
 But blcsst'd are those among nations who dare to be 
 strong for the rest ! " 
 
 Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch 
 
 where pined 
 One wilh a face from Venetia, white wilh a hope out 
 
 of mind. 
 
 Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the 
 
 name, 
 Dut two great crystal tears were all that faltered and 
 
 came. 
 
 Only a tear for Venice ? — she turned as in pasaion and 
 
 loss. 
 And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if s'.ie 
 
 were kissing the cross. . 
 
 Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on to 
 another. 
 
 Stern and strong in his death. " And dost thou suf- 
 fer, my brother?" 
 
 Holding his hands in hers :— "Out of tlie Piedmont 
 
 lion 
 Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweetest to live 
 
 or to die on." 
 
 Holding his cold, rough hands— "Well, O, well have 
 
 ye done 
 In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble 
 
 alone." 
 
 Hack he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet 
 
 with a sjiring— 
 " That was a Pie<imontese ! and this is the court of 
 
 the king." 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browninc;. 
 
 t I' 
 
 BATTLE OF WYOMING AND DEATH OF 
 GERTRUDE. 
 
 EAVENS verge extreme 
 *&\ Reverberates the bomb's descending star — 
 And sounds that mingled laugh, and sliout, 
 and scream. 
 To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, 
 Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. 
 Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed. 
 As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; 
 While rapidly the m.irksman's shot prevailed, 
 And ay, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed. 
 
 Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhung 
 
 The bandit groups in one Vesuvian glare ; 
 
 Or swept, far seen, the tower, wiiose clock unrung, 
 
 Told legible that midnight of despair. 
 
 Slie faints — she falters :iot— H.e heroic fair. 
 
 As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. 
 
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196 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 One sliort embrace — he clasped his clearest care ; 
 But hark ! wiiat nearer war-drum shakes the glade I 
 Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are trampling through 
 the shade ! 
 
 They came of every race the mingled swarm. 
 Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass 
 With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; 
 As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, 
 Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, 
 Whom virtue fires, antl liberty combines ; 
 And first the wild Moravian yagers pass, 
 His plumed host the dark Il)eriau joins ; 
 And Scotia's sword beneath the Higiiland thistle 
 shines. 
 
 And in the buskincd hunters of the deer 
 To Allx'rt's home with shout and cymbal throng, 
 ' Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, 
 Old Outalissi woke his battle-sopg. 
 And, beating with his war-chib cadence strong, 
 Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts ; 
 Of tliem tiiat wrapt his house in flames, erelong 
 To whet a dagger on their stony hearts, 
 And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. 
 
 Calm, opposite the Christian father rose; 
 Pale (in his venerable brow its rays 
 Of martyr-light the conilagration throws ; 
 One hand upon his lovely child he lays, 
 And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways ; 
 While, though the battle flash is faster driven 
 Una.ved, with eye unstartkd by the blaze, 
 He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, 
 Prays that the men of blood themselves may be for- 
 given. 
 
 Short time is now for gratulating speech : 
 
 And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began 
 
 Thy country's flight yon distant towers to reach, 
 
 Looked not on thee the rudest partisan 
 
 Willi brow relaxed to love .'' Antl nuirnuirs ran. 
 
 As round and round their willing ranks they diew. 
 
 From beauty's sight to shield the,hostile van. 
 
 Grateful on them a placid look she threw. 
 
 Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu I 
 
 Past was the flight and welcome seemed llie tower, 
 
 That like a giant standard bearer fi owned 
 
 Defiance on the roving Indian power. 
 
 Beneath each bold and promontory mound 
 
 With embrazure embossed and armor crowned, 
 
 And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin, 
 
 Wove like a diadem its tracery round 
 
 The lofty summit of that mountain green ; 
 
 Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, 
 
 A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun. 
 And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; 
 And for the business of destruction done, 
 Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow : 
 
 There, sad spectatress of her countrj''s wo ! 
 The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, 
 Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow 
 On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm 
 Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm ! 
 
 But short that contemplation — sad and short 
 The pause ti> bid each much-loved scene adieu ! 
 Beneath the very shadow of the fort. 
 Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew ■ 
 Ah I who could deem that foot of Indian crew 
 Was near?— -yet there, with lust of murderous deeds. 
 Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view. 
 The ambushed foeman's eye — his volley speeds. 
 And Albert, Albert falls I the dear old father bleeds! 
 
 And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned ; 
 Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone. 
 Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound. 
 These drops ? Oh God ! the life-blood is her own : 
 And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thnnvn— 
 " Weep not, O love ! " she cries, " to see me bleed ; 
 Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 
 Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed 
 These wounds ; yet thee to leave is death, is deatli in- 
 deed ! 
 
 Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
 
 Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
 
 And when this heart hath ceased to beat— oh ! think, 
 
 .'\nd let it mitigate thy wo's excess. 
 
 That tliou hast been to me all tenderness. 
 
 And friend to more than human friendship just. 
 
 Oh ! by that retro.spect of haiijiiness. 
 
 And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 
 
 God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in dust ! 
 
 Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart. 
 
 The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, 
 
 Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 
 
 And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 
 
 With thee, as with an angel, through the grove 
 
 Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 
 
 In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. 
 
 And must this parting be our very last ? 
 
 No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. 
 
 Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, 
 
 And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, 
 
 If I had lived to smile but on the birth 
 
 Of one dear pledge. But shall there then be none, 
 
 In future times — no gentle little one 
 
 To cli.sp thy neck, and look, resembling me? 
 
 Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, 
 
 A sweetness in the cup of death to be. 
 
 Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! " 
 
 Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their bland 
 And beautiful expression seemed to melt 
 With Io\ e that could not die ! and still his hand 
 She presses to the heart no more that felt. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 197 
 
 n be nunc, 
 
 All, heart ! where once ench fond aflectioii dwelt, 
 And features yet that spoku a soul more fair. 
 Mute, gazing, agonizing as hu knelt — 
 Of tiieni that stood encircling his despair 
 He heard some friendly words ; but knew not what 
 they were. 
 
 Tor now to mourn their judge and child arrives 
 
 A faitiiful band. With solemn rites between 
 
 'T was sung how they were lovely in their lives, 
 
 And in their deaths had not divided been. 
 
 'I'duclied by the nmsic and the melting scene, 
 
 \V:is scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd — 
 
 Slt'iii warriors, resting on their swords, were seen 
 
 To veil their eyes, as [)assed each much-loved shroud — 
 
 While woman's softer soul in wo dissolved aloud. 
 
 Then mournfully the parting bugle liid 
 
 Its farewell o'er the grave of worlh and truth ; 
 
 Trone to the dust afllicted Waldegrave hid 
 
 His face on earth ; him watched, in gloomy ruth. 
 
 His woodland guide : but worils had noi.e to soothe 
 
 The grief that knew not consolation's name ; 
 
 Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, 
 
 He w.itched, beneath its folds, each burst that came. 
 
 Convulsive, ague-like, across the shuddering frame ! 
 
 "And I could weep," tlie Oneida cliief 
 
 His descant wildly thus begun ; 
 
 " But that I may not stain with grief 
 
 The death-song of my father's son, 
 
 Or bow this head in wo ! 
 
 For, hy my wrongs, and by my wrath. 
 
 To-morrow Areouski's breath, 
 
 Th.it fires yon heaven witii storms of death, 
 
 .Shall light us to the foe : 
 
 And we shall share, my Christian boy. 
 
 The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 
 
 But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 
 
 By milder genii o'er the deep. 
 
 The spirits of the white man's heaven 
 
 Forbid not thee to weep : 
 
 Nor will the Christian host, 
 
 Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, 
 
 To see thee, on the battle's eve. 
 
 Lamenting, take a mournful leave 
 
 Of her who loved thee most : 
 
 She was the rainbow to thy sight ! 
 
 Thy sun— thy heaven — of lost delight I 
 
 To morrow let us do or die. 
 
 And when the bolt of death is hurled, 
 
 Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, 
 
 Shall Outalissi roam the world ? 
 
 .Seek we thy once-loved home ? 
 
 The hand is gone that cropt its flowers ; 
 
 Unheard their clock repeats its hours ; 
 
 Cold is the hearth within their bowers : 
 
 And should we thither roam. 
 
 Its echoes and its empty tread 
 
 Would sound like voices from the dead ! 
 
 Or shall we cross yon mountains blue. 
 
 Whose streams my kindred nation (juafTed, 
 
 .A.nd by my side, in battle true, 
 
 j\ tliousand warriors (.\:ki\v thcj shaft? 
 
 -Ml ! there, in desolati(Mi cold. 
 
 The desert serpent sleeps alone. 
 
 Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, 
 
 And stones themselves to ruin grown, 
 
 Like me, are death-like old. 
 
 Then seek we not their camp ; for there 
 
 The silence dwells of my desiiair ! 
 
 Hut hark, the trump I to-morrow thou 
 In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : 
 Even from the land of shadows now 
 My father's awful ghost .appears 
 Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; 
 Me bids my soul for battle thirst — 
 He bids me dry the last— the first — 
 The only tears that ever burst 
 From Outalissi's soul ; 
 Because I may not stain with grief 
 The death-song of an Indian chief! " 
 
 Thomas C.\Mi'nEi.i.. 
 
 llJ 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 HEN princely Hamilton's abode 
 
 Ennobled Cadyows Gothic towers. 
 
 The song wetit round, the goblet llowed, 
 
 And revel sped the laughing hours. 
 
 Then thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
 So sweetly rung each vaulted wail. 
 
 And echoed light the dancer's boun<l, 
 As mirth and music cheered the hall. 
 
 But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid. 
 And vaults by ivy mantled o'er. 
 
 Thrill to the music of the shade, 
 Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 
 
 Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame 
 You bid me tell a minstrel tale. 
 
 And tune my harp of Horder frame 
 On tile wild banks of Evandale. 
 
 For thou, from scenes of courtly pride. 
 From (ileasure's lighter scenes cm turn, 
 
 To draw oblivion's pall aside, 
 And mark the long-forgotten urn. 
 
 Then, noble maid, at thy command 
 Again the crumbled walls shall rise ; 
 
 Lo, as on Evan's bank we stand. 
 The past returns — the present (lie;;. 
 
 Where, with the rocks' wood-covered side. 
 Were blended late the ruins green. 
 
 Rise turrets in fantastic pride. 
 And feudal banners flaunt between : 
 
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 108 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
 Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe, 
 
 The ashler buttress braves its force, 
 And ramparts frown in battled row. 
 
 'Tis night— the shades of k«t,p and spire 
 Obscurely dance on Evan's streanj ; 
 
 And on the wave the warder's fire 
 Is chequering the moonlight beam. 
 
 Fades slow their light ; the East is gray ; 
 
 The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
 Steeds snort ; uncoupled stag hounds bay, 
 
 And merry hunters (juit the bower. 
 
 The dravvbriilge falls — they hurry out — 
 Clatters fach plank and swinging chain, 
 
 As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 
 Urge the shy steed and slack the rein. 
 
 First of his troop the chief rode on ; 
 
 His shouting merry-men shout behind ; 
 The steed of princely Hamilton 
 
 Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 
 
 From the tliick copse tlie roebucks bound. 
 The startled red deer scuds tlie plain. 
 
 For the lioarse bugle's warrior-sound 
 Has roused their mountain haunts again. 
 
 Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 
 
 Whose limbs a thousand years have worn. 
 
 What sullen roar conies down the gale. 
 And drowns the hunter's pealing horn ? 
 
 Mightiest of all the beasts of chase 
 
 That roam in woody Caledon, 
 Crashing the forest in his race, 
 
 The mountain bull comes thundering on. 
 
 Fierce on the hunter's quivered hand 
 He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, 
 
 Spurnp, with black hoof and horn, tlie sand. 
 And tosses high his mane of snow. 
 
 Aimed well, the chieftain's lance has flown 
 Strug^jling in blood the savage lies ; 
 
 His roar is sunk in hollow groan — 
 Sound, merry huntsmen, sound the pryse 
 
 'Tis noon — against the knotted oak 
 
 The hunters rest the idle spear ; 
 Curls throuyfh th*^ trees the slender smoke. 
 
 Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. 
 
 Proudly the chieftain marked his clan. 
 On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 
 
 Yet missed his eye the boldest man 
 That bore the name of Hamilton. 
 
 " Wiy fills not Bothwellhaugh his place. 
 Still wont our weal and woe to share? 
 Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
 Why shares he not our hunter's fare?" 
 
 Stern Claude replied, with darkening face, 
 (Grey Paisley's haughty lord w;ls he), 
 " At merry feast or buxom chase 
 
 No more the warrior wilt thou see. 
 
 " Few suns have set since Woodhouselee 
 
 Saw Uothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam. 
 When to his hearths, in social glee, 
 The war-worn soldier turned him home. 
 
 "There, wan from her maternal throes, 
 His Margaret, beautiful and mild. 
 Sat in her bower, a pallid rose. 
 And peaceful nursed her new-born child. 
 
 "Oh, change accursed ! passed are those days; 
 False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
 And, for tlie hearth's domestic blaze. 
 Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 
 
 " What sheeted phantom wanders wild. 
 
 Where mountain Esk through woodland flow.s, 
 Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 
 Oh ! is it she, the pallid rose? 
 
 "The wildered traveler sees her glide. 
 
 And hears her feeble voice with awe — 
 ' Revenge,' she cries, ' on Murray's pride, 
 And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh !' " 
 
 He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
 Burst mingling from the kindred band. 
 
 And half arose the kindling chief. 
 And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 
 
 But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock, 
 Rides headlong with resistless sjieod, 
 
 Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
 Drives to the leap his jaded steed ; 
 
 Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, 
 .'Ks one some visioned sight that .saw ; 
 
 Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair? — 
 'Tis he, 'tis he, 'tis- Bothwellhaugh ! 
 
 From gory sell and reeling steed 
 Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound; 
 
 And, reeking from the recent deed. 
 He dashed his carbine on the ground. 
 
 Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 
 In good greenwood the bugle blown, 
 
 But sweeter to revenge's ear 
 To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
 
 " Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode 
 At dawning morn o'er dale and down. 
 But prouder base-born Murray rode 
 1 hrough old Linlithgow's crowded town. 
 
 "From the wild border's humbled side 
 In haughty triumph marched he ; 
 While Knox relaxed his bigot pride, 
 Antl smiled t!ie traitorous pomp to see. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 19!) 
 
 "But can stern power with all her vaunt, 
 Or pomp, with all her courtly glare, 
 The settled heart of vengeance daunt, 
 Or change the purpose of despair ? 
 
 "With hackbut bent, my secret stand, 
 Dark as tiic purposed deed, I ciiose ; 
 And marked where, mingling in his band, 
 Trooped Scottish pikes and English bows. 
 
 "Dark Morton, girt with many a spejir, 
 Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 
 And clashed their broadswords in tlje rear 
 The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan. 
 
 "Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, 
 Obsecjuious at their regent's rein, 
 And haggard Lindsay's iron eye. 
 That saw fair Mary weep in vain. 
 
 "'Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, 
 Proud Murray's plumage floated high ; 
 Scarce could his trampling charger move. 
 So close the minions crowded nigh. 
 
 "From the raised vizor's shade his eye, 
 Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along ; 
 And his steel truncheon, waved on high. 
 Seemed marshaling the iron throng. 
 
 "But yet his saddened brow confessed 
 A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 
 Some fiend was whispering in his breast — 
 Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh. 
 
 "The death-shot parts— the charger springs- 
 Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
 And Murray's plumy helmet rings — 
 Rings on the ground — to rise no more. 
 
 "What joy the raptured youth can feel 
 To hear her love the loved one tell — 
 Or he who broaches on his steel 
 The wolf by whom his infant fell ! 
 
 "But dearer to my injured eye 
 
 To see in dust proud Murray roll ; 
 And mine was ten times trebled joy 
 To hear him groan his felon soul. 
 
 "My Margaret's spectre glided near. 
 With pride her bleeding victim saw. 
 And shrieked in his death-deafened ear, 
 Remember injured Bolhwelliiaugii ! 
 
 "Then speed thee, noble Ch.ntlcrault ! 
 Spread to the wind thy bannered tree ! 
 Each warrior bend his Clydesdale i)ow ! 
 Murray is fallen and Scotland free !" 
 
 Vaults every warrior to his steed ;" 
 Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 
 " Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed I 
 
 Couch, Arran, couch thy spear of flame !" 
 
 PiUt .see, the minstrel vision fails — 
 The glinmiering spears are seen no more ; 
 
 The shouts of w.ir die on the gales. 
 Or .sink in Evan's lonely roar. 
 
 For the loud bugle, pealing high, 
 The blackbird whistles down the vale, 
 
 And sunk in ivied ruins lie 
 The bannered towers of Evandale. 
 
 For chiefs, intent on bloody deed, 
 And %-engeance shouting o'er the slain, 
 
 Lo ! high-born beauty rules the steed, 
 Or graceful guides the silken rein. 
 
 And long may peace and pleasure own 
 The maids who list the minstrel's t.ile ; 
 
 Nf)r e'er a ruder gu'jst be known; 
 On the fair banks of Evandale. 
 
 Sir \V.\ltek .Scott. 
 
 JAMES FITZ-JAMES AND ELLEN. 
 
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 FOOTSTEP struck her ear, 
 And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near. 
 She turned tlie hastier, lest again 
 The prisoner should renew his strain. 
 "O welcome, brave Fitz-James!" she said; 
 How may an almost orphan maid 
 Pay the deep debt" — " O, say not so ! 
 To me no gratitude you owe. 
 Not mine, alas ! the boon to give. 
 And bid thy noble fiUher live ; 
 I can but be thy guide, sweet maid. 
 With Scotland's King thy suit to aid. 
 No tyrant he, though ire and pride 
 May lead his better mood aside. 
 Come, Ellen, come ; 't is more than time, 
 He holds his court at morning prime." 
 With beating heart and bosom wrung. 
 As to a brother's arm she clung. 
 Gently he dried the falling tear. 
 And gently whispered hope and cheer ; 
 Her faltering steps half led, half stayed, 
 Through gallery fair and high arcade. 
 Till, at his touch, its wings of pride 
 A portal arch unfolded wide. 
 
 Within 't was brilliant all and light, 
 A thronging scene of figures bright ; 
 It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight, 
 As when the setting sun has given 
 Ten thousand hues to summer eve 
 And from their tissue fancy frames 
 Aerial knights and fairy dames. 
 Still by Fitzjames her footing stayed ; 
 A few faint steps she forward made. 
 Then slow her drooping head she raised, 
 And fearful round the presence gazed : 
 
200 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 ft, 4 
 
 For him she sou:.;lit who owned this state, 
 The dreaded prince whose will was fate I 
 She gazed on many a princely port 
 Might well have ruled a royal court ; 
 On niniiy a splendid garb she gazed — 
 Then turned bewildered and amazed, 
 For all stood bare ; and in tiie room 
 Fitz James alone wore cap and plume. 
 To hiir. each lady's look was lent, 
 On him eich courtier's eye was bent, 
 JSIidst furs and silks and jewels sheen 
 He stood, in simple Lincoln green. 
 The centre of the glittering ring — 
 And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King ! 
 
 As wreath of snow, on mountain breast. 
 
 Slides from the rock that gave it rest. 
 
 Poor Ellen glided from her stay, 
 
 And at the Monarch's feet she lay ; 
 
 No word her choking voice conmiands : 
 
 She showed the ring, she clasped her hands. 
 
 0, not a moment could he brook, 
 
 The generous prince, that suppliant look I 
 Gently he raised her, and the while 
 Checked with a glance the circle's smile ; 
 Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, 
 And bade her terrors l)e dismissed : — 
 " V'es, fair ; the wandering poor Fitz-James 
 The fealty of Scotland claims. 
 To him thy woes, thy wishes bring ; 
 He will redeem his signet-ring. 
 Ask naught for Douglas ; yester even 
 His prince and he have much forgiven ; 
 Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, 
 
 1, from his rebel kinsman, wrong. 
 We would not to the vulgar crowd 
 Yield what they craved with clamor loud ; 
 Calmly we heard and judged his cause, 
 Our council aidecl and our laws. 
 
 I stanched thy father's deatli-foud stern. 
 With stout De Vaux and grjiy Glencairn ; 
 And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own 
 The friend and bulwark of our throne. 
 But, lovely infidel, how now ? 
 What cloud's thy misbelieving brow? 
 Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid ; 
 Thou must confirm this doubting maid." 
 
 Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, 
 
 And on his neck his daughter hung. 
 
 Tile monarch drank, that happy hour, 
 
 The sweetest, holiest draught of power — 
 
 When it can say, the godlike voice, 
 
 Arise, s.ad virtue, and rejoice I 
 
 Yet would not James the general eye 
 
 On nature's raptures long should pry : 
 
 He stepped between — "Nay, Douglas, nay, 
 
 Steal not my proselyte away ! 
 
 The riddle 't is my right to read. 
 
 That brought this happy chance to speed. 
 
 Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray 
 In life's more low, but hajipier way, 
 'T is under name which veils my power, 
 Nor falsely veils, for .Stirling's tower 
 Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, 
 And Normans call me James l''itz-James. 
 Thus watch I o'er insulted laws. 
 Thus learn to right the injured cause." 
 Then, in a tone apart and low, 
 " Ah, little trait'ress ! none nmst know 
 W'Uixt idle dream, what lighter thought. 
 What vanity full dearly bought, 
 Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew 
 My spell-bound steps to Meiivenue, 
 In dangerous hour, antl all but gave 
 Thy monarch's life to mount:iin glaive I " 
 Aloud he spoke — "Thou still dost hold 
 That little talisman of gold. 
 Pledge of my faith, I'itz-James's ring : 
 What .seeks fair F.llen of the King ? " 
 
 Full well the conscious maiden guessed, 
 He probed the weakness of her breast ; 
 Hut with that consciousness there came 
 A lightening of her fears for Gritme, 
 And more she deemed the monarch's ire 
 Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, 
 Rebellious broadsword boldly drew ; 
 Antl, to her generous feeling true, 
 .She craved the grace of Roderick Dim. 
 
 " F(jrbear thy suit ; the King of kings 
 Alone can stay life's parting wings. 
 I know his heart, I know his hand, 
 I lave shared his cheer, and proved his brand. 
 My fairest earldom would I give 
 To bid Clan-Alpine's chieftain live ! — 
 1 last thou no other boon to crave ? 
 No other captive friend to save ? " 
 flushing, she turned her from the king, 
 And to the Douglas gave the ring. 
 As if she wished her sire to speak 
 The suit tiiat stained her glowing cheek. 
 
 " Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force. 
 And stubljorn justice holds her course. 
 Malcolm, come forth ! " — And, at the word 
 Down knelt the Grreme to .Scotland's lord, 
 
 " For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, 
 From thee may vengeance claim her dues, 
 Who, luirtured underneath our smile, 
 Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, 
 And sought, amid thy faithful clan, 
 A refuge for an outlawed man. 
 Dishonoring thus thy royal name — 
 Fetters and warder for the Gra;me I " 
 His chains of g(jld the king unstrung, 
 The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, 
 Then gently drew the glittering band, 
 And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. 
 
 SiK Walter Scott. 
 
 Iw I 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 201 
 
 THE SEA-CAVE. 
 
 'OUNG Neiiha plunged into the deep, and he 
 Followed : her track lieneath her native sea, 
 Was as a native's of the element, 
 So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 
 Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
 Which struck and flashed like an amphibious steel. 
 Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
 The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 
 Torquil, the nursling of the Northern seas, 
 Pursued her liquid steps with art and ease. 
 Deeji — deeper for an instant Nehua led 
 The way — then upward scjared — and, as she spread 
 Her arms, and flung the foam frcMii oft" her locks, 
 Laughed, and the sound was answered by the rocks. 
 Tiiey had gained a central reahn of earth again, 
 But looked for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 
 
 Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 
 
 Wliose only portal was the keyless wave, 
 
 (.•\ hollow archway by the sun unseen, 
 
 Savetiirough the billows' glassy veil of green, 
 
 In some transparent ocean holiday, 
 
 When all the finny people are at play). 
 
 Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 
 
 And clapped her hands with joy ;it his surjiiise. 
 
 Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
 
 A pine torch, strongly girded with gn;itoo; 
 
 A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
 
 Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
 
 Tills mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
 
 Of the same plantain leaf, a flint she took, 
 
 A few shrunk, withered twigs, and from the blade 
 
 Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus arrayed 
 
 The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high. 
 
 And showed a self-born Gothic canopy ; 
 
 The arch upreared by nature's architect, 
 
 The architrave some earthcjuake might erect ; 
 
 The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurled. 
 
 When the poles crashed and water was the world ; 
 
 There, with a little tinge of phantasy. 
 
 Fantastic faces moped and mowed on high, 
 
 And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
 
 The eye upon its seeming trucifi.x. 
 
 Then nature played with the stalactites, 
 
 And built herself a chapel of the seas. 
 
 And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand. 
 And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
 And led him into each recess, and showed 
 The secret places of their new abode. 
 Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
 Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared ; 
 Tlie mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
 The sandal-oil to fence against the clew ; 
 For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
 Boni of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
 With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
 /V banquet in the flesh if covered o'er ; 
 
 The gourd with water recent from the rill. 
 The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
 A pine torch pile to keep undying light ; 
 And she herself as beautiful as night. 
 To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
 .\nd make their subterranean world serene. 
 She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
 Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
 .And formed a refuge of the rocky den 
 For Tonjuil's safety from his countrymen. 
 Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe. 
 Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
 Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
 With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
 And now she spread her little store with smiles. 
 The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 
 
 'Twas itiorn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
 
 .Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
 
 .'\nd watch if aught approached the amphibious lair 
 
 Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
 
 It flapped, it filled, then to the growing gale 
 
 Hent its broad arch : her bre.-ith began to fail 
 
 With flu'tering fear, her heart beat thick and high. 
 
 While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie ; 
 
 Hut no ! it came not ; fast and far away, 
 
 The shadow lessened as it cleared the bay. 
 
 .She gazed, and flung the se.a-foam from her eyes, 
 
 To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
 
 On the horizon verged the distant deck. 
 
 Diminished, dwindled to a very speck — 
 
 Then vanished. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
 
 Lord Hvron. 
 
 BRISTOWE TRAGEDY; OR, THE DEATH OF 
 SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 
 
 'HE feathered songster chanticleer 
 Had wound his bugle horn, 
 And told the early villager 
 f The coming of the morn. 
 
 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 
 
 Of light eclipse the gray ; 
 And heard the raven's croaking throat 
 
 Proclaim the fated day. 
 
 "Thou'rt right," quoth he, "tor, by the God 
 That sits enthroned on high 1 
 Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, 
 To-day shall surely die." 
 
 Then with a jug of nappy ale 
 His knights did on him wait. 
 " Go tell the traitor, that today 
 He leaves this mortal state." 
 
 Sir Canterlone then bended low. 
 
 With heart brimful of woe ; 
 He journeyed to the castle-gate. 
 
 And to Sir Charles did go. 
 
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 li 
 
202 
 
 CROWN JFAVELS. 
 
 
 But when he came, his children twain. 
 
 And eke his loving wife, 
 W'itli briny tears did wet the floor, 
 
 For good Sir Charles' life. 
 
 " O good Sir Charles !" said Canterlone, 
 
 " Bad tidings do I bring." 
 "Speak boldly, man," said brave .Sir Charles, 
 
 " What says thy traitor king?" 
 
 " I grieve to tell, before yon sun 
 Does from the welkin fly, 
 He h.ith upon his honor sworn, 
 That thou shalt surely die." 
 
 "We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles, 
 " Of that I'm not alTeared ; 
 What boots to live a little space ? 
 Thank Jesus, I'm prepared ; 
 
 " But tell thy king, for mine he's not, 
 I'd sooner die to-day 
 Than live his slave, as many are, 
 Though I should live for aye." 
 
 Then Canterlone he did go out. 
 
 To tell tile mayor straight 
 To get all thinj^s in readiness 
 
 For good Sir Charles's fate. 
 
 Then Master Canning sought the king. 
 And fell down on his knee : 
 " I'm come," quoth he, " unto your grace 
 To move your clemency." 
 
 Then quoth the king, " Your tale speak out, 
 You have been much our frir;nd ; 
 
 Whatever your request may be. 
 We will to it attend." 
 
 " My noble liege : all my request 
 Is for a noble knight, 
 Who, though mayhap he has done wrong, 
 He thought it still was right : 
 
 " He has a spouse and children twain. 
 All ruined are for aye. 
 If that you are resolved to let 
 Charles Bawdin die to-day." 
 
 'Speak not of such a traitor vile. 
 
 The king in fury said ; 
 "Before the evening star doth shine, 
 Bawdin shall lose his head. 
 
 "Justice does loudly for him call. 
 And he sli.'dl have his meed ; 
 Speak, Master Channing ! What thing else 
 At present do you need ? " 
 
 "My noble liege," good Channing said, 
 " Leave justice to our God, 
 And lay the iron rule aside ; 
 Be tliine the olive rod. 
 
 "Was God to search our hearts and reins. 
 The best were sinners great ; 
 Christ's vicar only knows no sin, 
 In all this mortal state. 
 
 " Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
 'Twill fast thy cnjwn full sure ; 
 From race to race thy family 
 All sovereigns shall endure : 
 
 " But if with blood and slaughter thou 
 Begin thy infant reign, 
 Thy crown upon thy children's brows 
 Will never long remain." 
 
 "Canning, away ! this traitor vile 
 I las spurned my power and me ; 
 How canst thou then for such a man 
 Intreat my clemency?" 
 
 " My noble liege ! the truly brave 
 Will val'rous actions prize, 
 Resfiect a brave and noble mind, 
 Although in enemies." 
 
 " Canning, away ! By God in heaven, 
 That did my being give, 
 I will not taste a bit of bread 
 Whilst this Sir Charles dodi live. 
 
 " By Mary and all saints in heaven, 
 This sun shall be his last ; " 
 Then Canning dropped a briny tear. 
 And from the presence passed. 
 
 Willi heart brimful of gnawing grief. 
 
 He to Sir Charles did go. 
 And sat him down upon a stool, 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 " We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles ; 
 " What boots it how or when ; 
 Death is the sure, the certain fate 
 Of all us mortal men. 
 
 'Say, why, my friend, thy honest soul 
 Runs over at thine eye ; 
 Is it for my most welcome doom 
 That thou dost child-like cry ?" 
 
 Quoth godly Canning, " I do weep, 
 
 That ihou so soon must die. 
 And leave thy sons and helpless wife ; 
 
 'Tis this that wets mine eye." 
 
 "Then dry the tears that out thine eye 
 I'rom godly fountains spring ; 
 Death I despise, and all the power 
 Of Edward, traitor king, 
 
 " When through the tyrant's welcome means 
 I shall rtsign my life, 
 The God I serve will soon provide 
 For both my sons and wife. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURK. 
 
 203 
 
 " Before I saw the lightsome sun, 
 This was appointed nie ; 
 Shall mortal man rtjiinc or grudge 
 What God ordains to bu ? 
 
 " How oft in battle have I stood, 
 When thousands died ari)und ; 
 When smiiking streanis of crimson blood 
 Imbrued the fattened ground : 
 
 " How did I know that every dart 
 That cut the airy way, 
 Might not find passage to my heart, 
 And close mine eves fur ave ? 
 
 "And shall 1 now, for fear of death, 
 Look wan and be dismayeij ! 
 No ! from my heart fly childish fear, 
 Bu all the man displayed. 
 
 " Ah ! Godlike I lenry ! God forfend, 
 And guard tiiee and tliy son, 
 If 'tis I lis will ; but if 'tis not. 
 Why then His will be done. 
 
 "My honest friend, my fault has been 
 To serve God and my prince ; 
 And that I no time-server am. 
 My death will soon convince. 
 
 " In London city was I born. 
 Of parents of great note ; 
 My father did a noble arms 
 Emblazon on his coat : 
 
 "I make no doubt but he is gone 
 Where soon I hope to go ; 
 Where we forever shall be blest, 
 From out the reach of woe : 
 
 " He taught me justice and the laws 
 With |iity to unite ; 
 And eke he tau^Iit me how to know 
 The wrong cause from the right : 
 
 "He taught me with a prudent hand, 
 To feed tile hungry poor, 
 Nor let my servant drive away 
 The hungry from my door : 
 
 " And none can say but all my life 
 I have his wordys kept ; 
 .'Vnd sunnned the actions of the day 
 Each night before I slept. 
 
 " I liave a spouse, go ask of her. 
 If I defiled her bed ? 
 I have a king, and none can lay 
 Black treason on my head. 
 
 " In Lent, and on the holy eve, 
 From flesh 1 did refrain ; 
 Why should I tlien appear dismayed 
 To leave this world of pain ? 
 
 "No! hapless Henry! I rejoice 
 1 sli.ill Hot see thy tli.'ath ; 
 Most uiHiiigly in thy just cause 
 Do 1 resign my breath. 
 
 " O, fickle people ! ruined land I 
 Thou wilt ken peace nae nioe ; 
 While Ri( hard's sons exalt themselves, 
 Thy brooks with blood will flow. 
 
 "Say, were ye tired of godly peace, 
 And godly Henry's reign. 
 That you did chop your easy days 
 For those of blood and pain ? 
 
 " What though 1 on a sled be drawn, 
 And mangled by a hind? 
 I do defy the traitor's power. 
 He cannot harm my mind ; 
 
 "What though, uphoisted on a pole, 
 My limbs sliall rot in air. 
 And no rich monument of brass 
 Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; 
 
 " Yet in the holy book above. 
 Which time can't eat away, 
 There with the servants of the Lord 
 My name shall live for aye. 
 
 "Then welcome death ! for life eterne 
 I l^ave this mortal life , 
 Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear. 
 My sons and loving wife ! 
 
 " Now death as welcome to me comes, 
 As e'er the month of May ; 
 Nor would I even wish to live, 
 Witli my dear wife to stay." 
 
 Quoth Caninng, " 'Tis a goodly thing 
 
 To I)e prepared to die ; 
 And from this world of pain and grief 
 
 To God in heaven to fly." 
 
 And now the bell began to toll. 
 
 And clarions to sound ; 
 Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet 
 
 A prancing on the ground : 
 
 And just before the officers, 
 
 His loving wife came in. 
 Weeping unfeignt^d tears of woe. 
 
 With loud and dismal din. 
 
 " Sweet Florence ! now I pray, forbear — 
 In cjuiet let me die ; 
 Pray God that every Christian soul 
 May look on death as I. 
 
 " Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears? 
 They wash my soul away. 
 And almost make me wish for life, 
 With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 
 
 fif. 
 
f 
 
 M.i' 
 
 204 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 1' : 
 1 ' .. . 
 
 sH 
 
 : ; 
 
 CROWN JKVVKLS. 
 
 " 'Tis but a journey I shall go 
 (Jiitu tliu land of liliss ; 
 Now, as aproof of liusljand's love, 
 Receive this holy kiss." 
 
 Then Florence faltering in her say 
 Tremiiling these wordys spoke, 
 "Ah, cruel F^dward I iiloody king! 
 My heart is well nigh broke : 
 
 "Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go, 
 Without thy loving wife ! 
 The cruel axu that cuts thy neck. 
 It eke shall end my life." 
 
 And now the officers came in 
 
 To bring Sir Ciiarles away, 
 Who turned to his loving wife, 
 
 And thus to her did say : 
 
 " I go to life, and not to death, 
 Trust tiiou in God above. 
 And teach tiiy sons to fear the Lord, 
 And in their hearts Him love : 
 
 "Teach them to run the noble race 
 That I their father run : 
 Florence ! should death thee take — adieu ! 
 Ye officers, lead on." 
 
 Then Florence raved as any mad, 
 And did her tresses tear ; 
 "Oh ! stay, my husband ! lord I and life ! "- 
 Sir Charles then dropped a tear, 
 
 Till tired out witli raving loud. 
 
 She fellen on the (Uhji- ; 
 Sir Charles exerted all his might, 
 
 And marched from out the door. 
 
 Upon a sled he mounted then. 
 With looks full brave and sweet ; 
 
 Looks that enshone no more concern 
 Than any in the street. 
 
 Before him went the council-men. 
 
 In scarlet robes and gold, 
 And tassels spangling in the sun. 
 
 Much glorious to behold ; 
 
 The friars of Saint Augustine ne.xt 
 
 Appeared to the sight, 
 All clad m homely russet weeds. 
 
 Of godly monkish plight : 
 
 In different parts a godl)' psalm 
 
 Most sweetly did they chant ; 
 Behind their backs six minstrels came. 
 
 Who tuned the strung bataunt. 
 
 Then five and twenty archers came ; 
 
 Each one the bow did bend. 
 From rescue of King H nrj "s friends 
 
 Sir Charles for to defend. 
 
 Bold as a lion rnme .Sir Charles, 
 
 Drawn on a doth laid sleil. 
 By two black steetls in tr.ip|)ings white, 
 
 With plumes upon their head : 
 
 Behind him five and twenty more 
 
 ( )f archers strong and stout, 
 With bended bow each one in hand, 
 
 Marcht^d in goodly rout : 
 
 Saint James's friars marchJd next, 
 
 I'ach one his part did chant ; 
 Behind their backs six minstrels came, 
 
 Who tuned the strung bataunt : 
 
 Then came the mayor and aldermen. 
 In cloth and scarlet decked ; 
 
 Antl their attending-men each one, 
 Like eastern princes trickt. 
 
 And after them a m-iltitude 
 
 Of citizens did throng ; 
 The windows were all full of heads, 
 
 As he did pass along. 
 
 And when he came to the high cross, 
 Sir Charles did turn and say, 
 "O Thou, that savest man from sin. 
 Wash my soul clean this day !" 
 
 At the great minster window sat 
 
 The king in mickle state, 
 To see Charles Bawdin go along 
 
 To his most welcome fate. 
 
 Soon as the sled drew nigh enough, 
 That Edward he might hear. 
 
 The brave Sir Charles he did stand up. 
 And thus his words declare : 
 
 "Thou seest me, Edward ! traitor vile ! 
 ICxposed to infamy ; 
 But, be assured, disloyal man ! 
 I'm greater now than tiiee. 
 
 " By foul proceedings, murder, blood, 
 Thou wearest now a crown ; 
 And hast appointed me to die. 
 By power not thine own. 
 
 " Thou thinkest I shall die to-day ; 
 I have been de.id till now, 
 And soon shall live to wear a crown 
 F'or aye upon my brow ; 
 
 " Wliilst thou, perhaps, for some few years. 
 Shall rule this ficRle land. 
 To let them know how wide the rule 
 'Twixt king and tyrant hand ; 
 
 "Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave ! 
 Shall fall on thy own head" — 
 From out of hearing of the king 
 Departed then the sled. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVKNTL'RI-. 
 
 200 
 
 King F.ilward's sduI rushed to his face, 
 
 lie turned hi.i liead awiiy, 
 And to his {jrolht-T (lioiuestcr 
 
 lie thus did speul< and sny : 
 
 "To hini that so-much dreaded dcatll 
 No tjhastly terrors briiif; ; 
 Beholii tile man ! lie s|>akL- the truth 
 He's greater than a k\ug !" 
 
 *'So let him die !" Dulte Richard said ; 
 "And limy each one our fncs 
 Bend down tlieir neclts to l)loody axe, 
 And feed the carrion crows." 
 
 And now the liorses gently drew 
 Sir diaries ii|) tlie high hill ; 
 
 Tlie nxe did glister in the sun, 
 His precious blood to .spill. 
 
 Sir Charles did iij) the scaffold go, 
 
 As up a gilded car 
 Of victory, by val'roiis chiefs 
 
 Gained in the blooily war : 
 
 And to the people he did say, 
 
 " Beliold you see me die. 
 For serving loyally my king. 
 
 My king most rightfully. 
 
 " As long as Edward rules this land, 
 No quiet will you know ; 
 Your sons ami husbands shall be slain. 
 And brooks with blood shall flow. 
 
 " You leave your good and lawful king. 
 When in adver-.ity ; 
 Like mj, unto the true c.uise stick. 
 And for the true cause die." 
 
 Then he. with priests, upon his knees, 
 
 A prayer to God did maki", 
 Beseeching Him unto Himself 
 
 His parting soul to take. 
 
 Then, kneeling down, he laid his head, 
 
 Most seemly on the block ; 
 Which from his body f;iir at once 
 
 The able headsman stroke ; 
 
 And out the blood began to flow. 
 And round the scaflbld twine ; 
 
 And tears enough, to wash't away. 
 Did flow from each man's eyne. 
 
 The bloody axe his body fair 
 
 Into four partes cut ; 
 And every part and eke his head, 
 
 Upon a pole was jnit. 
 
 One part did rot on Kyiuvulft-liill, 
 
 One on the minster tower, 
 And one from off the castle-gate 
 
 The crowen did devour ; 
 
 The othi.-r on St. Powle's good gate, 
 
 A ilreary spectacle ; 
 I lis head was plaied on the high cross. 
 
 In high-street most nobel. 
 
 Thus was the end of H.iwdin's f.ite : 
 
 God prosper lung (jur king, 
 And grant he may, with Hawdin's soul, 
 
 In heaven God's mercy sin- ! 
 
 TlliiMAS CUATTKUTON. 
 
 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR, 
 
 eO.ME, see the Dolphin's aiulior forged — 'tis at 
 a white heat now ; 
 The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, 
 though on tlie forge's brow 
 The little flames still lilfully play tiirough the sable 
 
 mound, 
 And lUfuUy you still may see the grim smiths ranking 
 
 round, 
 All cl.id in Icaliier panoply, their broad hands only 
 
 bare — 
 Some rest upon their sledges here, some work tlu 
 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 Vulc.in, what a 
 
 glow I 
 
 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun 
 shines not so ! 
 
 The high sun sees not, on the earth, such a fiory fear- 
 ful 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, cjuivering 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 liigh and 
 low ; — 
 
 A h.iiling fount of fire is struck at every S(iuashing 
 blow. 
 
 The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cin- 
 ders Strew 
 
 The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering 
 fountains flow, 
 
 And thick anil loud the swinking crowd at every stroke 
 pant, "Ho!" 
 
 Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out, and lay on 
 
 load ! 
 Let's forge a goodly anchor ;— a bower thick and 
 
 broad; 
 
 'M 
 
 PI 
 
206 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 \1W ii 
 
 I ■• 
 
 m 
 
 !i * 
 
 For a heart of oak is linnsliip; on cvory l)Io\v, I bode, I To leap down on the kraken's back, wlicre 'mid Nor- 
 
 And I see tlie good ship ritiiiig, all in a perilous road — | wegian isles 
 
 The low reef roariiiy; on her lee — the roll of ocean ' He lies, a lubber anchorage for snd^Ien shallowed miles; 
 
 poured • Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, ofl" he rolls ; 
 
 From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the ; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished 
 
 board ; I shoals 
 
 The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove | Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, happily in a cove, 
 
 at the chains ! | Shell-strewn, and consecrate of oUl to some Undini's 
 
 But courage still, brave mariners ! the bower yet re- 1 love, 
 
 mains, | To find tlio long-haired maidens ; or, hard by iry lands. 
 
 And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye | To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 
 
 rrt I • 'i ' 1 .,1 II • 1 .. T- .1 ' O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can 
 
 Then moves his head, as (houiih he saul, "!• ear noth- ! , ,. ^' ' 
 
 , , ,, ' ; eiiual thnu- ? 
 
 mg— here am I. ^.-i . , , • 
 
 1 he (iiilpliin weighs a tl.'ousand tons, that tu;;s thy ca- 
 
 Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep ' i)le line ; 
 
 t'"!'^ '■ ; And night by night, 'tis tlvy delight, thy glory day by 
 
 Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's | day, 
 
 ^^'I'mc. 1 Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game 
 
 But while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the to ])lay — 
 
 burthen be, I Hut sliamer of our little sports ! forgive the name 1 
 
 The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! ; gave — 
 Strike in, strike in-the sparks begin to dull their rust- ; A fisher's joy is to destroy— thine office is to save. 
 
 ling red ; ; o lodger in the sea-kmg's halls ! couldst thou but un- 
 
 Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will j dcrstand 
 
 soon be sped. | Whose be the white bones by thy side— or who that 
 
 Our anchor soon must chan.ge his bed of fiery rich array, drijiping band, 
 
 For a hammock at the roaring bows, on an oozy couch : Slow swaying in the heaving wave, tliat round .iboiit 
 
 of clay ; 
 
 Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry crafts- 
 men here. 
 
 For the yeo-heave-o*, and the heave-away, and the 
 sighing seaman's cheer ; 
 
 thee bend. 
 With sounds like breakers in a dream, ble.ssing their 
 
 ancient friend ; — 
 O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with largtir 
 
 steps round ihee. 
 
 When, weigliing slow, at eve they go— far, far from , Thine iron side would swell with pride— thou'dst leap 
 
 within the sea ! 
 
 Give honor to their memories who left tlie pleasant 
 strand 
 
 To shed tlieir blood so freely for the love of father- 
 land— 
 
 Who left their chance of cjuiet age and gr.i.ssy churcli- 
 yard grave 
 
 So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave! 
 
 O, though our anchor may not be all I iiavc fondly 
 sung. 
 
 Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes 
 among ! 
 
 Samuel Ferguson. 
 
 love and home ; 
 And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean 
 foam. - 
 
 In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ; 
 A sliapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat 
 
 was cast. 
 O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like 
 
 me. 
 What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the 
 
 deep green sea ! 
 O deep sea-diver, w!io might then behold such sights 
 
 as thou ? 
 The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere 
 
 now 
 To go plumb plunging cKjwn amid the assembly of the 
 
 whales. 
 And feel the churned s,.\a round me boil beneath their 
 
 sccjurging tails ! 
 Then deep in tangle-wccds to fight the fierce sea-uni- 
 corn. 
 And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his 
 
 ivory horn ; 
 To leave the subtile sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; 
 And for the ghastlv-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to 
 
 scorn; 
 
 (2) 
 
 THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 
 
 ARP of Memnon ! sweetly strung 
 To the music of the spheres ; 
 While the hero's dirge is sung, 
 Breathe enchantment to our ears. 
 
 Let thy numbers, soft and slow, 
 O'er the plain wiili carnage spread 
 
 Soothe the dying while they flow 
 To the memory of the dead. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 207 
 
 Lashed to madness l.y the wind, 
 
 As the Red Se;i surges roar, 
 l.(\avo a gloomy };ulf bLhiiid, 
 
 And devour the shrinking shore. 
 
 Thus, with overwlielmins; pride, 
 Gallia's l)ri;^IiteKt, boldest boast, 
 
 In a deep and dreadful tide, 
 Rolled upon the British host. 
 
 Now the veteran chief drew nigh. 
 Conquest towering on his crest. 
 
 Valor beaming from his eye. 
 Pity bleeding on his breast. 
 
 On the whirlwind (,f the war 
 
 High he rode in vengeance dire; 
 
 To his friends a leading star; 
 To his foes consuming fire. 
 
 Cliarged with Abercronibie's doom. 
 Lightning winged a cruel ball : 
 
 'Twas the herald of the tomb. 
 And the hero felt the call — 
 
 Felt — and raised his arms on high ; 
 
 Victory well the signal knew, 
 Darted from his awful eye. 
 
 And the force of Trance o'erthrew. 
 
 Harp of Memnon ! sweetly strung 
 To the music of the spheres ; 
 
 While the hero's dirge is sung, 
 Breathe enchantment to our ears. 
 
 Let t!iy numbers, soft and slow. 
 O'er the plain with carnage spread. 
 
 Soothe the dying while they flow 
 To the memory of the dead. 
 
 Then thy tones triumphant pour. 
 Let them pierce the liero's grave ; 
 
 Life's tumultuous battle o'er, 
 O, how sweetly sleep the brave ! 
 
 From the dust their laurels bloom. 
 High they sIuxA and flourish free ; 
 
 Glory's temple is the tomb ; 
 Death is immortality. 
 
 James Montoomkrv. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF AGiNCOURT. 
 
 (l^'AIR stood the wind for France, 
 fir ^^ 'I'^'i we our sails advance, 
 *■ Nor now to prove our chance 
 Longer will tarry ; 
 But putting to the main. 
 At Kause, the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his martial train. 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a fort, 
 Furnished in warlike sort, 
 
 Marched toward Agincourt 
 
 In happy lu)ur ; 
 Skirmishing d;'.y by day 
 With those tint stopped his way. 
 Where the French general lay 
 
 With all his power. 
 
 Which in his height of pride. 
 King 1 lenry to deride. 
 His ransom to provide 
 
 To the ki:".g sending ; 
 Which he neglects the while. 
 As from a nation vile. 
 Yet, with an angry smile. 
 
 Their fall portending. 
 
 And turning to his men, 
 (Juoth our brave Henry then: 
 Though they to one be ten, 
 
 Be not amazed ; 
 Yet have we well begun. 
 Battles so bravely won 
 I lave ever to the sun 
 By fame been raised. 
 
 And for myself, quoth he. 
 This my full rest shall be ; 
 England ne'er mourn for me 
 
 Nor more esteem me. 
 Victor I will remain. 
 Or on this earth lie slain ; 
 Never shall she sustain 
 
 Loss to redeem me. 
 
 Poitiers and Cressy tell. 
 
 When most their pride did swell 
 
 Under our swords they fell. 
 
 No less our skill is 
 Than when our grandsire greati 
 Claiming the regal seat. 
 By many a warlike feat 
 
 Lopped the French lilies. 
 
 The Duke of York so dread 
 The eager vaward led ; 
 With the main Henry sped 
 
 Amongst his henchmen. 
 Excester had the rear, 
 A braver man not there ; 
 O lAjrd ! how hot they were 
 
 On the fal.se Frenchmen. 
 
 They now to fight are gone ; 
 Armor on armor shone ; 
 Drum now to drum did groan, 
 
 To hear was wonder ; 
 That with the cries they make 
 The very earth diil shake, 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
 
 Thunder t-i thunder. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 :§ 
 
I 
 
 208 
 
 ''< i i' J 
 
 I, 
 
 f'ii 
 
 H 
 
 li'!i 
 
 V ;i: ■ 
 
 ■F 
 
 1* 
 
 
 ■ f 
 .. t . 
 
 
 ,y ; 
 
 1^ i 
 
 w- \ ' 
 
 
 
 
 ' III! ■ , 
 
 
 
 |j 
 
 ilk 
 
 )i^ 
 
 CROWN J]<:WELS. 
 
 Well it thine age became, 
 O noble Erpinghiini ! 
 Which did the signal aim 
 
 To our hid forces ; 
 Wlien, from a meadow by 
 Like a storm suddenly, 
 The English archery 
 
 Struck the French horses. 
 
 With Spanish yew so strong, 
 Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
 That like to serpents stung, 
 
 Piercing the weather ; 
 None Uo\\\ his ftllow starts, 
 Ihit playing manly parts, 
 And like true English hearts, 
 
 Stuck close together. 
 
 When down their bows they threw, 
 And forth their bilboes drew, 
 And on t'le I'reiich they flew, 
 
 Not one was tardy : 
 Arms were from shoulders sent, 
 Scalps to the teeth were rent ; 
 Down the French peasants went ; 
 
 Our men were hardy. 
 
 This while our noble king, 
 His broad sword brandishing, 
 Down tne French host did ding. 
 
 As to o'erwhelm it ; 
 And many a deep wound rent 
 His arms with blood besprent. 
 And many a cruel dent. 
 
 Bruised his helmet. 
 
 Glo'ster, that duke so good 
 Next of the royal blood, 
 For famous ICngland stood. 
 
 With his brave brother 
 Clarence, in steel so bright, 
 Though but a maiden knight, • 
 Yet in that furious fight 
 
 Scarce such another. 
 
 Warwick in blood did wade , 
 Oxford the foe invade. 
 And cruel slaughter made, 
 
 Still as they ran up. 
 Suffolk his axe did ply; 
 Beaumont and Vviiloughby 
 Bare them right doughtily, 
 
 Ferrers and Fanhope. 
 
 Upon Saint Crispin's day 
 Fought was this noble fray, 
 Which fame did not delay 
 
 To England to carry. 
 O, when shall Englishmen 
 With such acti fill a pen. 
 Or England breed again 
 
 Such a King Harry ? 
 
 Michael Dkavton. 
 
 '^•A 
 
 M 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 E manners of England 
 
 That guard our native seas ; 
 
 Whose flag has braved a thousand years 
 
 The battle and the breeze, 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 
 To match another foe, 
 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave ; 
 
 I'or the deck it was their field of fame. 
 
 And ocean was their grave : 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow, 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow; 
 
 While the battle nigos loud and long. 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Brittannia needs no bulwarks, 
 
 No towers along the steep ; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 
 
 Her iionie is on the deeji. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak, 
 
 .She (luells the IUkkIs below — 
 
 As they roar jii tiie slKjre, 
 
 When tlie stunny winds do blow ; 
 
 When the battle rages louil and long, 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor Hag of England 
 
 .Shall yet terrific burn ; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart. 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, tlien, ye ocean-warriors. 
 
 Our song and feast sli.tll flow 
 
 To llie fame of your name, 
 
 Wlun the storm has ceased to blow ; 
 
 When tlie fiery fight is heard no more. 
 
 And thj storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 Thomas Ca.mpdell. 
 
 THE UNRETURNING BRAVE. 
 
 ^T^ND Ardennes waves above them her green 
 
 f ^^ leaves, 
 
 ^^. Dewy with nature's tear drops, as they pass 
 Grieving. If aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning lirave ; — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 
 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 
 low. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 209 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
 The midnight brougiU tiie signal-sound of strife, 
 The morn the marshaling in arms — the day 
 Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
 Tlie thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
 Wliich her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent. 
 Rider and horse— friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! 
 
 Tiieir praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine ; 
 Vet one I would select from that proud throng. 
 Tartly because they blend me with his hue. 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song , 
 And his was of the bravest, and when showered 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered. 
 They reached no nobler breast than tiiine, young, gal- 
 lant Ib>ward! 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh gieen tree, 
 
 Wliicii living waves where thou didst cease to live. 
 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 
 With fruits antl fertile promise, and the s|)ring 
 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive 
 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 
 I tiinied from all she brought, to those she could not 
 
 bring. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 ALFRED THE HARPER. 
 
 ARK fell the night, the watch was set, 
 '1 he host was idly spread. 
 The Danes around their watch fires met, 
 Caroused, and fiercely fed. 
 
 The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves, 
 
 AndGuthrum, king of all. 
 Devoured the flesh of England's beeves, 
 
 And laughed at England's fall. 
 Each warrior proud, each Danish earl, 
 
 In mail and wolf-skin clad, 
 Their bracelets white with plundered pearl. 
 
 Their eyes with triumph mad. 
 
 From Huber-land to Severn-land, 
 
 And on to Tamar stream, 
 Wliere Thames makef green the towery strand. 
 
 Where Medway's waters gleam — 
 With hands of steel and mouths of flame 
 
 They raged the kingdom through ; 
 And where the Norseman sickle came. 
 
 No crop but hunger grew. 
 
 They loaded many an English horse 
 
 With wealth of cities fair ; 
 They dragged from many a father's corse 
 
 The daughter by her hair. 
 
 (U) 
 
 And English slaves, and gems, and goldj 
 Were gathered round the feast ; 
 
 Till midnight in their woodland hold, 
 Oh ! ne'er that riot ceased. 
 
 In stalked a warrior tall and rude 
 
 Before the strong sea-kings ; 
 "Ye lords and earls of Odin's brood, 
 
 Without a harper sings. 
 He seems a simple man and poor. 
 
 But well he sounds the lay; 
 And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure, 
 
 Will ye the song repay." 
 
 In trod the bard with keen cold look, 
 
 And glanced along the board. 
 That with the shout and war-cry shook 
 
 Of many a Danish lord. 
 But thirty brows, inflamed and stern, 
 
 Soon bent on him their gaze. 
 While calm he gazed, as if to learn 
 
 Who chief deserved liis praise. 
 
 Loud Guthrum spake—" Nay, gaze not thus, 
 
 Thou harper weak and poor ! 
 By Thor ! who bandy looks with us 
 
 Must worse than looks endure. 
 Sing high the praise of Denmark's host, 
 
 High praise each dauntless earl ; 
 The t>rave who stun this English coast 
 
 Willi wars unceasing whirl." 
 
 The harper slowly bent his head. 
 
 And touched aloud the string ; 
 Then raised his face, and boldly said, 
 ' Hear thou my lay, O king ! 
 High praise from every mouth of man 
 
 To all who boldly strive. 
 Who fall where first the fight began. 
 
 And ne'er go back alive. 
 
 "Fill high your cups, and swell the shout, 
 
 At famous Regnar's name ! 
 Who sank his host in bloody rout, 
 
 When he to Humbercame. 
 His men were chased, his sons were slain, 
 
 And he was left alone. 
 They bound him in an iron chain 
 
 Upon a dungeon stunc. 
 
 " Willi iron links they bound him fast ; 
 With snakes they filled the hole. 
 That made his flesh their long repast. 
 And bit into his soul. 
 
 "Great chiefs, why sink In gloom your eyes? 
 
 Why champ your teeth in pain ? 
 Still lives the song though Regnar dies ! 
 
 Fill high your cups again. 
 Ye too, perchance, O Norsemen lords 1 
 
 Who fought and swayed so long. 
 Shall soon but live in minstri.1 words, 
 
 And owe your names to song. 
 
 xm 
 
210 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 " Tliis land has graves by thousands more 
 
 Tlian that where Regnar lies. 
 When concjuests fade, and rule is o'er, 
 
 The sod must close your eyes. 
 How soon, who knows ? Not chief, nor bard ; 
 
 And yet to me 'tis given, 
 To see your foreht ads deeply scarred. 
 
 And guess the doom of heaven. 
 
 " I may not read or when or how. 
 
 But, earls and kiny;s, be sure 
 I sec a blade o'er every brow, 
 
 Where pride now sits secure. 
 Fill high the cups, r.iise loud the strain ! 
 
 When chief and monarch fall, 
 Their names in song shall breathe again, 
 
 And thrill the feastful hall." 
 
 Grim sat the chiels ; one heaved a groan, 
 
 And one grew ]iale with drcid, 
 His iron mace was grasped by one. 
 
 By one his wine was shed. 
 And Guthrum cried, " Nay, bard, no more 
 
 We hear thy boding lay ; 
 Make drunk the song with spoil and gore ! 
 
 Light up the joyous fray ! " 
 
 " Quick throbs my brain " — so burst the song — 
 
 " To hear the strife once more. 
 The mace, the axe, they rest too long ; 
 
 Earth cries, ' My thirst is sore ! ' 
 More blithely twang the strings of bows 
 
 Than strings of harjis in glee ; 
 Red wounds are Iw.elier than the rose. 
 
 Or rosy lips to me. 
 
 " Oh ! fairer than a field of flowers, 
 
 When flowers in England grew, 
 Would be the battle's marshaled powers, 
 
 The plain of carnage new. 
 With all its deaths before my soul 
 
 The vision rises fair ; 
 Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl ! 
 
 I would that I were there ! " 
 
 Loud rang tiie harp, the minstrel's eye 
 
 Rolled lierct ly round the throng ; 
 It seemed two cnishing hosts were nigh, 
 
 Wiiose shock aroused the song. 
 A golden cup King Guthrum gave 
 
 To him wiio strt)ngly pl.iyed ; 
 And said, " I won it from the slave 
 
 Who once o'er England swayed." 
 
 King Guthrum cried, " 'Twas Alfred's own ; 
 
 Thy song befits the brave : 
 The king who cannot gu.-ird his throne 
 
 Nor wine nor song shall have." 
 The minstrel took the gobli t bright, 
 
 And said, " I drink the wine 
 Tu him who owns by justest right 
 
 The cup thou bid'st be mine. 
 
 " To him, your Lord, oh .shout ye all ! 
 His meetl be deadiless prai.se ! 
 The king who dares not nobly fr.ll. 
 Dies basely all his days." 
 
 " The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said, 
 
 " With sweetness fills mine ear ; 
 For Alfred swift before me fled, 
 
 And left me monarch here. 
 The royal coward never dared 
 
 Beneath mine eye to stand. 
 Oh, would that now this feast he .shared, 
 
 And .saw me rule his land ! " 
 
 Then stern the minstrel rose, and spake, 
 
 And gazed upon the king — 
 " Not now the golden cup I take. 
 
 Nor more to thee I sing. 
 Another day, a happier hour, 
 
 Shall bring me here again : 
 The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power 
 
 Till 1 demand it then." 
 
 The harper turned and left the shed. 
 
 Nor bent to Guthrum's crown ; 
 And one who marked his visage said 
 
 It wore a ghastly frown. 
 The Danes ne'er saw that harper more, 
 
 For soon as morning rose, 
 Upon their camp King Alfred bore. 
 
 And slew ten thousand foes. 
 
 John Sterling. 
 
 THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 
 
 'HE Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn. 
 To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! 
 His fiery courser snufls the morn, 
 'f And thronging serfs their lord pursue. 
 
 The eager pack, from couples freed, 
 
 Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; 
 
 While answering hound, and horn, and steed, 
 The mountain echoes startling wake. 
 
 The beams of God's own hallowed day 
 H.id painted yonder spire with gold. 
 
 And, calling sinful man to pray, 
 
 Lt)ud, l<jng, and deep the bell hiid tolled : 
 
 But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; 
 
 Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again ! 
 When, spurring from opposing sides. 
 
 Two stranger horsemen join the train. 
 
 Who was each stranger, left and right. 
 Well may I guess, but dare not tell; 
 
 The right-hand steed was silver white, 
 The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 
 
 The right-hand horseman, young and fair, 
 His smile was like the morn of May ; 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 211 
 
 The left, from eye of t.iwny glare, 
 Shot midniglu liglitning's hirid ray. 
 
 He w.ived his Inintsman's cap on high. 
 Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! 
 
 What sport can earth, or sea, or sky. 
 To match the princely chase, afford ? " 
 
 "Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," 
 Cried tiie fair youth, with silver voice ; 
 
 "And for devotion's choral swell. 
 
 Exchange the rude unhallowed noise 
 
 " To-day the ill-omened chase forbear, 
 Von bell yet summons to the fane ; 
 To-day the warning spirit hear. 
 To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.' 
 
 "Away, and sweep the glades along ! " 
 
 Tile sai)le luinter hoarse replies ; 
 "To mutte.ing monks leave matin-song, 
 
 And bells, and books, and mysteries." 
 
 The Wiidgrave spurred his ardent steed, 
 And, launching forward with a bound, 
 "Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede. 
 
 Would leave the jovial horn and hound? 
 
 " Hence if our manly sport offend ! 
 
 With pious fools go chant and pray ! — 
 Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend; 
 Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!" 
 
 The Wiidgrave spurred his courser light, 
 O'er moss and moor; o'er holt and hill; 
 
 And on the left, and ^;n the right. 
 Each stranger horseman followed still. 
 
 Up springs from yonder tangled thorn, 
 
 A stag more white than mountain snow ; 
 And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 
 "Hark, forward, forward! holla, ho!" 
 
 A heedless wretch has crossed the way ; 
 
 1 le gasps the tinindering hoofs below ; — 
 Rill, live who can, or die who may, 
 Siill, " Forward, forward ! " on they go. 
 
 See where yon simple fencs meet, 
 A field with autumn's bltssiiigs crowned; 
 
 See, prostrate at the Wiidgrave s feet, 
 A husbandman with loil embrowned : 
 
 " O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! 
 
 ' Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, 
 "Earned by the sweat these brows have poured 
 In scorching hour of fierce July," 
 
 Earnest the right hand stranger pleads, 
 The left still cheering to the prey ; 
 
 Tlu' impetuous Earl no warning heedSi 
 But furious holds the onward way. 
 
 "Away, thou hound! so basely born, 
 
 Or dread the scourge's eciioing blow 1" — 
 Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, 
 "Hark forward, forward! holla, ho !" 
 
 So said, so done : — A single bound 
 Clears the i^oor laborers humble pale ; 
 
 Wild follows man, aiul horse, and hound, 
 Like dark December's stormy gale. 
 
 And man and !iorse, and hound and horn, 
 Destructive sweep the field along ; 
 
 Wliile, joying o'er the wasted ci)rn. 
 
 Fell famine marks the maddening throng. 
 
 Again uproiised, the timorous prey 
 
 Scours moss and moor, aiul holt and hill; 
 Hard run, he feels liis strenj;th decay, 
 And trusts for life his simple skill. 
 
 Too dangerous solitude appeared ; 
 
 He seeks the shelter of the crowd : 
 Amid the flock's domestic herd 
 
 His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 
 
 O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill. 
 His track the steady bloodhounds trace; 
 
 O'er moss and moor, unwearied still. 
 The furious Earl pursues the chase. 
 
 Full lowly did the herdsman fall ; — 
 "() spare, thou noble Baron, spare 
 These liertls, a widow's little all ; 
 These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care 1" 
 
 Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads. 
 The left still cheering to the prey ; 
 
 The I-arl nor prayer nor pity heeds. 
 But furious keeps the onward way. 
 
 " Unmannered dog ! to stop my sport, 
 \'ain wore thy cant and beggar whine, 
 Tliough human spirits, (jf t!iy sort, 
 Were tenants of these carrion kine ! " 
 
 Again he winds his bugle-horn, 
 " 1 lark, forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 
 And tlii\)Ugh the herd, in ruthless scorn, 
 1 le cheers his furious hounds to go. 
 
 In heaps the throttled victims fall ; 
 
 lX)wii sinks their mangleil herdsman near; 
 The murderous cries the stag appal — 
 
 Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. 
 
 With blood besmeared, and white with foam. 
 While big the tears of anguish pour. 
 
 He seeks, amid the forest's gloom, 
 The humble hermit's hallowed bower. 
 
 Rut man and horse, and horn and hound, 
 
 l'"ast rattling on his traces go ; 
 The sacred chapel rung around 
 
 With, "Hark away ! and holla, ho 1 " 
 
 
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 212 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 All mild, amid tlic- nmt profane, 
 The iiuiy licrmit poiirLtl liis prayer : 
 "Forbear witii blood tlod's hoiisi; to stain ; 
 Revere his altar, and forbear ! 
 
 "The meanest brute has rifihts to plead, 
 Which, wron.vjed by cruelty t)r pride, 
 Draw ventjeance on the ruthless head : 
 Be warned at length, and turn aside." 
 
 Still the fair horseman anxious jileads ; 
 
 Tlie black, wild whooping, points the prey 
 Alas ! the Earl no waruiii;^ heed-;. 
 
 But frantic keeps the forward way. 
 
 "Holy or not, or riijht or wrong, 
 Thy altar, anil its rites, I spurn ; 
 Not sainti'd niartyrs' sacred song, 
 
 Not (iod himself, shall make iiie turn ! " 
 
 He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
 
 " Hark forward, R)rward I holla, ho !" 
 
 But oir, on wliirlwind's pinioPiS borne, 
 
 'i"he stag, the hut, the hermit, go. 
 
 And horse and man, and horn anil hound. 
 And clamor of tlie chase, were gone ; 
 
 For iioofs, and howls, and bugle sound, 
 A deadly silence reigned alone. 
 
 Wild gazed the affrighted Karl around ; 
 
 He strove in vain to wake his horn, 
 In vain to call : for not a sound 
 
 Could from his anxious lips be borne. 
 
 He listens for his trusty hounds ; 
 
 No ilislant baying reached his ears ; 
 His courser, rooted to the ground, 
 
 The quickening spur unmindful bears. 
 
 Still dark and darker frown the shades, 
 Dark as tlie darkness of the grave ; 
 
 And not a sounil the still invades, 
 ;iave what a distant torrent gave. 
 
 High o'er the sinner's humbled head 
 At length the solemn silence broke ; 
 
 And from a cloud of swarthy red. 
 The awful voice of thunder spoke. 
 
 "Oppressor of creation fair ! 
 
 A|5ostate .Spirit's hardened tool ! 
 Scorner of C/oil ! .Scourge of the poor ! 
 The measure of thy cup is full. 
 
 "Be chased forever through the woixl ; 
 l'"orever roam tlie alTriglited wild ; 
 And let tliy fate instruct the proud, 
 God's meanest creature is his child." 
 
 'Twas hushed : one fl.isli of Fombre glare, 
 With yellow tinged th'.- forests brown ; 
 
 Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair. 
 And horror chilled each nerve and bone. 
 
 Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill ; 
 
 A rising wind began to sing ; 
 And louder, louder, louder still, 
 
 Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 
 
 Earth heard the call ; — her entrails rend ; 
 
 From yawning rifts, with many a yell, 
 Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend 
 
 The misbegotten dogs of hell. 
 
 What ghastly huntsman next arose. 
 Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 
 
 His eye like midnight lightning glows, 
 His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 
 
 Tiie Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, 
 With many a shriek of iielpless woe ; 
 
 Behind him hound, and horse, and horn. 
 And, " Hark away, and holla, ho ! " 
 
 With wild despair's reverted eye, 
 Close, close behind lie marks the throng, 
 
 Willi Moody fangs, anil eager cry ; 
 In frantic fear he scours along. — 
 
 Still, still .shall last the dreadful chase. 
 Till time itself shall have an end ; 
 
 By day, they scour earth's caverned ypace, 
 At midnight's witching hour ascend. 
 
 This is the horn, and hound and horse. 
 That oft th;3 lated peasant hears ; 
 
 Appalled he signs the frequent cross. 
 When the wild din invades his ears. 
 
 The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 
 For human pride, for human woe. 
 When, at his midnight mass, he hears 
 The infernal cry of " Holla, ho ! " 
 
 Translation from BOkcicr, hy 
 Sir W.vlteu Scott. 
 
 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 
 OMl'^ a little nearer, doctor— thank you; kt 
 * • I •y me take the cup : 
 
 e 
 
 Draw your chair uj) — draw it closer ; just 
 another little su|) ! 
 May be you may think I'm better ; but I'm pretty wil! 
 
 used up — 
 Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just .i- 
 going up ! 
 
 " Feel my pulse, sir; if you want to, but it ain't niiicli 
 
 use to try"— 
 " Never say ih.it," said the surgeon, as he sniotlierid 
 
 down a sigh ; 
 i "It will never do, old comrad.", for a soldier to say 
 
 die!" 
 "What you say will make no difference, doctor, wiicii 
 
 you come to die." 
 
HEROISM AND ADVP:NTURE. 
 
 213 
 
 "Doctor, what has been tlic matter?" "You were " Dr. Austin !-what (/(/j/ is this?" " It is Wednesday 
 
 very faint, they say ; night, you know." 
 
 You must try io ^ct to sleep now." " Doctor, have I " Yes — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a ri;4lit good 
 
 been away?" ' time i)elow ! 
 
 "Not that anybody knows of!" " Doctor— doctor, Wiiat time is it, Dr. Austin?" "Nearly twelve." 
 
 please to stay ! I "Tlien don t you ijo ! 
 
 Tiiere is something I must tell you, and you won't Can it !)e that all lliis liappened— all this— not aa iiour 
 
 have long to stay ! [ ago! 
 
 "I have got my marching ordj s, aiul I'm reatly now 
 to go ; 
 
 " There was wliere the gunboats opened on the dar!i 
 opposing iiost ; 
 
 Doctor, did you say I fainted?— but it couldn't have ^ And where Webster SLmi-circled his last giias upon the 
 
 been so, 
 Tor as sure as I'm a sergeant, and was woumled at 
 
 .Shiloh, 
 I've this very night been back there, on the old field of 
 
 Shiloh I 
 
 coast ; 
 There were still the two log-houses, just tli^ siiir,', or 
 
 else their ghost— 
 And the same old transport came and took me over— 
 
 or its ghost ! 
 
 "This is all that I remember: The last time the 
 
 lighter came. 
 And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises 
 
 much the same, 
 lie liad not been gone five minutes before sonietbin;j 
 
 called my name : 
 'Okdkrlv SKK<:K.\NT-R()UKRr nuKTo.N ! '-just thai I-ower down, where Wallace charged tliem, and kept 
 
 "And the old (kid lay bijfore me, all deserted, far and 
 
 wide : 
 There was where they fell on Prentiss — there McC'l.r- 
 
 nand met the tide ; 
 There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where 
 
 Hurlbut's heroes died — 
 
 way it called my name. 
 
 "And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and 
 
 so slow. 
 Knew it couldn't be the lighter, he could not have 
 
 spoken so, 
 And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir ! ' but I couldn't make 
 
 it go ; 
 For I couldn't move a muscle and I conkln't make it go. 
 
 charging till he died. 
 
 There was where Lew Wallace showed tluni he was 
 of thecamiy kin, 
 I There was where old Nelson thundered, and where 
 
 Koussean waded in ; 
 There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all be- 
 gan to win — 
 There was where the grape-shot took me, Just as we 
 began to win. 
 
 "Then I thought : It's all a nightmare, all a huntbug ,. ^ow, a shroud of snow and silence over ev,rMl-.ing 
 
 and a bore ; ^,.,^^ spread ; 
 
 JiLst .another foolish fancy-and it won't come any A.ul l.ut for lliis eld blue mantle and the (,kl hat ,.m my 
 
 •"»re ; ] 1,^,.,^,^ 
 
 Hut it came, sir, notwilhstandmg, just the s.-mie way as ; , „|„,„|,i „„[ i,,,,,^. ,.,,^„ ,i„„i,ted. to this mouKiit, I w.is 
 
 before : j dead- 
 
 •Okim;ri.v sergean r-Roin.:KT IU-rton ! '-even p^.r u.y footsteps were as silent as the snow iip'"! H'O 
 
 dead! 
 
 louder than before. 
 
 "Th.nt is all th.at I remember, till a sudden burst of "]),.;,tli and silence!— Deadi and silence! all around 
 
 lij;ht, I me as I sped ! 
 
 And 1 stood beside the river, where we .sto(xl that Sun- And behold, a mighty tower, as if builded to the dead. 
 
 day night, 
 
 Waiting to be ferried over to the dark blulTs opposite. 
 When the river was perdition, and .all hell was oppo- 
 site !— 
 
 To the heaven of the heavens lilted u[) its liii;,;iity 
 
 head. 
 Till the stars and stripes of heaven all seemed w.iving 
 
 from its he. id ! 
 
 "And the same old palpitation came again in all its " Round and mighty b.ised it towered up ii;to the infi- 
 
 nite- 
 
 power. 
 And I heard a bugle sounding, .as from some celestial And I knew no mortal m.ison could have built a shaft 
 
 tower ; I sobrigln ; 
 
 And the same mysterious voice said: 'It is tiik For it shone like solid sunshine ; and .i winding stair of 
 
 Kl.EVE.NTH HOUR ! 
 
 Orderi.v sekgeant — Robert Blrton— it is the 
 
 ELEVENTH HOURI' 
 
 light 
 
 Wound around it ami around it till it wound cle.ir out 
 of sight ! 
 
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 M)S 
 
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 S'i ' 
 
 214 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 "And, I>;Ik)1(I, as I approadiL-d it— witli a rapt and 
 
 da/zled stare — 
 Tliinking tl)at I saw oM com radcs just ascending the 
 
 ^^reat stair — 
 Siuiilcnly tlie solemn dialleni-^e broke of—" Hall ! ' and 
 
 'Who Koes tlicrc ! ' 
 ' I'm a friend,' I saiil, 'if you are!' 'Then advance, 
 
 sir, to the stair ! ' 
 
 '• I advanced ! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijali Ballan- 
 
 tVMO ! 
 
 I'irst of all to fall on Monday, after we liad formed the 
 
 line ! 
 'Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by 
 
 that counlersij;n ! ' 
 And he i>ointed to the scar there, under this old cloak 
 
 of mine. 
 
 " As he graspetl my haml I shuddered, thinking only 
 
 of tl'.e grav^' ; 
 lUit he smiled and pointed uiHvard, with a bright and 
 
 bl(H)dIess glaive : 
 ' That's tlij way, sir, to Headinarters.' 'What Head- 
 
 ciuarters ? ' 'Of the ]5rave ! ' 
 'But tiie great tower?' ' That was I)uilded of the great 
 
 deeds of the brave ! ' 
 
 "Then a sudden shame came o'er me at liis uniform of 
 
 light : 
 At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and 
 
 bright ; 
 'Ah!' said he, 'you have forgotten the new imiform 
 
 to-night ! 
 'Hurry back — you must be here at just twelve o'clock 
 
 to-night!" 
 
 "And the next thing I remember, you were sitting 
 
 //;<•;■£' and I 
 
 Doctor — ciid you hear a footstep ? Hark! — (jod l)less 
 
 you all ! Good bye ! 
 IJoctor, please to give my nuiskel and my knapsack, 
 
 when 1 die. 
 To my son— my son that's coming— he won't get here 
 
 till 1 die ! 
 
 "Tell him his old fathei blessed him — as he never did 
 
 before— 
 And to carry that old nnisket " Hark! a knock 
 
 is at tile tloor ! 
 
 "Till the L'nion " See ! it opens ! " Father ! 
 
 father! si)eak once mure !" 
 '■ B/fss you " — gasiK:d the old gray sergeant. Anil he 
 
 lay anil said no more ! 
 
 I'dkckviiik Wili.son. 
 
 WRECK OF "THE GRACE OF SUTHERLAND.' 
 
 ii 
 
 'V.'S a rare man, 
 
 < Jur p.irson ; half a head above us all." 
 "That's a great gift, and notable," s;iid I. 
 " Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger man 
 He went out in the life-boat very oft, 
 
 Before ' Tiie Grace of Sunderland * wjus wrecked. 
 He's never been his own man since that hour; 
 For there were thirty men aboanl of her, 
 Anigh as close ;is yon are now to me, 
 And ne'er a one w.is saved. 
 
 "They're lying now. 
 With two small children, in a row: the church 
 And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few 
 Have any names. 
 
 "She bumped upon the reef; 
 Our parson, my young son, and several more 
 Were lashed together with a two-inch ro|)e, 
 And crept along to her • their mates ashore 
 Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, 
 The sea was all a boiling seething froth. 
 And God Almighty's guns were going off, 
 And the land trembled. 
 
 " When she took the ground. 
 She went to pieces like a lock of iiay 
 Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, 
 The captain reeled on deck with two small things, 
 One in each arm — his little lad and la.ss. 
 Their hair was long and blew before his face. 
 Or else we thought he had been saved ; he fell. 
 But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls ! 
 The breakers licked them ofT, and some were crusiieil, 
 .Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead. 
 The dear breath beaten out of them : not one 
 Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch 
 The h.inds that strained to reach, but tumbled back 
 With eyes wide open. But the captain lay 
 .\nd clung — the only man alive. They prayed — 
 ' l\)r God's sake, captain, throw the children here ! ' 
 ' Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and then she struck : 
 And then he threw one, a pretty two years' child, 
 liUt the gale dashed him on the slipiiery verge. 
 And down he went. They say they heard iiim cry. 
 
 " Then lie rose up ;md took the other one. 
 And all our men reached out their hungry arms, 
 And cried out, ' Throw lier, throw iier ! ' and he did. 
 I le threw her right against the parson's brea.st, 
 .'Xnd all at once a sea broke over them. 
 And they that saw it from the shore have said 
 It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, 
 Just as a woman might the lump of salt 
 That 'twi.xt her hands into the kneading-pan 
 She breaks and crumbles on lier rising bread. 
 
 " We hauled our men in : two of them were dead — 
 The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down • 
 Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave 
 Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb; 
 We often see him stand beside her grave : 
 But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his." 
 
 J KAN Ingelow. 
 
HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 
 
 215 
 
 fiH" 
 
 GEORGE NIDIVER. 
 
 EN liave done brave deeds, 
 
 And bards have sung them well 
 of good George Nidiver 
 Now a tale will tell. 
 
 In Californian moiintains 
 
 A hunter bold was he : 
 Keen his eye and sure his aim 
 
 As any you should sec. 
 
 A little Indian boy 
 
 Followed him everywhere, 
 Eager to share the hunter's joy, 
 
 The hunter's meal to share. 
 
 And when the bird or deer 
 
 Fell by tiie hunter's skill, 
 The boy was always near 
 
 To help with right good-will. 
 
 One day as through the cleft 
 Between two mountains steep, 
 
 Shut in both right and left, 
 Their questing way to keep, 
 
 They see two grizzly bears. 
 With hunger fierce and fell, 
 
 Rush at tliem unawares 
 Right down the narrow dell. 
 
 The boy turned round with screams, 
 And ran with terror wild : 
 
 One of the pair of sav,ige beasts 
 Pursued the shrieking child. 
 
 The hunter raised his gun — 
 He knew one charge was all — 
 
 And through the boy's pursuing foe 
 Me sent his only ball. 
 
 The other on George Nidiver 
 • Came on with dreadful pace : 
 The hunter stood unarmed, 
 And met him face to face. 
 
 I say unarmed he stood : 
 Against those frightful paws 
 
 Tiie rifle butt, or club of wood, 
 Could stand no more than straws. 
 
 George Nidiver stood still, 
 And looked him in the face : 
 
 The wild beast stopped amazed. 
 Then came with slackening pare. 
 
 Still firm the hunter stood. 
 Although his heart beat high: 
 
 Again the creature stopped, 
 And gazed with wondering eye. 
 
 The hunter met his gaze. 
 Nor yet an inch gave way ; 
 
 The bear turned slowly round. 
 And slowly moved away. 
 
 What thoughts were in his mind 
 
 It would be liArd to spell : 
 What thoughts were in George Nidiver, 
 
 I rather guess than tell. 
 
 But sure that rifle's aim. 
 Swift choice of generous part. 
 
 Showed in its passing gleam 
 The depths of a brave heart. 
 
 i 
 
 %i 
 
 
SEA PICTURES. 
 
 !! 
 
 ml ■' ■ 
 
 
 ■•': >« ! ' 
 
 HOW'S MY BOY? 
 
 O, sailor of the sua ! 
 Hdw's my lioy — my 
 
 boy?" 
 "What's your hoy's 
 
 name, ^kkI wifo, 
 And in what ship sailed 
 
 he?" 
 
 " My boy John — 
 He tliat went to sea — 
 What care 1 for tiie sliip, 
 
 sailor? 
 My boy's my bo" to me. 
 
 " Von come back from 
 
 sea, 
 And not know my John ? 
 I might as well have asked some landsman, 
 Yonder down in the town. 
 There's not a soul in all tiie parish 
 But knows my John. 
 
 " How's my boy — my boy ? 
 And unless you let me know 
 I'll swear yon are no sailor, 
 Bluejacket or no — 
 
 " Brass buttons or no, sailor. 
 
 Anchor and crown or no — 
 
 Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton ' " — 
 " Speak low, woman, speak low !" 
 
 " And why should I speak low, sailor, 
 
 About my own boy John? 
 
 If I was loud as I am proud 
 
 I'd siii<; him over the town ! 
 
 Why should I speak low, sailor?" — 
 " That good ship went down." 
 
 " How's my boy — my Ijoy ? 
 What care I for the ship, sailor — 
 I was never abojird her. 
 Be she afloat or be she aground, 
 
 " Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 
 
 Her owners can affbrd her ! 
 
 I say, how's my John ? " — 
 " Every man on board went down, 
 
 Every man aboard her." 
 
 " How's my boy — my boy? 
 What care I for the men, sailor ? 
 I'm not their mother — 
 How's my boy — my boy ? 
 Tell me of him and no other ! 
 How's my boy — my boy?" 
 
 SVD.NEV DonELL. 
 
 © 
 
 ALL'S WELL 
 
 ESKRTED by the waning moon, 
 
 When skies proclaim night's cheerless n<X)u, 
 On tower, or fort, or tented ground 
 The sentry walks his lonely round ; 
 And should a lootstep haply stray 
 Where caution marks the guarded way, 
 " Who goes there ? Stranger, <iuickly tell ! " 
 "A friend!" "The word?" " Good-night ;" all's 
 well. 
 
 Or, .sailing on the midnight deep, 
 When weary messniates soundly sleep, 
 The careful watch patrols the deck. 
 To guard the ship from foes or wreck ; 
 And while his thoughts oft luuucwards veer, 
 Some friendly voice salutes his e.tr — 
 What cheer? Brtuhir, quickly tell ; 
 Above— below." "Good-night;" all's well. 
 
 Thomas Dibdin. 
 
 THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. 
 
 N the deep is the mariner's danger. 
 On the deep is the mariner's death ; 
 Wiio 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. 
 
 Who watches their course who so mildly 
 
 Careen to the kiss of the breeze? 
 Who lists to their shrieks who so wildly 
 
 Are clasped in the arms of the seas? 
 
 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 iti shadow the foundering wreck? 
 
 My eye in the light of the billow, 
 My wing on the wake of the wave, 
 
 I shall take to my breast fur a pillow 
 The shroud of the fair and the brave. 
 
 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. 
 
 John G. C. Brainard. 
 
 (216) 
 
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SEA PICTURES. 
 
 217 
 
 THE MARINER'S DREAM. 
 
 ' X slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; i 
 
 His hammock swung loose at the sport of. 
 the wind ; 
 Hut watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, | 
 And visions of happiness danced o'er liis mind. 1 
 
 lie dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
 
 While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers. 
 And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 
 
 'Ilien Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 
 
 Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 
 
 The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, 
 And the swallow chiips sweit from lu-r nest in tin- 
 wall ; 
 
 .'.11 f.cmbimg with transport, he raises the latch. 
 And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of deliglit ; 
 
 His cheek is bedewed with a niotiier s warm tear; 
 .•\iul the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
 
 With the lips of the maid whom his bu.som holds 
 dear. 
 
 Tlie heart of the sleeper beats liigh in his breast ; 
 
 [oy quickens his pulses— his hardships seem o'er ; 
 And a nuirnuir of happiness steals thrmi.y;!! his rest — 
 
 " O God ! thou hast blest me,— I ask for no more." 
 
 Ah ! whence is that flame which now glares on his 
 eye? 
 Ah ! what is that sound which now hursts on his 
 ear? 
 'Tis the lightning's red gleam, paintin.;; hell on the 
 sky? 
 'Tis the crnsliing of thunders, the groan of tlie 
 sphere ! 
 
 He springs from his hammock, — he flies to the deck ; 
 
 .Xinazeineiit confronts him with images dire ; 
 Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ; 
 
 Tlic m.ists (ly in splinters , the shruuds are on fire. 
 
 like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 
 
 In \ain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save ; 
 L'listen hands of spirits are ringing his knell ; 
 
 And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the 
 wave ! 
 
 O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
 Shall home, love or kindred thy wishes repay ; 
 
 Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
 Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 
 
 No tomb sliall e'er plead to renicnibrance for thee. 
 Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge; 
 
 I'ut the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet 
 be. 
 And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge! 
 
 On a bed of green sea-flowers 'hy lim!)s shall be 
 laid,— 
 
 Around thy while bones the red coral shall grow; 
 Of thy fair yellow locks tlireatls of amber be made, 
 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 
 
 Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obey — 
 O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! 
 
 William Dlmdnd. 
 
 sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight I 
 li darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss ; 
 lure now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,— 
 !i,. .,,_„.,...> r — 1 — „ — j.^ .jmi [five's honeyed 
 
 W lure now is the picture 
 
 parents' fond pressure 
 
 kiss? 
 
 THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 
 
 ■T|'TrT'J''^T hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and 
 I I I cells, 
 
 VA^ Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious 
 
 main ? 
 Pale glistening pearls, and rainhow-coloreil shells, 
 
 I'right t!iin;^s which gleam uiu\cked of anil in v.'iin. 
 Keep, kee]) thy riclu's, mi'lancholy sea ! 
 
 W'c ask not such from thee. 
 
 Vet nu)re, the dejUlis have more ! What wealth un- 
 told. 
 Far iloun, and shining through their slilhv^ss, lies ! 
 Thviu hast the starry gems, the burning gokl. 
 
 Won from ten tliousaiul royal aigosies. 
 .Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wnuhful main ! 
 I'^arlh claims not diese again ! 
 
 Yet more, the depths liave more! Thy waves have 
 rolieil 
 Above the cities of a worM gone by ! 
 .Sand h.'Uh lilleil up the pala<;es of old, 
 
 .Sea-wi'ed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! 
 Dash o'er them. Ocean ! in thy scornful play, 
 Man yields them to decay ! 
 
 Vet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! 
 
 High hearts and brave ate galheretl to thy breast ! 
 They hear not now the booming w.Uers roar— 
 
 TIk' battle thunders will not break their rest. 
 Keep thy red gold and gems tln)u stormy grave ! 
 Give back the true iind brave ! 
 
 Give back t!ie lost and lovely ! Those for whom 
 The place was kept at board and hearth so long 
 
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 218 
 
 CROWN JEWELS, 
 
 The prayer went up through midnight's b.-eathloss gloom, 
 
 And the vain yearning wolcc 'midst fesUilsong ! 
 Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthruwn — 
 15ut all is not thine own ! 
 
 To thee the fove of woman hath gone down ; 
 
 Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 
 O'er youtii's bright htcks, and beauty's flowery erown ! 
 
 Yet must thou luara voice—" Restore the dea;l I 
 Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — 
 Restore the dead, thou Sea ! " 
 
 Felicia Dorothea IIemans. 
 
 R 
 
 TO CERTAIN GOLDEN FISHES. 
 
 ESTLESS fornix of li\ing light, 
 
 Quivering on your lucid wings, 
 
 Cheating still the curious sight 
 
 With a thousand shadowings ; 
 \'arious as the tints of even, 
 (iorgjous as the hues of heaven, 
 Reflected on your native streams 
 In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams. 
 Harmless warriors clad in mail 
 Of silver breastplate, golden scale ; 
 Mail of nature's own bestowing, 
 Witli peaceful radiance mildly glowing 
 Keener than the Tartar's arrow, 
 Sport ye in your sea so ii;urow. 
 Was the sun l.iiiisclf your sire.' 
 Were ye born of \iiai lire? 
 Or of the shatle of golden flowers, 
 Sucii as we fetch from east .'rn bowers 
 To mock this murky tiinie of ours? 
 Upwards, downwards, now >e glance, 
 Weasing many a mazy dance ; 
 Seeming still to grow in size. 
 When ye would elude our i-yes. 
 I'retty creatures ! we might deem 
 Ve were happy as >e seem, 
 As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 
 As liglit, as loving, and as lithe. 
 As gladly earnest in your play. 
 As when ye gleamed in fair Cathay ; 
 And yet, since on this iiapless earth 
 There's small sincerity in miith, 
 And laughter oft is but an art 
 To drown the outcry (/ the iieart, 
 It may be, that ycjur ceaseless gambols. 
 Your wheelings, darlings, di\ings. rambles, 
 Your restless roving round and round 
 The circuit of your crystal bound. 
 Is but the t.isk of weary i>.i:n. 
 An endless labor, dull and vain ; 
 And while your forms are gaily shining, 
 Your little lives are inly pining ! 
 Nay— but still I fa'n would dream 
 That ye are happy as ye seem. 
 
 Hartley Coleriuoe. 
 
 OUR BOAT TO THE WAVES. 
 
 UR boat to the waves go free, 
 Hy the bending tide, where the curled wave 
 
 breaks, 
 Like the track of the wind on the white 
 snow-llakes : 
 Away, away ! 'T is a path o'er the sea. 
 
 Dlasts may rave, — spread the sail, 
 l"or our spirits can Vv-rest the power from the wind. 
 And the gray clouds yield to the sunny mind. 
 
 Fear not we the whirl of the gale. 
 
 WiLLIAM ElLERV CmANNING. 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 ' H E sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free I 
 Withoui a mark, without a bound, 
 "f* It ruimeth the earth's wide regions round ; 
 It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 
 
 I am wiiere I would ever be ; 
 
 With the blue above, and the blue below, 
 
 And silence whereso'er I go ; 
 
 If a storm should come and awake the deeji. 
 
 What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I love, oh how I love to ride 
 On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide. 
 When every m.id wave drowns the moon, 
 Or whistles aloft Iiis tempest tune. 
 And tells how g oeth the world below. 
 And why the south-west blasts do blow. 
 
 I n( ver was on the dull tame .shore, 
 But 1 loved the great sea more and more, 
 And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
 Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 
 And a mother she was, and is, to i.ie ; 
 Foi I was born on the open sea . 
 
 The waves were wiiite, and red the morn. 
 In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
 And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
 And ♦•'«• '' vlphins bared tiieir backs of gold; 
 And never was hearil such an outcry wild 
 As welcomed to life the ocean-child ; 
 
 I've lived since then, in calm and strife, 
 I''ull filly summers, a sailor's life. 
 With wealth to spend and a power to range, 
 Hut never have sought nor sighed for change ; 
 And Death, whenever he comes to me, ^ 
 
 Shall come on the wikl, tmljounded sea ! 
 
 Urvan W. Procter. {Darty Cornwall.) 
 
SEA PICTURES. 
 
 213 
 
 THE LIGHT-riOUSE. 
 
 'HE scene was more licautiful far to the eye, 
 Than if day in its prid(.! Iiad arrayed it : 
 The land-breeze blew mild, and the a/.ure. 
 "f arched sky 
 
 Looked pure as the spirit that made it : 
 The nuirmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 
 On the shadowy waves' playful motion, 
 From the dim distant hill, 'till the li:j;ht-house blazed 
 Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 
 
 No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast 
 Was heard in his wildly-breathetl numbers ; 
 
 Tile sea-bird had flown to her wave-jjirdled nest. 
 The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : 
 
 One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope. 
 All hushed was the billows' commotion, 
 
 Ami o'erthem the light-house looked lovely as hope- 
 That star of life's tremulous ocean. 
 
 'riu.' time is long past, and the scene is afir, 
 
 ^'L■t when my head rests on its pillow. 
 Will memory sometimes rekindle the star, 
 
 That blazed on the breast of the billow : 
 In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, 
 
 And death stills the heart's last emotion ; 
 Oil, then may the serajih tjf mercy arise, 
 
 Like a star on eternity's ocean ! 
 
 TiKlMAS MuORIi. 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 
 
 ei 
 
 WF.T sheet and a flowing sea, 
 A wind that follows fast. 
 And (ills tile white and rustling sail, 
 Antl bends the gailant mast ; 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 
 While, like the eagle free, 
 Away the gooil ship flies, and leaves 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 Oh, for a soft and gentle wind ! 
 
 1 heard a fair one cry ; 
 But give to me the snoring breeze. 
 
 And white waves heaving high ; 
 And white waves luaving high, my boys. 
 
 The good ship tight and free — 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 
 Ami merry men are we. 
 
 There's tempest in yon honii^d moon, 
 
 .\iul lightning in yon cloud : 
 And hark the music, mariners ! 
 
 The wind is pii)ing loud : 
 The winfl is |)iping loud, my boys. 
 
 The lightning flashing free — 
 While the liolh^w oak our jialace is. 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. 
 
 THE MINUTE-GUN. 
 
 llJ' 
 
 IKN in the storm on Albion's coast, 
 The night-watch guards his weary post, 
 
 l'"rom thoughts of danger free, 
 He marks some vessel's dusky form, 
 And hears, amid the howling storm. 
 The minute-gun at sea. 
 
 .Swift on the shore a hardy few 
 
 The life-boat man with a gallant crew 
 
 And dare the dangerous wave ; 
 Through the wild surf tluy ckave their way, 
 Lost in the foam, nor know dismay, 
 
 For they go the crew to save. 
 
 Hat O, what rapture fills each breast 
 
 Of the lioi)eless crew of the ship distressed ! 
 
 Then, landeil safe, wliat joy to tell 
 
 Of all the dangers that befell ! 
 
 Then is heard no more, 
 
 By the watch on sli(>re. 
 
 The minute-gun at sea. 
 
 R. S. Shari'E. 
 
 TWILIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 'HE twilight hours, like birds, flew by, 
 As lightly and as free, 
 Ten thousanil stars were in the sky, 
 
 Ten thousand on the sea ; 
 F"or every wave, with dimpled face, 
 
 That leaped upon the air. 
 Had caught a star in its embrace, 
 And held it trembling there. 
 
 A.MELiA B. Welby. 
 
 OCEAN. 
 
 ^^ REAT Ocean ! strongest of creation's sons, 
 
 f (X>| Unconcjuerable, unieposed, untired, 
 
 >4i^ That rolled the wild, iirofouiul, eternal bass 
 
 I In nature's anthem, and made music such 
 As pleased the car of God ! original, 
 Unmarred, unfaded work of Di. ily ! 
 And unburlescjued by mortal's puny skill ; 
 From age to age enduring, and unchanged, 
 Majestical, inimitable, vast, 
 Loud littering satire, day and night, on each 
 .Succeeding rare, and little pompous work 
 Of man; unfallen, religious, holy sea! 
 Thou bowedst thy glorious head to none, fearedst 
 
 none, 
 Heardst none, to none didst honor, but to Goi' 
 Thy Maker, only worthy to recei\ e 
 Thy great obeisance. 
 
 Robert Pollok. 
 
 I 
 
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220 
 
 CROWN JEWFXS. 
 
 11^ I ■; 
 
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 dj 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 E were crowded in tlie cabin, 
 
 Not a soul would dare to sleep — 
 It was niiduigiit on the waters 
 And a storm was on the deep. 
 
 'Tis a fearful thing in winter 
 To he shaUereil hy the blast, 
 
 And to Iiear liie r.ittlin.i;: trumpet 
 Thunder, " Cut away the mast ! " 
 
 So we shuddered tliere in silence — 
 l-'or the stoutest held his breath, 
 
 Wiiile liie hungry sea was roarinj;, 
 Anil the breakers talked wi'.Ii death. 
 
 As thus we sat in darkness, 
 ■ Kach one busy in his prayers, 
 " We are lost ! " the captain sliouteil 
 As he sta;j;.nered down llie stairs. 
 
 But his little d,ui.t;hter whispired, 
 A-. siie tcok his icy lian<l, 
 " Is n't ( lod upon the ocian 
 
 Just thi.- s.une ;>.s oi\ the land ?" 
 
 Then wt kissed the litlle maiden, 
 
 And we spoke in better cheer. 
 And we anchored safe in li.irlior 
 
 When the morn w.is sliinini.; clea' . 
 
 Iami;s ■rii()M.\s I'ua.DS. 
 
 THE BAY OF BISCAY. 
 
 OUn roared the dreailed thunder, 
 The r.iin a dekij;e sIiowlis, 
 The clouds were rent asundi r 
 liy liy;litninj;'s viviil powers ; 
 The ni.i;ht lioth drear ;md d.irk, 
 Our poor tie voted b,uk, 
 Till ne.xt day, there she lay. 
 In the I5ay of Biscay, () ! 
 
 Now dasheil upon the billow. 
 Her optniui; timbers cre.ik, 
 Each fears ;i uatery pillow, 
 
 None stops the dn-.uirul kak ; 
 To clin.u; to slippery slirouds 
 ICach breatliKss seaman crowds. 
 As she lay, till tln' day, 
 In the Hay of Itiscay, () ! 
 
 At Ien;;th the wislied-for morrow 
 
 Broke througl; ihe ha/y sky, 
 Absorbed in silent sorrow, 
 
 K.ich heaveil a bitter s'v^h ; 
 The dismal wreck lo view 
 Struck horror to the crew, 
 As she lay, on that day, 
 In the Bay of Biscay, O I 
 
 1 ler yieldin,tj timbers sever, 
 
 I ler pitchy seams are rent. 
 When Mea\en, all bounteous ever, 
 
 Its boundkss mercy sent — 
 A sail in sij;lit appears ! 
 We haii her with tinve cheers ; 
 Now we sail, with the k'a\c. 
 From the Bay of Biscay, () ! 
 
 Anurkw Ciiekrv. 
 
 G 
 
 THE SEA-LIMITS. 
 
 OXSIDER the sea's listless chime ; 
 Time's self it is made audible, — 
 The murmur of the earth s own shell, 
 Secret continuance .'^ublime 
 Is the era's end. Our si,i;lii may ]wss 
 No furlong farther. .Since time w.is, 
 This sound hath told the lapse of time. 
 
 No <iuiet which is death's, — it h.ith 
 
 The mournfulness of ancient life, 
 
 luiduring always at dull striie. 
 As t'le world's heart of rest anil wrath. 
 
 Its painful [Uilse is on the sands. 
 
 Lost utterly, the « liole sky stands 
 Gray and not known along its path. 
 
 Listen alone beside the sea, 
 
 Listen alone among the woods ; 
 
 Those voices of twin solitudes 
 Shall have one soimd alike to thee. 
 
 11, irk where the murmurs of thronged men 
 
 .Surge and sink back anil surge again, — 
 Still the one voice of wave and tree. 
 
 Gather a shell from the stfewn beach. 
 
 And listen at its lips ; they sigh 
 
 The s.imt; desire and mystery, 
 The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
 
 And all maiikitul is thus at heart 
 
 Not anything but what Ihoii art ; 
 And earth, sea, man, are till in each. 
 
 Dante G.\i!kii;{. Ki)-,sKrTi. 
 
 GRANDEUR OF THE OCEAN 
 
 up; most fearful and impressive exhibitions (.f 
 power known lo our globe, belong to tiie iu\-,iii. 
 'Ihe volcano, with its ascending llanie anil l.ili- 
 ing torrents of fire, and the eartluiuake, wiius ■ 
 I footstep is on the ruin of cities, are circiiinscribeii i.i 
 the desolating range of their visit.itions. But the o(t:iii, 
 when it once rouses itseif in its cli.iinless streii:;t^, 
 shakes a thousand shores with its storm .iiul tluiiuli r. 
 Navies of oak and iron are tossed m mockery from its 
 crest, and armaments, manned by the strengtii aiul 
 courage of millions, perish among its bubbles. 
 
SEA nCTURES. 
 
 221 
 
 The avnlnnchc, shaken from its Rlitteriii.c; steep, if it 
 roll to the bosom of the eartli, melts away, and is lost 
 ill vapor; Init if it plunj^eintu theemhrate of the ocean, 
 tins mountain mass of ice and hail is borne al)out for 
 ai;cs in tumult and terror ; it is the drifting; monument 
 of the ocean's dead. The tempest on land is impedeil 
 by forests, and broken by mountains ; but on the plain ] 
 of the deep it rushes unresisted ; and when its stren;;;th \ 
 is at last spent, ten thousand giant waves still roll its 
 terrors onward. j 
 
 The mountain lake and tlie meadow stream are in- 
 habited only by tiie timid prey of the an;.;ler ; but the 
 ocean is the home of the leviathan— hi'' ways are in the ' 
 mighty deep. The glittering pebble and the rainbow- 1 
 tinted shell, which the retmning tide has left on the I 
 sliore, and the watery gem which the [leari-diver 
 roaches at the peril of his life, are all that man can Cilcli , 
 from the treasures of the sea. The groves of ct)ral 
 wliii h wave over its pavements, and the h.ills of amber 
 wliich glow in its deptlis, are beyond his approa( lies, 
 s.ive when he goes tlown there to seek, amiil their si- 
 lent magnificence, his burial monument. 
 
 The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized , 
 aiul savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by \ 
 time, washed away by the wave, consumed by tli.' ! 
 tlame, or sunk by the eartiuiuake ; but the ocean still ; 
 remains, and still rolls on in the greatness of its uii.i- 
 hated strength. Over the majesty of its form and tii; ; 
 marvel of its might, time and disaster have no power. 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, it rolletli now. 
 
 Tile vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bo- 
 som, float aw.iy to encircle the globe ; on distant 
 iiKiimtains and deserts tluy pour out their watery trea- 
 sures, which gallier themselves again in sltvams and 
 torrents, to return, with exhulting bountls, to their jiar- 
 uiit ocean. These are the messengers which proclaim 
 ill every land the e.xhaustless resources of the se i ; but 
 it is i\served for those who go down in ships, ami who 
 do business on the great waters, to see the works of llie 
 I.oril and his wonders in the deej). 
 
 l.it one go up upon deck in the middle watch of a 
 still ia,;ht, with naught above liim but the silent and 
 .■idlcmii skies, and naught around and beneath him but 
 an iiUermiii.ible waste of waters, and with the convic- 
 tion tiiat tiiere is but a i)lank between him and eternity, 
 aUeliiig of loneliness, solituile, and desertion, mingleil 
 with a sentiment of reverence tor tiie vast, mysterious 
 and unknown, will come upon him with a power, all 
 unknown before, and he niigb.t stand for hours en- 
 ir.nii ed in reverence and tears. 
 
 .M .11, also, has made the ocean the theatre of /lis 
 puuvr. The ship in which he riilis that ekineiit, is 
 one (il the highest triumphs of his i.kill. At first, this 
 lloaling fabric was only a frail bark, slowly uiiied by 
 tile l:ihoring oar. The sail, at length, arose aiul spread 
 its wings to the wind. Still he had no power to direct 
 his course when the lof^y promontory sunk from sight, 
 or the orbs above him were lost in clouds. Rut the se- 
 cret of the magnet is, at length, revealed to him, and 
 
 his needle now settles, with a fixedness which love has 
 stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to the polar star. 
 Now, however, he can dispense even with sail, and 
 wind, and flowing wave. He constructs and projiels 
 his vast engines of flame and va|)or, and, through the 
 Solitude of the sea, as over the solid land, goes thunder- 
 ing on his track. On the ocean, too, thrones have 
 be.M lost and won. On the fate of Actium was sus- 
 pended the empire of the world. In the gull ^)f .Salamis, 
 the prule of Persia found a grave ; and the crescent set 
 forever in the waters of Navarino ; while, at Trafalgar 
 and the Nile, nations held their breath 
 " As each gun 
 From its adamantine lips, 
 Spread a death-shaile round the ships 
 Like the hurricane's eclijjse 
 Of the sun." 
 r.iit. of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the 
 greatest, perhaps, is its transforming jiower on man. It 
 unravels and weaves anew tli'- web of his moral anil 
 Social being. It invests him with feelings, associations, 
 and habits, to which lie has been an entire stranger. 
 It breaks up. the sealed fountain of bis nature, anil lifts 
 his soul inio features prominent as theclills which bee- 
 tle over its surge. 
 
 Once the ailopted child of the ocean, he can never 
 bring back his entire sympathies to land. He will still 
 move in his dreams over that vast waste of waters, still 
 bound in exultation and triumph through its foaming 
 billows. All the other realities of life will be comiiara- 
 tively tame, and he will sigh for his tossing element, as 
 the caged eagle for the roar and arrowy light of l;is 
 mountain cataract. 
 
 \V.\LTER COLTON. 
 
 THE GREAT DEEP. 
 
 ^EAUTIFL'L, sublime, and glorious; 
 Mild, majestic, foaming, free — 
 Over time itself victorious. 
 Image of eternity ! 
 
 Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee, 
 
 .See thy surface ebb and flow. 
 Vet lUtempt not to explore thee 
 
 In thy soundless deiHhs below. 
 
 Whether morning's splendors steep thee 
 With the rainbow's gloM ing grace, 
 
 Temjiests rouse, or navies sw^'ip thee, 
 'Tis but for a moment's space. 
 
 Farth — her valleys and her mountains, 
 
 Mortal man's behests obey ; 
 The unfathomable fountains 
 
 Scofl'his search and scorn his sway. 
 
 Such art thou, stupendous >)cean 1 
 
 ISut, if overwhelmed by thee, 
 Can we think, without emotion. 
 
 What must thy Creator in- ? 
 
 Uilknard IUrton. 
 
 
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 151 
 
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 SM'^ 
 
 Mi 
 

 Hi ; 
 
 f] ; • ; 
 
 noo 
 
 CROWN JEWFXS. 
 
 ON THE BEACH. 
 
 'HE sun is low, as ocean's flow 
 
 Heaves to tlie strand in breakers white ; 
 And sea-l)ircls seek tlieir wild retreat 
 Where clifl^s reflect the fadiii-,' li};iit. 
 
 The billow gleams in parting; beams, 
 And sij;lis ujion the lonely siiore , 
 
 Whilst childhood stands upon the sands 
 To greet the connng fisher's oar. 
 
 Swift to my heart tlie waves impart 
 Another dream if restless life , 
 
 As some prond mind the fierce fates bind, 
 Or doom to vain and endless strife. 
 
 The waves are bright with peace to-night. 
 And gladly bound 'njath summer's reign ; 
 
 1 tread the verge of the shelving surge. 
 To muse upon its wikl refrain. 
 
 O deep ! thy winds, in murmuring chimes 
 Sweet to my ear, my love implore , 
 
 Thou dost enthral with siren call, 
 And tempt me from thy iieaceful shore ! 
 
 Ves, o'er thy graves, thy heaving waves, 
 A stern tioligiit witli danger dwells ; 
 
 There's buoyant life .amid thy strife, 
 And r.ipture in thy londy (Klls. 
 
 E'en in thy wrath, thy surging path 
 Hath peril's joy b^'vond thy shores ' 
 
 Amid the glare of thy des|xiir, 
 Tiie soul iibovv- thy terror soars. 
 
 r.ut 'neath tliy smile there's (La'.Ii and wile, 
 Tlie d.ark ai)yss, lli^ waiting grave ! 
 
 Thy surges close o'er human woes 
 On distant .strand, in secret cave ! 
 
 Insatiate sea ! oh, where is she 
 Who trod in love thy gallierevl sands? 
 
 Thou g.ivcsl lur back .is wre^k and wrack, 
 Pallid, to sad, imploring hands ! 
 
 And wiiere is he, O sea ! O sea ! 
 Who dared tliy treaciierous crests to ride ? 
 
 Th : ipnek comni md, th.; hastening h.md, 
 Wire vain t<j rescue from thy tid- ' 
 
 ^■et not in wo_- th -• pl.iint should go 
 Against t!r.-e for t!i • storm's behest ; • 
 
 Thou'rt JMit til • slave when wild winds rave 
 And tyrant t ■lup sts lash thy breast. 
 
 Doomed in thy keen the fates to meet, 
 Thou dost obey ;i nugluier wrath ! 
 
 Imperious sway commands thy way, 
 And riots in its reckless patli. 
 
 Shall time's swift flight e'er stay ti y might 
 That dooms us to tliy caves unblest ! 
 
 Or God's right arm thy tides disarm, 
 And soothe to peace thy long unrest .' 
 
 No ' still thy waves with moaning staves 
 .Shall heave thy gr.iy s.mds to the shore. 
 
 And thou shall roll o'er depth and shoal 
 Forever and forcvemiore ' 
 
 WiLI-IAM WlIITKIIKAD 
 
 BY THE SEA 
 
 'T IS a beauteous evening, calm and free , 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 Ikeathless with ador.ition ; the broad sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquility ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the sea; 
 Listen ' the mighty being is awake. 
 And dotli with his eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child I dear girl ! that walk'st with me here. 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 
 .\nd worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 William WoRnswoRrn 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF "THE ROYAL GEORGE 
 
 WRITTE.N WHli.S Tin; .NEWS ARRIVED i'S'l 
 
 *0]A. for the brave — 
 
 The brave that are no more I 
 All sunk beneath the wave. 
 Fast by their native shore. 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave, 
 Whose courage well was tried, 
 
 Had made the vessel heel. 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 A land-breeze shook the shrouds. 
 
 And she was overset. 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 lirave Kempenfelt is gone , 
 His last sea fight is fought. 
 
 His work of glory done. 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock ; 
 She sprang no fatal leak ; 
 
 She ran upon no rock 
 
 His sword was in its sheath, 
 
 His fingers held the pen, 
 When Kempenfelt went down 
 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
SEA PICTURES. 
 
 22;j 
 
 Weigh the vessel up, 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes ! 
 Aiul mingle with our cup 
 
 The tear that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound, 
 
 And she may float again. 
 Full charged with England's thunder, 
 
 And plough the distant main. 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone; 
 
 His victories are o'er ; 
 And he and his eight hundred 
 
 Sliall plough tiie wave no more. 
 
 VVlU-IA.M COWPF.R. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 •I* X vain the cords and axes were prepnred, 
 •®' For now the audacious seas insult tlie yard ; 
 tl» Higii o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade 
 I And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. 
 Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 
 Her shattered top half buried in tiie skies, 
 Then headlong plunging tliundcrs on the ground ; 
 Earth groans ! air trembles ! and tlie deeps resound ! 
 1 kr giant-bulk the dread concussion feels, 
 And (juivcring \>ith the wound in torment reels. 
 So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes. 
 The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows. 
 ,\gain she plunges I hark ! a second shock 
 Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock : 
 Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
 Tiie fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes 
 In wild despair ; while yet another stroke. 
 With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak ; 
 Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
 Tiic lurking demons of destruction dwell. 
 At length asunder torn her frame divides, 
 .\ni\. crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides. 
 
 O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art 
 To wake to sympathy the feeling heart ; 
 Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress 
 III all tlie pomp of exquisite distress, 
 Then too severely taugiit by cruel fate. 
 To share in all the perils I relate. 
 Then might I with unrivalled strains deplore 
 The impervious horrors of a Jeeward shore ! 
 
 .\s o'er tlie surge the stooping mainmast iiung. 
 Still on the rigging tliirty seamen clung ; 
 Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast. 
 And there by oozy tangles grappled fast. 
 .■\whilethey bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage, 
 Unequal combat with their fate to wage; 
 Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego 
 Their slippery hold, and smk to shades below. 
 Some, from the main-yard arm impetuous thrown 
 On marble ridges, die without a groan. 
 Three with Palemon on tlieir skill depend, 
 
 And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend. 
 Now on tlie moimtain wave on high they ride, 
 Then downward plunge beneath tlie involving tide, 
 Till one, who seems in agony to strive, 
 The whirling breakers heave on shore alive ; 
 The rest a speedier end of anguish knew. 
 And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew I 
 
 VVll.LI.VM F.VLCONER. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. 
 
 N'E night came on a hurricane, 
 The sea was mountains rolling, 
 When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 
 And said to Billy Bowling : 
 "A strong nor'wester's blowing. Bill; 
 Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? 
 Lord help 'em, how I pities them 
 Unhappy folks on shore now ! 
 
 "Foolhardy chaps who live in towns, 
 
 What danger they are all in. 
 And now lie quaking in their beds, 
 
 For fear the roof shall fall in : 
 Poor creatures ! how they envies us. 
 
 And wishes, I've a notion. 
 For our good luck, in such a storm, 
 
 To be upon the ocean ! 
 
 ".\nd as for them who' re out all day 
 
 On business from their houses, 
 And late .at night are coming home. 
 
 To cheer their babe? and spouses, — 
 While you and I, Bill, on the deck 
 
 Are comfortably lying. 
 My eyes ! what tiles and c!iimney-potS 
 
 Above their heads are flying ! 
 
 "And very often have we heard 
 How men are killed and undone 
 By overturns (jf carriages. 
 
 By thieves and fires in London. 
 We know what lisks all landsmen run, 
 
 I'rom noblemen to tailors; 
 Then, Bill, let us thank Providence 
 That you and I are sailors." 
 
 Wi I. I.I AM Pitt. 
 
 THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 
 
 WILL go back to the great sweet mother — 
 Mother and lover of men, the sea. 
 1 will go down to her, I and none other. 
 Close with licr, kiss her, and mix her with me ; 
 Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. 
 I O fair white mother, in days long p.ist 
 I Born without sister, born without brother, 
 I Set free my soul as thy soul is free. 
 
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 224 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 fair j;reen-i;irillL'(l nicUlier of mine, 
 
 Sea, tiiat art cloliu'd willi tiie sun and the rain, 
 Thy sweet liMiil i-;issi'S arc strong like wine, 
 
 'I'liy larj^e embraces are keen hke pain. 
 Save me and hide nie with all thy waves, 
 Fintl me one .ijrave of thy thoiisanil };raves. 
 Those pure cokl populous jjraves of thine — 
 
 Wrought without haiul in a w orld without stain. 
 
 1 sha!l sleeji, and move with the movin'; ships, 
 Chang'.' as the winds rh.mge, veer in the tide ; 
 
 My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, 
 
 I sliall rise with thy rising, with thee subside ; 
 Sleep, and not know if she be, if slie were — 
 Tilled full with life to the eyes and hair, 
 As n rose is full filled to the rose-leaf tips 
 
 With splendid summer and perfume and pride. 
 
 This woven raiment of nights anil days. 
 
 Were it onie cast oil' and imwouud frriti me, 
 Naked and glad would I walk in thy wa>s. 
 Alive and aware of thy waves and thee ; 
 Cle.ir of the whole world, hidden at iiome. 
 Clothed with the green, ;md crowned with the 
 A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, 
 A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. 
 
 AlGEKNON ClIARI.KS SWINIU'K.N 
 
 foam, 
 
 THE LONG VOYAGE. 
 
 '}IE mackerel bo.nts sailed slowly out 
 Into the darkening sea, 
 But the gray gull's flight was landward, 
 "f* The kestrel skimmed the tea. 
 
 Strange whisperings were in the air ; 
 
 Anil though no leallet stirred, 
 The echo of the distant storm, 
 
 The moaning sough, was heard. 
 
 It came — the swift-winged hurricane — 
 
 Bursting upon the shore, 
 Till the wild bird's nest and the fisher's cot 
 
 All trembled at its roar. 
 
 And women wept, and watched and wept. 
 And prayed for the night to wane ; 
 
 And watched and prayed, tlK>ugh the setting Sun 
 Lit up the window pane. 
 
 " A sail ! " That sail is not for you ; 
 
 It slowly fades away. 
 The sun may set ; the moon may rise ; 
 
 The night may turn to day ; 
 
 Slow years roll by, and the «oIemn stars 
 
 Glide on — but all in vain ! 
 They have sailed away on a long, long voyage ; 
 
 They'll never come back again. 
 
 Sam Slick, Jr. 
 
 DOVER BEACH. 
 
 11 1*^ sea is calm to-night. 
 The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 Upon the Straits ;— on the French coast, the 
 t light 
 
 Gleams and is gone; the clifTs of England stand, 
 
 Glimmering and v.ast, out in the tranijuil b.iy. 
 
 Come to the window; sweet is the night air ! 
 
 Only from the long line of spray 
 
 Where the ebb meets the moon-blanched sand. 
 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 
 Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling, 
 
 At their return upon the high str.ind. 
 
 Ik'gin and cease, and then again begin, 
 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 
 The eternal note of sailness in. 
 
 Matthew Arnold 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 TI 1( )U vast ocean ! ever sounding sea I 
 TliDU symbol of a dre.ir immcnsit v ? 
 m^ Tliou thing that windest routid the solid 
 ^ world 
 
 Like a huge .Tuiinal, which, downward hurled 
 From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone. 
 Lashing and v.rithingtill its strength be gone ! 
 Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep 
 Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. 
 Thou speakest in the East and in tb.e West 
 At once, and on thy heavily laden breast 
 Fleets come and go. and sliai)es that have no life 
 Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. 
 The earth has naught of this : no chance or change 
 Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare 
 Give answer to the tempt st u akened air ; 
 But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range 
 At will, and wound its bosom as they go; 
 Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow : 
 But in their stated rounds the seasons come, 
 .\nd pass like vi,' ions to their wonted home ; 
 And come again, and vanish ; the young Spring 
 Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming ; 
 And Winter always winds iiis sullen horn, 
 When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn, 
 Dies in his stormy manhood ; and the skies 
 Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies. 
 O, wonderful thou art, great element, 
 And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent, 
 AndJovely in repose ! thy summer form 
 Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves 
 Make jnusic in earth s dark and winding caves, 
 i love to wander on thy pebbled beach. 
 Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, 
 And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach,— 
 Eternity— eternity— and power. 
 
 Brvan W. Procter {Barry Cornwall), 
 
SEA PICTURES. 
 
 225 
 
 THE SEA-SMORE. 
 
 HAVE seen a curious child, who dwelt upon a 
 
 tract 
 Of inland ground, applyinR to his ear 
 The convolutions of n smooth-lipped shell 
 To which in silence hushed, his very soul 
 Listened intensely , and his countenance soon 
 lirightened with joy ; for from wi'.hin were heard 
 Murmurings whereby the nu)nitf)r expressed 
 Mysterious union with it;; native sea. 
 Even such a shell the univeise itself 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
 Authentic tidings of invi;^ible tilings ; 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever during power; 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 Of endless agitation. 
 
 Willi AM Wordsworth. 
 
 n 
 
 THE CORAL GROVE. 
 
 EEP in the wave is a coral grove, 
 "^ I Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove; 
 Where the sea-flov/er spreads its leaves of 
 blue, 
 Tlial never are wet with falling dew, 
 lliit ill bright and changeful beamy shine 
 I'jr down ill the green and glassy brine. 
 The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, 
 .•\iid the pearl shells r.pangle the flinty snow : 
 From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
 Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 
 Tiie water is calm and still below. 
 For the winds and the waves are absent there. 
 And tlie sands are bright as tiie stars that glow 
 III the motionless fields of upper air : 
 There with its waving blade of green, 
 The sea-flag streams through the silent water. 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
 To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter : 
 There with a light and easy motion 
 The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; 
 And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
 Are bending like corn on the upland lea ; 
 And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
 And is .safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms 
 Has made the top of the waves his own : 
 And when the ship from his fury flies, 
 Wlien the myriad voices of ocean roar. 
 When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 
 And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore, 
 riien, far below, in the peaceful sea. 
 The purple mullet and gold fish rove. 
 Where the waters murmur tranquilly 
 Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 
 
 James Gates Percival. 
 
 (15) 
 
 THE INCHCAFE ROCK. 
 
 O stir in the air, no stir in the s.-a, 
 The ship was as still as she could be, 
 Her sails from heaven receiv -l no motion, 
 Her keel was steady in the ocean. 
 
 Without either sign or sound of their shock 
 The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; 
 .So littlo they rose, so little they fell, 
 They did not move the Inchcape bell. 
 
 The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok 
 Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; 
 On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung. 
 And over the waves its warning rung. 
 
 When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell, 
 Tile mariners heard the warning bell ; 
 And tlien they knew the perilous Rock, 
 And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 
 
 The sun in heaven was shining gay. 
 
 All things were joyful on that day ; 
 
 The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round 
 
 And there was joyance in their soimd. 
 
 The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen 
 A darker speck on the (jcean green ; 
 .Sir Ralpli the Rover walked his deck 
 And fi.xod his eye on the darker speck. 
 
 He felt the cheering power of spring. 
 It made him whistle, it made him sing ; 
 His heart was mirthful to excess. 
 But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 
 
 I lis eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
 (Juolh he, " My men, put out the boat. 
 And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
 And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 
 
 The boat is lowered, the boatmen row. 
 
 And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 
 
 .Sir R.'ilph bent over from the boat, 
 
 And he cut the bell from the Inchcape flojit. 
 
 Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound. 
 
 The bubbles rose and burst around ; 
 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the Rock 
 
 Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok. " 
 
 .Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, 
 I le scoured the seas for many a day ; 
 And iH)w grown rich with plundered store, 
 He .steers his course for Scotland's shore. 
 
 So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
 They cannot see the sun on high ; 
 The wind hath blown a gale all day. 
 At evening it hath died away. 
 
 On the deck the Rover takes his stand 
 So dark it is they see no land. 
 
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22fi 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 TJ 
 
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 li '^ .!« 
 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will l)e lighter soon, 
 For there is tin! dawn of the rising moon." 
 
 "Can'st hear," said one, "the breakers njar? 
 I'or inethinks we should be near the shore ; 
 Now where we ;ire I cinnot tell, 
 Hnt I wish I could hear the Inchcapc bell." 
 
 They hear no sound, the swell is strong ; 
 Though the wind halh fallen, they drift along, 
 rill the vessel strikes with a shivering shock : 
 Cried they, " It is the Inchcape Rock ! " 
 
 Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 
 I !e curst himself in liis despair ; 
 The waves rush in on every side, 
 The ship is smking beneath the tide. 
 
 But even in his dying fear 
 One ilreailful sound could the Rover hear, 
 A sound as if with the Inchcape bell, 
 The fiends below were ringing his knell. 
 
 R()ui;kt SotTUKV. 
 
 TO SEA! 
 
 'O sea ! to sea ! the calm is o'er, 
 
 The wanton water le.Tps in sport, 
 And rattles down the pebbly shore, 
 The dolphin whet Is, the sea-cows snort. 
 And unseen inerniiid's pearly song 
 Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. 
 I'ling broad the s:iil, ilip deep the oar : 
 To sea ! to sea ! the calm is o'er. 
 
 To sea ! to sea ! our white-winged bark 
 Shall billowing cle.ive its watery way. 
 
 And with its shadow, fleet and d.irk, 
 Hreak the caved Triton's azure day, 
 
 Like mount.-.in eagle soaring light 
 
 O'er antelopes on Alpine height. 
 
 The anchor heaves ! The ship swings free, 
 
 Our sails swell full ! To sea ! to sea I 
 
 Thomas I.ovei.i. Bf.ddoks. 
 
 SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA, 
 
 
 IF.RE the remote Bermudas ride 
 n the ocean's bosom unes;>ied, 
 rom a small boat that rov.eil along 
 The listening winds received this song : 
 " What should we do but sing I lis praise 
 That led us through the watery ma/e 
 ^VIlertt he the huge sea monst'Ts wracks, 
 That lift the deep upon their backs, 
 I'nto an isle so long unknown. 
 And yet far kinder than our own ? 
 He lands us on a grassy stage. 
 Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage ; 
 He gave us this eternal spring 
 Which here enamels everything. 
 
 And sends the fowls to us in care 
 On d.iily visits throUi;h the air. 
 He hangs in shades the orange bright 
 Like golden lamps m a green night, 
 Antl does in the pomegnuiates close 
 Jewels more rich than Ormus shows : 
 He maki'S the figs our mouths to meet, 
 And dirows the nu'lons at our fact ; 
 But apples, pl.ints of sucli a price. 
 No tree could ever bear them twice. 
 With cedars chosen by his hand 
 l'"rom Lebanon he stores tin; land ; 
 And makes the hollow seas that roar 
 Prod.iim the ambergris on shore. 
 He cast (of which we rather boast) 
 The Gospel's pe.irl upon our coast ; 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 A temple where to sound his name; 
 O, k't our voice bis pr.iise exalt 
 Till it arrive at heaven's vault, 
 Which tiieii perliaps rebounding may 
 ICclio beyond the Me.xiquc bay !" — 
 Thus sung they in the Fnglish boat 
 A holy ami a cheerful note ; 
 And all the way, to guide their chime. 
 With falling oars they kept the time. 
 
 Andrew M.\rvf.i.i.. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE SEA. 
 
 II ! I shall not forget until memory dep.Trt. 
 
 Wiien first I beheld it, the glow of my heart; 
 
 Tiie wonder, the awe, the delight that stole 
 o'er me. 
 
 When its billowy boundlessness opened before me. 
 .'\s I stood on its margin, or roamed on its stranil, 
 I felt new ideas w ilhin me expand. 
 Of glory and grandeur, unI;i'.own till that hour. 
 And my spirit was mute in the presence of power ! 
 In the surf bcattn sands that encircled it round. 
 In the billow's retreat, and the breakers reliouiid. 
 In its wliite drifted foam, and its dark-heaving green, 
 l-]ach moment I gazed, some fresh beauty was seen. 
 Anrl thus, while I wandered on ocean's bleak shore, 
 .\nd surveyed its vast surface, and heard its wave"; 
 
 roar, 
 I seemed wrapt in a dream of romantic ilelight. 
 And hauntt'd by majesty, glory and might I 
 
 BURNARD BaRTDN. 
 
 (3 
 
 SEA-WEED. 
 
 WEARY weed, tossed to and fro. 
 
 Drearily drenched in the ocean brine, 
 .Soariii;; high and sinking low. 
 
 Lashed along without will of mine ; 
 Sport t)f the spume of the surgmg sea, 
 I'lung on the foan., afnr and anear, 
 Mark my manifold mystery — 
 Growth and grace in their place appear. 
 
si:a ricTURi:s. 
 
 227 
 
 I !>.-nr round licrncs, Rrny n:ul red, 
 
 Uootlcss and rover l!um;';li I lie ; 
 Fly snaiifjled leaves, \vli n nicely spread 
 
 Arhori'ice as a truiikKss Ir.v ; 
 (Orals fiiriiiiis coat ine o'er, 
 
 White nii(! hard in n;it array ; 
 Mid the wild waves' riidj upro.-.r 
 
 ( "•racefuUy grow I, nijjht and d;:y. 
 
 Hearts there are on tlr.' soiindin;^ shore, 
 
 Soinetliiii}; whispers soft to me, 
 K'stless and roaming; f, irevmnore, 
 
 Like this weary we-tl of tlie sea ; 
 lUar they yet on each heatiivj; breast 
 
 The ifernal ty|)e of the wondrous whole, 
 Growth inifoidinj; aniiilst unrest, 
 
 tlrace inf(jrnnnK with silent soul. 
 
 CoKNEi.lUS C;i;t)Kt;K 1i;nni:k. 
 
 THE TAR FOR ALL WEATHERS. 
 
 SAILED from the Downs in the " Nancy," 
 My jib how she smacked throuj;h the bree 
 Slie's a vessel as tij^ht to my fancy 
 As ever sailed on the salt sens. 
 So adieu to the white cliffs of Ikitain, 
 Our };irls and our dear native shore ! 
 For if some hard rock we should split on, 
 
 Wesli.dl never see them any more. 
 But sailors were born for all weathers, 
 r.nat guns let it blow, high or low, 
 Our duty keeps us to our tethers, 
 An 1 where the gale drives we must go. 
 
 When wc entered the Straits of Gibraltar 
 
 I verily thonglit she'd have sunk, 
 Fur the wind began so for to alter, 
 
 Slie yawed just as tho' she was drunk, 
 Tlu- >'niall tore the mainsail to shivers, 
 
 H liii a weather, the hoarse boatswain cries ; 
 Rr.ice tile foresail athwart, see she (piivers, 
 
 As through the rough tempest she flies. 
 But sailors were born for all weathers, 
 
 fifeat guns let it blow, high or low, 
 Oarii'iiy keeps us to our tethers, 
 
 Aad where the gale drives we mur.t go. 
 
 Th<- storm came on thicker and faster, 
 
 As black just as pitch was the sky, 
 Willi! truly a doleful di'^aster 
 
 Bi-fel three poor sailors and I. 
 Ben lUintline, Sam Shroud and Dick Handsail, 
 
 By a blast that came furious and hard, 
 )u'it while wc were furling the mainsail, 
 
 Were every soul swept from the yard. 
 Butsnilor^ were born for all weathers. 
 
 Great tjuns let it blow, high or low, 
 Our (hry keeps us to our tethers. 
 
 And where the gale drives we must go. 
 
 Poor Ren, Sam, and Dick cried "percavi," 
 
 As fur I, at llu- risk of my neck- 
 While they sank <lown in peace to old Davy— 
 
 Caii;,!it a rope, ami so l.inded on tle< k. 
 Well, what would you have .' We were stranded, 
 
 And out of a (ine jolly crew 
 Of three hundred that sailed, never landed 
 
 Hut 1 and, I think, twenty-two. 
 
 lUit sailors were born for all weathers. 
 
 Great ^,uns let it blow, high or low. 
 Our duty keeps us to our tethers. 
 
 And where the gale drives we must go. 
 
 ClIAKI I;S DlMDIN. 
 
 ■ HE "ATLANTIC." 
 
 Tlic ROi'd xlcanisliip " .\tl.'iiiti< ' was wreikcl on t!;c cuasl of 
 .VfwfoumllatiU, am! .scm.i.i1 liuiiilrt:<t lives wc;c' lo..l. 
 
 /^^J V, build her Ion.:; and narrow and deep ! 
 II ^^ .She sli.dl c'.il III- sea with a s( itnctir's sweep, 
 ■"• Whatever betides and whoever may weej) ! 
 
 Bring out the red wine ! Lift tlie glass to the lip ! 
 With a mar of great :;i!ns, a:vl a "' I lip ! hip ! 
 Hurrah ! " fur the craft, we will cliristen tlie ship ! 
 
 Dash a draught on the bow! .'\h, t!ie spar of white 
 
 w< l( nl 
 Drips into the s^a till it colors tho flood 
 With the very own double and symbol of blood ! 
 
 Now out with the name of the monarch gigantic 
 
 That shall (|ueeii il so gr.indly when surges are frantic ! 
 
 Child of Hre and of iron, ("•(jd save the "Atlantic !" 
 
 All aboard, my line fellows I "Up anchor I" the 
 
 word — 
 Ah, nt ver ag:iiii shall that order be heard, 
 For two worlds will be mournir.g you gone to a third ! 
 
 To the trumpet of March wild gallops the sea ; 
 Tl;e white-crestL'd troopers are under the lee — 
 Old Wi)rUl and New World ami Soul-World are three. 
 
 Groat garments of rain wrap the desolate night ; 
 Sweet heaven disast.-red is lost to the sight ; 
 ".Atlantic," crash on in the pride of thy might ! 
 Willi thv look-out's ilim cry, "One o'clock, and all 
 right!" 
 
 f If>, down with the hatches ! Tlu-' seas come aboard ! 
 .Ml together they come, like a passionate word, 
 Like pirates that put every soul to the sword I 
 
 Their black flag all abroad makes murky the air, 
 lUit the ship parts tlu; night as a in.iiden her hair — 
 rhrongh and through the thick gl >om, from land here 
 
 to land there. 
 Like the shuttle that weaves for a mourner to wear ! 
 
 Good-night, proud "Atlantic!" One tick of the clock, 
 And a staggering craunch and a shivering shock — 
 'Tis the flint and the steel ! 'Tis llu; ship and tho rock ! 
 
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 Photographic 
 
 Sdeiices 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (7)6) 873-4503 
 
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 228 
 
 CROWN jp:wels. 
 
 Deathless sparks are struck out from the bosoms of 
 
 girls, 
 From the stout heart of manhood, in scintillaiit whirls, 
 Like the stars of the flag when the banner unfurls ! 
 
 What hundreds went up unto Gorl in their sleep ! 
 What hundreds in agony baffled the deep — 
 Nobody to pray and nobody to weep ! 
 
 Alas for the flag of the single " White Star," 
 With light pale and cold as the woman s hands are 
 Who, froze in the shrouds, flashed her jewels afar. 
 Lost her hold on the world, and then clutched at a spar ! 
 
 God of mercy and grace ! How the bubbles come up 
 With souis from the revel, who stayed not to sup ; 
 Death drank the last toast, and then shattered the cup ! 
 
 Benjamin F. Taylor. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED SAILORS. 
 
 'HE floods are raging, and the gales blow high. 
 Low as a dungeon-roof impends the sky ; 
 Prisoners of hope, between the clouds and 
 "f* waves, 
 
 Six fearless sailors man yon boat that braves 
 Peril redoubling upon peril past ; 
 —From childhood nurslings of the wayward blast, 
 Aloft as o'er a buoyant arch they go, 
 Whose keystone breaks — as deep they plunge below ; | 
 Unyielding, though the strength of man be vain ; 
 Struggling, though borne like-surf along the main ; 
 In front, a battlement of rocks ; in rear. 
 Billow on billow bounding ; near, more near, 
 They verge to ruin ; — life and death depend 
 On the next impulse — shrieks and prayers ascend. 
 
 James Montgo.merv 
 
 © 
 
 I' 
 
 THE BEACON LIGHT. 
 
 ARKNESS was deepening o'er the seas. 
 And still the hulk drove on ; 
 No sail to answer to the breeze, — 
 Her masts and cordage gone : 
 Gloomy and drear her course of fear,— 
 
 Each looked but for a grave, — 
 
 When, full in sight, the beacon-light 
 
 Came streaming o'er the wave. 
 
 And gayly of the tale they told, 
 
 When they were safe on shore ; 
 How hearts had sunk, and hopes grown cold. 
 
 Amid the billows' roar ; 
 When not a star had shone from far, 
 
 By its pale beam to save. 
 Then, full in sight, the beacon-light 
 
 Came streaming o'er the wave. 
 
 Then wildly rose the gladdening shout 
 0( all that hardy crew ; 
 
 Boldly they put the helm about, 
 And tlirough the surf they flew. 
 
 Storm was forgot, toil heeded not. 
 And loud the cheer tiiey gave. 
 
 As, full in sight, the beacon-light 
 Came streaming o'er the wave. 
 
 Thus, in the night of nature's gloom, 
 
 When sorrow bows the heart. 
 When clieerlng hopes no more illume. 
 
 And comforts all depart ; 
 Then from afar shines Bethlehem's star. 
 
 With cheering light to save ; 
 And, full in sight, its beacon-light 
 
 Comes streaming o'er the grave. 
 
 Julia Pardok. 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 HE night is made for cooling shade. 
 For silence, and for sleep ; 
 And when I was a child, I laid 
 My hands upon my breast, and prayed. 
 And sank to slumbers deep : 
 Childlike as then I lie to-night, 
 And watch my lonely cabin-light. 
 
 Each movement of the swaying lamp 
 
 Shows how the vessel reels : 
 As o'er her deck the billows tramp. 
 And all her timbers strain and cramp 
 
 With every shock she feels. 
 It starts and shudders, while it burns, 
 And in its hinged socket turns. 
 
 Now swinging slow and slanting low. 
 
 It almost level lies ; 
 And yet I know, while to and fro 
 I watch the seaming pendule go 
 
 With restless fall and rise. 
 The steady shaft is still upright. 
 Poising its little globe of light. 
 
 hand of God ! O lamp of peace ! 
 O promise of my soul 1 
 
 Though weak, and tossed, and ill at ease. 
 Amid the roar of smiting seas. 
 The ship's convulsive roll, 
 
 1 own with love and tender awe 
 Yon perfect type of faith and law. 
 
 A heavenly trust my spirit calms. 
 
 My soul is filled with light : 
 The Ocean sings his solemn psalms. 
 The wild winds chant : I cross my palms, 
 
 Happy as if to-night 
 Under the cottage roof again 
 I heard the soothing summer rain. 
 
 John Townsend Trowbridge. 
 
SEA PICTURES. 
 
 The Wed- 
 
 (Imtf t'licit 
 
 buuiiiJ by 
 
 lIlC tVL- of 
 
 ihe oKl sea- 
 ririnfi man, 
 anil con- 
 drained to 
 
 ule. 
 
 The Mari- 
 ,...-r tells 
 liDw the 
 vhip sailed 
 '.■Hithwnrd, 
 witii a ^ockI 
 wintl and 
 Uir weather 
 lill it 
 
 Tcd<.)icd the 
 tiuc. 
 
 nc Wed- 
 (hnt'f'ucst 
 ttk^reth 
 thcbriilal 
 luusic: I 'tit 
 Ihe Mariner 
 luiitiitueth 
 his talc- 
 
 TV ship 
 ill^wii \>y a 
 Mprm to. 
 ward the 
 ipulllpole. 
 
 RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 T is an Ancient Marin-jr, 
 And lie stoppeth one of three. 
 " By thy long gray hc^ard and glittering 
 eye, 
 Now wherefore stoppest thou me ? 
 
 The bridegroom's doors are opened wide. 
 And I am next of Itin ; 
 The guests are met, tlie feast is set — 
 Mayst hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with a skinny hand : 
 
 " There was a ship," quoth lie. 
 
 " Hold ofT! unhand mc, graybeard Icjon ! " 
 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with his gl'ttering eye — 
 Tlie Wedding-Guest stood still ; 
 He listens like a three years' child ; 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone — 
 He cannot c ;ose but hear ; 
 And thus spr.'ie on that ancient ma:i. 
 The bright-eyed Mariner : 
 
 " The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared ; 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Bolow the kirk, below the hill. 
 
 Below the light-house top. 
 
 The sun came up upon the left. 
 Out of the sea came he ; 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 Went down into the sea ; 
 
 Higher and higher every day. 
 
 Till over the mast at noon " 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
 I'^or he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The Bride hath paced into the hall — 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 Nodding tlieir heads before her goes 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright-eyed Mariner : 
 
 " And now the Storm-blast came, and he 
 Was tyrannous and strong ; 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow — 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
 And forward bends his head — 
 
 229 
 
 \ The ship drove fast ; loud roared the blast, 
 ! And southward aye we fled. 
 
 I And now there came both mist and snow 
 i And it grew wondrous cold ; 
 ' And ice, mast-high, came Ho.-'.cing by. 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 I And through the drifts the snowy cliffs 
 I Did send a dismal sheen ; 
 i Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 
 The ice was all around ; 
 j It cracked and growled, and roared and 
 I howled, 
 
 I Like noises in a swound ! 
 
 i At length did cross an Albatross—^ 
 j Thorough the fog it came ; 
 I As If it had been a Christian soul, 
 ; We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 j It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
 
 I And round and round it flew. 
 
 I The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 
 ■ The helmsman steered us through ! 
 
 j And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
 i The Albatross did follow. 
 And every day, for food or play 
 i Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 ; In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 ' Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 
 i white, 
 
 Glimmered the white moonshine," 
 i 
 I "God save thee, Ancient Mariner ! 
 
 ■ From the fiends, that plague Ihee thus !— 
 
 i Why look'st thou so?'*— "With my cross- 
 I bow 
 
 I shot the Albatross. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The sun now rose upon the f iglit : 
 Out of the sea came he. 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behiiid. 
 But no swett bird did follow, 
 Nor any day, for food or play, 
 Came to the marineis* hollo I 
 
 And I had done an iiellish thing, 
 
 And it w(uld work *eni woe : 
 
 For all averred I had killed the bitid 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch ! said ihey, the bird to slay, 
 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 TJie l.ind of 
 fee and of 
 fearfid 
 
 4'iunds 
 where no 
 liviiitf lli'iiig 
 w as lo btf 
 teen. 
 
 Till a jireat 
 sea-bird, 
 caltiid the 
 Alb.itross 
 came 
 through 
 the snow- 
 fog. Slid v.as 
 received 
 witli (jrcat 
 j<iy and hos- 
 l)it.ility. 
 
 And to! the 
 Albatross 
 
 t)roveth il 
 lird nf ;jond 
 omen, aitd 
 fullowctli 
 the sliipas it 
 rcturneJ 
 nurthivnrd 
 throiKih fotf 
 Aiid fuiatinif 
 ice. 
 
 TheAncient 
 M.truier in- 
 hospitably 
 killcth the 
 piiMishirrtol 
 good omeiv 
 
 Hi^^lMp- 
 tM.ite*t Lry 
 r>ut aKUinst 
 il'e Aricieiil 
 Mariner, \f/r 
 killrnkf (h< 
 (lird (>r){u<Ht 
 
 
 ll«.« 
 
 M!Kl9 
 
 
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 ♦ It., 
 
 ^» 
 
 OWBRIDGB. 
 
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 m 
 
 if.- 
 
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 230 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Iliiluhen , 
 II..: Ion 
 ctt-arctl oft, 
 thuy Justily 
 the s.tnie, 
 Ami thul 
 iil.ike them' 
 :,.'|VCS ac- 
 
 r^tniplicL'sln 
 til..* i.rime. 
 
 Tliu fair 
 Iticeze con- 
 tipues: the 
 ^l.jp enters 
 tliB P.nciric 
 Oi ean. and 
 sails north* 
 w.ird, even 
 (ill it reach- 
 es the line. 
 
 Ilie ship 
 hath been 
 suddenly 
 becalmed; 
 
 • nd the 
 Albatross 
 begins to 
 be avenged. 
 
 A Spirit 
 had fol- 
 lowed them; 
 one of 
 the invisi- 
 ble inhabit- 
 ants of this 
 planet, 
 neither de- 
 fiarted souls 
 nor an(;els, 
 They are 
 very numer- 
 ous, and 
 there is no 
 climate or 
 element 
 without one 
 ur more. 
 
 The ship- 
 mates, in 
 the.." sore 
 distress, 
 would fain 
 throw the 
 whole guilt 
 on the An- 
 cient Mari- 
 ner: m sign 
 wherciif 
 they hang 
 the. dead 
 soa-bird 
 round his 
 uocii. 
 
 The Ancient 
 Mariner be- 
 holdcth a 
 sign in the 
 clement afar 
 oil. 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head 
 
 The glorious sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and niist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
 
 The furrow followed free ; 
 
 VVe were the first that ever burst 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 
 
 down — 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the sea. 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky 
 The bloody sun, at noon, 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 
 We stuck — nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water everywhere. 
 And all the boards did shrink ; 
 Water, water everywhere. 
 Nor any drop to drink - 
 
 The very deep did rot ; O Christ ! 
 That ever this should Ll- ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea ! 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout, 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 The water, like a witch's oils. 
 Burnt green, and blue, and vvliite. 
 
 And some in dreams assurOd were 
 Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, tlirough utter drought, 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 VVe had been choked with suut. 
 
 Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 Instead of the cross the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 Was parched, and glazed eacii eye — 
 A weary time 1 a weary time ! 
 How glazed each weary eye !— 
 When, looking westward, I beheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck. 
 And then it seemed a mist ; 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist — 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 And still it neared and neared ; 
 .As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
 
 We could nor laugh nor w;iil ; 
 
 Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blo'.jd, 
 
 And cried, ' A snil ! a sail ! ' 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
 Agape they heard me call ; 
 Gramercy 1 they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 'See ! see ! ' I cried, 'she tacks no more ! ' 
 Hither to work us weal — 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 She steadies with upright keel ! ' 
 
 The western wave was all a-ilame ; 
 
 The day was well nigh done ; 
 
 Almost upon the western wavo 
 
 Rtjsted the broad bright sun, 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the sun. 
 
 .And straight the sun was flecked with liars, 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace 1) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 Alas ! thought I — and my heart be;u loud — 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the sun. 
 Like restless gossamers ? 
 
 Are those her ribs through which tin; sun 
 Uid peer, as through a grate ? 
 .And is that woman all her ciew ? 
 Is that a death ? and are there two ? 
 Is Death that woman's mate ? 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
 Her locks were yellow as gold ; 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy : 
 The night-mare, Life-in-Death, was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 The naked hulk alongside came, 
 
 .And the twain were casting dice : 
 
 ' The game is done. I've won 1 I've won ! ' 
 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out ; 
 j At one stride comes the dark ; 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 At Its near, 
 er approaLli 
 it sccmeih 
 him to h« 1 
 ■-liip: atiila: 
 a de.tr tAH 
 soni lie 
 freelh lits 
 ti>eecti fnxK 
 the liuadsur 
 thirst. 
 
 A flash .■( 
 ii.y. 
 
 An.l li.irr/.r 
 follows. I*i»r 
 cut It he 4 
 ship tli.il 
 (.(.inL'soit 
 w.ird Mrilll. 
 out wimlor 
 tidef 
 
 It serineth 
 liiin liulthr 
 skckton 9( 
 a shi|i. 
 
 And its ribs 
 are seen as 
 bars on the 
 face of the 
 setting sua. 
 The spec- 
 tre-woman 
 and her 
 death mate, 
 and no other 
 on hoard the 
 sk^ileton 
 sliip. 
 
 Like vessel, 
 
 like crew I 
 
 Death and 
 
 Life-in- 
 Deatli have 
 diced tor the 
 shin's crew, 
 and she 'the 
 Lutcr) wia. 
 nelh the An- 
 cient Mart. 
 ner. 
 
 No twili;lii 
 within the 
 courts of the 
 suu. 
 
At its nMr. 
 r.T ■.i\nitOdLU 
 it sccmtth 
 
 sliin; .111(1,1' 
 
 son) lie 
 frectt) III!, 
 lixiccb frwii 
 tlic ItoiiUttui' 
 thirst. 
 
 A Ha^li M 
 
 Ami li')rmf 
 fullowv. l'.jr 
 cut it Ih: 4 
 ship tti;tt 
 tdines on- 
 w.iril witti> 
 out vfimt or 
 lidet 
 
 It sceineth 
 
 liiinUutthr 
 
 a slu|>. 
 
 And its ribs 
 are seen »» 
 bare on llie 
 face of the 
 Metlini? !•"■. 
 The spec- 
 trc'woman 
 and her 
 death matf. 
 andnooihffr 
 (in board the 
 sk-ileton 
 ship. 
 
 IJkeve^sd, 
 
 like crew t 
 
 Death and 
 
 l.ife-in* 
 Death liaw 
 diced Ibr the 
 shiu's crew, 
 ainlshcMlMT 
 Utter) wi«' 
 iieth the An- 
 cieiil Man- 
 ner. 
 
 No twi)i<ln 
 wjihin the 
 i: 1)11 rtsuf the 
 sun. 
 
 Atth'^ri-i-i},' 
 (,ttht-iii..<;U, 
 
 one -ifier 
 
 hN ship- 
 nutt^ drop 
 tluMn dcau. 
 
 But Life-in- 
 
 (jiiib licr 
 Hurk (111 the 
 Ancient 
 Mariner. 
 
 Thf Wed. 
 .ImK-Ouest 
 lc.Lreth that 
 a spirit is 
 t.ilki»tf to 
 iiiiii ; 
 
 liut the An- 
 cient Marl- 
 ner assurelh 
 him of his 
 bodily life, 
 and (iro- 
 tt-eileth to 
 relate his 
 horrible 
 p(:n.ini:e. 
 
 He despis- 
 eiU the 
 -leatuies of 
 tilt calm ; 
 
 and envieth 
 that they 
 sh.uild live, 
 and <i<i many 
 lie dead. 
 
 SEA PlCTURl'S. 
 
 We listened and looked sideways up ! 
 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 
 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick tiie ni.nht, 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gle(imed 
 
 white ; 
 From tile sails the dew did driii — 
 Till clombe above the eastern bar, 
 The honied moon, with one briKhl star 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogged moon. 
 Too quick for groan or sigh, 
 Each turned his face with a gliastly pang. 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 Four times fifty living men 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor gro.in,) 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 The souls did from their bodies fly — 
 They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 And every soul, it passed me by, 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 " I fear thee, Ancient Mariner ! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand I 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
 
 And thy skinny hand so brown." — 
 
 " Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 The many men so beautiful ! 
 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy tilings 
 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 I looked upon the rotting sea, 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 I looked upon the rotting deck. 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 
 But, or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 For the sky and the sea, and the ".ca and 
 
 the sky, 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 231 
 
 Tlie cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 ?>or rot nor reek did they : 
 The look with which they looked on me 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 But oh I more horrible than that 
 
 Is a curse in a dead man's eye 1 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. 
 
 And yet I conld not die. 
 
 The moving moon went up tlie sky, 
 .^nd nowhere did abide : 
 Softly she was going up. 
 And a star or two beside — 
 
 Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay 
 The charmed water burnt alway, 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship 
 
 1 watched tlie water-snakes ; 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white ; 
 
 And wiien they reared, the elfish light 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the .shadow of the ship 
 
 I watched their rich attire — 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 
 They coiled and swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 O happy living things 1 no tongue 
 Their beauty might declare ; 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
 And 1 blessed them unaware — 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me. 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
 And from my neck so free 
 T'le Albatross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 O SLEEP ! it IS a gentle thing. 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 To Mar>' Queen the praise be given I 
 .She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck. 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 i dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold 
 My garments all wtre dank ; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 Btil tlie 
 curse livetll 
 for him in 
 
 til! f'VC t)( 
 
 till- iUmJ 
 
 tllCI). 
 
 InliW 
 loniilinp'.s 
 atl<l tiexd- 
 ttcss he 
 yciriicth 
 townriis the 
 jinirncyin(» 
 
 IIMlUll, .'llllT 
 
 the ".1.1 fs 
 th.it still 
 
 still Iiii>ri1 
 otiWitrd. 
 
 ny the liitht 
 of the iiiooit 
 he liehulil. 
 eth GtMl's 
 creatures of 
 the t;reac 
 cihn. 
 
 Their beau* 
 ty anj their 
 happiites«. 
 
 He lilesselli 
 tliL-ni in ht^ 
 
 The spell 
 tieijins to 
 break. 
 
 By urate of 
 Iheliuly 
 Mutlier, the 
 Anvietit 
 M iriner is 
 refreshed 
 with rain. 
 
 i«r' 
 
 ;■ % 
 
'WKT 
 
 232 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 m 
 
 I ' 
 
 I 
 1 1 
 
 i ' n 
 
 H 
 
 »,( ,. 
 
 f I 
 
 m II!'! 
 
 He hearelh 
 sMunils and 
 
 .strange 
 
 ' oininotions 
 in the sliy 
 uitcl ihe cle* 
 nicnis. 
 
 The bodier. 
 of the ship s 
 crew are in- 
 spired, and 
 the ship 
 moves on j 
 
 Init not l»y 
 thi-' souU of 
 ihcnien, nor 
 \>y demons 
 ff earth or 
 ini.ldic air, 
 hut by a 
 I lcb;.ed 
 troop of 
 in;;oIicspif- 
 i;s". sent 
 down by the 
 
 invorntion 
 oi' the ^ar> 
 ilian ^al^t. 
 
 If I 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs • 
 I was so light— almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep. 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind — 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails. 
 That were so thin and sere. , 
 
 The upper air burst into life ; 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about ; 
 And to and fro, and in and out. 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 
 And the rain poured down from one black 
 
 cloud — 
 The moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 The moon was at its side ; 
 Like waters shot from some higii crag, 
 The lij,Iitning fell with never a jag — 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The loud wind never reached the ship. 
 Yet now the ship m()>ed on ! 
 Beneath the lightning and tiie moon 
 'Ihe dead men gave a groan. 
 
 They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose — 
 Nor spake, nor moved tiieir eyes ; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream. 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 
 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
 
 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
 The Body of my brother's son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 The Body and I pulled at one rope, 
 But he said naught to me." 
 
 " I fear thee, Ancient Mariner ! " 
 " Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 'T was not those souls that fled in pain, 
 Which to tiieir corses came again, 
 But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 For when it dawned — tliey dropped their 
 
 arms, 
 And clustered round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
 
 mouths, 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted to tiie sun ; 
 .Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mi.\ed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky, 
 I heard the skylark sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are. 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 't was like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In tlie leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeih a quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 Slowly and smoothly went tiie ship, 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 Under Uic keel nine fathom deep. 
 From tlie land of mist and snow, 
 "I'he Spirit slid : and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left off" their tune, 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 The sun, rigl^t up above the mast, 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length, 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then like a pawing horse let go, 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the blood into my head 
 And I fell down in a swound 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare ; 
 But ere my living life returned, 
 I heard, and in my soul discerned 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 'Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' Is this the man ? 
 By Him who died on cross, 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 The harmless Albatross ! 
 
 The Spirit who bideth by himself 
 In the land o<" mist and snow, 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his bow.' 
 
 The lone- 
 some spirit 
 from tke 
 south pole 
 cirries on 
 tlie shipu 
 far as Ine 
 line, in obe. 
 dieiice to 
 the antielic 
 troop, but 
 still requir. 
 cth ven. 
 gcancc. 
 
 The Polsr 
 Spirit's lei' 
 low-de- 
 liioiis. the 
 invisible in- 
 habitants -1' 
 the elumci'.l, 
 take part i:i 
 his wron;; ; 
 and two I'f 
 them relatL, 
 one to the 
 other, that 
 
 fienance 
 ong.md 
 h'-*avy for 
 the Antient 
 Mariner 
 hath been 
 acconk-ii to 
 the I'olar 
 Spirit, who 
 retumeth 
 southward. 
 
SKA PICTURES. 
 
 233 
 
 
 Ldai iiitu a 
 
 
 ir.iiKf. ; fur 
 
 
 |lii- .iii^;flic 
 
 
 jHm.T caiis- 
 
 
 ^tii th.! ves- 
 
 Tie lone- 
 
 .t'l to drive 
 
 some spirit 
 
 iioTthward 
 
 from the 
 
 fastrr tlir.n 
 
 south pole 
 
 liiiiiian lite 
 
 c.irries on 
 
 M.ul'l en- 
 
 (lie ship u 
 far as the 
 
 dure. 
 
 
 line, in obe- 
 
 
 dience U> 
 
 
 the angelic 
 troop, but 
 
 
 
 still rctiulr* 
 
 
 cth ven- 
 
 
 geance. 
 
 
 The PoUr 
 Spini's lei* 
 
 mon'i. the 
 invisible in- 
 habitantb «l 
 the element, 
 take part i.i 
 his wron;; ; 
 anil two i.f 
 them relate, 
 one to the 
 other, that 
 penance 
 long ^nd 
 heavy tor 
 the Antient 
 Mariner 
 hath been 
 iccordeil to 
 the rolar 
 Spirit, *"hu 
 tetumeth 
 touthwatd. 
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, ' The man hatli penance done. 
 
 And penance more will do.' 
 
 PART VI. 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again. 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 What is the ocean doing ? ' 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
 The ocean hath no blast ; 
 1 lis great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the moon is cast — 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him.' 
 
 FIRST VOICE, 
 
 Tii^MarinM ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind ? ' 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 ' The air is cut aw.;y before, 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
 Or we shall be belated ; 
 For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 
 
 Hut soon there breathed a wind on me. 
 Nor sound nor motion made ; 
 Its path was not upon the sea, 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek, 
 Like a niuadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
 Yet she sailed softly too ; 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 O dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 The light-house top 1 see i* 
 Is this the hili .-' is this the kirk? 
 Is tliis mine own countree? 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
 And I witli sobs did pray — 
 O let me be awake, my God I 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 The harbor-bay was clear as glass, 
 So smootlily it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 And the shadow of the moon. 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 
 That stands above the rock ; 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 I wo'ce, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather ; 
 
 'Twas night, calm night — the moon was high ; 
 
 Til.' Mip^-r- 
 iia III il tiiu. 
 
 I is rC' 
 
 MiJctI: the 
 M.irincr 
 
 '"),enan"ce Tlic dead men stood together, 
 
 le^'ini 
 
 All stood together on the deck. 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
 That in the moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
 Had never passed away ; 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs. 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 And now this spell was snapt ; once more 
 • '• I viewed the ocean green, 
 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 Like one that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 
 And, having once turned round, walks on. 
 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light, 
 Till rising from the same, 
 F'ull many shapes, that shadows were. 
 In crimson colors came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 
 Christ ! what saw I there 1 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 And, by the holy rood I 
 A man all light, a seraph man, 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 They stood as signals to the land. 
 Each one a lovely light ; 
 
 This seraph band, each waved his hand, 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but oh I the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 
 1 heard the pilot's cheer ; 
 
 My head was turned perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 Anrl the An* 
 cirnl Man. 
 ner Iwhold- 
 etb hiK na- 
 tive coHntry. 
 
 The angelic 
 suirits leave 
 the (le.id 
 bod in, 
 
 and appear 
 in their own 
 formfi of 
 lik;ht. 
 
 . ;,li; 
 
 ■ {' 
 
 'hr- 
 
I ! 
 
 i ■ |i ■!. 
 
 m V 
 
 :i ■! 
 
 f ; 
 
 m : 
 
 234 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 T'.f hrniiil 
 of the y Dod 
 
 The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coining fast : 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third— I heard his voice • 
 
 It is the hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his Godly hymns 
 
 Th.it he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrivee my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross' blood. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 This hermit good lives i;i that wood 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 He loves to talk with marineres 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at in jrn, and noon, and eve — 
 
 He hatii a cushion plump : 
 
 It is ihe moss that wliolly hides 
 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skifT-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
 ' Why, t!ii.s i.i strange, I trow ! 
 Wliere arc those lights so many and fair 
 That signal made but now?' 
 
 .aLheih ' Strange, by my f;iith ! ' the hermit said — 
 
 lip c . .. J 
 
 '.-Vnd tliey answered not our cheer ! 
 
 The planks looked warped ! and see tliose 
 
 sails 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 I never saw aught like to them. 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 My forest- brook along ; 
 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
 
 And the owlet whoops to tiie wolf below, 
 
 That eats the she-wolf's young.' 
 
 ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look 
 (The pilot made reply) — 
 I am a-feared.' — ' Push on, i)ush on ! ' 
 Said the hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship. 
 But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship. 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 TheAndent Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 
 
 Manner is "^ 
 
 •aved in the VVhich sky and ocean smote, 
 
 pilot i boat. '' ' 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 
 the ship 
 with wiiit 
 dcr. 
 
 The sV.io 
 ftuddcnfy 
 siiiketti. 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 Within the pilot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl where sank the ship 
 The lx)at span round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 Tlie holy hermit raised his eyes, 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
 I took the oars ; the pilot's boy, ^ 
 
 Who now doth crazy go. 
 
 Laughed loud and long ; and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro : 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 
 
 The Devil knows how to row.' 
 
 And now, all in my own countree, 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 The hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
 .'Vnd scarcely he could stand. 
 
 ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' — 
 Tiie hermit crossed his brow : 
 ' S.iy quick.' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
 What manner of man art thou ?' 
 
 Fiitthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 With a woeful agony, 
 Which forced me to begin my tale — 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
 That agony returns ; 
 .'Vnd till my ghastly tale is told 
 This heart within me burns, 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 I have strange power of speech ; ^ 
 Th.it moment that his face I see 
 I know the man that must hear me — 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
 rile wedding-guests are there ; 
 But ill the garden-bower the Bride 
 And bride maids singing are ; 
 And hark the little vesper bell. 
 Which biddeth me to prayer ! 
 
 O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea — 
 So lonely 't was, that God himself 
 Scarce seemid there to be. 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'T is sweeter far to me, 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 Ti". \-iricnt 
 M.ir.ii.r>-.,r. 
 
 Iijrrii<[ t I 
 >l^■„:■ -I 11.- 
 .111 I ill rp'.,. 
 ,111V,; ..f |:i.- 
 
 fitlUuiiltun. 
 
 And f-r 
 and ,1,1, .n 
 thrnu,;.i.,iit 
 hi:, rului,r 
 life nil ;i^u, 
 ny (.,!». 
 ^train"(h 
 liinilotr.i'fl 
 frnni Iln ill! 
 
 land. 
 
 « ':, I 
 
SKA PICTURES. 
 
 2^5 
 
 while 
 
 at, 
 
 Ti'" -V'lripnt 
 
 II —.liy till- 
 
 Iwriiit t 1 
 ^l-.-„- ■! Ill- 
 aiilili-i 
 
 ;l»chci.l 
 
 or! 
 
 Aii.l <.■■ T 
 Alul .i.ii<n 
 
 life nil .i^'i- 
 tiy toii- 
 SJraiti'Mh 
 Iiiintotr.i-rl 
 frnni Ian I i-t 
 laiul, 
 
 tnil toteach 
 l>y h\h uwn 
 
 L'K.linplL*, 
 
 Iiivc ami 
 f i*vft\;llce to 
 all lliin^'s, 
 Hill Cii.l 
 iniil<* ailU 
 
 To walk togcllu-r lo llie kirk, • 
 And uU together pray, 
 While each to his great Father bends — 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! but this I tell 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 He prayelh well who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best who loveth best 
 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us, 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 Is gone. And now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turned from the Bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned, 
 And is of sense forlorn ; 
 A sadder and a wiser man 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Colekiuge. 
 
 " What argufies sniveling and piping your eye ? 
 
 Why, what a blamed fool you must be 1 
 Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for 
 us all, 
 
 Both fur seamen and lubbers ashore? 
 .\nd if to old Davy, I should go, friend Poll, 
 
 You never will hear of nie nu)re. 
 What then ? All's a hazard : come, don't be so soft : 
 
 Perhaps I may laughing como back ; 
 For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! " 
 
 D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 
 
 All as one as a piece of the sliip. 
 And with her bravo the world, not oiTering to flinch 
 
 From the moment the anchor's a-trip. 
 As for nie, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends. 
 
 Naught's a trouble from duty that springs. 
 For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my frienil's. 
 
 And as for my will, 't is the king's. 
 Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft 
 
 As for grief to be taken aback ; 
 For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 
 
 Will look out a good berth for poor Jack ! 
 
 Chaklks DinoiN. 
 
 IM 
 
 POOR JACK. 
 
 , O, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, 
 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; 
 A tight-water boat and good sea-room ;,ivc 
 me, 
 
 .•\nd it a'n't to a little Pll strike. 
 Tiiough the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth 
 should smite. 
 And shiver each splinter of wood, 
 Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything 
 tight. 
 And under reefed foresail we'll scud : 
 Avjust ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 
 
 To be taken for trilles aback ; 
 For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 
 
 I hoard our good chaplain palaver one day, 
 
 About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; 
 \i\d, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ; 
 
 Why, 't was just all as one as High Dutch ; 
 For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see. 
 
 Without orders that come down below ; 
 And a many fine things that proved clearly to me 
 
 Tii;it Providence takes us in tow ; 
 "For," says he, do you mind me, "let stonns e'er so 
 oft 
 
 Take the topsails of sailors aback, 
 Thtrit's a sweet little cherub that sit p aloft. 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! " 
 
 I said to our Poll — for, d'ye see, she would cry — 
 When last we weighed anchor for sea, 
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 
 
 LOVE contemplating — apart 
 
 From all his homicidal glory — 
 The traits that soften to our heart 
 Napoleon's glory ! 
 
 'Twas when his banners at Boulogne 
 Armed in our island every freeman, 
 His navy chanced to capture one 
 Poor British seaman. 
 
 They suffered him — I know not how — 
 
 Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 
 And aye was bent his longing brow 
 On England's home. 
 
 His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
 
 Of birds to Britain half-way over ; 
 With envy i/icy could reach the white 
 Dear cliffs of Dover. 
 
 A stormy midnight watch, he thougiit. 
 
 Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 
 If but the storm his vessel brought 
 To England nearer. 
 
 At last, when care had banished sleep. 
 
 He saw one morning, dreaming, dothig, 
 An empty hogshead from the deep 
 Come shoreward floating ; 
 
 He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
 
 The livelong day laborious; Ijrking 
 Until he launched a tiny boat 
 By mighty working. 
 
 ill 
 
 II ;! 
 
 *r< 
 
 m 
 
 III 4 
 
 % 
 
 n 
 '« 
 
 
 411^ 
 
 11 
 
Ii36 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 li! 
 
 I 
 
 n< 
 
 1 lenvcn help us ! 't was a thing beyond 
 Description wretched ; such n wherry 
 I'erha[)S ne'er ventured on a i>ond, 
 Or crossed a ferry. 
 
 For, ploughing in tiie salt-sea field, 
 
 It wouk! iiave made tiie bokli.'St sluidder ; 
 Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled — 
 No sail, no rudder. 
 
 From neighboring woods he interlaced 
 His sorry skilf with wattled willows ; 
 And thus etjuipped he would have passed 
 The foaming billows — 
 
 But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 
 
 His little Argo surely jeering ; 
 Till tidings of him chanced to reach 
 Napoleon's hearing. 
 
 With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
 
 Serene alike in peace and danger ; 
 And, in his wonted attitude. 
 Addressed the stranger ; — 
 
 " RiLsh man, that wouldst yon channel pass 
 On twigs and slaves so rudely fashioned, 
 Thy heart with some sweet British hiss 
 Must be impassioned. ' 
 
 " I have no sweetheart," said the lad ; 
 
 " But — absent lung from one another — 
 Great w.as the lontring that I had 
 To see my mother." 
 
 " And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
 " Ye've both my favor fairly won ; 
 A noble mother must have bred 
 So brave a son." 
 
 He gave the tar a piece of gold. 
 
 And, with a flag of truce, commanded 
 He should l>e shipped to England Old, 
 And safely landed. 
 
 Our sailor oft could scarcely shift 
 
 To find a dinner, plain and hearty, 
 But never changed the coin and gift 
 Of Bonaparte. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 liJ 
 
 SUNRISE AT SEA. 
 
 HEN the mild weather came. 
 And set the sea on fiame, 
 
 How often would I rise before the sun, 
 And from the masts behold 
 The gradual splendors of the sky unfold, 
 Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, 
 Above the horizon's arc, 
 
 To show its flaming gold, 
 Across the purple dark I 
 
 One perfect il.twn how well I recollect, 
 When the whole East was flecked 
 
 With flashing .strc-aks and shafts of amethyst, 
 
 While a lit;ht crimson mist 
 VWnt up before the mountain luminary. 
 And all the sti ips of cloud began to vary 
 
 Their hues, and all the zenith seemed to open. 
 
 As if to show a cope beyond the cope ! 
 
 How reverently calm the ocean lay 
 
 At the bright birth of that celestial dayl 
 
 How every little vapor, robed in state. 
 
 Would melt and dissipate 
 Before the augmenting ray. 
 
 Till the victorious orb rose imattended. 
 
 And every billow was his mirror splendid ! 
 
 Epes Sargent. 
 
 G 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 EASE, rude Boreas, blustering railer ! 
 
 List, ye landsman all, to me ; 
 
 Messmates, hear a brother sailor 
 
 Sing the dangers of the sea ; 
 
 From bounding billows, first in motion. 
 When th^' distant whirlwinds rise, 
 
 To the tempest-troubled ocean, 
 Where the seas contend with skies. 
 
 Hark ! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, 
 By topsail-sheets and halyards stand ! 
 
 Down top-gallants (juick be hauling ! 
 Down your stay-sails — hand, boys, hand ! 
 
 Now it freshens, set the braces, 
 Quick the topsail-sheets let go ; 
 
 LufT, boys, luff ! don't make wry faces, 
 Up your topsails nimbly clew. 
 
 Round us roars the tempest louder. 
 Think what fear our minds inthralls ! 
 
 Harder yet it blows, still harder, 
 Now again the boatswain calls. 
 
 The topsail-yard point to the wind, boyrf 
 See all clear to reef each course ; 
 
 Let the foresheet go— don't mind, boys, 
 Though the weather should be worse. 
 
 Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get. 
 Reef the mizzen, see all clear; 
 
 Hand up, each preventt-r-brace set I 
 Man the foreyards, cheer, lads, cheer I 
 
 Now the dreadful thunder's roaring, 
 Peal on peal contending clash. 
 
 On our heads fierce rain falls pouring. 
 In our eyes blue lightnings flash. 
 
SI'A PICTURES. 
 
 237 
 
 One wide water all around us, 
 
 All above us one black >..;y ; 
 OillLTont deaths at once surround us : 
 
 }I;irk ! what means that dreadful cry ? 
 
 The foremast's gone ! cries every tont;ue out, 
 
 {3'er the lee twelve feet 'bove deck ; 
 A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out. 
 
 Call all hands to clear the wreck. 
 
 Quick the lanyards cut to pieces ; 
 
 Come, my hearts, be stout and bold ; 
 Plumb the well— the leak increases, 
 
 Four feet water in the hold ! 
 
 While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, 
 
 We our wives and children mourn ; 
 Alas ! from hence there's no retreating, 
 
 Alas ! to them there's no return ! 
 
 Still the leak is gaining on us ! 
 
 Both chain-pumps are choked below : 
 Heaven have mercy here upon us 1 
 
 For only that can save us now, 
 
 O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys. 
 
 Let the guns o'erboard be thrown ; 
 To the pumps c.ill every hand, boys. 
 
 See I our mizzen-mast is gone. 
 
 The leak we've found, it cannot pour fast ; 
 
 We've lightened her a foot or more ; 
 Up and rig a jury foremast. 
 
 She's rights I she's rights, boys ! we're o(T shore. 
 George Alex.vndkr .Stevicns. 
 
 THE SEA IN CALM AND STORM. 
 
 , ARIOUS and vast, sublime in all its forms, 
 When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by 
 
 storms ; 
 
 Its colors changing, when from clouds and sun 
 Sliadcs after shades upon the surface run ; 
 F.mbrowned and horrid now, and now serene 
 In limpid blue and evanescent green ; 
 And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie. 
 Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye ! 
 
 Be it the stnnmer noon ; a sandy space 
 The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; 
 Then just the hot and stony beach above. 
 Light, twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; 
 (For, heated thus, the warmer air ascends, 
 And with the cooler in its fall contends). 
 Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
 An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, 
 Then slowly sinking ; curling to the strand, 
 Faint, lizy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand, 
 Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. 
 And back return in silence, smooth and slow, 
 Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide 
 On the still sea, urged solely by the tide. 
 
 View now the winter storm I Above, one cloud, 
 niack and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud ; 
 The unwiehily puipoise, through the day before. 
 Mad rolled in vi^w of boding men on shore; 
 And sometimes hid and sometimes showed his form. 
 Dark as the cloud, and furious a.H the storm. 
 
 All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam 
 The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
 Upon the billows rising — all the deep 
 Is restless chan;^e— the waves, so swelled and steep, 
 breaking and sinking and the sunken swells, 
 Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : 
 I5ut nearer land you may the billows trace, 
 .\s if contending in their watery chase ; 
 May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach. 
 Then break and hurry to their utmost streti h ; 
 Curled .as they come, they strike with furious force. 
 And then, reflowing, take their grating course. 
 Raking the rounded flints, which ages past 
 Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last. 
 
 Far off, the petrel, in the troubled way. 
 Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray ; 
 .She rises often, often drops agiiin. 
 And sports at case on the tempestuous m;iin. 
 
 High o'er the restless deep, above the reach 
 Of gunner's hope, v.ist flights of wild ducks stretch ; 
 I'ar as the eye can glance on either side. 
 In a broad sp.ace and level line they glide ; 
 .\ll in their wedge-like figures from the north, 
 l):iy after day, flight after flight, go forth. 
 
 Inshore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, 
 .■\nd drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; 
 Oft in the rough, opposing blast they fly 
 I'ar back, then turn, and all their force apply. 
 While to the storm they give their weak, complaining 
 
 cry; 
 < )r clap the sleek white pinion to the breast. 
 And in the restless ocean dip for rest. 
 
 GeORGK CK,\I!!iE. 
 
 (3 
 
 A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 
 
 LIFE on the ocean wave, 
 
 A home on the rolling deep ; 
 Where the scattered waters rave. 
 
 And the winds their revels keep ! 
 Like an angel caged I pine, 
 
 On this dull, unchanging shore : 
 O, give me the flashing brine, 
 
 The spray and the tempest's roar ! 
 
 Once more on the deck I stand. 
 
 Of my own swift gliding craft : 
 Set sail ! farewell to the land ; 
 
 The gale follows fair abaft. 
 We shoot through the sparkling foam, 
 
 Like an ocean-bird set free, — 
 Like the ocean-bird, our home 
 
 We'll find far out on the sea. 
 
 fi :;!;■' 
 
! I I 
 
 I r . )' 
 
 I .. 
 
 ■\i 
 
 &:■■:, 
 
 I'': '% 
 
 238 
 
 CROWN JICVVKLS. 
 
 The land i-; no lorifjcr in vii'w, 
 Tlie clouds have iic'Kiin to frown ; 
 
 But vvilii a stout vessti and crew, 
 We'll say, " Let the storm come down !" 
 
 And the song of our lu'arts shall be, 
 While the winds and the waters rave, 
 
 A home on the rolling sea I 
 
 A life on the ocean wave ! 
 
 Epes Sarcf.nt. 
 
 NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 'ME lovely purple of the noon's bestowinR 
 
 Has vanished from the waters, where it 
 flung 
 
 'f A royal color, such as gems are throwing 
 Tyrian or regal garniture among. 
 'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming, 
 
 Through 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, 
 iN'irther am I from old dear friends removed ; 
 Till the lone vigil that I now am keeping, 
 
 I did not know how much you were belovetl. 
 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 sol accusing brow, 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you? 
 
 The very stars are strangers, as I catch them 
 
 Atliwart the shadowy sails that swell above ; 
 I cann(jt hope tiiat other eyes will watch them 
 
 At the same moment with a mutual love. 
 They shine not there, as here they now gre shining ; 
 
 The very hours are changed. — Ah, do you 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 1 think of you ? 
 
 Yesterday has a charm, to-day could never 
 
 Fling o't r the mind, which knows not till it parts 
 tlow it turns back with tenderest endeavor 
 
 To fiX the past witinn the heart of hearts. 
 Absence is full of memory, it teaches 
 
 The value of all old familiar things ; 
 The strengliiencr of afTectiou, while it re.-iches 
 
 O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings. 
 I\!y friends, my ab.'-.ent friends ! 
 Do you think of me, as I think of you? 
 
 The world, with one vast element omitted — 
 Man's own especial element, t::e earth ; 
 
 Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted 
 By that great knowledge whence has power its birth. 
 
 How oft on some Strang*- loveliness while gazing 
 
 Have I wislu'd for you — lieautilul as new. 
 The purple waves like sonic wild army raising 
 Their snowy banners as the snip cuts through 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 Do you thi;>k of mc, as 1 think of you? 
 
 The sword-fish and the shark pursue their sl.ui;.li- 
 ters, 
 War universal reigns these depths along. 
 Like some new island on ilic ocean spruij.nig, 
 
 Floats on the surface some gigantic wh.ik , 
 From its vast head a silver foiuitain flinging, 
 Hright as the fountain in a f.iiry 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, 
 I'rom the thick bank of clouds she masters, sheddni- 
 
 The softest iniluence that o'er night prevails 
 Pale IS she like a young ([ueen pale with splendor, 
 
 Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too deep, 
 The very glory lh.it ."^he wears is tender. 
 The very eyes that watch her beauty fain would 
 weep. 
 My friends, my absent friends ! 
 Do you think of me, as 1 think of you ? 
 
 Sun^hine is ever cheerful, when the morning 
 
 Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes ; 
 The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorning 
 
 Wh.it toil upon a p;.th sj sunny lies. 
 .Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their weatiiiT 
 
 Calls into life an energy like spring's; 
 Rut memory and moonlight go together, 
 
 Redecicd in the light tliat either brings. 
 My friends, my absent friends I 
 Do you think of me then ? I think of yon. 
 
 The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking 
 
 But the watch pacing ."-ilently 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 sh.idowy tower amid the air ; 
 While red an i fitful gleams come from the binnacle, 
 
 The only light on btnird 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 skimmer 
 
 In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea. 
 But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale glinuner 
 
 Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves to be. 
 All that the spirit keeps of thought and fteii:;g. 
 
 Takes visionary hues from such an hour ; 
 But while some phantasy 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. 
 
 It'll;' 5. li 
 
SEA riCTURI'S. 
 
 2;!9 
 
 A dusk line in thi-- moonlight— I discover 
 
 What all day long vainly I sought to catch ; 
 Or is it hut tlie varying clouds that hover 
 
 Thick in the air, to mixrk tlie eyes that watch ? 
 No ; well the sailor knows each speck, appearing, 
 
 U[)on the tossing waves, the far-ofT strand ; 
 To that dark line our eager ship is steering. 
 
 Her voyage done— to morrow we shall land. 
 
 Letitia Elizabeth Landon. 
 
 HILDA, SPINNING. 
 
 ' PINNING, spinning, by the sea, 
 All the ni^'lit ! 
 On a stormy, rock-rilihed shore, 
 Where the north-winds d(jwnward pour, 
 And tlu! tonipt'sts ficrrely sweep 
 Frotn the monntains to the deep, 
 Hilda spins hi:side the sea. 
 All the night ! 
 
 Spinning, at her lonely window, 
 
 Ry th^ .sea ! 
 With her cmdle burning clear, 
 r.very ni,i;lit of all the year, 
 And her sweet voice crooning low 
 Quaint old songs of love and woe, 
 Spins she at her lonely window 
 
 By the sea. 
 
 On a bitter night in March, 
 
 Long ago, 
 Hilda, very young and fair, 
 With a crown of golden hair, 
 Watclied the tempest raging wild. 
 Watched the roaring sea — and smiled — 
 Through th.it woful night in March, 
 
 Long ago ! 
 
 Wiat, though all the winds were out 
 
 In their might? 
 Richard's boat was tried and tme ; 
 Staunch and brave his hardy crew ; 
 Strongest he to do or dare. 
 .Said she, breatiiing forth a prayer : 
 " He is safe, though winds are out 
 
 In their might ! " 
 
 But, at length, the morning dawned 
 
 Still and clear ; 
 Calm, in nzmc splendor, lay 
 All the waters of the bay ; 
 And the ocean's angry moans 
 Sank to solemn undertones. 
 As, at last, the morning dawned 
 
 Still and clear ! 
 
 With her waves of golden hair 
 
 Floating free, 
 Hilda ran along the shore. 
 Gazing oIT the waters o'er ; 
 
 A:ul the fishermen r:;plic(l : 
 ' I Ij will come in with the tide," 
 As they saw her Ki>li'.en h.iir 
 Floating free 1 
 
 Ah ! he (-ante in with the tide. 
 
 Came alono ! 
 Tossed upon t!ie shining sands, 
 Ciliastly face and cliiicliing hands, 
 Seaweed tangled in li:s hair, 
 Mruised and torn his forehead fair- 
 Thus he came in with the tide. 
 
 All alone! 
 
 1 lilcia watciieil beriid;; her dead 
 
 Day and n:;^ht. 
 Of those hours of mortal woe 
 Huirian ken may never know ; 
 .She was silent, and liir. car 
 Kept the secret, clos^ and dear. 
 Of her watch besitle her dead, 
 
 Day and night! 
 
 What she promised i:i l!ie darkness, 
 
 Who cm tell ? 
 liiit upon tliat rock-ri!j!jcd shore 
 I'liirnsa beac m everiiiote; 
 And, beside it, all tlu^ night, 
 Ilikla guards the lonely light. 
 Though what vowed she in the darknerj 
 
 None may tell ! 
 
 Spinning, spinning by the sea, 
 
 All the night ! 
 While her candle, gljaming v.idj 
 0'(.'r the restless, rolling tide, 
 Ouides with steady, changeless ray. 
 The lone fisher up the bay — 
 Hilda spins lieside the sea, 
 
 Through the night. 
 
 I~ifty years of patient spinning 
 
 By the sea ! 
 Old and worn, shj sleeps to-day, 
 While the sunshine gilds the b.ny ; 
 But her candle shining cLv.r 
 I'" very nig!it of all the year, 
 Still is telling of her spinning 
 
 By t!ie sea I 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 
 
 HIS is tlie ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
 .Sails tlie unshadowed main — 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 "^ On the sweet summer wind its i)urp!e<l v.ing-s 
 In gulls enchanted, where the siren .sings. 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare. 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
 hair. 
 
 m 
 
 •I ■ 
 
■I . ,1 
 
 I ; 
 
 240 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
 
 And every chambered cell, 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped liis growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies revealed — 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crj'pt unsealed ! 
 
 Year after j'ear beheld the silent toil 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 
 Still, as the spiral grew, 
 He left the past yeir's dwelling for the new, 
 Stole witli soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door. 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
 
 more. 
 
 Jhanks 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, O my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll ! ■ 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
 Let erch new temple, nobler than tht.- last, 
 Shut thee from iieaven with a dome more vast. 
 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Le:iving thine outgrown shell by life's unrestin'j; sea I 
 Oliver WiiNuiiLL IIoi,mi;s. 
 
 THE DYING SAILOR. 
 
 "R called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh 
 A lover's message — " Thomas, I must die : 
 Would I could see my Sallie, a-ul could rest 
 My throbbing temples on her faithful breast. 
 And gazing, go ! — if not, this trifle take, 
 And say, till death I wore it for her sake ; 
 
 Yes I I must die — blow on sweet breeze, blow on ! 
 Give me one look, before my life be gone, 
 Oh! give me that, and let me not despair, 
 One last fond look — and now repeat the prayer." 
 
 He had his wish, had more ; I will not paiiit 
 The lovers' meeting : she beheld him faint. 
 With tender fears, she took a nearer view, 
 Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; 
 He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, 
 " Yes 1 I must die ;" and hope for ever fled. 
 
 Still long she nursed him ; tender though tsmeantinii;, 
 Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. 
 To her he came to die, and every day 
 She took some portion of the dread away : 
 With him she prayed, to him his Bible read, 
 Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head ; 
 She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer ; 
 Apart, she sighed, alone, she shed the tear; 
 Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
 Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 
 
 One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot 
 The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; 
 They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think, 
 Yet said not so — "perhaps he will not sink": 
 A sudden brightness in his look appeared, 
 A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ; — 
 She had been reading in the book of prayer, 
 And led him forth, and placed him in his chair ; 
 Lii'ely he seemed, and spoke of all he knew. 
 The friendly many, and the favorite few ; 
 Nor one that day did he to mind recall, 
 But she has treasured, and she loves them all ; 
 When in her way she meets them, they appear 
 Peculiar people— death has made them dear. 
 He named his friend, but then his hand she prest, 
 And fondly whispered "Thou must go to rest"; 
 " I go," he said ; but, as he spoke, she found 
 His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound I 
 Then gazed afirightened ; but she caught a last, 
 A dying look of love, an 1 all was past I 
 
 George Cr.\dbe. 
 
 f N'l 
 
 V i 
 
CE CRAnnE. 
 
 PATRIOTISM SND FREEDOM. 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 HEX Freedom from lu r mt;imt- 
 ain lici;^!it, 
 Uufiirlcd her standard to 
 the air, 
 ' She tore the azure robe of night. 
 Andsttthe stars of i;lorythe'c 1 
 She mingled with its gorgeous 
 dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 And striped its pure celestial 
 white 
 With streakings of the morning light ; 
 Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
 Siie called Ivjr eagle-bearer down, 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land ! 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 
 
 W'- '> rear st aloft thy regal form. 
 To hear the tempest trumping loud. 
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
 
 Whon strive the w:irriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 
 Cliild of the sun ! to lliee 'tis given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free. 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
 To ward away the battle-stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory ! 
 
 I'lag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
 Wlien speaks the signal-trumptt tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on, 
 Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet. 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
 Kach soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
 To whore thy sky-born glories burn, 
 And, as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
 Then shall tliy meteor glances glow, 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely mtsscnger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave 
 
 (10) (241) 
 
 When death, careering on the gale. 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Uefore the broadside's reeling rack. 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 V,y angel hands to valor given ! 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us ! 
 With freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 
 
 Joseph Rodman Drakk. 
 
 THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 Ill i3i4, when the British fleet was at the mouth of the Potomac 
 River, and intended to attack IJaltimore, Mr. Key and Mr. Skin- 
 ner were sent in a vessel with a flas of truce to obtain the release 
 o( some prisoners the English had taken in their expedition 
 .igaint Washington. They did not succeed, and were told that 
 they would be detained till after the attack had been made on 
 Baltimore. Accordingly, they went in their own vessel, strongly 
 guarded, with the British fleet, and when they came within sight 
 of Fort McIIenry, a short distance below tiie city, they could see 
 the American flag flying on the ramparts. As tlie day closed in, 
 the bombardment of the fort commenced, and Mr. Key and Mr. 
 Skinner remain-d on deck all night, watching with deep anxiety 
 every shell that was fired. While the bombardment continued, it 
 was sufTicicnt prouf that the fort had not surrendered. It sud- 
 denly ceased some time before day ; but as they had no communi- 
 catian with any of the enemy's ships, they did not know whether 
 the fort had surrendered and their homes and friends were in 
 danger, or the attack upon it had been abandoned. They paced 
 the deck the rest of the night in painful susjiense, watching with 
 intense anxiety for the return of day. At length the light came, 
 and they saw that " our flag was still there,'' and soon they were 
 informed that the attack had failed. In the fcvor of the nonK-nt, 
 Mr. Key took an old letter from his pocket, and on its back wrote 
 the most of this celebrated song, finishing it as soon as he reached 
 Baltimore. He showed it to his friend Judge Nicholson, who was 
 so pleased with it th.tt he placed it at once in the hands of the 
 printer, and in .in hour after it was all over the city, .".nd hailed 
 with enthusiasm, and took its place at cncc as .\ n.ttional song. 
 Thus, this patri.Tlic, impassioned ode became forever associated 
 with the " Stars and Stripes." 
 
 SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 What so proudly we hailed in the twilight's 
 % last gleaming.' 
 
 Whosj broad stripes and bright stars 
 through the perilous fight, 
 O'er the rampar'.s we watched wtre so gallantly 
 streaming ; 
 
 " 
 
 mi i 
 
 :< 1 
 
 m 
 
 ' i' I i 
 
 1 
 
 n 
 
 1 
 
ii\ 
 
 I I 
 
 ifli'i 
 
 W^'^i 
 
 M2 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 And the mckat's n. d glare, tlie l)ombs bursting in air, 
 Gave prouf throiijjh the night that our (lag was still 
 there. 
 O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? ! 
 
 I 
 On the shore, dimly seen tlirough the mists of the deep, { 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence re- ! 
 poses, i 
 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering ' 
 steep, ; 
 
 As it litfuUy blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, | 
 In full glory rel'ected now shines on tiie stream. 
 'Tis the star-spangled banner! O, long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 
 
 I 
 
 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore j 
 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion j 
 
 A home and a country should leave us no more? ' 
 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's pel- 1 
 
 lution. j 
 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave, j 
 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave j 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 
 
 O, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand ; 
 
 Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ; : 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued 
 land 
 Praise the power that has made and preserved us a 
 nation. 
 Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just. 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust." 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the homo of the brave ! 
 
 Francis S. Key. 
 
 FREEDOM IRREPRESSIBLE. 
 
 IS said that Persia's baffled king, 
 In mad, tyrannic pride, 
 Cast fetters on the Hellespont, 
 f To curb its swelling tide : 
 
 But freedom's own tme spirit heaves 
 
 The bosom of the main ; 
 It tossed those fetters to the skies. 
 
 And bounded on again ! 
 
 The scorn of each succeeding age 
 
 On Xerxes' head was hurled. 
 And o'er that foolish deed has peiiled 
 
 The long laugh of a world. 
 
 Thus, thus, defeat, and scorn, and shame, 
 
 Is his, who strives to bind 
 The restless, leaping waves of thought, 
 
 The free tide of the mind. 
 Sarah Jane Lippincott, {Grace Greenwood.) 
 
 INDEPENDENCE BELL— JULY 4, 1776. 
 
 When the Decl.irntioii of Indepeiidciice w.ns adopted by Cnn- 
 Rrcss, the event wus niiiiuiiiici.cl hy riiigini; the uld Slale-llou^u 
 boll, which bnre the hisiripliuii " rroclaim liberty throu^lmut tSc 
 land, to all the iiihabilants thereof! " The C'ld bcllm.in slaticim il 
 his little grandson at the door of Ibc hall, to awa.l the iiislructiun^ 
 of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the younp; t>nf int 
 ruslud out, and clapping his hands shouted: — "Kins' Ki:^o! 
 RING I" 
 
 'HERE was a tumult in the city 
 
 In the qiiaint old Quaker town, 
 And the streets were rife with i)eople 
 ■^ Pacing n stiess up and down — 
 
 People gathering at the corners, 
 
 Where they whispered each to each. 
 And the sweat stood on their temples 
 With the earnestness of speech. 
 
 As the bleak Atlantic currents 
 
 Lash the wild Newfoundland shore. 
 So they beat against the State House, 
 
 So they surged against the door ; 
 And the mingling of their voices 
 
 Made the harmony profound. 
 Till the quiet street of Chestinit 
 
 Was all turbulent with sound. 
 
 " Will tliey do it?" '■ Dare they do it?" 
 
 "Who is speaking?" " What's tlie news?" 
 " What of Adams?" "What of Sherman?" 
 
 " Oh, God grant they won't refuse ! " 
 " -Make some way there ! " " Let me nearer 1 " 
 
 " I am stifling ! " "Stifle, then! 
 
 When a nation's life's at hazard, 
 We've no time to think of men ! " 
 
 So they surged against the State House, 
 
 While all .solemnly inside. 
 Sat the " Continental Congress," 
 
 Truth and reason for their guide. 
 O'er a simple scroll debating, 
 
 Wiiich, though simple it might be, 
 Yet should shake the clifis of England 
 
 With the thunders of the free. 
 
 Far aloft in that high steeple 
 
 Sat the bellman, tiki and gray, 
 He was weary of the tyrant 
 
 And his iron-sceptered sway ; 
 So he sat, with one hand ready 
 
 On the clapper of the bell, 
 When his eye could catch the signal, 
 
 The long-e.xpected news, to tell. 
 
 See ! See ! The dense crowd quivers 
 
 Through all its lengthy line, 
 As the boy beside the portal 
 
 Hastens forth to give the sign ! 
 With liis little hands uplifted, 
 
 Breezes dallying with his hair, 
 Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, 
 
 Breaks his young voice on the air : 
 
 
TATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 
 
 243 
 
 Hushed tlie people's swelling murmur, 
 
 Whilst the boy cries joyously ; 
 " Ring ! " he shouts, " Ring ! grandpapa, 
 
 Ring 1 oh, ring for Liberty ! " 
 Quickly, at the given signal 
 
 The old bellman lifts his hand, 
 Forth he sends the good news, making 
 
 Iron music through the land. 
 
 How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! 
 
 How the old bell shook the air. 
 Till the clang of freedom ruffled, 
 
 The calmly gliding Delaware ! 
 How the bonfires and the torches 
 
 Lighted up the night's repose, 
 And from the flames, like fabled Phcenix, 
 
 Our glorious liberty arose ! 
 
 That old State Mouse bell is silent. 
 
 Hushed is now its clamorous tongue ; 
 But the spirit it awakened 
 
 Still is living — ever young ; 
 And when we greet the smiling sunlight 
 
 On the fourth of each July, 
 We will ne'er forget the bellman 
 
 Who, betwixt the earth and sky, 
 Rung out, loudly, "Independence;" 
 
 Which, please God, shall never die ! 
 
 LOVE OF COUNTRY, 
 
 ■BREATHES there the man widi 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 !iome his footsteps he hath turned 
 I'rom wandering on a foreign strand ? 
 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
 
 I'or him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
 
 Hij;h though his titles, proud his name, 
 
 r.oundless his wealth as wish can claim. 
 
 Despite Uiose titles, power and pelf, 
 
 'i'lie wretch, concentred all in self, 
 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 
 AiiJ, doubly dying, shall go down 
 
 To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
 Sir Walter Scot 
 
 T. 
 
 HAIL, COLUMBIA. 
 
 The followinK arcount of the circumstances attenditiK the com- 
 position of this song was communicatcii by the author a few 
 months before his death. " It was written in the summer of 1798, 
 when war with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress 
 wnsthcn in session in Philadelphia, deliberating upon that import- 
 ant subject, and n:ts of hostility had actually taken place. The 
 contest between England and France was raging. The violation 
 of our rights by both belligerents was forcing us from the just and 
 wise policy of President Washington, which was to do equal jus- 
 
 tice to both, to take part with neither, but to preserve n strict and 
 honest neutrality between them. The violence of the spirit of 
 party has never risen higher, I think, in our country, tnan it did 
 at tliat time. The theatre was then open in the city. A young 
 man belonging to it, whose t.ilent was as a singer, was about to 
 take bis benefit. I had known him when he was at school. On 
 this acquaintance, he called on me one Saturday afternoon, his 
 benefit being announced for the following Monday. His prospects 
 were very disheartening ; but he said that if he could get a patri- 
 iilic soi'g adapted to the tune of the ' President's March,' he did 
 iidt don • of a full house; that the poets of the theatrical corps 
 Iiad bee. iryiiig to accomplish it, but had not succeeded. I told 
 Iiitn I would try what I could do for him, He came the next after- 
 noun, and the song was ready for him. The object of the author 
 w as to got up an American spirit, which should be independent 
 < if, and above the interests, p.issions, and policy o( both belliger- 
 ents, and look and feel exclusively for our own honor and rights. 
 N'o allusion is made to France or England, or the quarrel between 
 them, or to the question which was most at fault in their treatment 
 of lis. Of course the song found favor with both parties, for both 
 were Americans. Such is the history of ' Hail, Columbia.' " 
 
 'AIL Columbia, happy land. 
 
 Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-bom band ! 
 
 Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, 
 Who fought and bled in freedom's cause, 
 .•\nd when tlie storm of war was gone 
 Liijoyed the peace your valor won. 
 Let independence be our boast. 
 Ever mindful what it cost ; 
 Ever grateful for the prize. 
 Let its altar reach the skies. 
 
 Firm, united let us be. 
 Rallying round our liberty ; 
 As a band of brothers joined. 
 Peace and safety we shall find. 
 
 Immortal patriots ! ri.se once more : 
 i )efcnd your rights, defend your shore ; 
 Let no rude foe with impious hand. 
 Let no rude foe with impious hand, 
 Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
 Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
 While offering peace sincere and just, 
 In Heaven we place a manly trust. 
 That truth and jusdce will prevail, 
 And every scheme of bondage fail. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of fame ! 
 
 Let Washington's great name 
 
 Ring through the world with loud applause ; 
 Ring through the world with loud applause ; 
 
 Let every clime to freedom dear 
 
 Listen with a joyful ear ! 
 
 With equal skill and godlike power. 
 He governed in the fearful hour 
 Of horrid war ; or guides witli ease 
 The happier times of honest peace. 
 
 riehold the chief who now commands. 
 Once more to serve his country stands — 
 
 The rock on which the storm will beat ; 
 
 The rock on which the storm will beat ; 
 
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 111 
 
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 244 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 But, armed in virtue firm and true, 
 His hopes arc fixed on Heaven and you. 
 When hope was sinking in dismay, 
 And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
 His steady mind, fi-om changes fi-ee, 
 Resolved on death or liberty. 
 
 Joseph Hopkinson. 
 
 GENERAL WARREN'S ADDRESS. 
 
 ' TAND ! the ground's your own, my braves ! 
 Will ye give it up to slaves? 
 Will ye look for greener graves? 
 
 Hope ye mercy still ? 
 What's the mercy despots feel ? 
 Hear it in that battle-peal ! 
 Read it on yon bristling steel ! 
 Ask it — ye who will. 
 
 Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
 Will ye to your homes retire ? 
 Look behind you ! — they're afire ! 
 
 And before you, see 
 Who have done it ! From the vale 
 On they come ! — and will ye quail? 
 Leaden rain and iron hail 
 
 Let their welcome be ! 
 
 In the God of battles trust ! 
 Die we may — and die we must : 
 But, O, where can dust to dust 
 
 Be consigned so well, 
 As where heaven its dews shall shed 
 On the martyred patriot's bed, 
 And the rocks shall raise their head. 
 
 Of his deeds to tell? 
 
 John Pikrpont. 
 
 The fields orget the battles ought, 
 The trenches wave in golden grain : 
 
 Shall we neglect the lessons taught. 
 And tear the wounds agape again ? 
 
 Sweet Mother Nature, nurse the land, 
 
 And heal her wounds with gentle hand. 
 
 Lo ! peace on earth ! Lo ! flock and fold ! 
 
 Lo ! rich abundance, fat increase, 
 And valleys clad in sheen of gold ! 
 
 O, rise and sing a song of peace ! 
 For Theseus roams the land no more. 
 And Janus rests with rusted door. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S SONG OF PEACE. 
 
 FROM "the song OK Tllli CENTENNIAL." 
 
 'HE grass is green on Bunker Hill, 
 The waters sweet in Brandywine ; 
 The sword sleeps in the scabbard still, 
 The farmer keeps his flock and vine; 
 Then who would mar the scene to-day 
 With vaunt of battle-field or fray ? 
 
 The brave corn lifts in regiments 
 Ten thousand sabres in the sun ; 
 
 The ricks replace the battle-tents, 
 The bannered tassels toss and run. 
 
 The neighing steed, the bugle's blast, 
 
 These be but stories of the past. 
 
 The earth has healed her wounded breast. 
 The cannons plough the field no more; 
 
 The heroes rest ! O, let them rest 
 In peace along the peaceful shore ! 
 
 They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; 
 
 They sleep in peace, and all is well. 
 
 ON LAYING THE CORNER STONE OF THE 
 BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 IS not this a holy spot ? 
 
 'Tis the high place of freedom's birth ! 
 • God of our fathers ! is it not' 
 
 The holiest spot of all the earth ? 
 
 Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; 
 
 The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; 
 And those old men, thy seers, abide 
 
 No more on Zion's mournful brow. 
 
 But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt. 
 Since round its head the war-cloud curled, 
 
 And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt 
 In prayer and battle for a world. 
 
 Here sleeps their dust : 'tis holy ground : 
 And we, the children of the brave. 
 
 From the four winds are gathered round, 
 To lay our offering on their grave. 
 
 Free as the winds around us blow, 
 Free as the waves below us spread. 
 
 We rear a pile, that long shall throw 
 Its shadow on their sacred bed. 
 
 But on their deeds no shade shall fall, 
 While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame. 
 
 Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, 
 And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 
 
 lOHN PlERPONT. 
 
 THE WOODS OF TENNESSEE. 
 
 'HE whip-poor-will is calling 
 
 From its perch on splintered limb, 
 And the plaintive notes are echoing 
 Through the isles of the forest dim ; 
 The slanting threads of starlight 
 Are silvering shrub and tree. 
 And the spot where the loved are sleeping, 
 In the woods of Tennessee. 
 
PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 
 
 245 
 
 The leaves arc gently rustling, 
 
 But they're stained with a tinge of red, 
 For they proved ta many a soldier 
 
 Their last and lonely bed. 
 As they prayed in mortal agony 
 
 To flod t ) set them free, 
 Death touched them with his finger 
 
 In the woods of Tennessee. 
 
 In the list of the killed and wounded, 
 
 Ah me ! alas ! we saw 
 The name of our noble brother, 
 
 Wlio went to the Nation's war. 
 He fell in the tide of battle 
 
 On the banks of the old " Hatchie," 
 And rests 'neath the wild grape arbors 
 
 In the woods of Tennessee. 
 
 Many still forms are lying 
 
 In their forgotten graves. 
 On the green slopes of the hillsides, 
 
 Along Potomac's waves ; 
 But thememory will be ever sweet 
 
 Of him so dear to me. 
 On his coimtry's altar offered, 
 
 In the woods of Tennessee. 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 P Irom the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn. 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand. 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
 When Lee marched over the moimtain wall. 
 
 Over the mountains winding down. 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars. 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars, 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw noi one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
 Bowed with her four score years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town. 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down. 
 
 In her attic-window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! "—the dust-brown ranks stood fa.st ; 
 " Fire ! "—out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash, 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell from the broken stall" 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
 But spare your country's flag," she sr.id. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman's deed and word. 
 
 "Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 
 
 All dny long that free flag tossed 
 Over the heads of the serried host. 
 
 Ever its torn foldi rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it w^ll ; 
 
 And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
 .Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 
 
 And the soldier rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fail, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
 I'"hig of Freedom and Union, wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round tiiy symbol of ligiit and lav.' ; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town. 
 
 John Ckeenli;.\k Whitti!;r. 
 
 » .1 n^ 
 
 % 
 
 THE MARSEILLAISE. 
 
 E sons of freedom, wake to glory ! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! what myriads bid you rise ! 
 Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, 
 Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
 Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding, 
 With hireling hosts, a nifflan band, 
 Afiright and desolate the land. 
 While peace and liberty lie bleeding? 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! 
 
 The avenging sword unsheathe ; 
 March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 
 On victory or death. 
 
 »:? ^' 
 
 .i:H' 
 
246 
 
 CROVvX ji:\vi:i.s. 
 
 * ,' 
 
 li 
 
 I ' i 
 
 ! ;v!i 
 
 > ' 
 
 Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, 
 
 Wliich treacherous kings confederate raise ; 
 The dogs of war, let loose, are howling. 
 
 And lo ! our fields and cities blaze ; 
 And shall we basely view the ruin. 
 
 While lawless force, wiili guilty stride. 
 Spreads desolation f.ir and wide, 
 With crimes and blood his hands imbruing. 
 
 O liberty ! can man resign tiice. 
 
 Once having felt tliy generous flame? 
 Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee .' 
 
 Or whips thy noble spirit tame? 
 Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
 That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield, 
 But freedom is our sword and shield, 
 And all their arts are unavailing. 
 
 Rol'ge:' dk Lisle. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 
 
 ■ OU know we French stormed Ratisbon : 
 A mile or so away. 
 On a little mound. Napoleon 
 Stood on our storming-day ; 
 With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
 As if to balance the prone brow, 
 Oppresive with its mind. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans 
 
 That soar, to earth may fall. 
 Let once my army-leader Lannes 
 
 Waver at yonder wall " — 
 Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached the mound. 
 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy, 
 
 And held himself erect 
 By just his horse's mane, a boy ; 
 
 You hardly could suspect 
 (So tig'U he kept his lips compressed. 
 
 Scarce any blood rame through). 
 You looked twice ere you saw liis bre.ist 
 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 " Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace. 
 
 We'\'e got you Ratisbon ! 
 The marshal's in the market place. 
 
 And you'll be there anon 
 To see your flag-bird flap his vana 
 
 Where I, to heart's desire. 
 Perched him!" The chiefs eye flashed ; his i)lans 
 
 Soared up again like fire. 
 The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 
 
 Softened itaelf, as sheatlies 
 
 A film the mother-eagle's eye 
 When her bruised eaglet breatlies : 
 
 You're wounded ! " " Nay," his .soldier's pride 
 Touched to the quick, he said : 
 
 I'm killed, sire I " And, his chief beside. 
 Smiling, the boy fell dead. 
 
 ROHKRT liRUWNI.NC 
 
 RULE BRITANNIA. 
 
 IIEN Britain first, at Heaven's command. 
 Arose from out the azure main. 
 This was the charter of the land, 
 And guardian angels sung the strain : 
 Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! 
 Britons never shall be slaves. 
 
 The nations not so blest as thee, 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 
 
 Whilst tliou shall flourish great and free, 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies. 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 
 
 All their attempts to bend thje down 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
 
 Aiitl work their woe and thy renown. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
 All shall be subject to the main. 
 
 And every shore it circles thine. 
 
 The Muses, still with freedom found, 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
 
 Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYS- 
 BURG CEMETERY. 
 
 ('J^yyOURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers 
 brought forth upon this continent a new iia 
 tion, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to 
 the proposition that all men are created equal. 
 Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing 
 whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and 
 so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a 
 great battle-field of that war. We are met to dcdi 
 cate a portion of it as the final resting-place of tl'.ose 
 who here gave their lives that that nation might live. 
 It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do 
 this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we 
 cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. 
 
 m 
 
PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 
 
 247 
 
 The bra%'e men, living and dead, who struggled here, 
 have conhecrated it far above our power to add or 
 detract. The world will little note, nor long remem- 
 ber what we say here, but it can never forget what 
 they did here. 
 
 It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here 
 to the unfuiished work they have thus far so nobly 
 carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated 
 to the great task remaining before us, that from these 
 honored dead we take increased devotion to the 
 cause for which they gave the last full measure of de- 
 votion , that we here highly resolve that these dead 
 shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, 
 under God, have a new birth ol freedom, and that 
 the government of the people, by the people, and for 
 the people shall not perish from the earth. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln. 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 
 
 Many of the women of the South, animated by noble sentiments, 
 have shown themselves impartial in their oRerintjs made to the 
 nitmory of the dead They have strewn flowers alike on the 
 t;ravesof the Confederate and of the National soldiirs. 
 
 J Y the flow of the inland river, 
 
 Whence the fleets of iron have fled. 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass cjuivcr. 
 Asleep on the ranks of the dead ; — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day ; 
 Under the one, the Blue, 
 Under the other, the Gray. 
 
 These in the robings of glory, 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat, 
 All with the battle-blood gory. 
 In the dusk of eternity meet : — 
 Under the .sod and tiie dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day ; 
 Under the laurel, the Blue, 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours, 
 
 The desolate mourners go, 
 Lovingly laden with flowers. 
 Alike for the friend and the foe : — 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day ; 
 Under the roses, the Blue, 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So, with an equal splendor. 
 The morning sun-rays fall. 
 With a touch impartially tender. 
 On tile blossoms blooming for all : — 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day ; 
 Broidered with gold, the P.lue, 
 Mellowed witli gold, the Gray. 
 
 So, when the summer calleth, 
 On forest and field of grain 
 With an ecjual murmur falleth 
 The cooling dnp of tlie rain : — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting t!ie judgment day ; 
 Wet with tlie rain, the Blue, 
 Wet with the rain, ihe Gray. 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
 
 The generous deed was done ; 
 In the storm ol the years tliat are fading. 
 No braver battle was won : — 
 Under the sod and tlie dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day ; 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 No more shall the war cry sever, 
 Or the winding livers be red ; 
 They banish our anger forever 
 When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 .Waiting the judgment day ; 
 Love and tears for tlie Blue, 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 I'. M. Finch. 
 
 PATRIOTISM 
 
 HAT is patriotism ? Is it a narrow alTec- 
 lion for the spot where a man was born ? 
 Are the very clods where we tread entiili-il 
 to this ardent preference because lliey 
 are greener? No, sir: this is not the character 
 of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. Ii 
 is an extended self-love, mint;ling with all the en- 
 joyments of life, and twisting itself with the 
 minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey 
 the laws of society, because they are the laws of vir- 
 tue. In their authority we see, not the array of force 
 and terror, but the venerable image of our country':, 
 honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his 
 own, and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sa- 
 cred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, and is 
 conscious that he gains protection while he gives it; (or 
 what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable 
 when a State renounces the principles that constitute 
 111' ir security ? Or, if his life should not be invaded, 
 what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in 
 the eyes of strangers and di. honored in his own? 
 Could he look with affection and veneration to such a 
 country as his parent? The sense of having or.e 
 would die within him ; he would blush for his patri- 
 otism, if he retained any, and justly, for it would be 
 a vice. He would be a banishcil man in his native 
 
 land. 
 
 Fisher Ames. 
 
 
 * ,ili 
 
 
248 
 
 CROWN ji<:vvi:ls. 
 
 '(. I! 
 
 j!' i 
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 •JT"*! II'^ l)roa!;infi waves tlashcci hisli 
 k(^\ Oil a stern and rock-bounil coast, 
 \^/ And llij woods against a stormy sky 
 f Tlicir giant branches tossed. 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 
 
 Tile hills and waters o'er, 
 When a band of e.xiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted came ; 
 Not witli the roll of the stirring drums. 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame. 
 
 Not as the (lying come. 
 
 In silence and in fear ; 
 They shook the deptiis of the desert gloom 
 
 Willi their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 To llie anthem of tlic free. 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 
 
 This was their welcome home ! 
 
 There ncrc men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : — 
 Why had they come to wither tliere. 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 Tlu re was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 Wiiat sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 The soil where first they trod ; 
 They left unstained what there they found — 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 ON BEING FOUND GM'LTY OF TREASON. 
 
 li- ■ it, 
 
 JURY of my countrymen have found me 
 guilty of the crime for which I stood in- 
 dicted. For this I entertain not the slightest 
 feeling of resentment towards them. Influ- 
 enct d, as they must have been, by the charge of the 
 lord chief justice, they could have found no other 
 verdict. What of that charge? Any strong obser- 
 vations on it I feel sincerely would ill befit the 
 solemnity of this scene; but I would earnestly be- 
 
 seech of you, my Lord—you who p-r side on that 
 bench— when the passions and prejudices of this 
 hour have passed away, to appeal to your own con- 
 science, and to ask of it, was your charge as it ouvjlii 
 to have been, inipartiil and indifTerent between the 
 subject and the crown ? 
 
 My Lords, you may deem this language unbecom- 
 ing in me, and perhaps it will seal my fate. But I 
 am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost; I 
 am here to regret nothing I have ever done,— to re- 
 tract nothing I have ever said. I am here to crave, 
 with no lying lip, the life I consecrate to the liberty of 
 my country. Far from it, even here — here, where the 
 thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left their foot- 
 prints in the dust ; here on this spot, where the 
 shadows of death surround me, and from which I see 
 my early grave in an unanointed soil opened to re- 
 ceive me — even here, encircled by these terrors, the 
 hope which has beckoned me to the perilous sea 
 upon which I have been wrecked, still consoles, ani- 
 mates, enraptures me. 
 
 No ; I do not despair of my poor old country— her 
 peace, her liberty, her glory. For that country, I 
 can do no more than bid her hope. To lift this island 
 up ; to make her a benefactor to humanity, instead of 
 being the meanest beggar in the world; to restore 
 her to her native powers and her ancient constitution, 
 — this has been my ambition, and this ambition has 
 been my crime. Judged by the law of England, 
 I know this crime entails the penalty of death ; but 
 the history of Ireland explains this crime, and justifies 
 it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal— I de- 
 serve no punishment. Judged by that history, the 
 treason of which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, 
 is sanctioned as a duty, will be ennobled as a sacrifice. 
 With these sentiments, my Lord, I await the sentence 
 of the court. 
 
 Having done what 1 felt to be my duty, having 
 spoken what I felt to be the truth — as I have done on 
 every other occasion of my short career — I now bid 
 farewell to the country of my birth, my passion, and 
 my death ; the country whose misfortunes have in- 
 voked my sympathies; whose factions I have sought 
 to still ; whose intellect I have prompted to a lofty 
 aim ; whose freedom has been my fatal dream. I 
 offer to that country, as a proof of the love I bear 
 her, and the sincerity with which I thought and spoke 
 and struggled for her freedom, the life of a young 
 heart, and with that life all the hopes, the honors, the 
 endearments, of a happy and an honored home. 
 Pronounce, then, my Lords, the sentence which the 
 laws direct, and I will be prepared to hear it. I trust 
 I shall be prepared to meet its execution. I hope to 
 be able, with a pure heart and perfect composure, to 
 appear before a higher tribunal, a tribunal where a 
 Judge of infinite goodness as well as of justice will 
 preside, and where, my Lords, many, many of the 
 judgments of this world will be reversed. 
 
 Thomas Francis Meagher. 
 
PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 
 
 249 
 
 BATTLE HYMN Oh THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 mINE eyes have seen tlie glory of the coming of 
 the Lord ; 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the 
 grapes of wrath are stored 1 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift 
 sword ; 
 His trutli is marching on. 
 
 1 have seen him in the watcii fires of a hundred circling 
 camps ; 
 
 Tiiey have builded him an altar in the evening dews 
 and damps : 
 
 I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flar- 
 ing lamps : 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of 
 
 steel : 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 
 
 grace shall deal : 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 
 
 his hetl, 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He lias sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
 retreat ; 
 
 He is sifting out tlie hearts of men before his judgment- 
 scat ; 
 
 Oil he swift my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant, mv 
 feet ! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 Ill the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the 
 
 sea. 
 With a glory in his bosGiu that transfigures you and me : 
 .\s he died to make men holy, let us die to make men 
 free. 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 Julia Ward Howe. 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY. 
 
 A.\ INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. 
 
 eAPTAlN GRAHAM, the men were sayin' 
 Ye would want a drummer lad, 
 •So I've brought my boy .Sandie, 
 Tho' my heart is woeful sad ; 
 Hut nae bread is left to feed us. 
 
 And no si'.ler to buy more. 
 For the gudeman sleeps forever. 
 Where the heather blossoms o'er. 
 
 "Sandie, make your manners quickly, 
 Play your blithest measure true — 
 Give us ' Flowers of Edinboro', 
 
 While yon fifer plays it too. 
 Captain, heard ye e'er a player 
 Strike in truer time than he ? ' 
 " Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray 
 Drummer of our corps shall !;e. " 
 
 " I give ye thanks — but. Captain, maybe 
 
 Ye will hae a kindly care 
 For the friendless, lonely laddie. 
 
 When the battle wark is sair : 
 For .Sandies aye been good and gentle, 
 
 Antl I've nothing else to Inve, 
 Nothing — but the grave off yonder, 
 
 And the Father up above." 
 
 Then, her rough hand gently laying 
 
 On the curl-encircled head. 
 She blessed her boy. The tent was silent. 
 
 And not another word was said ; 
 For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming 
 
 ( )f a benison, long ago, 
 Hre.ilhed above his head, then golden, 
 
 Bending now, and touched with snow. 
 
 " Good-bye, Sandie," "Good-bye, mother, 
 
 I'll come back some sununer day ; 
 Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers 
 
 F.ver. Do they. Captain Gra ? 
 
 One more kiss— watch for me, mother, 
 
 Vou will know 'tis surely me 
 Coming home — for you will hear me 
 
 Playing soft the reveille." 
 
 After battle. Moonbeams ghastly 
 
 Seemed to link in strange affright, 
 As the scudding clouds before them 
 
 .Shadowed faces dead and white ; 
 And the night-wind softly whispered. 
 
 When low moans its light wing bore — 
 Moans that ferried spirits over 
 
 Death's dark wave to yonder shore. 
 
 Wandering where a footstep careless 
 
 Might go splashing down in blood. 
 Or a helpless hand lie grasping 
 
 Death and daisies from the sod — 
 Captain Graham walked swift onward, 
 
 While a faintly-beaten drum 
 Quickened heart and step tntjether : 
 
 " Sandie Murray 1 See, 1 come 1 
 
 " Is it thus I find you, laddie ? 
 W^ounded, lonely, lying here, 
 Playing thus the reveille ? 
 
 See — the morning is not near." 
 A moment paused the drummer boy, 
 And lifted up liis drooping head : 
 " Oh, Captain Gr.aham, the light is coining, 
 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. 
 
 " Morning ! See, the plains grow brighter — 
 
 Morning — and I'm going home ; 
 That is why I play the measure, 
 
 Mother will not see me come ; 
 But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain — " 
 
 Hush, the boy has sjjoken true ; 
 To him the d.ay has dawned forever, 
 
 Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 
 
 inihin 
 
 • ii-ir II 
 
 ;• 'llif'i 
 
 Wl| 
 
]i! 
 
 !ii: 
 
 ^1 I 
 
 Jir;i ,;, 
 
 Mh 
 
 ;850 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 /^ AND of my fathers ! — though no mangrove here 
 ••• r O'er thy blue streams her flexile brandies rear; 
 ■i^ Nor scaly palm her fingered scions shoot ; 
 Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit ; 
 Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree ; — 
 Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free ! 
 Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot ! runs. 
 With unatonid blood of Gambia's sons : 
 No drooping slave, with spirit bowed to toil, 
 Grows, like tlie wetd, self-rooted to the soil, 
 Nor cringing v.issal on these pansied me-ads 
 Is bought and bartered, as the flock he feeds. 
 Free as the lark that carols o'er his head. 
 At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed, 
 Binds to t'le yoke his sturdy steers with care. 
 And, whistling loud, directs the mining share : 
 Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain. 
 And heajjs his harvest on the groaning wain ; 
 Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, 
 And vain of Scotia's old uncomiuered might. 
 
 John Levden. 
 
 ARNOLD WINKELRIED 
 
 In the battle ofSempacli, in the fourteenth century, this mnrtyr- 
 patriot, perceivint; that tliere was no otlier means o{ breaking the 
 heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gatherint; as many ol 
 their spears as he cuutd grasp together, opened, by this means, a 
 passage for his fellow-combatants, who, with hammers and 
 hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms and won the vic- 
 
 tory. 
 
 '^m 
 
 AKE way for liberty ! " he cried — 
 Made way for liberty, and died ! 
 
 ^,'!'i 
 
 In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 
 A living wall, a human wood ; 
 Impregnable their front appears, 
 All horrent with projected spears. 
 Opposed to these, a hovering band 
 Contended for their fatherland, 
 Peaiiants, whose new-found strength had broke 
 From manly necks the ignoble yoke ; 
 Marshalled once more at freedom's call. 
 They came to conquer or to fall. 
 
 And now the work of life and death 
 
 riung on the passing of a breath ; 
 
 The fire of conflct burned within ; 
 
 The battle trembled to begin : 
 
 Yet, while the Austrians held their ground 
 
 Point for assault was nowhere found ; 
 
 Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 
 
 The unbroken line of lances blazed ; 
 
 That line 't were suicide to meet, 
 
 And perish at their tyrants' feet. 
 
 How could they rest within their graves, 
 
 To leave their homes the haunts of slaves? 
 
 Would they not feel their children tread, 
 
 With clanking chains, above their head ? 
 
 It must not be : this day, this hour, 
 Aiuiihilatesthe invader's power! 
 All Switzerland is in the field — 
 She will nut fly ; she cannot yiild ; 
 She must not fall ! her better fate 
 1 lere gives her an immortal dr.te. 
 Few were the numbers she coiikl boa:;t, 
 But every freeman was a host. 
 And felt as if 't were a secret known 
 Th.it one should turn the scale aleiie. 
 While each unto himself wa;i Ik; 
 On whose sole arm hung vicleTy. 
 
 It did depend on one, indeed ; 
 
 Behold him— Arnold Wiiikelrieil ! 
 
 There sounds not to the lrumi> of fame 
 
 The echo of a nobler name. 
 
 Unmarked, he stood amid the throng, 
 
 In rumination deep and long, 
 
 Till you might see, with sudden grace, 
 
 The very thought come o'er his face ; 
 
 And, by the motion of his form, 
 
 Anticipate the bursting storm ; 
 
 And, by the uplifting of his brow. 
 
 Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 
 
 But 't was no sooner thought tlian do;ie — 
 
 The field was in a moment won ! 
 ' Make way for liberty I " he cried. 
 
 Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
 
 As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 
 
 Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 
 ' Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; 
 
 Tliejr keen points crossed from side to side • 
 
 He bowed among them like a tree. 
 
 And thus made way for liberty. 
 
 Swift to the breach his comrades fly — 
 ' Make way for liberty I " they cry, 
 And through tiie Austrian phalanx d.irt, 
 As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart ; 
 While, instantaneous as his (all, 
 Rout, ruin, panic sei/ed them all. 
 An earthqunke could not overthrow 
 A city with a surer blow. 
 
 Thus .Switzerland again was free — 
 Thus death made way for liberty. 
 
 Ja.mes Montgomkhv. 
 
 DIE WACHT AM RHEIN— (THE WATCH ON 
 THE RHINE.) 
 
 /'T^ ROAR like thunder strikes the ear, 
 f '^ Like clang of arms or breakers near, 
 ^^ " On for the Rhine, the German Rhine I " 
 "Who shields thee, my beloved Rhine? " 
 Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear— 
 Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. 
 
 A hundred thousand hearts beat high, 
 The flash darts forth from every eye, 
 
 Ki. ' 
 
PATRIOTISM AND FREICDOM. 
 
 Uol 
 
 For Teutons brave, inured by toil, 
 Protect their country's holy soil. 
 Dear Fallicrland, lliou nccd'.st not fear — 
 Thy Rhint'land wati.ii stands firmly here. 
 
 Tlie heart may brealc in agony, 
 Yet Frenchmen thuu shall niver be. 
 In water rich is Rhine ; thy lluud, 
 Gerniania, rich in heroes' blood. 
 Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear— 
 T!iy Rhineland watch stands firmly liere. 
 
 When heavenward ascends the eye, 
 Our heroes' ghosts loolc down from high; 
 We swear to guard our dear betjuust. 
 And shield it with the German breast. 
 Dtar Fatherland, thou need'st not fear — 
 Thy Rhineland watch stands lirnily litre. 
 
 As long as German blood still glows. 
 The German sword strikes mighty blows, 
 And German marksmen take their stand, 
 N(j foe shall tread our native land. 
 Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fe.ir — 
 Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. 
 
 We take the pledge. The stream runs by ; 
 Our banners proud, are wafting high. 
 On for the Rhine, the German Rhine ! 
 We all die for our native Rhine. 
 Hence, Fatherland, be of good cheer — 
 Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 
 
 II ! give me back tliat royal dream 
 ,$' I My fancy wrought. 
 
 When I have seen your sunny eyes 
 ^•' Grow moist with thought ; 
 
 And fondly hoped, dear love, your heart fruiii mine 
 
 Its spell had caught ; 
 And laid me down to dream that dream divine, 
 But true, methoui;ht. 
 Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours 
 blessed as it ought. 
 
 To learn to love sweet nature more 
 
 For your sweet sake. 
 To watch with you — dear friend, with you I — 
 
 Its wonders break ; 
 The sparkling spring in that bright face to see 
 
 Its mirror make — 
 On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing 
 
 By linn and lake ; 
 And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a 
 grander music wake I 
 
 To wake the old weird world that sleeps 
 
 In Iri>h lore ; 
 The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 
 
 By Mulla's shore ; 
 
 Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple hints 
 
 That shine and soar ; 
 Tone's fuTy lio!)es, and all tlie dialhless vows 
 That G rattan swore ; 
 The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — all me ! 
 to sing no more. 
 
 And all those proud old victor-tielils 
 
 We thrill to name. 
 Whose memories are the stars that light 
 
 I.<jng nights of shame ; 
 The Caim, tlie Dan, the Rath, the Power, tlie l\c ;>, 
 
 That still proclaim 
 In chronicles of cla) aiul stone, how true, \uiw t\u- p 
 
 Was Eire's fame ; 
 Uh ! we shall see them all, with her, that iLar, dear 
 friend we two have loved the same. 
 
 Yet ah 1 how truer, tenderer still 
 
 Melhuught did seem 
 That scene of traiujuil joy, that happy home 
 
 By Dodtler's stream. 
 'I'lie morning smile, th;it grew a fixed star 
 
 With love-lit beam, 
 The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the f.ir 
 
 And siiining stream 
 Of d.-iily love, that made our daily life diviner than a 
 liream. 
 
 I'or still to nie, dear friend, tlear love. 
 
 Or both — de:-.r wife, 
 ^■c)ur image comes wilii serious tli.^ugliLs, 
 
 Hut tender, rife ; 
 No idle plaything to caress or chido 
 
 In sport or strife. 
 But my best chosen friend, companion, guidi.', 
 To walk through life. 
 Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true 
 husband and true wife. 
 
 Sir Charles Gavan Dii-kv. 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 OW slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main ! 
 Amid the heavy billows now she seems 
 A toiling atom — then from wave to wave 
 Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed — or reels, 
 Ilaif wrecked, through gulfs profound. 
 
 — rjoons, wax and wane. 
 But still that lonely traveler treads the deep. — 
 I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers 
 Wiih such a tardy movement, thai it seems 
 Stern winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, 
 And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds.— 
 They land! — They land ! — not like the Genoese, 
 With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye 
 Kindling with golden fancies. — Forth they come 
 From their long prison— hardy forms, that brave 
 The world's unkindness — men of hoary hair, 
 And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave, 
 
 m 
 
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 i 'If 
 
 ■i .!» 
 
 ;*;-i 
 
 i!:- 
 
il I, 
 
 2o2 
 
 CROWN ji:vvi:i,s. 
 
 M ' 1 
 
 ■If. 
 
 Who hush tlie wailing Infant with a i;tan(i'. — 
 Ilieak nature's desolation wraps tlicnj rounii, 
 ICturnal forests and iinyieldintj earth, 
 And savage nien, who tiiroiij;h tlic tiiickets peer 
 With venj;eful arrow. — What coiiM liiro tin ir steps 
 To this dreary desert? — Ask of him wlio left 
 }{is father shunie to roam throiij;i> Ilar.m'swilds, 
 Distrustinj; not the Guiile who called him forth, 
 Nor douhting, though a stranger, that his seed 
 ShonKl be as ocean's sands. — 
 
 ** lid can ye deem it stran;;e 
 That from their i)lanting sr.ch a branch should bloom 
 As nations envy. — Would a germ, embalmed 
 With prayer's pure teardrops, strike no deeper root 
 Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew 
 Upon the winds, to reap the winds ajiain ? 
 Hid by its veil of waters from the hand 
 Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth 
 In giant strength. — 
 
 Its early clusters crushed 
 In England's winepress, gave the tyrant host 
 A draught of deadly wine, O, ye who boast 
 In your free veins the blood of sires like these, 
 Lose not their lineaments I Should Mammon cling 
 Too close around your heart — or wealth beget 
 That bloated lu.xury which eats the core 
 From manly virtue— or the tempting world 
 Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul. 
 Turn ye to Plymouth's beach — and on thit r. x k 
 Kneel in their footprints, and renew the vow 
 They breathed to God. 
 
 LVDIA HUNTKEV SlGni K.NKV. 
 
 a 
 
 &: 
 
 THE PICKET GUARD. 
 
 LL quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
 ' I'^xcept now and then a stray picket 
 Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and 
 fro, 
 By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
 'Tis nothing ; a private or two, now and then, 
 
 Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
 Not an officer lost — only one of the men. 
 Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.' 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to night, 
 
 Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
 Their tents in the rays of the clear autimin moon, 
 
 Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
 A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind 
 
 Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; 
 While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 
 
 Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 
 
 There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread 
 As he tramps from the rock to the fountain. 
 
 And he thinks of the two in the low trnndle-bed. 
 Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
 
 Ills musket f.ilis slack ; his face, d.irk and grim, 
 
 Grows gentle with mem(jrie» tender, 
 As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 
 
 I'or their mother -may Heaven defend her! 
 
 I'he moon seems to shine just as brightly as then 
 
 That night wlien the love yet unspoken 
 Leaped up to his lips — when low, murmured vous 
 
 Were pledged to be ever unbroken ; 
 Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. 
 
 He dashes olT tears that are welling, 
 .\nd gathers his gun closer up to its place. 
 
 As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 
 
 I le passea the fountain, the blasted pine-tree— 
 
 The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
 Vet oiuvard he goes, through the broad belt of li-ln, 
 
 Toward the sliades of the forest so dreary. 
 Hark I was it the night-wind that rustli d the leave;.? 
 
 Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 
 It looked like a rillc : " Ha I Mary, good-by !" 
 
 And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night — 
 
 No sound save the rush of the river ; 
 While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— 
 
 The picket's olTduty forever. 
 
 Ethelin Ei.iot Dekks. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
 
 'HE muflled drum's sad roll has beat 
 The soldier's last tattoo ; 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 The brave and fallen few. 
 On fame's eternal camping-ground 
 
 Their silent tents are sjiread. 
 And glory guards with solemn round 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind, 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind ; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms. 
 No braying horn or screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed, 
 Their haughty banner trailed in dust 
 
 Is now their martial shroud— 
 And plenteous funeral tears have waslu, 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And the proud forms by battle gashed 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast. 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 
 
 The din and shout are passed — 
 
 S! » ., 
 
PATRIOTISM AND l-Rl'l-.DOM. 
 
 2oT 
 
 Nor war's wild note, nor glory's pjul, 
 
 Sliali thrill with Ik-rt (• ilolij;lit 
 Tliosf breasts that iicvi-r njorc may foci 
 
 'rhc rapture of thu figlit. 
 
 Like tiic Ikrcc northern hurricane 
 
 That s\vi'C|)s his j;r<_'at plateau, 
 Khislu'il with ihtr triumph yet to nain 
 
 Came clown the serried foe — 
 Wlui heard the tliuncler of tiu' fr.iy 
 
 IJreak o'er the I'lelil benealh, 
 Knew well tile watchword of that day 
 
 Was victory or death. 
 
 I'ull many a mother's hrer.lh hat'i swopt 
 
 O'er Anjjostuni's plain, 
 And loiiK the pitying sky hr.s wept 
 
 Above its mouldered slain. 
 The raven's scream, or eagic's ni;;ht, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
 Alone now wake each soknni h.ii^ht 
 
 That frowned o'er that dead fray. 
 
 Sons of the dark and bloody ground, 
 
 Ve must not slnniber there, 
 Where stranger steps and tonguos resonnil 
 
 Along the heedless air I 
 Your own proud land's licroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave ; 
 
 She claims from war its richest r.p^il — 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'ni'ath their |)arent turf they rest, 
 
 I'ar fronj the gory field, 
 Ilorne to a Spartan mother's briast 
 
 ( )n m;iny a bloody shield. 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 .Sliines sadly on them here. 
 And kindreil eyes and hearts watch l^y 
 
 The heroes' sepulchre. 
 
 liest on, embalmed and s.tinted dea 1 ! 
 
 Dear as the bkxjd ye gave ; 
 No impious fu(jtstep here shall treail 
 
 Tlvj herbage of your grave ! 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 Wiiile fame her record keeps. 
 Or honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where valor proudly sleeps, 
 
 ^'l)n marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell. 
 When many a vanished yi;ar hath ilown. 
 
 The st(jry how ye fell ; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's bll^^lit. 
 
 Nor time's remorseless doom. 
 Can dim one ray of holy light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
 Tniiouoiiii O'IIak.v. 
 
 • All 
 
 m 
 
 4\ 
 
 \:k 
 
1-1' 
 
 
 
 ?(l' 
 
 'h'f ■•! 1 ' 
 
 ■4 
 
 pllj, 
 
 
 I 1 '.•'''■ 
 
 1 
 
 SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 THE CREOLE LOVER'S SONG 
 
 IGHT wind, whispering 
 wind, wind 
 Carili sea ; 
 Tile palms and tlie still 
 lagoon. 
 Long for tliy coming soon ; 
 But first mj' lady find : 
 Haste nor look behind, 
 night, to-night, love's her- 
 ald be. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN 
 
 IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
 YARD. 
 
 HE curfew tolls the knell of parting d;iy, 
 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er llie ka ; 
 The ploughman homeward plods his wijary 
 T way, 
 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
 
 Save where the beetle whce's iiis droning flight. 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
 The moping owl d'jth to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandcj-ing near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 there, 
 And steal from the orange groves 
 ' T!ie breath of a thousand loves, 
 To bear her ere she sleep. 
 
 feathery bamboo moves, 
 the dewy plantains weep ; 
 From the jasmine thicket 
 
 bear 
 The scents that are swooning Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 
 Where heaves the tuiT in many a mouldering heap, 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 And the lone bird's tp-.ucr song that rings from the 
 ceil^a tree : 
 
 Trie fire-fly's light and the glow 
 
 Of the moonlit waters low — 
 
 All things that to-night belong, 
 
 And can do my love no wrong. 
 Hear her this hour for me. 
 
 Speed thee, speed thee, wind of the deep, for the cy- 
 clone comes in wrath. 
 
 The distant forests moan : 
 
 Thou hast but an hour thine own, 
 
 An hour thy tryst to keep, 
 
 Ere the hounds of tempest leap. 
 And follow upon thy path. 
 
 Whisperer, tarry a space, she waits for thee in the 
 night, 
 
 She leans from her casement there. 
 
 With the star-blooms in her hair, 
 
 And a shadow falls like lace 
 
 From the fern-tree over her face. 
 And oyer her mantle white. 
 
 Spirit of air and fire, to-night my herald be ; 
 
 Tell her I love her well, 
 
 And all that I bid the tell, 
 
 And fold her ever the nigher, 
 
 With the strength of my soul's desire : 
 Wind, wind of the Carib sea. 
 
 The breezy ca'l of incense-breathing morn, 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill cbrion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 
 How jocund did they drive tlieir team afield ! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 
 
 Await alike the inevitible hour ; — 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
 If memory o"er their tomb no tropiiies raise, 
 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 I Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 
 
 (254) 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 255 
 
 Perhaps in tliis neglected spot is laid 
 St'iiie heart once prc:;na;it wi'Ji celestial fire ; 
 
 Hands tliat llio rod of empire nii:4ht have swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
 
 But I:nowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
 
 Chill penury repressed their no'.ile rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 The dark, unfalhomcd caves (jf ocean bear; 
 
 Full many a flower is Iiorn to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
 Some Cromwell, g^uiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command, 
 Tlie threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a .smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a tlirone, 
 And shut the g.ates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 
 OrlK-ap llie shrine of luxury and pric'.e 
 With incense kindled at the muse's llame. 
 
 Far from t!ie madding crowd's ignoble strife 
 Tlieir sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 
 Ailing the cool, sequestered vale of life 
 Tiiey kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 
 Si line frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 AikI many a lioly text around she strews, 
 
 Tiirit tench the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For wlio, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
 Tliis jjleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 
 
 Left t!ie warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 
 E'en from tiie tomb the voice of n.aturo cries, 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
 Dost in these lines '.leir artless tale relate ; 
 
 If 'chance, Ijy lonely contemplation led, 
 ;3ome kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
 " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn. 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
 
 " One morn I missed him on the '.ustomed hill, 
 Along tlie heath, and near his favunte tree ; 
 
 .'\nother came — nor yet beside t!ie rill. 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 
 
 " The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
 .Slow tlirough the church-way path we saw him borne ; — 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 Graved on the stone bene.ath yon aged thorn.'' 
 
 THE EPITAPH, 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
 
 Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, 
 And melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 
 
 I leaven did a recompense as largely send . 
 He gave to misery all he had— a tear ; 
 
 He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend 
 
 No further seek his merits to disclose. 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode : 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 ^ 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 H, never sit we down, and say 
 
 There's nothing left but sorrow I 
 We walk the wilderness to-day. 
 The promised land to-morrow. 
 
 And though age wearies by the way, 
 
 And hearts break in the furrow, 
 We'll sow the golden grain to-day, 
 
 And har\'est comes to-morrow. 
 
 Build up heroic lives, and all 
 
 Be like a sheathen sabre. 
 Ready to flash out at God's call, 
 
 O chivalry of labor ! 
 
 Triumph and toil are twins ; and aye 
 
 Joy suns the cloud of sorrow ; 
 And 't is the martyrdom to-day 
 
 Brings victory to-morrow. 
 
 Gerald Massey. 
 
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 256 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 'ELL nie not, in mournful numbers, 
 " Life is but an empty dream ! 
 For the soul h dead that slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem." 
 
 Life is real ! life is earnest ! 
 And the grave is r.ot its goal ; 
 ' Dust thou art, to dust returncst," 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow. 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave. 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 I'uneral inarches to die grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the Iiivouac of life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven catde ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead p.ist bury its dead ! 
 Act — act in the living present ! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead. 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 
 We can make our lives sublime. 
 And, departing, leave beliind us 
 
 Footprints on the sands of time : 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 
 .Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 Still achieving, slill pursuing. 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longkki.i.ow. 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS. 
 
 'HOSE evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
 How many a tale their music tells 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
 When Last I heard their soothing chime ! 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
 And many a heart that then was gay. 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
 And -SO 'twill be when I am gone — 
 That tunefeul peal will .still ring on ; 
 While other bards shall walk these dells, 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 
 
 Tho.mas Moork. 
 
 THE MAGICAL ISLE. 
 
 'HERE 'S a magical isle in tlie River of Time, 
 Where softest of echoes are straying ; 
 And the air is as soft as a musical chime, 
 'f' Or the exquisite breath of a tropical clime 
 When June with its roses is swaying. 
 
 'Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue, 
 
 And music forever is flowing : 
 While the low-munnured tones that come tremblin;; 
 
 through 
 .Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too. 
 
 As the south wind o'er water when blowing. 
 
 There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle. 
 Where pictures of beauty are gleamir.g ; 
 
 Vet the light of their eyes, and their swe:.t, sunny 
 smile. 
 
 Only flash round the heart with a wildering wi!e, 
 And leave us to know 'tis but dreaming. 
 
 .■\nd the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past, 
 
 And we bury our tre.isures all there : 
 There are beings of beauty too lovely to last ; 
 There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o'er tiiein 
 cast ; 
 
 There are tresses and ringlets of hair. 
 
 There are fragnients of song only memory sings. 
 And the words of a dear mother's prayer ; 
 
 There's a harp long unsought, and a lute without 
 strings — 
 Hallowed tokens that love used to wear. 
 
 E'en the dead — the bright, beautiful dead — tliere arise, 
 With their soft, (lowing ringlets of gold : 
 
 Though their voices are hushed, and o'er their sweet 
 eyes. 
 
 The unbroken signet of silence now lies. 
 They are with us again, as of olil. 
 
 In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning lliere, 
 
 And, with joy that is almost a pain. 
 We delight to turn back, and in w;indcring there, 
 Through the .shadowy halls of the island so fair, 
 
 We behold our lost treasures again. 
 
 Oh I this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show, 
 I Is a vista exceedingly bright : 
 j And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow. 
 
 Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago, 
 When the years were a dream of delight. 
 
 n 
 
 TRUE NOBILITY. 
 
 OWE'ER it be, it seems to me, 
 'Tis only noble to be good ; 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets. 
 And simple faith than Norman blootl. 
 
 ALFRIiO TE.NNVSON. 
 
 m 
 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 267 
 
 A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER. I A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE. 
 
 /^^ THING of beauty is a joy forever : 
 I ^^ Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
 V^ Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sLep 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing; 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
 A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
 Spite ot despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
 Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkeiied ways 
 Made for our searching : yes, in spile of all, 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
 From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
 Trt'cs old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
 For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 
 With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 
 TIkU for themselves a cooling covert make 
 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 
 And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms 
 W'ti li." .e imagined for the mighty dead ; 
 All lovely talcs that we have heard or read. 
 
 John Kkats. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL 
 
 VR native land — our native vale — 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 
 And Cheviot mountains blue. 
 
 Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, 
 And streams renowned in song — 
 
 Farewell, ye braes and blossomed meads, 
 Our hearts have loved so long. 
 
 The mossy cave and mouUlering tower 
 
 That skirt our native dell — 
 The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, 
 » We bid a sad farewell ! 
 
 Home of our love ! our father's home ! 
 
 Land of the brave and free ! 
 The sail is^flapping on the foam 
 
 That bears us far from thee ! 
 
 We seek a wild and distant shore, 
 
 lieyond the western main — 
 We leave thee to return no more. 
 
 Nor view thy cliffs again ! 
 
 Our native land— our native vak — 
 
 A long and last adieu ! 
 Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 
 
 And Scotland's mountains blue ! • 
 
 Thomas Pringlk. 
 17 
 
 Q 
 
 BUTTERFLY basked on a baby's grave, 
 
 Where a lily had chimced to grow : 
 "Why art thou here, with thy gautly dye. 
 When she of the blue and sparkling eye 
 Must sleep in the churchyard low ? " 
 
 Then it lightly soared through the sunny air. 
 
 And spoke from its shining track : 
 " I was a worm till I won my wings. 
 And she whom thou mournest, like a seraph sings ; 
 Wouldst thou call the blest one hack ?" 
 
 Lydi.v HiTNTi.KV .Si(;orKNi:v. 
 
 THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS. 
 
 'WOk OW, I s got a notion in my head dat when you 
 
 l^f come to die, 
 
 •^ ■^ An' Stan' de 'zamination in de Cote-house in 
 
 de sky, 
 Vou'U be 'stoni.shed at de ([uestions dat de angel's 
 
 gwine to a.\ 
 When he gits you on de witnes.s-stan' an' pin you to 
 
 de fac's ; 
 'Cause he'll ax you mighty closely 'bout your doin's in 
 
 de night, 
 .\n' de water-milion <iue.stion's gwine to bodder you 
 
 a sight ! 
 Den your eyes'U open wider dan dey ebber done befo' 
 When he chats you 'bout a chicken-scrape dat hap- 
 
 peneil long ago ! 
 De angels on de picket-line erlong de Milky Way 
 Keeps a-watchin' what you're dribin' at, an' hearin' 
 
 what you say ; 
 No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you's 
 
 gwine, 
 Dey's mighty ap' to find it out an' pass it 'long de 
 
 line ; 
 An' ofen at de meetin', when you make a fuss an' 
 
 laugh. 
 Why, dey send de news a-kitin' by de golden tele 
 
 graph ; 
 Den, de angel in de orfis, what's a settin' by de gate, 
 Jes' reads de message wid a look an' claps it on de 
 
 slate I 
 
 Den you better do your juty well an' keep your con- 
 science clear, 
 
 An' keep a-lookiu straight ahead an' watchin' what' 
 you steer ; 
 
 'Cause alter while de time'U come to journey fuin de 
 Ian', 
 
 .\n' dey'Il take you way up in de a'r an' put you onde 
 Stan' ; 
 
 Den you'll hah to listen to de clerk an' answer mighty 
 Straight, 
 
 Ef you ebber 'spec' to trabble froo de alaplaster gate ! 
 
 j, A. Macon. 
 
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 258 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 THE WIDOW AND CHILD. 
 
 'OME they brouglit her warrior dead ; 
 She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 " She must weep or she will die." 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low, 
 
 Called him wortliy to be loved, 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 
 Yet she neitlier .spoke nor moved. 
 
 St<ile a maiden from her place, 
 
 Lightly to the warrior stept, 
 Took a face-cloth from tiic f.ice ; 
 
 Yet siie neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of ninety years. 
 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 Like summer tempest came her tears — 
 
 " Sweet niy child, I live for tiiee." 
 
 Ali^red Tennyson. 
 
 OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF 
 MORTAL BE PROUD? 
 
 The following was the favorite poem of President Lincoln. A 
 fritnil .showed it to liim when .1 youii'; man, and afterwarils he 
 clipped it from a newspaper and learned it hy heart. For a lon^ 
 time he did not know the author's name, but subsequently learned 
 ii. 
 
 H ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying 
 
 cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave 
 Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
 He scattered around, and together be laid ; 
 And the young and the old, and the low and the high 
 Shall molderto dust and together shall lie. 
 
 The infant a mother attended and loved ; 
 The mother that infant's aflection who proved; 
 The husband that mother and infant who blessed — 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose 
 
 eye, 
 Shone beauty and pleasure— her triumpiis are by ; 
 And the memory of tiiose whi> loved her and praised 
 Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 
 
 The hand of the king tiiat the sceptre hath borne; 
 Tiie brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ; 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
 Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 
 
 The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
 
 The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the 
 
 steep ; 
 The beggar who wandered in search of his bread. 
 Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the commimion of heaven ; 
 The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven ; 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed 
 That wiMiers away to let others succeed ; 
 So the multitude comes, even those we behold. 
 To repeat every tale that has often been told. 
 
 For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
 We drink the same stream, and view the same sun 
 .\nd run the same course our fathers have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; 
 From the death we are shrinking our fathers would 
 
 shrink; 
 To the life we are clinging they also would cling ; 
 But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. 
 
 They loved, but the story we cannot imfold ; 
 They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
 They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will 
 
 come; 
 They joyed, but the tongue of their gladnees is diimh. 
 
 They died ! aye ! they died ; and we things that arc 
 
 now, 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. 
 Who make in their dwelling ;i transient abode, 
 Meet the things that they mot on their pilgrimage 
 
 road. 
 
 Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
 We mingle together in sunshine and rain; 
 And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier and t!:e shroud,— 
 Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 
 William Knox. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 The following poem was written by the l.'\te President Garfield 
 cUirins; his senior year in Williams CijlleRe, Mass., and w.ispuli- 
 ilshed in the Wdliams Quarterly (or .March, 1856. 
 
 I.S beauteous night; the stars look brightly down 
 Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow. 
 Kt) light gleams at the windows, s.ive my own, 
 ^ Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me, 
 .And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comes 
 .'\nd leads me gently through her twilight realms. 
 What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung, 
 ()r dclicatest pencil e'er portrayed 
 The em hanted, shadowy land where memory dwells? 
 It h.-LS its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear. 
 Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree ; 
 And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed 
 In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy clifl"s. 
 
SENTIMENT AND RKFLIXTION. 
 
 210 
 
 Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, 
 
 Are clustered joys serene of other days. 
 
 I'pon its gently sloping hillsides bend 
 
 'I'lie weeping willows o'er tlie sacred dust 
 
 Of dear departed ones ; yet in that land, 
 
 Where'er our footsteps fall upon tlie shore, 
 
 They that were sleeping rise from out the (hist 
 
 Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand 
 
 As erst they did before the prison tomb 
 
 Received their clay within its voiceless halls. 
 
 Tiie heavens that bend above that land are hung 
 
 Witli Clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill, 
 
 Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade 
 
 Tjion the sunny, joyous land below. 
 
 Others are floatmg through the dreamy air, 
 
 Wiiite as the falling snow, their margins tinged 
 
 With gold and crimson hues ; their shadows fall 
 
 Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, 
 
 Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing. 
 
 Wlien the rough battle of the day is done, 
 
 And evening's peace falls gently on the heart, 
 
 1 bound awr.y, across the noisy years, 
 
 Unto the utmost verge of memory's land, 
 
 Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet, 
 
 And memory dim with d;irk oblivion joins ; 
 
 Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell 
 
 Upon the ear in childhood's early morn ; 
 
 And, wandering thence along the rolling years, 
 
 I see the sh.'idow of my former self 
 
 Ciliding from childhood up to man's estate ; 
 
 The path of youth winds down through many a vale. 
 
 And on the brink of many a dread abyss, 
 
 iToni out whose darkness comes no ray of light. 
 
 Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf 
 
 And beckons toward the verge. Again the path 
 
 Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall ; 
 
 And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom. 
 
 Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along. 
 
 J.VMKS Abram G.ARPIIXn. 
 
 THE WEIGHT OF A WORD. 
 
 'AVE yon ever thought of the weight of a word 
 That falls in the heart like the song of a bird. 
 That gladdens the springtime of memory and 
 youth, 
 
 And garlands with cedar the banner of truth, 
 Tli;it moistens the harvesting spot of the brain, 
 bike dewdrops that iiill on a meadow of grain, 
 Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit 
 And lies like a worm at the lifeless root ? 
 
 I saw a farmer at break of day 
 liucing his corn in a careful way ; 
 An enemy came with a drouth in his eye, 
 Discouraged the worker and hurried by. 
 Tlie keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe 
 Dulled on the earth in the long corn row ; 
 The weeds sprang up and their feathers tossed 
 Over the field, and the crop was— lost. 
 
 A sailor laimched on an angry bay 
 
 When the heavens entombed the face of the day ; 
 
 The wind arose, like a beast in pain. 
 
 And shook on the billows his yellow mane ; 
 
 The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud, 
 
 And the waves held up a dripping shroud — 
 
 Dut, hark ! o'er the waters that wildly raved 
 
 Came a word of cheer, and he was — saved. 
 
 .\ poet passed with a song of God 
 
 Hid in his heart, like a gem in a clod. 
 
 His lips were framed to pronounce the thought, 
 
 And the music of rhyt'-.m its magic wrought ; 
 
 Feelile at first was the happy trill, 
 
 Low was the echo that answered the hill, 
 
 lUit a jealous friend spoke near his side. 
 
 And on his lips the sweet song — died. 
 
 A woman paused where a chandelier 
 
 Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear ; 
 
 Wear)' and footsore from journeying long, 
 
 .She had strayed unawares from the right to the wro;v-,. 
 
 .\ngels were beck'ning her back from the den. 
 
 Hell and its demons were beck'ning her in ; 
 
 The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives. 
 
 Drew her back, and in heaven that sweet word — livus. 
 
 Words ! words ! They are little, yet mighty and bra\e ; 
 
 They rescue a nation, an empire save — 
 
 They close up the gaps in Ji fresh bleeding heart 
 
 That sickness and sorrow have severed apart. 
 
 rhey fall on the path, like a ray of the sun. 
 
 Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon ; 
 
 They lighten the earth over our blessed dead. 
 
 A word that will comfort, oh ! leave not unsaid. 
 
 ORIENTAL MYSTICISM. 
 
 The following passage is translated from a German version of 
 the Dschau bar Odsat, a Persian poem of Uw lliirtetnili ceiituiy, 
 .iiid is here olTered as a specimen of the mystij writings of the 
 Hast— a single sprig brought to town from a distant ami unfre- 
 quented gardtn. These wrilingsare cliaracterizi-d ly w iUhiLss ot 
 (aiicy, a philosophy extremely abstruse, and cs;)ccially by a deep 
 spiritu.il life. They prove, as will be seen in the lints which fol- 
 low, that the human mind has strong religious insiincls; which, 
 liowover, unless guided by a higher wisdom, are liable to great 
 perversion —Extravagant as the conception of t'.;e | assage here 
 selected must appe.ir to us, it has still its foundation in truth. 
 That Ihr ideas of infinite and divine things, which slumber in the 
 mind, are often violently awakend by external objects, is w!iat 
 every one has experienced. Says a modern poet, in prosi)€ct of 
 
 " clear, placid Leman," 
 
 " It is a thing 
 
 >« ..' '.". warns me, by its stillness, to forsake 
 
 Earth's troubled waters lor a purer spring." 
 
 An<l what is the story of Rudbari r\nd Hassan, but an exhibition, 
 II /,! made orientale, of the same truth? 
 
 N ancient days as the old stories run. 
 Strange hap befell a father and his son. 
 Rudbari was an old sea faring man 
 And loved the rough paths of the ocean ; 
 .\nd Hassan was his child— a boy as bright 
 As the keen moon, gleaming in the vault of night. 
 
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 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Rose-red his cheek, Narcissus-like his eye, i He spake, and plunged, and as quickly sunk beneath 
 
 And his form might well with the slender cypress i As the flying snow-flake melts on a summer heath 
 
 vie. I A moment Rudbari stood, as fixedly bound 
 
 Godly Rudbari was, and just and true, 
 And Hassan pure as a drop of early dew. — 
 Now, because Rudbari loved this only child, 
 He was feign to take him o'er the waters wild. 
 
 The ship is on the strand — friends, brothers, parents, 
 there 
 Take the last leave with mingled tears and prayer. 
 Tlie sailor calls, the fair breeze chides delay. 
 The sails are spread, and all are under way. 
 Cut when the ship, like a strong-shot arrow, flew, 
 And the well-known shore was fading from the 
 
 view, 
 Hassan spake, as he gazed upon the land. 
 Such mystic words as none could understand : — 
 "On this troubled wave in vain we seek for rest. 
 Who builds his house on the sea, or his palace on its 
 
 breast ? 
 Let me but reach yon fixed and steadfast shore, 
 And the bounding wave shall never tempt me more." 
 Tlien Rudbari spake : — "And does my brave boy 
 
 fear 
 The ocean's face to see, and his thundering voice to 
 
 hear? 
 He will love, when home returned at last. 
 To tell, in his native cot, of dangers past." 
 Then Hassan said : "Think not thy brave boy fears 
 When he sees the ocean s face, or his voice of thunder 
 
 hears ; 
 But on these waters I may not abide ; 
 Hold me not back ; I will not be denied." 
 Rudbari now wept o'er his wildered child : 
 "What mean these looks, and words so strangely 
 
 wild? 
 Dearer, my boy, to me than all the gain 
 That I've earned from the bounteous bosom of the 
 
 main ! 
 Nor heaven, nor earth, could yield one joy to me, 
 Could I not, Hassan, share that joy with thee." 
 
 But Hassan soon, in his wandering words, betrayed 
 The cause of the mystic air that round him played : 
 "Soon as I saw these deep, wide waters roll, 
 A light from the Infinite broke in upon my soul !" 
 " Thy words, my child, but ill become thine age. 
 And would better suit the mouth of some star-gazing 
 
 sage." 
 "Thy words, my father, cannot turn away 
 Mine eye, now fixed on that supernal day." 
 "Dost thou not, Hassan, lay these dreams aside, 
 I'll plunge thee headlong in this whelming tide." 
 "Do this, Rudbari, only not in ire, 
 'Tis all I ask, and all I can desire. 
 For on the bosom of this rolling flood. 
 Slumbers an awful mystery of good ; 
 And he may solve it, who will self expunge. 
 And in the depths of boundless being plunge." 
 
 As the pearl is by the .shell that clasps it round. 
 Tlien he fallowed liis Hassan with a frantic leap. 
 And they slumber both on the bottom of the deep ! 
 
 Leonard Woods. 
 
 THE SEASONS OF LIFE. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 'HE soft green grass is growing. 
 
 O'er mcndow and o'er dale ; 
 The silvery founts are flowing 
 
 Upon the verdant vale ; 
 The pale snowdrop is springing. 
 
 To greet the glowing sun ; 
 The primrose sweet is flinging 
 
 Perfume the fields among ; 
 The trees are in the blossom, 
 
 The birds are in their sung. 
 As spring upon the bosom 
 
 Of nature's borne along. 
 
 So the dawn of iiuman life doth green and vcrdrv.it 
 spring ; 
 
 It doth little ween the strife that after years will bring ; 
 
 Like the snowdrop it is fair, and like the primrose 
 sweet ; 
 
 But its innocence can't scare the blight from its re- 
 treat. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The full rii^e corn is bending 
 
 In waves of golden light ; 
 The new-mown hay is sending 
 
 Its sweets upon the night ; 
 The breeze is softly sighing. 
 
 To cool the parched flowers ; 
 The rain, to see tliem dying. 
 
 Weeps forth its gentle showers ; 
 The merry fish are playing, 
 
 Adown yon crj'stal stream ; 
 And night from day is straying. 
 
 As twilight gives its gleam. 
 
 And thus manhood, in its prime, is full and ripe an:l 
 
 strong ; 
 .'Vnd it scarcely deems that time can do its beauty 
 
 wrong. 
 Like the merry fish we play adown the stream of life ; 
 And we wreck not of the day that gathers what is rifo. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The flowers all are fading. 
 Their sweets are rilled now ; 
 
 And night sends forth her shading 
 Along the mountain brow ; 
 
 The bee hath ceased its winging, 
 To flowers at early morn ; 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 261 
 
 and vcrda.it 
 
 i from its re- 
 
 The birds have ceased their singing, 
 
 Sheafed is tiie golden corn ; 
 The harvest now is gathered, 
 
 Protected from the clime ; 
 The leaves are seared antl withered. 
 
 That late shone in their prime. 
 
 Thus when fourscore years are gone o'er the frail life 
 
 of man, 
 Time sits heavy on his throne, as near his brow we 
 
 scan ; 
 Like the autumn leaf that falls, when winds the branches 
 
 wave. 
 Like night-shadows daylight palls, like all, he linds a 
 
 grave. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The snow is on the mountain, 
 
 The frost is on the vale, 
 ' The ice hangs o'er the fountain. 
 
 The storm rides on the gale ; 
 The earth is bare and naked. 
 
 The air is cold — and drear, 
 The sky with snow-clouds (laked, 
 
 And dense foul fogs appear ; 
 The sun shines not so brightly 
 
 Through the dark murky skies. 
 The nights grow longer — nightly. 
 
 And thus the winter dies. 
 
 Thus falls man, his season past, the blight h.is ta'eii 
 
 his bloom ; 
 Summer gone, the autumn blast consigns him to the 
 
 tomb ; 
 Then the winter cold and drear, with pestilential 
 
 breath. 
 Blows upon nis silent bier, and whispers — "This is 
 
 death." 
 
 Tho.mas John Oi'selev. 
 
 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTER. 
 
 §ESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
 With blossom furze unprofitably gay. 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
 The village master taught his little school : 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view : 
 1 knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke ha d he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
 The village all declared how much he knew — 
 Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
 
 For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 
 .■\mazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 
 .■\nd still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 
 Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
 
 Oliver Golds.mith. 
 
 THE INQUIRY. 
 
 »«. 
 Vf— 'ELL me, ye winged winds, that rounil my path- 
 (S^ way roar, 
 
 V^ Do ye not know some spot where mortals 
 
 'f weep no more ? 
 
 Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the Wes^.t, 
 Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may 
 re-t? 
 The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, 
 And sighed for pity as it answered — "No." 
 
 Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me 
 
 play, 
 Knowest thou some favored spot, some island far 
 
 away. 
 Where weary man may find the bliss for which he 
 
 sighs — 
 Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies? 
 The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow. 
 Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer — 
 "No." 
 
 .'\nd thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face, 
 Dust look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace ; 
 Tell me, in all thy round, hast thounot seen some spot 
 Where miserable man might find a happier lot? 
 Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
 And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded — "No." 
 
 Tell me, my secret soul ; — oh ! tell me, hope and faith, 
 Is there no resting place from sorrow, sin, and 
 
 death ?— 
 Is there no happy spot, where mortals may be blessed. 
 Where grief may find a balm, anrl weariness a rest ? 
 Faith, hope and love, best boons to mortals 
 
 given, 
 W.ived their bright wings, and whispered — 
 "Yes, in heaven !" 
 
 Charles Mackav. 
 
 FROM CHILDHOOD TO OLD AGE. 
 
 ,EHOLD, fondm.-xn! 
 
 See here thy jiictured life; — pass some f..w 
 
 years, 
 Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent 
 strength. 
 Thy sober autumn fading into age, 
 And pale concluding wint" " comes ;.t last, 
 And shuts the scene. jt 
 
 I 
 
2(;2 
 
 CROWN Jl'AVEL. 
 
 1 " 11 
 
 I'j : :,' !^ -< 
 
 I'll: 
 
 
 OBSERVATIONS OF REV. GABE TUCKER. 
 
 ''Zj/'OU may notch it on de palin's as a mighty 
 \j\ ri. sky plan 
 ""^ To make your juJ^ment by du clo'es dat 
 
 kivers up a man ; 
 For I hardly needs to tell you how you oflen come 
 
 ercross 
 A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar lioss. 
 An*, wukin' in de low-jjroun's, you diskiver, as you go, 
 Dat the fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in 
 a row! 
 
 I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for 
 
 hebcn 
 Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' stben ; 
 Dat talks al:ioiit de sinners wiil a lie;ii> o" solenni chat, 
 An' nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat ; 
 Dat's foremost in the meetin'-house LjV raisin all dc 
 
 chuncs, 
 But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons I 
 
 I nebber judyc o' people dat I meets along the way 
 By de places whar dey come fiin; an' de iiou.-.es whar 
 
 dcy stay ; 
 For de bantam c!iic!;on's awful fond o' rooslin prett;. 
 
 high, 
 An' dc turkey-buzznrd sails above de eagle in de sky; 
 Dey ketclies little minners in de middle ob de sea, 
 Aji' you finds dj smalles' 'possum up de bigges" kind 
 
 o'tree ! 
 
 J. A. Macon. 
 
 I 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 SAW liim once beforj, 
 
 A;; liJ ;KLiSi'd by the dour ; 
 
 And again 
 The pavcmu:il stunes rusjuiid 
 As he totteiT. o'er the ground 
 Witli his can.'. 
 
 Ijut now he walks th j streets, 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 
 So forlor;; ; 
 And he .shakes his fojble head. 
 That it s ms r.s if h(.' said, 
 "Tl. >y aregoivj." 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 On the lips that he h;is prcsse>I 
 
 In their bloom ; 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for man}- .» year 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 My grandmamma has said — 
 Poor old lady ! she is dead 
 
 Long ago— 
 That he had a Roman nose, 
 And his cheek was like a ro.se 
 
 In tha snow. 
 
 T!k> say that in his prime, 
 lire the pruning-knife of time 
 
 Cut iiim down, 
 \t)t a better man was found 
 I5y the crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 Hut now his nose is thin, 
 Aail it rests upon his chin, 
 
 Like a staff; 
 .■\nd a crook is in his back, 
 .\nd a mehncholy crack 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 T know it is a sin 
 
 1 or me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here, 
 r.tit the old three-cornered hat. 
 And the breeches — and all that, 
 
 Are so queer ! 
 
 .\iul if 1 should live to be 
 Tlio last loaf upon tlie tree 
 
 In tlie spring. 
 Let them .smile, as 1 do now. 
 At tlie old forsaken bough 
 
 Where 1 cling. 
 
 Olivkk Wi:ni)ki. 
 
 !!( 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 •READ softly, bow the head, 
 In reverent silence bow ; 
 No passing bell doth toll, 
 'f Yet an immortal soul 
 Is piissing now. 
 
 Stranger ! however great, 
 
 With lowly reverence bow ; 
 There's one in that poor shed — 
 One by that paltry bed- 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 Lo ! Death doth keep his state, 
 
 Enter, no crowds attend ; 
 
 Enter, no guards defend 
 T/iis palace gate. 
 
 That pavement, damp and cold, 
 
 No smiling courtiers tread ; 
 One siLr.t woman stands. 
 Lifting with meagre hands 
 A dying head. 
 
 No mingling voices sound. 
 An infant wail alone ; 
 A sob suppressed — again 
 That short deep gasp, and then 
 The parting grojn. 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 O chnngo ! O wondrous change ! 
 
 Burst are tlie prison bars — 
 This moment, there, so low, 
 So agonized, and now — 
 
 Beyond the stars. 
 
 O change ! stupendous change ! 
 
 There Ues the soulless clod ; 
 The.sun eternal breaks, 
 The new immortal wakes — 
 
 Wakes with his God i 
 
 Caroline Annii Soutiiey. 
 
 IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 
 
 ' I' I should die to-night, 
 
 My friends would look upon my quiet face, 
 Before they laid it in its resting-place, 
 And deem that death had left it almost fair ; 
 .\nd laying snow-white flowers against my hair. 
 Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness. 
 And fold my hands, with lingering caress, 
 I'oor hands, so empty and so cold to-night ! 
 
 If I should die to-night. 
 My friends would call to mind, with loving thought. 
 Some kindly deed tlie icy hand had wrought, 
 Some gentle word the frozen lips had said : 
 Errands on which the willing feet Iiad sped— 
 The memory of my selfishness and pride, 
 .My hasty words, would all be put aside, 
 ,\iid so I should be mourned to-night. 
 
 If I should die to-night. 
 Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, 
 Recalling other days remorsefully; 
 The eyes that chill me wiih averted glance, 
 Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, 
 And soften in the old familiar way. 
 For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay ? 
 So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night. 
 
 O friends, I pray to-night. 
 Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow, 
 The way is lonely ; let me feel them now. 
 Think gently of me ; I am travel worn ; 
 My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. 
 Forgive ! O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead ! 
 When dreamless rest is mine, I shall not need 
 The tenderness for which I long to-night. 
 
 BETTER THINGS. 
 
 §ETTER to smell the violet cool, than sip the 
 glowing wine ; 
 Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a 
 diamond shine. 
 
 Better the love of a gentle heart, than beauty's favor 
 
 proud ; 
 Better the rose's living seed, than roses in a crowd. 
 
 Better to love in loneliness, than to b.isk in love a!l 
 
 day ; 
 Better the fountain in the heart, than tlie fountain' by 
 
 the way. 
 
 Better be fed by a mother's hand, than eat alone at 
 
 will ; 
 Better to trust in God, than say : " .My goods my 
 
 storehouse fill." 
 
 Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to abound; 
 Better to teach a child, tiian toil to fill perfection's 
 round. 
 
 Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a ILsteiiiu;,' 
 
 State; 
 Better suspect that thou art proud, than be sure tliat 
 
 thou art great. 
 
 Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's 
 
 event ; 
 Better the "Well done," at the last, than the air with 
 
 shouting rent. 
 
 Better to have a quiet grief, than a hurrying delight ; 
 Better tlie twilight of the dawn, tlian the noonday 
 burning bright. 
 
 Better a death when work is done, than earth's most 
 
 favored birth ; 
 Better a child in God's great house, than the king of 
 
 all the earth. 
 
 George McDonald. 
 
 ffi 
 
 WOMAN'S WILL 
 
 EN, dying, make their wills, but wives 
 Escape a work so sad ; 
 Why should they make what all their lives 
 The gentle dames have had ? 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe. 
 
 AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 "OW sweet it were, if without feeble fright, 
 Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight. 
 An angel came to us, and we could bear 
 To see him issue from the silent air 
 At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
 His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
 News of dear friends, and children who have never 
 Been dead indeed — as we shall know forever. 
 Alas ! we think not what we daily see 
 About our hearths — angels, that are to be, 
 Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
 Their souls and ours to meet in happy air — 
 A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings 
 In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. 
 
 Leigh Hunt 
 
 I 
 
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 I '*'A 
 
 
264 
 
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 CROWN JHVVKLS. 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 
 
 Uj 
 
 OODMAN, spare that tree ! 
 
 Touch not a single bough ! 
 In youtli it shcltcreci nie, 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 'Tvvas :ny forefather's Iiantl 
 
 That placed it near liis cot ; 
 There, woodman, let it stand. 
 
 Thy ax shall harm it not ! 
 
 That old familiar tree, 
 
 Whose glory and renown ' 
 
 Are spread o'er land and sea, 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it do\yn ? 
 Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
 O, spare that aged oak, 
 
 Now towering to the skies ! 
 
 When but an idle boy 
 
 I sought its grateful shade ; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here too my sisters played. 
 My mother kissed me here ; 
 
 My father pressed my hand — 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that old oak stand ! 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling. 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing. 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave ! , 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot ; 
 While I've a hand to save, 
 
 Thy ax shall hurt it not. 
 
 George Perkins Morris. 
 
 THE LONG AGO. 
 
 H ! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 
 As It runs through the realm of tears, 
 With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
 And a broader sweep and a surge sublime, 
 As it blends in the ocean of years ! 
 
 How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow, 
 
 And the summers like birds between, 
 And the years in the sheaf, how they come and they \',o 
 On the river's breast, with its ebb and its flow. 
 
 As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! 
 
 There's a magical isle up the river Time, 
 
 Where the softest of airs are playing, 
 There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime. 
 And a song 'is sweet as a vesper chime, 
 
 And the /anes with the roses are straying. 
 
 .'Vnd the name of this isle is the " I.ong Ago," 
 
 And wo bury our trciisurcs there ; 
 There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, 
 There are heaps of dust -oh ! we loved theni so^ 
 
 There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 
 
 There are fragments of songs that nobody sings, 
 
 There are parts of an infant's prayer. 
 There's a lute unswept and a harp without strin}.;s, 
 There are broken vows and pieces of rings. 
 And the garments our loved used to wear. 
 
 There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 
 
 I!y the titful mirage is lifted in air. 
 And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar 
 Sweet voices we heard in the days gone liefore. 
 
 When the wind down die river was fair. 
 
 Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle. 
 
 All the day of our life until night ; 
 .And when evening glows with its beautiful smile, 
 .\nd our eyes are closing in slumbers a while. 
 
 May a lovelier isle be in sight. 
 
 I?.\VARD F. Taylor. 
 
 ROLL CALL 
 
 ORPORAL GRF.EN ! " the orderly cried ; 
 "Here 1 " was the answer, loud and ilear, 
 From the lips of the soldier wlio sioud 
 near — 
 And " here ! " was t!ie word the next replied. 
 
 a 
 
 e 
 
 "Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell— 
 This time no answer followed the call ; 
 Only his rear-man had seen him fall, 
 
 Killed or wounded, he could not tell. 
 
 There they stood in the failing light. 
 These men of battle, with grave, dark looks. 
 As plain to be read as open books. 
 
 While slowly gathered the shades of night. 
 
 The fern on the hillsides was splashed with Mood, 
 And down in the corn where the poppies grew 
 Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; 
 
 And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 
 
 For the foe had crossed from the other side 
 That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
 That swept them down in its terrible ire ; 
 
 .\nd their life-blood went to color the tide. 
 
 " Herbert Kline !" At the call there came 
 
 Two stalwart soldiers into the line. 
 
 Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 
 Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name, 
 
 " Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered, " here ! " 
 " Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied. 
 They were brothers, these two; the sad winds 
 sighed, 
 
 And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 
 
SENTIMKNT AND RKFLI-XTION. 
 
 2G5 
 
 " Epliraim Ocaiic ! "—then a soldier spoke : 
 " Deaue carried our reniment's colors," he said ; 
 " Where our ensign was sliot, I left him dead. 
 
 Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 
 
 " Close to the road side his body lies; 
 
 I paused a moment and gave him drink ; 
 
 lie murmured his mother's name, 1 think, 
 And death came with it and closed his eyes." 
 
 'Twas a victory ; yes, but it cost us dear — 
 For that company's roll, when called at night, 
 Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 
 
 Numbered but twenty th.-it answered, " here ! " 
 
 N. G. StIEPHEKD. 
 
 THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES WITH 
 THE OWNER OF A FIELD. 
 
 ii 
 
 ©■: 
 
 EPEND upon yourself alone," 
 
 Is a sound proverb worthy credit, 
 n jlisop's time it was well known, 
 And there (to tell the truth) I read it. 
 The larks to build their nests began, 
 
 Wlien wheat was in the green blade still — 
 That is to say, when Nature's plan 
 
 Had ordered I-ove, with conquering will, 
 To rule the earth, the sea, and air. 
 
 Tigers in woods, sea monsters in the deep ; 
 Nor yet refuse a share 
 
 To larks that in the cornfields keep. 
 One bird, however, of these last, 
 Found that one-half the spring was past. 
 Yet brought no m.ite, such as the season sent 
 To others. Then with firm intent 
 Plighting her troth, and fairly matched, 
 She built her nest and gravely hatched. 
 All went on well, the corn waved red 
 Above each little fledgling's head, 
 Before they 'd strength enough to lly. 
 And mount into the April sky. 
 A hundred cares the mother lark compel 
 
 To seek with patient care the daily food ; 
 
 Hut first she warns her restless brood 
 To watch, and peep, and listen well, 
 And keep a constant sentinel ; 
 "And if the owner comes his corn to see, 
 His son, too, as 't will likely be. 
 Take lieed, for when we're sure of it. 
 And reapers come, why, we must Hit." 
 No sooner was the lark away 
 
 Than came the owner with his son, 
 "The wheat is ripe," hesaid, "so run, 
 And bring our friends sit peep of day, 
 Each with his sickle sharp and ready." 
 The lark returns : alarm already 
 
 Had seized the covey. One commences — 
 " He said himself, at eariy morn 
 His friends he'd call to reap the corn." 
 
 The old lark said—" If that is all. 
 
 My worthy children, keep your senses; 
 No hurry till the first rows fall. 
 We '11 not go yet, dismiss all fear; 
 Tomorrow keep an open ear. 
 Here's dinner ready, now be gay." 
 Tliey ate and slept the time away. 
 The morn arrives to wake the sleepers, 
 Aurora comes, but not the reapers. 
 The lark soars up : and on his round 
 The farmer comes to view his ground. 
 
 ' This wheat," he said, "ought not to stand ; 
 Our friends are wrong no helping hanil 
 To give, and we are wrong to trust 
 Such lazy fools for half a crust. 
 Much less for labor. Sons," he cried, 
 
 ' Go, call our kinsmen on each side ; 
 We'll go to work." The little lark 
 Grew more afraid. "Now, mother, mark. 
 The work within an hour's begun." 
 The mother answered — " Sleep, my son ; 
 We will, not leave our house to-night." 
 Well, no one came ; the bird was right. 
 The third time came the m.aster by : 
 
 ' Our error's great," he said, repentantly : 
 
 ' No friend is better than oneself; 
 Remember that, my boy, it's worth some pelf. 
 Now, what to do? 
 Why, I and you 
 Must whet our sickles and begin ; 
 That is the shortest way, I see ; 
 I know at last the surest plan : 
 We'll make our harvest as we can." 
 No sooner had the lark o'erheard — 
 
 " 'Tis time to flit, my children, come !" 
 Cried out the very prudent bird. 
 Little and big went fluttering, rising, 
 Soaring in a way surprising. 
 And left without a beat of drum. 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 'HE room is old— the night is cold— 
 But night is dearer far than day ; 
 For then, in dreams, to him it seems, 
 "f That she's returned who's gone aw.iy ! 
 
 His tears are passed — he clasps her fast — 
 
 Again she holds him on her knee ; 
 And — in his sleep— he murmurs deep, 
 "Oh ! mother, go no more from me !" 
 
 But morning breaks, the child awakes — 
 
 The dreamer's happy dream hath fled ; 
 The fields look sere, and cold, and drear — 
 
 Like orphans, mourning summer dead ! — 
 The wild birds spring, on shivering wing, 
 
 Or, cheerless, chirp from tree to tree ; 
 And still he cries, with weeping eyes, 
 
 " Oh ! mother dear, come back to me I" 
 
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 806 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Can no one tell where angels dwell ?— 
 
 He's called them urt till day ^rew dim ; 
 If they were near— and they could hear— 
 
 He thinks they'd bring her back tu him I 
 "Oh I an;;els sweet, conduct my feet," 
 
 He cries, " where'er her home may be ; 
 Oh I lead me on to where she's gone, 
 
 Or bring my mother back to me !" 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 WILL THE NEW YEAR COME TO-NIGHT, 
 MAMMA? 
 
 'yX'^lLI. the New Year come to-night, mamma? 
 
 f W 1 I'm tired of waiting so — 
 
 \^^ My stocking hung by the chimney-side full 
 
 llirue long days ago ; 
 I run to peep within the door by morning's early light — 
 'Tis empty still ; oh, say, mamma, will the New Year 
 come to-night ? 
 
 Will the New Year come to-night, mamma ? the snow 
 is on the hill. 
 
 And the ice must be two inches thick upon the mead- 
 ow's rill. 
 
 I heard you tell papa last night his son must have a sled; 
 
 (I didn't mean to hear, manmia), and a pair of skates, 
 you said. 
 
 I prayed for just those things, mamma. Oh, I shall be 
 
 full of glee, 
 And the orphan boy in the village school will all be 
 
 envying me ; 
 But I'll give them toys and lend them books, and make 
 
 their New Year glad. 
 For God, you say, takes back his gifts when little folks 
 
 are bad ; 
 
 And won't you let me go, mamma, upon the New 
 
 Year's day, 
 And carry something nice and warm to poor old widow 
 
 Cray? 
 I'll leave the bjisket near the door within the gardtn 
 
 gate— 
 VYill the New Year come to-night, mamr.ia? it seems 
 
 so long to wait. 
 
 The New Ytar conies to-night, mamma, I saw it in my 
 
 sleep ; 
 My stocking hung so full, I thought— mamma, what 
 
 makes you weep ? — 
 But it only held a little shroud — a shroud and nothing 
 
 more ; 
 And an open coffin made for me was standing 'on the 
 
 floor! 
 
 It seemed so very strange indeed, to find such gifts, in- 
 stead 
 
 Of all the gifts I wished so much— the story-books and 
 sled; 
 
 And while I wondered what It meant, you came with 
 
 tearful joy. 
 And said, "Thou'll find the New Year first ; God rail- 
 
 eth thee, my boy." 
 
 It is not all a dreani, nianima — 1 kiiow it must be trui^ ; 
 But have I been so bad a boy, God takelh me lioin 
 
 you? 
 I don't know what papa will do when I am laid to rest, 
 And you will have no Willie's head to foUl upon yoiir 
 
 breast. 
 
 The New Year comes to-night, tnanima ; place y,)ur 
 
 dear hand on my cheek, 
 And raise my head a little more ; it seems so hard ti, 
 
 speak. 
 1 shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need iIil- 
 
 sled ; 
 But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt iiie 
 
 on my head ? 
 
 He used to hide my books away and tear the pictures 
 
 too. 
 But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to <li). 
 And if you pleiise, mamma, I'd like the stoiy-books aiul 
 
 slate 
 To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you wouldn't lt;t 
 
 me hate ; 
 
 And dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the N'^w 
 
 Year's day, 
 The basketful of something nice for pour old widuw 
 
 Gray? 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma— it seems so 
 
 very soon, 
 1 think God didn't hear me ask for just another June. 
 
 I know I've been a thoughtless boy and made you too 
 
 much care, 
 And maybe for your sake, mamma, God doesn't hi.ar 
 
 my prayer. 
 There's one thing more — my pretty pets, the robin and 
 
 the dove, 
 Keep for you and dear papa, and teach them how to 
 
 love. 
 
 The gardenrake, the little hoe, you'll lind them nicely 
 
 laid 
 Upon the garret floor, mamma, the place where last I 
 
 played. 
 I thought to need them both so much when sunimur 
 
 comes again. 
 To make my garden by the brook that trickles through 
 
 the glen ; 
 
 It cannot be ; but you will keep the summer lluwers 
 green. 
 
 And plant a few — don't cry, mamma — a very few 1 
 
 mean. 
 Where I'm asleep : I'll sleep so sweet beneath tlit; 
 
 apple tree. 
 Where you and robin in the morn will come and sing 
 
 to me. 
 
SENTIMENT AND KICFLKCTION. 
 
 887 
 
 riie New Year ctmics — g()o(l.iiii;lit, maniiiia, " I lay 
 niucluwii to Hll-cp, 
 
 I pniy tile Lord"— tcil jltar |)aj)a — "my precious soul 
 to keep ; 
 
 If I "—how t<jld it scums — how dark— kiss luc— I can- 
 not sec, 
 
 Hie New Year ( nines t-j-ni;;hf, mamma, the old year 
 <lies wi!.h Ille. 
 
 CoKA M. ICAliKR. 
 
 Wo talked ufthe house, and thu lato long rains. 
 And the crubh at tiiu French Ambassador's hall, 
 
 And .... well, I have not blown out njy hraiiis, 
 You see I can hnijjh, that is nil. 
 
 RoiiKRT UuLWHK LvTTdN {Owm A/frfJith). 
 
 ii 
 
 THE LAST TIME THAT I MET LADY RUTH. 
 
 Vf-'IIERE are some things hard to understand, 
 f^ O help me, my God, to trust in Thee ! 
 V^ But I never shall forfjet her soft white hand, 
 "f And her eyes when she looked at nie. 
 
 It is hard to pray the very same prayer 
 Which once at our inolhei's knee we prayed — 
 
 When where we trusted our whole heart, there 
 Our trust hath been betrayed. 
 
 I swear that the milk-white muslin j;o light 
 On her virgin breast, where it lay tlemure, 
 
 Set-nad to to touched to a purer white 
 I5y the touch of a breast so pure. 
 
 I deemed her the one thing undcfded 
 IJy the air we breathe, in a wo'ld of sin ; 
 
 The truest, the tenderest, purest child 
 A man ever trusted in ! 
 
 When she blamed me (she, with her fair child's face !) 
 Tiiat never with her to the church 1 went 
 
 To partake of the Gospel of truth and grace. 
 And the Christian sacrament. 
 
 And I said I would for her own sweet sake, 
 TiioUiih it was but herself 1 should worship there. 
 
 How that happy child's fare strove to take 
 On its dimples a serious air ! 
 
 I remember the chair she would set for me, 
 By the llowers, when all the house was gone 
 
 Tj drive in the Park, and I and she 
 Were left to be happy alone. 
 
 There she leaned her head on my knees, my Ruth, 
 With the primrose loose in her half-closeil hands ; 
 
 K\v\ I told her tales of my wandering youth 
 In the far fair foreign lands. 
 
 The last time I met her was here in town, 
 
 At a fancy ball at the Duchess of 1)., 
 On the stairs, where her husband was handing her 
 down, 
 
 There we met, and she talked to me. 
 
 She with powder in hair and patch on chin, 
 
 And I in the garb of a pilgrim priest, 
 And between us bodi, without and within, 
 
 A hundred year^ at least ! 
 
 n 
 
 THE SNOW rLAKE. 
 
 OW, if I fall, will it be my lot 
 
 To \y^ cast in sumo low r.iul lonely spot, 
 To molt, and to sink unsi'cn or forgut ? 
 And then will my course be ended?" 
 'Twas thus a feathery snow flake said, 
 As dowii through the measureless space it strayetl. 
 Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid, 
 It seemed in mid air suspended. 
 
 " O, no," said the earth, " thou shalt not lie, 
 N'eglected and lone, on my lap to die, 
 Tliou pure and delicate child of the sky ; 
 
 For thoU wilt be safe in my keeping ; 
 riut, th-ii, I must give thee a lovelier form ; 
 riiou'lt n(>t be a part of t'.ie wintry st.-rm, 
 IJut revivj whent!'.a sunbeams are y Jlow and warm. 
 
 And the flowers from my bosom arj jioeping. 
 
 "And then thou slialt have thy choiii' to be 
 Restored ill the lily tliat d^c'.;s t'.ie L,i, 
 In the jessamine bloom, the anemon •, 
 
 Or aught cf thy spotless whiten'js., ; 
 To melt, and be cast in a ijlittering b.ad, 
 With the pearls that the !ii.";ht scattL :s over the meiid. 
 In the cup where the bee and th.; fre-dy feed, 
 
 Regaining thy dazzling brightness ; - 
 
 "To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep, 
 When Viola's mi!d blue eye sliall wee]>. 
 In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leap 
 
 In a dnjp from the unlocked fountain ; 
 Or, leaving the valley, the jneadow anil heath, 
 The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, 
 To go and be wove in the silvery wreath 
 
 Encircling the brow of the mountain. 
 
 " Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, 
 To shme in the iris I'll let. theo arise, 
 And appear in the many and glorious dyes 
 
 A pencil of sunbeams is blending. 
 Rut true, fair thing, as my name is earth, 
 I'll give thee a new and vernal birth, 
 U'heii thou shalt recover thy primal worth, 
 
 And never regret descending ! " 
 
 "Then I will drop," said the trusting flake ; 
 " Hut bear it in mind that the choice I make 
 Is not in the flowers nor the dew to awake. 
 
 Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning ; 
 For, things of thyself, they expire with thee ; 
 But those that are lent from on high, like me. 
 They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free. 
 
 To tlie regions above returning. 
 
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 CROWN JI-:\VELS. 
 
 "And :f true to tliy word, and just thou art, 
 Like the spirit ih:it dwells in the holiest heart, 
 Unsullied 1-y tlioe, thou wilt let me.depart. 
 
 And return to my native heaven ; 
 For I woulvl be jjl.iced ia the beautiful bow. 
 From time to time, in thy si:;!it to glow, 
 So thou may'st r.meniber the flake of snow 
 
 By the i)roniise that God hath given." 
 
 Hannah ]"lac;g Gori.n. 
 
 W: 
 
 m 
 
 THE MINSTRtL GIRL. 
 
 ^T^GAIX 'twas evening — Agnes knelt, 
 f ^^ I'alo, passionless — a sainted one : 
 ^^ On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt 
 The last beams of the setting sun. 
 Alone — the damp and cloistered wall 
 
 Was round her like a sepulchre ; 
 And at the vesper's mournful call 
 
 Was bending every worshipper. 
 She knelt — her knee upon the stone, 
 
 Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye, 
 As it were sin to gaze upon 
 
 Tlie changes of llie changeful sky. 
 It seemed as if a sudden tliought 
 
 Of her eiithusiast moments came 
 With the bland eve — and she had sought 
 
 To stifle in her heart the flame 
 Of its awakened memory : 
 
 She felt she might not cherish, then, 
 The raptures of a spirit, free 
 
 And passionate as hers had been, 
 When its sole worship was, to look 
 
 With a delighted eye abroad ; 
 And read, as from an open book. 
 
 The written languages of God. 
 
 I ;ow changed she kneels ! — the vile, gray hood, 
 
 Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair. 
 And where the jewelled silk hath flowed. 
 
 Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire. 
 And wherefore thus? Was hers a soul, 
 
 Which, all unfit for r^tur'^'s gkidness, 
 Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl, 
 
 And drain with joy its draught of madness? 
 Read ye the secret, who have nursed 
 
 In your own hearts intenser feelings, 
 Which stole upon ye, at the first, 
 
 Like bland and musical revealings 
 From some untroudcn paradise. 
 
 Until your very soul was theirs ; 
 And from their maddening ecstacies 
 
 Ye woke to mornfulness and prayers. 
 To weave a garland, will not let it wither ; — 
 Wondering, I listen to the strain sublime. 
 That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time, 
 Wafted in grand simplicity along, 
 The undying breath, the very soul of song. 
 
 John GreenleafWhittier. 
 
 A SONG OF THE MOLE. 
 
 E jay-bird hunt de sparrer-r.es', 
 ] >e bee-martin .sail a!I 'roiai', 
 )e stjuirM, he holler fian c'.^ tup er ile tree- 
 Mr. Mule, he s;:iy in de gii.im'; 
 He hide en ho stay twel dj dar!: drap down- 
 Mr. Mole, he stay in de groun'. 
 
 De w'ipperwill holler fum 'cross de fjuce — 
 
 3 le got no peace er min' ; 
 Mr. Mole, he grabble en he di^; twel he Ian' 
 
 Un'need de sweet tater vine ; 
 I le Ian' down dar whar no sun ain't shine, 
 
 Un'need do sweet-tater vine. 
 
 De sparrer-hawk whet his bill on de rail — 
 
 Oh, ladies, lissen unter me, 
 Mr. Mole, he handle his two little spade, 
 
 Down dar whar no eye kin see ; 
 He dig so fur en he di.yf so free, 
 
 Down dar whar no eye kin see. 
 
 De nigger, he wuk twel de dark drap down, 
 
 y.i\ den Mr. Mole is he ; 
 He sii:^ his song de whole night long 
 
 Whar do ixitter-rolLr ne\ er kin see ; 
 He sing en he play— ih, gals, go 'way ! — 
 
 Whar de patter-roller never kin see. 
 
 Joel CiiANDLiiR II. \HHiii (L'm/e A'ciiius), 
 
 GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN. MOTHER, 
 
 Af^ IVE nie three 
 f (f^ Onlv thrc 
 V*/ It will' keep 
 
 THE IRISH FAMINE. 
 
 iree grains of corn, mother — 
 ree grains of corn ; 
 keep the little life I have 
 I T.ll the coming t)f the morn. 
 
 I am dying of himger and cold, mother — 
 
 Dying of hunger and cold ; 
 And half the agony of such a death 
 My lips have never told. 
 
 It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, motlier- 
 
 A wolf that is fierce for bloo'l ; 
 All the livelong day, and the night besiue. 
 
 Gnawing for lack of food. 
 I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother. 
 
 And the sight was heaven to set' ; 
 I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, 
 
 15ut you had no bread for me. 
 
 I low could I look to you, mother — 
 
 How could I look to you 
 For bread to give to your .starving l)uy. 
 
 When you were starving too ? 
 For I read the famine in your cheek. 
 
 And in your eyes so wild. 
 And I felt it in your bony hand 
 
 As you laid it un your child. 
 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 2G9 
 
 The Queen lias lands and gold, mother — 
 
 Tiie Queen has lands and gold, 
 While you are forced to your empty breast 
 
 A skeleton babe to hold — 
 A babe that is dying of want, mother, 
 
 As I ani dying now, 
 With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, 
 
 And famine upon its brow. 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, mother — 
 
 What has poor Ireland done. 
 That the world looks on and sees us starve, 
 
 Perishing one by one ? 
 Do the men of England care not, mother — 
 
 The great men and the high — 
 For the suffering sons of Erin's isle. 
 
 Whether they live or die ? 
 
 There is many a brave heart here, mother — 
 
 Dying of want and cold. 
 While only across the channel, mother. 
 
 Are many that roll in gold ; 
 There are rich and proud men there, mother. 
 
 With wondrous wealth to view. 
 And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night 
 
 Would give life to me and you. 
 
 Come nearer to my side, mother. 
 
 Come nearer to my side. 
 And hold me fondly as you held 
 
 My father when he died ; 
 Quick ! for I cannot see you, mother. 
 
 My breath is almost gone ; 
 Mother ! dear mother ! ere I die. 
 
 Give me three grains of corn. 
 
 Ameli.v Blanford Edwards. 
 
 IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. 
 
 Vj • H E leaders of our Revolution were men of who!n 
 |Q?\ the simple truth is the highest praise. C)f every 
 V^ condition in life, they were singularly sagacious, 
 "f sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke 
 only the truth when he said to Franklin, of the men 
 who composed the first colonial Congress: "The 
 Congress is the most honorable assembly of statesmen 
 since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the 
 most virtuous times " Given to grave reflection, they 
 were neither dreamers nor visionaries, and thi;y were 
 nnith too earnest to be rhetoricians. It is a curious 
 fact, tli.at they were generally men of so calm a temper 
 that they lived to extreme age. With the e.xception of 
 Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of 
 tlicni jMofound scholars, and studied the history of 
 niankiiul that they might know men. They were so 
 familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and 
 h-'st minds of the past that a classic aroma hangs about 
 their writings and their speech ; and ihey were pro- 
 fonndly convinced of what statesmen always know, and 
 the adroitest mere politicians never perceive— that ideas 
 
 arc the life of a people ; that the conscience, not the 
 pocket, is tlia real citadel of a nation, and that when 
 yi (U have debauched and demoralized that conscience 
 l)y teaching that there are no natural rights, and that 
 therefore there is no moral right or wrong in political 
 ac'!on, you have poisoned the wells and rotted tlie 
 crops in tiie ground. 
 
 The three greatest living statesmen of England knew 
 this filso. Edmund Durke knew it, and Charles James 
 Fox, and William Titt, Earl of Chatham. But they did 
 not speak fur the King, or Parliament, or the English 
 n.ition. L'.:d '"lower spoke for them when he said in 
 Parliament : "Let the Americans talk about their natu- 
 ral and divine rights; their rights as men and citizens ; 
 their rights from God and nature ! I am for enforcing 
 these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and 
 the King hired the Hessians, but the truth remained 
 true. The Fathers saw the scarlet soldiers swarming 
 over the sea, but more steadily they saw thi'*; the na- 
 tional progress had been secure only in the degree that 
 the political system had conformed to natural justice. 
 Tiiey knew the coming wreck of property and trade, 
 hut they kn.ew more surely that Rome was never so 
 rich as when she was dying, and, on the other hand, 
 the Netherlands, never so powerful as when they were 
 poorest. Farther away, they read the names of As- 
 syria, Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splen- 
 dor. Corn enough grew in the valley of the Nile. The 
 .Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They were mer- 
 chant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivaled 
 by their sails upon the sea. Tiiey were soldiers, and 
 their frown frightened the world. 
 
 "Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid 
 with excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remem- 
 ber the king who had built his grandest palace, and was 
 to occupy it upon the morrow ; but when the morrow 
 came the palace was a pile of ruins. "Woe is me ! " 
 cried the King, "who is guilty of this crime ? " "There 
 is no crime," replied the sage at his side; "but the 
 mortar was made of sand and water only, and the 
 builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old em- 
 pires, because the governors forgot to put justice into 
 their governments. 
 
 George William Cvrtis. 
 
 MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 
 
 Y mind to me a kingdom is ; 
 
 Such perfect joy therein I find 
 As far exceeds all earthly bliss 
 Tliat God or nature hath assigned; 
 Though much I want that most would have, 
 Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 
 
 Content I live ; this is my stay — 
 I seek no more than may suflice. 
 
 I press to bear no haughty sway ; 
 Look, what I lack my mind supplies. 
 
 Lo ! thus I triumph like a king, 
 
 Content with that my mind doth bring. 
 
 
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 270 
 
 CROWN JEUIvLS. 
 
 I see how plenty surfeits oft, 
 
 And hasty climbers soonest fr.ll ; 
 I see that such as sit aloft 
 
 Mishap doth tlireaten most of all. 
 These get with toil, and keep will) fear ; 
 Such cares my mind could never bear. 
 
 No princely pomp nor wealthy store, 
 
 No force to win the victory, 
 No wily wit to salve a sore, 
 
 No shape to win a lover's eye — 
 To none of tliesc I yield as thrall ; 
 For why, my mind despiseth all. 
 
 Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 
 
 I little have, yet seek no more. 
 They are but poor, though much they have ; 
 
 And I am rich with little store. 
 They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give; 
 They lack, 1 lend ; they pine, I live. 
 
 I laugh not at another's loss, 
 
 I grudge not at another's gain ; 
 No worldly wave my mind can toss ; 
 
 I brook that is another's bane. 
 I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend ; 
 I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 
 
 I joy not in no earthly bliss; 
 
 I wti;^h not Croesus' wealth a straw ; 
 For care, I care not what it is ; 
 
 I fear not fortune's fatal law ; 
 My mind is such as may not move 
 For beauty bright, or force of love. 
 
 I wish but what I have at will ; 
 
 I wander not to seek for more ; 
 I like the plain, I climb no hill ; 
 
 In greatest storms I sit on shore. 
 And laugh at tliem that toil in vain 
 To get what nuist be lost again. 
 
 I kiss not where I wish to kill ; 
 
 I fei;;n not love where most I hate; 
 I break no sleep to win my will ; 
 
 I wait not at the mighty's gate. 
 I scorn no poor, I fear no rich ; 
 I feci no want, nor have too much. 
 
 The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; 
 
 E.\trcnu;S ar^i counted worst of all ; 
 Tl'.e golden mean betwi.xt them both 
 
 Doih surest suit, and fears no fall ; 
 This is my choice ; for why, I find 
 No wealth is like a quiet mind. 
 
 My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 
 
 My conscience clear my chief defence ; 
 I never seek by bribes to plcare. 
 
 Nor by desert to give ofTence. 
 Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 
 Would ill did so as well as I ! 
 
 William Bvrd. 
 
 THE RIGHT MUST CONQUER. 
 
 N this world, with its wild whirling eddies s\n<] ni.:(l 
 foam octans, where men and nations perisii as ii 
 without law, and judgment for v.w unjust thing is 
 sternly delayed, dost thi.u think that there is 
 theref re no justice? It is what the f ol hath said i;t 
 his hc;;;rt. It is what the wise in all times were wis 
 because they denied, and knew forever not to he', j 
 tell the'.; ajvain, there is nothing else l)ut ju'tice. Oi).. 
 strong thing I find here below : the just thing, the triiu 
 thing. 
 
 My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woohvidi 
 trundling at thy hack in support of an unjust thing, and 
 infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to hia/i.- 
 centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I wcnild 
 advise thee to call halt, to fling down thy baton and 
 say, " In Heaven's name, no ! " 
 
 Thy "success " ? Poor fellow ! what will thy success 
 amount to ? If the thing is unjust, thou h.ist not 
 succeeded ; no, not though bonfires bla.ted fr<,i;n north 
 to south, and bells raiig, and editors wrote leading 
 articles, and the just things lay trampled oitt of sight to 
 all mortal ejes abolished and annihilated tliin^^s. 
 
 It is the right and noble alone t'.iat will have victory in 
 this strug;;le ; th_ rest is wholly an obstruction, a pi^st- 
 ponement and fearful imperilmer.t of the victory. To- 
 wards r.ii et rni.l centre of right and noblener.s, .-iiid of 
 that only, is all confusion tending. We already know 
 whither it is all tending; what will have vict ry, uli.it 
 will have none. The l-.eaviw'st will reach the centre. 
 The heaviest h.is its deflections, its obstructions, n:iy, 
 at times its rehoundings ; whereupon some bKxIcIiei'.d 
 shall be heard jubilating, "See, your hcavijst ascends !'' 
 but at all moments it i ; moviiig ccntreward fast a-; it is 
 convenient for it ; sinking, sinking; and, by l;;\vs older 
 th.an the world, old as the Maker's first ph'.u of ilie 
 world, it has to arrive there. 
 
 Await the i.ssue. In all battles, if you await the issue, 
 each fighter has prospered according to his right, il.s 
 right and his might, at the close of the account, were 
 one and the same. He has fought with all his might, 
 and in exact proportion to all his right he ha-, nre\ ailed. 
 His very de.ath is no victory over him. ,.[c ./^-s in- 
 deed ; but his work lives, very truly lives. 
 
 A heroic Wallace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot 
 hinder that his Scotland become, one day, a part of 
 England ; but he does hinder that it become, on tyran- 
 nous, unfair terms, a part of it ; command:! still, as with 
 a god's voice, from his old Valhalla and Temple of the 
 Brave, t'r.at there be a just, real union, as cf brother ainl 
 brother — not a false and merely stmblant one, as of 
 slave and master. If the union wii'i England he in 
 fact one of .Scotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace 
 withal that it was not the chief curse. Scotland is not 
 Ireland ; no, because brave men rose there and said, 
 " Behold, ye must not tread us down like slaves, and 
 ye shall not and cannot !" 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 271 
 
 Fight on, thou brave, true heart, and falter not, 
 through dark fortune and througli ))right. The cause 
 tliou Tightest for, so far as it is tru<;, no further, yet pre- 
 cisely so far, is very sure of victory. The falsehood 
 alone of it will be conquered, will be abolished, as it 
 ought to be ; but the truth of it is part of nature's own 
 laws, co-operates with the world's eternal tendencies, 
 and cannot be conquered. 
 
 Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 THE BLIND MAN. 
 
 'HERE is a world, a pure unclouded clime. 
 Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor 
 time I 
 
 "^ Nor loss of friends ! Perhaps when yonder 
 bell 
 Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell. 
 Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to-night, 
 Tlicy thought upon that world of distant light ; 
 And when the blind man lifting light his hair. 
 Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer ; 
 Then sighed, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head, 
 " No morn will shine on me till I am dead !" 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 
 
 ' NTO a ward of the w hitewashed halls, 
 
 '• Where the dead and dying lay, 
 
 > Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls, 
 
 Somebody's darling was borne one day — 
 .Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, 
 
 W^earing yet on his pale, sweet face. 
 Soon to be hid by the dust of th- grave. 
 The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 
 
 Matted and damp are the curls of gold. 
 
 Kissing the snow of the fair j-oimg brow, 
 Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 
 
 Somebody's darling is dying now. 
 liack from his beautiful blue-veined brow, 
 
 Brush all the wandering waves of gold ; 
 Cross his hands on his bosom now — 
 
 Somel)ody's darling is still and cold. 
 
 Kiss him once for somebody's sake. 
 
 Murmur a prayer both soft and low ; 
 One br ght curl from its fair mates take — 
 
 They arc someb(xly's pride, you know ; 
 Somebody's hand hath rested there — 
 
 Was it a mother's, soft and wiiile ? 
 And have the lips of a sister fair 
 
 Been baptized in their waves of light? 
 
 God knows best ! he was somL;body's love ; 
 
 SoniL-hody's heart enshrined l.im t'.ere ; 
 Somebody wafted hi.; name above, 
 
 Night and mom, on the wings of prayer. 
 
 Somebody wept when he marched aw.ay. 
 
 Looking so handsome, brave and grand ; 
 Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 
 
 Somebody clung to his parting hand. 
 
 Somebody's waiting and watchinrc for him — 
 
 Yearning to hold I.ini again to her heart ; 
 And there he lies with his blue eyes dim. 
 
 And the smiling child-like lips apart. 
 Tenderly bury tiie fair young dead. 
 
 Pausing to droi) on his grave a tear ; 
 Carve in the wooden slab at his head, 
 
 " Somebody's darling slumbers here." 
 
 AL\KiE R. Lacoste. 
 
 THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS. 
 
 ' OME reckon their age by years, 
 .Some measure their life by art ; 
 But some tell their days by the flow of their 
 tears. 
 And their lives by the moans of their heart. 
 
 The dials of earth may show 
 
 The length, not the depth of years — 
 Few or many they come, few or many they go — 
 
 But time is best measured by tears. 
 
 Ah ! not by the silver gray 
 
 Tiiat creeps through the sunny hair. 
 And not by the scenes that we pass on our way. 
 
 And not by the furrows the fingers of care 
 
 On furehead and face have made — 
 
 Not so do we count our years ; 
 Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade 
 
 Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. 
 
 For tlie young are ofttimes old. 
 Though their brows be bright and fair ; 
 
 While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold — 
 O'er them the spring — but winter is there. 
 
 And the old are ofttimes young 
 
 When their hair is thin and white ; 
 And they sing in age, as in youth they sung 
 
 And they laugli, for their cross was light. 
 
 But, bead by bead, I tell 
 
 The rosary of my years ; 
 From a cross — to a cross they lead ; 'tis well, 
 
 And they're blest with a blessing of tears. 
 
 Better a day of strife 
 
 Than a century of sleep ; 
 Give me instead of a long stream of life 
 
 The tempests and tears of the deep. 
 
 A thousand joys may foam 
 
 On the billows of all the year? , 
 But never the foam brings the lone back home — 
 
 He reaches the haven through tears. 
 
 Abram y. RVAN. 
 
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 272 
 
 CROWN JFAVI':LS, 
 
 THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD. 
 
 WIND AND RAIN. 
 
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 ATTLE the window, wind.s ! 
 Rain, drip on the panes ! 
 There are tears and sighs in our hearts and 
 eyes, 
 And a weary weight on our brains. 
 
 'HE cottage was a tliatched one, its outside old 
 and mean ; 
 Yet evorytiiing witliin that cot was wondrous 
 'f neat and clean : 
 
 The niglit was dark and stormy — the wind was blow- 
 ing wild; 
 
 A patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child — 
 
 A little, worn-out creature — his once brigiit eyes grown 
 dim : 
 
 It was a collier's only child — they called him "Little 
 Jim." 
 
 And oh ! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her 
 cheek. 
 
 As she ottered up a prayer in thought! — she was 
 afraid to speak, 
 
 Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than 
 her life ; 
 
 For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched col- 
 lier's wife. 
 
 With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the suf- 
 ferer's bed, 
 
 And pfays that God will spare her boy, and take her- 1 
 self instead ; I 
 
 She gets her answer from the child, soft falls these ; '^"*^ ^ sympathy awakened, and a wondur (luickly 
 words from him — i K^*^''^'> 
 
 " M..ther ! the angels do so smile, and beckon Little ^iH I found myself environed in a littKi negro pew. 
 
 Jim ! ^ r , , , • 
 
 . , . , ., t ,. 1 1 T Out at front a colored coui.;e sat in s(jnow, nL';iilv 
 
 I have no pam, dear motlier, now; but, oh! lam so _ ., , ' ' • 
 
 dry : 
 
 Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more ; and, mother 
 
 The gray sea heaves and heaves, 
 
 On the dreary flats of sand ; 
 And the blasted limb of the churchyard yew. 
 
 It shakes like a ghostly hand ! 
 
 The dead are engulfed beneath it, 
 
 Sunk in the grassy waves ; 
 But we have more dead in our hearts to-day 
 
 Than the earth in all her graves ! 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 WAS walking in .Savannah, pasta church decivwl 
 and dim, 
 When there slowly through the windcjw came ;i 
 l)laintive funeral hymn ; 
 
 wild, 
 
 do n(jt cr\- 1 " 
 With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to his 
 
 lips — I 
 
 He smiled to thank her — then he took three little tiny j 
 
 ^'P''' ' But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death 
 
 " Tell father, when he comes from work, I said ' good , -phat had fanned more llames of sorrow witli his ilut- 
 
 nighti'tohim; | tering breath ; 
 
 And, mother, now ril goto sleep." .... Alas! poor And no funeral over glistened with more svmnatliy 
 
 On the altar was a coffin, iu the cofliii was a ciiiid. 
 
 I cou'd picture him when living — curly hair, iirotrudiii"^ 
 
 lip- 
 And had seen perhaps a thousand in niy hurried souUi- 
 
 ern trip. 
 
 Little Jim 
 
 profound 
 
 She saw that he was dying! The child the loved so Than was in the chain of tear drops that enclasped 
 
 "^'"' I those mourners round. 
 
 Had uttered the last words she'd ever wish to hear, j 
 The cottage door is opened— the collier's step is Rose a sad old colored preacher at the little wooden 
 
 heard ; 
 
 The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a 
 word; 
 
 desk, 
 With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance 
 grotesque ; 
 
 He felt that all was over — he knew the child was dead ! With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face ; 
 He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the ' With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undyin;; 
 
 bed : i race. 
 
 His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain j 
 
 conceal ; ' And he said, " Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty i)it 
 
 And see, the mother joins him ! — the stricken couple | '^' ^''"^V' 
 kneel ; 
 
 With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly 
 
 ask, of Him 
 In heaven, once more that they may meet their own 
 
 poor "Little Jim!" 
 
 For de little boy who lived there, he done gone and 
 
 run away ! 
 He was doin' very finely, and he 'precitate your love ; 
 But his sure 'nuff Father want him inde large house up 
 
 above. 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 273 
 
 "Now, He didn' give you dat baby, by a hundred 
 
 thousand mile ! 
 He jist think you need some sunsliino, an' He lend it 
 
 for a while ! 
 An' He let you keep an' love him till your heart was 
 
 bigger grown ; 
 An' dese silver tears you're s'lcddin's jest de interest 
 
 on de loan. 
 
 "Hereyeroder pretty chilrun ! — Don't be makin' it 
 
 appear 
 Dat your love got sort o' 'nopoli.xed by this little fellow 
 
 here. 
 Don't pile up too much your sorrows on deir little 
 
 mental shelves, 
 So's to kind o' set 'cm wonderin' if dey're no account i 
 
 demselves? j 
 
 "Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' 
 'long o'er sorrow's way. 
 
 What a blessed little picnic dis yere baby's got to-day I 
 
 Your good faders and good modcrs crowd de little fel- 
 low round 
 
 In de angel-tended garden of da Big Plantation 
 Ground. 
 
 "An' dey ask him, ' Was your feet sore ? ' an' take off 
 
 his little siioes. 
 An' dey wash him, and dey kiss him, and dey say, 
 
 ' Xow, wliat's de news? ' 
 .\n' de Lawd done cut iiis tongue loose, den de little 
 
 follow say : 
 '.■Ml our folks down in de valley tries to keep de heb- 
 
 eiily way.' 
 
 "An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things 
 
 lit; view; 
 Don a tear come, and he whisper : ' But I want my 
 
 paryents, too ! ' 
 But de Angel Chief Musici..u teach dat boy a Utile 
 
 song ; 
 Says, ' If only dey be faithful, dey will soon be comin' 
 
 'long.' 
 
 ".\ii' he'll get an education dat will proberly be wortli 
 
 Subtral times as much ;.s any you could buy for him on 
 earth ; 
 
 He'll be in de Lawd s big school-house, widout no con- 
 tempt or fear, 
 
 Wiiile dere's no end to de bad tings might have hap- 
 pened to him here. 
 
 "So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid 
 
 Jesus rest, 
 .\n' don't go to critersizin' dat ar One wot knows the 
 
 best ! 
 llti have sent us many comforts— He have right to take 
 
 away — 
 To the Lawd be praise an' glory, now and ever ! Let 
 
 us pray." 
 
 Will M. Carleton. 
 18 
 
 NINE GRAVES IN EDINBORO'. 
 
 Robert Ariiim says concerning the death of Jemmy Camber, one 
 of tlie jesters of King James I, dining bis reign in ScotUnd: 
 "Jemmy rose, nude Iiim ready, t.tkes bis borse, and rides to tlie 
 churchyard in llie bi^li towne, wlicre he found t!ie sexton (as the 
 custom is there) malting nine graves— three for men, thice fur 
 women, and tlirce for children; and whoso dyes next, first com;, 
 first served. 'Lend me tliy spade,' says Jemmy, ahd with lliat 
 digs a luile, whicli lioie he bids him make for Ids grave; and d./;!i 
 give bim a French crowne. The man, wilbng to please hir.i (more 
 for his gold than bis plcasHrc\ did so; and tlie foole gets upon bis 
 horse, rides to a gentleman of the towne, and on tlie sodaine with- 
 in two boures after dyed ; of whom the sexton telling, he wai 
 buried there indeed." 
 
 '""^ N the church-yard, up in the old high town, 
 The se.\ton stood at his daily toil. 
 And he lifted his mattock and drove it down, 
 And sunk it deep in the sacred soil. 
 
 And then ar. he delved he sang right lustily, 
 -Aye as he deepened and shaped the graves 
 
 In the black.old mold that smcUed so mustily, 
 And thus was die way of the sexton's staves: 
 
 " It's nine o'the clock, and I have begun 
 Tile settled task that is daily mine ; 
 By ten o' the clock I will finish one — 
 By six o' the clock there must be nine : 
 
 "Just three for women, and diree for men ; 
 And, ti) fill ihj number, another three 
 For dauglUors of women ar.d suiis of men 
 Who men or woni^n shall never be. 
 
 " And the first of the graves in a row of three 
 Is his or hers who sliall first appear ; 
 All lie in the order they come to me. 
 And such has been ever the custom here." 
 
 The first they brought was a fair young child, 
 And they saw him buried and went their way ; 
 
 And the sexton leaned on his spade and smiled. 
 And wondered, " Hosv many more to day?" 
 
 Tiio next was a man ; then a woman came : 
 The sexton had loved her in yean; gone by ; 
 
 But tlie years had gone, and the dea 1 old dame 
 He buried as deep as his memory. 
 
 At six o' the clock his task was done ; 
 
 Ligiit graves were closed, and the ninth prepared — 
 Mads really to welcome a man — what one 
 
 'Twas little the grim old sexton cared. 
 
 He sat him down on its brink to rest. 
 When the clouds were red and the sky was gray, 
 
 And said to himsjif : " This last is the best 
 And deepest of all I have digged to-day. 
 
 " Who will fill it, I wonder, and when? 
 It does not matter : whoe'er they be, 
 The best and tiie worst of the race of men 
 Are all alike when tiiey come to me." 
 
 il- ; 
 
 ■?W i 
 
 Mi 
 
 m 
 
n 
 
 
 II r 
 
 ■,;.;',) 
 
 J!^ 
 
 274 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 They went to him with a man, next day, 
 When the sky was gray and the clouds were red. 
 
 As the sun set forth on his upward way ; 
 They went — and they found tl)c sexton dead. 
 
 Dead, by the open grave, was he ; 
 
 And they buried him ni it that self-same day, 
 And marvelled much such a thing should be ; 
 
 And since, the people will often say : 
 
 If ye dig, no matter when, 
 Graves to bury other men, 
 Think — it never ean be known 
 When ye' II ehanee to d is; your own. 
 Mind ye of the tale yc kiiotv — 
 Nine graves in Edinbro. 
 
 IkWIN RfSSELL. 
 
 From hearts that bleed 
 The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 
 Shall never need. 
 
 Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling. 
 Thou genile heart ! 
 ; And, though thy bosom should with grief be swelliii -, 
 
 Let no tear start ; 
 It were in vain— for lime hath long been kncliin:^-- - 
 Sad one, depart ! 
 
 William Motiikkwki.i,. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, 
 MUSIC. 
 
 WHEN 
 
 Uj 
 
 BENEATH THE COLD RED EARTH 
 AM SLEEPING. 
 
 THE POWER OF 
 
 'HEN I beneath the cold red earth am sleep- 
 in"^ 
 
 Life's fever o'er. 
 Will there for me be any bright eye weeping 
 That I'm no more? 
 Will there be any heart still memory keeping 
 Of heretofore ? 
 
 W'hen the great winds through leafless orests rushing. 
 
 Like full hearts break — 
 When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gush- 
 ing. 
 
 Sad music make — 
 Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing. 
 
 Mourn for my sake .' 
 
 When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 
 
 With purest ray, 
 And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twin- 
 ing, 
 
 Rurst through that clay — 
 Will there be one still on that spot repining 
 
 Lost hopes all day ? 
 
 When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping 
 
 Of her dark pall, 
 The world and all its manifold creation sleeping— 
 
 The great and small — 
 Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping 
 
 For me— for all ? 
 
 When no star twinkles with its eyes of glory 
 
 (Jti lliat low mound. 
 And wintry stornis have with their ruins hoarj' 
 
 Its loneneFS crowned, 
 Will there be then one, versed in misery's story, 
 
 Pacing it round .' 
 
 It may * "• so — but this is selfish sorrow 
 
 To ask such meed — 
 A meekness and a wickedness, to borrow 
 
 WAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
 
 By Philip's war-like son — 
 
 Aloft in awful state 
 
 The godlike hero sate 
 On his imperial throne ; 
 His valiant peers were placed around, 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned ;) 
 The lovely Thais by his side 
 Sate like a blooming Lastern bride 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride : — 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 None but the brave 
 None but the brave 
 None but the brave deserves the fair I 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high 
 Amid the tuneful choir, 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 
 Who left his blissful scats above — 
 .Such is the power of mighty love I 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
 Sublime on radiant spheres he rode 
 When he to fair Olympia prest, 
 .'Vnd while he sought her snowy breast ; 
 ! Then round her slender waist he curled, 
 .'\nd stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of tli 
 
 world, 
 — The listening crowd admire the lofty sound I 
 A present deity ! they shout around : 
 A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound ! 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch hears, 
 Assumes the god ; 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician suiig- 
 Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : 
 The jolly god in triumph comes ! 
 Sound the trumpets, beat the drums I 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 276 
 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 
 1 le shows his hDUcst face : 
 
 Now give tiie hautboys breath ; ho coines, he comes ! 
 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordaui ; 
 
 Hacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
 
 Rich the treasure, 
 
 Sweet the pleasure, 
 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 Soothed with the sound, the King grew vain ; 
 
 I'ought all his battles o'er as;:iin. 
 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew 
 
 the slain I 
 The master saw the madness rise, 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 And while he heaven and earth defied 
 Changed his hand and checked his pride. 
 He chose a mournful muse 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 He sung Darius great and good. 
 By too severe a fate 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 Fallen from his hiy;li estate. 
 And weltering in his blood ; 
 Deserted, at his utmost need, 
 By tliose his former bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 The various turns of chance below ; 
 And now and then a sigh he stole. 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smiled to see 
 Tliat love was in the next degree ; 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble. 
 Honor but an empty bubble. 
 Never ending, still beginning; 
 Fighting still, and still destroying; 
 If the world be worth thy winning. 
 Think, O think, it worth enjoying : 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
 Take the good the gods provide thee I 
 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
 So love was crowned, but music won the cause. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care. 
 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
 Sighed and looked and sighed again : 
 At length with love and wine at once opprest, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again : 
 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 
 
 lireak his bands of sleep asunder. 
 
 And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 
 I lark, hark ! that horrid sound 
 
 I las raised up his head : 
 
 As awaked from the dead 
 
 And amazed he stares around. 
 
 Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries. 
 
 See the furies arise ! 
 
 See the snakes that they rear 
 
 How lliey hiss in their hair. 
 
 And the sparkles that fl.ish from their eyes I 
 
 Behold a ghastly luind 
 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain 
 
 .\nd unburied remain 
 
 Inglorious on the plain : 
 
 Give the vengeance due 
 
 To the valiant crew ! 
 
 Uohold how they toss their torches on high, 
 
 I low they point to the Persian abodes 
 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
 
 The princes applaud with a furious joy : 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
 Thais led the way 
 To light him to his prey. 
 And like another Helen, fired another Troy ! 
 
 Thus long ago. 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
 
 While organs yet were mute, 
 
 Timotheus, te) his breathing flute 
 
 And sounding lyre 
 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 
 .\t last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 
 The sweet enthusiast from her sncrcd store 
 
 Enlarged the former narrow bound?, 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
 Or both divide the crown ; 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down ! 
 
 Jdiin Drvden. 
 
 ART AND NATURE. 
 
 1*^ ATURE is made better by no mean, 
 
 1^1 But nature makes that mean : so ovfer that 
 
 Which you say adds to nature is an art 
 That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
 A gentler scion to the w iltltst stock. 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 By buds of nobler race. This is an art 
 Which does mend nature, change it rather ; but 
 The art itself is nature. 
 
 William Shakspeare. 
 
 isi*' ill 
 
 H . 
 
 <<!= 
 
 ..■•.,„ i* ,j 
 
 Hit '" ,i 
 
276 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 f* 
 
 
 
 ft.,; 
 
 .> 1 
 U;.,' 
 
 
 
 e« 1 ■ ■- 
 
 f] 
 
 
 I : I 
 
 Ilj 
 
 D/£DALUS. 
 
 AIL for Drcdalus, all that is f.iirest ! 
 All that is tuneful in air or wave ! 
 Sliapos whose beauty is truest and rarest, 
 Haunt with your lanips and spells his 
 grave ! 
 
 Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, 
 
 Ve that glance 'mid ruins old, 
 
 That know not a past, nor expect a morrow 
 
 On many a mo(jnlight Grecian wcjld ! 
 
 By sculptured cave and speaking; river, 
 Thee, DicdaUis, oft the nymplis recall ; 
 The leaves with a sound of wiiiti.r (uiiver, 
 Murmur thy name, and withering fall. 
 
 Yet are thy visions in soul the grandt-st 
 Of all that crowd on the tear-dimm-jd eye, 
 Thoup;h, Da'dalus, thou no more commandest 
 New stars to that ever-widening sky. 
 
 Iv.er thy phantoms arise before us, 
 Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; 
 Hy Ijid and la Aa they lord it o'er u:;. 
 With looks of beauty and words of good. 
 
 Calmly they sliow us mankind victorious 
 O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base ; 
 Their presence has made our nature glorious, 
 Unveiling our night's illumined face. 
 
 Wail for Dccdahis, earth and ocean ! 
 St:us and sun, lament for him ! 
 Ages quake in strange commotion ! 
 All ye reahns of life be dim! 
 
 Wail for Diedalus, awful voices. 
 Front earth's ileep centre mankind appall ! 
 Seldom ye sound, and then death rejoices, 
 For he knows that then the mightiest fall. 
 
 John Stkhling. 
 
 (3 
 
 DICKENS IN CAMP. 
 
 BOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting. 
 The river sang below ; 
 The dim .Sierras, far beyord. uplifting 
 Their minarets of snow. 
 
 The roaring cai7ip-fire, with rude humor, painted 
 
 Tile i;uddy tmls ol health 
 On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 
 
 In the fierce race of wealth ; 
 
 Till one aro.se, and from his pack's scant treasure, 
 
 A hoarded volume drew. 
 And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure. 
 
 To hear the tale anew ; 
 
 And then, while rcnmd them shadows gathered faster, 
 And as the firelight (oil, j 
 
 He read aloud the book wherein the iMa.ster 
 Had writ of " Little Nell." 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy— for the reader 
 
 Was youngest of them all — 
 Cut, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
 
 A silence seemed to fall ; 
 
 The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 
 
 Listened in every spray, 
 While the whole camp, with " Nell," on Eiigli.li 
 meadows 
 
 Wandered and lost their way. 
 
 And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 
 
 As by some spell divine — 
 Their cares dropped from them like the need!, s 
 shaken 
 
 From out the gusty pine. 
 
 Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : 
 
 And he who wrought that spell ? — 
 Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 
 
 Ye have one tale to tell ! 
 
 Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 
 
 Blend with the breath that thrills 
 With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory 
 
 That fills the Kentish hills. 
 
 And on that grave where English oak and holly. 
 
 And laurel wreaths intwine, 
 Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— 
 
 This spray of western pine. 
 
 Bret Hartk. 
 
 JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. 
 
 XE time my soul was pierced as with a .swoi.l. 
 Contending still with men untaught aini 
 wild. 
 When He who to the prophet lent his gourd, 
 Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 
 
 A summer gift, my precious flower was given, 
 
 A very summer fragrance was its life ; 
 Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven, 
 
 When home I turned, a weary man of strife. 
 
 With unformed laughter, musically sweet, 
 
 How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss : 
 
 With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father gnell 
 O, in the desert, what a spring was this 1 
 
 A few short months it blossomed near my heart : 
 A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad ; 
 
 But that home-solace nerved me for my part, 
 And of the babe I was exceeding glad. 
 
 Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying, 
 (The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night I) 
 
 And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying. 
 Took gently home the child of my delight. 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 '277 
 
 Not nulcly culled, not suddenly it perished, 
 
 Hut gradual faded from our love away : 
 As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished. 
 
 Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day. 
 
 My blessed Master saved nie from repining, 
 
 So tenderly He sued me for His own ; 
 So beautiful He made my babe's declining, 
 
 Its dying blessed me as its birtii had done. 
 
 And daily to my board at noon and e\ en 
 Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 
 
 'I'liat we might commune of our rest in heaven, 
 (ia;;ing the while on death, without its sting. 
 
 y\iid of the ransom for that baby paid, 
 .So very sweet at times our converse seemed, 
 
 Tiiat the sure truth of grief a gladness made : 
 Our little lamb by Gotl's own Lamb redeemed ! 
 
 'I'here were two milk-white doves my wife had nour- 
 ished : 
 
 And I, too, loved, erewhile, at times to stand 
 Ma; iving how each the otiier fondly dierished, 
 
 And {ui\ them from my baby's dimi>led hand ! 
 
 .S;> tame they grew, that to his cradle flying, 
 {•'nil oft they cooed him to his noontide rest ; 
 
 And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, 
 Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 
 
 "I'uas a fair sight ; die snow-pale infant sleeping, 
 So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild, 
 
 Watch o'er liis closed eyes their bright eyes keeping 
 Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child ! 
 
 Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining, 
 Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play ; 
 
 Anil on the day he died, with sad note pining. 
 One gentle bird would not be frayed away. 
 
 His mother found it, when she rose, sad hearted, 
 At early dawn, with .sense (jf nearing ill ; 
 
 And when at last, the little anl- it [lartcd. 
 The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. 
 
 The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, 
 
 .^s with a human sorrow in its coo; 
 Til my dead chikl and its dead mate then guiding. 
 
 Most pitifully plained — and parted too. 
 
 "Twah my first hansel and propine to heaven ; 
 
 And as I laid my darling 'ncath the sod, 
 Irecious His comforts — once an infant given. 
 
 And offered with tv/o turtle-doves to Goi\ J 
 
 Anna Stuart Mkntkatii. 
 
 LOOKING INTO THE FUTURE. 
 
 /'T>JT summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow 
 1^ Spans with bright arch the glittering hills 
 ^^ below, 
 
 Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
 
 Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? 
 
 Why do those cliflTs of shadowy tint appear 
 
 More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
 'Tis distance lends eiK^liaiitment to the view, 
 And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
 Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
 The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 
 Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
 More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, 
 And every form that fancy can repair 
 From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 
 
 What potent spirit guides the raptured eye 
 To pierce the shatles of dim futurity ? 
 Can wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, 
 The pledge of joy's anticipated hour? 
 Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man — 
 Her dim horizon pointed to a span ; 
 Or, if she hold an im.ige to the view, 
 'Tis nature pictured too severely true. 
 
 Thomas Cami'cei.l. 
 
 ONLY WAITING. 
 
 NLY waiting till tlie shadows 
 Are a little longer grown, 
 Only waiting till the glinnner 
 Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
 Till the night of earth is faded 
 
 From the heart once full of day. 
 Till the stars of heaven are breaking 
 Through the twilight soft and gray. 
 
 Only waiting till the reapers 
 
 Have the last sheaf gathered home. 
 For the summer time is faded, 
 
 And the autumn winds have come. 
 Quickly, reapers ! gather quickly 
 
 The last ripe hours of my heart — 
 For the bloom of life is withered, 
 
 And I hasten to depart. 
 
 Only waiting till the angels 
 
 Open wide the mystic gate. 
 At whose feet I long have lingered, 
 
 Weary, poor and desolate. 
 Even now I hear the footsteps, 
 
 And their voices far away ; 
 If they call me I am waiting. 
 
 Only waiting to obey. 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown. 
 Only waiting till the glimmer 
 
 Of the last day's beam is flown ; 
 Then from out the gathered darknef?s. 
 
 Holy, deathless stars shall rise. 
 By whose light my soul shall gladly 
 
 Tread its pathway to the skies. 
 
 Francis Laughton Mace. 
 
 1 ^ ) '" 
 
 'i'tm 
 
 I'l 
 
 i 1 
 
 III 
 

 ■Isll 
 
 !:vii: 
 
 1 I 
 
 278 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 THE WANTS OF MAN. 
 
 ^'IJl 
 
 AN wants hut little here hclow, 
 Nor wants that little lon.n." 
 Tis not with nic exactly so, 
 But 'tis so in the song. 
 My wants are many, and if told, 
 Would muster many a score ; 
 And were each wi>h a mint of gold, 
 I still should long for more. 
 
 What fir.^t I w.int is daily bread, 
 
 .Vnil c.uivas-backs and wine ; 
 And all the realms of nature spread 
 
 Before me when I dine ; 
 With four choice c<ooks from France, beside. 
 
 To dress my dinner well ; 
 Four courses scarcvly can |)rovide 
 
 My appetite to nuell. 
 
 What next I want, at heavy cost, 
 
 Is elegant attire : 
 Black sable furs for winter's frost, 
 
 And silks for summer's fire ; 
 AikI Cashnvjre shawls, and Brussels lace 
 
 My bosom's front to deck. 
 And di.!niond rings my hands to grace, 
 
 And rubies for my neck. 
 
 And then F want a mansion fair, 
 
 A dwelling-house, in style, 
 Four stories high, for wholesome air — 
 
 A ma.ssive marble pile ; 
 With halls for banquotings and balls. 
 
 All furnished rich and fine ; 
 With higli-blood studs in fifty stalls, 
 
 And cellars for my wine. 
 
 I want a garden and a park. 
 
 My dwelling to surround — 
 A thousand acres (bless the mark !) 
 
 With walls encompas.sed round — 
 Where flocks may range and herds may low, 
 
 And kids and lambkins play. 
 And flowers and fruits commingled grow, 
 
 All Eden to display. 
 
 I want, when summer's foliage falls, 
 
 And autumn strips the trees, 
 A house w-ithin the city's walls, 
 
 For comfort and for ease ; 
 But here as space is somewhat .scant, 
 
 And acres somewhat rare, 
 My house in town I only want 
 
 To occupy — a square. 
 
 I want a cabinet profuse 
 
 Of metals, coins, and gems ; 
 A printing-press for private use, 
 
 Of fifty thousand em-; ; 
 
 And plants, and minerals, and shells ; 
 
 Worms, insects, tishe'*, bird-; ; 
 And every beast on earth that dwells 
 
 In solitude or herds. 
 
 And maples of fair glossy stain. 
 
 Must form my chamber doors. 
 And carpets of the Wilton grain 
 
 Must cover all my floors ; 
 My walls with tapestry bedecked, 
 
 Must never be outdone ; 
 A. id damask curtains must protect 
 
 Their colors from the sun. 
 
 And mirrors of the largest pane 
 
 From Venice must be brought ; 
 And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane, 
 
 For chairs and tables bought ; 
 On all the mantel-pieces, clocks 
 
 Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand. 
 And screens of ebony and Iwx 
 
 Invite the stranger's hand. 
 
 I want (who does not want ?) a wife, 
 
 Affectionate and fair. 
 To solace all the woes of life. 
 
 And all its joys to share ; 
 Of temper sweet, of yielding will. 
 
 Of firm yet placid mind, 
 With all my faults to love me still. 
 
 With sentiment refined. 
 
 And when my bosom's darling sings. 
 
 With melody divine, 
 A pedal harp of many strings 
 
 Must with her voice combine. 
 Pi uio, exquisitely wrought. 
 
 Must open stand, apart. 
 That all my daughters may be taught 
 
 To win the stranger's heart. 
 
 My wife and daughters will desire 
 
 Refreshment from perfumes. 
 Cosmetics for the skin require. 
 
 And artificial blooms. 
 The civet fragrance shall dispense. 
 
 And treasured sweets return ; 
 Cologne revive the flagging sense. 
 
 And smoking amber burn. 
 
 And when at night my weary head 
 
 Begins to droop and dose, 
 A chamber south, to hold my bed. 
 
 For nature's sole repose ; 
 With blankets, counterpanes and sheet, 
 
 Mattress, and sack of down. 
 And comfortables for my feet, 
 
 And pillows for my crown. 
 
 I want a warm and faithful friend, 
 To cheer the adverse hour, 
 
SKNTIMKNT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 970 
 
 Who ne'er to flatter will descend, 
 
 Nor bind the knee to power ; 
 A friend to ciiide me when I'nj wrong, 
 
 My inmost soul to see ; 
 And that my friendship |irove as strong 
 
 For him, as liis for me. 
 
 I want a kind and tender lieart, 
 
 For others' wants to fee! ; 
 A soul secure from fortune's dart. 
 
 And bosom armed with steel ; 
 To bear Divine chastisement's rod, 
 
 And, mingling in my plan, 
 Submission to the will of God, 
 
 With charity to man. 
 
 I want a keen, observing eye. 
 
 An ever-listening car, 
 The truth through all disguise to spy, 
 
 And wisdom's voice to hear ; 
 A tongue, to speak at virtues' need. 
 
 In heaven's sublimest strain; 
 And lips, the cause of man to plead. 
 
 And never pluad in vain. 
 
 I want uninterrupted health. 
 
 Throughout my long career, 
 And streams of never-failing wealth. 
 
 To scatter far and near — 
 The destitute to clothe and feed, 
 
 Free bounty to bestow. 
 Supply the helpless orjihan's need, 
 
 And soothe the widow's woe 
 
 I want the seals of power and place. 
 
 The ensigns of conunand. 
 Charged by the people's unbought grace, 
 
 To rule my native land ; 
 Nor crown, nor sceptre would I ask. 
 
 Hut from my country's will, 
 By day, by night, to ply the task 
 
 Her cup of bliss to fill. 
 
 I want the voice of honest praise 
 
 To follow me behind. 
 And to be thought, in future days. 
 
 The friend of human kind ; 
 That after-ages, as they rise. 
 
 Exulting may proclann ; 
 In choral union to the skies. 
 
 Their blessings on my name. 
 
 These are the wants of mortal man ; 
 
 I cannot need them long. 
 For life itself is but a span. 
 
 And earthly bliss a song. 
 My last great want, absorbing all, 
 
 Is, when beneath the sod, 
 And summoned to my final call — 
 
 The mercy of my God. 
 
 John Quincv Adams. 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 NCK upon a midnit;ht dreary, 
 While I pondered, weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious 
 Volume of forgotten lore, 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, 
 Suddenly there came a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping. 
 Rapping at my chamber door. 
 ' 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, 
 "Tapping at my chamber door — 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember. 
 It was in the bleak December, 
 And eitch separate dying ember 
 
 Wrought its ghost upon the tloor. 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow ; 
 Vainly I had tried to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — 
 
 Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden 
 
 Whom the angels name Lenore — 
 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain 
 Rustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic 
 
 Terrors never felt before ; 
 So that now, to still the beating 
 Of my heart, I stood repeating 
 " 'Tis some visitor entreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door- 
 Some late visitor entreating 
 
 Entrance at my chamber door ; — 
 
 This it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger ; 
 Hesitating then no longer, 
 " Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly 
 
 Your forgiveness I implore; 
 But the fact is I was napping. 
 And so gently you came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, 
 
 Tapping at my chamber door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you" — 
 
 Here I opened wide the door : 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more ! 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering. 
 Long I stood there wondering, fearing. 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
 
 Ever dared to dream before; 
 But the silence was unbroken, 
 And the darkness gave no token, 
 And the only word there spoken 
 
 Was the whispered word, * Lenore !" 
 This I whispered, and an echo 
 
 Murmured back the word, " Lenore I ' 
 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 
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 CROWN JIAVHLS. 
 
 
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 Then into the cliambcr ftirninp, 
 All my soul within nie burniii^f, 
 Soon I huard a^aiii n tapping 
 
 Somewhat loiulur than before, 
 "Surely," said I, "surely that is 
 Something at my window Intiirf, 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is. 
 
 And tliis mystery explore — 
 Let my heart be still a nionient, 
 
 And this mystery explore ; — 
 
 'Tis the wind, and nothing more !" 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter. 
 When, with many a flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepped n stately raven 
 
 Of the saintly days of yore ; 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; 
 Not in instant stopped or stayed he ; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady. 
 
 Perched above my cliaml)er door — 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas 
 
 Just above my chamber door — 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling 
 
 My sad fancy into smiling, 
 
 Dy the grave and stern decorum 
 
 Of the countenance it wore, 
 " Tliough thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
 Thou," I said, "art sure no craven. 
 Ghastly grim and ancient raven. 
 
 Wandering from the nightly shore — 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is 
 
 On the night's Plutoniaii shore ;" 
 
 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly 
 Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning — 
 
 Little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing 
 That no living human being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing 
 
 Bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured 
 
 Bust above his chamber door. 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the raven sitting lonely 
 On the placid bust, spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in 
 
 That one word he did outpour. 
 Nothing farther then he uttered — 
 Not a feather then he fluttered— 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered 
 
 " Other friends have flown before — 
 On the morrow he will leave me, 
 
 As my hopes have flown before." 
 
 Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 
 
 Stailled at the stillness broken 
 By reply so aptly spoken, 
 " Doulilless," said I, "what it utters 
 
 It is only stock and store 
 Caught from some unhappy master 
 Whom unmeniful disaster 
 I-\)ll.iwed fiist and fullowed f.sler, 
 
 Till his songs one burden bore — 
 Till the dirges of his hope the 
 
 Melan<:hf)ly burden bore 
 
 Of ' Nevennore ' — of ' Nevermore.' " 
 
 15ut the raven still beguiling 
 All my sad soul into .smiling, 
 Straight I wheeled a cushionefl seat in 
 
 I-'ront of bird and bust and door ; 
 Then upon the velvet sinking, 
 I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking 
 
 What this ominous bird of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
 
 (launt and ominous 1,'inl of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, 
 
 lUit no syllable expressing 
 
 To tiie fowl who-.e fiery eyes now 
 
 llumed into my bosom's core ; 
 This and more 1 sat divining. 
 With my head at eas •^dining 
 On the cushion's v 'ining 
 
 That the laniplig 'ed o'er ; 
 
 But whose velvet violet lining 
 
 With the lamplight gloating o'er, 
 
 .She shall press, ah, never more ! 
 
 Tlieii, methought, the air grew denser. 
 Perfumed from an unseen censer, 
 Swung by angels whose faint foot-fall:; 
 
 Tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 " Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent th(!e, 
 By these angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe 
 
 From thy memories of Lenorc ! 
 QuafT, oh, quafT this kind nepenthe. 
 
 And forget this lost Lenorc ! " 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 
 
 " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — 
 Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 Whetlier tempter sent, or whether 
 
 Tempest tossed thee here ashore. 
 Desolate yet all undannted, 
 On this desert land enchanted — 
 On this home by horror haunted — 
 
 Tell me truly, I implore — 
 Is there — Is there balm in Gilead ? 
 
 Tell me — tell me, I implore ! " 
 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 t i<i 
 
SKNTIMI'.NT AM) Ri:ri.i:rTioN. 
 
 2K1 
 
 " Proplict ! " said I, " thitiK of evil— 
 I'rophct Mill, if bird or devil ! — 
 Uy tli.it lu'.ivi-n tiiat IiliuIs nljovc us — 
 
 Hy tl?;;t (lod wo hotli adnrc — 
 Tuli tliis'-.oiil with sorrow laden 
 If, within the distant Aidenn, 
 It sh.'.ll clasp n sainted niaidjn 
 
 Whom the nnfjels iianii' I.enore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 
 
 Whom the anjjels name I.enore." 
 
 (Juoth the raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, 
 
 Hirtl or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — 
 " Get thee hack into the tempest 
 
 And the night's Plutonian shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token 
 Of that lie thy soul hath spoken I 
 Leave my loneliness unliroken I — 
 
 yuit the bust above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart. 
 
 And take thy form from ofTmy dwir ! " 
 
 (Juoththe r.ivcn, " Nevermore." 
 
 And the raven, never flitting, 
 .Still is sitting, still is sitting 
 (Jn the pallid bust of r.illas 
 
 Just above my chanibor door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming 
 ' )f a demon that is dreaming, 
 And the lamplight o'er him ytrc.iining 
 
 Throws his shadow on the iloor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow 
 
 That lies floating on tin; floor 
 
 Shall be lifted -nevermore ! 
 
 Edgar Ai.i.kn Pok. 
 
 THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS. 
 
 f-* HERE'S no dearth of kindness 
 In this world of ours ; 
 Only in our blindness 
 We gather thorns for floweri ! 
 Outward, we are spurning — 
 
 Trampling one another ! 
 While we are inly yearning 
 At the name of " brother ! " 
 
 There's no dearth kindness 
 
 Or love among mankind, 
 But in darkling loneness 
 
 Hooded hearts grow blind ! 
 Full of kindness tingling, 
 
 Soul is shut from soul, 
 When they might be mingling 
 
 In one kindred whole ! 
 
 There's no dearth of kindness, 
 
 Though it be unspoken, 
 From the heart k buildeth » 
 
 Rainbow-smiles in token — 
 
 Tli.it there be none so lowly, 
 
 lint have some angel-toiii.h : 
 \\{, nun-ing loves unholv, 
 
 Wc live for self tcjo much I 
 
 As th',- wild-nse bloweth, 
 
 ,'\s run:, the hippy river, 
 Kindness freely lloweth 
 
 In tlio heart lorever. 
 But if men will hanker 
 
 I'.ver for goKkn dust, 
 Kin,^lii.st hearts will canker, 
 
 llii^htest spirits rust. 
 
 There's no de.uth of kindness 
 
 In this w(jrlil of ours ; 
 Only ill Diir blinilness 
 
 We ga'.her thorns for fluwiTs ! 
 Oh, clr-MM -ll Clod's best giving, 
 
 I'"al!ing from above ! 
 
 Life wtiv not worth living, 
 
 Were it not for love. 
 
 Gkrai.i) MASsr:v. 
 
 t 
 
 WHAT I LIVE FOR. 
 
 LIVE for those who love me. 
 
 Whose hearts are kind and true ; 
 For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
 And awaits my spirit too ; 
 I'"or all human ties that bind me, 
 For the task by God assigned nie, 
 For the bright hope . left behind me, 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
 I live to learn their story. 
 Who've sufli red for my sake ; 
 
 To emulate their glory, 
 And follow in their wake; 
 
 Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages. 
 
 The noble of all ages, 
 
 Whose deeds crown history's pages, 
 And time's great volume make. 
 
 I live to hold communion 
 
 With all that is divine ; 
 To feel there is a union 
 
 'Twixt nature's heart and mine ; 
 To profit by affliction. 
 Reap truths from fields of fiction, 
 Grow wiser from conviction. 
 
 Add fulfil each grand design. 
 
 I live to hail that season. 
 
 By gifted minds foretold, 
 Wl.en men shall live by reason, 
 
 And not alone by gold ; 
 When man to man united. 
 And every wrong thing righted, 
 The whole world shall be lighted 
 As Eden was of old. 
 
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 282 
 
 CROWN JFAVELS. 
 
 '^'iicr; 
 
 l:lhn 
 
 I live for those who love me, 
 For those who know nie true ; 
 
 For tlie Heaven that smiles above me, 
 And awaits my spirit too ; 
 
 For the cause that lacks assistance. 
 
 For the wrong that needs resistance. 
 
 For the future in the distance, 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
 G. LiNN/Ki;s Hanks. 
 
 LOOK ALOFT. 
 
 This spirited piece was suggested by an nii'cdote related of a 
 sliip-boy who, growing dizzy, \va» about to fall from llie rigging, 
 but was saved by the mate's ch:iiacteristic exclamation, " Loolc 
 aloft, you lubber I" 
 
 ' N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 
 Are ai'o;:nd and above, if thy footing should fail, 
 If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution 
 depart, 
 " Look aloft !" and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 
 
 If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow, 
 With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe, 
 Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are 
 
 arrayed, 
 " Look aloft " to the friendship which never shall fade. 
 
 Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine 
 
 eye. 
 Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, 
 Then turn, and through tears of repentent regret, 
 " Look aloft"' to the Sun that is nevei to set. 
 
 Should they who are dearest, the .son of thy heart, 
 The wife of thy bussom, in sorrow depart, 
 " Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb. 
 To that soil where affection is ever in bloom. 
 
 And oh ! when death comes in his terrors, to cast 
 His fears on the future, his pall on the past, 
 In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart 
 ,IVnd a smile in thine eye, " look aloft," — and depart. 
 
 Jonathan Lawrence. 
 
 MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 
 
 ^▼■^E stand now on the rivers's brink. It may well 
 I w I ^^ called the Concord — the river of peace 
 ^^^ and quietness — for it is certainly the most un- 
 e.\citable and sluggish stream that ever loi- 
 tered imperceptibly towards its eternity, the sea. Posi- 
 tively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew 
 quite clear to my perception which way u." current 
 flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when 
 a north-western breeze is vexing its surface, on a sun- 
 shiny day. 
 
 From the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream 
 is happily incapable of becoming the slave of human 
 ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free, moun- 
 
 tain torrent. While all things else are compelled to 
 subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life 
 away in lazy liberty, witliout lurnin;; a solitary spindly, 
 or affording even watcr-ptjwer enough to grind the 
 com that grows upon its banks. 
 
 The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere ,i 
 bright, pebbly shore, nor so much as n narrow strip of 
 glistening sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers 
 between broad prairies, kissing the long me;idow-grass, 
 and bathes the overhanging boughs of elder-bushes 
 and willows, or the roots of elm and ash trees, and 
 clumps of maples. Flags and rushes grow along its 
 plas'.iy shore ; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, 
 flat leaves on the margin ; and the fragrant white pond- 
 lily abounds, generally selecting a position just so fir 
 from the river's bank that it cannot be grasped, save at 
 the ha;:ard of plunging in. 
 
 It is a marvel whence tliis perfect flower derives its 
 loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, fiDin tlie ' 
 black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk 
 the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud-turtle 
 whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the 
 same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its 
 rank life and noisome odor. Thus we see, too, in the 
 world, that some persons assimilate only what is ir^ly 
 .uid evil from the same moral circumstances which sup- 
 ply good and beautifjil results — the fragrance of eel ;s- 
 tial flowers — to the daily life of others. 
 
 The Old Manse ! — we had almost forgotten it; but 
 will return thither through the orchard. This wa'- set 
 out by the la.st clergyman, in the decline of his life, 
 when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-hea Jed man 
 for planting trees from which he could have no i)ros- 
 pect of gathei ing fruit. Even had that been the case, 
 there was only so much the better modve for planting 
 them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting his 
 successors — an end so seldom achieved by more am- 
 bitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching 
 his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this 
 orchard during many years, and added silver and 
 gold to his annual stipend by disposing of the super- 
 fluity. 
 
 It is pleasant to think of him, walking among the 
 trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn, and 
 picking up here and there a wind-fall ; while he ob- 
 serves how heavily the branches are weighed down, 
 and computes the number of empty flour-barrels that 
 will be filled by their burden. He loved each tree, 
 doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orch.nrd 
 has a relation to mankind, and readily connects itself 
 with matters of the heart. The tree possesses a do- 
 mestic character ; they have lost the wild nature of 
 their forest kindred, and have grown humanized hy re- 
 ceiving the care of man, as well as by contributing to 
 his wants. 
 
 I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the 
 world, as that of finding myself, with only the two or 
 thnse mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the 
 sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of fruits. 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 :ompclled to 
 
 slugj^ish life 
 
 itary spiiulk-, 
 
 to grintl thtf 
 
 t nowhere a 
 rrow strip of 
 It slumbt.'rs 
 iead(j\v-j;rass, 
 cider-bushes 
 ih trees, and 
 row along its 
 ds its broad, 
 it white pond- 
 jn just so far 
 asped, save at 
 
 er derives its 
 Joes, from tiie ' 
 lid where lurk 
 lie mud-turtle 
 ie. It is the 
 I lily sucks it's 
 ee, too, in the 
 ■ what is u;j;ly 
 ces which sup- 
 rance ofcehs- 
 
 rgotten it; hut 
 
 I This wa^: set 
 
 ne of his life, 
 
 hea Jed man 
 
 ave no pros- 
 
 )een the case, 
 
 for planting 
 
 benefiting his 
 
 by more am- 
 
 efore reaching 
 
 es from this 
 
 d silver and 
 
 of the super- 
 
 y-li 
 
 pk 
 
 ng among the 
 autumn, and 
 
 while he ob- 
 eighed down, 
 T-barrels that 
 ved each tree, 
 An orchard 
 :onnects itself 
 issesses a do- 
 
 ild nature of 
 nanized by re- 
 
 mtributing to 
 
 trouble in the 
 ily the two or 
 ; to feed, the 
 :alth of fruits. 
 
 Throughout the summer, there were cherries and cur- 
 rants ; and then came autumn, with his immense bur- 
 den of apples, dropping them continually from his 
 overladen shoulders as he trudged along. In the still- 
 est afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple 
 was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the 
 mere necessity of perfect ripeness. And, besides, there 
 were pear-trees, that flung down bushels upon bushels 
 of heavy pears ; and peach-trees, which, in a good year, 
 tomiented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor 
 kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given 
 away. 
 
 The idea of an infinite generosity and inexhaustible 
 bounty, on the part of our mother nature, was well 
 worth obtaining through such cares as these. That 
 feeling can be enjoyed in perfection not only by tlie 
 natives of summer islands, where the bread-fruit, the 
 cocoa, the palm, and the orange grow spontaneously, 
 and hold forth the ever-ready meal ; but, likewise, 
 almost as well, by a man long habitu.-ited to city life> 
 who plunges into such a solitude as that of the Old 
 Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did 
 not plant ; and which, therefore, to my heterodox taste, 
 bear the closer resemblance to those that grew in Eden. 
 Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requi- 
 site to cultivate a moderately sized garden imparts such 
 zest to kitchen vegetables as is never found in those of 
 the market-gardener. Childless men, if they would 
 know something of tiie bliss of paternity, should plant 
 a seed — be it squash, bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a 
 mere flower, or worthless weed — should plant it with 
 their own hands, and nurse it from infancy to maturity, 
 altogether by their own care. If there be not too many 
 of tiieni, each individual plant becomes an object of 
 separate interest. 
 
 .My garden, that skirted tb.e avenue of the Manse was 
 of precisely the right extent. An hour or two of morn- 
 ing hihor was all th.nt it required. But I used to visit 
 and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep 
 contemplation over my vegetable progeny, with a love 
 that nobody could sh.T c or conceive of, .\ lio had never 
 taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the 
 most bewitching sights in the world to obser\'e a hill of 
 heans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early iieas 
 just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate 
 green. 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ABSALOM. 
 
 'HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low 
 On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled 
 Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
 
 The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves, 
 
 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. 
 
 Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems. 
 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, 
 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. 
 
 And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
 By its light heed of human suffering. 
 That it was fashioned for a happier world ! 
 
 King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
 From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
 With his faint people, for a little rest 
 Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind 
 Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gathered round him on the fresh green bank. 
 And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them theie, 
 And bowed his head upon his hands to pra> . 
 Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 
 And the poor common words of courtesy 
 Are such an empty mockery — how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
 He prayed for Israel — and his voice went up 
 Strong and fervently. He prayed for tliose 
 Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
 The proud, bright being, who had burst away 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherished him — for him he poured, 
 In agony that would not be controlled. 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there. 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was straightened for the grave ; and, as the folds 
 Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
 Were floating round the tassels as they swayed 
 Tc the admitted air, as glossy now 
 As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
 The snowy fingers of Judaea's daughters. 
 His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soiled 
 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid. 
 Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt. 
 Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade. 
 Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. 
 The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. 
 Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief. 
 The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier. 
 And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly. 
 As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
 A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade 
 .As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 
 Of David entered, and he gave command. 
 In a low tone, to his few followers. 
 And left Vim with his dead. The king stood .still 
 Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off 
 The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
 
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 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 The pall from the still features of his child, 
 He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
 111 the resistless eloquence of woe : — 
 
 " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! 
 
 Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
 That death should settle in thy Rlorious eye, 
 
 And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! 
 My proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 "Cold is thy brow, my son ; and I am chill, 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 
 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill. 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearninjj to caress thee, 
 
 And hear tliy sweet ' My father ! ' from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 " But death is on thee. I shall hoar the gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the young ; 
 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; 
 
 But thou no more, witli thy sweet voice, shalt come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 " And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 
 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its l:.st deep token ! 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up. 
 With dea'h so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — 
 
 And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup. 
 If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
 
 May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home. 
 My lost boy, Absalom !" 
 
 He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
 A moment on his child ; then, giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
 His hands convuLsively, as if in pmyer; 
 And, as if strength were given him from God, 
 He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
 Firmly and decently — and left him there — 
 As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
 Natiianucl Fakker Willis. 
 
 CLAUDE 
 
 MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND 
 DEFENSE. 
 
 FROM " I'HK I.ADV OK LYO.NS." 
 
 PAULINE, by pride 
 Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride 
 That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould- 
 The evil spirit of a bitter love 
 And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. 
 From my first years my soul was filled with thee • 
 I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy 
 Tended, unmarked by thee — a spirit of bloom, 
 And joy and freshness, as spring itself 
 Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! 
 
 I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man 
 
 Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; 
 
 And from that hour I grew — what to the last 
 
 I shall be— thine adorer ! Well, this love. 
 
 Vain, frantic— guilty, if thou wilt — became 
 
 A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; 
 
 I thought of tales that by the winter hearth 
 
 Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung from kings 
 
 Have stooped from their high sphere ; how love, like 
 
 death, 
 Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook 
 Beside the scepter. Thus I made my home 
 In the soft palace of a fairy future ! 
 My father died ; and I, the peasant-born, 
 Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise 
 Out of the prison of my mean estate ; 
 And, with such jewels as the exploring mind 
 Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom 
 From those twin jailers of the daring heart — 
 Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, 
 Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory. 
 And lured me on to those inspiring toils 
 By which man masters men ! For thee, I grew 
 A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! 
 I'^or thee, I sought to borrow from each grace 
 And every muse such attributes as lend 
 Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, 
 And i);ission taught me poesy — of thee. 
 And on the painter's canvas grew the life 
 Of beauty !— Art became the shadow 
 Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! 
 Men called me vain — some, mad — I heeded not ; 
 But still toiled on, hoped on — for it was sweet. 
 If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee ! 
 
 At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour 
 The thoughts that burst their channels into song. 
 And sent lliem to thee — such a tribute, lady. 
 As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. 
 The name — appended by the burning heart 
 That longed to show its idol what bright things 
 It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name. 
 That should have been thy triumph, was th>' scorn ' 
 That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath, 
 Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain 
 Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour 
 The tempters found me a revengeful tool 
 For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on tlie worn; - 
 It turned, and stung thee ! 
 
 Lord Lvtto.n. 
 
 THE SHADED WATER. 
 
 lEN that my mood is sad, and in the noist' 
 And bustle of die crowd 1 feel rebuke, 
 turn my footsteps from its hollow joys 
 And sit me down beside this little brook , 
 
 The waters have a music to mine ear 
 
 It glads me mucli to hear. 
 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 285 
 
 It is a quiet glen, as you may sue, 
 
 Sliut in from all intrusion by the trees, 
 Th;it spread their giant branches, broad and free, 
 
 The silent growth of many centuries ; 
 And make a iiallowcd time for hapless moods, 
 A Sabbath of the woods. 
 
 Few know its quiet shelter— none, like me, 
 
 i^o seek it out with such a fond desire. 
 Poring in idlesse mood on flower antl tree. 
 
 And listening as the voiceless leaves respire— 
 Wiieii die far-traveling breeze, done v.r.r.doring, 
 Rests liere his weary wing. 
 
 And all the day, with fancies ever new. 
 And sweet companions from their boundless care 
 
 Of merry elves bespangled ail wilii dew, 
 Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, 
 
 Wiitihiiig their wild but unobtrusive pla>, 
 
 I lling the hours away. 
 
 A gracious couch— the root of an old oak 
 
 Whose branches yield it moss and canopy- 
 Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke 
 
 Secure, shall never be resigned by me ; 
 It hangs above the stream that idly flies, 
 Heedle.ss of any eyes. 
 
 Tlierc, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, 
 Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour. 
 
 While every sense on earivjst mission sent, 
 Keturns, thongiit-laden back with bloom and flower ; 
 
 Pursuing, tliougli rebuked by tho.^e who moil, 
 
 A profitable toil. 
 
 And still the waters trickling at my feet 
 
 Wind on their way with gentlest melody. 
 Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat. 
 Above them, to the gay bieeze gliding by- 
 Vet not so rudely as to send one sound 
 Tlirongh the thick copse around. 
 
 Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest 
 Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees. 
 
 Breaking tiie spell that, like a slumber, pressed 
 On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries — 
 
 And, witii awakened vision upward bent, 
 
 I watch the firmament. 
 
 How like— its sure and undisturbed retreat, 
 
 Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm- 
 To the pure waters trickling at my feet. 
 
 The bending trees that overshade my formi 
 Sa far as sweetest things of eartii may seem 
 Like those of which we dream. 
 
 Such, to my mind, is the philosophy 
 
 Tiiu young bird teaches, wiio, with sudden flight 
 Sails far into the blue th:'.t spreads on higii, 
 
 L'ntil I lose him from my straining sight — 
 With a most lofty discontent to fly, 
 Upward, from earth to sky. 
 
 William Gilmork Simms. 
 
 COMING AND GOING 
 
 NCE came to our lields a pair of birds that had 
 never ijuiit a nest nor seen a winter. O, how 
 beautiful was everything! Tue fields were 
 full of flowers, and the grass w.as growing 
 tail, and the bees were humming everywhere. Then 
 one of the birds fell to singing ; and Uie other bird said, 
 " Wlio told you to sing?" And he answtred, "The 
 flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the winds 
 and leaves told me, atul the blue sky told me, and you 
 told me to sing." Then his mate answered, " When 
 did I tell you to sing? ' And he said, " Every time you 
 brought in tender grass for the nest, and every time 
 soft wings fluttered off again for hair and feathers to 
 line the nest." Then his mate said, " Wiiat are v<5u 
 singing about?" AikI he answered, "I am singing 
 about everything and nothing. It is because I am so 
 happy diat I sing." 
 
 By and by, five little speckled eggs were in the nest ; 
 a!2d his mate said, " Is there anything in all the world 
 as pretty as my eggs ? " Then they both looked down 
 on some people tliat were passing by, and pitied them 
 because tliey were not birds, and had no nests with 
 eggs in them. Then the father-bird sang a melancholy 
 simg because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had 
 to live in houses. 
 
 In a week or two, one day, when the father-bird came 
 home, the modier-bird said, " O, what do you tliiiili 
 has happened ? " "Wliat?" " One of my eggs has 
 been peeping and moving ! " Pretty soon another egg 
 moved under her feathers, and then another, and an- 
 other, till five little birds were ijorn. 
 
 Now the father-bird sung louder and louder than 
 ever. The mother-bird, too, wanted to sing ; but she 
 had no time, so she turned her song into work. So 
 hungry were these little birds, that it kept botli parents 
 busy feeding them. Away each one flew. The mo- 
 ment the little birds heard their wings fluttering again 
 among the leaves, five yellow mouths flew open so wide 
 that nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths. 
 
 "Can anybody be happier?" said the father-bird 
 to the mother-bird. " We will live in thislree always ; 
 for there is no sorrow here. It is a tree that always 
 bears joy." 
 
 The very ne.xt day one of the birds dropped out of 
 the nest, and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four 
 remained ; and the parent-birds were very sad, and 
 there was no song all that day, nor the next. Soon 
 the little birds were big enougii to fly ; and great was 
 their parents' joy to see them leave the nest, and sit 
 crumpled up upon the branches. There was then a 
 great time. One would have thought the two old 
 birds were two French dancing-masters, talking and 
 chattering, and scolding the little birds to make them 
 go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one 
 branch to another, and the parents praised him ; and 
 the other little birds wondered how he did it. And 
 I he was so vain of it that he tried again, and flew and 
 
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 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 flew, and couldn't stop flying, till he fell plump down 
 by the house-door ; and then a little boy caught him 
 and carried him into the house, and only three birds 
 were left. Then the old birds thought that the sun 
 was not as bright as it used to be, and they did not 
 sing as often. 
 
 In a little time the other birds had learned to use 
 tiieir wings ; and they flew away and away, and found 
 their own food, and made their own beds ; and their 
 parents never saw them any more. 
 
 Then tha old birds sat silent, and looked at each 
 other a loi.o: wliile. 
 
 At last the wife-bird said — 
 
 " Why don't you .sing?" 
 
 And he answered — 
 
 " I can't sing : I can only think and think." 
 
 " What are you thinking of? " 
 
 " I am thinking how everything changes. The 
 iff leaves are falling down from o(T this tree, and soon 
 
 there will be no roof over our heads ; the flowers arc 
 all gone, or going ; last night there was a frost ; almost 
 all the birds are flown away, and I am very uneasy. 
 Something calls me, and I feel restless as if I would 
 fly far away." 
 
 " Let us fly away together ! " 
 
 Then they rose silently ; and, lifting themselves far 
 up in the air, they lot)ked to the north ; far away they 
 saw the snow coming. They looked to the south : 
 therethey saw gretn leaves. All day they flew, and 
 all m'ght they flew and flew, till they found a land 
 where there was no winter; where there was summer 
 all the time; where flowers always blossom, and 
 birds always sing. 
 
 But the birds that staid behiiid found the days 
 shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder. 
 Many of them died of cold ; others crept into crevices 
 and holes, and lay torpid. Then it was plain that it 
 was better to go than to stay. 
 
 Hknrv Ward Beecher. 
 
 i|l 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 IDNIGHT past ! Not a sound of aught 
 
 Through the silent house, but the wind at 
 his prayers, 
 I sat by the dying fire, and thought 
 Of the dear dead woman up stairs. 
 
 A night of tears ! for the gusty ram 
 
 Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet ; 
 And the moon locked fortli, as though in pain. 
 
 With her face all white and wet. 
 
 Nobody with me my watch to keep 
 
 But the friend of my bosom, the man I love : 
 
 And grief had sent him fast to sleep 
 In the chamber up above. 
 
 Nobody else in the country place 
 
 All roundL that knew of my loss beside. 
 
 But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, 
 Who confessed her when she died. 
 
 That good young priest is of gentle nerve. 
 And my grief had moved him beyond control, 
 
 For his lips grew white as I could observe, 
 When he speeded her parting soul. 
 
 I sat by the dreary hearth alone ; 
 
 I thought of the pleasant days of yore ; 
 I said, " The StafTof my life is gone, 
 
 The woman I loved is no more. 
 
 " On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies. 
 Which next to her heart she used to wear — 
 
 Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes 
 When my own face was not there. 
 
 " It is set all around with rubies red. 
 And pearls which a peri might have kept ; 
 
 For each ruby there my heart hath bled, 
 For each pearl my eyes have wept." 
 
 And I said, " The thing is precious to me ; 
 
 They will bur>' her soon in the churchyard clay ; 
 It lies on her heart, and lost must be 
 
 If I do not take it away." 
 
 I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, 
 And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, 
 
 Till into the chamber of death I came, 
 Where she lay all in white. 
 
 The moon shone over her winding; sheet ; 
 
 There stark she lay on her carven bed ; 
 Seven burning tapers about her f^et. 
 
 And seven about her head. 
 
 As I stretched my hand I held my breath ; 
 
 1 turned as I drew the curtains apart : 
 I dared not look on the face of death : 
 
 I knew where to find her heart. 
 
 I thought at first as my touch fell there 
 It hail warmed that heart to life, with love ; 
 
 For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, 
 And I could feel it move. 
 
 'Twas the hand of a man that was moving slow 
 
 O'er the heart of the dead — from the other .side— 
 And at once the sweat broke over my brow, 
 ' ' Who is rt)bbing the corpse ? " I cried. 
 
 Opposite me, by the taper's light, 
 The friend of my bosom, the man I loved. 
 
 Stood over the corpse and all as while. 
 And neiiher of us moved. 
 
 " Wh.1t do you here my friend ? " The m.in 
 Looked first at me, and then at the dead. 
 " There is a portrait here," he began : 
 " There is. It is mine," I said. 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 287 
 
 Said the friend of my bosom, " Yours no doubt 
 
 'l"he porlniit was, till a month apo, 
 When this siifTfring angel took that out, 
 
 And placed mine there, I know." 
 
 "This woman, she loved me well," said I. 
 
 "A month ago," said my friend to me : 
 "And in your throat," I groaned, " you lie !" 
 
 He answered, " Let us see." 
 
 " Enough ! let the dead decide ; 
 
 And whosesoever the portrait prove. 
 His sliall it be, when the cause is tried — 
 
 Where death is arraigned by love." 
 
 We found the portrait there in its place, 
 
 We opened it by the tapers' shine, 
 The gems were all unchanged ; the face 
 
 Was— neither his nor mine. 
 
 "One nail drives out another, at last ! 
 
 The face of the portrait there," I cried, 
 " Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young priest 
 
 Who confessed her when she died." 
 
 The setting is all of rubies red. 
 
 And pearls which a peri might have kept — 
 For each ruby she my heart hath bled, 
 
 For each pearl my eyes have wept. 
 
 Robert Bulwer Lvtton {Owen Meredith). 
 
 THE HERO OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC. 
 
 "Y^ O man— not even Washington— has ever been 
 f^l inspired by a purer patriotism than that of 
 J U^ William of Orange. Whether originally of a 
 timid temperament or not, he was certainly 
 possessed of perfect courage at last. In siege and 
 battle, in the deadly air of pestilential cities, in the long 
 exhaustion of mind and body which comes from unduly 
 prt>tracted labor and anxiety, amid the countless con- 
 spiracies of assassins, he was daily exposed to death in 
 every shape. Within two years five diflferent attempts 
 against his life had been discovered. Rank and for- 
 tune were offered to any malefactor who would com- 
 pass the murder. He had already been shot through 
 the head, and almost mortally wounded. He went 
 through life bearing the load o( a people's sorrows upon 
 his shoulders with a smiling face. Their name was the 
 last word upon his lips, save the simple affirmative with 
 which the soldier who had been battling for the right 
 all his lifetime commended his soul, in dying, "to the 
 great Captam, Christ." The people were grateful and 
 affectionate, for they trusted the character of their 
 "Father William," and not all the clouds which cal- 
 umny could collect ever dimmed to their eyes the 
 radiance of that lofty mind to which they were accus- 
 tomed, in their darkest calamities, to look for light. 
 As lonp; as he lived he was the guiding-star of a whole 
 brave nation, and when he died the little children cried 
 in the streets. 
 
 John Lothrop Motley. 
 
 fjl' 
 
 
 A MOTHER'S WAIL 
 
 babe ! my tiny babe ! my only babe ! 
 My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns ! 
 My lamp th.at in that narrow hut of life, 
 Whence 1 looked forth upon a night of storm, 
 Burned with the histerof the moon and stars.* 
 
 My babe ! my tiny babe ! my only babe ! 
 Behold, the bud is gone ! the thorns remain 1 
 My lamp hath fallen from its niche — ah, me ! 
 Eardi drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left 
 Forever and forever in the dark ! 
 
 My babe ! my babe ! my own and only babe ! 
 Where art thou now ? If somewhere in the sky 
 An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, 
 I chal'enge him to clasp thy tender form 
 With half the fer\'or of a mother's love ! 
 
 Forgive me. Lord ! forgive my reckless grief! 
 Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart 
 Would almost make me jealous for my child, 
 Though Thy own hip enthroned him. Lord, thou hast 
 .So many such !— I have — ah ! had — but one ! 
 
 O yet once more, my liabe, to hear thy cry ! 
 — Yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile ! 
 
 yet once more to fv.-el against my breast 
 
 Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, 
 With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls ! 
 
 But it must never, never more be mine 
 To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, 
 To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf, 
 Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy, 
 Thy dawning recognitions of the world ! 
 
 Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, 
 Change with each other while I weep. The first. 
 The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain. 
 Clings like my living boy around my neck, 
 Or purs and murmurs softly at my feet ! 
 
 Another is a little mound of earth ; 
 
 That comes the oftenest, darling ! In my dreams, 
 
 1 see it beaten by the midnight rain. 
 
 Or chilled beneath the moon. Ah I what a couch 
 For that which I have shielded from a breath 
 That would not stir the violets on thy grave 1 
 
 The third, my precious babe ! the third, O Lord ! 
 Is a fair cherub fare beyond the stars. 
 Wearing the roses of a mystic bliss. 
 Yet sometimes not unsaddened by a glance 
 Turned earthward on a mother in her woe ! 
 
 This is the vision. Lord, that I would keep 
 Before me always. But, alas I as yet, 
 It is the dimmest and the rarest too ! 
 O touch my Fight, or break the cloudy bars 
 That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel ! 
 
 Henry Timrod. 
 
 %A 
 
 
 
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288 
 
 CROWN JEVVE.LS. 
 
 
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 A COMMON THOUGHT. 
 
 This liltlo poem, written several years before tlie poet's death, 
 was prophetic. He died :it tlie very hour here predicted. Tlie 
 wliisper, " He is gniic," went forth as the day was purpling in the 
 zenith, on that October morning of 1SC7. 
 
 'OMEVVHERE on this earthly phnet 
 
 In the dust of flowers to be, 
 
 In the dew-drop in the sunshine, 
 
 Sleeps a solemn day for nie. 
 
 At this wakeful hour of midnight 
 
 I behold it dawn in mist, 
 And I hear a sound of sobbing 
 
 Through the darkness— hist ! O, hist ! 
 
 In a dim and musky chamber, 
 
 I am breathing life away ; 
 Someone draws a curtain softly 
 
 And I watch the broadening day. 
 
 As it purples in the zenith, 
 
 As it brightens on the lawn, 
 There's a h« h of death about me, 
 
 And a whisper, "He is gone !" 
 
 Henry Timrod. 
 
 f 
 
 GOOD-BY. PROUD WORLD 1 
 
 OOD-BY, proud world ! I'm going home ; 
 Thou art not my friend ; I am not thine ; 
 Too long through weary clouds I roam — 
 A river ark on the ocean brine, 
 Too long I am tossed like the driven foam ; 
 r,ut now, proud world, I'm going home. 
 
 Good-by to flattery's fawning face ; 
 To grandeur with his wise grimace ; 
 To upstart wealth's averted eye ; 
 To supple oflicc, low and high ; 
 To crowded halls, to court and street, 
 To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, 
 To those who go, and those who conic, 
 Good-by, proud world, I'm going home. 
 
 I go to seek my own hearth-stone. 
 Bosomed in yon green hills alone ; 
 A secret lodge in a pleasant land, 
 Whose groves the frolic fairies planned, 
 Where arches green, the Iive!ong day, 
 Echo the blackbird's roundelay. 
 And evil men have never trod, 
 A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 
 
 O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
 I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
 And when I am stretched beneath the pines, 
 Where the evening star so holy shines, 
 I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, 
 At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
 For what are they all in their high conceit, 
 When man in the bush with God may meet ? 
 Ralph Waldo Emkhsu.n. 
 
 NATURE'S ARTISTIC POWER. 
 
 YS\ ATURE has a thousand ways and means o' 
 I I rising above herself, but incomparably the no- 
 
 J ^ blest manifestations of her capability of color 
 are in the sunsets among tlie high clouds. 
 I speak especially of the moment before the sun sinks 
 when his light turns pure rose-color, and when thii 
 light falls upon a zenith covered with countless cloud- 
 forms of inconceivable delicacy, threads and flakes cf 
 vapor, wliich would in common daylight be puru 
 snow-white, and which give therefore fair field to the 
 tone of light. There is then no limit to the mtiltitude 
 and no check to the intensity, of the hues assumed. 
 The whole sky from the zenith lothe horizon becomes 
 one molten, mantling sea of color and fire ; ever>' 
 black bar turns into massy gold, every ripple anj 
 wave into unsullied, shadowless crimson, and purple, 
 and scarlet, and colors for which there are no words 
 in language and no ideas in the mind — things wliich 
 can only be conceived while they are visible— the in- 
 tense hollow blue of the upper sky melting through it 
 all— showing here deep and pure and lightless, there 
 modulated by the filmy, formless body of the trans- 
 parent vapor, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson 
 and gold. 
 
 John Ruskin. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 WEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. 
 Where health and plenty cheered the labor- 
 ing swain, 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ; 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of niy youth, where every sport could please ; 
 How often h.-ivc I loitered o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ; 
 How often have I paused on e%'ery charm — 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 The decent church that t(jpped the neighboring hill, 
 The hawthorne bush, with seals beneatli tiie shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made I 
 I low often have I blest the coming day, 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train, from labor free, 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
 While many a pastime circled in the shatle. 
 The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; 
 And still .IS each repeated pleasure tired, 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 2.S9 
 
 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
 
 The matron's glance that would iliose looks reprove— 
 
 Tlicse were ihy clianiis, swuet villaj^c I sports like 
 
 these, 
 With sweet succession, taught even toil to please ; 
 These round thy bowers thtir cheerful influence shed, 
 These were thy channs. — But all thesecharms are fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, lovelitst of the lawn. 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
 N'o more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst tiiy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
 And the long grass o'erlops the nioldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
 Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; 
 A breath can make tliem, as a breath has made ; 
 But a liold peasantry, their country's pride. 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood ol ground maintained its man ; 
 For him light labor spread her wlujlesome store, 
 Ui'it gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
 ills best companions, innocence and health, 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 nut times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose : 
 •And every want to luxury allied, 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Tiiose gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
 Those calm desires that asked but Htileroom, 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. 
 Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Olivkk Goldsmith. 
 
 LITTLE NED. 
 
 /TM'I.L that is like a dream. It don't seem true ! 
 I ^ Father was gone, and mother left, you see, 
 V^ To work for little brother Ned and m" ; 
 
 And up among the gloomy roofs we grew — 
 Locked in full oft, lest we should wander out. 
 With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat, 
 
 (19) 
 
 While mother charred for poor folk round about, 
 
 Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street. 
 Yet, Parson, there were jileasures fresh and fair. 
 To make the time pass happily up there — 
 A steamboat going past upon the tide, 
 
 A pigeon lighting on the roof close by, 
 
 The sparrows teaching little ones to fly, 
 The small white moving clouds that we espied, 
 
 And thought were living, in the bit of sky — 
 
 With sights like these right glad werj Xed and I ; 
 And then we loved to hear tiie soft rain calling, 
 
 Pattering, pattering upon the tiles. 
 And it was fine to see the still snow falling. 
 
 Making the house-tops white for miles on miles. 
 And catch it in our little hands in play. 
 And laugh to feel it melt and slip away ! 
 But I was si.x, and Ned was only three. 
 And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ; 
 
 And one cold day, in winter-time, when mother 
 Had gone away into the snow, and we 
 
 Sat close for warmth, and cuddled one another. 
 He put his little head upon my knee, 
 And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb. 
 
 But looked cjuite strange and old ; 
 And when I shook him, kissed him, spoke to him, 
 
 He smiled, and j^ew so cold. 
 Then I was frightened, and cried out, and none 
 
 Could hear me, while I sat and nursed liis head, 
 Watching the whitened window, while the sun 
 
 Peeped in upon his face, and made it red. 
 And I began to sob— -till mother came, 
 Knelt down, and screamed, and named the good God's 
 name, 
 
 And told me he was dead. 
 And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping, 
 
 Pl.aced him among the rags upon his bed, 
 I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping. 
 
 And took his little hand, and felt no fear. 
 
 But when the place grew gray and cold ;md drear. 
 And the round moon over the roofs came creeping. 
 
 And put a silver shade 
 
 All round the chilly bed where he was laid, 
 
 I cried, and was afraid. 
 
 RonKRT Bl-cii.vnan. 
 
 THE DANCE OF DEATH. 
 
 HE warder looked down at the dead of r.ight 
 On t4ie graves where the dead were s eep- 
 
 i"K. 
 
 f And clearly as day was the jiale moonlight 
 O'er the quiet churchyard creeping. 
 One after anotherthe gravestones liei;an 
 ' To heave and to open, and woman and man 
 I Rose up in their ghastly apparel ! 
 
 j Ho, ho, for the dance ! — and the phantoms outsprung, 
 I In skeleton roundel advancing. 
 The rich and the poor, and the old and the young, 
 1 But the winding-sheets hindered their dancing — 
 
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290 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
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 No shame had these revelers wasted and grim — 
 So they shook off the cerements from body and limb, 
 And scattered them over the hillocks. 
 
 They crooked their thigh-bones, and they shook their 
 long shanks, 
 And wild was their reeling, and limber ; 
 And each bone, as it crosses, it clinks and it clanks, 
 
 Like the riapping of timber on timber. 
 The warder ho laughed, though his laugh was not 
 
 loud ; 
 And the fiend whispered to him : "Go steal me the 
 shrdud 
 Of one of those skeleton dancers." 
 
 He has done it ! and backward, with terrified glance. 
 To the sheltering door ran the warder; 
 
 As calm as before looked tiie moon on the dance. 
 Which they footed in hideous order. 
 
 But one and another retiring at last. 
 
 Slipped on their white garments, and onward they 
 passed. 
 And a hush settled over tht greensward. 
 
 Still one or them stumbles and tumbles along, 
 
 And taps at each tomb that it seizes ; 
 But 'lis none of its mates that has done it this wrong. 
 
 For it scents its grave-clothes in the breezes. 
 It shakes the tower gate, but Ma/ drives it away, 
 For 'twas nailed o'er with crosses — a goodly array — 
 
 And well it was so for the warder ! 
 
 It must have its shroud — it must have it betimes — 
 
 The quaint Gothic carving it catches ; 
 And upwards from story to story it climbs. 
 
 And scrambles with leaps and with snatches. 
 Now woe to the warder, poor sinner, betides ! 
 Like a spindle-legged spider the skeleton strides 
 
 From buttress to buttress, still upward ! 
 
 The warder he shook, and the warder grew pale. 
 And gladly the shroud would have yielded ! 
 
 The ghost had its clutch on the last iron rail, 
 Which the top of the watch-tower shielded. 
 
 When the moon was obscured by the rush of a cloud, 
 
 One ! thundered the bell, and unswathed by a shroud, 
 Down went the gaunt skeleton crashing. 
 
 Translation from Goethe. By Theodore Makti.n. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 
 
 'HE woman was old and ragged and gray, 
 And bent with the chill of the winter's day ; 
 
 The street was wet with a recent snow, 
 And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 
 
 She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
 Alone, uncared for, amid the throng 
 
 Of human beings who passed her by. 
 Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 
 
 Down the street, with laughter and .shout, 
 Glad in the freedom of "school let out," 
 
 Came the boys, like a flock of s'leep. 
 Hailing the snow piled white and deep.. 
 
 Past the woman so old and gray 
 Hastened the children on their way. 
 
 Nor offered a helping hand to her. 
 So meek, so timid, afraid to .stir. 
 
 Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 
 Should crowd her down in tlie slippery street. 
 
 At last came one of the merry troop — 
 The gayest laddie of all the group ; 
 
 He paused beside hor, and whispered low, 
 " I'll help you across, if you wish to go." 
 
 Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
 She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, 
 
 He guided the trembling feet along;, 
 Proud that his own were firm and strong 
 
 Then back again to his friends he went. 
 His young heart happy and well content. 
 
 " She's somebody's mother, boys, you know. 
 For all she's aged and poor and slow ; 
 
 And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
 To help my mother, you understand. 
 
 If ever she's poor and old and gray. 
 When her own dear boy is far away." 
 
 And "somebody's mother" bowed low her luad 
 In her home that night, and the prayer she said, 
 
 Was, "God, be kind to the noble boy. 
 Who is somebody's son and pride and joy t " 
 
 #■ 
 
 WEDDING BELLS. 
 
 ANDERING away on tired feet, 
 Away from the close ar.d crowded street, 
 
 'aded shawl and faded gown, 
 
 Unsmoothed hair of a golden brown, 
 
 Eyes once bright 
 
 With joyous light. 
 Away from the city's smoke and din. 
 Trying to flee from it and sin. 
 
 In shame cast down, 
 
 'Neath the scorn and frown 
 Of those who had known her in days th.it were flown. 
 The same blue eyes— the abode of tears. 
 The once light heart — the abode of fears, 
 While dark despair came creeping in. 
 As she fled from the city's smoke and din. 
 
 With a yearning sigh, 
 
 And a heart-sick cry— 
 
SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 291 
 
 "Oh, to wander away and die ! 
 
 God, let me die (jn my mother's grave, 
 
 'Tis the only boon 1 dare to crave ! " 
 
 And she struggled on, 
 
 With a weary moan, 
 
 In the noon-day heat, 
 
 From the dusty street ; 
 And they turned to gaze on the fair young face. 
 And marveled much at her beauty ami grace. 
 Wliat cared they if her heart was aching ? 
 How knew they that her heart was breaking? 
 
 Forth from the West the red light glowed. 
 And the weary feet still kept on their road, 
 VViuid'ring on in the golden sheen, 
 Where the country lanes were fr^sh and green. 
 The red light gleamed on the village tower, 
 And lit up the clock at the sunset hour ; 
 
 And still her cry 
 
 Was, "Oh, to die! 
 God, let me die on my mother's grave, 
 'Tis the only boon I care to crave ! " 
 The sun uprose, and the light of day 
 Brightly scattered the clouds of gray ; 
 
 And the village was gay 
 
 For a holiday. 
 Merrily echoed the old church bells, 
 Peal on peal, o'er the hills and dells ; 
 Home away on the morning breeze 
 dvcr the moorland, over the leas ; 
 Back again with a joyous clang ! 
 Merrily, cheerily, on they rang ! 
 But they woke her not, she slumbered on. 
 With her he.id laid down on the cold gray stone. 
 
 The village was bright 
 
 In the gladsome light. 
 And the vill.nge maidens were clad in white. 
 
 As side by side 
 
 They merrily hied, 
 In gay procession, to meet the bride ; 
 Strewing the path of the village street 
 With choicest flowers for her dainty feet. 
 A joyful chime of the bells again, 
 To proclaim the return of the bridal train ; 
 A louder peal from the old church-tower 
 'As the bride passes on through the floral bower, 
 With the bridegroom happy, tender and gay), 
 And tiie echoes are carried away, away ; 
 But they linger awhile o'er the tombstones gray ; 
 And the sleeper awakes with a yearning cry — 
 "Oh, to die! oh, to die ! 
 God let me die on my mother's grave, 
 Tis all my broken heart can crave ! " 
 And she lays her head again on the stone, 
 With a long-drawn breath and a sobbing moan ; 
 While the bridal train (with many a thought 
 Unspoken of omens with evil fraught) 
 Sweeps down the path from the old church door, 
 
 And the bells' glad music is wafted once more 
 
 Over the moorland, over the heath — 
 
 But they wake her not, for her sleep is death I 
 
 Why does the bridegroom's cheek turn pale ? 
 Why in his eye such a look of bale ? 
 Why does he totter, then quicken his pace 
 As he catches a glimpse of the poor dead face ? 
 
 Oh, woe betide. 
 
 That so fair a bride 
 As she who steps with such grace by his side, 
 .Should have faced grim death on her wedding-day ! 
 Did this thought trouble tlie bridegroom gay, 
 .'^nd dash from his eye the glad light away .' 
 [ wist not; for never a word he spoke, 
 And soon from his face the troubled look 
 Was gone, and he turned to his beautiful bride 
 With a radiant smile and a glance of pride : 
 
 And his eye was bright. 
 
 And his step was light, 
 .■\s would beseem with her by his side. 
 Oh, his smile is glad, and his heart is brave ! 
 What cares, he for the dead on the grave ? 
 The faded shawl, and faded gown. 
 And unsmoothed hair of golden brown? 
 Why should the face on the tombstone gray 
 Trouble him so on his wedding-day ? 
 Forgotten words that were long since spoken, 
 Thoughts of vows that were made to be broken? 
 
 Fling them away ! 
 
 Be joyous and gay ! 
 Death will never a secret betray. 
 Quaff the red wine, the glasses ring ; 
 Drink ! till the gloomy thoughts take wing; 
 Drink and be merry, merry and glad ! 
 With a bride so lovely, who would be sad ? 
 
 Hark ! the wedding bells are ringing, 
 
 Over the hills their echoes flinging; 
 
 Carried away on the morning breeze 
 
 Over the moorland, over the leas. 
 
 Riding back on the zephyrs wing, 
 
 Joyously, merrily, on they ring ! 
 
 But she will not wake, her sleep is deep. 
 
 And death can ever a secret keep. 
 
 Ah ! thy smile may be glad and thy heart may be 
 brave. 
 
 And the secret be kept betwixt thee and the grave; 
 
 But shouldst thou forget it for one short day. 
 
 In the gloom of night, from the tombstone gray, 
 Will come the sound of a wailing cry — 
 "Oh, to die! oh, to die!" 
 
 And the bride at thy bosom will raise her head 
 I In affright, as she hears thee call on the dead 
 I In a ghastly dream, on whose wings are borne 
 j The memories of thy wedding morn ! 
 
 Oh, the woeful sight of the pale, dead face, 
 I With the cold, dank stone for its resting-place ! 
 
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 292 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Oh, the mocking chime of tlic old church bell ! 
 
 It shall seem to peal from the mouth of hell ; 
 
 Into thy dreams its echoes briiiKJii^,', 
 
 Merrily, madly, ceaselessly ringin).; ! 
 
 The while face shall haunt thee I 
 The bells they shall taunt thee ! 
 
 Echoed and tossed on the witherin;.; breath 
 
 Of a curse that shall cling round thy soul till death. 
 Charlotte M. GRirriTiis. 
 
 THE WEAVER. 
 
 y^ WEAVER sat by the side of his loom 
 f ^ A-llinging the shuttle fast, 
 ^^ A:;d a thread that would last till the hour of 
 doom 
 Was ailded at every cast. 
 
 His warn had been by the angels spun, 
 
 And his weft was bright and new, 
 Likf ihr-ads which the morning ui)raids from the sun. 
 
 All jeweled over with dew. 
 
 And fresh lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers 
 
 In the rich soft web were bedded ; 
 And l);ithe to the weaver sped onward the hours, 
 
 Not yet were Time's feet leaded. 
 
 But something there came slow stealing by. 
 
 And a shai'e on tiie faliric fell ; 
 And I saw that the shuttle less blilhely did fly ; 
 
 For thought has a wearisumo spell. 
 
 And the tiirc-ad tliat next o'er the warp was lain 
 
 Was of a melancholy gray. 
 And an(^n I marked there a tear-drop's stain 
 
 Where the flowers had fallen away. 
 
 But still the weaver kept weaving on, 
 
 Though the fabric all was gray ; 
 And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were 
 gone. 
 
 And the gold threads cankered lay. 
 
 And dark, and still darker, and darker grew 
 
 Each newly woven thread, 
 And some were of a death mocking hue. 
 
 And some of a bloody red. 
 
 And things all strange were woven in. 
 
 Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears. 
 And the web was broken, and poor and thin, 
 
 And it dripped with living tears. 
 
 And the weaver fain would have flung it aside. 
 
 But he knew it would be a sin ; 
 So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied, 
 
 A-weaving those life-cords in. 
 
 And as he wove, and weeping still wove, 
 
 A tempter stole him nigh ; 
 And with glowing words he to win him strove, 
 
 But the weaver turned his eye — 
 
 ' He upward turned his eye to heaven, 
 
 And still wove on — on — on I 
 Till the last, last cord from his heart was rivi..:, 
 And the tissue strange was done. 
 
 Tlien he threw it about his shoulders bowed, 
 
 And about his grizzled head, 
 .\nd gathering close the folds of his shroud, 
 
 Laid him down among the dead. 
 
 And after, I saw, in a robe of light. 
 
 The weaver in the sky ; 
 The angels' wings were not more bright, 
 
 And the stars grew pale, it nigh. 
 
 And I saw mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers 
 
 That beneath his touch had sprung, 
 More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours, 
 
 Which the angels have to us flung. 
 
 And wherever a tear had fallen down 
 
 Gleamed out a diamond rare, 
 And jewels befitting a monarch's crown 
 
 Were foot-prints left by care. 
 
 And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh 
 
 Was left a rich perfume. 
 And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky 
 
 Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom. 
 
 And then I prayed : "When my last work is done, 
 
 And the silver cord is riven, 
 Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one 
 
 That I bear with me to heaven." 
 
 THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VIN- 
 DICATED. 
 
 ' EA VEN from all creatures hides the book of fati', 
 All but the page prescribed, their present stale ; 
 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. 
 
 O blindness to the future ! kindly given. 
 
 That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven ; 
 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 
 A hero perish or a sparrow fall ; 
 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, 
 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
 
 Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar ; 
 
 W'ait the great te.icher, death ; and 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 blest ; 
 
 The soul, uneasy and confined from home, 
 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
skntimi:nt and reflixtion. 
 
 293 
 
 I.O the poor Indian, wliose untutored mnd 
 Sees God in cliuids, and hears liiin in the rt'ind ; 
 i lis soul proud science never lauj;lit to stray 
 I'ar as the solar walk, or milky way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
 jiehind the rloud-topp. d hill, a iiunihlcr heaven ; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods i nihraccd. 
 Some happier island in the watery waste. 
 Where slaves once more their nativi- land hehold, 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To HE, contents his natural desire. 
 He sisks no angfl's wing, no seraph's fire : 
 But thinks, admitted to that ecjual sky, 
 llis faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
 Call imperfection what tiiou fanciest such. 
 Say, here he gives too little, there too much : 
 Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust. 
 Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust ; 
 If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, 
 Alone made perfect here, imn'ortal 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 tlie blest abodes, 
 Men would be angels, angels would be Gods. 
 Aspiring to be Gods, if angels fell, 
 Aspiring to be angels, men n.bel ; 
 And who but wishes to revert the la as 
 Of order sins against the Eternal Cause. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 THE BRIDGE. 
 
 STOOD on the bridge at midnight. 
 
 As the clocks were striking the hour ; 
 And the moon rose o'er the city. 
 Behind the dark church-tower ; 
 
 And, like the waters rushing 
 Among the wooden piers, 
 
 A flood of thoughts came o'er me, 
 Tiiat filled my eyes with tears — 
 
 How often, oh ! how often. 
 In the days that had gone by, 
 I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 
 And gazed on that wave and sky ! 
 
 How often, oh ! how often. 
 In the days that had gone by, 
 I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 
 And gazed on that wave and sky ! 
 
 How often, oh ! how often, 
 I had wished that the ebbing tide 
 
 Would bear me away on its bosom. 
 O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 
 
 For my heart was hot and restless, 
 And my life was full of care ; 
 
 And the burthen hM upon me 
 Seemed greater than I could bear ; 
 
 Ihit now it has fallen from me 
 It is buried in the sea. 
 
 And only the sorrow of others 
 Throws its shadow over me ; 
 
 Vet, whenever I cross the river. 
 On i;s bridge with wooden piers, 
 Like the odor of brine from the ocean, 
 Ci>nie the thouglits of other years; 
 
 And fur ever and for ever, 
 As long as the river flows. 
 As long as tlie heart has passions. 
 As long as life has woes, 
 
 The moon and its broken reflection. 
 And its shadows shall appear 
 
 As the symbol of love in heaven, 
 And its wavering image here. 
 
 I&'c 
 
 THE POLISH BOY. 
 
 EN'CK come those shrieks so wild and shrill 
 That cut liko blades of steel, the air, 
 nusin'^ the creeping blood to chill 
 
 With the sharp cadence of despair? 
 
 Again they come, as if a heart 
 Were cleft in twain by one quick blow. 
 
 And every string had voice apart 
 To utter its peculiar woe. 
 
 Whence came they ? from yon temple where 
 An altar, raised for private prayer. 
 
 Now forms the warrior's marble bed 
 Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 
 
 The dim funeral tapers throw 
 A holy lustre o'er his brow. 
 And burnish with their rays of light 
 The mass of curls that gather bright 
 Above the haughty brow and eye 
 Of a young boy that's kneeling by. 
 
 What hand is that, whose icy press 
 
 Clings to the dead with death's own grasp. 
 But meets no answering caress ? 
 
 No thrilling fingers seek its clasp? 
 It is the hand of her whose cry 
 
 Rang wildly, late, upon the air. 
 When the dead warrior «net her eye 
 
 Outstretched upon the altar there. 
 
 With pallid lip and stony brow 
 She murnmrs forth her anguish now, 
 liut hark ! the tramj} of heavy feet 
 Is heard along the bloody street ; 
 Nearer and nearer yet they come. 
 With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 
 Now whispered curses, low and deep, 
 Around the holy temple creep ; 
 
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 284 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 The Rate Is burst ; a ruffian hand 
 Hiisli in and savagely demand, 
 With brutal voice and oatb profane, 
 Tlic startled boy for exile's chain. 
 
 The mother sprang with jj;esture wild, 
 And to her iiosoni clasped her <-!iild ; 
 Then with pale cheek and tliushini; eye 
 Shouted with fearful enerj;y, 
 " Hack, ruflians, l)a(k, nor daro to tread 
 Too near the body of my dead ; 
 Nor touch the living boy — I stand 
 Between him and your lawless banil. 
 Take me, and binil these arms, these hands, 
 With Russia's heaviest iron bands, 
 And draij me to Siberia's wild 
 To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " 
 
 " Peace, woman, peace !" the leader i:ried, 
 'I'earinjj tlie pale boy from her side. 
 And in his ruHian grasp be bore 
 His victinj to the temple door. 
 
 " One moment ! " shrieked the mother, " oik- ! 
 Will land or gold redeem my son ? 
 Take heritajjc, take nanie, take all. 
 But leave him free from Russian thrall ! 
 Take these!" and her white arms and hands 
 She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 
 And tore from braids of long black hair 
 The gems tiiat gleamed like starlight there ; 
 Her cross of blazing rubies last 
 Down at the Russian's feet she cast. 
 He stooped to seize the glittering store. 
 Upspringing from the marble fl(jor. 
 The mother with a cry of joy, 
 Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. 
 But no ! the Russian's iron grasp 
 Again undid the mother's clasji. 
 Forward she fell, with one long cry 
 Of more than mortal agony. 
 
 But the brave child is roused at lengtii. 
 
 And breaking from the Russian's hold. 
 He stands a giant in the strength 
 
 Of his young spirit fierce and bold. 
 Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye, 
 
 So blue, and yet so bright. 
 Seems kindled from the eternal sky, 
 
 So brilliant is its light. 
 
 His curling li|w and crimson rhccks 
 Foretell the thought before he speak.s, 
 With a full voice ol proud command 
 He turned upon tlu; wondering band : 
 
 " Ye holil UK- not I no, no, nor can ! 
 This hour h.is m.ide the boy a man t 
 I knelt before my slaughtered sire, 
 Nor felt one throb o( vengeful ire. 
 I wept upon a marble brow, 
 \'es, wept ! I was a child , but now — 
 My noble mother 0:1 her knee 
 I lath done the work of years for me ! " 
 He thew aside his broidered vest, 
 And there, like slumbering serpent's crest. 
 The j -weled haft of poignard bright 
 Glittered a moment on the sight. 
 
 "Ha! start ye back 1 Fool I coward! knave! 
 Think ye my noble father's glaive 
 Would drink the life-blood of a slave ? 
 The pearls that on the handle flame 
 Would blush to rubies in their shame ; 
 The blade would quiver in thy breast. 
 Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 
 No ! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, 
 And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " 
 
 A moment and the funeral light 
 Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; 
 Another, and his young heart's blood 
 Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. 
 Quick to his mother's side he sprang. 
 And on the air his clear voice rang : 
 " Up mother, up ! I'm free ! Pm free ! 
 The choice was death or slavery. 
 
 Up, mother, up I Look on thy son ! 
 
 His freedom is forever won, 
 
 And now he waits one holy kiss 
 
 To bear his father home in bliss — 
 
 One last embrace, one blessing — one ! 
 
 To prove thou knowest, appro vest thy son. 
 
 What ! silent yet ? Canst thou not feel 
 
 My warm blood o'er my heart congeal ? 
 
 Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head ! 
 What 1 silent still ? Then art thou dead ? 
 
 Great God, I thank Thee ! Mother, 1 
 
 Rejoice with thee — and thus — to die ! " 
 One long, deep breath, and his pale head 
 Lay on his mother's bosom — dead. 
 
 Ann S. Stki'hkns. 
 
LRBOR HND REFORM. 
 
 WORK. 
 
 WEi: r witul, f.iir wind, 
 where have you l)een ? 
 " I've hfin sweeping 
 the cohwebs out of 
 the sky ; 
 I've been Kfiiuling a grist 
 in the mill iiard by ; 
 I've been laughing at work 
 while others sigh ; 
 
 Let those laugh who 
 win ! " 
 
 Sweet rain, soft rain, wiuit are 
 
 you doing? 
 " I'm urging the corn to (ill 
 
 out its cells ; 
 I'm helping the lily to fashion 
 its bells ; 
 
 I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells ; 
 Is that worth pursuing ? " 
 
 Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done ? 
 
 " I've been watching the ne.st where my fledgelings 
 
 lie; 
 I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby ; 
 Hy and by I shall teach them to fly, 
 Up and away, every one ! " 
 
 Honey bee, honey-bee, where are you going? 
 "To fill my basket with precious pelf; 
 To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; 
 To find out the sweetest flower that grows, 
 Be it a thistle or be it a rose — 
 
 A secret worth the knowing ! " 
 
 Each content with the work to be done. 
 
 Ever the same from sun to sun : 
 
 Shall you and I be taught to work 
 
 By the bee and the bird, that scorn to shirk ? 
 
 Wind and rain fulfilling His word ! 
 
 Tell me, was ever a legend heard 
 
 Where the wind, commanded to blow, deferred ; 
 
 Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred ? 
 
 MaKV N. I'RiiSCOTT. 
 
 lM)r men nuist work, and women must weep. 
 
 And ther«*s little to earn, and many to keep. 
 
 Though the harl)ur bar be moaning. 
 
 'riiiei! wives s.it up in the lighthouse tower. 
 
 And liicy trimmed the lamps as the sun went down, 
 Tlu-y looked at the sciunll, and they looked at the 
 shower. 
 And tilt; night rack came rolling up ragged and 
 brown ! 
 I'liil men must work, and women must weep. 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
 And the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
 
 In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 
 And the women are weeping anil wringing their hands 
 
 For those who will never come back to the town ; 
 For men must work, and women must weep, 
 The sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — 
 
 And good by to the bar and its moaning. 
 Charles Kingslev. 
 
 Ilj 
 
 THE THREE FISHERS. 
 
 ^F*HREE fishers went mailing out mto the West, 
 i^ Out into the West as the sun went down ; 
 V^ Each thought on the woman who loved him 
 
 "f the best, 
 
 And the children stood watching them out of the 
 town : 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 ITI I fingers weary and worn, 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 riying her needle and thread — 
 .Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 .She .sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof I 
 And work — work — work, 
 
 Till the stars shine through the roof! 
 It's O ! to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 VVIiere woman has never a soul to save, 
 
 If this is Christian work ! 
 
 Work — work — work 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam — 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 
 
 And sew them on in a dream ! 
 
 O, men, with sisters dear ! 
 
 O, men, with mothers and wives I 
 It is not linen you're wearing out, 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 
 (295) 
 
 
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 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Stitch— stitch— stitch, 
 In poverty, lumger, iuul cirt — 
 Sewing at once, witli a doiilile thrccid, 
 A shroud as well as a shirt ! 
 
 But why do I talk of death — 
 
 That pii.-.ntom of grisly bone? 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape, 
 
 It seems so like my own — 
 It seems so like my own 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep ; 
 O God ! that bread should be so dear, 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap ! 
 
 Work — work — work ! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 And what p.re its wages ? A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread — and ra.i;s. 
 That shattered roof— and this naked floor — 
 
 A table — a broken chair— 
 And a wall so blank my sliadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 Work — work — work ! 
 
 F>om weary chime to chime ! 
 
 Work— work — work- 
 As prisoners work Icir crime ! 
 
 Band, ami gusset, and seam. 
 Seam, and gusset, and band — 
 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. 
 As well as the wtary hand. 
 
 Work — work — work 
 
 In the dull December light ! 
 And work — work — work, 
 
 When the weather is warm .ind bright ! — 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling. 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit me with the spring. 
 
 Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
 
 i){ the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
 With the sky above my head. 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet ! 
 For .i"ly one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel. 
 Before I knew the woes of want. 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 Oh ! but for one short hour — 
 
 A respite however brief ! 
 No blessed leisure for lo\e or hope. 
 
 But only time for grief! 
 A little weeping would eiuse my heart ; 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread ! 
 
 With fingers weary and worn. 
 And eyelids heavy and red, 
 
 A woman sat, in iniwomanly rags, 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 
 Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
 In poverty, hunger, .-uul dirt ; 
 Aiitl still, with a voice of dolomus pilch — 
 Would that its tone could roach the rich !— 
 She sang this " Song of the Siiirt ! " 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 
 
 ir^ 1 1 AT might be done if men were wise- 
 What glorious deeds, my sufferiny 
 Would they unite 
 In love atid right, 
 And cease their scorn of one another ? 
 
 w 
 
 broti: 
 
 '.t-T, 
 
 Oppression's heart might be imbued 
 With kindling drops of loving-kindness ; 
 And knowledge pour, 
 From shore to shore, 
 Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 
 
 All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, 
 All vice and crime, might die together ; 
 
 And wine and corn. 
 
 To each man born, 
 Be free as warmth in summer weather. 
 
 The meanest wretch that ever trod, 
 The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, 
 
 Might stand erect 
 
 In self-respect, 
 And share the teeming world to-morrow. 
 
 What might be done? TAis might be done. 
 And more than this, my sudering brother — 
 More than the tongue 
 E'er .said or sung, 
 If men were wise and loved each other, 
 
 Chakli;.s Mackav. 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 PAUSE not to dream of the future before us ; 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that come 
 o'er us; 
 Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, 
 Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! 
 Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; 
 Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 
 More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing, 
 Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 
 
 " L?>bor is worship !" the robin is singing ; 
 " labor is worship !" the wild bee is ringing: 
 Listei^ I th.at eloquent whisper, upspringing 
 
 Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. 
 From the dark cioud flows the life-giving shower ; 
 From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; 
 From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; 
 
 Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. 
 
WISU — 
 
 bring brother, 
 
 LABOR AND REFORM. 
 
 297 
 
 Lal)or is life ! — 'Tis the still water faileth ; 
 
 Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
 
 Keep the watch wound, for tiie dark rust assaileth; 
 
 Flowers droop and die in the stillnf?ss of noon. 
 Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; 
 Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
 Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : 
 
 Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in 
 tune! 
 
 L.ibor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, 
 Rest from all petty vexations th:it meet us, 
 Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 
 
 Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. 
 Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; 
 Work — thou shalt ride over care's coming billow ; 
 I.i" not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow ! 
 
 Work v'ith a stout heart and resolute will ! 
 
 Labor is health ! — Lo ! the husbandman reaping, 
 How through his veins goes the life-current le.-iping ! 
 How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping, 
 
 True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. 
 Labor is wealth— in tiie sea the pearl growcth ; 
 Rirli die queen's robe from the frail cocoon tloweth ; 
 From tiie fine acorn the strong forest blowetli ; 
 
 Temple and statue the marble block hides. 
 
 Droop not, though shame, sin, and aiv^juish are 
 
 round thee ; 
 liravL-ly fling off the cold chain that hath hoiiiul lliee ! 
 Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyuiul iliee : 
 
 Rest not content in thy darkness — a dud ! 
 Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
 Cherish some flovNer, he it ever so lowly : 
 Labor! — all labor is noble and holy ; 
 
 Let tiiy gre.it deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 
 
 Frances Sargk.nt Oscjood. 
 
 THE FACTORY GIRL'S LAST DAY. 
 
 Robert Dale Owen, in one of lliu cliai>ters oriiisaiitnhioKrnpIiv. 
 Kproilucvii tliu fulluwlii}; povni, \vi lUeii many years aj," Ij iilui- 
 iraif ,111 incident of ICnglisli factory life. 
 
 WAS on a winter morning, 
 
 The weather wet and wild, 
 Two hours before the dawning 
 
 The father rou.sed his child ; 
 Her daily morsel bringing. 
 
 The darksome room he paced, 
 And cried, " The bell is ringing ; 
 
 My hapless darling, haste ! " 
 
 " Dear father, I'm so sorry ! 
 
 I scarce can reach the door ; 
 And long the way and dreary ; 
 
 Oh, carry me once more ! " 
 Her wasted form seems nothing ; 
 
 The load Is on his heart ; 
 He soothes the little sufferer, 
 
 Till at the mill they part. 
 
 The overlooker met her 
 
 As to her frame she crept ; 
 And with his thong he beat her. 
 
 And cursed her when she wept. 
 It seemed, as she grew weaker. 
 
 The threads the oftener broke , 
 The rapid wheels ran quicker, 
 
 And heavier fell the stroke. 
 
 She thought how her dead mother 
 
 Blessed with her latest breath, 
 And of her little brother, 
 
 Worked down, like her, to death ; 
 Then told a tiny neighbor 
 
 A half-penny she'd pay 
 To take her last hour's labor. 
 
 While by her frame she lay. 
 
 The sun had long descended 
 
 Ere she sought that repose ; 
 Her day began and ended 
 
 As cruel tyrants chose. 
 Then home', but oft she tarried ; 
 
 .She fell, and rose once more ; 
 By pitying comrades carried. 
 
 She reached her father's door. 
 
 At night, with tortured feeling. 
 He watched his sleepless child ; 
 
 Though close beside her kneeling, 
 She knew him not, nor smiled. 
 
 Again the factory's ringing 
 Her last perceptions tried ; 
 
 LTp from her straw-bed springing, 
 
 " It's time ! " she shrie'fCcd, and died. 
 
 That niglit a chariot passed her. 
 
 While on the ground she lay ; 
 Tiie daughters of her master 
 
 An evening visit pay. 
 Their tender hearts were sighing, 
 
 As negro's wrongs were told 
 While the luhite slave was dying 
 
 Who gained their father's gold. 
 
 THE CORAL-INSECT. 
 
 OIL on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train. 
 Who build in the tossing and treacherous 
 main ; 
 
 "^ Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye mock, 
 With your sand based structures and domes of rock : 
 Your columns the fathumle.ss fountains lave. 
 And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; 
 Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 
 A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 
 
 Ye bind the deep with your secret zone. 
 The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone ; 
 Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring. 
 Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 
 
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 298 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 The turf looks green where the breakers rolled ; 
 
 O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
 
 The sea-snatched isle is the home of men, 
 
 And the mountains exult where the wave hath been. 
 
 But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
 The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
 There are snares enough on the tented field, 
 'Mid tlie blossomed sweets that the valleys yield; 
 There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ; 
 There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup ; 
 There are foes that watch for his cradle breath ; 
 And why need you sow the floods with death ? 
 
 Whh mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
 From tile iceclad pole to the tropics bright ; 
 The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
 With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold. 
 And the gods of ocean have frowned to see 
 The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; 
 Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread 
 The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? 
 
 Ye build — ye build— but ye enter not in. 
 Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin 
 From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
 Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ; 
 As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid. 
 Their noteless bones in oblivion hid. 
 Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main. 
 While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 
 LvDiA Huntley Sigouknev. 
 
 n 
 
 RING OUT, WILD BELLS! 
 
 ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
 The year is dying in the nijjht; 
 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 ail mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
 
 And ancient forms of paltry strife ; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
 The faithless coldness uf the times ; 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 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 di.sease. 
 
 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. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 THE GOOD TIME COMING. 
 
 'HERE'S a good time coming, boys, 
 A good time coming : 
 We may not live to see the day. 
 But earth shall glisten in the ray 
 
 Of the good time coming. 
 Cannon balls may aid the truth, 
 
 But thought's a weapon stronger ; 
 We'll win our battle by its aid ; — 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 The pen shall supersede the sword ; 
 And right, not might, shall be the lord 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Worth, not birth, shall rule mankind. 
 
 And be acknowledged stronger ; 
 The i:>ropcr impulse has been given ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 War in all men's eyes shall be 
 A monster of iniquity 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Nations shall not quarrel then, 
 
 To prove which is the stronger ; 
 Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Hatfful rivalries of creed 
 Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
 
 In tlie good time coming. 
 Religion shall be shorn of pride. 
 
 And flouri.sh all the stronger ; 
 And charity shall trim her lamp; — 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 And a poor man's family 
 Shall not be his misery 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
LABOR AND REFORM. 
 
 299 
 
 Every child shall be a help 
 To make his right arm stronger ; 
 
 The happier he the more he has ; — 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Little children shall not toil 
 Under, or above, the soil 
 
 In the good time coming; 
 But siiall play in healthful fields 
 
 Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 
 And every one shall read and write ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 The people shall be temperate, 
 And shall love instead of hate. 
 
 In the good lime coming. 
 They shall use, and not abuse, 
 
 And make all virtue stronger; 
 Tiie reformation has begun ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Let us aid it all we can, 
 Every woman, every man, 
 
 The good time coming. 
 Smallest helps, if rightly given, 
 
 Make the impulse stronger ; 
 'Twill be strong enough one day ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 Charles Mackav. 
 
 Anon it faints and falls in deadly strife, 
 
 Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and alono ; 
 But ah ! we do not die with those we mourn — 
 This, also, can be borne. 
 
 Behold, we live through all things — famine, thirst. 
 
 Bereavement, pain, all grief and misery. 
 All woe and sorrinv ; life inflicts its worst 
 On soul and body — but we cannot die. 
 Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn ; 
 Lo ! all things can be borne. 
 
 Elizabeth Akers Allkn. 
 
 ENDURANCE. 
 
 *0W much the heart may bear, and yet not break ! 
 How much ti)e flesh may suffer, and not die ! 
 I question much if any pain or ache 
 Of soul or body brings our end more nigh. 
 Death chooses his own time ; till that is worn, 
 All evils may be borne. 
 
 We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife ; 
 
 Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel. 
 Whose edge seems searching for the (luivering life ; 
 
 Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal 
 That still, although the trembling flesh be torn, 
 This, also, can be borne. 
 
 We see a sorrow rising in our way. 
 And try to flee from the approaching ill ; 
 
 We seek some small escape— we weep and pray — 
 Rut when the blow falls, then our hearts are still, 
 
 Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, 
 But that it can be borne. 
 
 We wind our life about another life — 
 We hold it closer, dearer than our own — 
 
 ^ 
 
 LEARN TO SWEEP. 
 
 NCE, in a city's crowded street, 
 With broom in hand, an urchin stood ; 
 No boots inclosed the little feet, 
 Though winter chilled the infant blood ; 
 And yet he worked, the little man. 
 As only youthful heroes can. 
 And as he toiled he cheerful sang : 
 " Tlie noblest oak was once a seed. 
 Tile choicest flower was but a weed, 
 L'npinioned once the eaglot's wing, 
 The river but a trickling sprin,', 
 The swiftest foot must learn to creep. 
 The proudest man must learn to sweep." 
 
 Anon some passing idlers sought 
 The sweeper from his toil to sn.nue, 
 To scorn the noble worker's thought, 
 And quench the young aspiring flame ; 
 No answer gave the hero back, 
 But to and fro he whisked the broom, 
 And shouted as he cleared the track : 
 " The noblest oak was once a seed. 
 The choicest flower was but a weed, 
 Unpinioned once the eaglet's wing, 
 The river but a trickling spring. 
 The swiftest foot must learn to creep, 
 The proudest man must learn to sweep." 
 
 H. .S. Bkuuks. 
 
 8 
 
 RHYMES FOR HARD TIMES. 
 
 OURAGE, brother! do not stumble, 
 Though thy path bo dark as night, 
 Tliere's a star to guide the humble ; 
 " Trust in God, and do the right." 
 
 Though the road be long and dreary, 
 And the end be out of sight ; 
 
 Foot it bravely, strong or weary, 
 " Trust in God, and do the right." 
 
 Perish iJolicy and cunning ; 
 
 Perish all that fears the light. 
 Whether losing, whether wiiming, 
 
 " Trust in God, and do the right." 
 
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 300 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Shun all forms of guilty passion, 
 Fiends can look like angels bright. 
 
 Heed no custom, school or fashion, 
 " Trust in God, and do the right." 
 
 Norman M'Leod. 
 
 THE MINER. 
 
 'HE eastern sky is blushing red, 
 The distant hill-top glowing ; 
 Tiie brook is murmuring in its bed, 
 In idle frolics flowing ; 
 'Tis time the pickaxe and the spade, 
 
 And iron "tom" were ringing, 
 And with ourselves, the mountain stream, 
 A song of labor singing. 
 
 The mountain air is cool and fresh, 
 
 Unclouded skies bend o'er us. 
 Broad placers, rich in hidden gold, 
 
 Lie temptingly before us ; 
 We ask no magic Midas' wand, 
 
 Nor wizard-rod divining, 
 The picka.\e, spade and brawny hand 
 
 Are sorcerers in mining. 
 
 When labor closes with the day, 
 
 To simple fare returning. 
 We gather in a merry group 
 
 Around the camp-fires burning; 
 The mountain sod our couch at night, 
 
 The stars shine bright above us. 
 We think of hoL.o and fall asleep, 
 
 To dream of those who love us. 
 
 John Swift. 
 
 A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY. 
 
 Suine cotton had lately been imported into Farringdon, where 
 0:v nulls hail been closed for a considerable time. The jieoiile, 
 ulio Were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the 
 rotten : the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and 
 finally san^ the Doxology over them. 
 
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 P 
 
 RAISE God from whom all blessings flow," 
 Praise him who sendetii joy and woe. 
 The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, 
 O, praise him, all that dies, and lives. 
 
 Me opens and he shuts his hand, 
 But why we cannot understand : 
 Pours and dries up His mercies' flood. 
 And yet is still All-perfect Good. 
 
 We fathom not the mighty plan, 
 The tnystery of God anil man ; 
 We women, when afflictions come, 
 We only sufler and are dumb. 
 
 And when, the tempest passing by. 
 He gleams out, sunlike, through our sky, 
 We look up, and through black clouds riven 
 We recognize the smile of Heaven. 
 
 Ours is no wisdom of the wise, 
 We have no deep philosophies : 
 Childlike we take both kiss and rod. 
 For he who loveth knoweth God. 
 
 Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 
 
 (^ 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 , O, feel what i have felt, 
 
 Go, bear what I have borne ; 
 Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt. 
 And the cold, proud world's scorn ; 
 Thus stniggle on from year to year, 
 Thy sole relief— the scalding tear. 
 
 Go, weep as I have wept. 
 
 O'er a loved father's fall, 
 See every cherished promise swept — 
 
 Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; 
 Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way 
 That led me up to woman's day. 
 
 Go, kneel as I have knelt ; 
 
 Implore, beseech, and pray. 
 Strive the besotted heart to melt, 
 
 Tiie flownward course to stay ; 
 Be cast with bitter curse aside — 
 Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. 
 
 Go, stand where I have stood, 
 
 And see the strong man bow ; 
 With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood. 
 
 And cold and livid brow ; 
 Go, catch his wandering glance, and see 
 There mirrored, his soul's misery. 
 
 Go, hear what I have heard — 
 
 The sobs of sad despair. 
 As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, 
 
 And its revealings there 
 Have told him what he might have been, 
 Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. 
 
 Go to my mother's side. 
 
 And her crushed spirit cheer ; 
 Thine own deep anguish hide. 
 
 Wipe from her cheek the tear. 
 Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 
 The gray that streaks her dark hair now ; 
 Her toil-worn frame, her trembling limb. 
 And trace the ruin back to him 
 Whose plighted faith, in early youth. 
 Promised eternal love and truth ; 
 But who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
 That promise to the deadly cup. 
 And led her down from love and light. 
 From all that made her pathway bright, 
 And chained her there 'mid want and strife, 
 That lowly thing, a drunkard's wife ! 
 And stamped on childhood's brow .so mild, 
 That withering blight, a drunkard's child 1 
 
 ,W ■' 
 
LABOR AND REFORM. 
 
 
 Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know. 
 All that my soul hath felt and known, 
 
 Then look upon the wine-cup's glow ; 
 See if its brightness can ntone ; 
 
 Think if its flavor you will try, 
 
 If all proclaimed, " 'Tis drink and die I " 
 
 Tell me I hate the bowl 
 
 Mate is a feeble word : 
 I loathe, abhor — my very soul 
 
 With strong disgust is stirred 
 When'er I see, or hear, or tell. 
 Of the dark beverage of hell ! 
 
 THE SONG OF STEAM. 
 
 'ARNESS me down with your iron bands, 
 He sure of your curb and rein, 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 
 As a tempest scorns a chain. 
 How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight 
 
 For many a countless hour, 
 At the childish boasts of human might, 
 And the pride of human power I 
 
 When I saw an army upon the land, 
 
 A navy upon the seas, 
 Creeping along, a snail-like band. 
 
 Or wailing the wayward breeze ; 
 When I marked the pea.sant faintly reel 
 
 With the toil that he daily bore, 
 As he feebly turned the tardy wheel. 
 
 Or tugged at the w'sary oar ; 
 
 When I measured the panting courser's speed. 
 
 The flight of the carrier dove, 
 As they bore the law a king decreed, 
 
 Or the lines of impatient love, 
 I could but think how the world would feel. 
 
 As these were out.stripped afar, 
 Wlien I should be bound to the rushing keel. 
 
 Or chained to the flying car. 
 
 Ha! ha ! ha ! they found me at last. 
 
 They invited me forth at length, 
 And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, 
 
 And laughed in my iron strength ! 
 0, then ye saw a wondrous change ■ 
 
 On tlie earth and ocean wide, 
 Where now my fiery armies range. 
 
 Nor wait lor wind not tide ! 
 
 Hurrah I hurrah ! the waters o'er. 
 
 The mountain's steep decline ; 
 Time— space — have yielded to my power : 
 
 The world, the world is mine 1 
 The rivers the sun hath earliest blest. 
 
 Or those where liis beams decline. 
 The giant streams of the queenly Wtst, 
 
 Or the Orient flootls divine. 
 
 The ocean pales wherever I sweep 
 
 To hear my strength rejoice, 
 Aid monsters of the briny deep v 
 
 Cower trembling at my voice. 
 I carry the wealth of the lord of earth. 
 
 The thouglits of his god-like mind ; 
 The wind lags after my going forth. 
 
 The lightning is left behind. 
 
 In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 
 
 My tireless arm doth play, 
 Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline, 
 
 Or the dawn of the glorious day ; 
 I bring earth's glittering jewels up 
 
 From the hidden caves below, 
 And I make the fountain's granite cup 
 
 With a crystal gush o'erflow. 
 
 I blow the bellows, I forge the steel. 
 
 In all the shops of trade ; 
 I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
 
 Where my arms of strength .ire made ; 
 I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint, 
 
 I carry, I spin, I weave. 
 And all my doings I put into print 
 
 On every Saturday eve. 
 
 I've no muscles to wear>', no brains to decay. 
 
 No bones to be laid on the shelf, 
 And soon I intend you may go and play, 
 
 Wliile I manage the world myself. 
 Rut harness me down with your iron bands, 
 
 He sure of your curb and rein. 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 
 
 As the temjiest scorns the chain. 
 
 George W. Cutter. 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 .SLEPT and dreamed that life was beauty : 
 I woke and found that life was duty : 
 Was then thy dream a shadowy lie ? 
 Toil on. sad heart, courageously. 
 
 And thou shalt find thy dream to be 
 A noonday light and truth to thee. 
 
 TRUE REST. 
 
 '^' WEET is the pleasure 
 Itself cannot spoil 1 
 Is not true leisure 
 One with true toil ? 
 
 Thou that wouldst taste it. 
 
 Still do thy best ; 
 
 Use it, not waste it — 
 
 Else 'tis no rest. 
 
 Wouldst behold bL-auty 
 Near thee ? all round ? 
 
 Only hath duty 
 Such a siirht found. 
 
 ti ■ 
 
 
 H I I 
 
 
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 ii m 
 
 |il 
 
302 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 m 
 
 •'* hi •■l". 
 
 Rest Is not qiiittinjj 
 
 Tlic busy career ; 
 Rest is the fitting 
 
 Of self to its sphere. 
 
 'Tis the brook's motion, 
 
 Clear without strife, 
 Fleeinp to ocean 
 
 After its life. 
 
 Deeper devotion 
 
 Nowiiere hath knelt ; 
 rullor emotion 
 
 Heart never felt. 
 
 'Tis loving and serving 
 
 The highest and best ; 
 'Tis onwards ! unswerving — 
 
 And that is true rest. 
 
 John Sullivan Dwight. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 , OOD night. 
 
 To each weary, toil-worn wight ! 
 Now the day so sweetly closes, 
 Every aching brow reposes 
 Peacefully till morning liglit. 
 Good night ! 
 
 Home to rest ! 
 Close the eye and calm the breast ; 
 Stillness through the streets is stealing, 
 And the watchman's horn is pealing, 
 And the night calls softly, " Haste ! 
 Home to rest ! " 
 
 Sweetly sleep ! 
 Eden's breezes rountl ye sweep. 
 O'er the peace-forsaken lover 
 Let the darling image hover, 
 As he lies in transport deep. 
 Sweetly sleep ! 
 
 So, good night ! 
 Slumber on till morning light ; 
 Slumber till another morrow 
 Brings its stores of joy and sorrow ; 
 Fearless, in the Father's sight, 
 
 Slumber on. Good night ! 
 
 Charles T. Brooks. 
 
 Hi ' iif 
 
 LABOR SONG. 
 
 >^^"H ! little they know of true happiness, they 
 f ^1 whom satiety fills, 
 
 ^^ Who, (lung on the rich breast of lu.xury, eat 
 
 of the rankness that kills. 
 Ah ! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased 
 
 slumber enjoys 
 Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of 
 the sleep that destroys ; 
 
 Nothing to hope for, or labor foi ; nothing to sigh for, 
 
 or gain ; 
 Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom 
 
 and brain ; 
 Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er wi!!i 
 
 its breath ; — 
 Nothing but dullness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, 
 
 and death ! 
 
 But blesstid that child of humanity, happiest man 
 among men. 
 
 Who, with hammerer chisel or pencil, with rudder or 
 ploughshare or pen, 
 
 Laboreth ever and ever with hope through the morn- 
 ing of life. 
 
 Winning home and its darling divinities — love-wor- 
 shipped children and wife. 
 
 Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the 
 sharp chisel rings. 
 
 And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that Mir 
 not the bosom of kings — 
 
 He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of 
 his race, 
 
 Who nervcth his arm for life's combat, and looks \\k 
 strong world in the face. 
 
 Denis Florence MacCarthv. 
 
 m 
 
 ODE TO THE HARVEST MOON. 
 
 DON of harvest, herald mild 
 Of plenty, rustic labor's child, 
 Hail ! oh, hail I I greet thy beam. 
 As soft it trembles o'er the stream. 
 And gilds the straw-thatched hamlet wide. 
 Where innocence and peace reside ; 
 'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, 
 Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song. 
 
 Moon of harvest, I do love 
 
 O'er the uplands now to rove, 
 
 While thy modest ray serene 
 
 Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 
 
 And to watch thee riding high 
 
 In the blue vault of the sky, 
 Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray. 
 But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. 
 
 Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon ! 
 Now the night is at her noon, 
 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
 While around the zephyrs sigh, 
 Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, 
 Ripened by the summer's heat ; 
 Picturing all the rHstic's joy 
 When boundless plenty greets his eye, 
 
 And thinking soon, 
 
 Oh, modest moon ! 
 How many a female eye will roam 
 
 Along the road, 
 
 To see the load, 
 The last dear load of harvest home. 
 
 !>' ^ 
 
LABOR AND REFORM. 
 
 Storms and tempests, floods and rains, 
 
 Stern despoilers of the plains. 
 
 Hence away, llie season flee, 
 
 Foes to li^ht-heart jollity ; 
 
 May no winds careering high. 
 
 Drive the clouds along the sky ; 
 Rut may all nature smile with aspect boon, 
 When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, har- 
 vest moon ! 
 
 'Neath yon lowly roof he lies. 
 The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes ; 
 He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
 The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
 Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 
 His visionary views of joy : 
 God of the winds 1 oh, hear his humble prayer. 
 And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blustering 
 whirlwind spare. 
 
 Sons of luxury, to you 
 
 Leave I sleep's dull power to woo : 
 
 Press ye still the downy bed, 
 
 While feverish dreams surround your head ; 
 
 I will seek the woodland glade, 
 
 Penetrate the thickest shade. 
 
 Wrapt in contemplation's dreams, 
 
 Musing high on holy themes. 
 
 While on the gale 
 
 Shall softly sail 
 The nightingale's enchanting tune, 
 
 And oft my eyes 
 
 Shall grateful rise 
 To thee, the modest harvest moon ! 
 
 Hii.NKV KiKKE White. 
 
 Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers ? 
 No, Patrick ! we talked, while we braved the wild 
 
 weather. 
 Of all we could bear, if we bore it together. 
 
 Soon, Soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by. 
 And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky ! 
 Oh, let not our spirits, embittered with paini 
 Be dead to the sunshine that came to lis then ! 
 Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the 
 
 weather, 
 And, sunshine or storm, we will bear it together. 
 Caroline Elizadetii Norton. 
 
 SONG OF THE PEASANT WIFE. 
 
 eOME, Patrick, clear up the storms on your 
 brow ; 
 You were kind to me once — will you frown 
 on me now ? — 
 Shall the storm settle here, when from heaven it de- 
 parts, 
 And the cold from without finds it way to our hearts ? 
 No, Patrick, no ! sure the wintriest weather 
 Is easily borne when we bear it together. 
 
 Though the rain's dropping through, from the roof to 
 
 the floor. 
 And llie wind whistles free, where tliere once was a 
 
 door. 
 Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away 
 All the warm vows we made in our love's early day ? 
 No, Patrick, no ! sure the dark stormy weather 
 Is easily borne, if we bear it together. 
 
 When you stole out to woo me when labor was done, 
 And the day that was closing to us seemed begun. 
 Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers, 
 
 A SHEPHERD'S LIFE. 
 
 I/JH^ EGLECTED now the early daisy lies ; 
 
 r^ f Nor thou, pale primrose, bloom'st the only 
 
 J l^ prize ; 
 
 Advancing spring profusely spreads abroad 
 Flowers of all hues, with sweetest fragrance ytored ; 
 Where'er she tre.ids, love gladdens every- plain, 
 Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train ; 
 Sweet hope with conscious brt)w before her flies, 
 Anticipating wealth from summer skies ; 
 All nature feels her renovatin;^ sway ; 
 The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow ga-; ; 
 And trees, and shrubs, no loiijjer buddinj.; seen, 
 Displ.ny the new-grown branch of lighter gr;en ; 
 On airy downs the shepherd idling lies, 
 And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies. 
 Here, then, my soul, thy darling theme pursue, 
 I-'or every day was Giles a shepherd too. 
 
 Small was his charge : no wilds had they to roam : 
 But bright inclosures circling round their home. 
 No yellow-blossomed furze, nor stubborn thorn, 
 The heath's rough produce, had their fleeces torn : 
 Vet ever roving, ever seeking thee, 
 IJichanting spirit, dear variety I 
 O happy tenants, prisoners of a day ! 
 Released to ease, to pleasure, and to play ; 
 Indulged through every field by turns to range. 
 And taste them all in one continual ciiange. 
 For though luxuriant their grassy food, 
 Sheep long confined but loathe the present go(xl ; 
 Bleating around the homeward gate they meet. 
 And starve, and pine, with plenty at their feet. 
 Loosed from the winding lane, a joyful throng, 
 See, o'er yon pasture, how they pour along 1 
 Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll ; 
 Sees every pass secured, and fences whole ; 
 High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye, 
 Where many a nestling first essays to fly*; 
 Where blows the woodbine, faintly streaked with red. 
 And rests on every bough its tend, r head ; 
 Round the young ash its twining branches meet. 
 Or crown the hawthorn with its odors sweet. 
 
 Robert Bloom field. 
 
 ' .J 
 
 II II 
 
 ii 
 
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\]\ 
 
 
 •■ ■( 
 
 V'Wfi 
 
 M; 
 
 
 
 Mi^ 
 
 :ir< • 
 
 m^: 
 
 301 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 YOUR MISSION. 
 
 ' F you cannot on tliu ocean 
 
 Sail anion); the swiftest fleet, 
 Rocking on tlie highest billows, 
 Laughing at the storms you nu-et, 
 You can staiul among the sailors, 
 
 Anchored yet within the bay. 
 You can lend a hand to Iielp them. 
 As they launch their boats away. 
 
 If you are too weak to journey, 
 
 Up the mountain steep and high, 
 You can stand within the valley, 
 
 While the multitudes go by. 
 You can char.t in happy measure, 
 
 As they slowly pass along ; 
 Though they may forget the singer. 
 
 They will not forget the song. 
 
 If you have not gold and silver 
 
 Ever ready to command, 
 If you cannot towards the needy 
 
 Reach an ever open hand. 
 You can visit the afllicted. 
 
 O'er the erring you can weep, 
 You can be a true disciple. 
 
 Sitting at the Saviour's feet. 
 
 if you cannot in the conflict. 
 
 Prove youseif a soldier true, 
 if where fire and smoke are thickest. 
 
 There's no work for you to do. 
 When the battle-field is silent. 
 
 You can go with careful tread, 
 You can bear away the wounded, 
 
 You can cover up the dead. 
 
 Do not then stand idly waiting 
 
 For some greater work to do, 
 Fortune is a lazy goddess. 
 
 She will never come to you. 
 Go and toil in any vineyard, 
 
 Do not fear to do or dare, 
 If you want a field of labor, 
 
 You can find it anywhere. 
 
 IJJ' 
 
 KNOCKED ABOUT. 
 
 ■HY don't I work ? Well, sir, will you. 
 
 Right here on the spot, give me siithin' to do ? 
 Work? Why, sir, I don't w;int no more 
 'N a chance in any man's shop or store ; 
 
 That's what I'm lookin' for every day, 
 
 IJut thar ain't no jobs ; well, w'hat d" ye say? 
 
 I lain't got nothin' at present ! Just so ; 
 
 That's how it always is, I know ! 
 
 Fellers like me ain't wanted much ; 
 Folks are gen'rally jealous of such ; 
 Thinks they ain't the right sort o' .stuff- 
 Blessed if it isn't a kind o' rough 
 
 On a man to have folks hintin' belief 
 That he ain't to be trusted mor 'n a thief. 
 When p'r'ajishis fingers are cleaner far 
 'N them o' chaps that talk so are. 
 
 Got a look o' the sea ! Well, I 'xpect that's so ; 
 
 I lad a hankeria' that way some years ago, 
 
 And run off; I shipped in a whaler fust. 
 
 And got cast away ; but that warn't the wust ; 
 
 Took fire, sir, next time, we did, and — well. 
 
 We blazed up till everything standin' fell, 
 
 .•\nd then me and Tom — my mate — and some more, 
 
 Got off, with a notion of goin' ashore. 
 
 Hut thar warn't no shore to see about thar. 
 
 So we drifted and drifted everywhar 
 
 For a week, and then all but Tom and me 
 
 Was food for the sharks or down in the sea. 
 
 Hut we pr.iyed— nic and Tom— the best we could. 
 
 For a sail. It come, and at last we stood 
 
 On old 'arth once more, and the captain told 
 
 Us we was ashore in the land o' gold. 
 
 Gold ! We didn't get much. But we struck 
 For the mines, of course, and tried our luck. 
 'T warn't bad at t!ie start, but things went wrong 
 Pooty soon, for one night thar come along. 
 While we was asloep, some red-skin chaps. 
 And they made tilings lively round thar— perha|)s ! 
 Anyhow, wc lefi mighty quick — Tom and me. 
 And we didn't go back — kind o' risky, you see ! 
 
 By'm-by, sir, the war come on, and then 
 We 'listed. Poor Tom I I was nigh him when 
 It all happened. He looked up and sez, sez he, 
 " Bill, it's come to partin' 'twixt you and me. 
 Old chap. I hain't much to leave— here, this ki'.JL' 
 Stand to your colors, I>ill, while j-ou have life ! " 
 That w.as all. Yes, got wounded myself, sir, here, 
 And — I'm pensioned on water and air a year ! 
 
 It ain't much to thank for that Pin alive, 
 Knockin' about like this — W'hr.t, a five ! 
 Thai's suthin' han'some, now, that is. I'm bljst 
 If things don't quite frequent turn out for the be:,t 
 Artcralll AY! Hi! Luck! It's far more! 
 Mister, I kind o' liked the looks o' your store. 
 You're a trump, sir, a reg— Eh? Oh, all right ! 
 I'm off— but you arc, sir, a trump, honor briijlit I 
 
 Danieu Co.nnolv. 
 
 TUBAL CAIN. 
 
 LD Tubal Cain was a man of might 
 In the days when the earth was young; 
 By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, 
 The strokes of his hammer rung, 
 
 As he lifted high his brawny hand 
 
 On the iron glowing clear, 
 
 Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers 
 
 As he fashioned t!ic sword and spear. 
 
LABOR AND REFORM. 
 
 305 
 
 And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork ! 
 Hurrah for the hand that shall wield thcin well ! 
 I'ur he shall be kiiii; and lord." 
 
 To Tubal Cain came many a one, 
 
 As he wrought by his roaring fire. 
 
 And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, 
 
 As the crown of his desire ; 
 
 And he made them weapons sharp and strong, 
 
 Till they shouted loud in glee, 
 
 And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, 
 
 And they sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain, 
 
 Who hath given us strength anew ! 
 
 Hurrah for the smith ! hurrah for the fire ! 
 
 And hurrah for the metal true ! " 
 
 But a sudden change came o'er his heart 
 
 Ere the .setting of the sun, 
 
 And Tubal Cain was filled with pain 
 
 For the evil he had done. 
 
 He saw that men, with rage and hate. 
 
 Made war upon their kind ; 
 
 Tliat the land was red with the blood they shed 
 
 In their lust for carnage blind. 
 
 .\nd he said, " Alas, that I ever made, 
 
 Or that skill of mine should plan. 
 
 The spear and the sword, for men whose joy 
 
 Is to slay their fellow-man ! " 
 
 20 
 
 And for many a d.ny old Tubal Cain 
 
 Sat brooding o'er his woe ; 
 
 And ills hand forbore to smite the ore, 
 
 And iiis furnace smouldered low; 
 
 But he rose at last with a cheerful face. 
 
 And a bright courageous eye. 
 
 And bared his strong right arm for work. 
 
 While the (luick flames mounted high ; 
 
 And he sang, " Hurrah for my handiwork ! " 
 
 And the red sparks lit the air — 
 
 " Not alone for the blade was the brij^ht steel made," 
 
 And he fashioned the first ploughshare. 
 
 And men, taught wisdom from the par.t. 
 
 In friendship joined their hands. 
 
 Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall. 
 
 And ploughed the willing lands ; 
 
 And sang, " Hurrah for Tubal Cain ! 
 
 Our stanch good friend is he ; 
 
 And, for the ploughshare and the plough, 
 
 To him our praise shall be. 
 
 But while oppression lifts its head, 
 
 Or a tyrant would be lord. 
 
 Though we may thank him for the plough, 
 
 We'll not forget the sword." 
 
 Charles M.\ckav, 
 
 tl 4 
 
 111 
 
 iii 
 
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 lir*. 
 
 w 
 
 RUR^lL LIFE, 
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN. 
 
 LEAR the brown path to meet 
 '^ his coulter's g\cMn ! 
 
 Lo ! on he comes, behind 
 hissniolting team, 
 With toil's brij;htclew-c]r(jps on 
 
 his sunburnt brow. 
 The loril of earth, the hero of 
 the plough ! 
 
 First in the field before the red 
 
 dening sun. 
 Last in the shadows when the 
 
 day is done. 
 Line after line, along tlie burst- 
 ing sod, 
 Marks the broad acres where 
 
 his feet have trod. 
 Still where he treads the stub- 
 born clods divide. 
 The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide ; 
 Matteii and dense the t.tngled turf upheaves, 
 ?.I--!low and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves ; 
 I'n the steep hillside, where the laboring train 
 Slants the long track that scores the level plain, 
 Tlirougli the moisty valley, clogged with oozing clay, 
 Tlic patient convoy breaks its destined v\ay ; 
 At every turn the loosening chains resoijnd, 
 The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round, 
 Till thj wide field one billowy waste appears. 
 And wearied liands unbind the panting sleerj. 
 
 These are the hands whose sturdy labor biings 
 The peasant's food, the golden pump of kings ; 
 This is tl;e ijagc whose letters shall be seen, 
 Cnanged by the sun to words of 'ving green ; 
 This is the scholar whose immortal pen 
 Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men ; 
 These are the lines that Heaven-commanded toil 
 Shows on his deed— the ciiarler of the soil ! 
 
 O gracious Mother, whose btmgnant breast 
 Wakes us to life, and lulls us all lo rest. 
 Flow thy sweet features, kiml to every clime, 
 ".lock willi their smile the wrinkled front of time ! 
 We stain thy llowers — thy blossom o'er llie dead ; 
 We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bier.d ; 
 O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn, 
 Waves the green plumage of thy taEselled corn ; 
 f)ur ni.iddening conflicts scar thy f.iirest plain, 
 Still thy soft ..nswer is the growing grain. 
 Vet. O our Mother, wliile uncounti d charms 
 Steal round our heart:; in tliine embracing arms, 
 
 I Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 
 
 j And thy fund sweetness waste our strength away. 
 
 i No, by these hills whose banners now displayrrl 
 I In bl.izing cohorts aiitunm has arrayed ; 
 j liy yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests 
 ' Tlie to'sing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests ; 
 
 By these fair plains the mountain circle scnvns, 
 I And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravin" — 
 I True to their home, these f.iilliful arms .shall tciil 
 I To crown with peace their own untainted soil ; 
 I And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind, 
 1 If her chained ban-dogs Faction shall unbind. 
 
 These stately fcrms, that, bending even now, 
 j Bowed their str'>ng manhood to the humble plough. 
 
 Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, 
 I The same stern iron in the same right hand, 
 I Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run— 
 
 The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won ! 
 Oi.ivKR Wendell Holmes. 
 
 THE MOWERS. 
 
 'HE sunburnt mowers are in the swath- 
 Swing, swing, swing I 
 The towering lilies loath 
 'f Tremble and tt)ttcr and fall ; 
 
 The mead(jw-rue 
 Dashes its tassels of golden dew ; 
 And the keen blade sweeps o'er all — 
 Swing, swing, swing ! 
 
 The flowers, t!ic berries, the feathered grass. 
 
 Are thrown in a smothered mass ; 
 Hastens away the butterlly ; 
 With half their burdLii the brown bees hie ; 
 
 And the meadow-lark shrieks distrest, 
 And leaves the poor younglings all in the nest. 
 
 The daisies clasp and fall ; 
 And totters the jacob's-ladder tall. 
 Weaving and winding and curving lithe, 
 O'er plumy hillocks— through dewy hollows, 
 His subtile scythe 
 
 The nodding mower follows — 
 Swing, swing, swing ! 
 
 Anon, the chiming whetstones ring — 
 
 Ting-a-ling ! ting-a Hug ! | 
 
 And the mower now 
 Pauses and wipes his beaded brow. 
 A moment he sc ins the fleckless sky ; 
 A- moment, the fish-hawk soaring high ; 
 And watches the swallows dip and dive 
 
 Anear and afar. 
 
 Ill'' 
 
 (';o''.) 
 
RURAL LITE. 
 
 .'iU7 
 
 They whisk and Rlimmer, and chatter and strive ; 
 What (lotilcy gossip tny;L-th'T? 
 CuiiniiiK fi.;ll()ws they art% 
 Wise propiu'ts to liiin ! 
 ' Iliicher or lower they circle and si<iin— 
 l-'air or foul to-morrow's liay-woather ! " 
 
 Tallest primroses, or loftiest ilaisies, 
 Nut a steel-l)lue feather 
 Of slim wiiiyj fjrazes : 
 • Kear not! fear not ! " c ry the swallows. 
 Kach mower tightens his snath-rinj^'s wedge, 
 And his finger daintily follows 
 The long blade's tickle-edge ; 
 Softly the whetstone's last touches ring — 
 
 Tinq'-alitig .' ting-a-linv; ! 
 Like a leaf-mufTled bird in liie woodland nigh, 
 Faintly the fading echoes reply — 
 Ting-a ling ! ling-a-ling ! 
 
 ' Perchance the swallows, that (lit in their glee, 
 of to-morrow's hay-weather know little as we !" 
 Siiys farmer Russet. " Be it hidden in shower 
 Or sunshine, to-morrow we do not own- 
 To-day is ours alone ! — 
 Not a twinkle we'll waste of the golden hour, 
 (irasp tightly the nibs— give heel anil give toe : — 
 Lay a goodly swath, sh;ived smooth and low ! 
 
 Prime is the day— 
 
 Swing, swing, swing ! " 
 
 Farmer Russet is aged and gray — 
 Gray as the frost, but fresh as the spring. 
 
 Straight is he 
 
 As the green fir-tree ; 
 And with heart most blithe, and sinews lithe. 
 He leads the row with his merry scythe. 
 " Come, boys ! strike up the old song 
 While we circle around — 
 The song we always in haytime sing — 
 
 And let the woods ring. 
 
 And the echoes prolong 
 
 The merry sound !" 
 
 SONG. 
 
 July is just in the nick of time ! 
 
 (Hay-weather, hay-weather ;) 
 The midsummer month is the golden prime 
 For haycocks smelling of clover and thyme ; — 
 
 (Swing all together !) 
 July is just in the nick of time ! 
 
 CAorus. 
 
 0, we'll make our hay while the pood sun shines— 
 
 We'll waste not a golden minute ! 
 
 No shadow of .storm the blue arch lines ; 
 
 We'll waste not a minute— not a minute ! 
 
 For the west-wind is fair ; 
 
 O, the hay-day is rare ! — 
 
 The sky is without a brown cloud in it ! 
 
 June is too early for richest hay ; 
 
 (Fair weather, fair weather ;) 
 The corn stretches talL'r tlie livjl )ng day ; 
 Hut grass is ever too sappy to lay ; — 
 
 (Clip all t ):j;ellK'r!) 
 June is too early for richest hay. 
 
 .August's a month that too far goes by ; 
 
 n^ate weatii:?r, late weatiier ;) 
 (""•rasshoppers are chipper and kick too high ! 
 And grass that's stain ling is fotlder scorched dry ;— 
 
 ^Pull all together!) 
 August's a ino:ith tl'.at too far goes by. 
 
 July is just in the nick of lime ! 
 
 (Best weather, b.'st we.ather ;) 
 Tlic midsummer month is the gulden prime 
 I'"ur haycocks smelling uf c:!over and thyme ; — 
 
 (.Strike all together!) 
 July is just in the nick of time I 
 
 .Still hiss the scythes ! 
 .Shudder the grasses' delenceless blades — 
 
 The lily-throng writiies ; 
 And, as a plialan.x of wild-geese streams, 
 Where the shore of April's cloudlaml gleams. 
 On their dizzy way, in serried grades — 
 
 Wing on wing, wing on wing — 
 The mowers, each a sti-p in advance 
 Of his fellow, time their stroke with a glance 
 
 Of swer%'eless force ; 
 And far through the meadow leads their course — 
 
 Swing, swing, swing ! 
 
 MvRON n. Bknton. 
 
 THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 
 
 ' IN(j them upon the sunny hills, 
 
 When d.iys are long and bright, 
 And the blue gleam of sliining rills 
 Is loveliest to the sight. 
 Sing them alon;; the misty moor. 
 
 Where ancient hunters roved, 
 And swell them through the torrent's mar — 
 
 The songs our fathers loved I 
 The songs their souls rejoiced t ) hear 
 
 When harps were in the hall, 
 And each proud note made lance and spear 
 
 Thrill on the bannered wall : 
 The songs that through our valleys green, 
 
 .Sent on from age to age, 
 Like his own river's voice, have been 
 The peasant's heritage. 
 
 The reaper sings them when the vale 
 
 Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 
 The woodman, by the starlight pale 
 
 Cheered homeward through the leaves : 
 And unto them the glancing oars 
 
 A joyous measure keep. 
 Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 
 
 Dash back the foaming deep. 
 
 1'" i 
 III 
 I'll |«i< 
 
 I'll 
 
nos 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 » ' ! 
 
 Si) li't it l)f !- a lislit tliey slu-cl 
 
 O'lT iMch olil fount and ^rovc ; 
 A memory of tlu; gentle tlt-ad, 
 
 A s|)i'll o( linKcriny lovi: : 
 MiirnuirinK tin.- nanv^s of mi);l)ly men, 
 
 They l)i(l our streams roll on, 
 And link hi;^li tlionKhtsto fvory j;l'"ii 
 
 WIktc valiant ilecds were done. 
 
 Teach tlieni yuur children rounvl the hearth, 
 
 When eveninjj-fii es Inirn clear. 
 And in the fields ofharvest mirth, 
 
 And on the hills of deer ! 
 So shall earl) unfor;;otten word, 
 
 When far those loved otus roatn, 
 Call back the hearts that once it stirred, 
 
 To childhood's holy home. 
 The greenwoods of their native land 
 
 Shall whisper in the strain. 
 The voices of their hoiisehoM hand 
 
 Shall sweetly speak a^ain : 
 The heathery heights in virion rise 
 
 Where like the staj; they roved — 
 Sing to your sons those mclodic'?, 
 
 The songs your fathers loved. 
 
 FEI.iriA DOKOTHEA Hkmans. 
 
 THE USEFUL PLOUGH. 
 
 J^ COUNTRY life is sweet ! 
 f ^^ In moderate cokl anil heat, 
 ^^ To walk in the .'lir how i)le;usant and fair ! 
 Ill every field of wheat. 
 The fairest of llowers adorning the bowers, 
 Ami every meadow's brow ; 
 So that I say, no couriier may 
 Compare with tluni who clothe in gray 
 Anil follow the useful plough. 
 
 They rise with the morning lark. 
 And labor till almost dark, 
 
 Then, fokling their sheej), tliey hasten to sleep 
 While every pleasant park 
 
 Next morning is ringing with birds tiiat are singing 
 On each green, tender bough. 
 
 With what content tuid nuTiiment 
 
 Their days are spent, whose minds are bent 
 To follow the useful i)lough. 
 
 fll 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Y time, O ye Muses, was happily spent. 
 When Phiebe went with me wherever I 
 
 went ; 
 
 Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my 
 breast : 
 Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest ! 
 But now she is gone, and has left me behind. 
 What a marvelous change on a sudden I find ! 
 When things were as fine as roidd possibly be, 
 J thought 'twas the spring : but alas I it w;'.s she. 
 
 With such n companion to tend a few sheep, 
 To rise up and play, or to lie ilown and sh ep : 
 I was so good humored, so cheerful and gay. 
 My heart w.is as light as a feather ail d.iy ; 
 lUit now I so cross and so peevish am grown. 
 So strangely uneasy, as never was known. 
 .My fair one is gone and my joys are all drowiir-d, 
 And my heart— I am sure it weighs more than a 
 pound. 
 
 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, 
 And dance to soft nuirmurs the pebbles among ; 
 Thou knowest, little Cupid, if Phabe was tliert , 
 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear; 
 Hut now she is absent, I walk by its side. 
 And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; 
 Must you be so cheerful, while 1 go in pain ? 
 I'eace there with your bubbling, and hoiir me corn- 
 plain. 
 
 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play. 
 And IMui'be and I were as joyful as they ; 
 I low pleasant their sporting, how happy their fitiie, 
 When spring, love and beauty were all in tl i it 
 
 prime ; 
 Hut now, in their frolics when by me they pass, 
 I tling at their fleeces a handl;il of grass ; 
 He still, then, I cry, for it makes me (iiiite mad. 
 To see you so merry while I am so sad. 
 
 My dog I was ever well ple.isid to see 
 Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; 
 And I'hicbe was pleased too, and to my ilog said, 
 " Come hither, poor fellow," and patted his lu.ul. 
 But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look 
 Cry "Sirrah ! " and give him a blow with my cr'H)k : 
 Antl I'll give him another ; for why should n^t 'I'r.iy 
 Be as dull as liis master, when rhcvbe's away ? 
 
 When walking with Thccbe, what sights have I sojii, 
 How fair was the llowL:r, how fresli w;;s the green ! 
 Wh.at a lovely appearance the trees and the sli,;(k', 
 The corn fields and hedges, and everything ni;id ■ I 
 Hut now s!ie h;is left in.:, th;)ug!i ;i]I m\: slill tiicn-, 
 They hone of tiiem now so delightful iijipeiir ; 
 'Tw.'is nought but t!ie m;igic, 1 find, of lur eyes, 
 Made so many beautiful prospects ariiie. 
 
 .Sweet music went with us both all the wood lhnni;;ii, 
 The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too ; 
 Winils over us whispered, flocks by us did bieat, 
 And chirp ! went the grasshopper under our feel. 
 But now she is absent, though still they sing on. 
 The wootls are but lonely, the melody's gone : 
 Her voice in the concert, as now I have found. 
 Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 
 
 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? 
 And where is the violet's beautiful blue? 
 Does out of its sweetness the blossom beguile? 
 That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smiif ' 
 
 %B 
 
RURAl. MFIC. 
 
 ;J0!» 
 
 A!-. ! rivals, I rcp what it wns that yon drcst, 
 
 Ami made ynursflvfs tiiK- lor— a plan* in Iut iirrast 
 
 Yoii put on your <ol(irs to plcaKure lu-r t-yc, 
 
 1(1 l)e plurkfd liy iicr lian<l, f)n lu-r bosom to die. 
 
 VVill DO pitying powi-r, tli.it lu-ars nie complain, 
 Or rur^; my ilisquicl. or sc^fttii my pain ? 
 To Ij»-' c?urcd, tliou mubt, Colin, lli\ passu)ii romcjvi-; 
 lUit what swain is so silly to live williout love ! 
 S'o, Dfity, bid tlie <loar nymph to r< turn. 
 |\'r ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. 
 Ah ' what shall I do? I shall die with despair; 
 Take liccd, all yc swains, how ye part with your fair. 
 
 John Uvrom. 
 
 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 '13KK from the brow of the hill I look, 
 
 Thnjuj^li .-i lattice of boia^lis and leaves. 
 ( »ti the old tjray mill with its ^;ambrel root. 
 And the moss on its rottiiij;; caves. 
 ' hear tlie clatter that jars its walls, 
 
 And the rushing w.itcr's sound. 
 And I see the black floats rise and fa!l 
 As the wheel goes slowly round. 
 
 I rode there often when I was younjj, 
 
 With my Kfist on the horse before, 
 And talked with Nelly, the millers ^irl. 
 
 As I waited my turn at the door. 
 And wliile she tossed her ringlets brown, 
 
 And flirted and chatted s . free. 
 The wheel might stop, or the wheel might go, 
 
 It was all the sam • to me. 
 
 'Tis twenty years since last I stooil 
 
 (Jn the spot where 1 stand to-day, 
 .And Nelly is wed, and the miller is dead. 
 
 And the mill and I are gray. 
 Hut both, till we fall into ruin and wreck, 
 
 To the fortune of toil are bound ; 
 And the man goes and the stream Hows, 
 
 And the wheel moves slowly round. 
 
 Thomas Dunn English. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 'U.ST in the dubious point, where with the pool 
 Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils 
 Ar(jund the stone, or from the hollowed bank 
 Reverted plays in undulating flow, 
 There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly ; 
 And, as you l-ad it round in artful curve, 
 With eye attentive mark the springing game. 
 Straigl-.t as above the surface of the flood 
 They wanton rise, or urged t;y hunger leap. 
 Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook ; 
 Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank. 
 And to the shelving shore slow dragging some, 
 With various hand proportioned to their force. 
 
 If yet too young, and easily dcrcivcd, 
 
 A wortlilcss prey scarce bends your pliant rod, 
 
 Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space 
 
 He has enjoyeil the vital light of he.iveii, 
 
 .Soft ilisill^jage, .and baik into the stre.un 
 
 The speckKd iiif.ml throw. Itni should you lure 
 
 l-'ruiu his dark haunt, '.« iieath the tangled roijts 
 
 Of peniient trees, the monarch of the brook, 
 
 Hehooves you then to ply your f'nest art. 
 
 Long time he, following cautious, scans the lly ; 
 
 And oft atlt'mpts to sei/c it, but as oft 
 
 The dimpl(.-d water speaks his jealous fear. 
 
 At Last, while haply o'er the shaded sun 
 
 I'.'isses a cloud, he des|ierate taki'S the (loath. 
 
 With sullen plunge. At once he tlarts alor.g. 
 
 I)eei>slruck, and rims out all the lengtlu lud line . 
 
 Then seeks the f.irthest ooze, the shiltering weed, 
 
 The raverned bank, his old secure abode ; 
 
 And (lies aloft, and flounces round the pool, 
 
 Indi^nai.t of the guile. With yielding hand. 
 
 That feels him still, yet to his furious course 
 
 (lives way, you, now retiring, following now 
 
 Across tile stream, exhaust his idle rage ; 
 
 Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, 
 
 And to his fate abandoned, to the shore 
 
 You gayly drag your unresisting prize. 
 
 jAMts Thomson. 
 
 f 
 
 MILKING-TIME. 
 
 TELL you, Kate, that Lovejoy cow 
 Is worth her weight in gold ; 
 She gives a good eight quarts o' milk, 
 And Isn't yet five years old. 
 
 " I see yotmg White a-comin' now ; 
 He wants her, I know that. 
 Be careful, girl, you're spillin' it ! 
 An' save some for the cat. 
 
 "Go(kI evenin', Richard, step right in ;" 
 " I guess I couldn't, sir, 
 I've just come down" — " I know it, Dick, 
 You've took a shine to her. 
 
 " She's kind an' gentle as a lamb, 
 Jest where I go she follows ; 
 And though it's cheap I'll let her go ; 
 She's your'n for thirty dollars. 
 
 " You'll know her clear across the farm. 
 By them twt> milk-white stars ; 
 You needn't drive her home at night, 
 But jest le' down the bars, 
 
 "Then, when you've owned her, say a month, 
 And learnt her, as it were, 
 I'll bet— why, what's the matter, Dick?" 
 "Taint her I want— it's— A<fr /" 
 
 11: 
 
 Ml' 
 
 I'D 
 I <ii 
 
 r'Hi 
 
 I 'M 
 
 il ; :| 
 
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 !|.il 
 
 
 4 
 
 I 
 
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 H 
 
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 4 :i . 
 
 M m 
 
 ■ 4 
 
 310 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 " Wliat ? not the girl ! well, I'll be blessM ! - 
 There, Kate, don't cirop that pan. 
 Vou'w took me nii>;htily aback. 
 But then a man's a man. 
 
 " She's your'n, my boy, but one word more ; 
 Kale's gentle as a dove ; 
 She'll toller you the whole world round, 
 Fornothin' else but luve. 
 
 " But never try to drive the lass, 
 Her natur's like her ma's. 
 /'t'e alius found it worked the best. 
 To jest le' down the bars." 
 
 Phimp Morse. 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 li r look ! o'er the fall see the .nngler stand, 
 Swinging his rod with skilful hand ; 
 The lly at the end of liis gossamer line 
 Swims through the sun like a summer moth, 
 Till, droiH with a careful precision line. 
 It touches the pool l)ey<.iiul the froth. 
 A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook 
 Darts from his covert and f-eizcs the hook. 
 Swifl spins the reel ; with e;isy slip 
 Tile line pays out, and the rod. like a whip, 
 1 .itiie and arrowy, tapering, slim, 
 is I)eiit to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim, 
 Till ilie trout leaps up in the sun, ami tlings 
 The spr.iy from the (lash of his tinny wings ; 
 Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright. 
 Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge. 
 Till beached at List on tiie sandy marge. 
 Where he dies with the hues of the moming light. 
 While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright. 
 The angler in tlie b;;skct lays 
 His speckled i)n/.e, and goes his ways. 
 
 Thomas nr(.ii.\.NAN Rked. 
 
 MILLIONAIRE AND BAREFOOT BOY. 
 
 **« 
 VT 'IS evening, and the round red sun sinks slowly 
 
 ^t\ in the West, 
 
 V^/ The flowers fold their petals up, the birds fly 
 
 'f* to their nest, 
 
 The crickets chirrup in the grass, the bats flit to and 
 
 fro, 
 And tinkle-tankle up the lane the lowing cattle go ; 
 And the rich man from liis carriage looks out on them 
 
 as they come — 
 On them and on the barefoot boy that drives the 
 
 cattle home. 
 
 "I wish," the boy says to himself— "I wish that I 
 
 were he. 
 And yet, upon maturcr thought, I da not — no, siree ! 
 
 Not for all the gold his coffers hold would I be that 
 
 dulTer there, 
 VVitii a liver pad and a gouty toe, and scarce a siiij;lt. 
 
 hair; 
 To have a wife with a Roman nose, and fear lest ;i 
 
 panic come — 
 Far bjtter be the barefoot boy that drives the cattli 
 
 home."' 
 
 .'\nd the rich man murmurs to himself: "Would 1 
 
 give all my pell 
 To change my lot with yonder boy ? Not if I know 
 
 myself. 
 Over the grass that's full of ants, and chill with dew 
 
 to go, 
 With a stone bruise upon either heel and a splinter in 
 
 my toe ! 
 Oh, I'd rather sail my yacht a year across the oce.in's 
 
 foam 
 
 Than be one day the barefoot boy that drives the 
 
 cattle home." 
 
 G. T. Lankjan. 
 
 ■e 
 
 THE SHEPHERD-BOY. 
 
 IKE some vision olden 
 Of far other time. 
 When the age was golden, 
 In, the young world's prime. 
 Is tliy soft pipe ringing, 
 
 O lonely shepherd boy : 
 What song art thou singing, 
 In thy youth and joy ? 
 
 Or art thou complaining 
 
 Of ihy lonely lot. 
 And thine own disdaining, 
 
 Dost ask what hast thou not ? 
 Of tile future dreaming. 
 
 Weary of the past, 
 I\)r the present scheming — 
 
 All but what thou hast ? 
 
 No, thou art delighting 
 
 In thy summer home ; 
 Where the (lowers inviting 
 
 Tempt the bee to roam ; 
 Where the cowslip, bending 
 
 With its golden bells. 
 Of each glad hour's ending 
 
 With a sweet chime tells 
 
 All wild creatures love tiim 
 
 When he is alone ; 
 Every bird abo\ ■ him 
 
 Sings its softest tone. 
 Thankful to high Heaven, 
 
 Humble in thy joy, 
 Much to thee is given. 
 
 Lowly shepherd boy. 
 
 Lktitia E. J.a.ndon. 
 
RURAL LIFE. 
 
 311 
 
 E. '.ANDON. 
 
 THE BUSY HOUSEWIFE. 
 
 'HE farmer came in from the field one day ; 
 His languid step and his weary way, 
 His l)*-ndfd brow, liis sinewy haiul, 
 All showed his work for the good ol the land ; 
 I''or he sows, 
 And he hoes, 
 And he nic.ws, 
 All for the good of the land. 
 
 I?y the kilchf n fire stood his patient wife, 
 l.ig'it of his home and joy of hi.-; life, 
 With face all r.glow and busy hand, 
 Preparing the meal for her husband's band ; 
 
 For she must boil, 
 
 And slie must broil, 
 
 And she must toil, 
 All for the good of the home. 
 
 The !)ric;!u sun shines when the farmer goes out, 
 The l)ircls sin;j: sweet sours lambs frisk about ; 
 The bnxjk l)abbles softly in tlie glen, 
 While he works so bravely for the good of men ; 
 
 F'or he sows, 
 
 And he mows. 
 
 And he hoes. 
 All for the good of the land. 
 
 How briskly the wife steps about within, 
 
 Tiie dishes to wasli, the milk to skim ; 
 
 The fire goes out, Hies bu/z about — 
 
 For tiie dear ones at home her heart is kept stout ; 
 
 There are pies to make. 
 
 There is bread to bake, 
 
 And steps to take, 
 All for the sake of home. 
 
 When tlie day is o'er, and tlie evening is come. 
 The creatures are fed, the milking done, 
 He t.ikes his rest 'neath tlie old shade tree, 
 From the labor of the land his thoughts are free : 
 
 Though he sows, 
 
 And he hoes. 
 
 And he mows. 
 He rests from the work of the land. 
 
 But this faithful wife, from sun to sun. 
 
 Takes her burden up that's never done; 
 
 Tiiere is no rest, there is no play, 
 
 For the good of the house she must work away ; 
 
 For to mend the frock, 
 
 And to knit the sock, 
 
 And the cradle to rock. 
 All for the good of the home. 
 
 When ajtumn is here, with its chilling blast. 
 
 The farmer gatliers his crop at last ; 
 
 His barns are full, his fields are bare, 
 
 l'"or the good of the land he ne'er hath care ; 
 
 While it blows, 
 And it snows. 
 Till winter goes, 
 He rests from the work of the land. 
 
 Hut the willing wife, till life's dosing day. 
 Is the children's guide, theiiusband's stay ; 
 IVoi^i chiy to day she has doiie Ivjr best. 
 Until death alone can give her rest, 
 
 I'"or after the test, 
 
 Comes the rest. 
 
 With the blest. 
 In the farmer's heavenly home. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 I IF stood breast high amid the corn 
 Clas(>ed by the g(jlden ligiit of iiKjrii, 
 Like tile sweetheart of tlie sun, 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush 
 Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was l)i)tn, 
 •Like red popi>ies urown with corn. 
 
 Round her eyes her tresses f.!l — 
 Which were blackest none could tell ; 
 Hut long lashes veiled a light 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 And her hat, witli shady brim. 
 Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
 Thus she stcjoil amid the stooks. 
 Praising God with sweetest looks. 
 
 Sure, I saiil, Ihaven did not mean 
 Where 1 reap thou shor.Idst laii glean; 
 Lay thy sheaf iuUnvii and I'liine, 
 Share my harvest ami my iioiiie. 
 
 TliOMAS lloou. 
 
 J^ 
 
 RURAL SOUNDS. 
 
 OR rural sights alone, but rural sound.-;, 
 F.xhilarate tiie spirit, and restore 
 The tone of kuiguid nature. Mi;;liiy win'I.s 
 That sweep the skirt of some fii-.ipie..di.ig 
 wooil. 
 Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
 The dash of ocean on his winding shore. 
 And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, 
 Unnuiubered branches waving in the blast, 
 And ;;11 their leaves fast fhitlering all :it once. 
 Nor less composure waits \\]xm the r.jar 
 Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
 Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
 Through the deft rock, and chiming as they fill 
 Upon loose pebbles, lose theinselv(.'S at lengtii 
 In matted grass, tii it with a liv. li-r green 
 Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
 
 hn 
 
 I 
 
 ■mt^^gUii'-,. 
 
, ! 
 
 't I 
 
 ^;"" 
 
 Ik-' , 
 
 ji; 
 
 
 <k 
 
 
 Ld 
 
 !12 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Nature inaniinatt' displays swee,*. sounds, 
 
 But animated natu'-e sweeter stili, 
 
 To sootlie and satisfy the human ear. 
 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
 
 ■J'he livelong night ; nor these alone whose notes 
 
 Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, 
 
 Rut cawing rooks, and kites that swim saljlime 
 
 In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, 
 
 The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl 
 
 That hails the rising moon, have charnts lor nie. 
 
 Sounds inhannonious in themselves and harsh. 
 
 Vet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns. 
 
 And only there, please highly for their sake. 
 
 William CowriiK. 
 
 Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
 Together mixed ; sweet recreation, 
 And innocence, which most does please, 
 With meditation. 
 
 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 
 
 Thus unlamented let me die ; 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 Tell where I lie. 
 
 Alexander PorF,. 
 
 HEALTH— THE HANDMAID OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 (3 
 
 H ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
 Wlicn drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given? 
 Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
 And exercise of health. 
 
 G 
 
 RIVER SONG. 
 
 OMK to the river's reedy shore, 
 .My maiden, wliile the skies, 
 Willi blushes fit to grace thy cheek, 
 Wait for tlie sun's uprise : 
 There, dancing on the rippling w.ive, 
 My boat expvrlant lies. 
 And jealous fli)Wti.., as thcju goest by, 
 Unclose their ckwy e>es. 
 
 As gently down tlie stream we glide. 
 
 The lilies all unfold 
 
 Their leaves, less rosy white than thou, 
 
 And virgin hearts of gold ; 
 
 The gay lairds on the meadow elm 
 
 Salute tlice blithe and bold, 
 
 While I behold thee ply tlie oar. 
 
 And glow witii love untold. 
 
 I'. 15. .'^.\Nr,oRN. 
 
 HAPPY THE MAN WHOSE WISH AND CARE. 
 
 '.\PPV' the man whcse wish and care 
 A few paternal acres bound, 
 Content to breathe his native ;dr 
 In his own ground. 
 
 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
 
 Whose (locks supply h.im with attire; 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
 In winter, fire. 
 
 Hlest who can unconcernedly find 
 
 Hours, days and years slide softly away 
 In health of body, peace of mind. 
 Quiet by day, 
 
 G 
 
 COME TO THE SUNSET TREE. 
 
 OME to the sunset tree ! 
 
 The day is past and gone ; 
 The woodman's ax lies free, 
 And the reaper's work is done. 
 
 Tiie twilight star to heaven, 
 And the summer dew to flowers. 
 
 And rest to us is given 
 By the cool, soft evening hours. 
 
 Sweet is the hour of rest ! 
 
 Pleasant the wind's low sigh. 
 And the gleaming of the west. 
 
 And the turf whereon we lie — 
 
 When the burden and the heat 
 
 Of labor's task are o'er, 
 And kindly voices greet 
 
 The tired one at his door ; 
 
 And we lift our trusting eyes, 
 Krom the hills our father's trod, 
 
 To the (jtiiet of the skies. 
 To the .Sabbath of our God. 
 
 Come to the sunset tree ! 
 
 The day is past and gone ; 
 The woodman's ax lies free, 
 
 And the reaper's work is done. 
 
 Yes ; tuneful is the sound 
 
 That dwells in whispeiing boughs ; 
 Welcome the freshness rownd. 
 
 And the gale that fans '••:; brows. 
 
 Rut rest more sweet and still 
 
 Tlian ever nightfall gave, 
 Our longing hearts shall fill 
 
 in the world beyond the grave. 
 
 There shall no tempest blow. 
 No scorching noontide heat ; 
 
 There shall be no more snow, 
 No weary wandering feet. 
 
 Come to the sunset tree ! 
 
 The day is past and gone ; 
 The wr,o(hnri I's ax lies free. 
 
 And the reaper's work is done ! 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hf.mans. 
 
RURAL LIFE. 
 
 31 a 
 
 I 
 
 WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. 
 
 LOVE the beautiful evening 
 
 Wlien the sunset clouds are gold ; 
 When the birn-fowls seek a shelter 
 
 And the young lambs seek their fold : 
 When the four-o'-clocks are open, 
 
 And the swallows homeward come ; 
 When the horses cease their labors. 
 And the cows come home. 
 
 When the supper's almost ready, 
 
 And Johnny is ,-islcep, 
 And I beside tiie cradle 
 
 My pleasant vigil keep ; 
 Sitting beside the window, 
 
 Watching for "Pa" to come ; 
 While the soft bells gently tinkle 
 
 As the cowu come home. 
 
 When the sunset and the twilight 
 
 In mingling hues are bent, 
 I can sit and wat'h the shadows 
 
 With my full heart all content ; 
 And I wish for nothing brighter, 
 
 And I long no more to roam 
 When the twilight s peace comes o'er me. 
 
 And the cows come home. 
 
 T see their shadows lengthen 
 
 As they slowly cross the field. 
 And I know tiie food is wholesome 
 
 Wliich their generous udders yield 
 More tiian the tropic's fruitage. 
 
 Than marble hall or dome, 
 Are the blessings that surround me 
 
 When the cows come home. 
 
 Mary E. N'kalev. 
 
 llJ 
 
 CORNFIELDS. 
 
 HEN on the breath of au'iunin breeze, 
 From pastures dry and brown, 
 Goes fljating like an idle thought 
 The fair white this'lc-down, 
 Oh, then, wh;it joy to walk at will 
 Upon the golden harvest hill ! 
 
 What joy in dreamy ease to lie 
 
 Amid a field new shorn, 
 Anil see all round on sun-lit slopes 
 
 The piled-up stacks of corn ; 
 And send the fancy wandering o'er 
 All pleasant harvest fields of yore. 
 
 I feol the day — I see the field. 
 Tin; quivering of the leaves. 
 
 And !!;o()d old Jacob and his house 
 liinding the yellow slieaves ; 
 
 And at this very hour I seem 
 
 To be with Joseph in his dream. 
 
 I see tho fieUls of Rethlehem, 
 
 .\nd reapers many a one, 
 Bending into their sickles' stroke — 
 
 .•\nd IJoaz looking on ; 
 And Ruth, the Moabite so fair, 
 Among the gleaners stooping there. 
 
 Again I see a little child, 
 
 His mother's sole delight — 
 Ood's living gift unto 
 
 The kind good .Shunammite ; 
 To mortal pangs I set- him yield, 
 And the lad bear hin> from the field. 
 
 The sun-ballu-d ([uiet of the hills, 
 
 The fields of Calilep, 
 That eighteen Innulred years ago 
 
 Wore full of ((irn, I see ; 
 And the dear .Saviour takes his way 
 'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 
 
 O golden fields of bending corn, 
 
 How beautiful they seem ; 
 The reaper-folk, the piled-up shelves, 
 
 To nie .ire like a dream. 
 The sunshine and the very air 
 Seem of old time, and take me there. 
 
 Makv Howitt. 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 ^^ UT (^f the clover and bhie-eyed grass, 
 y 1 1 le turned tlieni into the river-lane ; 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 Then fastened the meadow bars again. 
 
 I'nde.r the willcjws and over the hill, 
 I 1 le patiently followed their S()l)er pace ; 
 ' The merry whistle for once was still 
 
 ."Xnd something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 i Only a boy ! and his father had said 
 I He never could let his youngest go : 
 j Two rilready were lying dead 
 
 Under the feet of the tnuiipling foe. 
 
 ! But after the evening work was dijne, 
 
 I Aih\ the frogs were loud in the ireadow sw.amp, 
 
 I Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 
 
 -And stealthily followed the foot-path damp — 
 
 .•\rross the clover and through the wheat, 
 I With resolute heart and purpose grim, 
 Though cold was the dew on his hurrying eet, 
 And the blind bats Hitting startled him. 
 
 ' Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
 
 Antl the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 
 And now, when the cows came b.ick at night, 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 «• ■ 
 
HI. 
 
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 314 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 I'or news had come to the lonely farm 
 Thnt three were lying where two had lain ; 
 
 And llic iild man's tri.'miil<>iis palsied arm 
 Could never lean on a sou's again. 
 
 The summer day grew cool and late ; 
 
 lie went for the cows when the work was done • 
 l!ut down the l.ine, as he opened the i;ii\.i:, 
 
 He saw them coming, one by one— 
 
 Hrindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 Shakii:^; their horns in the eseuiny wind, 
 
 Cropjiintj; the buttercups out of the >;rass — 
 iiut who was it following close behind? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 And worn and pale, fintii the crisping' hair, 
 
 Looked out a face that the father knew ; — 
 
 I'\)r dreary prisons will sometimes yawn, 
 
 And yield their dead unto life a};aiu ; 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 
 
 I'"ur the heart nmst speak when the lips arc ilumb, 
 A-nd under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 Katk p. (js(.;oou. 
 
 HUNTING SONG. 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 .ODmndc the country, and man maile t lie town ; 
 What wonder then, that heahh and virtue, 
 
 gifts 
 That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
 That life holds out to all, should most abound 
 And least be threatened in the fields and j;r(ives. 
 
 Wll.l.IAM COWTLR. 
 
 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 iP 
 
 HE sun from the East tips tlie mountains with 
 gold ; 
 The meadows all spangled with dew-drops 
 "f behold ! 
 
 Hear ! the lark's early matin proclaims the new d.iy, 
 And the horn's cheeiful summons rebukes our delay 
 
 CIIOKVS. 
 
 With the sports of the field there's no pleasure can 
 
 vie. 
 While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry. 
 
 Let thcdrudge of the town make lichcs his sport; 
 Tiie slave of the state hunt the smiles of a court : 
 No care and ambition our pastime annoy, 
 Hut :imocence still gives a zest to our joy. 
 
 Mankind are all lumters in various degree; 
 The priest hunts a living — the lawyer a fee, 
 The doctor a patient — the courtier a place, 
 Though often, like us, he's Hung out in the chase. 
 
 Tiie cit hunts a plumb — while the soKlier hunts f.nae, 
 The poet a dinner — the patriot a n.ime; 
 .\nd the practised cocjuette, though she seems to re- 
 fuse, 
 In spile of her airs, still her lover pursues. 
 
 Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and wealth ; 
 All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health. 
 With hour.d and with horn through the woodlami."! to 
 
 ro.-.m, 
 And, when tired abroad, find contentment at homt*. 
 
 I'Al'L WllITiCilKAD 
 
 V heart's in the Highlands, my heart is nol 
 
 here; 
 My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing tlu 
 
 deer ; 
 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
 My heart 's in the Higlilands wiierever 1 go. 
 I'arewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
 The birth-place of valor, the country of worth ; 
 Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
 Tlie hills and the Highlands ft)rever I love. 
 
 l'\irewell to the mountains high covered witii snow; 
 I'arewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
 l'"arewcll to the forests and wild hanging woods; 
 l''arewcll to the torrents and loud-pouring Hoods. 
 .My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
 My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasinglhe deer, 
 Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
 My heart 's in tiie Highlands wherever I go. 
 
 KoutKT liUKNS. 
 
 THE CAVE. 
 
 'HE wind is up, the liekl is bare, 
 r.LA Sijuie hermit lead me to his ceil, 
 Wliere contemplation, lonely fi.ir, 
 f With blessed content has chose to dwell. 
 
 Uehold ! it opens to my sight. 
 
 Dark in the rock, beside the floml ; 
 
 Dry fern around obstructs the light ; 
 Tile wiuus above it move the wood. 
 
 Rellccted ill the lake, I see 
 
 Thi' downward mountains and the skies. 
 The Hying bird, the waving tree, 
 
 The goats that on the hill arise. 
 
 The gray-cloaked herd drives on the cow. 
 The slow-paced fowler walks the heath; 
 
 A freckled pointer scours the brow ; 
 A musing shepherd stands beneath. 
 
 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak. 
 
 The woodman lifts his axe on high ; 
 
 The hills reecho to the stroke ; 
 i .sie— I see the sliivers ily I 
 
 It ! 
 
RURAL LIFE. 
 
 )untaiiis witli 
 li dew-drops 
 
 :r liiintsf.u.ie, 
 
 seems Ut rt;- 
 
 iiit at lionit?. 
 
 illT'illEAD 
 
 Some rural maid, with apron full, 
 
 Urines fuel to the homely flame ; 
 I see the smoky culumtis roll, 
 
 And, through the cliinky hut, the beam. 
 
 Bi'side a stone o'ergrown with moss, 
 Two well-met luiutcrs talk at ease ; 
 
 Three pantinp; iluys beside repose ; 
 One bleeding deer is stretched on grass. 
 
 A lake at distance spreads to sight. 
 Skirted with siiady forests round ; 
 
 III midst an ishnids rocky height 
 Sustains a ruin, once renowned. 
 
 One tree bends o'er the naked walls ; 
 
 Two broad wingetl eagles hover nigh; 
 Hy intervals a fragment falls, 
 
 As blows the blast along the sky. 
 
 Tlie rough spun hinds the pinnace guide 
 With laboring oars along the llooil ; 
 
 An anghr, bemling o'lr the tide. 
 Hangs Hum the boat the insidious wood. 
 
 Hesidethe flood, beneath the rocks. 
 On grassy bank, two lovers lean ; 
 
 Bend on each other amorous looks, 
 And seem to laugh and kiss between. 
 
 The wind is r>"Uing in the oak ; 
 
 They s._em to hear the tread of feel ; 
 Tliey start, they rise, look round the rock ; 
 
 Again they smile, again they meet. 
 
 Hut see ! the gray tnist from the lake 
 
 Ascends upon the shady hills; 
 Dark storms the nuirnuiring forests shake, 
 
 Rain beats around a hundred rills. 
 
 To Damon's homely hut I fly; 
 
 I seo it smoking on the plain ; 
 When storms aie past and fair the sky, 
 
 I'll often seek my cave again. 
 
 Jamks Maci'iierson. 
 
 HARVEST SONG. 
 
 LOVE, I lov(! to see 
 
 r>ni.;lit steel gleam through the l.md ; 
 'Tis a goodly sight, but it iinist be 
 hi the reaper's tawny hand. 
 
 The lii'lmet (Uid the spear 
 
 Are twined with the laurel wroatli ; 
 But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear; 
 
 And blood-spots rust beneath. 
 
 I liive to see the field 
 
 Th.il is moi^t with purple stain. 
 But int where bullet, sword and shield 
 
 Lie strewn with the go'y slain. 
 
 No, no ; 'tis where the sun 
 
 Shoots down his cloudless beams. 
 Till rich ;iiul bursting juice-drops run 
 
 On the vineyard earth in streams. 
 
 My glowing heart beats high 
 
 At the sight of shining gold ; 
 Hut it is not th.it which the miser's eye 
 
 Delighteth to behold. 
 
 A brighter wealth by far 
 
 Than the deep mine's yellow vein, 
 Is seen around in the fair hills crowned 
 
 With sheaves of burnished grain. 
 
 Look forth thou thoughtless one, 
 
 Whose prouil knee never benils ; 
 Take thou the br^ad that's daily spread, 
 
 But think on llim who sends. 
 
 Look forth, ye toiling men, 
 
 Though little ye |)ussess ~ 
 Be glad that dearth is not on earth 
 
 To make that little less. 
 
 I .et the song of praise be poured 
 
 In gratitude and joy. 
 By the rich man with his garners stored, 
 
 And the ragged gleaner-boy. 
 
 The A.'.ast that nature gives 
 
 Is not for one alone ; 
 'Tis shared by the meanest slave- that lives 
 
 And the tenant of a throne. 
 
 Then glory to the steel 
 
 That shines in the reaper's hand, 
 And thanks t i Ilini who has blest the seed 
 
 And crowned the harvest huul. 
 
 I'.i.i/A Cook. 
 
 THE FARMER'S WiFE. 
 
 |IRD-LlKr, she's up at <1:.y-dawn's blush. 
 In summer he;its or winter snows — 
 Her veins with healthlul oKiod allush, 
 1 ler breath of balm, her cheek a rose, 
 111 eyes — the kiralest eyes on e.irtli — 
 Are sjiarkles of a homely mirth ; 
 All vanished is the brief eclipse ! 
 Hark ! to the sound of wedded lips. 
 And woriis of tender warmth th.it start 
 I'roinout the husband's grateful heart! 
 () ! well he knows how vain is life, 
 L'nsweetcned by the farmer's wife. 
 
 But lo ! the height of pure delight 
 Comes with the evening's stainless joj-s. 
 
 When by the hearthstone spaces bright 
 Blend the glad tones of girls and boys ; 
 
 Their voices rise in gleeful swells, 
 
 Their laughter rings like elfm bells, 
 
 II' 
 
 <i, I 
 I 
 111 
 
 III '' 
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 SSZ^ — 
 
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 Mill 
 
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 CROWN JEVVIvLS. 
 
 Till with a look 'twixt smile and frown 
 The mother lays her infant down, 
 And at her firm, uplifted hand, 
 Tlicre's silence 'mid the jovial hand; 
 Demure, arch humor's aminish in 
 The clear curves of her dimpled chin. 
 Ah ! guileless creature, hale and Rood, 
 Ah ! fount of wholesome womanhood. 
 Far from the world's unhallowed strife ! 
 God's blessing on the farmer's wife. 
 
 I love to mark her matron charms. 
 
 Her fearless stejis through household wajs. 
 Her sun-burnt hands and buxom arm;;. 
 
 Her waist unbound by torturing stays ; 
 Ulithe as a bee, with busy care. 
 She's here, she's there, she's everywhere ; 
 Long ere the clock has struck for noon 
 Home chords of toil are all in tune ; 
 And from each richly bounteous hour 
 She drains its use, .as bees a flower. 
 Apart from passion's pain and strife, 
 Peace gently girds the farmer's wife ! 
 
 Homeward (his daily labors done) 
 The stalwart farmer slowly plods, 
 
 From battling, between sh;ide and sun, 
 Willi sullen gl<;he and stubborn sods. 
 
 Her welcome on his spirit bowed 
 
 Is simshine flashing on a cloud ! 
 
 Her si'.vnal stills their harmless .strife — 
 
 Love crowns with law the fanner's wife ! 
 
 Ye dames in proud, palatial halls — 
 Of lavish 'viles and jeweled dre=s, 
 On whom, perchance, no infant calls, 
 (For barren oft vouii loveliness) — 
 Turn hitherward t!;ose languid eyes 
 And for a moment's space be wise ; 
 Your sister 'mid the country dew 
 Is three times r.oarer heaven than you. 
 And wh( re the palms of Fden stir. 
 Dream not that ye shall stand by Ikt, 
 Though in your false, bewlKliriiig life. 
 Your follv scorned the farmer's wife ! 
 
 Fail Ha.mii.t<jn IIAV^%•I■;. 
 
 ^' 
 
 RIVER AND WOOD. 
 
 ■HERK art thou loveliest, O nature, tell ! 
 
 Oh, where may be thy |)aradise.' Where 
 
 gr.iw 
 
 Thy liMjipiest groves ? Antl down what woody 
 (kll 
 Do thy most fancy-winning waters flo • ' 
 Tell where t!;y softest !:r-'ezes longest bl<;»v? 
 And wb.ere thy ever blissful mountains ; well 
 Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw 
 Eternal sunnner, while the air may quell 
 His fur)-. Is it 'neath his morning car, 
 
 Where jeweled pnlaces, and golden thrones. 
 Have awed the eastern nations through all time ? 
 Or o'er the western seas, or where afar 
 Our winter snn warms up the southern zones 
 With summer.'' Where can be the happy climes'" 
 
 William Hak.nks. 
 
 FARM-YARD SONG 
 
 VP:R the hills the farm-boy goes, 
 
 1 lis shadow lengthened along the land, 
 
 A giant staff in a giant hand , 
 
 In the poplar tree, above the spring, 
 
 The katydid begins to .sing ; 
 
 The early dews are falling ; — 
 
 Into the stone-heap darts the mink ; 
 
 The swallows skim the river's brink ; 
 
 And home to the woodland lly the crows, 
 
 When over the hill the farm boy goes. 
 Cheerily catling — 
 "Co,' boss ! co', boss ! co' I co' ! co" !" 
 
 Farther, farther, over the hill. 
 
 Faintly calling, calling stil! — 
 
 *' Co', bcss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' !" 
 
 Into the yard die farmer goes, 
 
 Witii giateful heart, at the close of day ; 
 
 Harness and chain are hung away ; 
 
 In the Wii.gon-shed stand yoke and plough ; 
 
 'i'he straw's in the stack, the hay in tile mow, 
 
 The cooling dews are falling ; 
 The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, 
 The pigs come grunting to his feet, 
 The whinnying mare l.er master knows, 
 When into the yard the farmer goes, 
 
 His cattle calling — 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! " 
 While still the cow-boy, far away. 
 Goes seeking those that have gone astray — 
 
 " Co', boss I co', boss ! co' ! co' I" 
 
 Now to her task the milkmaid goes. 
 The cattle come crowding through the gate. 
 Lowing, pushing, little and great; 
 About the trough, by the firm-yard pump. 
 The frolicsome yi'arlings frisk and jump. 
 
 While the pleas.ant dews are falling ; 
 The new-milch heifer is cjuick and shy, 
 Ilut the old cow waits with traiKjuil eye ; 
 And the wliite stream into the bright pail flows, 
 When to her task the milkmaid goes, 
 
 Soothingly calling — 
 " .So, bfiss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! " 
 The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
 And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 
 
 .Saying, ".So! so, boss! so! so!" 
 
 To supper at last the farmer goes. 
 The apples are p.m.'d, the jiaper read, 
 The stories arc told, then all to bed. 
 
RURAL LIFE. 
 
 317 
 
 Without, the cricket's ceaseless song_ 
 Makes shrill the silence ail ni;4;ht loiij; , 
 
 The heavy dews are fallinj^. 
 The housewife's hand has turned the lock ; 
 Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
 The household sinks to deeii repose ; 
 But still in sleep tin" farm-boy i^oes 
 
 Siufjinj;, calling — 
 "Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co' 1 co' !" 
 And oft the milkmaid in her dreams 
 Drums in the pail with tiie Hashing streams, 
 
 MurnuirinK, "So, l)oss ! so!" 
 
 John Townsend Trowekidck. 
 
 llJ' 
 
 THE HORSEBACK RIDE. 
 
 'HKN troul)led in sjiirit, when weary of life, 
 When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink 
 
 from its strife. 
 When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking; 
 my taste. 
 And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste, 
 Tiien come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer. 
 With friendship's soft accents, or sympathy's tear. 
 No |)ity I ask, and no counsel I need, 
 I'ut bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed. 
 With his high irchdd neck, and his nostril spread wide. 
 His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride ! 
 As 1 spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein. 
 The strength to my spirit retumeth again ! 
 The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind. 
 And my cares home away on the wings of the wind ; 
 My pride lifts its head, ftjr a seas(Mi bowed down. 
 And the iiueen in my nature now puts on her crown ! 
 
 Now we're off— like the winds to the plains whence 
 
 they came ; 
 And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame ! 
 ( )ii, on speeds my courser, scarce printnig the sod, 
 .Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod ! 
 ( )ii, on like a deer, when the hound's early bay 
 Awakes the wikl echoes, away, and away ! 
 Siill f ister, still farther, he leaps at my cheer. 
 Till the rush of the startled air whirrs in my i^ar ! 
 Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth bis track — 
 .Sc(; his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back ! 
 Now a glen, dark as midnight — what matter? — we'll 
 
 down, 
 Tliough shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us 
 
 frown ; 
 Tlie thick branches shake, as we're hurrying through. 
 And deck us with spangles of silvery dew ! 
 
 Wtint a wikl thought of triumph, that this girlish 
 
 hand 
 .Such a steed in the might of his strength may coin- 
 
 tnand ! 
 Wli;it a glorious creature ! Ah ! glance at him now. 
 As I check him a while on tills green hillock's brow ; 
 
 How he tosses his mane, with a shrill, joyous neigh. 
 
 And paws the tirm earth in his proud, stately play ! 
 
 Hurrah ! off again, dashing on as in ire, 
 
 Till the hjng, flinty pathway is Hashing with fire I 
 
 Ho ! a ditch ! — Shall we pause ! No ; th j bold leap w^ 
 
 dare. 
 Like a swift-wing(jd arrow we rush through tlie air ! 
 Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may pr^iise. 
 Not the wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze. 
 Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, 
 Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, 
 Nor the sail, high heavnig waters o'er. 
 Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore. 
 Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed 
 Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed ! 
 
 S.\RAH Jank Lippincott {Grace Greenwood). 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. 
 I (.j*[^*ROM the weather-worn house on the brow of 
 
 We are dwelling afar, in our manhood, to- 
 I day ; 
 
 I But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
 
 As they looked long ago, ere we wandered away ; 
 We can see the tall well-sweep that stands by the door, 
 And the sunshine that gleams on the old oaken floor. 
 
 We can hear the low hum of the hard-working bees 
 At their toil in our father's old orchard, once more, 
 
 In the broad, trembling tops of the bright-blooming 
 trees. 
 As they busily gather their sweet winter store ; 
 
 And the murinnring brook, the delightful old horn, 
 
 And the cawing black crows that are pulling the com. 
 
 I We can hear the sharp creak of the fann-gate again, 
 \ And the loud, cackling hens in the gray barn near by, 
 i With its broad sagging floor and its scaflblds of grain. 
 Anil its ratters that once seemed to reach to the sky; 
 \ W^e behold the great beams, and the bottomless bav 
 
 1 Where the farm-boys once joyfully jumped on the iiay. 
 
 I 
 
 We can see the low hog-pen, just over the way, 
 j And the long-ruined shed by the side of the road. 
 
 Whore the sleds in the summer were hidden aw.iy 
 I And the wagons and plows in the winter were 
 I stowed ; 
 
 ' And the cider-mill, down in the hollow below, 
 ] With a long, creaking sweep, the old horse used to 
 j draw. 
 
 Where we learned by the homely old tub long ago, 
 I What a world of sweet rapture there was in a straw ; 
 ' From the cider-casks there, loosely lying around. 
 
 More leaked from the bung-holes than liripped on the 
 ground. 
 
 We behold the bleak hillsides still bristling with rocks, 
 Where the mountain streams murmured with musical 
 sound, 
 
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318 
 
 CROWN JICVVICLS. 
 
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 Wlicre we liunti;<l and fislietl, where we chased the red 
 fox, 
 With lazy <>!(! house-dni; or lotul-hayintj liound; 
 And the- colli, cheerless woods \\\: delii;lited to tramp 
 I-'or the shy, whirring; partri<lirc, in snow to our knees, 
 Wiiere, with neck yoke and pails, in the old sugar- 
 canip, 
 We >jathere(l the sap fioni the tall maple-trees ; 
 And the heiils where our plows danced a furious jig, 
 
 While we wearily followed the furrow all day. 
 Where we stutnhled and hounded o'er houlders so hij; 
 
 That it took twenty oxen to draw them away ; 
 Where we sowed, where we hoed, where we cradled 
 and mowed, 
 Where we scattered the swaths that were heavy 
 with dew, 
 Where we tumlilecl and pitchcil. and behind the tall 
 load 
 The broken old bull- rake reluctantly drew. 
 
 How we grasped the old "sheepskin" with feelings 
 ol scorn 
 As we straddled the back of tlie old sorrel mare, 
 And rode up and down thruuyii the green rows of 
 corn. 
 Like a ])in on a clothes-line that sways in the air ; 
 We can hear our stern fathers reproving us still, 
 As the careless old creature "conies down on a hill." 
 
 We are far from the home of our boyhood to-day, 
 
 In the b'.'.ttle of life we are strugi;ling alone ; 
 The weather-worn farmhouse has gone to decay, 
 
 The chimney has fallen, the swallows have flown, 
 But fancy yet brings, on her bright golden wings, 
 
 Her beautiful pictures again from the past. 
 And memory fondly and tenderly clings 
 
 To pleasures and p.istimes too lovely to last. 
 
 We wander again by the river to-d.iy ; 
 
 We !it in the school-room, o'erflowing with fun. 
 We whisper, we play, and we scamper aw;iy 
 
 When our lessons are learned anil the spelling is 
 done. 
 
 We see the old cellar where apples were kept, 
 The garret wh'-re all the old rubbish was thrown, 
 
 The little back chamber where snugly we slept. 
 The homely old kitchen, the broad hearth of stone, 
 
 Where apples were roasted in many a row, 
 
 Where our grandmothers nodded and knit long ago. 
 
 Our grandmothers long have reposed in the tomb ; 
 With a strong, healthy race they L . .e peopled the 
 land ; 
 They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the 
 loom. 
 Nor lazily brought up their babies by hand. 
 
 The old flint-lock musket, whose awful recoil 
 
 Made many a Nimrod with agony cry, 
 Once hung on the chimney, a part of the spoil 
 
 Our gallant old grandfathers captured at " Ti." 
 
 Brave men were our grandfathers, sturdy and strong; 
 
 The kings ofthe forest they plucked from their l.mi Is, 
 They were stern in their virtues, they hated all wrotn,', 
 And mey fought for the right with their hearts ,\\\i\ 
 
 their hands. 
 Down, down from the hil'sides they swept in tlnir 
 might. 
 
 And up from the valleys thvy wjnt on their way, 
 To tight and to fall upon Hubiiardton's height, 
 
 To struggle and coiKpier in Bennington's fray. 
 
 Oh ! fresh be their memory, cherished the sod 
 
 That long has grown green o'er Ihjir sa red rv.- 
 mains, 
 
 And grateful our hearts to a generous God 
 For the blood and the spirit that flows iji their veins. 
 
 Our Aliens, our Starks, and our Warners are gone, 
 But our UKnintains remain with their evergreen 
 crown. 
 
 The souls of our heroes are yet marching on. 
 The structure they founded shall never go down. 
 
 From the weather-worn house on the brow ofthe iijll 
 We are dwelling afar, in our manhood to-day ; 
 
 But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still. 
 As they looked when we left them to wander away. 
 
 JUit the dear ones we loved in the sweet long ago 
 
 In the old village churchyard sleep under the snu^v. 
 
 Farewell to the friends of our bright boyhood days. 
 
 To the beautiful vales once delightful to roam, 
 To the fathers, the motliers, now gone from our gaze, 
 From the weatherworn house to their heavenly 
 home, 
 Where they wait, where they watch, and will welcome 
 
 us still. 
 As they waited and watched in the house on the hill. 
 
 Eugene J, Hall. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE. 
 
 SIT by the open window 
 
 And look to the hills away, 
 Over beautiful indulations 
 That glow with the flowers of May— 
 And as the lights and the shadows 
 
 With the passing moments change. 
 Comes many a scene of beauty 
 
 Within my vision's range — 
 But there is not one among them 
 
 That is half so dear to me. 
 As an old log cabin I think of 
 On the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 Now up from the rolling meadows. 
 And down from the hill-tops now. 
 
 Fresh breezes steal in at my window. 
 And sweetly fan iny brow — 
 
 And the sounds that they gather and bring me, 
 From rivulet, meadow and hill. 
 
RURAL LII'i:. 
 
 .•U«J 
 
 swept ill tlivir 
 
 will welcome 
 
 Come in with a t"tic':in!;^ cadence, 
 
 And my iliniMiiiu^ liosom t'lil — 
 But the ili'iir.'iit liioiix'its thus u:;kincil, 
 
 And in tear; hr()ni;ht bark t.> in.', 
 Cluster runnd tliat old l<i;-C t':'.!)!n 
 
 On the banks of tlic Tennessee. 
 
 To m;iny a fond ronieinhrance 
 
 My lliouKlits are h-.v kwi.rd cast, 
 As I sit by the open window 
 
 And recall the faded past— 
 For all alonj; the windini^s 
 
 Of the ever-moving years, 
 Lie wrecks of hope and of pnrpose 
 
 Tliat I now behold throni;h tears — 
 Anil of all of them, the saddest 
 
 That is thus broujjht back to me, 
 Makes holy that old loj; cabin 
 
 On the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 Glad voices now preet me daily, 
 
 Sweet fices 1 oft behold, 
 Vet 1 sit by the nji.ii window 
 
 And dream of tlie tinus of old^ 
 Of a voice that on earth is silent, 
 
 Of a face th.,l is seen no more. 
 Of a spirit that faltered not ever 
 
 ]n tlie striii;;;Ie of days now o'er — 
 And a beantifii! pjrave comes pictured 
 
 Tor ever and ever to me, 
 From a knoll near that old lop; cabin 
 
 On the banks ( f the Teimess :e. 
 
 Wii.i.iAM D. G.\i,LAt;iir:R. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF ANIMALS. 
 
 'F.RE unmolested, throiigh whatever si:.':n 
 The sun proceeds, I wander. Neitiier mist, 
 Nor freezing sky nt)r sultry, checkinj; iuj, 
 Kor stranger, intermeddling with my joy, 
 Even in the spring and playtime of the year, 
 Tiiat calls the unwonted villager abroad 
 With all her little ones, a sportive train, 
 I'o gather kingcups in the yellow mead. 
 And prink their hair with daiiiics, or to pick 
 
 A cheap but wholesome salad from ihe brook, 
 These shades are all my ov.-n. Th.' tini(ir:)us hare, 
 Grown so familiar wit'.i her freiiiient yucA, 
 Scarce shuns me ; and the stockdove unaJarmed 
 Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends 
 His Ion;;- love-ditty for my near apprt ,uh. 
 Drawn from his refuge in som • lonely elm, 
 Tliat age or injury has hollowed drA p, 
 Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves, 
 He has outsl pt the winter, venti:ris f( Mil 
 To frisk a while, and bask in the warm smi. 
 The squirrel, flippant, [lert, and full of play ; 
 He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, 
 Ascends the neighboring beech ; there wliisks his brush, 
 And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries alou'.!, 
 With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, 
 \ And anger, in.signiiicantly fierce. 
 
 The heart is hard in nature, and unfit 
 For human fellowsliip, as being void 
 Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike 
 To love and friendship both, that is not pleased 
 With sight of animals enjoying life. 
 Nor feels their happiness augment his own. 
 The bounding fawn that darts along tlie gli'! ^ 
 When noiv pursiies, through mere delight cfheirt. 
 And spirits buoyant with excess of gli'j ; 
 The horse as wonton, and almost as fleet 
 That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, 
 Tlicn stops, and snorts, and throwing high liis h-vls. 
 Starts to the voluntary race again ; 
 The very kine, that gambol at high no<in. 
 The total herd receiving first from one. 
 That leads the dance, a summons to lie gay, 
 Tiiough wild their strange vagaries and uni',,u;!i 
 Their efforts, yet resolved with one C(jnsei.t 
 To give such act and utterance as they may 
 To ecstasy too big to be suppressed — 
 These and a thousand images of bliss. 
 With which kind nature graces every scene, 
 Where cruel man defeats not her design, 
 Im|).art to the benevolent, who wi. h 
 All that are capable of pleasure pL-ascd, 
 A far superior happiness to theirs, 
 The comfort of a reasonable j )y. 
 
 WlLLI,\M (.'OWI'KR. 
 
 II 
 
 
 '4 
 
lilji' [ , 
 
 
 
 MWItl* 
 
 
 SORROW AND ADYERSITY. 
 
 GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE! 
 
 O wlu're ^lory \\:v,t< 
 thff ; 
 Hut, wliili! fame elates 
 lliee, 
 O still remember 
 lUf ! 
 When the praise lliou 
 
 mectest 
 To thine ear is sweetest, 
 O then rt-menilHr me ! 
 Other armstr.ay press thee 
 Dearer friends caress 
 
 thee— 
 All the joys that bless thee 
 
 S.vcetcr far may be : 
 But when friends are near- 
 est, 
 And when joys are dearest, 
 O then remember me I 
 
 ^Vhcn, at eve, thou rovest 
 By the star thou lovest, 
 
 C) then reinenil)er me ! 
 Think when Iiome returning, 
 firiKht v.-''ve seen it burning, 
 
 O, thus rci^i'Muber me! 
 Oft as summer closes, 
 Wiien thine eye reposes 
 O.i its lingering roses, 
 
 Oiicc so loved by thee, 
 Think of her who wove them. 
 Her who made tine love them ; 
 
 O then remember me ! 
 
 When, around thee dying, 
 Auiunin leaves are lying, 
 
 O then renit-inber me ! 
 And, at night, when gazing 
 On the gay hi arlh Ijlazing, 
 
 O, still remembemie ! 
 Then should music, stealing 
 All the soul of feeling, 
 To thy heart appealing, 
 
 Draw one tear from thee — 
 Then let memory bring thee 
 Strains I used to sing thee ; 
 
 O then remember me ! 
 
 Thomas Moork. 
 
 BIJAH'S STORY. 
 
 'K was little more tlwn a baby, 
 
 And playi-il un the streets all day ; 
 And holiliiig in his tiny lingers 
 The string of a broken sleigh. 
 
 He was ragged, and cold, and hungry, 
 
 Vet his face was a sight to see. 
 And hj lisped to a passing lady — 
 " I'leathe, mithus, will you yide me?" 
 
 But she <Irew close her fur-lined m.intle, 
 .And her train of sill; and lace, 
 
 WhiK; s!ie stnrjd with haughty w;)nder 
 In the cagi.r, piteous face. 
 
 And the eyes that shon'.' so brightly. 
 Brimmed o''.t with gushing rain, 
 
 And the poor little head dropped lower 
 While his heart beat a sad refmin. 
 
 When night came, cold and darkly, 
 And the lamps '.vere all alight. 
 
 The p:»llid liiw grew whiter 
 With childish grief and fright. 
 
 As I was passing the entrance 
 Of a church across the way, 
 
 I found a |)oor dead baby. 
 With his head on a broken sleigh. 
 
 Soon young and eager footsteps 
 Were liearti on the frozen street, 
 
 And a i)uy clashed int<i the station. 
 Covered wiU> snow and sleet. 
 
 On his coat was a newsboy's number. 
 On his arm a " bran new sled ; " 
 
 Have you seen my brother Bijah f 
 He ought to be home in bed. 
 
 " Yon see, I leave him at Smithcrs' 
 While I go round with the ' Press :' 
 
 They must have fcjrgot about him. 
 And he's strayed away, I gue.ss. 
 
 " Last night when he said '{,)iir Father,' 
 And about the daily bread. 
 He just threw in an e.xtra 
 Concerning :i nice new sled. 
 
 " I w,is tellin' the boys at the office. 
 As how he w;is only three ; 
 And they stuck in for this here stuiuier: 
 And sent it home with nie. 
 
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SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 321 
 
 " And won't— what's the matter, Bijah ? 
 Why do you shake your head? 
 O Father in heaven, have pity ! 
 O Bijah, he can't be dead ! " 
 
 He clasped the child to his bosom 
 In a passionate, close embrace, 
 
 His tears and kisses falling 
 'Twixt sobs on the little face. 
 
 Soon the boyish grief prew silent ; 
 
 There was never a tear nor a moan, 
 For the heart of the dear Lord Jesus 
 
 Had taken the children home. 
 
 Charles M. Lewis. 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 The name of tliis poem was suggested to the author hy the 
 "Bridge of Sighs," at Venice. This hridge received its iiaiiie 
 from the fact that it connects the ducal palace with the prison, and 
 criminals pass over it to the dismal dungeons where they receive 
 their punishment. 
 
 NE more unfortunate 
 Weary of breath. 
 Rashly importunate, 
 Gone to her death ! 
 Take iier up tenderly, 
 
 Lift her with care; 
 Fashioned so slenderly — 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at h ;r garments, 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 
 Drips from her clothing : 
 Take her up instantly. 
 
 Loving, not loathing ! 
 
 Touch her not scornfully I 
 Think of her mournfully, 
 
 Gently and humanly— 
 Not of the stains of her : 
 All that remains of her 
 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny, 
 Into her mutiny. 
 
 Rash and undutiful ; 
 Past all dishonor. 
 Death has left on her 
 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers— 
 
 One of Eve's family- 
 Wipe »hose poor lips of hers, 
 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 Loop up her tresses 
 
 Escaped from the comb — 
 Her fair auburn tresses — 
 Whilst vranderment guesses, 
 
 Whery was her home ? 
 
 (21J 
 
 Who was her father? 
 
 Who was her mother ? 
 
 Had she a sister ? 
 
 Had she a brother? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 
 Yet, than all other ? 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 
 Under tlie sun ! 
 Oh, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full. 
 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly. 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 
 Feelings had changed — 
 Love, by harsh evidence, 
 Thrown from its eminence • 
 Even God's providence 
 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 So far in the river, 
 
 With many a light 
 From window and casement. 
 From garret to basement, 
 She stood, with amazement. 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of Marcli 
 
 Made her tremble and shiver; 
 But not the dark arch. 
 
 Or the black, flowing river; 
 Mad from life's history. 
 Glad to death's mystery, 
 
 Swift to be hurled— 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly — 
 No matter how coldly 
 
 The rough river ran — 
 Over the brink of it ! 
 Picture it— think of it, 
 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it drink of it 
 
 Then, if you can I 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashioned so slenderly. 
 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 
 Decently, kindly, 
 Smooth and compose them ; 
 And her eyes, close them. 
 
 Staring so blindly I— 
 
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 322 
 
 CROWN jp:wels. 
 
 Dreadfully staring: 
 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 
 Spurred by contumely, 
 Cold inhumanity, 
 Burning insanity, 
 
 Into her rest ! 
 Cross her hands humbly 
 As if praying dumbly, 
 
 Over her breast ! 
 Owning her weakness. 
 
 Her evil behavior, 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 
 Her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 *5p 
 
 THE SEXTON. 
 
 "W^k IGH to a grave that was newly made 
 r^f Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade ; 
 J ^ His work was done and he paused to wait 
 The funeral-train at the open gate. 
 
 A relic of by-gone days was he. 
 
 And his locks were gray as the for my sea ; 
 
 And these words came from his lips so thin : 
 " I gather them in— I gather them in — 
 
 Gather — gather — 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 stranger, or come they kin, 
 1 gather them in — I gather them in. 
 
 " Many are with me, yet I'm alone ; 
 I'm king of the dead, and I make my throne 
 On a monument slab of marble cold — 
 My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 
 Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, 
 Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all ! 
 May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, 
 1 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 as the funeral-train 
 Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; 
 And I said to myself: When time is told, 
 A mightier voice than that sexton's old. 
 Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din, 
 
 " I gather them in— I gather them in — 
 Gather— gather— gather them in." 
 
 Park Benjamin. | 
 
 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 •AREWELL ! farewell ! " is often heard 
 From the lips of those who part : 
 'T is a whispered tone — 't is a gentle worri, 
 But it springs not from the heart. 
 It may serve for the lover's closing lay 
 
 To be sung 'neath a summer sky ; 
 But give to me the lips that say 
 The honest words, " Goodbye ! " 
 
 "Adieu ! adieu I " may greet the ear. 
 
 In the guise of courtly speech : 
 But when we leave the kind and dear, 
 
 'T is not wh.-it the soul would teach. 
 Whene'er we grasp the hands of those 
 
 We would have forever nigh. 
 The flame of friendship bursts and glows 
 
 In the warm, frank words, "Good bye." 
 
 The mother, sending forth her child 
 
 To meet with cares and strife. 
 Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears 
 
 For the loved one's future life. 
 No cold " adieu," no " farewell," lives 
 
 Within her choking sigh, 
 But the deepest sob of anguish gives, 
 " God bless thee, boy ! Good-bye ! " 
 
 Go, watch the pale and dying one. 
 
 When the glance has lost its beam ; 
 When the brow is cold as the marble stone, 
 
 And the world a passing dream ; 
 And the latest pressure of the hand, 
 
 The look of the closing eye, 
 Yield what the heart must understand 
 
 A long, a last Good-bye. 
 
 if 
 
 FAREWELLS. 
 
 AREWELL ! a word that must be, and hath 
 been — 
 A sound which makes us linger; — yet— fare- 
 well. 
 
 Lord Bvron. 
 
 OOD-night, good-night : parting is such sweet 
 sorrow, 
 Tliat I shall say good-night till it be morro.v. 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 'O sweetly she bade me "adieu," 
 I thought that she bade me return. 
 
 William Shenstone. 
 
 ' LL farewells should be sudden, when forever, 
 Else they make an eternity of moments, 
 And clog the last sad sands of life witli tears. 
 
 Lord Bvron. 
 
SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 328 
 
 'ULIET. O, tiHnJi'st thou we shall ever meet 
 again ? 
 Romeo. I doubt it not ; and all these woes shall 
 
 serve 
 For sweet discourses in our time to come. 
 
 \\ iixiAM Shakespeare. 
 
 'E did keep 
 
 The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, 
 Still waving as the fits and stirs of his mind 
 Could best express how slow his soul sailed 
 on — 
 
 How swift his ship. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 Ilj 
 
 HEN we two parted 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half broken-hearted, 
 To sever for years, 
 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
 Colder thy kiss : 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 Sorrow to this ! 
 
 Lord Ryron. 
 
 ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 •T chanceth once to every soul. 
 
 Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole, 
 
 Upon life's bridge of sighs to stand, 
 A palace and a prison on each hand. 
 
 O palace of the rose-heart's hue ! 
 
 How like a flower the warm light falls from you ! 
 
 O prison with the hollow eyes ! 
 
 Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise. 
 
 O palace of the rose sweet sin ! 
 
 How safe the heart that does not enter in ! 
 
 blessed prison-walls ! how true 
 
 The freedom of the soul that choosetli you ! 
 
 Elizadeth SruART Phelps. 
 
 m 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 Y early love, and must we part? 
 Yes ! other wishes win thee now ; 
 New hopes are springing in thy heart, 
 New feelings brightening o'er thy brow ! 
 And childhood's light and childhood's home 
 Are all forgot at glory's call. 
 
 Yet, cast one thouglit in years to come 
 On her who loved thee o'er thorn all. 
 
 When love and friendship's holy joys 
 Within their magic circle bind thee, 
 And happy hearts and smiling eyes. 
 As all must wear who are around thee, 
 
 Remember that an eye ns bright 
 Is dimmed — a heart as true is broken, 
 And turn thee f'um tliy land of light. 
 To waste on these some little token. 
 Rut do not weep ! — I could not bear 
 To stain thy check with sorrow's trace, 
 I would not draw one single tear, 
 F(3r worlds, down that beloved face. 
 As soon would I, if power were given, 
 Pluck out the bow from yonder sky. 
 And free the prisoned floods of heaven, 
 As call one tear-drop to thine eye. 
 
 Thomas KinuLE Hervey. 
 
 THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL 
 
 ITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up 
 and down the street ; 
 The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is 
 on her feet. 
 The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and 
 
 damp. 
 By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of 
 
 the lamp. 
 The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the 
 
 north, 
 But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looktth 
 
 forth. 
 Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces 
 
 bright, 
 And happy hearts are watching out the old year's 
 
 latest night. 
 With the little box of matches she could not sell all 
 
 day, 
 And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows every 
 
 way, 
 She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom — 
 There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight in the 
 
 room; 
 And children with grave faces are whispering one 
 
 another 
 Of presents for the New Year, for fatheror for mother. 
 But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her 
 
 speak ; 
 No breath of little whispers comes warmly to her 
 
 cheek. 
 
 Her home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no food, no 
 
 fire, 
 But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient 
 
 sire. 
 So she sits down in an angle where two great houses 
 
 meet. 
 And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her little 
 
 feet; 
 And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder 
 
 sky. 
 And wonders if the little stars are brij^ht fires up on 
 
 high. 
 
 "II 
 
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 ^-111 
 
 
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 324 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 She hears tlie clock strike slowly, up hij;h in a church- 
 tower, 
 
 With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the mid- 
 niglit liour. 
 
 Then all her little store she took, and struck with all 
 
 her nii}4ht. 
 And the whole jilace around her was lighted with the 
 
 Klare : 
 And lu ! there hung a little Child before her in the air! 
 She renumbered her of stories her mother used to ^ Th^Te were blood-dn^ps on his forehead, a spear- 
 
 '•-'"> wound in his side. 
 
 And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's And cruel nail-piints in his feet, and in his hands spread 
 
 twilj-ht fell. j ^v-iJe. 
 
 Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child. And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that Ik; 
 Who was cradled in a manger when winter was most I i,,^(i known 
 
 «'''d ; ! Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow— ay. equal to her own. 
 
 VViio was poor, and cold, and Iningry, and desolate 
 
 3"<^' '""'^ ; ' And he pointed to the laden board and to the Clirist- 
 
 And she thought the song had told her he was ever I mas-tree 
 
 with His own. 
 
 I Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretcheii 
 
 two. I , 
 
 And she could see the room within, the room all warm 
 and ligiit. 
 
 And all the poor and hungry anfl forsaken ones were j c(jme with me?' 
 
 ^''^ [ The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eye!. alls 
 
 " How good of Him to look on me in such a place as [ swim 
 
 ''"''^'" And a ringing sound was in her cars, like her (Lad 
 
 ^ , , . , , . mother's hymn ; 
 
 Colder It grows and colder, but she does not feel it ^„^, ^,,^. j-,^,^,^.^, ,,^^j,^ ,,^^ ^,,5,^ ^^,,^5^^. ,,^.,^,^ .^,,^, ,,_^_^ ,^, 
 
 "°"'' , . , . , I from that bright board. 
 
 For the pressure on her bosom, and the weight upon .^,,^, ^^^,,^ „,^ ^^^,;,^.,^ .^^^^ ^^^ ^.^j^,^ ..^^.j^,^ ^^ ^^.^^^ 
 
 her brow; | j,,^,^_ ^ ,;^^^,,„ 
 
 But she struck one little match on the wall so cold 
 
 and bare, i ™, , .,, . . • ^ 1 • ^i i ,, , • 
 
 „. ^ , • , , , , , , .r TT Ihe cliilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies, 
 
 That she might look around her, and see if He was ,...•, . . ., . , ,. , 
 
 , ° , On tne city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchin 
 
 °' i lies. 
 
 The single matcli was kindled ; and, by the light it , , , ■ . .^ 1 . -.i , , , 
 
 , ' •" ^ In her scant and tattered garments, with her back 
 
 ,,.,,,., , ,, .1 against the wall. 
 
 It seemed to little iSUTivgie tliat the wall was rent in „i •... .u 1 1 1 • • 1 u - „ 
 
 .She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. 
 
 They lifted her up fearfully, and shuddered as th'^y 
 
 said, 
 
 ,,,. , , ,. , , , ,, . , , " It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." 
 
 With the lire-glow red and blazing, and the t.npers i ^, , .1 • •• r , 
 
 , . , ? , ' The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed 
 
 burning oright. , "^ . " 
 
 " " I from sin ; 
 
 And kindred there were gathered round the table ^''-^" ^''^'^' " '' ^^'■'^^ "" t''"^'' "'S'^' ' ^^'""'^' "« ""^ '«' 
 
 richly spread, ' ' 'lerin?" 
 
 With heaps of goodly viands, red wine, and pleasant And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed : 
 
 l3rg_.,^ j they could not see 
 
 She could smell the fragrant odor; she could hear ' "^^"^"'^'^ """'"PP^'iess there was after that misery. 
 
 them talk and play ; j '^'^^'^ Christian Anderse.v. 
 
 Then all was darkness once again — the match had ' ' 
 
 burned away. j jhOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. 
 She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see, - . 
 
 Withinthe same warm chamber a glorious Christmas- . -Z' . 
 
 f " I ▼] HOU art gone to the grave — we no longer de- 
 
 The branches all were laden down with things that V?J ^. ,^ ^ ' . j . 
 
 „..,,..„• , VJ^ Though sorrows and darkness encompass 
 
 children prize ; : ^ if u. 
 
 Rright gifts for boy and maiden they showed iK'fore ' ' „ . , ^"^to'"^; 
 
 , ^ . The Saviour has passed through its portals before tliee, 
 
 A„ 1 „u„ I . _ 1 » * u *i. 1 . ■ • 4i And the lamp of His love is thy guide through tlio 
 
 And she almost seemed to touch them, and to )oiii the ' •' " " 
 
 welcome shout ; ° 
 
 Then darkness fell around her, for the little match was ^,^^y .^^^ gone to the grave-we no longer behold thee, 
 
 °"^" I Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; 
 
 Another, yet another, she has tried-they will not i B"t the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, 
 
 light . 1 And sinners may hope, since the sinless has died. 
 
SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 325 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — and, its mansion for- 
 salcing, 
 I'crhaps tiiy tried spirit in doubt lin^;(jrcd lont:;, 
 Hilt tiie sunshine of heaven beamed brigiil un t'.iy 
 waking, 
 And the song wliich tliou heard'st was liie sera- 
 phim's song. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave— but 'twere wrong to de- 
 plore thee, 
 W'lien God was thy ransom, thy guardian, tiiy guide ; 
 He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore 
 thee. 
 Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath 
 died. 
 
 Bishop Reginald Heuer. 
 
 THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. 
 
 HEN iiope lies dead within the heart, 
 Hy secret sorrow close concealed, 
 We shrink lest looks or words impart 
 What must not be revealed. 
 
 'Tis hard to smile when one would weep ; 
 
 To speak when one should silent be ; 
 To wake when one should wish to sleep, 
 
 And wake to agony. 
 
 Yet such the lot by thousands cast 
 Who wander in this world of care, 
 
 And bend beneath the bitter blast, 
 To save them from despair. 
 
 But nature waits her guests to greet, 
 Where disappointment cannot come ; 
 
 And time guides with unerring feet 
 The weary wanderers home. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 THE LITTLE GRAVE. 
 
 T'S only a little grave," they said, 
 * • .si. " Only just a child that's dead ; " 
 
 And so they carelessly turned away 
 I>'rom the mound the spade had made that day, 
 Ah ! they did not know how deep a ^liade 
 That little grave in our home had made. 
 
 I know the coffin was narrow and small, 
 
 One yard would have ser\'ed for an ample pcdl. 
 
 And one man in his arms could h.ave borne away 
 
 The rosebud and its freight of clay. 
 
 But I know that darling hopes were hid 
 
 Beneath that little ,.'!in lid. 
 
 I knew that a mother had stood that d.iy 
 With fwlded hands by that form of clay ; 
 1 know that burning tears were hid, 
 " 'Neath the drooping lash and aching lid ;" 
 
 And I knew her lip, and chock, and brow, 
 Were almost as white as her baby's now. 
 
 I knew that scmie tlr.;';;^s "/Lre hid away. 
 The crimson f.x)ck and w rappings gay, 
 The little sock and half-worn shoe, 
 The ca]) with its plumes and tassels blue ; 
 An empty crib with its covers spreail. 
 As white as the face of the sinless dead. 
 
 'Tis a little grave, but O, beware ! 
 
 I'or world-wide hopes are buried there ; 
 
 And ye perhaps, in coming years. 
 
 May see like her, through blinding tears, 
 
 How much of light, how much of joy, 
 
 Is buried with an only boy ! 
 
 THE WIDOWED MOTHER. 
 
 jESIDli the babe, who sweetly slept, 
 A widowed mother sat and wept 
 
 O'er years of love gone by ; 
 And as the sobs thick-gathering came. 
 She murmured her dead husband's name 
 'Mid that sad lullaby. 
 
 Well might that lullaby be sad. 
 For not one single friend she had 
 
 On this cold-hearted earth : 
 The sea will not give back its prey — 
 And they were wrapt in foreign clay 
 
 Who gave the orphan birth. 
 
 Steadfastly as a star doth look- 
 Upon a little murmuring brook. 
 
 She gazed upon the bosom 
 And fair brow of her sleeping son — 
 " O merciful Heaven ! when I am gone 
 
 Thine is this earthly blossom I" 
 
 While thus she sat — a sunbeam broke 
 Into the room ; the babe awoke, 
 
 And from Us cradle smiled ! 
 Ah nie 1 what kindling smiles met there ! 
 I know not whether was more fair. 
 
 The mother or her child I 
 
 With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms, 
 The smiler stretched his rosy arms. 
 
 And to her bosom leapt — 
 All tears at once were swept away. 
 And said a face as bright as day — 
 
 " Forgive me that I wept 1" 
 
 Sufferings there are from nature sprung. 
 Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue 
 
 May venture to declare; 
 But this as Holy Writ is sure, 
 " The griefs she bids us here endure 
 Can she herself repair!" 
 
 John Wilson. 
 

 
 
 jir 
 
 a,i 
 
 ',■1 . ■ ; 
 
 ::fl 
 
 320 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S GRAVE. 
 
 ^r>r PALE weeping- willow stands yonder alone, 
 i ^1 And mournfully waves in the zephyr's 
 ^^ light breath ; 
 
 Dcneath, in its shadows, is sculptured a 
 stone, 
 That tells of the maiden who sleeps there in death. 
 
 She came to the village— a stranger unknown— 
 Though fair as the first flower that opens in May ; 
 
 The touches of health from her features had flown, 
 And she drooped like that flower in its time of de- 
 cay. 
 
 She told not her story, she spoke not of sorrow, 
 But laid herself down, and, heart-broken, she 
 sighed ; 
 And, ere the hills blushed in the dawn of the mor- 
 row. 
 Uncomplaining and silent, the sweet stranger died. 
 
 Apart and alone, the sad villagers made 
 A cold, quiet tomb in the heart of the vale ; 
 
 And many a stranger has wept in the shade 
 Of yon weeping-willow, to hear of the tale. 
 
 SHIPWRECKED HOPES. 
 
 'HE salt wind blows upon my cheek, 
 As it bluw a year ago. 
 When twenty boats were crushed among 
 "^ The rocks of Norman's woe ; 
 
 'T was dark then ; 'tis light now. 
 And the sails are leaning low. 
 
 In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er, 
 
 And find a face not his, 
 And hope another tide will be 
 
 More pitying than this ; 
 The wind turns, the tide turns — 
 
 They take what hope there is. 
 
 My life goes on as life must go, 
 
 With all its sweetness spilled ; 
 
 My God, why should one heart of two 
 Beat on when one is stilled ? 
 
 Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck. 
 Thy happy sparrows build. 
 
 Though boats go down, men build again. 
 
 Whatever wind may blow ; 
 If blight be in the wheat one year. 
 
 They trjst again and sow : 
 The grief comes, the change comes. 
 
 The tides run high and low. 
 
 Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm. 
 The summers bloom and go ; — 
 
 The sea withholds my dead ; I walk 
 The bar when tides are low, 
 
 And wonder how tlie grave-gra.ss 
 Can have the heart to grow. 
 
 Flow on, O unconsenting sea. 
 
 And keep my dcail below : 
 
 The iiiKlit-wiitch set for me is long. 
 But, through it all, I know. 
 
 Or life comes, or death comes, 
 
 God loads the eternal flow. 
 
 H]K.\M Rich. 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 
 
 Gilbert Burns, tlie brother of the poet, says: " Ho (Burns) usol 
 to remark to hk- that lie could not well conceive a more nicirtiryini; 
 picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting almiit 
 in his mind how this sentiment mit;ht be brought forward, the 
 elcKVi J>fnn 'f'ls madeto nioutn, was composed." 
 
 Ijj 
 
 MEN chill November's surly blast 
 Made fields and forests bare. 
 One evening, as I wandered forth. 
 Along the banks of Ayr, 
 I spied a man, whose agtd step 
 
 St;emed weary, worn with care ; 
 His face was furrowed o'er with year:,, 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? " 
 
 Began the reverend sage ; 
 " Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
 Or youthful pleasures rage ? 
 Or h;tply, prcst with cares and woes, 
 
 Too soon thou hast began 
 To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
 The miseries of man ! 
 
 " The sun that overhangs yon moors. 
 
 Outspreading far and wide. 
 Where hundreds labor to support 
 
 A haughty lordling's pride— 
 I've seen yon weary winter sun 
 
 Twice forty times return ; 
 And every time has added proofs 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " O man, while in thy early years. 
 
 How prodigal of time 1 
 Misspending all thy precious hours, 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
 Alternate follies take the sway : 
 
 Licentious passions burn ; 
 Which ten-fold force gives nature's law, 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " Look not alone on youthful prime. 
 
 Or manhood's active might ; 
 Man then is useful to his kind 
 
 Supported in his right ; 
 But see him on the edge of life. 
 
 With cares and sorrows worn. 
 Then age and want, O ill-matched pair! 
 
 Show man was made to mourn. 
 
 
SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 327 
 
 " A few seem favorites of fate, 
 
 1 pluasurc's lap carost ; 
 Yet tliink nut alt the ricli and gruat 
 
 Arc liUc'.visc truly blest. 
 But, oil, \v!iat crowtls in cverj' land 
 
 Are wTL'tched and forlorn ! 
 Throu;;h weary life this lesson learn — 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " Many and sharp the numerous ills, 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ! 
 More pointed still we make ourselves, 
 
 Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
 And man, whose heavcii-erecled face 
 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 M;m's inhumanity to man 
 
 Makes countless thousands mourn ! 
 
 "See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, 
 
 So abject, mean and vile, 
 Who begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil ; 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn, 
 Unmindful, 'though a weeping wife 
 
 And helpless olTspring mourn. 
 
 "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — 
 
 By nature's law designed — 
 Why was an ii. dependent wish 
 
 E er planted in my mind ? 
 If not, why am I subject to 
 
 I lis cruelty an scorn ? 
 Or why has man the will and power 
 
 To make his fellow mourn ? 
 
 " Yet let not this too much, my son, 
 
 Disturb thy youthful breast : 
 This partial view of humankind 
 
 Is surely not the last I 
 The poor, oppressed, yet honest man 
 
 Had never, sure, been born. 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 
 To comfort those that mourn I 
 
 " O death 1 the poor man's dearest friend, 
 The kindest and the best ! 
 Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
 
 Are laid with thee at rest ! 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 
 
 From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
 But, oh, a blest relief to those 
 That weary-laden mourn ! " 
 
 Robert Blrns. 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 Ihc following is pronounced by tlie Westminster Rrview to be 
 ^uhquestionably tlie linest American poem ever written. 
 
 ITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees, 
 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamy air. 
 Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease. 
 When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 
 
 llj 
 
 The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
 O'er the dim waters widening in the vales. 
 
 Sent down the air a gretting to the mills. 
 On the dull thunder of alternate Hails. 
 
 All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, 
 The hills .seemed fiirdier and the streams sang low ; 
 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 His winter log with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile antied in gold, 
 Their banners bright with every martial hue, 
 
 Now stood, like some snd, beaten host of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in time's remotest blue. 
 
 On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight. 
 
 The dove scarce heard his sigliiiig mate's complair.t, 
 
 And, like a star slow drowning in the light. 
 The village church-vane seemed 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. 
 
 I Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest 
 
 Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged youny; : 
 And where the oriole bung 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 charmed the vernal f^ast 
 .Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at nio.'!;. 
 
 To warn the reapers of the rosy East — 
 All now were songless, empty, and forlorn. 
 
 Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail. 
 And croaked the crow through all the dreamy 
 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. 
 
 Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of si.;ht. 
 
 Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 
 And where the woodbine sheds upon the porcli 
 
 Us 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-haired matron, with monotonous tread, 
 Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
 
 Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 
 
 She had known sorrow. He had walked with her. 
 Oft supped, 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. 
 
 If 
 
 id 
 
 W 
 
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 lUll, 
 
 ilM 
 
 
 li 
 
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 CROWN JKVV'KLS. 
 
 
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 ¥>■ ill 
 
 hi/ 
 
 lilir^^ 
 
 lillifii 
 
 While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
 Her country summoned, and she gave her nil ; 
 
 And twice war bowed to her his sable plume — 
 Ke-gave thu swords to rust upon her wall. 
 
 Re-gave the swords— but not the hand tliat drew, 
 And struck for liberty the dyinn blow; 
 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
 Fell, mid the ranks of the invadiin; foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
 l,ike the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
 
 Lon^, but not loud, the nicmoi y of the gone 
 Breatlied through her lips a sad and tremulous 
 tone. 
 
 At last the thread was snapped — her head was bowed; 
 Life droopetl the distatTthrougli his hands serene ; 
 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud- 
 While death and winter closed the autumn scene. 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR, 
 
 (^'"^' ULL knee-deep'Iies the winter snow, 
 "YJT' ■^"'' ^^^ winter winds are wearily sighing 
 ji. Toll ye the church bell sad and slow, 
 And tread softly and speak low, 
 For the old year lies a-dying. 
 Old year, you must not die ; 
 You came to us so readily. 
 You lived with us so steadily. 
 Old year you shall not die. 
 
 He lieth still : he doth not move ; 
 He will not see the dawn of day. 
 He hath no other life above; 
 He gave me a friend, and a true love. 
 And the new year will take 'em away. 
 
 Old year, you must not go ; 
 
 So long you have been with us. 
 
 Such joy as you have seen with us. 
 
 Old year, you shall not go. 
 
 He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; 
 
 A jollier year we shall no see. 
 
 But, though his eyes are waxing dim. 
 
 And though his foes speak ill of him. 
 
 He was a friend to me. 
 Old year, you shall not die : 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 
 I've half a mind to die with you. 
 Old year, if you must die. 
 
 He was full of joke and jest, 
 But all his merry quips are o'er. 
 To see him die, across the waste 
 His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
 But he'll be dead before. 
 
 Kvery one for hb own. 
 
 Till! night is starry and cold, my friend, 
 
 A ml tile New Yfiir, bliihe and bold, my friend, 
 
 Comes up to take his own. 
 
 I low hard he breathes ! over the snow 
 1 hoard just now the cniwin;.,' cuck. 
 The shadows llickcrto ami (m : 
 The cricket chirps : the liglit burns low : 
 ''I'is nearly twelve o'clock. 
 
 .Shake hands before you die, 
 
 Old year, we'll dearly rui- for you : 
 
 What is it we can do f >r you ? 
 
 Speak out before you die. 
 
 1 lis face is growing sharp anil thin. 
 Alack ! our friend is gone. 
 Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
 .Step from the corj'se, and let him in 
 That standeth there alone. 
 
 And waiteth at the door. 
 
 There's a new foot on the nof)r, my friend. 
 
 And a new face at the door, my friend, 
 
 A new face at the door. 
 
 Alkked Tr.NNvsoN. 
 
 ONLY THE CLOTHES SHE WORE. 
 
 •HERE is the hat 
 
 With the blue veil thrown 'round it, just as 
 they found it, 
 'f* Spotted aud soiled, stained and all spoiled— 
 Do you recognize that ? 
 
 The gloves, too, lie there. 
 And in them still lingers the shape of her fingers. 
 That some one has pressed, perhaps, and caressed, 
 
 So slender and fair. 
 
 There are the shoes, 
 With their long silken laces, still bearing traces. 
 To the toe's dainty tip, of the mud of the slip. 
 
 The slime and the ooze. 
 
 There is the dress. 
 Like the blue veil, all dabbled, discolored and drab- 
 bled— 
 This vou should know without doubt, and, if so, 
 
 All else you may guess. 
 
 There is the shawl, 
 With the striped border, hung next in order. 
 Soiled hardly less than the white muslin dress. 
 
 And— that is all. 
 
 Ah, here is a ring 
 We were forgetting, with a pearl setting ; 
 There was only this one— name or date ?— none?— 
 
 A frail, pretty thing ; 
 
SORROW AND ai)Vi:r^:ity. 
 
 n2o 
 
 A keepsake, maybe, 
 The yift of aiiollier, pcrliaps a brother. 
 Or lover, who knows? liiin her lieart those, 
 
 Or was she heart-free ? 
 
 Does the hat there, 
 With thcbhie veil aroiiiu! it, the same as they found it, 
 Siirnnioii up a f.iir face with just a trace 
 
 Of gold in the hair? 
 
 Or does the shaw 1, 
 Mutely appealing to some hidden feeling, 
 A form, young and slight, to your mind's sight 
 
 Clearly recall ? 
 
 A month now lias passed. 
 And her sad history remains yet a mystery, 
 But these we keep still, and shall keep them until 
 
 Hope dies at last. 
 
 Was she a prey 
 Of some deep sorrow clouding the morrow. 
 Hiding from view tiie sky's happy blue? 
 
 Or was tliere foul play ? 
 
 Alas ! who may tell ? 
 Some one or other, perhaps a Aind mother, 
 May recognize these when her child's clothes she sees ; 
 
 Then— will it be well? 
 
 N. G. SlIF.PIlHIU). 
 
 VERY DARK. 
 
 *T^ 'HE crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grew 
 weak and faint. 
 But tlie lips of that brave soldier scorned e'en 
 '^ now to make complaint ; 
 
 "Fall in rank ! " a voice called to him ; calm and low 
 
 was his reply : 
 "Yes, I will if I can do it — I will do it, though I die." 
 .'Vnd he murmured, when the life-light had died out to 
 
 just a sjxirk, 
 "It is growing very dark, mother — growing very 
 dark." 
 
 There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly he.ids 
 were bowed, 
 
 Tliiiugli the balls flew thick around Uiem, and the can- 
 nons thiuidered loud ; 
 
 Tliov gathered round the spot where the dying soldier 
 lay. 
 
 To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to 
 say; 
 
 And a change came o'er the features where death had 
 set his mark — 
 
 " It is growing very dark, mother — very, very dark." 
 
 Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and 
 
 vales, 
 Wiiere the loved ones watched and waked with that 
 
 love that never fails ; 
 
 He was with them as i:i cliildlinod, si'atcd in the cot- 
 tage door. 
 
 Where he w.itcht (1 tlic ivciiin;^ shadows slowly creep- 
 ing on tile floor ; 
 
 Hend down closely, comradvs, closely, he is s[)eaking 
 now, and hark — 
 
 " It is growing very dark, mother— very, very dark." 
 
 He was dreaming <jf his mother— that her loving hand 
 
 was pressed 
 On his brow for one short moment, ire he sank away 
 
 to rest ; 
 That her lips were now imprinting a fond kiss upon 
 
 his cheek, 
 .\nd a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and 
 
 low, and meek ; 
 Her gentle form was ne.ir him, her footsteps he coulil 
 
 mark — 
 But- -" It's growing very dark, mother — very, very 
 
 dark." 
 
 And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth witli 
 
 patriot light, 
 .Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering 
 
 gloom of niglit ; 
 .Ml, poor soldier ! ah, fond mother! you arc severed 
 
 now for aye ; 
 Cold and pulseless, there he lieth, where he breathed 
 
 his life away ; 
 Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not 
 
 (jue heavenly spark ? 
 Ah ! it has grown dark, mother — very, very dark. 
 
 THE BLESSING OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 ^ Y adversity are wrought 
 
 Tlie greatest works of admiration, 
 And all the fair examples of renown 
 Out of distress and misery are grown. 
 
 Samuku Daniel. 
 
 VICTORY FROM DEFEAT. 
 
 , IKE a ball that bounds 
 
 According to the force with which 't w.is thrown. 
 So in affliction's violence, he that's wise 
 The more he's cast down will the higher rise. 
 
 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. 
 
 ARK is the night. How dark! No light! No 
 fire! 
 Cold, on the hearth, the last faint spar!:s ex- 
 pire ! 
 Shivering she watches by the cradle side. 
 For him who pledged her love— last year a bride ! 
 
 Hark! 'Tis his footstep! No!— 'Tis past!— 'Tis 
 
 gone ! 
 Tick !— Tick !— How wearily the time crawls on ! 
 
 I'lH 
 
 f ■ ,1 1 
 
 iiin ■;( 
 
 I'll/: 
 
**' m 
 
 'f 1 
 
 
 
 
 330 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Why should he leave me thus? — He once was kind : 
 And I believed 'twould last! — How mad!— How 
 blind I 
 
 Rest thee, babe ! — Rest on ! — 'Tis hunger's cry ! 
 Sleep ! — For there is no food ! —The font is dry ! 
 Famine and cold their wearying work have done. 
 My heart must break ! — And thou !— The clock strikes 
 
 one! 
 Hush ! 'tis the dice-box ! Yes? he's there ! he's there I 
 For this — for this he leaves me to despair ! 
 Leaves love ! leaves truth ! his wife ! his child ! For 
 
 what? 
 The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot ! 
 
 Yet I'll not curse him. No ! 'tis all in vain ! 
 *Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again ! 
 And I could starve and bless him but for you, 
 My child !— His child ! Oh, fiend !— The clock strikes 
 two. 
 
 Hark ! How the sign-board creaks ! The blasts 
 
 howl by. 
 Moan ! moan ! A dirge swells through the cloudy 
 
 sky! 
 Ha! 'tis his knock! — he comes! — he comes once 
 
 more ! 
 'Tis but the lattice flaps ! Thy hope is o'er. 
 
 Can he desert me thus ! He knows I stay 
 Night after night, in loneliness to pray 
 For his return — and yet he sees no tear ! 
 No ! no ! It cannot be ! He will be here ! 
 
 Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart ! 
 Thou'rt cold ! Thou'rt freezing ! But we will not 
 
 part ! 
 Husband ! I die ! — Father ! it is not he ! 
 Oh, God ! protect my child ! — The clock strikes three. 
 
 They're gone, they're gone ! the glimmering spark 
 
 hath fled ! 
 The wife and child are numbered with the dead. 
 On the cold earth, outstretched in solemn rest, 
 The babe lay frozen on its mother's breast ; 
 The gambler came at last — but all was o'er — 
 Dread silence reigned around — the clock struck four. 
 
 Dr. Coates. 
 
 The wave will roll with sparkling, foamy play 
 To-morrow on the shining, sun-bright shore: 
 
 But to the homes so happy yesterday 
 Will come no tidings of their loved ones more. 
 
 We sometimes feel a storm that hovers near. 
 Yet fails to touch our dearest hope or thought : 
 A storm that is to others sorrow-fraught. 
 We feel the ripple that their sorrow brought 
 
 And turn to pray — "Thy vengeance be not here." 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 jEYOND the white and fading ships whose sails 
 Stand silver in a sky of darkening gray, 
 A storm has passed, and only tossing spray 
 And roughened seas reach here to tell the 
 tale 
 
 Of vessels that will never bravely plough 
 O'er ocean's treacherous blue-gray depths again. 
 A little of the mortal fear and pain 
 
 All over in the quiet closed eyes now. 
 
 ONLY A YEAR. 
 
 NE year ago — a ringing voice, 
 A clear blue eye, 
 And clustering curls of sunny hair, 
 Too fair to die. 
 
 Only a year — no voice, no smile. 
 
 No glance of eye, 
 No clustering curls of golden hair, 
 
 Fair but to die ! 
 
 One year ago — what loves, what schemes 
 
 Far into life ! 
 What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 
 
 What generous strife ! 
 
 The silent picture on the wall. 
 
 The burial stone 
 Of all that beauty, life and joy. 
 
 Remain alone ! 
 
 One year — one year, one little year, 
 
 And so much gone ! 
 And yet the even flow of life 
 
 Moves calmly on. 
 
 The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair 
 
 Above that head ; 
 No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 
 
 Says he is dead. 
 
 No pause or hush of merry birds 
 
 That sing above. 
 Tell us how coldly sleeps below 
 
 The form we love. 
 
 Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? 
 
 What hast thou seen— 
 What visions fair, what glorious life. 
 
 Where thou hast been ? 
 
 The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong 
 
 'Twixt us and thee; 
 The mystic veil, -Afhen shall it fall, 
 
 Tliat we may see ? 
 
 Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, 
 
 But present still. 
 And waiting for the coming hour 
 
 Of God's sweet will. 
 
 
 ii -j "•'' I 
 
SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 831 
 
 les more. 
 
 Lord of the living and the dead, 
 
 Our Savior dear I 
 We lay in silence at thy feet 
 
 This sad, sad year. 
 
 Harriet Rkechkr Stowh. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK. BREAK. 
 
 |REAK, break, break, 
 
 On thy culd gray stones, O sea ! 
 And I would tliat my tongue could utter 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O well for the fisherman's boy. 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 O well for the sailor lad 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay I 
 
 And the stately ships go on, 
 
 To the haven under the hill ; 
 But O for the touch of a vanished hand; 
 
 And the sound of a voice that is still I 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 m 
 
 MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES. 
 
 CAN, moan, ye dying gales I 
 The saddest of your tales 
 
 Is not so sad as life ; 
 Nor have you e'er began 
 A theme so wild as man. 
 Or with such sorrow rife. 
 
 Fall, fall, thou withered leaf I 
 Autumn sears not like grief. 
 
 Nor kills such lovely flowers ; 
 More terrible the storm. 
 More mournful the deform, 
 
 When dark misfortune lowers. 
 
 Hush I hush I thou trembling lyre, 
 Silence, ye vocal choir. 
 
 And thou, mellifluous lute. 
 For man soon breathes his last, 
 And all his hope is past. 
 
 And all hb music mute. 
 
 Then, when the gale is sighing, 
 And when the leaves are dying, 
 
 And when the song is o'er, 
 O, let us think of those 
 Whose lives are lost in woes, 
 
 Whose cup of grief runs o'er. 
 
 Henry Neele. 
 
 RETROSPECTION 
 
 EARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
 T< ars from the depth of some divine despair 
 Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
 f In looking on the happy autunui fields. 
 And thinking of the days that are no more. 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
 That brings our friends up from the under world ; 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below tho verge — 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no mure. 
 
 Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
 The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 
 
 Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
 On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret — 
 O death in life, the days that are no more. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 i3& 
 
 PERISHED. 
 
 AVE after wave of greenness rolling down 
 From mountain top to base, a wiiispering sea 
 Of affluent leaves through which the view- 
 loss breeze 
 
 Murmurs mysteriously. 
 
 And towering up amid the lesser throng, 
 A giant oak, so desolately grand. 
 Stretches its gray imploring arms to Heaven 
 In agonized demand. 
 
 Smitten by lightning from a summer sky, 
 (^r bearing in its heart a slow decay. 
 What matters since inexorable fate 
 Is pitiless to slay. 
 
 Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed al'CJt, 
 Doth not tliy life's lost hope lift up its head. 
 And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud — 
 " Look on me, I am dead ! " 
 
 Mary Louise Ritter. 
 
 THE FEMALE CONVICT. 
 
 HE shrank from all, and her silent mood 
 Made her wish only for solitude ; 
 Her eye sought the ground as it could 
 brook, 
 
 For innermost shame, on another's look ; 
 And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear 
 Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear ! — 
 
 not 
 
 I 
 
 I;. " 
 
 (!■' 
 ii" 
 
 i 
 
 'III 
 
 nil 
 
 "II 
 
[I 
 
 
 
 
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 |i.|'i|jfc 
 
 332 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 She still was young, and she had been fair ; 
 But weather-stains, hunger, toil and care, 
 That frost and fever that wear the heart, 
 Had made the colors of youth depart 
 From the sallow cheek, save over it came 
 The burning flush of the spirit's shame. 
 
 They were sailing over the salt .sea-foam. 
 Far from her country, far from her home ; 
 And all she had left for her friends to keep 
 Was a name to hide and a memory to weep ! 
 And her future held forth but the felon's lot — 
 To live forsaken, to die forgot ! 
 She could not weep, and she could not pray. 
 But she wasted and withered from day to day, 
 Till you might have counted each sunl-en vein, 
 When her wrist was prest by the iron chain ; 
 And sometimes I thought her large dark eye 
 Had the glisten of red insanity. 
 
 She called me once to her sleeping-place, 
 
 A strange, wild look was upon her fact, 
 
 Her eye flashed over her cheek so white, 
 
 Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, 
 
 And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone — 
 
 The sound from mine ear hath never gone ! — 
 
 " I had last night the loveliest dream : 
 
 My own land shone in the summer beam, 
 
 I saw the fields of the golden grain, 
 
 I heard the reaper's harvest strain ; 
 
 There stood on the hills the green pine-tree. 
 
 And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. 
 
 A long and a weary way I had come; 
 
 But I stopped, mcthought, by mine own sweet home. 
 
 I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there. 
 
 With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair I 
 
 The Bible lay open upon his knee, 
 
 But he closed the book to welcome me. 
 
 He led me next where my mother lay. 
 
 And together we knelt by her grave to pray. 
 
 And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear. 
 
 For it echoed one of my young days dear. 
 
 This dream has waked feelings lo.ig, long since fled, 
 
 And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead ! 
 
 — We have not spoken, but still I have hung 
 
 On the northern accents that dwell on thy tongue. 
 
 To me they are music, to me they recall 
 
 The things long hidden by memory's pall ! 
 
 Take this long curl of yellow hair. 
 
 And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, 
 
 My dying prayer, was for him." 
 
 Next day 
 Upon the deck a coffin lay ; 
 They raised it up, and like a dirge 
 The heavy gale swept over the surge ; 
 The corpse was cast to the wind and wave — 
 The convict has found in the green sea a grave. 
 
 Letitia Elizabeth Landon. 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 From " Poems by a Seamstress," 
 
 1^^ OT in the laughing bowers, 
 
 m~t Where by green swinging elms a pleasant 
 
 J A shade 
 
 At summer's noon is made, 
 And where swift-footed hours 
 Steal the rich breath of enamored flowers. 
 Dream I. Nor where the golden glories be, 
 At sunset, laving o'er the flowing sea ; 
 And to pure eyes the faculty is given 
 To trace a smooth ascent from earth to heaven ! 
 
 Not on a couch of ease, 
 Willi ail the appliances of joy at hand — 
 Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command; 
 
 Viands that might a godlike palate please, 
 
 And music's soul-creative ecstasies, 
 Dream I. Nor gloating o'er a wide estate, 
 Till the full, self-complacent heart elate, 
 Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birlh, 
 Sighs for an immortality on earth ! 
 
 But where the incessant din 
 Of iron hands, and roar of brazen throats, 
 Join their unmingled notes. 
 
 While the long summer day is pouring in, 
 Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin, 
 Dream I — as in the corner where I lie, - 
 On wintry nights, just covered from the sky ! — 
 Such is my fate — and, barren though it seem, 
 Vet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream I 
 
 And yet I dream — 
 45ream what, were men more just, I might have been ; 
 How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene, 
 Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien ; 
 The conscious crown to nature's blissful scene. 
 In just and equal brotherhood to glean, 
 With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen — 
 
 Such IS my dream I 
 
 And yet I dream — 
 I, the des[)ised of fortnne, lift mine eyes, 
 
 Bright with the lustre of integrity, 
 In unappealing wretchedness, on high, 
 And the last rage of destiny defy ; 
 Rest)lved alone to live — alone to die. 
 
 Nor swell the tide of human misery ! 
 
 And yet I dream — 
 Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come, 
 My last, my first, my only welcome home ! 
 Rest, unbeheld since life's beginning stage, 
 Sole rcnuiant of my glorious heritage. 
 Unalienable, 1 shall find thee yet. 
 And in thy soft embrace the past forget 1 
 
 Thus do I dream ! 
 
SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 333 
 
 LOSSES. 
 
 "^ J PON the white sea-.satid 
 
 WfJk There sat a pilgiini haiul, 
 
 \^^ Tellinjj the losses that tlieir lives had known ; 
 
 While evening waned away 
 
 From breezy cliff and bay, 
 And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 
 
 One spake, with qnivering lip. 
 
 Of a fair freighted ship. 
 With all his household to the deep gone down ; 
 
 But one had wilder woe — 
 
 For a fair face, long ago 
 Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 
 
 There were who mourned their youth 
 
 With a most loving riitii, 
 For its brave hopes and memories ever green ; 
 
 And one upon the West 
 
 Turned an eye that would not rest, 
 For far-off hills whereon its joy had been. 
 
 Some talked of vanished gold. 
 
 Some of proud honors t. Id, 
 .Some spake of friends that were their trust no more ; 
 
 And one of a green grave 
 
 Beside a foreign wave, 
 That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 
 
 But when their tales were done, 
 
 There spake among tlieni one, 
 A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 
 
 "Sad losses have ye met. 
 
 But mine is heavier yet ; 
 For a believing heait hath gone from me." 
 
 "Alas !" these pilgrims said, 
 
 " For the living and the dead — 
 For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 
 
 For the wrecks of land and sea ! 
 
 But, however it came to thee. 
 Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."' 
 
 Frances Brown. 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. 
 
 'HERE'S a grim one-horse hearse in a j(.)lly 
 round trot — 
 To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; 
 The road it is rough, and the hearse has no 
 springs ; 
 And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : 
 " Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! " 
 
 0, where are tlie mourners ? Alas ! there are none ; 
 He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone — 
 Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 
 To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can : 
 " Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He's only a pauper whom nobody owns I " 
 
 What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din ! 
 The whip, how it cracks; and the wheels, how they 
 
 spin ! 
 How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled ! 
 'i'he jiauper at length makes a noise in the world ! 
 " Rattle his bones over tlie stones ! 
 He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! " 
 
 Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 
 To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach ! 
 He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 
 Hut It will not be long, if he goes on so fast : 
 " Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! " 
 
 Vou bumpkins ! who stare at your brother conveyed, 
 Behold what respect to a cloddy is ])aid ! 
 And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low 
 You've a chance to the grave like a ' gennnan" to go ! 
 " Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
 He's only a pauper whom noboily owns ! " 
 
 But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad. 
 To think that a heart in humanity clad 
 Should make, lik'? the brute, such a desolate end. 
 And depart from llie light without leaving a friend ! 
 " Bear .soft his bones over the stones ! 
 Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet 
 owns !" 
 
 Thomas Noel. 
 
 Qj 
 
 ON THE FRONTIER. 
 
 HAT ! Robbed the mail at midnight ! We'll 
 trail them down, you bet ! 
 We'll bring them to the halter ; I'm sherilT 
 of ^'uba yet. 
 Get out those nms'.angs, hearties, and long before set 
 
 of sun 
 We'll trail them down to their refuge, and justice shall 
 yet be done. 
 
 It's pleasant, this rude experience ; life has a rugged 
 zest 
 
 Here on the plains and mountains, far to the open 
 west : 
 
 Look at those snow-capped sunnnits — waves of an end- 
 less sea ; 
 
 Look at yon billowed prairie, boundless as grand and 
 free. 
 
 Ah! we have found our quarry I yonder within the 
 
 bush I 
 Empty your carbines at them, then follow me with a 
 
 rush! 
 Down with the desperadoes! Ours is the cause of 
 
 right ! 
 Though they should slash like demons, still we must 
 
 gain the fight ! 
 
 i\ 
 
 
 
 A% 
 
334 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 
 'Ph li: 
 
 i^; '!l 
 
 !l:;ii;ri i 
 
 ir'll 
 
 
 Pretty hot work, McGresfnr, but we liave gained the day. 
 What? Have we lost thtir leader? Can he have 
 
 sneaked away ? 
 Tliere he goes in the chaparral ! He'll reach it now in 
 
 a bound I 
 Give me that rifle, Parker I I'll bring him down to the 
 
 ground. 
 
 There, I knew I could drop him ; that little piece of lead 
 Sped s;raight on to its duty. The last of the gang is 
 
 dead. 
 He was a handsome fellow, plucky and fearless, too ; 
 Pity such men are devils, preying on those more true. 
 
 What have found in his pockets ? Papers ? Let's take 
 
 a look. 
 "Ccorgc Walgrave" stamped on the cover? Why, 
 
 that is my brother's book ; 
 The deeds and the papers also, and letters received 
 
 from me ; 
 I le must have met these demons. Been murdered and 
 
 robbed, you see. 
 
 And I have been his avenger ! It is years since last we 
 
 met. 
 We loved each other dearly, and Walgravcs never for- 
 
 If niy voice is broken, excuse me. Somehow it con- 
 fines my breath — 
 
 Let me look on the face of that demon wiio dogged 
 poor George to his death ! 
 
 Good God ! It is he ; my brother ! killed by my own 
 
 strong hand ! 
 He is no bandit leader ! This is no robber band ! 
 What a mad, murd'.rous blunder! I'riends, who 
 
 thought they were foes. 
 Seven men dead on the prairie, and seven homes 
 
 flooded with woes. 
 
 And to think that I should have done it ! When ere 
 
 many suns should set, 
 I hoped to embrace my brother — and thi.s is the way 
 
 we've met ! 
 He with his dead eyes gazing up to the distant sky. 
 And I his murderer, standing, living and unharmed, 
 
 by I 
 
 Well, his fate is the best one ! Mine, to behold his 
 
 corse 
 Haunting my life forever ; doomed to a vain remorse. 
 How shall 1 bear its shadows? How could this strange 
 
 thing be? 
 O my brother and playmate ! Would I had died for 
 
 thee ! 
 
 Pardon my weak emotion. Bury them here my friends; 
 Here, where the green plumed willow over the prairie 
 
 bends. 
 One mon; tragedy finished in the romance of strife, 
 Passing like sombre shadows over this frontier life. 
 
 J. Edgar Jones. 
 
 PRINCE'S FEATHER. 
 
 SAT at work one summer day, 
 It was breezy August weather, 
 And my little boy ran in from his play, 
 With a bright red prince's feather. 
 " Make me a cocked hat, mo'.her <!'jar," 
 He cried, " and put this in it ; 
 Dick and Charlie are coming here, 
 And I want it done in a minute 1" 
 
 It was but one little boy I had, 
 
 And I dearly loved to please him ; 
 When such a trifle would make him glad. 
 
 Be sure I did not tease him. 
 I dropped my work with a merry heart, 
 
 And Willie and I together — 
 We made the cocked-hat gay and smart, 
 
 With its plume of prince's feather. 
 
 I set it firmly on his bonny head. 
 
 Where the yellow curls were dancing, 
 I kissed his cheeks that were rosy red. 
 
 And his mouth where smiles were glancing ; 
 Then off" he ran, the beautiful boy ! 
 
 My eager eyes ran after, 
 And my heart brimmed over with loving joy, 
 
 At t!ie ring of his happy laughter. 
 
 Back to their work my fingers flew, 
 
 I was sewing a frock for Willie — 
 A little white frock with a band of blue, 
 
 That would make him look like a lily. 
 For he was fair as a flower, with eyes 
 
 Of the real heavenly color ; 
 They were like the blue of the August skies, 
 
 And only the least bit duller. 
 
 I never guessed when he ran from rne, 
 
 With his laugh out-ringing cheerly, 
 That it was the last time I should see 
 
 Those blue eyes loved so dearly. 
 I sat at my work, and I sang aloud 
 
 r-'rom a glad heart overflowing. 
 Nor ever dreamed it was Willie's shroud 
 
 That I was so busy sewing. 
 
 I folded the frock away complete. 
 
 And I had no thought of sorrow, 
 But only that Willie would look so swee* 
 
 When I dressed him in it to-morrow. 
 And down to the garden gate I ran, 
 
 For I thought I heard them drumming. 
 To see if perhaps my little man. 
 
 And Charlie and Dick were coming. 
 
 Some one spoke as I reached the gate, 
 (He was Charlie's grown-up brother), 
 " Wait ! " he said in a whisper, " wait 1 
 We must break it to his mother 1 " 
 
SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 
 
 335 
 
 " Break «V— what ? " My ears were quick, 
 And I shrieked out wild and shrilly, 
 
 "What is the matter with Charlie and Dick ? 
 What have you done with my Willie ? " 
 
 The boys shrank frightened away at that, 
 
 And huddled closer together ; 
 But one of tliem showed me the little cocked hat 
 With the wilted prince's feather. 
 " What does this mean ? Is Willie dead ? " 
 
 He began to tremble and shiver : 
 "We were skipping stones," with a gasp he said, 
 "And Willie— fell in the river ! "' 
 
 I asked no more. They brought him home — 
 
 My Willie ! my little Willie ! 
 His curls all tangled and wet with foam. 
 
 His white face set so stilly. 
 I combed the curls, though my eyes were dim, 
 
 And my heart was sick with sorrow ; 
 And the little frock I made for him 
 
 He wore indeed on the morrow. 
 
 Somewhere, carefu'ly laid away. 
 
 Through summer r.nrl winter weather, 
 I keep tiie hat that he wore that day, 
 
 And the bit of prince's feather. 
 It is only dust that wc.s once a flower. 
 
 But there never will bloom another 
 In sun or shower, tliat will have such power 
 
 To wring the heart of his mother. 
 
 Mary E. Bradley. 
 
 THE LAST HOURS OF LITTLE PAUL 
 DOMBEY. 
 
 PAUL had never risen from his little bed. He lay 
 there, listening to the noises in the street, 
 quite tranquilly ; not caring much how the 
 time went, but watching everything about him 
 with observing eyes. 
 
 When the sunbeams struck into his room through 
 the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall 
 like golden water, he knew that evening was coming 
 on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the rc- 
 fluc'.ion died away, and the gloom went creeping up 
 the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into 
 night. Then he thought how the long streets were 
 dotted witli lamps, and how the peaceful stars were 
 shining overhead. His fancy hau a strange tendency 
 to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing 
 through the great city ; and now he thought how black 
 it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the 
 hosts of stars, and more than all, how steadily it rolled 
 away to meet the sea. 
 
 As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the 
 street became r.o rare that he could hear them coming, 
 count tliem as they passed, and lose them in the hol- 
 low distance, he would lie and watch the many-colored 
 ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His 
 
 only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt 
 forced, sometimes, to try to stop it — to stem it with his 
 childish hands, or choke its way with sand — and when 
 he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out ! But a 
 word from Florence, who was always at his side, re- 
 stored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon 
 her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. 
 
 When day began to dawn again, he watched fur the 
 sun : and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in 
 the room, he pictured to himself— pictured ! he saw — 
 the high church-towers rising up into the morning sky, 
 the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, 
 the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), 
 and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and 
 cries came by degrees into the street below ; the ser- 
 vants in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked 
 in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly 
 how he was. Paul always answered for himself, " I am 
 better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Te'.l 
 papa sol" 
 
 By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the 
 day, the noise of carriages and carts, people passing 
 and repassing ; and would fall asleep or be troubled 
 with a restless and uneasy sense again — the child could 
 hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his 
 waking moments — ofth.it rushing river. " Why, will 
 it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. 
 " It is bearing me away, I think !" 
 
 But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and 
 it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down 
 on his pillow, and take some rest. 
 
 " You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch 
 yott, now 1 " They would prop him up with cushions 
 in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the 
 while she lay beside him ; bending forward oftentimes 
 to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near 
 that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many 
 nights beside him. 
 
 Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, 
 would gradually decline ; and again the golden water 
 would be dancing on the wall. 
 
 He was visited by as many as three grave doctors — 
 they used to assemble down stairs and come up to- 
 gether—and the room w.is so quiet, and Paul was so 
 observant of them (though he never asked of anybody 
 what they said), that he even knew the diflerencein the 
 sound of their watches. But his interest centered in 
 Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side 
 of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, 
 that that gentleman had been with his mamma when she 
 clasped Florence in her arms and died. And he could 
 not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not 
 afraid. 
 
 Late one evening Paul closed his eyes and fell asleep. 
 When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day 
 was clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the 
 windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in 
 the air, and waving to and fro : then he said, " Floy, is 
 it to-morrow ? Is she come ? " 
 
 
 Ik 
 
 I %\ 
 
^'^a' :mp 
 
 im 
 
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 VI 8.1' • » 
 
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 ■'I*. 
 
 li III 
 
 l;M, 
 
 i 
 
 ill 1 i: '-^^' 
 
 illr'r,'il!'^' L^fl*" 
 
 33G 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it 
 was Susan. Paul tliought lie heard her telling him, 
 when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon 
 he back ; but he did not open them to see. She 
 kept her word — perhaps she had never been away — 
 but the next thing that hpppened was a noise of foot- 
 steps on the stairs, and then Paul woke — woke mind 
 and body — and sat upright in his bed. He saw tht m 
 now about him. There was no gray mist before them, 
 as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew 
 them every one, and called them by their names. 
 
 " And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? said the 
 child, regarding, with a radiant smile, a figure com- 
 ing in. 
 
 Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those 
 tears at the sight of him, and called him her dear boy, 
 her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No 
 other woman would have stooped down by his bed, 
 and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips 
 and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. 
 No other would have so forgotten everybody there 
 but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and 
 pity. 
 
 "Floy ! this is a kind good face ! " said Paul. " I 
 am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse ! 
 Stay here !" 
 
 His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name 
 he knew. 
 
 "Who was that? who saidWalter?" he asked, look- 
 ing round. "Some one said Walter. Is he here? I 
 should like to see him very much." 
 
 Nobody replied directly, but his father said to Su- 
 san, "Call him back, then : let him come up! " After 
 a short pause of expectation, during which he looked 
 with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and 
 saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was 
 brought into the room. His open face and manner, 
 and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favorite 
 with Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched out 
 his hand, and said, "Good-by ! " 
 
 "Good-by, my child!" cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurry- 
 ing to his bed's head. " Not good-hy ? " 
 
 For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face 
 
 with which he had so often gazed upon her in his cor- 
 ner by the fire. "Ah, yes," he said, placidly, "good- 
 by ! Walter dear, good-by !" turning his head to where 
 he stood, and putting out his hand again. " Where is 
 papa?" 
 
 He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before 
 the words had parted from his lips. 
 
 "Remember Walter, dear papa," he whispered, 
 looking in his face, — " remember Walter. I was fond 
 of Walter ! " The feeble hand waved in the air, as if 
 it cried "good-by ! " to Walter once again. 
 
 "Now lay me down again," he said; "and Floy, 
 come close to me, and let me see you I " 
 
 Sister and brother wound their arms around each 
 other, and the golden light came streaming in, and 
 fell upon them, locked together. 
 
 "How fast the river rung between its green banks 
 and rushes, Floy ! But its very near the sea. I hear 
 the waves. They always said so I " 
 
 Presently he told her that the motion of the boat 
 upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green 
 the banks were now, how bright the flowers growing 
 on them, and how tall the rushes I Now the boat 
 was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now 
 there was a shore before him. Who stood on the 
 bank! 
 
 He put his hands together, as he had been used to 
 do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do 
 it, but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. 
 
 "Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the 
 face? But tell them that the print upon the stairs at 
 school is not divine enough. The light about the 
 liead is shining on me as I go ! " 
 
 The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and 
 nothing else stirred in the room. Theold, old fashion! 
 The fashion that came in with our first garments, and 
 will last unchanged until our race has run its course, 
 and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. , 
 The old, old fashion — Death ! 
 
 O, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion 
 yet, of immortality ! And look upon us, angels of 
 young children, with regards not quite estranged, 
 when the swift river bears us to the ocean ! 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
PERSONS MD PiaCES. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Y bout is oil the shore, 
 And my hark is on 
 tile sea ; 
 But before I go, Tom 
 Moore, 
 Here's a doul)le 
 healtli to tliee ? 
 
 's a sigh to those who 
 love me, 
 And a smile to those who 
 hate ; 
 
 whatever skies above 
 me, 
 
 cre's a heart for any 
 fote. 
 
 lough the ocean roar 
 around un", 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 Though a desert should surround me, 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasped upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'Tis to Ihee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine. 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be— peace to thine and mine, 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 n 
 
 OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the rampart was hurried j 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
 
 By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 
 
 Hilt he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 
 (22) 
 
 But we steadf islly gazed on the face t t was dead, 
 And we biiterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
 Ancl smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er hi« 
 head. 
 And we far away on the billow I 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 And. o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 
 
 But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half our heavy task was done. 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly they laid him down. 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 
 We carved not a line, we raised not a stone — 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 Charles Wolfe. 
 
 DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 
 
 Major-General Philip Kearnsv, killed at Chantilly, 
 
 VA.,SErT. I, i86j. 
 
 G 
 
 LOSE his eyes ; work is done ! 
 
 What to him is friend or foeman. 
 Rise of moon or set of sun, 
 Hand of man or kiss of woman ? 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
 Lay him low 1 
 
 As man may, he fought his fight, 
 
 Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 
 Let him sleep in solemn night. 
 Sleep forever and forever. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 Fold him in his country's stars, 
 
 Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
 What to him are all our wars ? 
 What but death-bemocking folly ! 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ! he cannot know ; 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 (337) 
 
CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 »; !' 
 
 Mh 
 
 I :''. 
 
 
 % 
 
 K,i "1 1! 
 
 Iti 
 
 !. I, 
 
 Leave him to God's w.itchinpj eye ; 
 
 Trust Iiim to the hand that made; him. 
 Mortal love weeps idly by ; 
 God alone has power to aid him. 
 Lay him low, lay hinj low, 
 In the clover or the snow : 
 What cares he ? he cannot know ; 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 George Henkv Bokkr. 
 
 WASHINGTON AS A CIVILIAN. 
 
 'OWEVERhismilitary fame may excite the won- 
 der of mankind, it is chiefly by his civil magis- 
 tracy that Washington's example will instruct 
 them. Great generals have arisen in all ai^es 
 of the world, and perhaf)S most in those of despotism 
 and darkness. In times of violence and convulsion 
 they rise, by the force of tlie whirlwind, high enough 
 to ride in it and direct the storm. Like meteors, they 
 glare on the black clouds with a splendor that, while it 
 daziiles and terrifies, makes nothing visible but the 
 darkness. The fame of heroes is indeed growing vul- 
 gar : they multiply in every long war ; they .stand in 
 history, and thicken in their ranks almost as undistin- 
 guished as their own soldiers. 
 
 But such a cl.ief magistrate as Washington appeals 
 like the pole-star in a clear sky, to direct the skilful 
 statesman. His presidency will form an epoch, and be 
 distinguished as the age of Washington. Already it 
 assumes its high place in the political region. Like the 
 milky way, it whitens along its allotted portion of the 
 hemisphere. The latest generations of men will sur- 
 vey, through the telescope of history, the space where 
 so many virtues blend their rays, and delight to sepa- 
 rate them into groups and distinct virtues. As the 
 best illustration of them, the living monument to 
 which the first of patriots would have chosen to consign 
 his fame, it is our earnest prayer to Heaven that our 
 country may subsist, even to that late day, in the pleni- 
 tude of its liberty and happiness, and mingle its mild 
 glory with Wa.shington's. 
 
 The announcement of the afflicting event of his 
 death was made in the House of Representatives as 
 soon as the news reached Philadelphia, by Juhn Mar- 
 shall, then a member of Congress from Virginia. Both 
 houses immediately adjourned. The whole coun!ry 
 uas filk-d with gloom by the intelligence. Men of 
 all pariiv::s in politics, and creeds in religion, united 
 with Congress in paying honor to the memory of the 
 citizen who, in the language of the resolution of Mar- 
 shall adopted by the House, "was first in war. first in 
 peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." 
 
 These manifestations were no mere outward sem- 
 blance of grief, but the natural outbursts of the hearts of 
 the people, prompted by the loss of a father. He was 
 indeed everywhere regarded as the "Father of His 
 Country." His remains were deposited in a family 
 vault, on his own estate, on the banks of the Potomac, 
 where they still lie entombed. 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 
 Frciti "tliidcr the Elm," read at Camhrklife, July 3, 1875, on the 
 liuiidrccltli niiiilvtrsary of Washington's taking command of the 
 Ameiican army. 
 
 F.NLATH our consecrated elm 
 
 Tjv A century ago he stood, 
 
 '^ Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood, 
 Which redly foamed round him but could not 
 overwhelm 
 The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn helm. 
 I'rom colleges, where now the gown 
 To arms had yielded, from the town. 
 Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see 
 The new-come chiefs and wonder which was he. 
 No need to question long ; close-lipped and tall, 
 Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone 
 To bridle others' clamors and his own, 
 Finnly erect, he towered above them all, 
 The incarnate discipline that was to free 
 With iron curb that armed democracy. 
 Haughty they said he was, at first, severe, 
 But owned, as all men owned, the steady hand 
 Upon the bridle, patient to command, 
 Prized, as all prize, the justice pure from fear, 
 And learned to honor first, then love him, then revere. 
 .Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint. 
 And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint. 
 
 Musing beneath the legendary tree. 
 
 The years between furl off : I seem to see 
 
 The sun-flecks, shaken the stirred foliage through, 
 
 Dapple with gold his sober buff and blue. 
 
 And weave prophetic aureoles round the head 
 
 That shines our beacon now, nor darkens with the dead 
 
 O man of silent mood, 
 
 A stranger among strangers then, 
 
 How art thou since renowned the great, the good, 
 
 Familiar as the day in all the homes of men ! 
 
 The winged years, that winnow praise and blame, , 
 
 Blow many names out : they but fan to flame 
 
 The self-renewing splendors of thy fame. 
 
 O, for a drop of that terse Roman's ink 
 
 Who gave Agricola dateless length of days. 
 
 To celebrate him fitly, neither swerve 
 
 To phrase unkempt, nor pass discretion's brink, 
 
 With him so statuelike in sad reserve, 
 
 So difiTident to claim, so forward to deserve ! 
 
 Nor need I shun due influence of his fame 
 
 Who, mortal among mortals, seemed as now 
 
 The equestrian shap^^with unimpassioned brow, 
 
 That paces silent on through vistas of acclaim. 
 
 What figure more immovably august 
 
 Than that grave strength so patient and so pure, 
 
 Calm in good fortune, when it wavered, sure. 
 
 That soul serene impenetrably just, 
 
 Modelled on classic lines, so simple they endure ? 
 
 That soul so softly radiant, and so white, 
 
 The track it left seems less of fire than light. 
 
 Cold but to such as love distemperature ? 
 
PERSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 3.'}9 
 
 And if pure light, as some deem, be the force 
 
 That drives rejoicing planets on their course, 
 
 Why for his power beiiijjn seek an iinpiircr source ? 
 
 His was the true enthusiasm that burns long, 
 
 Domestically bright. 
 
 Fed from itself and shy uf human sight, 
 
 Tlie hidden force that makes a lifetime strong. 
 
 And not the short-lived fuel of a song. 
 
 Passionless, say you ? What is passion for 
 
 But to sublime our natures and control 
 
 To front heroic toils with late return, 
 
 Or none, or such as shames the conqueror ? 
 
 That fire was fed with substance of ihe soul. 
 
 And not with holiday stubble, that could burn 
 
 Through seven slow years of unadvancmg war, 
 
 Kqual when fields were lost or fields were won. 
 
 With breath of popuhK applause or blame, 
 
 Nor fanned, nor flam, d, unciuenchably the same. 
 
 Too inward to be reached |jy flaws of idle fame. 
 
 Soldier and statesman, rarest unison ; 
 High-poised example of great duties done 
 Simply as breathing, a world's honors worn 
 As life's indinferent gifts to all men born ; 
 Dumb for liimsclf, unless it were to God, 
 r.nt for Lis barefoot soldiers eloquent. 
 Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, 
 Hold by his awe in hollovv-cytcl content ; 
 Modest, yet firm as nature's self; unbiamed 
 Savo by the men his nobler temper shamed ; 
 Not honored then or now because he wooed 
 Tile popular voice, but that he si ill withstood ; 
 Rioad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one 
 Who was all this, and ours, and all men's — Washing- 
 ton. 
 
 Minds strong by fits, irregularly great, 
 
 That (lash and darken like revolving lights, 
 
 Catch more the vulgar eye unschooled to wait 
 
 On the long curve of patient days and nights. 
 
 Rounding a whole life to the circle fair 
 
 Of orbed completeness ; and this balanced soul 
 
 So simple in its grandeur, coldly bare 
 
 Of draperies theatric, standing there 
 
 In perfect symmetry of self-control, 
 
 Seems not so great at first, but greater grows 
 
 Still as we look, .nnd by experince learn 
 
 How grand tliis tjuiet is, how nobly stern 
 
 The discipline that wrought through life-long throes 
 
 This energetic passion of repose. 
 
 A nature too decorous and severe, 
 
 Too self-respectful in its griefs and joys 
 
 For ardent girls and boys, 
 
 Who find no genius in a mind so clear 
 
 That its grave depths seem obvious and near, 
 
 Nor a soul great that m.ide so little noise. 
 
 They feel no force in that calm, cadenced phrase, 
 
 Tiie habitual full-dress of his well-bred mind. 
 
 That seems to pace the minuet's courtly maze 
 
 And tell of amplfer leisures, roomier length of days. 
 
 His broad-built brain, to self so littK- kind 
 That 11.) tumultuary blood coulcl blind, 
 iMjniKJtl to control men, not amaze, 
 Looms not like tliose tliat borrow heiglit of haze : 
 It was a world «if statelier movement then 
 Than tliis we fret in, he a denizen 
 Of tli;;t ideal Rome that made a man fur men. 
 I'iucid completeness, life without a fall 
 From fiith or highest aims, truth's br^•achless wall. 
 Surely if any fame can bear the touch. 
 His will say " Here !" at the last trumpet's c;dl, 
 The une.xpressive man whose life expressed s.) miu-li, 
 JAMics Russp;ll Lowiii.i.. 
 
 SIR JOHN FRANKLIN, 
 
 The ice was here, the Ice was there, 
 The ice was all around. —Colkridge. 
 
 WHITHER sail you, .Sir John Frank- 
 lin?" 
 Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
 "To know if between the land and the 
 pole 
 I may find a broad sea-way." 
 
 " I charge you back, Sir John Franklin, 
 As you would live and thrive ; 
 For between the land and the frozen pole . 
 No man may sail alive." 
 
 But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 And spoke unto his men : — 
 " Half England is wrong, if he is right ; 
 Bear off to the westward then." 
 
 "O, whither sail you, brave Englishman?" 
 
 Cried the little Esquimaux. 
 " Between the land and the polar star 
 
 My goodly vessels go." 
 
 "Come down, if you would journey there," 
 
 The li tie Indian said ; 
 " And change your cloth for fur clothing, 
 
 Your vessel for a sled." 
 
 But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 And the crew laughed with him too ; 
 " A sailor to change from ship to sled, 
 I ween, were something new." 
 
 All through the long, long polar day, 
 
 The vessels westward sped ; 
 And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, 
 
 The ice gave way and fled — 
 
 Gave way with many a hollow groan. 
 
 And with many a surly roar ; 
 But it murmured and threatened on every side. 
 
 And closed where he sailed before. 
 
 " Ho ! see ye not, my merry men, 
 The broad and open sea ? 
 
 j'^ 
 
 .J'p 
 
vv 
 
 4:'-'! 
 
 mm 
 
 
 
 (U 
 
 8: i^ii' 
 
 340 
 
 Rethink yc wliat the whaler saiJ, 
 Think (f tlie little Indian's sled !" 
 Tlie crew laughed out in glee. 
 
 "Sir Ji)hn, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, 
 Tlie scud drives on the breeze, 
 The ice cunies looming from the north, 
 The very sunbeams freeze." 
 
 "Bright summer goes, dark winter comes — 
 We cannot rule the year ; 
 rjut long ere summer's sun go' s down. 
 On yonder sea we'll steer." 
 
 The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, 
 
 And (loujidered down the gaii> ; 
 The ships were stayed, and yards were manned, 
 
 And furletl the useless sail. 
 
 "The summer's gone, the winter's come, 
 We sail not on yonder sea ; 
 Why sail we not. Sir John Franklin?" 
 A silent niiin was he. 
 
 "The summer goes, the winter comes— 
 We cannot rule the yi ar ; 
 I ween, we cannot rule the ways, 
 Sir John, wherein wc'il steer." 
 
 The cruel ice came floating on. 
 
 And closed beneath the ke. 
 Till the thickening waters dashed no more — 
 'Twas i"e around, behind, before — 
 
 My God ! there is no sea ! 
 
 " What think you of the whaler now ? 
 What of the Esquimaux ! 
 A sled were belter than a ship, 
 To cruise through ice and snow." 
 
 Down sank the baleful crimson sun, 
 
 The Northern Light came out, 
 And glared upon the ice-bound ships. 
 
 And shook its spears about. 
 
 The snow came down, storm breeding storm, 
 
 And on the decks w;!s laid ; 
 Till the weary sailor, sick at heart. 
 
 Sank down beside his spade. 
 
 " Sir John, the night is black and ong. 
 The hissing wind is bleak ; 
 The hard, green ice is strong as death ; 
 I prithee, Captain, speak!" 
 
 "The night is neither bright nor short, 
 The singing breeze is cold. 
 The ice is not so strong as hope — 
 The heart of man is bold." 
 
 " What hope can scale this icy wall, 
 High o'er the main flag-staff? 
 Above the ridges the wolf and bear 
 Look down with a patient, settled stare, 
 Look down on us and laugh." 
 
 CROWN JFAVKLS. 
 
 The summer went, the winter came — 
 
 Wo could not rule the year : 
 Hut summer will melt the ice again, 
 Aiul open a path to the sunny mam, 
 
 Whereon our siii|)s shall steer. 
 
 The winter went, the summer went, 
 
 The winter caniu around ; 
 Tiut tli'j hard, green ice was atrong as deallt. 
 And the voice of hope sank to a breath, 
 
 Yet caught at every sound. 
 
 " Hark ! heard you not the noise of guns ? 
 
 And there, and there again.'' " 
 " 'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar. 
 
 As he turns in the frozen main." 
 
 "Hurrah! hurrah! the Esciuimaux 
 
 Across the ice-fields steal." 
 "God give them grace for their charity I 
 
 Ye pray for the silly seal." 
 
 "Sir John, where are the English fields? 
 And where are the English trees ? 
 And where are the little English flowers 
 That open in the breeze ? " 
 
 " Be still, be still, my brave sailors! 
 You shall see the fields again. 
 And smell the scent of the opening flcjwors. 
 The grass and the waving grain." 
 
 " Oh ! when shall I see my orphan child ? 
 
 My Mary waits for me." 
 " Oh ! when shall I see my old mother. 
 
 And pray at her trembling knee ? " 
 
 " Be still, be still, my brave sailors, 
 Think not such thoughts again ! " 
 But a tear froze slowly on his cheek ; 
 He thought of Lady Jane. 
 
 Ah ! bitter, bitter grows the cold, > 
 
 The ice grows more and more ; 
 More settled stare the wolf and bear. 
 
 More patient tlian before. 
 
 "Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin, 
 We'll ever see the land? 
 'Twas cruel to send us here to starve 
 Without a helping hand. ' 
 
 " 'Twas cruel to send us here. Sir John, 
 So far from help or home. 
 To starve and freeze on this lonely sea : 
 I ween the Lords of the Admiralty 
 Had rather send than come." 
 
 "Oh I whether we starve to death alone. 
 Or sail to our own country, 
 We have done what man has never done — 
 The open ocean danced in the sun-— 
 We passed the Northern Seal " 
 
 George H. Boker. 
 
 ti <} 
 
 ;, :v| 
 
PKRSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 341 
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 'IS mind a maxim, plain, yet keenly shrewd, 
 A heart vvilii larj^e benevolence eiuiutd ; 
 Now scaninng cause with philusopliic aiin. 
 And now arresting; the ethereal ll:iinu; 
 Great as a statesnian, as a patriot true. 
 Courteous in manners, yet exalted too ; 
 Astern republican — by kin^js caressed. 
 Modest — by nations is his nuniory blessed. 
 William U. Tai-i'an. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO SAMUEL ADAMS, 
 
 ET fame to the world sound America's voice ; 
 No intri>;ues can her sons from their };ijvern- 
 ment sever ; 
 Her pride is her Adams ; her laws are his 
 choice, 
 And shall flourish till liberty slumbers forever. 
 Then unite heart and hand. 
 Like Leoiiid.is' band, 
 AikI swear to the God of the ocaxn and l.md. 
 That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
 While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its 
 waves. 
 
 RoDEUT Tkkat Paine. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 «J 
 
 Oye dead poets, wliu arc living still 
 Immortal in your verse.— Longfellow. 
 
 E mourn for tlKwe whose laurels fade, 
 Whose greatness in the grave is laid ; 
 Whose memory few will care to keep, 
 Whose nami-s, forgotten, soon shall .'>leep ; 
 
 We mourn life's vainness, as we bow 
 
 O'er folded hands and icy brow. 
 
 W'an is the grief of those whose faith 
 Is bounded by the shores of de.ath ; 
 From out w'.iose mists of doubt and gloom 
 No rainbow arches o'er the tomb 
 Wiiere love's last tribute of a tear 
 Lies with dead flowers upon the bier. 
 
 O thou revered, beloved ! — not yet. 
 With sob of bells, with eyes tear-wet, 
 With faltering pulses, do we lay 
 Thy greatness in the grave away ; 
 Not Auburn's consecrated ground 
 Can hokl the life that wraps thee round. 
 
 Still shall thy gentle presence prove 
 Its minstry of hope and love ; 
 Thy tender tones be heard within 
 The story of Evangeline ; 
 And by the fireside, midst the rest, 
 Thou oft shalt be a welcome guest 
 
 Ajcain the mystery will be clear ; 
 The august Tuscan's ..hades appear; 
 Moved by thy iinpulsi', we sliall foei 
 New longings for tiiy high iileal; 
 And under all thy forms of art 
 Feul beatings of a luiinan heart. 
 
 As in our dreams we follow thee 
 Willi longing eyes beyoiul the sea. 
 We see thee on some loftier heigiit 
 Across whose trembling bridge of light 
 Our voices of the night are borne, 
 Ciasp with while hand the stars uf morn. 
 
 O happy poet ! Thine is not 
 
 A jiorlicjii of tile common lot ; 
 
 Thy works shall follow thee; thy verse 
 
 .Shall still thy living tin nights rehearse ; 
 
 The ages shall to thee b.,'long — 
 
 An immortality of s inj;. 
 
 I'uANcis F. Browne. 
 
 THE WELCOME TO LAFAYETTE ON HIS 
 RETURN TO AMERICA. 
 
 Hr mullitudis we see aio not assembled to talk 
 over their private grief;, to inc!u!t,e i:i ciueiii- 
 lous complaints, to mingle tluir murmurs of 
 "f discontent, to pour forth tales of real or imagi- 
 nary wrongs, to give utterance to political recrimina- 
 tions. The effervescence cjf faction seems f)r the mo- 
 ment to be settled, the collision of discordant interests 
 to subside, and hushed is th^ clamor of controversy. 
 There is nothing portentous of danger to the common- 
 wvalth in this gent ral awakening of tlu iiigli and tlie 
 low, the rich and the poor, the old and the young — 
 this " impulsive ardor " which jierwides the palace of 
 wealth and tiie hovel of poverty, decre|)it age and lis;i- 
 ing fmcy, virgin loveliness ancl vigorous manhood. No 
 hereditary monarch graciously ex'.iibils liis august per- 
 son to the gaze of vulgar subjects. No conc|U2ring ty- 
 rant comes in his triumphal cnr, cLcorated witli the 
 spoils of vanquished nations, and followed l)y captive 
 princes, marching to the music of their chains. No 
 proud and hypocritical hierarch, playing " fantastic aii-s 
 before high Heaven," enacts liis solemn mockeries to 
 deceive the souls of men and secure for liimself the 
 honor of an apotheosis. The shouts which anntjunce 
 the approach of a chieftain are unmingled with r.r.y 
 note of sorrow. No lovelorn m.niden's sigh touches his 
 ear ; no groan f.'jm a childless father speaks reproach; 
 no widow's curse is uttered, in bitterness of soul, upon 
 the destroyer of her hope ; no orphan's tear falls up:)ii 
 his shield to tarnish its brightness. The spectacle now 
 exhibited to the world is of the purest and noblest 
 character — a spectacle which man may admire and Cod 
 approve — an assembled nation offering the spontaneous 
 homage of a nation's gratitude to a nation's bene- 
 factor. 
 
 Joseph T. Buckingham. 
 
 i. 
 
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 111.) 
 
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 M-^l^^l:^ 
 
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 ili:t'i*! 
 
 842 
 
 CROWN JKWKLS. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 'UK liciiifiit of I»tjiuty wliith in tlico 
 
 Was 11 |)t .vailiiij; spirit, pure aiul IiIkIi, 
 Ami Itoiu all K'lil*-* liail mailc thy Ik.iii); free, 
 Now sei.-ins U> wliisprr thou canst iiuvcr dlu ! 
 I'or nature's priests wc sluil no iillc tear : 
 
 Their mantles on a nol)le lineage fall : 
 Though thy white lcK;ks at length have pn sseil the bier 
 
 Death could not folil thee in oblivion's pall : 
 MajeSi.o forms thy hand in grace arrayed 
 
 F.ternal watch shall keep beside thy toml), 
 And hues aerial, that thy pencil stayed. 
 
 Its shades uidi heaven's radiaiu i illume : 
 Art's meek apostle, holy is thy sway. 
 From the heart's records ne'er to pass away. 
 
 llENKY TllKOUOKE TlCKERMAN. 
 
 WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 
 
 'HOU livest in the life of .ill good things ; 
 
 What words thou spakest for freedom shall 
 nut die ; 
 Thou sleejiest not, for now thy love halh wings 
 To soar where hence thy hope could hardly lly. 
 
 Farewell, good man, good angel now ! this hand 
 Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cinuiiiig too ; 
 
 Soon shall this soul, like thine, bewildered staiul, 
 Then le.-.p to thread the free unfathomed !<lue. 
 
 When that day comes, oh, may this hand grow cold, 
 Busy, like thine, for freedom and the right ! 
 
 Oh, may this soul, like thine, be ever bold 
 To face dark knavery's encroaching blight ! 
 
 Iames Russell Lowell. 
 
 HONOR TO KANE. 
 
 ^T^LOFT upon an old iiasaltic crag, 
 
 f ^^ Which, scalped by keen winds that defend 
 
 ViA the Pole, 
 
 Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
 Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
 A mighty nation's star-bespangled (lag 
 
 Flutters alone, 
 And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
 
 Of that drear cliff, a simple name is tiaced ; 
 Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt. 
 But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
 Breasted the gathering snows. 
 Clung to the drifting floes, ' 
 
 By want bele<iguered, and by winter chased, 
 Seekinj; the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 
 
 Not many months ago we greeted him. 
 Crowned with the icy honors of the North, 
 Across the land his hard- won fame went forth, 
 
 And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
 
 His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
 
 Burst from decorous quiet as he came. 
 Hot southern lips, with elo<|uence aflame. 
 Sounded his triinnph. Texas, wild and grim, 
 Proffered its homy hand. The large-lunged West, 
 
 I'roni out his giant breast. 
 Veiled its frank welcome. And from main to main. 
 Jubilant to the sky, 
 Thund'Tetl the mighty cry, 
 HoNuR TO Kane! 
 
 In vain— in vain beneath his feet we flung 
 The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
 The golden wine, and rounil the shining board 
 Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 
 With the tlirice-tripled lumots of the feast ! 
 Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased 
 I're the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, 
 l!ri;^ht as auroral fires in southern skies. 
 
 Faded and faded I And the brave young heart 
 That the relentless Arctic winds had robbed 
 Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
 For the lost captain, now within his breast 
 
 More and more faintly throbbed. 
 I lis was the victory ; but as his grasp 
 Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp. 
 
 Death launched a whistling dart ; 
 And ere the thunders of applause were done 
 I lis bright eyes closed forever on the sun I 
 Too late — too late the splendid prize he won 
 In the Olympic race of science and of art ! 
 Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, 
 Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone. 
 And in the burning day 
 Wastes peak by peak away. 
 Till on some rosy even 
 It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he 
 Tranquilly floated to a southern sea. 
 And melted into heaven. 
 
 He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ! 
 We will not weep for him who died so well ; 
 But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 
 The story of his strife. 
 Such homage suits him well ; 
 Better than funeral pomp, or passing bell. 
 
 What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
 Poisoned amid the fastnesses of ice. 
 
 With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! 
 
 Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe 
 Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 
 Crunches his prey. The insufficient share 
 
 Of loathsome food ; 
 The lethargy of famine : the despair 
 
 Urging to l.tbor, nervously pursued ; 
 
 Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued 
 Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
 Glimmered the fading embers of a mind. 
 That awful hour, when through the prostrate baud 
 Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 
 
Pl'RSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 84:1 
 
 Upon the gliastly forclionds of tlie crew ; 
 
 The whispers of rubcllion, faint and lew 
 
 At fust, lint decpcninj; ever till th>y j;rew 
 Into lilack tluni^hts of iiniriicr : sncli the throng 
 C)f horrors Ijounil tlie hero. Mi>;li tiie son^ 
 Should he tiuit hynnis the iiohlepart lie played I 
 Sinking; himself— yet niinisterin); aid 
 
 To all around hlni. Ity a mighty will 
 
 Living; defiant of the wants that kill, 
 Ik'causu his death wouki seal his comrades' fate ; 
 
 Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 
 Those I'olar waters, tiark and desolate, 
 i;(|iial to every trial, every fate, 
 
 lie stands, until sprint;, tardy with relief, 
 Unlocks the icy Ki>te, 
 Ami the pale prisoners thread the world once more, 
 To the steep clifiTs of Greenland's pastoral shore 
 Bearing their dying chief. 
 
 Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
 Kiom royal hands, who wooed the knightly state ; 
 
 The knell of old formalities is tolled. 
 And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. 
 
 No grander episode doth chivalry holil 
 In all its annals, hack to Charlemagne, 
 Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, 
 
 riiitiifully kept through hunger and through cold, 
 liy the good Christian knight, Elisiia Kank. 
 
 Fitz-James O'Brien. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM AN ORATION ON JAMES A. 
 GARFIELD. 
 
 ^^\ N the morning of .Saturday, July 2d, the Presi- 
 C-r J '^'dent was a contented and happy man — not 
 %^^ in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost 
 '* boyishly happy. On h s way to the railroad 
 
 station, to which he drove slowly, in conscious enjoy- 
 ment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted 
 Sense of leisure and keen anticip:ition of pleasure, his 
 talk was all in the grateful and gratulatory vein. He 
 ftll tiiat after four months of trial his administration 
 was strong in its grasp of aflfairs, strong in popular fa- 
 vor, and destined to grow stronger ; that grave difli- 
 cuities confronting him at his inauguration had been 
 safely passed ; that trouble lay behind him and not be- 
 fofL- him ; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he 
 loved, now recovering from an illness which had but 
 lately disquieted and at times almost unnerved him ; 
 that he was going to his Alma Mater to renew the 
 most cheerful associations of his young manhood and 
 to exchange greetings with those whose deepening in- 
 terest had followed every step of his upward progress 
 from the day he entered upon his college course until 
 he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift of his 
 countrymen. 
 Surely if happiness can ever come from the honors 
 
 or triumphs of this world, on that (|uict July morning 
 James ;\. (iarfield may well have been a happy man. 
 No fuieboding of evil haunted liim ; no sli>;hte.'<t pre- 
 monition of dan;;er clouiled his sky. Ills t.riiljjj fat-' 
 was U|ion hiin in an inst.mt. One mom nt lie stood 
 erect, strong, <:nntiilent in the years stretching pe.icj- 
 fully out befcjre him ; the next ho lay wounded, bked- 
 ing, helpless, iloometl to weary weeks of torture, l) 
 silence and the grave. 
 
 Great in life, h^; was .sur|)assingly great in dealli. 
 Forno cause, in the very frenzy of want<iniie.ss and 
 wickedness, by tlv.- red h.md of murder, he was thrust 
 from the full tide of this world's interest— from its 
 hopes, iis aspirations, its victories, into the visible 
 presence of ticath, and he did not <iiriil. Not alone for 
 the one short monunt in which, stunn.'d and dazed, 
 he could give up life hardly aware of its rt^liiuini'.h- 
 ment, but through days of deadly languor, tliroii.;!i 
 weeks of agony that was not less agi^ny because 
 silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he 
 looked into his open grave. What blight and 1 n'.a met 
 his anguished eyes whose lips may tell — wli;it brilliant, 
 broken plans, what b, idled, higij anil)itions, wliat sun- 
 dering of strong, warm, manhoxl's fri^-nd-ship-i, what 
 bitter rending of sweet hoiisoliold ties I Behind iiim a 
 proud, expectant naticjii ; a great luist of sustaining 
 friends; a cherished and ha;) <y mother, wearing tlu 
 full, rich honors of her early tod and tears : the wife 
 of his youth, whose wliole life lay in his; the little 
 boys, not yet emerged fri)m childhood's d;iy of frolic ; 
 the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing 
 into closest companionship, claiming every day and 
 every day rewarding ;i father's love and care; and in 
 his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all dj- 
 mands. Before him desolation and great darkness — 
 and his soul was not shaken. Mis countryman wjre 
 thrilled with instant, profound and universal sympathy. 
 Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the 
 centre of a nation's love enshrined in the prayers of a 
 world. But all the love and all the sympathy cuild 
 not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine- 
 press alone. With unfaltering front he faced doatli. 
 With unfailing tenderness he t jok leave of life. Abov.i 
 the demoni.ic hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard tha 
 voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to 
 the divine decree. 
 
 As the end drew near his early craving for the sea 
 returned. The stately mansion of power had been to 
 him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to 
 be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, 
 stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. 
 Gently, silently, the love of a great people boro the 
 pale suflTerer to the longed-for healing of the sea to 
 live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its 
 heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. 
 With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling 
 breeze he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's chang- 
 ing wonders ; on its far sails, whitening the morning 
 light ; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break 
 
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 344 
 
 CROWN JirWELS. 
 
 und die beneath the noonday sun ; on the red clouds of 
 evening, arching low to the horizon ; on tlie serene 
 and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think tliat 
 his dying eyes read a mystic meaning AJiich only tlie 
 rapt and parting soul may know. Ivjt us believe th.it 
 in the silence of the receding world ha heard the great 
 waves breaking on a farther shore, and felt already 
 upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morn- 
 ing. 
 
 James G. Blaine. 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 'ER singular talents for government were found- 
 ed equally on her temper and onhercapacity. 
 Endowed with a great command over her- 
 self, !-he soon obtained an uncontrolled as- 
 cendaiii over her people; and wliile slie merited all 
 their esteem by her real virtues, she also engaged 
 their affections by her pretended ones. Few sov- 
 ereigns of England succeeded to tiie tlirone in more 
 difficult circumstances ; and none ever conducted the 
 government with such uniform success and felicity. 
 Though unacquainted witii thepractice of toleration — 
 the true secret for managing religious factions— she 
 preserved her people, by her superior prudence, from 
 those confusions in which theological controversy had 
 involved all the neighboring nations : and though her 
 enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe, 
 tl'c most active, the most enterprising, tiie least 
 scrupulous, she was able by her vigor to make deep 
 impressions on their states ; her own greatness mean- 
 while remained untouched and unimpaired. 
 
 The wise ministers and brave warriors who flour 
 ished under her reign, share the praise of her success ; 
 but instead of lessening the applause due to her, they 
 make great addition to it. They owed, all of them, 
 their advancement to her clioice ; they were sup- 
 ported by her constancy, and with all their abilities, 
 they were never able to acquire any undue ascendant 
 over her. In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, 
 she remained equally mistress : the force of the ten 
 der passions was great over her, but the force of her 
 mind was still superior ; and the combat wiiich her 
 victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the 
 firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her 
 ambitious sentiments. 
 
 Tlie fame of this princess, though it has surmounted 
 the prejudices both of faction and bigotry, ytt lies 
 still exposed to another prejudice, which is more 
 durable because most natural, and winch, according 
 to the different views in which wc survey her, i^ capa- 
 ble either of exalting beyond measure or diminisliin;; the 
 lustre of her character. This prejudice is founded vn 
 the consideration of her sex. When we conti mplate 
 her as a woman, we are apt to be struck with the 
 highest admiration of her great qualities and extensive 
 capacity ; but we are also apt to require some more 
 
 softness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, 
 some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex 
 is distinguished. But the true method of estimating 
 her merit is to lay aside all these considerations, and 
 consider her merely as a rational being plac -d in au- 
 thority, and intrusted with the government o." man- 
 kind. We may find it difficult to reconcile our f.mcy 
 to her as a wife or a mistress; but her qualities as a 
 sovereign, though with some considerable exceptions, 
 are the object of undisputed applause and approbation. 
 
 David Hijnt. 
 
 CCEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS 
 FATHER. 
 
 The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church 
 of Konleviiiult, wlitre it was visited by Richard Cueur de I, ion, 
 who, on iichcildiiig it, was struck with horror and remorse, and 
 t itterly reproachiil liimself for that rebellious conduct which had 
 been the means of bringing l>is father to an untimely grave. 
 
 ORCHES were blazing clear, 
 
 Hynuis pealing deep and slow. 
 Where a king lay stately on his bier 
 "f In the church of rontevrault. 
 
 Banners of battle o'er him hung, 
 And warriors slept beneath. 
 And light as noon's broad light was flung 
 On the settled face of deatii : 
 
 On the setUed face of death 
 
 A strung aiid rudd)' glare — 
 Though dimined at times by the censer's breath. 
 
 Yet it fell still brightest there ; 
 As if each deeply furrowed trace 
 
 Of eartlily years to show — 
 Alas ! that sce|)tred mortal's race 
 
 Had surely closed in woe ! 
 
 The marble floor was swept 
 
 By many a long dark stole. 
 As the kneeling priests, round him that slept 
 
 Sang mass for the parted soul ; 
 And solemn were the strains they poured 
 
 Through the stillness of the night. 
 With the cross above, and the crown and sword. 
 
 And the siknt king in sight. 
 
 There was heard a heavy clang. 
 
 As of steel-girt men the tread. 
 And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 
 
 With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
 And the hi>ly chant w-as hushed awhile. 
 
 As by the torch's flame, 
 A gleam of arms up the sweening aisle 
 
 With a mail-clad leader came. 
 
 He came with haughty look. 
 An eagle glance and clear ; 
 But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook 
 When he stood beside the bier ! 
 
PERSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 .*]45 
 
 :r of his 
 
 lie stood there still with a drooping brow, 
 And clasped hands o'er it raised ; — 
 
 Tor his father lay before him low, 
 It was Casur de Lion gazed ! 
 
 And silently he strove 
 
 Willi the workings of his brea'-t ; 
 Hut tlwre's more in late repentant love 
 
 Tiian steel may keep suppressed ! 
 And his tears brake forth at last like rain — 
 
 Men held Uieir breath in awe, 
 \'ur his face was seen by his warrior-train. 
 
 And he recked not that they saw. 
 
 He looked upon the dead, 
 
 And sorrow seemed to lie — 
 A weigiit of sorrow, even like lead, 
 
 Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
 He stooped — and kissed the frozen cheek, 
 
 And the heavy hand of clay, 
 Till bursting words — yet all too weak — 
 
 Gave his soul's passion way. 
 
 "Oh, father! is it vain, 
 
 This late remorse and deep ? 
 Speak to me, fatlier ! once again, 
 
 1 weep— behold, I weep ! 
 Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! 
 
 Were but this work undone, 
 I would give England's crown, my sire ! 
 
 To hear thee bless tiiy son. 
 
 " Speak to me ! mighty grief 
 
 Ere now the dust liath stirred ! 
 Hear me, but hear me ! — father, chief, 
 
 My king ! I must be heard ! 
 Htisiied, hushed- how is it that I call, 
 
 And that thou answerest not ? 
 Wi'.eii was it thus, woe, woe for all 
 
 The love my soul forgot ! 
 
 " Thy silver hairs I see. 
 
 So still, so sadly bright ! 
 ,^ih1 father, father ! but for me. 
 
 They had not been so white ! 
 1 iidie thee down, high heart ! at last, 
 
 No longer couldst thou strive ; — 
 Oh, for one momf-nt of the past, 
 
 To knetl and say — ' Forgive ! ' 
 
 " Tiiou wert the noblest king 
 
 On royal throne ere seen ; 
 And thou didst wear in knightly ring, 
 
 Of all, the stateliest mien ; 
 And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, 
 
 in war, the bravest heart— 
 Oil, ever the renowned and loved 
 
 Thou wert— and there thou art ! 
 
 "Thou that my boyhood's guide 
 Didst take fond joy to be ! — 
 
 The times I've sported at thy side. 
 And climbed thy parent knee ! 
 
 And there before the blessed shrine. 
 My sire ! I see thee lie — 
 
 How will that sad still face of tliine 
 Look on me till I die ! " 
 
 Felicia Dorothea He>:ans. 
 
 (3 
 
 FARRAGUT. 
 
 FTER life's long watch and ward 
 Sleep, great sailor, while the bard 
 Chants your daring. When, tjflate, 
 Tempest shook the bark of .State, 
 Fierfe and deadly, throe on throe, 
 Horrid with a phosphor-glow. 
 And the mountains rearing gray 
 Smote her reeling on her way — 
 
 Day and night who stood a guard. 
 Steadfast aye for watch and ward? 
 You, great Pilot, who were made 
 Quick and cautious, bold and staid ; 
 Like Decatur, Perry, Jones, 
 Mastering men with trumpet tones. 
 How you met your land's appeal 
 Knows New Orleans, knows Mobile. 
 
 Slumber, free from watch or ward. 
 Dweller deep in grassy yard 
 Of still billows ! Keep your berth 
 Narrow in the quiet earth ! 
 As of old the north star shines. 
 Heaven displays the ancient signs, 
 On the ship drives, sure and slow, 
 Though the Captain sleeps below. 
 
 Only sleeps upon his sword ; 
 Slumbers earned by watch and ward ; 
 For if timbers crack, and helm 
 Fail her, and a sea o'envhelm. 
 Then His Spirit shall inform 
 .Some new quellerof the storm. 
 Who shrll bring, though stars are pale, 
 The bark in safety through the gale 
 
 Charles De Kav. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 TOP, mortal ! Here thy broUier lies- 
 The poet of the poor. 
 His books were rivers, woods, and skies 
 The meadow and the moor ; 
 His teachers were the torn heart's wail. 
 
 The tyrant, and the slave. 
 The street, the factory, the jail. 
 
 The palace — and the grave ! 
 Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 
 
 And is thy brother blamed ? 
 From passion, danger, doubt, and care 
 He no exemption claimed. 
 
34G 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 S 
 
 
 'If 
 
 ^1 I 
 
 
 
 ■a 
 
 
 The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 
 
 He feared to scorn or liate ; 
 But, honoring in a peasant's form 
 
 The equal of the great, 
 He blessed the steward, whose wealth makes 
 
 The poor man's iittle mon.- ; 
 Yet loatliet! the haughty wrettii iliat takes 
 
 From plundered labor's store. 
 A hand to do, a iicad to plan, 
 
 A heart to feel and dare — 
 Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 
 
 Who drew them as they are. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 |5) 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 MORE or less than man— in high or low, 
 liattling with nations, flying from the field : 
 Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, 
 now 
 
 More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield : 
 An empire tliou couldst crusii, command, rebuild, 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor 
 However deeply in men's spirits skilled, 
 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of w:ir, 
 Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. 
 
 Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide 
 With that untaught innate piiilosophy. 
 Which, be it wisdom, coidiiess, or deep i)ride. 
 Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
 When the whole host of hatred stood hard by. 
 To watch and mock thee siirinking, thou hast smiled 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye— 
 When fortune fled her .spoiled and favorite chiUl, 
 He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. 
 
 He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind. 
 Must look down on the hate of those below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Round him are icy r(x:ks, and louilly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head. 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 
 
 Lord Bvro;s'. 
 
 EACE dwells not here — this rugged face 
 Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
 The sullen warrior .sole we trace, 
 The marble man of many woes. 
 Such was his mien when fi st arose 
 The thought of that strange tale divitie — 
 When hell he peopled with his foes, 
 The scourge of many a guilty line. 
 
 O time ! whose verdicts mock our own, 
 The only righteous judge art thou ; , 
 That poor, old e.xile, sad and lone. 
 Is Latium's other Virgil now. 
 Before his name the nation.; how ; 
 His words are parcel of mankind, 
 Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. 
 The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 
 
 Thomas William Parson. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 'I.S learning such, no author, old or new. 
 
 Escaped his reading that deserved his view ; 
 And such his judgment, so e.xact his taste, 
 Of what was best in books, or what books best. 
 That had he joined those notes his labors took 
 From each most prai.sed and praise-deserving book. 
 And could the world of that choice treasure boast. 
 It need not care though all the rest were lost. 
 
 Lucius Gary (Lord Falkla-id). 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 'HREE poets, in three distant ages born, 
 Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
 The first in loftiness of thought surpassed ; 
 The ne.xt in majesty ; in both the last. 
 The force of nature could no further go ; 
 To make a third, she joined the former two. 
 
 John Drvden. 
 
 TO SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 [T length, 01ympi,m lord of morn, 
 The raven veil of night was torn, 
 
 When through golden clouds descending. 
 Thou didst hold thy radiant flight, 
 
 O'er nature's lovely pageant bending, 
 Till Avon rolled, all sparkling, to thy sight ! 
 
 There, on its bank, beneath the nuilberry's shade. 
 Wrapped in young dreams, a wild-eyed inin.strel played. 
 Lighting there and lingering long, 
 '1 hou didst teach the bard his song ; 
 
 Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, 
 And round his brows a garland curled ; 
 
 On his lips thy spirit fell. 
 And bade him wake and warm the world. 
 
 Then .Shakespeare rose ! 
 Across the trembling strings 
 His daring hand he flings, 
 And lo ! a new creation flows ! 
 There, clustering round, submissive to his will, 
 Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfill. — 
 
 O thou ! to whose creative power 
 We dedicate the festal hour, 
 While grace and goodness round the altar stand. 
 Learning's anointed train, and beauty's ro.se-lipped 
 band— 
 
PERSONS AND PLACF.S. 
 
 :-.7 
 
 Iv^-alms yet unborn, in accents now unknown, 
 'I'hy song shall learn, and bless it for their own. 
 
 Deep in the West as inJependence roves, 
 His banners planting round tlie land he loves, 
 Where nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace. 
 In time's full hour shall spring a glorious race. 
 Thy name, thy verse, thy language, shall they bear, 
 And deck for thee the vaulted tt-mple there. 
 
 Our Roni;'.n-hearted fathers broke 
 
 Thy parent empire's galling yoke ; 
 But thou, harmonious master of the mind, 
 Around their sons a gentle chain shall bind ; 
 Once more in thee shall Albion's scf ptre wave, 
 And what her monarch lost her monarch-bard shall 
 
 save. 
 
 ChAKLKS SI'RACLE. 
 
 ilj": 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 'HAT ! Irving ! thrice welcome, warm heart 
 and fine brain ! 
 Vou bring back the happiest spirit from 
 Spain, 
 And the gravest sweet humor that ever was tliere 
 Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair. 
 Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, 
 I slian't run directly against my own preaching. 
 And, having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, 
 (lo to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes ; 
 lUit allow me to speak what I honestly feel ; — 
 To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, 
 Throw in all of Addison minus the chill, 
 Witii the whole of that partnership's stock and good 
 
 will, 
 Mix well, and, while stirring, hum o'er, as a spell, 
 The "fine old English genUeman ;"— sinuner it well : 
 .Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain. 
 That only the finest and clearest remain : 
 Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives 
 l'"roni the warm lazy sun loitering down through green 
 
 leaves ; 
 And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving 
 A name either Englisli or Yankee^u^t Irving. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE 
 • HATH LEFT US. 
 
 'O draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, 
 Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; 
 While I confess thy writings to be such 
 As neither man nor Muse can praise too 
 much. 
 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 
 For silliest ignorance on these would light, 
 Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; 
 
 Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 
 The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance ; 
 Or crafty malice might pretend this praise. 
 And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise. 
 
 But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, 
 .Above the ill-fortune of them, or the need. 
 I therefore will begin : Soul of the age I 
 The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ! 
 My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
 Chaucer, or Spencer, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little further off, to make thee room : 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb. 
 And art alive still, wliile thy book doth live, 
 
 j And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 
 I That I not mi,\ thee so, my brain excuses, 
 I mean with great but disproportioned Muses : 
 For if I thought my judgement were of yeari, 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peers. 
 And tell how far thou didst our Lyle outshine. 
 Or sporting Kyd or Marlowe's mighty line. 
 And though thou had small Latin and less Gr ek, 
 From thence to honor thee I will not seek 
 For names ; but call forth thundering F.schylus, 
 Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead. 
 To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, 
 And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on, 
 Leave thee alone for the comparison 
 Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
 Sent forth, or since did from their aslies come. 
 Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 I le was not of an age, but for all time ! 
 .'\nd all the Muses still were in their prime, 
 When, like Apollo, he came foi-th to warm 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm 1 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs. 
 And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines ! 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 .As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
 Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please : 
 But antiquated and deserted lie, 
 As they were not of nature's family. 
 Yet must I not give nature all ; thy art, 
 My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. 
 For though the poet's matter nature be. 
 His art doth give the f.ishion ; and, that he 
 Who casts to write a living line, must sweat 
 (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 
 Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same. 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; 
 Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; 
 For a good poet's made as well as born. 
 And .such were thou ! Look how the father's face 
 Lives in his issue, even so the race 
 Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines 
 In his well turned and true filed lines: 
 
■■'; 
 
 < 1 ' 
 
 1-tb'ili I 
 
 jiJ|:jf :'™?'S 
 
 348 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
 
 As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 
 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 
 To see thee in our water yet appear, 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks cf Thames 
 
 That so did take Eliza and our James ! 
 
 Ihit stay, I see thee in the hemispliL-re 
 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 
 
 Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, 
 
 Or influence, chide, or ciieer the drooping stage 
 
 Which since thy fliglit from hence iuith mourned like 
 
 night, 
 And despairs day, but for thy volume's light ! 
 
 Ben JoNSON. 
 
 Ilj' 
 
 :PITAPH on SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 'HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honored 
 bones, 
 
 The labor of an age in piled stones? 
 
 Or that his hallowed relics should be hid 
 Under a starry-pointing pyramid ? 
 Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? 
 Thou in our wonder and astonislunont 
 Hast built thyself a live-long niotuunent. 
 r'or whilst, to the shame of slow-cndcavoring avt 
 Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
 Tho>e dclpliic liiKs with deep impiLSsion took, 
 Then thou, our fancy of itself bere.uii'.g, 
 Dost make us marble with too nuch conceiving ; 
 And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, 
 That kings for such a tomb would wisii to die. 
 
 Joiis Milton. 
 
 MARIUS. 
 
 Eui;gestid by a p,-iintinK In' VamWrlyii, of Maiius seated among 
 the ruins of Curtilage. 
 
 Hi:^h thoughts may seem, 'mid p.assion's strife, 
 Like Carthage in decay. 
 
 And proud hopes in the human heart 
 
 M;iy be to ruin hurled, 
 Like mouldering monuments of art 
 
 Heaped on a sleepmg world. 
 
 Yet there is something will not die, 
 
 Where life hath once been fair ; 
 Some towering thoughts still rear on high, 
 
 Some Roman lingers there ! 
 
 LvDiA Maria Child. 
 
 P 
 
 ILLARS are fallen at thy feet, 
 Fanes quiver in the air, 
 A prostrate city is thy seat — 
 And thou alone art there. 
 
 No change comes o'er thy noble brow, 
 
 Though ruin is around thee ; 
 Tiiine eye-beam burns as proudly now, 
 
 As when the laurel crowned thee. 
 
 It cannot bend thy lofty soul, 
 
 Though friends and fame depart ; 
 The car of fate may o'er thee roll, 
 
 Nor crush thy Roman heart. 
 
 And genius hath electric power, 
 Which earth can never tame ; 
 
 Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower- 
 Its (lash is still the same. 
 
 The dreams we loved in early life 
 May melt like mist away ; 
 
 SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE 
 PILGRIMS. 
 
 ETHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, ad. 
 venturous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn 
 hope, freii;hted with the prospects of;; future 
 state, and bound across the unknown sea. ] 
 behold it pursuing with a thousand misgivin.^s, the un- 
 certain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and 
 weeks and months pass, and winter surprises thtm on 
 the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wislied- 
 for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with pro- 
 visions, crowded almost to suflbcation in their ill-stored 
 prison, delaj-ed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route ; 
 and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on 
 the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of tlie stomi 
 howls through the rigging; the laboring masts sei.ni 
 straining from their base; the dismal sound of tiiL- 
 pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, f;(,iii 
 billow to billow ; the ocean breaks, and settles w illi 
 ingulfing floods over the lloatit;g deck, and beats wiili 
 deadening, slnvering weight, against tlie staggered ves- 
 sel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursiiiiii; 
 tlieir all but desper.ite undertaking, and landed, at List, 
 after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of 
 Plymouth — weak and weary from the voyage, poorlv 
 armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without 
 means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 
 
 Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on 
 iny principle of human probabi ity, what shall be tin- 
 fate (if this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man d 
 military science, in how many months were they all 
 swept ofTby the thirty savage tribes enumerated witliiii 
 the early limits of New England ? Ttll me, politician, 
 how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your 
 conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish (it 
 the distant coast? Student of history, compare for ii.c 
 the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, liic 
 abandoned adventures of other times, and find the 
 parallel of this I Was it the winter's storm, bcatiiiK 
 upon the houseless heads of women and children ? was 
 it hard labor and spare meals ? was it disease ? wr.s it 
 the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of a blighted 
 hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, achiiic;, 
 in its last moments, at t'.ie recollection of the loved and 
 
PERSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 349 
 
 left, beyond (he sea? — was it some or all of these uni- 
 ted, that hurried this forsaken company to tiieir mel- 
 ancholy fate? And if. it possible that neitlijr of these 
 causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this 
 hud of hope! Is it possible that from a beginning so 
 fjcble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of r.dmiration 
 as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a 
 jjrowth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality 
 so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ! 
 
 EdWAKU EVERICTT. 
 
 LEATHER STOCKING. 
 
 These lines rcftr to the good wishes which Elizalieth, in Mr. 
 Cooper's novel of " Tlie Pioneers," seems to Iiave nianilesteil, in 
 tlie last cliaptcr, for the welfare of " Leatliur Stocking," whin he 
 signified, at the grave of the Indian, his determination to quit the 
 settlements of men for the nnexplored forests of the West, and 
 when, whistling to his dogs, with his rifle on his shoulder, and his 
 p:ick on his hack, he left tlie village of Temjileton. 
 
 ('l^l^AR away from the hillside, the lake and the 
 
 •1^ ' hamlet, 
 
 A The rock, and the brook, and yon meadow so 
 
 gny ; 
 
 From the footpath that winds by the side of the stream- 
 let; 
 From his hut, and the grave of his friend, far away — 
 Ho is gone where the footsteps of men never ventured, 
 Where the glooms of the wild-tangled forest are cen- 
 tred, 
 Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has en- 
 tered. 
 No bloodhound has roused up the deer with his bay. 
 
 Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer ; 
 
 iMrm be his sti p throu^^h each wearisome mile — 
 Far from the cruel man, far from \.\v) plunderer, 
 
 Far from the track of the mean and the vile. 
 And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails 
 
 him. 
 And all but the last throb of memory fails him, 
 He'll think of the friend, far away, that bewails him. 
 
 And light up the cold touch of death with a smile. 
 
 And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre; 
 
 There for his pall shall the oak-leaves be spread — 
 The sweet brier shall liloom, and the wild grape shall 
 cluster ; 
 
 .\nd o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed, 
 There shall they mix with die fern and the heather ; 
 Th.ere shall the young eagle shed its first feather; 
 The wolves, with his wild dogs, shall lie there together. 
 
 And moan o'er the spot where the hnn' - 's laid. 
 John G. C. Brainard. 
 
 THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. 
 
 May -iS, 1857. 
 ' T wjis fifty years ago, 
 
 In the pleasant month of May, 
 In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 
 A child in its cradle lay. 
 
 And Nature, the old nurse, took 
 
 The child upon her knee, 
 Saying, " Mere is a story-book 
 
 Thy Father has written for thee." 
 
 " Come, wander widi me," she said, 
 '■ Into regions yet unlrod. 
 And read what is still unread 
 In the manuscripts of God." 
 
 And he wandered away .and away 
 With Nature, the (k-ar t)kl nurse, 
 
 Who sang to him night and day 
 The rhymes of the universe. 
 
 And whenever the way seemed long. 
 
 Or his heart began to fail, 
 She would sing a more wonderful song, 
 
 Or tell a more marvellous tale. 
 
 So she keeps nim still a child. 
 
 And will not let him go. 
 Though at times his heart beats wild 
 
 For tile beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 
 
 Though at times he hears in his dreams 
 
 The Ranz des V.aches of old, 
 And the rush of mountain streams 
 
 From gl.aciers clear and cold ; 
 
 And the mother at home says, " Hark ! 
 
 For his voice I listen and yearn . 
 It is growing Lite and dark, 
 
 And my boy does not return !" 
 
 Henry Wadswortii Longfellow. 
 
 A PANEGYRIC TO OLIVER CROMWELL. 
 
 Ilj 
 
 HILE with a strong and yet a gentle hand. 
 You bridle faction, and our h' irts command. 
 Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe. 
 Make us unite, and make us conquer too ; 
 
 Let partial spirits still aloud compl.ain, 
 Think themselves injured diat they cannot reign, 
 And own no liberty, but where they may 
 Without control upon their fellows prey. 
 
 Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face, 
 To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race, 
 .So has your Highness, raised above the rest, 
 Storms of ambition tossing us repressed. 
 
 Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, 
 Restored by you, is made a glorious state ; 
 The seat of empire, where the Irish come, 
 And the unwilling Scots, to fetch ♦heir doom. 
 
 The sea's our own ; and now all nations greet, 
 With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet ; 
 Your power e.xtends as far as winds can blow, 
 Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. 
 
 'M 
 
 f 
 
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 3 M I 
 
 I !. 
 
 If ■ • 
 
 ' %m 
 
 ( * 
 
 ii ' 
 
 350 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Still as you rise, the state exalted too, 
 
 Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you , 
 
 Changed like the world's great scene I when, without 
 
 noise, 
 Tlie rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys 
 
 Had you, some siges past, this race of glory 
 Run, with amazement we should read your story , 
 Rut living virtue, all achievements past, 
 Meets envy still to grapple with at last. 
 
 This Cresar found ; and that ungrateful age, 
 With losing him, went baclc to blood and rage ; 
 Mistaken iJrutus thought to break tiieir yoke, 
 But cut the bond of union with that stroke. 
 
 Th;it sun once set, a thousand meaner stars 
 Gave a dim light to violence and wars ; 
 To such a tempest as now threatens all. 
 Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall? 
 
 If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword, 
 Which of the conquered world had made them lord, 
 What hope had ours, while yi t their power was new. 
 To rule victorious armies, but by you ? 
 
 You, that had taught them to subdue their foes. 
 Could order teach, and their high spirits compose , 
 To every duty could their minds engage. 
 Provoke tlieir courage, and command their rage. 
 
 So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane. 
 And angry grows, if he that first took pain 
 To tame his youth approach the hau?:hty beast, 
 He bends to him, but frights away the rest. 
 
 As the vexed world, to find repose, at last 
 Itself into Augustus' arms did cast , 
 So England now does, with like toil opprest, 
 Her weary head upon your bosom rest. 
 
 Then let the muses, with such notes as these, 
 Instruct us what belongs unto our peace. 
 Your battles they hereafter shall indite, 
 And draw the image of our Mars in fight. 
 
 Edmund Wallkk 
 
 Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 
 By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win Ly 't ? 
 Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 
 Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
 Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. 
 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not r 
 Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. 
 Thy God's, and truth's , then if thou fall'st, O Crom- 
 well ! 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. 
 Serve the king ; and — pr'ythee, lead me in . 
 There take an inventory of all I have, 
 To tiie last penny; 't is the king's : my robe, 
 And my integrity to Heaven, is all 
 I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell ' 
 Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
 I served my king. He would not in mine age 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies ! 
 
 William SH/ftcEsrEARE 
 
 WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL 
 
 eROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear 
 In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, 
 Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman 
 Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, 
 Cromwell ; 
 And— when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
 And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 
 Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, 
 Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory. 
 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor — 
 Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
 A sure and safe one, though thy master mi.';sed it. 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. 
 
 LORD MACAU LAY. 
 
 'HE dreamy rhymer's measured snore 
 Falls heavy on our ears no more , 
 And by long strides are left behind 
 "f The dear delights of womankuui, 
 WIio wage their battles like their loves, 
 In satin waistcoats and kid gloves. 
 And have achieved the crowning work 
 When they have trussed and skewered 
 Another comes with stouter tread. 
 And stalks among the statlicr dead. 
 He rushes on and hails by turns 
 High-crested Scott, broad breasted Burns , 
 And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
 Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
 When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
 Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 Turk. 
 
 o 
 
 JOSEPH MAZZINI 
 
 LIGHT is out in Italy, 
 
 A golden tongue of purest flame. 
 We watched it burning, long and lone. 
 And every watcher knew its name, 
 And knew from whence its fervor came , 
 
 That one rare light of Italy, 
 Which put self-seeking souls to shame ' 
 
 This light which burnt for Iialy 
 Through all the blackness of her night, 
 
 She doubted, once upon a time. 
 Because it took away her sight. 
 
 She looked and said, " There is no light I" 
 It was thine eyes, poor Italy ! 
 
 That knew not dark apart from bright. 
 
PERSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 351 
 
 This flame which burnt for Italy, 
 
 It would not let her haters sleep. 
 They blew at it with angry breath, 
 
 And only fed its upward leap, 
 And only made it hot and deep. 
 
 Its burning showed us Italy, 
 And all the hopes she had to keep. 
 
 This light is out in Italy, 
 
 Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! 
 
 For her sweet sake it spent itself, 
 Too early flickering to its wane — 
 
 Too long bK)wn ov«-r by her pain. 
 Bow down and weep, O Italy, 
 
 Thou canst not kindle it again ! 
 
 Laura C. Rkdden {Howard Glyndon). 
 
 dangerous enemy by surrendering upper Silesia and 
 a part of lower Silesia to him. Frederick was satisfied 
 for the time, and peace was made between Austria 
 and I'russia. 
 
 <P 
 
 MARIA THERESA'S APPEAL TO HUNGARY, 
 
 fP 
 
 ARIA Theresa was twenty-four years old, 
 when she succeeded her father on tiie 
 thrones of Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia. 
 Notwithstanding the guarantee given her 
 father by the European powers, she soon found her- 
 self opposed by nearly all of them, who sought to 
 wrest her dommions from her and divide them among 
 themselves. The battle of Molwitz made the situa- 
 tion of Maria Theresa almost desperate, and a little 
 later an alliance was fonned against her by Fr me, 
 Prussia, Bavaria, Spain and Saxony. A French army 
 entered Germany and united with tlie Bavarian 
 forces, while t!ie Saxon army advanced into Bohemia. 
 The Bavarians marched into upper Austria and occu- 
 pied Linz, where the elector was procl.iimed Arch- 
 duke of Austri.i. He might have taken Vienna had 
 he moved promptly against the city, but becoming 
 jealous of the successes of the Saxons in Bohemia, he 
 undertook the conquest of that country. He entered 
 Prague and was proclaimed King of Bohemia. In 
 January, 1742, he WdS chosen emperor by the electors 
 at Frankfort, and took the title of Charles VII. 
 
 In the meantime Maria Theresa had exerted her- 
 self to repair her disasters. She fled to her kingdom 
 of Hungary for protection, and hastening to the as- 
 sembled diet, with her infant son, afterwards Joseph 
 II., in her arms, presented herself before the nobles 
 and deputies, and appealed to them to maintain her 
 ciuse. The cliivalric Hungarians were deeply moved 
 by her trust in them, and the hall rang with the cry ; 
 " Let us die for our King, Maiia Theresa ! " An army 
 of 100,000 men .vas raised, and was joined by a strong 
 force of Tyrolese. This force at once took tlie field. 
 One division not only reconquered upper Austria, but 
 inv-idcd Bavaria, and captured Munich on the very 
 day that Charles VII. was crowned emperor. A little 
 later an Austrian army, under Prince Charles of Lor- 
 raine, was defeated by Frederick at Czaslau. This 
 disaster induced the Queen to rid herself of her most 
 
 DANIEL BOONE. 
 
 F .ill men, saving Sylla the man-slayer. 
 
 Who passes for in life and death most lurky 
 Of the great names which in our faces stare. 
 Tile (ieneral Boone, backwoodsman of 
 Kentucky, 
 Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere ; 
 
 I"or, killing nothing but a boar or buck, he 
 EnJDVod the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 
 (.)f his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 
 
 Crime c.nme not near him, she is not the child 
 Of solitude ; health shrank not fruni him, fur 
 
 Her home is in the rarely trodden wild, 
 Wliere if men seek her not, and death be more 
 
 Thoir choice th.m life, forgive them, as beguiled 
 By habit to what their own hearts abhor. 
 
 In cities caged. The present case in point I 
 
 Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety ; 
 
 And, what's still stranger, left behind a name 
 For which nion v;iinly decimate the throng. 
 
 Not only famous, but of that good fame, 
 Williout which glory's but a tavern song — 
 
 .SimiJlo, serene, the antipodes of shame, 
 Wliich hate nor envy could e'er tinge with wrong ; 
 
 An active hermit, even in age the cliikl 
 
 Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 
 
 'Tis true he shrank from men, even cfhis nation ; 
 
 When they built up unto his darling trees. 
 He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
 
 Where there were fewer houses and more ease ; 
 The inconvenience of civilization 
 
 Is that you neither can be pleased nor please ; 
 But where he met the individual man. 
 He showed himself as kind as mortal can. 
 
 Lord Bvkon. 
 
 G 
 
 A WELCOME TO "BOZ." 
 
 ON HIS FIRST VISIT TO THE WKST. 
 
 OME as artist, come as guest, 
 Welcome to the expectant West, 
 Hero of the charmed pen, 
 
 ] Loved of children, loved of men. 
 
 ] We have felt thy spell for years ; 
 
 \ Oft with laughter, oft with tears. 
 
 Thou hast touched the tenderest part 
 Of our inmost, hidden heart. 
 We have fixed our eager gaze 
 On thy pages nights and days. 
 Wishing, as we turned them o'er. 
 Like poor Oliver^ for "more," 
 
 nr 
 
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 i '4 ' 
 
 ii 
 
 iU ' ,„ ,111 
 
 II 
 
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 I 
 
 
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 352 
 
 CROWN JFAVKLS. 
 
 And the creatures of thy brain 
 
 In our memory remain, 
 
 Till through thtm we seem to be 
 
 Old acquaintances of thee. 
 
 Much we hold it thee to greet, 
 
 Gladly sit we at tliy feet ; 
 
 On thy features we would look, 
 
 As upon a living book, 
 
 And thy voice would grateful hear. 
 
 Glad to feel that Boz were near, 
 
 That his veritable soul 
 
 Held us by direct control : 
 
 Therefore, author loved the best, 
 
 Welcome, welcome to the West. 
 
 In immortal Weller's name. 
 By the rare Micawber's fame. 
 By the flogging wreaked on Squeers, 
 By Job Trotter's (luunt tears, 
 By the beadle Bumljle's fate 
 At the hands of shrewish mate, 
 By the famous Pickwick Club, 
 By the dream of Gabriel Grubb, 
 In the name of Snodgrass' muse, 
 Tupman's amorous interviews, 
 Winkle's ludicrous mishaps. 
 And the fat boy's countless naps ; 
 By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer, 
 By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer. 
 In the name of Newman Noggs, 
 River Thames, and London fogs, 
 Richard Swiveller's excess. 
 Feasting witii the Marchioness, 
 By Jack Bunsby's oracles, 
 By the chime of Christmas bells, 
 By the cricket on the hearth. 
 By the sound of childish mirth. 
 By spread tables and good cheer. 
 Wayside inns and pots of beer. 
 Hostess plump and jolly host. 
 Coaches for the turnpike post. 
 Chambermaid in love with Boots, 
 Toodles, Traddlcs, Tapley, Toots, 
 Betsey Trotwood, Mister Dick, 
 Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick, 
 Snevellicci, Lilyvick, 
 Mantalini's predilections 
 To transfer his warm affections. 
 By poor Barnaby and Grip, 
 Flora, Dora, Di, and Gip, 
 Perrybingle, Pinch, and Pip — 
 Welcome, long-expected guest, 
 Welcome to the grateful West. 
 
 In the name of gentle Nell, 
 Child of light, beloved well — 
 Weeping, did we not behold 
 Roses on her bosom cold? 
 Better we for every tear 
 Shed beside her snowy bier — 
 
 By the mournful group that played 
 
 Round the grave where Smike was laid, 
 
 By the life of Tiny Tim, 
 
 And the lesson taught by him. 
 
 Asking in his plaintive tone 
 
 God to " bless us every one," 
 
 By the sounding waves that bore 
 
 Little Paul to heaven's shore, 
 
 By thy yearning Air the human 
 
 Good in every man ami woman, 
 
 By each noble deed and word 
 
 That thy story-books record, 
 
 And each noble sentiment 
 
 Dickens to the world hath lent. 
 
 By the effort thou hast made 
 
 Truth and true reform to aid. 
 
 By thy hope of man's relief 
 
 Finally from want and grief. 
 
 By thy never-failing trust 
 
 That the God of love is just — 
 
 We would meet and welcome thee. 
 
 Preacher of humanity : 
 
 Welcome fills the throbbing breast 
 
 Of the sympathetic West. 
 
 W. H. Venable. 
 
 TO VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 "y \ ICTOR in poesy ! Victor in romance I 
 IWj Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears f 
 VX French of the French and lord of human 
 tears ! 
 Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance, 
 Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance 
 Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers I 
 Weird Tiian, by thy wintry weight of years 
 As yet unbroken ! Stormy voice of France, 
 Who does not love our England, so they say ; 
 I know not ! England, France, all men to be, 
 Will make one people, ere man's race be run; 
 And I, desiring that diviner day, 
 Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy 
 To younger England in the boy , my son. 
 
 Alfred Tennvson. 
 
 MARIA DE MEDICIS RECEIVING THE 
 REGENCY. 
 
 fG 
 
 ARIA de Medicls, queen of France, was the 
 daughter of Francis II., grand duke of Tus- 
 cany, and of Joan, archduchess of Austria. 
 She was bom at Florence in 1573. In i6jo 
 she was married to Henry IV. Her son who became 
 Louis XIII, was born the following year ; his deplora- 
 ble weakness as he grew up was the principal cause 
 of his mother's misfortunes. The amours of her hus- 
 band rendered her life a wretched one, and, being of 
 a violent temper, the peace of the royal household 
 
PERSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 353 
 
 was frequenlly disturbed. Her anxieties as a wife, 
 and the absolute temper of Henry, prevented her 
 from tailing any part in state affairs durintj iiis lifetime ; 
 mill when towards i6io,Iiecontemplatedtakingthefield 
 against the house of Austria, and proposed making her 
 rejjent in his absence, she manifested the greatest re- 
 puj^nance totliesubject, always say ingtiuit it foreboded 
 some great misfortune. Finally it was arranged that 
 slie .should be entrusted with the regency by her royal 
 husband, and should be formally crowned, a ceremony 
 which Henry, on one pretext or another, had always 
 deferred. This being done, Henry was stabbed by 
 Ravaillac the day following, when preparing for the 
 Queen's entry into Paris. Thus fell Henry of Navarre, 
 a man of greatciualities, and the most popular mon- 
 arcli France has ever known. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 (Y Nebo's lonely mountain. 
 
 On this .side Jordan's wave. 
 In a vale in the land of Muab, 
 There lies a lonely grave ; 
 But no man dug that sepulchre, 
 
 And no man saw it e'er. 
 For the angels of God upturned the sod. 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 But no man heard the tramping, 
 
 Or saw the train go ft)rth ; 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes when the night is done, 
 And tlie crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun — 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves, 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves — 
 So, without sound of music. 
 
 Or voice of them that wept, 
 Sil.Mitly down from the mountain crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle, 
 
 On gray Beth-peor's height. 
 Out of his rocky eyrie, 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight. 
 Perchance the lion, stalking. 
 
 Still shuns the hallowed spot ; 
 For be.ast and bird have seen aixl heard 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 Lo ! when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 With arms reversed, and muffled drum, 
 
 Follow the funeral car. 
 
 (23) 
 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 They tell his battles won. 
 And after him lead his masterlcss steed, 
 
 While peals the minute gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 Men lay the sage to rest. 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 With costly marble dressed. 
 In the great minster transept, 
 
 Where lights like glories f.ill, 
 And the choir sings, and the organ rings 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword ; 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced, with his golden pen, 
 On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor? 
 
 The hill-side for his pall ; 
 To lie in state while angels wait. 
 
 With stars for tapers tall ; 
 And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave ; 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely land. 
 
 To lay him in the grave — 
 
 In that deep grave, without a name. 
 
 Whence his uncoffincd clay 
 Shall break again — Oh wondrous thought I— 
 
 Before the judgment day ; 
 And stand, with glory wrapped around. 
 
 On the hills he never trod. 
 And speak of the strife that won our life, 
 
 With the incarnate Son of God. 
 
 O lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 
 
 O dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 God hath his mysteries of grace — 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell ; 
 He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 
 
 Of him he loved so well. 
 
 Cecil Frances Ale.xandkr. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ' AKK back into thy bosom, earth, 
 This joyous, May-eyed morrow. 
 The gentlest child that ever mirth 
 Gave to be reared by sorrow ! 
 'Tis hard — while rays half green, half gold, 
 
 Through vernal bowers are burning, 
 And stre.mis their diamond mirrors hold 
 To summer's face returning — 
 
 M 
 
 5 
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I 
 
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 Hi:- m^^ 
 
 up nh 
 
 .'J04 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 To say we're thankful th.it his sleep 
 
 Shall nevermore be lighter, 
 In whose sweet-tongued companioiisliip 
 
 Stream, bower, and beam grow brighter ! 
 
 But ail the more intensely true 
 
 His soul gave out each fi'ature 
 Of elemental love — each hue 
 
 Antl grace of golden nature — 
 The deeper still beneath it all 
 
 Lurked the keen jags of anguish ; 
 The more the laurels clasix-'d his brow 
 
 Their poison madv; it languish. 
 Seemed it that, like the nightingale 
 
 Of his own mournful singing, 
 The tenderer would his song prevail 
 
 While most the thorn was stinging. 
 
 So never to the desert-worn 
 
 rid fount bring freshness deeper 
 Than tliat his placid rest, this morn, 
 
 Has brought the shrouded sleeper. 
 That rest may lap his weary head 
 
 Where charnels choke the oily, 
 Or where, mid woodl.-mds, by his bed 
 
 The wren shall wake its ditty ; 
 But near or far, while evening's star 
 
 Is dear to hearts regretting, 
 Around that spot admiring thought 
 
 Shall hover, unforgetting. 
 
 Bartholomew Sim.mons. 
 
 THE LAND OF THE WEST. 
 
 'O ! brothers — come hither and list to my 
 story — 
 Merry and brief will the narrative be : 
 Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory — 
 Master am I, boys, of all that I see. 
 Where once frowned a forest a garden is smiling — 
 
 The meadow and moorland are marshes no more ; 
 And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling 
 The children who cluster like grapes at the door. 
 Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest, 
 The land of the heart is the land of the West. 
 Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! 
 
 Talk not of the town, boj-s — give me the broad prairie, 
 
 Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free; 
 Behold how its beautiful colors all vary, 
 
 Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea. 
 A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing ; 
 
 With proud independence we season our cheer. 
 And those who the world are for happiness ranging 
 
 Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. 
 Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; 
 I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West. 
 Oho, boys I — oho, boys I— oho ! 
 
 Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger. 
 We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own ; 
 
 We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, 
 And care not a fig for the king on his tlirone. 
 
 We never know want, for we live by our labor. 
 And in it contentment and happineus find ; 
 
 We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor, 
 And die, boys, in peace and good will to mankind. 
 
 Then enter, boys ; cheerly, boys, enter and rest ; 
 
 You know how we live, boys, and die in the West ! 
 Oho, boys ! — oho, boys ! — oho ! 
 
 George: P. Morris. 
 
 MONODY ON SAMUEL PATCH. 
 
 Samuel Pntcli was a boatman on the Erie Canal, in New York. 
 He made himself notorious by leaping from the m.isls of sliipi, 
 from the Falls of Niagara, and from the Fallf iti the (.ciu'^ce 
 River, at Rochester. He did this, as he said, loshow "Hint some 
 lliings can be done as well as others;" and hence this, lunv, pri). 
 vcihi.il iihraac. Mis last feat was when, In the presence of m.iny 
 Ihiiusands, b<r jumped from above the highest rock over which the 
 water falls in the Cenesee, and was lost. 
 
 OLL for Sam Patch ! Sam Patch, who jumps 
 no more. 
 This or the world to come. Sam Patrh is 
 t dead ! 
 
 The vulgar pathway to the imknown shore 
 Of tlark futurity, he would not tread. 
 No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed ; 
 Xor with decorous woe, sedately stepped 
 
 Behind l-.is corpse, and tears by ret.-iil shed ; — 
 The mighty river, as it onward swept. 
 In one greit wholesale sob, his body drowned and 
 kept. 
 
 Toll for .Sam Patch I he scorned the common way 
 That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent. 
 
 And having heard Pope and Longinus say. 
 That some great men had risen to falls, he went 
 And jumped where wild Passaic's waves had rent 
 
 The antique rocks ; -the air free passage gave — 
 And graciously the liquid element 
 
 Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave ; 
 
 And all the people said that Sam was very brave. 
 
 Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise. 
 
 Led S.am to dive into what Byron calls 
 The hell of waters. For the sake of praise. 
 
 He wooed the bathos down great waterfalls ; 
 
 The dizzy precipice, which the eye appalls 
 Of travelers for ple.asure, Samuel foimd 
 
 Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls 
 Crammed full of fools and fiddles ; to the sound 
 Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound. 
 
 Sam was a fool. But the large world of such 
 
 Has thousands — better taught, alike absurd. 
 And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much; 
 
 Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard. 
 
 Alas for Sam ! Had he aright preferred 
 The kindly element to which he gave 
 
 Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard 
 
PKRSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 3M 
 
 Thnt it was now nis winding-shett niul grave, 
 Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our re(iuit!tn for the 
 l)rave. 
 
 I say, tlic muse shall quite forget to sound 
 
 The chord whose music is undying, if 
 She do not strike it when Sam I'atcli is drowned. 
 
 l.eander dived for love. I.iucadia's cliff 
 
 Tlie Lesbian Sappho leaped from in a mill, 
 To punish Phaon ; Icarus went dead, 
 
 Because the wax did not continue stiff; 
 And, h id he minded what his father saiil. 
 He had not given a n.ime unto his watery bed. 
 
 And Ilelle's case w.is all an accident. 
 As everyhmiy knows. Why sing of these? 
 
 Nor would I rank with .Sam Ih.at man wlio went 
 Down into /Etna's womb — Kmpedocles 
 I ihink he called himself. Themselves to please. 
 
 Or else unwillingly, they made tluir springs ; 
 For glory in the abstract, Sam made his. 
 
 To prove to all men, commons, lords, aiKl kings. 
 
 That "some things may be done as well as other 
 things." 
 
 But ere he leaped, he begged of those who made 
 
 Money by his dread venture, th.nt if he 
 Should perish, such collection should be paid 
 
 As niiijht be picked up from the "company " 
 
 To his mother. This, his last request, shall be — 
 Though she who bore him ne'er his fate should know — 
 
 An iris glittering o'er his memory. 
 When all the streams have worn their barriers low, 
 And, by the sea drimk up, forever cease to flow. 
 
 Tht refore it is considered, that Sam Patch 
 Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme ; 
 
 His n.ime shall be a portion in the batch 
 Of the heroic dough, which baking time 
 Kneads for consuming ages — and the chime 
 
 Of fame's old bells, long as they truly ring, 
 Shall tell of him : he dived for the sublime, 
 
 And found it. Thou, who with the e.igle's wing, 
 
 Being a goose — wouldst fly — dream not of s'?ch a thing ! 
 
 Rohert C. S/,nds. 
 
 THE ORIENT. 
 
 KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in 
 their clime ; 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of 
 the turtle, 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 
 
 shine ; 
 Where the light wings of zephyr, oppressed with per- 
 fume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Giil in her bloom ? 
 
 Where the citron and olive arc f lirest of fruit, 
 .'Xiul the voice of the nightingale nevtT U mute ; 
 Where the tints of the earth, aiul tin- Inns of the sky, 
 In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in die ; 
 Wh»-re the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 .And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
 1" is the clime of the Kast; 't is the land of the Sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
 O, wild as the accents of lover's farewell 
 .•\re the hearts which they bear and the t.iles which 
 they tell ! 
 
 LoKIJ IJvkd.N. 
 
 LIBERTY TO ATHENS. 
 
 'HE flag of freedom floats once more 
 Around the lofty Parthenon ; 
 It waves, as waved the palm of yore 
 'f In days departed long and gone ; 
 
 As bright a glory, from the skie--. 
 
 Pours down its light around those towers. 
 And once again the Greeks arise, 
 
 As in their country's noblest hours ; 
 Their swords are girt in virtue's cause, 
 
 Minerva's sacretl hill is free — 
 Oh, may she keep her equal laws, 
 
 While man shall live, and time shall be. 
 
 The pride of all hci shrines went down ; 
 
 The Goth, the Frank, the Turk, had reft 
 The laurel from her civic crown ; 
 
 Her helm by many a sword was cleft : 
 She lay among her ruins low — 
 
 Where grew the palm, the cypress rose, 
 And, crushed and bruised by many a blow, 
 
 She cowered beneath her savage foes : 
 But now again she springs from earth. 
 
 Her loud, awakening trumpet speaks ; 
 She rises in a brighter birth, 
 
 And sounds redemption to the Greeks. 
 
 James Gates Percival. 
 
 JERUSALEM BEFORE THE SIEGE OF TITUS. 
 
 ITUS.— It must be— 
 And yet it moves me, Romans ! It confounds 
 The counsel of my firm philosophy, 
 That ruin's merciless plough -hare must pass 
 o'er, 
 And barren salt be sown on yon proud city. 
 As on our olive-crowned hill we stand. 
 Where Kedron at our feet its sc:inty waters 
 Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion. 
 As through a valley sacred to sweet peace. 
 How boldly doth it front us ! how majestically ! 
 Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill-si Je 
 Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, 
 
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 Tcrrnre o'er tcrrncp, nctiriT slill, ami m art-r 
 
 To the blue heavens. Thi n- l)rii;lit aiul siiniptiioiis 
 
 palaces, 
 With cool and venlant gardens inti'isixTseil ; 
 There towers of war that frown in massy stren};th ; 
 While over all han^s the rich pnrple eve, 
 As conscious of its beiiij; her last farewell 
 Of light and ^lory t'' t'lnt fated city. 
 And, as our clouds of battle, ilusl and smoke, 
 Are nielteil into air, behold the t.inple 
 In inidisturbed ami hjiiu serenity, 
 Finding; itself a solemn sanctn.iry 
 III the profound of heaven ! It stands ))i. fore in 
 A mount of snow, fretted with {golden pinna' les ! 
 The very sun, as iliou;.',h he worshipped tliere. 
 Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs, 
 And ilown the long and branchiiv.; porticoes, 
 On every (lowery-sculptured capital, 
 Glitters the homage of his parting beams. 
 By Hercules ! the sight might almost win 
 The offended majesty of Rome to mercy. 
 
 IIkNKV HakT Mll.MAN. 
 
 SUNNY ITALY. 
 
 ¥ /S)NOWEST thou the land which lovers ought to 
 
 •^ choose ? 
 
 M. V Like blessings there descend the sjiarkling 
 
 dews ; 
 
 In gleaming stre.ims the crjstal rivers run. 
 
 The purple \iiitage clusters in the sun ; 
 
 Odors of flowers haunt the balmy breeze, 
 
 Rich fruits hang high upon the verd.int trees ; 
 
 And vivid blossoms gem the shacK groves. 
 
 Where bright-plumed birds discourse their carele.ss 
 
 loves. 
 Beloved !— speed we from this sullen strand. 
 Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow saiul. 
 
 Look seawartl thence, and naught shall meet thine eye 
 
 But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky ; 
 
 And, flying fast and free before the gale. 
 
 The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail ; 
 
 And waters glittering in the glare of noon, 
 
 Or touched with silver by the stars and moon. 
 
 Or flecked with broken lines of crimson light, 
 
 When the far fisher's fire aflfronts the night. 
 
 Lovely as loved I toward that smiling shore 
 
 Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more. 
 
 It looks a dimple on the face of earth. 
 
 The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth : 
 
 Nature is delicate and graceful there, 
 
 The place's genius, feminine and fair ; 
 
 The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud ; 
 
 The air seems never to have bome a cloud. 
 
 Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled 
 
 And solemn smokes, like altars of the world. 
 
 Thrice beautiful I— to that delightful spot 
 
 Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot. 
 
 There art, too, shows, when nature's beauty palls, 
 Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls ; 
 And there are forms in which they both conspire 
 To whisper themes that know not how to tire ; 
 The .spe.iking ruins in that gentle clime 
 Have but been hallowed by the hand of time, 
 .\nd each can mutely prompt some thought of flame: 
 riio me.-uiest stone is not without a name. 
 '1 hen come, beloved ! — hasten o'er the sea, 
 To builil our happy hearth in blooming Italy. 
 
 EUWAKI> C. riNK.M-v. 
 
 THE MOUNTAINS OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 '\\V. stranger wandering in the Switzer's laiul, 
 Before its awful ntounti\in-tops afraid • • 
 Who yet, with patient toil, has gained iiis staii! 
 ■f On the bare summit where all life is st lyi-d 
 
 Sees far, far down beneath his bl(M>d-dimme(l eyes, 
 Another country, golden to the shore, 
 
 Where a new passion and new hopes arise. 
 Where sovithern bhxjms unfold forevermore. 
 
 And I, lone sitting by the twilight blaze. 
 Think of another wanderer in the snows. 
 
 And on more perilous mountain-tops I gaze 
 Than ever frowned above the vine and rose. 
 
 Vet courage, soul ! nor hold thy strength in vain. 
 In hope o'erconie the steeps Ood set f(jr thee. 
 
 For past the Alpine summits of great pain 
 Lieth thine Italy. 
 
 Rose Tkrrv Cookk. 
 
 PALESTINE. 
 
 ^^LEST land of Juilea ! thrice hallowed of sons;, 
 ■ ^ Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-Iiko 
 V"^ throng ; 
 
 In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of tliy 
 sea, 
 (Jn the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. 
 
 With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore. 
 Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before ; 
 With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod 
 Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. 
 
 Lo, Bethlehem's hill side before me is seen. 
 With the mountains around and the valleys between ; 
 There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there 
 The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. 
 
 Oh, here with I lis flock the sad wanderer came— 
 These hills He toiled over in grief, are the same — 
 The founts where He drank by the wayside still How, 
 And the same airs are blowing which breathed on Hi* 
 brow ! 
 
 And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, 
 Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, 
 
 n 
 
PKRSONS AND I'LACKS. 
 
 9S7 
 
 Nor my eyes hco tliu cross wliich He bowed him to 
 
 bfiir, 
 Nor my knees press (lethscmane's gardi'ii df pr.iyir. 
 
 Ytt, Loved of the I'ather, Thy Spirit is near 
 To tlie meek, mid tlie lowly, and penitent hrn.- ; 
 And the voice of Thy lovi; Is the same vww now, 
 As nt U(;thnny's tomb, or on Olivet's brow. 
 
 Oh, the outward hnth Rone?— but, in ^'"0' and power' 
 The Spirit surviveth the tilings of an hour ; 
 Unchanged, undecayiii};. its I'lntecost flame 
 On the heart's secret altar is burning the s:inie ! 
 
 John GKiiEM.i;.\K WiiirriKR. 
 
 •e 
 
 GREECE. 
 
 AND of the brave ! where lie inurned 
 The shrouded forms of mortal clay, 
 In whom the fire of valor burned, 
 And blazed upon the battle's fray : 
 Land where the gallant Spartan few 
 
 nied the Thermopyla; of yore, 
 When death his purple Rarinent threw 
 On Helle's consecrated shore '. 
 
 Land of the Muse ! within thy bowers 
 
 Her soul-entrancing echoes rung, 
 While on tlieir course the rapid hours 
 
 Paused at the melody she sung — 
 Till every grova and every hill. 
 
 And every stream that flowtd along, 
 From morn to night repeated still 
 
 The winning harmony of song. 
 
 Land of dead heroes, living slaves I 
 
 Siiall glory gild thy clime no more ? 
 I ler banner float above the waves 
 
 Where proudly it hath swept before? 
 Hath not remembrance then a charm 
 
 To break the fetters and the chain, 
 To bit! thy children nerve the arm, 
 
 And strike for freedom once again ? 
 
 No ! coward souls, the light which shone 
 
 Oil Leuctra's war-empurpled day. 
 The light which beamed on Marathon 
 
 Hath lost it's splendor, ceased to play ; 
 And thou art but a shadow now, 
 
 With helmet shattered —spear in rust — 
 Thy honor but a dream— and thou 
 
 Despised — degraded in the dust 1 
 
 Where sleeps the spirit that of old 
 
 Dashed down to earth the Persian plume. 
 When the loud chant of triumph told 
 
 How fatal was the despot's doom ? — 
 The bold three hundred — where are they. 
 
 Who died on battle's gory breast ? 
 Tyrants have trampled on the clay 
 
 Where death hath hushed them into rest. 
 
 Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill 
 
 A glory sliiiies of agc"4 lied ; 
 Ami f.ime her li;;ht I ; pduring still, 
 
 Not on the livin;;, but the dead ! 
 Hut 'tis t!ie dim, si pulchrat light, 
 
 W'liiih sheds a (.iint and feeble ray. 
 As moonbeams on the brow of night, 
 
 When tempests sweep upon their w.iy. 
 
 Cireece ! yet awake thee from thy trance, 
 
 Heboid, thy banner waves afar; 
 behold, the gh'ttering weapons glance 
 
 Along the gleaming front of war ! 
 A gallant chief, of high empri/e, 
 
 Is luging foremost in the field, 
 Wlio calls upon thee to arise 
 
 In might— in mijesty revealed. 
 
 In vain, in vai i tl'.<. lero calls — 
 
 In vain he sounds the trumpet loud I 
 His banner totters — see ! it falls 
 
 In ruin, freedom's b ittle-shroud: 
 Thy cliiklren have no soid to dare 
 
 Such deeds as glorified their sires ; 
 Their valor's but a meteor's glare, 
 
 Which gleams a moment, and expires. 
 
 Lost land ! where genius made his reign. 
 
 And rearetl liis golden arch on high ; 
 Where science raised her sacred fane. 
 
 Its summits peering to the sky ; 
 Upon thy clime the midnight <leep 
 
 Of ignorance halh brooded long. 
 And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep 
 
 The sons of science and of song. 
 
 Thy sun hath set— the evening storm 
 
 Hath passed in gi.int fury by. 
 To hlast the beauty of thy form. 
 
 And spread its pall upon the sky ! 
 Gone is thy glory's diadem. 
 
 And freedom never more shall cease 
 To pour her mournful requiem 
 
 O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece ! 
 
 J.VMES G. Brooks. 
 
 NAPLES. 
 
 'HIS region, surely, is not the earth. 
 
 Was it not dropt from heaven ? Not a grove, 
 Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot 
 Sea-worn and mantled with the gaddin;-; vine. 
 Hut breathes encliantnient. Not a cliff but flings 
 On the clear wave some image of delight. 
 Some cabin-roof glovs'ing with crimson flowers, 
 Some ruined temple or fiJlen monumfut. 
 To muse on as the bark is gliding by, 
 And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, 
 From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire 
 Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top. 
 
 
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 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 , Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, 
 Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, 
 When he, the patriarch, who escaped tlie flood, 
 Was with his honsehold sacrificing there — 
 From daybreak to that hour, the last and best, 
 When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth, 
 Each with its glimmering lanlern at the prow, 
 And, when the nets are thrown, the evening hymn 
 Steals o'er the trembling waters. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 MELROSE ABBEY. 
 
 VJ 'HE moon on the east oriel shone, 
 |^\ Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 
 ^l^^ I'y foliaged tracery combined ; 
 "f Tiiou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 
 'Twi.xt poplars straight the ozicr wand. 
 
 In many a freakish knot, had twined ; 
 Then frametl a spell, when the work was done. 
 And changed the willow wreaths to stone. 
 The silver light, so pale and faint, 
 Showed many a prophet and many a saint ; 
 
 Whose image on the glass was dyed ; 
 Full in the midst, his cross of red 
 Triumphant Michael brandished, 
 
 And tramjiled the apostate's pride. 
 The moonbeam kissed the holy vane, 
 And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 FESTIVAL IN A RUSSIAN VILLAGE. 
 
 AT^ TRAVELER gives the following intere.sting 
 f ^^ description of a fete he witnessed in Russia. 
 ^^. The day before the fete an old Jew pedlar 
 appeared in the village street selling very 
 gaudy hantikerchiefs, for which he found several pur- 
 chasers. Little children were -here too with their 
 kopecks, or pennies, running along barefooted, or in 
 lapli, their large shoes which many of them had 
 made for themselves out of birch-bark, to buy a pic- 
 ture-bo(5k or some toy that the pedlar had for sale. 
 An eager purchaser had bought some beads for the 
 approacniug fi'te, and was looking for something else 
 to match. Another, a girl, had purchased an orna- 
 niei.t For ht r foreliead for to-morrow, and putting it 
 on at once climbed on to a wall to see what other 
 treasures the pedlar would disclose. One little 
 would-be purchaser, who had no money wherewith 
 t<i buy anything, resignedly looked on, just wishing 
 that some day he too might have the good fortime to 
 be a pedlar, to make all that money ai.d have all 
 those beautiful things besides. 
 
 There was plenty of dancing on that fete-day, and 
 the company enjoyed themselves immensely. The 
 tambourine is the usual musical accompaniment to a 
 village dance, also the balalaii'ka (a guitar of three 
 strings), and "sepovka"and "sopel," pipesor flutes, 
 were also used a good deal to-day. There is always 
 
 much music .-it a Russian festivity. Then .swings were 
 put up for the younger folk, and the Russian swing is 
 different from ours : each swing hung by two ropes 
 from a pole, which crossed a board transversely when 
 the swingers either stood or sat between the two 
 ropes opposite to, and swinging, one another. Dogs 
 had come to the fete too, and some such hungry- 
 looking ones that they were invited indoors before 
 they went away again, to a good repast. There was 
 a pretty view of the nearest church from the lawn. 
 
 In the evening to prolong the fete, a good many of 
 the same jieople assembled outside the largest izbj 
 in the village, belonging also to one of her oldest in 
 habitants. He himself, dear old man, w.is a wonder- 
 ful dancer, and his son sang very pretty songs to tlie 
 Russian lute. He danced the Tressaka very well in- 
 deed, to the admiration of all the bystanders, and i i 
 it he had to balance himself on each leg in turn. His 
 son also performed another Russian dance still more 
 cleverly, in which he had to stoop down to the ground 
 as he changed die position of his legs. As they 
 danced, the bystanders sang a song with a refrain. 
 The oIg man's very heart and soul seemed to be in 
 his dance, and everybody passed a very pleasant 
 evening. 
 
 THEBES. 
 
 >'J^ND Thebes, how fallen now ! Her storied gatjs 
 f'^ Resistless all ! Where sweeps the Nile's 
 ^^ swift wave, 
 
 Relentless sands embattling, she awaits 
 Her final sepulture and gathering grave : — 
 For Lybia there her wide dominion brings, 
 More powerful than .Severus to entomb, 
 And vaster than the sculptured place of kings, 
 That pierces far the mountain's inmost womb. 
 Her moral breathes from out a sterner wilder gloom. 
 
 The city rose where wandering paths were tracjcl — 
 Robed by the graces, she came forth a queen ;— 
 
 Man in his virtue took her from the waste, 
 Man in his wrath turned her to waste again ; 
 
 He conquered whilst his p.issions were allame. 
 Hut he became n lentkss 'mid the glare 
 
 Of his wild conquests, and his coneiuerors came ; 
 All that he worshipped perished — all that were 
 Of his, swept through the rapid tideway of des[>air. 
 
 Methinks I see her serried legions march. 
 And hear the cadent tramp of many feet ; 
 
 Troud banners wave upon the sculptured arch ; 
 The drum's stern tempest and its stirring beat 
 
 Invoke to ardor where the fearless meet. 
 Tiie fierce steed prances to the trumpet's note 
 
 With flushing nostrils and di.sdainful feet, 
 And tossing mane and batde-breathing throat, 
 To make the poet's theme, and history's pen pro- 
 voke. 
 
 i; 
 
PERSONS AND PLACES. 
 
 3.yj 
 
 And here, where ruin peers, the lover wooed 
 And won his bride — brave m>.n and beauteous maids 
 
 Trod proudly through the vestibules— here stood 
 In stern command, within tiie pillared shades, 
 
 Imperious monarchs, whose ensany;uined blades 
 Defied the gods — a id here remo'-seless war. 
 
 Sedition's rage, inexpiable deeds. 
 And conquering crime, made hur the servitor 
 Of baseness — she became the handmaid of the boor. 
 
 And now she is a lone, deserted one — 
 
 The tears of Niobe are hers, for she 
 Mas lost her children— fate they could noi .->iiun, 
 
 Or from the shafts of stem Latona flee. 
 Wrapt in her griefs, she owns the dark decree, 
 
 And bows where Amphion left his bloody stains ; 
 R>.-!luiting gods from thraldom do not free. 
 
 No tides of life swell through her pulseless veins. 
 
 Where she was turned to stone in gloom she still re- 
 mains. 
 
 She was a city of a thousand years 
 Ere Homer harped his wars, yet on her plain, 
 
 Crumbling, the riven monument appears. 
 To mourn tliat glory ne'er returns again : 
 
 Her front of graven epics vainly tells 
 How long she conquered — lonely musings bound 
 
 The storied place — where deep ranks gathered, swells, 
 t)f fallen architraves, the sadilcning mound, 
 And many a worshipped pile bestrews the silent 
 ground. 
 
 She dreams no dream of greatness now, doth mourn 
 No dim remembered jjast — dominion, hope. 
 
 And conquest's ardor long liave ceased to burn 
 Where ruthless Canibyses l;er warriors smote ; 
 
 Her horsemen, columns, gates, together lie, 
 And moulder into elemental clay ; 
 
 Yet who shall tread her grave witliout a sigh. 
 Nor wish to breathe her being into day — 
 Upon her fields revive great Carnac's bold array ! 
 
 Why hath she fallen ? Men die but to yield 
 
 To others all their legacies of thought ; 
 Sires give to sons the palace and the field, 
 
 The muniments by ripened vigor wrought ! 
 Ages in all their bright success have taught 
 To brave the whelming torrent of events ; 
 And fading centuries gather not for nought ; — 
 
 Yet where the architraves and pediments 
 
 Appear and linger still, I mark but wasting rents. 
 
 Why hath she fallen ? Who the tale shall tell ? 
 
 When Saturn's golden age was wrapt in story, 
 Ere time revenged and ruin wove her spell, 
 
 Existence was computed by iier glory ! 
 Why, when her towers wiih crowning years were hoary, 
 
 And peerless forms and queenly graces shone. 
 Should she be doomed to night and cerement gt)ry. 
 
 And dim remembrance linger at her tomb— 
 
 A voiceless phantom 'mid the cold and pulseless 
 gloom,? 
 
 Not that her legions through her hundred gates 
 Went out to conquer — not that virtue rose 
 
 To guard her f.-'oni the shafts of venomed fiUes, 
 And save her from the wrath of leaguered foes. 
 
 Her .stormy memories light her dull repose. 
 And warning voices linger through lier shades ; 
 
 Her vices were the parents of her woes— 
 The gods injustice turned her sweeping blades 
 To her own bosom, ending thus her masquerades. 
 
 Forever and forever flows the river, 
 
 Forever and forever looms the plain ; 
 P'orever shall the pale stars o'er them quiver. 
 
 But never shall her past return again ! 
 Hyperion dawns but light her frieze in vain. 
 
 And moons peer sadly through her columned w.ij- 
 The mid-day glares on what doth yet remain 
 
 Of faded glory, with a mocking play — 
 
 Thus passeth into shadow man's imperious sway I 
 
 What recks it that Sesostris dared to thrall 
 His fellow kings, and haughty Cheops raised 
 
 The everlasting pyramid 1 the pall 
 Of night now hangs where distant glories blazed ! 
 
 How shall fame last when all her monuments 
 Are in the dust? — the same blue bending sky 
 
 Serenely smiles through time's despairing rents, 
 And lengtliened colonnades the storm defy — 
 lUit there's no sceptre now, or kingly footfall nigli. 
 
 William Whitehead. 
 
 ' f El 
 
 j'l H 
 
 II 
 
 rfll 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 'HE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace — 
 Where Delos rose, and Phcebus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet. 
 But all, e.xcept their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse. 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dieamed that Greece might still be free; 
 
 Fo; standing on the Persian's grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sat on the rocky brow 
 Which looks o'er sea-born SalamLs ; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 
 He counted them at break of day— 
 
 And when the sun set, where were they ? 
 
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 360 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou, 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
 And must tliy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine ? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
 Though linked among a fettered race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left a poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 What, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 
 
 And answer, " Let one living h'.-ad. 
 But one arise — we come, we come ! " 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain ; strike other chords, 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 
 FLirk ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
 Where is the P\ rrhic i>halanx gone ? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gavL- — 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with S.imian wine I 
 We will not think of themes like these ! 
 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 
 Were still, at least, our countrj'men. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh I that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine I 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 They have a king who buys and sells : 
 
 111 native swords, and native ranks. 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I S'.;e their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But gazing on each glowing maid. 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 Lord Byro.n. 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 HYMN OF THE DUNKERS. 
 
 KLOSTER KEDAR, KPIIRATA, nCNNSYLVANlA, 173S. 
 
 ISisiir Maria Chrislina sinks'] 
 
 AKE, sisters, wake ! the 
 
 day-star shines ; 
 Aljove F.plirata's eastern 
 
 pines 
 Tiie dawn is breakinj;, 
 
 cool and calm. 
 Wake, sisters, wake, to 
 
 prayer and pbalm ! 
 
 Praised be the Lord for 
 shade and li,i.',lit. 
 
 For toil by di-.y, for rest 
 by night ! 
 
 Praised be I lis name who 
 deifjns to bless 
 
 Our Kedarof the wilder- 
 ness: 
 
 Our refuge when the spoiler's hand 
 Was heavy on our native land ; 
 And freedom to her children due, 
 The wolf and vulture only knew. 
 
 We praised Him when to prison led, 
 We owned Ilim when tlie slake blazed red ; 
 We knew, whatever might befall. 
 His love and power were over all. 
 
 He heard our prayers ; with outstretched arm 
 He led us forth from cruel harm ; 
 Still, whereso'er our steps were bent, 
 His cloud and fire before us went ! 
 
 The watch of faith and prayer He set ; 
 We kept it then, we keep it yet. 
 At midnight, crow of cock, or noon, 
 He Cometh sure. He comethsoon. 
 
 He comes to chasten, not destroy, 
 To purge the eartlj from sin's alloy. 
 At last, at last shall all confess 
 His mercy as His righteousness. 
 
 The dead shall live, the sick be whole ; 
 Tiie scarlet sin be while as wool. 
 No discord mar below, above. 
 The music of eternal love ! 
 
 Sound welcome trump, the last alarm ! 
 Lord God of hosts make bare Thine arm, 
 Fulfill this day our long desire. 
 Make sweet and clean the world with fire ! 
 
 Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight 
 The lies of time ; be swift to smite. 
 Sharp sword of God, all idols down, 
 Genevan creed and Roman crown. 
 
 Quake, earth, through all thy zones, till all 
 'i'he fanes of [)ride and priestcraft fall ; 
 And lift Thou up in place of them 
 The gates of pearl, Jerusalem ! 
 
 Lo ! rising from the baptismal flame. 
 Transfigured, glorious, yet the same, 
 Within the heavenly city's bound 
 Our Kloster Kedar shall be found. 
 
 Me Cometh soon ! at dawn or noon 
 Or set of sun, He comelh soon. 
 Our prayers shall meet Him on His way ; 
 Wake, sisters, wake ! arise and pray ! 
 
 John Greenleaf Wiiittikr. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 HERE 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 ! 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes. 
 And lovely is the rose ; 
 The moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; — 
 Hut yet I know, where'er I go. 
 That there has passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; 1 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 feci it all. 
 
 Oi), evil day ! if I were sullen, 
 
 While the eartli herself is adorning, 
 This sweet May-moniing, 
 
 And the children are pulling. 
 
 (;<6i) 
 
mri 
 
 f* 
 
 mm 
 
 362 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
 AVd the babe leaps up on his mother's arm. 
 
 I hear, I hear, what joy I hear! 
 — But there's a tree, of many one, 
 A single fuld which I have looked upon. 
 
 Both of them speak of somethinj; that is gone ; 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat. 
 Whither is iled the visionary gl am ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The soul tiiat rises with us, our life's star, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
 
 And Cometh from afar ; 
 Not in entire fv)rgetfulness. 
 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, 
 Rut 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 visit)n splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away. 
 And fade into tlie light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her natural kind ; 
 And, even witli something of a mother's mind, 
 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely nurse doth ;ill she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
 For that wliich is most worthy to be blest ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, wiiethcr busy or at rest, 
 Witli new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 
 Not for these I raise 
 
 The songs 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 — ami 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 se.-ison of calm weather, 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our souls have sight of tiiat 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. 
 
 I 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. 
 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 i)right 
 
 Be now for ever taken from thy 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 sootliing tlioughts that spring 
 Out of human sufToring, 
 In the faith that looks through death. 
 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 
 Think not of any severing of your hjves ! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 1 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 newborn day 
 
 Is lovely yet; 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept w.-itch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race h.-ith 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. 
 
 William Wokusworth. 
 
 W:i!:ii|: 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 333 
 
 TRUE FAiTH. 
 
 LD Reuben Fisher, who lived in the lane, 
 Was never in life disposed to complain ; 
 If the weather proved fair, he thanked God 
 for the sun, 
 
 And if it were rainy, with him 'twas all one; — 
 " I have just the weather 1 fancy," said he ; 
 "For what pleases God always satisfies me." 
 
 If trouble assailed, his brow was ne'er dark. 
 And his eye never lost its happiest spark. 
 " 'Twill not better fi.x it to gloom or to sigh ; 
 To make the best of it I always shall try ! 
 So, care, do your worst," said Reuben with glee, 
 "And which of us conquers, we shall see, we shall 
 see." 
 
 If his children were wild, as children will prove, 
 His temper ne'er lost its warm aspect of love ; 
 " My dear wife," he d say, "don't worry nor fret ; 
 'Twill be all right with the wayward ones yet ; 
 'Tis the folly of youth, that must have its way ; 
 They'll penitent turn from their evil some day." 
 
 If a name were assailed, he would cheerily say, 
 "Well, well ; we'll not join in the cry, anyway; 
 There are always two sides to every tale — 
 And the true one at last is sure to prevail. 
 There is an old rule that I learned when a lad — 
 ' Deem every one good till he's proved to be bad.' " 
 
 And when in the meshes of sin tightly bound. 
 
 The reckless and luckless mortal was found. 
 
 Proscribed by every woman and man, 
 
 And put under rigid and merciless ban, 
 
 Old Reuben would say, with sympathy fraught, 
 
 "We none of us do half as well as we ought." 
 
 If friends waxed cold, he'd say with a smile — 
 "Well, if they must go, I leaven bless them the while ; 
 We walked a sweet path till the crossing ways met, 
 And though we have parted, I'll cherish them yet ; 
 They'll go by their way and 1 11 go by mine 
 Perhaps in the city ahead we shall join." 
 
 There were sickness and death at last in his cot. 
 But still Reuben Fisher in sorrow blenched not : 
 "Tis the Father afflicts: let Him do what He will ; 
 What conies from His hand can mean us no ill; 
 I cheerfully give back the blessing He lent, 
 And through faith in the future find present content." 
 
 Then he lay on his deathbed at last undismayed ; 
 No terror had death at which he was afraid ; 
 "Living or dying, 'tis all well with me, 
 For God's will is my will," submissive said he. 
 And so Reuben died, with his breast full of grace, 
 That beamed in a smile on his time-furrowed face. 
 
 B. P. SaiLLABER. 
 
 THE MODEL CHURCH. 
 
 yi'-^ELL, I've 
 
 If) sliipi 
 
 \^^ It made 
 
 e found the model church — I wor- 
 hipped there to-day ! 
 
 me think of good old times, before 
 my hair was gray. 
 I The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were 
 
 years ago, 
 But then I felt when I went In, it wasn'tbuiltfor show. 
 
 The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door ; 
 He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and 
 
 poor ; 
 He must have been a Christian, for he led me through 
 The long aisle of that crowded church, to find a place 
 
 and pew. 
 
 I wish you'd heard that singin' — it had the old lime 
 
 ring; 
 The preacher said, with trumpet voice, "Lei all the 
 
 people sing! " 
 The tune was Coronation, and the music upward 
 
 . rolled, 
 Till I thought I heard the angels all striking harps 
 
 of gold. 
 
 My deafness seemed to melt away ; my spirit caught 
 the fire ; 
 
 I joined my feeble, trembling voice, with that melo- 
 dious choir, 
 
 And sang as in my youthful days, "Let angels pros- 
 trate fall. 
 
 Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord 
 of all." 
 
 I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hynm once 
 
 more ; 
 I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse 
 
 of shore ; 
 I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten 
 
 form, 
 And anchor in the blessed port forever from the 
 
 storm. 
 
 The preachin' ? Well, I can't just tell all the preacher 
 
 said ; 
 I know it wasn't written ; I know it wasn't read ; 
 He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye 
 Went flashin' along from pew to pew, nor passed a 
 
 sinner by. 
 
 The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twassimple Gospel truth; 
 It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth. 
 'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed ; 
 'Twas full of invitations to Christ, and to His creed. 
 
 The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in 
 
 Jews ; 
 I He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews. 
 
 

 t'l^V 
 
 Mil 
 
 Hi > ■] 
 
 364 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 And — though I can't see very wcll--I saw the falling 
 
 tear 
 That told me hell wassome ways off, and heaven very 
 
 near. 
 
 How swift the golden moments fled within that holy 
 
 place ! 
 How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every 
 
 happy face ! 
 Again I longed fur that sweet time when friend shall 
 
 meet with friend, 
 " Where congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths 
 
 have no end." 
 
 I hope to meet that minister— that congregation, too — 
 In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from 
 
 heaven's blue. 
 I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray. 
 That happy hour of worship in that model church to- 
 day. 
 
 Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be 
 
 won ; 
 The shining goal is just ahead, the race is nearly run. 
 O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the 
 
 shore, 
 To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no 
 
 more. 
 
 John H. Yates. 
 
 SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? 
 A. 
 
 IB 
 
 HEN we hear the music ringing 
 In the bright ccltstial dome — 
 When sweet angels' voices, singing. 
 Gladly bid us welcome home 
 To the land of ancient story, 
 
 Where the spirit knows no care. 
 In that land of life and glory — 
 Shall we know each other tiiere? 
 
 When the holy angels meet us, 
 
 As we go to join their band, 
 Shall we know the friends that greet us 
 
 In that glorious spirit land ? 
 Shall we see the same eyes shining 
 
 On us as in days of yore ? 
 Shall we feel the dear arms twining 
 
 Fondly round us as before ? 
 
 Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices. 
 
 And my weary heart grows light, 
 For the thrilling angels' voices 
 
 And the angel faces bright. 
 That shall welcome us in heaven, 
 
 Are the loved ones long ago ; 
 And to them 'tis kindly given 
 
 Thus their mortal friends to know. 
 
 Oh ye weary, sad, and tossed ones. 
 Droop not, faint not by the way ! 
 
 Ye shall join the loved .nnd just ones 
 
 In that land of perfect day. 
 1 larp-strings, touched by angel fingers. 
 
 Murmured in my rapturous car ; — 
 Evermore their sweet song lingers — 
 " We sAa// know each other there." 
 
 HE DOETH HISALMSTOBE SEEN OF MEN. 
 
 y^^ POOR little girl in a tattered gown, 
 i ^^ Wandering alone through the crowded town, 
 ^^ All weary and worn, on the curb sat down, 
 By the side of the way to rest ; 
 IJedimmed with tears were her eyes of brown. 
 Her hands on her bosom pressed. 
 
 The night was approaching — the winter's chill blast 
 That fell on the child jis he hurried past. 
 Concealed the tears that were falling fast 
 
 From the poor little maiden's eye — 
 The blinding snow on her pale cheek cast, 
 
 Unheeded her plaintive cry. 
 
 Now hurriedly passing along the street. 
 She catches the sound of approaching feet ; 
 And wearily rises, as if to entreat 
 
 Some aid from the passer by ; 
 B'.:t slowly and sadly resumes her seat, 
 
 Repelled by the glance of his eye. 
 
 He saw the wind tempest resistlessly hurl 
 The gatherintr snow-flakes, with many a whirl, 
 Upon her bare head, where each soft-shining curl 
 
 Was swept by the breath of the .storm ; 
 Hut what did he care for the little girl — 
 
 //is raiment was ample and warm ! 
 
 He went to a charity meeting that night 
 And spoke, to the listeners' great delight. 
 Of how 'twas the duty of all to unite, 
 
 The suffering poor to relieve ; 
 And held up iiis check for a thousand at sight. 
 
 So all of the crowd could perceive. 
 
 He handed the check to the treasurer, when 
 The audience applauded again and again, 
 But the angel who holds the recording pen 
 
 This sentence methinks did record : 
 "He doeth his alms to be seen of men, 
 
 Their praise is his only reward." 
 
 The paper next morning had much to say 
 Of how the "good gentleman " did display 
 His generous spirit, in giving away 
 
 So much for the poor man's cause. 
 He smiled as he read his own praise that day 
 
 And thought of the night's applause. 
 
 Near by, the same paper went on to repeat 
 A story they'd heard, of how, out on the street, 
 A watchman at dawning of morn on his beat, 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 
 A poor little child had found— 
 With only the snow for a windinij sliuut — 
 Frozen to death on the ground ! 
 
 Ah ! who can declare that when God sliall unfold 
 
 Eternity's records, he will not hold 
 
 Him guilty of murdi r, who seeks with his gold, 
 
 In charity's name to buy 
 The praises of men, while out in the cold 
 
 He leaves a poor child to die. 
 
 THE WEARY SOUL 
 
 CAME, but they had passed away, 
 
 The fair in form, the pure in mind ; 
 And, like a stricken deer, I stray, 
 
 Where all are strange, and none are kind ; 
 Kind to a worn and wearied soul, 
 
 That pants, that struggles fur repose : 
 Oh, that my steps had reached the goal 
 Where earthly sighs and sorrows close ! 
 
 Years have passed o'er me like a dream. 
 
 That leaves no trace on memory's page, 
 I look around me, and I seem 
 
 Some relic of a former age; 
 Alone, and in a stranger clime, 
 
 Where stranger voices mock mine ear — 
 In all the lagging course of time, 
 
 Without a wish — a hope — a fear I 
 
 Yet I had hopes— but they have fled ; 
 
 And fears — ai;d they were all too true; 
 And wishes too— but they are dead. 
 
 And what have I with life to do? 
 'Tis but to bear a weary load 
 
 I may not, dare not, cast away. 
 To sigh for one small, still abode, 
 
 Where I may sleep as sweet as they — 
 
 As they, the loveliest of their race. 
 
 Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep, 
 Whose worth my soul delights to trace, 
 
 Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep : 
 To weep, forgotten and unknown. 
 
 With none to smile, to hear, to see ; — 
 Earth can bestow no dearer boon 
 
 On one whom death disdains to free. 
 
 I leave a world that knows me not, 
 
 To hold communion with the dead. 
 And fancy consecrates the spot. 
 
 Where fancy's earliest dreams were shed. 
 I see each shade, all silvery white, 
 
 I hear each spirit's melting high ; 
 I turn to clasp those forms of light. 
 
 And the pale morning chills mine eye I 
 
 But soon the last dim morn shall rise— 
 My lamp of life burns feebly now — 
 
 Where stranger hands shall close mine eyes. 
 And smooth my cold and ilewy brow ; 
 
 Unknown I lived — so let me die ; 
 No stone, nor monumental cross. 
 
 Tell where his mouldering ashes lie. 
 Who sought for gold, and found it dross. 
 
 THE MESSIAH, 
 
 E nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song : • 
 To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
 The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, 
 The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more— O Thou my voice inspire 
 Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire! 
 
 Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
 A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son ! 
 From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
 Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies : 
 The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move. 
 And on its top descends the mystic dove. 
 Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
 And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ! 
 The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
 From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
 All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; 
 Returning justice lift aloft her scale ; 
 Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
 And white-robed innocence from heaven descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
 Oh spring of light, auspicious Babe, be born ! 
 See nature hastes her earliest wreathes to bring, 
 With all the incense of the breathing spring : 
 See lofty Lebanon his head advance, 
 See nodding forests on the mountains dance : 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise. 
 And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies ! 
 Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
 Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears: 
 A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply, 
 The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
 Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies I 
 Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, rise ; 
 With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ; 
 Re smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ; 
 The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold ! 
 1 kar him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold ! 
 He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
 .\nd on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
 "Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
 And bid new music charm the unfolding ear : 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
 And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
 No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear. 
 From every face he wipes off" every tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
 And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 
 As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
 Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 
 
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 366 
 
 CROWN JKWELS. 
 
 Explores the lost, the wandenng sheep directs, 
 Hy clay o'ersees them, and by night protects, 
 The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
 Foe<ls from his hand, and in his bosom warms; 
 Tiius shall mankind his guardian care engage, 
 Tiie promised Father of the future age. 
 No more shall nation against nation rise, 
 Nor anient warriors meet with hateful eyes, 
 Nor f.elds with gleaming steel be covered o'er, 
 Tlic brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 
 Cut ustlcps lances into scythes shall bend. 
 And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
 Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 
 Sliall finish what his short-lived sire begun; 
 Tiieir vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
 And the same hand that sowed, shall reap the field. 
 The swain, in barren deserts with surprise 
 See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
 And start, cimidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 
 ■ New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
 Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn, 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 
 To leafless shrub, the flowering palms succeed. 
 And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 Tiie lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, 
 And boys in flowerj' bands the tiger lead ; 
 The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
 And harmless serpents lick the pi'grim's feet. 
 Tiie smiling infant in his hand sliall take 
 Tile crested basilisk and speckled snake. 
 Pleased the green lustre of the scales survey, 
 And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 
 Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! 
 See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
 See future sons, and daughters yet unborn. 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise. 
 Demanding life, impatient for the skies I 
 See barbarous nations at thy gates attend. 
 Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; 
 See thy briglit altars thronged with prostrate kings, 
 And heaped with products of Sabean springs. 
 For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
 See heaven its sparkling portals wide display. 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day. 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the mom. 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
 But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 O'erflow thy courts ; the Light himself shall shine 
 Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay. 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
 But fixc^d his word, his saving power remains ; 
 Thy reahn forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns I 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 I WILL FEAR NO EVIL 
 
 'HY way, not mine, Oh Lord, 
 However dark it be ; 
 Lead me by Thine own hand ; 
 Choose out the path for me. 
 
 .Smooth let it be or rough. 
 
 It will be still the best ; 
 Winding or straight, it matters not, 
 
 It leads me to Thy rest. 
 
 I dare not choose my lot, 
 
 I would not, if I might ; 
 Choose Thou for me, my God, 
 
 So shall I walk aright. 
 
 The kingdom that I seek 
 
 Is Thine, so let the way 
 That leads to it be Thine, 
 
 Else I must surely stray. 
 
 Take Thou my cup, and it 
 
 With joy or sorrow fill. 
 As best to Thee may seem : 
 
 Choose Thou my good and ill. 
 
 Choose Thou for me, my friend, 
 
 My sickness and my health ; 
 Choose Thou my cares for me, 
 
 My poverty or wealth. 
 
 Not mine, not mine, the choice. 
 
 In tilings or great or small ; 
 Be TIiou my guide, my strength. 
 
 My wisdom, and my all. 
 
 HORATirs BONAR. 
 
 TWILL NOT BE LONG. 
 
 WILL not be long— this wearying commotion 
 That marks its passage in the human breast, 
 And, like the billows on the heaving ocean, 
 f Tliat ever rock the cradle of unrest. 
 
 Will soon subside ; the happy time is nearing. 
 
 When bliss, not pain, shall have its ricli increase ; 
 E'en unto thee the dove may now be steering 
 With gracious message. Wait, and hold thy peace ; 
 'Twill not be long ! 
 
 The lamps go out ; the stars give up their shining ; 
 
 The world is lost in darkness for awhile ; 
 And foolish hearts give way to sad repining. 
 
 And feel as though they ne'er again could smile. 
 Why murmur thus, the needful lesson scorning? 
 
 Oh, read thy Teacher and His word aright ! 
 The world would have no greeting for the morning. 
 
 If 'twere not for the darkness of the night ; 
 'Twill not be long I 
 
 'Twill not be long ; the strife will soon be ended ; 
 The doubts, the fears, the agony, the pain, 
 
 P!:!*''! 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 3G7 
 
 Will seem but as tlie clouds that low descended 
 To yield tlieir pleasure to tlie parchiid plain. 
 
 The times of weakness and of sore temptations, 
 Of hitter grief and agonizing cry ; 
 
 The se earthly cares and ceaseless tribulations 
 Will bring a blissful harvest by-and-by — 
 'Twill not be long ! 
 
 'Twill not be long; the eye of faith, discerning 
 
 The wondrous glory that shall be revealed, 
 Instructs the soul, that every day is learning 
 
 The better wisdom which the world concealed. 
 And soon, aye, soon, there'll be an end of teaching, 
 
 When mortal vision finds immortal s-ight. 
 And her true place the soul in gladness reaching, 
 
 Beholds the .glory of the Infinite — 
 'Twill not be long ! 
 
 " 'Twill not be long ! " the heart goes on repeating ; 
 
 It is the burden of the njourner's song ; 
 Tlie work of grace in us He is completing. 
 
 Who thus assures us—" It will not be long;" 
 His rod and staff our fainting sti'ps sustaining, 
 
 Our hope and comfort every day will be ; 
 And we may bear our cross as uncomplaining 
 
 As He who leads us unto Calvary ; 
 'Twill not be long ! 
 
 LORD HELP ME. 
 
 'HE way seems dark about me — overhead 
 The clouds have long .since met in gloomy 
 spread, 
 
 ■f And when I looked to see the day break 
 through. 
 Cloud after cloud came up with volume new. 
 
 And in that shadow I have passed along, 
 Feeling myself grow weak as it grew strong. 
 Walking in doubt, and searching for the way, 
 And often at a stand — as now, to-day. 
 
 And if before me on the path there lies 
 A spot of brightness from imagined skies, 
 Imagined shadows fall across it too, 
 And the far future takes the present's hue. 
 
 Perplexities do throng upon my sight, 
 
 Like scudding fog-banks, and obscure the light ; 
 
 Some new dilemma rises every day. 
 
 And I can only shut my eyes and pray. 
 
 Lord, I am not sufficient for these things, 
 Give me the light that Thy sweet presence brings ; 
 Give me Thy grace, give me Thy constant strength- 
 Lord, for my comfort now appear at length. 
 
 It may be that my way doth seem confused. 
 Because my heart of Thy way is afraid ; 
 Because my eyes have constantly refused 
 To see the only opening Thou hast made ; 
 
 Because my will would cross some flowery plain, 
 Where Thou hast thrown a hedge from side to side * 
 And ttirneth from the stony walk of pain. 
 Its trouble and its ease not even tried. 
 
 If thus I try to force my way along, 
 The smoothest road encumbered is for me ; 
 For were I as an angel swift and strong, 
 I could not go unless allowed by Thee. 
 
 .And now, I pray Thee, Lord, to lead the child- 
 Poor wretched wanderer from Thy grace an<l love — 
 Whatever way Thou pleasest through the wihl. 
 So it but take me to Thy home above. 
 
 " PEACE I LEAVE WITH YOU." 
 
 'OURCE of my life's refreshing spring*, 
 
 Whose presence in my heart sustains me. 
 Thy love appoints my pleasant things. 
 Thy mercy orders all that pains me; 
 
 If loving hearts were never lonely, 
 If all they wish might ever be, 
 
 Accepting what they looked for only. 
 They might be glad, but not in Thee. 
 
 Well may Thy own beloved who see 
 In all their lot their Father's pleasure. 
 
 Bear loss of all they love, save The.?, 
 Their living everlasting treasure. 
 
 W^ell may Thy happy children cease 
 From restless wishes, born of sin. 
 
 And, in Thy own e.xceeding peace, 
 Yield to Thy daily discipline. 
 
 We need as much the cross we bear, 
 As air we breathe — as light we see ; 
 
 It draws us to Thy side in prayer, 
 It binds us to our strength in Thee. 
 
 Mrs. Waring. 
 
 AS THOU WILT. 
 
 Y Jesus, as Thou wilt. 
 
 Oh, may Thy will be mine. 
 Into Thy hapd of love 
 1 would my all resign. 
 Through sorrow, or through joy. 
 
 Conduct me as Thine own, 
 And help me still to say. 
 My Lord, Thy will be done. 
 
 My Jesus, as Thou wilt. 
 
 If needy here and poor, 
 Give me Thy people's bread, 
 
 Their portion rich and sure. 
 The manna of Thy word 
 
 Let my soul feed upon ; 
 And if all else should fail. 
 
 My Lord, Thy will be done. 
 
\Ai 
 
 ^ 31 
 
 I'ii 
 
 368 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Ill* ^ 
 
 let--'- ' 
 
 
 
 My Jesus, as Tliou wilt, 
 
 If among thorns I go, 
 Still sometimes hore anil there 
 
 Let a few roses blow. 
 But Thou on eartli aloii;i 
 
 A thorny path hast gone, 
 Then lead me after Tiiue, 
 
 My Lord, Thy will he done. 
 
 My Jesus, as Thou wilt, 
 
 Tliough seen througli many a tear, 
 Let not my star of hoiie 
 
 Grow dim and disajipjar. 
 Since Thou on earth ha:.t wept. 
 
 And sorrowed oft alone, 
 If I must weep with Thee, 
 
 My Lord, Thy will be done. 
 
 My Jesus, as Thou wilt, 
 
 If loved ones must depart, 
 SufTer not sorrow's flood 
 
 To overwhelm my iieart. 
 For they are blessed with Thee, 
 
 Their race and conliict won ; 
 Let me but follow them. 
 
 My Lord, Thy will be done. 
 
 My Jesus, as thou wilt. 
 
 When death itself draws nigii. 
 To Thy dear wounded side 
 
 I would for refuge fly. 
 Leaning on Thee, t(} go 
 
 Where Thou before hast gone ; 
 And rest as Thou shalt please. 
 
 My L(jrd, Thy will be done. 
 
 My Jesus, as Thou wilt, 
 
 All shall be well for me : 
 Each changing future scene 
 
 I gladly trust with Thee. 
 Straight to my home above 
 
 I travel calmly on. 
 And sing in life or death. 
 
 My Lord, Thy will be done. 
 
 Benja.min Schmolke. 
 
 OVER THE RIVER. 
 
 VER the river they beckon to me, 
 
 Loved ones who crossed to the other side; 
 The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 
 But their voices are drowned by the rush- 
 ing tide. 
 There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
 
 And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 
 
 And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
 We saw not the angels that met him there — 
 
 The gate of the city we could not see ; 
 Over the river, over the river. 
 My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. 
 
 Over the river the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, the household pet ; 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
 
 Darling Minnie I I see her yet I 
 .She closeil on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
 
 Ami fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
 We watched it glide from the silver sands, 
 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
 Wo know she is safe on the further side. 
 
 Where all tiie ransomed and angels be ; 
 Over the river, the mystic river. 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores. 
 
 Who cross with tlie boatman cold and pale ; 
 We hear the dip of the golden oars. 
 
 And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; 
 And.lo! they have passed from our yearning he;irts- 
 
 They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
 We may not sunder the vail apart 
 
 That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 
 Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
 Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 
 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 
 
 .'\nd I sit and think when the sunset's gold 
 
 Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, 
 I shall one day stand by the waters cold 
 
 And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 
 
 I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
 I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale 
 
 To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
 I shall know the loved who have gone before. 
 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
 When over the river, the peaceful river. 
 
 The angel of death shall carry me. 
 
 Nancy Woodbury Priest. 
 
 THE FATHER'S LOVE. 
 
 GOD ! though sorrow be my fate. 
 And the world's hate 
 
 For my heart's faith pursue me, 
 My peace Ihey cannot take away ; 
 From day to day 
 
 Thou dost anew imbue me ; 
 Thou art not far ; a little while 
 Thou hidest thy face, with brighter smile 
 Thy father-love to show me. 
 
 Lord, not my will, but Thine, be done ; 
 If I sink down 
 
 When men to terrors leave me, 
 Thy father-love still warms my breast ; 
 All's for the best; 
 
 Shall man have power to grieve me. 
 When bliss eternal is my goal, 
 And Thou the keeper of my soul. 
 
 Who never will deceive me? 
 
RKLICilOUS LIFE. 
 
 ;169 
 
 Tliou art my shield, as sailli the U\)rd. 
 Christ j-'sus, Lord, 
 
 Tiiuu staiidest pitying liy me, 
 And louj-ccst on each grief of mine 
 As if 'twere Tiiine : 
 
 What, then, though foes may try nie, 
 TIioii;j;li tiiorns be in my p.ith coiicealcd ? 
 World, do tiiy worst ! God is my shield ! 
 
 And will be ever nigh me. 
 
 MaRV, QUKKN ok HlNCARY. 
 
 f 
 
 THE MARTYR'S HYMN. 
 
 (^^^lAJ'SCt to the heedless winds, 
 Or on the waters cast, 
 The martyrs' ashes, watched, 
 Shall gathered be at last ; 
 And from that scattered dust, 
 
 Around us and abroad, 
 Shall spring a plenteous seed 
 Of witnesses for God. 
 
 The Father hath received 
 
 Their latest living breath ; 
 And vain is satan's boast 
 
 Of victory in their death ; 
 Still, still, thouvh dead, they speak, 
 
 And, trumpet tongtied, proclaim 
 To many a wakening land 
 
 The one availing name. 
 
 Martin Lutukk. 
 
 ii 
 
 w 
 
 ROCK OF AGES, 
 
 OCK of ages, cleft for me," 
 
 Thoughtlessly the maiden sung ; 
 Fell the words unconsciously 
 From her girlish, gleeful tongue ; 
 Sang as little children sing; 
 
 Sang as sing the birds in June ; 
 Fell the words like light leaves down 
 On the current cf the tune — 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee. 
 
 "Let me hide myself in Thee" — 
 
 Felt her soul no need to hide — 
 Sweet the song as song could be. 
 
 And she had no thought beside ; 
 All the words unheedingly 
 
 Fell from lips untouched by care, 
 Dreaming not that they might be 
 
 On some other lips a prayer — 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me "— 
 'Twas a woman sung them now, 
 Pleadingly and prayerfully. 
 Every word her heart did know. 
 
 (24) 
 
 Rose the song as storm-tossetl bird 
 
 Beats with weary wing the air ; 
 Every note with sorrow stirred, 
 F\ cry syllable a pr.iyer — 
 " Rock of ages cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me ' — 
 Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
 Trustingly and tenderly. 
 Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim — 
 "Let mc hide myself in Thee." 
 
 Trembling though the voice and low, 
 Ran the sweet strain peacefully. 
 
 Like a river in its flow ; 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 
 Who life's thorny paths have pressed ; 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 Who behold i promised rest — 
 " Rock of ages, cleft fur me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me "- 
 
 Sung above a coffin lid ; 
 Underneath, all restfully. 
 
 All life's joys and sorrows hid ; 
 Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul ! 
 
 Nevermore from wind or tide, 
 Nevermore from billow's roll 
 
 Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 
 Could the sightless, sunken eyes. 
 
 Closed beneath the soft gray liair. 
 Could the mute and stiffened lips 
 
 Move again in pleading prayer, 
 .Still, aye, still the words would be — 
 " Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 Edward U. Rice. 
 
 SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. 
 
 'OFTLY woo away her breath, 
 Gentle death I 
 Let her leave thee with no strife. 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring life. 
 She hath seen her happy day, 
 
 She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
 Now she pales and shrinks away. 
 Earth, into thy gentle bosom. 
 
 She hath done her bidding here, 
 
 Angels dear! 
 Rear her perfect soul above, 
 
 Seraph of the skies, sweet love. 
 Good she was and fair in youth ; 
 
 And her mind was seen to soar. 
 And her heart was wed to truth ; 
 
 Take her, then, forevermore, 
 
 Forever— evermore. 
 Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall. 
 
 fit 
 

 I Kiii'n' 
 
 IIMi 
 
 llri-M. i 
 
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 ;<7() 
 
 h 
 
 CROWN JKVVKLS. 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 'HERE is no flock, 
 tended, 
 Hut one dead lamb Is there ! 
 There is no fireside iiowsoe'er defL-mled, 
 Hut has one vacant chair ! 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage tlic feeling 
 I We may nut wliolly stay ; 
 however watched and By silence sancfifyinjj, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 IIenkv Wadsvvortii 1.'>N(;i-f.i.i.o>v. 
 
 CHRIST'S PRESENCE IN THE HOUSE 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying; 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying. 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from tlie ground arise. 
 Hut oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no death ! What .seems so is transition ; 
 
 Tliis life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call death. 
 
 She is not dead — the child of our affection — 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection. 
 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness aud seclusion, 
 
 By guardian angels led. 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution. 
 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of airi 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
 
 For when with raptures wild 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 
 She will not be a child ; 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed, 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean 
 
 That cannot be at rest — 
 
 © 
 
 E.\R Friend, whose presence in the house. 
 Whose gracious word benign, 
 CQuld once at Cana's wedding feast 
 Turn water into wine : 
 
 Come visit us, and when dull work 
 
 Grows weary, line on line. 
 Revive our souls, and make us see 
 
 Life's water glow as wine. 
 
 Gay mirth shall deepen Into joy, 
 Earth's hopes shall grow divine 
 
 When Jesus visits us, to turn 
 Life's waters into wine. 
 
 The social talk, the evening fire. 
 The homely household shrine, 
 
 Shall glow with angel's visits when 
 The Lord pours out the wine. 
 
 For when self seeking turns to love, 
 Wiiich knows not mine and thine, 
 
 The miracle is wrought, 
 The water changed to wine. 
 
 J.vMES Freeman Ci.arki:. 
 
 THERE IS NO DEATH. 
 
 'HERE is no death ! The stars go down 
 To rise upon some fairer shore : 
 And bright in h aven's jewelled crown 
 ^ They shine forevermore. 
 
 There is no death ! The dust wc tread 
 Shall change beneath the summer showers 
 
 To golden grain or mellowed fruit. 
 Or rainbow-tinted flowcis. 
 
 The granite rocks disorganize, 
 And feed the hungry moss they bear ; 
 
 The forest leaves drink daily life, 
 From out the viewless air. 
 
 There is no death ! The leaves may fall, 
 And flowers may fade and pass away ; 
 
 They only wait through wintry hours, 
 The coming of the May. 
 
 There is no death ! An angel form 
 Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; 
 
 He bears our best loved things away ; 
 And then we call them " dead." 
 
RELIGIOUS Liri:. 
 
 371 
 
 lie leaves our hearts all desolate, 
 Ho plucks our fairest, sweettsi flowers , 
 
 Transphm'.eil into bliss, they now 
 Attorn iinniurtal bowers. 
 
 The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones, 
 Made j;l''id these scenes of sin and strife, 
 
 SinKs now an everlasting sonj;, 
 Around the tree of life. 
 
 Where'er He sees a smile too hrigiit, 
 
 Or heart too pure for taint and vii-e, 
 He hears it to that world of light, 
 
 To dwell in paradise. 
 
 Rom unto that undyinj; life, 
 
 They leave us but to come ag;ain ; 
 With joy we welcome them the same — 
 
 K.\cept their sin and pain. 
 
 And ever near lis, though unseen. 
 
 The tlear immortal spirits tread ; 
 For all ti)e boundless universe 
 
 Is life— there are no dead. 
 
 Lord I.vtton. 
 
 THE SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 "yTV^ITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn, | 
 
 111 '^'^■^^ slowly wakes while all the fields are 
 
 VJL/ still I 
 
 A SI >' iiliing calm on every breeze is borne ; 
 A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ; 
 And echo answers softer from the hill ; 
 And sweeter sings the linnet from the thorn : 
 The skylark warbles in a tone less .shrill. 
 Hail, light serene I hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! 
 The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; 
 The sun a placid yellow lustre throws ; 
 The gales that lately sighed along the grove 
 I lave hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; 
 The hovering i^ck of clouds forgets to move — 
 So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! 
 
 John Levue.n. 
 
 THE DROWNING SINGER. 
 
 HE Sabbath day was ending in a village by the 
 sea, 
 The uttered benediction touched the people 
 tenderly, 
 And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted 
 
 west, 
 And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed 
 boon of rest. 
 
 But they looked across the waters, and a storm was 
 
 raging there ; 
 A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild spirit of 
 
 the air — 
 And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they 
 
 thundered, groaned and boomed, 
 And alas for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed ! 
 
 Very iinxious were the in-ople on tli.it ro'-kv coast of 
 Wales, 
 
 I.est the dawns of c<iniing morrows sluailil lie tL'Iliiij; 
 awful tales, 
 
 When the sea had spent its p.issiim, and shoultl cast 
 upon the shore 
 
 Hits of wreck and swollen victims, as it hail done here- 
 tofore. 
 
 With the rough winds blowing round lur, a br.ive 
 
 woman strained her eyes, 
 .\nd she .saw along the billows a large vessel fall and 
 
 rise. 
 Oh ! it did not need a proi)het to tell what the end nuist 
 
 l-e, 
 For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such 
 
 a sea. 
 
 Then the pitying people hurried from their homes aiul 
 
 thronged the beach. 
 Oh I for |X)wer to cross the waters and the perishing to 
 
 reach I 
 Helpless hands vere wrung Un sorrow, tendir hearts 
 
 grew cold w th dread. 
 And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rink 
 
 shore sjjed. 
 
 ".She has parted in the middle ! ( Hi, the half of Iter 
 
 goes down ! 
 God have mercy ! Is heaven far to .seek for those wlio 
 
 drown?" 
 Lo! when next the while, shocked faces looked with 
 
 terror on the sea. 
 Only one last clinging figure on the sr..r w.s seen to 
 
 be. 
 
 Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck, tosscv'. 
 
 by the wave, 
 .\nd the man still clung and floated, thou.i^Ii no power 
 
 on earth could save. 
 "Could we send him a shoit n.essage ? Here's a 
 
 trumpet. Shout away ! " 
 Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered 
 
 what to say. 
 
 Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? 
 
 Ah, no ! 
 There was but one thing to utter in the awful hour ol 
 
 woe ; 
 So he shouted through the trumpet, " Look to Jesus ! 
 
 Can you hear?" 
 And "Aye, aye, sir ! " rang the answer o'er the waters 
 
 loud and clear. 
 
 Then they listened. He is singing, "Jesus lover of 
 
 my soul!" 
 And the winds brought back the echo, " iniile the 
 
 nearer waters roll;" 
 Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, " Till the storm 
 
 of life is past " 
 Singing bravely from the waters, " Oh, receive my 
 
 soul at last r 
 
 Ji ji 
 
 ■li.'t 
 
bi' 
 
 i- ''i 
 
 
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 liiiji'W 
 
 :i I- 
 
 'li 
 
 M , ' Iff 
 
 
 372 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 He could have no otlier refuge ! " Han^s my helpless 
 
 soul on thee. 
 Leave, ah, leave vte not!" The singer dropped at last 
 
 into the sea, 
 And tiie watrhers, looking homeward tlirough their 
 
 eyes with tears made dim, 
 
 Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of 
 
 that hymn." 
 
 Marianne Farningham. 
 
 Q 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME. 
 
 BIDE with me ! Fast falls tiie eventide, 
 The darkness deepens — Lord, with me abide ! 
 When other helpers fail, and crjmforts flee, 
 Help of the helpless, O abide with me ! 
 
 Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
 Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away ; 
 Change and decay in all around I see ; 
 
 Thou, who changeat not, abide with me ! 
 
 1 need Thy presence every passing hour ; 
 
 What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power ! 
 Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be ? 
 Through cloud and sunshine. Lord, abide with me ! 
 
 I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless ; 
 Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness ; 
 Where is death's sting? where, grave thy victory? 
 I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. 
 
 Hold thou Thy cross before my closing eyes ; 
 Shine through ti.c gloom and point me to the skies ; 
 Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows 
 
 flee; 
 In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me ! 
 
 Henry F. Lvte. 
 
 ^:(! ir!:: 
 
 FAITH AND HOPE. 
 
 DON'T be sorrowful, darling ! 
 
 Now, don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
 For, taking the year together, my dear, 
 There isn't more night than day. 
 It's rainy weather, my loved one ; 
 Time's wheels they heavily run ; 
 But taking the year together, my dear, 
 There isn't more cloud than sun. 
 
 We're old .oiks now, companion — 
 
 Our heads they are growing gray ; 
 But taking the year all round, my dear, 
 
 You will rxlways find the May. 
 We've had our May, my darling, 
 
 And our roses, long ago ; 
 And the time of the year is come, my dear. 
 
 For tiie long dark nights, and the snow. 
 
 But God is God, my faithful, 
 Of night as well as of day ; 
 
 And we feel and know that we can go 
 
 Wherever He leads the way. 
 Ay, God of night, my darling ! 
 
 Of the night of death so grim ; 
 And the gate that from life leads out, good wife, 
 
 Is the gate that leads to Him. 
 
 Rembrandt Peale. 
 
 NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 
 
 "Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past."— Rlssun 
 Proveri. 
 
 'WO hands upon the breast. 
 And labor's done ; 
 Two pale feet crossed in rest — 
 'f The race is won ; 
 
 Two eyes with coin-weights shut. 
 
 And all tears cease ; 
 Two lips where grief is mute. 
 
 Anger at peace;" 
 So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot ; 
 God in his kindness answereth not, 
 
 ' Two hands to work addrest 
 
 Aye for His praise; 
 Two feet that never rest 
 
 Walking His ways ; 
 Two eyes that look above 
 
 Through all their tears ; 
 Two lips still breathing lovf;, 
 
 Not wrath, nor fears ; " 
 So pray we afterwards low on our knees ; 
 Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear thest; ! 
 Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 
 
 THE ANGELS' WHISPER 
 
 /T^ BABY was sleeping ; 
 f ^^ Its mother was weeping ; 
 
 ^^ For her husband was far on the wild r;i;.;iiig 
 sea; 
 
 And the tempest was swelling 
 
 Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
 .\nd she cried, " Dermot, darling, O come back to wvi I" 
 
 Her beads while she numbered, 
 
 Tlie baby still slumbered. 
 And smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; 
 "O, blest be that warning. 
 
 My child, thy .sleep adorning. 
 For I know that the angels are whispering to thee. 
 
 "And while they are keeping 
 
 Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 
 O, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! 
 
 And say thou woulds't rather 
 
 They'd watch o'er thy father ! 
 For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." 
 
 The dawn of the morning 
 Saw Dermot returning. 
 
li 
 
 1 1 
 
 i! 
 
 RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 373 
 
 s past."— RissiAN 
 
 the wild rv^iiig 
 
 ime back to mo !" 
 
 And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; 
 And closely caressing 
 Her child with U blessing, 
 Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering to 
 thee." 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 
 IJJ 
 
 HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. 
 
 HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, 
 
 Out .''■om the land of bondage came, 
 Her fatlur's God before her moved. 
 An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
 By day, along the astonished lands, 
 
 The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
 Dy night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 
 Returned the fiery column's glow. 
 
 There rose the choral hymn of praise, 
 
 And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 
 And Zion's daughters poured their lays. 
 
 With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
 No portents now our foes amaze — 
 
 Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
 Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 
 
 And Thou hast left them to their own. 
 
 But, present still, though now unseen. 
 
 When brightly shines the prosperous day. 
 Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen. 
 
 To temper the deceitful ray. 
 And O, when stoops on Judah's path 
 
 In shade and storm the frequent night. 
 Be Thou, long-suflering, slow to wrath 
 
 A burning and a shining light ! 
 
 Our harps we left by Babel's streams — 
 
 The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
 No censer round our altar beams, 
 
 And mute are timbrel, trump and horn. 
 But Thou hast said, The blood of goats. 
 
 The flesh of rams, I will not prize — 
 A contrite hearti and humble thoughts, 
 
 Are mine accepted sacrifice. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 NEARER HOME. 
 
 This beautiful poem, which has comforted so many Christian 
 hearts, will be prized, not only for it* own sake, but as a fitlinij; 
 memorial to the gifted writer. 
 
 Nearer the bound of life, 
 Where we lay our burdens down ; 
 
 Nearer leaving the cross. 
 Nearer gaining the crown ! 
 
 But the waves of that silent sea 
 
 Roll dark before my sight. 
 That brightly the other side 
 
 Break on a shore of light. 
 
 Oh, if my mortal feet 
 
 Have almost gained the brink ; 
 
 If it be I am nearer home 
 Even to-day than I think ; 
 
 Father, perfect my trust ; 
 
 Let my spirit feel in death. 
 That her feet are firmly set 
 
 On the Rock of a living faith ! 
 
 Phece Carv. 
 
 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL 
 
 This ode was composed at the request of Steele, who wrote* 
 " This is to desire of you that you would please to make an ode us 
 of- a cheerful, dying spirit; that is to say, the Emperor Adrian's 
 dying address to his soul put into two or three stanzas for music " 
 Pope replied with the three stanzas below, and says to Steele in a 
 letter: "Vou have it, as Cowley calls it, warm from the brain, ft 
 came to me the first moment I waked this morning." 
 
 ^ ITAL spark of heavenly flame. 
 
 Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
 Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
 
 Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
 
 And let me languish into life. 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; angels say. 
 
 Sister spirit, come away. 
 
 What is this absorbs me quite, 
 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears ; 
 Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly I 
 Oh, grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 Oh, death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 ^ 
 
 NE sweetly solemn thought 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 
 I'm nearer my home to-day 
 Than I ever have been before ; 
 
 Nearer my Father's house. 
 Where the many mansions be ; 
 
 Nearer the great white throne, 
 Nearer the crystal sea ; 
 
 WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT? 
 
 AY, watchman, what of the night ? 
 Do the dews of the morning fall ? 
 Have the orient skies a border of light, 
 Like the fringe of a funeral pall ? 
 
 " The night is fast waning on high, 
 
 And soon shall the darkness flee. 
 And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky, 
 
 And bright shall its glories be." 
 
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 374 
 
 CROWN J.EWELS. 
 
 But, watchman, what of the night, 
 
 When sorrow and pain are mine, 
 And the pleasures of Ufe, so sweet and bright, 
 
 No longer around me shine ? 
 
 ''That nightof sorrow thy soul 
 
 May surely prepare to meet, 
 But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll, 
 
 And the morning of joy be sweet." 
 
 But, watchman, what of the night, 
 
 AVhen the arrow of death is sped. 
 And the grave, which no glimmering star can light, 
 
 Shall be my sleeping bed ? 
 
 "That night is near, and the cheerless tomb 
 
 Shall keep thy body in store, 
 Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom, 
 
 And night shall be no more ! " 
 
 THE CHANGED CROSS. 
 
 'T was a time of sadness, and my heart. 
 
 Although it knew and loved the better part, 
 Ftlt wearied with the conflict and the strife, 
 And all the needful discipline of life. 
 
 And while I thought on these, as given to me, 
 My trial-tests of faith and love to be. 
 It Heenieil as if I never could be sure 
 That faithful to the end I should endure. 
 
 And thus, no longer trusting to his might 
 WI)o says, "We walk by faith and not by siglit," 
 Doubting, and almost yielding to despair. 
 The thought arose, " My cross I cannot bear. 
 
 " Far heavier its weight must surely be 
 Than tiaose of others which I daily see ; 
 Oh ! if I might another burden choose, 
 Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose." 
 
 A solemn silence reigned on all around. 
 E'en nature's voices uttered not a sound ; 
 The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, 
 And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. 
 
 A moment's pause — and then a heavenly light 
 Reamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight ; 
 Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere. 
 And angels' music thrilled the balmy air. 
 
 Then One, more fair than all the rest to see, 
 One to whom all the others bowed the knee. 
 Came gently to me, as I trembling lay, 
 And, " Follow me," he said ; " I am the Way." 
 
 Then, speaking thus, he led me far above. 
 And there, beneath a canopy of love, 
 Cro.sses of divers shape and .size were seen. 
 Larger and smaller than my own had been. 
 
 And one there was, most beauteous to behold — 
 A little one, with jewels set in gold. 
 "Ah ! this," methought, " I can with comfort wear, 
 For it will be an easy one to bear." 
 
 And so the little cross I quickly took. 
 But all at once my frame beneath it shook ; 
 The sparkling jewels, fair were they to see. 
 But far too heavy was their weight for me. 
 
 "This may not be," I cried, and looked again. 
 To see if there was any here could ease my pain ; 
 But, one by one, I passed them slowly by. 
 Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. 
 
 Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined. 
 And grace and beauty seemed in it combined. 
 Wondering, I gazed — and still I wondered more. 
 To think so many should have passed it o'er. 
 
 But oh ! that form so beautiful to see 
 Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me ; 
 Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair ; 
 Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear." 
 
 And so it was with each and all around— 
 
 Not one to suit my need could there be found ; 
 
 Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down 
 
 As my Guide gently said, "No cross — no crown." 
 
 At length to him I raised my saddened heart , 
 lie knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart ; 
 " Be not afraid," he said, " but trust in me ; 
 .My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." 
 
 And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet, 
 .*\gain I turned, my earthly cross to meet ; 
 With forward footsteps, turning not aside. 
 For fear some hidden evil might betide ; 
 
 And there — in the prepared, appointed way. 
 Listening to hear, and ready to obey — • 
 A cross I quickly found of plainest form. 
 With only words of love inscribed thereon. 
 
 With thankfulness I raised it from the rest. 
 And joyfully acknowledged it the best — 
 The only one, of all the many there, 
 That I could feel was good for me to bear. 
 
 And, while I thus my chosen one confessed, 
 I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest ; 
 And as I bent, my burden to sustain, 
 I recognized »iy own old cross again. 
 
 But oh ! how different did it seem to be. 
 Now I had learned its preciousness to see ! 
 No longer could I unbelieving say, 
 " Perhaps another is a better way." 
 
 Ah, no ! henceforth my own desire shall be. 
 
 That He who knows me best should choose (or me ; 
 
 And so, whate'er His love sees good to send, 
 
 I'll trust it's best— because He knows the end. 
 
 Mrs. Charles Hodakt. 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 375 
 
 THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 
 
 yJ^'ND is Ihure care in heaven ? And is there love 
 i ^^ In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
 ^^l That may compassion of their evils move ? 
 There is : — else much more wretched were 
 the case 
 Of men than beasts : but O the exceeding grace 
 Of Highest God ! that loves His creatures so, 
 And all His works with mercy doth embrace, 
 That blessed angels He sends to and fro, 
 To serve to wicked men, to serve his wicked foe ! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
 To come to succor us that succor want! 
 How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
 The flitting skies, lil.e flying pursuivant. 
 Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! 
 They for us fight, they watch, and duly ward, 
 And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; 
 And all for love, and nothing for reward ; 
 
 ( ), why should heavenly God to men have such regard! 
 
 Edmi;nd Spensek. 
 
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 THE DYING SAVIOUR. 
 
 SACRED Head, now wounded. 
 
 With grief and shame weighed down ; 
 Now scornfully surrounded 
 With thorns, Thy only crown ; 
 O sacred Head, what glory, 
 
 What bliss, till now was Thine ! 
 Yet, though despised and gory, 
 I joy to call Thee mi.ie. 
 
 O noblest brow and dearest, 
 
 In other days the world 
 All feared when Thou appearedst : 
 
 What shame on Thee is hurled ! 
 How art Thou pale with anguish, 
 
 With sore abuse and scorn ! 
 How does that visage languish 
 
 Which once was bright as morn ! 
 
 What language shall I borrow, 
 
 To thank Thee, dearest Friend, 
 For this Thy dying sorrow, 
 
 Thy pity without end ! 
 O, make me Thine forever, 
 
 And should I fainting be. 
 Lord, let me never, never. 
 
 Outlive my love to Thee. 
 
 If I, a wretch, should leave Thee, 
 
 O jesus, leave not me ! 
 In faith may I receive Thee, 
 
 When death shall set me free. 
 When strength and comfort languish, 
 
 And I must hence depart, 
 Release me then from anguish. 
 
 By Thine own wounded heart. 
 
 Be near when I am dying, 
 
 O, show Thy cross to me ! 
 And for my succor flying. 
 
 Come, Lord, to set me free. 
 These eyes new faith receiving. 
 
 From Jesus shall not move ; 
 For he who dies believing 
 
 Dies safely — through Thy love. 
 
 Paul Gerhardt. 
 
 FOR LOVE'S SAKE. 
 
 One of the most celebrated, and perhaps the finest, of all reli- 
 gious edifices in the world, is the " Moslem Palace " called Taj II;;- 
 hal. It was erected during the 17th century, by the Emperor 
 Shah Jehan as a mausoleum for his favorite queen. The material 
 is white marble, and the cost is said to have been over fifteen 
 million dollars. The tombs of the Emperor and Queen are in the 
 central hill. 
 
 ' OU have read of the Moslem palace— 
 The marvelous fane that stands 
 On the banks of the distant Jumna, 
 The wonder of all the lands ; 
 
 You have read of its marble splendors. 
 
 Its carvings of rare device. 
 Its domes and its towers that glisten 
 
 Like visions of paradise. 
 
 You have listened as one has told you 
 
 Of its pinnacles snowy-fair — 
 So pure that they seemed suspended 
 
 Like clouds in tlie crystal air ; 
 
 Of the flow of its fountains falling 
 
 As softly as mourners' tears ; 
 Of the lily and rose kept blooming 
 
 For over two hundred years ; 
 
 Of the friezes of frost-like beauty. 
 The jewels that crust the wall. 
 
 The carvings that crown the archway. 
 The innermost shrine of all — 
 
 W^here lies in her sculptured coffin, 
 (Whose chiselings mortal man 
 
 H.ath never excelled,) the dearest 
 Of the loves of the Shah Jehin. 
 
 They read you the shining legends 
 Whose letters are set in gems, 
 
 On the walls of the sacred chamber 
 That sparkle like diadems. 
 
 And they tell you these letters, gleainin;^ 
 
 Wherever the eye may look, 
 Are words of the Moslem prophet, 
 
 Are texts from his holy book. 
 
 And still as you heard, you questioned 
 Right wonderingly, as yon must, 
 " Why rear such a palace, only 
 To shelter a woman's dust ? " 
 
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 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Why renr it ?— the Shall had promised 
 
 H is beautiful Xoumiahr.l 
 To do it because he loved her, 
 
 He loved licr— and th;:t was all ! 
 
 So minaret, wall, and column, 
 
 And tower and dome above, 
 All tell of a sacred promise. 
 
 All utter one accent — love. 
 
 You know of another temple, 
 A grander than Hindoo slirine. 
 
 The splendor of whose perfections 
 Is mystical, strange, divine. 
 
 So vast is its scale proportioned. 
 
 So lofty its turrets rise. 
 That the pile in its finished glory 
 
 Will reach to tlie very skies. 
 
 The lapse of the silent Kedron, 
 
 The roses of Siiaron f tir, 
 Gethsemane's sacred olives 
 
 And cedars are round it there. 
 
 And graved on its walls and pillars. 
 
 And cut in its crystal stone, 
 Are the words of our Prophet, sw cter 
 
 Than Islam's hath ever known — 
 
 Texts culled from the holy Gospel, 
 
 That comfort, refresh, sustain. 
 And shine with a rarer lustre 
 
 Than the gems of the Hindoo fane. 
 
 The jilan of the temple, only 
 
 Its Architect understands ; 
 And yet He accepts — (Oh, wonder!) 
 
 The helping of human hands ! 
 
 And so, for the work's progression. 
 He is willing that great and small 
 
 Should bring Him their bits of car\-nig, 
 So needed, to fill the wall. 
 
 Not one does the Master-Builder 
 
 Disdainfully cast away : 
 Why, even He takes the chippings, 
 
 We women have brought to-day ! 
 
 Oh, not to the dead — to the living — 
 
 We rear on the earth He trod, 
 This fane to His lasting glory. 
 
 This church to the Christ of God ! 
 
 Why labor and strive ? We have promised 
 
 (.And dare we the vow recall ?) 
 To do it because we love Him, 
 
 We love Him — and that is all ! 
 
 For over the Church's portal. 
 
 Each pillar and arch above, 
 The Master has set one signet, 
 
 And graven one watchword — love. 
 
 Margaret J. Preston. 
 
 DIFFEf^ENT MINDS. 
 
 'OME murmur when ♦iicir sky is clear 
 And wholly bright Uy view. 
 If one small speck of dark appear 
 
 In their grer.t heaven of bttie ; 
 And some with thankful love are filled 
 
 If but one streak of light. 
 One ray of God's good mercy, gild 
 The darkness of their night. 
 
 In palaces are hearts that ask, 
 
 In discontent and pride. 
 Why life is such a dreary task. 
 
 And all good tilings denied, 
 And hearts in poorest huts admire 
 
 How love has in tlieir aid 
 (Love that not ever seems to tire) 
 
 Such rich provision made. 
 
 Richard Chenevix Trench. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE. 
 
 NTO the great vestibule of heaven, God callec! up 
 a man from dreams, saying, "Come tliou luthL-r, 
 and see the glory of my house." And, to the- 
 servants who stood around His throne, HesaiJ. 
 "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; 
 cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nos- 
 trils ; only touch not with any change his human heart 
 — the heart that weeps and trembles," 
 I It w;is done ; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, 
 I the man stood ready for his infinite voyage ; and from 
 ' the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at 
 once they wheeled away into endless space. Sonic- 
 times, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled 
 through Saharas of darkness — through wilderr^esses of 
 death, that divided the world of life ; sometimes they 
 swept over frontiers that were quickening under the 
 prophetic motions from God. 
 
 Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, 
 light dawned for a time through a sleepy film ; by un- 
 utterable pace the light swept to them ; they by unut- 
 terable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of 
 planets was upon them ; in a moment, the blazing of 
 suns was around them. 
 
 Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but 
 were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left, 
 towered mighty constellations, that by self-rei)etition 
 and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built 
 up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose arch- 
 ways—horizontal, upright — rested, rose — at altitudes 
 by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. With- 
 out measure were the architraves, past number were 
 the archways, beyond memory the gates. 
 
 Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below ; 
 above was below — below was above, to the man 
 stripped of gravitating body ; depth was swallowed up 
 in height insurmountable ; height was swallowed up in 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 depth unrathomable. Suddenly, ns thus they rode 
 from inlinile to infinite ; suddenly, as tliiis they tilted 
 over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems 
 more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other 
 hjights and other depths, were coming — were Hearing 
 —were at hand. 
 
 Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, 
 and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears ; 
 and he said, "Angel, I will ga no farther ; for the spirit 
 of man acheth with this infinity. Insuflerable is the 
 glory of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide 
 me from the persecutions of the Infinite ; for end, I see, 
 tliere is none." 
 
 And from all the listening stars that shone around, 
 issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly ; end there 
 is none that ever yet we heard of" "End is there 
 none?" the angel solemnly demanded : "Is there in- 
 deed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" 
 But no voice answered that he might answer himself. 
 Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward th,; 
 heaven of heavens, saying, " End is tliere none to the 
 universe of God I Lo, also there is no beginning !" 
 
 Jea.n Paul Richter. 
 
 Thou art where billows foam, 
 TIiou art where music melts upon the air ; 
 
 Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
 And the world calls us forth— and thou art there. 
 
 Thou art where friend meets friend, 
 Beneath the sliadow of the elm to rest — 
 
 Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
 The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath. 
 
 And stars to set — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death ! 
 
 Felicia Dorothea He.ma.ns. 
 
 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 
 
 , EAVES have their time to fall, 
 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
 breath, 
 And stars to set — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death ! 
 
 Day is for mortal care. 
 Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 
 
 Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — 
 But all for tliee, thou mightiest of the earth. 
 
 The banquet hath its hour. 
 Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; 
 
 There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming power, 
 A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 
 
 Youth and the opening rose 
 May look like things too glorious for decay, 
 
 And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
 That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
 
 And stars to set — but all. 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh death ! 
 
 We know when moons shall wane. 
 When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 
 
 Wl»en autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — 
 But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 
 
 Is it when spring's first gale 
 Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 
 
 Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? 
 They have one season— all are ours to die 1 
 
 THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. 
 
 • E was of that stubborn crew 
 
 Of arrant saints, whom all men grant 
 To be the true church militant ; 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 
 The holy text of pike and gun ; 
 
 Decide all controversies by 
 
 Infallible artillery. 
 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 
 r.y apostolic blows and knocks ; 
 
 Call fire, and sword, and desolation 
 
 A godly, thorough reformation. 
 
 Which always must be carried on 
 
 And still be doing, never done ; 
 
 As if religion were intended 
 
 For nothing else but to be mended. 
 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies 
 
 In odd perverse antip.ithies ; 
 
 In falling out with tliat or this. 
 
 And finding somewhat still amiss , 
 
 More peevish, cross, and splenetic. 
 
 Than dog distract, or monkey sick ; 
 
 That with more care keep holjday 
 
 The wrong than others the right way ; 
 
 Compound for sins they are inclined to. 
 
 By damning those they have no mind to ; 
 
 Still so perverse and opposite. 
 
 As if they worshipped God for spite ; 
 
 The self-same thing they will abhor 
 
 One way, and long another for. 
 
 Samiel Bltler. 
 
 ^j) 
 
 CREATIVE POWER. 
 
 HE spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky. 
 And spangled heavens, a shining trame. 
 Their great Original proclaim ; 
 The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 Docs his Creator's power display. 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
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 378 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 
 
 Soon ns tliu evening sliades prevail, 
 Tlie moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of her birtli ; 
 While all the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets in their turn, 
 Confimi the tidings as they roll. 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
 Wliat though no real voice or sound 
 Amid thoir radiant orbs be found ? 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 Forever singing, as they shine, 
 "The Hand that made us is divine I " 
 
 JosEi'ii Addison. 
 
 NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 
 
 ' ALKING of sects till late one eve. 
 
 Of the various doctrines the saints believe. 
 That night I stood, in a troubled dream, 
 By the side of a darkly flowing stream. 
 
 And a " Churchman " down to the river came ■ 
 When I heard a strange voice call his name, 
 " Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide, 
 You must leave your robes on the other side." 
 
 But the aged father did not mind ; 
 
 And his long gown floated out behind, ' 
 
 As down to the stream his way he took. 
 
 His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 
 
 " Im bound for heaven ; and when I'm there, 
 Shall want my book of Common Prayer ; 
 And, though I put on a starry crown, 
 I should feel quite lost without my gown." 
 
 Then he fi.xed his eyes on the shining track, 
 But his gown was heavy and held him back, 
 And the poor old father tried in vain, 
 A single step in the flood to gain. 
 
 I saw him again on the other side. 
 But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 
 And no one asked, in that blissful spot. 
 Whether he belonged to the " church " or not 
 
 Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; 
 His druss of a sober hue was made : 
 *' My co.it and hat must all be gray — 
 I cannot go any other way." 
 
 Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, 
 And staidly, solemnly, waded in, 
 And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight. 
 Over his forehead so cold and white. 
 
 But a strong wind carried away his hat ; 
 A moment he silently sighed over that ; 
 
 And then, as he gazed to the furtiier shore, 
 The coat slipped off, and was seen no more. 
 
 As he entered heaven his suit of gray 
 Went quietly, sailing, away, away ; 
 And none of the angels ([uestioned him 
 About the width of his beaver's brim. 
 
 Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms 
 
 Tied nicely up in his aged arms. 
 
 And hymns as many, a very wise thing, 
 
 That the people in heaven, "all round," mi^jiit sing. 
 
 But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh. 
 And he saw that the river ran broad and bigh. 
 And looked rather surprised, as one by one 
 The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. 
 
 And after him, with his MSS., 
 
 Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness ; 
 
 But he cried, " Dear me ! what shall I do ? 
 
 The water has soaked them through and tlirough." 
 
 And there on the river far and wide, 
 .\way they went down the swollen tide ; 
 And the saint, astonished, passed through alone. 
 Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. 
 
 Then, gravely walking, two saints by name 
 Down to the stream together came ; 
 But, as they stopped at the river's brink, 
 I saw one saint from the other shrink. 
 
 " Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend. 
 
 How you attained to life's great end ? " 
 " Thus, with a few drops on my brow." 
 " But / have been dipped, as you'll see me now, 
 
 " And I really think it will hardly do, 
 As I'm ' close communion,' to cross with you ; 
 You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss. 
 But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 
 
 Then straightway plunging with all his might, 
 Away to the left — his friend to the right. 
 Apart they went from this world of sin. 
 But at last together they entered in. 
 
 And now, when the river was rolling on, 
 
 A Presbyterian church went down ; 
 
 Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, 
 
 But the men I could count as they passed along. 
 
 And concerning the road, they could never agree, 
 The old or the new way, which it could fi be, 
 No^ver a moment paused to think 
 That both would lead to the river's brink. 
 
 And a sound of murmuring, long and loud. 
 Came ever up from the moving crowd ; 
 " You're in the old way, and I'm in the new ; 
 That is the false, and this4s the true "— 
 Or, " Im in the old way, and you're in the new; 
 That is the false, and this is the true." 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 379 
 
 Rut the " brethren" only seemed to speak : 
 Modest the sisters walked and meek, 
 And if ever one of them chanced to say 
 What troubles she met with on the way, 
 How she longed to pass to the other side, 
 Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 
 
 A voice arose from the brethren then, 
 " Let no one speak but the 'holy men ,' 
 For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 
 Oh, let the women keep silence all ? ' " 
 
 I watched them long in my curious dream. 
 Till they stood by the borders of the stream ; 
 Then, just as I thought, the two ways met ; 
 But all the brethren were talking yet. 
 And would talk on till the heaving tide 
 Carried them over side by side — 
 Side by side, for the way was one ; 
 The toilsome journey of life was done; 
 And all who in Christ the Saviour died, 
 Cume out alike on the other side. 
 
 No forms or crosses or books had they ; 
 No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; 
 No creeds to guide them, or ISISS. ; 
 For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 
 
 Mrs. Clevela.nd. 
 
 JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON. 
 
 ^~*HE minister said last night, says he, 
 /^J\ " Don't be afraid of givin' 
 V w If your life ain't nothin' to other folks 
 Y Why, what's the use of livin' ? " 
 
 And that's what I say to my wife, says I, 
 "There's Brown, that mis'rable sinner. 
 He'd sooner a beggar would starve, than give 
 A cent towards buy in' a dinner." 
 
 I tell you our minister's prime, he is. 
 
 But I couldn't quite determine, 
 When I heard him givin' it right and left, 
 
 Just who was hit by the sermon. 
 Of course, there could be no mistake, 
 
 When he talked of long winded prayin', 
 For Peters and Johnson they sat and scowled 
 
 At every word he was sayin'. 
 
 .And the minister he went on to say, 
 "There's various kinds of cheatin'. 
 And religion's as good for every day 
 
 As it is to bring to meetin*. 
 I don't think much of a man that gives 
 
 The loud 'amens' at my preachin', 
 And spends his time the followin' week 
 
 In cheatin' and overreachin'." 
 
 I guess that dose was bitter 
 
 For a man like Jones to swaller ; 
 But I noticed he didn't open his mouth, 
 
 Not once, after that, to holler. 
 
 Hurrah ! says I, for the minister — 
 
 Of course, I said it quiet — 
 Give us some more of this open talk ; 
 
 It's very refreshin' diet. 
 
 The minister hit 'em every time ; 
 
 And when he spoke of fashion. 
 And n-riggin' out in bows and things, 
 
 As woman's rulin' passion, 
 And a-comin' to church to see the styles, 
 
 I couldn't help a winkin' 
 And a-nudgin' my wife, and, says I, "That's you," 
 
 And I guess it sot her thinkin'. 
 
 Says I to myself, that sermon's pat ; 
 
 But man is a queer creation ; 
 And Im much afraid that most o' the folks 
 
 Wouldn't take the application. 
 Now, if he had said a word about 
 
 My personal mode o' sinnin', 
 I'd have gone to work to right myself, 
 
 And not set there a-grinnin'. 
 
 Ju.st then the minister says, says he, 
 • " And now I've come to the fellers 
 Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends 
 
 As a sort o' moral umbreliers. 
 Go iiome," says he, " and find your faults. 
 
 Instead of huntin' your brother's ; 
 Go home," he says, "and wear the coats 
 
 You've tried to fit on others." 
 
 My wife, she nudged, and Brown he winked. 
 
 And there was lots ofsmiliii' 
 And lots o' lookin" at our pew ; 
 
 It sot my blood a-bilin'. 
 Says I to myself, our minister 
 
 Is gettin' a little bitier ; 
 I'll tell him when meetin's out that I 
 
 Ain't at all that kind of a critter. 
 
 WE'VE ALWAYS BEEN PROVIDED FOR. 
 
 G 
 
 GOD wife, what are you singing for ? Vou 
 • 1 1 /i^ know we ve lost the hay. 
 
 And what we'll do with horse and kye is 
 more than I can say ; 
 While like as not, with storm and r;:in, we'll lose botii 
 
 corn and wheat." 
 She looked up with a pleasant face, and aaswered low 
 
 and sweet : 
 " There is a Heart, there is a Hand, we feel, but can- 
 not see ; 
 We've always been provided for, and we shall always 
 be." 
 
 He turned round with a sudden gloom. She .said : 
 
 " Love, be at rest ; 
 You cut the grass, worked soon and late, you did your 
 
 very best. 
 
I 
 
 
 ;"f 
 
 m 
 
 
 H' 
 
 '^■i 
 
 ! 'i 
 
 I ? 
 
 
 I n 
 
 !(!* 
 
 380 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 That was your worlc ; you'd naught at all to do with 
 
 wind and rain, 
 And no doubt but that you will reap rich fields of 
 
 golden grain ; 
 For there's a Heart, and there's a Hand, we feel, but 
 
 cannot see— 
 We've always been provided for, and we shall always 
 
 be." 
 
 "That's like a woman's reasoning — we must, because 
 
 we must." 
 She softly said : " I reason not, I only work and trust ; 
 The har\'est may redeem the day — keep heart, what- 
 
 e'er betide, 
 When one door shuts, I've always seen another open 
 
 wide. 
 There is a Heart, there is a Hand, we feel, but cannot 
 
 see ; 
 We've always been provided for, and we shall alwaj-s 
 
 be." 
 
 He kissed the calm and trustful face, gone was his rest- 
 less pain. 
 
 She heard him with a cheerful step go whistling down 
 the lane. 
 
 And when about her household tasks, full of a glad 
 content, 
 
 Singing, to time her busy hands, as to and fro she 
 went — 
 
 " There is a Heart, there is a Hand, we feel, but cannot 
 see ; 
 
 We've always been provided for, and we shall always 
 be." 
 
 Days come and go — 'twas Christmas tide, and the 
 
 great tire burned clear. 
 The farmer said: "Dear wife, it's been a good and 
 
 happy year ; 
 The fruit was gain, the surplus com has bought the 
 
 hay, you know." 
 She lifted then a smiling face, and said : " I told you 
 
 so! 
 For there's a Heart, and there's a Hand, we feel, but 
 
 cannot see ; 
 We've always been provided for, and we shall always 
 
 be." 
 
 MERCY. 
 
 VT 'HE quality of mercy is not strained ; 
 th'7\ It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
 V ^ Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
 ' * It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it l)ecomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
 Rut mercy is above this sceptred sway — 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 
 It is an attribute to God himself ; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
 When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
 Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 
 That in the course of justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
 And that same prayer should teach us all to render 
 The deeds of mercy. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 UST HYMN. 
 
 KNOW not what awaits me, 
 
 God kindly veils mine eyes. 
 And o'er each step on my onward way 
 
 He makes new scenes arise ; 
 And every joy he sends me comes 
 
 A sweet and glad surprise. 
 
 Where He may lead I'll follow, 
 
 My trust in Him repose. 
 And every hour in perfect peace 
 
 I'll sing, "He knows. He knows." 
 
 One step I see before mc ; 
 
 'Tis all I need to see ; 
 The light of heaven more brightly shines 
 
 When earth's illusions flee. 
 And sweetly through the silence comes 
 
 His loving " Follow Me." 
 
 O blissful lack of wisdom, 
 
 'Tis blessed not to know ; 
 He holds me with His own right hand, 
 
 And will not let me go, 
 And lulls my troubled soul to rest 
 
 In Him who loves me so. 
 
 So on I go, not knowing, 
 
 I would not if I might ; 
 I'd rather walk in the dark with God 
 
 Than go alone in the light ; 
 I'd rather walk by faith with Him 
 
 Than go alone by sight. 
 
 Mary G. Urainarp, 
 
 A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. 
 
 WAS early day, and sunlight streamed 
 Soft through a quiet room. 
 That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed. 
 Still, but with nought of gloom. 
 For there, serene in happy age, 
 
 Whose hope is from above, 
 A faiher communed with the page 
 Of Heaven's recorded love. 
 
 Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 
 
 On his gray holy hair, 
 And touched the page with tenderest light. 
 
 As if its shrine were there ! 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 381 
 
 But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 
 
 With something lovelier tar — 
 A radiance all the spirit's own, 
 
 Caught not from sun or star. 
 
 Some word of life e'en then had met 
 
 His calm benignant eye : 
 Some ancient promisi", brealhin;^: >x't 
 
 Of inmiortality ! 
 Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 
 
 t)f queenchless faith survivt s : 
 While every feature said — " 1 l:now 
 
 That my Redeemer lives ! " 
 
 And silent stood his children by, 
 
 Hushing their very breath, 
 Before the solemn sanctity 
 
 Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
 Silent— yet did not each young breast 
 
 With love and reverence melt ? 
 Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 
 
 That home where God is felt ! 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 lij' 
 
 looks be- 
 
 TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 'HAT household thoughts around thee, as 
 their shrine. 
 Cling reverently?— of an.xious 
 guiled, 
 My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine, 
 Each day were bent — her accents gravely mild, 
 Breathed out thy love : whilst I, a dreamy child, 
 Wandered on breeze-like fancies <)ft away, 
 To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, 
 .Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play. 
 Some secret nest : yet would the solemn Word 
 At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 
 
 Fall on my weakened spirit, there to be 
 A seed not lost : — for which, in darker years, 
 O Book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 
 Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 THE PHANTOM ISLES. 
 
 Ill the East River, above New York, there are many small 
 islands, the Ircqnent resort of suinmLT pleasure-parties. One of 
 the dangers liauntiiig these scenes of amusement is that high tides 
 often cover the islands. The incidents recorded in tne foUuwing 
 lines took place under the circumstances mentioned, and the 
 entire change in the heart and life of the bereaved father makes 
 the simple story as instructive as it is interesting and touching, 
 
 'HE Phantom Isles are fading from the sea ; 
 
 The groups that thronged thent leave their 
 sinking shores ; 
 And shout and laugh, and jocund song and 
 glee 
 Ring through the mist, to beat of punctual oars. 
 Through the gray mist that comes up with the tide. 
 And covei:5 all the ocean far and wide. 
 
 Of the gay revellers one child alone 
 Was wanung at the roll's right nu'rry call ; 
 
 From boat to b(jat they sought him ; he wiLs gone. 
 And fear and trembling filled the hearts of all , 
 
 For tile damp mist was falling fast the while. 
 
 And the sea, rising, swallowing up e.acli isle. 
 
 The trembling father guides the searching band. 
 While every sinew, hopj and fear can strain, 
 
 Is strerched to bring t'.ie ((uivering boat to land. 
 And find the lost one— but is stretched in vai:i • 
 
 No land they find, but one sweet call they hear, 
 
 " Steer this way, father ! this way, father dear I " 
 
 That voice they follow, certain they have found, 
 IVat vainly sweep the waters o'er and o'er , 
 
 The whispering waves have ceased their rippling sound : 
 Their silence telling they have lost their shore : 
 
 Yet still the sweet young voice cries loud and clear, 
 
 " Steer this way, father ! this way, father de:ir ! " 
 
 Onward they rush, like those who in the night 
 l'\)Ilow the phantom flame, but never find ; 
 
 Now certain that the voice has led them right. 
 Yet the next moment hearing it behind ; 
 
 P.ut wrapt in gurgling, smothered sounds of fear, 
 
 " Steer this way, father ! this way, father dear ! " 
 
 The night is spent in vain — no further cry 
 Cheers them with hope, or wilders them wit!i fjrir ; 
 
 With breaking morning, as the mists sweep by, 
 They can see nothing but wide waters drear ; 
 
 Yet ever in the childless father's ear 
 
 Rings the sad cry, " Steer this way, father dear 1 " 
 
 And on through life, across its changeful tide. 
 Where many a doubtful course before him lay, 
 
 That sweet young voice did help him to decide. 
 When others strove to lure his bark astray ; 
 
 Calling from heaven, in accents soft and clear, 
 
 ' ' Steer this way, father ! this way, father dear ! " 
 
 Until there at length — drawn upward to the land 
 Where is no more sorrow, no more sea : 
 
 Cheering him brightly from its crystal strand 
 Into the haven where his soul would be ; 
 
 These the last whispers in his dying ear, 
 
 " Steer this way, father I this way, father dear ! " 
 
 JOH.V MO.NSELL. 
 
 AMAZING, BEAUTEOUS CHANGE 
 
 ei 
 
 M.YZING, beauteous change ! 
 A world created new I 
 My thoughts with transport range, 
 The lovely scene to view ; 
 In all I trace, 
 Saviour divine, 
 The work is thine — 
 Be thine the praise ! 
 
 ^ee crystal fountains play 
 Amidst the burning sands ; 
 
 i 
 
 H 
 
 'j^ 
 
 I 
 
 I < 
 
 ,f 
 
 di? 
 
 11 
 
 t!M 
 
JiP 
 
 H 
 
 Hi». 
 
 M \ 
 
 882 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Tlie river's winding way 
 Shines through the thirsty lands ; 
 
 Naw grass is seen, 
 
 And o'er the meads 
 
 Its carpet spreads 
 
 Of living green. 
 
 Where pointed brambles grew, 
 Intwined with horrid thorn, 
 Gay flowers, forever new. 
 The painted fields adorn — 
 
 The blushing rose 
 
 And lily there, 
 
 [n union fair, 
 
 TIjcir sweets disclose. 
 
 Where the bleak mountain stood 
 All bare and disarrayed, 
 See the wide-branching wood 
 Difl\ise its grateful shade ; 
 
 Tall cedars nod. 
 
 And oaks and pines. 
 
 And elms and vines 
 
 Confess the God. 
 
 The tyrants of the plain 
 Their savage chase give o'er — 
 No more they rend tlie slain, 
 And thirst for blood no more ; 
 
 But infant hands 
 
 Fierce tigers stroke, 
 
 And lions yoke 
 
 In flowery bands. 
 
 O, when. Almighty Lord ! 
 Shall these glad scenes arise, 
 To verify Thy word, 
 And bless our wondering eyes ' 
 
 Philip Doddridgk. 
 
 Itj 
 
 II. I 
 
 ACROSS THE RIVER 
 
 HEN for me the silent oar 
 
 Parts the silent river. 
 And I stand upon the shore 
 
 Of the strange forever. 
 Shall I miss the loved and known ? 
 Shall I vainly seek mine own ? 
 
 Mid the crowd that come to meet 
 
 Spirits sin-forgiven — 
 Listening to their echoing feet 
 
 Down the streets of heaven — 
 Shall I know a footstep near 
 That I listen, wait for, here ? 
 
 Then will one approach the brink. 
 With a hand extended ? — 
 
 One whose thoughts I loved to think 
 Ere the veil was rended, 
 
 Saying, "Welcome I we have died. 
 
 And again are side by side." 
 
 Saying, " I will go with thee, 
 
 That thou b- "ot lonely, 
 To yon hills of mystery ; 
 
 I have waited only 
 Until now to climb with thee 
 Yonder hills of mystery." 
 
 Can the bonds that make us here 
 
 Know ourselves immortal. 
 Drop away, the foliage sear. 
 
 At life's inner portal ? 
 What is holiest below 
 Must forever live and grow. 
 
 I shall love the angels well. 
 
 After I have found them. 
 In the mansions where they dwell, 
 
 With the glory round them ; 
 Hut at first, without surprise, 
 Let me look for human eyes. 
 
 Step by step our feet must go 
 
 Up the holy mountain ; 
 Drop by drop within us flow 
 
 Life's unfailing fountain. 
 Angels sing with crowns that bum ; 
 Shall we have a song to learn ? 
 
 He who on our earthly path 
 
 Bids us help each other — 
 Who His Well-belov6d hath 
 
 Made our Elder Brother — 
 Will but clasp the chain of love 
 Closer, when we meet above. 
 
 Therefore dread I not to go 
 
 O'er the silent river ; 
 Death, thy hastening oar I know : 
 
 Bear me, thou life-giver. 
 Through the waters, to the shore 
 Where mine own have gone before. 
 
 Lucv Larcom. 
 
 ^ 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 EAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 Lead thou me on ; 
 The night is dark, and 1 am far away from 
 home, 
 
 Lead thou me on ; 
 Keep thou my feet — I do not ask to see 
 The distant scene ; one step enough for me. 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou 
 
 Shouldst lead me on ; 
 I loved to choose and see my path, but now 
 
 Lead thou me on. 
 I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears. 
 Pride ruled my will ; remember not past years. 
 
 So long thy power has blessed me, sure it still 
 Will lead me on 
 
 \ : 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFF:. 
 
 38:^ 
 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crap: and torrent, till 
 
 The night is jjonu ; 
 And with the mom those angel faces smile 
 Whom I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 John Hknry Nkwman. 
 
 THE GOLDEN RULE. 
 
 ■ PEAK no evil, and cause no ache ; 
 Utter no jest that can pain awake ; 
 Guard your actions and bridle your tonpue ; 
 Words are adders when hearts are sluny. 
 
 Help whoever, whenever you can ; 
 
 Man forever needs aid from man ; 
 
 Let never a day die in the west 
 
 That you have not comforted some sad breast. 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 'OW fine has the day been, how bright was the 
 sun, 
 How lovely and joyful the course that he run, 
 Though he rose in a mist when his race he 
 begun, 
 And there followed some droppings of rain I 
 But now the fair traveler's come to the west. 
 His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best ; 
 He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, 
 And foretells a bright rising again. 
 
 Just such is the Christian ; his course he begins, 
 
 Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his Fins, 
 
 And melts into tears ; then he breaks out and shines, 
 
 And travels his heavenly way : 
 But when he comes nearer to finish his race. 
 Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace, 
 And gives a sure hope at the end of his days. 
 
 Of rising in brighter array. 
 
 Isaac Watts. 
 
 A DYING HYMN. 
 
 The last stanza composed by Alice Cary, was written on lier 
 death-bed, with trembling; hand, the pen fatling from her fiii(;ers 
 as the chill of death was stealing over her. The stanxa was thi^i : 
 
 " As the poor panting hart to the water-brook runs— 
 As the water-brook runs to the sea— 
 So earth's fainting daughters and famishing sons. 
 Oh, fountain of love, run to Thee." 
 
 Then, with her last breath, she repeated the following, written, 
 some years before, at if prophetic of her last liour : 
 
 ^ ARTH with its dark and dreadful ills 
 ^ r Recedes, and fades away ; 
 Vi» Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills i 
 Ye gates of death, give way ! 
 
 My soul is full of whispered song ; 
 
 My blindness is my sight ; 
 The shadows that I feared so long, 
 • Are all alive with light. 
 
 The while my pulses faintly beat, 
 
 My faith doth so abound, 
 I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
 
 The green immortal ground. 
 
 That faith to me a courage gives 
 
 Low as the grave to go ; 
 I know that my RetU-cmLT li%'cs : 
 
 That 1 shall live I know. 
 
 The palace walls I almost see. 
 Where dwells my Lord and King; 
 
 Oh, grave, where is thy victory ? 
 Oh, death, where is thy sting? 
 
 Alick Cary. 
 
 WHEN. 
 
 'f* F I were told that I must die to-morrow, 
 •ft* That the the next sun 
 
 •l» Wliich sinks should bear me past all fear and 
 ' sorrow 
 
 For any one. 
 All the fight fought, all the short journey through. 
 What should I do? 
 
 I do not think that I should shrink or falter, 
 
 But just go on, 
 Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter 
 
 Aught that is gone; 
 But rise and move and love and smile and pray 
 
 For one more day. 
 
 And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, 
 
 Say in that ear 
 Which hearkens ever: " Lord, within thy keeping 
 
 How should I fear ? 
 And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still 
 
 Do Thou Thy will." 
 
 I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender, 
 
 My soul would lie 
 •Ml the night long ; and when the morning splendor 
 
 Flushed o'er the sky, 
 I think that I could smile — could calmly say, 
 ' It is His day." 
 
 But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder 
 
 Held out a scroll, 
 On which my life was writ, and I with wonder 
 
 Beheld unroll 
 To a long century's end its my.stic clue, 
 
 What should I do ? 
 
 What could I do, oh I blessed Guide and Master, 
 
 Other than this : 
 Still to go on as now, not slower, faster. 
 
 Nor fear to mi.ss 
 The road, although so very long k be, 
 
 While led by Thee? 
 
m-'n 
 
 r (1 
 
 I 'air' 
 
 384 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Step after step, feelinpf Thee close besidt; inc, 
 
 Althuuijli unseen, 
 Througli thorns, thruu>;h Huwcrs, whether the tem- 
 pest hide Thue, 
 
 Or heavens serene, 
 Assured Thy faithfulness cannut betray, 
 
 Thy love decay. 
 
 I may not know ; my God, no hand revealeth 
 
 Thy counsels wise ; 
 Along the path a dsepeniu); shadow stealeth, 
 
 No voice replies 
 To all my questioning thought, the time to tell. 
 
 And it is well. 
 
 Let me keep on, abiding and unfcaring 
 
 Thy will always. 
 Through a long century's ripening fruition 
 
 Or a short day's, 
 Thou canst not come too soon ; and I can wait 
 
 If thou come late. 
 
 Susan Coolidge. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S BIBLE. 
 
 'O you've brought me this costly Bible, 
 With its covers so grand and gay ; 
 You thought I must need a new one 
 On my eighty-first birthday, you say. 
 Yes, mine is a worn-out volume. 
 
 Grown r.igged and yellow with age, 
 With finger-prints thick on the margin ; 
 But there's never a missing page. 
 
 And the finger-prints call back my wee ones. 
 
 Just learning a verse to repeat ; 
 And again, in the twilight, their faces 
 
 Look up to me eagerly sweet. 
 It has pencil marks pointed in silence 
 
 To words I have hid in my heart ; 
 And the lessons so hard in the learning, 
 
 Once learned, can never depart. 
 
 There's the verse your grandfather spoke of 
 
 The very night that he died, 
 " When I aw.-ike with Thy likeness, 
 
 I, too, shall be satisfied." 
 And here, inside the old cover, 
 
 Is a date, it is faded and dim. 
 For I wrote it the day the good pastor 
 
 Baptized me — I've an old woman's whim 
 
 That beside the pearl-gates he is waiting, 
 
 And when by and by I shall go. 
 That he will lead me into that kingdom, 
 
 As then into this one below. 
 And under that date, little Mary, 
 
 Write another one when I die ; 
 Then keep both Bibles and read them ; 
 
 God bless you, child, why should you cry ? 
 
 V.iur iiifl is a beauty, my dearie. 
 
 With its womlerful clasps of gold. 
 Tut it carufuUy into that drawer ; 
 
 1 ^hall keep it till death ; but the old- 
 Just leave it close by on the talile, 
 
 And then you may bring nie a liKht, 
 And I'll read a sweet psalm from its pages 
 
 To think of, if wakeful tu-night. 
 
 Hatiik a. Cocil.EV. 
 
 ALL'S FOR THE BEST. 
 
 ^TJ^LL'S for the best! be sanguine and cheerful, 
 f '^ Troubles and sorrows arc friends in dis^iiist 
 ^^ Notlung but folly giK-s faithless and fearful- 
 Courage forever is happy and wise ; 
 All's for the best— if a man could but know it, 
 
 Providence wishes us all to be blest ; 
 This is no dream of the pundit or poet. 
 
 Heaven is gracious, and all's for the best ! 
 
 All's for the best ! set this on your standard. 
 
 Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love, 
 Who to the shores of despair may have wandered, 
 
 A wayfaring swallow, or heart-stricken dove. 
 All's for the best ! be a man, but confiding. 
 
 Providence tenderly governs the rest. 
 Ami the frail bark of his creatures is guiding, 
 
 Wisely and warily, all's for the best ! 
 
 All's for the best! then fling away terrors. 
 
 Meet all your fears and loss in the van, 
 And in the midst of your dangers or errors, 
 
 Trust like ;i child, while you strive like a man. 
 All's for the best! unbiassed, unbounded. 
 
 Providence reigns from the east to the west. 
 And by both wisdom and mercy surrounded, 
 
 Hope and be happy, for all's for the bestl 
 
 STILL WATERS. 
 
 ESIDE the still waters ! O infinite i>eace I 
 When God leadeth me there, my troubles all 
 
 cease ; 
 
 And my feet, by the thorns of life's wilderness 
 torn, 
 Are bathed in the dews that are wept by the mom. 
 
 Beside the still waters, where pastures are green 
 And the glad sky bends o'er them in shadow and 
 
 sheen ; 
 I think of the glooms through whose terrors I fled, 
 And bless the dear hand which my footsteps hath led. 
 
 Beside the still waters my cross it grows light, 
 That, fainting, I bore through the storms of the night, 
 The same, though another it seems ; and I pray 
 No more that my burden be taken away. 
 
 Beside the still waters, ah ! ripple and gleam 
 A thousand-fold rarer in loveliness seem, 
 
RKLIGIOUS I.IFK. 
 
 8M 
 
 For tlic l)ill()ws aiul foam, and the tiinuilt-* of wrath 
 111 the tempests u( trial that cuiiipusseil my patli. 
 
 Iksiilo tho still waters my hunger is foil, 
 
 Antl sweeter than minna drops daily my bread ; 
 
 While uf Christ, the ^reat Kock that shadows their 
 
 brink, 
 I lie full-nuwin,!; streams of salvation I drink. 
 
 Ilcside the still waters ! Ah ! why should I know 
 Uough ways for my feet, and the torrent's wild How, 
 Wlicn he who still leadelli me morninj; and night. 
 Could hold me for aye in the spell of delight ? 
 
 IVside the still waters, shut in by God's hills, 
 Till' cxciuisite sense of protection that fills 
 My hosoni is born of the perils o'erpast ; 
 A; lie led mc at first, so He leads me at last ! 
 
 VV. C. Richards. 
 
 ANSWERED PRAYERS 
 
 PRAYED for riches, and achieved success — 
 All that 1 touched turned into Rold. Alas ! 
 My cares were greater, and my peace was less 
 When that wish caine to pass. 
 
 I prnyed for glorj- ; and I heard my name 
 Suuy; by sweet children and by hoary men. 
 
 Rut ah ! the hurts, the hurts that come with fame ! 
 I was not happy then. 
 
 I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire ; 
 
 I'lirough cjuivering heart and body and through brain 
 Tiiere swept the (lame of its devouring fire ; 
 
 And there the scars remain. 
 
 I prayed for a contented mind. At length 
 Grc.it lit;ht upon my darkened s])iril burst; 
 
 Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength. 
 Oh ! had that prayer been first ! 
 
 Ella Wheeler. 
 
 THE FINAL GOAL. 
 
 YET we trust that somehow good 
 Will be the final goal of ill. 
 To pangs of nature, sins of will. 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 
 
 That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
 
 That not one life shall be destroyed, 
 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void. 
 When God hath made the pile complete; 
 
 That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
 
 That not a moth with vain desire 
 
 Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire. 
 Or but subserves another's gain. 
 
 lichold, we know not anything ; 
 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 
 At last— far off— at last, to all. 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 (25) 
 
 .Si) runs n»y <lrcam : but what am I ? 
 
 An infant crying in the ni|;ht : 
 
 An infant crying for tlic light ; 
 And with no language but it cry. 
 
 Alkrkij Tennvson. 
 
 SAFE TO THE LAND. 
 
 KNOW not if the dark or bright 
 .Shall be my lot ; 
 If that wherein my hopes delight. 
 Be best or not. 
 
 It may be mine to drag for years 
 
 Toil's heavy chain ; 
 Or day or night, my meat bo tears, 
 
 On bed of pain. 
 
 Dear faces miy surround my hearth 
 
 With smile anti glee, 
 Or I may dwell alone, and mirth 
 
 lie strange to me. 
 
 My bark is wafted to the strand 
 
 By breath divine; 
 And on the helm there rests a hand 
 
 Other than mine. 
 
 One who has ever known to sail 
 
 I have on board ; 
 Above the raging of the gale, 
 
 I hear my Lord. 
 
 He holds me ; when the billows smite 
 
 I shall not fall ; 
 If sharp, 'tis short ; if long, 'tis light ; 
 
 He tempers all. 
 
 Safe to the land, safe to the land ! 
 
 The end is this ; 
 And then with Him go hand in hand, 
 Fax into bliss. 
 
 He.nrv Alford. 
 
 MY CREED. 
 
 S other men have creed, so have I mine : 
 I keep the holy faith in God, in man. 
 And in the angels ministrant between ; 
 I hold to one true church of all true souls, 
 Whose churchly seal is neither bread nor wine, 
 Nor laying-on of hands, nor holy oil, 
 But only the annointing of God's grace. 
 
 I hate all kings and caste of rank of birth, 
 For all the sons of man are sons of God; 
 'Nor limps a beggar but is nobly born, 
 Nor wears a slave a yoke, nor czar a crown. 
 That makes him more or less than just a man ; 
 I love my country and her righteous cause, 
 So dare I not keep silent of her sin ; 
 And after freedom may her bells ring peace ! 
 
 (H 
 
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 386 
 
 CROWN. JEWELS. 
 
 I love one woman with a holy fire, 
 Whom 1 revere as priestess of my house ; 
 I stand with wondering awe before my babes 
 Till they rebuke me too a nobler life ; 
 I keep a faithful friendship with a friend 
 Whom loyally I serve bifore myself; 
 I lock my lips too close to speak a lie, 
 I wash my hands too white to tourli a bribe : 
 I owe no man a debt I cannot pay, 
 Save only of the love men ouglit to owe ; 
 Withal, each day, before the Mcsstd Heaven, 
 I open wide the chambers of my soiil 
 And pray the Holy Ghost to enter in. 
 
 Thus reads the fair confession of my faith, 
 So crossed the contradictions of my lifi^ 
 That now may God forgive the written lie ! 
 Yet still, by help of Him who helpeth men, 
 I face two worlds, and fear not life nor death. 
 O Fathei, lead me by Thy hand ! Amen. 
 
 Theodore Tu.ton. 
 
 DANIEL GRAY. 
 
 ' F I shall ever win the home in heaven 
 
 For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray. 
 In tiie gre.it company of tlie forgiven 
 I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 
 
 I knew Mm well ; in truth, few knew him better ; 
 
 For my young eyes oft read for him the Word, 
 .■\nd saw how meekly from the crystal letter 
 
 He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 
 
 Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
 On ready words his freight of gratitude, 
 
 Xor was he called upon among the gifted, 
 In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 
 
 He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases. 
 Linked in with sacred tt xts and Sunday rhymes ; 
 
 And I suppose that in his prayers and graces, 
 I've heard them all at least a thousand times. 
 
 I see him now— his form, his face, his motions, 
 His homespun habit, and his silver hair — 
 
 And hear the language of his trite devotions. 
 Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 
 
 I can remember how the sentence sounded— 
 " Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint !" 
 
 And how the "conquering and to contjuer" rounded 
 The loftier aspirations of the saint. 
 
 He had some notions that did not ivnpnve him : ,. 
 
 He never kissed his children — so they say ; 
 And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
 
 Less than a horseshoe picked up in the way. 
 
 He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 
 And righteous words for sin of every kind ; 
 
 Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
 Were linked so clo.sely in his honcSt mind. 
 
 He could see naught but vanity in beauty, 
 Antl naught but weakness in a fond caress. 
 
 And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
 Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 
 
 Yet there were love and tenderness within him ; 
 
 And I am told that when his Charlie died, 
 Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him 
 
 From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 
 
 And when they came to bury Httle Charlie, 
 They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair. 
 
 And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early. 
 And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. 
 
 Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, 
 Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 
 
 Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling, 
 Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 
 
 \ practical old man, and yet a dreamer ; 
 
 He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for xyay 
 His mighty friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, 
 
 Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 
 
 This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit. 
 Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 
 
 And his Redeemer called him to inherit 
 The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. 
 
 So, if I ever win a home in heaven 
 
 For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray. 
 In the great comjiany of the forgiven 
 
 I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 
 
 JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 
 
 'f- 
 
 PARTED FRIENDS. 
 
 RIFND after friend dc,.irts. 
 
 Who hath not lost a friend ? 
 
 There is no union here of hearts 
 
 That finds not here an end I 
 
 Were tliis frail world our final rest, 
 
 Living or dying none were blest. 
 
 Beyond the flight of time — 
 Beyond the reign of death — 
 
 There surely is some blessed clime 
 Where life is not a breath ; 
 
 Nor life's affections transient fire, 
 
 Whose sparks fly upward and expire I 
 
 There is a world above 
 Where parting is unknown ! 
 
 A long eternity of love, 
 
 I'ormed for the good alone ; 
 
 And faith beholds the dying here 
 
 Translated to that glorious sphere ! 
 
T 
 
 RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 387 
 
 Thus star by st.ir declines 
 
 Till all are passed away ; 
 As morning high and higher shines 
 
 To pure and perfect day ; 
 Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
 But hide themselves in heaven's own light 
 
 James Montgomkrv. 
 
 P 
 
 "I HOLD STILL" 
 
 AIN'S furnace-heat within me quivers, 
 
 God's breath upon the flame doth blow, 
 And all my heart within me shivers 
 And trembles at the fiery glow ; 
 
 And yet I whisper — " As God will ! " 
 
 And in the hottest fire, hold still. 
 
 He comes and lays my heart, all heated. 
 
 On tiie hard anvil, minded so 
 Into His own fair shape to ber.t it. 
 
 With His own hammer, blow on blow ; 
 And yet I whisper — " As God will ! " 
 And at His heaviest blows, hold still. 
 
 He takes my softened heart, and beats it — 
 The sparks fly off at every blow : 
 
 He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it, 
 And lets it cool, and makes it glow ; 
 
 And yet I whisper — " As God will ! " 
 
 And in the mighty hand, hold still. 
 
 Why should I murmur ? for the sorrow 
 Thus only longer lived would be ; 
 
 Its end may come, and will, to-morrow, 
 When God has done His work in me. 
 
 So I say, trusting—" As God will ! " 
 
 And trusting to the end, hold still. 
 
 He kindles for my profit purely 
 Affliction's glowing, fiery brand. 
 
 And all His heaviest blows are surely 
 Inflicted by a Mastc's hand ; ^ 
 
 So I say, praying, " As God will ! " 
 
 And hope in Him and suflfer still. 
 
 THL DEW-DROP AND THE STREAM. 
 
 
 
 GENTLE stream whose pathway lay 
 Through flowery meads and woodlands gay. 
 Beheld, one morn, a dew-drop shed 
 Its luster on a violet's head ; 
 And, with the charming sight impressed, 
 It thus the sparkling pearl addressed :— 
 
 'Sure, little drop, rejoice we may, 
 For all is beautiful and gay ; 
 Creation wears her emerald dress, 
 And smiles in all her loveliness ; 
 And with delight and pride I see 
 The little flower bedecked by thee. 
 
 Thy luster with a gem might vie, 
 Wiiile trembling in its purple eye." 
 
 " Ay, you may well rejoice, 'tis true," 
 Replied thv. radiant drop of dew ; 
 
 " You will, no doubt, as on you move. 
 To flocks and herds a blessing prove ; 
 Hut when the sun ascends on high, 
 Its beam will draw me to the sky ; 
 And I must own my little power — 
 I ve but refreshed a humble flower." 
 
 ' Hold ! " cried the stream, " nor thus repine ; 
 For well 't is known, a power divine. 
 Subservient to His will supreme. 
 Has made the dew-drop and the stream. 
 Though small thou art — I that allow — 
 No mark of Heaven's contempt art thou ; 
 Thou hast refreshed a humble flower. 
 And done according to thy power." 
 
 All things that are, both great and small, 
 One glorious Author formed them all ; 
 This thought may all repinings quell — 
 Who serves His purpose serves Him well. 
 
 MY HOME. 
 
 'WO little maidens went one day 
 Into the shady grove to play ; 
 And while with moss and acorn cup, 
 ^ They built a fairy palace up, 
 And laughing, crowned their curling hair 
 With chestnut leaves and flowers fair. 
 And old man chanced to pass that way. 
 And sat him down to see their play. 
 
 They did not fear the aged man, 
 
 But bade him watch their palace fair ; 
 Told him of many a childish plan. 
 
 And showed the garlands on their hair. 
 He kissed each merry, laughing child, 
 And at their pleasant prattle smiled ; 
 ; le said, " Sweet girls, where do you dwell- 
 Where are your homes ? I pray you tell ! " 
 
 One said, ' I dwell below the hill. 
 Near by the water-fall and mill ; 
 Around the stoop the creeper grows, 
 Near by our house the river flows ; 
 There on its banks I often sit. 
 And watch the sailing vessels flit 
 Like birds across the waters blue ; 
 See through those trees— it is in view." 
 
 'My home is in the city, sir," 
 
 The other said with gentle air ; 
 "Our windows look, like great eyes, down 
 Upon the grim and dusty street ; 
 I do not like the noisy town. 
 The roll of wheels and tramp of feet ; 
 
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 388 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 I like the free, fresh country air. 
 The trees, the fields, the (lowers fair, 
 litit lotus know, kind sir, I prny. 
 About your home — is 't fnr away ? " 
 
 The old man bent his silvered head. 
 Then raised his face, and smiling, said : 
 " I have a home of wealth untold. 
 The streets are paved wi;h shining gold ; 
 The city gates are brilliant pearls, 
 Did you e'er hear of it, sweet girls ? 
 There is no night in that fair hind, 
 Life, joy, and peace waik hand in hand : 
 No death, no sorrow, enters there. 
 No cries are heard of pain or care — 
 My home is heaven." 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 ^IRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! 
 
 Whence is it ye come with the flowers of 
 
 spring ? 1 
 
 "We come from the shores of the green old Nile, t 
 
 From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, , 
 
 From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, j 
 
 From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby. j 
 
 "We have swept o'er the cities in song renowned ; 
 
 Silent they lie, with the deserts around, 
 
 We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled 
 
 All dark with the warrior-blood of old ; 
 
 And each worn wing hath regained its home. 
 
 Under piiasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome." 
 
 And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
 Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ? 
 " We have found a change, we have found a pall. 
 And a gloom o'crshadowing the banquet-hall. 
 And a mark on the floor as of life-drop spilt ; 
 Naught l(joks the same, save the nest we built !" 
 
 O joyous birds, it hath still been so ; 
 Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
 Rut the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep. 
 And the hills o'er their ciuiet a vigil keep. 
 Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 
 Since last ye parted from that sweet spot? 
 
 "A change we have found there — and many a change ! 
 
 Faces and footsteps, and all things strange! 
 
 Gone are the heads of the silvery hr.ir. 
 
 And the young that were, have a brow of care, 
 
 And the place is hushed where the children played; 
 
 Naught looks the same, save the nest we made ! " 
 
 Sad is your tale of the bcaiiiiful earth, 
 Birds that o'er-sweep ii, in power and mirth ! 
 Y(!t through th-^ wastes of the trackless air 
 Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair ? 
 Ye over deS'.Tt and deep have p.isscd ; 
 So may we reach our bright home at last. 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hkmans. 
 
 GIVING AND LIVING. 
 
 (^"*^'OREVER the sun is pouring his gold 
 "vj^ On a hundred worlds that beg and borrow ; 
 ■4 His warmth he squanders on summits cold. 
 
 His wealth, on the homes of want and s)r 
 row. 
 To withhold his largess of precious light 
 Is to bury himself in eternal night : 
 
 To give is to live. 
 
 The flower shines not for itself at all. 
 
 Its joy is the joy it freely diffuses ; 
 Of beauty and balm it is prodigal, 
 
 And it lives in the life it sweetly loses. 
 No choice for the rose but glory or doom — 
 To exhale or smother, to wither or bloom : 
 
 To deny is to die. 
 
 The seas lend silvery rain to the land. 
 The land its sapphire streams to the ocean ; 
 
 The heart sends blotid to the brain of command. 
 The brain to the heart its constant motion ; 
 
 And over and over we yield our breath — 
 
 Till the mirror is dry and images death : 
 
 To live is to give. 
 
 Me is dead whose hand is not opened wide 
 
 To help the need of sister or brother ; 
 lie doubles the worth of his life-long ride 
 
 Who gives his fortunate place to another; 
 Not one, but a thousand lives are his 
 Who carries the world in his sympathies : 
 
 To deny is to die. 
 
 Throw gold to the far-dispersing wave. 
 And your ships sail home with tons of treasure; 
 
 Care not for comfort, all hardships brave, 
 And evening and age shall sup with pleasure ; 
 
 Fling health to the sunshine, wind, and rain. 
 
 And roses shall come to the cheek again : 
 
 To give is to live. 
 
 I^ 
 
 NOTHING IS LOST. 
 
 OTIIING is lost : the drop of dew 
 
 That trembles on the leaf or flower. 
 Is but exhaled to fall anew 
 In summers thunder shower; 
 Perchance to shine within the bow 
 That fronts the sun at fall of day, 
 Perchance to sparkle in the flow 
 Of fountain far away. 
 
 So with our words— or harsh, or kind — 
 
 Uttered, they are not all forgot ; 
 Tliey leave their influence on the mind. 
 
 Pass on, but perish not I 
 As they are spoken, so they fall 
 
 Upon the spirit spoken to — 
 Scorch it like drops of burning gall, 
 
 Or soothe like honey-dew. 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 389 
 
 So with our deeds — for good or ill 
 
 They have their power, scarce understood ; 
 Then let us use our better will 
 
 To make them rife with good. 
 Like circles on a lake they go, 
 
 Rincj beyond ring, and never stay. 
 O that our deeds were fashioned so 
 
 That they might bless alway ! 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER. 
 
 'HE rose from her delicious sleep, 
 
 And put away her soft brown hair. 
 And in a tone as low and deep 
 As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer ; 
 Her snow-white hands together pressed. 
 
 Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid, 
 Tlie folded linen on her breast 
 Just swelling with the charms it hid. 
 
 And from her long and flowing dress 
 
 liscaped a bare and snowy foot, 
 Wiiose step upon the earih did press 
 
 Like a sweet snow-flake soft and mute ; 
 And then from slumber chaste and warm, 
 
 Like a young spirit fresii from heaven, 
 She bowed that young and matchless form ; 
 
 And humbly prayed to be forgiven. 
 
 Oh, God ! if souls as pure as these 
 Need daily mercy from Thy throne — 
 
 If she upon her bt nded knee, 
 Our holiest and our purest one — 
 
 .She with a face so clear and bright 
 We deem her some stray child of light ; 
 
 If she, wiih these soft eyes and tears. 
 Day after day in her young years, 
 
 Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee, 
 How hardly if slie win not heaven 
 Will our wild errors be forgiven ! 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 I^ 
 
 QMWARD. 
 
 OT, my soul, what thou hast done, 
 Hut what thou now art doing ; 
 Not the course which thou hast run, 
 But that wliich thou'rt pursuing ; 
 Not the prize already won, 
 But that which thou art wooing ; 
 
 Thy progression, not thy rest ; 
 
 Striving, not attaining — 
 Is tile measure and the test 
 
 Of thy hope remaining. 
 Not in gain art thou so blest 
 
 As in conscious gaining. 
 
 If thou to the past wilt go, 
 Of experience learning, 
 
 Faults and follies it can show. 
 
 Wisdom dearly earning ; 
 Hut the path once trodden, know, 
 
 Hath no more returning. 
 
 Let not thy good hope depart, 
 
 .Sit not down bewailin;^^ ; 
 House thy strength anew, brave heart I 
 
 'Neath despair's assailiiii; ; 
 Tliis will give thee fairer start — 
 
 Knowledge of thy failitiL'. 
 
 Yet shall every rampant wron;,'; 
 
 In the dust be lying ; 
 Soon thy foes, though proud and strong, 
 
 In defeat be flying ; 
 Then shall a triumphant s<Mig 
 
 Take the place of sighing. 
 
 J. K. LoMB.\Kn. 
 
 WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE, 
 
 HE huge, rough stones from out the mine. 
 Unsightly and unfair, 
 Have veins of purest metal hid 
 Beneath the surface there. 
 Few rocks so bare but to their hights 
 
 Some tiny moss-plant clings ; 
 And on the peaks so desolate. 
 The sea-bird sits and sings. 
 Believe me, too, that rugged souls, 
 
 Beneath their rudeness, hide 
 Much that is beautiful and good — 
 We've all our angel side. 
 
 In all there is an inner depth, 
 
 A far-off, secret way, 
 Where, tl. rough the windows of the soul, 
 
 God sends His smiling ray. 
 In every human heart there is 
 
 A faithful, sounding chortl 
 That may be struck, ur.kncnvn to us, 
 
 By some sweet, loving word. 
 The wayward will in man may try 
 
 Its softer thoughts tu hide — 
 Some unexpected tone reveals 
 I It has an angel side. 
 
 Despised, and lone, and trodden down. 
 
 Dark with the shades of sin, 
 Deciphering not those halo-lights 
 
 Which God has lit within ; 
 Groping about in endless r.ight, 
 
 Poor, poisoned souls they are. 
 Who guess not what life's meaning is 
 
 Nor dream of hea\en afar. 
 O that some gentle hand of love fi 
 
 Their stumbling steps would guide, 
 And show liiem that, amidst it all, 
 
 Life has its angel side ! 
 
 I 
 
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 11. 
 
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 390 
 
 CROWN. JEWELS. 
 
 Brutal, and mean, and dark enough, 
 
 God knows some natures are ; 
 But He, compassionate, comes near, 
 
 And shall we stand nfar? 
 Our cruse of oil will not grow less 
 
 If shared with hearty hand ; 
 For words of peace and looks of love 
 
 Few natures can withstand. 
 Love is the mighty conqueror, 
 
 Love is the beauteous guide, 
 Love, with her beaming eyes, can see 
 
 We've all our angel side. 
 
 THE BRIGHT SIDE. 
 
 Vl "HERE is many a rest in the road of life, 
 /^\ If we only would stop to take it, 
 ^^^ And many a tone from the better land, 
 Y If the querulous heart would wake it .' 
 
 To the sunny soul that is full of hope, 
 
 And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, 
 The grass is green and the flowers are bright. 
 Though the wintry storm prevaileth. 
 
 Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, 
 
 And to keep the eyes still lifted ; 
 For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through. 
 
 When the ominous clouds are rifted ! 
 There was never a night without a day. 
 
 Or an evening without a morning ; 
 And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes. 
 
 Is the hour before the dawning. 
 
 There is many a gem in the path of life. 
 
 Which we pass in our idle pleasure. 
 That is richer far than the jeweled crown, 
 
 Or the miser's hoarded treasure : 
 It may be the love of a little child, 
 
 Or a mother's prayers to Heav.n ; 
 Or only a beggar's grateful tiiaiiks 
 
 For a cup of water given. 
 
 Better to weave in the web of life 
 
 A bright and golden filling, 
 And do God's will with a ready heart 
 
 And hands tliat arc swift and willing. 
 Than to snap the delicate, slender threads 
 
 Of our curious lives asunder, 
 And then blame heaven for the tangled ends, 
 I And sit and grieve and wonder. 
 
 I 
 
 lilii 
 
 CARVING A NAME. 
 
 WROTE my name upon the sand, 
 And trusted it would stand for aye; 
 But soon, alas ! the refluent sea 
 Had washed my feeble lines away. 
 
 d carved my name upon the wood, 
 And, after years, returned again ; 
 I missed the shadow of the tree 
 That strett hed of old upon the plain. 
 
 To solid marble next my name 
 
 I gave as a perpetual trust ; 
 An earthquake rent it to its base. 
 
 And now it lies o'erlaid with dust 
 
 All these have filled. In wiser mood 
 I turn and ask myself, "What then? 
 
 If I would have my name endure, 
 I'll write it on the hearts of men, 
 
 ' In characters of living light, 
 
 From kindly words and actions wrought; 
 And these, beyond the reach of time, 
 Shall live immortal as my thought." 
 
 Horatio Alger. 
 
 THE HARDEST TIME OF ALL 
 
 'HERE are days of deepest sorrow 
 In the season of our life ; 
 There are wild, despairing moments ; 
 There are hours of mental strife. 
 There are hours of stony anguish. 
 
 When the tears refuse to fall ; 
 But the waiting-time, my brothers. 
 Is the hardest time of all. 
 
 Youth and love are oft impatient. 
 
 Seeking things beyond their reach ; 
 And the heart grows sick with hoping, 
 
 Ere it learns what life can teach. 
 For, before the fruit be gathered, 
 
 We must see the blossoms fall ; 
 And the waiting-time, my brothers. 
 
 Is the hardest time of all. 
 
 We can bear the heat of conflict ; 
 
 Though the sudden, crushing blow. 
 Beating back our gathered forces. 
 
 For a moment lay us low. 
 We may rise again beneath it, 
 
 None the weaker for our fall ; 
 But the waiting-time, my brothers. 
 
 Is the hardest time of all. 
 
 Yet, at last, we learn the lesson, 
 
 That God knoweth what is best, 
 And a silent resignation 
 
 Makes the spirit calm and lile.st : 
 For, perchance, a day is coming 
 
 For the changes of our fate, 
 When our hearts will thank Ilim meekly 
 
 That He taught us how tu wait. 
 
 MY SHIPS. 
 
 HAVE ships that went to sea, 
 Long ago, long ago ; 
 With what tidings I can learn, 
 I've been wailing their return. 
 But the homeward gales for me 
 Never blow, never blow. 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 391 
 
 In the distance they are seen 
 
 On the deep, on the deep, 
 Plowing through the swelling tide, 
 With the dim stars for a guide, 
 While the angry waves between 
 
 Never sleep, never sleep. 
 
 There are breakers setting in 
 
 For the shore, for the shore ; 
 And it may be, in their frown, 
 That my ships will all go down. 
 With their precious freight withi;i, 
 
 Evermore, evermore. 
 
 There is little cheer for me, 
 
 Waiting so, waiting so ; 
 Waiting through the starless night 
 For the coming of the light, 
 For my ships which went to sea 
 
 Long ago, long ago. 
 
 I've a ship which went to sea 
 
 Years ago, years ago. 
 And the gallant little craft 
 Beats the tempest fore and aft. 
 While the homeward gales to me 
 
 Ever blow, ever blow. 
 
 Little heedpth she the storm, 
 
 Or the night, or the night ; 
 For her anchor is secure. 
 
 And her timbers will endure 
 Till the coming of the morn, 
 
 Pure and bright, pure and bright. 
 
 Lone and weary have I been — 
 
 Who can tell, who can till? 
 All the anguish of the soul. 
 While the billows round me roll, 
 Till my ships come sailing in, 
 
 Freighted well, freighted well. 
 
 Then I'll keep this litde craft. 
 
 Sailing on, sailing on ; 
 She will bear mu safely o'er 
 Far beyond the billow's roar. 
 For my pnssage is secure, 
 
 To my home, to my home ! 
 
 J. W. Barker. 
 
 UNDER THE SNOW. 
 
 '^~'HE brown old earth lies quiet and stilK 
 Under the snow, 
 The furrows are hid on the broken hill 
 Under the snow, 
 F.vtrything is fringed widi mossy pearl, 
 Tlie drooping cedars bend to the ground. 
 The rose-bush is drifted into a mound. 
 And still from the silent sky to the ground 
 The while flakes noiselessly whirl. 
 
 The roads and fields are buried deep 
 
 Under the snow. 
 The hedges lie in a tangled heap 
 
 Under the snow. 
 And the little grey rabbits under them creep, 
 While the twittering sparrow.s junningly peep 
 From the sheltering briers, and cosily sleep 
 
 Under the snow. 
 
 The rough old barn and the sheds near by, 
 The mounted straw of the wheat and rye. 
 
 Are covered with snow ; 
 The straggling fences are softened with down, 
 Every post is white, with a beautiful crown 
 
 Of drifted snow. 
 
 And I think, as I sit in the gloaming here. 
 Watching the objects disappear. 
 How many things are folded low 
 Under the drifts of the falling snow ; 
 There are hearts that once were full of love 
 
 Under the snow ; 
 There are eyes that glowed with the soul of love • 
 
 Under the snow ; 
 There are faded tresses of golden hair ; 
 There are locks that were bleached wiih the frost of 
 
 care; 
 There are lips that once were like the rose ; 
 There are bosoms that once were stung with woes ; 
 There are breasts that once were true and strong ; 
 There are forms that once were praised in song : 
 O, there's a strange and mighty throng 
 
 Under the snow ! 
 
 Another mound will soon lie deep 
 
 Under the snow, 
 And I shall with the pale ones sleep 
 
 Under the snow. 
 
 God ! stream on my soul Thy grace, 
 That in the love-light of Thy face 
 
 1 may rejoice, when death shall place 
 My pulseless heart and body low 
 
 Under the snow ! 
 
 John II. Conner. 
 
 WRITING WITH DIAMONDS. 
 
 LITTLE child, beside the widow-pane, 
 
 Held in his hand a diamond, (jure and 
 bright. 
 
 And saw in every clear and burning plane 
 A mirrored rainbow, trembling in the light. 
 
 Across the pane he drew the tiny stone, 
 And, smiling, watched the dainty, penciled line, 
 
 Till on the smooth and polished surface shone 
 A boyish thought in letters crystalline. 
 
 " Not there, my son ! not there," his father said, 
 And, stooping down, he too^ the jeweled ring ; 
 
 Then, turning from the glass with eyes dismayed, 
 The boy looked up with eager questioning. 
 
 (3 
 
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 392 
 
 CROWN • JEWELS. 
 
 " Not there, my child ! though every word appear 
 
 As threaded silver shining in the sun. 
 The jewel-point has left it crisp and clear ; 
 
 The diamond's work can never be undone. 
 
 ' Thine eye may weary, but the line must stand ; 
 Thy thought may change, but here 'tis traced in 
 light ; 
 The fairest touches wrought by childish hand 
 May yet offend thy manhood's fairer sigiit. 
 
 " Nay, school thy hand, and wait a future day. 
 When thou may'st write with bolder mastery : 
 
 Give not this gem to fancy's careless play ; 
 'Tis but for Him who wields it thoughtfully." 
 
 O daily life ! thy fair and crystal page 
 By erring hands is written o'er and o'er, 
 
 In deeds that live beyond the present age, 
 In characters that stand for evermore. 
 
 We cannot pause. 'T is not for human will 
 To check tlic pen or shun its solemn trust ; 
 
 But living souls, discerning good and ill, 
 May leave tlicir records beautiful and just. 
 
 The immortal truth demands each thoughtful hour. 
 Our work must live through all futurity ; 
 
 The higliest glory born of conscious power 
 Is but for him who wields it reverently. 
 
 GOING AND COMING. 
 
 ,OING— tlie great round sun. 
 Dragging the captive day 
 Over Ijcyond the frowning hill, 
 Over beyond the bay — 
 Dying : 
 Coming — the dusky night. 
 
 Silently stealing in. 
 Wrapping himself in the soft, warm couch, 
 Where the golden-haired day hath been 
 Lying. 
 
 Going — the bright, blithe spring. 
 
 Blossoms ! how fast ye fall, 
 Shooting out of your starry sky 
 
 Into the darkness all 
 Blindly ! 
 Coming — the mellow days, 
 
 Crimson and yellow leaves ; 
 Languisliiiig purple and amber fruits. 
 
 Kissing the bearded sheaves 
 Kindly. 
 
 Going — our early friends. 
 
 Voices we loved are dumb ; 
 Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew ; 
 
 Fainter the echoes come 
 Ringing : 
 
 Coming to join our march. 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder pressed, 
 Gray-haired veterans strike their tents 
 
 For the far-off" purple West — 
 Singing. 
 
 Going — this old, old life. 
 
 Beautiful world, farewell ! 
 Forest and meadow, river and hill. 
 Ring ye a loving knell 
 O'er us ! 
 Coming — a noble life ; 
 
 Coming— a better land ; 
 Coming — a long, long, nightless day ; 
 Coming — the grand, grand 
 Chorus ! 
 
 Edward A. Ji-.nks. 
 
 TOLL, THEN, NO MORE. 
 
 OLL for the dead, toll ! toll ! 
 
 No, no ! Ring out, ye bells, ring out ami 
 shout! 
 ^ For the pearly gates they have entered in, 
 And they no more shall sin — 
 Ring out, ye bells, ring ! ring ! 
 
 Toll for the living, toll ! toll ! 
 
 No, no ! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout I 
 For they do His work 'mid toil and din — 
 
 They, too, thy goal shall win — 
 Ring out, ye bells, ring! king! 
 
 Toll for the coming, tcjll ! toll ! 
 
 No, no ! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout ! 
 For 't is theirs to conquer, theirs to win 
 
 The final entering iu — 
 Ring out, ye bells, ring ! ring ! 
 
 Toll, then, no more, ye bells ! 
 
 No, no I Ring out, O bells, ring out and shout ! 
 The Was, the Is, the Shall Be, and all men 
 
 Are in Mis hand ! Amen ! 
 Ring out, ye bells, ring ! ring ! 
 
 R. R. BOWKKR. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 'OO late, too late, was never said 
 
 Of morning sun, or bud, or flower :' 
 The light is true to hill and glade, 
 f The rosebud opens to the hour, 
 
 The lark ne'er asks the day to wait ; 
 But man awakes " too late, too late ! " 
 
 Too late, too late, our anger burns ; 
 
 The sun goes down before the flame 
 To gentle words of kindness turns. 
 
 And we are scourged with inward shame. 
 To think our breasts have harbored hate, 
 
 And pride bows down too late, too late ! 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 39:3 
 
 J A. JK.NKS. 
 
 E. 
 
 ring out ami 
 
 entered in, 
 
 t and shout ! 
 
 R. IJOWKKK. 
 
 " Too late, too late ! " the poor man cries ; 
 
 He asks his right, the court delays, 
 Till ruin comes in fearful guise. 
 
 In vain he pleads, in vain he prays; 
 The law recjuires too much debate, 
 
 And justice conies too late, too late ! 
 
 "Too late, too late ! " who has not said? 
 The nuiil has closed — the train is gone — 
 Thi.* '.iaie has lied— the debt not paid— 
 
 The aid nut sought — the work not done : 
 Neglect makes up life's weary freight. 
 And then we cry, " Too late, too late ! " 
 
 Ja.mks Weston. 
 
 THE TWO WEAVERS. 
 
 (3 
 
 S at their work two weavers sat. 
 Beguiling time with friendly chat, 
 They touched upon the price of meat, 
 So high, a weaver scarce could eat. 
 
 "What with my brats and sickly wife," 
 Quoth Dick, " I'm almost tired of life; 
 So hard my work, so poor my fare, 
 'Tis more than mortal man can bear. 
 
 " How glorious is the rich man's state ! 
 His house so tine, his wealth so great ! 
 H'.-aven is unjust, you must agree ; 
 V^iiy all to him ? Why none to me ? 
 
 " In spite of what the Scripture teaches. 
 In spite of all the parson preaches, 
 This worUl (indeed I've thought so long) 
 is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong. 
 
 "Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 
 'Tis all confused and hard and strange ; 
 The good are troubled and oppressed, 
 And all the wicked are the blessed." 
 
 Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause 
 Why thus we blame our Maker's laws ; 
 Parts of His ways alone we know ; 
 Tis all that man can see below. 
 
 "Si'o'st thou that carpet, not half done, 
 Wliicli tluni, dear Dick, hast well begun? 
 IVhold the wild confusion there, 
 .Sii rude the mass it makes one .stare ! 
 
 ".\ stranger, ignorant of the trade, 
 WouKl say, no meaning's there convoyed ; 
 For Where's the middle? where's the border? 
 Thy cari)et now is all disorder." 
 
 Quoth Dick, " My work is yet in bits. 
 Hut still in every part it fits ; 
 Besides, you reason like a lout- 
 Why, man, that carpet's inside out." 
 
 j .Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I r.iean. 
 And now 1 hope to cure thy spleen ; 
 This world, wiiich clouds thy soul with doubt, 
 Is but a carpet inside out. 
 
 "As when we view these shreds and ends, 
 We know n(jt what the whole intends ; 
 So, when on earth things look but odd. 
 They're working still some scheme of God. 
 
 " No plan, no pattern, can we trace ; 
 All wants proportion, truth, and grace ; 
 The motl'jy ini:ctiire we deride, 
 Xor see the beauteous upper side. 
 
 " Rut when we reach that world of light, 
 And view those works of Gotl arij;ht, 
 Then shall we see the whole design. 
 And own the workman is divine. 
 
 "What now seem random strokes, will there 
 All order and design appear ; 
 Then shall we praise what here we spurned. 
 For then the carpet shall be turned." 
 
 "Thou'rt right," quoth Dick ; "no more I'll grumble 
 That this sad world's so strange a jumble ; 
 My impious doubts are put to (liglit. 
 For my own carpet sets me right." 
 
 Hannah Moru. 
 
 FIELD LILIES. 
 
 ILY bells ! lily bells! swinging and ringing 
 Sweet golden bells on the still summer air. 
 Are ye calling the birds to their matiiis of 
 singing. 
 Summoning nature to worship and prayer? 
 
 Lily bells ! lily bells I daintily swaying. 
 Poising your petals like Ijuttertlies' wings, 
 
 As the breeze murmurs round you, pray, what is he 
 saying? 
 Is he whispering love-words and soft, pretty things? 
 
 Lily bells! lily bells! 'mid the long grasses 
 Gleaming like sunbeams in still shady bower, 
 
 Have you stolen your gold from the sun as he passes? 
 Are ye guarding your treasure in bud and in flower ? 
 
 Lily bells ! lily bells ! bowing and bending. 
 Are ye nodding a welcome to me as I go? 
 
 Do ye know that my heart bears a love never-ending 
 For bi ight golden lily-bells all in a row ? 
 
 Lily bells ! lily bells ! down in the meadows, 
 As I see your fair forms 'mid the mosses and brake, 
 
 .My heart wanders back to the p.ist, with its shadows. 
 To Christ, and the wise, loving words that He spake. 
 
 "Consider the lilies"— yes, this was His teaching, 
 " The modest field-lilies that toil not nor spin, 
 
 Yet even to them is my loving care reaching. 
 My heart takes the feeblest and lowliest in." 
 
 i: ■I 
 
 
 1 f 
 
 
 il 
 
 :| 
 
 

 394 
 
 CROWN .JEWELS. 
 
 Lily bells I lily bells I waving and swinging, 
 If Jesus, my Master, can watch over you, 
 
 I'll go to Him daily, with gladness and singing, 
 Believing He'll love me and care for me too, 
 
 Lily bells ! lily bells! bending and swaying. 
 
 Ring out your sweet peals on the still summer air ; 
 I would ye miL,'ht lure all to trusting and praying. 
 
 And teach them sweet lessons of God's loving care. 
 
 THE WAY TO HEAVEN. 
 
 'EAVEN is not gained at a single bound ; 
 
 Hut we build the ladder by which we rise 
 From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 
 And we mount to its summit round by round. 
 
 I count this thing to be grandly true. 
 That a noble deed is a step towards God — 
 Lifting the soul from the common sod 
 
 To purer air and broader view. 
 
 We rise by things that are 'ncalh our feet ; 
 
 Hy what we have mabtered of good an.l gain ; 
 
 By the pride deposed and the passion slain, 
 And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 
 
 We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, 
 When the morning calls us to life and light. 
 But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night 
 
 Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. 
 
 We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray. 
 
 And we think that we mount the air on wings 
 I^eyond the recall of sensual things. 
 
 While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 
 
 Wings for the angels, but feet for the men ! 
 We may borrow the wings to find the way — 
 We may hope and resolve and aspire and pray. 
 
 But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 
 
 Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 
 
 From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; 
 
 But ihe dreams depart, and the vision falls. 
 And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 
 
 Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
 Hut we build the ladder by which we rise 
 From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 
 
 And we mount to its simimit round by round. 
 
 JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 
 
 
 
 THREE WORDS OF STRENGTH. 
 
 'HERE are three lessons I would write — 
 Three words, as with a burning [mn, 
 In tracings of eternal light, 
 Upon the hearts of men. 
 
 Have hope. Though clouds environ round. 
 And gladness hides her face in scorn, 
 
 Put off the shadow from thy brow — 
 No night but hath its morn. 
 
 Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven — 
 'I'lie calm's disport, the tempest's mirth- 
 Know this : God rules the hosts of heaven, 
 
 The inhabitants of earth. 
 
 * 
 
 Have love. Not love alone for one ; 
 
 But man, as man, thy brother call ; 
 And scatter, like the circling sun. 
 
 Thy charities on all. 
 
 Thus grave these lessons on thy soul — 
 Hope, faitli, and love — and thou shalt fuid 
 
 Strength when life's surges rudest roll, 
 Light when thou else wert blind. 
 
 Frederick Sciiillf.; 
 
 THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. 
 
 'HE nautilus and the ammonite 
 
 Were launched in friendly strife ; 
 Each sent to float, in its tiny boat, 
 On the wild, wild sea of life. 
 For each could swim on the ocean's brim, 
 
 And when wearied its sail could furl. 
 And sink to sleep in the great seadeep. 
 In its palace all of pearl. 
 
 And theirs was a bliss more fair than this 
 
 Which we taste in our colder clime ; 
 For they were rife in tropic life — 
 
 A brighter and better clime. 
 They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles 
 
 Were dimmed by no alloy ; 
 Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm. 
 
 And life — one only joy I 
 
 They sailed all day through creek and bay, 
 
 And traversed the ocean deep ; 
 And at night they sank on a coral bank. 
 
 In its fairy bowers to sleep. 
 And the monsters vast of ages past 
 
 They beheld in their ocean-caves ; 
 They saw them ride in their power and pride. 
 
 And sink in their deep sea-graves. 
 
 And hand in hand, from strand to strand. 
 
 They sailed in mirth and g!ee ; 
 These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, 
 
 Twin sisters of the sea. 
 And they came at last to a sea long past. 
 
 But as they reached its shore. 
 The Almighty's breath spoke out in death. 
 
 And the ammonite lived no more. 
 
 So the nautilus now, in its shelly prow, 
 
 As over the deep it strays, 
 Still seems to seek, in bay and creek 
 
 Its companion of other days. 
 
RELIGIOUS LIFE. 
 
 395 
 
 And alike do we, on lire's stormy sea, 
 
 As we roam from shore to shore, 
 Tiius tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, 
 
 nut Hnd them on earth no more. 
 Yet tlie hope, how sweet, again to meet. 
 
 As we look to a distant strand ; 
 When heart meets heart, and no more they part. 
 
 Who meet in that better land. 
 
 G. F. Richardson. 
 
 THE NEW JERUSALEM. 
 
 MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, 
 Wlien shall I come to thee ? 
 When shall my sorrows have an end- 
 Thy joys when shall I see ? 
 
 O happy harbor of God's saints ! 
 
 O sweet and pleasant soil ! 
 In thee no sorrow can be found, 
 
 Nor grief, nor care, nor toil. 
 
 No dimly cloud o'ershadows thee, 
 Nor gloom, nor darksome night ; 
 
 But every soul shines as the sun. 
 For God himself gives Hfrht. 
 
 Thy walls are made of precious stone, 
 
 Thy bulwarks diamond-square, 
 Thy gates are all of orient pearl — 
 
 O God ! if I were there ! 
 
 O my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 
 
 Thy joys when shall I see? 
 The King sitting upon thy throne, 
 
 And thy felicity ? 
 
 Thy gardens and thy goodly walks 
 
 Continually are green, 
 Where grow such sweet and pleiisant flowers 
 
 As nowhere else are seen. 
 
 Quite through the streets with pleasing sound 
 
 The flood of life doth flow ; 
 And on the banks, on every side, 
 
 The trees of life do grow. 
 
 These trees each month yield ripened fruit ; 
 
 Forevermore they spring, 
 And all the nations of the earth 
 
 Tu tliee their honors bring. 
 
 Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place, 
 I'ull sore 1 long to see ; 
 
 that my sorrows had an end. 
 That I might dwell in thee ! 
 
 1 long to see Jerusalem, 
 The comfort of us all ; 
 
 For thou art fair and beautiful — 
 None ill can thee befall. 
 
 No candle needs, no moon to shine, 
 
 N(j glittering star to light ; 
 For Christ the King of Righteousness 
 
 Forever .shineth bright. 
 
 O, passing happy were my state, 
 
 Might I be worthy found 
 To wait upon my Gotl and King, 
 
 His praises there to sound I 
 
 Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 
 
 Thy joys fain would I see ; 
 Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief. 
 
 And take me home to thee ! 
 
 David Dickson. 
 
 REST. 
 
 ARTH is the spirit's rayless cell ; 
 Ilut then, as a bird soars home to the shade 
 Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made. 
 In bonds no more to dwell ; — 
 
 So will its weary wing 
 Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done, 
 And its breath blow free, as a bird's in the sun 
 
 And the soft, fresh gales of spring. 
 
 O, not more sweet the tears 
 Of the dewy eve on the violet shed. 
 Than the dews of age on the " hoary head,'' 
 
 When it enters the eve of years. 
 
 Nor dearer, mid the foam 
 Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar, 
 Is a lireath of balm from the unseen shore. 
 
 To him that weeps for home. 
 
 Wings, like a dove, to fly ! — 
 The ijpirit is faint with its feverish strife ; — 
 O, for its home in the upper life! 
 
 When, when will death draw nigh ! 
 
 li. B. Thatcheb. 
 
 
 ti 
 

 i 
 
 1 1 
 
 i! 
 
 
 i^-ti 
 
 CHILDHOOD SND YOUTH. 
 
 MANY, MANY YEARS AGO. 
 
 II, my golden days of 
 childhood, 
 Many, many year ago! 
 Ah ! how weli da 1 remember 
 
 What a pridt; it was to know. 
 When my little playmates mus. 
 tered 
 On this old familiar spot. 
 To select their infant pastimes, 
 That my name was ne'er for- 
 got ; 
 When, with merry, rosy (aces, 
 They so eagerly would come, 
 Boasting of the longest top- 
 string, 
 Or a top of loudest hum; 
 Or, as proud as prancing iiorses, 
 
 Chase each other to and fro, 
 In my golden days of childhood. 
 Many, niany years ago ! 
 
 Oh, my balmy days of boyhood, 
 
 Many, many years ago 1 
 Wlicn 1 ranged at will the wild woods, 
 
 For the berry or the sloe ; 
 Or the gentle blue-eyed violet, 
 
 Traced by its own perfume sweet ; 
 Or with light and cautious footstep 
 
 .Sought the linnet's snug retreat ; 
 Or with little blooming maidens 
 
 To the nutting groves repaired, 
 And in warmth of jiurest boy-love, 
 
 The ri''' , clusters with them shared ; 
 Or when hoary headed winter 
 
 Brought his welcome frost and snow. 
 How wc thronged the frozen streamlets, 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 
 Tlien my days of dawning manhood. 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 When tlie futun; seemed all bri;.jlUntss 
 
 Lit with love's enchanting glow ; 
 When what hopes and blissful day-dreams 
 
 Would my buoyant bosom crowd, 
 As I forth led my loved one. 
 
 She as fair as I was proud ; 
 Led her forth with li,L;hlson e footstep, 
 
 Where some happy rustic throng 
 To old Robin's merry music 
 
 Would so gaily dance along. 
 
 Or when round came joyous Chrislmas 
 
 Oft beneath the mistletoe, 
 Have I toyed with blushing maidens, 
 
 Many, many years ago ! 
 Ah, ye golden days ! departed. 
 
 Yet full oft on memory's wing 
 Ye return like some bright vision. 
 
 And both joy and sorrow bring. 
 Where are now my boy companions. 
 
 Those dear friends of love and truth ? 
 Dtath h.is sealed the lips of many. 
 
 Fair and l)eautiful in youtii. 
 Robin's lute has long been silent, ' 
 
 And tlie trees are old and bare ; 
 
 Silent too the rippling brooklets. 
 The old play ground is not there ; 
 Time liath stolen my fair cjne's beauty. 
 
 And he soon will strike the blow. 
 That will break those ties that bound us 
 
 Many, many years ago I 
 
 T. LOKER. 
 
 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 'WAS the night before Christmas, when all 
 througli the house 
 Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
 'f mouse ; 
 
 The stockings were hung by the cliimney with care, 
 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be th(;re. 
 The children were nestled all snug in their beds. 
 While visions of sugar plums danced through their 
 
 heads ; 
 And mamma in her kei chief, and 1 iii my cap, 
 Had settled our brams for a lon;^ winter's naii. 
 When out on the lawn there arose .such a clatter, 
 I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 
 
 Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
 Tore open the shutters and threw up tlie .sash. 
 The moon on the breast of tlie new fallen sudw 
 Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 
 When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
 But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer. 
 With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
 More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
 And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by 
 
 name : 
 "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancerland 
 
 Vijjen I 
 On, Comet I on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 
 To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall I 
 Now dash away I dash away ! da^h away all ! " 
 (390) 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 31)7 
 
 Prancer! and 
 
 An dry leaves (hat before the wild hurricane lly, 
 When tliey meet with an obstacle, inoimt to the sky, 
 So ti]) to lb • hdiisi-top the coursi-rs they Hew, 
 With a bleij^h full of toys, and St. N'icholas too. 
 And then, in a twinklini;, I heard on the roof 
 The pnxncin^j and pawing of each little hoof. 
 
 As 1 drew in my head, and was tnrniny; arotind, 
 |),Avn the chimney St. Niciiolas came wilh a bound. 
 I \.t was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot. 
 And his d jthcs were r.il tarnished with ashes and soot ; 
 A l)Undle of toys he had lluiij; on his back. 
 And he looked like a peddler just (jpeninj; his pack. 
 Ifi-i eyes, how they twinkled ! his dimples, how merry 1 
 I (is clu'eks were like roses, bis nose like a cherry ! 
 His droll littlo mcHith was drawn up like a bow, 
 ,\ml the boartl o( his chin w;is as white as the snow ; 
 The stumii of a pipe he held ti;<lit in his teeth. 
 And the smoke it encircled hi.; head like a wreath. 
 He had a broad face, and a little njund belly 
 ■jh.it sI)f)ok, when h(,> lan;;!ijd, like a bosvlful of jelly, 
 lie was chubby ;uk1 plump — a lii^ht jolly old ell— 
 And I I ui.ched, wh. n I saw him, in «pite of mysi:lf ; 
 A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, 
 .Soon >;ave me to know 1 had nothing t i dread ; 
 He .'.poke not a word, but went straight to his wo'k. 
 And filled all the stockings ; then turned wilh a jerk, 
 .And l.iyinji; his fuller aside of his nose, 
 And t;ivin;j; a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
 H' sprang to the sleigh, t(j the team gave a whistle. 
 And away they all (lew, like the down of a thislli,', 
 But 1 heard him e.xclaim, ere he dro\-e out of sight, 
 " Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night ! " 
 
 Clement C. Mouuu. 
 
 THE CHILDREN. 
 
 HF.N the lessons and tasks are all ended, 
 And the school for the day is dismissed, 
 And the little ones gather around me, 
 To bid me gooil-night and be ki.ssed ; 
 Oh, the little white arms that encircle 
 
 My neck in a tender embrace ; 
 Oh, the smiles that are lialos of heaven, 
 Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 
 
 And wiien they are gone I sit dreaming 
 
 Of my childhood, too lovely to last ; 
 Of love that my heart will remember, 
 
 \\ hen it wakes to the pulse of the past — 
 Fre the world and its wickeilness made me 
 
 A partner of sorrow and sin ; 
 When the glory of God was about me. 
 
 And the glory of gladness v\itl.in. 
 
 Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's, 
 And the fountains of feeling will flow. 
 
 When I think of the paths steep and stony 
 Where the feet of the dear ones nuist go — 
 
 Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 
 Of the tempest of fate blowing wild : 
 
 oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy 
 .'\s the innocent heart of .i t hild ! 
 
 They are idols of hearts and of households. 
 
 They are angels of tloil in disguise ; 
 His sunlight still sleeps in tlu-ir tresses, 
 
 l^i^ glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
 Oh, these truants from home and from heaven. 
 
 They have made me more m.inly and mild ! 
 And I know now how Jesus could liken 
 
 T!ie kingt'om of Goil to a chiUl. 
 
 I ask not a life for the dear ones. 
 
 All radiant, as others have done. 
 Hut that life may have just enough shadow, 
 
 To temper thi glare of the sun ; 
 I would pray God to guard iheiii from evil, 
 
 l>ut my prayer would l>>un(l back to myself; 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 
 
 Hut a sinner must pray for himsell". 
 
 The twig is so easily bended, 
 
 I h.ive banishetl the rule and the rod, 
 I have t.uight them the goodness of knowledge, 
 
 They have taught me the goodness of Ciod ; 
 My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 
 
 Wliere I shut them from breaking a rule ; 
 My frown is sufficient correction ; 
 
 My love is the law of the school. 
 
 1 shall leave the olil bouse in tl-.e autumn. 
 
 To traverse its tlireshokl no more ; 
 Ah ! how 1 shall sigh for the dear ones 
 
 That meet me each morn at the door ! 
 I shall miss the " good-nights " and the kisses 
 
 And the gush of their innocent glee, 
 The group on the green, and the flowers 
 
 That are brought every morning to me. 
 
 I shall miss them at mom and at even. 
 
 Their sung in the school and the street : 
 I shall iiii-ss tile low hum of tlieir voices, 
 
 And the tramji of their delicate feet. 
 When the lessons of life are all ended. 
 
 And death says, "The school is dismissed !" 
 May the little ones gather around me. 
 
 To bid me good-night and be liissed. 
 
 CiiARi.i;!; M. Dickinson. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL. 
 
 -^ HE mountain and the sijuirrcl 
 
 /a\ Had a quarrel, 
 
 V^ And the former called the latter, " Little 
 
 Bun replied— 
 '• You are doubtless ver>- big ; 
 But all sorts of things and weather 
 Must be taken in together 
 To make up a year, 
 And a sphere ; 
 
 
 -i 
 
 n 
 
.398 
 
 CROWN • JKWKLS. 
 
 n 
 
 >(». !> 
 
 i: 
 
 And I think It no disgrace 
 
 To occupy my place. 
 
 If I'm not so larjjc ns you, 
 
 You are not so small ns I, 
 
 And not half so spry : 
 
 I'll not deny you make 
 
 A very pretty sfpiirrel track. 
 
 Talents difTer ; nil is well niid wisely put ; 
 
 If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
 
 Neitlicr can you crack a nut" 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emkkson. 
 
 n 
 
 NO BABY IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 O baby in the house, I know, 
 'Tis far too nice and clean. 
 No toys, by careless fingers strewn, 
 Upon the floors are seen. 
 No finRer-marks are on th." panes, 
 
 No scratches on the chairs ; 
 No wooden men set up in rows, 
 
 Or marshalled off in pairs ; 
 No little stockings to bs darned. 
 
 All ragged at the toes ; 
 No pile of mending to be done, 
 
 Made up of baby clothes ; 
 No little troubles to be soothed ; 
 
 No little hands to fold ; 
 No grimy fingers to be washed ; 
 
 No stories to be told ; 
 No tender kisses to be given ; 
 
 No nicknames, " Dove" and " Mouse ;" 
 No merry frolics after tea- 
 No baby in the house ! 
 
 Cl\ra G. Dolliver. 
 
 hj 
 
 THE BABY. 
 
 HERE did you come from, baby <lear? 
 Oui of the everywhere into the here. 
 
 Where did you get your eyes so blue? 
 Out of the sky as I came through. 
 
 I 
 
 What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? 
 Some of the starry spikes left in. 
 
 Where did you get that little tear? 
 I found it waiting when I got here. 
 
 What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? 
 A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 
 
 What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? 
 Something better than any one knows. 
 
 Whence th:»t three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
 Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 
 
 Where did you get that pearly ear? 
 God spoke, and it came out to hear. 
 
 Where did vou get those arms and hmdii > 
 l.07ie made itself into hooks and bands. 
 
 Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? 
 From the same box as the cherub's wings. 
 
 How (lid they all just come to be you ? 
 (fod thought about me, and so /grew. 
 
 Rut how did you come to us, you dear? 
 O'od thought of you, and so lam here. 
 
 (•EOKGi; ^lACDnNALD. 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 LOVE to look cm a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself (hat 1 am not old 
 And my lucks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 
 
 And makes his pulses fly. 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years ; 
 
 And they say that I am old, 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 
 
 And my years are well nigh told, 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I'm old, and " I 'bide my time :" 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there, ' 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 
 
 And I whoop the smothered call. 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come. 
 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world at best is a weary place. 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 Rut the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 Nathaniel Tarker Wi:.lis. 
 
 e 
 
 HAPPY DAYS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 HILD of the country ! free as air 
 Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; 
 Born like the lily, where the dew 
 Lies odorous when the day is new ; 
 Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee. 
 Nursed to sweet music on the knee. 
 Lulled in the breast to that sweet tune 
 Which winds make 'mong the woods of June : 
 
CIIII.DIIOOn AND YOUTH. 
 
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 I sinR of Ihee :— 'tis sweet to sitiR 
 Of such a fair and gladsome tiling. 
 
 Cliild of the country ! thy small feet 
 Tread on strawberries red and sweet : 
 With thee I wander forth to see 
 The (lowers which most delight the bee ; 
 The bush o'er which the throstle sung 
 III April while she nursed her young ; 
 The dew beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
 She bred her twins the timorous tiare ; 
 The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bliie-betls, 
 Where brown bees build their balmy cells, 
 The greenwood stream, the shady pool, 
 Wliere trouts leap when the day is cool ; 
 The shilfa's nest that seems to be 
 A portion of the sheltering tree, 
 And other marvels which my verse 
 Can find no language to rehearse. 
 
 Child of the country ! on the lawn 
 1 see thee like the bounding fawn, 
 niithe as the bird which tries its wing 
 The first time on the winds of spring ; 
 Hright as the sun when from the cloud 
 He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; 
 Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams. 
 Now groping trouts in lucid streams. 
 Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, 
 Now hunting echo's empty sound, 
 Now climbing up some old tall tree — 
 For climbing's sake — 'Tis sweet to thee 
 To sit where birds can sit alone, 
 Or share with thee thy venturous throne. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. 
 
 (3 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 SIMPLE child, 
 
 That lightly draws its bre.ith, 
 And feels its life in every limb. 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl : 
 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 ller hair was thick with many a curl 
 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 
 And she wjis wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; — 
 
 Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 "Sisters and brothers, little maid. 
 How many may you be ? " 
 
 " How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 "And where are they ! I pray you tell." 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea ; 
 
 " Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea, 
 Vet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
 .Sweet maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie 
 IJeneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 " You run about, my little maid. 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid, 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 "Their graves are green, they may be seen." 
 
 The little maid replied : 
 " Twelve steps or more from my motiier's door. 
 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 "My stockings there I often knit. 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 "And often after sunset, sir. 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was Sister Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her gr.ive we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow. 
 And I could run and slide, 
 My brother John w.is forced to go. 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," .said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 Quick was the little maid's reply ! 
 " O master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in heaven !" 
 'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
 The little maid would have her will, 
 And said, ' ' Nay, we are seven. " 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
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 400 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY? 
 
 10 
 
 HAT does little birdie say 
 In her nest at peep of day ? 
 Let me (ly, says little birdie, 
 Mother, let me fly away. 
 Birdie, rest a little loiiKi-'r, 
 Till the little wings are stronger. 
 So slie rests a little longer, 
 Then she flics away. 
 
 What does little baby say. 
 In her bed at peep of day ? 
 Raby says, like little birdie, 
 Let me rise and fly away. 
 Baby, sleep a little longer, 
 Till the little limbs are stronger. 
 If she sleeps a little longer, 
 Baby too shall fly away. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 HELP ONE ANOTHER. 
 
 . ELP one another," the snow-flakes said, 
 • * lim As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed ; 
 " One oi us here would not be felt, 
 One of us here would quickly nelt, 
 But I'll help you, and you help me. 
 And then what a big white drift we'll see." 
 
 " I lelp one another," the maple spray 
 
 •Said to its fellow leaves one day ; 
 " The sun would wither me here alone, 
 
 Long enough ere tile day is gone, 
 
 I'm I'll help you, and you lielp me. 
 
 Anil then what a splendid shade there'll be." 
 
 " Help one another," the dew-drop cried, 
 Sjeing ai:otiier drop close to its side ; 
 
 " This warm soutli i)reeze would dry nie away, 
 And I should be gone ere noon to-day, 
 Hut ill help you, and you helj) me, 
 And we'll make a brook and nm to the sea." 
 
 " IIijl]) one another," a grain of sand 
 
 .S.iicI lo anotlier grain just at hand ; 
 " The wind may carry me over the sea, 
 
 A]u\ tlien, oh, what will become of me? 
 
 But come, my brother, give me your hand 
 
 We'll build a mountain and there we'll stand." 
 
 " Help one another, ' a pei;ny said 
 
 To .1 fL-!Iow penny, round and red ; 
 " Nobody cares for me alone, 
 
 N(jbody'll care when I am gone. 
 
 But we'll stick together, and grow in time 
 
 To a nickel, or even a .silver dime." 
 
 " H'-lp oin' anothi-T," I hear tlu' dimes 
 Whisper bentalh the Christmas chimes ; 
 
 " We're only little folks, but you know 
 Little folks sometime! make a show. 
 Ten of us, if we're good and pure, 
 Equ.il a big round dollar, sure." 
 
 And so the snowflakes grew to drifts, 
 
 The grains of sand to mountains, 
 The leaves became a pleasant shade, 
 
 And dew-drops fed the fountains ; 
 The pennies grew to silver dimes, 
 
 The dimes to dollars, brother ! 
 And children bring this Christmas gift 
 
 By helping one another. 
 
 George E. Huntino. 
 
 if 
 
 TEACHING PUBLIC SCHOOL 
 
 ORTY little urchins. 
 
 Coming tlirough the door. 
 Pushing, crowding, making 
 A tremendous roar. 
 Why don't you keep quiet ? 
 
 Can't you keepjhe rule ? — 
 Biess me, this is pleasant, 
 Teaching public school ! 
 
 Forty liltle pilgrims 
 
 On the road to fame ; 
 If they fail to reach it, 
 
 Who will be to blame ? 
 High and lowly stations — 
 
 Birds of every feather — 
 On a common level 
 
 1 lere are brought together. 
 
 Dirty little faces, 
 
 Loving little hearts, 
 Lyes brimful of mischief, 
 
 .Skilled in all its arts. 
 That's a precious dailing! 
 
 What are you about ? 
 "May I pass the water ?" 
 
 " Please, may I go out ?" 
 
 Boots and shoes are shuflRing, 
 
 Slates and books arc ratthng, 
 And in a corner yonder 
 
 Two pu.gilists are battling : 
 Others cutting didos — 
 
 What a botheration ! 
 No wonder we grow crusty 
 
 From such association ! 
 
 Anxious parent drops in, 
 
 Merely to inquire 
 Why his o'ive branches 
 
 Do not shoot up higher; 
 Says he wants his children 
 
 To mii^d their /'.f and ^'s, 
 And |-,opes their brilliant t.ilents 
 
 Will not be abused. 
 
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CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 401 
 
 Spelling, reading, writing, 
 
 Putting up tlie young ones ; 
 Fuming, scolding, fighting, 
 
 Spurring on the dumb ones ; 
 Gymnasts, vocal music — 
 
 How the heart rejoices 
 When the singer comes to 
 
 Cultivate the voices ! 
 
 Institute attending, 
 
 Making out reports. 
 Giving object lessons, 
 
 ClaF ) drill of all sorts ; 
 Reading dissertations, 
 
 Feeling like a fool — 
 Oh, the untold blessing 
 
 Of the public scliool 1 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 
 
 |ET\VEEN the dark and the daylight. 
 
 When the night is beginning to lower, 
 Comes a pause in the day's occupatioi;s, 
 That is known as the children's hour. 
 
 I hear in the chamber above me. 
 
 The patter of little feet. 
 The sound of a door that is opened 
 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study I see in the lamplight. 
 Descending the broad hall-'^tair. 
 
 Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
 A whisper, and then a silence ; 
 
 Yet 1 know by their merry eyes, 
 Tliey are plotting and ))lanning together 
 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 
 A sudden raid from the hall, 
 By three doors left unguarded, 
 
 They enter my castle wall. 
 
 They climb up into my turret, 
 O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 
 
 If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses, 
 Their arms about me entwine, 
 
 Till 1 tiiink of the Disiiop of Bingen 
 In his mouse-tower on the Rhine ! 
 
 Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
 iU'causc you have scaled the wall. 
 
 Such an old mustache as I am 
 Is not a match for you all ! 
 
 I have you fast in my fortress, 
 And I will not let you depart. 
 
 But put you down into the dungeon 
 
 In the round tower of my heart. 
 (20) 
 
 And there will I keep you forever, 
 
 Yes, forever and a day, 
 Till the walls shall crumble in ruin 
 
 And moulder in dust away. 
 
 Henry Wadswortii Lo.ngfellow. 
 
 
 THE LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 LITTLE feet ; that such long years 
 Must wander on throu;.;h hopes and fears ; 
 Must ache and bleud beneath your load : 
 , nearer to the ways.ide iini, 
 Where toil shall cease and rest begin. 
 Am weary thinking of your road. 
 
 0, little hands, that weak or strong, 
 Have still to serve or rule so long, 
 
 Have still so long to give or ask ; 
 
 1, who so much with book and pen 
 Have tolled among my fellow-men. 
 
 Am weary, thinking of your task. 
 
 (), little hearts ; that throb and beat 
 With much impatient, feverish heat, 
 
 Such linntiess and strong desires ; 
 Mine, that so U)ng has glowed and burned, 
 VYith passions into ashes turned, 
 
 Now covers and conceals its fires. 
 
 O, litde souls, as pure and white, 
 As crjstaline, as rays of light 
 
 Direct from heaven, their source divine ; 
 Refracted throu.Lch the mist of years. 
 How red my seiting sun appears ; 
 
 How lurid looks this sua of mine, v ^ 
 
 Henrv Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 N parent's knees, a naked, new-horn child, 
 Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee 
 smiled : 
 ' .So live, tlKit, sinking in thy last long sleep. 
 
 Thou then niayst smile while all around thee weep. 
 
 Fro.m the Chinese. 
 
 9' 
 
 (3 
 
 DAY-DREAMS. 
 
 M, now, in youth, how beautiful 
 Is the enchiinted land ! 
 What matchless flowers my hand doth cull 
 
 Within its haunted strand ! 
 What gorgecjus visions spread the wing 
 
 Amid its twilight shades; 
 And oh ! what shapes go, beckoning, 
 
 Along its moonlit glades ! 
 The dewy showers and silver gleams 
 That sweeten all the land of dreams ! 
 
 JOHN Clare. 
 
 
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 402 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 i 
 
 BABY LOUISE. 
 
 "M in love with >ou, Raby Louise ! 
 With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, 
 And tile dreamy wisdom that in tlicni lies, 
 ' And tlie faint, sweet smile you brou ,Iil from tiic 
 skies — 
 God's sunshine, Baby Louise. 
 
 When you fold your hands, IJaby Louise, 
 Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, 
 With a i)retty, innocent, saint-like air, 
 Are you trying to tliink rf s.mik.' anfjfl-taup;I)t prajer. 
 
 You learned above. Baby Louise ? 
 
 I'm in love with you, Raby Louise ! 
 Why ! you never raise your beautiful head I 
 Some day, little one, your cheek will jjrow red 
 With a flush of delight, to hear the word said, 
 " I love you," Baby Louise. 
 
 Do you hear me. Baby Louise ? 
 1 have sung your praises for nearly an hour, 
 And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, 
 And — you've gone to sleep, like a wearj' flower, 
 
 Ungrateful Baby Louise ! 
 
 Margaret Evti'-ce. 
 
 ls|:i!) 'i. 
 
 DREAMS AND REALITIES. 
 
 ROSAMOND, thou fair and good. 
 And perfect flower of womanhood. 
 
 Thou royal rose of June ! 
 Why did'st thou droop before thy time ? 
 Why wither in the first sweet prime .> 
 Why did'st thou die so soon ! 
 
 For, looking backward through my tears 
 On thee, and on my wasted years, 
 
 I cannot choose b\it say. 
 If thou had'st lived to be my guide. 
 If thou had'st lived and I had died, 
 
 'Twere better far to-day. 
 
 O child of light, O golden head ! — 
 Bright >unbeam tor one moment shed 
 
 Upon life's lonely way- 
 Why did'st th(tu vanish from our sight? 
 Could they not .spar*- my little light 
 
 From heaven's unclouded day? 
 
 O friend so true, O friend so good ! — 
 Thou one dream of my maidenhood. 
 
 That gave youth all its chantis — 
 What had I done or what had'st thou, 
 That, thro.'gh this lonesome world till now. 
 
 We walk with empty arms ? 
 
 And yet h^d this poor soul been fed 
 With all it loved and coveted — 
 Had life been always fair — 
 
 Woultl these dear dreams that ne'er depart, 
 That thrill with bliss my inmost l-.eart, 
 Forever tremble there ? 
 
 If still they kept their earthly place, 
 The friends 1 held in my embrace, 
 
 And gave to death, alas ! 
 Could I have learned that clear, calm faith 
 That looks beyond the bond-i of death, 
 
 And almost longs to pass ? 
 
 Sometimes, I think, the things we see 
 Are shadows of the things to be ; 
 
 That what we plan we build ; 
 That every hope that hath been crossed, 
 And ever>' dream we thought was lost, 
 
 In heiiven shall be fulfilled ; 
 
 That even the children of the brain 
 Have not been born .and died in vain. 
 Though here unclothetl aiul dumb ; 
 Rut on some brighter, better shore 
 They live, embodied evermore. 
 
 And wait for us to come. 
 
 • 
 
 And when on that last day we rise, 
 Caught up between the earth and skies, 
 
 Then shall we hear our Lord 
 .Say, " Thou hast done with floubt and deatli. 
 Henceforth, .nccording to thy faith, 
 
 Shall be thy faith's reward." 
 
 Phceby Cauy. 
 
 (^ 
 
 LITTLE GOLDENHAIR. 
 
 .OLDENHAIR climbed up on grandp.-.p.i's 
 knee ; 
 Dear little Goldenhair ! tired was sh^', 
 All the day busy as busy could be. 
 
 Up in the morning as soon .as 't was light. 
 Out with the birds and butterflies bright, 
 .Skipping about till the coming of niglit. 
 
 Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. 
 'What has my baby betn doing," he saiti, 
 "Since she arose, with the sun, from her bed? ' 
 
 " Pitty much," answered the sweet little one ; 
 " I cannot tell so much things I have done — 
 Played with my dolly and feeded my Bun. 
 
 "And I have jumped with my little jump rcpe, 
 And I matle out of some water and soiip 
 Bufitle worlds ! mamma's castles of hope. 
 
 " And I have readed in my picture-book, 
 Anfl little Bella and I went to look 
 For some smooth stones by the side of the brook. 
 
 "Then I comed home and I eated my tea. 
 And I climbed up to my grandpapa's knee. 
 I jes as tired as tired can be." 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 4(>a 
 
 llEBY CaUY. 
 
 1 grandpapa's 
 
 I^owcr and lower the little licatl pressed, 
 Kntil it droop' (1 iiiwii grandpiipa's breast ; 
 Dear little rjolcletihair! sweet l)e thy rest! 
 
 We are l)iit children ; the things that we do 
 Are as sports of a balie t.) the Infmite view 
 That sees all our weakness, and pities it too. 
 
 Tiotl grant that when nii^ht overshadows otir way, 
 And we shall be called to account for our day, 
 i le shall And us as guileless as Goldenhair's play ! 
 
 And O, when aweary, may we be so blest 
 As to sink like the innocent child to our rest. 
 And Ice! ourselves chisped to the Infinite breast ! 
 F. BtRGK Smith. 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 H, then how sweetly closed those crowded 
 days ! 
 The minutes parting one by one, like rays 
 That fade upon a summer's eve. 
 But O, what charm or magic numbers 
 Can give me back the gentle slumbers 
 Tiiose weary, happy days did leave ? 
 When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. 
 And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; 
 Whatever time destroys, he cannot this ;— 
 E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 
 
 Washington Allston. 
 
 cuckoo pint ! toll me the purple clapper 
 
 That hangs in your clear green bell ! 
 
 .•\nd show me your nest, with the young ones in it — 
 I will not steal them aw.ny ; 
 
 1 am old ! you may trust me. linnet, linnet ! 
 
 1 .im seven times one to-day. 
 
 Jea.n Inc;klc)W. 
 
 P 
 
 (3 
 
 SEVEN TIMES ONE. 
 
 "HERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
 There's no rain left in heaven. 
 I've said my " seven times" over and over — 
 "f Seven times one are seven. 
 
 I am old — so old I can WTite a letter ; 
 
 My birthday lessons are done. 
 The himbs play always — they know no better ; 
 
 They arc only one times one. 
 
 moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
 
 ;\ncl shining so round and low. 
 You were bright— ah, bright — but your light is fail- 
 ing ; 
 You are nothing now but a bow. 
 
 You moon ! have you done something wrong in 
 iieaven, 
 That God has hidden your face? 
 
 1 hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven. 
 
 And shine again in your place. 
 
 velvet bee ! you're a dusty fellow— 
 You've powdered your legs with gold. 
 
 brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, 
 Give me your money to hold ! 
 
 columbine ! open your folded wrapper, 
 Where two twin turtle doves dwell I 
 
 THE PIPER. 
 
 II'ING down the valleys wiKl, 
 ■*■• Piping songs i)f jik-asaiit glee, 
 ( )n a cloud I saw a riiild, 
 And he laughing said to me : — 
 
 " Pipe a song .ibout a lanil) : " 
 .So I pipetl with merry dieer. 
 
 " Piper, pipe that song ag:'.in : " 
 .So I piped ; he wept to li'.ar. 
 
 " Drop thy pipe, thy h.nppy pipe, 
 .Sing thy songs of happy cheer : " 
 So 1 sung the same again. 
 While he wept with joy to hear. 
 
 " Piper, sit thee down ami write 
 In a hook that all may reail — " 
 .So he vanished fnini my sight ; 
 And I plucked a hollow revd. 
 
 And I m;ule a rural pen, 
 And I stained the water clear, 
 And 1 wrote my happy songs 
 F.vcry child may joy to hear. 
 
 William Bi.ake. 
 
 BABY'S SHOES. 
 
 THOSE little, those little blue shoes! 
 Those shoes that nn little feel use. 
 • O the price were high 
 
 That those shoes would buy. 
 Those little blue unused shoes I 
 
 For they hold the small shape of foet 
 That no more their mother's eyes meet. 
 
 That, by God's good will. 
 
 Years since, grew still 
 And ceased from their totter so sweet. 
 
 And O, since that baby slept. 
 
 So hushed, how the mother has kept. 
 
 With a tearful pleasure. 
 
 That little dear treasure, 
 And o'er them thought and wept ! 
 
 For they mind hei forevermore 
 Of a patter along the floor ; 
 
 And blue eyes she sees 
 
 Look up from her knees 
 With the look that in life they wore. 
 
 k 
 
 
 it-- 
 

 404 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 m 
 
 
 As they lie before h r there, 
 Their babbles from chair ti> chair 
 
 A little sweet face 
 
 That's a jiiuam in the place, 
 With its little gold curls of hair. 
 
 Then O wonder not that her heart 
 From all else would rather part 
 
 Than those tiny blue sho'js 
 
 That no little feet use, 
 And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! 
 VVii.i.iAM Cox Rknnltt. 
 
 t I 
 
 THE ENCHANTRESS— A SPRiNG-TlME LYRIC 
 FOR MABEL. 
 
 'T is only in legend and fable 
 
 The fairies are with us, you know ; 
 For the fairies are fled, little Mabel, 
 Ay, ages "nd ages ago. 
 
 And yet I have met with a fairy — 
 You needn't go shaking your curls — 
 
 A genuine spirit and airy, 
 
 Like her who talked nothing but pearls ! 
 
 You may laugh if you like, lijtle Mabel ; 
 
 I know you're exceedint^ly wise ; 
 Rut I have seen her as plain as I'm able 
 
 To see unbelief in your eyes. 
 
 A marvelous creature ! I really 
 Can't say she is gifted with wings. 
 
 Or resides in a tulip ; but, clearly. 
 She's (iiieen of all beautiful things. 
 
 Whenever she comes fron; her castle, 
 The snow fades away like a dream. 
 
 And the pine-cone's icicK; tassel 
 Melts, and drops into the stream ! 
 
 The dingy gray moss on the bowlder 
 Takes color like bumisheti steel ; 
 
 The brook puts its silvery shoulder 
 Again to the old mill-wheel ! 
 
 The robin and wren fly to meet her ; 
 
 The honeybee hums with delight ; 
 The morning breaks brighter and sweeter: 
 
 More tenderly falls the night 1 
 
 By roadsides, in pastures and meadows. 
 
 The buttercups growing bold. 
 For her sake light up the shadows 
 
 With disks of tremulous gold. 
 
 Even the withered bough blossoms 
 
 Grateful for sunlight and rain — 
 Even tlie hearts in our bosoms 
 
 Are leaping to greet her again f 
 
 What fairy in all your romances 
 
 Is such an enchantress as she, 
 Who blushes in roses and pansies, 
 
 And sings in the birds on the tree ? 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY, 
 
 i 
 
 (LESSINGS on thee, litde man. 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
 With thy turned-up pantaloons. 
 And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
 With thy red lip, redder still 
 Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
 With the sunshine on thy face. 
 Through thy torn brim's jaunty gract;; 
 From my heart I give thee joy — 
 I was once a barefoot boy ! 
 I'rince thou art — the grown-up man 
 Only is republican. 
 Let the million-dollared ride ! 
 Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 
 In the reach of ear and eye — 
 Outward sunshine, inward joy : 
 Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 
 
 O for boyhood's painless play. 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rul'js. 
 Knowledge never learned of schools, 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase 
 Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
 l'"light of fowl and habitude 
 Of the tenants of the wood ; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell, 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
 How the robin feeds her young. 
 How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
 Where the whitest lilies blow. 
 Where the freshest berries grow. 
 Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
 Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
 Of the black wasp's cimning way. 
 Mason of his walls of clay, 
 And the architectural plans 
 Of gray hornet artisans ! — 
 For, eschewing books and tasks. 
 Nature answers all he asks ; 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 I'ace to face with her he talks, 
 Fart and parcel of her joy — 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 O for boyhood's time of June, 
 Crowding years in one brief moon, 
 When all things I heard or saw, 
 Me, their master, \vaited for. 
 I was rich in flowers and trees. 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
 For my sport the s<iuirrel played. 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 405 
 
 I^iughcd the brook for my deliijht 
 Through the day and llirough the niglit, 
 Whispering; at the i;ardcii wall, 
 Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
 Mine the sand-rimmcd pickerel pond, 
 Mine the walnut slup'S hey(jn<l, 
 Mine, on bending; on. hard trees, 
 Apples of Hesperides ! 
 Still as my horizon grew, 
 I^irger grew my riches too ; 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
 Fashioned fur a barefoot boy ! 
 
 O for festal dainties spread, 
 Like my bow! of milk ami bread — 
 I'ewter s])oon ami bowl of woikI, 
 On the door-stonu, i;ray am! rude ! 
 O'er me, like a regal tent, 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the simset bent, 
 Purfile-turtainrd, fringed with gold, 
 Ix)oped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
 While for music came the play 
 Of the pied fro-s' orchestra ; 
 And, to light the noisy choir, 
 Lit the (ly his lamp of fire. 
 I was monarch : pomp and joy 
 Waited on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 Checrly, then, my little man. 
 Live and laugii, as boyhood can ! 
 Though tile flinty slopts be hard. 
 Stubble-speared the new mown sward. 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison cells of pride. 
 Lose the freedom of the sod. 
 Like a colt's for work be shod, 
 Made to tread the mills of toil. 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
 I lappy if their track be found 
 Never on forbidden ground ; 
 Happy if tney sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy. 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 
 
 John Greenleak Whittier. 
 
 Q 
 
 THE GOAT AND THE SWING. 
 
 VICIOUS goat, one day, had found 
 His way into forbidden ground. 
 When, coming to the garden swing, 
 He spied a most prodigious thing— 
 A rqm, a monster to his mind. 
 With head before and head behind ! 
 
 Its shape was odd, no nooiS were seen, 
 Hut without legs it stood between 
 Two upri;j;ht, lufty posts of oak. 
 With forehead ready for a stroke. 
 
 Though but a harnikss ornament 
 Carveil on tho seat, it .seemed intent 
 On b.'U'ring the intruder's way ; 
 While he, advaiuin;;, svxnied to say, 
 "Who is this surly fillovv here? 
 Two heads, no tail— it's mighty cjuecr ! 
 A most insulting fountenaiice ! " 
 With stamji of foot and angry glance 
 He curbed his threatening nt-ck. and stood 
 Before the passive Uiing of w(kxL 
 
 " Vou winked as I was going by! 
 You didn't? Uiiat ! tell nie 1 li.? 
 Take that ! " And at the swing bv sprung : 
 A sounding thump! I* brirkw.-u-d swung, 
 And, set in mofitm by llic blow, 
 .Swayed njenacingly to an..', fro. 
 
 " Ha ! you'll fight ? .'\ <iuarrel.some chap 
 1 knew yt)U were ! Wui'H get ;i rap ! 
 I'll crack your skull! " A headlong jump : 
 Another and a louder bunip! 
 
 The swing, as if with kindhn.a; wratli. 
 
 Came pushing back along the p;ith. 
 
 The goat, astonished, shook his head. 
 
 Winketl hard, turned rouiKl, grew mod, and sai»I, 
 * Villain! I'll teach you who i am 1 " 
 
 (Or seemed to .say,) "you rascal r;im, 
 
 To pick a fight with nie, u-hen 1 
 
 So ([uietly am pitssin.i; by ! 
 
 Vour head or mine ! " A thundering stroke : 
 
 The cracking horns met crashing o.ik ! 
 
 Then came a dull and niuliled sound. 
 
 And something rolled along the groiiiiil, 
 
 dot up, lot)ke<l .sad, appeare«l tos.iy: 
 " Your head's t(K> liartl ! " and limped away 
 
 Quite humbly, in a rumpled coat— 
 
 A dirtier and a wiser goat ! 
 
 JOH.V ToW.NSE.ND TrOU"BRIU(>K. 
 
 LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 
 
 'HEY drive homti the cows from the pasture, 
 I'p through the long, shady lane. 
 Where the quail whistles loud in the wlieat- 
 f' fields 
 
 That are yellow witli ripening grain. 
 They find, in the thick, waving gnus-ses. 
 
 Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows ; 
 They gather the earliest snow-drops. 
 And the first crimson buds of the rose. 
 
 They toss the new hay in the meadow ; 
 
 They gather the elder-blooms white; 
 They find where the dusky graj>es purple, 
 
 In the soft-tinted October light. 
 
 :fi 
 
 ^' 
 
 !■! 
 
!'*•» . 
 
 8;ri. 
 
 
 
 il.i i! 
 
 40(5 
 
 CROWN. JKVVKLS. 
 
 Tliey know where tlio apples liantj ripest, 
 Ami are sweeter than Italy's wines ; 
 
 They know where the fruit hangs the thickest 
 On the long, thorny blackberry-vines. 
 
 They gather tht.' delicate sea- weeds. 
 
 And build tiny castles of saiul ; 
 They jiick up the beautiful si-a-shells — 
 
 Fairy barks that have drifted to land. 
 They wave from the tall, rocking tree-to|>s, 
 
 Where the oriole's hamm(K:k-nest swings ; 
 And at ni.i'ht-titne are folded in slumber 
 
 By a song that a fond mot bur sings. 
 
 Those who toil bravely are strongest ; 
 
 The humble and poor become great , 
 And SI) froin these brown-banded children 
 
 Shall grow mighty rulers of-jtate. 
 The jien of the au'.hor and statesman — 
 
 The noble antl wise of the land — 
 The sworj, and the chisel, and palttte, 
 
 Shall be held in the little brown hand. 
 
 M. H. Kkoit. 
 
 ROBERT BRUCE AND THE SPIDER. 
 
 K»)ING Bruce of Scotlanil flung himself down, 
 In a lonely mood to think ; 
 ^ 'Tis true he was monarch, anil wore a crown, 
 Hut bis heart was beginning to sink. 
 
 For he had been trying to do a great tleetl, 
 
 To make bis people glad ; 
 He had tried and tried, but could not succeed, 
 
 And so he became quite sad. 
 
 He flung himself into a deep despair. 
 
 He was grieved as man could be ; 
 And after a while, as he pondered there, 
 
 " I'll give it up !" cried he. 
 
 Now, just at that moment, a spider dropped 
 
 With its silken cobweb clew, 
 Anil the king, in the midst of his thinking stcjppetl 
 
 To see what the spider would do. 
 
 'Twas a long way up to the ceiling ilome, 
 
 And it bung by a rope so fme, 
 That how it would get to it.s cobweb home 
 
 King Bruce could not divine. 
 
 It soon began to cling and crawl 
 
 Straight up wiih strong endeavor ; 
 But down it came with a slipping sprawl, 
 
 As near to the ground as ever. 
 
 Up, up it ran, nor a second did stay. 
 
 To make the least complaint. 
 Till it fell still lower ; and there it lay 
 
 A little dizzy and faint. 
 Its head grew steady— again it went, 
 
 And traveled a half-yard higher ; 
 'T was a delicate thread it had to tread. 
 
 And a road where its feet would tire. 
 
 Again it fell, anil swung below; 
 
 But up it (|uickly mounted, 
 Till up and down, now fast, now slow. 
 
 Nine brave attempts were counted. 
 
 ".Sure," said the king, "that fiH)lish thinr 
 Will strive no more to climb, 
 When it toils so hard to reach and cling. 
 And tumbles every time." 
 
 But up the insect went once more ; 
 
 .Ml me I 't is an an.\ious minute ; 
 He's only a foot from his cobweb door — 
 
 O, say I will he lose or win it ? 
 
 Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, 
 
 Higher and higher he got. 
 And a bold little run, at the very last pinch. 
 
 Tut him into the wished-for s|K)t. 
 
 " Bravo, bravo I " the king cried out ; 
 "All honor to those who try ! 
 The spider up there defied despair ; 
 
 He conquered, and why should not I ? " 
 
 Thus Bruce of Scotland braced his mind ; 
 
 And gossips tell the tale. 
 That he tried once more, as he tried l>efore, 
 
 And that time did not fail. 
 
 Pay goodly heed, all you who read, 
 And beware of saying, " I can't ; " 
 
 'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead 
 To idleness, folly, and want. 
 
 Ei.iz.\ ("on 
 
 I 
 
 LESSONS FROM BIRDS AND BEES 
 
 LOVE to see the little goldfinch pluck 
 The groundsel's feathered seed, and twit .k; 
 
 twit ; 
 And soon in bower of apple blossoms i)er(licil, 
 I'lume his gay suit, and pay us with a song— 
 I would not hold him prisoner for the world. 
 
 The chimney-haunting swallow, too, my eye 
 And ear well pleases. I delight to see 
 How suddenly he skims the glassy pool. 
 How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's spL-e<l 
 Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear 
 His morning song twittered to dawning day. 
 
 But most of all, it wins my admiration 
 To view the structure of this little work— 
 A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without— 
 No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut, 
 No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert, 
 No glue to join ; his little beak was all — 
 And yet how nicely finished I What nice hand, 
 With every implement and means of art. 
 And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot. 
 Could make me such another ? 
 
CniLUMOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 407 
 
 r,l.I/.A ("oiiK. 
 
 Mark the bee ; 
 She, too, nn artist is — a ctinnint; artist, 
 W'lio at the ruuf begins iicr goldtii work, 
 Aiul builds without fouiuhitiun. How she- toils, 
 And still from bed to bed, from flower to flower, 
 Travels the livelong day ! Ye iille drones. 
 Who rather pilfer than your bread obtain 
 lly honest means like these, behold and learn 
 Mow grand, how fair, how honorable it is 
 To live by industry ! The busy tribes 
 Of bees, so emulous, are daily fi.d, 
 IJecause they tlaily toil. Anil bounteous I leavtn, 
 .Still to the tliligent and active Kood, 
 Their very labor makes the cause of health. 
 
 DARE AND DO. 
 
 9.\RIC to think, though others frown ; 
 1 )are in words your thoughts express ; 
 Dare to rise, though oft east down ; 
 Dare the wronged and scorned to Mess. 
 
 Dare from custom to depart; 
 
 D.iro the priceless pearl possess; 
 Dare to wear it next your heart ; 
 
 Dare, when others curse, to bless. 
 
 Dare forsake what you demi wrong; 
 
 D.ire to walk in wisdom's way ; 
 D.ire to give where gi ts lu'loii;; ; 
 
 Dare Gijd's |)reCLi)ts to obey. 
 
 I)<j what conscience says is right; 
 
 Do what reason says is best ; 
 Do with all your mind and might ; 
 
 Do your duly, and be blest. 
 
 " I will pay the best of masters. 
 
 Who shall teach you all they know. 
 
 ' In all labor there is prnfit,' 
 Honors, too, from labor flow. 
 
 " Let not earthly fame <>r glory, 
 
 lie your only «'iul or aim, 
 
 Let the glory of your Makt r 
 
 Have the first and highest ( laim. 
 
 "Then I doubt not, darling Ary, 
 If Goil spare yi.M, you shall bo 
 l'"irst and foremost of the i):rnUirs 
 Which the present age shall see." 
 
 Truly spoke his loving mother ; 
 
 A grwit artist he became : 
 All the world now louil in honor 
 
 Speak of Ary Schefler's name. 
 
 ARY SCHEFFER. 
 
 Ar)' SctiinVr was uii Liiiiiient h'tviicli painter. 
 i;.;5, aiul dietl in 1858. 
 
 He was l)urn in 
 
 h 
 
 N the wall of brick and plaster, 
 
 Running down the garden walk, 
 Little Ary drew a picture 
 With a piece of pointed chalk. 
 
 As he drew it, Cousin Gretchen, 
 Willi her doll, was st;mding by ; 
 
 And she said, " You'll be an artist, 
 My dear Ary, if you try." 
 
 Truly spoke his Cousin Gn;tchen ; 
 
 For, while yet a little boy, 
 His great diligence and talent 
 
 Filled his mother's heart with joy. 
 
 Much that mother longed to see him 
 Grow to be a good, great man. 
 " 1 have liitle money, Ary, 
 
 But I'll spare whate'er I can. 
 
 BY-AND-BY. 
 
 HKRE'S a little mischitf-maker 
 
 That is stealing half our bliss. 
 Sketching pictures in a dream-land 
 
 That are never seen in this ; 
 Dashing from our li|)s the pleasure 
 
 Of the present, while we sigh. 
 You may know this mischief-maker, 
 
 I"or his name is " Hy-and-By." 
 
 He is sitting by our hearth-stones 
 
 With his sly, bewitching glance, 
 • Whispering of die coming morrow, 
 
 As die social hours advance ; 
 Loitering 'mid our calm reflecliims, 
 
 Hiding forms of beauty nigli — 
 He's a smooth, deceitful fellow. 
 
 This enchanter, "Uy and-lJy." 
 
 You may know him by his wincing, 
 
 By his careless, sportive air ; 
 By his sly, obtrusive presence, 
 
 That is straying everywhere ; 
 By the trophies that he gathei^ 
 
 Where his sombOr victims lie ; 
 For a bold, determined fellow 
 
 Is this conqueror, " By-and-By." 
 
 When the calls of duty haunt us, 
 
 And the present seems to l>e 
 All the time that ever mortals 
 
 Snatch from dark eternity, 
 Tiien a fairy hand seems painting 
 
 Pictures on a distant sky ; 
 For a cunning little artist 
 
 Is the fairy, "By-and-Cy." 
 
 " By-and-By " the wind is singing ; 
 " By-and-By " the heart replies ; 
 But the phantom, just before us, 
 Ere we grasp it, ever flies. 
 
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 408 
 
 CROWN. JEWELS. 
 
 List not to the id'-T charmer, 
 
 Scorn the very specious lie ; 
 Only in tiie fancy liveth 
 
 This deceiver, " 15y-aiid-By." 
 
 J. W. Barker. 
 
 LEARN A LITTLE EVERY DAY. 
 
 JTTLE rills make wider streamlets, 
 Streanilfcts swell the rivers' flow ; 
 Rivers join the mountain billows, 
 
 Onward, onward, as they go ! 
 Life is made of smallest fragments, 
 
 Shade and sunshine, work and play ; 
 So may we, with greatest profit, 
 Learn a little every day. 
 
 Tiny seeds make plenteous harvests. 
 
 Drops of rain compose the showers ; 
 Seconds make the flying minutes. 
 
 And the minutes make the hours ! 
 Let us hasten, then, and catch them. 
 
 As they pass us on the way ; 
 And with honest, true endeavor, 
 
 Learn a little every day. 
 
 Let us while we read or study. 
 
 Cull a flower from every page ; 
 Here a line, and there a sentence, 
 
 'Gainst the lonely tirn? of age ! 
 At our work or by the way-side, 
 
 While we ponder, while we play, 
 Let us thus by constant effort 
 
 Learn a little every day. 
 
 THE BEST THAT I CAN. 
 
 ut 
 
 CAN not do much," said a little star. 
 •®* " To make tlie dark world bright; 
 »l» My silvery beams cannot struggle far 
 ' Through the folding gloom of night; 
 
 But I am a part of God's great plan, 
 And I'll cheerfully do the best I can." 
 
 " What is the use," said a fleecy cloud, 
 " Of these few drops that I hold ? 
 They will hardly bend the lily proud, 
 
 Though caught in her cup of gold ; 
 Yet am I a part of God's great plan. 
 
 So my treasure I'll give as well as I can." 
 
 A child went merrily forth to play, 
 But a thought, like a silver thread, 
 
 Kept winding in and out all day 
 Through the happy golden head ; 
 
 And it licemed to say, " Do all you can. 
 For you are a part of God's great plan." 
 
 She knew no more than the glancing star. 
 Nor the cloud with its chalice full, 
 
 How, why, and for what all strange things are — 
 
 She was only a child at school ; 
 But she thought, " It is a part of God's great plan 
 
 That even I should do all that I can." 
 So she helped a younger child along. 
 
 When the road was rough to the feet; 
 And she sang from her heart a little song 
 
 That we all thought was passing sweet ; 
 And her father, a weary, toil-worn man, 
 
 Said, " I too, will do the best that I can." 
 
 P 
 
 THE GOLDEN STAIR. 
 
 UT away the little playthings 
 That the darling used to wear. 
 She will need them on earth never — 
 She has climbed the golden stair ; 
 She is with the happy angels, 
 And I long for her sweet kiss, 
 ■ Where her little feet are waiting 
 In the realm of perfect bliss. 
 
 I^y aside her little playihings 
 Wet with mother's pearly tears — 
 How we shall iss little Nellie 
 All the coming, weary years 1 
 Fold the dainty little dresses 
 That she never more will wear, 
 For her little feet are waiting 
 Up above the golden stair. 
 
 Kiss the little curly tresses 
 Cut from her bright, golden hair— 
 Do the angels kiss our darling 
 In the realm so bright and fair? 
 Oh I we pray to meet our darling 
 For a long, long, sweet embrace. 
 Where the little feet are waiting — 
 And we meet her face to face. 
 
 W. D. .Smith. 
 
 ■■I WOULD IF I COULD." 
 
 WOULD if I could," though much it's in 
 use. 
 Is but a mistaken and sluggish excuse ; 
 And many a person who could if he wouhl, 
 Is often heard saying, " I would if I could." 
 
 " Come, John," said a school-boy, " now do not re- 
 fuse — 
 
 Come, solve me this problem; you can if yuu 
 choose." 
 
 But John at that moment w.is not in the mood, 
 
 And yawningly answered, "I would if I could." 
 
 At the door of a mansion a child, thinly clad. 
 While the cold wind blew fiercely, was begging for 
 
 bread ; 
 A rich man passed by her as trembling she stood. 
 And answered her coldly, " I would if I could." 
 
 a 
 
 < • >s 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 409 
 
 The scholar receiving his teacher's advice, 
 The swearer admonished to quit such a vice, 
 The child vvlien requested to try and ]ie good. 
 Oft give the same answer, "I would if I could." 
 
 But if we may credit what good people say. 
 That wiiere there's a will, there is always a way ; 
 And whatever ou;;ht to be, can he, and should — 
 We never need utter, " I would if I could." 
 
 PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST. 
 
 v.^ II 
 
 YOUNGSTER at school, more sedato than lh« 
 rest, 
 [lad once his integrity put to tlic tost ; 
 Mis comrades had plotted an orchard to roh, 
 And asked him to go and assist in the jub. 
 
 lie was very much shocked, and answered, " O no ! 
 Whai, rob our good neighbor ! I pray you don't go ; i 
 Besides, the man's poor — his orchard's his brcid ; 
 Then think of his children, for they must be fed." 
 
 " You speak very fine, and you look very grave — 
 Rut apples we want, and apples we'll have. 
 If you will go with us, we'll give you a siiarc ; 
 If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." 
 
 He spoke, and James pondered — " I see they will go ; 
 Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
 Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could ; 
 But staying behind will do him no good. 
 
 "If this matter depended alone upon me, 
 His apples might hang till they drop from the tree ; 
 But since they zvt/ltiike them, I think I'U go too ; 
 He will lose none by me, though I get a few." 
 
 His scruples thus silenced, James folt more at ease. 
 And went with his comrades the apples to seize. 
 He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan ; 
 He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. 
 
 Conscience slumbered awhile, but soon woke in jiis 
 
 breast. 
 And in language severe the delinquent addressed : 
 ''With sucli empty and selfish pretenses away ! 
 By your actions you're judged, be your speech what it 
 
 may.' William Cowper. 
 
 
 
 THE LITTLE SUNBEAM. 
 
 LITTLE sunbeam in the sky 
 
 Saitl to itself one day, 
 " r.n very .'mail, yet why should I 
 Do notliing else but play? 
 I'll go down to tlie earth and see 
 If there is any work for me." 
 
 The violet beds were wet with dew, 
 Which filled each drooping cup ; 
 
 The little sunbeam darted through. 
 
 And raised their blue heads up. 
 They smiled to see it, and they lent 
 The njorning breeze their sweetest r.cent. 
 
 A mother safe beneath a tree 
 
 I lad left her babe asleep ; 
 It woke and cried, but when it .spied 
 
 Tile little sunbe^m peep 
 So slyly ir,, with glance so briglit, 
 It Iaui;hcd and chuckled with delight. 
 
 Away, away, o'er land and sea 
 
 Tiie merry sunbeam went : 
 A sliip w.is on the waters free 
 
 I'rcm home and country sent ; 
 ■• t sparkling in tliat joyous ray. 
 The blue waves danced around ]i;.r way; 
 
 A voyager gazed with weary eye. 
 
 And heart of bitter pain ; 
 With the bright sunbeam from the sky 
 
 Lost hope sprang up again. 
 "The w.nvcs," ho said, "are full of glee, 
 Then yet there may be some for mo." 
 
 The sunbeam ne.xt did not disdain 
 
 A window low and small ; 
 It entered at the cottage pane. 
 
 And danced upon the wall. 
 A pale y(jimg face looked up to meet 
 The radiance she had watclied to greet. 
 
 So up and down, and to and fro, * 
 
 The sunbeam glanced about ; 
 
 And never door was shut, I know. 
 To keep the stranger out. 
 
 But lo ! where'er it touclied the earth 
 
 It seemed to wake up joy and mirth. 
 
 I can not tell the history 
 
 Of all that it could do ; 
 But this I tell, that you may try 
 
 To be a sunbeam too — 
 By little smiles and deeds of love, 
 Which cheer like sunshine from above. 
 
 © 
 
 DO YOUR DUTY. 
 
 O your duty, little man, 
 That's tile way ! 
 There's some duty in the plan 
 Of every day. 
 Every day h,.s some new task 
 
 For your hand ; 
 Do it bravely — that's tlie way 
 Life grows grand. 
 
 " Do your duty," sing the stars, 
 That so bright 
 Through the midnight's dusky bars, 
 Shed their light. 
 
fill; 
 
 %. 
 
 B; I if: 'I 
 
 rtiffi 
 
 PI 'I' iff 3" 
 
 410 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 " Do your duty," says the sun 
 
 I ligh in heaven ; 
 To the dutiful, when tasks are done, 
 
 Crowns are given : 
 Crowns of power and crowns of fanje, 
 
 Crowns of life : 
 In Rlon- bums the victor's name, 
 
 After strife. 
 Do your duty, never swerve — 
 
 .Smooth or rougli — 
 Until God, whom we all serve. 
 
 Says, "Enough." 
 
 LuELLA Clark. 
 
 (^ 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 
 
 ,0 forth to the battle of life, my boy, 
 Go while it is called to-day ; 
 For the years go out, and the years come in. 
 Regardless of those who may lose or win — 
 Of those who may work or play. 
 
 And the troops march steadily on, my boy, 
 
 To the army gone before ; 
 You may hear the sound of their falling feet, 
 Going down to the river where the two worlds meet 
 
 They go to return no more. 
 
 There is room for you in the ranks, my boy, 
 
 And duty, too, assigned. 
 Step into the front with p cheerful grace — 
 Be quick, or another may take your place, 
 
 And you may be left behind. 
 
 There is work to do by the way, my boy, 
 
 That you never can tread again ; 
 Work for the loftiest, lowliest men — 
 Work for the plough, adz, spindle, and pen ; 
 
 Work for the hands and the brain. 
 
 Then go to the battle of life, my boy, 
 
 In the beautiful days of youth ; 
 Put on the helmet, breastplate, and shield, 
 And the sword that the feeblest arm may wield 
 
 In the cause of right and truth. 
 
 Hi 
 
 Ijj 
 
 WANTED, A BOY. 
 
 ANTED, a boy !' Well, how glad I am 
 To know that I was the lirst to see 
 The daily paper— so early too — 
 Few boys are up— 't is lucky for me. " 
 You hurry away through quiet streets. 
 Breathlessly reaching the office door 
 Where a boy was wanted, and lo I you find 
 It thronged and besieged by at least a score. 
 
 " Wanted, a boy ! " So the place was gone ; 
 You did not get it ? Well, never mind. 
 The world is large, and a vacant place 
 Is somewhere in it for you to find : 
 
 Perhaps by long and devious ways. 
 With perils to face, snd battles to win. 
 
 Obstacles great to be overcome. 
 Before you reach it, and enter in. 
 
 Philosophy surely wanted a boy, 
 
 While Franklin worked at a printer's case ; 
 Mechanics, when, low in the darkened mine. 
 
 By an engine, Stephenson found his place; 
 Nature, while Linnaeus, crushed and tried 
 
 As a cobbler, toiled out his sunless youth ; 
 Freedom, ere Washington reached her arms 
 
 From childhood, up by the way of truth. 
 
 " Wanted, a boy ! " 't is written above 
 
 Coveted jilaces of highest renown ; 
 But the ladder of labor must ever be trod 
 
 By boyish feel, ere the sign comes down. 
 There are humble names half hidden now 
 
 On the school day roll, 'mong many a .score, 
 That yet will shine as the lights of fame. 
 
 Till boys are wanted on earth no more. 
 
 The forum is echoing burning words 
 
 Of orators destined to pass away ; 
 }'di4 will be wanted instead of them soon. 
 
 Men of the future are boys to day. 
 Tiie watchmen standing on Zion's walls, 
 
 Faithfully doing the Master's will, 
 Are falling asleep as the years go by; — 
 
 Wanted, a boy each place to fill. 
 
 Mary B. Reese. 
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 HE dew was falling fast ; the stars began to 
 blink ; 
 I heard a voice ; itsaid, "Drink, pret'v creature, 
 t drink :" 
 
 And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
 A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its 
 side. 
 
 No other sheep were near ; the lamb was all alone. 
 And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 
 With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel. 
 While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal. 
 
 'Twas little Barbara Lethwaite, a child of beauty rare ! 
 I watched them with delight : they were a lovely pair. 
 Now with her empty can the maiden turned away ; 
 But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps she did stay. 
 
 Towards the lamb she looked ; and from a shady place 
 I, unobserved, could see the workings of her faci ; 
 If nature to her tongue could measured numbers brinfr, 
 Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid niiglit 
 sing :— 
 
 "What ails thee, young one? what? Why pull so at 
 
 thy cord ? 
 Is it not well with thee ? well botli for bed and board ? 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 411 
 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
 Rest, little young one, rest ; what is't that aileth thee ? 
 
 " What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting to 
 
 tity heart ? 
 Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art. 
 This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no 
 
 peers ; 
 And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ? 
 
 " If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch tliy woolen 
 
 chain — 
 This bircli is standing by ; its covert thou canst gain ; 
 For rain and mountain storms — the like thou Heed'st 
 
 not fear : 
 The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come 
 
 here. 
 
 " Rest, little young one, rest ; thou hast forgot the day 
 When my father found thee first in places far away ; 
 Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by 
 
 none. 
 And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone. 
 
 "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee 
 
 home ; 
 O, blessed day for tliee. Then whither wouldst tiiou 
 
 roam ? 
 A faithful nurse thou hast : the dam that did thee yean. 
 Upon the mountain tops, no kinder could have been. 
 
 "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee 
 
 in this can 
 Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
 And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with 
 
 dew, 
 I bring thee drau'^hts of milk — warm milk it is, and 
 
 new. 
 
 "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are 
 
 now ; 
 Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plow. 
 My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is cold 
 Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy 
 
 fold. 
 
 "Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair ! 
 I've heard of fearful winds and darkness tliat come 
 
 there ; 
 The little brooks, that seem .all pastime and all play. 
 When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. 
 
 "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; 
 Night and day thou art safe ; our cottage is hard by. 
 Wliy bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? 
 Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again." 
 
 As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, 
 Tliis song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
 And it .seemed, as I retraced the ballad, line by line, 
 That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 
 mine. 
 
 Again, and once again, did I repeat the son^ : 
 "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must 
 
 belong ; 
 For she looked with such a look, and she spoke \vit!i 
 
 such a tone. 
 That I almost received her heart into my own." 
 
 WiLLiA.M Wordsworth. 
 
 8 
 
 THE SCULPTOR BOY. 
 
 HISEL in h.and, stood a sculptor boy, 
 With his marble block before him ; 
 And his face lit up with a smile of joy 
 As an angel dream passed o'er him. 
 He carved that dream on the yielding stone, 
 
 With many a sharp incision ; 
 In Heaven's own light the sculptor shone — 
 He had caught that angel vision. 
 
 Sculptors of life are we, as we stand 
 
 With our lives uncarved before us. 
 Waiting the hour, when, at God's command, 
 
 Our life-dream passes o'er us. 
 Let us carve it, then, on the yielding stone, 
 
 With many a sharp incision ; 
 Its heavenly beauty shall be our own — 
 
 Our lives, that angel vision. 
 
 W. C. DOANE. 
 
 MY BIRD'S NEST. 
 
 MUST tell you a little story 
 (True, every word). 
 How once, out of the South-land early 
 Came a bird, 
 To a home in the midst of green grass 
 
 And high trees. 
 And the little birds never were frightened 
 Out of these. 
 
 And this one went flying, a week, 
 
 In and out 
 Of first one tree, and then anothur. 
 
 All about— 
 As men hunt after homes for their children. 
 
 In a city — 
 Which too often they cannot find — 
 
 More's the pity ; 
 But our bird could ; for once on a time, 
 
 Like a bird. 
 On a blossoming branch we discovered 
 
 Bits of mud. 
 Which we knew for a brave beginning, 
 
 Then a straw — 
 
 And so, little by little, was builded, 
 
 Without a flaw, 
 A home fit for a queen of birds 
 
 13ut no queen 
 Was she, with her yellow-brown wings ; 
 
 m 
 
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 M 
 
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 H l 
 
 liMi 
 
 
 412 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 You have seen 
 A liundred far fairer, I know, 
 
 Every year, 
 But never to me, was another 
 
 Half so clear : 
 For she, flying east, flying west, 
 
 Had a song — 
 A song for her work and her rest, 
 
 All day long. * 
 
 And full oft was her cheerful twitter 
 
 First to greet 
 My ear, in the bright summer morning ; 
 
 Low and sweet 
 Was always her song, and at night 
 
 I could hear 
 Her chirruping still, in the nest. 
 
 'Twas so near 
 I could reach with my hands the green leaves 
 
 Where it lay ; 
 So, all summer, I wondered, and watched, 
 
 Day by day, 
 The glad life that it held— always glad. 
 
 Rain or shine. 
 
 That song never ceased : never sad, 
 
 Half divine 
 Seemed sometimes the sweet voice to my soul. 
 
 Giving rest 
 And deep peace, strange gifts for a bird 
 
 On her nest. 
 
 But at last, tiie white night frosts uf autumn 
 
 Chilled the air ; 
 And r:\Q day the bird flew away singing, 
 
 Wlio knows where ? 
 And here, now, is the nest, on my table, 
 
 Miles away — 
 A thousand — from where it was builded ; 
 
 And each day, 
 I look at its soft hair lining. 
 
 And I hear 
 The songs of those summer mornings. 
 
 Sweet and clear. 
 Hear them still, for a life that is glad. 
 
 Child's or bird's. 
 Has an echo of song, far sweeter than 
 
 Any sweet words. 
 
 LiELLA Clark. 
 
 ^ 
 
 " LITTLE NAN. 
 
 ITTLE Nan Gordon, 
 With the red hair, 
 Down by the post office, 
 You know where, 
 Sold big, red apples, 
 
 Two for a cent, 
 Gumdrops, lozenges. 
 Rose peppermint, 
 
 Left her stand 
 
 In the broad daylight. 
 Ran clear up here 
 
 in a terrible fright. 
 "Tell the doctor 
 
 To please come quick, 
 There's a man,' she said, 
 
 " That's awful sick. 
 A poor old man 
 
 Got hurt by a cart; 
 Nobody'd come 
 
 And I hadn't the heart 
 To stand like the rest 
 
 And only stare. 
 So I had to come, 
 
 And I wouldn't care 
 If the boys stole everything I had ; 
 
 I'd rather be poor 
 Than be so bad." 
 
 I'll tell you what 
 My mamm.T said 
 
 That very night 
 When she put me to bed. 
 
 A beautiful angel 
 With shiny wings. 
 
 One of the kind 
 That always sings. 
 
 Will come some time 
 And find little Nan, 
 
 Who forgot herself 
 And for sick folks ran ; 
 
 He'll take her hand 
 And say to her, "Come 
 
 And go with me." 
 And he'll show her his home, 
 
 Where no one is selfish 
 And loves his ease, 
 
 But every one tries 
 All the rest to please. 
 I tell you what ^ 
 
 I'd like to go. 
 And a good many boys 
 
 And girls that I know ; 
 And we're going to try 
 
 Very hard to do 
 All that is right. 
 
 And to tell what's true ; 
 Now, don't you think 
 
 That if we do 
 An angel will come 
 And take us too ? 
 
 G. W. Thcmas. 
 
 "LITTLE NAN" 
 
 A SEQUEL. 
 
 £^ ITTLE Nan Gordon, 
 'hH With the red hair, 
 JLA Ran back to her stand. 
 You know where. 
 
 ■i n 
 
 |i:« 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 413 
 
 And told tlic sick man : 
 " The doctor will come, 
 Quick as ho can, 
 And lake you home.'' 
 
 But what a surprise 
 There met her eyes ; 
 None cared for poor Nan 
 While she cared for the man. 
 
 While she was gone 
 
 Some awful bad boys 
 Stole her apples, gum-drops, 
 
 Money and toys ; 
 Turned over her stand, 
 
 In the broad daylight, 
 And left what they left, 
 
 In a terrible plight ; 
 Stamped on her basket, 
 
 And did — what boys can — 
 All that they could 
 
 To injure poor Nan, 
 Who cried at her loss, 
 
 But still was real glad 
 That slie did what was good. 
 
 If others were bad. 
 
 But an angel stood by, 
 
 With a smile on his face 
 And a tear in his eye, 
 
 Who whispered, quite softly, 
 " I'll make it all right 
 
 With Nan bye-and-bye." 
 
 The very next moniing, 
 
 When Nan got there — 
 Down by the iiost-office. 
 
 You know where — 
 Big, red apples, 
 
 Two for a cent, 
 Gum-drops and candies, 
 
 Rose peppermint — 
 Lots of things she hadn't before, 
 
 Of such as she did have 
 Twice as much more; 
 
 A nice new table, 
 A nicfj money-drawer, 
 
 For the money stolen 
 Twice as much more ; 
 
 New baskets and candy-jars, » 
 Clean and briglit. 
 
 All ready for Nan 
 In the broad daylight. 
 
 And the angel stood by, 
 With a stick in his hand, 
 
 Keeping bad boys 
 Away from the stand. 
 
 Then he kissed little Nan, 
 With the red hair, 
 
 And gave her the things 
 That he'd fixed for her there. 
 
 .So twice glad was Nan 
 Tliat she went to get help 
 
 For the sick old man. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 'Tisn't always true wlip.t folks frequently say. 
 That children must wait till the judgment day 
 Before their good actions will draw any pay ; 
 Hut this is the point— Nan did what slu' could, 
 What made hrr real glad was she was real good ; 
 To have angel's help you needn't wait till you die, 
 Do good when you can, the angel stands by. 
 
 A. W. Dodge. 
 
 y 
 
 T^iE FAIRIES, 
 
 P the airy mountain, 
 
 Down the rushy glen. 
 We dare n't go a hunting 
 
 For fear of little men ; 
 Wee folk, good folk, 
 
 Trooping all together; 
 Green iacket, red cap. 
 
 And white owl's feather ! 
 
 Down along the rocky shore 
 
 Some make their home — 
 They live on crisjiy pancakes 
 
 Of yellow Ude-foam ; 
 Some in the reeds 
 
 Of the black mountain-lake, 
 With frogs for their watch-dogs 
 
 All night awake. 
 
 High on the hill-top 
 
 The old King sits ; 
 He is now so old and gray 
 
 He's nigh lost his wits. 
 With a bridge of white mist 
 
 Columbkill he crosses. 
 On his stately journeys 
 
 From Slieveleague to Rosses : 
 Or going up with music 
 
 On cold starry nights, 
 To sup with the queen 
 
 Of the gay northern lights. 
 
 They stole little Bridget 
 
 For seven years long ; 
 When she came down again 
 
 Her friends were all gone. 
 They took her lightly back. 
 
 Between the night and morrow ; 
 They thought that she was fast asleep, 
 
 But she was dead with sorrow. 
 They have kept her ever since 
 
 Deep within the lakes, 
 On a l>ed of (lag-leaves. 
 
 Watching till she wakes. 
 
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 411 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 By the crntj^y hillside, 
 
 Through the mosses bare, 
 They have planted thorn-tre>-s 
 
 For pleasure here and there. 
 Is any man so dariiijj 
 
 To dig one up in spite, 
 He shall find the thoriiies set 
 
 In his bed at night. 
 
 Up the airy mowntain, 
 
 Down the rushy glen, 
 We dare n't go a hunting 
 
 For fear of little men ; 
 Wee folk, good folk, 
 
 Trooping all together ; 
 Green jacket, redcap. 
 
 And white owl's feather ! 
 
 William Allingiiam. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 
 
 H.WE been looking on, this evening, at a merry 
 company of children assembled round that 
 pretty German toy, a Christmas tree. 
 Being now at home again, and alone, the only 
 person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn 
 back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to 
 my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the 
 room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no en- 
 circling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree 
 arises ; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of 
 its top — for I observe in this tree the singular property 
 that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, 
 — I look into my youngest Christmas recollections. 
 
 All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of 
 the tree lower down, how thick the books begin to 
 hang ! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many 
 of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red 
 or green. What fat black letters to begin with ! 
 
 " A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course 
 he was. He was an apple-pie also, and there he is ! 
 He was a good many things in his time, was A, and 
 so were most of his friends, except X, who had so 
 little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond 
 Xerxes or Xantippe : like Y, who was always con- 
 fined to a yacht or a yew-tree : and Z, condemned 
 forever to be a zebra or a zany. 
 
 But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a 
 bean-stalk — the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack 
 
 climbed up to the giant's house. Jack — how noble, 
 with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swift- 
 ness. 
 
 Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the 
 cloak in which the tree making a forest of itself for 
 her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Rid- 
 ing-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me 
 information of the cruelty and treachery of that dis- 
 .sembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without 
 making any iinpres-.ion on his appetite, and then ate 
 after making that ferocious Joke about his teeth. She 
 was my first 1 )ve. I felt that if I could have married 
 Little Red Riding Mood I should have known perfect 
 bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing 
 for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, 
 and put him lite in the procession, on the table, as a 
 monster who was to be degraded. 
 
 Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not found 
 seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the ani- 
 mals were crammed in at the roof, and needed to 
 have their legs well shaken down before they could be 
 got in even there ; and then ten to one but they began 
 to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly 
 fastened with a wire latch ; but what was that against 
 it? 
 
 Consider the tioble fly, a size or two smaller than 
 the elephant; the lady-bird, the butterfly — all triumphs 
 of art ! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small, 
 and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually 
 tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal 
 creation ! Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic 
 tobacco stoppers ; and how the leopard stuck to 
 warm little fingers ; and how the tails of the larger 
 animals used gradually to resolve themselves into 
 frayed bits of string. 
 
 Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, 
 still lot the benignant figure of my childhood stand un- 
 changed I In every cheerful image and suggestion 
 that the season brings, may the bright star that rested 
 above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian 
 world ! 
 
 A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the 
 lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look 
 once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy 
 branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone 
 and smiled, from which they are departed. Rut, far 
 above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl and the 
 widow's son — and God is good I 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 iiil 
 
 Hh' ■■! 
 
DRflMRTIC SELECTIONS. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF JANE DE MONTFORT. 
 
 ACE. — Madam, tliere 
 
 is n Indy in your liall 
 
 VViio begs to be adiuitted 
 
 to your prc'sunce. 
 
 Lady. Is it not one of 
 
 our invited friends? 
 
 rufie. No; far unlike to 
 tlieni. It is a stran^jcT. 
 
 Lady. How looks her coun- 
 tenance? 
 Paf^e. So queenly, so com- 
 manding, and so noble, 
 I shrunk at first in awe ; but 
 
 when she smiled, 
 Methought I could have com- 
 passed sea and land 
 To do her bidding. 
 Lady. Is she young or old ? 
 Paffe. Neither, if right I guess ; but she is fair, 
 For Tinij hath laid his hand so gently on her. 
 As he, too, had been awed. 
 
 Lady. The foolish strippling I 
 She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature ? 
 
 Page. So stately and so graceful is her form, 
 I thought at first her stature was };ignntic ; 
 But on a near approach, I found, in trut'i. 
 She scarcely doth surpass the middle size. 
 Lady. What is her garb ? 
 Pac^e. I cannot well describe the fiishicn of it : 
 She is not decked in any gallant trim. 
 Rut seems to me clad in her usual weeds 
 Of iiigh habitual state ; for as she moves. 
 Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold, 
 As I have seen unfurled banners play 
 With the soft breeze. 
 
 Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy ; 
 It is an apparition thou hast seen. 
 Freberg. [Starling from his seal, xvhere he has 
 been silling during the conversation be- 
 tween the LMdy and the Page.'\ 
 
 It is an apparition he has seen. 
 Or it is Jane de Montfort. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 SPEECH OF PRINCE EDWARD IN HIS 
 DUNGEON. 
 
 © 
 
 OTH the bright sun from the high arch of heaven, 
 In all his beauteous robes of fleckeretl clouds. 
 And ruddy vapors, and deep-glowing flames. 
 And softly varied shades, look gloriously? 
 
 Do the green woods danrc to the wind ? the lakes 
 
 Cast up their sparkling waters to the light ? 
 
 Do the sweet hamlets in their husliy dells 
 
 .S.ikI wintljng up to heaven their curling smoke 
 
 Oil the soft morning air? 
 
 Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatun s bound 
 
 In antic happiness ! and mazy birds 
 
 Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands? 
 
 Ay. all this is— men do behold all this— 
 
 Tlio poorest man. Even in this lonely vault. 
 
 My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear 
 
 The crowing of the cock so near my walls. 
 
 And sadly think how small a siwce divides me 
 
 I'rom all this fair creation. 
 
 Joanna Baili.ie. 
 
 © 
 
 THE GROWTH OF MURDEROUS HATE. 
 
 [^Sccne from L)e Montfort.'\ 
 
 De Montfort explains to liis sister J.-iiie his hatred of Reienvelt, 
 which at last hurries him hito the crime of niurilcr. Thegrailual 
 tlec|>eiiing of this malignant passion, and lis frightful catastrophe, 
 are powerfully depicted. We may lemark, that the character ut 
 De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance after his travels, 
 his settled gloom, and the violence of his passions, seem to have 
 been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and Lara. 
 
 E MONTFORT. No more, my sister; urge 
 me not again : 
 My .secret troubles cannot be revealed. 
 From all participation of its thoughts 
 My heart recoils : I pray thee, be contenteil. 
 
 Jane. What ! must I, like a distant humble friend, 
 Oliserve thy restless eye and gait disturbed 
 In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart 
 I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort ! 
 A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; 
 Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be. 
 
 De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en to thee. 
 
 Jane. Then fie upon it ! fie upon it, Montfort ; 
 There was a time when e'en with murder stained. 
 Had it been possible that such dire deed 
 Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous, 
 Thou wouldst have told it me. 
 
 De Mon. So would I now — but ask of this no 
 more. 
 All other troubles but the one I feel 
 I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me. 
 It is the secret weakness of my nature. 
 
 Jane. Then secret let it be : I urge no further. 
 The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, 
 So sadly orphaned : side by side we stood, 
 Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength 
 Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove, 
 And brave the storm together. 
 
 (415) 
 
 It I 
 
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 41G 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 I have so long, ns if by nature's right, 
 Thy bosom's innialc and adviser been, 
 I thought tiiroiigh hfo I should liavc so remained, 
 Nor ever know a change. Forgive me, Munlfort ; 
 A humbler station will I take by thee ; 
 The close attendant of thy wandering steps, 
 The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought, 
 The soother of those griefs, I must not know. 
 This is mine office now : I ask no more._ 
 
 De Moti. Oh, Jane, thou dost constrain me with 
 thy love — 
 Would I could tell it thee ! 
 
 Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop mine 
 ears, 
 Nor from the yearnings of afiection wring 
 What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my 
 
 brother. 
 I'll stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee ; 
 Pursue with thee the study of some art. 
 Or nobler science, that compels the mind 
 To steady thought progressive, driving forth 
 All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies. 
 Till thou, with brow unclouded, sniilest again ; 
 Like one who, from dark visions of the iiiglit, 
 When the active soul within its lifeless cell 
 Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy pressed 
 Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed, 
 Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses Heaven. 
 
 De Mon. It will not pass away ; 'twill haunt me still. 
 
 Jane. Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too. 
 And be to it so close an adversary, 
 That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, 
 I shall o'erconie it. 
 
 De Mon. Tliou most generous woman, 
 Wliy do I treat thee thus? It should not be — 
 And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain ! 
 He would not let me be the man I would. 
 
 Jane. What sayest thou, Montfort? Oh !^vhat words 
 are these ! 
 They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. 
 I do beseech thee, speak I 
 By the affection thou did'st ever bear me ; 
 By the dear memory of our infant days ; 
 By kindred living ties — ay, and by those 
 WTio sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee, 
 I do conjure thee, speak ! 
 
 Ha ! wilt thou not ? 
 Then, if affection, most unwearied love. 
 Tried early, long, and never wanting found. 
 O'er generous man hath more authority. 
 More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, 
 I do command thee ! 
 De Montfort, do not thus resist my love, 
 I Icre I entreat thee on my bended knees. 
 Alas ! my brother ! 
 
 De Mon. \_Raising her, and kneeling. 1 
 Thus let him kneel who should the abased be. 
 And at thine honored feet confession make. 
 
 I'll tell thee all— but, oh ! thou wilt despise me. 
 
 For in my breast a raging p.ission bums. 
 To which thy soul no sympathy wiP own- - 
 A passiun which hath made my nigl...y couch 
 A place of torment, and the light of day, 
 With the gay intercourse of social man, 
 Feel like the oppressive, airless pestilence. 
 
 Jane ! thou wilt despise me. 
 Jane. Say not so : 
 
 1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. 
 A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs 
 No kindly he:irt contemns. 
 
 De Mon. A lover's, sayest thou? 
 No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! 
 Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, 
 From social pleasure, from my native home, 
 To be a sullen wanderer on the earth. 
 Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed. 
 
 Jane. De Montfort, this is fieiul-like, terrible ! 
 What being, by the Almighty Father formed 
 Of flesh and blood, created even .xs thou. 
 Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake, 
 Who art thyself his fellow ? 
 Unknit thy brows, and. spread those wrath-clcnchcd 
 
 hands. 
 Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates 
 To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! 
 Strive bravely with it ; drive it from thy heart ; 
 'Tis the degrader of a noble heart. 
 Curse it, and bid it part. 
 
 De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too 
 long. 
 With my first cares, I felt its rankling touch. 
 I loathed him when a boy. 
 
 Jane. Whom didst thou say? 
 
 De Mon. Detested Rozenvelt ! 
 E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps 
 Of hostile breed, instinctively averse. 
 Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge, 
 And frowned defiance. As we onward passed 
 From youth to man's estate, his narrow art 
 And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled 
 In the affected carelessness of mirth, 
 Still more detestable and odious grew. 
 There is no living being on this earth 
 Who can conceive the malice of his soul, 
 With all his gay and damned merriment, 
 To those by fortune or by merit placed 
 Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune. 
 He looked upon the state of prosperous men, 
 As nightly birds, roused from their murky holes. 
 Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, 
 I could endure it ; even as we bear 
 The impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, 
 I could endure it. But when honoi"s came, 
 And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; 
 Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise, 
 And grovelling idiots grinned applause on him ; 
 Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it ! 
 It drove me frantic. What, what would I give— 
 
ud peace, 
 
 We! 
 d 
 
 ke, 
 
 tli-dencht'd 
 
 itcs 
 ler! 
 art; 
 
 I it here too 
 
 lelps 
 
 ne, 
 |en, 
 loles, 
 
 Drm, 
 
 Biis praise, 
 |him ; 
 
 rive — 
 
 DRAMATIC SKLKCTIONS. 
 
 417 
 
 Whnt would I rIvc tn crush the bloated toad, 
 So raiikly do I loathe him ! 
 
 Jaiic. Ami vvoulil thy hatred crush the very man 
 Who ;;ave to tliee that life he mi)j;ht have taken? 
 That life wliich thou so raslily ditlst expose 
 To aim at iiis? Oh, this is horrii)le ! 
 De Mon. 1 la ! thou hast heard it then ! From all 
 the world, 
 But most of all Irom thee, I thou;;ht it hid, 
 
 Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved 
 Upon the instant to return to thee. 
 Didst thou receive my letter? 
 De Mon. I did ! I did 1 ' Twas that which drove me 
 tliither. 
 I could not hear to meet thine eye again. 
 
 Jane. Alas ! tiiat tempted by a sister's tears, 
 I iver Ijfl thy iiuusc ! These few past months. 
 These absent months, have brought us all this woe. 
 Had I remained with thee, it had not been. 
 And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. 
 You dared him to the field ; both bravely fought; 
 He, more adroit, disarmed you ; courteously 
 Iveturned Uie forfeit sword, which, so r-turncd, 
 You did refuse to use against him more ; 
 And then, as says report, you parted friends. 
 Dc Mon. When he disarmed this cursed, this worth- 
 less hand 
 Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared 
 Ftuin devilish pride, which now derives a bliss 
 In s-jeing me tlius fettered, shamed, subjected 
 Witli the vile favor of his poor forbearance ; 
 Whilst he securely sits with },ibing Iirow, 
 And basely baits me like a muzzled cur, 
 Who camiot turn again. 
 Until that day, till that accursed day, 
 I knew not half the torment of this hell 
 Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings 
 blast him ! 
 Jane. Oh, this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! 
 Lest He.iven's vengeance light upon thy head 
 For tiiis most impious wish. 
 
 De Mon. Then let it light. 
 Torments more fell than I have known already 
 It cannot .send. To be anniiiilated. 
 What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be nothing, 
 Were bliss to me compared with what 1 :un ! 
 Jane. Oh ! wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful 
 
 words? 
 De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look, 
 
 Then close mine eyes forever ! 
 
 Ha ! how is this? Thou'rt ill : thou'rt very pale ; 
 What have I done to thee ? Alas ! alas ! 
 I meant not to distress thee — O my sister ! 
 Jane. I cannot now speak to Uiee. 
 De Mon. I have killed thee. 
 Turn, turn thee not away ! Look on me still ! 
 Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister ! 
 Look on me yet again. 
 Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort, 
 
 (27) 
 
 In better days was wont to bo my pride. 
 
 Dc Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in mysjlf. 
 And still more wretched in tin' ]ialii I give. 
 O (urs..- ih it villain, that d 'tislfd villain! 
 He has spiL-jl misery o'er my fated life ; 
 He will mulo u;; all. 
 
 Ja7tc. I've held my warfare through a troubled world. 
 And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; 
 I'or then the helpmate (.f my toil wast thou. 
 Hut now the wane cf life comes darkly on. 
 And hideous passion tears thee from my heart. 
 Blasting thy worth. 1 cannot strive « ith this. 
 
 Dc Mon. What shall I do? 
 
 Joanna Haillie. 
 
 INCANTATION SCENE FROM "REMORSE." 
 
 Scene— A Hall of Armory, with an alt.ir. Soft music (rom an in- 
 slriinieiit of jjl.iss or steel. 
 
 Vai.dkz, Okdonio, and Alvar In a Sorcerer's robe, arediscov 
 crcil 
 
 RDONIO. This was too melancholy, father. 
 Valdez. Nay, 
 
 My Alvar loved sad music from a child. 
 
 Once he was lost, and after weary search 
 We found liim in an open place in the wood. 
 To which spot he had followed a blind boy. 
 Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore 
 Some strangely moving notes ; and these, he said, 
 Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw 
 Stretched on the l)road top of a sunny heath-bank: 
 And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep, 
 His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me 
 To mark how he had fastened round the pipe 
 A silver toy his grandam had late given him. 
 Methinks I see him now as he then looked — 
 Even so ! He had outgrown his infant dress, 
 Yet still he wore it. 
 
 Alvar. My tears must not flow ! 
 I must not clasp his knees, and cry. My father ! 
 
 [Enter Tbresa and attendants.] 
 
 Teresa. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence 
 here, 
 And I submit ; but — Heaven bear witness for me — 
 My heart approves it not ! 'tis mockery. 
 
 Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence ? 
 Believe you not that spirits throng around us ? 
 
 Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it 
 A possible thing : and it has soothed my soul 
 As other fancies have ; but ne'er seduced me 
 To traffic with the black and frenzied hope 
 That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard. 
 [ To Alvar. '\ Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you 
 
 here 
 On such employment ! With far other thoughts 
 I left you. 
 
 Ord. lAside.} Ha ! he has been tampering with 
 her? 
 
 'i!' 
 
 i 
 
 11 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 |:M 
 
 
 mm 
 
 viJ 
 
Fri 
 
 \ 
 
 t/t 
 
 \'M 
 
 I ' 
 
 miih^ 
 
 
 if, I 
 
 ■118 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 y//:-. O high so«iI( (1 mai'kn ! and more dear to me 
 'Ihaii .suits tlic stranger's lu.me ! 
 I swear to thee 
 
 I will uncovci all concealed un'It. 
 Doubt, but decide not ! Stand ye from tiie altar. 
 
 [Here a strain ofntusk is heard from behind the scene. ] 
 
 Alv. With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm 
 I call up the departed ! 
 
 Soul ofAlvar! 
 Hear our soft suit, and herd my miidtr spell : 
 So may the gates of paratlise, uiibtrred. 
 Cease thy swift toils ! Since happily thou art one 
 Of that innumerable company 
 Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, 
 Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion, 
 With noise too vast and constsnt to be heard : 
 Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye nunilierlt ss 
 And rapid travelers ! what ear unstunned, 
 What sense unmaddened, niiglit bear uj) a,;;ainst 
 The rushing of your congregated wings ? [ Music. 
 
 Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! 
 
 [Mh.uc expressive of the movements and images 
 thatfollow.'] 
 
 Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands. 
 That roar and whiten like a burst of waters, 
 A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion 
 To the parched caravan that roams by night ! 
 And je build up on the becalmed waves 
 That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven 
 Stands vast, and moves in blackness! Vc, t(jo, split 
 The ire mount ! and with fragments many and huge 
 Tempest the new-thawed sea, whose sudden gulfs 
 Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff! 
 Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance, 
 Till from t!ie blue swolU n corse the sou! toils out, 
 Andjoins your mighty army, [f/ere, behind the scenes, 
 a voice sings the three words, ' Hear, S7veet spirit. ' 
 Soul ofAlvar! 
 Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm ! 
 By sighs uncjuiet, and the sickly pang 
 Of a half-dead, yet still undying hope. 
 Pass visible before our mortal sense ! 
 So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine. 
 Her knells and masses, that redeem the dead ! 
 
 [Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same in- 
 strument as before."] 
 Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 
 Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
 So shall the midnight breezes swell 
 With thy deep long lingering knell. 
 And at evening evermore, 
 In a chapel on the shore. 
 Shall the chanters, sad and saintly, 
 Yellow tapers burning faintly. 
 Doleful masses chant for thee, 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 Hark ! the cndcnre dies away 
 
 On the yellow moonliglu sea : 
 The boatmen rest their oars and say. 
 Miserere Domine I 
 
 [A long pause. 
 Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spjll ! 
 My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit, 
 Murst on our sight, a passing visitant ! 
 Once njore to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, 
 
 'twere a joy to me I 
 
 Alv. A joy to thee ! 
 What if thou heardst him now? What if his spirit 
 Re-entered its coltl corse, and came upon thee 
 With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard ? 
 What if— his steadfast eye still beaming pity 
 .•\nil brother's love — he turned his head aside, 
 Lest he should look at thee, and with one look 
 
 1 lurl thee beyond all power of penitence ? 
 
 I'al. These are unholy fancies ! 
 
 Ord. [Struggling with his feelings.] Yes, my 
 father, he is in heaven ! 
 
 Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] But what if he had a 
 brother. 
 Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour 
 The name of heaven would have convulseil his face 
 More than the death-pang ? 
 
 Val. Idly prating man ! 
 Thou has guessed ill : Don Alvar's only brother 
 .Stands here before thee — a father's blessing on him I 
 He is most virtuous. 
 
 Alv. [Still to Ordonio."] What if his very virtues 
 Had pampered his swoolcn heart and made him 
 
 proud ? 
 And what if pride had duped him into guilt ? 
 Yet still he stalked a self-created god, 
 Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning ; 
 And one that at his mother's looking-glass 
 Would force his features to a frowning sternness? 
 Young lord ! I tell thee that there are such beings— 
 V'ea, and it gives fierce merriment to the ilanincd 
 i'o see these most proud men, that loathe makind. 
 At every stir and buzz of coward conscience, 
 I'rick, cant, and lie ; most whining hypocrites ! 
 Away, away! Now let me hear more music. 
 
 [Music again. 
 
 Ter. 'Tis strange. I tremble at my own conjectures 1 
 But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer 
 lie present at these lawless mysteries. 
 This dark provoking of the hidden powers ! 
 Already I affront — if not high Heaven — 
 Yet Alvar's memory ! Hark ! I make appeal 
 Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence 
 To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek 
 That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens. 
 Comfort and faithful hope ! Let us retire. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Colekjdge. 
 
DRAMATIC SKLKCTIONS. 
 
 41!) 
 
 SCENE FROM "BERTRAM." 
 
 A jassHRc of great pocllcal bcniity, sajs Sir Wnltcr Siott, in 
 
 wlucli llcitiam ii represnilid n» v.;,urrc(l t.i the iiiinniis»i(iii of liis 
 
 i;ri-ai ci^niiii by th« direct agiiicy <if a »iiinrrii»lural biuI mnlcvo- 
 
 l.'iit UliiK. 
 
 Prior— ni<RTHAM. 
 
 PRIOR. The dark kiii;,,lit of the forest, 
 So from his armor naiiud atid sal)l<-' heltti, 
 Whose uiibarrfil \ i/.or niort;iI ik.-v'it saw, 
 He dwells alone ; no earthly tliintj lives near 
 him, 
 Save the hoarse raven rroaking o>r his towers, 
 And the dank weeds nuiffliiiK liis stafijnant moat. 
 flertniin. I'll ring a summons on his harretl por- 
 tal 
 Shall make them through their dark valves rock and 
 ring. 
 Pri. Thuu'rt mad to take the quest. Within my 
 ntcmory 
 One solitary man did venture there — 
 Dark thoughts dwelt with him, which he sought to 
 
 vent. 
 Unto that dark compeer we saw his steps, 
 In winter's stormy twilight, seek that pass — 
 Hut days and years are gone, and lie returns not. 
 liert. W!iat fate befill liim thert' ? 
 Pri. The manner of his end was never known. 
 Ih'rl. That man shall be my mate. Contend not 
 with me — 
 Horrors to me are kindred and society. 
 Or man, or fiend, he hath won the soul of Bertram. 
 
 [Bertram Is afterwards discovered alone, waiiilerini; near llic 
 fatal lower, and describes the elTect of the awful iiitirvlew wliicli 
 he h.ad courted.] 
 
 Bert. Was it a man or fiend ? Whate'er it was, 
 It hath dealt wonderfully with me — 
 All is around his dwelling suitable ; 
 The invisible blast to wliich the dark pinis groan, 
 The unconscious tread to which the dark earth echoes, 
 The hidden waters rushing to their fall ; 
 These sounds, of wliich the causes are not seen, 
 I love, for they are, like my fate, mysterious ! 
 How towereti his proud form through the slirouding 
 
 gloom, 
 How spoke the eloquent silence ff its motii n, 
 How through the barred vizor did his accents 
 Roll their rich thunder on their pausing soul ! 
 And though his mailed hand did slum my grasp, 
 And though his closed morion hid his feature, 
 Yea, all resemblance to the face of man, 
 1 folt the hollow whisper of his welcome, 
 I felt those unseen eyes were fixed on mine, 
 
 If eyes indeed were there 
 
 Forgotten thoughts of evil, still-born mischiefs. 
 Foul, fertile seeds of passion and of crime. 
 That withered in my heart's abortive core, 
 Roused their dark battle at his trumpet peal : 
 So sweeps the tempest o'er the slumbering desert, 
 Waking its myraid hosts of burning death ; 
 
 So calls the last dread peal the wandeiiiig atoms 
 Of blood, and bone, and flesh, aad dust-worn frag- 
 
 tneiits, 
 III d're array of ghastly unity. 
 To bide ttie eternal summons— 
 I am not what I was since I beheld liim— 
 I w.is the slave of passion's ebbing swa) — 
 .MI is condensed, collecrted, callous, now— 
 The groan, the burst, the fiery lla>h is o'er 
 Down pours the dense and darkening lava-tide, 
 Arresting life, and stilling all beneaili it, 
 
 (ICnler two v\- his band oliscrviiiu liim.) 
 
 Finl Robbrr. Seest thou with what a step of pride 
 he stalks? 
 Thou hast the dark knight of the forest seen ; 
 l'\)r never man, from living converse roine. 
 Trod with such step or flashed with eyt: like thine. 
 Second Rubber. And hast thou of a truth seen the 
 
 dark knight? 
 Bert. [ Turning on him suddenly ] Thy hand is 
 chilled with fear. Well, shivering craven, 
 Say I have seen him— wherefore dost tliou gaze? 
 Long'st thou for tale of goblin-guarded portal ? 
 ; Of giant champion, whose spell-forged mail 
 I Crumbled to dust an sound of magic horn — 
 i Banner of sheeted flame, whose foldings shrunk 
 To withering weeds, that o'er the battlements 
 Wave to the broken spell— or demon-blast 
 Of winded clarion, whose fell summons sinks 
 To lonely whisper of the shuddering breeze 
 
 O'er the charmed towers 
 
 First Robber. Mock me not thus. Hast met him 
 of a truth? 
 
 Pert. Well, fool 
 
 J'irst Robber, Wliy, then, Heaven's benison be 
 with you. 
 Upon this hour we part— farewell forever. 
 For mortal cause 1 bear a morral weapon — 
 But man that leagues with ilenioiis 1 . not man. 
 CuAKi.K.s Robert Maturin. 
 
 SCENE FROM •■ VIRGINIUS." 
 
 Appil'S, Cl.Atnii's, and Lictors. 
 
 yr^ I PIUS. Well, Claudius, are tlie forces 
 f "^ At hand ? 
 ^^ Claudius. They are, and timely, too; the 
 
 people 
 Are in unwonted ferment. 
 
 App. There's something awes me at 
 The thought of looking on her father ! 
 
 Claud. Look 
 Upon lur, my Appius! Fix your ga.-.e upon 
 Tha treasures of her beauty, nor avert it 
 Till they are thine. Haste ! Your tribunal ! 
 I laste I [Appius ascend.; the tribunal. 
 
 [Enter Numitorius, Icilius, Lucius, Citi;:e;ns, Virginius Icuil- 
 iiiK tiis daughter, Servia, and Citizhns. A i lad Eilence pre- 
 vails.] 
 
 ■ Ml 
 
 A i- 
 
^' M ' 1 
 
 ,i> ■ 
 
 1^- 
 
 420 
 
 CROWN J.KWELS. 
 
 Virffiiiiiis. Does no one speak ? I atn defendant 
 h re. 
 Is silence my opponent? Fit opponent 
 To plead a cause too foul for speech ! What l)r<i\v 
 Shameless j;ivos front to this most valiant cause, 
 That tries its prowess 'gainst the honor of 
 A ^irl, yjt lacks the wit to know, that lie 
 Who casts off shame, should likewise cast ofl" fear — 
 And on the verge o' the combat wants the nerve 
 To stammer f irlli the signal ? 
 
 A/^p. Vou had ijetter, 
 Virginius, wear another kind of carriage ; 
 This is not of the fashion tiiat will serve yini. 
 
 Vir. The fashion, Appius! Appius Claudius tell me 
 The fishi m it becomes a man \.o speak in. 
 Whose property in his ow;i child— the oflspring 
 Of his own body, near to Iiim as is 
 His hand, iiis arm— yea, nearer— closer far. 
 Knit to his heart— I .say, who has his properly 
 In such a thing, the very self of Iiimseif, 
 I.^isjiuted — and I'll speak so, Appius Claudius ; 
 I'll speak so — Pray you tutor nie ! 
 
 A/>p. Stand forth 
 Claudius ! If you lay claini to any interest 
 In the question now before us, speak ; if not, 
 I'.ing on some other cause. 
 
 Claud. Most noble Appius 
 
 Vir. -And are you the m;m 
 That claims my daughter for his stave ? — Look at me 
 And I will give her to thee. 
 
 Claud. She is mine, then : 
 Do I not look at you ? 
 
 Vir. Your eye does, truly, 
 r.ut not your soul. I see it through your eye 
 .Sliifiing and shrinking — turning every way 
 To shun me. You surjirise me, that your eye, 
 .S) l(jng the bully of its master, kiiuws not 
 To put a proiier face upon a lie, 
 lint gives th j port of impudence to falsehood 
 \\'hen it would pn.ss it off for truth. Your soul 
 I Vin.'s as soon she' • its face to me. Go on, 
 I had forgot ; the fashion of my speech 
 .May not please Appius Claudius. 
 
 Claud. I demand 
 Protection of t!)e Decemvir ! 
 
 App. You shall have it. 
 
 Vir. Doubtless ! 
 
 App. Keep back the people, Lictors ! What's 
 Your plea ? You say the girl's your slave. Produce 
 Your proofs. 
 
 Claud. My proof is here, which, if they can, 
 
 Let them confront. The mother of tln' girl 
 
 [ Virginius, stepping forivard, is tvitli- 
 held by iVuriilorius. 
 
 Numitorius. Hold, brotlur ! Hear them out, or suf- 
 fer me 
 To speak. 
 
 Vir. Man, I must speak, or else go mad ! 
 And if I du go mad, what thtn will hold me 
 
 From speaking ? She was thy sister, too ! 
 
 Well, well, speak thou. I'll try, and if I can, 
 
 Be silent. iRctifr; 
 
 Num. Will she swear she is her child ? 
 
 Vir. [Starting fortvard.'] To be sure s!ie will~,i 
 most wise question tliat ! 
 Is she not his slave? Will his tongue lie for bun— 
 Or his hand steal — or the finger of his hand 
 Beckon, or point, or shut, or open for him ? 
 To ask him if she'll swear ! Will she walk or run, 
 .Sing, dance, or wag her head ; do anything 
 That is most easy done ? She'll as soon swear ! 
 What mockery it is to have one's life 
 In jeoi ardy by such a berefaced trick ! 
 Is it to l)e endured ? I do protest 
 Against her oath I 
 
 App. No law in Rome, Virginius, 
 .Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her child, 
 The evidence is good, unless confronted 
 By better evidence. Look you to that, 
 Virginius. I shall take the woman's oath. 
 
 Virginia. Icilius ! 
 
 Jrilius. Fear not, love ; a tliousand oaths 
 Will answer her. 
 
 App. You swear the girl's your child, 
 And that you sold her to Virginius' wife, 
 Who passed her for her own. Is that your oath ? 
 
 Slave. It is my oath. 
 
 App. Your answer now, Virginius. 
 
 Vir. Here it is! [Brings Virginia foncar.i. 
 
 Is this the daughter of a j-.lave ? I know 
 'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by 
 The shoot you know the rank and order of 
 The stem. Yet who from such a stem would lo(jk 
 For such a shoot. My witnesses are these — 
 The relatives and friends of Numitoria, 
 Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain 
 The burden which a mother bears, nor feels 
 The weight, with longing for the sight of it. 
 Here are the ears th.at listened to her sigh.s 
 In nature's hour of labor, which subsides 
 In the embrace of joy — the hands, that when 
 The day first looked upon the infant's face. 
 And never looked so pleased, helped them up to it. 
 And blessed her for a blessing. Here, the eyes 
 That saw her lying at the generous 
 And sympathetic fount, that at her cry 
 Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl 
 To cherish her enamelled veins. The lie 
 Is most unfruitful then, that takes the flower — 
 The very flower our bed connubial grew — 
 To prove its barrenness ! Speak for me friends ; 
 Have I not spoke the truth ? 
 
 Women and Citizens. You have, Virginius. 
 
 App. Silence ! Keep silence there ! No more of 
 that ! 
 You're very ready for a tumult, citizens. 
 
 [ Troops appear behind. 
 Lictors, make way to let these troops advance ! 
 
DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 
 
 421 
 
 Wc have had a taste of your forbearance, masters, 
 And wish not for another. 
 I'ir. Troops in the Forum ! 
 .^Z"/). Virginius, have you spoken ? 
 / 'ir. If you have heard nie, 
 I liave ; if not, I'll speak ajjain. 
 
 ^•ij^p. You need not, 
 \'irginiu.s; I had evidence to give, 
 Wliirh, should you speak a hundred limes again, 
 Would make your pleading vain. 
 
 I'ir. Your hand, Virginia ! 
 Sland close to me. [Aside. 
 
 App. My conscience will not li-t nie 
 Re silent. 'Tis n(;torious to you all, 
 Tiiat Claudius' falhcr, at his dcalli, declared me 
 The guarcian of his son. Tl-.is cheat has long 
 Ik'en known to me. I know the girl is luit 
 Virginius' daughter. 
 
 Vir. Join your friends, Icilius, 
 And leave \'irginia to my care. \_Aside 
 
 App. The justice 
 I should have done my client unrequired, 
 Now cited by him, how shall I refuse ? 
 
 Vir. Don't tremble, girl I don't tremble. [Aside. 
 App. Virginius, 
 I fotl for you ; but though you were my father, 
 Tlie majesty of justice should be sacred — 
 Claudius must take Virginia home with him ! 
 
 Vir. And if he must, I should advise him, Appius, 
 To take her liome in time, before his guardian 
 Complete the violation which his eyes 
 Already have begun.— Friends I fellow-ciiizens ! 
 Look not on Claudius — look on your Decemvir ! 
 He is the master claims Virginia I 
 The tongues that told him she was not my child 
 Are these— the costly charms he cannot purchase, 
 Fixcept by making her the slave of Claudius, 
 His client, his purveyor, that caters fur 
 His pleasure— markets for him — picks, and scents, 
 And tastes, that he may lanquet — serves him up 
 His sensuril feast, and is not now ashamed, 
 In the open, common street, before your eyes — 
 Frighting your daughters' and your matrons' cheeks 
 With blushes tiiey ne'er thought to meet— t(j help him 
 To the honor of a Roman maid I my cliild ! 
 Wiio now clings to me, as you see, as if 
 This second Tarquiii had already coiled 
 His arms around her. Look upon her, Romans ! 
 Tefriend her I succor her ! see her not polluted 
 Before her father's eyes ! — He is but one. 
 Tear her from Appius and his Lictors while 
 She is unstained. — Your hands I your hands ! your 
 hands I 
 Citizens. They are yours, Virginius. 
 Af>p. Keep the people back — 
 Support my Lictors, soldiers ! Seize the girl, 
 And drive the people back. 
 Icilius. Down with the slaves ! 
 
 (The people make a show r.f rcfistaticc; li'.it. iirrn the advance 
 of liie suklicrs, retreat, aiul leave Icii.ius, ViRi.iNlus, aiul his 
 <lau!;hter, etc., in the hamlsof Ai'i'ius ami liis paily ■. 
 
 i )eserted ! — Cowards ! traitors I Let nie free 
 
 Hut for a moment 1 I reliL-d on you ; 
 
 Had I relied upon niystlf aluiie, 
 
 I had kept them still at bay ! I kneel to you — 
 
 Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only 
 
 To rush upon your swords. 
 
 Vir. Icilius, peace ! 
 You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left 
 Alone by our friends, surrounded by our enemies, 
 Nerveless and helpless. 
 App. Separate them, Lictors 1 
 
 Vir. Let them forbear awhile, I pray you, Appius : 
 It is not very easy. Tl.ough her arms 
 Are tender, yet the hold is strong liy which 
 She gr.isps me, Appius — forcing them will hurt them ; 
 They'll soon unclasp thcmseUvs. Wait but a little — 
 Vou know you're sute of her ! 
 
 Af'P- I have not time 
 To idle with thee ; give her to my^ Lictors. 
 
 I'ir. Appius, I pray yoi .vait ! If she is not 
 My child, she hath been lilce a child to me 
 l'"(_)r fifteen years. If I am not ht-r faiher, 
 I have been like a father to her, Appius, 
 For even such a time. Th^y that have lived 
 So lung a time together, in so near 
 And dear society, may be allowed 
 A little time for partir.g. Let me tak,: 
 The maid aside, I pray you, and conlor 
 A momcrit with her nurse ; perhaps she'll givo me 
 Sonic token will unloose a tie i.o twined 
 And knotted round my heart, that, if you break it. 
 My heart breaks with it. 
 
 App. Have your wir.h. Be brief ! 
 Lictors, look to them ! 
 
 / 'irgiiiia. Do you go from me ? 
 Do you leave? Father ! Faiher 1 
 
 I 'ir. No, my child — 
 No, my \'irginia — come along with me. 
 
 / 'irginia. Will you not leave me ? Will you ta^;e lue 
 with you ? 
 Will you take me home again ? O, bless j'ou ! bless you ! 
 -My father I my dear father ! Art thou not 
 My lather? 
 
 [ViRGiNiis, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously 
 around the Forum ; at length his eye falls on a butcher's stall, \% iili 
 a knife upon it.] 
 
 / '/;-. This way, my child — No, no ; I am not goi;'.g 
 To leave thee, my Virginia ! I'll not leave thei;. 
 
 App. Keep back the people, soklicrs ! Let them not 
 Approach Virginius ! Keep the p jople back I 
 
 [ Virginius secures lite knifi.'. 
 Well, have you done ? 
 
 Vir. Short time for converse, Appius, 
 But I have. 
 
 App. I hope you are satisfied. 
 
 Vir. I am — 
 I am — tluit she is my diu-htcr I 
 
 (-1 
 
V. 
 
 'a \i 
 
 
 422 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 y4/>/. Take her, Lictors ! 
 
 [Virginia shrieks, and falls half-dead upon 
 her father's shoulder. 
 Fir, Another moment, pray you. Bear with me 
 A little — 'Tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try 
 Yoiir patience beyond bearing, if you're a man! 
 Lengthen it as I may, I c:;nnot make it 
 Long. My dear child ! My dear Virginia ! 
 
 [A'/ijj'wg- her. 
 There is one only way to save thine honor — 
 'Tis this. 
 
 [Sla6s her, and drarvs out the knife. Icilius 
 breaks from the soldiers that held hivi, 
 a?id catches her. 
 Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood 
 I do devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
 Make way there ! 
 ^pp. Stop 1 im ! Seize him ! 
 Vir. If they dare 
 To tenij^t the desperate weapon that is maddened 
 With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them : thus 
 It rushes in amongst them. Way there ! Wa)- ! 
 
 \_Exit through the soldiers. 
 James Sheridan Knowles. 
 
 FROM "THE WIFE. A TALE OF MANTUA." 
 
 Lorenzo, an Advocalu uf Rome, and Mariana. 
 I ORENZO. That's right — you are collected and 
 direct 
 In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion 
 Was such a thing, as, by its neighborhood. 
 Made piety and virtue twice as rich 
 As e'er they were before. How grew it? Come, 
 Thou know'st thy heart— look calmly into it. 
 And see how innocent a thing it is 
 Which thou dost fear to shew — I wait your answer. 
 How grew your passion ? 
 
 Mariana. As my stature grew, 
 Which rose without my noting it, until 
 They said I was a woman. I kept watch 
 Beside what seemed his death-bed. l'>om beneath 
 An avalanche my father rescued him, 
 Sole survivor of a company 
 
 Who wandered through our mountains. A long time 
 His life was doubtful, signor, and he called 
 For help, whence help alone could come, which I, 
 Morning and night, invoked along with him ; 
 So first our souls did mingle ! 
 
 Lor. I perceive : you mingled souls until you mingled 
 hearts ? 
 You loved at last. Was't not the sequel, maid ? 
 
 Mar. I loved, indeed ! If I but nursed a flower 
 Wiiich to the ground the wind and rain had beaten, 
 That flower of all our garden was my pride : 
 What then was he to me, for whom I thought 
 To make a shroud, when, tending on him still 
 W'ith hope, that, baffled still, did still keep up ; 
 
 I saw, at last, the ruddy dawrt of health 
 Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form. 
 And glow — and glow— till forth at last it bur.st 
 Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day ! 
 
 Lor. Yuu loved, and he did love? 
 
 Mar. To say he did. 
 Were to aflirm what oft his eyes avouched, 
 What many an action testified — and yet — 
 What wanted confirmation of his tongue. 
 But if he loved, it brought him not content I 
 'Twas now abstraction — now a start — anon 
 A pacing to and fro— anon a stillness, 
 As nought remained of life, save life itself. 
 And feeling, thought, and motion, were e.xlinct. 
 Thi n all again was action I Disinclined 
 To converse, save he held it with himself; 
 Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing. 
 And ever and anon invoking honor, 
 As some high contest there were pending 'twixt 
 Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed. 
 
 Lor. This spoke impediment ; or he was hound 
 By promise to another ; or had friends 
 Whom it behooved him to consult, and d^jubted ; 
 Or 'twixt yoa lay disparity too wide 
 For love itself to leap. 
 
 Mar. I saw a struggle. 
 But knew not what it wa^ I wondered still. 
 That what to me was all content, to liim 
 Was all disturbance ; but my turn did come. 
 At length he talked of leaving us ; at length 
 He fixed the parting-day — but kejjt it not — 
 
 how my heart did bound ! Then first I knew 
 It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank 
 When next he fixed to go ; and sank it then 
 To bound no more ! He went. 
 
 Lor. To follow him 
 You came to Mantua ? 
 
 Mar, What could I do ? 
 Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood, 
 Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him I 
 Could I remain behind ? My father found 
 My heart was not at home ; he loved his child. 
 And asked me, one day, whither we should go ? ^ 
 
 1 said : ' To Mantua.' I followed him 
 
 To Mantua I to breathe the air he breathed. 
 
 To walk upon the ground he walked upon. 
 
 To look upon the things he looked upon, 
 
 To look, perchance, on him! perchance to hear Iiim, 
 
 To touch him ! never to be known to him. 
 
 Till he was told I lived and died his love. 
 
 James Sheridan Knowlks. 
 
 HUSBAND AND BRIDE. 
 
 ESPERUS. See, here's a bower 
 Of eglantine with honeysuckles woven. 
 Where not a spark of prying light creeps in, 
 So closely do the sweets enfold each other, 
 twilight's home ; come in, my gentle love, 
 
DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 
 
 423 
 
 lid, 
 
 I go? 
 
 liear liim, 
 
 Inowi-ks. 
 
 loven, 
 It creeps in, 
 Ich other, 
 love, 
 
 And talk to me. So ! I've a rival here ; 
 What's this that sleeps so sweetly on your neck ! 
 Floribcl. Jealous so soon, my Hesperus? Look 
 then, 
 It is a bunch of flowers I pulled for you : 
 Here s the blue violet, like Pandora's eye, 
 When first it darkened with immortal life. 
 
 Hcsp. Sweet as thy lips. Fie on tliose taper fingers, 
 Have they been brushing the long grass aside, 
 To drag the daisy from its hiding place. 
 Where it shuns light, the Danaii of flowers. 
 With gold up-hoarded on its virgin lap ? 
 
 Flor. And here's a treasure that I found by chance, 
 A lily-ofthe-valley ; low it lay 
 Over a mossy mound, withered and weeping, 
 As on a fairy's grave. 
 
 Hesp. Of all the posy 
 Give me the rose, though there's a tale of blood 
 Soiling its name. In elfin annals old 
 'Tis writ, how Zephyr, envious of his love — 
 The love he bare to Summer, who since th«-n 
 Has, weeping, visited the world — once found 
 The baby perfume cradled in a violet ; 
 CTwas said the beauteous bantling was the child 
 Of a gay bee, that in his wantonness 
 Toyed with a pea-bud in a lady's garland); 
 The felon winds, confederate with him, 
 Bound the sweet slumberer with golden chains, 
 Pulled from the wreathed laburnum, and together 
 Deep cast him in the bosom of a rose, 
 And fed the fettered wretch with r^ew and air. 
 
 Thomas Beddoes. 
 
 PICKING TO PIECES THE CHARACTERS OF 
 OTHER PEOPLE. 
 
 \_From the " School for Scandal .'"^ 
 Makia enters to Ladv Sneerwkll and Joseph Surface. 
 , AD Y SNEER WELL. Maria, my dear, how 
 do you do ? What's the matter ? 
 Maria. Oh ! there is that disagreeable lover 
 of mine. Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just 
 called at my guardian's with his odious uncle, Crab- 
 trtf ; so I slipt out, and ran hither to avoid them. 
 Lady S. Is that all ? 
 
 Joseph Surface. If my brother Charles had been of 
 the party, madam, perhaps you would not have been 
 so much alarmed. 
 
 Lady S. Nay, now you are severe ; for I dare swear 
 the truth of the matter is, Maria heard you were here. 
 But, my dear, what has Sir Benjamin done that you 
 should avoid him so ? 
 
 Maria. Oh, he has done nothing — but 'tis for what 
 he has said : his conversation is a peqietual libel on all 
 his acquaintance. 
 
 Joseph S. Ay, and the worst of it is, fliere is no 
 advantage in not knowing him — for he'll abuse a 
 stranger just as soon as his best friend ; and his uncle 
 Crabtree's as bad. 
 
 Lady S. Nay, but vvc should make allowance. Sir 
 Benjamin is a wit and a poet. 
 
 Maria. For my p.irt, i own, inadam, wit !(ses its 
 respect with me when I see it in company witii malice. 
 What do you think, Mr. Surface? 
 
 Joseph S. Certainly, madam ; to smile at the jest 
 which plants a thorn in another's br«;ast is to become a 
 principal in the mischief. 
 
 Lady S. Pshaw! — there's no possibility of being 
 witty without a little ill-nature; t!ic malice of a good 
 thing is the barb that makes it stick. What's your 
 opinion, Mr. Surface? 
 
 Joseph S. To be sure, madam ; that conversation 
 where the spirit of raillery is suppressed, will ever 
 appear tedious and insipid. 
 
 Maria. Well, I'll not debate how far scandal may 
 be allowable ; but in a man, I anj sure, it is always 
 contemptible. We have pride, envy, riv,il>hip, and a 
 thousand little motives to depreciate each other; but 
 the male slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman 
 before he can traduce one. 
 
 [Enter Servant.] 
 Servant. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below, and if 
 your ladyship's at leisure, will leave her carriage. 
 
 Lady S. Beg her to walk in. [Exit Servant.'] 
 Now, Maria, however, here is a character to your 
 taste ; for though Mrs. Candotir is a little talkative, 
 everybody allows her to be tiie best natured and best 
 sort of woman. 
 
 Maria. Yes — with a very gross affectation of good 
 nature and benevolence, she does more mischief than 
 the direct malice of old Crabtree. 
 
 Joseph S. r faith, that's true, Lady Sneerwell ; 
 whenever I hear the current running against the 
 characters of my friends, I never think them in 
 such danger as w hen Candour undertakes Iheir de- 
 fence. 
 Lady S, Hush !— here she is ! 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Candour.] 
 
 Mrs. Candour. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how 
 have you been this century ? Mr. Surface, what 
 news do you hear? — though indeed it is no matter, 
 for I think one hears nothing else but scandal. 
 Joseph S. Just so, indeed, ma'am. 
 
 A/rs. C. Oh, Maria ! child — what ! is the whole af- 
 fair off" between you and Charles ? His e.xtravagance, 
 I presume— the town talks of nothing else. 
 
 Maria. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town has so 
 little to do. 
 
 Mrs. C True, true, child : but there's no stop- 
 ping people's tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, 
 as I indeed was to learn, from the same quarter, 
 that your guardian. Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, 
 have not agreed lately as well as could be wished. 
 
 Maria. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to 
 busy themselves so. 
 
 Mrs. C. Very true, child : but what's to be done ? 
 People will talk— there's no prt venting it. Why, it 
 
 I \.'- ".aw 
 
If 
 
 t ■ 
 
 ■: .il 
 
 ^ :t 
 
 1 ' 
 
 
 i :■ i 
 
 m 
 
 
 im 
 
 424 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 was but yesterdny I was fold tlint Miss Gadabout had 
 eloped with >ir I'"illiyree Flirt. Rut there's no mind- 
 in}:; what one hears ; though, to be sure, I had this 
 from very good auihority. 
 
 Jfiiriii. Such reports are highly scandalous. 
 
 Mrs. C. So they are child— shameful, shameful ! 
 But the world is so censorious, wo < liaracterescapcs. 
 Well, now, who would have suspected your fr'^id 
 Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Vet such is the ill- 
 nature of people that they say her uncle stopped her 
 last week, just as she was stepping into the York mail 
 with her dancing master. 
 
 Afaria I'll answer for 't, there are no grounds for 
 that report. 
 
 3frs. C. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare 
 swear; no mure, probably than for the siory circu- 
 lated last month of Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel 
 Cassino; though, to be sure, that m.itter was never 
 rightly cleared up. 
 
 Joseph S. The license of invention some people 
 take is monstrous indeed. 
 
 Maria. 'Tis so — but, in my opinion, those who re- 
 port such things are equally culpable. 
 
 Mrs. C. To be sure they are ; tale-bearers are as 
 had as the tale-makers — 'tis an old observation, and a 
 very true one : but what's to be done, as I said before? 
 how will you prevent people from talking ? To-da>-, 
 Mrs. Clackitt assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon 
 w re at last bectmie mere man and wife, like the rest 
 f.f their acciuaintance. * * No, no ! tale-bearers, as 
 I said before, are just as bad as the tale-makers. 
 
 Joseph S. Ah I Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your 
 forbearance and gooil-nature ! 
 
 Mrs. C. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to 
 hear people attacketl behind their backs ; and when 
 ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintance, 
 I own I always love to think the best. By the by, I 
 hope 'tis not true that your brother is absolutely 
 ruined? 
 
 Joseph S. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad 
 indeed, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. C. Ah ! I heard so — but you must tell him to 
 keep up his spirits ; everybody almost is in the same 
 way— Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, and Mr. Nickit 
 — all up, I hear, within this week ; so, if Charles is un- 
 done, he'll find half his acquaintance ruined too ; and 
 that, you know, is a consolation. 
 Joseph S. Doubtless, ma'am— a very great one. 
 [Enter Servant.] 
 
 Scrv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. 
 
 \_Exit Seri'atit. 
 Lady S. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you ; 
 positively you shan't escape. 
 
 [Enter Crabtree and Sir Benjamin IJACKiiixii.) 
 
 Crabtree. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. 
 Candour, I don't believe you are acquainted with my 
 nephew. Sir Benjamin Backbite ? Kgad ! ma'am, he 
 
 has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too ; isn't he, 
 Lady Sneerwell ? 
 
 Sir Benjamin. O fie, uncle ! 
 
 Crab. Nay, egad, it's true ; I back him at a rebus or 
 a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. 
 Mas your ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last 
 week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching fire? Do, Ben- 
 jamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night ex- 
 tempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione. Come now ; 
 your first is the name of a fish, your second, a great 
 i naval commander, and 
 
 Sir B. Uncle, now — prithee 
 
 Crab, r faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear 
 how ready he is at these things. 
 
 I.ady S. I wonder. Sir Benjamin you never publish 
 anything. 
 
 Sir B. To say truth, nia'm, 'tis very vulgar to print ; 
 and as my little productions are mostly satires and lam- 
 poons on particular people, I find they circulate more 
 by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the p.ir- 
 ties. However, I have some love elegies, which, wlicn 
 fivorod with this lady's smiles, I mean to give the 
 public. 
 
 Crab. 'Fore heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize 
 you ! Vou will be handed down to posterity, like Pe- 
 trarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa. 
 
 Sir B. Yes, madam, I think you will like them, 
 when you shall see them on a beautiful (juarto page, 
 where a neat rivulet of text shall murmur througii a 
 meadow of margin. 'Fore gad, they will be the most 
 elegant things of their kind ! 
 
 Crab. But, hadies, that's true — have you heard the 
 news? 
 
 Mrs. C. What, sir, do you mean the report of 
 
 Crab. No, ma'm, that's not it — Miss Nicely is going 
 to be married to her own footman. 
 
 3frs. C. Impossible ! 
 
 Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin. 
 
 Sir B. 'Tis very true, ma'am ; everything is fixed, 
 and the wedding liveries bespoke. 
 
 Crab. Yes ; and they do sa>' there were very press- 
 ing reasons for it. 
 
 Lady S. Why, I have heard something of tiiis be- 
 fore. 
 
 Mrs. C. It can't be ; and I wonder any one sliDiild 
 believe such a story of so i)rudent a lady as .Miss 
 Nicely. 
 
 Sir B. O lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas 
 believed at once. She has always been so .aulious 
 and so reserved, that everybody was sure there was 
 some reason for it aX bottom. 
 
 Mrs, C. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal 
 to the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever 
 is generally to those of the strongest constitutions. Hut 
 there is a sort of puny sickly reputation that is .always 
 ailing, yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hun- 
 dred iirudes. 
 
 SirB. True, madam, there are valetudinarians in 
 reputation as well as constitution ; who, being con- 
 
 If 
 
DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. 
 
 425 
 
 scions of their weak part, avoid the l(?nst breath of air, 
 ami supply their want of stamina by care and circuni- 
 spcL-tion. 
 
 A/rs. C. Well, but this may be all a mistake. You 
 know, .Sir Pienjaniiu, wry trillin;.,' circumstances oflen 
 give rise to the most injurious tales. 
 
 Cra'i. That they do, I'll be sworn, ma'am. O lutl ! 
 Mr. .Surface, pray, is it true tiiat your uncle. Sir Oliwr, 
 is cominp; home ? 
 Joseph S. Not that I know of, indeed, sir. 
 Crab. He has been in the I-]ast Indii s a lonp; time. 
 You can scarcely remember him, I believe ? Sad com- 
 fort whenever he returns, to hear how your brother has 
 gone un. 
 
 Joseph S. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be 
 sure ; but I hope no busy peojile iiave already preju- 
 diced Sir Oliver against him. I Ic may reform. 
 
 Sir B. To be sure lie may ; for my part, I never be 
 licved him to be so utterly void of princiiile as people 
 say ; and though he has lost all his friends, I am told 
 nobody is better spoken of by the Jews. 
 
 Crab. That's truo, egad, nephew. If the Old Jewry 
 was a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman : 
 no man more popular there ! I hear he pays as many 
 annuities as the Iri.sh tontine ; and that, whenever he 
 is sick, tliey have prayers for the recovery of liis health 
 in all the synagogues. 
 
 Sir B. Vet no man lives in greater splendor. They 
 tell me, when he entertains his friends, he will sit down 
 to dinner with a dozen of his own securities ; have a 
 score of tradesmen waiting in the antechamber, and an 
 odicer behind every guest's chair. 
 
 Joseph S. This may be entertainment to you, gen- 
 tknitn ; but you pay very little regard to the feelings 
 of a brother. 
 
 Maria. Their malice is intolerable. Lady .Sneer- 
 wlII, I must wish you a good morning : I'm not verv 
 wdl. 
 
 ]_E.vif A/aria. 
 Mrs C. O dear ! she changes rolc»r very much. 
 Lady S. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her : she may 
 \v;;nt your assistance. 
 
 Mr.u C. That I will, with all my soul, ma'am. Poor, 
 (kar girl, who knows what her situation may l)e ! 
 
 [Kvii J/) s. Caiidouf. 
 I.ady S. 'Twas nothing but that sho could not bear 
 to hear Charles rellected on, notwithstanding their 
 dillercnce. 
 .S;> B. The young lady's penchant is obvious. 
 Lrab. But, Benjamin, you must not give up the 
 pursuit for that : follow her, and put her into good 
 liuaior. Repeat her some of your own verses. Come, 
 I'll assist you. 
 
 Sir D. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you ; 
 but, depend on't, your brother is utterly undone. 
 
 Crab. O lud, ay ! undone as ever man was. Can't 
 raisj a guinea ! 
 
 Sir B. And everything sold, I'm told, that was 
 movable. 
 
 Crab. I have seen (;ne that was at his imuso. Not 
 a thing left but some tmpty bottlis that were over- 
 looked, and the family pictures, which I lielieve are 
 framed in the wain.scots. 
 
 Sir B. And I'm very sorry, also, to hear some bad 
 stoiics against him. 
 
 Crab. Oh! he has done many mean things, that's 
 certain. 
 
 Sir B. But, however, as he is your brother 
 
 Crab. We'll tell you all another o[)porlunity. 
 
 \_HxcHiit Crabtrec and Sir Benjamin. 
 
 Lady .S". Ha, iia ! 'tis very hard for them to leave a 
 subject they have not (juite run down. 
 
 Joseph S. And I believe the abuse w.is no more 
 acceiHable to your ladyship than Maria. 
 
 Lady S. I doubt her affections are fiullier engaged 
 than we imagine. But tlie family are to be here this 
 evening, so ,'0U may as well dine wliere >iiu are, and 
 we shall have an opportunity of olwervin;.; further ; in 
 the meantine, I'll go and plot mischief, and you shall 
 study sentiment. [Exctinl. 
 
 Richard Brinsi.i;v .S;ieuid,\n. 
 
 AETER DEATH, WHAT? 
 
 Cato alone ; in his liaiid n.ito's hook on the Immortality of the 
 Soul 
 i\ drawn sword on the table by him. 
 
 T must be so — Plato, thou rcason'.st well — 
 Else whence this pleasing liope, this fond desire, 
 This longing after immoriality ? 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror 
 
 Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 
 
 'Tis the divinity that stirs wiihin us; 
 
 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter ; 
 
 .And intimates eternity to man : 
 
 Rtern'ty ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
 
 riirough what variety of untried being. 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? 
 
 The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me. 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest npcni it. 
 
 I lere will I hold. If there's a power above 
 
 (.•\nd that there is all nature cries aloud 
 
 Through all her works), he must delight in virtue; 
 
 .And that which he delights in must bo hajipy. 
 
 Ikit when ! or where !— this world was made forCa;sar. 
 
 I'm weary of conjectures — this must end 'em 
 
 [Laying his hand on his szcorJ. 
 
 Thus am I doubly armed : my death and life. 
 
 My bane and antidote, are both before mc. 
 
 This in a moment brings me to an end ; 
 
 But this inft.rms me I shall never die. 
 
 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
 
 .At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
 
 The stars shall fade away, tjie sun himself 
 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
 
 But tliou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 
 Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
 
 ' ' ; 
 
 ■ u 
 
 M: "! 
 
 \1\ !; 
 
■rr-m 
 
 -A\,i 
 
 \M. 
 
 
 
 ■•{ 
 
 I lis 
 
 If i: i^ :!■ 
 
 2-3' M> > 
 
 I: 1: 
 
 426 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 What means this heaviness that hangs upon nie ? 
 This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? 
 Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care 
 Sinks down to rest. This on«e I'll favor her. 
 That my awakened soul may take her flight, 
 Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life. 
 An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
 Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of 'em. 
 Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 
 
 Joseph Addison. 
 
 THE MURDER. 
 
 FROM "MACBETH." 
 
 [Scene in the Caslle. Enter Lady Macbeth.] 
 
 ^^yinV MACBETH. That which hath made 
 
 •^' f them drunk hath made me bold, 
 
 J« What hath quenched them hath given me fire. 
 
 Hark !— Peace I 
 It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, 
 Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it : 
 The doors are open ; and the surfeited grooms 
 Do mark their charge with snores : I have drugged 
 
 their possets. 
 That death and nature do contend about them. 
 Whether they live or die. 
 Macbeth {ivilhin). Who's there? What, ho! 
 Lady M. Alack, I am afraid tliey have awaked 
 And 'tis not done : — the attempt and not the deed 
 onfo und.i us. — Hark! — I laid their daggers ready ; 
 He could not miss them — Had he not resembled 
 My father, as he slept, I had done't. — My husband ! 
 
 Macb. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear 
 a noise ? 
 Lady M. I heard the owl scream, and tlie crickets 
 cry. 
 Did not you speak ? 
 Macb. When ? 
 
 Lady M. Now. 
 
 Macb. As I descended ? 
 
 Lady M. Ay. 
 Macb. Hark !— 
 Who lies i' the second chamber? 
 Lady M. Donalbain. 
 
 Macb. (looking on his hands). This is a sorry sight. 
 Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 
 Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one 
 cried, "Murder!" 
 That they did wake each other : I stood and heard 
 
 tiiem : 
 But they did say their prajers, and addressed them 
 Again to sleep. 
 iMdy M. There are two lodged together. 
 Macb. One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," 
 the other ; 
 As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. 
 Listening their fear, I could not say, " Amen," 
 When they did say, "God bless us." 
 
 Consider it not so deeply, 
 could not I pronounce 
 
 Lady M. 
 
 Macb. Rut wherefore 
 "Amen?" 
 I had most need of blessing, and "Amen " 
 Stuck in my tliroat. 
 
 Lady M. These deeds must not be thcjuglit 
 After these way.s ; so, it will make us mad. 
 
 Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no 
 more ! 
 Macbeth does murder sleep " — the innocent sleep, 
 Sleep t!iat knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, 
 The death of c:!l!) day's life, sore labor's balii, 
 rSalm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast — 
 
 Lady .If. What do you mean ? 
 
 Macb. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the 
 house : 
 " Glamis hath murdered sleep ; and therefore Cawdor 
 Shall sleep no more — Macbeth shall sleep no more ! " 
 
 Lady M. Who was it that thus cried ? \\^hy worthy 
 thane. 
 You do unbend your noble strength, to tiiink 
 .So braiusickly of tilings. — Go, get some water, 
 .And wash this filthy witness from your hand. 
 Why did you bring these daggers from the place ? 
 They must lie there : go carry them ; and smear 
 The si jepy grooms with blood. 
 
 Macb. I'll go no more ! 
 
 I am afraid to think what I have done ! 
 Look on 't again, I dare not. 
 
 Lady M. Infirm of purpose I 
 
 Give nie the daggers : the sleeping and tiie dead. 
 Are but as pictures : 't is the eye of childhood 
 That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
 I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal ; 
 For it must seem tlieir guilt. 
 
 \_Exit. Knocking within. 
 
 Macb. Whence Is t!iat knocking? 
 
 How is 't with me, when every noise appalls nie ? 
 What hands are here ! Ha ! they pluck out mine eyes ! 
 Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will rather 
 The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 
 Making the green— one red. 
 
 [Re-enter Lady Macbbth.] 
 
 Lady M. My hands are of your color; but I sliame 
 To wear a heart so white. (Knocking) I lie.ir a 
 
 knocking 
 At the south entry : — retire we to our chamber ; 
 A little water clears us of this deed : 
 How easy is it, then ! Your constancy 
 Hath left you unattended. (Knocking.) Hark, more 
 
 knocking. 
 Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, 
 .And show us to be watchers : — be not lost 
 So poorly in your thoughts. 
 
DRAMATIC SKLi:CTIONS. 
 
 427 
 
 Macb. To know my deed, 'I wero best not know 
 niystlf. (A'nockinff.) 
 Wake Duncan with tliy knocking! I would thou 
 couldst. 
 
 William Shakespeare, 
 
 A DAGGER OF THE MIND. 
 
 FROM "MACDETH." 
 
 [Macbkth before the murder of Duncan, mcflilatinK alone, sees 
 llie inuge of a dagger in the air, ami thus solilociuizus :] 
 
 'S this a dngger which I see beft^re me, 
 
 The handle toward my hand? Come, let me 
 
 clutch thee : — 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 To feeling as to sight? or art thou but 
 A d.igger of the mind, a false creation, 
 Proceeding from thj heat-oppressi^d brain? 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 As tills wiiich now I draw. 
 Tliou marshal'st me the way that I was going; 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses. 
 Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ; 
 And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood. 
 Winch was not so before. — There's no such thing : 
 It is tile bloody business, which informs 
 Tims to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one half world 
 N';iture seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 Til J curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates 
 r,i!^ Hecate's offerings ; and withered murder, 
 .'M.'.rumed by his sentinel, the wolf. 
 Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace. 
 With Tarcjuin's ravishing strides, towards liis design 
 Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm-set earth. 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 Tli; v^ry stones prate of my whereabout. 
 And take the present horror from the time. 
 Which now suits with it. — Whiles I threat, he lives : 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 
 
 {A bell rings.) 
 I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 
 Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven or to hell. ' ' 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 "BUBBLES OF THE DAY," 
 
 JFancy Fair in Guildhall for Painting St. Paul's] 
 
 ' IR PHE^NIX CLEARCAKE. I come with a 
 petition to you — a petition not parliamentary, 
 but charitable. We propose, my lord, a fancy 
 fair in Guildhall ; its object so benevolent, 
 and more than that, so respectable. 
 
 Lord Skindecp. Benevolence and respectability ! 
 
 Of course, I'm witii you. Well, the precise object ?, 
 
 Sir P, It is to remove a stain — a very great stain 
 
 from the city ; to give an air of maiden beauty to a 
 most venerable institution ; to exercise a renovating 
 taste at a m )st inconsiderable outl.ny ; to call U!>, as it 
 were, the snowy beauty of Greece in the coal-smoke 
 atmosphere of London ; in a word, my lord — but as 
 yet 'tis a profound secret— it is to pnint St. Paul's I 
 To give it a virgin outsiue— to make it so truly re- 
 spectable. 
 
 Lord Skin. A gigantic effort ! 
 
 Sir P. The fancy fair will be on a most compre- 
 hensive and philanthropic scale. Every alder. nan 
 takes a stall, and to give you an idea of the entl-.u- 
 siasm of the city— but this also is a secret— t!io 
 Lady Mayoress has been up three nights miking pin- 
 cushions. 
 
 Lord Skin. But you don't want me to take a stall 
 — to sell pincushions? 
 
 Sir P. Certainly not, my lord. And yet yijur phil- 
 anthropic speeches in the House, my lord, convince 
 me that, to obtain a certain good, you would sellany- 
 thing. 
 
 Lord Skin. Well, well ; command me in any way ; 
 benevolence is my foible. 
 
 [Companies for leasing Mount Vksuvus, for making a 
 Tkip all around the World, for Buying riiK Turpen- 
 tine River, etc.] 
 
 Captain Smoke. We are about to start a company 
 to take on lease Mount Vesuvius for the manufacture 
 of lucifer matches. 
 
 Sir P. A stupendous speculation ! I should say 
 that, when its countless advantages are duly num- 
 i bered, it will be found a certain wiieel of fortune to 
 the enlightened capitalist. 
 
 Smoke. Now, sir, if you would but take the chair 
 at the first meeting — (Aside to Chutham: W.; shall 
 make it all right about the shares) — if yuu would but 
 speak for two or three hours on the soci.d improve- 
 ment conferred by the lucifer-match, with the mono- 
 poly of sulphur secured in the company— a monopoly 
 which will suffer no man, woman, or child to strike a 
 light without our permission. 
 
 Chatham. Truly, sir, in such a cause, to such an 
 auditory — I fear my eloquence. 
 
 Smoke. Sir, if you would speak well anywhere, 
 there's nothing like first grinding your eloquence on 
 a mixed meeting. Depend on 't, if you can only 
 manage a little humbug with a mob, it gives you great 
 confidence for another place. 
 
 Lord Skin. Smoke, never say humbug ; its coarse. 
 
 Sir P. And not respectable. 
 
 Smoke. Pardon me, my lord, it ivas coarse. But 
 the fact is, humbug has received such high patronage, 
 that now it's quite classic. 
 
 Chat. But why not embark his lordship In the lucifer 
 question ? 
 
 Smoke. I can't : I have his lordship in three com- 
 panies already. Three. First, there's a company- 
 half a million capital — for extracting civet from asafoe- 
 tida. The second is a company for a trip all round the 
 
428 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ili^'l? 
 
 ;;i';ii' 
 
 world. We i>roposc to liire n three-decker of the 
 Lords of the AdniiraUy. and fit her up with every 
 i.LComniPdatioii for faniihes. We've already adver- 
 ti fd for wet-nurses and maids of all work. 
 
 Sir y. A n.agniticent project ! And then the fit- 
 tings-up will be so respectable. A delightful billiard- 
 ta'ole ill the ward-room ; with, for the humbler classes, 
 skittles on the orlop-deck. Swinp;s and archery for the 
 ladies, trap-bail .-ind cricket for the children, whilst the 
 marine sportsman will find the stock of gulls unlimited. 
 Weippert's quadrille band is engaged, .-ind 
 
 Smoke. I'or the convenience of lovers, the ship will 
 carry a parson. 
 
 Chat. And the object ? 
 
 Smoke. I'kasure and education. At every new 
 country we shall drop anchor for at least a week, that 
 the childrrn may go to school and learn the language. 
 The trip must answer ; 'twill occupy only three years, 
 and we've forgotten nothing to make it delightful — 
 nothing from hot rolls to cork jackets. 
 
 Broiun. And now, sir, the third venture? 
 
 Smoke. That, !iir, is a company to buy the Serpen- 
 tine Kiver for a Grand Junction Temperance Cemetery. 
 
 Brown. What ! so many watery graves ? 
 
 Smoke. Yes, sir, widi fioaling tombstones. Here's 
 the prospectus. Look here ; surmounted by a hya- 
 cinth—the very emblem of temperance — a hj-acinth 
 flowering in the limpid flood. Now, if you don't feel 
 equal to the lucifers — I know his lordshiii's goodness — 
 We'll give you up the cemetery. {Aside to Chatham: 
 A family vault jis a bonus to the chairman.) 
 
 Sir P. What a beautiful subject for a speech ! 
 Water lilies and aquatic plants geniniing the trans- 
 lucent crj-stal, shells of rainbow bri^lilness, a constant 
 supply of gold and silver fish, with the right of angling 
 secured to shareholders. The e.Ntent of the river being 
 necessarily limited, will render lying there so select, so 
 very respectable. 
 
 Douglas Jerrold. 
 
 m 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 FROM "ROMEO AND JULIET." 
 
 ERCUTIO.—O then, I see, queen Mab hath 
 been with you. 
 She is the fairies' midwife.'and she comes, 
 In shape no bigger than an agate stone 
 
 On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
 
 Drawn with a team of little atomies, 
 
 Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 
 
 Her wagon-spokes made of long siiinners' legs ; 
 
 The cover, of the wings of grassiioppers ; 
 
 The traces, of the smallest spider's wet) ; 
 
 The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams ; 
 
 Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; 
 
 Her waggoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 
 
 Not half so big as a round little worm. 
 
 Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid : 
 
 Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
 
 Made by the jt)iner squirrel, or old gnib, 
 Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. 
 And in this state she gallops night by night, 
 Through lover's brains, anil then they dream of love; 
 On courtiers' knees, that dream on courtesies straight ; 
 O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dre.un on fees ; 
 O'er lailies' lips, who straiglit on kisses ilrcam ; 
 Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 
 Hecause their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. 
 Sometimes she gallops o'er a lawyer's nose, 
 And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : 
 And sometimes comes she with tithe-pig's tail, 
 Tickling a parson'snose as he lies asleep, 
 Then dreams he of another benefice : 
 Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck. 
 And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats. 
 Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
 Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon 
 Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wak 
 And, l)eing thus frightened, swears a prayer or two. 
 And sleeps again. This is that very M.i!) 
 That plats the manes of horses in tb.e night, 
 And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs. 
 Which, once entangled, much misfortune bodes. 
 This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs. 
 That presses them, and learns them first to bear, 
 Making them women of good carriage. 
 This is she — 
 
 Romeo. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace; 
 Thou talkest of nothing. 
 
 Mer. True, I talk of dreams : 
 Which are the children of an idle brain, 
 Bogot of nothing but vain phantasy ; 
 Which is as thin of substance as the air; 
 And more inconstant than the wind, wlio wooes 
 E'f n now the frozen bosom of the North, 
 And, being angered, puffs away from thence, 
 Turning his face to the dew-dropping South. 
 
 William Siiaklspeare. 
 
 LOVE'S ECSTACY. 
 
 I'RO.M " THE lALCON." 
 
 C-flT^ 
 
 A'i':Z>yri?/rA'.— Giana! wyGIana! wewillli.T.e 
 "€t^ Nothing but halcyon days : Oh ! we will live 
 ■». As happily as the bees that hive tiieir suceis, 
 
 And gaily as the summer fly, but wiser : 
 I'll be thy servant ever ; yet not so. 
 Oh ! my own love, divinest, best, I'll be 
 Thy sun of life, faithful through every season. 
 And thou shalt be my flower perennial. 
 My bud of beauty, my imperial rose, 
 My passion flower, and I will wear thee on 
 My heart, and thou shalt never, never fade. 
 I'll love thee mightily, my queen, and i i 
 The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest 
 With music sweeter than the wild liirds' song : 
 And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars, 
 (They are, they are, but softer) and thy shape 
 
DRAMATIC SKLECTIOX^. 
 
 ■i'lO 
 
 o wooes 
 
 VK-tSPCARE. 
 
 I'ine as the vaunted nymphs wlio, poets ft-i^ned. 
 Dwelt long ago in woods of Arcady.t 
 iMy gentle deity ! I'll crown thee with 
 The whitest li.ies and then bow me down 
 Love's own idolater, and worship thee. 
 And thou u'i/i then be mine ? my love, love, 
 How fondly will we pass our lives toj^eilur ; 
 And wander heart-linked, thro' the busy world 
 Like birds in eastern story. 
 
 Giana. 0!i ! you rave, 
 
 Fred. I'll be a miser of thee ; watch tliee ever : 
 At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night. 
 We will have clocks that with their silver cl-ime 
 Shall measure out the moments : and I'll mark 
 The time, and keep love's pleasant calend.ir. 
 To-day I'll note a smile : to morrow how 
 Your bright eyes spoke — how saucily ; and tlun 
 Record a kiss plucked from your currant lip, 
 And say how long 'twas taking ; then, thy voice 
 As rich as stringed harp swept by the winds 
 In autumn, gentle as the touch that falls 
 On serenader's moonlit instrument — 
 Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be 
 My household goddes.s — nay, smi!c not, nor shake 
 Itackwards thy clustering curls, incredulous : 
 I swear it shall be so : it shall, my love. 
 
 Gia. Why thou'rt mad indeed: mad. 
 
 Fred. Oh ! not so. 
 There was a statuary once who loved 
 And worshipped the white marble that he shaped ; 
 Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen. 
 Or some such tme kind-hearted deity, 
 Touched the p;de stone v.illi life, and it became 
 .\t last Pygmalion's bride: but thee, on whom 
 Nature had lavished all her wcaltii before. 
 Now love has touched with beauty : doubly fit 
 For human worship thou, thou— let me pause, 
 My breath is gone. 
 
 Gia. With talking. 
 
 Fred. With deliglit. 
 But I may worship thee in silence, still. 
 
 Gia. The evening's dark ; now I must go : farewell 
 Until to-morrow 
 
 Fred. Oh ! not yet, not yet. 
 Behold I the moon is up, the brlget-eyed moon, 
 And seems to shed her soft delicious light 
 On lovers reunited. Why, she smiles, 
 And bids you tarry : will you disobey 
 The lady of the sky ? beware. 
 
 Gia. Farewell. 
 Nay, nay, I must go. 
 
 Fred. We will go together. 
 
 Gia. It must not be tonight : my servants wait 
 My coming at the fisher's cottage. 
 
 Fred. \ct, 
 A few more words, and then I'll part with thee, 
 For one long night : to-morrow bid me come 
 (Thou hast already with thine eyes) and bring 
 My load of love and lay it at thy feet. 
 
 — Oh I ever while those floating orbs look bright, 
 Shalt thou to me be a sweet giiitling light. 
 Once, the Chaldean from the topmost tower 
 Did watch the stars, antl then assert their power 
 Throughout the world : so, dear Giana, I 
 Will vindicate my own idolatry. 
 And in the beauty and the spell that lies 
 In the dark azure of thy lovo-lit eyes ; 
 In the clear veins that wind thy neck beside, 
 'Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide, 
 And in thy polished forehead, and tliy hair 
 Heaped in thick tresses on thy shoulders fair ; 
 In thy calm dignity ; thy modest sense ; 
 In thy most soft and winning eloquence; 
 In woman's gentleness and love (now bent 
 On me, so poor) shall lie my argument. 
 
 Brvan Waller PuocTEii {Harry Curmvall). 
 
 F.^OM "OTHELLO." 
 
 UKl'lTATiriN. 
 
 OOD name, in man and woman, dear my lord. 
 Is the imuunliate jewel of tlieir souls: 
 Who steals my purse steals trash; 'lis some- 
 1* tliin;^-, nothing ; 
 
 'T was mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands. 
 ]5ut he that filches from me my good name, 
 Robs me of that which nut enriches him, 
 And makes me poor indeed. 
 
 JKAl.DfSV. 
 
 Trifles light as air 
 .\re, to the jealous, confirmation strong 
 As proofs of holy writ. 
 
 OTIIELLO'S HTOKV OF THE IIA.NnKERCHIEF. 
 
 That handkerchief 
 Did an Egyptian to my niolher give ; 
 .She was a charmer and could almost read 
 The thougliLs of jicople ; .she told her, while she kept it, 
 'Twould make her amiable, and subdue my father 
 Entirely to her Ijve ; but if she lost it, 
 Or made a gift of it, my father's eye 
 .Should hold her loathly, and his spirits should hunt 
 -After new f.uicios. She, dying, gave it me ; 
 And bid me, when my fate would have me wived, 
 To give it her. I did so ; and take heed oft. 
 Make it a darling, like your precious eye ; 
 To lose 't or give 't away, were such perdition. 
 
 As nothing else could match. 
 
 There's magic in tlie web of it : 
 A sibj'l, that had numbered in the world 
 The sun to make two hundred compasses. 
 In her prophetic fury sewed the work : 
 The worms were hallowed that did breed the silk ; 
 .\nd it was dyed in mummy, which t!ie skilful 
 Conserved of maidens' hearts. 
 
 OTHELLO'S PATHETIC UPDRAIDINO OF HIS WIFE. 
 
 Desdemona. Upon my knees, what doth your speech 
 import ? 
 
 U t: 
 
430 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 
 14 
 
 'I P- '^ 
 
 I iinderstand a fun/ In your words, 
 But not your worils. 
 
 0//i. Why, wliat art tliou? 
 
 I}rs. Your wife, my lord ; your true and loyal wife. 
 
 0//t. Come, swear it ; damn tliyscH ; 
 I-est, being liivc one of heavon, tlie devils themselves 
 Should fear to seize thee : therefore, be douiile damned ; 
 Swear thou art honest. 
 
 Dcs. Heaven doth truly know it. 
 
 0/h. Heaven truly knows, tliat thou art false as 
 hell. 
 
 Z>fj. To whom, my lord? With whom ? Mow am I 
 false? 
 
 0//i. O, Desdemona, away! away! away! 
 
 Dcs. Alas, the heavy day ! why do you weep? 
 Am I the occ.ision of these tears, my lord ? 
 If, haply, you my father do suspect 
 An instrument of this your caliini; back. 
 Lay not your bl.ime on me ; if you have lost him, 
 Why, I have lost him too. 
 
 Ofh. Had it pleased Heaven 
 To try we with affliction ; had he rained 
 All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head ; 
 Steeped me in poverty to the very lips ; 
 Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes ; 
 I should have found in some part of my soul 
 A drop of patience. But, alas I to make me 
 A. fixed fiffure, for the time of scorn 
 To point his slow, unmoving finger at — 
 O! O! 
 
 Yet could I bear that too ; well, very well, 
 But there, wliere I have garnered up my heart ; 
 Wliere either I must live, or bear no life : 
 The fountain from the VN'hich my current nins, 
 Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence ! 
 Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads 
 To knot and gender in ! Turn thy complexion there 1 
 Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim ; 
 Ay, there, look prim as hell ! 
 
 Dcs. I hope, my noble lord esteems me honest. 
 
 0/h. O, ay ; as summer-flies are in the shambles. 
 That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, 
 Wlio art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet, 
 That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er 
 been born! 
 
 Des. Alas ! vviiat ignorant sin have I conunitted ? 
 
 0/A. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book. 
 Made to write shame upon ! what, committed ! 
 Committed ! O thou public commoner ! 
 I should make very forges of my cheeks 
 That would to cinders burn up modesty. 
 Did I but speal< th.y deeds. — What, committed ! 
 Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks : 
 The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets. 
 Is hushed within the hollow mine of earth. 
 And will not hear it. 
 Her name, that was as fresh 
 As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black 
 As mine own face. 
 
 O now, for ever. 
 
 Farewell the tranquil mind ! Farewell content I 
 
 Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, 
 
 Tiiat make ambition virtue ! O farewell ! 
 
 Farewell the neigiiing steed, and the shrill trump, 
 
 The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife. 
 
 The royal banner ; and all quality. 
 
 Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! 
 
 And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats 
 
 Th' immortal Jove's dread clamors coimterfeit, 
 
 Farewell ! Othello's occupation 's gone ! 
 
 dksdemona's FAITIIFL'LNESS. 
 
 ZJi's. O gooti lago, 
 
 What shall I do to win my lord again ? 
 
 Good friend, go to him ; for, by tiiis li^ht of heaven, 
 
 I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel — 
 
 [A'nec/ing. 
 If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, 
 
 Either in discourse of thouglit, or actual deed 
 
 Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, 
 
 Delighted them in any other form ; 
 
 Or that I do not yet, and ever did. 
 
 And ever will — though he do shake me off 
 
 To beggarly divorcement— love him dearly, 
 
 Comfoit, forswear me 1 Unkindness may do much. 
 
 And his unkindness may defeat my life. 
 
 But never taint my love. 
 
 DESDEMONA IS DISCOVERED ASLEEP IN HER BED. 
 [Knler Otheli.o, with a light nnd sword.] 
 
 Oi/i. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul — 
 Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! 
 It is the cause. — Yet I'll not shed her blood. 
 Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, 
 And smooth as monumental alabaster. 
 
 [Lays down the sword. 
 Yet she must die, el.se she'll betray more men. 
 Put out the light, and then put out the light I 
 If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 
 I can again tliy former light restore, 
 Sliould I repent me ; but once put out thy light. 
 Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, 
 I know not where is that Promethean heat 
 That can ihy light relume. 
 
 \_Scls dozen the taper. 
 When I have plucked thy rose, 
 
 I cannot give it vital growth again ; 
 
 It needs must wither : I smell it on the tree. 
 
 \_Kissing her. 
 O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 
 Justice herself to break her sword ! One more. 
 Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee. 
 And love thee after : one more, and this the last ; 
 So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, 
 But they are cruel tears ; this sorrow's heavenly ; 
 It strikes where it doth love. 
 Othello's confusion after having murdered 
 
 HIS WIFE. 
 
 Yes 'tis Emilia :— by-and-by — she's dead. 
 'Tis like, she comes to speak of Cassio's death: 
 
 ! i 
 
DRAMATIC SKLIXTIOXS. 
 
 431 
 
 down the taper. 
 
 NG MURDERED 
 
 The noise was high. Hal no more moving f 
 
 S>ill as the grave. Shall she conic in ? wert 't good 7 
 
 I think she stirs again ;— no — what's the best ? 
 
 If she comes in, she'll sure speak to my wife:— 
 
 My wife ! my wife ! what wife ? I have no wife. 
 
 () insupportable ! O lieavy hour ! 
 
 Mcthinks it should be now a huge eclipse 
 
 Of sun and mimn ; and that the affrighted globe 
 
 Sliould yawn at alteration. 
 
 Had she been true, 
 If Heaven would make me such another world, 
 Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, 
 I'd not have sold her for it. 
 
 OrilELl.o's lUTTF.R RKMORSE. 
 
 Behold ! I have a weapon : 
 A butter never did itself sustain 
 Upon a soldier's thigh : I've seen the day, 
 Tiiat, with this little arm, and this good sword, 
 1 have made my way through more impediments 
 '! hail twenty times your stop.— lUit, (> vain boa.st ! 
 Who can control his fate ? it is not so now. 
 He ndt afraid, though you do see me weaponed. 
 Here is my journey's end, here is my butt. 
 And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. 
 Do you go back dismayed? 'tis a lost fear ; 
 Man but a rush against Othello's breast, 
 And ho retires : where should Othello go? 
 Now -how dost thou look now ? O ill-starred wench ! 
 Pale as thy smock ! when we shall meet at compt. 
 This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, 
 And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl ? 
 K'en like thy chastity — 
 
 O cursed, cursed slave ! — Whip me, ye devils, 
 I'rom the possession of this heavenly sight ! 
 niow me about in winds ! roast nie in sulphur ! 
 Wash me in stcep-d(nvn gulfs of li(iuid fire ! 
 
 Desdemona ! Desdemona ! dead? 
 l)Lad ? O ! O ! O ! 
 
 Othello's last speech. 
 Soft you ; a word or two before you go. 
 
 1 liave done the state some service, and they know it ; 
 No more of that. — 1 pray you, in your letters, 
 
 Wlien you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 
 .Spi.-ak of me as I am : nothing e.xteniiate, 
 Xor set down aught in malice : then must you speak 
 Of one that loved not wi.sely, but too well : 
 Of one not easily jealous, but, being wi ought. 
 Perplexed in the extreme ; of one whose hand, 
 Like the base Judtan, threw a pearl away 
 Richer t|ian all his tribe ; of one whose subdued eyes. 
 Albeit unustd to the melting mood, 
 Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees 
 Their medicinal gum. Set you down this : 
 And .say, besides, that in Aleppo once. 
 Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk 
 I'.eat a Venetian, and traduced the .state, 
 I too'' by the throat the circumcised dog. 
 And saiote him— thus. [_Stabs himself. 
 
 William Shakesi-eark. 
 
 FROM "JULIUS C/ESAR." 
 
 CASSIl'S, IN CDNTICMI'T OF Ci1':KAR. 
 
 WAS horn free as C;nsar ; so were you : 
 We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
 luidure the winter's cold as well as he. 
 I'or once, upon a raw .iiul gu>ty day. 
 The troubl' d Tiber chafing with his shores, 
 C'esar says to me, " Dar'st thou, C.issius, now 
 Leap in with me into this angry (lood, 
 Ami swim to yonder point ?"—rpt)n the word, 
 Acioutrtd as I was, I plunged in. 
 And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. 
 The torrent roared, and we did buffet it 
 With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside. 
 And stemming it with hearts (jI controversy. 
 But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
 C;csar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 
 I, as iTuieas, our great ancestor, 
 Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
 The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber 
 Did I the tired Casar : and this man 
 •Is now become a gotl ; antl Caseins is 
 A wretchetl creature, and must bend his body 
 If Cicsar carelessly but nod on him. — 
 I le had a fever when he was in Spain ; 
 And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 
 I low he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shako , 
 His coward lips did from their color II y ; 
 And that same eye, whose bend doth awe t!ie world. 
 Did lose his lustre ; I did hear him i;roan : 
 Ay, and th.at tongue of his, that hade the Romans 
 Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 
 Alas ! it cried — "Give me some drink, Titinius " — 
 As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, ' 
 
 .\ man of such a feeble temper should 
 So get the start of this majestic world. 
 And bear the palm alone. 
 
 OPPORTUNITY TO I3K SEIZED ON ALL AII-.VIKS. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men. 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 
 On such a full sea are we now afloat ; 
 .And we must take the current when it serves 
 Or lose our ventures. 
 
 ANTONY'S CHARACTER OF nRUTfS. 
 
 This was the noblest Roman of them all : 
 All tile conspirators, save only he. 
 Did diat they did, in envy of great Cxsar; 
 He, only, in a general hoiust thought. 
 And common good to all, made one of them. 
 His life was gentle ; and the elements 
 So mixt in him, that nature might stand up, 
 And say to all the world, " This was a man ! " 
 
 William Siiakespeake. 
 
 I i!l 
 
432 
 
 CROWN ji:\vi-:ls. 
 
 1 
 
 'ii 
 
 If I '11 
 
 ,:! '■ i 
 
 CARACTACUS. 
 
 nFOKF |ir(iiiil Rodil's imiH-riiil throne 
 III iniiul's tiiu-()ii(|iii'ri'il nioixl, 
 As if tlie triumph vvurc his own, 
 Th»' (laiiiulcss ('.■iivivf stood. 
 Noni.', to imvi- seen liis iVou-liorii air, 
 Hail fancied iiitn a captive tJK rv. 
 
 ThoUKli, tluouRh the crowded >tri(;ts of RonK-, 
 
 W'iMi slow and stately tri-ad, 
 Far Ironi his own loved island home. 
 
 That day in triumph leil — 
 Unho'.nul iiis hcail. unbent his knee, 
 Undininiod his eye, his aspect free. 
 
 A free nnd fearless glnnce he cast 
 
 On temple, arch, and tower. 
 By which tlie lon^; procession passed 
 
 Of Rome's victorious power; 
 And somewhat of a scornful smile 
 JJnciirleil his hau}j;hty lip the while. 
 
 And now he stood, with brow serene, 
 Where slaves might prostrat-j fall. 
 
 Bearing a Briton's manly mien 
 In Ca-sar's palace h.ill; 
 
 Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek, 
 
 The !ib*;riy e'en there to spe.ik. 
 
 ^7or Ciuild Rome's haughty lord withstand 
 
 'l he claim that look preft-rrrd, 
 Put motioned with uplifted hiind 
 
 The suppliant should he heard — 
 !f ho indeed a suppliant were 
 Whose glance demanded audience there. 
 
 Deep stillness fell on all the crowd, 
 
 From Claudius on his throne 
 Down to the meanest slave that bowed 
 
 At his imperial throne; 
 Silent his fellow-captive's grief 
 As fearless spoke the Island Chief: 
 
 " Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rr;me, 
 
 And master of the world, 
 Though victory's banner o'er thy dome 
 
 In triumph now is furled, 
 I would address thee as thy slave, 
 But as the bold should greet the brave I 
 
 "I might, perchance, could I have deigned 
 
 To hold a vassal's throne. 
 E'en now in Britain's isle have reigned 
 
 A king in name alone. 
 Yet holding, as thy meek ally, 
 A monarch's mimic pageantry. 
 
 "Then through Rome's crowded streets to-day 
 I might have rode with thee, 
 
 Niit in a captive's base array, 
 
 But fetterless and free — 
 If f.eedoin he could hope to tmil, 
 Whose bondage is of heart and mind. 
 
 " But canst thou marvel that, freeborn, 
 
 With heart and soul un(|Urlled, 
 Throne, crown, and sceptre I shoidd scorn, 
 
 By thy permission held ? 
 Or that I should retain my right 
 Till wrestetl by a conqueror's might? 
 
 " Rome, with her palaces and towers. 
 By us unwished, unreft. 
 Her homely huts and woodland bowers 
 
 To Britain might have left ; 
 Worthless to you tlu'ir wealth must be. 
 But dear to us, for they were free ! 
 
 " I might have bowed before, but where 
 
 Had been thy triumph now? 
 To my resolve no yoke to bear 
 
 The u ow'st thy laurelled brow ; 
 Inglorious victory had been thine, 
 And more inglorious bondage mine. 
 
 "Now I have spoken, do thy will ; 
 
 Be life or death my lot. 
 Since Britain's throne no more I fdl, 
 
 To me it matters not. 
 My fame is clear ; but on my fate 
 Thy glory or thy shame must wait." 
 
 He ceased ; from all around upsprung 
 
 A murmur of applause, 
 For well had truth and freedom's tongue 
 
 Maintained their holy cause. 
 The conquerer was the captive then ; 
 He bade the slave be free again. 
 
 Bkrnakd Bakton. 
 
 THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. 
 
 ^H^ 'HE mistletoe hung in the castle hall, 
 
 /fX\ The holly br.inch shone on the old oak wall ; 
 
 V$X And the baron's retainers were blidie and 
 
 And keeping their Christmas holiday. 
 The baron beheld with a father's pride 
 His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride; 
 While she with her bright eyes seemed to be 
 The star of the goodly company. 
 
 " I'm weary of dancing now," she cried ; 
 "Here tarry a moment— I'll hide, I'll hide! 
 And^ Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace 
 The clew to my secret lurking-place." 
 
 
DRAMATIC SELECITONS. 
 
 433 
 
 Awuy she run— and lu;r friends \>vy,an 
 
 Kach tower tt) scanli, and eai li nook to nvant 
 
 And yoiin({ I.ovill crii-tl, "(), where dost tlion hide? 
 
 I'm loncsonie witliout thco, my own dear bride." 
 
 Thtv soiijjlit her that ni^ht, and they suukIu lier next 
 
 day. 
 And they sought her in vain whm a week passed 
 
 away ; 
 In tlie hijjht'st, the lowest, the loneliest spot, 
 YouuK I-ovell sought wildly— hut found her not. 
 And years flew by, and their grii f at last 
 Was to'.d as /\ sorrowful tale long past; 
 And \'. hen Lovell apiieared, the chiidren cried, 
 "Sec! the old man weeps for his fairy bride." 
 
 \t length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, 
 Was foimd in the ca.stle— they raised tiie lid. 
 And a skeleton form lay mouldering there 
 In thi; bridal wreath of that lady f.iir! 
 0, sad was her fate ! — in sportive jest 
 She hid from her lord in the old oak chest. 
 It closed with a spring !— and, dreadful doom, 
 The bride lay clasped in her living tomb! 
 
 TH0.\IAS H.WNES Da\xy. 
 
 LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS' ORATION OVER 
 THE BODY OF LUCRETIA. 
 
 I&' 
 
 FROM " BRl'Tl'S." 
 
 'OUI.D you know why I summoned you to- 
 gether.' 
 Ask ye wha*. brin<;s me here ? Behold this 
 digger. 
 Clotted with gore I Behold that frozen corse ! 
 See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death ! 
 Slie was the mark and model of the time. 
 Tile mould in which each ft^male face was formed 
 Tlic very shrine and sacristy of virtue ! 
 Fairer than ever w.is a form created 
 By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild. 
 And never-resting thought is all on fire ! 
 The worthiest of the worthy ! Not the nymph 
 Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks. 
 And whispered in his ear her strains divine. 
 Can 1 conceive beyond her ; — the young choir 
 or vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful 
 
 88 
 
 \tnid the darnel, hemlock, and the base wectls, 
 
 Wliich now spring rife from the luxurious compcjst 
 
 .Spread o'er the realm, how this .swett lily rose — 
 
 Mow from the shade of thosi; ill ik iKhl>oring plaitts 
 
 Her father sheltered her, that not .i U.af 
 
 Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, 
 
 .Sl)c bloomed unsullied beauty. Siicli perfections 
 
 Might have called back the torpid breast of age 
 
 Ti) long-forgotten rapture ; such a mind 
 
 Might havir abashed the boldest liberiine 
 
 An<l turned desire to ieverenti.il love 
 
 And holiest affection I O my country men 1 
 
 You all can witness when that she went forth 
 
 It was a holiday in Rome ; old age 
 
 Forgot its crutch, labor its task— all ran. 
 
 And mothers, turning to tlieir daughters, cried, 
 
 "There, there's Lucretia! " Now look ye where she 
 
 lies! 
 Thr.t beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, 
 Torn up by ruthless violence — gone ! gone I gone 1 
 
 Say, would you seek instruction ! would yu ask 
 What ye should do ? Ask ye yon conscious walls 
 Which saw his poisoned brother — 
 Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove 
 O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, revenge 1 
 Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple 
 With human blood, and it will cry, revenge! 
 Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, 
 And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, 
 Their unappeas^d ghosts will shriek, revenge ! 
 The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, 
 The gods themselves, shall justify the cry. 
 And swell the general sound, revenge ! revenge ! 
 
 And we will be revenged, my countrymen ! 
 Brutus shall lead you on ; Brutus, a name 
 Which will, when you're revenged, 1-e dearer to him 
 Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. 
 
 Brutus your king !— No, fellow citizens ! 
 If mad ambition in this guilty frame 
 Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one — 
 By all the gods, this dagger which 1 hold 
 Should rip it out, thougli it intwined my heart. 
 
 Now take the body up. Bear it before us 
 To Tarquin's palace ; there we'll light our torches. 
 And in the blazing conflagration rear 
 A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send 
 Her soul amongst tlie stars. On ! Brutus leads you ! 
 1 John Howard Pavnk. 
 
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 POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 [Composed of lines selected from tliirly-ciglit aiitliors.] 
 
 ^^.^5a^!«^^*«^.^ H Y all this toil for triumphs 
 
 of an hour ? 
 
 (}ofw,g-.) 
 
 Life's a short suninicr — 
 
 man is but a flower; 
 
 {/o/:nsoti.) 
 
 By turns we catch the 
 
 fatal breath and die— 
 
 (Pofie.) 
 
 The cradle and the tomb, 
 
 al.'is ! so nigh. 
 
 { Prior.) 
 To be is better far than 
 not to be, {Sevicll. ) 
 Though all man's life 
 may seem a tragedy; 
 {Spcnscr.) 
 But light cares speak when migiity griefs are dumli — 
 
 {Daniel.) 
 The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 
 
 {Raleigh.) 
 Your fate is but the common fate of all ; {Longjclloiv.) 
 Unniingled joys can here no man befall ; {Southwell.) 
 Nature to each allots his proper sphere. ( Congreve.) 
 Fortune makes folly her peculiar care ; ( Churchill.) 
 Custom docs often reason overrule, {Rochester.) 
 
 And throw a cruel sunshme on a fool. {Armstrong.) 
 Live well — how long or short permit to heaven. 
 
 {Milton.) 
 They who forgive most, shall be most forgiven. 
 
 {n alley.) 
 Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face — 
 
 {French.) 
 Vile intercourse where virtue h:is no place. 
 
 {Soinerville.) 
 Then keep each passion down, however dear, 
 
 ( Thomson. ) 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear ; {Byron.) 
 Her sensual snares let faitlduss pleasure lay, 
 
 {Stnollett.) 
 With craft and skill to ruin and betray. {Crabbe.) 
 
 Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise ; 
 
 ( .Vassiftger. ) 
 We masters grow of all that we despise. (Crowley.) 
 Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem ; Heattie.) 
 Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 
 
 {Cowper.) 
 'Think not ambition wise because 't is brave — 
 
 {Daz'enant.) 
 
 {Cray.) 
 
 {iVillis.) 
 {Addison.) 
 {Dryden.) 
 {Quarks.) 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 What L ambition ? 'T is a glorious cheat, 
 Only destructive to the brave and great. 
 What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown ? 
 The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 
 How long we live, not years but actions tell ; 
 
 ( IValkins.) 
 The man lives twice who lives the first life well. 
 
 {Hcrrick.) 
 Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 
 
 {Mason.) 
 Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend. 
 
 {Hill.) 
 The trust that's given, guard, and to yourself be just ; 
 
 {Dana.) 
 For live we how we may, yet die we must. 
 
 {Shakespeare.) 
 
 THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH ORTHOGRAPHY. 
 
 ei 
 
 PRETTY deer is dear to me, 
 
 A hare with downy hair, 
 A hart I love with all my heart, 
 But barely bear a bear. 
 
 'Tis i^Iain that no one takes a plane, 
 
 To have a pair of pears, 
 Although a rake may take a rake 
 
 To tear away the tares. 
 
 A scribe in writing right may write, 
 May write and still be wrong ; 
 
 For write and rite are neither right. 
 And don't to right belong. 
 
 Robertson is not Robert's son, 
 Nor did he rob Burt's son, 
 
 Yet Robert's sun is Robin's sun, 
 And everybody's sun. 
 
 Beer often brings a bier to man, 
 
 Coughing a coffin brings. 
 And too much ale will make us ail, 
 
 As well as other things. 
 
 The person lies who says he lies. 
 When he is not reclining ; 
 
 And when consumptive folks decline. 
 They all decline declining. 
 
 Quails do not quail before the storm, 
 A bow will bow before it ; 
 
 We cannot rein the rain at all — 
 No earthly power reigns o'er it. 
 
 (4.14) 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 435 
 
 The dyer dyes a while, then dies— 
 
 To dye he's always trj'injj ; 
 Until upon his dying bed 
 
 He thinks no more of dyeing. 
 
 A son of Mars mars many a son, 
 
 And Deys must have their days ; 
 And every knight should pray each night 
 
 To Him who weighs his ways. 
 
 'Tis meet that man should mete out meat 
 
 To feed one's future son ; 
 The fare should fare on love alone, 
 
 Else one cannot be won. 
 
 The springs shoot forth each spring, and shoots 
 
 Shoot forward one and all ; 
 Though summer kills the fiowers, it leaves 
 
 The leaves to fall in fall. 
 
 I would a story here commence, 
 
 But you might think it stale ; 
 So we'll suppose that we have reached 
 
 The tail end of our tale. 
 
 TO MY INFANT SON 
 
 'HOU happy, happy tlf ! 
 
 (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) 
 Thou tiny image of myself! 
 "f* (My love, he's poking peas into his ear,) 
 Thou merry, laughing sprite, 
 With spirits feather light, 
 Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin ; 
 (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !) 
 
 Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
 
 With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
 
 Light as the singing bird ihat rings the air — 
 
 (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) 
 
 Thou darling of thy sire ! 
 
 Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 
 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 In love's dear chain so bright a link, 
 
 Thou idol of thy parents ; (Drat the boy ! 
 There goes my ink.) 
 
 Thou cherub, but of earth ; 
 Fit playfellow for fairies by moonlight pale. 
 
 In harmless sport and mirth ; 
 (That dog will Lite him if he pulls his tail!) 
 
 Thou human humming bee, extracting honey 
 From every blossom in the world that blows, 
 
 .Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
 (Another tumble ! That's his precious nose !) 
 Thy father's pride and hope ! 
 (He'll break that mirror with that skipping rope !) 
 With pure heart newly stampetl from nature's mint, 
 (Where did he learn that squint ?) 
 
 TIiou young domestic dove ! 
 
 (He'll havo tiiat ring ofl" witli another shove,) 
 
 Pear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 
 
 (Are these torn clothes his best ?) 
 
 Little epitcjnic of man ! 
 
 (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) 
 
 Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 
 
 (He's got a knife!) 
 
 Thou enviable being ! 
 
 No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing, 
 
 Play on, i^lay on. 
 
 My elfin John ! 
 Toss the li^;lit ball, bestride the stick, 
 (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
 
 With fancies buoyant as tlic tliistle-down, 
 Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. 
 With many a lamb-like frisk ! 
 
 (He's .1,'ot tlu- scissors snipping at your gown !) 
 Thou pretty o|)ciiing rose ! 
 
 (Go to your nmllier, cliikl, and wipe your nose !) 
 Balmy ,".nd breathing music like the soutii, 
 (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
 Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the clove ; 
 (I'll toll you what, my love, 
 I cannot write unless he's sent above.) 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 
 
 "M a broken-hearted Deutscher, 
 
 Vol's villed mit crief und shame, 
 I dells you vot der drouple ish : 
 I doosn't know my name. 
 
 You dinks dis fery vunny, eh ? 
 
 Ven you der schtory hear. 
 You vill not vonder den so mooch, 
 
 It vas so schtrange und queer. 
 
 Mine moder had dwo leedle twins ; 
 
 Dey vas me und mine broder : 
 Ve lookt so fery mooch alike. 
 
 No von knew vich vrom toder. 
 
 Von off der poys vas " Yawcob," 
 Und " Hans " der oder's name : 
 
 But den it made no tifferent : 
 Ve both got called der same. 
 
 Veil ! von off us got tead— 
 
 Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so ! 
 But vedder Hans or Yawcob, 
 
 Mine moder she don'd know. 
 
 Und so I am in drouples : 
 
 I gan't kit droo mine hed 
 Vedder I'm Hans vot's lifing. 
 
 Or Yawcob vot is tead ! 
 
 Charles F. Adams. 
 
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 •'%•}»■ 
 
 436 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 THE DJINNS. 
 
 Djiiiiis is a name applied to Rcnii, angels, or demons, supposed 
 to liave transparent bodies, with the power of assumini; various 
 lornis. 
 
 T 
 
 'OWN, tower, 
 Shore, deep. 
 Where !(j\ver, 
 Clouds steep ; 
 
 Waves gray 
 Where play 
 Winds gay — 
 All asleep. 
 Hark a sound, 
 Far and slight. 
 Breathes around 
 On the night — 
 High and higher, 
 Nigh and nigher, 
 Like a fire 
 Roaring bright. 
 Now on it is sweeping 
 With rattling beat 
 Like dwarf imp loapuig 
 In gallop fleet ; 
 He (lies, ho prances, 
 In frolic fancies— 
 On wave crest dances 
 With pattering feet. 
 Hark, the rising swell. 
 With each nearer burst ! 
 Like the toll of bell 
 Of a convent cursed ; 
 Like the billowy roar 
 On a storm-la.shed shore — 
 Now hushed, now once more 
 Maddening to its worst, 
 Oh God ! the deadly sound 
 Of the djinns* fearful cry '. 
 Quick, 'neath the spiral roiuid 
 Of the deep stairc;ise, fly ! 
 See, our lamplight fade ! 
 And of tlie balustrade 
 Mounts, mounts the circling shade 
 Up to the ceiling high ! 
 'Tis tlie djinns' wild streaming swarm 
 Whistling in their tempest flight ; 
 Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, 
 Like a pine-flame crackling bright ; 
 Swift and heavy, low, their crowd 
 Through the heavens rushing loud ! — 
 Like a lurid thunder cloud 
 With its hold of fiery night! 
 Ha! they are on us, close without ! 
 Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! 
 With hideous din the monster rout. 
 Dragon and vampire, fill the sky I 
 The loosened rafter overhead 
 Trembles and bends like tiuivering reed ; 
 
 Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 
 As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly ! 
 Oh prophet I if thy hand but now 
 Save from these foul and hellish things, 
 A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow. 
 Laden with pious offerings. 
 Bid their hot breath its fiery rain 
 .Stream on my faithful door in vain. 
 Vainly upon my blackened pane 
 Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings ! 
 They have passed 1 — and their wild legion 
 Cease to thunder at my door ; 
 Fleeting through night's rayless region, 
 Hither they return no more. 
 Clanking chains and sounds of woe 
 Fill the forests as they go ; 
 And the tall oaks cower low, 
 Bent their flaming flight before. 
 On ! on ! the storm of wings 
 Bears far the fiery fear. 
 Till scarce the breeze now brings 
 Dim murmurings to the ear ; 
 Like locusts humming hail. 
 Or thrash of tiny flail 
 Plied by the pattering hail 
 On some old roof-tree near. 
 Fainter now are borne 
 Fitful murmurings still 
 As, when Arab horn 
 Swells its magic peal. 
 Shoreward o'er the deep 
 Fairy voices sweep. 
 And the infant's sleep 
 Golden visions fill. 
 Each deadly djinn. 
 Dark child of fright, 
 Of death and sin, 
 Speeds the wild flight. 
 Hark, the dull moan ! 
 Like the deep tone 
 Of ocean's groan, 
 Afar by night ! 
 
 More and more 
 Fades it now, 
 As on shore 
 Ripples flow- 
 As the plaint, 
 Far and faint, 
 Of a saint, 
 Murmured low. 
 Hark t hist ! 
 Around 
 I list I 
 
 The bounds 
 Of space 
 All trace 
 Efface 
 Of .sound. 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 
POETICAT. CURIOSITIES. 
 
 437 
 
 THE IRISH ECLIPSE. 
 
 "IrN VVatlierford, wanst, lived Profissor MacShane, 
 "Y The foinest asthronomer iver was sane ; 
 •I* For long before noight, wid the scoience he 
 ' knew, 
 
 Wheriver wan shtar was, sure he could see two 
 
 Quoite plain, 
 Could Profissor MacShane. 
 
 More power to him ! iv'ry claare noight as would 
 
 pass, 
 He'd sit by the windy, a-showing his glass ; 
 A poke at the dipper, that plaised him the laist. 
 But a punch in the milky way suited his taste- 
 Small blame 
 To his sowl for that same ! 
 
 Now wan toime in VVatherford, not long ago, 
 They had what the loike was not haard of, I know, 
 .Since Erin was undher ould Brian Borrhoime : 
 The sun was ayclipsed for three days at wan toime ! 
 
 It's thrue 
 As I tell it to you. 
 
 'Twas sunroise long gone, yet the sun never rose. 
 And iv'ry wan axed, "What's the matther, God 
 
 knows?" 
 The next day, and next, was the very same way ; 
 The noight was so long it was lasting all day. 
 
 As black 
 As the coat on yer back. 
 
 The paiple wint hunting Profissor MacShane, 
 To Ihry if he'd know what this wondher could mane; 
 He answered them back : " Is that so ? Are ye there ? 
 'Tis a lot of most iligant gommachs ye air, 
 
 To ax 
 For the plainest of facts ! 
 
 " Ye' re part of an im poire, yez mustn't forget. 
 Upon which the sun's niver able to set ; 
 Thin why will it give yer impoire a surproise 
 If wanst, for a change, he refuses to roise ?" 
 
 Siz he, 
 "That isaizy tosee !" 
 
 Irwin Rlssell. 
 
 i{l 
 
 MRS. LOFTY AND I. 
 
 RS. LOFTY keeps a carriage, 
 
 So do I ; 
 She has dapple grays to draw it, 
 
 None have I ; 
 She's no prouder with her coachman 
 
 Than am I 
 With my blue-eyed laughing baby 
 
 Trundling by ; 
 I hide his face, lest she should see 
 The cherub boy, and envy me. 
 
 H r fine husband has white fingers. 
 
 Mine has not : 
 I le could give his bride a palace. 
 
 Mine a cot ; 
 I ler's conies beneath the star-light. 
 
 Ne'er cares .she : 
 Mine comes in the purple twilight. 
 
 Kisses me. 
 And prays that He who turns life's sands 
 Will hold his loved ones in His hands. 
 
 Mrs. Lofty has her jewels. 
 
 So have I ; 
 She wears hers upon her bosom, 
 
 Inside I ; 
 She will leave her's at death's portals, 
 
 By and by : 
 I shall bear the treasure witli me, 
 
 When I die ; 
 For I have love, and she has gold ; 
 She counts her wealth, mine can't be told. 
 
 She has those that love her station. 
 
 None have I ; 
 But I've one true heart beside me, 
 
 Glad am I ; 
 I'd not change it for a kingdom, 
 
 No, not I ; 
 God will weigh it in his balance. 
 
 By and by ; 
 And then the difference 't will define 
 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. 
 
 THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE 
 STRANGER. 
 
 N Broad Street buildings (on a winter nighl), 
 Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight 
 Sat all alone, with one haiui rubbing 
 His feet rolled up in fleecy hose, 
 With t'other he'd beneath his nose 
 The " Public Ledger," jn whose columns grubbing, 
 
 He noted all the sales of hops, 
 
 Ships, shops, and slops ; 
 Gum, galls, and groceries ; ginger, gin, 
 Tar, tallow, tumeric, turpentine, and tin ; 
 When lo 1 a decent personage in black. 
 Entered and most politely said — 
 
 " Your footmr.., sir, has gone his nightly track 
 
 To the King's Head, 
 And left your door ajar, which I 
 Observed in passing by ; 
 
 And tiiought it neighborly to give you notice." 
 " Ten thousand thanks !" the gouty man replied ; 
 " You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ; — 
 Ten thousand thanks how very few do get, 
 In time of danger. 
 Such kind attention from a stranger ! 
 
 '■. ;'! 
 
 
 ii ■ I. 'I 
 
 M'n 
 
yifii 
 
 'ij.:i ; 
 
 f '> 
 
 438 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Assuredly, that fellow's throat is 
 Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; 
 He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf), 
 That there's no soul at home except myself." 
 
 " Indeed," replied the stranger, (looking grave,) 
 
 " Then he's a double knave : 
 He knows that rogues and thieves by scores 
 Nightly beset unguarded doors; 
 And see, how easily might one 
 
 Of these domestic foes, 
 
 Even beneath your very nose, 
 Perform his knavish tricks : 
 Enter your room as I have done. 
 Blow out your candles— thus — and thus — 
 Pocket your silver candlesticks : 
 
 And— walk ofl— thus"'— 
 So said, so done ; he made no more remark, 
 
 Nor waited for replies. 
 
 But marched iff with his prize. 
 Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. 
 
 HoK.\CE Smith. 
 
 BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. 
 
 ' T was si.x men of Indostan 
 
 To learning much inclined. 
 Who went to see the elephant 
 
 (Though all of them were blind,) 
 That each by observation 
 Might satisfy his mind. 
 
 Tlie First approached the elephant. 
 
 And, happening; to fail 
 Against his broad and sturdy side. 
 
 At once began tt) bawl : 
 " God bless me ! but the elepiiant 
 
 Is very like a wail ! " 
 
 The Second, feeling of the tusk. 
 Cried : " Ho! what have we here 
 
 So very round and smooth and sharp? 
 Tij me 'tis mighty clear 
 
 This wonder of an elephant 
 Is very like a spear ! " 
 
 The Third approached the animal. 
 
 And, happening to take 
 The s(iuirming trunk within his hands. 
 Thus boldly up and .'.pake : 
 "I see," quuth he, "ihe elephant 
 Is very like a snake ! " 
 
 The Fourth reached out his eager hand, 
 
 And felt about the knee , 
 " What most this wondrous beast is like 
 
 Is mighty plain," quoth he ; 
 " Tis clear enough the elephant 
 
 Is very like a tree ! " 
 
 The F"ifth, who chanced to touch the ear, 
 Said : " E'en the blindest man 
 
 Caii tell what this resembles most ; 
 
 Deny the fact who can. 
 This marvel of an elephant 
 
 Is very like a fan ! " 
 
 The Si.xth no sooner had begun 
 
 About the beast to grope. 
 Than, seizing on the swinging tail 
 
 That fell within his scope, 
 "I see," quoth he, "the elephant 
 
 Is very like a rope 1 " 
 
 And so these men of Indostan 
 
 Disputed loud and long, 
 Each in his own opinion 
 
 Exceeding stiff and strong. 
 Though each was partly in the right, 
 
 And all were in the wrong ! 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 So, oft in theologic wars 
 
 The disputants, I ween. 
 Rail on in utter ignorance 
 
 Of what each other mean. 
 And prate about an elephant 
 
 Not one of them has seen ! 
 
 John Godfrey S.vxa. 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 'ERE'S a big washing to be done — 
 One pair of hands to do it— 
 Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants. 
 How will I e'er get through) it.' 
 
 Dinner to get for six or more, 
 
 No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; 
 And baby cross as he can live — 
 
 He's always so on Monday. 
 
 'Tis time the meat was in the pot, 
 The bread was worked for bakinj^, 
 
 The clothes were taken from the boil — 
 Oh dear ! the baby's waking ! 
 
 Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh sh ! 
 
 I wish h'd sleep a little. 
 Till I could run and get some wood. 
 
 To hurry up the kettle. 
 
 Oh dear I oh dear ! if P comes home. 
 
 And finds things in this pother, 
 He'll just begin and tell me all 
 
 About his tidy mother ! 
 
 How nice her kitchen used to be, 
 
 Her dinner always ready 
 Exactly when the noon-bell rang — 
 
 Hush, hush, dear little Freddy ! 
 
 And then will come some hasty words, 
 Right out before I'm thinking— 
 
POETICAl. CURIOSITIES. 
 
 43H 
 
 They say that hasty words from wives 
 Set sober men to drinking. 
 
 Now is not that a great idea, 
 That men should take to sinning, 
 
 Because a weary, lialf-sick wife. 
 Can't always smile so winning? 
 
 When I was young I used to earn 
 
 My living without trouble, 
 Had clothes and pocket money, too, 
 
 And hours of leisure double. 
 I never dreamed of such a fate. 
 When I, a-Iass ! was courted — 
 Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, housekeeper, 
 chambermaid, laundress, dairywoman, and scrub 
 generally, doing the work of six. 
 For the sake of being supported ! 
 
 Mrs. F. D. Gage. 
 
 COLLUSION BETWEEN A ALEGAITER AND 
 A WATER-SNAIK. 
 
 'HERE is a niland on a river lying, 
 
 Which runs into Gautinialy, a warm country. 
 Lying near the Tropicks, covered with sand ; 
 ■f Hear and their a symptum of a Wilow, 
 Hanging of its umberagious limbs & branches 
 Over the clear streme meandering far belo^v. 
 This was the home of the now sik-nt Alegaiter, 
 When not in his other element confine'd : 
 Here he wood set upon his eggs asleep 
 With I ey observant of flis and other passing 
 Objects : a while it kept a going on so : 
 Fereles of danger was the happy Alegaiter ! 
 lint a las ! in a nevil our he was fourced to 
 Wake ! that dreme of Blis was two sweet for him. 
 I morning the sun arose with unusool splender 
 Wiiitch allso did our Alegaiter, coming from the water, 
 His scails a dinging of the rais of the son back. 
 To the fountain-head which tha originly sprung from, 
 l!ut having not had nothing to eat for some time, he 
 Was slepy and gap'd, in a short time, widely. 
 Uufoalding soon a welth of perl-white telh. 
 The rais of the son soon shet his sinister ey 
 Bocause of tluir mutool splendor and warmth. 
 Tiie evil Our ( which I sed) was now come ; 
 Evidently a good chans for a water-snaik 
 Of the large specie, which soon appeared 
 Into the horison, near the bank where reposed 
 Calmly in slepe the Alegaiter before spoken of. 
 Abo.it 60 feL-t was his Length (not the 'gaiter) 
 And he »va.-> ..periently a well-proportioned snaik. 
 Wlien he was all ashore he glared upon 
 The iland with approval, but was soon 
 ' Astonished witli the view and lost to wonder ' (fif >m 
 
 Wats) 
 (For jest then he began to see the Alegaiter) 
 Being a nateral enemy of his'n, he worked hisself 
 hito a fur> , also a ni position. 
 
 Before the Alegaiter well could ope 
 
 His eye in other words perceive his danger) 
 
 The Snaik had enveloped his body just 19 
 
 Times with 'foalds voluminous and vast' (from Milton) 
 
 And had tore oft' several scails in the confusion, 
 
 Besides squeazing tiim awfully into his stomuc. 
 
 Just then, by a fortinate turn in his affairs. 
 
 He ceazed into his mouth the carehrss tale 
 
 Of the unreflecting water snaik ! Grown desperate 
 
 He, fnuling that his tale was fast squt-sed 
 
 Terriule while they roaled all over the iland. 
 
 It was a well-conduckted AfTair ; no noise 
 Disturbed the harmony of the seen, ecsept 
 Onct when a Willow was snaped into by the roaling. 
 Eeach of the combatence hadn't a minit for liolering. 
 So the conflick was naterally iremtujous ! 
 But soon by grate force the tail was bit compktc- 
 Ly of; but the eggzeration was too much 
 For his delicate Constitootion ; he felt a compres- 
 sion 
 Onto his chest and generally over his body ; 
 When he ecspresseil his breathing, it was with 
 Grate difficulty that he felt inspired again onct more. 
 Of course this state must suffer a revolootion. 
 So the alegaiter give but one yel, and egspired. 
 The water-snaik realed hisself ofT, Si survay'd 
 For say 10 minits, the condition of 
 His fo : then wondering what made his tail hurt, 
 He slowly went oti for to cool. 
 
 J. W. MuiiRis. 
 
 A RECEIPT FOR COURTSHIP. 
 
 'WO or three dears, and two or three sweets ; 
 
 Two or three balls, and two or three treats ; 
 
 Two or three serenades, given as a lure ; 
 "?* Two or three oaths how much they endure ; 
 Two or three messages sent in one day ; 
 Two or three times led out from tlie play ; 
 Two or tliree soft speeches made by the w.iy ; 
 Two or three tickets for two or three times ; 
 Two or three love-letters writ all in rhymes ; 
 Two or three months keeping strict to these rules 
 Can never fail making a couple of fools. 
 
 Jo.N.vTH.vN Swift. 
 
 Ilj' 
 
 A FORGETFUL MAN. 
 
 HEN Topewell thought lit from the world to 
 retreat, 
 As full of champagne as an egg's full of 
 meat. 
 He waked in the boat, and to Charon he said, 
 He wouUl he rowetl back, i'or he was not yet dead. 
 "Trim tlie boat, and sit quit-t," stern Charon rci)licd : 
 "You may have forgot; you were drunk when you 
 died." 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 ■U 
 
 ;t;ii> : 
 
 fli 
 

 «' ! 
 
 Pi' ^^" 
 
 . « 
 
 ^5 
 
 
 ... ' kW^" 
 
 , yi ' ' 111 
 
 li 
 
 » 
 
 
 ill I 
 
 440 
 
 © 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 VERY DEAF. 
 
 EAF, giddy, helpless, left alone. 
 To all my friends a burthen grown : 
 No more I hear my cliurch's bell : 
 Than if it rang out for my knell : 
 At thunder now no more I start 
 Than at the rumbling of a cart: 
 Nay, what's incredible, alack ! 
 I hardly hear a woman's clack. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 AN ORIGINAL EPITAPH. 
 
 'ERE lies fast asleep — awake me who can — 
 That medley of passions ;ind follies, a Man, 
 Who sometimes loved license, and some- 
 times restraint. 
 Too much of the sinner, too little of the saint ; 
 From quarter to qunrter I shifted my tack ; 
 'Gainst the evils of life a most notable quack ; 
 Hut. alas 1 I soon found the defects of my skill. 
 And my no.strums in practice proved treacherous 
 
 still; 
 From life's certain ills 'twas in vain to seek ease. 
 The remedy oft proved another disease ; 
 What in rapture began often ended in sorrow. 
 And the pleasure to-day brought reflection to-mor- 
 row ; 
 When each action was o'er, and its errors were seen. 
 Then I viewed with surprise the strange thing I had 
 
 been ; 
 My body and mind were so oddly contrived, 
 That at each other's failing both parlies connived; 
 Imprudence of mind brought on sickness and pain, 
 And body diseased paid the debt back again ; 
 Thus coupled together life's journey they passed, 
 Till they wrangled and jangled, and parted at last; 
 Thus tired and weary, I've finished my course. 
 And glad it is bed-time, and things are no worse. 
 
 Pigs, pippins, poultry all the while, 
 And Easter offerings too !" 
 
 " You're skilled in languages, I guess," 
 Th' amazed diocesan cried ; 
 
 " I know no language, more nor less," 
 The surly clown replied : 
 
 " But Greek, I've heard the learned say, 
 Surpasses all the rest ; 
 And since 'tis for the best we pay, 
 We ought to have the best." 
 
 A PARSON'S FATE. 
 
 T blew a hard storm, and in utmost confusion. 
 The sailors all hurried to get absolution ; 
 Which done, and the weight of the sins they con- 
 fessed 
 Transferred, as they thought, from themselves to tiie 
 
 priest. 
 To lighten the ship, and conclude their devotion, 
 They tossed the poor parson souse into the ocean. 
 
 THE BALD-PATED WELSHMAN AND THE 
 FLY. 
 
 Q 
 
 CASE IN THE CONSTITUTIONAL COURT. 
 
 (3 
 
 FARMER, as records report. 
 Most hugely discontented. 
 Hi" vicar at the Bishop's Court 
 For gross neglect presented. 
 
 " Our former priest, my lord," he said, 
 " Each Sunday in the year round, 
 Some Greek in his discourses read, 
 And charming was the sound I 
 
 "Not such our present parson's phrase, 
 No Greek does he apply ; 
 But says in English all he says, 
 As you might speak, or I. 
 
 " And yet for this so simple style. 
 He claims each tithe and due ; 
 
 SQUIRE of Wales, whose blood ran higher 
 Than that of any other squire. 
 Hasty and hot ; whose peevish honor 
 Revenged each slight was put upon her; 
 
 Upon a mountain's top one day, 
 
 E.xposed to Sol's meridian ray, 
 
 He fumed, he raved, he cursed, he swore. 
 
 Exhaled a sea at every pore ; 
 
 At last, such insults to evade, 
 
 .Sought the next tree's protecting shade; 
 
 Where as he lay dissolved in sweat, 
 
 And wiped off many a rivulet. 
 
 Off in a pet the beaver flies, 
 
 And flaxen wig, time's best disguise, 
 
 By which folks of maturer ages 
 
 Vie with smooth beaux, and ladies' pages ; 
 
 Though t was a secret rarely known, 
 
 Ill-natured age had cropped his crown. 
 
 Grubbed all the covert up, and now 
 
 A large, smooth plain extends his brow. 
 
 Thus as he lay with numskull bare. 
 
 And courted the refreshing air. 
 
 New persecutions still appear ; 
 
 A noisy fly offends his ear. 
 
 Ahis ! what man of parts and sense 
 
 Could bear such vile impertinence ? 
 
 Yet, so discourteous is our fate. 
 
 Fools always buzz about the great. 
 
 This insect now, whose active spite 
 
 Teased him with never<easinct bite, 
 
 With so muf h judgment played his part, 
 
 He had him both in tierce and carte : 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 441 
 
 iclves to the 
 
 In vain with open hands he tries 
 
 To guard his ears, his nose his eyes ; 
 
 For now at last, familiar grown, 
 
 He perched upon his worship's crown, 
 
 With teeth and claws his skin he tore, 
 
 And stuffed himself with human gore : 
 
 But now what rhetoric could assuage 
 
 The furious squire, stark mad with rage? 
 
 Impatient at the foul dist,race 
 
 From insect of so mean a race, 
 
 And plotting vengeance on his foe, 
 
 With double fist he aims a blow. 
 
 The nimble fly escaped by flight, 
 
 And skipped from this unequal fight. 
 
 Th' impending stroke with all its weight 
 
 Fell on his own beloved pate. 
 
 Thus much he gained l)y this adventurous deed ; 
 
 He fouled his fingers and he broke his head. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Let senates hence learn to preserve their state, 
 And scorn the fool below their grave debate. 
 Who by the unequal strife grows popular and great. 
 Let him buzz on, with senseless rant defy 
 The wise, the good, yet still 't is but a fly. 
 With puny foes the toil's not worth the cost ; 
 Where nothing can be gained, much may be lost : 
 Let cranes and pigmies in mock-war engage, 
 A prey beneath the gen'rous eagle's rage, 
 True honor o'er the clouds sublimely wings ; 
 Young Ammon scorns to run with less than kings. 
 
 William Somerville. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A MISER. 
 
 kENEATH this verdant hillock lies 
 Demar, the wealthy and the wise. 
 His heirs, that he might safely rest. 
 Have put his carcass in a chest ; 
 The very chest in which, they say. 
 His other self, his mom y, lay. 
 And if his heirs continue kind 
 To that dear self he left behind, 
 I dare believe that four in five 
 Will think his better half alive. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 RIDDLES. 
 
 ON A PEN. 
 
 ' N youth exalted high in air. 
 Or bathing m the waters fair. 
 Nature to form me took delight, 
 And clad my body all in white, 
 My person tall, and slender waist, 
 On either side with fringes graced ; 
 Till me that tyrant man espied. 
 And dragged me from my mother's side. 
 
 No wonder now I look .so thin ; 
 
 The tyrant stripped me to the skin ; 
 
 My skill he Hayed, my hair he cropped ; 
 
 At head and foot my body lopped ; 
 
 And then, with heart more hard than stone. 
 
 He picked my marrow from the bone. 
 
 To vex me more, he took a freak 
 
 To slit my tongue, and make me speak : 
 
 I5ut that which wonderful appears, 
 
 I speak to eyes, and not to ears. 
 
 He oft employs me in disguise. 
 
 And makes me tell a thousand lies : 
 
 To me he chiefly gives in trust 
 
 To please his malice or his lust : 
 
 From me no secret he <;ai hide : 
 
 I see his vanity and pride : 
 
 And my delight is to expose 
 
 His follies to his greatest foes. 
 
 All languages I can command. 
 Yet not a word I understand. 
 Without my aid, the best divine 
 In learning would not know a line ; 
 The lawyer must forget his pleading ; 
 The scholar could not show his reading 
 
 Nay, man, my master, is my slave ; 
 I give command to kill or save ; 
 Can grant ten thousand pounds a year. 
 And make a beggar's brat a peer. 
 
 But while I thus my life relate, 
 I only hasten on my fate. 
 My tongue is black, my mouth is furred, 
 I hardly now can force a word. 
 I die unpitied and forgot. 
 And on some dunghill left to rot. 
 
 ON GOLD. 
 
 All-ruling tyrant of the earth. 
 To vilest slaves 1 owe my birth. 
 How is the greatest monarch blessed, 
 When in my gaudy livery dressed ! 
 No haughty nymph has power to run 
 From me or my embraces shun. 
 Stabbed lo the heart, condemned to flame. 
 My constancy is still the same. 
 The favorite messenger of Jove, 
 The Lemnian god, consulting, strove 
 To make me glorious to the sight 
 Of mortals, and the god's delight. 
 Soon would thjir altars' flame expire 
 If I refused to lend them fire. 
 
 on the five senses. 
 All of us in one you'll find. 
 Brethren of a wondrous kind ; 
 Yet, among us all, no brother 
 Knows one tittle of the other. 
 We in frequent councils are, 
 And our marks of things declare ; 
 Where, to us unknown, a clerk 
 Sits, and takes them in the dark. 
 
 9 
 
 k I 
 
 
 ' i 
 
442 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ^ 1, 
 
 !Ji 
 
 \ 
 
 Iv. 
 
 IIP 
 
 h i^ 
 
 It' 
 
 m 
 
 IIo's the register of all 
 In our ken, botli great and small ; 
 By us forms his laws and rules ; 
 He's our master, we his tools ; 
 Vet we can, with greatest ease. 
 Turn and wind him where we please. 
 
 One of us alone can sleep. 
 Vet no watch the rest will keep ; 
 Dut, the moment that he closes, 
 Every brotlier else reposes. 
 
 If wine's bought, or victuals dressed, 
 One enjoys them for the rest. 
 
 Pierce us all with wounding steel. 
 One fur all of us will feel. 
 
 Though ten thousand cannons roar, 
 Add to them ten thousand more. 
 Yet but one of us is found 
 Who regards the dreadful sound. 
 
 Do what is not fit to tell, 
 There's but one of us can smell. 
 
 ON TIME. 
 
 EvKR eating, never cloying. 
 All devouring, all destroying ; 
 Never ending full repast, 
 Till I eat the world at last. 
 
 0.\ THE VOWELS. 
 
 We are little airy creatures, 
 All of different voice and features : 
 One of us in glass is set, 
 One of us you'll fmd in jet ; 
 T' other you may see in tin. 
 And the fourth a box within ; 
 If the fifth you should pursue, 
 It can never fly from you. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 FRENCH COOKING. 
 
 'O make a plum-pudding a French count once 
 took 
 An authentic receipt from av English lord's 
 cook : 
 
 Mix suet, milk, eggs, sugar, meal, fruit and spice, 
 Of such numbers, such meiisure, and weight, and such 
 
 price ; 
 Drop a spoonful of brandy to quicken the mess. 
 And boil it for so many hours, more or less. 
 These directions were tried, but, when tried, had no 
 
 good in, 
 'Twas all wash, and all squash, but 'twas not English 
 
 pudding ; 
 And monsieur, in a pet, sent a second request 
 For the cook that prescribed to assLst when 'twas 
 
 dressed. 
 Who, of course, to comply with his honor's beseeching, 
 Like an old cook of Colbrook, marched into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 The French cooks, when they saw hun, talked loud 
 
 and talked long. 
 They were sure all was right, he could find nothin;; 
 
 wrong; 
 Till, just as the mixture was raised to the pot, 
 "Hold your hands! hold your hands!" scream. -d 
 
 astoni.shed John Trot : 
 " Don't you see you want one thing, like fools as y;»ii 
 
 arc?" 
 "Vone ting, Sare! Vat ting, Sare?"— "A puddln.:;- 
 
 clotb, Sare!" 
 
 § 
 
 SAVED BY HIS WIT. 
 
 A sailor, having been sentenced to the cal-o'-ninc tails, uhcn 
 tied for punishment, spoke tlie fuUuwint; lines to his command.:, 
 who had an aversion to a cat. 
 
 V your honor's command, an example I stand 
 Of your justice to all the sliip's crew ; 
 I am hampered and stripped, and, if I a::-, 
 whipped, 
 'Tis no more than I own is my due. 
 
 In this scurvy condition, I humbly petition 
 
 To offer some lines to your eye : 
 Merry Tom by such trash once avoided the lash. 
 
 And, if fate and you please, so may I. 
 
 There is nothing you hate, I'm informed, like a cat ; 
 
 Why, your honor's aversion is luiiic : 
 If puss then witli one tail can make your heart (ail, 
 
 O save me from that which has nine ! 
 
 N. D. He was pardoned. 
 
 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE 
 KNIFE-GRINDER. 
 
 I^ 
 
 FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 
 
 EEDY knife-grinder ! whilher are you going ' 
 Rough is the road ; your wheel is oi:' of 
 
 order. 
 Bleak blows the blast ;— your hat has got a 
 
 hole in't ; 
 So have your breeches ! 
 
 Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones. 
 Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-road. 
 What hard work 't is crying all dav, " Knives and 
 Scissors to grind O! " 
 
 Tell me knife-grinder, how came you t» grind knive>? 
 Did some rich man tyrannically u.se you ? 
 Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? 
 Or the attorney? 
 
 Was it the squirvi for killing of his game ? or 
 Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? 
 Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little 
 All in a lawsuit ? 
 
 ■1'iil' 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 443 
 
 (Have yofl not read the Rights of Man, by Tom 
 
 Paine ?) 
 Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
 Keady to fall as soon as you have told your 
 Pitiful story. 
 
 KNIPE-CRINDBR, 
 
 Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; 
 Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
 This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 
 Torn in a scuffle. 
 
 Constables came up for to take me into 
 Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
 justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-stocks 
 For a vagrant. 
 
 1 should be glad to drink your honor's health in 
 A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
 But for my part, I never love to meddle 
 With politics, sir. 
 
 FRIEND OH HUMANITY. 
 
 I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee dead first — 
 Wretch ! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to ven- 
 geance- 
 Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, 
 Spiritless outcast I 
 
 [Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and 
 exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and uni- 
 versal philanthropy.'^ 
 
 George Canning. 
 
 Ilj 
 
 DER DRUMMER. 
 
 HO puts oup at der pest hotel, 
 Untl dakes his oysders on der shell, 
 Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 
 Drows down his pundles on der vloor, 
 Und uefer schtops to shut der door ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who dakes me py der handt, und say, 
 " Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?" 
 Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 
 Und dells me, " Look, und see how nice ?" 
 Und says I gets " der bottom price ?" 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who deUs how sheap der goods vas bought, 
 Mooch le'is us vol I gould imbort. 
 But lets them go as he \'as " short ?" 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who says der tings vas eggstra vine — 
 " Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine." — 
 Und sheats me den dimes oudt cif nine? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who varratits alt der goods to .suit 
 Der gusioniers uliun his route, 
 Und ven dcy gomes dcy vas no goot ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, 
 Drinks oup mine bier, und eats mine kraut, 
 Und kiss Katrina in der niout' ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, 
 Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 
 Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Chari.es I''. Adams. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL. 
 
 eOMIC take up youi Iiats, and away let us haste 
 To tho Hutterlly's hall and tlie Gras.shoppor's 
 fe;ist. 
 The trumpeter, Gad-lly, h;is summoned the 
 crew. 
 And the revels are now only waiting for you. 
 
 So said little Robert, and, pacing along, 
 His merry companions came forth in a throng. 
 .And on the smooth grass, by the side of a wood, 
 Heneath a broad oak that for a;i;es had stood. 
 
 Saw the children of earth, and the tenants of air, 
 I-"or an evening's amusement together repair. 
 And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, 
 VVho carried the Enmiet, his friend, on his back. 
 
 And there was the Gnat, and the Dragon-fly too. 
 With all their relations, green, orange, and blue. 
 And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down. 
 And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown ; 
 
 Who with him the Wasp, hi« companion, did bring. 
 But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. 
 .•\nd the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole, 
 And brought to the fe.ist his blind brother, the Mole. 
 
 And the Snail, Vt-ith his horns peeping out of his shell, 
 Came from a great di.stance, the length of an ell, 
 A musiiroom their table, anil on it was laid 
 A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made. 
 
 The viands were various, to each of their taste. 
 And the Bee brought her honey to crown the repast. 
 Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise. 
 The Frog from a comer looked up to the skies. 
 
 And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see, 
 Mounted high overhead, and looked down iVcjm a tree. 
 Then out came the Spider, with linger so fine. 
 To show his dexterity on the tight line. 
 
 From one branch to another, his cobwebs he slung. 
 Then quick as an arrow he darted along. 
 But, ju«;t in the middle -Oh ! shocking to tell — 
 From his rope, in an instant, poor harlequin fell. 
 
 1 
 
444 
 
 CROWN JilVVKLS. 
 
 !'l 
 
 Yet he touched not the ground, but with talons out- 
 spread, 
 Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread. 
 Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring, 
 Very long was his leg, tliough but short was his wing , 
 
 He tool< but three leaps, and was soon out of sight, 
 Tlien ciiirped his own praises the rest of tiie night. 
 Willi step so majestic the Snail did advance. 
 And promised the gazers a minuet to dance. 
 
 nut they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head, 
 And went in his own little ciianiber to bed. 
 Then, as evening gave way to the shadows of niglit, 
 Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with a iiglit. 
 
 Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see, 
 For no watchman is waiting for you and for me. 
 So said little Robert, and, pacing iilong. 
 His merry companions returned in a tlirong. 
 
 Mrs. HriNRY Roscok. 
 
 REPORT OF A CASE, NOT TO BE 
 IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. 
 
 FOUND 
 
 ^^ETVVEEN nose and eyes a strange contest 
 arose ; 
 The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 
 The point in dispute was, as all the world 
 knows. 
 To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 So the tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
 With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning ; 
 
 While chief baron ear sat to balance the laws. 
 So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 
 
 In behalf of the nose, it will quickly appear. 
 And your lordship, he s.iid, will undoubtedly find. 
 
 That tiie nose has had spectacles always in wear. 
 Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 
 
 Then, holding the spectacles up to the court — 
 
 Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle 
 
 As wide as the ridge of the nose is ; in short, 
 Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
 
 Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
 ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again,) 
 
 That the visage or countenance had not a nose. 
 
 Pray who would or who could wear spectacles then ? 
 
 On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, 
 With a reasoning the court will never condemn. 
 
 That the spectacles plainly were made for the nose. 
 And the nose was as plainly intended for them. 
 
 Then shifting his side, as the lawyer knows how. 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the eyes ; 
 
 But what were the arguments few people know, 
 For the world did not think they were equally wise. 
 
 So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solcnm tune, 
 Decisive and clear, without one i/ur but— 
 
 That whenever the nose put his spectacles on ' 
 
 By day-light or candle-light —eyes sliould be shut. 
 
 WlLI.lA.M CoWI'KR, 
 
 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 
 
 John. 
 'VE worked in the field all d.iy, a plowin' tlie 
 " stony streak ;" 
 I've scolded my team till I'm hoajse ; I've 
 tramped till my legs are weak ; 
 I've choked a dozen swears, (so's not to tell J.iiu; 
 
 fibs). 
 When the plow-pint struck a stone and the handles 
 punched my ribs. 
 
 I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed tiieirsweaty 
 
 coats ; 
 I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats ; 
 And to see the way they eat makes me like catin' 
 
 feel. 
 And Jane wont say to-night that I don't make out a 
 
 meal. 
 
 Well said ! the door is locked ! but here she's left the 
 
 key. 
 Under the step, in a place known only to her and me ; 
 I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's luistU'd off 
 
 pell-mell ; 
 But here on the table's a note, probably this will tell. 
 
 Good God I my wife is gone ! my wife is gone astray! 
 The letter it says, " Good-bye, for I'm a going away ; 
 I've lived with you si.\ months, John, and so far I've 
 
 been true ; 
 But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man than 
 
 you." 
 
 A han'somer man than me ! Why that ain't nuieh to 
 
 say ; 
 There's han'somer men than me go past here every 
 
 day. 
 There's han'somer men than me — I ain't of the lian'- 
 
 some kind ; 
 But a loven'er man than I was, I guess she'll never 
 
 find. 
 
 Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses 
 wings ! 
 
 May the words of love I've spoken be changed lo scor- 
 pion stings ! 
 
 Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart 
 of doubt. 
 
 And now with the scratch of a pen, she lets my heart's 
 blood out ! 
 
 Curse her! curse her ! say I, she'll some time rue this 
 
 day; 
 She'll some time learn that hate is a game that two can 
 
 play; 
 
le's left the 
 
 POKTICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 44S 
 
 And long before slie dies she'll grieve she ever was 
 
 horn, 
 And I'll plow her Rrave with hate, and seed it down to 
 
 scorn. 
 
 As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time 
 
 when siie 
 Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man 
 
 liian me ; 
 And there'll be a time when he will find, as o'hers do, 
 'i'lialslie who is false tu one, can be the same with 
 
 two, 
 
 y^nd wlicn her face grows pale, and when her eyes 
 
 grow dim, 
 And wiuMi he is tired of her and she is tinvl of him, 
 Slie'll do whiit she ought to have done, and coolly 
 
 count the cost ; 
 And tiien she'll see things ck'ar, and know what she 
 
 has lost. 
 
 And thoughts that are now asleep w.ll wake up in her 
 
 mind, 
 And r.lie will mourn and cry for what she has left be- 
 
 liiiu) ; 
 And maybe she'll sometimes long for me— forme— but 
 
 no! 
 I've blotted her nut of my heart, and I will not have 
 
 it so. 
 
 And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin' or 
 
 other she had, 
 That fastened a man to her, and wasn't entirely bad ; 
 And she loved me a Utile, I think, although it didn't 
 
 List ; 
 But 1 musn't think of these things — I've buried 'cm in 
 
 the past. 
 
 I'll take my hard words back, nor makea bad matter 
 
 worse ; 
 She'll have trouble enough; she shall not have my 
 
 curse ; 
 But I'll Uvea life so square — and I well know that I 
 
 can — 
 That she always will sorry be that she went with that 
 
 han'somer man. 
 
 Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes 
 
 blur; 
 It seems when I look at that, as if 'twas holdin' her ; 
 And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her 
 
 week-day hat, 
 And yonder's her weddin' gown : I wonder she didn't 
 
 take that. 
 
 'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me her 
 
 " dearest dear," 
 And said I was makin' for her a regular paradise 
 
 here ; 
 God ! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell, 
 Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a 
 
 spell! 
 
 Good-bye ! I wish that death had severed us two 
 
 apart. 
 You've lost a worshipper here, you've crushed a lovin' 
 
 heart. 
 I'll worship no woman again ; but I >;uc!is I'll learn 
 
 to pray, 
 And kneel as you used to knell, before you run 
 
 away. 
 
 .And if I thought I could bring my words on heaven 
 
 to bear. 
 And if I thought I had some little influence there. 
 I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so, 
 .As happy and gay as I was half an hour a.i;o. 
 
 Jank [enlerin.!;]. 
 Why, John, what a litter here! you've thrown 
 
 things all around? 
 Come, what's the matter now ? and what have you 
 
 lost or found ? 
 And here's my father here, a waiting for supper, too; 
 I've been a riding with him — he's that "handsomer 
 
 man than you." 
 
 Ha ! ha ! Pa, take a seat, while I put flie kettle on, 
 Anil get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old 
 
 John. 
 Why, John, you look so strange ! come, what has 
 
 crossed your track ? 
 I was only a joking you know, I'm willing to take it 
 
 back. 
 
 John [asitt^]. 
 
 Well, now, if this ain'i a joke, with rather a bitter 
 
 cream ! 
 It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream; 
 And I think she "smells a rat," for she smiles at me 
 
 so queer, 
 I hope she don't ; good gracious ! I hope that they 
 
 didn't hear ! 
 
 'Twas one of her practical drives, she thought I'd 
 
 understand ! 
 But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the 
 
 land. 
 But one thing's settled with me — to appreciate heaven 
 
 well, 
 'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of 
 
 hell. 
 
 Will M. Carletom. 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 ^K. OOD peoph 
 \Q t^ Give . 
 
 V ^ And, if yo 
 
 , OOD people all, of every sort, 
 ; ear unto my song, 
 you find it wondrous short, 
 It caimot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man. 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran — 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 
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 >lil 
 
 
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440 
 
 CROWN ji:\vi:i,s. 
 
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 A kind nnd jjentlc hoart lie Imd, 
 
 To cointort frii-iuls aiitl fors ; 
 Tlie naked ovory tlav In- «lad — 
 
 WliL-n he put on Iiis < lothtH. 
 
 And in tliat town a do}; was found, 
 
 As many do^s there l)e, 
 Uotli mongrel, puppy, whtlp, and liound, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This doj; and man at first were fricnils ; 
 
 Hut, when a picpie l)C};an, 
 The doR, to g:\m his private ends, 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the nei^jhboriiiK streets 
 
 'I"he wonderiuK ncigiibors ran, 
 And swore the doR liad lost his wits. 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and .sad 
 
 To evLTy Christian eye ; 
 And, while they swore the do;; was mad, 
 
 Tliey swore the man would die. 
 
 Out soon a wonder came to liglit, 
 That .showed the rogues tliey lied ; 
 
 The man recovered of the bite. 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 ^ ^k 
 
 THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. 
 
 'WAS a ferocious baggage man, with Atlan- 
 tean back, 
 And biceps upon each arm piled in a for- 
 midable stack, 
 That plied his dread vocation beside a railroad track. 
 
 Wildly he tossed the baggage round the platform 
 
 there, pell-mell. 
 And crushed to naught the frail bandbox where'er it 
 
 shapeless fell, 
 Or stove the "Saratoga" like the flimsiest eggshell. 
 
 On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly, 
 
 And eke the trunk derisively called '' Cottage by the 
 
 Sea ;" 
 And pulled and hauled and rammed and jammed the 
 
 .same vindictively. 
 
 Until a yearning breach appeared, or fractures two or 
 three. 
 
 Or straps were burst, or lids fell off, or some catas- 
 trophe 
 
 Crowned his Satanic zeal or moved his diabolic glee. 
 
 The passengers surveyed the wreck with diverse dis 
 content. 
 
 And some vituperated him, and some made loud la- 
 ment. 
 
 But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly spent. 
 
 To him there came a shambling man, nad eyed and 
 
 meek an<l thin, 
 Rcaiing an humble carpetbag, with scanty stuff 
 
 thtriiii. 
 And unto that fierce baggage man he spake, with 
 
 cpiivering chin : 
 
 " Behold this scanty carpet-bag! I started a month 
 
 ngo, 
 With a dozen Saratoga trunks, hat hox, and port 
 
 tnanteau. 
 Hut baggagemen along the route have brought mt; 
 
 down so low. 
 
 " Be careful with this carpetbag, kind sir," said he 
 
 to him. 
 The baggage-man received it with a smile extremely 
 
 grim. 
 And softly whispered, "Mother, may I go out to 
 
 swim ?" 
 
 Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wiki, sardonic 
 
 spleen. 
 And into countless fragments flew— to his profound 
 
 ch.igrin — 
 For that lank bag contained a pint of nitro-glycerine, 
 
 The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and stroked his 
 
 quivering chin. 
 And then he winked with one sad eye, and said, with 
 
 smile serene, 
 " The stuff to check a ba.^gag-e man ir nitro-glycerine!" 
 
 THE LAND 0' THE LEAL 
 
 "M wearing awa', Jean, 
 
 Like snaw when it's a thaw, Jean, 
 I'm wearing awa' 
 
 To the land o' the lenl. 
 There's nae sorrow there Jean, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 Ye were aye leal and true, Jean ; 
 Your t.-isk's ended noo, Jean, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
 She was baith guid and fair, Jean ; 
 Oh, we grudged her right sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels wait on me 
 
 To the l.nnd o' the leal. 
 Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
 This warld's care is vain, Jean ; 
 We'll meet and aye be fain 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Carolina, Baroness Naire 
 
rOKTICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 447 
 
 ;ro-glycerine. 
 (1 stroked his 
 
 ind said, with 
 
 NESS Naire 
 
 P 
 
 POOR LITTLE JOE. 
 
 ROP ycr eyes wide open, Joey, 
 
 For I've hroiigtit you sii'i'pin' (;;rcnt. 
 Apples ! No, a heap si^lit i)Ltti;i ! 
 I )on't you take no iiit'resl ? Wait ! 
 I'lowers, Jot — I kiiowtd you'd like 'em— 
 
 Ain't tluni scruuiptious? Ain't them liigli? 
 Tears, my boy ? Wot's theiu fur, Joey ? 
 There— poor little Joe !— don't cry ! 
 
 I was skippin' past a winder, 
 
 Where a bang-up lady sot, 
 AM amonj^st a lot of bushes — 
 
 Kach one climbin' from a pot; 
 Every bush hatl (lowers on il — 
 
 I'retly? Mebhe not I Oh, no! 
 Wish you could a seen 'em growip'. 
 
 It was sich a stunnin' show. 
 
 Well, I thought of you, poor feller, 
 
 Lyiu' here so sick and weak, 
 Never knowiu' any comfort, 
 
 And I puts on lots o' cheek. 
 " Mis:.us," says I, "if you please, mum, 
 
 Could I ax you for a rose ? 
 For my little brother, missus — 
 
 Never seed one, I suppose." 
 
 Then I told her all about you — 
 
 How I bringed you up — poor Joe ! 
 (Lackin' women folks to do it.) 
 
 Sich a' imp you was, you know — 
 Till yer >rot that awful tumble, 
 
 Jist as I had broke yer in 
 (Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin' 
 
 niachin' boots for honest tin. 
 
 How that tumble crippled of you, 
 
 So's you couldn't hyper much — 
 Joe, it hurled when 1 seen you 
 
 Fur the first time with your crutch. 
 ■" But," 1 says, "he's laid up now, mum, 
 
 'Pears to weaken every day ; " 
 Joe, she up and went to cuttin' — 
 
 That's the how of this bokay. 
 
 Say ! It seems to me, ole feller. 
 
 You is quite yerself tonight ; 
 Kind o' chirk— it's been a fortnit 
 
 Sence ycr eyes has been so bright. 
 Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it ! 
 
 Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. 
 Smellin' of 'em's made you happy? 
 
 Well, I thought it would, you know I 
 
 Never see the country, did you ? 
 
 Flowers growin' everywhere 1 
 Some time when you're better, Joey, 
 
 Mebbe I kin take you there. 
 
 l'"lowers in heaven ? 'NT— I s'pose so ; 
 
 Dunno much about it, though ; 
 Ain't as (ly as W(jt I might b<: 
 
 On them topics, little Joe. 
 
 Hut I've heard it hinted scimewlures 
 That in heavens j.;:olden gates 
 
 Things is everlastin' clu erful— 
 H'liuve that's wot the liible states. 
 
 Likewise, there folks don't git hungry ; 
 .So good people, when they dies. 
 
 Finds themselves well H.^ed forever- 
 Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes? 
 
 Thought tlw'y looked a little s'ng'ler. 
 
 Oh, no! Don't you have no fear ; 
 Heaven was made fur such as you h — 
 
 Joe, wot makes you look so ([uecr? 
 Here — wake up! Oh, don't hiok that way! 
 
 J<3e ! My boy ! Hold up ycr head ! 
 Here's yer (lowers— you dropp"d 'em Joey! 
 
 Oh, my C'lod, can Joe be licadf 
 
 David L. Vv.o\nv\i: (Pelcff ArkH'right.) 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 F.AR the sledges with the hells — 
 .Silver bells ! 
 What a world ol merriment their melody fore- 
 tells! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All tlie heavens seem to twinkle 
 
 Willi a crystalline deliglit — 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In ;i sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the tintinnabulation that so music.illy wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the mollen-golden notes. 
 
 And all in tune, 
 Wiiat a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, wl-.ilc she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 O, from out the sounding cells. 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells 1 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 
 ■: 
 
 W 
 
 
 
 
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 448 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Ji ! 
 
 t 
 
 !>• 
 
 Of the bells bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells. 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells 
 In the startled air of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak. 
 They can only shriek, shriek. 
 Out of tune. 
 In tiie clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 111 a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higlier. 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor. 
 Now — now to sit, or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 O the bells, bells, bells. 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 
 Of despair ! 
 How they clang and clash and roar ! 
 What a horror tiiey outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows. 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clangin t. 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 Bv the sinking or tlie swelling in the anger of tli'j 
 
 bells— 
 Of the bells— 
 Of tlie bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells- 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody com- 
 pels ! 
 In the silence of the night, 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of theii tone I 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the peoi)le — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 
 All alone, 
 Ar.d who tolling, tolling tolling. 
 
 In thcit muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 They are ghouls : 
 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls, 
 
 A pa;an from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the p.xnn of the bells ! 
 Aiiil he dances .ind he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the p:can of the bells — 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells. 
 In a happy Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the rolling of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the hells, bells, bells, bells- 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 Edgar Allan Poi;, 
 THE BELLS OF SHANDON, 
 
 t 
 
 Sabbala pango ; 
 Funera pbiigo ; 
 Solemiiia clangn. 
 
 Inscription on as old Bhi.i.. 
 
 ITH deep affection 
 And recollection 
 I often think of 
 Those Shandon bells. 
 Whose S(junds so wild would 
 In the days of childhood. 
 Fling round my cradle 
 Their magic spells. 
 
 On this I ponder 
 Where'er I wander, 
 And thus grow fonder, 
 
 Sweet Cork, of thee — 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the nver Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chiming 
 F'uU many a clime in, 
 Tolling sublime in 
 I Cathedral shrine. 
 While at a glib rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
 But all their music 
 Spoke naught like thine. 
 
 |: t' 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 449 
 
 For memory, dwellintj 
 On each proud svvelliiii; 
 Of thy behry, knelling 
 
 Its bold notes free, 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasaat waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells tolling 
 Old Adrian's iMole " in, 
 Their thunder rolling 
 
 From the Vatican— 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of Notre Dame ; 
 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 
 Pealing solemnly. 
 O, the bells of Shaiidon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow ; 
 While on tower and kiosko 
 In St. Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air 
 C.ills men to prayer, 
 From the tapering summit 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 
 Such empty phantom 
 
 I freely grant them ; 
 But there's an anthem 
 
 More dear to me — 
 'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 Francis Mahonv {Father Proul). 
 
 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 
 
 'IM Twinkleton was, I would have you to 
 know, 
 A cheery-faced tailor, of Pineapple Row ; 
 His sympathies warm as the irons he used, 
 And his temper quite even, because not abused. 
 As a fitting reward for his kindness of heart, 
 He was blessed with a partner, both comely and 
 
 smart, 
 .\nd ten " olive branches"— four girls and six boys — 
 Completed the household, divided its joys. 
 
 But another " surprise" was in store for Tim T., 
 Who, one bright Christmas morning was sipping 
 coffee, 
 
 (29J 
 
 When a neighbor (wh > icied as nurse), said with 
 glee, 
 
 "You've just been presented with tiuirs! Do you 
 see !" 
 
 " Good gracious !" said Tim, overwhelmed with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 For he scarce could be made lo believe his own eyes; 
 
 His astonishment o'er, he acknowledged, of course, 
 
 That the trouble, indeed, might have been a deal 
 worse. 
 
 The twins were two boys, and poor Tiin was in- 
 clined 
 To believe them the handsomest pair you could find, 
 But fathers' and mothers' opinions, tliey say, 
 Always favor their own children just the same way. 
 "Would you like to step up, sir, to see Mrs. T. ?" 
 The good lady said : " she's as pleased as can be." 
 Of course the proud father dropped both fork and 
 
 knife, 
 And bounded up stairs to embrace his good wife. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Tim Twinkleton — I should have said — 
 An industrious, frugal life always had led, 
 And kept the large family from poverty's woes, 
 By washing, and starching, and ironing clothes. 
 But, before the young twins had arrived in the town, 
 She'd intended to send to a family named Brown, 
 Who resided some distance outside of the city, 
 A basket of clothes ; so she thought it a pity 
 
 That the basket should meet any further delay. 
 And told Tim to the depot to take it that day. 
 He promised he would and began to make haste, 
 For he found that there was not a great while to 
 
 waste. 
 So, kissing his wife, he bade her good-bye. 
 And out of the room in an instant did hie ; 
 And met the good nurse, on the stairs, coming up 
 With the " orthodo.x gruel," for his wife, ia ,i cuii. 
 
 " Where's the twins ?" said the tailor. "Oli, they 
 
 are all right," 
 The good nurse replied : " they are looking so bri-lit! 
 I ve hushed them to sleep — they look so like their 
 
 Pop— 
 And I've left them down stairs, where they sleep like 
 
 a top." 
 In a hurry Tim shouldered the basket, and got 
 To the rail-station, after a long and sharp trot. 
 And he'd just enough time to say " Brown — Norris- 
 
 town — 
 A basket of clothes — " and then the train was gone. 
 
 The light-hearted tailor made haste to return. 
 
 For his heart with affection for his family did burn ; 
 
 And it's always the case, with a saint or a sinner, 
 
 Whate'er may occur, he's on hand for his dinner. 
 
 " How are the twins? " was his first inquiry ; 
 
 " I've hurried home cjuickly, my darlings to see," 
 
 In ecstacy, quite of his reason bereft. 
 
 "Oh, the dear little angels hain'tcried since you left I 
 
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450 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 im 
 
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 ny 
 
 k 
 
 k 
 
 Ft i; 
 
 "Have you, my sweets?" — and the nurse turned to 
 
 where 
 Just a short time before, were her objfct-; of care. 
 "Why — which of you children," said she, with sur- 
 prise, 
 " Removed that ar basket ? — now don't tell no lies ! " 
 " Basket! what basket?" cried Tim with affright ; 
 "Why, the basket of clothes I thought, it all right 
 To put near the fire, and, fearing no harm, 
 Placed the twins in so cozy, to keep them quite 
 warm." 
 
 Poor Tim roared aloud : ' ' Why, what have I done ? 
 
 You surely must mean what you say but in fun ! 
 
 That basket ! my twins I shall ne'er see again ! 
 
 Why, I sent them both olTby the 12 o'clock train ! " 
 
 The nurse, at these words, sank into a chair 
 
 And exclaimed, "Oh, my precious dears, you hain't 
 there I 
 
 Go, Twinkleton, go, telegraph like wildfire ! " 
 
 "Why," saiu Tim, "they can't send the twins home 
 on the wire! " 
 
 "Oh dear!" cried poor Tim, getting ready to go ; 
 
 " Could ever a body have met witli such woe? 
 
 Sure this is the greatest of greatest mistakes ; 
 
 Why, the twins will be all squashed down into pan- 
 cakes!" 
 
 Tim Twinkleton hurried, as if all creation 
 Were after Iiim, quick, on his way to the station. 
 "That's the man— O you wretch!" and, tight as a 
 
 rasp, 
 Poor Tim found himself in a constable's grasp. 
 "Ah ! ha! I have got yer, now don't say a word, 
 Yer know very well about what has occurred ; 
 Come 'lonsj to the station-house, hurry up now. 
 Or 'tween you and me there'll be a big row." 
 "What's the charge?" asked the tailor of the magis- 
 trate, 
 " I'd like to find out, for it's getting quite late ;" 
 " .So you shall," ho replied, " but don t look so meek — 
 You deserted your infants — now hadn't you cheek?" 
 
 Now it happened that, during the trial of the case. 
 An acquaintance of Tim's had stepped into the place. 
 And he quickly perceived, when he heard ir d.-tail 
 The facts of the case, and said he'd go bail 
 Tt) any amount, for good Tim Twinkleton, 
 For he knew he was innocent, "sure as a gun." 
 And the railway-clerk's evidence, given in detail 
 Was not quite sufficient to send him to jail. 
 
 It was to effect, that the squalling began 
 Just after the basket in the baggage-van 
 Had been placed by Tim T., who solemnly swore 
 That he was quite ignorant of their presence before. 
 So the basket was brought to the magistrate's sight, 
 And the twins on the top of the clothes looked so bright, 
 That the magistrate's heart of a sudden enlarged. 
 And he ordered that Tim Twinkleton be discharged. 
 
 Tim grasped up the basket and ran for dear life, 
 And when he reached home he first asked for his wife; 
 Rut the nurse said with joy, ' 'Since you left she has slept, 
 And from her the mistakes of to-day I have kept." 
 Poor Tim, and the nurse, and all the small fry, 
 Refore taking dinner indulged i.i a cry. 
 The twins are now grown, and they time and again 
 Relate their excursion on a railway train. 
 
 Charles A. Bell. 
 
 THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 HAVE fancied sometimes the Bethlehem beam 
 That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream, 
 Was a ladder of song in tiiat wilderness rest, 
 Was a pillow of stone to the blue of the blest, 
 And the angels descending to dwell with us here, 
 "Old Hundred" and "Corinth," and "China" and 
 "Mear." 
 
 All the hearts are not dead nor under the sod. 
 
 That these breaths can blow open to heaven and God. 
 
 Ah, "Silver Street " flows by a bright shining road— 
 
 Oh, not to the hymns th.nt in harmony flowed, 
 
 Rut the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned choir, 
 
 To the girl that sang alto, the girl that sang air. 
 
 " Let us sing to God's praise ! " the minister said : 
 All the p.salm books at once fluttered open at " York." 
 .Sunned their long-dotted wings in the words that he 
 
 read, 
 While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, 
 And politely picked up the key-note wi;!i a fork. 
 And the vicious old viol went growling along 
 At the heels of the girls in the rear of the song. 
 
 Oh, I need not a wing ; — bid no genii come 
 
 With a wonderful web from Arabian loom. 
 
 To bear me again up the river of Time, 
 
 When the world was in rhythm and life was its rhyme. 
 
 And the stream of the years flowed so noiseless and 
 
 narrow 
 That .across it there floated the song of a sparrow ; 
 For a sprig of green caraway carries me there, 
 To the'old village church and the old village choir. 
 Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung , 
 And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they sung, 
 Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun 
 Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun 1 
 
 You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, 
 Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down. 
 And dear sister Green, with more goodness than ^race. 
 Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place, 
 And where " Coronation" exultantly flows 
 Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes ! 
 To the land of the U.A they have gone with tiieir song, 
 Where tiie choir and the chorus together belong. 
 Oh ! be lifted, ye gates ! Let us hear them again ! 
 Blessed song ! Blessed singers ! forever. Amen ! 
 
 Benjamin Fra.nklin Taylor. 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 451 
 
 THE MODERN BELLE. 
 
 'IIE daughter sits in the parlor, 
 And rocks in her easy cliair ; 
 Slie is dressed in silks and satins, 
 And jewels are in her hair ; 
 She winks, and giggles, and simpers, 
 
 And simpers, and giggles, and winks ; 
 And though she talks but little. 
 It's vastly more than she thinks. 
 
 Her father goes clad in russet — 
 
 All brown and seedy at that ; 
 His coat is out at tlie elbows. 
 
 And he wears a shocking bad hat. 
 He is hoarding and saving his dollars, 
 
 So carefully, day by day. 
 While she on her whims and fancies 
 
 Is squandering them all away. 
 
 She lies in bed of a morning 
 
 Until th,; hour of noon. 
 Then comes down snapping and snarling 
 
 Because she's called too soon. 
 Her hair is still in papers. 
 
 Her cheeks still bedaubed with paiiu — 
 Remains of Inst night's blushes 
 
 Before she attempted to faint. 
 
 Her feet are so very little. 
 
 Her hands are so very white, 
 Her jewels so very heavy. 
 
 And her head so very light ; 
 Her color is made of cosmetics — 
 
 Though this she'll never own ; 
 Her body is mostly cotton, 
 
 And her heart is wholly stone. 
 
 She falls in love with a fellow 
 
 Who swells with a foreign air ; 
 He marries her for her money, 
 
 She marries him for liis hair — 
 One of the very best matches ; 
 
 Both are well mated in life ; 
 She's got a fool for a liu>band, 
 
 And he's got a fool for a wife. 
 
 AUNT TABITHA. 
 
 yTYHATEVER I do and whatever I say, 
 1^1 Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't tlu- way, 
 W^ When she was a girl (forty sumiuers ;i,n.i 
 Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so. 
 
 Dear aunt ! If t only would take her advice — 
 But I like my own way, and I find it so nice ! 
 And besides I forget half the things I am told : 
 But they all will come back to me — when I am old. 
 
 If a youth passes by, it may happen no doubt. 
 
 He may chance to look in as I chance to look out ; 
 
 I She would never endure an impertinent stare, 
 It is horrid, she says, and I musn't sit there. 
 
 A walk in the moonlight has pleasure, I ow , 
 But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone ; 
 .So I take a lad's arm— just for safety, you know — 
 But Aunt Tabitha tells me, i/tcy didn't do so. 
 
 How wicked we are, and how good they were then ! 
 They kept at arm's length those detestable men ; 
 What an era of virtue she lived in ! — but stay — 
 Were the men such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day ? 
 
 If the men were so wicked — I'll ask my papa 
 How he dared to propose to my darling mania ? 
 Was he like the rest of them? goodness ! who knows ? 
 And what shall I say, if a wretch should propo.se? 
 
 I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, 
 I What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been ! 
 .\nd her grand-aunt — it scares me — how shockingly 
 
 sad 
 That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad ! 
 
 A martyr will save us, and nothing else can ; 
 Let us ])erish to rescue some wretched young man ! 
 Though when to the altar a victim I go. 
 Aunt Tabitha '11 tell me — she never did so. 
 
 Oliver Wkndei.l Holmiis. 
 
 THE IRISHWOMAN'S LAMENT. 
 
 ^_ N sure I was tould to come till yer Honor 
 • • I ^^ To see would ye write a few lines to me 
 
 I'at? 
 He's gone for a soldier is Misthcr O'Con- 
 
 (3 
 
 Wid a stripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. 
 
 " And what'll ye tell him ? Sure it must be aisy 
 For the likes of yer Honor to spake wid a pen. 
 
 Tell hini I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy 
 (The baby, yer Honor) is better again. 
 
 " For when he went off, so sick was the darlint, 
 .She never hilt up her blue eyes till his face, 
 
 .\n<l when I'd he cryin' he'd look .nt nie v.ild-like. 
 And ax, ' Would I wish for the counthry's disgrace?' 
 
 "So he left her in danger, an' me sorely gravin'. 
 And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy ; 
 
 And it's often I (!rame of the big drums a batin', 
 And a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy. 
 
 "Tell him to send us a bit of his money 
 I'or the rint, and the doctor's bill due in a wake ; 
 
 But sure — there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey, 
 In faith, I'd no right wid such fradom to speak. 
 
 " I'm over much triflin'. Til not give ye trubble — 
 I'll lind some one willin' — oh 1 what ran it be? 
 
 What's that in the newspaper }'er foklin' up double ? 
 Yer Honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me. 
 
 i1 
 
 11 
 
 
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 Ii 
 
 1 .Ml , Y 
 
 
 11 
 
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452 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 l':f ■• : 
 
 
 "Dead ! Patrick O'Connor! o!i, God ! ii's some itiiur. 
 
 Sliot dead ! Sure a week's scarce ^joiic by ; 
 An' the kiss on the ciicek o' his sorro\vin;j; inithcr, 
 
 It hasn't had time yet, yer Honor, to dry. 
 
 " Dead ! Dead! Oil, my God, am I cra/y ? 
 
 Sliurc it's brakin' my Iieart, yer tcllin' me so. 
 And what in tiie world will become of me Daisy ? 
 
 Oh, what can I do ! Oh, where shall 1 gu? 
 
 "This room is so dark, I'm not seein', yjr 1 lonor; 
 
 I think I'll i;(> home" — and a sob, h.i.rd ;iiid dry. 
 Rose up from the Ixisom of Man.- O'Conner, 
 
 But never a tear-drop welled up to her ey.'. 
 
 VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL. 
 
 IS the soft twiliij-ht. Round the shininir f.. nder- 
 Two at my foet and one upun my knee— 
 Dreamy-ej-ed Elsie, brigiit-lipped Isabel, 
 'f' And thou, my golden-headed Raphael, 
 My fairy, small and slender. 
 Listen to what befell 
 Monk (iabriel, 
 In the old ages ripe with mystery : 
 Listen, my darlings, to the legend tender. 
 
 An .aged man with grave, but gentle look — 
 Mis silence sweet with souniis 
 With which the simi^Ie-hearted .'spring abounds ; 
 Lowing of cattle from the abljcy grounds, 
 Chirping of insect, and the building rock 
 Mingled like murmurs of a dreami'ig shell ; 
 Quaint tracery of bird, and branch, and brook, 
 Flitting across the pages of his book. 
 Until the very words a freshness took — 
 Deep in l;is cell 
 Sat the monk Gabriel. 
 
 In his book he read 
 Tiie words the Master to His dear ones said : 
 "A little while and ye 
 Shall see, 
 
 Shall gaze on Me ; 
 
 A little while again. 
 
 Ye shall not see Me then." 
 A little while ! 
 The monk looked up — a smile 
 Making his visage brilliant, liquid-eyed : 
 Thou who gracious art 
 Unto the poor of heart, 
 Q blessed Christ ! " he cried, 
 " Great is the misery 
 
 Of mine iniquity ; 
 But would /now might see. 
 Might feast on Thee ! " 
 — The bl(jod with sudden start, 
 Nigh rent his veins apart — 
 (Oh condescension of the Crucified :) 
 
 In all the brilliancy 
 
 Of His Humanity — 
 The Christ stood by his side ! 
 
 Pure as the early lily was His skin, 
 His cheek out-blushed the rose, 
 
 His lips, the glows 
 Of autumn sunset on eternal snows ; 
 
 And I lis deep eyes within, 
 .Such nameless beauties, wondrous glories dwelt 
 The monk in speechless adoration knelt. 
 In each fair hand, in each fair foot there shone 
 Tlie i)eorless st.irs He took from Calvary ; 
 Around His br^ws in tenderest lucency 
 The t!iorn-marks lingered, like the flash of dawn ; 
 And from the openi. g in His side there rilled 
 A light, S(5 daz;'.!ing, that all the room was filled 
 W'itii heaven ; aiul transfigured in his place, 
 
 His very breathing stilled, 
 T!k- frip.r held his robe before his face, 
 
 And heard the angels singing ! 
 
 'Twas but a moment — then, upon the spell 
 Of this sweLt presence, lo ! a something broke, 
 A soineihi;-.g trembling, in the belfry woke, 
 
 A sh-wer of metal music flinging 
 O'er wold and moat, o'er par'- -nd lake and fell. 
 And through the open windows of the ccH 
 
 In silver chimes came ringing. 
 
 It was the bell 
 
 Calling monk Gabriel, 
 
 Unto his daily task, 
 Tt) feed the paupers at the abbey gate ; 
 
 No respite did he ask, 
 Nor for a second summons idly wait ; 
 I'jUt rose up, jaying in his humble way ; 
 " I'ain would I stay, 
 
 O Lord ! and feast alway 
 I'pon the honeyed sweetness of Thy beauty ; 
 But 'tis T/iy will, not mine. I must obey. 
 
 Help me to do my duty ! " 
 
 The while the Vision smiled, 
 The monk went forth, light-hearted as a child. 
 
 An hour hence, his duty nobly done 
 
 Back to his cell he came, 
 Unasked, unsought, lo ! his reward was won ! 
 — Rafters and walls and floor were yet aflame 
 Witii all the matchless glory of that sun. 
 And in the centre stood the Blessed One 
 (Praise be His Holy Name !) 
 Who for our sakes our cro.sses made His own, 
 And bore our weight of shame. 
 
 Down on the threshold fell 
 Monk Gabriel, 
 His forehead pnssed upon the floor of clay, 
 And while in deep humility he lay, 
 ( Tears raining from his happy eyes away) 
 ' Whence is this favor. Lord ?" he strove to say. 
 
 The Vision only said. 
 Lifting Its shining head ; 
 ' If ihou hadst staid, O son, / must have fled." 
 
 Eleanor C. Donnklly. 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 4o3 
 
 LET US ALL BE UNHAPPY TOGETHER. 
 
 HJ 
 
 E bipeds, made up of frail clay, 
 
 Alas! are the children of sorrow ; 
 And, though brisk and merry to-day, 
 We may all be unhappy to-niorrow. 
 For sunshine's succeeded by rain ; 
 
 Then, fearful of life's stormy weather, 
 Lest pleasure should only bring pain, 
 Let us all be unhappy together. 
 
 I grant the best blessing we know 
 
 Is a friend, for true friendship's a treasure ; 
 And yet, lest your friend prove a (oc, 
 
 Oh ! taste not the dangerous pleasure. 
 Thus friendship's a flimsy aftair, 
 
 Thus riches and health are a bubble ; 
 Thus there's nothing delightful but care, 
 
 Nor anything pleasing but trouble. 
 
 If a mortal could point out that life 
 
 Which on earth could be nearest to heaven, 
 Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife 
 
 To whom truth and honor are given. 
 But honor and truth are so rare. 
 
 And horns, when they're cutting, so tingle, 
 That, with all my respect to the fair, 
 
 I'd advise him to sigh, and live single. 
 
 It appears from these premises plain, 
 
 That wisdom is nothing but folly ; 
 That pleasure's a term that means pain. 
 
 And that joy is your true melancholy ; 
 That all those who laugh ought to cry, 
 
 That 't is fine frisk and fun to be grieving ; 
 And that, since we must all of us die, 
 
 We should taste no enjoyment while living. 
 
 Charlks Dibdin. 
 
 THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW. 
 
 J VE just come in from the meadow, wife, where 
 the grass is tall and green ; 
 I hobbled out upon my cane to see John's new 
 machine ; 
 It made my old eyes snap again to see that mower 
 
 mow. 
 And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I swung some 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 Many and many's the day l ve mowed 'neath the rays 
 
 of a scorching sun, 
 Till I thought my poor old back would break ere my 
 
 task for the day was clone ; 
 I often think of the days of toil in the fields all over 
 
 the farm, 
 Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, and the old 
 
 pain come in my arm. 
 
 It was hard work, it was slow work' a-swinging the 
 old scythe then ; 
 
 Unlike the mower that went through the grass like 
 
 death through llie ranks uf men. 
 I stood and looked till my old eyes ached, amazed at 
 
 its speed and power ; 
 The work that it took me a day to do, it done in one 
 
 short hour. 
 
 John said that I hadn't seen the half: when he puts it 
 
 into his wheat, 
 I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in bundles 
 
 neat ; 
 Then soon a Yankee will come along, and set to work 
 
 and lam 
 To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and send it 
 
 into the barn. 
 
 John kinder laughed when he said it, but I said to the 
 hired men, 
 
 " I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my 
 threescore years and ten, 
 
 That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the 
 air, 
 
 Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most anywhere." 
 I 
 
 ; There's a difference in tlw: work I done, and the work 
 I my boys now do ; 
 
 Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret 
 I in the new ; 
 
 I Out somehow I think there was happiness crowded 
 I into those toiling days, 
 
 . That the fast young men of the present will not see 
 I till they change their ways. 
 
 To think that I ever fhould live to see work done in 
 I this wonderful way ! 
 
 I Old tools are of little service now, and farmin' is al- 
 most play ; 
 The women have got their sewing machines, their 
 
 wringers, and every sich thing, 
 And now play tennis in the door-yard, or sit in the 
 parlor and sing. 
 
 'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the days so 
 
 long gone by ; 
 You riz up early, and sat up late, a toilin' for you 
 
 and I. 
 There were cows to milk ; there was 'nitter to make ; 
 
 and many a day did you stand 
 A-wa'ihin' my toil-stained garments, and wringin' t :ti 
 
 out by hand. 
 
 Ah! wife, our children will nevdrsee the hard wc rk 
 
 we have seen, 
 For the heavy task and the long task is now done 
 
 with a machine ; 
 No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower 
 
 — there ! hear it afar ? 
 A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass with the 
 
 noise of a railroad car. 
 
 I i 
 
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 464 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 WeM ! the old tools now are shoved away ; they stand 
 
 a-gatherin rust, 
 Like many nn old man I have seen put aside with 
 
 only a crust ; 
 When the eye grows dim, when the step is weak, 
 
 when the strength goes out of his arm, 
 The best thing a poor old man can do is to hold the 
 
 deed of the farm. 
 
 There is one old way that they can't improve although 
 
 it has been tried 
 By men who have studied and studied, and worried 
 
 till they died ; 
 It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold refined 
 
 from its dross ; 
 
 It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by the simple 
 
 way of the cross. 
 
 John H. Yates. 
 
 THE WAY TO SING. 
 
 •HE birds must know. Who wi.scl)' sings 
 Will sing as lltey. 
 The common air has generous wings : 
 Songs make their way. 
 
 No messenger to run before, 
 
 Devising plan ; 
 No mention of the place, or hour, 
 
 To any man ; 
 No waiting till some sound betrays 
 
 A listening ear; 
 No different voice, no new delays, 
 
 If steps draw near. 
 
 " What bird is that ? The song is good." 
 And eager eyes 
 Go peering through the dusky wood 
 In glad surprise. 
 
 Then, late at night, when by his fire, 
 
 The traveler sits. 
 Watching the flame grow brighter, higher, 
 
 The sweet song flits. 
 By snatches, through his wear)' brain, 
 
 To help him rest ; 
 When next he goes that road again. 
 
 An empty nest 
 On leafless bow will make him sigh : 
 
 "Ah me ! last spring, 
 Just here I heard, in passing by, 
 
 That rare bird sing." 
 
 But while he sighs, remembering 
 
 How sweet the song, 
 The little bird, on tireless wing. 
 
 Is borne along 
 In other air ; and other men. 
 
 With weary feet. 
 On other roads, the simple strain 
 
 Are finding sweet. 
 
 The birds must know. Who wisely sings 
 
 Will sing as they. 
 The common air has generous wings : 
 
 Songs make their way. 
 
 Hellen Hunt Jackso.n (//. //.) 
 
 I{J' 
 
 AN INCOMPLETE REVELATION. 
 
 HILE Quaker folks were Quakers still, some 
 fvfty years ago, 
 When coats were drab and gowns were plain 
 and speech was staid anrl slow, 
 Before Dame Fashion dared suggest a single friz or curl, 
 There dwelt, mid Penfield's peaceful shades, an old- 
 time Quaker girl. 
 
 Ruth Wilson's garb was of her sect. Devoid of furbe- 
 lows. 
 
 She spoke rebuke to vanity from bonnet to her toes ; 
 
 Sweet redbird was she, all disguised in feathers of the 
 dove, 
 
 With dainty foot and perfect form and eyes that dreamt 
 of love. 
 
 Sylvanus Moore, a bachelor of forty years or so, 
 
 A quaintly pious, weazened soul, with beard and hair 
 
 of tow 
 And queer thin legs and shuffling walk and drawling, 
 
 nasal tone, 
 Was prompted by the Spirit to make this maid his own. 
 
 He knew it was the Spirit, for he felt it in his breast 
 .As oft before in meeting-time, and, sure of his request, 
 Procured the permit in due form. On Fourth-day of 
 
 that week 
 He let Ruth know the message true that he was movjd 
 
 to speak. 
 
 " Ruth, it has been revealed to me that thee and I shall 
 wed, 
 
 I have spoken to the meeting and the members all 
 have said 
 
 That our union seems a righteous one, which they will 
 not gainsay, 
 
 So if convenient to thy views, I'll wed thee ne.\t Third- 
 day." 
 
 The coolpossessionof herself by Friend Sylvanus Moore 
 
 Aroused her hot resentment, which by effort she for- 
 bore — 
 
 She knew he was a goodly man, of simple, childlike 
 mind — 
 
 And checked the word "Impertinence ! " and answered 
 him in kind : 
 
 "Sylvanus Moore, do thee go home and wait until 1 
 
 see 
 
 The fact that I must be thy wife revealed unto me." 
 
 And thus she left him there alone, at will to ruminate - 
 
 Sore puzzled at the mysteries of love, free-will, Hiid 
 
 fate. 
 
 Richard A. Jackson. 
 
 Hi! iW 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 455 
 
 U 
 
 THE COSMIC EGG. 
 
 PON a rock yet uiicreate, 
 AiniJ a chaos inchoate, 
 An uncreated behig sate ; 
 Beneath hini, rock, 
 Above liini, cloud. 
 And the cloud was rock, 
 And the rock was cloud. 
 The rock tlicn growinj; sc<ft and warm, 
 The cloud began to tako a form, 
 A form chaotic, vast and vague, 
 Wiiich issued in the cosmic egg. 
 Then llm IVing uncreate 
 On tliJ o-jj did incubate, 
 And ihus became the incubator ; 
 And of the egg did allegate, 
 And thus became the alligator ; 
 And the incubator was iwte.itatf , 
 But the alligator was potentator. 
 
 HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 
 
 THOU, wlia in the heavens dost dwell, 
 Wha, as it pleases best tliysel', 
 Sends anc to heaven, ane ten to hell, 
 '^ A' for thy glory. 
 
 And no for onie guid or ill 
 
 Tliey've done aAjre thee ! 
 
 I bless and praise Thy matchless might, 
 Whan thousands Thou has left in night. 
 That I am here afore Thy sight. 
 
 For gifts an' grace, 
 A burning an' a shining light, 
 
 To a' this place. 
 
 What was I, or my generation. 
 That I should get such exaltation ? 
 I, wha deserve such just danuiation, 
 
 For broken laws, 
 Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 
 
 Through Adam's cause. 
 
 When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
 Thou might iiae i)lunged me into hell. 
 To gnash luy gums, to weep and wail. 
 
 In burniii' lake. 
 Where damned devils roar and yell. 
 
 Chained to a stake. 
 
 Yet I am here a chosen sample. 
 
 To show Thy grace is great and ample ; 
 
 I'm here a pillar in Thy temple, 
 
 Strong as a rock, 
 A guide, a buckler, an example 
 
 To a' Thy flock. 
 
 O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear, 
 When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, 
 
 And singing there, and dancing here, 
 
 Wi' great and sma' : 
 For I am keepit by Thy fear, 
 
 Iree frae them a'. 
 
 Bnt yet, O Lord ! confess I must. 
 At times I'm fashed wi' fleshly lust, 
 An' sometimes, too, wi* warldly trust — 
 
 Vile self gets in; 
 liut Thou remembers we are dust, 
 
 Defiled in sin. 
 
 Maybe thou lets this fleshly tliorn 
 
 ]>eset Thy servant e'en and morn, 
 
 1-est lie owre high and proud should turn, 
 
 'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
 If sae. Thy hand maun e'en be borne, 
 
 Until Thou lift iu 
 
 Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
 I'or here Thou hast a chosen race ; 
 But God confound their stubborn face, 
 
 And blast their name, 
 Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace. 
 
 An' public shame. 
 
 l^ord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. 
 He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, 
 Vet has sae monie takin' arts, 
 
 Wi' great and sma', 
 Frae God's ai-n priests the people's hearts 
 
 He steals awa'. 
 
 An' when we chastened him therefore. 
 Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
 As set the warld in a roar 
 
 O' laughin' at us ; — 
 Curse Thou his basket and liis store, 
 
 Kail and potatoes. 
 
 Lord, hear my earnest cry an' prayer. 
 
 Against that Presbyt'ry o' Ayr ; 
 
 Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare, 
 
 ITpo' their heads ; 
 Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare. 
 
 For their misdeeds. 
 
 O Lord my God, that glib-tongued Aiken, 
 
 My very heart and saul arequakiu' 
 
 To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', 
 
 An' swat wi' dread, 
 While he wi' hinging lips gaed snakin'. 
 
 An' hid his head. 
 
 Lord, in the day o' vengeance try him, 
 Lord, visit them wha did employ him. 
 And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em, 
 
 Nor hear their prayer; 
 But for Thy people's sake destroy 'em, 
 
 And dinna spare. 
 
 
 V.i\ 
 
 ii I 
 
45G 
 
 CROWN je:wels. 
 
 m 
 
 \ 
 
 fit' 
 
 1.;, ;^ 
 
 lite'" " 
 
 But, Lord, remember me and mine 
 Wi' mercies temp ral and divine, 
 That I for gear and grace may shine, 
 
 Excelled by nane, 
 An' a' the glory shall be Thine, 
 
 Amen, Amen. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 DECEMBER AND MAY. 
 
 Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together. 
 
 Shakkspeark. 
 
 ■^AID Nestor to his pretty wife-, (iiiite .sorrowful 
 one day, 
 "Wliy, dearest, will you shed in pearls those 
 lovely eyes away ? 
 You ought to be more fortified." " Ah, brute, be quiet, 
 
 do, 
 I know I'm not so fortified, nor fiftyfied, as you ! 
 
 "Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard, 
 You'd die for me you swore, and I — I took you at your 
 
 word. 
 I was a tradesman's widow then — a pretty change I 've 
 
 made ; 
 To live and die tlie wife of one, a widower by trade ! " 
 
 "Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in 
 
 sober truth, 
 You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in 
 
 youth ; 
 Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at 
 
 me you hufi." 
 "Why, yes," she said, "and so I do — but you 're not 
 
 old enough ! " 
 
 " Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a 
 
 quiet hive ; 
 I'll be the best of men — I mean I'll be the best alive. 
 Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the 
 
 core." 
 " I thank ye sir, for telling me, for now I'll grieve the 
 
 more ! " 
 
 THE THREE WARNINGS. 
 
 'HE tree of deepest root is found 
 
 Least willing still to quit the ground ; 
 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages. 
 That love oflifc increased with years 
 So much, that in our latter stages. 
 When pahis grow sharp, and s ickness rages, 
 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 This great affection to believe, 
 Which all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail, 
 Be pleased to hear a modem tale. 
 
 When sports went round, and all were gay, 
 On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day. 
 
 Death called a^ide the jocund gtoom 
 
 With him into another room, 
 
 And looking grave — "You must," says he, 
 " Qi'it your sweet bride, and come with me." 
 " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? 
 
 With you !" the hapless husband cried ; 
 " Young r.s I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! 
 
 Besides, i;i truth, I'm not prepared : 
 
 My thoughts on other matters go ; 
 
 This is my wedding-day, you know." 
 
 What more he urged I have not heard, 
 
 His reasons could not well be stronger; 
 So death the poor delinciuent spared. 
 
 And left to live a little longer. 
 Yet calling up a serious look. 
 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — 
 " Ne'ghbor," he said, "farewell! no more 
 Shall Death disturb your niirdiful hour : 
 And further, to avoid all blame 
 Of cruelty upon tliy name. 
 To give you time for preparation, 
 And fit you for your future station, 
 Three several warnings you shall have, 
 Before you're summoned to the grave ; 
 Willing for once I'll quit my prey. 
 
 And grant a kind reprieve ; 
 In iiopes you'll have no more to say ; 
 But, when I call again this way, 
 
 Well pleased the world v.ill leave." 
 To these conditions b ith consented. 
 And parted perfectly contented. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell, 
 How long he lived, how wise, how well. 
 How roundly he pursued his course, 
 And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse. 
 
 The willing muse shall teil : 
 He chaffered, then he bought and sold. 
 Nor once perceived his growing old. 
 
 Nor thought of Death as near : 
 His friends not false, his wife no shrew. 
 Many his gains, his children few. 
 
 He passed his hours in peace. 
 But while he viewed his wealth increase. 
 While thus along life's dusty road, 
 The beaten track content he trod. 
 Old Time, whose hjiste no mortal spares, 
 Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year. 
 And now, one night, in musing mood. 
 
 As all alone he sate. 
 The unwelcome messenger of fate 
 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
 Half-killed with anger and surprise, 
 " So soon returned !" old Dodson cries. 
 " So soon, d' ye call it ? " death replies : 
 " Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ! 
 
 ' } li , 
 
POETICAL CURIOSITIES. 
 
 457 
 
 Since I was here before 
 'Tis six-aiid-tliirty years at least, 
 And you are now fourscore." 
 
 " So much the worse," the clown rejoined ; 
 "To spare tlie aj;c'd would he kind : 
 Reside, you promised nic tiircc warnings, 
 Wliich I have looiced for nigiits and mornings ; 
 Ikit fi)r that loss of time and ease, 
 I can recover damages." 
 
 " I know," cries Death, "tii.it at the best, 
 
 I sfldom am a welcome guest; 
 
 Hut don't be captious, friend, at least; 
 
 I little thought you'd still be able 
 
 To stump about your f.irm ancLstable : 
 
 Your years have run to a greaWengih : 
 
 I wish you joy, though' of your strength ! " 
 
 "Hold ! " says the farmer ; " not so fast ! 
 I have been lame these four years past. ' 
 "And no great wonder," Death replies : 
 '' However, you still keep your eyes ; 
 And sure to see one's loves and friends. 
 For legs and arms would make amends." 
 
 " Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might. 
 
 But latterly I've lost my sight." 
 
 " This is a shocking talo, 'ti;; true ; 
 
 But still there's comfort Lft for yuu : 
 
 Each strives your sachiess to amuse ; 
 
 I warrant you hear all the news." 
 
 "There's none," cries he ; " and if there were, 
 
 I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 
 " Nay, then," tlie spectre stern rejoined, 
 
 " These are unjustifiable yearnings ; 
 If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 
 
 You've had your three suflicient warnings ; 
 .So come along ; no more we'll part ;" 
 He said, and touched him with his dart. 
 And now old Dodson, turning pale. 
 Yields to his fate — so ends my talc. 
 
 Mrs. TiiRALE. 
 
 R 
 
 TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. 
 
 BY A MISEKADLE WRKTCH. 
 
 OLL on, thou ball, roll on ! 
 Through pathless realms of space 
 
 Roll on I 
 W'liat tiiough I'm in a sorry case? 
 What though I cannot meet my bills? 
 What though I suffer toothache's ills? 
 What though I swallow countless pills? 
 Never ^ow mind I 
 Roll on ! 
 
 Roll on, thou ball, roll on ! 
 Through seas of inky air 
 
 Roll on ! 
 It's tme I've got no shirts to wear, 
 It's true my butcher's bill is due. 
 It's true my prospects all look blue. 
 But don't let that unsettle you ' 
 Never >'t)M mind ! 
 Roll on ! 
 
 [// rolls on. 
 William Schwen'ck Gii.pert. 
 
 J I s 'I 
 
HUMOROUS readings: 
 
 i^ 
 
 ! !, 
 
 1 ; .' 
 
 i 
 
 A LOVE LETTER FROM DAKOTA. 
 
 WEET Jinny, I write on me 
 knee 
 Witl theshtumpofa 
 liniitiil pincil ; 
 I would write on my 
 dislc, but you see 
 I'm widout that convainient 
 utinsil. 
 I've a house of my own, but 
 as yet 
 Me furniture's homely an* 
 shlinder ; 
 It's a wife I am afther, to let 
 Her consult /wr ideals of 
 shplindor. 
 If I should buy tables an' 
 chairs, 
 An' bureaus, an' carpets, an' 
 vases. 
 An'— bother the lingo of wares !— 
 
 An' curtains wid camel-hair laces, 
 Perhaps whin I married a wife 
 
 She would turn up her nose at me choosin'. 
 Or wayslit the shweet bloom of her life 
 Wid pretinse of contint at their usin'. 
 So now, I've no carpets to shweep. 
 Nor tables nor chairs to tip o'er ; 
 Whin night comes I roll up an' shleep 
 
 As contint as a pig on the floor. 
 But ah, the shweet dreams that I dream 
 
 Of Erin's most beautiful daughter ! 
 Until in me visions you seem 
 On your way to me over the water ! 
 ( — Please pardon me method ungainly, 
 
 But, hopin' the future may yoke us, 
 I'll try to be bould an' speak plainly, 
 An' bring me note down to a focus : — ) 
 Would you marry a man wid a farrum. 
 An' a house most ixquisitely warrum, 
 Wid wall so ixcaidin'ly thick, m'am. 
 For they're built of a single big brick, ma'am, 
 Touchin' Mexico, Texas, Nebrasky — 
 The thickest walls iver you thought of, 
 Why, they cover the country we bought of 
 The sire of Alexis — Alasky ! 
 For sure its great walls are the worruld — 
 
 In fact It's a hole in the ground ; 
 But oh, its the place to be curruled 
 
 Whin the whirlwinds are twirlin' around ! 
 It is ivery bit basemint ixcipt 
 The parlor, that lies out-of-doors, 
 
 Where the zephyr's pure fingers have swept 
 
 Its million-ply carpeted floors. 
 P'or^jive me ixtravigant speeches, 
 
 nut it's fiiir as the dreams of a Hindoo, 
 Wid me parlor's unlimited reaches 
 
 An' the sky for a sunny bay-window. 
 
 Me darlint, Dakota is new. 
 
 Sod houses are here widout number, 
 But I'll build a broad mansion for you— 
 
 Whin I'm *ble to purchase the lumber. 
 An' sure 'twill not take very long 
 
 Where the soil is so fertile, I'm tould : 
 Whin you tune up your plow for a song. 
 
 The earth hums a chorus of gould. 
 
 Thin come to your Dinnis O'Brion, 
 
 An' let his fidelity prove 
 That his heart is as strong as a lion, 
 
 Ixcipt that it's burstin' wid love. 
 
 W. W. Fink. 
 
 THE DEACON'S CONFESSION. 
 
 ES, surely the bells in llie steeple 
 
 Were ringing ; I thought you knew why. 
 No ? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly 
 It's whispered about on the sly : 
 Some six weeks ago a church meeting 
 
 Was held, for — no one knew what ; 
 But we went, and the parson was present. 
 And I don't know who, or who not. 
 
 Some twenty odd members, I calc'late 
 
 Which mostly was wimmin, of course ; 
 But I don't mean to say aught agin 'em— 
 
 I seen many gatherings look worse. 
 And in tiie front row sat the deacons ; 
 
 The eldest was old Deacon Pryor, 
 A man countin' fourscore and seven. 
 
 And ginerally full of his ire. 
 
 Beside him his wife, aged fourscore, 
 
 A kind-hearted, motherly soul ; 
 And, next to her, young Deacon Hartley, 
 
 A good Christian man, on the whole. 
 Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty. 
 
 And long ago laid on the shell, 
 Had wedged herself next, and beside her 
 
 Was Deacon Munroe— that's myself. 
 
 The meeting was soon called to order. 
 
 The parson looked glum as a text ; 
 We silently .stared at each other, 
 
 And every one wondered " What next? " 
 
 (458) 
 
HUMOROUS Rl'.ADINGS. 
 
 450 
 
 Fink. 
 
 »w why. 
 igli mostly 
 
 ?" 
 
 When straightway uprose Deacon Hartley, 
 His voice seemed to tremble with fear 
 
 As he said : "Hoy and niaii, you have known me, 
 My friends, for this nigh forty year. 
 
 " And you scarce may expect a confession 
 
 Of error from me— but— you know 
 My dearly loved wife died last Ciiristmas — 
 
 It's now over ten months a>;o. 
 The winter went by long and lonely — 
 
 But the spring-time crep' forward apace ; 
 The farm work begun, and I needed 
 
 A woman about the old place. 
 
 " My children were wilder than rabbits, 
 
 And all growing worse every day ; 
 I could fnid no licli) in the village. 
 
 Although I was willing to pay. 
 I declare I was near 'bout discouraged, 
 
 And everything looked so forlorn, 
 When good Hale Patience McAlpine 
 
 Skipped into our kitchen one morn. 
 
 " She had only run in of an errand, 
 
 Hut .she laughed at our woe-begone plight, 
 And set to work just like a woman, 
 
 A-putting the whole place to right. 
 And though her own folks was so busy, 
 
 And illy her helpin' could spare, 
 She'd flit in and out like a sparrow, 
 
 And 'most every day she was there. 
 
 " So the summer went by sort o' cheerful ; 
 
 IJut one night my baby, my Joe, 
 Was restless and feverish, and woke me, 
 
 As babies will often, you know. 
 I was tired with my day's work, and sleepy, 
 
 And couldn't no way keep him still ; 
 So at last I grew angry and spanked him. 
 
 And then he screamed out with a will. 
 
 " Twas just then I heard a soft rapping 
 
 Away at the half-open door — 
 And then little Patience McAlpine 
 
 Stepped shyly across the white floor. 
 Says she : ' I thought Josie was crying ; 
 
 I guess I'd best iake him away — 
 I knew you'd be getting up early 
 
 To go to the marshes for hay, 
 
 " ' So I staid here to-night to get breakfast — 
 
 I guess he'll be quiet with me. 
 Come, baby, kiss papa, and tell him 
 
 What a nice little man he will be.' 
 She was bending low over the baby, 
 
 And saw the big- tears on his cheek ; 
 But her face was so near to my whiskers 
 
 I daresn't move scarcely, or speak. 
 
 " Her arms were both holding the baby. 
 Her eyes by his shoulder was hid — 
 But her mouth was so near and so rosy 
 That— I kissed her — that's just what 1 did." 
 
 Then down sat the trembling sinner : 
 TIk- sisters ihey murmured ; " lor shame '" 
 
 A\h\ "she shiiuldn'l ou^'httT a 1 t liim ; 
 No doubt s/ie was mostly to blanif." 
 
 When slowly uprose l^e.-icon Prynr, 
 
 " Ntnv, bretlirin and sisters," \\- said 
 (.\nil we knowed then that suthin' was coming, 
 
 And we sot tis still as the dead :) 
 "We've heard Rrother Hartley's i-onfossion, 
 
 And I speak for myself, when 1 s:iy, 
 That if my wife was dead, and my children 
 
 Were all growing wuss every day ; 
 
 " And if my house needed attention, 
 
 And Patience McAlpine should ct mo 
 And tidy the chitlercd-up kitchen. 
 
 And make the place seem more like home — 
 And if I was tired out and sleepy, 
 
 And my baby wouldn't lie still. 
 Rut cried out at midnight and woke me. 
 
 As babies, we know, sometimes will ; 
 
 "And if Patience caim; in to luisli him, 
 
 .\ntl 'twas all as our gooil brollui' s lys, 
 I think, fricntls — I think I should kiss her, 
 
 And abiile by the consequences." 
 Then down sat the elderly deacon ; 
 
 The younger one lifted his face. 
 And a smile rippled over the meeting. 
 
 Like light in a shadowy place. 
 
 Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters 
 
 Remembered their far-away youth, 
 Or the daughters at home by their firesides. 
 
 Shrined each in her shy, modest triUli. 
 For their judgments grew gentle and kindly ; 
 
 And -well, as I started to say. 
 The solemn old bells in the stei pie 
 
 Were ringing a bridal to-day. 
 
 N. S. E.MKKSO.V. 
 
 THE SOFT GUITAR. 
 
 Scbnk: Moonlight. Beneath the lady's window appeareth the 
 lover, and singeth, with guitar accompaniment. 
 
 Lover, 
 PEN thy lattice, O lady bright I 
 The earth lies calm in the fair moonlight ; 
 Gaze on the glint of each glancing star. 
 And list to the notes of my soft guitar. 
 
 At the lady's window a vision shone — 
 'Twas the ladys head with a night-cap on. 
 
 Lover. 
 (/« ecstacy.) 
 See ! at the casement appearing now, 
 With lily fingers she hides her brow. 
 Oh, weep not — though bitter thy sorrows are, 
 I will sootlie them to rest with my soft guitar. 
 
^ I, ) "■ 
 
 il'' ( ', 
 
 >, r. 
 
 ,u : 
 
 V ( 
 
 I 
 
 li \m: 
 
 ift I.; :.iJji- , :* 
 
 460 
 
 C nVN Jl-AVKLS. 
 
 Tlieii the lady imswcri'il, " Who's K"'"K t>> weep? 
 Ciii 'way witlj your liildlc, and let nic sleep." 
 
 I,(ni;K. 
 (Sadditiid, but still hopeful.) 
 Then sleep, clear lady ; thy friiiy;ed lids close, 
 rinioiis (if i-lieriil>iiii f.iii tiiy ri'pusc, 
 While thri>ii(;h tliy casement, sliKlilly ajar, 
 Steal the sweet notes of my soft guitar. 
 
 Then the lady her "secret pain " confessed 
 With the plaintive nuirimir, "Oh, yive us a rest! " 
 
 I.OVKR. 
 
 (Sli,i^htly liiscouraffcd.) 
 Chide me not harshly, O lady fair ! 
 Mend from tiiy lattice, and hear my prayer. 
 Siijhinj; for thee, I wander afar. 
 Mournfully touching my soft guitar. 
 
 Anil the lady answered: " You stupid thing, 
 If you've got the catarrh, stop trying to si::,; ! " 
 
 LOVKR. 
 
 {Filled with natural and righteous indignation.) 
 Cruel hut fair one, thy scorn restrain! 
 Uetter death's (juietthan thy disdain. 
 I go to fall in some distant war. 
 Hearing in battle my loved guitar. 
 
 Answered the lady : " Well, hurry and go ! 
 I'm holding the slop-bi- ready to throw." 
 
 1 
 {Making immediate preparations to depart.) 
 False one, I leave thee ! When I'm at rest 
 .Still shall my memory haunt ihy breast ; 
 A spectral visitin thy joy shall mar— 
 A skeleton playing a soft guitar ! 
 
 And the lady cried, in a scornful tone, 
 " Old skeleton, go it — and play it alone ! " 
 
 Then the lover in agony roamed afar- 
 Fell drunk in the gutter, and smashed his guitar. 
 
 P. H. Howne. 
 
 THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 
 
 'HE Lady Jane was tall and slim. 
 The Lady Jane was fair 
 And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb, 
 And his cough was short, and his eyes were: 
 dim, 
 And h • wore green "specs " with a tortoise shell rim. 
 And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim, 
 And she was uncommonly fond of him — 
 And they were a loving pair ! 
 And wherever they went, or wherever they came, 
 Every one hailed them with loudest acclaim ; 
 
 I'ar and wide. 
 
 The peojiU- cried, 
 All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain. 
 To Sir Thomas the goiul, and the fair Laily Jane ! 
 
 Now .Sir Thomas the gooil, be it well understood. 
 Was a man of very contemplative mood — 
 I le would pour by the hour, o'er a weeil or .-i (lower, 
 Or the slugs, that came crawling out after a shower; 
 Ulack beetles, bumble-bees, blue-bottle ilies. 
 And moths, were of no small account in his eyes; 
 .All " industrious (lea," he'd by no means despise. 
 While an "old daddy long-legs," whose long legs and 
 
 thighs 
 Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size. 
 He was wont to consider an absolute prize, 
 ("living up, in short, both l)usiness and sport, he 
 Abandoned himself, tout entier, to pliilusophy. 
 
 Now as Lady Jane was t dl and slim, 
 
 And Lady Jane was fair. 
 And a good many years the junior of him, 
 'I'here are some might be found entertaining; a notion, 
 That such an entire, and e-xclusive devotion, 
 To that part of science, folks style entomology. 
 
 Was a positive shame. 
 
 And, to such a fair dame. 
 Really demanded some sort of apt)logy ; 
 ICver poking his nose into thi.s, and to that — 
 At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat, 
 At great ugly things, all legs and wings, 
 Willi nasty long t.iils, armed with nasty long slings;— 
 .And eternally thinking, and blinking, and winking, 
 .•\t grubs — when he ought of her to be thinking. 
 
 But no ! ah no ! 'twas by no means so 
 With the fair Lady Jane, 
 Tout au contraire, no lady so fair. 
 Was e'er known to wear more contented an air ; 
 And — let who would call — every day she was there, 
 Propounding receipts for some delicate fare. 
 Some toothsome conserve, of (juince, apple or pear. 
 Or distilling strong waters— or potting a hare— 
 Or counting her spoons, and her crockery ware ; 
 Enough to make less gifted visitors stare. 
 
 Nay more ; don't suppose 
 
 With such doings as those 
 This account of her merits must come to a close ; 
 No! — e.xamine her conduct more closely, you II find 
 She by no means neglected improving her mind ; 
 For there all the while, with an air quite bewitcliiii-, 
 She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitclnng. 
 Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen. 
 
 Close by her side, 
 
 Sat her kinsman, MacBride — 
 \ Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal ScoLs Fusiliers ;— 
 j And I doubt if you'd find, in the whole of his clan, 
 A more highly intelligent, worthy young man ; 
 
 And there he'd be sitting. 
 
 While she was a-kniiting, 
 
 'i'A. 
 
 IIM 
 
HUMOROUS RKADINGS. 
 
 461 
 
 mt' ! 
 H)d, 
 
 (lower, 
 liuwtr ; 
 
 ;ycs ; 
 
 ; lc>;s and 
 
 size, 
 
 he 
 
 ; a noliun, 
 
 Ji;y> 
 
 B sun-s ; 
 .vinkinj;, 
 kiivj;. 
 
 ir, 
 
 1 iiir ; 
 [as then.', 
 
 or pear, 
 Ire— 
 livare ; 
 
 I close ; 
 
 luU 11 tlll'l 
 
 Imind ; 
 
 Iwitchiiv-; 
 
 IcliiUK, 
 
 Isiiicrs ;— 
 Ihis clan, 
 I an ; 
 
 RcaiMnp aloud, with a very jjravc look, 
 
 Soiiu-' vt'r>' " wise saw," from simii.' vtry j;()()d hook — 
 
 No niatliT who camo. 
 
 It was always tin; sami-. 
 The Captain was ri' ^(lin^; aloud to the danie, 
 Till, from having gonu through half the books on the 
 
 shelf. 
 They were aliiio.it as wise as Sir Thoni.js himself. 
 
 Well it happ'.ned one day— 
 I really can't say 
 The particular luontli ; — hut I IhiiU- 'twas in May, 
 'Twas I kno7t> m the spring-time, wliiii "nature looks 
 
 Kay," 
 As the poet ol)ser\'es — and on tree-top and spray, 
 The dear little dickey birds carol away. 
 That the whole of the house was thrown into allVight, 
 l"or no soul could conceive what was gone with the 
 
 Knight. 
 
 It seems he had taken 
 
 A light breakfast— bacon. 
 An egg, a little broiKd hadilock— at most 
 ;\ round and a half of some hot buttered toast, 
 With a slice of cold sirloin from yi'stcrday's roast. 
 
 lUit no matter fcjr that— 
 
 I le had called for his hat, 
 With the brim that I've saiil was S(j broad and so flat, 
 And his "specs" with the tortoise-shell rim, and his 
 
 cane. 
 Thus ;irmed he set out on a ramble — a-lack ! 
 He set out, poor dear soul ! — but he never came back ! 
 " iMrst dinner bell " rang 
 
 Out its tuphonous clang 
 At five — folks kept early hours then— and the " last" 
 Ding-donged, as it ever was wont, at half-past. 
 Still the master was absent — the cook came and 
 
 said, he 
 Feared dinner would spoil, having been so long ready. 
 That the puddings her ladyship thought such a treat 
 He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat ! 
 Said the l.idy, "Dish up! Let the meal be served 
 
 straight, 
 And let two or three slices be put on a plate, 
 Aiul kept hot for Sir Thomas." — Cai^ain Dugald said 
 
 grace, 
 Then set himself down in Sir Thomas' place. 
 
 Wearily, wearily, all that night, 
 
 That live-long night did the hours go by ; 
 And the Lady Jane, 
 In grief and pain. 
 She sat herself clown to cry ! 
 And Captain McBride, 
 Who sat by her side, 
 Though I really can't say that he actually cried. 
 
 At least had a tear in his eye ! 
 As much as can well be e.xpected, perhaps, 
 From " very young fellows," for very " o'd chaps." 
 
 And if he had said 
 What lu'd got in his lu'ad, 
 'Twould have been, " Poor old l!ull'er, he's certainly 
 dead!" 
 
 Tlir morning dawneil— and ilie next — .ind the next. 
 And all in the mansion were still pi'iplexed ; 
 
 No knot ker fell. 
 
 His .-ijiproach to tell ; 
 Not so nuich as a runaway ring .it tin- bell. 
 
 \'tt till.- sun shone bright upon to\\\i- ind tree. 
 And ilie nifads smiled green a; grmi niay be. 
 And the dear liltU' dickry birds caroKd wilii glee, 
 .\nd the lambs in the p.irk sliippeil nu rry and free.— 
 Without, all was joy and harmony ! 
 
 \w\ thus 'twill be — nor long the tlay — 
 I'.n- we, like him, shall pass away ! 
 Yon sun tli.it now our bosoms warms, 
 .Siiall shine — but shine on otliiM' forms ; 
 V'jh grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers 
 Ms now, shall sound on other ears ; 
 The joyous lambs, as now, shall play, 
 lint other eyes its sports survey ; 
 The stream we loved shall roll as fair, 
 The tlowery sweets, the trim parterre. 
 Shall scent, as now, the ambient air ; 
 The tree whose bending branches bear 
 The one loved name— shall yet he there — 
 Hut where the hand diat carved it ? Where ? 
 
 These were hinted to me as the very ideas 
 Which passeil through the mind of the fair Lady Jane, 
 As she walkeil on the esplanade lo and again, 
 
 With Captain MacRride, 
 
 Of course at her side, 
 Who could n^t look quite so forlorn— though he tried. 
 An "idea" in fae had got into his head, 
 That if " poor dear Si • Thomas " should really be dead, 
 It might be no bad " sj ^c " to be there in his stead, 
 And by simply contriving in due time, to wed 
 
 A lady who was young and fair, 
 
 A lady slim and tail, 
 To set himself down in comfort diere. 
 
 The lord of Tapton Hall. 
 
 Thinks he, " We have sent 
 Half over Kent, 
 And nobody knows how much money's been spent. 
 Yet no one's been found to say which way he went ! 
 Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've 
 
 tried 
 Every plan we could hit on— and had him well cried, 
 ' Missing ! ! Stolen or Strayed, 
 Lost or Mislaid, 
 A Gentleman ; — middle-aged, sober and staid ; 
 Stoops slightly ;— ami when he left home was arrayed 
 In a sad colored suit, somewh.it dingy and frayed ; 
 Had spectacles on with a tortoise-shell rim, 
 And a hat rather low crowned, and broad in the brim. 
 
 :l *' 
 
462 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ;M 
 
 ! i 
 
 I' ', 
 
 m 
 
 
 Whoe'er shall bear, 
 
 Or send him with care, 
 (Right side uppermost) home ; or shall give notice 
 
 where 
 The middle-aged Gentleman is ; or shall state 
 Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate, 
 To the man at the turnpike, called Tappinfrton Gate, 
 Shall receive a reward oi Five Pounds for his trouble. 
 N. B. Ifdcfunct, the ^^awrrf will be double!!' 
 
 " Had he been above ground. 
 
 He must have been found. 
 No ; doubtless he's shot — or he's hanged — or he's 
 drowned ! 
 
 Then his widow— ay ! ay ! 
 
 But what will folks say ? — 
 To address iier at once, at so early a day ! 
 Well — what then— who cares ! — let 'em say what they 
 may." 
 
 When a man has decided. 
 
 As Captain MacBride did. 
 And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he 
 Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery. 
 He began on tiie instant, and vowed that her eyes 
 Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies ; 
 That her lips were like roses, her cheeks were like 
 
 lilies ; 
 Her breath had the odor of daffadowndillies ! — 
 Willi a thousand more compliments, equally true. 
 Expressed in similitudes equally new ! 
 
 Then his left arm he placed 
 
 Around her jimp, taper waist — 
 Ere she fixed to repulse or return his embrace, 
 Up came running a man at a deuce of a pace. 
 With that vcrj' peculiar expression of face 
 Which always betokens dismay or disaster. 
 Crying out — 'twas the gard'ner — " Oh ma'am ! we've 
 
 found master ! I " 
 "Where! where?" screamed the lady; and echo 
 screamed, " Where ? " 
 
 The man could n't say " there ! " 
 
 He had no breath to spare, 
 But gasping for breath he could only respond 
 By pointing — he pointed, alas! — to tiiic pond. 
 'T was e'en so ; poor dear Knight, with his " specs" 
 
 and his hat, 
 He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that ; 
 When close to the side of the brnk, he espied 
 An uncommon fine tadpole, remarkably fit ! 
 
 He stooped ; — and he thought her 
 
 His own ; — he had caught her ! 
 Got hold of her tail— and to land almost brought her. 
 When — he plumped head and lieels into fifteen feet 
 water ! 
 
 The Lady Jane was tall and slim. 
 
 The Lady Jane was fair, 
 Alas ! for Sir Thomas ! — she grieved for him. 
 As she saw two ser\ing men sturdy of limb. 
 
 His body between them bear : 
 
 She sobbed and she sighed, she lamented and cried. 
 
 For of sorrow brimful was her cup ; 
 She swooned, and I think she'd have fallen down aiu! 
 died. 
 
 If Captain MacBride 
 Had n't been by her side 
 With the gardener ;— they both their assistance supplied 
 And managed to hold her up. 
 
 But when she "comes to," 
 Oh ! 't is shocking to view 
 The sight which the corpse reveals 1 
 Sir Thomas' body, 
 It looked so odd — he 
 Was half eaten up by the eels ! 
 
 His waistcoat and hose. 
 
 And the rest of his clothes, 
 Were all gnawed through and through ; 
 
 And out of each shoe, 
 
 An eel they drew ; 
 And from each of his pockets they pulled out two ! 
 j And the gardener himself had secreted a few, 
 I As well might be supposed he'd do, 
 
 I For, when he came running to give the alarm, 
 ! He had six in the basket that hung on his arm. 
 
 Good Father John was summoned anon ; 
 
 Holy water was sprinkled and little bells tinkled, 
 
 And tapers were lighted. 
 
 And incense ignited. 
 And masses were sung, and masses were said. 
 All day, for the quiet repose of the dead. 
 And all night no one thought about going to bed. 
 
 But Lady Jane was tall and slim, 
 
 And Lady Jane was f:i!r, 
 And ere morning came, that winsome dame 
 Had made up her mind, or — what's much the same — 
 Had thought about, once more "changing her name," 
 
 And she said with a pensive air, 
 To Thompson the valet, while taking away, 
 When supper was over, the cloth and the tray, 
 " Eels a inai.y I've ate ; but any 
 
 So good ne'er tasted before ! — 
 They're a fish too, of which I'm remarkably fond- 
 Go — pop Sir Thomas again in the pond- 
 Poor dear ! — he'll catch us some more." 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 All middle-aged gentlemen let me advise. 
 
 If you're married, and liav'nt got very good eyes, 
 
 Don't go poking about after blue bottle flies. 
 
 If you've spectacles, don't have n tortoise-shell rim 
 
 And don't go near the water— unless you can swim. 
 
 Married ladies, especially such as are fair. 
 Tall and slim, I would next recommend to beware, 
 How, on losing one spouse, they give way to despair ; 
 But let them reflect, there are fish, and no doubt on't. 
 As good ill the river, as ever came out on't. 
 Richard Harris Bakh\m ( Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq), 
 
 r 
 
HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 463 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS 
 
 This ballad was occasioned by a real incident. Certain machines, 
 in the form of kegs, charRed willi gunpowder, were sent down 
 the river to annoy the Britisli shipping then at I'hiladelphia. The 
 danger of these machines being discovered, the British manned 
 the wharves and shipping, and discharged their smail arms and 
 cannons at every thing they saw floating in the rivir during the 
 ebb tide. 
 
 r i 
 
 Ui 
 
 
 , ALLANTS, attend and hear a friend 
 Trill fortli harmonious ditty ; 
 Stran},'e tliin!,'S I'll tell which late befell 
 In Philadelphia city. 
 
 'Twas early day, as jioets sa> , 
 
 Just w hen the sun was rising, 
 A S(jldicr stood on a log of wood, 
 
 And saw a thing surprising. 
 
 As in amaze he stood to gaze, 
 
 The truth can't be denied, sir, 
 He spied a score of kegs or more 
 
 Come floating down the tide, sir. 
 
 A sailor too, in jerkin blue, 
 
 This strange appearance viewing. 
 
 First rublied his eyes, in great surprise, 
 Then said some mischief's brewing. 
 
 These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold 
 Packed up like pickled herring ; 
 
 And they're come down to attack the town, 
 In this new way of ferrying. 
 
 The soldier flew, the sailor too. 
 And scared almost to death, sir, 
 
 Wore out their shoes, to spread the news. 
 And ran till out of breath, sir. 
 
 Now ii[) and down throughout the town 
 Most frantic scenes were acted ; 
 
 And some ran here, and others there, 
 Like men almost distracted. 
 
 .Some fire cried, which s.)me denied, 
 Iiut said the earth had (juaki^d ; 
 
 And girls and boys, with hideous noise. 
 Ran through the streets half naked. 
 
 I'rom sleep Sir William starts upright. 
 
 Awaked by sui h a clatter ; 
 He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries. 
 
 For God's sake, what's the matter ? 
 
 At his bedside he then espied 
 
 Sir F.rskine at command, sir; 
 Upon one foot he had one boot, 
 
 And ih' other in his hand, sir. 
 
 " Arisfe, arise," Sir Frskine cries, 
 "The rebels — more's the pity — 
 Without a boat are ali afloat. 
 And ranged before the city. 
 
 " The motley crew, in vessels new, 
 Witn Satan for their guide, sir. 
 Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs. 
 Come driving down the tide, sir. 
 
 "Therefore prepare for bl(iody war. 
 These kegs must r.ll be routed, 
 Or surely we despised shall be. 
 And British courage doubted." 
 
 The royal Ixind now ready stand, 
 
 All ranged in dread array, sir, 
 With stomach stout to see it out, 
 
 And make a bloody day, sir. 
 
 The cannons roar from shore to shore, 
 
 The small arms make a rattle ; 
 Since wars began I'm sure no man 
 
 E'er saw so strange a battle. 
 
 The rebel dales, the rebel vales, 
 
 W'ith rebel trees surrounded ; 
 The distant wood, the hills and floods. 
 
 With rebel echoes sounded. 
 
 The fish below swam to and fro. 
 
 Attacked from every quarter ; 
 Why sure, thought they, what is to pay 
 
 'Mongst folks above the water ? 
 
 The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made 
 
 Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, 
 Could not oppose their powerful foes. 
 
 The conquering British troops, sir. 
 
 From morn to night these men of might 
 
 Displayed amazing courage ; 
 And when the sun was fairl\- tlown, 
 
 Retired to sup their porridge. 
 
 A hundred men with each a pen, 
 
 Or more, upon my word, sir. 
 It is most true would be too few 
 
 Their valor to record, sir. 
 
 Such feats did they perform that day 
 
 Against these wicked kegs, sir, 
 Tiiat years to come, if they get home. 
 
 They'll make their lio.ist Piid brags, sir. 
 
 Francis Hoi'Kinson. 
 
 "PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." 
 
 f LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore : 
 Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's 
 
 dour ; 
 So hec.nlled upon Lucy— 'twas just ten o'clock — 
 Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. 
 
 Now, a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at. 
 
 Will run like a puss when she hear'-, a rat-tat : 
 
 So Lucy ran up— and in two seconds more 
 
 Had questioned the stranger and answered the door. 
 
 !■ ' i ! 
 
 i^iii. 
 
464 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 I'i :;;; 
 
 -%^ 
 
 The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe ; 
 
 For the moment will come when such comers must go : 
 
 So she kissed him, and whispered — poor innocent 
 
 thing— 
 
 "The next time vou come, love, pray come with a 
 
 ring." 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 A SOCIABLE! 
 
 *HEY carried pie to the parson's house. 
 And scattered the floor with crumbs, 
 And marked the leaves of his choicest books 
 'f' With the prints of their greasy thumbs. 
 
 They piled his dishes high and thick 
 
 With a lot of unhealthy cake, 
 While they gobbled the buttered toast and rolls 
 
 Which the parson's wife did make. 
 
 They hung around Clytie's classic neck 
 
 Their apple-parings for sport, 
 And every one laughed when a clumsy lout 
 
 Spilled his tea on the piano- forte. 
 
 Next day the parson went down on his knees, 
 
 With his wife — but not to pray ; 
 O no ; 't was to scrape the grease and dirt 
 
 From the carpet and stairs away. 
 
 im^'- 
 
 SHACOB'S LAMENT. 
 
 XCOOSE me if I shed some tears, 
 
 Und wipe tiiy nose avay ; 
 
 Und if a lump vus in my troat. 
 
 It comes up dere to shtay. 
 
 My sadness I shall now unfoldt, 
 
 Und if dot tale of woe 
 Don'd do some Dutchmans any good. 
 
 Den I don't pelief I know. 
 
 You see, I fall myself in love, 
 
 Und effery night I goes 
 Across to Brooklyn by dot pridge. 
 
 All dressed in Sunday clothes. 
 
 A viddcr vomans vos der brize, 
 Her husiiand he vos dead ; 
 
 Und all alone in this colt vorldt 
 Dot vidder vos, she said. 
 
 Her heart for Icjve vos on der pine, 
 
 Und dot I like to see ; 
 Und all der time I hoped dot heart 
 
 Vos on der pine for me. 
 
 I keeps a butcher shop, you know, 
 
 Und in a stocking stout, 
 I put avay my gold and bills, 
 
 Und nu one gets iiim oudt. 
 
 If in der night some bank cashier 
 Goes skipping off mit cash, 
 
 I shleep so sound as nefer vos, 
 Vhile rich folks go to shniash. 
 
 I court dot vidder sixteen months, 
 
 Dot vidder she courts me, 
 Und vhen I says : "\'ill you be mine ?" 
 
 She says: " You IkI I'll be ! " 
 
 Ve vos engaged — o!i ! blessed fact ! 
 
 I squeeze dot dimpled hand ; 
 Her head upon my shoulder lays, 
 
 .Shust like a bag of sand. 
 
 " Before der vedding day vos set," 
 
 .She vispers in mine ear, 
 " I like to say I haf to use 
 
 Some cash, my Jacob, dear. 
 
 " I owns dis house and two big farms, 
 Und ponds und railroad stock ; 
 Und up in Yonkers I bo.ssess 
 A grand big pecsness block. 
 
 " Der times vos dull, my butcher boy, 
 Der market vos no good, 
 Und if I sell " — I squeezed her handt 
 To show I understood. 
 
 Next day — oxcoose my briny tears — 
 Dot shtocking took a shrink ; 
 
 I counted out twelve hundred in 
 Der cleanest kind o' chink. 
 
 Und later, by two days or more. 
 
 Pot vidder slilopes av;iy ; 
 Und leaves a note behindt for me 
 
 In vhich dot vidder say : 
 
 " Dear Shake: 
 
 Der rose vos redt, 
 
 Der violet blue — 
 You see I've left, 
 
 Und you're left, too!" 
 
 THE DECLARATION. 
 
 WAS late, and the gay company was gone. 
 And light lay soft on the deserted room 
 From alabaster vases, and a scent 
 Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came 
 Through the unshuttered window on the air. 
 And the rich pictures with their dark old tints. 
 Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things 
 Seemed hushed into a slumber. Isabel, 
 The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel 
 Was leaning on iicr harp, and 1 had staid 
 To whisper what I could not when the crowd 
 Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, 
 And with the fervor of a lip unused 
 To the cold breath of reason, told my love. 
 
HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 465 
 
 There was r.o answer, and I took the hand 
 That rested on tlic strings, and pressed a kiss 
 Upon it unforbidden— and again 
 Hesought her, that this silent evidence 
 That I \v:w not indifferent to her heart, 
 Might have tiie seal of one sweet syllable. 
 I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke, 
 And she withdrew them gently, and upraised 
 Her forehead from its resting-place, and looked 
 Earnestly on me— She had been asleep ! 
 
 Nathaniel Parkek Willis. 
 
 PAT'S LOVE LETTER. 
 
 'T'S Patrick Dolin, myself and no other, 
 
 Tliat's after informin' you. without any bother. 
 That your own darlin' self has put me heart in a 
 blaze 
 
 And made me your swateheart the rest of me days. 
 And now I sits down to write ye this letter, 
 To tell how I loves ye, as none can love better. 
 Mony's the day, sure, since first I got smitten 
 Wid yer own purty face, that's bright as a kitten's. 
 And yer illegant figger, that's just the right size ; 
 Faith ! I'm all over in love wid ye, clear up till me 
 
 eyes. 
 You won't think me desavin', or tellin' a lie, 
 If I tell who's in love wid me, just ready to die. 
 There's Bridget McCregan, full of coketish tricks, 
 Keeps flattcrin' me pride, to get me heart in a fix ; 
 And Rridgit, you know, has great expectations 
 From her father that's dead, and lots of relations. 
 Then there's Biddy O'F'arrel, the cunningest elf, 
 Sings " Patrick, me darlin'," and that means meself 
 I might marry them both, if I felt so inclined. 
 But there's no use talking of the likes of their kind. 
 Itrates llKm both alike, without impartiality, 
 And maintains meself sure on the ground of neutrality. 
 On me knees, Helen, darlint, I ask your consent 
 " For better or worse," without asking a cent. 
 I'd do anything in tlie world — anything you would say, 
 If you'd be Mistress Dolin instead of Miss Day. 
 I'd save all me money and buy me a house. 
 Where nothing should tease us so much as mouse ; 
 And you'll hear nothing else from year out to year in, 
 But swate words of kindness froni Patrick Dolin. 
 TIku— if ye should die— forgive me the thought, 
 I'd always behave as a dacent man ought. 
 I'd spend all me days in wailing and crying, 
 And wish for not'.iin' so much as jist to be dying. 
 Then you'd see on marble slabs, reared uj) side by 
 
 siile, 
 "Ikre lies P.atrick Dolin, and Helen, his bride." 
 Wr indulgence, in conclusion, on me letter I ask, 
 For to write a love letter is no aisy task ; 
 I've an impediment in me speech, as me letter shows, 
 And a cold in me head makes me write tlirouijh me 
 
 nose. 
 
 (30) 
 
 Please write me a letter, in me great-uncle's care, 
 With the prescription upon it, "Patrick Dolin, Es- 
 
 quare." 
 " In haste," write in big letters, on the outside of the, 
 
 cover, 
 And believe me forever, your di.-.tractionate lover. 
 Written wid me own hand. 
 
 Ills 
 
 Patkick X Dolin. 
 
 murk. 
 
 TOM DARLING. 
 
 'OM DARLING was a darling T<jm, 
 ' Excuse all vulgar puns ; ) 
 A type of California's bright 
 "^ Rising and setting suns. 
 
 His father was an austere man — 
 
 An oyster man was he. 
 Who opened life by opening 
 
 The shell fish of the sea ; 
 
 But hearing of a richer clime, 
 
 He took his only son. 
 And came where golden minds are lost. 
 
 While golden mines are won. 
 
 They hoped to fill their pockets from 
 Ri h jiockets in the ground ; 
 
 And 'midst the boulders of the hills, 
 None bolder could be found. 
 
 For though a mining minor. Ti.m 
 
 Was never known to shirk ; 
 And while with zeal he worked his claim, 
 
 I lis father claimed his work. 
 
 Time's record on his brow now showed 
 
 A fair and spotless page ; 
 And, as his age became him well, 
 
 He soon became of age. 
 
 Thinking that he was up to all 
 
 The California tricks. 
 He now resolved to pick his way 
 
 Without the aid of picks. 
 
 In less than eighteen circling moons 
 
 Two fortunes he had made ; 
 One by good luck at trade in stock, 
 
 And one by stock in trade. 
 
 With health and wealth he now could live 
 
 Upon the easy plan ; 
 While everybody said of course, 
 
 He was a fine young man. 
 
 But Thomas fell, and sadly too, 
 Who of his friends would 'thought it I 
 
 He ran for office, and alas ! 
 For him and his — he caught it. 
 
 It ¥ ? 
 
 lit 
 
466 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 m 
 
 ! Ill 
 
 iw 
 
 mi 
 
 ir 
 
 
 Mixing; no more with soher men, 
 
 He found his nionils fleeing ; 
 And being of a jovial ♦urn, 
 
 He turned a jovial being. 
 
 With governor and constable 
 
 His casii he freely spends ; 
 From constable to governor. 
 
 He had a host of friends. 
 
 But soon he found he could not take, 
 
 As his old father would, 
 A little spirits, just enuugii 
 
 To do his spirits good. 
 
 In councils with the patriots 
 
 Upon afliiirs of State, 
 Setting no bars to drinking, he 
 
 Soon lost his upriglit gait. 
 
 His brandy straightway made him walk 
 
 In very crooked ways ; 
 While lager beer brought to his view 
 
 A bier and span of grays. 
 
 The nips kept nipping at his purse — 
 
 (Two bits for every dram). 
 While clear champagne produced in him 
 
 /I. pain that was no sham. 
 
 His cups of wine were followed by 
 
 The doctor's painful cup ; 
 Each morning found him getting low 
 
 As he was getting up. 
 
 Thus uselessly, and feebly did 
 
 His short existence flit, 
 Till in a drunken fight he fell 
 
 Into a drunken tit. 
 
 The doctors came, but here their skill 
 
 They found of no avail ; 
 They all agreed, what ailed poor Tom 
 
 Was politics and ale. 
 
 L. F. Wells. 
 
 f 
 
 IS IT ANYBODY'S BUSINESS? 
 
 .S it anybody's business, 
 
 If a gentleman should choose 
 To wait upon a lady. 
 
 If the lady don't refuse? 
 Or, to speak a little plainer, 
 
 That the meaning all may know, 
 Is it anybody's business 
 If a lady has a beau ? 
 
 Is it anybody's business 
 When that gentleman doth call, 
 
 Or when he leav< s the lady, 
 Or if he leaves at all ? 
 
 Or is it necessary 
 
 That the curtain should be drawn, 
 To save from further trouble 
 
 The outside lookers-on ? 
 
 Is it anybody's business, 
 
 Rut the lady's, if her beau 
 Rideth out with other ladies, 
 
 And does n't let her know ? 
 Ts it anybody's business, 
 
 But the gentleman's, if she 
 Should accept another escort, 
 
 Where he does n't cliance to be ? 
 
 If a person's on the sidewalk, 
 
 Whether great or whether small, 
 Is it anybody's business 
 
 Where that i-er>on means to call ? 
 Or if you see a person 
 
 While he's calling anywhere, 
 Is it any of your business 
 
 What his business may be there ? 
 
 The substance of our query, 
 
 Simply stated, wt>uld be this : 
 Is it anybody's business 
 
 What another's business is ? 
 Whether 't is or whether 't is n't 
 
 We should really like to know. 
 For we are certain, if it is n't, 
 
 There are some who make it so. 
 
 o 
 
 FIRST APPEARANCE IN TYPE. 
 
 H, here it is ! I'm famous now ; 
 An author and a poet. 
 It really is in print. Hurrah ! 
 How proud I'll be to show it. 
 
 And gentle Anna ! what a thrill 
 
 Will animate her breast. 
 
 To read these ardent lines, and know, 
 
 To whom they are addressed. 
 
 Why, bless my soul I here's something wrong : 
 
 What can the paper mean. 
 
 By talking of the "graceful brook," 
 
 That "ffandcrs o'er the green ? " 
 
 And here's a / instead of r, 
 
 Which makes it "tippling rill," 
 
 We'll seek the "shad " instead of " shade," 
 
 And "hell" instead ot "hill." 
 
 " Thy looks so "—what ?— I recollect, 
 'Twas " sweet," and then 'twas " kind " ; 
 And now, to think — the stupid fool— 
 For " bland " has printed "blind." 
 Was e\ er such provoking work ? 
 ('lis curious, by the by. 
 That any thing is rendered blind 
 By giving it an >'.) 
 

 HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 467 
 
 The color of the " rose" is ' nf)se," 
 " Affection " is " affliction." 
 
 I wonder if the likeness holds 
 
 In fact as well as fiction ? 
 " Thou art a friend" The /• is gone ; 
 
 Whoever could have dcemeil 
 
 That such a trifling thing could change 
 
 A friend into a fiend. 
 
 " Thou art the same," is rendered shame," 
 It really is too bad ! 
 And litre because an* is out 
 My lovely "maid" is mad. 
 They drove her blind by poking in 
 An i—a. process new — 
 And now they've goufjed it out again, 
 And made her crazy, too. 
 
 I'll read no more. What shall I do ? 
 
 I'll never dare to send it. 
 
 The paper's scattered far :ind wide, 
 
 'Tis now too late to mend ii. 
 
 Oh, fame ! thou cheat of iuiman life, 
 
 Why did I ever writi ! 
 
 I wish my poem had lieen burnt. 
 
 Before it saw the light. 
 
 Was ever such a horrid hash. 
 
 In poetry or prose ? 
 
 I ve said she was a ' ' fiend ! '' and praised 
 
 The color of her "nose." 
 
 I wish I Iiad llio printer here 
 
 About a half a minute, 
 
 I'd bang him to hi-; luart's content, 
 
 And with an A begin it. 
 
 Omver Wendei-l Holmes. 
 
 I& 
 
 SORROWS OF WERTHER. 
 
 ERTHP:R had a love for Charlotte 
 Such as words could never utter ; 
 Would you know how firpt he met her? 
 She was cutting bread and butter. 
 
 Charlotte was a married lady, 
 And a moral man was Werther, 
 
 And for all the we.nlth of Indies 
 Would do nothing for to hurt her. 
 
 So he sighed and pined and o^led. 
 And his passion Loiieii and bubbled, 
 
 Till he blew. his silly brains out, 
 And no more was by it troubled. 
 
 Charlotte, having seen his body 
 
 Home b. fore lier on a shutter, 
 Like a well-conducted person. 
 
 Went on cutting bread and butter. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 HERE'.S somewhat on my breast, father, 
 
 1 iiere's somewhat on my brea.st ! 
 The live-long day I sigh, father, 
 
 At night I cannot rest ; 
 I cannot take my rest, father, 
 
 Though I would fain do so, 
 A weary weight oppresseth nie — 
 
 The weary weigiit (jf woe ! 
 
 'Tis not the lack of gold, father. 
 
 Nor lack of worldly gear ; 
 My lands are broad .-Mid fair to see. 
 
 My friends are kind and dear ; 
 My kin are leal and true, father, 
 
 They mourn to see my grief. 
 But, oil ! 'tis not a kinsman's hand 
 
 Can give my heart relief ! 
 
 'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 
 
 'Tis not that siie's unkind ; 
 Though busy flatterers swarm around, 
 
 I know her constant mind. 
 'Tis not the coldness of her heart 
 
 That cliil's iny laboring breast — 
 // 's that confounded cucumber 
 
 1 ate, ami can' t di;^cst ! 
 
 THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. 
 
 /^9 MEMBER of the .(-Esculapian line lived at 
 i ^^ Newcastle-upon-Tyne : no man could better 
 Xi^ gild a pill, or make a bill, or mi.x a draught, 
 or bleed, or blister; or draw a tooth out of 
 your head ; or chatter scandal by your bed ; or spread 
 a [il.ister. His fame full six miles round the countrj' 
 ran ; in short, in reputation he was solus : all the old 
 women called him "a fine man!" His name was 
 Bolus. 
 
 Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (which oftentimes 
 will genius fetter), read works of fancy, it is .said, and 
 cultivated the belles lettrcs. Bolus loved verse ; 
 and took so much delight in't, all iits prescriptions he 
 resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass 
 of writing the directions on his labe's in dapper coup- 
 lets, like Gay's Fables, or rather like the lines in 
 Hudibras. 
 
 He had a patient lying at death's door, some three 
 miles from the town — it might be four — to whom, one 
 evening Bolus sent an article— in pharmacy that's called 
 cathartical : and on the label of the stuff he wrote this 
 verse, which one would think was clear enough, and 
 terse — 
 
 " Wlien talcen, 
 To be well shaken. " 
 
 Next morning early Bolus rose, and to the patient's 
 house he goes, upon his pad, who a vile trick of stumb- 
 ling had ; but he .."rived, and gave a taji, between ;i 
 single and a double rap. The servant lets him in, witl'. 
 
 ' i ' i iV 
 
 IS 
 
468 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 ! ) 
 ' 1 
 
 '1,'r 
 
 ^ !9 
 
 dismal face, long as a courtier's out of place — portend- ' 
 ing some disaster. Joiin's countenance as rueful looked i 
 nnil Ji^'U'i "S if the apothecary had physicked liim, and 
 nut his master. | 
 
 " Well, how's (he patient ? " Bolus said. John shook I 
 his head. " Indeed ! — hum ! — ha ! — that's very odd ! — j 
 he took the draught?"— John gave a nod. — "Well? 
 how? what then?— speak out, you dunce!" "\Vh)- 
 then," says John, "we shook him once." — " Shook | 
 him! how? how?" friend Bolus stammered out. — j 
 " We jolted him about." | 
 
 "What! shake the patient, man I— why that won't I 
 do." "No, sir," quoth John, "and so we gave him i 
 two." "Two shakes! O luckl.-ss verse! 'Twould ' 
 make the patient worse!" " It did s<\ sir, and no a ! 
 third we tried."— " Well, and what then?"— "Then 
 sir, my master died ! " 
 
 Gkoiige Colman. 
 
 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 
 
 Ill the parish of St. Neots, Cornw.i'l. is .1 well, arched over 
 with the robes of four kinds of trees — \vilh\ , oak, elm. anil ash — 
 and dedicated to St. Ktync. The reported virtue of the water is 
 this, th.u, whether husband or wife first drank thereof, they get 
 tlie mastery thereby —Thomas Kcller. 
 
 (3 
 
 WELL there is in the west country. 
 
 And a clearer one never was .seen ; 
 There is not a wife in tiie west country 
 But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. 
 
 An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, 
 And behind does an ash-tree grow, 
 
 And a willow from the bank above 
 Droops to the water below. 
 
 A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne ; 
 
 Pleasant it was to his eye. 
 For from cock-crow, he had been traveling, 
 
 And there was not a cloud in the sky. 
 
 He drank of the water so cool and clear, 
 
 For thirsty and hot was he, 
 And he sat down upon the bank. 
 
 Under the willow-tree. 
 
 There came a man from the neighboring town, 
 
 At the well to fill his pail ; 
 On the well-side he rested it, 
 
 And bade the stranger hail. 
 
 Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, 
 
 " For an if thou ha.st a wife, 
 The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 
 
 That ever thou didst in thy life. 
 
 'Or has your good woman, if one you have, 
 In Cornwall ever been ? 
 For an if she have, I'll venture my life 
 She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." 
 
 " I have left a good woman who never was here," 
 
 The stranger he made reply ; 
 " But that my draught should be better for that, 
 
 1 pray you answer me why." 
 
 "St. Keyne," quoth the countrjman, "many a time 
 Drank of this crystal well. 
 And before the angel summoned her 
 She laid on the water a spell. 
 
 " If the husband of this gifted well 
 
 .Shall drink before his wife, 
 
 A happy man henceforth is he, 
 
 I'or he shall master for life. 
 
 "But if the wife should drink of it first. 
 Heaven help the husband then ! " 
 The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne, 
 And drank of tlie waters again. 
 
 " Vou drank of the well, I wirrant, betimes?" 
 He to the countryman said. 
 But the countryman smiled .".s the stranger spake. 
 And sheepishly shook his head. 
 
 " I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done. 
 And left my v^■ife in the porch. 
 But i' faith, .';he had been wiser than me. 
 For she took a bottle to church." 
 
 RODERT .SOVTIIEV. 
 
 SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT. 
 
 "?> 
 
 " He left his body to the sea, 
 And made n sliark his legatee." 
 
 Brvan and Pkrrnnh. 
 
 WHAT is that comes gliding in. 
 And quite in middling haste? 
 It is the picture of my Junes, 
 And painted to the waist. 
 
 " It is not painted to the life. 
 
 For Where's the trousers blue? 
 O Jones, my dear!— O dear! my Jones, 
 What is become of you ? " 
 
 " O Sally dear, it is too true — 
 The half that you remark 
 Is come to say my other half 
 Is bit off by a shark ! 
 
 " O Sally, sharks do things by halves. 
 Yet most completely do ! 
 A bite in one place seems enough. 
 But I've been bit in two. 
 
 " You know I once was all your own. 
 But now a shark must share ! 
 But let that pass— for now to you 
 I'm neither here nor there. 
 
 "Alas ! death has a strange divorce 
 Effected in the sea : 
 
HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 409 
 
 It has divided iiie from you, 
 And even me from me ! 
 
 "Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nigl'.ts 
 To haunt .is people say ; 
 My ghost can't walk, for, O, my legs 
 Are many leagues away ! 
 
 "Lord ! think when I am swimming round, 
 And looking whero the boat is, 
 A shark just snaps away a half. 
 Without 'a (juarter's notice.' 
 
 " One half is here, the other half 
 Is near Columbia placed ; 
 O .Sally, I have got the whole 
 Atlantic for my waist. 
 
 " But now, adieu — a long adieu ! 
 I've solved death's awful riddle, 
 And would say more, but I am doomed 
 To break off in the middle ! " 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 THE GHOST. 
 
 IS thirty years since Abel Law, 
 A short, round-favored, merry 
 Old soldier of the Revolutionary 
 War, 
 
 Was wedded to 
 
 A most abominable shrew. 
 
 The temper, sir, of Shakespeare's Catharine 
 
 Could no more be compared witii hers. 
 
 Than mine 
 
 With Lucifer's. 
 
 Mer eyes were like a weasel's ; she had a harsh 
 
 race, like a cranberry marsh. 
 
 All spread 
 
 With, spots of white and red ; 
 
 Hair of the color of a wisp of straw. 
 
 And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. 
 
 Tile appellation of this lovely dame 
 
 Was Nancy; don't forget the name. 
 
 Her brother David was a tall. 
 Good-looking chap, and that was all ; 
 One of your great, big nothings, as we say 
 Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes 
 And cracking them on other folks. 
 Well, D.ivid undertook one night to play 
 The ghost, and frighten Abel, who. 
 He knew, 
 
 Would be returning from a journey through 
 A grove of forest wood 
 That stood 
 Bilow 
 Tlie house some distance — half a mile or so. 
 
 With a long taper 
 Cap of white paper, 
 
 Just made to cover 
 
 A wig, nearly as large over 
 
 As a corn-basket, and a sheet 
 
 With both ends made to meet 
 
 Across his breast, 
 
 (The way in which ghosts are always dressed,) 
 
 He took 
 
 His station near 
 
 A huge oak-tree, 
 
 Whence he could overlook 
 
 The road and see 
 
 Whatever might appear. 
 
 It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel 
 Had left tlie t;ible 
 
 Of an inn, where he had made a halt. 
 With horse and wagon. 
 To taste a flagon 
 Of malt 
 
 L'quor, and so forth, which, being done, 
 He went on. 
 
 Caring no more for twenty ghosts. 
 Than if they were so many posts. 
 
 David was nearly tired of waiting ; 
 His patience was abating ; 
 At length, he heard the careless tones 
 Of his kinsman's voice, 
 And then the noise 
 Of wagon-wheels among the stones. 
 Abel was quite elated, and was roaring 
 With all his might, and pouring 
 Out, in great confusion, 
 
 Scraps of old songs made in " The Revolution." 
 His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton ; 
 And jovially he went on. 
 Scaring the whip-poor-wills arr.ong the trees 
 With rhymes like these : — [Sifi^'s.] 
 
 " See the Yankees leave the hill, 
 
 With baggernetts declining. 
 With lopped-down hats and rusty guns, 
 
 And leather aprons shining. 
 See the Yankees— Whoa ! Why, what is that ? " 
 Said Abel, staring like a cat. 
 As slowly on the fearful figure strode 
 Into the middle of the road. 
 
 " My conscience, what a suit of clothes ! 
 Some crazy fellow, I suppose. 
 Hallo! friend, what's your name? by the powers of 
 
 gin, 
 That's a strange dress to travel in." 
 " Be silent, Abel ; for I now have come 
 To read your doom ; 
 
 Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. 
 [ am a spirit — " 
 
 " I suppose you are ; 
 Rut you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why : 
 Here is a fact which you cannot deny ; — 
 
 I :|V: 
 
470 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 lll'i 
 
 
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 W: 
 
 !fr 
 
 f I 
 
 All spirits must be either good 
 
 Or bad— that's understood — 
 
 And be you good or evil, I am sure 
 
 That I'm secure. 
 
 If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil — 
 
 Ai'.d I don't know but you may be the devil- 
 
 If that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy. 
 
 That I am married to your sister Nancy ! " 
 
 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 
 
 ' OUNG BEN he was a nice young man, 
 A carpenter by tnide ; 
 And he fell in love with S.illy Brown, 
 That was a hidy's maid. 
 
 But as they fetched a walk one day, 
 They met a press-gan;< crew ; 
 
 And .Sally she did faint away. 
 Whilst Ben he was brought to. 
 
 The boatswain swore with wicked words, 
 
 Kiunigh to shock a saint, 
 That though s!ie did seem in a fit, 
 
 'Twas nothing but a feint. 
 
 "Come, girl," said he, " hold up your head, 
 He'll be as good as me ; 
 For when your swain is in our boat, 
 A boatswain he will be." 
 
 So when thty'd made their game of her, 
 
 And taken off her elf. 
 She roused, and found she only was 
 
 A coming to herself 
 
 " And is he gone, and is he gone?" 
 She cried, and wept outright : 
 
 "Then I will to the water side, 
 And see him out of sight." 
 
 A waterman came up to her, 
 " Now, young woman," said he, 
 "If you weep on so, yoti will make 
 Eye-water in the sea." 
 
 "Alas! they've taken my beau Ben 
 To sail with old Benbow ; " 
 And her woe began to run afresh, 
 A3 if slie'd said Gee woe ! 
 
 Says he, " They've only taken him 
 To the Tender ship, you see ; " 
 " The Tender ship," cried Sally Brown, 
 " What a h.irdship that must be ! 
 
 " Oh ! would 1 were a mermaid now, 
 For then I'd follow him ; 
 But oh ! — I'm not a fish-woman, 
 And so I cannot swim. 
 
 "Alas ! I was not born beneath 
 The Virgin and the Scales, 
 So I must curse my cruel stars. 
 And walk about hi Wales." 
 
 Now Ben had sailed to many a place, 
 
 That's underneath the world ; 
 But in two years the ship came home. 
 
 And all her sails were furled. 
 
 But when he called on Sally Brown, 
 
 To see how she went on. 
 He found she'd got another Ben, 
 
 Whose Christian name was John. 
 
 'O Sally Brown. O .Sally Brown, 
 How could you serve me so ? 
 I've met with many a breeze before. 
 But never such a blow." 
 
 Then reading on his 'bacco box. 
 
 He heaved a bitter sigh. 
 Anil then began to eye his pipe. 
 
 And then to pipe his eye. 
 
 And then he tried to sing " All's Well," 
 
 But could not though he tried ; 
 His head w.is turned and so he chewed 
 
 His pigtail till he died. 
 
 His death, which happened in his berth. 
 
 At forty-odd befell : 
 They went and tuld the sexton, and 
 
 The se.\lon toU'd the bell. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 OF A CERTAIN MAN. 
 
 certain when) a certain 
 and yet became a 
 
 HERE was (not 
 preacher, 
 That never learned, 
 teacher, 
 
 Who having read in Latin thus a text 
 Of crai yuidain homo, much ])erplexed, 
 He seemed the same with study great to scan. 
 In English thus, There was a certain rtuvi. 
 " But now," quoth he, " good people, note you this 
 He saith there was, he doth not say there is ; 
 I'or in these days of ours it is most plain 
 Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's cenain ; 
 Yet by my text you see it comes to pass 
 That surely once a certain man there was ; 
 But, yet, I think, in all your Bible no man 
 Can find this text. There was a certain woman." 
 Sir John Harrington. 
 
 K 
 
 TO MY NOSE. 
 
 NOWS he that never look a pinch, 
 Nosey, the pleasure thence which flo.vs ? 
 Knows lie the titillating joys 
 Which my nose knows ? 
 
 nose, I am as proud of thee 
 As any mountain of its snows , 
 
 1 gaze on thee, and feel that pride 
 
 A Roman knows ! 
 Alfred A. Forrester (Alfred Crowq^iU). 
 
HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 471 
 
 THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. 
 
 A LEGEND OK GOTHAM. 
 
 TERRIBLY proud w.ns Miss M.icRride, 
 Tlie very pcrsonificaticjii of |)ri(Ic, 
 f As she minced along in fashion's tide, 
 Adown Droadway— on the proper side- 
 When the goldi n sun was settinp; ; 
 There was pride in the liead she carried so high, 
 I'ride in her lip, and jiride in her eye, 
 And a world of pride in tiie very sigh 
 That her stately bosom was fretting I 
 
 O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, 
 I'roud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, 
 And proud of Hfiy matters beside— 
 
 That wouldn't have borne dissection ; 
 Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk. 
 Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, 
 Proud of " knowing cheese from chalk," 
 
 On a very slight inspection ! 
 
 Proud abroad, and proud at home, 
 Proud wherever she chanced to come — 
 When she was glad, and when she was glum ; 
 
 Proud as the head of a Saracen 
 Over the door of a tippling-shop ! — 
 Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, 
 ' Proud as a boy with a brand-new lop," 
 
 I'roud beyond comparison ! 
 
 And yet the pride of Miss MacBride, 
 Although it had fifty hobbies to ride. 
 
 Had really no foundation ; 
 But, like the fabrics that gossips devise — 
 Those single stories that often arise 
 And grow till they reach a four-story size — 
 
 Was merely a fancy creation ! 
 
 Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high — 
 I'or Miss MacBride first opened lier eye 
 Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky; 
 
 But pride is a curious passion — 
 And in talking about her wealth and worth, 
 ^he always forgot to mention her birth 
 
 To people of rank and fashion I 
 
 f)f all the notable things on earth, 
 1 he ((ucerest one is pride of birth 
 
 Among our " fierce democracie ! " 
 A bridge across a hundred years. 
 Without a prop to save it from sneers — 
 Not even a couple of rotten fiefrs — 
 A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers. 
 
 Is American aristocracy ! 
 
 English and Irish, French and Spanish, 
 Oerman, Italian, Dutch and Danish, 
 Cros.'-ing their veins until they vanish 
 
 In one conglomeration ! 
 So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed. 
 
 No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed 
 In finding the circulation. 
 
 Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, 
 Your family thre;:d you can't ascend. 
 Without good reason to apprehend 
 You may find it waxed, at the f.irthtf end, 
 
 By some plebeian vocation ! 
 Or, w(>rse than tliat, your boasted line 
 May end in a looj) of stronger twine. 
 
 That plagued some worthy relation! 
 
 But Miss MacBride had something beside 
 Hir lofty lirlh to nf)urisli her pride — 
 For rich was the old paternal MaciJride, 
 
 According to public rumor : 
 And he lived "up town," in a splendid square. 
 And kept his daughter on daint> f.ire, 
 And i;ave her gems that were rich and r.ire, 
 And the finest rings and things to wear, 
 
 And feathers enough to plume her. 
 
 A thriving tailor begged her hand. 
 
 But she gave " the fellow " to understand. 
 
 By a violent manual action, 
 She perfectly scorned the best of his clan, 
 And reckoned the ninth of any man 
 
 An e.xccedingly vulgar fraction ! 
 
 Another, whose sign was the golden boot, 
 Was mortified with a bootless suit, 
 
 In a way that was cjuite aijpailing ; 
 For, though a rej;ular sti/ar by trade, 
 He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid, 
 Who cut him off with a saw — and bade 
 " The cobbler keep to his calling ! " 
 
 A young attorney, of wimiing grace. 
 Was scarce allowed to " open his face," 
 Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case 
 
 With true judici.d celerity ; 
 For the lawyer was poor, and " seedy " to boot, 
 And to s:iy the lady discarded his sui/, 
 
 Is merely a double verity ! 
 
 The last of those who came to court. 
 
 Was a lively beau, of the dapiJer sort, 
 
 "Without .my visible means of support," 
 
 A crime by no means llagrant 
 In one who we.irs an elegant coat, 
 Uut tlie very point on which they vote 
 
 A ragged fellow "a vagrant.'" 
 
 Now dapper Jim bis courtship plied 
 
 ( I wish the fact could be denied) 
 
 With an eye to the purse of tho old MacBride, 
 
 And really " nothing shorter ! " 
 For he said to himself, in his greedy lust. 
 " Whenever he dies — as die he must— 
 And yi- Ids to Heaven his vital trust, 
 He's very sure to ' come down with his dust,' 
 
 In behalf of liii only daughter." 
 
 
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478 
 
 CROWN JKWKLS. 
 
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 Ami the very ningnificfnt Miss MacBride, 
 Half in love, niul half in pride, 
 
 (Juitc graciously rt'lciitc'd ; 
 And, tos-sitiR her head, and turning her back, 
 No token of proper pride to lack — 
 To be a bride, without the " Mac," 
 
 With much disdain, consented ! 
 
 Old Joim MacBride, one fatal day, 
 IJecanie the unresisting prey 
 
 Of fortune's undertakers ; 
 And slaking all on a single die, 
 His foundered bark went high and dry 
 
 Among tile i)rokers and breakers ! 
 
 But, alas, for the haughty Miss MacBride, 
 'Twas such asliock to her precious pride! 
 She could n't recover, allhougli she tried 
 
 Her jaded spirits to rally ; 
 'T was a dreadful change in human affairs. 
 From a place " up town " to a nook " up stairs," 
 
 From an avenue down to an alley ! 
 
 'T was little condolence she had, God wot. 
 From her "troops of friends," who hadn't forgot 
 
 Tile airs she used to borrow ! 
 They had civil phrasvs enough, but yet 
 'T was plain to see tli;it their " deepest regret '' 
 
 Was a difierent thing from sorrow ! 
 
 And one of those chaps who make a pun. 
 As if it were (juite legiiimate fun 
 To 1)0 blazing away at every one 
 With a regular, double-loaded gun — 
 
 Remarked tiiat moral transgression 
 Always brings retributive stiiip.s 
 To candle-makers as well as kings ; 
 For " making light of ccreoiis things " 
 
 Was a Very jf«V^-ed profession ! 
 
 And vulgar people — the saucy churls — 
 Intjuired about "the price of pearls," 
 
 And mocked at her situation : 
 "She wasn't ruined — they ventured to hope — 
 Because she was poor, she needn't mope ; 
 F"ew people were better off for soap, 
 
 And that was a consolation ! " 
 
 And to make her cup of woe run over. 
 Her elegant, ardent plighted lover 
 Was the very first to forsake her; 
 " He quite regretted the step, 't was true — 
 The lady had pride enough ' for two,' 
 But that alone would never do 
 
 To quiet the butcher and baker! " 
 
 And now the unhappy Miss M.ncBride — 
 The merest glio-t of her early pride — 
 Bewails her lonely position ; 
 
 Cramried in the very narrowest niche, 
 
 Above the poor, and below the rich — 
 
 Was ever a worse condition ! 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Because you flourish in v/orldly aflhirs, 
 Don t be haughty, and p'lt on airs. 
 
 With insolent pride of station ! 
 Don't be proud, and turn up your nose 
 At poorer people in plainer clothes, 
 But ItN'irn, for the sake of your mind's reiiose, 
 That wealth 's a bubble that comes — and goes ! 
 And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, 
 
 Is subject to irritation ! 
 
 John Godfkkv Saxk. 
 
 WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 
 
 RFA'liREND sir, I do declare 
 It drives me most to frenzy, 
 To think of you a lying tliere 
 Down sick with influenzy. 
 
 A body'd thought it was enough 
 To mourn your wive's departer, 
 
 Without sich trouble as this ere 
 To come a follerin' arter. 
 
 But sickness and affliction 
 
 Are sent by a wise creation, 
 And always ought to be underwent 
 
 By patience and resignation. 
 
 O, I could to your bedside fly. 
 
 And wipe your weeping eyes, 
 And do my best to cure you up. 
 
 If 't wouldn't create suri)rise. 
 
 It's a world of trouble we tarry in. 
 
 But, Flder, don't despair ; 
 That you may soon be movin' again 
 
 Is const mtly my prayer. 
 
 Both sick and well, you may depend 
 
 You'll never be forgot 
 By your faithful and affectionate friend, 
 
 Priscilla Fool Bedoit. 
 
 Frances Miriaji Wiiitcher. 
 
 
 TO THE "SEXTANT." 
 
 SEXTANT of the ineetin house, wich sweeps 
 And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes 
 
 fires. 
 And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a 
 screw loose. 
 
 i;l 
 
HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 47:5 
 
 in wicli case it smells orfiil, worse tiian lamp ile ; 
 And wrings the liel and toies it wljen men dyes, 
 to thenriif ofsurvivin parilners, and sweeps paths 
 And for the serviisses get |iixj per annum, 
 Wicli them that thinks deer, let 'em try it ; 
 Gettin up before starlite in all welhen and 
 Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold 
 As zero, and like as not ^reeii wood for kindling 
 i would n't be hired to do it for no sum, 
 Hut () Sextant ! there are i kermoddity 
 VVich 's more than gold, wich tloant cost nothin. 
 Worth more than anything except the sole of man ! 
 i mean pewer Arc, Sextant, i mean pewer are ! 
 
 it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no 
 What on airtli to tlew with itself, but flys about 
 Scatterin leaves and bloin oflT men's hatts! 
 
 in short, it's jest " fre as are " out dores, 
 nut O Sextant, in our church its scarce as buty, 
 Scarce as bank bills, when agints beg for misrhuns, 
 Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me 
 
 wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but, O Sextant 
 IJ r.het 500 men, wimmin, and children, 
 Speshally the latter, up in a tite place. 
 And every i on em brethesin and out, and out and in> 
 Say 50 times a minnit, or i million and a half breths 
 
 an our. 
 Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, 
 
 1 ask you— say 15 minits— and then wats to be did ? 
 Why then you must brethe it all over agin, 
 
 And then agin, and so on till each has took it down 
 
 At least 10 times, and let it up agin, and wats more 
 
 Tlie same individoal don't have the priviledge 
 
 of brethin his own are, and no ones else, 
 
 Each must take whatever comes to him. 
 
 O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses, 
 
 To bio the fierof life, and keep it from goin out ; 
 
 ■Mid how can bellusses bio without wind ? 
 
 And aint wind arr? i put it to your conschens. 
 
 Are is the same to us as milk tt> babies. 
 
 Or water is to fish, or pondhims to clox. 
 
 Or roots and airbs unto an injun doctor, 
 
 Or littlu pills unto an omepath, 
 
 Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe. 
 
 What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe? 
 
 Wats Pol ? Wats Pollus to sinners who are ded ? 
 
 Ded for want of breth, why Sextant, when we dy 
 
 Its only coz we cant brethe no more, thats all. 
 
 And now O Sextant, let me beg of you 
 
 To let a littl-i are into our church. 
 
 (Pewer are is sertain proper for the pews) 
 
 And do it weak days, and Sundays tew, 
 
 It aint much trouble, only make a hole 
 
 And the are will come of itself ; 
 
 (It luvs to come in where it can git warm) 
 
 And O how it will rouze the people up. 
 
 And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps, 
 
 And yawns and figgits, as effectooal 
 
 As wind on the dry beans the Profit tells of 
 
 Arabella M. Willson. 
 
 IJl 
 
 MY LORD TOMNODDY. 
 
 Y Lord Tomnoddy got up one day ; 
 It was half after two. 
 He had nothing to do, 
 So his lordship rang for his cabriolel. 
 
 Tiger Tim 
 
 Was clean of limb. 
 His boots were pohshed, his jacket was trim ; 
 With a very smart tie in his smart cravat, 
 And a smart cockade on the top of his hat ; 
 Tallest of boys, or shortest c f men. 
 He stood in his stockings just four foot ten : 
 And he asked as he held the door on the swinr, 
 " Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?" 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head, 
 And thus to Tiger Tim he said, 
 "Mrtlibran'sdead, 
 Duvernay's fled, 
 Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead • 
 Tiger Tim, come tell me true, 
 What may a nobleman find to do ?" 
 
 Tim looked up and Tim looked down. 
 Me paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown, 
 And he heltl up his hat and he peeped in the crown, 
 He bit his lip, and he scratched his head, 
 He let go the handle, and thus he said. 
 As the door, rele.ased, behind him banged : 
 " An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be 
 hanged." 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news; 
 " Run to M'Fuze, 
 
 And Lieutenant Tregooze, 
 And run to .Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues. 
 
 Rope-dancers a score 
 
 I've seen before — 
 Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Blark-more : 
 
 But to see a man swing 
 
 At the end of a string. 
 With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing !" 
 My Loril Tomnoddy stepped into his cab — 
 Dark rifle green, with a lir.ing of drai) ; 
 
 Through street, and through square. 
 
 His high-trotting mare, 
 Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air, 
 Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place 
 Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace ; 
 
 She produced some alarm, 
 
 But did no great harm, 
 Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, 
 
 Spattering with clay 
 
 Two urchins at play. 
 Knocking down — very much to the sweeper's dismay — 
 An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way, 
 
 And upsetting a stall 
 
 Near F!xeter Hall, 
 Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall ; 
 
 I i' 
 
 i(:f :• 
 
 !:i. ''U: 
 
474 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 Hut eastward afar, 
 
 'I lir()ii>;h Tcinpli; Bar, 
 My Lord TomiUHldy directs liis car ; 
 
 Nfvcr lifcding their squalls, 
 
 Or tlitir calls, or tlicir bawls, 
 IIu pnssM hy Waitlinian's Ivmporiuii) for shawls, 
 And, iin;ri.'ly just catchint; a uliuipse of St. Paul's, 
 
 Turns down llu' Old Hailey, 
 
 Wlicri' in front of the jail, he 
 fulls up at the door of the gin-shop, juid gaily 
 Cries, "Whnt nuist I fork out to-night, my trump, 
 I'or the whole first-floor of the M.ngpie and Stump ? " 
 
 The clock strikes twelve — it is d.irk midnight — 
 Vet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze uf light. 
 
 The parties arc met ; 
 
 The tables are set ; 
 There is "punch," "cold without," "\wi within," 
 "heavy wet," 
 
 Ale-glasses and jugs. 
 
 And rummers and uuigs. 
 And sand on the iloor, without cari)ets or rugs, 
 
 Cold fowl and cigars, 
 
 I'icklcd onions in jars, 
 Welsh rabbits and kidneys — rare work for the jaws — 
 And very large lobsters, with very large claws ; 
 
 And there is M'Fuze, 
 
 And Lieutenant Tregooze, 
 And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the r.lues. 
 
 All come to see a man " die m hi:> shoes ! " 
 
 The clock strikes One ! 
 
 Sup|)er is done. 
 And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, 
 Singing "Jolly companions every one 1" 
 
 My Lord Tonmoddy 
 
 Is drinking gin-toddy. 
 And laughing at every thing, and every body. 
 
 The clock strikes Two ! and the clock strikes Three ! 
 — "Who so merry, so merry as we ?" 
 
 Save Captain M'Fuze, 
 
 Who is taking a snooze. 
 While .Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work. 
 Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork. 
 
 The clock strikes Four ! 
 
 Round the debtor's door 
 Are gathered a couple of thousand or more ; 
 
 As many await 
 
 At the press-yard gate, 
 Till slowly its folding doors open, and str.night 
 The nu)b divides, and between their ranks 
 A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks. 
 
 The clock strikes Five I 
 
 The Sherifls arrivi'. 
 And the crcnvd is so great that the street seems alive ; 
 
 lUit Sir Carnaby Jenks 
 
 I'links and winks. 
 As a candls burns down in the socket, and sinks. 
 
 Lieutenant Tregooze 
 
 Is dreaming (jf Jews, 
 And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse ; 
 
 My Lord Tomnoddy 
 
 lias drunk all his toddy, 
 .\nd just as dawn is bigimiing to peep, 
 The whole of the party are fast asleep. 
 
 .Sweetly, oh ! sweetly, the njorning breaks, 
 
 With rosiale streaks. 
 Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks. 
 It seemed that tiie mild and clear blue sky 
 Smiled U|)(in all things far and nigh, 
 On all— save the wretch condemned to die. 
 Alack 1 that ever so f.iir a sun 
 As that which its course has now begun, 
 .Should rise on such a scene of misery — 
 Slioukl gild with r.iys so light and free 
 That dismal, dark-frowning gallows-tree ! 
 And hark !— a sound comes, big widi f.ite ; 
 The clock from .St. Sepulchr.'s tower strikes- -Elgin !-- 
 List to that low funereal bell : 
 It is tolling, alas ! a living man's knell — 
 And see— from forth that opening door 
 They come I— Me steps that threshold o'er 
 Who never shall tread up*)!! threshold more. 
 — God 1 'lis a fearsome thing to see 
 That pale, wan man's mute agony. 
 The glare of that wild, despairing eye. 
 Now bent on the crowd, now turnt d to the sky, 
 .\s though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, 
 The path of the spirit's unknown career; 
 Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er 
 .Shall be lifted again, not even in prayer ; 
 That heaving chest !— Enough — 'tis doiiet 
 The bolt has fallen !— the spirit is gone— 
 For weal or for woe is known but to One ! — 
 —Oh ! 'twas a fearsome sight !— Ah me ! 
 A deed to shudder at, not to see. 
 Again that clock 1 'tis time, 'tis time ! 
 The hour is past;— with its earliest chime 
 The chord is severed, its lifeless clay 
 By "dunge(}n villains" is borne away : 
 Nine ! — twas'the last concluding stnjke I 
 And then my Lord Tomnoddy awoke ! 
 And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose. 
 And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose : 
 And they stared at each other, as much as to say 
 "Hollo! Hollo! 
 
 Here's a rum go ! 
 Why Captain ! — my Lord ! — Here's the dickens to pay ! 
 The fjUuw's been cut down and taken away !— 
 
 What's to be done ? 
 
 We've missed all the fun ! — 
 Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town. 
 We are all of us done so uncommonly brown ! " 
 
 What was to be done ?— 't was perfectly plain 
 That they could not well hang the man over again. 
 
I III 
 
 HUMOROUS R !:ADI NCiS. 
 
 \to 
 
 I li ' 
 
 What was to be clone !— The man was ileatl ! 
 Nought cou/if be cK)ne— niiU};lit coultl be said ; 
 Si) — my I.onl ToniiuxUly w<iit lionie tn lifd ! 
 RiciiAKU Markis IUkiiam ( Thomas IngoUidty, I'.uj), 
 
 DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE. 
 
 I' 
 
 ' 1'" t'Vtr tiuTe lived a Y.inlcee lad, 
 Wise (ir otherwlsi!, jjc ,vi or bad, 
 Wild, sc-,i;i^ the birds fly, didn't jump 
 W'idi llappiuK arms from stake or stump, 
 Or, spreailiiiy; tiie tail 
 Of his coat for a sail. 
 Take a suarii)}; leap from post ur rail, 
 And wonder why 
 He I'ouliln't fly, 
 And flap and flutter and wish and try — 
 If ever you knew a country dunce 
 Who diiln't try tliat as often as once, 
 All I can say is, that's a sin;n 
 He never would do for a hero of mine. 
 
 An aspiring ki'H'uh was D. Green : 
 
 The son of a farn»er, a^e f^ urleen ; 
 
 His l>ody was long and lank and 1' an — 
 
 Just right for flying, as will be seen ; 
 
 1 le had two eyes as bright as a bean, 
 
 And a freckled nose that grew between, 
 
 A little awry — for I nuist mention 
 
 That he had riveted his attention 
 
 Upon his wonderful invention. 
 
 Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings. 
 
 And working his face as he worked the wings, 
 
 And with every turn of gimlet and si rew 
 
 Turning and screwing his moutii round too. 
 
 Till his nose seemed bent 
 
 To catch the scent, 
 Around some corner, of new-baked jiies, 
 And his wrinkled cheeks and his Kiiuinting eyes 
 Grew puckered into a queer grimace. 
 That made him look. very droll in the face, 
 
 And also very wise. 
 And wise he must have been, to do more 
 Than ever a genius did before, 
 E.xcepting Da'dalus of yore 
 And his son Icarus, who wore 
 
 Upon their backs 
 
 Those wings of wax 
 I lo had read of in the old almanacs. 
 Darius was clearly of the opinion 
 That the air is also man's dominion, 
 And that, with paddle or fin or pinion. 
 
 We soon or late shall navigate 
 The azure as now we sail the sea. 
 The thing looks simple enough to me ; 
 
 And if you doubt it. 
 Hear how Darius reasoned about it. 
 
 " The birds can fly an' why can't I ? 
 
 Must we give in," says he with a grin. 
 
 "That the bluebird an' plucbe 
 
 Are smarter 'n we be ? 
 jest fold our hanils an' see the swalkT 
 An' bla( kbird nn' catbird beat us holler? 
 Doos the little chatlerin', sassy wren, 
 Xu bigger 'n my lliumb, know more than men ? 
 
 just show me tli.it ! 
 
 I'r prove t the bat 
 Hez got more brains than's in my hat, 
 An' I'll back down, an' not till thin ! " 
 III! argued further : " Nur 1 can't see 
 What's til' use o' wings to a biunhlt -bee, 
 l"ur to git a livin' with, more'n to me ; — 
 
 Ain't my business 
 
 Important's his'n is? 
 
 That Icarus 
 
 Made a perty muss— 
 Him an' his d.uldy Da'dalus 
 They mi;,'lit '.i' kiiowed wings made o' wax 
 Wouldn't st.ind bun-heat an' hard whacks. 
 
 I'll make mine o' hither, 
 
 Ur suthin' ur other." 
 
 .■\iul he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: 
 
 " lUit 1 ain't goin' to show my hand 
 
 To nummies that never can understand 
 
 The fust idee that's big an' grand." 
 
 So he kept his secret from all the rest, 
 
 .Safely buttoned within his vest ; 
 
 .'\nd in tiie loft above the shed 
 
 Himself he locks, with thimble and thread 
 
 And wax and hammer and buckles and screws 
 
 And all such things as geniuses use ;— 
 
 Two bats for patterns, curious fellows ! 
 
 A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows ; 
 
 .Some wire, and several old umbrellas ; 
 
 A carriage-cover, for tail and wings ; 
 
 A piece of harness ; and straps and strings ; 
 
 And a big strong box, 
 
 In which he locks 
 These and a hundred other things. 
 His grinning brothers, lieuben and Durke 
 And Nathan and lotham and .Solomon, lurk 
 Around the corner to see him work- 
 Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 
 Drawing the wa.xed-end through with a jerk. 
 And boring the holes v.ilh a comical quirk 
 Of his wise old head, and .> knowing smirk. 
 Hut vainly they mounted eaci; other's backs, 
 And poked through knot-holes and pried through 
 
 cracks ; 
 With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks 
 He plugged the knot-holes and caulked the cracks ; 
 And a dipper of water, which one would think 
 He had brought up into the loft to drmk 
 
 When he chanced to be dry. 
 
 Stood always nigh, 
 
 For Darius was sly ! 
 And whenever at work he happened to spy 
 
 ■i 
 
 :■! 
 
 .1: 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 I' \ I 
 
 l"*i 
 
 «„ 
 
 Wk 
 
 lii 
 
476 
 
 CROWN JEWEL3. 
 
 
 l!^!' 
 
 ^.;l 
 
 ■■ ^ :• 
 
 I'. 
 
 ■■.r 
 
 :tiU 
 
 At cliink or crevice a blinking eye, 
 He let tile clipper of water fly. 
 "Take that ! an' ef ever ye git a peep, 
 Guess ye'U ketch a weasel asleep ! " 
 
 And he sings as he lucks 
 
 His big strong box : — 
 
 " Tlic weasel's Iitail is sma!! an' trim, 
 An' he islittic an' long an' slim, 
 An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb 
 
 An' ef you'll be 
 
 Advised l)y me. 
 Keep wide awake wlien ye'ie kctcliin' liim ! " 
 
 So day after day 
 I le stitched and tinkered ar.d Iiammered away, 
 
 Till at last 'twas done — 
 The greatest invention under the sun ! 
 "An' now," says Darius, " hooray fur some fun ! " 
 
 'Twas the Fourth of July, 
 
 And the weather was dry. 
 And not a cloud was on all the sky. 
 Save a few light fleeces, wliich here and there. 
 
 Half mist, half air. 
 Like foam on the ocean went floating by — 
 Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen 
 For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. 
 Tiioui;!it cunning Darius : " Now I shan't go 
 Along 'i'Ji tlie fellers to see the show. 
 I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough ! 
 An' then, whi.n the folks 'ave all gone ofl" 
 I'll hev full su ing fur to try the thing, 
 An' practise a little on the wing." 
 " Ain't goin' to see the celebration ?" 
 Says brother Nate. " No ; botheration I 
 I've got sich a cold — a toothache — 1 — 
 My gracious ! — feel's tlu)Ugh I .shoulil fly ! " 
 
 Saidjotham, " Sho ! 
 
 Guess ye better go." 
 
 But Darius said, "No! 
 Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 
 'Long 'bout noon, ef I f^it red 
 O' this junipin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." 
 For all the while to himself h>' said :— 
 
 " I tell ye what ! 
 I'll fly a few times around the lot, 
 To see iiow 't seems, then soon 's I've got 
 The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, 
 
 I'll astonish the nation, 
 
 An' all creation. 
 By flyin' over the celebration ! 
 (.)ver thi'ir heads I'll sail like an eagle ; 
 I'll bal.ince myself on my wings like a sea-gull : 
 I'll danc ; on the chimbleys ; I'll stand on the steeple ; 
 I'll flop up to wimlers an' scare the people ! 
 I'll light on the liberty-po'e, an' crow ; 
 An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 
 ' What world 's this 'ere 
 
 That I've come near?' 
 Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap Cm the moon ; 
 All' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon ! " 
 
 He crept from his bed ; 
 And, seeing the others were gone, he said, 
 " I'm gi:tin' over the cold 'n my head." 
 
 And away he sped, 
 To op";n the wonderful bpx in the shed. 
 
 His brothers had walked but a little way, 
 When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, 
 " Wiiat is the feller up to, hey!" 
 " Don'o' — the 's suthin' ur other to pay, 
 Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed tu hum to-<lay." 
 Says Burke, " His toothache's all 'n his eye ! 
 //e never 'd miss a I-'o'th-o'-JuIy, 
 Ef he Iiedn't got some machine to try." 
 Then Sol, the little one, spoke : "By darn ! 
 Le's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn. 
 An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn ! " 
 "Agreed ! " Through the orchard tiiey creep back. 
 Along by the fences, behind the stack. 
 And one by one, through a hole in the wall, 
 In under the dusty barn they crawl. 
 Dressed in their Sunday garments all ; 
 And a very astonishing sight was that. 
 When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat 
 Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. 
 And tiiere they hid ; 
 And Reul)en slid 
 The fastenings back, and the door undid. 
 
 "Keep dark!" said he, 
 "While I squint an' see what the' is to see." 
 
 As knights of old put on their mail — 
 
 I'rom head to foot an iron suit, 
 Iron jacket and iron boot. 
 Iron breeches, and on the head 
 No hat, but an iron pot instead. 
 
 And under the chin the bail, 
 (I believe they called the thing a helm,) 
 Then sallied forth to overwhelm 
 The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm — 
 
 So this vtodcnt knight* 
 
 Prepared for flight. 
 Put on his wings and strapped them tight ; 
 'ointed and jaunty, strong and light — 
 Buckled them fa.st to shoulder and hip ; 
 Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! 
 .\nd a helm had he, but that he wore, 
 Not on his head, like those of yore, 
 
 But more like the helm of a ship. 
 
 "Hush!" Reuben said, 
 
 " He's up in the shed! 
 He's opened the winder— I see his head ! 
 He stretches it out, an' pokes it about, 
 Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, 
 
 An' nobody near ; — ■ 
 Guess he don' o' who's hid in here ! 
 He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill ! 
 Stop laflin', Solomon ! Burke, keep still ! 
 
 rJiiu 
 
aim — 
 
 HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 477 
 
 He's a climbin* out now — Of all the things ! 
 
 What's he got on? I van, it's \vinj;s ! 
 
 An' tliat 'totiicr thing ? I vnm, it's a tail ! 
 
 An' there he sits like a hawk on a rail ! 
 
 Steppin' careful, he travels the leiij^th 
 
 Of liis spring-board, anil teeturs to try as strength. 
 
 Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; 
 
 Peeks over his shoulder ; this way an' that. 
 
 Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by ; 
 
 But the' 's on'y a caf an' goslin nii,h. 
 
 They turn up at him a wonderin' eye, 
 
 To see— The dragon ! he's goin' to fly ! 
 
 Away he goes I Jitnminy ! what a jump ! 
 Flop — floii — an' plump 
 To the groimd with a thump ! 
 
 Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin' all 'n a lump ! " 
 
 As a demon is hurled by an angr I's spear, 
 
 Heels over head, to his proper sphere — 
 
 I lecls over head, and head over heels, 
 
 Diz/ily down the abyss he wheels— 
 
 So fell Darius. Upon his crown. 
 
 In tlie midst of the barn-yard, he came down. 
 
 In a wonderful whirl of tangled .strings, 
 
 Hroken braces and broken springs, 
 
 Broken tail and broken wings, 
 
 Shooling-stars, and various things ; 
 
 Harn-yard litter of straw and chalf, 
 
 And nuich that wasn't so sweet by half. 
 
 Aw;iy with a bellow f.cd the calf, 
 
 And what was that? Did tlie gosling laugh? 
 
 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, 
 
 And he hoars the voice of Jotham crying, 
 
 " Say, D'rius ! how do you like flyin' ? '' 
 
 Slowly, nicfully, where he lay, 
 
 D.irius just turned and looked that way, 
 
 A;; he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuIT. 
 
 " VVal, I like flyin' well enough," 
 
 II J said ; " but the' ain't such a thunderin' sight 
 
 O' fun in 't when ye come to light." 
 
 I just have room for the moral here : 
 And this is the moral — Stick to your sphere. 
 Or if you insist, as you have the right. 
 On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, 
 The moral is — Take care how you light. 
 
 JOJJN TOWNSKNU TrOWBRIDGK. 
 
 WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 
 
 "7 Y ES — he was one o' the best men that ever trod 
 \51 shoe-leather, husband w.as, though Miss Jink- 
 ^^ ins says (she 'two ; Polly l<ingham,) she says, 
 I never found it ■ mi till after he dieil, but that's 
 the consarndest lie that ever w.is told, though it's jest 
 a piece with everything else she says about me. I 
 guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his 
 memory, nobody wouhln't think I dident set store by 
 him. Want to hear it? Well, I'll sec if 1 can say it ; 
 
 it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to barren up 
 my fcelin's ; I'll try. Didetit know I ever writ poitry? 
 I low you talk ! used to make lots on't ; haint so much 
 late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had 
 a bee, I sent him an amarin' grcnt checze, and writ a 
 piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says : 
 
 Teach him for to proclaim 
 
 Snlvation to tlic folks ; 
 No occasion give for any blame, 
 Nor wicked pco^jle's jokes. 
 
 And SO it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say tlie 
 rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses. 
 
 Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased 
 with it ; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. I'l'.t I 
 was gwine to tell the one i made in relation to hus- 
 band ; it begins as follers ; — 
 
 He never jawed in .ill liis life, 
 
 lie never was oiikiml— 
 Ami (iho' I say it thai was his wife) 
 
 Sucli men you sekloiii ntul. 
 
 (That's as true as the Scripturs ; I never knowed him 
 to say a harsh word. ) 
 
 I never changed my single lot — 
 I thought 'twould be a sin — 
 
 (Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a 
 chance. ) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever hud 
 a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's 
 th.em livin' that might Xv\\ if thoy wos a mind to ; why, 
 this poitry w.as writ on account of being joked about 
 MajorCoon, three yearsafter husband died. I guess the 
 ginerality o' folks knows what was the n.aturc o' Major 
 Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss 
 Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss 
 Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the 
 Major took her "Jack at a pinch"— seein' he couldent 
 get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get — 
 but I goes on to say — 
 
 I never changed my single lot, 
 
 I thouKht 'iwould be a sin— 
 Kor I thouRlit so much o' Deacon Cedott, 
 
 I never got married agin. 
 
 If ever a hasty word bespoke, 
 
 His anger dident last, 
 But vanished like tobaiker smoke 
 
 Afore the wintry blast. 
 
 And since it was my lot to be 
 
 The wife of such a man. 
 Tell the men that's after me 
 
 To ketch mc if they can. 
 
 If I was sick a single jf^t, 
 He called the doctor in— 
 
 That's a fact— he used Xo be scairt to death if anything 
 i ailed me. Now only jest think— widder jinkins told 
 Sam Pendergra.sses wiP. (she 'twas Sally Smith) tliat 
 she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by 
 me, or he wouldent a went off to confreiice mcetin' 
 when I was down willi the fever. The trulli is, they 
 
 
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478 
 
 CROWN jf:wels. 
 
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 n.i 
 
 cotildeiit git along without him no way. Parson Potter 
 seldom went to confrence meetin, and when Ar wa'n't 
 there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to 
 take the lead if husband dident (!o it ? Deacon Kc- 
 nipe hadcnt no gift, and Deacon Crosljy hadetit no in- 
 clination, and so it all come onto Deacon Dcdott — and 
 he was always ready and willin' to do his du'y, you 
 know ; as long .as he was able to stand on his legs he 
 continued to go to confrence meetin' ; why, I've 
 kr.owed that man to go wiien he conldent scarcely 
 crawl on account o' tlie pain i:i the spine of his back. 
 
 He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to 
 keep his talents hid up in a napkin — so you see 'twas 
 from a sense o' duty he went wiien I was sick, what- 
 ever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where 
 was I? Oh!— 
 
 ir I was sick n single jot, 
 
 He called the doctor in — 
 I sot so much store liy Deiicon Bedott 
 
 I never got married agin, 
 
 A wonderful tender heart he had, 
 
 Tli:U felt for all mankind- 
 It nia<Ie Iiini feci aninzin' l)ad 
 
 To sec the world so blind. 
 
 Whiskey and rum he tasted not— 
 
 That's as true as the Scripturs, — hut if you'll believe 
 it, Hctsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy tiiat Miss Jinkins 
 said one day to t'.ieir house, how't she'd seen Deacon 
 Rcdott high, time and agin ! did you ever ! Well, I'm 
 glad nobody don't pretend to mind anythin;"- s/ic says. 
 I've knowed Poll Bingiiam from a gal, and she never 
 knowed how to speak the truth — beside she always 
 had a pertikkeler spite against husljand and me, and 
 between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention 
 it, fcr I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure 
 nobody. Well, s!ie was a ravin'-distracted after my 
 husband herself, but it's a long .story, I'll tell you about 
 it some other time, and then you'll know why widder 
 Jinkins Is etarnally runnin' me down. See— wlierc had 
 I got to? Oh, I remember now— 
 
 Whiskey and rum he tasted not — 
 
 He llinufjlit it was a sin— 
 I Ihousjht so much o' Deacon Bedott 
 
 I never got married .igin. 
 
 Kut now he's dead 1 the thought is killin'. 
 
 My grief I can't control- 
 He never left a single shillin' 
 
 His widder to console. 
 
 But tliat wa'n't his fault— he was so out o' health for a 
 number o' year afore lie died, it ain't to be wondered 
 at he dident lay up nothin' — however, it dident give 
 him no great oneasiness — he never cared much for 
 airthly riches, thougli Mis'^ Pendergrass says she heard 
 Miss Jinkins say Deacon Redott was as tight as the 
 skin on his back— begrudged folks their vittals when 
 they came to his house I did you ever ! why, he was 
 the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my i)orn days.^ 
 If I'll such a husband as Dill Jinkins was, I'd hold my 
 tongue about my neighbor's husbands. He was a 
 
 dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his 
 life, and he had an awful high temper— used to swear 
 like all possest when he got mad — and I've heard my 
 husband say, (and he wa'n.t a man that ever said any- 
 thing tliat wa'n't tnic) — I've hcr.rd Aim say Bill Jink- 
 ins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if 
 he had a chance. Where was I? Oh ! " His widder 
 tocor.sole'' — ther ain't but one more verse, tain't a 
 very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he 
 says to me, says he — "What did you stop so soon 
 for ? "—but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's site tlioughl 
 I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun — she's a piirty crit- 
 ter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry 
 o' hem— I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and 
 mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' troth in 
 the hull on't — said I never cared tuppence for the dea- 
 con. What an evcrlaslin' lie ! Why, when he died, 1 
 took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a 
 spell they was afraid they should have to send me to a 
 Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I wo;''t 
 dwell on't. I conclude as follers : — 
 
 I'll never change my single lot — 
 
 I think 't would be n sin — 
 The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott 
 
 Don't intend to get married agin. 
 
 Excuse my cr>'in' — my fcelin's always overcomes me 
 so when I say that poitry — O-o-o-o-u ! 
 
 Franxes Miriam Whitcher. 
 
 PAT'S CRITICISM. 
 
 HERE'S a story that's old, 
 But good if twice told. 
 Of a doctor of limited skill, 
 
 Wlio cured bcar.t and man 
 On the "cold-water plan," 
 Without the small help of a pill. 
 
 On his portal of pine 
 
 1 lung an ilegr.nt sign, 
 Depicting a beautiful rill. 
 
 And a lake wliere a sprite, 
 
 With apparent delight, 
 W.is sporting in sweet dishabille. 
 
 Pat McCarty one day, 
 
 A:; he sauntered that way, 
 Stood and g.ized at tluat port; I of pine ; 
 
 When the doctor with pride 
 
 Stepped up to liis side, 
 Saying, " Pat, how is that for a sign ?" 
 
 " There's wan thing," says P.at, 
 
 " You've lift out o' that. 
 Which, bejabers I is qiioite a niist.ake. 
 
 It's trim and it's nate ; 
 
 But, to m.ike it complate, 
 \e sliud li.ave a foine burd on the lake." 
 
 1/ 
 
 i; 
 
HUMOROUS READINGS. 
 
 479 
 
 ■I 
 
 "Ah ! indeed ! pray then, tell, 
 
 To make it look well, 
 What bird do you think it may lack ? " 
 
 Says Pat, "Of the same 
 
 I've forgotten the name. 
 But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! quack ! ' " 
 
 Charles F. Adams. 
 
 fll" 
 
 SOCRATES SNOOKS. 
 
 ISTER Socrates .Snooks, a lord of creation, 
 The second time entered the marriage rela- 
 tion : 
 
 Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, 
 .And they thought him tliu happiest man in the land. 
 Hut scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, 
 When one morning to Xantippe, Socr.atcs said, 
 " I think, for a man of my standing in life, 
 This house is too small, as I now have a wife : 
 .So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey 
 -Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy.' 
 
 "Now, Socrates dearest," Xantippe replied, 
 
 "I hate to hear everything vidgarly my'd; 
 
 Now, wlienever you speak of your chattels again. 
 
 Say, o«r cow-house, o/zr barn-yard, <?«»• pig-pen." 
 
 " Hy your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say wh.at I please 
 
 Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, »iy trees." 
 
 " .Say our " Xantippe e.xclainicd in a rage. 
 
 " I won't, Mrs. Snooks, tliougli you ask it an age ! " 
 
 Oh, woman 1 though only a part of man's rib. 
 
 If the .story in Genesis don't tell a fib, 
 
 Sliould your naughty cf)nipanione'er quarrel with you, 
 
 You are certain to prove the best man i f the two. 
 
 In the following case this was certainly tni'j ; 
 
 I'or the lov>.ly Xantippe just [Hilled off her slioe, 
 
 .\n(l laying about her, all sides at random. 
 
 The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." 
 
 Mi -tor Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain. 
 To v.ard oil" the blows which descended like rain— 
 Ctjnchuling that valor's best part was discretion- 
 Crc'pt under the bed like a terrified Iles-ian ; 
 But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, 
 Converted the siege into a blockade. 
 
 At l.ist, after reasoning the thing in his pate, 
 
 He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate : 
 
 .And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, 
 
 S.iicl, " My dear, may we come out from under our 
 
 bed ? '• 
 "Hah ! hah !" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks, 
 1 p.rceive you agree to my tc rms by your looks : 
 Now, .Socrates — hear me— from this happy hour, 
 If you'll only obey me, I'll never look soi.r." 
 
 'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to c!)urch, 
 He clianced for a clean pair of trousers to search : 
 Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous 
 
 twitches, 
 " My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breCv lies ? ' ' 
 
 THE RETORT. 
 
 I,D Birch, who taught the village school. 
 Wedded a maid of homespun habit ; 
 He was as stubborn as a nu'", 
 And she as playful as a rabbit. 
 Poor Kate had scarce become a wife 
 
 Before her husband sought to make her 
 The pink of country polished life. 
 
 And prim and formal as a Quaker. 
 One day the tutor went abroad. 
 
 And simple Katie sadly missed him ; 
 When he returned, behind her lord 
 
 She shyly stole, and fondly kissid him ; 
 The husband's anger rose, and red 
 
 And white his face alternate grew : 
 " Less freedom, ma'am ! " Kate sighed and said, 
 " O, dear ! I didn't know 'twas you ! " 
 
 George Perkins Moruis. 
 
 MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT 
 BUTTONS. 
 
 HERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope jou're in a little 
 better temper than you were this morning. 
 There, you needn't begin to whistle: people 
 
 "I* don't come to bed to whistle. But it s just 
 like you ; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult 
 me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature 
 living : now, you get quite a fiend. Do kt yf)U rest? 
 No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I l.ave to 
 talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all 
 day long : it's very hard if I can't speak a word at 
 niglit ; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness 
 knows ! 
 
 Because once in your lifetime your sliirt wanted a 
 button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. 
 You <//</«'/ swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know 
 what you do when you're in a passion. You were not 
 in a passion, weren't you ? Well, then I don't know 
 what a passion is ; and I think 1 ought to by tlii-s time. 
 I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know 
 that. 
 
 It's a pity you haven't something worse to complain 
 of th.an a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, 
 you would, I know. I'm sure I'm niver without a 
 needle-and-thread in my hand ; what with you and the 
 children, I'm maile a perfect slave of. And what's my 
 thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's olf your 
 shirr— what do you .say "(//;" at? I say once, Mr. 
 Caudle ; or twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, 
 Caudie, no man's buttons in the world are better 
 looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the 
 shirts you had when you were first married ! I should 
 like to know where were your buttons then ? 
 
 Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you 
 always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and 
 then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's 
 
 I -i 
 
 \\\ rf 1 
 
 i; ■ 
 
 r'^: 
 
 m. 
 
 
 i :•* 
 
 t; '■ 
 
480 
 
 CROWN JEWELS. 
 
 i A'. 
 
 1/ vm 
 
 how you men alwa3's will have all the talk to your- 
 selves : a p )or woman isn't allowed to get a word in. 
 A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's 
 nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A 
 pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha ! if 
 poor women only knew what they had to go through ! 
 What witli buttons, and one thing and another ! They'd 
 never tie themselves to the best man in the world, I'm 
 sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle ? — Why, do 
 much better without you, I'm certain. 
 
 And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't 
 off the shirt ; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that 
 you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're 
 aggravating enough, when you like, for anything I All 
 1 know is, it's very odd the button should be off the 
 shirt ; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her 
 husband's buttons than I am. I only say its very 
 odd. 
 
 However, there's one comfort ; it can't last long. 
 I'm worn to death with your ttmper, and shan't 
 trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh I And 
 I dare say you would laugh ! I've no doubt of it ! 
 That's your love ; that's your feeling ! I know that 
 I'm sinkmg every day, though I say nothing about it. 
 And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second 
 wife will look after your buttons ! You'll find out the 
 difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, 
 then ; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed 
 button to your back. 
 
 Douglas Jerrgi.d. 
 
 llJ' 
 
 AN AX TO GRIND. 
 
 'HEN I was a little boy, I remember, one 
 cold winter morning I was accosted by a 
 smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. 
 " My pretty boy," said he, " has your father 
 a grindstone ?" " Yes, sir." said I. " You are a fine 
 little fellow," said he; " will you let me grind my ax 
 on it?" Pleased with the compliment of "fine little 
 fellow," "Oh, yes, sir," I answered ; " it is down in 
 the shop." 
 
 " And w 11 you, my man," said he, patting me on 
 the head, "get me a little hot water?" How could 
 I refuse ? I ran and soon brought a kettleful. " I am 
 sure," continuad he, "you are one of the finest lads 
 that ever I have seen ; will you just turn a few minutes 
 for me.'" 
 
 Pleased with the flattery, I went to work ; and I 
 toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The 
 school-bell rang, and I could not get away ; my hands 
 were blistered, and the ax was not half ground. 
 
 At length, however, it was sharpened ; and the man 
 
 turned to me with, "Now, you little rascal, you've 
 played truant ; be off to school, or you'll rue it !" 
 
 " Alas !" thought I, " it is hard enough to turn a 
 grindstone, but now to be called a little rascal, is too 
 much." It sank deep into my mind, and often have 
 I thought of it since. When I see a merchant over 
 polite to his customers, methinks, " That man has an 
 ax to grind." 
 
 When I see a man, who is ir. private life a tyrant, 
 flattering the people, and making great professions of 
 attachment to liberty, methinks, "Look out, gocxl 
 people ! that fellow would set you turning grmd- 
 stones !" 
 
 Benjamin Franklin. 
 
 KRIS KRINGLE'S SURPRISE. 
 
 ITH heavy pack upon his back, 
 And smiles upon his face, 
 Kris Kringle waded through tlie snow, 
 And went at rapid pace. 
 His sack that made him sweat and tug 
 
 Was stuffed with pretty toys. 
 And up and down throughout the town 
 He sought the girls and boys. 
 
 Not long before, within one door. 
 
 One little Johnny Street, 
 By lucky chance got into pants, 
 
 And grew about two feet. 
 On Christmas eve he asked for leave 
 
 To hang upon a peg 
 The woolen stockingr, he had worn, 
 
 Each with its lengthy leg. 
 
 The cunning boy, on Christmas joy 
 
 With all his heart was bent. 
 And for old Kringle's packages 
 
 With all his might he went. 
 In big surprise Kris Kringle's eyes 
 
 Stuck out and stared around. 
 For two such stockings as those were 
 
 He ne'er before had found. 
 
 He thought he'd never get them full, 
 
 They were so strangely deep ; 
 So, standing there upon a chair, 
 
 He took a hasty peep : 
 Young Johnny Street, the little cheat, 
 
 Had watched his lucky chance, 
 And to the stockings, at the toj), 
 
 Had pinned his pair of panvs. 
 
 Henrv Davenport. 
 
tVENPORT. 
 
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CHOICE SELECTIONS 
 
 — OF — 
 
 YocjjlI • 25.Dd • In^frumcnkl • i^u^ic 
 
 — FOR THE 
 
 HOME CIRCLE. 
 
 A HAPPY BLENDING OF THE OLD AND THE NEW. 
 
 The most critical, comprehensive and best-selected combination of old familar 
 
 Songs and Instrumental Music with the latest compositions of the most 
 
 distinguished authors, and the Favorite Airs of English, 
 
 Italian and Comic Opera. 
 
 'Xi2t Me ^qite tlie ^ongs o^ a T^atinn anfi 1 6aii8 Jlot 3fiC^o M^^es Its liaws." — Sir Wa/ier Scoff. 
 
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COMIN' TnHO- THE PwYE. 
 
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 Yet ull the lads they smile at me 
 
 When comia' thro' the lyu! 
 
 Aman^ the train there is a swain, 
 
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 483 
 
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jijr Sitijht ^niilc gaunts ^^ ^till. 
 
 BA.XjIjA.D, 
 
 ivl 
 
 III! 
 
 Poetry by J. Z. CARPENTER. 
 
 With ezprrMion. 
 
 Music by W. T. WEIOHTOIT. 
 
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 Iler form Rtill ffreeta inv KiKht, While the itam their vig-i Is kerp; 
 
 I have Been the Ktnrm a- rixe, Like a gian t in liin wrath; 
 
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 HER DRIOIIT HMILE HAUNTS ME STILL. 
 
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 mid ■ night, on the nenii, 
 ilccp when I a - riKc, 
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 Ilur bright f<mik'linunti*nieKtill. 
 Ilvr briKhtuniileliaiititHincatill. 
 Ilur bright BDiilehaunta me Rtiil. 
 
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 voice lives on the breeze, And her spir - itcomcgat will; In the 
 
 clone mineach-ing eye». Sweet dreams my sens-es fill, And from 
 
 dan - ger I have known, That a reck - Ie!<s life can fill ; Yet her 
 
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 mid - night, on the km, Her bright smile haunts me still, 
 
 sleep wlien I a - rise, Her bright smile haunts me still, 
 
 pres ■ ence is not flown, Her bright smile haunU me still. 
 
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 Words b7 EDWIN THOMAS. 
 
 Wmo Ts7 STEPHEir ASAIf S. 
 
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 ^•ar - rior bold vith spurs ofgolJ, Sang mcr - ri - ly his lay, Sang 
 
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 nono with her compare. So what care I, tho* death be nigh, I'll live for love or 
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 thought on the wo-niun who lor'd him the best, And the children stood wtttching tnem 
 
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THREE FISHERS WENT 8 A I T. I N O . 
 
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 And good bje to the bar and its nioaaing. 
 
 489 
 
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 Composed by HE2TI17 CASEZ 
 
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 1. Of alltho 
 
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 that arc so emart. There's none like pret 
 that's in the week, I dearly lova 
 
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 one day, And that's ihe duy tliutccime.s between A Sa-tur-day and 
 
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 Monday ; For then I'm drest all in my best. To walk ubroad with Sully: ( ^"'^ " "*" 
 
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SALLY IN OUR ALLBT. 
 
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 galley ; But when my sev'n long ycnra are out, Oh ! then I'll marry Sally ; And when wc'ro 
 
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 1. Wiiereare thefriendaof my youth, Bay, where are those cherish 'doaes gone? And 
 
 2. Say, can I ev • er a • gain, Such ties can 1 ev- er n; • new ? Or 
 
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 why have they dropp'd with the leaf, 
 feel those warm pulses a ■ gain, 
 
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 Which beat for the dear ones I knew? The 
 
 
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 voices still sound in mine ear, Tlieir features I see in my dreams. And th« 
 
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WHERE ARE THE FRIENDS OP MY YOUTH ? 
 
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 . where are the friendx of my yonth, Say, wliere are thooecherish'd ones 
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 gone? And why have they dropp'd with the leaf. Ah* why have they left me to 
 
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 mourn ? 
 
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 I. Nigh to a grave that w 
 
 t was new - ly made, Leaned a sex - ton old, on his 
 path • er them in ! for man and boy, Year alt - er year of 
 
 3. Man- y are with me, but still I'm alone, I'm king of the dead, and I 
 
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 earth worn spade. His work was done and he paused to wait. The 
 grief and joy; I've builded the houses that lie a ■ round, In 
 
 make my throne, On a monument slab of mar - ble cold, And my 
 
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 fun - 'ral train through the o - pen gate : A rel - ic of by - gone 
 er - ry nook of this bur - lal ground. Mother and daugli - ter, 
 
 seep - tre of rule Is the spade I hold ; Come they from cottaje or 
 
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 days was he, And bis locks vi-crc white as the foam y sea ; And 
 lAth - er and son, Come to my sol - i - tudc, one by one. But 
 
 come they from hall, Man - kind are my sub- jects - all, all, all I Letthem 
 
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 these words came from his lips so thin, ** I gather them in, I 
 
 come they stran - gers, or coma they kin, 
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 Uiuio coinpoa«d b7 W. V. WALLACX. 
 
 PIANO 
 
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FLEE AS A BIRD. 
 
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 Fly, for th'aven - ger is near ^ thee, 
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 Call and the Sa - viour will 
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 hear - thee, He on his bos - om will bear 
 
 sigh - ing. Cease from your sor • row and cry 
 
 thee, 
 ing. The 
 
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 Thou who art wea - ry of sin, O thou who art wea - ry of 
 
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 Composed and Arranged for the Piano-Forte, 
 
 l,t 
 
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 VOICE. 
 
 PIANO J 
 
 B7 K aoBsoir. 
 
 ^1^1 
 
 1. I're trarell'd a-bout • 
 
 2. I havn no wife to 
 
 3. It'a all re-ry well to de- 
 
 4. If a bur - ri-cane rise in 
 
 
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 bit in my time, And of trouble!) I've seen a few But found it bet-ter in 
 
 bother my life, \o lov - or to prove nn - true, But the wboir day long with a 
 
 pen d on It friend, Thul is, if you've proved him true But you'll And it bet-ter by 
 
 the miil-dity skica And the sun is lost to view, More itead-i - ly by, with 
 
 m^ 
 
 :=)=: 
 
 1 
 
 ^ 
 
 w-m 
 
 *t' - ry climo To pnd-dle my own ea - noe. 
 
 laugh and a song, I pnddle my own oa • noe,. 
 
 far in the end, To paddle your own ca • noe., 
 
 a stead-fast eye, And pad-die your own oa - noe,, 
 
 My wants are small, I 
 I rise with tho lark, and from 
 To " borrow " is dearer by 
 The dai - siei that grow in 
 
 &U0 
 
PADDLB YOUR OWN CANOB. 
 
 *^»^^»»<^>^^*^ 
 
 ■» J>i<S<^^rf»<^»» 
 
 ^*^ ^ ig-fp'— ^-» 
 
 eare nut at all If my debts are paid wlien due,., 
 daylight till dark I do what I hare to do,... 
 far than to "buy," A max-im tho' uld, itill true,, 
 the bri^^ht green fielda, Are blooming no sweet for you,,. 
 
 I drive a-way strife in the 
 I'm careless of wcaUh, if I've 
 You nev-cr will sigh, if you 
 So never sit down with a 
 
 
 M 
 
 mi 
 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 '^ 
 
 -^—fm- 
 
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 o - eean of lifn, While I pad-dio my own en. - noe Then love your neigh-bcir 
 
 on - ly the health To pad-die my own ca - noe 
 
 on - ly will try To pad-die your own ca - noe ClfOltUS* 
 
 tear or a frown, But p&d-dle your own ca -'noe 
 
 1=1. 
 
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 your-aelf, As the world you go triiv - el - ling through. 
 
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 nrv - er tit down with a tear or a frown, But pad-die your own ea - noe. 
 
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 501 
 
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3 ^mmi ^ing the (Bid ^onp, 
 
 ■BJ^XjTL,JL1D. 
 
 51 
 
 Slowly. 
 
 Worcls and Mndc by CLABZBSL 
 
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 longa I Euii'- lung years a - go, For 
 
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 me. And foul - ish tear* would flow ; 
 
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 "I CANNOT 3INO THB OLD 80NOS 
 
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 hj - gons hoarn com* o'er my heart With eaoh fk - mil - iar itrain 
 
 
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 3 I oaBBot fing the «H toagt, 
 
 Their charm it lad and doep 
 ' Vheir melodies would wakea 
 Old rarrows from their deep 
 And thoagh all anforgottrn ttilV 
 And nadly sweet they be, 
 |: I eaoDot (ing the old inngi, 
 The/ ara toa dear to iiMb i| 
 
 3 I eannot eing the old eongi^ 
 For TisioDi eomo egaia, 
 Of golden dreams departed. 
 And yrars of weary pnin ; 
 PerhapB when earthly fetters 
 Have set my spirit free, 
 |: My Toion mny know the old songs 
 for all otoraitj. :|| ^^ 
 
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ilissfttl §\tm% djomc Stealing 
 o'er Mt. 
 
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 dim. 
 
 1. Bliss ■ ful dreams come steal • ing o'er me, Bring -ing hap - py scenes goue by ; 
 
 2. Though each day fresh care be bringing, That brief vis • ion soothes my heart ; 
 
 — -^ — ^ — "■'^ — ^ rfiwi. 
 
 Is 
 
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 dim. 
 
 Where each day new pleas - ures bringing. Left at heart no cause to sigh. 
 Bids me hope the day not dis - tant, When loved forms no more shall part. . 
 
 
 504 
 
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 "cr 
 
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 BLISSFUL DREAMS CX)ME STEALING O'ER ME. 
 
 / 
 
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 Home of|)euuuI I 
 Come, sweet sleep, my 
 
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 ^'ff^^E^±^] 
 
 see tliy por ■ tuU, Hear the voiu ■ cs dear to me,— 
 eye • lids seal -ing. Come, briglit dream, my 8oul to cheer; 
 
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 m If 
 
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 Grasp the hands of pure af • fee - tion, And the glance of rapture see : 
 Waft me hack to scenes of pleasure. Bring the smile and chase the tear : 
 
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 :=j: 
 
 Grasp the hands of pure af ■ fee • tion. And tlTe glance of rapt • ure see. 
 
 Waft me back to scenes of pleas - ure. Bring the smile and chase the tear. 
 
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^h ^arph and thi{ WMt. 
 
 
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 A "SHELL" OF OCEAN. 
 
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 Allegro tion troppo. 
 
 
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 1 tlic North Sea li v'd a whale, In the North Sea li v'd a whale I In the North Sen 
 
 In 
 
 All went well un- til one day, All went well un- til one day, All went well un- 
 just you make tracks cried the whale. Just you make trucks cried the whulc, Just you make 
 
 trucks 
 
 
 
 — I ^ — z^ — h." 
 
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 ■jt=zw. 
 
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 liv'd a whale! Big in bone and large in tail. Big in bone and large in tail, 
 til one day, Came a strange flsli in the bay. Came a strange fish in the bay, 
 cried the whale, Th en he lash'd ou t with his tail, Then he losh'd out with bis tail. 
 
 iir-«z:±E &^t=r^^:b.-t -r=E .-| r-r---- r-^ 
 
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 Oh I. 
 Ah!. 
 Oh!. 
 
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 505 
 
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THE TORPEDO AND THE WHALE. 
 
 *-^ ^H; IS- 
 
 
 Tbis whale tiHod un • (lu • ly, To 
 This fish wua in - deed oil, A 
 
 Tho flsU bo . iiig load-cd, Then 
 
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 swagger, and bul - ly And oh I and oh I 
 
 Woolwich Tor- pe - do! But oh! but oh! 
 
 and there ex - plod-ed, And oh! and oh! 
 
 \—2[ I 1 — I — ' — Pi — 
 
 
 The la ■ dies lov'd him 
 The big wahlf; did not 
 That wiialo was seen no 
 
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 so! This whale used iin-du-ly, To swagger and bul-ly, And 
 
 know. This fish was in-decd olsl A Woolwich Tor- po-do! 15ut 
 
 moM_Tho flsh^jK^ - ing loa d - ed. Then and there ex • plod-ed, And 
 
 
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 Words by K THORNTON. 
 
 Music by W. T. WEISHTON. 
 
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 1, Uuitt for tlio wea • ry, 
 
 2. For this we nerve our 
 
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 rest, . 
 strength, 
 
 • • • 
 
 When all life's toils are o'er; 
 
 For this we on • ward move; 
 
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 Rest for the wea - ry, rest, . . 
 
 Shame and reproach • es bear, . . 
 
 Up • on a tran • qua 
 
 And take them all for 
 
 rail. 
 
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 508 
 
■hore ; 
 love: 
 
 REST rOK TIIK WEARY, REST. 
 
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 Where iiiKhH, ami ti-an, nii<i puiiiR, 
 Count ev' • ry hour that Hies, 
 
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 Once all iii mer • cjr sent, 
 
 Watch ev' • ry iun go down, 
 
 Will ne'er dia-turb a 
 
 Still near • cr to the 
 
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 gain, 
 skies, 
 
 The blest in • hab • i - tant. 
 
 The robe, the palm, the crown. 
 
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 fSotcer. 
 
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 Rest for the wea • ry, rest, 
 Rest for the wea • ry, rest, 
 
 Rest for the wea - ry, rest. 
 
 Rest for the wea • ry, rest. 
 
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 509 
 
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 SPANISH BALLAD, 
 
 Words ?aol Mtudc Arranged by 
 
 A. H. WAEEFISLD. 
 
 ▼OIOE. 
 
 PIANO- 
 
 '•*\i 
 
 I ,j 
 
 1 
 
 •ft 
 
 .-K~\- 
 
 q!?rxi:»! 
 
 ^^ 
 
 I, Oh tell me one thing, 
 .^- 2. My fa - ther was a 
 
 tell mc tru - ly, Tell me 
 Span-ish mer - chant, And be 
 
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 NO SIR I 
 
 PS::}*- 
 
 ^1 
 
 question. You will always 
 
 answer No ! To all you 
 
 answer no? 
 said to me — 
 
 ■^=- 
 
 jnu moSM. 
 
 :^ii*: 
 
 No Sir! 
 No Sir! 
 
 m 
 
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 ^li 
 
 ^i^^ 
 
 raz 
 
 rDfcr; 
 
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 no sir I 
 
 sir I 
 
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 -^-<'-X — * — 
 
 '-7=r. 
 
 no sirl 
 
 no sir! 
 
 no sir! 
 
 no t 
 
 FlKB. 
 
 
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 dsii*: 
 
 
 e 
 
 1 
 
 =t==t 
 
 :•=»= 
 
 5g 
 
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 rellen. 
 
 ■r-- 
 
 3. If when walking in flie garden, 
 
 Flucking flow'rs all wet with dew, 
 Tell me will you be offended, 
 If I walk and talk with you? 
 No sir! etc 
 
 4. If when walking in the garden, 
 I should ask you to be mine, 
 And should tell' you that I lore 70a, 
 Would ynu then my licart decline? 
 No Sir I etc. 
 
 511 
 
 
 m 
 
 Hi I 
 
il^^n tou'II fcmpber P«. 
 
 AS SUNG IN THE OPERA OF "THE BOHEMIAN GIRL." 
 
 Words by ALFBSD SUNN, Esq. 
 
 Htudo by M. W BALFE. 
 
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 Andante Camabile. 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 EBE^ 
 
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 ^^f 
 
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 Cres. 
 
 ^ cto.'ce. 
 
 -1— P- 
 
 
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 y 
 
 l&tC 
 
 lii 
 
 -A ^ H» 
 
 
 1. When oth - «r lip* itiid 
 
 8. When cold • dmi or d« 
 
 ■=T=dr=:^ 
 
 -I 1- 
 
 a tempo. 
 
 ' •-P=il^P- : -n 
 
 E^SiS,* 
 
 ggi::g= -j-rt'^ =F=p:: :gi =p= i ! : J I 
 
 ^-tzrri^z 
 
 ^^P==^^ 
 
 h=?-p- 
 
 :?^ 
 
 ?v-p- 
 
 Wii^'t 
 
 ^a?: 
 
 t— 1=: 
 
 oth - «r heitrtt Tlifiir tain nf love ■hftll tell, 
 
 celt •h«ll alight Tha bcaii-ty now they priie, 
 
 In iRn • guitgf- who«e ex 
 
 And dpem it but • 
 
 
 zT-^ =r ■•- r± 
 
 
 tt«=: 
 
 jv= — J"^-? 
 
 ^^^-g::^:^ 
 
 :^ 
 
1 
 
 THEN YOIT'LL REMEMBER MB 
 
 
 '■m—^ 
 
 oeM im - parti The puw'r tliry frel •» well, 
 fad - ed light n'hicb beaini with - in yuur fye». 
 
 There mny per - linpa ill 
 When, h«l - low liuarta ahall 
 
 ss 
 
 s; 
 
 ■1 -I — t— i ^ 1— ^ — Hp; — >-=-— rt — ^M"~*^- ' >-^--,-;^->l— +-- J 
 
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 If 
 
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 nz: 
 
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 -csziz 
 
 icone 8»nie ru • cul • lee 
 
 uiaak, 'Twill break 7<>iii° uwii 
 
 tlon be 
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 daya that have a« 
 •uch a ino - went 
 
 hap 
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 pr been, And you'll re 
 
 but auk That you'll re 
 
 nieiu 
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 bor 
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 iiitiil 
 
 pi 
 
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 me, and ynn'll re 
 
 lua, that you'll re 
 
 - mem - ber, you'll re • mem • ber nie. 
 • mem - ber, you'll re - mem • ber me. 
 
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 ii 
 
 I] 
 
 h\ 
 
 i"'. 
 im- 
 
 'ill- 
 
 i] 
 
 •> -Si' 
 
 'n. 
 
 S! 
 
 Ittllittg Jard ^jainst the ^ttieam. 
 
 Cdrni/KMeel and Arranged for the PianO'Forie, 
 
 ^ 11 BOBSOXT. 
 
 f IAf!0. 
 
 s^: 
 
 Mi 
 
 
 £^ 
 
 i.^E*EEEfe^: 
 
 1, In the world I've gained my knowledge, And for it Imre had to pay, Thoagh I neT-»r 
 
 2. Many a bright, good-hearted fellow, Mnny a no-ble - minded man, Finds him-sclf in 
 
 &E31 
 
 ^1^^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 j:^ j: '~~1^\ 
 
 izizt 
 
 =r 
 
 ^zfcat 
 
 i7 
 
 ^ 
 
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 m=f^ 
 
 :|E=i: 
 
 atrit 
 
 ^^ 
 
 i£^Ey_^ 
 
 went to eol-Ioge, Yet I've heard thnt poets ray, Life is like a mighty riv-tr 
 wa - ter aballow, Then si - sist him if yoa can ; Some >ttc-eeed at ct' - ry turning, 
 
 a=i^ 
 
 ^Ffr^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 1^514 
 
 ^^ 
 
 B 
 
i I 
 
 I i 
 
 PULLING HARD AGAINST TIIK STREAM. 
 
 e^^S^: 
 
 :S=|i: 
 
 :s-tm- 
 
 :X^- 
 
 1tr?f 
 
 tB*=*: 
 
 m 
 
 Ri>ll-ing on from d»y to day, Men are ver-aelf launch'd upon it, Sonietimeg wreck'd nnd 
 Fortune i'» - ror« ev'-ry rchome, Otii - er.n too, tho' more de-vcrv-ini;. Have to pull a- 
 
 lfc=?Z 
 
 s 
 
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 5=i8 
 
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 ^^ 
 
 UK 
 
 — rnJiT— 
 
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 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 3:— ^'■ 
 
 W 
 
 
 I' 'I 
 
 /> 
 
 C H O S, XJ S- 
 
 E^g=^ 
 
 ^^?!e?: 
 
 east » - way. So then 
 gainit the stream. So then 
 
 ad lib.^ 
 
 Do your best for one an - oth - cr, Mak-ing life a 
 
 ^^E^g^^ 
 
 gib L~^ - g . 
 
 isqt 
 
 ^^jfe^^^g^^^ii 
 
 ^ 
 
 -•^g: 
 
 p 
 
 pleasant dream, Help a worn and wea-ry brother Pull-ing hard a-gninst the stream. 
 
 H — -C- -^ H -^ 
 
 ^^s^jfF^-r^^^f^^^i. 
 
 fe=^i-rtO 
 
 6 
 
 I I 
 
 
 3 If the wind ii tn your (ttTor, 
 
 Ami you've weather'd ev'ry sqnall, 
 Think o: those who luckless liihor, 
 
 Never get fair winds at all. 
 Working ban), contented, willing. 
 
 Struggling through life'* oeean wide. 
 Not a friend and not a shilling. 
 
 Palling hard against the tide. — CAonw. 
 
 4 Don't give way to foolish sorrow, 
 Let this keep you in good eheer. 
 Brighter days inny como to-morrow 
 
 If you try and persevere. 
 Darkest nights will have a morning, 
 
 Though the sky be overcast. 
 Longest lanes must have a turning, 
 And the tide srill turn at last. — Chorya. 
 515 
 
 
!n the dtoamini). 
 
 .' ' 
 
 ri 
 
 il ,1 
 
 Words by 2CETA OSBSD. Mode Isy AITITIS FOBTSSCVS HABRTSOIT. 
 
 Andante. 
 
 P^^ 
 
 3 
 
 5 
 
 I. In 
 3. In 
 
 the gloam - ing 
 the gloam - ing 
 
 oh, my (lar • ling! 
 
 oh, my dar • ling I 
 
 P 
 
 ? 
 
 22 
 
 when the lights are dim and low — 
 
 think not bit • ter - ly of me I 
 
 And the qui • et 
 
 Tho' I passed a • 
 
 ^ 
 
 q^ 
 
 |5^^g^gg^f^^]^^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 2=: 
 
 i^-^ (* 
 
 P 
 
 f 
 
 ^ 
 
 raU. 
 
 '^ 
 
 m 
 
 shad - ows fall - ing, soft - ly come and soft .- ly go, — 
 way in si - lence, left you lone • ly, set you free. 
 
 
1 11 
 
 IN THE OLOAMINO. 
 
 ' I 
 
 Agitata- "•=. 
 
 ^^^^ 
 
 ^-_ 
 
 thcwintls are sob - Ling faint • ly with 
 my heart was crushed with long - ing, what 
 
 l^f 
 
 ^ 
 
 a gen - tie 
 had been could 
 
 PP^?=g 
 
 tEt«: 
 
 i 
 
 eon mwma. 
 
 r 
 
 S- 
 
 ^ 
 
 un - known woe, — 
 nev - er be. 
 
 Will you think of me and love me, 
 
 It was best to leave you thus, dear. 
 
 ^^^^^^^^m 
 
 i 
 
 ^ 
 
 e=sr 
 
 Kh 
 
 s-^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 let %\ 2d. 
 
 rail 
 
 As you did once long 
 Best for you and best 
 
 a - go? 
 for 
 
 It 
 
 Ist. .-iS; 2d. 
 
 
 -^ET^. 
 
 Err"T^. ^^^. 
 
 j£P 
 
 ^Sj- 
 
 tp^ 
 
 i 
 
 II 
 
 er«. 
 tJ 1 . 
 
 22: 
 
 best to leave you thus, 
 
 g?^ 
 
 221 
 
 ■T S^t 
 
 Lest for you and best for me. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^=C 
 
 ^ 
 
 r 
 
 *=f: 
 
 3 — ^"" r^^^^ 
 
 e 
 
 s 
 
 s« 
 
 p' 
 
 -^- 
 
 T5^ 
 
 517 
 
 1 
 
 f:l! 
 
(Sttitr the (Harden Mall. 
 
 
 'V'-., 
 
 Words b7 HABB7 BUNTZSL 
 
 VivMe. 
 
 K!Uilol70.fi. rOL 
 
 pm^^^^^ 
 
 f *.» 
 
 EliEtPa 
 
 
 : — :-=— x-=^» 
 
 gJEggg==p5^g^ 
 
 r-^^^ 
 
 1. Oh, my love stood un • dor the 
 
 2. But her fa - ther stamped, and her 
 
 '-«« 
 
 :S:«::^:^«::^ ^ 
 
 ■^^^ 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 ^: 
 
 1.11^1 
 
 l^i: 
 
 g^qtO^aS^fezpzi-t:^ 
 
 :5t« 
 
 !^=itit 
 
 ««=fet 
 
 wal - nuttree, O-ver tlie gar-den wall, She whisper'd and said she'd be true to me, 
 
 fa - ther raved, O - ver the gar - den wall. And like an old mad - man he behaved. 
 
 :i:|=:i:fi;d 
 
 :%. :f : 
 
 
 H ■ I 
 
 :=]!s.=l- 
 
 ;i::^ 
 
 3":S ^: 5^^ 
 
 
 
 FiSa 
 
 -(- 
 
 -•»•-»■•#• -^ 
 
 53-3^^i^ 
 
 ^s; 
 
 f'd'iS 
 
 ^^;^£ 
 
 q=z:3r: 
 
 isg^g-gB Eg g^^ 
 
 ,^-_-.-^^-ja -A-j»^ - - 
 
 O- ver the garden wall, She'd beautiful eyes, and beautiful hair, She was not very tall so she 
 O-ver the garden wall. She made a bouquet of ro - ses red. But im-roe-diate-ly I 
 
 
 s=r^--3j:rd^rt= aLi < -, 1 : 7 - . -^ — zcztz:=reLi3:rrpr.rp! 
 
 518 
 
OVER THE GARDEN WALL. 
 
 z^rjrrjrp: 
 
 stood on a chair. And many a time have I kissed her there 
 pop|}cd upmy head, He gave ine a buck-et of wa ter in stead, 
 
 i^^^pi 
 
 O-vcrthe gar-den wall- 
 O-ver the ^ar - den wall. 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 J=^ 
 
 ^.-f==^=.., 
 
 iMii^iSPgii^iii^^ii 
 
 — I — I 1^ ^-m ^H — I 1—" — ■'- 
 
 CnoRvs. 
 
 
 ^^ii^^^^Hi^i 
 
 ^ 
 
 --wnzmz 
 
 :r?c 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 *-^^- 
 
 18 
 
 night our lipi in kiss - es met, 
 
 \§ 
 
 ziJi: 
 
 ±: 
 
 
 O - ver the gwr - den 
 
 -•- -m. -Si 
 
 wall. 
 
 -.^■-\:z 
 
 :»-ft 
 
 •8: 
 
 mi 
 
 — r— t? 
 
 -t?^i — t'-f- 
 
 e__-e_-e- 
 
 ^^^^Ipi^ 
 
 3. One d«y I jumped down on the other side, 
 
 Over the garden -wall. 
 And she bravely promised to be my bride, 
 
 Over the garden wall. 
 But she scream'd in a fright,"here's father, quick, 
 
 I have an impression he's bringing a brick," 
 But I brought the impression of half a brick, 
 
 Over the caren wall 
 
 4. But where there's a will, there's always a way, 
 Over the gaiden wall, 
 There's always a night as well as day. 
 
 Over the garden wall. 
 We had'ntmuch money, but weddings are chen.p, 
 .So while the old fellow was snoring asleep, 
 With a lad and a ladi'cr she managed to creep 
 Over the garden wall. 
 
 51 'J 
 
 ■■ 
 
 
 
hn the ^tttallotcs Mamtwnd (Jig 
 
 Sngllsh Words by F. H. dOBDOlT. 
 
 XulobyFaANZAST. 
 
 mm 
 
 tail 
 
 J-' 
 
 ;ft: 
 
 ti, 
 
 !1 ' 
 
 1?^ 
 
 ^s-l=- 
 
 litrae 
 
 yfncZrtxt/no. 
 
 -•'- ^ I* ' ■( ■•■ ■*• -*•- 
 
 E'i^^sa g^EJ^ES ^mEi^ 
 
 F 
 
 S^-EESE^ 
 
 ?=: 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 ^ZIl=a^g5 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Bwal - lows homcwtird fly, When tlie ro - sci scfttter'd lie, When from 
 
 ■■^^Hi 
 
 e^ 
 
 "3 ':? 
 
 •«>- 
 
 -^r^s 
 
 :=t==r» 
 
 nei • ther hill nor dnic, Chnnts the lilr -'rj night - in • gale, 
 
 In these 
 
 :2Z 
 
 520 
 
 W 
 
 r- -1- 
 
 ri: 
 
 -=t 
 
vrnrrs the bwam.ows noMEWARD ri.r. 
 
 rit. -^ ;^ -, ten. pp tempo. -^ 
 
 words my bleeding heart Would to thee it« prief im - part, WhcB I 
 
 m 
 
 
 of. 
 
 ad lib. 
 
 e-:^ 
 
 =F=^^ 
 
 iprrzs: 
 
 •z-^z 
 
 Can I, ah I can I e'er know re -pose. 
 
 ^ 
 
 (■^Piii^- 
 
 w^m^^m% 
 
 ad lib. 
 
 ^S=? 
 
 i 
 
 m—Gi- 
 
 P 
 
 ■f^*- 
 
 S When the white swan southward roves, 
 There to seeit the orange groves, 
 When the red tints of the west 
 Prove the snn has gone to rest ; 
 In these words my bleeding heart 
 Would to thee its grief impart, 
 When I thus thy image lose. 
 Can I, ah t can I e'er Icncw repose? 
 
 3 Hush I my heart, why thus complain? 
 Thou must too, thy woes contain ; 
 Though on earth no more we rov« 
 Loudly breathing vows of love ; 
 Thuu my heart must find relief, 
 Yivlding to these words, belief: 
 I shall see thy form again, 
 Though tc-day we part in paia. ny. 
 
 
 
 j 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 
 , 
 
 il 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 il 
 
 n 
 
 : 
 
 
■ J ! i ■ 
 
 "Ofome §afh it (Kittn." 
 
 ^ •♦♦•^— 
 
 Wordi and Mtislo by CLABZBSL. 
 
 iMtrata. Sua 
 
 eiilto^ftW 
 
 PIANO <j ^^it *''"'• 5* * 
 
 /^•rf. 4. */W. 
 
 L^ 
 
 4 
 
 ^^^ft 
 
 i 
 
 Ptd.^Ptd. 
 
 <14, 
 
 H 
 
 
 |^-'3Ft|^:v^-^:fcitep^lS^^^^^^^^ 
 
 f 
 
 1 Com* back tn E • rin, Mb- Tour-ni-on, MaTournran, Conio l«ck, Aroon, tn llin Und of thy Mrth 
 
 SO- T»r tlio grvcn ■<•», Mii-voiir-ncen, Mavuiirnren, IiuiiKUhciiiellinwIiltt'iMllthiit Uirs tlira* ■ way 
 
 S Ob, muy Ibcko ■ gall, wbil* »kk-ln' or ileep-la', Walcb u'«r my bird Id Ui« Uod t»i a ■ wny 
 
 col. voce. 
 
 PSSS^^ 
 
 i^^S^ 
 
 ^^•^^-^ 
 
 
 =^1E 
 
 
 drl- 
 
 Btrrrr.- 
 
 ^ ^^S^ ^-fc>i=^^^^ ^P ^ fF^ j 
 
 Cum* with tbaaliamrockinnilaprlnK-timc.Muruurnoon, And < .i KiMar - ncy ehall ring witli uur mirth. 
 Itid - ing thewhltuwavoathiitfairauniincrniorn-ln' Juiit Hko a Muy-flow er a - float on the Lay. 
 And Itamyprayenwlllcunilgn to tbelr ki-op-ln', Cato 0' oiyjew • •! by night and by day. 
 
 522 
 
-f 
 
 flOMK BACK TO ERIN. 
 
 |^^3^'^V^^V^#^P^!^ljJ^^^^j4M 
 
 Ml • tU w« thoughl of Ih* liin* «ln-l«r ilaji, UX • II* w* thimKliI nfthn liimh nf thx •tunliln*, 
 
 l.lkn » grnj I'lir • Uln lh« r»ij M-llnndowa, Hid from my mmI njrii* tliu |«tli u'ar tli-> u ■ I'i'an, 
 Tb*o all mjr liwrt fliut » ■ w»7 u'ur lb* —», Cn ■ vin' tu kiiuw If mjr lUr • llu' ruuiaiu - hon. 
 
 i 
 
 I5iS 
 
 ^^=^^ 
 
 J] I U^ 
 
 
 ¥=:^ 
 
 ft 
 
 1^^^^ 
 
 mil 
 
 r- 
 
 /l^ i4nimafo. 
 
 OT«r<hiimauntaln,lhn Blufliniulthnnm.va. Thon coins back to K • rin, Ma-Tuur ■ omo, Uafuur • dimo, 
 Fnr, fur nway whrra my cilU-on hwl flown. Thnn ninm back t<i H • rIn, nlc. 
 If UtT IIiuukIiU luay h» cruwlu' to mo. ThoD cuma UmIl to S • rlu, itle. 
 
 Cum* htck a*gala to the laod of Ihy birth; Com* back to K - ria, Ha- 
 
 ^=^Ns 
 
 m 
 
 4— t — t- 
 
 ^T"*' 
 
 F5^ 
 
 i^^^ 
 
 jtdN^^=^ 
 
 
 3^^^^^ 
 
 ilos, 
 
 1M, 
 
 ^^ 
 
 mo/(o ere*. ^., 
 
 ;^f;^_£> /TN r #^Tv 
 
 
 «our ■ ncen, Ma-rour - neen, And Its Kll - lar - ney aliall ring with uur mirth. 
 
 8t)a. 
 
 1 't. 1 %«♦:♦. 
 
^nh latlt the ^cari 
 
 « »i — » > 
 
 ,£, Allegretto. 
 
 Gomposed b^ CLABIBSL 
 
 .m. .(•-«. ^-.^_ 
 
 ^m^^^^^^mmi 
 
 \m 
 
 5' i 
 
 ri'Hi 
 
 tFd=n=T 
 
 =f*=mE^p= 
 
 H=t^=1=F=^ 
 
 vlfat is 
 
 :*=^ 
 
 1. Tiike back the heart tlmt fliou ga - vest, What is my anp^uish to theeY 
 
 2. Then when at hist o - ver ta - - ken, Time flings its fetters o'er thee, . 
 
 P^^^P^^I^ 
 
 :e=P=S= 
 
 :ci=i: 
 
 ■.dzi 
 
 j=L 
 
 •c- 
 
 ^P^ 
 
 ■-■X 
 
 ifczit 
 
 ;— ps: 
 
 :«!-:ir 
 
 Take back the freedom thoii era 
 Come with a trust still un - sha 
 
 vest, 
 ken. 
 
 Leaving the fet-tcrs to 
 Come back a cap-tive to 
 
 -m- 
 
 ii 
 
 ^i 
 
 -P-P- 
 
 ■W=^ 
 
 
 ken, Fling them a - 
 
 row, Once more mj 
 
 ^r^i^fe^p 
 
 -T^ 
 
 624 
 
■ '^t^i^; 
 
 .0 
 
 TAKE BACK THE HEART. 
 
 $ 
 
 T- 
 
 -^—^ 
 
 side and be frpc, . 
 dar - ling to he, . . 
 
 izmc 
 
 22; 
 
 ^- 
 
 -jziz 
 
 -p— . 
 
 Smile o'er each pi - ti - ful to - - ken, 
 Come as of old, love, to bor - row. 
 
 ^^^^mB 
 
 m^ 
 
 ■m±i 
 
 ■^Izz 
 
 iil — P P= 
 
 -p — p- 
 
 ^J:i 
 
 R=^==P^ 
 
 «*= 
 
 P 
 
 rail. 
 
 :B-^. 
 
 1^-^ 
 
 ?2= 
 
 Leaving the sorrow for mc Driuk deep of life's fond il - lu - 
 
 Glimpses of sunlight from mc Love shall resume her do - min 
 
 i_4-^ — l-J- \-'^^ 1 — ^ 1— zbpr:4- 
 
 raW. 
 
 ^- 
 
 ■j=t: 
 
 -p — p- 
 
 -p — p- 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 1 
 
 1 
 
 lE^ 
 
 :*=;;•-■- z^ 
 
 q: 
 
 r^-: 
 
 iizo on the storm-cloud and flee. 
 Striving no more to be free, 
 
 Swift-ly thro' strife and con - 
 When on her world wea-ry 
 I- 1- 
 
 
 iziz 
 
 ■m--±- 
 
 ?== 
 
 ^ 
 
 -p — p- 
 
 ii ''■ 
 
 J! I! 
 
 i 
 
 # 
 
 ^=p= 
 
 ?=p= 
 
 g 
 
 2=t 
 
 -P-P-4 
 
 tci; 
 
 H 
 
 fu 
 pin 
 
 sion, Leaving the burden to me. 
 
 ion. Flies back my lost love to 
 
 &25 
 
 ■W 
 
'i 1 
 
 n 
 
 ^hti fetter in i\tt, ^mAk. 
 
 Written lay J. CLABEEL 
 
 Moderato. 
 
 Composed by B. COOTS. 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 sgS^^^^E 
 
 1. There's a let-ter in the can - die, It pointHdi-rect to me; How the 
 
 2. Hope and fear a-like perplex me ; Oh I eu-per-Mi-tioiis dread ; How 
 
 3. How glad-ly I re-mem -ber,'Ti8 two short monthB,nomore,SinceK 
 
 lit - tie spark is shining, From whomever can it be? It getsbriglitcrstill and brighter,Likea 
 ma-ny i - die fan-cies You con-jure in my head. When those we love are absent, flow 
 let - ter in the can-die Shone out as bright before. Tlien the darling messenger Came 
 
 |%\j^_ 
 
 
 S^ 
 
 ores. 
 
 t=:^ 
 
 a-1— p- 
 
 *C^=ii= 
 
 ^Si 
 
 FJMfe^^ 
 
 fi^^ 
 
 ^^^^^^ 
 
 :== a 
 
 h:*=: #-^-*-r =dB»: 
 
 lit-tle sun-ny ray, And I dare to guess the writer, For it drives suspense away, 
 wan-ton-ly you play, Ev'-ry shadow seems a subttance, And drives suspense awny. 
 prompt and safe to me, If this is on-ly from the same. How welcome it shall be. 
 

 THE LETTEn IN THE CANDLE. 
 
 m 
 
 SOPRA. 
 ALTO 
 
 TENOR 
 BASS. 
 
 "•/i 
 
 4 
 
 o 
 
 -4- 
 
 
 mM'^ 
 
 Briglitnpurk of hope, Shed your beams on nic, And send a lov-ing 
 
 1^=1 
 
 y 
 
 L^ ^ I 
 
 ^^^^^-if^ 
 
 S ■ ^ — 
 
 
 5 '^tj^-Z~^ 
 
 ^ > > 
 
 Shed your beams on me, And speed the lov-ing mes-sage From far a-cross the sea. 
 
 
 ^^^^^§^-i# 
 
 5^=f?rr-Fl%"a^^.?i?^^^^^ 
 
 -^-0^ 
 

 illhcrc arc .friends that Wit^ #w 
 
 (J0r0et. 
 
 Words I17 ALICS ZklTmSSSm. 
 
 Moderato 
 
 IE 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 MTisiob7SEF. WZ27NEB. 
 
 Fotee. 
 
 feJ - ^^ i ^ ^ 
 
 S^ 
 
 q?=«t 
 
 
 £^ 
 
 1. There are friends that we never for - get There are hearts that we ev-er hold 
 
 2. There are friends that we never for - get Tho' the seas may di-vide us for 
 
 
 :^=s= 
 
 P 
 
 ** 
 
 -mzzmtz 
 
 ■9^ 
 
 S^ 
 
 Pi^ 
 
 -5— :« 
 
 •st- 
 
 ri: 
 
 jcJ ^^ : 
 
 ■isf- 
 
 h 
 
 >i ^5 1 
 
 ilJ 
 
 ? tt*''^.!f 
 
 Tho' we meet with a ki»s in a rao-ment of blifls. Yet we piirt wi 
 Yet we lin-ger a • part with a sor - row-iiig heart, In an absence 
 
 th ft 
 that 
 
 w^^^^^m 
 
 TZf- 
 
 Tzr 
 
 ■5=*— 
 
 22: 
 
 BN 
 
 sif h and 
 on - ly 
 
 S 
 
 I 
 
 :1fct^ 
 
 ri 
 
 :*=*: 
 
 *=J= 
 
 -^m^^ 
 
 *:2iir: 
 
 w»~** . ' 
 
 ^ 
 
 a tear 0!i we lenrn our first lesson of love, 
 
 en-dears There are friends that we ne»"er forget, 
 
 At the 
 There are 
 
 :i^ 
 
 
 * :«: «: * 
 
 (^ 
 
 ri: 
 
 z:^: 
 
 •Sh- 
 
 ■=?- 
 
 m 
 
 528 
 
 By permission of Sep. Winner. 
 
THERE ARE FRIENDS TIIAT WE NEVER FOROET. 
 
 ( 
 
 :?= 
 
 rail, tempo. 
 
 ^^^^*-i*E^3 
 
 ± 
 
 ;==fe!=t= 
 
 home where our childhood is pnsscd, And we nev-er for - get tho' we part with re- 
 
 hearts that we cv - er hold dear, Tho' we find but a fnw who are cnriicst and 
 
 
 (^ 
 
 rait. tempo, 
 
 1- * a 
 
 c/ 
 
 "es^- 
 
 ^-=3 *-sr 
 
 ■ r r^ — pzb^=^piic 
 
 It 1 
 
 ' I 
 
 CTioru*. 
 
 4 . .-I.. 
 
 pip^B^te^fe 
 
 ^s^ 
 
 v^?^ 
 
 -•^*- 
 
 ;2^ 
 
 gret, Thcfricndsof our youth till the last There are friends, Here ir» frif Dili that w» 
 
 true, Yet how sweet is our passing ca . reer 
 
 ■ t-r \ ^ ■ 
 
 -•- -0- -m- -9- 
 
 J 
 
 -i^-t 
 
 . — ^-^ r— «— 
 
 ±: 
 
 ■| — ^ — r 
 
 :^=i: 
 
 3E^^^=g 
 
 nev - er for - get ; There aro hearts that we ever hold dear., 
 
 Tho' we meet with a 
 
 :1==tT 
 
 ^^^i 
 
 s^S^^^^I^^^ 
 
 :^: 
 
 -p— p- 
 
 :=n 
 
 -l=— P- 
 
 -p— p- 
 
 -p— p- 
 
 -p-p- 
 
 -p^ — p- 
 
 the 
 te are 
 
 ^ 
 
 -F-v 'I I f- 
 
 :Jt:l!s 
 
 rail. 
 
 EiS£ 
 
 gr^ 
 
 s^ 
 
 IE 
 
 kiss, in n mo-mcnt of bliss. Yet we part with a 8i;;h and a tear. 
 
 rail. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 -*-*<- 
 
 — I 1— i- 
 
 :»:» :» J: 
 
 ^— ^^ 
 
 -«—-!- 
 
 i^ 
 
 -jj — •— " — ■< — »> ' »^ 
 
 1 
 
 -p — p- 
 
 84 
 
 -P — P- 
 
 -= — rs- 
 
 -S>— y 
 
 529 
 
 Ji i 
 
 I .'^ 
 
 i ' n I 
 
 i 
 
»?fl 
 
 I ■! 
 
 ^aoA §2c, ^ttrcdhcai[t, ^aoA Igc. 
 
 JOEIT L. EATTON. 
 
 I 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 Andante eon moto. 
 
 il 
 
 ^ p~^~^ 
 
 z^zzz 
 
 -U:^dt 
 
 s 
 
 ^ 
 
 :i^ 
 
 I 
 
 =f= 
 
 =J^=F 
 
 ^33 
 
 ^ 
 
 The bright stars fade, the 
 The Biin is' up, tho 
 legato. 
 
 ■^- 
 
 ^~ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 p 
 
 £ 
 
 ^ 
 
 n 
 
 :■=«: 
 
 *=U: 
 
 £*3 
 
 g 
 
 \$ 
 
 morn is break, ing, The dew drops penrl each bud and leaf, And 
 
 Inrk is soar - iii|!r, Loud swells the son^ of cban ■ - ti-cleer; The 
 
 ' : — -Li — 1 I 1 1?2 -0- 
 
 I 
 
 r 
 
 ir 
 
 -e=:t- 
 
 m 
 
 § 
 
 I from thee 1117 leave am tnk - ing, With bliss too brief, with 
 IcT . ret bounds o'er earth's soft floor • ing, Yet I am here, yet 
 
 m. 
 
 is: 
 
 MJ. \Ji>=. 
 
 J^ 
 
 u^nm 
 
 i^ 
 
 i 
 
 !;- 
 
with 
 yet 
 
 How 
 Fof 
 
 aooO B-fK, BW BETH BART, QOOO B T I. 
 
 $ 
 
 -K 1- 
 
 =«=Ti^ 
 
 =r: 
 
 sinks my heart witli fond 
 since nijjflit's gems from lii.'uv'n 
 
 =^^ 
 
 , TlH, 
 
 a • larmB, Tl|^ tear is 
 
 did fade, Aira morn to 
 
 hid • in); 
 flo . ral 
 
 
 $ 
 
 p 
 
 =1= 
 
 S-=5- 
 
 ^^e1"s1 
 
 in my eye, For time 
 lips doth liie, I could 
 
 ^7-^=5^ 
 
 doth thrust me from thine arms; "Oood 
 
 not Icnve thee, tho' I said, " Good 
 
 ^m 
 
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 bye, Bwnet-hoart, pood bye I 
 bye, swccl-'.ieart, good bye I 
 
 Good bye, swect-hcnrt, good 
 Good bye, sweet-heart, good 
 
®h^ §m little Jlbamrflcfe. 
 
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 1. There's a dear lit - tie plant that grows in our Isle, 'Twns Snint 
 
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 la - bor with plea-sure did smile, And with dew from his eye of - ten 
 
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TUB..DCAB LITTLE snAMBOOK. 
 
 wet It 
 
 It shineitliro'tlie bug, thro' the briik.c,iiadthcrairc-Ian(i, Andhe 
 
 
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 call'd it th« deai- lit-tle Shamrock of Ire-liiiid, Tht- dear lit-tle Shamrock, tlie 
 
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 sweet lit-tle Shamrock, the dear lit- tie, sweet lit -tip Shamrock of 
 
 That dear little plant still j»row8 in our land, 
 
 Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin; 
 
 Whose smile* can bewitch and whose eyes can «oinm«nd. 
 
 In each climate they ever appear in. 
 
 For they shine thro' the i)og, thro' brake, and the mirelaad. 
 Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland, 
 The dear little Sliamrock. the sweet little Sh>imrock, 
 The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland. 
 
 That dear little plant that springs from our eoH, 
 
 When its three little leaves are extended; 
 
 Denotes from the stalk we together should toll, 
 
 Aud ourselves by ourselves be befriended. 
 
 And still thro' tlie boj?, thro' the brake, and the inircland. 
 From one root should branch like the Shamrock of Irelaod, 
 The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock, 
 The dear little, swtpet little Shamrock of Irelituit 
 
 ^■63 
 
^00 fate to parrj. 
 
 Words by W. E BZLLA1£7. ICnsio by XL SZSIIE7 FBATTEir. 
 
 
 
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 1. A maid • en fair and youn^;, 
 
 2. A - way the maid • en went. 
 
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 Went forth, one morn in May; Up • 
 
 And joined cacbfes - tive throng; On 
 
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 pleas - ures whirl in- tent. 
 
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 And lin - ger'd late and long; Til 
 
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TOO LATE TO MAllUYt 
 
 1 be too late." Tra, 
 
 Soon, soon 'twill be too late." 
 Sang she, \«ith joy e • late. 
 
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 3. Time flew as on she stray'il 
 
 Through Fashion's giddy round ; 
 With many a heart she play'd. 
 And laughed at ev'ry wound. 
 " Too late 1 Too late ! 
 Old Time itself shall wait I" 
 Tra, la, la, &c. 
 
 4. Then came the first grey hair, 
 
 And looks and hearts grew cold. 
 And wrinkles here and there. 
 Their talc unwelcome told ! 
 Hard fate J Too late ! 
 She sang, disconsolate ! 
 Tra, la, la, &e. 
 
 535 
 
 I 'I 
 
Jut |ottr |lhottIttj|ti tff the WM; 
 
 OR, 
 
 "^;poUo (or (Buens man." 
 
 Composed atul Arranged for the l*lanO'Forte, 
 
 By HABS? CLIFTON. 
 
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 1. Piimo people you've niPt In your time no iluubt, Wlio never look happy nr gtiy Til 
 
 2. Wo oun-nut ull lij^lit ill llila biit-tia of lile, 'i he weiik iiiui<t go tu the wiill 80 
 
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 tell you the wny to ({«* jolly and ntout, If you'll lir-tvn a-whll« to my liiy I've 
 
 do to each oth er lliu thinj; thitt ia right, For there's rouio in thin world Tor u> nil 
 
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 come here to tell ynu a bit of my mind. And plonse with the canip if I can, Ad- 
 
 "Creditrefufe," it' you're money to pay. You'll find it iho wi» - er plan, And"* 
 
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 530 
 

 PUT YOUH SItOULDEK TO TUB W It BEL. 
 
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 vloo Id my minK ,v<m will viT-tuinly find, And % inntlu fur «v - • - ry ninn. 
 |iun - ny luld l)y lur u ruin - y day" It a muttu fur ev - a ■ ry uiuii. 
 
 
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 CHORUS. 
 
 So we will linir, uml ban - lah incl - an - cho • ly, Trou • ble uiuy 
 
 
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 ooinu we'll do the best wo ciin To 
 
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 we'll do the best wo ciin To drive care » - wu^ Ilt 
 
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 ((rluving is a ful . ly, Putyour >Iiouldcr to*ho wheel is a motto furer'- ry inan 
 
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 3 A coward i;iveg in nt the first repulse, 
 
 A brave num Btru<;<rle8 again. 
 With a resolute eye and a bounding pulse, 
 
 To battle his way amoniist men ; 
 For he knows he has only one chance in his time, 
 
 To letter himself if lie can, 
 •*So make your hay while the sun doth shine," 
 
 That's a motto for every man. — Chorw). 
 
 537 
 
III 
 
 
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 Written by CHABLES LIITDA. 
 
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 Composed by CAELO MZITASL 
 
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 PIANO. 
 
 1 There's nothing lialf so charming As a liap-py married life, And nothing so a- 
 
 2 A wile will sure - ly rule the roost, Ofcoursethat's very proper, An<i if she means to 
 
 3 A woman's sure to have lier way, For ih.it we cannot blame her; The rem-e-dy ! all, 
 
 4 That wo - man is our great-est joy, Let ev'-ry man re-fleet; IXjn't treat her like a 
 
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 rail. 
 
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 larm-ing aa A vix - en for a wife. But aa you make your bed you know, So 
 
 rule you too, I don't think you can stop her; Be nev-er cru- el, always kind, Do 
 then I say, "'Tis kind-ness that will tame her." Be al-ways gentle, never harsh. And 
 worth-less toy, Nor slight her by ne - gleet. If you possi-sM a woman's love. What 
 
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 on it you must lie; 'Tis useless then to make a fuss, Take mv advice, don't try. 
 nothing that will tease her. And if you wish to happy live, You'll do your best to please her. 
 mind you do not flout her, Kemeniuer you're but hel{)le.ssnien, And can not do without her. 
 more dues a - ny need ? In sickness or in health she'll be, A comforter in - deed. 
 
 rail. colla voce. rtten. 
 
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A VJXEV FOn A WTFE, 
 
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 <^ar ^irag. 
 
 Xffnsie by Mrs. J. W. BLISS a&d Hiss M. LZNDSA7. 
 
 Modo. 
 
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 the mer - ry par - ty I re - mem - ber long a - 
 to lands fur <iis - tant And with stran - gere made their 
 8ume few re - main - ing Who le - mind us ol" the 
 
 1 Where is now 
 
 2 Some have gone 
 
 3 Tliere are still 
 
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 Laughing round the Christmas fires, Brighten'd by ita rnd-dv 
 
 Some up • Oil tiio world of Wii - tcrs All tlieir lives are forc'd'to 
 
 But tiicy change as all tilings change here : Nothing in this world coTi 
 
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 Or in sunmier's balmy eve - nings, 
 Sonie are gone from us I'or-ev - er, 
 Years roll on anil p.i.=a for • ev • er, 
 
 In the field upon the 
 
 Longer here they niipht not 
 
 What is coming, who can 
 
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 dispers'd and wan-der'd Far a 
 
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 They have all dispers'd and wan-der'd Far a - way, 
 They have reach'd a fair-er re - gion Far a - way. 
 Ere this clo - sea, ma-ny mav be Far a - way, 
 
 Far a - 
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 ''loufcpq |Ris3 the ^ati^n iill the tSititU giuns irg." 
 
 BOLANS HOWABD. 
 
 
 
 PiANO. v' 
 
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 to:— 
 
 When a 
 
 As 
 
 When 
 Then I 
 
 I'm 
 
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 child I liv'cl at Lin - coin, with my 
 years roll'd on I grew to be, a 
 I ar- rived at man -hood, I em- 
 stud - ied strict e - con - o - my, and 
 niar-ried now and hap - py, I've a 
 
 pa - rents at the farm, The 
 
 mis - chief mak - injj bnv, Do 
 
 bark'd in pub • lie lill-. And 
 
 found to my sur - prise. My 
 
 care - ful lit - tie wife, We 
 
 Ics - sons that my moth - er taught, to 
 Btnic - tion Rccm'd my on - ly pport, it 
 found it W!W a mg - ced road, be- 
 fundd in - stead of sink - ing, ver - y 
 
 live in peace and har - mo - ny, de- 
 
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 me were quite a charm, She would oft - en take me on her knee when 
 
 wan my on - ly joy, And well do I re - mem - ber, when 
 
 dtrewn with care and strife ; I iipec - u - la - ted fool - ish - ly, my 
 
 quick - ly then did rise, I grasp'd each chance and al - ways struck the 
 
 void of care and strife, For • tune smiles up - on us, we have 
 
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 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 
 
 
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 tired 
 oft 
 loss 
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 of child - ish play, 
 
 times well chas-tisL'cl, 
 
 - cs were se - vere, 
 
 ron while 'twai hot, 
 
 tie chil-dren three, 
 
 1^_ 
 
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 How 
 lint 
 
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 tlier sat 
 
 a ti - 
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 me to 
 bo - Hide 
 ny lit - 
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 1 teach 
 
 her bie.ast 
 me then 
 tie voice 
 ni - ties 
 them, as 
 
 _8« 
 
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 heard my moth-er say 
 thus has me ad-vis'd 
 whisp-'ring in my ear 
 nev • er once for - got 
 prat - tie 'round mv knee 
 
 Waste not, want not, is a max - ira I would teach, 
 
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 Bunbeams pans you by, For you nev • er miss the wat - cr till the well rung dry. 
 
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hUom of §in0(fe* Wimp. 
 
 ' i 11 
 
 Poetxy by J. E. CABFENTES. 
 
 Musio by SOLITAIBE. 
 
 MODEnATO. 
 
 PIANO. 
 
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 Oh I what is that rs - diant glo - tj That tinges the dis - tant west With 
 
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 crim-Bon, and gold, and purple While sink-eth the Bun to...... rest? My 
 
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 child there are aeraphi Toicei That blend whence that glo-17 apringo; And the 
 
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SHADOWS OP ANGELS' WINGS. 
 
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 Hum InthflCloudfl b« • neath ItUayb* ihadowa of An-gela^ wingi. 
 
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 shadows of Angels' wingb. 
 
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 Sec, mother, those lines are fading^ 
 
 I gaze on the last faint beam, 
 And I know there's a world beyond them, 
 
 And I fain of that world would dream; 
 And mother, that prayer you taught me, 
 
 It still to my memory clings ; 
 Oh ! Father above, keep o'er me 
 
 The shadows of Angels' wings. 
 
 9. 
 
 The sun in the west is sinking 
 
 Again at the close of day ; 
 The mother is heav'n-ward gazing, 
 
 But where is the child 7 away I 
 Away, where the seraphs' voicee 
 
 Still blend whence that glory nprinp; 
 Oh I mother look up, for o'er thee 
 
 Ate shadowe of Angels' wings. 
 
 646 
 
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 (l[omc Jn and ^hut thi| goor. 
 
 Words by J. P. H. 
 
 IfTisicbyJ. 0. CALLCOTT. 
 
 AUegretto sehenrtrufo. 
 
 fif^ I .^. UJTH. 
 
 "^^ ^ I—- ^' 
 
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 g7r-i^-Tzi:n:3rr.zz-.3._zzirii 
 
 1 c — I 1 1: 
 
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 tig 
 
 :Jt-5r 
 
 long out - side ! Why need you be so shy ? The 
 
 thank you, Jane," With such a bash - ful smile ; You 
 
 an - swcr you, To what you said last night; I 
 
 peo-ple's ears are 
 
 said when la - dies 
 
 heard your ques - tion 
 
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 546 
 
COME IN AND SHUT THE DOOR. 
 
 
 o • pen, John, As they are passing by; You can-not tell what 
 
 whispered " no,"They meant " yes," all the while! My fa- thcr, too, will 
 
 in the durk,Thouglit on it iit the light; And now my lips shall 
 
 =5^=t 
 
 :ijl=rt2 
 
 W: 
 
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 --if=^- 
 
 =«■ 
 
 tm: 
 
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 they may think,They've said strange things be • fore ;- 
 wel- come you ; I told you that be - fore ;- 
 ut - ter what My heart has said be • fore;- 
 
 And if you wish to 
 
 It don't look well to 
 
 Yes, dear - est, I but 
 
 
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 W^^ 
 
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 piuUnto. 
 
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 talk a while, Come in and shut the door. Come in, 
 
 stand out here. Come in and shut the door. Come in, 
 
 wait a while. Come in and shut the door. Come in, 
 
 come 
 come 
 come 
 
 
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 come in, come in, come in,come in. come in and shut the door. 
 
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 g^-g=t-^^p-t=^^ 
 
 fs:^ 
 
 _n_«5_ 
 
 •^ 547 
 
 f;'i!l 
 
I! 3m Pg 3m. 
 
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 Words by CMACZAT. 
 
 Allegretto Mod. '^^*^ 
 
 ICusio by C. PHTSUTL 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 
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 III 
 
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 1 What in the meaning of the mng, That ringn no clear and loud, 
 
 2 What iit the meaning of thy thought, O mai-den &ir and joung, 
 
 3 O hap-py words, at beau-ty'a feet, We ding them ere our prime, 
 
 Thou nightingale amid the copne, Thou lark above tlie cloud ? Thou lark a • bove the 
 
 There i»4mich plcasurein thineeyeis Such rauflicon thy tongue, ' Such mu - aic on thy 
 And when the early Hummers pons, And care comes on with time, And core comes on with 
 
 cloud? 
 tongue, 
 time, 
 
 What 8»yfl thy Hong thou joyouHthnish Up in 
 There is RHch glo - ry on thy face What can 
 Still beitoura in careV despite To join 
 
 the walnut tree ? 
 
 the meaning be? 
 
 in chorus free, 
 
 What 
 
 There 
 
 Still 
 
t LOTS MT LOVE. 
 
 
 ■avfltliyoong thou joyouHtlirush lip in thewalniittrce? WhntHayHthyiiong? 
 iHRUchglo - ry onthyface what can themeaniiiKlM;? Onmide'n fairl 
 be it ours in care's duapite To join in chorus free The happy words, 
 
 
 _p — jt: 
 
 ^~3H-Z^ 
 
 unpncncren. 
 
 wliat says thy song 7. . 
 O maid-en fair I . . . 
 the hap • py words I . 
 
 r r =1- 
 
 Allegreito mod. ^ 
 
 f^^ 
 
 
 i- 5ii**?-ft' 
 
 P 
 
 :r=Pi 
 
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 -y-h^ 
 
 ■^■L.g a> ■ H-JL-,^ 
 
 rr=-/ 
 
 5=t!=^sa^ 
 
 # 1 ""J. * ^-5*- 
 
 
 " I love my love, I love my love, be-cause I know my love loves me," I 
 
 ^^^^^^^^ 
 
 fc 
 
 ^-iu 
 
 £ 
 
 -■P — P- 
 
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 :=r 
 
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 love my love, " I love my love, be - cause I know my love loves me." 
 
 ZW^ m 
 
 1 
 
 ( 
 
 ^^ 
 
 col canto. 
 
 =^- 
 
 5t=^ 
 
 I 
 
 a tempo. 
 
 % 
 
 ^ 
 
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 M9 
 
 rJiJ 
 
 iH 
 
 
mart Sanu^d iottin. 
 
 FROM THE OPERA OF "THE BOHEMIAN OIRL.' 
 
 U. W. BALFS. 
 
 Larghttto 
 
 Cantabile, ""^ 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 ^^§ 
 
 T r 
 
 € 
 
 f) 
 
 
 3: 
 
 -t- 
 
 r — : 
 
 1, The heart bow' J down by wciKhtofwoe, To 
 
 2. The luind will in its worst de-apair, Still 
 
 weak • est 
 pon - der 
 
 hopes will cling ; 
 o'er the post, 
 
 »* 1 1- 
 
 To thought and im - pulse 
 On mo - menta of de- 
 
 whilo they flow, 
 light that were 
 
 That can 
 Too beau 
 
 no com 
 
 ti - ful 
 
 fort bring, That can, that 
 to last, That were too 
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^m 
 
 a(nn<7endo 
 
 w^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 -I R- 
 
 =ih — =- 
 
 
 550 
 
niSABT DOWKD DOWK. 
 
 raU. 
 
 I 1 
 
 ^ 
 
 can no com - • furt bring. 
 beaii-U-ful, too iMiaU'ti-fiil lo latt. 
 
 With tlioM ex • cit • ing 
 Tu long (lu ■ i>art - vu 
 
 ^^ 
 
 con express: di dolort. 
 
 :!?=:rf=-f?: 
 
 acenes will blend, O'er plcaf-iiro'g path - way thrown ; 
 yean ex-tuntl, Ita vi* - ions with them liuwn, 
 
 ^^^^^^$ 
 
 1 1 1- 
 
 Biit mem'-ry is the 
 Fur mcm'-ry ia tho 
 
 m 
 
 =3=^; 
 
 W 
 
■wp 
 
 yr,; 
 
 \ms^, ^w^t Mam. 
 
 Composed and Arranged for the Fiano-Forte, 
 
 m 
 
 f 
 1 i\ 
 
 2j W. T. WEIGHTON. 
 
 Pi! 
 
 
 11' i 
 
 iJl 
 
 PIANO.' 
 
 Woderato. jm , ^^ ^. 
 
 Ti ■ rplupijB! — , — JK'^ 'W. — , W^ \m — » r •- --^-n 
 
 ■^P-^-^ 1 [1 ij ^ — h^ i Jj ^ !_, • + — -I ' - ^ — I — j— I I -If 
 
 ^- 
 
 ■:X 
 
 :=t=: 
 
 
 si: 
 
 ^••^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 1. Tha denr - est spot o" earth to me Is Home sweet Home! The 
 
 2. I've taught my heart the way to priie My Homo sweet Home! I'v* 
 
 
 r:.^=:p=t=-p=t: 
 
 
 
 ^^g^iii 
 
 ::5: 
 
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 — =i)= 3^ 
 
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 fai - ry Innd I long to m« Is Hnm* sweet Home! 
 
 learned to look with lor - er'l eyes On Home sweet Home! 
 
 -^~-— 
 
 
 ^& ^ F pi=:tz=:p =-i|Emp: 
 
 I 
 
 P|g- 
 
 ^1 
 
 652 
 
• '! 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 r 1 nr n ^ r T\r~ ■'■"'' ■'■"■" 
 
 Piu mosao. 
 
 ;*— *: 
 
 ^ 
 
 J^ 
 
 wbzttz- 
 
 zM—sz 
 
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 T 
 
 Tbare, how oharm'd th« seme of ha*r • ing ! There, where lore ia lo en - dear - ing ! 
 
 There, where V0W8 are tru - ly plight-ed! There, whore hearts are lu u - nit - ed! 
 
 
 — dim e rail. 
 
 a tempo. 
 
 ^^!=£l 
 
 All the world is not bo cheer -ing As Home sweet Home! The 
 
 All the world be - sides I've sligUt-ed For Home sweet Home! Th« 
 
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 drar-est 5pot of earth to me Is Homo sweet Hume! The fai • ry land I 
 
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 ^^^ •^ ~~~^ '^^ *r^ =*^ •^^ ^ • •zi/ ' 
 
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 ■— P- 
 
 long to see Is Home sweet Homo! 
 
 ^^^^^^^m 
 
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m ^ r 
 
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 mi 
 
 irafc^Hi 
 
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 ' ' ' 8 
 
 
 
 III 
 
 
 1 
 
 SOLO AND QUARTETTE. 
 
 JAS. B. S7EES. 
 
 Moderato. 
 
 When on the mount the Pro - phet atnod, 
 
 So we \>j faith din-cern <weot rest, 
 
 Tho' dark thx wikvnt that roll b« - tween 
 
 There iio uiil death can ner - er come, 
 
 Led bj th'AI-migh ■ ty'e hand, 
 
 Be - yond death'e riv • er itrand, 
 
 Thia world and that to grand, 
 
 Mur lor - ruw'i part - tng hand, 
 
 B* 
 
 A 
 
 Faith 
 
 To 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
 
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 Tond the Jor-dan'a rol-Iing flood 
 
 bright-er realm where all are bleat,..., 
 o • Ter - looka the ai - lent ttream,, , 
 dec - o - lata that bleaa-ed home, 
 
 He aaw the Prom-iaod Land,. 
 
 In that dear Prom-iaed Ijtnd,. 
 
 And area the Prom-isod Laud,. 
 
 With -in the I>ruui-iied Land,. 
 
 n* 
 
 In 
 
 And 
 
 With- 
 
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 ^ ritard. 
 
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 tliat.. 
 in....T 
 
 the Prom • taed Land, 
 
 doar Prom - iaed lAnd, 
 
 the Pnira - land Land, 
 
 the Prom - laud I^nd, 
 
 -I— 
 
 Sweet Prom 
 
 Sweet Prom 
 
 Sweet Pr»>m 
 
 Sweet Prom 
 
 iaed Land, 
 
 iaed Land, 
 
 iaed lAAd. 
 
 iaed Land. 
 
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 664 
 
 ..3 2 
 
 By permission of Sep. Winner. 
 
 '^^ 
 
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 WE BE NEARIMO TO THE RIVER. 
 CHORUS. 
 
 TENOR 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 '-^ 
 
 Lento. 
 
 
 ^- 
 
 
 6 Dmf Saviour, IpkiI ua mrn along 
 Thii wut» of dcMrt mill), 
 Till we ■hallsiiiK thn Tirtnr'a aonc, 
 |:In H«* aw^pt IV>mliPd I«nil:| 
 Sweet PiumtiieU Land. — Ouu. 
 
 8 When eartltl]' acenee ahall disappnar, 
 I'nitn ua with that band, 
 Who Ivadn Akreweli to loved onM hen, 
 I :To Rain thn Pmrniaed Land: I 
 ■weot tfnmUmi LanU.— C'ne. 
 
 565 
 
 n 
 
w 
 
 y 
 
 ^ 
 
 "Sffilait f«r the i^arn of tlu{ i^idc, 
 
 " There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, 
 Taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."— SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Written aad Song by E CLI7T017. 
 
 !f?r 
 
 1 
 
 Tempo di Volte. 
 
 ^s=m=i. 
 
 ■^■^' ^ 
 
 ■r=x 
 
 '-GlZ 
 
 s 
 
 -.^ 
 
 ^. jm. jg. M. 
 
 .jm. .0.ja. ■^■■^ ^^. <^ 
 
 tzt 
 
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 ^ ^^ ^^^ ^ 
 
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 :|=^ 
 
 :1==t 
 
 ^ 
 
 3=i=?t: 
 
 =F 
 
 1. In sail - ing a - long the riv - er of life, O - ver its wa - ters 
 
 2. Why peo - pie sit fret - ting their lives a - way, I can't for a moment sur . 
 
 3. Man is sent in - to the world we're told, To do all the good that he 
 
 !^- 
 
 ^^f^mmwi 
 
 ^m 
 
 hi^r* 
 
 TPI- -IT 
 
 1 
 
 Se=z=fcE 
 
 ?a: 
 
 ^=l=q- 
 
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 ^,^rpI:& 
 
 :fcrs: 
 
 *=*! 
 
 •I 1 ^ 
 
 We all have to bat - tie with trouble and strife, And wait for the 
 
 If life is a lot - ter • y as they say. We can -not all 
 
 Yet how man - y worship the chink of the gold, And nev - er once 
 
 5f=*: 
 
 *-^z 
 
 :f:« 
 
 ^IZ^: 
 
 w-t'-i-""^-'^-^^ 
 
 '-t-=^ 
 
 time and the tide ; 
 turn up a prize; 
 think of the man; 
 
 :3fcaar-r— i" 
 
 Men of each oth - er are prone to be jealous, 
 A fol - ly It is to be sad and de-jcct-ed. If 
 If you are poor, from your friends keep a distance. 
 
 P^^^ 
 
 -X--X 
 
 ^^-m 
 
WAIT FOR THE TURN OP THE TIDE. 
 
 r±r:j!p=T 
 
 ( 
 
 iS* 
 
 :|^=tt=.=zz:zt- 
 
 r 
 
 iE!!^!*; 
 
 -■^:=i-3:z.^ 
 
 ^i^£E3 
 
 Hopes arc il - lu-sions and not what they seem, Life and its pleasures, phil - os ■ o-pher» 
 
 "fortune shows favors" she's fie - kle be - side, And may itnock at your door some day. un-ex. 
 
 Hold up your head, though your funds are but small, Once let the world know you need its as- 
 
 :te3^ 
 
 
 -*-*- 
 
 ^-•!-< 
 
 T-)- 
 
 *-*- -*-*-» 
 
 I*-*- 
 
 z*-*z i3=Jlr*z >-*^- ^i-^H* 
 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 r^rr 
 
 »==T 
 
 
 iS- 
 
 ;fc-tE^t 
 
 ;*=:c2: 
 
 ^^^H 
 
 — -r 
 
 tell us, Ck> float ing a - way like a leaf on the stream. Then try to be hap-py and 
 
 -pected. If you patient -ly wait for the turn of the tide, 
 
 -sistance, Be sure then you nev-er will get it at all. 
 
 i 
 
 fcd: 
 
 
 -4- 
 
 «=S: 
 
 -4^ 
 
 ^3^:1: 
 
 tS=i: 
 
 =rd==l:: 
 
 gay, my boys. Re - member the world is wide, 
 
 And Rome wasn't 
 
 tzzit 
 
 ± 
 
 :t=: 
 
 I ^ 1 I r 
 
 '*ff I t - I — F — 
 
 ;rb|=-rti-tl-^ 
 
 I 
 
 
 :»=»: 
 
 
 iJ«p«a< ^ 
 
 1~ 
 
 q= 
 
 :qz:q: 
 
 ^-L*-^---^c^- 
 
 ;i^ 
 
 built in a day, my boys, So wait for the turn of the ti de. 
 
 :;:::zdi 
 
 t=jt 
 
 tztbizt 
 
 J=t=t 
 
 f-f: 
 
 S=S: 
 
 Eg^gggEggg^SEg^ggglg 
 
 657 
 
 .: 
 
 
/ 
 
 i^mithcnliam c^crrg. 
 
 * 11 ^ « » 
 
 THEO. IIABZZALS. 
 
 «: 
 
 Not too ^luiek 
 
 «_^. 
 
 
 «: 
 
 I O - hoi - ye-ho, Ho- ye-ho,^Vho'sforlhefeITy?(Thebri - ars in bud, the 
 
 2. O ■ hoi - ye - ho, Ho - ye - ho, I'm forthe fcny,"(Thebri - ars in bud, the 
 
 3. O • hoi ■ ye- ho, Ho,you're too late for the ferry (The bri - ars in bud, the 
 
 !ii 
 
 -z::i:mdL 
 
 ?»^=^-* 
 
 S 
 
 ^E 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 9-fl 
 
 rii row ye so steady. And 't 
 
 sun going down,) And I'll row ye so quick and lUI row ye so steady. And 'tis but a penny to 
 sun going down,) And it's late as it, is and I haven't a penny, And how shall I get me to 
 sun going down,) And he's tuH. .'owing quick and he's not rowing steady, You'd think 'twas a journey to 
 
 n^ 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 Ite: 
 
 *=:it 
 
 t * 
 
 •»■ « 
 
 .d_ 
 
 ^ 
 
 • -jy . — »zr 
 
 j== 
 
 *-r- 
 
 ib!t 
 
 — ^ — bm ——f»-m ^- N IS - . — »-= — = Sr-M ; 
 
 i^c:^ 
 
 P--^ 
 
 ^5= 
 
 V 
 
 Twick - en - ham Town. The fer • ry -man's slim and the fer - ry-man'syoung And he's 
 Twick • en - ham Town. She'd a rose in her bon - net, and oh I she look'd sweet As the 
 Twick - en • ham Town. "O hoi, andO ho," you may call as you will The 
 
 (i 
 
 m 
 
 ^^E 
 
 -w=m: 
 
 =^¥ 
 
 Ucd: 
 
 ^S 
 
 1 =jfej^ 
 
 Mz 
 
 558 
 
 - m — ^ 
 
•nVirlvLXIIAM TET^RT. 
 
 ( 
 
 :C^- 
 
 i^ 
 
 -*■ — -^^ — i^— 1^— s^ "^ ' 
 
 just a soft twang in the turn of his tongue, and he's fresh as a pip . pin and 
 
 lit • tie pink How • er that grows in the wheat, Withherciiecks hke a rose and hir 
 
 moon is a ris • ing on Pe - tersham Hill, And with love like a rose in the 
 
 
 
 i^- 
 
 
 
 brown as a Lcr-ry, And 'tis but a pen - ny to Twick - en - liam Town. 
 lips like a cherry, "And sure and you're welcome to Twick- en • ham Town." 
 stem of the wherry, There's dan - ger in cross - ing to Twick - en - ham Town. 
 
 ff 
 
 ■-A—^^^ — «_ 
 
 O- 
 
 *: -w^ ■»• -w -w •*• -w -w •*■ =* 
 
 •-- ^ 
 
 :»riJ=«: 
 
 m-Jz^. 
 
 i 
 
 ^===:z^- 
 
 f-= — -*-i: 
 
 ^_ — ■ ■ _ — J"-. — — — 
 
 ^eS^I^^^eSejeE^^^e?^ 
 
 .B)_sj: 
 
 «■• 
 
 hoi - ye -ho, Ho - ye -ho Ho - ye -ho, Ho, 
 
 d 
 
 ■i 
 
 ^-^ 
 
 «.• 
 
 3^E^ 
 
 :w.—zz -J. 
 
 g^i^^ 
 
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 P dim, ■*• 
 
 
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 f>r)9 
 
r^n 
 
 ^ 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 
 m 
 
 wi 
 
 m 
 
 Kt- 
 
 ^£'7 
 
 1 
 
 IM'll 
 
 ^m\ 
 
 
 Kw 
 
 m 
 
 iJEfii 
 
 iSf 
 
 
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 nl i 
 
 
 
 ii 
 
 
 
 
 
 ffli 
 
 IMBIi 
 
 
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 ff^t" 
 
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 9pi 
 
 
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 III 
 
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 §1 i^Iwrttsand leagues giuiag. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Poetry iDy W. C. BENNETT. 
 
 AUegro eon gpirito. 
 
 Hndo I37 J. BAaNB7. 
 
 :t 
 
 ErE-Jt 
 
 l^g^ 
 
 1. The wind is blowing 
 
 2. I half could be a 
 
 3. One kiss ; the tide ebbs 
 
 ■^^ ^ ^ 
 
 £3E 
 
 ^ifc-^*::: 
 
 
 m 
 
 ^i 
 
 X'j T f'- i»Ei"-g: 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 :ci: 
 
 3t:.iC 
 
 -'-•[g* 
 
 fresh, Kate, The boat rocks there for me; 
 landsman, Wliile those dear eyes I see, 
 fast, love ; I must not lag- gard be 
 
 One kiss and I'm a- way, Kate, Fof 
 To hear the gale rave by with-out,While 
 Up - on the voyage I'll hope, love, Will 
 
 p':i=s 
 
 ^=*=5|=i*: 
 
 -^ 
 
 S-l^^^^^pE^ 
 
 
 --t^w 
 
 rail. 
 
 P 
 
 ^1 , — 
 
 a tempo. 
 
 
 •X— »— ^ 
 
 3=t 
 
 i^n^qnjfarrr^ 
 
 :=t: 
 
 3: 
 
 Ei? 
 
 ■.S:i=:it=e-. 
 
 It 
 
 two long years to sea- 
 you sat snug with me- 
 give my Kate to me. 
 
 For two long years to think of you. Dream 
 But I must hear the storm howl by The 
 Pray for us, Kate ; such pray'rs as yours God 
 
 ^-=r- 
 
 eoUa voce. 
 
 m^ 
 
 t 
 
 tX 
 
 ^^§= 
 
 
 -•tii 
 
 560 
 
 f— ^5 
 
 =*== 
 
 ^EP= 
 
A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY. 
 
 ::«-- 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 :pa: 
 
 '■^^=m^ 
 
 :X 
 
 ■■s^- 
 
 
 of you niglit and day,^ 
 
 salt breeze wliist - ling play 
 bids the winds o ■ bey, 
 
 To long for you a- cross the sea, A 
 
 Its weird sea-tune a monjj the sl-.rouds, A 
 By for-tune heard, your lov - ing word, — Will 
 
 dim. 
 
 mexta voce. 
 
 P 
 
 q^==t 
 
 Htqn: 
 
 X 
 
 :*uzzs: 
 
 -MziS:. 
 
 :»-S:: 
 
 thou-sand leagues a - way, 
 
 thou-sand leagues a - way, 
 
 speed us far a - way. 
 
 A thou- sand leagues a - way, dcsrKite, A 
 A thou- sand leagues a - way, dear Kate, A 
 A thou- sand leagues a - way, my Kate, A 
 
 11 
 
 B^ 
 
 -5 ^_ 
 
 ^T\4 ig. 
 
 *r.:*i^-*:r;«ii:: 
 
 __ ■■ Li 
 
 
 -»^; 
 
 
 Mp: 
 
 1 
 
 ■rx 
 
 p 
 
 33: 
 
 
 / 
 
 thousand leagues a - way, 
 thou-sand leagues a - way, 
 thou-sand leagues a - way, 
 I 
 
 -t-- 
 
 -r 
 
 -1- 
 
 r=M=d 
 
 *i5 
 
 
 While round the Pole we toss and roll, — A 
 
 While south we go, blow high, blow low, — A 
 
 God will befriend the lad you send— A 
 
 thousand leagties a - way, 
 thousand leagues a - way. 
 thousand leagues a ■ way. 
 
m&tn c^air ta ^^. 
 
 'Az 
 
 b4:zir 
 
 Andante moderato. Ralph 
 
 ^-x-y-g- 
 
 I^Sf-^] 
 
 .5: 
 
 A maiden fair to sec, Tlie 
 
 :=Hr3i3!^^-'~-^^- 
 
 ^^^^mn^^m^mm 
 
 -4^ — T-'£r ^ ^—^ 
 
 -^ 
 
 •-^-»-y- 
 
 
 
 l«»=*ri 
 
 
 itt^-rtiilit 
 
 
 -^diEE^EiiSl^r*^ 
 
 ;^£^^E^E^^ 
 
 pearl of minstrelsy, A bud of blushing beauty, Y^r whom proud nobles sigh, And 
 
 =*=*: 
 
 -^ — ^— 
 
 
 — I — I— I — 1 — fc-=i — I— 
 
 T"»^ 
 
 I 
 
 =iz:zs:q: 
 
 "m 
 
 eonSva. 
 
 
 A: 
 
 
 •with each other vie, To do her menial's du - ty. 
 
 A suitor lowly bom. With 
 
 hopeless passion torn. And poor beyond concealing. Hath dar' d for her to pine. A t 
 
 562 
 
A MAIDEN FAIR TO SEE. 
 
 
 whoBO exalted shrine A world of wcultli is kncclint;. I'lilcnmed li j in Qtight, Suve 
 
 z-kz3.-ci 
 
 ^z^=t::^Z^ 
 
 V 
 
 
 
 -CTT- 
 
 rn/t 
 
 
 -»» ' — H 1- 
 
 that which love hitt)i taui ^ht, For Love hath been h lg tutor. Oh ! pity, pity mo 1 Our 
 
 3d— 
 
 -J I ^ 
 
 :iE« 
 
 s.* 
 
 » J-GI - 
 
 
 
 cott Sva.... 
 
 ra(L 
 
 l^l^^^ili^il^lil§!i 
 
 
 captnin'8 daugiitcr, she, and I that lowly suit - or 1 Oh ! pi - ty, pi - ty mo, our 
 
 
 eon 8ea.. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 
 -3^ — ^^*B — 9 "*2s m~ 
 
 •S- '• ' CO t I **^ 
 
 
 
 ^ !L^_^: 
 
 j?=£^EE?-EE^=^--J 
 
 ^r 
 
 cap-tain's daughter, she, And I 
 
 
 :?2: 
 
 tliat low - ly suit 
 
 or. 
 
 HiE^I 
 
 iS 
 
 :=r 
 
 T 
 
 --g. ^= 
 
 -JZil 
 
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 E|SEE3S^^EgEt3 
 
 09)1 oVCU* 
 
 563 
 

 m. 
 
 ;?<,!-( '.'"HI 
 
 1 i m 
 
 Uanfn ^^. 
 
 Words by F. S. WSATHSBLT. Music by STZFEZN ASAMS. 
 
 Of oil 
 The hnr 
 The bo' 
 
 i^^ihe^m^iig^-^^^^ 
 
 tliewlvrsaHn'cr you know, Yro 
 
 bor's pn8t, the breezes blow, Yeo 
 
 ■'n pipes the watch ImiIow Yt o 
 
 hoi 
 hoi 
 hot 
 
 Imliil 
 
 lU'lHf 
 
 ladjit 
 
 — ^ Ht-J K-J S-H M r ^ — ^r-^ M r 
 
 p 
 
 -r-4: 
 
 
 ^^£*=?^:i^ 
 
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 hoi Yen 
 ho ! Yeo 
 ho ! Yeo 
 
 ■3-- >-J 
 
 ^^^^^^mw^^ 
 
 ho ! . . yeo ho ! 
 liol . . yeo hoi 
 hoi. . yeo ho I 
 
 There's none 
 
 Tig long 
 
 Then here's 
 
 like Non - cy Lee, I 
 ere we come back, I 
 a health afore we 
 
 M >J ^r-l ^-1 r 1*-) V K4 V-i ^ Nr 
 
 [MEE 
 
 itt^ 
 
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 ^ — t ?r~»=: 
 
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 — ^-— — y — -\' ' ^g^ — * — ' ^— 1^ — 
 
 trow, . 
 know; 
 go, . 
 
 Yeo 
 Yeo 
 Yeo 
 
 hot 
 ho! 
 hoi 
 
 lads ! 
 lads I 
 lads! 
 
 hof 
 ho! 
 hot 
 
 I — 
 yeo ho I 
 yeo ho I 
 yeo ho I 
 
 
 But 
 
 A 
 
 , _a_jj |__m J m.j ly_|__X~J S 1 ^H ^-l_T" — r-J p 
 
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 Hazt 
 
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 ■g^^SSm-M-. 
 
 z\^-i=}gc 
 
 I 
 
 tlicre she stands an' waves her hands, upon the quay, 
 true an' bri^lit, from mom till night, my home will be, 
 long, long life to my sweet wife, an mates at sea ; 
 
 An' ev'- ry day wh«n 
 An' all so neat, an* 
 An' keep our bones from 
 
 604 ^" ^" 
 
1 
 
 NANCT LEE. 
 
 
 I'm awav alio'll watch for nie. An' wtiiiiper low, when tcmposU blow, for Jack at sua; 
 »nu){ an iiwe<!i, for Jack at av.a, An' Nancy's face to hlcsa the pluce, un' welcome mo; 
 Davy Jonc'g, wbcni't-r we be, An' umy you ineet a inau^ tu sweet as Nancy Leo; 
 
 -m-m ,* — .^-m.»^^m-^m — ,* — :•■ — rf^— •p" -^r* • r*-- r 
 
 b*=.^ 
 
 ^i^pi^^^^ 
 
 Lt:: 
 
 Yeo ho! liids! hoi 
 
 yeo bo i 
 
 ort 
 
 ^~E^*35=?^ 
 
 ■.m— 
 
 ^)j|z^^: 
 
 IT 
 
 .iSl,* 
 
 raU. 
 
 
 f 
 
 il=^g::JE*:=-.gz ^E^L<_-:igz^ r-^--^i:J^ 
 
 
 
 
 'SEE: 
 
 :C:i==: 
 
 wife the sailor's star 
 
 ,^^^g=i«-=p5.^rj=i^^^i=^fcfiig 
 
 shull be. Yeo ho I Vio go a 
 
 _| ^^_J — 3J , ^4- 
 
 i^i^^^^^epi^ 
 
 ^,ff:A_ffi. 
 
 :c=i^^r: 
 
 1= — r— < 
 
 1 
 
 rj^§i^i 
 
 cross the sea, The sail 
 
 -g 4- K-l r M Vf=-1 
 
 :«=:r«=±:*-SHi 
 
 -* — ^*- 
 
 -»-# — m 
 
 or's wife the sail - or's star 
 
 sliall 
 
 
 /!- 
 
 H 
 
 -I J:cc;;^-_r=z=:zzzp«l^rfcii» 
 
 '-e-r- 
 
 
 -Xzrff: 
 
 rp— t 
 
 
 rt 
 
 t=--S= 
 
 be. The enU - or's wife his star eliall be. 
 
J'm (Hailed fittk Suttcrap. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 ^AETmJB SULLIVAN. 
 
 i 
 
 I'm called little But-ter-cup, Dear lil-tle But- ter cup, Tho' I could ncv-er tell why. 
 
 -X-X- 
 
 S^ 
 
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 I I I 
 
 1^=*=:^: 
 
 m. 
 
 A — I — I- 
 
 :p=5? 
 
 P 
 
 But .still I'mcall'd Butter-cup, Poor little But-ter-cup, Sweet lit-tle But-tcr- cup. 
 
 -s-^- 
 
 ^ 
 
 -B 
 
 7 — d-X-X- •jtd— X— 
 
 1F5= 
 
 i 
 
 -*=*: 
 
 E*-*- 
 
 -X-X- 
 
 :J=tt 
 
 I -I-I-4- 
 
 !=ff=»z:*ai 
 
 ii^^i^^ 
 
 I'veCtiuflTand to- bac - cy. And ex - ccMent jac- ley; I'vescis-sors and 
 
 ::*-»- 
 
 ^^E114i 
 
 ^- — ^ -»-»- -^ -X-» 
 
 II I I I 11 ^^ 
 
 I I 
 
 ^m^^^m^^^^^ 
 
 watches, and knives ; 
 
 I've ribbons and lac- es to set off the fee - es Of 
 
 
 i ^^#^ 
 
 5GG' 
 
 i^T^-:^^^^ 
 
I'M CALLED LirrLE BUTTERCUP. 
 
 ^E=i£fe=g3 
 
 :a== 
 
 
 pret- ty young sweethearts and wives. 
 
 I've trea - de and tof - fee, I've 
 
 f^pfp 
 
 tea and I've cof - fee, soft tom-my and sue • cu-lent chops. 
 
 I've 
 
 iS^I — X- X ' I X »-'- S*^ 
 
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 =^l=^=t{ 
 
 ^ 
 
 TI^^I 
 
 23=r : 
 
 ■ X X J 
 
 ^^ 
 
 *-*• 
 
 Sat 
 
 ^ 
 
 SE 
 
 *-a 
 
 So buy of your Buttercup.Poor little Buttercup.Come.of your Buttercup buy, 
 
 
 
 S 
 
 aBE 
 
 t* 
 
 r.«dl: 
 
 ^"^1 
 
 S67 
 
lats's 3^iW, 
 
 Compoged for the JPiano-Forte* 
 
 ByLASTSTTFFSBZIT. 
 
 Andante con espressione, 
 -•-H — I— ^-' 1 — I 
 
 PIANO. ( 
 
 m^ 
 
 pt=t::t 
 
 I —r-^ 
 
 I I I 
 
 
 ~- ■n — a— •-l-ap-s— I — hhH ^■ 
 
 
 1. Och, girli duar, did yoa er - cr hear, I wrote my lore a let - ter, And >l- 
 
 -il=^^^^^£g=*=^"=^' 
 
 
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 — ' >■ — ^ y^ 
 
 -S| P- 
 
 1 
 
 -•1 p_ 
 
 rjzr=st=S: 
 
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 ^iJfc^ 
 
 ^5is^ 
 
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 iti 
 
 though he can-not read, ruro I thought 'twas all the bet- ter; For why fhould he be 
 
 
 :-\—^—m— 
 
 ■m-^-jg: 
 
 :i--«(=i|: 
 
 ;*• Zjgi- 
 
 zS~g=S: 
 
 — •— ^ — f — J^- 
 
 :^:=p: 
 
 ^^4= 
 
 ^ 
 
 M8 
 
KATEY's liKTTBR, 
 
 
 =Rr=!fcl 
 
 =S=*: 
 
 ful - ly. 
 
 I lore him faith-ful -ly, And ho 
 
 2 I wrote it, and T foklocl it, and put a seal upon it ; 
 
 'Twiis a seal almost as bij; as llio crown of my best btmnct ; 
 For I would not have tlie Postmaster make his remarks upon it, 
 As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully. 
 
 I love him faithfully. 
 And he knows it, oh, he knows it ! without one word from me. 
 
 1 My heart was full, but when I wrote, I dared not put the half fn. 
 The neighbors know I love him, and they're mijihty fond of chatRnnr; 
 So I dared not write his name outside, for fear they would be laughing 
 So I wrote, " From little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully." 
 
 I love him faithfully. 
 And he knows it, oh, he knows it 1 without one word from me. 
 
 4 Now, girls, would you believe it, that Postman, so consaitcd, 
 No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited ; 
 But maybe there mayn't be one for the raison that I stated. 
 That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully. 
 
 He loves me faithfully. 
 And I know where'er my love is, that he is true to lui*. 
 
Wkm grntumn Jmvta mt (falling. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Words I7 J. R CABPENTEB, Esq. Music by J. W. 0HEBB7. 
 
 Moderato eon esprets. 
 
 -tr-TT-r-a^ 1 1 -' -: — a-+'. r — ^ — Tsj— h ' rn 
 
 Esprtag. 
 
 I. When the Au - tumn leaves are fall- ing, And the flow • crs have lost their 
 
 $ 
 
 $—*- 
 
 P 
 
 
 :=1= 
 
 :=l: 
 
 !:^=:*=zz 
 
 rzrzzcr: 
 
 -^ ^ 
 
 --■jdz 
 
 ~cii 
 
 # 
 
 ll^=^=2ig^3§ 
 
 3f=i= 
 
 ^ 
 
 prime; 
 
 And the bird to his mate is call - ing, 
 
 To 
 
 -1 I I — ■ t ■ I 
 
 ■^0^ ■-'■:^-*- '-^ 
 
 S 
 
 ( 
 
 ^H 
 
 
 :g=q. 
 
 I 
 
 ^F 
 
 r=l: 
 
 ■jzi-. 
 
 
 ^^m^si 
 
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 ?;3^; 
 
 :»3i*31*: 
 
 soar to a bright - er cliwe: 
 
 The heart that is bow'd by 
 
 
 
 -«*#?-- 5r5nr 
 
 570^- 
 
 
 P 
 
 ~=«-EE' 
 
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 :«ea=3^- 
 
T.IILN THE AUTUMN LEAVES ARE FALLING. 
 
 m 
 
 tempo. 
 
 :e— -_^:^c:: 
 
 ^E^^^Ig=5?S?^^?^?^ 
 
 ^z-m. 
 
 sor - rew. Now sinks in a deep-tr gloom; For we know that the coming 
 
 <■> 
 
 ;d=--=-- 
 
 m 
 
 ^=^ 
 
 r^?*-^ 
 
 znr 
 
 3: 
 
 :tt-pd 
 
 Must with - er some lin - ger - ing bloom, 
 
 For we 
 
 
 ■:3:- 
 
 :=t 
 
 '^EEF.-^. 
 
 ifiii 
 
 ^— f^ 
 
 €«prM». 
 
 CJ 
 
 
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 know that the coming mor - row, Must with - er some lin - gering bloom. 
 
 le 
 
 ^.I-SjI^se¥=zJeP^¥^=;?£:I 
 
 q=r7 
 
 coWo I'oce. 
 
 ^^m^^ 
 
 .!-• — •-. 
 
 a 
 
 f,giz*iip=:^-«.ili|^gSi,^|z| ^\^- 
 
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 dim. 
 
 ritard. 
 
 1 
 
 :*=:^ 
 
 ^=t: 
 
 HS^ 
 
 It 
 
 i=* 
 
 ^H 
 
 2. WhtMi the shadows of evening lengthen. 
 
 And we muse o'er each present giitf ; 
 
 The hopes llmt we strive to strengthen, 
 
 We feel, like onr joys, are brief: 
 And the leaves as tht-y fall arotini' us, 
 
 Remind us how short our span ; 
 Thai the flowers which the Springtime foand us, 
 But fade like the h.-pes of maiij 
 
 671 
 
g $fivt for iihcc. 
 
 English Words by J. 21 A. 
 
 7BA1TZ ABT. 
 
 i 
 
 ^nrfanttno. 
 
 «S 
 
 e; 
 
 — — =*r5: 
 
 atendcrword would tell tliee Yet 
 
 1. I fain atendcrword would tell thee Yet 
 
 2. I fain would sing in plaintive nieas-ure, A 
 
 3. I fain would write a loving let - tor, That 
 
 ( 
 
 ^^P^^g^^^P^ 
 
 
 ^^P 
 
 now myself scarce can cx-press, 
 
 song that to thy heait should po, 
 
 might to thee my heart un - fold. 
 
 And if its import thou shouldst 
 
 Uut when 1 seek the tune - ful 
 
 liut e • - yen here J fare no 
 
 « 
 
 PP 
 
 poeorU. 
 
 -m =1- 
 
 -p-ri 
 
 • 0k 
 
 W=*= 
 
 P 
 
 m/ 
 
 £ 
 
 -r- 
 
 me, 
 ure, 
 ter. 
 
 -I 1^ ¥ \^- 
 
 My an • • swcr should be on - ly this; 
 
 A voice with -in nie speaketh so; 
 
 For all my thoughts in this arc told; 
 
 ask 
 treas 
 bet . 
 
 My 
 My 
 My 
 
[Y LOVE FOR THEE. 
 
 t^ 
 
 :S=R 
 
 p^^^^ 
 
 ?a: 
 
 t — h 
 
 f-^ 
 
 love for thee burnM ar • dent • ly, For thee a • lone 
 
 -0-< 
 
 
iliapmjoi at th (^ndm €ate. 
 
 Words by J. LOSZB. 
 
 ICudo b7 S. W. 2TEW. 
 
 h^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 T I 
 
 1 WIio'b that tap-i>ii)g at the gar - den gate 7 
 
 2 Oh, you Bly lit - tie " Fox," you know I 
 
 -« 
 
 i^^ ^^^^r ^ 
 
 fc&*^ 
 
 i^^m^^^i^ 
 
 zwt—jT 
 
 ^«.4 
 
 Tap, tap, tap-ping at the gar - den gate? Ev' - n- night I liavc heard of late, 
 Fiu - get • ting a - bout un - til you go, Dropp'd the Kiigar8poon, Why, there it lies, 
 
 «=:^ 
 
 •UK- T,- -•- ^ 
 
 •=r 
 
 S 
 
 ^^ 
 
 3t5=::t 
 
 > 
 
 :>i ±^: 
 
 !-^ — I — I — t— 
 
 I 
 
 5^ 
 
 
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 Some - bo • dy tap-ping at the gar - den gate. What, you sly lit- tie bum, don't know 7 
 Bless the girl, where are your eyes 7 Were I a - ble to leave my chair, 
 
 P 
 
 :1t=^ 
 
 ^^3^^^EmL 
 
 m 
 
 674' 
 
 ^^ 
 
TAPPIirO AT THE OARDBN OATB. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 ^^te^^^ 
 
 ISrlitfc^ 
 
 Why do you blush and fal-ter boT What are you looking for un - der the chair? The 
 Soon woul^ I find out who was there ; Don't tell mc you think it'it the cat, 
 
 
 ii^^ 
 
 ^:«ff?i: 
 
 5i^=r:t 
 
 ^^^^^^.^^^^^ 
 
 a( ra«. 
 
 P kmpo. 
 
 ^^l^i^i:^^^3i^^^ 
 
 tap, tap, tapping comes not from there ; Ev' - ry night a - bout half-past cipht, There's 
 Cuts don't tap, tap, tap, like that, Catsdont know when it's half-past eight. And 
 
 P tempo. 
 
 1^^ 
 
 r^ 
 
 ■^ — =)- 
 
 g%^-:^i^::^:^--Ejr:J^dt ^^=^3^ 
 
 tap, tap, tap^)ing at the garnlen gate, Ev' • ry night about half-past eight, There's 
 come tap, tappnig at the g:ir-don gate, Cats don't know when it's half-past eight, And 
 
 W 
 
 ^g*^ 
 
 ^■^=S'' 
 
 m 
 
 tap, tap, tap-ping at the gar • den gate, 
 come tap, tap-ping at the gar • den gate. 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 Sua 
 
 erts. 
 
 ^^^^^ 
 
 m 
 
little ipsa |ant 
 
 Words by ESWABS FZTZBALL. Mndo by C. W. OLOTEB. 
 
 « I ^ «»-< 
 
 ^U«2)T«<to. 
 
 ViAM. 
 
 1^ 
 
 _•(?•_«_*. 
 
 ■»■> 
 
 / i. 
 
 .^. .^. jm. jm. .4^ -#. .^. -mu 
 
 
 iH 
 
 •^tr. 
 
 -O 1 
 
 4.-I 
 
 ^^^^^^^m 
 
 
 I' i>_ . n:.. »«.;j T.' . •. :_ .»-. _l.j 
 
 I'm a mer • ry Cip - sy Maid, From my tent in yon - det glade. 
 
 
 i 
 
 a<f/tft. 
 
 
LITTLE GIPSY JANE. 
 
 m^ 
 
 
 rzSarc 
 
 
 -n- 
 
 vil • lage maids I've com ■ fort bland, Of sweethearts who com - plain, You've 
 
 H7 '^ 
 
 
 ±-;Bz 
 
 apiaeerf. 
 
 iSE!f^^^=S=?zl?^'S=^| 
 
 rff:ta — 5»^i^_ : 
 
 tE_~s: 
 
 ly just to cross the hand Of Lit - tic Gip - sy Jane. 
 
 
 '^=t: 
 
 ^i 
 
 i5 
 
 
 i^=5i^^^lg^^^^-3fES^^ 
 
 Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. 
 
 ^-sumx 
 
 Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. 
 
 I 
 
 t-^- 
 
 :=r 
 
 -^ 
 
 S- 
 
 s- -^ -^ 
 
 :=>» 
 U 
 
 ~^=^^^^ 
 
 m-==A 
 
 I 
 
 IScirinrirrrznrrr-i-Slr 
 
 
 ^as5 
 
 2. With the lark, I greet the mom, 
 When tho dew is oi» the rye; 
 With tlie inilk-maid, 'noath the tliorn. 
 
 Stealthily am I; 
 For her, I've talcs of house and land« 
 
 And husbands rioh to gain ; 
 She has but just to cross the hand 
 Of Little Gipsy Jane. 
 ,<t7 Tra la la la, && 577 
 
liiatttiftti Sell. 
 
 Competed mnd rrangtd for the PUtnO'WeHOt 
 
 ^B.C00T1. 
 
 PIANO. 
 
 ^m 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^=:^p:R 
 
 lC=t? 
 
 1. Don't talk to me of pretty maldi, Of handioine ladlei, don't ! I'll 
 
 2. She'f but % lit - tie one indeed, With neat and ti -ny feet, And 
 
 3. We (ometimcf think in all the world There'* none lo fair at ihe — So 
 
 g :tg=£:P j r g^g;£g 3i^^^ 
 
 ner-er li* - ten to a word, I won't, no that I won't ! Tbere'v not a beau - tjr 
 waiideri round the lire-long dnr With loni;! di - Tine - ly tweet; She dan-oei like a 
 
 love-ljr a« our dar- ling Nell — Ai tweet aa the ean be; But er' • ry moth-ar 
 
BBXUTirUL NBLL. 
 
 i^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 t^x^vi^^^***- 
 
 ' in th« Und To loktah mjr pr«l - ty Uclla: I'll tell juu kll a . buut her now, My 
 U\ ■ ry ehild Up - od the gtM-ty kiwn, And fluiu-ticrf lik* tn in • g«l baba From 
 (Nmi to think, And fo Ita t« - ry well, H«r lit • tl« diir-llnK'i Jutt •• twoct Ai 
 
 ere$. 
 
 ^!^^E 
 
 » 
 
 -«l — !«- 
 
 '-^-.--m 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 — I*- 
 
 Tbmpo Dt Valsb. 
 
 ^^il] 
 
 r 
 
 ifeig 
 
 d»r - linit lit-tU Nell. 
 
 »an - «et till the dawn. 
 
 w« do prettj Nell. 
 
 /. 
 
 gyj^ 
 
 r 
 
 -^~^-^Er~z3 
 
 Beau - ti - ful ehild with beau - ti • ful f>'<^'i 
 
 f-g: 
 
 
 ^5^ 
 
 -p-— r- 
 
 _p- 
 
 -P p: 
 
 :^il 
 
 
 i 
 
 ::««: 
 
 t:; 
 
 Bright af the morn-lng and blue a« the ikiei ; Beau - ti • ful teeth and 
 
 ^^^^^^^m^ 
 
 p 
 
 f=^^^^^ 
 
 r 
 
 .._? -P^i- P P -P— P P: P - — ;; — P— r 
 
 ^^ 
 
 mil 
 
 Jl=5: 
 
 S 
 
 3 
 
 =«»= 
 
 4ia - plei a* well, 
 
 :|,g=fct* 
 
 Beau ti - ful, bean-ti - ful, beau-ti • ful N<tU. 
 
 rail - 
 
 t 
 
 ^ 
 
 T — F 
 
 -p — p- 
 
 -p p- 
 
 J r h 
 
 579 
 
Wt ^at bg the %mY. 
 
 CLABIBSL 
 
 »IANO. 
 
 m 
 
 5?r=pr 
 
 
 3?:^ 
 
 -t^-ti^ 
 
 We Hat by the river, you and T, 
 'Tis years since we parted, you and I, 
 
 In that 
 In that 
 
 m 
 
 
 3 
 
 ^-1=^ 
 
 -m m 
 
 Bwect summer time long a-go. 
 •weet summer time long a-go. 
 
 So smoothly the water glided by, 
 And I smile ajt I pass the river by, 
 
 
 Making 
 And I 
 
 i^^i^-|E ^^-|g dp^pte^^ 
 
 =!— -I- 
 
 fg^giFg^:^^^ 
 
 i 
 
 
 Mlt^ 
 
 :«s: 
 
 muitic in its tran-quil flow, We threw two leaBetfl, you and I, To tho 
 
 gaze into the shadow depths below, I look on the gross and bending reeds, And I 
 
 i'-^- j-=^--Q 
 
 S^ 
 
 -Q- 
 
 t»- 
 
 E^ 
 
 I 
 
 6bU 
 
WK SAT BT THK RIVBlt. 
 
 rv-rrst 
 
 ;$^ 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 -r-^-p 
 
 -i^-i^-r-if^ 
 
 tct 
 
 And one 
 And I en 
 
 riv-er ok it wan - der'd on, 
 listriin to tiie sootli - in); song, 
 
 wa« rent and left to 
 vy tiie calm and happy 
 
 i 
 
 J?^ 
 
 :tz:=i2: 
 
 zjtita 
 
 S^^ 
 
 :^f^ 
 
 • > 
 
 die, 
 Ufa, 
 
 
 And the oth-er float-ed forward all a - lone. 
 Of the riv-cr as it flings and fluwtf along. 
 
 d 
 
 *S*F-^fi 
 
 And 
 For 
 
 ^^-- 
 
 ~mi 
 
 w- 
 
 su- 
 
 lci 
 
 m-- 
 
 .^_.^__ 
 
 
 
 w. 
 
 -.^ao^ 
 
 -*-^ 
 
 -t»>-y 
 
 22; 
 
 Oh ! we were sadden'd, you and I, For We felt tlint our youth's ^Iden dream, M ight 
 
 Oh! how ita song brings back to me, The shade of our youtli's golden dream, In the 
 
 fade and our lives be severed i>oon, 
 days ere we parted, you and I, 
 
 As the two leaves were parted in the stream. 
 As the two leaves were parted in the stream. 
 
liobitt %&m. 
 
 ¥ «« ^^ •»- ^M. 
 
 Andante. 
 
 ?IANO. 
 
 B^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^Kq» 
 
 ^E 
 
 «fe:i=e^ 
 
 ?==p= 
 
 s^ 
 
 1 — r 
 
 p 
 
 :«!«= 
 
 fl- 
 
 ^rt 
 
 ^E|=f-= S 
 
 i 
 
 T=t= 
 
 #^^^ 
 
 I 
 
 -il ^- 
 
 1. Wbat'a this dull town t* me? Ro • bin's not near; 
 
 N^^^i^^Sf 
 
 s 
 
 E 
 
 2 P ' 
 
 zi: 
 
 in 
 
 la' 
 
 i 
 
 ( 
 
 ^^g^ 
 
 za: 
 
 He whom I wish'd to see, wish'd for to hear. 
 
 S^ 
 
 2rf: 
 
 £=S=»=.S 
 
 r^ 
 
 
 Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a Henv'n on earth ; 
 
 ^ i=i — 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^^B^f^f 
 
 [>>i f* ; 
 
 * ^ 
 
 l-^i* 
 
 -»— jy^ 
 
 rn*^ 
 
BOBTN ADATR. 
 
 g&^_[^^g 
 
 rail 
 
 Where'! all the joy and mirth, Oh, thej're all fled with thee. 
 
 
 ^^EEd^: 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 Rob 
 
 in 
 
 dair, 
 
 22: 
 
 lOb - in A . dnir. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 m- 
 
 (^=^ 
 
 S 
 
 2 What made th' assembly shine T 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 What made the ball so fine T 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 Wlinl when the play was o'er, 
 What made iny heart so sore, 
 What when the play was o'erT 
 Ob, it WAS parting witt 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 3 But now thou'rt far from me, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 But now I never see 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 Yet him 1 loved so well. 
 
 Still in my heart shall dwell, 
 
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CONTENTS OF MUSIC. 
 
 Page. 
 Comin* Thro* the Rye. 482 
 
 Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still 484 
 
 A Warrior Bold 486 
 
 Three Fishers Went Sailing 4S8 
 
 Sally in Our Alley 490 
 
 Where Are the Friends of My Youth ? 493 
 
 The Old Sexton 494 
 
 Scenes That Are Brightest 496 
 
 Flee as a Bird 498 
 
 Paddle Your Own Canoe 500 
 
 I Cannot Sing the Old Songs 502 
 
 Blissful Dreams Come Stealing O'er Me 504 
 
 The Torpedo and die Whale 506 
 
 Rest for the Weary, Rest 508 
 
 No, Sir ! 510 
 
 Then You'll Remember Me „ ^13 
 
 Pulling Hard Against the Stream. 514 
 
 In the Gloaming 516 
 
 Over the Garden Wall 518 
 
 When the Swallows Homeward Fly 320 
 
 "Come Back to Erin" 522 
 
 Take Back the Heart Thou Gavest 524 
 
 The Letter in the Candle .j 526 
 
 There are Friends that we Never Forget 528 
 
 ''Good Bye, Sweetheart, Good Bye " 530 
 
 The Dear Little Shamrock 53a 
 
 Too Late to Marry 534 
 
 Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel, or "A Motto 
 
 for every Man" 536 
 
 A Vixen for a Wife 53S 
 
 Far Away 540 
 
 Waste not, Want not, or " You Never miss the 
 
 water Tjll the Well runs Dry" „ 542 
 
 Page. 
 
 Shadows of Angels' Wings 544 
 
 Come in and Shut the Door 546 
 
 I Love My Love 548 
 
 Heart Bowed Down 550 
 
 Home, Sweet Home 553 
 
 We're Nearing the River 554 
 
 Wait for the Turn of the Tide 556 
 
 Twickenham Ferry 558 
 
 A'Thousand Leagues Away 560 
 
 A Maiden Fair to See 567 
 
 Nancy Lee 564 
 
 I'm Called Little Buttercup 566 
 
 Katey's Letter a 568 
 
 When the Autumn Leaves are Falling 570 
 
 My Love for Thee 572 
 
 Tapping at the Garden Gate 574 
 
 Little Gypsy Jane 576 
 
 Beautiful Nell 573 
 
 We Sat by the River 580 
 
 Robin Adair 582 
 
 The Turkish Reveille 584 
 
 Secret Love 586 
 
 Anvil Polka 588 
 
 Little Fairy Mazurka 590 
 
 L'EtoUe 592 
 
 Beautiful Blue Danube Waltz 594 
 
 Girofle Girofla 596 
 
 Boccaccio 598 
 
 The Minuet , „ 600 
 
 Fatinitza March 602 
 
 Grafulla's Favorite Waltz 604 
 
 Kutschke Polka 606 
 
 i! 
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 (608) 
 
Page. 
 
 544 
 
 546 
 
 548 
 
 550 
 
 552 
 
 554 
 
 556 
 
 558 
 . 560 
 
 56« 
 ■ 564 
 . 566 
 . 568 
 
 • 570 
 
 • 572 
 
 • 574 
 . 576 
 
 • 578 
 ,. 580 
 .. 582 
 .. 584 
 .. 586 
 .. 588 
 .. 590 
 .. 59a 
 •• 594 
 
 • • 596 
 .. 598 
 ,.. 600 
 ,.. 603 
 ,. 604 
 ... 606 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF EMINENT 
 
 AUTHORS 
 
 WHOSE PRODUCTIONS ENRICH THESE PAGES. 
 
 Adams, Charles Fo'.lon. — Known as a liiunorous 
 writtr, particularly of poems m Gcriii.ui dialect. Mr. 
 Adams is a native of Dorchester, Massacliu^etts, where 
 lie was born April 21st, 1S42. He served in the civil 
 war, and began his literary pursuits in 1S70. 
 
 Adams, John Quincy. — Tiie sixth President of the 
 United States, was tiie son of John Adams, the second 
 President, and was born in RIassacliusetts in 1767. 
 He was elected to the presidency in 1825. At the ex- 
 piration of his tirm c)f oflke he retiri d to Quincy, Mas- 
 sachusetts, but was elected representative to Conjjress 
 in 1830. His first literary prodactions were ktters 
 from abroad, and were published in the J'ortfoHo, a 
 Philadelphia Journal. Died in 1848. 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey —Mr. Aldrich holds high 
 rank among Anierican authors, having been a fre- 
 quent and popular contributor to leading periidicals. 
 He was born Novtnibcr iitii, 1836, at Portsmouth, 
 New I lampshire. During tlie three years of liis con- 
 nection with the mercantile house of his uncle in NeA- 
 Yoric he began his literary career. His writings com- 
 prise both prose and poetry. 
 
 Alexander, Cecil Frances. — Wife of William Alex- 
 ander, bishop of Derry, Ireland. She w.is born near 
 Stratiibaae in 1823, and distinguished herself by her 
 poem--, many of which are of a religious character. 
 
 , Alford, Herry, D. D. — Porn in London, i8ro; died 
 in 1 87 1. In addition to his ecclesiastical position as 
 Dean of Canterbury, he was a Biblical scholar of wide 
 repute. His Greek Testament, completed in iS6r, is 
 a standard work. His poems are marked by schol- 
 arly refinement, and an earnest Christian ;pirit. 
 
 Alger, Horatio. — A native of North Chelsea, Mas- 
 sachusetts, where he was born on January 13th, 1834. 
 He graduated at Harvard College in 185 1, and became 
 pastor of a Unitarian congregation in 1S64. Mr. Alger 
 is the author of several volumes of poems, and has 
 also been a frecjuent contributor to periodical literature. 
 
 Allen, Elizabeth Akers. — Born in Maine, 1832. Her 
 maiden name was Elizabeth Chase, and her first hus- 
 band was Paul Akcrs, the sculptor. Her most famous 
 production is ''Rock Me to Sleep, Mother." 
 
 Allingham, William. — Born at Ballyshannon, Ire- 
 land, 1828. rublished poems in 1850, again in 1854, 
 and received an autlior's pension in 1864. 
 39 
 
 Allston, Washington. — Distinguished as an artist 
 and author. He was born at Georgetown, South 
 Carolina, 1779, resided at Cambridge, Massachusetts, 
 during the latter part of his life, and died in 1S43. 
 
 Ames, Fisher, L.L.D. — A distinguished orator and 
 statesman during the Ameriian Revolution and the 
 period immediately preceding. 1 lis brilliant eulogy 
 on Washinj^ton was pronounced in 1799. Mr. Anus 
 was born in the ancient town of Dedliam, Massaciiu- 
 setts, April 9, 1758, and died on the 4tli of July, iSoS, 
 four years after he had declined, on account of failing 
 health, the presidency of Harvard College. 
 
 Andersen, Hans Christian. — A gifted writer, born 
 in Denmark, 1805. Having failed in his early efforts 
 as actor and singer, he was place. 1 at an advanced 
 scliool through royal favor, and soon developed th-sc 
 remarkable gifts which have made his name known 
 throughout the world, especially among the thildrtn 
 for whom his fairy tales have a singular charm. On 
 his seventieth birthday he was presented with a book 
 containing one of his tales in fifteen languages. Died 
 in i8;5. 
 
 Arnold, Matthew. — A well-known English poet and 
 essayist, the eldest son of tlie late Doctor Arnold, of 
 iiugby. He was born in 1S22, was appointed Inspec- 
 tor of .Schools in 1851, and elected Professor of Poetry 
 at Oxfoid in 1S57. As a thinker and author his rank 
 is high. 
 
 Ay oun, William Edmundstoune. — Was born in 
 E iiilurg, Scotland, in 1813. His contributions to 
 Blackicood's Ufagazine gained a wide celebrity. Died 
 in 1S65. 
 
 Bailey, Philip James.— Author of "Festus," "The 
 Angel World," and other poems, wsis born in E'lgland 
 1S16. " Festu.s" was published when he was twetily- 
 tliree ytarr, old, and was received with unusual favor. 
 
 Bayly, Thomas Haynes. — Composer of popular 
 songs; born in England, 1799 ; died, 1839. 
 
 Barbauld, Anna Letitia. — A distinguished English 
 authoress, born in Leicestershire, 1743. She was the 
 first to publish works especially adapted to childrun. 
 Died in 1845. 
 
 Barham, Richard Harris. — Wrote under the«w« de 
 plume of Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq., and by his fine 
 humorous productions gained a wide circle of readers. 
 Burn in England 17SS, and died 1845. 
 
 (609) 
 
GIO 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Barton, Bernard. — A m<?m!)er <if the Society of 
 Friends, and aiitlior of " IJriice and the Spider," and 
 <)ther poems, was born in London, 1784, and died in 
 1849. 
 
 Beecher, Henry Ward. — The foremost pulpit ora- 
 tor of America, and an author of remarkalili: versa- 
 tility. A number of volumts have been issued, com- 
 prising; Mr. Beecher's Sermons, Lectures to Younj; 
 Men, Star Papers, one work if fictii.n, the Life of 
 Clirist, and Miscellanies. He was born in Litchfield, 
 Connecticut, 1S13, graduated \o Amherst College in 
 1S34, became pastor of Plymouth CImrch, Brooklyn, in 
 1S47, and died in 1S87. 
 
 Bsddojs, Thomas Lovell.— In his nineteenth year 
 published "The Bride's Tragedy," which attracted 
 wide attention. Born in Clifton. England, 1S03 ; stu- 
 died medi :ine in Germany, and died 1S49. 
 
 Beers, Ethelin Eliot.— Author of the well-known 
 lyric, "All Quiet Along the Potomac," and other 
 popular pieces, was born in New York in 1S27, and 
 died in 1S79. 
 
 Benjamin, Park. — Known as a contributor to several 
 periodicals, and a poet of considerable disiinclion. 
 Born in 1S09, in British Guiana, where his father was 
 engaged for a number of years in mercantile pursuits. 
 
 Bennett, William Cox. — Born at Greenwich, Eng- 
 Iind, 1820. His poetry is characterized by deep feel- 
 ing, and relates particularly to domestic life. 
 
 Blaine, Janr.es Gillespie.— Was born in Pennsyl- 
 vania I030, graduated at Washington and Jefferson 
 College, 1S47 ; was representative m Congress from 
 Maine 1863-1S75, filling tlie office of Speaker of the 
 House fronj 1S69. Elected to the United .States Sen- 
 ate 1S76; became Secretary of .State in President Gar- 
 field's caljinet itSi, and in 1884 was defeated as the 
 candidate for the presidency on the Republican ticket. 
 Mr. Blaine's most celebrated oration is that on Presi 
 dent Garfield. 
 
 Blair, Robert. — Wrote "Th*; Grave," and other re- 
 ligious poems. Born at Edinburgli, .Scotland, in 1699, 
 died in 1746. 
 
 Bldke, William. — A celebrated engraver and poet, 
 whose unique works have been fully appreciated only 
 f-incc his death, was born in London 1757, and after a 
 hard struggle with poverty died in 1S28. 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert. — This poetical genius, an un- 
 lettered shoemaker, who achieved great fame, was 
 born in Suffolk, England, 1766. While working at 
 lii.str.ide, he composed a poem of 1600 lines, complet- 
 ing it before a word was written. It created a great 
 sen.iation when published, and was translated into 
 several languages. Bloomfield died insane in 1823. 
 
 Bokcr, Georgs Henry.— The author of the " Lesson 
 of Life and Other Poems," published in 1841, "Cal- 
 aynos," atrai,edy, publishecUni848, and other works, 
 
 including several famous "War Lyrics" w.is bom in 
 Philadelphia in 1824. Mr. Boker edited Lippiiicott's 
 Magazine several years, and subsequently was LFniied 
 States Minister to Constantinople and St. Petersburg. 
 The J. B. Lippincott Company are the publishers 
 of Mr. Boker's popular works. 
 
 Bonar. Horatius. — The author of many beauiiful 
 hymns, the fame of which is world-wide, is a n.itive of 
 Scotland, and was born in Edinburg 1S08. He lus 
 been for many years a minister of the Free Church, 
 and has published several religious works which have 
 had an enormous circulation. One of his best known 
 pieces is entitled " Beyond the .Smiling and the Weep- 
 ing." 
 
 Bowles, William Lisle.— He miy hi regarded as 
 the forerunner of that school of modern po-.ts, such as 
 Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge, who have 
 .'idopted a charming, easy manner, in contrast with 
 the stilted, unnatural measures of many who went be- 
 fore them. Bowles was born in 1762, died in 1850, 
 and was by profession a clergyman. 
 
 Brainard, John Gardiner Calkins.— A descriptive 
 poet, born at New Londi)n, Conneciicut, 1796; died 
 1S28. His j>oem on " Niagara " is considered the best 
 on that subject yet produced. 
 
 Brainard, Mary G. — A niece of John G. C. Brain- 
 ard, has maintained the literary reputation of the 
 family. She is the authoress of "Not Knowing," or 
 "Tlie Last Hymn," which has erroneously been as- 
 cribed to another source. 
 
 Brooks, Charles Timothy. — .\ Unitarian minister, 
 born at Salem, Massachusetts, 1813; graduated at 
 Harvard College in 1S32, and settled as pastor at New- 
 port, Rhode Island. He has published a number of 
 translations from the German. 
 
 Brooks, James Gordon.— The son of an officer in 
 the Revolutionary Army, was born at Red Hook, near 
 New York, Si-piember 3, iSoi. After graduating at 
 Union College he stiidied law, but in 1S23 became 
 editor of the Morning:' Courier, New York. In con- 
 nection with his wife he published a volume of poems 
 in 1S29. Died at Albany 1841. 
 
 Brooks, Maria Gowen. — A native of Medford, Massa- 
 chusetts, where she was born in 1795. Southey pro- 
 nounced her " the most impassioned and most imagi- 
 native of all poetesses." Much of the latter part of her 
 life was passed in Cuba, where she died in 1845. 
 
 Brown, Frances.— The authorof " Ah, the Pleasant 
 Days of Old," and other popular pieces, was born m 
 Ireland in i8i3, and died in 1864. 
 
 Browne, Francis F. — Editor and author, was con- 
 nected several years with the Lakesidi: Monthly, 
 Cliicago. and later with the Chicago Vial. Born in 
 Vermont in 1843. 
 
 Browning;, Roberl. — In 1835 Mr. Browning wrote his 
 
BIOGRAPHIKS OF AUTHORS. 
 
 611 
 
 first p-KTn, "Paracelsus," which immediately brought 
 him into notice. His collected poems were published 
 i I 1849, iS55andiS64. Oflate years numerous editions 
 have b. en issued. Born in London, 1812. 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. — An authoress of wide 
 celebrity, born in London, 1S09, died 1S61. Her works 
 are distinguished by depth cif thought and feeling, and 
 are better appreciated by cultivated readers than the 
 general public. 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen. — One of the most dis- 
 tinguished of our American poets and men of letters 
 In early lifo, Mr. Bryant gave promise of his coming 
 fame, having written his "Th.inatopsis," perhaps the 
 finest of all his productions, at the age of eighteen. 
 For many years as author, journalist, and honored 
 citizen, he lived in the eye of the public, enjoying an 
 enviable distinction. Born in Hampshire, Massa- 
 chusetts, 1794 ; died, June 12, 1878. D. Appletonand 
 Co., New York, are tlie publishers of Bryant's works. 
 
 Buchanan, Robert. — Born in Scotland, 1841, and 
 educated at the University of Glisgow. His versa- 
 tility em!)races tragedy and comedy, as well as ordi- 
 nary poems. 
 
 Bu.kingham, Joseph T. — The gifted editor of the 
 Ne'M England Gala.vy, Boston Courier, and Nczv 
 England Magazine, was born in 1779, ^nd died in 
 1S61. 
 
 Burger, Gottfried August.— One of the most popu- 
 lar German poets, was born near Halberstadt. Prus- 
 sian Saxony, in 1748. As a versifier and writer of 
 ballads he gained wide fame. Died 1794. 
 
 Burns, Robert. — The genius of Burns is recognized 
 by all readers of English literature. It gave him tiie 
 name of "The National Poet of Scotland." His 
 writings are notable for genuine feeling, homely 
 simplicity, and occasional gleams of humor. The 
 poet was the son of a poor peasant, and was born at 
 Ayr, January 25, 1759. Through poverty and many 
 adverse circumstances he struggled upward until his 
 name became a household word in his own and other 
 lands. His writings touched the tenderest chords of 
 human feeling, and although he was not without his 
 failings, these were kindly dealt with by his many 
 friends and admirers. Died in 1796. 
 
 Butler, Samuel.— The famous author of " Hudi- 
 bras" was born at Strensham, England, in 1612, and 
 by his writings made a marked sensation at the royal 
 court and elsev.here in 1663. Died in abject poverty 
 in London 1680. 
 
 Byrom, John.— Bom near Manchester, England, 
 1691, graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 
 1711, travelled extensively in France, and died in 1763. 
 
 Byron, George Gordon Noel, Lord. — one of the 
 most celebrated of English poets, whose writings have 
 attracted universal attention, while their merits, as 
 
 well as the character of thi-ir author, have been widc'y 
 discussed. Byron was born in London in 178S, and ni 
 in his tleventh year succeeded ta the title and estate, 
 Newstead Abbey, of his uncle. Lord William Byron. 
 In 1807, his first volume of verse, cntitkd " Hours of 
 Idleness," was published, and was scvtpj'y h.indled 
 by the critics. Byron re^ "ed witli gre;;t spirit, and 
 soon published other productions which displayed his 
 remarkable genius. He assumed the cause of Greece 
 in her struggle for liberty, and dicil in 1824, after pass- 
 ing through many domestic quarrels, which, it must 
 be admitted, were the occasion of some of his 'endcr- 
 est, most pathetic effusions. Whatever judj;nicnt is 
 rendered upon the moral quality of some of his 
 writings, there can be but one opinion respecting ti'e 
 brilliancy of his genius and the magnificence of his 
 poetical gifis. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas. — Author of " The Pleasures of 
 Hope," and many other poems marked by true poeiic 
 genius, was a native of Scotland, and was horn at 
 Glasgow in 1777. After a brilliant liter.iry career, he 
 died at Boulogne in 1844, and w,is buried in Westmin- 
 ster Abbey, Lord.MacnuIay, Dean Milman, and other 
 celebrities acting as,pall bearers. Few poems of any 
 author have become more generally known, or have 
 been received with greater favor. 
 
 Canning, George. — A distinguished British states- 
 man and orator; born in London, 1770. His sym- 
 pathies were always with the liberal party, and his 
 powerful influence was thrown in favor of measures 
 which ha%'e greatly benefitted the ctjiiinion people. 
 Died in 1827. 
 
 Cary, Alice. — This well-known American author- 
 ess first came into notice by her contrit)utions to the 
 National Era, for which she wrote under the nom dc 
 pluineoi "Patty Lee." Her " Clovcinook," comprising 
 sketches of western life, was popular both in America 
 and England. Several works of fiction, and various 
 poems, have also met with marked favor. Born near 
 Cincinnatti, Ohio, 1S20, died in New York, where she 
 resided during the latter pa't of her life, in 1871. The 
 writings of the Cary sisters are published by Houghton, 
 ^Mifflin and Co., Boston. 
 
 Cary, Phoebe. — The younger sister of Alice Cary, 
 and equally gifted, was born in the Miami Valley, in 
 1824, and died in 1871. Her religious writings are 
 marked by great beauty and deep feeling, and have 
 gained wide popularity. 
 
 Carey, Henry. — An English author of essays, 
 poems and dramas, was bom in 1700, and committed 
 suicide in 1743. 
 
 Carleton,Will M. — Author ofthe popular "Farm Bal- 
 lads " and " Fann Legends," was born at Hudson, 
 Michigan, 1845- The above volumes, published by 
 Harper and Brothers, New York, have gained for Mr. 
 Carleton a high rank in contemporaneous literature. 
 
612 
 
 BIOGRAnilES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Cary, Lucius, (Lord Falldand. —Born in England in 
 1610; died in 16^3, An admirable critic, and genial 
 companion. 
 
 Channing, William Ellery.— A ceK-brated Unitarian 
 jjreaclier and autlior. Born at Ncupurt, Rliode Is- 
 l.md, 17S0, and died in 1842. He held a foremost po- 
 sition amonij religious authors, was bold and acute in 
 controversy, and left behind him an honored name. 
 
 Chatterton, Thomas. — "The marvelous boy wlio 
 prished in! lis pride," although djing by his own hand 
 i'.t the age of seventeen, had already astonished the 
 world by his precocious genius. He was born at 
 Bristol, England, In 1752, removed to London, and 
 rii.Tercd crareme poverty during the latter oart of 
 his brief, distinguished career. 
 
 Cherry, Andrew.— Born in Entjland, 1762, distin- 
 guished himself by the composition of popular ballads, 
 and died in 1812. 
 
 Child, Lydia Maria. — American writer and editor, 
 author of a "History of Rome," "The Oasis," etc.; 
 born in 1.S02, died in iSSo. 
 
 Clare, John. — The peasant poet, whose pastoral 
 writings have decided merit, was born in Northamp- 
 tonsliire, lilngland, in 1793, and died in 1864. 
 
 Clarke, James Freeman.— Clergyman, author, and 
 editor, is a native of Boston, where he was bom in 
 18 10. Me has always been forward in reformatory 
 movements, and has aided them by his versatile pen. 
 
 Coates, Dr. Reynell.— Known as tiie author of "The 
 Gambler's Wife," was born in iSva, and for many 
 years resided in Camden, New Jersey. He has fre- 
 quently made contributions to medical literature. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor.— One of the most fa- 
 mous of English authors. Of magnificent intellectual 
 endowments, he was equally distinguished for his con- 
 troversial power and imaginary creations. His most re- 
 markable poem is the " Rime of the* Ancient Mariner." 
 This, with a number of fragmentary pieces, gave him 
 first rank in the literary world, while it is conceded 
 tliat his splendid genius was used but fitfully, and with- 
 out the effect of which it was really capable. Born in 
 Devonshire, 1752 ; died in London, 1834. 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley.- The eldest son of Samuel Tay- 
 lor Coleridge, and possessed of talents scarcely less 
 brilliant than those of his distinguished father. Born 
 In En^/.and, 1796; died, 1S49. 
 
 Colman, George (The Younger).— Born in England, 
 1762 ; died in 1836. A theatrical manager, and author 
 of poetical pieces well received by the reading public. 
 
 Cook, Eliza.— The popular authoress of "The Old 
 Arm Chair" began her contributions to p.-riodical lit- 
 erature at an early age. A volume of poems issued in 
 1840 was well received. Born in 1817, and received 
 a literary pension in 1864. 
 
 Cooke, Rose Terry.— Bom in Connecticut in 1827. 
 Her prose and poetical works are of a high order, the 
 prose consisting mainly of brief sketches contributeil 
 to current periodicals. 
 
 Gowper, William. — This celebrated English poet, 
 the most popular in his generation, infused an earnest, 
 e-'en a religious spirit, into nearly all his writings, ytt 
 iiis ballail on "Jolin Gilpin," is marked by an ex(iui>i- 
 ite humor. Cowper was constitutionally melanclioly, 
 and this threw a shadow over some of his writinys. 
 .Several of his hymns must be ranked among Englihh 
 classics. Born in 1731; died in 1800. 
 
 Crabbe, George. — The people's poet and celebrated 
 delineator of lowly life ; also a well-known divine. 
 Born in 1754 and died in 1832. 
 
 Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock. — The gifted author of 
 "John Halifax, Geiuleman;" also a volume of popular 
 p .'ems. Born in England, 1S26. 
 
 Croly, George.— Born at Dublin, Ireland, 1785, di.d 
 in 1S60. A wMt?r of poc'ry and romances, and a pul- 
 pit orator of greit reputation. 
 
 Cross, Marian Evans Lewes, (George Eliot). — This 
 celebrated authoress, who wrote over the signature of 
 "George Eliot," displays in her works of fiction tal- 
 ents of the highest order. These are sought by 
 readers of cultivated taste, and some of them have 
 met with great favor. Tlieir originality, profound 
 thought and masterly diction, are universally ad- 
 mitted. Born in 1820; died in 1S81. 
 
 Cunningham, Allan.— A Scotch poet and miscella- 
 neous writer. His works have been popular, espe- 
 cially his biographies. Born in Dumfritsshire in 1785, 
 apprenticed to a stone-mason at the age of eleven, and 
 devoted his evenings to song and history. Died 1842 
 
 Cunningham, John. — A native of Ireland, born in 
 1729 ; died in 1773. A descriptive writer of more than 
 ordinary merit. 
 
 Curtis, George William. — A scholarly writer and 
 orator, an earnest advocate of civil service reform, 
 whose editorship of Harper's Weekly has afforded a 
 field for his versatile talents. Mr. Curtis was born in 
 Rhode Island in 1824. 
 
 Cutter, George W. — The author of many spirited 
 poems, some of them relating to the Mexican War, 
 and others descriptive of steam power, the telegraph, 
 etc., was born in Kentucky in 1814, and died in 1S65. 
 
 De Lisle, Rougct. — Born in France, wrote at Stras- 
 burgthe famous "Marseillaise Hymn." 
 
 Dibdin, Charles. — Born in England, 1745 ; died in 
 1814. He was the author of numerous popular songs. 
 His two sons, Charles and Thomas, composed songs 
 and dramas. 
 
 Dickens, Charles.— The great novelist, whose works 
 of fiction are known and read throughout the civilized 
 
BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 (!13 
 
 world, and who gained a renown unequalled by that 
 of any author in recent times, was born at Portsmouth, 
 England, I'ebniary 7, 1812. Becoming disgusted witli 
 law, fur which iii-; father intendeil him, he removed lo 
 London, anil became a reporter for tiie Montiu!;^ 
 C/ironicle. His first literary work was a series of 
 sketches for this paper. With tiie publication oi 
 " Pickwick Papers,"' Dickens sprang into sudden popu- 
 larity, and thereafter maintained it by his wonderful 
 creations in the realm of fiction, and t!ie charm of his 
 transcendent genius. Died June 9, 1S70, and was 
 buried in "Poet's Corner," Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Dickinson, Charles M.— His poems are characterized 
 by strong emotion, their pathos being especially 
 marked. Piorn at Lowville, New York, 1S42. 
 
 Dickson, David. — .Author of " The Xew Jerusalem," 
 was born in England, 1583 ; died, 1602. 
 
 Dimond, Villiam. — An English dramatist and poet, 
 autlior of the popular "Mariner's Dream," was born 
 in 1800; died in 1837. 
 
 Doane, George Washington.— flishop Doane, of 
 New Jersey, a scholarly author, whose writings ex- 
 hibit refinement and taste, was born in 1799, and died 
 in 1859. 
 
 Dobell, Sydney. — A somewhat eccentric writer, 
 composed verses when nine years old, and even tlitn 
 showed the strange mixture of the philosophical and 
 poetical spirit seen in his later productions. Corn near 
 London, 1824 ; died in 1874. 
 
 Doddridge, Philip. — Author of hymns universally in 
 use, and various religious works, was born in England 
 in 1702, and died in 1751. 
 
 Dodsley, Robert. — Author and publisher, born in 
 Nottingham, England, 1703. Composed a volume of 
 poems, a dramatic piece called "The Toy Shop," 
 which, having been recommended by Pope, was pro- 
 duced at Covent Garden Theatre, with marked suc- 
 cess. Dodsley first gave ernplosment to the after- 
 wards renowned Samuel Johnson. Died in 1764. 
 
 Drake, Joseph Rodman. — An American poet of un- 
 ([uestioned g'.Miius, whose popular poems, " The Cul- 
 prit Fay, ' and "'American Flag," met with universal 
 favor, contributed to the press when sixteen years old, 
 and at that age wrote humorous and satiric d verges, 
 over the signature of "Croaker," for the New York 
 Evening Post. This precocious audior was b.trn in 
 New York City, -1795, and died at the early age of 
 twenty-five 
 
 Drayton, Michael. — Known chiefly for his spirited 
 ballad of "Agincourt,"' was born in England, 1563, 
 was made port-laureate in 1626, and died in 1631. 
 
 Dryden, John.— One of England's greatest poets, 
 whose stately measures and lofty conceptions have 
 commanded wide admiration. Dryden was born in 
 
 1631 and took his di'grcer nt Trinit ■ Cnllcgo, C.Tm- 
 bridge. In 1670 he was appointed poet laureate, with 
 a salary of two hundred pounds a year. His most 
 famous (iroduction was a magnificent satiri- on thr 
 politicjd commotions of the time. Died in 1700, and 
 was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 DufTerin, Lady. — Wrote "The Lament of the Irish 
 Einigraiii," a i)oein which has become a li<iuseluiid 
 treasure. Her fatlu-r was Thomas .Sheridan, aiul h r 
 maiden name was Helen Selina. Mrs. Caroline Nor- 
 ton was her sister. L:idy I")ufrerin was burn in Ire- 
 land in 1807, and on account of her beauty, wit, and 
 accomplishments was a general favorite. Died June 
 13, 1867. 
 
 Duffy, Sir Charles Gavan. — A native of Ireland; 
 born in 1S16 ; known as poet and journalist ; Colonial 
 Prime Minister in Australia, 1871. 
 
 Dwight, John Sullivan. — A native of Hoston, Ma-^s- 
 achusetts ; born in 1S13. His beautiful poem er.tilled 
 "True Rest," shows the marked features of his writ- 
 ings. 
 
 Dwight, Timothy. — Theologian, pulpit orator, and 
 president of Yale College, born at Northampton, M>i.^- 
 sachusetts, 1752; died in 1&17. T!ie literary style t)!' 
 President Dwight possesses a fine combination of 
 strength and simplicity. 
 
 Edwards, Ame'.ir Blandford. — An English novelist 
 and occasional writer of poetry ; burn in 1S31. 
 
 Ellio'.t, Ebenezer.- Styled "The Corn Law Rhy- 
 mer," was by occupation an iron-founfler. During 
 the agitation in England for the repeal of the "Corn- 
 laws," he became famousfor iiis spirited verses. Born 
 in Yorkshire, 17S1 ; died in 1849. ^ 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. — Poet and philosopher, 
 highly distinguished for originality, profouiul thought 
 and terseness of e.xpression, holding the highest rank 
 in American literature, and popularly styled "The 
 Concord Philosopher " Born in Massachusetts, 1803; 
 resided at Concord, New Hampshire, and died in 
 18S2. 
 
 Embury, Emma C— The daughter of James R. 
 Manly, an eminent physician of New York. Mrs. 
 Embury's published works exhibit sense and a hearty, 
 natural feeling, united to true refinement. 
 
 English, Thomas Dunn.— Physician, humorous and 
 dramatic author, born at Philadelphia, 1819. 
 
 Everett, Edward. — One of America's most finished 
 orators, whose scholarly, elaborate writings, together 
 with his graceful, polished eloquence, gave him great 
 celebrity. Mr. Everett v.-as born at Dorchester, Massa- 
 chusetts, 1794; filled with honor a number of import- 
 ant positions, both educational and political, and died 
 in 1865. He combined the scholar, gentleman, states- 
 man and orator m an eminent degree. 
 
614 
 
 BIOGRAPMIKS OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Falconer, William.- Ills only remarkable poetu 
 was " 'I'll.' Shipwreck," and this lias given liim endiir- 
 inj; fame. Ho was of jioor parentage; born in Scot- 
 land, 1732, and died in 1769. 
 
 Farningham, Marianne.— An Knglisli poett-ss wlio 
 lias cuntrihulod many religious poems ti) the London 
 Christian Weekly. Devout piety breatlies through 
 all her writings. 
 
 Fenner, Corneliua George. — A native of Providence, 
 Rhod-' Island, born in 1.S22 ; died in 1S47. 
 
 Ferguson, Sir Samuel.— A native of Ireland, born in 
 1805. His fine genius is conspicuous in his .spiriteil 
 poem, "Fiirginj; the Anchor." 
 
 Fields, Jamc3 Thomas. — In 1871 Mr. I'ields retired 
 from the piiljlisliingfirm in Boston, with which he was 
 connected for twenty-five years. During this period 
 he found time to follow his litcraYy pursuits, and, as 
 the author of quite a number of poems, and editor of 
 the Atlantic Monthly, he gained an enviable distinc- 
 tion, exerting a powerful influence in American lilera 
 ture. Morn at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1817 ; 
 died at Boston, iSSi. 
 
 Finch, Francis Miles. — Author of "The Blue and 
 the Gray," one of the most popular of modern lyrics; 
 lawyer and juilge; was born at Ithaca, New York, in 
 1.S27. The above poem was suggested Iiy the women 
 of Columliiis, Mis>issippi, decorating alike the graves 
 of the Union and Confeilerate dead. 
 
 Fondick, William Whiteman. — Born in Ohio, 1S25 ; 
 died ill iS'^a. 
 
 Foster, Stephen Collins. — A very -popular com 
 poser of negro melodies, born in Pennsylvania in 
 1826; died ill 1S64, 
 
 Gage, Frames Dana. — A poetess of ability, and 
 also known as a public lecturer, was born at Marietta, 
 Ohio, i.%8. 
 
 Gallagher, William D. — Author of "Miami and 
 Other Poems," was born in Philadelphia in i8c8. Mis 
 labors have mainly been devoted to journalism. 
 
 Garfield, James Abram. — By the sheer force of con- 
 spicuous abilities and honest purposes, Mr. Garfield 
 rose from humble life to the presidency of die United 
 States, to which position he was elected in 18S0. His 
 assassination a few months after his inauguration pro- 
 duced a profound shock, and plunged the nation into 
 mourning. His published s; ieche-i and addresses are 
 of a liigli order. Born in Ohio, 1S31 ; died iSSi. 
 
 Gay, John. — This English dramatist and poct whose 
 successes and failures were alike conspicuous, w.is a 
 native of Devonshire. In early life the occupation of 
 a silk-mercer was distasteful to him, and he began his 
 career as composer of dramas and ballads. "The 
 Beggar's Opera" and the ballad of "Black-Eyed 
 Susan," are his most popular productions. Born in 
 1716 ; died in 1779. 
 
 Gerhardt, Paul. — A German poet of rare merit, 
 born in 1607 ; died in 1676. 
 
 Gilbert, William S.— Joint author with Sullivan of 
 "Pinafore," and numerous other comic operas, which 
 have been universally popular, was burn in England 
 in 1836. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver. — The (♦ ni.il spirit and sound 
 sense of Goldsmith apptar in all his prose and poeti- 
 cal writings. In humble life and straitened ciicum- 
 stances, he yet left a lich legacy to l-iii;;!! h literature, 
 and his works have gained high rank. I lis best known 
 prose work is "The Vicar of Wakefield," and "The 
 Deserted Village" is the sweetest of all his poems. 
 I lis comedy, "She Stonps to Coiuiuer," has enjojeda 
 perennial popularity. Born in Ireland, 1728; died in 
 London, 1774. 
 
 Gough, John B.— Orator and reformer, whose lec- 
 tures on temperance and other subjects, delivered 
 throughout America and Great Britain, produced the 
 highest oratorical and dramatic ellVcts, was rescued 
 when a young man from a life of dis.'>ipation, and soon 
 rose to unparalleled fame as a platform ;.peaker and 
 temperance adve)cate. Born at Sandgatc, Kent, Eng- 
 land, 1817; he came to New York when but a boy, 
 and had a hard struggle with poverty. His later life 
 was marked by comfort and the most happy home in- 
 fluences. Stricken with apople.xy while lecturing at 
 Frankford, near Philadelphia, and died, 1886. 
 
 Gould, Hannah Flagg. — .An American poetess, born 
 in Massachusetts, 1787; wrote "Gathered Leaves," 
 etc. ; died in 1865. 
 
 Gray, David. — Born in Scotland, 183S, of humble 
 parentage, and died at the early age of twenty-three. 
 
 Gray, Thomas.— The author of the famous "Elegy 
 Written ill a Country Church- Yaril," has gained a world- 
 wide renown by this one poem. II s (..tlier pieces suf- 
 fer by comparison with this, althoug'i they have alii^Ii 
 degree of merit. Gray was born in London in 17161 
 declined the honor of poet-laureate on the death of Cul- 
 ley Cibber, who held that position, and died in 1771. 
 
 Greene, Albert Gorton. — Was born at Providence, 
 Rhode Island, 1802, and graduatt^d at Brown Univer- 
 sity ill 1820. Studied law, and became prominent in 
 the municipal government of his native city. He has 
 written many beautiful fugitive poems, but deserves 
 special mention for his elegy on " Old Grimes." Died 
 in 1S68. 
 
 Hale, Sarah J. — This gifted American authoress was 
 long connected with two periodicals well known in 
 their day. The Ladies" Magazine, and The Ladies' 
 Book. Her writings are chaste, and their moral tone 
 is beyond criticism. Born at Newport, New Hamp- 
 shire, 1795 ; died in 1879. 
 
 Haliburton, Thomas Chandler. — An American hu- 
 morous writer, popularly known as "Sam Slick." 
 Author of the " Clockmaker, or the Sayings and Do- 
 ings of Sam Slick, of Slickville," and "Sam Slick in 
 England." He gained great celebrity by his ([uaiiit 
 and graphic delineations of Yankee character. Born 
 in Nova Scotia in 1802 : died in 1865. 
 
BIOGRAIMlIi:S OF AUTHORS. 
 
 (Jl.-) 
 
 -three. 
 " Elegy 
 1.1 world' 
 )ieces suf- 
 
 ,'ealiyi 
 
 m 171'', 
 Uh of Col- 
 in 1771- 
 •ovideiice, 
 Uiiiver- 
 miiient ill 
 He has 
 deservis 
 es." Died 
 
 loress was 
 known in 
 J.aclirs' 
 loral tone 
 w Hamp- 
 
 3rican hu- 
 n Slick." 
 ;s and Do- 
 ll Slick in 
 hiis (luaint 
 Iter. Born 
 
 Hall, Eugene J.— This popular poet whose \vritini;s I 
 liavi: Liiriclieil Aineric.m liitrature, is a native of \'er- 
 HKjnt, wh'jre lie was bcjrn in 1.S.15. 
 
 Hallam, Arthur Hinry.— Was a youth of uncom- 
 ninu promise, the son ol' the ili.-.liri;;iiishcil historian, ! 
 Arthur llallain, an intiinaie fiiontl of the poet Tenny- 
 son, and the subjett of Tennyson's e,\(|nisite poem, 
 "In Mcmoriani." liurn in London, iSit; died in 
 
 Halleck, Fitz-Greene — One of the nio;-;t spirited 
 and popular of American poets, the auihor of " Marco 
 lio/.arris," and other jiiects of corresjiondinj; merit, 
 w,\s horn in Guilford, Connecticut, i7<;u ; ilied in 1S&7. 
 
 Harrington, Sir John.— Famous for his epigrams 
 and senUiilioiis writinj^s. Born in KnL;l:ind, 1 561 ; 
 died in 1612. 
 
 Harris, Joel Chandler— The well known " Uncle 
 Remus,' whose (iu:iinl delineations ofne^ro character 
 and pii.tures(|iie stories of .Southern life have licen so 
 generally enjoyed, h.is cultivated his own peculiar field, 
 and ranks among the lirst writers of his class. 
 
 Harte, Francis Bret.— In the realms of poetry and 
 fiction, Mr. I lartc has found a wide circle of readers. 
 lie U particularly happyinskelchcsofpioncerlif , and 
 delineations of western character. Born in Albany, 
 
 New York, 1SJ9. 
 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel.— .'\s a master of language 
 and charming writer of fiction, no name in AiiKrican 
 literature holds a higher rank. I lawlhorne's cultured 
 talent shows itself in his ch.iste and finished style, the 
 highly intellectu.il quality of his writings, and his fine 
 analysis of character. "The Marble Faun," "Mosses 
 from an OUl Manse," and " The House of the Seven 
 Gables," are among his most celebrated works. A 
 melancholy spirit shadowed his life, yet this seemed 
 only to lend greater force and earnestness to his re 
 inarkable genius. Born at .Sal m, Massachusetts, 
 1804; died suddenly at Plymouth, .Massachusetts, iS6.). 
 
 Hay, John.— Wrote " Castilian Days," " PikeCounty 
 Ballads," etc., and is known as an enterprising jour 
 nalist. Horn at Salem, Illinois, 1S39. He was rre-.i 
 dent Lincoln'.s private secretary, and afterward filled 
 several im()ortant diplomatic p. sitioiis. 
 
 Hayne, Paul Hamilton. — Poet and journalist, editor 
 of Soii/licrn Literary Messenger, Kttsseirs Magazine, 
 etc., was born in South Carolina in 1S31. 
 
 Heber, Fieginald. — An eminent divine and bishop of 
 the English church, especially devoted to the cause of 
 missions in India, where he died in 1S25 ; was born in 
 17S3. His celebrated hymn, " I'rom Greenland's Icy 
 Mountains," has been sung throughout the world. 
 
 Hemans, Felicia Doro hea. — Many of Mrs. Heman's 
 poems are household friends and are characterized by 
 rare beauty, loftiness of sentiment, and felicitous e.\ 
 pression. Born at Liverpool, Englar.l, 1794 ; died in 
 1835. Her genius was e.\hibited in childhood, her first 
 
 volume, " Early Blossoms,'' appearing when she wa.-; 
 fourteen ye irs old. Many editions i.f her cullccttd 
 wriiitigs have been issued from the press. 
 
 Hcrvey, Thorn )s Kibble. -Known chielly for his 
 satirical jioem, "The Devil's Progress." Born in Eir^- 
 l.md, 1H04 ; dietl in i.S.((y, 
 
 Hobart, Mrs. Charles.— Author of the well-known 
 poem, " The Changed Cross," is a native of England. 
 I ler fame rests princijially upon this one poi)ular 
 piece. 
 
 Hoffman, Charles henno.— Editor, author and poet, 
 of New York, whose name w.is comieited with the 
 Knlckcrbuiker Mi.igaiine, .md other periodicals, was 
 born in iSu6. 
 
 Holland, Josiah Gilbert.— Doctor Holland was a 
 schohirly, industrious author, whose works e.\hibit 
 good sense, more than the average literary ability, 
 and e.xert a healthful moral inlluence. As the author 
 of "Timothy Titcomb's Letters," "Bittersweet," 
 " Nicholas Minturii," and other popular works, and 
 f(junder ot Serihiier's Moiith/y, he has long been favor- 
 ably known to the reading public. Born at Belcher- 
 town, Massachusetts, 1S19 I •J'cd in i,SSi. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell.— Ourdistinguished .Ameri- 
 can auth.ur, whose writms.',s in both prose and poetry 
 have been the deliglit of his generation, was born at 
 Cambridge, MassaLluisetts, 1S09, gradiiateilat Havard 
 College at the age of twenty, and studied medicine. 
 I lis contributions to the "Atlantic Monthly," have met 
 with decided favor. His collected works have been 
 issued by the publishing house of Houghton, Mifilin 
 and Co., Boston. 
 
 Hood, Thomas. — The genius, the poet, whose un- 
 rivalled productions by their pathts and humor 
 awaken alternate tears and laughter, most of whose 
 life was a sad struggle with adversity, was born in 
 London in 1798. His name is associated with the 
 periodical literature of his time, both as manager and 
 audior. His best known p.ithetic pieces are "The 
 Song of the Shirt," and "The Bridge of Sig4is;" 
 while "Faithless Nellie Gray," and "Faithless Sally 
 Brown," are hapi^y specimens of his rollicking humor. 
 Hood died in 1S45. 
 
 Hopkinson, Francis.— A humorous, patriotic, Ameri- 
 can writer of colonial times, signer of the Declaration 
 of Independence and member of Congress for New 
 Jersey: born in 1737 ; died in 1791. 
 
 Hopkinson, Joseph.— Wrote "Hail Columbia," one 
 of our most popular national ballads. Born in Penn- 
 sylvania 1770; died in 1842. 
 
 Howe, Julia Ward. — Noted for her philanthropic 
 spirit and advanced views on the questions of the day ; 
 wife of Samuel G. Howe, a well known Boston physi- 
 cian and philanthropist; author of " Battle Hymn of 
 the Republic" ; was born in New York in 1819. 
 How. tt, Mary.— Born at Uttoxeter, England, 1804; 
 , a member of the Society of Friends, married to Wil- 
 
(110 
 
 niOCRAI'IIII'.S OF AUTHORS. 
 
 liam Ilowittin iSjj ; her maiden namo "as Holliam. ' 
 Id (onin-ciiuii willi lur liiisiiand siio wrote " I'lie l''or- 
 fst Mii:stri.l," and otlitT pounin, wliicli exhibit fine 
 literary t.istL'. "Her lanijiia^je is liia-te and sini|)le, 
 her fellings tender and pnr.., and lier observation of 
 nature accurate anil Intense." 
 
 Howitt, William.— Aiitlir)r of prose and poetical 
 Wfirks, was b(jrn in I)i-rbysliire, F.iiKl.md, 17'j.s. His 
 wridiigs are charaeteri/ed by pinity of diction, ele- 
 Nation of sentiment, and a high moral tune. Died 
 in 1,^79. 
 
 Hugo, Victor. — Ranks among the world's greatest 
 . 'ith-rs, di.>pl lying in his poems and woilvS uf fiction 
 n geniii.-i whose brilliancy stands almost unrivalled. 
 Aria word-painter he has rarely, if ever, been excelled. 
 Lorn in France, likij ; died, 1S86. 
 
 Hunt, Leigh.— A distini^uished name in English 
 liltratme. He was born in London in 17>^.\. At the 
 age of t«enty-four he Ijeeame editor and [>art proprie- 
 tor of the Exainint'r, and was a fivorite ol'tiie literary 
 r:ivn of tlie lime. Toryism was his aljomlnation, and 
 \\z w,is not coiisiilered to be greatly in love with even 
 royalty. For a sarca>tic thrust at the Prince Regent 
 he was fined five hundred pounds and sentenced to 
 two years imprisonment. Me covered the bars of his 
 cell with flowers, and received visits from Byron, 
 Shelley and Keats. His release was si^jnali/.ed by re- 
 newed successes in the field of literature, although a 
 work on "Lord Byron and His Contempor iries " 
 greatly displeased Byron's friends. Hunt died in 
 
 1-59- 
 
 Ingelow, Jean.— Born in England in 1830. Her first 
 volume of poems, published in 1S63, met with prompt 
 and universal favor. She is also a writer of fiction that 
 possesses a high order of merit. 
 
 Irving, Washington. — An honored American au- 
 thor, almost the first of his countrymen to jdve fame 
 and favor to American literature abroad. Irving was 
 a genial writer, a capital story teller with the pen, and 
 his works h ve been received widi universal delight. 
 Born in New York, 1783 ; died in 1859. 
 
 Jackson, Helen Hunt. — She made frequent contribu- 
 tions in prose and poetry to various periodicals, usually 
 writing over the signature of "11. H." Her literary 
 accomplishments, including a vivid imagination and re- 
 markable command of language, place her among the 
 most distinguished of her countrywomen. Born in 
 Massachusetts in 1831 ; died in 1S86. 
 
 Jackson, Henry R.— Author of the poem, ".My Wife 
 and Child," was born at Savannah, Georgia, iSio. 
 The poem was written while Mr. Jackson was a Colo- 
 nel in the Me.\ican Army in 1846. 
 
 Jenks, Edward A. — Born at Newport, New Hamp- 
 shire, 1S35. His poem entitled " Going and Coming," 
 shows the marked characteristics of his style. 
 
 Jerrold, Douglas. — Author of the celebrated "Caudle 
 Lectures," which were contributed to London Punch 
 
 I in 1S41 ; also of the conudy nf " Black Eyod Susan," 
 ami other works which gave liim great f.ime as a wit. 
 Born in London, 1801 ; ilied in 1.S57. 
 
 Jonson, Ben. — " Kar(! lien Jonson," was born in 
 I'.ngl.ind, 157.;, and died in 1637. He was a man of 
 itiarUed aliility and strong character, not displaying 
 any finished style in his writings, yet infusin,:a nig;;ed 
 strength, ;ind showing a masterly grasp of his subjccls, 
 wiiich madi! him one of the famous authors of his time. 
 His dramas and tragedies were popidar, and he re- 
 ceived a pjU' ion from the Crown, but on account of 
 prodigal habits he died in poverty. 
 
 Keats, John. — A poetical genius who gave unusual 
 promise, born in Lonilon, 1796; died at Koine, Italy, 
 iSai. Leigh Hunt welcomed him as a contrilmtor to 
 the Extvitiiicr, and he soon guiiied a wide ceiehrily. 
 His "Endymion " appeared in 1817, and soon after he 
 publi>lied a volume of miscellaneoiis poems. His un- 
 timely death (|ii<nched one of the brightest stars in the 
 literary lirniameiit. 
 
 Key, Francis Scott. — Famous as the writer of the 
 patriotic ode, " Ihe Star-.Spangled Banner," wiiich 
 was composed during tlie l)omi)ardment of Fort 
 iMcHeiiry, and published in Biltiiiiorc the following 
 day. Few songs li;ive ever had a popularity so general 
 and emphatic. Key was born in Maryland, 1799; died 
 in 184.1. 
 
 Kin^sley, Charles.— An English divine, poet, and 
 writer o\ fiction, whose lyrics are popular on both 
 sides of tile Atlantic, and whose efforts in behalf of the 
 working people of his own country have endeared him 
 to multitudes. Born in England in 1S19; died in 1S75. 
 
 Knowlc-s, James Sheridan. — This celebrated drama- 
 tist, aulhor of "William Tell," "The Hunchback," 
 " The Wife," " Virginius," etc., was of Irish parentage. 
 Born in 179^, and died in 1S62. 
 
 Knox, William.— The poem beginning with the line, 
 "O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? ' has 
 become ceUrbrated both from its inherent merit and the 
 f.ict that it was the favorite of President Lincoln, who 
 never seemed to weary of its stately yet easy rhythm. 
 The author was born at Filth, Scotland, 1789. An 
 occasional writer before the age of thirty, he afterward 
 devoted himself entirely to literary pursuits, but unfor- 
 tunately became dissipated, shattered his brilliai.t 
 powers, and died in 1825. 
 
 Lamb, Charles. — Quaint, witty, popular socially, 
 highly appreciated for his literary achievements, the 
 rank of Charles Lamb in the world of letters is de- 
 servedly high, and his fame appears to be permanent. 
 He was reared in humble life, and for mai.j years was 
 a clerk in the East India House, London, retiring 
 when fifty years old on a pension granted by the board 
 of directors. His "Essays of Elia" were originally 
 published in the London Magadne, He never 
 married, but lived with a maiden sister to whom he 
 was devotedly attached. Born in the Temple, Loii- 
 
nior.RAlIIlI'.S OK AUTHORS. 
 
 r,r 
 
 don, 177s; (li!".l ill 1S34, and buried al IMmoiitDti, 
 near London, 
 
 LanJon, Letitia Elizabeth. — An l".ni;li.li iDctesH, 
 born ill 1802 ; dii'd in i,S_vS. 
 
 Lanior, Walter S.ivajjc —P.orn in Ent;land, 1775; 
 died in i.Sfi.i. I'irst became known as ibc anilior (<f 
 "Count Julian," wiii> It wm followed by a poem called 
 "(jebir." I lis most celebr..ted work is "lniaj;inary | 
 Conversations of Literary Men ami Stalesnien." His | 
 writinijs arc admired for tlieir oriKinaiily and jierfe'C- 
 tion of style. 
 
 Lanier, Sidney.— An author of rare accomplish- 
 ments, who left a treatise upon "'riie Science of Ijij;- 
 lish V'ersc," and one upon "The Devcl ipment of th.t 
 ICnglish Novel," also several volumes of writings 
 adapted to the younj;. He pulilished a number <jf 
 po"ins the excellence of which is mniuestioned. His 
 early death was much lamented. Horn in (jeorgia, 
 1843; died in 1S81. 
 
 Larcom, Lucy.— An American factory Rirl, teacher, 
 and authoress of wide repute ; born at Lowell, Massa- 
 chusetts, 1826. 
 
 Lawrence, Jonathan Jr.— A poet of cultivated taste, 
 born in New York in 1807 ; died in 1S33. 
 
 Lewis, Matthew Qregory.— Wrote the well known 
 " Alonzo tlie IJrave and the Fair bnogene," and 
 "Tlie Maniac." Horn in England, 1775; diejd in 1S18. 
 
 Lcyden, John. — A Scottish poet, also eminent as an 
 Orientalist anil Anticjuarian. He was born in l)en- 
 nolni, Scotland, 1775; died at Java, iSii, and durinjj 
 his comparatively short life was a voluminous writer. 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham.— Twice elected President of the 
 United States; born in Hartlin County, Kentucky, 
 February 12, 1809; assassinated Ai)ril it, 1865. Asa 
 writer Mr. Lincoln was distin^uislied for clear state- 
 ment, a compreliensive grasp of liis subject, a plain, 
 direct style, and the expression of >;reat truths in an 
 epii;ramatic form. Mis address at Clettysburg is one 
 of liie gcniF of American literature. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. — Our gifted poet 
 wliose works lend an uniivalled charm to American 
 literature, gained a worldwide distinction, and is 
 eiiually honored at home and abroad. Wherever the 
 English lant;u.-\ge i ; tlie common tongue, Longfellow 
 is read and ailmir^d. Surpassed only by Moore in 
 ease and elegance of rhythm, some of his productions 
 liave so touched the popular heart that thjy have be- 
 come familiar in almost every household. His style is 
 pure and simple, his thought is clear and transparent, 
 while there is an elevation of sentiment which capti- 
 vates the most cultivated readits. The career of 
 Longfellow began in early liR', and was well sustained 
 for a long period of time. He was born in Maine, 
 1S07, was educated at Bowdiiin College, was made 
 Professor of Modern Languages in that institution 
 when he was but nineteen years old, resided a con- 
 
 siderable part of his lifi- at Cambridge, Mas^acliusi tis, 
 and died in 18.S3. Publishers: Houghton, Millhn 
 and Co. 
 
 Lovelace, Richard.— Rom in England in 1618, and 
 dieil in 1658. He was a royalist in politics, and afti r 
 enduring imprisonment and many sutTerings in the 
 ciiise of his kii!g, spent his last days in poverty. 
 Among his poems is one entitled " To Althea from 
 Prison." 
 
 Lover, Samuel.— Poet, artist, musician, novelist and 
 dramatist. Many of his b.dlads, some of tiu'in of a 
 hutn(jrouschar.u:ter, were gre.it favorites. Lover was 
 born in Ireland in 1797, ami ilied in 1868. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell.— Horn in Boston, M.irsachu- 
 setts, in 1.S19. Hy liis volumes of poems and lontri- 
 l)Utions to periodical literature, he lias gained distinc- 
 tion. He was editor of the .Itiaiilic Monthly from 
 iS57toi8'j2; editor of the North AtHrruan Ncvicw 
 from 1863 to 1S72: publislieil "I'lider tlie Willows 
 and Other Poems" in iS'jg; and a volume of essays 
 in 1S70. In 1879 he b'jcame United St.ites Minister to 
 the ('ourt of St. James. Some of liis writings are en- 
 livened by a broad humor, and have met with a iiigh 
 degree of popular favor. 
 
 Lowell, Robert T. S. -Wrote "Tlie Relief of Luck- 
 now." Horn in Poston, Massachusetts, in 1816. His 
 novel "The Now Priest," is said to be llic most perfect 
 specimen of pure Sa-xonof the present century. 
 
 Lyte, Henry Francis.— Widely known as the author 
 of tlie beautiful hymn, ".Abide Widi Me;" a Scottisli 
 poet and divine, born in 1793; died in 1847. The 
 above hymn receives additional interest from having 
 been written during the last hours of Iiis life. 
 
 Lytton, Edward Bulwer, Lord, — Novelist and dra- 
 matist, born in England in 1805, died in 1873. His 
 dramas, "Richelieu," "Money," and "Lady of 
 Lyons," have been received with marked f.ivor, and 
 his works of fiction have met with that apjireciation 
 always accorded to a high order of talent combined 
 with painstaking labor. He has been classed with 
 Dickens, and other novelists of the foremost rank. 
 
 Lytton, Robert Bulwer, (Owen Meredith.) — Was the 
 only son of Lord Lytton. His poem entitled "Lu- 
 cile," has given him high distinction. Born in 1S31, 
 and w.is Viceroy of India from 1S76 to iSSo. 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babbington, Lord. — Famous for 
 his historical, poetical, and miscellaneous works, a 
 fine master of English diction, member of Parliament 
 and the House of Peers, whose prod'.ictions hold liigli 
 rank in English classics. Born in 1808 ; died in 1S59, 
 and buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 MacCarthy, Denis Florence.— An Irish poet, born in 
 1817. His writings exhibit the strong, national feeling 
 so characteristic of his countrymen. 
 
 Macdonald, George.— Novelist and poet. His writ- 
 ings are moral in tone, and show the marks of the 
 scholar and man of culture. Bom in England in 1825. 
 
618 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Mace, Frances Laughton. — An American poetess 
 who lias made popular contributions, especially of a 
 religious character, to current periodicals. Born in 
 Maine in 1S36. 
 
 Macleod, Norman. — An eminent Scottish divine, au- 
 thor, and chapl.iin to (Jueen Victoria, was burn in 
 Argylcshire, 1812. His name is associated with those 
 popular periodicals, the Editibuigh Christian JSIaga- 
 ztKc and Good Works. He died at Glasgow, 1S72. 
 
 Macpherson, James. — Born in Scotland, 173S. He 
 obtiiini.d great notoriety in the literary world on ac- 
 count of his discovery of famous manuscripts. He 
 published the " Poems of Ossian," and occasioned 
 thereby great controversy. Died in 1796, and buried. 
 at iiis own request and expense, in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Mahoney, Francis. — Wrote "The Bells of Slian- 
 dun," and other famous lyrics ; born in Ireland, 1S05 ; 
 died in 1S56. 
 
 Marvell, Andrew. — An English author of works in 
 both prose and poetry. Born in 1620 ; died in 1678. 
 
 Massey Gerald. — An English poet whose hard lot in 
 boyhood, as a factory operative, undoubtedly qualified 
 him for wriiing poems characterized by deep feeling 
 and a tender sympathy with humble life. Born in 1S2S. 
 
 Maturin, Charles Robert. — Born in England in 17S2; 
 died in 1824. As a dramatist he possessed remark- 
 able power. 
 
 McLellan, Isaac. — For many years a jiromment 
 merchant of Boston, Massachusetts, yet gracing Ameri- 
 cin literature with occasional poems of more than 
 ordin-.iy merit. Born at Portland, Maine 1806, and 
 graduated at Bowdoin College, 1S26. His later resi- 
 dence was in New York. 
 
 Meagher, Thomas Francis. — An Irish patriot, sen- 
 tinced to death during the sedition in Ireland in 1S48, 
 but was transported to Tasmania, whence he escaped 
 to New York in 1852, and on the outbreak of the civil 
 war became commander of the Irish brigade. Born in 
 1S23 ; dnnvntd in Missouri in 1867. 
 
 Meek, Alexander Beaufort. —A native of Columbia, 
 South Carolina, where he was born in 1814. His most 
 celebrated poem is " Balaklava." Died in Georgia in 
 1865. 
 
 Miller, Joaquin. — An American poet and writer of 
 fiction. His early life was spent on our western fron- 
 tiers, and tiie scents of many of his writings are laid 
 in the West. He is gifted wiih a high order of imagi- 
 nati .n. l?orn in Indiana in 1841. 
 
 Milman, Henry Hart. — An English poet and eccle- 
 siastiail historian. Born in London, 1791. His sacred 
 lyrics have been widely read and appreciated. Died in 
 1868. 
 
 Milton, John.— The name of Milton ranks among 
 the greatest in English literature. His prose works 
 gained wide celebrity, but he is chiefly distinguished 
 
 ■for his marvelous creation, "Parr.disc Lost." His 
 blindness seemed only to quicken liis inward vision. 
 His poetical works brought little pecuniary profit, the 
 manuscript of "Paradise Lost" having been sold for 
 twenty-five dollars. Milton's conceptions were of the 
 lofiicst character, and his style evinces the strength and 
 statcliness peculiar to the literatureof his age. Born 
 in London, 160S ; died in 1674. 
 
 Moore, Clement Clark.— Author of the favoiitepoem, 
 " A \'isit from St. Nicholas." He was a son of Bishop 
 Moore of the Episcopal church. Born in New York, 
 1799 ; died in 1S63. 
 
 Montgomery,James. — .\ Scottish poet, distinguished 
 fjr his religious poems, many of whicli liavo found 
 their way into the Iiymnology of all Chiisiian denomi- 
 nations. Born in Ayrshire, 1771 ; died ia 1S54. 
 
 Moore, Edward.— An English poet, born in 1712, 
 died in 1757. 
 
 Moore, Thomas. — This celebrated Irish poet, distin- 
 guished for trui; genius, easy versification, and charm- 
 ing fancy, w.is born in 1799, and died in 1852. His 
 Iribh melodies have a universal popularity. Moore 
 was a great social favorite, enjoying the friendship (jf 
 Byron, and other celebrities. " Lalla Rookh " is his 
 most elaborate work, and few poems have ever been 
 so pecuniarily profitable. 
 
 More, Hannah. — One of England's most gifted 
 women. Her first ambition was to shine as a poetess; 
 next she aspired to the stage, and later developed a 
 highly religious character, which appeared in her 'vcll- 
 known, practical writings. Born in 1745; died in 1S33. 
 
 Morris, George P. — Author of "Woodman, Spare 
 that Tree," "My Mother's Bible," etc., productions 
 evincing fine poetic talent; born in Pennsylvania, 1802; 
 died in 1S64. 
 
 Motherwell, William.— A Scottish poet and anti- 
 quary ; author of "Jeanie Morrison," and other popu- 
 lar ballads. Was born in Glasgow 1797, and died in 1835. 
 
 Motley, John Lothrop.— The distinguished histor- 
 ian, whose scholarly works have given him a high 
 rank in American literature, was born at Dorchester, 
 Massachusetts, 1814. His first work of importance, 
 "The Rise of the Dutch Republic," was published in 
 1S56. He died in 1S77. 
 
 Moultrie, John.— An English poet who first became 
 known through his published writings in 1839. 
 
 Neele, Henry.— An English poet, born 1798 ; died 
 1S28. 
 
 Newman, John Henry. — An English ecclesiastical 
 writer of the controversial order; also author of sev- 
 eral well known hymns, among which is " Lead, Kindly 
 Light." Born in 1801, and is a Cardinal in the Roman 
 Church. 
 
 Nicoll, Robert. — AScottibii poet, born in 1814; died 
 in 1837. 
 
 Noel, Thomas.— Author of " The Pauper's Drive," 
 
BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 619 
 
 and other " Rhymes and Roundelays," which were 
 published in England in 1S41. 
 
 Norton, Caroline Elizabeth S., Hon.— An English 
 novelist and poetess of sotnc reputation. She was the 
 daughter of Thomas, and grand-daughter of Richard 
 Brinsley, Sheridan, possessed great personal beauty, 
 and was a social favorite. Born in 180S ; died in 1877. 
 
 O'Brien, Fitrjimes. — A native of Ireland; born in 
 1829 ; was woundtd in the American civil war, and 
 died in Virginia, 1862. 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore.— A Keiituckian, who achieved a 
 lasting fame by his "Divouiac of the Dead," a poem 
 composed t)n the occasion of the interment at Frank- 
 ford of the Kentucky soldiers who fell in the battle of 
 Buena Vista. He was burn in 1S20, and died in 1S67. 
 
 Osgood, Frances Sargent.— Published "A Wreath 
 of Wild Flowtrs From New England," and other vol- 
 umes of poems. Born at Bosioii, Massachusetts, 1S12 ; 
 died in 1S50. 
 
 Osgood, Kate Putnam.— Horn at Frycburg, M.iine, 
 1843. She is the author of several line pastoral [jocms. 
 
 Paine, Robert Treat.— Son of one of the signers of 
 the Declaration of Independence, was born in Taunton, 
 f.Iassachuseits. 1773, and graduated with high honor 
 at Harvard College in 1792. For a time he engaged 
 in literary -pursuits, attracting wide attention by his 
 writings, and after being admitted to the bar in 1S02, 
 and relapsing into irregular habits, he died in 181 1. 
 Several of his poems on '• Liberty " show traces of a 
 masterly hand. 
 
 Palmer, William Pitt.— Author of " The Smack in 
 School,'' was a native of Slockbridge, Massachusetts, 
 and born in 1805. 
 
 Pardee, Julia. — An English writer, distinguished for 
 her works of fn tion and historical sketches. She was 
 born in 1S06, and died in 1862. 
 
 Patmore, Coventry. — \n English poet, whose verses 
 have found many appreciative readers. Born in 1S23. 
 
 Payne, John Howard. — .'\uthor of "Home, Sweet 
 Home," which was written while ho was United 
 States Consul at Tunis, wliere he died in 1852. He 
 was born in New York in 1792, and in early life was 
 an actor in American cities and in London, llis re- 
 inains now repose at Washington, D. C, where a 
 splendid monument, the gift of Mr. Corcoran, the 
 banker, has been erected to the memory of the author 
 of oiir sweetest American song, 
 
 Peale, Rembrandt, — A noted painter, and author 
 of some celebrity, born near Philadelphia, Pennsyl- 
 vania, 1778; died in i860. 
 
 Percival, James Gates. — Poet, editor, and geologist, 
 a gentleman of many scholarly attainments and of fine 
 literary taste, was born in Connecticut, 1795, and died 
 in Wisconsin in 1857, 
 
 Perry, Nora.— Horn in Rhode Island, a poetical au- 
 thoress whose songs have gained celebrity. 
 
 Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart,— Miss Phelps published 
 her first and withal most popular work, "Gates Ajar," 
 in 1869, and from that time has been prominent as a 
 writer of fiction and poetry. Her conceptions are 
 original ; the intellectual quality of her works is pro- 
 nounced, and her career has been highly successful. 
 She was born in Massachusetts in 1S44. 
 
 Pierpont, John.— Unitarian divine and poet, promi- 
 nent in the great reforms of the present century, and 
 author of several excellent hymns, and more elaborate 
 poems. He was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, in 
 1785 ; and died in 1S66. 
 
 Pinkney, Edward Coate.— The son of William Pink- 
 ney, of Maryland, born in London while his father 
 was Minister to the Court of St. James, 1802. His 
 writings were few, yet meritorious. Died in 1828. 
 
 Pitt, William, — .\n amusing writer; author of "The 
 Sailor's Consolation "; died at Malta, 1840, 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allen. — .A.n American poet whose most 
 celebrated poem, "The Raven," holds first rank in 
 our poetical literature. Poe's genius is universally ac- 
 knowledged. His writings bear in every line the 
 stamp of originality ; his conceiitions are unic|ue, and 
 his style of versification is peculiarly his own. He was 
 of nervous temperament, unfortunate in some of his 
 iiabits, the victim of adversity, and his life li.as been 
 the subject of mucii criticism, while his works have 
 been universally admired. Born in Baltimore, Mary- 
 land, 1809; died in 1S49. 
 
 Pollok, Robert.— Celebrated for his poem, "The 
 Course of Time." He was born ia Renfrew Scot- 
 land, in 1799; licensed to praich in 1S27, the year that 
 gave birih to his poem, and in whicli ho died. 
 
 Priest, Nancy Amelia Woodbury. — Few poems 
 have ever touched the heart as " Over the River " has, 
 and few have ever been so phenomenally popular. 
 The authoress was born at Hinsdale, New Hampsliire, 
 in 1837. "Over the River" was puhlislied in the 
 Springjichi Republican in August, 1857, and appears 
 to be the only production, with one exception, by 
 which the writer is known, although confessedly pos- 
 sessed of the highest order of talent. Died in 1870. 
 
 Pringle, Thomas. — A Scotch poet, born in 1789, 
 died in iF ,4. 
 
 Prior, Matthew. — A poet of eminence in his day, 
 born in England in T664, and died in 1721. 
 
 Procter, Bryan Waller ^Barry Cornwall). — .-\ popu- 
 lar ballad writer, wiiose ed'usions met with decided 
 favor when published, and possess the charm which 
 assures enduring fame, Procter was born in Eng- 
 land in 1790, was a barrister at-law by profession and 
 died in 1S64. 
 
 Ramsay, Allen, — One of the minor Scottish poets. 
 Born in 1685; died in 1758, 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan, — The lyric entitled 
 "Sheridan's Ride," commemorating one of the exploits 
 of the great cavalry General, has had a more general 
 
G20 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 reading: than anytliing of the kind ever published in 
 this country. Tiie author excelled in this style of poe- 
 try. II ir> genius is unquestioned. The poetn entitled 
 "The Closing Scene," is said by the U'csiminstcr AV 
 rvVrc to bj the finest written in the present generation. 
 Mr. Read was l)orn at Chester, Pennsylvania, in 1822, 
 and died in 1872. The J. B. Lippincott Company of 
 Philadelphia are the publishers of his works. 
 
 Redden, Laura C, (Howard Glyndon>. — norn in 
 Maryland in J S40 ; lost hearing at the age of twelve ; 
 his contributed some excellent articles to the periodi- 
 cal press. 
 
 Rich, Hiram. — Well known in current li.erature as 
 poet and essayist; born in Massachusetts in 1832. 
 
 Richards, William C. — Clergyman, scientific lec- 
 turer, poet, and journali.it of repute; born in England, 
 1S17, and since early life a resident in this country. 
 
 Richter, Jean Paul. — A German humorist and sen- 
 timentalist, wiio ranks high in the literature of his na- 
 tive land. Many of his wrilin?,s have been translated, 
 and have found ardent admirers in other countries. 
 There was a singular lack of appreciation of "Jean 
 Paul " for many years ; slowly his works, grotesque, 
 humorous, stamped with undoubted genius, have 
 made their way to popular favor. Born in Bavaria in 
 1763 ; died in 1825. 
 
 Rogers, Samuel. —Author of" The Ple.asures of Mem 
 oiy,"and a poem on " Italy." He was a banker in 
 London, of high social position, and eminent in liter- 
 ary circles. Born in London in 1763 ; died in 1855. 
 
 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. — A painter and poet, born 
 in England in 1828 ; died in 1882. 
 
 Ruskin, John. — The distinguished pros:; author and 
 critic, whose masterly works have m.ide a place for 
 themselves in the literature of our d ly, was born in 
 London, England, in 1819. Mis writings on art, in 
 eluding " Modern Painters," "The Seven Lamps of 
 Architecture," and "Stones of Venice," are brilliant 
 in thought and e.\ceedingly forcible in style. Elected 
 Professor of Fine Arts at O.xford, 1869; received the 
 degree of LL.D. from the University of Cambridge in 
 1S7:. 
 
 Sands, Robert C. — Was born in New York City, 
 1799; studied law, but left his profession for literary 
 pursuits, and became distinguished as poet and jour- 
 nalist. Died in 1S32. 
 
 Sargent, Epes — Poet and journalist, author of edu- 
 cational works, etc., born in Boston, M.assachuselts, 
 1812 ; died in 1S80. He is widely known as the author 
 of the famous ballad, " A Life on the Ocean Wave." 
 
 Saxe, John Godfrey. — A poet who excels all other 
 American veisifiers in genuine humor, whose writings 
 have gained extensive popularity; born at Highgate, 
 Vermont, 1816; died in 1S86. His works are pub- 
 lished by Houghton, Mifflin and Co., Boston, Mass. 
 
 Schiller, Friedrich.— A renowned German author, 
 
 "born at Wurtt^mberg, in 1759 ; died in 1S05. Many of 
 his pjems are rarities, and have been translated into 
 other tongues, and widely read. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter. — The renowned Scottish novelist 
 and poet, whose immortal works, celebrating the his- 
 tory and romance of his native country, have had a 
 phenomenal popularity, was born in I'klinburgh, 1771. 
 Of delicate health in early life, he slowly advanced to 
 a sturdy manhood, and became distinguished as an 
 author at a period comparatively late. His works are 
 voluminous, the " Waverly Novels," being among the 
 famous works of fiction, whik " The Lay of the Last 
 Minstrel," and "The Lady of the Lake," hold high 
 rank in the realm of poetry. Died in 1832. 
 
 Shakespeare, William. — He lives in a kingdom by 
 himself I'ev; of the works of other authors have ever 
 approached his sublime creations. Born at Stratford- 
 on-Avon, England, .-Vpril 23, 1564 ; an actor in Lon- 
 don, 1589; author of dramas to the number of thirty- 
 seven; retired to his native town in 1610 ; died in 
 1616, and was bjrie 1 in t'le church vaults at Stratford. 
 A drinking fountain, presented to his town by Mr. 
 George W. Childs, of Philadelphia, in 1SS7, was a fitting 
 testimonial of the admiration felt by .Americans for 
 the works of the greatest of all dramatists. 
 
 Sharpe, R. S.— .\u!hor of "The Minute Gun," 
 born in Ei)gland, 1759; died in 1835. 
 
 Sh-Uey, Percy Bysshe. —A brilliant young English 
 poet, who died at tlie age of twenty-eight, in 
 i322. His liberal opinions upon social and religious 
 questions prejudiced the minds of many, yet in the 
 later review of his poems the world has been forced 
 to concede to him the highest order of genius. His 
 poem on "The Cloud" is not surpassed by anything 
 of its kind in the English language. 
 
 Shenstone, William. — A pastoral poet of England ; 
 born in 1714 ; died in 1763. 
 
 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. — Famous for his wit, 
 dramatic and oratorical talent, as well as for his reck- 
 less habits, was born in Ireland in 1751, and died in 
 1816. 
 
 Shillabcr, Benjamin P.— Bom in New fLampshire, 
 1814 ; connected for many years with the Boston Post, 
 and other periodicals, and famous as the author of the 
 sayings of " Mrs. Partington." 
 
 Sigourney, Lydia Huntley. — A name honorably as- 
 sociated with our country's literature, and represent 
 ing abilities of a high order. Mrs. Sigourney was a 
 poetess from childhood, and although never reaching 
 the lofty flights of some of her contemporaries, her 
 writings have the charm of deep feeling, elevation of 
 sentiment, and graceful expression. She was born at 
 Norwich, Connecticut, in 1791, and died in 1865. 
 
 Simmons, Bartholomew. — An Irish poet whose 
 works were published in 1843. He died in 1850. 
 Smith, Alexander.— -Author of "A Life Drama," 
 
BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 621 
 
 and several other poems, made a decided sensation in 
 Scotland when Iiis poems first appeared. He was 
 born at Kilmarnock in 1S30 ; made secretary of the 
 Lfnivcrsity of i:dinbury;h in 1S54, and died in iSS;. 
 
 Smith, Horace. — Famous for his wit ; was tlie au- 
 ilior, with his brotiier James, of "The Rejectt^d Ad- 
 dresses," and other popular works. Born in En,;;- 
 i;land, 1779 ; dit-d in 1S49. 
 
 Somerville William.— An English poet, andior of 
 " The Chase," etc., born in 1677 ; died in 1742. 
 
 Southey, Caroline Bowles.— Stcotid wife of the poet 
 Soiithey, a.i autiioress of wide repute, born in Enj,'- 
 l.ind, 17S7; died in 1S54. 
 
 Southey, Robsrt. — Me gained an envi-iblc position 
 as writer of i)rose and poetry, and like Wordsworth, 
 may be calltd a "poet of nature." Rom at Bristol, 
 E gland, 1774; made poet-laureate, 1S13. and died in 
 iS43- 
 
 Spencer, V\^illiam Robert.— A writer of "Society 
 Verses," also of what may be termeil dim'.'stic poems, 
 was born in Enjjland in 1770, and died in 1834. 
 
 Spenser, Edmund.— One of the fathers of English 
 literature. His most renowned poem is the "Faerie 
 Queene." Born in England, 1553; died, 1599. 
 
 Spofford, Harriet Prescott.- Born at Calais, Maine, 
 1S35. Slie is the author of several volumes of jiro^e 
 writings, and has written poems which have met with 
 marked favor. 
 
 Sprague, Charles.—" The hankrr poet," born in 
 Boston, Mas'^achusetts, 1791 ; diitd in 1S75. 
 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence.— Journ.ilist, poet, and 
 critic, was connected with newspaiicrs in Norwich and 
 Winsted, Connecticut, before devoting l.ijnself wholly 
 to authorship. Few of the younger po.-ts (jf America 
 have gained the favor granted to his writings, wiiich 
 are marked by severe taste and s;:h()larly culture. 
 Born at Hartford in 1833. 
 
 Sterling, John. — .\ meritorious poet, born in Scot- 
 land, 1S06 ; died in 1S44. 
 
 Stevens, George Alexander.— An English poet, born 
 in 1720; died in 17S4. 
 
 Stoddard, Richard Henry.— Our American poet, 
 whose chaste and elegant writings h:ive graced the 
 literature of his native land, published his fir^t volume 
 in 1842, and a complete edition of his works in 1S80. 
 Most of his lifeh.as been devoted to journalism in New 
 York ; he was at one time editor of T/ic /I/dine, an 
 illustrated journal of first rank. Born at Hingham, 
 Massachusetts, 1826. 
 
 Stowe, Harriet Beecher.— A name which holds 
 highest rank in American literature. As the author of 
 " Uncle Tom's Cabin " she gained a world-wide cele- 
 brity. Her subsequent writings have met with very 
 high appreciation, and few authors in modern times 
 have had so large a cirile of readers and admirers. 
 Horn at Litchfield, Connecticut, 181 2. 
 
 Swain, Charles. — An cngriver by (^cc upation, and 
 possessed of natural genius which flistiiiguished him as 
 a poet. Boia in England, 1803, died in 1874. 
 
 Swift, Jonathan. — An acknowledged gjnius, whose 
 humorous and satirical writings gave him great fame. 
 Hj was born of English parents in Dublin, Ireland, in 
 1657; author of -'The Tale of a Tub," " Gnlliver's 
 Travels," and odier works which have gained celeb- 
 rity. Died in 1745. 
 
 Swinburne, Algenon Charles. — An English poet, 
 whose woiks have been admired for their genius, and 
 severely criticised for their lack of moral sentiment. 
 Tlijy show a strange obscuritv in style, comhin"il with 
 a remarkable variety of unusual measures. Born in 
 1837. 
 
 Tappan, William Bingham. — Especially distin- 
 guished a-i a hymn writer. "There is an Hour of 
 Pjaceful Rest," and " 'Tis Midnight and 0:1 Olive's 
 Brow," are among his fivorite pieces. Born in Massa- 
 chusetts, 1795 ; died in 1849. 
 
 Taylor, Bayard. — Renowned as author of works of 
 travel, eminent also as poet and miscellaneous writer. 
 iMjr many yearshe was a journalist, and was C(*nnected 
 witli the ^Vl'a' VofA Tribune. Born at Kennet.S luare, 
 Pennsylvania, 1825; died while United .States Minister 
 at Berlin, Germany, in 1S7S. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred.— England's poet-laureate, born in 
 1809. Hi.; splendid genius has given him the first 
 pi :ce among English poets. His works are marvels 
 of be.iuty, profound thought, ardent feeling and feliri- 
 to'is style. Tennyson is perhaps even more popular 
 in America than in his own countrj'. 
 
 Thompson, James. — The distinguished author of 
 " The .Seasons," in which word-painting is carried to a 
 liigh degree of perfection. His writings are rich in 
 thought and expression, and are remarkable alike for 
 simphcity and lu.xuriance of language. Born in 1700 ; 
 died in 174S. 
 
 Thorpe, Rose Hartwick. — Author of the well-known 
 jioem, " Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight," was born 
 at Litchfield, Michigan, 1840. 
 
 Timrod, Henry.— An American poet of fine endow- 
 ments. His poems are remarkable for pathos and 
 beautiful description. Born in Charleston, South Caro- 
 lina, 1829; died in 1S67. 
 
 Tilton, Theodore.— Formerly editor of The Nczv 
 York Independent; a journalist and poet of versatile 
 talents, and writer of fiction. Born in New York in 
 1835- 
 
 Trowbridge, John Townsend. — The popular ..ilhor 
 of character poems, also of juvenile works, was horn ,it 
 Ogden, New York, in 1S27. Few writers are more en- 
 tertaining, or deservedly popular. In wholesome 
 humor he particularly excels. Harper & Brothers, 
 New York, are the publishers of most of his worKS. 
 
 Tuckerman, Henry Theodore, — Editor, essayist, 
 
622 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 journalist, author, cxccllin;; in each department of lit- 
 erary labor ; born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1S13 ; 
 died in 1S71. 
 
 Upton, James. — Author of " Tiit Lass of Richmond 
 Hill," born in England in 1670; died in 1749. 
 
 Waller, Edmund. — Popular as a poet in his day, 
 but not celebrated subsequently. Many of his poems, 
 however, are well worth reproducing', and have un- 
 questioned merit. He was born in England in 1605, 
 and died in 1687. 
 
 Watts, Isaac— For generations Watts' hymns have 
 been k:iown and s>nig. Their number and excellence 
 have never been surpassed. Walts was a poet from 
 his cliiltlhood, and expressed himself in verse almost 
 as easily as in prose. Apart from his sacred lyrics, he 
 was a well known author, his works being especially 
 valuable for their practical and moral character. Born 
 in It 74; died in 1748. 
 
 Webster, Daniel. — One of Americas most distin- 
 guished statesmen and orators, whose intellectunl and 
 oratorical triumphs at the bar and in the forum were 
 long the pride of his country. He h;id warm politica; 
 friends and bitter enemies. The latter accused him of 
 a time-serving spirit, and an unscrupulous ambition to 
 obtain the Presidency. His literary style is puie and 
 elevated, and all his writings, including his political 
 speeches, bear the stamp of tlie highest order of ge- 
 nius. Born at Salisbury, New Hampshire, in 17S2; died 
 at Marshfield, Massachusetts, 1S52. 
 
 Welby, Amelia B. Coppuck. — Her poetry is held 
 in high esteem for its power of description. Born at 
 St. Michaels, Maryland, 1821 ; died in 1852. 
 
 Wheeler, Ella. — The latest addition to American 
 poets ; a resident of Michigan, and subsequently of 
 Connecticut. She has been a contributor to the press, 
 and has also issued a volume of poems. 
 
 Whitcher, Frances Miriam.— -Author of the famous 
 "Widow Bedott Papers," which were first issued in 
 Godcy's Lady's Book, Philadelphia, and sent a ripple 
 of laughter throughout the "lountry. The humor is 
 perennial, and "Elder .Sniffles " and "Widow Bedott" 
 are characters known not only on the stage, but in 
 almost every household of the land. Born at Whites- 
 borough, New York, in 1812 ; died in 1S52. 
 
 White, Henry Kirke. — One of England's gifted 
 young poets, whose early death was much lamented. 
 He had already given sign of unusual distinction as a 
 
 poet, and his works are still treasured by the lovers of 
 pure sentiment and vivid coloring. Born in 1785 ; 
 died in 1806. 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf.— " The Quaker Poet." 
 His writings are models of spiritual, benevolent and 
 patriotic sentiment. Having a warm sympathy with 
 the poor and oppressed, he has employed his graceful 
 pen with fine effect in the cause of humanity, and no 
 author of our time is more beloved. Born at Haver- 
 hill, Massachusetts, 1S07. The publishers of Whittier's 
 works are Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Massa- 
 chusetts. 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel Parker. —A poet ot distinction, 
 whose " Sacred Poems" especially, have had a Irrge 
 circle of admirers. His versification is easy, and his 
 de-icriptions abound in word painting of a high order. 
 Willis was also successful as a journalist, and a favor- 
 ite in general society. Born in Portland, Maine, 1807 ; 
 died in 1S67. 
 
 Wilson, Arabella M. — Author of the highly hu- 
 morous poem, "To the 'Sextant.'" Born at Canan. 
 daigua. New York. 
 
 Wilson, Byron Forceythe. — An American poet of 
 great promise, already distinguished by his original 
 and masterly prnduclions, when his successful career 
 was terminated by death. "Tha Old Sergeant," pub- 
 lished in 1863 as the " Carrier's Address" of the Louis- 
 ville Courier Journal, ranks among the best of its 
 kind. I'.iirii in N'-w York, 1837 ; died in 1867. 
 
 Wilson, John. — One of the ornaments of Scottish 
 literary circles, a man of high attainments, fine taste, 
 and extensive popularity. He was born in 1785 ; died 
 in 1S34. 
 
 Wolfe, Charles. — Lord Byron pronounced his ode 
 on "The Burial of Sir John Moore," the most perfect 
 in the language. His poems are few, his life having 
 been devoted to clerical pursuits. Born in Ireland, 
 1791 ; died in 1823. 
 
 Wordsworth, William. — A great name in the litera- 
 ture of England. Wordsworth has been called "ti.e 
 poet of nature," his vivid descriptions of the external 
 world being among the finest products of his pen. His 
 writings show a certain gravity and thoughtfulness 
 which render them enduring monuments of literary 
 genius, although hindering the sudden appreciation of 
 their transcendent excellence. Born in 1770 ; made 
 poet laureate in 1843 ; died in 1850. 
 
 ; 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 A Baby was Sleeping 372 
 
 Abide with Me ! Fast Falls tlie Eveiilide . . . 372 
 
 Above the Pines the Moon was Slowly Driltin;^ . 276 
 
 A Butterfly Basked On a B.iby's Cirave .... 257 
 
 A Chieftain to the Highl.inds Boupcl 44 
 
 A Country Life is Sweet ! JoS 
 
 A District School Not Far Away 70 
 
 A Farmer, as Records Report 440 
 
 After Life's Long Watch and Ward 345 
 
 A Fire's a Good, Companionable Fiiencfr ... 19 
 
 A Footstep Struck Her Ear 199 
 
 Again 'Twas Evening. Agnes Knelt .... 26S 
 
 A Gentle Stream Whose Pathway Lay .... 387 
 
 A Good Wife Rose from Her Bed One Morn . 20 
 
 Ah, Mere it is ! I'm Famous Now 466 
 
 Ah! Little They Know of True Happiness, They 
 
 Whom Satiety Fills 302 
 
 Ah ! My Heart is Weary Waiting 132 
 
 Ah Now, in Youth, How Beautiful 401 
 
 Ah, the Poor .Shepiierd's Mournf,.! I'ate ... 96 
 Ah, then, How Sweetly Cli<sed iheise Crowded 
 
 Days 403 
 
 Ah! What Avail the Largest Gifts of Heaven . 312 
 
 Alas! They Had Been Friends in ^■o^lh ... 82 
 
 A Life On the Ocean Wave 237 
 
 A Light is Out in Italy 350 
 
 A Litile Cliild Beside the Window-pane ... 391 
 
 A Little Sunbeam in the Sky . . .... 409 
 
 All Day, Like Some Sweet Bird, Content to Sing, 32 
 All Day Long the .Storm of Battle Tlirouijh the 
 
 Startled Valley Swept ^3 
 
 All p-arewells Should be Sudden, When Forever 322 
 
 All in the Downs the Fleet was Moored . . . 108 
 
 All of Us in One You'll Find 441 
 
 " All Quiet Along the Potomac," They Say . . 252 
 
 All-ruling Tyrant of the Earth 441 
 
 AU'.sfor the Best ! Be Sanguine and Cheerful . 384 
 
 All That is Like a Dream. It Don't Seem True 2S9 
 
 All Thoughts, All Passions, All Delights ... 86 
 
 Aloft Upon an Old Basaltic Crag 342 
 
 Alone in tiie Dreary, Pitiless Street 20 
 
 Alone I Walk'd the Ocean Strand 48 
 
 A Lover Gave the Wedding Ring 95 
 
 A Maiden Fair and Young 5.34 
 
 A Maiden Fair to See 562 
 
 Amazing, Beauteous Change 381 
 
 A Moment Then Lord Marmion Stayed . ... 190 
 And Ardennes Waves Above Them Her G.een 
 
 Leavi^s . ' 208 
 
 And has the Earth Lost Its so Soacious Round . 17 
 
 And is there CWe ift Heaven? And is tliere Love 375 
 
 And Now the Bell— the Bell 40 
 
 And There Two Runners Did the .Sign Abide . . 97 
 
 And Thebes, How Fallen Now llier Storied Gates 359 
 
 And What is So Rare as a Day in June? . . . 120 
 
 " An Sure I was Tould to Come Till Yer Honor" 451 
 
 Announced by All the Trumpets of the Sky . . 136 
 
 A Pale Weeping-Willow Stands Yonder Alone . 326 
 
 A Poor Little Girl in a Tattered Gown .... 364 
 
 A Pretty Deer is Dear to Met 434 
 
 A Roar Like Thunder Strikes the Ear .... 250 
 
 A Ruddy Drop of Manly Blood 8g 
 
 As at their Work Two Weavers .Sat 393 
 
 As Beautiful Kitty One Morning Was Tripping . 84 
 
 As Other Men Have Creed, so Have I Mine . . 385 
 
 As the poor Panting Hart to the Water-Brook runs 338 
 
 As Through the Land at Eve We Went ... 26 
 As When to One Who Long Hath Watched the 
 
 Morn 140 
 
 A Simple Child 399 
 
 A Soldier of the Legion Lay Dying in Algiers . 47 
 
 A Song for the Plant of My Own Native West . 160 
 
 A .Song to the Oak, the Brave Old Oak . . . . 121 
 
 A Squire of Wales, whose Blood Ran Higher . .\.\o 
 
 A Tiling of Be.iuty is ajoy Forever 257 
 
 At Last the Happy Day is Named 95 
 
 At Length Olympian Lord of Morn 346 
 
 At Setting Day and Rising Morn 87 
 
 At Summer Eve, When Heaven's yE; ial ]!.)W . 277 
 
 A Vicious Goat One Day had Found .... 405 
 
 A Warrior So Bold, and a Virgin So Bri-lit . . 52 
 
 A Weary Weed, Tossed To and Fro 226 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 219 
 
 A Weaver Sat by the Side of His Loom . . . 292 
 
 A Well there is in the West Country .... 4'i3 
 A Youngster at School More Sedate than the 
 
 Rest 409 
 
 Ay, Build Her Long and Narrow and Deep . . 227 
 Backward, Turn Backward O Time, in your 
 
 Flight 20 
 
 Beautiful Flowers ! To Me Ye Fresher Seem . 117 
 
 Beautiful, Sublime and Glorious 221 
 
 Beautilul was the Night. Behind the Black Wall 
 
 of the Forest 167 
 
 Before Proud Riime's Imperial Throne . . . 432 
 
 Before Vespatian's Regal Throne 177 
 
 Behold, Fond Man ! 261 
 
 Behold ! I Have a Weapon 431 
 
 Be Kind to Thy Father, for when Thou wast 
 
 Young 31 
 
 (C23) 
 
624 
 
 INDi;X OF FIRST LINF.S. 
 
 B-n Battle was a Soldi ar Rold 60 
 
 Benualh our Consecrated Elm 338 
 
 Beneath,this Verdant Hillock Lies ,, ... 441 
 
 Bjside the Bab3, who Sweetly .Slept 325 
 
 Beside the Still Waters ! O Infinite Peace ! . . 3S4 
 
 Biside Yon Straggling Ff;nce that Skirts the Way 261 
 
 Between Nose and Eyes a .Strange Contest Arose 444 
 
 Between the Dark and the D lylight .... 401 
 Belter to Smell the Violet Cool, than Sip the 
 
 Glowing Wine 263 
 
 Beyond the White and Fading Ships whose S.iils 330 
 
 Birds, Joyous Birds of the Wandering Wing ! . 388 
 
 Bird-like She's up at Day-Dawn's Blush . . . 315 
 
 Bird of the Broad and Sweeping Wing . . . . 130 
 
 Bird of the Wilderness 12S 
 
 Blest as the Immortal Gods is Me 103 
 
 Blest Land ofjudca! Tiirice Hall iwed of Song . 356 
 
 Blessings on Thee, Little Man 404 
 
 Blissful Dreams Come Stealing o'er Me . . . 504 
 
 Blossoin of the Almond Trees 159 
 
 Break, Break, Break 331 
 
 Breathes there the Man with Scul so Dead . . 243 
 
 Bright Flag at Yonder Tapering I\Iast .... 29 
 
 But Look ! o'er the Fall see the Angler Stand . 310 
 
 But Wh re to Find that I lappiest Spot Below . 19 
 
 By Adversity are Wrought .... ... 329 
 
 By Nelio's Lonely Mountain 353 
 
 By the I'low of the Inland River 247 
 
 By Sylvan Waves that Westward l'l(.u-. ... 68 
 
 By Your Honor's Command, An E.xample I Stand 442 
 
 "Captain Gr.iham," the Men were Sayin' . . 249 
 
 Cease, Rude Boreas, Blustering Sailor! . . , 236 
 
 Child of the Sun ! Pursue thy Rapturous Flight . 1 27 
 
 Child of the Countrj' ! Free as Air 39S 
 
 Chisel in Hand, Stood a Sculptor Boy .... 411 
 
 Clear and Cool, Clear and Cool 147 
 
 Clear the Brown Path to .Meet His Coulter's 
 
 Gleam I 306 
 
 Close his Eyes ; Work is Done ! 337 
 
 "Come a Litile Nearer, Doctor" 212 
 
 Come Back to Erin, Mavourneen, Mavourneen . 522 
 
 Come as Artist, Come as Guest 351 
 
 Come Here, Come Here and Dwell 126 
 
 Come, Lot us Plant the Apple-tree 160 
 
 Ci^me on Sir; Here's the Place; Stand Sti'.l ! . 141 
 
 Crme, Patrick, Clear up the Storms on your Brow 303 
 
 Come, see the Dolphin's Anchor F"orged . . . 205 
 
 Come Summer Visitant, Attach 125 
 
 Come Take up Your Hats and Away Let us Haste 443 
 
 Come to Me, O my Mother I Come to Me ! . . 26 
 
 C.^me to These Scenes of Peace 122 
 
 Come to the Sunset Tree 312 
 
 Come to the River's Reedy Shore 312 
 
 Consider the Sea's Listless Chime 220 
 
 " Corporal Green !" The Orderly Cried ... 264 
 
 Courage, Brother I Do Not Stumble .... 296 
 
 Cromwell, I did not Think to Shed a Tear . . 350 
 
 Page. 
 
 Dare to Think, Though Others Frown .... 407 
 
 Dark Fell the Nigiit, the Watch was Set ... 209 
 
 Darkness was Deepening o'er the Sea .... 228 
 
 Dark is the Night. HowDark! NoLi;rIu! NoFire! 329 
 
 Day, in Melting Purple Dying 69 
 
 Day Set on Norham's Castled Sleep 154 
 
 Day-stars ! that Ope Your Eyes with Morn to 
 
 Twinkle 123 
 
 Davis Dying! Float, O .Song 139 
 
 Deaf, Giddy, Helpless, Left Alone 440 
 
 Dear Connnon Flower, that Grow'st Beside the 
 
 Way 117 
 
 Dear Friend, Whose Presence in the House . 370 
 
 Deeji in tlie Wave is a Coral Grove 225 
 
 " Depend Upon Yourself Alone " 265 
 
 Deserted by the Waning Moon 216 
 
 Don't Talk to me of Pretty Maids 578 
 
 Don't You Remember Sweet Alic,-, Ben Bolt . 79 
 Doth the I5right Sun from the High Arch of 
 
 Heaven 415 
 
 Down the Glen, Across the Mountain .... 122 
 Down Swept the Chill Wind from ih.? Mountain 
 
 Peak 161 
 
 Do Your Duty, Little Mm 409 
 
 Do You Ask What the Birds Say ? 127 
 
 Drawn From His Refuge in Some Lonely Elm . 129 
 
 Drecker, the Draw-B: idge Keeper, Opened Wide 17S 
 
 Drunk and Senseless in His Place 176 
 
 Earl Gawain Wooed the Lady Barbara .... 97 
 Early on a Sunny Morning, while the Lark was 
 
 Singing Sweet 83 
 
 Earth is the Spirit's Rayless Cell 395 
 
 Earth with its Dark and Dreadful Ills .... 3S3 
 
 Ever Eating, Never Cloying 442 
 
 Fair Stood the Wind for Franc; 207 
 
 Far Away from the Hillside, the Lake, and the 
 
 Hamlet 349 
 
 Farewell ! a Word that Must Be, and Ila'.h Been 322 
 
 "Farewell! Farewell!" is Often Jlcard . . . 322 
 
 Fare Thee Well ! and if Forever loi 
 
 First Love Will With the Heart Remain ... 73 
 
 Fit Couch of Repose for a Pilgrim Like Thee . 156 
 
 Flee as a Bird to Your Mountain 49S 
 
 Flow on Forever in Thy Glorious Robe .... 148 
 Flow Gently, Sweet Afton, Among Thy Green 
 
 Braes 92 
 
 Flower of the Waste 1 the Heath Fowl Shuns . 1 18 
 
 Flung to the Heeciless Winds 369 
 
 Fly to the Desert, Fly with Me 70 
 
 Forever the Sun is Pouring His Gold . . . . 3S8 
 
 "Forget Thee?" If to Dream by Night ... 85 
 
 Forty Little Urchins 400 
 
 Friend After Friend Departs 2S6 
 
 From the Desert I Come to Thee 74 
 
 F'om Under the Boughs in the Snow Clad 
 
 Wood 138 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINKS. 
 
 025 
 
 97 
 
 83 
 
 595 
 383 
 442 
 
 207 
 
 349 
 322 
 322 
 
 lOI 
 
 73 
 T56 
 49S 
 143 
 
 . 133 
 
 From the VVeather-Worn House on the Brow of 
 
 the Hill 317 
 
 Full Knee-Deep Lies the Winter Snow .... 32s 
 
 Gallants, Attend and Hear a Friend 473 
 
 Gamarro is a Dainty Steed 133 
 
 Gayest Songster of the Spring 127 
 
 Gay, Guiltless Pair 166 
 
 Gems of the Changing Autumn, Plow Beautiful 
 
 Ye Are! 124 
 
 Genteel in Personage . . . , 94 
 
 Gentlest Girl 75 
 
 Giana ! My Giana I we will have 428 
 
 Gin a Body Meet a Body • . . 41 
 
 Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother . . . 268 
 
 God Made the Country, and Man Made the Town 314 
 
 God Makes Sech Nights, All White and Still . . 86 
 
 God of the Earth's Extended Plains ! .... 152 
 
 God's Love and Peace be With You, Where . . 89 
 
 Go Feel What I Have Felt 300 
 
 Go Forth to the Battle of Life, My Boy ... 410 
 
 Go, Patter to Lubbers and Swabs, Do Ve .See . 235 
 
 Go Where Glory Waits Thee 320 
 
 Going — the Great Round Sun 392 
 
 Golden-Hair Climbed up on Grandpapa's Knee . 402 
 
 Good-Bye, Old House ; the Hurry and Bustle . 35 
 
 Good Bye, Proud World ! I'm Going Home . . 288 
 
 Good Morrow to Thy Sable Beak 166 
 
 Good Night 302 
 
 Good-Night, Good-Night ; Parting is Such Sweet 
 
 Sorrow 322 
 
 Good Name, in Man or Woman, Deiir My Lord . 429 
 
 Good People All, of Every Sort 445 
 
 Good Wife, What are You Singing For? Vou 
 
 Know We've Lost the Hay 379 
 
 Great Ocean ! Strongest of Creation's Suns . . 219 
 
 Green Be the Turf Above Thee 90 
 
 Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed .... 68 
 
 Hail Columbia, Happy Land 243 
 
 Hail! Mildly-pleasing Solitude 156 
 
 Hail ! Holy Love, Thou Word That Sums All 
 
 Bliss 67 
 
 Hail to Thee, Blithe Spirit 157 
 
 Half an Hour 'Till Train Time, Sir 74 
 
 Hamelin Town's in Brunswick 55 
 
 Happy the Man wiio.se Wish and Care .... 312 
 
 Harness Me Down With Your Iron Bands . . 301 
 
 Harp of Memnon ! Sweetly Strung 206 
 
 Haunts of My Youth 124 
 
 Have You Ever Thought of the Weight of a 
 
 "Word 259 
 
 Have You Heard of the Wonderful One-Hoss 
 
 Shay 62 
 
 Heap on More Wood ! the W^incl is Chill ... 28 
 
 Hear the Sledges with the Btlls 447 
 
 Heaven Hath its Crown of Stars 65 
 
 Heaven's Verge Extreme 195 
 
 40 
 
 r.ige. 
 
 Heaven From All Creatures Hides the R lok of 
 
 Fnte 292 
 
 Heaven is not Gained at a Sin!;le Bound . . . 394 
 
 He Called His Friend, and Prefaced with a S.;;h 240 
 
 He Did Keep 323 
 
 He Was Little More Than a Baby 320 
 
 He Was of That Stubborn Crew 377 
 
 He Woos Me With Those Honeyed Words . . 90 
 
 He's a Rare Man 214 
 
 He's not the Happy Man to Whom is Giv» n . . 28 
 
 " Help one Another! " the Snoy-flakes Said . 400 
 Her Hair was Tawny with Gold, Ilcr Eyes with 
 
 Purple were Dark 194 
 
 Here From the Brow of the Hill I Look . . . 309 
 
 Here Lies Fast Asleep — Awake Me Who Cr.n . 440 
 
 Here Unmolested, Through Whatever Sign . . 319 
 
 Here's a Big Washing to be Done 438 
 
 High Overhead the Stripe-Winged Niglithawk 
 
 Soars 128 
 
 His Learning Such, no Author, Old or New . . 346 
 
 His Mind a Maxim, Plain, Yet Keenly Shrewd . 341 
 
 His Puissant Sword Unto His Side 1S9 
 
 Ho ! Brothers, Come Hither and List to My Story 354 
 
 Ho, Sailor of the Sea 216 
 
 Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead . . . 258 
 
 Household Treasures — Household Treasures . 32 
 How Blest Has My Time Been — What Joys Have 
 
 I Known 31 
 
 How e'er It Be, It Seems to Me 256 
 
 How Desolate Were Nature, and How Void . . 167 
 
 How Does The Water 146 
 
 Hov/ Fair is the Rose ! That Beautiful Flower . 119 
 How Fine Has the Day Been, How Bright Was 
 
 the Sun 383 
 
 How Lovely is This Wildered .Scene .... 145 
 
 How Many Summers, Love ? 26 
 
 How Much the Heart May Bear and Yet Not 
 
 Break 299 
 
 How Slow Yon Tiny Vessel Ploughs the Main . 251 
 
 How Sweet it Were, if Without Feeble Fright . 263 
 
 How Sweet Thy Modest Light to View .... 144 
 
 How Withered, Perished, Seems the Form . . 121 
 Hung on the Casement (That Looked O'er the 
 
 Main) 157 
 
 "lam a Pebble and Yield To None" .... 45 
 
 I am so Homesick in this Summer Weather . . 34 
 
 I Bring Fresh Showers for the Thirsting Flowers 121 
 
 I Came, but they had Passed Away 365 
 
 " I Cannot do Much," said a Litth; .Star . . . 408 
 I Cannot Sing the Old Songs I Sung Long Years 
 
 Ago 502 
 
 I Come from Haunts of Coot and Hern . . . 150 
 
 I Fain a Tender Word Would Tell Thee ... 572 
 
 I Feel a Newer Life in Every Gale 116 
 
 If all the World and Love were Young . . . . 102 
 
 If Ever There Lived a Yankee Lad 475 
 
 If IHadKnown, Oh, Loyallleart 81 
 
620 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page. 
 
 If I Profane With My Unworthy Hand .... 8a 
 
 If I Should Die To-ni};ht 263 
 
 If I Shall ever will the Home in Heaven . . . 3S7 
 
 If I Were Told That I must Die To-morrow . . 383 
 
 If Solid Happiness We Prize 30 
 
 If Still They Kept Their Earthly Place .... 83 
 
 If Stores of Dry and Learned Lore We Gain . 91 
 
 If Thou Wast by my Side, my Love 17 
 
 If You cannot on the Ocean 304 
 
 I Grew Assured Before I Asked 84 
 
 I I lave Fancied Sometimes the Dethleheni Deani 450 
 
 I Have Had Playmates, I Have Hail Companions 31 
 I Have Sl'cu a Curious Child, who Dwelt upon a 
 
 Trut 225 
 
 I Heard the Bob- white Whistle in the Dewy 
 
 Breath of Morn 109 
 
 I Knew by the Smoke that so Gracefully Curled 27 
 
 I Know not if the Dark or Bright 385 
 
 I Know not what Awaits me 380 
 
 I Leaned Out of Window, I Smelt the White 
 
 Clover 84 
 
 I Like That Ring— That Ancient Ring .... 76 
 
 I Live for those who Love me 281 
 
 I Love Contemplating — Apart 235 
 
 I Love It, I Love It ; and Who Shall Dare . . 33 
 
 I Love, I Love to See 315 
 
 I Love the Beautiful Evening 313 
 
 I Love to Hear thine Earnest Voice 127 
 
 I Love to Look on a Scene Like This .... 398 
 
 I Love to see the Little Goldfinch Pluck . . . 406 
 
 I'll Tell You a Story That's Not in Tom Moore . 463 
 
 I'm a Broken-hearted Deutscher 435 
 
 I'm a Merry Gypsy Maid 576 
 
 I'm Called Little Buttercup 5'6 
 
 I'm in Love with You, Baby Louise 402 
 
 I'm Sitting on the Stile, Mary 72 
 
 I'm Standing by the Window-sill 21 
 
 I Must Not Say That Thou Wert True .... 71 
 
 I Must Tell You a Little Story 411 
 
 In all Places, then, and in all Seasons .... 117 
 
 In Ancient days as the Old Stories Run . . . 259 
 
 In Broad Street Buildings (On a Winter Night) . 437 
 
 In Days of Old, When Knights Were Bold . . 4S6 
 In January, when down the Dairy the Cream and 
 
 Clabber Freeze 137 
 
 In Sailing Along the River of Life 556 
 
 In Slumbers of Tilidnight the Sailor Boy Lay . . 217 
 
 In Summer, Wh:n the Days Were Long ... 84 
 
 In the Barn the Tenant Cock 13S 
 
 In the Church-Yard, up in the old High Tovn . 273 
 In the Gloaming, Oh, My D.irling ! Wiien the 
 
 Lights are Dim and Low 516 
 
 In the North Sea Lived a Whale 506 
 
 In the Summer Twilight 43 
 
 In the Tempest of Life, when the Wave and the 
 
 Gale 285 
 
 In the World I've Gained My Knowledge . . 514 
 
 In thi.'se Flowery Meads would be 153 
 
 Page. 
 InvidiousGrave! How Dost Thou Rend in Sunder 71 
 In Vain the Cords and Axes were Prei>ared . . 223 
 In Watlierford, Wanst, Lived Professor Mac- 
 Shane 437 
 
 111 Youth Exalted High in \'\r 441 
 
 Into a Ward of Whitewashed Halls 271 
 
 Intij the Sunshine 148 
 
 I Prayed for Riches, and Achieved Success . . 3S5 
 
 I Remember, I Remember 30 
 
 I sat at Work one Summer Day 334 
 
 I Sailed from the Downs in tlie N tncy .... 227 
 
 I Sit by the open Window 318 
 
 I saw Him once Before 262 
 
 I Slejit and Dreamed that Lifo was Beauty . . 301 
 
 I .Shall Leave the Old House in the Autumn . . 25 
 
 I Stood on the Bridge at Midnight 293 
 
 I Sprang to the Stirrup, and Joris and He ... 67 
 
 I Tell you, Kate, that Lovejoy Cow 309 
 
 Is It Anybody's Busintss 466 
 
 Is This a Dagger Which I Sec Heforc Me . . . 427 
 
 It Blew a Hard Storm, and in Utmost Confu.sion .^40 
 
 It Ciiancetli once to every Soul 323 
 
 It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free . . 222 
 
 It ii an Ancient Mariner 229 
 
 It is Only in Legend and Fable 404 
 
 It is the Cause, it is the Cause, my Soul . . . 430 
 
 It is the Miller's Daughter loi 
 
 It is the Midnight hour : — The Beaut.-ous Sea . 162 
 
 It Must Be 355 
 
 It Must be so— Plato, Thou Reason'st Well . . 425 
 
 " It's only a Little Grave," they Said .... 325 
 
 It's Patrick Dolin, Myself and no Other . . . 463 
 
 It's Use that Constitutes Possession Vv'holly . . 59 
 
 It Stands in a Sunny Meadow 23 
 
 " It Snows I " cries the School-boy—" Hurrah ! " 
 
 and his Shout 136 
 
 It was a Summer Evening 50 
 
 It was Many and Many a Year Ago 66 
 
 It was a Time of Sadness and my Heart . . . 374 
 
 It was Fifty Years Ago 349 
 
 It wai Not in the Winter 80 
 
 It was Six Men of Indostan 43S 
 
 It was upon an April Morn 187 
 
 It was the Schooner Hesperus 50 
 
 I Wandered by the Brook-side 149 
 
 I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 123 
 
 I Want You to Take a Picter o' Me and My Old 
 
 Woman Here 32 
 
 I was Born Free as a Caesar ; so Were You . .431 
 I was Walking in Savannah, past a Church Decayed 
 
 and Dim 27a 
 
 I will go Back to the Great Sweet Mother . . . 223 
 
 " I Would if I could," Though Much its in Use . 408 
 
 I Wrote My Name Upon the Sand 390 
 
 I've Just Come in From the Meadow, Wife. 453 
 
 I've Traveled About a Bit in My Time .... 500 
 I've Worked in the Field All Day, a Plowin' the 
 
 " Stony Streak " 444 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 627 
 
 437 
 441 
 271 
 143 
 
 30 
 334 
 227 
 3>8 
 262 
 301 
 
 25 
 293 
 
 67 
 309 
 466 
 
 427 
 
 440 
 
 323 
 222 
 229 
 404 
 . 430 
 
 , lOI 
 
 . 162 
 
 . 355 
 
 . 425 
 
 . 325 
 
 . 465 
 
 . 59 
 
 . 23 
 
 136 
 50 
 66 
 
 374 
 
 349 
 
 80 
 
 438 
 187 
 
 50 
 149 
 
 123 
 
 fed 
 
 37a 
 
 223 
 
 408 
 
 390 
 
 fe. 453 
 
 500 
 
 Page. 
 
 John Anderson, My Jo, John 25 
 
 John Gilpin Was a Citizen , . 169 
 
 Just in the Dubious Point, Where With the Pool 309 
 
 King Bruce of Scotland Flung Himself Down . 406 
 
 Kneeling, Fair in the Twilight Gray 22 
 
 Know Ye the Land Where the Cypress and Myrtle 355 
 Knowest Thou the Land Which Luvers Ou^ht to 
 
 Choose 356 
 
 Knows He That Never Took a Pinch . . . • 470 
 
 Lady ! I Will Not Forget My TrH>;t 70 
 
 Land of My Fathers ! Though No Mangrove Here 250 
 
 Land of the Brave ! Where Lie Inurncd . . . 357 
 
 Lead, Kindly Light, Amid the Encircling Gloom 382 
 
 Leaves Have Their Time to Fall 377 
 
 Let Me Sit Down a Moment • . . 61 
 
 Lest Men Suspect Your Tale Untrue 40 
 
 Let Fame to the World Sound America's Voice . 341 
 
 Like a Ball That Bounds 329 
 
 Like Fragments of an Uncompleted World , . 156 
 
 Like Some Vision Olden •..310 
 
 Lily Bells ! Lily Bells ! Swinging and Ringing . 383 
 Linger Not Long. Home is Not Home Without 
 
 Thee .36 
 
 Lithe and Long as the Serpent Train .... 124 
 Little Golden-Hair was Watching in the Window 
 
 Broad and High 61 
 
 Little Gretchen, Little Gretchen, Wanders Up 
 
 and Down the Street 323 
 
 Little Nan Gordon 412 
 
 Little Rills Make Wider Streamlets 4^8 
 
 Little Streams are Light and Slialldw 150 
 
 Lo! Where the Rosy-Bosomed Hotirs .... 113 
 
 Long Years Ago I Wandered Here 143 
 
 Look On These Waters, With How .Soft a Kiss . 138 
 
 Look Off, Dear Love, Across the S.illow Sands . 94 
 Look Round Our World, Behold liie Chain of 
 
 Love . 125 
 
 Loose Every Sail to the Breeze • 67 
 
 Loud Roared the Dreaded Thunder .... 220 
 
 Love is tlie Root of Creation ; God's Essence . 74 
 
 Madam, There is a Lady in Your Hall .... 415 
 
 Maid of Athens, Ere We Part 73 
 
 Magnificence of Ruin ! What Has Time ... 175 
 
 " Make Way for Liberty ! " He Cried .... 250 
 
 "Man Wants but Little Here Below" 278 
 
 Many a Green Isle Needs Must Be 164 
 
 Many a Long, Long Year Ago 39 
 
 Maud Muller, On a Summer's Day 46 
 
 Men, Dying, Make Their Wills, but Wives ... 263 
 
 Men Have Done Brave Deeds 215 
 
 Merrily Swinging On Brier and Weed .... 126 
 Mid Pleasures and Palaces Though We May 
 
 Roam 17 
 
 Midnight Passed ! Not a Sound of Aught . . 286 
 
 Mine Be a Cot Beside the Hill 27 
 
 r«Be. 
 
 Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Coming 
 
 of the Lord , 249 
 
 Mister Socrates Snooks, a Lord of Creation . . 479 
 
 Moan, Moan, Ye Dying Gales 331 
 
 Moon of Harvest, Herald Mild 302 
 
 Most Potent, Grave, and Reverend Signiors . • 70 
 
 Mount of the Clouds, on Whose Olympian 1 k ight 155 
 
 Mournfully! O, Mournfully 117 
 
 Mrs. Lofty Keeps a Carriage ........ 437 
 
 My Babe ! My Tiny Habe ! My Only Babe ! . . 287 
 
 My Boat is On the Shore 337 
 
 My P'arly Love, and Must Wo Part 323 
 
 My Girl Hath Violet Eyes and Yellow Hair . . 99 
 
 My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold .... 124 
 My Heart's In the Highlands, My Heart is Not 
 
 Here 314 
 
 My Jesus, As Thou Wilt 367 
 
 My I,ordTomno:klyGot Up One Day .... 473 
 
 My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 2G9 
 
 My Mother, When I Learned That Thou Wast 
 
 Dead 28 
 
 My Name is Norval ; On the Grampian Hill . . 182 
 
 My Son, Tliou Wilt Dream the World is Fair . . 29 
 
 My .Sheep I Neglected ; I Broke My .Sheep Hook 79 
 
 My Time, O Ye Muses, Was Happily .Spent . . 308 
 
 Nature is Made Better By No Mean 275 
 
 Nee'ly Knife-grinder! Whither are You Going? 442 
 
 Neglected Now Kie Early Dai -sy Lies .... 303 
 
 Never Any More 69 
 
 Never Wedding, Ever Wooing 91 
 
 Nigh to a Grave that w.is Newly Made .... 322 
 Night Wind, Whispering Wind, Wind of the 
 
 Carib Sea 254 
 
 No Baby in the House, I Know 398 
 
 Noble the Mountain Stream 151 
 
 No, Children. My Trips Are Over 172 
 
 No Jeweled Beauty is My Love 80 
 
 No More, My Sister; Urge Me Not Again ... 415 
 
 No Stir in the Air, No Stir in the Sea .... 225 
 
 No Sun— No Moon ! 133 
 
 Nor Rural Sights Alone, but Rural .Sounds . .311 
 
 Not a Drum was Heard, not a Funeral Note . . 337 
 
 Not in the Laughing Bowers 332 
 
 Not, My Soul, What Thou Hast Done .... 389 
 
 Not Ours the Vows of Such as Plight .... 67 
 
 Not What the Chemists Say They Be ... . 79 
 
 Nothing is Lost : the Drop of Dew 388 
 
 November Chill Blaws Loud wi' Angry Sugh . 18 
 
 Now Departs Day's Gairish Light 143 
 
 Now Glory to the Lord of Hosts, From Whom 
 
 All Glories Are 177 
 
 Now, if I Fall, Will it Be My Lot 267 
 
 Nov/, I's Got a Notion in My Head Dat When 
 
 You Come to Die 257 
 
 Now Let Me Sit Beneath the Whitening Thorn . 115 
 
 Now the Bright Morning Star, Day's Harbinger 135 
 
 Now, Upon Syria's Land of Roses 155 
 
628 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Och, Girls Dear, did you ever Hear 
 
 O'er Judali's Land thy Thunders Broke, O Lord 
 Of all Men Saving Sylla the Man-Slayer . . . 
 
 Of all the Girls that are su Smart 
 
 Of all the Wives as e'er you Know 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 
 Oft Have I Walked these Woodland Paths . . 
 
 Oft in the Stilly Night 
 
 Oh, A Dainty Plant is the Ivy Green . . . . 
 Oil ! A Wonderful Stream is the River of Time . 
 Oh ! Ask not a 1 lome in the Mansions of Pride . 
 
 Oh ! Do not Stand so Long Outside 
 
 Oh ! Give mo Hack that Royal Dream .... 
 Oh! I IadstTh;.u Never Shared My Fate . . . 
 O hoi ye Iio, Hoyo-ho, Who's for the Furry . . 
 Oh ! I Shall Not Forget until Memory Depart . 
 Oh, I Thought Her so Pretty and Called Her My 
 
 Own 
 
 Oh ! Moni's Waters are Blue and Bright . . . 
 
 Oh, my Golden Days of Childhood 
 
 Oh, my Love Stood Under a Walnut Tree . . 
 
 Oh ! Tell Me Not of Lofty Fate 
 
 Oh Tell me One Thing, Tell me Truly .... 
 
 Oh ! What is that Radiant Glory ...... 
 
 0!i ! Wliy Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud . 
 Old Birch, who Taught the Village Si hool . . 
 Old Grimes is Dead, That Good Old Man . . 
 
 Old Ironsides at Anchor Lay 
 
 Old Man, God Bless You ! Does Your Pipe Taste 
 
 Sweetly 
 
 Old Reuben Fishtr, Who Lived in the Lane . . 
 Old Tribal Cain was a Man of Might . . . . 
 
 On all ihy Trees, on every Bough 
 
 On Alphine Heights the Love of God is Shed . 
 On Leven's Banks, while Free to Rove . . . . 
 On Parent's Knee, a Naked, Newborn Child 
 On Richmond Hill There Lives a Lass .... 
 On the Cross-beam under the Old South Bell 
 On the Deep is the Maiiner's Dangt r . . . . 
 
 On the Wall of Brick and Plaster 
 
 Once in a City's Crowded Street 
 
 Once upon a Midnight Dreary 
 
 One Kind Wish Before We I'art 
 
 One More Unfortunate 
 
 One Night Came on a Hurricane 
 
 One Sweetly Solemn Thought 
 
 On thy Fair Bosom, Silver Lake 
 
 One Time my Soul was Pierced as with a Sword 
 
 One Year ago — a Ringing Voice 
 
 Only Waiting till the Shadows 
 
 O Blithe New-Comer ! I have Heard 
 
 O Do Not Wanton With Those Eyes .... 
 
 O Don't be Sorrowful, Darling 
 
 O Fairest of Creation, Last and Best 
 
 O, Fruit Loved by Boyhood ! the Old Days 
 
 Recalling 
 
 O Gentle, Gentle Summer Rain 
 
 O, Go Not Yet, My Love 
 
 Page. 
 568 
 
 90 
 351 
 
 78 
 564 
 J 94 
 '57 
 
 38 
 118 
 364 
 
 31 
 549 
 251 
 
 72 
 
 SS8 
 336 
 
 93 
 
 49 
 .^96 
 5'S 
 
 94 
 Sio 
 544 
 258 
 479 
 
 53 
 173 
 
 1 86 
 363 
 304 
 134 
 '45 
 149 
 401 
 
 93 
 130 
 216 
 407 
 299 
 279 
 
 75 
 321 
 223 
 
 373 
 146 
 276 
 330 
 277 
 12S 
 102 
 372 
 27 
 
 '45 
 149 
 no 
 
 Pace. 
 
 • O God 1 Though Sorrow be my Fate .... 368 
 
 O, Is Not This a Holy Spot 244 
 
 O Good lago 430 
 
 O Lady, Leave; Thy .Silken Thread 43 
 
 O Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear 25 
 
 O Little Feet ; That Such Long Years .... 401 
 
 O Mary, Go and Call the Cattle Home . , . , 48 
 
 O More or Less than Man — in High or Low . . 346 
 
 O Mother Dear, Jerusalem 395 
 
 O, Never Sit Me Down, and Say 255 
 
 O Nightingale, Best Poet of the Grove .... 133 
 
 O Reverend Sir, I do Declare 473 
 
 O Rosamond, Thou Fair and Good 402 
 
 O Sacred Head, Now Wounded 375 
 
 O, .Sad are They Who Know not Love ... 93 
 
 O, Say, can you see, by the Dawn's early Light . 241 
 
 O Sextant of the Meetinghouse Which Sweeps 473 
 
 O, Sing Unto My Roundelay 68 
 
 O Stream Descendmg to the Sea 34 
 
 O Talk Not to Me of a Name Great in Story . . 78 
 
 O Terribly Proud was Miss MacBride .... 471 
 
 O, That Last day in Lucknow Fort 183 
 
 O the Charge at Balaklava I 185 
 
 O, the Days are Gone, When Beauty Brij-.ht . . 73 
 
 O then, I see. Queen Mab hath been with you . 428 
 
 O, Think'st Thou we shall ever Meet again . . 323 
 
 O Those Little, Those Little Blue Shoes . . . 403 
 
 O Thou, wha in the Heavens Dost Dwtll . . . 455 
 
 O Thou Vast Ocean ! Ever Sounding Sea . . . 234 
 
 O Throat I O Trembling Throat ! 128 
 
 O what is that Comes Gliding in 468 
 
 O When it is Summer Weather 113 
 
 O, Wherefore Come Ye Forth, in Triumph from 
 
 the North 193 
 
 O Whither Sail You, Sir John Franklin ... 338 
 
 O Winter ! Wilt Thou Never, Never Go ? . . . j66 
 
 O yet we Trust that Somehow Good .... 385 
 
 O Young Lochnivar is Come Out of the West . 38 
 
 Open thy Lattice, O Lady Bright 459 
 
 Our Boat to the Waves go Free 218 
 
 Our Good Steeds Snuff the Evening Air . . . i8s 
 
 Our Native Land, Our Native Vale 257 
 
 Our Table is Spread for Two, To-night .... 35 
 
 Out of the Bosom of the Air 137 
 
 Out of the Clover and Blue- Eyed Grass . . . 313 
 Over the Hill to the Poor house I'm Trudgin' my 
 
 Weary Way 42 
 
 Over the Hills to the Poor-house Sad Paths Have 
 
 Been Made To-day 48 
 
 Over the Hills the Farmboy Goes 316 
 
 Over the Mountains 78 
 
 Over the River They Peck on to Me 368 
 
 Oxcoose me if I Shed Some Tears 464 
 
 Pain's Furnace-heat Within Me Quivers . . . 387 
 
 Patter-Patter — 133 
 
 Paul Venarez Heard Them Say, in the Frontier 
 
 Town, that Day 18a 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 (i2[) 
 
 Page. 
 
 Pauline, by Pride 284 
 
 P.iuse not to Dream of liuj I'uluro Ikfore Us . 396 
 
 Peace Dwells Not There— Tliis Rugged Face . 346 
 
 Pilliirs arc I'allen at Thy Feet 348 
 
 Pipe, Little Minstrel* of the Wanint; Year . . 137 
 
 Pi|)iri; Down the Valleys Wild 403 
 
 "Praise Clod From Whom All Blessings Flow " . 300 
 
 Pretty Firstling of the Year 136 
 
 Prop yer Eyes Wide Opt n, Joey 447 
 
 Pull, Pull ! And the Pail is Full 83 
 
 Rattle the Window, Winds ! 272 
 
 Rest for the Weary, Rest 50S 
 
 Restless forms of Living Light 218 
 
 Ring Out, Wild Hells, to tiie Wild Sky . . , . 39S 
 
 " Rock of Ages, Cleft For Me " 369 
 
 Roll On, Thou Ball, Roll On 457 
 
 Said Nester to his Pretty Wife, Quite Sorrowful 
 
 One Day 456 
 
 Say, Migl-.ty Love, and Teach My Song ... 88 
 
 Say, Watchman, What of the Night ? .... 373 
 
 Say, Ye that Know, Ye who have Felt and Seen 131 
 
 Scenes that are Brightest 496 
 
 Scots, Wha Mae Wi' Wallace Bled 193 
 
 She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways ... 79 
 
 See, Here's a Bower 422 
 
 See Yon Robin on the Spray 132 
 
 She is a Winsome Wee Thing 26 
 
 She Rose from her Delicious Sleep .... 389 
 
 She .Shrank from All, and her Silent Mood . . 331 
 
 She Stood Breast High Amid the Corn . . . 311 
 
 She .Stood Alone Amidst the April Fields . . 113 
 
 Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot .... 38 
 
 Should Fate Command Me to the Farthest Verge 155 
 
 Sing Them Upon the Sunny Hills 307 
 
 Six Sl<eins and Three, Six Skeins and Tiiree . 102 
 Slowly England's Sun was Setting o'er the Hill- 
 tops Far Away 58 
 
 Softly Woo Away Her Breath 369 
 
 Soft You; a Word or Two Before You Go . . 431 
 
 Somebody's Courting Somebody 94 
 
 Some Murmur When Their Sky is Clear .* .. . 376 
 
 Some People You've Met in Your Time no doubt 536 
 
 Some Reckon Their Age by Years . ... 271 
 
 Somewhere on this Earthly Planet 288 
 
 SoSweetly She Bade Me "Adieu" 322 
 
 So Sweet, the Roses in their Blo\vin."j .... 114 
 
 So Youv'e Brought Me This Costly Bible . . 384 
 
 Source of My Life's Refreshing Springs. . . . 367 
 
 Speak no evil, and Cause no Ache 383 
 
 Spinning, Spinning, by the Sea 239 
 
 Spring, with that Nameless Pathos in the Air . 162 
 
 Stand ! the Ground's Your Own, My Braves ! . 244 
 
 "Stand to Your Guns, Men ! ■' Morris Cried . 179 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, Bitter Chill it Was ... 104 
 Steer On, Bold Sailor ; Wit May Mock Thy Soul 
 
 that .Sees the Land iSi 
 
 Pane 
 
 .Stop I for thy Tread is on an Empire's Dust . . 44 
 
 .Stop, Mortal ! Here thy Brother Lies .... 345 
 
 Sweet and Low, Sweet and Low 95 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! Loveliest Village of the IM.iin . 2.SH 
 
 .Sweet is the Pleasure yn 
 
 •Sweet Jenny, I Write On My Knee 458 
 
 Sweetheart, Good-bye, Th.it Fluttering Sail . . 94 
 
 Sweet Poet of the Woods, a 1-ong Adieu . . . 127 
 
 Sweet Wind, Fair Wind, Where Have You Been ? 295 
 
 Take Back into thy Bosom, Earth ^53 
 
 Take Back the Heart that Thou Gavest . . . 524 
 
 Talking of Sects Till Late One Eve 378 
 
 Teans, Idle Tears, I know not what they Mean . 331 
 Tell Him, for Years I Never Nursed a Tlujiight 67 
 Tell Me, Ye Winged Winds, that round my Path- 
 way Roar 261 
 
 Tell Me Not, in Mournful Numbers 256 
 
 That I Lmdkerchief 429 
 
 That is not Home, Where Day by Day .... 18 
 That Which Hath Made Them Drunk Hath Made 
 
 Me Bold 426 
 
 That's Riglit— You are Collected and Direct . . 422 
 The Angry Word Suppressed, the Taunting 
 
 Thought 23 
 
 The Autumn is Old 134 
 
 The Bard Has Sung, God Never Formed a Soul 75 
 
 The Birds Must Know. Who Wisely Sings . . 454 
 
 Tiie Birds, when Winter Shades the Sky ... 74 
 
 The Breaking Waves Dashed High 248 
 
 The Bright Stars fade, Tiie Morn is Breaking . 530 
 
 The brown Old Earth Lies Quiet and Still . . 391 
 
 The Castle Clock Had Toll'd Midnight ... 39 
 
 The Castled Crag of Drachenfels 147 
 
 TheCockHasCrowed. I Hearthe Doors Unbarred 163 
 
 The Cold Winds Swept the Mountain Height . 168 
 The Cottage was a Thatched One, its Outside Old 
 
 and Mean 272 
 
 The Cricket Chirps All Day 134 
 
 The Crimson Tide wasEbbing,and the Pulse grew 
 
 weak and Faint 329 
 
 The Curfew Tolls the Knell of Parting Day . . 254 
 
 The Daisies Peep from every Field 120 
 
 The Dark Knight of the Forest 419 
 
 The Daughter Sits in the Parlor 451 
 
 The Dearest Spot of Earth to Me 21 
 
 The Dew was Falling Fast ; the Stars Began to 
 
 Blink 410 
 
 The Dreamy Rhymer's Measured Snore . . . 350 
 
 The Dusky Night Rides Down the Sky ... 45 
 
 The Eastern sky is Blushing Red 300 
 
 The Element of Beauty which in thee .... 342 
 
 The Farmer came in from the Field one Day . 311 
 
 The Farmer Sat in His Easy Chair 26 
 
 The Feathered Songster Chanticleer .... 201 
 
 Tlie Fire-flies Freckle Every Spot 141 
 
 The Flag of Freedom floats once more . . . 355 
 
 The Floods Are Raging, and the Gales Blow High 228 
 
630 
 
 INDKX OF FIRST LINKS. 
 
 The F'ountains Mingle with the River . . . . 
 The Garlands Fade that SprinR so Lately Wove 
 
 The (irass is (ireen on Bunker iliil 
 
 The dray Sea, and the Long Black Land . . . 
 The Groves were God's First Temples. Ere 
 
 Man Learned 
 
 The Heart how'd down by Weight of Woe . . 
 The Heath This Night Must Be My Bed . . . 
 
 The Hollow Winds Begin to Blow 
 
 The Huge, Rough Stones From Out the Mine . 
 The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece . . . 
 The Journals This Morning are Full of a Tale 
 
 The King Wiis on his Throne 
 
 The Kiss of Friendship, Kind and Calm . . . 
 
 The Lady Jane was Tall and Slim 
 
 The Lark Sings for Joy in her own Loved Land 
 The Latter Rain — it Falls in Anxious Haste . . 
 The Lion is the Desert's King; Through His 
 
 Domain so Wide 
 
 The Lovely Purple of the Moon's Bestowing . . 
 The Mackerel Boats Sailed SU)wly Out .... 
 
 The Maiden Sat at her Busy Wheel 
 
 The Melancholy Days Are Come, the Saddest of 
 
 tiie Year 
 
 The Mellow Year is 1 lastening to its Close . . 
 The Minister Said Last Night, Says He ... 
 The Mistletoe Hung in the Castle Hr.'.l .... 
 
 The Moon on the East oriel Shone 
 
 The Moon Was A-waning 
 
 The Mountain and the Squirrel 
 
 The Muffled Drum's Sad Roll has Beat . . . 
 
 The Nautilus and the Ammonite 
 
 The Night Was Made for Cooling Sh.nde . . . 
 The North-East Spends His Rage; He Now, 
 
 Shut up 
 
 The Path by which we Twain Did ( io .... 
 The Phantom Isles are Fading From t!ie .S.a 
 
 The Poetry of Earth is Never Dead 
 
 The Quality of Mercy is not Strained . . . . 
 The Rain Has Ceased, and in my Room . . . 
 The Room is Old— The Night is Cold .... 
 The Sabbath Day was Ending in a Village Ijy the 
 
 Sea 
 
 The Salt Wind Blows upon my Cheek .... 
 The Scene Was More Beautiful Far to the Eye 
 The Schoolboy Wandering Through the Wood 
 
 The Sea is Calm To-night 
 
 The Sea ! the Sea ! the Open Sea ! 
 
 The Silver Moon's Enamored Beam 
 
 The Soft Green Grays is Growing 
 
 The Spacious Firmament on High 
 
 The Stormy March is Come at Last 
 
 The Stranger wandering in the Switzer's Land . 
 The Sunburnt Mowers are in the Swartli . . . 
 TheSun from the Easttips the Mountains with Gold 
 
 The Sun is Low, as Ocean's Flow 
 
 The Sunny Italy May Boast 
 
 The Sun Shines Brighton our Old Kentucky Home 
 
 Pngc. 
 80 
 
 las 
 
 2-14 
 
 85 
 
 113 
 550 
 109 
 
 «53 
 3«9 
 359 
 175 
 .■^7 
 21 
 460 
 129 
 150 
 
 131 
 
 324 
 92 
 
 135 
 
 13s 
 379 
 432 
 338 
 142 
 
 397 
 252 
 
 394 
 22S 
 
 151 
 
 8S 
 
 3S1 
 160 
 3R0 
 
 153 
 265 
 
 371 
 326 
 219 
 130 
 224 
 218 
 114 
 260 
 
 377 
 114 
 
 356 
 306 
 
 313 
 
 222 
 
 123 
 
 24 
 
 The Tattoo Beats— the Lights are Gone ... 186 
 
 The Time Hath Laid his Mantle By iiS 
 
 The Thoughts are Strange that Crowd into my 
 
 Brain 149 
 
 The Topsails Shiver in the Wind 6'i 
 
 The Tree of Deepest Root is Found 456 
 
 The Twilight Hours, Like Birds, Flew By . . 219 
 
 The Warder looked down at the Dead of Night 289 
 
 The Water I the Water! 116 
 
 The Waters Slept, Night's Silvery veil hung Low 2S3 
 
 Tlie Way seems Dark aliout Me — Overhead . . 367 
 
 The Weary Night is O'er at Last 184 
 
 The Whip-poor-will is Calling 244 
 
 The White Moon Peeps thrt)' my Window-blind 36 
 
 The Wildgrave Winds His Bugle-horn .... 210 
 
 The Wind is Blowing fresh, Kate 5611 
 
 The Wind is up, the Field is Bare 314 
 
 The Wind, the Wandering Wind 119 
 
 The Woman was Old and Ragged and Gray . . 290 
 
 There are Days of Deepest Sorrow 390 
 
 There are Friends that we Never Forget . . . 528 
 
 There are Some Things hard to Understand . . 267 
 
 There are Three Lessons I Would Write ... 394 
 
 There are Three Words th.\t Sweetly Blend . , 36 
 
 There is a Dungeon in whose Dim, Drear Light 24 
 
 There is a Flower, a Little Flower 118 
 
 There is a Gloomy Grandeur in the Sun ... 142 
 
 There is a Land, of Every Land the Pride ... 17 
 
 There is a Niland on a River Lying ... . 439 
 
 There is a Pleasure in the Patliless Woo Is . . 153 
 
 There is a Tide in the Affairs of Men .... 431 
 There is a World, a pure Uncloudecl Clime . .271 
 
 There is Mjny a Rest in the Road of Life . . , 390 
 
 There is no Death ! The Stars go Down . . . 370 
 There is no Flock, however Watched and 
 
 Tended 370 
 
 There is No Time Like the Old Time, when You 
 
 and I were Young 92 
 
 There is not in this Wide World a Valley so Sweet 65 
 
 There is the Hat 32S 
 
 There Lived in Gothic Days, as Legends Tell . 144 
 
 There's a Dear little Plant that giows i i our Isle 532 
 
 There's a Good time Coming, Boys 298 
 
 There's a Grim one-horse Hearse in a jolly 
 
 Round Trot 333 
 
 There's a letter in the Candle 526 
 
 There's a Little Mischief-maker 407 
 
 There's a Magical Isle in the River of Time . . 256 
 
 There's a Story That's Old 478 
 
 There's Grandeur in this Sounding Storm . . 142 
 
 There's no Dearth of Kindness 281 
 
 There's no Dew Left on the Daisies and Clover 403 
 
 There's nothing Half so Charming 53S 
 
 There's Somewhat on my Breast, FathiT , . . 467 
 There was a time when Meadow, Grove, and 
 
 Stream 361 
 
 There was a Tumult in the City 242 
 
 There was (not Certain When; a Certain Preacher 470 
 
INDKX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 6;5l 
 
 PlIRe. 
 
 These, ns they ChntiKc, AlmiRlity Father, Tlit-so i.p 
 
 These Thoughts, U NiRht ! Are Tliiiie .... 142 
 
 '!'hoy Carried I'ie to thy Parson's I lousu . . . 464 
 They Conic, tlie Mi-rry SiiininLT Months of 
 
 Heaiity, Song anil Flowers 115 
 
 They Drive Home the Cows from t'.ie P.isture . 405 
 
 They Grew in Beauty, Side hy .Side 33 
 
 They Sin wi»o tell us Love can Die 7a 
 
 This ii tlie Forest Primeval. The Murmuring 
 
 Pines and Hemlocks 120 
 
 This is the Ship of Pearl, which, Potts Fei^jn . 239 
 
 This Rej;ion, Surely, is nut the Earth .... 357 
 
 Thii Tale li True, for so the Records Show . . 60 
 
 This was the Noblest Roman of them All . . . 431 
 
 This Was To ) Melancholy, Father 417 
 
 Tliose Evening ndls I Those Evening Hells ! . 256 
 Thou art Gone to the Grave— We no longer de- 
 plore Tliee 324 
 
 Tiiou Brightly Glittering .Star of Even .... 143 
 
 Though when Other Maids Stand By .... 93 
 
 Thou Happy, Happy Elf! 435 
 
 Thou Lingering Star, with Lessening Kay . . 66 
 
 Thou Little Bird, Thou Dweller by the .Sea . . 125 
 
 Thou Livest in the Life of all Good Tliinjjs . . 342 
 
 Three Fisher.i went Sailing out into the West . 295 
 
 Three Poets, in three Distant ages Rom . . . 346 
 Through the I lushed Air the Wliit ning Shower 
 
 Descends 140 
 
 Tims with the Year 139 
 
 Tliy Fiuit Full Well the Schoolboy Knows . . 120 
 
 Thy Way, not Mine, Oh I^rd 366 
 
 Tim Twinkleton Was, I Would ILivc You to 
 
 Know 449 
 
 Time was when I was Free ns Air 132 
 
 ' lis a Fearful Night in the Winter-time .... 163 
 ' Tii Beauteous Night ; the Stars Look Brightly 
 
 Down 253 
 
 'Tis Evening, and the Round Red Sun sinks slowly 
 
 in the West 310 
 
 'Tis Five-and-twenty Years To day 99 
 
 'Tis Past I No More the Summer Blooms . . 144 
 
 •Tis Said That Persia's Baffled King .... 242 
 
 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 75 
 
 'Tis the Soft Twilight. Round the Shining Fender 452 
 
 'Tis Thirty Years Since Abel Law 469 
 
 'Tis Years since Last We Met 484 
 
 To Claim the Arctic Came the Sun 155 
 
 To draw no Envy, Shakespeare, on Thy name . 347 
 
 To Him Who, in the Love of Nature, Holds . . 112 
 
 Toil on I toil on ! Ye Ephemeral Train .... 297 
 
 Toll for the Brave 222 
 
 Toll for the Dead, Toll ! Toll I 392 
 
 Toll forSam Patch! Sam Patch whojumpsnomore 354 
 
 Tom Darling was a Darling Tom 465 
 
 To Sea ! to Sea ! the Calm is O'er 226 
 
 Too Late, Too Late, was never Said .... 392 
 To Make a Plum-pudding a French Count Once 
 
 Took 442 
 
 Town, Tower 436 
 
 Torches were Blazing clear 344 
 
 Tread Lightly, Love, When Over My lUad . . 93 
 
 Tread .Softly, Bow the He.ad 263 
 
 Trilles light as Air 429 
 
 Turn, Gentle Hermit of the Dali- 76 
 
 'Twas at the Royal I-'east for Persia won . . . 274 • 
 ' Twas in the Sulfy Summer time, as War's Red 
 
 Records Show 53 
 
 'Twas Night— Our Am horcd Ve.ssel Slept . . i:,4 
 
 'Twris on Lake I'.rie's Broad E.xpansu . . . . i63 
 
 'Twas on a Winter Morning 297 
 
 'Twas Early Day, and .Sunlight Streamed . . . 3-0 
 
 'Twas Late, and the (iay Company Was Gone . 464 
 'Twas the Night Bjfuru Christmas, When All 
 
 Through the House 396 
 
 'Twill not be Long— this Wearying Connnolion 56(1 
 
 Two Hands upon the Breast 572 
 
 Two Little Mi idcn , Went One Day 3S7 
 
 Two Pilgrims t. M le Di-itant Plain .... 110 
 
 Two or Three Dears, and Two or Three Sweets 439 
 
 Tying Her Bonnet Under Her Chin 102 
 
 Under a Spreading Chestnut tree 37 
 
 Up from the Meadows rich with Corn .... 245 
 
 Up from the South at break of Day 181 
 
 Upon a Rock yet Uncreate 455 
 
 Upon my Knees, What doth Your speech Import 4:9 
 
 Upon the White Sea-sand 333 
 
 Up the airy Mountain 413 
 
 Up with the Sim in the Morning 30 
 
 Various and Vast, Sublime in all its Forms . . 237 
 
 Victor in Poesy ! Victor in Romance ! ... 352 
 
 Vital spark of 1 leavenly Flame 373 
 
 Wail for Daedalus, all That is Fairest ! ... 276 
 
 Wake, Sisters, wake 1 the Day-star Shines . . 361 
 
 Wall, no! I Can't Tell Where he Lives ... 176 
 
 Wandering Away on Tired Feet ^90 
 
 ' Wanted, a Boy ! ' Well, How Glad I am , . . 410 
 
 Wave after wave of Greenness rolling Down . . 331 
 
 Way Down upon the Swanee Ribber .... 29 
 
 We are Little Airy Creatures 442 
 
 We are not Many — Wo Wlio Stood 1S7 
 
 We are the Sweet Flowers 119 
 
 We are Two Travelers, Roger and I .... 41 
 
 We Bipeds, Made up of Frail Clay 353 
 
 We Have Been Friends Together 78 
 
 We Knew it Would Rain, for all the Mom . . 153 
 
 We Mourn for those whose Laurels Fade . . . 341 
 
 We Parted in Silence, we Parted by Night . . 109 
 
 We Pledged our Hearts, my Love and I . . . loi 
 
 We sat by the River, You and I 580 
 
 Werther had a Love for Charlotte 467 
 
 We Walked Along, While Bright and Red , . 139 
 
 We were Crowded in the Ca'oin 220 
 
 W'cll, Pve found the model Church — I worshipped 
 
 there To-day • • 363 
 
632 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Fage.. 
 
 Well, Claudius, arc the Forces 419 
 
 What Beauties Does Flora Disclose 148 
 
 What Change has Made the Pastures Sweet . . 103 
 
 What Does Little Birdie Say 400 
 
 What Heavy-hoofed Coursiers the Wilderness 
 
 Roam 173 
 
 What Hidest Thou in Thy Treasure-caves and 
 
 Cells 217 
 
 What Hjusehold thoughts around tliee as their 
 
 Shrine 381 
 
 What is the Meaning; of the Song 548 
 
 What ! Irving ! thrice Welcome, warm Heart and 
 
 fine Brain 347 
 
 What might be Done if Men were Wise . . . 296 
 What needs my Shakespeare for his Honored 
 
 Bones 348 
 
 What ! Robbed the Mail at Midnight ! We'll 
 
 trail them down, You bet 333 
 
 Whatever I Do and Whatever I Say .... 451 
 
 Wiiat Stands upon the Highland ? 141 
 
 What's This Dull Town to me 91 
 
 When a Ciiild I Liv'd at Lincoln, with my Parents 
 
 at the Farm 542 
 
 When Barren Doubt Like a Late-coming Snow 35 
 
 When Britain First at Heaven's Command , . 246 
 
 When Chill November's surly Blast 326 
 
 Wiien First I saw Sweet Peggy 80 
 
 When First the Flame of Day 151 
 
 When for Me the silent Oar 382 
 
 When Freedom From her Mountain Height . . 241 
 
 W!ien Hope lies Dead within the Heart . . . 325 
 
 When I Beneath tiie Cold Red Earth am Sleeping 274 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord Beloved 373 
 
 When Love with Unconfmed Wings .... 96 
 
 \\ hen on the Mount the Prophet Stood . . . 554 
 
 When Other Lips and Other Hearts 512 
 
 When on the breath of Autumn Breeze . . . . 313 
 
 When Princely Hamilton's Abode 197 
 
 When Sparrows Build and the Leaves Break 
 
 Forth 8r 
 
 When Tliat My Mood is Sad, and in the Noise . 2S4 
 
 Wlien Tliat the Fields Put on Their Gay Attire . 127 
 
 When tlie Autumn Leaves are Falling .... 570 
 When the Black-lettered List to tiie Gods was 
 
 Presented 34 
 
 When the Hounds of Spring are on Winter's 
 
 Traces 5S1 
 
 When the Lessons and Tasks are all Ended . . 397 
 
 When the Mild Weather Came 236 
 
 When the Swallows Homeward Fly 520 
 
 When the W.irm Sun That Brings 115 
 
 When Topcwell Thought Fit From the World to 
 
 Retreat 439 
 
 When troubled in .Spirit, when weary of Lifo . . 317 
 
 When we Hear the music Ringing 364 
 
 When we Two Parted 85 
 
 When Winter Winds are Piercing Chill . . . 134 
 
 \\Ticnce come those SI. rieks so Wild and Shrill . 293 
 
 Page. 
 
 Where are the Friends of my Youth 493 
 
 Where art thou Loveliest, O Ntturt-, Tel! ! . . 316 
 
 Where Did You Come From, Baby Dear . . . 398 
 
 Where is now the Merry Party 540 
 
 Where the Remote Bermudas Ride 226 
 
 Which is the Wind That Brings the Cold . . . 135 
 
 " Which Shall it Be ? Which Shall it Bo ? " . . 22 
 
 While Moonlight, Silvering all the Walls . . . 129 
 While Quaker Folks Were Quakers Still, Some 
 
 Fifcy Yeats Ago 454 
 
 While with a Strong yet Gentle hand .... 349 
 
 Whither, 'Midst Falling Dew 129 
 
 Who Puts Oup at Der Pest Hotel 443 
 
 Who's That Tapping at the Garden Gate • . . 574 
 
 Why all this Toil for Triumphs of an Hour . . 434 
 
 Whydon'tl work? Well, ST, Will you . ... 304 
 "Why is the Forum Crowded ? What Means this 
 
 Stir in Rome?" 173 
 
 Why Should I, With a Mournful. Morbid Spleen 125 
 
 Wifd Offspring of a D.irk and Sullen Sire . . , 121 
 
 Wild was the Night, Yet a Wilder Night ... 59 
 
 Willie, Fold Your Little Hands 184 
 
 Will the New Year Come Tu-night, Mama ? I'm 
 
 Tired of Waiting So 266 
 
 Willow I in thy Breezy Moan 119 
 
 With Deep Affection 44S 
 
 With fingers Weary and Worn 295 
 
 Wiih Heavy Pack upon his Back 480 
 
 Within a T lick and Spreading I lawthorn Bush . 129 
 
 Within this Sober realm of leafless Trees . . . 327 
 
 Without Your Showers 126 
 
 With silent awe I hail the Facred Jlorn .... 371 
 
 Woodman, Spare that Tree 264 
 
 Would Ye be Taught, Ye Feathered Throng . , 90 
 Would You Know Why I Summoned You To- 
 gether 433 
 
 Ye little Snails 159 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 208 
 
 Ye Nymphs of Tolyma I Begin the .Song . . . 365 
 
 Ye Shepherds, give Ear to my lay ..... 73 
 
 Ye Sons of Freedom, Wake to Glory .... 245 
 
 Ye stars that look at Me To-night 95 
 
 Yes, Dear one, to the Envied Train 95 
 
 " Yes, I answered You last Night" 67 
 
 Yes, surely the Bells in the Steeple 45S 
 
 Yes, 'tis Emilia : — By and-By— She's Dead . . 430 
 
 Yes, Wife, I'd be a Tiironed King 65 
 
 "You have heard," said a Youth t) his Sweet- 
 heart, wl'.o Stood 103 
 
 You have read of the Moslem Palace .... 375 
 
 You know we French stormed Rali.^bon ... 246 
 You may notch it on de Palin's as a mighty resky 
 
 Plan 2C2 
 
 Young Ben he was a nice Young Man .... 470 
 
 Young Ncuha plunged into the Deep, and he . 201 
 
 Young Rory O'More Courted Kathleen Bawn . 82 
 
 Your Wedding ring wears thin, Dear Wife . . 24 
 
Pagf. 
 492 
 316 
 398 
 540 
 226 
 
 22 
 
 129 
 
 454 
 349 
 129 
 
 443 
 574 
 434 
 304 
 
 173 
 125 
 121 
 
 59 
 184 
 
 366 
 119 
 44S 
 
 295 
 4S0 
 129 
 
 327 
 126 
 
 371 
 
 264 
 
 90 
 
 433 
 
 159 
 
 208 
 
 365 
 73 
 
 245 
 95 
 95 
 67 
 
 458 
 
 430 
 65 
 
 103 
 
 375 
 246 
 
 2C2 
 
 470 
 
 201 
 
 82 
 
 24