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 PR 1109 lb 1889 
 
 ... .M Ml' I II II III 
 
 3 1822 01018 1253 
 
 JANE ROWLEY'S 
 
 SCRAP BOOK 
 
 SIXTY YEARS' GLEANINGS, 
 
 Secant! 3Eoitton. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 Press of Coburn Brothers.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 
 
 1888, 
 
 BY JANE ROWLEY.
 
 T % 
 
 ml 
 
 Mr. Editor: 
 
 In giving to the public the gleanings of 
 sixty years, I feel as if I was parting with an 
 old friend, but if they enjoy the reading as I 
 have the compiling, I shall be amply rewarded 
 for my trouble. 
 
 JANE ROWLEY.
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Oh ! poetry, source of purest delight, 
 
 That can best breathe the feelings most dear to the heart ; 
 That soul is involved in the darkness of night, 
 
 Which proves not the pleasure 'tis time to impart. 
 
 The calm light of friendship, the warm glow of love. 
 Thro' thee most expressively speak to the soul ; 
 
 And the sad tale of pity most deeply can move 
 
 "When thy voice o'er our feelings exerts its control. 
 
 Then here by thy gems as in memory's store, 
 Preserved by the fostering protection of taste. 
 
 I will sweetly beguile a lone hour to explore 
 The gems that we thus have laid carefully past. 
 
 Nor here while more noble productions we nurse, 
 Let the feelings of an humbler muse be forgot ; 
 
 But let them be cherished whatever their source, 
 
 In the Scrap Book preserved from oblivion's dark lot. 
 
 To every trifle scorn to take offence, 
 
 It shows much pride or little sense ; 
 
 Good nature and good sense must always join, — 
 
 To err is human, to forgive, divine. . , 
 
 0»\. 
 
 f0^f J^AM 3 2 - 
 
 /-J'
 
 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 THE POLE'S ADIEU. 
 
 Star of my soul farewell ! 
 
 I go to war and danger, 
 I haste to meet in conflict fell 
 
 The proud invading stranger. 
 I leave thee, love, to save the land, — 
 
 The land we dearly cherish, 
 To break the link that binds the brave, 
 
 To rescue or to perish. 
 
 Farewell, farewell. 
 
 Star of my soul, thy light 
 
 No more shall shine before me, 
 The flame of war glances redly bright, 
 
 Destruction hovers o'er me ; 
 Yet mourn not, love, for me, 
 
 Remember, tho' we sever, 
 The patriot brave who falls shall be 
 
 With glory crowned forever. 
 Farewell, farewell. 
 
 By indolence, much is to be lost, and there is but 
 little to be got by it, and lazy bones are particularly un- 
 amiable. Where is the woman who can bear laziness in 
 a man whom she honors with a place in her heart.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 7 
 
 THE BRIDE'S FATHER. 
 
 The last kiss is given, the last adieu sighed, 
 
 The bridegroom's away with his beautiful bride ; 
 
 Alone sits the father, alone in his years ! 
 
 The mansion is silent the old man in tears. 
 
 He thinks of her sweetness that soothed every care, 
 
 And he fondly looks up as expecting her there, — 
 
 Ah ! when was the time he such sorrow had shown, 
 
 And she came not ? — but now the old man weeps alone. 
 
 And could she remember his fondness, that threw 
 
 Fresh flowers o'er her path, every moment she knew, 
 
 That granted each wish her light heart could prefer, 
 
 Who in the wide world had but her — only her ? 
 
 Oh nature ! how strange and unfeeling appears 
 
 This breaking of all the affections of years, 
 
 For one who a summer ago was unknown, 
 
 Yet that one has her heart, — the old man weeps alone. 
 
 No, not for a crown as an emperor's bride, 
 
 Had I quitted a father's affectionate side ! 
 
 I'd think on his evenings, long, lonely and dim, 
 
 And prize not a love »•> unconnected with him ; 
 
 Deem'd the one who'd have sooth'd not my father's decline, 
 
 (How'er he might love me) unworthy of mine, 
 
 Nor changed the affections 'neath which I have grown, 
 
 Nor left a fond father, old, cheerless and lone. 
 
 By E. Swain.
 
 S jane rowi.ey's 
 
 'TIS SWEET TO LOVE IN CHILDHOOD. 
 
 'Tis sweet to love in childhood, when the souls that we 
 
 bequeath, 
 Are baeutiful in freshness as the coronals we wreathe ; 
 When we feed the gentle robin and caress the leaping 
 
 hound, 
 And linger latest in the spot where buttercups are found ; 
 When we seek the bee and lady-bird with laughter, shout 
 
 and song, 
 And think the days of wooing them can never be too 
 
 long. 
 'Tis sweet to love in childhood, and though waked by 
 
 meanest things, 
 The music that the heart yields then will never leave its 
 
 strings. 
 
 'Tis sweet to love in after years, the dear one by our side, 
 To dote with all the mingled joys of fashion, hope and 
 
 pride ; 
 To think the chain around our heart will hold still warm 
 
 and fast, 
 And grieve to think that death will come to break that 
 
 chain at last ; 
 But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning hue by 
 
 hue, — 
 When eyes forget their kindly beams, and lips become 
 
 untrue, —
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 9 
 
 When stricken hearts are pining on through many a 
 
 lonely hour, 
 Who would not sigh, " 'Tis sweeter far to love the bird 
 
 and flower " ? 
 
 'Tis sweet to love in ripened age the trumpet blast of 
 
 fame, 
 To pant to live in glory's scrolls, though blood may trace 
 
 the name ; 
 'Tis sweet to love the heap of gold and hug it to our breast, 
 To trust it as the guiding star and anchor of our rest ; 
 But such devotion will not serve, however strong the 
 
 zeal, 
 To overthrow the altar where our childhood used to 
 
 kneel ; 
 Some bitter moments shall o'ercast the sum of wealth 
 
 and power, 
 And then proud man would fain go back to worship 
 
 bird and flower. 
 
 A woman should be the directing power that sets the 
 machine of domestic life in motion, but she ought to be 
 as careful that her influence is rather felt than seen, as 
 a good watchmaker will exclude from the sight the 
 spring on which the watch depends. 
 
 Silence is the softest response for all the contradic- 
 tions that arise from impertinence, vulgarity and envy.
 
 IO JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 Know ye the land where no pain or sorrow 
 
 Shall darken the brow, or shall bow down the head, — 
 
 Where no grief of to-day, and no thought of the morrow 
 
 Shall reach the glad heart or appall it with dread? 
 
 Know ye the land of the spirit of peace, 
 
 Where the joys never lessen, the hymns never cease, 
 
 Where the friend of our bosom here lost in the tomb 
 
 Shall meet us again ever freed from its gloom ? 
 
 Where the hearts here divided, united shall rest, 
 
 And be healed of their woes in the realms of the blest, 
 
 W^here the tear shall not quench the bright beams of the 
 
 eye, 
 Where the hope here destroy'd meet fruition on high, 
 And spirit with spirit in love only vie? 
 And the arm that chastised be extended to save, 
 When the morn shall arise on the night of the grave. 
 'Tis the home of the past, 'tis the region of truth, 
 Where her children shall dwell in the region of youth. 
 Oh ! dearer than aught to the sorrow worn soul, 
 Are the dreams of that land and the hope of that goal. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Some waltz, some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
 Of metaphysics, others are content 
 With music, the most moderate shine as wits, 
 While others have a turn for fits. — Byron.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. II 
 
 THE RIVALS. 
 
 Two rivals young and aged met, 
 
 Within the fairy bay, 
 Where Beauty and her radiant set 
 
 Of smiles and glances play. 
 The one was Love, so fond and fair ; 
 The other Gold, the millionaire. 
 
 " How's this," cried Gold, 
 
 " That Love's so bold, — 
 A pirate on the coast, 
 
 Where wealthy I 
 
 Have sovereignty. 
 As beauty's fain to boast ? " 
 Love curled his handsome lip with pride, 
 Said Gold was base, and basely lied, 
 To which quoth Gold, " she can't endure 
 The beggar Love — the boy is poor." 
 Friends interposed, the duel stay'd, 
 Wisely advising, " try the maid," 
 So bending low in Beauty's bower 
 Each ply'd their art with all their power. 
 
 Love lit the beacons of his eyes, 
 
 And Beauty blushed for joy ; 
 Love whispered burning words and sighs, 
 
 Then beauty kissed the boy. 
 " Ah, Love," said she, " come weal or woe,
 
 £2 jane row-ley's 
 
 With you alone through life I go." 
 The graceful youth 
 Believed it truth, 
 
 And came out gay and bold. 
 "Now, sir, advance." 
 With hausrhtv "fiance 
 
 He said to scornful Gold ; 
 
 Love's yellow rival bent his knee 
 
 To Beauty with a pedigree, 
 
 A casket, carriage, lackeys tall, 
 
 Soiree and rout, and frequent ball. 
 
 " Oh ! dear Gold," false Beauty cried, 
 " I'll jilt fond Love, and be your bride." 
 Gold tied the knot, Love left the shore, 
 Now Love and Beauty meet no more. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 I've seen at early morning's hour, 
 The dew-drop sparkle on the flower, 
 And marked the sun-beam o'er it play, 
 Then steal it to the skies away. 
 And thus I've thought it's pity's tear, 
 Shed by us erring mortals here, — 
 But snatched by heaven and treasured there 
 With Faith, and Hope, and Love, and Prayer, 
 
 J. J?. Clark.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 13 
 
 THE MAN I LOVE. 
 
 I love an open countenance, 
 
 A kind and noble face, — 
 The index of an honest heart 
 
 That loves the human race ! 
 A brow on which a smile is thron'd 
 
 Like sunlight on a flower, 
 As open as the regal skies 
 
 With beams of love and power ! 
 
 I love the kind and welcome glance 
 
 That proves we're not alone ; 
 And oh ! how sweet at times to find 
 
 Some feelings like our own ! 
 A heart that beats with purest hopes, 
 
 To pity and to bless ; 
 That strives to make earth's comforts more — 
 
 Its pains and follies less ! 
 
 I love the man whose generous smile 
 
 Is given with his hand, 
 Who sees his equal in all men, 
 
 And all men equal stand ! 
 Who sees not the distinction made 
 
 By human laws between 
 The man who has, and who has not, 
 
 But loves from what he's seen.
 
 14 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 I love the man whose heart is true, 
 
 Who seldom wears a frown, 
 And loves all men, from him who toils 
 
 To him who wears a crown ! 
 With mildness ever on his lip, 
 
 A free and open mind, — 
 A mind with mental grandeur span'd, 
 
 A soul supremely kind. 
 
 BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 We should never in any way consent to the ill treat- 
 ment of animals, because the fear ol ridicule or some other 
 fear, prevents our interfering. As to there being any- 
 thing really trifling in any act of humanity, however 
 slight, it is moral blindness to suppose so. The few 
 moments in the course of each day, which a man absorbs 
 in some worldly pursuit, may be carefully expended in 
 kmd words or trifling charities to those around him, and 
 kindness to animals is one of them, are perhaps, in the 
 sight of heaven, the only time he has lived worthy of re- 
 cording. 
 
 He who first arouses in the bondsman the sense and 
 soul of freedom, comes as near as is permitted to man — 
 nearer than the philosopher, nearer than the poet — to 
 the great attributes of God.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 15 
 
 LONG YEARS HAVE PASSED. 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Long years have passed, old friend, since we 
 
 First met in life's young day ; 
 And friends long loved by thee and me 
 
 Since then have pass'd away ; 
 But enough remains to cheer us on, 
 
 And sweeten when thus we're met, 
 The glass we fill to the many gone, 
 
 And the few who're left us yet. 
 
 Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow, 
 
 And some hang white and chill ; 
 While some like flow'rs 'mid autumn's snow, 
 
 Retain youth's color yet. 
 And so in our hearts, thoughts one by one, 
 
 Youth's sunny hopes have set ; 
 Thank heaven, not all their light is gone — 
 
 We've some to cheer us yet. 
 
 Then here's to thee, old friend, and long 
 
 Mav thou and I thus meet 
 To brighten still with wine and song, 
 
 This short life, ere it fleet. 
 And still, as death comes stealing on, 
 
 Let's never old friend forget, 
 E'n though we sigh o'er blessings gone, 
 
 How many are left us yet.
 
 1 6 jane rowley's 
 
 MORN'S OFFERING. 
 
 The prize of the golden violet, for the six verses on a botanical sub- 
 ject, has, at length been awarded, by a committee appointed at the Feite 
 Champctre, on the 20th June, to the author of the effusion having the 
 above title, and signed "Francis." The fortunate competitor for the 
 second prize (a book) is the writer whose real name is disguised under 
 the fanciful signature — "I wish I may get it." Of the pieces whose 
 poetical merit the Committee considered of a high order, are those signed 
 " Mary," " M," " Alonzo," " E. L. L." and "K." The second prize will 
 when received, be forwarded to the winner. The following is the prize 
 poem : 
 
 As night stole away from a wild flowery nook, 
 And morning awaking, her dewy wings shook, 
 
 A low silver sound 
 
 Was heard all around ; 
 
 Each leaflet and cup 
 
 In rapture sent up 
 Its devotion and love, on the wings of the morn, 
 And their incense to God was triumphantly borne. 
 
 The Rose sent her blushes, all tearful with dew, 
 The Pansy, sweet thought, ever changeful and new 
 
 The Poppy its bloom, 
 
 Sweetbriar its perfume, 
 
 The Hawthorne sent showers 
 
 Of sweet-scented flowers, 
 And the Daisy its modesty flinging o'er morn, 
 It seem'd e'en her glittering charms to adorn.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 17 
 
 The Bramble, the moral its pointed thorns teach, 
 
 You must all feel their touch, ere its fruits you may reach. 
 
 And from a moss bed 
 
 Just raising its head, 
 
 The lone, the forsaken 
 
 Sweet Primrose awaking, 
 Sighed, " Bear on thy wings to the regions of bliss, 
 The love of a heart that is slighted in this." 
 
 The Broom sent the grace that each motion betrays, 
 As the kiss of the wind every golden bough sways ; 
 
 The Woodbine spread wide 
 
 Its proud arms and cried, — ■ 
 
 Bear, bear on thy wing 
 
 To the heavenly king, 
 The fond clinging love, — the rich aspirations 
 Of a heart that is, — that is breaking in this 
 
 The Harebell its meekness and purity threw, 
 
 And its colors to blend with the heaven's own blue. 
 
 Forget-me-not flung 
 
 Those offerings among 
 
 Remembrances soft — 
 
 To be born up aloft, 
 To that home in the skies, in whose heavenly bowers, 
 Morn pours out the incense of sweet welding flowers. 
 
 And think you the giver of life and of light, 
 
 In the realms of the blessed, the pure and the bright,
 
 iS jane rowley's 
 
 Regards not the sweets, 
 
 The balmy air greets, 
 
 From garden and dell 
 
 Where gay flowers dwell ? 
 Yes, yes ! to his throne is triumphantly borne 
 The incense of flowers on the wings of the morn. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 
 It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature 
 that when the heart is touched and softened by some tran- 
 quil happiness or affectionate feeling, the memory of the 
 dead comes over it most powerfully and irresistibly. 
 It would almost seem as though our better thoughts and 
 sympathies were charms in virtue of which the soul is 
 enabled to hold some vague and mysterious intercourse 
 with the spirits of those whom we love dearly in life. 
 Alas ! how often and how long may those patient angels 
 hover over us, watching for the spell which is so seldom 
 uttered and so soon forgotten. 
 
 A worthy Baronet of Erin's clime had a famed 
 telescope in His possession, and on a time, of its en- 
 gaging powers he made profession. "Your church," cried 
 he, " is distant near a mile, yet when I view it steady for a 
 while, upon a bright and sunny day, my glass so strong 
 and clear, does bring the church so near that I can hear 
 the organ play.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 19 
 
 The beautiful girl a chaplet wove, 
 
 Of violets, heart's-ease and rose, 
 And she called it an emblem of woman's love, 
 
 But her specimens all were untrue. 
 
 The rose that blushed to each man's sigh, 
 That blossoms yet blooms as before, 
 
 Is no emblem of that which can never die, 
 Or dying can bloom no more. 
 
 The modest violet simple and pure, 
 
 But she who like it can impart 
 Her sweetness to all around her, be sure 
 
 Love never has touched her heart. 
 
 And heart's-ease, why the very name's a spell, 
 Love has doubly vowdly to break, 
 
 Look upon her who has loved and tell 
 The tale that you read on her cheek. 
 
 And rose ! oh, she knew as little of love, 
 Who could fancy an emblem in this, 
 
 Whoever has felt its pangs and would prove 
 In exchange any earthly bliss. 
 
 No, give me the lofty and lone aloe, 
 Scarce known to our northern skies ; 
 
 That, that is like woman's love, for oh ! 
 It blossoms but once and dies,
 
 20 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 IT SPOILS A MAN TO MARRY HIM. 
 
 Believe, dear girls, this maxim true, 
 In precept and in practice, too, 
 
 That it spoils a man to marry him : 
 The creature never ought to go 
 Beyond a honeymoon or so ; 
 If they survive that, they will show 
 That it spoils a man to marry him. 
 When first he kneels before your feet, 
 How soft his words ! his looks so sweet. 
 
 But it spoils a man to marry him. 
 
 When once a late consent he'll wring 
 And get your finger in the ring, 
 Oh ! then he's quite another thing. 
 It spoils a man to marry him. 
 
 Have you a fancy ? you must drop it, 
 A will it may be? you must lop it 
 
 Before you think of marrying. 
 And even if you venture then, 
 Select the very worst of men ; 
 If not, nine chances out of ten 
 'Twill spoil the wretch to marry him. 
 Now lady fair, I must tell you 
 For fear that you might chance to rue, 
 
 Don't please the wretch to marry him.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 21 
 
 But, lady fair, should this offend, 
 Just please yourself, for in the end 
 Perhaps he'll prove a trusty friend, 
 Then love the lad and marry him. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 Oh ! what a pure and sacred thing 
 
 Is beauty curtained from the sight 
 Of the gross world, illumining 
 
 One only mansion with its light. 
 Unseen by man's disturbing eye, 
 
 The flower that blooms beneath the sea 
 Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie 
 
 Hid in more chaste obscurity. 
 
 STANZA. 
 
 BY ROBERT GILFILLAN. 
 On hearing a lady sing an Irish melody. 
 
 Louise ! Louise ! what strains are these 
 That fall upon mine ear the while ? 
 
 'Tis music's voice, and thine own choice 
 Sweet breathing from the Emerald Isle ! 
 
 There is a land that all men claim, 
 
 Where'er the spot on rounded earth — 
 
 Whate'er the clime, whate'er the name — 
 Land of our fathers and our birth.
 
 22 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 Old England has its vales of green, 
 And Scotland has its woods of pine ; 
 
 And, fair Louise ! thy songs, I ween, 
 Tell that loved Erin's land is thine. 
 
 I love the isle from whence thou'rt sprung, 
 Land of the brave, the kind, the free : 
 
 Where harps high-toned, by minstrels strung 
 Have waked their sweetest melody ! 
 
 Thy sires, Louise ! in lordly halls 
 Held sway, — on the battle plain 
 
 Show'd deeds, which thy song recalls 
 We hope may not return again. 
 
 Too much of blood — too much of war 
 Hath England, Erin, Scotland seen : — 
 
 This had been one bright scene below 
 Had man to man as brother been. 
 
 We seek not fame that still is ours, 
 
 For high in thought and bold in hand, 
 
 Have stood our sires, with giant powers, 
 The guardians of our fatherland ! 
 
 But give us peace, and give us love, — 
 The rose, the thistle, shamrock green — 
 
 United thus like stars above, 
 
 Each in his track shall bright be seen.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 23 
 
 Fair lady ! wake thy song again, 
 
 Thee and its strains the bard adores ; 
 
 'Tis Erin's voice across the main, 
 Soft sounding on our Scottish shore. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 BY C. B. WYATT. 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Dear hours of night ! how many a soul confined 
 In daily bonds awaits thy still return, — 
 
 Whether it longs o'er cherished griefs to mourn, 
 
 From which with jealous care it wish to blind 
 
 Familiar gaze, or, free as rushing winds 
 Burst from yEolian caverns, wanders o'er 
 Hope's airy realms, or memory's far off shore, 
 
 Now soaring, pausing now : for night is kind 
 To raptures such as these, and oft I wean 
 
 Hath she beheld the solitary tear 
 
 Hid from day's gaudy eye, in secret seen 
 
 The heart revealed, or the perception clear 
 
 Brought back the look of kindness that has been, 
 
 And distant voices to the dreaming ear. 
 
 Little minds rejoice over the errors of men of genius, 
 as the owl rejoices at an eclipse.
 
 24 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Is love a mere passion, an excitement? Is it not rather 
 a mystic affiiny existing in kindred minds, latent, per- 
 haps, till circumstances bring them within the sphere of 
 its mysterious agency? Is the beautiful apologue all fable 
 that the souls of those individuals of either sex, intended 
 for each other, receive at their formation the impress of 
 their destiny, however widely separated at their birth, 
 and know and recognize each other. God forbid. 
 
 Retrospection. — When the veil of death has been 
 drawn between us and the objects of our regard, how 
 quick-sighted we become to their merits, and how bitterly 
 do we then remember words or looks of unkindness which 
 may have escaped us in our intercourse with them. How 
 careful should such thoughts render us in the fulfillment 
 of those offices of affection, which it maybe in our power 
 to perform, for who can tell how soon the moment may 
 arrive when repentance cannot be followed by reparation. 
 
 Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyous 
 dread, or makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts 
 to languish and to pine. And feed itself with self- 
 consuming smart. Of all the passions of the mind 
 thou vilest art. — Spencer.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 25 
 
 Woe to him that removeth the ancient landmark, 
 
 For a serpent shall sting him. 
 
 Woe to him that increases that which is not his, 
 
 And establishes his house with blood ! 
 
 Woe to him that dealeth treacherously, 
 
 For when he shall make an end of dealing treacherously, 
 
 Others shall deal treacherously by him ! 
 
 I LOVE HER, HOW I LOVE HER. 
 
 I love her, how I love her, 
 Tho' mine, alas ! she ne'er can be, 
 The sun that shines above her, 
 Is far less bright to me ; 
 Tho' time by tears I measure, 
 I prize my fatal treasure, 
 And find a fatal pleasure 
 In suffering sweet for thee. 
 
 I love her, how I love her. 
 
 Deep, deep in my bosom concealing, 
 The fierce flame, the flame that consumes me, 
 Ne'er, ne'er e'er to thee shall my lips reveal 
 All the woes I feel ; the voice of honor I obey, 
 It speaks in friendship's sacred name, 
 And to my heart alone I say, — 
 I love her, how I love her.
 
 26 jane rowley's 
 
 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 They grew in beauty side by side, 
 They fill'd one house with glee. 
 
 Their graves are scattered far and wide, 
 By mount, by stream, and sea. 
 
 The same fond mother bent at night, 
 O'er each fair sleeper's brow ; 
 
 She had each flower in her sight, — 
 Where are those dreamers now? 
 
 One midst the forest of the west, 
 
 By a dark stream is laid, 
 The Indian knows his place of rest, 
 
 Far in the cedar shade. 
 
 The sea, the lone blue sea has one, 
 
 He lies where pearls lie deep, 
 He was the lov'd of all, yet none 
 
 O'er his low bed may weep. 
 One sleeps where southern vines are drest 
 
 Above the noble slain ; 
 He wrapped his colors round his breast, 
 
 On a blood-red field of Spain. 
 And one o'er her the myrtle showers, 
 
 Its leaves by soft winds fann'd, 
 She faded midst Italian bowers, 
 
 The last of that bright land.
 
 SCIIAP BOOK. 2f 
 
 And parted thus the rest, who played, 
 
 Beneath the same green tree ; 
 Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
 
 Around one parent knee. 
 
 They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
 And cheered with song the hearth, — 
 
 Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 
 
 And naught beyond, oh earth ! — He?nans. 
 
 THE MARINER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SHIP. 
 
 Farewell to thee, my gallant ship, thy race is run at last, 
 Thy timbers o'er the troubled waves in wild confusion 
 
 cast ; 
 Ah ! never more I'll see thee in thy loveliness and pride, 
 Bound boldly o'er the billows, or dash the surf aside. 
 
 Oh ! to see thee in thy beauty, careering through the 
 
 deep, 
 While laughing waters round thy prow in gladness doth 
 
 leap ; 
 Thy snowy sails, thy stately spars, thy streamers flashing 
 
 free, 
 I did not think that fate could harm so fair a thing as- 
 
 thee.
 
 2S jane rowley's 
 
 " Thou lookest so like a thing of life," I never dream 
 
 the wave, 
 Whose offspring thou didst seem to be, would prove at 
 
 last thy grave. 
 Full many a steep and stormy sea thou'st swept in triumph 
 
 o'er, 
 But now, alas ! my fearless ship, thou' 11 brave the waves 
 
 no more. 
 
 No more I'll tread thy slippery deck, or climb thy 
 
 haughty mast, 
 Which scarcely deigned to bend before the breeze that 
 
 galloped past, 
 Thou liest with a winding sheet of foam encircling round, 
 Thy dirge the whistling tempest, or the surges' sullen 
 
 sound. 
 
 My early friends have passed away, my only love is laid 
 In sorrow and in silence, beneath the willow shade ; 
 Thou wast the sole remaining thing that I could call my 
 
 own, 
 Thou too art gone, and I am left upon the world alone. 
 
 TO THE VIOLET. 
 
 Oh ' would sweet flower that I might be 
 Destined to live in shade like thee, 
 Seen by but few and known to none,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 29 
 
 Save those that seek me as their own, — 
 
 To bloom upon my native ground 
 
 With those I love encircling round, 
 
 To be a harbinger of spring, 
 
 A lovely yet a fmgile thing, 
 
 And when I die, sweet flower to be 
 
 Still loved for purity, — like thee. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 If after all thou still will doubt and fear me, 
 And think this heart to other loves will stray ; 
 If I must swear then lovely doubter hear me, 
 By every dream I have when thou'rt away, 
 By every throb I feel when thou art near me, 
 I love but thee — I love but thee. 
 
 By those dark eyes where light is ever playing, 
 
 Where love in depths of shadow holds its throne ; 
 
 And by those lips which give what'er thou'rt saying, 
 
 Or grave or gay a music of its own, 
 
 A music far beyond all minstrels playing, — 
 
 I love but thee — I love but thee. 
 
 By that fair brow where innocence reposes, 
 As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow ; 
 And by that cheek whose fleeting blush discloses 
 A hue too bright to bless this world below, 
 And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses, 
 I love but thee — I love but thee.
 
 30 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 -"PAPA, WHAT IS A NEWSPAPER, AND WHAT 
 DOES IT CONTAIN?" 
 
 Organs, that means play, my boy, 
 To answer the taste of the clay, 
 
 Whatever it be, 
 
 The hit on the key. 
 And pipe in full chorus, away, my boy. 
 
 News from all countries and climes, 
 Advertisements, essays and rhymes. 
 
 Mixed up with all sorts 
 
 Of (f) lying retorts, 
 And published at regular times. 
 
 Articles able and wise, 
 
 At least in the editor's eyes, 
 
 And logic so grand, 
 
 That few understand 
 To what in the world it applies. 
 
 Statistics, reflections, reviews, 
 Little scraps to instruct and amuse 
 
 And lengthy debate 
 
 Upon matters of State, 
 For wise-headed folks to peruse. 
 
 The funds as they were, as they are, 
 The quibs and the quirks of the bar,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 3 r 
 
 And every week 
 A clever critique 
 Of some clever theatrical star. 
 
 The age of Jupiter's moons, 
 
 And stealing of somebody's spoons, 
 
 The state of the crops, 
 
 The style of the sops, 
 And the wit of the public buffoon. 
 
 List of all physical ills, 
 Banished by somebody's pills, 
 
 Till you ask with surprise, 
 
 Why any one dies, 
 Or what's the disorder that kills. 
 
 Who has got married, to whom, — 
 Who were cut oft' in their bloom, 
 
 Who has had birth 
 
 On this sorrow-stained earth, 
 And who totters fast to the tomb ? 
 
 The price of cattle and grain, 
 Directions to dig and to drain ; 
 
 But 'twould take me too long 
 
 To tell you in song 
 A quarter of all they contain.
 
 32 jane rowley's 
 
 THE CANTEEN. 
 
 BY PRIVATE MILES O'REILLY. 
 
 There are bonds of all sorts in this world of ours, 
 Fetters of friendship, and ties of flowers, 
 
 And true lovers' knots I ween ! 
 The girl and the boy are bound by a kiss, 
 But there's never a bond, old friend, like this — 
 
 We have drank from the same canteen. 
 
 It was sometimes water, and sometimes milk. 
 And sometimes apple-jack fine as silk, 
 
 But whatever the tipple has been, 
 We shared it together in bane or bliss, 
 And I warm to thee, friend, when I think of this — 
 
 We have drank from the same canteen. 
 
 The rich and the great sit down to dine, 
 
 And they quaff to each other in sparkling wine, 
 
 From glasses of crystal and green ; 
 But I guess in their golden potations they miss 
 The warmth of regard to be found in this, 
 
 We have drank from the same canteen. 
 
 We have shared our blanket and tent together, 
 
 And have marched and fought in all kinds of weather, 
 
 And hungry and full we have been ; 
 Had days of battle and days of rest,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 33 
 
 But this memory I cling to and love the hest, 
 We have drank from the same canteen. 
 
 For wounded I lay on the outer slope, 
 
 With my blood flowing fast and but little hope 
 
 Upon which my faint spirit could lean ; 
 Oh, then, I remember, you crawled to my side, 
 And bleeding so fast, it seemed both should have died, 
 
 We drank from the same canteen. 
 
 COURAGE IN WOMEN. 
 
 There is a branch of general education which is not 
 thought at all necessary for women, as regards which, 
 indeed, it is well if they are not brought up to culti- 
 vate the opposite. Women are not taught to be cour- 
 ageous. Indeed to some persons courage may seem as 
 unnecessary as Latin or Greek. Yet there are few 
 things that would tend to make woman happier in 
 themselves, and more acceptable to those with whom 
 they live than courage. There are many women of 
 the present day, sensible women in other things, whose 
 panic terrors are a frequent source of discomfort to them- 
 selves and those around them. Now it is a great mis- 
 take to imagine that hardness must go with courage ! 
 and that the bloom of gentleness and sympathy must 
 all be rubbed oft' by that vapor of the mind.
 
 34 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 How noiselessly the snow comes down. You may 
 see it, but never hear it. It is true charity. Has any 
 one wounded you with injuries ? Meet them with patience ; 
 hasty words rankle the wound; kindness dresses it, 
 forgiveness cures it, and oblivion takes away the scar. 
 Keep doing, always doing. Wishing, dreaming, in- 
 tending, murmuring, talking, sighing, and repining are 
 idle and profitless employments. Speak nothing but 
 what may benefit others or yourself. Avoid trifling 
 conversation. 
 
 CULTIVATION OF WOMAN'S MIND. 
 
 It is a wrong view of things to suppose that a just 
 cultivation of woman's mental powers will take them 
 out of their sphere. The most cultivated women per- 
 form their common duties best. They see more in 
 those duties. They can do more. Lady Jane Grey 
 would, I dare say, have bound up a wound, or man- 
 aged a household with any unlettered woman of her 
 day. Queen Elizabeth did manage a kingdom, and we 
 find no pedantry in her way of doing it. 
 
 Not as the worldling bids farewell 
 When earthly wishes bound his view, 
 None but the Christian's tongue can tell, 
 The fulness of that word, adieu.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 35 
 
 THE CIRCASSIAN SLAVE. 
 
 A maiden young, with fair hair flowing, 
 
 Scarce covered with a linen white, 
 Lies amid other wares deep glowing, 
 
 In the bazarr, exposed to sight. 
 
 Not far from her, deep wrapt and sunken, 
 
 And gazing on her youthful charms, 
 A young man stands, his fond eye drunken, 
 
 Dress'd as a slave, with folded arms. 
 
 The broker cries, " Look here, ye buyers ! 
 
 From Caucasus, a lovely child ; 
 When saw ye eyes with brighter fires, 
 
 A form more fair, a face so mild ? " 
 
 " From head to foot such beauties grace her, 
 
 That were I of Algiers the Dey, 
 In my seraglios list to place her 
 
 Good twenty purses full I'd pay ! " 
 
 So fair a form of alabaster, 
 
 No Moslem house as yet can claim, 
 " I offer fifty gold piasters ! " 
 
 A Bashaw cries, with eyes of flame. 
 " I'll give sixty ! " says an Emir, 
 
 Whose heart beat high within his breast ; 
 "An hundred ! " says an Aga, "look here, 
 
 I offer more than all the rest ! "
 
 36 jane rowley's 
 
 " No ! " an Efiendi calls, " believe me, 
 
 A hundred is too small a sum ; 
 I will fifty more to have thee ; 
 
 Thou'rt mine, young maiden, — rise and come ! " 
 
 " Not yet ! " exclaims a Greek ; " my masters, 
 
 Those eyes as bright as the gazelle, 
 Are worth two hundred gold piasters, 
 
 That every one must know full well." 
 
 " I bid four hundred golden pieces ! " 
 
 A Muscovite's loud voice proclaims ; 
 " That price this maiden releases, 
 
 So, bidders all, withdraw your claims ! " 
 
 And with rude grasp the Russian taking, 
 
 The young Circassian by the hands, 
 See how that youth, as if awaking, 
 
 Soon by her side in fury stands, 
 
 And cries, "Not yet, O, Russian, hast thou 
 
 Obtained this maiden as thy slave ! 
 For know, a price for her I'll bid now 
 
 Ten times as great as all you gave ! " 
 
 The maiden joyous, but still fearful, 
 
 Starts as she hears that well-loved tone ; 
 
 No music e'er seemed half so cheerful, 
 As sounds her lover's voice — her own !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 37 
 
 But see with anger deeply burning, 
 
 The Russian seize his yatagan, 
 And cry, "your price? " in fury turning — 
 
 " You tawny dog from Afganistan ! " 
 
 '" , Her freedom ! " thundered the Circassian, 
 With eyes that flamed wild rage and hate ; 
 
 And sudden paleness seized each other, 
 
 Whose cheeks had burned and slowed of late. 
 
 &' 
 
 For see ! a poignard bright disclosing, 
 He pierces through that virgin breast ; 
 
 The maiden sinks, her bright eyes closing, 
 Clasp'd in his arms to endless rest. 
 
 In vain each dagger bright now glances, 
 No steel shall touch him but his own. 
 
 Long e'er that angry troup advances, 
 Both souls to joy in heaven had flown. 
 
 Woman's Influence. — "There is something to 
 me," says Byron, "very softening in the presence of 
 a woman, some strange influence, even if one is not 
 in love with them. I always feel in a better humor 
 with myself and everything else if there is a woman 
 within ken."
 
 3S jane rowley's 
 
 NOTHING IS LOST. 
 
 Aside from its excellent moral, is not the following very musical and 
 beautiful ? 
 
 Nothing is lost, the drop of dew 
 
 Which trembles on the leaf or flower, 
 
 Is but exhaled to fall anew 
 In summer's thunder-shower ; 
 
 Perchance to sparkle in the flow 
 Of fountains far away. 
 
 Nothing is lost, the tiniest seed 
 
 By wild birds borne or breezes blown, 
 Finds something suited to its need, 
 
 Wherein 'tis sown and grown ; 
 The language of some household song, 
 
 The perfume of some cherished flower, 
 Though gone from outward sense, belong 
 
 To memory's after-hour. 
 
 So with our words, or harsh, or kind, 
 
 Uttered, they are not all forgot ; 
 They have their influence on the mind, 
 
 Pass on but perish not. 
 So with our deeds, or good, or ill, 
 
 They have their power scarce understood ; 
 Then let us use our better will 
 
 To make them rife with good. 
 

 
 SCRAP BOOK. 39 
 
 TO 
 
 Of all the flowers that sweetly blow, 
 You ask which is most dear to me ; 
 
 I love them best that native grow, 
 And unassuming bloom like thee. 
 
 *» 
 
 And first I love the violet sweet, 
 
 Content it blooms, though none may see 
 
 The applausive gaze it does not seek, 
 But hides its modest worth like thee. 
 
 And the vale lily's virgin white, 
 Its forms and emblems well agree, 
 
 Tho' simply clothed it glads the sight, 
 Though unobtrusive charms like thee. 
 
 I love the wild forget-me-not, 
 
 Where labor rests it does not flee, 
 
 But graces oft the rustic's cot, 
 
 And breathes contentment round like thee. 
 
 I love the rose because its cheek 
 
 Glows fresh with health and cheerful glee, 
 Its tints the touch of beauty speak, 
 
 'Tis beauty's favorite, 'tis thee. 
 
 To number more were waste of time, 
 In short whate'er their forms may be
 
 „>. 
 
 4-0 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 Whate'er their hues, whate'er their clime, 
 I love them most when most like thee. 
 
 The laws of politeness should be observed not only 
 between intimate friends, but between members of the 
 same family, and those households are most peace- 
 ful and happy where the courtesies of good society are 
 observed. There need not, and ought not to be for- 
 mality ; but little attention between brothers and sisters, 
 making mutual esteem, prevent that carelessness and 
 hardness which is most apt to creep into the family, 
 and which grow out of intimacy. It is good manners 
 and consideration for each other's feelings that prevents 
 familiarity engendering contempt. 
 
 ADAM'S SLEEP. 
 
 He laid him down and slept, and from his side 
 A woman in her magic beauty rose ; 
 Dazzled and charmed he called that woman " bride," 
 And his first sleep became his last repose. 
 
 A friend that you have to buy wont lie worth what 
 you have to pay for him, no matter how little that may 
 be. 
 
 Leave your grievances, as Napoleon did his letters, 
 unopened for three weeks, and it is astonishing how few 
 of them will at that time require answering.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 41 
 
 THE PARROT. 
 
 The deep affections of the hreast, 
 
 That heaven to living things imparts. 
 
 Are not exclusively possessed 
 By human hearts. 
 
 A parrot from the Spanish main, 
 
 Full young and early caged came o'er, 
 
 With bright wings to the bleak domain 
 Of Mulla's shore. 
 
 The spicy groves where he had won 
 His plumage of resplendent hue, 
 
 His native fruits, and skies, and sun, 
 He bade adieu. 
 
 For those he changed the smoke of turf, 
 
 A heathry land and misty sky, 
 And turn'd on rocks and raging surf, 
 
 His golden eye. 
 
 But, petted in our climate cold, 
 
 He lived and chattered many a day ; 
 
 Until with age, from green and gold, 
 His wings grew grey. 
 
 At last when blind and seeming dumb, 
 He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,
 
 42 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
 To Mulla's shore. 
 
 He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, 
 
 The bird in Spanish speech replied, 
 Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, 
 
 Dropp'd down and died. 
 
 This incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and as 
 sociation in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years 
 ago in the Island of Mulla, from the family to whom the bird belonged 
 — Thomas Campbell. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN UPON SEEING MULVANY'S 
 
 PICTURE OF "FIRST LOVE," IN THE 
 
 IRISH EXHIBITION OF PAINTINGS. 
 
 BY ELIZABETH AUCHINLECK. 
 
 Aye, gaze upon her face, impassioned boy, 
 In its sweet bashfulness and timid joy ! 
 Thine is a trustful homage, free from art, 
 The earnest worship of an untaught heart ! 
 
 Nought throughout after life thy sight shall bless, 
 One thousandth part so rich in loveliness, 
 As that young peasant girl, so simply fair 
 With her unsandled feet and braided hair.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 43 
 
 Boyhood will flee away — the time will come 
 When for the haunts of men thou 'It leave thy home ; 
 Yet oft will memory turn so fondly still 
 To that companion dear, and lonely hill. 
 
 And years will pass, till dim as some sweet dream, 
 The vision of thy early years will seem ; 
 But never, never, quite from out thy heart 
 Will the lone echo of her voice depart. 
 
 And thou may'st love again — aye, passionately, 
 And past expression dear thy idol be ; 
 But the first love of youth's a precious thing, 
 A fragrant flower that knows no second spring ! 
 
 Thus mused I as I gazed with spell-bound eyes, 
 And blessed the " Art that could immortalize." 
 
 TFUTH. 
 
 Truth is the trial of itself, 
 And needs no other touch, 
 
 And purer than the purest gold, 
 Refine it ne'er so much. 
 
 It is the light and life of love, 
 The sun that ever shineth, 
 
 And spirit of that special grace, 
 That faith and love defineth.
 
 44 jane rowley's 
 
 It is the warrant of the word, 
 That yields a scent so sweet, 
 
 As gives a power to faith to tread 
 All falsehood under feet. 
 
 It is the word that doth divide 
 " The marrow from the bone," 
 
 And in affect of heavenly love 
 Doth show the holy one. 
 
 Recreation. — Make thy recreation servant to thy 
 "business, lest thou become slave to thy recreation. When 
 thou goest up into the mountain leave this servant in the 
 valley. When thou goest to the city, leave him in the 
 suburbs*,"and remember the servant must not be greater 
 than the master. 
 
 MARY MaCIIREE. 
 
 BY SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 The words of this beautiful song appeared in the last number but one 
 of the Artist-Authors,' " L. S. D." The air to which they are wedded is 
 plaintive and pathetic. 
 
 The flower of the valley was Mary MaChrce ; 
 
 Her smiles all bewitching were lovely to see, 
 
 The bees round her humming, when summer was gone, 
 
 When the roses were fled might her lips take for one.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 45 
 
 Her laugh it was music, her breath it was balm ; 
 Her heart like the lake, was as pure and as calm, 
 Till love o'er her came, like a breeze o'er the sea, 
 And made the heart heave of sweet Mary MaChree. 
 
 She loved, and she wept ; for when was gladness e'er 
 
 known 
 To dwell in the bosom that love made his own ? 
 His joys are but moments, his griefs are for years ; 
 He comes all in smiles and leaves all in tears ! 
 Her lover was gone to a far distant land, 
 And Mary in sadness would pace the lone strand, 
 And tearfully gaze on the dark rolling sea 
 That patted her soldier from Mary MaChree. 
 
 To these is added another verse, by Mr. James Storehouse, of Liverpool. 
 
 Oh ! pale grew her cheek when there came from afar, 
 
 The tales of the battle, and tidings of war ; 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears, when the clouds gathered 
 
 dark, 
 For fancy would picture some tempest-tost bark ; 
 But when winter came on and the deep woods were bare, 
 In the hall was a voice, and a foot on the stair, 
 Oh ! joy to the maiden, for o'er the deep sea, 
 The soldier returned to his Mary MaChree. 
 
 In character as in architecture, proportion is beauty.
 
 46 JAxe rowley's 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
 This is my own, my native land, 
 Whose heart has ne'er within him burned 
 As home his footsteps he has turned, 
 
 From wandering in a foreign land ? 
 If such there be, go mark him well, 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
 High though his title, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
 Despite those titles, power and pelf, 
 The wretch concentrated all in self, 
 Living shall forfeit fair renown, 
 And doubly dying shall go down, 
 To the vile grave from whence he sprung, 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
 How happily, how happily, the flowers die away, 
 Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they, 
 Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, 
 Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. 
 
 Every man has just as much vanity as he wants un- 
 derstanding. 
 
 Why is matrimony like a pair of snutflers?
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 47 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 'Tis night ! no eye is closed in sleep 
 
 In lowly roof or lordly dome, 
 Peals on the gale, with thundering sweep, 
 The old cathedral through the gloom ; 
 And like a torrent's overflow, 
 Echo the thronging streets below. 
 
 'Tis morn ! from battlement to ground 
 
 All is a blaze of gold and steel ; 
 Rings in the ear the trumpets sound, 
 The trampling of the charger's heel ; 
 The rushing tide, 
 Imperial Paris in her pride. 
 
 What wakes, proud city, your array? 
 
 What youthful king ascends the throne ? 
 What sovereign beauty's bridal day? 
 What battle gained ? What kingdom won? 
 
 Whom worship this high pomp of war? 
 
 What son of glory's rising star ? 
 
 Be hushed ! let sad mortality 
 
 Tell the sad moral of his tale, 
 Low in the dust, ye standards lie — 
 Ye trumpets, breathe the funeral wail ; 
 Weep, weep, )e brilliant and ye brave, 
 'Tis but the trumpet of the grave.
 
 4S jane rowley's 
 
 Now roars the gun with deeper roar, 
 Out bursts the voice of multitudes ; 
 Onward the glittering legions pour, 
 
 There wave the banners steeped in blood, 
 The sword that strewed the earth with slain, 
 From Niomen's shores to swarthy Spain. 
 
 But far along the dazzling line 
 
 Napoleon comes ! that man of power ; 
 A melancholy pomp is thine ! 
 
 In vain o'er thee the garlands shower ; 
 
 That conqueror needs nor trump or plume, 
 His ear is cold, — his throne a tomb. 
 
 This was the man of many a crown, 
 
 Who filled the nations with his fame, 
 Whose footstool saw the earth bow down — 
 The voice of fate, the glance of flame, 
 The fearful idol of the world, 
 There lies he from his glory hurled. 
 
 One hand withstood him to the last, 
 
 One fearless, glorious friend of man ; 
 Till o'er his wing her chain she cast, 
 Till his starred diadem was wan ; 
 Now from her distant dungeon cave, 
 To France she gives him and the grave.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 What woke the buried sound that lay 
 
 In Memnon's harp of yore? 
 What spirit on the viewless way, 
 
 Along: the Nile's green shore? 
 Oh ! not the night, and not the storm, 
 
 And not the lightning's fire ; 
 But sunlight touch — the kind, the warm, 
 
 This woke the mystic lyre, 
 
 This, this awoke the lyre. 
 
 What wins the heart's deep chords to pour 
 
 Their music forth on life, 
 Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er 
 
 The sounds of torrent strife ? 
 Oh ! not the conflict midst the strong, 
 
 Not e'en the trumpet's hour ; 
 Love is the gifted and the strong, 
 
 To wake that music's power, 
 
 His breath awakes that power. 
 
 49 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Where burns the loved hearth brightest, 
 
 Cheering the social breast? 
 Where beats the fond heart lightest,
 
 50 J ANIi KOWLEY S 
 
 Its humble hopes possessed ! 
 Where is the smile of sadness, 
 
 Of meek-eyed patience born, 
 Worth more than those of gladness, 
 
 Which mirth's bright cheeks adorn? 
 Pleasure is marked by fleetness 
 
 To those who ever roam. 
 While grief itself has sweetness 
 
 At home, dear home. 
 
 There blend the tears that strengthen 
 
 Our hearts in hours of grief, 
 The silver links that lengthen 
 
 Joy's visit when most brief; 
 Their eyes in all their splendor 
 
 Are vocal to the heart, 
 And glances gay and tender, 
 
 Fresh eloquence impart ; 
 Then cost thou sigh for pleasure, 
 
 Oh ! do not wildly roam, 
 But seek that hidden treasure 
 
 At home, sweet home. 
 
 Docs pure religion charm thee, 
 Far more than aught below? 
 
 Would'st thou that she should arm thee 
 Against the hour of woe:
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 51 
 
 Think not she dwelleth only 
 
 [n temples made for prayer, 
 For home itself were lonely 
 
 Unless her smiles be there. 
 The devotee may falter, 
 
 The bigot blindly roam, 
 If worshipless her altar 
 
 At home, sweet home. 
 
 Love over it presideth, 
 
 With meek and watchful awe ; 
 Its daily service guideth 
 
 And shows its perfect law ; 
 If there thy faith shall fail thee, 
 
 If there no shrine be found, 
 What can thy prayer avail thee, 
 
 With kneeling crowds around ? 
 Go, leave thy gift unoftered 
 
 Beneath religious dome, 
 And be thy first fruits offered 
 
 At home, dear home. 
 
 Man and his maker. — They that deny God, de- 
 stroy man's nobility ; for certainly man is of kin to the 
 beasts by his body, and if he be not of kin to God by his 
 spirit, he is an ignoble creature.
 
 52 jane rowley's 
 
 BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. 
 
 Life is a race where some succeed, 
 
 While others are beginning ; 
 'Tis luck at times, at others speed, 
 
 That gives an early winning ; 
 But if you chance to fall behind, 
 
 Ne'er slacken your endeavor, 
 Just keep this wholesome truth in mind, 
 
 'Tis better late than never. 
 
 If you can keep ahead, 'tis well, 
 • But never trip your neighbor ; 
 
 'Tis noble when you can excel, 
 
 By honest, patient labor ; 
 But if you are outstripped at best 
 
 Press on as bold as ever, 
 Remember, though you are surpassed, 
 
 'Tis better late than never. 
 
 Ne'er labor for an idle boast, 
 
 Of victory o'er another, 
 But while you strive your uttermost, 
 
 Deal fairly with a brother; 
 Whate'er your station, do your best, 
 
 And hold your purpose ever, 
 And if you fail to beat the rest, 
 
 'Tis better late than never. 
 
 /
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 53 
 
 Choose well the path in which you run, 
 
 Succeed by noble daring, 
 Then, though the last, when once 'tis won 
 
 Your crown is worth the wearing. 
 Then never fret if left behind, 
 
 Nor slacken your endeavor, 
 But ever keep this truth in mind, 
 
 'Tis better late than never. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I stood amid the glittering throng, 
 
 I heard a voice, its tones were sweet, 
 I turned to see from whence it came, 
 
 And gazed on all I wished to meet. 
 She was a fair and gentle girl, 
 
 Her meek eye greeted me by chance, 
 I whispered low, I took her hand, 
 
 I led, I led her forth to dance. 
 
 We had but little space to move, 
 
 So close, so closely all were drawn, 
 But she was light of heart and step, 
 
 And graceful, graceful as a fawn. 
 A virgin flower gemm'd her hair, 
 
 Her beauty to enhance, 
 She was the flower of all that stood, 
 
 In that close cottage dance. 
 
 ■cs
 
 54 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 I've moved since then in princely halls, 
 
 I tread them even now ; 
 I hold in mind the hand of one 
 
 With coroneted brow. 
 And I may seem to heed her smile, 
 
 And seem to court her glance, 
 But my heart and thought still wander home, 
 
 To that sweet cottage dance. 
 
 Oft when I sleep a melody 
 
 Comes stealing o'er my brain, 
 And the light music of that night 
 
 Is greeting me again. 
 I take her small white hand in mine, 
 
 Amid that blissful trance, 
 And one more vision worth a world, 
 
 I led her forth to dance. 
 
 I tink he's been koom-hunting, I tink he's goot for kooms, 
 Cause tere's nothing else he's good for, under the stars 
 
 and moon. 
 Come here you tarn vagabond — vere you peen, eh? 
 Oh ! mine noshe, you shmell vorse than one schunk, — I 
 
 sweeps now mit ter proom 
 For having to do not so pad people as schunks, if you 
 
 rims away again, 
 Me puts you in ter papers, and you ish ruined forever.
 
 SCKAP BOOK. 55 
 
 Little Things. — Springs arc little things, but they 
 are sources of large streams ; a helm is a little thing, but 
 governs the course of a ship ; a bridle-bit is a little 
 thing, but see its use and power ; nails and pegs are lit- 
 tle things, but they hold the large parts of buildings to- 
 gether ; a word, a look, a frown, are all little things, but 
 powerful for good or evil. Think of this and mind the 
 little things. Pay that little debt — 'tis promised ; redeem 
 it, if it is a shilling ; hand it over. You know not what 
 important event hangs upon it. Keep your word 
 sacredly. Keep it to the children ; they will mark it 
 sooner than any one else, and the effect will probably be 
 as lasting as life. Mind the little things. 
 
 If a soul thou would'st redeem, 
 And lead a lost one back to God, 
 Would'st thou a guardian angel seem, 
 To one who long in sin has trod ? 
 Go kindly to him — take his hand 
 With gentle words within your own, 
 And by his side a brother stand, 
 Till all the demon thou dethrone. 
 
 Mrs. M. Savage. 
 
 The first fresh love never dies wholly, it lives on 
 through pain and disappointment ; often when the heart 
 is crushed and all its sympathies pressed out, this 
 lingers and awakes, and shines bright.
 
 56 jane rowlhy's 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Oh ! give me the ocean's houndless plain, 
 
 And a barque to plough its wild, wild waves, 
 
 Give me the mirth of the trackless main, 
 
 As it roars in might through its hollow caves. 
 
 And give me the voice of the viewless breeze, 
 
 To whistle its song through my white swelling sails, 
 
 And play in its glee o'er the billowy seas, 
 Alternate the sport and the prey of its gales. 
 
 Give me the star-studded diademed night, 
 
 With its myriad of glories unveiled to the view, 
 
 Or the mild maiden moon, with her silvery face, 
 Shining forth from a canopied curtain of blue. 
 
 And give me the freedom to ramble and roam, 
 And visit each region of sun or of snow ; 
 
 The world for my country, my barque for my home, 
 Heaven's high arch above me, the ocean below. 
 
 Flowers that bloom to wither fast, 
 Light whose beams arc soon o'ercast, 
 Friendship warm, but not to last, 
 
 Such by earth are given. 
 ►Seek the flowers that ne'er shall fade, 
 Find the light no cloud can shade. 
 
 Those are found in heaven.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 57 
 
 » FARE THEE WELL, AND IF FOR EVER." 
 
 BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 'Tis done, and shivering in the gale, 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sails, 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
 Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast, 
 And I must go from this land begone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 But would I be what I have been, 
 And could I see what I have seen, — 
 Cuold I repose upon that breast 
 Which once my warmest wishes blest, 
 I should not seek another zone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 'Tis long since I beheld that eye, 
 That gave me bliss or misery ; 
 And I have striven but in vain 
 Never to think of it again ; 
 For though I fly from Albion, 
 I still can only love but one. 
 
 As some lone bird without a mate, 
 My weary heart is desolate ; 
 I look around and cannot trace 
 One welcome smile or friendlv face ;
 
 58 jane rowley's 
 
 And even in crowds I'm still alone 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 And I will cross the whitening foam, 
 And I will seek a foreign home. 
 Till I forget a false, fair face, 
 I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
 But ever love and love but one. 
 
 The poorest, veriest wretch on earth, 
 Still finds some hospitable heart, 
 Where friendship, or love's softer glow 
 May smile in joy or soothe in woe. 
 But friend or lover I have none, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 I go, but wheresoe'er I flee, 
 There's not an eye will weep for me, 
 There's not a kind, congenial heart 
 Where I could claim the meanest part, 
 Nor thou who hast my hopes nndone, 
 Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 
 
 To think on every early scene, 
 On what we are, and what we've been — 
 Would whelm some softer hearts with woe 
 But mine, alas ! has stood the blow,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 59 
 
 Yet still beats on as it begun, 
 And never truly loved but one. 
 
 And who that dear, loved one may be, 
 Is not for vulgar eyes to see ; — 
 And why that love was early crossed, 
 Thou knowest best, — I feel the most 
 But few that live beneath the sun, 
 Have lived so long, and loved but one. 
 
 I've tried another's fetters, too, 
 With charms perchance as fair to view, 
 And I would fain have loved as well, — 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding heart to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, 
 And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
 Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him that wanders o'er the deep, 
 Tho' wheresoe'er my barque may roam, 
 I love but thee, I love but one. 
 
 Home. — Keep your store of smiles and your kindest 
 feelings for home ; give to the world only those you have 
 to spare.
 
 60 jane rovvley's 
 
 FROM MOORE'S SACRED SONGS. 
 
 The bird let loose in eastern skies, 
 
 When hastening fondly home, 
 Nor stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 
 
 Where idle warblers roam; 
 But high she shoots through air and light, 
 
 Above all low degree, 
 Where nothing earthly bounds her flight 
 
 Nor shadow dims her way. 
 
 So grant, my God ! from every care 
 
 And stain of fashion free, 
 Aloft through virtue's purest air, 
 
 To hold my course to thee ; 
 No cloud to dim, no lure to stay 
 
 My soul as home she springs, 
 Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 
 
 Thy freedom in her wingr. 
 
 Modesty is not only an ornament, but also a guard to 
 virtue. It is a kind of quick and delicate feeling into the 
 soul, which makes her shrink and withdraw herself from 
 everything that has danger in it. It is such an exquisite 
 sensibility, as warns her to shun the first appearance of 
 everything which is hurtful. 
 
 True bravery is as far removed from recklessness as 
 it is from timidity.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 6l 
 
 THE NIGHT WALKER. 
 
 BY FRANK FOXCROFT. 
 
 In the prisoner's dock she stands, 
 
 Hardly eighteen years, 
 Bringing more than full measure of toiling and tears 
 With her young life seen ; 
 But of woes I ween, 
 A century's time, 
 
 Could scarce contain 
 Her record of crime 
 And want and pain. 
 
 In the prisoner's dock she stands ; — 
 
 Sneer at her, 
 
 Jeer at her, 
 Ye of the soft white hands ! 
 
 Laugh at her, 
 
 Scoff at her, 
 Ye of the titles and lands ! 
 
 Pity? no bit of it, 
 Mercy ? no whit of it. 
 Take her away, 
 Out of the day, 
 Out of the light, 
 Into the dark of the prison night,
 
 62 jane rowley's 
 
 But where is the man who betrayed her? 
 
 Is no guile his? 
 Where is the man who hath made her 
 Such as she is? 
 Go to the haunts of fashion, 
 
 To the very uppermost " ten," 
 Where the puppets of folly and passion, 
 
 Are made to appear like men. 
 In the very innermost regions 
 
 Of that most hallowed place, 
 Surrounded by ladies in legions, 
 Admiring his style and his grace. 
 You will rind the man 
 Under heaven's ban, 
 Though he be not under the laws of man. 
 
 Ah, well? ah, well! there's another bar, 
 
 In a higher and better land, 
 And mercy and justice mingled are 
 In God's own strong right hand, 
 And when betrayed and betrayer meet, 
 
 As meet they must, 
 Before that common judgment seat, 
 God will be just. 
 
 Pittsjicld, Mass., 1868.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 63 
 
 WOMAN:— A DIALOGUE. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Like the moon is woman's heart, 
 
 Still with borrowed lustre shining ; 
 Like the ivy, woman's love, 
 
 Where it fastens undermining ; 
 Like a rock you may defy, 
 
 Truth to shake or reason move her, 
 Like the rainbow in the sky, 
 
 Smiling when the storm is over. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Woman's love is like a rock, 
 
 Firm it stands though storms surround it, 
 Like the ivy on the oak, 
 
 Even in ruin clinging round it ; 
 Like the moon dispelling night, 
 
 Woman's smiles illumine sorrow ; 
 Like the rainbow's pledge of light 
 
 Harbinger of joy tomorrow. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Shrinking from the wintry blast, 
 
 Bird of passage, like the swallow, 
 When the sunny season's past, 
 
 Woman's love will quickly follow.
 
 64 jane rowley's 
 
 she. 
 
 Like the swallow, when she's seen, 
 Pleasure's blossoms never wither, 
 
 Herald of a sky serene, 
 
 Woman brings the summer with her. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Like the roses of the brake 
 
 Thorns in every blossom shrouded ; 
 
 Like the bosom of the lake, 
 
 By each passing shadow clouded. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Like the roses of the brake, 
 
 Precious though their bloom be faded ; 
 Like the bosom of the lake 
 
 By reflected darkness shaded. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Like a picture where you find 
 
 Truth's and nature's fair resemblance, 
 
 So deceitful woman's mind 
 
 Mocks me with their mimic semblance. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Like a picture truly fine, 
 
 Half hei beauty distance covers ;
 
 sc RAP BOOK. 65 
 
 Touches of a hand divine, 
 Every nearer view discovers. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Like the reckless mountain tide, 
 Every breeze the surface changing 
 
 Like the bird that must be tied, 
 If you would prevent its ranging. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Like the stream upon the hill, 
 Unconfined it runs the purer, 
 
 Like the bird a cage will kill, 
 
 But kindness win, and love secure her. 
 
 , HE. 
 
 Like the harp of Erin's sighs, 
 
 Woman wakes the soul to madness, 
 
 Wild and doubtful in its joy, 
 Fatal in its dangerous sadness. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Like my country's minstrel lyre, 
 Waking many a wild emotion, 
 
 Kindling in the breast a fire 
 
 Of heavenly, heartfelt, pure devotion.
 
 66 jane rowley's 
 
 UK. 
 
 Like the sun who sheds his light 
 On the fool and wise in common ; 
 
 Undistinguishingly bright, 
 
 Is the smile of faithless woman. 
 
 S1IK. 
 
 Like the sun dispersing light, 
 Life and joy on all that's human, 
 
 Ever warm and fixed and bright, 
 Is the love of faithful woman. 
 
 Friendship. — Friendship hath the skill and observa- 
 tion of the best physician ; the diligence and vigilance of 
 the best nurse ; and the tenderness and patience of the 
 best mother. 
 
 How sacred, how beautiful is the feeling of affec- 
 tion in pure and guileless bosoms! The proud may 
 sneer at it ; the fashionable may call it fable ; the sel- 
 fish and dissipated may effect to despise it; but the 
 holy passion is surely of heaven, and is made evil by 
 the corruptions of those whom it was to bless and 
 preserve.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 67 
 
 SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 
 
 BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 Up from the south at break of day, 
 Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
 The affrighted earth with a shudder bore 
 Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, 
 The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
 Telling the battle was on once more, 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 And wider .still those billows of war, 
 
 Thundered along the horizon's bar, 
 
 And louder yet into Winchester rolled, 
 
 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
 
 Making the blood of the listener cold, 
 
 As he thought of the stake in that firey play, 
 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 But there is a road from AYinchesler town, 
 
 A good, broad highway, leading down ; 
 
 And there, through the flush of the morning light, 
 
 A steed, as black as the steeds of night 
 
 Was seen to pass as with eagle flight, — 
 
 As if he knew the terrible need, 
 
 He stretched away with his utmost speed ; 
 
 Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, 
 
 With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
 
 68 jane rowley's 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs thundering south, 
 
 The dust like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, 
 
 Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, 
 
 Forboding to traitor the doom of disaster; 
 
 The heart of the steed and the heart of the master, 
 
 Were beating like prisoners assailing their walls, 
 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
 
 Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
 
 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 on ocean flying before the wind ; 
 And the steed like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
 Swept on with his wild eyes 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 the general saw was the groups 
 
 Of stragglers, and then the returning troops; — 
 
 What was done — what to do — a glance told him both ; 
 
 Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, 
 
 He dashed down the lines with a storm of huzzas, 
 
 And the wave of retreat stopped its course there because 
 
 The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
 
 With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ;
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 69 
 
 By the flash of his eye and his red nostril's play, 
 He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
 " I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
 Ftom 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 uome of the Union sky, 
 The American soldiers' temple of fame, 
 There with the glorious general's name, 
 Be it said in letters both bold and bright, — 
 
 " Here the steed that saved the day, 
 By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
 
 From Winchester, — twenty miles away." 
 
 SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL- 
 
 BY MRS. I.. A. COBB. 
 
 Scatter the germs of the beautiful ! 
 
 By the way-side let them fall. 
 That the rose may spring by the cottage gate. 
 
 And the vine on the garden wall ; 
 Cover the rough and the rude of earth 
 
 With a veil of leaves and flowers, 
 And mark with the opening bud and cup 
 
 The march of summer hours.
 
 70 jane rowlev's 
 
 Scatter green germs of the beautiful 
 
 In the holv shrine of home ; 
 Let the pure and the fair, and the graceful there, 
 
 In their loveliest lustre come ; 
 Leave not a trace of deformity 
 
 In the temple of the heart, 
 But gather about its hearth the gems 
 
 Of nature and of art. 
 
 Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
 
 In the temple of our God, — 
 The God who starred the uplifted sky, 
 
 And flowered the trampled sod ; 
 When He built a temple for Himself, 
 
 And a home for His princely race, 
 He reared each arch in symmetry, 
 
 And curved each line in grace. 
 
 Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
 
 In the depths of the human soul ; 
 They shall bud, and blossom and bear the fruit, 
 
 While the endless ages roll ; 
 Plant with the flowers of charity 
 
 The portals of the tomb, 
 And the fair and the pure about your path, 
 
 In paradise shall bloom.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 7r 
 
 A STREET ARAB. 
 
 BY N. G. SHEPHERD. 
 
 Ragged the jacket and trousers he wears, 
 
 Ragged the shoes on his feet ; 
 For shoe or jacket little he cares, 
 
 This Arab of the street. 
 " Pitching pennies" here in the park, 
 
 Along with a busy crowd, 
 All of them ragged and dirty like him, 
 
 Wrangling and shouting aloud. 
 
 I wonder whether he has a home ! 
 
 This ragged urchin, and how 
 lie earns the coppers he's tossing there 
 
 With those other Arabs now ? 
 If mother, or brother, or sister has he ? 
 
 If ever a father he knew ? 
 If he sleeps in a bed like you and me, 
 
 And eats as the i"est of us do ? 
 
 Scarcely human he seems, somehow, 
 
 With his semi-savage shout, 
 As he gives each nickel a curious toss, 
 
 And capers wildly about. 
 Yet the same God made him that made us all, 
 
 The God that dwells above.
 
 72 jank rowley's 
 
 Who watches even the sparrows fell, 
 In the fulness of His love. 
 
 All at once, as twelve o'clock draws near, 
 
 Our Arah leaves his play. 
 Gathers together what nickels are his 
 
 And suddenly darts away. 
 A moment more and his shrill voice sounds, 
 
 Shouting the news in the street, 
 With fifty more like a pack of hounds, 
 
 Following close at his feet. 
 
 In and out of the cars he springs, 
 
 He heeds neither hoofs nor wheels. 
 His ragged feet seems gifted with wings, 
 
 Like famous Mercury's heels ; 
 Now he stops a moment a paper to sell 
 
 To some one passing by, 
 Then away he goes on a rapid run, 
 
 With a wild halloo and cry. 
 
 High up past the dizzy roofs, his voice 
 
 Ascends on its skyward wa) . 
 A moving shadow he flits along 
 
 In the garish light of day. 
 'Twixt the rows of buildings on cither side, 
 
 With their windows staring down
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 73 
 
 />> 
 
 Like so many giants, Argus-eyed, 
 Sleeplessly watching the town. 
 
 I wonder if ever in thought he sees, 
 
 The rows of buildings fade ! 
 If ever in fancy he conjures up 
 
 The desert without a shade? 
 If ever, winding before his sight 
 
 Long caravans appear ? 
 If the Bedouin chiefs of the sands he sees 
 
 In himself and those others here? 
 
 For to me, to-day as I stand in the park, 
 Watching them here as they play, 
 
 Like a bright mirage in the distance seen, 
 Seem the buildings on Broadway. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 No star in yonder sky that shines, 
 
 Can light like woman's eye impart ; 
 The earth holds not in all its mines 
 
 A gem so rich as woman's heart ; 
 Her voice is like the music sweet 
 
 Poured out from airy harps alone ; 
 Like that when storms more loudly beat, 
 
 It yields a clearer, richer tone.
 
 74 J ANE Rowley's 
 
 And woman's love's a holy light, 
 
 That brighter, brighter burns for aye j 
 Years cannot dim its radiance bright, 
 
 Nor even falsehood quench its ray ; 
 But like the star of Bethlehem 
 
 Of old, to Israel's shepherds given, 
 It marshals with its steady flame 
 
 The erring soul of man to heaven. 
 
 Willi a m L eggiit . 
 
 A holy life is made up of a number of small things. 
 Little words, not eloquent speeches or sermons. Little 
 deeds, nor miracles, nor battles, nor one great, heroic 
 act, nor mighty martyrdom, make up the true Christian 
 life. The little constant sunbeam, not the lightning. 
 The waters of Siloam, "that go softly" in their meek 
 mission of refreshment, not the " waters of the river great 
 and many," rushing down in torrents, noise and force, 
 are the true symbols of a holy life. The avoidance of 
 little evils, little sins, little inconsistencies, little weak- 
 nesses, little follies, little indiscretions, and imprudences ; 
 little foibles, little indulgences of self and of the flesh : — 
 the avoidance of such little things as these goes far at 
 least to make up the negative beauty of life. 
 
 Who stabs my name, would stab my person, too, 
 Did not the hangman's axe lie in the way. — Cro~vn.
 
 ;1aJ^ 
 
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 75. 
 
 AFFECTION. 
 
 There is in life no blessing like affection. 
 It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues, 
 And bringeth down to earth its native heaven ; 
 It sits beside the cradle patient hours, 
 Whose sole contentment is to watch and love ; 
 It bendeth o'er the death-bed and consoles 
 Its own despair with words of faith and hope. 
 Life hath nought else that may supply its place ; 
 Cold is ambition, cold is vanity, 
 And wealth an empty glitter, without love. 
 
 Mtss London. 
 
 " TURN OUT." 
 
 BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER. 
 
 'Mid the hurry and the strife, 
 As you run the race of life, 
 
 Never put your friend to rout ; 
 Never trample on your neighbor,- 
 Though it cost a little labor, 
 
 Just " turn out." 
 
 It may go against the grain, 
 It may give a little pain, 
 If you put it to the test ;
 
 76 jane rowley's 
 
 But you'll find the pain but slight, 
 Pass him gently to the right 
 It is best. 
 
 Remember that he too 
 
 May have kind thoughts toward you ; 
 
 And if he should nothing loath, 
 To resolve to turn aside, 
 Then the margin will be wide 
 
 For you both. 
 
 Run and let run, sir, to you 
 As a maxim may be new, 
 
 And a trivial one, no doubt ; 
 But 'twould save a world of" woe, 
 If we all, for friend or foe, 
 
 Would » turn out." 
 
 It is the gift of poetry to hallow every place in 
 which it moves ; to breathe round nature an odor more 
 exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed 
 over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. 
 
 The advantage of living does not consist in length 
 of days, but in the right Improvement of time. As 
 many days as we pass without doing some good, are 
 so many days entirely lost.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. "JY 
 
 THE CHORAL WORKMAN'S SONG. 
 
 On the opening of the Amsterdam exhibition, at the close of King 
 Henry's inaugural speech, the folding doors into the nave of the building 
 were thrown open, and as Prince Henry and his attendants passed through 
 a thousand voices burst into the " Choral Workman's Song." The fol- 
 lowing translation of it is given by Mr. Thurlow, the second secretary to 
 her Majesty's Legation at the Hague, in his report upon the Netherlands. 
 
 No monster of iron on gunpowder fed, 
 No clangor of steel, no whizzing of lead 
 
 Makes the blood in our arteries tingle ; 
 But the whirl of the wheel, and the whistle of steam, 
 And the bubbling hiss of the seething stream, 
 
 Is the sound where our sympathies mingle. 
 
 No laurel that drips with the bloom of the brave, 
 No crown that hangs over the conqueror's grave, 
 
 No wreath that is woven in weeping ; 
 The olive that circles the forehead of toil, 
 The meed of the master of metal and soil, 
 
 Is the fruit that we glory in reaping. 
 
 Oh ! the rush and the roar of the fiery steam ! 
 
 Oh ! the rush and the shriek of the bursting steam ! 
 
 No warrior's clarion is louder. 
 We, too, have our iron, our steel and our lead, 
 But ours is living, and theirs is dead, 
 
 And the music of peace is the powder.
 
 ^S JANE ROWLKY'S 
 
 Then a song shall arise in melodious might, 
 
 To God who has severed the dark from the light. 
 
 And the work and the workmen created ; 
 By the play of the muscles he holds us in health, 
 By the sweat of the brow can endow us with wealth, 
 
 In the love of our labor elated. 
 
 We sow for the weal of the loved ones at home, 
 We know in good time that the harvest will come, 
 
 He wins who has honestly striven : 
 Our toil is the salt of the bread of to-day, 
 And the food of our heart is the faith that can say, — 
 
 We, too, have our rest and our heaven. 
 
 ODE OX THE RHINE'S RETURNING INTO 
 GERMANY FROM FRANC E. 
 
 BY HORACE BINNEY WALLACE. 
 
 Oh ! sweet is thy current by town and by tower, 
 The green sunny vale and the dark Linden bower ; 
 Thy waves, as the dimple, smile back on the plain, 
 And Rhine, ancient river, thou'rt German again ! 
 
 The roses are sweeter the air is more free, 
 More blythe is the song of the bird on the tree ; 
 The yoke of the mighty is broken in twain. 
 And Rhine, dearest river, thou art German again !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. J j 
 
 The land is at peace and breaks out into song, 
 The hills in their echoes the cadence prolong; 
 The sons of the forest take up the glad strain, 
 " Our Rhine, our own river, is German again ! " 
 
 Thy daughters, sweet river ! thy daughters so fair, 
 With their eyes of dark azure, and soft sunny hair, 
 Repeat 'mid their dances at eve on the plain, 
 "Our Rhine, our own river, is German again! " 
 
 Work is the iron ploughshare that goes over the 
 field of the heart, rooting up all the prettv grasses 
 and the beautiful, hurtful weeds that we have taken 
 such a pleasure in growing, laving them all under, 
 fair and foul together, making plain, dull-looking 
 arable land for neighbors to peer at ; until at night- 
 time, down in the deep furrows, the angels come and 
 sow. A man who can give up dreaming and go to 
 his daily realities — who can smother down his heart, 
 its love or woe, and take to the hard work of his hand 
 — who defies fate, and if he must die, dies fighting to 
 the last — that man is life's best hero. 
 
 Independence. — A strong determination to place 
 yourself where you are not wanted.
 
 80 jane rowley's 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE DOVE. 
 
 A ''sport ! " strip off the thin disguise, 
 The glamour fashion throws 
 
 The glitter of a paltry prize, — 
 And see how vile it shows. 
 
 Within a narrow trap is pent 
 
 A little gentle bird, 
 Whose prison pen flies open when 
 
 The " sportsman " gives the word. 
 
 With levelled gun the gallant shot 
 Stands thirty feet away, — 
 
 Both barrels primed — his spirit hot, 
 And eager for the fray. 
 
 Alas ! for England's chivalry, 
 
 When " Lords and Commons " meet, 
 
 And in a race of blood so base, 
 With England's Heir compete ! 
 
 Poor little dove ! the odds are vast 
 
 Against thee in the strife, 
 And yet so keen within thy breast, 
 
 God set the love of life. 
 
 Sometimes the gallant'sportman's'skill, 
 The trout that pulls the string,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 And twenty scouts will fail to kill 
 One weak defenceless thing ! 
 
 Sometimes it falls within the walls, 
 
 To writhe awhile and die ; 
 Sometimes with entrails pierced and torn. 
 
 It flutters to the sky ; 
 
 While falling from the sweet, blue heav'n, 
 
 The red drops stain the sward, 
 As though its tide of being cried 
 
 In witness to the Lord. 
 
 Is this the bird whose tribe of old 
 
 The harp of David sings ? 
 Her feathers touched with yellow gold 
 
 And silver on her wings ? 
 
 Is this the chosen shape in which, 
 
 As sacred records tell, 
 The Holy Ghost, by Jordan's coast, 
 
 On Christ the Saviour fell ? 
 
 Alex. Butler Hume. 
 
 44 Come on ! " as the man said to his tight shoe. 
 44 Come in ! " as the spider said to the fly. 
 44 You make me blush," as the lobster said to the sauce- 
 pan.
 
 82 jane rowley's 
 
 SIMPLICITY OF DRESS. 
 
 Female loveliness never appears to so good advan- 
 tage as when set oft' with simplicity of dress. No ar- 
 tist ever decks his angels with feathers and gaudy 
 jewelry ; and our dear human angels, if they would 
 make good their title to that name, should carefully 
 avoid ornaments which properly belong to Indian squaws 
 and African princes. These tinsels may serve to 
 give effect on the stage, but in daily life there is no 
 substitute for the charm of simplicity. A vulgar taste 
 is not to be disguised by gold and diamonds. The 
 absence of a true taste and real refinement of delicacy, 
 cannot be compensated for by the possession of the 
 most princely fortune. Mind measures gold, but gold 
 cannot measure mind. Through dress the mind may 
 be read, as through the delicate tissue the lettered page. 
 A modest woman will dress modestly ; a really refined 
 and intellectual woman will bear the marks of careful 
 selection and faultless taste. 
 
 A Sublime Truth. — Let a man have all the world 
 can give him, he is still miserable if he has a grovel- 
 ling, unlettered, undevout mind. Let him have his 
 gardens, his fields, his woods ; his lawns for grandeur ; 
 plenty of ornaments and gratifications ; while at the 
 same time if God is not in all his thoughts, he will
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 83 
 
 yet be miserable. And let another have neither fields 
 nor gardens ; let him only look at nature with an en- 
 lightened mind — a mind which can see and adore the 
 Creator in His works ; can consider them as a demon- 
 stration of His power, of His wisdom, His goodness, 
 and His truth — the man is great, as well as happier 
 in his poverty, than the other in his riches. The one 
 is a little higher than a beast, the other a little lower 
 than an angel. 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 Before I trust my faith to thee, 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 Before I let thy future give, 
 Color and form to mine, 
 Before I peril all to thee, 
 Question thy soul to-night for me. 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
 
 A shadow of regret ; 
 Is there one link within the past, 
 That holds thy spirit yet? 
 
 Or is thy faith as clear and free, 
 As that which I can pledge to thee ? 
 
 Does there within thy dimmest dreams, 
 A possible future shine, 
 
 ^i 

 
 84 Jane Rowley's 
 
 Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
 Untouched, unshared, by mine? 
 If so, at any pain or cost, 
 Oh ! tell me, before all is lost. 
 
 Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 
 
 Within thy inmost soul, 
 That thou hast kept a portion back, 
 While I have staked the whole ; 
 Let no false pity spare the blow, 
 But in true mercy tell me so. 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 That mine cannot fulfil ! 
 
 One chord that any other hand 
 
 Could better wake or still ? 
 
 Speak now, lest at some future day 
 My whole life wither or decay. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature hid, 
 
 The demon spirit change? 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 On all things new and strange? 
 It may not be thy fault alone, — 
 But shield my heart against thy own. 
 
 Could'st thou withdraw one day, 
 And answer to my claim,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 85 
 
 That fate, and not to-day's mistake, 
 Not thou had been to blame ; 
 
 Some soothe their conscience thus, but thou, 
 O, surely, thou wilt warn me now. 
 
 Nay, answer — I dare to hear, 
 
 The words would come too late, 
 Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
 So comfort thee my fate ; 
 
 Whatever on my heart may fall, 
 Remember I would risk it all. 
 
 NO LETTERS. 
 
 BY JOHN COLEMAN DAW. 
 
 No letter — no ! It is too bad, 
 Such hopes of getting one I had, 
 Some little news to make me glad, 
 
 I long expected. 
 The hopes are crushed and I am sad 
 
 And so dejected. 
 
 No letter — no ! Alackaday ! 
 And I from home so long away ; 
 I ask ye, friends, to tell me, pray, 
 
 Am I ever thought on ? 
 Echo answers — seems to say, 
 
 You are forgotten.
 
 86 jane rowley's 
 
 No letter ! 'Tis a simple thing, 
 But oh ! a letter oft will bring 
 Joy to those who wandering, 
 
 Are lone, sad-hearted, 
 And make them with affection cling, 
 
 To friends long parted. 
 
 Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart, 
 An instant sunshine through the heart, 
 As if the soul that moment caught, 
 Some treasure it through life had sought. 
 
 As if the very lips and eyes, 
 Predestined to have all one's sighs, 
 And never be forgot again, 
 Sparkled and spoke before us then. 
 
 So came thy every look and tone, 
 When first on me it breathed and shone ; 
 New, as if come from other spheres, 
 Yet welcome, as if loved for years. 
 
 Then fly with me if thou hast known, 
 No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
 A gem away that thou hast sworn, 
 Should ever in thy heart be worn.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 87 
 
 Come, if the love thou hast for me, 
 Is pure and fresh as mine for thee ; 
 Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
 When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 
 
 But if for me thou dost forsake, 
 Some other maid and rudely break, 
 Her worship'd image from its base, 
 To give to me the ruined place, — 
 
 Then fare-thee-well, I'd rather make, 
 My bower upon some icy lake, 
 Where thawing suns begin to shine, 
 Than trust to love so false as thine. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 
 
 And a bright, gold ring on her wand she bore, 
 
 But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
 
 Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. 
 
 44 Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, 
 So lone and lovely through this bleak way? 
 Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, 
 As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? "
 
 88 jane rowley's 
 
 " Sir knight ! I feel not the least alarm ; 
 No son of Erin will offer me harm ; — 
 For though they love woman and golden store, 
 Sir knight, they love honor and virtue more." 
 
 On she went, and her maiden smile, 
 In safety lighted her round the green Isle ; 
 And blest forever is she who relied 
 Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride. 
 
 PEOPLE WILL TALK. 
 
 You may get through the world, but 'twill be very slow 
 If you listen to all that is said as you go. 
 You'll be worried, and fretted, and kept in a stew, 
 For meddlesome tongues must have something to do, — 
 And people will talk. 
 
 If quiet and modest you'll have it presumed 
 That your humble position is only assumed ; — 
 You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, or else you're a fool, 
 But don't get excited, keep perfectly cool, — 
 For people will talk. 
 
 And then if you show the least boldness of heart, 
 Or a slight inclination to take your own part, 
 They will call you an upstart, conceited and vain, 
 But keep straight ahead, don't stop to complain, — 
 For people will talk.
 
 f 
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 89 
 
 If thread-bare your dress, or old-fashioned your hat, 
 Some one surely will take notice of that, 
 And hint rather strong that you can't pay your way, 
 But don't get excited whatever they say, — 
 For people will talk. 
 
 If you dress in the fashion, don't think to escape, 
 For they criticise then in a different shape ; 
 You're ahead of your means, or your tailor's unpaid, 
 But mind your own business, there's nought to be made, 
 For people will talk. 
 
 Now the best way to do, is to do as you please, 
 For your mind, if you have one, will then be at ease ; 
 Of course you will meet with all sorts of abuse, 
 But don't think to stop them, it's not any use, — 
 
 For people will talk. 
 
 IbC,— 
 
 CAPRICE. 
 
 Love is a bird of summer skies, /V« ri ' 
 
 From clouds and from winter he soon departs, 
 
 He basks in the beams of good-humored eyes, 
 And delights in the warmth of open hearts ; 
 
 But when he has once found chill and rain, 
 
 He seldom returns to that bower again. 
 
 Harriot's brow was passing fair, 
 
 And love in the shape of a mortal sprite,
 
 90 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 Came to bask in the sunshine there, 
 
 And plumed his soft wings for delight ; 
 But a wintry cloud would oft come o'er, 
 
 And then for a time, 
 
 Without reason or rhyme, 
 The sun would shine no more. 
 
 It chanced in one of those winter showers, 
 
 A cloud pass'd by, 
 
 And no one knew why, 
 And frightened poor love from his garden of flowers. 
 He wandered in sadness away, away, 
 
 Till he came to a bower that stood hard by. 
 Here all was a sunny, summer day, 
 And never a cloud came o'er that eye, 
 
 But morn and night, 
 
 It beamed ever bright, 
 With spirit, and joy, and courtesy. 
 
 He laid himself down, the hours flew o'er, 
 He thought of the spot he had left no more, 
 For all was here, 
 Without shadow or fear. 
 And each moment was sweet as the one before. 
 "No matter," said she, " let him wander awhile, 
 I can, when I please, bring him back with a smile, 
 But ladies who trust so much to their power,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 91 
 
 To recover the heart, their caprice has lost, 
 Will prove in many a hitter hour, 
 
 The danger ot playing with love to their cost. 
 
 Many a day and week passed by, 
 
 And Harriot though she would not tell, 
 That she loved the wanderer much and well, 
 
 Drew many a secret sigh ; 
 
 And she managed to get it conveyed to the swain, 
 By some kind friend in a roundabout way, 
 
 That if he thought proper to seek her again, 
 The weather in future might be more gay. 
 
 Love declined with a smile, " I thank you my dear, 
 I'm perfectly happy and free from care, 
 
 I never saw other than summer here, 
 And why run the risk of winter there." 
 
 If happiness has not her seat and centre in the breast, 
 We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 ODD ENOUGH. 
 
 An Irishman is never at peace but when he's fighting. 
 An Englishman is never happy but when he's miserable. 
 A Scotchman never at home but when he's abroad.
 
 £2 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 UNCLE TOM'S GLIMPSE OF GLORY. 
 
 Gentle as glideth the glad light of day, 
 
 Little Evangeline passes away ; 
 No more her feet through the flowers will roam, 
 
 Softly hut surely she neareth her home. 
 
 Now all her loved ones she calls round her bed, 
 And gives each a curl from her fair drooping head, 
 
 And bids them remember to meet her above, 
 
 And Him who so loves them, forget not to love. 
 
 Why seeks the veranda the good Uncle Tom, 
 
 And leaves his own cabin, though midnight has come? 
 
 He knoweth the Bridegroom ere long will be there, 
 And watcheth and waiteth till He shall appear. 
 
 For oh ! when He cometh and taketh His own, 
 
 He knows that the gates will be wide open thrown. 
 
 He may catch of the world without sorrow and sin, 
 A glimpse of the glory as Eva goes in. 
 
 And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep, 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 
 And leaves the wretch to weep. 
 And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modern fair one's jest, 
 For love is only found, 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. — Oliver Goldsmith.
 
 \ 
 
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 93 
 
 HONOR TO BERGH. 
 
 In the wind-swept street, where the stately form, 
 Meets the brunt of the fiercest storm, 
 Braving the fury of sleet and rain, 
 To lighten the burden of helpless pain. 
 There should the fair white temple rise, 
 Lifting his name to the bending skies, 
 Showing the honor his work has won, 
 And the city's praise of her noble son ! 
 
 Well may we offer him homage here ! 
 His heavenly Master holds him dear, 
 Through the tender pity his soul has shown 
 To the hopeless grief of the dumb beast's moan. 
 He toils for the Master none the less, 
 That his care has given to the mute distress, 
 Of the patient creature whose years of pain 
 Attest to their Maker their greed of gain. 
 
 His life's great lesson has swayed the land, 
 And safe in the grasp of his outstretched hand, 
 He holds the rights that his country yields 
 To the dumb surf tilling her fertile fields. 
 No grateful glance of meek surprise, 
 Can he hope to win from their saddened eyes ; 
 But the merciful deeds of his days are set, 
 As gems in a heaven-kept coronet !
 
 94 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 The smile of God for a human frown, 
 For earthly service a saintly crown ; 
 For evil defeated and wrong redressed, 
 A spirit soothed and a heart at rest ! 
 This the reward of the task must be, 
 Since the loving eye of his God can see, 
 What our human vision may faintly scan, 
 The Angel of Mercy above the man ! 
 
 ONLY A DOG. 
 
 The writer of the following beautiful poem is Mrs. E. J. Nickeraoo, 
 one of the two proprietors of the New Orleans Picayune. 
 
 " Only a dog ' " you wonder why 
 I grieve so much to see him die, 
 
 Ah ! if you knew 
 How true a friend a dog can be, 
 And what a friend he was to me 
 When friends were few ! 
 
 " Only a dog ! " — "a beast ! " you sneer, 
 " Not worthy a sigh or tear." 
 Speak not to me 
 Such falsehood of my poor, dumb friend, 
 While I have language to defend 
 His memory.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 95 
 
 Through ups and downs, through thick and thin, 
 My boon companion he has been 
 
 For years and years. 
 He journeyed with me miles and miles, 
 I gave him frowns, I gave him smiles, 
 
 And now sad tears. 
 
 Before my children came, his white, 
 Soft head was pillowed every night 
 
 Upon my breast. 
 So let him lie just one time more, 
 Upon my bosom as before, 
 
 And take his rest. 
 
 And when a tenderer love awoke, 
 The first sweet word my baby spoke 
 
 Was " Ma-t, our Mat ! " 
 Could I no other reason tell, 
 My mother heart would love you well 
 
 For only that. 
 
 Together boy and dog have laid 
 Upon my lap, together played 
 
 Around my feet. 
 Till laugh and bark together grew 
 So much alike I scarcely knew 
 
 Which was most sweet.
 
 96 jane rowley's 
 
 Ah ! go away and let me cry, 
 
 For now you know the reason why 
 
 I loved him so. 
 Leave me alone to close his eyes, 
 The look so wistful and so wise, 
 
 Trying to know. 
 
 At garden gate or open door, 
 You'll run to welcome me no more, 
 
 Dear little friend. 
 You were so kind, so good and true, 
 I question, looking down on you, — 
 
 Is this the end? 
 
 Is there for you " no other side " ? 
 No home heyond death's chilly tide, 
 
 And heavy fog, 
 Where meekness and fidelity 
 Will meet reward, although you be 
 
 Only a dog? 
 
 It is not enough to be a man ; the responsibility of 
 manhood must be discharged. The foot must do the 
 foot's work, and leave the eye to do its own business. 
 A flower is useful, though it does not grow fruit. 
 Gladly I proclaim the usefulness of beauty. A flower 
 has many a' time opened the very heavens to my aching
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 97 
 
 heart. It has spoken to me of purity and simplicity, and 
 frailty, and mortality, and dependence. Was it useless 
 because it gave me neither wine nor corn ? Truly not. It 
 did its work, and no angel could do more. — Doctor 
 Parker. 
 
 THE BRIGHT, SILVER LILY. 
 
 The bright, silver lily, to love I compare, 
 But never was lily to me half so fair, 
 So fragrant, so blooming, so chaste, or so meek, 
 As the rose that is blooming on modesty's cheek. 
 
 I have seen the sweet blush of the fresh, risen morn, 
 I have seen the sweet cowslip deep under the thorn, 
 But the beauty I love, and the charmer I seek, 
 Is the rose that is blooming on modesty's cheek. 
 
 They say there's a charm in the love-beaming eye, 
 They say there's a charm in the love-breathing sigh, 
 But where is the charm her eye would bespeak, 
 If the rose is not blooming on modesty's cheek? 
 
 If beauty is charming I'll bend at its shrine, 
 Perhaps I might own the fair nymph is divine, 
 But the beauty I love, and the charmer I seek, 
 Is the rose that is blooming on modesty's cheek.
 
 98 jane kowley's 
 
 I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 SUNG BY MISS KELLY. 
 
 I'd be a butterfly born in a bower, 
 
 Wbere roses, and lilies and violets meet, 
 Roving forever from flower to flower, 
 
 And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 
 I'd never languish for wealth or for power, 
 
 I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet ; 
 I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, 
 
 Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 
 I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, 
 Kissing all buds that arc pretty and sweet. 
 
 O ! could I pilfer the wand of the fairy, 
 
 I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings ; 
 Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, 
 
 Thev sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings ; 
 Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary. 
 
 Power, alas ! nought but misery brings. 
 I'd be a butterfly sportive and airy, 
 
 Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings, 
 I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, 
 Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
 
 What, though you tell me, each gay little rover, 
 
 Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, 
 Surely 'tis better when summer is over
 
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 99 
 
 To die, when all fair things are fading away ; 
 Some in life's winter may toil to discover, 
 Means of procuring a weary delay, — 
 
 I'd be a butterfly living a rover, p p 
 
 Dying when fair things are fading away. 
 I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly, 
 Dying when fair things are fading away. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 KINLOCK OF KINLOCK. 
 
 How oft have I marked the pale moon-beams whilst 
 sailing, 
 Out over the waves of a dark rolling sea. 
 It softened my heart with the tenderest feeling, 
 
 To know that those moonbeams were smiling on thee. 
 And then my heart 
 Would anxious start, 
 As from your arms 
 I rushed away 
 At honor's call, far, far from all, 
 Whose smile of love had cheered my way. 
 
 But now I have ceased all such useless repining, 
 Since hope fills my heart with the promise of joy, 
 While ths sunshine of pleasure around me is shining, 
 None but«you, my dear girl, my ideas employ.
 
 ioo jane rowley's 
 
 Though far from thee 
 
 I'm forced to be, 
 
 Yet when I reach 
 
 My native shore, 
 I'll never roam, so far from home, 
 No, never leave my charmer more. «** 
 
 AT THE TOMB. 
 
 *\ 
 
 GREENWOOD, DEC. 4, 1872. 
 [From the Chicago Evening Post.] 
 
 Not they alone 
 Whose orphaned hearts are bleeding by his bier, 
 Broken, distraught, undone, 
 
 Are weeping here ! 
 Not they whose lives in nearness grown, 
 
 Make answering moan, 
 And hither follow, blankly led, 
 To whitely gaze upon his lowly bed ! 
 These but his household wards ! 
 Behind in mute dismay, 
 Rank after rank, in desolate array, 
 
 Stretches the army of his mourning guards, r. 
 A continent away ! 1as~ 
 
 But 'tis no njirfital host ! r ff-^ 
 No blood-dewed fields, or pillaged homes the boast, 
 
 y
 
 SCRAP BOOK. IOI 
 
 With ravaged hearts for cost ! 
 
 No, (witness, God!) 
 Was his the leadership of hlood, 
 
 Or hate, or spleen, or woe ! 
 
 For these he struck no blow. 
 His was the championship of light! 
 
 The fields he fought, — 
 
 The sounding victories he wrought, 
 Were fields and victories of right, 
 
 Weaponed of truth, of honor, reason, thought! 
 
 And this his mourning host, 
 Still white and cold as with December frost, 
 And dazed and numb, as if of country lost, — 
 
 The drooping heads and trembling hands, 
 
 That clasp and stretch away across the lands. 
 These are the witnesses that here, 
 
 Beside his mighty bier, 
 
 Stricken, and bowed and dumb, — 
 To plead for him what he bequeathed them, come, 
 
 Come and carve it on his tomb ! 
 
 The weak he lifted up, 
 The thirsting soul he gave the cooling cup, 
 
 The bound whose chains he broke, 
 The wronged he righted with his giant stroke, 
 
 The suffering poor he fed, 
 
 The wayward souls to better paths he led,
 
 102 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 Them he found brutes, and moulded into men, 
 All, all whose paths he lit with glowing pen 
 
 Are here to swell the throng, 
 
 He lived and wrought among, 
 
 And suffered to make strong ! 
 
 Be cheered, oh ! aching hearts, 
 
 That orphaned are no more ! 
 Through tears look up and see, 
 The millions that he saved are parents unto thee ! 
 
 Behold the balm they pour ! 
 
 Through all the world 
 Tread the great host that see and share your smarts, 
 And walk beside you with their banners furled, 
 Where gleams the goal he sought — the better day, 
 Now as of old 'tis his to lead the way, — 
 
 To smooth the rugged road, — 
 To go before and plead for them who stay, — 
 
 To ease their heavy load, 
 
 And cheer them on to God ! 
 
 D. Blakely, 
 
 A SWARM OF B'S WORTH HIVING. 
 
 B patient, B prayerful, B humble, B mild, 
 B wise as a Solomon, B meek as a child ; 
 B studious, B thoughtful, B loving, B kind, 
 Beware you make matter subervient to mind ;
 
 scrap book. ro3 
 
 B cautious, B prudent, B trustful, B true, 
 
 B courteous to all men, B friendly with few ; 
 
 B temperate in argument, pleasure and wine, 
 
 B careful of conduct, of money and time ; 
 
 B cheerful, B grateful, B hopeful, B firm, 
 
 B peaceful, benevolent, B willing to learn ; 
 
 B courageous, B gentle, B liberal, B just, 
 
 Be aspiring, B humble, because thou art dust ; 
 
 B penitent, circumspect, B sound in the faith, 
 
 B active, devoted, B faithful till death ; 
 
 B honest, B holy, B transparent and pure, 
 
 B dependent, B Christlike, and you'll be secure. 
 
 A BLACKSMITH INTERVIEWED. 
 
 BY JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON. 
 
 Horny hands and swarthy face, 
 
 Burliest of a burly race, 
 
 The Saxon blacksmith took his place 
 
 Beside his anvil : " Sir," said I, 
 
 " They say you've laid a fortune by ; 
 
 Why still your hard vocation ply ? " 
 
 " Stranger," said he, " I see your plan, 
 A prying, interviewing man, 
 Come to find out all you can,
 
 io4 jane rowley's 
 
 And put it in the papers ; well, 
 Yon see I did quit work a spell, 
 Till Tom Sparks came to Battledell ; 
 
 Tom Sparks, the blacksmith over there, 
 At t'other corner of the square, 
 And folks said I wa'nt anywhere. 
 
 That this Tom Sparks could beat me blind, 
 
 At blacksmith work of any kind, 
 
 Especially at putting on horses' shoes behind ! " 
 
 The speaker paused, and breathed a spell, 
 And from his eyes the sparks that fell, 
 Lit the bravest face in Battledell. 
 
 " Stranger, I don't care what you say, 
 I'm rather odd, I've got my way, 
 I'll get on top, and there I'll stay. 
 
 That is, I don't care what the loss is, 
 Learn my trade over, work under bosses, 
 Or beat Tom Sparks a shoeing horses ! " 
 
 There is a lesson, learn it well, 
 Caught in the story that I tell, 
 Of that proud smith of Battledell. 
 
 He had a soul the type of those, 
 To whom success forever goes, 
 From whom the victor's laurel grows.
 
 SCRAP HOOK. IO5 
 
 Such wills as his have caught the world, 
 And held it fast when thrones were hurled 
 Together, and the red flames curled 
 
 Above the wreck. When Caesar fell 
 No grander spirit said farewell 
 Than had the smith of Battledell. 
 
 WOMEN IN CONVERSATION. 
 
 It is their eminent domain. There is good deal of 
 banter afloat on the subject, and one might easily sup- 
 pose that our women were given to talk ; but nothing is 
 furthei from the truth. Their fault in society is that they 
 do not talk. They are timid, not socially, but in- 
 tellectually. They are afraid to imbibe, or to cherish, 
 or to enunciate ideas. They distrust their own capaci- 
 ties and acquirements, and have mistrusted them so long 
 and so sincerely, that the mistrust presently becomes 
 final and fatal. They have too much sense to be silly, 
 and too little power to be self- forgetful, so they take a 
 secondary place when they ought to be in the van. It is 
 not oppression on the one part nor superiority on the 
 other, but the natural effect of a long line of causes. 
 Women not only fear men, but they fear each other. 
 
 Gail Hamilton.
 
 io6 jane rowlev's 
 
 ERIC AND AXEL. 
 
 BY BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 Though they never divided my meat or wine, 
 
 Yet Eric and Axel are friends of mine ; 
 
 Never shared my sorrow nor laughed with my glee, 
 
 Yet Eric and Axel are dear to me ; 
 
 And more faithful comrades no man ever knew, 
 
 Than Eric and Axel, the fearless, the true ! 
 
 When I hit the target, they feel no pride, 
 
 When I spin with the waltzers, they wait outside ; 
 
 When the holly of yule-tide hangs in the hall, 
 
 And kisses are freest, they care not at all ; 
 
 When I sing they are silent, — I speak, they obey, — 
 
 Eric and Axel, my hope and my stay. 
 
 They wait for my coming, they know I shall come, 
 When the dancers are faint, and the fiddlers numb, 
 With a shout of » Ho, Eric ! Axel, ho ! " 
 As we skim the wastes of the Norrland snow, 
 And their frozen breath to a silvery gray 
 Turns Eric's raven and Axel's bay. 
 
 By the bondehus and the herregoard, 
 O'er the glossy pavement of firth and ford, 
 Through the tall fir-woods that like steel are drawn, 
 On the broadening red of the rising dawn,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. IO7 
 
 Till one low roof, where the hills unfold, 
 Shelters us all from the angry cold. 
 
 • 
 
 I tell them the secret none else shall hear, — 
 I love her, Eric, I love her dear ; 
 I love her, Axel, wilt love her, too, 
 Though her eyes are dark and mine are blue ? 
 She has eyes like yours so dark and clear ;" — 
 Eric and Axel will love my dear ! 
 
 They would speak if they could, but I think they know, 
 
 Where, when the moon is thin, they shall go ; 
 
 To wait awhile in the sleeping street, 
 
 To hasten away upon snow-shod feet, 
 
 Away and away, e'er the morning star 
 
 Touches the tops of the spires of Calmar. 
 
 Per, the merchant may lay at her feet 
 His Malaga wine, and his raisins sweet, 
 Brought in his ships from Portugal land, 
 And I am as bare as the palm of my hand, 
 But she sighs for me and she sighs for you, 
 Eric and Axel my comrades true. 
 
 You care not, Eric, for gold or wine, 
 
 You care not, Axel, for show or shine, 
 
 But you care for the touch of the hand that's dear,
 
 io8 jane rowley's 
 
 And the voice that fondles yon through the ear, 
 And you shall save us, through storm and snow, 
 When she calls, " Ho, Eric ! " and " Axel, ho ! " 
 
 BE BRAVE. 
 
 Be brave to do right. There are always men 
 enough and women enough in the world who have no 
 wish to see the right vindicated ; who pause on the 
 low plains of selfishness, and will not so much as lif 
 their eyes toward the hills where truth stands. The 
 glowing splendor of that future which is coming nearer 
 every day, and which is to be a glorious kingdom which 
 truth will occupy for her own, has no power over 
 their minds or hearts. 
 
 Truth is like the blowing of the strong winds through 
 the universe. It will uncover deceit; it will strip off 
 the mantle of pretence ; it will scatter the chaff from 
 the golden grain. And how much nobler to stand be- 
 fore the blast, and have our lives purified of the dross 
 of our weak thoughts, than to hide until the storm is 
 past, and then shine in false light. Be brave to do 
 whatsoever our hands find to do without murmurs or 
 complaint. If it is our lot to toil for daily bread, let us 
 labor cheerfully, glad God has given us health and 
 strength ; and if he grants us neither of these, let us
 
 SCRAP BOOK. IO9 
 
 be brave to suffer in silence, and let only our songs 
 find a way out into the world. 
 
 In our pleasant childhood we are like birds in the 
 nest ; but our Father has given us wings, and sooner or 
 later we must learn to fly- Whatever it costs us we 
 must not stop to count that, for we are in his hands, and 
 as our day, so shall our strength be. 
 
 Have courage to be honest ; the world has great need 
 of honest women just now. 
 
 Be brave to wear calico when your neighbor wears 
 silk ; to live in a little house, when your friend lives in a 
 large one ; to labor in your kitchen, when your sisters 
 sit in their parlors with folded hands. 
 
 It is not the opinion the throng led by fashion and 
 love of ease, which is to ennoble us, but the verdict of 
 our own consciences. — AUcna Audly. 
 
 Our ingress into the world was marked and sore, 
 
 Our progress through it was trouble and care, 
 
 Our egress out of it God knows where. 
 
 The better we do here, the better we'll do there. 
 
 If I would preach for ever I could tell you no more. 
 
 CAT. 
 
 An animal that old maids love, 
 
 Because it gives out sparks when rubbed.
 
 no 
 
 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 PRAYERS I DON'T LIKE. 
 
 I do not like to hear him pray, 
 
 Who loans at twenty-five per cent 
 For then I think the borrower may 
 
 Be pressed to pay for food and rent ; 
 And in that Book we all should heed, 
 
 Which says the lender shall be blest, 
 As sure as I have eyes to read, 
 
 It does not say, " Take interest." 
 
 I do not like to hear him pray 
 
 On bended knees about an hour, 
 For grace to spend aright the day, 
 
 Who knows his neighbor has no flour ; 
 I'd rather see him go to mill, 
 
 And buy the luckless brother bread, 
 And see his children eat their fill, 
 
 And laugh beneath their humble shed. 
 
 I do not like to hear him pray, 
 " Let blessings on the widow be," 
 Who never seeks her home to say, 
 "If want o'ertakes you, come to me. " 
 I hate the prayer so loud and long, 
 
 That's offered for the orphan's weal, 
 By him who sees him crushed by wrong, 
 And only with the lips doth feel. 
 
 / 
 
 \ 

 
 SCRAP book.. Ill 
 
 I do not like to hear her pray, 
 
 With jeweled ear and silken dress, 
 Whose washer-woman toils all day, 
 
 And then is asked to "work for less." 
 Such pious shavers I despise, 
 
 With folded hands and face demure, 
 They lift to heaven their " angel eyes," 
 
 Then steal the earnings of the poor. 
 
 I do not like such soulless prayers, 
 
 If wrong I hope to be forgiven. 
 No angel's wing them upward bears, — 
 
 They're lost a million miles from heaven. 
 
 AN EXILE'S SONG. 
 
 Despondence and pain on my spirit have lain, 
 And baffled each struggle I made to be free, 
 
 Since they came o'er me, 
 
 That dark day that bore me, 
 Away from my home, o'er the waves of the sea. 
 
 The vision ne'er dies from the dream of my eyes, 
 That memory pictures the past in for me, 
 
 While deep in its throbbing, 
 
 My sad heart is sobbing, 
 And yearns for its home o'er the foam of the sea.
 
 ii2 jane rowley's 
 
 Decay winds its chain 'round my limbs and my brain, 
 If I linger, perchance I shall ne'er again see 
 
 The green land I sigh for, 
 
 And gladly would die for, 
 My fair island home o'er the foam of the sea. 
 
 O ! swift, then, returning from darkness and mourning, 
 The exile will rest, gentle Erin with thee. 
 
 Here fortune looked fav'ring, 
 
 But oh ! never wavering, 
 He flics to his home o'er the foam of the sea. 
 
 Trifles. — When a care for small things is combined 
 with an intense fear of the opinions of others, a state of 
 mind is generated which will neither allow the possessor 
 of it to be happy in himself, or herself, nor permit 
 those about him or her to enjoy any peace or comfort for 
 long. It is, of course, a preeminent hindrance to the 
 blessings of social intercourse. 
 
 Kindness infuses the greatest energy into both heart and 
 soul, and creates that spirit of self-abandonment to the 
 general good which annihilates selfish considerations, 
 and binds all classes in the bonds of peaceful and holy 
 brotherhood. — Lord Burleigh. 
 
 Sound doctrine is not so soon indicated by never 
 making a mistake, as by never repeating it.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. I 13 
 
 WILL WATCH. 
 
 BY CORY. 
 
 'Twas one morn when the wind from northward blew 
 keenly, 
 While sullenly roared the big waves of the main, 
 A famed smuggler, Will Watch, kissed his Sue, then 
 serenely 
 Took helm, and to sea boldly steered out again. 
 
 Will had promised his Sue that this trip if well ended, 
 Should coil up his hopes, and he'd anchor on shore ; 
 
 When his pockets were lined, why his life should be 
 mended, 
 The laws he had broken, he'd never break more. 
 
 His sea-boat was trim, made her port, took her lading, 
 Then Will stood for home, reached the offing and cried, 
 
 " This night, if I've luck, furls the sails of my trading, 
 In dock I can lay, serve a friend, too, beside." 
 
 Will layed to till the night came on, darksome and dreary, 
 To crowd every sail, then, he piped up each hand ; 
 
 But a signal soon spied, 'twas a prospect uncheery, 
 A si<rnal that warned him to bear from the land. 
 
 " The Philistines are out!" cries Will ; " well, take no 
 heed on't ; 
 Attacked, who's the man that will flinch from his gun ;
 
 ii4 jane Rowley's. 
 
 Should my head be blown off, I shall ne'er feel the need 
 on't, 
 We'll hght while we can, when we can't, boys, we'll 
 run. 
 
 Through the haze of the night, a bright flash now ap- 
 ing,— 
 " Oh ! ho ! " cries Will Watch, " the Philistines bear 
 down, 
 " Bear a hand ! my bright lads, e'er we think about sheer- 
 ing, 
 One broadside pour in should we swim, boys, or 
 drown. 
 
 " But should I be popped oft, you my mates left behind 
 me, 
 Regard my last words, sec them kindly obeyed, 
 Let no stone mark the spot, and my friends do you mind 
 me, 
 Near the bench is the spot where Will Watch would 
 be laid." 
 Poor Will's yarn was spun out, for a bullet next minute, 
 
 Laid him low on the deck and he never spake more ; 
 His bold crew fought the brig, while a shot remained in 
 
 it, 
 Then sheer'd, and Will's hulk to his Susan they bore. 
 In the dead of the night, his last wish was complied 
 with,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 115 
 
 Too few know his grave, and too few know his end ; 
 He was borne to the earth by the crew that he died with, 
 He'd the tears of his Susan, the prayers of each friend. 
 
 Near his grave dash the billows, the wind loudly 
 bellows. 
 Yon ash struck with lightning points out the cold bed, 
 Where Will Watch, the bold smuggler, that famed, law- 
 less fellow, 
 Once feared, now forgotten, sleeps with the dead. 
 
 Flowers. — The terrestial stars that bring down heav- 
 en to earth, and carry up our thoughts from earth to 
 heaven, — the poetry of the Creator written in beauty and 
 fragrance. " He who does not love flowers," said Lud- 
 wig Tieg, a German writer, "has lost all fear and love 
 of God." Another German author defines woman as 
 " something between a flower and an angel." 
 
 HOME. 
 
 There's magic in that little word, 
 It is a mystic circle that surmounts 
 Comforts and virtues never known 
 Beyond the hallowed limit. 
 
 Death. — The sleeping partner of life.
 
 1 16 jane Rowley's 
 
 ARAB MAXIMS. 
 
 First. — Let your colt be domesticated and live with 
 you from his tenderest age, and when a horse he will be 
 docile, simple, faithful, and inured to hardship and 
 fatigue. 
 
 Second. — Do not beat your horses, nor speak to 
 them in a loud tone of voice ; do not get angry with 
 them, but kindly reprove their faults, they will do better 
 thereafter, for they understand the language of man and 
 its meaning. 
 
 Third. — If you have a long day's journey before you, 
 spare your horse at the start ; let him frequently walk to 
 recover his wind ; continue this until he has perspired 
 and dried three times, and you may ask him whatever 
 you please, he will not leave you in difficulty. 
 
 Fourth. — Observe your horse when he drinks al a 
 brook. If, in bringing down his head he remains square, 
 without bending his limbs, he possesses sterling quali- 
 ties, and all parts of his body are built symmetrically. 
 
 Fifth. — Four things he must have broad: front, 
 chest, loins, and limbs ; four things long : neck, chest, 
 forearm and croup ; four things short : pastern, back, 
 ears and tail.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 117 
 
 DISCORD. 
 
 BY MRS. M. C. AMES. 
 
 Swift through the fragrant air it fell, 
 
 A single word. 
 The wound it made no tongue can tell, 
 
 For no one heard, 
 Save one sweet heart, whose very life 
 
 Is love and truth — 
 This heart the word pierced like a knife. 
 
 No pulse of ruth 
 Thrilled him who spake the cruel word ; 
 
 He willed and spoke, — 
 A fair face quivered like a bird, 
 
 A fond heart broke. 
 Alas ! the spring-time air is full 
 
 Of wrathful words ; 
 They rise to heaven and would annul 
 
 The sweet-voiced birds, 
 That everywhere on glancing wing, 
 
 Fly from the south, 
 New messages of love to bring 
 
 With open mouth. 
 
 Nature's glad face the sons of men 
 
 Doth put to shame. 
 She says : " Poor children of the earth,
 
 nS tank rowley's. 
 
 Why strive and blame ? 
 You work and war, — the will of fate 
 
 Abides the same." 
 The purposes of God survive 
 
 Your feeble fray ; 
 You cannot change them though you shrive 
 
 Your sins away. 
 The name you toil for may outlive 
 
 Your little day ; 
 But you must live when earth and name 
 
 Have fled away. 
 Drink thou my sunshine, breathe my air, 
 
 Ere yet too late ; 
 Take thou with soul serene and fair, 
 
 Thine high estate ! 
 Still the untiring earth spins tow'rd 
 
 Its central sun ; 
 Nor fire nor force can hold it ward, 
 
 Its race unrun ! 
 The placid seasons o'er its breast 
 
 Move to and fro ; 
 Unscathed its birds brood in their nest, 
 
 Its wood-flowers bloom 
 In peace above its stormiest crest. 
 
 In God's good plan 
 His loveliest creatures all find rest, 
 
 Not thou, O man !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. II9 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I remember, I remember, how my childhood flitted by ! 
 The mirth of its December and the warmth of its July ; 
 On my brow, love, on my brow, love, there are no signs 
 
 of care, 
 But my pleasures are not now, love, what childhood's 
 
 pleasures were, — 
 
 I remember, I remember. 
 
 Then the bowers, then the bowers, where as blythe, as 
 
 blythe could be, 
 And all their radiant flowers were as coronels to me ; 
 Gems to-night, love, gems to-night, love, are gleaming in 
 
 my hair, 
 But they are not half so bright, love, as childhood's roses 
 
 were, — 
 
 I remember, I remember. 
 
 I was merry, I was merry, when my little lovers came, 
 
 With a lily, or a cherry, or a new-invented game ; 
 
 Now I've you, love, now I've you, love, to kneel before 
 
 me there, 
 But you know you're not so true, love, as childhood's 
 
 lovers were, — 
 
 I remember, I remember. 
 
 Only he who fully knows the worth of what he re- 
 nounces, gains the true blessing of renunciation. — George 
 William Curtis.
 
 120 JANE ROWLEYS. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 May, 1786. 
 
 I lang hae thought, my youthful friend, 
 
 A something to have sent you, 
 Tho' it should serve nae other end, 
 
 Than just a kind memento ; 
 But how the subject theme may gang. 
 
 Let time and chance determine ; 
 Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
 
 Perhaps turn out a sermon. 
 
 Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 
 
 And Andrew, dear, believe me, 
 Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 
 
 And muckle they may grieve ye. 
 For care and trouble set your thought, 
 
 E'en when your end attained, 
 And a' your views may come to naught, 
 
 When ev'ry nerve is strained. 
 
 I'll na say men are villains, a', 
 
 The real hardened, wicked, 
 What hae nae check but human law, 
 
 Are to a few restricted : 
 But, och ! mankind are unco weak, 
 
 And little to be trusted ;
 
 SCRAP BOOK I21 
 
 If self the wavering balance shake, 
 It's rarely right adjusted. 
 
 Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 
 
 Their fate we should na censure, 
 For still the important end of life, 
 
 They equally may answer ; 
 A man may have an honest heart, 
 
 Tho' pov'rty hourly stare him, 
 A man may take a ne'bor's part, 
 
 Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 
 
 Ah, free, orl-han', your story tell, 
 
 When wi a bosom crony, 
 But still keep something to yourself, 
 
 Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
 Conceal yourself as well's ye can, 
 
 Fra critical dissection, 
 But keep thro' ev'ry other man, 
 
 Wi' sharpened sly inspection. 
 
 The sacred lowe o'weel placed love, 
 
 Luxuriantly indulge it, 
 But never tempt the illicit rove, 
 
 Tho' neathing should divulge it. 
 I wave the quantum o' the sin, 
 
 The hazard o' concealing.
 
 122 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 But oh ! it hardens a' within, 
 And petrifies the feeling. 
 
 To catch dame fortune's golden smile, 
 
 Assiduous wait upon her, 
 And gathered gear by ev'ry wile 
 
 That's justified by honor ; 
 Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
 
 Nor for a train-attendant, 
 But for the glorious privilege, 
 
 Of being independent. 
 
 The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 
 
 To hand the wretch in order ; 
 But where ye feel your honor grip, 
 
 Let ay that be your border ; 
 It's slightest touches, instant pause, 
 
 Debar a' side pretences, 
 And resolutely keep its laws, 
 
 Uncaring consequences. 
 
 The great Creator to revere, 
 Must sure become the creature, 
 
 But still the preaching can't forbear, 
 And ev'n the rigid feature ; 
 
 Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 
 Be complaisance extended,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 123 
 
 An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 
 For Deity offended. 
 
 When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 
 
 Religion may be blinded, 
 Or if she give a random sting, 
 
 It may be little minded ; 
 But when on life we're tempest driven, 
 
 A conscience but a canker, — 
 A correspondence fixed wi' heaven, 
 
 Is sure a noble anchor. 
 
 Adieu, dear amiable youth, 
 
 Your heart can ne'er be wanting ; 
 May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 
 
 Erect your 1 brow undaunted ! 
 In ploughman phrase, " God send you speed," 
 
 Still daily to grow wiser, 
 And may you better reck the rede, 
 
 Than ever did the adviser. 
 
 The heart that loves not knows not how to pray. 
 
 The eye can never smile that never weeps ; 
 'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play, 
 
 And through our tears the bow of promise peeps. 
 
 Denis Florence Mc Carty.
 
 124 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 ON FEMALE VIRTUE, FRIENDSHIP AND CON- 
 VERSATION. 
 
 To form the manners of men, various things con- 
 tribute, but nothing, I apprehend, so much, as the turn 
 of the woman he has converse with. Those who are the 
 most conversant with virtue and understanding, will 
 always be found the most amiable characters, other cir- 
 cumstances being supposed alike. Such society more 
 than any thing else rubs off the corners that give many of 
 our sex an ungracious roughness. It produces a polish 
 more perfect and more pleasing than that which is 
 received from a general commerce with the world. This 
 last is often spacious, but commonly superficial ; the 
 other is the result of a gentler feeling and more elegant 
 humanity ; the heart itself is moulded ; habits of undis- 
 sembled courtesy are formed ; a certain flowing urbanity 
 is acquired ; understanding and virtue, by being often 
 contemplated in the engaging light, have a sort of assim- 
 ilating power. If aught on earth can present the image 
 of celestial excellence in its softest array, it is an accom- 
 plished woman. 
 
 I know this span of life was lent 
 For lofty duties, not for selfishness, — 
 Nor to be whiled away in aimless dreams. 
 
 Aubray De Y r ere.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. I25 
 
 SONG FOR BOYS. 
 
 When life is full of health and glee, 
 
 Work thou as busy as a bee ! 
 
 And take this gentle hint from me : 
 
 Be careful of your money, 
 
 Be careful of your money, 
 You'll find it true that friends are few, 
 
 When you are short of money. 
 
 But do not shut sweet mercy's doors, 
 When sorrow pleads or want implores ; 
 To help to heal misfortune's sores, 
 
 Be careful of your money, 
 
 Be careful of your money, boys, 
 
 Be careful of your money ; 
 To help the poor who seek your door, 
 
 Be careful of your money. 
 
 The good do not comprehend evil. Noble souls with 
 difficulty reach the comprehension of evil and ingrati- 
 tude ; they require harsh lessons before they recognize 
 the extent of human corruption. Then, when their edu- 
 cation in this line is completed, they rise to an indulgence 
 which is the last degree of contempt. 
 
 Affectation is a grea f ^v enemy to the face than small- 
 pox.
 
 :a6 
 
 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 What is truth ? A fadeless flower, 
 A spring whose waters sweetly roll, 
 
 A tree whose fruit has vital power, 
 A fire which purifies the soul. 
 
 A mirror without spot and bright, 
 
 A balance having no defect, 
 A compass always pointing right, 
 
 A sword to punish and protect. 
 
 A rock immovable, secure, 
 
 A perfect gem from nature's mine, 
 
 A way which leads to joys most pure, 
 A glorious sun which ever shines. 
 
 y. F. Harrington. 
 
 Tranquility. — I look upon tranquility of mind and 
 patience to contribute as much as anything whatever to 
 the curing of diseases. On this principle I account for 
 the circumstance of animals not laboring under illness so 
 long as human beings. Brutes do not think so much as 
 we do, nor vex themselves about futurity, but endure 
 their maladies without reflecting on them, and recover 
 from them by the sole means of temperance and repose. 
 
 There is in every human countenance either a history 
 or a prophecy.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 127 
 
 DOMESTIC ETIQUETTE. 
 
 A carelessness of speech is a fatal source of estrange- 
 ment in married people. Now it is too much the fashion 
 in all households to have a domestic colloquy, very 
 different in its tone and carefulness to that in use with 
 strangers. The very best of us, it is feared, are too 
 prone to this, but from wives to husbands, and the re- 
 verse, matrimony seems certainly to possess the chemical 
 property of converting sweets into acids in no time. 
 Short answers are the direst foe to domestic happiness or 
 else no answer at all ; no conversation for his leisure, 
 for when once on a time you carefully brushed up all 
 your stores of knowledge, and an utter oblivion of the 
 personal politeness which most well-conducted people 
 think due to a stranger. Pity such things are kept, like 
 your choicest preserves, merely for strangers. None 
 can place too much value on domestic warmth of polite- 
 ness, unmixed, of course, with hypocrisy or shallow 
 words. Kindness might be a better word, perhaps, for 
 what is meant ; for when there are kind hearts, there 
 is almost sure to be a certain suavity of manners. But 
 this etiquette of the heart you keep like your best clothes 
 for comfort, never thinking that every day use is your 
 true polish, not merely for the base metals but even to 
 keep bright gold itself.
 
 128 jane rowley's 
 
 We met, 'twas in a crowd, and I thought he would 
 shun me, 
 
 He came, I could not breathe, for his eye was upon me, 
 
 He spoke, his words were cold, and his tone was un- 
 altered. 
 
 I knew how much he felt, for his deep-toned voice 
 faltered. 
 
 I wore my bridal robes, how I rivalled its whiteness, 
 
 Bright gems were in my hair, how I hated their bright- 
 ness, 
 
 He called me by my name, as the bride of another ; 
 
 Oh ! thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my 
 mother. 
 
 And once again we met, and a fair girl stood near him, 
 He smiled and whispered low, as I once used to hear 
 
 him. 
 She leaned upon his arm, once 'twas mine and mine 
 
 only, 
 I wept, for I deserved to feci wretched and lonely. 
 
 And she will be his bride, at the altar he'll give her 
 The love that was too pure for a heartless deceiver ; 
 The world may think me gay, but my feelings I smother ; 
 Oh ! thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my 
 mother.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 I2 9 
 
 Slight wishes, the habitual respect to opinions, the 
 polite abstinence from personal topics in the company 
 of others ; unswerving attention to his or her comforts, both 
 abroad and at home ; and above all, the careful preserva- 
 tion of those proprieties of conversation and manner 
 which are sacred when before the world, are some of the 
 secrets of that rare happiness, which age and habit alike 
 fail to impair or diminish. 
 
 Good Breeding, is the art of showing men by exter- 
 nal signs and internal regard which we have for them. It 
 arises from good sense, improved by conversing with 
 good company. 
 
 Age. — We ought not to calculate our age by the 
 passing years, but by the events that happen. It is what 
 we have done and what we have suffered make us old. 
 
 If you would have a thing kept secret, never tell it to 
 any one ; and if you would not have a thing known of 
 you, never do it. 
 
 As every thread of gold is valuable, so is every 
 minute of time.
 
 130 jane rowley's 
 
 A PARTING SONG. 
 
 BV MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 When will ye think of me, my friends? 
 
 When will ye think of me? 
 When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
 From the rock and the river are passing away, — 
 When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught, 
 And the heart grows burdened with tender thought, 
 
 Then let it be. 
 
 When will ye think of me kind friends? 
 
 When will ye think of me ? 
 When the rose of the rich midsummer time, 
 Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime ; 
 When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
 From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
 tread, — 
 
 Then let it be. 
 
 When will ye think of me sweet friends ? 
 
 When will ye think of me ? 
 When the sudden tears o'erflow your eyes, 
 At the sound of some olden melody, — 
 When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
 When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream, 
 
 Then let it be.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 Thus let my memory be with you, friends, 
 
 Thus ever think of me. 
 Kindly and gently, but as of one 
 For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone, — 
 As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
 As of a wanderer whose home is found, 
 
 So let it be. 
 
 131 
 
 THE TWO FLAGS. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR IN CUBA. 
 BY EDWARD RENACED. 
 
 From the black browed Mora, the castle-crested crag, 
 Drooped in the drowsy noontide the red and yellow flag, 
 And in the seething city the sun with fiery glare, 
 Flashed on a sea of faces — a thousand bayonets bare. 
 
 Soldiers with sullen faces — a doomed man trembling 
 
 nigh, 
 While a motely throng from every side poured forth to 
 
 see him die ; 
 And all the might multitudes beheld with bated breath, 
 The scene of coming slaughter — the many throated death. 
 
 But by the pallid prisoner, bare-headed and stern-browed, 
 Strode forth two gallant consuls before the surging 
 crowd ;
 
 13 2 Jane rowley's 
 
 One waved Columbia's banner, and one the Union Jack, 
 While all were filled with wonder, and waved the brave 
 men back. 
 
 But step by step together, before those armed bands, 
 Paced those proud consuls, holding the ensigns in their 
 
 hands, 
 " Present ! " The three stood silent, one moment face to 
 
 face, — 
 The consuls calm and steady, and the prisoner in his 
 
 place. 
 
 A sudden flash of crimson, of red, and white and blue, 
 The trembling captive cowered between the dauntless 
 
 two ; 
 The three stood draped together beneath the banners' 
 
 fold — 
 The proud thin flags of freedom — of the new world and 
 
 the old. 
 
 Then turning stern and haughty upon the ordered line : 
 " By these broad flags I claim him, and keep him, he is 
 
 mine ! 
 Thus England and Columbia stretch arms across the 
 
 seas 
 To shield him. Strike the prisoner, you strike through 
 
 us and these ! "
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 1^3 
 
 Thus out spake he of England ; like lions brought to bay, 
 The twain with eyes defiant looked round that stern array. 
 There fell a solemn silence, the rifle-barrels shone 
 Still at the doomsmen's shoulders, men shuddered and 
 looked on. 
 
 Till in a clear voice, crossing the bullet's threatened track, 
 Rang out the sudden mandate to march the prisoner back, 
 And as the shining escort fell back and faced about, 
 From all the crowded plaza went up a mighty shout." 
 
 A mighty storm of vivas, that rent the sultry skies, 
 Greeted the gallant consuls — the deed of high emprize, 
 Still louder, even louder, went up that vast acclaim, 
 From all the mighty plaza, bathed in its noontide flame. 
 
 Onward to future ages, far down the teeming years, 
 That sea of upturned faces sends forth its storm of cheers : 
 Long shall the deed be honored, and proudly handed 
 
 down, 
 To crown the victor consuls with fame's enduring 
 
 crown ! 
 
 Hail to the hero consuls ! Hail to the noble twain ! 
 Who dared for truth and duty the bullet's deadly rain ! 
 How strong to face the mighty — how great to guard the 
 
 weak — 
 Are these, the great twin nations to whom the helpless 
 
 seek !
 
 134 Jane rowley's 
 
 Still shall our arms protecting be spread across the sea, 
 Still shall the tyrants fear us who set their captives free, 
 Wrapped in a mighty mantle from hatred's cruel scars, — 
 The blood-red flag ot England, Columbia's stripes and 
 stars. 
 
 THE LAND THAT WE LEFT, AND THE LAND 
 THAT WE LIVE IN. 
 
 BY J. GRAHAM. 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Come hearts, of no patriot feeling bereft, 
 Let this be the toast that is given : — 
 " Oh ! here's to the dear, native land that we left, 
 And here's to the land that we live in." 
 Wherever the banner of freedom is spread, 
 
 At home, or where wandering a stranger, 
 The last drop of blood in our veins shall be shed, 
 To guard the loved ensign from danger, 
 Come hearts. 
 
 But love sheds a charm o'er the land of our birth, 
 And where is the hand woidd remove it ? 
 
 For if there be patriot worth on this earth, 
 O ! this is the feeling will prove it. 
 Come hearts.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 135 
 
 For home when the wanderer is heaving a sigh, 
 
 O, let not the native deride it ; 
 But leave his own country and then let him try 
 
 If e'en his own breast could avoid it. 
 Come hearts. 
 
 The heart that is cold to the land of its home, 
 The scenes of another may charm it ; 
 
 But cold to its home, o'er earth should it roam, 
 What patriot feeling can warm it ? 
 Come hearts. 
 
 Then, freedom, should tyranny grasp his foul dart, 
 
 Thou'lt find at thy breast should he send it, 
 The home-loving patriot cling round thy heart, 
 
 And still a true shield to defend it. 
 Come hearts, of no patriot feelings bereft, 
 
 Let this be the toast that is given : — 
 " O ! here's to the dear, native land that we left, 
 
 And here's to the land that we live in." 
 
 What deduction from reason can ever be applied to 
 love ? Love is a contradiction to all the elements of our 
 ordinary nature. It makes the proud man meek ; the 
 cheerful sad ; the high-spirited tame.
 
 136 jane rowley's 
 
 RECOMMENDED TO THE ATTENTION OF M. 
 
 by a member of the anti-poking-your-nose- 
 
 into-other-people's-ijusiness-soctety. 
 Wanted Immediately. 
 Persons of fair character, age or sex immaterial, at a 
 salary of twenty thousand dollars per annum, to mind 
 their own business, and leave other people's alone ! Ap- 
 plications with testimonials to be addressed to the secre- 
 tary of the " Neglected Home Department," at the office 
 of " The Woman's Suffrage Association." 
 
 PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 
 
 'Twas growin' dark so terrible fasht, 
 When through a town up the mountain there passed, 
 A broth of a boy to his neck in the shnow ! 
 As he walked, his shillalah he swung to and fro, 
 Saying, " It's up to the top I am bound for to go, — 
 Be-jabbers ! " 
 
 He looked mortal sad and his eve was as bright 
 As a fire of turf on a cowld winter's night ; 
 And niver a word that he said could ye tell, 
 As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, 
 " It's up to the top of the mountain I'll go, 
 Unless covered up by this bothersome shnow, — 
 Be-jabbers ! " 
 
 {* 
 
 4*
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 137 
 
 Through the windows he saw as he thraveled along, 
 The light of the candles and fires so warm ; 
 But a big chunk of ice hung o'er his head ! 
 Wid a shiver and groan — " By St. Patrick ! " he said, 
 *' It's up to the very tip-top I will rush, 
 And then if it falls, it's not meself it will crush, — 
 
 Be-jabbers ! " 
 
 "Whist a bit," said an ould man, whose hair was as 
 
 white, 
 As the shnow that fell down on that miserable night ; 
 " Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad, 
 Fur the night is so dark, and the walkin is bad." 
 Bedad ! he'd not lisht to a word that was said, 
 But he'd go to the top if he went on his head, — 
 Be-jabbers ! 
 
 A bright, buxum' young girl, such as likes to be kissed, 
 Axed him wouldn't he sthop, and how could he resist? 
 And so shnapping his fingers and winking his eye, 
 While shmiling upon her, he made this reply : — 
 " Faith, I ment to kape on till I got to the top, 
 But, as yer swate self has axed me, I may as well sthop, 
 Be-jabbers ! " 
 
 He shtopped all night and he shtopped all day, 
 And ye must'n be axin whin he did go away ; 
 For wouldn't he be a bastlev grassoon
 
 i3§ jane rowley's 
 
 To be lavin his darlint in the swate honeymoon? 
 Whin the ould man has peraties enough and to spare, 
 Sure he might as well shtay if he's comfortable there,- 
 Be-]'abbers ! 
 
 GRATTAN. 
 
 Deep in the bosom of his bleeding land, 
 
 Had sunk the bitter, barbed steel of wrong ; 
 Her poor limbs charred and bruised by chain and 
 thong, 
 
 Seemed helpless, and the lips that once were bland 
 
 With hopeful smile, and song, could scarce command 
 A feeble murmur, when arose a strong, 
 Bold voice that called, and lo ! a scried throng 
 
 Of stalwart sons strode up from every strand. 
 
 Stricken and feeble was she when he came, 
 
 But with bold, manly arms he folded her 
 To the great heart that beat for her alone. 
 
 And when again the evil and the shame 
 Returned, to hold her, still a sufferer, 
 
 The great heart burst to hear her plaintive, piteous moan. 
 
 You may wish to get a wife without a fault ; but 
 what if the lady, after you find her, happens to be in 
 want of a husband of the same character.
 
 ^CRAP BOOK. 139 
 
 LINES ON A SKULL. 
 
 Some forty years ago the following poem was found in the London 
 Morning Chronicle. Every effort was vainly made to discover the author, 
 even to the offering of a reward of fifty guineas. All that ever transpired 
 was, that the poem in a fair clerkly hand was found near a skeleton of 
 remarkable symmetry of form in the Museum of the Royal College of Sur- 
 geons, Lincoln's Inn, London, and that the curator of the Museum sent it 
 to the Morning Chrouicle. 
 
 Behold this ruin ! 'twas a skull, 
 
 Once of etherial spirit full, Q- 
 
 This narrow cell was life's retreat, 
 
 This space was thought's mysterious seat. 
 
 What beauteous visions filled this spot, 
 
 What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! 
 
 Nor hope, nor joy, nor love nor fear, 
 
 Have left one trace or record here. 
 
 Beneath this smouldering canopy, 
 
 Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 
 
 But start not at the dismal void, 
 
 If once with love that eye employed ; 
 
 If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 
 
 But through the dews of kindness beamed, 
 
 That eye shall be for ever bright, 
 
 When stars and skies are sunk in night. 
 
 Within this hollow cavern hung, 
 
 The ready, swift and tempered tongue ; 
 
 If falsehood's honey it disdained, 
 
 And when it could not praise was chained ; 
 
 R I 
 
 ^ 
 
 s 

 
 140 jane rowley's 
 
 If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, 
 Yet gentle concord never broke ! 
 This silent tongue shall plead for thee 
 When time unveils eternity. 
 
 Say, did these fingers delve the mine? 
 Or with the envied rubies shine? 
 To hew the rock or wear the gem, 
 Can little now avail to them. 
 But if the page of truth they sought, 
 Or comfort to the mourner brought. 
 These hands a richer meed shall claim 
 Than all that waits on wealth and fame. 
 
 Avails it, whether bare or shod, 
 These feet the path of duty trod ? 
 If from the bower of ease they fled, 
 To seek affliction's humble shed, 
 If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
 And home to virtue's cot returned, 
 These feet with angel's wings shall vie, 
 And tread the palace of the sky. 
 
 Hope is the sweetest friend that ever kept a distressed 
 soul company ; it beguiles the tediousness of the way, — 
 all the miseries of our pilgrimage.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. I4I 
 
 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 Let not the marriage of true minds, 
 Admit impediment. Love is not love 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 Or bends with the remover to remove. 
 
 Oh, no ! it is an ever fixed mark, 
 
 That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 
 Whose worth's unknown, although his life be taken. 
 
 Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheek, 
 Within his bending sickle's compass come : 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom. 
 
 If this be error and upon me proved, 
 I never write — nor no man ever loved. 
 
 W. Shakespeare. 
 
 KEEPING HIS WORD. 
 
 " Only a penny a box," he said, 
 But the gentlemen turned away his head, 
 As if he shrank from the squalid sight, 
 Of the boy who stood in the fading light. 
 
 >f 
 
 
 t - 
 
 .6- 
 
 ' ■ r
 
 142 jane rowley's 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " lie stammered, " you cannot know," 
 (And he brushed from his matches the flakes of snow, 
 That the sudden tear might have chance to fall,) 
 " Or I think — I think you would take them all. 
 
 " Hungry and cold at our garret pane, 
 Ruby will watch till I come again, 
 Bringing the loaf. The sun has set, 
 And he hasn't a crumb of breakfast yet. 
 
 One penny, and then I can buy the bread," 
 The gentleman stopped, " And you? " he said, 
 " I? I can put up with them, hunger and cold, 
 But Ruby is only five years old. 
 
 " I promised our mother before she went, — 
 She knew I would do it, — died content, — 
 I promised her, sir, through best, through worst, 
 I always would think of Ruby first." 
 
 The gentleman paused at his open door, 
 
 Such tales he had often heard before ; 
 
 But he fumbled his purse in the twilight drear, — 
 
 " I've nothing less than a shilling here." 
 
 " Oh, sir, if you'll only take the pack, 
 I'll bring you the change in a moment back ; 
 Indeed you may trust me ! " " Trust you ? No ! 
 But here is the shilling ; take it and go."
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 '43 
 
 The gentleman lolled in his easy chair, 
 And watched his cigar smoke wreath in air, 
 And smiled on his children, and rose to see 
 The baby asleep on its mother's knee. 
 
 " And now it is nine o'clock," he said, 
 " Time that my darlings were all abed, 
 Kiss me good-night, and each be sure, 
 When you're saying your prayers, remember the 
 poor." 
 
 Just then came a message — "A boy at the door," 
 But e'er it was uttered, he stood in the door, 
 Half breathless, bewildered, and ragged and strange, 
 " I'm Ruby, Mike's brother, I've brought you the 
 change. 
 
 " Mike's hurt sir, 'twas dark, the snow made him 
 
 blind, 
 And he did not take notice the train was behind, 
 Till he slipped on the track, and then it whizzed by, 
 And he's home in the garret ; I think he will die. 
 
 " Yet nothing would do him sir, nothing would do, 
 But out through the snow I must hurry to you ; 
 Of his hurt he was certain you wouldn't have heard, 
 And so you might think he had broken his word."
 
 144 J a ^e kowley's 
 
 When the garret they entered, they saw 
 Two arms, mangled, shapeless, outstretched on the 
 straw, 
 " You did it? — dear Ruby — God bless you ! " he said, 
 And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back and was dead. 
 
 : :_ Harper's Magazine. 
 
 Clocks may stop, hearts may cease to beat, but still 
 time goes on, staying or accelerating its pace for none ; 
 no prayers advance or delay its speed, though the sad 
 and joyous count its strokes by seconds of a different 
 length. 
 
 Children. — How little do those who have grown up 
 to man's estate, trouble themselves about the feelings of 
 children. It would really seem as if they fancied that 
 children were destitute of all those fine and delicate 
 springs of emotion, which are recognized in mature life, 
 and are the sources of all our joys and sorrows. It is 
 time the grown-up world went to school to some one 
 who has not forgotten the tender susceptibilities of child- 
 hood, that it may learn to sympathize with the little 
 sufferers. The germinating bud has within its folded 
 recesses all the beauty and the fragrance of the flower ; 
 the gentle distillations of heaven sighs sweetly in its se- 
 cluded shrine, and the sunbeams fall there as soothingly
 
 SCRAP BOOK. I45 
 
 as on the prouder petals that claim all to themselves. 
 
 How many a sweet spirit withers beneath the blighting 
 
 form of the unsympathizing guardian ; how many a one 
 
 retires to weep in solitude, because it is not loved as it 
 
 would be, and is not comprehended in its affection. We 
 
 little think what arcana we read, when the words, "of 
 
 such is the kingdom of heaven," pass our unheeded 
 
 utterance. — Riifus Daws. 
 
 A 
 
 Truth. — We never knew a boy or a man who from 
 early life spoke truth and shunned a falsehood, that was 
 not virtuous in all other respects, and who did not acquire 
 and enjoy the confidence and esteem of society. Truth- 
 fulness is one of the chief corner stones in a good and 
 respectable character. Young man, never utter a false- 
 hood ; never be tempted to depart from strict truth in all 
 you say. False words come from a false heart, and a 
 false heart breeds corruption that soon taints and spoils 
 the whole character. 
 
 If you wish to reform the world, begin by reforming 
 yourself, and then devote your attention to reforming and 
 improving the habits, manners and principles of the 
 children and youth, who are next to come on the stage 
 of action. 
 
 Money. — A fish particularly hard to catch.
 
 146 jane Rowley's. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL REFLECTION. 
 
 It cannot be that earth is man's abiding place. It 
 cannot be that our life is cast up by the ocean of eternity 
 to float a moment upon its waves and sink into nothing- 
 ness. Else why is it that the high and glorious inspira- 
 tions which leap from the temple of our hearts, are for- 
 ever wandering about unsatisfied ? Why is it that the 
 rainbow and cloud come over us with a beauty that is 
 not of earth, and then pass off and leave us to muse upon 
 their faded loveliness ? Why is it that the stars that hold 
 their "festival around the midnight throne," are set above 
 the grasp of our limited faculties, forever mockin<>- us 
 with their unapproachable glory? And, finally, why is 
 it that brighter forms of human beauty are presented to 
 our view, and then taken from us, leaving the thousand 
 streams of our affections to flow back in Alpine torrents 
 upon our hearts? We are born for a higher destiny than 
 that of earth. There is a realm where the rainbow never 
 fades, where the stars will be spread out before us like 
 islands that slumber in the ocean, and when the beautiful 
 that begins here and passes before us like shadows, shall 
 stay in our presence for ever. 
 
 The man that dares traduce because he can with 
 safety to himself is not a man. — Cowpcr.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 147 
 
 ELEGANCE DOES NOT MAKE HOME. 
 
 THEODORE PARKER. 
 
 I never saw a garment too fine for a man or maid. 
 There was never a chair too good for a cobbler, or cooper, 
 or king to sit on ; never a house too fine to shelter a 
 human head. These elements about us, the gorgeous 
 sky, the imperial sun, are not too good for the human 
 race. Elegance fits man. But do we not value this of 
 housekeeping a little more than it is worth, and some- 
 times mortgage a home for the mahogany we would 
 bring into it? I had rather eat my dinner off the head of 
 a barrel, or dress after the manner of John the Baptist in 
 the wilderness, or sit on a block all my life, than con- 
 sume all myself before I got to home, and take so much 
 pains with the outside, that the inside was as hollow as 
 an empty nut. Beauty is a great thing, but beauty of gar- 
 ment, house and furniture is a very tawdry ornament 
 compared to domestic love. All the elegance in the 
 world will not make home, and I would give more for a 
 spoonful of real hearty love, than for whole ship-loads 
 of furniture, and all the gorgeousness that all the uphol- 
 sterers of the world could gather together. 
 
 The three most difficult things are : to keep a secret, 
 to forget an injury, and to make a good use of leisure.
 
 W^ jane rowley's 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Shades of evening close not o'er us, 
 
 Leave our lonely bark awhile, 
 Morn, alas ! will not restore us 
 
 Yonder dim and distant Isle. 
 Still my fancy can discover, 
 
 Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; 
 Darker shadows round us hover, 
 
 Isle of beauty, fare-thee-well. 
 
 'Tis the hour when happy faces 
 
 Smile around the tapers light ; 
 Who will fill our vacant places? 
 
 Who will sing our songs to-night? 
 Through the mists that float above us, 
 
 Faintly sounds the vesper bell, 
 Like a voice from those who love us, 
 
 Breathing softly, fare-thee-well. 
 
 When the waves are round me breaking, 
 
 As I pace the deck alone, 
 And my eye in vain is seeking, 
 
 Some green spot to rest upon, 
 What would I not give to wander, 
 
 Where my old companions dwell ; 
 Absence makes the heart grow fonder, 
 
 Isle of beauty, fare-thee-well. j'^ \ 
 
 A 
 

 
 SCRAP BOOK. I49 
 
 THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 
 
 FATHER PROUT. 
 
 With deep affection 
 And recollection 
 I often think of 
 
 Those Shandon bells, 
 Whose sounds 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 river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chiming, 
 Full many a clime in, 
 Telling sublime in 
 
 Cathedral shrine ; 
 While at a glib rate, 
 Brass tongues would vibrate, 
 But all their music 
 
 Spoke naught like thine.
 
 150 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 For memory dwelling, 
 On each proud swelling, 
 Of thy belfry knelling, 
 
 Its bold notes free. 
 Made the bells of Shandon, 
 Sound far more grand, on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells tolling, 
 Old Adrian's Mole in 
 Their thunder rolling 
 
 From the Vatican ; 
 And symbols 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 Shandon, 
 Sound far more grand, on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 There's a bell in Moscow, 
 While on tower and Kiosk, oh,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 151 
 
 In saint Sophia, 
 
 The Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air, 
 Calls men to prayer, 
 From the tapering summits 
 
 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 
 On the pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 THE FRONT AND SIDE DOOR. 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 Every person's feelings have a front-door and side- 
 door by which they may be entered. The front-door 
 is on the street. Some keep it always open ; some 
 keep it latched ; some locked ; some bolted with a chain 
 that will let you peep in, but not get in ; and some nail 
 it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This front- 
 door leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, 
 and this into the interior apartments. The side-door 
 opens at once into the sacred chambers.
 
 153 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 There is almost always one key to this side-door. 
 This is carried for years hidden in a mothei-'s bosom. 
 Fathers, brothers, sisters and friends, often, but by no 
 means so universally, have duplicates of it. The wed- 
 ding ring conveys a right to one. Be very careful to 
 whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. 
 The fact of possessing one, renders those even who are 
 dear to you very terrible at times. You can keep the 
 world out from your front-door. Receive visitors only 
 when you are ready for them ; but those of your own 
 flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can 
 come in at the side-door, if they will, at any hour and 
 in any mood. Some of them have a scale of your 
 whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of 
 your sensibilities in semi-tones, — touching the naked 
 nerve-pulps as a pianist strikes the keys of his in- 
 strument. I am satisfied that there are as great masters 
 of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberg in 
 their line of performance. Married life is the school 
 in which the most accomplished artists in this depart- 
 ment are found. A delicate woman is the best instru- 
 ment ; she has such a magnificant compass of sensibil- 
 ities ! From the deep inward moan which follows 
 pressure on the great nerve of right, to the sharp cry 
 as the filaments of the taste are struck with a crushing 
 sweep, is a range which no other instrument possesses. 
 A few exercises on it daily -it home fit a man wonder-
 
 SCRAP BOOK. I53 
 
 fully for his habitual labors, and refreshes him immensely 
 as he returns from them. No stranger can get a great 
 many notes of torture out of a human soul ; it takes one 
 that knows it well, — parent, child, brother, sister, inti- 
 mates. Be very careful to whom you give a side-door 
 key ; too many have them already. 
 
 Ask yourself before speaking evil of any one : First, 
 is it right? second, is it kind? third, is it neces- 
 sary? Half the truth may be a lie in the absence of 
 the other half. 
 
 A little explained, a little endured, a little passed over 
 as a foible, and lo 3 the rugged atoms will fit like smooth 
 mosaic. 
 
 Why is a discontented man like a watchful house-dog? 
 Because he is a growler. 
 
 What a precious thing is the perfume of a flower, 
 which, without any loss to the plant, adheres to the hand 
 of a friend^ and follows him to recall the beauty of the 
 flower he loves. 
 
 The perfume of the soul is memory. It is the sweetest 
 and most delicate part of the heart, that detaches itself to 
 cling to another heart and follow it everywhere.
 
 154 J ANE Rowley's. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
 
 BY THEODORE o'HARA. 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo ; 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 
 The brave and daring few. 
 On fame's eternal camping ground, 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 And glory guards with solemn round, 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No answer 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 nor screaming fife, 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed, 
 Their haughty banners trailed in dust, 
 
 Is now their martial shroud ; 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And their proud forms in battle gashed 
 
 Are free from anguish now.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 155 
 
 The neighing steed, the flashing blade, 
 
 The trumpet's stirring blast, 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
 
 The din and shout are past ; 
 Not war's wild note, not glory's peal, 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight, 
 Those breasts that never more shall feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Like the dread northern hurricane, 
 
 That sweeps his broad plateau, 
 Flushed with triumph yet to gain, 
 
 Came down the serried foe ; 
 Our heroes felt the shock, and leapt 
 
 To meet them on the plain, 
 And long the pitying sky hath wept 
 
 Above our gallant slain. 
 Sons of one consecrated ground, 
 
 We must not slumber there, 
 Where strangers' steps and tongues resound, 
 
 Alone: the heedless air. 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave ; 
 She claims from war his richest soil 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 So 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 Far from the gory field ;
 
 i$6 jane rowley's. 
 
 Borne to a Spartan's mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield ; 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here, 
 And kindred hearts and eyes watch by 
 
 The hero's sepulchre. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 
 
 Dear as the blood you gave, 
 No impious footsteps here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave ; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While fame her record keeps, 
 Or honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, 
 
 In deathless songs shall tell 
 When many a banished age hath flown, 
 
 The story how you fell ; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
 
 Nor time's remorseless doom, 
 Shall dim one ray of holy light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
 Friendship. — Love, full fledged, waiting for a sunny 
 day to fly. — Byron.
 
 SCRAP BOOK 157 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
 
 Without a mark, without a bound, 
 
 It runneth the earth's wide region round ; 
 
 It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 
 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 
 
 I am where I would ever be ; 
 
 With the blue above, and the blue below, 
 
 And silence whereso'er I go, 
 
 If a storm should come and wake the^deep, 
 
 What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
 But I 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 me, 
 For I was born on the open sea. 
 
 The winds were loud, and bleak the morn, 
 The noisy hour when I was born ; 
 The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
 And the dolphin bared his back of gold, 
 And never was heard such an outcry wild 
 As welcomed to life the ocean child.
 
 158 jane rowley's 
 
 I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
 But I loved the deep sea more and more ; 
 And backward flew to its billowy breast 
 Like a child that seeketh its mother's breast. 
 For a mother she was and is to me, 
 For I was born on the open sea. 
 
 I've lived since then in calm and strife, 
 Full fifty winters a rover's life ; 
 With wealth to spend and power to range, 
 And never had sighed nor sought for change, 
 And death, whenever it comes to me, 
 Must come on the wild unbroken sea. 
 
 
 ONLY A DOG. 
 
 BY GOOSEBERRY GREEN. 
 
 Only a dog ! that lies there dead, 
 The soft eyes dim in his shaggy head ; 
 Ah ! I see you smile as I bend to weep, 
 With an aching heart o'er my dog's last sleep. 
 But to me he was faithful, kind and true, 
 The sincerest friend that ever I knew. 
 So naught care I for your idle sneers, 
 Or sarcastic jests at "a woman's tears," 
 For I hold it much, as through life we plod, 
 To win or loose, e'en the love of a dog.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 159 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER. 
 
 14 Bring flowers, sweet flowers," 
 
 The poet said ; 
 The lingering echo 
 
 Is not dead. 
 Through great highways — 
 
 O'er bounding waves, 
 Bring flowers to deck 
 
 A million graves. 
 
 Bring roses red, 
 
 And lilies white, 
 For fallen heroes 
 
 In the fight. 
 For soldier boys 
 
 We love so well, 
 Plant mignonette 
 
 And Immortelle. 
 The leader brave, 
 
 Who faced the foe, 
 Full many, many 
 
 Sleep below. 
 For such green mound, 
 
 Or granite tomb, 
 Bring balmy flowers 
 
 In all their bloom.
 
 160 jane rowley's 
 
 Yea ! North and South, 
 
 And East and West, 
 Where'er a soldier 
 
 Lies at rest. 
 Whether the "blue," 
 
 Or whether the " gray," 
 Strew dewy garlands 
 
 On this day. 
 
 You who can give 
 
 By your small mite, 
 Bring from the fields 
 
 The daisies white 
 Sweet buttercups, 
 
 And golden rod, 
 To strew upon 
 
 The sacred sod. 
 
 The flags half mast, 
 
 Against the sky, 
 Throughout the land 
 
 Are floating high 
 O'er heroes, who 
 
 For honor bled 
 And nobly died — 
 
 Beloved dead ! 
 
 Bring flowers, sweet flowers, 
 From far and near.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. l6l 
 
 Oh, men and maids 
 
 And children dear ! 
 Remember well 
 
 Our nation's braves — 
 Bring flowers to deck 
 
 A million graves. 
 
 THE MONEY QUESTION. 
 
 The woman whose husband gives her a weekly allow- 
 ance for household expenses, to be expended as she 
 thinks proper, is generally happy and contented, and 
 takes pride in her work. 
 
 Wives, as a rule, dislike to ask their husbands for 
 money ; they shrink from asking for the wherewithal to 
 purchase boots, clothing and the common necessities of 
 life ; it is neither agreeable nor pleasant to them and they 
 should not be forced to do it. 
 
 If they do their appointed work the money to carry 
 it on should be freely offered, monthly, or weekly, as 
 may be desired. 
 
 Some husbands have seen how much their mothers 
 have suffered for the want of money when their fathers 
 were rich, and they profit by the fact, and give their 
 wives a generous supply, never forcing them to become 
 applicants for it, and by so doing they greatly increase 
 their domestic happiness.
 
 1 62 jane rowley's 
 
 Place confidence in a woman's ability to act, and she 
 will fully repay it; doubt her executive powers — refuse 
 her responsibility — and you may rue it. 
 
 Husbands do not pay enough attention to this subject 
 of money. 
 
 Many wives of the middle class have been accustomed 
 to earn their own support, to purchase their own ward- 
 robes before they were married. But after marriage all 
 is changed ; they must ask for what they require rather 
 than have it paid to them quarterly. 
 
 At first their wants are few, or all supplied ; but one 
 or two years alter their outlook, and it becomes very 
 dreary. 
 
 Can the husband understand this? he will tell you : 
 
 " My wife has all she asks for," never dreaming how 
 many days it requires to summon her courage to ask for 
 necessities. 
 
 Debt. — Running into debt often tempts people to tell 
 lies. This made a great wit say, " Lying rides on debt's 
 back." When you have contracted a debt you may think 
 little of payment ; but creditors have better memories 
 than debtors, — being a superstitious sect, great observers 
 of days and times. 
 
 True. — If one-half the people knew what the other 
 said about them friendship would be entirely unknown.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 163 
 
 To be too independent with those we love is a mistake 
 to be carefully avoided, for excessive independence is a 
 barrier that checks sympathy as effectually as a rugged 
 boulder stops the even flow of a limpid stream. To 
 yield a little, taking and giving trifling services, not only 
 affords mutual pleasure, but serves to draw closer the 
 silken threads of love, the tension of which, even with 
 our most intimate ones, is apt sometimes to slacken, need- 
 ing careful watching lest the threads snap entirely. 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 BY FRANCIS S. KEY. 
 
 Oh ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at twilight's last gleaming? 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the peri- 
 lous fight, 
 O'er the rampart we watched, were so gallantly 
 streaming, 
 And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
 there ; 
 Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On the shore, dimly seen through the mist of the deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
 
 164 jane rowley's 
 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er towering steep, 
 As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 
 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 
 
 'Tis the star-spangled banner ! Oh, long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 
 
 And where is that band, who so vauntingly swore 
 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 
 A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollu- 
 tion. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave, 
 
 From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave ; 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 
 
 Sincerity, thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave thy 
 onward path to take dissimulation's winding ways, 
 though hell should gap and cry destruction at thee. — 
 Lady Randolph. 
 
 A good book and a woman arc excellent things for 
 those who know how to justly appreciate their value. 
 There are men, however, who judge of both from the 
 beauty of their covering.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 165 
 
 HOME MUSIC. 
 
 A house without music is like a nursery without 
 children — silent, gloomy and desolate. Music is the 
 harmonic soul of life, breathed or suggested everywhere 
 in nature, and only absent from the lips and hearts of those 
 who are "fit for treason, stratagems and spoils." The 
 influence of music is not only soothing and delightful to 
 the ear, but is refining, purifying, and exalting to the 
 mind and heart. 
 
 The soul lives its rarest hours in an atmosphere of 
 melody and song, and we contemplate Paradise not un- 
 fittingly as realizing our supremest dreams of felicity, 
 with its musical enchantments, its hymning seraphs, who 
 u adore and burn " with extacies that can find utterance 
 only in song. Universal experience attests that the habit- 
 uation of childhood to pleasant music — as to the presence 
 of flowers — is one of the secret means of softening: down 
 harsh tempers and evil passions in the bud. Children 
 cannot grow up rude and boisterous in the midst of har- 
 mony and beauty. Music at home is a recreation for the 
 daughter and an attraction for the son. Make home 
 bright, musical and joyous, and few will fly from it to 
 the world's corrupting diversions and excitements. 
 
 
 Home. — There's magic in that little word, it is a 
 magic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never 
 known beyond the hallowed limit.
 
 1 66 jane rowley's 
 
 A PATRIOT'S LAST APPEAL. 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with 
 dishonor. I would not have submitted to a foreign op- 
 pressor, for the same reason that I would resist the present 
 domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom, I would 
 have fought on the threshold of my country, and its 
 enemy should only enter by passing over my lifeless 
 corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and 
 who have subjected myself to the dangers of a jealous 
 and watchful oppressor, and the bondage of the grave, 
 only to give my countrymen their rights and my country 
 its independence — am I to be loaded with calumny and 
 not suffered to resent or repel it? No, God forbid ! 
 
 If the spirit of the illustrious dead participate in the 
 concerns and cares of those who are dear to them in their 
 transitory life, O, ever-dear and venerable shade of my 
 departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the con- 
 duct of your suffering son, and see if I have ever for a 
 moment deviated from the principles of morality and 
 patriotism which it was your care to instil into my 
 youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my 
 life. 
 
 My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice — the 
 blood which you seek is not congealed by the artificial 
 terrors that surround your victim ; it circulates warm
 
 SCRAP BOOK. , 167 
 
 and unruffled through the channels which God created 
 for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to destroy 
 for purposes so grievous that they cry to Heaven. 
 
 Be ye patient ! I have but a few more words to say. I 
 am going to my cold and silent grave ; my lamp of life 
 is nearly extinguished ; my race is run ; the grave opens 
 to receive me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one 
 request to ask at my departure from this world, it is the 
 charity of its silence ! Let no man write my epitaph ; 
 for as no man who knows my motives dares vindicate 
 them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let 
 them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my 
 tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other 
 men can do justice to my character. When my country 
 takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and 
 not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done. 
 
 It is a very indiscreet and troublesome ambition which 
 cares so much about fame ; about what the world says 
 about us ; to be always looking in the face of others for 
 approval. 
 
 The world caresses the rich, however deficient in in- 
 tellect or morals, and avoids the poor man of merit in 
 the thread-bare coat. 
 
 Prodigals live as if they had but a short time to exist, 
 but misers as if they were never to die.
 
 1 68 jane rowley's 
 
 FROM "GOOD HOUSEKEEPING." 
 
 The idea of marriage is the object of life — an end 
 for which girls are to be trained appears often to be the 
 verv stumbling block in the way. If they are allowed to 
 grow up thinking of marriage only as a possibility, as an 
 incident in their lives which may or may not happen, 
 will they not be better prepared for whatever fortune may 
 have in store for them ? Freed from that anxiety about 
 their future which characterizes many young women, 
 there would seem to be a chance that they might be 
 trained to be happy and to make others happy whether 
 they were married or single While acknowledg- 
 ing that a well-assorted marriage is, without doubt, the 
 truest and best life for man or woman, can it be denied that 
 an unhappy union is the greatest of sorrows in a woman's 
 life, to say nothing of the train of evils which it brings 
 upon others ? If this idea that marriage is the great ob- 
 ject — the necessity of woman's life — could be removed, 
 there would certainly be more suitable and fortunate 
 unions and fewer of the hasty, ill-considered, unwise 
 ones. So long as two people who know little of each 
 other's present character, tastes and habits, and nothing 
 of each other's antecedents, will rashly join themselves 
 for life after an acquaintance of a few weeks, so long 
 must we look for the horrors of the newspapers, the 
 scandals of the divorce courts, and the life-long martyrdom
 
 SCRAP BOOK. i6o, 
 
 of those who bear the ill they cannot fly from. If girls 
 did not learn from those about them, from much of their 
 teaching, from the very atmosphere of society, that they 
 were expected to marry somebody, they would hardly 
 deem it possible to take such a risk as that of marriage 
 without due consideratoin. They would wait for the 
 certainty that it was the right thing to do, and that the 
 right person for them had appeared. 
 
 Let them feel that the end and aim of their lives is to 
 be fit to be women and to fill their places as such in the 
 world that so much needs both good women and good 
 men, and there is no fear that they will not be quite equal 
 to the situation it they find it best for their happiness to 
 marry. 
 
 Make other men's shipwreck thy sea mark. 
 
 A SIMILE. 
 
 In a Devonshire lane as I trotted along, 
 'Tother day, much in want of a subject for song, 
 Thinks I to myself, perhaps inspired by the rain, 
 Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. 
 
 In the first plaee 'tis long ; and when once you are in it, 
 It holds you as fast as a cage holds a linnet ; 
 For however rough and dirty the road may be found, 
 Drive forward you must, for there's no turning round.
 
 170 jane rowley's 
 
 But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, 
 For two are the most that together can ride ; 
 And e'en then 'tis a chance hut they get in a pother, 
 And jostle, and cross, and run foul of each other. 
 
 For poverty greets them with mendicant looks, 
 And care pushes by them with o'erladen crooks, 
 And strife's jarring wheels strive between them to pass, 
 And stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. 
 
 Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, 
 That they shut out the beauties around from the sight ; 
 And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain, 
 That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 
 
 The woman was old, and ragged, and gray, 
 And bent with the chill of the winter's day. 
 
 The street was wet with the winter's snow, 
 And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 
 
 She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
 Alone, uncarcd for, amid a throng 
 
 Of human beings who passed her by, 
 Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 171 
 
 Down the street with laughter and shout, 
 Glad in the freedom of school let out, 
 
 Came the boys like a flock of sheep, 
 Hailing the snow piled white and deep. 
 
 Past the woman, so old and gray, 
 Hasten the children on their way. 
 
 Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
 So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 
 
 Lest the carriage wheels or horse's feet, 
 Should crowd her down in the slippery street. 
 
 At last came one of the merry troop — 
 The gayest laddie of all the group. 
 
 He paused beside her, and whispered low : 
 " I'll help you across if you wish to go." 
 
 Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
 She placed, and without a 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 y 
 For all she's old, and poor and slow ;
 
 172 jane rowley's 
 
 ** And 1 hope some fellow will lend a hand 
 To help my mother, you understand, 
 
 *' If ever she's old, and poor, and gray, 
 When her own dear boy is far away." 
 
 And " somebody's mother " bowed low her head 
 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." 
 
 GREAT VARIETIES. 
 
 A great woman not imperious, 
 A fair woman not vain, 
 A woman of common talent not jealous, 
 An accomplished woman who scorns to shine, 
 Are four wonders great enough to be divided 
 amongst the four quarters of the world. 
 
 Hail, ye small, sweet courtesies of life, for smooth do 
 you make the road of it, like grace and beauty which 
 beget inclinations, to love at first sight ; 'tis ye that open 
 this door and let the stranger in. 
 
 Harmless mirth is the best cordial against the con- 
 sumption of spirits ; wherefore jesting is not unlawful, 
 if it trespass not in quantity, quality, or season.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 WOMAN'S FATE. 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 '73 
 
 Oh ! be not thou cast down, because thy lot 
 
 The glory of thy dream resembleth not ; 
 
 Not for herself was woman first create, 
 
 Nor yet to be man's idol, but his mate. 
 
 Still, from his birth, his cradle bed she tends 
 
 The first, the last, the faithfulest of friends ! 
 
 Still finds her place in sickness or in woe, 
 
 Humble to comfort, strong to undergo ; 
 
 Still in the depth of weeping sorrow, tries 
 
 To watch his death-bed with her patient eyes ! 
 
 And doubt not though — (Although at times deceived 
 
 Outraged, insulted, slandered, crushed, and grieved 
 
 Too often made a victim or a toy. 
 
 With years of sorrow, for an hour of joy ; 
 
 To oft forgot 'midst pleasure's circling wiles, 
 
 Or only valued for her rosy smiles) — 
 
 That in the frank and generous heart of man, 
 
 The place she holds accords with heaven's high plan ! 
 
 Still, if from wandering sin reclaimed at all, 
 
 He sees in her the angel of recall ; 
 
 Still, in the sad and serious ills of life, 
 
 Turns to the sister, mother, friend or wife ; 
 
 Views with a heart of fond and trustful pride, 
 
 His faithful partner by his calm fireside ;
 
 i*4 jane rowley's 
 
 And oft, when barred of fortune's fickle grace, 
 
 Leaves his faint head upon her kindly breast 
 
 And owns her power to soothe him into rest. 
 
 Owns what the gift of woman's love is worth 
 
 To cheer his toils and trials upon earth ! 
 
 Sure it is much, this delegated power, 
 
 To be consoler of Man's heaviest hour ! 
 
 The guardian angel of a life of care, 
 
 Allowed to stand 'twixt him and his despair. 
 
 Such service may be made a holy task ; 
 
 And more 'twere vain to hope, and vain to ask 
 
 There, O loved and lovely be content 
 
 And take thy lot with joy and sorrow blent. 
 
 Judge none ; yet let thy share of conduct be, 
 
 As knowing judgment shall be passed on thee, 
 
 Here and hereafter ; so still undismayed, 
 
 And guarded by the sweet thought's tranquil shade, 
 
 Undazzled by the changeful rays which threw 
 
 Their light across thy path, while life was new, 
 
 Thou shalt move sober on — expecting less, 
 
 Therefore the more enjoying happiness. 
 
 He that is not handsome at twenty, nor strong at 
 thirty, nor rich at forty, nor wise at fifty, will never be 
 handsome, strong, rich, or wise. 
 
 He is wise who considers water his best and only 
 drink.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 175 
 
 THE HEART. 
 Oh ! give me the heart that with feeling is fraught, 
 A heart that is pure, that with gold is unbought, 
 A heart that's unchangeable, gentle, alive, 
 That kindly can chide and another's ne'er rive. 
 
 How happy the friends are, whose hearts are like this, 
 Their parting is pain, but their meeting is bliss ; 
 They feel what one-half of the world ne'er can know, 
 Their friendship on earth is a heaven below. 
 
 When self round the heart is too firmly entwined, 
 It then leaves us naught but the wreck of a mind, 
 And oh ! such a wreck, many choose for their lot ; 
 Let theirs be the pleasure — I envy them not. 
 
 Their friendship is coldness, their sympathy's gone, 
 They inhabit a dark world, unheeded, unknown ; 
 No sun, howe'er bright, can illumine their way, 
 For no sun shines on them with an unclouded ray. 
 
 Then give me a heart to which friendship is dear, 
 That balm, which alone our sad moments can cheer — 
 And brighten our way through this dark world of woe, 
 Where a nominal friend is the deadliest foe. 
 
 RESPECTABILITY. 
 
 Pray, what do you mean by " Respectability?" 
 Is it wisdom, or worth, sir, rank, or gentility —
 
 176 jane rowley's 
 
 Is it rough sound sense or a manner refined — 
 
 Is it kindness of heart or expansion of mind — 
 
 Is it learning, or talent, or honor, or fame 
 
 That you mean by that phrase (so expressive) to name? 
 
 No, no — these are not, sir, the things now in vogue, 
 
 A respectable person, sir, may be a great rogue. 
 
 A respectable person may be a great fool, 
 
 Have lost even the little he picked up at school ; 
 
 Be a glutton, a spendthrift, deep drown'd in debt, 
 
 May forfeit his honor, his best friend forget : 
 
 May be a great sycophant, tyrant, or knave, 
 
 But a livery servant, at least he must have ; 
 
 In vice he may vie with the vilest of sinners, 
 
 But he must keep a cook, and give capital dinners. 
 
 MONEY. 
 
 The burly smith, with shoulders strong and broad, 
 His sledge and hammer doth alternate ply ; 
 The horse outside is waiting to be shod, 
 While bellows roar, and sparks around him fly. 
 The shoes are fashioned, punched, and fit to try, 
 Then what does all this noise and sparks imply? 
 The wish to gain some money. 
 
 The carpenter is working at his bench, 
 With chisel, mallet, mortising some wood.; 
 He moves his augur round with steady wrench,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 177 
 
 To aid the chisel making mortice good ; 
 Time saving is by him well understood ; 
 Then why this thought, this work, this earnest mood? — 
 The wish to gain some money. 
 
 The sailor braves the dangers of the deep, 
 The winds, the waves, the hidden rocks, the shore, 
 The chilling cold, the toil, the want of sleep, 
 These hardships and privations — many more 
 He knows full well are still for him in store, 
 Then why not leave the ocean and its roar ? — 
 The wish to gain some money. 
 
 The lawyer with his glib and ready tongue, 
 Takes up his client's cause with full intent 
 To make, if needful, right appear the wrong ; 
 And to mislead, and also circumvent 
 The jurors' minds — Can lawyers thus assent 
 To wiles which honesty could not invent ? — 
 No doubt to earn some money. 
 
 Behold the merchant full of care and toil ; 
 His mind so much intent on wealth and gain, 
 And fearful lest some accident should spoil 
 His cherished hopes — his efforts be in vain. 
 And all the plannings of that busy brain — 
 Then why subject himself to so much pain? 
 His grasping love of money.
 
 178 jane rowley's 
 
 Some statesmen, also, Tory if not Whig: 
 They surely look alone to country's good ; 
 Though not obliged to weave, to forge, to dig, 
 They sometimes show, alas ! a grasping mood, 
 And strive for place, as humbler persons would. 
 Then why such striving, mean, and often rude? 
 Simply to gain some money. 
 
 And thus in every class and grade of men 
 The love of money holds its potent sway, 
 The smith, the sailor, lawyer, statesman, then 
 Each longs for it in his peculiar way ; 
 And yet, while often it leads men astray, 
 Still of its widespread hold is no decay, 
 
 This love by all for money. 
 
 A Modern Thersites. 
 
 Belfast, November, 1SS5. 
 
 WHEN I AM DEAD. 
 
 BY FRANKLIN P. DALY. 
 
 When I am dead, 
 I would not have the rude and gaping crowd 
 Around me gather, and 'mid lamentation loud, 
 Tell of my virtues, and with vain regret 
 Bemoan my loss, and, leaving me, so soon forget, 
 But I would have the few, the kindly heart,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 179 
 
 Who, when misfortune came, so nobly did their part, 
 And oft by thoughtful deed their love express — 
 These would I have, no more, no less — 
 When I am dead. 
 
 When I am dead, 
 I would not have the high and storied stone 
 Placed o'er mv grave, and then be left alone ; 
 But I would have some living thing I once did love. 
 Ere I did leave the joyous world above, 
 Placed o'er me, and in each succeeding year 
 I'd have my friends renew them, and oft linger near, 
 With loving thoughts upon the dear one laid below, 
 And talk of times departed long ago, 
 
 When I am dead. 
 
 When I am dead, 
 Forgive — O, this I pray for more than all — 
 The anguish I have caused, the deed beyond recall, 
 Think kindly on me as I lie, so cold, so still, 
 So poor a subject for thine angered ill. 
 Think of some generous deed, some good word spoken, 
 Of hearts bound up I found so sad and broken ; 
 Think gently, when this last long rest is mine, 
 And gaze upon my form with looks benign — 
 
 When I am dead !
 
 180 jane rowley's 
 
 THE FORGE. 
 
 BY T. D. S. 
 I. 
 
 Oh, if you'd like to learn in a cheap and cosy school, 
 The ins and outs of politics, of home and foreign rule ; 
 How nations should he governed, and how empires rise 
 
 and fall, 
 Drop into Paddy Gowan's forge, and there you'll hear it 
 all. 
 
 Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 
 
 Blow, bellows, blow, 
 Till the fire is spurting brightly 
 
 And the iron is aglow ; 
 And his hammer on the anvil 
 Comes ringing fast and free, 
 And he clinches all his arguments 
 With one, two, three ! 
 
 II. 
 
 By force of honest intellect, unhelped by bookish skill, 
 He settles social questions that might puzzle Stuart Mill ; 
 He knows how taxes should be raised, and how they 
 
 should be spent, 
 And how poor Ireland has been robbed, and where her 
 money went. 
 
 Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 
 Blow, bellows, blow,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. l8l 
 
 Till the fire is spurting brightly 
 
 And the iron is aglow ; 
 And his hammer on the anvil 
 
 Comes ringing fast and free, 
 And he clinches all his arguments 
 
 With one, two, three ! 
 
 III. 
 
 He loves the Irish members who are fighting for the 
 
 cause — 
 Brave Sexton, and O'Connor, and Healey of the clause, 
 But when they were in petticoats was he not heard to say 
 The thing to do in Parliament was what they do to-day? 
 Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 
 
 Blow, bellows, blow, 
 Till the fire is spurting brightly 
 
 And the iron is aglow ; 
 And his hammer on the anvil 
 
 Comes ringing fast and free, 
 And he clinches all his arguments 
 With one, two, three ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, many a boy now working to set dear Erin free, 
 In Ireland, and in England, and far beyond the sea, 
 First learnt his patriot lessons and felt the proud desire 
 Of freedom kindle in his soul by Paddy's flashing fire.
 
 i8z 
 
 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 
 
 Blow, bellows, blow, 
 Till the fire is spurting brightly 
 
 And the iron is aglow ; 
 And his hammer on the anvil 
 
 Comes ringing fast and free, 
 And he clinches all his arguments 
 
 With one, two, three ! 
 
 Long life to Paddy Gowan ! God save him from all harm, 
 God keep the spirit in his heart, the vigor in his arm ! 
 God bless his roadside college ! for our schools, alas ! 
 
 are few 
 Where Ireland's cause has teachers so noble and so true ! 
 Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, 
 
 Blow, bellows, blow, 
 Till the fire is spurting brightly 
 
 And the iron is aglow ; 
 And his hammer on the anvil 
 
 Comes ringing fast and free, 
 And he clinches all his arguments 
 With one, two, three. 
 
 Labor. — Labor is life! 'tis the still water faileth ; 
 idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; keep the watch 
 wound, or the dark rust assaileth.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 183 
 
 How to Talk Well. — The art of agreeable con- 
 versation is one which all men admire and most men are 
 anxious to learn. There are few subjects upon which 
 young people oftener seek advice from those whose 
 greater experience enables them to give wise counsel. 
 It is frequently said of many kinds of teaching that ex- 
 ample is better than precept ; but this is not so with 
 regard to the art of conversation. You may hear a man 
 talk with wonderful brilliancy, and yet talk no better 
 yourself than you did before. You must have rules to 
 observe rather than persons to imitate. Boswell accounts 
 for the extraordinary accuracy and flow of language of 
 Dr. Johnson by saying that " he had early laid it down 
 as a fixed rule to do his best, on every occasion and in 
 every company, to impart whatever he knew in the most 
 forcible language he could put it in, and that, by constant 
 practice, and never suffering any careless expression to 
 escape him, or attempting to deliver his thoughts with- 
 out arranging them in the clearest manner, it became 
 habitual to him." The course which was pursued by so 
 eminent a scholar, whose conversational powers alone 
 sufficed to make him celebrated, may well be followed 
 by the youth of our day who wish to learn the much- 
 coveted art of conversation. 
 
 A friend is to a friend, sun and sun-flower ; at once 
 he attracts and is attracted.
 
 184 Jane rowley's. 
 
 THE HARP OF O'CAROLAN. 
 
 BY M. D. JONES. 
 
 I. 
 THE WELCOME. 
 
 Forth of a silence weird and olden, 
 But for her tears had been all golden, 
 
 Whose cup of sorrow overran ; 
 Tuned to the heart-beats of her bosom, 
 Who, smiling, sees her hopes in blossom, 
 They bring the harp of O'Carolan 
 And they sing us the songs of O'Carolan ! 
 Taken from Sorrow's weeping willows, 
 To catch the spray of briny billows, 
 
 Those tears of joy space scarce can span ; 
 Wakened by sea-winds west-ward blowing, 
 Till all thy golden chords are glowing 
 With the heart and soul of O'Carolan — 
 Thrice welcome, Harp of O'Carolan ! 
 
 Kissed by the sunburst round thee clinging, 
 Proud of the shamrock, with it bringing 
 
 Hope for the universal man, 
 Come, Harp oflnnisfail, the fearless, 
 And fill the eyelids of the tearless 
 
 With the righteous wrath of O'Carolan — 
 With the joyous tears of O'Carolan !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 185 
 
 In the New World's harbor kindly greeted, 
 Where Music's soul is never cheated 
 
 Of one sweet charm by blight or ban ; 
 Thrilled with the strange and strong emotion 
 That sways the soul this side the ocean, 
 
 Thrice welcome, Harp of O'Carolan — 
 
 The songs and the soul of O'Carolan ! 
 
 II. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, brave Harp, to her returning 
 For whom unnumbered hearts are yearning, 
 
 Whose cup of joy too soon o'erran ; 
 Oh ! if there be the least despairing 
 Or drooping in her glance or bearing, 
 
 Comfort her, Harp of O'Carolan — 
 
 Kindle her courage, O'Carolan ! 
 
 Lift up thy voice so lark-like loud, 
 
 So clear, despite the passing cloud, 
 A friendly sky she still may scan ; 
 
 And, looking up, cease not to see 
 
 The golden sun of Liberty, 
 
 That kindled the soul of O'Carolan — 
 The songs and the Harp of O'Carolan ! 
 
 Harp of the brave, on Freedom's height 
 We heard, with hers attuned aright ! 
 Refuse the fires of hate to fan ;
 
 1 86 
 
 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 But be a fountain, cool and sweet, 
 
 Amid the conflict's torrid heat, 
 
 For thou art the Harp of O'Carolan — 
 And the song is the song of O'Carolan I 
 
 Lest her songs be sung by slavish rote, 
 
 The passion native to thy note 
 
 Lose not, echoed from clan to clan ! 
 
 Be strains like thine the heavenly vent 
 
 And healing of her discontent ; 
 
 While calm-voiced Patience steadies the van 
 Of her conquering cohorts, O'Carolan ! 
 
 "GOD SAVE LIBERTY." 
 
 BY J. J. M. 
 
 Wake ! sons of Erin, wake ! 
 Great freedom's cause uptake ! 
 
 Your rights defend ' 
 Stand in your new given power I 
 Stand in your manhood's dower ! 
 Stand ! though grim tyrants lower, 
 
 To make you bend. 
 
 Think ! ye who till the ground ; 
 And ye whose lives are bound, 
 In labor's grove !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 187 
 
 Whose hand has wrenched the chain 
 That fettered heart and brain? 
 Let not his toil be vain ! 
 Nor ingrates prove ! 
 
 Strange leaders bid for place : 
 But let all hirelings grace 
 
 The hireling crew ! 
 We will like one agree, 
 And trust our liberty 
 With him who made us free, 
 
 Old Gladstone true. 
 
 It is not in the mountains, in the palaces of pride, 
 That love, the winged wizard, is contented to abide, 
 In meek and humble spirits, the truest love is found, 
 As the lark that sings in Heaven, builds her nest upon 
 
 the ground, 
 His cradle is the lilly, by the breath of autumn stirred 
 For love is often shaken by the whispering of a word ; 
 His smile is in the sunshine, and his voice is in the 
 
 glade, 
 Oh ! that winter should o'ertake it with its silence and 
 
 its shade. 
 
 The soul never assents to sin, and weeps with the 
 angels when the form in which it dwells violates the 
 sacred obligations thus imposed upon it.
 
 iSS jane rowley's 
 
 OH ! FLY TO THE HILLS. 
 
 BY WILLIAM GRAHAM. 
 
 "Miss Janet Makinzie plighted her troth to the young advocate, as 
 60on as he agreed to assume the white cockade, and she sent him forth to 
 win her hand by perilling his own life in a contest, which to all except 
 the enthusiastic, appeared desperate." 
 
 Oh ! fly to the hills where our banner is borne, 
 To float in the breezes and welcome the morn, 
 When its folds will unfurl to the breath of the sky, 
 When thousands are panting to conquer or die, 
 And when you return with your claymore and plaid, 
 I will weave a love knot for your bonnie cockade. 
 
 He knelt by his mistress, and vowed on that night 
 By his hope of her love, to rush forth to the fight ; 
 And he kissed her pale cheek as he faltered adieu ! 
 While the tears of affection fell warm on the dew. 
 And high beat the heart of the Jacobin maid 
 As she prayed for success to his bonnie cockade. 
 
 Oh ! love thou art nurtured in sorrow and tears, 
 And the anguish of mortals thy pastime appears, 
 While the maiden looked out for her lover in vain 
 To sleep on her bosom, he slept with the slain, 
 And never came back with his claymore and plaid 
 From the grave where his love and allegiance were laid.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 189 
 
 ALLEN a'DALE. 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Allen a' Dale has no faggot for burning, 
 Allen a' Dale has no furrow for turning, 
 Allen a' Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
 Yet Allen a' Dale has red gold for the winning. 
 Come read me my riddle, come hearken my tale, 
 And tell me the craft of Allen a' Dale. 
 
 The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, 
 And he views his domains upon Arkendale side, 
 The mere for his net, and the land for his game, 
 The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame ; 
 Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, 
 Are less free to Lord Darce than Allen a' Dale. 
 
 Allen a' Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 
 
 Though his spear be as sharp, and his blade be as 
 
 bright ; 
 Allen a' Dale is no baron nor lord, 
 Yet twenty tall yoemen will draw at his word, 
 And the best of our nobles their bonnets will veil, 
 When at Rerecrass or Stanmore meets Allen a' Dale. 
 
 Allen a'Dale to his wooing is come, 
 
 The mother she asks or his house and his home, 
 
 Though the castle of Richmond snatds fair on the hill,
 
 190 jane rowley's 
 
 My hall, quoth bold Allen, stands gallanter still. 
 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, and its crescent so pale, 
 And with all its bright spangles, said Allen a' Dale. 
 The father was steel, and the mother was stone, 
 They lifted the latch, and they bid him begone ; 
 But loud on the morrow, their wail and their cry ! 
 He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye, 
 And she fled to the forest to hear a love tale, 
 And the youth it was told by was Allen a'Dale. 
 
 FEMALE PURITY. 
 
 All the influences which women enjoy in society — 
 their right to the exercise of that maternal care which 
 forms the first and most indelible species of education ; 
 the wholesome restraint which they possess over the 
 passions of mankind ; their power of protecting us when 
 young, and cheering us when old, depend so entirely 
 upon their personal purity and the charm that it casts 
 around them, that to insinuate a doubt of its real value 
 is wilfully to remove the broadest corner-stone on which 
 civil society rests, with all its benefits and all its com- 
 forts. 
 
 Dean Swift says a woman may knit her stockings 
 but not her brows ; she may darn her hose, but not her 
 eyes ; curl her hair but not her lip ; she may thread her 
 needle but not the public street.
 
 SCRAP HOOK. 
 
 GIVE ME THE HAND. 
 
 191 
 
 Give me the hand that is warm, kind and ready, 
 Give me the clasp that is calm, true, and steady. 
 Give me the hand that will never deceive me, 
 Give me the grasp that I aye may believe thee. 
 
 Soft is the palm of the delicate woman ! 
 
 Hard is the hand of the rough sturdy yeoman ! 
 Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not — never ! 
 
 Give me the grasp that is friendly forever. 
 
 Give me the hand that is true as a brother ; 
 Give me the hand that has harmed not another ; 
 Give me the hand that has never forsworn it, 
 Give me the grasp that I aye may adore it. 
 
 Lovely the palm of the fair, blue-veined maiden ! 
 
 Horny the hand of the workman o'erladen ! 
 
 Lovely or ugly, it matters not — never ! 
 
 Give me the grasp that is friendly forever. 
 
 Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty, 
 Free as the breeze and unshaken by party ; 
 Let friendship give me the grasp that becomes her, 
 Close as the twine of the vines in the summer. 
 
 Give me the hand that is true as a brother ; 
 
 Give me the hand that has wronged not another ! 
 
 Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not — never ! 
 
 Give me the hand that is friendly for ever. 
 
 cS.w
 
 I92 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 ENDURE HARDSHIPS. 
 
 As a gladiator trains the body so must we train the 
 mind to self-sacrifice, "to endure all things," to meet and 
 overcome difficulty and danger. We must take the rough 
 and thorny roads as well as the smooth and pleasant ; 
 and portions of our daily duty at least must be hard and 
 discouraging ; for the mind cannot be kept strong in per- 
 petual sunshine only, and the most dangerous of all 
 states is that of constantly recurring pleasure, ease and 
 prosperity. Most persons will find difficulties enough 
 without seeking them ; let them not repine, but take 
 them as a part of that educational discipline necessary to 
 fit the mind to arrive at its highest good. 
 
 How near to each other lie the dignity and debase- 
 ment of the human understanding. Love instead of being 
 a sentiment is a passion. Charity, ostentation. Religion, 
 fanaticism. Eloquence, the desire of popular applause, 
 and patriotism, ambition. Virtue is made for difficulties, 
 and grows stronger and brighter for such trials. If a 
 thing be not right, do it not ; if it be not true, speak it not. 
 
 The true motives of our actions, like the real pipes 
 of an organ, are usually concealed. But the gilded and 
 the hollow pretext is pompously placed in the front for 
 show.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 MORALITIES. 
 
 What is love ? Alas ! 
 
 'Tis a jest, a sigh, 
 Full of sad and sunny tears, 
 
 I know not why. 
 
 What is war? a grave 
 Where the soldiers die, 
 
 Some for gain, for glory, some, 
 They know not why. 
 
 What is hope? It is 
 
 Life's divinest joy ; 
 W T hen all others vanish, that 
 
 At last is by. 
 
 What is joy ? Fawn 
 
 That doth ever fly 
 Till we touch 't them at change, 
 
 And says, good bye. 
 
 What is life ? A dream 
 
 Full of visions high, 
 Where we seek and never find 
 
 Until we die. 
 
 What is death ? Ah ! me, 
 Touch me not so nigh ! 
 
 Shall I, may I, can I tell? 
 Alas ! not I. 
 
 193
 
 194 jane rowley's. 
 
 THE ASPEN. 
 
 There is a tradition that our Saviour's Cross was made of the wood 
 of thi s tree, and that its leaves have thrilled and quivered ever since. 
 
 Daylight is dying, but the west 
 
 Still with the pomp of sunset glows, 
 
 And crimson clouds on mountain's breast, 
 And tower, and tree, its radiance thrown, 
 
 While one by one in Eastern skies 
 
 " The stars that usher evening rise." 
 
 How deep, how holy, is the calm ! 
 
 Each sound seems hush'd by magic spell, 
 As if sweet peace, her honeyed balm 
 
 Blent with each dew-drop as it fell. 
 Would that the cares that man pursue, 
 
 A pause like this of nature knew ; 
 Yet in this deep tranquility, 
 
 When e'en the thistle's down is still : 
 Trembles yon towering aspen tree, 
 
 Like one whose by-gone deeds of ill 
 At hush of night before him sweep 
 
 To scare his dreams and " murder sleep." 
 
 For oft in highland wilds, 'tis said, 
 
 But truth now laughs at fancy's lore, 
 That of this tree the cross was made
 
 SCRAP BOOK 195 
 
 Which erst the Lord of glory bore ; 
 And of that deed its leaves confess 
 E'er since a troubled conscienceness. 
 
 We boast of clearer light ; but say 
 
 Hath science, in his lofty pride, 
 For every legend swept away 
 
 Some better, holier truth supplied ? 
 What hath she to the wanderer given 
 
 To help him on his road to heaven ? 
 
 Say who has gazed upon this tree 
 
 With that strange legend in his mind, 
 
 But inward turn'd his eye to see 
 If answering feeling he could find 
 
 A trembling for that guilt that gave 
 His Saviour to the cross and grave ? 
 
 And who such glance did inward bend, 
 
 But scorned the apathy and pride, 
 Which made him slight that more than friend 
 
 For him who bled, for him who died ; 
 Nor pray'd his callous heart might prove 
 
 What 'tis to tremble, weep, and love? 
 
 The Spirit of the Wood. 
 
 Envy is always fixed on something superior, and like 
 a sore eye, is offended with everything bright.
 
 196 jane rowley's 
 
 NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. 
 
 It is confidently reported that the King of the French is about to 
 send a ship of war to St. Helena, to bring the remains of Napoleon to 
 France, the English government having consented to that measure. 
 
 Oh ! tear him not from the lonely spot — 
 From the shade of the weeping tree ; 
 
 Where round his ashes the wild wave dashes 
 In the waste of the Southern sea. 
 
 Like a bow unstrung when the fight was done, 
 A bright lamp quenched in the burning, 
 Is the mouldering bone 'neath that gray stone, 
 And dust to its dust returning. 
 
 In the grave is peace, there all troubles cease, 
 There is peace for the weary head, 
 
 From the griefs of earth, from the curse of birth, 
 They invade not his quiet bed. 
 
 On the stately gloom of a marble tomb, 
 
 With trophies of war on it laid, 
 Add to his glory, or blazen his story ! 
 
 Let him rest with the quiet dead. 
 
 Then oh ! touch him not, the poor exile's lot 
 Was checkered by glory and woes ; 
 
 Then now let him keep his home on the deep, 
 France ! France ! let thy warrior repose.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 197 
 
 WE MEET IN CROWDS. 
 
 BY MRS. C. B. WILSON. 
 
 We meet in crowds ! who used to meet all lonely, 
 Where the soft moonbeams trembling lit the shade, 
 
 And for the vows we interchanged, now only 
 Are the cold'courtesies of fashion paid ! 
 
 We meet in crowds, where empty mirth is lighting 
 The flashing eye, but reaches not the heart ; 
 
 Where pleasure brims the cup with smiles inviting, 
 And lures her victims with a syren's art. 
 
 We meet in crowds ! Oh how unlike the meeting 
 Our bosom knew in those sweet bygone years ; 
 
 When time's swift pinions seemed on sunbeams fleeting, 
 And youths' light footsteps trod alone on flowers. 
 
 We meet in crowds ! — as strangers — cold and sadly, 
 Who ne'er had met, nor e'er may meet again ; 
 
 We part! — and in each bosom, deeply, madly, 
 Rankles the wound that must for aye remain. 
 
 Stranger ! for Jesus' sake forbear 
 To dig the dust enclosed here ; 
 Blessed be he that spares these stones 
 And cursed be he that moves my bones. 
 
 — Epitaph of Shakespeare.
 
 198 jane rowley's 
 
 THE STRANGER'S HEART. 
 
 BY BISHOP HEBER. 
 
 The stranger's heart, oh ! wound it not, 
 A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
 In the green shadow of thy tree, 
 The stranger hath no home with thee. 
 
 Thou thinkest the vine's low rustling leaves, 
 Glad music round thy household eyes ; 
 To him that voice has sorrow's tone, 
 The stranger's heart is with his own. 
 
 Thou thinkest it sweet, when friend with friend, 
 Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
 Then does the stranger's eye grow dim, 
 Far, far are those that pray'd with him. 
 
 Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land, 
 The voices of thy kindred band, 
 Oh ! 'midst them all when blessed thou art, 
 Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 
 
 Flattery. — Princes love flatterers, but are not over- 
 liberal in rewarding them. Some women, who can for- 
 get a thousand kind services, because they are fair, and 
 love their beauty above all things, never forget one's 
 flattery, but still even love them best who deceive them 
 most.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. I99 
 
 GENTLE WORDS. 
 
 A young rose in the summer time, 
 
 Is beautiful to me, 
 And glorious the many stars 
 
 That glimmer in the sea ; 
 But gentle words and loving hearts, 
 
 And hands that clasp my own, 
 Are better than the fairest flowers 
 
 Or stars that ever shone. 
 
 The sun may warm the grass to life, 
 
 The dew the drooping flower, 
 And eyes grow bright and watch the light 
 
 Of Autumn's opening hour ; 
 But words that breathe of tenderness, 
 
 And smiles we know are true, 
 Are warmer than the summer time, 
 
 And brighter than the dew. 
 
 It is not much the world can give, 
 
 With all its subtle art, 
 And gold and gems are not the things 
 
 To satisfy the heart. 
 But oh ! if those that cluster round 
 
 The altar and the hearth, 
 Have gentle words and loving smiles, 
 
 How beautiful is earth.
 
 200 jane rowley's 
 
 THE TROOPER TO HIS MARE. 
 
 BY CHARLES G. HALPINE ("MILES O'REILLY.") 
 
 Sweet girl, that has borne me far and fast 
 
 On pawing hoofs that were never loth, 
 Our galop to-day may be the last 
 
 For thee, or for me, or perhaps for both. 
 As I tighten your girth do you nothing daunt? 
 
 Do you catch the hint of our forming line? 
 And now the artillery moves to the front, 
 
 Have you never a qualm, Bay Bess of mine? 
 It is dainty to see you sidle and start 
 
 As you move to the battle's cloudy marge, 
 And to feel the swell of your wakening heart 
 
 When our sonorous bugles sound a charge ; 
 And the scream of the shell and the roar of the drum 
 
 You feign to be frightened with roguish glance ; 
 But up the green slopes where the bullets hum 
 
 Coquettishly, darling, I've known you dance. 
 
 Your skin is satin, your nostrils red, 
 
 Your eyes are a bird's or a loving girl's ; 
 And from delicate fetlock to stately head 
 
 A throbbing vein cordage around you curls, 
 O joy of my heart ! if you they slay, 
 
 For triumph or rout, I little care ; 
 For there isn't in all the wide valley to-day 
 
 Such a dear little bridlewise thoroughbred mare.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. i 20: 
 
 GOUGANA BARRA. 
 
 This poem was written about the year 1826, by I. J. Callanan, a native 
 of Cork. He died at Lisbon in 1829, and his grave was made, not by the 
 " Calm Avonbue," in accordance with his fervent prayer, but by the bunks 
 of the Tigris — far away from the " deep valley'd Desmond." A volume 
 of his poems was published soon after his death, and among them are 
 many of merit, fully equal to the fine example we have quoted. 
 
 There is a green isle in lone Gougana Barra, 
 W here allu ot song rushes forth like an arrow ; 
 In deep valley'd Desmond a thousand wild fountains 
 Come down to that lake, from their home in the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 There grows the wild ash, and a time stricken willow 
 Looks chiding down on the mirth of the billows — 
 As like some gay child that sad monitor scorning, 
 It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. 
 
 And its zone of dark hills, oh ! to see them all brightning, 
 When the tempest flings out his red banner of lightning, 
 And the waters come down, 'mid the thunders deep 
 
 rattle, 
 Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle ; • \^ 1 
 
 And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, ^ Ju 
 And wildly from Mulloe the eagles are screaming, p ?fi 
 Oh ! where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, .jX 
 
 So sweet for a bard as that lone little Island ! 
 
 How oft when the summer sun rested on Clare, * t, 
 
 And lit the blue headland of sullen Ivere,
 
 202 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, 
 (And thought of the bards who, oft gathering together 
 In the clefts of thy rocks, and the depth of thy heather, 
 Dwelt far from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, 
 As they raised their last song by the rush of thy water,) 
 And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion. 
 
 High sons of the lyre ! Oh ! how proud was the feeling 
 To dream while alone, through that solitude stealing; 
 Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, 
 I alone waked the strains of the harp from its slumber, 
 And gleaned the gray legend that long had been slum- 
 bering 
 Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creeping, 
 From the love that I felt for my country's sad story, 
 When to love her was shame, to revile her was glory. 
 
 Last bard of the free, was it mine to inherit, 
 
 The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit ; 
 
 With the wrongs which, like thee, to my own land have 
 
 bound me, 
 Did your mantle of song throw its radiance around me ; 
 And abroad send her cry o'er the sleep of each valley, 
 Yet, yet on those bold cliffs might liberty rally, 
 But rouse thee, vain dreamer ! no fond fancy cherish, 
 Thy vision of freedom in bloodshed must perish. 
 
 I soon shall be gone — though my name may be spoken 
 When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken ;
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 203 
 
 Some minstrel will come in the Summer eve's gleaming, 
 When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, 
 To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, 
 Where calm Avonbue seeks the kisses of ocean, 
 And a wild wreathe to plant, from the bank of the river, 
 O'er the heart and the harp that are silent forever. 
 
 THE BLUSH. 
 
 See how the blood rises in the cheek of yonder 
 maiden ; I have thought that blushes are the pulse of 
 virtuous feeling, and which being touched by the un- 
 washen hand of lust or villany, doth beat thus highly 
 yet 'tis a healthful fever. 
 
 Good Advice. — Never allow misfortune to make 
 you selfish, but imitate the example of Fenelon, who, 
 when his library was on fire, exclaimed, "God be praised 
 that it is not the dwelling of a poor man." 
 
 Kind words are amongst the brightest flowers of 
 earth ; they convert the humblest home into a paradise ; 
 therefore use them around the fireside circle. True 
 politeness is perfect ease and freedom, it simply consists 
 in treating others as you love to be treated yourself. 
 
 Bigotry murders religion, to frighten fools with her 
 ghost.
 
 204 jane rowley's 
 
 WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 
 
 BY MISS LANDON. 
 
 We might have been ! these are but common words, 
 And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing ; 
 
 They are the echo of those finer chords, 
 
 Whose music life deplores when unavailing. 
 We might have been. 
 
 We might have been so happy ! says the child, 
 Pent in the weary school-room during summer, 
 
 When the green rushes 'mid the marshes wild, 
 And rosy fruits attend the radiant roamer. 
 We might have been. 
 
 Alas ! how different from what we are 
 
 Had we but known the bitter path before us ; 
 But feelings, hopes, and fancies left afar, 
 
 What in the wide, bleak world can e'er restore us? 
 We might have been. 
 
 It is the end of all human things, 
 
 The end of all that wait on mortal seeking; 
 
 The weary weight upon Hope's flagging wings, 
 It is the cry of the worn heart while breaking. 
 We might have been. 
 
 A cold fatality attends on love, 
 
 Too soon or else too late the heart beat quickens ;
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 2O5 
 
 The star which is our fate springs up above, 
 
 And we but say — while round the vapor thickens, 
 We might have been. 
 
 Thenceforth how much of the full heart must be 
 A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble ; 
 
 A still voice utters, 'mid our misery, 
 
 The worst to hear — because it must dissemble, 
 "We might have been. 
 
 The future never renders to the past 
 
 The young belief, entrusted to its keeping ; 
 
 Inscribe one sentence — life's first truth and last, 
 On the pale marble where our dust is sleeping, 
 We might have been. 
 
 Faith, Hope and Charity, or Love, are three such 
 inseparables that they have been likened to a plant, Faith 
 being the root, Hope the upward rising stem, and Love 
 the bright and glowing fruit. 
 
 As a person's yes and no, so is all his character. A 
 downright yes and no marks the firm ; a quick the rapid ; 
 and a slow one a cautious or timid character. 
 
 The brightest blaze of intelligence is of less value 
 than the smartest spark of charity. Habit a second 
 nature, which sometimes supersedes the first.
 
 206 jane rowley's 
 
 A PEEP AT THE PUBLIC MAN. 
 
 BY EARNEST JONES. 
 
 I've met the young man, ardent all, 
 
 Starting on fire at glory's call ; 
 
 Have heard him, too, with patriot grace 
 
 Refuse — yes ! even refuse a place ! 
 
 And, yet invincible to bribe, 
 
 Launch forth his noble diatribe ; 
 
 Have heard him coughed and jested down, 
 
 Alike in parliament and town ; 
 
 For eveiy one was held uncouth, 
 
 Who smacked of honesty and truth, — 
 
 Till drawn to fashion's shot-silk banners, 
 
 False beauty's smiles, like snares were spread, 
 
 Cold irony's keen arrows sped ; 
 
 While bright before his eyes were set 
 
 Gay ribbon, star, and coronet, 
 
 All — all the hopes of joy and ease, 
 
 At that one price alone — to please ! 
 
 To please? — to dress by fashion's glass, 
 
 To serve the few and spurn the mass, 
 
 Cease to be bold, and frank and hearty, 
 
 Abandon country for a part) ! 
 
 While dignities were let for hire, 
 
 The highest bidder still the buyer, 
 
 Till little of the man remained,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 207 
 
 And country lost what party gained. 
 
 At first I have beheld him burn, 
 
 Then stand, then waver, and then turn ! 
 
 How few could brave, how few could shun 
 
 The many bearing on the one ! 
 
 Oh ! who the tempting could withstand ? 
 
 Who would not choose the safe left hand ? 
 
 Within the courtly harbor get 
 
 And anchor with a coronet, 
 
 Held by a ribbon from afar, 
 
 And blazoned — Bondsman ! by a star. 
 
 Breath — Air received into the lungs by many young 
 men of fashion, for the important purpose of smoking 
 cigars and whistling a tune. 
 
 Charity — The only thing that we can give away 
 without losing it. 
 
 Prodigals live as if they had but a short time to 
 exist; but misers as if they were never to die. 
 
 Lawyer — A learned gentleman who rescues your 
 estate from your enemy and keeps it himself. 
 
 Rural Felicity — Potatoes and turnips. 
 
 He who combats his own evil fashions and desires 
 enters into the severest battle of life ; and he who com- 
 bats successfully obtains the greatest victory.
 
 2oS jane rowley's 
 
 INFLUENCES. 
 Let all thine influences, e'en the least, 
 Improve thy fellows, and take heed at home 
 How eloquent are looks ! From them we draw 
 Always our first impressions — oft our last. 
 The child had marked its mother's loving smile 
 Long ere it learned its father's lessons grave ; 
 'Twas from its mother's fond approving look 
 The boy became a painter. 
 
 Finally : 
 
 Of all thine influences take most heed 
 
 Of thine unstudied ones. Full many a man 
 
 Can with the lightning flash, that cannot shine 
 
 With the mild sun ; but the impetuous storm 
 
 Is valueless beside the silent dew. 
 
 So the good deeds of a pure-hearted man 
 
 Are the least portion of his influence, 
 
 And that of which thyself art conscious least, 
 
 May be most felt by others. The presence e'en 
 
 Of a good man is no mean homily — 
 
 Of a bad man, a curse. Shine like a star ; 
 
 And glare not as a beacon. The white slime 
 
 Betrays the tortuous track of the bold worm ; 
 
 The ocean long retains the foamy trace 
 
 Of the dividing keel, and shall man pass — 
 
 The meanest man — through this vibrating world, 
 
 Without his leaving, where he once had been,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 209 
 
 His footprint, deep and all indelible ! 
 In thy worn track across the heath of life 
 Full many an after traveller will tread. 
 See that thou lead him not away from God, 
 But prove a certain pioneer to heaven. 
 
 Though the prize of the " Golden Violet " was not awarded to the 
 following poem, which was written on the occasion of the late Fete Cham- 
 petre in the Botanic Gardens, we think the fair judges must have had 
 gome difficulty in finding another piece of equal merit. 
 
 THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS. 
 
 The gay Daffodil once, an amorous blade, 
 
 Stole out of his bed in the dark, 
 And waking his man, Ragged Robin, he strayed 
 To breathe forth his vows to a Violet maid 
 
 That lived in a neighboring park. 
 
 A spiteful old Nettle Aunt, frowned on their love, 
 
 But Daffy, who smiled at her power, 
 A Shepherd's Purse slipped in the nurse's Fox-glove, 
 
 Then up Jacob's Ladder he flew to his love, 
 And into the young virgin's bower. 
 
 The Maiden's Blush Rose, and she seem'd all dis- 
 mayed, 
 
 Attired in her White Lady-Smock, 
 She called Mignonette, but the sly little jade 
 That instant was hearing a sweet serenade 
 
 From the lips of a tall Hollvhock.
 
 2IO JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 The Pheasant's Eye — always a mischievous wight 
 
 For spying out something not good, 
 Avowed that he peeped through the key-hole that 
 
 night, 
 When clearly he saw by a glow-worm's light 
 
 Their two faces under a Hood. 
 
 This tale spread about through the busy parterre, 
 
 Miss Columbine turned up her nose, 
 The proud Lady Lavender said, with a stare, 
 That her friend, Mary Gold, had been heard to 
 declare, 
 
 "The creature had toy'd with the Rose." 
 
 Each Sage looked severe, and each Coxcomb looked 
 
 gay, 
 
 When Daffy to make her mind easy, 
 Miss Violet married, one morning in May, 
 And sure as you live, before next Lady Day 
 
 She'll bring him a Michalmas Daisy. 
 
 A good education is a better safeguard for liberty 
 than a standing army or severe laws. 
 
 Friendship is a silent gentleman, and makes no parade ; 
 the true heart dances no hornpipe on the tongue.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 311 
 
 STANZA. 
 
 Barbara, thou art gone to rest, 
 Why should we weep o'er thee ? 
 
 Light the turf lies on thy breast, 
 Soft the winds breathe o'er thee. 
 
 Here within thy native clay, 
 
 Calmly thou art sleeping ; 
 Safer, happier, far than they 
 
 Who are o'er thee weeping. 
 
 Pleasant is thy lowly bed, 
 Close to those that love thee ; 
 
 Trees 'neath which thy childhood played, 
 Gently waving o'er thee. 
 
 Hark the thrush, how sweet his lay ! 
 See the flowers how blooming ! 
 " Weep not for the dead," they say, 
 Though in earth consuming. 
 
 " Weep not for her — she is gone 
 Where no cares can move her ; 
 All her earthly labor done, 
 All her troubles over. 
 
 " Weep not — she has found a home, 
 Where no sorrow paineth ; 
 Sin, nor tears, nor terror comes, 
 Where a Saviour reigneth."
 
 2i2 jane rowley's. 
 
 THE EASTERN WOMAN. 
 
 BY MRS. MILNES. 
 
 Behind the lattice, closely laced, 
 
 With filagree of choice design, 
 Behind the veil whose depth is traced 
 
 By many a complicated line, — 
 Behind the lofty garden wall, 
 
 Where stranger face can ne'er surprise 
 That inner world, her all-in-all, 
 
 The Eastern Woman lives and dies. 
 
 Husband and children, round her draw 
 
 The narrow circle where she dwells ; 
 His will the simple perfect law, 
 
 That scarce with joy her mind molest. 
 Their birth and tutelage, the ground, 
 
 And meaning of her life on earth, 
 She knows not elsewhere could be found 
 
 The measure of a woman's worth. 
 
 If young and beautiful, she dwells 
 
 An idol in a secret shrine, 
 Where one high priest alone dispels 
 
 The solitude of charms divine, 
 And in his happiness she lives, 
 
 And in his honor has her own,
 
 SCKAP BOOK.. 213 
 
 And dreams not that the love she gives 
 Can be too much for him alone. 
 
 Within the gay Kiosk reclined, 
 
 Above the scent of lemon groves, 
 Where bubbling fountains woo the wind, 
 
 And birds make music to their loves, 
 She lives a kind of fairy life 
 
 In sisterhood with fruits and flowers, 
 Unconscious of the outward strife 
 
 That wear the palpitating hours. 
 
 And when maturer duties, 
 
 In pleasure's and in passion's place, 
 Her duteous loyalty supplies 
 
 The presence of departed grace ; 
 So hopes she by untiring faith 
 
 To win the bliss, to share with him 
 Those glories of celestial youth 
 
 That time can never taint or dim. 
 
 Thus in the ever-closed harem, 
 
 As in the open Western world, 
 Sheds womanhood her starry gleam 
 
 Over our beings' busy foam ; 
 Through latitudes of varying faith 
 
 Thus trace we still her mission sure, 
 To lighten life, to sweeten death, 
 
 And all for others to endure.
 
 214 jane rowley's 
 
 WORTH KNOWING. 
 
 A man never forgives the woman who has deliber- 
 ately exerted the winning powers of her sex to deceive 
 him. Wound his tenderness, arouse his jealousy, over- 
 whelm him with reproaches, and he may overlook and 
 excuse all. But make him the dupe of any design, let 
 him feel that you have coldly spread out your fascinations 
 for a selfish purpose, and he is lost to you forever ; even 
 if his heart could return to its allegiance it would scarcely 
 be worth having. 
 
 CHARACTER IS ESSENTIAL TO HAPPINESS. 
 
 Without a good character happiness is never known ; 
 all that exalts, ennobles, embelishes, and dignifies 
 humanity, is blended in the beauty and the glory of a 
 truly genuine character. All the treasures of ten thou- 
 sand worlds will not compare in value with one pure 
 heart for the production of all that is satisfying and 
 blessed. They will not purchase peace, nor joy, nor 
 sacred rest, nor the sweet tranquility of an unsullied 
 conscience, nor one single moment's real bliss. They 
 can never be exchanged for those golden gloried virtues 
 that blossom all over a good character like the blossoms 
 on a thick bed of roses, and which are as rich in the 
 sweet incense that the heart loves most as the flowers are 
 in refreshing fragrance. The youth who places a proper
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 215 
 
 estimate upon a good character has learned a lesson that 
 is more valuable to him than any thing else possibly can 
 be. He has learned the source of his purest joys. But 
 the happiness and blessedness of a good character are 
 not confined to the sunny chambers of its possessor. 
 Character is catching ; if one has good character, he 
 gives something of its goodness to all with whom he 
 associates. If his heart is radiant with the light of vir- 
 tue, that light gets out and shines in upon the heart of 
 others. 
 
 The spirit of politeness consists in giving such atten- 
 tion to our manners and language that those around^ us 
 are left content with us and themselves. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 They saw that I was fair and bright, 
 
 And bore me far away ; 
 Within the Sultan's halls of light 
 
 A glittering wretch to stay. 
 They bore me o'er the dreary sea 
 
 Where the dark wild billows foam, 
 Nor heard the sigh I heav'd for thee 
 
 My own, my childhood's home. 
 
 They deck my arms with jewels rare, 
 That glitter in the sun,
 
 2[6 
 
 JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 And braid with pearls my long black hair, 
 
 I sigh when all is done. 
 I'd give them all for one bright hour, 
 
 Free and unwatcbed to roam, 
 I'd give them all for one sweet flower, 
 
 From thee, my childhood's home. 
 
 They bring my low toned harp, and bid 
 
 My voice the notes prolong, 
 And oft my soul is harshly chid, 
 
 When tears succeed to song. 
 Alas ! my lips can sing no more, 
 
 When o'er my spirit come 
 The strains I heard in thee of yore, 
 
 My own, my childhood's home. 
 
 "MOLL" PITCHER AT MONMOUTH. 
 
 So you ask me for a story of the battle days of yore, 
 Ere our country's flag triumphant waved aloft from shore 
 
 to shore. 
 You have read of Concord's struggle, of the fight at 
 
 Bunker Hill, 
 How our brave men went to battle, bloody graves too 
 
 soon to fill ; 
 You have read the thrilling story of the ride of Paul 
 
 Revere,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 2I 7 
 
 When all hearts were filled with anguish, and war's 
 
 gloomy cloud was near ; 
 Rut there is another story, braver one no man can tell, — 
 How "Moll" Pitcher fought at Monmouth, when her 
 
 husband bleeding fell ; 
 And in all the tales of daring on the storied page enrolled, 
 You can find no nobler record than " Moll " Pitcher's life 
 
 has told. 
 
 She was one of many women, who, in Freedom's dark- 
 est day, 
 
 Left the joys of home behind them, dared the battle- 
 field's array, 
 
 Trembled not when war's dread thunder pierced the still 
 and pulseless air, 
 
 Trembled not when faint hearts listened to the music of 
 despair ; 
 
 Whispered comfort to the dying:, closed the pale lips of 
 the dead, 
 
 While the angry bullets hissed their solemn requiem 
 overhead. 
 
 From far Erin's isle of sorrow to our shores she came 
 
 a bride, 
 With her husband, strong in hope and manly vigor by 
 
 her side ; 
 'Twas a tyrant hand that forced them from their dear old 
 
 island home,
 
 2i8 jane Rowley's 
 
 Far from kin, and graves of kindred, in our foreign land 
 to roam. 
 
 Well they labored, ne'er forgetting all their sorrows of 
 
 the past ; 
 And when war's dread clarion sounded, borne upon the 
 
 northern blast, 
 Side by side they went to battle, to engage the English 
 
 foe, 
 Who had made their land an outcast among nations long 
 
 ago. 
 
 Long and loud the battle thundered on the slopes of 
 Monmouth town, 
 
 And a hail of leaden fury mowed brave friend and foe- 
 man down. 
 
 To and fro the long ranks surging, like the billows of the 
 main, 
 
 With the wreck of human valor, strewed the hillside and 
 the plain. 
 
 There beside his smoking cannon, gallant Pitcher plied 
 
 him well, 
 Till the deadly bullet pierced him, — at his post he 
 
 bravely fell. 
 In that waving line of battle there was none his place to 
 
 fill,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 219 
 
 And the gun that shrieked death's message, like its 
 master's heart, was still. 
 
 u Bear it back," the chieftain shouted, " we have none to 
 
 man it now." 
 There was sadness in his bidding, there was gloom upon 
 
 his brow ; 
 'Twas an hour when brave hearts trembled for the out- 
 come of the fight, 
 And when many men looked sadly for the coming of the 
 
 night. 
 In that hour of grief and sorrow, in the battle's fiercest 
 
 flame, 
 To the front, with eyes enkindled, then "Moll" Pitcher 
 
 swiftly came ; 
 She had seen her husband perish in the thickest of the 
 
 fight, 
 And the lips that whispered love, she sees now cold and 
 
 ghastly white. 
 
 Does she falter as she sees him with his pale face lying 
 
 low? 
 Does she falter as she gazes on his life blood's ruddy 
 
 glow ? 
 'Tis a time for woman's weeping — has she not a woman's 
 
 heart ? 
 Ah, brave heroine, she forces back the tears that fain 
 
 would start !
 
 220 jane rowley's 
 
 Pausing not for idle weeping — slowly turned she from 
 
 her dead, — 
 "I will take my husband's place, sir, and avenge his 
 
 death," she said. 
 
 All day long the sound of battle thundered on the Sab- 
 bath air, — 
 
 Shouts of living, groans of dying, death and sorrow 
 evervwhere ; 
 
 All day long beside the cannon brave " Moll " Pitcher 
 wrought her part, 
 
 While the shot that killed her husband deeply sank with- 
 in her heart. 
 
 Well did she avenge her dearest on the bloody field that 
 
 day; 
 And when Night climbed up the heavens, treading stars 
 
 along her way, 
 When the sound of strife was ended and the day's red 
 
 work was done, 
 Then, and not till then, " Moll " Pitcher turned to mourn 
 
 her dearest one. 
 
 O, my children, as you gather in your pleasant homes to- 
 night, 
 
 And enjoy the many blessings that now make your lives 
 so bright, 
 
 Treasure well your country's freedom — fair Columbia's 
 noblest boast —
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 221 
 
 Guard it well — no one can tell you all the precious blood 
 
 it cost ; 
 And pray God that he may give us blessed peace from 
 
 shore to shore. 
 And that in our land the cannon's voice shall tell of war 
 no more. 
 
 Paul M. Russell. 
 Abington, Mass. 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER, PREACHER, PAT- 
 RIOT, PHILANTHROPIST. 
 
 Like a fountain that upsprings, 
 
 In a desert wild and drear, 
 Like a clarion note that rings 
 
 Through the fastnesses of fear ; 
 
 Like a fortress on a rock, 
 
 Set to guard a wide domain, 
 Sheltering the affrighted flock 
 
 When Destruction sweeps the plain ; 
 
 Like a storm whose grandeur wild 
 Takes its way at heaven's behest ; 
 
 Like a Samson undefiled, 
 To Untruth a fatal guest : 
 
 Thus, with thoughts that flame and soar, 
 Thus, with spirit-weaponed hand,
 
 222 jane rowley's 
 
 For dear peace and righteous war, 
 Stood our preacher in the land. 
 
 Gracious nature, graceful art, 
 
 Wove for him their blended crown ; 
 
 He could bless with brimming heart, 
 He could call God's thunder down. 
 
 Bitter woes of humankind ! 
 
 Sin and sorrow, grief and wrong, 
 Was he to your beckoning blind ? 
 
 Did he slight you in his song? 
 
 And the mystic things of God 
 That we dimly apprehend, 
 
 Did he tread them roughly shod, 
 Shatter beauties without end ? 
 
 I remember well the thrill 
 Multitudes were glad to share 
 
 When the solemn aisles did fill 
 With the music of his prayer ; 
 
 With his sermon wisely planned ; 
 
 Reasoned with a master's might : 
 Faith's illuminating: hand 
 
 Touched his sentences with light. 
 
 That we had him is a boon 
 
 That commands a song of praise ;
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 223 
 
 That we lose him oversoon 
 Is a grief for all our days. 
 
 Having ? Losing ? All those years 
 
 Pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 Can we quench them with our tears 
 
 Like a warrior's funeral pyre ? 
 
 No, those treasures dearly bought 
 
 Are beyond the reach of fate ; 
 They are builded in our thought, 
 
 They arte welded in our State. 
 
 On the solemn judgment mount, 
 He, methinks, may fearless stand, 
 
 For the final dread account, 
 With his record in his hand. 
 
 A great army would attest 
 
 The true succor that he gave 
 To the poor God loveth best, 
 
 To the woman, to the slave ! 
 
 He once more may fitly pray 
 
 If a prayer can sound in heaven : 
 " Be God's help to me this day, 
 As the help that I have given." 
 
 Julia Ward Howe.
 
 224 JANK ROWLEY'S 
 
 THE IVY. 
 
 A welcome to the ivy, and a blessing on its leaves, 
 That spread their cheerful branches round when barren 
 
 nature grieves. 
 A welcome to the friendly plant that will not go astray, 
 Though crumbling walls are sinking into ruin and decay. 
 The relics of antiquity — the halls of feudal power, 
 Behold their faithful monitor, on turret, wall and tower ; 
 And when unto her lover waved the scarf of lady fair, 
 The roving edge of time instead, behold the ivy there ! 
 
 A welcome to the ivy, for it speaks of friendship true, 
 That lingers to the last around the fabric where it grew, 
 Though tower and turret moulder, yet the ivy still is 
 
 green, 
 And mirrors to the present those events that once have 
 
 been. 
 We liken it in summer, when the dew its tendrils deck, 
 To the child that hung in confidence around his mother's 
 
 neck, 
 But when in frosty winter time, it shelters from the 
 
 blast, 
 It's like indeed, a woman, who proves constant to the 
 
 last. 
 
 The soul, too, hath its ivy in the shadows of the past 
 That round the broken heart will cling in freshness to 
 the last.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 225 
 
 The memory of by-gone days, when love and hope were 
 
 young, 
 Is but the stem that o'er some tomb its ivy leaves had 
 
 flung. 
 Our eyes that once beamed bright on us, in after years 
 
 we dwell, 
 And phantom voices speak again, in tones we loved full 
 
 well ; 
 But still those happy dreams with which we would not 
 
 wish to part, 
 Are proofs that mental ivy grows around the ruined 
 
 heart. 
 
 E« L* R» 
 
 WHAT IS HOPE? 
 
 What is Hope ? — 'tis a sweet feeling 
 An op'ning flower, forever revealing, 
 
 Some visionary hue. 
 It bears the wandering thoughts on high- 
 It stems the tear — the rising sigh — 
 And points where joys immortal lie, 
 
 Hid from the scoffer's view. 
 
 What is Hope? — a peaceful stream, 
 Refreshing life's e'er wasting stream, 
 And fertilizing love ;
 
 226 jane rowley's 
 
 A planet 'mid the murkiest night, 
 A smile, when adverse storms affright 
 Away the glad hours of young delight, 
 Sent from above. 
 
 What is Hope ? — a verdant spot, 
 Where all our sorrows are forgot, 
 
 A meteor 'mid the gloom ; 
 A spring upon the sultry plain, 
 A life-skiff on the boistrous main, — 
 An April's breath, a summer's rain, 
 
 A blossom born to bloom. 
 
 What is Hope? — A bliss that springs 
 Spontaneously, when coldness wrings 
 
 The ever flexile soul. 
 A sacred boon — the gift of heaven, 
 To all earth's suffering offspring given 
 By time, nor scene, nor change e'er riven, 
 
 As vears their courses roll. 
 
 The Fearful Man. — He who dreads giving light 
 to the people, is like a man who builds a house without 
 windows, for fear of lightning. You cannot fathom your 
 mind ; there is a well of thought there which has no 
 bottom. The more you draw from it, the more clear 
 and plentiful it will be.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 
 
 'Twas in an old oak chamber 
 
 And some laughing girls were there, 
 Who braided orange blossoms 
 
 In a blushing playmate's hair. 
 A snowy veil they o'er her cast, 
 
 And led her to the door ; 
 She left that old oak chamber — 
 
 Her girlhood's time was o'er ; 
 And oh ! she looked so beautiful 
 
 Amidst her hopes and fears, 
 With her smiles that burst like sunshine 
 
 Through many a shining tear ; 
 Methought she like a lily seemed, 
 
 Which floats on some bright stream. 
 How blest was I ! that bride was mine — 
 
 But only in a dream. 
 
 It might have been. 
 
 As she left her mother's home, 
 
 The village chimes were heard, 
 Mingling with the scent of flowers, 
 
 And voice of many a bird. 
 The young came forth from every porch 
 
 To see her as she passed ; 
 The old to bless her gentle face, 
 
 And look, perhaps, their last. 
 
 227
 
 2 2$ JANE ROWLEY'S 
 
 Then round the altar's rails we stood ; 
 
 And then she vowed, through life, 
 To cling in weal, to cling in woe ; 
 
 The girl became a wife ! 
 Oh ! day for which the heart long yearned, 
 
 Burst in that vision's gleam — 
 My first, my only love was mine — 
 
 Was mine but in a dream. 
 
 It might have been. 
 The eye from dreary wastes delights 
 
 To gaze on spots that 're green ; 
 So through my troubled life love I 
 
 To thought bring back that dream. 
 Its bare remembrance softens yet 
 
 The draught in sorrow's glass — 
 Though I can never dare to hope 
 
 That dream will come to pass. 
 My falsehood wrung her loving heart 
 
 And faded her fair brow ; 
 But has she not been well avenged 
 
 By that which parts us now ; 
 I live to feel I love her still, 
 
 Though cold to all I seem ; 
 Had I been true how well I know 
 
 What would have been — no dream. 
 It might have been. 
 
 J? Storehouse. 
 
 
 
 
 V
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 229 
 
 THE OAK TREE. 
 
 In childhood's bright morn, ere I quitted my home, 
 I planted an acorn in sport at the door ; 
 Then for many a year 'twas my fortune to roam, 
 And revisit the scenes of my childhood no more. 
 
 When next I returned to my dear native cot, 
 Youth advancing to manhood was fearless and gay, 
 And a vigorous sapling that rose on the spot, 
 Told alone of the years that had glided away. 
 
 Many more rolled along amid life's changing scenes 
 Ere the home of my childhood again I could see. 
 Then a wide-spreading oak overshadowed the green, 
 And the gloom that it spread was congenial to me. 
 
 On the tender young plant I had carved a loved name, 
 When I last stood beside it unwilling to part, 
 The name of the false one remains on the stem, 
 And I feel it, alas ! written still on my heart 
 When in youthful devotion the letters I drew 
 The friend of my bosom stood smiling the while ; 
 "Twas he stole my bride, and the scene, when I view, 
 Like a spectre it haunts me — that treacherous smile. 
 But 'tis past, and beneath the old oak is my seat, 
 While the shrill winds of autumn the sere branches wave, 
 I gaze on the leaves as they fall at my feet, 
 And feel that ere long they will fall on my grave.
 
 230 jane rowley's 
 
 THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 
 
 Is yonder little snowy dome 
 
 The sacred shrine, the silent tomb, 
 
 Where thinking strangers love to come, 
 
 Where genius mourns, 
 The last — the solitary home 
 
 Of thee, poor Burns ? 
 
 Yes — yes, that dome adorns thy bed, 
 'Twas given by those who scarcely bread 
 When living gave thee — not a shed 
 
 To hide thy wants ; 
 But now would o'er thy head 
 
 Build monuments. 
 
 The little spot is thine. And who 
 Shall turn thee from thy tenure now? 
 Thy lease is long, thy landlord true. 
 
 Thy troubles cease. 
 The great can have no more than thou 
 
 From heaven's lease. 
 
 Swan of the Nithe ! thy wing was light, 
 Thy plume was whitest of the white, 
 But wild and wayward was thy flight 
 
 From wave to wave. 
 One course was thine, wayward and bright, 
 
 E'en to thy grave.
 
 SCRAP BOOK 231 
 
 Swan of the Nithe ! If aught in thee 
 Sullied thy brightness, none should see 
 The blemish. Men should view, like me, 
 
 Thy life's short dream. 
 And let thy faults, like swan's feet, be 
 
 Sunk in the stream. 
 
 TSAR OLEG. 
 
 Tsar Oleg was riding through holy Kieff 
 
 With the bright flashing trooping spear and shield, 
 
 And his loving people bent low where he passed, 
 As a wind sweeps over the full-ripe field. 
 
 When with staff upheld in the swaying throng, 
 
 The royal Soothsayer stood in the way. 
 And he cried, " Beware ! Death shall smite thee, O king, 
 
 From the milk-white steed thou bestridest to-day ! " 
 
 Tsar Oleg he pondered and mused awhile, 
 And anon he alit from his gallant steed — 
 
 "An' if this must be I will ride thee no more, 
 Go, lead him, ye grooms, to some sunny mead." 
 
 When a herald came out of the Grecian bounds, 
 And for tribute refused blew a challenge of war, 
 
 Tsar Oleg he leaped on a berry-brown steed, 
 And led his hosts to the southward alar. 
 
 ^^F^y v S
 
 23 2 jane rowley's 
 
 Till he girdled the Bosphorus-gazing walls, 
 And made the Czesars bow down to fate, 
 
 And departing, he said, " Be forever a mark ! " 
 And he fixed his shield on the city's gate. 
 
 And in triumph to holy KiefThe returned, 
 With hostages, plunder and martial spoils, 
 
 And lie said in his heart, " We have fought, we have 
 won, 
 We will rest now in glory from warlike toils." 
 
 When he sudden remembered the warning voice 
 
 That smote his ears ere he rode to war, 
 And he bade the Soothsayer before him stand — 
 " How twinkles, O prophet, my fateful star? 
 
 " How prances the fateful and baleful steed? 
 
 Will he neigh, will he leap to the trumpet still?" 
 " Oh, my liege, nevermore; for these seven years' wind 
 
 Hath his bones all bleached upon yon green hill." 
 
 Up rose Tsar Oleg, and called for his horse, 
 
 And he followed his seer to that south-sloping lea — 
 
 He went gyved and guarded that Soothsayer gray, 
 And yet with a steady, proud step walked he. 
 
 And the king saw the bones of his milk-white steed, 
 Where the tops of the deep grass rose and fell, 
 
 And the silver-shod hoofs and the bridle of gold, 
 And the golden stirrups, he knew them well. 
 
 
 KC'\ A 
 
 ^
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 233 
 
 And he set his foot on the hollow skull, — 
 
 While his nobles stood round him with bated breath — 
 And he asked with scorning, " Thou prophet of ills, 
 
 Comes hurt from a carcass, or death from death?" 
 
 And he spake to his guards, " Let the false prophet die ! " 
 •* The fates know me royal," he thought in his pride, 
 
 When lo ! from the skull sprang an adder fang'd, 
 And stilled with its venom his heart's high tide. 
 
 J. J. Kennealy. 
 
 SUCCESS IN LIFE. 
 
 Without unremitting labor, success in life, whatever 
 our occupation, is impossible. A fortune is not made 
 without toil, and money earned comes to few. The 
 habitual loiterer never brings anything to pass. The 
 young men you see lounging around, waiting for the 
 weather to change before they go to work, break down 
 before they start. Ability and willingness to labor are 
 the two great conditions to success. It is useless to work 
 an electric machine in a vacuum ; but the air may be 
 full of electricity, and still you can draw no spark until 
 you turn the machine. The beautiful statue may exist in 
 the ai'tist's brain, and it may also be said in a certain 
 sense to exist in the marble block that stands before him ; 
 but he must bring forth his brains and his hands to bear
 
 234 jane rowley's 
 
 upon the marble, and work hard and long in order to 
 produce any practical result. Success also depends in a 
 good measure upon the man's promptness to take advan- 
 tage of the rise of the tide. A great deal of what we 
 call luck is nothing more nor less than this. It is the 
 man who keeps his eyes open and his hands out of his 
 pockets that succeeds. " I missed my chance," exclaims 
 the disappointed man when he sees another, more alert, 
 catch eagerly at the opportunity. But something more 
 than alertness is needed ; we must know how to avail 
 ourselves of the emergency. An elastic temperament, 
 which never seems to recognize the fact of defeat, or for- 
 gets it at once, and begins the work over again, is very 
 likely to ensure success. Many a merchant loses one 
 fortune to build up another and a larger one. Many an 
 inventor fails in his first efforts and is at last rewarded 
 with triumph. Some of the most popular novelists 
 wrote very poor stuff in the beginning. They were 
 learning their trade, and could not be expected to turn 
 out first-class work until their apprenticeship was over. 
 One great secret of success is not to be discouraged, but 
 always be ready to try again. 
 
 Pure benevolence is a flower of beauty rare, of fra- 
 grance sweet. It seldom blooms on earth, whose climate 
 is too cold. In heaven, its native soil, it grows lux- 
 uriantly.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 235 
 
 WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE AT FULL MOON 
 
 —TIME, MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Not a cloud in the sky, not a voice on the breeze ; 
 Not a wave on the far-spreading breast of the seas ; 
 Each edge of the moon, like the sun in his might, 
 Is bound with a belt of the fullest orbed light. 
 
 While the vessels that sit on the face of the deep, 
 Seem fixed to the waters in motionless sleep, 
 'Tis the full harvest-moon, what a heavenly night ! 
 All nature reposes in silvery light. 
 
 Though the world were my own with its valleys and hills r 
 
 And I ruled into silence its myriads of rills, 
 
 What more could I feel of sweet solitude here — 
 
 What more of enjoyment, though lord of a sphere ? 
 
 While man is asleep, and the pure azure skies 
 
 Have opened their million of diamond-like eyes, 
 
 And yon bright little star that the moon claims her own, 
 
 Is abroad with its mistress, as star never shone ! 
 
 All is love, all is beauty, all hush'd into rest — 
 
 O God ! that man's heart should be ever oppressed — 
 
 Hark ! a voice by the shore and a splash on the sea, 
 
 'Tis some fleeting bark that now skims o'er the sea, 
 
 The music keeps time with the beings that row, 
 
 And the song, like a spirit, comes mellow and low ; 
 
 'Tis enough ! I'll to bed and reflect on the scene, 
 
 And my heart shall improve from a sight so serene.
 
 27,6 jane rovvley's 
 
 FAULT FINDING. 
 
 There is a disposition in some to view unfavorably 
 everything that tails under their notice. They seek to 
 gain confidence by always differing from others in judg- 
 ment, and to depreciate what they allow to be worthy in 
 itself by hinting at some mistake or imperfection in the 
 performance. You are too lofty or too low in your man- 
 ners ; you are frugal, or too profuse in yo*Ur expendi- 
 ture ; you are too taciturn, or too free in your speech ; 
 and so of the rest. Now, guard against this tendency. 
 Nothing will conduce more to your uncomfortableness 
 than living in the neighborhood of ill nature, and being 
 familiar with discontent. The disposition grows with 
 indulgence, and is low and base in itself; and if any 
 should be ready to pride themselves on skill and facility 
 in this science, let them remember that the acquisition is 
 cheap and easy, a child can deface and destroy. Dull- 
 ness and stupidity, which seldom lack inclination or 
 means, can cavil and find fault, and everything can 
 furnish ignorance, prejudice and envy, with a handle of 
 reproach. 
 
 Love one human being purely and well, and you will 
 love all. The heart in this heaven is like the wandering 
 sun. It sees nothing from the dew-drop to the ocean, 
 but a mirror which it warms and fills.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 237 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 From a richly-stored green house, despised and neglected, 
 Sad, injured, and broken, a lily was thrown ; 
 
 Once loved by its owner, now coldly rejected ; 
 Once tended with care, now abandoned in scorn. 
 
 From the cold, piercing wind, from the tempest un- 
 shielded, 
 
 The sorrowing plant soon had withered and died. 
 When this heart full of sympathy, tenderly yielded 
 
 The kindly affection its owner denied. 
 
 Though the hand that should foster had injured the 
 blossom, 
 
 And left the lone plant to a merciless doom, 
 Yet the dew-drop of pity, infused on its bosom, 
 
 Revived it again to a flourishing bloom. 
 
 And now o'er the land that with tenderness cherished, 
 The plant that had suffered so cruel a part, 
 
 The buds gaily opened, that well-nigh had perished, 
 Dropped the nectar of gratitude warm from the heart. 
 
 Ah ! so with myself, when once, sad, broken-hearted, 
 The laboring sigh all my sorrow betrayed ; 
 
 Such the sweet consolation by friendship imparted, 
 To heal the deep wound that misfortune had made.
 
 238 jane rowley's 
 
 And such be forever the loved recollection, 
 Of balm kindly poured in this bosom of woe ; 
 
 And such be the tribute of grateful affection 
 
 While life's purple stream in my bosom shall flow. 
 
 THE STAR OF MY HOME. 
 
 I remember the days when my spirit would turn, 
 
 From the fairest of scenes, and the sweetest of sono-. 
 When the hearth of the stranger seemed coldly to burn, 
 
 And the moments of pleasure for me were too lono- • 
 For one name and one form shone in glory and lio-ht, 
 
 And lured back from all that might tempt me to roam. 
 The festal was joyous, but was not so bright 
 
 As the smile of my mother, the Star of my Home ! 
 
 I remember the days when the tear fill'd my eve, 
 
 And the heaving sigh wildly disturbed my youn^ 
 breast ; 
 
 But the hand of that loved one the lashes would dry, 
 And her soothing voice lull my chafed bosom to rest. 
 
 The sharpest of pain and the saddest of woes, 
 
 The darkest, the deepest of shadows might come : 
 
 Yet each wound had its balm, while my soul could re- 
 pose 
 
 On the breast of my mother, the Star of my Home !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 239 
 
 But now let me roam the wide world as I will, 
 
 There's no form to arise as a magnet for me ! 
 I can rest amid strangers and laugh with the gay — 
 
 Content with the pathway where'er it may be ; 
 Let sorrow or pain fling their gloomiest cloud, 
 
 There's no haven to shelter, no beacon to save ; 
 For the rays that e'er led me are quenched by the shroud, 
 
 And the Star of my Home has gone down in the grave. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 QUARRELS. 
 
 One of the most easy, the most common, most perfectly 
 foolish things in the world, is to quarrel — no matter with 
 whom — man, woman or child ; or on what pretences, 
 provocations, on occasion whatsoever. There is no kind 
 of necessity in it, and no species or degree of benefit 
 to be gained by it, and yet, strange as the fact may be, 
 theologians, politicians, lawyers, doctors, and princes 
 quarrel ; nations, tribes, corporations, men, women, chil- 
 dren, dogs and cats, quarrel about all manner of things, 
 and on all manner of occasions. If there is anything in 
 the world will make a man feel bad, except pinching his 
 finger in the crack of a door, it is unquestionably a 
 quarrel. No man ever fails to think less of himself after, 
 than he did before one ; it degrades him in his own eyes, 
 and in the eyes of others, and, what is worse, blunts his
 
 240 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 sensibility to disgrace on the one hand, and increases the 
 power of passionate irritability on the other. The 
 truth is, the more quietly and peaceably we get on, the 
 better for ourselves, the better for our neighbors. In 
 nine cases out often, the wisest course is, if a man cheats 
 you, quit dealing with him ; if he is abusive, quit his 
 company ; if he slanders you, take care to live so that 
 nobody will believe him. No matter who he is, or how 
 he misuses you, the wisest way is to let him alone ; for 
 there is nothing better than this cool, calm, quiet way of 
 dealing with the wrongs we meet with. 
 
 SAINT PATRICK. 
 
 Be Eire blessed at evening hours, 
 When sunset gilds her smiling bowers, 
 When whirlwinds howl ! my blessing be, 
 My generous Eirin, still on thee ; 
 With thee be every blessing given 
 From skies benign by favoring heaven ; 
 Be blessings on thy battle blades, 
 And blessings on thy bashful maids ; 
 Blest be the fisher tribes that roam 
 Thy darkening surge and whitening foam ; 
 Oh ! blessed be thy stormy ni^ht, 
 And blessed, too, thy morning bright ; 
 And blessed be thy waving corn, 
 And every babe in Eirin born !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 IN A RAILWAY CAR. 
 
 A crowd of men in a railway car 
 
 Sat talking of many a thing ; 
 Of the price of goods, and the chance of war, 
 
 The weather and tardy spring. 
 They stopped at a roadside very soon, 
 
 For a maiden, young and fair, 
 With a face as fresh as a rose in June, 
 
 And a wealth of bright brown hair. 
 
 Just for a moment all were still, 
 
 Then a youth said, with a jeer, 
 " She'd join our set if she had her will, 
 
 Did you see her glance up here? 
 I'll just step forward and speak to her, 
 
 And humor her little plan ; " 
 And he smiled the weak and silly smile 
 
 Of a vain and thoughtless man. 
 
 241 
 
 "o A 
 
 " Sit still ! " said one in a corner chair ; 
 " If you have a sister, sir, 
 Respect the sisters of other men, 
 
 Though but for the sake of her. 
 How would you feel if she stood there, 
 
 And I, with a scornful jeer, 
 Should ask — forgetting my own bold stare — 
 
 ' Did you see her glance up here ? ' "
 
 242 JANE ROWLEYS. 
 
 " That's so ! " said another angrily ; 
 " And it might have been my Grace, 
 For she visits right often a family 
 
 That lives pretty nigh this place. 
 And the man that spoke of my daughter so 
 
 Couldn't ride in a car with me ; 
 And so young sir you had better go 
 
 Where fathers are scarcer ! See ? " 
 
 " 'Tis always my plan," said a gray-haired man, 
 " To do as a good man should ; 
 Think every woman, both old and young, 
 
 And pretty and plain, are good ; 
 For I have a mother and sister at home, 
 
 I have a daughter and wife, 
 And I'm bound to say that every day, 
 
 They're the comfort and joy of life. 
 
 " And plenty of men have wives like mine, 
 
 And daughters as fair and sweet, 
 And gray-haired mothers, as good and true, 
 
 And sisters as kind and neat ; 
 And I say that he who will fling a sneer 
 
 Or a doubt at a girl — why, then, 
 He's neither worthy of woman's love, 
 
 Nor worthy to sit with men."
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 243 
 
 So the youth went out with a very red face ; 
 And nobody missed him a moment's space ; 
 And perhaps he has learnt, if ever he can. 
 That to sneer at a woman is shame to a man. 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 Along the streets one day with that swift tread 
 He walked a living king — then, " He is dead," 
 The whisper flew from lip to lip, while still 
 Sounding within our ears the echoing thrill 
 Of his magician's voice, we seemed to hear, 
 In notes of melody ring near and clear. 
 
 So near, so clear, men cried, " It cannot be ! 
 
 It was but yesterday he spoke to me ; 
 
 But yesterday we saw him move along, 
 
 His head above the crowd, swift-paced and strong ; 
 
 But yesterday his plan and purpose sped 
 
 It cannot be to-day that he is dead." 
 
 A moment thus, half-dazed, men met and spoke, 
 
 When first the sudden news upon them broke : 
 
 A moment more, with sad acceptance turned 
 
 To face the bitter truth that they had spurned. 
 
 Friends said through tears, " How empty seems the 
 
 town," 
 And warring critics laid their weapons down.
 
 244 jane rowley's. 
 
 He had his faults, they said, but they were faults 
 Of head and not of heart — his sharp assaults 
 Flung seeming heedless from his quivering bow, 
 And heedless striking either friend or foe, 
 Were launched with eyes that saw not foe or friend, 
 But only shining far, some goal or end. 
 
 That compassed once, should bring God's saving grace 
 To purge and purify the human race. 
 The measure that he meted out he took, 
 And blow for blow received without a look, 
 Without a sign of conscious hurt or hate, 
 To stir the tranquil calmness of his state. 
 
 Born on the heights and in the purple bred, 
 He chose to walk the lowly ways instead, 
 That he might lift the wretched and defend 
 The rights of those who languished for a friend. 
 So many years he spent in listening 
 To these sad cries of wrong and suffering 1 . 
 
 It was not strange, perhaps, he thought the right 
 Could never live upon the easeful height, 
 Nor strange indeed that slow suspicion grew 
 Against the class whose tyrannies he knew. 
 But bitter and unsparing as his speech, 
 He meant alone the evil deed to reach.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 245 
 
 No hate of persons winged his fiery shaft. 
 
 He had no hatred but for cruel craft, 
 
 And selfish measurements, where human Might 
 
 Bore down upon the immemorial Right, 
 
 E'en while he dealt his bitterest blows at power, 
 
 No bitterness that high heart could devour. 
 
 How at the last this great heart conquered all, 
 
 We know who watched above his sacred pall — 
 
 One day, a living king, he faced a crowd 
 
 Of critic foes ; over the dead king bowed 
 
 A throng of friends who yesterday were those 
 
 Who thought themselves, and whom the world thought, 
 
 foes. 
 
 Nora Perry. 
 
 GLADSTONE. 
 
 Near that dim threshold where death lurks in wait 
 To clutch the crown of seasons long delayed, 
 By weakling's base desertion undismayed 
 
 He stands, majestic, by the load of state 
 
 Unbowed, undaunted, equal still to Fate. 
 
 Not rank, nor wealth, nor prejudice arrayed, 
 Nor hate nor hope, may make his soul afraid, 
 
 Whose fruit of aim is certain, ripe though late. 
 
 When the brave falter and the strong grow cold,
 
 246 jane rowley'& 
 
 With hand unshaken by all-palsying age 
 He writes the word of Justice on the page, 
 Where wrong for generations hath been scrolled. 
 Oh ! nation-shaking tongue, oh ! voice of gold, 
 And heart that years nor seasons may make old ! 
 
 Land of pure women and heroic men, 
 
 Whose sons through age-long darkness bravely grope 
 To pluck the flower of long too hopeless hope ; 
 Dwellers in lonely huts by bog and fen, 
 Still fierce to drive the robbers from their den, 
 Still aiming straight at your immortal scope, 
 With old and newer foes still stanch to cope — 
 When dawns now near your day of triumph, then, 
 When hymns are chanted and when thanks are said 
 To all who loved you in the darker days — 
 When the full glory of a people's praise 
 To light through lingering and tempest led, 
 Shines like the front of heaven among the dead. 
 Wreathe then, the immortal wreath for that white head. 
 
 The two most precious things on this side the grave 
 are our reputation and our life. But it is to be lamented 
 that the most contemptible whisper may deprive us of 
 the one, and the weakest weapon of the other. A wise 
 man, therefore, will be more anxious to deserve a fair 
 name than to possess it, and this will teach him so to 
 live as not to be afraid to die.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 247 
 
 MUSIC AND SONG. 
 
 We've relics, curious and rare, 
 
 Brought home from famous nooks, 
 
 And music sweet, and pictures fair, 
 And heaps of fine old books. 
 
 The power of music over mankind can hardly be es- 
 timated, and there are very few people in the world who 
 are not influenced by it. Among all nations, and in 
 every clime its power is acknowledged, and all from 
 the monarch on his throne, to the poorest peasant in his 
 realm, pay allegiance to it. 
 
 From the earliest times we read of its power, and who, 
 in moments of discouragement and sadness, or, perhaps, 
 when the spirit has been stirred by passion deep and 
 strong, has not felt the sweet, quieting effects of music, 
 and understood why it was that Saul, the ancient King 
 of Israel, sought for the fair shepherd boy to charm 
 away the evil spirit with his harp. 
 
 Thousands of weary slaves have beguiled their toil by 
 singing their wild, strange melodies, and legions of tired 
 soldiers have marched steadily forward, mile after mile, 
 almost unconscious of fatigue, as they kept time to the 
 inspiring music of their regimental bands. 
 
 We all know the power of eloquence, but the power of a 
 beautiful voice in song is even greater, touching the inner 
 recesses of our hearts, and awakening the deepest emotions
 
 248 jane rowley's 
 
 of our souls. It is related that once upon a time, a noted 
 singer was passing through the market-place of the city 
 of Lyons, when a woman and child asked alms of him. 
 Pausing to assist her, he discovered that he had no 
 money with him ; but, wishing to help her, taking off 
 his hat he sang his best, hastily giving the money 
 collected to the beggar. 
 
 " The singer pleased, passed on, and softly thought, 
 Men will not know by whom this deed was wrought ; 
 But when, at night, he came upon the stage, 
 Cheer after cheer went up from that wide throng, 
 And flowers rained on him. Naught could assuage 
 The tumult of the welcome, save the song 
 That for the beggar he had sung that day, 
 While standing in the city's busy way." 
 
 Oh, conscience ! conscience ! man's most faithful friend ! 
 Him canst thou comfort, ease, relieve, defend ; 
 But if he will thy friendly checks forego, 
 Thou art, oh, woe for me ! his deadliest foe. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 To thine own self be true, 
 
 And it must follow, as the night the day, 
 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man. 
 
 Shakespeare.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 249 
 
 DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 
 
 (Among the poetic legacies that will " never grow old, 
 nor change, nor pass away," is the noble dirge of Shirley 
 in his " Contention of Ajax and Ulysses." Doubtless it 
 was by the fall, if not by the death, of Charles I., that the 
 mind of the royalist poet was solemnized to the creation 
 of the imperishable stanzas. Oliver Cromwell is said, 
 on the recital of them, to have been seized with great 
 terror and agitation of mind.) 
 
 The glories of our mortal state 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
 There is no armor against fate ; 
 
 *** 
 
 Death lays his icy hands on kings. 
 Scepter and crown 
 
 Must tumble down, 
 And in the dust be even made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field, 
 And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
 They tame but one another still. 
 Early or late, 
 They stoop to fate, 
 And must give up their murmuring breath, 
 When they, pale captives, creep to death.
 
 25° jane rowley's 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow, 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
 Upon death's purple altar now, 
 
 See where the victor-victim bleeds ; 
 Your heads must come 
 To the cold tomb. 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 
 
 'Tis an excellent world that we live in — 
 To lend, to spend, or to give in ; 
 But to borrow or beg, or get a man's own, 
 'Tis just the worst world that ever was known ! 
 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 The smallest are nearest to God, as the smallest 
 planets are nearest the sun. Were I only for a time 
 almighty and powerful, I would create a little world 
 especially for myself, and suspend it under the mildest 
 sun — a world where I would have nothing but lovely 
 little childred, and these little things I would never 
 suffer to grow up, but only to play eternally. If a 
 seraph were worthy of heaven, or his golden pinions 
 drooped, I woidd send him to dwell for a while in my 
 happy infant world. And no angel, so long as he saw 
 their innocence, could lose his own. 
 
 Jean Paul.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 25X 
 
 BIRTH, PARENTAGE, AND EDUCATION OF 
 
 A BOOK. 
 
 The following eighteen occupations are engaged in 
 the production of a single book : The author, the rag-mer- 
 chant, the paper-maker, the stationer, the quill -dresser, 
 the ink-maker, the type-founder, the press-maker, the 
 roller-maker, the chase-maker, the pressman, the com- 
 positor, the reader, the folder, the gatherer, the stitcher, 
 the twine-merchant, the thread-merchant. 
 
 FROM THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 BY THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 ; ' At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
 Spans with high arch the glittering hills below, 
 Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
 Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? 
 Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
 More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? 
 'Tis distance lends enchantment 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 discover'd scene 
 More pleasing seems than all the past hath been ; 
 And every form that fancy can repair 
 From dark oblivion, glows divinely there."
 
 253 jane rowley's 
 
 THE SPIRIT GUIDE. 
 
 BY AUGUSTUS LARNED. 
 
 Far in the realms of Arctic night, 
 Where flames the weird auroral light, 
 And icebergs loom on every hand, 
 Enchantress of that lonelv land, 
 The patient dark-skinned Esquimaux, 
 A little grave shapes in the snow. 
 And o'er the ice-plain, bleak and wild, 
 The murmuring mother bears her child, 
 In furry garment, softly rolled, 
 Who ne'er again shall feel the cold, 
 And lays him on the icy breast 
 To take his last and final rest. 
 And there beside the little mound 
 The father slays his fleetest hound, 
 A creature of unerring skill, 
 Of keenest scent, of docile will, 
 To trace for haunts of seal and bear, 
 That stock the little ice-hut there. 
 He lays the faithful beast and brave, 
 Low down beside his baby's grave, 
 And says : " The little one will stray, 
 Through night and darkness far away, 
 His tender feet have never trod, 
 And cannot find the path of God. 
 
 ,1 .1/ 
 
 * oA A 
 
 r- „ > n *>
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 253 
 
 " Now guide him safe from night and cold, 
 Far out to realms of purest gold, 
 Where flowery meads and crystal streams 
 Are smiling to the sun's glad beams, 
 Where rise abodes of joy and mirth, 
 And feasting fills the happy earth," 
 
 Consoled the parents homeward wend, 
 And leave the baby to the friend, 
 Who for protection and defence, 
 Has proved a gentle providence, 
 Sure that the dog, so true and wise, 
 Will find the gates of Paradise. 
 
 The way to be happy is to take the days of happiness 
 as God gives them to us every day of our lives. 
 
 The boy must learn to be happy while learning his 
 trade ; the merchant while he is making his fortune. If 
 he fails to learn this art he will be sure to miss his enjoy- 
 ment when he gains what he has sighed for. 
 
 Ingratitude closes the door to Heaven's gifts, acknowl- 
 edgment of them keeps it open. If you desire the 
 treasures of Paradise to be opened to you, be always 
 grateful to your sovereign benefactor. 
 
 S. Leonard, of Port Maurice.
 
 254 jane rowley's. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, 
 Be 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 ne'er met with else- 
 where. 
 
 Home ! home, sweet home ! 
 
 There's no place like home ! 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! 
 O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
 The birds singing gaily that come to my call ; 
 O, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all ! 
 
 Home ! home, sweet home ! 
 
 There's no place like home ! 
 
 Let us try to be happy ! some shades of regret 
 Are sure to hang round, which we cannot forget ; 
 There are times when the lightest of spirits must bow, 
 And sunniest face wear a cloud on its brow. 
 We must never bid feelings the purest and blest 
 Lie blunted and cold in our bosom at rest ; 
 But the deeper our own griefs the greater the need 
 To try to be happy, lest other hearts bleed. 
 
 Oh, what a tangled web we weave 
 
 When first we practice to deceive. — Scott.
 
 SCRAP COOK. 255 
 
 A RECEIPT FOR COOKING HUSBANDS. 
 
 A Baltimore lady has written a receipt for " cooking 
 husbands, so as to make them good and tender." It is as 
 follows : — A good many husbands are utterly spoiled by 
 management. Some women go about it as if their hus- 
 bands were bladders, and blow them up ; others keep 
 them constantly in hot water ; others let them freeze by 
 their carelessness and indifference. Some keep them in 
 a stew by irritating wayward words, others roast them. 
 Some keep them in pickle all their lives. It cannot be 
 supposed that any husband will be tender and good 
 managed in this way, but they are really delicious when 
 properly treated. 
 
 In selecting your husband you should not be guided 
 by their silvery appearance, as in buying mackerel, nor 
 by the golden tints, as if you wanted salmon. Be sure 
 to select him yourself, as tastes differ. Do not go to 
 market for him, as the best are always brought to your 
 door. It is far better to have none unless you will 
 patiently learn how to cook him. A preserving kettle 
 of finest porcelain is best, if you have nothing but an 
 earthenware pipkin, it will do with care. See that the 
 linen in which you wrap him is nicely washed and 
 mended, with the required number of buttons and strings 
 sewed on. Tie him in the kettle by a strong silk cord 
 called comfort, as the one called duty is apt to be weak.
 
 256 jane rowley's 
 
 They are apt to fly out of the kettle and be crusty and 
 burned on the edges, since like crabs and lobsters you 
 have to cook them while alive. Make a clear, steady fire 
 out of love, cheerfulness and neatness. Set him as near 
 this as it seems to agree with him. If he sputters and 
 frizzes, do not be anxious ; some husbands do this till they 
 are quite done. Add a little sugar in the form of what 
 confectioners call kisses, but no vinegar or pepper on any 
 account. A little spice improves them, but must be used 
 with judgment. Do not stick sharp instruments into him 
 to see if he is becoming tender. Stir him gently, watch 
 the while, lest he be too flat and close to the kettle and 
 so become useless. You cannot fail to know when he is 
 done. If thus treated you will find him very digestible, 
 agreeing nicely with you and the children. And lie will 
 keep as long as you want unless you become careless and 
 set him in too cold a place. — Tit Bits. 
 
 Man that man would be 
 Must rule the Empire of himself, in it 
 Must be supreme, establish his throne on 
 Vanquished will, quelling the anarchy 
 Of hopes and fears. — Shelly. 
 
 You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, 
 But the scent of the rose will hang round it still. — Moore.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 257 
 
 OH ! THE SHAMROCK. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Through Erin's Isle, 
 
 To sport awhile, 
 As Love and Valor wandered, 
 
 With Wit the sprite, 
 
 Whose quiver bright 
 A thousand arrows squandered ; 
 
 Where'er they pass, 
 
 A triple grass 
 Shoots up with dewdrops streaming, 
 
 As softly green 
 
 As Emerald, seen 
 Through purest crystal gleaming ! 
 Oh ! the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock. 
 
 Chosen leaf 
 
 Of Bard and Chief 
 Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 
 
 Says Valor, " See 
 The sprig for me," 
 " Those leafy gems of morning ; " 
 Says Love, u No, no, 
 For me they grow, 
 For me they grow, 
 My fragrant path adorning ! "
 
 258 JANE ROWLEY'S 
 
 But Wit perceives, 
 
 The triple leaves, 
 And cries, " Oh ! do not sever" 
 And cries, " O ! do not sever" 
 
 A type that blends 
 
 Three god-like friends, 
 " Love, Valor, Wit, forever ! " 
 Oh ! the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock, 
 
 Chosen leaf 
 
 Of Bard and Chief, 
 Old Erin's native Shamrock. 
 
 So firmly fond 
 
 May last the bond 
 They wove that morn together, 
 
 And ne'er may fall 
 
 One drop of gall 
 On Wit's celestial feather ! 
 
 May love as shoot 
 
 His flower and fruit, 
 Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ! 
 
 May Valor ne'er 
 
 His standard rear 
 Against the cause of Freedom ! 
 Oh ' the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock, 
 
 Chosen leaf, 
 
 Of Bard and Chief, 
 Old Erin's native Shamrock !
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 259 
 
 THE IRISHMAN. 
 
 _B¥ J. GRAHAM. 
 
 The savage loves his native shore, 
 
 Though rude the soil and chill the air, 
 Then why shouldn't Erin's sons adore 
 
 An Isle which nature formed so fair? 
 What flood reflects a shore so sweet 
 
 As Shannon great or pastoral Ban : 
 Or who a friend or foe can meet 
 
 So generous as an Irishman? 
 His hand is rash, his heart is warm, 
 
 But principle is still his guide, 
 None more regrets a deed of harm, 
 
 And none forgives with nobler pride ; 
 He may be duped, but won't be dared ; 
 
 More fit to practice than to plan ; 
 He dearly earns his poor reward, 
 
 And spends it like an Irishman. 
 
 If poor and strange, he'll for you pay, 
 
 Or guide to where you safe may be ; 
 If you're his comrade, while you stay, . < 
 
 His cottage holds a jubilee. > ( ^i[ \- 
 
 His very soul he will unlock, ^/ *\?& 
 
 And if he may your merits scan, 
 Your confidence he scorns to mock, V 
 
 For faithful is an Irishman. <y\ K^ 1 
 
 V 
 
 >
 
 j6o jane rowley's 
 
 By honor bound in weal or woe, 
 
 Whate'er she bids he dares tojdo, 
 Try him with bribe, it won't prevail ; 
 
 Put him in fire, you'll find him. true. 
 He seeks not safety, be his post 
 
 What'er it may in clanger's van ; 
 And if the field of fame be lost, 
 
 It won't be by an Irishman. 
 
 Erin's loved land, from age to age, 
 
 Be thou more great, more famed, and'free ; 
 May peace be yours, or should you wage 
 
 Defensive war — reap victory. 
 May plenty flow in every field, 
 
 Which gentle breezes sweetly fan, 
 And cheerful smiles serenely gild 
 
 The breast of every Irishman. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watch dog's honest bark, 
 
 Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come : 
 'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, 
 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 26l 
 
 THE GRAVE OF LINCOLN. 
 
 BY EBEN E. REXFORD. 
 
 A solemn hush is in the air ; 
 
 Awe lays her finger on my lip, 
 And nature seems to bend in prayer 
 
 Claiming with me companionship 
 In love and reverence, to-day, 
 
 For the great man whose grave is here, 
 The martyr o'er whose dust I lay 
 
 The silent tribute of a tear. 
 
 What deep emotions fill the soul 
 
 Beside this grave, as we look back 
 And see again the war-cloud roll 
 
 Across the horizon, grim and black. 
 For one to lead them came the cry — 
 
 It echoes on our ears to-day ; 
 The heart of Lincoln makes reply, 
 
 His words the mustering millions sway. 
 
 I see the grave and earnest man, 
 
 With steadfast purpose in his eyes, 
 Stand facing dangerous times to scan 
 
 With anxious look the threatening skies. 
 I hear him speak, his words are brave, 
 
 With faith that God would show the way. 
 He did, and left to us this grave, 
 
 From which he spoke to us to-day.
 
 262 jane rowley's 
 
 I live again those April days, 
 
 When people cried, '* Our chief is dead ! " 
 And questioned, in their griefs amaze, 
 
 Of who should lead as he had led. 
 I hear the nation's bitter cry 
 
 Of sorrow for the man who fell, 
 As peace across the stormy sky 
 
 Flashed out its rainbow miracle. 
 
 Thy loss was not our loss alone, 
 
 O martyr'd chieftain true and tried ; 
 The great world claimed thee as her own, 
 
 With all a mother's loving pride. 
 And many a heart beyond the sea, 
 
 Who breathed with thee in freedom's air, 
 Cried out in tribute unto thee, 
 
 " We lost our noblest brother there ! " 
 
 Rest, Lincoln, with thy work well done, 
 
 No more the land is filled with strife ; 
 The soldier father tells his son, 
 
 In peace, the lesson of thy life ; 
 From North and South, men meet to-day. 
 
 As brothers, by thy place of rest, 
 The spot is holy ground, we say, 
 
 The sacred Mecca of the West. 
 Springfield, III., June, 1885.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 263 
 
 THE DAY LILY. 
 
 BY NORAH PERRY. 
 
 Just for a day, for a' day, 
 
 I breathe into bloom ; 
 Just for a day, for a day, 
 
 I shed my perfume. 
 
 Just for a day, for a day, 
 
 "Alack and Alas, 
 How fleeting and brief thy stay," 
 
 They cry, as I pass. 
 
 But fleeting and brief, I give 
 
 The wealth of my soul 
 Just for the day I live, 
 
 Without stint or control. 
 
 What more can a life bestow 
 
 Ere it passes away, 
 Than its all, though its warmth and glow 
 
 Be but for a day. 
 
 Oh ! Love, how are thy precious, sweetest minutes, 
 Thus ever crossed, thus vexed by disappointment, 
 Now pride, now fickleness, fantastic quarrels, 
 And sullen coldness give us pain by turn. — Row.
 
 264 jane rowley's 
 
 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 The language of flowers was doubtless known to the 
 ancients, and it would appear that the Greeks under- 
 stood the art of communicating a secret message through 
 the medium of a bouquet ; at all events, garlands were 
 conspicuous among the emblematic devices of antiquity. 
 
 Flowers, the emblems and the favorites of the fair, are 
 not everywhere prized merely for their beauty and their 
 fragrance ; invention has created from them symbolic 
 phrases for expressing the sweet sentiments of the heart. 
 This language is most generally used by the Turkish and 
 Greek women of the Levant, and by the African females 
 on the coast of Barbary. A nosegay or garland of 
 flowers, ingeniously selected and put together for the 
 purpose of communicating in secret an expressive lan- 
 guage, the sentiments of the heart, is in the Greek called 
 a salaam (salutation). It often happens that a female 
 slave corresponds with her lover merely by the arrange- 
 ment of flower-pots in a garden. Written love letters 
 would often be inadequate to convey an idea of the feel- 
 ings which are thus expressed through the medium of 
 flowers. Thus, orange flowers signify hope ; marigold, 
 despair ; sunflowers, constancy ; roses, beauty, and tu- 
 lips represent the complaints of infidelity. 
 
 This hieroglyphic is known only to the lover and his 
 mistress, in order to envelop it the more completely in
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 265 
 
 the veil of secrecy ; the signi'ficance'of the different flow- 
 ers are changed in conformity with a pre-concerted plan. 
 For example — the rose is employed 'to' .express the idea 
 which would be attached to the amaranth, the gillyflower 
 is substituted for the pomegranite blossom. 
 
 The language of flowers is much employed in the 
 Turkish harem, where the women practice it for the 
 sake of mere diversion in their solitude, or for the pur- 
 pose of secret communication. 
 
 The following are some of the emblematic significa- 
 tions which have been attributed to different flowers, 
 shrubs and trees : 
 
 The Almond Tree signifies indiscretion. It is the 
 first of the trees to obey the call of early spring. Noth- 
 ing can be more graceful than this beautiful tree when it 
 appears covered with blossoms when the surrounding 
 trees are naked. It has been made the emblem of indis- 
 cretion from flowering so early that frost too often de- 
 strovs the precious germs of its fruit, though, instead of 
 injuring its flowers, they seem to confer on the latter 
 additional beautv. 
 
 Passion Flower. In the passion flower there is a 
 representation of the crown of thorns, the scourge, the 
 cross, the sponge, the nails, and five wounds of Christ, 
 whence its name. 
 
 Sage, esteem. The common garden sage has ever 
 been held in great esteem by all domestic practitioners
 
 266 jane rowley's 
 
 for its medicinal virtues. By the ancients it was sup- 
 posed to prolong life ; hence a line by one of their poets 
 which signifies — " How can a man die in whose garden 
 there grows sage ? " 
 
 Mignonette. Your qualities surpass your charms. 
 
 Lily of the Valley. Return of happiness ; also, 
 humility. 
 
 Peppermint. Warmth of feeling. Minthe was sur- 
 prised by Proserpine in the company of her gloomy 
 spouse. The enraged goddess changed her rival into a 
 plant, which seems to comprehend in its double flower 
 the coldness of fear and the warmth of love. This plant 
 we cultivate by the name of peppermint. 
 
 Helenium. Tears. The flowers of the helenium 
 resemble small suns of a beautiful yellow. They blow in 
 autumn with the asters. They are said to have been 
 produced by the tears of Helena. 
 
 Pine Apple. You are perfect. 
 
 Romculus. You are radiant with charms. 
 
 Wormwood. Absence. Absence, according to La 
 Fontaine, is the worst of evils. Wormwood is the bit- 
 terest of plants. Its name, derived from the Greek, 
 signifies without sweetness. 
 
 Heart's-Ease. Think of me. 
 
 Marigold and Cypress. Despair. Cypress is the 
 emblem of death ; the marigold of sorrow. The combi-
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 267 
 
 nation of the two expresses despair. 
 
 White Violet. Candor. Candor precedes mod- 
 esty. It is a violet still, clothed in the color of inno- 
 cence. 
 
 Violet. Modesty. Ion, the Greek name of this 
 flower, is traced by some etymologist to Io, the daughter 
 of Midas, who was betrothed to Ate, and changed by 
 Diana into a violet, to hide her from Apollo. The 
 beautiful and modest flower still retains the bashful 
 timidity of the nymph, partially concealing itself amidst 
 foliage from the garish gaze of the sun. Hence it has 
 been ingenionsly given as a device to an amiable and 
 witty lady, of a timid and reserved disposition, sur- 
 rounded by the motto. 
 
 Ilfaut-ma-chercher. I must be sought after. 
 
 Daisy. Innocence. Fabulous history informs us that 
 the daisy owes its origin to Belides, one of the nymphs 
 called Dryads, who were supposed to preside over 
 meadows and pastures. While dancing with Ephignes, 
 whose suit she encouraged, she attracted the admiration 
 of Vertumnus, the deity who presides over orchards, and, 
 to escape from him, she was transformed into the hum- 
 ble flower, the Latin name of which is Bellis. 
 
 Narcissus and Daffodil. -Self-love. The ancients at- 
 tribute the origin of this flower to the metamorphosis of a 
 beautiful youth, named Narcissus, who, having slighted 
 the love of the nymph, Echo, became enamored of
 
 268 JANE ROWLEY'S 
 
 his own image, which he beheld in a fountain, and pined 
 to death in consequence. The Narcissus also is said to 
 signify unrequited love. 
 
 Hawthorn, or White Thorn. Hope. Among the 
 Turks a branch of the hawthorn expresses the wish of 
 the lover to receive a kiss from the object of his affec- 
 tions. 
 
 Tulip. Declaration of love. 
 White Rose Bud. Too young to love. 
 Periwinkle. Tender recollections. 
 Pink. True love. Yellow pink, disdain. 
 Rose. Love. 
 
 " Hundred leaved. Grace. 
 
 " Monthly. Beauty ever new. 
 
 " Musk. Capricious beauty. 
 
 '• Single. Simplicity. 
 
 " White. Silence. 
 
 " Withered. Fleeting beaut}'. 
 
 l ' Yellow. Infidelity. 
 
 According to the ancient fable, the red color of the 
 rose may be traced to Venus, whose delicate foot, when 
 she was hastening to the relief of her beloved Adonis, 
 was pierced by a thorn that drew blood. 
 
 " Which, on the white rose being shed, 
 Made it forever after red."
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 269 
 
 The origin of that exquisitely beautiful variety, the 
 moss rose, is thus fancifully accounted for : 
 
 " The angels of the flowers one day, 
 Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay. 
 
 The spirit to whose charge is given ^ 
 
 To bathe young buds with dew from heaven. 
 Awaking from his light repose, 
 The angel whispered to the rose, A 
 
 ' O, fondest object of my care, \ I '/A 
 
 Still fairest found where all is fair, 
 For the sweet shade thou'st given to me, 
 Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee.' ^jJ » < |f 
 
 " Then said the rose with deepening glow, //iV* 
 
 ' On me another grace bestow.' - > ' 
 
 The spirit paused in silent thought. W 
 
 What grace is there this flower has not ? 
 'Twas but a moment — o'er the rose 
 A veil of moss the angel throws. 
 And, robed in Nature's simplest weed, 
 Could there a flower that rose exceed ? " 
 
 Lily — Majesty. According to the heathen mythology 
 there was originally only one species of Lily, namely,' the 
 orange-colored ; and the white was produced by the fol- 
 lowing circumstances : — Jupiter being desirous to render 
 Hercules immortal, prevailed on Juno to take a deep
 
 270 jane rowley's 
 
 draught of nectar, which having been prepared by Som- 
 nus, threw the queen of the gods into a profound slum- 
 ber. Jupiter took advantage of this to place the infant 
 Hercules to her breast, that the divine milk might in- 
 sure his immortality. The infant, in his eagerness, drew 
 the milk faster than he could swallow it, and some drops 
 fell to the earth, from which immediately sprang the 
 White Lily. 
 
 Carolina Jasmine. Separation. 
 
 Thorn Apple. Deceitful charms. The flower of 
 the Thorn Apple, like the charms of nocturnal beauties, 
 droop while the sun shines beneath their dull-looking 
 foliage ; but on the approach of night, they revive, dis- 
 play their charms and unfold their prodigious bells, which 
 nature has covered with purple, and lined with ivory ; 
 and to which she has given an odor that attracts and in- 
 toxicates, but is so dangerous as to stupefy those who in- 
 hale it even in the open air. The fruit is equally 
 poisonous. 
 
 Myrtle. Love. 
 
 Honeysuckle. Generous and devoted affection. 
 
 Broom. Humility. In the years 1, 2, 3, 4, St. Louis, 
 of France, after the coronation of his queen, chose the 
 flower of this plant as the insignia or a new order of 
 knighthood. The members of this order were a chain 
 composed of flowers of the Broom, entwined with white 
 enamelled lilies from which was suspended a gold cross,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 271 
 
 with the inscription, "Exahalla humules" He exalteth 
 the humble. 
 
 This plant called in Latin, Genista, and in French, 
 Genet, gave the name of Plantagenet to the sovereigns of 
 England for several centuries. Geoffry, Count of An- 
 jou, it is said, first acquired the name of Plantagenet 
 from the incident of his wearing a sprig of Broom on his 
 helmet on a day of battle. From this Geoffry and 
 Matilda, or Maud, Empress of Germany and daughter of 
 Henry First of England, descended all the Edwards and 
 Henrys. 
 
 Another tradition respecting this illustrious name is, 
 that a prince of the hquse of Anjou having killed his 
 brother to enjoy his principality, afterwards repented, 
 and made a voyage to the Holy Land to expiate his 
 crime, scourged himself with a rod every night made 
 from the plant Genet, Genista, Broom. Hence the name 
 Plantagenet. 
 
 Strawberry. Perfection. 
 
 St. John's Wort. Superstition. 
 
 Jasmine. Amiableness. 
 
 Poppy. Consolation. 
 
 Corn. Riches. 
 
 Peruvian Heliotrope. Devote attachment. 
 
 Holyhock. Ambition. 
 
 Sunflower. False riches ; also constancy, from its
 
 272 jane rowley's 
 
 habit of following the course of the sun, a notion adopted 
 
 by the poets, and not without reason. 
 
 " As the sunflower turns on his god, when he sets, 
 The same look that he gave when he rose." 
 
 Meadow Saffron. Best days are passed. This 
 flower springs up and blooms amidst the damp grass of 
 the meadows when the leaves are falling from the trees, 
 and the aspect of nature betokens decay. 
 
 Scarlet Geranium. Stupidity. 
 
 Marvel of Peru. Timidity. 
 
 Oak. Hospitality. 
 
 Amaranth. Immortality. 
 
 Dead Leaves. Sadness, melancholy. 
 
 Ivy. Friendship. 
 
 Mistletoe. I surmount all difficulties. 
 
 Moss. Maternal love. 
 
 Lawnstinus. I die if neglected. 
 
 Laurel. Glory. 
 
 Parsley. Festivity. 
 
 Star of Bethlehem. Divinity. 
 
 Hop. Injustice. 
 
 Snap Dragon. Presumption. 
 
 Rose Scented Geranium. Preference. 
 
 Walnut. Strategem. The city of Amiens was taken 
 by the Spaniards, in 1500, by a singular stratagem. Some 
 soldiers, disguised as countrymen, came up to the gates 
 with a cartload of walnuts. Here they untied one of the
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 273 
 
 sacks containing the nuts, the latter fell out as soon as 
 the gate was opened, and the cart began to move. While 
 the guards were busy picking them up a body of Span- 
 iards, who were in ambush, fell upon them and made 
 themselves masters of the city. 
 
 Quince. Temptation. 
 
 London Pride. Frivolity. 
 
 White Lilac. Youth. 
 
 Lilac. First emotions of love. 
 
 Iris. Message. 
 
 Pencilled Leaf Geranium. Ingenuity. 
 
 Dock. Patience. 
 
 Wild Daisy. I will think of it. 
 
 China Aster. After-thought. 
 
 Acacia. Friendship. 
 
 Plum Tree. Keep your promise. 
 
 Sweet William. Finesse. 
 
 Larkspur. Lightness. 
 
 Ice Plant. Your looks freeze me. 
 
 Grass. Utility. 
 
 Wild Geranium. Steadfast piety. 
 
 Garden Daisy. I share your sentiments. 
 
 Anemone. Forsaken. 
 
 Snowdrop. Hope. 
 
 Valerian. Accommodating disposition. The red 
 Valerian grows naturally on the rocks of the Alps, and 
 from the facility with which it propogates itself in the
 
 3 ;| jane rowley's 
 
 garden or on old walls, it is made the emblem of an ac- 
 commodating disposition. 
 
 Thyme. Activity. Activity is a warlike virtue, 
 associated with true courage. It was on this account that 
 ladies of chivalrous times embroidered on the scarf which 
 they presented to their knights, the figure of a bee hover- 
 ing about a sprig of Thyme, in order to recommend 
 the union of the amiable with the active. Where Thvme 
 is growing there is always a scene of activity. Flies of 
 all shapes, beetles of all hues, light butterflies, and vigi- 
 lant bees forever surround its flowery tufts. 
 
 PAUL JONES. 
 
 It was a stately Southerner that carried the Stripes and 
 
 Stars, 
 The whistling wind from west sou'west blew through her 
 
 pitch-pine spars ; 
 With her starboard tacks on board, my boys, she hung 
 
 upon the gale, 
 On an autumn night, as she raised the light of the old 
 
 Head of Kinsale. 
 
 For nightly garb our frigate her three large topsails wore, 
 The spanker and the standing jib, with courses main and 
 
 fore ; 
 The swelling seas beneath her bow in creamy foam she 
 
 spread,
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 275 
 
 And sending below her bosom of snow, she buried her 
 lee cat-head. 
 
 No thought was there of shortening sail by him who trod 
 
 the poop, 
 Though by the weigh of her ponderous jib the boom bent 
 
 like a hoop. 
 The groaning: cross-trees told the strain that carried the 
 
 stout main tack, 
 But he only laughed as he looked abaft at her bright and 
 
 silvery track. 
 
 Now what is that on our larboard bow, that hangs upon 
 our lee? 
 
 It's time our good ship hauled her wind abreast of the 
 Saltee. 
 
 For by her ponderous spread of sail, and by her taut of 
 spar, 
 
 We knew that our morning visitor was an English man- 
 of-war. 
 
 Then up spoke our commander, not a frown was on his 
 brow, 
 
 " Quick ! lay aloft, my gallant lads, spare not your can- 
 vas now ; 
 
 We fly aloft the Stars and Stripes against the Royal boast, 
 
 Paul Jones, the terror of the seas, can whip them round 
 their coast.
 
 276 jane rowley's 
 
 "Loose all your canvas fore and aft, loose all and give 
 
 her sheet ; 
 The swiftest keel that cuts the deep in all the British fleet 
 Comes thundering down upon us with the white foam at 
 
 his bow, 
 So lay aloft, my gallant lads, spare not the canvas now ! " 
 'Twas thus our gallant Captain spoke, and scarce a mo- 
 ment passed, 
 When royal and to'gallant yards were crossed upon each 
 
 mast ; 
 The British gave a rousing cheer from~the deck of their 
 
 covered ark, 
 We answered them back with a scornful shout from the 
 
 deck of our patriot bark. 
 The fog hung heavy on the deep^fromfFethardito Carn- 
 
 sore, 
 The mist it had not cleared away, but still obscured the 
 
 shore ; 
 With light sails set and booms rigged out, and stun'sls 
 
 hoisted away, 
 Down the Irish Channel Paul Jones^he bore before the 
 
 break of day. 
 
 A shoemaker once made shoes]without*leather, 
 With the aid of the elements all together, 
 Fire, water, earth and air, 
 And each of his customers took two pair.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 277 
 
 A NATIONAL HYMN. 
 
 When this fair land, by Heaven defended, 
 
 Arose to champion human right, 
 And, freedom's battle fought and ended, 
 
 Saw Freedom's self enthroned in might, 
 Around the world this song resounded, 
 While from each heart the echo bounded, — 
 Ever happy, ever free, 
 Land of light and liberty. 
 
 No herald for thy banner blended 
 
 Symbol and shield and curious crest ; 
 But Heaven herself thy birth attended, 
 And bared for thee her azure breast. 
 Her fairest hues thine advent greeted, 
 And star by star the song repeated, — 
 Ever happy, ever free, 
 Land of light and liberty. 
 
 Land of the mighty ! through the nations 
 
 Thy fame shall live and travel on ; 
 And all succeeding generations 
 
 Shall bless the name of Washington. 
 While year by year new triumphs bringing, 
 The sons of Freedom shall be singing, — 
 Ever happy, ever free, 
 Land of light and liberty.
 
 278 jane rowley's 
 
 Columbus, on his dauntless mission, 
 
 Beheld his lovely isle afar ; 
 Did he not see, in distant vision, 
 
 The rising of this Western star, — 
 This queen who now, in state befitting, 
 Between two ocean-floods is sitting? — 
 Ever happy, ever free, 
 Land of light and liberty. 
 
 As sunward still, with sovereign pinion, 
 
 The eagle mounts against the gale, 
 Against Oppression's proud dominion, 
 The sword of Freedom shall prevail. 
 The grandest theme on history's pages, 
 A tower of strength amid the ages, — 
 Ever happy, ever free, 
 Land of light and liberty. 
 
 Thus fixed on freedom's firm foundations, 
 
 To God, thy fervent thanks upraise, 
 Amid the world's loud gratulations, 
 
 Be truth and justice still thy praise. 
 Be this thy watchword, — Love and Duty. 
 O land of glory ! land of beauty ! 
 Ever happy, ever free, 
 Land of light and liberty. 
 
 H. B. 
 
 Morrisville, Bucks County, Pa.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 
 
 LOVE AND CARE. 
 
 79 
 
 Love sat in his bower one summer clay, 
 
 And Care, with his train, came to drive him away ; 
 
 " I will not depart," said Love. 
 And, seizing his lute, with silver words, 
 He ran his bright fingers along the cords, 
 And played so sweet, so entrancing an air, 
 That a grim smile lit up the face of Care : 
 
 " Away — away ! " said Love. 
 
 " Nay, nay, I have friends ! " grim Care replied ; 
 " Behold, here is one — and his name is Pride ! " 
 " I care not for Pride ! " said Love. 
 Then touching the strings of his light guitar, 
 Pride soon forgot his lofty air, 
 And seizing the hand of a rustic queen, 
 Laugh'd, gambolled, and tripp'd it o'er the green. 
 " Aha — aha ! " said Love. 
 
 " Away with your jeers ! " cried Care ; "if you please ; 
 Here's another — lank, haggard, and pale Disease ! " 
 
 " I care not for him ! " said Love. 
 Then touched a strain so plaintive and meek, 
 That a flush passed over his pallid cheek ; 
 And Disease leaped up from his couch of pain, 
 And smiled and re-echoed the healing: strain. 
 
 " Well done for Disease ! " said Love.
 
 2S0 jane rowley's 
 
 " Pshaw — pshaw ! " cried Care ; " this squalid one see ! 
 How likest thou the guant look of Poverty?" 
 
 " 1 care not for him ! " said Love. 
 Then struck such a sound from his viol's strings, 
 That Poverty shouted aloud, " I am a king ! 
 The jewelled wreaths round my temple shall twine — 
 For the sparkling gems of Golgonda are mine ! " 
 " Aye, aye — very true ! " said Love. 
 
 "Nay, boast not," said Care ; " there is fretful old Age. 
 Beware of his crutches, and tempt not his rage ! " 
 
 " I care not for Age ! " said Love. 
 Then swept the strings of his magic lyre, 
 Till the glazed eye sparkled with youthful fire ; 
 And Age dropped his crutches, and, light as a fay, 
 Laugh'd caper'd, and danced, like a child at play. 
 
 " Bravo, Sir Eld ! " said Love. 
 
 " A truce ! " cried wrinkled Care, " with thy glee ! 
 Now look on this last one — 'Tis jealousy ! " 
 
 " Ah me ! ah me ! " said Love. 
 Her green eye burns with a quenchless fire — 
 " I die ! I die ! " Then dropping his lyre, 
 Love flew away from his cherished bower, 
 And never returned from that fatal hour ! 
 Alas, for the blighted Love !
 
 sckap book. a8i 
 
 KATHLEEN O'NIALL. 
 
 It was the eve of holy Saint Bride, 
 
 The abbey bells were ringing, 
 And the meek-eyed nuns at eventide 
 
 The vesper hymns were singing. 
 
 Alone, by the well of good Saint Bride, 
 
 A novice fair was kneeling : 
 And there seemed not o'er her soul to glide, 
 
 One " stain of earthly feeling." 
 
 For ne'er did that clear and sainted well, 
 
 Reflect from its crystal water, 
 A form more fair than the shadow that fell 
 
 From O'Niall's lovely daughter. 
 
 Her eyes were bright as the blue concave, 
 
 And beaming with devotion : 
 Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave 
 
 Of Erin's rolling ocean. 
 
 Yet oh ! forgive her that starting tear ; 
 
 From home and kindred riven, 
 Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year, 
 
 Must be the bride of heaven. 
 
 Her beads were told and the moonbeams shone 
 
 Sweetly on Callen water : 
 When her path was crossed by a holy nun, 
 
 Benedict fair daughter.
 
 282 jane rowley's 
 
 Fair Kathleen started. Ah ! well did she know — 
 
 Oh ! what will not love discover? 
 The country's scourge, and her father's foe, 
 
 'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. 
 
 " Raymond ! " " Oh ! hush, my Kathleen, dear. 
 My path is beset with danger, 
 But cast not, love, those looks of fear 
 Upon thy dark-haired stranger. 
 
 " My red roan steed's in yon culdee grove ; 
 My bark is out at sea, love ; 
 My boat is moor'd in the ocean, love, 
 Then haste away with me, love. 
 
 ' ' My father has sworn my hand shall be 
 To Sidney's daughter given, 
 And thine to-morrow will offer thee 
 A sacrifice to heaven. 
 
 " But away, my love, away with me, 
 The breeze to the west is blowing ; 
 And thither across the dark blue sea, 
 Are England's bravest going, 
 
 " To a land where the breeze from the orange bowers 
 Comes o'er the exile's sorrow ; 
 Like the light-winged dreams of his early hours 
 Or his hope of a happier morrow.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 283 
 
 " And there in some valley's loneliness, 
 By wood and mountain shaded, 
 We'll live in the light of wedded bliss, 
 Till the lamp of life be faded. 
 
 " Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly, 
 The storms of life we'll weather, 
 Till in bliss beneath the western sky, 
 We'll live, love, — die together." 
 
 " Die, Saxon, now ! " at that fiend-like yell, 
 A hundred swords are gleaming ; 
 Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well, 
 His heart's best blood is streaming. 
 
 In vain he doffed his hood so white, 
 
 In vain his falchion flashing ; 
 Five monkish brands through his corslet bright, 
 
 Within his heart are clashing. 
 
 His last groan echoing through the grove, 
 
 His life blood on the waters, 
 He dies — thy first, and thy only love, 
 
 O'Niall's hapless daughter. 
 
 Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow ; 
 
 In vain that eye beseeched them ; 
 Through his Kathleen's heart, the murderous blow 
 
 Too deadly aimed had reached him.
 
 284 jane rowley's 
 
 The spirit fled with the red, red blood 
 
 Fast gushing from her bosom ; 
 The blast of death has blighted the bud 
 
 Of Erin's loveliest blossom. 
 
 'Tis morn, in the deepest doubt and dread, 
 
 The gloomy hours are rolling ; 
 No sound save the requiem for the dead, 
 
 Or knell from the death bell tolling-. 
 
 'Tis dead of night ; not a sound is heard, 
 Save from the night wind sighing, 
 
 Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird, 
 To yon pale planet crying. 
 
 Who names the name of his murdered child ? 
 
 What spears to the moon are glancing? 
 'Tis the vengeful cry of Shane Dymas, wild, 
 
 His Bounacht men advancing. 
 
 Saw ye that smoke on the moonlight last, 
 
 Fire from its darkness gleaming? 
 Heard ye that cry in the moonlight blast, 
 
 The voice of terror shrieking? 
 
 ( Tis the fire from Ardsallach's * willow'd height, 
 
 Tower and temple paling ; 
 'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, 
 
 From monks, for mercy calling. 
 •The height of Willows. The ancient name of Armagh.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 285 
 
 On being playfully asked by two pretty girls which 
 one he should prefer, if he were going to make a choice : 
 
 " How happy could I be with either," was said, 
 
 By Macheath, to his two wives in the play ; 
 But were two such " charmers" as you in their stead, 
 
 He could not wish either away. 
 Oh no ! until death with such angels he'd grapple — 
 
 They both are so temptingly fair ; 
 That as Adam lost heaven by eating an apple, 
 
 I'd forfeit my chance for a pair. 
 
 Beautiful Extract. — Helping a handsome young 
 lady out of a mud puddle. 
 
 " I'm a tickler friend to you," as the snuff said to the 
 nose. "I shall be glad to hear from you at any time," 
 as the deaf man said to the trumpet. "Let me collect 
 myself," as the man said when he was blown up by the 
 powder mill. ''Loaded with slugs," as the gardener 
 said to the cauliflower. 
 
 A country gentleman's answer to a lady who sent her compliments 
 on the ten of hearts. 
 
 Your compliments, dear lady, pray forbear, 
 Old English services are more sincere ; 
 You sent ten hearts, thy tithe is only one, 
 Give me but one, and burn the other nine.
 
 286 jane rowley's 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 A i-ose dropped from her bosom, 
 
 And he caught it as it fell ; 
 Was there no tale that to his heart, 
 
 That drooping rose could tell ? 
 Did he not look upon her cheek, 
 
 And see one fading there, 
 That once had worn as deep a blush, 
 
 And looked as young and fair ? 
 
 And when her small and trembling hand 
 
 Replaced the proffered flower, 
 O'er the bright haven of her brow, 
 
 Did no dark shadow lower? 
 Started no tear in her full eye, 
 
 Heaved not her virgin breast? 
 Gushed there no feeling on her heart, 
 
 To speak it ill at rest? 
 
 And when he has left her there, 
 
 And taken another's hand, 
 And led her out to move with him 
 
 Amidst that mirthful band, 
 Must he not feel that his neglect 
 
 Has touched her to the core ? 
 And from her heart-fount turned away 
 
 Joy's tide for ever more ?
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 2S7 
 
 This incident upon which the above song is founded, 
 was at the time at which it occurred, the subject of fash- 
 ionable remark. The Hon. Mr. R., a professed roue, 
 and a character in more than one celebrated novel, had 
 
 made considerable progress in the affections of Lad} 7 
 
 when some other object attracted his attention, and he 
 suddenly neglected her. On the occasion alluded to, the 
 young lady was crossing the room to speak to a friend, 
 when she unwittingly dropped a rose which she wore at 
 her bosom, and R., who was passing at the time, picked 
 it up, and presented it with his usual inimitable sang froid. 
 Lady could hardly conceal her emotion. 
 
 Against the Will. — Nothing is ever done in the 
 best manner that is done without delight. The self- 
 denial that is performed as a burdensome duty is far less 
 valuable, for its life and spirit are crushed out. The 
 stranger who takes charge of a child may rigorously 
 compel himself to undergo whatever self-denial he thinks 
 necessary to the child's welfare ; but let the mother come, 
 with her full, loving heart, and the sacrifice she makes 
 for its good, without a shade of regret or hesitation, will 
 outweigh a hundred times in real effectiveness the 
 heaviest self-imposed burdens of the other. The same 
 is true of ever}- kind of labor and in every relation of 
 life. 
 
 Despair is the shroud of hope. When hope dies all 
 is desolation; — the mind is a sepulchre, the world is a 
 desolate waste.
 
 288 jane rowley's. 
 
 IF TO LOVE THEE IN SILENCE. 
 
 If to love thee in silence, in gloom, and in sadness 
 
 Be love that has charms for a spirit like thine, 
 Oh ! give the world all thy spring-time of gladness. 
 
 For joy is no lure to a passion like mine. 
 I wish not, I ask not, to share in the hour 
 
 When thy soul flashes forth its most eloquent gleams, 
 Give me but the moment when feeling has power, 
 
 And the heart can recall all its earliest dreams. 
 
 Oh ! then be the world's while its pleasures can charm 
 thee, 
 
 And wit's meteor flashes illumine thy way ; 
 But be mine when the glow of affection can warm thee, 
 
 And spread o'er thy spirit a kindlier ray. 
 Let others rejoice in the halo around thee, 
 
 The bright beams of fame that are over thee cast ; 
 I ask but to know that the chain which has bound thee 
 
 So fondly to me, will cling on to the last. 
 
 A man should neither be a hermit, nor a buflbon. 
 Human nature is not so miserable as that we should be 
 always melancholy ; nor so happy that we should be 
 always merry. In a word, a man should not live as if 
 there was no God in the world ; nor, at the same time, 
 as if there were no men in it.
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 289 
 
 KITTY'S PRAYER. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN JERNINGHAM's JOURNAL." 
 
 " The misthress is dyin' the docthors have said so, 
 
 Och, who'd be a docthor, to bring us our deaths? 
 To sit by our beds, with a hand on the head so, 
 
 A feelin' the pulses, an' countin' the breaths ! 
 To drive to our doors in a vehicle stately, 
 
 Outstretchin' a hand for a fee on the sly, 
 To settle our deaths for us very complately, 
 
 An' very contintedly leave us to die ! 
 
 " The misthress is dyin' — it is such a pity — 
 
 The master just worships the ground 'neath her tread, 
 She's such a swate crathur, so smilin' and pretty — 
 
 Is there no cross ould woman could go in her stead ? 
 She trates us so kindly, we think it an honor 
 
 To lain from herself her own ilegant ways. 
 I lov'd her the minit I set my eyes on her, 
 
 An' what will I do whin she's dead, if you plase? 
 
 " I hate our fine docthor ! he ought to be cryin' 
 
 But smil'd as he ran to his carriage and book, 
 Jist afther he told us the darlint was dyin' — 
 
 Sure if she recovered how quare he would look. 
 I know he's a janius — the best in the city — 
 
 But God's above all — even docthors — who knows? 
 I am but a poor little sarvint," says Kitty, 
 
 " But even a sarvint can pray, I suppose." 
 
 f /^ r * ( 
 
 •J
 
 39O JANE ROWLEYS 
 
 So, down on her knees in a whirl of emotion, 
 
 With anger and grief in a terrible swin<j, 
 Her Irish tongue praying with utter devotion, 
 
 In faith that but few to their praying can bring, 
 The poor little servant — her tears flowing over — 
 
 Implor'd with a force that my verse cannot give, 
 With the zeal of a saint and the glow of a lover, 
 
 That, in spite of the doctor, the mistress might live. 
 
 The master sat close by his darling, despair in 
 
 His stupefied sorrow, just holding her hand — 
 He prayed, to be sure, but no hope has his prayer in, 
 
 In fact, he was dazed, and could scarce understand. 
 Her delicate lips had a painful contraction, 
 
 Her sensitive eyes seemed sunken and glazed ; 
 He knew in his heart there could be no reaction, 
 
 He just sat and saw her — in fact he was dazed. 
 
 A pallor less ghastly — the eyelashes quiver — 
 
 Life springs to the face in a sudden surprise — 
 Grim death retrogrades, with a sad little shiver — 
 
 She smiles at the master, her soul in her eyes ! 
 A wonderful hope — is it hope? is it terror? 
 
 Leaps up in his heart while he watches his wife — 
 Is it life before death? is it fancy's sweet error? 
 
 Or is it — or can it be — verily Life? 
 
 Oh, send for the doctor — death hangs on each minute- 
 They wait for his fiat, as that of a god —
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 29I 
 
 Who sagely remarks that there is something in it, 
 Granting leases of life with an autocrat's nod. 
 
 Joy rings through the house that was silent in sadness ; 
 The master believes that he ne'er felt despair, 
 
 And Kitty, the servant, laughs out, mid her gladness, 
 To think that they none of them knew of her prayer. 
 
 THE VOW OF TELL. 
 
 The tyrant holds my house in thrall, 
 The tyrant is a crushing might ; 
 
 His chains are tightened round us all, 
 And while in rage their links we bite, 
 
 We brook the coward despot's scoff 
 Nor dare to knock our fetters off. 
 
 My country's hills rise free to heaven, 
 Their stately tops look freedom down — 
 
 A spirit and a hope is given 
 
 To struggling freemen in their frown ; 
 
 Say, shall those stern dictators be, 
 The witnesses of slavery ? 
 
 No ! high as points their boldest heights 
 
 I feel my charring spirits rise ; 
 The wish, the strength — to meet, to smite, 
 
 My country's ruthless enemies, 
 Swells at my heart and nerves my hand 
 
 Against the foes of Switzerland.
 
 292 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 Come brothers, rouse, and wreck your wrong, 
 Upon the wronger and his crew ; 
 
 Up round the lighted banner throng, 
 And do what patriots ought to do. 
 
 What! no response — has chains and fear, 
 Left none but me to battle here ? 
 
 Left none but me ! and how could I 
 
 Beat back the brunt of thousand spears? 
 
 Could one against a myriad cope, 
 With aught of glory or of hope ? 
 
 But why the chances thus debate ? 
 Why longer from the strife refrain ? 
 
 W^hen country calls who'd basely wait ? 
 
 The patriot's duty still is plain — 
 To stand determined at his post, 
 
 Or by himself or with a host, 
 " A single soul may stir a crowd ! " 
 
 And light their courage from its own — 
 A single voice may not be loud, 
 
 Yet give to million tongues a tone — 
 A single spark has fired a wood 
 
 And one may rouse a multitude. 
 
 'Tis still the daring of the one, 
 
 That gives the many hearts to dare, 
 Each gazing at a glory won
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 293 
 
 Grows eager of its light to share, 
 And thus, each rouses each, till all 
 Are ready, strong for freedom's call. 
 
 Then I'll begin, or live, or die — 
 
 What's life if not with freedom blest? 
 
 What's death? — a glorious path to fly 
 From servitude and slaves to rest. 
 
 Failure can me, me only pain — 
 Success will be a nation's gain. 
 
 Now by my highest hopes I vow, 
 
 That while I hold, or life, or brand, 
 No heir of me or mine shall bow, 
 
 To tyrant in my native land, 
 Nor to the foe shall quiet be 
 
 Till I am crushed, or mv countrv free. 
 
 I. W. L. 
 
 THE COVENANTER'S SON. 
 
 Young Allen of the Highlands, my brother dear is gone, 
 And dreary, through the long, long night, I sit and weep 
 
 alone ; 
 My fancy hears his spirit voice, within the twilight dim, 
 And sleep brings but an aching dream of days gone by, 
 
 and him. 
 Of him, and of that fearful hour when from our own fire- 
 side,
 
 294 JANE ROWLEY S 
 
 And from the Bible where he knelt to seek his soul's true 
 
 guide, 
 They dragged my brother forth to death — to death — as 
 
 'twas a crime 
 To worship as our fathers, in the Covenanter's time ! 
 
 My mother shrieked — her woe was wild — she clasped 
 
 their cruel knees, 
 But tears, nor yet her sad gray hairs, might plead with 
 
 men like these ; 
 They dragged him to the lonely moor, that dark and 
 
 dreadful night, 
 And slew him there, amidst our cries and prayers, before 
 
 our sight. 
 I saw him kneel, in manly bloom, their deadly guns be- 
 fore — 
 I clasped him in my arms a corpse, all cold, and red with 
 
 gore, 
 They left me to my misery — like slaves of guilt they fled, 
 With the curse of Heaven, and the brand of Cain upon 
 
 their head. 
 
 My mother like one half deranged, lay moaning wild and 
 
 deep, 
 And gazing on the corpse — that gaze had made a fiend to 
 
 weep ; 
 I would have whisper'd comfort, had not anguish stopped 
 
 my breath ;
 
 SCRAP BOOK. 295 
 
 I would have pray'd but all my words burst forth in 
 
 shrieks of death. 
 We buried him in secret, and in secret wept him dead ; 
 But from that night my mother pined, and never left her 
 
 bed, 
 I toil for food from morn to eve, and soothe her as I may, 
 But what can heal a broken heart, recall the mind's lost 
 
 ray? 
 
 And he, the truest, best of friends, young Bruce of Ron- 
 
 edell, 
 Hath sued me to become his bride — and, oh! I love 
 
 him well ; 
 But never will I quit thy side — no, no ! my mother dear, 
 Thougfh he should choose another, some lovelier bride, 
 
 and leave me here ! 
 Some happier one who loves him more, but that could 
 
 never be, 
 Oh, if, if, — I should lose my love, my mother dear, for 
 
 thee — 
 If coldly he should turn away, and other maiden wed, 
 Then, mother let me die with thee — thy grave my bridal 
 
 bed. 
 
 Calumny is like the wasp, that teases, and against 
 which you must not attempt to defend yourself unless 
 you are certain to destroy it, otherwise it returns to the 
 charge more furious than before.
 
 2g6 jane rowley's 
 
 The World — The little I have seen of the world 
 teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, 
 not in anger. When I take the history of one poor heart 
 that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the 
 struggles and temptations it has passed through ; the 
 feverish inquietude of hope and fear; the pressure of 
 want ; the desertion of friends ; I would fain leave the 
 erring soul of my fellow-man with Him from whom it 
 came. — Longfellow. 
 
 THE OATH. 
 "Do you," said Emma, t'other day, 
 "In earnest, love me, as you say, 
 
 Or are those tender words applied, 
 
 Alike to fifty girls beside?" 
 "Dear cruel girl, cruel I forbear, 
 
 For by these cherry Ups I swear " — 
 
 She stopped me, as the oath I took, 
 
 And said — " You've sworn — so kiss the book ! " 
 
 What a Friend Ought to be. — May my friend 
 never express, even by a glance, more interest in me than 
 he really feels, still worse would it be, if, from a mistaken 
 spirit of kindness he should forbear to dissent from my 
 opinions or practice. God forbid, that when I look to 
 friendship as a firm rock to sustain me in any given 
 emergency, I should find nothing but a mask of conces- 
 sion. Better a nettle in the side of my friend, than to 
 be merely his echo. — Emerson.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Page 
 
 Adam's Sleep 
 
 40 
 
 Breath 
 
 207 
 
 Adieu 
 
 34 
 
 Bright Silver Lily 
 
 97 
 
 Affectation 
 
 125 
 
 Byron 
 
 260 
 
 Affection 
 
 66, 75 
 
 Calumny 
 
 295 
 
 Against the Will 
 
 287 
 
 Canteen 
 
 32 
 
 Age 
 
 129 
 
 Caprice 
 
 89 
 
 Allen A'Dale 
 
 189 
 
 Cat 
 
 109 
 
 Ambition 
 
 167 
 
 Character 
 
 214 
 
 An Exile's Song 
 
 111 
 
 Charity 205, 
 
 207 
 
 Arab Maxims 
 
 116 
 
 Children 144 
 
 250 
 
 Aspen 
 
 194 
 
 Choral Workman's Song 
 
 77 
 
 At the Tomb 
 
 100 
 
 Circassian Slave 
 
 35 
 
 Baronet's Telescope 
 
 18 
 
 " Come " 
 
 81 
 
 Beautiful Extract 
 
 285 
 
 Conscience 
 
 248 
 
 Beautiful Reflection 
 
 146 
 
 Coon Hnnting 
 
 54 
 
 Beauty 
 
 21 
 
 Covenanter's Son 
 
 293 
 
 Be Brave 
 
 108 
 
 Countenance 
 
 126 
 
 Beecher, Henry Ward 
 
 221 
 
 Courage in Woman 
 
 33 
 
 Bells of Shandon 
 
 149 
 
 Cultivation of Woman's Mind 
 
 Benevolence 
 
 14 
 
 Dav Lily 
 
 263 
 
 Better Late than Never 
 
 52 
 
 Death 
 
 115 
 
 Bigotry 
 
 203 
 
 Death's Final Conquest 
 
 249 
 
 Bivouac of the Dead 
 
 154 
 
 Debt 
 
 162 
 
 Blacksmith Interviewed 
 
 103 
 
 Decoration Day 
 
 159 
 
 Blush 
 
 203 
 
 Despair 
 
 287 
 
 Book 
 
 251 
 
 Discontent 
 
 153 
 
 Bride's Father 
 
 7 
 
 Discord 
 
 117 
 
 Bravery 
 
 60 
 
 Domestic Etiquette 
 
 127
 
 2C,S 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Dying Flowers 46 
 
 Eastern Woman 212 
 
 Endnre Hardships 192 
 
 Envy 195 
 Elegance does not Make a 
 
 Home 147 
 
 Epistle to a Young Friend 120 
 
 Eric and Axel 106 
 
 Evil Speaking 
 
 153 
 
 Faith, Hope and Charity 205 
 " Fare Thee Well " 57 
 Fault Finding 236 
 Fearful Man 226 
 Female Purity 190 
 Female Virtue, etc. 124 
 First Love 55 
 Flattery 198 
 Flowers 115 
 Forge 180 
 Freedom 14 
 Friend 183 
 Friendship 66, 92, 156, 162, 210 
 From Good Housekeeping 168 
 From Moore's Sacred Songs 60 
 Front and Side Doors 151 
 Funeral of Napoleon 47 
 Gentle Words 199 
 Give me the Hand 191 
 Gladstone 245 
 " God Save Liberty " 186 
 Good Advice 203 
 Good Breeding 129 
 Good Book and a Good wo- 
 man 164 
 Good Education 210 
 Good Name 74 
 Good Wife 138 
 Gougana Barra 201 
 Grattan 138 
 Grave of Burns 230 
 Grave of Lincoln 261 
 Graves of a Household 26 
 Great Varieties 172 
 Guardian Angel 55 
 
 Page 
 
 Happiness 91, 253 
 
 Harp of O'Carolan 184 
 
 Heart 175 
 
 " Heart that Loves Not " 123 
 
 Holy Life 74 
 Home 49, 59, 115, 165 
 
 Home Music 165 
 
 Home, Sweet Home 254 
 
 Honor to Bergh 93 
 
 Hope 140 
 
 Human Understanding 192 
 
 How to Talk Well 183 
 
 I'd Be a Butterfly 98 
 
 If to Love Thee in Silence 288 
 I Love Her, How I Love Her 25 
 
 In a Railway Car 241 
 
 Independence 79 
 
 Independent 163 
 
 Indolence 6 
 
 Influence 208 
 
 Ingratitude 253 
 " I Remember, I Remember " 119 
 
 Irishman 259 
 It Spoils a Man to Marry 
 
 Him 20 
 
 Ivy 224 
 
 Jealousy 24 
 
 Kathleen O'Niall 281 
 
 Keeping His Word 141 
 
 Kindness 112 
 
 Kind Words 203 
 
 Kitty's Prayer 289 
 
 Labor 182 
 
 " Land that We Left," etc. 134 
 
 Language of Flowers 264 
 
 Lawyer 207 
 
 Life 109 
 
 Life's Combats 207 
 
 Light and Flowers 56 
 
 Lines on a Skull 139 
 Lines Written Upon Seeing 
 
 Mulvaney's Picture 42 
 
 Little Minds 23
 
 INDEX. 
 
 2 99 
 
 Pagk 
 
 Little Things 55 
 
 Living 76 
 
 Long Years Have Passed 15 
 
 Looks and Tones, 86 
 
 Love 135, 187, 236, 263 
 
 <N 
 
 N 
 
 b 
 
 V 
 
 \ 
 
 His 
 
 Love and Care 
 Loves of the Plants 
 Man 
 
 Man and His Maker 
 Man I Love 
 Manly Qualities 
 Man Must Rule Himself 
 Mary MaChree 
 Mariner's Farewell to 
 Ship 
 
 Matrimony 
 Memory of the Dead 
 Mirth 
 Modesty 
 
 "Moll" Pitcher at Mon 
 mouth 
 
 Money 
 
 Money Question 
 
 Moralities 
 
 Morn's Offering 
 
 Music and Song 
 
 My Native Land 
 
 Napoleon's Grave 
 
 National Hvmn 
 
 Night Walker 
 
 Noble Souls 
 
 No Letters 
 
 Nothing is Lost 
 
 Oak Tree 
 
 Oath 
 
 Oh ! Fly to the Hills 
 
 Oh ! the Shamrock 
 
 Old Enough 
 
 Only a Dog 
 
 On the Rhine's Returning 
 
 into Germany 78 
 
 Our Actions 192 
 
 Paddy's Excelsior 136 
 
 279 
 
 209 
 
 288 
 
 51 
 
 13 
 
 174 
 
 256 
 
 44 
 
 27 
 
 46 
 
 18 
 
 172 
 
 60 
 
 216 
 
 145, 176 
 
 161 
 
 193 
 
 16 
 247 
 
 46 
 196 
 277 
 
 61 
 125 
 
 85 
 
 38 
 229 
 
 29 
 188 
 257 
 
 91 
 94, 158 
 
 Page 
 
 " Papa What is a News- 
 paper ?" 30 " 
 Parrot 41 
 Parting Song 130 
 Patience 153 
 Patriot's Last Appeal 166 
 Paul Jones 274" 
 Peep at tbe Public Man 206 
 People will Talk 88 
 Perfume of a Flower 153 
 Phillips, Wendell 243 
 Plea for the Dove 80 
 Pleasures of Hope, extract 
 
 from 251 
 Poetry 5, 76 
 Pole's Adieu 6 
 Politeness 40, 215 
 Prayers I Don't Like 110 
 Prodigals 167, 207 
 Pure Benevolence 234 
 Quarrels 239 
 Receipt for Cooking Hus- 
 bands 255 
 Recommended to the Atten- 
 tion of M. 136 
 Recreation 44 
 Reform 145 
 Renunciation 119 
 Reputation and Life 246 
 Respectability 175 
 Responsibility of Manhood 96 
 Retrospection 24 
 Rivals 11 
 Rose 286 
 Rural Felicity 207 
 St. Patrick [. 240 
 Scatter the Gems of the Beau- 
 tiful A 69 
 Sea 157 
 Secret 129 
 Shakespeare's Epitaph 197 
 Sheridan's Ride 67 
 Shipwreck 169 
 Shoemaker 276
 
 3°° 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Silence 
 
 9 
 
 Simile 
 
 169 
 
 Simplicity of Dress 
 
 82 
 
 Sin 
 
 187 
 
 Sincerity 
 
 164 
 
 Small Courtesies 
 
 172 
 
 Snow 
 
 34 
 
 Somebody's Mother 
 
 170 
 
 Song 29, 49, 53, 87, 99, 148, 215 
 Song for Boys 125 
 Sonnets 23 
 Sound Doctrine 112 
 Span of Life 124 
 Spirit Guide 252 
 Stanza 21, 211 
 Star of My Home 238 
 Star Spangled Banner 163 
 Stranger's Heart 198 
 Street Arab 71 
 Sublime Truth 82 
 Success in Life 233 
 Swarm of B's Worth Having 102 
 Sympathy 237 
 Ten Harts 285 
 Thought, A 12 
 Three Different Things 147 
 Time 144 
 'Tis Sweet to Love in Child- 
 hood 8 
 
 To 39 
 
 To the Violet 28 
 To Thine Own Self Be True 248 
 
 Traducer 146 
 
 Tranquility 126 
 
 Trifles 5, 112 
 
 Pagb 
 
 Trooper to His Mare 200 
 
 True Love 141 
 
 Truth 43, 126, 145 
 
 Tsar Oleg 23U^ 
 
 " Turn Out " 75 
 
 Two Charmers 285 
 
 Two Flags 131 
 Uncle Tom's Glimpse of 
 
 Glory 92 
 
 Vase 256 
 
 Value of Time 129 
 
 Vanity 46 
 
 Vow of Tell . 291 — ■ 
 
 We Meet in Crowds 197 
 
 We Might Have Been 204 
 What a Friend Ought to Be 296 
 
 What is Hope 225 
 
 What is Love 24 
 
 What Might Have Been 227 
 
 When I am Dead 178 
 
 Will Watch 113 
 
 Wish 56 
 Woman 10, 73, 190 
 
 Woman — a Dialogue 63 
 
 Woman's Ability to Act 162 
 
 Woman's Fate 173 
 
 Woman's Influence 9, 37 
 
 Woman's Love 19 
 
 Woman's Question 83 
 
 Women in Conversation 105 
 
 Work 79 
 
 World 250, 296 
 
 Worth Knowing 214 
 
 Written bv the Seaside 235 
 
 Yes and No 205
 
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