PRIVATE LIBRARY | OF I I JAMES H. BURKE. . .^KZ^ ^^*' m-^: tM vwi^ J^ 1^ ic^^ (i.a/^xA W. Jcry^o^)^ GEMS FOR THI- FIRESIDE COMPRISING THE MOST UNIQUE, TOUCHING. PITHY, AND BEAUTIFUL LITERARY TREASURES FROM THE GREATEST MINDS IN THE REALMS OF POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY, WIT AND HnMOR. STATESMANSHIP AND RELIGION. ||ljC0atxtla ilXustratccl Among the Brilliant Men and Women of Genius whose Very Choicest Productions enrich the.se PAGES ARE Shakespeare, Milton, Mooee, Burns, Bryant, Byron, Shelley, Scott, Campbell, Hood, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Tenny.son, Holmes, Hemans, Whittier, Saxe, SiGOURNEY, Dickens, Lovek, Everett, Bret Harte, Franklin, Macaulay, and about Two Hundred other Authors of established Fame. AL,SO MANY RARE AND EXCELLENT PIECES OF PECULL\R MERIT WHOSE AUTHORSHIP IS UNKNOWN, ARE INCLUDED, To WHICH ARE ADDED BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE MOST CELEBRATED POETS AND AUTHORS; OVER One Thousand Tep^sely put Thoughts from the World's Gre.\^test Thinkers; and Numerous Autograph Album Sentiments, MAKING A WONDERFULLY RICH TREJISURY FOR THE HOME CIRCLE A CHARMING LIBRARY OF PROSE AND VERSE. Rev. 0. H. TIFFANY, D, D., EDITOR TECUMSEH. MICH.: A. W. Mills. Publisher. 1881. Entered according to Act of Congress. CONTENTS. PAGE. PUBLISHERS' PREFACE 9 INTRODQCTION , '11 INDEX OF AUTHORS (Peose) 15 INDEX OF AUTHORS (Poetry) 19 LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS .27 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 29 GEMS OF PROSE AND POETRY 37 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 709 LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS 781 SELECTIONS FOR ALBUMS 839 INDEX OF PROSE (Titles) 845 INDEX OF POEMS (Titles) 849 INDEX OF POEMS (First Lines) 859 1 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. ppN preparing '' Gems for the Fireside," the Publishers have cooperated «J^ heartily with the Editor in his effort to produce a book of unequalled '^:^^ excellence. He has gathered the "apples of gold;" they have set them in " pictures of silver." Particular attention has been given to every detail of the publication. Paper has been prepared expressly for this volume. Its texture is firm and durable ; its surface is elegantly finished ; and its tone is delicate and pleasing to the sye. Typographical effects have been carefully studied at every point, the aim being to secure beauty in the page, with the greatest possible com- fort to the reader. In the matter of binding, materials have been selected with reference to durability and elegant appearance, while the workmanship is in the best style of the art. 9 10 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. Illustrative art has been taxed to the utmost in the adornment ot the book, and in its pictorial embellishment. At greatly increased edi- torial and pecuniary expense, the illustrations are all made to elucidate the various poems and prose pieces of the text. They form an artistic commentary on the choice subject-matter, and give a charming and pic- turesque effect to the entire work. In addition to the numerous full-page illustrations, and those of smaller size, there is a superb steel-plate Frontispiece of Longfellow, the world-renowned and beloved American poet. In view of the special fitness of "Gems for the Fireside" as a gift book, a beautifully- wrought illuminated Presentation Plate is inserted also. Among the distinguished artists whose pictorial gems adorn these pages, are Bensell, Darley, Grey, Hill, Hennessey, Heine, Herrick, Kensett, Linton, Macdonough, McEntee, Moran, Parsons,* Smillie, Sooy, Schell, Sweeney (Boz)., and many others equally skillful. A complete double system of Indexing, gives ready access to all the contents of this Treasury. Illustrations, with their titles and des- criptive quotations ; Authors, with their several works as found in this casket; Poems, by titles and by first lines; and Prose articles, by titles, are all given in the copious and carefully prepared indexes. In short, whatever care and generous experiditure has been able to do to secure completeness and elegance, has been done in " Gems for the Fireside." And now it is presented to the consideration of an ap- precia.tive public. ■GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE." "TREASURY FOR THE HOME CIRCLE." "LIBRARY OF PROSE AND VERSE. NfnlHESE terms from the title-page of the Publishers, admirably and erf^^ sufficiently express the scope and aim of the present beautifully Y illustrated volume. It has been the constant endeavor of both ? Publishers and Editor to gather from the entire range of litera- "^ ture the very finest pieces, and the accumulated productions of the ages have been scanned, again and again, in order to secure such Gems as shall reach the high standard of excellence indicated by the Publishers in their prospectus. Every unique work in literature has a history which may be thoroughly known and felt by its author, and yet be unknown and unsus- pected by its reader. This history may be an extended one. Great preachers have said of their best sermons, that it had taken them many years to prepare them. They were the product of a lifetime spent in ob- servation and study. Gray's Elegy, revolved in his own mind, was re- written under fresh inspiration, and pruned again and again, until that brief poem stands as the one beautiful monument of his literary life. 12 INTRODUCTION. Poe's name and fame live chiefly in that wonderful production " The Raven;" the outcome, doubtless, of some deep, wild, intense, personal experience. Miss Nancy Priest wrote nothing comparable with her exquisite " Over the River," and Mrs. Alexander gave us, to be treasured forever, " The Burial of Moses." Exquisite gems of literature, in prose and poetry, are not often the pro- ductions of the cool thought of men and women of genius, but rather they are the outcome of some all-absorbing inspiration resulting from intense personal feeling, or from some momentous event. Patrick Henry's ever- memorable words were fired to the white heat of devotion to his country by the crisis upon which hung the destinies of her three millions of peo- ple, and the question of freedom to this New World. Only the demands of a terrible crisis in the great war of the Rebellion, could have produced the immortal Emancipation Proclamation. Not unfrequently the accumulated thought of years is fixed and formulated by the occurrences of an instant. Glowing devotion to our country's flag found quick expression in " The Star Spangled Banner," when, after a night of fierce bombardment, dawn disclosed it still proudly floating over the w^alls of old Fort McHenry. The overwhelming pride of an obedient British soldiery gave expression to the pen of Tennyson, in that intense and thriUing poem, ''The Charge of the Light Brigade," when the noble six hundred made their famous dash at Balaklava. As tiie great crises of human history call forth the great utterances, the world may never have another " Uncle Tom's Cabin," or " Fool's Errand." As but few men have been permitted to impress humanity by many heroic deeds, so but few poets, philosophers, statesmen, or orators, have given many " apples of gold in pictures of silver " to the world. Because of these well-attested facts one may possess many volumes, in most of which a few beauties form the chief attraction. The gems im- part the value. Without them the volumes would lack their lustre. Not the mass of soil and rock, but the gold and jewels in that mass give value to the El Dorados and the Grreat Bonanzas of the world. And so it is with books. In gathering "Gems for the Fireside," real gems only have been sought. Numberless productions of average worth have been passed by. INTRODUCTION. 13 Nothing but excellence finds a place in this treasury. By reason of its unique character and wonderful variety, the book will prove a welcome companion ; it will meet every mood of the human heart. The most exquisite humor, the most touching pathos, the most thrilling patriotism, the grandest words of statesmanship, the most impressive utterances of the orator, the profound reasonings of the philosopher, the cutting satire of the critic, indeed every department of literature is fittingly repre- sented in this treasury. And these " Gems " are for the "Fireside." Nothing harmful must ever enter that Eden, but all influences of good must shield the purity, and stimulate the holy ambitions, which are so appropriately enshrined in that sanctuary of embowered bliss. ''Home," to an ear refined, is sweetest of spoken words; "Home," to an appreciative heart, is fullest of good impulses and holiest memo- ries. " Home " is the goal to which wanderers return in thought and hope; it is the influence which longest retains its hold on earnest youth, casting its starry brightness even over the stormy seas of vice and dissipation ; it is the attraction which oftenest lures weary prodigals back from error and from sin to the peaceful happy isles of the blest; so. Home, which is to all men the symbol of love, and purity, and hope, must have its "treasury" of "gems of purest ray serene." To constitute this "Library of Prose and Verse," the literary stores of many lands have been put under contribution; England and Germany, and France and Italy are represented by their choicest Poets. Russia, India, China, Greece and Rome are present in admirable translations. Our own America will be seen to be no whit behind the foremost in the full and copious list of men and women, who have made, and are daily increasing her claims for prominence in the world of letters. We have from Europe, the master mind of Shakespeare, the solid grandeur of Milton, the romantic beauty of Scott, the homely sincerity of Burns, the philosophic meditations of Wordsworth, the impassioned lines of Byron, the delicate fancy of Shelly, the melodious beauty of Moore, the mirth- ful humor of Hood, and from America the " very choicest productions " of the most fiimous of her sons and daughters. The topics and themes are as vaxied as the authors. 14 INTRODUCTION. Since " freedom's battle once begun " is a perpetual inheritance, so round the fireside the ruddy flame of a loyal patriotism must glow. And heroic sires will find inspiration for their sons in the selections from Campbell, Longfellow, Baker, Everett, Webster and Lincoln. As the Home must be the place for holy breathings and for conse- crated hearts, it will be found that a number of selections have been made from Addison, Bunyan, Montgomery, Muhlenburg, Bonar, Willis and others, whose verse and meditations are alike free from pious cant and bigoted sectarianism. It is believed that this collection contains vastly more of entertain- ment, culture and inspiration than any other volume of like size and price. It has been prepared at great expense and labor, to meet a want Mt in every home, for a volume, that shall be for every day use, a source of constant instruction, inexhaustible entertainment and permanent good, that will cheer the solitary hour and charm the entire family circle. 0. H. Tiffany. INDEX OF AUTHORS, (PROSE) Adeleb, Max, (Charles Heber Clarke). Catching the Morning Train . . 61 Andersen, Hans Cheistian. The Little Match Girl 156 Anonymous. The Generous Soldier Saved . . 91 Jimmy Butler and the Owl . . . 101 Good-night Papa, 118 Too Late for the Train . .... 125 Yankee and the Dutchman's Dog. 131 United in Death 137 De Pint wid Old Pete 143 Jenkins goes to a Picnic .... 163 Pledge with Wme 166 The Old Wife's Kiss 244 The Last Station 271 Schooling a Husband 313 Lord Dundreary at Brighton . . 363 Regulus to the Roman Senate. . 370 Hypochondriac 403 Mariner's description of Piano . 495 A Husband's Experience in Cook ing 519 The Life of a Child Fairy . . . 529 Selling a Coat 585 My Mother's Bible 611 The Noble Revenge 621 The Grotto of Antiparos .... 636 Fingal's Cave 648 Winter Sports 667 Bailey, J. M., (Danbury News Man). Mr. Stiver's Horse ...... 112 Sewing on a Button 169 Baxtee, Richaed. The Rest of the Just 545 Beechee, Henry Waed. 'Biah Cathcart's Proposal. ... 293 Death of President Lincoln . . . 598 Loss of the Arctic 683 Berkley, Bishop Geoege. Industry the Source of Wealth . 180 15 16 AUTHORS OF PROSE. Billings, Josh, (Henry W. Shaw). Manifest Destiny 457 Brown, Charles F., (Artemus Ward). Artemus Ward at the Tomb of Shakespeare 152 Artemus Ward visits the Shakers 420 Burke, Edmund. The Order of Nobility 227 On the Death of his Sou ... . 231 BuNYAN, John. The Golden City 303 Baker, Edward Dickinson. Worse than Civil War 516 Chapin, Rev. Dr. Edwi?^ Hubbell. The Ballot-Box 617 Ghoate, Rufus. The Birth-day of Washington . 444 Clemens, Samuel L., (Mark Twain). Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer 121 European Guides 211 Jim Smiley's Frog 510 Buck Fanshaw's Funeral .... 671 OozzENS, Frederick S. The Dumb-Waiter 279 Croly, George. Constantius and the Lion . . . 239 Gumming, Rev. John, D. D. Voices of the Dead 298 Cttrtis, George William. Ideas the Life of a People ... 440 DiOKENS, Charles. Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma . . 71 Death of Little Joe ..... . 134 The Drunkard's Death ..... 189 Death of Little Nell 256 Pip's Fight 287 Recollections of my Christmas Tree 307 A Child's Dream of a Star ... 345 The Pauper's Funeral 365 Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room 375 Nicholas Nickleby leaves Dothe- boys' Hall 399 Sam Weller's Valentine 532 Disraeli, Benjamin. The Hebrew Race 67 Jerusalem by Moonlight .... 568 De Quincey, Thomas. Execution of Joan of Arc. . . . 145 Dougherty, Daniel. Pulpit Oratory 81 DwiGHT, Timothy. The Notch of the White Moun- tains 423 Emmet, Robert. A Patriot's Last Appeal .... 546 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Self-Reliance 607 Everett, Edward, Hon. LL.D. Last Hours of Webster .... 153 Morning 355 The Indian to the Settler .... 463 The Pilgrim Fathers 524 The Clock-work of the' Skies . . 630 Franklin, Benjamin. Arrival in Philadelphia 657 Froude, James Anthony. The Coronation of Anne Boleyn 194 Garfield, James A., President. Golden Gems (Selected from Ora- tions and Writings) .... 640 Greenwood, Francis W. P. Poetry and Mystery of the Sea . 175 GouGH, John B. Buying Gape-seed 57 What IS a Minority 270 A Glass of Cold Water 332 Halibueton, Thomas C. Soft Sawder and Human Natur. 646 Hervey, James. Meditation at an Infant's Tomb 321 Hawthorne, Nathaniel. Sights from a Steeple 470 Holland, Josiah Gilbert. Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 201 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. The Front and Side Doors ... 43 Sea-shore and Mountains .... 415 Howitt. Mrs. Mary. Mountains 427 Hugo, Victor. Caught in the Quicksand .... 223 The Gamin 275 Rome and Carthage 350 AUTHORS OF PROSE. 17 [rving, Edward. Phillips, Wendell. David, King of Israel 486 Political Agitation 506 Irving, Washington. PoE, Edgar A. • Baltus Van Tassel's Farm . . . 49 The Domain of Arnheim .... 433 Sorrow for the Dead 88 PooLE, John. Rural Life in England 284 Old Coaching Days 579 A Time of Unexampled Prosperity 448 Porter, Noah. The Organ of Westminster Abbey 474 Advice to Young Men 598 Sights on the Sea The Tombs of Westminster b/4 621 Prime, William C. Morality of Angling 39 Jefferson, Thomas. Habits of Trout 643 The Character of Washington . 559 Prentiss, S. S. Jerrold, Douglas. New England 105 Winter 55 PuRCHAs, Samuel Praise of the Sea Mrs. Caudle needs Spring Clothing 478 75 Mrs. Caudle on Shirt Buttons . . 499 Jones, J. William. Richter, Jean Paul. The Responsive Chord 614 The Two Roads 109 Kane, Elisha Kent. RiDDLS, Mrs. J. H. Formation of Icebergs .... 627 The Ghosts of Long Ago .... 99 Arctic Life 652 Russell, William H. Kelly, Rev. William V. The Light Brigade at Balaklava 58 Sunrise at Sea 337 RusKiN, John. Improving on Nature 503 Lamartine. Book Buyers 660 Execution of Madame Roland . . 686 Landor, Walter Savage. The Genius of Milton 487 Gathered Gold Dust 48 Lincoln, Abraham. Diamond Dust 521 Dedication at Gettysburg .... 141 Shelley, Percy Bysshe. Retribution 162 The Divinity of Poetry .... 394 Macaulay, Thomas Babington. Shillaber, B. p., (Mrs. Partington.) The Puritans 182 Mouse Hunting 217 Milton 232 264 Sprague, William B. Voltaire and Wilberforce . . . 661 Tacitus 390 Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn. Massillon, Jean Baptiste. Children of the Desert 385 Immortality 207 Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher. MacLean, Mrs. Letitia E. Zeph Higgins' Confession . . . 248 The Ruined Cottage . . 96 The Little Evangelist 359 Milton, John. Sumner, Charles. The Freedom of the Press . . . 172 Progress of Humanity 453 Truth 198 Scott, Sir Walter. Moseley, Litchfield Rebecca Describes the Siege . . 539 The Charity Dinner 326 Making Love in a Balloon . . . 590 Talmage, Rev. T. De Witt, D. D. Paek, Mungo. Dress Reform 550 African Hospitality 66 Mother's Vacant Chair .... 555 Parker, Theodore. Grandmother's Spectacles .... 675 The Beauty of Youth 697 Shooting Porpoises 704 18 AUTHORS OF PROSE. Tarson, Charles. Scene at J^iagara 234 Taylor, Jeremy. Useful Studies 292 Warner, Charles Dudley. Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer 121 The Coming of Thanksgiving . . . 148 Our Debt to Irving 563 Washington, George. Address to his Troops 408 Inaugural Address 603 Webster, Daniel. Crime Self-Revealed 632 Whitcher, Frances Miriam. The Widow Bedott's Poetry Whitney, Mrs. Adeline D. T. The Little Rid Hin . . . . Whipple, Edwin P. The Power of Words. . . . Wirt, William. The Blind Preacher . . . . Wiley, Charles A. Caught in the Maelstrom . Wylie, J. A. Defence of Pra Del Tor . . 82 • 482 665 185 412 690 INDEX OF AUTHORS. (POETRY) Adams, Charles F. The Puzzled Dutchman 151 Pat's Criticism 154 The Little Conqueror 165 Der Drummer 297 Hans and Fritz 311 Leedle Yawcob Strauss 418 Addison, Joseph. Cato on Immortality 391 Akebs, Elizabeth. Rock me to Sleep, Mother . . . 274 Alexander, Mrs. C. F. The Burial of Moses 289 Alger, H., Jr. John Maynard 406 Alger, William R., (TranslatorV The Sufi Saint 284 The Parting Lovers 356 Altenburg, Michael. Battle Song of Gustavus Adol- phus 430 Anacreon. The Grasshopper King 42 Anosymous. Shall we know each other there? 69 Song of the Decanter 87 The Farmer and the Counsellor . 100 Charley's Opinion of the Baby . 120 Socrates Snooks 124 Papa's Letter .... . . 168 Betty and the Bear 171 Love lightens Labor 182 " Love me little Love me long ". 191 Scatter the Germs of the Beautiful 195 Old School Punishment The Poor Indian . Two Little Kittens Motherhood . . . Roll on thou Sun . Twenty Years Ago The Nation's Dead Call me not Dead . The Sufi Saint . . Putting up o' the Stove The Engineer's Story The Baggage Fiend . 209 227 229 229 234 261 266 269 284 290 295- 300 19 20 AUTHORS OF POEMS. The Song of the Forge .... 304 Civil War 318 Go feel what I have felt . . . . 31C Paddy's Excelsior 323 Chinese Excelsior 324 Father Time's Changeling ... 324 Prayers of Children 329 Now I lay me down to sleep . . 332 The Frenchman and the Rats . 335 The Parting Lovers 356 Annie Laurie 385 A Kiss at the Door 401 Clerical Wit 401 Lines on a Skeleton 417 Song of the Stormy Petrel ... 440 Paying her Way 452 The Cliemist to his Love .... 469 No Sects in Heaven 500 Evening brings us Home . . . 502 John Jankin's Sermon .... 543 The Laugh of a Child 549 Dot Lambs what Mary Haf Got 567 St. John the Aged 575 " The Penny ye meant to Gi'e." 581 The Mystic Weaver 587 Mrs. Lofty and I 596 Our Skater Belle ....... 597 Searching for the Slam .... 602 The True Temple 615 The Drummer Boy 616 Two Views 625 Our Lambs 629 Dorothy Sullivan 685 The Eggs and the Horses .... 694 The Maple Tree 699 A Woman's Love 702 A Mother's Love 703 Arkwright, Peleg. V Poor Little Joe 358 Allinguam, William. The Fairies 515 Arnold, Edwin, (Translator). Call me not Dead 269 Abnold, Geohoe. Tlie Jolly Old Pedagogue. ... 258 Aytoune, William E. The Buried Flower . . . • . ■ 272 Bache, Anna. The Quilting 56 Barn.vrd, Lady Anne. Auld Robin Gray 173 Beattie, James. The Hermit 595 Law 679 Bell, Chas. A. Tim Twinkleton's Twins .... 106 Bernard De Morlaix. The Celestial Country 650 BiCKERSTETH, EdWARD. The Ministry of Jesus 703 Blake, William. The Tiger 357 BoKER, George H. Battle of Lookout Mountain . . 570 BONAR, HoRATIUS. Life from Death 170 Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping 268 Brainard, M.\ry G. He Knows 577 Brooks, Charles T., (Translator). Winter Song 596 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. Sonnet from the Portuguese . . 370 A Portrait ■ . 388 The Cry of the Children .... 699 Brown, Emma Alice. Measuring the Baby 520 Bryant, Wm. Cullen. Forest Hymn 37 Waiting by the Gate 77 Song of Marion's Men 133 Thanatopsis 214 " Blessed are they that Mourn ". 242 The Death of the Flowers ... 349 Robert of Lincoln 387 The Murdered Traveler .... 402 To a Water Fowl 526 The Crowded Streets 567 God in the Seas 694 Buchanan, Robert. Nell 393 Bungay, George William. The Creeds of the Bells .... 309 Burns, Robert. Highland Mary 262 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo. 336 John Anderson. My Jo 466 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 21 Bybon, Loed Geoege Gordon. Cooke, Philip P. The Orient 224 262 Florence Vane Coolidge, Susan. •;^8i The Sea The Destruction of Sennacherib 296 When 450 His Latest Verses 484 Cornwall, Baery, (Bryan W. Procter). The Blood Horse 42 Campbell, Thomas. The Poet's Song to his Wife . . 68 Lord Ullin's Daughter 551 The Sea 362 The Soldier's Dream 578 The Owl 422 Canning, George. The Stormy Petrel 439 The Needy Knife-Grinder . . . 228 Cranch, Christopher Peaese. Cart, Phcebe. By the Shore of the River . . . 517 Kate Ketchem 461 Cunningham, Allan. Dreams and Realities 485 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 587 Gary, Alice. Cotter, George W. My Creed 266 The Miser ?,'>fi Carleton, Will. M. Gone with a handsomer Man . . 139 Dana, Richaed Henry. Goin' Home To-day 265 The Pleasure Boat 60 Betsy and I are out 381 Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanovitch. Betsey Destroys the Paper . . . 383 God 537 The New Church Organ .... 588 DoBELL, Sydney. Over the Hills to the Poor-House 679 How's my Boy ? 353 Out of the Old House, Nancy . . 697 Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes. Case, Phila H. Learning to Pray 331 Nobody's Child 302 The Minuet 340 Catlin, George L. Drake, Joseph Rodman. The Fire-Bell's Story 554 The American Flag 467 Bread on the Waters 612 Donnelly, Eleanor C. Chalkhill, John, (Isaak Walton). Vision of Monk (Jabriel . . . . 659 The Angler 205 DuFFERiN, Lady. ClBBER, COLLEY. * Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 62 The Blind Boy 365 DuRYEA, Rev. William E. Cleveland, E. H. J. A Song for Hearth and Home . 548 Shibboleth 583 Clough, Arthur Hugh. Eager, Cora M. As Ships Becalmed 422 The Ruined Merchant 197 Coates, Reynell. Eastman, Charles Gamage. The Gambler's Wife 688 A Snow-Storm 409 Cobb, Henry N. Effie, Aunt. Father, Take my Hand .... 333 The Dove Cote 232 The Gracious Answer 334 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Collins, William. The Snow-Storm 63 Sleep of the Brave 605 Mountain and Squirrel . . . . 590 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Sunrise in Valley of Chamounix 663 Fawcett, Edgar. Coles, Abraham, (Translator). A Prayer for my Little One. . . 682 Dies Irae 456 Fields, James T. Stabat Mater 504 The Tempest 208 Cook, Eliza. Ford, Mary A. The Old Arm-Chair 285 A Hundred Years from Now . . 187 22 AUTHORS OF POEMS. Feeiligeath, Ferdinand. The Lion's Ride 453 Freneau, Philip. Indian Death Song 518 Gage, Mrs. F. D. The Housekeeper's Sohloquy. . 78 Gaedette, C. D. TheFire-Fiend IGO Garrett, Edward. The Unbolted Door 129 Gerot, Paul. The Children's Church 602 GiLMAN, Caroline. The American Boy 268 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. The Soul of Eloquence 97 The Church Window 358 Goddard, Julia. Hide and Seek 454 Goodrich, Orrin . Borrioboola Gha 525 Grahame, James, Rev. The Sabbath 610 Geat, Thomas. Elegy in a Country Church-Yard. 203 Hart, T. B. The Reveille 618 Harte, Francis Bret. Miss Edith helps things Along . 254 Fate 258 Jim 339 Dow's Flat 426 Bill Mason's Bride ^^8 Havergal, Frances Ridley. The Lull of Eternity 626 Hat, John. The Law of Death 547 Heine, Heinrich. The Fisher's Cottage 253 Remans, Felicia Dorothea. The Homes of England 64 Landing of the Pilgrim.'* . . . 205 The Meeting of the Ships . . . 230 Hour of Death 674 Henderson, William H. " No more Sea." 644 Heywood, Thomas. Song of Birds 374 Holland, Josiah Gilbert. Cradle Song 277 Gradatim 558 Where Shall Baby's Dimple Be? 689 Holmes, C. E. L. You put no Flowers on my Papa's Grave 192 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. The wonderful One-hoss Shay . 69 Under the Violets 2G7 Union and Liberty ...... 273 A Tailor's Poem on Evening . . 415 Bill and Joe 458 The Last Leaf 542 Hood, Thomas. The Death-Bed 199 The Comet 260 I Remember 273 The Song of the Shirt 282 The Bridge of Sighs 354 Ruth 367 Faithless Nelly Gray 405 No . . 506 Nocturnal Sketch . . 609 Holty, Ludwig. Winter Song . . 596 Hoyt, Ralph. Old . . 431 Hugo, Victor. The Djinns . . 463 Hunt, Leigh. Abou Ben Adhem. . . . . . 225 Ingelow, Jean. When Sparrows Build . . . . 471 Seven Times Two .... . . 619 Jones, J. A. The Gladiator. . Jones, Sir William. What Constitutes State? 565 367 Key, Francis Scott. The Star-Spangled Banner . . . 466' King, Henry. Life 642 Kingsley, Charles. The Lost Doll 341 The Sands o' Dee 392 The Merry Lark 463 Knox, William. Whv should the Spirit of mortal "be Proud? 411 Korner, Charles Theodore. Sword Song 312 Lampertius. I A German Trust Song 589 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 23 Leighton, Robert. J ohn and Tibbie Davison's Dispute 572 Leland, Charles G., (Translator). The Fisher's Cottage 253 Lever, Charles James. Widow Malone 375 LoiraFELLow, Henry Wadsworth. The Old Clock on the Stairs. . . 40 The Bridge 51 The Rainy Day . 88 Embarkation of the Exiles. . . 90 The Silent River 220 A Psalm of Life 241 Maidenhood 246 Resignation 251 Excelsior 322 Hiawatha's Journey 342 Hiawatha's Wooing 344 Hiawatha's Return 345 The Launching of the Ship. . . 389 The Arsenal at Springfield . . . 424 God's Acre 498 Evangeline on the Prairie. . . . 505 Day-dawn 549 The Children's Hour 656 The Chamber Over the Gate . . 693 The Day is Done 706 Lover, Samuel. The Angel's Whisper 277 Lowell, James Russell. The First Snow-fall 137 The Rose 669 LowEY, Rev. Robert, D. D. I Love the Morning Sunshine . . 275 Dust on her Bible 666 Lynn, Ethel. Why ? 655 Lytton, Lord Edward Bulwer. There is no Death 451 Macdonald, George. Baby 82 Mackay, Charles. Little and Great 441 Cleon and 1 597 Clear the Way 623 Mignonette, May. Over the Hills from Poor-House . 681 Miller, Joaquin. Kit Carson's Ride 472 Miller, William E. Wounded. ....... .188 Milman, Henry Hart. Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem ■ 502 Milnes, Richard AIonckton. London Churches ...•••, 237 The Brook Side 247 Mitchell, William. The Palace o' the King. . = . . 286 M'Callum, D. C. The Water-Mill 200 M'Keever. Harriet B. The Moravian Requiem .... 225 Snow-flakes 243 Montgomery, James. My Country . 179 Servant of God, well done . 254 Night 301 The Pelican 446 Moore, Thomas. The Home of Peace 337 The Meeting of the Waters. . . 484 The Light-House .513 Echoes ..... 645 Morris, George P. My Mother's Bible 523 Moultrie, John. The Three Sons 528 Muhlenberg, Rev. William A., D.D. I would not live alway. . . . 353 MuLocK, Dinah Maria. Buried To-day 243 Munford, William. To a Friend in Affliction .... 689 Nairne, Lady Carolina. The Land o' the Leal 421 Norton, Caroline E. Bingen on the Rhine 86 The King of Denmark's Ride. . 378 O'Brien, Fitz James. The Cave of Silver 362 Osgood, Frances S. Labor is Worship 610 Palmer, John W. For Charlie's Sake .641 Payne, John Howard. Home, Sweet Home ... 628 AUTHORS OF POEMS. Percival, James Gates The Coral (irove 678 Pettee, George W. Sleighing Song 338 PlEBPONT, JouN. Not on the Battle-field 531 Po£, EiKiAB Allen. The Raven 158 Annabel Lee 553 The Bells 593 Pollard, Josephine. The First Party 414 Prentiss, E. The Mystery of Life in Christ . 233 PnESTON, iL\UGARET J. The Hero of the Coinmuno . . . 278 Priest, Nancy Amelia Woodeury. Over the River 142 Proctor, Adelaide Anne. A Legend of Bregenz 52 A First Sorrow 179 A Woman's Question 358 Per Pacem ad Lucem 553 The Angel's Story G37 Prout, Father. The Bells of Shandon 573 Raleigh, Sir Walter. The Nymph's Reply to the Shep- herd • . 381 Ralph, Rev. W. S. Whistling in Ileaveii 116 Raymond, Rossiter W. Ramblings in Greece 696 Read, Thomas Buchanan. Drifting 210 Sheridan's Ride 536 The Closing Scene 556 Ror.BiNS, Alice. Left Alone at Eighty 372 Joe 514 RofSENOARTEN. Through Trials 658 Baxe John Godfrey. American Aristocracy 71 Song of Saratoga ...... 95 The Cockney 193 Early Rising . . 341 Blinri Men and the Elephant . . 398 I'm Growing Old 438 Scott, Sir Walter. Patriotism ........ 233 Selected. Life (From Thirty-eight authors) 496 Shakespeare, William. Hark, hark the Lark ..... 319 Airy Nothings 325 Mercy • • 379 Quarrel of Erutus and Cassiu? . 476 Selected Gems 634 Shelley, Percy Bys.she. To Night 242 The Cloud 437 The Sun is Warm, the Sky ... 601 Shillaber, B. p., (Mrs. Partington.) My Childhood's Home .... 196 SiGouRNEY, Mrs. Lydia Huntley. The Coral Insect 146 The Bell of " The Atlantic " . . 184 Niagara 647 Smith, Dexter. Ring the Bsll Softy 282 Smith, Mary Riley. Sometime 373 Smith, James. The Soldier's Pardon 236 Smith, Hor-^ce. The Gouty Merchant 216 Hymn to the Flowers . . . ■ . 255 Smith, Seba. The Mother in the Snow-Storm . 513 Snow, Sophia P. Annie and Willie's Prayer . 395 Southey, Mrs. Caroline Bowles. The Pauper's Death-Bed .... 216 Southet, Robert. The Cataract of Lodore . ■ . . 248 The Ebb-Tide 418 Spenser, Edmund. The Ministry of Angels .... 702 Spooner, a. C. Old Times and New 429 Sprague, Charles I See Thee Still 144 Stedman, Edmund Clarence The Door-Step 368 Stoddart, William 0. The Deacon's Prayer 320 Stoddard, Richard Henry. Wind and Rain 414 Funeral of Lincoln 600 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 25 Story, Robert. The Whistle 283 Suckling, Sie John. The Bride 642 SwiNBUENE, Algernon Charles. Kissing her Hair 52 Taylor, Benjamin F. The River Time 64 The Old Village Choir 677 Taylor, Bayard. The Quaker Widow 110 Taylor, Jeffeeys. The Milkmaid 199 Tennyson, Alfred. Charge of the Light Brigade . . 59 Song of the Brook 222 Enoch Arden at the Window . 252 Death of the Old Year .... 316 Break, Break, Break .... 348 The Eagle 364 New Year's Eve 387 The Bugle 436 The Day Dream 480 Lady Clare 631 Thomas of Celano. Dies Ira . 456 TnuRLOw, Lord, (Edward Hovel). The Patient Stork ...... 450 Trowbridge, John Townsend. The Vagabonds 130 Farm-Yard Song 352 The Charcoal Man ..... 425 Uhland, Johann Ludwig. The Lost Church 622 Vandyke, Mary E. The Bald-Headed Tyrant . . 687 Watson, James W. Beautiful Snow 443 Weatherly, G. " A Lion's Head." 181 Westwood, Thomas. The Voices at the Throne. ... 527 White, Henry Kirke. The Star of Bethlehem .... 469 White, Mrs. Sallie J. Little Margery 330 Whitcher, Frances Miriam. Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles . 548 Whittier, John Greenleaf. Cobbler Keezar's Vision .... 44 Skipper Ireson's Ride 79 Trust 230 Barbara Frietchie 317 Benedicite 350 The Poet's Reward 402 The Vaudois Teacher 405 The Barefoot Boy 416 Maud Muller 459 Mabel Martin 488 The Ranger 507 Mary Garvin 560 The River Path 566 My Playmate 582 The Countess 605 The Changeling 654 Wilcox, Carlos. Doing Good True Happiness . . 219 Willis, Nathaniel Paeker. David's Lament for Absalom . . 305 The Dying Alchemist 497 The Belfry Pigeon 613 WooDWORTH, Samuel. The Old Oaken Bucket 549 Wilson, Mrs. Cornwall, Baeon. Answer to the Hour of Death . 675 Wordsworth, William. Intimations of Immortality . . . 209 The Reaper 368 The Lost Love 670 Yates, John H. The Old Ways and the New . . 104 The Model Church 544 YouL, Edward. Song of Spring 98 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 1 NO. PAGE. I. FRONTISPIECE. (STEEL.l 4 II. " THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES." 38 III. THE GRASSHOPPER KING 42 IV. SUMMER 68 V. DOMINION OVER THE FISH OF THE SEA 75 VI. MODERN TIMES IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN 104 VII. " A TYPE OF GRANDEUR. STRENGTH AND MAJESTY." 181 VIII. DRIFTING 210 IX. " TO HIM WHO IN THE LOVE OF NATURE." 214 27 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 28 PAGE. HO. 242 X. NIGHT .... 342 XI. "THUS DEPARTED HIAWATHA.- XII. "ON XIII ■244. ..ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE FOREST." ^** THE FIERCE. FOAMING. BURSTING TIDE." 362 416 XIV. "BLESSINGS ON THEE, LITTLE MAN." ... .438 XV. " I'M GROWING OLD." . . 443 XVI. "THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW." .... 450 XVII. PATIENCE. .... 469 XVIII. THE CHEMIST 472 XIX. FLYING FROM THE FIRE 482 XX. THE CRAFTY OLD FOX XXI. "ICE-BOUND TREES ARE GLITTERING." ^96 636 XXII. GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS 652 XXIII. ARCTIC LIFE XXIV. GRANDPA AND HIS PETS ^^^ . . 668 XXV. WINTER JOYS -•^^ QUOTATION^. Vase . {Ornament.) Royal Necklace " Poet Laureate . . • " An Outlook " Entablature " • . . Heraldic Eagle " Sculpture " Commemorative Vase " Art Emblems . " Good Luck " Repousse Work " Cupid " Tablet " The Djinn • Studiousness " The Old Skipper " Sitting in the. boat at work." . . . Getting Ready " Youmust first catch them." .... The Old Clock " Half- wat/ up the stairs it stands." . The Blood Horse " Full of fire, and full of bone." . . Cobbler at Work " Keezar sat on the hill-side.'' . . . The Falls " Flashing in foam and spray.'' . . The Arched Bridge " Down the grand old river Rhine.'' . Poultry " Grand were the strutting turkeys." The Cobbler's Joy " Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar." 47 The Dutch Mill " Which the Dutchfarmers are so fond of . . 49 The Cock " Clapping his burnished wings, and crowing." . 50 The Bridge " I had stood on that bridge at midnight." . . . 51 Heart of the Alps " Oirt round with rugged mountains." 53 Winter in the Country " The untrodden snow." 55 Off for a Sail " The ripples lightly toss the boat." 60 29 30 ILLUSTRATIONS. TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE Graveyard " ^'v« laid you., darling, down to sleep." .... 63 Ancestral IIomestkad ' The stately homes of England." 65 Mother AND Guild '' Look where our children start." 68 The Meadow Road '' This morning the parson takes a drive." . ■ ■ ■ 71 Barriers of tue Sea "A wall of defence." • • 70 Skipper Ireson's Ride - Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart." . 79 Chaleur Bay '■ Looked for a coming that migJd not be." ... 80 Baby Dear " Where did you come from, baby dear'". . . 8? Burial Flace " A voice from the tomb sweeter than song." . . . 88 Embarkation OF THE Exiles " Busily plied the freighted boats." 90 President Lincoln " ' God bless you, sir,' said Blossorn." 94 Ruined Cottage " None will dwell in that cottage." 97 Vase OF Flowers '' Learn of these gentle flowers." 98 Jimmy Butler directed " Youve no time to lose." 101 The Attack " I saw a pair of big eyes." 103 The Twins ON the Train " My twins, 1 shall ne'er see again." 108 TwiNKLETON ON Triai " You deserted your infants." 108 Stivers Horse '■ His ears back, his mouth open." 113 Stiver's Horse " He exercised me." 114 Stiver's Horse "' He turned about, and slwt for the gate." . . . 116 Charley " Muzzer's bought a baby." 120 Charley AND THE Baby " Ain't he awful ugly." 120 Charley's Cry " Nose ain't out of joy ent." 120 Charley's Hair Pulled " Zink I ought to love him !" 120 Charley and Biddy " Be a good boy, Charley." 121 Charley's Comfort " Beat him on ze head." 121 Mr. Mann's Haste . " Fly aroxmd." 126 Mr. Mann's Struggles "He began to sweat." 127 Mr. Mann's Defe.at " Glaring at the departing train ." 129 Roger and I " TFe are two travelers." 130 Surgery " Chock up." 133 The E.VPLANATioN " He s that ' handsomer than than you.' ". . . . 141 Pete by the Chimney " Toasting his shins." 143 Pete in Retreat "No, sa, I runs." 143 Coral Reef "Who build iii the tossing and treacherous main." 147 Nutting " The squirrel is not more nimble." 149 Puzzled Dutchman " I'm a pi-oken-hcarted Dcutscher." 151 Hans and Yawcob " Idoosn't know my name." 152 Pat AND THE Doctor " Pat, how is that for a sign f" 155 The Quack "The song that it sings is ' Quack, Quack. " . . 156 Lincoln's Monument " With malice towards ?ione; with charity for all." 1G2 The Little Conqueror " My arms are round my darling thrown." . . . 165 Betty AND the Bear " Seated himself on the hearth." 171 Betty and the Bear . " The bear was no more." 172 The Sea ..... . . " The calm, gently -heaving, silent sea." 176 Cliffs BY the Sea " What rocks and cliffs arc so glorious?" . . . . 173 Ctolone "It vanquished them at last." 185 Papa's Grave " Cover with rosc^ each lowly green mound." . . 192 Mt Childhood Home " A little low hut by the river s side." 196 ILLUSTRATIONS. 3X TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE The Water-Mill " The mill will never grind again." 201 Old Chuecii- Yard '' Through the church-way path we saw him borne." 203 Angling " The gallant fisher s life, it is the best of any." . 206 Forest Depths . " The venerable woods." 215 The Silent River '' Thou, hast taught me, Silent River." 221 The Brook " I come from haunts of coot and hem." ... 222 Tower "Sounds of low wailing from the tower." .... 226 Nobility " Nobility is a graceful ornament." 22S Two Kittens " The two little kittens had nowhere te go." . . . 229 Whittier's Birth-place " A picture me'/iory brings to me." 230 Dove-Cote " A pretty nursery." 233 The Old Church " I stood before ... a large church door." . . . 238 Maidenhood " Maiden with the meek brown eyes." 246 The Brook Side " J wandered by the mill" 247 Cataract of Lodore " How does the water come down at Lodoref. . 248 The Fisher's Cottage " We sat by the fisher's cottage" 253 Jolly Old Pedagogue " He took the little ones upon his hiee." .... 259 Ships on the Sea " Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee." 263 The American Boy " Look up, my boy." 268 Rock ME TO Sleep '' Mother, come back from the echolcss shore." . 274 Ruined Church " The ruin lone and hoary." 281 Rural Comfort " In rural occupation there is nothing mean" . . 285 Mother's Chair " A sacred thing is that old arm-chair." . . . . 286 The Student " Spend not your time in that which profits not." 292 The Country Church " The steeplewas the only thing that folks could see." 294 Der Drummer . " Who puts oup at der pest hotel?" 297 The Greeting " How you vas to-day." 207 At Business " Look, and see how nice." 297 In Society " Und kiss Katrina on the mouilt." ..... 297 Indignation " Und mit a black eye goes away" 298 Gathering Night • • . . " When all around is peace." 302 The Forge " Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring " .... 304 The Church Bell "In mellow tones rang out a bell." 310 Hans AND Fritz " Two Deutschers who lived side by side." . . . . 311 Dead on the Field " Till death united." 313 Singing Birds " The lark at heaven's gate sings." 319 Excelsior " His brow ivas sad ; his eye beneath, flashed." . 322 Father Time '' He lives forever, and his name is Time." . . . 325 Fruit Piece " The dinner now makes its appearance." . . . 329 Little Margery " Dreaming of the coming years." 330 Learning to Pray " Kneeling fair in the twilight gray." 331 Rats at Work " The rats a nightly visit paid." 335 Sleighing ,• • • '" Tis the merry, merry sleigh." 339 Hiawatha's Home " I will bring her to your tvigwam." 342 The Breaking Sea " Break, break, break, on thy cold stones, sea." 348 Rabbit " They rustle to the rabbit's tread." 349 Triumphal Arch " Eome with her army." 351 Farm-yard " Into the yard the farmer goes." 352 Morning " The east began to kindle." 355 32 ILLUSTRATIONS. The Elephant .... The Glen The Burning Steamer Buried in Snow . . . Frozen to Death . . Sea-Shore TITLE. quotation. PAGE. The Tiger '• Burning bright, in the forest of the night." . . 357 The Minsti;r Window "The minster window, richly glowing." .... 358 Ship AT Sea " J was born on the open sea." Cave BY the Sea " Seek me the cave of Silver." Sickle AND Sheaf " She cuts and binds the grain." The Lover's By-way . . ._ •• We left the old folks have the highway " ■ . Birds " Notes from the lark I'll borrow.'' King of Denmark's Ride " The king rode first." Mirage " Bare as the surface of the desert." Sands o' Dee " Never home came she." Annie AND Willie ■' Well, why 'tant we pray t" . " TF7io went to see the Elephant." . . . . " Far down a narrow glen." .... "A noble funeral pyre." .... " All day had the snow come down." .... . . . . " Cold and Dead." , . . . " The sea remembers nothing. It is feline." . Leedle Yawcob " I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart." .... The Owl " The king of the night is the bold brown owl." Alpine Peaks " The far more glorious ridges." The Old Man " Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ." . . . . Approach to Arnheim " The channel now became a gorge." .... Stormy Petrels " The stormy petrel finds a home." Little and Great " Mighty at the last." Pelicans " Tliat lonely couple on their isle." Mother and Babe " Love is a legal tender." Maud Muller " Simple beauty and rustic health." The Lark " The merry, merry lark was up and singing." IsNOVATioNS OF the White Man . . ." The red man is thy foe." Star of Bethlehem " One alone a Saviour speaks." 469 The Birds' Home " When sparrows build." 471 Interior of Westminster Abbey . . " These lofty vaults." 475 Terrace-Lawn " Every slanting terrace-lawn" Meeting OF THE Waters " The bright waters meet." . ..... The River Valley " You see the dull plain fall." The Barn . . ." The old swallow-haunted barns. ' . . . TheTiranary " Lay the heaped ears." 490 Mabel Martin " Mabel Martin sat apart." 490 The Horseshoe Charm " To guard against her mother's harm." . ... 491 Mabel IN Grief " Small leisure havcihe poor." 492 The Champion " I brook no insult to my guest." 492 The Streaming Lights . ' Tfie hanest lights of Harden shone " 493 The Betrothal .... " Her tears of grief were tears of joy." 494 God's .Vcue ' The burial ground Ood's acre." 498 The Comet ' Save when a blazing comet was seen." .... 505 News from THE Forest " Straggling rangers ... homeward fai-ing' . . 508 Call to the Boat " To the beach we all arc going" 509 IntheI-orkst " Som^ red squaw his moose-meat's broiling." . 509 The Return "' Robert !'' Martha !'" all they say." . ... 510 362 363 368 369 374 380 386 392 396 398 403 407 409 410 415 419 423 428 431 434 439 442 447 452 459 463 465 480 484 488 489 ILLUSTRATIONS. 33 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. Smiley's Frog " He was planted as solid as an anvil." 512 The Light House " The Light-house fire blazed" 513 The River Shore " I hear the keel grating " 518 Steam-train " Down came the night express." 519 Old-time Fire-place " A fire in the kitchen." 520 Mother's Bible "My Mothers hands this Bible clasped." ... 523 Plymouth Rock " The ice-clad rocks of Plymouth." 524 The Swan " Seek' st thou the plashy brink f" 527 Battle Monument "The Battle Monument at Baltimore." 531 Sheridan's Ride " Here is the steed that saved the day." 536 Ancient Stronghold " Stone ivalls and bulwarks." 540 The Old Man " The last leaf upon the tree." 542 The Stream " She found a Lotus by the stream." 547 Scene of my Childhood " The rude bucket which hung in the well." ... 549 Lord Ullin " Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore" .... 552 Birds at Home "By every light wind . . . swung ." 557 By The Fireside " Right and left sat dame and goodman "... 561 The Surprise " What is this f" 562 The Forest Grave " On her wooden cross at Simcoe." 563 The River "No ripple from the water's hem.'' 566 The Lamb " Mary haf got one little lambs already ." . . . 567 Battle of Lookout Mountain . . . . " Fortified Lookout." 570 Porpoise " Tumbling about the bow of the ship." .... 574 The Dead Soldier " The wounded to die." 578 The Playmates " The blossoms in the sweet May field." .... 582 The Tempest " The lightning flashing free ." 587 Ballooning " The balloon was cast off." . . . 591 The Mountain Torrent " The torrent is heard on the hill.'' 595 The Surf " I see the waves upon the shore." 601 Mount Vernon " Washington's modest home.'' 604 Draw-bridge " The dark tunnel of the bridge." 605 IIay-boat " The heavy hay-boats crawl" 605 The Abutment " The gray abutment's wall." 606 The Evening AValk " The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore." ... 607 Calmness " Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud." 610 The Cathedral Tower " Proud Cathedral towers.'' 615 The Shore ■' Never the ocean wave falters in flowing." . . . 619 Harvesting " Lo, the husbandman reaping." 620 Work in the Meadows " With meadows wide." . . ■ 625 Iceberg . . " It then floated on the sea, an iceberg." . . . 627 Home " My lowly thatched cottage." 628 Castle AND Lawn " My lands so broad ajid fair." 631 The Ravens " Child and flowers both were dead." 639 Trout " I have killed many flsh.'' 643 Cooking the Fish " Men have their hours of eating" 644 The Rocky Shore " Not of the watery home thou tellest." 645 Fingal'sCave " The cave of music." 649 Ecclesiastical Emblems " The cohort of the fathers." .652 Salt Meadows " The sweetness of the hay." . . • 654 34 ILLUSTRATIONS. TITLE QUOTATION. PAGE. At the Ferry " He set his horse to the river.'' 655 Day Dawk "Awake! it is the day." 661 Vallky of Chamounix " Oreen vales and icy cliffs." 664 The Cutter 'Spring to their cutters." 667 Fustic Gam !■:.'< " Its rough accompaniment of blind mans buff." 667 Snow Bali.inu " The s-nowbalFs com2)lime7its." 668 The Poet " Forth into the night he hurled it." 669 The Maiden " Tracing words upon the sand." 669 The Rose. " Full of bliss she takes the token.'' 670 Blessedness " Kiss his moonlit forehead.'' 670 Grandmother's Spectacles " She would often let her glasses slip down." . . 676 Beauties of the Deep " Deep in the wave is a coral grove." 678 Work in the Field " Aiid so we worked together." 680 The Steamship " The great hull sicayed to the current.' .... 683 The Bald-headed Tyrant "He rides them all with relentless hand." . . . 687 Mountaineer's Warfare "A murderous rain of rocks." 691 The Gateway " The chamber over the gate." 693 Surges and Shore " These restless surges eat away the shores." . . . 694 Greece " In Pcestum' s ancient fanes I trod." 696 The Old House " Bid the old house good-bye." 698 Country Rambles " Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do." . . 700 The Holy Land " Pavement for his footstep." 703 Shooting Porpoises " Tickling them with shot." 705 The Arab's Tent " Shall fold their tents like the Arabs." 707 The Scribe (Ornament.) 708 History " 709 Culture. ' 713 loLANTUE Dreaming ' , 722 Music ' 723 I GEMS FOE THE FIRESIDE. FOREST HYMN. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Ej|]||pHE groves were God's first temples, -/w^^ ere man learned %1^?i To hew the shaft, and lay the i/l» architrave, •^ And spread the roof above them, — I ere he framed J The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood. Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down. And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn, — thrice happy if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, Thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns. Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century- living crow. Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood. As now they stand, massy and tall and dark. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults. These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride. Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here. — Thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 37 3S A FOREST HYMN. That run along the summit of these trees In music; Thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes.scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the trround, , The fresh, moist ground, are all mstmct with Theo : Here is continual worship ;-nature, here, In the tranquility that Thou dost love. Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around. From p.rch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, "Of Thy perfection. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak, — By whose immovable st«m I stand and seem Almost annihilated,— not a prince. In all that proud old world beyond the deep. E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand hath graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould. An einanation of the indwelling life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round mo,--the perpetual work 01 Thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on Thy works, I read The lesson of Thy own eternity. Lo 1 all grow old and die ; but see again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses,— ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave hot less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. 0. there is not lost One of Earth's charms! Upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries. The freshness of her far beginning lies. And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy ,-Death,-yca, seats him- Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre. And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid them- selves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their Uves to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them;-and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in Thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps shrink. And tremble, and are still. God! when Thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill. With all the waters of the firmament. The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages ; when, at Thy call, Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms ' Its cities,— who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power, Hifl prides, and lay his strifes and follies by? "The groves were God's first Tempi MORALITY OF ANGLING. 39 0, from these sterner aspects of Thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements, to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of Thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. MORALITY OF ANGLING. WILLIAM C. PRIME. S^UT how about killing fish for sport? In the name of sense, man, if ii^ God made fish to be eaten, what difierence does it make if I enjoy ' * the killing of them before I eat them ? You would have none but a fisherman by trade do it, and then you would have him utter a T sigh, a prayer, and a pious ejaculation at each cod or haddock that J he killed ; and if by chance the old fellow, sitting in the boat at work, should for a moment think there was, after all, a little fun and a little pleasure in his .^ ==^ business, you would have *■ - -3^ him take a round turn with his line, and drop on his knees to ask for- giveness for the sin of thinking there was sport in fishing. I can imagine the sad- faced melancholy-eyed man, who makes it his business to supply game for the market as you would have him, sober as the sexton in Hamlet, and forever moralizing over the gloomy neces- sity that has doomed him to a life of murder ? Why, good sir, he would frighten respectable fish, and the market would soon be destitute. The keenest day's sport in my journal of a great many years of sport was when, in company with some other gentlemen, I took three hundred blue-fish in three hours' fishina; ofi" Block Island, and those fish were eaten 40 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. the same night or the next morning in Stonington, and supplied from fifty to one hundred <lifforent tables, as we threw them up on the dock for any one to help himself. I am unable to perceive that I committed any sin in takino- them, or any sin in the excitement and pleasure of taking them. It is time moralists had done with this mistaken morality. If you eschew animal food entirely, then you may argue against killing animals, and I will not argue with you. But the logic of this business is simply this : The Creator made fish and flesh for the food of man, and as we can't eat them alive, or if we do, we can't digest them alive, the result is we must kill them first, and (see the old rule of cooking a dolphin) it is some- times a further necessity, since they won't come to be killed when we call them, that we must first catch them. Show first, then, that it is a painful necessity, a necessity to be avoided if possible, which a good man must shrink from and abhor, unless starved into it, to take fish or birds, and which he must do when he does it with regret, and with sobriety and seriousness, as he would whip his child, or shave himself when his beard is three days old, and you have your case. But till you show this, I will continue to think it great sport to supply my market with fish. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. H. W. LONGFELLOW. >MEWHAT back from the village street Standa the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; And, from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Half -way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, From its case of massive oak. Like a monk who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 41 By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor. And seems to say at each chamber door, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw. It calmly repeats those words of awe, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roared ; The stranger feasted at his board ; But, like the skeleton at the feast. That warning timepiece never ceased, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" There groups of merry children played; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; Oh, precious hours ! oh, golden prime And af&uence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" All are scattered, now, and fled, — Some are married, some are dead : And when I ask, with throbs of pain, " Ah ! when shall they all meet again As in the days long since gone by. The ancient timepiece makes reply, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" From that chamber, clothed in white. The bride came forth on her wedding night ; There, in that silent room below. The dead lay, in his shroud of snow ; And, in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, — " Forever— never ! Never — forever !" Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care. And death, and time shall disap- pear, — Forever there, but never here ! The horologue of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" 42 THE BLOOD HORSE. THE GRASSHOPPER KING. FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON, B. C, 560. ^fjArPY insect, what can be 1^1^ In hapjiiness compared to thee? '[W Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine ! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill ; "Tis filled wherever thou dost tread. Nature's self thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink and dance and sing, Happier than the happiest king ! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee ; All the summer hours produce. Fertile made with early juice, Man for thee does sow and plough. Farmer he, and landlord thou ! i THE BLOOD HORSE. , r^rl^ , BARRY CORNWALL. iAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone. With all his lino of fathers known ; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. But blown abroad by the pride within I His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night. And bis pace as swift as light. Look, — how round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float ; Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself ! He, who hath no peer, was born Here, upon a red March morn ; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine! I THE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. 43 And yet, — he was but friend to one, Who fed him at the set of sun By some lone fountain fringed with green ; He lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sands With him, a roving Bedouin, Where Balkh amidst the desert stands I THE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ^1^ VERY person's feelings have a front-door and side-door by which ^i^ they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. Some keep JL 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 1 nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This front-door • leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, and this into the interior apartments. The side-door opens at once into the sacred chambers. There is almost always at least one key to this side-door, This is carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom, fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so universally, have duplicates of it. The wedding-ring conveys a right to one; alas, if none is given with it! Be very careful to whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. The fact of possessing one renders those even who are dear to you very terrible at times. You can keep the world out from your front-door, or receive visitors only when you are ready for them ; but those of your own flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the side- door, if they will, at any hour and in any mood. Some of them have a scale of your whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of your sensibilities in semitones, — touching the naked nerve-pulps as a pianist strikes the keys of his instrument. I am satisfied that there are as great masters of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberg in their lines of performance. Married life is the school in which the most accomplished artists in this department are found. A delicate woman is the best instru- ment; she has such a magnificent compass of sensibilities! From the deep inward moan which follows pressure on the great nerves of right, to the sharp cry as the filaments of the taste are struck with a crushing sweep, is a range which no other instrument possesses. A few exercises on it daily at home fit a man wonderfully for his habitual labors, and refresh him im- mensely as he returns from them. No stranger can get a great many notes 44 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. of torture out of a human soul; it takes one that knows it well, — parent, child, brother, sister, intimate. Be very careful to whom you give a side- door key; too many have them already. COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. JOHN G. WHITTIER. jIIE beaver cut his timber With patient teeth that day, r'" , Tlie minks were fish-wards, and the crowB Surveyors of highway, — When Keezar eat on the hillside Upon his cobbler's form, With a pan of coals on either hand. To keep his waxed-ends warm. And there, in the golden weather. He stitched and hammered and sung ; In the brook he moistened his leather, In the pewter mug his tongue. Well knew the tough old Teuton Who brewed the stoutest ale, And he paid the goodwife's reckonings In the coin of song and tale. The songs they still are singing Who dress the hills of vine The tales that haunt the Brocken, And whisper down the Rhine. COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 45 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples, Flashing in foam and spray, — " Why should folks be glum," said Keszar. When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad ?" Down on the sharp-horned Plunging in steep cascade. Tossing its white-maned waters Against the hemlock's shade. Woodsy and wild and lonesome. East and west and north and south ; Only the village of fishers Down at the river's mouth ; Only here and there a clearing, With its farm-house rude and new. And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew. No shout of home-bound reapers, No vintage-song he heard, And on the green no dancing feet The merry violin stirred. Small heed had the careless cobbler What sorrow of heart was theirs Who travailed in pain with the births of God, And planted a state with prayers, — Hunting of witches and warlocks, Smiting the heathen horde, — One hand on the mason's trowel, And one on the soldier's sword ! But give him his ale and cider, Give him his pipe and song, Little he cared for Church or State, Or the balance of right and wrong. " Tis work, work, work," he muttered, — And for rest a snuffle of psalms !" He smote on his leathern apron With his brown and waxen palms. 16 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. " for the purple harvests Of the days when I was young! For the merry grape-stained maidens, And the pleasant songs they sung ! " for the breath of vineyards, Of apples and nuts and wine ! For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine !" A tear in his blue eye glistened, And dropped on his beard so gray. " Old, old am I," said Keezar, " And the Rhine flows far away !" But a cunning man was the cobbler ; He could call the birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges. And bring back the swarming bees. All the virtues of herbs and metals. All the lore of the woods, he knew. And the arts of the Old World mingled With the marvels of the New. Well he knew the tricks of magic, And the lapstone on his knee Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles, Or the stone of Doctor Dee. For the mighty master, Agrippa, Wrought it with spell and rhyme From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the tower of Nettesheim. To a cobbler, Minnesinger, The marvelous stone gave he, — And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, Who brought it over the sea. He held up that mystic lapstone. He held it up like a lens, And he counted the long years coming By twenties and by tens. " One hundred years," quoth Keezar, " And fifty have I told : Now open the new before me. And shut me out the old!" Like a cloud of mist, the blackness Rolled from the magic stone. And a marvelous picture mingled. The unknown and the known. Still ran the stream to the river, And river and ocean joined ; And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, And cold north hills behind. But the mighty forest was broken, By many a steepled town. By many a white-walled farm-house, And many a garner brown. Turning a score of mill-wheels, The stream no more ran free ; White sails on the winding river. White sails on the far-off sea. Below in the noisy village The flags were floating gay, And shone on a thousand faces The light of a holiday. Swiftly the rival ploughmen Turned the brown earth from their shares; Here were the farmer's treasures, There were the craftsman's wares. Golden the goodwife's butter, Ruby the currant-wine ; ^M£^^ Grand were the strutting turkeys. Fat were the beeves and COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 47 Yellow and red were the apples, And the ripe pears russet-brown, And the peaches had stolen blushes From the girls who shook them down. " Here's a priest, and there is a Quaker, — Do the cat and dog agree ? Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood) Have they cut down the gallows-tree ? And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, That shame the toil of art, Mingled the gorgeous blossoms Of the garden's tropic heart. " Would the old folk know their children ? Would they own the graceless town, Witli never a ranter to worry. And never a witch to drown ?" " What is it I see ?" said Keezar, " Am I here, or am I there ? IsitafeteatBingen? Do I look on Frankfort fair ? Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, Laughed like a school-boy gay ; Tossing his arms above him, The lapstone rolled away. " But where are the clowns and puppets, And imps with horns and tail ? And where are the Rhenish flagons ? And where is the foaming ale ? "Strange things I know will happen, — Strange things the Lord permits; But that droughty folks should be jolly Puzzles my poor old wits. " Here are smiling manly faces. And the maiden's step is gay. Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. " Here's pleasure without regretting, And good without abuse. The holiday and bridal Of beauty and of use. It rolled down the rugged hillside, It spun like a wheel bewitched. It plunged through the leaning willows, And into the river pitched. There in the deep, dark water, The magic stone lies still, Under the leaning willows In the shadow of the hill. But oft the idle fisher Sits on the shadowy bank. And his dreams make marvelous picturi Where the wizard's lapstone sank. And still, in the summer twilights. When the river seems to run Out from the inner glory. Warm with the melted sun. 48 GATHERED GOLD DUST. The weary mill-girl lingers Beside the charmed stream, And the sky and the golden water Shape and color her dream. Fair wave the sunset gardens, The rosy signals fly ; Her homestead beckons from the cloud, And love goes sailing by I GATHERED GOLD DUST. Ha^RITICS are sentinels in the grand army Wmk of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author. {Longfellow. fWe can refute assertions, but who can refute silence. {Dickens. Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries. {Franklin. The great secret of success in life is, for a man to be ready when his opportunity comes. {Disraeli. The truly illustrious are they who do not court the praise of the world, but per- form the actions which deserve it. {Tilton. Christ awakened the world's thought, and it has never slept since. {Howard. The Cross is the prism that reveals to us the beauties of the Sun of Righteousness. {Goulbum. Men have feeling : this is perhaps the best way of considering them. (Richtcr. Fidelity is seventh-tenths of business suc- cess. " {Parton. In the march of life don't heed the order of " right about " when you know you are about right. {Holmes. He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend : Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure For life's worst ills, to have no time to feci th'-m. {Shakespeare. The worst kind of vice is advice. {Coleridge A self-suspicion of hypocrisy is a good evi denco of sincerity. {Hannah More. A page digested is better than a volume hur riedly read. {Macaulay I am not one of those who do not believe in love at first sight, but I believe in tak- ing a second look. {Henry Vincent. A man is responsible for how he uses his common sense as well as his moral sense. {Beecher. When a man has no design but to speak plain truth, he isn't apt to be talkative. {Pre7itice. The year passes quick, though the hour tarry, and time bygone is a dream, though we thought it never would go while it was going. {Newman. Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a brightness over everything. It is the sweetener of toil and the soother of dis- quietude. {Irving. A profound conviction raises a man above the feeling of ridicule. {Mill. Our moods are lenses coloring the world with as many diS'erent hues. {Emerson. Men believe that their reason governs their words, but it often happens that words have power to react on reason. {Bacon. Minds of moderate calibre ordinarily con- demn everything which is beyond their range. {La Rochefoucault. Geology gives us a key to the patience of God. {Holland. Do to-day thy nearest duty. {Groethe. Many of our cares are bat a morbid way of looking at our privileges. {Walter Scott. 1 The greatness of melancholy men is seldom strong and healthy. {Bulwcr. Cowardice asks, Is it safe ? Expediency asks. Is it politic? Vanity asks, Is it popu- I lar? but Conscience asks, Is it right? ' {Punshon, BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. 49 God made the country and man made the town. {Cowper. Sorrows humanize our race. Tears are the showers that fertilize the world. {Ingelow. It is remarkable with what Christian fortitude and resignation we can bear the suffer- ing of other folks. (Z)ea?i Swift. One can neither protect nor arm himself against criticism. We must meet it defiantly, and thus gradually please it. {Ooethe. Silence and reserve suggest latent power. What some men think has more effect than what others say. (Chesterfield. Stratagems in war and love are only honor- able when successful. {Bulwer. A man behind the times is apt to speak ill of them, on the principle that nothing looks well from behind. (Holmes. He who isn't contented with what he has wouldn't be contented with what he would like to have. (Auerbach. Architecture is a handmaid of devotion. A beautiful church is a sermon in stone, and its spire a finger pointing to Heaven. (Schaff. A sorrow's crown of sorrow, Is remembering happier things. (Dante. BALTUS VAIi TASSLJL'S FARM. WASHINGTON IRVING. mGHABOD Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex ; and it is iis not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in Y^ his eyes; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal 1 mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fer- tile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a 50 ' BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm- house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church ; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abun- dance of their pens; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war- rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever hungry family of wives and child- ren to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish- ing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit dis- dained to ask while living. As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow -lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of THE BRIDGE. 51 buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel, who was to inherit those domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. THE BRIDGE. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ^. STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, (t-;^ And the moon rose o'er the city, ^ Behind the dark church tower ; I; Ami like the waters rushing ' Among the wooden piers, A flood of thought came o'er me. That filled my eyes with tears. How often, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky ! How often, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide ! For my heart was hot and restle.«s, And my life was full of care, 4 And the burden laid upon me, Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men. Each having his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro. The young heart hot and restless. And the old, subdued and slow ! 52 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. And forever and forever, The moon and its broken reflection As long as the river flows, And its shadows shall appear, As long as the heart has passions, As the symbol of love in heaven. As long as life has woes ; And its wavering image here. KISSING HER HAIR. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. .^^f^ISSING her hair, I sat against her feet : ll^JP Wove and unwove it, — wound, and ^:! found it sweet ; Made fast therewith her hands, drew f down her eyes, •|^ Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like J dim skies ; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, — Kissing her hair. Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, — Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea: What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would Love not relish worse ? Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me there, — Kissing her hair. A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. ADELAIDE ANNIE PROCTER. ^^IRT round with rugged mountains the Sb: fair Lake Constance lies ; In her blue heart reflected, shine back the starry skies ; And watching each white cloudlet float L silently and slow, T You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below ! Midnight is there : and silence enthroned in heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town : For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand years and more. Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky steep. Have cast their trembling shadows of ages on the deep ; Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved one night, three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread ; And every year that fleeted so silently and fast. Seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past. She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change ; Her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange ; And when she led her cattle to pasture every day. She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay. She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears ; Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years ; A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 53 She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war The men seemed stern and altered, with looks or strife ; cast on the ground ; Each day she rose contented, to the calm With anxious faces, one by one, the women toils of life. gathered round ; All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was Yet, when her master's children would clus- put away ; tering round her stand, The very children seemed afraid to go alone Sin sang them the old ballads of her own na- to play. tive land ; And when at morn and evening she knelt One day, out in the meadow with strangers before God's throne. from the town. The accents of her childhood rose to her lips Some secret plan discussing, the men walked alone. up and down. Girt round with rugged mountains." And so she dwelt : the valley more peaceful year by year ; When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk. While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk. Yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream. At eve they all assembled, all care and doubt were fled ; With jovial laugh they feasted, the board was nobly spread. 64 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, " Wo drink the downfall of an accursed laud ! * The night is growing darker, ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own ! " The women shrank in terror, (yet pride, too, had her part,) But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more her towers arose ; What were the friends beside her ? Only her country's foes ! The faces of her kinsfolk, the day of childhood flown. The echoes of lier mountains reclaimed her as their own ! Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth again,) Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pas- ture, and the plain ; Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry. That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, and then if need be, die! " With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step she sped ; Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed ; She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her hand. She mounted and she turned his head toward her native land. Out — out into the darkness — faster, and still more fiist; Tlie smootl) grass flies behind her, the chest- nut wood is passed ; iShe looks up ; clouds arc heavy : Why is her Bteed 80 slow ? — Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass them as they go. "Faster!" she cries, "Oh, faster!" Eleven the church belLt chime ; " God," ehe cries, " help Bregenz, and bring me there in time ! " But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine. Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine. Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check ? The steed draws back in terror, she leans above his neck To watch the flowing darkness, the bank is high and steep. One pause — he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein ; Her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, And see — in the far distance, shine out the lights of home ! Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again Towards the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the midnight rings. And out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battle- ments are manned ; Defiance greets the army that marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid. Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still. And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade, They see the quaint old carving, the charger and the maid. WINTER. 65 And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower, The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour : "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, and then (0 crown of fame !) When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's name. WINTER. DOUGLAS JERROLD. jii|HE streets were empty. Pitiless cold had driven all who had the *^=»^ shelter of a roof to their homes ; and the north-east blast seemed to howl in triumph above the untrodden snow. Winter was at the heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with excessive misery, suffered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the season. Human blood stagnated in the breast of want ; and death in that despair- ing hour, losing its terrors, looked in the eyes of many a wretch a sweet deliverer. It was a time when the very poor, barred from the commonest things of earth, take strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep humility of destitution, believe they are the burden and the offlil of the world. It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with finest sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance ; and, whilst bestow- ing, feels almost ashamed that, with such wide-spread misery circled round him, he has all things fitting, all things grateful. The smitten spirit asks wherefore he is not of the multitude of wretchedness ; demands to know for what especial excellence he is promoted above the thousand thoue^nd starving creatures : in his very tenderness for misery, tests his privilege of 56 THE QUILTING. exemption from a woe that withers manhood in man, bowing him down- ward to the brute. And so questioned, this man gives in modesty of spirit in very thankfulness of soul. His alms are not cold, formal charities ; but reverent sacrifices to his suffering brother. It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth ; with no other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions ; all made pleasanter, sweeter, by the desolation around. When the mere worldling rejoices the more in his warm chamber because it is so bitter cold without, when he eats and drinks with whetted appetite, because he hears of destitution prowling like a wolf around his well-barred house ; when, in fine, he bears his every comfort about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when such a man sees in the misery of his fellow-beings nothing save his own victory of fortune — his own successes in a suffering world. To such a man, the poor are but the tattered slaves that grace his triumph. It was a time, too, when human nature often shows its true divinity, and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its wretchedness in sympathy with suffering. A time, when in the cellars and garrets of the poor are acted scenes which make the noblest heroism of life; which prove the immortal texture of the human heart, not wholly seared by the branding-iron of the torturing hours. A time when in want, in anguish, in throes of mortal agony, some seed is sown that bears a flower in heaven. THE QUILTING. ANNA BACHE. sHE day is set, the ladies met, And at the frame are seated. In order placed, they work in haste. To get the quilt completed ; 'Tis time to roll ;" "my needle's broke; " So Martin's stock is selling." Louisa's wedding gown's bespoke ;" " Lend mo your scissors, Ellen ;' While fingers fly, their tongues they ! " That match will never come about ; Pv • " Now don't fly in a passion ;" And animate their labors j " Hair puffs they say are going out ;" By counting beaux, discussing clothes, " Yes, curls are all the fashion." Or talking of their neighbors. Dear ! what a pretty frock you've on " I'm very glad you like it ;" I'm told that Miss Micomicon Don't speak to Mr. Micate." The quilt is done, the tea begun, The beaux are all collecting ; The table's cleared, the music's heard, — His partner each selecting ; " I saw Miss Belle, the other day, ! The merry band in order stand. Young Green's new gig adorning ;" i The dance begins with vigor,' " What keeps your sister Ann away ''" And rapid feet the measure beat, " She went to town this morning." i And trip the mazy figure. GAPE-SEED. Unheeded fly the minutes by, " Old time " himself is dancing, Till night's dull eye is op'ed to spy The light of morn advancing. 57 All closely stowed ; to each ahode The carriages go tilting ; And many a dream has for its theme The pleasures of the quilting. BUYING GAPE-SEED. JOHN B. GOUGH. . p^^^ . fM^^^ YANKEE, walking the streets of London, looked through a win- ^^ dow upon a group of men writing very rapidly; and one of them |f^ 4 said to him in an insulting manner, " Do you wish to buy some J gape-seed ?" Passing on a short distance the Yankee met a man, ^ and asked him what the business of those men was in the office he J had just passed. He was told that they wrote letters dictated by others, and transcribed all sorts of documents ; in short, they were writers. The Yankee returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men would write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the price, and was told one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was made ; one of the conditions of which was that the scribe should write just what the Yankee told him to, or he should receive no pay. The scribe told the Yankee he was ready to begin ; and the latter said, — " Dear marm :" and then asked, " Have you got that deown ?" " Yes," was the reply, "go on." " I went to ride t'other day : have you got that deown ?" " Yes ; go on, go on." "And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon: have you got that deown?" " Yes, yes, long ago ; go on." " Why, how fast you write ! And I got into the wagon, and sat deown, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand : have you got that deown ?" " Yes, long ago ; go on." " Dear me, how fast you write ! I never saw your equal. And 1 said to the old mare, ' Go 'long,' and jerked the reins pretty hard : have you got that deown ?" " Yes ; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter." " Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered, ' Go 'long, you old jade ! go 'long.' Have you got that deown ?" 58 THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA. " Yes, indeed, you pestersome fellow ; go on." " And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her [continuing to repeat these words as rapidly as possible.] " Hold on there ! I have written two pages of ' licked her,' and I want the rest of the letter.' " Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked — [continuing to repeat these words with great rapidity.] " Do go on with your letter ; I have several pages of ' she kicked.' " [The Yankee clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time.] The scribe throws down his pen. " Write it deown ! write it deown /" "I can't!" "Well then, I won't pay you." [The scribe, gathering up his papers.] " What shall I do with all these sheets upon which I have written your nonsense ?" " You may use them in doing up your gape-seed. Good-by !" THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLA VA. WILLIAM H. RUSSELL. HE whole brigade scarcely made one effective regiment according to .._ the numbers of continental armies; and yet it was more than we 'W' * could spare. As they rushed towards the front, the Russians opened on them from the guns in the redoubt on the right, with volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept proudly past, glitter- ing in the morning sun in all the pride and splendor of war. We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses ! Surely that handful of men are not going to charge an army in position ? Alas ! it was but too true — their desperate valor knew no bounds, and far indeed was it removed from its so-called better part— discretion. They advanced in two lines, quickening their pace as they closed towards the enemy. A more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who, without the power to aid, beheld their heroic countrymen rushing to the arms of death. At the distance of 1200 yards, the whole line of the enemy belched forth, from thirty iron mouths, a flood of smoke and flame, through which hissed the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by instant gaps in our ranks, CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 69 by dead men and horses, by steeds flying wounded or riderless across the plain. The first line is broken ; it is joined by the second ; they never halt or check their speed an instant. With diminished ranks, thinned by those thirty guns, which the Eussians had laid with the most deadly accu- racy, with a halo of flashing steel above their heads, and with a cheer which was many a noble fellow's death-cry, they flew into the smoke of the batteries, but ere they were lost from view, the plain was strewed with their bodies and with the carcasses of horses. They were exposed to an oblique fire from the batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to a direct fire of musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their sabres flashing as they rode up to the guns and dashed between them, cutting down the gunners as they stood. "We saw them riding through the guns, as I have said ; to our delight we saw them returning, after breaking through a column of Kussian infantry, and scattering them like chafi", when the flank fire of the battery on the hill swept them down, scattered and broken as they were Wounded men and dismounted troopers flying towards us told the sad tale — demigods could not have done what we had failed to do. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. ALFRED TENNYSON. ;ALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns !" he said. Into the valley of death, • Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade !" Was there a man dismayed ? Not though the soldiers knew Some one had blundered : Theirs not to make reply. Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die : Into the valley of death, Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them. Volleyed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well : Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell. Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabers bare. Flashed as they turned in air, Sab'ring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered : Plunged in the battery smoke. Right through the line they broke : Cossack and Russian Reeled from the saber-stroke. Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back — but not. Not the six hundred. 60 THE PLEASURE BOAT. Cannon to riglit of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volle)-ed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well. Came through the jaws of death, Back from the mouth of hell. All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ? 0, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred ! THE PLEASURE BOAT. RICHARD HENRY DANA. j^KOMB, hoist the sail, the fast let go ! W^K. They're seated side by side ; ! '>? Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; <;','f The bay is fair and wide. i |[ The ripples lightly tap the boat. I' Loose ! Give her to the wind ! She shoots ahead ; they're all afloat ; The strand is far behind. The sunlight falling on her sheet, It glitters like the drift. Sparkling, in scorn of summer's heat. High up some mountain rift. The#vinds are fresh ; she's driving fasat Upon the bending tide ; The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast. Go with her side by side. The parting sun sends out a glow Across the placid bay, Touching with glory all the .show, — A breeze ! Up helm ! Away ! Careening to the wind, they reach. With laugh and call, the shore. They've left their footprints on the beach. But them I hear no more. CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. Qi CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. MAX ADELER. FIND that one of the most serious objections to living out of town lies in the difficulty experienced in catching the early morning train by which I must reach the city and my business. It is by no means a pleasant matter, under any circumstances, to have one's movements j regulated by a time-table, and to be obliged to rise to breakfast and ■^ to leave home at a certain hour, no matter how strong the temptation to delay may be. But sometimes the horrible punctuality of the train is productive of absolute suffering. For instance : I look at my watch when I get out of bed and find that I have apparently plenty of time, so I dress leisurely, and sit down to the morning meal in a frame of mind which is calm and serene. Just as I crack my first egg I hear the down train from Wilmington. I start in alarm ; and taking out my watch I compare it with the clock and find that it is eleven minutes slow, and that I have only five minutes left in which to get to the depot. I endeavor to scoop the egg from the shell, but it burns my fingers, the skin is tough, and after struggling with it for a moment, it mashes into a hopeless mass. I drop it in disgust and seize a roU ; while I scald my tongue with a quick mouthful of coffee. Then I place the roll in my mouth while my wife hands me my satchel and tells me she thinks she hears the whistle. I plunge madly around looking for my umbrella, then I kiss the family good-by as well as I can with a mouth full of roll, and dash toward the door. Just as I get to the gate I find that I have forgotten my duster and the bundle my wife wanted me to take up to the city to her aunt. Charging back, I snatch them up and tear down the gravel- walk in a frenzy. I do not like to run through the village : it is undignified and it attracts atten- tion ; but I walk furiously. I go faster and faster as I get away from the main street. When half the distance is accomplished, I actually do hear the whistle ; there can be no doubt about it this time. I long to run, but I know that if I do I will excite that abominable speckled dog sitting by the sidewalk a little distance ahead of me. Then I really see the train coming around the curve close by the depot, and I feel that I must make better time ; and I do. The dog immediately manifests an interest in ray movements. He tears down the street after me, and is speedily joined by five or six other dogs, which frolic about ray legs and bark furiously. Sundry small boys as I go plunging past, contribute to the exciteraent by whistling 02 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. with their fingers, and the men who are at work upon the new meeting- house stop to look at me and exchange jocular remarks with each other. I do feel ridiculous ; but I must catch that train at all hazards. I become desperate when I have to slacken my pace until two or three women who are standing upon the sidewalk, discussing the infamous price of butter, scatter to let me pass. I arrive within a few yards of the sta- tion with my duster flying in the wind, with my coat tails in a horizontal position, and with the speckled dog nipping my heels, just as the train begins to move. I put on extra pressure, resolving to get the train or perish, and I reach it just as the last car is going by. I seize the hand- rail ; I am jerked violently around, but finally, after a desperate effort, I get upon the step with my knees, and am hauled in by the brakeman, hot, dusty and mad, with my trousers torn across the knees, my legs bruised and three ribs of my umbrella broken. Just as I reach a comfortable seat in the car, the train stops, and then backs up on the siding, where it remains for half an hour while the engineer repairs a dislocated valve. The anger which burns in my bosom as I reflect upon what now is proved to have been the folly of that race is increased as I look out of the window and observe the speckled dog engaged with his companions in an altercation over a bone. A man who permits his dog to roam about the streets nipping the legs of every one who happens to go at a more rapid gait than a walk, is unfit for association with civilized beings. He ought to be placed on a desert island in mid- ocean, and be compelled to stay there. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. LADY DUFFERIN. ^^'M Bitting on the stile, Mary, ^j^ Where we eat side by side '. i<T On a bright May morning, long ago, ^yf When first you were my bride ; I The corn was springing fresh and green, i And the lark sang loud and high ; <] And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day ba bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath warm on my cheek ; And I still keep listening for the words You never more will speak. ' Tis but a step down j^onder lane, And the little church stands near — The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. THE SNOW-STORM. 63 But the graveyard lieB between, Mary, And my step might break your rest — For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends ; But, Oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary — My blessing and my pride ; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Tours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left mj'- soul, And my arm's young strength was gone There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — i bless you, Mary, for that same, Tho' you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break — • When the hunger pain was gnawing there.. And you did it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore — Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you morel I'm bidding you a long farewell. My Mary — kind and true ! But I'll not forget you darling, In the land I'm going to ; They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there^ But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And ray heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side. And the springing corn, and the bright May morn When first you were my bride. THE SNOW-STORM. EMERSON. =XXOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky. Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields. Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited > air J Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven. And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake or tree or door ; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world 64 THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. Is all his own, retiring as he were not, Leaves when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. THE RIVER TIME. BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. (H ! a wonderful stream is the river Time, f'? As it runs through the realm of tears, ^% With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme And a broader sweep and a surge sub- [ lime, As it blends in the ocean of years ! How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow. And the summers like birds between. And the years in the sheaf, how they come and they go On the river's breast with its ebb and its flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! There's a magical isle up the river Time, Where the softest of airs are playing. There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime. And a song as sweet as a vesper chime. And the Junes with the roses are straying. And the name of this isle is the " Long Ago," And we bury our treasures there ; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, There are heaps of dust — oh ! we loved them so— There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are fragments of songs that nobody sings. There are parts of an infant's prayer. There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings. There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments our loved used to wear. There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, And we sometimes hear through the turbu- lent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone be- fore. When the wind down the river was fair. Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle. All the day of our life until night ; And when evening glows with its beautiful smile. And our eyes are closing in slumbers awhile, May the greenwood of soul be in sight. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. FELICIA D. HEMANS. JBSgHE stately Homes of England, ^K^ How beautiful they stand ! ^*'^-T Ami<lst their tall ancestral trees, ■ • U'er all the pleasant land ; The deer across their greensward \ bound J Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides pa-st them with the sound Of Pome rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England ! Around their hearths by niglit. What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light. There woman's voice flows forth m song, Or childish tale is told ; Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. I THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 65 The cottage Homes of England ! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks. And round the hamlet-fanes. AN ENGLISH ANCESTRAL HOMESTEAD. Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn ; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. Through glowing orchards forth they peej. Each from its nook of leaves ; And fearless there the lowly sleep, Aa the bird beneath their eaves. 66 AFRICAN HOSPITALITY. The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall ! And green forever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod. Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God. AFRICAN HOSPITALITY. MUNGO PARK. WAITED more than two hours without having an opportunity of crossing the river, during which time the people who had crossed carried information to Man-song, the king, that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately sent over one of his chief men, who informed me that the king could not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into his country ; and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which ho pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me further instructions how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village, where I found, to my great mortification, that no person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without victuals in the shade of a tree ; and the night threatened to be very uncomfortable — for the wind rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain — and the wild beasts are so very numerous in the neighborhood, that I should have been under the necessity of climbing up the trees and resting amongst the branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I briefly explained to her ; whereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. She \vent out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused to bo half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. THE HEBREW RACE. Q>j The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress — pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there without apprehension — called to the female part of her family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ themselves a great part of the night. They lightened their labor by songs, one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally trans- lated, were these : " The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn. Chorus — Let us pity the white man — no mother has he," etc. Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my compassionate landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waist- coat — the only recompense I could make her. THE HEBREW RACE. BENJAMIN DISRAELI. pi^AVOKED by nature and by nature's God, we produced the lyre of eA-M David ; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel ; they are our Olynthians, a:;a our Philippics. Favored by nature we still remain ; but in exact ! proportion as we have been favored by nature, we have been per- secuted by man. After a thousand struggles — after acts of heroic courage that Eome has never equalled — deeds of divine patriotism that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have never excelled — we have en- dured fifteen hundred, years of supernatural slavery ; during which, every device that can degrade or destroy man has been the destiny that we have sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to learn that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion. Great poets require a public ; we have been content with the immor- tal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs ; they solace our afflic- THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. tion. Great orators are the creatures of popular assemblies ; we were permitted only by stealth to meet even in our temples. And as for great writers, the catalogue is not blank. What are all the school-men, Aquinas himself, to Maimonides? and as for modern philosophy, all springs from Spinoza ! But the passionate and creative genius that is the nearest link to divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though it can divert it; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its inspired sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence, has found a medium for its expression, to which, in spite of your prejudices and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, the fancy teeming with combination — the imagination fervent with picture and emotion, that came from Caucasus, and which we have preserved unpolluted — have endowed us with almost the exclusive privilege of music; that science of harmonious sounds which the ancients recognized as most divine, and deified in the person of their most beautiful creation. THE POETS SONG TO HIS WIFE. BARRY CORNWALL. i^OW many summers, love, ;.-; Have I been thine? How many flays, thou dove, Hast thou been mine ? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours! Some weight of thought, though loath. On thee he leaves ; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves ; Some fears, — a soft regret For joy scarce known ; Sweet looks we half forget ; — All else is flown ! THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. Ah ! With what thankless heart With tongues all sweet and low I mourn and sing ! Like a pleasant rhyme, Look, where our children start, They tell how much I owe Like sudden spring ! To thee and time ! SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE f ANONYMOUS. ^HEN we hear the music ringing In the bright celestial dome — When sweet angels' voices, singing, Gladly bid us welcome home To the land of ancient story, Where the spirit knows no care ; In that land of life and glory — Shall we know each other there ? When the holy angels meet us, As we go to join their band, Shall we know the friends that greet us In that glorious spirit land ? Shall we see the same eyes shining On us as in days of yore ? Shall we feel the dear arms twining Fondly round us as before ? Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices, And my weary heart grows light. For the thrilling angel voices And the angel faces bright, That shall welcome us in heaven, Are the loved of long ago ; And to them 'tis kindly given Thus their mortal friends to know. Oh, ye weary, sad, and tossed ones, Droop not, faint not by the way ! Ye shall join the loved and just ones In that land of perfect day. Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers, Murmured in my raptured ear ; Evermore their sweet song lingers — " We shall know each other there." THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHA Y. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. IIh^AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, r- • That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day. And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened, with- out delay — Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits — Have you ever heard of that I say ? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, Georgius Secundus was then alive — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down. And Braddock's army was done so brown. Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what. 70 THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will^ Above or below, or within or without — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do. With an " I dew vum " or an " I tell yeou ") — He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn't break daown : — " Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain. Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak. That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — That was for spokes, and floor, and sills ; He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs from logs from the "Settler's ellum" — Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em — Never an ax had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips. Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, Found in the pit where the tanner died. That was the way he " put her through." " There !" said the Deacon, " naow she'll dew !" Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colt* grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away. Children and grandchildren — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen Hundred — it came, and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came — Running as usual — much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive ; And then came fifty — and Fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large ; Take it. — You're welcome. — no extra charge.) First of November— the Earthquake-day — There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay — But nothing local, as one may say, There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor. And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore. And spring, and axle, and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out ! First of November, 'Fifty-five ! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay. Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. " Huddup !" said the parson. — Ofi" went they. The parson was working his Sunday text — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 71 Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill — And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock — •Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around ? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground ! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce. How it went to pieces all at once — All at once, and nothing first — Just as the bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic IS Logic. That's all I say. AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. JOHN G. SAXE. JF all the notable things on earth, The queerest one is pride of birth Among our " fierce democracy !" A bridge across a hundred years. Without a prop to save it from sneers, J* Not even a couple of rotten peers, — J A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, Is American aristocracy ! English and Irish, French and Spanish, Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration ! So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed In finding the circulation. Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it waxed, at the farther end, By some plebeian vocation : Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine. That plagued some worthy relation I ^m..^ MR. PICKWICK IN A DIIEMMA. CHARLES DICKENS. ,. PICKWICK'S apartments in Goswell street, although on a Hmited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor front, his bed-room was the second floor front ; and thus, whether 72 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the dressing- glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the rehct and sole executrix of a de- ceased custom-house officer — was a comely woman of busthng manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor ; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour, on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatansville, would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at inter- vals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contem- plation ; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been able to discover. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time gone." "Why, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. "Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "very true; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. "Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. " Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ?" "La, Mr. Pick- wick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!" "Well, but do you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. /^g the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table ; " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pick- wick ; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir." " That's very true," said Mr. Pickwick; "but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me." " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- border agam. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont m speaking of a subject which interested him. " I do indeed • and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." "Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. " You'll think it not very strange now " said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his com- pamon, " that I never consulted you about this matter, and never men- tioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning— eh ?" Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose— a deliberate plan, too- sent her httle boy to the Borough to get him out of the way— how thoughtful— how considerate !— " Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you thmk r " Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation " you're very kind, sir." " It will save you a great deal of trouble, won't it?" said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; "and of course, I should take more trouble iL please you then than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness." "Ah to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; " I never thought of that. When I am m town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you To be sure, so you will." "Pm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. " And your little boy-" said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. " He too will have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, " a lively one, who'll teach'him i 11 be bound, more tricks in a week, than he would ever learn, in a year "' And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. " Oh, you dear—" said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. " Oh you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck,' with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. " Bless my soul " cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick ;-" Mrs. BardeU, my good woman-dear me, MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. what a situation — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should come—" "Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; "I'll never leave you — dear, kind, good, soul:" and with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. " Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, " I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing ; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms ; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair. Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. . They, in their turn, stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative situation until the suspended anima- tion of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain ; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have sufiered some personal damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward, with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed. " Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, " he's mad." " What is the matter ?" said the three tongue-tied Pick- wickians. " I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. " Take away the boy — (here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) Now help me to lead this woman down stairs. "Oh, I'm better now," said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. " Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever gallant Mr. Tup- man. " Thank you, sir — thank you ;" exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. And down stairs she was led, accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. " I cannot conceive " — said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned — " I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when PRAISE OF THE SEA. 75 she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in whicli you found her. Very extraordinary thing." " Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation," continued Mr. Pickwick. " Very;" was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. — " There is a man in the passage now," said Mr. Tupman. " It's the man that I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick, " I sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass." PRAISE OF TEE SEA. SAMUEL PURCHAS. bS God hath combined the sea and land into one globe, so their joint combination and mutual assistance is necessary to secular happi- ness and glory. The sea covereth one-half of this patrimony of I man, whereof Ood set him in possession when he said, " Replenish the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over eveiy living thing that moveth upon the earth." .... Thus should man at once lose half his inheritance, if the art of navigation did not enable him to manage this untamed beast, and with the bridle of the winds and saddle of his shipping to make him serviceable. Now for the services of the sea, they are innumerable : it is the great purveyor of the world's commodities to our use ; conveyer of the excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffic, of all nations : it presents the eye with diversified colors and motions, and is, as it were, with rich brooches, adorned with various islands. It is an open field for merchandise in peace ; a pitched field for the most dreadful fights of war ; yields diversity of fish and fowl for diet ; materials for wealth, medicine for health, simples for medicines, pearls, and other jewels for ornament ; amber and ambergris for delight ; " the wonders of the Lord in the deep " for instruction, variety of creatures for use, multiplicity of natures for contemplation, diversity of accidents for admiration, compendiousness to the way, to full bodies health- ful evacuation, to the thirsty earth fertile moisture, to distant friends pleasant meeting, to weary persons delightful refreshing, to studious and religious minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temperance, exercise of continence ; 76 PRAISE OF THE SEA. school of prayer, meditation, devotion and sobriety ; refuge to the dis- tressed, portage to the merchant, passage to the traveller, customs to the prince, springs, lakes, rivers to the earth; it hath on it tempests and calms to chastise the sins, to exercise the faith of seamen ; manifold WAITING BY THE GATE. 77 affections in itself, to affect and stupefy the subtlest philosopher ; sustaineth movable fortresses for the soldier ; maintaineth (as in our island) a wall of defence and watery garrison to guard the state ; entertains the sun with vapors, the moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with a natural looking- glass, the sky with clouds, the air with temperateness, the soil with sup- pleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with moisture, the valleys with fertility : containeth most diversified matter for meteors, most multiform shapes, most various, numerous kinds, most immense, difformed, deformed, unformed monsters ; once (for why should I longer detain you ?) the sea yields action to the body, meditation to the mind, the world to the world, all parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts, navigation. WAITING BY THE GATE. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ^I^^ESIDE the massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eter- nal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me. The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night ; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more. And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. Behold the portals open and o'er the thres- hold, now, There steps a wearied one with pale and fur- rowed brow ; His count of years is full, his alloted task is wrought ; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's cour- age and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush singe down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. Again the hinges turn, and a youth, depart- ing throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair. Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and fair. Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly de- cays ! Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze ! Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where. I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ; But still the sun shines round me ; the even- ing birds sing on ; 78 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. And I again am soothed, and beside the an- cient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strews Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows ! So from every region, so enter side by side. The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Steps of earth's greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray. And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away. And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear. And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, with- in my heart. Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart ; And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me. THE HOUSEKEEPERS SOLILOQUY. MRS. F. D. GAGE. ^iM! HERE'S a big washing to be done — One pair of hands to do it — Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants, How will I e'er get through it ? ^ Dinner to get for six or more. No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; And baby cross as he can live — He's always so on Monday. 'Tis time the meat was in the pot. The bread was worked for baking, The clothes were taken from the boil — Oh dear ! the baby's waking ! Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sh ! I wish he'd sleep a little, 'Till I could run and get some wood. To hurry up the kettle. Oh dear ! oh dear ! if P comes home. And finds things in this pother, He'll just begin and tell me all About hifl tidy mother! How nice her kitchen used to be, Her dinner always ready Exactly when the noon-bell rang — Hush, hush, dear little Freddy ! And then will come some hasty words, Right out before I'm thinking — They say that hasty words from wives Set sober men to drinking. Now is not that a great idea, That men should take to sinning, Because a weary, half-sick wife. Can't always smile so winning ? When I was young I used to earn My living without trouble, Had clothes and pocket money, too, And hours of leisure double, I never dreamed of such a fate. When I, a-lass ! was courted — Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, house- keeper, chambermaid, laundress, dairywo- man, and scrub generally, doing the work of six. For the sake of being supported ! SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 79 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE JOHN G. WHITTIER. [F all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme, — On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human hack, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's out from Marblehead ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Body of turkey, head of owl. Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl, Ffcv\thered and rufiled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, ptrong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled un the rockv lane. Shouting and singing the shrill refrain • " Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, Torr'd an futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt, By the women o' Marble'ead !" Wrinkled scolds, with hands on hips. Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare. Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns twang. Over and over the Maenads sang : " Here's Flud Oirson, far his horrd horrt, Torrd an' futhered an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marble'ead ! Small pity for him ! — he sailed away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 80 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. Sailed away from a sinking wreck, "With his own towns-people on her deck ! " Lay by ! lay by !" they called to him, Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! Brag of your catch of fish again !" And off he sailed through fog and rain ! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hnnl lionrt, Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed, Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the iky so blue Riding there in his sorry trim. Like an Indian idol, glum and grim, Scarcolv In: seemed the sound to hear, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid. Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea, — Looked for the coming that might not be ! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? — Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! Tlirough the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent to the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple bound. Hulks of old sailors run aground. Shook head and fist, and hat, and cane. And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Tnrr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marhlu'ead '" Of voices shouting, far and near : " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marble'ead ! " Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, — " What to me is this noisy ride ? What is the shame that clothes the skin, To the nameless horror that lives within ? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! Hate me and curse me, — I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead!" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead ! The wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, " God has touched him! why should we?" Said an old wife, mourning her only son, " Cut the rogue's tether, and let him run 1" So with soft relentings, and rude excuse. Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in. And left him alone with his shame and sin, Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a ca By the women of Marblehead ! PULPIT ORATORY. Ql PULPIT ORATORY. DANIEL DOUGHERTY. llpiHE daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judgment, but to ^i^ touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the armory of the feelings the weapons with which to defend against sin, assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. And oh, how infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this armory ! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a master ! Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the bound- less world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man — all his temp- tations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awake amid the glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. He can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer and his apostate legions ; in letting loose the mighty waters until they swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the coming of that a,wful day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic voices tuned in celestial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never con- sumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of 82 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. contrition start and stream from every eye ; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail ae Felix quailed before St. Paul. BABY. GEORGE MACDONALD. HERE did you come from, baby dear ? Out of the everywhere into here. Where did you get those eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear ? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? • I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands ? Love made itself into bonds and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ? From the same box as the cherubs' wings. IIow did they all just come to be you? God thought about me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear ? God thought about you, and so I am here. THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. F. M. WHITCHER. ^C^FiS, — he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband ..-A.-;,' was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham,) she says, ifC ^ never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest L lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 83 she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it ? Well, I'll see if I can say it ; it ginerally aflfects me wonder- fully, seems to harrer up my feelin's ; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry ? How you talk ! used to make lots on't ; haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says : Teach him for to proclaim Salvation to the folks ; No occasion give for any blame, Nor wicked people's jokes. And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses. Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it ; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband ; it begins as follers : — He never jawed in all his life, He never was onkind, — And (tho' I say it that was his wife) Such men you seldom find. (That's as true as the Scripturs ; I never knowedhim to say a harsh word.) I never changed my single lot, — I thought 'twould be a sin — (Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to ; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is. Miss Coon feels won- derfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch," — seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get, — but I goes on to say — I never changed my single lot, I thought 'twould be a sin, — For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, I never got married agin. 84 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. If ever a hasty word he spoke, His anger dident last, But vanished like tobacker smoke Afore the wintry blast. And since it was my lot to be The wife of such a man, Tell the men that's after me To ketch me if they can. If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in — That's a fact, — he used to b^ scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think, — widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott, — and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know ; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin' ; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin, — so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I ? Oh !— If I was sick a single jot. He called the doctor in — I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. A wonderful tender heart ho had, That felt for all mankind, — It made him feel amazin' bad To see the world so blind. Whiskey and rum ho tasted not — That's as true a.s the Scripturs, — but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said ono day to their house, THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 85 how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin ! did you ever ! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth —besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'- distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See, — where had I got to? Oh, I remember now, — Whiskey and rum he tasted not, — He thought it was a sin, — I thought 60 much o' Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. But now he's dead ! the thought is killin', My grief I can't control — He never left a single shillin' His widder to console. But that wa'n't his fault — he was so out o' health for a number o' year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin' — however, it dident give him no great oneasiness, — he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, — begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house ! did you ever ! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper, — used to swear like all possest when he got mad, — and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't true), — I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! " His widder to console," — ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he, — " What did you stop so soon for ?" — but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun, — she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern, — I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't, — said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie ! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell 86 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. But they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal, that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as foUers : — I'll never change my single lot, — I think 'twould be a sin, — The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Don't intend to get married agin. Excuse my cryin' — my feelin's always overcomes me so v^hen I say that poitry — 0-0-0-0-0-0 ! BINGEN ON THE RHINE. CAROLINE E. NORTON. OLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, 'j And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand. And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land ; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine. " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, Tliat wo fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun ; And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline : And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhino I " Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine. On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head. When the troops come marching home again, with glad gallant tread ; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye. For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die ; And if a comrade seek her love, 1 ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; And to hang the old sword in its place (my fathers sword and mine,) For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine I SONG OF THE DECANTER. 87 " There's another, not a sister ; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning,— Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ! Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen. My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison,) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yel- low sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bin- gen on the Rhine ! " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or seemed to hear. The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill. The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk. And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine : But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhine!" His voice grew faint and hoarse — his grasp was childish weak, — His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to speak : His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled ! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses strown ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! SONG OF THE DECANTER. There was an old decanter, and its mouth was gaping wide; the rosy wine had ebbed away and left its crys- tal side; and the wind went humming, humming; up and down the sides it flew, and through the reed-like, hollow neck the wildest notes it blew. I placed it in the window, where the blast was blowing free, and fancied that its pale mouth sang the queerest strains to me. " They tell me — puny con- querors ! — the Plague has slain his ten, and War his hundred thousands of the very best of men ; but I " — 'twas thus the bottle spoke — "but I have con- quered more than all your famous con- querors, so feared and famed of yore. Then come, ye youths and maidens, come drink from out my cup, the bev- erage that dulls the brain and burns the spirit up ; that puts to shame the conquerors that slay their scores below ; for this has del- uged millions with the lava tide of woe. Though, m the path of battle, darkest waves of blood may roll ; yet Avhile I killed the body, T have damned the very soul. The cholera, the sword, such ruin never wrought, as I, in mirth or malice, on the innocent have brought. And still I breathe upon them, and they shrink before my breath ; and year by year my thousands tread THE FEARFUL KOAD TO DEATH. 88 SORROW FOR THE DEAD. THE RAINY DA Y. LONGFELLOW. IJMrHE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; W]f^ It rains, and the wind is never <i^fi;^ weary ; ©1'^ The vine still clings to the moldering I wall, But at every gust the dead leaves J fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains and the wind is never weary ; My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. WASHINGTON IRVING. yprilE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to •^^ be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other ', ""^ affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep I open ; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where J is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arras, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 39 forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved — when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals — would accept of consola- tion that must be bought by forgetfulness ? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has its delights ; and when the over- whelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, ffhen the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies molder- ing before him ? But the grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentle- ness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene ; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, — oh, how thrilling ! — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate. There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a hus- band, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happi- ness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth ; i^ 90 EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. thou art a friend, and hast evor wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul ; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant in the grave and utter the unheard groan, and pour the un- availing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and aifectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. FROM Longfellow's "evangeline. !IEN disorder prevailed, and the tu- mult and stir of embarking. j^ Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 91 So unto separate ships are Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair on the shore, Evangeline stood with her father. Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, All escape cut off by the sea, and the senti- nels near them. Lay encamped for the night, the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the billowing ocean. Dragging adown the beacli the rattling peb- bles, and leaving Inland far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds re- turned from their pastures ; Scent was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders ; Lowing, they waited, and long at the well known bars of the farm-yard, — Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. Silence reigned in the streets ; from the Church no Angelus sounded, Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. THOUGHT, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift, — • no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post ; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was ! I know he only fell asleep one little second ; — he was so young, and not strong, that boy of mine ! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen ! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty. Twenty- four hours the telegram said, — only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now ?" " We will hope, with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, sooth- ingly. " Yes, yes ; let us hope ; God is very merciful !" " ' I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, ' when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm ' — and he held it out so proudly before me—* for my country, when it needed it. Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow.' "*Go, then, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you !' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan !" and the farmer repeated these words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. 92 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. " Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen ; doubt it not." Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. " It is from him," was all she said. It was like a message from the dead ! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr, Allan, with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it, and read as follows : — "Dear Father: — When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. At first it seemed awful to me ; but I have thought about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me ; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battle-fieid, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously ; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it, — to die for neglect of duty ! 0, father, I wonder that the very thought does not kill me ! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it ; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can not now. " You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look after her boy ; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own on our march. Towards night we went in on double quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, every body else was tired too ; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place ; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; but I did not know it until — well, until it was too late." " God be thanked !" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. " I knew Bonnie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." " They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, given to me by circumstances, — ' time to write to you,' our good colonel says. Forgive him, father, ho only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken- hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my Btcad. " I cannot bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them. THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 93 father ! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me ; it is very hard to bear ! Good-by, father ! God seems near and dear to me ; not at all as if he wished me to perish for ever, but as if he felt sorry for his poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with him and my Saviour in a better, — better life." A deep sigh burst from Mr, Owen's heart. "Amen," he said solemnly, "Amen." " To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting for me ; but I shall never, never come ! God bless you all ! Forgive your poor Bennie." Late that night the door of the " back stoop " opened softly and a little figure glided out, and down the foot-path that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands, as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train ; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the bright lantern he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all ; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom. She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time. Blossom, reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House. The President had but just seated himself to the task of overlookincr and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, the door softly opened, and .Blossom, with downcast eyes and folded hands, stood before him. " Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do you want ?" "Bennie's life, please sir!" faltered Blossom. " Bennie ? Who is Bennie ?" "My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post." " Oh, yes;" and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. 94 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. "I remember. It waa a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable negligence." " So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely, " but poor Bennie was BO tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it LITTLK l;i. was Jemmie's night, not his ; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired too." " What is this you say, child ? Come here ; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justifi- cation of an offence. Blossom went to him ; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and SONG OF SARATOGA. 95 turned up the pale, anxious face towards his. How tall he seemed ! and he was President of the United States, too. A dim thought of this kind passed for' a moment through Blossom's mind ; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. * . He read it carefully ; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom heard this order given : " Send this dispatch at once." The President then turned to the girl and said, " Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life llir too precious to be lost. Go back, or — wait until to- morrow ; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death ; he shall go with you." "God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the request ? Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said : ''The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome them back ; and as farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks and he was heard to say fervently : " The Lord he praised !" SOJ^G OF SABA TOGA. JOHN G. SAXE. what do they do at the | Imprimis, my darling, they drink The waters so sparkling and clear ; Though the flavor is none of the best, And the odor exceedingly queer : But the fluid is mingled you know, With wholesome medicinal things ; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink, — And that's what they do at the Springs ! fThe question is easy to ask : But to answer it fully, my dear, , Were rather a serious task. I And yet, in a bantering way, j As the magpie or mocking-bird sings I'll venture a bit of a song. To tell what they do at the Springs. 7 THE RUINED COTTAGE. Then with appetites keen as a knife, They hasten to breakfast, or dine ; The latter precisely at three. The former from seven till nine. Ye gods ! what a rustle and rush, When the eloquent dinner-bell rings ! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat — And that's what they do at the Springs ! Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, Or loll in the shade of the trees ; Where many a whisper is heard That never is heard by the breeze ; And hands are commingled with hands. Regardless of conjugal rings: And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt — And that's what they do at the Springs ! The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, And music is shrieking away ; Terpsichore governs the hour. And fashion was never so gay ! An arm round a tapering waist — IIow closely and how fondly it clings ! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz, And that's what they do at the Springs ! In short, — as it goes in the world, — They eat, and they drink, and they sleep ; They talk, and they walk, and they woo ; They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep ; They read, and they ride, and they dance ; (With other remarkable things :) They pray, and they play, and they pay, — And that's what they do at the Springs ! THE RUINED COTTAGE. , MRS. LETITIA E. MACLEAN. Pi||ONE will dwell in that cottage, for they say oppression reft it from an honest man, and that a curse clings to it ; hence the vine trails its green weight of leaves upon the ground ; hence weeds are in that garden ; hence the hedge, once sweet with honeysuckle, is ^ half dead ; and hence the gray moss on the apple-tree. One once dwelt there who had been in his youth a soldier, and when many years had passed, he sought his native village, and sat down to end his days in peace. He had one child — a little, laughing thing, whose large, dark eyes, he said, were like the mother's he had left buried in strangers' land. And time went on in comfort and content — and that fair girl had grown far taller than the red rose tree her father planted on her first Eng- lish birthday ; and he had trained it up against an ash till it became his pride ; it was so rich in blossom and in beauty, it was called the tree of Isabel. 'Twas an appeal to all the better feelings of the heart, to mark their quiet happiness, their home — in truth a home of love, — and more than all, to see them on the Sabbath, when they came among the first to church, and Isabel, with her bright color and her clear, glad eyes, bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer, and in the hymn her sweet voice audible; her father looked so fond of her, and then from her looked up so thankfully to heaven ! And their small cottage was so very neat ; their garden filled with fruits and herbs and flowers ; and in the winter there was no fireside so cheerful as their own. THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. 97 But other days and other fortunes came — an evil power ! They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped for better times, but ruin came at last; and the old soldier left his own dear home, and left it for a prison ! 'Twas in June — one of June's brightest days ; the bee, the bird, the butterfly, were on their lightest wing ; the fruits had their first tinge of summer light ; the sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad ; and the old man looked back upon his cot and wept aloud. They hur- ried him away from the dear child that would not leave his side. They led him from the sight of the blue heaven and the green trees into a low, dark cell, the windows shutting out the blessed sun with iron grating ; and for the first time he threw him on his bed, and could not hear his Isabel's good night ! But the next morn she was the earliest at the prison gate, the last on whom it closed ; and her sweet voice and sweeter smile made him forget to pine, notwithstanding his deep sorrow. She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers ; but every morning he could mark her cheek grow paler and more pale, and her low tones get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew was on the hand he held. One day he saw the sunshine through the grating of his cell — yet Isabel came not; at every sound his heart-beat took away his breath — yet still she came not near him ! But one sad day he marked the dull street through the iron bars that shut him from the world ; at length he saw a coflin car- ried carelessly along, and he grew desperate — he forced the bars, and he stood on the street free and alone ! He had no aim, no wish for liberty ; he only felt one want — to see the corpse that had no mourners. When they set it down, ere it was lowered into the new-dug grave, a rush of pas- sion came upon his soul, and he tore off" the lid — he saw the face of Isabel, and knew he had no child ! He lay down by the coffin quietly — his heart was broken ! THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. ^y^lpOW shall we learn to swa}^ the minds ,^^^pL, By eloquence ?— to rule them, to persuade ? — JOHANN W. GOETHE. Do you seek genuine and worthy fame? Reason and honest feeling want no arts Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution ! And, when you speak in earnest do you need 98 SONG OF SPRING. A search for words ? Oh ! these fine holiday phrases, In which you robe your worn-out common- places, These scraps of paper which you crimp and curl And twist into a thousand idle shapes, These filigree ornaments, are good for nothing, — Cost time and pains, please few, impose on no one ; Are unrefreshing as the wind that whistles. In autumn, 'mong the dry and wrinkled leaves. If feeling does not prompt, in vain you strive. If from the soul the language does not come. By its own impulse, to impel the hearts Of hearers with communicated power. In vain you strive, in vain you study earnestly ! Toil on forever, piece together fragments, Cook up your broken scraps of sentences. And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling light. Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in ashes ; Startle the school-boys with your meta- phors, — And, if such food may suit your appetite, "Win the vain wonder of applauding child- ren, — But never hope to stir the hearts of men, And mould the souls of many into one. By words which come not native from tfie heart ! SO^Tr OF SFFiI^^G. EDWARD YOUL. ^'Y' A\UD the first sjtring daisies; ^Jyjiy Chant aloud their praises; ''Jr\i '^'^"'^ ^'"^ children up ■^ To tho high hill's top ; Tax not the strength of their young hands To increase your lands. Gather the primroses. Make handfuls into posies ; THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. 99 Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills: Pluck the violets blue,^ Ah, pluck not a few ! Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven the violet instils ? Give the children holidays, (And let these be jolly days,) Grant freedom to the children in this joyous spring ; Better men, hereafter, Shall we have, for laughter Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes ring. Send the children up To the high hill's top, Or deep into the wood's recesses, To woo spring's caresses. Ah, come and woo the spring ; List to the birds that sing ; Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; Pluck the daisies. Sing their praises ; Friendship with the flowers some noble thought begets. Come forth and gather these sweet elves, (More witching are they than the fays of old,) Come forth and gather them yourselves ; Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth ie more than gold. Come forth on Sundays ; Come forth on Mondays ; Come forth on any day ; Children, come forth to play : — Worship the God of nature in your childhood ; Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor ; Worship him in your sports ; worship him ever ; Worship him in the wildwood ; Worship him amidst the flowers ; In the greenwood bowers ; Pluck the buttercups, and raise Your voices in his praise ! THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. MRS. J. H. RIDDELL. ||P|HE ghosts of the long ago — laid and buried, as you fancied, years and ^^ years since, friends, — though your present sight may fail to "*^" discern them, — they are traveling with you still, a ghastly com- i pany. While you drive in your carriage along life's smoothest turn- «• pike-roads, or pace, footsore and weary, over the flinty by-paths of existence, past events are skipping on beside you, mocking, jeering, at your profound self-delusion. Shall fleet steeds leave them behind? Shall liveried servants keep them at bay ? Shall an unsuccessful existence, drawing to a still more unsuccessful close, be able to purchase their for- bearance ? Nay, invisible now, they shall be visible some day ; voiceless, they shall yet find tongues ; despised, they shall rear their head and hiss at you ; forgotten, they shall reappear with more strength than at their first birth ; and when the evil day comes, and your power, and your energy, and your youth and your hope, have gone, they shall pour the overflowing drop into your cup, they shall mingle fennel with your wine, they shall pile the last straw on your back, they shall render wealth valueless and life a burden ; they shall make poverty more bitter, and add another pain to that which' already racks you ; they shall break the 100 THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. breaking heart, and make you turn your changed face to the wall, and gather up your feet into your bed, and pray to be deHvered from your tormentors by your God, who alone knows all. Wherefore, young man, if you would ensure a peaceful old age, be careful of the acts of each day of your youth ; for with youth the deeds thereof are not to be left behind. They are detectives, keener and more unerring than ever the hand of sensational novelist depicted; they will dog you from the hour you sinned till the hour your trial comes off. You are prosperous, you are great, you are "beyond the world," as I have heard peo- ple say, meaning the power or the caprice thereof; but you are not beyond the power of events. Whatever you may think now, they are only biding their time ; and when you are weak and at their mercy, when the world you fancied you were beyond has leisure to hear their story and scoff at you, they will come forward and tell all the bitter tale. And if you take it one way, you will bluster and bully, and talk loud, and silence society before your face, if you fail to still its tattle behind your back ; while if you take it another way, you will bear the scourging silently, and cover up the marks of the lash as best you may, and go home and close your door, and sit there alone with your misery, decently and in order, till you die. THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 1^^^^ — ^IP COUNSEL in the " Common Pleas," IJ? Who was esteemed a mighty wit, Upon the strength of a chance hit, '^X ' Amid a thousand flippancies, e^ And his occasional bad jokes, I In bullying, bantering, browbeating, Ridiculing and maltreating Women, or other timid folks; In a late cause, resolved to hoax A rlownish Yorkshire farmer — one Who by his uncouth look and gait, Appeared expressly meant by fate For being quizzed and played upon. So having tipped the wink to those In the back rows, Who kept their laughter bottled down, I'ntil our wag should draw the cork — He smiled jocosely on the clown, And went to work. " Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at " "Why no, sir, no ! we've got our share. York ? " But not so many as when you were there." " Why — not, sir, as they do wi' you ; But on four legs instead of iwo." " Officer," cried the legal elf. Piqued at the laugh against himself, " Do, pray, keep silence down bel; there ! Now look at me, clown and attend. Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?' " Yees, very like, I often go there." " Our rustic's waggish-^uite lanconic," (The counsel cried, with grin sardonic,) " I wish I'd known this prodigy. This genius of the clods, when I On circuit was at York residing. Now, farmer, do for once speak true. Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you Who doubtless think yourself so clever, Are there as many fools as ever In the West Riding ? " JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 101 JIMMY B UTLER AND THE WL. that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new and wid a light heart and a I^T was in the summer of '46 Hi pratie just dug from the "ould sod,' X heavy bundle I sot off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a i song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I s' trudged on and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the 1 thought that some day I might have a place of my own, wid a world of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer about the door ; and along in the afternoon of the sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, and I wanted to make his place that night, so I inquired the way at the tavern, and was lucky to find a man who was goin' part of the way an' would show me the way to find Dennis. Sure he was very kind indade, an' when I got out of his wagon he pointed me through the wood and tould me to go straight south a mile an' a half, and the first house would be Dennis's. " An' you've no time to lose now," said he, " for the sun is low, and mind you don't get lost in the woods." " Is it lost now," said I, " that I'd be gittin, an' me uncle as great a navi- gator as iver steered a ship across the thrackless say ! Not a bit of it, though I'm obleeged to ye for your kind advice, and thank yez for the ride." An' wid that he drove ofi" an' left me alone. I shouldered me bundle bravely, an' whistlin' a bit of tune for company like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I went a long way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush an' trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad cess to it ! all of a sudden I came out of the woods at the very identical spot where I started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standi n' on its head and kickin' up its heels to make divarsion of me. By this time it was growin' dark, and as there was no time to lose, I started in a second time, determined to keep straight south this time and no mistake. I got on bravely for a while, but och hone ! och hone ! it got so dark I couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and barked me shins, while YOU VE KO TIME TO LOSE NOW. 102 JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister ; an' after tumblin' and sturablin' around till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all of a trimble, to think that I was lost intirely, an' that maybe a lion or some other wild craythur would devour me before morning. Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, " Whip poor Will ! " " Betlad," sez I, " I'm glad that it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though it seems it's more in sorrow than in anger they are doin' it, or why should they say, ' poor Will ? ' an' sure they can't be Injin, haythin, or naygur, for it's plain English they're afther spakin'. Maybe they might help me out o' this," so I shouted at the top of my voice, " A lost man ! " Thin I listened. Prisently an answer came. "Who? Whoo? Whooo?" "Jamie Butler, the waiver ! " sez I, as loud as I could roar, an' snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, " A lost man ! " "Who ! AVhoo ! Whooo ! " said a voice right over my head. " Sure," thinks I, " it's a mighty quare place for a man to be at this time of night ; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar-bush for the children's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of them ? " All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered his inquiry. " Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I ; " and if it wouldn't inconvanience yer honor, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way to the house of Dennis O'Dowd ? " " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he. " Dennis O'Dowd," sez I, civil enough, " and a dacent man he is, and first cousin to me own mother." " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he again. "Me mother! " sez I, "and as fine a woman as iver peeled a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, and her father's name was Paddy McFiggin. "Who! Whoo! Whooo!" " Paddy McFiggin ! bad luck to yer deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, I say — do ye hear that? An' he was the tallest man in all county Tipper- ary, excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith." " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " " Jim Doyle, the blacksmith," sez I, " ye good for nothin' blaggurd naygur, and if yez don't come down and show me the way this min't. Til climb up there and break every bone in your skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is Jimmy Butler ! " JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 103 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he, as impident as ever. I said niver a word, but lavin' down me bundle, and takin' me stick in me teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin I got among the branches I looked quietly around till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me. " Whist," sez I, " and I'll let him have a taste of an Irish stick," and wid that I let drive and lost me balance an' came tumblin' to the ground, nearly breakin' me neck wid the fall. Whin I came to me sinsis I had a very sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half of me Sunday coat-tail torn off intirely. I spoke to the chap in the tree, but could git niver an answer, at all, at all. Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for by the powers I didn't throw me stick for nothin'. Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's. I wint on cautiously for a while, an' thin I heard a bell. " Sure," sez I, " I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear the church bell." I kept on toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on, thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like an ould country steeple-chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' and a house in sight wid a light in it. So, leaving the ould cow puffin' and blowin' in a shed, I went to the house, and as luck would have it, whose should it be but Dennis's. He gave me a raal Irish welcome, and introduced me to his two daughters — as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him my adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an owl. " An ould what ? " sez I. " Why, an owl, a bird," sez he. " Do ye tell me now ? " sez I. " Sure it's a quare country and a quare bird." And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that 104 THE OLD WAYtJ AND THE NEW. hearty like, and dropped right into a chair between the two puny girls, and the ould chap winlced at me and roared again. Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl. THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW. JOHN H. YATES. g|§ VE just come in from the meadow, wife, J where the grass is tall and green ; ^^, I hobbled out upon my cane to see m John's new machine ; %. It made my old eyes snap again to see that mower mow. And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I swung some twenty years ago. Many and many's the day I've mowed 'neath the rays of a scorching sun, Till I thought my poor old back would break ere my task for the day was done ; I often think of the days of toil m the fields all over the farm, Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, and the old pain come m my arm. It was hard work, it was slow work, a-swing- ing the old scythe then ; Unlike the mower that went through the grass like death through the ranks of men. I stood and looked till my old ejes ached, amazed at its speed and power ; The work that it took me a day to do, it done in one short hour. John said that I hadn't seen the half : when he puts it into his wheat, I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in bundles neat ; Tli<m soon a Yankee will come along, and set to work and lam To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and send it into the barn. John kinder laughed when he said it , but I said to the hired men, " I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my threescore years and ten. That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the air, Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most any- where." There's a difference m the work I done, and the work my boys now do ; Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret in the new ; But somehow I think there was happiness crowded into those toiling days, That the fast young men of the present will not see till they change their ways. To think that I ever should live to see work done in this wonderful way ! Old tools are of little service now, and farmin' is almost play ; The women have got their sewin' -machines their wringers, and every sich thing. And now play croquet in the door-yard, or sit in the parlor and sing. 'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the days so long gone by ; You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin' for you and I. There were cows to milk ; there was butter to make ; and many a day did you stand A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and wringin' em out by hand. NEW ENGLAND. 105 Ah ! wife, our children will never see the hard work we have seen, For the heavy task and the long task is now done with a machine ; No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower — there ! hear it afar ? A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass with the noise of a railroad car. Well ! the old tools now are shoved away ; they stand a-gatherin' rust, Like many an old man I have seen put aside with only a crust ; When the eye grows dim, when the step is weak, when the strength goes out of his arm. The best thing a poor old man can do is to hold the deed of the farm. There is one old way that they can't improve; although it has been tried By men who have studied and studied, and worried till they died ; It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold re- fined from its dross ; It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by the simple way of the cross. NEW ENGLAND. S. S. PRENTISS. ^^LORIOUS New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, 1^1 and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have ■^^^ assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A ?^ thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life ; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution ; and, far away in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires ! But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign river, to swell its waters with our home- sick tears. Here floats the same banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number. The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad repub- lic ! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion ; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth ; its household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly devolves the 105 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. duty of feeding the fires upon that Ivindly hearth; of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods. We cannot do with less than the whole Union ; to us it admits of no division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood; how shall it be separated? — Who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart, the noblest instincts of our nature ? We love the land of our adop- tion : so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both; and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the republic. Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden cord of union ! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance ! But no ! the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are too brilliant to be marred ; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their greatest triumph, their most mighty development. And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her golden horns : — when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen ; — when galleries of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade ; then may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled pride and wonder. — " Lo ! this is our country ; — when did the world ever behold so rich and magnificent a city — so great and glorious a republic ! " TIM TWINKLETON'^ TWINS. CHARLES A. BELL. IM TWINKLETON was, I would have you to know, ^!? A cheery-faced tailor, of Pineapple .p * Row ; > Hit) sympathies warm as the irons ho T used, And his temper quite even, because not abused. As a fitting reward for his kindness of heart, But another "surprise" was in store for Tim T., Who, one bright Christmas morning was sipping coffee. When a neighbor (who acted as nurse,) said with glee, " You've just been presented with twins! Do you see?" "Good gracious!" said Tim, overwhelmed He was blessed with a partner, both comely i with surprise, and smart, i For he scarce could be made to believe his And ten " olive branches," — four girls and j own eyes ; six boys — His astonishment o'er, ho acknowledged, of Completed the household, divided its joys. | course, TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 107 That the trouble, indeed, might have been a deal worse. The twins were two boys, and poor Tim was inclined To believe them the handsomest pair you could find. But fathers' and mothers' opinions, they say. Always favor their own children just the same way. " Would you like to step up, sir, to see Mrs. T. ?" The good lady said : "she's as pleased as can be." Of course the proud father dropp'd both fork and knife, And bounded up stairs to embrace his good wife. Now, Mrs. Tim Twinkleton — I should have said — An industrious, frugal life always had led. And kept the large family from poverty's woes, By washing, and starching, and ironing clothes. But, before the young twins had arrived in the town. She'd intended to send to a family named Brown, Who resided some distance outside of the city, A basket of clothes ; so she thought it a pity That the basket should meet any further de- lay, And told Tim to the depot to take it that day. He promised he would, and began to make haste, For he found tiiat there was not a great while to waste, So, kissing his wife, he bade her good-bye, And out of the room in an instant did hie ; And met the good nurse, on the stairs, com- ing up With the " orthodox gruel," for his wife, in a cup. Where's the twins?" said the tailor they are all right," Oh, The good nurse replied: "they are looking so bright ! I've hushed them to sleep, — they look so like their Pop, — And I've left them down stairs, where they sleep like a top." In a hurry Tim shouldered the basket, and got To the rail-station, after a long and sharp trot. And he'd just enough time to say " Brown — Nornstown — A basket of clothes — ' and then the train was gone. The light-hearted tailor made haste to return For his heart with affection for his family did burn ; And it's always the case, with a saint or a sinner, Whate'er may occur, he's on hand for his dinner. " How are the twins ?" was his first inquiry ; " I've hurried home quickly, my darlings to see," In ecstacy, quite of his reason bereft. " Oh, the dear little angels hain't cried since you left ! "Have you, my sweets?" — and the nurse turned to where Just a short time before, were her objects of care. " Why — which of you children," said she, with surprise, " Removed that ar basket? — now don't tell no lies !" "Basket! what basket?" cried Tim with af- fright ; " Why, the basket of clothes — I thought it all right To put near the fire, and, fearing no harm. Placed the twins in so cozy, to keep them quite warm." Poor Tim roared aloud : " Why, what have I done? You surely must mean what you say but in fun! That basket', my twins I shall ne'er see again ! lOS TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. Why, I sent them both off by the 12 o'clock train!" The nurse, at these words, sank into a chair And exchiimed, " Oh, my precious dears, you hain't there! Go, Twinkleton, go, telegraph like wildfire!" " Why," said Tim, " they can't send the twins home on the wire!" " What's the charge?" asked the tailor of the magistrate, " I'd like to find out, for it's getting quite late;" " So you shall," he replied, " but don't look so meek, — You deserted your infants, — now hadn't you cheek ?" " Oh dear I" cried poor Tim, getting ready to go; " Could ever a body have met with such woe ? Sure this is the greatest of greatest mistakes ; Why, the twins will be all squashed down into pancakes !" Tim Twinkleton hurried, as if all creation Were after him, quick, on his way to the sta- tion. " That's the man, — you wretch !" and, tight as a rasp. Poor Tim found himself in a constable's grasp. " Ah ! ha! I have got yer, nov/ don't say a word, Yer know very well about what has occurred ; Come 'long to the station-house, hurry up now, Or 'tween you and me there'll be a big row." Now it happened that, during the trial of the case. An acquaintance of Tim's had stepped into the place, And he quickly perceived, when he heard in detail The facts of the case, and said he'd go bail To any amount, for good Tim Twinkleton, For he knew he was innocent, " sure as a gun.' And the railway-clerk's evidence, given in detail, Was not quite sufl5cient to send him to jail. It was to effect, that the squalling began Just after the basket in the baggage- van Had been placed by Tim T., who solemnly swore That he was quite ignorant of their presence before. So the basket was brought to the magistrate's sight, THE TWO ROADS. 109 And the twins on the top of the clothes But the nurse said with joy, " Since you left looked so bright, she has slept. That the magistrate's heart of a sudden en- And from her the mistakes of to-day I have larged, kept." And he ordered that Tim Twinkleton be dis- Poor Tim, and the nurse, and all the small charged. fry. Before taking dinner, indulged in a cry. Tim grasped up the basket and ran for dear The twins are now grown, and they time and life. again And when he reached home he first asked Relate their excursion on the railway for his wife ; train. THE TWO ROADS. ^T was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window, ^^^ He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the JV stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm I lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless 4; beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal — the J tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile har- vest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs ; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his anguish : " youth, return ! my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I ■ may choose the better road ! " But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such," he said, "were the days of my wasted life ! " He saw a star shoot from heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. " Behold an emblem of myself! " he exclaimed ; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who had entered life with no THE QUAKER WIDOW. him, but who having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy and honored oh this New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son ; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, "Come back, my early days! Come back ! " And his youth did return ; for all this had been but a dream, visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young, his errors only were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own ; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, "0 youth return ! Oh, give me back my early days ! " THU QUAKER WIDOW. BAYARD TAYLOR. g^nri^IIEE finds me in the garden, Hannah ; ^kM| come in ! 'Tis kind of thee r^cs^ To wait until the Friends were gone who came to comfort me, •^ The still and quiet company a peace J may give indeed, But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. Come, nit thee down ! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit On Fir.st-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit ; He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees (Jo humming round the lilacs and through the apple trees. I think he loved the spring : not that he cared for flowers : most men Think such things foolishness ; but we were first acquainted then, One spring ; the next he spoke his mind ; the third I was his wife. And in the spring (it happened so) our chil- dren entered life. He was but seventy-five : I did not think to lay him yet In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met. The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis better I should be Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in age — than he. We've lived together fifty years ; it seems but one long day, One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away ; THE QUAKER WIDOW. Ill And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet I used to blush when he came near, but then contentment home, I showed no sign ; So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the With all the meeting looking on, I held his days to come. hand in mine. It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was his for life : was to know Thee knows the feeling, Hannah ; thee, too, If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I hast been a wife. should go ; For father had a deep concern upon his mind As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so that day. green as ours ; But mother spoke for Benjamin ; she knew The woods were coming into leaf, the mea- what best to say. dows full of flowers ; The neighbors met us in the lane, and every Then she was still : they sat awhile ; at last face was kind ; she spoke again. 'Tis strange how lively everything comes " The Lord incline thee to the right !" and back upon my mind. " Thou shalt have him, Jane !" My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding- the least of shocks. dinner spread ; For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Or- At our own table we were guests, with father thodox. at the head. And Dinah Passmore helped us both ; 'twas I thought of this ten years ago, when daugh- she stood up with me. ter Ruth we lost : And Abner Jones with Benjamin: and now Her husband's of the world, and yet I could they're gone, all three ! not see her crossed. She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord hears a hireling priest ; disposes best. Ah, dear ! the cross was ours ; her life's a His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them happy one, at least. for His rest ; And that He halved our little flock was mer- Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's ciful, I see : as old as I. For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two Would thee believe it, Hannah '' once I felt are left with me. temptation nigh ! My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple Eusebius never cared to farm ; 'twas not his for my taste : call in truth, I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon And I must rent the dear old place, and go to at the waist. daughter Ruth. Thee'll say her ways are not like mine ; young How strange it seemed to sit with him upon people now-a-days the women's side ! Have fallen sadly oS", I think, from all the I did not dare to lift my eyes ; I felt more good old ways. fear than pride, Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said. But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps and then there came the simple tongue. A holy strength upon my heart, and I could The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when say the same. she was young ; 112 MR. STIVER'S HORSE. And it was brought upon my mind, remem- The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or bering her, of late, sin. That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight. Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth ; she's anx- ious I should go. I once heard Jesse Kersey say, " a spirit And she will do her duty as a daughter should clothed with grace, I know. And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we mu.st homely face." be resigned ; And dress may be of less account ; the Lord The Lord looks down contentedly upon a will look within : willing mind. MR. STIVER'S HORSE. BAILEY. ^HE other morning at breakfast, Mrs. Perkins observed that Mr. Stiver, in whose house we Uve, had been called away, and wanted •^ to know if I would see to his horse through the day. I knew that Mr. Stiver owned a horse, because I occasionally fsaw him drive out of the yard, and I saw the stable every day ; but what kind of a horse I didn't know. I never went into the stable for two reasons : in the first place, I had no desire to ; and secondly, I didn't know as the horse cared particularly for company. I never took care of a horse in my life, and had I been of a less hopeful nature, the charge Mr. Stiver had left with me might have had a very depressing efiect ; but I told Mrs. Perkins I would do it. "You know how to take care of a horse, don't you?" said she. I gave her a reassuring wink. In fact, I knew so little about it that I didn't think it safe to converse more fluently than by winks. After breakfast I seized a toothpick and walked out toward the stable. There was nothing particular to do, as Stiver had given him his breakfast, and I found him eating it; so I looked around. The horse looked around, too, and stared pretty hard at me. There was but little said on either side. I hunted up the location of the feed, and then sat down on a peck measure, and fell to studying the beast. There is a wide difference in horses. Some of them will kick you over and never look around to see what becomes of you. I don't like a disposition like that, and I v/ondered if Stiver's horse was one of them. When I came home at noon I went straight to the stable. The MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 113 canimal was there all right. Stiver hadn't told me what to give him for dinner, and I had not given the subject any thought ; but I went to the oat box and filled the peck measure, and sallied up to the manger. When he saw the oats he almost smiled; this pleased and amused him. I emptied them into the trough, and left him above me to admire the way I parted my hair behind. I just got my head up in time to save the whole of it. He had his ears back, bis mouth open, and looked as if he were on the point of committing murder. I went out and filled the measure again, and climbed up the side of the stall and emptied it on top of him. He brought his head up so suddenly at this that I im.mediately got down, letting go of everything to do it. I struck on the sharp edge of a barrel, rolled over a couple of times, and then disappeared under a hay-cutter. The peck measure went down on the other side, and got mysteriously tangled up in that animal's heels, and he went to work at it, and then ensued the most dreadful noise I ever heard in all my life, and I have been married eighteen years. It did seem as if I never would get out from under that hay-cutter; and all the while I was struggling and wrenching myself and the cut- ter apart, that awful beast was kicking around in that stall, and making the most appalling sound imaginable. When I got out I found Mrs. Perkins at the door. She had heard the racket, and had sped out to the stable, her only thought being of me and three stove-lids which she had under her arm, and one of which she was about to fire at the beast. This made me mad. "Go away, you unfortunate idiot," I shouted; "do you want to knock my brains out ? " For I remembered seeing Mrs. Perkins sling a mis- sile once before, and that I nearly lost an eye by the operation, although standing on the other side of the house at the time. She retired at once. And at the same time the animal quieted down, but there was nothing left of that peek measure, not even the maker's name. 114 MR. STIVER'S HORSE. I followed Mrs. Perkins into the house, and had her do me up, and then sat down in a chair, and fell into a profound strain of meditation. After a while I felt better, and went out to the stable again. The horse was leaning against the stable stall, with eyes half-closed, and appeared to be very much engrossed in thought. "Step off to the left," I said, rubbing his back. He didn't step. I got the pitchfork and punched him in the leg with the handle. He immediately raised up both hind-legs at once, and that fork flew out of my hands, and went rattling up against the timbers above, and came down again in an instant, the end of the handle rapping me with such force on the top of the head that I sat right down on the floor under the impression that I was standing in front of a drug store in the evening. I went back to the house and got some more stufi' on me. But I couldn't keep away from that stable. I went out there again. The thought struck me that what the horse wanted was exercise. If that thought had been an empty glycerine can, it would have saved a windfall of luck for me. But exercise would tone him down, and exercise him I should. I laughed to myself to think how I would trounce him around the yard. I didn't laugh again that afternoon. I got him unhitched, and then won- dered how I was to get him out of the stall without carrying him out. I pushed, but he wouldn't budge. I stood looking at him in the face, think- ing of something to say, when he sud- denly solved the difficulty by veering and plunging for the door. I followed^ as a matter of course, because I had a tight hold on the rope, and hit about every partition stud worth speaking of on that side of the barn. Mrs. Per- kins was at the window and saw us come out of the door. She subse- quently remarked that we came out skipping like two innocent children. The skipping was entirely unintentional on my part. I felt as if I stood on the verge of eternity. My legs may have skipped, but my mind was filled with awe, I took that animal out to exercise him. He exercised me before I got through with it. He went around a few times in a circle; then he HE EXEKCISED ME. MR. STIVER'S HORSE. US stopped suddenly, spread out his fore-legs and looked at me. Then he leaned forward a little, and hoisted both hind-legs, and threw about two coal-hods of mud over a line full of clothes Mrs. Perkins had just hung out. That excellent lady had taken a position at the window, and when- ever the evolutions of the awful beast permitted, I caught a glance at her features. She appeared to be very much interested in the proceedings ; but the instant that the mud flew, she disappeared from the window, and a moment later she appeared on the stoop with a long poker in her hand, and fire enough in her eye to heat it red hot. Just then Stiver's horse stood up on his hind-legs and tried to hug me with the others. This scared me. A horse never shows his strength to such advantage as when he is coming down on you like a frantic pile- driver. I instantly dodged, and the cold sweat fairly boiled out of me. It suddenly came over me that I once figured in a similar position years ago. My grandfather owned a little white horse that would get up from a meal at Delmonico's to kick the President of the United States. He sent me to the lot one day, and unhappily suggested that I often went after that horse, and suffered all kinds of defeat in getting him out of the pasture, but I had never tried to ride him. Heaven knows I never thought of it. I had my usual trouble with him that day. He tried to jump over me, and push me down in a mud hole, and finally got up on his hind-legs and came waltzing after me with facilities enough to convert me into hash, but I turned and just made for that fence with all the agony a prospect of instant death could crowd into me. If our candidate for the Presidency had run one-half as well, there would be seventy-five post- masters in Danbury to-day, instead of one. I got him out finally, and then he was quiet enough, and took him up alongside the fence and got on him. He stopped an instant, one brief instant, and then tore off down the road at a frightful speed. I laid down on him and clasped my hands tightly around his neck, and thought of my home. When we got to the stable I was confident he would stop, but he didn't. He drove straight at the door. It was a low door, just high enough to permit him to go in at lightning speed, but there was no room for me. I saw if I struck that stable the struggle would be a very brief one. I thought this all over in an instant, and then, spreading out my arms and legs, emitted a scream, and the next moment I was bounding about in the filth of that stable yard. All this passed through my mind as Stiver's horse went up into the air. It frightened Mrs. Perkins dread- fully. 116 WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. " Why, you old fool ! " she said, •' why don't you get rid of him ? " " How can 1?" said I in desperation. "Why, there are a thousand ways," said she. This is just like a woman. How different a statesman would have answered. But I could only think of two ways to dispose of the beast, I could either swallow him where he stood and then sit down on him, or I could crawl inside of him and kick him to death. But I was saved either of these expedients by his coming toward me so abruptly that I dropped the rope in terror, and then he turned about, and, kicking me full of mud, shot for the gate, ripping the clothes-line in two, and went on down the street at a horrible gallop, with two of Mrs. Perkins's garments, which he hastily snatched from the line, floating over his neck in a very picturesque manner. So I was afterwards told. I was too full of mud myself to see the way into the house. Stiver got his horse all right, and stays at home to care for him. Mrs. Perkins has gone to her mother's to recuperate, and I am healing as fast as possible. WHISTLING IN HEA VEN. W. S. RALPH. i^OUR'E surprised that I aver should '^ say so? Just wait till the reason I've given Why I say I shan't care for the music, Unless there is whistling in heaven. Then you'll think it no very great wonder, Nor 80 strange, nor so bold a conceit, That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, Ita music will not be complete. It was late in the autumn of '40 ; We had come from our far Eastern honii^ Just in season to build us a cabin, Ere the cold of the winter should come ; And we lived all the while m our wagon That husband was clearing the place Where the house was to stand ; and the clear ing And building it took many days. WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 117 So that our heads were scarce Weltered In under its roof, when our store Of provisions was almost exhausted And husband must journey for more ; And the nearest place where he could get them Was yet such a distance away, That it forced him from home to be absent At least a whole night and a day. You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, And the nearest was more than a mile ; And we hadn't found time yet to know them, For we had been busy the while. And the man who had helped at the raising Just staid till the job was well done ; And as soon as his money was paid him, Had shouldered his axe and had gone. Well, husband just kissed me and started — I could scarcely suppress a deep groan At the thought of remaining with baby So long in the house all alone ; For, my dear, I was childish and timid. And braver ones might well have feared. For the wild wolf was often heard howling, And savages sometimes appeared. But I smothered my grief and my terror Till husband was off on his ride. And then in my arms I took Josey, And all the day long sat and cried. As I thought of the long, dreary hours When the darkness of night should fall. And I was so utterly helpless. With no one in reach of my call. And when the night came with its terrors To hide ev'ry ray of the light, I hung up a quilt by the window, And almost dead with affright, I kneeled by the side of the cradle, Scarce daring to draw a full breath. Lest the baby should wake, and its crying Should bring us a horrible death. There I knelt until late in the evening, And scarcely an inch had I stirred, When suddenly, far in the distance, A sound as of whistling I heard, I started up dreadfully frightened, For fear 'twas an Indian's call ; And then very soon I remembered The red man ne'er whistles at all. And when I was sure 'twas a white man, I thought, were he coming for ill. He'd surely approach with more caution- Would come without warning, and still. Then the sounds, coming nearer and nearer. Took the form of a tune light and gay. And I knew I needn't fear evil From one who could whistle that way. Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, Then came a peculiar dull thump, As if some one was heavily striking An axe in the top of a stump ; And then, in another brief moment. There came a light tap on the door, When quickly I undid the fast'ning. And in stepped a boy, and before There was either a question or answer, Or either had time to speak, I just threw my glad arms around him, And gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then I started back, scared at my boldness, But he only smiled at my fright. As he said, " I'm your neighbor's boy, Alick, Come to tarry with you through the night " We saw your husband go eastward. And made up our minds where he'd gone, And I said to the rest of our people, ' That woman is there all alone. And I venture she's awfully lonesome. And though she may have no great fear, I think she would feel a bit safer If only a boy were but near.' " So, taking ray axe on my shoulder. For fear that a savage might stray Across my path and need scalping, I started right down this way ; And coming in sight of the cabin. And thinking to save you alarm, I whistled a tune, just to show you I didn't intend any harm. 118 GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. " And so here I am. at your service ; But if you don't want mo to stay, Why, all you need do is to say so. And should'ring my axe, I'll away." I dropped in a chair and near fainted. Just at thought of his leaving ine then, And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle. As he said, " I guess I'll remain." And then I just sat there and told him How terribly frightened I'd been. How his face was to me the most welcome Of any I ever had seen ; And then I lay down with the baby, And slept all the blessed night through. For 1 felt i was safe from all danger Near so brave a young fellow and true. So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, Since such a good reason I've given, Why I think it the sweetest music. And wisli to hear whistling in heaven '! Yes, often I've said so in And now what I've said I That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, Its music will not be complete. GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. PIIS^HE words of a blue-eyed child as she kissed her chubby hand and looked down the stairs, " Good-night, papa ; Jessie see you in the morning." It came to be a settled thing, and every evening as the mother slipped the white night-gown over the plump shoulders, the little one stopped on the stairs and sang out, " Good-night, papa," and as the father heard the silvery accents of the child, he came, and taking the cherub in his arms, kissed her tenderly, while the mother's eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for, strauge to say, this man who loved his child with all the warmth of his great noble nature, had one fault to mar his manliness. From his youth he loved the wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fascination of manner that won him friends, he could not resist when surrounded by his boon companions. Thus his home was darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. Three years had the winsome prattle of the baby crept into the avenues of the father's heart, keeping him closer to his home, but still the fatal cup WHS in his hand. Alas for frail humanity, 'insensible to the calls of love! With unutterable tenderness God saw there was no other way ; this father was dear to him, the purcha.se of his Son; he could not see him perish, and, calling a swift messenger, he said, "Speed thee to earth and bring the babe." " Good-night, papa," soimded from the stairs. What was there in the voice ? was it the echo of the mandate, " Bring me the babe ? " — a Bilvery plaintive sound, a lingering music that touched the father's heart, GOOD-NIGHT. PAPA. HQ as when a cloud crosses the sun. " Good- night, my darling; " but his lips c[uivered and his broad brow grew pale. " Is Jessie sick, mother ? Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes have a strange light." " Not sick," and the mother stooped to kiss the flushed brow ; " she may have played too much. Pet is not sick ? " "Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; Jessie see you in the morning." " That is all, she is only tired," said the mother as she took the small hand. Another kiss and the father turned away; but his heart was not satisfied. Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie was restless and could not sleep. "Tell me a story, mamma;" and the mother told her of the blessed babe that Mary cradled, following along the story till the child had grown to walk and play. The blue, wide open eyes, filled with a strange light, as though she saw and comprehended more than the mother knew. That night the father did not visit the saloon; tossing on his bed, starting from a feverish sleep and bending over the crib, the long weary hours passed. Morning revealed the truth — Jessie was smitten with the fever. " Keep her quiet," the doctor said ; " a few days of good nursing, and •she will be all right." Words easily said ; but the father saw a look on that sweet face such as he had seen before. He knew the messenger was at the door. Night came. " Jessie is sick ; can't say good-night, papa ; " and the little clasping fingers clung to the father's hand. "0 God, spare her ! I cannot, cannot bear it ! " was wrung from his sufiering heart. Days passed ; the mother was tireless in her watching. "With her babe cradled in her arms her heart was slow to take in the truth, doing her best to solace the father's heart ; "A light case ! the doctor says, Pet will soon be well." Calmly as one who knows his doom, the father laid his hand upon the hot brow, looked into the eyes even then covered with the film of death, and with all the strength of his manhood cried, " Spare her, O God ! spare my child, and I will follow thee." With a last painful effort the parched lips opened : " Jessie's too sick ; can't say good-night, papa — in the morning." There was a convulsive shudder, and the clasping fingers relaxed their hold ; the messenger had taken the child. Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands by the side of her father's couch ; her blue embroidered dress and white hat hang in his closet ; her 120 CHARLEY'S OPINION OF TPIE BABY. boots with the print of her feet just as she had last worn them, as sacred in his eyes as they are in the mother's. Not dead, but merely risen to a higher life; while, sounding down from the upper stairs, "Good-night, papa, Jessie see you in the morning," has been the means of winning to a better way one who had shown himself deaf to every forme:' call. CHARLETS OPINION OF THE BABY. SUZZER'S bought a baby, Ittle bit's of zing ; Zink I mos could put him Ain't he awful ugly? Ain't he awful pink? Jus come down from Heaven, Cat's a fib, I zink. Doctor told anozzer Great big awful lie; Nose ain't out of joyent, Dat ain't why I cry. Zink I ought to love him ! No, I won't! so zere; Nassy, crying baby, Ain't got anv b.nr UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 121 Send me oS wiz Biddy Evry single day ; ' Be a good boy, Charlie, Run away and play." Dot all my nice Dot my place in bed; Mean to take my drumstick And beat Lim on ze head. UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PEA YER. FROM " THE GILDED AGE OF CLEMENS AND WARNER. ^HATEVEE the lagging, dragging journey may have been to the 15 rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and a delight to the children, a world of enchantment ; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house, by house into the hungry Missis- sippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile- breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever seen before. " Uncle Dan'l " (colored,) aged 40 ; his wife, " aunt Jinny," aged 30, "Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, "Young Mars" Washington Hawkins and " Young Mars " Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed 122 UNCLE DAN'L'S ArPARITION AND PRAYER. it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud- wreaths ; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light ; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. The little company assembled on the log were all children, (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they made about the river were in keeping with their character ; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed : " Chil'en, dah's sumfin a comin' ! " All crowded close together and every heart beat faster. Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his bony finger. A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. " What is it ! Oh. what is it, Uncle Dan'l ! " With deep solemnity the answer came : " It's do Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling, in a moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro's voice lifted up its supplications : " Lord, we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we aint ready yit, we aint ready — let these po' chil'en hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take de ole niggah if you's got to hab somebody. — Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don't know whah you's a gwine to, we don't know who you's got yo' eye on, but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by the way UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 123 you's a tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po' sinner's a gwine to ketch it. But good Lord, dese ciiiren don't b'long heah, dey's f m Obeds- town whah dey don't know nuffin, an' yoii knows, yo' own sef, dat dey aint 'sponsible. An' deah Lord, good Lord, it aint like yo' mercy, it aint like yo' pity, it aint like yo' long-sufferin' lovin'-kiiidness for to take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sich little cliil'en as dese is when dey's so many ornery grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em off dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. Heah I is. Lord, heah I IS ! De ole niggah's ready, Lord, de ole " The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud- valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'I snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted, (but rather feebly :) " Heah I is, Lord, heah I is ! " There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'I headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough " the Lord " was just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked, the lights winked out and the coughing diminished -by degrees and pre- sently ceased altogether. " H'wsh ! Well now dey's some folks says dey aint no 'ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat prah ? Dat's it. Dat's it ! " " Uncle Dan'I, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us ? " said Clay. " Does I reckon f Don't I knoio it ! Whah was yo' eyes ? Warn't de Lo]'d jes' a comin' choio ! chow ! chow ! an' a goin' on turrible — an' do de Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him ? An' warn't he a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'em ? An' d'you spec' he gwine to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it ? No indeedy ! '' " Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan'I ? " " De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us ? " " Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'I ? " " No sah ! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he aint 'fraid o' nuffin — dey can't nuffin tetch him." 124: SOCRATES SNOOKS. " Well what did you run for ? " " Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit, he do-no what he's 'bout — no sah ; dat man do-no what he's 'bout. You might take an' tah de head ofi''n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely line it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt considable — ob coase dey was; but dey didn't know nuffin 'bout it — heal right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long liaah, (hair,) maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn." " /don't know but what they were girls. I think they were." " Now Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a saying what you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." " But how should /know whether they were boys or girls ? ' " Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say ? 'Sides, don't it call 'em de /Ze-brew chil'en ? If dey was gals would'n dey be de she- brew chil'en? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey do read." " Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that My ! here comes another one up the river ! There can't be two ! " " We gone dis time — we done gone dis time sho' ! Dey aint two, Mars Qlay — dat's de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. Goodness, how de fiah an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, honey. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time vou's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid you — ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah — de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you agin." He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so ftir that he doubted, himrself, if the Lord heard him when He went by. SOCRATES SNOOKS ■TSTER Socrates Snooks, a lord of] When one morning to Xantippe, Socrates s " I think, for a man of my standing in life, This house is too small, as I now have a wife; So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy." creation. The second time entered the married relation : Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, And they thought him the happiest man in the land. | But scarce had the honeymoon passed i " Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied. o'er his head, " I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 125 Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, Say, our cow-house, our barn-yarrl, our pig- pen." " By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." "Say our" Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. ' I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!" Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib, If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib. Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you. You are certain to prove the best man of the two. In the following case this was certainly true; For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe. And laying about her, all sides at random, The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." Migter Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, To ward off the blows which descended like Concluding that valor's best part was discre- tion — Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian ; But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, Converted the siege into a blockade. At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate: And 90, like a tortoise protruding his head, Said, " My dear, may we come out from un- der our bed ?" " Hah ! hah !" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates Snooks, I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks : Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy hour, If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church. He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to search : Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, " My dear, may we put on our new Sunday TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. |HEN they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed in unspeakable disappointment at the receding train, which was just pulling away from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train 1 was out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they could J act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage and discon- solately turned their horses' heads homeward. Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly : " It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready." " I was ready before you were," replied his wife. ''Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great impatience, nearly jerking the horse's jaws out of place, "just listen to that ! And I sat in 9 126 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along until the whole neigh- borhood heard me." " Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking placidity which no one can assume but a woman, " and every time I started down stairs, you sent me back for something you had forgotten." Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much to bear," he said, " when everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush into the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you would want at least six months for preliminary preparations, and then dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town." "Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns put off their visit to Aurora until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go, and the one who failed to get ready should be left. The day of the match came around in due time. The train was going at 10.30, and Mr. Mann, after attending to his business, went home at 9.45. "Now, then," he shouted, "only three-quarters of an hour's time. Fly around; a fair field and no favors, you know." And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged into this room and flew through that one, and dived into one closet after another with incon- ceivable rapidity, chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann would feel when he started off alone. He stopped on his way up stairs to pull off his heavy boots to save time. For the same rea- son he pulled off his coat as he ran through the dining-room, and hung it on a corner of the silver-closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he rushed through the hall and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had reached his own room he was ready to plunge into his clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau- drawer and began to paw at the things like a Scotch terrier after a rat. "Eleanor," he shrieked, "where are my shirts ? " " In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a refractory crimp into place. TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 127 " Well, but they ain't," shouted Mr. Mann, a little annoyed. " I've emptied everything out of the drawer, and there isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and after satisfying herself that the crimp would do, replied : " These things scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been looking into your own drawer." " I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, " why you couldn't have put my things out for me when you had nothing else to do all the morning." " Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting herself into an additional article of raiment with awful deliberation, " nobody put mine out for me. A fair field and no favors, my dear." Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. " Foul ! " he shouted in malici- ous triumph. " No buttons on the neck ! " "Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweet- ly, after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, impatient man, during which she buttoned her dress and put eleven pins where they would do the most good, " because you have got the shirt on wrong side out." When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three times before he got it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock strike ten. When his head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her necktie. " Where are my shirt-studs ? " he cried. Mrs. Mann went out into another room and presently came back with gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the boxes he could find in and around the bureau. Then she said, " In the shirt you just pulled off." Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. Mann hunted up and down the room for his cufi'-buttons, " Eleanor," he snarled at last, " I believe you must know where those cufi'-buttons are." 128 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. " I haven't soon them," said the lady settling her hat; " didn't you lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting-room last night ? " Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down stairs on the run. He stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmis- sion with more bumps than he could count with Webb's Adder, and landed with a bang like the Hell Gate explosion. " Are you nearly ready, Algernon ? " sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, leaning over the banisters. The unhappy man groaned. '' Can't you throw me down the other boot ? " he asked. Mrs. Mann piteously kicked it down to him. " My valise ? " he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. " Up in your dressing-room," she answered. " Packed ? " "I do not know; unless you packed it yourself, probably not," she replied, with her hand on the door-knob ; " I had barely time to pack my own." She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, and he shouted, " Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest ? It has all my money in it." " You threw it on the hat-rack," she called. ''Good-bye, dear." Before she got to the corner of the street she was hailed again : " Eleanor ! Eleanor ! Eleanor Mann ! Did you wear off my coat ? " She paused and turned, after signaling the street-car to stop, and cried, " You threw it in the silver-closet." The street-car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more. But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, rushing out of the front-door every now and then, shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where she put the valise key, and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And when he went away at last, he left the kitchen-door, the side-door and the front-door, all the down-stairs windows and the front-gate wide open. The loungers around the depot were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, enter- prising man, with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and necktie flying, and his grip-sack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a door-key in his hand, dash wildly across the plat- form and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent, THE UNBOLTED DOOR. 129 wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at a pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car. THE UNBOLTED DOOR. EDWARD GARRETT. ^UPP CARE-WORN widow sat alone Sjmn|fe Beside her fading hearth ; ^^^ Her silent cottage never hears ^^^ The ringing laugh of mirth. Six children once had sported there, but now the church-yard snow Fell softly on five little graves that were not long ago. She mourned them all with patient love ; But since, her eyes had shed Far bitterer tears than those which dewed The faces of the dead, — The child which had been spared to her, the darling of her pride. The woful mother lived to wish that she had also died. Those little ones beneath the snow, She well knew where they are ; " Close gathered to the throne of God," And that was better far. But when she saw where Katy was, she saw the city's glare. The painted mask of bitter joy that need gave sin to wear. Without, the snow lay thick and white ; No step had fallen there ; Within, she sat beside her fire. Each thought a silent prayer ; When suddenly behind her seat unwonted noise she heard. As though a hesitating hand the rustic latch had stirred. She turned, and there the wanderer stood With snow-flakes on her hair ; A faded woman, wild and worn. The ghost of something fair. And then upon the mother's breast the whitened head was laid, " Can God and you forgive me all ? for I have sinned," she said. The widow dropped upon her knees Before the fading fire, And thanked the Lord whose love at last Had granted her desire ; The daughter kneeled beside her, too, tears streaming from her eyes, And prayed, " God help me to be good t« mother ere she dies." 130 THE VAGABONDS. They did not talk about the sin, " My child," the widow said, and smiled The shame, the bitter woe ; A smile of love and pain, They spoke about those little graves " I kept it so lest you should come And things of long ago. And turn away again ! And then the daughter raised her eyes and I've waited for you all the while — a mother's asked in tender tone. love is true ; •' Why did you keep your door unbarred Yet this is but a shadowy type of His who when you were all alone ?" died for you!" THE VAGABONDS. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. M:^ V. are two travelers, Roger and I. K'ger's my dog ; — come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye! Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! — The rogue is growing a little old : Five years we've tramped through wind and weather. And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank — and starved to- gether. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. 131 A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings ! Why not reform ? That's easily said ; But I've gone through such wretched treat- ment. Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. And scarce remembering what meat meant. That my poor stomach 's past reform ; And there are times when, mad with think- ing. I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think ? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink ; — • The same old story ; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features, — You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures •. I was one of your handsome men ! If you had seen her, so fair and young. Whose head was happy on this breast ! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog. Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog ! She's married since, — a parson's wife : 'Twas better for her that we should part,— Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent On the dusty road, a carriage stopped ; But little she dreamed, as on she went. Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; It makes me wild to think of the change ! What do you care for a beggar's story ? Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? I had a mother so proud of me ! 'Twas well she died before Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below ? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain ; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart ? He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could. No doubt, remembering things that were, — A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur. I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free. And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; — The sooner the better for Roger and me ! THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG '^^^'RKM. was ^it^wi^ .csnmA fern a quiet, peaceable sort of a Yankee, who lived on the same farm on which his fathers had lived before him, and was ^ ^ generally considered a pretty cute sort of a fellow, — always ready J I with a trick, whenever it was of the least utility ; yet, when he did 132 THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. play any of his tricks, 'twas done in such an innocent manner, that his victim coukl do no better than take it all in good part. Now, it happened that one of Hiram's neighbors sold a farm to a tolerably green specimen of a Dutchman, — one of the real unintelligent, stupid sort. Von Vlom Schlopsch had a dog, as Dutchmen often have, who was less unintelligent than his master, and who had, since leaving his " fader- land," become sufficiently civilized not only to appropriate the soil as common stock, but had progressed so far in the good work as to obtain his dinners from the neighbors' sheepfold on the same principle. When Hiram discovered this propensity in the canine department of the Dutchman's family, he walked over to his new neighbor's to enter com- plaint, which mission he accomplished in the most natural method in the world. " Wall, Von, your dog Blitzen's been killing my sheep." " Ya ! dat ish bace— bad. He ish von goot tog : ya ! dat ish bad ! " " Sartin, it's bad; and you'll have to stop 'im," " Ya ! dat ish alias goot ; but ich weis nicht." " What's that you say ? he loas nicked ? Wall, now look here, old fellow ! nickin's no use. Crop 'im ; cut his tail off close, chock up to his trunk ; that'll cure 'im." " Vat ish dat? " exclaimed the Dutchman, while a faint ray of intelli- gence crept over his features. " Ya ! dat ish goot. Dat cure von sheep steal, eh ? " " Sartin it will : he'll never touch sheep meat again in this world," said Hiram gravely. " Den come mit me. He von mity goot tog ; all the way from Yar- many : I not take von five dollar — but come mit me, and hold his tail, eh? Ich chop him off." "Sartin," said Hiram: "I'll hold his tail if you want me tew; but you must cut it up close." " Ya ! dat ish right. Ich make 'im von goot tog. There, Blitzen, Blitzen ! come right here, you von sheep steal rashcull : I chop your tail in von two pieces." The dog obeyed the summons ; and the master tied his feet fore and aft, for fear of accident, and placing the tail in the Yankee's hand, re- quested him to lay it across a large block of wood. " Chock up," said Hiram, as he drew the butt of the tail close over the log. SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 133 " Ya ! dat ish right. Now, you von tief sheep, I learns you better luck," said Von Vlom Schlopsch, as he raised the axe. It descended ; and as it did so, Hiram, with characteristic presence of mind, gave a sudden jerk, and brought Blitzen's neck over the log ; and the head rolled over the other side. " Wall, I swow ! " said Hiram with apparent astonishment, as he dropped the headless trunk of the dog ; "that was a leetle too close." " Mine cootness ! " exclaimed the Dutchman, "you shust cut 'im off de wrong end /" CHOCK UP ' SONG OF MARION'S MEN. W. C. BRYANT. ^UR band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold ; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree ; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea ; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near ! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear ; When, waking to their tents on fir They grasp their arms in vain. And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again ; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind. And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil ; We talk the battle over. And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up. And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves. And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads, — The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 134 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlit plain ; 'Tis life to feel the night-wiad That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp — A moment — and away- Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs ; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming. With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore. DEATH OF LITTLE JO. CHARLES DICKENS. ■^ ^0 is very glad to see his old friend ; and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangbsy, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half-a-crown ; that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds. "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquired the sta- tioner, with his cough of sympathy. " I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, " and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done. " Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, " I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yet as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being so good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah Jo ! ' she ses. ' We thought we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she ses. And she sits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don'-t, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to give me somethink for to ease me, wot he's alius a doin on day and night, and wen he comes a bendin over me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. Sangsby." DEATH OF LITTLE JO. I35 Tlie softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. " Wot I wos thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps ? " " Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. "Uncommon, precious large, p'raps?" says Jo, with eagerness. " Yes, my poor boy." Jo laughs with pleasure. " Wot I wos thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I was wery truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do it ; and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and was alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it wery large, he might." " I shall say it, Jo ; very large." Jo laughs again. " Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumf bier nor I wos afore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. (Another scene. — Enter Mr. Woodcourt?) " Well, Jo, what is the matter ? Don't be frightened." " I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, " I thought I was in Tom-All-alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" " Nobody." "And I an't took back to Tom-All-alone's, am I, sir?" "No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I am wery thankful." After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice : " Jo, did you ever know a prayer ? " "Never knowd nothink, sir." " Not so much as one short prayer ? " " No, sir. Nothing at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin wunst 136 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. at Mr. Sangsby's, and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other genlnien come down Tom- all- Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be talkin to theirselves, or a passin blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. /never knowd what it wos all about." It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed. " Stay, Jo, stay ! What now ? " " It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he re- turns, with a wild look. " Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo ?" " Where they laid him as wos wery good to me ; wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ' I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him." " By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by." " Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I was to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him ?" • " I will, indeed." " Thankee, sir ! Thankee, sir ! They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. — It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin ? " " It is coming fast, Jo." Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. " Jo, my poor follow ! " " I hear, you sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin — let me catch hold of your hand." " Jo, can you say what I say?" " I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's "Our Father." "Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." "Which art in Heaven." UNITED IN DEATH. 137 "Art iu Heaven!" — Is the light a comin', sir?" "It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." "Hallowed be — thy — name !" The light has come upon the benighted way. Dead. Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my Lords and Gentlemen. Dead, Eight Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day. THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. JAMES R. LOWELL. l^j^HE snow had begun in the gloaming, 1^ And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway "With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree "Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's mufiled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan's down. And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn "Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, " Father, who makes it snow ?" And I told of the good All-father "Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, "When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, " The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall !" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow. UNITED IN DEATH. ^P|HERE was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat ^i^ face to face on the bank of the stream ; the strife and the anger J^" had all gone now, and they sat still, — dying men, who but a few J hours before had been deadly foes, sat still and looked at each 138 UNITED IN DEATH. other. At last one of them spoke : " We haven't either of us a chance to hold on much longer, I judge." " No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and reckless- ness, " you did that last job of yours well, as that bears witness," and he pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was glowly oozing. " Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more ragged, — a deadly one. And then the two men gazed upon each other again in the dim light ; for the moon had come over the hills now, and stood among the stars, like a pearl of great price. And as they looked a soft feeling stole over the heart of each toward his fallen foe, — a feeling of pity for the strong manly life laid low, — a feeling of regret for the in- exorable necessity of war which made each man the slayer of the other ; and at last one spoke : " There are some folks in the world that'll feel worse when you are gone out of it." A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. "Yes," said the man, in husky tones, " there's one woman with a boy and girl, away up among the New Hampshire mountains, that it will well-nigh kill to hear of this ; " and the man groaned out in bitter anguish, " God have pity on my wife and children ! " And the other drew closer to him: ''And away down among the cotton fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a little girl whose hearts will break when they hear what this day has done ; " and then the cry wrung itself sharply out of his heart, " God, have pity upon them ! " And from that moment the Northerner and the Southerner ceased to be foes. The thought of those distant homes on which the anguish was to fall, drew them closer together in that last hour, and the two men wept Uke little children. And at last the Northerner spoke, talking more to himself than to any one else, and he did not know that the other was listening greedily to every word : — " She used to come, — my little girl, bless her heart ! — every night to meet me when I came home from the fields ; and she would stand under the great plum-tree, that's just beyond the back-door at home, with the sunlight maldng yellow- brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing in her eyes when she heard the click of the gate, — I see her now, — and I'd take her in my arms, and she'd put up her little red lips for a kiss ; but my little darling will never watch under the plum-tree by the well, for her father, again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a glimpse GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 139 of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet running over the grass to spring into my arms again ! " " And then," said the Southerner, " there's a little brown-eyed, brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool afternoons for her father, when he rode in from his visit to the plantations. I can see her sweet little face shining out now, from the roses that covered the pillars, and hear her shout of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little flying feet up and down the verandah again." And the Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and spoke now in a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying men were glazing fast : " We have fought here, like men, together. We are going before God in a little while. Let us forgive each other." The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away in a mur- mur from his white lips ; but he took the hand of his fallen foe, and his stiffening fingers closed over it, and his last look was a smile of forgive- ness and peace. When the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs of the dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with their hands clasped in each other, by the stream which ran close to the battle- field. And the little girl with golden hair, that watched under the plum-tree among the hills of New Hampshire, and the little girl witli bright brown hair, that waited by the roses among the green fields of Georgia, were fatherless. GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. WILL CAELETON. John. — 'VE worked in the field all day, a plowin' the " stony streak ;" I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse ; I've tramped till my legs are weak ; I've choked a dozen swears, (so's not to tell Jane fibs,) When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs. I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats ; I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats ; And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin' feel, And Jane won't say to-night thai I don't make out a meal. Well said ! the door is locked ! Out here .she's left the key. Under the step, in a place known only to her and me ; I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hus- tled off pell-mell ; But here on the table's a note, and probably this will tell. 140 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone She'll do what she ought to have done, and astray ! coolly count the cost ; The letter it says, "Good-bye, for I'm a going And then she'll .see things clear, and know away; what she has lost. I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've been true ; And thoughts that are now asleep will wake But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer up in her mind. man than you." And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind ; A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't And maybe she'll sometimes long for me — for much to say ; me— but no ! There's han'somer men than me go past here I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will . every day. not have it so. There's handsomer men than me — I ain't of the han'some kind ; And yet in her girlish heart there was some- But a loven'er man than I was, I guess she'll thin' or other she had never find. That fastened a man to her, and wasn't en- tirely bad ; Curse her ! curse her ! I say, and give my And she loved me a little, I think, although curses wings ! it didn't last ; May the words of love I've spoken be changed But I mustn't think of these things — I've to scorpion stings ! buried 'em in the past. Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt, I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets matter worse ; my heart's blood out ! She'll have trouble enough ; she shall not have my curse ; Curse her ! curse her ! say I, she'll some time But I'll live a life so square — and I well know rue this day ; that I can,— She'll some time learn that hate is a game That she always will sorry be that she went that two can play ; with that han'somer man. And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever was born. Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes blur ; And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn. It seems when I look at that, as if 'twas holdin' her. As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a And here are her week-day shoes, and there time when she is her week-day hat. Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer And yonder's her weddin' gown ; I wonder man than me ; she didn't take that. And there'll be a time when he will find, as others do, 'Twas only this raornin' she came and called That she who is false to one, can be the same me her "dearest dear," with two. And said I was makin' for her a regular pa- radise here ; A.nd when her face grows pale, and when her God ! if you want a man to sense the pams eyes grow dim, of hell. And when he is tired of her and she is tired Before you pitch him in just keep him in hea- of him, ven a spell ! DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. 141 Grood-bye ! I wish that death had severed us two apart. You've lost a worshiper here, you've crushed a lovin' heart. I'll worship no woman again ; but I gaesa I'll learn to pray, And knoel as you used to kneel, before you run away. And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear, And if I thought I had some little influence there, I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so. As happy and gay as I was a half hour ago. Jane {entering). hat a litte things all around! Come, what's the matter now ? and what have you lost or found ? And here's my father here, a waiting for sup- per, too ; I've been a riding with him — he's that "hand- somer man than you." Ha ! ha ! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on. And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John. Why, John, you look so strange ! come, what has crossed your track ? I was only a joking, you know; I'm willing to take it back. John (aside) Well, now, if this aint a joke, with rather a bitter cream ! It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream ; And I think she " smells a rat," for she smiles at me so queer, I hope she don't ; good gracious ! I hope that they didn't hear ! 'Twas one of her practical drives — she thought I'd understand ! But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land. But one thing's settled with me — to appreci- ate heaven well, 'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen mi- nutes of hell. DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. PRESIDENT LINCOLN. ^OUPiSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon pi this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are en- gaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a por- lu 142 OVER THE RIVER. tion of it as the final restiug-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth. OVER THE RIVER. N. A. W. PRIEST. gVER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who crossed to the other side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, \ But their voices are drowned by ■%■ the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels that met him there — The gate of the city we could not see ; Over the river, over the river, My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — Darling Minnie ! I see her yet! She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the further side. Where all the ransomed and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river. My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores. Who cross with the boatman, cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts — They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the vail apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. They watch, and beckon, and wait for DE PINT WID OLD PETE. 143 And I sit and think when the sunset's gold Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the waters cold And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand . I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land. I shall know the loved who have gone before. And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. When over the river, the peaceful river. The angel of death shall carry me. DE PINT WID OLD PETE. pPON the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly darkey, with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, squatted on his bundle, toast- ing his shins against the chim- j ney and apparently plunged into a state of profound meditation. Finding upon inquiry, that he belonged to the Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly behaved and heavy losing regiments at the Fort Donaldson battle, I began to interrogate him upon the subject. " Were you in the fight ? " "Had a little taste of it, sa." "Stood your ground, did you?" " No, sa, I runs." " Eun at the first fire, did you ? " " Yes, sa, and would hab run soona, had I know'd it war comin'." "Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." " Massa, dat isn't ray line, sa ; cookin's my profeshun." " Well, but have you no regard for your re- putation ? " " Yah, yah ! reputation's nuffin to me by de side ob life." " Do you consider your life worth more than other people's ? " " It is worth more to me, sa." " Then you must value it very highly." " Yes, sa, I does ; more dan all dis world, more dan a million ob dollars, sa ; for what would dat be worth to a man wid de bref out of him? Self-preservation am de first law wid me." TOAisTINU HIS SHINS ' NO, SA, 1 RUNS. 144 I SEE THEE STILL. " But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?" " Because different men set different values upon their lives ; mine is not in de market." " But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you died for your country." "What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was gone ? " " Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?" " Nuffin whatever, sa ; I regard them as among the vanities." " If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the government without resistance." " Yes, sa; dar would hab been no help for it." " Do you think any of your company would have missed you if you had been killed ? " " Maybe not, sa ; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let alone a dead nigga; but I'd miss myself, and dat was de pint wid me." I SEE THEE STILL. CHARLES SPRAGUE. ROCK'D her in the cradle, And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. What fireside circle hath not felt the charm Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er grow old, The fond endearments of our earlier days "We keep alive in them, and when they die Our youthful joys we bury with them. I see thee still , Remembrance, faithful to her trust, Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; Thou comest in the morning light, Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night; In dreams I meet thee as of old ; Then thy soft arms my neck enfold And thy sweet voice is in my ear : In every scene to memory dear, I see thee still. I see thee still; j In every hallow'd token round ; This little ring thy finger bound. This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, 1 This silken chain by thee was braided, I These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee, I Sweet Sister, thou didst cull for me; This book was thine ; here didst thou read ; This picture — ah ! yes, here indeed I see thee still. I see thee still ; Here was thy summer noon's retreat, Here was thy favorite fireside seat; This was thy chamber — here, each day, I sat and watch'd thy sad decay : Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie ; Here, on this pillow, — thou didst die. Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold: As tiion I saw thee, pale and cold, I see thee still. EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. 145 I see thee still. Thou art not in the grave confined — Death cannot claim the immortal Mind : Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust, But Goodness dies not in the dust ; Thee, my Sisteb ! 'tis not thee Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; Thou to a fairer land art gone ; There, let me hope, my journey done, To see thee still ! EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. THOMAS DE QUINCEY. il^pAVING placed the king on his throne, it was her fortune thence- giyis forward to be thwarted. More than one military plan was en- ■*^^ tered upon which she did not approve. Too well she felt that the I" end was now at hand. Still, she continued to expose her person I in battle as before ; severe wounds had not taught her caution ; and at length she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and finally given up to the English. The object now was to vitiate the coro- nation of Charles VII, as the work of a witch ; and, for this end, Joan was tried for sorcery. She resolutely defended herself from the absurd ac- cusation. Never, from the foundation of the earth, was there such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, and all its malignity of attack. 0, child of France, shepherdess, peasant girl ! trodden under foot by all around thee, how I honor thy flashing intellect, — quick as the lightning, and as true to its mark, — that ran before France and laggard Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and making dumb the oracles of falsehood ! " Would you examine me as a witness against myself?" was the question by which many times she defied their arts. The result of this trial was the condemnation of Joan to be burnt alive. Never did grim inquisitors doom to death a fairer victim by baser means. Woman, sister I there are some things which you do not execute as well as your brother, man ; no, nor ever will. Yet, sister, woman ! cheer- fully, and with the love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowledge that you can do one thing as well as the best of men, — you can die grandly! On the twentieth of May, 1431, being then about nineteen years of age, Joan of Arc underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted before mid-day, guarded by eight spearmen, to a platform of prodigious height, constructed of wooden billets, supported by occasional walls of lath 146 THE CORAL INSECT. and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every direction, for the creation of air-currents. With an undaunted soul, but a meek and saintly demeanor, the maiden encountered her terrible fate. Upon her head was placed a mitre, bearing the inscription, " Bclapsed heretic, apostate, idolatress." Her piety displayed itself in the most touching manner to the last, and her angelic foro'etfulness of self was manifest in a most remarkable degree. The executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing volumes. A monk was then standing at Joan's side. Wrapt up in his sublime office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even then, when the last enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment, did this noblest of girls think only for him,— the one friend that would not forsake her, — and not for herself; bidding him with her last breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave her to God. "Go down," she said ; " lift up the cross before me, that I may see it in dying, and speak to me pious words to the end." Then protesting her innocence, and recommending her soul to Heaven, she continued to pray as the flames leaped up and walled her in. Her last audible word was the name of Jesus. Sustained by faith in Him, in her last fight upon the scaff"old, she had triumphed gloriously ; victoriously she had tasted death. Few spectators of this martyrdom were so hardened as to contain their tears. All the English, with the exception of a few soldiers who made a jest of the aff'air, were deeply moved. The French murmured that the death was cruel and unjust. " She dies a martyr ! " " Ah, we are lost, we have burned a saint! " "Would to God that my soul were with hers ! " Such were the exclamations on every side. A fanatic English soldier, who had sworn to throw a fagot on the funeral-pile, hearing Joan's last prayer to her Saviour, suddenly turned away, a penitent for life, say- ing everywhere that he had seen a dove, rising upon white wings to heaven from the ashes where she stood. THE CORAL INSECT. MRS. SIGOURNEY. JSWfjraiOIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, WJ^ Who build in the tossing and treach- erous main ; Toil on— for the wisdom of man ye With your sand-based structures and domes of rock ; Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, And your arches spring up to the crested rnoc k. wave; THE COKAL INSECT. 147 Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone; Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd ; O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men. There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup ; There are foes that watch for his cradle breath ; And why need ye sow the floods with death? With mouldering bones the deeps are white, From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold With the mesh of the sea-boy 'a curls of gold. And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; CORAL TIEEF BUILDERS. And the mountains exult where the wave hath been. But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? There are snares enough on the tented field, 'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield ; There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up; Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in. Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin ; From the land of promise ye fade and die, Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye; 148 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyra- mid, Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main. While the wonder and pride of your works remain. THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. |S|NE of the best things in farming is gathering the chestnuts, hickory- ^^ nuts, butternuts, and even bush-nuts, in the late ftill, after the -^ frosts have cracked the husks, and the high winds have sliaken f them, and the colored leaves have strewn the ground. On a 1 bright October day, when the air is full of golden sunshine, there is nothing quite so exhilarating as going nutting. Nor is the pleasure of it altogether destroyed for the boy by the consideration that he is making himself useful in obtaining supplies for the winter household. The getting- in of potatoes and corn is a different thing ; that is the prose, but nutting is the poetry of farm life. I am not sure but the boy would find it very irksome, though, if he were obliged to work at nut-gathering in order to procure food for the family. He is willing to make himself useful in his own way. The Italian boy, who works day after day at a huge pile of pine-cones, pounding and cracking them and taking out the long seeds, which are sold and eaten as we eat nuts (and which are almost as good q& pumpkin-seeds, another favorite with Italians), probably does not see the fun of nutting. Indeed, if the farmer-boy here were set at pounding off the walnut-shucks and opening the prickly chestnut-burs, as a task, he would think himself an ill-used boy. What a hardship the prickles in his fing(}rs would be ! But now he digs them out with his jack-knife, and enjoys the process on the whole. The boy is willing to do any amount of work if it is called play. In nutting, the squirrel is not more nimble and industrious than the boy. I like to see a crowd of boys swarm over a chestnut grove ; they leave a desert behind them like the seventeen years locusts. To climb a tree and shake it, to club it, to strip it of its fruit and pass to the next, is the sport of a brief time. I have seen a legion of boys scamper over our grass-plot under the chestnut- trees, each one as active as if he were a new patent, picking-machine, sweeping the ground clean of nuts, and disappear over the hill before I could go to the door and speak to them about it. Indeed I have noticed that boys don't care much for conversation with THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 149 the owners of fruit-trees. They could speedily make their fortunes if they would work as rapidly in cotton-fields. I have never seen anything like it except a flock of turkeys busily employed removing grasshoppers from a piece of pasture. The New England boy u^ed to look forward to Thanksgiving as the great event of the year. He was apt to get stents set him, — so much corn to husk, for instancy before that day, so that he could have an extra play- spell ; and in order to gain a day or two, he would work at his task with the rapidity of half-a-dozen boys. He had the day after Thanksgiving always as a holiday, and this was the day he counted on. Thanksgiving itself was rather an awful festival, — very much like Sunday, except for the enormous dinner, which filled his imagination for months before as completely as it did his stomach for that day and a week after. There was an impression in the house that that dinner was the most important event since the landing from the Mayflower. Heliogabalus, who did not resemble a Pilgrim Father at all, but who had prepared for himself in his 150 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. day some very sumptuous banquets in Rome, and ate a great deal of the best he could get (and liked peacocks stuffed with asafoetida for one thing), never had anything like a Thanksgiving dinner; for do you sup- pose that he, or Sardanapalus either, ever had twenty-four different kinds of pie at one dinner ? Therein many a New England boy is greater than the Eoman emperor or the Assyrian king, and these were among the most luxurious eaters of their day and generation. But something more is necessary to make good men than plenty to eat, as Heliogabalus no doubt found when his head was cut off. Cutting off the head was a mode the people had of expressing disapproval of their conspicuous men. Nowa- days they elect them to a higher office, or give them a mission to some foreign country, if they do not do well where they are. For days and days before Thanksgiving the boy was kept at work evenings, pounding and paring and cutting up and mixing (not being allowed to taste much), until the world seemed to him to be made of fragrant spices, green fruit, raisins, and pastry, — a world that he was only yet allowed to enjoy through his nose. How tilled the house was with the most delicious -smells ! The mince-pies that were made ! If John had been shut up in solid walls with them piled about him, he couldn't have eaten his way out in four weeks. There were dainties enough cooked in those two weeks to have made the entire year luscious with good living, if they had been scattered along in it. But people were probably all the better for scrimping themselves a little in order to make this a great feast. And it was not by any means over in a day. There were weeks deep of chicken-pie and other pastry. The cold buttery was a cave of Aladdin, and it took a long time to excavate all its riches. Thanksgiving Day itself was a heavy day, the hilarity of it being so subdued by going to meeting, and the universal wearing of the Sunday clothes, that the boy couldn't see it. But if he felt little exhilaration, he ate a great deal. The next day was the real holiday. Then were the merry-making parties, and perhaps, the skatings and *feleigh-rides, for the freezing weather came before the governor's proclamation in many parts of New England. The night after Thanksgiving occurred, perhaps, the first real party that the boy had ever attended, with live girls in it, dressed so bewitchingly. And there he heard those philandering songs, and played those sweet games of forfeits, which put him quite beside him- self, and kept him awake that night till the rooster crowed at the end of his first chicken-nap. AVhat a new world did that party open to him ! I think it likely that he saw there, and probably did not dare say ten words to, some tall, graceful girl, much older than himself, who seemed to him THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 151 like a new order of being. He could see her face just as plainly in the darkness of his chamber. He wondered if she noticed how awkward he was, and how short his trousers-legs were. He blushed as 'he thought of his rather ill-fitting shoes ; and determined, then and there, that he wouldn't be put off with a ribbon any longer, but would have a young man's necktie. It was somewhat painful thinking the party over, but it was delicious, too. He did not think, probably, that he would die for that tall, handsome girl ; he did not put it exactly in that way. But he rather resolved to live for her, — which might in the end amount to the same thing. At least he thought that nobody would live to speak twice dis- respectfully of her in his presence. THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. CHARLES F. ADAMS. I'M a proken-hearted Deutscher, Vot's villed mit crief und shame. I dells you vot der drouple ish : / doosnt know my name. You dinks dis fery vunay, eh? Ven you der schtory hear, You vill not vonder den so mooch, It vas so Bchtrange und queer. Mine moder had dwo leedle twins; Dey vas me und mine broder : Ve lookt so fery mooch alike, No von knew vich vrom toder. Von off der poys vas " Yawcob," Und "Hans" der oder's name: But den it made no tifferent; Ve both got called der same. 152 AKTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. Veil ! von off us got tead, — Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so ! But vedder Hans or Yawcob, Mine moder she don'd know. Und so I am in drouples : I gan't kit droo mine hed Vedder I'm Hans vol's lifing. Or Yawcob vol is lead! ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. CHARLES F. BROWNE. Pp'VE been lingerin by the Tomb of the lamentid Shakspeare. «^ It is a success. A I do not hes'tate to pronounce it as such. 't You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. If you I think its publication will subswerve the cause of litteratoor, you may ^ publicate. I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the birth- place of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as long as I kept out of Newgate she didn't care where I went. " But," I said, " don't you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived? Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter, about the Roses as groses, and the breezes as blowses — but a Boss poit — also a philosopher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything." Yes. I've been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birth-place of Shakespeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been dead over three hun- dred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of him. They cherish his mem'ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-place, &c., LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. 153 make it prof'tible cherishin it. Almost everybody buys a pictur to put into their Albiom. " And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford, beside a Tombstone, '' this marks the spot where hes William W. Shakes- peare. Alars ! and this is the Spot where — " "You've got the wrong grave," said a man, — a worthy villager.' " Shakespeare is buried inside the church." " Oh," I said, " a boy told me this was it." The boy larfed and put the shillin I'd given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and com- menced moving backwards towards the street. I pursood and captered him, and, after talking to him a spell in a sarkastic stile, I let him went. William Shakespeare was born in Stratford in 1564. All the com- mentators, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this, which is about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that his mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these commen- tators and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare's career, we shall not in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere lad little William attended the Grammar School, because, as he said, the Grammar School wouldn't attend him. This remarkable remark coming from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin there might be something in this lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet and George Barnwell. When his kind teacher went to London to accept a position in the offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little William was chosen by his fellow-pupils to deliver a farewell address. "Go on, sir," he said, "in a glorous career. Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall be gratified! That's so." LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. EDWAED EVERETT. ;MONG the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable are those which have been quoted by a previous speaker : " I still live." They attest the serene composure of his mind, the Chris- tian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in upon himself, and explore,- step by step, the dark passage, (dark to 154 PAT'S CRITICISM. US, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above), which connects this world with the world to come. But I know not what words could have been better chosen to express his relation to the world he was leaving, — " I still live." This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections of the people to whose services I have consecrated my days. "I still live." The icy hand of death is already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave them as the bequest of a dying friend. In the long and honored career of our lamented friend, there are efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one of the brightest pages of our history. But I greatly err if the closing scene, — the height of the religious sublime, — does not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend in interest the brightest exploits of public life. Within that darkened chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we shall not readily find the parallel. The serenity with which he stood in the presence of the King of terrors, without trepidation or flutter, for hours and days of expectation ; the thouglitfulness for the public business when the sands of life were so nearly run out ; the hospitable care for the reception of the friends who came to Marshfield ; that affectionate and solemn leave sepa- rately taken, name by name, of wife, and children, and kindred, and family, — down to the humblest members of the household ; the designation of the coming day, then near at hand, when " all that was mortal of Daniel "Webster should cease to exist ; " the dimly-recollected strains of the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the soaring intellect ; the feebly-murmured words of Holy Writ repeated from the lips of the good physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul; the clasped hands; the dying prayers. Oh ! my fellow-citizens, this is a consummation over which tears of pious sympathy will be shed ages after the glories of the forum and the senate are forgotten. FATS CRITICISM. CUARLES F. ADAMS ^^ llIERE'S a story that's old, But good if twice told, Of a doctor of limited skill. Who cured beast and man On the " cold-water plan," Without the small help of a pill. PAT'S CRITICISM. 155 On his portal of pine When the doctor with pride Hung an elegant sign, Stepped up to his side, Depicting a beautiful rill, Saying, "Pat, how is that for a sign?' And a lake where a sprite, " There's wan thing," says Pat, With apparent delight. "You've lift out o' that, Was sporting in sweet dishabille. Which, be jabers ! is quoite a mistake- "pat, how is that for a sign?" Pat McCarty one day, As he sauntered that way, Stood and gazed at that portal of pine ; It's trim and it's nate; But, to make it complate, Ye shuJ have a foine burd on the lake.' 156 THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. "Ah ! indeed ! pray then, tell, To make it look well, What bird do you think it may lack?" Says Pat, " Of the same I've forgotten the name. But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! quack ! THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDEESEN. ^T was very cold, the snow fell, and it was almost quite dark ; for it was evening — yes, the last evening of the year. Amid the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. It is true she had a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large slippers ; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the street, to avoid two carriages that were driving very quickly past. One of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when he should have children of his own. So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet that were red and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything from her the whole livelong day ; nobody had even given her a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a perfect picture of misery — poor little thing ! The snow-flakes covered her long, flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls round her throat ; but she heeded them not now. Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a savory smell of roast goose ; for it was New Year's Eve. And this she did heed. THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 157 She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she felt colder than ever ; yet she dared not return home, for she had not sold a match, and could not bring home a penny ! She would certainly be beaten by her father; and it was cold enough at home, besides — for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with straw and rags. Her little hands were nearly frozen with cold. Alas ! a single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers. So at last she drew one out. Ah ! how it sheds sparks, and how it burns ! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it, — truly it was a wonderful little sight ! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so brightly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out her feet to warm them likewise, when lo ! the flame expired, the stove vanished, and left nothing but the little half-burned match in her hand. She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and where it shone upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. A snow-white table-cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood a splendid china dinner-service, while a roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory fumes. And what was more delightful still to see, the goose jumped down from the dish, and waddled along the ground with a knife and fork in its breast, up to the poor girl. The match then went out, and nothing remained but the thick, damp wall. She lit yet another match. She now sat under the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was larger, and more superbly decked, than even the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on its green branches, and gay pictures, such as one sees on shields, seemed to be looking down upon her. She stretched out her hands, but the match then went out. The Christmas lights kept rising higher and higher. They now looked like stars in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a long streak of fire. " Somebody is now dying," thought tlie little girl, — for her old grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her, that, when a star falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven. She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all round ; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining 11 158 THE RAVEN. like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. " Grandmother," cried the little one, "oh, take me with you ! I know you will go away when the match goes out, — you will vanish like the warm stove, and the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas-tree ! " And she made haste to rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light that was brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful nor so large. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, far, far above mortal ken, where there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care to be found ; where there was no rain, no snow, or stormy wind, but calm, sunny days the whole year round. But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth ; she had been frozen on the last night of the old year. The new year's sun shone upon the little dead girl. She sat still holding the matches, one bundle of which was burned. .People said : " She tried to warm herself." Nobody dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in what splendor she had entered, along with her grandmother, upon the joys of the New Year. THE RA VEN. EDGAR A. rOE. pNCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — j. While I nodded, nearly napping, t suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rap- ping at my chamber-door. •* 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, " tapping at my chamber-door — Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore, — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, — Nameless here forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain. Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door, — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door ; That it is, and nothing more." THE RAVEN. 159 Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your for- giveness I implore ; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door. That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide the door : Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the still- ness gave no token. And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, " Lenore !" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, " Lenore !" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window-lattice ; Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore, — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door, — Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling. By the grave and stern decorum of the coun- tenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven ; Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little rele- vancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door. Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door "With such name as " Nevermore !" But the raven, sitting lonel}'- on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feath- er then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have flown before, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, " Nevermore !" Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store. Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster FoUow'd fast and foUow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore," Of — ' Never — nevermore !' " But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door. 160 THE FIRE-FIEND. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook ray- Belf to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omi- nous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore!" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sylla- ble expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned in- to my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp- light gloating o'er She shall press — ah ! nevermore 1 Then methought the air grew denser, per- fumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor, "Wretch," I cried, " thy God hc.th lent thee, — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- ories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and for- get this lost Lenore !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore, — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore. Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the an- gels name Lenore ; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore I" " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting, — " Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore I" And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- mon's that is dreaming. And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore I THE FIRE-FIEND. C. D. GARDETTE. jN the deepest dearth of Midnight, while the sad and solemn swell Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel Bell- Fainting, falteringly floating o' er the eable waves of air That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling — In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire- light's fitful gleaming, And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore-doomed to Care 1 THE FIRE-FIEND. 161 As the last long lingering echo of the Mid- nig>t's mystic chime — Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore of Time- Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace — In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I started : Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream's phantasmal Error Painted in the fitful fire, a frightful, fiend- ish, flaming face ! On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak, Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terror I awoke, And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor, Still in that dread Vision seemir^g, turned my gaze toward the gleaming Hearth, and — there ! — oh, God ! I saw It ! and from out Its flaming jaw It Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling stream of gore ! Speechless ; struck with stony silence ; fro- zen to the floor I stood. Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling blood : — Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips : — Till the Demon seemed to name me : — then a wondrous calm o'ercame me. And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stifif and gluey. And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse ! Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear : — Came a murmur like the murmur of assas- sins in their sleep : — Muttering, " Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am Demon of the Fire ! I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each blazing roof's my pyre, And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep < How I revel on the Prairie! How I roar cmong the Pines ! How I laugh when from the village o'er the snow the red flame shines, And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life in every breath ! How I scream with lambent laughter as 1 hurl each crackling rafter Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher ! higher! higher! Leap the High-Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death ! " I am Monarch of the Fire ! I am Vassal- King of Death ! World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon my breath ! With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face ! I command the Eternal Fire ! Higher ! higher ! higher ! higher ! Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantas- magoric lemans Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace!" Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, shrouded sleep, And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cra- dle of the Deep," Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke. And the martins, from the edges of its lichen- lidded ledges. Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn files marches. Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of oak. Through my ivy-fretted casement filtered in a tremulous note From the tall and stately linden where a Ro- bin swelled his throat : — Querulous, quaker-crested Robin, calling quaintly for his mate ! Then I started up, unbidden, from my slum- ber Nightmare ridden, With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central Fire, Ou mv eve's interior mirror like the shadow of a Fate ! 162 RETRIBUTION. Ah ! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap, And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep ; But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had Bhone, Forked Shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carv- ed and olden — And I bowed, and said, "All Power is of God, of God alone !" RETRIBUTION. A. LINCOLN. ||liE Almighty has His own purposes. " "Woe unto the world because of offences ! for it must needs be that offences come ; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that Ho gives to JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. X63 both North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him ! Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, " The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether." With malice toward none ; with charity for all ; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in ; to bind up the nation's wounds ; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves, and with all nations. JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. |l§i^AEIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic. Maria Ann is my wife— unfortunately she had planned it to go alone, so far as I am concernetl, on that picnic excursion ; but when I heard about it, I determined to assist. She pretended she was very glad ; I don't believe she was. " It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow," she said ; " and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and a dinner in the woods." On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o'clock. About three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to breakfast. I told her I wasn't hungry, but it didn't make a bit of differ- ence, I had to get up. The sun was up ; I had no idea that the sun began business so early in the morning, but there he was. " Now," said Maria Ann, " we must fly around, for the cars start at half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won't get anything more before noon." I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to be pounded to go around the pail of ice-cream, and the sandwiches to be cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so that I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and 154 JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There is a deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much. At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann's waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp- chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where. " Now," said Maria Ann, " we must run or we shall not catch the train." "Maria Ann," said I, "that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I can run with all this freight ? " " You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don't want a scene on the street, you will start, too." So I ran. I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her para- sol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars ; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them. " Maria," I said, " how is this for a cool morning ride ? " Said she, " You are a brute, Jenkins." Said I, " You have made that observation before, my love." I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran ofi" with a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic goers. I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets were opened. At last dinner came — the " nice dinner in the woods," you know. Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they were worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and of course that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann's head, and pulled all the frizzles out trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece of riispberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn't want THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. 165 anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest of the after- noon The day offered considerable variety, compared to every-day hfe, but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy it so much as I might have done. THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. CHARLES F. ADAMS. jrl^WAS midnight ; not a sound was heard ; Wm Within the —"Papa! won't 'ou 'ook Sg^^ An' see my pooty 'ittle house ? W^ ♦ I wis' 'ou wouldn't wead 'ou book "— J " Within the palace, where the king Upon his couch in anguish lay " — "Papa! Pa-j3a/ I wis' 'ou'd turn An' have a 'ittle tonty play — " • No gentle hand was there to bring The cooling draft, or bathe his brow; His courtiers, and his pages gone" — " Tum, papa, turn ; I want 'ou now— " Down goes the book with needless force, And, with expression far from mild, With sullen air, and clouded brow, I seat myself beside the child. 166 PLEDGE WITH WINE. Her little, trusting eyes of blue With mute surprise gaze in my face, As if, in its expression, stern, Reproof, and censure, she could trace ; Anon her little bosom heaves, Her rosy lip begins to curl; And, with a quiv'ring chin, she sobs; " Papa don't 'uv his 'ittle dirl !" King, palace, book — all are forgot ; My arms are 'round my darling thrown - The thunder cloud has burst, and, lo ! Tears fall and mingle with her own. PLEDGE WITH WINE. ^^H^jLEDGE with wine — pledge with wine!" cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. "Pledge with wine," ran through the brilliant crowd. The beautiful bride grew pale — the decisive hour had come, — she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors. " Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the Judge, in a low tone, going towards his daughter, " the company expect it, do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette ; — in your own house act as you please ; but in mine, for this once please me." Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion's principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits— and to- night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman's opinion so soon. Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles towards Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of " Oh, how terrible ! " " What is it ? " cried cue and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object. " Wait," she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, " wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, slowly pointing one jewelled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, " a sight that beggars all de- scription ; and yet listen ; I will paint it for you if I can : It is a lonely PLEDGE WITH WINE. I67 spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water's edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce ; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds ; but there, a group of Indians gather ; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon hia breast. " Genius in ruins. Oh ! the high, holy-looking brow ! Why should death mark it, and he so young ? Look how he throws the damp curls ! see him clasp his hands ! hear his thrilling shrieks for life ! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh ! hear him call piteously his father's name ; see him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister — his only sister — the twin of his soul — weeping for him in his distant native land. " See ! " she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the un- tasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, over- powered, upon his seat ; " see ! his arms are lifted to heaven ; he prays, how wildly, for mercy ! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping ; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and leave the living and dying together." There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct : she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. "It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lay gently on his forehead. He r^oves uot ; his eyes are set in their sockets ; dim are their piercing glan-jes ; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister — death is there. Death ! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back! one convulsive shudder ! he is dead ! " A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired h^r manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping. " Dead! " she repeated a^ain, her lips quivering faster and faster, and 168 PAPA'S LETTER. her voice more and more broken : "and there they scoop him a grave; and there without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies — my father's son — my own twin brother ! a victim to this deadly poison." " Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, " father, shall I drink it now ? " The form of the old Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered — " No, no, my child, in God's name no." She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying : — "Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand ; who watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, ray husband ? " His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer. The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms. Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impres- sion so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass. PAPA'S LETTER. WAS sitting in my stady, Writing letters, when I heard, " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. " But I'se tired of the kittj', Want some ozzer fing to do. Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I wite a letter too?" " Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty, now." " No, no, mamma; me wite letter, '. Tan if 'ou will show me how." I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face — Hair of gold and eyes of azure, lorm of childish, witching grace. SEWING ON A BUTTON. 169 But the eager face was clouded, Mamma sent me for a letter. As I slowly shook my head, Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go ?" Till I said, " I'll make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead." But the clerk in wonder answered, " Not to-day, my little man," So I parted back the tresses " Den I'll find anozzer office. From his forehead high and white. 'Cause I must do if I tan." And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light. Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, Then I said, " Now, little letter. And the little feet were hastening — Go away and bear good news." By the busy crowd swept on. And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes. Suddenly the crowd was parted. People fled to left and right. Leaving me, the darling hurried As a pair of maddened horses Down to Mary in his glee, At the moment dashed in sight. " Mamma's witing lots of letters ; I'se a letter, Mary — see !" No one saw the baby figure — No one saw the golden hair. No one heard the little prattler, Till a voice of frightened sweetness As once more he climbed the stair, Rang out on the autumn air. Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry stair. 'Twas too late — a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there, No one heard the front door open. Then the little face lay lifeless, No one saw the golden hair, Covered o'er with golden hair. As it floated o'er his shoulders In the crisp October air. Reverently they raised my darling. Brushed away the curls of gold, Down the street the baby hastened Saw the stamp upon the forehead, Till he reached the office door. Growing now so icy cold. " I'se a letter Mr. Postman ; Is there room for any more ? Not a mark the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod ; " 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, But the little life was ended— Papa lives with God, 'ou know, " Papa's letter " was with God. SEWING ON A BUTTON. J. M. BAILEY. wm @i®T is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but be is the ^^ embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has r^ compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has I always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a 170 LIFE FROM DEATH. sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself, — " Well, if women don't have the easiest time I ever see." Then he comes back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner ; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor, and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile, he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man. LIFE FROM DEATH. nORATIUS BONAR. S^fl^riE star ia not extinguished when it seta OT^ Upon the dull horizon ; it but goes '<i(^oJ>' To shine in other skies, then reappear ' ' In ours, as fresh as when it first The river is not lost, when, o'er the rock, It pours its flood into the abyss below ; Its scattered force re-gathering from the shock, It hastens onward with yet fuller flow. BETTY AND THE BEAR. 171 The bright sun dies not, when the shading orb Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray It still is shining on ; and soon to us Will burst undimmed into the joy of day. The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad ground; Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth, 'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round. The dew-drop dies not, when it leaves the flower. And passes upward on the beam of morn ; It does but hide itself in light on high, To its loved flower at twilight, to return. The fine gold has not perished, when the flame Seizes upon it with consuming glow ; In freshened splendor it comes forth anew. To sparkle on the monarch's throne or brow. Thus in the quiet joy of kindly trust. We bid each parting saint a brief fare- ,well ; Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust To the safe keeping of the silent cell. The day of re-appearing ! how it speeds ! He who is true and faithful speaks the word. Then shall we ever be with those we love — Then shall we be forever with the Lord. BETTY AND THE BEAR. jN a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, A great big black grizzly trotted one day. And seated himself on the hearth, and began To lap the contents of a two-gallon Of milk and potatoes, — an excellent meal, — And then looked about to see what he could steal. The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there. And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering from, " Thar's a bar in the kitching as big's a cow !" " A what ?" " Why a bar !" " Well, murder him, then !" " Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed. As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows, Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, Her man through the key -hole kept shouting within, " Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agm, Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the snout. Now poke with the poker, and poke his eyes out." So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty, alone, At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 172 THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. Now when the old man saw the bear was no more, He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, And there was the grizzly, stretched on the floor. Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell All the wonderful things that that morning befell ; And he published the marvellous story afar. How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar! yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev sid it, Come see what we did, me and Betty, we did it." THU FREEDOM OF TEE PRESS. JOHN MILTON. lORDS and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is whereof __..l ye are, and whereof ye are the governors; a nation not slow and ^^^ dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit ; acute to invent, ? subtile and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any I point that human capacity can soar to. Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging and unsealing her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance ; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means. Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and pro- hibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple ; whoever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what praying there is for light and clear knowledge to be sent down among us, would think of other matters to be constituted beyond the discipline of AULD ROBIN GRAY. I73 Geneva, framed and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new light which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, if it come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, when as we are exhorted by the wise men to use diligence, " to seek for wisdom as for hidden treasures," early and late, that another order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by statute! When a man hath been laboring the hardest labor in the deep mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his reasons, as it were a battle ranged, scattered and defeated all objections in his way, calls out his adversary into the plain, ofiers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he please, only that he may try the matter by dint of argument; for his opponents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valor enough in soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty? She needs no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings, to make her victorious; those are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power; give her but room, and do not bind her when she sleeps. A ULD ROBIN GRA Y. ANNE BARNARD. Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarres, was born in 1750. Robin Gray chanced to be the name of a shepherd at Balcarres. While she was writing this ballad, a little sister looked in on her. '■ What more shall I do," Anne a.=;ked, " to trouble a poor girl ? I've sent her Jamie to sea, broken her father's arm, made her mother ill, and given her an old man for a lover. There's room in the four lines for one sorrow more. What shall it be?" "Steal the cow, sister Anne." Accordingly the cow was stolen. The second part, it i.s said, was written to please her mother, who often asked " how that unlucky business of Jeanie and Jamie ended." FIRST PART. gfi^If^HEN the sheep are in the fauld, j But saving a crown he had naething else when the kye'.s a' at hame, \ beside; Wg And a' the weary warld to rest are j To mak the crown a pound my Jamie gaed gane, ! to sea, The woes 0' my heart fa' in showers ■ And the crown and the pound — they were i" frae my e'e, baith for me. T Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound bv me * -^^ hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a j day Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me When my father brake his arm, and the co-vy for his bride, I was stown away ; 12 174 AULD ROBIN GRAY. My mother she fell sick— my Jamie was at sea — And auld Robm Gray came a-courting me. My father couldna work, my mother couldna spin, I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?" My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back. But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack ; His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee? Or why am I spared to cry, Wac is me ? My father urged me sair— my mother didna speak. But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ; They gied him my hand — my heart was in the sea — And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four. When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he. Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to marry thee." Oh ! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say o' a', I gied him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'. I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee, For tho' my heart is broken, I'm young — wae 's me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a sin, But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For oh ! Robin Gray he is kind to me. SECOND PART. The winter was come, 'twas simmer nae mair. And, trembling, the leaves were fleeing thro' th' air : " winter," says Jeanie, " we kindly agree, For the sun he looks wae when he shines upon me." Nae longer she mourned, her tears were a' spent. Despair it was come, and she thought it con- tent — She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale. And she bent like a lily broke down by the Her father was vexed and her mother was wae. But pensive and silent was auld Robin Gray; He wandered his lane, and his face it grew lean. Like the side of a brae where the torrent has been. He took to his bed — nae physic he sought. But ordered his friends all around to be brought ; While Jeanie supported his head in its place. Her tears trickled down, and they fell on his face. " Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie," said he wi' a groan, " I'm no worth your sorrow — the truth maun be known ; Send round for your neighbors, my hour it draws near. And I've that to tell that it's fit a' should hear. " I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day, The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay ; I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet of her vow. In mercy forgive me — 'twas I stole the cow. " I cared not for Crummie, I thought but o' thee — I thought it was Crummie stood 'twixt you and me ; POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 175 While she fed your parents, oh, did you not say You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray? " But sickness at hame and want at the door, You gied me your hand, while your heart it was sore ; I saw it was sore, — why took I her hand? Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land! " How truth soon or late comes to open day- light! For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white — White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me — Ay, Jeanie, I'm thankfu' — I'm thankfu' to ■ Is Jamie come here yet ? " — and Jamie they saw — I've injured you sair, lad, so leave you my a' ; Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be ; Waste nae time, my dauties, in mourning for me." They kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face Seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace ; " Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, " forgi'en he will be— Wha wouldna be tempted, my love, to wiu thee ? " ***** The first days were dowie while time slipt awa', But saddest and sairest to Jeanie o' a' Was thinkin' she couldna be honest and right, Wi' tears in her e'e while her heart was sae light. But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, The wife o' her Jamie, the tear couldna stay ; A bonnie wee bairn — the auld folks by the fire — Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire. POETB Y AND MYSTER Y OF THE SEA. DR. GEEEN'TVOOD. HmM — 7- ?HE sea is liis, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, in one I of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expresses the Xt ""^l" whole of a vast subject by a few simple words. Whose else, in- Ideed, could it be, and by whom else could it have been made? Who else can heave its tides and appoint its bounds ? Who else can , urge its mighty waves to madness with the breath and wings of the tempest, and then speak to it again in a master's accents and bid it be still ? Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabi- tants, and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and filled it from its deepest bed to its ^expanded surface, filled it from its centre to ita remotest shores, filled it to the brim with beauty and mystery and power ? Majestic Ocean! Glorious Sea! No created being rules thee or made thee. 176 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. What is tliere more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable sea ? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, ffently -heaving, silent sea? What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resistless, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious "THE GENTLY-HEAVING SEA. grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is awful when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with the black clouds and the howling winds, and the thunder and the thunderbolt, and they sweep on, in the joy of their dread alliance, to do the Almighty's bidding. And it is awful, too, when it stretches its broad level out to meet in quiet union the bended sky, and show in the line of meeting the vast rotundity of the world. There is majesty in its wide expanse, sepa- rating and enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying two- thirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with its bays and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly-pouring tribute of every river, of every shore. There is majesty in its fulness, never diminishing and never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity, — for its whole vast substance is uniform in its local unity, for there is but one ocean, and the inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants of any other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime : who can sound it ? Its POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. I77 strength is sublime : what fabric of man can resist it? Its voice is sub- hme, whether in the prolonged song of its ripple or the stern music of its roar, — whether it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or thunders at the base of some huge promontory, or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies away, in the calm and fading twilight, in gentle murmurs on some sheltered shore. The sea possesses beauty, in richness, of its own ; it borrows it from earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various dyes of their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of their shadows as they go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the moon and the glittering brother- hood of planets and stars, for they delight themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire ; the moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to and fi^o, with the breezes and the waves, through the livelong night. It has a light, too, of its own, — a soft and sparkling light, rivaling the stars ; and often does the ship which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a Milky Way of dim and uncertain lustre, like that which is shining dimly above. It harmonizes in its forms and sounds both with the night and the day. It cheerfully reflects the light, and it unites solemnly with the darkness. It imparts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur to the thunder of heaven. What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of the sea ? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters where it dwells and rests, singing its spells and scattering its charms on all the coasts. What rocks and cliffs are so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing sea ? What groves and fields and dwellings are so enchanting as tlfcse which stand by the reflecting sea ? There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is unfathomed, and, perhaps, unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the world ? Who can tell what wells, what fountains, are there, to which the fountains of the earth are but drops ? Who shall say whence the ocean derives those in- exhaustible supplies of salt which so impregnate its waters that all the rivers of the earth, pouring into it from the time of the creation, have not been able to freshen them ? What undescribed monsters, what unimagi- nable shapes, may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never seeking— and perhaps never able to seek — the upper waters and expose themselves to the gaze of man ! What glittering riches, what heaps of gold, what stores of gems, there must be scattered in lavish profusion in 178 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. the ocean's lowest bed ! What spoils from all climates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth ? Who bears the keys of the deep ? And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart and mysterious to the mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, welter- ing, unsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of those lost ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting requiem ? CLIi'FS BY TUK sKA. What shrouds were wrapped round the limbs of beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor of that secret tomb ? Where are the bones, the relics, of the brave and the timid, the good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, the sister, the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the washing, wasting, wandering sea ? The journeying winds may sigh as year after year they pass over their beds. The solitary rain-cloud may weep in darknesss over the mingled remains which lie strewed in that un- wonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to what spot their affections may cling ? And where shall human tears be shed throughout MY COUNTRY. 179 that solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery all. When shall it be resolved ? Who shall find it out ? Who but He to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom all nature bows ; He who shall one day speak, and be heard in ocean's profoundest caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall give up its dead ; when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and the isles shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, and there shall be no more sea ! A FIRST SORROW. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. SRISE ! this day shall shine Forevermore, To thee a star divine On Time's dark shore. Till now thy soul has been All glad and gay ; Bid it awake, and look At grief to-day ! No shade has come between Thee and the sun ; Like some long childish dream Thy life has run : But now the stream has reached A dark, deep sea, And Sorrow, dim and crowned Is waiting thee. Each of God's soldiers bears A sword divine : Stretch out thy trembling hands To-day for thine ! To each anointed priest God's summons came : Soul, he speaks to-day, And calls thy name. Then, with slow, reverent step, And beating heart. From out thy joyous days Thou must depart, And, leaving all behind. Come forth alone. To join the chosen band Around the throne. Raise up thine eyes — be strong, Nor cast away The crown that God has given Thy soul to-day ! MY COUNTRY. JAMES MONTGOMERY. ,,,jiHERE is a land, of every land the pride. Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside. Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons imparadise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth. Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth : The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. In every clime, the magnet of his soul. Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race 180 INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. The heritage of nature's noblest grace, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life: In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. An angel-guard of love and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet. And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. " Where shall that laud, that spot of earth be found ? " Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 0, thoti shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home! Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. DR. GEORGE BERKELEY. ?NDUSTKY is the natural sure way to success; this is so true, that it ^^ is impossible an industrious free people should want the necessaries and comforts of life, or an idle enjoy them under any form of govern- ment. Money is so far useful to the public, as it promoteth industry, and credit having the same effect, is of the same value with money; but money or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand, without producing labor and industry in the inhabitants, is direct gaming. It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible schemes, as may draw those who are less skilful into their own and the public ruin. But surely there is no man of sense and honesty but must see and own, whether he understands the game or not, that it is an evident folly for any people, instead of prosecuting the old honest methods of industry and frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table and play off their money one to another. The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches without industry or merit, the less there will be of either in that state : this is as evident a.s the ruin that attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from hand to hand in such a bhnd fortuitous manner, that some men shall from nothing acquire in an instant vast estates, without the least desert; while others are as suddenly stripped of plentiful fortunes, and left on the parish by their own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for on the one A TYPE OF GRANDEUR, STRENGTH AND MAJESTY. ■A LION'S HEAD. 181 hand but abandoned luxury and wantonness, or on the other but extreme madness and despair! In short, all projects for growing rich by sudden and extraordinary methods, as they operate violently on the passions of men, and encourage them to despise the slow moderate gains that are to be made by an honest industry, must be ruinous to the public, and even the winners themselves will at length be involved in the public ruin. . . . God grant the time be not near when men shall say, " This island was once inhabited by a religious, brave, sincere people, of plain, uncorrupt manners, respecting inbred worth rather than titles and appearances, assertors of liberty, lovers of their country, jealous of their own rights, and unwilling to infringe the rights of others ; improvers of learning and useful arts, enemies to luxury, tender of other men's lives, and prodigal of their own; inferior in nothing to the old Greeks or Romans, and superior to each of those people in the perfections of the other. Such were our ancestors during their rise and greatness ; but they degenerated, grew servile flatterers of men in power, adopted Epicurean notions, became venal, corrupt, injurious, which drew upon them the hatred of God and man, and occasioned their final ruin." ■■A LION'S head: G. WEATHERLY. fij||fflvw^PON the wall it hung where all might A living picture — so the people said — A type of grandeur, strength and J- majesty — T "A lion's head." Yet, if you gazed awhile, you seemed to see The eyes grow strangely sad, that should have raged ; And, lo ! your thoughts took shape uncon- sciously — " A lion You saw the living type behind his bars, His eyes so sad with mute reproach, but still A very King, as when beneath the stars He roved at will. And then your thoughts took further ground, and ran From real to ideal, till at length . The lion caged seemed but the type of man In his best strength ; Man grand, majestic in both word and deed, A giant in both intellect and will, Yet trammeled by some force he can but heed And cannot still ; Man in his highest attributes, but bound By chains of circumstance around him casV Yet nobly living out life's daily round. Till work be past. So musing, shadows fall all silently And swift recall the thoughts that wan- dering fled : The dream has ended, and you can but see " A lion's head." 182 THE PURITANS. LO VE LIGHTENS LABOR. <?«^ GOOD wife rose from her bed one ^ui^ morn, *^^^. And thought with a nervous ^jp I (]read J^ Of the piles of clothes to be ^ washed, and more T Than a dozen mouths to he fed. There's the meals to get for the men in the field, And the children to fix away To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned ; And all to be done this day. It had rained in the- night, and all the wood Was wet as it could be ; There were puddings and pies to bake, be- sides A loaf of cake for tea. And the day was hot, and her aching head Throbbed wearily as she said, " If maidens but knew what good wives know. They would not be in haste to wed!" '• Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown ? " Called the farmer from the well ; And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow. And his eyes half bashfully fell ; " It was this," he said, and coming near He smiled, and stooping down. Kissed her cheek — " 'twas this : that yor were the best And the dearest wife in town ! " The farmer went back to the field, and the wife In a smiling, absent way Sang snatches of tender little songs She'd not sung for many a day. And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes Were white as the foam of the sea ; Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet And as golden as it could be. " Just think," the children all cried in a breath, " Tom Wood has run off to sea ! He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only haJ As happy a home as we." The night came down, and the good wife smiled To herself, as she softly said: " 'Tis so sweet to labor for those we love, — It's not strange that maids will wed! " THE PURITANS. T. B. MACAULAY. PPIHE Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character ^^^ from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal inter- n's' * ests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects THE PURITANS. 183 substituted for the pure worship of the souL Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The diflference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge of them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt : for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language — nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted poli- ticians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring God. Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, — the one aU self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the other proud, calm, in- flexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker ; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement he prayed with convulsions and groans and tears. He was half-maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, 184 THE BELL OF "THE ATLANTIC or woke screaming from dreams of fire. Like Vane, he thought himself entrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. TEE BELL OF " THE A TLANTLCr -^r MRS. SIGOURNEY. IpOLL, toll, toll, toll ! *- Thou bell by billows swung, And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue I Toll for the queenly boat. Wrecked on yon rocky shore ! Sea-w.eed is in her palace halls — She rides the surge no more. Toll for the master bold, The high-souled and the brave. Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave ! Toll for the hardy crew. Sons of the storm and blast, Who long the tyrant ocean dared ; But it vanquished them at last. Toll for the man of God, Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair ! How precious were those tones, On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain billows' strife ! Toll for the lover, lost To the summoned bridal train. Bright glows a picture on his breast^ Beneath the unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea : He Cometh not, pale maiden — His heart is cold to thee ! Toll for the absent sire. Who to his home drew near. To bless a glad, expecting group — Fond wife, and children dear ! They heap the blazing hearth, The festal board is spread. But a fearful guest is at the gate ; — Room for the sheeted dead ! Toll for the loved and fair. The whelmed beneath the tide — The broken harps around whose strings The dull sea-monsters glide ! Mother and nursling sweet. Reft from the household throng ; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song, Toll for the hearts that bleed 'Neath misery's furrowing trace ; Toll for the hapless orphan left. The last of all his race ! THE BLIND PREACHER. 185 Yea, with thy heaviest knell, From surge to rocky shore, Toll for the living — not the dead, Whose mortal woes are o'er. Toll, toll, toll ! O'er breeze and billow free ; And with thy startling lore instruct Each rover of the sea. Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep. And bid him build his hopes on high- Lone teacher of the deep ! THE CYCLONE. THE BLIND PREACHER. WILLIAM WIET. ^^T was one Sunday, as I was traveling through the county of Orange, p| that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, ^ old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the roadside. Having \i' frequently seen such objects before, in traveling through these States, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious wor- ship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the congregation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shriv- eled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of palsy ; and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled IQQ THE BLIND PREACHER. pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees than were the lips of this holy man. It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times ; I had thought it ex- hausted long ago. Little did I suppose that, in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; his trial before Pilate ; his as- cent up Calvary ; his crucifixion, and his death. I knew the whole history, but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored. It was all new, and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable, and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had such force of description, that the ori- ginal scene appeared to be at that moment acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. "We saw the buffet ; my soul kindled with a flame of indigna- tion, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness, of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon for his enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do ! " — the voice of the preacher, which all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flow of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans and sobs and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit hira to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi- ence down from the height to which he had wound them, without impair- ing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But — no; the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sen- A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 187 tence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Rous- seau: " Socrates died like a philosopher ; but Jesus Christ like a God." I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher, his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their genius : you are to imagine that you hear his slow, sol- emn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling mel- ody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house : the preacher, re- moving his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears), and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence : " Socrates died like a philosopher" — then pausing, raised his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to. his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to hea- ven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — "but Jesus Christ — like a God ! " If he had been in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. MARY A. FOED. JT'l^HE surging sea of human life forever Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed are ^j^ onward rolls, waiting for the plow oJ^^^^ And bears to the eternal shore its i Of progress that shall make them bloom a. daily freight of souls, Though bravely sails our bark to- day, pale Death sits at the prow, And few shall know we ever lived j short narrow hundred years from now. Why should we try so earnestly in life's a hundred years from now. mighty human brotherhood ! why fiercely war and strive, span. On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother-man ? Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish homage bow ? \\Tiile God's great world has ample space for ] Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hun- everything alive ? i dred years from now. 13 188 WOUNDED. Why prize so much the world's applause ? Why dread so much its blame ? A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame; The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that dyes with shame the brow, Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred years from now. patient hearts, that meekly bear your weary load of wrong ! earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, striving, grow more strong ! Press on till perfect peace is won ; you'll never dream of how You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hun- dred years from now. Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that freedom, right, and truth Alone may rule the universe, for you is end- less youth ! When 'mid the blest with God you rest, the grateful land shall bow Above your clay in reverent love a hundred years from now. Earth's empires rise and fall. Time ! like breakers on thy shore They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, and are no more. The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant brow Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from now. Our Father, to whose sleepless eye the past and future stand An open page, like babes we cling to thy protecting hand ; Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we may safely bow Beneath the shadow of thy throne a hundred years from now. WOUNDED. ^^ WILLIAM E. MILLER. ^ET me lie down ll Just here in the shade of this can- ^ non-torn tree. Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see ¥ The surge of the combat, and where I T may hear The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer : Let me lie down. Oh, it was grand ! Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share ; The tempest, — its fury and thunder were there : On, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and dead. With the foe under foot, and our flag over- head ; Oh, it was grand ! Weary and faint. Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest. With this shot-shattered head and sabre- pierced breast? Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought, Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought, Wounded and faint. Oh, that last charge ! Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, Througli without faltering, — clear through with a yell ! Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom. Like heroes we dashed, at the mandate of doom! Oh, that last charge ! THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 189 It was duty ! Some things are worthless, and some others so good That nations who buy them pay only in blood. For Freedom and Union each man owes his part; And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart : It is duty. Dying at last ! My mother, dear mother ! with meek tearful eye, Farewell! and God bless you, for eyer and aye! Oh that I now lay on your pillowing breast. To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest ! Dying at last ! I am no saint ; But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins " Our Father," and then says, " Forgive us our sins:" Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say "Amen!" Ah ! I'm no saint. Hark ! there's a shout. Raise me up, comrades ! We have conquered, I know ! — Up, on my feet, with my face to the foe ! Ah ! there flies the flag, with its star-soan- gles bright, The promise of glory, the symbol of right ! Well may they shout ! I'm mustered out. God of our fathers, our freedom prolong, And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong ! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod, 1 die for the nation, the Union, and God ! I'm mustered out. THE DRUNK ARUS DEATH. CHARLES DICKENS. ^T last, one bitter night, he sunk down on the door-step, faint and ilL The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid ; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. And now the long-forgotten scenes of a mis-spent life crowded thick fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home — a happy, cheerful home — and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him — so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him ; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again. He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The 190 THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. street was silent and empty ; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep. But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake and conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice rich food — they were before him ; he could see them all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them, — and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones ; that death was coming upon him by inches — and that there were none to care for or help him. Suddenly he started up in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what or why. Hark ! A groan ! — another ! His senses were leaving him : half-formed and incoherent words burst from his lips ; and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. He raised his head and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wan- dering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life ; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river side. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life, half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved ; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river. The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet, — so quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges, that were moored there, was distinctly audible LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 191 to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; dark gleaming eyes peered fi'om the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind urged him onward. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the water. Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface — but what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and feehngs ! Life — life — in any form, poverty, misery, starvation — anything but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore — but one foot of dry ground — he could almost touch the step. One hand's breadth nearer, and he was saved — but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. Again he rose and struggled for life. For one instant — for one brief instant — the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast- flying clouds, were distinctly visible — once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar. A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen. and disfigured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was borne to the grave ; and there it has long since mouldered away ! LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN 1569. £OVE me little, love me long Is the burden of my song Love that is too hot and strong Burneth soon to waste If thou lovest me too much, 'Twill not prove as true a touch ; Love me little more than such,— For I fear the end. Still I would not have thee cold, — j I'm with little well content, Not too backward, nor too bold ; | And a little from thee sent Love that lasteth till 'tis old i Is enough, with true intent Fadeth not in haste. Love me little, love me long! Is the burden of my song. To be steadfast, friend. Love me little, love me long ! Is the burden of my song. 192 YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. Say thou lovest me, while thou live I to thee my love will give, Never dreaming to deceive While that life endures ; Nay, and after death, in sooth, I to thee will keep my truth, As now when in my May of youth : This my love assures. Constant love is moderate ever. And it will through life persever ; Give me that with true endeavor, — I will it restore. A suit of durance let it be, For all weathers, — that for me, — For the land or for the sea : Lasting evermore. Winter's cold or summer's heat, Autumn's tempests on it beat ; It can never know defeat. Never can rebel : Such the love that I would gain, Such the love, I tell thee plain. Thou must give, or woo in vain : So to thee — farewell ! YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPAS GRAVE. C. E. L. HOLMES. sITH sable-draped banners, and slow measured tread, The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead ; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests. Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love ; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move — A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief. Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents which grief render- ed wild : " Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave — Why ! why ! did you pass by my dear papa's grave ? I know he was poor, but as kind and as true As ever marched into the battle with you — His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot. You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there. And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. He didn't die lowly — he poured his heart's blood, In rich crimson streams, from the top- crowning sod Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fightr— And died shouting, ' Onward ! for God and the right!' O'er all his dead comrades your bright gar- lands wave, THE COCKNEY. 193 But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. " Oh ! thank you, kind sir ! I ne'er can repay If mamma were here — but she lies by his side, The kindness you've shown little Daisy to- Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa day ; died." But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, "Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried ' Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. the chief, " This young orphan'd maid hath full cause I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too— for her grief" I dreamed so last night, and I know 'iwill Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty come true; street, And they will both bless you, I know, when He lifted the maiden, while in through the I say gate How you folded your arms round their dear The long line repasses, and many an eye one to-day — Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed sigh. it to rest. And hushed its wild throbs on your strong. " This way, it is — here, sir — right under this noble breast ; tree; And when the kind angels shall call you to They lie close together, with just room for come. me." We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home, " Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green Where death never comes, his black banners mound — to wave. A love pure as this makes these graves hal- And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a lowed ground." grave." THE COCKNEY. JOHN G. SAXE. |T was in my foreign travel, 5 At a famous Flemish inn, I That I met a stoutish person ' With a very ruddy skin ; And his hair was something sandy, And was done in knotty curls, And was parted in the middle, In the manner of a girl's. He was clad in checkered trousers, And his coat was of a sort To suggest a scanty pattern. It was bobbed so very short ; And his cap was very little. Such as soldiers often use ; And he wore a pair of gaiters, And extremely heavy shoee. I addressed the man in English, And he answered in the same. Though he spoke it in a fashion That I thought a little lame ; For the aspirate was missing Where the letter should have been. But where'er it wasn't wanted, He was sure to put it in ! When I spoke with admiration Of St. Peter's mighty dome, He remarked : " 'T is really nothing To the sights we' ave at 'ome !" And declared upon his honor, — Though, of course, 't was very queer, That he doubted if the Romans 'Ad the Aart of making beerl 194 THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN. Then we talked of the countries, When I left the man in gaiters. And he said that he had heard He was grumbling, o'er his gin, That h Americans spoke h English, At the charges of his hostess But he deemed it quite Aabsurd ; At that famous Flemish inn ; Yet he felt the deepest Aintrest And he looked a very Briton, In the missionary work, (So, methinks, I see him still,) And would like to know if Georgia As he pocketed the candle Was in Boston or New York ! That was mentioned in the bill 1 THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN. J. A. FROUDE. ^LOEIOUS as the spectacle was, perhaps, however it passed unheeded. i^ Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew near. In an open space behind the constable there was seen approaching " a white chariot," drawn by two palfreys in white damask which swept the ground, a golden canopy borne above it 1 making music with silver bells : and in the chariot sat the observed of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of England — queen at last ! — borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed incense of greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her honor, her self-respect, to win ; and she had won it. There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a light coronet of gold and diamonds — most beautiful — loveliest — most favored, perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas ! " within the hollow round of that coronet — Kept Death his court, and there the antick sate Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp ; Allowing her a little breath, a little scene To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, Infusing her with self and vain conceit. As if the flesh which walled about her life Were brass impregnable ; and humored thus, Bored thro' her castle walls ; and farewell. Queen ' Fatal gift of greatness ! so dangerous ever ! so more than dangerous in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose of the SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. I95 great deeps of thought, and nations are in the throes of revolution ; when ancient order and law and traditions are splitting in the social earthquake ; and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro, those unhappy ones who stand out above the crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the victims of its alternating fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart and brain, intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos should find its way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion — if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of God's forgiveness. Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London — not radiant then with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor, wandering ghost, on a sad, tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a presence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well — for all of us — and therefore for her. Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling ? Did any vision flit across her of a sad, mourning figure which once had stood where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twi- light of a life cut short by sorrow ? Who can tell ? At such a time that figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleet- ing as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of for- tune. SCA TTER THE GERMS OF THE BEA UTIFUL. 'ATTER the germs of the beautiful, Let the pure, and the fair, and the graceful 1^1 By the wayside let them fall, there C^ That the rose may spring by the In the loveliest lustre come cottage gate, Leave not a trace of deformity And the vine on the garden wall ; j In the temple of the heart, 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 ! Scatter the germs of the beautiful In the holy shrine of home ; But gather about its hearth the gems Of nature and of art ! Scatter the germs of the beautiful In the temples of our God — The God who starred the uplifted sky, And flowered the trampled sod ! 196 MY CHILDHOOD HOME. When he built a temple for himself, And a home for his priestly race, He reared each arm in symmetry. And covered 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 fair and pure about thy path In Paradise shall bloom. MY CHILDHOOD HOME. fOlf HERE'S a little low hut by the river's ^ side, j^'^^ Within the sound of its rippling tide ; Its walls are grey with the mosses of years. And its roof all crumbled and old B. P. SHILLABER. appears ; But fairer to me than castle's pride Is the little low hut by the river's side. The little low hut was ny natal nest. When my childhood passed — Life's spring- time blest; Where the hopes of ardent youth are formed, And the sun of promise my young heart warmed. Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide. And left the dear hut by the river's side. That little low hut, in lowly guise, Was soft and grand to my youthful eyes, And fairer trees were ne'er known before. Than the apple-trees by the humble door, — That my father loved for their thrifty pride, — That shadowed the hut by the river's side. That little'low hut had a glad hearthstone. That echoed of old with a pleasant tone, THE RUINED MERCHANT. 197 And brothers and sisters, a merry crew, Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew; But one by one the loved ones died, That dwelt in the hut by the river's side. The father revered and the children gay The graves of the world have called away ; But quietly, all alone, here sits By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits, An aged woman, long years allied With the little low hut by the river's side. That little low hut to the lonely wife Is the cherished stage of her active life ; Each scene is recalled in memory's bsam. As she sits by the window in pensive dream. And joys and woes roll back like a tide In that little low hut by the river's side. My mother — alone by the river's side She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide. And the voice that shall thrill her heart witli its call To meet once more with the dear ones all, And forms in a region beautified, The band that once met by the river's side. The dear old hut by the river's side With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied, — And a glory is over its dark walls thrown. That statelier fabrics have never known, — And I shall love with a fonder pride That little low hut by the river's side. THE RUINED CORA M. MERCHANT, EAGER. fM^ COTTAGE home with sloping lawn, ^■^fe and trellised vines and flowers. And little feet to chase away the rosy-fingered hours ; aT A fair young face to part, at eve, ^ the shadows in the door ; — I I picture thus a home I knew in happy days of yore. Says one, a cherub thing of three, with childish heart elate, " Papa is tomin let me do to meet 'im at te date!" Another takes the music up, and flings it on the air, " Papa has come, but why so slow his footstep on the stair?" * father ! did you bring the books I've waited for so long, The baby's rocking-horse and drum, and mother's ' angel song ?' And did you see " — but something holds the questioning lips apart. And something settles very still upon that joyous heart. The quick-discerning wife bends down, with her white hand to stay The clouds from tangling with the curls that on his forehead lay ; To ask, in gentle tones, "Beloved, by what rude tempest tossed ?" And list the hollow, " Beggared, lost, — all ruined, poor, and lost !" " Nay, say not so, for I am here to share misfortune's hour, And prove how better far than gold is love's unfailing dower. Let wealth take wings ana fly away, as lai as wings can soar. The bird of love will hover near, and only- sing the more." " All lost, papa? why here am I ; and, father, see how tall ; I.measure fully three feet four, upon the kit- chen wall ; I'll tend the flowers, fe 1 the birds, and have such lots of fun, I'm big enough to work, papa, for I'm the oldest son." 198 TRUTH. "And I, papa, am almost five," says curly- headed Rose, " And I can learn to sew, papa, and make all dolly's clothes. But what is ' poor,' — to stay at home and have no place to go ? Oh ! then I'll ask the Lord, to-night, to make us always so." ' I'se here, papa; I isn't lost!" and on his father's knee He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby- boy of three. " And if we get too poor to live," says little Rose, " you know There is a better place, papa, a heaven where we can go. "And God will come and take us there, dear father, if we pray. We need'nt fear the road, papa, He surely knows the way." Then from the corner, staff in hand, the grandma rises slow. Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft fluttering to and fro : Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of kindly hands, Counting in every little face, her life's declin ing sands ; Reaches his side, and whispers low, " God's promises are sure ; For every grievous wound, my son. He sends a ready cure." The father clasps her hand in his, and quickly turns aside, The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the com- ing tear, to hide ; Folds to his heart those loving ones, and kis- ses o'er and o'er That noble wife whose faithful heart he little knew before. " May God forgive me ! What is wealth to these more precious things, Whose rich affection round my heart a cease- less odor flings ? I think He knew my sordid soul was getting proud and cold, And thus to save me, gave me these, and took away my gold. " Dear ones, forgive me ; nevermore will I forget the rod That brought me safely unto you, and led me back to God. I am not poor while these bright links of priceless love remain, And, Heaven helping, never more shall blindness hide the chain." TB UTH. JOHN MILTON. •RUTH, indeed, came once into the world with her Divine Master, and was a perfect shape, most glorious to look on; but when he ascended, and his apostles after him were laid asleep, then straight arose a wicked race of deceivers, who, as that story goes of the Egyptian Typhon with his conspirators, how they dealt with the god Osiris, took the virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a thousand pieces, and scattered them to the four winds. From that time, ever since, the sad friends of Truth, such as durst appear, imitating the careful search that Isis made for the mangled body of Osiris, went up and THE MILKMAID. 199 down gathering up limb by limb, still as they could find them. We have not yet found them all, Lords and Commons, nor ever shall do, till her Master's second coming; he shall bring together every joint and member, and mould them into an immortal feature of loveliness and perfection. THE DEATH-BED. THOMAS HOOD. m lirii!^^ watched her breathing through g^P the night,— 1^ Her breathing soft and low, — As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers, To eke her living out. I Our weary hopes belied our fears. Our fears our hopes belied, — j We thought her dying when she slept, j And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad And chill with early showers. Her quiet eyelids closed ; — she had I Another morn than ours. THE MILKMAID. JEFFERYS TAYLOR. ^T^9 fV-? MILKMAID, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said : " Let me see, — I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. " Well then, — stop a bit, — it must not be forgotten. Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten ; But if twenty for accident should be detached, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched. " Well, sixty sound eggs, — no, sound chick- ens, I mean : Of these some may die, — we'll suppose seven- teen. Seventeen ! not so many, — say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast. " But then there's their barley : how much j will they need ? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed, — So that's a mere trifle ; now then, let us see. At a fair market price how much money there'll be. " Six shillings a pair — five — four — three-and- six, To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix ; 200 THE WATER-MILL. Now what will that make? fifty chickens, " Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me I said,— a cow, Fifty times three-and-sixpence — I'll ask Thirty geese, and two turkeys, — eight pigs Brother Ned. and a sow ; Now if these turn out well, at the end of the " 0, but stop, — three-and-sixpence a pair I year. must sell 'em : I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis "Well, a pair is a couple, — now then let us tell clear." em ; A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain !) Forgetting her burden, when this she had Why, just a score times, and five pair will said, remain. The maid superciliously tossed up her head ; When, alas for her prospects ! her milk-pail " Twenty five pair of fowls — now how tire- descended. some it is And so all her schemes for the future were That I can't reckon up so much money as ended. this ! Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a This moral, I think, may be safely attached ; guess,— " Reckon not on your chickens before they I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less. are hatched." THJ^ WA TUB-MILL. D. C. M CALLUM. ^^I^H ! listen to the water-mill, through |ra| all the live-long day, ^^•■^ As the clicking of the wheels wears ' ^ hour by hour away ; '^ How languidly the autumn wind J doth stir the withered leaves, As on the fields the reapers sing, while bind- ing up the sheaves ! A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main. The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain ; The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tran- quil, deep and still. But never glideth back again to busy water- mill. The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast, " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." Oh ! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true, For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too ; Ah ! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day. For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away ; Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kind- ness sow broadcast — " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, Alas ! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh ; Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word. Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard. Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 20] Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will. The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by- clicking water-mill ; Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, For all that thou canst call thine own, lies in the phrase " to-day :" Possessions, power, and blooming health, must all be lost at last — " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." Oh ! love thy God and fellow-man, thyself consider last, For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past ; Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede from view, And heaven in all its glory shine where all is pure and true, Ah ! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast, THE WATER-MILL. The mill will never grind again with water that is past." TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. J. G. HOLLAND. JE,AMP, tramp, tramp, the boys are marchiug; how many of them? ^«^ Sixty thousand ! Sixty full regiments, every man of which will, before twelve months shall have completed their course, lie down in the grave of a drunkard ! Every year during the past decade has witnessed the same sacrifice ; and sixty regiments stand behind this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from our children and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — the sounds come to us in the echoes of the army just expired ; tramp, tramp, tramp — rthe earth shakes with the tread of the host now passing ; tramp, tramp, tramp — comes to us from the camp of the recruits. A great tide of life flows resistlessly to its death. What in God's name are they fighting for ? The privilege of pleasing an appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of filling sixty thousand homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public with the burden of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, of detracting from the productive industries of the country, of ruining for- 202 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. tunes and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, of de- stroying both body and soul in hell before their time. The prosperity of the liquor interest, covering every department of it, depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot live without it. It never did live without it. So long as the liquor interest maintains its present prosperous condition, it will cost America the sacrifice of sixty thousand men every year. The effect is inseparable from the cause. The cost to the country of the liquor trafiic is a sum so stu- pendous that any figures which we should dare to give would convict us of trifling. The amount of life absolutely destroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, the amount of bread transformed into poison, the shame, the unavailing sorrow, the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, the brutality, the wild waste of vital and financial resources, make an aggregate so vast — so incalculably vast, — that the only wonder is that the American people do not rise as one man and declare that this great curse shall exist no longer. A hue-and-cry is raised about woman-suffrage, as if any wrong which may be involved in woman's lack of the suffrage could be compared to the wrongs attached to the liquor interest. Does any sane woman doubt that women are suffering a thousand times more from rum than from any political disability ? The truth is that there is no question before the American people to-day that begins to match in importance the temperance question. The question of American slavery was never anything but a baby by the side of this ; and we prophesy that within ten years, if not within five, the whole country will be awake to it, and divided upon it. The organizations of the liquor interest, the vast funds at its command, the universal feeling among those whose business is pitted against the national prosperity and the public morals— these are enough to show that, upon one side of this matter, at least, the present condition of things and the social and political questions that lie in the immediate future are apprehended. The liquor interest knows there is to be a great struggle and is pr'^'^aring to meet it. People both in this country and in Great Britain are beginning to see the enormity of this business — are beginning to realize that Christian civiliza- tion is actually poisoned at its fountain, and that there can be no purifica- tion of it until the source of the poison is dried up. Temperance laws are being passed by the various Legislatures, which they must sustain, or go over, soul and body, to the liquor interest and influence. Steps are being taken on behalf of the public health, morals, and prosperity, which they must approve by voice and act, or they must ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 203 consent to be left behind and left out. There can be no concession and no compromise on the part of temperance men, and no quarter to the foe. The great curse of our country and our race must be destroyed. Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of sixty thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, some are wild with hilarity and dance along the dusty way, some reel along in pitiful weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous impulses on one another, or on the helpless women and children whose destinies are united to theirs, some stop iu wayside debaucheries and infamies for a moment, some go bound in chains from which they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding wrists, and all are poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. EXTRACT FROM GRA Y'S ELEGY. THOMAS GRAY. I^ULL many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfatliomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 14 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious ^lilton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 204 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The applause of listening senates to com- mand, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the mad'ning crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect. Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlet- tered muse. The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews. That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale re- late ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : — " Oft have we seen him, at the peep ol dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. " One morn I missed him on the customed hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, — nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; " The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne ; — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests liis head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth. And melancholy marked him for her own. THE ANGLER. 205 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. FELICIA HEMANS. ^HE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, ^5^ And the woods against a stormy sky '^ Their giant branches tossed ; I And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er. When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes. They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come. In silence and in fear ; — They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To tlie anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam. And the rocking pines of the forest roared,— This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim-band : Why had they come to wither there. Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground. The soil where first they trod ; They have left unstained what there they found, — Freedom, to worship God. THE ANGLER. CHALKHILL. THE gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any ! 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife! And 'tis beloved by many ; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is ; For our skill Breeds no ill. But content and pleasure. 206 THE ANGLER. In a morning, up we rise, When we please to walk abroad Ere Aurora's peeping; For our recreation. Drink a cup to wasli our eyes, In the fields is our abode, Leave the sluggard sleeping ; Full of delectation, Then we go Where, in a brook, ' the gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any !" To and fro. With our knacks At our backs. To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure. With a hook,— Or a lake, — Fish we take ; There we sit, For a bit. Till we fish entangle. IMMORTALITY. 207 We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too ; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too ; None do here Use to swear: Oaths do fray Fish away ; We sit still. Watch our quill : Fishers must not wrangle. If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter. To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter ; Where, in a dike. Perch or pike, Roach or dace. We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon. Without grudging ; We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow ; Where we may Think and pray. Before death Stops our breath ; Other joys Are but toys. And to be lamented. UniORTALITY MASSILLON. ^F we wholly perish with the body, what an imposture is this whole system of laws, manners, and usages, on which human society is founded ! If we wholly perish with the body, these maxims of charity, patience, justice, honor, gratitude, and friendship, which f sages have taught and good men have practised, what are they but empty words possessing no real and binding efficacy? "Why should we heed them, if in this life only we have hope? Speak not of duty. What can we owe to the dead, to the Hving, to ourselves, if all are or loill he, nothing? "Who shall dictate our duty, if not our own pleasures, — if not our own passions ? Speak not of morality. It is a mere chimera, a bugbear of human invention, if retribution terminate with the grave. If we must wholly perish, what to us are the sweet ties of kindred ? "What the tender names of parent, child, sister, brother, husband, wife, or friend ? The characters of a drama are not more illusive. We have no ancestors, no descendants ; since succession cannot be predicated of nothing- ness. Would we honor the illustrious dead ? How absurd to honor that which has no existence ! W^ould we take thought for posterity ? How frivolous to concern ourselves for those whose end, like our own, must soon be annihilation ! Have we made a promise ? How can it bind nothing to nothing ? Perjury is but a jest. The last injunctions of the dying, what 208 THE TEMPEST. sanctity have they, more than the last sound of a chord that is snapped, of an instrument that is broken ? To sum up ail : If we must wholly perish, then is obedience to the laws but an insane servitude; rulers and magistrates are but the phantoms which popular imbecility has raised up ; justice is an unwarrantable in- fringement upon the liberty of men, — an imposition, a usurpation ; the law of marriage is a vain scruple; modesty a prejudice; honor and probity, such stuff as dreams are made of; and incests, murders, parricides, the most heartless cruelties and the blackest crimes, are but the legitimate sports of man's irresponsible nature ; while the harsh epithets attached to them are merely such as the policy of legislators has invented, and imposed upon the credulity of the people. Here is the issue to which the vaunted philosophy of unbelievers must inevitably lead. Here is that social felicity, that sway of reason, that emancipation from error, of which they eternally prate, as the fruit of their doctrines. Accept their maxims, and the whole world falls back into a frightful chaos ; and all the relations of life are confounded; and all ideas of vice and virtue are reversed ; and the most inviolable laws of society vanish ; and all moral discipline perishes ; and the government of states and nations has no longer any cement to uphold it ; and all the harmony of the body politic becomes discord ; and the human race is no more than an assemblage of reckless barbarians, shameless, remorseless, brutal, de- naturalized, with no other law than force, no other check than passion, no other bond than irreligion, no other God than self! Such would be the world which impiety would make. Such would be this world, were a belief in God and immortality to die out of the human heart. THE TEMPEST. J. T. FIELDS. E were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would daro to sleep,- |sMfc It was midnight on the waters ^^^'^ And a storm upon the deep. 'T is a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, " Cut away the mast !" So we shuddered there in silence, — For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring. And the breakers talked with Death. As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, " We are lost !" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 209 But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, " la n't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land ?" Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. UR birth ; 3 but ting ; sleep and a forget- The soul that rises with us, our life's star. Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness. And not in utter nakedness. But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home. Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy ; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,- He sees it in his joy. The youth who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest. And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended : At length the man perceives it die away. And fade into the light of common day. Oh joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live. That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not, indeed, For that which is most worthy to be blest, — Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast, — Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things. Fallings from us, vanishings. Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized. High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised, — But for those first affections. Those shadowy recollections. Which, be they what they may. Are yet the fountain-light of all our day Are yet a master light of all our seeing, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. To perish never, — Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence in a season of calm weather. Though inland far we be. Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, — Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore. And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. -^^ SLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, And his face looked angry and red. " Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair, Along with the girls," he said. Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, With his head down on his breast, 210 DRIFTING. Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet That he loved, of all, the best. And Anthony Blair, seemed whimpering there, But the rogue only made believe ; For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls. And ogled them over his sleeve. DRIFTING. T. BUCHANAN READ ]Y soul to-day 1^^ Is far away Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote : — Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim. The mountains swim ; "While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles ; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits. Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; — With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals At peace I lie. Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day, so mild. Is Heaven's own child. With earth and ocean reconciled ; — The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keeh Over the rail My hand I trail Wichin the shadow of the sail, A joy intense. The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies. — O'erveiled with vines. She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Iler children, hid The cliffe amid. Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls. Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far off ships. Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows ;— This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. EUROPEAN GUIDES. 211 happy ship, To rise and dip, "With the blue crystal at your lip ! O happy crew, No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! With dreamful eyes My heart with you ' My spirit lies Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! Under the walls of Paradise ! EUROPEAN GUIDES. S. C. CLEMENS. ^UROPEAN guides know about enough English to tangle everything *^ up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know their story by heart, — the history of every statue, painting, cathe- dral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would, — and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts children to say " smart " things, and do absurd ones, and in other ways "show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstacies of admiration ! He gets so that he could not by a,ny possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. After we discovered this, we n&oer went into ecstacies any more, — ^we never admired anything, — we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the face of the sublimest wonders a guide had to dis- play. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those people savage, at times, but we, have never lost our serenity. The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, ajid throw more imbe- cility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural to him. The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as 212 EUROPEAN GUIDES. if he liad swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation, — full of impatience. He said : — " Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come ! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo! — write it himself! — write it wis his own hand I — come !" He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger : — What I tell you, genteelmen I Is it not so ? See ! handwriting Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself!" We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor examined the docu- ment very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any show of interest, — ■ *' Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this ?" " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" Another deliberate examination. " Ah, — did he write it himself, or, — or how ?" " He write it himself ! — Christopher Colombo ! he's own handwriting, write by himself!" Then the doctor laid the document down and said, — " Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that." " But zis is ze great Christo— ■" " I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out! — and if you haven't, drive on !" We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. Her had something which he thought would overcome U8. He said, — " Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us ! I show you beautiful, oh, mag- nificent bust Christopher Colombo ! — splendid, grand, magnificent !" He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it ivas beautiful, — and sprang back and struck an attitude : — " Ah, look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christopher Co- lombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal !" The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occasions : — " Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was ?" " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" EUROPEAN GUIDES. £13 "Christopher Colombo, — the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do ?" "Discover America! — discover America, oh, ze devil!" " Discover America ? No, — that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christo- pher Colombo, — pleasant name, — is — is he dead ?" " Oh, corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred year !" "What did he die of ?" " I do not know. I cannot tell," " Small-pox, think ?" " I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he die of." " Measles, likely ?" "Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of something." " Parents living ?" " Im-posseeble ! " Ah, — which is the bust an(i which is the pedestal ?" " Santa Maria ! — zis ze bust I — zis ze pedestal !" " Ah, I see, I see, — happy combination, — very happy combination indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust ?" That joke was lost on the foreigner, — guides cannot master the sub- tleties of the American joke. We have made it interesting for this Eoman guide. Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure ; we never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he con- sidered to be his greatest wonder till the last, — a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him : — " See, genteelmen ! — Mummy ! Mummy !" The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. " Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say the gentleman's name was ?" " Name ? — he got no name ! — mummy ! — 'Gyptian mummy I" " Yes, yes. Born here ?" " No. 'Gyptian mummy." " Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ?" 214 THANATOPSIS. Playing us Trying to "No! — not Frenchman, not Roman! — born in Egypta !" " Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, likely. Mummy, — mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed ! Is — ah ! — is he dead ?" "Oh, sacre bleu! been dead three thousan' year !" The doctor turned on him savagely : — " Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this ? for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn ! impose your vile, second-hand carcasses on us ! Thunder and lightning ! I've a mind to — to — if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out ! — or, by George, we'll brain you!" We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. However, he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored, as well as he could to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observa- tion was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to say. Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering, subj ect we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts. THANATOPSIS. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ^MBO him, who, in the love of Nature, ^Mm toids f' Communion with her visible forms, l» she speaks , A various language: for his gayer ^ hours J She has a voice of gladness and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight •Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist ' To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds CommunioQ with her visible forms, she speakc A irarinna lancrnaae' TIIANATOrSIS. 215 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements ; To be a brother to the insensible rock. And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak THE VE^'EEABLE WOODS. Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world, — with The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 1) Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings. — Yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep,— the dead reign there alone ! So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou with- draw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men — The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off — Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. 216 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his coucli About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. HORACE SMITH. ffijfgsN Broad Street buildings (on a winter night), ^\jM| Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet rolled up in fleecy hose, J With t'other he'd beneath his nose The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing. He noted all the sales of hops. Ships, shops, and slops ; Gum, galls, and groceries ; ginger, gin. Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin ; Wlien lo ! a decent personage in black. Entered and most politely said — " Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar, which I Observed in passing by ; And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks!" the gouty man replied ; " You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ; — " Ten thousand thanks how very few do get. In time of danger. Such kind attention from a stranger ! Assuredly, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf,) That there's no soul at home except my- self." "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave,) " Then he's a double knave: He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors ; And see, how easily might one Of these domestic foes, Even beneath your very nose. Perform his knavish tricks: Enter your room as I have done. Blow out your candles — thus — and thus — Pocket your silver candlesticks : And — walk off — thus " — So said, so done ; he made no more remark Nor waited for replies, But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. THE PAUPERS DEATH-BED. MRS. C. B. SOUTHEY. iipREAD softly, bow the head ; MS In reverent silence bow ; reii? No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. I- Stranger ! however great. With lowly reverence bow There's one in that poor shed, One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state j Enter — no crowds attend ; Enter — no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands. Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. MOUSE-HUNTING. 217 No mingling voices sound — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppressed — again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh, change ! — Oh, wondrous change Burst are the prison bars— This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars ! Oh, change — stupendous change I There lies the soulless clod ! The sun eternal breaks — The new immortal wakes — Wakes with his God 1 MO USE-HUNTING. B. P. SHILLABER. ppT was midnight, deep and still, in the mansion of Mrs. Partington, — ^as fs^ it was, very generally, about town, — on a cold night in March. So profound was the silence that it awakened Mrs. P., and she raised * herself upon her elbow to listen. No sound greeted her ears, save 1 the tick of the old wooden clock in the next room, which stood there ^ in the dark, like an old crone, whispering and gibbering to itself. Mrs. Partington relapsed beneath the folds of the blankets, and had one eye again well-coaxed towards the realm of dreams, while the other was holding by a very frail tenure upon the world of reality, when her ear was saluted by the nibble of a mouse, directly beneath her chamber window, and the mouse was evidently gnawing her chamber carpet. Now, if there is an animal in the catalogue of creation that she dreads and detests, it is a mouse ; and she has a vague and indefinite idea that rats and mice wp-re made with especial regard to her individual torment. As she heard the sound of the nibble by the window, she arose again upon her elbow, and cried " Shoo ! Shoo !" energetically, several times. The sound ceased, and she fondly fancied that her trouble was over. Again she laid herself away as carefully as she would have lain eggs at forty-five cents a dozen, when— m66^^, nibble, nibble ! — she once more heard the odious sound by the window. " Shoo !" cried the old lady again, at the same time hurling her shoe at the spot from whence the sound proceeded, where the little midnight marauder was carrying on his depredations. A Hght burned upon the hearth — she couldn't sleep without a light, — and she strained her eyes in vain to catch a glimpse of her tormentor play- ing about amid the shadows of the room. All again was silent, and the clock, giving an admonitory tremble, struck twelve. Midnight! and Mrs. Partington counted the tintinabulous knots as they ran ofi" the reel of Time, with a saddened heart. 218 MOUSE-HUNTING. Nibble, nibble, nibble! — again that sound. The old lady sighed as she hurled the other shoe at her invisible annoyance. It was all without avail, and "shooing" was bootless, for the sound came again to her wakeful ear. At this point her patience gave out, and, conquering her dread of the cold, she arose and opened the door of her room that led to a corridor, when, taking the light in one hand, and a shoe in the other, she made the circuit of the room, and explored every nook and cranny in which a mouse could ensconse himself. She looked under the bed, and under the old chest of drawers, and under the wash-stand, and " shooed " until she could "shoo " no more. The reader's own imagination, if he has an imagination skilled in limning, must draw the picture of the old lady while upon this exploring expedition, " accoutred as she was," in search of the ridiculous mouse. We have our own opinion upon the subject, and must say, — with all due deference to the years and virtues of Mrs. P., and with all regard for personal attrac- tions very striking in one of her years, — we should judge that she cut a very queer figure, indeed. Satisfying herself that the mouse must have left the room, she closed the door, deposited the light upon the hearth, and again sought repose. How gratefully a warm bed feels, when exposure to the night air has chilled us, as we crawl to its enfolding covert ! How we nestle down, like an infant by its mother's breast, and own no joy superior to that we feel, — coveting no regal luxury while revelling in the elysium of feathers ! So felt Mrs. P., as she again ensconsed herself in bed. The clock in the next room struck one. She was again near the attainment of the state when dreams are rife, when, close by her chamber-door, outside she heard that hateful nibble renewed which had marred her peace before. With a groan she arose, and, seizing her lamp, she opened the door, and had the satisfaction to hear the mouse drop, step by step, until he reached the floor below. Convinced that she was now rid of him for the night, she returned to bed, and ad- dressed herself to sleep. The room grew dim ; in the weariness of her spirit, the chest of drawers in the corner was fast losing its identity and becoming something else ; in a moment more — nibble, nibble, nibble ! again outside of the chamber-door, as the clock in the next room struck two. Anger, disappointment, desperation, fired her mind with a new deter- mination. Once more she arose, but this time she put on a shoe ! — her dexter shoe. Ominous movement ! It is said that when a woman wets her finger, fleas had better flee. The star of that mouse's destiny was set- ting, and was now near the horizon. She opened the door quickly, and, DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. 219 as she listened a moment, she heard him drop again from stair to stair, on a speedy passage down. The entry below was closely secured, and no door was open to admit of his escape. This she knew, and a triumphant gleam shot athwart her features, revealed by the rays of the lamp. She went slowly down the stairs, until she arrived at the floor below, where, snugly in a corner, with his little bead-like black eyes looking up at her roguishly, was the gnawer of her carpet, and the annoyer of her comfort. She moved towards him, and he not coveting the closer acquaintance, darted by her. She pursued him to the other end of the entry, and again he passed by her. Again and again she pursued him, with no better success. At last, when in most doubt as to which side would conquer, Fortune perched upon the banister, turned the scale in favor of Mrs. P. The mouse, in an attempt to run by her, presumed too much upon former success. He came too near her upraised foot. It fell upon his musipilar beauties, like an avalanche of snow upon a new tile, and he was dead forever ! Mrs. Partington gazed upon him as he lay before her. Though she was glad at the result, she could but sigh at the necessity which impelled the violence; but for which the mouse might have long continued a blessing to the society in which he moved. Slowly and sadly she marched up stairs, With her shoe all sullied and gory ; And the watch, who saw't through the front door squares, Told us this part of the story. That mouse did not trouble Mrs. Partington again that night, and the old clock in the next room struck three before sleep again visited the eye- lids of the relict of Corporal Paul. DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. CARLOS WILCOX. ^§OULDST thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with ..».>. woes untold ? f Balm wouldst thou gather from ¥ corroding grief? j Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold. *Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty ; not when, all un- roll'd. Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers. 220 TO THE SILENT RIVER. Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy number'd hours To take their swift and everlasting flight ; "Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd ; Do something — do it soon — with all thy might ; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself, inactive, were no longer blest. Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food. And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue. With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely kind ; Strength to complete, and with delight review. And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit To light on man as from the passing air ; The lamp of genius, though by nature lit. If not protected, pruned, and fed with care. Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; And learning is a plant that spreads and towers Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare. That 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given To them that idly worship hills and groveSj And burn sweet incense to the queen of hea- ven? Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, To measure worlds, and follow where each Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves ? Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece? Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would ap- pear But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim Thy want of worth, — a charge thou couldst not hear From other lips, without a blush of shame. Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame. And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd, Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know ; Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hand, unsparing and unwearied, sow Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flow'rs, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. TO THE SILENT RIVER. H. W. LONGFELLOW. ^IVER that in silence windest ^^ Through the meadows bright and ~ '\, free, "Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the sea ! Four long years of mingled feeling. Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life. TO THE SILENT RIVER Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! Many a lesson deep and long ; Thou hast been a generous giver ; I can give thee but a song. Oft in sadness, and in illness I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide, 222 SONG OF THE BROOK. And in bitter hours and brighter, When 1 saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter. And leap forward with thy stream. Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee. And have made thy margin dear. Friends my soul with joy remembers ! How like quivering flames they start. When I fan the living embers On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 'Tis for this, then, Silent River ! That my spirit leans to thee ; Thou hast been a generous giver. Take this idle song from me. SONG OF THE BROOK. ALFRED TENNYSON. ^JP COME from haunts of coot and hern |M I make a sudden sally ^p And sparkle out among the fern, 4vh To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges. By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go. But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubl)le into eddying bays, I babble on the ])ebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow. And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go. But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out. With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 223 And draw them all along, and flow | I make the netted sunbeam dance To join the brimming river, ' Against my sandy shallows. For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I murmur under moon and star.s I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; ' I slide by hazel covers ; I love the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among rny skimming swallows ; In brambly wilder I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. CAUGHT IJS^ THE QUICKSAND. VICTOR HUGO. PpT sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on ^ the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for 2k several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The ^ strand beneath his feet is like pitch ; his soles stick in it ; it is sand 'X no longer ; it is glue. si The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change ; the immense strand is smooth and tran- quil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so ; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious. Anxious about what ? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in. He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right road ; he stops to take his bearings ; now he looks at his feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand ; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes -up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the left — the sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right ; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible 224 THE ORIENT. medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, Hghtens himself as a ship in distress ; it is already too late ; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief ; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over. He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten ; which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which draws you by the feet ; which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep ; every movement he makes inters him ; he straightens up, he sinks in ; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs. Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand 'reaches his breast ; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath ; sobs frenziedly ; the sand rises ; the sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches his neck ; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it — silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them — night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand ; a hand comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave. THE ORIENT. FEOM BYRON S " BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 'now ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle. Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine : Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume. Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in hf r bloom! Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute. Where tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie. And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; THE MORAVIAN REQUIEM. 225 "Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit- of man, is divine ? 'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of the Sun, — Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 0, wild as the accents of lover's farewell Are the hearts which they bear and the tales which they tell ! ABOU BEN ADEEM. LEIGH HUNT. ^^BOU Ben Adhem,— may his tribe in- ' R»„ crease,— Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace. And saw, within the moonlight in his room, "*" Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. And to the Presence in the room he said, " What writesi thou ?" The vision raised its head. And with a look made all of sweet accord. Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." " And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then. Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light. And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd ; And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. THE MORA VI AN REQUIEM. HARRIET B. M KEEVER. It is customary with the Moravians at Bethleliem, Pa., to announce the decease of a member of their com- munion, from tlie tower of the church adjoining the cemetery, by three appropriate strains of melody rendered by a trombone band. The closing strains designate the age and se.\ of the departed one. I heard it for the first time at sunset, in the cemetery, unexpectedly ; the efiect was indescribable ; the custom is beautiful, sweetly ex- pressive of loving brotherhood. |B^T twilight hour, when mem'ry's power ^fe Wakes up the visions of the buried past, . From earth retreating, soft silence i greeting, J I wandered, where the weary rest at last. The sun retiring, sad thoughts inspiring, I mused in solemn silence 'mid the dead; When softly stealing, death's call reveal- ing. Sounds of low wailing from the tower 226 THE MISER. First faintly swelling, the tidings telling, lu notes of tenderest sorrow, one has gone ; We've lost another, a youthful brother ; Mourn for a home bereft, a spirit flown. The notes of anguish first seem to lan- guish, Like to the moaning of a parting sigh ; Then raptured swelling, a tale they're tell- ing, Of triumph over death, of victory. "Farewell to sorrow ! TU'wake to-morrow, When the long slumber of the tomb ia o'er; Then rising glorious, o'er death victorious, We'll meet, we'll meet, where partings are no more." Thus wails the trombone, and as its soft tone Breathes a sad requiem for death's fre- quent calls, 'Tis sweet to render this tribute tender, Whene'er a brother from among us falls. THE MISER. GEORGE W. CUTTER. ^^N old man sat by a fireless hearth, i^ Though the night was dark and chill, And mournfully over the frozen earth The wind sobbed loud and shrill. His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray, And dim, but not with tears ; And his skeleton form had wasted away With penury, more than years. A rush-light was casting its fitful glare O'er the damp and dingy walls. Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair. And the venomous spider crawls ; But the meanest thing in this lonesome room Was the raiser worn and bare, Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb. On his broken and only chair. He had bolted the window and barred the door. And every nook had scanned ; And felt the fastening o'er and o'er. With his cold and skinny hand ; And yet he sat gazing intently round, And trembled with silent fear. And started and shuddered at every sound That fell on his coward ear. " Ha, ha !" laughed the miser: " I'm safe at last From this night so cold and drear. From the drenching rain and driving blast. With my gold and treasures here. I am cold and wet with the icy rain. And my health is bad, 'tis true ; Yet if I sliould light that fire again. It would cost me a cent or two. THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. 227 " But I'll take a sip of the precious wine : It will banish my cold and fears: It was given long since by a friend of mine — lie turned to an old worm-eaten chest, And cautiously raised the lid, And then it shone like the clouds of the I have kept it for many years." So he drew a flask from a mouldy nook, And drank of its ruby tide ; And his eyes grew bright with each draught he took, And his bosom swelled with pride. west, With the sun in their splendor hid : And gem after gem, in precious store, Are raised with exulting smile ; And he counted and counted them o'er and o'er. " Let me see ; let me see !" said the miser In many a glittering pile. then, " 'Tis some sixty years or more Since the happy hour when I began To heap up the glittering store ; And well have I sped with my anxious toil. Why comes the flush to his pallid brow. While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? Why writhes he thus in such torture now? What was there in the wine ? As my crowded chest will show : I've more than would ransom a kingdom's He strove his lonely seat to gain ; To crawl to his nest he tried ; spoil. Or an emperor could bestow." But finding his efforts all in vain, He clasped his gold, and — died. THE POOR INDIAN! W^ KNOW him by his falcon eye, ^Ip His raven tress and mien of pride ; Si| Those dingy draperies, as they fly, |i© Tell that a great soul throbs inside ! 'ki No eagle-feathered crown he wears, 1 Capping in pride his kingly brow ; ' But his crownlesss hat in grief de- clares, " I am an unthroned monarch now !" ' noble son of a royal line !" I exclaim, as I gaze into his face, " How shall I knit my soul to thine ? How right the wrongs of thine injured race? " What shall I do for thee, glorious one? To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. Speak ! and say how the Saxon's son May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires !" He speaks, he speaks ! — that noble chief! From his marble lips deep accents come ; And I catch the sound of his mighty grief, — " Pie gi' me tree cent for git some rum!" THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. EDMUND BURKE. ||iO be honored and even privileged by tlie laws, opinions, and in- ^ veterate usages of our country, growing out of the prejudice of ages, has nothing to provoke horror and indignation in any man. Even to be too tenacious of those privileges is not absolutely a crime. The strong struggle in every individual to preserve posses- sion of what he has found to belong to him, and to distinguish him, is 228 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. one of the securities against injustice and des- potism implanted in our nature. It operates as an instinct to secure property, and to preserve communities in a settled state. What is there to shock in this? Nobility is a graceful orna- ment to the civil order. It is the Corinthian capital of polished society. Omnes honi nohili- tati semper favemus, was the saying of a wise and good man. It is, indeed, one sign of a liberal and benevolent mind to incline to it with some sort of partial propensity. He feels no ennobling principle in his own heart who wishes to level all the artificial institutions which have been adopted for giving a body to opinion and permanence to fugitive esteem. It is a sour, malignant, and envious disposition, without taste for the reality, or for any image or representa- tion of virtue, that sees with joy the unmerited fall of what had long flourished in splendor and in honor, to see anything destroyed, any void produced in society, any face of the land. I do not like on the THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE- GFINDEB. GEORGE CANNING. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 6™vM,w;pEEDY knife-erinder ! whither are ^iMiS you going ? Rough is the road; your wheel is [ out of order. ..I Bleak blows the blast; — your hat I has got a hole in't; T So have your breeches ! Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- road, What hard work 't is crying all day " Knives and Scissors to grind !" Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives ? Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney ? Was it the squire for killing of his game? or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit ? (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story. MOTHERHOOD. 229 KNIFE-GRINDER. Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into Custody ; they took me before the justice ; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-stocks For a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee dead first, — Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance, — Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded. Spiritless outcast ! [Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthu- siasm and universal philanthropy .] TWO LITTLE KITTENS. KWO little kittens, one stormy night, 1^ Began to quarrel and then to fight ; 3>^ One had a mouse, the other had none, And that was the way the quarrel begun. " ril have that mouse," said the biggest cat. You'll have that mouse, we'll see about that." " I will have that mouse," said the eldest son. " You shant have that mouse," said the little one. I told you before 'twas a stormy night When these two little kittens began to fight ; The old woman seized her sweeping-broom And swept the two kittens right out of the room. The ground was covered with frost and snow. And the two little kittens had nowhere to go, So they laid them down on the mat at the door. While the old woman finished sweeping the floor. Then they both crept in, as quiet as mice. All wet with snow and cold as ice ; For they found it was better, that stormy night, To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel and fight. MOTHERHOOD. \Y neighbor's house is not so big! Nor half so nice as mine ; ^ I often see the blind ajar. And tho' the curtain's fine, 'Tis only muslin, and the steps Are not of stone at all, And yet I long for her small home To give mine all in all. 230 TJIE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. Her lawn is never left to grow, The children tread it down, And when the father comes at night I hear them clatter down The gravel walk — and such a noise. Comes to my listening ears, As my sad heart's been waiting for So many silent years. Sometimes I peep to see them Seize his coat, and hand, and knees, All three so eager to be first. And hear her call, " Don't teaze. Papa !" the baby springs — And then the low brown door Shuts in their happiness — and I Sit wishing as before. That my neighbor's little cottage, And the jewels of her crown Had been my own — my mansion With its front of freestone brown, Its damask, and its Honiton, Its lawn so green and bright. How gladly would I give them. For her motherhood, to-night. TRUST. JOHN G. WHITTIER. |,| PICTURE memory brings to me : I look across the years and see Myself beside my mother's knee. I feel her gentle hand restrain My selfish moods, and know again A child's blind sense of wrong and pai But wiser now, a man gray grown, My childhood's needs are better known My mother's chastening love I own. Gray grown, but in our Father's sight A child still groping for the light To read his works and ways aright. I bow myself beneath his hand ; That pain itself for good was planned, I trust, but cannot understand. I fondly dream it needs must be. That as my mother dealt with me, So with His children dealeth He. BIRTH-PLACE OF WHITTIER. I wait, and trust the end will prove That here and there, below, above. The chastening heals, the pain is love ! THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. FELICIA HEMANS. |W0 barks met on the deep mid-sea. When calms had stilled the tide ; ®Y A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side. And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth ; And sweetly floated o'er the wave The melodies of earth. Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept ; While dancing step and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept. BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. 231 And hands were linked, and answering eyes And proudly, freely on their way With kindly meaning shone ; j The parting ve-^els bore ; 0, brief and passing sympathies, I In calm or storm, by rock or bay. Like leaves together blown ! j To meetr— 0, nevermore ! A little while such joy was cast Never to blend in victory's cheer, Over the deep's repose, ' To aid in hours of woe ; Till the loud singing winds at last And thus bright spirits mingle here. Like trumpet music rose. i Such ties are formed below. BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. , '•>-Y"^ ■ l^pAD it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of succession, I l^i should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the mediocrity ^ T of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family ; I should have I I left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can be viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and every liberal accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon that provision which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied every deficiency, and symmetrized every disproportion. It would not have been for that successor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of merit in me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient living spring of generous and manly action. Every day he lived, he would have pur- chased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if ten times more he had received. He was made a public creature, and had no enjoyment whatever but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. But a Disposer, whose power we are little able to resist, and whose wis- dom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another manner, and — whatever my querulous weakness might suggest — a far better. The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honors ; I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth ! There, and prostrate there, I most unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, and in some degree submit to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate men. The patience of Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive struggles of 16 232 THE DOVE-COTE. our irritable nature, he submitted himself, and repented in dust and ashes. But even so, I do not find him blamed for reprehending, and with a con- siderable degree of verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbors of his who visited his dung-hill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his misery. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. In- deed, my lord, I greatly deceive myself, if in this hard season I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honor in the world. This is the appetite but of a few. It is a luxury, it is a privilege ; it is an indulgence for those who are at their ease. But we are all of us made to shun disgrace, as we are made to shrink from pain, and poverty, and diseag-e. It is an instinct : and under the direction of reason, instinct is always in the right. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me are gone before me ; they who should have been to me as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation — which ever must subsist in memory — that act of piety which he would have performed to me ; I owe it to him to show, that he was not de- scended, as the Duke of Bedford would have it, from an unworthy parent. MILTON. T. B. MACAULAY. iiipO Milton, and to Milton alone, belonged the secrets of the great ^■^ deep, the beach of sulphur, the ocean of fire; the palaces of the fallen dominations, glimmering through the everlasting shade, the silent wilderness of verdure and fragrance where armed angels kept watch over the sleep of the first lovers, the portico of dia- mond, the sea of jasper, the sapphire pavement empurpled with celestial roses, and the infinite ranks of the Cherubim, blazing with adamant and gold. THE DOVE-COTE. AUNT EFFIES RHYMES. ^ERY high in the dove-cote The little Turtle Dove Made a pretty nursery To please her little love. She was gentle, she was soft, And her large dark eye Often turned to her mate, Who was sitting close by. " Coo," said the Turtle Dove, " Coo," said she, THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST. 233 • Oh, I love thee," said the Turtle Dove, " And I love thee." 'Neath the long shady branches Of the dark pine tree. How happy were the doves In their little nursery ! The young Turtle Doves Never quarreled in their nest ; For they dearly loved each other. Though they loved their mother best. " Coo," said the Turtle Doves, " Coo," said she. And they played together kindly In their little nursery. Is this nursery of yours, Little sister, little brother, Like the Turtle Dove's nest? — Do you love one another ? Are you kind, are you gentle, As children ought to be ? Then the happiest of nests Is your own nursery. PATRIOTISM. SIR WALTER SCOTT. SREATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said. This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf. The wretch, concentred all in self, Living shall forfeit fair renown. And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST. MRS. E. PRENTISS. WALK along the crowded streets, and mark The eager, anxious, troubled faces ; Wondering what this man seeks, what ^ that heart craves, In earthly places. Do I want anything that they are want- ing? Is each of them my brother ? Could we hold fellowship, speak heart to heart. Each to the other ? 234 SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. Nay, but I know not! only this I know, And in the awful loneliness of crowds That sometimes merely crossing Another's path, where life's tumultuous waves I am not lonely. Ah, what a life is theirs who live in Christ ; Are ever tossing. How vast the mystery ! Reaching in height to heaven, and in its He, as He passes, whispers in mine ear One magic sentence only. depth The unfathomed sea. ROLL ON, THOU SUN. ANONYMOUS. I^^OLL on, thou Sun, forever roll, M^ Thou giant, rushing through the heaven! Creation's wonder, nature's soul. Thy golden wheels by angels driven ! The planets die without thy blaze, And cherubim, with star-dropt wing. Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays, Thou brightest emblem of their king ! Roll, lovely Earth, and still roll on. With ocean's azure beauty bound ; While one sweet star, the pearly moon, Pursues thee through the blue profound ; And angels, with delighted eyes. Behold thy tints of mount and stream, From the high walls of Paradise, Swift wheeling like a glorious dream. Roll, Planets ! on your dazzling read, Forever sweeping round the sun ! What eye beheld when first ye glowed ? What eye shall see your courses done ? Roll in your solemn majesty. Ye deathless splendors of the skies ! High altars, from which angels see The incense of creation rise. Roll, Comets ! and ye million Stars ! Ye that through boundless nature roam ; Ye monarchs on your flame-wing cars ; Tell us in what more glorious dome, — What orbs to which your pomps are dim. What kingdom but by angels trod, — Tell us where swells the eternal hymn Around His throne where dwells your God? SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. CHARLES TARSON. IT is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter of a mile above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock — caught on the very verge of the Falls. Scarcely willing ig) believe his SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 235 own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. The terrible news spreads hke Hghtning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surround- ing shores are covered with thousands of spectators. " Who is he?" "How did he get there ?" are questions every person proposed, but answered by none. No voice is heard above the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals exceed the eloquence of words ; they are irresistible, and something must be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. A large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to Buffalo a car is dispatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel- bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-boat is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. One breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave sends it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a tear of pity on the scene. The silvery stars shine dimly through the cur- tain of blue. The multitude are gone, and the suffer^ is left with his God. Long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss ; he clings to that rock with all the tenacity of life, and as he surveys the horrors of his position, strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He sees his home, his wife and children there ; he sees the home of his child- hood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast ; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers and curses die upon his lips. No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the scene of horror. Soon a shout is heard : he is there — he is still alive ! Just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes to the most favorable point of observation. She had driven from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed the river, night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her, fixed upon the object than she shrieks, "Oh, my husband!" and sinks senseless to the 236 THE SOLDIER'S I'AUDON. earth. The excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, and something must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer has clung for the last forty- eight hours. He instantly throws himself full length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little bark is watched, as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound coast ? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as the grave. His wife sees it, and is only restrained by force from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has spread his wings over that little bark ; the poor man's strength is almost gone ; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, above Niagara's eternal roar, ''Lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of man. THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. JAMES SMITH. ?ILD blew the gale in Gibraltar one I Oh ! sad was the thought to a man that had ^ night, fought As a soldier lay stretched in his 'Mid the ranks of the gallant and cell ; i brave, — And anon, 'mid the darkness, the I To be shot through the breast at a coward's moon's silver light ] behest. On his countenance dreamily fell, i And laid low in a criminal's grave ! Nought could she reveal, but a man true as , gteel I The night call had sounded, when Joe wa^s That oft for his country had bled ; , aroused And the glance of his eye might the grim By a step at the door of his cell ; king defy, ! ' Twas a comrade with whom he had often For despair, fear, and trembling had fled. \ caroused, j That now entered to bid him farewell. But in rage he had struck a well-merited ' " Ah, Tom ! is it you come to bid me blow I adieu ? At a tyrant who held him in scorn ; I 'Tis kind my lad ! give me your hand ! And his fate soon was sealed, for alas ! I Nay — nay — don't get wild, man, and make honest Joe ! me a child ! — "Was to die on the following morn. I'll be soon in a happier land !" LONDON CHURCHES. 237 With hands clasped in silence, Tom mourn- fully said, " Have you any request, Joe, to make ? — Remember by me 'twill be fully obeyed : Can I anything do for your sake ?" When it's over, to-morrow !" he said, filled with sorrow, " Send this token to her whom I've sworn All my fond love to share !" — 'twas a lock of his hair, And a prayer-book, all faded and worn. "Here's this watch for my mother* and when you write home," And he dashed a bright tear from his eye — " Say I died with my heart in old Devon- shire, Tom, Like a man, and a soldier ! — Good bye !" Then the sergeant on guard, at the grating appeared. And poor Tom had to leave the cold cell. By the moon's waning light, with a husky " Good-night ! God be with you, dear comrade ! — fare- well !" Gray dawned the morn in a dull cloudy sky, When the blast of a bugle resounded ; And Joe ever fearless, went forward to die, By the hearts of true heroes surrounded. " Shoulder arms " was the cry as the pris- oner passed by : " To the right about — march !" was the word; And their pale faces proved how their com- rade was loved, And by all his brave fellows adored. Right onward they marched to the dread field of doom : Sternly silent, they covered the ground ; Then they formed into line amid sadness and gloom, While the prisoner looked calmly around. Then soft on the air rose the accents of prayer, And faint tolled the solemn death-knell. As he stood on the sand, and with uplifted hand, Waved the long and the lasting farewell. " Make ready !" exclaimed an imperious voice: "Present!" struck a chill on each mind ; Ere the last word was spoke, Joe had cause to rejoice. For " Hold ! — hold !" cried a voice from behind. Then wild was the joy of them all, man and boy. As a horseman cried, "Mercy! — Forbear!" With a thrilling " Hurrah ! a free pardon ! huzzah !" And the muskets rang loud in the air. Soon the comrades were locked in each other's embrace : No more stood the brave soldiers dumb : With a loud cheer they wheeled to the right- about-face, Then away at the sound of the drum I And a brighter day dawned in sweet Devon's fair land. Where the lovers met never to part ; And he gave her a token — true, warm, and unbroken — The gift of his own gallant heart I LONDON CHURCHES. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. STOOD, one Sunday morning. Before a large church door. The congregation gathered And carriages a score, — From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before. Her hand was on a prayer-book, And held a vinaigrette ; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set, — But above the Cross there glistened A golden Coronet. 238 LONDON CHURCHES. THE OLD CHUECH. For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide, Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide, — There might be good thoughts in her For all her evil pride. But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within On whose wan face was graven Life's hardest discipline, — The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin. The fow free-seats were crowded Where she could rest and pray ; With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array, — God's house holds no poor sinners. She sighed, and crept away. CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. 239 CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. GEORGE CROLY. f^^p PORTAL of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle ^^^ thrown over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. "^^^^ The lion roared and ramped against the bars of his den at the f sight. The guard put a sword and buckler into the hands of the I Christian, and he was left alone. He drew the mantle from his face, and bent a slow and firm look around the amphitheatre. His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised a universal shout of admira- tion. He might have stood for an Apollo encountering the Python, His eye at last turned on mine. Could I believe my senses? Constantius was before me. All my rancor vanished. An hour past I could have struck the be- trayer to the heart, — I could have called on the severest vengeance of man and heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hopelessly doomed, the man whom I had honored for his noble qualities, whom I had even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of giving way to the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of man; to see that noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn piecemeal before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I would have obtested heaven and earth to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would have thrown myself at the feet of Nero ; but I sat like a man of stone — pale — paralyzed — the beating of my pulse stopped — my eyes alone alive. The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a roar and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword glitter in the air : when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the lar- gest from Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of prodigious power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of his prey, crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim's throat. He was met by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible, A cry of natural horror rang round the amphitheatre. The struggle was now for an instant, life or death. They rolled over each other ; the lion, reared upon his hind feet, with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the man ; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. The sword now swung around the champion's head in bloody circles. They fell again, covered with blood and dust. The hand of Constantius had 240 CONSTANTiUS AND THE LION. o-rasped the lion's mane, and the furious bounds of the monster could not loose his hold ; but his strength was evidently giving way, — he still struck his terrible blows, but each was weaker than the one before ; till, collecting his whole force for a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion's throat, and sank. The savage beast yelled, and spouting out blood, fled howling around the arena. But the hand still grasped the mane, and the conqueror was dragged whirling through the dust at his heels. A uni- versal outcry now arose to save him, if he were not already dead. But the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was still too terrible, and all shrank from the hazard. At last the grasp gave way, and the body lay motionless on the ground. What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a struggle at the portal ; a female forced her way through the guards, and flung herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused the lion ; he tore the ground with his talons ; he lashed his streaming sides with his tail ; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs ; but his approaching was no longer with a bound ; he dreaded the sword, and came snuflSing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still diminishing. The confusion in the ' vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into indignant clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign. I looked upon the woman's face ; it was Salome ! I sprang upon my feet. I called on her name, — called on her, by every feeling of nature, to fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies of all that loved her. She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, and, calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon me. She still knelt ; one hand supported the head, — with the other she pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the silence of death among the thousands around me. A fire flashed into her eye, — her cheek burned, — she waved her hand with an air of superb sorrow. " I am come to die," she uttered, in a lofty tone. " This bleeding body was my husband, — I have no father. The world contains to me but this clay in my arms. Yet," and she kissed the ashy lips before her, " yet, my A PSALM OF LIFE. 241 I Constantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied the peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil that you abandoned your quiet home ! — Yes, cruel father, here lies the noble being that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the conflagration, that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how he might serve and protect you. Tears at length fell in floods from her eyes. " But," said she, in a tone of wild power, " he was betrayed, and may the Power whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down just retribution upon the head that dared " — I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of my own child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side, The height stunned me ; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of his white fangs above. An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck, — gore filled his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high in the air with a howl. He dropped ; he was dead. The amphitheatre thundered with acclamations. "With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the ground. The roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards ; the portal was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with garlands from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the arena. A PSALM OF LIFE. iJUlpELL me not, in mournful numbers, ^1^ Life is but an empty dream ! 4^:;^ For the soul is dead that slumbers, X And things are not what they Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting. And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. 242 TO NIGHT. In the world's broad field of battle, And, departing, leave behind us In the bivouac of Life, Footprints on the sands of time ; — Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Seeing, shall take heart again. Act, — act in the living Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Let us, then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate ; Lives of great men all remind us Still achieving, still pursuing. We can make our lives sublime. Learn to labor and to wait. BLESSED ABE THEY THAT MOURN: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. DEEM not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears ; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, — Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day. And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children sufi'er here. TO NIGHT PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. pWIFTLY walk over the western wave. Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave. Where all the long and lone daylight. Thou weav est dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight ! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought ! Blind with thy hair the eyes of day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand — Come, long-sought ! NIGHT. SNOW-FLAKES. 243 When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee ! When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on floor and tree. And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering, like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee ! Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me ? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. Murmured like a noontide bee. Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied. No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon, — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! BURIED TO-DAY. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. Ij^URIED to-day. ^^^ When the soft green buds are burst- ing out. And up on the south-wind comes a shout Of village boys and girls at play In the mild spring evening gray. Taken away Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, From eyes that drew half their light from him, And put low, low underneath the clay, In his spring, — on this sprin;^ day Passes away. All the pride of boy-life begun, All the hope of life yet to run ; Who dares to question when One "Nay." Murmur not, — only pray. saith Enters to-day Another body in churchyard sod. Another soul on the life in God. His Christ was buried — and lives alway : Trust Him, and go your way. SNOW-FLAKES. HARRIET B. M KEEVER. lEAUTIFUL snow! beautiful snow! Falling so lightly, Daily and nightly. Alike round the dwelling of lofty and low. Horses are prancing, Children are dancing, Stirr'd by the spirit that comes with the snow. Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! Atmosphere chilling. Carriage wheels stilling. Warming the cold earth, and kindling the glow Of Christian pity For the great city. For wretched creatures, who freeze 'mid the snow. Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! Fierce the wind blowing. Deep the drifts strowing. Night gathers round us, how warm the red 244 THE OLD WIFE'8 KISS. Of the fire so bright, In that sweet eventide, On the cold winter night, (j^^^^^^ ^^ gather, though keen the wind m draw in the curtains, to shut out the i i , I Safely defended. Beautiful snow! beautiful snow | Kindly befriended. Round the dear fireside, | Pity the houseless, exposed to the snow. TRU OLD WIFE'S KISS. [pHE funeral services were ended ; and as the voice of prayer ceased, .^. ^^^ tears were hastily wiped from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs # I relieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the mourners prepared <i to take leave of the corpse. It was an old man who lay there, |. robed for the grave. More than three-score years had whitened those J locks, and furrowed that brow, and made those stiff limbs weary of life's journey, and the more willing to be at rest where weariness is no longer a burden. The aged have few to weep for them when they die. The most of those who would have mourned their loss have gone to the grave before them ; harps that would have sighed sad harmonies are shattered and gone ; and the few that remain are looking cradleward, rather than to life's closing goal ; are bound to and living in the generation rising, more than in the generation departing. Youth and beauty have many admirers while living, — have many mourners when dying, — and many tearful ones bend over their coffined clay, many sad hearts follow in their funeral train ! but age has few admirers, few mourners. This was an old man, and the circle of mourners was _ small : two children, who had themselves passed the middle of life, and who had children of their own to care for and be cared for by them. Beside these, and a few friends who had seen and visited him while he was sick, and possibly had known him for a few years, there were none others to shed a tear, except his old wife ; and of this small company, the old wife seemed to be the only heart- mourner. It is respectful for his friends to be sad a few moments, till the service is performed and the hearse is out of sight. It is very proper and suitable for children, who have out- grown the fervency and affection of youth, to shed tears when an aged parent says farewell, and lies down to quiet slumber. Some regrets, some recollection of the past, some transitory griefs, and the pangs are over. THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. 245 The old wife arose with difl&culty from her seat, and went to the coffin to look her last look — to take her last farewell. Through the fast falling tears she gazed long and fondly down into the pale, unconscious face. What did she see there ? Others saw nothing but the rigid features of the dead ; she saw more. In every wrinkle of that brow she read the history of years ; from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, in joy and sorrow, in sickness and health, it was all there ; when those chil- dren, who had not quite outgrown the sympathies of childhood, were infants lying on her bosom, and every year since then — there it was. To others those dull, mute monitors were unintelligible ; to her they were the alphabet of the heart, familiar as household words. Then the futui'e : " What will become of me ? What shall I do now?" She did not say so, but she felt it. The prospect of the old wife is clouded ; the home circle is broken, never to be reunited ; the visions of the hearth- stone are scattered forever. Up to that hour there was a home to which the heart always turned with fondness. That magic is now sundered, the key-stone of that sacred arch has fallen, and home is nowhere this side of heaven ! Shall she gather up the scattered fragments of the broken arch, make them her temple and her shrine, sit down in her chill solitude beside its expiring fires, and die ? What shall she do now ? They gently crowded her away from the dead, and the undertaker came forward, with the coffin-lid in his hand. It is all right and proper, of course, it must be done ; but to the heart-mourner it brings a kind of shudder, a thrill of agony. The undertaker stood for a moment, with a decent. pro- priety, not wishing to manifest rude haste, but evidently desirous of being as expeditious as possible. Just as he was about to close the coffin, the old wife turned back, and stooping down, imprinted one long, last kiss upon the cold lips of her dead husband, then staggered to her seat, buried her face in her hands, and the closing coffin hid him from her sight forever ! That kiss ! foii,d token of affection, and of sorrow, and memory, and farewell ! I have seen many kiss their dead, many such seals of love upon clay-cold lips, but never did I see one so purely sad, so simply heart- touching "and hopeless as that. Or, if it had hope, it was that which looks beyond coffins, and charnel-houses, and damp, dark tombs, to the joys of the home above. You would kiss the cold cheek of infancy ; there is poetry; it is beauty hushed ; there is romance there, for the faded flower is still beauti- ful. In childhood the heart yields to the stroke of sorrow, but recoils again with elastic faith, buoyant with hope ; but here was no beauty, no poetry, no romance. The heart of the old wife was like the weary swimmer, whose strength 17 246 MAIDENHOOD. has often raised him above the stormy waves, but now, exhausted, sinks amid the surges. The temple of her earthly hopes had fallen, and what was there left for her but to sit down in despondency, among its lonely ruins, and weep and die ! or, in the spirit of a better hope, await the dawning of another day, when a Hand divine shall gather its sacred dust, and rebuild for immortality its broken walls ! MAIDENHOOD. (^U^AIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, ^^^^ In whose orbs a shadow lies ^^S^ Like the dusk in evening skies ! T Thou whose locks outshine the sun, I Golden tresses, wreathed in one, ® As the braided streamlets run ! Standing with reluctant feet. Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Gazing, with a timid glance. On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem. As the river of a dream ! Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? O, thou child of many prayers ! Lifehalh quicksands, — Life hath snares ! Cat^e and age come unawares ! Bear a lily in thy hand ; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. . Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, i In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. THE BROOK SIDE. 247 THE BROOK SIDE. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. WANDERED by the brook side, I wandered by the mill ; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still : There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not — no he came not ; The night came on alone ; The little stars sat, one by one. Each on his golden throne : The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree ; I watched the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing. When something stood behind : A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind : It drew me nearer — nearer, We did not speak a word ; For the beating of our own hearia Was all the sound we heard. 248 ZEPII HIGGINS' CONFESSION. THE CATARACT OF LODORE. ROBERT SOUTUEY, (^I^OW does the water 1 Come down at Lodore ? ■A' From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell ; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills ; Through moss and through brake It runs and it creeps, For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade. And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Ilurry-skarry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling ; Now smoking and frothing, Its tumult and wrath in. Till, in this rapid race. On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. Zeph Higgins was quarrelsome, exacting, and stubborn to such a degree that he was repulsive to the village people. His first real trouble came in the death of li's loving, patient wife— whose last request was that he would put away all hard feelings, and make up his old feud with the church. 4 poGANUc peopl: NOTHING could be rougher and more rustic than the old school- Ki?Kg house, — its walls hung with cobwebs ; its rude slab benches and r desks hacked by many a schooolboy's knife ; the plain, ink-stained ^ pine table before the minister, with its two tallow candles, whose ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 249 dim rays scarcely gave light enough to read the hymns. There was nothing outward to express the real greatness of what was there in reality. From the moment the Doctor entered he was conscious of a present Power. There was a hush, a stillness, and the words of his prayer seemed to go out into an atmosphere thrilling with emotion, and when he rose to speak he saw the countenances of his parishioners with that change upon them which comes from the waking up of the soul to higher things. Hard, weather-beaten faces were enkindled and eager ; every eye was fixed upon him ; every word he spoke seemed to excite a responsive emotion. The Doctor read from the Old Testament the story of Achan. He told how the host of the Lord had turned back because there was one in the camp who had secreted in his tent an accursed thing. He asked, " can it be now and here, among us who profess to be Christians, that we are secreting in our hearts some accursed thing that prevents the good Spirit of the Lord from working among us ? Is it our hard feeling against a brother ? Is there anything that we know to be wrong that we refuse to make right — anything that we know belongs to God that we are withholding ? If we Christians lived as high as we ought, if we lived up to our professions, would there be any sinners unconverted ? Let us beware how we stand in the way. If the salt have lost its savor where- with shall it be salted ? Oh, my brethren, let us not hinder the work of God. I look around on this circle and I miss the face of a sister who was always here to help us with her prayers ; now she is with the general assembly and church of the first-born, whose names are written in heaven, with the spirits of the just made perfect. But her soul will rejoice with the angels of God if she looks down and sees us all coming up to where we ought to be.. God grant that her prayers may be fulfilled in us. Let us examine ourselves, brethren; let us cast out the stumbling-block, that the way of the Lord may be prepared." The words, simple in themselves, became powerful by the atmosphere of deep feeling into which they were uttered ; there were those solemn pauses, that breathless stillness, those repressed breathings, that magnetic sympathy that unites souls under the power of one overshadowing con- viction. When the Doctor sat down, suddenly there was a slight movement, and from a dark back seat rose the gaunt form of Zeph Higgins. He was deathly pale, and his form trembled with emotion. Every eye was fixed upon him, and people drew in their breath, with involuntary surprise and suspense. 250 ^^PI^ HIGGINS' CONFESSION. " Wal, I must speak," he said. " Fm a stumbling-block. I've allers been one. I hain't never ben a Christian, that's jest the truth on't. I never hed oughter 'a'ben in the church. I've ben all wrong — wrong — WRONG ! I knew I was wrong, but I wouldn't give up. It's ben jest my awful WILL. I've set up my will agin God Almighty. I've set it agin my neighbors — ^agin the minister and agin the church. And now the Lord's come out agin me ; He's struck me down. I know He's got a right — He can do what He pleases — but I ain't resigned —not a grain. I submit 'cause I can't help myself; but my heart's hard and wicked. I expect my day of grace is over. I ain't a Christian, and I can't be, and I shall go to hell at last, and sarve me right !" And Zeph sat down, grim and stony, and the neighbors looked one on another in a sort of consternation. There was a terrible earnestness in those words that seemed to appall every one and prevent any from uttering the ordinary commonplaces of religious exhortation. For a few moments the circle was silent as the grave, when Dr. Cushing said, " Brethren, let us pray ;" and in his prayer he seemed to rise above earth and draw his whole flock, with all their sins, and needs, and wants, into the presence- chamber of heaven. He prayed that the light of heaven might shine into the darkened spirit of their brother ; that he might give himself up utterly to the will of God ; that we might all do it, that we might become as little children in the kingdom of heaven. With the wise tact which distinguished his ministry he closed the meeting immediately after the prayer with one or two serious words of exhortation. He feared lest what had been gained in impression might be talked away did he hold the meeting open to the well-meant, sincere, but uninstructed efforts of the brethren to meet a case like that which had been laid open before them. After the service was over and the throng slowly dispersed, Zeph remained in his place, rigid and still. One or two approached to speak to him ; there was in fact a tide of genuine sympathy and brotherly feeling that longed to express itself. He might have been caught up in this powerful current and borne into a haven of peace, had he been one to trust himself to the help of others ; but he looked neither to the right nor to the left; his eyes were fixed on the floor ; his brown, bony hands held his old straw hat in a crushing grasp ; his whole attitude and aspect were repelling and stern to such a degree that none dared address him. The crowd slowly passed on and out. Zeph sat alone, as he thought ; but the minister, his wife, and little Dolly had remained at the upper end of the room. Suddenly, as if sent by an irresistible impulse, Dolly i RESIGNATION. 251 stepped rapidly down the room and with eager gaze laid her pretty little timid hand upon his shoulder, crying, in a voice tremulous at once with fear and with intensity, " 0, why do you say that you cannot be a Christian ? Don't you know that Christ loves you ?" Christ loves you ! The words thrilled through his soul with a strange, new power; he opened his eyes and looked astonished into the little earnest, pleading face, " Christ loves you," she repeated; "oh, do believe it!" " Loves me /" he said, slowly. " Why should He ?" . "But He does ; He loves us all. He died for us. He died for you. Oh, believe it. He'll help you ; He'll make you feel right. Only trust Him. Please say you will !" Zeph looked at the little face earnestly, in a softened, wondering way. A tear slowly stole down his hard cheek. " Thank'e, dear child," he said. " You will believe it ?" "I'll try." " You will trust Him ?" Zeph paused a moment, then rose up with a new and different expres- sion in his face, and said, in a subdued and earnest voice, " / ivill.'" "Amen!" said the Doctor, who stood listening; and he silently grasped the old man's hand. RESIGNATION. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, UpRlIERE IS no flock, however watched ^i^ and tended, •«-35>iti ^^^ '^^^ dead lamb is there ! [ There is no fireside, howsoe'er de- ¥ fended, T But has one vacant chair ! ■§• The air is full of farewells to the dying And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Eachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted ! Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death ! What seems so is tran- sition : This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection; And Christ himself doth rule. 252 ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollu- tion, She lives whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though un- spoken. May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her ; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her. She will not be a child : But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though, at times, impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed. The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean. That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing The grief that must have way. ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. ALFRED TENNYSON. ;|lp|j|UT Enoch yearned to see her face ^^^ again ; If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." So the thought Haunted and harassed him and drove him forth At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below : There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light. Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house. Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strike Against it, and beats out bis weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. The latest house to landward ; but behind. With one small gate that opened on the waste. Flourished a little garden square and walled : And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yew-tree, and all around it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it : But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence That which he better might have shunned, griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burni.shed board Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the heartli ; And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms. Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed : And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 4 THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 253 The mother glancing often at her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld Plis wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place. Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all, things seen are mightier than things heard, Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. Which in one moment, like the blast of doom. Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief. Lest the harsh shingle -should grate underfoot. And feeling all along the garden-wall. Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed. As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. HENRY HEINE, TRANSLATED BY CHARLES G. LELAND. ^iJlll^E sat by the fisher's cottage, "^]m|iS And looked at the stormy tide ; "^ i?-^ The evening mist came rising, ■s. And floating far and wide. One by one in the lighthouse The lamps shone out on high ; And far on the dim horizon A ship went sailing by. We spoke of storm and shipwreck, — Of sailors, and how they live ; Of journeys 'twixt sky and water. And the sorrows and joys they give. We spoke of distant countries, In regions strange and fair, And of the wondrous beings And curious customs there ; 254 MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, Which are launched in the twilight hour ; And the dark and silent Brahmins, Who worship the lotos flower. Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland, — Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, — Who crouch round their oil fires, cooking, And chatter and scream and bawl. And the maidens earnestly listened. Till at last we spoke no more ; The ship like a shadow had vanished, And darkness fell deep on the shore. SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE. Suggested by the sudden death of the Rev. Thomas Taylor, who had preached the previous evening. JAMES MONTGOMERY. iERVANT of God, well done ; Rest from thy loved employ ; The battle fought, the victory won, Enter thy master's joy." The voice at midnight came ; He started up to hear, A mortal arrow pierced his frame ; He fell, — but felt no fear. Tranquil amidst alarms. It found him in the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield : His sword was in his hand. Still warm with recent fight ; Ready that moment, at command. Through rock and steel to smite. At midnight came the cry, " To meet thy God prepare ! " He woke, — and caught the Captain': Then strong in faith and prayer, His spirit, with a bound, Burst its encumbering clay ; His tent at sunrise, on the ground, A darkened ruin lay. The pains of death are past. Labor and sorrow cease ; And life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ ! well done ; Praise be thy new employ ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour's joy. eye ; i MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. ^^ F. BRET HARTE. sister'llbedownin a minute, and ^^ays you're to wait, if you please; \. , \ ml says I might stay till she came, ; • if I'd promise her never to tease, T Nor speak till you spoke to me first. i But that's nonsense ; for how would el you know What she told me to say if I didn't ? Don't you really and truly think so ? " And then you'd feel strange here alone. And you wouldn't know just where to sit; For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit : We keep it to match with the sofa ; but Jack says it would be like you To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 255 " Suppose you try ! I won't tell. You're afraid to ! Oh ! you're afraid they would think it mean ! Well, then, there's the album : that's pretty if you're sure that your fingers are clean. For sister says sometimes I daub it ; but she only says that when she's cross. There's her picture. You know it ? It's like her ; but she ain't good-looking, of course. 'This is ME." It's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me, you'd never have thought That once I was little as that ? It's the only one that could be bought ; For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I sat, — That he wouldn't print oil any more till he first got his money for that. " What ? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this. There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front curls to friz. But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me ! Do you think you'll be coming here often T Oh, do ! But don't come like Tom Lee, — " Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness ! he used to be here day and night, Till the folks thought he'd be her husband .; and Jack says that gave him a fright. You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they say. Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you ? and how poor are they ? " Ain't you glad that you met me ? Well, I am ; for I know now your hair isn't red ; But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said. But there I must go : sister's coming ! But I wish I could wait, just to see If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the way that she used to kiss Lee." HYMN TO THE FLO WEBS. HORACE SMITH. ^AY-STARS! that ope your eyes at morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation ; And dewdrops on her lovely altars sprinkle As a libation. Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye. Pour from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high. Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty The floor of nature's temple tesselate — ^Tiat numerous lessons of instructive duty Your forms create ! 'Neath cloister'd bough each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to those domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane most catholic and solemn. Which God hath plann'd ; To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ; Its choir, the wind and waves ; its organ, thunder ; Its dome, the sky. 256 DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. There, as in solitude and shade, I wander Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod. Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God. Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure. Blooming o'er hill and dale, by day and night; On every side your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight ! Your voiceless lips, flowers! are living preachers ; Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book ; Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, In loneliest nook. Floral apostles, that with dewy splendor Blush without sin, and weep without a crime ! Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er sur- render Your lore divine ! " Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, Array'd," the lilies cry " in robes like ours ; How vam your glory — Oh ! how transitory Are human flowers !" In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist. With which thou paintest nature's wide- spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all ! Posthumous glories — angel-like collection. Upraised from seed and bulb interr'd in earth ; Ye are to me a type of resurrection And second birth ! Ephemeral sages — what instructors hoary To such a world of thought could furnish scope ? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Were I, God ! in churchless lands remaining, Far from the voice of teachers and divines, My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining Priests, sermons, shrines! DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. CHARLES DICKENS. ^Y little and little, the old man bad drawn back towards tbe inner cbamber, wbile tbese words were spoken. He pointed there, he replied, with trembling lips, — " You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will never do that— never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now." Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went. he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, — followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made no noise, but there were sobs from among the group and sounds of grief and mourning. DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 257 For she was dead. There, upon her httle bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of Hfe ; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. " When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." Those were her words. She was dead. Lear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mis- tress was mute and motionless forever. "Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born ; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face ; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care ; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death. The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now ; and as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own v/as waning fast, — the garden she had tended, — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday — could know her no more. "It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and give his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed 258 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it?" FATE. F. BRET HARTE. ^HE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, The spray of the tempest is white in air. The winds are out with the waves at play — And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. The trail is narrow, the wood is dim. The panther clings to the arching limb: And the lion's whelps are abroad at play — And I shall not join the chase to-day. But the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was built upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. GEORGE ARNOLD. 'l^jHWAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, mK Tall and slender, and sallow and (|J|l|i His form was bent, and his gait was * slow, ¥ His long, thin hair was as white as r snow. But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye ; And he sang every night, as he went to bed, " Let us be happy, down here below ; The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He taught his scholars the rule of three, Writing, and reading, and history, too ; He took the little ones upon his knee, For a kind old heart in his breast had he. And the wants of the littlest child he knew : " Learn while you're young," he often said; " There is much to enjoy, down here below; Life for the living, and rest for the dead !" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. With the stujiidcst lioys he was kind and cool, Speaking only in gentlest tones ; The rod was hardly known in his school — Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, And too hard work for his poor old bones ; Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said: " We should make life pleasant, down here below. The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He lived in the house by the hawthorn Ian With roses and woodbine over the doo His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain But a spirit of comfort there held reign And made him forget he was old and poor " I need so little," he often said ; " And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, Were the sociable hours he used to pass, With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall Making an unceremonious call. Over a pipe and a friendly glass : This was the finest pleasure, he said, Of the many he tasted here below , " Who has no cronies, had better be dead !" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Melted all over in sunshiny smiles: THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 269 He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles. " I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, " I have lingered a long while, hero below ; Leaving his tenderest kisses there, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown ; And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, Twas a glorious world, down here below; ' He took the little ones upon his knee." But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled !" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe in the balmy air. Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in bia silvery hair. " Why wait for happiness till we are dead ?' Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He sat at his door, one midsummer night. After the sun had sunk in the west, And the lingering beams of golden light Made his kindly old face look warm and bright 260 THE COMET. While the odorous night-wind whispered, "Rest!" Gently, gently, he bowed his head — There were angels waiting for him, I know ; He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. THE COMET. THOMAS HOOD. f>H|^MONG professors of astronomy, ^/mj^ Adepts in the celestial economy, c^..^ The name of Herschel's very often i cited ; "n And justly so, for he is hand in glove 5 With every bright intelligence above. Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, Watching the stars, upon the house's top ; That once upon a time he got benighted. In his observatory thus coquetting. With Venus or with Juno gone astraj'-, All sublunary matters quite forgetting In his flirtations with the winking stars, Acting the spy, it might be, upon Mars, — A new Andre ; Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping At Dian sleeping ; Or ogling through his glass Some heavenly lass. Tripping with pails along the Milky way ; Or looking at that wain of Charles, the Martyr's. Thus was he sitting, watchman of the sky. When lo ! a something with a tail of flame M.xde him exclaim, " My stars !" — he always puts that stress on my, — " My stars and garters !" " A comet, sure as I'm alive ! A noble one as I should wish to view ; It can't bo Halloy's though, that is not due Till eighteen thirty-five. Magnificent ! How fine his fiery trail ! Zounds! 'tis a pity, though, he comes unsought, Unasked, unrcckoned, — in no human thought ; He ought — ho ought — he ought To have been caught With scientific salt upon his tail. " I looked no more for it, I do declare. Than the Great Bear ! As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead. It really entered in my head No more than Berenice's hair !" Thus musing, heaven's grand inquisitor Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor. Till John, the serving man, came to the upper Regions, with " Please your honor, come to supper." " Supper ! good John, to-night I shall not sup. Except on that phenomenon — look up." " Not sup !" cried John, thinking with con- sternation That supping on a star must be stor-vation. Or even to batten On ignesfatui would never fatten. Ills visage seemed to say, " that very odd But still his master the same tune rg " I can't coroo down ; go to the pari And say I'm supping with the h^ bodies." " The heavenly bodies !" echoed John, "ahem!" Tlis mind still full of famishing alarms, " Zounds ! if your honor sups with them, In helping, somebody must make long arms." He thought his master's stomach was in danger, But still in the same tone replied the knight, " Go down, John, go, I have no appetite ; Say I'm engaged with a celestial stranger." Quoth John, not much aufait in such affair.t, "Wouldn't the stranger take a bit down stairs ?" " No," said the master, smiling, and no wonder. At such a blunder, TWENTY YEARS AGO. 261 " The stranger is not quite the thing you think ; He wants no meat or drink ; And one may doubt quite reasonably whether He has a mouth, Seeing his head and tail are joined together. Behold him ! there he is, John, in the south." John looked up with his portentous eyes. Each rolling like a marble in its socket ; At last the fiery tadpole spies, And, full of Vauxhall reminiscence, cries, " A rare good rocket !" " A what ? A rocket, John ! Far from it! What you behold, John, is a comet ; One of those most eccentric things That in all ages Have puzzled sages And frightened kings ; With fear of change, that flaming meteor John, Perplexes sovereigns throughout its range." " Do he ?" cried John ; " Well, let him flare on, J haven't got no sovereigns to TWENTY YEARS AGO. P'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree. Upon the school-house play-ground, that i sheltered you and me ; X, But none were left to greet me, Tom ; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom ; bare-footed boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place, some twenty years ago. The old school-house is altered now ; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our pen- knives once defaced ; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro ; Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree ; I have forgot the name just now, — you ve played the same with me. On that same spot ; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so ; 18 The loser had a task to do, — there, twenty years ago. The river's running just as still ; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom ; the stream appears less wide ; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach. And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom. I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since twenty years ago. 'Twas by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name. Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same ; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes ; 262 THE SEA. I thought of her I loved so well, those early- broken ties ; I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the churcli-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea ; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'll lay us where we played, just twenty years ago, HIGHLAND MARY. ROBERT BURNS mwa^^ banks and braes and streams around Ihe castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfaulds her robes, And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel 0' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom. As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Oar parting was fu' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, 0, fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling gla; That dwelt on me sae kindly ; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. THE SEA. FROM BYRON'S " CHILDE HAROLD. ^mpHERE is a pleasure in the pathless ^111^ woods, ^W^ There is a rapture on the lonely eji'^ shore, There is society where none intrudes By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but nature more, From these oui; interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control THE SEA. 263 Stops with the shore; — upon the watery- They melt into thy yeast of waves, which plain mar The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth Alike the Armafl^a's pride or spoils of remain Trafalgar. A shadow of man's ravage save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, Thy shores are empires, changed in all He sinks into thy depths with bubbling save thee ; groan. Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and they? unknown. Thy waters washed them power while they were free. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy And many a tyrant since; their shores fields obey Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay And shake him from thee ; the vile strength Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou ; he wields Unchangeable save to thy wUd waves' For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, play, liJi^ JfdL Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay. And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock -built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, ^ Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests : in all time Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity, — the throne Of the Invisible ! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each 264 IMAGES. Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathom- less, alone. And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane, — as I do here. IMAGES. T. B, MACAULAY. ^OGICIANS may reason about abstractions. But the great mass of i men must have images. The strong tendency of the multitude in It all ages and nations to idolatry can be explained on no other prin- »; ciple. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, wor- J shipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having something more definite to adore produced, in a few centuries, the innumerable cro of gods and goddesses. In like manner, the ancient Persians thou impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. Yet even these ferred to the sun the worship which, in speculation, they consic only to the Supreme Mind. The history of the Jews is the rec^ continued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the most sanctions, and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible an tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which Christianity spread over the world, while Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more powerfully than this feeling. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so noble a conception; but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity, embodied in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces of the Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in the dust. Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Paganism. Patron saints assumed the ofiices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The GOIN' HOME TO-DAY. 265 Virgin Mother and Cecilia succeeded to Venus and the muses. The fasci- nation of sex and lovehness was again joined to that of celestial dignity ; and the homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Reformers have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with more than apparent and partial success. The men who demolished the images in cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were enshrined in their minds. It would not be difficult to show that in politics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can exercise a strong public feeling. The multitude is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most insigniticant name than for the most important principle. GOIW HOME TO-DA Y. WILL CARLETON, !|r||[pY business on the jury's done — the quibblin' all is through — txHj^^j^ytp I've watched the lawyers, right and left, and give my verdict true; I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in ; And if I do not know myself, they'll get me there ag'in. But now the court's adjourned for good, and I have got my pay ; I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm goin' home to-day. I've somehow felt uneasy, like, since first day I come down ; It is an awkward game to play the gentle- man in town ; And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine, on Sunday rightly sets, But when I wear the stuS a week, it some- how galls and frets. I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper- salt and gray — I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home to-day. I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one — As well as any woman could — to see that things were done : For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't set her foot out doors. She's very careful, when I'm gone, to 'tend to all the chores. But nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay. And I will put things into shape, when I get home to-day. The mornin' that I come away, we had a little bout; I coolly took my hat and left, before the show was out. For what I said was naught whereat she ought to take offense ; And she was always quick at words, and ready to commence. But then, she's first one to give up when she has had her say ; And shp will meet me with a kiss, when I go home to-day My little boy — I'll give 'em leave to match him, if they can ; It's fun to see him strut akout, and try to be a man ! 266 THE NATION'S DEAD. The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever want to see ! And then they laugh because I think the child resembles me. The little rogue ! he goes for me like robbers for their prey ; He'll turn my pockets inside out, when I get home to-day. My little girl — I can't contrive how it should happen thus — That God could pick that sweet bouquet, and fling it down to us ! My wife, she says that han'some face will some day make a stir ; And then I laugh, because she thinks the child resembles her. She'll meet me half way down the hill, and kiss me, anyway ; And light my heart up with her smiles, when I go home to-day ! If there's a heaven upon the ep.rth, a fellow knows it when He's been away from home a week, and then gets back again. If there's a heaven above the earth, there often, I'll be bound. Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and hugs 'em all around. But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it as it may. My heaven is just ahead of me — I'm goin' home to-day. MY CREED. ALICE CAEY. hold that Christian grace abounds Where charity is seen ; that when We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds Of love to men. fl hold all else, named piety, A selfish scheme, a vain pretence ; Where centre is not, can there be Circumference ? This I moreover hold, and dare Affirm where'er my rhyme may go, — Whatever things be sweet or fair, Love makes them so. Whether it be the lullabies That charm to rest the nursing bird, 4 i fiuslT^H^ Or that sweet confidence of si And blushes, made without Whether the dazzling and thi Of softly sumptuous garden bowers Or by some cabin door, a bush Of ragged flowers. 'Tis not the wide phylactery, Nor stubborn fasts, nor stated prayers, That makes us saints ; we judge the tree By what it bears. And when a man can live apart From works, on theologic trust, I know the blood about his heart Is dry as dust. THE NATION'S DEAD. |i«50UR hundred thousand men The brave — the good — the true, f,g.-j In tangled wood, in mountain glen, On battle plain, in prison pen, Lie dead for me and you I Four hundred thousand of the brave Have made our ransomed soil their grave. For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you I UNDER THE VIOLETS. 267 In many a fevered swamp, By many a black bayou, In many a cold and frozen camp, The weary sentinel ceased his tramp. And died for me and you ! From Western plain to ocean tide Are stretched the graves of those who died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! On many a bloody plain Their ready swords they drew. And poured their life-blood, like the rain A home — a heritage to gain. To gain for me and you ! Our brothers mustered by our side ; They marched, they fought, and bravely died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! Up many a fortress wall They charged — those boys in blue — 'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball ; The bravest were the first to fall ! To fall for me and you ! These noble men — the nation's pride — Four hundred thousand men have died For me and you I Good friend, for me and you 1 In treason's prison-hold Their martyr spirits grew To stature like the saints of old, While amid agonies untold, They starved for me and you ! The good, the patient, and the tried, Four hundred thousand men have died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! A debt we ne'er can pay To them is justly du.3. And to the nation's latest day Our children's children still shall say, " They died for me and you ! " Four hundred thousand of the brave Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave, For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! UNDER THE VIOLETS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ER hands are cold ; her face is white ; I lyhen o'er their boughs the squirrels run. No more her pulses come and go ; !§!^^i^ Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes ; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound. And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun. The acorns and the chestnuts fall. Doubt not that she will heed them all. For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel-voice of spring. That trills beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry. When, turning round their dial-track. Eastward the lengthening shadows pass Her little mourners clad in black. The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 268 BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEriNG. At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise ! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below ? Say only this : A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow. Lies withered where the violets blow THE AMERICAN BO Y. CAEOLINE OILMAN. |00K up, my young American ! H Stand firmly on the earth, Where noble deeds and mental power Give titles over birth. A hallow'd land thou claim'st my boy. By early struggles bought, Heaped up with noble memories. And wide, ay, wide as thought! What though we boast no ancient towers Where " ivied " streamers twine, The laurel lives upon our soil, The laurel, boy, is thine. And though on " Cressy's distant field," Thy gaze may not be cast. While through long centuries of blood Rise spectres of the past, — The future wakes thy dreamings high, And thou a note mayst claim — Aspirings which in after times Shall swell the trump of fame. And when thou'rt told of knighthood': And English battles won, shield. Look up, my boy, and breathe one word- The name of Washington. BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. HORATIUS BONAR. ^j^gEYOND the smiling and the weeping ^^TO I shall be soon ; .;^^v{^ Beyond the waking and the sleeping, ^^ Beyond the sowing and the reaping, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Swed home I Lord, tarry not, but come. CALL ME NOT DEAD. 269 Beyond the blooming and the fading I shall be soon ; Beyond the shining and the shading, Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the rising and the setting I shall be soon Beyond the calming and the fretting, Beyond remembering and forgetting, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the gathering and the strowing I shall be soon ; Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, Beyond the coming and the going, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home! Beyond the parting and the meeting I shall be soon ; Beyond the farewell and the greeting, Beyond the pulse's fever beating, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the frost chain and the fever I shall be soon ; Beyond the rock waste and the river. Beyond the ever and the never, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Sweet home ! Lord, tarry not, but come. CALL ml: not dead. Translated from the Persian of the 12th Century by Edwin Aunold. ■mw^E who dies at Azim sends This to comfort all his friends. — Faithful friend, it lies, I know. Pale and white, and cold as snow ; And ye say, " Abdallah's dead " — Weeping at the feet and head. I can see yoiir falling tears ; I can see your sighs and prayers ; Yet I smile and whisper this : I am not the thing you miss ! Cease your tears and let it lie ; It was mine, it is not I. Sweet friends, what the women lave For the last sleep of the grave Is a hut which I am quitting, Is a garment no more fitting ; Is a cage from which, at last Like a bird my soul has passed. Love the inmate, not the room ; The wearer, not the garb — the plume Of the oagle, not the bars That kept him from the splendid stars. Loving friends, rise and dry Straightway every weeping eye ! What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a single tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell — one Out of which the pearl is gone. The shell is broken, it lies there ; The pearl, the all, the soul is here. 'Tis an earthen jar whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid The treasure of his treasury — A mind that loved him, let it lie. Let the shards be earth once more, Since the gold is in his store. Allah, glorious! Allah, good! Now thy world is understood — Now the long, long wonder ends; Yet we weep, my foolish friends. While the man whom you call dead In unbroken bliss instead Lives and loves you — lost, 'tis true, In the light that shines for you ; 270 WHAT IS A MINORITY? But in the light you cannot see, In undisturbed felicity — In a perfect paradise, And a life that never dies. Farewell, friends, yet not farewell, Where I go, you too shall dwell, I am gone before your face — A moment's worth, a little space. When you come where I have stept, Ye will wonder why ye wept ; Ye will know, by true love taught, That here is all and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain — Sunshine still must follow rain ; Only not at death, — for death. Now I know, is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is, of all life, centre. Be ye certain all seems love, Viewed from Allah's throne above ; Be ye stout of heart, and come Bravely onward to your home ! La Allah ilia Allah. Yea ! Thou love divine ! Thou love alway ! He that died at Azim gave This to those who made his grave. WHA T IS A MINORITY? JOHN B. GOUGH. q^l^HAT is a minority ? The chosen heroes of this fj^f^ in a minority. There is not a social, political, or ? ^Jp'^i'^ lege that you enjoy to-day that was not bought for y^ X blood and tears and patient suffering of the minority. It is the 1 minority that have vindicated humanity in every struggle. It is a minority that have stood in the van of every moral conflict, and achieved all that is noble in the history of the world. You will find that each generation has been always busy in gathering up the scattered ashes of the martyred heroes of the past, to deposit them in the golden urn of a nation's history. Look at Scotland, where they are erecting monuments — to whom ? — to the Covenanters. Ah, thcij were in a minority. Read their history, if you can, without the blood tingling to the tips of your fingers. These were in the minority, that, through blood, and tears, and bootings and scourgings — dying the waters with their blood, and staining the heather with their gore — fought the glorious battle of religious free- dom. Minority ! if a man stand up for the right, though the right be on the scaffold, while the wrong sits in the seat of government; if he stand for the right, though he eat, with the right and truth, a wretched crust ; if he walk with obloquy and scorn in the by-lanes and streets, while the falsehood and wrong ruffle it in silken attire, lot him remember that wherever the right and truth are there are always Troops of beautiful, tall angels " THE LAST STATION. 271 gathered round him, and God Himself stands within the dim future, and keeps watch over His own ! If a man stands for the right and the truth, though every man's finger be pointed at him, though every woman's lip be curled at him in scorn, he stands in a majority ; for God and good angels are with him, and greater are they that are for him, than all they that be against him. THE LAST STATION. ^ _ ^E had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys on the road dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was + a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he el would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as danger- ous ; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when night came, buthis mind wandered, and he did not recognize them. It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard-engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes, and shouted : — "Kal-a-ma-zoo!" One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes, and was quiet for a time. Then the wind whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he lifted his hand, and cried out: — " Jack-son ! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Eoad change cars !" The men understood. The brakeman thought he was commg east on the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes, and called out : — "Ann Arbor!" He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and conductor. One of the yard engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the 272 THE BURIED FLOWER. glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called out : — " Yp-silanti ! Change cars here for the Eel River Road !" " He is coming in fast," whispered one of the men. " And the end of his ' run ' will be the end of his life," said a second. The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head, and faintly said : — " Grand Trunk Junction ! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change cars!" He was so quiet after that that all the men gathered around the bed, believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, and whispered : — "De— " Not " Detroit," but Death ! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring. THE BURIED FLO WEB.. W. E. AYTOUN. ^j^N the silence of my chamber, ^^ When the night is still and deep, ^°s^rf And the drowsy heave ot ocean ^m Mutters in its charmed sleep, I Oft 1 hear the angel voices I That have thrilled me long ago, — Voices of my lost companions, Lying deep beneath the snow. Where are now the flowers we tended ? Withered, broken, branch and stem ; Where are now the hopes we cherished '. Scattered to the winds with them. For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! Nursed in hope and reared in love, Looking fondly ever upward To the clear blue heaven Smiling on the sun that cheered us Rising lightly from the rain. Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again. 0, 'tis sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded youth. All the vows that we believed in. All the words we spoke in truth. Severed, — were it severed only By an idle thought of strife, Such as time may knit together ; Not the broken chord of life ! I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 273 0, I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain ; All I loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again. Robed in everlasting beauty. Shall I see thee once again. By the light that never fadeth, Underneath eternal skies. Brighter, fairer far than living, When the dawn of resurrection With no trace of woe or pain, Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. UNION AND LIBERTY. 0. W. HOLMES. jLAG of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through their battle-fields' thunder and flame. Blazoned in song and illumined in story. Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame. Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry — Union and Liberty ! One Evermoee ! Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar. Let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail thee the standard of Liberty's van ? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee. Striving with men for the birthright of man ! Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw Then with the arms to thy million united. Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! Lord of the universe ! shield us and guide ua, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun ! Thou hast united us, who shall divide ub? Keep us, keep us the Many in One I Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry — Union and Liberty I One Evermore ! / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. THOMAS HOOD. REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born. The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon. Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! ROCK ME TO SLEEP. I remember, I remember My spirit flew in feathers then. The roses, red and white, That is so heavy now, The violets, and the lily-cups, — And summer pools could hardly cool Those flowers made of light! The fever on my brow ! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set I remember, I remember The laburnum on his birth-day, — The fir-trees dark and high ; The tree is living yet ! I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. I remember, I remember It was a childish ignorance, Where I was used to swing. But now 'tis little joy And thought the air must rush as fresh To know I'm farther off from heaven To swallows on the wing ; Than when I was a boy. ROCK ME TO SLEEP. ELIZABETH AKERS. ACKWARD, turn backward, Time, in your flight, 5E^^ Make me a child again just for to- night ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years ! I am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — Take them, and give me my childhood again ! I have grown weary of dust and decay, — Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of sowing for others to reap : — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleepl Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Ivlother, Mother, my heart calls for you ! Many a summer the grass has grotvn green. Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain. Long I to-night for your presence again. THE GAMIN. 275 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone ; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Ilaply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song ; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! THE GA2IIK VICTOR HUGO. pARIS has a child ; the forest has a bird. The bird is called a spar- row ; the child is called a gamin. His origin is from the rabble. The most terrible embodiment of the rabble is the barricade, and the most terrible of barricades was that of Faubourg St. Antoine. iThe street was deserted as far as could be seen. Every door and window was closed ; in the background rose a wall built of paving stones, making the street a cul-de-sac. Nobody could be seen ; nothing could be heard; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre! From time to time, if anybody ventured to cross the street, the sharp, low whistling of a bullet was heard, and the passer fell dead or wounded. For the space of two days this barricade had resisted the troops of Paris, and now its ammunition was gone. During a lull in the firing, a gamin, named Gavroche, took a basket, went out into the street by an opening, and began to gather up the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guards who had been killed in front of the barricade. By successive advances he reached a point where the fog from the firing became transparent, so that the sharp- shooters of the line, drawn up and on the alert, suddenly discovered some- thing moving in the smoke. Just as Gavroche was relieving a Grenadier of his cartridges a ball struck the body. " They are killing my dead for me," said the gamin. A second ball splintered the pavement behind him. 276 I LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. A third upset his basket, Gavroche rose up straight on his feet, his hair in the wind, his hands upon his hips, his eyes fixed upon the National Guard, who were firing ; and he sang : " They are ugly at Naterre — 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; And beasts at Palaeseau — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridges wliich had fallen out, without losing a single one ; and advancing toward the fusilade, began to empty another cartridge-box. Then a fourth ball just missed him again ; Gavroche sang : " I am only a scribe, 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; My life one of woe — 'tis the fault of R.ousseau." The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche fired at, mrocked the firing and answered each discharge with a couplet. The National Guards laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up ; hid himself in a door-way, then sprang out; escaped, returned. The insurgents, breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes ; the barricade was trembling, he was singing. It was not a child, it was not a man ; it was a strange fairy gamin, playing hide and seek with Death. Every time the face of the grim spectre approached, the gamin snapped his fingers. One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the others, reached the will-o'-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, then fall. The whole barricade gave a cry. But the gamin had fallen only to rise again. A long stream of blood rolled down his face. He raised both arms in the air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing: " I am buried in earth — 'tis the fault " He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement and did not stir again. That little great soul had taken flight. / LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. EGBERT LOWRY. LOVE the morning sunshine — For 'tis bringing to the singing Of the early-matined birds, Daylight's treasure, without measure, Speaking joy with gentle words. I love the morning sunshine — For it lightens, warms, and brightens Every hillside tinged with gloom ; And its power, every hour, Calls e'en spirits from their tomb. /-I I CRADLE SONG. 277 I love the morning sunshine — For its gushing, like the rushing Of a molten tide of gold, Ripples o'er me and before me. And my heart cannot be cold. I love the morning sunshine — For 'tis telling that the knelling Of each cycling day shall cease. And the dawning of a morning Never ending will bring peace. I love the morning sunshine — For it lies on Life's horizon, Pointing out an untombed sward, Where the spirit shall inherit Golden daysprings from the Lord. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. SAMUEL LOVER. ^ BABY was sleeping ; Its mother was weeping ; For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling ; And she cried, " Dermot, darling, come back to me!" Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered. And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : " 0, blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. " And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! And say thou wouldst rather They'd watch o'er thy father ! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels were whisper- ing with thee." CRADLE SONG. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. '^HAT is the little one thinking about? L'i Very wonderful things, no doubt; ?*% Unwritten history ! Unfathomed mystery ! Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods and winks As if his head were as full of kinks. And curious riddles as any sphinx ! Warped by colic, and wet by tears, lU Punctured by pms, and tortured by fears Our little nephew will lose two years ; And he'll never know Where the summers go ; He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels its way 278 THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of the day ? Out from the shore of the unknown sea. Tossing in pitiful agony ; Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls, — Barks that were launched on the other side. And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! What does he think of his mother's eyes ? What does he think of his mother's hair ? What of the cradle-roof, that flies Forward and backward through the air ? What does he think of his mother's breast. Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight, Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and fiwell. With a tenderness she never can tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds,— Words she has learned to murmur well ? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse. Over his brow and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips ! Softly sinking, down he goes ! Down he goes ! down he goes ! See ! he's hushed in sweet repose. THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. ^^fer MARGARET J. PRESTON. JARGON! You, you Snared along with this cursed crew ? (Only a child, and yet so bold. Scarcely as much as ten years old !) Do you hear ? do you know Why the gens d'armes put you there, in the row. You with those Commun3 wretches tall, With your face to the wall ? " Knowf To be sure I know! Why not? We're here to be shot; And there by the pillar's the very spot. Fighting for France, my father fell. Ah, well !— That's just the way J would choose to fall, With my back to the wall !" " (Sacre ! Fair, open fight I say, Is something right gallant in its way, And fine for warming the blood ; but who Wants wolfish work like this to do ? Bah ! 'tis a butcher's business !) How f (The boy is beckoning to me now : I knew that this poor child's heart would fail, Yet his cheek's not pale :) Quick ! say your say, for don't you see When the church-clock yonder tolls out Three, You are all to be shot ? — What f ' Excuse you one moment f 0, ho, ho ! Do you think to fool a gen d'armes so ?" " But, sir, here's a watch that a friend, one day, (My father's friend) just over the way. Lent me ; and if you let me free — It still lacks seven minutes of Three — I'll come on the word of a soldier's son, Straight back into line, when my errand's done." "Ha, ha! No doubt of it! Off! Begone! (Now, good St. Dennis, speed him on ! The work will be easier since he's saved ; For I hardly see how I could have braved The ardor of that innocent eye, THE DUMB-WAITER. 279 As he stood and heard, While I gave the word, Dooming him like a dog to die.)" " In time? Well, thanks, that my desire Was granted ; and now I'm ready ; — Fire One word ! — that's all ! — You'll let me turn my back to the wall?" " Parbleu ! Come out of the line, I say. Come out! (Who said that his name was Ney?) Ha! France will hear of him yet, one day !" THE DUMB-WAITER. FREDERICK S. COZZENS. |i|||if E have put a dumb-waiter in our house. A dumb-waiter is a good yiki'yl thing to have in the country, on account of its convenience. If ^f^ you have company, every thing can be sent up from the kitchen without any trouble; and if the baby gets to be unbearable, on account of his teeth, you can dismiss the complainant by stuffing him into one of the shelves, and letting him down upon the help. To provide for contingencies, we had all our floors deafened. In conse- quence, you cannot hear anything that is going on in the story below ; and when you are in an upper room of the house, there might be a demo- cratic ratification- meeting in the cellar, and you would not know it. Therefore, if any one should break into the basement, it would not disturb us; but to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass, I put stout iron bars on all the lower windows. Besides, Mrs. Sparrowgrass had bought a rattle when she was in Philadelphia ; such a rattle as watchmen carry there. This is to alarm our neighbor, who, upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with his revol- ver. He is a rash man, prone to pull trigger first, and make inquiries afterward. One evening Mrs. S. had retired, and I was busy writing, when it struck me a glass of ice-water would be palatable. So I took the candle and a pitcher, and went down to the pump. Our pump is in the kitchen. A country pump in the kitchen is more convenient; but a well with buckets is certainly most picturesque. Unfortunately our well-water has not been sweet since it was cleaned out. First, I had to open a bolted door that lets you into the basement hall, and then I went to the kitchen door, which proved to be locked. Then I remembered that our girl always carried the key to bed with her, and slept with it under her pillow. Then I retraced my steps; bolted the basement door, and went up into the dining-room. As is always the 280 THE DUMB-WAITER. case, I found, when I could not get any water I was thirstier than I supposed I was. Then I thought I would wake our girl up. Then I con- cluded not to do it. Then I thought of the well, but I gave that up on account of its flavor. Then I opened the closet doors : there was no water there; and then I thought of the dumb-waiter! The novelty of the idea made rae smile; I took out two of the movable shelves, stood the pitcher on the bottom of the dumb-waiter, got in myself with the lamp ; let myselt down until I supposed I was within a foot of the floor below, and then let go. We came down so suddenly that I was shot out of the apparatus as if it had been a catapult ; it broke the pitcher, extinguished the lamp, and landed me in the middle of the kitchen at midnight, with no fire, and the air not much above the zero point. The truth is, I had miscalculated the distance of the descent, — instead of falling one foot, I had fallen five. My first impulse was, to ascend by the way I came down, but I found that im- practicable. Then I tried the kitchen door: it was locked. I tried to force it open ; it was made of two-inch stuff, and held its own. Then I hoisted a window, and there were the rigid iron bars. If I ever felt angry at anybody it was at myself, for putting up those bars to please Mrs Sparrowgrass. I put them up, not to keep people in, but to keep people out. I laid ray cheek against the ice-cold barriers, and looked at the sky; not a star was visible ; it was as black as ink overhead. Then I thought of Baron Trenck and the prisoner of Chillon. Then I made a noise ! I shouted until I was hoarse, and ruined our preserving-kettle with the poker. That brought our dogs out in full bark, and between us we made the night hideous. Then I thought I heard a voice, and listened : it was Mrs. Sparrowgrass calling to me from the top of the stair-case. I tried to make her hear me, but the infernal dogs united with howl, and growl, and bark, so as to drown my voice, which is naturally plaintive and ten- der. Besides, there were two bolted doors and double-deafened floors be- tween us. How could she recognize my voice, even if she did hear it? Mrs. Sparrowgrass called once or twice, and then got frightened ; the next thing I heard was a sound as if the roof had fallen in, by which I understood that Mrs. Sparrowgrass was springing the rattle ! That called out our neighbor, already wide awake; he came to the rescue with a bull- terrier, a Newfoundland pup, a lantern, and a revolver. The moment he saw me at the window, he shot at me, but fortunately just missed me, I threw myself under the kitchen table, and ventured to expostulate with him, but he would not listen to reason. In the excitement I had forgotten FLORENCE VANE. 281 his name, and that made matters worse. It was not until he had roused up everybody around, broken in the basement door with an axe, gotten into the Icitchen with his cursed savage dogs and shooting-iron, and seized me by the collar, that he recognized me, — and then he wanted me to ex- plain it ! But what kind of an explanation could I make to him ? I told him he would have to wait until my mind was composed, and then I would let him understand the matter fully. But he never would have had the particulars from me, for I do not approve of neighbors that shoot at you, break in your door, and treat you in your own house as if you were a jail- bird. He knows all about it, however, — somebody has told him — some- body tells everybody every thing in our village. FLORENCE VANE. PHILIP P. COOKE. Kl LOVED thee long and dearly, @J|P Florence Vane ; f^p My life's bright dream and early 4lf Hath come again ; r I renew in my fond vision L My heart's dear pain, My hopes and thy derision, Florence Vane ! The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old, Wliere thou did'st hark my story At even told, That spot, the hues elysian Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane ! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime ; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme ; Thy heart was as a river Without a main, Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane. But fairest, coldest wonder ! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under ; Alas the day ! 282 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. And it boots not to remember Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane ! The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep. May their bloom in beauty vying Never vsrane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. RING THE BELL SOFTLY. ^^OME one has gone from this strange world of ours, No more to gather its thorns with its flowers ; No more to linger where sunbeams must fade. Where on all beauty death's fingers are laid ; Weary with mingling life's bitter and sweet. Weary with parting and never to meet. Some one has gone to the bright golden shore ; Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Ring the bell soTtly, there's crape on the door ! Some one is resting from sorrow and sin, Happy where earth's conflicts enter not in. Joyous as birds when the morning is bright, When the sweet sunbeams have brought us their light. DEXTER SMITH. Weary with sowing and never to reap, Weary with labor, and welcouiing sleep, Some one's departed to heaven's bright shore; Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Angels were anxiously longing to meet One who walks with them in heaven's bright street ; Loved ones have whispered that some one is blest, — Free from earth's trials and taking sweet rest. Yes ! there is one more in angelic bliss, — One less to cherish and one less to kiss ; One more departed to heaven's bright shore ; Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door i THE SONG OF THE SHIET THOMAS HOOD. ^^P^ITH fingers weary and worn, ' '" ' With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. Plying her needle and thread — Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt. And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" " Work 1 work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof: And work — work — work ! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work ! " Work — work — work ! Till the brain begins to swim ! Work — work — work ! Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and baml. Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in niv dream ! THE WHISTLE. 283 " Oh ! men with sisters dear ! " Work — work — work ! Oh ! men with mothers and wives ! In the dull December light ; It is not linen you're wearing out, And work — work — work ! But human creatures' lives ! When the weather is warm and bright: Stitch— stitch— stitch ! While underneath the eaves In poverty, hunger, and dirt, The brooding swallows cling, Sewing at once, with a double thread, As if to show me their sunny backs, A SHROUD as well as a shirt ! And twit me with the Spring. " But why do I talk of death, " Oh ! but to breathe the breath That phantom of grisly bone ? Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ; I hardly fear his terrible shape, With the sky above my head. It seems so like my own- And the grass beneath my feet: It seems so like my own, For only one short hour Because of the fast I keep : To feel as I used to feel. God ! that bread should be so dear, Before I knew the woes of want. And flesh and blood so cheap ! And the walk that costs a meal ! " Oh ! but for one short hour ! " Work — work — work ! A respite, however brief! My labor never flags ; No blessed leisure for love or hope, And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, But only time for grief ! A crust of bread — and rags : A little weeping would ease my heart — A shatter'd roof— and this naked floor — But in their briny bed A table — a broken chair — My tears must stop, for every drop And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank Hinders the needle and thread !" For sometimes falling there ! With fingers weary and worn. " Work— work— work ! With eyelids heavy and red. From weary chime to chime ; A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. Work — work — work ! Plying her needle and thread : As prisoners work for crime ! Stitch— stitch— stitch ! Band, and gusset, and seam. In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; Seam, and gusset, and band. And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, Would that its tone could reach the rich !— As well as the weary hand ! She sung this " Song of the Shirt !" THE WHISTLE. ROBERT STORY. r^OU have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood, t^fi^"'-" While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at (;Ji» daj^light's decline, — You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood? I wish that that Danish boy's whistle were mine." And what would you do with it ? — tell me," she said. While an arch smile played over her beau- tiful face. I would blow it," he answered; ' and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would here take her place." 284 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. " Is that all you wish it for ?— That may be " Yet once more would I blow, and the music youra divine "Without any magic," the fair maiden Would bring me the third time an exqui- cried: site bliss : "A favor so light one's good nature secures" ; You would lay your fair cheek to this brown And she playfully seated herself by his one of mine, side. And your li[)S, stealing past it, would give me a kiss." " I would blow it again," said the youth, " and the charm The maiden laughed out in her innocent Would work so, that not even Modesty's glee,- check " What a fool of yourself with your whistle Would be able to keep from my neck your you'd make ! fine arm" : For only consider, how silly 't would be, She smiled, — and she laid her fine arm To sit there and whistle for — what you round his neck. might take." A SUFI SAINT. TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN BY WM. R. ALGER. ^^MKT heaven approached a Sufi Saint, ^^fi^^ From groping in the darkness late, '^^'^'1 ^^^1 tapping timidly and faint, (■A Besought admission at God's gate. Said God, " Who seeks to enter here ?" " 'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied. And trembling much with hope and fear. " If it be thou, without abide." Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, To bear the scourgmg of life's rods ; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's. He roamed alone through weary years. By cruel men still scorned and mocked. Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked. Asked God, " Who now is at the door?" " It is thyself, beloved Lord," Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, But clasped and rapt in his reward. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. WASHINGTON IRVING. gi.Y«^N rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. The man of refinement, i therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 285 bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country ; and why the lat- ter have endured so many exces- sive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attribu- ted the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from " The Flower and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. ELIZA COOK. LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm- chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; 286 THE PALACE 0' THE KING. Would you know the spoil ? — a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled \ I learnt how much the heart can bear. When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. " In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear She told me that shame would never betide With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, A-s 1 knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day. When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray; 'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now. With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. THE PALACE 0' THE XING. WILLIAM MITCHELL. ^T'S a bonnie, bonnie warl' that we're livin' in the noo. An' sunny is the Ian' we aften traivel thro'; But in vain we look for something to J which our hearts can cling, For its beauty is as naething to the palace o' the King. We like the gilded simmer, wi' its merry, merry tread. An' we sigh when hoary winter lays its beau- ties wi' the dead ; PIP'S FIGHT. 287 For though bonnie are the snawl the down on winter's wing, It's fine to ken it daurna' touch the palace o' the King. Then again, I've juist been thinkin' that when a'thing here's sae bricht, The sun in a' its grandeur an' the mune wi' quiverin' licht. The ocean i' the simmer or the woodland i' the spring, What maun it be up yonder i' the palace o' the King. It's here we hae oor trials, an' it's here that he prepares A' his chosen for the raiment which the ran- somed sinner wears, An' it's here that he wad hear us, 'mid oor tribulations sing, " We'll trust oor God wha reigneth i' the palace o' the King." Though his palace is up yonder, he has king- doms here below. An' we are his ambassadors, wherever we may go ; We've a message to deliver, an' we've lost anes hame to bring To be leal and loyal-heartit i' the palace o' the King. Oh, it's honor heaped on honor that his cour- tiers should be ta'en Frae the wand'rin' anes he died for i' this warl' o' sin an' pain. An' it's fu'est love an' service that the Chris- tian aye should bring To the feet o' him wha reigneth i' the palace o' the King. An' let us trust him better than we've ever done afore, For the King will feed his servants frae his ever bounteous store. Let us keep closer grip o' him, for time is on the wing, An' sune he'll come and tak' us to the palace o' the King. Its iv'ry halls are bonnie, upon which the rainbows shine, An' its Eden bow'rs are trellised wi' a never fadin' vine. An' the pearly gates o' heaven do a glorious radiance fling On the starry floor that shimmers i' the pai- » ace o' the King. Nae nicht shall be in heaven an' nae deso- latin' sea, An' nae tyrant hoofs shall trample i' the city o' the free. There's an everlastin' daylight, an' a never- fadin' spring, Where the Lamb is a' the glory, i' the pal- ace o' the King. We see oor frien's await us ower yonder at his gate: Then let us a' be ready, for ye ken it's gettin' late. Let oor lamps be brichtly burnin' ; let's raise oor voice an' sing, "Sune we'll meet, to pairt nae mair, i' the palace o' the King." PIP'S FIGHT. CHARLES DICKENS. " ^wOME and fight," said the pale young gentleman. i^ What could I do but follow him ? I have often asked myself \L the question since : but what else could I do ? His manner was so * final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I I had been under a spell. 288 PIP'S FIGHT. " Stop a minute, though/' he said, wheehng round before we had got many paces. " I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is ! " In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my stomach. The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestion- ably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him, and was going to hit out again, when he said, "Aha! Would you?" and began dancing backward and forward in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited experience. " Laws of the game ! " said he. Here he skipped from his left leg on to his right. " Regular rules !" Here he skipped from his right leg on to his left. ''Come to the ground and go through the preliminaries ! " Here he dodged backward and forward, and did all sorts of things, while I looked helplessly at him, I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him without a word to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satis- fied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to ab- sent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar. " Available for both," he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, busi- ness-like and blood-thirsty. Although he did not look very healthy — having pimples on his face, and a breaking-out at his mouth — these dreadful preparations quite appalled me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he had a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For the rest, he was a young gentleman in a gray suit (when not denuded for battle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of the rest of him as to development. My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every de- monstration of mechanical nicety, and eying my anatomy as if he were minutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life as I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back, look- THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 289 ing up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly fore- shortened. But he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at me out of a black eye. His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no strength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked down; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drink- ing out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air and show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit him ; but he came up again and again and again, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head against the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and turned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was ; but finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up : at the same time panting out, " That means you have won." He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the contest I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so far as to hope that I regarded myself, while dressing, as a species of savage young wolf, or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly wiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, "Can I help you?" and he said, " No, thankee," and I said, " Good afternoon," and he said, " Same to you." THE BURIAL OF MOSES. MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. And he buried him valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man kaoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xixiv. 6. j^^^Y Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave ; But no man dug that sepulchre. And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the tramping, Or saw the train go forth ; Noiselessly as the daylight Comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on the cheek Grows into the grea-t sun, — 290 PUTTING UP O' THE STOVE. Noiselessly as the spring-time This was the bravest warrior Her crown of verdure weaves, That ever buoKled sword ; And all the trees on all the hills This the most gifted poet Open their thousand leaves, — That ever breathed a word ; So, without sound of music, And never earth's philosopher Or voice of them that wept, Traced, with his golden pen, Silently down from the mountain crown On the deathless page, truths half so sage The great procession swept. As he wrote down for men. Perchance the bald old eagle, And had he not high honor ? On gray Beth-peor's height. The hill-side for his pall. Out of his rocky eyrie, To lie in state while angels wait, Looked on the wondrous sight. With stars for tapers tall ; Perchance the lion, stalking. And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes Still shuns the hallowed spot ; Over his bier to wave ; For beast and- bird have seen and heard And God's own hand, in that lonely land, That which man knoweth not. To lay him in the grave, — Lo ! when the warrior dieth. In that deep grave, without a name, His comrades in the war. Whence his uncoffined clay With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Shall break again, — wondrous thought 1— Follow the funeral car. Before the judgment day ; They show the banners taken. And stand, with glory wrapped around. They tell his battles won. On the hills he never trod, And after him lead his masterless steed, And speak of the strife that won our life. While peals the minute gun. With the incarnate Son of God. Amid the noblest of the land lonely tomb in Moab's land ! Men lay the sage to rest. dark Beth-peor's hill ! And give the bard an honored place, Speak to these curious hearts of ours, With costly marble dressed. And teach them to be still. In the great minster transept. God hath his mysteries of grace, — Where lights like glories fall. Ways that we cannot tell ; And the choir sings and the organ rings He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Along the emblazoned wall. Of him he loved so well. PUTTING UP a THE STOVE. OR THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER. ^IIE melancholy days have come that ijivl no householder loves. Days of the taking down of blinds and putting up of stoves ; The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in the shadow of the shed. Dinged out of symmetry they be and all with rust are red ; The husband gropes amid the mass that hs placed there anon, And swears to find an elbow joint and eke a leg are gone. So fared it with good Mister Brown, when his spouse remarked: " Behold ! PUTTING UP 0' THE STOVE. 291 Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold, Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place conveyed, And to black-lead and set them up, lo 1 I will lend my aid." This, Mr. Brown he trembling heard, I trow his heart was sore, For he was married many years and had been there before, And timidly he said, " My love, perchance the better plan 'Twere to hie to the tinsmith's shop and bid him send a man?" His spouse replied indignantly : " So you would have me then To waste our substance upon riotous 'tin- smith's journeymen ? ' A penny saved is twopence earned,' rash prodigal of pelf, Go ! false one, go ! and I will black and set it up myself." When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed his doom . " Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme down that broom," He cried ; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the doors he hove And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove. Round 1. — They faced each other ; Brown, to get an opening, soarred Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious — on its guard. Brown led off with his left to where a length of stove-pipe stood And nearly cut his fingers off. {The stove allowed First Blood.) Hound 2.— Brown came up swearing, in Graeco-Roman style Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary while ; At last the leg he held gave way ; flat on his back fell Brown, And the stove fell on top of him and claimed the First Knock-down. * * * The fight is done and Brown has won ; his hands are rasped and sore, And perspiration and black lead stream from his every pore ; Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove, He cries, " Where, my good angel, shall I put this blessed stove?" And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates the spot. And bids him keep his temper and remarks that he looks hot. And now comes in the sweet o' the day •, the Brown holds in his gripe And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five inch pipe ; He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife scornfully Telia him how she would manage if only she were he. At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid m air, A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair, And on chair and supporters are the stove- pipe and the Brown, Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for the crown ; While Mistress Brown she cheerily says to him, " I expec' 'Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your neck." Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was aware Of what might be called " a miscellaneous music in the air," And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained down Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathe- mas and — Brown. There was a moment's silence — Brown had fallen on the cat ; She was too thick for a book-mark but too thin for a mat, And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to his foot, And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot. 292 USEFUL STUDIES. " wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art!" U{> from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling, start, Aud shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost heart-strings gripe, " Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that pipe?" Then fiercely starts that Mister Brown, as one that had been wode And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage glowed ; Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp and shrill), " I have not, madam, but, by — by — by the nine gods, I will !" He swung the pipe above his head, he dashed it on the floor. And that stove-pipe, as a stove-pipe, it did exist no more ; Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was stern and wan. As in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed: " Send for that tinsmith's man! " USEFUL STUDIES. JEREMY TAYLOR. iPEND not your time in that which profits not; for your lahor and your health, your time and your studies, are very valuable ; and it is a thousand pities to see a diligent and hopeful person spend himself in gathering cockle-shells and little pebbles, in telling sands upon the shores, and making garlands of useless daisies. Study that which is profitable, that which will make you useful to churches and commonwealtlia^ that which will make you desirable and 'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. 293 wise. Only I shall add this to you, that in learning there are a variety of things as well as in religion : there is mint and cummin, and there are the weighty things of the law ; so there are studies more and less useful, and everything that is useful will be required in its time : and. I may in' this also use the words of our blessed Saviour, " These things ought you to look after, and not to leave the other unregarded." But your great care is to be in the things of God and of religion, in holiness and true wisdom, re- membering the saying of Origen, " That the knowledge that arises from goodness is something that is more certain and more divine than all demonstration," than all other learnings of the world. 'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. HENRY WARD BEECHER. lil^riEY were walking silently and gravely home one Sunday after- ^K noon, under the tall elms that lined the street for half a mile. '*^^ Neither had spoken. There had been some little parish quarrel, I" and on that afternoon the text was, " A new commandment I \ write unto you, that ye love one another." But after the sermon was done the text was the best part of it. Some one said that Parson Marsh's sermons were like the meeting-house, — the steeple was the only thing that folks could see after they got home. They walked slowly, without a word. Once or twice 'Biah essayed to speak, but was still silent. He plucked a flower from between the pickets of the fence, and unconsciously pulled it to pieces, as, with a troubled face, he glanced at Eachel, and then, as fearing she would catch his eye, he looked at the trees, at the clouds, at the grass, at everything, and saw nothing — nothing but Rachel. The most solemn hour of human experience is not that of Death, but of Life, — when the heart is born again, and from a natural heart becomes a heart of Love ! What wonder that it is a silent hour and perplexed ! Is the soul confused ? "Why not, when the divine Spirit, rolling clear across the aerial ocean, breaks upon the heart's shore with all the mystery of heaven ? Is it strange that uncertain lights dim the eye, if above the head of him that truly loves hover clouds of saintly spirits ? Why should not the tongue stammer and refuse its accustomed offices, when all the world — skies, trees, plains, hills, atmosphere, and the solid earth — springs forth in new color, with strange meanings, and seems to chant for the soul the 20 294 'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. glory of that mystic Law with which God has bound to himself his infinite realm, — the law of Love ? Then, for the first time, when one so loves that love is sacrifice, death to self, resurrection, and glory, is man brought into harmony with the whole universe; and, like him who beheld the seventh heaven, hears things unlawful to be uttered. The great elm-trees sighed as the fitful breeze swept their tops. The soft shadows flitted back and forth beneath the walker's feet, fell upon them in light and dark, ran over the ground, quivered and shook, until sober Cathcart thought that his heart was throwing its shifting network of hope and fear along the ground before him. How strangely his voice sounded to him, as, at length, r all his emotions could only say, " Rachel, — how did you like the sermon ? " Quietly she answered, — " I liked the text." " ' A new commandment I write unto you, that ye love one another.' Rachel, will you help me to keep it ? " At first she looked down and lost a little color ; then, raising her face, she turned upon him her large eyes, with a look both clear and tender. It was as if some painful restraint had given way, and her eyes blossomed into full beauty. Not another word was spoken. They walked home hand in hand. He neither smiled nor exulted. He saw neither the trees, nor the long level rays of sunlight that were slanting across the fields. His soul was over- shadowed with a cloud, as if God were drawing near. He had never felt so solemn. This woman's life had been entrusted to him ! Long years, — the whole length of life, — the eternal years beyond, seemed in an indistinct way to rise up in his imagination. All he could say, as he left her at the door, was — " Rachel, this is forever — 'forever." She again said nothing, but turned to him with a clear and open face, in which joy and trust wrought beauty. It seemed to him as if a light fell upon him from her eyes. There was a look that descended and covered him as with an atmosphere ; and all the way home he was as one walking in a luminous cloud. He had never felt such personal dignity as now. He that wins such love is crowned, and may call himself king. He did not feel the earth under his feet. As he drew near his lodgings, the sun went down. The children began to pour forth, no longer restrained. THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 295 Abiah turned to his evening chores. No animal that night but had rea- son to bless him. The children found him unusually good and tender. And Aunt Keziah said to her sister, — " Abiah's been goin' to meetin' very regular for some weeks, and I shouldn't wonder, by the way he looks, if he had got a hope : I trust he ain't deceivin' himself." He had a hope, and he was not deceived ; for in a few months, at the close of the service one Sunday morning, the minister read from the pul- pit : " Marriage is intended between Abiah Cathcart and Eachel Liscomb, both of this town, and this is the first publishing of the banns." THE ENGINEER'S STORY. , rsCJ?^ , i^ji5|0, children, my trips are over The Engineer needs rest My hands is shaky ; I'm feeling A tugging pain i' my breast; But here, as the twilight gathers I'll tell you a tale of the road, That'll ring in my head forever. Till it rests beneath the sod. We were lumbering along in the twilight, The night was dropping her shade, And the " Gladiator " labored^ Climbing the top of the grade ; The train was heavily laden. So I let my engine rest, Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest. I held my watch to the lamplight — Ten minutes behind the time ! Lost in the slackened motion Of the up grade's heavy climb ; But I knew the miles of the prairie That stretched a level track, 80 I touched the gauge of the boiler. And pulled the lever back. Over the rails a-gleaming, Thirty an hour, or so. The engine leaped like a demon. Breathing a fiery glow ; But to me — ahold of the lever — It seemed a child alway. Trustful and always ready My lightest touch to obey. I was proud you know, of my engine^ Holding it steady that night, And my eye on the track before us. Ablaze with the Drummond light. We neared a well-known cabin, Where a child of three or four, As the up train passed, oft called me, A playing around the door. My hand was firm on the throttle As we swept around the curve, When something afar in the shadow, Struck fire through every nerve. I sounded the brakes, and crashing The reverse lever down in dismay, Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces Ahead was a child at its play ! One instant — one awful and only. The world flew around in my brain. And I smote my hand hard on my forehead To keep back the terrible pain ; The train I thought flying forever, With mad irresistible roll. While the cries of the dying, the night-wind Swept into my shuddering soul. Then I stood on the front of the engine, — How I got there I never could tell, — My feet planted down on the crossbar. Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, One hand firmly locked on the coupler, And one held out in the night. While my eye gauged the distance, and measured The speed of our slackening flight. 296 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady ; I saw the curls of her hair, And the face that, turning in wonder, Was lit by the deadly glare. I know little more — but I heard it — The groan of the anguished wheels. And remember thinking — the engine In agony trembles and reels. One rod ! To the day of my dying I shall think the old engine reared back. And as it recoiled, with a shudder I swept my hand over the track ; Then darkness fell over my eyelids, But I heard the surge of the train, And the poor old engine creaking. As racked by a deadly pain. They found us they said, on the gravel, My fingers enmeshed in her hair, And she on my bosom a-climbing, To nestle securely there. We are not much given to crying — We men that run on the road — • But that night, they said, there were faces, With tears on them, lifted to God. For years in the eve and the morning As I neared the cabin again. My hand on the lever pressed downward And slackened the speed of the train. When my engine had blown her a greeting. She always would come to the door ; And her look with a fullness of heaven Blessed me evermore. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. LORD BYRON. MlipHE Assyrian came down like the wolf P5 on the fold, ','^ And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and for- ever grew still. And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. And cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the bannert alone; The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. And the idols are broke in the temples of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! DER DRUMMER. 297 DER DRUMMER. CHAS. F. ADAMS. no puts oup at der pest hotel, Unci dakes his oysders on der schell, Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? Der drui Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, Drows down his pundles on der vloor, Und nefer schtops to shut der door ? Der drummer. ^iiis^-^ g;_..-.^^ Who dakes me py der handt, und say, " Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day ?" Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay ? Der drummer. Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, Und dells me, " Look, und see how nice?" Und says I gets "der bottom price?" Der drummer. Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, But lets dem go as he vas " short?" Der drummer. Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, — " Vrom Sharraany, ubon der Rhine," — Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine? Der drummer. 298 VOICES OF THE DEAD. Who varrants all der goots to suit Der gustomers ubon his route, Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot? Der drummer. Und kiss Katrina in der mout' ? Der drummer. Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, Drinks oup mine bier, and cats mine kraut, Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? Der drummer. VOICES OF THE DEAD. JOHN GUMMING. ^E die, but leave an influence behind us that survives. The echoes of our words are evermore repeated, and reflected along the ages. It is what man was that lives and acts after him. What he said sounds along the years like voices amid the mountain gorges ; and what he did is repeated after him in ever-multiplying and never- ceasing reverberations. Every man has left behind him influences for good or for evil that will never exhaust themselves. The sphere in which he acts may be small, or it may be great. It may be his fireside, or it may be a kingdom ; a village, or a great nation ; it may be a parish, or broad Europe ; but act he does, ceaselessly and forever. His friends, his family, his succes- sors in office, his relatives, are all receptive of an influence, a moral influ- ence which he has transmitted and bequeathed to mankind ; either a bless- ing which will repeat itself in showers of benedictions, or a curse which will multiply itself in ever-accumulating evil. Every man is a missionary, now and forever, for good or for evil, whether he intends and designs it, or not. He may be a blot, radiating his VOICES OF THE- DEAD. 299 dark influence outward to the very circumference of society, or he may be a blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and breadth of the world ; but a blank he cannot he. The seed sown in life springs up in harvests of blessings, or harvests of sorrow. Whether our influence be great or small, whether it be for good or evil, it lasts, it lives somewhere, within some limit, and is operative wherever it is. The grave buries the dead dust, but the character walks the world, and distributes itself, as a benediction or a curse, among the families of mankind. The sun sets beyond the western hills, but the trail of light he leaves behind him guides the pilgrim to his distant home. The tree falls in the forest ; but in the lapse of ages it is turned into coal, and our fires burn now the brighter because it grew and fell. The coral insect dies, but the reef it raised breaks the surge on the shores of great conti- nents, or has formed an isle in the bosom of the ocean, to wave with har- vests for the good of man. We live and we die ; but the good or evil that we do lives after us, and is not " buried with our bones." The babe that perished on the bosom of its mother, like a flower that bowed its head and drooped amid the death-frosts of time — that babe, not only in its image, but in its influence, still lives and speaks in the cham- bers of the mother's heart. The friend with whom we took sweet counsel is removed visibly from the outward eye ; but the lessons that he taught, the grand sentiments that he uttered, the holy deeds of generosity by which he was character- ized, the moral lineaments and likeness of the man, still survive and ap- pear in the silence of eventide, and on the tablets of memory, and in the light of morn and noon and dewy eve ; and, being dead, he yet speaks elo- quently, and in the midst of us. Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous influence in the East. Napoleon still is France, and France is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther's dead dust sleeps at Wittenberg, but Martin Luther's accents still ring through the churches of Christendom. Shakspeare, Byron, and Milton, all live in their influence for good or evil. The apostle from his chair, the minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman from his cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left be- hind them. " None of us liveth to himself; " — others are affected by that life ; — " or dieth to himself;" — others are interested in that death. Our queen's crown may moulder, but she who wore it will act upon the ages which are 300 THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. yet to come. The noble's coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer of it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who will be made and moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and worthless ; but moral character has an immortality that no sword-point can destroy ; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind. What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that will never cease. What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak ; and the whole universe is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening; and all nature the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the pas- sions of mankind. Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, statesmen, are all influences that extend into the future ages. " The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle" still speaks. The Mantuan bard still sings in every school. Shakspeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated into every tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite is still felt in every academy. Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, they are influences fraught with power. How blest must be the recollection of those who, like the setting sun, have left a trail of light behind them by which others may see the way to that rest which remaineth for the people of God ! It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all pro- ceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy also. Gro forth, then, into the sphere that you occupy, the employments, the trades, the professions of social life ; go forth into the high places, or into the lowly places of the land; mix with the roaring cataracts of social convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic life ; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will radi- ate around you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficial influences. THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. sWAS a ferocious baggage-man, with Atlantean back, And biceps upon each arm piled in a formidable stack, That plied his dread vocation beside a railroad track. eggshell. Wildly he tossed the baggage round the I-latform there, pellmell, And crushed to naught the frail bandbox where'er it shapeless fell, Or stove the "Saratoga" like the flimsiest NIGHT. 301 On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly, And eke the trunk derisively called "Cottage by the Sea;" And pulled and hauled and rammed and jammed the same vindictively, Until a yearning breach appeared, or frac- tures two or three. Or straps were burst, or lids fell ott, or some catastrophe Crowned his Satanic zeal or moved his dia- bolic glee. The passengers surveyed the wreck with di- verse discontent. And some vituperated him, and some made loud lament, But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly spent. To him there came a shambling man, sad- eyed and meek and thin. Bearing an humble carpet-bag, with scanty stuff therein. And unto that fierce baggage-man he spake, with quivering chin : " Behold this scanty carpet-bag ! I started a month ago. With a dozen Saratoga trunks, hat-box, and portmanteau, But baggage-men along the route have brought me down so low. " Be careful with this carpet-bag, kind sir," said he to him. The baggage-man received it with a smile extremely grim. And softly whispered " Mother, may I go out to swim ?" Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wild, sardonic spleen. And into countless fragments flew — to hi.i profound chagrin — For that lank bag contained a pint of nitro- " glycerine. The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and stroked his quivering chin. And then he winked with one sad eye, and said, with smile serene, " The stuff to check a baggage-man is nitro- glycerine!" NIGHT. JAMES MONTGOMERY, pIGHT is the time for rest; How sweet, when labors close. To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams : The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Mix in fantastic strife ; Ah ! visions, less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are ! Night is the time for toil : To plough the classic field. Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang, and heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep : To wet with unseen tears Those graves of Memory, where sleep The joys of other years ; Hopes, that were Angels at their birth, But died when young, like things of earth Night is the time to watch : O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind. 302 NOBODY'S CHILD. Night is the time for care : Night is the time to pray : Brooding on hours misspent, Our Saviour oft withdrew To see the spectre of Despair To desert mountains far away ; Come to our lonely tent; So will his followers do, Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, Summoned to die by Caesar's ghost. And commune there alone with God. Night is the time to think : Night is the time for Death : "When, from the eye, the soul When all around is peace, Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink Calmly to yield the weary breath, Of yonder starry pole From sin and suffering cease. Discern beyond the abyss of night Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign The dawn of uncreated light. To parting friends ; — such death be mine. NOBODY'S CHILD. PHILA H. CASE. J^R^jLONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, ^m^ With my torn old dress and bare %" cold feet, All day I wandered to and fro, Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head ; Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? Is it because I'm nobody's child? x Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; Beautiful children, in robes so fair, Are caroling songs in rapture there. I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me, Wandering alone in the merciless street. Naked and shivering and nothing to eat. Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down In its terrible blackness all over the town ? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold hard pavements alone to die ? When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed. No dear mother ever upon me smiled — Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child' No father, no mother, no sister, not one THE GOLDEN CITY. In all the world loves me ; e'en the little dogs run When I wander too near them ; 'tis won- drous to see, How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but, sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, Watching for hours some large bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, And a host of white-robed, nameless things. Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird The sweetest voice that was ever heard — Calls me many a dear pet name. Till my heart and spirits are all aflame ; And tells me of such unbounded love. And bids me come up to their home above. And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise. They look at me with their sweet blue eyes. And it seems to me out of the dreary night, I am going up to the world of light. And away from the hunger and storms so wild — I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. THE GOLDEN CITY, JOHN BUNYAN. lllpOW just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after ^^^ them, and behold the city shone like the sun ; the streets, also were paved with gold, and in them walked many men with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps, to sino- praises withal. There were also of them that had wings, and they answered one another without intermission, saying, "Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord." And after that they shut up the gates ; which when I had seen, I wished myself among them. Now, while I was gazing upon all these things, I turned my head to look back, and saw Ignorance coming up to the river side ; but he soon got over, and that without half the difficulty which the other two men met with. For it happened that there was then in that place one Vain- Hope, a ferryman, that with his boat helped him over ; so he, as the other, I saw, did ascend the hill, to come up to the gate, only he came alone ; neither did any man meet him with the least encouragement. When he was coming up to the gate, he looked up to the writing that was above, and then began to knock, supposing that entrance should have been quickly admin- istered to him : but he was asked by the men that looked over the top of the gate, " Whence come you, and what would you have ?" . . He answered, " I have eat and drank in the presence of the King, and he has taught in 304 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. our streets." Then they asked for his certificate, that they might go in and show it to the King; so he fumbled in his bosom for one, and found none. Then said they, " You have none !" but the man answered never a word. So they told the King, but he would not come down to see him, but commanded the two shining ones that conducted Christian and Hope- ful to the city to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, and have him away. Then they took him up and carried him through the air to the door that I saw on the side of the hill, and put him in there. Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of heaven, as well as from the City of Destruction. " So I awoke. It was a dream." THE SONG OF THE FORGE. apffl^LANG, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; nM^ Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers ^fl? swing ; YI'^ Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, The mighty blows still multiply, — Clang, clang! Say, brothers of the dusky brow. What are your strong arms forging now ? Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now, — The coulter of the kindly plough. Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! May its broad furrow still unbind To genial rains, to sun and wind, The most benignant soil ! Clang, clang ! — our coulter's course shall be On many a sweet and sheltered lea, By many a streamlet's silver tide ; Amidst the song of morning birds, Amidst the low of sauntering herds. Amidst soft breezes, which do stray Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, Along the green hill's side. When regal Autumn's bounteous nand With wide-spread glory clothes the land, — When to the valleys, from the brow Of each resplendent slope, is rolled A ruddy sea of living gold, — We bless, we bless the plough. DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM 805 Clang, clang ! — again, my mates, what grows Beneath the hammer's potent blows? Clink, clank ! — -we forge the giant chain, Which bears the gallant vessel's strain Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; Secured by this, the good ship braves The rocky roadstead, and the waves Which thunder on her sides. Anxious no more, the merchant sees The mist drive dark before the breeze, The storm-cloud on the hill ; Calmly he rests, — though far away. In boisterous climes, his vessel lay,— Reliant on our skill. Say on what sands these links shall sleep. Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? By Afric's pestilential shore , By many an iceberg, lone and hoar ; By many a balmy western isle. Basking in spring's perpetual smile ; By stormy Labrador. Say, shall they feel the vessel reel. When to the battery's deadly peal The crashing broadside makes reply ; Or else, as at the glorious Nile, Hold grappling ships, that strive the while For death or victory ? Hurrah' — cling, clang! — once more, what glows, Dark brothers of the forge, beneath The iron tempest of your blows. The furnace's red breath ? Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured Around, and up in the dusky air, As our hammers forge the sword. The sword !— a name of dread ! yet when Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, — While for his altar and his hearth, While for the land that gave him birth, The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, — How sacred is it then ! Whenever for the truth and right It flashes in the van of fight, — Whether in some wild mountain pass, As that where fell Leonidas ; Or on some sterile plain and stern, A Marston or a Bannockburn ; Or amidst crags and bursting rills, The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; Or as, when sunk the Armada's pride, It gleams above the stormy tide, — Still, still, whene'er the battle word Is liberty, when men do stand For justice and their native land, — Then Heaven bless the sword ! DAVIUS LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. N. P. WILLIS. j^HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still. Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream : the willow leaves With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurso Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells By its light heed of human suff'ering, That it was fashioned for a happier world. King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem : and now he stood With his faint people, for a little space, Upon the shore of Jordan The light wind 306 DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow, To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words : and as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there. And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh ! when the heart is full, — when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance. And the poor common words of courtesy. Are such a very mockery — how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! He prayed for Israel : and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those. Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom, — For his estranged, misguided Absalom,— The proud bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him — for him he poured In agony that would not be controlled Strong supplication, and forgave him there. Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave : and as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the ta-^seh as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him ; and the jeweled hilt Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested like mockery on his covered brow. The soldievs of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slurnberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped hia blade As if a trumpet rang : but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The King stood still Till the last echo died : then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of bis child. He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe : "Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die, — Thou who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair — How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom ! " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee — How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill. Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee — And hear thy sweet ' My father' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom ! " The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young : And life will pass me in the mantling blush. And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung, — But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come To meet me, Absalom ! " And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart. Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 307 It were so sweet, amid death'; gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! gathering " And now farewell. 'Tis hard to give thee up. With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin — oh ! I could drink the cup If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom !" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child ; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer: And as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly and composed the pall Firmly and decently, — and left him there. As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. CHARLES DICKENS. ^1^ HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children ^ assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree. Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises ; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top, — for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, — I look into my youngest Christmas recollections. All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower down, how thick the books begin to hang ! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with ! " A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and there he is ! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe : like Y, who was always confined to a yacht or a yew-tree ; and Z, condemned forever to be a zebra or a zany. But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk, — the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack climbed up to the giant's house. Jack, — how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swiftness ! Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the 308 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me infor- mation of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate her, after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love, I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding-Hood I should have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the anhnals were crammed in at the roof, and needed to have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in even there ; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly listened with a wire latch; but what was that against it ? Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant ; the lady-bird, the butterfly, — all triumphs of art ! consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal creation ! consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stoppers ; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers ; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string. Hush ! Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree, — not Robin Hood, not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf,— I have passed him and all Mother Bunch's wonders without mention, — but an Eastern King with a glittering scimitar and turban. It is the setting in of the bright Arabian Nights. Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me ! All lamps are wonderful ! all rings are talismans ! Common flower- pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top ; trees are for Ali Baba to hide in ; beefsteaks are to throw down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick to them, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that unlucky one with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genii's invisible son. All olives are of the same stock of that fresh fruit, con- cerning which the Commander of the Faithful overheard the boy conduce the fictitious trial of the fraudulent olive-merchant. Yes, on every object that I recognize among the upper branches of my Christmas tree I see this fairy light ! But hark ! the Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep ! THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 309 What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set forth on the Christmas tree ! Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An ang^l, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field ; some travelers, with eyes uplifted, fol- lowing a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men : a solemn figure with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand ; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow on his bier, to life ; a crowd of people looking through the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, with ropes ; the same, in a tempest, walking on the waters ; in a ship, again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude ; again, with a child upon his knees, and other children around ; again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a cross, watched by armed soldiers, a darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard, " Forgive them, for they know not what they do !" Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged ! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world ! A moment's pause, vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl and the widow's son, — and God is good ! THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. GEORGE W. BUNGAY. Sabbath ] " This is the church not built on sands, bells ! Each one its creed in music tells, In tones that float upon the air. As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; And I will put in simple rhyme The language of the golden chime ; My happy heart with rapture swells Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. " In deeds of love excel ! excel !" Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 21 Emblem of one not built with hands ; Its forms and sacred rights revere. Come worship here ! come worship here ! In rituals and faith excel !" Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. " Oh heed the ancient landmarks well!" In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; " No progress made by mortal man Can change the just eternal plan : 310 THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. With God there can be nothing new ; Ignore the false, embrace the true, While all is well ! is well ! is well !" Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. :' Ye purifying waters swell!" In mellow tones rang out a bell ; '• Though faith alone in Christ can save, Man must be plunged beneath the wave. To show the world unfaltering faith In what the sacred scripture saith ; P swell ! ye rising waters, swell !" Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. " Not faith alone, but works as well, Must test the soul !" said a soft bell ; " Come here and cast aside your load, And work your way along the road, With faith in God, and faith in man, And hope in Christ, where hope began ; Do well! do well ! do well! do well;" Rang out the Unitarian bell. " Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell !' In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; " Life is a boon, to mortals given. To fit the soul for bliss in heaven ; Do not invoke the avenging rod, Come here and learn the way to God ; Say to the world farewell ! farewell !" Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. " To all the truth we tell ! we tell !" Shouted in ecstacies a bell ; " Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! Our Lord has made salvation free ! Repent, believe, have faith, and then Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! Salvation's free, we tell 1 we tell 1" Shouted the Methodistic bell. " In after life there is no hell !" In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; " Look up to heaven this holy day, Where angels wait to lead the way ; There are no fires, no fiends to blight The future life ; be just and right. No hell ! no hell! no hell ! no hell!" Rang out the Universalist bell. " The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell: " No fetters here to clog the soul ; No arbitrary creeds control The free heart and progressive mind. That leave the dusty past behind. Speed well, speed well, speed well, well !" Pealed out the Independent bell. " No pope, no pope, to doom to hell !" The Protestant rang out a bell ; " Great Luther left his fiery zeal Within the hearts that truly feel That loyalty to God will be The fealty that makes man free. No images where incense fell !" Rang out old Martin Luther's bell. " All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell Close by the cross !" exclaimed a bell ; " Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, And deign to bless a world like this ; Let mortals kneel before this shrine — Adore the water and the wine ! All hail ye saints, the chorus swell !" Chimed in the Roman Catliolic bell. " Ye workers who have toiled so well, To save the race !" said a sweet bell ; " With pledge, and badge, and banner, com(^ Each brave heart beating like a drum ; Be royal men of noble deeds. For love is holier than creeds ; Drink from the well, the well, the well !" In rapture rang the Temperance bell. HANS AND FRITZ. 311 HAA^S AND FRITZ. CHARLES F. ADAMS. l^pANS and Fritz were two Deutscliers 1^^ who lived side by side, Remote from the world, its deceit and its pride : With their pretzels and beer the spare moments were spent, And the fruits of their labor were peace and content. Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor ore day, And, lacking a part of the Geld,— as they say, — • Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. Fritz kindly consented the money to lend. 312 KORNER'S SWORD SONG. And gave the required amount to his friend ; Remarking, — his own simple language to quote, — " Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note." The note was drawn up in their primitive way, — " I Hans, gets from Fritz feefty toUars to- day ;" When the question arose, the note being made, " Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid?" "You geeps dot," says Fritz, "und den you vill know You owes me dot money." Says Hans, " Dot ish so : Dot makes me remempers I haf dot to bay, Und I prings you der note und der money some day." A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed, Paid back the amount, and from debt he waa freed. Says Fritz, " Now dot settles us." Hans re- plies, " Yaw : Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law ?" "I geeps dot now, aind't it?" say.s Fritz; "den you see, I alvays remempers you paid dot to me." Says Hans, "Dot ish so: it vas now shust so blain. Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again.' KOBNEES SWORD SONG. Completed one hour before he fell on the battle-field, August 26, 1813. r^wJ|WORD at my left side gleaming ! Why is thy keen glance, beaming, So fondly bent on mine ? I love that smile of thine ! Hurrah ! " Borne by a trooper daring, t My looks his fire glance wearing, I arm a freeman's hand : This well delights thy band Hurrah !" Ay, good sword, free I wear thee ; And, true heart's love, I bear thee. Betrothed one, at my side, As my dear, chosen bride ! Hurrah ! •' To thee till death united. Thy steel's bright life is plighted ; Ah, were my love but tried ! When wilt thou wed thy brido ? Hurrah ! " The tempest's festal warning Shall hail our bridal morning ; When loud the cannon chide, Then clasp I my loved bride ! Hurrah ! " joy, when thine arms hold me ! I pine until they fold me. Come to me! bridegroom, come! Thine is my maiden bloom. Hurrah !" Why, in thy sheath upspringing, Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing ? Why clanging with delight, So eager for the fight ? Hurrah ! " Well may thy scabbard rattle ; Trooper, I pant for battle ; Right eager for the fight, I clang with wild deliglit. Hurrali !" Why thus, my love, forth creeping? Stay in thy chamber, sleeping ; Wait still, in the narrow room ; Soon for my bride I come. Hurrah ! SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 313 " Keep me not longer pining ! God plights your bride in the light ! for love's garden shining Hurrah ! With roses bleeding red, And blooming with the dead ! Hurrah !" Then press with warm caresses, Close lips and bridal kisses, Your steel ; — cursed be his head Come from thy sheath, then, treasure ! Who fails the bride he wed ! Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! Hurrah ! Come forth, my good sword, come ^^^^^^^-.^ Enter thy father-home ! ^^^^^P^'^WS. Hurrah ! mS^^^-jr ^ " Ha ! in the free air glancing, JisgdiBfltttt^ How brave this bridal dancing ! ^^H^BbBHHH^^^ How, in the sun's glad beams ! BBfe||jtfy^^fe||fl^^^g Bride -like, thy bright steel gleams! ^m^I^^^MSSSr^^^'^^ Hurrah !" wi^^^^^^^^^' Come on, ye German horsemen ! ^R^^^^9^r Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! ^^^S^^^^uBt^ Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? ^^^jjj^^^^^^ Clasp each in hand his bride ! Hurrah ! Now till your swords flash, flinging Clear sparks forth, wave them singing. Once at your left side sleeping, Day dawns for bridal pride ; Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping, Hurrah, thou iron bride ! Now wedded with your right. Hurrah! SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. r '■3RS. CENTRE was jealous. She was one of those discontented women who are never satisfied unless something goes wrong. When the sky is bright and pleasant they are annoyed because there is nothing to grumble at. The trouble is not with the out- I ward world, but with the heart, the mind : and every one who 1 wishes to grumble will find a subject. Mrs. Centre was jealous. Her husband was a very good sort of person, though he probably had his peculiarities. At any rate, he had a cousin, whose name was Sophia Smithers, and who was very pretty, very intelligent, and very amiable and kind-hearted. I dare say he occasionally made her a social call, to which his wife solemnly and seriously objected, for the reason that Sophia was pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind- hearted. These were the sum total of her sins. Centre and his wife boarded at a private establishment at the South 314 SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. end of Boston. At the same house also boarded Centre's particular, inti- mate, and confidential friend, Wallis, with his wife. Their rooms might almost be said to be common ground, for the two men and the two women were constantly together. Wallis could not help observing that Mrs. Centre watched her husband very closely, and Centre at last confessed that there had been some difficulty. So they talked the matter over together, and came to the con- clusion that it was very stupid for any one to be jealous, most of all for Mrs. Centre to be jealous. What they did I don't know, but one evening Centre entered the room, and found Mrs. Wallis there, "My dear, I am obliged to go oat a few moments to call upon a friend," said Centre. " To call upon a friend !" sneered Mrs. Centre. " Yes, my dear, I shall be back presently;" and Mr. Centre left the room. " The old story," said she, when he had gone. " If it was my husband I would follow him," said Mrs. Wallis. " I will !" and she immediately put on her bonnet and shawl. " So- phia Smithers lives very near, and I am sure he is going there." Centre had gone up stairs to put on his hat and overcoat, and in a moment she saw him on the stairs. She could not mistake him, for there was no other gentleman in the house who wore such a peculiarly shaped Kossuth as he wore. He passed out, and Mrs. Centre passed out after him. She followed the queer shaped Kossuth of her husband, and it led her to C Street, where she had suspected it would lead her. And further, it led her to the house of Smithers, the father of Sophia, where she suspected also it would lead her. Mrs. Centre was very unhappy. Her husband had ceased to love her; he loved another ; he loved Sophia Smithers. She could have torn the pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted cousin of her husband in pieces at that moment ; but she had the fortitude to curb her belligerent tendencies, and ring the door-bell. She was shown into the sitting-room, where the beautiful girl of many virtues was engaged in sewing. " Is my husband here ?" she demanded. " Mr. Centre ? Bless you, no ! He hasn't been here for a month." Gracious! What a whopper ! Was it true that she whose multitudi- nous qualities had been so often rehearsed to her could tell a lie ? Hadn't she .seen the peculiar Kossuth of her husband enter that door? Hadn't she followed that unmistakable hat to the house ? SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 315 She was amazed at the coolness of her husband's fair cousin. Before, she had believed it was only a flirtation. Now, she was sure it was some- thing infinitely worse, and she thought about a divorce, or at least a separa- tion. She was astounded, and asked no more questions. Did the guilty pair hope to deceive her — her, the argus-eyed wife ? She had some shrewd- ness, and she had the cunning to conceal her purpose by refraining from any appearance of distrust. After a few words upon commonplace topics, she took her leave. When she reached the sidewalk, there she planted herself, determined to wait till Centre came out. For more than an hour she stood there, nursing the yellow demon of jealousy. He came not. While she, the true, faithful, and legal wife of Centre, was waiting on the cold pavement, shivering in the cold blast of autumn, he was folded in the arms of the black-hearted Sophia, before a comfortable coal-fire. She was catching her death a-cold. What did he care — the brute ! He was bestowing his affections upon her who had no legal right to them. The wind blew, and it began to rain. She could stand it no longer. She should die before she got the divorce, and that was just what the inhuman Centre would wish her to do. She must preserve her precious life for the present, and she reluctantly concluded to go home. Centre had not come out, and it required a struggle for her to forego the exposure of the nefarious scheme. She rushed into the house, — into her room. Mrs. Wallis was there still. Throwing herself upon the sofa, she wept like a great baby. Her friend tried to comfort her, but she was firmly resolved not to be comforted. In vain Mrs. Wallis tried to assure her of the fidelity of her husband. She would not listen to the words. But while she was thus weeping, Mr. Centre entered the room, looking just as though nothing had happened, "You wretch !" sobbed the lady. "What is the matter, my dear?" coolly inquired the gentleman, for he had not passed through the battle and storm of matrimonial warfare with- out being able to " stand fire." " You wretch !" repeated the lady, with compound unction. " What has happened ?" " You insult me, abuse me, and then ask me what the matter is '" cried the lady. " Haven't I been waiting in C Street for two hours for you to come out of Smithers' house?" "Have you?" " I have, you wretch !" 316 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. "And I did not come out ?" " No ! You know you didn't i" " There was an excellent reason for that, my dear. I wasn't there," said Centre, calmlv. " You weren't there, you wretch ! How dare you tell me such an abominable lie ! But I have found you out. You go there every day, yes, twice, three times, a day ! I know your amiable cousin, now ! She can lie as well as you !" " Sophia tell a lie ! Oh, no, my dear !" " But she did. She said you were not there." "That was very true; I was not." " How dare you tell me such a lie ! You have been with Sophia all the evening. She is a nasty baggage !" " Nay, Mrs. Centre, you are mistaken," interposed Mrs. Wallis. "Mr. Centre has been with me in this room all the evening." " What ! didn't I see him go out, and follow him to C Street ?" " No, my dear, I haven't been out this evening. I changed my mind." Just then Wallis entered the room with that peculiar Kossuth on his head, and the mystery was explained. Mrs. Centre was not a little con- fused, and very much ashamed of herself. Wallis had been in Smithers' library smoking a cigar, and had not seen Sophia. Her statement that she had not seen Centre for a month was strictly true, and Mrs. Centre was obliged to acknowledge that she had been jealous without a cause, though she was not "let into" the plot of Wallis. But Centre should have known better than to tell his wife what a pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted girl Sophia was. No hus- band should speak well of any lady but his wife. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. ALFRED TENNYSON. ^l^ULL knoe-deep lies the winter snow, jjp^l And the winter winds are wearily f-4f^ sighing: 'u Toll ye the church-bell, sad and slow, -' And tread softly and speak low ; J For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die ; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily ; Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still ; he doth not move ; He will not see the dawn of day; He hath no other life above : BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 317 He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, And the New-year will take them away. Old year, you must not go ; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, — Old year, you shall not go. He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see. But though his eyes are waxing dim. And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you. Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest ; But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post haste. But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend. And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! o'er the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro, The cricket chirps, the light burns low, — 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. What is it we can do for you? — Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin ; — Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes, tie up his chin. Step from the corpse, and let him in Who standeth there alone. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend. And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. JOHN G. WHITTIER. ipP from the meadows rich with corn, -«™1^ Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand. Green-walled by the hills of Mary- land. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, When Lee marched over the mountain wall. Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars. Forty flags with their crimson bars. Flapped in the morning wind : the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her four-score years and ten ; Bravest of all in Frederick town. She took up the flag the men hauled down. In her attic-window the staff she set. To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead ; Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 318 CIVIL WAR. " Halt! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; " Fire ! " — out blazed the nfle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill. And shook it forth with a royal will. " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head. But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. Over the face of the leader came ; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word. " Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet ; All day long that free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well ; And through the hill-gaps sunset-light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her ! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave Flag of Freedem and Union, wave ! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law ; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town. I CIVIL WAR Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot ^^ Straight at the heart of yon prowling vedette ; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an J amulet ! " 'Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead. There's music around when my barrel's in tune ! " Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. " Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes and snatch From your victim some trinket to hansel first blood ; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud !" " Oh captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vedette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back. That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. " But I snatched off the trinket, — ihis locket of gold ; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." " Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 'tis she, My brother's young bride, — and the fallen dragoon Was her husband — Hush ! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree. We must bury him there, by the light of the moon ! " But hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite ; War is a virtue, — weakness a sin ; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; — Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in ! " GO, FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT. 319 HARK, HARK! THE LARK f^f^k'KK, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; SHAKESPEARE. And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise ! GO, FEEL WHAT T HA VE FELT. i^O, feel what I have felt. Go, bear what I have born ; aSink 'noath a blow a father dealt, And the cold, proud world's scorn. Thus struggle on from year to year, Thy sole relief the scalding tear. Go, weep as I have wept O'er a loved father's fall ; See every cherished promise swept, Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way. That led me up to woman's day. Go, kneel as I have knelt: Implore, beseech and pray, Strive the besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay ; Be cast with bitter curse aside, — Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. Go, stand where I have stood. And see the strong man bow ; With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, And cold and livid brow ; Go, catch his wandering glance, and see There mirrored his soul's misery. 320 THE DEACON'S PRAYER. Go, hear what I have heard, — The sobs of sad despair, As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, And its revealings there Have told him what he might have been, Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide, , Wipe from her cheek the tear; Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, The gray that streaks her dark hair now. The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, And trace the ruin back to him Whose plighted faith in early youth. Promised eternal love and truth, But who, forsworn, hath yielded up This promise to the deadly cup, And led her down from love and light. From all that made her pathway bright. And chained her there mid want and strife, That lowly thing, — a drunkard's wife ! And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild, That withering blight, — a drunkard's child! Go, hoar, and see, and feel, and know All that my soul hath felt and known, Then look within the wine-cup s glow; See if its brightness can atone ; Think of its flavor would you try, If all proclaimed, — ' Tis drink and die. Tell me I hate the bowl, — Hate is a feeble word ; I loathe, abhor, my very soul By strong disgust is stirred Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL I THE DEACON'S PRAYER. WILLIAM 0. STODDART. ?N the regular evening meeting \ That the church-holds every w * One night a listening angel sat To hear them pray and It puzzled the soul of the angel Why some to that gathering came. But sick and sinful hearts he saw, With grief and guilt aflame. They were silent, but said to the angel, " Our lives have need of Him !" While doubt, with dull, vague, throbbing pain, Stirred through their spirits dim. You could see 'twas the regular meeting, And fhe regular seats were filled, And all knew who would pray and talk, Though any one might that willed. From his place in front, nogtr the pulpit, In his long-accustomed way, When the Book was read, and the hymn waa sung, The Deacon arose to pray. First came the long preamble — If Peter had opened so. He had been, ere the Lord his prayer had heard, Full fifty fathom below. Then a volume of information Poured forth, as if to the Lord, Concerning His ways and attributes, And the things by Him abhorred. But not in the list of the latter Was mentioned the mocking breath Of the hypocrite prayer that is not a prayer, And the make-believe life in death. Then he prayed for the church; and the pastor ; And that " eouls might be his hire" — MEDITATION AT AN INFANT'S TOMB. 321 Whatever his stipend otherwise — Now, if all of that burden had really And the Sunday-school ; and the choir ; And the swarming hordes of India; Been weighing upon his soul, 'Twould have sunk him through to the China And the perishing, vile Chinese ; And the millions who bow to the Pope of side, And raised a hill over the hole. Rome ; And the pagan churches of Greece ; ******** And the outcast remnants of Judah, 'Twas the regular evening meeting. Of whose guilt he had much to tell — And the regular prayers were made, He prayed, or he told the Lord he prayed. For everything out of Hell. But the listening angel told the Lord That only the silent prayed. MEDITATION AT AN INFANTS TOMB. JAMES HERVEY. ■=mj|pONDEIl white stone, emblem of the innocence it covers, informs the "'^^ beholder of one who breathed out its tender soul almost in the '^'^ instant of receiving it. There, the peaceful infant, without so much as knowing what labor and vexation mean, " lies still and is quiet; it sleeps and is at rest." What did the little sojourner find so forbidding and disgustful in our upper world, to occasion its precipitate exit ? 'Tis written, indeed, of its suffering Saviour, that when he had tasted the vinegar mingled with gall, he would not drink. And did our new-come stranger begin to sip the cup of life ; but, perceiving the bitterness, turn away its head, and refuse the draught ? Happy voyager ! no sooner launched, than arrived at the haven ! But more eminently happy they, who have passed the waves, and weathered all the storms of a troublesome and dangerous world ! who, " through many tribulations, have entered into the kingdom of heaven;'' and thereby brought honor to their divine Convoy, administered comfort to the com- panions of their toil, and left an instructive example. Highly favored probationer ! accepted, without being exercised ! It was thy peculiar privilege, not to feel the shghtest of those evils which oppress thy surviving kindred ; which frequently fetch groans from the most manly fortitude or most elevated faith. The arrows of calamity, barbed with anguish, are often fixed deep in our choicest comforts. The fiery darts of temptation, shot from the hand of hell, are always flying in showers around our integrity. To thee, sweet babe, both these distresses and dans;ers were ahke unknown 322 EXCELSIOR. Consider this, ye mourning parents, and dry up your tears. Why should you lament that your little ones are crowned with victory, before the sword is drawn or the conflict begun ? Perhaps, the Supreme Disposer of events foresaw some inevitable snare of temptation forming, or some dreadful storm of adversity impending. And why should you be so dissatisfied with that kind precaution, which housed your pleasant plant, and removed into shelter a tender flower, before the thunders roared ; before the lightnings flew; before the tempest poured its rage ? At the same time, let survivors, doomed to bear the heat and burden of the day, for their encouragement reflect, that it is more honorable to have entered the lists, and to have fought the good fight ; before they come off conquerors. They who have borne the cross, and submitted to afflictive providences, with a cheerful resignation ; have girded up the loins of their mind, and performed their Master's will, wdth an honest and persevering fidelity ; these, having glorified their Kedeemer on earth, will, probably, be as stars of the first magnitude in heaven. I EXCELSIOR. . r4: | ?^ . HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. |HE shades of night were falling fast, ^^ A youth, bore, mid snow and A banner with a strange device, Excelsior ! His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior ! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! " Try not the pass !" the old rnan said ; " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" — And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior ! "Oh! stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 323 But still he answered, with Excelsior ! sigh, " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last good-night ; — A voice replied far up the height. Excelsior ! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of St. Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior ! A traveler, — by the faithful hound. Half buried in the snow was found. Still grasping in his hand of ice. That banner with the strange device. Excelsior ! There, in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, — Excelsior ! PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. sh^ iWAS growin dark so terrible fasht. Whin through a town up the moun- tain there pashed (g^!^ A broth of a boy, to his neck in ^ the shnow ; 4* As he walked, his shillalah he J swung to and fro, Saying : " It's up to the top I am bound for to go, Be jabbers!" He looked mortal sad, and bin eye was as bright As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night; And niver a word that he said could ye tell As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, " It's up till the top of the mountain I'll go, Onless covered up wid this bodthersome shnow. Be jabbers!" Through the windows he saw, as he thra- veled along. The light of the candles and fires so warm, But a big chunk of ice hung over his head ; Wid a shnivel and groan, " By St. Patrick !" he said, " It's up to the very tip-top I will rush. And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush. Be jabbers !" " Whisht a bit," said an owld man, whose hair was as white As the shnow that fell down on that miser- able night ; '• Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad, Fur the night is so dark and the walkin' is bad." Bedad! he'd not lisht to a word that was said. But he'd go to the top, if he went on his head, Be jabbers ! A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes to be kissed. Axed him wouldn't he stop, and how could he resist ? So shnapping his fingers and winking his eye. While shmiling upon her, he made this re- ply— " Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the top, But, as yer shwate self has axed me, I may as well shtop Be jabbers !" He shtopped all night and he shtopped all day, — 324 FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. And ye musn't be axin whin he did go away ; Fur wouldn't he bo a bastely gossoon To be lavin his darlint in the swate honey- moon ? Whin the owld man has peraties enough and to spare, Shure he moight as well shtay if he's com> fortable there, Be jabbers! THE CHINESE EXCELSIOR. FROM "THE BOY TEAVELEIIE Ifiji^IIAT nightee teem he come chop-chop ^^ One young man walkee, no can stop ; Maskee snow, maskee ice ; He cally flag wit'h chop so nice — Top-side Galah ! 'He muchee solly : one piecee eye Lookee sharp — so fashion — my ; He talkee large, he talkee stlong. Too muchee culio ; allee same gong. — Top-side Galah ! 'Insidee house he can see light. And evly loom got fire all light, He lookee plenty ice more high, Insidee mout'h he plenty cly — Top- side Galah ! 'Ole man talkee, " No can walk, Bimeby lain come, velly dark ; Have got water, velly wide ! " Maskee, my must go top-side, — Top-side Galah ! " Man-man " one girlee talkee he : " What for you go top-side look — see ? " And one teem more he plenty cly, But allee teem walk plenty high — Top -side Galah! " Take care t'hat spilum tlee, ycung man, Take care t'hat ice, must go man-man." One coolie chin-chin he good-night ; He talkee, " My can go all light " — Top-side Galah ! T'hat young man die : one large dog see Too muchee bobbly findee he, He hand b'long coldee, all same like ice, He holdee flag, wit'h chop so nice — Top-side Galah ! FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. A STORY TOLD TO GRACIE. SNE day in summer's glow. Not many j^ears ago, A little babe lay on my knee, With rings of silken hair. And fingers waxen fair. Tiny and soft, and pink as could be. pink We watched it thrive and grow — Ah me ! We loved it so — And marked its daily gain in sweeter charms ; It learned to laugh and crow. And play and kiss us — so — Until one day we missed it from our arms. In sudden, strange surprise We met each other's eyes, Asking, " Who stole our pretty babe away ?" We questioned earth and air, But, seeking everywhere, We never found it from that summer day. But in its wonted place There was another face — A little girl's, with yellow curly hair About her shoulders tossed ; And the sweet babe we lost Seemed sometimes looking from her eyes so fair. AIRY NOTHINGS. 325 She dances, romps, and sings. Ah, Blue-eyes, do you see And does a hundred things Who stole my babe from me. Which my lost baby never tried to do ; And brought the little girl from fairy clime ? She longs to read in books, A gray old man with wings, And with bright eager looks Who steals all precious things ; Is always asking questions strange and new. He lives forever, and his name is Time. And I can scarcely tell, He rules the world they say ; I love the rogue so well, He took my babe away — Whether I would retrace the four years' My precious babe — and left me in its place track, This little maiden fair. And lose the merry sprite With yellow curly hair, Who makes my home so bright Who lives on stories, and whose name is To have again my little baby back. Grace ! AIRY NOTHINGS. SHAKESPEARE ^UR revels now are ended. These, our actors, %f As I foretold you, were all spirits, and ""^ Are melted into air — into thin air ; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision. The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 22 The solemn temples, the great globe it?elf, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with sleep. 326 THE CHARITY DINNER. THE CHARITY DINNER. Time: liulf-past six o'clock. Place: The London Tavern. Occasion: Fifteenth Annual Festival of the So- ciety for t)ie Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of tlie Cannibal Islands. LITCHFIELD MOSELY. WKN entering the room we find more than two hundred noblemen and ^P gentlemen already assembled ; and the number is increasing every it^'^'i minute. The preparations are now complete, and we are in readiness to receive the chairman. After a short pause, a little door at the end of the room opens, and the great man appears, attended by an admiring circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands like a parcel of charity-school boys bent on beating the bounds. He advances smilingly to his post at the principal table, amid deafening and long-continued cheers. The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up ourselves to the enjoyments of eating and drinking. These important duties finished, and grace having been beautifully sung by the vocalists, the real business of the evening commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given, the noble chairman rises, and after passing his fingers through his hair, places his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, gives a short preparatory cough, accompanied by a vacant stare round the room, and commences as follows : "My Lords and Gentlemen: — It is with feelings of mingled pleasure and regret that I appear before you this evening : of pleasure, to find that this excellent and world-wide-known society is in so promising a condition ; and of regret, that you have not chosen a worthier chairman ; in fact, one who is more capable than myself of dealing with a subject of such vital im- portance as this. (Loud cheers.) But, although I may be unworthy of the honor, I am proud to state that I have been a subscriber to this society from its commencement ; feeling sure that nothing can tend more to the advancement of civilization, social reform, fireside comfort, and domestic economy among the Cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. (Tremendous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) Here in this England of ours, which is an island surrounded by watei', as I suppose you all know — or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses the same fact, ' England bound in by the triumphant sea ' — what, down the long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes in arms, and arts, and song, than blankets ? Indeed I never gaze upon a blanket without my thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early childhood. Where should we all have been now but for those warm and fleecy coverings ? THE CHARITY DINNER. 327 My Lords and Gentlemen ! Our first and tender memories are all associated with blankets : blankets when in our nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, blankets in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads in our school-days, and blankets to our marital four-posters now. Therefore, I say, it becomes our bounden duty as men — and, with feelings of pride, I add, as Englishmen — to initiate the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat un- cultivated denizen of the prairie, into the comfort and warmth of blankets ; and to supply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, seasonable, luxurious and useful appendages. At such a moment as this, the lines of another poet strike familiarly upon the ear. Let me see, they are some- thing like this — ah — ah — " Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, And to — to do — a — '' I forget the rest. (Loud cheers.) " My Lords and Gentlemen ! I will not trespass on your patience by making any further remarks; knowing how incompetent I am — no, no! I don't mean that — knowing how incompetent you all are — no ! I don't mean that either — but you all know what I mean. Like the ancient Roman lawgiver, I am in a peculiar position ; for the fact is I cannot sit down— I mean to say, that I cannot sit down without saying that, if there ever ivas an institution, it is this institution; and therefore, I beg to propose, ' Prosperity to the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands.' " The toast having been cordially responded to, his lordship calls upon Mr. Buffer, the secretary, to read the report. Whereupon that gentle- man, who is of a bland and oily temperament, and whose eyes are con- cealed by a pair of green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and reads in the orthodox manner — " Thirtieth Half-yearly Report of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots to the Natives of the Cannibal Islands." The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat amid hearty ap- plause which continues until Mr. Alderman Gobbleton rises, and, in a ■3om.ewhat lengthy and discursive speech — in which the phrases, ' the Cor- poration of the City of London,' 'suit and service,' 'ancient guild,' 'liber- ties and privileges,' and 'Court of Common Council,' figure frequently — states that he agrees with everything the noble chairman has said ; and has, moreover, never listened to a more comprehensive and exhaustive document than the one just read ; which is calculated to satisfy even the most obtuse and hard-headed of individuals. 328 THE CHARITY DINNER. Gobbleton is a great man in the city. He lias either been lord mayor, or sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as a few words of his go a long way with his friends and admirers, his remarks are very favorably received. " Clever man, Gobbleton ! " says a common councilman, sitting near us, to his neighbor, a languid swell of the period. " Ya-as, vewy ! Wemarkable style of owatowy — gweat fluency," replies the other. But attention, if you please ! — for M. Hector de Longuebeau, the great French writer, is on his legs. He is staying in England for a short time, to become acquainted with our manners and customs, " Milors and Gentlemans ! " commences the Frenchman, elevating his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. " Milors and Gentlemans — You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have to say to me, ' Make de toast.' Den I say to him I have no toast to make ; but he nudge my elbow very soft, and say dat dere is one toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper ; and, darefore, wid your kind permission, I vill make de toast. ' De brevete is de sole of de feet," as your great philo- sophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de Pro- nouncing Dictionnaire; and, darefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point. Ven I was a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to promenade the streets of Marseilles et of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, I nevare to have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. I was to begin de vorld as von garcon — or what you call in dis countrie von vaitaire in a cafe — vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillements at all to put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von old bleu blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, j ust for to keep myself fit to be showed at ; but, tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch for me since dat time and I have rose myself, seulement par mon Industrie et perseverance. (Loud cheers.) Ah ! mes amis ! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von stranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis ; and who is also, I for to suppose, a halter- man and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel dat I can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself ; but helas ! dat plassir are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great city, not von liveryman servant of von of you cora- pagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentle- mans ! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, * De ding of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more en- PRAYERS OF CHILDREN. 329 trancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beau- tiful lady ! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate, and, darefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, ' De Ladies ! God bless dera all ! ' " And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect tempest of cheers. A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is read, a vote of thanks is passed to the noble chairman ; and the Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands is at an end. PRA YERS OF CHILDREN. ^N the quiet nursery chambers, — Snowy pillor/s yet unpressed, — See the forms of little children Kneeling, white robed, for irest. All in quiet nursery chambers, While the dusky shadows creep, Hear the voices of the children ; " Now I lay me down to sleep." In the meadow and the mountain Calmly shine the Winter stars, But across the glistening lowlands Stand the moonlight's silver bars. In the silence and the darkness, Darkness growing still more deep. Listen to the little children. Praying God their souls to keep. " If we die " — so pray the children, And the mother's head droops low, One from out her fold is sleeping Deep beneath the winter's snow — " Take our souls ;" — and past the casement Flits a gleam of crystal light. Like the trailing of his garments, Walking evermore in white. Little souls that stand expectant. Listening at the gates of life. Hearing, far away the murmur Of the tumult and the strife, 330 LITTLE MARGERY. We who fight beneath those banners, In the warring of temptation, Meeting ranks of foemen there, Firm and true your souls to keep. Find a deeper, broader meaning In your simple vesper prayer. When the combat ends, and slowly Clears the smoke from out the skies ; When your hand shall grasp this standard When, far down the purple distance, Which to-day you watch from far, All the noise of battle dies ; When your deeds shall shape the conflict When the last night's solemn shadow In this universal war: Settles down on you and me. Pray to Him, the God of battles, May the love that never faileth Whose strong eyes can never sleep, Take our souls eternally ! LITTLE MARGERY. MRvS. SALLIE J. WHITE. H^^NEELING, white-robed, sleepy eyes, ^j^^ Peeping through the tangled hair, ¥#^3^ " Now I lay me — I'm so tired — ijl* Aunty, God knows all my prayer; 4 He'll keep little Margery." Watching by the little bed. Dreaming of the coming years, Much I wonder what they'll bring, Most of smiles or most of tears, To my little Margery. LEARNING TO PRAY. 331 Will the simple, trusting faith Shining in the childish breast Always be so clear and bright? Will God always know the rest, Loving little Margery ? As the weary years go on, And you are a child no more, But a woman, trouble-worn. Will it come — this faith of yours- you, dear Margery ? If your sweetest love shall fail. And your idol turn to dust, Will you bow to meet the blow. Owning all God's ways are just? Can you, sorrowing Margery ? Should your life-path grow so dark You can see no steps ahead. Will you lay your hand in His, Trusting by him to be led To the light, my Margery ? Will the woman, folding down Peaceful hands across her breast, Whisper, with her old belief, " God, my Father, knows the rest, He'll take tired Margery ?" True, my darling, life is long. And its ways are dark and dim ; But God knows the path you tread ; I can leave you safe with Him, Always, little Margery. He will keep your childish faith. Through your weary woman years, Shining ever strong and bright, Never dimmed by saddest tears, Trusting little Margery. You have taught a lesson sweet To a yearning, restless soul ; We pray in snatches, ask a part. But God above us knows the whole, And answers, baby Margery. LEARNING TO PRA Y. MARY M. DODGE. 1^|§NEELING fair in the twilight gray, J^P A beautiful child was trying to ffi^'f pi-ay ; i] l» His cheek on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden, His smile still coming unbidden. And his heart brimful of glee. " I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, mamma ! I've had such fun to-day 1 hardly can say my prayers. I don't feel just like praying ; I want to be out-doors playing. And run, all undressed, down stairs. " I can see the flowers in the garden bed. Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; And Sammy is swinging, I guess. Oh ! everything is so fine out there, I want to put it all in the prayer, — Do you mean I can do it by ' Yes ?' " When I say, ' Now I lay me,'-word for word, It seems to me as if nobody heard. Would ' Thank you dear God,' be right? He gave me my mammy. And papa, and Sammy, — mamma ! you nodded I might. 332 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. Clasping his hands and hiding his face, Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, The little one now began ; His mother's nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran : " Thank you for making this home so nice. The flowers, and my two white mice, — I wish I could keep right on ; I thank you, too, for every day — Only I'm most too glad to pray. Dear God, I think I'm done. " Now, mamma, rock me — just a minute — And sing the hymn with ' darling ' in it. I wish I could say my prayers ! When I get big, I know I can. Oh I won't it be nice to be a man, And stay all night down stairs !" The mother, singing, clasped him tight, Kissing and cooing her fond " Good-night," And treasured his every word. For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. ^i^OLDEN head so lowly bending, ^^fk Little feet so white and bare, ftii'-j Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, <i£^ Lisping out her evening prayer. " Now I lay," — repeat it, darling — " Lay me," lisped the tiny lips Of my daughter, kneeling, bending O'er the folded finger tips. " Down to sleep,"-" To sleep," she murmured, And the curly head bent low ; " I pray the Lord," I gently added, " You can say it all, I know." "Pray the Lord," the sound came faintly. Fainter still — "My soul to keep;" Then the tired heart fairly nodded, And the child was fast asleep. But the dewy eyes half opened When I clasped her to my breast. And the dear voice softly whispered, " Mamma, God knows all the rest." Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding Of the child-heart ! would that I Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, He who hears my feeblest cry. 0, the rapture, sweet, unbroken. Of the soul who wrote that prayer ! Children's myriad voices floating Up to Heaven, record it there. If, of all that has been written, I could choose what might be mine, It should be that child's petition. Rising to the throne divine. A GLASS OF COLD WATER. J. B. GOUGH. iHERE is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his child- ren ? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green FATHER, TAKE MY HAND. 333 glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play ; there God brews it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the tall mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun ; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash ; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar ; the chorus sweeping the march of God : there he brews it — that beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain ; shining in the ice-gems till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun ; or a white gauze around the midnight moon. Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower ; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world ; and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven ; all checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water ; no poison bubbles on its brink ; its foam brings not madness and murder ; no blood stains ita liquid glass ; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depth ; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair ; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it demon's drink, alcohol ! FATHER, TAKE MY HAJSfD." HENRY N. COBB. |HE way i.<? dark, my Father ! Cloud on cloud #5.'^ Is gathering thickly o'er my head, '' ^ and loud The thunders roar above me. See, I stand Like one bewildered! Father, take my hand. And through the gloom Lead safely home Thy child ! The day goes fast, my Father ! and the night Is drawing darklydown. My faithless sight Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral band, Encompass me. Father ! take my hand, And from the night Lead up to light Thy child! The way is long, my Father ! and my soul Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal ; "While yet I journey through this weary land. Keep me from wandering. Father, take my hand ; 334 THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. Quickly and straight Lead to lioaven's gate Thy child ! The path is rough, my Father! Many a thorn Has pierced me ; and my weary feet, all torn And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy command Bids me press forward. Father, take my hand ; Then safe and blest, Lead up to rest Thy child! The throng is great, my Father ! Many a doubt And fear and danger compass me about ; And foes oppress me sore. I cannot stand Or go alone. Father I take my hand, And through the throng Lead safe along Thy child ; The cross is heavy. Father ! I have borne It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn And fainting spirit rise to that blest land Where crowns are given. Father, take my hand ; And reaching down Lead to the crown Thy child ! THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. HENRY N. COBB. jiHE way is dark, my child ! but leads to light. I would not always have thee walk by sight. My dealings now thou canst not un- derstand. I meant it so ; but I will take thy hand, And through the gloom Lead safely home My child ! The day goes fast, my child ! But is the night Darker to me than day ? In me is light ! Keep close to me, and every spectral band Of fears shall vanish. I will take thy hand. And through the night Lead up to light My child ! The way is long, my child ! But it shall be Not one step longer than is best for thee ; And thou shalt know, at last, when thou 8halt stand Safe at the goal, how I did take thy hand. And quick and straight Lead to heaven's gate lij child 1 The path is rough, my child ! But oh ! how sweet Will be the rest, for weary pilgrims meet. When thou shalt reach the borders of that land To which I lead thee, as I take thy hand. And safe and blest With me shall rest My child ! The throng is great, my child ! But at thy side Thy Father wulks: then be not terrified, For I am with thee; will thy foes com mand To let thee freely pass ; will take thy hand, And through the throng Lead safe along Mv child! THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. 335 The cross is heavy, child ! Yet there was One Who bore a heavier for thee ; my Son, My well-beloved. For him bear thine; and stand With him at last; and, from thy Father's hand, Thy cross laid down, Receive a crown. My child! THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. ^^P FRENCHMAN once, who was a pi!^l| merry wight, %^=Y Passing to town from Dover, in the ^'° night, 4 Near the roadside an alehouse ¥ chanced to spy, j And being rather tired as well as dry. Resolved to enter ; but first he took a peep. In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap. He enters : " Hallo ! Garcon, if you please. Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese, And hallo ! Garcon, a pot of porter, too !" he said, " Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed." His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left. Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft, Into his pocket put ; then slowly crept To wished-for bed ; but not a wink he slept — For on the floor some sacks of flour were laid, To which the rats a nightly visit paid. Our hero, now undressed, popped out the light. Put on his cap and bade the world good- night ; But first his breeches, which contained the fare. Under his pillow he had placed with care. Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran. And on the flour-sacks greedily began ; At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round, Under the pillow soon the cheese they found ; And while at this they all regaling sat, Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap ; Who, half-awake, cries out, "Hallo! hallo! Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so ? 336 DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. Ah ! 'tis one big — one very big, huge rat ! Vat is it that he nibble — nibble at/" In vain our little hero sought repose ; .Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his nose; And such the pranks they kept up all the night, That he, on end — antipodes upright Brawling-aloud, called stoutly for a light. " Hallo ! Maison ! Garcon, I say ! Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay !" The bill was brought, and to his great sur- prise. Ten shillings was the charge : he scarce be- lieved his eyes. With eager haste, he quickly runs it o'er, And every time he viewed it thought it more. " Vy, zounds and zounds !" he cries, " I sail no pay ; Vat ! charge ten shelangs for what I have mange ? A leetel sop of portar, dis vile bed, Vare all de rats do run about my head ?" "Plague on those rats !" the landlord mut- tered out ; " I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout: I'll pay him well that can." "Vat's dat you say ?" '•I'll pay him well that can." " Attend to me, I pray : Vill you dis charge forego, vat I am at, If from your house I drive away de rat?" " With all my heart," the jolly host re- plies. " Ecoutez, done ami;" the Frenchman cries. " First den — Regardez, if you please, Bring to dis spot a leetel bread and cheese : Eh bien ! a pot of portar, too ; And den invite de rats to sup vid you: And after dat — no matter dey be villing — For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang : And I am sure, ven dey behold de score, Dey'U quit your house, and never come no more." DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. ROBERT BURNS. H^jUNCAN Gray cam' here to woo— Ha, ha! the wooing o't ! On blythe Yule night when we were fu' — Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Maggie coost her head fu' high. Looked asklent and unco sneigh. Cart poor Duncan stand abeigh — Ila, ha! the wooing o't! Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Duncan sighed baith oot and in, Gart his een baith bleer't and blin' Spake o' lowpin o'er a linn — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Time and chance are but a tide — Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Slighted love is sair to bide — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't — Shall I, like a fule, quoth he. For a haughty hizzie dee ? She may gae to — France for me ! Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! How it comes let doctors tell — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I Meg grew sick as he grew well — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Something in her bosom wrings, — For relief a sigh she brings, — And 0, her ccn the}' speak sic things I Ha ha ! the wooing o't ' SUNRISE AT SEA. 337 Duncan was a lad o' grace — Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Maggie's was a piteous case — Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! Duncan could na be her death : Swelling pity smoored his wrath, Now they're crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I THE HOME OF PEACE. THOMAS MOORE. ^Ij^ KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully Mm curled \^vj Above the green elms, that a cottage (|!i© was near. And I said, " H there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here!" It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence, reposed the voluptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- claimed, " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye ; Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed. How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, Which had never been sighed on by any but mine !" SUNRISE AT SEA. W. V. KELLY. JpOW slowly the day dawns, yet how suddenly the sun rises ! Did *^ you ever witness a sunrise at sea on a calm morning? You look out of your port-hole before dawn and see the faintest possible hint of daylight yonder. You go on deck. The east gives a pale promise of the morning, just the first soft glimmer from the gates ajar of that heavenly chamber whence the sun will, by-and- come rejoicing. A low, doubtful, slowly-growing light, spreads encroaching on the shadows on the east. The sky beds itself on the dark gray sea, with a deep foundation of intense dark rich orange, and builds upwards with gradations of yellow, and green, and colors no one could name. Infinite changes gently succeed. Miracles of transforma- tion, glory passing into glory. The stars fade slowly, blinking at the 338 SLEIGHING SONG. increasing light, lilce old religions dying before the Gospel. So smooth is the water, it is certain that when the sun rises above the horizon he will stand with his feet on a sea of burnished glass. The clouds have bent a triumphal arch over the place of his coming, and one broad cloud makes a crimson canopy to the pavilion which awaits the king. Graceful, airy clouds hover like spirits that expect a spectacle ; shortly they put on glorious robes, and their faces are bright, as if, like Moses, in some lofty place, they had seen God face to face : the meanest tattered cloud that lies waiting, like a beggar, at the gates of the morning, for the coming of the King from his inaccessible chambers of splendor, is dressed, while it waits, in glory beside which the apparel of princes is sordid and vile. For more than an hour, a long, long hour, you watch the elaborate unfolding pageant of preparation go on in the east. With a trembling hush of culminating wonder, you await impatiently the grand uprise of the sun. Will he ever come ? You almost doubt. At last, when the ecstacy of expectation has grown intense, a thin, narrow flash of brilliant, dazzling fire shoots level along the sea, swift as lightning. Swiftly it rises and broadens till, in one moment, the dusk immensity above is kindled by it ; another moment, and the far-off, gloomy west sees it; in another, the whole heaven feels it ; and yet one moment more, and the wide circle of the level sea is molten silver. It is done, all done. The thing, so long preparing and approaching, bursts into completion. The day is full-blown in a moment. The few heavy piles of cloud on the horizon, look like castles in conflagration and consume away ; the sun's burning gaze scorches from the rafters of the sky the light cobwebs of mist and fleece ; and now the sun has the clean temple of the heavens all to himself, paved with silver, domed with azure, pillared with lijrht. SLEIGHING SONG. G. W. PETTEE. ^I^INGLE, jingle, clear the way, Roguish archers, I'll be bound, |fe|l(s 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh, ■ ~ " As it swiftly scuds along Hear the burst of happy song. See the gleam of glances bright. Flashing o'er the pathway white. Jingle, jingle, past it flies. Sending shafts from hooded eyes, — Little heeding who they wound ; See them, with capricious pranks, Ploughing now the drifted banks ; Jingle, jingle, mid the glee Who among them cares for me ? Jingle, jingle, on they go. Capes and bonnets white with snow. JIM. 339 Not a single robe they fold To protect them from the cold ; Jingle, jingle, mid the storm, Fun and frolic keep them warm ; Jingle, jingle, down the hills. O'er the meadows, past the mills, Now 'tis slow, and now 'tis fast; Winter will not always last. Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 'Tis the merry, merry JIM. F. BRET HARTE. ?AY there ! P'r'aps }^i Some on you chaps f^^ Might know Jim Wild? Well, — no offence: Thar aint no sense In gittin' riled ! Jim was my chum Up on the Bar : That's why I come Down from up thar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir ! you Ain't of that crew, — Blest if vou are ! Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him ? — Jess 'bout your size ; Same kind of eyes ! — Well that is strange : Why it's two year Since he come here, Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us ; Eh? The deuce you say ! Dead? That little cuss ? Money ? — Not much : That ain't my kind I ain't no such. Rum ? — I don't mind, Seem' it's you. What makes you staar,- You over thar ? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop But you must rar'? 340 THE MINUET. It wouldn't take Demed much to break You and your bar. Dead! Poor — little — Jim ! —Why there was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben, — No-account men : Then to take him I Well, thar— Good by,- No more, sir, — I — Eh? What's that you say ? — Why, dern it ! — sho ! — No? Yes! By Jo! Sold! Sold ! Why you limb, You onery, Derned old Long-legged Jim I THE MINUET. MRS. MARY M. DODGE. JRANDMA told me all about it, 1^ Told me so I couldn't doubt it. How she danced — my grandma danced — Long ago. How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirt she spread, How she turned her little toes — Smiling little human rose 1 — Long ago. Grandma's hair was bright and sunny ; Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! Really quite a pretty girl, Long ago. Bless her ! why she wears a cap, Grandma does, aud takes a nap Every single day ; and yet Grandma danced the minuet Long ago. Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, Always knitting grandpa's stocking — (Every girl was taught to knit Long ago,) Yet her figure is so neat. And her way so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now Bending to her partner's bow, Long aeo. Grandma says our modern jumping. Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, Would have shocked the gentle folk Long ago. No — they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place. Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly courtesying back again, Long ago. Modern ways are quite alarming, Grandma says; but boys were charming- Girls and boys, I mean, of course — Long ago. Bravely modest, grandly shy — What if all of us should try Just to feel like those who met In the graceful minuet Long ago ? With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a passion ? All would wear the calm they wore Long ago. In time to come, if I perchance. Should tell my grandchild of our dance, I should really like to say, " We did it, dear, in some such way Long ago." EARLY RISING. 34i TEE LOST DOLL, C. KINGSLEY. ®l® ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, H^ The prettiest doll in the world ; "^ Her cheeks were so red and so white, i dears, X And her hair was so charmingly ¥ curled, j But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day ; And I cried for her more than a week, dears. But I never could find where she lay. I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day ; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears. For her paint is all washed away. And her arm's trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair's not the least bit curled ; Yet for old times' sake, she is still, dears. The prettiest doll in the world. EARLY RISING. I^^OD bless the man who first invented '^'^ sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I; SAnd bless' him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself, nor try To make it — as the lucky fellow might — A close monopoly by patent-right ! Yes, — bless the man who first invented sleep, (I really can't avoid the iteration ;) But blast the man with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name or age or station. Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off, — Early Rising ! " Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl ; Maxims like these are very cheaply said ; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl. Pray just inquire about his rise and fall. And whether larks have any beds at all! 23 JOHN G. SAXE. " The time for honest folks to be abed Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery, or else — he drinks ! Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; But then he said it — lying — in his bed. At ten o'clock, a. m., — the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is. His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 'Tis doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, — Awake to duty, and awake to truth, — But when, alas ! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth. The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep ! 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night ; 342 HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angel's sight, In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin ! So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right! — it's not at all surprising ; The worm was punished, sir, for early risinsr!" HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. H. W. LONaFELLOW. ^|S unto the bow the cord is. So unto the man is woman. Though she bends him, she obeys him. Though she draws him, yet she follows, Useless one without the other ! " Like a fire upon the hearth-stone Is a neighbor's homely daughter, Like the starlight or the moonlight Is the handsomest of strangers!" Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, And my Hiawatha answered Thus the youthful Hiawatha, Said within himself and pondered, Much perplexed by various feelings, Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, Dreaming still of Minnehaha, Of the lovely Laughing Water, In the land of the Dacotahs. " Wed a maiden of your people," Warning said the old Nokomis ; " Go not eastward, go not westward, For a stranger, whom we know not ! Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, Very pleasant is the firelight. But I like the starlight better. Better do I like the moonlight !" Gravely then said old Nokomis : " Bring not here an idle maiden, Bring not here a useless woman, Hands unskillful, feet unwilling ; Bring a wife with nimble fingers. "Thus departed Hiawatha To the land of the Dacotahs. I HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 343 Heart and hand that move together, Feet that run on willing errands!" Smiling answered Hiawatha : " In the land of the Dacotahs Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all the women, I will bring her to your wigwam. She shall run upon your errands. Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, Be the sunlight of my people !" Still dissuading said Nokcmis : " Bring not to my lodge a stranger From the land of the Dacotahs ! Very fierce are the Dacotahs, Often is there war between us, There are feuds yet unforgotten. Wounds that ache and still may open !" Laughing answered Hiawatha : " For that reason, if no other, Would I wed the fair Dacotah, That our tribes might be united. That old feuds might be forgotten, And old wounds be healed forever !" Thus departed Hiawatha To the land of the Dacotahs, To the land of handsome women ; Striding over moor and meadow, Through interminable forests. Through uninterrupted silence. With his moccasins of magic, At each stride a mile he measured ; Yet the way seemed long before him. And his heart outran his footsteps ; And he journeyed without resting, Till he heard the cataract's laughter. Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to him through the silence. " Pleasant is the sound !" he murmured, " Pleasant is the voice that calls me !" On the outskirts of the forest, 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine. Herds of fallow deer were feeding, But they saw not Hiawatha ; To his bow he whispered, " Fail not !" To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not!" Sent it singing on its errand, To the red heart of the roebuck ; Threw the deer across his shoulder, And sped forward without pausing. At the doorway of his wigwam Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs, Making arrow-heads of jasper, Arrow-heads of chalcedony. At his side, in all her beauty, Sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter. Laughing Water, Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; Of the past the old man's thoughts were. And the maiden's of the future. He was thinking, as he sat there. Of the days when with such arrows He had struck the deer and bison. On the Muskoday, the meadow ; Shot the wild goose, flying southward, On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; Thinking of the great war-parties. How they came to buy his arrows. Could not fight without his arrows. Ah, no more such noble warriors Could be found on earth as they were ! Now the men were all like women. Only used their tongues for weapons I She was thinking of a hunter, From another tribe and country, ] Young and tall and very handsome, j Who one morning in the Spring-time, Came to buy her father's arrows. Sat and rested in the wigwam, j Lingered long about the doorway. Looking back as he departed. She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom ; Would he come again for arrows ! To the falls of Minnehaha ? I On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy. 344 HIAWATHA'S WOOING. HIAWATHA'S WOOING. H. W. LONGFELLOW. ^fjplT the feet of Laughing Water ^it^^ Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his should- ers ; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, " You are welcome, Hiawatha !" Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skm dressed and whitened, With the gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter. Hardly touched his eagle-feathers As he entered at the doorway. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them. Water brought them from the brooklet. Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered. Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty, In the land of the Ojibways," In the pleasant land and peaceful. " After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, " That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely. And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing water. Loveliest of Dacotah women ?" And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence. Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And made answer very gravely : "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant. As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it, " I will follow you, my husband !" This was Hiawatha's wooing ! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs ! From the wigwam he departed. Leading with him Laughing Water ; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam. Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance. Crying to them from afar off, " Fare thee well, Minnehaha!" And the ancient Arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying : "Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us ! Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them. Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village. Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her. Leaving all things for the stranger !" "On the outskirts of the forest, 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, Herds of fallow deer were feeding." A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 345 HIAWATHA S RETURN. H. W. LONGFELLOW. gLEASANT was the journey home- ward Through interminable forests, Over meadow, over mountain. Over river, hill, and hollow. Short it seemed to Hiawatha, Though they journeyed very slowly, Though his pace he checked and • slackened To the steps of Laughing Water. Over wide and rushing rivers In his arms he bore the maiden ; Light he thought her as a feather, As the plume upon his head-gear ; Cleared the tangled pathway for her, Bent aside the swaying branches, Made at night a lodge of branches. And a bed with boughs of hemlock. And a fire before the doorway With the dry cones of the pine-tree. All the traveling winds went with them O'er the meadow, through the forest ; All the stars of night looked at them, Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber ; From his ambush in the oak-tree Peered the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Scampered from the path before them. Peeping, peeping from his burrow. Sat erect upon his haunches. Watched with curious eyes the lovers. Pleasant was the journey homeward 1 All the birds sang loud and sweetly Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, " Happy are you, Hiawatha, Having such a wife to love you ! " Sang the robin, the Opechee, " Happy are you. Laughing Water, Having such a noble husband ! " From the sky the sun benignant Looked upon them through the branches, Saying to them, " my children. Love is sunshine, hate is shadow. Life is checkered shade and sunshine, Rule by love, Hiawatha ! " From the sky the moon looked at them. Filled the lodge with mystic splendors. Whispered to them, " my children. Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble ; Half is mine, although I follow ; Ruled by patience, Laughing Water ! " Thus it was they journeyed homeward. Thus it was that Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight. Brought the sunshine of his people, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all women In the land of the Dacotahs, In the land of handsome women. A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. CHARLES DICKENS. pHEEE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister who was a child too, and his constant compaHion. They wondered at the beauty of flowers; 346 A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky ; they wondered at the depth of the water ; they wondered at the goodness and power of God, who made them so lovely. They used to say to one another sometimes : Supposing all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry ? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water, and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their play-mates, the children of men, no more. There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw it first, cried out, " I see the star." And after that, they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that before laying down in their bed, they always looked out once again to bid it good night ; and when they were turning around to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star !" But while she was still very young, oh, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand at the window at night, and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, " I see the star !" and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, " God bless my brother and the star !" And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked out all alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and when there was a grave among the graves, not there before, and when the star made long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears. Now these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star ; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels ; and the star, opening, showing him a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 347 But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither : " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " No !" She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, " Oh, sister, I am here ! Take me !" And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it was night ; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth the child looked out upon the star as the home he was to go to when his time should come ; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's angel gone before. There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and, while he was so little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched out his tiny form on his bed, and died. Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader : " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " Not that one, but another !" As the child beheld his brother's apgel in her arms, he cried, " Oh, my sister, I am here ! Take me !" And she turned and smiled upon him, — and the star was shining. He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him and said : " Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son." Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" And he said, '' Thy mother !" A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and cried, " Oh, mother, sister, and brother, I am here ! Take me !'* And they answered him, " Not yet !" — and the star was shining. He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was 348 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter !" And the man who had been a child, saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said : " My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her, God be praised !" — And the star was shining. Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he cried so long ago : " I see the star !" They whispered one another, " He is dying." And he said, " I am. My age is falHng from me like a garment, and I move towards the star aa a child. And 0, my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me !" — And the star was shining ; and it shines upon his grave. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. ALFRED TENNYSON. ?REAK, break, break. On thy cold gray stones, Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 349 And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break. At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. P|HE melancholy days a I saddest of the year, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. thf Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay. And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago. And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood. Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen, And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come. To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youth- ful beauty died. The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf. And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours. So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 350 ROME AND CARTHAGE. BENEDICITE. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. fOD'S love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! Whether through city casements comes 1 Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, Y Or, out among the woodland blooms. The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine, — All keep thy memory fresh and green. Where'er I look, where'er I stray, Thy thought goes with me on my way. And hence the prayer I breathe to-day ; O'er lapse of time and change of scene, The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean. Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor The half-unconscious power to draw All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face. Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! Fair Nature's book together read, The old wood-paths that knew our tread. The maple shadows overhead, — With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To hold the blessed angels fast. If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gracious heavens will heed from me, What should, dear heart, its burden be ? The sighing of a shaken reed, — What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need ? God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true, The Paraclete white-shming through His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew ! With such a prayer, on this sweet day. As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away ! ROME AND CARTHAGE. VICTOR HUGO. OME and Carthage ! — behold them drawing near for the struggle »^jy that is to shake the world ! Carthage, the metropolis of Africa, jlt^ * is the mistress of oceans, of kingdoms, and of nations ; a magni- '■y ficent city, burthened with opulence, radiant with the strange arts i and trophies of the East. She is at the acme of her civilization. She ^ can mount no higher. Any change now must be a decline. Rome is comparatively poor. She has seized all within her grasp, but rather from the lust of conquest than to fill her own coffers. She is demi-barbarous,, ROME AND CARTHAGE. 351 and has her ed- ucation and her fortune both to make. All is be- fore her, noth- ing behind. For a time these two nations exist in distinct view of each other. The TRIUMPHAL ARCH AT ROME. one r( the noontide of her splendor ; the other waxes strong in the shade. But, lit- tle by little, air and space are wanting to each, for the develop- ment of each. Rome begins to systematically perplex Carth- age, and Carthage is an eyesore to Rome. Seated on opposite banks of the Mediterranean, the two cities look each other in the face. The sea no longer keeps them apart. Europe and Africa weigh upon each other. Like two clouds surcharged with electricity, they impend. With their contact must come the thunder-shock. The catastrophe of this stupendous drama is at hand. "What actors are met ! Two races, — that of merchants and mariners, that of laborers and soldiers ; two Nations, — the one dominant by gold the other by steel ; two Republics, — the one theocratic, the other aristocratic. Rome and Carthage ! Rome with her army, Carthage with her fleet ; Carthage old, rich, and crafty, — Rome, young, poor, and robust ; the past and the future ; the spirit of discovery, and the spirit of conquest ; the genius of commerce, the demon of war ; the East and the South on one side, the West and the North on the other ; in short, two worlds, — the civilization of Africa, and the civilization of Europe. They measure each other from head to foot. They gather all their forces. Gradually the war kindles. 352 FARM-YARD SONG. The world takes fire. These colossal powers are locked in deadly strife. Carthage has crossed the Alps ; Eome the seas. The two Nations, per- sonified in two men, Hannibal and Scipio, close with each other, wrestle, and grow infuriate. The duel is desperate. It is a struggle for life. Rome wavers. — She utters that cry of anguish — Hannibal at the gates 1 But she rallies, — collects all her strength for one last, appalling effort, — throws herself upon Carthage, and sweeps her from the face of the earth ! FARM-YARD SONG. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. jVER the hill the farm-boy goes : His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in his giant hand ; In the poplar-tree above the spring The katydid begins to sing ; The early dews are falling : Into the stone-heap darts the mink, The swallows skim the river's brink. And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !' Farther, farther over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still — " Co', boss ! go', boss ! co' 1 co' !" Into the yard the farmer goes. With grateful heart, at the close of day : Harness and chain are hung away ; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow ; The cooling dews are falling : The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet. The whinnying mare her master kno-ws. When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling — "Co", boss! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' I" While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those who have gone astray — Co', i! co', boss! co' ! co'I Now to her task the milkmaid goes ; The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great ; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump. The frolicksome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling : The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes. Soothingly calling — " So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So, so, boss! so, so I" To supper at last the farmer goes : The apples are pared, the paper is read, The stories are told, then all to bed : Without, the cricket's ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long ; HOW'S MY BOY' 353 The heavy dews are falling : The housewife's hand has turned the lock ; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; The household sinks to deep repose ; But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling — " Co', boss ! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' ! And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, "So, boss! so V I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. R. MUHLENBEEG. ^^ would not live alway ; I ask not to stay Mm ^^^^® storm after storm rises dark o'er 1^ the way; !^M\ The few lurid mornings that dawn on '|,* us here !Are enough for life's joys, full enough for its cheer. I would not live alway ; no, — welcome the tomb ! Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom ; There sweet be my rest till he bid me arise. To hail him in triumph descending the skies. Who, who would live alway, away from his God,— Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where rivers of pleasure flow bright o'er the plains. And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ? There saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren /^ransported to greet ; While anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. HOW'S MY BOY? SYDNEY DOBELL. ^jpO, Sailor of the sea ! [ How's my boy — my boy ? ^^ How's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know What's your boy's name, good wife, | I'll swear you are no sailor, And in what good ship sailed he?" My boy John — He that went to sea — What care I for the ship, sailor ? My boy's my boy to me. You come back from sea, And not know my John ? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. 24 Blue jacket or no. Brass button or no, sailor. Anchor or crown or no ! Sure his ship was the JoUy Briton — " Speak low, woman, speak low '" And why should I speak low, sailor ? About my own boy John ? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor ? — " That good ship went down." 354 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. How's my boy — ^my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her ! I say, how's my John ? — " Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the men, sailor ? I'm not their mother — How's my boy — my boy ? Tell me of hira and no other I How's my boy — my boy ? THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. ►^fe. THOMAS HOOD. ^NE more unfortunate Weary of breath, ^ Rashly importunate. Gone to her death ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashioned so slenderly — Young, and so fair ! Look at her garments, Clinging like cerements, Whilst the wave constantly , Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing \ Touch her not scornfully ! Think of her mournfully. Gently and humanly — Not of the stains of her ; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny. Into her mutiny, Rash and undutiful ; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, — One of Eve's family, — Wipe those poor lips of here. Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, — Her fair auburn tresses, — Whilst wonderment guesses, Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ? Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! Oh, it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed, — Love, by harsh evidence. Thrown from its eminence ; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river. With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement. Houseless by night. MORNING. 355 The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver ; But not the dark arch, Or the black, flowing river ; Mad from life's history. Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled — Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world ! In she plunged boldly, — No matter how coldly The rough river ran, — Over the brink of it ! Picture it, — think of it Dissolute man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly. Lift her with care ; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs, frigidly. Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly. Smooth and compose them ; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly ! — Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity. Burning insanity, Into her rest ! Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly. Over her breast ! Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness Her sins to her Saviour ! MORNING. EDWARD EVERETT. ^I^S we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more per- ceptible ; the intense blue of the sky began to soften ; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest ; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together ; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondi'ous trans- figuration went on. Hands of angels hidden fi^om mortal eyes shifted 35G A WOMAN'S QUESTION. the scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of dawn. The blue sky now turned more softly gray ; the great watch- stars shut up their holy eyes ; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance ; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. THE PARTING LOVERS. TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY WILLIAM R. ALGER. ^^HE says, " The cock crows, — hark !" ^^m He saya, " No ! still 't is dark." She says, "The dawn grows bright," He says, " no, my Light." ' ■ She says, " Stand up and say. Gets not the heaven gray?" He says, " The morning star Climbs the horizon's bar." She says, " Then quick depart: Alas ! you now must start ; But give the cock a blow Who did begin our woe !" A WOMAN'S QUESTION. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. ^^EFORE I trust my fate to thee. Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine. Before I peril all for thee, Question thy soul to-night for i 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 ? I Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine ? If so, at any pain or cost, 0, tell me before all is lost ! Look deeper still : if thou cansi feel, Within thy inmost soul, Tliat thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole. Let no false jiity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. THE TIGER. 357 Is there within thy heart a need Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day That mine cannot fulfil ? And answer to my claim, One chord that any other hand That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — Could better wake or still ? Not thou, — had been to blame ? Speak now, last at some future day Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou My whole life wither and decay. Wilt surely warn and save me now. Lives there within thy nature hid Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear. The demon-spirit, change. The words would come too late ; Shedding a passing glory still Yet I would spare thee all remorse, On all things new and strange ? So comfort thee, my fate : It may not be thy fault alone, — Whatever on my heart may fall, But shield my heart against thine own. Remember I would risk it all ! TRF TIGEE. WILLIAM BLAKE. SIGER ! tiger ! burning bright. In the forest of the night. What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? In what distant deeps or skies Burned the ardor of thine eyes ? On what wings dare he aspire ? What the hand dare seize the fire ? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? What the hammer ? what the chain ? In what furnace was thy brain ? What the anvil ? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 358 POOR LITTLE JOE. When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did God smile his work to see ? Did He who made the lanih make thf^e ? Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright, In the forest of the night. What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry. THE CHURCH WINDOW. JXO. W. GOETHE. PrHE minster window, richly glowing i But enter once the holy portal 1^ With many a gorgeous stain and dye, -jltself a parable, is showing The might, the power of Poesy. Look on it from the open square. And it is only dark and dreary ; Yon blockhead views it always there, And vows its aspect makes him weary. What splendor bursts upon the eye ! There symbols, deeds and forms immortal, Are blazing forth in majesty. Be thankful, you who have the gift To read and feel each sacred story ; And, oh ! be reverent, when you lift Your eyes to look on heavenly glory. POOR LITTLE JOE. r. ARKWRKIHT. kROP yer eyes wide open Joey, For I've brought you sumpin' great. Apples f No, a heap sight better ! Don't you take no int'rest ? Wait ! Flowers, Joe — I know'd you'd like Ain't them scrumptious ? Ain't them high ? Tears, my boy ? Wot's them fur, Joey ? There — poor little Joe ! — don't cry ! I was skippin' past a winder. Where a bang-up lady sot. THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 359 All amongst a lot of bushes — Each one climbin' from a pot ; Every bush had flowers on it — Pretty f Mebbe not ! Oh, no ! Wish you could a seen 'em growin', It was sich a stunnin' show. Well, I thought of you, poor feller, Lyin' here so sick and weak, Never knowin' any comfort, And I puts on lots o' cheek. " Missus," says I, " If you please, mum, Could I ax you for a rose ? For my little brother, missus — Never seed one, I suppose." Then I told her all about you, — How I bringed you up — poor Joe ! (Lackin' women folks to do it.) Sich a' imp you was, you know — Till yer got that awful tumble, Jist as I had broke yer in. (Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin' Blackin' boots fo- honest tin. How that tumble crippled of you. Sp's you couldn't hyper much — Joe, it hurted when I seen you Fur the first time with yer crutch. " But," I says, " he's laid up now, mum, 'Pears to weaken every day ;" Joe, she up and went to cuttin' — That's the how of this bokay. Say ! It seems to me, ole feller, You is quite yerself to-night ; Kind o' chirk — it's been a fortnit Sence yer eyes has been so bright. Better f Well, I'm glad to hear it ! Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. Smelliri of 'evis made you happy f Well, I thought it would, you know I Never see the country, did you ? Flowers growin' everywhere ! Some time when you're better, Joey, Mebbe I kin take you there. Flowers in heaven f 'M — I s'pose so ; Dunno much about it, though ; Ain't as fly as wot I might be On them topics, little Joe. But I've heard it hinted somewheres That in heaven's golden gates Things is everlastin' cheerful — • B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. Likewise, there folks don't git hungry ; So good people, when they dies. Finds themselves well fixed forever — Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes ? Thought they looked a little sing'ler. Oh, no ! Don't you have no fear ; Heaven was made fur such as you is — Joe, wot makes you look so queer ? Here — wake up ! Oh, don't look that way ! Joe ! My boy ! Hold up yer head ! Here's yer flowers — you dropped 'em Joey 1 Oh, my God, can Joe be dead f THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. '^|^|OME here, Tops, you monkey !" said St. Clare, calling the child up "^Y" Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking I with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery. i " What makes you behave so ?" said St. Clare, who could not help being amused with the child's expression. 360 THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. " Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely ; " Miss Feely says so." " Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you ? She says she has done every thing she can think of." " Lor, yes, Mas'r ! old Missus used to say so, too. She whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my head agin the door; but it didn't do me no good ! I spects, if they's to pull every spear o' har out o' my head it wouldn't do no good, neither — I's so wicked ! Laws ! I's nothin' but a nigger, no ways !" ''Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia; "I can't have that trouble any longer." " Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare. "What is it?" " Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use of sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just such ? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen are." Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva, who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little glass room at the corner of the verandah, which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Topsy dis- appeared into this place. " What's Eva going about now ?" said St. Clare ; " I mean to see." And advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the glass door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the two children on the floor, with their side faces towards them, Topsy with her usual air of careless drollery and unconcern ; but opposite to her, Eva, her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes. " What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Why won't you try and be good ? Don't you love anybody, Topsy?" " Dunno nothin' 'bout love ; I loves candy and sich, that's all," said Topsy. " But you love your father and mother ?" " Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that. Miss Eva." " Oh, I know," said Eva, sadly ; " but had you any brother, or sister, or aunt, or — " " No, none on 'cm — never had nothin' nor nobody." " But, Topsy, if you'd only try and be good, you might — " THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 361 " Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger if I war ever so good," said Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white, I'd try then." " But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia would love you, if you were good." Topsy gave a short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of ex- pressing incredulity. "Don't you think so ?" said Eva. "No; she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger — she'd 's soon have a toad touch her ! There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do nothin'! /don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle. "Oh, Topsy, poor child, / love you!" said Eva, with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy 's shoulder; "I love you, because you haven't had any father, or mother or friends; because you've been a poor, abused child ! I love you, and I want you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I sha'n't live a great while ; and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to be good for my sake — it's only a little while I shall be with you." The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears — large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little white hand. Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly love had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul ! She laid her head down between her knees, and wept and sobbed — while the beautiful child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner. "Poor Topsy!" said Eva, "Don't you know that Jesus loves all alike? He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves you just as I do — only more, because He is better. He will help you to be good ; and you can go to heaven at last, and be an angel forever, just as much as if you were white. Only think of it, Topsy ! you can be one of those spirits bright. Uncle Tom sings about." "0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!" said the child; "I will try; I never did care nothin' about it before." St. Clare, at that instant, dropped the curtain. " It puts me in mind of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true what she told me ; if we want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ did — call them to us, and^i our hands on them." " I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia, " and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me ; but I didn't think she knew it." " Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; "there's no keep- 362 THE CAVE OF SILVER. ing it from them. But I believe that all the trying in the world to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you can do them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of repugnance remains in the heart — it's a queer kind of a fact — but so it is." " I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia ; " they are disagreeable to me — this child in particular — how can I help feeling so ?" " Eva does, it seems." " "Well, she is so loving ! After all though, she's no more than Christ- like," said Miss Ophelia ; " I wish I were like her. She might teach me a lesson." " It wouldn't be the first time a little child has been used to instruct an old disciple, if it were so," said St. Clare. THE SEA. BAERY CORNWALL. iHEsea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free I Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide region round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! I am where I would ever be ! With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go ; If a storm should come and wake the deep, What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. I never was on the dull tame shore. But I love the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast. Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest •. And a mother she was, and is to me, For I was born on the open sea. THE CA VE OF SIL VER. FITZ-JAMES BRIEN. 'EEK me the cave of silver ! ^^f Find me the cave of silver I " - Rifle the cave of silver! Said Ilda to Brok the Bold : So you may kiss me often ; So you may ring my finger ; So you may bind my true love In the round hoop of gold 1 ' I love, 0, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming bursting tide Where every mad wave drowns the moon And whistles aloft its tempest tune." LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON. 363 Bring me no skins of foxes ; Bring me no beds of eider ; Boast not your fifty vessels That fish in the northern sea ; And Ilda waited and waited, And sat at the door till sunset. And gazed at the wild Lapp mountain That blackened the skies of gold. For I would lie upon velvet, And sail in a golden galley, I want not a cave of silver ! I care for no caves of silver ! And naught but the cave of silver Will win my true love for thee. Rena, the witch, hath told me That up in the wild Lapp moun- tains There lieth a cave of silver, Down deep in a valley-side ; So gather your lance and rifle, And speed to the purple pastures, And seek ye the cave of silver As you seek me for your bride. I go said Brok, right proudly ; I go to the purple pastures. To seek for the cave of silver So long as my life shall hold ; But when the keen Lapp arrows Are fleshed in the heart that loves you, I'll leave my curse on the woman Who slaughtered Brok the Bold ! But Ilda laughed as she shifted The Bergen scarf on her shoulder, And pointed her small white finger Right up at the mountain gate ; And cried, my gallant sailor, You're brave enough to the fishes. But the Lappish arrow is keener Than the back of the thorny skate The Summer passed, and the Winter Came down from the icy ocean : But back from the cave of silver Returned not Brok the Bold-; O €ar beyond caves of silver I pine for my Brok the Bold ! O ye strong Norwegian gallants. Go seek for my lovely lover. And bring him to ring my finger With the round hoop of gold ! But the brave Norwegian gallants They laughed at the cruel maiden. And left her sitting in sorrow. Till her heart and her face grew old ; While she moaned of the cave of silver. And moaned of the wild Lapp mountains, And him who never will ring her With the round hoop of gold ! LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGRTOJSf. pj^^WIGHTON is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I — I muthn't forget to mention that I met those two gii'ls that always 364 THE EAGLE. laugh wlien tliey thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em — the young one — told me, when I was intwoduced to her, — in — in confidence, mind, — that she had often heard of me and of my widdles. Tho you thee I'm getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning at Mutton's, she wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in widdles. Now I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't give her any vewy great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her. When ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket handkerchief ! "Good gwacious ! what'th the matter ?" said I. "Have you ever heard it before?" " Never," she said, " in that form; do please tell me the answer." So I told her, — When it ith a door ! Upon which she — she went ofi" again into hystewics. I — I — I — never did see such a girl for laughing. I know it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an efiect as that. By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought he had heard the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said it was : When ith a door not a door ? — and the answer. When it ith ajar ! I — I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it. — d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still — pwaps the last f-form is the betht. It— it seems*to me to wead better. What do you think ? Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New — Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me — the dog, you know, not the fellah, — he wath a lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle but I don't mind telling t/ou. Why does a dog waggle his tail ? Give it up ? I think motht fellahs will give that up ! You thee the dog waggles his tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wathn't the tail would waggle the dog ! Ye-eth, — that'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I shall athtonish those two girls thome of these days. THIJ EAGLE. TENNYSON. jl^iJjj^E clasps the crag with hooked hands, I^M Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls. And like a thunderbolt he falls. THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 355 THE BLIND BOY. COLLEY GIBBER. SAY what is that thing called Light, 1 And could I ever keep awake Which I must ne'er enjoy ? j With me 't were always day. What are the blessings of the sight, I 0, tell your poor blind boy ! | With heavy sighs I often hear You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun shines bright ; I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or night ? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play ; You mourn my hapless woe ; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy : Whilst thus I sing, I am a king. Although a poor blind boy. THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. CHARLES DICKENS. ijlllpHERE was no fire in the room ; but a man was crouching mechani- ^1^ cally over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a stool "^^^ to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some 4 ragged children in another corner ; and in a small recess, opposite J the door, there lay upon the ground something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master ; for, though it was covered up, the hoy felt that it was a corpse. The man's face was thin and very pale ; his hair and beard were grizzly, and his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled, her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip, and her eyes were bright and piercing. " Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up as the undertaker approached the recess. " Keep back ! d — n you — keep back, if you've a life to lose !" " Nonsense, my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes—" nonsense !" " I tell you," said the man," clenching his hands and stamping furiously on the floor — " I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry — not eat her — she is so worn away." 360 THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. The undertaker offered no reply to this raving, but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. " Ah !" said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman ; " kneel down, kneel down ; kneel around her every one of you, and mark my words. I say she starved to death. I never knew how bad she was till the fever came upon her, and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle ; she died in the dark — in the dark ! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets, and they sent me to prison. When I came back she was dying ; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it — they starved her !" He twined his hands in his hair, and with a loud scream rolled grovelling upon the floor, his eyes fixed, and the foam gushing from his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly ; but the old woman, who had hith- erto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence ; and having unloosened the man's cravat, who still remained extended on the ground, tottered towards the under- taker. " She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic leer more ghastly than even the presence of death itself. " Lord, Lord ! well it is strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord ! — to think of it ; it's as good as a play, as good as a play !" As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merri- ment, the undertaker turned to go away. " Stop, stop !" said the old woman in a loud whisper. " Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night ? I laid her out, and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak ; a good warm one, for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go ! Never mind : send some bread ; only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear ?" she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat as he once more moved towards the door. " Yes, yes," said the undertaker ; " of course : anything, everything." He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, dragging Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day — the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half- quartern loaf, and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself - Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr. Bum- WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE. 367 ble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the work house who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man ; the bare cof&n having been screwed down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down stairs into the street. BUTE. THOMAS HOOD -^ ^j^HE stood breast high amid the corn, I^H Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss hath won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, — Which were blackest none could t-ell ; But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim ; — ■ Thus she stood amid the stocks. Praising God with sweetest^ looks. Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE? SIB, WILLI ^" 'SlsA^^HAT constitutes a state ? Not high-raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate ; Not cities proud with spires and turret-crowned ; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; Not starred and spangled courts. Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No: — men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, 25 AM JONES. As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain. Prevent the long-aimed blow. And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ; These constitute a state ; And sovereign law, that state's collected will O'er thrones and globes elate, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill, Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend. Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; And e'en the all-dazzling crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks ; 368 THE DOOR-STEP. Such wa3 this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! No more shall freedom smile ? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'T is folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave THE B.EAPER. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. |EHOLD her single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass ! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; listen ! for the vale profound Ib overflowing with the sound. ^m^ ^ No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands ; No sweeter voice was ever heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird. Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-ofi' things. And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. That has been, and may be again ! Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work. And o'er the sickle bending; I listened till I had my fill ; And as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. THE DOOR-STEP. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. I|HE conference meeting through at last. We boys around the vestry waited. To see the girls come tripping past Like snow-birds willing to be mated. Not braver he that leaps the wall. By level mu.sket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all Who longed to see me get the mitten. But no, she blushed and took my arm ! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm, Along a kind of lovers' by-way. THE DOOR-STEP. 369 I can't remember what we paid, 'Twas nothing worth a song or story, Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory. The little hand outside her muff— sculptor, if you could but mould it ' So slightly touched my jacket-cuff. To keep it warm I had to hold it. The snow wa^ crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet Her face with youth and health was beaming. To have her with me there alone, 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended : At last we reached the foot- worn stone Where that delicious journey ended. 370 REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a " Thank you Ned," dissembled. But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overhead. The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, " Come, now or never, do it, do it !" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her I Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, listless woman ! weary lover ! To feel once more that fresh wild thrill, I'd give — But who can live youth over ? SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE. ELIZABETH B. BEOWNING. ilRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed 'j'^The fingers of this hand wherewith I ^f^ write ; k" And, ever since, it grew more clean and I white, I Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Olist!" When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height » The first, and sought the forehead, and hail missed. Half falling on the hair. 0, beyond meed ! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state ; since when, in- deed, I have been proud, and said, " My love, my REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 'LL does it become me, Senators of Rome, — ill does it become Rega- lus, after having so often stood in this venerable assembly clothed with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a captive, — the captive of Carthage. Though outwar(ily I am free, .f though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh, — yet the J heaviest of chains, — the pledge of a Roman Consul, — makes me the bondsman of th3 Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them, in the event of the fxilure of this, their embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own ; — a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard; aflame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, death cannot extinguish. Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled successes of our arms, — of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of I REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 37 1 our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping, — I will not speak. For tive years, a rigorous cap- tivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of country, have been to me a recollection and a dream, — no more. But during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She has taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror into the heart of the Carthaginians, who have now sent me hither with their ambassadors to sue for peace, and to propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard the ambassadors. Their intimations of some unimaginable horror, I know not what, impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their suit. A wife and children, threatened with widowhood and orphanage, weeping and despairing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of the Senate-chamber : — Conscript Fathers ! shall not Regulus be saved ? Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the ambassadors brandish before our eyes? With one voice you answer, No ! Countrymen ! Friends ! For all that I have suiffered,— for all that I may have to suffer, — I am repaid in the compensation of this moment ! Unfortunate you may hold me; but 0, not undeserving! Your confidence in my honor survives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You have not forgotten the past. Ptepublics are not ungrateful. May the thanks I cannot utter bring down blessings from the gods on you and Rome ! Conscript Fathers ! There is but one course to be pursued. Abandon all thought of peace. Reject the overtures of Carthage. Reject them wholly and unconditionally. What ! give back to her a thousand able- bodied men, and receive in return this one attenuated, war-worn, fever- wasted frame, — this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale and sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, can ever restore to health and vigor ? It must not, — it shall not be ! ! were Regulus what he was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews and enervated his limbs, he might pause, — he might proudly think he were well worth a thousand of the foe ; he might say, " Make the exchange ! Rome shall not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis gone, — that impetu- osity of strength, which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate a phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burthen now. 372 LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. His battle-cry would be drowned in the din of the onset. His sword would fall harmless on his opponent's shield. But if he cannot Hoe, he can at least die for his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. Consider : every indignity, every torture, which Carthage shall heap on his dying hours, will be better than a trumpet's call to your armies. They will remember only Regulus, their fellow-soldier and their leader. They will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily, — every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs — will flash on their remembrance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall E-egulus, though dead, fight as he never fought before against the foe. Conscript Fathers ! There is another theme. My family, — forgive the thought ! To you and to Rome I confide them. I leave them no legacy but my name, — -no testament but my example. Ambassadors of Carthage ! I have spoken, though not as you expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await me. Doubt not that you shall find, to Roman hearts, country is dearer than life, and integrity more precious than freedom ! LEFT ALONE AT ELGHTY. ALICE EOBBINS. iIAT did you say, dear, — bi-eakfast ? Somehow I've slept too late ; You are very kind, dear Effie ; Go tell them not to wait. I'll dress as quick as ever I can, My old hands tremble sore. And Polly, who used to help, dear heart, Lies t'other side of the door. Put up the old pipe, deary, I couldn't smoke to-day : I'm sort o' dazed and frightened. And don't know what to say. It's lonesome in the house here, And lonesome out o' door — I never knew what lonesome meant In all my life before. The bees go humming the whole day long, And the first June rose has blown ; And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day. Too old to be left alone ! Oh, heart of love ! so still and cold, Oh, precious lips so white ! For the first sad hours in sixty years, You were out of my reach last night. You've cut tlie flower. You're very kind ; She rooted it last May. It was onl"y a slip ; I pulled the rose. And threw the stem away. But she, sweet, thrifty soul, bent down. And planted it where she stood; " Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she said, " Asleep in this bit of wood." I can't rest, dear — I cannot rest ; Let the old man have his will, And wander from porch to garden-post — The house is so deathly still ; — SOMETIME. 373 Wander, and long for a sight of the gate She has left ajar for me ; We had got so used to each other, dear, So used to each other, you see. Sixty years, and so wise and good, She made me a better man ; From the moment I kissed her fair young face, Our lover's life began. And seven fine boys she has given mc. And out of the seven not one But the noblest father in all the land Would be proud to call his son. Oh, well, dear Lord, I'll be patient ! But I feel sore broken up ; At eighty years it's an awesome thing To drain such a bitter cup. I know there's Joseph, and John, and Ilal, And four good men beside ; But a hundred sons couldn't be to me, Like the woman I made my bride. My little Polly— so bright and fair ! So winsome and good and sweet ! She had rosea twined in her sunny hair, And white shoes upon her feet ; And I held her hand — was it yesterday That we stood up to be wed ? And — no, I remember, I'm eighty to-day. And my dear wife Polly is dead. SOMETIME. MARY RILEY SMITH, SOMETIME, when all life's have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set. The things which our weak judg- ments here have spurned — The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet — Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deepest tints of blue, And we shall see how all God's plans were right. And how what seemed reproof was love most true. And we shall see how while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me ; flow, when we called, he heeded not our crj', Because his wisdon; to the end could see, And e'en as prudent parents disallowed Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. And if sometimes commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink ; And if some friend we love is lying low Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so. But wear your sorrows with obedient grace. And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friends, And that sometimes the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key. But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart ; God's plans, like lilies, pure and white un- fold; We must not tear the close shut leaves apart — Time will reveal the calyxes of gold ; And if through patient toil we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we will say, " God knew the best." 374 SONG OF BIRDS. SONG OF BIRDS. THOMAS HEYWOOD. fT^ffl|ACK, clouds, away ! and welcome, day ! 1^ With night we banish sorrow ; =iS^— °*Sweet air, blow soft ! mount lark, aloft ! ^, To give my love good-morrow. I Wings from the wind to please her mind, 1 Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing ! nightingale, sing ! To give my love good-raorrow : To give my love good-morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow. Wake from thy rest, robin red-breast ! Sing, birds, in everj- furrow ! And from each hill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow. Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! You pretty elves, among yourselves. Sing my fair love good-morrow .- To give my love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow. MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 375 WIDOW 31AL0NK CHARLES LEVER. ID you hear of the Widow Malone, t^JoK Ohone ! '^^ Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone ! 0, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts : So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more. And fortunes they all had galore, In store ; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown All were courting the Widov/ Malone, Ohone ! All were courting the Widow Malone. But 30 modest was Mistress Malone, 'T was known That no one could see her alone, Ohone ! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, (How quare ! It's little for blushing they care Down there,) Put his arm round her waist, — Gave ten kisses at laste, — ■ " 0," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own ! 0," says he, " you're my Molly Malone !" And the widow they all thought so shy. My eye ! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — For why ? But, " Lucius," says she, " Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone ! You may marry your Mary Malone." There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong ; And one comfort, it's not very long, But strong, — If for widows you die. Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! 0, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone ! MB. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. CHARLES DICKENS. ^^EAR me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick !" At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, * the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bed-room, he retired in company with a japanned candle- stick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned 376 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to another. " This is your room, sir," said the chambermaid. " Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire ; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr, Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect. " Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, no, sir." " Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half- past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to- night." " Yes, sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone. Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table down stairs. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs. The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to bo to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the' ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore ; room after room did he peep into ; at length, just as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the dooi of the identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the tablt. Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downwards had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing, He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in — right at last. There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the drifts of air through which he had passed, and sank MR. nCKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 377 into the socket, jast as he closed the door after him. "No matter," said Mr. Pickwick, " I can undress myself just as well by the Hght of the fire." " It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the night-cap strings — " It is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, very droll." Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption : to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the hght upon it. Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their ''back hair." However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear ^that she contemplated remaining there for the night ; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glim- mering away like a gigantic lighthouse, in a particularly small piece of water. "Bless my soul," thought Mr. Pickwick, "how very dreadful!" "Hem !" said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with auto- maton-like rapidity. " I never met with anything so awful as this," — thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his night-cap. "Never. This is fearful." It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair, and carefully enveloped it in a muslin night-cap with a small plaited border, and was gazing pensively on the fire. " This matter is growing alarming " — reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. " I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it's clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, she'll alarm the house, but if I remain here, the consequence will be still more frightful!" He shrank behind the curtains, and called out very loudly : — " Ha-hum." That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling up against the rush-light shade ; that she persuaded herself it must 378 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pick- wick, under the impression that she had fainted away, stone-dead from fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before. " Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. "Ha-hum." " Gracious Heaven !" said the middle-aged lady, " what's that?" " It's — it's — only a gentleman, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick from behind the curtains. " A gentleman !" said the lady with a terrific scream. " It's all over," thought Mr. Pickwick. " A strange man," shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door. "Ma'am" — ^said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his desperation, " Ma'am." " Wretch," — said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, " what do you want here ?" "Nothing, Ma'am — nothing whatever. Ma'am;" said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly. " Nothing !" said the lady, looking up. " Nothing, Ma'am, upon my honor," said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his night-cap danced again. " I am almost ready to sink, Ma'am, because of the confusion of addressing a lady in my night-cap (here the lady hastily snatched off her's), but I can't get it off. Ma'am, (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statement). It is evident to me. Ma'am, now, that I have mistaken this bed-room for my own. I had not been here five minutes. Ma'am, when you suddenly entered it." " If this improbable story be really true, sir," — said the lady, sobbing violently, "you will leave it instantly." " I will, Ma'am, with the greatest pleasure," — i-eplied Mr. Pickwick. " Instantly, sir," said the lady. "Certainly, Ma'am," interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. " Cer- tainly, Ma'am. I — I— am very sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, " to have been the innocent occa- sion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry. Ma'am." The lady pointed to the door. " I am exceedingly sorry. Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. " If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the lady. " Immediately, Ma'am ; this instant. Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 379 opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing. " I trust, Ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again, '* I trust. Ma'am, that my unblemished charac- ter, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this " — but before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him. MERCY. W. SHAKSPEAEE. ^j||ni^HE quality of mercy is not strained ; ^J^ It droppeth, ag the gentle rain from fl|r heaven <^P Upon the place beneath : it is twice * blessed ; ^ It blesseth him that gives, and him J that takes : 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown ; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power Th' attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, — It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this — That in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; And that same prayer should teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. CAROLINE E. NORTON. pf;<2^"«§0RD was brought to the Danish king, (Hurry!) ^)' That the love of his heart lay suf- fering. And p'ned for the comfort his voice would bring ; (0 ! ride as though you were flying !) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown -jewels of ruby and pearl ; And his Rose of the Isles is dying. Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; (Hurry ! ) Each one mounted a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need ; (0 ! ride as though you were flying ! ) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; Worn-out chargers struggled and sank-. Bridles were slackened, and girtns were burst: But ride as they would, the king rode first; For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. His nobles are beaten, one by one ; (Hurry !) They have fainted, and faltered, and home- ward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage crying. The king looked back at that faithful child ; 380 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. Wan was the face that answering smiled. They passed the draw-bridge with clattering din: Then he dropped ; and the king alone rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For, dead in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying. The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; (Silence!) No answer carao, but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide ; The panting steed with a drooping crest Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eyeing, BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 381 The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check ; He bowed his head on his charger's neck ; " 0, steed, that every nerve didst strain. Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, To the halls where my love lay dying !" THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. jiF that the world and love were young, ^^ And truth in every shepherd's tongue, ^^l These pretty pleasures might me move mh To live with thee and be thy love. Ig But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb. And all complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall. Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, — In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed. Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then those delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. BETSY AND I ARE OUT. WILL. M, CARLETON. |ipKRAW Tip the papers, lawyer, and ] So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has U^^ make 'em good and stout, * f^f For things at home are cross-ways, ^m and Betsy and I are out, — * We who have worked together so I long as man and wife I Must pull in single harness the rest » of our nat'ral life. "What is the matter," says you? I swan it's hard to tell ! Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well ; I have no other woman — she has no other man; Only we've lived together as long as ever we j And Betsy, like all good women, had a can. I temper of her own. talked with me ; And we've agreed together that we can never agree ; Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime ; We've been a gatherin' this for year.?, a little at a time. There was a stock of temper we both had for a start ; Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us two apart ; I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone. 382 BETSY AND I ARE OUT. The first thing, I remember, whereon we Was somethiu' concerning heaven — a differ- ence in our creed ; We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed the thing at tea — And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we couldn't agree. And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow ; She had kicked the bucket, for certain — the question was only — How 7 I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad. And the next that I remember, it started in a j oke ; But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl ; And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul. And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way ; Always somethin' to ar'ge and something sharp to say, — And down on us came- the neighbors, a couple o' dozen strong, And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. And there have been days together — and many a weary week — When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak ; And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the summer and fall, U I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all. And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with rao ; And we have agreed together that we can never agree ; And what is hers shall bo hor.?, and what is mine shall be mine ; And ni put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign. Write on the paper, lawyer — the very first paragraph — Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half; For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day. And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay, Give her the house and homestead ; a man can thrive and roam. But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home. And I have always determined, and never failed to say, That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away. There's a little hard money besides, that's drawin' tol'rable pay, A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day, — Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at ; Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' her so much ; Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such ; True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young, And Betsy was always good to me exceptin' with her tongue. When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps. For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps ; And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken down, And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town. Once when I had a fever — I won't forget it soon — I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon — Never an hour went by me when she was out cf sight ; BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 383 She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to And one thing put in the paper, that first to me day and night. me didn't occur ; And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a That when I am dead at last she will bring kitchen clean. me back to her. Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I And lay me under the maple we planted ever seen, years ago, And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her When she and I was happy, before we quar- acts. relled so, Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other facts. And when she dies, I wish that she would So draw up the paper, lawyer ; and I'll go be laid by me ; home to-night, And read the agreement to her, and see if it's And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll all right ; then agree ; And then in the morning I'll sell to a tradin' And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't man I know — think it queer And kiss the child that was left to us, and If we loved each other the better because out in the world I'll go. we've quarrelled here. BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. f'VE brought back the paper, lawyer, and fetched the parson here. To see that things are regular, and "^if settled up fair and clear ; 1 For I've been talking with Caleb, and ¥ Caleb has with me, 1 And the 'mount of it is we're minded to try once more to agree. So I came here on the business, — only a word to say (Caleb is staking pea-vines, and couldn't come to-day.) Just to tell you and parson how that we've changed our mind ; So I'll tear up the paper, lawyer, you see it wasn't signed. And now if parson is ready, I'll walk with him toward home ; I want to thank him for something, 'twas kind of him to come ; He's showed a Christian spirit, stood by us firm and true ; We mightn't have changed our mind, squire, if he'd been a lawyer too. 26 There ! — how good the sun feels, and the grass, and blowin' trees. Something about them lawyers makes me feel fit to freeze ; I wasn't bound to state particular to that man. But it's right you should know, parson, about our change of plan. We'd been some days a waverin' a little, Caleb and me, And wished the hateful paper at the bottom of the sea ; But I guess 'twas the prayer last evening, and the few words you said. That thawed the ice between us, and brought- things to a head. You see, when we came to division, there was things that wouldn't divide ; There was our twelve-year-old baby, she couldn't be satisfied To go with one or the other, but just kept whimperin' low, " I'll stay with papa and mamma, and where they go I'll go." 384 BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. Then there was grandsire's Bible — he died on our wedding day ; We couldn't halve the old Bible, and should it go or stay ? The sheets that was Caleb's mother's, her sampler on the wall, With the sweet old names worked in— Try- phena, and Eunice, and Paul. It began to be hard then, parson, but it grew harder still, Talkin' of Caleb established down at McHenry'sville ; Three dollars a week 'twould cost him ; no mendin' nor sort of care. And board at the Widow Meacham's, a woman that wears false hair. Still we went on a talkin' ; I agreed to knit some socks. And make a dozen striped shirts, and a pair of wa'mus frocks ; And he was to cut a doorway from the kit- chen to the shed : " Save you climbing steps much in frosty weather," he said. He brought me the pen at last; I felt a sinkin' and he Looked as he did with the agur, in the spring of sixty-three. 'Twas then you dropped in, parson, 'twasn't much that was said, " Little children, love one another," but the thing was killed stone dead. I should like to make confession ; not that I'm going to say The fault was all on my side, that never was my way. But it may be true that women — tho' how 'tis I can't see — Are a trifle more aggravatin' than men know how to be. Then, parson, the neighbors' meddlin' — it wasn't pourin.oil; And the church a laborin' with us, 'twas worse than wasted toil ; And I've thought and so has Caleb, though maybe we are wrong, If they'd kept to their own busine.ss, we should have got along. There was Deacon Amos Purdy, a good man as we know. But hadn't a gift of laborin' except with the scythe and hoe ; Then a load came over in peach time from the Wilbur neighborhood, " Season of prayer," they called it; didn't do an atom of good. Then there are pints of doctrine, and views of a future state I'm willing to stop discussin' ; we can both afford to wait; 'Twon't bring the millenium sooner, disputin' about when it's due, Although I feel an assurance that's mines the Scriptural view. But the blessedest truths of the Bible, I've learned to think don't lie In the texts we hunt with a candle to prove our doctrines by. But them that come to us in sorrow, and when we're on our knees ; So if Caleb won't argue on free-will, I'll leave alone the decrees. But there's the request he made ; you know it, parson, about Bein' laid under the maples that his own hand set out. And me to be laid beside him when my turn comes to go ; As if — as if — don't mind me ; but 'twas that unstrung me so. And now, that some scales, as we think, have fallen from our eyes. And things brought so to a crisis have made us both more wise, Why Caleb says ami so I say, till the Lord parts him and me. We'll love each other better, and try our I best to agree. CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 385 ANNIE LA UEIE. VXWELTON braes are bonnie ; Where early fa's the dew, ^ And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true, — Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snaw-drift; Her throat is like the swan ; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on, — That e'er the sun shone on ; And dark blue is her e'e ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; And like the winds in summer si Her voice is low and sweet, — Her voice is low and sweet ; And she's a' the world to me ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. ghing, CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. ?HE relation of the Desert to its modern inhabitants is still illustra- tive of its ancient history. The general name by which the Hebrews called " the wilderness," including always that of Sinai, was " the pasture." Bare as the surface of the Desert is, yet the thin clothing of vegetation, which is seldom entirely withdrawn, especially the aromatic shrubs on the high hillsides, furnish suffi- cient sustenance for the herds of the six thousand Bedouins who constitute the present population of the peninsula. ''Along the mountain ledges green, The scatter'd sheep at will may glean The Desert's spicy stores." So were they seen following the daughters or the shepherd-slaves of Jethro. So may they be seen climbing the rocks, or gathered round the pools and springs of the valleys, under the charge of the black-veiled Bedouin women of the present day. And in the Tiyaha, Toward, or Alouin tribes, with their chiefs and followers, their dress, and manners, and habi- tations, we probably see the likeness of the Midianites, the Amalekites, and the Israelites themselves in this their earliest stage of existence. The long strait lines of black tents which cluster round the Desert springs, 386 CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. present to us, on a small scale, the image of the vast encampment gatlicred round the one sacred tent which, with its coverings of dyed skins, stood conspicuous in the midst, and which recalled the period of their nomadic life lono- after their settlement in Palestine. The deserted villages, marked by rude enclosures of stone, are doubtless such as those to which the Hebrew wanderers gave the name of " Hazeroth," and which afterwards furnished MIEAGE IN THE DESEET. the type of the primitive sanctuary at Shiloh. The rude burial-grounds, with the many nameless head-stones, far away from hum.an habitation, are such as the host of Israel must have left behind them at the different stages of their progress— at Massah, at Sinai, at Kibroth-hattaavah, "the graves of desire." The salutations of the chiefs, in their bright scarlet robes, the one " going out to meet the other," the " obeisance," the " kiss " on each side of the head, the silent entrance into the tent for consultations, are all graphically described in the encounter between Moses and Jethro. The ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 387 constitution of the tribes, with the subordinate degrees of sheiks, recom- mended by Jethro to Moses, is the very same which still exists amongst those who are possibly his lineal descendants — the gentle race of the Towara. NEW YEAR'S EVE. "^ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky. The flying cloud, the frosty light ; The year is dying in the night ; Ring out, wild bells, and let hirn die. Ring out the old, ring in the new ; Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; The year is going, let him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more ; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause. And ancient forms of party strife ; ALFRED TENNYSON. I Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul di Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land ; Ring in the Christ that is to be. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. W. C. BRYANT. ^|yj??S^ERRILY swinging on brier and " ■' '^ weed, Near to the nest of his little dame. Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; and safe is that nest of ours. Hidden among the summer flowers, Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed. Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; "Uliite are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; 388 A PORTRAIT. Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear Thieves and robbers, while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat ; Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Never was I afraid of man ; Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay. Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Nice good wife, that never goes out. Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide moutha are open for food ; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work and silent with care ; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half-forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. A PORTRAIT. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. "One name is Elizabeth."— Ben Jonsos, -^ ^j^ WILL paint her as I see her, ^^ Ten times have the lilies blown W#? Since she looked upon the sun. ^ And her face is lily-clear, J. Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty J To the law of its own beauty. Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air ; And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. Face and figure of a child, — Though too calm, you think, and tender. For the childhood you would lend her. Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, — waiting still On the turnings of your will. Moving light, as all your things, As young birds, or early wheat, When the wind blows over it. Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure,- Taking love for her chief pleasure. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 389 Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly, — ^just as she, When she nestles at your knee. Quiet talk she liketh best. In a bower of gentle looks, — Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly. As a silver stream may run. Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are. And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals. And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round the hair. And if reader read the poem, He would whisper, " You have done Consecrated little Una." And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, " 'T is my angel wiih And a stranger, when he sees her In the street even, smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily. And all voices that address her Soften, sleeken every word. As if speaking to a bird. And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she passes. With the thymy -scented grasses. And all hearts do pray, " God love her ! Ay, and always, in good sooth. We may all be sure He doth. TEE LA UNCEING OF TEE SEIP. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. ^^H^LL is finished, and at length ^^|fe Has come the bridal day ^^^^ Of beauty and of strength. ^ To-day the vessel shall be launched ! •£ With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched ! J And o'er the bay. Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old. Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro. Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest, And far and wide With ceaseless flow His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay. In honor of her marriage-day. Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Pveady to be The bride of the gray old sea. Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand ; And at the word. Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below. The sound of hammers, blow on blow. Knocking away the shores and spur.'*. And see ! she stirs ! 390 TACITUS. She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's ^.rms. And lo ! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, "Take her, 0, bridegroom, old and gray ; Take her to thy protecting arms. With all her youth and all her charms." How beautiful she is ! how fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, 0, ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer. The moistened eye, the trembling lip. Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Sail forth into the sea of life. Oh gentle, loving, trusting wife. And safe from all adversity. Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be ! For gentleness, and love, and trust, Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives ! Thou, too, sail on, ship of State ! Sail on, Union, strong and great ! Humanity, with all its fears, With all its hopes of future years. Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel What workman wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, in what a heat. Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail. And not a rent made by the gale. In spite of rock and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee — are all with thee. TACITUS. T. BABINGTON MACAULAY. -^ ^N the delineation of character, Tacitus is unrivalled among historians, and has very few superiors among dramatists and novelists. By the delineation of character we do not mean the practice of drawing up epigrammatic catalogues of good and bad qualities, and append ing them to the names of eminent men. No writer indeed has done this more skillfully than Tacitus ; but this is not his peculiar glory. All the persons who occupy a large space in hia works have an individual- ity of character which seems to pervade all their words and actions. We know them as if we had lived with them. Claudius, Nero, Otho, both the Agrippinas, are masterpieces. But Tiberius is a still higher miracle of art. The historian undertook to make us intimately acquainted with a man singularly dark and inscrutable — whose real disposition long remain- CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 391 ed swathed up in intricate folds of factitious virtues, and over whose actions the hypocrisy of his youth and the seclusion of his old age threw a singular mystery. He was to exhibit the specious qualities of the tyrant in a light which might render them transparent, and enable us at once to perceive the covering and the vices which it concealed. He was to trace the gradations by which the first magistrate of a republic, a senator mingling freely in debate, a noble associating with his brother nobles, was trans- formed into an Asiatic sultan ; he \7as to exhibit a character distinguished by courage, self-command, and profound policy, yet defiled by all " th' extravagancy And crazy ribaldry of fancy." He was to mark the gradual efiect of advancing age and approaching death on this strange compound of strength and weakness ; to exhibit the old sovereign of the world sinking into a dotage which, though it rendered his appetites eccentric and his temper savage, never impaired the powers of his stern and penetrating mind, conscious of failing strength, raging with oapricious sensuality, yet to the last the keenest of observers, the most artful of dissemblers, and the most terrible of masters. The task was one of extreme difficulty. The execution is almost perfect. CATO ON IMMORTALITY. JOSEPH ADDISON. P|1T must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well ! ^i^ Else whence this pleasing hope, this gg fond desire, t|t This longing after immortality? 1 Or whence this secret dread, and in- i ward horror, «l Of falling into naught ? "^Tiy shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 'Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, And intimates eternity to man Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! < Through what variety of untried being. Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. He-e will I hold. If there's a Power above us, — And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works, He must delight in virtue ; And that which He delights in must be happy, But when ? or where ? This world was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end them. [Laying his hand on his sword.] 392 THE SANDS O' DEE. Thus am I doubly armed. My death and lif My bane and antidote, are both before me, This in a moment brings me to my end ; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secure in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements. The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. THE SANDS 0' DEE. CHARLES EINGSLEY. MARY, go and call the cattle home, f^M, ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ cattle home, — - And call the cattle home, Across the sands o'Dee ! The western wind was wild and dark v/i' foam. And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand. And o'er and o'er the sand. And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see ; The blinding mist came down and hid the land, And never home came she. " is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, A tress o' golden hair, 0' drowned maiden's hair. Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee. They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea -. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee. NELL. 393 NELL. eafe* ROBERT BUCHANAN, t;w'<? YOU'RE a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind and true ! God -will be good to faithful folk flike you ! You knew my Ned ! L A better, kinder lad never drew breath. We loved each other true, and we were wed In church, like some who took him to his death ; A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost His senses when he took a drop too much. Drink did it all — drink made him mad when crossed — He was a poor man, and they're hard on such. Nan ! that night! that night! When I was sitting in this very chair, Watching and waiting in the candle-light. And heard his foot come creaking up the stair. And turned, and saw him standing yonder, white And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair ! And when I caught his arm and called, in fright. He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed To lock and bar it fast. Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter, And— Nan ! — ^just then the light seemed grow- ing brighter. And I could see the hands that held his head, All red ! all bloody red ! What could I do but scream ? He groaned to hear. Tumped to his feet, and gripped me by the wrist ; *' Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell !" he hissed. And I was still, for fear. " They're after me — I've knifed a man !" he said. " Be still !— the drink — drink did it ! — he is dead !" Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't weep; All I could do was cling to Ned and hark. And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, But breathing hard and deep. The candle flickered out — the room grew dark — And — Nan! — although my heart was true and tried — When all grew cold and dim, I shuddered — not for fear of them outside. But just afraid to be alone with him. "Ned! Ned!" I whispered — and bemoaned and shook. But did not heed or look ! " Ned ! Ned ! speak, lad ! tell me it is not true !" At that he raised his head and looked so wild; Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw His arms around me, crying like a child, And held me close— and not a word was spoken. While I clung tighter to his heart, and pressed him. And did not fear him, though my heart was broken. But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed him. Then, the dreadful daylight, coming falling rain — Nan, cold With sound o' When I could see his face, and it looked old, Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain; Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun. We never thought to hide away or run. Until we heard those voices in the street, That hurrying of feet, 394 THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had come. " Run, Ned !" I cried, but he was deaf and dumb !" " Hide, Ned !" I screamed, and held him ; " hide thee, man !" He stared with bloodshot eyes, and heark- ened. Nan ! And all the rest is like a dream — the sound Of knocking at the door — A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — A mist — a tramp — a roar ; For when I got my senses back again, The room was empty — and my head went round ! God help him ! God will help him ! Ay, no fear ! It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no wrong ; So kind ! so good ! — and I am useless here, Now he is lost that loved me true and long. . . . That night before he died I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried ; But when the clocks went " one," I took my shawl To cover up my face, and stole away. And walked along the silent streets, where all Looked cold and still and gray. And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square, But just as "three" was sounded close at hand I started and turned east, before I knew, Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the Strand, And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. Some men and lads went by. And turning round, I gazed, and watched 'em go, Then felt that they were going to see. him die. And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow. More people passed me, a country cart with hay Stopped close beside me, and two or three Talked about it! I moaned and crept away ! Next came a hollow sound I knew full well. For something gripped me round the heart ! — and then There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! God ! God ! how could I sit close by. And neither scream nor cry ? As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, 1 listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled. And the day brightened, and his time had come . . . . . Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, but the knell Of the slow bell ! And I could only wait, and wait, and wait. And what I waited for I couldn't tell — At last there came a groaning deep and great — Saint Paul's struck " eight " — I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and fell! THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, lOETRY is the record of tlie best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds. "We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feehng, sometimes associated with place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond all expression ; so that, even in the desire and the regret ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 395 they leave, there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object. It is, as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own ; but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, which the morning calm erases, and whose traces remain only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions of being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most enlarged imagination ; and the state of mind produced by them is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriot- ism, and friendship, is essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined organization, but they can colour all that they combine with the evanes- cent hues of this ethereal world; a word, a trait in the representation of a scene or passion, will touch the enchanted chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever experienced those emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the buried image of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions which haunt the interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide — abide, because there is no portal of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity in man. ANNIE AND WILLIE'S ERA YEE. SOPHIA r. SNOW. 3WAS the eve before Christmas, " Good- night " had been said ; And Annie and Willie had crept ^]^ into bed ; r There were tears on their pillows, «l and tears in their eyes, And each little bosom was heaving with sighs. For to-night their stern father's command had been given That they should retire precisely at seven — Instead of at eight — for they troubled him more With questions unheard of than ever before : He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, No such creature as " Santa Claus " ever had been, And he hoped, after this, he should never- more hear How he scrambled' down chimneys with pre- sents each year. And this was the reason that two little heads So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten. 396 ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. Not a word had beea spoken by either till then, When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep, As he whispered, " Dear Annie, is 'ou fast aseep?" " Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies, " I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes. For somehow it makes me so sorry because Dear papa has said there is no ' Santa Glaus.' Now we know there is, and it can't be denied. For he came every year before mamma died ; But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray, And God would hear everything mamma would say, And maybe she asked Him to send Santa Glaus here With the sack full of presents he brought every year." " Well, why tan't we pray dest as Mamma did den. And ask Dod to send him with presents aden ?" " I've been thinking so, too," and without a word more Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor, And four little knees the soft carpet pressed. And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. " Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe That the presents we ask for we're sure to You must wait just as still till I say the ' Amen,' And by that you will know that your turn has come then." " Dear Jesus, look down on ray brother and me. And grant us the favor we are asking of Thee. I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring. And an ebony work-box, that shuts with a spring. Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see, That Santa Glaus loves us as much as does he : Don't let him get fretful and angry again At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen." " Please, Desus, et Santa Taus turn down to- night. And bing us some presents before it is ight ; I want he should div' me a nice 'ittle sed, With bright shinin' unners, and all painted red ; A box full of tandy, a book and a toy. Amen, and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads And with hearts light and cheerful, again sought their beds. They were soon lost in slumber, both peace- ful and deep. And with fairies in Dreamland were roaming in sleep. Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten. Ere the father had thought of his children again, lie seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed sighs, And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. " I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, " And should not have sent them so early to bed; But then I was troubled ; my feelings found vent. For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this. ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 397 And that I denied them their thrice-asked-for kiss ; But just to make sure, I'll steal up to their door, For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs. And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers ; His Annie's " Bless Papa " drew forth tho big tears. And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on hin ears 'Strange — strange — I'd forgotten," said he, with a sigh, " How I longed when a child to have Christ- mas draw nigh. " ' I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said; " By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed." Then turned to the stairs and softly went down, Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing- gown, Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in the street — A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet ! Nor stopped he until he had bought every- thing. From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring. Indeed he kept adding so much to his store, That the various presents outnumbered a score ; Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load, With Aunt Mary's help in the nursery was stowed. Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree. By the side of a table spread out for her tea ; A work-box well filled in the centre was laid, And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed : A soldier in uniform stood by a sled, " With bright shining runners and all painted red." There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see. And birds of all colors were perched in the tree ; While Santa Glaus, laughing, stood up in the top. As if getting ready more presents to drop. And as the fond father the picture surveyed, He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid ; And he said to himself, as he bru.shed off a tear, " I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year ; I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before. What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent. more ! Hereafter, I'll make it a rule, I believe. To have Santa Glaus visit us each Ghristmas ev^." So thinking, he gently extinguished the light. And, tripping down stairs,- retired for the night. As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one. Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide. And at the same moment the presents espied ; Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound, And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. They laughed and they cried in their inno- cent glee. And shouted for papa to come quick and see What presents old Santa Glaus brought in the night, (Just the things that they wanted), and left before light : " And now," added Annie, in voice soft and low, " You'll believe there's a ' Santa Glaus,' pf\pa, I know ;" While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee. Determined no secret between them should 398 BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. And told in soft whispers how Annie had said And knew just what presents my children would please. That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago dead, Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair. And that God up in heaven had answered (Well, well let him think so, the dear little elf, 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it my- self!" Blind father ! who caused your stern heart to her prayer. " Den we dot up and prayed dust as well as relent. And the hasty words spoken, so soon to we tould, And Dod answered our nrayers ; now wasn't repent ? 'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly He dood ?" " I should say that He was, if He sent you all these. up stairs, And make you His agent to answer their prayers. BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. J. G. SAXE. ?T was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind,) That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The First approached the Elephant, And, happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl : " God bless me ! but the Elephant Is very like a wall !" The Second, feeling of the tusk. Cried : " Ho ! what have we here So very round and smooth and sharp ? To me 'tis mighty clear NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. 399 This wonder of an Elephant The Sixth no sooner had begun Is very like a spear !" About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail The Third approached the animal, That fell within his scope. And, happening to take "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant The squirming trunk within his hands, Is very like a rope !" Thus boldly up and spake : " I see," quoth he, " the Elephant Is very like a snake !" And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, The Fourth reached out his eager hand, Each in his own opinion And felt about the knee : Exceeding stiff and strong, " "What most this wondrous beast is like Though each was partly in the right, Is mighty plain," quoth he ; And all were in the wrong ! "'Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree! " MORAL. The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, So, oft in theologic wars Said : " E'en the blindest man The disputants, I ween. Can tell what this resembles most ; Rail on in utter ignorance Deny the fact who can. Of what each other mean, This marvel of an Elephant And prate about an Elephant Is very like a fan !" Not one of than has seen ! NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. CHARLES DICKENS. ffHE news tliat the fugitive had been caught and brought back ran like wiklfire through the hungry community, and expectation t''^ ' ^ was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it remained until the ^ afternoon, when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner 1 and an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accompanied J by his amiable partner), with a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new. '■ Is every boy here ?" Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak ; so Squeers glared along the lines to assure himself. " Each ooy keep his place. Nickleby ! you go to your desk, sir !" There vas a curious expression in the usher's face ; but he took his seat, withou J opening his lips in reply. Squeers left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar — or rather by that fragment o^ his jacket which was nearest the place where his collar ought to have been. 27 400 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. " Now, what have you got to ,say for yourself? (Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got room enough.) " " Spare me, sir!" " Oh, that's all you've got to say, is it ? Yes, I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that." One cruel blow had fallen on him, when Nicholas Nickleby cried, "Stop!" " Who cried stop ?" "I did. This must not go on." " Must not go on !" " No ! Must not ! Shall not ! I will prevent it ! You have dis- regarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's behalf; you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon your- self, not I." "Sit down, beggar !" " Wretch, touch him again at your peril ! I will not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as you. By Heaven ! I will not spare you, if you drive me on ! I have a series of personal insults to avenge, and my indignation is aggravated by the cruelties practiced in this foul den. Have a care ; for if you raise the devil in me, the consequences will fall heavily upon your head !" Squeers, in a violent outbreak, spat at him, and struck him a blow across the face. Nicholas instantly sprang upon him, wrested his weapon from his hand, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for merc3^ fie flung him away with all the force he could muster, and the vio- lence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers over an adjacent form ; Squeers, striking his head against the same form in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless. Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and having ascer- tained, to his satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas packed up a few clothes in a small valise, and, finding that noboly offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front door, ani struck into the road. Then such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys' Hall had never echoed before, and would never respond to again. AVhen the sound had died away, the school was empty ; and of the crowd of 1 oys not one remained. CLERICAL WIT. 401 A KISS AT THE DOOR. Vj were standing in the door■waJ^ My little wife and I ; ^'eJ? The golden sun upon her hair Fell down so silently ; A small white hand upon my arm - What could I ask for more Than the kindly glance of loving ey As she kissed me at the door? I know she loves with all her heart The one who stands beside, And the years have been so joyous, Since first I called her bride ; We've had so much of happiness Since we met in years before, But the happiest time of all was when She kissed me at the door. Who cares for wealth of land or gold, For fame or matchless power ? It does not give the happiness Of just one little hour With one who loves me as her life — She says she loves me more — And I thought she did this morning, When she kissed me at the door. At times it seems that all the world, With all its wealth of gold, Is very small and poor indeed, Compared with what I hold ; And when the clouds hang grim and dark, I only think the more Of one who waits the coming step To kiss me at the door. If she lives till age shall scatter Its frosts upon her head, I know she'll love me just the same As the morning we were wed ; But if the angels call her, And she goes to heaven before, I shall know her when I meet her, — For she'll kiss me at the door. CLERICAL WIT, missionary had And hardships and privations oft had seen. While wandering far on lone and desert strands. Aweary traveler in benighted lands, Would often picture to his little flock The terrors of the gibbet and the block ; IIow martyrs suffer'd in the ancient times, And what men suffer now in other climes ; And though his words were eloquent and deep. His hearers oft indulged themselves in sleep. He marked with sorrow each unconscious nod. Within the portals of the house of God, And once this new expedient thought he'd take In his discourse, to keep the rogues awake — Said he, " While traveling in a distant state, I witness'd scenes which I will here relate : 'Twas in a deep, uncultivated wild. Where noontide glory scarcely ever smiled ; Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness howl'd — Where bears frequented, and where panthers prowl'd ; And, on my word, mosquitoes there were found. Many of which, I think, would weigh a pound ! More fierce and ravenous than the hungry shark — They oft were known to climb the trees and hark ! " The audience seem'd taken by surprise — All started up and rubbed their wondering i02 THE MURDERED TRAVELER. At such a tale they all were much amazed, Each drooping lid was in an instant raised, And we must say, in keeping heads erect, It had its destined and desired efioct. But tales like this credulity appall'd ; Next day, the deacons on the pastor call'd, And begg'd to know how he could ever tell The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell. ' Why, sir," said one, " think what a mons- trous weight ! Were they as large as you wore pleased to state ? You said they'd weigh a pound! It can't be true ; We'll not believe it, though 'tis told by you ! '' " Ah, but it is ! " the parson quick replied ; "In what I stated you may well confide; Many, I said, sir — and the story's good — Indeed I think that many of them would ! " The deacon saw at once that he was 'laught, Yet deem'd himself relieved, on second thought. " But then the harking — think of that, good man ; Such monstrous lies! Explain it if you can !" " Why, that, my friend, I can explain with ease — They climbed the bark, sir, when they diinhcd the trees!" THE POETS REWARD. JOHN G. WHITTIER. l^j^HANKS untraced to lips unknown ^M| Shall greet me like the odors blown ?^^^ From unseen meadows newly mown, "*^^^ Or lilies floating in some pond. Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; The traveler owns the grateful sense Of sweetness near, he knows not whence. And, pausing, takes with forehead bare The benediction of the air. THE MURDERED TRAVELER. WILLIAM C. BRYANT. ^pIIEN spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again ; The murdered traveler's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen. The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky ; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded careless by. The red bird warbled, as ho wrought His hanging nest o'erhcad ; And fearless, near the fatal spot. Her young the partridge led. But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day. Were sorrowful and dim. They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Unarmed and hard beset; THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 403 Nor how, when round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red, The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole To banquet on the dead; But long they looked, and feared, and wept, Within his distant home ; And dreamed, and started as they slept. For joy that he was come. Nor how, when strangers found his bones. They dressed the hasty bier. And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear. Long, long they looked— but never spied His welcome step again. Nor knew the fearful death he died Far down that narrow glen. THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. ^pOOD morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I 1^ have been ; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think "^^^ that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible 404 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. time with the ear-ache last night ; my wife got up and drapt a few drapa of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst kind of a narvous headache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived. Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. [Coughs) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side ? Then I have a crick at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. {Coughs.) Oh, dear ! what shall I do ! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. [Coughs) Oh this cough— it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; it's getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion. What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. [Coughs.) But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day — and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood — you know we lost our help lately, and ray wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself. I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out — as it was a raining at the time — but I thought I'd risk it anyhow. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. [Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes — and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar jandars." [Coughs) FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 405 THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. JOHN G. WHITTIER. _^^ - " ^^^H, lady fair, these silks of mine Srajl Are beautiful and rare, ^=^^ The richest web of the Indian loom, "^Y Which beauty's queen might wear, •r And these pearls are pure and mild J to behold. And with radiant light they vie ; I have brought them with me a weary way, Will my gentle lady buy ? " And the lady smiled on the worn old man. Through the dark and clustering curls, Which veiled her brow as she bent to view His silks and glittering pearls ; And she placed their price in the old man's hand, And lightly turned awaj' ; But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call, " My gentle lady, stay ! " " Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem Which a purer lustre flings Than the diamond flash of the jeweled crown On the lofty brow of kings ; A wonderful pearl of exceeding price. Whose virtue shall not decay ; Whose light shall be as a spell to thee, And a blessing on thy way ! " The lady glanced at the mirroring steel Where her form of grace was seen. Where her eyes shone clear and her dark locks waved Their clasping pearls between. " Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, Thou traveler gray and old ; And name the price of thy precious gem. And my pages shall count thy gold." The cloud went ofi' from the pilgrim's brow. As a small and meagre book, Unchased with gold or gem of cost, From his folding robe he took. " Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price; May it prove as such to thee ! Nay, keep thy gold ; I ask it not ; For the Word of God is free." The hoary traveler went his way ; But the gift he left behind Hath had its pure and perfect work On that high-born maiden's mind ; And she hath turned from the pride of sin To the lowliness of truth, And given her human heart to God, In its beautiful hour of youth. And she hath left the gray old halls Where an evil faith had power ; The courtly knights of her father's train. And the maidens of her bower; And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales, By lordly feet untrod, Where the poor and needy of earth are ricli In the perfect love of God. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. THOMAS HOOD. ?EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms ; But a cannon-ball took off his l So he laiil down his arms. Now as they bore him off the field. Said he, " Let others shoot ; For here I have my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot." 406 JOHN MAYNARD. Tlie army-surgeons made him limbs; And now you cannot wear your shoes Said he, " They're only pegs ; Upon your feats of arms !" But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs." " false and fickle Nellie Gray ! I know why you refuse ; Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,— Though I've no feet, some other man Her name was Nelly Gray ; Is standing in my shoes. So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay. " I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! But when he called on Nelly Gray ; For you will be my death ; — alas ! She made him quite a scoff ; You will not be my Nell !" And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off. Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got. *• Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! A nd life was such a burden grown, Is this your love so warm ? It made him take a knot. The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform." So round his melancholy neck A rope he did intwine, Said she, " I loved a soldier once, And, for his second time in life, For he was blithe and brave ; Enlisted in the line. But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave. One end he tied around a beam. And then removed his pegs ; " Before you had those timber toes And, as his legs were off, — of course Your love I did allow ; He soon was off his legs. But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now." And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town ; " Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! For, though distress had cut him up. For all your jeering speeches, It could not cut him down. At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches." A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died,— " Why, then," said she, " you've lost the feet And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, Of legs in war's alarms. With a stake in his inside. JOHN MA YNARD. .^1^ H. ALGER. JR. |r"^ WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse. One bright midsummer day. The gallant steamer Ocean Queen Swept proudly on her way. Bright faces clustered on the deck. Or leaning o'er the side. Watched carelessly the feathery foam. That flecked the rippling t'de. Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, That smiling bends serene. Could dream that danger, awful, vast, Impended o'er the scene — Could dream that ere an hour had sped. That frame of sturdy oak Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, Blackened with fire and smoke? JOHN MAYNARD 407 A seaman sought the captain s side, A moment whispered low , The captain's swarthy face grew pale, He hurried down below Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp And clear his orders came, No human eflfort could avail To quench the insidious flame- The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip, And ghastly faces everywhere Looked from the doomed ship. " Is there no hope — no chance of life ?" A hundred lips implore : " But one,'' the captain made reply, " To run the ship on shore." No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, Or clouds his dauntless eye. As in a sailor's measured tone His voice responds, " Ay, Ay !' Three hundred souls. — the steamer's freight Crowd forward wild with fear. While at the stern the dreadful flames Above the deck appear. John Maynard watched the nearing But still with steady hand He grasped the wheel and steadfastly He steered the ship to land. j "John Maynard," with an anxious voice I The captain cries once more, I " Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, And we will reach the shore.'' A sailor, whose heroic soul That hour should yet reveal — By name John Maynard, eastern born. Stood calmly at the wheel. ■' Head her southeast'' the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar " Head her southeast without delay ! Make for the nearest shore !'' Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly, still Unawed, though face to face with death, " With God's good help I will!" The flames approach with giant strides, They scorch his hands and brow ; 408 WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS. One arm disabled seeks his side, Ah, he*8 conquered now ! But no, his teeth are firmly set. He crushes down the pain, — His knee upon the staunchion pr( He guides the ship again. One moment yet ! one moment yet ! Brave heart thy task is o'er ! The pebbles grate beneath the keel. The steamer touches shore. Three hundred gratefiiv voices rise. In praise to God that He Ilath saved them from the fearful fire, And from the engulfing sea. But where is he, that helmsman bold ? The captain saw him reel — His nerveless hands released their task, He sunk beside the wheel. The waves received his lifeless corpse, Blackened with smoke and fire. God rest him i Hero never had A nobler funeral pyre ! WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND, 1776. IpIifHE time is now near at hand, which must probably determine whether ^1^ Americans are to be freemen or slaves; whether they are to have "^^W^ any property they can call their own ; whether their houses and ■r farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned J to a state of wretchedness, from which no human efforts will deliver them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance, or the most abject sub- mission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or to die. Our own, our country's honour, calls upon us for a vigorous and manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our cause, and the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all our countrymen are now upon us, and we shall have their blessings and praises, if happily we are the instruments of saving them from the tyranny m.editated against them. Lot us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show the whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on his own ground, is superior to any slavish mercenary on earth. Liberty, property, life, and hoDour are all at stake ; upon your cou- rage and conduct rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country ; our wives, children, and parents expect safety from us only ; and they have every reason to believe that Heaven will crown with success so just a cause. A SNOW-STORM. 409 The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance ; but remember they have been repulsed on various occasions by a few brave Americans. Their cause is bad — their men are conscious of it ; and, ii opposed with firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our advantage of works and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and attentive — wait for orders — and re- serve his fire until he is sure of doino; execution. A SNOW-STOBM. CHAELES G. EASTMAN. |1^ IS a fearful night in the winter time, As cold as it ever can be ; The roar of the blast is heard, like the chime Of the waves on an angry sea ; The moon is full, but her silver light The storm dashes out with its wings to-night ; And over the sky from south to north Not a star is seen, as the wind esmes forth In the strength of a mighty glee. II. All day had the snow come down — all day, As it never came down before ; And over the hills, at sunset, lay Some two or three feet, or more ; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone. 410 A SNOW-STORM. The windows blocked, and the well-curbs gone; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift. As it lay by the farmer's door. The night sets in on a world of snow. While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a fearful blow Is heard on the distant hill ; And the Norther ! See — on the mountain peak, In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek. He shouts on the plain. Ho, ho ! Ho, ho ! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow. And growls with a savage will. Ilis nose is pressed on his quivering feet ; Pray, what does the dog do there ? A farmer came from the village plain, But he lost the traveled way ; And for hours he trod, with might and main, A path for his horse and sleigh ; But colder still the cold wind blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown. At last in her struggles floundered down. Where a log in a hollow lay. In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow. While her master urged, till his breath grew short, -A. \ III. Such a night as this to be found abroad. In the drifts and the freezing air, Sits a shivering dog in the field by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair ! He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls ; lie lifts his head, and moans and howls ; Then crouching low from the cutting sleet, With a word and a gentle blow ; But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight. His hands were numb, and had lost their might ; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh. And strove to shelter himself till day. With his coat and the buffalo. WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 411 IV. He has given the last faint jerk of the rein To rouse up his dying steed, And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, For help in his master's need ; For a while he strives, with a wistful cry, To catch a glance from his drowsy eye. And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. And whines when he takes no heed. V. The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er ; 'Tis the hour of midnight past ; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast ; The silent moon, with her peaceful light, Looks down on the hills, with snow all white; And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, Afar on the plain are cast. But cold and dead, by the hidden log, Are they who came from the town : The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, And his beautiful Morgan brown — In the wide snow-desert, far and grand. With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand. The dog with his nose on his master's feet. And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet. Where she lay when she floundered down. WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? WILLIAM KNOX. President Lincoln's Favorite Poem. why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast- flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid ; And the voung and the old, the low and the high Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved ; The mother that infant's affection who proved ; The hu?;band that mother and infant who blessed, — Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye. Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those who loved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ; The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ; The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep ; The beggar who wandered in search of his bread. Have faded awaj^ like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven ; The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven; The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 412 CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. So the nmltitude goes, like the flowers or the weed That withers away to let othSrs succeed ; So the multitude comes, even those we be- hold, To repeat every tale that has often been told. For we are the same our fathers have been ; We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; We drink the same stream, and view the same sun. And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think ; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink ; To the life we are clinging they also would cling ; But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no wail from their slum- bers will come ; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died, aye ! they died ; and we things that are now. Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pil- grimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge. Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. From the blossom of health to the paleness of death. From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? CA UGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. CHARLES A. WILEY. |j|j^N the Arctic ocean near the coast of Norway is situated the famous W^ Maelstrom or whirlpool Many are the goodly ships that have been & caught in its circling power, and plunged into the depths below. On t a fine spring morning, near the shore opposite, are gathered a com- J pany of peasants. The winter and the long night have passed away ; and, in accordance with their ancient custom, tliey are holding a greeting to the return of the sunlight, and the verdure of spring. Under a green shade are spread, in abundance, all the luxuries their pleasant homes could afford. In the grove at one side are heard the strains of music, and the light step of the dance. At the shore lies a beautiful boat, and a party near are preparing for a ride. Soon all things are in readiness, and, amid the cheers of their CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 413 companions on shore, they push gayly away. The day is beautiful, and they row on, and on. Weary, at length, they drop their oars to rest; but they perceive their boat to be still moving. Somewhat surprised, — soon it occurs to them that they are under the influence of the whirlpool. Moving slowly and without an effort — presently faster, at length the boat glides along with a movement far more delightful than with oars. Their friends from the shore perceive the boat moving, and see no working of the oars ; it flashes upon their minds that they are evidently within the circles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them, " Beware of the whirlpool ! " But they laugh at fear, — they are too happy to think of returning : " When we see there is danger then we will return." Oh) that some good angel would come with warning unto them, " Unless ye noio turn back ye cannot be saved." Like as the voice of God comes to the soul of the impenitent, " Unless ye mend your ways ye cannot be saved." The boat is now going at a fearful rate ; but, deceived by the moving waters, they are unconscious of its rapidity. They hear the hollow rumbling at the whirlpool's centre. The voices from the shore are no longer audible, but every effort is being used to warn them of their danger. They now, for the first time, become conscious of their situation, and head the boat towards shore. But, like a leaf in the autumn gale, she quivers under the power of the whirlpool. Fear drives them to frenzy ! Two of the strongest seize the oars, and ply them with all their strength, and the boat moves towards the shore. With joy they cherish hope ! and some, for the first time in all their lives, now give thanks to God, — that they are saved. But suddenly, crash, goes an oar ! and such a shriek goes up from that ill-fated band, as can only be heard when a spirit lost, drops into perdition ! The boat whirls again into its death-marked channel, and skips on with the speed of the wind. The roar at the centre grinds on their ears, like the grating of prison doors on the ears of the doomed. Clearer, and more deafening is that dreadful roar, as nearer and still nearer the vessel approaches the centre ; then whirling for a moment on that awful brink, she plunges with her freight of human souls into that dreadful yawning hollow, where their bodies shall lie in their watery graves till the sea gives up its dead ! And so, every year, ay, every month, thousands, passing along in the boat of life, enter almost unaware the fatal circles of the wine-cup. And, notwithstanding the earnest voices of anxious friends, "Beware of the gutter ! of the grave ! of hell ! " they continue their course until the ■''force of habit" overpowers them ; and, cursing and shrieking, they whirl for a time on the crater of the maelstrom, and are plunged beiow. 414 THE FIRST PARTY. WIIW AND RAIN. RICHARD H. STODDARD. \TTLE the window, Winds ! Rain, drip on the panes ! "^^3^ There are tears and siglis in our hearts and eyes, And a weary weight on our brains. The gray sea heaves and heaves, On the dreary flats of sand ; And the blasted limb of the churchyard yew, It shakes like a ghostly hand ! The dead are engulfed beneath it, Sunk in the grassy waves; But we have more dead in our hearts to-day Than the Earth in all her graves! THE FIRST PARTY. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. jISS Annabel McCarty Was invited to a party, " Your company from four to ten," the invitation said ; And the maiden was delighted To think she was invited To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed. The crazy little midget Ran and told the news to Bridget, Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight, i And said, with accents hearty, i " 'Twill be the swatest party If ye're there yerself, me darlint ! I wish it was to-night!" The great display of frilling Was positively killing ; And, oh, the little booties ! and the lovely sash so wide ! And the gloves so very cunning ■. She was altogether " stunning," And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride. They gave minute directions, With copious interjections Of " sit up straight !" and " don't do this or that — 'twould be absurd !" But, what with their caressing, And the agony of dressing. Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single word. There was music, there was dancing. And the sight was most entrancing, As if fairyland and floral band were holding jubilee; There was laughing, there was pouting ; There was singing, there was shouting ; And old and young together made a carnival of glee. Miss Annabel McCarty Was the youngest at the party. And every one remarked that she was beau- tifully dressed ; Like a doll she sat demurely On the sofa, thinking surely It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest. The noise kept growing louder ; The naughty boys would crowd her ; " I think you're very rude indeed !" the little lady said ; And then, without a warning, Her home instructions scorning, She screamed : " 1 want my supper — and 1 want to go to bed I" THE SEA-SHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. 415 Now big folks who are older, Need not laugh at her, nor scold hor, For doubtless, if the truth were known, we've often felt inclined To leave the ball or party, As did Annabel McCarty, Bnt we hadn't half the courage and we couldn't speak our mind ! THE SEA-SHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ^ HAVE lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains. No, I am not 1^ going to say which is best. The one where your place is, is the best A for you. But this difference is : you can domesticate mountains, t but the sea is fercB naturcc. You may have a hut, or know the owner 1 of one, on the mountain-side ; you see a light half-way up its ascent in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share it, You have noted certain trees, perhaps ; you know the particular zone where the hemlocks look so black in October, when the maples and beeches have faded. All its reliefs and intaglios have electro typed themselves in the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory's chamber. The sea remembers nothing. It is feline. It licks your feet, — its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you ; but it will crack your bones and eat you, for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had happened. The mountains give their lost children berries and water ; the sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. The mountains have a grand, stupid, lovable tranquillity ; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelli- gence. The mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs awful to look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver scales 28 416 THE BAREFOOT BOY. until you cannot see their joints, — but their shining is that of a snake's belly, after all. In deeper suggestiveness I find as great a difference. The mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long gene- rations. The sea drowns out humanity and time ; it has no sympathy with either ; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous song for ever and ever. Yet I should love to have a little box by the sea-shore. I should love to gaze out on the wild feline element from a front window of my own, just as. I should love to look on a caged panther, and see it stretch its shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and by-and-by begin to lash itself into rage, and show its white teeth, and spring at its bars, and howl the cry of its mad, but, to me, harmless fury. THE BAREFOOT BOY. JOHN G. WHITTIER. U^LESSINGS on thee, little man, ^ra| Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! rWith thy turned up pantaloons. And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still 6 Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; •k- With the sunshine on thy face. Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace! From my heart I give thee joy ; I was once a barefoot boy. Prince thou art — the grown-up man, Only is republican. Let the million-doUared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side. Thou hast more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye : Outward sunshine, inward joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy. ! for boyhood's painless play. Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules. Knowledge never learned of schools : Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl, and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell. How the woodchuck digs his cell. And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow. Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine. Where the wood-grape's clusters shine \ Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay. And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy. for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw. Me, their master, waited for I 1 was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; Blessings on thee, little man." LINES ON A SKELETON. 417 For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone ; Langhed the brook for my delight, Through the day, and through the night : Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. Mine the walnut slopes beyond. Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still, as my horizon grew. Larger grew my riches too. All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy. Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 0, for festal dainties spread. Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude ! O'er me like a regal tent. Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent. Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch ; pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man ! Live and laugh as boyhood can ; Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride. Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil. Up and down in ceaseless moil, Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ' LINES ON A SKELETON. !EH0LD this ruin ! 'tis a skull. Once of ethereal spirit full! This narrow cell was life's retreat, This space was thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous pictures filled this epot — What dreams of pleasure, long forgot 1 Nor grief, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear. Has left one trace of record there. Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye : Yet start not at that dismal void ; If social love thaj- eye employed. If with no lawless fire it gleamed. But through the dew of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright When stars and sun have lost their light. Here, in this silent cavern, hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; If falsehood's honey it disdained. And, when it could not praise, wa chained : If bold in virtue's cause it spoke. Yet gentle concord never broke, j That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee When death unveils eternity. Say, did these fingers delve the mine. Or with its envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock or wear the gem. Can nothing now avail to them : But if the page of truth they sought. And comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that waits on wealth or fame! 418 YAWCOB STRAUSS. Avails it wliether bare or shod Those feet the path of duty trod ? If from the bower of joy they sped To soothe affliction's humble bed ; If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, And home to virtue's lap returned, Those feet with angel wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky ! THE EBB-TIDE. R. SOUTHEY. I^LOWLY thy flowing tide jj^l Came in, old Avon ! Scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roamed thy green- wood side. Perceive its gentle rise. With many a stroke and strong The laboring boatmen upward plied their oars ; Yet little way they made, tho' laboring long Between thy winding shores. Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabored boat falls rapidly along ; The solitary helmsman sits to guide, And sings an idle song. Now o'er the rocks that lay So silent late the shallow current roars ; Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way, Through wider-spreading shores. Avon, I gaze and know The lesson emblemed m thy varying way ; It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, So rapidly decay. Kingdoms which long have stood And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high Fortune's flood. They ebb to ruin fast. Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage. Alas ! how burryingly the ebbing years Then hasten to old age ! YAWCOB STRAUSS. CHARLES F. ADAMS. HAF von funny leedle poy, Vot gomes schust to mine knee ; Der queerest schap, der Greatest rogue, As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings In all barts ofi" der house : vot oS" dot? he vas mine son, [ine leedle Yawcob Strauss. lie get der measles und der mumbs Und eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine glass off lager bier, Boots schnuff indo mine kraut. He fills mine pipe mit Limburg Ghee?e,- Dot vas der roughest chouse : I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. YAWCOB STRAUSS. 419 He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo, To make der schticks to beat it mit, — Mine cracious dot vas drue ! Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse. How gan I all dose dings epgsblam To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? ^^^v^:s^- I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup sooch a touse : But nefer mind ; der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. He asks me questions sooch as dese : Who baints mine nose so red ? Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf reet, Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So guiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, " Dake anyding, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 420 ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. CHARLES F. BROWN. Jl^R. SHAKER," sed I, "you see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to speak, and he axes a shelter of you." "Yay," said the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another bein sent to put my horse and wagon under kiver. A solum female, lookin somewhat like a last year's bean-pole stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I hunger ? To which I asserted, " A few." She went orf, and I endeavored to open a conversation with the old man. " Elder, I spect," sed I. " Yay," he said. "Health's good, I reckon?" "Yay." "What's the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness — or do you devote your sarvices gratooitous ?" "Yay." " Storm nigh, sir ?" "Yay." " If the storm continues there'll be a mess underfoot, hay ?" "Yay." " If I may be so bold, kind sir, what's the price of that pecooler kind of wesket you wear, includin trimmins ?" "Yay." I pawsed a minit, and, thinkin I'd be faseshus with him and see how that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and told him that as a yayer he had no living ekel. He jumped up as if bilin water had been squirted into his ears, groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed : "You're a man of sin!" He then walked out of the room. Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and slick lookin galls as I ever met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the old one I'd met previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but their eyes spar- kled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin enuff THE LAND 0" THE LEAL. 421 to make a man throw stuns at his grandmother, if they axed him to. They commenst clearing away the dishes, casting shy glances at me all the time. I got excited. I forgot Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I, " My pretty dears, how air you ?" " We air well," they solumly sed. "Where is the old man?" said I, in a soft voice. "Of whom dost thou speak — Brother Uriah?" "I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. Shouldn't wonder if his name wasn't Uriah." "He has retired." "Wall, my pretty dears," sez I, "let's have some fun. Let's play puss in the corner. What say ?" "Air you a Shaker, sir?" they asked. "Wall, my pretty dears, I haven't arrayed my proud form in a long weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I'd jine 'em. As it is, I am willing to be Shaker protemporary." They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little skeery. I tawt 'em puss in the corner, "and sich like plase, and we had a nice time, keepin quiet of course, so that the old man shouldn't hear. When we broke up, sez I : "My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a innersent kiss at partin ?" " Yay," they said, and I — yayed. THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. LADY NAIRNE. 'M wear in' awa', Jean, Like snow in a thaw, Jean ; — I'm wearin' awa To the Land o' the Leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean ; I There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 1 The day is ever fair In the Land o' the Leal. You've been leal and true, Jean ; Your task's ended now, Jean ! And I'll welcome you To the Land o' the Leal. Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean ! My soul langs to be free, Jean ; And angels wait on me To the Land o' the Leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, Joan, She was baith gude and fair, Jean ; And we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal ! But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean : The joy that's aye to last. In the Land o' the Leal 422 THE OWL. A' our friends are gane, Jean ; We've lang been left alane, Jean ; We'll a' meet again In the Land o' the Leal. Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean This world's care is vain, Jean ; We'll meet, an' ay' be fain, In the Land o' the Leal. AS SHIPS BECALMED. ARTHUR H. CLOUGH. ships becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side. Two towers of sail, at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart des- cried. Y When fell the night, up sprang the !e breeze. And all the darkling hours they plied ; Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so — but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew, to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? At dead of night their sails were filled. And onward each rejoicing steered; Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed Or wist what first with dawn appeared. To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. Brave barks ! — in light, in darkness too ! Through winds and tides one compass guides : To that and your own selves be true. But blithe breeze ! and great seas ! Though ne'er that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last. One port, methought, alike they sought, — One purpose hold where'er they fare ; bounding breeze, rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there. THE OWL. BARRY CORNWALL. jN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral owl doth dwell ; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he's abroad and well ! i- Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with J him; All mock him outright by day ; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away I 0, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl. Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl ! And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold. And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; And, with eyes like the shine of the moon- stone cold. THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 423 She awaiteth her ghastly groom ; Not a feather she moves, not a carol she We know not alway Who are kings by day, sings, As she waits in her tree so still ; But when her heart heareth his flapping wings. She hoots out her welcome shrill ! ! when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl! ^^9^^9|H Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight! The owl hath his share of good : If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, He is lord in the dark greenwood ! Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride ; Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside ! So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl! But the king of the night is brown owl ' the bold THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. ^jipHE Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appropriated to a Wl^ very narrow defile, extending two miles in length, between two '''^^ huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of i nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or volcano in other countries of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have been accomplished by these agents. The change seems to have been effected when the surface of the earth extensively subsided ; when countries and continents assumed a new face ; and a general commotion of the elements produced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others beneath the common level of desolation. Nothino; less than this will 424 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. account for the sundering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast mountains ; or for the existing evidences of the immense force by which the rupture was effected. The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, standing perpen- dicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from each other ; one about twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by the brook mentioned as the head-stream of the Saco; the other half by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of frag- ments, partly blown out of the road, and partly thrown down by some great convulsion. When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale on which all the objects in view were formed was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular manner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss which seemed the product of ages, recalling to the mind the saxum vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose to a mountainous height. Before us the view widened fast to the southeast. Behind us it closed almost instantaneously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassable barrier of mountains. About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current ; and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white. The sun shone with the clearest splendor, from a station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; and the cascade glittered down the vast steep like a stream of burnished silver. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. H. W. LONGFELLOW. tTlliif^HIS is the Arsenal. From floor to Like a huge organ, rise the burn- ished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise — how wild and dreary — When the death-angel touches those swift keys! Wliat loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies. THE CHARCOAL MAN. 425 I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone be- fore us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer , Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse- man's song; And loud, amid the universal clamor. O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle bell with fearful din; And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' The tumult of each sacked and burning vil- lage; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; Is it, man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices. And jarrest the celestial harmonies? Were half the power that fills the world with terror. Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error. There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; The warrior's name would be a name ab- horred ; And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain. Down the dark future, through long genera- tions, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease : And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace! " The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies; But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. THE CHARCOAL MAN. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. plj|i|RHOUGII rudely blows the wintry blast, yjimmi And sifting snows fall white and fast, 4|^^^ Mark Haley drives along the street, *| Perched high upon his wagon seat ; •r His sombre face the storm defies, J And thus from morn till eve he cries, — " Charco' ! charco' !" While echo faint and far replies, — " Hark, ! Hark, !" " Charco' !" — " Hark, !"-Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds. The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; His coat is darker far than that ; 'Tis odd to see his sooty form All speckled with the feathery storm ; Yet in his honest bosom lies Nor spot, nor speck, though still he cries, — " Charco' ! charco' !" And manj' a roguish lad replies, — " Ark, ho! ark, ho !" " Charco' !"-" Ark, ho !"-Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 426 DOW'S FLAT— 1856. Thus all the cold and wintry day He labors much for little pay ; Yet feels no less of happiness Than many a richer man, I guess, When through the shades of eve he spies The light of his own home, and cries,— " Charco' ! charco' !" And Martha from the door replies,— " Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !" " Charco' !"-" Mark, ho!"-Such joy abounds "When he has closed his daily rounds. The hearth is warm, the fire is bright. And while his hand, washed clean and white, Holds Martha's tender hand once more, His glowing face bends fondly o'er The crib wherein his darling lies, And in a coaxing tone he cries, "Charco' ! charco' !" And baby with a laugh replies, — " Ah, go! ah, go !" "Charco' !"-"Ah, go;" — while at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds. Then honored be the charcoal man ! Though dusky as an African, 'Tis not for you, that chance to be A little better clad than he. His honest manhood to despise. Although from morn till eve he cries, — " ChaiW ! charco' !" While mocking echo still replies, — " Hark, ! hark, !" " Charco' ! Hark, !" Long may these sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! DOW'S FLAT— 185Q. F. BRET HARTE. jOW'S Flat. That's its name. And I reckon that you Are a stranger ? The same ? Well, I thought it was true. For thar isn't a man on the river as C4,a't spot the place at first view. It was called after Dow,— Which the same was an ass, — And as to the how That the thing came to pass, — Just tie up your boss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass : You see this yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck ; He slipped up somehow On each thing that he struck. Why, ef he'd ha' straddled that fence-rail, the derned thing 'ed get up and buck. He mined on the bar Till he couldn't pay rates ; He was smashed by a car When he tunnelled with Bates ; And right on the top of his trouble kom his wife and five kids from the States. It was rough — mighty rough ; But the boys they stood by. And they brought him the stuff For a house on the sly ; And the old woman — well, she did washing, and took on when no one was nigh. But this yer luck o' Dow's Was so powerful moan That the spring near his house Dried right up on the green ; And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen. Then the bar petered out. And the boys wouldn't stay -. And the chills got about. And his wife fell away ; But Dow in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way. One day, — it was June, And a year ago, jest, — This Dow kem at noon To his work, like the rest, j With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and j a Derringer hid in his breast. MOUNTAINS. 427 He goes to the well, For you see the dern cuss bed struck— And he stands on the brink, "Water?"— beg your parding, young And stops for a spell. man, there you lied. Just to listen and think ; For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir,) It was gold, in the quartz, you see, kinder made the cuss blink. And it ran all alike ; His two ragged gals I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike ; In the gulch were at play, And that house with the coopilow's his'n— which the same isn't bad for a Pike. And a gownd that was Sal's Kinder flapped on a bay ; Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all, — as I've heerd the folks say. Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; And the thing of it is And,— that's a pert boss That he kinder got that Thet you've got, ain't it now ? Through sheer contrariness ; What might be her cost? For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin'; Eh ? !— Well, then, Dow,— and his luck made him certain to miss. Let's see,— well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow. Thet's so. Thar's your way To the left of yon tree ; For a blow of his pick But — a — look h'yur, say ! Sorter caved in the side, Won't you come up to tea ? And he looked and turned sick. No? Well, then, the next time you're passin' ; Then he trembled and cried. and ask after Dow, — and thet's me. MOUNTAINS. MES. MARY HOWITT. |ijjPj|HEE,E is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the 'W&^ merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent '^'^^ features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into J the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled with their vast solitude ! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks ! How our heart 'bounds to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of the gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts ! How inspiriting are the odors that breathe fi'om the upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine ! how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture ! At the autumnal season, the ascents of our own mountains are most practicable. The heat of summer has dried up the moisture with which 428 MOUNTAINS. winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hollows ; and the atmosphere, clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever has not ascended our ^^^^ mountains knows little of the beauties of this beautiful is- land. Whoever has not climbed their long and heathy as- cents, and seen the trembling mountain flowers, the glowing moss, the richly tinted lichens at his feet ; and scented the fresh aroma of the uncultivated sod, and of the spicy shrubs ; and heard the bleat of the flock across their solitary expanses, and the wild cry of the moun- tain plover, the ra- ven, or the eagle; and seen the rich and russet hues of distant slopes and eminences, the livid gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit; and then stood panting oh that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, but all silent as images of eternity ; and cast his gaze over lakes and forests, and smoking towns, and wide lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and reposing beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth which his own country possesses. But when we let loose the imagination from even these splendid scenes, and give it free charter to range through the far more glorious ridges of continental mountains, through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how OLD TIMES AND NEW. 429 is it possessed and absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scener^r and character ! OLD TIMES AND NEW. A. C. SPOONER. IMWAS in my easy chair at home, ^^ About a week ago, I sat and puffed my light cigar. As usual, you must know. I mused upon the Pilgrim flock, Whose luck it was to land Upon almost the only Rock Among the Plymouth sand. In my mind's eye, I saw them leave Their weather beaten bark — Before them spread the wintry wilds. Behind, rolled Ocean dark. Alone that noble handful stood While savage foes lurked nigh — Their creed and watchword, " Trust in God, And keep your powder dry." Imagination's pencil then That first stern winter painted, When more than half their number died And stoutest spirits fainted. A tear unbidden filled one eye, My smoke had filled the other. One sees strange sights at such a time. Which quite the senses bother. I knew I was alone — but lo ! (Let him who dares, deride me ;) I looked, and drawing up a chair, Down sat a man beside me. His dress was ancient, and his air Was somewhat strange and foreign ; He civilly returned my stare, And said, " I'm Richard Warren. " You'll find my name among the list Of hero, sage and martyr. Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed The first New England charter. " I could some curious facta impart — Perhaps, some wise suggestions — But then I'm bent on seeing sights, And running o'er with questions." " Ask on," said I ; " I'll do my best To give you information. Whether of private men you ask. Or our renowned nation." Says he, " First tell me what is that In your compartment narrow. Which seems to dry my eye-balls up, And scorch my very marrow." His finger pointed to the grate. Said I, " That's Lehigh coal. Dug from the earth," — he shook his head- " It is, upon my soul !" I then took up a bit of stick, One end as black as night. And rubbed it quick across the hearth. When, lo ! a sudden light ! My guest drew back, uproUed his eyes, And strove his breath to catch ; "What necromancy's that?" he cried. Quoth I, "A friction match." Upon a pipe just overhead I turned a little screw, When forth, with instantaneous flash, Three streams of lightning flew. Uprose my guest: "Now Heaven me sav Aloud he shouted ; then, " Is that hell-fire ?" " 'Tis gas," said I, " We call it hydrogen." Then forth into the fields we strolled ; A train came thundering by. Drawn by the snorting iron steed Swifter than eagles fly. 430 BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked, Far streamed the smoky cloud ; Echoed the hills, the valleys shook, The flying forest bowed. Down on his knees, with hand upraised In worship, Warren fell; " Great is the Lord our God," cried he; " He doeth all things well. Fve seen his chariots of fire, The horsemen, too, thereof; Oh may I ne'er forget his ire, Nor at his threatenings scoff." " Rise up, my friend, rise up," said I, " Your terrors all are vain. That was no chariot of the sky, 'Twas the New York mail train." We stood within a chamber small — Men came the news to know From Worcester, Springfield and New York, Texas and Mexico. It came — it went — silent and sure — He stared, smiled, burst out laughing ; "What witchcraft's that?" "It's what we call Magnetic telegraphing." Once more we stepped into the street ; Said Warren, " What is that Which moves along across the way As smoothly as a cat ? " I mean the thing upon two lega. With feathers on its head — A monstrous hump below its waiat Large as a feather-bed. " It has the gift of speech, I hear; But sure it can't be human !" " My amiable friend," said I, " That's what we call a woman !" " A woman ! no — it cannot be," Sighed he, with voice that faltered : " I loved the women in my day, But oh ! they're strangely altered." I showed him then a new machine For turning eggs to chickens — A labor-saving hennery, That beats the very dickens ! Thereat he strongly grasped my hand, And said, " 'Tis plain to see This world is so transmogrified 'Twill never do for me. " Your telegraphs, your railroad-trains. Your gas-lights, friction matches, Your hump-backed women, rocks for coal Your thing which chickens hatches, " Have turned the earth so upside down, No peace is left within it ;" Then whirling round upon his heel, He vanished in a minute. BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. MICHAEL ALTENBUEG. jEAR not, little flock ! the foe Who madly seeks your overthrow. Dread not his rage and power ; What though your courage some- times faints ? His seeming triumph o'er God's sainta Lasta but a little hour. Be of good cheer ; your cause belongs To Him who can avenge your wrongs, Leave it to Him, our Lord. Though hidden now from all our eyes, He sees the Gideon who shall rise To save us, and His word. As true as God's own word is true, OLD. 431 Not earth or hell with all their crew Amen, Lord Jesus ; grant our praver ! Against us shall prevail. Great Captain, now thine arm make bare ; Fight for us once again ! A jest and by-word are they grown ; So shall the saints and martyrs raise God is with us, we are his own, A mighty chorus to thy praise, Our victory cannot fail. World without end ! Amen. OLD. RALPH HOYT. |Y the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; Oft I marked him sitting there alone. All the landscape like a page pe- rusing : Poor, unknown, By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat, Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding ; Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat. Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding ; There he sat ! Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. 432 ULD. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin, gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care : Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. It was Summer, and we went to school. Dapper country lads, and little maidens, Taught the motto of the "dunce's stool," Its grave import still my fancy ladens : " Here's a fool ! " It was Summer and we went to school. When the stranger seemed to mark our play Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. I remember well, too well, that day ! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, "Would not stay, "When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell : Ah ! to me her name was always Heaven ! She besought him all his grief to tell : (I was then thirteen and she eleven), Isabel ! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. " Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow ; Down it rolled ! " Angel," said he sadly, " I am old." " I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core : I have tottered here once more. " All the picture now to me how dear ; E'en this grave old rock, where I am seated. Is a jewel worth my journey here ; Ah, that such a scene must be completed With a tear ! All the picture now to me how dear ! " Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same : There's the very step I so oft mounted ; There's the window creaking in its frame. And the notches that I cut and counted For the game : Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same. " In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; Long my happy home that humble dwelling There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, There the spring, with limpid nectar swell- ing : Ah, forlorn ! In the cottage, yonder, I was born. " Those two gateway sycamores you see Then were planted just so far asunder. That long well-pole from the path to free. And the wagon to pass safely under : Ninety-three ! Those two gateway sycamores you see. " There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather : Past its prime ! There's the orchard where we used to climb. " There's the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails. Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing. Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails — In the crops of buckwheat we were raising : Traps and trails ! There's the rude three-cornered chestnut rails. "There's the mill that ground our yellow grain : Pond, and river still serenely flowing ; Cot, there resting in the shaded lane. Where the lily of my heart was blowing: Mary Jane ! There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. " There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable. But alas ! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table. Taken wing ! There's the gate on which I used to swing. THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 433 "I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. Yon green meadow was our place for play- ing- That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead ! I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. " Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Tracing silently life's changeful story, So familiar to my dim old eye, Points to seven that are now in glory There on high : Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! " Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. Guided thither by an angel mother ; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; Sire and sisters, and my little brother, Gone to God ! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. " There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways : Bless the holy lesson ! — but ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise — Those sweet voices — silent now forever ; Peaceful days ! There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. " There my Mary blessed me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing. Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; Broken band ! There my Mary blessed me with her hand. " I have come to see that grave once more, And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshipped, in the days of yore. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core ; I have come to see that grave once more. " Angel," said he sadly, "I am old ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." In his eye another pearl of sorrow: Down it rolled, "Angel," said he sadly, " I am old." By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; Still I marked him sitting there alone. All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; Poor, unknown ! I By the wayside, on a mossy stone. THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. EDGAR A. POE. ^^pHE usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visitor left ^^ the city early in the morning. During the forenoon he passed "^^'^ between shores of a tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed k innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the vivid green of J rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided into that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a sense of retirement — this again in a consciousness of solitude. As the evening approached, the channel grew more narrow ; the banks more and more precipitous ; and these latter were clothed in richness, more profuse, and more sombre foliage. The water increased in transparency. The stream took a thousand turns, so that at no moment could its gleaming surface be seen for a greater distance than a furlong. At every instant the 434 THE DOMAIN OF ARNIIEIM. vessel seemed imprisoned within an enchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable walls of foliage, a roof of ultra-marine satin, and no floor APPKOACH TO AKNHEIM. — the keel balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom bark which, by some accident having been turned upside down, floated in constant company with the substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 435 The channel now became a gorge — although the term is somewhat in- applicable, and I employ it merely because the language has no word which better represents the most striking — not the most distinctive — feature of the scene. The character of gorge was maintained only in the height and parallelism of the shores ; it was altogether lost in their other traits. The walls of the ravine through which the water still tranquilly flowed, arose to such an elevation, and were so precipitous as in a great measure, to shut out the light of day ; while the long plume-like moss which depended densely from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and more intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves, so that the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of very con- siderable extent when compared with the width of the gorge .... The visitor, shooting suddenly into this bay from out of the gloom of the ravine, is delighted, but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun, which he had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now confronts him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless vista seen through another chasm-like rift in the hills. But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, and descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices in vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat arise high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form is that of an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with the proud grace of the swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery paddle of satin-wood ; but no oarsman or attendant is to be seen. The guest is bidden to be of good cheer — that the Fates will take care of him. The larger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers what course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in the fairy bark. It slowly surges itself around until its prow points toward the sun. It advances with a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight ripples it creates break about the ivory sides in divinest melody, and seem to offer the only possible explanation of the soothing yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the bewildered voyager looks around him in vain. The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is ap- proached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen .... On drawing 436 THE BUGLE. nearer to this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet from the bay is discovered to the left — in which direction the wall is also seen to sweep, still following the general course of the stream. Down this new opening the eye cannot penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still bends to the left, until both are swallowed up. Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately covered and fret- ted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an ef- fulgence that seems to wreathe the whole surrounding forest in flames. This gate is inserted in the lofty wall ; which here appears to cross the river at right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main body of the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the left, the wall fol- lowing it as before, while a stream of considerable volume, diverging from the principal one, makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid descent into a vast amphitheatre, entirely begirt with purple mountains ; whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout the whole extent of their circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts upon the view. There is a gush of entrancing melody ; there is an oppressive sense of strange sweet odor ; — there is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern trees — bosky shubberies — flocks of golden and crimson birds — lily-fringed lakes — meadows of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths and tuberoses — long intertangled lines of silver streamlets — and, upspring- ing confusedly from amid all, a mass of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic archi- tecture, sustaining itself as if by miracle in mid air ; glittering in the red sunlight with a hundred orioles, minarets, and pinnacles ; and seeming the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the Genii, and of the Gnomes. THE BUGLE. TENNYSON. pHE splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story : The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- ing. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. THE CLOUD. 437 hark ! hear ! how thin and clear, love, they die in yon rich sky, And thinner, clearer, farther going ! They faint on hill or field or river: sweet and far, from cliff and scar. Our echoes roll from soul to soul. The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! And grow forever and forever. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. dying. THE CLOUD. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. BRING fresh showers for the thirsty flowers. From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when J laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain. And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below. And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white. While I sleep in the arms of the blast. While on the towers of my skiey bowers. Lightning, my pilot, sits ; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder ; It struggles and howls at fits. Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. This pilot is guiding me. Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plains. Wherever he dream, under mountain and stream, The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine surprise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread. Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. When the morning star shines dead. As, on the jag of a mountain crag. Which an earthquake rocks and swings. An eagle, alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath. Its ardors of rest and love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall, From the depths of heaven above. With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest. As still as a brooding dove. That orb^d maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon. Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. The stars peep behind her and peer : And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon and these 438 I'M GROWING OLD. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. Over a torrent sea. Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. The mountains its columns be, The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. Is the million colored bow ; The sphere-fire above, its soft colors move, Whilst the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nurshng of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and I change, but I cannot die. But after a rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams, with theii convex gleams. Build up the blue dome of air — I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and build it aaiain. FM GEO WING OLD. JOHN G hM4 — ■'.Y days pass pleasantly away. My nights are blest with sweet- i^M^ I feel no symptoms of decay, y I have no cause to mourn or weep ; =f My foes are impotent and shy, J My friends are neither false nor cold ; And yet of late, I often sigh : " I'm growing old." My growing talk of olden times. My growing thirst for early news, My growing apathy to rhymes, My growing love of easy shoes. My growing hate of crowds and noise. My growing fear of taking cold ; All whisper in the plainest voice, I'm growing old. Tm growing fonder of my staff, I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, I'm growing fainter in my laugh, I'm growing deeper in my sighs, I'm growing careless of my dress, I'm growing frugal of my gold, I'm growing wise, I'm growing — yes, I'm growing old. SAXE. I see it in my changing taste, I see it in my changing hair, I see it in my growing waist, I see it in my growing heir ; A thousand signs proclaim the truth. As plain as ever truth was told. That even in my vaunted youth, I'm growing old. Ah me ! my very laurels breathe The tale in my reluctant ears. And every boon the hours bequeathe But makes me debtor to the Years. E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare The secret she would fain withhold, And tell me, in " How young you are," I'm growing old. Thanks for the years whose rapid flight My sombre muse too sadly sings ! Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings. The light that beams from out the sky. Those heavenly mansions to unfold Where all are blest, and none may sigh " I'm growing old." " My days pass pleasantly away My nights are blessed with sweetest I feel no symptoms of decay, I have no cause to mourn or weep; My foes are impotent and shy, My friends are neither false nor cold; And yet, of late, I often sigh : • I'm growing old.' THE STORMY PETREL. 439 THE STORMY PETREL. BAREY CORNWALL. thousand miles from land are ■we, Tossing about on the stormy sea, 'f^^f' From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. The sails are scattered abroad like weeds ; The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains, The hull, which all earthly strength dis- dains, They strain and they crack ; and hearts like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. Up and down ' From the basi up and down ! of the wave to the billow's crown. And amidst the flashing and feathery foam The stormy petrel finds a home, A home, if such a place may be For her who lives on the wide, wide sea. On the craggy ice, in the frozen air. And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young and to teach them to spring At once o'er the waves on their stormv O'er the deep ! o'er the deep ! Where the whale and the shark and tho sword-fish sleep Outflying the blast and the driving rain. The petrel telleth her tale— in vain ; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Who bringeth him news of the storm un- heard ! Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; Yet he ne'er falters, — so, petrel, spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing. 440 IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. SONG OF THE STORMY PETREL. Etel^he lark sings for joy in her own loved -^£^^ In the furrowed field, by the breezes fanned ; And so revel we In the furrowed sea, As joyous and glad as the lark can be On the placid breast of the inland lake, The wild duck delights her pastime to take ; But the petrel braves The wild ocean waves, His wing in the foaming billow he laves. The halcyon loves in the noontide beam To follow his sj)ort on the tranquil stream. He fishes at ease In the summer breeze, But we go angling in stormiest seas. No song note have we but a piping cry, That blends with the storm when the wind is high. When the land birds wail We sport in the gale. And merrily over the ocean we sail. IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. GEOEGE W. CUETIS. ippHE leaders of our Eevolution were men of whom the simple truth is ' the highest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly "^^^ sagacious, sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the I truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first f colonial Congress: "The Congress is the most honorable assembly 1 of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too earnest to be rhetori- cians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a temper that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech; and they were profoundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the adroitest mere politicians never perceive, — that ideas are the life of a people; that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation; and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by teaching that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and rotted the crops in the ground. LITTLE AND GREAT. 441 The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also. Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King, or Parliament, or the English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament : ''Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine rights; their rights as men and citizens ; their rights from God and nature ! I am for enforcing these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet soldiers swarming over the sea, but more steadily they saw+that national progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had conformed to natural justice. They knew the coming wreck of property and trade, but they knew more surely that Rome was never so rich as when she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful as when they were poorest. Farther away they read the names of Assyria, Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They were merchant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivaled by their sails upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world. "Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the king who had built his grandest palace, and was to occupy it upon the morrow; but when the morrow came the palace was a pile of ruins. " Woe is me !" cried the King, "who is guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the sage at his side ; " but the mortar was made of sand and water only, and the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old empires, because the governors forgot to put justice into their governments. LITTLE AND GREAT. CHARLES MACKAY. ^1^ TRAVELER through a dusty road, Strewed acorns on the lea ; And one took root and sprouted up, eT And grew into a tree. § Love sought its shade at evening T time, To breathe his early vows ; And age was pleased, in heats of noon. To bask beneath its boughs. The dormouse loved its dangling twigs. The birds sweet music bore ; It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern ; A passing stranger scooped a well, Where weary men might turn. 442 LITTLE AND GREAT. He walked in it, and hung with care A ladle at the brink ; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that Toil might drink. It shone upon a genial mind. And lo ! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame He passed again — and lo ! the well. By summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues. And saved a life ' A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 'Twas old — and yet 'twas new, A simple fancy of the brain. But strong in being true. The thought was small— its issue great. A watch-fire on the hill. It sheds its radiance far adown. And cheers the valley still. A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and lovo, Unstudied, from the heart. BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 443 A whisper on the tumult thrown, germ ! fount ! word of love ! A transitory breath, thought at random cast ! It raised a brother from the dust, Ye were but little at the first, It saved a soul from death. But mighty at the last ! BEAUTIFUL SNOW. JAMES W. WATSON. i''? THE snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below ! Over the house-tops, over the street. Over the heads of the people you meet, Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along. Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! Whirring about in its maddening fun. It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around. The town is alive, and its heart in a glow To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song ! How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, — Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye. Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go Over the crest of the beautiful snow: Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by; 30 To be trampled and tracked by the thou- sands of feet Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. Once I was pure as the snow, — but I fell : Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven— to hell; Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : Fell, to be scofi"ed, to be spit on, and beat. Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy, Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living and fearing the dead. Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sisters all, God, and myself I have lost by my fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh ; For of all that is on or about me, I know There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful How strange it should be that this beautiful snow 444 THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my How strange it would be, when the night moan comes again, To be heard in the crash of the crazy town. If the snow and the ice struck my desperate Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming brain ! down; Fainting, To lie and to die in my terrible woe, Freezing, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful Dying alone, snow! TEE BIRTEBAY OF WASEINGTON. RUFUS CHOATE. iijPpHE birlhday of the " Father of his Country !" May it ever be ^M^ freshly remembered by American hearts ! May it ever re-awaken in them a fihal veneration for his memory; ever re-kindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which f he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the "^ perilous period of the early Indian warfare ; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field ; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was ofiered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might. Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. " The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" Yes, first ! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation ; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life ! Yes ; others of our great men have been appreciated — many admired by all ; — but him we love ; him we all The beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below!' A TAILOR'S POEM ON EVENING. 445 love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements — no sectional prejudice nor bias —no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes ; when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Wash- ington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated : " Where may the wearied eye repose, When gazing on the great ; Where neither guilty glory glows Nor despicable state ? Yes — one — the first, the last, the best. The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one.'' A TAILOR'S POEM ON EVENING, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. F^AY hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with ru' stars. Here will I lay mo on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs. And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads. Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ? It is, it is that deeply injured flower. Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love thee. Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences. And growing portly in his sober garments. Is that a swan that rides upon the water? no, it is that other gentle bird. Which is the patron of our noble calling. 1 well remember, in my early years. When these young hands first closed upon a goose ; I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors ; They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir- loom From some remoter tailor of our race. 446 THE PELICAN. It hapjiencd I did seo it on a time Whon none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me, — 0, most fearfully ! It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs. And leap elastic from the level counter. Leaving the petty grievances of earth. The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit. For such a pensive hour of soothing silence, Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom ;— I can fetil With all around me ; — I can hail the flowers That spring earth's mantle, — and yon quiet bird. That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of the legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion. THE PELICAN. .^>. JAMES MONTGOMERY. ^^MS^It early dawn I marked them m the lil^l sky- ^l^^?',' Catching the morning colors on their ii u plumes ; <^ Not in voluptuous pastime reveling «!• there, J Among the rosy clouds, while orient heaven Flamed like the opening gates of Paradise, Whence issued forth the angel of the sun. And gladdened nature with returning day : — Eager for food, their searching eyes they fixed On ocean's unrolled volume, from a height That brought immensity within their scope ; Yet with such power of vision looked they down, As though they watched the shcll-fish slowly gliding O'er sunken rocks, or climbing trees of coral. On indefatigable wing upheld, Breath, pulse, existence, seemed suspended in them : They were as pictures painted on the sky ; Till suddenly, aslant, away they shot. Like meteors changed from stars to gleams of lightning, And struck upon the deep, where, in wild play, Their quarry floundered, unsuspecting harm; With terrible voracity, they plunged Their heads among the afl'righted shoals, and beat A tempest on the surges with their wings. Till flashing clouds of foam and spray con- cealed them. Nimbly they seized and secreted their prey. Alive and wriggling in the elastic net ; Which Nature hung beneath their grasping beaks, Till, swollen with captures, the unwieldy burden Clogged their slow flight, as heavily to land These mighty hunters of the deep returned. There on the cragged cliffs they perched at ease. Gorging their helpless victims one by one ; Then, full and weary, side by side they slept. Till evening roused them to the chase again. Love found that lonely couple on their isle, And soon surrounded them with blithe com- panions. The noble birds, with skill spontaneous, framed A nest of reeds among the giant-grass. That waved in lights and shadows o'er the soil. There, in sweet thraldom, yet unweeninp why, THE PELICAN. 447 The patient dam, who ne'er till now had known Parental instinct, brooded o'er her eggs, Long ere she found the curious secret out, That life was hatching in their brittle shells. Then, from a wild rapacious bird of prey. Tamed by the kindly process, she became That gentlest of all living things, — a mother; Gentlest while yearning o'er her naked young ; Fiercest when stirred by anger to defend them. While the plump nestlings throbbed against his heart. The tenderness that makes the vulture mild; Yea, half unwillingly his post resigned, When, home-sick with the absence of an hour, She hurried back, and drove him from her seat With pecking bill and cry of fond distress, Answered by him with murmurs of delight, Whose gutturals harsh, to her were love's own music. Her mate himself the softenins power con- Forgot his sloth, restrained his appetite, And ranged the sky and fished the stream for her. Or, when o'erwearied Nature forced her off To shake her torpid feathers in the breeze, And bathe her bosom in the cooling flood, He took her place, and felt through every nerve. Then, settling down, like foam upon the wave, White, flickering, effervescent, soon subsiding, Her ruffled pinions smoothly she composed ; And, while beneath the comfort of her wings, Her crowded progeny quite filled the nest. The halcyon sleeps not sounder, when thp wind Is breathless, and the sea without a curl, — Nor dreams the halcyon of serener days. Or nights more beautiful with silent stars. 448 A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. Than, in that hour, the mother pelican, When the warm tumults of affection sunk Into calm sleep, and dreams of what they were, Dreams more delicious than reality. — He sentinel beside her stood, and watched With jealous eye the raven in the clouds. And the rank sea-mews wheeling round the cliffs. Woe to the reptile then that ventured nigh ! The snap of his tremendous bill was like Death's scythe, down-cutting everything it struck. The heedless lizard, in his gambols, peeped Upon the guarded nest, from out the flowers, But paid the instant forfeit of his life ; Nor could the serpent's subtlety elude Capture, when gliding by, nor in defence Might his malignant fangs and venom save him. A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. WASHINGTON IRVING. W^'^ the course of a voyage from England, I once fell in with a convoy of liH merchant ships, bound for the West Indies. The weather was f uncommonly bland; and the ships vied with each other in spreading sail to catch a light, favorable breeze, until their hulls were almost I hidden beneath a cloud of canvass. The breeze went down with the 1 sun, and his last yellow rays shone upon a thousand sails, idly flap- ping against the masts. I exulted in the beauty of the scene, and augured a prosperous voyage; but the veteran master of the ship shook his head, and pronounced this halcyon calm a "weather-breeder." And so it proved. A storm burst forth in the night; the sea roared" and raged; and when the day broke, I beheld the gallant convoy scattered in every direction ; some dismasted, others scudding under bare poles, and many firing signals of distress. I have since been occasionally reminded of this scene by those calm, sunny seasons in the commercial world, which are known by the name of "times of unexampled prosperity." They are the sure weather-breeders of traffic. Every now and then the world is visited by one of these delusive seasons, when the "credit system," as it is called, expands to full luxu- riance: everybody trusts everybody; a bad debt is a thing unheard of ; the broad way to certain and sudden wealth lies plain and open ; and men are tempted to dash forward boldly, from the facility of borrowing. Promissory notes, interchanged between scheming individuals, are liberally discounted at the banks, which become so many mints to coin words into cash; and as the supply of words is inexhaustible, it may readily be supposed what a vast amount of promissory capital is soon in circulation. Everyone now talks in thousands; nothing is heard but A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 4^l gigantic operations in trade; great purchases and sales of real property, and immense sums made at every transfer. All, to be sure, as yet exists in promise; but the believer in promises calculates the aggregate as solid capital, and falls back in amazement at the amount of public wealth, the "unexampled state of public prosperity !" Now is the time for speculative and dreaming or designing men. They relate their dreams and projects to the ignorant and credulous, dazzle them with golden visions, and set them maddening after shadows. The example of one stimulates another ; speculation rises on speculation ; bubble rises on bubble ; everyone helps with his breath to swell the windy superstruc- ture, and admires and wonders at the magnitude of the inflation he has contributed to produce. Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts contempt upon all its sober realities. It renders the stock-jobber a magician, and the exchange a region of enchantment. It elevates the merchant into a kind of knight- errant, or rather a commercial Quixote. The slow but sure gains of snug percentage become despicable in his eyes: no "operation" is thought worthy of attention that does not double or treble the investment. JSTo business is worth following that does not promise an immense fortune. x\s he sits musing over his ledger, with pen behind his ear, he is like La Mancha's hero, in his study, dreaming over his books of chivalry. His dusty counting-house fades before his eyes, or changes into a Spanish mine ; he gropes after diamonds, or dives after pearls. The subterranean garden of Aladdin is nothing to the realms of wealth that break upon his imagina- tion. Could this delusion always last, the life of a merchant would indeed be a golden dream; but it is as short as it is brilliant. Let but a doubt enter, and the "season of unexampled prosperity" is at an end The coinage of words is suddenly curtailed; the promissory capital begins to vanish into smoke; a panic succeeds, and the whole superstructure, built upon credit, and reared by speculation, crumbles to the ground, leaving scarce a wreck behind. "It is such stuff as dreams are made of." When a man of business, therefore, hears on every side rumors of fortunes suddenly acquired; when he finds banks liberal, and brokers busy; when he sees adventurers flush of paper capital, and full of scheme and enterprise ; when he perceives a greater disposition to buy than to sell ; when trade overflows its accustomed channels, and deluges the country; when he hears of new regions of com- mercial adventure; of distant marts and distant mines swallowing merchan- dise, and disgorging gold; when he finds joint stock companies of all kinds 450 WHEN. forming; railroads, canals, and locomotive-engines springing up on every side; when idlers suddenly become men of business, and dash into the game of commerce as the gambler would into the hazards of the faro-table ; when he beholds the streets glittering with new equipages, palaces conjured up by the magic of speculation ; tradesmen flushed with sudden success, and vying with each other in ostentatious expense ; in a word, when he hears the v/hole community joining in the theme of "unexampled prosperity," let him look upon the whole as a "weather-breeder," and prepare for the impending storm. THE PATIENT STORK. LORD THURLOW. MELANCHOLY bird, the long, long day 5^ Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school. To patience, which all evil can allay. God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, And given thyself a lesson to the fool, Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule. And his unthinking course by thee to weigh, There need not schools nor the professor's chair. Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : He who has not enough for these to spare, Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul by brooks and rivera fair, — Nature is always wise in every part. WHEN. SUSAN COOLIDGE. y^;P I were told that I must die to-morrow, J^ That the next sun \^l Which sinks should bear me past all 'fl'f' fear and sorrow t For any one, ¥ All the fight fought, all the short jour- 1 noy through. What should I do ? T do not think that I should shrink or falter. But just go on. Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone ; But rise and move and love and smile and pray For one more day. And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping How phould I fear? And when to-morrow brings Thee nearei still Do Thou Thy will." PATIENCE. THERE IS NO DEATH. 451 I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All the night long ; and when the morning splendor Flushed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile — could calmly say, "It is His day." But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder Held out a scroll. On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clue, "What should I do ? What could I do, oh ! blessed Guide and Master, Other than this ; Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, Nor fear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by Thee ? Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me, Although unseen. Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee Or heavens serene. Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay. I may not know ; my God, no hand re- vealeth Thy counsels wise ; Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, No voice replies To all my questioning thought, the time to tell. And it is well. Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Thy will always. Through a long century's ripening fruition Or a short day's. Thou canst not come too soon ; and I can wait If Thou come late. THERE IS NO DEA TH. LORD LYTTON. iHERE is no death ! The stars go down To rise upon some fairer shore : J^fS^i] And bright in Heaven's jewelled 1 crown i They shine forevermore. There is no death ! The dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellowed fruit. Or rainbow-tinted flowers, The granite rocks disorganize, And feed the hungry moss they bear ; The forest leaves drink daily life. From out the viewless air. There is no death ! The leaves may fall, And flowers may fade and pass away ; They only wait through wintry hours. The coming of the May. There is no death ! An angel form Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; He bears our best loved things away ; And then we call them "dead." He leaves our hearts all desolate. He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers ; Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bowers. The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones. Made glad these scenes of sin and strife. Sings now an everlasting song, Around the tree of life. 452 PAYING HER WAY Where'er he sees a smile too bright, Or heart too pure for taint and vice, He bears it to that world of light, To dwell in Paradise. Born unto that undying life, They leave us but to come again ; With joy we welcome them the sarae.- Except their sin and pain. And ever near us, though unseen, The dear immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life — tJierc arc no dead. PA YING HER WA Y, HAT has my darling been doing to-day, To pay for her washing and mend- ing ? ■A. How can she manage to keep out of debt For so much caressing and tend- ing ? How can I wait till the years shall have flown And the hands have grown larger and stronger ? Who will be able the interest to pay. If the debt runs many years longer? Dear little feet ! How they fly to my side White arms my neck are caressing; Sweetest of kisses are laid on my cheek ; Fair head my shoulder is pressing. Nothing at all from my darling is due — From evil may angels defend her — The debt is discharged as fast as 'tis made, For love is a legal tender. THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. 453 THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. CHARLES SUMNER. II^ET us, then, be of good cheer. From the great law of progress we ^^ may derive at once our duties and our encouragements. Humanity "''^^ has ever advanced, urged by the instincts and necessities implanted f by God, — thwarted sometimes by obstacles which have caused it for ^ a time — a moment only, in the immensity of ages — to deviate from its true line, or to seem to retreat, — but still ever onward. Amidst the disappointments which may attend individual exertions, amidst the universal agitations which now surround us, let us recognize this law, confident that whatever is just, whatever is humane, whatever is good, whatever is true, according to an immutable ordinance of Provi- dence, in the golden light of the future, must prevail. With this faith, let us place our hands, as those of little children, in the great hand of God. He will ever guide and sustain us — through pains and perils, it may be — in the path of progress. In the recognition of this law, there are motives to beneficent activity, which shall endure to the last syllable of life. Let the young embrace it : they shall find in it an everliving spring. Let the old cherish it still : they shall derive from it fresh encouragement. It shall give to all, both old and young, a new appreciation of their existence, a new sentiment of their force, a new revelation of their destiny. Be it, then, our duty and our encouragement to live and to labor, ever mindful of the future. But let us not forget the past. All ages have lived and labored for us. From one has come art, from another jurisprudence, from another the compass, from another the printing-press; from all have proceeded priceless lessons of truth and virtue. The earliest and most distant times are not without a present influence on our daily lives. The mighty stream of progress, though fed by many tributary waters and hidden springs, derives something of its force from the earliest currents which leap and sparkle in the distant mountain recesses, over pre- cipices, among rapids, and beneath the shade of the primeval forest. Nor should we be too impatient to witness the fulfilment of our aspi- rations. The daily increasing rapidity of discovery and improvement, and the daily multiplying eflforts of beneficence, in later years outstripping the imaginations of the most sanguine, furnish well-grounded assurance that the advance of man will be with a constantly accelerating speed. The extending intercourse among the nations of the earth, and amouar all the 454 HIDE AND SEEK. children of the human family, gives new promise of the complete diffusion of truth, penetrating the most distant places, chasing away the darkness of night, and exposing the hideous forms of slavery, of war, of wrong, which must be hated as soon as they are clearly seen. Cultivate, then, a just moderation. Learn to reconcile order with change, stability with progress. This is a v^ise conservatism ; this is a wise reform. Rightly understanding these terms, who would not be a conservative? who would not be a reformer? — a conservative of all that is good, a reformer of all that is evil ; a conservative of knowledge, a reformer of ignorance ; a conservative of truths and principles whose seat is the bosom of God, a reformer of laws and institutions which are but the wicked or imperfect work of man ; a conservative of that divine order which is found only in movement, a reformer of those early wrongs and abuses which spring from a violation of the great law of human progress. Blending these two characters in one, let us seek to be, at the same time, EeforminsT Conservatives, and Conservative Reformers. HIDE AND SEEK. JULIA GODDAED. ^^jpIDE and seek ! Two children at play 1^1^ On a Bunshiny holiday — " Where is the treasure hidden, I pray? Say — am I near it or far away ? Hot or cold?" asks little Nell, With her flaxen hair all tangled and wild, And her voice as clear as a fairy bell That the fairies ring at eventide — Scrambling under table and chair, Peeping into the cupboards wide. Till a joyous voice rings through the air — "0 ho ! a very good place to hide !" And little Nell, creeping along the ground, Murmurs in triumph, " I've found, I've found !" Hide and seek ! Not children now — Life's noontide sun hath kissed each brow, Nell's turn to hide the treasure to-day ; So safely she thinks it hidden away. That she fears her lover cannot find it. Say, shall she help him ? Her eyes, so shy, Half tell the secret, and half deny ; And the green leaves rustle with laughter sweet. And the little birds twitter, " Oh, foolish lover, Has love bewitched and blinded thine eyes — So that the truth thou canst not discover ?" Then the sun gleams out, all golden and bright, And sends through the wood-path a clearer light; See the lover raises his eyes from the ground, And reads in Nell's face that the treasure is found. What are the angels seeking for Through the world in the darksome night? A treasure that earth has stolen away, And hidden 'midst flowers for many a day, THE LION'S RIDE. 455 Hidden through sunshine, tlirough storm, through blight, Till it wasted and grew to a form so slight And worn, that scarce in the features white Conld one trace likeness to gladsome Nell. But the angels knew her as there she lay. All quietly sleeping, and bore her away, Up to the city, jasper-walled — Up to the city with golden street — Up to the city, like crystal clear, Where the pure and the sinless meet And through costly pearl-gates that wide, They bore the treasure earth tried to hi And weeping mortals listened with awe To the silver echo that smote the skies, As "Found?" rang forth from Paradise. THE LIOWS RIDE. FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. jHE lion is the desert's king ; through his domain so wide "I'^C^ Right swiftly and right royally this 4* L night he means to ride. el By the sedgy brink, where the wild M herds drink, close couches the grim I chief; The trembling sycamore above whis- pers with every leaf. At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye can see no more The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom is speckled o'er With kraal fires ; when the Caffre wends home through the lone karroo ; When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the gnu ; Then bend your gaze across the waste — What see ye ? The giraffe, Majestic, stalks toward the lagoon, the turbid lymph to quaff; With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels him down to cool His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool. A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the lion sits astride Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so ride? Had ever a steed so rare, caparisons of state 31 To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate ? In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous greed ; His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed. Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and surprise. Away, away, in wild dismay, the camel leopard flies. His feet have wings ; see how he springs across the moonlit plain ! As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eyeballs strain ; In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast his life is fleeting ; The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating. Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the path of Israel traced — Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the waste — From the sandy sea uprising, as the water- spout from the ocean, A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with th« courser's fiery motion. Croaking companion of their flight, the vul- ture whirs on high ; 456 DIES IR^. Below the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly, And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race ; By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, their monarch's course they trace. They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear, the while With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's painted pile. On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and strength remain ! The stoed by such a rider backed, may madly plunge in vain. Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and breathes his last ; The courser, strained with dust and foam, is the rider's fell repast. O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flut-h is descried : Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts doth ride. DIES IR^. THOMAS OF CELANO, A. D., 1208. Translated by Dr. Abraham Coles. HiAY of wrath ! that day of burning, ^^K Seer and sibyl speak concerning, *^p All the world to ashes turning ! |; Oh, what fear shall it engender, ^ When the Judge shall come m splen- ■'[• dor. Strict to mark and just to render ! Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder, Rending sepulchres asunder. Shall resistless summons thunder. All aghast then Death shall shiver, And great Nature's frame shall quiver, When the graves their dead deliver. Book, where actions are recorded. All the ages have afforded. Shall be brought and dooms awarded. When shall sit the Judge unerring. He'll unfold all here occurring, No just vengeance then deferring. What shall J say, that time pending? Ask what advocate's befriending. When the just man needs defen-ding ? Think, Jesus, for what reason Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason. Nor me lose in that dread season ! Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted ; On the cross Thy soul death tasted, — Let such travail not be wasted ! Righteous Judge of retribution ! Make me gift of absolution Ere that day of execution ! Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken. On my cheek shame's crimson token : Let the pardoning word be spoken ! Thou, who Mary gav'st remission, Heard'st the dying thief's petition, Cheer'st with hope my lost condition. Though my prayers be void of merit, What is needful. Thou confer it, Lest I endless fire inherit ! Be then, Lord, my place decided With Thy sheep, from goats divided, Kindly to Thy right hand guided! MANIFEST DESTINY. 457 When the accursed away are driven, To eternal burnings given, Call me with the blest to heaven ! I beseech Thee, prostrate lying, Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing, Care for me when I am dying ! Day of tears and late repentance ! Man shall rise to hear his sentence : Him, the child of guilt and error, Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror ! MANIFEST DESTINY. JOSH BILLINGS. S-VNIFEST destiny iz the science ov going tew bust, or enny other '^ place before yu git thare. I may be rong in this centiraent, but f^' * that iz the way it strikes me ; and i am so put together that when enny thing strikes n\Q i immejiately strike back. Manifest destiny mite perhaps be blocked out agin as the condishun that man and things find themselfs in with a ring in their nozes and sumboddy hold ov the ring. I may be rong agin, but if i am, awl i have got tew sa iz, i don't kno it, and what a man don't kno ain't no damage tew enny boddy else. The tru way that manifess destiny had better be sot down iz, the exact distance that a frog kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him ; i don't kno but i may be rong oust more, but if the frog don't git ketched the destiny iz jist what he iz a looking for. When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and makes up hiz minde tew stay thare, that ain't manifess destiny enny more than having yure hair cut short iz ; but if he almoste gits out and then falls down in agin 16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in the same plase and dies and iz buried thare at low water, that iz manifess destiny on the square. Standing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked twice at one time, must feel a good deal like manifess destiny. Being about 10 seckunds tow late tew git an express train, and then chasing the train with yure wife, and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, and not getting az near tew the train az you waz when started, looks a leetle like manifess destiny on a rale rode trak. Going into a tempranse house and calling for a little old Bourbon on ice, and being told in a mild way that " the Bourbon iz jist out, but they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in Paris," sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov moste tempranse houses. Mi dear reader, don't beleave in manifess destiny until yu see it. Thare is such a thing az manifess destiny, but when it occurs it iz like the number ov rings on the rakoon's tale, ov no great consequense onla for 458 BILL AND JOE. ornament. Man wan't made for a machine, if he waz, it was a locomotiff machine, and manifess destiny must git oph from the trak when the bell rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold. Manifess destiny iz a disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal ; i have seen it in its wust stages cured bi sawing a cord ov dri hickory wood, i thought i had it onse, it broke out in the shape ov poetry ; i sent a speciment ov the disseaze tew a magazine, the magazine man wrote mo next day az follers, " Dear Sur: Yu may be a phule, but you are no poeck. Yures, in haste." BILL AND JOE. ^d^ 0. W. HOLMES. ^OME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by- The shining days when life was new, And all was bright as morning dew. The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe. Your name may flaunt a titled trail, Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail ; And mine as brief appendix wear As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare ; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill. You've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes. With HON. and LL.D., In big brave letters, fair to see — Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe? You've worn the judge's ermine robe ; You've taught your name to half the globe You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; You've made the dead past live again ; The world may call you what it will. But you and I are Joe and Bill. The chafSng young folks stare and say, " See those old buffers, bent and gray ; They talk like fellows in their teens ! Mad, poor old boys ! That's what means " — And shake their heads ; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe — How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side ; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes — Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe ? The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go — How vain it seems, this empty show ! — Till all at once his pulses thrill: 'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you. Bill ! " And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears, — In some sweet lull of harp and song. For earth-born spirits none too long, — Just whispering of the world below, Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? MAUD MULLER. 459 No matter ; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear ; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? Read on ihe hearts that love us still, Hicjacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill. MA UD MULLER. J. G. WHITTIER. jAUD MuUer, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her mer- ry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far off town, Wliite from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast — A wish, that she hardly dared to own. For something better than she had known The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 4G0 MAUD MULLER. He drew his bridlo in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown, " Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whather The cloud in the west would bring foul ■weather. And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown. And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel ej^es. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! That I the Judge's bride might be ! " He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. " My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. " I'd dress my mother bo grand and gay. And the baby should have anew toy each day. " And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing still. " A form more fair, a face more sweet. Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. " And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. " Would she were mine, and I to-day. Like her, a harvester of hay : " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyer.s with endless tongues, " But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold. And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower. Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow. He watched a picture come and go : And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, " Ah, that I were free again ! " Free as when I rode that day. Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.' She wedded a man unlearned and poor. And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and chiLl-ljirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. KATE KETCHEM. 461 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall. In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein. And gazing down with timid grace. She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then he took up her burden of life again, Saying only, " It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both ! and pity us all. Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; For of all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these : " It might have been !' Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in tie hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! KATE KETCHEM. PHCEBE GARY. ^ATE Ketchem, on a winter's night, 1^ Went to a party, dressed in white. Her chignon in a net of gold Was about as large as they ever sold. Gayly she went because her " pap " Was supposed to be a rich old chap. But when by chance her glances fell On a friend who had lately married well, Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast — A wish she wouldn't have had made known. To have an establishment of her own. Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng. With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd. And, knowing her slightly, stopped and bowed. Then asked her to give him a single flower. Saying he'd think it a priceless dower. Out from those with which she was decked She took the poorest she could select. And blushed as she gave it, looking down To call attention to her gown. " Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how dear Flowers must be at this time of year. Then several charming remarks he made. Asked if she sang, or danced, or played ; And being exhausted, inquired whether She thought it was going to be pleasant weather. And Kate displayed her jewelry. And dropped her lashes becomingly ; And listened with no attempt to disguise The admiration in her eyes. At last, like one who has nothing to say, He turned around and walked awav. 4:62 KATE KETCHEM. Kate Ketchem smiled, and said " You bet I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. " He's rich enough to keep mo in clothes, And I think I could manage him if I chose. " He could aid my father as well as not. And buy my brother a splendid yacht. " My mother for money should never fret, And all that it cried for the baby should get ; " And after that, with what he could spare, I'd make a show at a charity fair." Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. " A girl more suited to my mind It isn't an easy thing to find ; " And every thing that she has to wear proves her as rich as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and that I to-day Had the old man's cash my debts to pay ; " No creditors with a long account. No tradesmen waiting 'that little amount;' " But all my scores paid up when due By a father as rich as any Jew !" But he thought of her brother, not worth a straw, And her mother, that would be his, in law ; So, undecided, he walked along. And Kate was left alone in the throng. But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by stealth. To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth ; And as for Kate, she schemed and planned Till one of the dancers claimed her hand. He married her for her father's cash — She married him to cut a dash. Bui as to paying his debts, do you know The father couldn't see it so ; And at hints for help Kate's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise And when Tom thought of the way he had wed. He longed for a single life instead, And closed his eyes in a sulky mood. Regretting the days of his bachelorhood ; And said in a sort of reckless vein, " I'd like to see her catch me again, " If I were free as on that night I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white !" She wedded him to be rich and gay ; But husband and children didn't pay. He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw. And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law. And oft when she had to coax and pout In order to get him to take her out. She thought how very attentive and bright He seemed at the party that winter's night. Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south, ('Twas now on the other side of his mouth:) How he praised her dress and gems in hia talk. As he took a careful account of stock. Sometimes she hated the very walls — Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls : Till her weak affections, to hatred turned. Like a dying tallow candle burned. And for him who sat there, her peace to mar, Smoking his everlasting segar — He wasn't the man she thought she saw, And grief was duty, and hate was law. So she took up her burden with a groan, Saying only, "I might have known!" Ala-? tor Kate ! and alas for Fudge ! Though I do not owe them any grudge • THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 463 And alas for any that find to their shame That two can play at their little game ! For of all hard things to bear and grin, The hardest is knowing you're taken in. Ah well ! as a general thing we fret About the one we didn't get ; But I think we needn't make a fuss If the one we don't want didn't get i THE MERR Y LARK. CHARLES KINGSLEY. ™iM|HE merry, merry lark was up and PH singing, rAnd the hare was out and feeding on the lea. And the merry, merry bells below were ringing. When my child's laugh rang through me. Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard, And the lark beside the dreary winter sea, And my baby in his cradle in the church- yard Waiteth there until the bells bring me. THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. EDWARD EVERETT. jlliiHINK of the country for which the Indians fought ! Who can '■^J^ blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that 4G4 THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. " throne of royal 8tate, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold," — as he looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at a summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest, — could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger ? As the river chieftains — the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains — ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at if they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's axe — the fishing- place disturbed by his saw-mills ? Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain (rising as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,) — in company with a friendly settler — contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say, " White man, there is eternal war between me and thee ! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide unre- strained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn. " Stranger, the land is mine ! I understand not these paper- rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou say est, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon ? They knew not what they did. " The stranger came, a timid suppliant, — few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and child- ren; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, ' It is mine.' " Stranger 1 there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 465 of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce Mohawk — the man-eater, — is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great water is before me. No, stranger; hero I have lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. INNOVATIONS OF THE WHITE MAN. "Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank thee. And now take heed to thy steps ; the red man is thy foe. "When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not dis- cover thine enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife; thou shalt build, 456 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. and I will burn, — till the white man or the Indian perish from the land. Go thy way for this time in safety, — but remember, stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee." JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. ROBERT ""g OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, ^ When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand-in-hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. ^H! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light. What so proudly we hailed at tb"^ twilight's last gleaming ? Whose broad stripes and bright stars i through the perilous fight. O'er the rampart, we watched were so gallantly streaming : And the rocket's red glare, the bombs burst- ing in air. Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore, dimly seen through the mjsts of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes. What is that which the breeze, o'er the tow- ering steep. As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 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 th« battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave. From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave ; And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of ih^: brave ! THE AMERICAN FLAG. 467 Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ; Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto, "In God is out trust." Blest with victory aaJ peace, may the heav- en-rescued land And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave Praise the power that has made and pre- served us a nation. O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! TEE AMERICAN FLAG. JOSEPH EODMAN DRAKE. ^HEN Freedom, from her mountain height. Unfurled her standard to the air. She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies. And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light, Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land ! Majestic monarch of the cloud ! "Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. To hear the tempest-trumpings loud. And see the lightning lances driven. When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings fhine afar. Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. The sign of hope and triumph high ! When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn, To where thy sky-born glories burn. And as his springing steps advance. Catch war and vengeance from the glance And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. Then shall thy meteor glances glow. And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale. Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack. Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home. By angel hands to valor given. Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. And all thy hues were born in heaven .' Forever float that standard sheet. Where breathes the foe but falls before us. With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! 468 THE DJINNS. THE DJINNS. VICTOR HUGO. IpOWN, towor. l!|K Shore, deep, li2s Where lower Clouds steep ; Waves gray Where play Winds gay- All asleep. Hark a sound, Far and slight. Breathes around On the night — High and higher. Nigh and nigher, Like a fire Roaring bright. New on it is sweeping With rattling beat Like dwarf imp leaping In gallop fleet; He flies, he prances, In frolic fancies — On wave crest dances With pattering feet. Hark, the rising swell. With each nearer burst I Like the toll of bell Of a convent cursed ; Like the billowy roar On a storm-lashed shore- Now hushed, now once more Maddening to its worst, Oh God ! the deadly sound Of the djinns' fearful cry ! Quick, 'neath the spiral round Of the deep staircase, fly ! See, our lamplight fade ! And of the balustrade Mounts, mounts the circling shade Up to the ceiling high ! •Tis the djinua' wild streaming swarm Whistling in their tempest flight ; Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm. Like a pine-flame crackling bright ; Swift and heavy, low, their crowd Through the heavens rushing loud !— Like a lurid thunder cloud With its hold of fiery night! Ha ! they are on us, close without ! Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! With hideous din the monster rout, Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! The loosened rafter overhead Trembles and bends like quivering re«d ; Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, As from its ru^ty hinge 'twould fly ! Wild cries of hell ! voices that howl and shriek ! The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed heaven !— descends my lonely roof to seek ; Bends the strong wall beneath the furious hoat;- Totters the houfle, as though, like dry leaf pborn From autumn bough and on mad blast borne! Up from its deep foundations it were torn To join the stormy whirl. Ah ! all is lost ! Oh prophet ! if tliy hand but now Save from these foul and hellish things, A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow, Laden with pious ofterings. Bid their hot breath its tiery rain Stream on my faithful door in vain, Vainly upon my blackened pane Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings ! T.hey have passed ! — and their wild legion Cease to thunder at my door ; Fleeting through night's rayless region. Hither they return no more. (. lanking chains and sounds of woe Fill the forests as they go ; And the tall oaks cower low. Bent their flaming fliglit before. On ! on ! the storm of wings Beai 8 far the fiery fear. Till scarce the breeze now brings Dim murmurings to the ear ; Like locusts humming hail, Or thrash of tiny flail Flied by the pattering hail On some old roof-tree near. Fainter now are borne Fitful murmurings still As, when Arab horn Swells its magic peal. Shoreward o'er the deep Fairy voices sweep, And the infant's sleep Golden visions till. Each deadly djinn. Dark child of friglit, Of death and sin, Speeds the wild flight. Hark, the dull nwau I Like the deep tone Of Ocean's groan. Afar by night 1 More and more Fades it now, As on shore Eipples flow — As the plaint. Far and faint, Of a saint. Murmured low. Hark ! hist I Around I list ! The bound* Of space All trace Efface Of sound. ^Yf/' >v ">/ 'ym'' jj THE CHEMIST. THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 469 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. ^I^HEN, marshalled on the nightly plain, t^®p^ The glittering host bestud the y One star alone of all the train •f Can fix the sinner's wandering J eye. Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks From every host, from every gem ; But one alone a Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, the night was dark. HENRY KIEKE WHITE. The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze. Death-struck — I ceased the tide to stem ; When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all ; It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm and danger's thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored — my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's .diadem. Forever and for evermore. The Star !— the Star of Bethlehem. THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. LOVE thee, Mary, and thou lovest me,- Our mutual flame is like the affinity . .„ . That doth exist between two simple 4|f bodies : J I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. T 'T is little that the holy marriage vow J Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical. 0, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid ; thou an alkali 32 Endowed with human sense, that brought together. We might both coalesce into one salt. One homogeneous crystal. that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen ! We would unite to form olefiant gas. Or common coal, or naphtha. Would to Hea ven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime, 470 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret ! I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda ; in that case We should be Glauber's salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead, we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aquafortis, Our happy union should that compound form. Nitrate of Potash, — otherwise Saltpetre. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? We will. The day, the happy day is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine. SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. |0W various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many man- sions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desper- ate, dwell together within the circle of my glance. In some of the houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue — guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinct- ness, they would make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are descending. The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the sky, hang- ing heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, dis- appears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the approaching storm. All people hurry homeward — all that have a home; while a few lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at their leisure. And now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick, fiery glare. The large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. 471 smoke. There is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult which I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I will descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far distant points, like snowy -mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let me look once more at the green plain, and little hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm is riding in robes of mist, and at the town, whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead ; and turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects, I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But sta}^ ! A little speck of azure has widened in the western heavens ; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world, and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the Rainbow ! WHEN SPARROV:S BUILD. JEAN INCtELOW. pl^HEN sparrows build, and the leaves .Jmm break forth, ^^^C|^ My old sorrow wakes and cries. J For I know there is dawn in the far, T far north, J And a scarlet sun doth rise ; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, And the icy fount runs free ; And the bergs begin to bow their heads, And plunge and sail in the sea. 0, my lost love, and my own, own love, And mj- love that loved me so ! Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below ? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore ; I remembered all that I said ; And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more Till the sea gives up her dead. Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow ; i Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, And the end I could not know. 472 KIT CARSON'S RILE. How could I tell I should love thee to-day, Whom that day I held not dear ? How could I tell I should love thee away When I did not love thee anear ? We shall walk no more through the sodden plain, With the faded bents o'erspread ; We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; We shall part no more in the wind and rain Where thy last farewell was said ; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead. KIT CARSON'S RIDE. JOAQUIN MILLER. UN ? Now you bet you ; I rather IP guess so. But he's blind as a badger. "Whoa, Pache, boy, whoa. No, you wouldn't think so to look I at his eyes, But he is badger bliml, and it happened this wise ; — We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels. Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. " Forty full miles if a foot to ride. Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils Of red Camanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back. Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at his steed, And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around. And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground, — Then again to his feet and to mo, to my bride. While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud. His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud. And his voice loud and shrill, as if blowji from a reed, — '■ " Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed. And speed, if ever for life you would speed ; And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire. And feet of wild horses, hard flying before I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore ; While the bufi'alo come like the surge of the sea, Lriven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire." We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein. Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again, And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer. Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold. Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold. And gold-mounted Colt's, true companions for years. Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse. Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall. Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane. With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein. i>N;i|S;ii;r«iiii KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 473 Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and nose, I Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows, j Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not , a prayer, i There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. Twenty miles ! thirty miles ! — a dim distant speck — Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight. And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- light. I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, But Revels was gone ; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger ; I saw his head drooping Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair, With their beards to the dust and black tails in the air. As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reach- ing higher, And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire, While his keen crooked horns through the storm of his mane Like black lances lifted and lifted again ; And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through. And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs ; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes With a longing and love, yet look of despair. And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her. And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, au'I all the neck's swell Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead. Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his head With a look of delight, for this Pach^, you see, Was her father's, and once at the South Santafee Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down In a race where the world came to run for the crown ; And so when I won the true heart of my bride, — Ikly neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe, — Sh3 brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight. From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side ; And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled. As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Pach^, so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado 474 THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side, And await her, — and wait till the next hollow moon Hung her horn m the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape, — a love, — a desire, — Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, — Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel One instant for her in my terrible flight. Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under. And the howling of beasts like the sound of thunder, — Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her Hands in their hair, and ki.ssed hot till they died, — Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan. As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone. And into the Brazos I rode all alone — All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. Then just as the terrible sea came in And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. WASHINGTON IRVING. HE sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating c^l-^'^'l' the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these '^ paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard. For nothing is, but all oblivion. Dust, and an endless darkness. Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 475 INTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along 476 QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compress- ing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thick- ening round me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. UARREL OF BR UTUS AND CASSIUS. SHAKESPEARE. Julius CcEsar. — Act IV. Scene III. lASSl US. — That you have wronged me doth appear in this : You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians, Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Brutus. — You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cassius. — In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its com- ment. Brutus. — Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm. To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cassius. — I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Brutus. — The name of Cassius honors this corruption. And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cassius. — Chastisement ! Brutus. — Remember March, the Ides of March remember ! Did not great Julius bleed, for justice' sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab. And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, That struck the forsmost man of all this world But for supporting robbers ; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes. And sell the mighty space of our large honors. For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon. Than such a Roman. Cassius. — Brutus, bay not me. I'll not endure it : you forget yourself. To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Brutus. — Go to ; you are not, Cassius. Cassius. — I am. Brutus. — I say you are not. QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 477 Cassius. — Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. Brutus. — Away, slight man ! Cassius. — Is't possible ? Brutus. — Hear me for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cassius. — ye gods ! ye gods ! must I en- dure all this ? Brutus. — All this ? Aye, more ; fret till your proud heart break ; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor ? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen. Though it do split you ; for from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laugh- ter. When you are waspish. Cassius. — Is it come to this ? Brutus. — You say you are a better soldier : Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well ; for mine own part I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cassius. — You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ; I said an elder soldier, not a better ? Did I say "better"? Brutus. — If you did, I care not. Cassius. — When Cassar liv'd, he durst not thus have mov'd me. Brutus. — Peace, peace! you durst not thus have tempted him. Cassius. — I durst not ? Brutus. — No. Cassias. — What? Durst not tempt him ? Brutus— ^FoT your life you durst not. Cassius. — Do not presume too much upon my love ; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Brutus. — You have done that you should be sorry for, There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; For I can raise no money by vile means ; By heaven, I had rather coin my heart. And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions. Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ; Dash him to pieces ! Cassius. — I denied you not. Brutus. — You did. Cassius. — I did not ; he was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart. A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Brutus. — I do not, till you practice them on me. Cassius. — You love me not. Brutus. — I do not like your faults. Cassius. — A friendly ej^e could never see such faults. Brutus. — A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cassius. — Come, Antony, and young Octa- vius, come ! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world : Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; Checked like a bondman ; all his faults ob- served, Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote. To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, 478 MRS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. And liere my naked breast ; -within, a heart, Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold ; If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : Strike as thou didst at Csesar ; for, I know. When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov- edst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. Brutus. — Sheathe your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire : Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark. And straight is cold again. Cassius. — Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? Brutus. — When I spoke that I was ill- tempered, too. Cassius. — Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Brutus. — And my heart too. [Uinhracing.] Cassius. — Brutus ! Brutus. — What's the matter ? Casius. — Have you not love enough to bear with me. When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful ? Brutus. — Yes, Cassius ; and, from hence- forth, When you are over-earnest with your Bru- tus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. MBS. CA UDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. DOUGLAS JERROLD, W^ there's anything in the world I hate — and you know it — it is, asking P^ you for money. I am sure for myself, I'd rather go without a thing f^ a thousand times, and I do, the more shame for you to let me. •I Wliat do I loant now? As if you didn't know! I'm sure, if I'd any money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing — never! It's painful to me, gracious knows ! What do you say ? If it's painful, why so often do it ? I suppose you call that a joke — one of your club-jokes I As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is anything that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket for every farthing. It's dreadful ! Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I speak. Pray, do you know what month it is ? And did you see how the children looked at church to-day — like nobody else's children ? What loas the matter loith them? Oh! Caudle how can you ask ! Weren't they all in their thick merinoes and beaver bonnets? What do you say ? What of it ? What I You'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, turned their noses up at 'em ! And you didn't see how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, as much as to say, MKS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. 479 " Poor creatures! what figures for the first of May?" You didnt see it! The more shame for you ! I'm sure, those Briggs girls — the little minxes ! — put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 'em over the pew. What do you say ! / ought to be ashamed to own it f Now, Caudle, it's no use talking ; those children shall not cross over the threshold next Sunday if they haven't things for the summer. Now mind — they shan't; and there's an end of it ! Tm always wanting money for clothes ? How can you say that ? I'm sure there are no children in the world that cost their father so little ; but that's it — 'the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. Now, Caudle, dear ! What a man you are ! I know you'll give me the money, because, after all, I think you love your children, and like to see 'em well dressed. It's only natural that a father should. How much money do I want ? Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and Mary Ann, and What do you say ? I needn't count 'em ? You know how many there are! That's just the way you take me up ! Well, hoio much money will it take ? Let me see — I'll tell you in a minute. You always love to see the dear things like new pins. I know that. Caudle ; and though I say it, bless their little hearts ■! they do credit to you, Caudle. How muehf Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching — and you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I can — I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What did you say ? Twenty fiddlesticks ? What! You won't give half the money ? Very well, Mr. Caudle ; I don't care ; let the children go in rags; let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals; and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. What do you say? Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women ; but you don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves. TJoey only want frocks and bonnets ? How do you know what they want ? How should a man know anything at all about it ? And you won't give more than ten pounds ? Very well. Then you may go shopping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it ! I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you — no sir ! No ; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children up like countesses ! You often throw that in my teeth, you do ; but you know it's false, Caudle ; you know it ! I only wish to give 'em proper notions of themselves ; and what, indeed, can the poor things think, when they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths,— and their fathers don't make the money you do. Caudle — when they see them as fine as tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty 480 THE DAY-DREAM. pounds I will have, if I've any; or not a farthing ! No, sir; no, — I don't want to dress up the children Hke peacocks and parrots ! I only want to make 'em respectable. What do you say? You'll give me fifteen pounds ? No, Caudle, no, not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I am sure, when I come to think of it twenty pounds will hardly do ! THE DA Y-DREAM. A. TENNYSON. THE SLEEPING PALACE. JHE varying year with blade and 1^ sheaf Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains ; Here rests the sap within the leaf; Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, I Here droops the banner on the tower. On the hall, — hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs In these, in those the life is stayed, The mantels from the golden pegs Droop sleepily. No sound is made — Not even of a gnat that sings. THE TEKRACE LAWN. Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns, Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. More like a picture seemeth all, Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall. Here sits the butler with a flask Between his knees, half drained ; and there The wrinkled steward at his task ; THE DAY-DREAM. 481 The maid of honor blooming fair, The page has caught her hand in his, Her lips are severed as to speak ; His own are pouted to a kiss ; The blush is fixed upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams that, through the oriel shine. Make prisms in every carven glass. And beaker brimmed with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps ; Grave faces gathered in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps : He must have been a jolly kmg. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood ; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. And grapes with bunches red as blood ; All creeping plants, a wall of green. Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen. High up, the topmost palace spire. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge drawing nigh. Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in their place remain, As all were ordered, ages since. Come care and pleasure, hope and pain, And bring the fated fairy prince ! THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. Year after year unto her feet. She lying on her couch alone. Across the purple coverlet. The maiden's jet-black hair has grown ; On eityher side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; The slumb'rous light is rich and warm. And moves not on the rounded curl. The silk star-broidered coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever ; and, amid Her full black ringlets, downward rolled. Glows forth each softly shadowed arm, With bracelets of the diamond bright. Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps ; on either hand upswells The gold fringed pillow lightly prest ; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL. All precious things, discovered late. To those who seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate. And draws the veil from hidden worth- He travels far from other skies — His mantle glitters on the rocks — A fairy prince, with joyful eyes. And lighter-footed than the fox. The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days tc pass. Are withered in the thorny close. Or scattered blanching in the grass. He gazes on the silent dead : " They perished in their daring deeds," This proverb flashes through his head : " The many fail ; the one succeeds." He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks, He breaks the hedge ; he enters there ; The color flies into his cheeks ; He trusts to light on something fair ; For all his life the charm did talk About his path and hover near With words of promise in his walk, And whispered voices in his ear. More close and close his footsteps wind ; The magic music in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamber far apart. His spirit flutters like a lark, He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee : " Love, if thy tresses be so dark. How dark those hidden eyes must be !'' THE REVIVAL. A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt, There rose a noise of striking clocks ; And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 482 THE LITTLE RID HIN. A fuller light illumined all ; A breeze through all the garden swept ; A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; And sixty feet the fountain leapt. The hedge broke in, the banner blew, The butler drank, the steward crawled. The fire shot up, the martin flew, The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; The maid and page renewed their strife ; The palace banged and buzzed and clackt ; And all the long-pent stream of life Dashed downward in a cataract. And last of all the king awoke, And in his chair himself upreared, And yawned, and rubbed his face and spoke ; " By holy rood, a royal beard! How say you ? we have slept, my lords ; My beard has grown into my lap." The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. " Pardy !" returned the king, " but still My joints are something stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill I mentioned half an hour ago?" The chancellor, sedate and vain, In courteous words returned reply ; But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by. THE DEPARTURE. And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold ; And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old. Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim. And deep into the dying day. The happy princess followed him. " I'd sleep another hundred years, love, for such another kiss !" " Oh wake for ever, love," she hears, " love, 'twas such as this and this." And o'er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne. And streamed through many a golden bar. The twilight melted into morn. " eyes long laid in happy sleep !" " happy sleep that lightly fled !" " happy kiss that woke thy sleep !" " love, thy kiss would wake the dead.' And o'er them many a flowering range, Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; And, rapt through many a rosy change, The twdight died into the dark. " A hundred summers ! can it be ? And whither goest thou, tell me where ?" " seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there." And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him. THE LITTLE RID HIN. MRS. WHITNEY. ^ELL, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould coun- try, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled round 33 ' A crafty ould fellv iv a fox." THE LITTLE RID HIN. 483 slyly IV a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther her, and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, and he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. " Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts to the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round, — an' there shtands the baste iv a fox in the corner. "Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her ! " Ah, ha ! " says the ould fox, " I'll soon bring yees down out o' that!" An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intill his bag, an' shtarted ofi" home in a minute. An' he wint up the wood, an' down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowd where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished shure ! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door. An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big shtone at his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his ould mother a watchin' for him at the door, he says, " Mother ! have ye the pot bilin' ? " An' the ould mother says, " Sure an' it is ; an' have ye the little rid hin ? " " Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he. 484 BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. An' tho ould mother fox she lifted the hd o' the pot, an' the rashliiil untied the bag, an' hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the big, heavy shtono. An' the bilin' water shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an' his mother, and shcaldcd them both to death. An' the little rid hin lived safe in her house foriver aftlier. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. THOMAS MOOEE. |iR]lfflpHERE is not in the wide world a | 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, ^y^ valley so sweet, \ Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite 'ffS'%' ^^ ^^^* ^^^® ^'^ whose bosom the still. ii i» bright waters meet ; Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom were near, 4 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade ^yj^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^j^^^. ^^^^^ ^f enchantment from my heart. ^^^^ ^^^^^ And who felt how the best charms of Nature Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the j improve, scene I When we see them reflected from looks that Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; I we love. BYROWS LATEST VERSES ^IS time this heart should be unmoved. Since others it has ceased to move ; Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf, Tho flowersandfruitsoflove are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone. DREAMS AND REALITIES. 485 The fire that in my bosom preys Is like to some volcanic isle, No torch is kindled at its blaze, A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share. But wear the chain. But 't is not here, — it is not here. Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now Where glory seals the hero's bier. Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field. Glory and Greece about us see ; The Spartan borne upon the shield Was not more free. Awake ! not Greece, — she is Awake, my spirit ! think through whom My life-blood tastes its parent lake. And then strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down. Unworthy manhood ! unto thee. Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live? The land of honorable death Is here, — up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; Then look around and choose thy ground, And take thy rest ! DREAMS AND REALITIES. PHCEBE CARYS LAST POEM. ROSAMOND, thou fair and good, And perfect flower of womanhood, Thou royal rose of June ! Why did'st thou droop before thy time? Why wither in the first sweet prime ? Why did'st thou die so soon ? For, looking backward through my tears On thee, and on my wasted years, I cannot choose but say. If thou had'st lived to be my guide. Or thou had'st lived and I had died, 'Twere better far to-day. child of light, Golden head '— Bright sunbeam for one moment shed Upon life's lonely way — Why did'st thou vanish from our sight ? Could they not spare my little light From Heaven's unclouded day ? O Friend so true, Friend so good ! — Thou one dream of my maidenhood. That gave youth all its charms — What had I done, or what hadst thou. That, through this lonesome world till now We walk with empty arms ? And yet had this poor soul been fed With all it loved and coveted, — Had life been always fair — Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart. That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, Forever tremble there ? If still they kept their earthly place. The friends I held in my embrace, And gave to death, alas ! Could I have learned that clear, cairn faith That looks beyond the bonds of death, And almost long, to pass ? Sometimes, I think, the things we see Are shadows of the things to be ; That what we plan we build ; That every hope that hath been crossed. And e%'ery dream we thought was lost, In heaven shall be fulfilled. 486 DAVID, KING OF ISRAEL. That even the children of the brain Have not been born and died in vain, Though here unclothed and dumb ; But on some brighter, better shore They live, embodied evermore, And wait for us to come. And when on that last day we rise, Caught up between the earth and skies. Then shall we hear our Lord Say, Thou hast done with doubt and deatii. Henceforth, according to thy faith, Shall be thy faith's reward. DA VID, XING OF ISRAEL. EDWAED IRVING. JlpHEEE never was a specimen of manhood so rich and ennobled as ' David, the son of Jesse, whom other saints haply may have equalled in single features of his character; but such a combination of man- ly, heroic qualities, such a flush of generous, godlike excellencies, hath never yet been seen embodied in a single man. His Psalms, to speak as a man, do place him in the highest rank of lyric poets, as they set him above all the inspired writers of the Old Testament, — equalling in sublimity the flights of Isaiah himself, and revealing the cloudy mystery of Ezekiel; but in love of country, and glorying in its heavenly patronage, surpassing them all. And where are there such expressions of the varied conditions into which human nature is cast by the accidents of Providence, such delineations of deep affliction and inconsolable anguish, and anon such joy, such rapture, such revelry of emotion in the worship of the living God ! such invocations to all nature, animate and inanimate, such summonings of the hidden powers of harmony and of the breathing instruments of melody! Single hymns of this poet would have conferred immortality upon any mortal, and borne down his name as one of the most favored of the sons of men. The force of his character was vast, and the scope of his life was im- mense. His harp was full-stringed, and every angel of joy and of sorrow swept over the chords as he passed; but the melody always breathed of heaven. And such oceans of aff'ection lay within his brea^st as could not always slumber in their calmness; for the hearts of a hundred men strove and struggled together within the narrow continent of his single heart. And will the scornful men have no sympathy for one so conditioned, but scorn him because he ruled not with constant quietness the unruly host of natures which dwelt within his single soul? Of self-command surely he will not be held deficient who endured Saul's javelin to be so often launched at him, while the people without were willing to hail him king; who endured THE GENIUS OF MILTON. 487 all bodily hardships and taunts of his enemies when revenge was in his hand, and ruled his desperate band like a company of saints, and restrained them from their country's injury. But that he should not be able to enact all characters without a fault, the simple shepherd, the conquering hero, and the romantic lover; the perfect friend, the innocent outlaw, and the royal monarch; the poet, the prophet, and the regenerator of the church; and withal the man, the man of vast soul, who played not those parts by turns, but was the original of them all, and wholly present in them all, — oh! that he should have fulfilled this high-priesthood of humanity, this universal ministry of manhood, without an error, were more than human ! With the defence of his backsliding, which he hath himself more keenly scruti- nized, more clearly discerned against, and more bitterly lamented than any of his censors, we do not charge ourselves; but if, when of these acts he became convinced, he be found less true to God, and to righteousness; indisposed to repentance and sorrow and anguish ; exculpatory of himself; stout-hearted in his courses ; a formalist in his penitence, or in any way less worthy of a spiritual man in those than in the rest of his infinite moods, then, verily, strike him from the canon, and let his Psalms become monkish legends, or what you please. But if these penitential Psalms discover the soul's deepest hell of agony, and lay bare the iron ribs of misery, whereon the very heart dissolveth; and if they, expressing the same in words, shall melt the soul that conceiveth and bow the head that uttereth them, — then, we say, let us keep these records of the Psalmist's grief and despondency as the most precious of his utterances, and sure to be needed in the case of every man who essay eth to hve a spiritual life. THE GENIUS OF MILTON. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. oi:[lo , Is the needle turns away from the rising sun, from the meridian, from the occidental, from regions of fragrancy and gold and gems, and ^f^ * moves with unerring impulse to the frosts and deserts of the north, so Milton and some few others, in politics, philosophy, and (religion, walk through the busy multitude, wave aside the importunate trader, and, after a momentary oscillation from external agency, are found in the twilight and in the storm, pointing, with certain index, to the pole-star of immutable truth. I have often been amused at thinking in what estimation the greatest 488 MABEL MARTIN. of mankind were liolden by their contemporaries. Not even the most sagacious and prudent one could discover much of them, or could prognos- ticate their future course in the infinity of space ! Men like ourselves are permitted to stand near, and indeed in the very presence of Milton : what do they see? dark clothes, gray hair and sightless eyes ! Other men have better things ; other men, therefore, are nobler ! The stars themselves are only bright by distance; go close, and all is earthy. But vapors illuminate these; from the breath and from the countenance of God comes light on worlds higher than they; worlds to which He has given the forms and names of Shakspeare and Milton. MABEL MARTIN. JOHN Ot. WHTTTTER. PART I. THE RIVER VALLEY. Across the level tableland, A grassy, rarely trodden way, With thinnest skirt of birchen spray And stunted growth of cedar, leads To where you see the dull plain fall Sheer off steep-slanted, ploughed by all The season's rainfalls. On its brink The over-leaning harebells swing, With roots half bare the pine trees cling; And through the shadow looking west. You see the wavering river flow, Along a vale, that far below Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills. And glimmering water-line between, Broad fields of corn and meadows green. And fruit-bent orchards grouped around The low brown roofs and painted eaves. And chimney tops half hid in leaves. No warmer valley hides behind Yon wind scourged sand-dunes, cold and bleak ; No fairer river comes to seek The wave-sung welcome of the sea. Or mark the northmost border line Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. MABEL MARTIN. 489 Here, ground-fast in their native fields, Untempted by the city's gain. The quiet farmer folk remain Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, And keep their fathers' gentle ways And simple speech of Bible days ; In whose neat homesteads woman holds With modest ease her equal place, And wears upon her tranquil face The look of one who, merging not Her self-hood in another's will, Is love's and duty's handmaid still. Pass with me down the path that winds Through birches to the open land, Where, close upon the river strand You mark a cellar, vine o'errun. Above whose wall of loosened stones The sumach lifts its reddening cones. And the black nightshade's berries shine, And broad unsightly burdocks fola The household ruin, century-old. Here, in the dim colonial time. Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, A woman lived, tradition saith, Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy. And witched and plagued the country-side Till at the hangman's hand she died. Sit with me while the westering day Falls slantwise down the quiet vale, And, haply, ere yon loitering sail. That rounds the upper headland, falls Below Deer Island's pines, or sees Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees Rise black against the sinking sun, My idyl of its days of old. The valley's legend shall be told. PART II. THE HUSKING. It was the pleasant harvest-time, When cellar-bins are closely stowed, And garrets bend beneath their load, And the old swallow-haunted barns, — Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams Through which the moted sunlight streams 490 MABEL MARTIN. And winds blow freshly in, to shake The red plumes of the roosted cocks, And the loose haymow's scented locks,- Are filled with summer's ripened Its odorous grass and barley sheaves. From their low scaffolds to their eaves. On Esek Harden's oaken floor. With many an autumn threshing worn, Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. And thither canio young men and maids, Beneath a moon that, large and low, Lit that sweet eve of long ago. They took their places ; some by chance. And others by a merry voice Or sweet smile guided to their choice. How pleasantly the rising moon. Between the shadows of the mows. Looked on them through the great elm- boughs ! On sturdy boyhood, suuembrowned, On girlhood with its solid curves Of healthful strength and painless nerves ! And jests went round, and laughs, that made The house-dog answer with his howl. And kept astir the barn-yard fowl ; And quaint old songs their fathers sang In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, Ere Norman William trod their shores ; And tales, whose merry license shook The fat sides of the Saxon thane. Forgetful of the hovering Dane, — Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, The charms and riddles that beguiled On Oxus' banks the young world's child,— That primal picture-speech wherein Have youth and maid the story told, So new in each, so dateless old, Recalling pastoral Ruth in her Who waited, blushing and demure, The red ear's kiss of forfeiture. PART III. THE WITCH S DAUGHTER. Jut still the sweetest voice was mute, That river-valley ever heard From lip of maid or throat of bird ; For Mabel Martin sat apart. MABEL MARTIN. 491 And let the hay-mow's shadow fall Upon the loveliest face of all. She sat apart, as one forbid, "Who knew that none would condescend To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. The seasons scarce had gone their round. Since curious thousands thronged to see Her mother at the gallows-tree ; And mocked the prison-palsied limbs That faltered on the fatal stairs, And wan lip trembling with its prayers ! For the all-perfect love thou art. Some grim creation of his heart. Cast down our idols, overturn Our bloody altars ; let us see Thyself in Thy humanity ! Young Mabel from her mother's grave Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, And wrestled with her fate alone ; With love, and anger, and despair. The phantoms of disordered sense, The awful doubts of Providence 1 0, dreary broke the winter days, ' And still o'er many a neighboring door She saw the horseshoe's curved charm." Few que.stioned of the sorrowing child, Or, when they saw the mother die, Dreamed of the daughter's agony. They went up to their homes that day, As men and Christians justified ; God willed it, and the wretch had died ! Dear God and Father of us all, Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — Forgive the blindness that denies ! Forgive thy creature when he takes, And dreary fell the winter nights When, one by one, the neighboring lights Went out, and human sounds grew still. And all the phantom-peopled dark Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark And summer days were sad and long, And sad the uncompanioned eves, And sadder sunset-tinted leaves, And Indian Summer's airs of balm ; She scarcely felt the soft caress. The beauty died of loneliness ! 492 MABEL MARTIN. The school-boys jeered her as they passed, And, when she sought the house of prayer, Her mother's curse pursued her there. And still o'er many a neighboring door She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, To guard against her mother's harm : That mother, poor and sick and lame, Who daily, by the old arm-chair. Folded her withered hands in prayer ; Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail. Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, When her dim eyes could read no more ! Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept Her faith, and trusted that her way. So dark, would somewhere meet the day. And still her weary wheel went round Day after day, with no relief: Small leisure have the poor for grief. PART IV. THE CHAMPIOI So in the shadow Mabel sits ; Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, Her smile is sadder than her tears. But cruel eyes have found her out, And cruel lips repeat her name. And taunt her with her mother's shame. She answered not with railing words, But drew her apron o'er her face, And, sobbing, glided from the place. MABEL MARTIN. 493 And only pausing at the door, Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze Of one, who in her better days, Had been her warm and steady friend, Ere yet her mother's doom had made Even Esek Harden half afraid. He felt that mute appeal of tears. And starting, with an angry frown, Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. " Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, " This passes harmless mirth or jest ; I brook no insult to my guest. " She is indeed her mother's child ; But God's sweet pity ministers Unto no whiter soul than hers. " Let Goody Martin rest in peace ; I never knew her harm a fly. And witch or not, God knows — not 1. " I know who swore her life away ; And as God lives, I'd not condemn An Indian dog on word of them." The broadest lands in all the town. The skill to guide, the power to awe. Were Harden's, and Lis word was law. None dared withstand him to his face, But one sly maiden spake aside : " The little witch is evil-eyed ! " Her mother only killed a cow. Or witched a churn or dairy-pan ; But she, forsooth, must charm a man !" PART V. IN THE SHADO\ Poor Mabel, homeward turning The nameless terrors of the wood. And saw, as if a ghost pursued. Her shadow gliding in the moon ; The soft breath of the west wind gave A chill as from her mother's grave. How dreary seemed the silent house ! Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare Its windows had a dead man's staro ! And, like a gaunt and spectral hand. The tremulous shadow of a birch Reached out and touched the door's low porch. As if to lift its latch : hard by, A sudden warning call she heard, The night-cry of a boding bird. She leaned against the door ; her face, So fair, so young, so full of pain. White in the moonlight's silver rain. The river, on its pebbled rim. Made music such as childhood knew ; The door-yard tree was whispered through By voices such as childhood's ear Had heard in moonlights long ago ; And through the willow-boughs below. 494 MABEL MARTIN. She saw the rippled waters shine ; Beyond, in waves of shade and light, The hills rolled off into the night. She saw and heard, but over all A sense of some transforming spell, The shadow of her sick heart fell. And still across the wooded space The harvest lights of Harden shone, And song and jest and laugh went on, And he, so gentle, true and strong, Of men the bravest and the best, Had he, too, scorned her with the rest ? She strove to drown her sense of wrong, And, in her old and simple way. To teach her better heart to pray. Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith. Grew to a low, despairing cry Of utter misery ; " Let me die ! Oh ! take me from the scornful eyes And hide me where the cruel speech And mocking finger may not reach ! I dare not breathe my mother's name : A daughter's right I dare not crave To weep above her unblest grave ! Let me not live until my heart. With few to pity, and with none To love me, hardens into stone. ' God ! have mercy on Thy child, Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, And take me ere I lose it all !" A shadow on the moonlight fell, And murmuring wind and wave became A voice whose burden was her name. PART VI. THE BETROTHAL. Had God then heard her ? Had He sent His angel down ? In flesh and blood. Before her Esek Harden stood ! He laid his hand upon her arm : " Dear Mabel, this no more shall be ; Who scoffs at you must scofi at me. " You know rough Esek Harden well ; And if he seems no suitor gay, And if his hair is touched with gray, " The maiden grown shall never find His heart less warm than when she smiled Upon his knees, a little child." A MARINER'S DESCRIPTION OF A PIANO. 495 Her tears of grief were tears of joy, As, folded in his strong embrace. She looked in Esek Harden's face. " 0, truest friend of all !" she said, " God bless you for your kindly thought. And make me worthy of my lot!" He led her forth, and blent in one. Beside their happy pathway ran The shadows of the maid and man. He led her through his dewy fields, To where the swinging lanterns glowed. And through the doors the buskers showed. " Good friends and neighbors !" Esek said, " I'm weary of this lonely life ; In Mabel see my chosen wife! " She greets you kindly, one and all; The past is past, and all offence Falls harmless from her innocence. " Henceforth she stands no more alone ; You know what Esek Harden is ; — He brooks no wrong to him or his. " Now let the merriest tales be told. And let the sweetest songs be sung That ever made the old heart young. " For now the lost has found a home ; And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, As all the household joys return !" 0, pleasantly the harvest-moon, Between the shadows of the mows. Looked on them through the great elm boughs ! On Mabel's curls of golden hair. On Esek's shaggy strength it fell ; And the wind whispered, " It is well !" A MARINER'S DESCRIPTION OF A PIANO. SEA captain, who was asked by liis wife to look at some pianos while he was in the city, with a view of buying her one, wrote home to her : " I saw one that I thought would suit you, black walnut hull, strong bulk-heads, strengthened fore and aft with iron frame, ceiled with white wood and maple. Rigging, steel wire — double on the rat lines, and whipped wire on the lower stays, and heavier cordage. Belaying pins of steel and well driven home. Length of taffrail over all, six feet two inches. Breadth of beam thirty-eight inches ; depth of hold fourteen inches. This light draft makes the craft equally servicea- ble in high seas or low flats. It has two martingales, one for the light airs and zephyr winds, and one for strong gusts and sudden squalls. Both are worked with foot rests, near the kelson, handy for the quartermaster, and out o' sight of the passengers. The running gear from the hand rail to the cordage is made of white-wood and holly ; works free and clear ; strong enough for the requirements of a musical tornado, and gentle enough for the requiem of a departing class. Hatches, black walnut ; can be bat- tened down proof against ten-year-old boys and commercial drummers, or 496 LIFE. can be clewed up, on occasion, and sheeted home for a first-class instrumen- tal cyclone. I sailed the craft a little, and thought she had a list to star- board. Anyhow, I liked the starboard side better than the port, but the ship-keeper told me the owners had other craft of like tonnage awaiting sale or charter, which were on just even keel." LIFE. COMPOSED OF LINES SELECTED FROM THIRTY-EIGHT AUTHORS. |t^3|^HY all this toil for triumphs of an iillilllM hour ? ( Young. '~^M0)M= Life's a short summer — man is but a flower ; {Johr j^ By turns we catch the fatal breath I and die — {Pope. \ The cradle and the torab, alas ! so nigh. {Prior. To be is better far than not to be, {Sewell. Though all man's life may seem a tragedy ; {Spenser. But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb — {Paniel. The bottom is but shallow whence they come. {Raleigh. Your fate is but the common fate of all ; {Longfellow. Unmingled joys can here no man befall ; {Southwell. Nature to each allots his proper sphere. {Congreve. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care ; {Churchill. Custom does often reason overrule, {Rochester. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. {Armstrong. Live well — how long or short permit to heaven, {Milton. They who forgive most, shall be most for- given. {Bailey. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face — {French. Vile intercourse where virtue has no place. {Somerville. Then keep each passion down, however dear, ( Thompson. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear ; {Byron. Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure lay, {Smollett. With craft and skill to ruin and betray. {Crabbe. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise ; {Massing er. We masters grow of all that we despise. {Crowley. Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem ; {Beattie. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. {Cowper. Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave — {Davenant. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. ( Gray. What is ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat, ( milis. Only destructive to the brave and great. {Addison. What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown? Dryden. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. ( Quarles. How long we live, not years but actions tell ; ( Watkins. The man lives twice who lives the first life well. {Herrick. Make, then, whde yet we may, your God your friend, {Mason. Whom Christians worship, yet not compre- hend. {Hill. The trust that's given, guard, and to your- self be just ; {Dana. For live we how we may, yet die we must. {Shakespeare. THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 497 THE D YING ALCHEMIST. N. P. WILLIS. ™|fsr/3 Li Ji] night-wind with a desolate moan ^12 swept by, And the old shutters of the turret swung Creaking upon their hinges ; and the moon, As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came, The fire beneath his crucible was low, Yet still it burned : and ever, as his thoughts Grew insupportable, he raised himself Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals With difficult energy ; and when the rod Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips, Muttered a curse on death ! The silent room. From its dim corners, mockingly gave back His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when Duly the antique horologe beat one, He drew a phial from beneath his head. And drank. And instantly his lips com- pressed. And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, He rose with supernatural strength, and sat Upright, and communed with himself: " I did not think to die Till I had finished what I had to do ; I thouglit to pierce th' eternal secret through "With this my mortal eye; I felt, — Oh, God ! it seemeth even now — This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ; Grant me another year, God of my spirit !-— but a day,— to win Something to satisfy this thirst within ! I would hnow something here ! Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 34 " Vain, — vain, — my brain is turning With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick. And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, And I am freezing, — burning, — Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live! My phial Ha ! it thrills me, — I revive. " Aye, — were not man to die. He were too mighty for this narrow sphere! Had he but time to brood on knowledge here, — Could he but train iiis eye, — Might he but wait the mystic word and hour, — Only his Maker would transcend his power ! " This were indeed to feel The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,— To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream! And death Aha ! I reel, — Dim, — dim, — I faint, darkness comes o'er my eye, — Cover me! save me! God of heaven! I die ! " 'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild. His frame was wasted, and his features wan And haggard as with want, and in his palm His nails were driven deep, as if the throe Of the last agony had wrung him sore. The storm was raging still. The shutte? swung. Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind. And all without went on, — as aye it will, Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. The fire beneath the crucible was out ; The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 498 GOD'S ACRE. That fashioned them, and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master's will. And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire, — a sun-bent eagle stricken. From his high soaring, down,— an instru- ment Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, Like the adventurous bird that hath out- flown His strength upon the sea, ambition- wrecked, — A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. GOD'S ACRE. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which : Into its furrows shall we all be cast, Mip calls ^m The burial-ground God's acre! It fis just ; It consecrates each grave within its I walls, I And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's- Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. i In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom mingle its per- fume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. i MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS. 499 With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod. And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; This is the field and Acre of our God ! This is the place where human harvesta grow! MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS DOUGLAS JERROLD. llllpHERE Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you ^1^ were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people ■^'^^ don't come to bed to whistle. But it's just like you; I can't speak, •f that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the J best creature hving: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest ? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long : it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear ? Ha, Mr. Caudle ! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wern't you ? Well, then I don't know what a passion is ; and I think I ought to by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Cau- dle, to know that. It's a pity you hav'nt something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand ; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks ? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt — what do you say " a/i " at ? I say once, Mr. Caudle ; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married ! I should like to know where were your buttons then ? Yes, it is worth talking of ! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves : a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha ! if poor women only knew what they had to go through ! What with buttons, and one thing and another ! They'd never tie themselves to the best man in the world, 500 NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? — Why, do much better without you, I'm certain. And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt ; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything ! All I know is, it's very odd the button should be off the shirt ; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd. However, there's one comfort ; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh ! And I dare say you would laugh ! I've no doubt of it ! That's your love; that's your feeling ! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons ! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then ; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. iVO SECTS IN HE A VEK IJlRALKING of sects till late one eve, H^ Of various doctrines the saints believe, P''''^^f That night I stood, in a troubled ' dream, By the side of a darkly flowing stream. And a " Churchman " down to the river came : When I heard a strange voice call his name, " Good father, stop ; when you cross the tide. You must leave your robes on the other side." But the aged father did not mind ; And his long gown floated out behind, As down to the stream his way he took. His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. " I'm bound for heaven ; and when I'm there. Shall want my Book of Common Prayer ; And, though I put on a starry crown, I should feel quite lost without my gown." Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track. But his gown was heavy and held him back, And the poor old father tried in vain A single step in the flood to gain. I saw him again on the other side, But his silk gown floated on the tide ; And no one asked in that blissful spot. Whether he belonged to the "Church" or not. Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; His dress of a sober hue was made : ' My coat and hat must all be gray — I cannot go any other way." Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly waded in And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, Over his forehead so cold and white. But a strong wind carried away his hat ; A moment he silently sighed over tliat ; And then, as he gazed to the further shore. The coat slipped off, and was seen no more. NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 501 As he entered heaven his suit of gray- Went quietly, sailing, away, away ; And none of the angels questioned him About the width of his beaver's brim. Next came Dr. Watts, with a butfdle of psalms Tied nicely up in his aged arms. And hymns as many, a very wise thing. That the people in heaven, " all round," might sing. But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, And he saw that the river ran broad and high. And looked rather surprised, as one by one The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. And after him, with his MSS., Came Wesley, the pattern of goodliness ; But he cried, " Dear me ! what shall I do ? The water has soaked them through and through." And there on the river far and wide. Away they went down the swollen tide ; And the saint, astonished, passed through alone. Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. Then, gravely walking, two saints by name Down to the stream together came ; But, as they stopped at the river's brink, I saw one saint from the other shrink. " Sprinkled or plunged ? may I ask you, friend. How you attained to life's great end ?" " Thus, with a few drops on my brow." " But / have been dipped, as you'll see me now, " And I really think it will hardly do. As I'm ' close comnninion,' to cross with you. You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, But you must go that way, and I'll go this." Then straightway plunging with all his might, Away to the left — his friend to the right, Apart they went from this world of sin, But at last together they entered in. And now, when the river was rolling on, A Presbyterian Church went down ; Of women there seemed an innumerable throng. But the men I could count as they passed along. And concerning the road, they could never agree The old or the new way, which it could be, Nor ever a moment paused to think That both would lead to the river's brink. And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, Came ever up from the moving crowd ; "You're in the old way, and I'm in the new ; That is the false, and this is the true" — Or, " I'm in the old way, and you're in the new; That is the false, and this is the true." But the brethren only seemed to speak : Modest the sisters walked and meek. And if ever one of them chanced to say What troubles she met with on the way, How she longed to pass to the other side, Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, A voice arose from the brethren then, " Let no one speak but the ' holy men ; ' For have ye not heard the words of Paul, ' Oh, let the women keep silence all ?' " I watched them long in my curious dream. Till they stood by the borders of the stream; Then, just as I thought, the two ways met ; But all the brethren were talking yet, And would talk on till the heaving tide Carried them over side by side — Side by side, for the way was one; The toilsome journey of life was done; And all who in Christ the Saviour died, Came out alike on the other side. No forms of crosses or books had they ; No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; No creeds to guide them, or MSS. ; For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 502 JEWISH HYMN IN JERUSALEM. EVENING BRING 8 US HOME. =PON the bills the wind is sharp and cold, ^ The sweet young grasses wither on the wold, And we, Lord ! have wandered from thy fold ; But evening brings us home. Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox Watches the straggler from the scattered flocks ; But evening brings us home. The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender feet Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat Their pitiful complaints ; — Oh, rest is sweet When evening brings us home ! We have been wounded by the hunter's darts ; Our eyes are heavy, and our hearts Search for Thy coming ; — when the light de- parts At evening, bring us home ! The darkness gathers. Through the gloom no star Rises to guide us ; we have wandered far ; — Without Thy lamp we know not where we are; At evening, bring us home ! The clouds are round us, and the snow-drifts thicken. 0, thou dear Shepherd ! leave us not to sicken In the waste night ; our tardy footsteps quicken ; At evening, bring us home. JEWISH HYMN IN JERUSALEM. HENRY HART MILMAN. ^OD of the thunder ! from whose cloudy tP| seat f-i|'| The fiery winds of desolation flow ; Father of vengeance ! that with pur- ple feet Like a full wine-press tread'st the world below; The embattled armies with thy sign to slay. Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey. Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way. Till thou hast marked the guilty land for woe. God of the rainbow ! at whose gracious sign The billows of the proud their rage sup- press ; Father of mercies ! at one word of thine An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness. And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, And marble cities crown the laughing lands, And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, Lord ! The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate. Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's sword. Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; And heaps her ivory palaces became, Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, Iler temples sank amid the smouldering flame. For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. O'er Judah's land thy rainbow. Lord, shall beam, And the sad City lift her crownless head, IMPROVING ON NATURE. 503 And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam In streets where broods the silence of the dead. The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers, And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, And Abraham's children were led forth for With fettered steps we left our pleasant land, Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. The strangers' bread with bitter tears we steep, And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, In the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children home ; He that went forth a tender prattling boy Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come; And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear. And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores pre- pare. And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blaz- ed the irradiate throne. IMPROVING ON NATURE. JOHN EUSKIN. |||T was a maxim of RafFaelle's that the artist's object was to make things i^ not as Nature makes them, but as she would make them ; as she ever ^K tries to make them, but never succeeds, though her aim may be de- % duced from a comparison of her effects ; just as if a number of archers f had aimed unsuccessfully at a mark upon a wall, and this mark were 1 then removed, we could by an examination of tlieir arrow-marks point out the probable position of the spot aimed at, with a certainty of being nearer to it than any of their spots. We have most of us heard of original sin, and may perhaps, in our modest moments, conjecture that we are not quite what God, or Nature, would have us to be. Raffaelle had something to mend in humanity : I should like to have seen him mending a daisy, or a pease-blossom, or a moth, or a mustard-seed, or any other of God's slightest work ! If he had accom- plished that, one might have found for him more xespectable employment, to set the stars in better order, perhaps (they seem grievously scattered as they are, and to be of all manner of shapes and sizes, except the ideal shape, and the proper size) ; or, to give us a corrected view of the ocean, that at least seems a very irregular and improvable thing: the very fishermen do not know this day how far it will reach, driven up before the west wind. Perhaps some one else does, but that is not our business. Let us go down 504 STABAT MATER. and stand on the beach by the sea — the great irregular sea, and count whether the thunder of it is not out of time— one, — two: — here comes a well-formed wave at last, trembling a little at the top, but on the whole, orderly. So ! Crash among the shingle, and up as far as this gray pebble ! Now, stand by and watch. Another; — Ah, careless wave! why couldn't you have kept your crest on ? It is all gone away into spray, striking up against the cliffs there — I thought as much — missed the mark by a couple of feet! Another: — How now, impatient one ! couldn't you have waited till your friend's reflux was done with, instead of rolling yourself up with it in that unseemly manner ? You go for nothing. A fourth, and a goodly one at last ! What think we of yonder slow rise, and crystalline hollow, without a flaw ? Steady, good wave ! not so fast ! not so fast ! AVhere are you coming to ? This is too bad; two yards over the mark, and ever so much of you in our face besides ; and a wave we had so much hope of, behind there, broken all to pieces out at sea, and laying a great white tablecloth of foam all the way to the shore, as if the marine gods were to dine off it ! Alas, for these unhappy " arrow-shots " of Nature ! She will never hit her mark with those unruly waves of her's, nor get one of them into the ideal if we wait for a thousand years. STABAT MATER. fe. TRANSLATION OF DR. ABRAHAM COLES. |TOOD th' afilicted Mother weeping, Near the cross her station keeping, Whereon hung her Son and Lord ; Through whose spirit sympathizing, Sorrowing and agonizing, Also passed the cruel sword. how mournful and distressed Was that favored and most blessed Mother of the Only Son ! Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving, While perceiving, scarce believing. Pains of that Illustrious One. Who the man, who, called a brother. Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother In such deep distress and wild ? Who could not sad tribute render Witnessing that mother tpnd(;r Agonizing with her Child ? For His people's sin atoning Him she saw in torments groaning, Given to the scourge's rod ; Saw her darling offspring, dying Desolate, forsaken, crying. Yield His spirit up to God. Make me feel thy sorrow's power. That with thee I tears may shower. Tender Mother, fount of love ! Make my heart with love unceasing Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing I may be to Him above. Holy Mother, this be granted. That the Slain One's wounds be planted Firmly in my heart to bide. Of Him wounded, all astounded, — Depths unbounded for me sounded, — All the pangs with me divide. EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. 505 Make me weep with thee in union ; Wound for wound be there created ; With the Crucified, communion, With the Cross intoxicated In His grief and suffering give ; For thy Son's dear sake, I pray — Near the cross with tears unfailing May I, fired with pure affection. I would join thee in thy wailing Virgin, have through thee protection Here as long as I shall live. In the solemn Judgment Day. Maid of maidens, all excelling, Let me by the Cross be warded, Be not bitter, me repelling. By the death of Christ be guarded ; Make thou me a mourner, too ; Nourished by divine supplies. Make me bear about Christ's dying. When the body death hath riven. Share His passion, shame defying. Grant that to the soul be given, All His wounds in me renew : Glories bright of Paradise. EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. H. W. LONGFELLOW. gM-| Tipping its summit with silvc ■ir ^Q moon. *^" ^^" ri^7or |EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind ^JII^K the black wall of the forest, "' ' ■ " ■ ■ ■' ,Q^^ arose On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a dark- ened and devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its waj', like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, Passed .«he along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens. Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship. Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple. As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin." And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire flies. Wandered alone, and she cried, " Gabriel \ my beloved ! 506 POLITICAL AGITATION. Art thou 80 near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me ! Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor. Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighboring thickets. Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. " Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracu- lar caverns of darkness ; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh re- sponded, " To-morrow ! " NO. THOMAS HOOD. sO sun — no moon ! No -morn — no noon — No dawn — no dust — no proper time of day — No sky — no earthly view — No distance looking blue — No road — no sireet — no " t'other side the way"— No end to any Row — No indication where the Crescents go- No top to any steeple — No recognitions of familiar people — No courtesies for showing 'em- No knowing 'em — No traveling at all — no locomotion. No inkling of the way — no notion — " No go " — by land or ocean — No mail — no post — No news from any foreign coast — No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — No company — no nobility — No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. No comfortable feel in any member — No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November ! POLITICAL AGITATION. WENDELL PHILLIPS. jM!!t^{iA^ Lail, Public Opinion ! To be sure, it is a dangerous thing under which to live. It rules to-day in the desire to obey all kinds of laws, and takes your life. It rules again in the love of liberty, and rescues Shadrach from Boston Court House. It rules to-mor- row in the manhood of him who loads the musket to shoot down — God be praised ! — the man-hunter Gorsuch. It rules in Syracuse, and the slave escapes to Canada. It is our interest to educate this people in THE RANGER. 507 humanity, and in deep reverence for the rights of the lowest and humblest individual that makes up our numbers. Each man here, in fact, holds his property and his life dependent on the constant presence of an agitation like this of anti-slavery. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty : power is ever stealing from the many to the few. The manna of popular liberty must be gathered each day, or it is rotten. The living sap of to-day out- grows the dead rind of yesterday. The hand intrusted with power, be- comes either from human depravity or esprit de corps, the necessary enemy of the people. Only by continual oversight can the democrat in office be prevented from hardening into a despot; only by unintermitted agitation can a people be kept sufficiently awake to principle not to let liberty be smothered in material prosperity. All clouds, it is said, have sunshine behind them, and all evils have some good result; so slavery, by the necessity of its abolition, has saved the freedom of the white race from being melted in the luxury or buried beneath the gold of its own success. Never look, therefore, for an age when the people can be quiet and safe. At such times Despotism, like a shrouding mist, steals over the mirror of Freedom. The Dutch, a thou- sand years ago, built against the ocean their bulwarks of willow and mud. Do they trust to that ? No. Each year the patient, industrious peasant gives so much time from the cultivation of his soil and the care of his chil- dren to stop the breaks and replace the willow which insects have eaten, that he may keep the land his fathers rescued from the water, and bid defiance to the waves that roar above his head, as if demanding back the broad fields man has stolen from their realm. ■fife- ^^^OBERT Rawlin !— Frosts were falling pl^j^ When the ranger's horn was calling, flFf Through the wooda to Canada. Y^ Gone the winter's sleet and snowing, f* Gone the spring-time's bud and blow- ing. Gone the summer's harvest mowing, And again the fields are gray. Yet away, he's away ! Faint and fainter hope is growing In the hearts that mourn his stay. THE RANGER. JOHN G. WHITTIEB.. Where the lion crouching high on Abraham's rock with teeth of iron, Glares o'er wood and wave away, Faintly thence, as pines far sighing. Or as thunder spent and dying, Come the challenge and replying, Come the sounds of flight and fray. Well-a-day ! Hope and pray ! Some are living, some are lying In their red graves far away. 608 THE RANGER. Straggling rangers, worn with dangers, Homeward iaring, weary strangers Pass the farm-gate on their way ; Tidings of the dead and living, Forest march and ambush, giving, On the grain-lands of the mainlands Stands a serried corn like train-bands, Plume and pennon rustling gay ; Out at sea, the islands wooded. Silver birches, golden hooded, Till the maidens leave their weaving. And the lads forget their play. " Still away, still away ! " Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving, " Why does Robert still delay?" Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer Through his painted woodlands stray, Than where hillside oaks and beeches Overlook the long, blue reaches. Silent coves and pebbled beaches. And green isles of Casco Bay ; Nowhere day, for delay, With a tenderer look beseeches, " Let me with my charmed earth stay. Set with maples, crimson-blooded, White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, Stretch away, far away, Dim and dreamy, over-brooded By the hazy autumn day. Gayly chattering to the clattering Of the brown nuts downward pattering. Leap the squirrels, red and gray. On the grass-land, on the fallow. Drop the apples, red and yellow. Drop the russet pears and mellow. Drop the red leaves all the day. And away, swift away. Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow Chasing, weave their web of play. THE RANGER. 509 " Martha Mason, Martha Mason, Prithee tell us of the reason. Why you mope at home to-day : Surely smiling is not sinning ; Leave your quilling, leave your spinning ; What is all your store of linen, If your heart is never gay ? Come away, come away ! Never yet did sad beginning Make the task of life a play." Over-bending, till she's blending With the flaxen skein she's tending. Pale brown tresses smoothed away From her face of patient sorrow. Sits she, seeking but to borrow, From the trembling hope of morrow, Solace for the weary day. " Go your way, laugh and play ; Unto him who heeds the sparrow And the lily, let me pray." " With our rally rings the valley, — . Join us ! " cried the blue-eyed Nelly ; " Join us ! " cried the laughing May : " To the beach we all are going. And, to save the task of rowing. West by north the wind is blowing. Blowing briskly down the bay ! Come away, come away ! Time and tide are swiftly flowing, Let us take them while we may ! " Never tell us that you'll fail us, Where the purple beach-plum mellowa On the bluffs so wild and gray. Hasten, for the oars are falling ; Hark, our merry mates are calling : Tim3 it is that we were all in, Singing tideward down the bay! " " Nay, nay, let me stay ; iore and sad for Robert Rawlin Is my heart," she said, " to-day." " Vain your calling for Rob Rawlin! Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling, Or some French lass, singing gay ; Just forget as he's forgetting ; What avails a life of fretting ? If some stars must needs be setting, Others rise as good as they." " Cease, I pray ; go your way ! " Martha cries, her eyelids wetting ; " Foul and false the words you say I' " Martha Mason, hear to reason ! Prithee, put a kinder face on ! " " Cease to vex me," did she say ; " Better at his side be lying. With the mournful pine-trees sighing, And the wild-birds o'er us crying, Than to doubt like mine a prey, While away, far away, Turns my heart, forever trying Some new hope for each new day. " When the shadows veil the meadows And the sunset's golden ladders. Sink from twilight's walls of gray, From the window of my dreaming I can see his sickle gleaming. Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming. Down the locust shaded way ; But away, swift away. Fades the fond, delusive seeming, And I kneel again to pray. "When the growing dawn is showing. And the barn-yard cock is crowing, And the horned moon pales From a dream of him awaking. Every sound my heart is making, Seems a footstep of his taking ; 510 JIM SMILEY'S FROG. Then I hush the thought, and say, When such lovers meet each other, Nay, nay, he's away ! Why should prying idlers stay ? Ah ! my heart, my heart is breaking For the dear one far away." Quench the timbers fallen embers, Quench the red leaves in December's Look up, Martha ! worn and swarthy, Hoary rime and chilly spray. Glows a face of manhood worthy ; But the hearth shall kindle clearer, "Robert!" "Martha!" all they say. Household welcomes sound sincerer, O'er went wheel and reel together, Little cared the owner whither ; Heart of lead, is heart of feather, Noon of night is noon of day ! Come away, come away ! Heart to loving heart draw nearer. When the bridal bells shall saj " Hope and pray, trust alway ; Life is sweeter, love is dearer. For the trial and delay 1 " JIM SMILEY'S FEOG. SAMUEL C. CLEMENS. ^^^^ELL, this yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken-cocks, and all them kind of thinp-s, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch ^^^ nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog t' one day, and took him home, and said he cal'klated to edercate JIM SMILEY'S FROG. ^n him; and so he never done nothing for tliree months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet he did learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut, — see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat- footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most anything; and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor, — Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog,— and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies," and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly off 'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again, as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doing any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it came to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jump- ing on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had travelled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see. Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down town sometimes, and lay for a bet. One day a feller, — a stran- ger in the camp, he was, — came across him with his box, and says : " What might it be that you've got in the box ?" And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, " It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it ain't, — it's only just a frog." And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, '' H'm ! so 'tis. Well, what's he good for?" " Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, " he's good enough for one thing, I should judge, — he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county." The feller took the box again, and took another long particular look, and gave it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, " Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog." " May be you don't," Smiley says. " May be you understand frogs, and may be you don't understand 'em; may be you've had experience, and may be you an't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my 512 JIM SMILEY'S FROG. opinion, and I'll risk forty dollars that he can outjump ary frog in Cala- veras county. And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, "Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog ; but if I had a frog, I'd bet you." And then Smiley says, " That's all right, — that's all right ; if you'll hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley 's and set down to wait. So he set there a good while, thinking and thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open, and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot, — filled him pretty near up to his chin, — and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp, and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says : " Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-paws just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word." Then he says, ''One — two — three — ;jump ;" and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped ofi", but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders, — so, — like a Frenchman, but it wan't no use, — he couldn't budge ; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was, of course. The feller took the money and started away ; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders, — this way, — at Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, " Well I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better 'n any other frog." Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last he says, " I do wonder what in the nation that frog throwed ofi" for; I wonder if there an't something the matter with him, he 'pears to look mighty baggy, some- how." And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up, and says, "Why, blame my cats, if he don't weigh five pound!" and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man. He set the frog dov/n, and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. THE MOTHER IN THE SNOW STORM. 513 THE LIGHT-HOUSE. THOMAS MOORE. fHE scene was more beautiful far to tlie eye, Than if day in its pride had ar- rayed it : ^ The land-breeze blew mild, and the ej* azure-arched sky T Looked pure as the spirit that made it: The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed On the shadowy waves' playful motion. From the dim distant hill, till the light- house fire blazed Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope. All hushed was the billows' commotion, And o'er them the light-house looked lovely as hope, — That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, Yet when my head rests on its pillow. Will memory sometimes rekindle the"star That blazed on the breast of the billow : In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies. And death stills the heart's last emotion ; Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise, Like a star on eternity's ocean ! THE MOTHER IN TQE SHOWSTORM SEBA SMITH. jHE cold wind swept the mountain's height. And pathless was the dreary wild ; And 'mid the cheerless hours of night t A mother wander'd with her child. I As through the drifting snow she I pressed. The babe was sleeping on her breast. 30 And colder still the winds did blow. And darker hours of night came on. And deeper grew the drifts of snow ; Her limbs were chill'd, her strength gone. " God ! " she cried, in accents wild, " If I must perish, save my child I " 514 JOE. She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm, And round the child she wrapp'd the vest, And smiled to think her babe was warm. With one cold kiss one tear she shed, And sunk upon a snowy bed. At dawn a traveller passed by, And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; The frost of death was in her eye. Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale,- He moved the robe from off the child. The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled. JOE. ALICE ROBBINS. E don't take vagrants in, sir. And I am alone to-day. Leastwise, I could call the good man — He's not so far away. ={• You are welcome to a breakfast — [ I'll bring you some bread and tea; You might sit on the old stone yonder, Under the chestnut tree. You're traveling, stranger ? Mebbe ' You've got some notions to sell ? We hev a sight of peddlers, But we allers treat them well. For they, poor souls, are trying Like the rest of us to live : And it's not like tramping the country And calling on folks to give. Not that I meant a word, sir — No offence in the world to you : I think, now I look at it closer. Your coat is an army blue. Don't say ? Under Sherman, were you ? That was — how many years ago? I had a boy at Shiloh, Kearney — a sergeant — Joe ! Joe Kearney, you might a' met him ? But in course you were miles apart, He was a tall, straight boy, sir, The pride of his mother's heart. We were off to Kittory, then, sir, Small farmers in dear old Maine; It's a long stretch from there to Kansas, But I couldn't go back again. He was all we had, was Joseph ; He and my old man and me Had sort o' growed together. And were happy as we could be. I wasn't a lookin' for trouble When the terrible war begun. And I wrestled for grace to be able To give up our only son. Well, well, 'taint no use o' talking. My old man said, said he; " The Lord loves a willing giver ;" And that's what I tried to be. Well the heart and the flesh are rebels, And hev to be fought with grace ; But I'd give my life — yes, willin' — To look on my dead boy's face. Take care, you are spillin' your tea, sir, Poor soul ! don't cry : I'm sure You've had a good mother sometime — Your wounds, were they hard to cure ? Andersonville ! God help 5^ou! Hunted by dogs, did you say ! Hospital ! crazy, seven years, sir ? I wonder your'e living to-day. I'm thankful my Joe was .shot, sir, " How do you know that he died ?" 'Twas certified, sir, by the surgeon . Here's the letter, and — " mebbe he lied !' Well, I never ! you shake like the ager. My Joe ! there's his name and the date ; " Joe Kearney, 7th Maine, sir, a sergeant- Lies here in a critical state — THE FAIRIES. 515 Just died — will be buried to-morrow — Can't wait for his parents to come." Well, I thought God had left us that hour, As for John, my poor man, he was dumb. Didn't speak for a month to the neighbors. Scarce spoke in a week, sir, to me; Never been the same man since that Monday They brought us this letter you see. And you were from Maine ! from old Kittery ? What time in the year did you go ? I just disremember the fellows That marched out of town with our Joe. Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir ; It's gettin' too warm out o' door. If I'd known you'd been gone for a sojer, I'd taken you in here afore. Now make yourself easy. We're humbler, We Kansas folks don't go for show, — Set here — it's Joe's chair — take your hat off: " Call father !" My God ! you are Joe ! THE FAIRIES. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. ^P the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare n't go a hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap. And white owl's feather ! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, — They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam ; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain -lake. With frogs for their watch-doga, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old king sits ; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses. On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rojses ; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the queen Of the gay Northern Lights They stole little Bridget For seven years long ; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back. Between the night and morrow They thought that she was fast But she was dead with sorrow, They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag-leaves. Watching till she wakes. By the craggy hill-side. Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring To dig one up in spite. He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen. We dare n't go a hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk. Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap. And white owl's feather! 516 WORSE THAN CIVIL WAR. WOBSU THAW CIVIL WAB. From Senator Baker's Speech at Union Square, New York, April 20th, 1861. ET no man underrate the dangers of this controversy. Civil war, for the best of reasons on the one side, and the worst upon the other, is always dangerous to liberty, always fearful, always bloody ; but, fel- low-citizens, there are yet worse things than fear, than doubt and dread, and danger and blood. Dishonor is worse. Perpetual anarchy is worse. States forever commingling and forever sever- ing are worse. Traitors and secessionists are worse. To have star after star blotted out— to have stripe after stripe obscured — to have glory after glory dimmed, to have our women weep and our men blush for shame through- out generations to come — that and these are infinitely worse than blood. When we march, let us not march for revenge. As yet we have noth- ing to revenge. It is not much that where that tattered flag waved guarded by seventy men against ten thousand; it is not much that starva- tion effected what an enemy could not compel. We have as yet something to punish; but nothing or very little to revenge. The President himself, a hero without knowing it — and I speak from knowledge, having known him from boyhood — 'the President says : " There are wrongs to be redressed already long enough endured." And we march to battle and to victory because we do not choose to endure this wrong any longer. They are wrongs not merely against us — not against you, Mr. rresident — not against me — but against our sons and against our grandsons that surround us. They are wrongs against our Union; they are wrongs against our Constitution ; they are wrongs against human hope and human freedom ; and thus, if it be avenged, still, as Burke says, " It is a wild justice at last." Only thus we will revenge them. The national banners, leaning from ten thousand windows in your city to-day, proclaim your affection and reverence for the Union. You will gather in battalions " Patient of toil, serene amidst alarms. Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms ;" and as you gather, every omen of present concord and ultimate peace will surround you. The ministers of religion, the priests of literature, the his- torians of the past, the illustrators of the present, capital, science, art, invention, discoveries, the works of genius — all these will attend us in our march, and we will conquer. And if from the far Pacific a voice feebler BY THE SHORE OF THE RIVER. 517 than the feeblest murmur upon its shore may be heard to give you courage and hope in the contest, that voice is yours to-day ; and if a man whose hair is gray, who i« well-nigh worn out in the battle and toil of life, may pledge himself on such an occasion and in such an audience, let me say, as my last word, that when, amid sheeted fire and flame, I saw and led the hosts of New York as ihey charged in contest upon a foreign soil for the honor of your flag, so again, if Providence shall will it, this feeble hand shall draw a sword, never yet dishonored — not to fight for distant honor in a foreign land, but to fight for country, %for home, for law, for Government, for Constitution, for right, for freedom, for humanity ; and in the hope that the banner of my country may advance, and wheresoever that banner waves, there glory may pursue and freedom be established. £ Y THE SHORE OF THE RIVER. C. p. CRANCH. l!f|^HROUGH the gray willows the bleak ^|P§ winds are raving tf^G^ Here on the shore with its driftwood ^^ and sands ; el Over the river the lilies are waving, Bathed in the sunshine of Orient lands ; Over the river, the wide dark river, Spring-time and summer are blooming forever. Here, all alone on the rocks I am sitting, Sitting and waiting — my comrades all gone — Shadows of mystery drearily flitting Over the surf with its sorrowful moan, Over the river, the strange cold river, Ah ! must I wait for the Boatman forever ? Wife and children and friends were around me ; Labor and rest were as wings to my soul ; Honor and love were the laurels that crowned me ; Little I recked how the dark waters roll. But the deep river, the gray, misty river, All that I lived for has taken forever ! Silently came a black boat o'er the billows ; Stealthily grated the keel on the sand ; Rustling footsteps were heard through the willows. There the dark Boatman stood, waving his hand, Whisp'ring, " I come, o'er the shadowy river ; She who is dearest must leave thee forever." Suns that were brightest and skies that were bluest. Darkened and paled in the message he bore. Year after year went the fondest, the truest. Following that beckoning hand to the shore, Down to the river, the cold grim nver. Over whose waters they vanished forever. Yet not in visions of grief have I wandered ; Still have I toiled, though my ardors have flown. Labor is manhood, and life is but squandered Dreaming vague dreams of the future alone. Yet from the tides of the mystical river Voices of spirits are whispering ever. 518 BILL MASON'S BRIDE. Lonely and old in the dusk I am waiting, Till the dark Boatman, with soft, muffled oar, Glides o'er the waves, and I hear the keel grating. See the dim, beckoning hand on the shore, Wooing me over the welcoming river To gardens and hSmes that are shining for- ever ! INDIAN DEATH SONG. PHILIP FRENEAU. KjraiU^HE sun sets at night, and the stars jaJSM^ shun the day ; But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never complain. Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! Why 60 slow ? do you wait till I shrink from the pain ? No ! the son of Alknomook shall never com- plain, Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away. Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain ; But the son of Alknomook can never com- plain. I go to the land where my father is gone ; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Death comes like a friend to relieve me from pain ; And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to complain. BILL MASONS BRIDE. F. BRET HARTE. ^^pALF an hour till train time, sir, W^^^ An' a fearful dark time, too ; Take a look at the switch lights. Fetch in a stick when you're through. " On time?" well, yes, I guess so — Left the last station all right — She'll come round the curve a fly in' ; Bill Mason comes up to-night. You know Bill ? No ! He's engineer, Been on the road all his life — I'll never forget the morning He married his chuck of a wife. 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck- Just off work, every one ; They kicked up a row in the village And killed old Donevan's son. A HUSBAND'S EXPERIENCE IN COOKING. 519 Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, Up comes the message from Kress, Orderin' Bill to go up there, And bring down the night express. He left his gal in a hurry. And went up on number one, Thinking of nothing but Mary, And the train he had to run. And Mary sat down by the window To wait for the night express ; And, sir, if she hadn't a' done so. She'd been a widow, I guess. For it must a' been nigh midnight When the mill hands left the Ridge — They come down — the drunken devils! Tore up a rail from the bridge. But Mary heard 'em a workin' And guessed therewas something wrong And in less than fifteen minutes, Bill's train it would be along ? She couldn't come here to tell us, A mile — it wouldn't a' done — So she jest grabbed up a lantern, And made for the bridge alone. Then down came the night express, sir. And Bill was makin' her climb ! But Mary held the lantern, A-swingin' it all the time. Well ! by Jove ! Bill saw the signal, And he stopped the night express, And he found his Mary cryin', On the track, in her weddin' dress ; Cryin' and laughin' for joy, sir, An' holdin' on to the light — Hello ! here's the train — good-bye, sir, Bill Mason's on time to-night. A HUSBANUS EXPERIENCE IN COOKING. FOUND fault, some time ago, with Maria Ann's custard pie, and tried to tell her how my mother made custard pie. Maria made the pie after my receipt. It lasted longer than any other pie we ever had. Maria set it on the table every day for dinner, and you see I could not eat it, because I forgot to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It was economical, but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry, and gave it to a poor little boy in the neighborhood. The boy's funeral was largely attended by his former playmates. I did not go myself. Then there were the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann any fool could beat her making those cakes, and she said I had better try it. So I did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening, and set the 520 MEASURING THE BABY. cakes myself. I got the flour, and the salt, and water, and warned by the past, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened with tallow from roast beef, because I could not find any lard. The batter did not look right, and I lit my pipe and pondered: "Yeast! yeast, to be sure !" I had forgotten the yeast. I went and woke up the baker, and got six cents' worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting-room stove, and went to bed. In the morning I got up early, and prepared to enjoy my triumph; but I didn't. That yeast was strong enough to raise the dead, and the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and put it into another dish. Then got a fire in the kitchen, and put on the griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The second dittoed, only more. Maria came down and asked what was burning. Slie advised me ta grease the griddle. I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, and I dropped the thing on my tenderest corn, while trying to turn it around. Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and Maria got the other things ready. We sat down. My cakes did not have exactly the right flavor. I took one mouth- ful and it satisfied me; I lost my appetite at once. Maria would not let me put one on her plate, and I think those cakes may be reckoned a dead loss. The cat would not eat them. The dog ran off and staid away three days after one was offered him. The hens won't go within ten feet of them. I threw them into the back yard, and there has not been a pig on the premises since. I eat what is put before me now, and do not allude to my mother's system of cooking. MEASURING THE BABY. EMMA ALICE BROWN. K^l^E measured the riotous baby J^Jy Against the cottage wall — "c^)-;-^ A lily grew on the threshold, And the boy was just as tall; ^ A royal tiger-lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jewelled ehalice, The fragrant dew to hold. DIAMOND DUST. 521 Without, the bluebirds whistled And the little bare feet, that were dimpled High up in the old roof-trees, And sweet as a budding rose, And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees ; ■ Lay side by side together. In a hush of a long repose ! And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice-sill. Up from the dainty pillow. White as the risen dawn. The fair little face lay smiling. With the light of heaven thereon ; His eyes were wide as bluebells — And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves His mouth like a flower unblown — Dropped from a rose, lay still. Two little bare feet like funny white mice. Never to snatch at the sunshine Peeped out from his snowy gown ; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture That yet had a touch of pain. When June rolls around with her roses, We'll measure the boy again. That crept to the shrouded sill! We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below ; Ah me ! in a darkened chamber. And out of the darkened chamber With the sunshine shut away We went with a childless moan — Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, To the height of the sinless angels We measured the boy to-day ; Our little one had grown. DIAMOND DUST. ^YiiiJiHE world is what we make it. For- ward then, forward, in the power of faith, fo.rward in the power of truth, forward in the power of friendship, forward in the power W of freedom, forward in the power I of hope, forward in the power of God. {Henry Vincent. To honor God, to benefit mankind, To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs Of the poor race for which the God-man died. And do it all for love — oh, this is great ! And he who does this will achieve a name Not only great but good. {Holland. He that has never known adversity is but half acquainted with others or with him- self. Constant success shows us but one side of the world, for, as it surrounds us with friends who will tell us only our merits, so it silences those enemies from whom alone we can learn our defects. {CoUon. We hear much now about circumstances making us what we are and destroying our responsibility ; but however much the external circumstances in which we are placed, the temptations to which we are exposed, the desires of our own na- tures, may work upon us, all these in- fluences have a limit, which they do not pass, and that is the limit laid upon them by the freedom of the will, which is essential to human nature, — to our per- sonality. {Luthardt. The vast cathedral of nature is full of holy scriptures and shapes of deep mysterious meaning, but all is solitary and silent there ; no bending knee, no uplifted eye, no lip adoring, praying. Into this vast cathedral comes the human soul seeking its Creator, and the universal silence is changed to sound, and the sound is har- monious and has a meaning and is com- prehended and felt. {Longfellow. 522 DIAMOND DUST. The shaping our own life is our own work. It is a thing of beauty, it is a thing of shame, as we ourselves make it. We lay the corner and add joint to joint, we give the proportion, we set the finish. It may be a thing of beauty and of joy forever. God forgive us if we pervert our life from putting on its appointed glory. ( Ware. They who live most by themselves reflect most upon others, and he who lives sur- rounded by the million never thinks of any but the one individual — himself. We are so linked to our fellow-beings that were we not chained to them by action, we are carried to and connected with them by thought. {Bulwcr. Censure and criticism never hurt anybody. If false, they can't hurt you unless you are wanting in manly character ; and if true, they show a man his weak points, and forewarn him against failure and trouble. [Gladstone. The humble man, though surrounded with the scorn and reproach of the worla, is still in peace, for the stability of his peace resteth not upon the world, but upon God. (Kemins. Leave consequences to God, but do right. Be genuine, real, sincere, true, upright, God- like. The world's maxim is, trim your sails and yield to circumstances. But if you would do any good in your genera- tion, you must be made of sterner stuff, and help make your times rather than be made by them. You must not yield to customs, but, like the anvil, endure all blows, until the hammers break them- selves. When misrepresented, use no crooked means to clear yourself. Clouds do not last long. If in the course of duty you are tried by the distrust of friends, gird up your loins and say in your heart, " I was not driven to virtue by the encouragement of friends, nor will I be repelled from it by their cold- ness." Finally, " be just and fear not ;" " Corruption wins not more than honesty;" truth lives and reigns when falsehood dies and rots. {Spurgeon. Some clocks do not strike. You must look at them if you would know the time. Some men do not talk their Christianity ; you must look at their lives if you would know what the gospel can do for human nature. But a clock need not be incor- rect because it strikes ; a man need not be inconsistent because he speaks as well as acts. (Joscjjh Parker. I love all men. I know that at bottom they cannot be otherwise ; and under all the false and overloaded and glittering mas- querade, there is in every man a noble nature beneath, only they cannot bring it out ; and whatever they do that is false and cunning and evil, there still remains the sentence of our Great Ex- ample, " Forgive them for they know not what they do." {Auerbach. If on a cold, dark night you see a man picking his way up a rickety pair of stairs where one of God's poor children lives, with a heavy basket on his arm, you need not stop him to ask if he loves the Lord. Whether he is an Orthodox, a Catholic, or a heathen, he is laying up treasures in heaven. {Golden Rule. There is a beautiful Indian apologue, which says: A man once said to a lump of clay, " What art thou ?" The reply was, " I am but a lump of clay, but I was placed beside a rose and I caught its fragrance." — So our prayers are placed beside the smoke of the incense ascending before God ; thus they are made fragrant and a promise of suc- cess is given. In the old dispensation, a cloud hovered above the altar, and if by some mysterious means that cloud was borne down, it was a token that the offer- ing was rejected ; but if the smoke rose up, then the offering was accepted, and sinners might rejoice. Our prayers are always ascending to God in the cloud of incense out of the angel's hand. There is, then, an assurance of blessedness. It is taken out of our hands altogether — he makes our prayers his own, they are his own prayers ascending up to God's throne. [Punshon. DIAMOND DUST. 523 The greatest thing a human soul ever does ia this world is to see something, and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hun- dreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly, is poetry, prophecy, and religion, all in one. (Huskin. There can be no real conflict between Science and the Bible — between nature and the Scriptures — the two Books of the Great Author. Both are revelations made by him to man ; the earlier telling of God- made harmonies coming up from the deep past, and rising to their height when man appeared ; the later teaching man's relations to his Maker, and speak- ing of loftier harmonies in the eternal future. {Dana. Modern discoveries, instead of detracting from, increase the significance of, the Bible symbolism. Every new revela- tion of the beautiful or useful properties of light adds something significant to the meaning of our Lord's declaration, " I am the Light of the world." {R. B. Howard. The flowers of rhetoric are only acceptable when backed by the evergreens of truth and sense. The granite statue, rough hewn, though it be, is far more imposing in its simple and stern though rude pro- portions, than the plaster-cast, however elaborately wrought and gilded. [Macaulay. There is a broad distinction between charac- ter and reputation, for one may be de- stroyed by slander, while the other can never be harmed save by its possessor. Reputation is in no man's keeping. You and I cannot determine what other men shall think and say about us. We can only determine what they ought io think of us, and say about us, and we can only do this by acting squarely on our convictions. {Holland. We hold religion too cheaply, and speak of the ease with which it may be had, overlooking the stubborn depravity of the heart and the power of Satan. Some would like to ride to heaven in a close carriage, that would never be jolted, or enjoy sunshine all the way to the gates of glory. {Theo. L. Cuyler. MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. .^^ GEO. P. MORmS. ?HIS book is all that's left me now, — Tears will unbidden start, — With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past Here is our family tree ; My mother's hands this Bible clasped, She, dying, gave it me. Ah ! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear ; Who round the hearthstone used to close, After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said In tones my heart would thrill ! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still ! My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters, dear ; How calm was my poor mother's look. Who loved God's word to hear ! Her angel face, — I see it yet: What thronging memories come ! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home ! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried ; When all were false, I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasures give That could this volume buy ; In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die ! 524 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. PLYMOUTH ROC THE PILGRIM FATHERS. EDWARD EVERETT. %Ms JgjgETHTNKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it J pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncert-ain, the tedious L voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a cir- BORRIOBOOLA GHA. 525 cuitous route ; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging ; the laboring masts seem straining from their base ; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the float- ing deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, sur- rounded by hostile tribes. Shut now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers ? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals ? was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved auvd left, beyond the sea? — was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate ? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ? BORRIOBOOLA GHA. ORRIX GOODRICH. Stranger preached last Sunday, And crowds of people came To hear a two hours sermon * On a theme I scarce can name ; 'Twas all about some heathen, Thousand of miles afar. \\Tio live in a land of darkness Called Borrioboola Gha. 626 TO A WATERFOWL. So well their wants he pictured. For the mournful sight before me, That when the box was passed, So sad and sickening, — oh. Each listener felt his pocket, I had never, never pictured And goodly sums were cast ; A scene so full of woe! For all must lend a shoulder The famished and the naked. To puph the rolling car The babe that pined for bread, That carries light and comfort The squalid group that huddled To Borrioboola Gha. Around that dying-bed; That night their wants and sorrows All this distress and sorrow Lay heavy on my soul, Should be in lands afar ! And deep in meditation. Was I suddenly transported I took my morning stroll, To Borrioboola Gha ? When something caught my mantle Ah, no ! the poor and wretched With eager grasp and wild. Were close beside my door. And, looking down in wonder. And I had passed them heedless I saw a little child : A thousand times before. A pale and puny creature. Alas, for the cold and hungry In rags and dirt forlorn : That met me every day, "What do you want?" I asked her, While all my tears were given Impatient to be gone ; • To the suffering far away 1 With trembling voice she answered, There's work enough for Christians In distant lands, we know, " We live just down the street, And mamma, she's a-dying. Our Lord commands his servants And we've nothing left to eat." Through all the world to go, Down in a dark, damp cellar. Not only to the heathen ; With mould o'er all the walls, This was his command to them. Through whose half-buried windows " Go, preach the word, beginning God's sunlight never falls ; Here, at Jerusalem." Where cold and want and hunger Christian ! God has promised. Whoe'er to such has given A cup of pure, cold water, Shall find reward in Heaven. Crouched near her as she lay, I found that poor child's mother, Gasping her life away. A chair, a broken table. Would you secure this blessing ? A bed of mouldy straw. You need not seek it far ;— A hearth all dark and fireless. — Go find in yonder hovel But these I scarcely saw. A Borrioboola Gha ! TO A WATERFOWL. W. C. BRYANT. sHITHER, midst falling dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps of day. Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. Thy figure floats along. THE VOICES AT THE THRONE. 527 Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere Yet stood not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt tbou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zoije to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. THE VOICES AT THE THRONE. T. WESTWOOD. LITTLE child, A little meek-faced, quiet village child. Sat singing by her cottage door at eve I A low, sweet Sabbath song. No human ear j Caught the faint melody, — no human eye Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, "Praise God! Praise God!" A seraph by the throne In full glory stood. With eager hand He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood Of harmony on the celestial air Welled forth unceasing. There, with a great voice He sang the " Holy, holy evermore. Lord God Almighty !" and the eternal courts Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies, Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned With vehement adoration. Higher yet Higher, with rich magnificence of sound. Rose the majestic anthem, without pause. To its full strength ; and still the infinite heavens Rang with the " Holy, holy evermore !" Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, Each sceptered spirit sank before the throne With a mute hallelujah. But even then While the ecstatic song was at its height, Stole in an alien voice — a voice that seomed To float, float upward from some world afar — A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet ! That blended with the spirit's rushing strain 528 THE THREE SONS. Even as a fountain's music with the roll Of the reverberate thunder. Loving smiles Lit up the beauty of each angel's face At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew More joyous yet as ever and anon Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, " Praise God ! Praise God !" And when the seraph's song Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre Silence hung brooding, — when the eternal courts Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime. Still through the abysmal space that wander- ing voice Came floating upward from its world afar, Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, "Praise God! Praise God! THE THREE SONS. JOHN MOULTRIE. HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just '] five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould ; They tell me that unusual grace in all Shis ways appears. That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair. And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air. I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he loveth me. But loveth yet his mother more, with grate- ful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind ; The food for grave, inquiring speech he every- where doth find: Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball. But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next ; He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray. And strange and sweet and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh ! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be ; How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee. I do not think his light blue eye is like his brother's keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me the country folk who pass us in the street. Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. 629 A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with cheerful tone. Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth. To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love ! And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years or months where he has gone to dwell. To us for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given. And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now. Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel. Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know, (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest. Where other blessed infants are — on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this wearv load of flesh, But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of joy forever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever. But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be ; When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery : When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain ; Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. pEK name was Sunbeam. She had lovely, waving, golden hair, and M beautiful deep blue eyes, and such a cunning little mouth ; and she ""^W^ was three inches tall. Perhaps you think that fairies have no les- isons to learn, but in this country they had to learn the language of the birds and animals, so that they could talk with them. Sunbeam lived in the hollow trunk of an old tree. It was papered with the lightest green leaves that could be found. The rooms were separated by birch bark. Every morning when Sunbeam arose from her bed ol 36 530 THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. apple blossoms, she had to learn a lesson in the bird language ; but it was not hard, for her mother went with her and told her what they said. When her lesson was done she sprang away to meet her playmates — and oh ! what fun they had ! They made a swing out of a vine, and almost flew ihrough the air. They sometimes jumped on a robin's back and had a ride. They played hide and seek in the birds' nests, and in the spring picked open the buds, and when they were tired, sat on the dandelions, or on a horse chestnut leaf, or in a full blown apple blossom. But if any one came into the woods they scampered away as fast as they could, for little fairies are very shy. The afternoon was much like the forenoon, but the evening was the pleasantest time of all. Every pleasant night just before dark, Sunbeam's mother dressed her in her apple-blossom dress, with two little lily-of-the- valley bells fastened like tassels to her green sash of grass blades. Her slippers were made from blue violets and her hair was tied with the threads of blue forget-me-nots woven together. Her mother and her father were dressed in light green. A little after dark they started for their fairy haunt with fire-flies for lanterns. The haunt was in the thickest part of the forest ; it was covered with moss, and a brook flowed through the centre of the enclosure. One hundred gentlemen fairies with their wives and children were waiting here. Each had a fire-fly lantern. Very soon, from the brush wood, out sprang two white mice, harnessed to a carriage made of dandelions with the stems so woven together that the flowers formed the outside. The inside was lined with white violets. In this chariot sat the queen of the Forget-me-not fairies (for there are different families of fairies). The queen was dressed in a robe made of a deep red tulip, and she had a sash of lilies of the valley. Her black hair was fas- tened with what looked like a pearl, but really was a tiny drop of water crystalized. Beside her rode her maids of honor with dresses of blue violets. The queen took her place upon the throne, and around her stood her maids of honor. The queen then began to sing, and the fairies danced to the music. This lasted till midnight, and then the fairies went home. You can easily imagine Sunbeam's life through the summer and autumn ; but if you think she hid in her house all winter, you are mis- taken. In the autumn the fathers of the fairies had gathered the bright colored leaves, and the mothers had made them into warm winter dresses and cloaks. Sunbeam had a muff" of swan's down. The great sport in winter was the queen's ball, to which all the fairies came. I wish I had time to tell you all about it, for it was Sunbeam's last appearance as a child fairy, as the next spring she was tall enough to be a full-grown fairy. NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 531 NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. JOHN PIERPONT. NO, no, — let me lie Not on a field of battle, when I die. Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head ; Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother's life. Be in my hand wheiv death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath His heavy squadron's heels. Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. From such a dying bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, And the bald eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings, To sparkle in my sight, 0, never let my spirit take her flight ! I know that beauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly. And t)razen helmets dance. And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance ; I know that bards have sung. And people shouted till the welkin rung, In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found grave. That issue from the gulf of Salami And thine too have I seen,- Thy mound of earth, Patroclu.-', green. robed 1 know that o'er their bones Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. Some of those piles I've seen : The one at Lexington upon the green Where the first blood was shed, And to my country's independence led ; And others on our shore, The " Battle Monument" at Baltimore, And that on Bunker's Hill. Ay, and abroad a few more famous still : Thy " tomb " Themistocles, That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, And which the waters kiss IHE B.\TILE .MuXUMEXT. That like a natural knoll, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, Watched by some turbaned boy, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays hi.'^ head, And hears, as life ebbs out. The conquered flying, and the conqueror ? shout. But, as his eye grows dim, What is a column or a mound to him ? What to the parting soul. The mellow note of bugles ? WTiat the roll 532 SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. Of drums ? No, let me die Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, And the soft summer air, As it goes by me, stirs my thin, white hair. And from my forehead dries The death damp as it gathers, and the skies Seem waiting to receive My soul to their clear depths. Or let me leave The world, when round my bed Wife, children, weeping friends, are gathered, And the calm voice of prayer And holy hymning shall my soul prepare. To go and be at rest With kindred spirits, spirits who have blessed The human brotherhood By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. In my dying hour, When riches, fame, and honor, have no power To bear the spirit up, Or from my lips to turn aside the cup That all must drink at last, 0, let me draw refreshment from the past ! Then let my soul run back. With peace and joy, along my earthly track, And see that all the seeds That I have scattered there in virtuous deeds, Have sprung up, and have given. Already, fruits of which to taste in heaven. And though no grassy mound Or granite pile says 'tis heroic ground Where my remains repose. Still will I hope, — vain hope, perhaps, — th? t those Whom I have striven to bless, — The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless, — May stand around my grave. With the poor prisoner and the lowest slave, And breathe an humble prayer. That they may die like him whose bones are moldering there. SAM WELLEBS VALENTINE. CHARLES DICKENS. ^' VE done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment ; " I ve been a writin'." "So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy." f " "Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. " It's a wal- 1 entine." " A what ?" exclaimed Mr. "Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word. "A walentine," replied Sam. " Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, " I didn't 'think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery subject ; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day ! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it." These reflections were too HAU WELLER'S VALENTINE. 533 much for the good old man ; he raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank off the contents. " Wot's the matter now ?" said Sam. *' Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, " it'll be a wery agonizin' trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer said he vos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market." " Wot'll be a trial ?" inquired Sam. "To see you married, Sammy; to see you a deluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital," replied Mr. Weller. " It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy." " Nonsense," said Sam, " I ain't a goin' to get married, don't you fret yourself about that. I know you're a judge o' these things ; order in your pipe, an' I'll read you the letter — there !" Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air — " ' Lovely " Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. " A double glass 0' the inwariable, my dear." " Very well, sir," replied the girl, who, with great quickness, appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared. " They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. " Yes," replied his father, " I've been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy." " * Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam. " 'Taint in poetry, is it?" interposed the father. " No, no," replied Sam. " Wery glad to hear it," said Mr, Weller. " Poetry's unnat'ral. No man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's black- in' or Rowland's oil, or some 0' them low fellows. Never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy." " Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced and read as follows : " ' Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned ' " — " That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth. "No: it ain't damned," observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, " it's ' shamed,' there's a blot there ; ' i feel myself ashamed.' " " Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." " ' Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — .' I forget wot this 534 SAM WELLER'S VxVLENTINE. 'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember. " Why don't you look at it, then ?" inquired Mr. Weller. " So I am a lookin' at it," repHed Sam, " but there's another blot : here's a 'c,' and a ' i,' and a 'd.' " " Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller. "No, it aiut that," said Sam: " 'circumscribed,' that's it." " That aint as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely. " Think not?" said Sam. " Nothin' like it," replied his father. "But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam. "Veil, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. " Go on, Sammy." '"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.' " " That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. " Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered. "Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, " is, that there ain't no callin' names in it — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind ; wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?" "Ah! wot indeed?" replied Sam. "You might just as veil call her a griffin, or a 'unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery veil known to be a col-lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. " Just as well," replied Sam. " Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows : his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying. " ' Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' " " So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically. " ' But now,' " continued Sam, " ' now I find wot a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that ray- ther strong," said Sam, looking up. Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 535 "'So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on com- plete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.' " " I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously. " No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contest- ing the point. " ' Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam. "That's rayther a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy ?" inquired Mr. Weller. " Not a bit on it," said Sam : " she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'." " Well," said Mr. Weller, " there's somethin' in that ; and I vish your Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?" " That's the difficulty," said Sam ; " I don't know what to sign it." " Sign it — Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name. " Won't do," said Sam. " Never sign a walentine with your own name." " Sign it Pickvick then," said Mr. Weller; ''it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell." " The wery thing," said Sam. " I could end with a worse: what do you think ?" " I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. " I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an afiectin' copy o' worses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule." But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter — " Your love-sick Pickwick." 536 SHERIDAN'S RIDE. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. IwSjW^P from the South at break of day, ^yk; Bringing to Winchester fresh dismaj% The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chief- tain'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 fiery fray. And Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester 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 at his utmost \ GOD. 537 Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thunder- ing South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster. Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting 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 an ocean flying before the wind. And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire. Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; lie is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, And Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and the retreating troops : What was done, — what to do, — a glance told him both, And striking his spurs with a terrible oath. He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas. And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, " I've brought you Sheridan all-the way, From Winchester down to save the day." Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! And when their statues are placed on high. Under the dome of the Union sk}', — The American soldier's Temple of Fame, There with the glorious General's name Be it said in letters both bold and bright : " Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester, — twenty miles away !" GOD. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DERZHAVIN. THOU eternal One! whose presence "'^~ All space doth occupy, all motion f f^ guide ; i'^ Unchang'd through time's all-devasta- ting flight ! Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! Being above all beings ! Three-in one ! Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone; Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — Being whom we call God — and know no more! In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean deep — may count The sands, or the sun's rays — but God ! for Thee There is no weight nor measure ; — none can mount Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark. Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark; And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high- E'en like past moments in eternity. 638 GOD. Thou from primeval notliingnoss didst call, Fiist chaos, then existence ; — Lord! on Thee Eternity had its foundation ; — all Sprung forth from Thee; — of light, joy, harmony. Sole origin ; — all life, all beauty. Thine. Thy word created all, and doth create ; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious, Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround ; Upheld by Thee ; by Thee inspired with breath ! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death ! As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee, And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. A million torches lighted by Thy hand Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; They own Thy power, accomplish Thy com- mand. All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them ? Pyres of crystal light— A glorious company of golden streams — Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — Suns lighting systems with their joyful beams ? But Thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea. All this magnificence in Thee is lost ; What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then? Heaven's unnum- bered host. Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought. Is but an atom in the balance weighed Against Thy greatness, — is a cipher brouglit Against infinity ! What am I then ? Naught ! Naught! But the effluence of Thy light Divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom. too ; Yes, in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine. As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager toward Thy presence ; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high Even to the throne of Thy Divinity, I am God ! and surely Thou must be ! Thou art! directing, guiding all! Thou art' Direct my understanding then to Thee. Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand ! I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and earth. On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realm where angels have their birth. Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! The chain of being is complete in me ; In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit — Deity ! I can command the lightning, and am dust ! A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! Whence came I here, and how ? so marvel- ously Constructed and conceived? Unknown! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy ; For from itself alone it could not be ! Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me ! Thou source of life and good ! Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! Thy light. Thy love, in the bright plenitude, Filled me with an immortal soul to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere, Even to its source — to Thee — its author there. thoughts ineffable ! visions blest ! REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 539 Though worthless our conception all of Thee, \ Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, i good, And waft its homage to Thy Deity. ; Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; U-od ! thus alone my lonely thoughts can And when the tongue is eloquent no more, soar : The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. BEBECGA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. SIR WALTER SCOTT. |00K from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath — Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the ^ lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath. " What dost thou see, R.ebecca ? " again demanded the wounded knight. "Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." " That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe ; " if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself ; for as the leader is, so will his followers be." "I see him not," said R.ebecca. " Foul craven ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest ? " " He blenches not ! he blenches not ! " said Rebecca, "I see him now ; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican.- — They pull down the piles and palisades ; they hew down the barriers with axes. — His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. — They have made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back ! — Front-de-Boeuf heads the defen- ders ; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of Jacob ! it is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds!" 540 REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible. "Look forth again, Eebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring ; " the archery must in a degree have ceased ; for they are now fighting hand to hand. — Look, there is now less dan- ger." Rebecca again looked forth and almost immedi- ately exclaimed, " Holy proph- ets of the law ! Front-de - Boeuf and the Black Knight fight on the beach hand to hand, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the prog- ress of the strife. Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the cap- tive!" She then uttered a loud shriek, and ex- claimed, "He is down ! — he is down ! " *' Who is down ? " cried Ivanhoe. "The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness—" But no— but no !— the name of the Lord of hosts be blessed !— he is on foot again, and fights as if there were THE ANCIENT STRONGHOLD. REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANIIOE. 54I twenty men's strength in his single arm— His sword is broken — he snatches an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow — The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman — he falls — he falls ! " " Front-de-Boeuf? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. "Front-de-Boeuf!" answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar— their united force compels the champion to pause — They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls." " The assailants have won the barriers, have they not ? " said Ivanhoe. " They have — they have ! " exclaimed Rebecca "and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other — down go stones, beam?, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. — Great God ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " " Thmk not of that," said Ivanhoe ; '' this is no time for such thoughts — Who yield ? — who push their way ? " " The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering ; " the soldiers He grovelling under them like crushed reptiles— The besieged have the better." " Saint George strike for us ! " exclaimed the knight ; " do the false yeomen give way ? " "No !" exclaimed Rebecca, " they bear themselves right yeomanly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe — the thun- dering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle — Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold cham- pion — he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or feathers ! " " By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, " methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed ! " "The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes — it is splintered by his blov/s — they rush in — the outwork is won— Oh, God ! — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat — men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer ! " "The bridge— the bridge which communicates with the castle— have they won that pass ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 542 THE LAST LEAF. "No," replied Rebecca, "the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others — Alas ! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle." THE LAST LEAF. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. SAW him once before, As he passed by the door ; And again The pavement stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of tim Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON. 543 But now he walks the streets, But now his nose is thin, And he looks at all he meets And it rests upon his chin, So forlorn ; Like a staff; And he shakes his feeble head, And a crook is in his back, That it seems as if he said, And a melancholy crack " They are gone." In his laugh. The mossy marbles rest I know it is a sin On the lips that he has pressed For me to sit and grin In their bloom ; At him here, And the names he loved to hear But the old three-cornered hat. Have been carved for many a year And the breeches, — and all tliac, On the tomb. Are so queer ! My grandmamma has said — And if I should live to be Poor old lady ! she is dead The last leaf upon the tree Long ago— In the spring, That he had a Roman nose, Let them smile, as I do now, And his cheek was like a rose At the old forsaken bough In the snow. Where I cling. JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON SHE minister said last night, says he, " Don't be afraid of givin' ; If your life ain't nothin' to other folks. Why what's the use of livin' ?" And that's what I say to my wife, says I, "There's Brown, that mis'rable sin- ner. He'd sooner a beggar would starve, than give A cent towards buyin' a dinner." I tell you our minister's prime, he is, But I couldn't quite determine. When I heard him givin' it right and left, Just who was hit by the sermon. Of course there couldn't be no mistake. When he talked of long-winded prayin', For Peters and Johnson they sot and scowled At every word he was sayin'. And the minister he went on to say, " Ther's various kinds of cheatin', And religion's as good for every day As it is to bring to meetin'. I don't think much of a man that gives The loud Amens at my preachin'. And spends his time the followin' week In cheatin' and overreachin'." I guess that dose was bitter For a man like Jones to swaller ; But I noticed he didn't open his mouth, Not once, after that, to holler. Hurrah, says I, for the minister — Of course I said it quiet — Give us some more of this open talk ; It's very refreshin' diet. The minister hit 'em every time ; And when he spoke of fashion. And a-riggin' out in bows and things. As woman's rulin' passion, And a-comin' to church to see the styles, I couldn't help a-winkin' And a nudgin' my wife, and, says I, " That you," And I guess it sot her thinkin'. / 544. THE MODEL CHURCH. Says I to myself, that sermon's pat ; But man is a queer creation ; And I'm much afraid that most o' the folks Wouldn't take the application. Now, if he had said a word about My personal mode o' sinnin', I'd have gone to work to right myself, And not set there a-grinnin'. Just then the minister says, says he, " And now I've come to the fellers Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends As a sort o' moral umbrellers. Go home," says he, " and find your fai:lts. Instead of huntin your brothers'. Go home," he says, " and wear the coats You've tried to fit on others." My wife she nudged, and Brown he winked And there was lots o' smilin', And lots o' lookin' at our pew ; It sot my blood a-bilin'. Says I to myself, our minister Is gettin' a little bitter; I'll tell him when meetin's out, that I Ain't at all that kind of a critter. THE MODEL CHURCH. JOHN H. YATES. i^ELL wife, I've found the moc?e? church '''-^ — I worshipped there to-day ! It made me think of good old times before my hair wa.s gray. The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago, But then I felt when I went in it wasn't built for show. The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor : He must have been a Christian, for he led me through The long aisle of that crowded church, to find a place and pew. I wish you'd heard that singin' — it had the old-time ring ; The preacher said, with trumpet voice, " Let all the people sing !" The tune was Coronation, and the music up- ward rolled. Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. My deafness seemed to melt away ; my spirit caught the fire ; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days, " Let an- gels prostrate fall, Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all." I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more ; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore ; I almost wanted to lay down this weather- beaten form, And anchor in the blessed port forever from the storm. The preachin f Well, I can't just tell all the preacher said ; I know it wasn't written ; I know it wasn't read ; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' along from pew to pew, nor pas- sed a sinner by. The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple gos- pel truth ; It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hoj^e- ful vouth. THE REST OF THE JUST. 645 'Twas full of consolation for- weary hearts that bleed ; 'Twa« full of invitations to Christ, and not to creed. The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews ; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews, And — though I can't see very well — I saw the falling tear That told me hell was someways off, and heav- en very near. How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place ! How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend. " Where congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbaths have no end." I hope to meet that minister — that congrega- tion too — In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue. I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's even- ing gray. That happy hour of worship in that model church to-day. Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won ; The shining goal is just ahead : the race is nearly run. O'er the river we are nearin', they are throng- in' to the shore To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. THE REST OF THE JUST. ' EICHARD BAXTER , ^Y^ . _ JPrEST ! how sweet the sound ! It is melody to my ears ! It lies as a ^^■^ reviving cordial at my heart, and fram thence sends forth lively spirits which beat through all the pulses of my soul ! Eest, not as the stone that rests on the earth, nor as this flesh shall rest in the 1 grave, nor such a rest as the carnal world desires. blessed rest ! •J when we rest not day and night saying, " Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty : " when we shall rest from sin, but not from worship; from suffering and sorrow, but not from joy ! blessed day ! when I shall rest with God ! when I shall rest in the bosom of my Lord ! when my perfect soul and body shall together perfectly enjoy the most perfect God ! when God, who is love itself, shall perfectly love me, and rest in this love to me, as I shall rest in my love to Him ; and rejoice over me with joy, and jov over me with singing, as I shall rejoice in Him ! This is that joy which was procured by sorrow, that crown which was procured by the Cross. My Lord wept that now my tears might be wiped away ; He bled that I might now rejoice ; he was forsaken that I might not now be forsook ; He then died that I might now live. free mercy, that can exalt so vile a wretch ! Free to me, though dear to Christ : free grace that hath chosen me, when thousands were forsaken. Thus is not rA6 A PATRIOT'S LAST APPEAL. like our cottages of clay, our prisons, our earthly dwellings. This voice of joy is not like our old complaints, our impa.tient groans and sighs ; nor this melodious praise like the scoflfs and revilings, or the oaths and curses, which we heard on earth. This body is not like that we had, nor this soul like the soul we had, nor this life like the life we lived. We have changed our place and state, our clothes and thoughts, our looks, language, and company. Before, a saint was weak and despised ; but now, how happy and glorious a thing is a saint ! Where is now their body of sin, which wearied themselves and those about them ? Where are now our different judgments, reproachful names, divided spirits, exasperated passions, strange looks, uncharitable censures ? Now are all of one judgment, of one name, of one heart, house and glory. sweet reconciliation ! happy union I A PATRIOTS LAST APPEAL. ROBERT EMMET. IJKET no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor. I i^p would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same rea- ^"■^'^ son that I would resist the present domestic oppressor. In the dignity of freedom, I would have fought on the threshold of my a) country, and its enemy should only enter by passing over my life- less corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and who have sub- jected 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 spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concern and cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, ever-dear and venerable shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have ever for a moment deviated from those 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 warmly 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 words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave ; my lamp of THE LAW OF DEATH. 547 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 dare now 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. THE LA W OF DEATH. JOHN HAY. I^I^HE song of Kilvany. Fairest she pjB In all the land of Savathi. ^M She had one child, as sweet and gay m\% And dear to her as the light of day. 4^ She was so young, and he so fair, i- The same bright eyes and the same T dark hair, To see them by the blossomy way They seemed two children at their play. There came a death-dart from the sky, Kilvany saw her darling die. The glimmering shades his eye invades. Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades ; His warm heart feels the icy chill, The round limbs shudder and are still. And j'et Kilvany held him fast Long after life's last pulse was past, As if her kisses could restore The smile gone out forevermore. But when she saw her child was dead She scattered ashes on her head. And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet, And rushing wildly through the street, She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet. " Master ! all-helpful ! help me now ! Here at thy feet I humbly bow : Have mercy, Buddha ! help me now !" She groveled on the marble floor, And kissed the dead child o'er and o'er ; And suddenly upon the air There fell the answer to her prayer : " Bring me to-night a Lotus, tied With thread from a house where none has died." She rose and laughed with thankful joy. Sure that the God would save her boy. She found a Lotus by the stream ; She plucked it from its noonday dream. And then from door to door she fared, To ask what house by death was spared. Her heart grew cold to see the eyes Of all dilate with slow surprise : 548 WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. " Kilvany, thou hast lost thj- hea'l ; Nothing can help a child that's di-ad. There stands not by the Ganges' side A house where none hath ever died." Thus through the long and weary day, From every door she bore away, Within her heart, and on her arm, A heavy load, a deeper harm. By gates of gold and ivory. By wattled huts of poverty. The same refrain heard poor Kilvany, The living are few — the dead are many. The evening came, so still and fleet, And overtook her hurrying feet, And, heart-sick, by the sacred fane She fell, and prayed the God again. She sobbed and beat her bursting breast : " Ah ! thou hast mocked me ! Mightiest ! Lo ! I have wandered far and wide — - There stands no house where none hath died." A SONG FOR HEARTH AND HOME. WILLIAM E. DURYEA. .ARK is the night, and fitful and drear- Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea ; Little care I, as here I sit cheerily, Wife at my side and my baby on knee. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces, Dearer and dearer and onward we go, Forces the shadow behind us, and places Brightness around us with warmth in the glow. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king! Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory. Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul. Telling of trust and content the sweet story, Lifting the shadows that over us roll. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom and Love is the king! Richer than miser with perishing treasure, Served with a service no conquest could bring ; Happy with fortune that words cannot meas- ure. Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king, crown me the king : Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. REVEREND sir, I do declare 9]Mt ^^ drives me most to frenzy, --- ■ To think of you a lying there Down sick with influenzy. A body'd thought it was enough To mourn your wife's departer, Without sich trouble as this ere To come a follerin' arter. But sickness and affliction Are sent by a wise creation, And always ought to be underwent By patience an<i resignation. I could to your bedside fly, And wipe your weeping eyes. And do my best to cheer you up, If 't wouldn't create surprise. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 549 It's a world of trouble we tarry in, But, Elder, don't despair ; That you may soon be movin' again Is constantly my prayer. Both sick and well, you may depend You'll never be forgot By your faithful and affectionate friend, Priscilla Pool Bedott. THE LA UGH OF A CHILD. LOVE it, I love it, the laugh of a child, Now rippling and gentle, now merry and wild; Ringing out on the air with its inno- cent gush, [hush; Like the trill of a bird at the twilight's soft Floating off on the breeze, like the tones of a bell. Or the music that dwells on the heart of a shell; Oh ! the laugh of a child, so wild and so free Is the merriest sound in the world for me. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. |0W dear to this heart are the scenes ImIi of my childhood. When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep- tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my in- fancy knew ; — The wide-spreading pond, and tlie mill which stood by it. The bridge, and the rock where the cat- aract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 550 DRESS REFORM. That moss-covered vessel I bail as a trea- sure; For often, at uoon, when returned from the field. I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing ! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- flowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; I The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- ceive it. As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situa- tion. The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. DRESS REFORM. T. DE WITT TALMAGE. ^g CONVENTION has recently i^HH the women who are oi")Dose' been held in Vineland, attended by the women who are opposed to extravagance in dress. They ^^^^ propose, not only by formal resolution, but by personal example, to teach the world lessons of economy by wearing less adornment f and dragging fewer yards of silk. We wish them all success, 1 although we would have more confidence in the movement if so many of the delegates had not worn bloomer dresses. Moses makes war upon that style of apparel in Deuteronomy xxii. 5 : " The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto man." Nevertheless we favor every efibrt to stop the extravagant use of dry goods and millinery. We have, however, no sympathy with the implication that women are worse than men in this respect. Men wear all they can without interfer- ing with their locomotion, but man is such an awkward creature he cannot find any place on his body to hang a great many fineries. He could not got round in Wall Street with eight or ten flounces and a big handled parasol, and a mountain of back hair. Men wear less than women, not because they are more moral, but because they cannot stand it. As it is, many of our young men are padded to a superlative degree, and have corns and bunions on every separate toe from wearing tight shoes. Neither have we any sympathy with the implication that the present LORD ULLINS DAUGHTER. 551 is worse than the past in matters of dress. Compare the fashion-plates of tne seventeenth century with the fashion-plates of the nineteenth, and you decide in favor of our day. The women of Isaiah's time beat anything now. Do we have the kangaroo fashion Isaiah speaks of — the daughters who walked forth with " stretched forth necks" ? Talk of hoops ! Isaiah speaks of women with " round tires like the moon." Do we have hot irons for curling our hair ? Isaiah speaks of " wimples and crisping pins." Do we sometimes wear glasses astride our nose, not because we are near- sighted, but for beautification ? Isaiah speaks of the " glasses, and the earrings, and the nose jewels." The dress of to-day is far more sensible than that of a hundred or a thousand years ago. But the largest room in the world is room for improvement, and we would cheer on those who would attempt reformation either in male or female attire. Meanwhile, we rejoice that so many of the pearls, and emeralds, and amethysts, and diamonds of the world are coming into the possession of Christian women. Who knows but the spirit of consecra- tion may some day come upon them, and it shall be again as it was in the time of Moses, that for the prosperity of the house of the Lord the women may bring their bracelets, and earrings, and tablets, and jewels ? The precious stones of earth will never have their proper place till they are set around the Pearl of Great Price. LOBD ULLIWS DA UGHTER. THOMAS CAMPBELL. ^1^ CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." . " Now who be ye, would cross Loch- This dark and stormy water ?" ' 0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. And this Lord Ullin's daughter. " And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover? '— Out spoke the hardy Highland wight. " I'll go, my chief — I'm readj'. It is not for your silver bright. But for your winsome lady." " And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So though the waves are raging white, I'll row 5'ou o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace ; The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. 552 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men — Their trampling sounded nearer. The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her — When, oh ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. •' 0, haste thee, haste !" the lady cries ; " Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing ; — Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; His wrath was changed to wailing, ANNABEL LEE. 553 For sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover ; One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. " Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, Across this stormy water ; " And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter ! — Oh, my daughter !" 'Twasvain : — the loud waves lashed the shore. Return or aid preventing ; The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. PER PACEM AD LUCEM. ADELAIDE ANNE PEOCTOR. DO not ask, Lord ! that life may be A pleasant road ; pf I do not ask that Thou wouldst take mh from me ^ Aught of its load ; il do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet ; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet. For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord ! I plead : Lead me aright — Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed — Through Peace to Light. I do not ask, Lord, that Thou shouldst shed Full radiance here ; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear. I do not ask my cross to understand. My way to see, — Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand, And follow Thee. Joy is like restless day, but peace divine Like quiet night. Lead me, Lord, till perfect day shall shine, Through Peace to Light. ANNABEL LEE. EDGAR ALLAN POE. ^T was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived, whom you may know. By the name of Annabel Lee ; I And this maiden she lived with no other I thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child, and she was a child. In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee, — With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee : 554 THE FIRE-BELL'S STORY. So that her high-born kinsmen came, Ami neither the angols in heaven above, And bore her away from me, Nor the demons down under the sea. To shut her up in a sepulchre, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul In this kingdom by the sea. Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. The angols, not so happy in heaven. For the moon never beams without bringing Went envying her and me. me dreams Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, In this kingdom by the sea, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright That the wind came out of the cloud by eyes night, Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side But our love it was stronger by far than the Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my love bride. Of those who were older than we. In her sepulchre there by the sea. Of many far wiser than we ; In her tomb by the sounding sea. THE FIRE-BELL'S STORY. GEORGE L . . n^-)^ . ?|«^iK(9iV(? — Dong — the bells rang out I ^Inji Over the housetops ; and then a shout Of " Fire ! " came echoing up the street. With the sound of eager, hurrying feet. Dong — Dong — the sonorous peal Came mingled with clatter of engine wheel And whistle shrill, and horse's hoof ; And lo ! from the summit of yonder roof A flame bursts forth, with a sudden glare. Dong — Dong— on the midnight air The sound goes ringing out over the town ; And hundreds already are hurrying down. Through the narrow streets, with breathless speed Following whither the engines lead. Dong — Dong — and from windows high Startled ones peer at the ruddy sky. And still the warning loud doth swell From the brazen throat of the iron-tongued bell, Sending a shudder, and sending a start To many a home, and many a heart. Up in yon tenement, where the glare . CATLIN. Shines dimly forth on the starlit air Through dingy windows ; where flame and smoke Already begin to singe and choke. See the affrighted ones look out In helpless terror, in horrible doubt. Begging for succor. Now behold The ladders, by arms so strong and bold, Are reared ; like squirrels the brave men climb To the topmost story. Indeed, 'twere time — " They all are saved !" said a voice below, And a shout of triumph went up." But no — " Not all — ah, no!" — 'twas a mother's shriek ; The cry of a woman, agonized, weak. Yet nerved to strength by her deep woe's power, " Great God, my child!" — even strong men cower 'Neath such a cry. " Oh, save my child!" She screamed in accents sorrowful, wild. Up the ladders, a dozen men Rushed in generous rivalry then, Bravely facing a terrible fate. Breathless the crowd below MOTHER'S VACANT CHAIR. 555 See ! There's one who has gained the sill Of yonder window. Now, with a will, He bursts the sash with his sturdy blow ; And it rattles down on the pave below. Now, he has disappeared from sight — Faces below are ashen and white. In that terrible moment. Then a cry Of joy goes up to the flame-lit sky — Goes up to welcome him back to life. God help him now in his terrible strife ! Once more he mounts the giddy sill. Cool and steady and fearless still ; Once more he grasps the ladder — see ! What is it he holds so tenderly ? Thousands of tearful, upturned eyes Are watching him now ; and with eager cries And sobs and cheerings, the air is rent As he slowly retraces the long descent, And the child is saved! Ah ! ye who mourn For chivalry dead, in the days long gone, And prate of the valor of olden time, Remember this deed of love sublime. And know that knightly deeds, and bold, Are as plentiful now as in days of old. MOTHERS VACANT CHAIR. T. DE WITT TALMAGE. pp GO a little farther on in your house, and I find the mother's chair. It dis is very apt to be a rocking-chair. She had so many cares and troubles to soothe, that it must have rockers, I remember it well. It was an old chair, and the rockers were almost worn out, for I was the youngest, and the chair had rocked the whole family. It made a creaking noise as it moved, but there was music in the sound. It was just high enough to allow us children to put our heads into her lap. That was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was. It was different from the father's chair — it was entirely different. You ask me how ? I cannot tell, but we all felt it was different. Perhaps there was about this chair more gentleness, more ten- derness, more grief when we had done wrong. When we were wayward, father scolded, but mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. In the sick days of children other chairs could not keep awake ; that chair always kept awake — kept easily awake. That chair knew all the old lullabies, and all those wordless songs which mothers sing to their sick children — songs in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influences are combined. That old chair has stopped rocking for a good many years. It may be set up in the loft or the garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. "When at midnight you went into that grog-shop to get the intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that said, " My son, why go in there ? " and a louder than the boisterous encore of the theatre, a voice saying, " My son, what do you here ? " And when you went into the house of 556 THE CLOSING SCENE. sin, a voice saying, " What would your mother do if she Icnew you were here ? " and you were provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with your own thoughts, and you went home and you went to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed than a voice said, "What a prayerless pillow ! " Man ! what is the matter ? This ! You are too near your mother's rocking chair. " Oh, pshaw ! '■ you say, " there's nothing in that. I'm five hundred miles off from where I was born — I'm three thousand miles off from the Scotch kirk whose bell was the first music I ever heard." I cannot help that. You are too near your mother's rocking-chair. "Oh !" you say, " there can't be anything in that ; that chair has been vacant a great while." I cannot help that. It is all the mightier for that ; it is omnipotent, that vacant mother's chair. It whispers. It speaks. It weeps. It carols. It mourns. It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went off and broke his mother's heart, and while he was away from home his mother died, and the telegraph brought the son, and he came into the room where she lay, and looked upon her face, and cried out, " mother, mother, what your life could not do your death shall effect. This moment I give my heart to God." And he kept his promise. Another victory for the vacant chair. With reference to your mother, the words of my text were fulfilled: "Thou shalt be missed because thy seat will be empty." THE CLOSING SCENE. T. BUCHANAN READ. i^ITHIN this sober realm of leafless The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills O'er the dim waters widening in the vales. Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed further and the streams sang low. As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow. The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight, The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint, And, like a star slow drowning in the light. The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. THE CLOSING SCENE. 557 The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew, — Crew thrice, and all was stiller than he- fore ; Silent till some replying wanderer blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay; within the elm's tall crest; Made garrulous trouble round the unt young: Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year : Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reapers of the rosy east — All now was songless, empty, and lor- lorn. And where the oriole hung her swaying nest By every light wind like a censer swung ; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves. The busy swallows circling ever near, Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom ; 558 GRADATIM. Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale. Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch — Amid all this, the centre of the scene. The white-haired matron, with monoto- nous tread. Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust ; And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom. Her country summoned, and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that drew, , And struck for liberty the dying blow ; Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremu- lous tune. At last the thread was snapped — her head was bowed : Life dropped the distaS' through his hands serene ; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud. While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene GRADATIM. J. G. HOLLA^'D. ^pEAVEN is not reached at a single l^^ll bound ; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the t^ vaulted skies, J And we mount to the summit round by round. I count this thing to be grandly true ; That a noble deed is a step toward God — Lifting the soul from the common sod To a purer air and a broader view. We rise by things that are under our feet ; By what we have mastered of good and gain ; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust. When the morning calls us to life and light; But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 559 We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray. And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. Winga for the angels, but feet for the men ! We may borrow the wings to find the way ; We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray ; But our feet must rise, or we fall again. Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. And we mount to the summit round by round. THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. THOMAS JEFFERSON. ^IS mind was great and powerful without being of the very first order : his penetration strong, and so far as he saw, no judgment was ever sounder. It was slow in operation, but sure in conclusion. Hence the common remark of his officers of the advantage he derived from councils of war, where, hearing all suggestions, he selected what- ever was best; and certainly no general ever planned his battles more judiciously. But if deranged during the course of the action, if any member of his plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow in a re-adjustment. The consequence was, that he often failed in the field, and rarely against an enemy in station, as at Boston and York. He was incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never acting until every circumstance, every consideration was maturely weighed; refraining if he saw a doubt, but when once decided, going through with his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever known; no motives of interest or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. He was, indeed, in every sense of the word, a wise, a good, and a great man. His temper was naturally irritable and high-toned ; but reflection and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendancy over it. If ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most tremendous in his wrath. In his expenses he was honorable, but exact ; liberal in contributions to whatever promised utility ; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary projects, and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm in its affections ; but ho exactly calculated every man's value, and gave him a 560 MARY GARVIN. solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know was fine, his stature exactly what one would wish ; his deportment easy, erect, and noble, the best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen on horseback. Although in the circle of his friends, where he might be unreserved with safety, he took a free share in conversation, his colloquial talents were not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas, nor fluency of words. In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he was unready, short, and embarrassed. Yet he wrote readily, rather dif- fusely, in an easy and correct style. This he had acquired by conversa- tion with the world, for his education was merely reading, writing, and common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day. His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only in agriculture and English history. His correspondence became necessarily extensive, and with journalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied most of his leisure hours withm doors. On the whole his character was, in its mass, perfect, in nothing bad, in a few points indifferent ; and it may truly be said, that never did nature and fortune combine more completely to make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation with what- ever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remembrance. For his was the singular destiny and merit of leading the armies of his country successfully through an arduous war, for the establishment of its indepen- dence ; of conducting its councils through the birth of a government, new in its forms and principles, until it had settled down into a quiet and orderly train. MARY GARVIN. J. G. WHITTIER. 5R0M the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's intervales ; There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow. As when Darby Field first saw them — two hundred years ago. But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams and mills, How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom of the hills, Since traveled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately Champernoon Heard on its banks the grey wolf's howl, the trumpet of the loon ! With smoking- axle hot with speed, with steeds of fire and steam, Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream. Still from the hurrying train of Life fly back- wards, far and fast. The milestones of the fathers, the land-marks of the past. MARY GARVIN. 561 But human hearts remain unchanged ; the sorrow and the sin, The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our own akin ; And if in tales our fathers told, the songs our mothers sung, Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is always j'oung. sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks to-day ! mill-girl, watching late and long the shut- tle's restless play ! Let, for the once, a listening ear the working hand beguile. And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear or smile ! The evening gun had sounded from gray Fort Mary's walls ; Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and plunged the Saco's falls ; And -westward on the sea-wind, that damp and gusty grew, Over cedars darkening inland, the smokes of Spurwink blew. On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the crackling walnut log ; Right and left sat dame and good man, and between them lay the dog. Head-on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside him on her mat, Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and purred the mottled cat. 38 "Twenty years!" said Goodman Garvin, speaking sadly, under breath, And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who speaks of death. The goodwife dropped her needles ; " It is twenty years to-day Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child away." Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the other's thought, Of a great and common sorrow, and words were needed not. " Who knocks ?" cried Goodman Garvin. The door was open thrown ; On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and furred, the fire-light shone ; One with courteous gesture liltelthe bear- skin from his head ; " Lives here Elkanah Garvin ?" " I am he," the goodman said. " Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is chill with rain." And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire amain. The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the fire- light glistened fair In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of dark brown hair. Dame Garvin looked upon her : " It is Mary's self I see ! Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, ha," my child come back to me ?" "My name indeed is Mary," said the stran- ger, sobbing wild ; '• Will you be to me a mother ? I am Mary Garvin's child ! " She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dying day She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk far away. " And when the priest besought her to do me no such wrong, 562 MAKY GARVIN. She said, 'May (iod forgive mc ! I have closed my heart too long. " ' When I hid me from my father, and shut out my mother's call, I sinned against those dear ones, and the Father ol us all. " ' Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks no tie of km apart ; Better heresy in doctrine, than herei-y of heart. " ' Tell me not the Church must censure ; she who wept the cross beside Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the claims of blood denied ; '• Amen !" the old man answered, as he brushed a tear away, And, kneeling by the hearthstone, said, with reverence, " Let us pray." All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew paraphrase, "Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayer of love and praise. But he started at beholding, as he rose from off his knee, The stranger cross his forehead with the sign of Papistrie. " What is this ?" cried Farmer Garvin. " la an English Christian's home " ' And if she who wronged her parents with her child atones to them, Earthly daughter. Heavenly mother ! thou at least wilt not condemn !' " So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed mother S[)ake ; As we come to do her bidding, so receive us for her sake." " God be praised !" said Goodwife Garvin ; " He taketh and he gives ; He woundeth, but he healeth ; in her child our daughter lives!" A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the sign of Rome?" Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed his trembling hand, and cried : " 0, forbear to chide, my father ; in that faith my mother died ! '■ On her wooden cross at Simeoe the dews and sunshine fall, As they fell on Spurwink's graveyard ; and the dear God watches all !" OUR DEBT TO IRVING. 563 The old man stroked the fair head that rested on his knee; " Your words, dear child," he answered, " are God's rebuke to me. " Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our faith and hope be one. Let me be your father's father, let him be to me a son." When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through the still and frosty air. From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called to sermon and to prayer. To the goodly house of worship, where, in order due and fit, As by public vote directed, classed and ranked, the people sit ; Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squire before the clown, From the brave coat lace embroidered, to the gray frock shading down ; From the pulpit read the preacher, — " Good- man Garvin and his wife Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness hath followed them through life. " For the great and crowning mercy, that their daughter, from the wild, Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), has sent to them her child ; " And the prayers of all God's people they ask, that they may prove Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such special proof of love." As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple stood, And the fair Canadian also, in her mode.-t maidenhood. Thought the elders, grave and doubting, " She is Papist born and bred "; Thought the young men, " 'Tis an angel in Mary Garvin's stead !" OUR DEBT TO IRVINa. CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. -^ ^HE service that Irving rendered to American letters no critic dis- putes, nor is there any question of our national indebtedness to him for investing a crude and new land with the enduring charms of romance and tradition. In this respect, our obligation to him f is that of Scotland to Scott and Burns ; and it is an obligation 1 due only, in all history, to here and there a fortunate creator to whose genius opportunity is kind. The Knickerbocker Legend and the romance wij:h which Irving has invested the Hudson are a priceless legacy ; and this would remain an imperishable possession in popular tradition if the literature creating it were destroyed. His position in American litem- 564 OUR DEBT TO IRVING. ture, or in that of the English tongue, will be determined only by the slow settling of opinion, which no critic can foretell, and the operation of which no criticism seems able to explain. I venture to believe, however, that the verdict will not be in accord with much of the present prevalent criticism. Irving was always the literary man; he had the habits, the idiosyn- crasies of the literary man. I mean that he regarded life not from the philanthropic, the economic, the poHtical, the philosophic, the metaphy- sic, the scientific or the theologic, but purely from the literary point of view. He belongs to that class of which Johnson and Goldsmith are perhaps as good types as any, and to which America has added very few. The literary point of view is taken by few in any generation ; it may seem to the world of very little consequence in the pressure of all the complex interests of life, and it may even seem trivial "amid the tremendous ener- gies applied to immediate affairs; but it is the point of view that endures ; if its creations do not mould human life, like the Eoman law, they remain to charm and civilize, like the poems of Horace. You must not ask more of them than that. And this leads me to speak of Irving's moral quality, which I cannot bring myself to exclude from a literary estimate, even in the face of the current gospel of art for art's sake. There is something that made Scott and Irving personally loved by the millions of their readers, who had only the dimmest ideas of their personality. This was some quality perceived in what they wrote. Each one can define it for himself; there it is, and I do not see why it is not as integral a part of the authors — an element in the estimate of their future position — as what we term their intellect, their knowledge, their skill, or their art. However you rate it, you cannot account for Irving's influence in the world without it. In his tender tri- bute to Irving, the great-hearted Thackeray, who saw as clearly as anybody the place of mere literary art in the sum total of life, quoted the dying words of Scott'to Lockhart, "Be a good man, my dear." We know well enough that the great author of " The Newcomes " and the great author of " The Heart of Midlothian " recognized the abiding value in literature of integrity, sincerity, purity, charity, faith. These are beneficences ; and Irving's literature, walk round it and measure it by whatever critical in- struments you will, is a beneficent literature. The author loved good women and little children and a pure life ; he had faith in his fellow-men, a kindly sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience to the highest ; he retained a belief in the possibility of chivalrous actions, and did not care THE GLADIATOR. 565 to envelop them in a cynical suspicion ; he was an author still capable of an enthusiasm. His books are wholesome, full of sweetness and charm, of humor without any sting, of amusement without any stain ; and their more sohd qualities are marred by neither pedantry nor pretension. THE GLADIATOR. J. A. JONES. I|HEY led a lion from his. den, *- The lord of Afric's sun-scorched plain; And there he stood, stern foe of men, And shook his flowing mane. There's not of all Rome's heroes, ten That dare abide this game. His bright eye naught of lightning lacked ; His voice was like the cataract. They brought a dark-haired man along, Whose limbs with gyves of brass were bound ; Youthful he seemed, and bold, and strong, And yet unscathed of wound. Blithely he stepped among the throng, And careless threw around A dark eye, such as courts the path Of him who braves a Dacian's wrath. Then shouted the plebeian crowd, — Rung the glad galleries with the sound ; And from the throne there spake aloud A voice, — " Be the bold man unbound ! And, by Rome's sceptre, yet unbowed, By Rome, earth's monarch crowned, Who dares the bold, the unequal strife, Though doomed to death, shall save his life." Joy was upon that dark man's face : And thus, with laughing eye, spake he : " Loose ye the lord of Zaara's waste. And let my arms be free : ' He has a martial heart,' thou sayest ; But oh ! who will not be A hero, when he fights for life, For home and country, babes and wife? " And thus I for the strife prepare : The Thracian falchion to me bring, But ask th' imperial leave to spare The shield, — a useless thing. Were I a Samnite's rage to dare, Then o'er me would I fling The broad orb ; but to lion's wrath The shield were but a sword of lath." And he has bared his shining blade, And springs he on the shaggy foe ; Dreadful the strife, but briefly played ; — The desert-king lies low : His long and loud death-howl is made ; And there must end the show. And when the multitude were calm. The favorite freedman took the palm. " Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside !" He knelt, that dark man ; — o'er his brow Was thrown a wreath in crimson dyed ; And fair words gild it now : " Thou art the bravest youth that ever tries To lay a lion low ; And from our presence forth thou go'st To lead the Dacians of our host." Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride, And grieved and gloomily spake he : " My cabin stands where blithely glide Proud Danube's waters to the sea : I have a young and blooming bride, And I have children three ; — No Roman wealth or rank can give Such joy as in their arms to live. " My wife sits at the cabin door, With throbbing heart and swollen eyes ;— 566 THE RIVER PATH. While tears her cheek are coursing o'er, She speaks of sundered ties ; She bids my tender babes deplore The death their father dies ; She tells these jewels of my home, I bleed to please the rout of Rome I cannot let those cherubs stray Without their sire's protecting care ; And I would chase the griefs away Which cloud my wedded fair." The monarch spoke ; the guards obey ; The gates unclosed are : He's gone ! No golden bribes divide The Dacian from his babes and bride. THE RIVER PATH. JOHN G. WHITTIER. ij^lpO bird song floated down the hill, ll^j^ The tangled bank below was still ; '#^W No rustle from the birchen stem, my No ripple from the water's hem. The dusk of twilight round us grew. We felt the falling of the dew, For from us, ere the day was done, The wooded hills shut out the sun. But on the river's farthest side We saw the hill-tops, glorified, — A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare. With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; While dark, through willowy vistas seen, The river rolled in shade between. From out the darkness where we trod, We gazed upon those hills of God, Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. We spake not, but our thought was one. We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear ! THE CROWDED STREETS. i67 Sudden our pathway turned from night ; The hills swung open to the light; Through their green gates the sunshine showed, A long, slant splendor downward flowed. Do'.vn glade and glen and bank it rolled ; It bridged and shaded stream with gold ; And borne on piers of mist, allied The shadowy with the sunlit side. "So," prayed we, " when our feet draw near The river dark, with mortal fear, And the night cometh chill wi:h dew, Father ! let thy light break through. " So let the hills of doubt divide, So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! So let the eyes that fail on earth On thy eternal hills look forth ; And in thy beckoning angels know The dear ones whom we loved below !" DOT LAMBS WHAT MARY HAF GOT '"^- VPiY haf got a leetle lambs already , Dose vool vos yite like shnow , Und efery times dot Mary did vend ouJ, Dot lambs vent also out, wid Mary. Dot lambs dit follow Mary von day of der school-house, Vich vos obbosition to der rules of her school-master ; Also, vich ir did caused dose schillen to smile out loud, Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides ov der school-house. Und so dot school-master dit kick der lambs gwick oud ; Likewise dot lambs dit loaf around on dei outsider, Und did shoo der flies mit his tail oil patiently aboud — Until Mary did come also from dot school- house oud. Und den dot lambs did run right away gwick to Mary, • Und dit make his hot gwick on Mary's arms. Like he would said, " I don't was s -hared, Mary would kejit me from droubles ena- how !" " Vot vos der reason aboud it, of dot lambs und Mary ?" Dose schillen did ask it dot school-master : " Veil, don'd you know it. dot Mary lofo dose lambs already ?" Dot school-master did said. THE CEO WDED STREETS. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. gSipET me move slowly through the street, How fast the flitting figures come ^i| Filled with an ever-shifting train Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain. The mild, the fierce, the stony face — Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, anl some Where secret tears have left their trace, 5G8 JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT. They pass to toil, to strife, to rest — To halls in which the feast is spread — To charrbers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the bed. And some to happy homes repair. Where children pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak. And some who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more. Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye, Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to diC ? Keen son of trade, with eager brow, Who is now fluttering in thy snare. Thy golden fortunes tower they now. Or melt the glittering spires in air ? Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleams again ? To sorrow o'er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? Some, famine struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light ; And some, who flaunt amid the throng. Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. Each where his tasks or pleasure call, They pass and heed each other not ; There is one who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought. These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end. JER USALEM B Y MOONLIGHT. BENJAMIN DISRAELI. I^HIHE broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam ^^M has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, •^"^^^ the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full i falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined I in its silvery blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers, and fre- quent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it en- circles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous than those of Rome ; for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are igno- rant of the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts. The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David ; nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, alas ! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one ; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool ; farther on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief because there the most illustrious of the human as well JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT. 569 as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son of the most favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering and shame, which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honor; passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedeck built his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial capital ; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped before every altar in Eome. The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among the cypress groves. The palm tree trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze that has traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea? Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that they could not save ? Their spirits surely would linger on the land where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omni- potence had shed human tears. Who can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel as- semble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city ? There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands ; but the law-giver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed ; the monarch whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth ; the teacher whose doctrines have modeled civilized Europe ; the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, and the greatest of reformers ; what race, extinct or living, can produce three such men as these ? The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing breeze has become a moaning wind ; a white film spreads over the purple sky ; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid ; all becomes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David merges into obscurity ; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque ot Omar ; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be dis- cerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon-light. 570 BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. £A TTLE OF LOOKO UT MO UNTAIK GEORGE H. BOKER. me but two brigades," said Hooker, frowning at fortified Lookout, And I'll engage to sweep yon mountain clear of that mocking rebel rout!" At early morning came an order that set the general's face aglow ; " Now," said he to hia staff, " draw out my soldiers. Grant sa3-s that I may go !" Hither and thither dash'd each eager colonel to join his regiment. BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 571 Whilft a low rumor of the daring purpose ran on from tent to tent ; For the long-roll was sounded in the valley, and the keen trumpet's bray, And the wild laughter of the swarthy veter- ans, who cried, " We fight to-day!" The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of the great jolting gun, The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds neighing, "Why's not the fight begun ?"' — All these plain harbingers of sudden conflict broke on the startled ear ; And, last, arose a sound that made your blood leap — the ringing battle cheer. The lower works were carried at one onset. Like a vast roaring sea Of le^d and fire, our soldiers from the trench- es swept out the enemy ; And we could see the gray coats swarm.ing up from the mountain's leafy base. To join their comrades in the higher fastness — for life or death the race ! Then our long line went winding round the mountain, in a huge serpent track. And the slant sun upon it flash'd and glim- mer'd, as on a dragon's back. Higher and higher the column's head push'd onward, ere the rear moved a man ; And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling volleys and single shots began. Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and bellow'd, and all its batteries woke, And down the mountain pour'd the bomb- shells, puffing into our eyes their smoke ; And balls and grape-shot rained upon our col- umn, that bore the angry shower As if it were no more than that soft dropping which scarcely stirs the flower. Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, and runs through all his men ! The heart that fail'd beside the Rappahan- nock, it was itself again ! The star that circumstance and jealous faction shrouded in envious night. Here shone with all the splendor of its na- ture, and w ith a freer flight ! Hark ! hark ! there go the well-known cra,h- ing volleys, the long-continued roar. That swells and falls, but never ceases wholly, until the fight is o'er. Up towards the crystal gates of heaven ascen- ding, the mortal tempests beat. As if they sought to try their cause together before God's very feet ! We saw our troops had gain'd a footing al- most beneath the topmost ledge, And back and forth the rival lines went surg- ing upon the dizzy edge. Sometimes we saw our men fall backward slowly, and groaned in our despair ; Or cheer'd when now and then a stricken rebel plunged out in open air, Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms drop- ping, his God alone knows where ! At eve, thick haze upon the mountain gath- ered, with rising smoke stain'd black, And not a glimpse of the contending armies shone through the swirling rack. Night fell o'er all ; but still they flash'd their lightnings and rolled their thunders loud. Though no man knew upon what side was going that battle in the cloud. Night! what a night! — of anxious thought and wonder : but still no tidings came From the bare summit of the trembling moun- tain, still wrapp'd in mist and flame. But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more dreadful than the fierce sound of war. Settled o'er Nature, as if she stood breathless before the morning star. As the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor boil'd from the valley's deeps, Dragging their torn and ragged edges slowly up through the tree-clad steeps. And rose and rose, till Lookout, like a vision, above us grandly stood, And over his black crags and storm-blanch'J headlands burst the warm, golden flood. Thousands of eyes were fix'd upon the moun- tain, and thousands held their breath. And the vast army, in the valley watching seem'd touched with sudden death. 572 JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISrUTE. High o'er us soP;re(l great Lookout, robed in purple, a glory on his face, A human meaning in his hard, calm features, beneath that heavenly grace. Out on a crag walk'd something — What? an eagle that treads yon giddy height ? Surely no man ! But still he clamber'd for- ward into the full, rich light ; Then up he started, with a sudden motion, and from the blazing crag Flung to the morning breeze and sunny ra- diance the dear old starry flag ! Ah ! then what follow'd ? Scarr'd and war- worn soldiers, like girls, flush'd through their tan. And down the thousand wrinkles of the bat- tles a thousand tear-drops ran ; Men seized each other in return'd embraces, and sobbed for very love ; A spirit which made all that moment broth- ers seem'd falling from above. And, as we gazed, around the mountains summit our glittering files appear'd ; Into the rebel works we saw them marching ; and we — we cheer'd, we cheer'd ! And they above waved all their flags before us, and join'd our frantic shout, Standing, like demigods, in light and triumph, upon their own Lookout ! JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISPUTE. EGBERT LEIGHTON. ^OHN Davisor. and Tibbie, his wife, ^ Sat toasi,ing their taes ae nicht When something startit in the fluir. And blinkit by their sicht. " Guidwife," quoth John, " did ye see that moose ?" Whar sorra was the cat?" " A moose ?" " Aye, a moose." " Na, na, guid- man, It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat." * Ow, ow, guidwife, to think ye've been Sae lang aboot the hoose. An' no to ken a moose frae a rat ! Yon was'na a rat! 'twas a moose." " I've seen mair mice than you, guidman — An' what think ye o' that? Sae baud your tongue an' say nae mair I tell ye, it was a rat." Me hand my tongue for you, guidwife ! I'll be mester o' this hoose — I saw't as plain as een could see't. An' I te'il ye, it was a moose!" " If you're the mester o' the hoose It's I'm the mistress o't ; An' I ken best what's in the hoose, Sae I tell ye it was a rat." " Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose, An' ca' it what ye please." So up she rose and made the brose, While John sat toasting his taes. They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, And aye their lips played smack ; They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, Till their lugs began to crack. " Sic fules we were to fa' oot guidwife, Aboot a moose — " "A what ? It's a lee ye tell, an' I say it again. It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat !" " Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? " My faith, but ye craw croose ! I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear't — 'Twas a moose!" " 'Twas a rat !" " 'Twas I" THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 573 Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow — " Ye dour auld doit, tak' that ; Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph — 'Twas a rat! 'Twas a moose! 'Twas a rat!" She sent the brose caup at his heels, As he hirpled ben the hoose ; Yet he shoved oot his head as he streekit the door, And cried, " 'Twas a moose! 'twas a moose!" But when the carle was fast asleep She paid him back for that, And roared into his sleeping lug, " 'Twas a rat ! 'twas a rat ! 'twas a rat The de'il be wi' me if I think It was a beast ava ! — Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir, She faund wee Johnnie's ba' ! THE BELLS OF SHANDOK FATHER PROUT. dTH 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, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine ; While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate ; But all their music Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free. Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand, The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heal^Psells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in. Their thunder rolling From the Vatican ; And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. ! 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, In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summits Of tall minarets. 674 SIGHTS ON THE SEA. Such empty phantom 'Tis the bells of Shandon, I freely grant them ; That sound so grand, on But there's an anthem The pleasant waters More dear to me — Of the river Lee. SIGHTS ON THE SEA. WASHINGTON IRVING. iJUlpO one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, ^i^ ~ a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are '''^^^ the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract J the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quar- ter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow -^memmm^v: THE PORPOISE. of the ship; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of ST. JOHN THE AGED. 575 the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; ana of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into communication ; . has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has difi'used the light of know- ledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep ; silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! What prayers ofiered up at the deserted fireside of home ! . How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of more ! " ST. JOHN THE AGED. I'M growing very old. This weary ! Is bent and hoary with its weight of years, head ' The limbs that followed Him my Master oft. That hath so often leaned on Jesus' •■ From Galilee to Judah ; yea, that stood breast | Beneath the cross, and trembled with Hi) In days long past, that seem almost i groans, a dream — Refuse to bear me even throucrh the streets, 576 ST. JOHN THE AGED. To preach unto my children. Even my lips Refuse to form the words my heart sends forth. My ears are dull ; they scarcely hear the sobs Of my dear children gathered round my couch ; My eyes so dim they cannot see the tears. God lays His hand upon me — yea, His hand, And not His rod — the gentle hand that I Felt those three years, so often pressed in mine, In friendship such as passeth woman's love. ■" I'm old, so old ! I cannot recollect The faces of my friends, and I forget The words and deeds that make up daily life; But that dear face, and every word He spoke, Grow more distinct as others fade away ; So that I live with Him and holy dead More than with living. "Some seventy years ago I was a fisher by the sacred sea ; It was at sunset. How the tranquil tide Bathed dreamily the pebbles ! How the light Crept up the distant hills, and in its wake Soft purple shadows wrapped the dewy fields ; And then He came and called me : then I For the first time on that sweet face. Those eyes From out of which, as from a window, shono Divinity, looked on my inmost soul. And lighted it forever. Then His words Broke on the silence of my heart, and made The whole world musical. Incarnate Love Took hold of me, and claimed me for its own ; I followed in the twilight, holding fast His mantle. " Oh ! what holy walks we had Through harvest fields, and desolate, dreary wastes ; And oftentimes He leaned upon my arm. Weary and wayworn. I was young and strong. And so upbore Him. Lord ! now / am weak. And old, and feeble. Let me rest on Thee ! So put Thine arm around me closer still ! How strong Thou art ! The daylight draws apace ; Come, let us leave these noisy streets, and take The path to Bethany ; for Mary's smile Awaits us at the gate, and Martha's hands Have long prepared the cheerful evening meal ; Come, James, the Master waits, and Peter, see, Has gone some steps before. " What say you, friends ? That this is Ephesus, and Christ has gone Back to His kingdom? Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so. I know it all ; and yet, just now, I seemed To stand once more upon my native hills. And touch my Master. 0, how oft I've seen The touching of His garments bring back strength To palsied limbs ! I feel it has to mine. Up ! bear me to my church once more, There let me tell them of a Saviour's love ; For by the sweetness of my Master's voice Just now, I think He must be very near — Coming, I trust, to break the vail which time Hath worn so thin that I can see beyond, And watch His footsteps. " So raise up my head ; How dark it is ! I cannot seem to see The faces of my flock. Is that the sea That murmurs so, or is it weeping ! Hush .' ' My little children ! God so loved the world He gave His Son ; so love ye one another, Love God and men. Amen.' Now bear me back ; My legacy unto an angry world is this. I feel my work is finished. Are the streets so full ? What call the flock my name? the Holy John ? HE KNOWS. 577 Nay, write me rather, Jesus Christ's beloved, And lover of my children. " Lay me down Once more upon my couch, and open wide The eastern window. See ! there comes a light. Like that which broke upon my soul at e'en, When, in the dreary isle of Patmos, Gabriel came. And touched me on the shoulder. See ! it grows. As when we mounted towards the pearly gates ; I know the way ! I trod it once before. And hark ! it is the song the ransomed sung, Of glory to the Lamb ! How loud it sounds ; And that unwritten one ! Methinks my soul Can join it now. But who are these who crowd The shining way?* Say! joy! 'tis the eleven! With Peter first ; how eagerly he looks I How bright the smiles are beaming on James' face! I am the last. Once more we are complete To gather round the Paschal feast. " My place Is next my Master — ! my Lord ! my Lord ! How bright Thou art, and yet the very same I loved in Galilee ! 'Tis worth the hundred years To feel this bliss ! So lift me up, dear Lord, Unto Thy bosom. There shall I abide." HE KNOWS. MARY G. BEAINARD. KNOW not what will befall me ! God hangs a mist o'er my eyes; And o'er each step of my onward path He makes new scenes to rise, And every joy He sends to me Comes as a sweet and glad surprise. I see not a step before me. As I tread the days of the year, But the past is still in God's keeping, The future His merc)^ shall clear, And what looks dark in the distance, May brighten as I draw near. For perhaps the dreaded future Has less bitterness than I think ; The Lord may sweeten the water Before I atoop to drink. Or, if Marah must be Marah, He will stand beside its brink. It may be there is waiting For the coming of my feet. Some gift of such rare blessedness. Some joy so strangely sweet, 39 That my lips can only tremble With the thanks I cannot speak. 0, restful, blissful ignorance ! 'Tis blessed not to know. It keeps me quiet in those arms Which will not let me go. And hushes my soul to rest On the bosom which loves me so. So I go on not knowing ! I would not if I might; I would rather walk on in the dark with God, Than go alone in the light, I would rather walk with Him by faith, Than walk alone by sight. My heart shrinks back from trials W'hich the future may disclose. Yet I never had a sorrow But what the dear Lord chose; So I send the coming tears back. With the whispered word " He knows." 578 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. THE SOLDIERS DREAM. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Hl^^^UR bugles sang truce, for the night- ^^^ cloud had lowered, ^jf^";!:^ Aud the sentinel stars set their watch - in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered : The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track : 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. I How to thn pleasant fields, traversed so oi. In life's morning march when my bosoui was young ; I heard my own mountain -goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung. OLD COACHING DAY£ 579 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her full- ness of heart. Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary and worn ! And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn. And the voice in my dreaming ear melted OLD COACHING DAYS. c JOHN POOLE. KETUENED to Eeeves's Hotel, College Green, where I was lodging. The individual who, at this time, so ably filled the important office of " Boots " at the hotel was a character. Be it remembered that, in his youth, he had been discharged from his place for omitting to i call a gentleman, who was to go by one of the morning coaches, and el who, in consequence of such neglect, missed his journey. My slumbers were fitful— disturbed. Horrible dreams assailed me. Series of watches each pointing to the hour of four passed slowly before me — then, time-pieces — dials of larger size — and at last, enormous steeple- clocks, all pointing to four, four, four. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream, and endless processions of watchmen moved along, each mournfully dinning in my ears, '•' Past four o'clock." At length I was attacke<l by nightmare. Methought I was an hour-glass — old Father Time bestrode me — he pressed upon me with unendurable weight — fearfully and threateningly did he wave his scythe above my head — he grinned at me, struck three blows, audible blows, with the handle of his scythe, on my breast, stooped his huge head, and shrieked in my ear — " Vor o'clock, zur ; I zay it be vore o'clock." It was the awful voice of Boots. "Well, I hear you," groaned I. "But I doant hear you. Vor o'clock, zur." "Very well, very well, that'll do." " Beggin' your pardon, but it woan't do, zur. 'Ee must get up — past vore, zur." And he thundered away at the door ; nor did he cease knocking till 1 580 OLD COACHING DAYS. was fairly up, and had shown myself to him in order to satisfy him of the fact. "That'll do, zur; 'ee told I to carl'ee, and I hope I ha' carld'ee property." I lit my taper at the rushlight. On opening a window-shutter, I was regaled with the sight of a fog, a parallel to which London itself, on one of its most perfect November days, could scarcely have produced. A dirty drizzling rain was falHng. My heart sank within me. It was now twenty minutes past four. I was master of no more than forty disposable minutes, and, in that brief space, what had I not to do ! The duties of the toilet were indispensable — the portmanteau m,ust be packed — and, run as fast as I might, I could not get to the coach-office in less than ten minutes. Hot water was a luxury not to be procured; at that villainous hour not a human being in the house (nor, do I firmly believe, in the universe entire,) had risen — my unfortunate self, and my companion in wretchedness, poor Boots, excepted. The water in the jug was frozen ; but, by dint of ham- mering upon it with the handle of the poker, I succeeded in enticing out about as much as would have filled a tea-cup. Two towels, which had been left wet in the room, were standing on a chair, bolt upright, as stiflF as the poker itself, which you might almost as easily have bent. The tooth-brushes were riveted to the glass in which I had left them, and of which, (in my haste to disengage them from their stronghold,) they carried away a fragment ; the soap was cemented to the dish ; my shaving-brush was a mass of ice. In shape more appalling discomfort had never ap- peared on earth. I approached the looking-glass. Even had all the materials for the operation been tolerably thawed, it was impossible to use a razor by such a light. "Who's there?" " Now, if 'ee please, zur ; no time to lose ; only twenty-vive minutes to vive." I lost my self-possession — I have often wondered that morning did not unsettle my mind. There was no time for the performance of anything like a comfortable toilet. I resolved, therefore, to defer it altogether till the coach should stop to breakfast. " I'll pack my portmanteau ; that viust be done." In went whatever happened to come first to hand. In my haste, I had thrust in, amongst my own things, one of mine host's frozen towels. Everything must come out again. "Who's there?" "Now, zur; 'ee'l be too late, zur." THE PENNY YE MEANT TO GI'E. 581 " Coming ! " Everything was now gathered together — the portmanteau would not lock. No matter, it must be content to travel to town in a deshabille of straps. Where were my boots ? In my hurry I had packed away both pair. It was impossible to travel to London on such a day in sHppers. Again was everything to be undone. " Now, zur, coach be going." The most unpleasant part of the ceremony of hanging (scarcely ex- cepting the closing act) must be the hourly notice given to the culprit of the exact length of time he has to live. Could any circumstance have added much to the miseries of my situation, most assuredly it would have been those unfeeling reminders. "I'm coming," again replied I, with a groan. " I have only to pull on my boots." They were both left-footed ! Then must I open the rascally portm.anteau again. " Please, zur " "What in the name of the do you want now ? " " Coach be gone, please zur." " Gone ! Is there a chance of my overtaking it ? ' " Bless 'ee ! noa zur ; not as Jem Eobbins do droive. He be vive mile off by now." " You are certain of that ? " " I warrant'ee, zur." At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was almost a compensa- tion for all my sufferings past. " Boots," said I, " you are a kind-hearted creature, and I will give you an additional half-crown. Let the house be kept perfectly quiet, and desire the chamber-maid to call me " " At what o'clock, zur ? " " This day three months at the earliest ! " ''THE PENNY YE MEANT TO GI'E." ^KI^TIERE'S a funny tale of a stingy man, | When the sexton came with his begging ^H^ Who was none too good, but might 'SX^ have been worse, ^"i^ Who went to his church on a Sun- el day night, i* And carried along his well filled J purse. plate. The church was but dim with the candle's light ; The stingy man fumbled all through hif purse, And chose a coin by touch, and not sight. 582 MY PLAYMATE. It's an odd thing, now, that guineas should be So like unto pennies in shape and size. " I'll give a penny," the stingy man said : " The poor must not gifts of pennies de- The penny fell down with a clatter and ring! And back in his seat leaned the stingy man. " The world is so full of the poor," he thought : " I can't help them all — I give what I can." Ha, ha ! how tke sexton smiled, to be sure. To see the gold guinea fall into his plate ! Ha, ha ! how the stingy man's heart was wrung. Perceiving his blunder, but just too late ! "No matter," he said: "in the Lord's ac- count That guinea of gold is set down to me. They lend to him who give to the poor ; It will not so bad an investment be." " Na, na, men," the chuckling sexton cried out: " The Lord is na cheated — He kens thee well; He knew it was only by accident That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell ' " He keeps an account, na doubt, for the puir : But in that account He'll set down to thee Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon. Than the one bare penny ye meant to gi'e !" There's a comfort, too, in the little tale — A serious side as well as a joke ; A comfort for all the generous poor. In the comical words the sexton spoke ; A comfort to think that the good Lord knows How generous we really desire to be, And will give us credit in his account For all the pennies we long " to gi'e." MY PLAYMATE. JOHN G. WHITTIEE. ^i[||iHE pines were dark on Raraoth Hill, ^IS*; Their song was soft and low ; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear ; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year. For more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home. And took with her the laughing spring The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine : What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine ? SHIBBOLETH. 583 She left us in the bloom of May : The constant years told o'er Their seasons w_ith as sweet May morns, But she came back no more. I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of nneventful years ; Still o'er and o'er I sow the Spring And reap the Autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jeweled hands She smooths her silken gown, — No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down. The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill. And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of FoUymill. The lilies blossom m the pond, The birds build in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea. I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems, — If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams. I see her face, I hear her voice ; Does she remember mine ? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine ? What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, — That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers ? O playmate in the golden time ! Our mossy seat is green. Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean. The winds So sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow ; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago. And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea, — The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee ! SHIBBOLETH. Then said they unto him : " Say now Shibboleth ;" and lie said Sibboleth. They took him and slew him at the pjissages of Jordan ; and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites, forty and two thousand. Judges xii. 6. , «^Y^^ ■ E. H. J. CLEVELAND. |OWN to the stream they flying go ; Right on the border stand the foe, — Stand the foe, and this threat they make : " Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take !" Up to his desk the good man goes, Down in the pews they sit, his foes, — Sit his foes, and this threat they make : "Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take! Say : Remember the Sabbath day. In it ye neither shall work nor play ; Say it commences on Saturday night, — Just about early candle-light; Or, to make it a little surer still. When the sun goes down behind the hill ; And if the sun sets at half-past four, Close the shutters, and bar the door ; Tell the strangers your gates within That to do otherwise is a sin ; And at half-past four on the following day, Take out your knitting, and work or play- For the Lord allows, in his law sublime, Twenty-four hours for holy time ; Thus you must speak our Shibboleth." Nothing daunted, the good man saith. 584 SHIBBOLETH. "Ye must remember the Sabbath day — In it ye neither shall work nor play, Tell the strangers your gates within That to do otherwise is a sin. But at twelve o'clock it begins, I'm sure. Not on Saturday at half-past four ! A.nd at twelve o'clock at night it ends — This is the fourth command, my friends." Down sits the parson in his seat. Up rise his enemies from the pit ; " Off with his head !" they wrathful say, " How he abuses our Sabbath day !" Up comes another to take his place. Heated and panting from the chase, And again the foe their menace make : " Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take ! Say that the Lord made bond and free. Slavery's an evil, not sin per se ; Slaves there have been from the first man's fall, And a righteous God upholds it all. This is the pass-word — speak it plain." And the good man answers back again, " I know that the Lord made bond and free All of one blood — ' and cursed is he,' Saith a righteous God in his holy ire, 'Who useth service and giveth no hire ! ' " " This man will never our Shibboleth say !" Thus cry the foe, as they eager lay Their violent hands on the clerical crown, " He is not one of us — hew him down !" And again to the next in the sacred desk, They look from below and propound this text: " Say that we fell in Adam's fall, And that in Adam we sinned all ; Say that in him we all are dead. Else you'll oblige us to take your head." A moment they wait to hear the word, But shout as soon as his voice is heard, " Oh, hear ye now what this rebel saith ? Sibboleth only — not Shibboleth." Another cry in the stifled air. Another head with its gory hair By the rolling stream, and another threat The dire assassins are making yet : " Shibboleth say, and the stream shall flow Right and left as you onward go ; Sibboleth say, and your head shall fall Right in the pass, as fell they all. Say that our sins we must all forsake — That the yoke of Christ we rnust willing take ; Our tongues from evil we mui3t restrain. And from the alluring cup abstain ; But we have made an amendment fair, And due allowance, here and there. For such as have but little grace, — Every one understands the case; We who are young in grace must grow, But still in the ways of folly go ; We must have our pleasures, and perchance Amuse ourselves in a little dance , And we who are somewhat older grown — Though our lips are the Lord's and not our own, — Must now and then be allowed to speak. Though our words be truly not over meek ; And should we happen to speak in a hurry, Why surely the parson needn't worry, — Not even though we should blast his fame, For the poor church members are not to blame ; And though we are not inclined to drink Of the sparkling cup, yet we surely think It will never answer to fully put down The sale of the article in our town. These things we vyillingly, freely tell, That you may learn our Shibboleth well. Thus do we all of our sins forsake, And the yoke of Christ thus easy take. For hath He not called the burden li(/ht* Shibboleth say, as we indite." But "Be ye holy," he calmly saith ; " Brethren, this is my Shibboleth." A sudden cry and a sudden gleam Of a glancing sword by the crimson stream, And " Off with his head !" they vengeful cry, " He is an Ephrairaite, — let hira die ;" And quick dispatch him with all their might, Just as another one comes in sight. Glad welcome give to the next who stands With the " bread of life " in his pious hands. SELLING A COAT. 585 In his pious hands, and they iiear him through, " We believe it all, and so do you ; But this is not enough to say, We must have it said in a particular way — Say that the sinner can't repent Without the Spirit is on him sent; To the email word cant, have a due regard. Else things will be apt to go very hard." But the good man says : " He can, but won't; 1 know that my danger is imminent." And they quick reply, " We're sorry to make Such a very small word as this to take Your head from your shoulders, — thus, — entire, — But you have incurred our holy ire ;* The meaning of both is the same, 'tis true. But such an excuse will never do ; 'Tis a very important word, my friend, You wiU please to perceive you are near your end." Forty-two thousand fell that day. Forty-two thousand bodies lay Of the Ephraimites, in the narrow way That led to the running river. Forty-two thousand more will fall. For when they accept the " unanimous call " They may be assured they have staked their ali By the theological river. For still to the crossing do they hie, And still the " Shibboleth " eager try, But stop in the narrow pass to die, And go not over the river. SELLING A COAT. fftw^ STORY is told of a clothing merchant on Chatham Street, New York, who kept a very open store and drove a thriving trade, tho natural consequence being that he waxed wealthy and indolent. He finally concluded to get an assistant to take his place on the sidewalk to " run in" customers, while he himself would enjoy his otium cum dig within the store. Having advertised for a suiiaoie clerk, he awaited applications, determined to engage none but a good talker who would be sure to promote his interest. Several unsuccessful applicants were dismissed, when a smart looking Americanized Jew came along and applied for the situation. The '' boss" was determined not to engage the fellow without proof of his thorough capability and sharpness. Hence the following dialogue: " Look here, young man ! I told you somedings. I vill gone up de street und valk me back past dis shop yust like I vas coundrymans, and if you can make me buy a coat of you, I vill hire you right away quick." " All right," said the young man, " go ahead, and if I don't sell you a coat I won't ask the situation." The proprietor proceeded a short distance up the street, then sauntered back toward the shop, where the young man was on the alert for him. " Hi ! look here ! Don't you want some clothes to-day ?" 586 SELLING A COAT. " No, I don't vant me nothing," returned the boss. " But step inside and let me show you what an elegant stock we have," said the '' spider to the fly," catching him by the arm, and forcing him into the store. After considerable palaver, the clerk expectant got down a coat, on the merits of which he expatiated at length, and finally offered it to "the countryman" at thirty dollars, remarking that it was '' dirt cheap." " Dirty tollar ? My kracious ! I vouldn't give you dwenty. But I don't vant de coat anyvays." "You had better take it, my friend; you don't get a bargain like this every day." " No ; I don't vant it. I gone me out. Good-day." " Hold on ! don't be in such a hurry," answered the anxious clerk. " See here, now the boss has been out all day, and I haven't sold a dollar's worth. I want to have something to show when he comes back, so take the coat at twenty-five dollars ; that is just what it cost. I don't make a cent on it ; but take it along." " Young mans, don'd I told you three, four, couple of dimes dat I don't vant de coat?" " Well, take it at twenty dollars ; I'll lose money on it, but I want to make one sale anyhow, before the boss comes in. Take it at twenty dollars." " Veil, I don't vant de coat, but I'll give you fifteen tollar, and not one cent more." " Oh, my friend, I couldn't do it! Why, the coat cost twenty-five; yet sooner than not make a sale, I'll let you have it for eighteen dollars, and stand the loss." " No; I don't vant it anyvays. It ain't vurth no more as fifteen tollar, but I vouldn't give a cent more, so help me kracious." Here the counterfeit rustic turned to depart, pleased to think that he had got the best of the young clerk ; but that individual was equal to the emergency. Knowing that he must sell the garment to secure his place, he seized the parting boss, saying : " Well, I'll tell you how it is. The man who keeps this store is an uncle of mine, and as he is a mean old cuss, I want to bust him. Here, take the coat at fifteen dollars." This settled the business. The proprietor saw that this was too valu- able a salesman to let slip, and so engaged him at once ; and he may be seen every day standing in front of the shop, urging innocent countrymen to buy clothes which are " yust de fit," at sacrificial prices. THE MYSTIC WEAVER. 587 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. ALLAN CUjNTNINGHAM. P WET sheet and a flowing sea, — A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast, — And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snorting breeze And white waves heaving high — And white waves heaving high, my boya. The good ship tight and free ; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in you cloud ; And hark the music, mariners ! The wind is piping loud, — The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free ; While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. TEE MYSTIC WEA VER. CALMLY see the Mystic Weaver, Throw his shuttle to and fro ; 'Mid the noise and wild confusion. Well the weaver seems to know What each motion And commotion. What each fusion And confusion, In the grand result will show, As the nations, Kings and stations. Upward, Downward, Hither, thither. As in mystic dances, go. In the present all is mystery ; In the past 'tis beauteous history. O'er the mixing and the mingling, How the signal bells are jingling ' See you not the weaver leaving 588 THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. Finished work behind, in weaving ? See you not the reason subtle, As the web and woof diminish. Changing into beauteous finish. Why the Weaver makes his shuttle, Hither, thither, scud and scuttle ? Glorious wonder ! what a weaving ! To the dull beyond believing ! Such, no fabled ages know. Only faith can see the mystery, How, along the aisles of History Where the feet of sages go. Loveliest to the purest eyes. Grand the mystic tapet lies ! Soft and smooth, and even As if made for angel's treadinj Tufted circles touching ever. In-wrought figures fading never ; Every figure has its plaidings, Brighter form and softer shadings Each illumined, — what a riddle ! From a Cross that gems the middle. 'Tis a saying : — some reject it. That its light is all reflected ; That the tapet's hues are given By a Sun that shines in Heaven ! 'Tis believed, by all believing. That great God himself is weaving — Bringing out the world's dark mystery, In the light of Truth and History ; And as web and woof diminish. Comes the grand and glorious finish ; When begin the golden ages Long foretold by seers and sages. THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. WILL, M. CAELETON. jHEY'VE got a bran new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search ; They've done just as they said they'd do. And fetched it into church. T They're bound the critter shall be seen. And on the preacher's right. They've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight. They've got a chorister and choir, Ag'n my voice and vote ; For it was never my desire. To praise the Lord by note ! I've been a sister good an' true, For five and thirty year ; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear ; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read ; And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led ! And now their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about ; And I, right in my latter days. Am fairly crowded out ! To-day, the preacher, good old dear. With tears all in his eyes. Read — " I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies," — I al'ays liked that blessed hymn — I s'pose I al'ays will ; It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old " Ortonville ;" But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word ; They sung the most dog-gonedest thing A body ever heard ! Some worldly chaps was standin' near And when I seed them grin, I bid farewell to every fear. And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might ; But though my voice i« good an' strong I couldn't steer it right ; When they was high, then I was low, An' also contra' wise ; A GERMAN TRUST SONG. 589 And I too fast, or they too slow, To " mansions in the skies." An' after every verse, you know They played a little tune ; I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a lusty tone. But oh, alas ! I found that I Was singing there alone ! They laughed a little, I am told, But I had done my best : And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast. And sister Brown — I could but look — She sits right front of me ; She never was no singin' book, An' never meant to be ; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said ; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head ; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough — It kep' her head a bobbin' so, It e'en a' most came off ! An' Deacon Tubbs, — he all broke down, As one might well suppose, He took one look at sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn book through and through And laid it on the seat. And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. An' when they took another bout, He didn't even rise. But drawed his red bandanner out. An' wiped his weepin' eyes. I've been a sister good an' true, For five an' thirty year ; I've done what seemed my part to do, And prayed my duty clear ; But death will stop my voice, I know. For he is on my track ; And some day, I to church will go And never more come back. And when the folks get up to sing — Whene'er that time shall be — I do not want no patent thing A squaalin' over me ! A GERMAN TRUST SONG. -sfer LAMPERTIUS, 1625. sUST as God leads me I would go ; I would not ask to choose my way ; Content with what He will bestow. Assured He will not let me stray. So as He leads, my path I And step by step I gladly take, A child in Him confiding. Tust as God leads, I am content ; I rest me calmly in His hands ; That which He hath decreed and sent — That which His will for me commands, I would that He should all fulfil That I should do His gracious will In living or in dying. Just as God leads, I all resign ; I trust me to my Father's will ; When reason's rays deceptive shine. His counsel would I yet fulfill ; That which His love ordained right. Before He brought me to the light, My all to Him resigning. Just as God leads me, I abide In faith, in hope, in suffering, true; His strength is ever by my side — Can aught my hold on Him undo ? 590 MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. I hold me firm in patience, knowing That God my life is still bestowing — The best in kindness sending. Just as God leads, I onward go. Oft amid thorns and briars keen ; God does not yet His guidance show — But in the end it shall be seen How by a loving Father's will, Faithful and true He leads me still. MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL. 11. W. EMERSON. Sfi||iJlpHE mountain and the squirrel gjg Had a quarrel ; %-^-^^^ And the former called the latter "M " Little Prig." ■«- Bun replied : I " You are doubtless very big ; j But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together. To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track ; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut." MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. LITCHFIELD MOSELEY. JHEKE was to be a balloon ascent from the lawn, and Fanny had tormented her father into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. I in- stantly took my plans ; bribed the aeronaut to plead illness at the I moment when the machine should have risen ; learned from him the ! management of the balloon, though I understood that pretty well before, and calmly awaited the result. The day came. The weather was fine. The balloon was inflated. Fanny was in the car. Everything was ready, when the aeronaut suddenly fainted. He was carried into the house, and Sir George accompanied him. Fanny was in despair. " Am I to lose my air expedition ? " she exclaimed, looking over the side of the car ; " some one understands the management of this thing, surely? Nobody! Tom!" she called out to me, "you understand it, don't you ? " "Perfectly," I answered. " Come along, then," she cried ; " be quick, before papa comes back." MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 591 The company in general endeavored to dissuade her from her project, but of course in vain. After a decent show of hesitation, I climbed into the car. The balloon was cast off, and rapidly sailed heavenward. There was scarcely a breath of wind, and we rose almost straight up. We rose above the house, and she laughed and said, " How jolly ! " We were higher than the highest trees, and she smiled, and said it was very kind of me to come with her. We were so high* that the people below looked mere specks, and she hoped that I thoroughly understood the management of the balloon. Now was my time. " I understand the going up part," I an- swered; "to come down is not so easy," and I whistled. " AVhat do you mean," she cried. " Why, when you want to go up faster, you throw some sand overboard," I repHed, suiting the action to the word. " Don't be foolish, Tom," she said, trying indifferent, but trembling uncommonly. "Foolish ! " I said; " oh dear, no, but whether I go along the ground or up in the air I like to go the pace, and so do you, Fanny, I know. Go it, you cripples ! " and over went another sand-bag. " Why, you're mad, surely," she whispered in utter terror, and tried to reach the bags, but I kept her back. " Only with love, my dear," I answered, smiUng pleasantly ; " only with love for you. Oh, Fanny, I adore you ! Say you will be my wife." " Never ! " she answered ; " I'll go to Ursa Major first, though I've got a big enough bear here, in all conscience." She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined to let her off. (I was only trying to frighten her, of course I knew how high we could go safely, well enough, and how valuable the life of Jenkins was to his country,) but resolution is one of the strong points of my character, and when I've begun a thing I like to carry it through ; so I threw over another sand- bag, and whistled the Dead March in Saul. " Come, Mr. Jenkins," she said suddenly, " come, Tom, let us descend now, and I'll promise to say nothing whatever about all this." s*^^^ to appear quite calm and 592 MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. I continued the execution of the Dead March. " But if you do not begin the descent at once I'll tell papa the moment I set foot on the ground." I laughed, seized another bag, and looking steadily at her said : "Will you promise to give me your hand ? " " I've answered you already," was the reply. Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the Dead March re- sounded through the car. " I thought you were a gentleman," said Fanny rising up in a terrible rage from the bottom of the car, where she had been sitting, and looking perfectly beautiful in her wrath. " I thought you were a gentleman, but I find I was mistaken. Why, a chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady in such a way. Do you know that you are risking your own life as well as mine by your madness ? " I explained that I adored her so much that to die in her company would be perfect bliss, so that I begged she would not consider my feelings at all. She dashed off her beautiful hair from her face, and standing per- fectly erect, looking like the Goddess of Anger or Boadicea — if you can imagine that personage in a balloon — she said, " I command you to begin the descent this instant ! " The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay and lively, wag the only response. After a few minutes' silence I took up another bag, and said : " We are getting rather high ; if you do not decide soon we shall have Mercury coming to tell us that we are trespassing — will you promise me your hand ? " She sat in sulky silence in the bottom of the car. I threw over the sand. Then she tried another plan. Throwing herself upon her knees, and bursting into tears, she said : " Oh, forgive me for my slight the other day. It was very wrong, and I am very sorry. Take me home, and I will be a sister to you." " Not a wife ? " said I. " I can't! I can't ! " she answered. Over went the fourth bag, and I began to think she would beat me after all, for I did not like the idea of going much higher. I would not give in just yet, however. I whistled for a few moments, to give her time for reflection, and then said : " Fanny, they say that marriages are made in heaven — if you do not take care, ours will be solemnized there." I took up the fifth bag. " Come," I said, " my wife in life, or my companion in death. Which is it to be ? " and I patted the sand-bag in THE BELLS. 593 a cheerful manner. She held her face in her hands, but did not answer. I nursed the bag in my arms, as if it had been a baby. "Come, Fanny, give me your promise." I could hear her sobs. I'm the softest-hearted creature breathing, and would not pain any living thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I wason the point of flinging the bag back into the car, and saying, " Dearest Fanny, forgive me for fright- ening you. Marry whomsoever you wish. Give your lovely hand to the lowest groom in your stables — endow with your priceless beauty the chief of the Panki-wanki Indians. Whatever happens, Jenkins is your slave — your dog — your footstool. His duty, henceforth, is to go whithersoever you shall order, to do whatever you shall command." I was just on the point of saying this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up, and said, with a queerish expression upon her face : " You need not throw that last bag over. I promise to give you my hand." ''With all your heart ?" I asked, quickly. " With all my heart," said she, with the same strange look. I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened the valve. The balloon descended. Gentlemen, will you believe it ? — when we had reached the ground, and the balloon had been given over to its recovered master, when I had helped Fanny tenderly to the earth, and turned to- wards her to receive anew the promise of her hand — will you believe it ? — she gave me a box on the ear that upset me against the car, and ruiming to her father, who at that moment came up, she related to him and the assembled company what she called my disgraceful conduct in the balloon, and ended by informing me that all of her hand that I was likely to get had been already bestowed upon my ear, which she assured me had been given with all her heart. TEE BELLS. EDGAR A. POE, f^iwEAR the sledges with the bells- ^ Silver bells °p«;"%^ What a world of merriment their J> melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle 4U With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - From the j ingling and the tinkling of the bells. 594 THE BELLS. Hear the mellow wedding bells — Golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she On the moon ! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells On the future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak. They can only shriek, shriek. Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now — now to sit or never. By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! What a tale their terror tells Of despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar! WTiat a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging. How the danger ebbs and flows , Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells. By the sinking or the swelling in the of the bells — Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their mon- ody compels ! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright, At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people — ah, the people — They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone. Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human — They are ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A pffian from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the psean of the bells ! And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the pasan of the bells — Of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the throbbing of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, THE HERMIT. 595 As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- Bells, bells, bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. THE HERMIT. JAMES BEATTIE. ^^^T the close of the day, when the hara- Wmm let i^ still- And mortals the sweets of forgetful- ness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill. And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove, 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar. While his harp rung symphonious, a her- mit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war. He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man ; " Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover be- stow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,-- Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn ; 0, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away ! Full quickly they pass — but they never return. " Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays ; But lately I marked when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. '11 on, thou fair orb, and with glad- ness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again ! But man's faded glory what change shall renew? Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. I mourn, — but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; For morn is approaching your charms to re- store, 596 MRS. LOFTY AND I. Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit- tering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, — Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? 0, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave ? •' 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed. That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam from shade on- ward to shade. Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. '0 pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, ' Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee ! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquished my pride ; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.' " " And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. So breaks on the traveler, faint and astraj', The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy in triumph de- scending. And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death smiles and rosea are blending. And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." WINTER SONG. LUDWIG HOLTY. ^^UMMER joys are o'er; Flowrets bloom no more, Wintry winds are sweeping ; Through the snow-drifts peeping Cheerful evergreen i- Rarely now is seen. Now no plumed throng Charms the wood with song ; Ice-bound trees are glittering ; Translated from the German by Charles T. Brooks. Merry snow-birds twittering, Fondly strive to cheer Scenes so cold and drear. "Winter, still I see Many charms in thee, — Love thy chilly greeting, Snow-storms fiercely beating, And the dear delights Of the long, long nights. MBS. LOFTY AND I. }RS. LOFTY keeps a carriage, So do I; She has dapple grays to draw it, None have I ; She's no prouder with her coachman Than am I With my blue-eyed laughing baby Trundling by ; I hide his face, lest she should see The cherub boy, and envy me. Her fine husband has white fingers, Mine has not ■ He could give his bride a palace, Mine a cot : Ice-bound trees are glittering Merry snow-birds twittering, Fondly strive to cheer Scenes so cold and drear." OUR SKATER BELLE. 59^ Her's comes beneath the star-light, Ne'er cares she: Mine comes in the purple twilight, Kisses me. And prays that He who turns life's sands, Will hold his lov'd ones in His hands. Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, So have I ; She wears her's upon her bosom. Inside I ; She will leave her's at death's portals, By and by : I shall bear the treasure with me, When I die ; For I have love, and she has gold ; She counts her wealth, mine can't b* told. She has those that love her station. None have 1 • But I've one true heart beside me. Glad am I ; I'd not change it for a kingdom, No not I ; God will weigh it in his balance. By and by ; And then the diff 'rence 't will define 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. CLEON CHARLES AND I. MACKAY. |O^LE0N hath a million acres — ne'er a one !^ff* Cleon dwelleth in a palace — in a cot- # tage, I; J Cleon hath a dozen fortunes — not a ^ penny, I ; J But the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I. Cleon, true, possesseth acres — but the land- scape, I ; Half the charms to me it yieldeth, money cannot buy ; Cleon harbors sloth and dullness — freshening vigor, I ; He in velvet, I in fustian ; richer man am I. Cleon is a slave to grandeur— free as thought am I ; Cleon fees a score of doctors — need of none have I. Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleoa fears to die ; Death may come — he'll find me ready — hap- pier man am I. Cleon sees no charm in nature — in a daisy, I ; Cleon hears no anthem ringing in the sea and sky. Nature sings to me forever — earnest listen- er, I; State for state, with all attendants, who would change? Not I, OUB SKATER BELLE. ^^JJKLONG the frozen lake she comes In linking crescents, light and fleet ; The ice-imprisoned Undine hums A welcome to her little feet. I see the jaunty hat, the plume Swerve bird-like in the joyous gale, — The cheeks lit up to burning bloom. The young eyes sparkling through the veil The quick breath parts her laughing lips, The white neck shines through tossing curls ; Her vesture gently sways and dips. As on she speeds in shell-like whorls. 698 DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. Men stop and smile to see her go ; They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise They ask her name, they long to show Some silent friendship in their eyes. She glances not ; she passes on ; Her stately footfall quicker rings ; She guesses not the benison Whicn follows her on noiseless wings. Smooth be her ways, secure her tread Along the devious lines of life. From grace to grace successive led, — A noble maiden, nobler wife I ADVICE TO YOUNG MEN. NOAH PORTER. I^IS^OUNG men, you are the architects of your own fortunes. Eely upon your own strength of body and soul. Take for your star self- reUance, faith, honesty, and industry. Inscribe on your banner, " Luck is a fool, pluck is a hero." Don't take too much advice — keep at your helm and steer your own ship, and remember that the great art of commanding is to take a fair share of the work. Don't practice too mach humanity. Think well of yourself. Strike out. Assume your own position. Put potatoes in your cart, over a rough road, and small ones go to the bottom. Kise above the envious and jealous. Fire above the mark you intend to hit. Energy, invincible, determination, with a right motive, are the levers that move the world. Don't drink. Don't chew. Don't smoke. Don't swear. Don't deceive. Don't read novels. Don't marry until you can support a wife. Be in earnest. Be self-reliant. Be generous. Be civil. Bead the papers. Advertise your business. Make money and do good with it. Love your God and fellow men. Love truth and virtue. Love your country, and obey its laws. If this advice be impHcitly followed by the young men of the country, the mil- lennium is at hand. DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. HENRY WARD BEECHER. tW/EO shall recount our martyr's ufFerings for this people since No- vember, 1860 ? His horizon had been black with storm by day and by night; he has trod the way of danger and of darkness; on his shoulders rested a government dearer to him than his own life. At its integrity millions of men were striking at home, and upon this government foreign eyes lowered. It stood a lone island DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 599 in the sea, full of storms, and every tide and wave seemed eager to devour it. Upon thousands of hearts great sorrows and anxieties have rested, but not on one such or in such a measure as upon that simple, truthful, noble soul, our faithful and sainted Lincoln. Never rising to the enthusiasm of more impatient natures in hours of hope, and never sinking with mercurial natures in hours of defeat to such depths of despondency, he held on with immovable patience and fidelity, putting caution against hope that it might not be premature and hope against caution that it might not yield to dread and danger. He wrestled ceaselessly through four black and dread- ful purgatorial years wherein God was cleansing the sin of His people as by fire. At last the watcher beheld the gray dawn for the country ; the mountains began to give their forms forth from out of darkness, and the East came rushing towards us with arms full of joy for all our sorrows. Then it was for him to be glad exceedingly that had sorrowed immeasu- rably. Peace could bring no heart such joy, such rest, such honor, trust and gratitude. He but looked upon it as Moses looked upon the promised land, and then the wail of the nation proclaimed that he had gone from among us. Not thine the sorrow, but ours, sainted soul. Thou hast indeed entered the promised land while we yet are on the march. To us remains the rocking of the deep and the storm upon the land. Days of duty and nights of watching, but thou art sphered high above all dark- ness, far beyond all sorrow and weariness. Oh, weary heart, rejoice ex- ceedingly thou that hast enough suffered. Thou hast beheld Him who, invisibly, hath led thee in this great wilderness. Thou standest among the elect; around thee are the royal men that have ennobled human life in every age, and the coronet of glory on thy brow as a diadem of joy is upon thee for evermore. Over all this land, over all the little cloud of years that now from thy infinite horizon moves back as a speck, thou art lifted up as high as the star is above the cloud. In the goodly company of Mount Zion thou shalt find that rest which thou hast sorrowing sought ; and thy name, an everlasting name in Heaven, shall flourish in fragrance and beauty as long as the sun shall last upon the earth, and hearts remain to revere truth, fidelity and goodness. He who now sleeps has by this event been clothed with new influence. Dead, he speaks to men who now willingly hear what before they refused to listen to. Now his simple and weighty words will be gathered like those of Washington, and your children and children's children shall be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep wisdom of the utterances which, in time of party heat, passed as idle words. The patriotism of men will receive a new impulse, and men, for his sake, will love the whole 600 FUNERAL OF LINCOLN. country which he loved so well. I swear you on the altar of his memory to be more faithful to the country for which he has perished by his very perishing, and swear anew hatred to that slavery which made him a martyr and a conqueror. And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming. Cities and States are his pall-bearers, and the cannon speaks the hours with solemn progression. Dead, dead, dead, he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead ? Is Hampden dead ? Is David dead ? Is any man that ever was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, risen to the unobstructed sphere where passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life is now grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful, as no earthly life can be. Pass on, thou that hast overcome ! Your sorrows, oh people, are his peans, your bells and bands and muffled drums sound triumph in his ears. Wail and weep here ; God makes it echo joy and triumph there. Pass on ! Four years ago, oh Illinois, we took from thy midst an untried man ; and from among the people ; we return him to you a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the nation's ; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, oh ye prairies. In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requiem ! Ye people behold the martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty ! FUNERAL OF LINCOLN, RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. (lEACE ! Let the long procession come, For, hark ! — the mournful, muffled drum. The trumpet's wail afar ; And see ! the awful car ! Peace ! Let the sad procession go, While cannon boom, and bells toll slow. And go thou sacred car, Bearing our woe afar ! Go, darkly borne, from State to State, Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait To honor all they can, The dust of that good man ! Go, grandly borne, with such a train As greatest kings might die to gain : The just, the wise, the brave Attend thee to the grave ! And you, the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars. Salute him once again. Your late commander, — slain! THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR. 601 Yes, let your tears indignant fall. But leave your muskets on tlie wall ; There shall his grave be made, And there his bones be laid ! Your country needs you now Beside the forge, the plough ! And there his countrymen shall come, So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The fallen to his last repose. Beneath no mighty dome, But in his modest home. The churchyard where his children rest, With memory proud, with pity dumb, And strangers, far and near. For many and many a year ! For many a year and many an age. While History on her ample page The virtues shall enroll The quiet spot that suits him best, Of that paternal soul! THE SUN IS WARM, TEE SKY IS CLEAR. PERCY BYSSHE 8HELLEY. KHE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, S' l* Blue isles and snowy mountains wear • The purple noon's transparent light: The breath of the moist air is light Around its unexpanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight, — The winds', the birds', the ocean- floods', — The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- tude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown ; I sit upon the sands alone ; The lightning of the noontide ocean Is fla?hing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, — How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion ! Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that Content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found. And walked with inward glory crowned, — Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor lei- sure; Others I see whom these surround ; Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are : I could lie down like a tired child, G02 SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. And weep away the life of care "Which I have borne, and yet must bear Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- notony. SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. ^piiROLD the lantern aside, and shudder ^|ffl|i not so; f^gvL There's more blood to see than this ^ stain on the snow ; I There are pools of it, lakes of it, just I over there, And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson- soaked hair. Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight ? You're his wife ; you love him — you think so ; and I Am only his mother ; my boy shall not lie In a ditch with the rest, while my arms caji bear His form to a grave that mine own may soon share. So, if your strength failiS, best go sit by the hearth. While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me the light. And follow my footsteps — my heart will lead right. Ah, God ! what is here? a great hejip of the slain. All mangled and gory ! — what horrible pain These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep. Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep ! More! more! Ah! I thought I could never- more know Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below, Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell. Did they think I cared then to see officers stand Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand? Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright. That your red hands turn over toward this dim light These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you had kept Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left. You had beard that his place was worst of them all, — Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he would fall. There's the moon through the clouds : Christ what a scene ! Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such vi- sions lean, And still call this cursed world a footstool of Thine ? Hark ! a groan ! there another, — here in this line Piled close on each other! Ah, here is the flag, Torn, dripping with gore; — bah! they died for this rag. Here's the voice that we seek ; poor soul, do not start ; We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart! Is there aught we can do ? A message to give To any beloved one ? I swear, if I live, To take it for sake of the words my boy said, FROM WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. 603 " Home," " mother," " wife," ere he reeled down 'moug the dead. But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood ? Speak, speak, man, or point ; 'twas the Ninth. Oh, the blood Is choking his voice ! What a look of despair ! There, lean on mj^ knee, while I put back the hair Froin eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own. My hands were both idle when you died alone. He's dying — he's dead! Close his lids, let us go. God's peace on his soul ! If we only could Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has turned sick ; Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick ? I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War. He's not here — and not here. What wild hopes flash through My thoughts, as, foot-deep, I stand in this dread dew. And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet sky ! Was it you, girl, that shrieked ? Ah ! what face doth lie Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white ? God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My old sight Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, my son ! Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! There, lift off your arms ; let him come to the breast Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn, to rest. Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this ? He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes. you're right. Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to- night. Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your j^ears May still hold fair hopes ; but the old die of tears. Yes, take him again ; — ah ! don't lay your face there ; See the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair. How quiet you are ! Has she fainted '! — her cheek Is cold as his own. Say a word to me, — speak ! Am I crazed ? Is she dead ? Has her heart broke first? Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead ; Those corpses are stirring ; God help my poor head ! I'll sit by my children until the men come To bury the others, and then we'll go home. Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, don't move. Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep ! FBOJf WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. iiiT would be peculiarly improper to omit, in this first official act, my fer- ^ vent supplications to that Almighty Being who rules over the uni- Jl verse, who presides in the councils of nations, and whose providential % aids can supply every human defect, that His benediction, may conse- 604 FROM WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. crate, to tlie liberties and happiness of the people of the United States, a government instituted by themselves for these essential purposes, and may enable every instrument employed in the administration to execute with success the functions allotted to its charge. In tendering this homage to the Great Author of every public and private good, I assure myself that it expresses your sentiments not less than my own, nor those of my fellow- citizens at lara-e less than either. MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON'S MODEST HOME. No people can be bound to acknowledge and adore the invisible hand which conducts the affairs of men more than the people of the United States. Every step by which they have advanced to the character of an independent nation seems to have been distinguished by some token of Providential agency ; and in the important revolution just accom- plished in the system of their united government, the tranquil deliberations and voluntary consent of so many distinct communities from which the event has resulted, cannot be compared with the means by which most governments have been established, without some return of pious gratitude, along with an humble anticipation of the future blessings which the past seems to presage. THE COUNTESS. 605 SLEEP OF THE BRA VE. WILLIAM COLLINS, ?0W sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blessed ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung ; By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there ! i^^a "*^25i*'. •'•'•■•^i---^''^«- THE COUNTESS. J. G. WHITTIEB. ER the wooded northern ridge. Between its houses brown. To the dark tunnel of the bridge, I The street comes straggling down. You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine, Of gable, roof, and porch. The tavern with its swinging sign, The sharp horn of the church. The river's steel-blue crescent curves To meet in ebb and flow, The single broken wharf that serves For sloop and gundelow. With salt-sea scents along its shores, The heavy hay boats crawl, The long antennae of their oars In lazy rise and fall. .<<)t, 606 THE COUNTESS. Along the gray abutment's wall The idle shad-net dries : The toll-man, in his cobbler's stall, Sits smoking with closed eyes. You hear the pier's low undertone Of waves that chafe and gnaw ; You start, — a skipper's horn is blown To raise the creaking draw. At times the blacksmith's anvil sounds "With slow and sluggard beat, Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds Wakes up the staring street. A place for idle eyes and ears, A cob-webbed nook of dreams, Left by the stream whose waves are years, The stranded village seems. And there, like other moss and rust, The native dweller clings. And keeps, in uninquiring trust, The old, dull round of things. The fisher drops his patient lines. The farmer sows his grain. Content to hear the murmuring pines, Instead of railroad train. Go where, along the tangled steep That slopes against the west. The hamlet's buried idlers sleep In still profounder rest. Throw back the locust's flowery plume. The birch's pale-green scarf, And break the web of brier and bloom From name and epitaph. A simple muster-roll of death. Of pomp and romance shorn, The dry, old names that common-breath Has cheapened and outworn. Yet pause by one low mound, and part The wild vines o'er it laced. And read the words, by rustic art, Upon its head-stone traced. Haply yon white-haired villager Of four-score years can say, What means the noble name of her Who sleeps with common clay. An exile from the Gascon land Found refuge here and rest, And loved of all the village band, Its fairest and its best. He knelt with her on Sabbath morns, He worshiped through her eyes. And on the pride that doubts and scoru:5 Stole in her faith's surprise. Her simple daily life he saw By homeliest duties tried. In all things by an untaught law Of fitness justified. For her his rank aside he laid ; He took the hue and tone Of lowly life and toil, and made Her simple ways his own. Yet still, in gay and careless ease, To harvest-field or dance He brought the gentle courtesies. The nameless grace of France. And she who taught him love, not les? From him she loved in turn, Caught, in her sweet unconsciousness. What love is quick to learn. Each grew to each in pleased accord, Nor knew the gazing town If she looked upward to her lord, Or he to her looked down. How sweet when summer's day was o'or- His violin's mirth and wail. The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore, The river's moonlit sail ! SELF-RELIANCE. 607 Ah ! Life is brief, though love be long ; The altar and the bier, The burial hymn and bridal song. Were both in one short year. Her rest is quiet on the hill, Beneath the locust's bloom : Far off her lover sleeps as still Within his scutcheoned tomb. The Gascon lord, the village maid, In death still clasp their hands ; The love that levels rank and grade Unites their several lands. What matter whose the hillside grave, Or whose the blazoned stone? Forever to her western wave Shall whisper blue Garonne ! iove ! — so hallowing every soil That gives thy sweet flowers room, Wherever, nursed by ease or toil. The human heart takes bloom ! Plant of lost Eden, from the sod . Of sinful earth unriven, White blossom of the trees of God Dropped down to us from heaven ! This tangled waste of mound and stone Is holy for thy sake ; A sweetness which is all thy own, Breathes out of fern and brake. And while ancestral pride shall twine The Gascon's tomb with flowers, Fall sweetly here, song of mine, With summer's bloom and showers. And let the lines that severed seem Unite again in thee. As western wave and Gallic stream Are mingled in one sea. SELF-RELIANCE. EALPH WALDO EMERSON, 1^ SUPPOSE no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will ^ are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes '•C and Himalaya are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does % it matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an I acrostic or Alexandrian stanza ; read it forward, backward, or across, r it still spells the same thing. In this pleasing, contrite, wood-life which God allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without pros- pect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though I mean it not, and see it not. My book should smell of pines, and resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should 41 608 SELP-RELIANCE. interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. Fear never but you shall be consistent in whatever variety of actions, so they be each honest and natural in their hour. For if one will, the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties are lost sight of when seen at a little distance, at a little height of thought. One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks. This is on)y microscopic criticism. See the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now. Greatness always appeals to the future. If I can be great enough now to do right and scorn eyes I must have done so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it will, do right now. Always scorn appearances, and you always may. The force of character is cumulative. All the foregone days of virtue work their health into this. What makes the majesty of the heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the imagination ? The consciousness of a train of great days and victories behind. There they all stand and shed a united light on the advancing actor. He is attended as by a visible escort of angels to every man's eye. That is it which throws thunder into Chatham's voice, and dignity into Washington's port, and America into Adams' eye. Honor is venerable to us, because it is no ephemeris. It is always ancient virtue. We worship it to-day, because it is not of to-day. We love it, and pay it homage, because it is not a trap for our love and homage, but is self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old, immacu- late pedigree, even if shown in a young person. I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and consistency. Let the words be gazetted, and ridiculous henceforward. Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a whistle from the Spartan fife. Let us bow and apologize never more. A great man is coming to eat at my house. I do not wish to please him ; I wish that he should wish to please me. I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it kind, I would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and hurl in the face of custom, and trade, and office, the tact which is the upshot of all history, that there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor moving wherever moves a man ; that a true man belongs to no other time or place, but is the centre of things. Where he is there NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 609 is nature. He measures you, and all men, and all events. You are con- 8tra",ned to accept his standard. Ordinarily, everybody in society reminds us of somewhat else, or of some other person. Character, reality, reminds you of nothing else. It takes place of the whole creation. The man mucsi be so much that he must make all circumstances indifferent, — put all means into the shade. This all great men are and do. Every true man is a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinite spaces, and numbers, and time, fully to accomplish his thought ; and posterity seems to follow his steps as a procession. A man Caesar is born, and for ages after we have a Roman Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow and cleave to his genius, that he is confounded with virtue and the possible of man. An institution is the lengthened shadow of one man ; as the Reformation of Luther ; Quakerism of Fox ; Methodism of Wesley ; Abolition of Clarkson. Scipio, Milton called " the height of Rome ;" and all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest persons. NOCTURNAL SKETCH. THOMAS HOOD. jgVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun — one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain, — Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, — Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made Clade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch: — Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Jour horses as no other man can span ; Or -^ the small Olympic Pitt sit split ijAUghing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon night comes, and with her wings brings tnings Suf^h as, with his poetic tongue, Young The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl. growl, About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep. But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, " No Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers waking, grumble, — " Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls, Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. Now Bulls of Baihan, of a prize size, rise 610 THE SABBATH. In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Gregory, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ; — But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest- Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games And that she hears — what faith is man's — Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twici thrice ; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes ! THE SABBATH. JAMES GRAHAME. ^^:|2o , j^l^OW still the morning of the hallowed I Calmness sits throned on yon unmovinj day ! | cloud. Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milk-maid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass mingled with fading flowers. That yestermorn bloomed, waving in the breeze ; Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. The distant bleating, midway up the hill. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lu'nin^ brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke O'er mounts the mist, is heard at intervals MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 611 The voice of psalms, the simple song of Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks praise. With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods ; on man. Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free. The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. MY MOTHERS BIBLE. ANONYMOUS. IN one of the shelves in my hbraiy, surrounded by volumes of all kinds on various subjects, and in various languages, stands an old book, in its plain covering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the eye, and apparently out of place among the more pretentious volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of a stranger it has certainly neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn ; its leaves marred by long use ; yet, old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beauti- ful and most valuable book on my shelves. No other awakens such asso- ciations, or so appeals to all that is best and noblest within me. It is, or rather it was, my mother's Bible — companion of her best and holiest hours, source of her unspeakable joy and consolation. From it she derived the principles of a truly Christian life and character. It was the light to her feet, and the lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side ; and, as her steps tottered in the advancing pilgrimage of life, and her eves grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the well-worn pages. One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed on beyond the stars and beyond the morning, and entered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath — to look upon the face of Him of whom the law and the prophets had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. And now, no legacy is to me more precious than that old Bible. Years have passed; but it stands there on its shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that is finished, and a silent monitor to the living. In hours of trial and sorrow it says, " Be not cast down, my son ; for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of thy countenance and thy God." '- In moments of weakness and fear it says, " Be strong, my son ; and quit yourself manfully," When some- 612 BREAD ON THE WATERS. times, from the cares and conflicts of external life, I come back to the study, weary of the world and tired of men — of men that are so hard and selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — and the strings of the soul have become untuned and discordant, I seem to hear that Book saying, as with the well-remembered tones of a voice long silent, "Let not your heart be troubled. For what is your life? It is even as a vapor." Then my troubled spirit becomes calm ; and the little world, that had grown so great and so formidable, sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful, I am strong. There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or open it. A glance of the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of association sup- ply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is otherwise ; hours in life when some deeper grief has troubled the heart, some darker, heavier cloud is over the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is a comfort to take down that old Bible and search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest edi- tions, the original languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the critical apparatus which the scholar gathers around him for the study of the Scriptures, are laid aside ; and the plain old English Bible that was my mother's is taken from the shelf. BREAD ON THE WATERS. hmA GEORGE L. CATLIN. ' ^'Jf^^^TER," the little fellow said, ^<>J^ " Please give me a dime to buy some bread." , I turned to look at the ragged form, ¥ That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, j Pinched and haggard and old with care, In accents pleading, was standing there. 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old : He shivered and shook in the bitter cold. His eyes were red — with weeping, I fear — And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear E'en then. His misery struck me dumb ; 'Twas a street in a crowded city slum. Where an errrand of duty led ray feet That day, through the storm and blinding sleet. "Poor little fellow !" at last I said, " Have you no father?" "No, he's dead!" The answer came : " You've a mother, then ?" " Yes, sir," he said, with a sob : " She's been Sick for a year, and the doctor said She'd never' again get up from bed." " You are hungry, too !" I asked in pain. As I looked at his poor, wan face again. '' Hungry," he said, with a bitter groan That would melt to pity a heart of stone ; " I am starved ; we are all starving," he said, " We haven't had a crust of bread — Me, nor mother, nor baby Kate — Since yesterday morning." THE BELFRY PIGEON. 613 I did not wait To ask him more. " Come, come," I cried, " You shall not hunger ;" and at my side His poor little pattering footsteps fell On my ear with a sadness I cannot tell ; But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me stop Bsfore the door of a baker's shop, And we entered. " Now eat away, my boy, As much as you like," I said. With joy, And a soft expression of childish grace, He looked up into my friendly face, And sobbed, as he strove to hide a tear : " Oh, if mother and baby Kate were hero !" " But eat," said I, " never mind them now," A thoughtml look stole over his brow, And lo ! from his face the joy had fled. "What! While they're starving at home I" he said : " Oh, no, sir! I'm hungry, indeed, 'tis true. But I cannot eat till they've had some too." The tears came rushing — I can't tell why — To my eyes, as he spoke these words. Said I: " God bless you ! Here, you brave little man, Here, carry home all the bread you can." Then I loaded him down with loaves, until He could carry no more. I paid the bill ; And before he could quite understand Just what I was doing, into his hand I slipped a bright new dollar ; then said, " Good-by," and away on my journey sped. 'Twas four years ago. But one day last May, As I wandered by chance through East Broadway, A cheery voice accosted me. Lo ! 'Twas the self-same lad of years ago, Though larger grown — and his looks, in truth. Bespoke a sober, industrious youth. " Mister," he said, " I'll never forget The kindness you showed when last we met. I work at a trade, and mother is well, So is baby Kate ; and I want to tell You this — that we owe it all to you. 'Twas you — don't blush, sir — that helped us through In our darkest hour ; and we always say Our luck has been better since that day When you sent me home with bread to fe^d Those starving ones in their hour of need." THE BELFRY PIGEOK N. P. WILLIS. ^N the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there. Out and in with the morning air. I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs. Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last. 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel. He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell. Chime of the hour or funeral knell. The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon. When the sexton cheerily rings for noon. When the clock strikes clear at morning ligh*, When the child is waked with " nine at night," When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air. Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, Whatever tale in the bell is heard. 614 THE RESPONSIVE CHORD. He broods on his folded feet, unstirred, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast ; Then drops again, with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen. Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike me, when day is o'er, Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ; Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. I would that in such wings of gold, I could my weary heart up-fold ; I would I could look down unmoved, (Unloving as I am unloved,) And while the world throngs on beneath. Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe ; And never sad with others' sadness. And never glad with others' gladness, Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime. And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. THE RESPONSIVE CHORD. J. WILLIAM JONES. ijiN' tne early spring of 1863, when the Confederate and Federal armies iP were confronting each other on the opposite hills of Stafford and Jk Spottsylvania, two bands chanced one evening, at the same hour, to I begin to discourse sweet music on either bank of the river. A large f crowd of the soldiers of both armies gathered to listen to the music, 1 the friendly pickets not interfering, and soon the bands began to answer each other. First the band on the northern bank would play " Star Spangled Banner," " Hail Columbia," or some other national air, and at its conclusion the " boys in blue " would cheer most histily. And then the band on the southern bank would respond with " Dixie " or " Bonnie Blue Flag," or some other Southern melody, and the " boys in gray " would attest their approbation with an " old Confederate yell." But pres- ently one of the bands struck up, in sweet and plaintive notes which were wafted across the beautiful Rappahannock, were caught up at once by the other band and swelled into a grand anthem which touched every heart, " Home, Sweet Home ! " At the conclusion of this piece there went up a simultaneous shout from both sides of the river — cheer followed cheer, and those hills, which had so recently resounded with hostile guns, echoed and re-echoed the glad acclaim. A chord had been struck responsive to which the hearts of enemies — enemies then — could beat in unison ; and, on both sides of the river, " Something down the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder." THE TRUE TEMPLE. 615 KM ^¥¥:t^l£,'* i^i^^tmf^^. THE TRUE TEMPLE. «|k|OT where high towers rear Their lofty heads above some costly '^' fane, Doth God our Heavenly Father on- ly deign Our humble prayers to hear, — ■ Not where the lapsing hours The cankering footprints of the spoiler, time, Are idly noted with a sounding chime, From proud cathedral towers ; Not where the chiseled stone. And shadowy niche, and shaft and architrave, The dim old chancel, or the solemn nave Seem vast and chill and lone : Not 'neath the vaulted dome, Or fretted roof, magnificently flung, O'er cushioned seats, or curtained desks oVm- hung With rare work of the loom ; Not where the sunlight falls From the stained oriel with a chastened shade. O'er sculptured tombs where mighty ones aro laid, Till the last trumpet calb ; Not where rich music floats Through the hushed air until the soul isstirred, As 't were a chord from that bright land as heard When angels swell the notes. 616 THE DRUMMER BOY. Perchance 'tis well to raise These palace temples, thus rich wrought, to Him Who 'midst His thousand thousand cherubims Can stoop to list our praise. Yet when our spirits bow And sue for mercy at His sacred shrine, Can all the trappings of the teeming mine Light up the darkened brow ? no I — God may be there — His smile may on such costly altars rest ; Yet are His humbler sanctuaries blest With equal love and care. Aye, wheresoe'er on earth Or on the shore or on tlie far blue sea His children, offspring of the true, may be, There hath his spirit birth. Our sins may be forgiven. As, weak and few, our prayers go up to God ; E'en though our temple floor be earth's green sod. Its roof the vault of heaven. THE DRUMMER BOY. AN INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. LiPTAIN Graham, the men wei saym Ye would want a drummer lad, So I've brought my boy Sandie. Tho' my heart is woful sad ; But nae bread is left to feed us, And no siller to buy more, For the gudeman sleeps forever. Where the heather blossoms o'er. " Sandie, make your manners quickly, Play your blithest measure true — Give us ' Flowers of Edinboro',' While yon fifer plays it too. Captain, heard ye e'er a player Strike in truer time than he?" " Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray Drummer of our corps shall be." " I give ye thanks— but. Captain, maybe Ye will hae a kindly care For the friendless, lonely laddie, When the battle wark is sair ■ For Sandie's aye been good and gentle, And I've nothing else to love. Nothing— but the grave off yonder, And the Father up above." Then her rough hand gently laying On the curl-encircled head. She blest her boy. The tent was silent, And not another word was said ; For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming Of a benison, long ago, Breathed above his head, then golden. Bending now, and touched with snow. "Good-bye, Sandie" "Good-bye, mother, I'll come back some summer day ; Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers Ever. Do they, Captain Gra — ? One more kiss — watch forme, mother. You will know 'tis surely me Coming home — for you will hear me Playing soft the reveille." After battle. Moonbeams ghastly Seemed to link in strange affright. As the scudding clouds before them Shadowed faces dead and white ; And the night wind softly whispered, When low moans its light wing bore — Moans that ferried spirits over Death's dark wave to yonder shore. Wandering where a footstep careless Might go splashing down in blood. Or a helpless hand lie grasping Death and daisies from the sod — THE BALLOT-BOX. G17 Captain Graham walked swift onward, While a faintly-beaten drum Quickened heart and step together • " Sandie Murray ! See, I come! " Is it thus I find you, laddie ? Wounded, lonely, lying here, Playing thus the reveille ? See — the morning is not near." A moment paused the drummer boy. And lifted up his drooping head : " Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. " Morning ! See, the plains grow brighter — Morning — and I'm going home ; That is why I play the measure, Mother will not see me come; But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain — " Hush, the boy has spoken true ; To him the day has dawned forever. Unbroken by the night's tattoo. THE BALLOT-BOX. E. II. CHAPIN. f^^ AM aware that the ballot-box is not everywhere a consistent symbol ; fiJs but to a large degree it is so. I know what miserable associations cluster around this instrument of popular power. I know that the arena in which it stands is trodden into mire by the feet of reckless ¥ ambition and selfish greed. The wire-pulling and the bribing, the ^ pitiful truckling and the grotesque compromises, the exaggeration and the detraction, the melo-dramatic issues and the sham patriotism, the party watchwords and the party nicknames, the schemes of the few paraded as the will of the many, the elevation of men whose only worth is in the votes they command, — vile men, whose hands you would not grasp in friendship, whose presence you would not tolerate by your fireside — incompetent men, whose fitness is not in their capacity as functionaries, or legislators, but as organ pipes ; — the snatching at the slices and ofial of office, the intemper- ance and the violence, the finesse and the falsehood, the gin and the glory ; these are indeed but too closely identified with that political agitation which circles around the ballot box. But, after all, they are not essential to it. They are only the masks of a genuine grandeur and importance. For it is a grand thing, — some- thing which involves profound doctrines of right, — something which has cost ages of effort and sacrifice, — it is a grand thing that here, at last, each voter has just the weight of one man; no more, no less; and the weakest, by virtue of his recognized manhood, is as strong as the mightiest. And consider, for a moment, what it is to cast a vote. It is the token o) inestimable privileges, and involves the responsibilities of an hereditary trust. It has passed into your hands as a right, reaped from fields of suf- 618 THE REVEILLE. fering and blood. The grandeur of history is represented in your act. Men have wrought with pen and tongue, and pined in dungeons, and died on scaffolds, that you might obtain this symbol of freedom, and enjoy this consciousness of a sacred individuality. To the ballot have been trans- mitted, as it were, the dignity of the sceptre and the potency of the sword. And that which is so potent as a right, is also pregnant as a duty ; a duty for the present and for the future. If you will, that folded leaf becomes a tongue of justice, a voice of order, a force of imperial law; securing rights, abolishing abuses, erecting new institutions of truth and love. And, however you will, it is the expression of a solemn responsibil- ity, the exercise of an immeasurable power for good or for evil, now and hereafter. It is the medium through which you act upon your country, — the organic nerve which incorporates you with its life and welfare. There is no agent with which the possibilities of the republic are more intimately involved, none upon v/hich we can fall back with more confidence than the ballot-box. THE REVEILLE. T. B. HART. ^ARK ! I hear the tramp of thousands, ill And of armed men the hum — Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered r Round the quick alarming drum, Saying, " Come, Freemen, come. Ere your heritage be wasted !" said the quick alarming drum. " Let me of my heart take counsel — War is not of Life the sum ; Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come ?" But the drum Echoed, "Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest !" said the solemn-sounding drum. " But when won the coming battle, What of profit springs therefrom ? What if conquest, subjugation, Even greater ills become ?" But the drum Answered, "Come! You must do the sum to prove it !" said the Yankee-answering drum. What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder. Whistling shot and bursting bomb, When my brethren fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb ?" But the drum Answered, " Come ! Better there in death united than in life a recreant — come !" Thus they answered— hoping, fearing— Some in faith, and doubting some- Till a trumpet-voice, proclaiming, Said, " My chosen people, come I" Then the drum, Lo ! was dumb, For the great heart of the nation, throbbing answered, " Lord we come I" LABOR IS WORSHIP. 619 SEVEN TIMES TWO. JEAN INGELOW. OP^OU bells in the steeple, ring, ring out | " Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily While a boy listened alone : Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, No magical sense conveys, , And mine, they are yet to be ; And bells have forgotten their old art of j No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught telling discover : The fortune of future days. I You leave the story to me. your ;a^^ How many soever they be, ¥^ And let the brown meadow-lark's '^ note as he ranges \ Come over, come over to me. Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swell- LABOR IS WORSHIP. FRANCES S. OSGOOD. ||AUSE not to dream of the future be- i From the rough sod blows the soft-breathinc flower ; From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part. ^■^^ fore us Pause not to weep the wild cares that (|'% come o'er us f Hark, how Creation's deep, musical 'I chorus, ■j Uniutermitting, goes up into heaven ! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; Never the little seed stops in its growing ; More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing. Till from its nourishing stem it i^ riven. " Labor is worship !" — the robin is sing- " Labor is worship !" — the wild bee is ringing ; Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspring- ing Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great ; Labor is life ! 'Tis the still water faileth ; heart. I Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; From the dark cloud flows the life-giving ; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust as shower ; saileth ; 620 LABOR IS WORSHIP. Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory !— the flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune. Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us. Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides Labor is wealth ! In the st-a the pearl grow- eth; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest blow eth; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work— and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; Work — thou shalt riile over Care's coming billow ; Lie not down v.'caried 'neath Woe's weeping- willow ; Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! Labor is health ! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life current leaping ! Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee ; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ; Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; Labor! all labor is noble and holy ; Let thy great deeds be thy j)rayer to thy God. THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER. 621 THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER. WASHINGTON IRVING. |l^ ROSE and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of III steps which leads into the body of the building, my eye was caught ^ by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small ^^ staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of I this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of 1 platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering in their beds of darkness. Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. "Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive, how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, trav- ersing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portals of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinct- ness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become con- founded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from ofif the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but 622 THE LOST CHURCH. a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the empti- ness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monu- ments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anec- dotes that gave interest to the past, and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor to-morrow. '' Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, " find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our sur- vivors." History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the scattered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. THE LOST CHURCIL FROM THE GERMAN OF J. L. UHLAND. riN yon dense wood full oft a bell Is heard o'erhead in pealings hollow f»? Yet whence it comes can no one tell, W Nor scarce its dark tradition follow. For winds the chimes are wafting o'er, Of the lost church in mystery shrouded The pathway, too, is known no more, That once the pious pilgrims cro'vded. I lately in that wood did stray. CLEAR THE WAY. 623 Where not a footworn path extended, And from corruptions of the day My inmost soul to God ascended ; And in the silent, wild repose I heard that ringing deeper, clearer ; The higher my aspirings rose. The sound descended fuller, nearer. That sound my senses so entranced. My soul grew so retired and lowly, I ne'er could tell how it had chanced That I had reached a state so holy. A century, it seemed to me, Or more, had passed while I was dreaming. When I a radiant place could see Above the mists, with sunlight streaming. The heavens a deep, dark blue appeared, The sun's fierce light and heat were flow- ing. And in the golden light upreared, A proud cathedral pile was glowing. It seemed to me the clouds so bright. As if on wings, that pile was raising, Until its spires were lost to sight Within the blessed heavens blazing. And lo ! that sweet bell's music broke In quivering streams from out ihe tower ; No mortal hand its tones awoke — That bell was rung by holy power. And through my beating heart, too, swept That power in full and perfect measure ; And then in that high dome I stepped With faltering feet and tim'rous pleasure. Yet can I not in words make known What then I felt. On windows painted, And darkly clear, around me shown. Were pious scenes of martyrs sainted. Thus wondrous clear mine eyes before, Did they of life a picture show me ; And out into a world I saw, Of women and God's warriors holy. I knelt before the altar there — Devotion, love, all through me stealing — And all the Heaven's glory fair Was o'er me painted on the ceiling ; And lo ! when next I upward gazed, The dome's vast arch had burst, and — wonder ! — The Heaven's gate wide open blazed. And every veil was rent asunder! What glories on mine eyes did fall While thus in reverent awe still kneeling, What holier sounds I heard than all Of trumpet blast or organ pealing, No words possess the power to tell ! Who truly would such bliss be feeling. Go listen to the wondrous bell That, weird-like, through the wood is peal- ing. CLEAR THE WAY. CHARLES MACKAY _^5. rif'lr EN of thought, be up and stirring night and day : Sow the seed — withdraw the cur- y^^\i^^ tain — clear the way ! ^ Men of action, aid and cheer them, I as ye may ! i There's a fount about to stream. There's a light about to beam. There's a warmth about to glow. There's a flower about to blow ; 42 There's a midnight blackness changing into gi-ay. Men of thought and men of action, clear the way ! Once the welcome light has broken, who shall say What the uuimagined glories of the day ? What the evil that shall perish in its ray ? Aid the dawning, tongue and pen ; 624 THE NOBLE REVENGE. Aid it, hopes of honest men, Aid it, paper ; aid it, type ; Aid it, for the hour is ripe. And our earnest must not slacken into play. Men of thought and men of action, clear the way ! Lo ! a cloud's about to vanish from the day; And a brazen wrong to crumble into clay. Lo ! the right's about to conquer; clear th-; way! With the right shall many more Enter smiling at the door : With the giant wrong shall fall Many others, great and small. That for ages long have held us for their prey. Men of thought and men of action, clear the way ! THE NOBLE REVENGE. iMiHE coffin was a plain one — a poor miserable pine coffin. ^1^ on the top ; no lining of white satin for the pale brow ; 2 No flowers no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid de- cently back, but there was no crimped cap with neat tie beneath the chin. The sufferer from cruel poverty smiled in her sleep ; she had found bread, rest, and health. " I want to see my mother," sobbed a poor little child, as the under- taker screwed down the top. " You cannot ; get out of the way, boy ; why don't somebody take the brat ? " " Only let me see her one minute ! " cried the helpless orphan, clutch- ing the side of the charity box, and as he gazed upon the rough box, agonized tears streamed down the cheeks on which no childish bloom ever lingered. Oh ! it was painful to hear him cry the words, " Only once, let me see my mother, only once ! " Quickly and brutally the heartless monster struck the boy away, so that he reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting with grief and rage — his blue eyes distended, his lips sprang apart, fire glittered through his eyes as he raised his little arm with a most unchildish laugh, and screamed, "When I am a man, I'll be revenged for that ! " There was a coffin and a heap of earth between the mother and the poor forsaken child — a monument much stronger than granite built in the boy's heart the memory of the heartless deed. The court-house was crowded to suffocation. " Does any one appear as this man's counsel ? " asked the Judge. TWO VIEWS. 625 There was a silence when he had finished, until, with lips tightly pressed together, a look of strange intelligence blended with a haughty re- serve upon his handsome features, a young man stepped forward with a firm tread and kindly eye to plead for the erring friendless. He was a stranger, but at the first sentence there was silence. The splendor of his genius entranced — convinced. The man who could not find a friend was acquitted. " May God bless you, sir ; I cannot," he said. " I want no thanks," replied the stranger. " I — I — I believe you are unknown to me." " Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago, this day, you struck a broken-hearted little boy away from his dear mother's coffin. I was' that boy." The man turned livid. " Have you rescued rae then, to take my life ? " "No, I have a sweeter revenge. I have saved the life of a man whose brutal conduct has rankled in my breast for the last twenty years. Go then, and remember the tears of a friendless child." The man bowed his head in shame, and went from the presence oi magnanimit}'' as grand to him as it was incomprehensible. TWO VIEWS. ^ old farm-house with meadows wide, And sweet with clover on each side ; A blight-eyed boy who looks from out 1 The door with woodbine wreathed about, i And wishes his one thought all day : « " Oh ! if I could but fly away From this dull spot the world to see, How very happy I should be ! " Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng Is thinking, thinking all day long ; " Oh could I only tread once more The field-path to the farm house door, The old green-meadow could I see, How very happy I should be ! " 626 THE LULL OF ETERNITY. THE LULL OF ETERNITY. FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL. jr|¥pANY a voice has echoed the cry for ^^^ " a lull in life," ^^ Fainting under the noontide, faint- ing under the strife. Is it the wisest longing? Is it the .f truest gain ? J Is not the Master withholding pos- sible loss and pain ? Perhaps if He sent the lull, we might fail of our heart's desire ! Swift and sharp the concussion, striking out living fire ; Nightly and long the friction resulting in living glow, Heat that is force of the spirit, energy fruit- ful in flow. What if the blast should falter ? What if the fire be stilled ? What if the molten metal cool ere the mould be filled ? What if the hands hang down when a work is almost done ? What if the sword be dropped when a battle won? Past many an unseen maelstrom the strong wind drives the skiff, When a lull might drift it onward to fatal swirl or cliff. Faithful the guide who spurreth, sternly for- bidding repose, When treacherous slumber lureth to pause amid Alpine snows. The lull of Time may be darkness, falling in lonely night, But the lull of eternity neareth, rising in full, calm light : The earthly lull may be silence, desolate, deep and cold, But the heavenly lull shall be music, sweeter a thousand fold. Here it is "calling apart," and the place may be desert indeed. Leaving and losing the blessings linked with our busy need. There ! why should I say it ? hath not the heart leaped up, Swift and glad, to the contrast, filling the full, full cup ! Still shall the key-word, ringing, echo the same sweet " Come !" " Come " with the blessed myriads, safe in the Father's home ; " Come," for the work is over; " Come," for the feast is spread ; " Come," for the crown of glory waits for the weary head. When the rest of faith is ended, and the rest of hope is past. The rest of love remaineth. Sabbath of life, at last. No more fleeting hours, hurrying down the day, But golden stillness of glory, never to pass away. Time, with its pressure of moments, mocking us as they fell. With relentless beat of a footstep, hour by hour, the knell Of a hope or an aspiration, then shall have passed away, Leaving a grand, calm leisure, leisure of end- less day. Leisure that cannot be dimmed by the touch of time or place ; Finding its counterpart measure only in in- finite space ; Full, and yet ever filling ; leisure without alloy, Eternity's seal on the lim'tless charter of heavenly joy. FORMATION OF ICEBERGS. 627 Leisure to fathom the fathomless, leisure to seek and to know Marvels and secrets and glories Eternity only can show . Leisure of holiest gladness, leisure of holiest love, Leisure to drink from the fountain of infinite peace above. Art thou patiently toiling, waiting the Jilas- ter's will. For a rest that seems never nearer, a hush that is far off still ? Does it seem that the noisy city never will let thee hear The sound of His gentle footsteps, drawing, it may be, near ? Does it seem that the blinding dazzle of noon- day glare and heat Is a fiery veil between thy heart and visions high and sweet? What though a lull in life may never be made for thee ? Soon shall a "better thing" be thine, the Lull of Eternity. FORMATION OF ICEBERGS. ELISHA KENT KANE. j^T an island known in the Esquimaux tongue as Ekarasak, there lived a deputy assistant of the Eoyal Greenland Company, a worthy man by the name of Grundeitz. It seems that the deep water of Omenaks Fiord is resorted to for halibut fishing, an operation which is carried on at the base of the cliffs, with very long lines of whale- While Mr. Grundeitz, in a jolly-boat belonging to the company. was fishin gup the fiord, his attention was called to a large number of bearded seals, who were sporting about beneath one of the glaciers that protruded into the bay. While approaching for the purpose .of a shot, he heard a strange sound, repeated at in- tervals like the ticking of a clock, and appar- ently proceeding from the body of the ice. At the same time the seal, which the moment before had been per- fectly unconcerned, dis- appeared entirely, and his Esquimaux attendants, probably admonished by C28 HOME, SWEET HOME. previous experience, insisted upon removing the boat to a greater distance. It was well they did so ; for, gazing at the white face of the glacier at the distance of about a mile, a loud explosive detonation, like the crack of a whip vastly exaggerated, reached their ears, and at the same instant, with reverberations like near thunder, a great mass fell into the sea, obscuring everything in a cloud of foam and mist. The undulations which radiated from this great centre of displace- ment were fearful. Fortunately for Mr. Grundeitz, floating bodies do not change their position very readily under the action of propagated waves, and the boat, in consequence, remained outside the grinding fragments ; but the commotion was intense, and the rapid succession of huge swells such as to make the preservation of the little party almost miraculous. The detached mass slowly adjusted itself after some minutes, but it was nearly an hour before it attained its equilibrium. It then floated on the sea, an iceberg. HOME, SWEEI HOME. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. ID pleasures and palaces though we ^1^^^ may roam, "flfe^'^f Be it ever so humble there's no )T place like home ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here Which, seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere Home ! home, sweet home ! There's no place like home ! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! 0, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! The birds singing gayly that came to my call; 0, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all! Home! home, sweet home! There's no place like home ! OUR LAMBS. 629 OUR LAMBS. pli LOVED them so, Ul Thatwhen the Elder Shepherd of the fold f^? Came, covered with the storm and pale # and cold, !* And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold, I bade Ilim go. He claimed the pet, A little fondling thing, that to my breast Clung always, either in quiet or unrest — • I thought of all my lambs I loved him best, And yet— and yet — I laid him down In those white shrouded arms, with bitter tears ; For some voice told me that, in after years. He should know naught of passion, grief or fears. As I had known. And yet again That Elder Shepherd came. — My heart grew faint. He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint, Another ! She, who gentle as a saint. Ne'er gave me pain. Aghast, I turned away, There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam. Her holy eyes, with heaven in their beam. I knelt to pray. '" Is it Thy will ? My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given? Oh! Thou hast many such in heaven." And a soft voice said ; " Nobly hast thou striven, But — peace, be still." Oh how I wept. And clasped her to my bosom, with a wild And yearning love — my lamb, mv pleasant child. Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled, And slept. ' Go ! go!" I cried: For once again that Shepherd laid his hand Upon the noblest of our household band. Like a pale spectre, there he took his stand. Close to his side. And yet how wondrous sweet I The look with which he heard my passionate I cry: " Touch not my lamb ; for him, oh ! let me I die!" " A little while," he said, with smile and sigh, " Again to meet." Hopeless I fell ; And when I rose, the light had burned so low, So faint, I could not see my darling go : He had not bidden me farewell, but, oh ! I felt farewell. More deeply far Than if my arms had compassed that slight frame, Though could I but have heard him call my name — " Dear Mother !" — but in heaven 'twill be the same. There burns my star ! He will not take Another lamb, I thought, for only one Of the dear fold is spared to be my sun. My guide, my mourner when this life is i^lone. My heart would break. Oh ! with what thrill I heard him enter : but I did not know (For it was dark) that he had robbed me so. The idol of ray soul — he could not go. Heart ! be still I Came morning, can I tell How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept? For waking, tears were mine ; I, sleeping, wept. And days, months, years, that weary vigil kept. Alas ! " Farewell." 630 THE CLOCKWORK OF THE SKIES. How often it is said ! Ay ! it is well. I sit and think, and wonder too, some time, Well with my lambs, and with their earthly How ,it will seem, when, in that happier clime guide. It never will ring out like funeral chime There, pleasant rivers wander they beside, Over the dead. Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide, Ay ! it is well. No tears ! no tears ! Will there a day come that I shall not weep ? Through the dreary day For I bedew my pillow in my sleep. They often come from glorious light to me ; Yes, yes ; thank God ! no grief that cUme I cannot feel their touch, their faces see. shall keep. Yet my soul whispers, they do come to me. No weary years. Heaven is not far away. THE CLOCKWORK OF THE SKIES. EDWARD EVERETT. ;E derive from the observations of tlie heavenly bodies which are made at an observatory our only adequate measures of time, and our only means of comparing the time of one place with the time of another. Our artificial timekeepers, — clocks, watches, and cbronometers, — however ingeniously contrived and admirably fa- bricated, are but a transcript, so to say, of the celestial motions, and would be of no value without the means of regulating them by obser- vation. It is impossible for them, under any circumstances, to escape the imperfection of all machinery, the work of human hands ; and the moment we remove with our timekeeper east or west, it fails us. It will keep home-time alone, like the fond traveler who leaves his heart behind him. The artificial instrument is of incalculable utility, but must itself be regu- lated by the eternal clockwork of the skies. This single consideration is suificient to show how completely the daily business of life is affected and controlled by the heavenly bodies. It is they and not our main-springs, our expansion-balances, and our compensation- pendulums, which give us our time. To reverse the line of Pope, — 'Tis with our watches and our judgments : none Go just alike, but each believes his own. But for all the kindreds and tribes and tongues of men, — each upon their own meridian, — from the Arctic pole to the equator, from the equator to the Antarctic pole, the eternal sun strikes twelve at noon, and the glorious constellacions, far up in the everlasting belfries of the skies, chime twelve LADY CLARE. 631 at midnight — twelve for the pale student over his flickering lamp — twelve amid the flaming wonders of Orion's belt, if he crosses the meridian at that fated hour — twelve by the weary couch of languishing humanity, twelve in the star-paved courts of the Empyrean — twelve for the heaving tides of the ocean ; twelve for the weary arm of labor ; twelve for the toil- ing brain ; twelve for the watching, waking, broken heart ; twelve for the meteor which blazes for a moment and expires ; twelve for the comet whose period is measured by centuries ; twelve for every substantial, for every imaginary thing, which exists in the sense, the intellect, or the fancy, and which to speech or thought of man, at the given meridian, refers to the lapse of time. LADY CLARE. ALFRED TENNYSON. ^T was the time p when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe. To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn ; Lovers long betroth- ed were they ; They two will wed the morrow morn ; God's blessing on the day! " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth. And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice, the nurse. Said, " Who was this that went from thee?" " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me." "Oh, God be thank 'd," said Alice the nurse, " That all comes round so just and fair, Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are you out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?" " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, " I speak the truth ; you are my child. "The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " Falsely, falsely have ye done, Oh mother," she said ; " if this be true. To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." "Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life. And all you have will be Lord Ronald's When you are man and wife." 632 CRIME SELF-REVEALED. " If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. And fling the diamond necklace by." '! Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all you can." She said, " Not so ; but I will know If there be any faith in man." " Nay, now, what faith ?" said Alice the nurse, " The man will cleave unto his right." "And he shall have it," the lady replied, " Though I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." " Oh, mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me. " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down. With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower ; " Oh, Lady Clare you shame your worth 1 Why come you drest like a village-maid, That are the flower of the earth ?" " If I come drest like a village-maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar-born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." "Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " For I am yours in word and in deed, Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " Your riddle is hard to read." Oh and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail ; She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. And told him all her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : " If you are not the heiress born. And I," said he, " the next in blood — " If you are not the heiress born. And I," said he, " the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare." CRIME SELF-REVEALED. DANIEL WEBSTER. ^GAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot have the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or in- justice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the oppro- brium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning^ or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice. CRIME SELF-REVEALED. 633 Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has hardly a precedent anywhere — certainly none in our New England history. An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butchery murder, for mere pay. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man to whom sleep was sweet — the first sound slumbers of the night hold him in their soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment; with noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and con- tinued pressure, till it turns on its hinges ; and he enters and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The face of the inno- cent sleeper was turned from the murderer ; and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion from the repose of sleep to the repose of death ! It is the assas- sin's purpose to make sure work ; and he yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wound of the poniard ! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse ! he feels for it, and ascertains that it beats no longer ! It is accomplished ! the deed is done ! He retreats — retraces his steps to the window, passes through as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder ; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him ; the secret is his own, and it is safe ! Ah ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon, — such secrets of guilt are never safe ; " murder will out." True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a case excitingr so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. 634 GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. It is false to itself — or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself — it labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant; it finds itself preyed on by a torment which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it asks no sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The secret "which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him ; and like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demand- ing disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master; — it betrays his discretion; it breaks down his courage ; it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be con- fessed ; it will be confessed ; there is no refuge from confession but in suicide, and suicide is confession. GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. ||HEY well deserve to have, That know the strong'st and surest way to get. f if So Judas kiss'd his Master ; And cried — all hail! when as he meant, — all harm. A scar nohly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honor. He that is giddy thinks that the world turns round. A lady's verily is As potent as a lord's. What is yours to bestow is not yours to Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear. "What is the city but the people ? Let them obey, that know not how to rule. A friend i' the court is better than a penny in purse. The plants look up to heaven, from whence They have their nourishment. Things in motion sooner catch the eye, Than what not stirs. Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep. A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. Make not your thoughts your prisons. There is no time so miserable but a man may be true. Let us be sacrificers, but no butchers. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Striving to better, oft we mar what's well. Receive what cheer you may ; The night is long, that never finds the day. Wisely and slow : they stumble that run fast. Nor ask advice of any other thought But faith, fulness, and courage. GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 635 Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. Nor seek for danger Where there's no profit. Brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes. Pity is the virtue of the law, And none but tyrants use it cruelly. All difficulties are but easy when they are known. When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. Fashion wears out more apparel than the man. Too light winning Makes the prize light. What great ones do. The less will prattle of. Men are men ; the best sometimes forget. A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. True valor still a true respect should have. Oft the eye mistakes, the brain being trou- bled. Thoughts are but dreams, till their effects be tried. die — the young possess the The old be hive. Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee. Mar not the thing that cannot be amended. The hearts of old gave hands : But our new heraldry is— hands, not hearts. Security Is mortal's chiefest enemy. Dull not device by coldness and delay. Wisely weigh Our sorrow with our comfort. A custom More honor'd in the breach than the observ- ance. Celerity is never more admired, Than by the negligent. The weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground. 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after. Be to yourself As you would to your friend. Trust not him, that hath once broken faith. There's place and means for every man alive. There's not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself. Small things make base men proud. A golden mind stoops not to i^how of dross. How poor an instrument, May do a noble deed. Things ill got had ever bad success. Every cloud engenders not a storm. Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Direct not him whose way himself will choose. It is religion that doth make vows kept. An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told. There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd. Take all the swift advantage of the hours. Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. 'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss. The better part of valour is — discretion. Short-lived wits do wither as they grow. The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. The words of Mercury are harsh after the song of Apollo. There's small choice in rotten apples. Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. Strong reasons make strong actions. Fly pride, says the peacock. G36 THE GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. THE GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. «^ i^AVERNS, especially those which are situated in limestone, commonly gl^K present the formations called stalactites, from a Greek word signi- X fying distillation or dropping. The manner of their production 4 admits of a very plain and simple explanation. They proceed from S water trickling through the roofs containing carbonate of lime, held in solution by carbonic acid. Upon exposure to the air the carbonic acid is gradually disengaged, and a pellicle of lime is deported. The process proceeds, drop after drop, and eventually, descending points hanging from the roof are formed, resembling icicles, which are composed of concentric rings of transparent pellicles of lime, presenting a very peculiar appearance, and, from their connection with each other, produc- ing a variety of singular shapes. These descending points are the stalac- tites properly so called, from which the stalagmites are to be distinguished, which cover the floors of caverns with conical inequalities. These are pro- duced by the evaporation of the larger drops which have fallen to the bot- tom, and are stalactites rising upwards from the ground. Frequently, in the course of ages, the ascending and descending points have been so in- creased as to meet together, forming natural columns, a series of which bears a striking resemblance to the pillars and arches of Gothic architec- ture. The amount of this disposition which we find in caverns capable of producing it, is, in fact, enormous, and gives us an impressive idea of their extraordinary antiquity. The grotto of Antiparos — one of the islands of the Grecian Archipelago — is particularly celebrated on account of the size and diversity of form of these deposits. It extends nearly a thousand feet beneath the surface, in primitive limestone, and is accessible by a narrow entrance which is often very steeply inclined, but divided by level landing places. After a series of descents, the traveler arrives at the Great Hall, AS it is called, the sides and roof of which are covered with immense in- crustations of calcareous matter. The purity of the surrounding stone, and the thickness of the roof in which the unfiltered water can deposit all impure admixtures, give to its stalactites a beautiful whiteness. Tall pillars stand in many places free, near each other, and single groups of stalagmites form figures so strongly resembling plants, that Tournefort en- deavored to prove from them a vegetable nature in stone. The remark of that intelligent traveler is an amusing example of over confidence: — "Once again I repeat it, it is impossible this should be done by the GROTTO OF ANTIPAEOS. THE ANGEL'S STORY. 637 droppings of water, as is pretended by those who go about to explain the formation of congelations in grottoes. It is much more probable that these other congelations we speak of, and which hang downwards or rise out different ways, were produced by one principle, namely, vegetation." The sight of the whole is described, by those who have visited this cavern, as highly imposing. In the middle of the Great Hall, there is a remarkably fine and large stalagmite, more than twenty feet in diameter, and twenty-four feet high, termed the Altar, from the circumstance of the Marquis de Nointel, the ambassador from Louis XIV. to the Sultan, hav- ing caused high mass to be celebrated here in the year 1673. The cere- mony was attended by five hundred persons ; the place was illuminated by a hundred large wax torches ; and four hundred lamps burned in the grotto, day and night, for the three days of the Christmas festival. This cavern was known to the ancient Greeks, but seems to have been com- pletely lost sight of till the seventeenth century. THE ANGEL'S STOBY. ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. iHROUGH the blue and frosty heav- ens, Christmas stars were shining bright ; Glistening lamps throughout the city Almost matched their gleaming ? light ; ] While the winter snow was lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas night. While, from every tower and steeple. Pealing bells were sounding clear, Never with such tones of gladness. Save when Christmas time is near. Many a one that night was merry Who had toiled through all the year. That night saw old wrongs forgiven : Friends, long parted, reconciled ; Voices all unused to laughter, Mournful eyes that rarely smiled, Trembling hearts that feared the morrow. From their anxious thoughts beguiled. 43 Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall ; Joy and plenty in the cottage, Peace and feasting in the hall ; And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all ! Yet one house was dim and darkened ; Gloom, and sickness, and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chambers. Creeping up the marble stair ; Even stilled the voice of mourning. For a child lay dying there. Silken curtains fell around him. Velvet carpets hushed the tread ; Many costly toys were lying, All unheeded, by his bed ; And his tangled golden ringlets Wore on downy pillows spread. The skill of all that mighty city To save one little life was vain : 038 THE ANGEL'S STORY. One little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken ; Nay, his very mother's pain, And the mighty love within her. Could not give him health again. So she knelt there still beside him. She alone with strength to smile. Promising that he should suffer No more in a little while, Murmuring tender song and story. Weary hours to beguile. Suddenly an unseen Presence Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, Praised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision With a startled, sweet surprise. For a radiant angel hovered, Smiling, o'er the little bed ; White his raiment, from his shoulders Snowy, dove-like pinions spread. And a star-like light was shining In a glory round his head. While, with tender love, the ; Leaning o'er the little nest. In his arms the sick child folding. Laid him gently on his breast, Sobs and wailings told the mother That her darling was at rest. So, the angel, slowly rising. Spread his wings, and through the air. Bore the child, and while he held him To his heart with loving care. Placed a branch of crimson roses. Tenderly beside him there. While the child, thus clinging, floated Toward the mansions of the blest. Gazing from his' shining guardian. To the flowers upon his breast. Thus the angel spake, still smiling On the little heavenly guest : " Know dear little one, that heaven Does no earthly thing disdain — Man's poor joys find there an echo Just as surely as his pain ; Love, on earth so feebly striving. Lives divine in heaven again ! " Once in that great town below us, In a poor and narrow street. Dwelt a little sickly orphan ; Gentle aid, or pity sweet, Never in life's rugged pathway Guided his poor tottering feet. " All the striving, anxious forethought That should only come with age, Weighed upon his baby spirit. Showed him soon life's sternest page. Grim want was his nurse, and sorrow Was his only heritage. " All too weak for childish pastimes, Drearily the hours sped ; On his hands, so small and trembling. Leaning his poor aching head. Or through dark and painful hours Lying helpless on his bed. " Dreaming strange and longing fancies Of cool forests far away ; And of rosy, happy children, Laughing merrily at play, Coming home through green lanes, bearing Trailing boughs of blooming May. " Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven Gleamed above that narrow street, And the sultry air of summer (That you call so warm and sweet) Fevered the poor orphan, dwelling In that crowded alley's heat. " One bright day, with feeble footsteps Slowly forth he tried to crawl, Through the crowded city's pathways. Till he reached the garden wall ; Where 'mid princely halls ami mansions Stood the lordliest of all. " There were trees with giant branches, Velvet glades where shadows hide ; THE ANGEL S STORY. 639 There were sparkling fountains glancing Flowers which, in luxuriant pride, Ever wafted breaths of perfume To the child who stood outside. " He against the gate of iron Pressed his wan and wistful face, Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure At the glories of the place : Never had his brightest day-dream Shone with half such wondrous grace. " You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air. Laughing when the petals floated Downward on your golden hair ; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendor spread before you, Told a house's hope was there. " When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe. Turning to the ragged orphan. Gave him coin and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted Bitter tears began to flow. But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses From the tree you loved so well, Passed them through the stern, cold gra- ting, Gently bidding him ' Farewell !' Dazzled by the fragrant treasure And the gentle voice he heard. In the poor forlorn boy's spirit Joy, the sleeping seraph, stirred ; In his hand he took the flowers. In his heart the loving word. So he crept to his poor garret : Poor no more, but rich and bright, For the holy dreams of childhood — Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light — Floated round the orphan's pillow. Through the starry summer night. '■ Day dawned, yet the vision lasted — All too weak to rise he lay ; Did he dream that none spake harshly — All were strangely kind that day ? Surely, then, his treasured roses Must have charmed all ills away, " And he smiled, though they were fading ; One by one their leaves were shed ; ' Such bright things could never perish ; They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen Child and flowers both were dead. " Know, dear little one ! our Father Will no gentle deed disdain ; Love on the cold earth beginning Lives divine in heaven again. While the angel hearts that beat there Still all tender thoughts retain." So the angel ceased, and gently O'er his little burden leant ; While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him, Wondering what their mystery meant Thus the radiant angel answered. And with tender meaning smiled : " Ere your childlike, loving spirit Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek you — I was once that little child !" In the churchyard of that city Rose a tomb of marble rare. Decked, as soon as spring awakened. With her buds and blossoms fair — And a humble grave beside it — None knew who rested there. 640 GOLDEN GRAINS. GOLDEN GRAINS. JAMES A. GARFIELD. SELECTED FEOM VARIOUS OKATIOKS. ^ij^ FEEL a profounder reverence for a W^ Boy than for a Man. I never meet 5*1^1 a ragged Boy in the street without 4m feeling that I may owe him a salute, ^ for I know not what possibilities J may be buttoned up under his coat. Poverty is uncomfortable, as I can testify ; but nine times out of ten the best thing that can happen to a young man is to be tossed overboard and compelled to sink or swim for himself. In all my acquaintance I never knew a man to be drowned who was worth the saving. There are times in the history of men and nations, when they stand so near the veil that separates Mortals and Immor- tals, Time from Eternity, and Men from their God, that they can almost hear their breathings and feel the pulsations of the heart of the Infinite. Growth is better than Permanence, and per- manent growth is better than all. It is no honor or profit merely to appear in the arena. 'The Wreath is for those who contend. There is a fellowship among the Virtues by which one great, generous passion stimu- lates another. The privilege of being a Young Man is a great privilege, and the privilege of growing up to be an independent Man in middle life is a greater. Many books we can read in a railroad car and feel a harmony between the rushing of the train and the haste of the Author. If the power to do hard work is not Talent, it is the best possible substitute for it. Occasion may be the bugle-call that summons an army to battle, but the blast of a bngle can never make Soldiers or win Victories. Things don't turn up in this World until somebody turns them up. If there be one thing upon this earth that mankind love and admire better than another, it is a brave Man — it is a man who dares look the Devil in the face and tell him he is a Devil. True art is but the anti-type of Nature^ the embodiment of discovered Beauty in utility. Every character is the joint product of Nature and Nurture. Not a man of Iron, but of Live Oak. Power exhibits itself under two distinct forms — strength and force — each pos- sessing peculiar qualities and each perfect in its own sphere. Strength is typified by the Oak, the Rock, the Mountain. Force embodies itself in the Cataract, the Tempest, the Thunderbolt. As a giant Tree absorbs all the elements of growth within its reach and leaves only a sickly Vegetation in its shadow, so do towering great Men absorb all the strength and glory of their surroundings and leave a dearth of Greatness for a whole generation. It has been fortunate that most of our great- est Men have left no descendants to shine in the borrowed lustre of a great name. In order to have any success in life, or any worthy success, you must resolve to carry into your work a fullness ot Knowledge — not merely a Sufficiency, but more than a Sufficiency. Be fit for more than the thing you are now doing. Young Men talk of trusting to the Spur of the Occasion. That trust is vain. Occa- sions cannot make Spurs. If you expect to wear Spurs you must win them. It you wish to use them you must buckle them to j^our own heels before you go into the Fight. FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 641 That man will be a benefactor of his race who shall teach us how to manage rightly the first years of a Child's educa- tion. Great Ideas travel slowly and for a time noiselessly, as the Gods whose Feet were shod with wool. He who would understand the real Spirit of Literature should not select authors of any one period alone, but rather go to the fountain-head, and trace the little rill as it courses along down the ages, broadening and deepening into the great ocean of Thought which the Men of the present are exploring. Eternity alone will reveal to the human race its debt of gratitude to the peerless and immortal name of Washington. The scientific spirit has cast out the Demons and presented us with Nature, clothed in her right mind and living under the reign of law. It has given us for the sorceries of the Alchemist, the beautiful laws of Chemistry ; for the dreams of the Astrologer, the sublime truths of astronomy : for the wild visions of Cos- mogony, the monumental records of geology; for the anarchy of Diabolism, the laws of God. We no longer attribute the untimely death of infants to the sin of Adam, but to bad nursing and ignorance. Imagine if you can what would happen if to-morrow morning the railway locomo- tive and its corollary, the telegraph, were blotted from the earth. To what humble proportions Mankind would be compelled to scale down the great enter- prizes they are now puthing forward with such ease ! Heroes did not Tnake our liberties, they but reflected and illustrated them. The Life and light of a nation are insepa- rable. We confront the dangers of Suffrage by the blessings of universal education. There is no horizontal Stratification of society in this country like the rocks in the earth, that hold one class down below forevermore, and let another come to the surface to stay there forever. Our Stratification is like the ocean, where every individual drop is free to move, and where from the sternest depths of the mighty deep any drop may come up to glitter on the highest wave that rolls. There is deep down in the -hearts of the American people a strong and abiding love of our Country which no surface storms of passion can ever shake. Our National safety demands that the foun- tains of political power shall be made pure by Intelligence and kept pure by Vigilance. FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. JOHN W. PALMER. JS^IManE night is late, the house is still ; Wm The angels of the hour fulfil ♦;^^L Their tender ministries, and move ^ From couch to couch in cares of love. ](• They drop into thy dreams, sweet I wife. The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss. Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; And, as they pass, they seem to make A strange, dim hymn, " For Charlie's sake." My listening heart takes up the strain. And gives it to the night again, Fitted with words of lowly praise. And patience learned of mournful days And memories of the dead child's ways. His will be done, His will be done ! Who gave and took away my son. 642 LIFE. In " the far land " to shine and sing Before the Beautiful, the King, Who every day doth Christmas make, All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. For Charlie's sake I will arise ; I will anoint me where he lies, And change my raiment, and go in To the Lord's house, and leave my sin Without, and seat me at his board, Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. For wherefore should I fast and weep, And sullen moods of mourning keep ? I cannot bring him back, nor he, For any calling, come to me. The bond the angel Death did sign, God sealed — for Charlie's sake and mine. THE BRIDR SIR JOHN . o-C|?o . |HE maid, and thereby hangs a tale. For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce : No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she. Nor half so full of juice. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring, — It was too wide a peck ; And, to say truth, — for out it must, — It looked like the great collar — just — About our young colt's neck. Her feet, beneath her petticoat. Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light ; But 0, she dances such a way ! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half 60 fine a sisrht. SUCKLING. Her cheeks so rare a white was on. No daisy makes comparison ; Who sees them is undone ; For streaks of red were mingled there. Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red ; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin. Some bee had stung it newly ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze. Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get ; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. LIFE. HENRY KING. ^ ?IKE to the falling of a star, ll Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew. Or like a wind that chafes the flood. Or bubbles which on water stood, — E'en such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to-night, The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The spring entombed in autumn lies, The dew dries up, the star is shot. The flight is past, — and man forgot ! HABITS OF TROUT. G43 HABITS OF TROUT. WILLIAM C. PRIME. pl®T is noteworthy, and has doubtless often attracted the attention ^ of anglers, that different books give totally different instructions and infor- mation about the same fish. This is easily explained. Most of the writers on angling have written from experience ob- tained in certain waters. One who has taken trout for a score of years in the St. Kegis waters forms his opinion of these fish from their habits in those regions. But a St. Eegis trout is no more like a Welakennebacook trout in his habits than a Boston gentleman is to a New Yorker, Who would think of de- scribing the habits and customs of mankind from a knowledge of the Englishman ? Yet we have abundance of book-lore on the habits of fish, founded on acquaintance with the fish in one or another locality. To say truth, until one has studied the habits of trout in all the waters of the world, it is unsafe for him to ven- ture any general account of those habits. Take the simplest illustration. If you are on the lower St. Regis, and seek large trout, rise before the sun, and cast for the half hour preceding and the half hour following sunrise. You will find the fish plenty and voracious, striking with vigor, and evidently on the feed. But go to Profile Lake (that gem of all the world of waters), wherein I have taken many thousand trout, and you will scarcely ever have a rise in the morning. In the one lake the fish are in the habit of feeding at day-dawn. In the other no trout breakfasts till nine o'clock, unless, like the departing guests of the neighboring hotel, business or pleasure lead him to be up for once at an early hour. 644 'NO MORE SEA." So, too, you may cast on Profile Lake at noon in the sunshine, and as in most waters, though the trout are abundant, they will not be tempted to rise. But in Echo Lake, only a half-mile distant, where trout are scarce, I have killed many fish of two and three pounds' weight, and nearly all between eleven and one in bright, sunshiny weather. In fact, when they rise at all in Echo Lake, it is almost invariably at that hour, and very seldom at any other. Men have their hours of eating, settled into what we call habits. The Bostonian dines at one hour, the New Yorker at another. One should not attempt to describe the eating habits of man in general from either class, or from both. In many respects the habits of fish are formed, as are the habits of men, by the force of circumstances, or by the influence of the imitative propensity. They do some things only because they have seen other fish do so. Instinct leads them to some habits, education to others. NO MORE SEA." WILLIAM H. HENDERSON, "^§S* LONELY, exiled one ! ii^||K Upon the Patmos shore I stand : thee J"l^ ' Thou dreamest gravely of thine own dear land, I Far by the rising sun. Thinking of Galilee, And the hoarse waves that part thee from its shore. Not strange it seems to hear thee murmuring o'er Thy song of " No More Sea." Shall we not then beside Some friend or brother, count from pebbly beach The white-winged ships as far as eye can reach On the horizon wide ? Alas ! and no more sea ? No grey cloud-shadows flickering o'er the deep? No curling breakers by the rocky steep Or beachy shore ? Ah, me! ECHOES. 645 No more in foamy spray Shall we with merry jest and full-voiced laughter Delight ourselves, and breast the surges after The dust and heat of day ? Shall there be no more shells ? Nor golden sand? Nor crimson sea- weed shine — Nor pearls, nor coral that beneath the brine Adorn the ocean cells ? On balmy summer day Shall we not float in dainty skiff along. And suit the dipping oar to choral song. Upon some sheltered bay ? Its pure, chaste lips shall never cease to kiss Its sister earth so dear. A darker, sadder sea Spreads its drear waste before the prophet's eye — A sea of sin across which floats the sigh Of fallen humanity. And surges of dark thought And angry passion loom upon its face. Telling the ruin of a shipwrecked race. In countless centuries wrought. This is the great Red Sea, Whose waves shall yet at God's own voice roll back. Yes, apostolic seer; Not of the watery brine thou tell est this: That through the pathway His redeemed may walk. Safe, fearless, joyful, free. ECHOES. THOMAS MOORE. .,0W sweet the answer Echo makes To Music at night When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away o'er lawns and lakes Goes answering light! Yet Love hath echoes truf^r far And far more sweet Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn or lute or soft guitar The songs repeat. 6^6 SOFT SAWDER AND HUMAN NATUR. SOFT SAWDER AND HUMAN NATUR. THOMAS C. HALIBURTON. ®|^N the course of a journey which Mr. Slick performs in company with iM, the reporter of his humors, the latter asks him how, in a country so X poor as Nova Scotia he contrives to sell so many clocks. " Mr. Slick paused," continues the author, "as if considering the propriety of answering the question, and looking me in the face, said, in a con- fidential tone: ' Why, I don't care if I do tell you, for the market is glutted, and I shall quit this circuit. It is done by a knowledge of soft saioder wcidi human natur. But here; — I have just one left. Neighbor Steel's wife asked to have the refusal of it, but I guess I won't sell it. I had but two of them, this one and the feller of it, that I sold Governor Lincoln. General Green, secretary of state for Maine, said he'd give me fifty dollars for this here one — it has composition wheels and patent axles; it is a beautiful article — a real first chop — no mistake, genuine superfine ; but I guess I'll take it back ; and, besides, Squire Hawk might think it hard that I did not give him the offer.' "'Dear me,' said Mrs. Flint, 'I should like to see it; where is it?' ' It is in a chest of mine over the way, at Tom Tape's store ; I guess he can ship it on to Eastport.' 'That's a good man,' said Mrs. Flint, 'jist let's look at it.' Mr. Slick, willing to oblige, yielded to these entreaties, and soon produced the clock — a gaudy, highly varnished, trumpery-look- ing affair. He placed it on the chimney-piece, where its beauties were pointed out and duly appreciated by Mrs. Flint, whose admiration was about ending in a proposal, when Mr. Flint returned from giving his directions about the care of the horses. The deacon praised the clock ; he, too, thought it a handsome one ; but the deacon was a prudent man : he had a watch, he was sorry, but he had no occasion for a clock. ' I guess you're in the wrong furrow this time, deacon; it ain't for sale,' said Mr. Slick; ' and if it was, I reckon neighbor Steele's wife would have it, for she gives me no peace about it.' Mrs. Flint said that Mr. Steele had enough to do, poor man, to pay his interest, without buying clocks for his wife. ' It's no consarn of mine,' said Mr. Slick, ' as long as he pays me, what he has to do ; but I guess I don't want to sell it ; and, beside, it comes too high ; that clock can't be made at Khode Island under forty dollars. " ' Why, it an't possible ! ' said the Clockmaker, in apparent surprise, looking at his watch, ' why, as I'm alive, it is four o'clock, and if I haven't been two hours here — how on airth shall I reach Kiver Philip to-night ? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Flint ; I'll leave the clock in your care till I return NIAGARA. 647 on my way to the States — I'll set it agoing, and put it to the right time.' As soon as this operation was performed, he delivered the key to the deacon with a sort of serio-comic injunction to wind up the clock every Saturday night, which Mrs. Flint said she would take care should be done, and promised to remind her husband of it, in case he should chance to for- get it. " ' That,' said the Clockmaker, as soon as we were mounted, ' that I call human natur ! Now, that clock is sold for forty dollars — it cost me six dollars and fifty cents. Mrs. Flint will never let Mrs. Steele have the refusal — nor will the deacon learn until I call for the clock, that having once indulged in the use of a superfluity, it is difficiflt to give it up. We can do without any article of luxury we have never had, but when once obtained, it is not in human natur to surrender it voluntarily. Of fifteen thousand sold by myself and partners in this province, twelve thousand were left in this manner, only ten clocks were ever returned — when we called for them, they invariably bought them. We trust to soft sawder to get them into the house, and to human natur that they never come out of it." NIAGARA. LYDIA HUNTLY SIGOURNEY. l^LOW on forever, in thy glorious robe Of terror and of beauty. Yes, flow on, Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath set His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud Mantled around thy feet. — And he doth give Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him Eternally, — bidding the lip of man Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour Incense of awe-struck praise. And who can dare To lift the insect trump of earthly hope. Or love, or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime Of thy tremendous hymn ? — Even Ocean shrinks Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild waves Retire abash'd. — For he doth sometimes seem To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall His wearied billows from their vexing play, And lull them to a cradle calm : but thou. With everlasting, undecaying tide, Dost rest not night or day. The morning stars. When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, Heard thy deep anthem, — and those wreck' ing fires That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, On thine unfathom'd page. — Each leafy bough That lifts itself within thy proud domain, Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, And tremble at the baptism. — Lo ! yon birds Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing Amid thy foam and mist. — 'Tis meet for them To touch thy garment's hem, — or lightly stir The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, — 648 FINGAL'S CAVE. Who sport unharm'd upon the fleecy cloud, And listen at the echoing gai,e of heaven, Without reproof. — But as for us, — it seems Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak Familiarly of thee. — JMothinks, to tint Thy glorious features with our pencil'n point, Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, In the dread presence of the Invisible Were profanation. As if to answer to its God through thee, Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty ; And while it rushes with delirious joy To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step. And check its rapture with the humbling view Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand FINGAL'S CA VE. ^[iN the volcanic rocks, cavern formations are very common, and one of i^ the most splendid examples in the world occurs in the basalt, a rock ijk of comparatively modern igneous origin. This is the well-known * cave of Fingal, in the island of Staffa, a small island on the western ! coast of Scotland, composed entirely of amorphous and pillared basalt. The name of the island is derived from its singular structure, Staffa, signifying, in the Norwegian language, a people who were early on the coast, a staff, and figuratively, a column. The basaltic columns have in various places yielded to the action of the waveg, which have scooped out caves of the most picturesque description, the chief of which are the Boat cave, the Cormorant cave, so called from the number of these birds visiting the spot, and the great cave of Fingal. It is remarkable that this grand natural object should have remained comparatively unknown, until Sir Joseph Banks had his attention acci- dentally directed to it, and may be said to have discovered it to the inhab- itants of South Britain. This great cave consists of a lava-like mass at the base, and of two ranges of basaltic columns resting upon it, which present to the eye an appearance of regularity almost architectural, and supporting an irregular ceiling of rock. According to the measurements of Sir Joseph Banks, the cave from the rock without is three hundred and seventy-one feet six inches ; the breadth at the mouth, fifty-three feet seven inches ; the height of the arch at the mouth, one hundred and seven- teen feet six inches ; depth of water at the mouth, eighteen feet ; and at the bottom of the cave, nine feet. The echo of the waves which wash into the cavern has originated its Celtic name, Llaimbh-bim, the Cave of Music. Maculloch remarks : " If too much admiration has been lavished on it by some, and if, in consequence, more recent visitors have left it with disappointment, it must be recollected, that all descriptions are but pictures of the feelings of the narrator ; it is, moreover, as unreasonable to expect FINGAL'S CAVE. 649 that the same objects should produce corresponding effects on all minds, on the enlightened and on the vulgar, as that every individual should alike be sensible to the merits of Phidias and Raphael, of Sophocles and of Shakespeare. But if this cave were even destitute of that order and symmetry, that richness arising from multiplicity of parts combined with greatness of dimension and simplicity of style, which it possesses sti 1 the prolonged len-th the twilight gloom half concealing the playful and varying effects of Reflected light, the echo of the measured surge as it rises and lalls he transparent green of the water, and the profound and fairy solitude of the whole scene, could not fail strongly to impress a mir.d gifted with any sense of beauty in art or in nature, and it will be compelled to own it is not without cause that celebrity has been conferred on ^.he Cave of Fingal. 650 THE CELESTIAL CUUiMTKY. THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. lyg^OR thee, dear, dear Country ! |j^;J Mine eyes their vigils keep ; \^X For very love beholding A Thy happiness, they weep. Y The mention of thy glory, tf- Is unction to the breast, J And medicine in sickness, And love, and life, and rest. one, only Mansion ! Paradise of Joy ! Where tears are ever banished. And smiles have no alloy, Beside thy living waters, All plants are great and small. The cedar of the forest. The hyssop of the wall ; With jaspers glow thy bulwarks. Thy streets with emeralds blaze, The sardius and topaz Unite in thee their rays ; Thine ageless walls are bonded With amethyst unpriced ; The saints build up its fabric. And the corner-stone is Christ. The Cross is all thy splendor, The Crucified thy praise ; His laud and benediction Thy ransomed people raise : " Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, True God and Man," they sing, " The never-failing Garden, The ever-golden Ring ; The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, The Guardian of His Court ; The Day-star of Salvation, The Porter and the Port!" Thou hast no shore, fair ocean ! Thou hast no time, bright day ! Dear fountain of refreshment To pilgrims far away ! Upon the Rock of Ages, They raise the holy tower ; behnard de morlaix, a. d., 1145. Thine is the victor's laurel, And thine the golden dower I Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, Bride that know'st no guile, The Prince's sweetest kisses. The Prince's loveliest smile ; Unfading lilies, bracelets Of living pearl, thine own ; The Lamb is ever near thee. The Bridegroom thine alone. The Crown is He to guerdon, The Buckler to protect. And He, Himself the Mansion, And He the Architect. The only art thou need'st — Thanksgiving for thy lot : The only joy thou seek'st — The Life where Death is not. And all thine endless leisuire, In sweetest accents sings The ill that was thy merit, The wealth that is thy King's ! Jerusalem the golden. With milk and honey blest. Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed . I know not, I know not. What social joys are there ! What radiancy of glory, What light beyond compare ! And when I fain would sing them, ]\Iy spirit fails and faints ; And vainly would it image The assembly of the Saints. They stand, those halls of Zion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng ; The Prince is ever in them. The daylight is serene ; Tlie pastures of the Blessed Are decked in glorious sheen THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. 651 There is the Throne of David, And there, from care released, The song of them that triumph, The shout of them that feast ; And they who, with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, For ever and for ever Are clad in robes of white ! holy, placid harp-notes Of that eternal hymn ! sacred, sweet reflection. And peace of Seraphim ! thirst, forever ardent, Yet evermore content ! true, peculiar vision Of God omnipotent ! Ye know the many mansions For many a glorious name, And divers retributions That divers merits claim ; For midst the constellations That deck our earthly sky, This star than that is brighter — And so it is on high. Jerusalem the glorious ! The glory of the elect ! dear and future vision That eager hearts expect ! Even now by faith I see thee, Even here thy walls discern ; To thee my thoughts are kindled, And strive, and pant, and yearn. O none can tell thy bulwarks. How glorious they rise ! none can tell thy capitals Of beautiful device ! Thy loveliness oppresses All human thought and heart ; And none, peace, Zion, Can sing thee as thou art ! New mansion of new people. Whom God's own love and light Promote, increase, make holy, Identify, unite ! Thou City of the Angels ! Thou City of the Lord ! Whose everlasting music Is the glorious decachord ! And there the band of Prophets United praise ascribes, And there the twelve-fold chorus Of Israel's ransomed tribes, The lily-beds of virgins. The roses' martyr glow, The cohort of the Fathers Who kept the Faith below, And there the Sole-begotten I Is Lord in regal state — He, Judah's mystic Lion, He, Lamb Immaculate. fields that know no sorrow ! state that fears no strife ! princely bowers ! land of realm and home of Life ! Jerusalem, exulting On that securest shore, 1 hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, And love thee ever more ! I ask not for my merit, 1 seek not to deny !My merit is destruction, A child of wrath am I ; But yet with Faith I venture, And Hope upon my way ; For those perennial guerdons I labor night and day. The best and dearest Father, Who made me and who saved. Bore with me in defilement. And from defilement saved, When in His strength I struggle. For very joy I leap. When in my sin I totter, I weep, or try to weep : But grace, sweet grace celestial, Shall all its love display. And David's Royal fountain Purge every sin away. mine, my golden Zion ! lovelier far than gold. With laurel-girt battalions, And safe victorious fold ! 662 ARCTIC LIFE. sweet and blessed Country, Exult, dust and ashes ! Shall I ever see thy face ? The Lord shall be thy part ; sweet and blessed Country, His only. His forever, Shall I ever win thy grace? Thou shalt be, and thou art ! I have the hope within me Exult, dust and ashes I To comfort and to bless ! The Lord shall be thy part ; Shall I ever win the prize itself ? His only, His for ever, Otellme, tellme, Yes! Thou shalt be, and thou art i ARCTIC LIFE. ELISHA KENT KANE. |l|^l|OW do we spend the day when it is not term- day, or rather the ^^K twenty-four hours? for it is either all day here, or all night, or a "^"^^ twilight mixture of both. How do we spend the twenty-four 4; hours ? J At six in the morning, McGary is called, with all hands who have.sZep^ in. The decks are cleaned, the ice-hole opened, the refreshing beef-nets examined, the ice-tables measured, and things aboard put to rights. At half-past seven, all hands rise, wash on deck, open the doors for ventilation, and come below for breakfast. We are short of fuel, and therefore cook in the cabin. Our breakfast, for all fare alike, is hard tack, pork, stewed apples frozen like molasses-candy, tea and coffee, with a deli- cate portion of raw potato. After breakfast, the smokers take their pipe till nine : then all hands turn to, idlers to idle, and workers to work ; Ohlsen to his bench ; Brooks to his " preparations " in canvass ; McGary ARCTIC LIFE. ARCTIC LIFE. 653 to play tailor ; Whipple to make shoes ; Bonsall to tinker ; Baker to skin birds, — and the rest to the "office ! " Take a look into the Arctic Bureau ! One table, one salt-pork lamp with rusty chlorinated flame, three stools, and as many waxen-faced men with their legs drawn up under them, the deck at zero being too cold for the feet. Each has his department : Kane 13 writing, sketching, and projecting maps ; Hayes copying logs and meteoro- logicals ; Sontag reducing his work at Fern Eock. A fourth, as one of the working members of the hive, has long been defunct: you will find him in bed, or studying "Littell's Living Age." At twelve, a business round of inspection, and orders enough to fill up the day with work. Next, the 'drill of the Esquimaux dogs, — my own peculiar recreation, — a dog-trot, especially refreshing to legs that creak with every kick, and rheumatic shoulders that chronicle every descent of the whip. And so we get on to dinner-time; the occasion of another gathering, which misses the tea and coffee of breakfast, but rejoices in pickled cabbage and dried peaches instead. At dinner as at breakfast the raw potato comes in, our hygienic lux- ury. Like doctor stuff generally, it is not as appetizing as desirable. Grating it down nicely, leaving out the ugly red spots liberally, and adding the utmost oil as a lubricant, it is as much as I can do to persuade the mess to shut their eyes and bolt it, like Mrs. Squeers' molasses and brim- stone at Dotheboys' Hall. Two absolutely refuse to taste it. I tell them of the Silesians using its leaves as a spinach, of the whalers* in the South Seas getting drunk on the molasses which had preserved the large potatoes of the Azores, — I point to this gum, so fungoid and angry the day before yes- terday, and so flat and amiable to-day, — all by a potato poultice : my elo- quence is wasted : they persevered in rejecting the admirable compound. Sleep, exercise, amusement, and work at will, carry on the day till our six o'clock supper, a meal something like breakfast, and something like dinner, only a little more scant, and the officers come in with the reports of the day. Doctor Hayes shows me the log, I sign it; Sontag the weather, I sign the weather ; Mr. Bonsall the tides and thermometers. Thereupon comes in mine ancient, Brooks ; and I enter in his journal No. 3 all the work done under his charge, and discuss his labors for the morrow. McGary comes next, with the cleaning-up arrangements, inside, out- side, and on decks ; and Mr. Wilson follows with ice measurements. And last of all comes my own record of the day gone by ; every line, as I look back upon its pages, giving evidence of a weakened body and harassed mind. We have cards sometimes, and chess sometimes, — and a few maga- zines, Mr. Littell's thoughtful present, to cheer away the evening. 654 THE CHANGELING. THE CHANGELING. JOHN G. WHITTIER. TOR the fairest maid in Hampton They needed not to search, Who saw young Anna Favor Come walking into church, — Or bringing from the meadows. At set of harvest-day. The frolic of the blackbirds, The sweetness of the hay. She'll come when she hears it crying, In the shape of an owl or bat. And she'll bring us our darling Anna In place of her screeching brat." Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, Laid his hand upon her head : " Thy sorrow is great, woman ! I sorrow with thee," he said. Now the weariest of all mothers, The saddest two-years bride. She scowls in the face of her husband. And spurns her child aside. " Rake out the red Coals, goodman, For there the child shall lie. Till the black witch comes to fetch her. And both up chimney fly. " It's never my own little daughter, It's never my own," she said ; " The witches have stolen my Anna, And left me an imp instead. " 0, fair and sweet was my baby. Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold ; But this is ugly and wrinkled. Cross, and cunning, and old. " I hate the touch of her fingers, I hate the feel of her skin ; It's not the milk from my bosom. But my blood, that she sucks in. " My face grows sharp with the torment ; Look ! my arms are skin and bone ! — Rake open the red coals, goodman. And the witch shall have her own. " The paths to trouble are many, And never but one sure way Leads out to the light beyond it : My poor wife, let us pray." Then he said to the great All-Father, " Thy daughter is weak and blind ; Let her sight come back, and clothe her Once more in her right mind. " Lead her out of this evil shadow, Out of these fancies wild ; Let the holy love of the mother, Turn again to her child. " Make her lips like the lips of Mary, Kissing her blessed Son ; Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, Rest on her little one. " Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, Open her prison door. And thine shall be all the glory And praise forevermore." Then into the face of its mother, The baby looked up and smiled ; And the cloud of her soul was lifted, And she knew her little child. A beam of slant west sunshine Made the wan face almost fair. WHY? G55 Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder And the rings of pale gold hair. She kissed it on lip and forehead, She kissed it on cheek and chin ; And she bared her snow-white bosom To the lips so pale and thin. 0, fair on her bridal morning Was the maid who blushed and smiled But fairer to Ezra Dalton Looked the mother of his child. j With more than a lover's fondness He stooped to her worn young face j And the nursing child and the mother He folded in one embrace. " Now mount and ride, my goodman As lovest thine own soul ! i Woe's me if my wicked fancies Be the death of Goody Cole !" His horse he saddled and bridled. And into the night rode he,— Now through the great black woodland ; Now by the white-beached sea. He rode through the silent clearings. He came to the ferry wide. And thrice he called to the boatman Asleep on the other side. He set his horse to the river, He swam to Newburg town. And he called up Justice Sewall In his nightcap and his gown. And the grave and worshipful justice, Upon whose soul be peace ! Set his name to the jailer's warrant For Goody Cole's release. Then through the night the hoof-beats Went sounding like a flail : And Goody Cole at cock crow Came forth from Ipswich jail. WHY!' jS|^P!|OW kind Reuben Esmond is growing IUJi of late, 'l^'^aW' How he stops every day as he goes by the gate, Asking after my health. 'Tis a good- hearted lad. To think of the soldier, so lonely and The school-children hail me as " Gran 'father Brown," Because I'm the oldest man left in the town ; ETHEL LYNN. But when the slant sunbeams come hither to lie, Reuben Esmond comes too — I cannot tell why. For I am a tedious and stupid old man, Quite willing to do all the good that I can But a crutch and a pension will tell you the tale Of the warm work I had in the Beech-For est Vale. 656 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. I've told it to Reuben — well, ten times or more — I, sitting just here, little Jo in the door, (Jo is poor Mary's child, she that came home to die, God knew it was best, I couldn't see why.) And Reuben and Josie, they sit very still, When I tell how I fought over Hazelton Hill ; But the child turns away if I chance to look round. And stares at the apple-blooms strewn on the ground. Then she says I must move when the sun- light is gone, She isn't afraid to be left there alone ; And Reuben springs up so cheerful and spry, To help me in-doors — I do wonder why. He don't go away — he isn't afraid Of the dew on the grass or the deep-falling shade. It must be very tedious for Josie to stay, But she says she don't mind 't is the girl's pleasant way. She knows I like Reuben ; and so every night She pins up her hair with a posy so bright. 'T is strange — in the morning the red roses lie All crushed on the step — I do wonder why. There's neighbor Grey's son, he acts very queer. He used to be always so neighborly here ; When I call to him now he grows white and red, Never asks me if Josie is living or dead. He don't seem to like her, I thought he did once, But perhaps the old soldier is only a dunce. He won't speak to Reuben when passing him by, Nor stop at his call — I do wonder why. Here's Reuben to-day. He looks round my chair In the doorway for Jo. The child isn't there, And the lad looks abashed. " I called — Captain Brown," And here he stops short, looking awkwardly down, " To ask you for Josie." The lad lifts his head, While his cheek, like a girl's, flushed all over red. " I will love her and guard her until I shall die, And she loves me, she says, I cannot tell why." I have surely forgotten how Time never stays, How the wave of the year gulfs the drops of the days. Little Jo seventeen ! Ah, yes, I remember. Just seventeen years the eighteenth of No- vember. Little Josie a bride. " Take her, Reuben, and be Very tender and patient." More clearly I Why Reuben should call every day going by, To ask for ray welfare. Grandfather knows why. TEE CHILDREN'S HOUR. H. W. LONGFELLOW. . o^.fo , — ^^ETWEEN the dark and the daylight, ^jj^» When night is beginning to lower, *^^^Comes a pause in the day's occupations, A That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened. And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. iiiiiii GRANDPA AND HIS PET? FRANKLIN'S ARRIVAL m THILADELPHIA. 657 A whisper and then a silence ; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded. They enter my castle wall. They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair : If I try to escape, they surround me : They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me intwine. Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. Do you think, blue -eyed banditti. Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all ? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day. Till the walls shall crumble to ruic And moulder in dust FRANKLIN'S ARRIVAL IN PHILADELPHIA. ^T^N my arrival at Philadelphia, I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come by sea. I was covered with dirt; my pockets were filled with shirts and stockings ; I was unacquainted with a single soul in the place, and knew not where to seek a lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and having passed the night without sleep, I was extremely hungry, and all my money consisted of a Dutch dollar, and about a shilHng's worth of coppers, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. As I had assisted them in rowing, they refused it at first ; but I insisted on their taking it. A man is sometimes more generous when he has little than when he has much money; probably because, in the first case, he is desirous of concealing his poverty. I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly on both sides, till I came to Market Street, where I met with a child with a loaf of bread. Often had I made my dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he had bought it, and went straight to the baker's shop which he pointed out to me. I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find such as we had at Boston ; but they made, it seems, none of that sort at Philadelphia. I then asked for a three-penny loaf. They made no loaves of that price. Finding myself ignorant of the prices, as well as of the difierent kinds of bread, I 058 THROUGH TRIALS. desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of some kind or other. He gave mo three large rolls. I was surprised at receiving so much : I took them, however, and, having no room in my pockets, I walked on with a roll under each arm, eating a third. In this manner I went through Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr. Read^ the father of my future wife. She was standing at the door, observed me, and thought, with reason, that I made a very singular and grotesque aj^pearance. I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut Street, eating my roll all the way; and, having made this round, I found myself again on Market Street wharf, near the boat in which I arrived. I stepped into it to take a draught of the river water ; and, finding myself satisfied with my first roll, I gave the other two to a woman and her child, who had come down with us in the boat, and was waiting to continue her journey. Thus refreshed, I regained the street, which was now full of well-dressed people, all going the same way. I joined them, and was thus led to a large Quakers' meeting-house near the market-place. I sat down with the rest, and, after looking round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being drowsy from my last night's labor and want of rest, I fell into a sound sleep. In this state I continued till the assembly dispersed, when one of the congregation had the goodness to wake me. This was consequently the first house I entered, or in which T slept, at Philadelphia. THROUGH TRIALS, ROSENGARTEN. |TJ||pnROUGH night to light. And though ^1^ to mortal eyes ■=Y Creation's face a pall of horror wear, Good cheer, good cheer ! The gloom of midnight flies, Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair. Through storm to calm. And though his thunder car The rumbling tempest drive through earth and sky, Good cheer, good cheer ! The elemental war Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh. Through frost to spring. And though the biting blast Of Euru3 stiffen nature's juicy veins. Good cheer, good cheer ! When winter's wrath is past, Soft murmuring spring breathes sweetly o'er the plains. Through strife to peace. And though with bristling front, A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee, Good cheer, good cheer! Brave thou the battle's brunt, For the peace march and song of victory. Through cross to crown. And through thy spirit's life Trials untold assail with giant strength, Good cheer, good cheer! Soon ends the bittei strife, VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL. 659 And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ And through this thistle-field of life, as- at length. cend To the great supper in that world, whose Through death to life. And through this years vale of tears, Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end. VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL. ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. IJIIIPIS the soft twilight. Round the ^H^Hf)^ shining fender, — Two at my feet and one upon my knee, — Dreamy-eyed Elsie, bright-lipped Isa- bel, And thou, my golden-headed Raphael, My fairy, small and slender. Listen to what befell Monk Gabriel, In the old ages ripe with mystery : Listen, my darlings, to the legend tender. An aged man with grave, but gentle look — His silence sweet with sounds With which the simple-hearted spring abounds ; Lowing of cattle from the abbey grounds, Chirping of insect, and the building rock Mingled like murmurs of a dreaming shell ; Quaint tracery of bird, and branch, and brook. Flitting across the pages of his book, Until the very words a freshness took — Deep in his cell Sat the monk Gabriel. In his book he read The words the Master to His dear ones said : " A little while and ye Shall see, Shall gaze on Me ; A little while again. Ye shall not see Me then." A little while ! The monk looked up — a smile Making his visage brilliant, liquid-eyed : " Thou who gracious art Unto the poor of heart, blessed Christ!" he cried, " Great is the misery Of mine iniquity ; But would J now might see. Might feast on Thee !" — The blood with sudden start, Nigh rent his veins apart — (Oh condescension of the Crucified :) In all the brilliancy Of His Humanity — The Christ stood by his side ! Pure as the early lily was His skin, His cheek out-blushed the rose. His lips, the glows Of autumn sunset on eternal snows ; And His deep eyes within. Such nameless beauties, wondrous glories dwelt The monk in speechless adoration knelt. In each fair hand, in each fair foot there shone The peerless stars He took from Calvary ; Around His brows in tenderest lucency The thorn-marks lingered, like the flash of dawn ; And from the opening in His side there rilled A light, so dazzling, that all the room was filled With heaven ; and transfigured in his place, His very breathing stilled, The friar held his robe before his face, And heard the angels singing ! 'Twas but a moment — then, upon the spell Of this sweet presence, lo ! a something broke- 660 BOOK-BUYERS. A something trembling, in the belfry woko, An hour hence, his duty nobly done A shower of metal music ilinging Back to his cell he came ; O'er wold and moat, o'er park and lake and Unasked, unsought, lo ! his reward was won ! fell. — Rafters and walls and floor were yet And through the open windows of the cell aflame In silver chimes came ringing. "With all the matchless glory of that sun. And in the centre stood the Blessed One It was the bell (Praise be His Holy Name !) Calling monk Gabriel, Who for our sakes our crosses made His own, Unto his daily task. And bore our weight of shame. To feed the paupers at the abbey gate ; No respite did he ask. Down on the threshold fell Nor for a second summons idly wait ; Monk Gabriel, But rose up, saying in his humble way ; His forehead pressed upon the floor of clay, "Fain would I stay, And while in deep humility he lay, Lord ! and feast alway (Tears raining from his happy eyes away) Upon, the honeyed sweetness of Thy beauty ; " Whence is this favor, Lo':d ?" he strove to But 'tis Thy will, not mine. I must obey. say. Help me to do my duty !" The while the Vision smiled, The Vision only said, The monk went fortli, light-hearted as a Lifting its shining head ; child. " If ihou hadst staid, son, Jmust have fled." BOOK-BUYERS. JOHN RUSKIN. SAY we have despised literature; what do we, as a nation, care about books? How much do you think we spend altogether on our libraries, public or private, as compared with what we spend on our horses ? If a man spends lavishly on his librai-y, you call him mad — a bibliomaniac. But you never call one a horse-maniac, though men ruin themselves every day by their horses, and you do not hear of people ruining themselves by their books. Or, to go lower still, how much do you think the contents of the book-shelves of the United Kingdom, public and private, would fetch, as compared with the contents of its wine cellars? What position would its expenditure on literature take as compared with its expenditure on luxurious eating ? We talk of food for the mind, as of food for 'the body : now, a good book contains such food inexhaustibly : it is provision for life, and for the best part of us ; yet, how long most people would look at the best book before they would give the price of a large turbot for itl Though there have been men who have pinched their stomachs and bared their backs to buy a book, whose libraries were cheaper VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. 661 to them, I think, in theiend, than most men's dinners are. We are few of us put to such a trial, and more the pity ; for, indeed, a precious thing is all the more precious to us if it has been won by work or economy ; and if public libraries were half as costly as public dinners, or books cost the tenth part of what bracelets do, even foolish men and women might some- times suspect there was good in reading as well as in munchingiand spark- ling; whereas the very cheapness of literature is making even wiser people forget that if a book is worth reading it is worth buying. DAY DAWN. H. W. LONGFELLOW. }^ WIND came up out of the sea. And said, " 0, mists, mo,ke room for Vr ^% It bailed ; . Ye mariners, tin ;Lt IS And hurried landward far away, Crying " Awake ! it is the d?y." It said unto the forest, " Shout ! Hang all your leafy banners out !" It touched the wood-bird's folded wing. And said " bird, awake and sing." And o'er the farms, " chanticleer. Your clarion blow, the day is near." It whispered to the fields of corn, " Bow down, and hail the coming morn. It shouted through the belfry tower, " Awake ; bell ! proclaim the hour." It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said. " Not yet I in quiet lie." VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. WILLLVM B. SPRAGUE. MET mo now, for a moment, show you what the two systems — Atheism and Christianity — can do, have done, for individual character; and ''^^^ I can think of no two names to which I may refer with more con- fidence, in the way of illustration, than Voltaire and "Wilberforce ; both of them names which stand out with prominence. 562 VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. Voltaire was perhaps tlie master-spirit in the school of French Atheism ; and though he was not alive to participate in the horrors of the revolution, probably he did more by his writings to combine the elements for that tremendous tempest than any other man. And now I undertake to say that you may draw a character in which there shall be as much of the blackness of moral turpitude as your imagination can supply, and yet you shall not have exceeded the reality as it was found in the character of this apostle of Atheism. You may throw into it the darkest shades of selfishness, making the man a perfect idolater of himself; you may paint the serpent in his most wily form to represent deceit and cunning; you may let sensuality stand forth in all the loathsomeness of a beast in the mire; you may bring out envy, and malice, and all the baser and all the darker passions, drawing nutriment from the pit; and when you have done this, you may contemplate the character of Voltaire, and exclaim, "Here is the monstrous original !" The fires of his genius kindled only to wither and consume; he stood, for almost a century, a great tree of poison, not only cumbering the ground, but infusing death into the atmosphere; and though its foliage has long since dropped off, and its branches have with- ered, and its trunk fallen, under the hand of time, its deadly root still remains; and the very earth that nourishes it is cursed for its sake. And now I will speak of Wilberforce; and I do it with gratitude and triumph, — gratitude to the God who made him what he was; triumph that there is that in his very name which ought to make Atheism turn pale. Wilberforce was the friend of man. Wilberforce was the friend of enslaved and wretched man. Wilberforce (for I love to repeat his name) consecrated the energies of his whole life to one of the noblest objects of benevolence; it was in the cause of injured Africa that he often passed the night in intense and wakeful thought; that he counseled' with the wise, and reasoned with the unbelieving, and expostulated with the unmerciful ; that his heart burst forih with all its melting tenderness, and his genius with all its electric fire; that he turned the most accidental meeting into a con- ference for the relief of human woe, and converted even the Senate-House into a theatre of benevolent action. Though his zeal had at one time almost eaten him up, and the vigor of his frame was so far gone that he stooped over and looked into his own grave, yet his faith failed not; and, blessed be God, the vital spark was kindled up anew, and he kept on labor- ing through a long succession of years; and at length, just as his friends were gathering around him to receive his last whisper, and the angels were gathering around to receive his departing spirit, the news, worthy to be borne by angels, was brought to him, that the great object to which his SUNRISE IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. G63 life had been given was gained; and then, Simeon-like, he clasped his hands to die, and went off to heaven with the sound of deliverance to the captive vibrating sweetly upon his ear. Both Voltaire and Wilberforce are dead; but each of them lives in the character he has left behind him. And now who does not delight to honor the character of the one ? who does not shudder to contemplate the character of the other ? SUNEISE 7iV TEF VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. ^^^PWAKE, my soul ! not only passive P^^^ praise i,^^ Thou owebt ! not alone these swell- ing tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstacy ! Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliiTs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 0, struggling with the darkness all the night. And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink, — Companion of the morning-star at dawn. Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn, Co-herald, — wake, 0, wake, and utter praise ! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! WTio called you forth from night and utter death. From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. Forever shattered and tho same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life. Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? And who commanded (and the silence came). Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ' Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of nations. Answer ' and let the ice -plains echo, God ! God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad- some voice ! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow. And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living Howers that skirt the eternal frost ' Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou, too, hoar Mount ! pointing peaks. with thy sky- o64 SUNRISE IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. Oft from whose feet the avalanche unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the deptli of clouds that veil thy breast,- Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me, — Rise, 0, ever rise ! Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth '. Thou kingly Spiiit tlu'unod among the bins. Then too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoracion, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears. Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God THE POWER OF WORDS. 665 THE POWER OF WORDS. EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. SI^OR-DS are most effective when arranged in that order which is called style. The great secret of a good style, we are told, is to have proper words in proper places. To marshal one's verbal battalions in such order that they may bear at once upon all 4; quarters of a subject, is certainly a great art. This is done in J different ways. Swift, Temple, Addison, Hume, Gibbon, Johnson, Burke, are all great generals in the discipline of their verbal armies and the conduct of their paper wars. Each has a system of tactics of his own, and excels in the use of some particular weapon. The tread of Johnson's style is heavy and sonorous, resembling that of an elephant or a mail-clad warrior. He is fond of leveling an obstacle by a polysyllabic battering-ram. Burke's words are continually practicing the broad-sword exercise, and swooping down adversaries with every stroke. Arbuthnot " plays his weapon like a tongue of flame." Addison draws up his light infantry in orderly array, and marches through sentence after sentence without having his ranks disordered or his line broken. Luther is different. His words are " half battles ;" " his smiting idiomatic phrases seem to cleave into the very heart of the matter." Gibbon's legions are heavily armed, and march with precision and dignity to the music of their own tramp. They are splendidly equipped, but a nice eye can discern a little rust beneath their fine apparel, and there are sutlers in his camp who lie, cog, and talk gross obscenity. Macaulay, brisk, lively, keen, and energetic, runs his thought rapidly through his sentence, and kicks out of the way every word which obstructs his passage. He reins in his steed only when he has reached his goal, and then does it with such celerity that he is nearly thrown backwards by the suddenness of his stop- page. Gifford's words are moss-troopers, that waylay innocent travelers and murder them for hire. Jeffrey is a fine " lance," with a sort of Arab swiftness in his movement, and runs an iron-clad horseman through the eye before he has had time to close his helmet. John Wilson's camp is a disorganized mass, who might do effectual service under better discipline, but who, under his lead, are suffered to carry on a rambling and predatory warfare, and disgrace their general by flagitious excesses. Sometimes they steal, sometimes swear, sometimes drink, and sometimes pray. Swift's words are porcupine's quills, which he throws with unerring aim at whoever approaches his lair. All of Ebene- zer Elliot's words are gifted with huge fists, to pommel and bruise. Chat- 666 DUST ON HER BIBLE. ham and Miraboau throw hot shot into their opponents' magazines. Talfourd's forces are orderly and disciphned, and march to the music of the Dorian flute; those of Keats keep time to the tones of the pipe of Phoebus ; and the hard, harsh-fea.turcd battahons of Maginn are always preceded by a brass band. Hallam's word infantry can do much execution when they are not in each other's way. Pope's phrases are either daggers or rapiers. Willis's words are often tipsy with the champagne of the fancy, but even when they reel and stagger they keep the line of grace and beauty, and, though scattered at first by a fierce onset from graver cohorts, soon reunite without wound or loss. John Neal's forces are multitudinous, and fire briskly at every thmg. They occupy all the provinces of letters, and are nearly useless from being spread over too much ground. Everett's weapons are ever kept in good order, and shine well in the sun ; but they are little calculated for warfare, and rarely kill when they strike. Webster's words are thunderbolts, which sometimes miss the Titans at whom they are hurled, but always leave enduring marks when they strike. Hazlitt's verbal army is some- times drunk and surly, sometimes foaming with passion, sometimes cool and malignant, but, drunk or sober, are ever dangerous to cope with. Some of Tom Moore's words are shining dirt, which he flings with excellent aim. This list might be indefinitely extended, and arranged with more regard to merit and chronology. My own words, in this connection, might be compared to ragged, undisciplined militia, which could be easily routed by a charge of horse, and which are apt to fire into each others' DUST ON HER BIBLE. ROBERT LOWRY. Wji) MET her where Folly was queen of the ^•f,)^ And Mirth bade the giddy ones come, ^'h And she, 'mid the wildest, in dance ^ and in song, w Swept on with the current, so turgid and strong — There was dust on her Bible at home. I met her again when away from the gay. But the words of the scoffer that dropped by the way Betokened how sadly her heart was astray — There was dust on her Bible at home. I met her once more, but her brow had no care. Her soul was Immanuel's throne ; And I knew by the artless and tear-moistened prayer. That rose from the spirit in suppliance there. In the stillness of thought she would roam ; That the dust on her Bible was gone. I WINTER SPORTS. 667 WINTER SPORTS. 1 J -^ liJ^O some, the winter is a season to be dreaded. In their poverty they ^"^ are exposed to the cutting blasts, the snow, the ice, the long dark nights, the lack of many sources of employment. To others, win- ter brings exhilaration and enjoyment of the keenest sort. The eyes need not close upon the more sombre views of this rigorous season, nor need the heart refuse the appeals of the suffering, if for a time the more cheery side be viewed and winter sports be contemplated. Despite the chilling blasts the people generally are ready to spring to their cutters and sleighs of more pretentious size whenever snow falls and opportunity offers. The merry laugh, the joyful shout, the cheery song mingle with the jingling sleigh-bells on city streets and country roads, and for the time a carnival of joy prevails. The heavy sledges of traffic gather up liv- ing loads, the business wagon affixed to runners becomes a pleasure vehicle for a happy family, while the small boy with hand-sled, home-made and rough or factory-made and costly, plies his vocation catching a ride from the passing team, or coasting upon some convenient hill. All these pursuits are followed with a relish seldom felt in summer pastimes. Away from the city's busy sleighing scenes winter sports multiply and intensify. Whittier tells of — The moonlit skater's keen delight, The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, The rustic party, with its rough Accompaniment of blind man's buff." 658 WINTER sroRTS. Something of these scenes is familiar to every one. To see them is an inspiration ; to take part in them renews the youth of the aged, and reinvigorates the young ; to remember them is Hke " the sound of distant music, sweet, though mournful to the soul." Few sports seem rougher than the tumble in the snow or the well- contested battle with snow-balls. But who refuses to take a hand in such a contest ? Even the staid and dignified men and matrons are led easily into indulgences at this point. Considerations of health, or of garments come before these prudent seniors, but down they go, regarded but for a moment, when challenged to sport like this. The Quaker Poet himself knew how this matter stood, for he declares in " Snow Bound," that " the watchful young men saw Sweet doorway pictures of the curls, And curious eyes of merry girls, Lifting their hands in mock defence Against the snow-ball's compliments." True, here the poet speaks of young people and their enjoyment, but the evident relish he has for the whole matter shows that he himself knew just how the matter stood. It may be doubted whether he could long resist an appeal to toss these tender " missives " through some open doorway, did curly heads and bright eyes but present themselves there. To enter with zest and yet with care into the real enjoyment of out- door sports — and especially in the bracing winter months— ;-is the part of wisdom. Exhilaration, such as can be gained in no other way, is thus se- cured. True health and vigor must exist before a hearty participation can be had in such sports. But a helpful participation can be had on a small physical capital. That effeminacy which dreads the bracing, highly oxygenized atmosphere of midwinter is not conducive to manly strength. On the other hand, there is a recklessness of exposure which is mistaken THE ROSE. 669 for manliness. This is equally undesirable. It will break one's constitu- tion, and between a good constitution broken and one never strong there is but little choice. Wise care blended with hearty earnestness should rule our winter enjoyments. And a kindly consideration for less favored ones should never be neglected. Many need our help, and should have it freely while we ourselves rejoice. THE ROSE. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. ^N his tower sat the poet P Gazing on the roaring sea, Take this rose," he sighed, "and n^ throw it T Where there's none that loveth •T me. J On the rock the billow bursteth, And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth So to burst and be at ease. ' Take, sea ! the tender blossom That hath lain against my breast ; On thy black and angry bosom It will find a surer rest, Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind, Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind." Forth into the night he hurled it. And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan. Drifts the helpless blossom seaward. Through the breaking, all alone. II. Stands a maiden, on the morrow. Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope, and half in sorrow Tracing words upon the sand : " Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long, — Ever to this sick heart fold him, — Be the spirit of his song ? " Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forever more ! " Swells the tide and overflows it, But with omen pure and meet. 670 THE LOST LOVE. Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. " Love is thine, heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone." in. In his tower sits the poet. Blisses new, and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth, Through the peaceful blue of night. Poippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder. Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. " Life is joy, and love is power. Death all fetters doth unbind. Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. Hope is truth, the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden muttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak. But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek. THE LOST LOVE. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. »IIE dwelt among the untrodden ways 1^^] Beside the springs of Dove ; ^A maid whom there were noneto And very few to love. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and The difference to me ! BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. g^j BUCK FANSHA W'S FUNERAL. S. C. CLEMENS. mpHEEE was a grand time over Buck Fanshaw when he died. He ^1^ was a representative citizen. On the inquest it was shown that, ^L in the delirium of a wasting typhoid fever he had taken arsenic, l> shot himself through the body, cut his throat, and jumped out of a 4 four-story window and broken his neck, and, after due deliberation, J the j ury, sad and tearful, but with intelligence unblinded by its sor- row, brought in a verdict of '' death by the visitation of Providence." What could the world do without juries ! Prodigious preparations were made for the funeral. All the vehicles in town were hired, all the saloons were put in mourning, all the muni- cipal and fire-company flags were hung at half-mast and all the firemen ordered to muster in uniform, and bring their machines duly draped in black. Eegretful resolutions were passed and various committees appointed ; among others, a committee of one was deputed to call on the minister — a fragile, gentle, spiritual new fledgling from an eastern theological semi- nary, and as yet unacquainted with the ways of the mines. The commit- tee-man, " Scotty " Briggs, made his visit. Being admitted to his presence, he sat down before the clergyman, placed his fire-hat on an unfinished manuscript sermon under the minister's nose, took from it a red silk handkerchief, wiped his brow, and heaved a sigh of dismal impressiveness, explanatory of his business. He choked and even shed tears, but with an efi"ort he mastered his voice, and said, in lugu- brious tones : " Are you the duck that runs the gospel-naill next door ? " "Am I the — pardon me, I believe I do not understand." "With another sigh and a half sob, Scotty rejoined : " Why you see we are in a bit of trouble, and the boys thought maybe you'd give us a lift, if we'd tackle you, that is, if I've got the rights of it, and you're the head clerk of the doxology works next door." "I am the shepherd in charge of the flock whose fold is next door." "The which?" " The spiritual adviser of the little company of believers whose sanc- tuary adjoins these premises." Scotty scratched his head, reflected a moment, and then said : 5^2 BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. • " You ruther hold over me, pard. I reckon I can't call that card. Ante and pass the buck." " How ? I beg your pardon. What did I understand you to say ? " " Well, you've ruther got the bulge on me. Or maybe we've both got the bulge, somehow. You don't smoke me and I don't smoke you. You see one of the boys has passed in his checks, and we want to give him a good send off, and so the thing I'm on now is to roust out somebody to jerk a little chin-music for us, and waltz him through handsome." " My friend, I seem to grow more and more bewildered. Your obser- vations are wholly incomprehensible to me. Can you not simplify them some way ? At first I thought perhaps I understood you, but I grope now. Would it not expedite matters if you restricted yourself to the cate- gorical statements of fact unincumbered with obstructing accumulations of metaphor and allegory ? " Another pause and more reflection. Then Scotty said : " I'll have to pass, I judge." "How?" " You've raised me out, pard." " I still fail to catch your meaning." " Why, that last lead of your'n is too many for me — that's the idea. I can't neither trump nor follow suit." The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed. Scotty leaned his head on his hand, and gave himself up to reflection. Presently his face came up, sorrowful, but confident. "I've got it now, so's you can savvy," said he. " What we want is a gospel-sharp. See ? " "A what?" " Gospel-sharp. Parson." " Oh ! Why did you not say so before ? I am a clergyman — a parson." " Now you talk ! You see my blind, and straddle it like a man. Put it there !" — extending a brawny paw, which "closed over the minister's small hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and fervent gratification. " Take him all round, pard, there never was abuUier man in the mines. No man ever know'd Buck Fanshaw to go back on a friend. But it's all up, you know ; it's all up. It ain't no use. They've scooped him ! " " Scooped him ? " " Yes — death has. Well, well, well, we've got to give him up. Yes, indeed. It's a kind of a hard world after all, ain't it ? But, pard, he was BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. 673 a rustler. You ought to seen him get started once. He was a bully boy with a glass eye ! Just spit in his face, and give him room according to his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and go in. He was the worst son of a thief that ever draw'd breath. Pard, he was on it. He was on it bigger than an injuu ! " " On it ? On what ? " " On the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight. Understand ? He didn't give a continental — for anyhoHy. Beg your pardon, friend, for coming so near saying a cuss word — but you see I'm on an awful strain in this palaver, on account of having to cramp down and draw everything so mild. But we've got to give him up. There ain't any getting around that, I don't reckon. Now if we can get you to help plant him — " " Preach the funeral discourse ? Assist at the obsequies? " " Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it ; that's our little game. We are going to get up the thing regardless, you know. He was always nifty himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch ; solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a nigger on the box, with a biled shirt and a plug hat on — how's that for high ? And we'll take care of you, pard. We'll fix you all right. There will bfe a kerridge for you ; and whatever you want you just 'scape out, and we'll tend to it. We've got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind in No. I's house, and don't you be afraid. Just go in and toot your horn, if you don't sell a clam. Put Buck through as bully as you can, pard, for any- body that know'd him will tell you that he was one of the whitest men that was ever in the mines. You can't draw it too strong to do him jus- tice. Here once when the Micks got to throwing stones through the Methodist Sunday-school windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own notion, shut up his saloon, and took a couple of six-shooters and mounted guard over the Sunday-school. Says he, ' No Irish need apply.' And they didn't. He was the bulliest man in the mountains, pard ; he could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold more tangle-foot whiskey without spilling it than any man in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard ; it'll please the boys more than anything you could say. And you can say, pard, that he never shook his mother." " Never shook his mother ? " " That's it — any of the boys will tell you so." " Well, but why should he shake her ? " " That's what I say — but some people does." " Not people of any repute ? " " Well, some that averages pretty so-so." 674 THE HOUR OF DEATH. " In my opinion a man that would offer personal violence to liis mother, ought to — " "Cheese it, pard; you've banked your ball clean outside the string. What I was a-drivin' at was that he never throwed off on his mother — don't you see ? No indeedy ! He give her a house to live in, and town lots, and plenty of money ; and he looked after her and took care of her all the time ; and when she was down with the small-pox, I'm cuss'd if he didn't set up nights and nuss her himself! Beg your pardon for saying it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly. You've treated me like a gentleman, and I ain't the man to hurt your feelings intentional. I think you're white. I think you're a square man, pard. I like you, and I'll lick any man that don't. I'll lick him till he can't tell himself from a last year's corpse. Put it there ! " [Another fraternal handshake — and exit.] TEE EOUR OF DEATE. MKS. F. HEMANS. Leaves have their time to fall, J|And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set — but all. Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death ! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joy ous hearth. Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — But all for Thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour. Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears — but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay. And smile at thee — but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall. And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death ! "We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea. When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — They have oiie season — all are ours to die ! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. GRANDMOTHER'S SPECTACLES. 675 Thou art whert friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall. And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath. And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death ! ANSWER '' TO THE HOUR OF DEATH: MRS. CORNWALL BAROX WILSOX. i|RUE, all we know must die, ' Though none can tell the exact ap- pointed hour ; Nor should it cost the virtuous heart a sigh, Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening flower. The Christian is prepared. Though others tremble at the hour of gloom ! His soul is always ready on his guard ; His lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom come. It matters not the time When we shall end our pilgrimage below ; Whether in youth's bright morn, or man- hood's prime. Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er our brow. The child has blossomed fair, And looked so lovely on its mother's breast. The source of many a hope and many a prayer. Why murmur that it sleeps when all at last may rest ? Snatched from a world of woe. Where they must suffer most who longest dwell, It vanished like a flake of early snow, That melts into the sea, pure as from heaven it fell. The youth whose pulse beats high. Eager through glory's brilliant course to run. Why should we shed a tear or breathe a sigh. That the bright goal is gained — the prize thus early won ! Yes ! all we know must die. Since none can tell the exact appointed hour. Why need it cost the virtuous heart a sigh. Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening flower ? GRANDMOTHERS SPECTACLES T. DE WITT TALMAGE. fUT sometimes these optical instruments get old and dim. Grand- ^^ mother's pair had done good work in their day. They were large and round, so that when she saw a thing she saw it. There was a crack across the upper part of the glass, for many a baby had made them a plaything, and all the grandchildren had at some time tried them on. They had sometimes been so dimmed with tears that 676 GRANDMOTHER'S SRECTACLES. she had to take them off and wipe them on her apron before she could see through them at all. Her "second-sight" had now come, and she would often let her glasses slip down, and then look over the top of them while she read. Grandmother was pleased at this return of her vision. Getting HI ^^fc , mn ll'l ' fli^^l ■ ^^H',ir ' fm mm PR /JUM ilfl^Mii^i ''^ flffllHIP'''' ,||jj||{l l^^l *W^lSi^ m ^%^ ^^{i §'>■ ^^^^M ^'ll v'l ^^^^^H ^^ 1 4l p ji ■■ along so well without them, she often lost her spectacles. Sometimes they would lie for weeks untouched on the shelf in the red morocco case, the flap unlifted. She could now look off upon the hills, which for thirty years she had not been able to see from the piazza. Those were mistaken who thought she had no poetry in her soul. You coulci see it in the way she THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 677 put her hand under the chin of a primrose, or cultured the geranium. Sitting on the piazza one evening, in her rocking-chair, she saw a ladder of cloud set up against the sky, and thought how easy it would be for a spirit to climb it. She saw in the deep glow of the sunset a chariot of fire, drawn by horses of fire, and wondered who rode in it. She saw a vapor floating thinly away, as though it were a wing ascending, and grand- mother muttered in a low tone: "A vapor that appeareth for a little sea- son, and then vanisheth away." She saw a hill higher than any she had ever seen before on the horizon, and on the top of it a king's castle. The motion of the rocking-chair became slighter and slighter, until it stopped. The spectacles fell out of her lap. A child, hearing it, ran to pick them up, and cried : "Grandmother, what is the matter?" She answered not. She never spake again. Second-sight had come ! Her vision had grown better and better. What she could not see now was not worth seeing. Not now through a glass darkly! Grandmother had no more need of spectacles ! THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. ■^ BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR HAVE fancied sometimes tlie Bethel- bent beam H That trembled to earth in the patri- Yiy arch's dream, Was a ladder of song in that wilder- Jness rest, From the pillow of stone to the blue of the Blest, And the angels descending to dwell with us here, "Old Hundred" and " Corinth," and "China" and " Mear," All the hearts are not dead nor under the sod, That these breaths can blow open to heaven and God. Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining road — Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, But the sweet human psalms of the old- fashioned choir, To the girl that sang alto, the girl that sang air. " Let us sing to God's praise !" the minister said : AH' the psalm books at once fluttered open at "York." Sunned their long-dotted wings in the words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork,' And the vicious old viol went growling along At the heels of the girls in the rear of the song. Oh, I need not a wing ; — bid no genii come With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time, When the world was in rhythm and life was its rhyme, And the stream of the j-ears flowed so noise- less and narrow That across it there floated the song of a sparrow ; 678 THE CORAL GROVE. For a sprig of green caraway carries me And dear sister Green, with more goodnesa there, than grace. To the old village church and the old village Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her choir, place. Where clear of the floor my feet slowly And where " Coronation " exultantly flows swung Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that her toes ! they sung, To the land of the leal they have gone with fill the glory aslant from the afternoon sun their song, Seemed the rafters of gold in Gods temple Where the choir and the chorus together be- begun ! long. Oh ! be lifted, ye gates ! Let us hear them You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon again. Brown, Blessed song! Blessed singers! forever, Who followed by scent till he ran the tune Amen! down. «^f^ .ihtiiVH' THE CORAL GROVE. JAMES G, PERCIVAL. ^EEP in the wave is a coral grove. Where the purple mullet, and gold fish rove ; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blu« That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift. And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; The water is calm and still below, For the wind and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright, as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air. There, with its waving blade of green, Tlie sea flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen OVhia THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 679 To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. There, with a light and easy motion, [sea ; The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep And the 3-ellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the wave his own. And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, When the wind -god frowns in the murky skies, [shore, And demons are waiting the wreck on Then, far below, in the peaceful sea. The purple mullet and gold fish rove. Where the waters murmur iranquilly. Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. LA W. JAMES BEATTIE. AWS, as we read in ancient sages, I Have been like cobwebs in all ages. ,j.^^ Cobwebs for little flies are spread. And laws for little folks are made ; But if an insect of renown, Hornet or beetle, wasp or drone, Be caught in quest of sport or plunder, The flimsy fetter flies in sunder. OVUB THE RILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. WILL. M. CARLETON. ^VER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way — I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray — I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told. As many another woman, that's only half as old. Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't make it quite clear ! Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so horrid queer ! Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro. But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame ? Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? True, I am not so supple, nor y^ so awful stout, 46 But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day, To work for a decent livm', an' pay my honest way ; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound. If any body only is willin' to have me round. Once I was young andhan'some — I was upon my soul — Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal ; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say. For any kind of reason, that I waa in their way. 'Taint no use of boastin'. or talkin' over free, But many a house an' home was open then to 680 OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. Many a han'some offer I bad from likely men, And nobody ever binted tbat I was a burden tben. And when to John I was married, sure be was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part : For life was all before me, an' I was young an strong. And I worked the best that I could in trym' to get along. And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone ; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me. Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall^ Still I worked for Charlie, for Cha.rlie was now my all ; And Charlie was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown. -'^^:.^ ^.%? And so we worked together : and life was hard but gay, With now and then a baby, for to cheer us on our way ; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one ; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done ; Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them. Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones ? — I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons ; And God he made that rule of love ; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way. Till at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from town. She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleas- ant smile — She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine 'twas car- ryin' things too fur ; An' I told her once 'fore company (an it al- most made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmatic. So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done — They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage for one family will do, Strange, another thing : when our boys an' gut I have*never seen a house that was big girls was grown, 1 enough for two. i OVER THE HILLS FROM THE TOOR-HOUSE 681 An' I never could speak to suit her, never An' then, I wrote to Rebecca, — ray girl who could please her eye, lives out West, An' it made me independent, an' then I And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty didn't try ; miles at best ; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like An' one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, a blow, for any one so old, When Charlie turned ag'in me, an' told me I And t Other had an opinion the climate was could go. too cold. I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house So they have shirked and slighted me, an' was small. shifted me about — And she was always a-hintin' how snug it So they have well nigh soured me, an' worn was for us all ; my old heart out ; And what with her husband's sisters, and But still I've born up pretty well, an' wasn't what with her childr'n three. much put down. 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't Till Charlie went to the poor-master, an' put room for me. me on the town. An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son Over the hill to the poor-house — my childr'n I've got, dear, good-bye ! For Thomas' buildings'd cover the half of an Many a night I've watched you when only acre lot ; God was nigh ; But all the childr'n was on me — I couldn't And God'll judge between us; but I will stand their sauce — al'ays pray And Thomas said I needn't think I was That you shall never suffer the half I do comin' there to boss. to-day. OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. ►^r MAY MIGNONETTE. VER the hills to the poor-house sad paths have been made to-day. For sorrow is near, such asmaketh the heads of the young turn gray, Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered breath- To hear from her lips their last blessing before she should start for her home To Susan, poor Susan ! how bitter the agony brought by the call, For deep in her heart for her mother wide rooms had been left after all ; The sorrow that leads to the chamber whose And now, that she thought, by her fireside light has gone out in death. one place had been vacant for years, — And while " o'er the hills " she was speeding her path might be traced by her tears. To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and Charley, word sped That mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps I Rebecca! she heard not the tidings, but those when they heard might be dead ; i who bent over her knew But e'en while they wrote she was praying i That led by the Angel of Death, near tha that some of her children might come, | waves of the river she drew; 682 A PRAYER FOR MY LITTLE OiVE. Delirious, ever she told them her mother was cooling her head, V^'hile, weeping, they thought that ere morn- ing both mother and child might be dead, And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was quiv'ring in aspen-like grief, While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him like billows of wind o'er the leaf; " Too late," were the words that had humbled his cold, haughty pride to the dust, And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, crowned loving forgiveness with trust. Bowed over his letters and papers, sat Thomas, his bro^ lined by thought, But little he heeded the markets or news of his gains that they bro.ught ; His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new purpose seemed born in his eye, And Thomas went " over the hills." to the mother that shortly must die. To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the mother's message that morn. And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the sunlight blushed over the corn ; And, strangest of all, by his side, was the wife he had " brought from the town," And silently Avept, while her tears strung with diamonds her plain mourning gown. For each had been thinking, of late, how they missed the old mother's sweet smile, And wond'ring how they could have been so blind and unjust all that while ; They thought of their harsh, cruel words, and longed to atone for the past. When swift o'er the heart of vain dreams swept the presence of death's chilling blast. So into the chamber of death, one by one, these sad children liad crept, As they, in their childhood, had done, when mother was tired and slept, — And peace, rich as then, came to each, as they drank in her blessing, so deep, That, breathing into her life, she fell back in her last blessed sleep. And when "o'er the hills from the poor- house,'' that mother is tenderly borne. The life of her life, her loved children, tread softly, and silently mourn. For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as the ocean is deep. And into our lives, with sweet healing, the balm of their bruising may creep For swift come the flashings of temper, and torrents of words come as swift. Till out 'mong the tide-waves of anger, how often we thoughtlessly drift ! And heads that are gray with life's ashes, and feet that walk down 'mong the dead. We send " o'er the hills to the poor-house " for love, and, it may be, for bread. Oh ! when shall we value the living while yet the keen sickle is stayed. Nor slight the wild flower in its blooming, till all its sweet life is decayed? Yet often the fragrance is richest, when poured from the bruised blossom's soul, And " over the hills from the poor-house " the rarest of melodies roll. A PRA YER FOR MY LITTLE ONE. EDGAR FAWCETT. pD bless my little one ! How fair l^te The mellow lamp-light gilds '^^ hair. Loose on the cradle-pillow there. God bless my little one ! his God guard my little one ! To me Life, widowed of his life would be As sea-sands widowed of the sea. God guard my little one ! LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. 683 God love my little one! As clear Cool sun3hiQ3 holds the first green spear On April meadows, hold him dear. God love my little one! When these fond lips are mute, and when I slumber, not to wake again, God bless — God guard — God love him then. My little one ! Amen. LOSS OF THE AECTIC. HENRY WARD BEECHER. ^T was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages ; from Kome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, and from the capitals of various nations, — all of them saying m their hearts, we will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fnry, and then we will embark ; we will slide across the appeased 684 LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. ocean, and in the gorgeous month of October we will greet our longed-for native land, and our heart-loved homes. And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. ISfever had the Arctic borne sucli a host of pas- sengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was come. . The signal-ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed; the great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes ; the wheels revolve ; the signal-gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage. Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand. And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur, — "Home is not far away." And every morning it was still one night nearer home ! Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland, Boldly they made it ; and plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rush- ing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. At a league's distance, unconscious; and at nearer approach, un- warned ; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither com- mander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of DOROTHY SULLIVAN. 685 Paul on a like occasion, " Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved." They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters gaining upon the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind, — had he stood to execute sufficiently the com- mander's will, — we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men, to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of sinking ! Oh, what a burial was here ! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial-service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hol- lowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. DOROTHY SULLIVAN. jH ! a wedding ring's pretty to wear, And a bride of all women is fair, But then there's no trusting in men ; And if I were a girl I'd have lovers beware. They may court you to-day, sweet as birds in the May, But to-morrow look out they'll be all flown away.'' Old Dolly Sullivan shook her gray head. Lovers were now the last thing she need dread. But you never can tell who has once been a belle. " Sweethearts ! I've had 'em ! I know 'em !'' she said. " Just as long as your company's new, There is no one that's equal to you. You then can have choice of the men, It's the black eyes to-day and to-morrow the blue. I once had a brocade for my wedding gown made. On the shelf of the store-room my wedding cake laid. Never that cake on the table was set. Here I am, Dorothy Sullivan yet. Let it go ! Let it go ! I am glad it was so ; Hardly earned lessons we're slow to forget. " Could I keep all now that I know With the face that I had long ago, Ah ! then I would pay back the men ; I would a small part of the debt that I owe, For 't is little care they, spite the fine things they say. How a woman's hf^art ache?, if they have their own way. 686 THE EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAOT). Promises ! little they keep men in awe Trust 'em ! I'd sooner trust snow in a thaw, For they're easy to make ; and more easy to break. Keep'in 'em's something that never I saw. "When you come to your own wedding morn, Just to find you're a maid left forlorn, Ah ! then, where's your faith in the men ? When your wedding gown's on ; and your bridegroom is gone, You must take off that gown, and sit quietly down." Old Dolly Sullivan shook her gray head. " Children once burnt of the fire have a dread, Let your love stories be when you're talking to me. Sweethearts! I've had 'em, I know 'em," she said. THE EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND. LAMARTINE. 4^ -■^ AM going to the guillotine," replied Madame Roland ; " a few moments and I shall be there ; but those who send me thither will follow me ere long. I go innocent, but they will come stained with blood, and you who applaud our execution will then I applaud theirs with equal zeal." Sometimes she would turn away 1 her head that she might not appear to hear the insults with which she was assailed, and would lean with almost "filial tenderness over the aged partner of her execution. The poor old man wept bitterly, and she kindly and cheeringly encouraged him to bear up with firmness, and to suffer with resignation. She even tried to enliven the dreary journey they were performing together by little attempts at cheerfulness, and at length succeeded in winning a smile from her fellow-sufferer. A colossal statue of liberty, composed of clay, like the liberty of the time, then stood in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, on the spot now occupied by the Obelisk ; the scaffold was erected beside his statue. Upon arriving there, Madame Roland descended from the cart in which she had been conveyed. Just as the executioner had seized her arm to enable her to be the first to mount to the guillotine, she displayed an in- stance of that noble and tender consideration for others, which only a woman's heart could conceive, or put into practice at such a moment. " Stay ! " said she, momentarily resisting the man's grasp. " I have only one favor to ask, and that is not for myself; I beseech you grant it me." Then, turning to the old man, she said, " Do you precede me to the scaf- fold ; to see my blood flow would be making you suffer the bitterness of death twice over. I must spare you the pain of witnessing my punish- ment." The executioner allowed this arrangement to be made. THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 687 With what sensibility and firmness must the mind have been imbued which could, at such a time, forget its own sufferings, to think only of saving one pang to an unknown old man ! and how clearly does this one little trait attest the heroic calmness with which this celebrated woman met her death ! After the execution of Lamarche, which she witnessed with- out changing color, Madame Roland stepped lightly up to the scaffold, and, bowing before the statue of Liberty, as though to do homage to a power far whom she was about to die, exclaimed, " Liberty ! Liberty ! how many crimes are committed in thy name ! " She then resigned herself to the hands of the executioner, and in a few seconds her head fell into the basket placed to receive it. THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. MARY E. VANDYKE. kH ! the quietest home on earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of ^»l care ; m Like a dream of pleasure the days \ fled by, jj- And Peace had folded her pinions J there. But one day there joined in our house- hold band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why ; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. He ordered us here, and he sent us there — Though never a word could his small lips speak — With his toothless gums and his vacant stare. And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land." But his abject slaves they turned on me: Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there, The while they worshiped with bended knee The ruthless wretch with the missing hair, For he rules them all with relentless hand. This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Then I searched for help in every clime, For Peace had fled from my dwelling now Till I finally thought of old Father Time, And low before him I made my bow. "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- land." Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. I'll take the tyrant under my care: Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned. Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land. 688 THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. Old Time is doing his work full well — Much less of might docs the tyrant wield; But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell And sad tears fall as I see him yield. Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand I would keep the bald-head from No-man's- land. For the loss of peace I have ceased to care ; Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair, And hurried along without a tooth. And he rules me, too, with Lis tiny hand. This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- land. THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. REYNELL COAXES. pi|AIlK is the night ! How dark ! No ^B light: no fire! "jj«y.e)s' Cold, on the hearth, the last faint m ^ sparks expire ! <"■ Shivering, she watches by the cradle- •f side, J For him, who pledged her love — last year a bride ! " Hark ! 't is his footstep ! No ! 't is past !- 't IS gone !" Tick ! — tick ! — " How wearily the time crawls on ! Why should he leave me thus? — He once was kind ! And I believed 't would last ! — How mad ! — How blind ! " Rest thee, my babe !— Rest on ! — Tis hun- ger's cry ! Sleep ! — for there is no food ! — the fount is dry ! Famine and cold their wearying work have done. My heart must break ! And thou !" The clock strikes one. "Hush! 't is the dice-box! Yes! he's there! he's there ! For this! — for this he leaves me to despair! Leaves love ! leaves truth ! his wife ! his child! for what? The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot ! " Yet I'll not curse him. No ! 't is all in vain! 'T is long to wait, but sure he'll come again! And I could starve, and bless him, but for you. My child ! his child ! Oh, fiend!" The clock strikes two. "Hark! how the signboard creaks! The blast howls by. Moan ! Moan ! a dirge swells through the cloudy sky ! Ha! 't is his knock! he comes! he comes once more!" 'Tis but the lattice flaps ! Thy hope is o'er i " Can he desert us thus ? Ho knows I stay. Night after night, in loneliness, to pray For his return — and yet he sees no tear ! No ! no ! it cannot be ! He will be here ! "Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart Thou'rt cold ! thou'rt freezing ! But we wilJ not part ! Husband ! — I die ! — Father ! — It is not he ! God ! protect my child !" The clock strike)- three. They're gone, they're gone ! the glimmering spark hath fled ! The wife and child are numbered with the dead, On the cold hearth, outstretched in solemn rest. The babe lay, frozen on its mother's breast . Tlie gambler came at last — but all was o'er — Dread silence reigned around: — the clock struck four I WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE? 680 TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION. WILLIAM MUNFORD. S^^a ^^ KNOW in grief like yours how more ^M than vain ^^1 All comfort to the stricken heart A appears ; V And as the bursting cloud must spend .(• its rain, J So grief its tears. I know that when your little darling's form Had freed the angel spirit fettered there, You could not pierce beyond the breaking storm, In your despair. You could not see the tender hand that caught Your little lamb, to shield him from all harm ; You missed him from your own, but never thought Of Jesus' arm ! You only knew those precious eyes were dim; You only felt those tiny lips were cold ; You only clung to what remained of him Beneath the mould. But oh ! young mother, look ! the gate un- bars ! And through the darkness, smiling from the skies, Are beaming on you, brighter than those stars, Your darling's eyes. 'Tis said that when the pastures down among The Alpine hills have ceased to feed the flocks. And they must mount to where the grass is young — Far up the rocks. The shepherd takes a little lamb at play, And lifts him gently to his careful breast, And, with its tender bleating, leads the way For all the rest; That quick the mother follows in the patii, Then others go, like men whose faith gives hopes, And soon the shepherd gathers all he hath— Far up the And on those everlasting hills He feeds The trusting fold in green that never palls ; Look up ! see ! your little darling leads, — The Shepherd calls ! WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DUIPLE BE? J. G. HOLLAND. |VER the cradle the mother hung, Softly cooing a slumber song, And these were the simple words she sung All the evening long : ■'Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee. Where shall the baby's dimple be? Where shall the angel's finger rest When he comes down to the baby's nest? Where shall the angel's touch remain When he awakens my baby again ? Still she bent and sang so low A murmur into her music broke. And she paused to hear, for she could bu« know 690 The baby's angel spoke : "Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, Where shall the baby's dimple be? Where shall my finger fall and rest When I come down to the baby's nest? Where shall my finger's touch remain When I wake your babe again ?" Silent the mother sat and dwelt Long on the sweet delay of choice, DEFENCE OF I'RA DEL TOK. And then by her baby's side she knelt And sang with pleasant voice : " Not on the limb, angel dear ! For the charms with its youth will dis- appear ; Not on the cheek shall the dimple be, For the harboring smile will fade and flee-. But touch thou the chin with impress deep, And my baby the angel's seal shall keep." DEFENCE OF PRA DEL TOR. J. A. WYLIE, iilpEGOTIATIONS had been opened betAveen the men of the Valleys and 1^1^ the Duke of Savoy, and as they were proceeding satisfactorily, the 1^ * Vaudois were without suspicions of evil. This was the moment that La Trinita chose to attack them. He hastily assembled his troops, and on the night of the 16th of April he marched them against the Pra del Tor, hoping to enter it unopposed, and give the Vaudois " as sheep to the slaughter." f The snows around the Pra were beginning to burn in the light of the morning when the attention of the people, who had just ended their united worship, was attracted by unusual sounds which were heard to issue from the gorge that led into the valley. On the instant six brave mountaineers rushed to the gateway that opens from the gorge. The long file of La Trinita's soldiers was seen advancing two abreast, their helmets and cuiras- ses glittering in the light. The six Vaudois made their arrangements, and calmly waited till the enemy was near. The first two Vaudois, holding loaded muskets, knelt down. The second two stood erect ready to fire over the heads of the first two. The third two undertook the loading of the weapons as they were discharged. The invaders came on. As the first two of the enemy turned the rock they were shot down by the two foremost Vaudois. The next two of the attacking force fell in like manner by the shot of the Vaudois in the rear. The third rank of the enemy pre- sented themselves only to be laid by the side of their comrades. In a few minutes a little heap of dead bodies blocked the pass, rendering impossible the advance of the accumulating file of the enemy in the chasm. Meanwhile, other Vaudois climbed the mountains that overhung the DEFENCE OF PRA DEL TOR. 691 gorge in which the Piedmontese army was imprisoned. Tearing up the great stones with which the hill-side was strewn, the Vaudois sent them rolling down upon the host. Unable to advance from the wall of dead in front, and unable to flee from the ever accumulating masses behind, the 692 THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. joldiers were crushed in dozens by the falling rocks. Panic set in ; and famine in such a position was dreadful. Wedged together on the narrow ledge, with a murderous rain of rocks falling on them, their struggles to escape was frightful. They jostled one another, and trod each other under foot, while vast numbers fell over the precipice, and were dashed on the rocks or drowned in the torrent. When those at the entrance of the valley who were watching the result saw the crystal of the Angrogna begin about midday to be changed into blood, "Ah!" said they, "the Pra del Tor has been taken; La Trinita has triumphed ; then flows the blood of the Vaudois." And, indeed, the Count on beginning his march that morning is said to have boasted that by noon the torrent of the Angrogna would be seen to change color ; and so in truth it did. Instead of a pellucid stream, rolling along on a white gravelly bed, which is its usual appearance at the mouth of the valley, it was now deeply dyed from recent slaughter. But when the few who had escaped the catastrophe returned to tell what had that day passed within the defiles of the Angrogna, it was seen that it was not the blood of the Vaudois, but the blood of the ruthless invaders, which dyed the waters of the Angrogna. The Count withdrew on that same night, to return no more to the Valley. THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF PAUL GEROT. KHE bells of the church are ringing, Papa and mamma are both gone; ^Y And three little children sit singing Together this still Sunday morn. While the bells toll away in the steeple, Though too small to sit still in a pew. These busy, religious small people Determined to have their church too. So as free as the birds or the breezes By which their fair ringlets are fanned, Each rogue sings away as he pleases. With book upside-down in his hand. Their hymn has no sense in its letter, Their music no rythm nor tune ; Our worship perhaps may be better, But theirs reaches God quite as soon. Their angels stand close to the Father, His Heaven is made bright by these And the dear God above us would rather Hear praise from their lips than from ours. Sing on, little children, your voices Fill the air with contentment and love ; All nature around you rejoices And the birds warble sweetly above. Sing on, for the proudest orations, The liturgies sacred and long, The anthems and worship of nations Are poor, to your innocent song. Sing on : our devotion is colder, Though wisely our prayers may be planned. For often we, too, who are older. Hold our book the wrong way in our hand. THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. 093 Sing on : our harmonic inventions We study with labor and pain ; Yet often our angry contentions Take the harmony out of our strain. Sing on : all our struggle and battle, Our cry, when most deep and sincere- What are they? a child's simple prattle, A breath on the Infinite eai THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. H. W. LONGFELLOW. S|^S it so far from thee ^|p Thou canst no longer see, fS| In the Chamber over the Gate, That old man desolate. Weeping and wailing sore For his son, who is no more? Absalom, my son. Is it 80 long ago That cry of human woo From the walled city came, Calling on his dear name, That it has died away In the distance of to-day? O Absalom, my son ! There is no far or near. There is neither there nor here. There is neither soon nor late, In that Chamber over the Gate, Nor any long ago To that cry of human woe, Absalom, my son ! From the ages that are past The voice sounds like a blast, Over seas that wreck and drown, Over tumult of traffic and town. And for ages yet to be Come the echoes back to me, Absalom, my son ! Somewhere, at every hour. The watchman on the tower Looks forth, and sees the fleet Approach of the hurrying feet Of messengers, that bear The tidings of despair. O Absalom, m}- son ! He goes forth from the door. Who shall return no more. With him our joy departs; The light goes out in our hearts ; In the Chamber over the Gate We sit disconsolate. Absalom, mvson ! That 'tis a common grief Bringeth but slight relief; Ours is the bitterest loss, . Ours is the heaviest cross ; And forever that cry will be, " Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son I " 694 THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. GOD IN THE SEAS. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. SHESE restless surges eat away the shores [plain ^^^^^Of earth's old continents- the fertile Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar In the green chambers of the middle sea, Where broadest spread the waters and the line Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, Creator ! thou dost teach the coral worm To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, He builds beneath the waters, till, at last. His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check The long wave rolling from the southern pole To break upon Japan. THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. A MATEIMONIAL EPIC. j^OHN Dobbins was so captivated W) By Mary Trueman's fortune, face and cap, (With near two thousand pounds the hook was baited,) That in he popped to matrimony's trap. One small ingredient towards happiness, It seems, ne'er occupied a single thought; For his accomplished bride Appearing well supplied With the three charms of riches, beauty, dress. He did not, as he ought, Think of aught else ; so no inquiry made he As to the temper of the lady. And here was certainly a great omission ; None should accept of Hymen's gentle fet- ter, " For worse or butter," Whatever be their prospect or condition. Without acquaintance with each other's nature ; For many a mild and gentle creature Of charming disposition, Alas ! by thoughtless marriage has de- stroyed it. So take advice ; let girls dress e'er so tastily. Don't enter into wedlock hastily Unless you can't avoid it. Week followed week, and, it must be confest. The bridegroom and the bride had both been blost: Month after month had languidly transpired. Both parties became tired : Year after year dragged on ; Their happiness was gone. Ah ! foolish pair ! I '■ Bear and forbear," THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 695 Should be the rule for married folks to take, But blind mankind (poor discontented elves !) Too often make The misery of themselves. At length the hasband said " This will not do ! Mary, I never will be ruled by you : So, wife, d'ye see? To live together as we can't agree. Suppose we part!" With woman's pride, Mary replied, " With all my heart !" John Dobbins then to Mary's father goes And gives the list of his imagined woes. " Dear son-in-law ! '' the father said, " I see All is quite true that you've been telling me ; Yet there in marriage is such strange fatality. That when as much of life You will have seen As it has been My lot to see, I think you'll own your wife As good or better than the generality. " An interest in your case I really take, And therefore gladly this agreement make: An hundred eggs within this basket lie. With which your luck to-morrow you shall try; Also my five best horses with my cart ; And from the farm at dawn you shall depart. All round the country go, And be particular, I beg ; Where husbands rule, a horse bestow, But where the wives, an egg. And if the horses go before the eggs, I'll ease you of your wife,— I will — I fegs! " Away the married man departed, ■ Brisk and light-hearted ; Not doubting that, of course, The first five houses each would take a horse. At the first house he knocked, He felt a little shocked To hear a female voice, with angry roar, Scream out, — Hullo ! Who's there below ? Why, husband, are you deaf ? Go to the door, 47 See who it is, I beg." Our poor friend John Trudged quickly on, But first laid at the door an egg. I will not, all his journey through. The discontented traveler pursue ; Suffice it here to say That when his first day's task was nearly done. He'd seen an hundred husbands, minus one. And eggs just ninety-nine had given away. " Ha, here's a house where he I seek must dwell," At length cried John ; " I'll go and ring the bell." The servant came, — John asked him, " Pray, Friend, is your master in the way ? '" " No," said the man, with smiling phiz, " Mj^ master is not, but my mistress is ; Walk in that parlor, sir, my lady's in it: Master will be himself there in a minute. ' The lady said her husband then was dressing. And, if his business was not very pressing, She would prefer that he should wait until His toilet was completed ; Adding, " Pray, sir, be seated." " Madam, I will," Said John, with great politeness ; " but I own That you alone Can tell me all I wish to know ; Will you do so ? Pardon my rudeness. And just have the goodness (A wager to decide) to tell me — do — Who governs in this house, — your spouse or you?" " Sir," said the lady with a doubting nod, " Your question's very odd ; But as I think none ought to be Ashamed to do their duty (do you see ?) On that account I scruple not to say It always is my pleasure to obey. But here's my husband (always sad without me); Take not my word, but a?k him, if you doubt me." " Sir," said the husband " it is most true ; I promise you, 696 RAMBLINGB IN GREECE. A more obedient, kind, and gentle woman Does not exist." "Give me your fist," Said John, and, as the case is something more than common. Allow me to present you with a beast Worth fifty guineas at the very least. " There's Smiler, Sir, a beauty, you must own. There's Prince that handsome black, Ball the gray mare, and Saladin the roan, Beside old Dun ; Come, Sir, choose one ; But take advice from me. Let Prince be he ; Why, Sir, you'll look the hero on his back." " I'll take the black, and thank you, too," " Nay, husband, that will never do ; You know you've often heard me say How much I long to have a gray ; And this one will exactly do for me." " No, no," said he, " Friend, take the four others back, And only leave the black." " Nay, husband, I declare I must have the gray mare :" Adding (with gentle force), " The gray mare is, I'm sure, the better horse " " Well, if it must be so,— good Sir, The gray mare we prefer ; So we accept your gift." John made a feg: "Allow me to present you with an egg ; 'Tis my last egg remaining, The cause of my regaining, I trust the fond affection of my wife, Whom I will love the better of my life. "Home to content has her kind fathei brought me ; I thank him for the lesson he has taught me." EAMBLINGS IN GBEECE. ROSSITER W. RAYMOND. W^ PsBstum's ancient fanes I trod, i^ And mused on those strange men of old, ^ Whose dark religion could unfold ^ So many gods, and yet no God. Did they to human feelings own. And had they human souls indeed ? Or did the sternness of their creed Frown their faint spirits into stone'' OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. 697 The southern breezes fan my face ; — I hear the hum of bees arise, And lizards dart, with mystic eyes That shrine the secret of the place ! These silent columns speak of dread ; Of lonely worship without love; And yet the warm, deep heaven above Whispers a softer tale instead ! THE BEAUTY OF YOUTH. THEODORE PARKER. j^^OW beautiful is youth, — early manhood, early womanhood, — how wonderfully fair ! What freshness of life, cleanness of blood, purity of breath ! What hopes ! There is nothing too much for the young maid or man to put into their dream, and in their prayer to hope i to put in their day. young men and women ! there is no picture J of ideal excellence of manhood and womanhood that I ever draw that seems too high, too beautiful for young hearts. I love to look on these young faces, and see the firstlings of a young man's beard, and the maidenly bloom blushing over the girl's fair cheek. I love to see the pure eyes beaming with joy and goodness, to see the un- conscious joy of such young souls, impatient of restraint, and longing for the heaven which we fashion here. So have I seen in early May, among the New England hills, the morning springing in the sky, and gradually thinning out the stars that hedge about the cradle of day ; and all cool and fresh and lustrous came the morning light, and a few birds commenced their songs, prophets of very many more ; and ere the sun was fairly up, you saw the pihky buds upon the apple trees, and scented the violets in the morjiing air, and thought of what a fresh and lordly day was coming up the eastern sky. OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. WILL M. CARLETON. UT of the old house Nancy — moved up '^Jl^ into the new ; rAll the hurry and worry are just as good as through ; Only a bounden duty remains for you and I, And that's to stand on the door-step here and bid the old house good-bye. What a shell we've lived in these nineteen or twenty years ! Wonder it hadn't smashed in and tumbled about our ears ; Wonder it stuck together and answered till to-day. But every individual log was put up here to stay. 69S OUT OF THE OLly HOUSE, NANCY. Yes, a deal has happened to make this old Here the old house will stand, but not as it house dear : stood bgfore ; Christenin's, funerals, weddin's — what haven't Winds will whistle through it and rains will we had here ? flood the floor ; Not a log in this old buildin' bat its memo- And over the hearth once blazing, the snow ries has got — ■ drifts oft will pile, And not a nail in this old floor but touches And the old thing will seem to be a mournin' a tender spot. all the while. Out of tlie old house, Nancy— moved up iuto the new ; All the hurry and worry is just as good as through ; But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say : There's precious things in this old house we never can take away. Fare you well old house ! you're nought that can feel or see. But you seem like a liuman being — a dear old friend to me ; And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands, Until we commence a keepin' house in the " house not made with hands.'' THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 699 THE MAPLE-TREE. ?HEIs on the world's jQrst harvest- day, The forest trees before the Lord y^ x^' Laid down their autumn offerings "^ Of fruit, in golden sunshine stored, I The Maple only, of them all, i> Before the world's great harvest King With empty hands and silent stood — She had no offering to bring For m the early summer time, While other trees laid by their board, The Maple winged her fruit with love, And sent it daily to the Lord. There ran through all the leafy wood A murmur and a scornful smile But silent still the Maple stood, And looked unmoved to God the while. And then, while fell on earth a hush So great it seemed like death to be, From his white throne the mighty Lord Stooped down and kissed the Maple-tiee At that swift kiss there sudden thrilled In every nerve, through every vein An ecstasy of joy so great It seemed almost akin to pain. And there before the forest trees, Blushing and pale by turns she stood ; In every leaf, now red and gold, Transfigured by the kiss of God. And still when comes the autumn time. And on the hills the harvest lies, Blushing the Maple-tree recalls Her life's one beautiful surprise. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. jO ye hear the children weeping, my brothers. Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, — And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows. The young birds are chirping in the nest. The young fawns are playing with the sha- dows. The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, young children, O my bro- thers. They are weeping bitterly ! — They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Do you question the young children in their sorrow. Why their tears are falling so? — The old man may weep for his to-morrow, Which is lost in Long Ago — The old tree is leafless in the forest — The old year is ending in the frost — The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest — The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, my bro- thers. Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers. In our happy Fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces. And their looks are sad to see. 700 THE CRY OF THE CHILbREN. For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy ; " Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary ;" "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary ; Our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old." "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time. Little Alice died last year — the grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her — Was no room for any work in the close clay: From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, "Get up, little Alice! it is day." If you listen by that grave, in sun and With your ear down, little Alice never cries ! Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes ! And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk chime ! "It is good when it happens," say the children, " That we die before our time." Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city; Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;— Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty ; Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- shadows. From your pleasures fair and fine ! " For oh," say the children, "we are weary. And we cannot run or leap ; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping ; We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping. The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark underground; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. " For, all day, the wheels are droning, turn- ing— Their wind comes in our faces, — Till our hearts turn — our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places ; THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 701 Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling ; Turns the long light that drops adown the wall ; Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling ; All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; And sometimes we could pray, '0 ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moan- ing) ' Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth ; Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals ; Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, wheels ! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark ; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward. Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, my brothers, To look up to him and pray ; So the Blessed One, who blesseth all the others. Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us. While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us tasa by, hearing not, or answer not a word; And ive hear not (f(Jr the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round him. Hears our weeping any more ? " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm, ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angel's song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather. And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 'Our Father!' If He heard us. He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.' "But, no!" say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone ; And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children; "up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbe- lieving ; We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and dis- proving, 0, my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's possible is taught by his world's loving, And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you I They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun : They know the grief of man, without his wisdom ; They sink in man's despair, without his calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, 702 THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm; Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly The blesslflg of its memory cannot keep ; Are orphans of Ihe earthly love and heavenly : Let them weep ! let them weep ! They look up, with their pale and sunken faces. And their look is dread to see, For they mind you. of their angels in their "With eyes turned on Deity; — " How long," they say, "how long, cruel nation. Will you stand to move the world, on a child's heart — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palliation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence, Than the strong man in his wrath!" A WOMAN'S LOVR dAN knows not love — such love as woman feels. w"In him it is a vast devouring flame — Resistless fed — in its own strength consumed. In woman's heart it enters step by step, [ray Concealed, disowned, until its gentler Breathes forth a light, illumining her world. Man loves not for repose ; he woos the flower To wear it as the victor's trophied crown ; Whilst woman, when she glories in her love, More like the dove, in noiseless constancy, Watches the nest of her affection till 'Tis shed upon the tomb of him she loves. THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS! EDMUND SPENSER. iND is there care in heaven ? And is there love *M5^? •^'^ heavenly spirits to these crea- K tures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is : — else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts • but the exceeding grace Of highest God ! that loves his creatures so And all his workes with mercy doth em- brace. That blessed angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! How oft do they their silver bowers leave. To come to succour us that succour want ; How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feende? to ayd us militant I They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward. And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward •, 0, why should heavenly God to men have such regard ! A MOTHER'S LOVE. 703 THE LAND WHERE JESUS TOILED. THE MINISTRY OF JESUS. EDWARD EICKERSTETH. IjKJfcROM his lips ^^1 Truth, limpid, without error, flowed. ^'^?:;s>_L Disease '"f^ Fled from his touch. Pain heard I him and was not. j Despair smiled m his presence. Devils knew, And trembled. In the Omnipotence of faith, Unintermittent, indefectible, Leaning upon his Father's might, he bent All nature to his will. The tempest sank, He whispering, into waveless calm. The bread Given from his hands fed thousands, and to spare. The stormy waters, as the solid rock Were pavement for his footstep. Death itself, With vain reluctancies yielded its prey To the stern mandate of the Prince of Life. A MOTHER'S LOVE. MOTHER'S love ! oh, soft and low Aa the tremulous notes of the ring- dove's call, Or the murmur of waters that . gently flow f On the weary heart those accents fall ! A mother's love ! the sacred thought Unseals the hidden fount of tears, As if the frozen waters caught The purple light of earlier years. A mother's love ! oh, 't is the dew Which nourisheth life's drooping flowers, And fitteth them to bloom anew 'Mid fairer scenes — in brighter bowers. 704 SHOOTING PORPOISES. SHOOTING PORPOISES. T. DE WITT TALMAGE. ?ANG, bang ! went the gun at the side of the San Jacinto, after we p^^ had been two days out at sea on the way to Savannah. We were Sii- ""f startled at such a strange sound on shipboard, and asked : ^ ** "What are they doing ? " I A few innocents of the deep, for the purpose of breathing or 1 sport, had hfted themselves above the wave, and a gentleman found amusement in tickling them with shot. As the porpoise rolled over wounded, and its blood colored the wave, the gunner was congratulated by his comrades on the execution made. It may have been natural dullness tnat kept us from appreciating the grandeur of the deed. Had the porpoise impeded the march of the San Jacinto, I would have said : " Dose it with lead ! " If there had been a possibility that by coming up to breathe it would endanger our own supply of air, I would have said : " Save the passengers and kill the dolphins ! " If the marksman had harpooned a whale there would have been the oil for use, or had struck down a gull, in its anatomy, he . might have ad- vanced science. If he had gunpowdered the cook it might, in small quan- tities, have made him animated ; or the stewardess, there would have been the fun of seeing her jump. But, alas for the cruel disposition of the man who could shoot a porpoise ! There is no need that we go to sea to find the same style of gun- ning. After tea the parlor is full of romp. The children are playing ''■ Ugly Mug," and " Bear," and " Tag," and " Yonder stands a lovely creature." Papa goes in among the playing dolphins with the splash and dignity of a Ban Jacinto. He cries, " Jim, get my slippers ! " " Mary, roll up the stand ! " " Jane, get me the evening newspaper ! " " Sophia, go to bed ! " " Harry, quit that snicker ! " " Stop that confounded noise, all of you ! " The fun is over. The water is quiet. The dolphins have turned their last somersault. Instead of getting down on his hands and knees, and being as lively as a "bear," as any of them, he goes to shooting •porpoises. SHOOTING PORPOISES. 705 Here is a large school of famous pretension, professors high-salaried, ap- paratus complete, globes on which you can travel round the world in five minutes, spectroscopes, and Leyden jars, and chromatropes, and electric batteries. No one disputed its influence or its well-earned fame. The masters and misses that graduate come out equipped for duty. Long may it stand the adornment of the town. But a widow whose sons were killed in the war opens a school in her basement. She has a small group of little children whose tuition is her sole means of subsistence. SHOOTING PORPOISES. The high school looks with sharp eyes on the rising up of the low school. The big institution has no respect whatever for little institutions. The parents patronizing the widow must be persuaded that they are wasting their children's time in that basement. Women have no right to be widows or have their sons killed in the war. From the windows of the high school the arrows are pointed at the helpless establishment in the corner. " Bang !" goes the artillery of scorn till one of the widow's scholars has gone. " Bang!" go the guns from the deck of the great edu-' cational craft till the innovating institution turns over and disappears. Well done ! Used it up quick ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Shooting porpoises ! 706 THE DAY 18 DONE. Grab, Chokcham & Co. have a large store. They sell more goods than any in town. They brag over their income and the size of the glass in their show-window. They have enough clerks on light salaries to man a small navy. Mr. Needham, an honest man with small capital, opens a store in the same business. One morning Mr. Grab says to his partner, Mr. Chokehani : "Do you know a young chap has opened a store down on the other end of this block in the same business ?" " Has, eh ? We will settle him very speedily." Forthwith it is understood that if at the small store a thing is sold for fifty cents, at the large store you can get it for forty-five. That is less than cost, but Grab & Chokeham are an old house, and can stand it, and Needham cannot. Small store's stock of goods is getting low, and no money to replenish. Small store's rent is due, and nothing with which to pay it. One day small store is crowded with customers, but they have come to the sherifi"s sale. The big fish has swallowed the little one. Grab & Chokeham roll on the floor of counting-room in excess of merriment. Needham goes home to cry his eyes out. Big store has pat an end to small store. Plenty of room for both, but the former wanted all the sea to itself. No one had any right to show his commercial head in those waters. " Pop !" " Pop !" Shooting 'porpoises ! Is it not time that the world stopped wasting its ammunition ? If you want to shoot, there is the fox of cruel cunning, and the porcupine of fretfulness, and the vulture of filth, and the weasel of meanness, and the bear of religious grumbling. Oh, for more hunters who can "draw a bead " so as every time to send plump into the dust a folly of sin ! But let alone the innocent things of land and deep. The world is wide enough for us all. Big newspaper, have mercy on the little Great merchants, spare the weak. Let the San Jacinto plow on its majestic way and pass unhurt the porpoises. THE DA Y IS DONE. H. W. LONGFELLOW. ■^[-lE day is done, and the darkness '^ Falls from the wing of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist ; And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist ; A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain THE DAY IS DONE. 707 Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay. That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day : Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Not from the grand old masters. Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care. And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor ; And to-night I long for rest. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice ; And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart. As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears irom the eyelids start ; And the night shall be filled with music And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. ' Words of genuine eloquence, spoken, Thrill the passing hour; Written, they inspire the ages." BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES AUTHORS AND POETS, WHOSE BEST PRODtTCTIONS ARE GATHERED IN GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. " He loved home, for he had known what it was to be homeless. Ho wrote to gladden youthful hearts, for his own warm heart had often craved gladness when he was but a youth." BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. ^,^ CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. ||Tri|[iis humorous writer, author of " The Puzzled Dutchman," " Pat's pi^ Criticism," and four other poems of this volume, was born in Ipjl^'^'l' Dorchester, Mass., April 21st, 1842. His parents were natives X of New Hampshire. He received a common-school education, I" leaving school when about fifteen years of age to enter a prominent t business house in Boston. In August, 1862, then being twenty years of age, he enlisted in the Thirteenth Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteers. He was in the battles of Bull P\,uu, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville and others, was wounded at Gettysburg, July 1, 1863, and held as prisoner for three days until Federal troops retook the town. Upon his return home he resumed business, and is now at the head of a large house in Boston. His literary pursuits have but lately begun, his first poem having been written in 1870, and his first dialect poem {" The Puzzled Dutchman ") in February, 1872. From that time he was an occasional contributor of the local papers, Oliver Optic's Magazine, Scribner's, etc., until 1876, when he became a regular contributor to the Detroit Free Press, his first poem in that paper being " Leedle Yawcob Strauss," which first appeared June, 1876. All of his subsequent productions, with the exception of " Hans and Fritz," have been written for that paper. His choicest pieces have been selected to enrich the pages of this volume. JOSEPH ADDISON. iii^osEPH ADDISON, who is pre-eminent as an author, essavist, hu- ly^ morist, and moralist, was born in Milston, in Wiltshire, England, ^^ May 1st, 1672. His father was the Rev. Lancelot Addison. He ^1* attended school at the Charter House, and when about fifteen years of age he entered at the Queen's College, Oxford, with a splendid stock of 48 711 712 BIOGRArmCAL SKETCHES. tlie best classical learning. In 1689 he removed to Magdalen College, where he remained about ten years. Before he had decided on the choice of a profession, he became acquainted with Charles Montague, the leading Whig financier. He was persuaded by Montague to decline the clerical profession, which his family preferred for him, and devote himself to the service of the state. In 1705 Addison was appointed Under-Secretary of State. He was elected to Parliament i:i 1708, and on one occasion rose to speak, but was overcome by his natural diffidence, and at once abandoned all effort to become a debater. His literary talents, however, rendered him one of the main men of the Whig party, as at that time public opinion was swayed by the pen more than by the tongue. Addison was chief secretary to Lord Wharton, who was Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland in 1709. In this year his friend Steele began the issue of " The Tattler," which afforded Addison a fine opportunity for the display of his genius. His graceful style, genial spirit, excellent invention and inimitable humor rendered " The Tattler " and its successor, " The Spectator," immensely popular. The latter was issued daily from March 1st, 1711, to December 6th, 1712. In 1714 it reappeared as a tri- weekly. Addison himself wrote nearly one-half the editorial contents of the Spectator, the success of which was quite phenomenal. On the death of Queen Anne he became secretary to the regency. After that date he again became secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He afterwards accepted a seat in the Board of Trade and began to publish " The Freeholder." He became one of the two principal secretaries of state in the ministry formed in 1717. He remained in office but eleven months ; his retirement was attributed to his ill health and inefficiency as a public speaker. He died on the 17th of June, 1719, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Of Addison's conversational powers Lady Mary Montague said, that she had " known all the wits," and that Addison was " the best company in the world." " Addison's conversation," said Pope, " had something in it more charming than I have found in any other man." , ELIZABETH AKERS HJ^HE authoress of the exquisite ballad " Eock me to Sleep, Mother," pl^ holds a deservedly high place in the esteem of all who love pure rand tender sentiment. She was a native of New England, born in 1832, and volumes of her poems were published in 1853 and 1867. She subsequently became Mrs. Allen, and lived in Virginia. MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. 713 MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. If^HE " Burial of Mose.s " is one of the grandest descriptive poems of SR the EngUsh language. Its gifted authoress has done much good P'^^^ work, especially in her " Hymns for Little Children," of which a quarter of a million copies have been sold. She is the wife of the Rev. W. Alexander, and is a native of Ireland. She was born in 1823, and belongs to the Church of England. The one poem from her gifted pen selected for this volume, is of itself enough to immortalize her name. In grandeur of thought and diction it rises into the truly sublime. , H. ALGER, JR. Ijj^EV. HORATIO ALGER, JR., the author of " John Maynard," was born " ii at Nortli Chelsea, Mass., January 13th, 1834. He graduated at Harvard in 1852. He afterwards studied theology, and, in 1864, became pastor of a Unitarian congregation at Brewster, Mass. He has published several volumes of poems, besides making many valuable contributions to periodical literature. The poem given on page 406 of Gems is one of the most stirring he has written. WILLIAM R. ALGER. piLLiAM rounseville ALGER, a distinguished clergyman and au- |||l^ thor, was born at Freetown, Mass., in 1822. His writings, in i|^ the main, have been theological, though poetry and general ^ literature have been much enriched by his chaste and scholarly i contributions. He has issued several volumes, one of which, entitled J " Oriental Poetry," has furnished the two gems we have given. One of these is from the Persian, the other from the Chinese, and both are good illustrations of the best poesy of those far-off lauds, and of the Unguistic learning and poetic skill of the translator. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. tM^HE author of the beautiful selection entitled "The Fairies," was born at Ballyshannon, Ireland, in 1828. He published one volume entitled "Day and Night Songs," whence "The Fairies," is taken. Other works of his have "been very favorably received, and, in t 1864, a literaiy pension was bestowed upon him. 7]^4 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. J. MICHAEL ALTENBERG. MICHAEL ALTENBERG was a German, who was prominent in the Lutheran Church, and active in her most trying experiences. He was born 1583, and died 1640. His " Battle Song " (p. 430) is grand in its noble and reverent spirit of faith and trust. , ANACREON. i||ii|His famous Greek poet is supposed to have been born about 563 pjj^ B. c, and to have died about 478. His native place was Teos, in '^t Ionia. He spent a long time at the court of Poly crates, the tyrant of Saraos, after whose death he removed to Athens, where he remained many years ; then he journeyed in Greece, and finally met his death, by accident, at a good old age. His reputed poems were largely on love and wine, though some were elegies and epigrams, a fair specimen of the latter being seen in " The Grasshopper King," on page 42. Criticism denies many of the so-called Anacreontics to be from Anacreon. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. I HIS most gifted writer was born at Odense, in the island of Fiinen, .^^., April 2, 1805. His father was simply a poor shoemaker, though l^'^ descended from a rich ancestry. Hans loved to dwell on the ^ wealth and splendor of those ancestors and to talk of those 4; departed glories. It seemed, indeed, to solace his own poverty. The J father of Hans died when the boy was but nine years old, leaving the mother to stagger under a heavy load. She thought of putting Hans at the trade of a tailor, but she was prevailed upon to send him to Copenhagen, where he sought employment on the stage. In this he did not succeed, owing, as the story goes, to his emaciated and generally uninviting appear- ance. But he had a fine voice, and this gained him some employment as a singer. After a brief run of success in this line, his voice failed, and he was again afloat upon the world. In this emergency he came under the notice of his subsequent patron, Councillor Collin, who obtained for Hans the privilege of a free education in one of the State academies. Prior to this tiftie the boy had written several short poems and stories. One of these, " The Dying Child," had attracted considerable attention. So conspicuous did his genius soon become, however, that the King of Denmark furnished the means for Hans to travel in Germany, France and Italy. After this tour his reputation grew EDWIN ARNOLD. 715 rapidly, and in 1834 he produced a very brilliant romance entitled "The Improvisatore." It sets forth, in an inimitable manner, scenery and customs in Southern Europe. Another sketch of life in the North of Europe appeared the next year, and was almost equally successful. He also wrought the story of his own early life into a series of very striking pen pictures, which he entitled " Only a Fiddler." Andersen's genius was most conspicuous in the realm of fairy lore, of which he published several volumes. All these have met with a hearty reception. They are brilliant in imagination, quaint in humor, and ofttimes melting in pathos. The works of Hans Christian Andersen have been translated into almost all the languages of Europe. His one story given in this work is "The Little Match Girl," which is a perfect gem. Andersen died in 1875. p. ARKWRIGHT. IpiilNDER the above nom de pluiiUj or the fuller, Peleg Arkwright, ^^P David L. Proudfit has written much concerning the " gamins," or ^1^ street boys of our large cities. So graphic and tender have these ^1' descriptions been, that the public heart has turned very fondly i toward this much neglected and abused class. " Poor Little J Joe " (p. 358) is full of pathos and vivid description. EDWIN ARNOLD. J^iS ^^DWIN ARNOLD is a native of England, He was born June 10th, 1831. As early as 1852 he took a high prize at Oxford for a 'l poem. He subsequently became a master in a high school, but f soon after removed to British India, where he became President of 4; the Sanskrit College at Poonah. He resigned this post in 18C0, and J devoted himself wholly to literary pursuits. He has been a voluminous contributor to periodicals, magazines, etc., and has produced some highly meritorious poems, chief among which i«5 his last extended venture, " The Light of Asia." His translation of the Persian poem, " Call me not Dead," given on page 269, is a rare piece of literary elegance. GEORGE ARNOLD. JHE author of " The Jolly Old Pedagogue," George Arnold, was born in New York City, June 24th, 1834. and died November 9th, ^^^ 1865. He followed journalism and literature, making a good 716 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. reputation by his poems, stories, reviews, etc. He also attained some distinction as a Immorist. His writings liave not been numerous, however, but their choice character has won and held for them an honorable place. WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. (AUGUSTUS DUKSHUNNEK.) LLiAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN, D.C.L., was a native of Scotland. ||J(^^ He was born at Edinburgh about the year 1813. He died ^""f August 4, 1865. He began his career at the Scottish bar in 1840, but so marked was his ability that, in 1845, he was appointed i Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of his J native city. He excelled as a poet and dramatist, and he was also one of the most brilliant contributors of " Blackwood's Magazine." He wrote under the nom de plume of Augustus Dunshunner. His most celebrated poems are " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers " and " Bothwell." These poems are full of the old Scotch martial fire, and they have gone through numerous editions. " The Buried Flower " (p. 272) is one of the most ex- quisitely sweet poems which ever appeared from this gifted writer. ANNA BACHE. ^^II^RS. ANNA BACHE, was a resident of the city of Philadelphia, where ^m^ she published a volume for juveniles in 1843. She also is- ^^^ sued several humorous descriptive poems, one of the very best and most homelike of which, " The Quilting," is given in this volume. It is a lifelike description of the old-time quilting parties in country places. J. M. BAILEY. (danbury news man.) IJ^AMES MONTGOMERY BAILEY, was born in the city of Albany, New York, September 25th, 1841. In 1865 he commenced journalism on the "Danbury Times," afterwards known as the " Danbury News," and published at Danbury, Conn. From its constant flow of rich I and healthy humor the paper soon gained a national reputation and J circulation. Mr. Bailey has published a collection of his papers under the title, " Life in Danbury," also " The Danbury News Man's Almanac," and other works, all of which are characterized by the same admirable veins, which first brought him into so favorable a prominence. RICHARD BAXTER. 71^ EDWARD DICKINSON BAKER. ^^OLONEL BAKER, more generally known as Senator Baker, was a ^^ native of England. He was born February 24th, 1811, He came -^^^^ to the United States while but a youth and adopted law as his profes- sion. He was among the early settlers of California, having migrated to that State in 1852. In 1860 he was chosen United States Senator for Oregon, but on the outbreak of the civil war he raised a regiment for the Union service, at the head of which he was killed at Ball's Bluff, October 21st, 1861. The selection from one of his most celebrated speeches, given on page 516, shows his spirit as that terrible struggle began. He was at the very moment of speaking ready to march to the front. T^ LADY ANNE BARNARD. ||j|iHis distinguished Scottish poetess, whose maiden name was Lindsay, ^^^ was born at Fifeshire in 1750, She was a daughter of the Earl ^IQ of Balcarres. Her best literary effort, and that which made her *|^ the widest reputation, was the poem given in this volume, " Auld Eobin Gray." The history of this poem is related substantially in its few introductory lines (p. 193). She died in 1825. RICHARD BAXTER. "■^feiCHARD BAXTER was an eminent English non-conformist minis- ll^ ter, who was born at Rowdon, in Shropshire, Nov. 12th, 1615. He was a man of very extensive learning, though he was not educated at any college. He was ordained to the ministry in 1638 [ and was chosen Vicar of Kidderminster soon after. He was distinguished as a very eloquent preacher. In the civil war of England he sought to be neutral and to mediate between the contesting parties. About 1615 he accepted the post of chaplain to a regiment of Cromwell's army ; but he afterwards became hostile to the government of the Protector, In 1650 he published the " Saints' Everlasting Eest," a work which is generally and justly admired, and from which a selection in " Gems " is taken. In 1685 Baxter was tried before the notoriously unjust Jeffries on a charge of sedition, which was based on a passage in one of his works. He was fined five hundred marks, for the non-payment of which he was imprisoned eighteen months. He died in December, 1691- 718 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. JAMES BEATTIE. dAMES BEATTIE was a Scottish poet and philosophical writer, who was born in the county of Kincardine in 1735. In 1760 he was f^ appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic at Marischal i^ College, Aberdeen. In 1767 he brought out his " Essay on Truth," J written in refutation of the doctrines of Hume. It went through five editions in a few years, and was translated into several languages. The first book of " The Minstrel" appeared in 1771, and met with great favor also. Beattie soon after visited London, where he secured the friendship of Dr. Johnson, Goldsmith, and other distinguished literary men. During a second visit, in 1773, he received from the University of Oxford the degree of d.c.l. Soon after this time he published the second part of " The Minstrel," and in a few years followed it with a series of moral and critical essays, and a " Treatise on the Evidences of Christianity." The two extracts given in this volume are fair specimens of Beattie's style. HENRY WARD BEECHER. REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER, who is One of America's most distinguished clergymen, orators and writers, was born at Litchfield, Conn., January 24th, 1813. His father, Dr. Lyman Beecher, was a man distinguished for his sound theology and his J great common sense. Of his boyish character his sister, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, says : " He had precisely the organization which passes in boyhood for dullness. He had great deficiency in verbal memory ; ... he was excessively sensitive to praise and blame, extremely diffident, and with a power of yearning, undeveloped emotion which he neither understood nor could express. ... In forecasting his horoscope, had any one taken the trouble to do it, the last success that ever would have been predicted for him would have been that of an orator. But even while a boy he proved that, if he did not inherit the eloquence, he inherited at least something of the controversial ability of his father. A forward school-boy among the elder scholars had got hold of Paine's ' Age of Eeason,' and was flourishing largely among the boys with objections to the Bible. Henry privately looked up Watson's ' Apology,' studied up the subject, and challenged a debate with the big boy, in which he came off victorious by the acclamation of his school-fellows." He entered Amherst College in 1834. Soon after he commenced the study of theology under the direction of his father. He began his ministry at Lawrenceburg, GEORGE BERKELEY. 719 Ind., but soon removed to Indianapolis. In 1847 he became pastor of Plymouth Congregational Church, of Brooklyn, N. Y. His congregation here is probably the largest in the United States. He is a popular writer and lecturer. In the cause of temperance, anti-slavery, etc., he has long stood in the foremost rank, and been a most efficient champion. GEORGE BERKELEY. ^^EORGE BERKELEY was an English Bishop, and a metaphysical ^^^ philosopher of rare merit. He was born at Kilcrin, Ireland, on 2g the 12th of March, 1684. He entered Trinity College, Dublin. ^1* His reputation as a philosopher was made about 1707 by " An J Essay towards a New Theory of Vision." In 1710, he first published " The Principles of Human Knowledge," in which he advanced his celebrated theory that there is no proof of the existence of matter anywhere but in our own perceptions. In 1713 he visited London, where he became intimate with Addison, Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and other eminent men. He also wrote several essays for the " Guardian." He published in 1725 a "Proposal for Converting the Savage Americans to Christianity," and wished to found a college in America for that object. He received a promise of £ 20,000 from the government, and sailed for America, on this mission, in 1728. At this time he wrote those celebrated lines : " Westward the course of empire takes its way ; The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; Time's noblest offering is the last." He preached about two years in Newport, R. I., but abandoned the project of the college because the government failed to send the funds, and he returned to England. He was chosen Bishop of Cloyne in 1734. Among his later works is " The Analyst," addressed to an infidel mathematician. He finally removed to Oxford, and died there in January, 1753. .sJL^ BERNARD DE MORLAIX. Ijnf^His famous Latin poet was called also the Monk of Cluni. He was ^AJ of. the Benedictine Order, and must be distins:uished from St. ^^^ Bernard of the Romish Calendar. Bernard de Morlaix flourished I in the first half of the twelfth century, but where, and just when he was born and died are insoluble problems. Various places claim the honor of his birth, but Morlaix, in Bretagne, has most in its favor. De 720 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES Contemptu Mundi is esteemed his greatest poem, though " The Celestial Country," which is given on page 650, is doubtless his most pleasing. For its exquisite English rendering, the world is indebted to Dr. John Mason Neall, of Sussex, England. Nothing can be more magnificent. EDWARD BICKERSTETH. ffnE REV. EDWARD BICKERSTETH a distinguished English divine. He was born in Westmoreland in 1786. In 1814 he published a " Help to the Study of the Scriptures," which became very popular. He visited Africa in 1816 for the purpose of inspecting J the missionary stations of that country. He officiated as Secretary of the Church Missionary Society for some fifteen years. In 1830 he became Kector of Watton, in Hertfordshire, where he was very active in promoting every good cause. His works have been numerous and valuable, and he has issued many charming poems also, one of which, on "The Ministry of Jesus," adorns these pages. He died in 1850. ^^, WILLIAM BLAKE. |S|pHE author of "Tlie Tiger" (p. 357) was born in London, November pl^ 28th, 1757. His earlier business years were spent as an engraver, ^^^ but he had begun the writing of verses when quite a boy. Blake Trl attributed his inspirations to disembodied spirits, especially to that i of his dead brother. Under this supposed impulse he illustrated t as well as wrote his works, some of which are quaint, rare, and costly. He believed that the spirits of Homer, Dante, and Milton communed habitually with him. He died August 12th, 1827, singing as he drew near his end and as he breathed his last. He was known as " the poet-painter," and Charles Lamb said : " He paints in water-colors marvelous, strange pictures, visions of his brain, which he asserts he has seen." The tiger has a strange weirdness in every line. . GEORGE H. BOKER. ^^EORGE HENRY BOKER, an American poet, was born in Phila- fe| delphia in 1824. After graduating at Princeton in 1842 he made ^^^-^ an extensive tour of Europe, and has since then resided in his I native city. His first volume, " The Lesson of Life, and other J Poems," appeared in 1841. This was followed in 1848 by " Calaynos," a tragedy, which has been received with marked favor HORATIUS BONAR. 721 both in England and America. Among his other dramatic produc- tions are "Anne Boleyn," a tragedy, " Leonore de Guzman," and others. His "War Lyrics," or "Poems of the Civil War," have been much admired and widely published. His " Battle of Lookout Mountain " is given in this volume. Mr. Boker edited " Lippincott's Magazine" for several years, but resigned that post in 1870, since when he has represented the United States at Constantinople and subsequently at St. Petersburg. , HORATIUS BONAR. pHE author of "Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping," the Rev. ^ Horatius Bonar, will ever live in the hearts of those who love the pure, the good and the true. He was born in Edinburgh, Scot- ia land, in 1808. He began his ministerial work at Kelso in 1831, and at Edinburgh in 1861. Some of his publications have reached an almost fabulous circulation. His " Blood of Christ " has gone into almost every land, and been translated into almost every tongue. He died 1869. MARY G. BRAINARD. ^^^BOUT the authorship of the poem " Not Knowing " (p. 577) some ^^^ uncertainty arose a few years ago. When P. P. Bliss, the evan- ■^^^f^ gelist singer, went down in the railroad crash at Ashtabula, this I poem was found among his baggage with annotations in his own hand, and the impression went abroad that he was its author. It was, however, written in the winter of 1868-9, by Miss Mary C Brainard, of New London, Conn., a niece of the late G. C. Brainard, whose poem, on "Niagara '' is regarded as the finest on that sublime theme. She came, therfeore, of a poetic family. The poem, which is an exquisite production, was first published in " The Congregationalist " in March, 1869. It was afterwards issued on a leaflet from the Willard Tract Repository, Boston, and included in compilations of poems published severally by the Amer- ican Tract Society, and the Evangelical Knowledge Society. .J CHARLES T. BROOKS. HlliHE REV. CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS was a Unitarian minister and a g^ poet. He was born at Salem, Mass., June 20th, 1813. He •^^ graduated at Harvard in 1832, and settled as a pastor at Newport, ■^ R. I., in 1831. He is eminent as a translator of "Faust," " Hesperus," " Titan," and many small poems from the German. The little gem on page 596 illustrates the beautiful English into which he conveyed the form and sentiment of German poems. 722 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. CHARLES F. BEOWNE. .K (artemus ward.) H^HAELES FARRAR BEOWNE, widely known by the nom de plume ^^ Artemus Ward, was a pioneer among American humorists. He /^ was born in 1834, and died in 1861. He travelled extensively, J looking up novelties, which he wove into letters and lectures with admirable skill. His early death was from a pulmonary trouble, which cut him down in the midst of a popular career. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. |his most gifted of the female poets was born at Hope End, Here- fordshire, England, about the year 1801. She was the daughter, of a wealthy merchant of London. She was highly educated and well versed in the Greek and Latin languages. She began to write verse when about ten years of age, and these childish pro- ductions gave proofs of her high poetical genius. One of her first published works was the ''Battle of Marathon." In 1826 she published a volume entitled " Essay on Mind and other Poems." In 1823 she issued " Prometheus Bound," which she translated from the Greek of Ji^schylus, and which was a remarkable performance for one so young. Her reputa- tion was greatly extended by " The Seraphim and other Poems," issued in 1838. In 1846 she married the poet Robert Browning, with whom she resided many years in Italy. In 1851 she published " Casa Guidi Windows," a poem which treats of the political condition of Italy. " This," says 'The North British Review,' "is the happiest of Mrs. Browning's performances, because it makes no pretensions to high artistic character, and is really a simple story of personal impressions." " Aurora Leigh " is her largest work. It is a novel in verse. " The Cry of the Children," one of Mrs. Browning's gems, which with two others adorn these pages, is one of the most pathetic showings of the sufferings of the poor of England which ever was mad^. She died at Florence in June, 1861. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ^^MERICA has had few sons more widely known, more generally beloved, and more justly honored, than was he whose name heads this paragraph. This eminent poet was born at Cummington, Hampshire county, Mass., on the 3rd of November, 1794. He L wrote poems for newspapers when but ten years old, and when but thirteen he wrote " The Embargo," a political satire, and " The Spanish GEORGE WILLIAM BUNGAY. 723 Revolution," both of which were printed by his admiring friends in 1808. He entered Williams College in 1810, and there distinguished himself by his marked proficiency in languages. He subsequently became a student of law. Having been admitted to the bar in 1815, he devoted himself to that calling for several years. In 1816 he published " Thana- topsis," which is by many regarded as his finest poem, and which has enjoyed a popularity equal to that of Gray's Elegy. In 1821 his first volume appeared containing a didactic poem called " The Ages," besides some other pieces. Soon after this date he removed to New York city, and in 1826 became one of the editors of the " Evening Post." In this connection he continued to the time of his death. He first visited Europa in 1834, returning in 1836, after which time he made several journeys abroad. In 1849 he travelled in Egypt and Syria. Since 1845, he resided in a beautiful home of his own arrangement, at Roslyn, on Long Island. Griswold says of Bryant : " No poet has described with more fidelity the beauties of creation, nor sung in nobler song the greatness of the Creator. He is the translator of the silent language of the universe to the world. His poetry is pervaded by a pure and genial philosophy, a solemn and religious tone, that influence the fancy, the understanding, and the heart." Bryant's death occurred in New York on June 12th, 1878. It was brought about by exposure to the sun while attending the unveiling of the Halleck statue, and by a subsequent fall. He had been spared to a ripe old age, but his powers seemed unabated, and his honors were multiplied to the last. I, ROBERT BUCHANAN. Ij^pOBEET BUCHANAN was boni iu Scotland, August 18th, 1841, p^l^ and received his college training at the University of Glasgow. <^^ He has written poems, tragedies and comedies. He has given I public readings and contributed to the newspapers, and altogether has been a busy and helpful literary man. His " Nell " (p 393) is a weird, wild piece, which chills the blood while it charms the reader. GEORGE WILLIAM BUNGAY. ^EORGE w. BUNGAY, journalistic author and lyceum lecturer, was born ^Jl in England, came with his parents to this country in his childhood, was educated in New York, was on the editorial staff of the New York Tribune during the war of the Rebellion, is the author of " Crayon Sketches and Off-hand Takings," " Pen Portraits," " Traits of Representative Men," " Creeds of the Bells," and many other 724 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. poems, and of various addresses in prose and verse, delivered before colleges and lyceunis. He was the founder and editor of the " Ilion Independent " in Herkimer County, New York ; also of the " Central Independent," published in Utica, New York. For several years past he has held a Government appointment. He devotes his leisure to literary labor. He is [1883] 58 years of age, of stout build and ruddy countenance, is strictly temperate, never having used liquor nor tobacco in any form. We give his " Creed of the Bells." . JOHN BUNYAN. (ipo book is more widely known than Banyan's " Pilgrim's It has been translated into almost every language into which the •^-^"ti Bible itself has been rendered. Its author, John Bunyan, was born at Elstow, near Bedford, England, in the year 1628. He followed the occupation of his father, who was a tinker, and for some time John led a wandering, dissipated life. He married when about twenty years of age. During the civil war of England he served in the army of the Parliament. Having become deeply interested in religious things he joined the Anabaptists of Bedford, about 1664, and soon became distin- guished for his zeal. He finally became a Baptist minister. After the restoration of peace he was sentenced to tran'^portation for life as a promoter of seditious and disorderly assemblies. This sentence was not executed, however, but he was detained in prison more than twelve years. During his imprisonment he wrote the main part of his immortal work, " Pilgrim's Progress." Besides which he wrote many other works, none of which, however, at all compare with his one masterpiece. After his release he ministered to a congregation at Bedford, and became extremely popular. He died in 1688, but he lives through his works, and wields a power such as few men ever exerted. ^j EDMUND BURKE. mJH^iiis illustrious orator, statesman, and philanthropist, was born in Dublin in 1730, or, according to some authorities, in 1728. Burke was originally the same name as Burgh, De Burgh, De Burgho, tor De Bourgo. His father was an attorney of the first rank in his profession in Dublin. Edmund Burke was the second son of a family of fourteen or fifteen children, all of whom died young but three sons and one daughter. Edmund was of a delicate constitution. He studied at Trinity College, Dublin. The range of his work there included ROBERT BURNS. 725 the classics, history, philosophy, general literature, and metaphysics. He was accustomed while at college to spend three hours every day in the public library. While he devoted a large part of his time to studies of the most solid character, he did not neglect the lighter reading, including poetry, novels, and other works of imagination. Burke graduated in 1748. His destination was the bar, and in 1747 his name was enrolled at the Middle Temple. In 1750 he went to London, but returned to Ireland the next year. In 1755 Burke felt inclined to try his fortune in America. Several of his most valued friends highly approved of it ; but his father strongly opposed the scheme, and so it was abandoned. This decided his life for England, and devoting his splendid talents and high culture to her affairs he made a name of which she is justly proud. As a pleader at the bar in some of her most famous cases, and as a secretary of some of her most important trusts, he rendered services which can never be forgotten. Burke's only son, Eichard, a man of superior talents and great moral worth, died in 1794. The grief occasioned by this irreparable loss contributed, there is reason to believe, materially to shorten his father's life. It was this bereavement that called forth the eulogy on page 231 of this volume. Burke himself died in 1794. ROBERT BURNS. ptiis famous Scottish poet was born at Ayr, January 25, 1759. His ^^ father's home at that time was a hut of clay and straw, which he built with his own hands, on a little tract of ground which he had rented. The life of Robert's father was an unintermittent struggle with adversity, and yet he spared no pains to secure his children good education. He sent them to school, and sometimes after the day's work was done he assisted their studies. " I owed much," says the poet, " to an old woman who resided in the family. . . . She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales concerning the devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches and warlocks, . . . enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry." Robert possessed a strong intellect and acute sensibilities, a robust and active body, so that when only fifteen he did the work of a man. He was early familiarized with those hardships and sufferings which he has occasionally touched upon in his poems with so much of pnthos and power. A little before Burns reached his sixteenth year he " first committed the sin of rhyme." In later years the fame which Burns had acquired, added to his rare conversational powers, caused him to be eagerly sought in social 726 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. gatherings everywhere. This appears to have laid the foundation of the dissipation which marked the latter part of his life. About 1785 Burns says, " I resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as it was in my power. I thought they had merit, and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears." Scott has left an interesting account of Burns' appearance at tliis time. He says : " His person was strong and robust, his manners rustic, not clownish, with a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity which received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments. The eye, alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large and of a dark cast, which glowed — I say, literally glowed — when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption." Burns died on the 21st of July, 1796. His funeral was attended by thousands of persons, of every rank and station. A costly mausoleum was finally erected in the churchyard at Dumfries, to which his remains were transferred June 5th, 1815, and where they now lie. LORD BYRON. I^EORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, best known as Lord Byron, was born in ^^ London, January 22, 1788. The old family name was variously '^'^^ spelled, passing by several gradations from Burun to its final and I best- known form. His grandfather was an English admiral. His father and mother lived unhappily together, and finally separated, she returning to her native Aberdeen, in Scotland, where her son received his schooling, and caught poetic inspiration from the scenery and history of his adopted home. When ten years of age, the lad succeeded to the estate and title of his grand-uncle, Lord William Byron, of Newstead Abbey, Nottinghamshire, England. Soon after this the effort was made to relieve him of a deformity in one of his feet, but it proved unavailing and remained a source of mortification and annoyance to him as long as he lived. He entered Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1805, where he remained two years but did not take a degree. During his stay here he published his first volume of poems, entitled " Hours of Idleness," which was not received with much favor, but in defense of which he replied to his critics in valiant THOMAS CAMPBELL. 727 Style. In 1809 Byron set out on his travels through Europe, visitinf^ Portugal, Spain, Turkey, and Greece, being absent from England nearlv two years On his return he published the first two cantos of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," the success of which was so sudden that, as he tells us, " he awoke one morning and found himself famous." Soon after, he took his seat in the House of Lords. In 1813 he published '• The Giaour," an Oriental tale in verse, which contains some of the most exquisite poetry in the English language. The " Bride of Abydos," a poem of the same general character, added to his already brilliant reputa- tion. In 1814 was published " The Corsair," of which, it is said, nearly 14,000 copies were sold in a single day. In 1816 he left England, with the determination of never more returning. He proceeded to Switzerland and made his home near Geneva. He next went to Italy, and lived in Venice. During his sojourn here he wrote several of his most remarkable productions. Having caught a severe cold, he was attacked with fever and inflammation of the brain, which terminated his life April 19th, 1824. Tiie selections given in Gems are among the best Byron ever wrote. .,U THOMAS CAMPBELL. !his eminent British poet was born at Glasgow, Scotland, in 1777. His father was a merchant of that city. In the University of his <^^ native city Thomas distinguished himself as a classical scholar I while he was yet a mere boy. In 1799 he produced " The Pleasures of Hope," the success of which has perhaps had no parallel in English literature. He visited the continent in 1800, and witnessed the battle of Hohenlinden, which furnished him the subject of one of his grandest lyrics. After his return from the continent he published " The Exile of Erin," " Ye Mariners of England," " Lochiel's Warning," and other short poems. In 1809 he published " Gertrude of Wyoming/' which surpasses " The Pleasures of Hope " in simplicity, and is perhaps not inferior in imaginative power. Ne was elected Lord Eector of the Glasgow University in 1827, and made a journey to Algiers in 1832. He died in 1844 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir Walter Scott said to Washington Irving, in speaking of Campbell : " He has wings that could bear him to the skies, and he does now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his perch, as if he were afraid to launch away. The fact is, Campbell is in a manner a bugbear to himself; the brightness of his early success is a detriment to all further efibrts. He is afraid of the shadow which his own fame casts before him.'' 4\} 728 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. ^JU -GEORGE CANNING. m^EORGE CANNING was a famous British orator, statesman, and satirical ^^ poet. He was educated at Eton, where he greatly distinguished ■^^^^ himself as a scholar, and where his first literary efforts were made. I His career at Oxford was equally satisfactory. He finally devoted himself to law, and then to politics, in which he made good progress, rising to the position of an under-secretaryship of state. He contributed largely to " The Anti-Jacobin," in which journal, .as one of Canning's biographers says, " the Whigs were wittily, unmercifully, and in some cases unjustifiaHy, held up to popular contempt." Canning's ability to lampoon would be philanthropists and mere pretenders appears strikingly in the poem on " The Needy Knife-Grinder," page 228. Canning died in 1827. WILL M. CARLETON. ^IIE author of "Betsey and I are Out,'' even had he done no other work of note, would take a high rank as an author of the poetry of every-day life. His full name is William M. Carleton. He was born in Michigan, October 21st, 1815. His earlier years \vere spent at farm work. He attended district school, and while quite young he became a teacher. He subsequently graduated at Hillsdale College in Michigan, and became popular as a writer of popular ballads and as a literary lecturer. The " Toledo Blade " and " Harper's Weekly " have been the chief channels of his literary productions. ALICE GARY. distinguished American authoress was born near Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1820. She first attracted attention by her contributions ^^^ to the " National Era," for which she wrote under the nom dej^lu'ins I of Patty Lee. She afterwards published several volumes of poems and other works, including three novels — " Hagar, a Story of To-Day," " Married, not Mated," and "Hollywood." Her sketches of Western life, entitled " Clovernook," have gained great popularity in tiiis country and have been widely circulated in Europe. Alice Cary died in 1871. ^ PHOEBE CARY. ^pt|ilOEBE, younger and only sister of Alice Cary, was born in the Miami ^S> Valley, near Cincinnati, Ohio, September 4th, 1824. .She worked >^^ busily with her sister, and in 1849 they had a volume of poems 1 ready for the press, for which they received one hundred dollars. RUFUS CHOATE. 729 Subsequently they removed to New York, where they kept house in an unpretentious manner and labored vigorously with their pens. They finally purchased a beautiful home on Twentieth street, where they spent the remainder of their days. Phoebe died in the summer of 1871 at Newport, R. I., whither she had gone for her health. The selections of the two sisters, which are given in " Gems," will be found very charmin^. JOHN CHALKHILL. (ISAAK WALTON.) — "^HO John Chalkhill was is one of the problems of literature. Isaak Walton, who lived in England 1653-1683, and who, in 1653, published the '' Complete Angler," issued vseveral works in the name of John Chalkhill. Critics believe these were the works of Walton himself, his statements concerning their authorship not being supported by other evidences. The poem on page 205 is certainly very much in the favorite lines of Walton's work, though bearins; Chalkhill's EDWIN H. CHAPIN. W^ DWIN HUBBELL CHAPIN, D.D., was long regarded as foremost among ^P^ the orators of the American pulpit. He was born in Washington ■^^"^ county, N. Y., in 1814. His denominational connection was with I the Universalists, among whom he was for many years an acknow- ledged and competent leader. His first ministerial labors were at Charles- town, Mass., whence, in 1848, he removed to New York, where he labored unremittingly until 1881, when he died. He was not only an able pulpit orator, but also a most popular platform speaker and lecturer. His pub- lications, beyond several volumes of sermons, have been few, but they all bear the impress of his scholarly and poetic mind. The selection here given from his writings is indicative of his clear and potent style. ■^ RUFUS CHOATE. ^CJFUS CHOATE was the most distinguished advocate New England 1^ ever produced, and perhaps America itself has not surpassed '^"X him. He was born at Ipswich, Mass., October 1st, 1799. As a boy he possessed unusual quickness and vigor, and he was remark- able for his love of reading. When only ten years old he had exhausted the village library, though it contained some heavy works. He entered- "30 BIOGRArillCAL SKETCHES. Dartmouth College in 1815 and took his place at the head of an unusually able and studious class. After graduating he spent a year as tutor, and then entered upon the study of law at Cambridge. He then entered the office of Mr. Wirt, Attorney- General of the United States. At Washington he greatly extended his knowledge of public affairs and fixed his high standard of professional work. After this preparation he entered upon the practice of law at Danvers, Mass., and subsequently settled at Boston. On taking up his residence in this city he devoted himself to his profession and soon gained the highest position. In 1841 he was chosen Senator in place of Daniel Webster. On leaving the Senate in 1845 he returned to his profession, and never after entered into public life. He died suddenly on July 13th, 1858, at Halifax, Nova Scotia, where ill health compelled him to stop after starting on a voyage to Europe. ^,j^^ COLLEY GIBBER. ^KiipHis witty English dramatic author and actor was born in London p|^ in 1671. He began his stage life as a comic actor in 1689. In ^1^ the same year he produced his first play, " Love's Last Shift, or j; the fool in fashion," which was very successful. " The Careless Husband " is considered his best production. It was performed with great applause in 1704, Cibber himself acting the chief part. " The Nonjuror " was so happy a hit that it procured him a pension of £200 from George I. He was manager of Drury Lane for many years. In 1730 he was chosen Poet-Laureate. He wrote an amusing " Apology for the Life of Colley Cibber," which Dr. Johnson pronounced " very well done." His poems were not numerous. The one given in this volume is perhaps the best he produced. He died in 1757. SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. ^r|ja^ (mark twain.) ^^AMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS, better known as " Mark Twain," is a 1^ distinguished American humorist. He was born in Monroe county, ^W Mo., November 30th, 1835. He began his work as journalist at ^^ Virginia City, Nev,, in 1862. He subsequently pursued this pro- fession at San Francisco and later at Buffalo, N. Y. His largest works are " The Innocents Abroad," " Roughing It," " The Tramp Abroad," " Gilded Age," etc. His fragmentary writings are very numerous and popular. The four selections given in this volume are good samples of the variety and excellence of his style. SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. 731 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. land, in 1819 or and became a g^RTHUR HUGH CLOUGH was born in Liverpool, Engla ^g 1820. He was educated at Rugby and Oxford, ^^"T tutor in Oriel College. In 1848 he issued a " Long Vacation J Pastoral," which has been much admired. In 1849 he became Professor of English Literature in University College, London. In 1852 he visited the United States, and became the friend of Longfellow and other distinguished poets. Among his works are " A Version of Plutarch's Lives" and a collection of poems called " x\mbarvalia." "As Ships Becalmed " (p. 422) is a beautiful production. He died November, 1861. ^rU REYNELL COAXES. l^iiE gambler's wife " (p. 688) is an intense dramatic poem. Its author still lives (1883) at Camden, N. J., far advanced in years |t^f but enjoying a peaceful old age. He has been active in business, politics and literature, especially in literature of the medical profession, to which he was trained. Born in 1802. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. jHis eminent English poet and critic was born atOttery Saint Marv, Devonshire, England, October 21st, 1772. He was the youngest among many children of John Coleridge, who was vicar of that parish. Before Samuel was fifteen years of age he was deeply interested in metaphysical studies. He entered Jesus College, Cambridge, in 1791, but abruptly left without a degree in 1793. Coleridge had already begun to write poetry. In 1794 he sold to Mr. Cottle, of Bristol, for thirty guineas in advance, the first volume of his poems, which was printed in 1796. He was full of literary projects, among them was " The Watchman," a weekly periodical, of which he issued but ten numbers. In 1798 he visited Germany with Wordsworth, and studied German litera- ture. In 1800 he removed to Keswick in the lake district, where Southey and Wordsworth resided, and from which locality the three received the appellation of " Lake Poets." He died in 1834. G,^^^,^ ABRAHAM COLES. llj^ANY of the finest translations of Medioeval hymns which the world ^^ now enjoys are from the skillful pen of Abraham Coles, M. d., for many years a resident of Newark, N. J. Together with a 732 BIOnilAPlIICAL SKETCHES very large medical practice, Dr. Coles has long combined laborious literary pursuits. He has produced sevei^al valuable poems of considerable length, chief of which is "The Evangel." Of the " Dies Ira " he has made thirteen separate translations, and competent critics declare that any one of them is sufficiently excellent to establish his reputation as a scholar and a poet. Dr. Coles enjoys his literary leisure at a beautiful country seat at Scotch Plains, N. J. Born in 1813. WILLIAM COLLINS. (y^^rJiLLiAM COLLINS made a good name as an English lyric poet. He ^J^Ml w^s ^°^^^ ^^ Chichester in 1720. After graduating at Oxford, he r^ went to London about 1744, with little to depend on except his genius. But he became the friend of the great Dr. Johnson. His odes on "The Passions," "To Mercy," "To Evening," etc., all appeared in 1747. The latter part of his life was shrouded by melancholy, and he was for a considerable time an inmate of a lunatic asylum. He died in 1756. .| ELIZA COOK. |his popular English poetess was born in Southwark, London, in 1817. At a very early age she became a regular contributor to the " New Monthly Magazine," and to other periodicals. A volume of her poems and songs was published in 1840, and received great favor. In 1849 she began the publication of " Eliza Cook's Journal." Among her most popular productions is " The Old Arm Chair." PHILIP p. COOKE. |hilip PENDLETON COOKE was an American poet, born at Martins- B«a^* burg, Virginia, in 1816. He graduated at Princeton and subse- 1^ quently studied law. He wrote many poems of marked merit, l chief of which are " Florence Vane " and " Ptosa Lee." He wrote much for the " Southern Literary Messenger." He died in 1850. SUSAN COOLIDGE HIS is ihenom de vlui ^His is thenovi deplume of a delightful author, resident in Newport, R. I. In answer to an earnest request lor a biographical sketch of herself, she wrote: "A singer of songs, or a teller of tales is after all but a voice to those who listen; and the merits of the GEORGE CROLY. 733 \ song or the story are not enhanced when the utterer comes into view. Pletise let me therefore remain a voice." So beautiful a plea could not be disregarded. Let the many admirers of the sweet poem "When," say with its author in that beautiful production, " I can wait/"" BARRY CORNWALL. ^4,_^ (BRYAIS W. PROCTER.) ^^RYAN WALLER PROCTER was an English poet, who wrote under the ^^ 710771 de plume of Barry Cornwall. He was born about 1790. He ^jt^ first studied law and began its practice about 1831. He acquired .'; ' some literary distinction by his volume " Dramatic Scenes and other Poems," issued in 1819. Among his other works are "The Flood of Thessaly," " English Songs and other Small Poems," " Essays and Tales in Prose," and " Charles Lamb : a Memoir." His songs have obtained much popularity. The poetess, Adelaide Anne Procter, is a daughter of this eminent writer. He died in 1874. FREDERICK SWARTWOUT COZZENS. IPI^his gentleman was an American writer of considerable repute. He ^1^ was born in New York in 1818. A volume entitled" Prismf A volume entitled" Prismatics " ■jp^ was made up of his contributions to the "Knickerbocker Maga- zine." It appeared in 1853. . He published " Sparrowgrass Papers," and many other works in prose and verse. He died in 1869. ,;:j^C,, C. p. CRANCH. i^HRTSTOPHER PEARCE CRANCH, author of " By the Shore of the River " SSI (p. 517), was born at Alexandria, Va., in 1813. He was a land- ■':^ scape painter, as well as an author and poet, doing very creditable H work in both these departments of Art. ^t^ GEORGE CROLY. ^^EORGE CROLY was a voluminous author and a poet of considerable §^ power. He was born m Dublin in 1780. He was connected with rthe Episcopal Church, and for many years was rector of Saint ^, Stephen's, in Wallbrook. London. He was eminent as a pulpit orator. Besides numerous sermons, he published a volume of " Poetical Works." " Personal History of George IV.," etc. His " Catiline," both d& a poem and a drama, is a splendid piece of work. Croly died in 1860. 734 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. JOHN GUMMING. pIpoHN GUMMING, D.D., was a popular English preacher and theologian. ^1^ He was born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, in 1810. In 1832 he '|f^ became pastor of the Scottish church in Crown Court, Covent '^ Garden, London. He distinguished himself as an adversary of Romanism and of the party which under Dr. Chalmers established the Free Church in 1843. He was a very voluminous writer, his works covering the parables, prophecies, etc. He died in 1881. ALLAN GUNNINGHAM. ^^^LLAN GUNNINGHAM, who was a successful Scottish author and critic, ^1^ was born at Blackwood, Dumfrieshire, 1785. He was apprenticed P^'^ in early age to a stone-mason. When a young man he went to London, where he found employment as reporter for the daily newspapers, after which his career in literary pursuits became settled. He published an admirable dramatic poem, " Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," and several popular romances. In 1829 he began the publication of a valuable work entitled " The Lives of British Painters, Sculptors and Architects.'' He composed several good songs, the gem of which, "A AVet Sheet and a Flowing Sea," is given in this volume. He died in 1842. ,1, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. S^pHE subject of this sketch was born in Providence, E. I., February ^IM 24th, 1824. His early life was spent at school, on a farm, and "^^^ for a year or more in a counting house. He went abroad in 1846, %" visiting Egypt and Syria, but spending considerable time at Berlin. These journeys enriched his stores of knowledge, which were subsequently given to the world in " Nile Notes of a Howadji," and other issues. He contributed richly to the " New York Tribune," was an editor of " Putnam's Magazine," and otherwise distinguished himself in literary work. He has been very popular as a lyceum lecturer and as a public speaker on political and other important issues. , GEORGE W. GUTTER. i^nis spirited author, generally known as Captain Cutter, has produced many stirring poems. His " Buena Vista and Other Poems" appeared in Cincinnati, 1848, under the inspiration of the Mexican War, then just closing, "The Song of Steam" and '' The Song THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 735 of Lightning " were decided hits at a later day. In 1857 he issued "Poems National and Patriotic." RICHARD HENRY DANA. |[CHARD HENRY DANA, poet and essayist, was born November 17th, 1^^ 1787, at Cambridge, Mass. He was educated at Harvard College, J^ and devoted himself to the law. He abandoned this pursuit how- ^^ ever and applied himself wholly to literature. His first poem [ was "The Dying Kaven," followed quickly by "The Buccaneer and other Poems." He also wrote numerous tales and essays. "The Pleasure Boat," selected for Gems from this author's poems is beautiful in the ex- treme. He died in 1879, in the ninety-second year of his age. He waa the father of Ptichard Henry Dana, Jr., of wide reputation as an author. • THOMAS DE QUINCEY. ^i|iHOMAS DE QUINCEY was born in Manchester, England, 1785. He pl^ entered the University of Oxford in 1803; he there contracted <W^ the habit of eating opium, to which he remained a slave for many years. After leaving Oxford, he settled at Grasraere, where he resided nearly twenty-seven years. Here he enjoyed the friendship of Words- worth, Southey, Coleridge, Charles Lloyd and other distinguished literary men. He made German literature a special study, and translated Kant, Fichte, Schelling and Richter. In 1823 he went to London, where he published his "Suspiria de Profundis," his "Templar's Dialogues," and other works. In 1843 he settled near Edinburgh. The brief historic sketch given on page 145 is characteristic of De Quincey's bright and beautiful style. He died in Edinburgh, December 8th, 1859. GABRIEL ROMANOVITCH DERZHAVIN. ^ijipHrs Russian poet was born in Kasan, in 1743. He was distinguished ^1^ both in the military and civil services, and was appointed Secretary ■*^^ of State in 1791, by Catharine II., and Minister of Justice in 1802 by Alexander I. His poems are of a very high order, both in sen- timent and imagery, especially his world-renowned " Ode to God," which has been translated into every European language, and even into Persian, Chinese and Japanese. This grand poem received the honor of being hung, embroidered with gold, in the great temple of Jeddo. He died in 1816. 736 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. CHARLES DICKENS. Sj^HARLES DICKENS stands preeminent among the most distinguished |B novelists of the English school. He was born at Portsmouth^ "^ England, February 7th, 1812. The law was selected as his pro- j fession, and he was placed in an attorney's office. The drudgery of legal business disgusted him, however, and before his twenty-first year, he removed to London, and embarked on a literary career He began as reporter to the "Morning Chronicle," to which he presently contributed a series of papers sketching characteristics of English life as seen in the middle and lower classes of society. In 1836 these papers were published in two volumes. The issue proved a wonderful success both in England and ihe United States, and the " Pickwick Papers," in the year following, conclusively stamped him as a master in fiction, Dickens further distinguished himself by the admirable course of lec- tures he delivered in the United States in 1867-68. These were a mine of pecuniary profit to the lecturer, and to thousands of intelligent Ameri- cans a treat of the highest character. He died June 9th, 1870, and his remains were interred in the Poet's corner of Westminster Abbey. BENJAMIN DISRAELI. "" '" ' 'lor, [e f^ early showed great literary taste and talent. In 1825 he caused a f sensation bv his brilliant novel, "Vivian Grey." Other works of ^^ENJAMIN DISRAELI, Earl of Beaconsfield, the famous English author, W^M orator, statesman and Premier, was born in London, in 1805. He fiction soon followed his virgin effort ; among them " Henrietta Temple," which by many is deemed the finest love story in the English language. In 1837, he entered Parliament. His maiden speech was so complete a failure that it even elicited laughter in the House. Then it was he used the memorable words, " I sit down now, but the time will come when you shall hear me." In 1868, Lord Derby resigned office, when Disraeli reached the summit of his ambition, in becoming first minister of the Crown. Disraeli never abandoned literary pursuits, though so largely ab- sorbed in state affairs. He died in London, April 19th, 1881. ^^ SYDNEY DOBELL. I^^HE author of " How's my Boy ? " was born near London, April 5th, ^^ 1824. His father was a man of some literary distinction. Sydney ^"^^^ had little more than a home education, having spent considerable JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 737 of his earlier life in business pursuits, but devoting his leisure hours as- siduously to literature. His poetic genius showed itself in boyish verses, which he wrote when but nine years of age. He died August 24th, 1874, Several volumes of his works have appeared. MARY MAPES DODGE. |fi|iHis noted American writer for young folks was born in New York m^ City. She first published " Irvington Stories " in 1864, and after- ^^^^:f wards became well known as the author of " Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates," a story which has been published many times in this coun- try and in England, and has been translated into many foreign languages. In France, its translator was given a prize by the French Academy. Mrs. Dodge has also written ''Rhymes and Jingles," and several books for grown-up people. Among her magazine articles is a funny sketch called " Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question." Mrs. Dodge was for several years one of the editors of "Hearth and Home," but when the "St. Nicholas Magazine" was started, she became its editor, in which relation she still continues. The two selections from Mrs. Dodge's works, which appear in Gems, are worthy of the distinction so awarded them. ^^^^ _ DANIEL DOUGHERTY. iROMiNENT among the lawyers of the Philadelphia bar stands the gentleman whose name heads this sketch. He has attained a high ^ rank by his work as a writer and a speaker. He is a most entertain- J. ing man in story also. Colonel Forney, in his " Sketches of Public Men," says of Mr. Dougherty: " People will love him while he lives, and many will regret they never knew him after he is gone. He is a ca.'=?ket of fun, and he scatters his jewels with a lavish hand." No man is more competent to speak on " Pulpit Oratory " than is this superb orator. ^T^^ JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. ^^His well known American poet was born in the city of New York, 10^^ August, 1795. He was educated at Columbia College. He sub- ■*^^^ fequently studied medicine. In 1819 he wrote many humorous and satirical poems, which were published in the " Evening Post," over the signature of " Croaker." His more extended works are " The Culprit Fay," and the much-admired verses on " The American Flag." given in this volume. He died in September, 1820, in New York City. 738 BIOGRAI'IIICAL SKETCHES. LADY DUFFERIN. hiE Lament of the Irish Emigrant," has commanded sufficient inter- ^ est in the public heart, to immortalize its talented authoress. Lady DufFerin. Helen Selina Sheridan, was the proper name of this gifted lady. She was a daughter of Thomas Sheridan and a sif- ter of Caroline Norton. She was born in Ireland in 1807, and died June 13th, 1867. The recent Governor-General of Canada, Lord DufFerin, was her son. She was a great favorite everywhere, being greatly admired for her beauty, her wit, and her general accomplishments. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. ^[Ipiiis eminent American Divine was celebrated as a pulpit orator and 'M^ as an expounder of the Scriptures. He was born at Northampton, ^W Mass., in 1752. He studied at Yale College. During the war of i Independence he was chaplain in the American army. In 1783 he became pastor of the Congregational church in Greenfield, Conn., where he also conducted an Academy for twelve years. In 1795 he was chosen President of Yale College and Professor of Divinity. He was a clear, forcible and voluminous writer on theology and kindred subjects. He wrote several poems. His description of the Notch of the White Moun- tains is a gem in its line. It is from an extended sketch of travel. CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN. ?HE author of the beautiful poem entitled "A Snow Storm " (p. 409), was born at Fryeburg, Maine, June 1st, 1816. His parents re- moved to Vermont when he was quite young. In 1837, he grad- '^^ uated at the University of Vermont. Before his graduation he wrote editorials and contributions for many current periodicals, and in 1846 he became owner and editor of the " Vermont Patriot," published at Montpelier. He worked somewhat in politics and published a very ac- ceptable volume of poems in 1848. He died in Burlington, Vt., in 1861. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ^fpHis distinguished author, two of whose graceful productions adorn \Ml^ these pages, was born in pages, was born in Boston, Mass., May 25th, 1803. He graduated at Harvard College in 1821. As a boy he wrote verses; as a collegian, he took prizes for composition and declamation ; and on graduating was class-day poet. He taught school ; became EDWARD EVERETT. 739 a precicher ; went abroad for several years ; and tlien became a lecturer on literary, scientific and biographical themes. In 1834, he settled at Con- cord, Mass., where he died April 27th, 1882. ^■^J^ ROBERT EMMETT. M^OBERT EMMETT was a distinguished Irish revolutionist, born in Dub- W^^ lin, in 1780. He was educated for the bar, and was a hi<j-hlv '^^^l gifted and estimable man. He became actively involved in the 1' revolutionary troubles of 1802-3, and was consequently arrested, tried, and sentenced to death, which he suffered on September 20th, 1803. Emmett was engaged to be married to the daughter of Right Hon. J. P. Curran, who, after the untimely death of her affianced, died of a broken heart. This sad event suggested one of Moore's finest poems, "She is for from the land where her young hero sleeps." Emmett 's "Last Appeal," is one of the most patriotic, and yet pathetic, appeals, ever uttered. ..:.^ EDWARD EVERETT. gi^l^His eminent orator and scholar was born at Dorchester, Mass., in pj^ 1794. He graduated at Harvard in 1811, and became Tutor of ^jf^ Latin there in 1812. He was ordained as a Unitarian minister in "^ 1814 ; was elected Professor of Greek at Harvard in 1815. On his return from Europe, in 1819, he entered upon the duties of this pro- fessorship, which terminated in 1825. He was editor of the "North American Review " for several years, and contributed to its pages, one hundred and seventeen important papers. He was member of Congress for ten years ; Governor of Massachusetts for four years ; Minister Pleni- potentiary to the Court of St. James three years ; President of Harvard College for three years ; Secretary of State of the United States under President Fillmore ; U. S. Senator for two years ; and candidate for the Vice-Presidency of the United States in 1860. He died at Boston, January loth, 1865. The several selections of Everett given in Gems are fairly illustrative of his superb diction and style. ^^^ EDGAR FAWCETT. ^^DGAR FAWCETT is a native and resident of New York City. He has p|M devoted himself to literary pursuits from his youth. His poems ^.-. ■'''* are generally of the brief, light, but pure character, such as the I* specimen on page 682. Mr. Fawcett's work has been chiefly for the magazines and current periodicals, where it is favorably received. 740 BIOGRAPIIICAL SKETCHES. JAMES T. FIELDS. '■''^'^'ames t. fields, a.m., is a well known author and publisher. He was born at Portsmouth, N. H., December 31st, 1817. So marked ,,. was his talent that he read an anniversary poem before the Mer- 4' cantile Library Association, of Boston, Mass., when in liis eighteenth year, and again in 1848 he read another poem, "The Post of Honor,'' before the same scholarly society. He was a member of the firms. Tick • nor, Reed & Fields, Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood & Co., for twenty- five years, up to January, 1871. In 1849, 1854 and 1858, respectively, he published volumes of his poems for private distribution. He edited the "Atlantic Monthly " from 1862 to 1870. He has repeatedly visited Europe, and has enjoyed the acquaintance of the leading literary men of the world. " The Tempest " (p. 208) gives a beautiful raid-ocean incident. ' BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. ^^^ENJAMIN FRANKLIN, famous as a statesman and philosopher, was W^m born in Boston, 1706. His discoveries in electricity give him a f permanent place in scientific history. He deserves high honor for his services to the cause of liberty also. He began public life in the struggle between the Pennsylvania Assembly and the old proprietary Governors. He proposed to the several States what afterwards became the basis of their confederation. He was sent on a mission to England regarding the obnoxious Stamp Act; afterwards was Ambassador to France, and finally. Minister to England. In his personal bearing Franklin was sedate and benevolent. " Men instinctively felt his worth, and submitted them- selves to his wisdom. Except Washington, whom in many qualities he much resembled, this country yet ranks among her dead nowhere so great a man." He died in Philadelphia, in 1790, and was buried in the old graveyard at 5th and Arch streets, where his sepulchre can be seen by the passers-by. The incident of his arrival in Philadelphia (p. 657), written by his own hand, will be read with interest. FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. I^ERDINAND FREILIGRATH, a German poet and patriot, was born at i^ Detmold, in 1810. His earlier years were passed in mercantile ^ pursuits, but in 1838 a volume of his poems appeared and quickly %' placed him in the front rank of poets. In 1848 he took part in J the revolution in Germany, and in the same year suffered impris- JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. 74;^ onraent for publishing his poem, ^'The Dead to the Living." After two months' confinement, he was tried and acquitted. He finally retired to England and engaged again in mercantile pursuits. He died in 1876. "The Lion's Ride" is one of the most spirited of all poems. 1 PHILIP FRENEAU. ^PpHis American poet and journalist was of French descent. He was ^^ born at New York in 1752. During the Eevolutionary War he ^ wrote many satirical and burlesque poems against the Tories. He V also made several voyages as captain of a merchant-vessel. About 1790 he became a clerk to Thomas Jefferson, who was then Secretarv of State. Freneau afterwards became editor of the "National Gazette," published at Philadelphia, and notorious for its fierce attacks upon the ad- ministration at Washington. He died near Freehold, New Jersey, Decem- ber, 1832, The Indian's "Death Song'" is one of the best of his poems. JAMES ANTHONY FEOUDE. 'iiis distinguished English author was born at Totness, Devonshire, in 1818. He was educated at the University of Oxford, where, in 1842, he carried off the highest prize for the English Essay. In the same year he was elected Fellow of Exeter College. He published a novel, called "Shadow of Clouds;" also "The Nemesis of Faith," a theologico-philosophical novel, and many other works. He con- tributed to the " Lives of the English Saints," and for a short time edited "Eraser's Magazine." His historical sketches have been especially valued, and one of the choicest of them is given in Gems. ' MRS. F. D. gage. ggl^RANCES DANA GAGE was bom at Marietta, Ohio, October 12th, 1808, ^^1 and became the wife of J. L. Gage, Esq. She was early distin- llll guished as a temperance speaker and lecturer on slavery and wo- i**4 man's rights. In 1853 she went to St. Louis, where she suffered severely for her peculiar opinions and acts. She served without pay in the care of sick and wounded soldiers from 1861-1865. She is the author of a volume of entertaining "Poems;" also "Elsie Magoon," and of many widely known and admirable pieces for the young, written under the nom de plume of "Aunt Fanny." "The Housekeeper's Soliloquy " is one of her lighter and more facetious efforts. ^42 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. JAMES A. GARFIELD. " "'"''Ihe late honored President of the United States, James Abram Garfield, was born in Cuyahoga county, Ohio, November 19th, 1831. Af- ter an early life of a very laborious kind, he graduated at Wil- liams College, Mass., in 1856. He became a teacher, a lawyer, a College President, and, in 1859, a member of the Ohio Senate. He entered the army at the outbreak of the civil war, and distinguished himself in its severest experiences, until he was called from the field to represent his home district in Congress. Here he became an active and influential member, and retained his place there for eighteen years, until he was called to the Presidency of the United States. All Garfield's productions, whether speeches or letters, were finished with the most painstaking care. Selections from them, such as are given in this volume, are true and pure gems of thought. Every intelligent reader must enjoy them and be profiled by their reading. The prosper- ous career of Garfield during the brief term of his presidency, and the sad circumstances of his untimely death, are too fresh in the hearts of the whole world to need rehearsal. He died September 19th, 1881. EDWARD GARRETT. Sigli^ 'rs. ISABELLA MAYO, Is the personage hidden behind the pseudonym which heads this article. Her writings were gathered under the ^^ general title of "Occupations of a Retired Life." The incident ' "T^ wrought out in " The Unbolted Door/' is said to be founded on fact, and aptly illustrates a mother's love. CAROLINE GILMAN. I^AROLINE HOWARD GILMAN was the daughter of Samuel How^ard, of Hlk Boston, and was born October 8th, 1794. She married the Rev. W Dr. Samuel Gilman, a Unitarian clergyman of Charleston, S. C. 7 She edited the first juvenile paper issued in this country, "The Rosebud," which appeared in 1832. She has written many poems. . JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE. lll^pris distinguished poet was born August 28th, 1749, at Frankfort- pl^ on-the-Main. He came of a rich and highly respected family, ^1^^ and received a varied and very excellent education. Under his '^ father's direction the boy was taught drawing, music, grammar, I JOHN B. GOUGH. 743 rhetoric, languages, and natural history. His mother taught him to judge characters as they appeared in social intercourse, to understand life as seen in the streets, and to make frequent excursions into Fairyland. In the nineteenth year of his age, he entered the University of Leipsic. After taking his degree in law, he returned in 1771 to Frankfort, and began to write poems and minor critical essays for periodicals. In 1775, the Duke of Weimar invited Goethe to take up his abode at court, which invitation was accepted, and from 1776 Weimar became his residence. A warm and noble friendship sprang up between the duke and the poet ; and Goethe occupied, at different times, many honorable positions in the Ducal gov- ernment, that of a Minister of State crowning all, for thirteen years. He then resigned all offices, and retired to private life. He died in Weimar, March 22d, 1832, and lies interred in the Ducal burial vault beside the Duke, Charles Augustus, his friend through so many years. The selec- tions from Goethe given in Gems, illustrate in one case the statesman-like mind of the poet, and in the other his lighter vein. JOHN B. GOUGH. ;ll the English speaking world is femiliar with the name and work of John B. Gough, the famous temperance worker and lecturer. He was born at Sandgate, Kent, England, August 22d, 1817. He came to this country when but a boy, and became a book- He was addicted to intemperance during the years of his early manhood, but in 1843, he threw off this terrible curse and became a tem- perance lecturer ; since which time, his fame as an orator has scarce had a rival. He resides at West Boylston, Mass. " Buying Gape Seed " is one of his most effective stories. It always makes a decided hit. JAMES GRAHAME. ?^P|his author's reputation rests mainly on his one famous poem, " The ^i^ Sabbath," given on page 610. It is conceded to be one of the ¥ finest compositions of its kind. Its author was born in Glasgow, ^ Scotland, in 1765. He studied at the University of Glasgow ; practised law for a time ; entered clerical orders in 1809 ; became curate at Shipton, in Gloucestershire ; and died in 1811. He published " British Georgics," " The Birds of Scotland," etc. When Grahame had completed ''The Sabbath," he published it anonymously. He was very anxious to know his wife's judgment on the work. He therefore gave her the poem to read, he walking the floor nervously as she read. When through, she 50 744 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. said, "Ah, James, if you could write such a poem as that, it would be worth your while to try." This praise confirmed him as a poetic writer. .^ THOMAS GEAY. P|^|ad Thomas Gray written nothing more than his immortal " Elegy W^M in a Country Churchyard," his fame would have been permanently r% established. Indeed all that he ever did or wrote, borrows lustre from the Elegy, rather than sheds new lustre on it, or its author. Gray was born in London, December 26th, 1716. He had much difficulty in securing his education, but he finally graduated at Cambridge, in 1739. He then traveled extensively, and on his return settled at Cambridge and devoted himself wholly to literary work. His occasional articles on travel, etc., are justly esteemed models of English composition. He began his Elegy about 1742, but did not finish it till 1749, and then it lay unpub- lished till 1752, when it appeared anonymously in the " Magazine of Maga- zines." It won its way to highest favor at once, passing rapidly through several editions. The scene of the poem is the old churchyard at Stoke- Pogis in Buckinghamshire. He is said to have begun the poem while sitting in the burial ground itself. His remains now rest in this place. The original manuscript of the Elegy, with many erasures and inter- lineations, and written upon two foolscap sheets, was sold, in 1875, for two hundred and thirty pounds sterling. Gray died July 30th, 1771. FRANCIS W. p. GREENWOOD. jRANCis WILLIAM PITT GREENWOOD, D.D., was bom in Bostou, Feb- ruary 5th, 1797. On graduating at Harvard College in 1814, he studied theology. He began his ministry in the New South Church in Boston, but remained in it only a single year because of a pulmonary affection. He passed several years abroad, but after his return became colleague pastor with Dr. Freeman of King's Chapel, Boston. Three years later he became sole pastor, and, as far as health would allow, discharged all the duties. He died August 2d, 1843. The one selection of his given in this volume, is a beautiful description of the " Poetry and Mystery of the Sea." THOMAS CHANDLER IIALIBURTON. |his humorous and popular English author was born in Nova Scotia, WM, about 1802. In early life he practiced law. He obtained great ^ celebrity by his "Clocktnaker, or the Sayings and Doings of Sam NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 745 Slick of Slickville," which is an amusing delineation of Yankee character. He also wrote "Sam Slick in England," and "Nature, and Human Na- ture," from which the selection on page G4G is taken. He died in 1865. oCt2o . FRANCIS BEET HARTE. ^^RET HARTE, as he is called for brevity, was born in Albany, N. Y., ^^ August 25th, 1839. He went to California when but fifteen years <^^ old, and spent some years digging gold, teaching school, railroad- I ing as express messenger, and finally becoming a compositor on a j daily paper, and thence passing on to the editorial chair. His busy literary life opened up in 1860, and in 1868, he took charge of the " Overland Monthly." In this connection Ilarte began to do his charac- teristic work, which soon made him a national reputation. In 1870 he came east and settled in New York, where he has pushed literary work. The selections in this volume fairly represent his characteristics. FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL. ^j^prss HAVERGAL was the youngest daughter of an English clergyman, Jj^Ji^ the Rev. W. H. Havergal. She inherited a poetic taste from ^^^ him, he having published about one hundred choice poems. Her T work was in extent about equal to his. Her poems were all of the most chaste and elevating character. Many of them are very choice de- votional hymns, such as "I Give my Life for Thee." "The Lull of Eter- nity " (p. 626) is exquisitely beautiful. Miss Havergal has recently died. , NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. ""'ipHis distinguished American author was born at Salem, Mass., i l^ July 4th, 1804. He graduated at Bowdoin College, in 1825, ^1^^ Longfellow being one of his classmates. He began the publica- % tion of his works very cautiously, but in 1836, he assumed edito- rial charge of a magazine in Boston, which proved very short-lived, how- ever. " Twice-Told Tales " appeared in 1837, after which his issues became more numerous, as their author became more confident. In 1843, he mar- ried and settled at Concord, Mass. His reputation grew rapidly in the years that followed "The Scarlet Letter," "The House of Seven Gables,'' and other works, added greatly to his fame. During the presidency of Franklin Pierce, Hawthorne was sent abroad as consul. Hawthorne died in the spring of 1864, at Plymouth, N. H. "Sights from a Steepk is a bright little effusion from his pen (p. 470). le 746 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. W^ JOHN HAY. _ ^OHN HAY was born at Salem, III, October 8tli, 1839. He graduated HP at Brown University, and subsequently studied law at Springfield, ^ in his native State. He had just entered upon practice at the i bar when Abraham Lincoln became President, and appointed Mr. Hay his private secretary. He remained in this position during Mr. Lincoln's life. He has since then filled several diplomatic positions, and in 1870, he became connected with the New York Tribune. He is a graceful writer, as "The Law of Death," in this volume, demonstrates. HEINRICH HEINE. I^JI^His celebrated German poet and author was born at Dusseldorf, in 1800. He studied at Bonn, Berlin, and Gcittingen. His first poems appeared in 1822. He removed, in 1831, to Paris, where ^- he married a French lady, and where he resided until his death. About 1848 his health became impaired, and he lost his sight ; but he still clung to literary work. After a long and painful illness, he died in Feb- ruary, 1856. The one poem from Heine given in this volume, will be pronounced a gem by all readers. FELICIA D. HEMANS. ^ELTCiA DOROTHEA BROWNE was bom in Liverpool, September 2oth, 1794. Her parentage was Irish on her father's side and Italian ^)-^ on her mother's. The child's poetic power was shown very early ; 1 1^ her first volume, "Early Blossoms," appearing when she was but fourteen years old. She married a soldier. Captain Hemaus, in 1812, but the union was not a happy one. Her later poems were numerous, and were first collected in 1839, since when various complete editions have ap- peared. The selections from her pen given in this volume are good sam- ples of her very excellent work. "The Hour of Death" was part of her last work, which consisted of numerous poems issued under the title "Thoughts During Sickness." She died in 1835. , JAMES HERVEY. #?!i^AMES HERVEY was an English divine and author, born at Hardingstone, ^1^ Northampton, in 1714. He was educated at Oxford, and was a ^P thorough scholar. He was noted for his piety and benevolence, %^ His " Meditations and Contemplations," from which a selection is 1, taken for this volume, were very popular, notwithstanding his OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 747 style, which is too flowery and grandiloquent to please the stricter taste. For these peculiarities of style he became, however, a very marked favorite with the ordinary readers. Hervey died in 1758. A^ THOMAS HEYWOOD. iijrTri^HOMAS HEYWOOD, author of the little poem, " Sonp- of Birds " (p. ^^ 374), was an English actor and dramatic author, who lived in the ^^- reigns of Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. He produced numer- ous dramas in verse and prose, which were once popular, and are still admired. He died about 1650. J. G. HOLLAND. ^§|^R. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND, widely known as a journalist, essayist, ^__,|p poet, etc., was born at Belchertown, Mass., in 1819. He studied ' v= I medicine, and practiced it for a few years, and then turned at- tention wholly to literary work. He was editorially associated with the Springfield Republican, and afterwards with Scribner's Monthly. He was also known widely and favorably as a lecturer. He was popularly known as " Timothy Titcomb." His poems complete were published as " Garnered Sheaves," in 1873. Three selections from Dr. Holland appear in Gems, and they are characteristic of his style. He died Oct. 12th, 1881. ^j^^ OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ^jfil^R. HOLMES was a native of Cambridge, Mass., born August 29th, §1^^ 1809. He graduated at Harvard when twenty years of age, '^^'H studied medicine here and abroad, became Professor of anatomy X in Dartmouth in 1838, and in Harvard, 1847. His first poetic offerings appeared in the college paper while he was an undergraduate. Since that time he has continued to issue occasional productions of greater or less extent, and in various channels. Through the columns of the "Atlantic Monthly," started in 1857, he gained his best laurels. A care- fully chosen selection of his poems adorns these pages. -4r- THOMAS HOOD. ^I^^OOD was born at London, May 23d, 1798. His education was but ^^^ meagre, and his first steps into active life were in the mercantile |jp^ line. While he was still young, his verses attracted some attention, I' and literary pursuits soon opened before him. In this direction 748 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. he found congenial employment, and gathered about himself the leading literary men of his day. He continued at work until early in 1845, when illness laid liiin aside. During these days of suffering he wrote " The Bridge of Sighs," and "The Song of the Shirt," both of which, with several others, have been selected for Gems. Hood died May 3d, 1845. T LUDWIG HOLTY. fwipHE author of the little winter song on page 596 was Ludwig Hein- ^^^ rich Christoph Holty, an excellent German lyric poet. He was ^W born near Hanover, in 1748. He studied at Gottingen. His po- *|* ems are much admired for tenderness of feeling and artless grace. He died at an early age, in 1776, leaving comparatively few mementos. , MRS. MAEY HOWITT. 4''o , pHis popular English authoress was born at Uttoxeter, in 1804. Her M maiden name was Botham. She was a member of the Society ol ^1^ Friends, and was married to William Howitt in 1823. They both possessed fine literary taste and published jointly "The Forest Minstrel " and other poems. She translated many works of Frederika Bremer, and several stories of Hans Christian Andersen. " Her language," says Professor Wilson, " is chaste and simple, her feelings tender and pure, and her observation of nature accurate and intense." Her sketch on " Mountains " (p. 427) is a beautiful specimen of pure English. m RALPH IIOYT. ALPH HOYT was an American Episcopal clei'gyman and poet, born in New York City in 1810.- He published "The Chaunt of Life and other Poems," one of the tenderest of which is " Old," given on page 431. Hoyt's personal excellence was as admirable as his poems. , VICTOR HUGO. [^■ift»r|iCTOR MARIE HUGO, the distinguished French novelist and poet, four mIMB choice productions from whom appear in this volume, was born at ^P Besancon, France, in 1802. His literary ability was shown at a "^l^ very early age. When but fifteen years old, he read before the French Academy a poem on "The Advantages of Study." A volume of "Odes and Ballads," published by him in 1822, created a marked sensa- JEAN INGELOW. 749 tion. Other works appeared in rapid succession; every new issue added to his already wide reputation. In 1845, he was made a peer of France by King Louis Philippe. He subsequently became active in the political revolutions and agitations of his native land, becoming a refugee under Napoleon HI., after whose fall he returned to Paris. He continued active in politics as also in literature, some of his books having been issued in eight or ten different languages at once. "The Djinns," from Hugo's pen, and given in this volume, is one of the most remarkable poems in any language. The correspondence of the rhythm to the rising and subsiding of a storm, which is also the thought expressed by the words of the poem, is a masterpiece of composition in its original form, and of translation as it appears in the English. JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. [Phis popular English poet and author was born near London, in 1784. K^ He left school at fifteen and acted as clerk in the war office until 1808, when he arranged with his brother to issue "The Examiner," a journal of liberal politics. In 1812 he became editor of *' The Indicator," a series of periodical essays, much admired for genial hu- mour, easy style and brilliant fancy. Among the many productions of his versatile pen are many popular poems. A pension of £.200 was granted him in 1847. He died August 28th, 1859. "Abou Ben Adhem " is one of Hunt's brightest little poems, and it carries an excellent moral. . JEAN INGELOW. dEAN INGELOW was born in Boston, England, in the year 1830. She was quite unknown to fame, and unrecognized as a genius, until 1863, when she issued her first volume of poems. This was greeted very enthusiastically, and at once made her reputation. Her subsequent works have 'been quite numerous, but have hardly sur- passed the excellence of her first publication. Two beautiful selections have been placed in Gems, to illustrate her style. .^L^ EDWARD IRVING. §OT/^HE Rev. Edward Irving was born at Annan, Dumfriess-shire, Eng- ^J^ land, August 4th, 1792. He was educated for the Scottish Pres- "^^ byterian ministry at the Edinburgh University. In 1819, he was L chosen assistant to the Hev. Dr. Chalmers. Three years later he accepted charge of a Presbyterian congregation in Loudon, where his elo- 750 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. quence attracted crowds of hearers. In 1832 he was dismissed from the pastorate of this congregation on the charge of heresy. At a later day, he was cast out of the Presbyterian Church. Shortly after, his old con- gregation re-ordained him, and he officiated with them until a little time before his death, which occurred at Glasgow, December 8th, 1834. A sample of his eloquence will be found on page 486. J WASHINGTON IRVING. ppJEwnames are more honored, and more justly honored, in the literary 1^1 annals of America than that of Washington Irving, LL.D. He ^t was born in New York City, April 3d, 1783. His parents were *4, English and Scotch, and his father was a merchant. He attended school only till the sixteenth year of his age, after which he pursued lite- rary studies at home with great diligence. When nineteen years of age, he issued a series of local sketches in the " Morning Chronicle," a paper owned by his brother. He employed the nom de plume of Jonathan Oldstyle in these articles. In 1804, Irving went abroad for his health, and traveled extensively in Europe. Eeturn- ing to New York in 1806, he devoted himself assiduously to literary work, producing "Salmagundi," "Knickerbocker's History of New York," and some other works, but he then entered mercantile pursuits for a short time. He subsequently traveled again, and in 1818 his "Sketch-Book" papers appeared under the nom de plume of "Geoffrey Crayon." This venture made the reputation of Irving on both sides of the Atlantic. At a later period he spent seventeen years abroad, his fame growing with each new work he produced. Irving's works were republished in fifteen volumes in 1850, and of this edition no less than 250,000 volumes were sold daring his lifetime. Ir- ving never married. He passed the closing years of his career at Sunny- side, near Tarrytown, on the Hudson, where he died November 28th, 1859. In connection with the seven extracts from Irving contained in this vol- ume, Charles Dudley Warner's article on ''Our Debt to Irving" (p. 563), should also be read. High praise is here awarded Irving, but it is deserved. ., THOMAS JEFFERSON, |||1|homas JEFFERSON, third President of the United States, was born in ^ft Virginia, April 13tb, 1743. He entered William and Mary Col- ^;[j1'^ lege in 1760, remained two years, began the study of the law un- %^ der George Wythe in 1763, and in 1767 was admitted to the bar. SIR WILLIAM JONES. 751 He took his seat in the Continental Congress, June 21st, 1775, the day on which the news of the Battle of Bunker Hill reached Philadelphia, and on which Washington left that city to command the army at Cambridge. JeflFerson was no orator, but he gained great influence by courtesy, readi- ness in composition, knowledge of law, general information, and his warm devotion to his country. He was chosen to draft the Declaration of In- dependence. In 1796, he was elected Vice-President of the United States. In 1800, he was elected to the Presidency, and was inaugurated March 4th, 1801. He retired to private life March 4th, 1809, and died at Mon- ticello on the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, a few hours before his friend, John Adams. His tribute to his great contemporary, Washington (p. 559), is worthy of both writer and subject. DOUGLAS JERROLD. 50UGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD was born in London, January 3d, 1803. He entered the navy in 1813, and afterwards became a printer. When quite young he began to write poems and criticisms for the journals, which won for him much attention. His comedy "Black- eyed Susan" established his reputation. "The Caudle Lectures" were first published in "Punch" in 1841. These, with many other sketches and tales, extended his fame as a humorist and a powerful delineator of char- acter. Jerrold died in London, June 8th, 1857. Three of his pieces brighten these pages, one of them being in his more serious vein. ^ ^|.^ J. WILLIAM JONES. SiipHE author of the little war reminiscence on page 614 was fully com- ^1^ petent to vouch for his incident. He was a Baptist minister, who <^^ went into the war early and stayed long. He was intimately as- ?sociated with the famous Stonewall Jackson, of the Confederate service. Chaplain Jones related the scene quoted, at a religious convention held in Atlanta, Ga., in the spring of 1878. Its effect was thrilling. SIR WILLIAM JONES. §CT|iHis distinguished scholar was born in London, September 28th, 1746. ^X^ He early distinguished himself as a linguist, and finally became •^ master of twenty-eight languages. Within a few weeks of his death he began the study of three new grammars. He published various grammars, translations, dissertations, poems, etc., all of which added to his great reputation as a scholar. He also studied law, entered 752 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. somewhat into politics, was judge of the Supreme Court in Bengal, was knighted for eminent worth. He died April 27th, 1794. The selection on page 367 illustrates both his poetic and his statesmanly ability. , ELISHA KENT KANE. P^Ilisha KENT KANE, M.D., a distinguished American explorer, was ^g born in Philadelphia, February 20th, 1820. His father was the -^^^ eminent Judge, John K. Kane. He studied medicine, and, in 1843, f sailed to China with Commodore Parker, as surgeon to the embassy. i He visited India, Ceylon and the Philippine Isles. In 1845, he made an excursion to the Himalayas, ascended the Nile to Nubia, and tra- versed Greece on foot. He served in the Mexican war in 1847. In May, 1850, he sailed as surgeon to the De Haven expedition in search of Sir John Franklin. He commanded a second expedition sent out for the same purpose, in May, 1853. He returned home in October, 1855, and pub- lished the adventures of his party in his "Arctic Explorations," whence selections in this volume are taken. To recruit his shattered health he sailed for England, in October, 1856, and thence to the West Indies, where he died, at Havana, February, 1857. FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. ■m^E,Y, the author of our national song, the "Star Spangled Banner" (p. 466), was an American jurist and poet, born in Frederick county, Maryland, in 1779. He became District Attorney of the District of Columbia. When Fort McHenry, in Baltimore Har- bor, was subjected to bombardment in the war of 1812, Key witnessed the scene from the city, and felt all the anxiety the citizens naturally cherished. After a vigorous night's bombardment, he looked in the early morning for the emblem of safety on the walls of the fort, and when he saw the flag "still there," he wrote the song to which the nation has clung ever since. He wrote other poems also. He died in 1843. HENRY KING. 5N page 642, is a little gem, entitled "Life." It is from the pen of Henry King, who was born in England in 1591. All the quaint- ness of those old times in which he lived appears in these lines, J and all the beauty of true poesy sparkles there. King was oessively chaplain to James I. and to Charles I. He died in 1669. sue- ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 753 CHARLES KINGSLEY. |hree selections from Charles Kingsley adorn these pages. Like all else from this author, these productions will abundantly repay every one who reads them. Kingsley was born at Devonshire, England, June 12th, 1819. He graduated at Cambridge in 1842, and took orders in the Church of England. He was always an active helper of the working classes. He published several volumes, including many ser- mons, novels, fairy tales, lectures, poems, and educational works. For ten years he was Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. He occupied various high positions in the English church. In 1873, he visited the United States. He died in London, January, 23d, 1875. WILLIAM KNOX. iBIpHE poem beginning " Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? " ^1^ was immortalized by the fact that it was a great favorite of Abra- <^^ ham Lincoln's. Its author, William Knox, was born at Firth, I Roxburghshire, Scotland, August 17th, 1789. He wrote verses at an early age and, when about thirty, devoted himself entirely to literary pursuits. He wrote for the papers extensively, and issued several volumes of poems. Knox led a dissipated life, and died November 12th, 1825. CHARLES THEODORE KORNER. |NE of the most celebrated German poets was he whose name heads this paragraph. He was born in Dresden, in 1791. At an early age he displayed a rare poetical genius. He enlisted in the war j. against Napoleon ; and, inspired with patriotism, he produced some of the most spirited martial poems in the German language. These were published under the title, "The Lyre and the Sword." His "Sword Song" (p. 312), is a rare gem, made all the more charming by the sad fact of his death before the ink of its manuscript was fairly dry. ^,l_ ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. ^HIhis French poet, orator, and historian, was born at Mdcon on the ^M^ Saone, October 21st, 1792, He left college in 1809, and after- ^^J^ wards privately read and studied Dante, Petrarch, Shakspeare, (Milton, and Ossian. In 1820, he published a volume of poems entitled " Meditations Poetiques." This excited general admiration, and 45,000 copies were sold in a few years. He displayed a marvellous 754 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. affluence of pure sentiments and beautiful images in many of his poems and other works, especially so in " Jocelyn." After the coup d'etat of De- cember, 1851, he took no part in political affairs, but published "A His. tory of the Ke volution in 1848." Among his later works are several other histories of great value, from one of which the sketch on page 686 is taken. His works have been translated into almost every European lano;uao;e. Lamartine died in Februarv, 1869. WALTEE SAVAGE LANDON. ^ROM this author's graceful pen but one sketch is given (p. 487). He [| was an Englishman, born January 30th, 1775. He was educated at Oxford, and being master of an independent fortune, he devo- ted himself to literary pursuits. He issued several volumes of poems and sketches. He died in Florence, September 1864. CHARLES G. LELAND. c l^iEiNRiCH HEINE, the German author, owed much to Charles Godfrey ^mm, Leland, for his. excellent translations of " Pictures of Travel," by which Heine reached a large circle of admiring English readers. Leland was born in Philadelphia in 1824, and published various very excellent volumes of original and translated matter. CHARLES JAMES LEVER. mitejiHis popular Irish novelist and song writer was born in Dublin, in SS 1806, He practiced medicine for a time, but abandoned that pur- X suit for those of literature. He excelled in delineations of Irish i character, whether in his novels, or in such songs as " Widow Ma- hone" (p. 375). Lever spent many years in government positions. He died in 1872. . ABRAHAM LINCOLN. ^M^ FEW sentences only from Abraham Lincoln are given in this volume, but his sentences had a density of meaning seldom found. He was born in Kentucky, February 12th, 1807, but removed to In- diana in 1816. He received only one year of schooling, but, while assisting his father on the frontier farm, he read all the books he could secure, copying into a scrap book whatever best pleased him. In 1830, he removed to Illinois, but his laborious life continued. He always was I HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 755 famous as a teller of stories and a maker of stump speeches. He followed the water for a time, kept a store, went into the Black Hawk war, became a postmaster, studied law, entered the legislature for several successive terms, and was elected to Congress in 1846. Lincoln soon became the recognized leader of his party in Illinois, and his debates with Stephen A. Douglas gave him a national reputation. In 1800, he was nominated for the Presidency of the United States, and was chosen to that post. Then came the war, in which the proclamations, messages, addresses, and pointed sayings of Lincoln became an unceasing source of inspiration. His tragic death on April loth, 1865, is known the ■world over. His remains lie in Oak Ridge cemetery, Sprmgfield, 111. , HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, ^iSERHAPS first of all American poets, is the revered Henry Wads- ^^ worth Longfellow. Twenty choice selections from his works have ^2 iiot been deemed too many for these pages. He was born at Port- ^^ land, Maine, February 27th, 1807, and graduated at Bowdoin Col- lege in 1825, He soon after went abroad for travel and study. He then took a Professorship at Bowdoin, and subsequently at Harvard. In 185-4, he resigned this position, and spent the remainder of his days in a beauti- ful old mansion at Cambridge, Mass., — the house once occupied by Wash- ington as his headquarters. "While yet a boy, Longfellow wrote many poems, and while an under- graduate, contributed to the "North American Review." He was exceed- ingly painstaking in all he did. One of his most laborious works was the translation of Dante's "Divina Commedia" into English verse. He was highly honored here and in England, both Oxford and Cambridge con- ferring on him the degree of d.c.l. Many of his poems have been trans- lated into various foreign languages. "The Bridge" was suggested to Longfellow by his many journeys over the old bridge leading from Boston to Cambridge. There is the tide that rushes among those " wooden piers " to the sea beyond. Here can be seen the " church tower," and the bells may be heard striking the hours, all indeed, is true to the facts stated in the poem, and both in youth and old age, the poet " often, how often," passed there, and doubtless lingered there to think. On page 41, the " Old Clock on the Stairs " of Longfellow's mansion is seen. He caught the exact spirit of all he wrote about, and clothed all he wrote in robing strictly harmonious with the facts. The same charming detail might be added to all Longfellow's delightful poems. He died March 24th, 1882. 758 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. der the signature, L. E. L. Thus she won a wide reputation. She produced, anonymously, two novels and several poems. Her poems are chiefly of romantic or sentimental character. In 1838, she married George Maclean, Governor of Cape Coast Castle, Africa, whither they went to reside. She died in 1839. "The Ruined Cottage" (p. 9G) is a gem. - I_ JEAN BAPTISTE MASILLON. gji^His famous French pulpit orator was born at Heires, in 1663. He pj^ was educated and became a priest. In 1699, he preached the *^^^ Lent Sermon at Paris. The same year he was chosen to preach the Advent at Court, on which occasion Louis XIV. said to him, "1 have heard many great orators and been pleased with them ; but, after hearing you, I am displeased with myself." He was appointed Bishop of Clermont in 1717, and preached before the king the Lent Sermon, which is deemed his masterpiece. Masillon died in 1742. His eloquence is well illustrated in the extract from one of his sermons on ''Immortality" (p. 207). CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER. JOAQUIN MILLER. OAQUIN MILLER is the best known title of this writer. He was born ^P in Indiana, November 10th, 1841. When but thirteen years old, i <^^ his parents Vv^ent to Oregon. He afterwards became a miner I and adventurer in California, served in Nicaragua, and lived among the Indiaus. In 1861, he began to edit a paper at Eugene City, Or "Kit Carson's Ride" (p. 472) is characteristic of Miller's style. HENRY HART MILMAN. |his eminent English poet, historian, and divine, was born in London in 1791. He graduated at Oxford, and in 1821, became Professor •^^^ of Poetry in that University. He wrote extensively, producing poems, tragedies, histories, etc. His "Evening Hymn," on page 502, is a splendid poem. In 1840, he brought out his great work, " The History of Christianity." He died in September, 1868. , RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, Imlwo poetic beauties from the pen of this author adorns these pages, Sp "The Brookside" (p. 247), and "London Churches" (p. 237). 4^^ Milues was born in Yorkshire, England, June 19th, 1809, and JOHN MILTON. 759 graduated at Cambridge iu 1831. He was a member of Parliament, and finally became Baron Houghton. He traveled extensively, and wrote much on what he saw abroad, in addition to his many poems. ,s JOHN MILTON, |)i^iLTON, author of "Paradise Lost," was born in London, December 9th, 1608. He was thoroughly trained in the classics, enjoyed % the advantages of foreign travel, and was a man of remarkable '^ personal beauty. He was a diligent student and a voluminous writer on a wide range of subjects. When the Commonwealth was estab- lished, Milton became Latin Secretary, all the diplomatic correspondence being in that language. For twenty years he had been thinking upon a great poem, which was begun finally in 1665, its result, " Paradise Lost," appearing in 1667. It sold for £ 5., an equal sum to be paid its author when each edition of 1500, should sell up to 1300. He did see it pass through several editions. It has passed through many editions since that day, but after all, the best critics deem it a work of questionable merit. The selections from MiltQu given in this volume are from his more severe prose works. He died in London, November 8th, 167-1. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 5MONG England's best poets, James Montgomery has a high rank. He was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1771. He was sent at an ^^^ early age to a Moravian school, where his progress was not very satisliactory, as he spent the greater part of his time in writing and reading poetry, which was prohibited by the rules of the school. After leaving school, he found employment for a time in a book store, in London, and in 1792, began to contribute political articles to the " Sheffield Register." In 1794, he founded a reform journal, called the " Sheffield Iris," of which he remained editor for about thirty years. He also wrote a large number of very beautiful hymns, which still enjoy extensive popu- larity. Four of his finished works appear on these pages. He died in 1854. THOMAS MOORE. IpRELAND's favorite poet, Thomas Moore, was born in Dublin, May 28th, ^ 1779, and graduated at Dublin University in 1799. When but kL fourteen years of age poems from his pen appeared in the magazines of the dav. He began the study of law, but soon abandoned it and adopted poesy as his profession. He published one volume under 760 BiOGRAnncAL sketches. the name of Thomas Little. His following publications were numerous and very popular, one of them, "The Fudge Family in Paris" running through five editions in two weeks' time. Four choice selections from Moore will be found in this volume. He died February 25th, 1852. Each of Moore's poems given in this volume is an exquisite gem. Nothing could be more beautiful and touching than the rural and yet po- etic simplicity of "The Home of Peace" (p. 337). And yet equally charming is that gem of gems on page 484, "The Meeting of the Waters." " The Light-House " (p. 513) is of different vein, but it is superb ; while " Echoes " (p. 645), brief but beautiful, seems an echo of all the others. s^' GEORGE P. MORRIS. Ihts gentleman was a distinguished American poet and journalist. § He was born at Philadelphia, in 1802. He removed to New York, and in 1823 became associate editor of the "New York Mirror." In 1844 he became one of the editors of the " Evening Mirror," a purely literary journal. He afterwards founded, conjointly with N. P. Willis, " The Home Journal." Mr. Morris published a number of beautiful and popular songs, and wrote many other poems and a drama. He died in New York City, July 6th, 1864. " My Mother's Bible," which is one of his tenderest and best productions, is given in Gems. JOHN MOULTRIE. ?oiiN MOULTRIE was an English poet, born about 1804. He was rec- tor at Rugby, and published a volume of poems from which " The Three Sons " (p. 528) is taken, and a poem which, for tenderness and beauty, has few equals in onr language. WILLIAM A. MUHLENBERG. ^ILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG, D.D., was born in Philadelphia, September 16th, 1796, and graduated at the University of Penn- ^''-: ' i sylvania in 1814. From 1846 to 1858, he was rector of the ^^^ church of the Holy Communion, erected by his sister, on the corner of 6th Ave. and 20th St., New York City. In 1858 he became the superintendent and pastor of St. Luke's Hospital, which owes its estab- lishment to her efforts. He has distinguished himself both as a philan- thropist and a poet. He will ever be remembered as the author of " I would not live alway " (p. 535), and other hymns of the same deep, rich fullness of devotion and poesy. He died in 1877. CAROLINE E. NORTON. 76I ^.I DINAH MARIA MULOCK. ;h:is estimable lady, the writer of many novels, tales, and sketches, was the daughter of a clergyman, and was born in England, in ^f:''^ 1825. In 1865 she married Mr. George Lillie Craik. Her " Buried To-Day '* (p. 243) is sad, but beautiful. _i_ WILLIAM MUNFORD. "%*#-' hr^Ris author was born in Virginia, August loth, 1775, and graduated yli^ at William and Mary College. He studied law, but passed his life ^4^ in various political positions. He published a volume of juvenile poems, and devoted much of his leisure to the translation of Homer's Iliad. He published many fine poems, one of which is in Gems (p. 689). He died at Eichmond, June 21st, 1825. • LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE. ^^AROLINE OLiPHA:frT, who, by marriage with the fifth Lord Nairne, |Pg became Lady Nairne, was born in Perthshire, Scotland, July 16th, p? 1766. She was very beautiful and highly accomplished. She un- '4' dertook to write popular and elevating poems for the common folk about her. Her " Land 0' the Leal " (or " the loyal "), was written in 1798, especially to comfort an afflicted friend. It is a world wide favorite, and therefore befits this volume. (See p. 421). It has been set to music, and in this form is a o-reat favorite wherever known. ♦ CAROLINE E. NORTON. 'aroltne ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN, sister to Lady DufFerin, was born in England in 1808. When but ten years old, she and her gifted sister wrote and illustrated a small volume of poems. She issued many poems in rapid succession, her strength being in the line of ballads and songs, " Bingen on the Rhine," however, which this volume gives, is one of her best. She died June 15th, 1866. FRANCES S. OSGOOD. ;. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, author of '' Labor is 'Worship " (p. 619), was born at Boston, in 1812. She was an early contribu- tor to the current periodicals. Her husband, Mr. S. S. Osgood^ was an artist of considerable eminence. She has published seve- ral volumes of poems. Her death occurred in 1850. 762 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. JOHN W. PALMER. 'oHN WILLIAMSON PALMER, M. D., was born at Baltimore, April 4th, 1825. He studied medicine in Philadelphia ; was city physician in San Francisco in 1849 ; afterwards went to China ; then served as surgeon of the East India Company's service. '' For Charlie's (p. 641), is one of his best poems. . MUNGO PARK. ^UNGO PARK, the traveler, was born in Scotland, September 10th, 1771. He studied surgery at Edinburgh. He journeyed up the '"'? Gambia and visited the Niger in 1795-1797, suffering extreme hardships. In January, 1805, he took command of a military ex- ploring party, despatched by the African Association and the British Gov- ernment to trace the course of the Niger. Most of his party died of fever before the Niger was reached, only five white men being left out of forty- four. They were afterwards treacherously attacked by a party of natives, and Park and all his company perished. His sketch on "African Hospi- tality " (p. 66), gives a peep into the heart of that dark coniinent. THEODORE PARKER. ^yrfsis divine and author was born at Lexington, Mass., August 24th, 1810. He was distinguished for a precocious memory, learning ^^^■^ by heart many pages of poetry, and knowing the names of all the trees and plants familiar to Massachusetts while but a child. He studied Latin, Greek and mental philosophy while a boy working on a farm ; taught school at the age of seventeen, and entered Harvard College in 1830. He was proficient in many languages, including Syriac, Arabic, Danish, Swedish, Anglo-Saxon and modern Greek. He settled at Eox- bury, as pastor of a Unitarian Church, in 1837, but soon became the leader of a school of theology, which diff"ered widely from the conservative Unitarians. He continued preaching until January, 1859. He then went abroad for his health, and died at Florence, Italy, May 10th, 1860. " The Beauty of Youth " (p. 697), illustrates his lucid style. 4, JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, ^ipHE author of " Home, Sweet Home," was born in New York, June Sm 9th, 1792. When but thirteen years old he wrote for a weekly ^^^ paper, and two years later published twenty-five numbers of a WENDELL PHILLIFS. 763 periodical called " The Pastime." For a time he was an actor in New- York, Boston, and other American cities, also in London. He wrot€ the song " Home, Sweet Home," while he was U. S. Consul at Tunis, Africa, where he died, April 20th, 1852. His remains have lately been brought back to to his native country, and they now rest in his " Home, Sweet Home." A splendid monument now marks their resting place in Wash- ington, D. C, by the munificence of Mr. Corcoran, the great banker. -^^ JAMES G. PERCIVAL. Iti^AMES GATES PERCIVAL, M. D., was bom in Connecticut, September ^^ 15th, 1795. He graduated at Yale in 1815, and took a medical X tlegree, and published several volumes of poetry. At Boston and \ New Haven he engaged in literary and editorial work ; and as- sisted Noah Webster in preparing his great dictionary. He was distin- guished as a linguist and geologist, and wrote much poetry, which was highly popular ; but his poetry is deemed crude, and therefore has been to a great degree forgotten. He was of melancholy disposition, and was hard-pressed by poverty, actually ending his days alone in a wretched garret. His " Coral Grove " is a well finished poem (p. 678). _j^_ WENDELL PHILLIPS. Ihis distinguished orator was born in Boston, Mass., 1811. He en tered Harvard College, from which he graduated in 1831. He then entered the Cambridge Law School, and was admitted to the i Suffolk Bar in 1834. Mr. Phillips gained his first prominence as an orator in 1837, at a meeting in Boston to protest against the murder, at Alton, III, of the Rev. Elijah P. Lovejoy, the editor of an anti-slavery newspaper, who had been killed by a mob in that place. From this time Mr, Phillips devoted himself wholly and with untiring energy to the ad- vocacy of the anti-slavery cause. It may iiiirly be questioned whether such an orator as Wendell Phillips ever spoke in America. The little ex- tract on " Political Agitation," given on p. 506, is a clear, sparkling gem. JOHN PIERPONT. |oT on the Battle Field " (p. 531), is from the pen of John Piorpont, who was born at Litchfield, Conn., April 6th, 1785. He gradua- ted at Yale College in 1804. He studied law, then theology, be- came a pastor in Boston, was chaplain in the civil war, and died August 27th, 1866. He wrote and published various poems. 764 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. EDGAR A. POE. Ig^JEW geniuses more brilliant than Edgar Allan Poe have ever lived. Read the selections from his pen, which appear in this volume, and f'f^ be convinced of his amazing versa tin ty pnd ability. His "Raven," ^^/f- his "Bells," and his prose sketches are peerless in their way. He was born in Boston, February 19th, 1809. Edgar was educated in Eng- land, and in Richmond, Va., but he contracted vicious habits and made no progress. He was appointed to West Point, but was expelled from that institution. In rags and poverty Poe pursued literary work at a later day, till in 1833 he made considerable reputation. His opportunities thereafter were brilliant, but he failed to improve them wisely. " The Raven " ap- peared in 1845. He died in Baltimore, October 7th, 1849. „ --'., „ JOSEPHINE POLLAKD. WSM^iss POLLARD is a resident of New York City, and has done much p^Kg good work in poems and stories for juveniles. Her " First Party " ^g^ (p. 414) well illustrates her unusually felicitous style of putting '"%' pleasant things. She has written many good hymns. JOHN POOLE. ^^OHN POOLE, author of "Old Coaching Days" (p. 579), was born in England, in 1785, and died in London February 5th, 1872. The period through which he lived enabled him to speak so graphically on the theme selected for Gems. He was author of a large num- ber of successful dramas and farces, of which the best known are "Paul Pry," "Deaf as a Post," and " Turning the Tables." He also wrote novel?, essays and character sketches, which take high rank for originality and racy humor. Poole enjoyed a pension from the government. NOAH PORTER. 'oAH PORTER, D.D., LL.D., the distinguished President of Yale Col- lege, was born at Farmington, Conn., December 14th, 1811. He graduated at Yale College in 1831 ; was then tutor at Yale for three years, and then became pastor of a Congregational Church. In 1846 he was chosen professor of metaphysics and moral philosophy at Yale College, and was elected president of the same on the resignation of Dr. Woolsey in 1871. He is admitted to be one of the ripest and most scholarly of American metaphysicians, and his " Advice to Young Men " (p. 598), is worthy of profound attention. NANCY A. TRIEST. 755 SARGENT SMITH PRENTiaS. ^^^ARGENT SMITH PRENTISS, author of the tribute to New England on ^^ page 105, was bora at Portland, Me., September 30tli, 1808, and jg graduated at Bowdoin College in 1826. He practiced law and en- ^^ tered somewhat into politics. He lived for several years at the "Crescent City," of which he speaks in the selection given. He died at Longwood, near Natchez, July 1st, 1850. Senator Crittenden, of Ken- tucky, said of him : " It was impossible to know Mr. Prentiss without feeling for him admiration and love. His genius, so rich, and his manners, 30 graceful and genial, could not fail to impress those sentiments on all who approached him. Eloquence was part of his nature, and over his pri- vate conversation, as well as his public speeches, it scattered its sparkling jewels with more than royal profusion." Mr. Prentiss was, in fact, one of those ideal gentlemen of whom we hear much but see comparatively little. E. PRENTISS. *RS. PRENTISS, who wrote "The Mystery of Life in Christ" (p. 233), has written much of this style of poetry. She is the author of i^^^ "More Love to Thee, Christ," and other devotional hymns. ^^^ She also published " Stepping Heavenward," an excellent book. MARGARET J. PRESTON. Margaret junkin preston was born about 1835. She was the daughter of the Rev. George Junkin, and wife of Col. J. T. L. i^^^ Preston, professor in the Virginia Military Institute at Lexing- ^^^ ton, Va. She has published " Silverwood," "A Book of Memo- ries," etc., and many writings in prose and verse, chiefly upon topics con- nected with the civil war. She has given a translation of " Dies Ir?e '' also, which has been highly commended. Her "Hero of the Commune," on page 278, is a bright poem of French life. ^.^^ NANCY A. PRIEST. "^^|ver the River" (p. 142) is the one poem of this lady. Her full ISjp name was Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest. She was born at ^ Hinsdale, N. H., in 1837. She married Lieutenant A. C. Wake- ^^ field in 1865, and died in 1870. Her poem appeared originally in the Springfield Republican, in August, 1857. It was extensively copied, and universally admired, as it well deserved to be. It is matter for general regret that so marked a genius wrote so little. 7GG BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. t^ WILLIAM C. PRIME. §w||^ JUS gentleman is an authority on scientific fishing, as well as on many pi^ other matters, and therefore Gems contains two selections from him iT.;^^ on this bewitching sport. He was born at Cambridge, N. Y., Oc- I tober 31st, 1825, and graduated at Princeton, N. J., in 1843. He studied law, but ran more to journalism, writing much for the "Journal of Commerce," of which, in 1861, he became editor and joint proprietor. ^^,j^ ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. [VE gems from this authoress grace these pages, one of them her ^ celebrated "Legend of Bregenz." She was born in London, Octo- V\l ber 30th, 1825, and was the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, i best known as Barry Cornwall. She showed decided literary ability when quite young, and under the nom de plume of Mary Berwick, wrote for Dickens' " Household Words." She published several volumes of poems, all of which were very well received. Charles Dickens was her special friend and admirer. She died in London, February 2d, 1864. f FATHER PROUT. jRANCis MAHONEY, who is kuown in literature chiefly as Father Prout, was born in Ireland, about 1805. He took orders in the Catholic Church, but abandoned them for literary pursuits. In " Fraser's Magazine" he published an amusing series of articles, collected finally as the "Beliques of Father Prout." He did much as a newspaper correspondent, but finally retired to a monastery, and died May 19th, 1866. His "Bells of Shandon" (p. 573), is a genuine gem. ^ SAMUEL PURCHAS. ^1 AMUEL PURCHAS was bom at Essex, England, in 1577, and was edu- ^^ cated at St. John's College, Cambridge. He subsequently took p^ orders in the Church of England. He died at London, in Sep- l tember, 1626. His "Praise of the Sea" (p. 75), is a quaint scrap in the olden style of the days wherein he lived and wrote. .,, SIR WALTER RALEIGH. pWNT page 381, a little gem of this English statesman and author will be found. He was born in 1552 ; studied at Oxford ; entered the army ; sailed for America ; returned home ; spread his cloak over a muddy place in the street that the queen might pass ; so won THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 767 her favor; subsequently visited America; had varying experiences in court favor and disfavor, and finally was beheaded, October 29th, 1618. REV. W. S. RALPH. I^^N page 116, is an odd poem, entitled "Whistling in Heaven." The Si experience on which it purports to be founded, actually occurred, -*^^i the wife of the author being the one so charmed by the whistling. On his return to their frontier cabin, Mr. Ealph was told of the occur- rence, and soon after he surprised his wife by presenting her with the poem as given in this book. Mr. Ralph now resides at Halifax, Nova Scotia, ^j^ THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. ^^F this author's excellent works, three appear in Gems. He was m born in Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. He was a poet, a 4^;f sculptor, and painter. In all these spheres he did good work. He published several volumes, and died in New York City, May 11th, 1872. .J^ ■ JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER. ||^[IE author of the superb gem, "The Two Roads" (p. 109), who was SS commonly called Jean Paul, was a popular, quaint and original ^^^ German author, born in 1763. He made good progress in Latin and Greek, and entered the University of Leipsic in 1780. While a student he wrote a work entitled "Greenland Law-suits." He also wrote "A Selection from the Papers of the Devil." He died in No- vember, 1825. "Except by name," says Carlyle, "Richter is but little known out of Germany. The only thing connected with him, we think, that has reached this country, is his saying imported by Madame de Stael, and thankfully pocketed by most newspaper critics: ' Providence has given to the French the empire of the land, to the English that of the sea, and to the Germans that of the air ! ' Of this last element, indeed, his own genius might easily seem to have been a denizen." MRS. J. H. RIDDLE. g^f^His lady was an authoress of considerable repute as a juvenile writer. From 1866 onward, she published several volumes, and in 1867, became the editor of the "St. James's Magazine." Her first pub- i lications were in England, with re-issues here. She wrote under the name of F. G. Traff'ord also, and thus issued many valuable works. " Ghosts of Long Ago " (p. 99) is a thoughtful and valuable address. 768 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. ^T JOHN RUSKIN. ^vo choice prose extracts from Ruskin will be found in this volume. Their distinguished author was born in London, in February, M^"T 1819. He was wealthy and studious. At Oxford he distinguished X himself and took a prize for poetry. He studied art, and soon became famous by his brilliant discussions of its problems. He traveled extensively ; wrote and re-wrote his volumes ; lectured on art ; and in every direction has been a most assiduous and valuable leader of thought. , WILLIAM HOWAED EUSSELL. ||||||his gentleman is an Irish writer, noted as correspondent of the Lon- ^1^ don ''Times." He was born in Dublin, in 1821. He accompanied ^t the British army in 1854, and wrote letters on the Crimean war. 'I* These attracted great attention, and were finally collected in two volumes. In 1861, he came to the United States as war correspondent for the " Times." The sketch of the charge of the Light Brigade (p. 58), on which Tennyson's famous poem was based, is a splendid commentary on that brilliant dash. It should be read in connection "with the poem. JOHN G. SAXE. pHE author of six very excellent humorous poems given in Gems ^ John Godfrey Saxe, was born in Vermont, in 1816. He gradua- 2|^ ted at Middleburg College, of that State, in 1839, and then became I editor of a paper in Burlington. His first volume of poems ap- peared in 1849. It had an extensive circulation. Other volumes appeared in 1864 and in 1866. Mr. Saxe has practiced somewhat at law also. SIR WALTEE SCOTT. ^His distinguished author and poet was born in Edinburgh, x\ugust 15th, 1771. He was both sickly as a child and lame for life. He was a great reader. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, practiced law for a few years, and then entered wholly into journalism. His first laurels as a poet were won in 1805, by his "Lay of the Last Min- strel." He subsequently gave himself more to history and romance, pro- ducing the famous Waverley series. He became very wealthy ; was crea- ted a baronet in 1820 ; built his residence at Abbotsford ; lost all by the failure of his publishers ; but by assiduous work paid £ 150,000 after he was fifty-five years of age. He died September 21st, 1832. "Patriotism," on page 233, and the prose selection on page 539, illustrate his style. TERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY. '69 ^.:,^ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. ^j^VERYBODY kiiows more or less of the famous Shakespeare, who was born at Stratford-on-Avon, England, April 23d, 15G4. He re- ceived a grammar school education only. In 1589 he was an actor in London ; he subsequently devoted himself to authorship, pro- plays and poems in great profusion. His plays number thirty- In 1610, he retired to his old home, and spent his last days in ease and enjoyment. He died April 23d, 1616, and was buried in the old church at Stratford. His varied genius is well shown in the selections from his works which are contained in these pages. HENRY W. SHAW. _ ^f|;^ ^ (josh, billings). jHis distinguished humorous moralist was born at Lanesborough, Mass , in 1818. He spent many years in the west, and turned his attention to various pursuits, especially farming and the auc- tion business. In 1858 he settled in Poughkeepsie, N. Y., and began to write sketches for newspapers over the nom de plume of " Josh Billings." He rapidly became popular as a writer and lecturer. He ex- cels in his humorous putting of genuine good sense. --1-,. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. i^^His famous English poet was born August 4th, 1792. He came of a '^i^ noble family. He spent several years at Eton, and two at Oxford, ^^^ after which he led a roving, irregular life. He was Byron's com- panion in Italy for considerable time, and there he wrote most of his best works. He was drowned in the Gulf of Spezia in July, 1822. His body was washed ashore, wdien Byron and other friends burned it, and the ashes were buried at Rome. This volume contains three of Shelley's poems. BENJAMIN p. SHILLABER'. ^X- (>IRS. PARTINGTON). fiii^His humorous author was born at Portsmouth, N. H., in 1814. He pj^ entered a printing office at Dover in 1830, and later spent several ^ years in travel. He afterwards entered the office of the Boston ^^ "Post," and became editorially connected with this paper. He acquired great celebrity by his "Sayings of Mrs. Partington." He pub- lished several very successful volumes on this and other subjects. His " Mouse Hunting," on page 217, is a good specimen of his humorous work. 770 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Q,rm<:,Ki LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Irs. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY was an American poet and exten- sive miscellaneous writer. She was born at Norwich, Conn., in ^^^ 1791. In 1819 she married Charles Sigourney, a merchant of ^-'' Hartford, in which city she resided until her death, which oc- curred in 1865. She was a writer of chaste and elegant style. Her three poems selected for Gems are eminently worthy of the honorable place accorded them. Her "Niagara" is a standard poem. ^^J,^ JAMES SMITH. 'ames smith, author of "The Soldier's Pardon" (p. 236), was an En- glish humorist and miscellaneous writer, born in London, 1775. ^^ He became extensively known by his contributions to "The Pic- I Nic," "The London Eeview," and "The Monthly Mirror." In 1812, ho brought out "Rejected Addresses," which are humorous imita- tions of the poems of Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Scott, and others. They met with a brilliant success. He died in 1839, and his " Memoirs, Letters, ets.," were collected and published in 1840. ^(.;,^ SEBA SMITH. ^^EBA SMITH was an American writer, born at Buckfield, Maine. In 1833, under the nom de plume of " Major Jack Downing," he published a series of humorous letters on political subjects, which became widely popular. His other principal works are " Pow- hatan," a poem, and "Away down East, or Portraitures of Yankee Life." He died in 1868. His " Mother in the Snow Storm " (p, 513) is one of his more serious productions, founded on actual experience. HORACE SMITH. Ihe author of "Hymn to the Flowers " (p. 255), was born in London, in 1779. He early became a writer for periodicals. He did much literary work with his brother James. He produced novels and poems, all of' a satisfactory kind. He died July 12th, 1849. ROBERT SOUTHEY. OBERT SOUTHEY was a poct laureate of England. He was born at IHj^ Bristol, August 12th, 1774. He began to write verses before he ^j^^ was ten years old. In 1792, he was expelled from Westminster 2 school for writing an essay against corporal punishment He EDMUND SPENSER. entered Baliol College, at Oxford, in 1792. In 1793 he wrote " Wat Ty- ler," a drama, and " Joan of Arc," an epic poem. In 1794, he was intro- duced to the poet Coleridge, with whom he enjoyed a life-long friendship. After various adventures, and several changes of occupation and residence, he settled, in 1803, at Greta Hall, near Keswick, with Coleridge, who was his brother-in-law. He then became a contributor to the " Quarterly Re- view," and published various poems. He was appointed poet laureate in 1813. In 1835, he received a pension of three hundred pounds a year from the government. Soon after this time his faculties became enfeebled, and he sank into a state of mental imbecility. He died March 21st, 18-13. Two of Southey's choicest poems adorn these pages. • MRS. CAROLINE B. SOUTHEY. ^AROLTNE ANNE BOWLES was born in England in 1787. She led a re- Wk tired literary life until 1839, when she mar: ■y life until 1839, when she married the poet laureate, ^F Robert Southey. She had previously issued several volumes of \^ poems, and had long been an intimate friend of Southey's. Seve- ral poems bear the initials of both these gifted writers. She died in 1854. " The Pauper's Death-Bed " (p. 216) is one of her best productions. EDMUND SPENSER. ^^DMUND SPENSER, or Spencer, was one of England's most celebrated ^a? poets. He was born in London in 1552, and died January 16th, X 1599. He was a college-bred man, and had the ideal experience V of poets with love and poverty in early life, crowned in old age with plenty and peace. The "Faerie Queene" is Spenser's great work. He was buried in Westminster, his monument, erected in 1620, being re- stored in 1778. His "Ministry of xlngels" (p. 702) is very fine. ^,^ WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE. §^p[LLiAM BUEL SPRAGUE, D.D., was an eminent American Presbyterian ^Jjji divine, born at Andover, Conn., in 1795. His ministerial life ^.■^^ was spent, in the main, at Albany, N. Y. , where he did a large i amount of literary work in addition to his regular employments. His comparison of Voltaire and Wilberforce (p. 661) is in the general style of his literary works. He died in 1876. EIOGRArillCAL SKETCHES. , CHARLES SPRAGUE. |iiARLES SPRAGUE, autlior of " I See Thee Still " (p. 144), was born ^ at Bosion, Mass., October 26th, 1791 ; he became a mercantile clerk at the age of thirteen, and rose rapidly in business. He early displayed a fine talent for poetry, and devoted his spare time for many years to the study of old English classics. He was the civic orator at Boston, July 4th, 1825. He died January 14th, 1875. ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. ; Eev. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, better known as Dean Stanley, was born in 1815. He studied at Rugby under the famous Dr. Arnold, and subsequently graduated at Oxford. He was appointed chaplain to Prince Albert, and in 1856 became Regius professor of ecclesiastical history at Oxford. He visited the Holy Land in company with the Prince of Wales, and wrote a very valuable volume on the subject, whence an extract is taken for this collection. He became Dean of West- minster in 1864, and died in 1882, greatly lamented by the Queen of England, and by all the learned and religious world. ROBERT STORY. Ihe author of the bright little poem, "The Whistle," on page 283, I was Robert Story, born in Northumberland, England, about 1790. He was a clergyman of eminent worth, and a poet of considerable ability. His death occurred in 1859. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 9^ 'rs. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE is one of the most distinguished lady authors of America. She was born at Litchfield, Conn., June 14th, 1812. While but a child she was passionately fond of such ' "^^ books as Scott's novels, "Arabian Nights," and " Don Quixote." Before she was twelve years of age she wrote a composition, maintaining the negative of the question, " Can the immortality of the soul be proved by the light of nature ? " At the age of thirteen she became a pupil of her sister Catharine, then principal of the Female Seminary at Hartford. In 1836 she was married to Professor Calvin E. Stowe. In 1850 she ac- companied her husband to Brunswick, Maine, where she wrote her famous " Uncle Tom's Cabin." The success of this work has been without a par- allel. It is thought that half a million copies have been sold in this country. CHARLES SUMNER. 773 and probably more than that number in the British dominions. It has been translated also into all the principal European languages, and into several of Asia, including, it is said, the Chiaese and Japanese. Two dif- ferent translations of it have been made into Russian, three into the Mag- yar language, and thirteen or fourteen into German. One selection given in Gems, " The Little Evangelist," is from this wonderful book. . SIR JOHN SUCKLING. ^^IR JOHN SUCKLING, author of one poem in Gems, " The Bride," was ^^ born at Middlesex, England, in 1609, and was educated at Cam- pf bridge. In 1631, he offered his services to Gustavus Adolphus, of I Sweden, who was then waging war against Germany. Subse- quently he was attached to the Court of Charles I., and in 1639 he equipped a troop of horse for service against the Scotch. His works in- clude plays, songs, poems, and metaphysics. He died about 1642. CHARLES SUMNER. IminE great Senator, Charles Sumner, was born in Boston, January 6th, 1811. He was educated at the Boston Public, Latin School and f^ Harvard College, where he graduated in 1830. He was conspicu- ously studious. In 1831 he entered the Harvard Law School, then under the charge of Judge Story, and gave himself, without relaxa- tion, to profound study. His leisure was devoted to preparing a catalogue of the Law Library, and to work on the "American Jurist," of which he became editor-in-chief. In 1837 he went to Europe, and was received with most flattering attention. His days were passed in society and in the galleries, but his nights were spent in diligent study. He had purposed a lawyer's life, and his ambition was to reach the Su- preme bench. But, in 1845, he turned to politics, speaking and working against the admission of Texas and the war with Mexico. In 1851, he was elected United States Senator for Massachusetts, the first civil office, and the only one, he ever held. In 1852, he began his Congressional as- sault on slavery by a masterly argument for the repeal of the Fugitive Slave Law, entitled "Freedom National-Slavery Sectional." This phrase became the watchword of his party, and gave the key to most of his later arguments. In 1857, he was again chosen to the Senatorship ; again, in 1863, and subsequently in 1869, thus passing the last twenty-three years of his life in that body. An attack of severe illness in the Senate chamber, on 774 Biographical sketches. March 10th, 1874, proved fatal in his own house in Washington on the day following. Almost his last words were addressed to Judge Hoar, "Take care of my Civil Eights Bill." His remains lie at Mount Auburn, near Boston. The extract on page 453 is a fair specimen of his style. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. M|||a^His author was born near London, April 5th, 1837. His education Sim was obtained partly at Eaton, partly in France, and partly at Ox- ford. He spent some time subsequently in Italy. He has pub- lished several dramas and many poems. " Kissing her Hair " (p. 52) is one of his peculiar yet pleasing productions. ^^ T. DEWITT TALMAGE. ' " ' |HE Eev. Thomas De Witt Talmage, d.d., was born in Boundbrook, li ^^^^^ Somerset Co., IST. J., January 7th, 1832. He entered New York ^^T University and graduated in 1853. He graduated also from the ^2 New Brunswick Theological Seminary in 1856, and in the same year became minister of the Beformed Church. In 1S69 he accepted the call of his present charge, the Central Congregational Church in Brooklyn. He has done much newspaper editorial work. He has also published five volumes of sermons, besides several books in lighter vein, and has always been an active pastor, a diligent lecturer, and a man of great general activity. BAYARD TAYLOE. ^^Iayaed TAYLOR was bom at Kennett Square, Chester County, Penn- ^^ sylvania, January 11th, 1825. He began life as a printer, then iW appeared as a poet, then as a traveler and newspaper correspon- ^^ dent and proprietor, in connection with the New York Tribune. As a traveler he visited all parts of the world. He finally became con- nected with consular appointments abroad, becoming Minister to Germany in 1878, where he died, after a short residence, in December of the same year. He was a most popular lecturer and author. " The Quaker Widow" (p. 110) is one of Bayard Taylor's earlier gems. BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. |wo exquisite gems from Benjamin Franklin Taylor brighten these pages. He was born in New York State in 1822. He was edu- cated at Madison University, where his father was the honored I president. He published poems and fragmentary papers in 1845, ALFRED TENNYSON. and from that time became an active journalist. His railway sketches, under the title " The World on Wheels," were peerless. All his works were immensely popular. He is a popular lyceum lecturer also. JEFFERYS TAYLOR. BRIGHT little juvenile poem, an improvement of the old story of the milkmaid who counted her chickens before they were hatched, is given on page 199. It is from ihe pen of JefFerys Taylor, an English writer, who was born in 1792, and who wrot-e chiefly for the young, being distinguished for his quaint, practical manner of putting his thoughts. He died August 8th, 1853. JEREMY TAYLOR. JEREMY TAY'LOR, D.D , was born in Cambridge, England, in 1613. He entered Caius College in 1826, and waited at the public tables for support. After graduating he gained the friendship of Bishop Laud, and in 1636, obtained a fellowship at Oxford. In 1642 his rectory was sequestered by Parliament, and he was forced to take refuge in Wales, where he supported himself by teaching, and wrote some of his best works. As a preacher and as a writer, he occupies a high place. " Useful Studies " (p. 292) is a characteristic effusion from his pen. He died at Lisburne, Ireland, August 13th, 1667. ALLRED TENNY'SON. H^ngland's present poet laureate was born in 1809 in Lincolnshire. He ^IMj^ grnduated at Cambridge, and was early distinguished for poetic ■*^^^ ability, gaining the Chancellor's Medal in 1829. His reputation ' as a poet grew slowly, however, and it was not until 1842 that he really became famous. Since that time he has stood confessedly as the world's first poet. Every one of the ten selections given in Gems, from his poems, is exquisitely beautiful in its line. On the death of Words- worth in 1850, Tennyson was appointed poet laureate. THOMAS OF CELANO. ^NE of the grandest hymns ever written is the old Latin Dh.'^ Tree, a translation of which is given on page 456. Its author was Thomas, a Franciscan monk, born near the beginning of the thirteenth century, at Celano, a Neapolitan village. This wonderful poem 52 776 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. Las had the highest encomiums from such critics and scholars as Mozart, Haydn, Goethe, Schlegel, Dryden, Scott, Milman, etc. Dr. W. K, Wil- hams, of New York, perhaps the first scholar of America, critically de- scribes this hymn as "combining somewhat of the rhythm of classic Latin, with the rhymes of the mediaeval Latin, treating of a theme full of awful sublimity, and grouping together the most startling imagery of Scripture as to the last judgment, and throwing this into yet stronger relief by the barbaric simplicity of the style in which it is set, and adding to all these its full and trumpet-like cadences, and uniting with the impassioned feel- ings of the South, whence it emanated, the gravity of the North, whose severer style it adopted." It is a poem that may be studied and dwelt upon, with ever increasing profit and delight. LORD EDWARD THURLOW. iJpfoRD THURLOW was an eminent English lawyer, born in Norfolk, in 1732. He was sent to Cambridge, but he was compelled to leave -*^^" without a degree on account of his refractory conduct. He after- i wards studied law. In early life he was an intimate friend of the poet Cowper. He rose rapidly in his profession, and obtained the rank of king's counsel in 1761. He died September, 1806. His legal eminence was deemed by many to be due to happy accidents, rather than to real ability. His "Patient Stork " (p. 450) is a good poem. , ^ JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. ^gHE author of "The Vagabonds" (p. 130) is well known through that 11^ poem, as well as by the other two from his pen given in this vol- ume. He was born in Monroe county, N. Y., in 1827. He wrote considerably for the "Atlantic Monthly," and has been much en- joyed as a writer of light literature. JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND. EHLAND was a celebrated German poet, born in 1787. He studied law and took the degree of ll.d. He was a member of the rep- '^^^ resentative assembly of Wurtemburg in 1819, and in 1830 was X appointed professor of the German language and literature at Tubingen. He published a rich collection of patriotic songs. As a poet, he was characterized by simplicity, tenderness, and deep religious feeling, m "The Lost Church " (p. 622) shows. He -died, November, 1862. GEORGE WASHINGTON. 777 ^\^ ^ CHAELE3 DUDLEY WARKER. ?rn|His gentleman, author of three extracts in Gems, was born in Plain- ^1^ field, Mass., September 12th, 1829. Ho graduated at Hamilton <>^-^ College, practiced law in Chicago, and became a journalist in J Hartford, where he now resides. His publications meet with very general favor. ..,1.^ GEORGE WASHINGTON. |Sfj|pASHiNGTON, the first President of the United States, was born in fjlpft|1 AVestmoreland county, Va., February 22d, 1732. He was left an P^'^t orphan when but twelve years of age and inherited 'a large estate. His early education was defective. He had some rough frontier experiences, in the early Indian wars, but he abandoned the army for civil pursuits. On the opejiing of hostilities in the Eevolutionary War, he was unanimously chosen to command the American forces. He accepted it on the condition that he was to receive no salary. At the close of the war he laid down his commission. Then it was he issued his address to his troops, given on page 408. He was unanimously chosen first President of the newly-organized Federal government. The organization started on March 4th, 1789, but the inauguration of Washington was delayed till April 30th, when it took place, in New York City, and he delivered the address from which the selection on page 603 is taken. Washington was strongly urged to serve a third term in the presidency, but he refused, and retired to private life at Mount Vernon. Here he enjoyed the repose and the many honors he had so nobly earned. He died at Mount Vernon, Va., from a short illness, December 14, 1799. DAXIEL WEBSTER. jHE great Daniel Webster was born at Salisbury (now Franklin), N. H., January 18th, 1782. He received only a limited education, and was greatly indebted for his early instruction to his mother. He completed his preparation for college in the family of Kev. Samuel Wood, of Boscawen, and entered Dartmouth College in 1797. He was considered the foremost scholar of his class. He was decidedly pro- ficient in the classics and English literature, and was distinguished con- spicuously in the debates of the college societies. Several of his collegiate addresses found their way into print. He graduated in 1801 and began the study of law. He soon rose to eminence at the bar where Samuel Dexter, Joseph Story and Jeremiah Mason were at the height of their fame. He was nominated and elected to Congress by the Federalists in 778 BIOGRAnilCAL SKETCHES. 1812, Taking his seat in the special session of May, 1813, he was ap- pointed to the committee on foreign alTairs, and- made his maiden Con- gressional speech June 10th, 1813. Webster was afterwards admitted to practice in the Supreme Court at Washington. He then devoted himself with great zeal to the practice ot his profession, and gained rank among the most distinguished jurists of this country. He added to his world-wide fame as an orator by his ad- dress at the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, June 17th, 1825, and by his eulogy of Adams and Jefferson, delivered at Faneuil Hall, Boston, August, 1826. He served as Secretary of State under President Harrison, and was continued in office by President Tyler. He died at Marshfield, October 24th, 1852, and was buried in his fomily vault in the cemetery of that town. "Crime Self-Bevealed," from one ol his pleas in a murder case (p. 632), is a matchless piece of oratory. THOMAS WESTWOOD. ICES AT THE THRONE " (p. 527) was Written by Thomas Westwood, who was born at Enfield, England, November 26th, 1814. He ^^^i led an active business life, and was, for twenty-five years, direc- } tor of a railway company in Belgium. He has been a frequent contributor of verses to the London "Athenaeum and Gentleman's Maga- zine," and is author of several volumes of very excellent poems. EDWIN PEECY WHIPPLE. IfgDWiN PERCY WHIPPLE was boru at Gloucester, Mass., March 8th' 1819. He received his early education in the public schools of Salem, and at the age of fourteen, he began to write for a news- paper. He then applied himself to banking for many years. Since 1860, he has devoted himself to literature, being a frequent contribu- tor to current periodicals, and a popular lyceum lecturer. He also enjoys considerable reputation as a critic, his skill in this department being illus- trated by his clear analysis in "The Power of AVords" (p. 665.) HENRY KIRKE WHITE. i^l^His author is better known simply as Kirke White. He was an ^^ English poet, born in 1785. As a child he was remarkable for f precocity, and he soon distinguished himself in ancient and mod- ern languages, music and natural philosophy. Having made seve- JOHN G. WHITTIER. 779 rcil random contributions to the "Monthly Mirror," he ventured to publish a collection of poems, which attracted the notice of Southey, who became his warm friend and generous patron. White entered St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1804. Severe application to study was too much for his constitution, and he fell into a rapid decline, and died October, 1806. His works were published by Southey, with a very interesting biography. "The Star of Bethlehem" (p. 469) is one of the finest gems of poetry. ;,-(i>V«> MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. Ihe little rid hin" (p. 482) is as bright and well told an Irisii 1^ legend, of the fabulous order, as can readily be found. It was A written by Mrs. Adeline D. Train Whitney, who was born at Boston, Mass., in 1824. Her husband is Seth D. Whitney, of Milton, Mass. She has long been a favorite contributor to the current magazines, especially those for the younger readers. ♦ JOHN G. WHITTIER. "?W|pHE QUAKER POET," as John Grccnleaf Whitter has been familiarly ^1^ called, is a native of Haverhill, Mass., where he was born in 1807. •^^^ After an academic education he devoted himself to journalism. I He also had some political experience, but in 1840 he settled at Amesbury, Mass., where he still resides. He has written extensively, both in prose and poetry. Sixteen splendid selections from Whittier are given in Gems. Like Washington Irving, Whittier never married. CARLOS WILCOX. siLCOX was an American poet, born at Newport, N. H., October, 1794. He studied theology and began to preach. In 1822, he published the first book of a poem called "The Age of Benevo- lence." He gained a high reputation for eloquence. He died in 1827. His poem on page 219 is beautiful in sentiment and structure. -fe J. A. WILEY. ^ir^AMES A. WILEY, D.D., is an eminent divine of the Free Church of m^ Scotland. He published the "History of Protestantism," " Edom 2|! in Prophecy," and other valuable works. His sketch, given on %^ page 690, illustrates the charming style in which he deals with historic detail, investino; his narrative with the attractiveness of romance. 78U BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. . N. P. WILLIS. LTHANIEL PARKER WILLIS, author of three of the selections of this volume, was a native of Portland, Maine. He was born January jj/' 20th, 1807. He was graduated at Yale in 1827, before which hu %^ took a prize for a poem. He devoted himself to journalism at once after completing his college course, and adhered to it closely till his death, which occurred January 20th, 1867. He made several journeys abroad, and wrote voluminously, both in prose and verse. WILLIAM WIRT. ^j^jMiLLiAM WIRT, LL.D., was boru at Bladensbu^g, Md., November 8th, ^^J^l^^ 1772. He was left an orphan at the age of eight years, but was ll^^f brought up by an uncle. He studied law, and commenced prac- X tice in Culpepper and Albemarle counties, Va. He was appointed United States Attorney for the District of Virginia in 1816, and was At- torney-General of the United States for three full terms under the admin- istrations of Monroe and John Quincy Adams. He delivered, at Wash- ington, on October 19th, 1826, a discourse commemorative of the deaths of Adams and Jefferson. His sketch of "The Blind Preacher" (p. 185) is a good illustration of his ability as a word painter. He died at Wash- ington, D. C, February 18th, 1834, deeply lamented by all. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. :^2^ Iouthey's successor as poet laureate, and Tennyson's immediate pre- decessor, was William Wordsworth, born April 7th, 1770, in Cum- berland, England. His alma mater was Cambridge, where he excelled in the classics. At thirteen his poesy began to appear, and he began to make it his chief study. After much foreign travel and little success as a poet, he began to loom up in the public favor about 1814, and he was sixty years old when he really became popular. He then began to live comfortably, received a pension and an honorary D. c. L. from Oxford, and in 1843, when seventy-three years of ago, be- came the royal poet. He died in 1850. Three of his poems are in Gems. LIVING THOUGHTS FROM THE WORLD'S GREAT THINKERS. ACTION. Speak out in acts; the time for words has passed, and deeds alone suffice. ( Whittier. Everywhere in life, the true question is, not what we gain, but what we do. [Carlyle. A slender acquaintance with the world must convince every man, that actions, not words, are the true criterion of the at- tachment of friends. Washington. He hath no power that hath not power to use. (Bailey. Oar deeds determine us, as much as we de- termine our deeds. {Oeorge Eliot. It is better to wear out than to rust out. (Bishop Home. Men must be decided on what they will not do, and then they are able to act with vigor in what they ought to do. (Mencius. Our acts, our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. (John Fletcher. Our grand busine.s8 is, not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies clearly at hand. {Carlyle. Push on — keep moving. ( Thomas Morton. Heaven never helps the men who will not act. (Sophocles. No man lives without jostling and being jos- tled; in all ways he has to elbow himself through the world, giving and receiving offence. {Carlyle. The only cure for grief is action.(G.jy.Zcw)es A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant. (Shakespeare. Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock. (Byron. 1 have lived to know that the secret of hap- piness is never to allow your energies to stagnate. (Adam Clarke. God be thank'd that the dead have left still Good undone for the living to do — Still some aim for the heart and the will And the soul of a man to pursue. (Owen Meredith. ADVERSITY. Sweet are the uses of adversity ; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. (Shakespeare. Cicero has said of men : "They are like wine ; age sours the bad, and betters the good." We can say that misfortune has the same effect upon them. {Ricker. Calamity is man's true touch-stone. (Beaumont and Fletcher. Trials teach us what we are ; they dig up the soil, and let us see what we are made of; they just turn up some of the ill weeds on to the surface. (Spurgeon. For gold is tried in the fire, and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity. (SiracJi 781 782 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Afflictions fall, not like the lightning strokes upon the tree, to blast and shatter it the more, but like the blows of the sculptor which shape the marble into a thing of beauty. {Howard Malcom. It is often better to have a great deal of harm happen to one than a little; a great deal may rouse you to remove what a little will only accustom you to endure. ( Greville. The greater our dread of crosses, the more necessary they are for us. {Fenelon. We know not of what we are capable till the trial comes; — till it comes, perhaps, in a form which makes the strong man quail, and turns the gentler woman into a her- oine. {Mrs. Jameson. Prosperity is no just scale; adversity is the only balance to weigh friends. (P^wtorc/i. He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper. {Burke. Men think God is destroying them because he is tuning them. The violinist screws up the key till the tense cord sounds the concert pitch ; but it is not to break it, but to use it tunefully, that he stretches the string upon the musical rack. {Beecher. Adversity is sometimes hard upon a man ; but for one man who can stand prosper- ity, there are a hundred that will stand adversity. {Carhjle. His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; For then, and not till then, he felt himself. And found the blessedness of being little. {Shakespeare. There are no crown weareis in heaven who were not cross-bearers here below. But noble souls, through dust and heat. Rise from disaster and defeat The stronger. {Longfellow. The eternal stars shine out dark enough. soon as it is ( Carlyle. AMBITION. Ambition has but one reward for all : A little power, a little transient fame, A grave to rest in, and a fading name ! ( William Winter. Oh, sons of earth ! attempt ye still to rise. By mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies ? lleav'n still with laughter the vain toil sur- veys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. [Pope. Most people would succeed in small things if they were not troubled with great ambi- tions. {Longfellow. Remember Milo's end. Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend. ( Wentworth Dillon. Who knows but he, whose hand the light- ning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms ; Pours fierce Ambition in a Csesar's mind. {Pope. One contented with what he has done, stands but small chance of becoming famous for what he will do. He has lain down to die. The grass is already growing over him. {Bovce. They that stand high have many blasts to shake them ; And if they fall they dash themselves to pieces. {Shakespeare. Who shoots at the midday sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is that he shall shoot higher than he who aims but at a bush. {Sir P. Sidneij. Fling away ambition ; by that sin fell tlie angels : how can man then, the image of his Maker hope to win by it? {Shakespeare. Men would be angels, angols would be god.-; {Pope. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 783 Say what we will, you may be sure that am- Art is Nature made by Man bition IS an error ; its wear and tear of | To Man the interpreter of God. heart are never recompensed, —it steals away the freshness of life, — it deadens Its vivid and social enjoyments, — it shots our souls to our own youth,— and we are old ere we remember that we have made a fever and a labor of our raciest years. (Bulwer. (Owen Meredith. His heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art. {Longellow. The one thing that marks the true artist is a clear perception and a firm, bold hand, in distinction from that imperfect mental vision and uncertain touch which give us the feeble pictures and the lumpy statues of the mcie artisans on canvas or in stone. (Holmes. Dead he is not, "but departed,— for the artist never dies. (Longfellow. He best can paint them who shall feel them most. (Pope. In sculpture did ever any body call the Apollo a fancy piece? Or say of the Laocoon how it might be made different ? A master-piece of art has in the mind a fixed place in the chain of being, as much as a plant or a crystal. (Emerson. Nature is a revelation of God ; Art a revelation of man. (Longfellow. The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone subdued by the insatiable demand of harmony in man. The mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower, with the lightness and delicate finish, as well as the aerial proportions and per- spective of vegetable beauty. (Emerson. The stone unhewn and cold. Becomes a living mould, The more the marble wastes The more the statue grows. (Michael Angelo. Doubtless the human face is the grandest of all mysteries ; yet fixed on canvas, it can hardly tell of more than one sensation : no struggle, no successive contrasts ac- cessible to dramatic art, can painting give, as neither time nor motion exists for her. (Madame de Stael. "light in petal and in limb that move ; -^°d ^^^ cold marble leapt to life a god. you, then the spirit is upon you, and the ] (Milman. earth is yours, and the fullness thereof, i Were builded, with his own, into the walls, (Buskin, i As offerings unto God. (Longfellow. ART. Art is the child of Nature : yes, Her darling child in whom we trace The features of the mother's face ; Her aspect and her attitude. (Longfellow. Seraphs share with thee Knowledge ; But Art, Man, is thine alone ! {Schiller. I think I love and reverence all arts equally, only putting my own just above the others ; because in it I recognize the union and culmination of them all. To me it seems as if when God conceived the world, that was Poetry ; He formed it, and that was Sculpture ; He colored it, and that was Painting; He peopled it with living beings, and that was the grand, divine, eternal Drama. ( Charlotte Cushnian. He that seeks popularity in art closes the door on his own genius ; as he must needs paint for other minds, and not for his own. (Mrs. Jameson. The art of a thing is. first, its aim, and next, its manner of accomplishment. (Bovee. If it is the love of that which your work rep- resents — if, being a landscape painter, it is love of hills and trees that moves you — if, being a figure painter, it is love of human beauty, and human soul that moves you — if, being a flower or animal painter, it is love, and wonder, and de- 784 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature; they being both the ser- vants of his providence. Art is the per- fection of nature. Were the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos. Nature hath made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for nature is the art of God. [Sir Thomas Browne. The architect Built his great heart into these sculptured stones. And with him toiled his children, — and their lives. I once asked a distinguished artist what place he gave to labor in art. " Labor,'' he in effect said, "is the beginning, the middle, and the end of art.'' Turning then to another — "And you," I inquired, "what do you consider the great force in art?" "Love,'' he replied. In 'their two an- swers I found but one truth. (Bovee. BEAUTY. The most beautiful object in the world, it will be allowed, is a beautiful woman. (^Macaulay. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever; Its loveliness increases ; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. (Keats. "We do love beauty at first sight ; and we do cease to love it, if it is not accompanied by amiable qualities. (Lydia Maria Child. "What as Beauty here is won We shall as Truth in some hereafter know. {Schiller. If to her share some female errors fall Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. [Pope. Beauty with a bloodless conquest, finds A welcome sov'reignty m rudest minds. ( Waller. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self. ( Thomson. I pray thee, God, that I may be beautiful within. (Socrates. Loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. (Tliomson. If the nose of Cleopatra had been a little shorter, it would have changed the his- tory of the world. {Pascal. BLESSINGS. Like birds, whose beauties languish half con- cealed. Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded, shine with azure, green and gold ; How blessings brighten as they take their flight ! ( Young. Blessings star forth forever ; but a curse Is like a cloud — it passes. {Bailey. For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds. And though a late, a sure reward succeeds. {Congreve. What is remote and difficult of success we are apt to overrate; what is really best for us lies always within our reach, though often overlooked. {Longfellow. Forever from the hand that takes One blessing from us, others fall; And soon or late, our Father makes His perfect recompense to all ! ( Whittier. BOOKS. 'Tis pleasant sure to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. (Byron. Pray thee, take care, that tak'st my book in hand. To read it well ; that is to understand. (Ben. Jonson. Books cannot always please, however good ; Minds are not ever craving for their food. ( Cro.hhe. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 785 I love to lose myself iu other men's minds. When I am not walking, I am reading ; I cannot sit and think. Books think lor me. {Lamb. There is no Past, so long as Books shall live ! (Bulwer. A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond. {Milton. Books are friends, and what friends they are! Their love is deep and unchang- ing'; their patience inexhaustible ; their gentleness perennial, their forbearance unbounded ; and their sympathy with- out selfishness. Strong as man, and tender as woman, they welcome you in every mood, and never turn from you'in distress. (Langford- Look, then, into thine heart and write. {Longfellow. Books should to one of these four ends con- duce. For wisdom, piety, delight, or use. {Sir John Denham. We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book. And calculating profits— so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's pro- found. Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth— 'Tis then we get the right good from a book, {E. B. Browning. If a book come from the heart, it will con- trive to reach other hearts ; all art and authorcraft are of small amount to that. {Carlyk. Books are the best things, well used : abused, among the worst. C Emerson. Books are life-long friends whom we come to love and know as we do our children. {S. L. Boardman. If time is precious, no book that will not im- prove by repeated readings deserves to be read at all, {Carlyle. They are true friends, that will neither flat- ter nor dissemble: be you but true to yourself, applying that which they teach unto the party grieved, and you shall need no other comfort nor counsel. {Bacon. Worthy books Are not companions — they are solitudes : We lose ourselves in them and all our cares. ( Bailey. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not seriously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. {Bacon. Ono cannot celebrate books sufficiently. Af- ter saying his best, still something better remains to be spoken in their praise. {Alcott. In literature, quotation is good only when the writer whom I follow goes my way, and, being better mounted than I, gives me a cast as we say ; but if I like the gay equipage so well as to go out of my road, I had better have gone afoot. {Emerson. The true University of these days is a Col- lection of Books. ( Carlyle. I have ever gained the most profit, and the most pleasure also, from the books which have made me think the most: and, when the difficulties have once been overcome, these are the books which have struck the deepest root, not only in my memory and understanding, but likewise in my affections. ( W. A. Hare. Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear I Glean after what it can. {Bailey. That is a good book which is opened with expectation and closed with profit. {Alcott. If you once understand an author's charac- ter, the comprehension of his writing becomes easy. {Longfellow r86 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well. {Sheffield. It is generally supposed that where there is no Quotation, there will be found most originality The greater part of our writers, in consequence, have become so original, that no one cares to imitate them ; and those who never quote, in return are seldom quoted. {Isaac Disraeli. Beneath the rule of men entirely great The pen is mightier than the sword. {Bulwer. Let your literary compositions be kept from the public eye for nine years at least. {Horace. A man may write at any time if he set him- self doggedly at it. (Bam'l Johnson. But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps mil- lions think. {Byron. The most original modern authors are not so because they advance what is new, but simply because they know how to put what they have to say, as if it had never been said before. ( Goethe. Readers may be classed into an infinite num- ber of divisions ; but an author is a soli- tary being, who, for the same reason he pleases one, must consequently displease another. {Isaac Disraeli. None but an author knows an author's cares. Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. ( Cowper. Hear, land o' cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's, If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede ye tent it; A chiel's amang you taking notes. And, faith, he'll prent it. {Burns. Every author, in some degree, portrays him- self in his works even be it against his will. {Goethe. When a book raises your spirit, and inspires you with noble and courageous feelings, seek for no other rule to judge the work by ; it is good, and made by a good work- man. {Bruycre- That writer does the most, who gives his reader the most knowledge and takes from him the least time. ( C. C. Colton_ A library may be regarded as the solemn chamber in which a man may take counsel with all that have been wise and great and good and glorious amongst the men that have gone before them. {Dawson. Whatever hath been written shall remain. Nor be erased nor written o'er again ; The unwritten only still belongs to thee : Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be. {Longfellow. God be thanked for books. They are the voices of the distant and the dead, and make us heirs of the spiritual life of past ages. Books are the true levellers. They give to all, who will faithfully use them, the society, the spiritual presence of the best and greatest of our race. No matter how poor I am, no matter though the prosperous of my own time will not enter my obscure dwelling. If the sa- cred writers will enter and take up their abode under my roof, if Milton will cross my threshold to sing to me of Paradise, and Shakespeare, to open to me the worlds of imagination and the workings of the human heart, and Franklin to enrich me with his practical wisdom, I shall not pine for want of in- tellectual companionship, and I may become a cultivated man though excluded from what is called the best society, in the place where I live. {Channing. polished perturbation! golden care that keepest the ports of slumber open wide to many a watchful night! {Shakespeare. I LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS 787 Hang sorrow, care '11 kill a cat. [Ben Joiison. Care, admitted as guest, quickly turns to be master. {Bovce. Care to our coffia adds a nail no doubt; And every grin, so merry, draws one out. (John Wolcot. Care is no care, but rather a corrosive. For things that are not to be remedied. ( Shakespeare. A crown! what is it? It is to bear the miseries of a people ! To hear their murmurs, feel their discontents. And sink beneath a load of splendid care. {Hannah More. I am sure, care's an enemy to life. {Shakespeare. Care that is entered once into the breast, Will have the whole possession ere it rest. {Johnso7i. Care keeps his watch in every old man's oye. And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstufFd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. {Shakespeare. I am persuaded, that every time a man laughs, it adds something to the frag- ments of life. {Sterne CHARACTER. Talenta are nurtured best in solitude, but character in life's tempestuous sea. {Godhe. Character, good or bad, has a tendency to \ perpetuate itself {Dr. A. A. Hodge. ' not lose his {Mencius. j Take my word for this, reader, and say a fool told it you, if you please, that he who hath not a dram of folly in his mixture hath pounds of much worse matter in his ' composition. {Lamb. All men are alike in their lower natures; it ' is in their higher characters that they differ. {Bovce. I The great man is he who dc child's heart. He makes no friend who never made a foe. ( Tennyson. He was not merely a chip of the old block, but the old block itself [Burke. When a man puts on a Character he is a stranger to, there's as much difference between what he appears, and what he is really in himself, as there is between a Vizor and a Face. {Bruyhre. He is truly great that is little in himself, and that maketh no account of any height of honors. ( Thomas cl Kempis. This is that which we call character, — a re- served force which acts directly by pres- ence, and without means. {Emerson. Tlie man that makes a character, makes foes. ( Young. Reputation is what men and women think of us. Character is what God and angels know of us. ( Thomas Faine. I will be lord over myself. No one who can- not master himself is worthy to rule, and only he can rule. {Goethe. No circumstances can repair a defect of char- acter. {Emerson. Strong characters are brought out by change of situation, and gentle ones by perma- nence. {Richter. Suffering becomes beautiful when any one bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility, but through greatness of mind. {Aristotle. The True Grandeur of Nations is in those i qualities which constitute the true great- / ness of the individual. {Charles Sumner.^ lie only is a well-made man whq has a good determination. {Eincrson. In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer. {LonrifeUoxo. Circumstances form the character ; but, like petrifying matters, they harden while they form. {Landor. What the superior man seeks is in himself; what the small man seeks is in others. {Confucius. * 788 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Self-distrust is the Ccause of most . of our failures. In the assurance of strength there is strength, and they are the weak- est, however strong, who have no faith in themselves or their powers. [Bovee. Character ia higher than intellect. . . . A great soul will be strong to live, as well as to think. {Emerson. I hope I shall always possess firmness and virtue enough, to maintain, what I con- sider the most enviable of all titles, that of an " Honest Man." {Geo. Washington. Conflict, which rouses up the best and highest powers in some characters, in others not only jars the whole being, but paralyzes the faculties. {Mrs. Jameson. Not in the clamor of the crowded street. Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng. But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat. {Longfellow. Alany men build as cathedrals were built, the part nearest the ground finished ; but that part which soars toward heaven, the turrets and the spires, forever incomplete. {Henry Ward Beecher. We must have a weak spot or two in a char- acter before we can love it much. Peo- ple that do not laugh or cry, or take more of anything than is good for them, or use anything but dictionary-words, are admirable subjects for biographies. But we don't care most for those flat- pattern flowers that press best in the herbarium. {Holmes. That man is great, and he alone, Who serves a greatness not his own, For neither praise nor pelf : Content to know and be unknown : Whole in himself. {Oxuen Meredith. CONSCIENCE. Conscience, true as the needle to the pole, points steadily to the pole-star of God's eternal justice, reminding the soul of the fearful realities of the life to come. {Rev. E. H. Gillctt. Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire, called Conscience. ( George Washington. I know myself now ; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities ; A still and quiet conscience. {Shakespeare. 'Tis the first constant punishment of sin, That no bad man absolves himself within. ( Juvenal. Conscience is harder than our enemies. Knows more, accuses with more nicety. {George Eliot. There is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd He deals on his own soul. {Byron. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all . And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. {Shakespeare. Why should not conscience have vacation As well as other courts o' th' nation ? Have equal power to adjourn. Appoint appearance and return. {Butler. Some persons follow the dictates of their con science only in the same sense in which a coachman may be said to follow the horses he is driving. ( Whately. He that has light within his own clear breast May sit i' th' centre and enjoy bright day ; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-daj sun. {Milton. CONTENTMENT. Happy the man, of mortals happiest he Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free ; Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears tor- ment. But lives at peace, within himself content, In thought or act accountable to none But to himself and to the gods alone. {Geo. Oranville. Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. {Dry den. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. •89 Contentmeut furnishes constant joy. Much covetousness, constant grief. To the contented, even poverty is joy. To the discontented, even wealth is a vexation. [Ming Sam Paou Keen. If it were now to die, 'Twere to be most happy ; for, I fear My soul hath her content so absolute. That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate. {Shakespeare. Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all. {Sir Henry Wotton. No one can bring you peace but yourself Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of principle. {Emerson. My God, give me neither poverty nor riches ; but whatsoever it may be thy will to give, give me with it a heart which knows humbly to acquiesce in what is thy will. {Qotthold. Enjoy your own life without comparing it with that of another. {Condorcet. Poor and content is rich, and rich enough ; but riches, fineless, is as poor as winter to him that ever fears he shall be poor. {Shakespeare. Sweet are the thoughts that savour of con- tent; The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. {Robert Greene. He is well paid that is well satisfied. {Shakeq->eare. This floating life hath but this port of rest A heart prepared, that fears no ill to come. {Samuel Daniel. Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf Not one will change his neighbor with him- self {Foj^e. The noblest mind the best contentment has. {Spenser. My crown is in my heart, not on my head, Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen : my crown is called content ; A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. ( Shakespeare. With equal minds what happens let us bear, Nor joy, nor grieve too much for things be- yond our care. {Dryden. what a glory doth this world put on. For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth. Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed and days well spent. {Longfellow. CONVERSATION. I profess not talking; only this — Let each man do his best. {Shakespeare. Speak not at all, in any wise, till you have somewhat to speak ; care not for the re- ward of your speaking, but simply and with undivided mind for the truth of your speaking. { Carlyle. The next best thing to being witty one's self, is to be able to quote another's wit. {Bovee. Under all speech that is good for anything there lies a silence that is better. Si- lence is deep as eternity ; speech is shal- low as time. {Carlyle. Oh ! many a shaft, at random sent. Finds mark the archer little meant ! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken ! {Scott. Words once spoke can never be recalled. (^ Wentworth Dillon. The best Society and Conversation is that in which the Heart has a greater share than the head. {Bruyirc- There is a gift beyond the reach of art, of being eloquently silent. {Bovee. You heat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. {Pope. 790 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Iq the commerce of speech gold and silver. Discourse may want an animated " No,'' To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease. [Cowper. It is as easy to draw back a stone thrown with force from the hand, as to recall a word once spoken. {Menander. Society is like a large piece of frozen water ; and skating well is the great art of social life. {Letitia Elizabeth Landon. Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food. [Hazlitt. Some folk's tongues are like the clocks as run on strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there's summat wrong i' their own inside. [Oeorge Eliot. only coin of {Jouhert. Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse ; JS'ot more distinct from harmony divine, The constant I'reaking of a country sign. {Coivper. Repartee is perfect, when it effects its purpose with a double edge. Repartee is the highest order of wit, as it bespeaks the coolest yet quickest exercise of genius at a moment when the passions are roused. (C. a Colton. True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd. What oft was thought, but, ne'er so well ex- pressed. (Pope. My tongue within my lips I rein, For who talks much, must talk in vain. {Gay. Were we as eloquent as angels, we should please some men, some women, and some children much more by listening than by talking. (C. C. Colton. But far more numerous was the herd of such. Who think too little, and who talk too much. {Dry den. It is with narrow-souled people as with nar- row-necked bottles ; the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring it out. {Pupe. There are moments when silence, prolong'd and unbroken, More expressive may be than all words ever spoken, It is when the heart has an instinct of what In the heart of another is passing. {Owen Meredith. Think all you speak ; but speak not all you think : Thoughts are your own ; your words are so no more. Where Wisdom steers, wind cannot make you sink : Lips never err, when she does keep the door. {Henry Delaune. COURAGE. friends, be men, and let your hearts be strong, And let no warrior in the heat of fight Do what may bring him shame in others' eyes ; For more of those who shrink from shame are safe Than fall in battle, while with- those who flee Is neither glory nor reprieve from death. {Bryant. The direst foe of courage is the fear itself, not the object of it; and the man who can overcome his own terror is a hero and more. ( George MacDonald. Dream not helm and harness The sign of valor true ; Peace hath higher tests of manhood Than battle ever knew. ( Whittier. Our doubts are traitors. And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt. {Shakespeare. 'Tis more brave To live, than to die. {Owen Meredith. Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing : The bravest are the tenderest, — The loving are the daring. {Bayard Taylor. Courage in danger is half the battle. {Plaut}is. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 791 No man can answer for his own valor or \ courage, till he has been in danger. (Eochefoucaidd. I dare do all that may become a man : Who dares do more is none. {Shakespeare. Tender handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains ; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains. {Aaron mil. Courage is, on all hands, considered as an essential of high character. {Froude. When desp'rate ills demand a speedy cure, Distrust is cowardice, and prudence folly. {Cam'l Johnson. Cowards (may) fear to die ; but courage stout Rather than live in snuff, will be put out. {Sir Walter Raleigh. He that fights and runs away May turn and fight another day ; But he that is in battle slain Will never rise to fight again. {Ray. At the bottom of a good deal of the bravery that appears in the world there lurks a miserable cowardice. Men will face pow- der and steel because they cannot face public opinion. {Chapin. Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly From its firm base, as soon as I. {Scott. What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond his cell, Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn her frown ? Brave Luther answered, " Yes '' ; that thun- der swell Rocked Europe, and discharged the triple crown. {Lowell. There are some critics so with spleen diseased. They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal skill. Who pleases one against his will. {Congreve. 53 For I am nothing if not critical. (Shakespeare. Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer. And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer. {Pope. The strength of criticism lies only in the weakness of the thing criticised. {Kavanagh. For, poems read without a name We justly praise, or justly blame ; And critics have no partial views. Except they know whom they abuse. And since you ne'er provoke their spite. Depend upon't their judgment's right. (Jonathan Swift. How commentators each dark passage shun, And hold their farthing candle to the sun. ( Young. Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true; But are not Critics to their judgment too? (Pope. Attack is the reaction ; I never think I have hit hard unless it rebounds. (Sam' I Johnson. In every work regard the writer's End, Since none can compass more than they in- tend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. {Pope. Abuse is often of service. There is nothing so dangerous to an author as silence. His name, like a shuttle-cock, must be beat backward and forward, or it falls to the ground. {Johnson. With pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critic on the last. {Pope. Reviewers are forever telling authors, they can't understand them. The author might often reply: Is that my fault? (A. W.Hare. The readers and the hearers like my books. But yet Pome writers cannot them digest ; But what care I ? for when I make a feast, I would my guests should praise it, not the cooks. (Sir John Harrington. 792 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. It is much easier to be critical than to be cor- rect. (Disraeli. Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of news- papers and reviews, to challenge every new author. {Longfellow. He was in Logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in Analytic ; He could distinguish, and divide A hair 'twixt south and south-west side. {Butler. A man must serve liis time to every trade, Save censure— critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote ; A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet. His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet, Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit ; Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling— pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. {Byron. DAY AND NIGHT. But yonder comes the powerful King of Day Rejoicing in the east. ( Thomson. Whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy everlast- ing light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty ; the stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave ; but thou thyself movest alone. {Macpherson. The rising sun complies with our weak sight, First gilds the clouds, then, shows his globe of light At such a distance from our eyes, as though He knew what harm his hasty beams would do. ( Waller. And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. That God alone was to be seen in heaven. (Bi/ron. The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caressed the mountain-tops ; the vales be- tween Darkened ; the river in the meadow-lands Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. {Longfellow. Hail, twilight ! sovereign of one peaceful hour ! ( Wordsworth. The sun is set ; and in his latest beams Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold. Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, The falling mantle of the Prophet seems. ( Longfellow. the wierd northern twilight, which is nei- ther night or day. When the amber wake of the long-set sun still marks his western way. ( D. M. Mulock. A cloud lay cradled near the setting-sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow . * * * * * * * Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! Even in its motion there was rest ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west. {John Wilson. Sweet shadows of twilight ! how calm their repose, While the dew drops fall soft in the breast of the rose ! How blest to the toiler his hour of release When the vesper is heard with its whisper of peace! {Holmes. The day is done : and slowly from the scene The stooping sun up-gathers liis spent shafts, And puts them back into his golden quiver ! {Longfellow. Now in his Palace of the West, Sinking to slumber the bright Day, Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest, 'Mid the cool airs of evening lay ; While round his couch's golden rim The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept — Struggling each other's light to dim, And catch his last smile ere he slept. ( Moore. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 793 The evening came. The setting sun stretched his celestial rods of light across the level landscape, and, like the Hebrews in Egypt, smote the rivers, the brooks, and the ponds, and they became as blood. {Longfellow. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. (Gray. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast. Let fall the curtain, wheel the sofa round. And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each. So let us welcome peaceful evening in.' ( Cowper. Nature hath appointed the twilight as a bridge to pass us out of day into night. {Fuller. Eve's silent footfall steals Along the eastern sky, And one by one to earth reveals Those purer fires on high. {Keble. 'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters ; like a veil Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. {Byron How lovely are the portals of the night, When stars come out to watch the daylight die. {TJiomas Cole. The Night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars ; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. {Longfellow. Night drew her sable curtain down And pinned it with a star. {Jr Donald Clarke. See yonder fire ! It is the moon Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips And through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light. And majies the heart in love with night. {Longfellow. Night! that great shadow and profile of the day. {Richter. The night is calm and cloudless. And still as still can be. And the stars come forth to listen To the music of the sea. They gather, and gather, and gather. Until they crowd the sky. And listen, in breathless silence. To the solemn litany. {Longfellow. When I gaze into the stars, they look down upon me with pity from their serene and silent spaces, like eyes glistening with tears over the little lot of man. Thou- sands of generations, all as noisy as our own, have been swallowed up by time, and there remains no record of them any more. Yet Arcturus and Orion, Sirius and Pleiades, are still shining in their courses, clear and young, as when the shepherd first noted them in the plain of Shinar! {Carlylc. The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint. Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay. As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars, That were to prove her strength, and try Her holiness and her purity. {Longfellow. If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore : and preserve for many gen- erations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their ad- monishing smile. {Emerson. 794 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and, evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of mid- night. {Longfellow. Midnight,— strange, mystic hoar, — when the veil between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin. {Mrs. Stowe. Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night ! The watershed of Time, from which the streams Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light. One to the land of darkness and of dreams. {Longfellow. DEATH. How wonderful is death, death and his bro- ther, sleep ! {Shelley. There is no Death ! What seems eo is tran- sition ; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, Whose portal we call Death. {Longfellow. On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. {James Beattie. Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home : Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. {Emerso7i. In this dim world of clouding cares. We rarely know, till 'wildering eyes See white wings lessening up the skies, The Angels with us unawares. ( Oerald Massey. Death hath so many doors to let out life. {Beaumont and Fletcher. Then 'tis our best, since thus ordained to die, To make a virtue of necessity. {Dry den. I have been dying for years, now I shall bo- gin to live. {Last words of Jas. Drummond Burns. Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood. [Byron. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. {Longfellow. Thou know'st 'tis common ; all that live must die, Passing through nature to eternity. {Shakespeare. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. {Mrs. Hemans. Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow. ( Young. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ^ Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? {Gray. We count it death to falter, not to die. {Slmomdes. There are slave drivers quietly whipt under- ground. There bookbinders, done up in boards are fast bound. There card-players wait till the last trump be played, There all the choice spirits get finally laid. There the babe, that's unborn is supplied with a berth. There men without legs get their six feet of earth. There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in hi-s case, There seekers of office are sure of a place, There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, There shoemakers quietly stick to the last. [Lowell. To die is landing on some silent shore. Where billows never break nor tempests roar : Ere well we feel the friendly stroke 'tis o'er. ( Oarth. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. {Gray. « LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 795 Cowards die many times before their death ; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. It seems to me most strange that men should fear ; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come, when it will come. {Shakespeare. There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there. There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended. But has one vacant chair. {Longfellow. One short sleep past, we wake eternally. And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die. (Donne. The trumpet ! the trumpet ! the dead have all heard ; Lo the depths of the stone-cover'd charnels are stirr'd ; From the sea, from the land, from the south and the north, The vast generations of man are come forth. {Milman. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest. By all their country's wishes blest ! ****** By fairy hands their knell is sung, By forms unseen their dirge is rung. (Collins. God's finger touched him and he slept. ( Tennyson. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom. A shadow on those features fair and thin ; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room. Two angels issued, where but one went in. (Longfellow. After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well ; Treason has done his worst ; nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing. Can touch him further. (Shakespeare. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er. Dream of fighting fields no more ; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. Morn of toil, nor night of waking. (Scott. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon ; but, eustain'd and sooth'd By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one that draws the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. (Bryant. DREAMS. " Do you believe in dreams?'' ''Why, yes and no. When they come true, then I believe in them ; When they come false, I don't believe in them." (Longfellow. Dream after dream ensues ; And still they dream that they shall still succeed. And still are disappointed. (Cowper. Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes ; When monarch Reason sleeps, this mimic wakes. (Dryden. 'Twas but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish like so many others ! What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless. (Longfellow. Oh ! I have pass'd a miserable night. So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night. Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days. (Shakespeare. The fisher droppeth his net in the stream. And a hundred streams are the same as one ; And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream ; And what is it all, when all is done ? The net of the fi.^her the burden breaks, And always the dreaming the dreamer wakes. (Alice Gary. 796 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. My eyes make pictures when tliey are shut. (Coleridge. Sweet sleep be with us, one and all ! And if upon its stillness fall The visions of a busy brain, We'll have our pleasure o'er again, To warm the heart, to charm the sight, Gay dreams to all ! good night good night! [Joanna Baillie. EDUCATION. Education is the only interest worthy the deep, controlling anxiety of the thought- ful man. ( Wendell Phillips. Every person has two educations — one which he receives from others, and one more important which he gives himself. ( Gibbon. Education commences at the mother's knee, and every word spoken within the hear- say of little children tends towards the formation of character. {Hosea Ballou. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. {Po2:)e. Instruction ends in the schoolroom, but edu- cation ends only with life. A child is given to the universe to educate. ( Robertson. Do not ask if a man has been through college. Ask if a college has been through him. ( Chapin. There is nothing more frightful than for a teacher to know only what his scholars are intended to know. {Goethe. Histories make men wise ; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtile ; natural philoso- phy, deep; morals, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend. (Bacon. Give a boy address and accomplishments, and you give him the mastery of palaces and fortunes where he goes. lie has not the trouble of earning or owning them ; they Bolicit him to enter and possess. ( Emerson. The Self-Educated are marked by stubborn peculiarities. Isaac Disraeli. How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home. ( Cowper. Instruction does not prevent waste of time or mistakes ; and mistakes themselves are often the best teachers of all. ( Froude. Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, His worst of all whose kingdom is a school. (Holmes. When I am forgotten, as I shall be. And sleep in dull cold marble, Say, I taught thee. (Shakespeare. The mother's heart is the child's sch-oolroom. (Beecher. Learn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn. Little tasks make large returns. (Bayard Taylor. 'Tis education forms the common mind, Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. (Pope. Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak. (Shakespeare. Education is the cheap defence of nations. (Edmund Burke. Educate men without religion and you make them but clever devils. (Duke of Wellington. And say to mothers what a holy charge Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love Might rule the fountains of the newborn mind. (Mrs. Sigournei/. EXPERIENCE. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other. (Erankliyi. To Truth's house there is a single door. Which is Experience He teaches best. Who feels the hearts of all men in his breast, And knows their strength or weakness through his own. (Bayard Taylor. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 797 To most men experience is like the stern lights of a ship, which illumine only the track it has passed. {Coleridge. All is but lip wisdom which wants experi- ence. {Sir P. Sidney. Nor deem the irrevocable Past, As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain. {Longfellow. We read the past by the light of the present, and the forms vary as the shadows fall, or as the point of vision alters. {Froude. In her experience all her friends relied, Heaven was her help and nature was her guide. {Orabbe. The finest poetry was first experience. {Emerson. What man would be wise, let him drink of the river That bears on its waters the record of Time; A message to him every wave can deliver To teach him to creep till he knows how to climb. {John Boyle O'Reilly. It is some compensation for great evils that they enforce great lessons. {Bovee. I think there are stores laid up in our hu- man nature that our understandings can make no complete inventory of {George Eliot. We gain Justice, judgment, with years, or el'^e years are in vain. {Owen Meredith. Time will teach thee soon the truth. There are no birds in last year's nest. {Longfellow. The child, through stumbling, learns to walk erect Every fall is a fall upward. ( Theodore Parker. Only so much do I know, as I have lived. {Emerson. Experience is no more transferable in morals than in art. {Froude. Do not cheat thy Heart, and tell her, " Grief will pass away, Hope for fairer times in future, And forget to-day." Tell her, if you will, that sorrow Need not come in vain ; Tell her that the lesson taught her Far outweighs the pain. {Adelaide A. Proctor. Behold, we live through all things,— famine, thirst. Bereavement, pain ; all grief and misery. All woe and sorrow ; life inflicts its worst On soul and body,— but we cannot die Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn, — Lo, all things ()an be borne ! {Elizabeth Akers. Making all futures fruits of all the pasts. {Edwin Arnold. A face that had a story to tell. How dififer- ent faces are in this particular ! Some of them speak not. They are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date. {Longfellow. Walls must get the weather stain Before they grow the ivy. {E. B. Browning. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm. As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. fear not in a world like this. And thou shalt know ere long — Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. {Longfellow. FAITH. Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death, To break the shock blind nature cannot shun And lands thought smoothly on the farther shore. ( Yonug. There is no strength in unbelief Even the unbelief of what is false is no source of might. It is the truth shining from be- hind that gives the strength to disbelieve. {Oeorge MacDonald. ^98 GEM8 FOR THE FIRESIDE. Faith is not reason's labor, but repose. { Young. What good I see humbly I seek to do, And live obedient to the law, in trust That what will come, and must come, shall come well. {Edwin Arnold. But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. {Moore. The practical effect of a belief is the real test of its soundness. {Fronde. When in God thou believest, near God thou wilt certainly be ! {Leland. thou, whose days are yet all spring, Faith, blighted once is past retrieving; Experience is a dumb, dead thing; The victory's in believing. {Lowell. For forms of government let fools contest; Whate'er is best administer'd is best; For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight. His can't be wrong whose life is in the right, In faith and hope, the world will disagree, But all mankind's concern is charity; All must be false, that thwarts this one great end; And all of God that bless mankind, or mend. {Pope. "Orthodoxy, my Lord," said Bishop War- burton, in a whisper, — "orthodoxy is my doxy, — heterodoxy is another man's doxy.'' {Joseph Priestly. Dare to look up to God and say, Deal with me in the future as Thou wilt ; I am of the same mind as Thou art ; I am Thine ; I refuse nothing that pleases Thee ; lead me where Thou wilt; clothe me in any dress Thou choosest. {Epictetus. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe rae, than in half the creeds. ( Tennyson. Every one cleaves to the doctrine he has happened upon, as to a rock against which he has been thrown by tempest [Oicero. Faith is a higher faculty than reason. {Bailey. To add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. {Shakespeare. To-morrow I the mysterious unknown guest, Who cries to me : " Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest." And I make answer : " I am satisfied ; I dare not ask; I know not what is best ; God hath already said what shall betide." [Longfellow. There is one inevitable criterion of judgment touching religious faith in doctrinal matters. Can you reduce it to practice ? If not, have none of it. {Hosea Ballon. Faith is the subtle chain Which binds us to the Infinite : the voice Of a deep life within, that will remain Until we crowd it thence. {Elizabeth Oakes Smith. Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers : Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. ( Tennyson. To will what God doth will, that is the only science That gives us any rest. {Malherbe. They that deny a God destroy 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 a base and igno- ble creature. {Bacon. Better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. {Scott. Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light Up the blackness streaking ; Knowing God's own time is best, In a patient hope I rest For the full day-breaking ! ( Whittier. We shall be made truly wise if we be made content ; content, too, not only with what we can understand, but content with what we do not understand — the habit of mind which theologians call — and rightly— faith in God. ( Chas. Klngsley. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 799 "Patience!" . . . have faith, and thy prayer will be answered ! {Longfellow. Surely at last, far off, sometimes, somewhere, The veil would lift for his deep-searching eyes, The road would open for his painful feet, That should be won for which he lost the world, And Death might find him conqueror of death. {Edwin Arnold. Behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own. {Lowell. FAME. What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, ■ Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor ; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their " mid- night taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. [Byron. Fame, we may understand, is no sure test of ' merit, but only a probability of such : it is an accident, not a property of a man. {Carlyle. The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honor'd, or begets him hate ; For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. {Shakespeare. Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows huild. [Longfellow. I awoke one morning and found myself fa- mous. {Byron. Applause is the spur of noble minds, the end and aim of weak ones. ( C. C. Colton. And though the warrior's sun has set. Its light shall linger round us yet, — Bright, radiant, blest. {Don Jorge Manrique. The world knows the worst of me, and I can say that I am better than my fame. {Schiller. Who fears not to do ill yet fears the name, And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. {Denham. Nor fame I slight, nor for her favors call ; She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all. {Pope. He lives in fame, that died in virtue's cause. {Shakespeare. Reputation being essentially contemporane- ous, is always at the mercy of the Envi- ous and the Ignorant. But Fame, whose very birth is posthumous, aud which is only known to exist by the echo of its footsteps through congenial minds, can neither be increased nor diminished by any degree of wilfulness. {Mrs. Jameson. He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale. {Sam'l Johnson. Money will buy money's worth, but the thing men call fame what is it ? {Carlyle. Were not this desire of fame very strong, the difficulty of obtaining it, and the danger of losing it when obtained, would be suf- ficient to deter a man from so vain a pursuit. {Addison. Seven cities warr'd for Homer being dead. Who living had no roofe to shroud his head. { Thos. Hey wood. Reputation is a most idle and most false im- position ; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving. {Shakespeare. Good-will, like a good name, is got by many actions, and lost by one. {Jeffrey. Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown ; Oh grant an honest fame, or grant me none! {Pope. The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem. {Emefson. Fame is the echo of actions, resounding them to the world, save that the echo repeats only the last part, but fame relates all, and often more than all. {Fuller. 800 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. The sweetest of all sounds is praise. ( Xenophon. Who pants for glory, finds but short repose ; A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows. {Fope. Glory is like a circle in the water. Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught. (Shakespeare. The sweet remembrance of the just Shall flourish when he sleeps in dust. ( Tate and Brady. The man is vain who writes for praise ; Praise no man e'er deserved who sought no more. ( Young. Oh Fame !— if I e'er took delight in thy 'Twas less for the sake of thy high sounding phrases. Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. {Byron. Scarcely two hundred years back can Fame recollect articulately at all; and there she but maunders and mnmhles.^Carlyle. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph, than their ill report while you lived. [Shakespeare. Good men will yield thee praise ; then slight the rest; 'Tis best, praise-worthy, to have pleased the best. {Capt. John Smith. The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd hy art. Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart. ( Young. Great men die and are forgotten, Wise men speak ; their words of wisdom Perish in the ears that hear them. {Longfellow. FASHION. New customs. Though they be never so ridiculous, Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are followed. {Shakespeare. Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new. ( Tfioreau. Your supper ia like the Hidalgo's dinner: very little meat, and a great deal of ta- ble-cloth. {Longfellow. I see; that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. {Shakespeare. Every fancy you consult, consult your purse. {Franklin. Nothing is thought rare Which is not new, and follow'd; yet we know That what was worn some twenty years ago Comes into grace again. {Beaumont and Fletcher. Be not the first by whom the new are tryd, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. {Fopc_ There can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is in his clothes. {Shakespeare. FATE AND FORTUNE. Fate is the friend of the good, the guide of the wise, the tyrant of the foolish, the enemy of the bad. ( W. R. Alger. There is a tide in the affairs of men. Which, taken at the flood, leads onto fortune, Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. {Shakespeare. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate. {Pope. Except wind stands as never it stood. It is an ill wind turns none to good. ( Tusser. A woman's lot is made for her by the love she accepts. {George Eliot. I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness: And, from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting. {Shakespeare. What a glorious thing human life is and how glorious man's destiny. {Longfellow. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 801 The future works out great men's destinies; The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever. {Lowell. For fortune's wheel is on the turn, And some go up and some go down. {Mary F. Tucker. Full many a gem of purest ray serene. The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert air. {Gray. A brave man struggling in the storms of fate. {Pope. There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. {Shakespeare. Pitch a lucky man into the Nile, says the Arabian proverb, and he will come up with a fish in his mouth. ( Willis. On the pinnacle of fortune man does not long stand firm. {Goethe. Who shall shut out Fate ? {Edwin Arnold. Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men. {Byron, All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd ; Fortune brings in some boats, that are not steer'd. {Shakespeare. Some day, some day of days, threading the street, With idle, heedless pace, Unlooking for such grace, I shall behold your face ! Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet. {Nora Perry. Blind to former, as to future fate. What mortal knows his pre-existent state? {Pope. The irrevocable Hand That opes the year's fair gate, doth ope and shut The portals of our earthly destinies ; We walk through blindfold, and the noiseless doors Close after us, forever. {D. M. Mulock. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king ; and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm. {Shakespeare. With equal pace, impartial fate Knocks at the palace as the cottage gate. {Francis. And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro' nature, moulding men. ( Tennyson. Fate has carried me 'Mid the thick arrows: I will keep my stand. Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast To pierce another. ( George Eliot. But yesterday, the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world ; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. ( Shakespeare. Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to im- portune ; He had not the method of making a fortune. Gray. Fortune, men say, doth give too much to many, But yet she never gave enough to any. {Sir John Harrington. Fortune comes well to all that comes not late. {Longfellow. Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small ; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all. {Friederich von Logau. But, vain boast. Who can control his fate. {Shakespeare. Turn, turn my wheel ! turn round and round Without a pause, without a sound ; So spins the flying world away ! This clay, well mixed with marl and sand. Follows the motion of my hand ; For some must follow, and some command. Though all are made of clay ! (Longfellow. I am not now in fortune's power, He that is down can fall no lower. {Butler, 802 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n, Tliat each may till the circle niark'd by heaven. (Pope. Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. [Shakespeare. No living man can send me to the shades Before my time ; no man of woman born, Coward or brave, can shun his destiny. (Bryant. The heart is its own fate. (Bailey. Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather, Strikes through our changeful sky its com- ing beams ; Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams. (Bayard Taylor- Man proposes, but God disposes. ( Thomas cl Kempis. Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness : So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. (Longfellow Some are born great, some achieve greatness, And some have greatness thrust upon them. (Shakespeare. We walk amid the currents of actions left undone, The germs of deeds that wither before they see the sun. For every sentence uttered a million more are dumb : Men's lives are chains of chances, and History their sun. (Bayard Taylor. Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind. Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind, And who stands safest? tell me, is it he That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity, Or blest with little, whose preventing care In peace provides fit arms against a War. (Pope. Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate. (Sam I Johnson. 'Tis writ on Paradise's gate, " Woe to the dupe that yields to Fate!" (Hafiz. The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley. And leave us nought but grief and pain. For promised joy. (Burns. Two lives that once part, are as ships that divide When, moment on moment, there rushes be- tween The one and the other, a sea ; — Ah, never can fall from the days that have been A gleam on the years that shall be ! (Bulwer. All are architects of Fate Working in these walls of Time ; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. (Longfellow. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man ; To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blos- soms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. (Shakespeare. FRIENDSHIP. Friendship is the holiest of gifts ; God can bestow nothing more sacred upon us ! It enhances every joy, mitigates every pain. Everyone can have a friend, Who himself knows how to be a friend. ( Tiedge. Life is to be fortified by many friendships. To love and to be loved is the greatest happiness of existence. (Sydney Smith. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 803 Every friend is to the other a sun, and a sunflower also. He attracts and follows. {Richter. If we would build on a sure foundation in friendship, we must love our friends for their sakes rather than for our own. {Charlotte Bronte. Friendship is constant in all other things. Save in the office and affairs of love ; Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues ; Let every eye negotiate for itself. And trust no agent. {Shakespeare. Friendship, of itself an holy tie. Is made more sacred by adversity. {Dryden. Give me the avowed, the erect, and manly foe ; Bold I can meet — perhaps may turn his blow ; But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send. Save, save, oh ! save me from the candid friend. {George Canning. No friend's a friend till he shall prove a friend. {Beaumont and Fletcher. Dear is my friend — yet from my foe, as from my friend, comes good ; My friend shows what I can do, and my foe what I should. (Schiller. A true friend is forever a friend. {George MacDonald. Friends are like melons. Shall I tell you why? To find one good, you must a hundred try. {Claude Menuet. He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare, And he who has one enemy shall meet him everywhere. {Ali Ben Abu Taleb. For my boyhood's friend hath fallen, the pil- lar of my trust, The true, the wise, the beautiful, is sleeping in the dust. {Hillard. What good man is not his own friend ' {Sophocles. There are plenty of acquaintances in the world, but very few real friends. ( Chinese Moral Maxims. A foe to God was ne'er true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does. ( Young. Sweeter none than voice of fiiithful friend ; Sweet always, sweetest beard in loudest storm. Some I remember, and will ne'er forget. {Pollok. Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first prin- ciples. Have no friends not equal to yourself. ( Confucius. Who heart-whole, pure in faith, once written friend, In life and death are true, unto the end! {John Eslcn Cooke Friendship above all ties does bind the heart And faith in friendship is the noblest part. ( Earle. Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Haih seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendships: who depend On many, rarely find a friend. {Gay. For tho' the faults were thick as dust in va- cant chambers, I could trust your kind- ness. {Tennyson. He that will lose his friend for a jest, de- serves to die a beggar by the bargain. {Fuller. True friendship is like sound health, the val- ue of it is seldom known until it be lost. (C. C. Colton. All are friends in heaven, all faithful friends ; And many friendships in the days of time Begun, are lasting here, and growing still. {Pollok. True happiness Consists not in the multitude of friends. But in the worth and choice. Nor would I have Virtue a popular regard pursue : Let them be good that love me, though but few. {Ben Jonson. 804 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. f 'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How grows in Paradise our store. {Keble. Friendship is a wide portal, and sometimes admits love. (Anna Katharine Oreen. "Wal'r, my boy," replied the captain, "in the Proverbs of Solomon you will find the following words, ' May we never want a friend in need, nor a bottle to give him!' When found, make a note of." {Dickens. An open foe may prove a curse. But a pretended friend is worse. {Go,y- One faithful Friend is enough for a man's self; 'tis much to meet with such an one, yet we can't have too many for the sake of others. {Bruyere. First, on thy friend, deliberate with thyself; Pause, ponder, sift ; not eager in the choice, Nor jealous of the chosen ; fixing, fix ; Judge before friendship, then confide till death. ( Young. No one is so accursed by fate. No one so utterly desolate. But some heart, though unknown, unto his own. {Longfellow Whatever the number of a man's friends, there will be times in his life when he has one too few ; but if he has only one enemy, he is lucky indeed if he has not one too many. {Bulivcr. Great souls by instinct to each other turn, Demand alliance, and in friendship burn. {Addison. Defend me from my friends, I can defend myself from my enemies. [Shakespeare. Whoever knows how to return a kindness he has received, must be a friend above all price. [Buckley. Friends, if we be honest with ourselves. We shall be honest, with each other. [George MacDonald. I have loved my friends, a" I do virtue, My soul, my God. [Sir Thomas Browne. The highest compact we can make with our fellow, is,— Let there be truth between us two forevermore It is sublime to feel and say of another, I need never meet, or speak, or write to him ; we need not reinforce ourselves, or send tokens of remembrance ; I rely on him as on myself; if he did thus or thus, I know it was right. [Emerson. False friends are like our shadows, keeping close to us while we walk in the sun- shine, but leaving us the instant we cross into the shade. [Bovee. Our chief want in life, is, somebody who shall make us do what we can. This is the service of a friend. With him we are easily great." There is a sublime attrac- tion in him to whatever virtue is in us. How he flings wide the doors of exist- ence ! What questions, we ask of him ! what an understanding we have ! how few words are needed ! It is the only real society. [Emerson. There is no man so friendless but what he can find a friend sincere enough to tell him disagreeable truths. [Bulwer. Come back ! ye friendships long departed ! That like o'erflowing streamlets started, And now are dwindled, one by one, To stony channels in the sun ! Come back ! ye friends, whose lives are ended, Come back, with all that light attended. Which seemed to darken and decay When ye arose and went away ! [Longfellow. All the means of action — The shapeless mass, the materials — Lie everywhere about us. What we need j Is the celestial fire to change the flint Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. That fire is genius. [Longfellow. Talent is some one faculty unusually devel- oped; genius commands all the faculties. {F. H. Hedge. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 805 Genius can never despise labor. {Abel Stevens. Humor has justly been regarded as the finest perfection of poetic genius. {Carlyle. Genius is essentially creative; it bears the character of the individual who pos- { Madame de Stael. Genius must be born, and never can be taught. {Dry den. Genius and its rewards are briefly told : A liberal nature and a niggard doom, A difficult journey to a splendid tomb. {Forster. Genius, like humanity, rusts for want of use. {Hazlitt. As diamond cuts diamond, and one hone smooths a second, all the parts of in- tellect are whetstones to each other ; and genius, which is but the result of their mutual sharpening is character too. {Bartol. Fortune has rarely condescended to be the companion of genius. {Isaac Disraeli. Genius inspires this thirst for fame ; there is no blessing undesired by those to whom Heaven gave the means of winning it. {Madame de Stael. Genius finds its own road and carries its own lamp. ( Wilmot. Every man who observes vigilantly and re- solves steadfastly grows unconsciously into genius. {Bulwcr Lytton. {Buffon. G-nius is only great patience. Father of All ! in ev'ry Age, In ev'ry clime ador'd, By Saint, by Savage, and by Sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! {Pope. Open, ye heavens, your living doors ! let in The great Creator, from his work returned Magnificent, his sis days' work, a world. } {Milton, j Thou, my all ! My theme ! my inspiration ! and my crown I My strength in age ! my rise in low estate ! My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth ! my world ! My light in darkness ! and my life in death ! My boast through time ! bliss through eter- nity ! Eternity, too short to speak thy praise ! Or fathom thy profound love to man ! ( Young. Twas much, that man was made like God before ; But, that God should be made like man, much more. {Donne. Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a Judge, That no King can corrupt. {Shakespeare. All are but parts of one stupendous whole. Whose body Nature is, and God the soul. {Pope. God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform ; He plants his footsteps in the sea And rides upon the storm. {Cowper. " God !" sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad- some voice ! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow. And in their perilous fall shall thunder "God!" {Coleridge. HAPPINESS. To be strong Is to be happy. {Longfellow. No longer I follow a sound, No longei; a dream I pursue ; happiness not to be found, Unattainable treasure. Adieu. {Qnuper. The long days are no happier than the short ones. {Bailey. A light heart lives long. {Shakespeare. No eye to watch and no tongue to wound us. All earth forgot, and all heaven around us. {Moore. 80G GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere; 'Tis nowhere to be found, or ev'rywhere ; 'Tis never to be bought, but always free. {Pope. To be happy is not the purpose for which you were placed in this world. [Froude. The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken. [Longfellow. Mankind are always happier for having been happy ; so that,if you make them happy now, you make them happy twenty years hence by the memory of it. (Sydney Smith. Bliss in possession will not last ; Remember'd joys are never past ; At once the fountain, stream, and sea. They were, — they are, — they yet shall be. (Montgomery. The joy late coming la (Lewis J. Bates. A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market. (Lamb. How bitter a thing it is to look into happi- ness through another man's eyes. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind. ( Goldsmith. The most happy man is he who knows how to bring into relation the end and begin- ning of his life. {Goethe. Joys too exquisite to last, And yet more exquisite when past. (Montgomery. From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth ; he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bow string, and the little hangman dare not*shoot at him; he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper ; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks. (Shakespeare. Pleasure can be supported by illusion, but happiness rests upon truth. (Chamfort. Happiness is a ball after which we run wherever it rolls, and we push it with our feet when it stops. ( Goethe. Jog on, jog on the foot-path way And merrily hent the stile-a ; A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. (Shakespeare. Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own ; He, who secure within, can say. To. morrow do thy worst, for 1 have lived to- day. (Dryden. HEAVEN. Earth may be darkness; Heaven will give thee light. (Alice Bradley Neal. World ! if to thee, sin-stained, such lavish charms are given. How can a human thought conceive the spirit joys of heaven ! (Elizabeth F. Swift. When the shore is won at last. Who will count the billows past ? (Keble. The hasty multitude Admiring enter'd ; and the work some praise And some the architect: his hand was known In heaven by many a tower'd structure high, Where scepter'd angels held their residence, And sat as princes. (Milton. Attempt not to fathom the secrets of heaven. But gratefully use what to thee is here given : For none have returned from that realm of bliss, To tell how those fared who have prayed much in this. ( Omar Khayyam, No man saw the building of the New Jeru- salem, the workmen crowded together, the unfinished walls and unpaved street ; no man heard the clink of trowel and pickaxe; it descended out of heaven from God. (Seeley. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be Heaven's distant lamps. (Longfellow. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GliEAT THINKERS. 807 A broad and ample road, whose dust is cold And pavement stars, as stars to thee appear, Sfiem in the galaxy, that milky way. {Milton. Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ; Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; Dreams can not picture a world so fair — Sorrow and death may not enter there ; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom. For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb. It is there, it is there, my child ! (Mrs. Hemans. On every mountain height Is rest. (Goethe. Oh, some seek bread— no more — life's mere subsistence. And some seek wealth and ease— the common quest ; And some seek fame, that hovers in the dis- tance ; But all are seeking rest. (Langbridge. The commander says Rest ! and the weary soldier stacks his arms ; so will God give his people eternal rest, and they shall stack their arms in Heaven. (Niblock. The strength of a nation, especially of a re- publican nation, is in the intelligent and well-ordered homes of the people. (Afrs. Sigourney. At night returning, every labor sped. He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round survej's His children's looks that brighten at the blaze ; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, | Displays her cleanly platter on the board. | ( Goldsmith. { The house of every one is to him as his cas- i tie and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his repose. (Sir Edward Coke. He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home. (Goethe. 54 Home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty; where, Supporting and supported, polished friends And dear relations mingle into bliss. ( Thomson. By the fireside still the light is shining. The children's arms round the paienta twin- ing. From love so sweet, who would roam ? Be it ever so homely, home is home. (B. M. Mulock. There is no place like homo. (/. Howard Payne. HONOR. Take honor from me, and my life is done. (Shakespeare. Glory is sweet when our heart says to us that the wreath of honor ought to grace our head. ( Krummacher. The sense of honor is of so fine and delicate a nature, that it is only to be met with in minds which are naturally noble, or in such as have been cultivated by great examples, or a refined education. (Addison. Our own heart, and not other men's opinions, forms our true honor. (Coleridge. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honor, (Shakespeare. Honor and fortune exist for him who always recognizes the neighborhood of the great, always feels himself in the presence of high causes. (Emerson. His honor rooted in dishonor stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. ( Tennyson. When honor comes to you be ready to take it; But reach not to seize it before it is near. (John Boyle O'Reilly. Honors soften fatigue. It is easier riding in a gilded and embossed saddle. Atlas, while he sustains the world upon his shoulders, IS himself sustained by the admiration his feat excites. (Bovee. GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Better to die ten thousand deaths, Than wound my honor. {Addison. HOPE. He who hath health, hath hope, and he who hath hope hath everything. Despondency is ingratitude. Hope is God's worship. {Beecher. The setting of a great hope is like the set- ting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. The shadows of the evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection, itself a broader sha- dow, {Longfellow. Hope against hope, and ask till ye receive. {Montgomery. Where there is no hope there can be no en- deavor. [Samuel Johnson. Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away. {Cowper. In all my wanderings through this world of care, In all my griefs— and God has given my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down. {Goldsmith. Hope springs eternal in the human breast : Man never is but always to be blest. ( Fope. Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe. {Campbell. Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, And hope without an object cannot live. ( Coleridge. No hope so bright but is the beginning of its own fulfilment. {Emerso7i. 'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear ; Heaven were not heaven, if we knew what it were. {Suckling. Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, Having naught eke but Hope. {Longfellow. For hope is but the dream of those that wake. {Prior. Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At la?t — far off— at last, to all — And every winter change to spring. ( Tennyson. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall. Some days must be dark and dreary. {Longfellow. IMMORTALITY. It must be so — Plato thou reasonest well ! — Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror. Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 'Tis Heaven itself that points oul an hereafter And intimates Eternity to man. [Addison. We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth ; there is a realm where the rain- bow never fades, where the stars will be spread before us like islands that slumber on the ocean, and where the beings that pass before us like shadows will stay in our presence forever. {Bulwer. There is nothing strictly immortal, but immor- tality. Whatever hath no beginning may be confident of no end. {Sir Tliomas Browne. Thy eternal summer shall not fade. [Shakespeare. Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, tliat they might tell us What and where they be. ( Tennyson. If there was no future life, our souls would not thirst for it. (lachter- LIVlNCr THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 809 The stars shall fade away, the snn himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; But thou shall flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. {Addison. I feel my immortality oversweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, — and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears this truth, — thou livest for- ever ! (Byron. INFLUENCE. So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. {Longfellow. I want to help you to grow as beautiful as God meant you to be when he thought of you first. {George Mac Donald. Example has more followers than reason. We unconsciously imitate what pleases us, and insensibly approximate to the characters we most admire. In this way, a generous habit of thought and of action carries with it an incalculable influence. {Bovee. Blessed influence, of one true loving human soul on another. {George Eliot. Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away. {Byron. The work an unknown good man has done is like a vein of water flowing hidden underground, secretly making the ground green. {Carlyle. Each man is a hero and an oracle to some- body, and to that person whatever he says has an enhanced value. {Emerson. No nobler feeling than this, of admiration for one higher than himself, dwells in the breast of man. It is to this hour, and at all hours, the vivifying influence in man's life. ( Carlyle. I am a part of all that I have met. {Tennyson. §0 Those that think must govern those that toil. ( Goldsmith. No action, whether foul or fair, ^.^ , Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere Y^ ry y-^^ A record, written by fingers ghostly, J I o ' ' As a blessing or a curse, and mostly i^.j! — ^^"7"^^ In the greater weakness or greater strength" ' ^^ — ^ Of the acts which follow it. {Longfellow. may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence ; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self. In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars. And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. {George Eliot. INTELLECT. 'lis with our judgments as our watches ; none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. {Pope. The hand that follows intellect can achieve. {Michael Angela. It is no proof of a man's understanding to be able to confirm whatever he pleases ; but to be able to discern that what is true is true, and that what is false is false ; this is the mark and character of intelligence. ( Emerson. The more we know of any one ground of knowledge, the farther we see into the general domains of intellect. {Leigh Hunt. There are some mind? of which we can say, they make light; and for others only, they are warm. {Joubert. Mind unemployed is mind unenjoyed.(£ove€. Not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none. (Shakespeare. Works of the intellect are great only by com- parison with each other. (Emerson. 810 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. (Milton. Minds which never rest are subject to many- digressions. {Joubert. The very might of the human intellect re- veals its limits. [Madame Swetchine. Each mind has its own method. (Emerson. It requires a surgical opeiation to get a joke well into a Scotch understanding (Sidney Smith. He that will not reason is a bigot ; he that can not reason is a fool, and he that dares not reason is a slave. (Sir W. Drummond. Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, hut more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the Land of Song ; there lies the poet's native land. (Longfellow. JUSTICE. Justice is the key-note of the world, and all else is ever out of tune ( Theodore Parker. The gods Grow angry with your patience. 'Tis their care, And must be yours, that guilty men escape not: As crimes do grow, justice should rouse itself. (Ben Jonson. Be just in all thy actions; and if join'd with those that are not, never change thy mind. (Denham Give the devil his due. (Dryden. One of the Seven was wont to say : " That laws were like cobwebs ; where the small flies were caught, and the great break through. (Bacon. Our human laws are but the copies, more or less imperfect, of the eternal laws, so far as we can read them. (Froude. "Where law ends, tyranny b^crins. (Earl of Chatham. This even handed justice Commends the ingredients of our jioisoned chalice To our own lips. {Shakespeare. Whatever is, is in its causes just. (Dry den. Just laws are no restraint upon the freedom of the good, for the good man desires nothing which ajust law will interfere with. (Froude. Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice triumphs. (Longfellow. The law is a sort of hocus-pocus science, that smiles in yer face while it picks yer pocket ; and the glorious uncertainty of it is of mair use to the professors than the justice of it. (Macklin. When the state is most corrupt, then the laws are most multiplied. ( Tacitus. What stronger breast-plate than a heart un- tainted? Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just ; And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. (Shakespeare. KINDNESS. Kindness is the golden chain by which society is bound together. ( Ooethe. There is nothing so kingly as kindness and nothing so noble as truth. (Alice Cary. The greatest pleasure I know is to do a good action by stealth, ajid to have it foimd out by accident. (Lamb. As "unkindness has no remedy at law," let its avoidance be with you a point of honor. (Hosca Ballou. Swift kindnesses are best ; a long delay In kindness takes the kindness all away, ( Greek Anthology. There's no dearth of kindness In this world of ours ; Only in our blindness We gather thorns for flowers. (Masscv. Feet that run on willing errands! (Longfciiow. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 811 Kindness — a language which the dumb can speak, and the deaf can understand. {Bovee. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side. ( Goldsmith. 'Tis a little thing To give a cup of water ; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drain'd by feverish lips May give a thrill of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarian juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. ( Taljourd. The cheapest of all things is kindness, its ex- ercise requiring the least possible trouble and self-sacrifice. " Win hearts,'' said Burleigh to Queen Elizabeth, " and you have all men's hearts and purses." {Samuel Smiles. LABOR. No man is born into the world, whose work Is not born with him ; there is always work. And tools to work withal, for those who will ; And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! (Lowell. " To be employed," said the poet Gray, " is to be happy." " It is better to wear out than rust out," said Bishop Cumberland. " Have we not all eternity to rest in ?" exclaimed Arnauld. {Samuel Smiles. God helps them that help themselves. {Sir Philip Sidney. From labor there shall come forth rest. ( Longfellow. Let no one till his death Be called unhappy. Measure not the work Until the day's out and the labor done. {E. B. Browning. Without Labor there were no Ease, no Rest, so much as conceivable. ( Carlyle. Such hath it been— shall be— beneath the sun The many still must labor for the one. ( Byron. Toil is the lot of all, and bitter woe The fate of many. (Bryant. When we build, let us think that wo build (public edifices) for ever. Let it not be for the present delight, nor for present use alone, let it be such work as our de- scendants will thank us for, and let us think, as we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come when those stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched them, and that men will say as they look upon the labor and wrought substan.es of them, " See ! this our fath- ers did for us." (Ruskin. Taste the joy That springs from labor. (Longfellow. Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose ; he has found it and will follow it. (Carlyle. And many strokes, though with a litile axe. Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. (Shakespeare. I worked with patience' whicli is almost pow- er. (E. B. Browning. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight. But they, while their companions slept. Were toiling upward in the night. (Longfellow. Light 18 the task when many share the toil. (Bryant. All true Work is sacred ; in all true Work, were it but true hand-labor, there is something of divinenoss. (Carlyle. Whatever is worth doing at all is worth do- ing well. (Earl of Chesterfield. It is no man's business whether he has genius or not ; work he must, whatever he is, but quietly and steadily ; and the nat- ural and unforced results of .«uch work will be always the thing God meant him to do, and will be his best. (Ruskin. How far that little candle throws his beams So shines a good deed in a naughty world. (Shakespeare. 812 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. It is not work that kills men; it is worry. Work IS healthy; you can hardly put more upon a man than he can bear. Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not the revolution that destroys the machin- ery, but the friction. {Beccher. LIBERTY. Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know not what course others may take ; but, as for me, give me liberty, or give me death ! {Patrick Henry. Freedom has a thousand charms to show, That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. ( Cowper. Know ye why the Cypress tree as freedom's tree is known ? Know ye why the Lily fair as freedom's flower is shown ? Hundred arms the Cypress has, yet never plunder seeks ; With ten well-developed tongues, the Lily never speaks, {Omar Khayyam. Freedom is only in the land of Dreams ; And only blooms the Beautiful in Song ! {Schiller. The love of liberty with life is given, And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven. {Dryclen. Slaves cannot breathe in England : if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free ; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. {Coivper. Corrupted freemen are the worst of slaves. ( GarricJc. liberty ! liberty ! how many crimes are committed in thy name ! {Madame Roland. The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone. 1 dreamed that Greece might still be free. {Byron. Tlie human race is in the best condition, when it has the greatest degree of liberty. {Dante. Millions for defence, but not one cent, for tribute. {Pinhiey. He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free. And all are slaves besides. ( Cowper. We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. ( Wordsworth. This nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth, {Lincoln. Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? {Byron. My angel— his name is Freedom — Choose to be your king ; He shall cut pathways, east and west. And find you with this wing. {Emerson. What is life ? 'Tis a delicate shell Thrown up by Eternity's flow, On Time's bank of quicksand to dwell And a moment its loveliness show. Gone back to its element grand Is the billow that brought it on shore. See ! another is washing the strand And the beautiful shell is no more. {Anon. Life is a pure flame, and we live by an in- visible sun within us. {Sir TJiomas Broivne. We sleep, but the loom of life never stops ; and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up to-morrow. {Henry Ward Beccher. So that my life be brave, what though not long? {Drummond. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 813 A sacred burden is this life ye bear, Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly, Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. {Francis Anne Kenihle. That man lives twice that lives the first life well. {Herrick. There are two worlds ; the world that we can measure with line and rule, and the world that we feel with our hearts and imaginations. {Leigh Hunt. Sooner or later that which is now life shall be poetry, and every fair and manly trait shall add a richer strain to the song. [Emerson. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool, Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty, chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve. In all the magnanimity of thought; Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. And why ? because he thinks himself im- mortal. All men think all men mortal but them- selves. ( Young. That life is long which answers life's great end. ( Young. Life lives only in success. {Bayard Taylor. Thank God for life: life is not sweet always. Hands may be heavy-laden, hearts care full. Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days, And dreams divine end in wakening dull. Still it is life, and life is cause for jiraise. {Susan Coolidge. 'Tis not the whole of life to live; Nor all of death to die. {Montgomery. Life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns, And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers. Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. {Moore. Life let us cherish. {Nagelis. \ We have lived without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends ; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks He may live without books,— what is knowl- edge but grieving ? Pie may live without hope,— what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love, — what is passion but pining ? But where is the man that can live without dining? {Owen Meredith. Life is a comedy to him who thinks, and a tragedy to him who feels. [Horace Walpole. My life is like a stroll upon the beach. [ Thoreau. Life is the gift of God, and is divine. ( Longfellow. The shaping our own life is our own work. It IS a thing of beauty, it is a thing of shame, as we ourselves make it. We lay the corner and add joint to joint, we give the proportion, we set the finish. It may be a thing of beauty and of joy forever. God forgive us if we prevent our life from putting on its appointed g^ory. ( Ware. I know I am — that simple.st bliss The millions of my brothers miss. I know the fortune to be born. Even to the meanest wretch thev scorn. (Bayard Taylor. Our life contains a thousand springs, and dies if one be gone ; Strnnge that a harp of thousand strings Should keep in tune so long. ( Watts. I came at morn — 'twas spring, I smiled, The fields with green were clad ; I walked abroad at noon,— and lo! 'Twas summer, — I was glad ; I sate me down ; 'was autumn eve. And I with sadnesi? wept ; I laid me down at night, and then 'Twaa winter,— and I slept. [Mary Pyper 812 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. It is not work that kills men ; it is worry. Work IS healthy; you can hardly put more upon a man than he can bear. Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not the revolution that destroys the machin- ery, but the friction. {Beccher. LIBERTY. Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know not what course others may take ; but, as for me, give me liberty, or give me death ! {Patrick Henry. Freedom has a thousand charms to show. That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. ( Cowper. Know ye why the Cypress tree as freedom's tree is known ? Know ye why the Lily fair as freedom's flower is shown ? Hundred arms the Cypress has, yet never plunder seeks ; With ten well-developed tongues, the Lily never speaks. [Omar Khayyam. Freedom is only in the land of Dreams ; And only blooms the Beautiful in Song ! [Schiller. The love of liberty with life is given, And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven. {Dry den. Slaves cannot breathe in England : if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free ; They touch our country, and their shackles full. [Cowper. Corrupted freemen are the worst of slaves. ( Garrick. liberty ! liberty ! how many crimes are committed in thy name! {Madame Roland. The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone. 1 dreamed that Greece might still be free. [Byron. Tlie human race is in the best condition, when it has the greatest degree of liberty. [Dante. Millions for defence, but not one cent, for tribute. [Pinhicy. He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free. And all are slaves besides. [Cowper. We must be free or die, who sjteak the tongue That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. ( Wordsworth. This nation, under God, shall have a new birlh of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth. [Lincoln. Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? [Byron. My angel— his name is Freedom- Choose to be your king ; He shall cut pathways, east and west. And find you with this wing. [Emerson. What is life ? 'Tis a delicate shell Thrown up by Eternity's flow. On Time's bank of quicksand to dwell And a moment its loveliness show. Gone back to its element grand Is the billow that brought it on shore. See! another is washing the strand And the beautiful shell is no more. (Anon. Life is a pure flame, and we live by an in- visible sun within us. [Sir Tlwmas Browne. We sleep, but the loom of life never stops ; and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up to-morrow. [Henry Ward Beecher. So that my life be brave, what though not long? [Drummond. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 813 A sacred burden is this life ye bear, Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly. Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. {Francis Anne Kemble. That man lives twice that lives the first life well. {Herrick. There are two worlds ; the world that we can measure with line and rule, and the world that we feel with our hearts and imaginations. {Leigh Hunt. Sooner or later that which is now life shall be poetry, and every fair and manly trait shall add a richer strain to the song. {Emerson. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool. Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty, chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve. In all the magnanimity of thought; Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. And why? because he thinks himself im- mortal. All men think all men mortal but them- selves. ( Young. That life ia long which end. life's great ( Young. Life lives only in success. {Bayard Taylor. Thank God for life-, life is not sweet always. Hands may be heavy-laden, hearts care full. Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days, And dreams divine end in wakening dull, Still it is life, and life is cause for jiraise. {Susan Coolidge. 'Tis not the whole of life to live; Nor all of death to die. (Montgomery. Life is a waste of wearisome hours. Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns, And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. {Afoore. Life let us cherish . {Nagelis. We have lived without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends ; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks He may live without books,— what is knowl- edge but grieving ? He may live without hope,— what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love, — what is passion but pining ? But where is the man that can live without dining ? ( Owen Meredith. Life is a comedy to him who thinks, and a tragedy to him who feels. {Horace Walpole. My life is like a stroll upon the beach. ( Thoreau. Life is the gift of God, and is divine. ( Longfellow. The shaping our own life is our own work. It IS a thing of beauty, it is a thing of shame, as we ourselves make it. We lay the corner and add joint to joint, we give the proportion, we set the finish. It may be a thing of beauty and of joy forever. God forgive us if we prevent our life from putting on its appointed glor}'. ( Ware. I know I am— that simplest bliss The millions of my brothers miss. I know the fortune to be born. Even to the meanest wretch thcv scorn. {Bayard Taylor. Our life contains a thousand springs, and dies if one be gone ; Strange that a harp of thousand strings Should keep in tune so long. ( Watts. I came at morn — 'twas spring. I smiled. The fields with green were clad ; I walked abroad at noon,— and lo ! 'Twas summer, — I wa.i glad ; I sate me down ; 'was autumn eve. And I with Badness wept ; I laid me down at night, and then 'Twas winter, — and I slept. {Mary Pyper 814 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. A life in which nothing happens. [Auerbach. We live in deeds, not years, In thoughts, not breaths ; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most loves who thinks most, Feels the noblest, acts the best. ( Bailey. Our brains are seventy-year clocks. The angel of life winds them up at once for all, then closes the cases, and gives the I key into the hand of the angel of resur- rection. " Tic-tac, tic tac I '' go the wheels I of thought ; our will cannot stop them ; madness only makes them go faster. Death alone can break into the case, and, seizing the ever- swinging pen- dulum which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escape- ment we have carried so long beneath our aching foreheads. {Holmes. LOVE. The night has a thousand eyes ; — The day but one ; Yet the light of the whole world dies With the setting sun. The mind has a thousand eyes — The day but one ; Yet the light of the whole world dies When love is done. {Anon. I love thee, and I feel That on the fountain of my heart a seal Is set to keep its waters pure and bright For thee. {Shelley. There is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mothers heart. {Mrs. Hemans. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs : He brushes his hat o' mornings ; What should that bode ? {Shakesj^eare. He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit; He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in his suit. (•'^^^'''■ A woman always feels herself complimented by love , though it may be from a man incapable of winning her heart, or per- haps even her esteem. {Abel Stevens. If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning. (Longfellow. Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty ; A beggar that is dumb you know, May challenge double pity. {Sir Waller Raleigh. Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence. {Byron. When a man loves a woman, it is of nature : when a woman loves a woman, it is of grace — of the grace that woman makes by her loveliness. {Charles F. Deems. They love least, that let men know their love. {Shakespeare. A woman cannot love a man she feels to be her inferior; love without veneration and enthusiasm is only friendship. {Madame Dudevant. The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom ; to serve all and love but one. {Balzac. Alas ! how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love ! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied ; — That stood the storm when waves were rough. Yet in a sunny hour fall off, — Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity. {Moore. Ah, Fool ! faint heart fair lady ne'er could win. [Spenser. Pity is akin to love. {Southern Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : Not the light gossamer stirs with less ; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast. [Holmes. All mankind love a lover. {Emerson. The presence of those we love makes us com- passionate and generous {Longfellow. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 816 A pressing lover seldom wants success, Whilst the respectful, like the Greek, sits down And wastes a ten years' siege before one town. {liowe. Blessed through love are the gods — through love Their bliss to ourselves is given ; Heavenlier through love is the heaven above And love makes the earth a heaven. (Schiller. jealousy is said to be the offspring of Love. Yet, unless the parent makes haste to strangle the child, the child will not rest till it has poisoned the parent. [A. W. Hare. She is coming my own. my sweet ; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed : My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet. Ana blossom in purple and red. { Tennyson. Life outweighs all things if Love lies within it. [Goethe. Love is the emblem of eternity : it confounds all notion of time : effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end. {Madame de Sta'el. I do not love thee less for what is done. And cannot be undone Thy very weakness Hath brought thee nearer to me, and hence- forth My love will have a sense of pity in it. Making it less a worship than before. (Lonqfellow The fruit that can fall without shaking. Indeed is too mellow for me {Lady Montague But he who stems a stream with sand. And fetters flame with flaxen band, Has yet a harder task to prove — By firm resolve to conquer love ! [Scott Love is like fire. Wounds of fire are hard to Ota. ; harder still are those of love. \ Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. t Love is master of all arts. And puts it into human hearts j The strangest things to say and do. ( Longfellow. Of all the paths that lead to woman's love Pity's the straightest. [Beaumont. The strongest, love will instantly make weak ; Strike the wise dumb ; and teach the fool to speak. [Shakespeare. I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all. ( Tennyson. We love only partially till we know thor- oughl3^ Grant that a closer acquaint- ance reveals weakness; — it will also dis- close strength. ( Bovee. Mysterious love, uncertain treasure. Hast thou more of pain or pleasure ! * * * * -x- * * Endless torments dwell about thee : Yet who would live, and live without thee ! [Addison. But to see her was to love her. Love but her, and love for ever. ( Burns. The heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close. As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets. The same look which she turn'd when be rose. [Moore. Your love in a cottage is hungry. Your vine is a nest for flies— Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies ! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning. Is shod like a mountaineer. ( ^Fillis. Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; If it enrich not the heart of another, its wa- ters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment ; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. [Longfellow. 816 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Love is a boy by poets styl'd ; Then spare the rod and spoil the child. [Butler. Rugged strength and radiant beauty — These were one in nature's plan ; Humble toil and heavenward duty— These will form the perfect man. {Sarah J. Hale. Men, in general, are but great children. {Napoleon. He is a man who knows bow to die for his God and his country ; his heart, his lips, his arms, are faithful unto death. {Ernest Arndt. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. {Shakespeare. Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is man. {Pope. No sadder proof can be given by a man of his own littleness than disbelief in great men. {Carlyle. Unless above himself he can Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ! {Daniel. Man is his own star, and that soul that can Be honest is the only perfect man. {John Fletcher. It matters not what men assume to be ; Or "ood, or bad, they are but what they are. ( Bailey. heaven ! were man But constant, he were perfect; that one error Fills him with faults. {Shakespeare. Before man made us citizens, great Nature made us men. {Lowell. A man will be what his most cherished feel- ings are. If he encourage a noble gen- erosity, every feeling will be enriched by it; if he nurse bitter and envenomed thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the poison. {Anon. He who hunts for flowers, will find flowers ; and he who loves weeds, may find weeds. {Beecher. Men in great place are thrice servants: servants of the sovereign or state; serv- ants of fame ; and servants of business. {Bacon. Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow. The rest is all but leather or prunella. (Pope. The only competition worthy a wise man, is with himself. {Mrs. Jameson. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. {Shakespeare. Be a philosopher ; but amidst all your phil- osophy — be still a man. {Hume. I hold every man a debtor to his profession ; from the which as men of course do seek to receive countenance and profit, so ought they of duty to endeavor them- selves by way of amends to be a help and ornament thereunto. {Bacon. The scientific study of man is the most difficult of all branches of knowledge. {Holmes. An honest man's the noblest work of God. (Pope. Man is but a reed, the weakest in nature ; but he is a reed which thinks. The uni- verse need not rise in arms to crush him ; a vapor, a drop of water, suffices to kill him. But were the universe to crush him, man would still be greater than the power which killed him ; for he knows that he dies, and of the advantage which the universe has over him, the universe knows nothing. {Pascal. MATRIMONY. As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman : Though she bends him, she obeys him : Though she draws him, yet she follows ; Useless each without the other ! {Longjcllow. God, tlie best maker of all marriages. Combine your hearts in one. {Shakespeare. How much the wife is dearer than the bride. (Lord Lyttlcton. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 817 Their souls are enlarged forevermore by that union, and they bear one another about in their thoughts continually as it were a new strength. {George Eliot. What is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife ; When friendship, love, and peace combine To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? ( Cowper. In the election of a wife, as in A project of war, to err but once is To be undone forever. {Middleton. But, ye lords of ladies intellectual ! Inform us truly, have they not henpecked you all ? {Byron. Then come the wild weather, — come sleet or come snow. We will stand by each other, however it blow ; Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain. Shall be to our true love as links in the chain. {Longfellow. She is mine own ; And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. {Shakespeare. Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch in life. The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife. Who has no will but by her high permission ; Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; Who mu.st to her his dear friend's secret tell ; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart. {Bums. All other goods by Fortune's hand are given. A wife is the peculiar gift of Heaven. {Pope. A wife, domestic, good and pure. Like snail should keep within her door : But not, like snail, with silver track. Place all her wealth upon her back. ( W. W. How. As the husband is the wife is ; thou art mated with a clown. And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down, ( Tennyson. I chose my wife, as she did the wedding gown, for qualities that wear well. ( Goldsmith- Never marry but for love ; but see that thou lovest what is lovely. ( William Penn. She who ne'er answers till a Husband cools, Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ;' Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, Yet has her humor most, when she obeys. (Pope. With thee goes Thy husband ; him to follow thou art bound ; Where he abides, think there thy native soil. {Milton. The man at the head of the house can mar the pleasure of the household ; but he cannot make it. That must rest with the woman, and it is her greatest privilege. ( Helps. Sail forth into the sea of life, gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be ! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives. {Longfellow. MEMORY. Hail, memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine, From age to ageunnumber'd treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! {liogers. Blest Is he whose heart is the home of the great dead. And their great thoughts. {Bailey. Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out. {JRichter. Memory, like a purse, if it be over-full that it cannot shut, all will drop out of it; take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to feed on many things, lest the greediness of the appetite of thy memory spoil the digestion thereof. {Fuller. 818 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustle in the dark. [Longfellow- Tho' lost to sight to mem'ry dear Thou ever wilt remain. {Oeo. Linlcy. Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo ! what myriads rise ! Each stamps its image as the other flies ! ( Rogers. To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. ( Thomas Campbell. There is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song ; there is a remembrance of the dead, to which we tu"Vn even from the charms of the living. These we would not exchange for the song of pleasure or the bursts of revelry. [Irving. I have a room whereinto no one enters Save I myself alone ; There sits a blessed memory on a throne, There my life centres. [Christina O. Rosetti. The heart hath its own memory, like the mind, And in it are enshrined The precious keepsakes into which is wrought The giver's loving thought. [Longfellow. Long, long be my heart with sweet memories fiU'd ! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd ; You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. [Moore. MERCY. The quality of mercy is not strained ; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven. Upon the place beneath ; it is twice bless'd ; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. [Shakespeare. He that cannot forgive others, breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself; for every man has need to be forgiven. {Lbrd Herbert. | The greatest attribute of Heaven is mercy. [Beaumont and Fletcher. A merely fallen enemy may rise again, but the reconciled one is truly vanquished. [Schiller. Forgiveness to the injured does belong. But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong. [Dry den. Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near tliem then in being merciful Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge. [Shakespeare. Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive, divine. [Pope. For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter Of the Eternal's language; — on earth it is called Forgiveness! [Longfellow. His heart was as great as the world, but there was no room in it to hold the memory of a wrong. [Emerson. The more we know, the better we forgive. Whoe'er feels deejilj-, feels for all who live. [Madame de Stael. God ! how beautiful the thought. How merciful the blessed decree, That grace can e'er be found, when sought. And naught shut out the soul from Thee ! [Eliza Cook. Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will : 'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill. [Beaumont and Fletcher. Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, Let us be merciful as well as just ! [Longfellow. Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see ; That mercy I to others show. That mercy show to me. [Pope. MUSIC. Music is the inarticulate speech of the heart, which cannot be compressed into words, because it is infinite. ( Wagner. Of all the arts, great music is the art To raise the soul above all earthly storms. [Leland. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 819 Music sweeps by me as a messenger carrying a message that is not for me. (George Eliot. God is its author, and not man ; he laid The key-note of all harmonies ; he planned All perfect combinations, and he made Us so that we could hear and understand. (i/. O. Brainard. Music is the universal language of mankind. (Longfellow. Soft is the music that would charm forever. ( Wordiworth. Music arose with its voluptuous swell. Soft eyes look d love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. (Byron. The man that hath no music in his soul, Nor is not moved by concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treason, stratagem and spoils. Let no such man be trusted. (Shakespeare. The song on its mighty pinions Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven. (Longfellow. See deep enough, and you see musically ; the heart of Nature being everywhere music, if you can only reach it. (Carlyle. There is no feeling, perhaps, except the ex- tremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music — that does not make a man sing or play the better. ( Oeorge Eliot. The Father spake! In grand reverberations Through space rolled on the mighty music tide, While to its low, majestic modulations. The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside. ***** And wheresoever, in his rich creation, Sweet music breathes — in wave, or bird, or soul — 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation Of that great tune to which the planets roll! (Frances S. Osgood. What martial music is to marching men, Should song be to humanity. (Alexander Smith. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. (Shakespeare. I have a passion for ballads They are the gypsy-children of song, born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes and by-paths of literature — in the genial Summer-time. (Longfellow. The gift of song was chiefly lent. To give consoling music for the joys We lack, and not for those which we possess. (Bayard Taylor. Better to have the poet's heart than brain, Feeling than song ; but better far than both, To be a song, a music of God's making. ( George MacBonald. God sent bis Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth. That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to Heaven again. (Longfellow. Let me die to the sounds of delicious mu.«ic. (Last words of AEraheau. Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, to soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak. [Congreve He is dead, the sweet musician! ***** He has moved a little nearer To the Master of all music. (Longfellow. Sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony, But organically I am incapable of a tune. (Lamh. Such music (as, 'tis said,) Before was never made. But when of old tlie sons of morning sung. While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanc'd world on hingps hung. (Milton. Sweetest the strain when in the song The singer has been lost. (Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Dischord ofte in musick makes the sweeter lay. (Spenser. 820 GEAIS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 'Tis God gives skill, But not without men's hands : He could not make Antonio Stradivari's violins Without Antonio. {George Eliot. Heaven's thunders melt In music ! {John Hookham Frere. Music washes away from the soul the dust of every-day life. {Auerbach. Yea, music is the Prophet's art ; Among the gifts that God hath sent, One of the most magnificent ! {Longfellow. Rich celestial music thrilled the air From hosts on hosts of shining ones, who thronged Eastward and westward, making bright the night. {Edwin Arnold. Music tells no truths. {Bailey. Music resembles Poetry ; in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach. And which a master-hand alone can reach. {Pope. Song forbids victorious deeds to die. {Schiller. Music is the art of the prophets, the only art that can calm the agitations of the soul ; it is one of the most magnificent and de- lightful presents God has given us. {Luther. There is music in all things, if men had ears. Byron. The meaning of song goes deep. Who is there that, in logical words, can express the effect music has on us? A kind of inarticulate, unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge of the infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that {Carlyle. Nature, the vicar of the almightie Lord. ( Chaucer. Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings. {Bryant. Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. ( Coleridge. Earth has built the great watch-towers of the mountains, amd they lift their heads far up into the sky, and gaze ever upward and around to see if the Judge of the World comes not ! .{Longfellow. Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. With a diadem of snow. {Byron. Nothing in nature is unbeautiful. {Tennyson. Art may err, but nature cannot miss. {Dry den. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. {Shakespeare. Two voices are there ; one is of the sea. One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice. ( Wordsworth. Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part ; Do thou but thine ! {Milton. Nature's great law, and law of all men's minds ? — To its own impulse every creature stirs ; Live by thy light, and earth will live by her's? {Matthew Arnold. The course of nature is the art of God. ( Young. To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she A various language. {Bryant. So nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go, Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know. {Longfellow. OCEAN. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin— his control Stops with the shore. {Byron. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 821 I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more. {Barry Cornwall. Distinct as the billows, yet one as the sea [Montgomery. The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! The blue, the fre?h, the ever free ! {Barry Cornwall. The sea is flowing ever, The land retains it never. {Goethe. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar. {Byron. Praise the sea, but keep on land. {Herbert. The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, Deep it lies at thy very feet. {Longfellow. Mystery of waters, — never slumbering sea ! {Montgomery. Why does the sea moan evermore ? Shut out from heaven it makes its moan, It frets against the boundary shore ; All earth's full rivers cannot fill The sea, that drinking thirsteth still. {Christina O. Eosetti. Love the sea? I dote upon it — from the beach. {Douglas Jerrold. The ocean's surfy, slow, deep, mellow voice, full of mystery and awe, moaning over the dead it holds in its bosom, or lulling them to unbroken slumbers in the cham- bers of its vasty depths {Halihurton. PATRIOTISM. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said , This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd. From wandering on a foreign strand ! {Scott. America ! half-brother of the world ! With something good and bad of every land ! {Bailey. Where the coward that would not dare to fight for such a land ! [Scott. England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country ! and, while yet a nook is left Where English mind and manners may be found. Shall be constraint to love thee. {Cowper. Our country ! In her intercourse with foreign nations, may she always be in the right ! but our country, right or wrong. {Stephen Decatur. Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great ! {Byron. We join ourselves to no party that does not carry the flag and keep step to the music of the Union. {Eufus Choate_ Wake in our breasts the living fires. The holy faith that warmed our sires; Thy hand hath made our Nation free ; To die for her is serving Thee. {Holmes. The patriot boasts, where'er he roam. His first, best country, ever is at home. {Goldsmith. Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet ( Longfellow. Our countrj'— whether bounded by the St. John's and the Sabine, or however other- wise bounded or described, and be the measurements more or less ; — still our country, to be cherished in all our hearts, to be defended by all our hands. [Bobt. C. Winthrop. National enthusiasm is the gi eat nursery of genius. ( Tuckermnn. Had I a dozen sons, — each in my love alike, — I had rather have eleven die nobly for their countr}', than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. ( Shaln^pcare. Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still, [Churchill. I was born in America ; I live an American ; I shall die an American. {Daniel Webster. 822 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. My dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to lleav'n is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content. {Burns. America is a fortunate country. She grows by the follies of our European nations. ( Napoleon. Thus, too, sail on, ship of State ! Sail on, Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears. With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! (Longfellow. Let our object be, our country, our whole country, and nothing but our country. (Daniel Webster. My country, 'tis of thee. Sweet land of liberty, — Of thee I sing: Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrim's pride, From every mountain's side Let freedom ring. [Saml. F. Smith. PEACE AND WAR. Peace hath her victories No less renowned than war. (Milton. How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone. (Moore. O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade; Where rumor of oppression and deceit Of unsuccessful or successful war Might never reach me more. (Cowper. War! that mad game the world so loves to play. (Swift. Let the bugles sound the Truce of God to the whole world forever. (Charles Sumner. Peace the offspring is of Power. (Bayard Taylor. War, War is still the cry, " War to the knife." (Byroji. The combat deepens. On ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave ! Wave Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry. ( Campbell. What though the field be lost ! All is not lost — the unconquerable will. And study of revenge, immortal hate. And courage never to submitbr yield : And what is else not to be overcome. ( Milton. 'Tis a principle of war that when you can use the lightning, 'tis better than cannon. (Napoleon. Peace is the happy, natural state of man ; war his corruption, his disgrace. { Thomson. I am a man of peace. God knows how I love peace. But I hope I shall never be such a coward as to mistake oppression for peace. (Kossuth- All delays are dangerous in war. (Dry den. To be prepared for war is one of the most effectual ways of preserving peace. (George Washington. Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won. (Duke of Wellington, One to destroy, is murder hy the law ; And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe ; To murder thousands, takes a specious name, War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame. ( Young. As on the sea of Galilee, The Christ is whispering "Peace." ( Whittier. A song for our banner ? The watchword re- call Which gave the Republic her station ; " United we stand — divided we fall !'' It made and preserves us a nation ! ' (George P. Morris. We love peace as we abhor pusillanimity ; but not peace at any price. There is a peace more destructive of the manhood of living man than war is destructive of his material body. Chains are worse than bayonets. (Douglas Jerrold. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 823 Buried was the bloody hatchet ; Buried was the dreadful war-club ; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten ; Then was peace among the nations. {Longfellow. For voices pursue hira by day And haunt him by night, — And he listens, and needs must obey, When the angel says — " Write ! " ( Longfellow. And, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew Soul-animating strains, — alas ! too few. ( Wordsworth. Poesy is of so,subtle a spirit, that in the pour- ing out of one language into another it will evaporate. {Denham. Poetry is something to make us wiser and better, by continually revealing those types of beauty and truth which God has set in all men's souls. (Lowell. It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem. {Emerson. A poet not in love is out at sea ; He must have a lay-figure. {Bailey. Like the river, swift and clear. Flows his song through many a heart, {Longfellow. Poetry is itself a thing of God ; He made His prophets poets ; and the more We feel of poesie do we become Like God in love and power, — under-makers. {Bailey. Superstition is the poesy of life, so that it does not injure a poet to be superstitious. ( Ooethe. Poetry is music in words, and music is poetry j in sound ; both excellent sauce, but they ' have lived and died poor that made ihem their moat. {FulUr. Poetrv is the music of the soul, and above all of groat and feeling souls. ( Voltaire. 5n " Give me a theme," a little poet cried, " And I will do my pari," " 'Tis not a theme you need," the world re- plied ; " You need a heart." {Gilder. There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The ei<sence of an artist is that he should be articulate. {Swinburne. Three poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd, The next, in majesty, in borh, the last. The force of nature could no further go : To make a third, she join'd the former two. {Dry den. Next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one! {Longfellow. Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coarsest men. {Lowell. I do loves poetry, sir, 'specially the sacred. For there be summut in it . which smooths a man's heart like a clothes brush, wipes away the dust and dirt, and sets all the nap right. {Bulwer-Lytton. All that is best in the great poets of all coun- tries is not what is national in them, but what is universal. {Longfellow. Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipt' me in ink, my parents' or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. {Pope. . PRAYER. Father of life and light ! Thou Good Supreme ! Save me from folly, vanity and vice. From every low pursuit! and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure: Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss ! ( Thomson. 824 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. The greatest prayer is patience. {Buddha. Let prayer be the key of the morning, and the bolt of the eyemng.{ Matthew Henry. Every wish Is like a prayer— with God. {E. B. Browning. Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed, The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. {Montgomery. The saints will aid if men will call : For the blue sky bends over all. {Coleridge. And Satan trembles when he sees The weakest saint upon his knees. {Cowper. Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. {Charles M. Dickinson. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain. If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? For so the whole round world is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. ( Tennyson. Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right. Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever pray, Though hope be weak or sick with long delay ; Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. {Hartley Coleridge. They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright! {Bums. So have I dreamed !— Oh, may the dream be true ! — That praying souls are purged from mortal hue. And grow as pure as He to whom they pray, {Hartley Coleridge. He prayeth best who loveth best All creatures great and small, For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. {Coleridge. Prayer moves the hand which moves the world. {John Aikman Wallace. READING. 'Tis the good reader that makes the good book ; a good head cannot read amiss ; in every book he finds passages which seem confidences or asides hidden from all else, and unmistakably meant for his ear. {Emerson. The man who is fond of books is usually a man of lofty thought and of elevated opinions. {Dawson. We should accustom the mind to keep the best company by introducing it only to the best books. {Sydney Smith. Resolve to edge in a little reading every day, if it is but a single sentence. If you gain fifteen minutes a day, it will make itself felt at the end of the year. {Horace Mann. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and con- sider. {Bacon. The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend: when I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles the meeting with an old one. {Goldsmith. Learn to read slow ; all other graces Will follow in their proper places. {Wm. Walker. If we encountered a man of rare intellect, we should ask him what books he read. {Emerson. If I were to pray for a taste which would stand by me under every variety of circumstances, and be a source of hap- piness and cheerfulness to me through life it would be a taste for reading. {Hcrschcl. RELIGION. They serve God well Who serve his creatures. {Xorton. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GIIEAT THINKERS. 825 All the glory and beauty of Christ are mani- fested within, and there he delights to dwell ; his visits there are frequent, his condescension amazing, his conversations sweet, his comforts refreshing ; and the peace that he brings passelh all under- standing. ( Thomas d Kempis. The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, Sheds on my breast its long forgotten peace, And shining steadfast as the noonday sun, Lights me along the path that duty marks. (L. J. Hall. Who falls for love of God, shall rise a star. {Ben Jonson. A religious life is a struggle and not a hymn. {Madame de Sta'el. Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my king, he would not in my age Have left me naked to mine enemies. {Shakespeare. Man always worships something ; always he sees the Infinite shadowed forth in some- thing finite; and indeed can and must so see it in any finite thing, once tempt him well to keep his eyes thereon. {Carlyle. What greater calamity can fall upon a nation than the loss of worship. {Emerson. Persecution is a bad and indirect Way to plant religion. {Sir TJiomas Browne. Eeligious contention is the devil's harvest. {La Fontaine. If men are so wicked with religion, what would they be without it ? {Franklin. Keligion rests on its own majesty. {Goethe. Christians have burned each other, quite per- suaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did. {Byron. The higher a man is in grace, the lower he will be in his own esteem. {Spurgeon. Religion is the best armor in the world, but the worst cloak. {Bunyan. Men will wrangle for religion ; write for it ; fight for it ; die for it ; anything but — live for it. (C. C. Colton. The body of all true religion consists, to be sure, in obedience to the will of the Sovereign of the world, in a confidence in His declarations, and in imitation of His perfections. {Burke. Who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest. They also serve who only stand and wait. {Mlton. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame Will never mark the marble with his Name. {Pope. She (the Roman Catholic Church) may still exist in undiminished vigor, when some traveler from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's. {ilacaulay. Wherever God erects a house of prayer. The devil always builds a chapel there. {De/oe. G— knows I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean. Than under gospel colors hid be Just for a screen. {Bums. God never gave man a Ihing to do concern- ing which it were irreverent to ponder how the Son of God would have done it. ( George MacDonald. A little philosopliy inclineth a man's mind to atheism, but depth in philosophy bringeth men's minds about to religion. ( Bacon. Morality without religion is only a kind of dead reckoning,— an endeavor to find our place on a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have run, but without any observation of the heavenly bodies. {Longfellow. 826 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Rather let my head stoop to the block than these knees bow to any save the God of heaven. {Shakespeare. Then come, O fresh spring airs, once more Create the old delightful things, And woo the frozen world again With hints of heaven upon your wings ! {Harriett Prescott Spofford. I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long, I come o'er the mountain with light and song : Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy gra.'^s, By the green leaves, opening as I pass. [Mrs. Hemans. Spring is a beautiful piece of work, and not to be in the country to see it done is the not realizing what glorious masters we are, and how cheerfully, minutely, and uuflaggingly the fair fingers of the sea- son broider the world for us. ( Willis. In the wood, the verdure'.s shooting, Joy-oppress'd, like some fair maiden ; Yet the sun laughs sweetly downward : "Welcome, young spring, rapture-laden!" {Heine. Came the spring with all its splendor. All its birds and all its blossoms. All its flowers and leaves and grasses. [Longfellow. Youth of the year ! celestial spring ! Again descend thy silent showers ; New loves, new pleasures dost thou bring. And earth again looks gay with flowers. ( Thomas Love Peacock. Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil. (Heber. Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Bock'd in the cradle of the western breeze. ( Cowper. Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and music ; Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. [Longfellow. Starred forget-me-nots smile sweetly. Ring, blue-bells, ring ! Winning eye and heart completely, Sing, robin, sing ! All among the reeds and rushes, Where the brook its music hushes, Bright the calopogon blushes, — Laugh, murmuring Spring. [Sara'h F. Davis. Every tear is answered by a blossom. Every sigh with songs and laughter blent Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them. April knows her own, and is content. [Susan Coolidge. They'll come again to the apple tree — Robin and all the rest — When the orchard branches are fair to see In the snow of the blossoms dressed, And the prettiest thing in the world will be The building of the nest. [Margaret E. Sangster. In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets him- self another crest ; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. ( Tennyson. Sweet is the air with the budrling haws. And the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees. As if covered with the lightest snow. [Longfellow. All green and fair the Summer lies, Just budded from the bud of Spring, With tender blue of wistful skies, And winds which softly sing. ( Susan Coolidge. From brightening fields of ether, fair dis- closed, Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes ; In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth, He comes, attended by the sultry Hours, And ever-fanning breezes, on his way. [ Thomson. LlVINPr THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 827 And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays. {Lowell. summer day beside the joyous sea ! summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain ! Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain. (Lonf/Jellou:. The full ripe corn is bending In waves of golden light; The new-mown hay is sending Its sweets upon the night; The breeze is softly sighing, Too cool the parched flowers ; The rain, to see them dying, Weeps forth its gentle showers; The merry fish are playing, Adown yon crystal stream ; And night from day is straying, As twilight gives its gleam. {Thovias J. Ouseley. It's surely summer, for there's a swallow : Come one swallow, his mate will follow, The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken. [Christina G- Rosetti. The sky Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder. In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show In forked flashes a commanding tempest. {Byron. Heat, ma'am ! it was so dreadful here that I found there was nothing left for it but to take oflf my flesh and sit in my bones. {Sydney Smith. How beautiful is the rain ! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, How beautiful is the rain ! {Longfellow. The lands are lit With all the autumn blaze of Golden Rod ; And everywhere the Purple Asters nod And bend and wave and flit. {Helen Hunt. From all the misty morning air, there comes a summer sound, A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo. (E. W. G%lder. Grieve, ye autumn winds! Summer lies low ; The rose's trembling leaves will soon be shed, For she that loved her so, alas ! is dead, And one by one her loving children go. {Adelaide A. Procter. I love to wander through the woodlands hoary In the soft light of an autumnal day, When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, And like a dream of beauty glides away. {Sarah Helen Whitman. The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it brought to the fields the prodigality of the golden harvest,— to the forest, reve- lations of light, and to the sky, the sharp air, the morning mist, the red clouds of evening. {Longfellow. Now Autumn's fire burns slow along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. ( William Allingham. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. {Bryant. There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes. Pouring new glory on the autumn woods. And dripping in warm light the pillared clouds. (Longfellow. The trees in the autnmn wind rustle. The night is humid and cold. {Heine. 828 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; There was that nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet. ( Longfellow- The wind moans like a long wail from some despairing soul shut out in the awful storm ! ( W. Hamilton Oibson. I love that moaning music which I hear In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul Seems gathering tidmgs from another sphere. [Barry Cornwall. "When shrieked The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades That met above the merry rivulet. Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still ; they seemed Like old companions in adversity. [Bryant. Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs — and that is all. [Susan Coolidge. Lastly came Winter, cloathed all in frize. Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill ; Whils't on his hoary beard his breath did And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill As from a limebeck did adown distill : In his right hand a tipped staffe he held. With which his feeble steps he stayed still : For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; That scarce his loosed limbes he hable was to weld. [Spenser. Where, twisted round the barren oak. The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. (Longfellow. The frost looked forth one still clear night. (Hannah F. Gould. His breath like silver arrows pierced the air, The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet. His finger on all flowing waters sweet Forbidding lay— motion nor sound was there : — Nature was frozen dead, -and still and slow, A winding sheet fell o'er her body fair. Flaky and soft, from his wide wings oi snow. [Frances Anne Kemhle. Winter! ruler of th' inverted year, 1 crown thee king of intimate delights; Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness. And all the comforts that the lowly roof C>f undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know. ( Cowpcr. Oh poverty is disconsolate! — Its pains are many, its foes are strong; The rich man in his jovial cheer, Wishes 'twas winter through the year; The poor man 'mid his wants profound, With all his little children round. Prays God that winter be not long ! [Mary Howitt. Shout now ! The months with loud acclaim. Take up the cry and send it forth ; May, breathing sweet her Spring perfumes, November thundering from the North, With hands upraised, as with one voice, They join their notes in grand accord; Hail to December! say they all. [Hoyt. I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play. And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! [Longfellow. Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad ; The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike. No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, j So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. (Shakespeare. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 829 England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale ; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. {Scott. We ring the bells and we raise the strain, We hang up garlands everywhere And bid the tapers twinkle fair, ' And feast and frolic — and then we go Back to the same old lives again. {Susan Coolidge. Out of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft and slow Descends the snow. {Longfellow. Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white. 'Tis brightness all ; save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. ( Thomson. Silently, like thoughts that come and go, the snow flakes fall, each one a gem. ( W. Hamilton Gibson. How beautiful it was, falling so silently, all day long, all night long, on the moun- tains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead. ( Longfellow. Stand here by ray side ami tnrn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies ; And out ol that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow. Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake. {Bryant. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end^ {Emerson. The silent falling of the snow is to me one of the most solemn things in nature. {Longfellow. Up rose the wild old winter-king, And shook his beard of snow ; " I hear the first young hare-bell ring, 'Tis time for nie to go ! Northward o'er the icy rocks, Northward o'er the sea. My daughter comes with sunny locks: This land's too warm for me !'' {Leland. SIN. I could not live in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God. {George Eliot. Man-like is it to fall into sin. Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, God-like is it all sin to leave. {Longfellow. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind ; The thief doth fear each bush an officer. {Shakespeare. He who does evil that good may come, pays a toll to the devil to let him into heaven. (.1. W. Hare. Duly advis'd, the coming evil shun : Better not do the deed, than weep it done. {Prior. Vice is a monster of .<;o frightful mien. As, to be hated, needs but to be seen ; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face. We first endure, then pity, then embrace. {Pope. We do not despise all those who have Vices, but we despise all those who have not a single Virtue. ( Rochefoucauld. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light {Shakespeare. iO GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. That is the bitterest of all, — to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing. [George Eliot. Where lives the man that has not tried, How mirth can into folly glide, And folly into sin ? {Scott. ■ How guilt once harbor'd in the conscious breast. Intimidates the brave, degrades the great. {Sam I Johnson. Some temptations come to the industrious, but all temptations attack the idle. {Spur g eon _ Sometimes we are devils to ourselves, When we will tempt the frailty of our powers. Presuming on their changeful potency. {Shakespeare. Many a man's vices have at first been nothing worse than good qualities run wild. {Hare. The devil tempts us not — 'tis we tempt iim. Beckoning his skill with opportunity. {George Eliot. " He shall not die, by God," cried he. The Accusing Spirit which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath blushed as he gave it in : and the Recording Angel as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word and blotted it out forever. { Sterne. SLEEP. Sleep, thou repose of all things ; Sleep, thou gentlest of the deities ; thou peace of the mind, from which care flies ; who dost soothe the hearts of men wearied with the toils of the day, and refittest them for labor. {Ovid. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar. Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, suryiassing this — " He giveth His beloved sleep." {E. B. Browning. Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep ! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles ; the wretched he for- sakes. ( Young. Our life is two-fold ; Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath. And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy. ( Byron. Blessings light on him who first invented sleep ! it covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak ; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot ; in short, money that buys everything, balance and weight that makes the shepherd equal to the monarch, and the fool to the wise ; there is only one evil in sleep, as I have heard, and it is that it resembles death, since between a dead and a sleeping man there is but little difference. {Cervantes. Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath. Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. {Shakespeare. I am weary, and am overwrought With too much toil, with too much care dis- traught. And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek, peaceful Sleep ! {Longfellow. She sleeps, her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps : on either hand up swells The gold fringed pillow lightly prest : She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. ( Tennyson. Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch ! while in slumbers light She sleeps ! My lady sleeps ! Sleeps! {Longfellow. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 831 Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. [Longfellow. SOLITUDE. Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth ; for a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love. [Bacon. He enter'd in his house— his home no more. For without hearts there is no home ; — and felt The solitude of passing his own door Without a welcome. [Byron. For solitude sometimes is best society. And short retirement urges sweet return. [Mdton. Nature has presented us with a large faculty of entertaining ourselves alone, and often calls us to it, to teach us that we owe ourselves in part to society, but chiefly and mostly to ourselves. [Montaigne. Eagles we see fly alone ; and they are but sheep which always herd together. [Sir P. Sidney. Among them, but not of them. [Byron. Where should the scholar live ? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark gray town ? 0, they do greatly err who think that the stars are all the poetry which cities have ; and therefore that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees. [Longfellow. So lonely 'twas that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. Coleridge. He makes a solitude, and calls it peace. [Byron. No doubt solitude is wholesome, but so is abstinence after a surfeit. The true life of man is in society. [Simms. They are never alone who are accompanied with noble thoughts. [Sir P. Sidney. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea, And not a saint took pity On my soul in agony. [Coleridge. I was never less alone than when with myself. ( Gibbon. blest retirement, friend to life's decline. Retreat from care, that never must be mine, How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try. And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! ( Goldsmith. SORROW. This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain, But under them all there runs a loud per- petual wail, as of souls in pain. [Longfellow. A Saviour's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. [Tennyson. He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow. [Bailey. To live beneath sorrow one mast yield to it. [Madame de Stael. On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh ; The rocks moan wildly as it passes by : Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand. And not a flower adorns the dreary land. [Bryant. Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. [Longfellow. There are a good many real miseries in life that we cannot help smiling at, but they are the smiles that make wrinkhs and not dimples. [Holmes. Over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. ( Tennyson. No greater grief than to remember day? Of joy wheu misery is at hand. [Dante. 832 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Night brings out stars as sorrow shows us truths. {Bailey. weary hearts ! slumbering eyes ! drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again. (Longfellow. In this world, full often our joys are only the tender shadows which our sorrows cast. {Beecher. Each time we love, We turn a nearer, and a broader mark To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes. {Alexander Smith. The first bringer of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, Remember'd knoUing a departed friend. {Shakespeare. Small griefs find tongues; full casques are ever found To give, if any, very little sound. Deep waters noyselesse are ; and this we know, That chiding streams betray small depth below. {Herrick. lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting! O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy ! {Longfellow. Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. {Pollok. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear. {Oeorge Eliot. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more : Too common ! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. ( Tennyson. Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not More gnef than ye can weep for. That is well — That is light grieving ! {K B. Browning. With silence only as their benediction, God's angels come Where in ihe shadow of a great affliction. The soul sits dumb ! ( Whittier. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it. {Byron. 0, well has it been said, that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak ! {Lotigfellow. The day drags through, though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on. {Byron. THOUGHT. Oh the fetterless mind ! how it wandereth free Through the wildering maze of Eternity ! {Henry Smith. Thought is the property of him who can entertain it ; and of him who can ade- quately place it. A certain awkwardness marks the use of borrowed thoughts ; but as soon as we have learned what to do with them, they become our own. {Emerson. Learning without thought is labor lost, thought without learning is perilous. ( Confucius. Thought once awakened does not again slumber. ( Carlyle. What Exile from himself can flee ? To zones though more and more remote. Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life — the demon Thought. {Byron. The thoughts that come often unsought, and, as it were, drop into the mind, are com- monly the most valuable of any we have, and therefore should be secured, because they seldom return again {Locke. Among mortals second thoughts are wisest. {Euripides. A good thought is indeed a great boon for which God is to be first thanked ; next he who is the first to utter it, and then, in the lesser, but still in a considerable degree, the friend who is the first to quote it to us. (Bovee. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 833 Great thoughts, like great deeds, need no trumpet. {Bailey. Men's thoughts are much according to their inclination. [Bacon. Let our thoughts meet in heaven ? (Madame de Stael. As you grow ready for it, somewhere or other you will find what is needful for you in a book or a friend, or, best of all, in your own thoughts — the eternal thought speaking in your thought. (George MacDonald. It is not always the depth or the novelty of a thought which constitutes its value to ourselves, but the fitness of its applica- tion to our circumstances. (Sewell. A thought is often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times. It has come to you over a new route, by a new and express train of association. (Holmes. Thought discovered is the more possessed. ( Young. God delights in true, earnest thinkers. (Dwight. In the end thought rules the world. There are times when impulses and passions are more powerful, but they soon ex- pend themselves ; while mind, acting constantly, is ever ready to drive them back and work when their energy is ex- hausted. (McCosh. Thinking is the talking of the soul with it- self. (Plato. TIME AND ETERNITY. A wonderful stream is the River Time, As it runs through the realms of Tears, With a faultless rhythm, and a musical rhyme, And a broader sweep, and a surge sublime As it blends with the ocean of Years. (Benjamin F. Tui/lor. Therefore well does Agathon say, " Of this alone is even God deprived, the power of making that which is past never to have been." (Aristotle. That great mystery of Time, were there no other ; the illimitable, silent, never- resting thing called Time, rolling, rush- ing on, swift, silent, like an all-embrac- ing ocean-tide, on which we and all the Universe swim like exhalations, like ap- paritions which are, and then are not: this is forever very literally a miracle ; a thing to strike us dumb — for we have no word to speak about it. (Carlyle. " I've lost a day " — the prince who nobly cried, Had been an emperor without his crown. ( Young. All is created and goes after order ; yet o'er the mankind's Life time, the precious gift, rules an uncertain fate. '(Goethe. Know the true value of time ; snatch, seize, and enjoy every moment of it. No idle- ness, no laziness, no procrastination : never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day. (Earl of Chesterfield. I hear the mufiled tramp of years Come stealing up the slope of Time, They bear a train of smiles and tears. Of burning hopes and dreams .sublime. (James G. Clarke. Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. No man has learned anything rightly, until he knows that every day is Doomsday. (Emerson. Time conquers all, and we must Time obey. (Pope. Day and night, Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost Shall hold their course, till fire purge all things- (Mhon. What is Time? The shadow on the dial,— the striking of the clock,— the running of the sand, — day and night, — summer and winter, — months, years, centuries; — these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time it- self. Time is the Life of the Soul. (Longfellow. He who knows most, grieves most for wasted time. (BanU. 834 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. This day was j^esterday to-morrow nam'd: To-morrow shall be yesterday proclaimed : To-morrow not yet come, not far away, What shall to-morrow then be call'd? To- day. {Owen. For the next win he spurs amain. In haste alights, and scuds away, — But time and tide for no man stay. ( Wm. Somerville. Defer not till to-morrow to be wise. To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise; Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy sight With her enlivening and unlook'd for light, How grateful will appear her dawning rays. As favors unexpected doubly please. ( Congreve. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yester- day out of our recollection ; and will in turn be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. ( Washington Irving. God has commanded time to console the un- happy. (Joubert. Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime; Unheeded flew the hours, How noiseless falls the foot of time That only treads on flowers ! {Spencer. I see that time divided is never long, and that regularity abridges all things. {Madame de StaH. Some say " to-morrow " never comes, A saying oft thought right ; But if " to-morrow " never came, No end were of to-night. The fact is this, time flies so fast, That e'er we've time to say " To-morrow's come," presto ! behold ! " To-morrow " proves " To-day." {Author Unknoiun. The end crowns all ; And that old common arbitrator. Time, Will one day end it. {Shakespeare. However we pass Time, he passes still, Passing away whatever the pastime. And, whether we use him well or ill. Some day he gives us the slip for the last time. {Owen Meredith. Time flies on restless pinions— constant never. Be constant — and thou chainest time forever. {Schiller. Nought treads so silent as the foot of time ; Hence we mistake our Autumn for our prime. ( Young Nothing that is can pause or stay ; The moon will wax, the moon will wane. The mist and cloud will turn to rain. The rain to mist and cloud again, To-morrow be to-day. [Longfellow. Expect, but fear not Death : Death cannot kill, Till Time (that first must seal his patent) will, Wouldst thou live long? keep Time in high esteem ; Whom gone, if thou canst not recall, redeem. ( Quarles. Whence is the stream of Time ? What source supplies Its everlasting flow ? What gifted hand Shall raise the veil by dark Oblivion spread. And trace it to its spring ? What searching eye Shall pierce the mists that veil its onward course. And read the future destiny of man ? ( Tfiomas Love Peacock. How short our happy days appear ! How long the sorrovvful ! {Jean Ingelow. Time wasted is existence ; used, is life. ( Young. The present hour alone is man's. {Saml Johnson. Beneath me flows the Rhine, and, like the stream of Time, it flows amid the ruins of the past. {Longfellow. Forever haltless hurries Time, the Durable to gain. Be true, and thou shalt fetter Time with ever- lasting chain. {Schiller. Come, gone, — gone forever, — Gone as an unreturning river, — Gone as to death the merriest liver, — Gone as the year at the dying fall,— To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never, — Gone once for all. {Christina O. liosetti. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 835 No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed. {Byron. Who shall contend with time, — unvanquished time, the conqueror of conquerors and lord of desolation. [H. K. White. One always has time enough, if one will apply it well. ( Goethe. When all else is lost, the future still remains. (Bovee. By the street of " By-and-by " one arrives at the house of " Never." {Cervantes. The every-day cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giv- ing its pendulum a true vibration, and its hands a regular motion ; and when they cease to hang upon the wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move, the clock stands still. {Longfellow. Threefold the stride of Time, from first to last! Loitering slow, the Future creepeth— Arrow-swift, the Present sweepeth — And motionless for ever stands the Past. {Schiller. Time is the chrysalis of eternity. {Richter. Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought. {Addison. TREES AND FLOWERS. A large, branching, aged oak is perhaps the most venerable of all inanimate objects. {Shenstone. The highest and most lofty trees have the most reason to dread the thunder. ( Rollin.. Trees, that like the poplar, lift upward all their boughs, give no shade and no shelter, whatever their height. Trees the most lovingly shelter and shade us, when, like the willow, the higher soar their summits, the lower droop their boughs. {Bulwer- Lytton. Ivy clings to wood or stone. And hides the ruin that it feeds upon. ( Cowper. Flowers have an expression of countenance as much as men or animals. Some seem to smile ; some have a sad expression ; some are pensive and diffident; others again are plain, honest and upright, like the broad-faced sunflower and the holly- hock. {Henry Ward Beccher. Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. ( Bryant. Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and gold- en, Stars, that in the earth's firmament do shine. {Longfellow. Hope smiled when your nativity was cast. Children of Summer ! ( Wordsworth. Daisies infinite Uplift in praise their little glowing hands O'er every hill that under heaven expands. {Ebenezer Elliott. Daisies quaint, with savor none. But golden eyes of great delight, That all men love, they be so bright. {Owen Meredith. Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste. {Shakespeare, We bring daisies, little starry daisies, The angels have planted to remind us of the sky. When the stars have vanished they twinkle their mute praises, Telling, in the dewy grass, of brighter fields on high. {Read. All flowers will droop in absence of the sun that waked their sweets. {Dryden. And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white. {E. B. Browning. " Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thv glory, Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours ; How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transi- tory Are human flowers I '' {Horace Smith. 836 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. Is there not a soul beyond utterance, half nymph, half child, in those delicate petals which glow and breathe about the centres of deep color ? ( George Eliot. Art thou a type of beauty, or of power, Of sweet enjoyment, or disastrous sin ? For each thy name denoteth. Passion-flower! no ! thy pure corolla's depth within "We trace a holier symbol ; yea, a sign 'Twixt God and man ; a record of that hour When the expiatory act divine Cancelled that curse which was our mortal dower. It is the Cross ! (Sir Aubrey de Vere. It never rains roses ; when we want To have more roses we must plant more trees. ( George Eliot. Aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow. But crush'd or trodden to the ground, Difluse their balmy sweets around. ( Goldsmith. Woo on, with odor wooing me, Faint rose, with fading core ; For God's rose-thought, that blooms in thee, Will bloom for evermore. ( George MacDonald. TRUST. ■ To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved. {George MacDonald. Confidence is a plant of slow growth. [Earl of Chatham. Better trust all and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving. Than doubt one heart which, if believed Had blessed one's life with true believing. (Frances Anne Kemhle. He who betrays the secret of his friend be- cause he has quarreled with him, was never worthy the name of friend. No breach of friendship can ever justify a breach of trust. (Anon. No soul is desolate as long as there is a hu- man being for whom it can feel trust and reverence. {George Eliot. Trust not him that hath once broken faith. {Shakespeare. I have play'd the fool, the gro.ss fool, to be- lieve The bo.som of a friend will hold a secret, Mine own could not contain. {Massinger. TRUTH. O, while you live, tell truth ; and shame the devil. (Shakespeare. Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like A star new-born that drops into its place. And which, once circling in its placid round, Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. (Lowell. 'Tis strange — but true; for truth is always strange. Stranger than fiction. (Byron. But what is truth ? 'Twas Pilate's question put To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. ( Cowper. Truth is truth, though from an enemy, and spoken in malice. (G. Lille. Truth is easy, and the light shines clear In hearts kept open, honest and sincere! (Abraham Coles. The deepest truths are best read between the lines, and, for the most part, refuse to be written. (Alcott. True as the dial to the sun. Although it be not shined upon. (Butler. To God, thy country, and thy friend be true. ( Vaughan. The dignity of truth is lost With much protesting. (Ben Jonson. Who never doubted, never half believed. Where doubt, there truth is — 'tis her shadow. (Bailey. Truth comes to us from the past, as gold is washed down from the mountains of Si- erra Nevada, in minute but precious par- ticles, and intermixed with infinite alloy, the debris of centuries. (Bovce. Once to every man and nation, comes the mo- ment to decide. In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side. {Lowell. LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 837 He is the free-man whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves besides. {Cowper. Truth crushed to earth shall rise again : The eternal years of God are hers ; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers. {Bryant. VIRTUE. There have been men who could play delight- ful music on one string of the violin, but there never was a man who could produce the harmonies of heaven in his soul by a one-stringed virtue. [Chapin. Recommend to your children virtue ; that alone can make happy ; not gold. {Beethoven. Virtue maketh men on the earth famous, in their graves illustrious, in the heavens immortal. {Child. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. ( Tennyson. A little learning is a dangerous thing ; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring ; Their shallow draughts intoxicate the brain. And drinking largely sobers us again. {Pope. Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it. {Sam'l Johnson. When you know a thing, to hold that you know it ; and when you do not know a thing, to allow that you do not know it ; this is knowledge. {Confucius. Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. {Cowper. Knowledge is, indeed, that which, next to virtue, truly and essentially raises one man above another. {Addison. Learning passes for wisdom among those who want both. {Sir W. Temple. The fool is happy that he knows no more. {Pope. He might be a very clever man by nature, for all I know, but he laid so many books upon his head that his brains could not move. {Robert Hall. The maxim ' Know thyself does not suffice ; Know others ! — know them well — that's my advice. ^{Menander. If a man empties his purse into his head, uq one can take it from him. {Franklin. Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. {Oray. A life of knowledge is not often a life of in- jury and crime. {Sydney Smith. Tell (if you can) what is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known, To see all other's faults, and feel our own. {Pope. To know thyself — in others self discern; Would'st thou know others? read thyself— and learn ! {Schiller. Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume ; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond weighty, solid, sound ; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam ; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still. ( Young. Nothing is more terrible than active igno- rance. ( Goethe. Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread. {Pope. WOMAN. 0, woman ! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made: When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou ! {Scott. Not she with trait' rous kiss her Saviour stung, Not she denied him with unholy tongue; She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave, Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave. {Barrett. 838 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. But one upon Earth is more beautiful and better than the wife — that is the mother. [L. Schefer. The foundation of domestic happiness is faith in the virtue of woman. {Landor. The future destiny of the child is always the work of the mother. {Napoleon. And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dig- nify, A woman, so she's good, what does it signify? (Byron. Her voice was ever soft, gentle and low ; an excellent thing in woman. {Shakespeare. Like a lovely tree She grew to womanhood, and between whiles Rejected several suitors, just to learn How to accept a better in his turn. {Byron. Earth's noblest thing, a woman perfected. {Lowell. Happy he With such a mother ! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things hi^h Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay. ( Tennyson. And nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, ; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, 0. {Burns. YOUTH AND AGE. child ! new-born denizen Of life's great city ! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed Like a celestial benison ? Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. {Longfellow How beautiful is youth ! how bright it gleams With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend ! {Lonrjfdlow. A babe in a house is a well-spring of plea- sure. ( Tapper. Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! ( Wordsworth. Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say. When the rich casket shone in bright array, " These are my jewels ! " Well of such as he, When Jesus spake, well might the language be, " Suffer these little ones to come to me ' '' {Rogers. Standing with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet ! ( Longfellow. Be wise with speed, A fool at forty is a fool indeed. ( Young. Years follow'ng years, steal something ev'ry day ; At last they steal us from ourselves away, ( Pope. Dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would re- veal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. ( Campbell. It is difficult to grow old gracefully. {Madame de Stael. The youth of the soul is everlasting and eternity is youth. {Richter. Old age is courteous — no one more : For time after time he knocks at the door, But nobody says, " Walk in, sir, pray ! '' Yet turns he not from the door away. But lifts the latch, and enters with speed. And then they cry, " A cool one, indeed." ( Goethe. Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the swelling of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the brusk. ( Oeorge McDonald. Life's shadows are meeting Eternity's day. {James O. Clarke. Time has laid his hand upon my heart gently, I not smiting it, but as a harper lays his open palm upon his harp, to deaden us vibrations. {Longfellow. SENTIMENTS AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS. "When sunny memories round thy path Their magic fancies gaily bind, When retrospection bears its part And brings the forms of friends to mind, The hand that traced these lines would clair A thought adorned in Friendship's name. Count that day lost, whose low descending sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done. Gladly I give thee my token — 'Tis a prayer that thy future may be A pathway of peace all unbroken, Naught bringing sadness to thee. Accompany your own flag through the world under the protection of your own cannon. Attempt the end and never stand in doubt, Nothing's so hard but search will find it out. Be what your friends think you are ; Avoid what your enemies say you are. To those who know thee not, no words can paint ! And those who know thee, know all words are faint ! Finish all thy work, then rest — Till then, rest never ; The rest, prepared for thee by God, Is rest forever. Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; Cherib^h some flower, be it ever so lowly ; Labor,— all labor is noble and holv. Whene'er the clouds of sorrow roll, and trials whelm the mind. When faint with grief thy wearied soul no joys on earth can find, Then lift thy voice to God on high, dry up the trembling tear. And hush the low complaining sigh. Fear not, thy God is near. Act well at the moment, and you have per- formed a good action to all eternity. Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven. Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me- nots of the angels. May your joys be as deep as the ocean. Your sorrows as light as its foam. These little souvenirs po.ssess not their greatest value when first written; but as time, with scythe in hand, passes along, and we are left standing, we are not the same, but these lines remain. Some, to cheer the saddened by awak- ening slumbering memories of better things; and others serving as guide- boards on the road to eternity. Death cannot sever The ties that bind our souls through mortal years — They last forever I May the Angels twine for thee A wreath oi immortality. 839 840 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. To thine own self be true ; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one May hope to achieve it before life is done ; But he who seeks all things wherever he goes, Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows A harvest of barren regrets. The proudest motto for the young — Write it in lines of gold Upon thy heart, and in thy mind The stirring words enfold ; And in misfortune's dreary hour, Or fortune's prosperous gale, 'Twill have a holy, cheering power— " There's no such word a,sfail." Our lives are songs ; God writes the words, And we set them to music at pleasure, And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad As we choose to fashion the measure. We must write the music, whatever the song, Whatever its rhyme or metre. And if it is glad we may make it sad, Or if sweet we may make it sweeter. As gold more splendid from fire appears. So friendship strengthens with the lapse years. Heaven is not gained by a single bound, But we climb the ladder by which we rise ; From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. And we mount to the summit, round and round. May all that is brightest and fairest In life, be thy portion and share ; Be happy, God's blessing attend thee. Is ever my wish and my prayer. The heights by great men reached and kept. Were not attained by sudden flight ; But they, while their companions slept. Were toiling upwards in the night. For every ill beneath the sun There is a remedy, or none ; If there be one, resolve to find it. If none, submit and never mind it. Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm. Use what talents you possess ; the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there but those which sang the best. Hope for the best, get ready for the worst, and then take what God sends. Though the day be ever so long, It bringeth at last to even song," When the roses of life are faded. And our steps are sad and slow. May we think with tender longing Of the days of long ago ; When our girlish aspirations Were so innocent and bright, Ere on our lives had fallen The shadow of the night. So should we live that every hour, May die as dies the natural flower ; That every word and every deed May bear within itself the seed Of future good, for future need. Look forward, not backward. Not inward but outward, Not downward but upward. When memory with her jeweled hand, Counts o'er her gems by life's bright sea, Drop not my pearl upon the strand. But keep it and remember me. Blest be thy passage o'er the changing sea Oi life; the clouds be few that intercept Thy light of joy ; the waves roll gently on Beneath thy bark of hope and bear thee safe To meet in peace, thy Father— God. Humble we must be, if to Heaven we go, High is the roof there, but the gate is lew. SENTIMENTS FOR ALBUMS. 841 May ev'ry page of this fair book On its smooth surface bear Some kindly wish, some generous thought, Or wit-gem sparkling fair. Each autograph the signet be Of some true-hearted friend ; The memory of whose genial soul Will ever sunshine lend. Oh, let my friendship in the wreath, Though but a bud among the flowers. Its sweetest fragrance round thee breathe,- 'Twill serve to soothe thy weary hours. These few lines which here I trace Tears may not change nor age efface. They may be read, though valued not When he who penned them is forgot. A life without a purpose is like a ship at sea without a destination ; the course of eacli will be uncertain, but the sad end sure. Were it not for the clouds that darken upon us, there would be no rainbows in our lives. If vou would be loved, be lovable. We shape, ourselves, the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets. And simple faith than Norman blood. Every man's life is God's fingers. fairy-tale written by ships meet at sea, a moment together, when words of greeting must be spoken, and then away into the deep, so men meet in this world; and I think we should cross no man's path without hail- ing him, and, if he needs, giving him supplies. The tissue of the life to be We weave with colors all our own And in the field of Destiny We reap as we have sown. He doeth well who doth his best — lie doeth well who strives. Noblest efforts sometimes fail But never noble lives. Friendship is no plant of hasty growth, Though planted in esteem's deep fixed soil The gradual culture of kind intercourse Must bring it to perfection. Run if you like, but try to keep your breath, Work earnustly, but don't be worked to death. My friend, if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air But waft thy name beyond the sky. Our actions are like the terminations of verses which we rhyme as we please. Be true to your word and your work and your friend. Trust men, and they will be true to you : treat them greatly, and they will show them- selves great. Here's a lesson that he who runs may read. Though I fear but few iiave won it. The be.«t reward of a kindly deed Is the knowledge of having done it. What you can do or dream you can begin it; Boldness has genius, power and magic in it; Only engage and then the mind grows heated ; Begin, and the work will be completed. Look not at life by that dim light Which through thy curtained window creeps. What can a soul discern that weeps ? Go, share the fight, leave self behind; Give others joy, and thou .ehalt find, Even in affliction, peace of mind ; In weakness, heavenly might. 842 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. I will not wish thee grandeur, Nor do I wish thee wealth ; But only a contented mind, Peace, happiness and health ; Fond friends to love thee dearly And honest friends to chide, And faithful ones to cleave to thee. Whatever may betide. Wouldst thou be a happy liver, Let the past be past forever ! Fret not, when prigs and pedants bore you ; Enjoy the good that's set before you ; But chiefly hate no man : the rest Leave thou to God, who knows what's best. Either never attempt, or persevere to the end. Each gift that God bestows on thee With others freely share ; And let each act of sacrifice Be hallowed by a prayer. Of all earthly music, that which reaches the farthest into heaven is the beating of a loving heart. From tempests rough, and storm winds wild, Would thy parent shield her child. And. upon her bosom bear All thy coming load of care. But the Father says, " Tis best Thou shouldst find thro' toil thy rest, And the blooming of thy life Yield its perfume to the strife." Hours are golden links, God's token Reaching heaven ; but, one by one, Take them, lest the chain be broken, Ere thy pilgrimage be done. The skylark and the nightingale Though small and light of wing, Yet warbles blither than all birds That in the wildwoods sing. And so a little maiden fair. Though but a bird- like thing, Is sweater than all other sweets, E'en flowers that blow in spring Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; And so make life, death, and the vast forever One grand, sweet song. To bear is to conquer our fate. I slept and" dreamed that life was Beauty ; I woke and found that life was Duty ; — Was my dream then a shadowy lie? Toil on, faint heart, courageously Follow the one, and thou shalt see The other still will follow thee. Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. Prosperity attend thee, my loved and gentle friend. May fortune still befriend thee, and all its pleasures lend ; Through life as thou dost wend thee, may Heaven its blessing send, Like seraphs to attend thee, forever more my friend. We see not a steji before us As we tread on another year, But the past is in God's keeping The future His mercy shall clear. We must know that in this theatre of life, It remaineth only to God and the angels to be lookers on. Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. Who does the best his circumstance allows. Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more. Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead. Will rise in majesty to meet thine own. May your ways be ways of pleasantness, And all your paths be peace. SENTIMENTS FOR ALBUMS. 843 Be noble in every thought And in every deed ! May the cliains of friendship formed by the linki^ which are dropped here, serve to unite you more closely in spirit with the friends who have worked it. May each , link be brought to a white heat in i the fires of Love ; and, forged on the anvils of Truth, may they be strong as iron, yet light as air ; keeping you bravely to the duties of Life. And when the chain of human bondage shall be broken, may they become flowers of eternal brightness in the gardens from whence cometh exceeding yieace. He who is false to present duty breaks a thread in the loom, and will find tlie flaw when he may have forgotten its cause. Guard well thy thoughts ; our thoughts are heard in heaven. The mould of a man's fortune is in his own hands. Our lives are albums, written through With good or ill — with false or true — And, as the blessed angels turn The pages of our years, God grant they read the good with smiles, And blot the bad with tears. May there be just clouds enough o'er your life to cause a glorious sunset. I pray the prayer of Plato old ; God make thee beautiful within ; And let thine eye the good behold In everything, save sin. Methinks long years have flown, And, sitting in her old arm-chair, has older grown. With silver sprinkled in her hair. Her album thus she holds, And turns its many pages o'er. And wonders if it still contains The memories of yore. As o'er these pages thus she runs, With many a sigh and kis^, Then suddenly she stops and says, " Who could have written this ? " Get thy spindle and thy di God will send thee flax. =taff rcadv, and We may write our names in Albums, We may trace them in the sand ; We may chisel them in marble, With a firm and skillful liand : But the pages soon are sullied. Soon each name will fade away ; Every monument will crumble, Like all earthly hopes, decay. But, dear friend, 'there is an Album, Full of leaves of snowy white, Where no name is ever tarnished, But forever pure and bright. In that Book of life, God's Album, May your name be penned with care : And may all who here have written, Have their names forever there. Every person is responsible for all the good within the scope of his abilities, and for no more, and none can tell whose sphere is the largest. Honor is the hill wliich few may hopo to climb ; Duty is the path that all may tread. Greatly begin ! though ihou have time But for a line, bi- that sublime — Not failure, but low aim, is crime. I ask not a life for the dear one All sunshine, as others have done. But that life may liave just enough shadr To temper the glare of the sun. Every one is the son of his own works. I everywhere am thinking Of thy blue eyes' sweet smile ; A sea of blue thoughts spreading Over mv heart the wliile 8U GEM? FOR THE FTRESIDft. Be what nature intended you for and you will succeed, be anything else and you will be ten thousand times worse than nothing. Our ac-ts make or mar us, — we are the children of our own deeds. Victory belongs to the most persevering. Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship. Earth, then heaven, But friendship through all. All may do what has by man been done. No sun ever rose and set but had influence somewhere. No stream ever flowed seaward but some land was gladdened. No life can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife, and all life not be purer and stronger thereby. As we sail through life towards death. Bound unto the same port — Heaven,— Friend, what years could us divide ? I wish you all the joy that you can wish. Yes, we must ever be friends ; and of all who offer you friendship Let me be ever the first, the truest, the near- est and dearest ! Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. Moderation is the silken string running through the pearl-chain of all virtues. The only amaranthine flower on earth Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear. But sad the darkness till those times appear. Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Don't be " consistent," but be simply true. Let your life be like a snowflake, which leaves a mark, but not a stain. May the hinges of our Friendship never rust. Devote each day to the object then in time, and every evening will find something done. great in act, as you have been in tbought. Look not mournfully into the past, — it comes not back again ; wisely improve the present, — it is thine ; go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear, and with a manly heart. How often is our path Crossed by some being whose bright spirit sheds A passing gladness o'er it; but whose course Leads down another current, never more To blend with ours ! yet far within our soul Amidst the rushing of the busy world, Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers still Around that image. Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any outward touch as the sunbeam. When to the flowers so beautiful The Father gave a name, Back came a little blue-eyed one (All timidly it came) , And standing at its Father's feet And gazing in His face It said, in low and trembling tones : " Dear God, the name thou gavest me, Alas ! I have forgot," Kindly the Father looked him down And said : Forget-me-not. He who is firm in will moulds the world to himself. INDEX OF PROSE. SUBJECT. A Child's Dream of a Star Charles Dickens 34.i Advice to Young Men . Noah Porter 598 African Hospitality ,...,. Mungo Park 66 A Glass of Cold Water John B. Gough 332 A Husband's Experience IN Cooking . . . .Anonymous 519 A Mariner's Description OF a Piano . . . . Anonymom 495 A Patriot's Last Appeal Robert Emmet 646 Arctic Life Elisha Kent Kane 652 Artemus Ward at Shakspeare's Tomb .... Charles F. Brown 152 Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers Charles F. Brown 420 A Time of Unexampled Prosperity Washington Irving • . 448 Baltus Van Tassel's Farm Washington Irving 49 'BiAH Cathcart's Proposal Henry Ward Beecher 293 Book-Buyers John Ruskin 660 Buck Fanshaw's Funeral S. C. Clemens Burke on the Death of his Son Edmund Burke .... Buying Gape-Seed John B. Oough .... Catching the Morning Train Max Adelcr Caught in the Maelstrom Charles A. Wiley . . . Caught in the Quicksand Victor Hugo . . Charity Dinner, The Litchfield Mosely . . . Children of the Desert Arthur Penrhyn Stanley Clock Work of the Skies Edward Everett .... Coming of Thanksgiving Charles Dudley Warner 671 231 57 61 412 223 326 385 630 14^ 815 846 TITLE&.OF PROSE. CoNSTANTius AND THE LiON Oeorge Croly 239 Coronation of Anne Boletn J. A. Froude • 194 Crime Self-Revealed Daniel Webster 632 David, King of Israel Edward Irving ........... 486 Death of Little Joe Charles Dickens 134 Death of Little Nell Charles Dickens 256 Death of President Lincoln Henry Ward Beecher 598 Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery .... Abraham Lincoln . 141 Defence of Pra Del Tor ......... J. A. Wylie 690 De Pint wid Ole Pete ........... Anonymous 143 Diamond Dust Selections 521 Domain of Aenheim ., Edgar A. Poe 433 Dress Reform T. De Witt Talmage 550 Drunkard's Death, The Charles Dickens . . . . 189 Dumb-Waiter, The Frederick Cozzens . 279 European Guides Mark Twain 211 Execution of Joan of Arc ......... Thomas De Quincey ......... 145 Fingal's Cave Anonymous 648 Formation of Icebergs Elisha Kent Kane ... 627 Franklin's Arrival in Philadelphia . . . Benjamin Franklin 657 Freedom of the Press John Milton 172 From Washington's Inaugural George Washington 603 Gamin, The Victor Hugo 275 Gathered Gold Dust Selections 48 Genius of Milton, The Walter Savage Landor 487 Ghosts of Long Ago Mrs. J. H. Riddell 99 Golden Grains James A. Oarfield 640 Good-Night, Papa Anonymous 118 Grandmother's Spectacles J". DeWitt Talmage. 675 Grotto of Antiparos . . , . Anonymous . 636 Habits of Trout William 0. Prime 643 Hebrew Race, The . . • Benjamin Disraeli 67 Hypochondriac, The Anonymous 403 Ideas the Life of a People George W. Curtis 440 Images T. B. Macaulay 264 Immortality • J. B. Massillon 207 Improving on Nature John Ruskin 503 Industry the only Source of Wealth . . . Dr. George Berkeley , . . . 180 Jenkins Goes to A Picnic Anonymous . 163 Jerusalem by Moonlight Benjamin P. Disraeli . 568 Jimmy Butler and the Owl Anonymous 101 Jim Smiley's Frog S. C. Clemens 510 Last Hours of Webster Edward Everett 153 Life of a Child Fairy Anonymous ............. 529 Light Brigade at Balaklava, The William H. Russell 58 Little Evangelist, The Harriet Beecher Stowe 359 Little Rid Hin Mrs. Whitney 482 Lord Dundreary at Brighton Anonymous . . 363 TITLES OF PROSE. 847 SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE. Loss OF THE Arctic Henry Ward Beecher 683 Making Love in a Balloon Litchfield Mosdey 590 Manifest Destiny Ju&h Billings 457 Meditation at an Infant's Tomb James Hervey 321 Milton T. B. Macaulay 232 Morality of Angling William C. Prime 39 Morning Edward Everett 355 Mother's Vacant Chair T. De Witt Talmage 555 Mountains Alary Howitt 427 Mouse-Hunting B. P. Shillaber 217 Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma Charles Dickens 71 Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room Charles Dickens 375 Mrs. Caudle Needs Spring Clothing .... Douglas Jerrold 478 Mrs. Caudle's Lecture on Shirt Buttons . . Douglas Jerrold 499 Mr. Stiver's Horse /. M.Bailey 112 My Mother's Bible Anonymous 611 New England S. S- Prentiss 105 Nicholas Nickleby Leaves Dotheboy's Hall Charles Dickens 399 Notch of the White Mountains, The .... Timothy Dwight 423 Old Coaching Days John Poole 579 Organ of Westminster Abbey Waiihington Irving 474 Our Debt to Irving Charles Dudley Warner 563 Pauper's Funeral, The Charles Dickens 365 Pilgrim Fathers, The Edward Everett 524 Pip's Fight Charles Dickens 287 Pledge with Wine Anonymous 166 Poetry and Mystery of the Sea Dr. Greenwood 175 Political Agitation Wendell Phillips 506 Praise of the Sea Samuel Purchas 75 Progress of Humanity Charles Sumner 453 Pulpit Oratory Daniel Dougherty 81 Puritans, The T. B. Macaulay 182 Rebecca Describes the Siege to Ivanhoe . . Sir Walter Scott 539 Recollections of my Christmas Tree . • . . Charles Dickens 307 Regulus to the Roman Senate Anonymous 370 Rest of the Just, The Richard Baxter 545 Retribution Abraham Lincoln 162 Rome and Carthage Victor Hugo 350 Ruined Cottage, The Mrs. Letitia E. Maclean 96 Rural Life in England Washington Irving 284 Sam Welleb's Valentine ■ Charles Dickens 532 Scene at Niagara Falls Charles Tarson .... • 234 Schooling a Husband Anonymous 313 Sea-Shore AND Mountains Oliver Wendell Holmes 415 Self-Reliance Ralph Waldo Emerson 607 Selling a Coat Anonymous 535 Sewing on a Button J. M. Bailey 169 Shooting Porpoises I. De Witt Talmage 704 848 TITLES OF PROSE. SiGHiB FROM A Steeple Nathaniel Hawthorne 470 Sights on the Sea Washington Irving 574 Soft Sawder and Human Natur Thomas C. Haliburton 646 Sorrow for the Dead Washington Irving. . , 88 Sunrise at Sea William V. Kelly 337 Tacitus T. Babington Macaulay 390 The Ballot-Box , . . . E. H. Chapin 617 The Beauty of Youth Theodore Parker 697 The Blind Preacher ........... William Wirt 185 The Divinity OF Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley ......... 394 The Execution of Madame Roland Lamariine , 686 The Front and Side Doors Oliver Wendell Holmes 43 The Generous Soldier Saved ........ Anonymous 91 The Golden City John Bunyan 303 The Indian to the Settler Edward Everett 463 The Last Station Anonymous 271 The Little Match Girl Hans Christian Andersen 156 The Noble Revenge Anonymous 624 The Old Wife's Kiss Anonymous 244 The Order of Nobility Edmund Burke 227 The Power of Words Edwin P. Whipple 665 The Responsive Chord /. Williain Jones . 614 The Two Roads Jean Paul Eichter 109 Tombs of Westminster Washington Irving 621 Too Late for the Train Anonymous 125 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp . . . J. G. Holland . . • • • 201 Truth John Milton 198 Uncle Dan'l's Apparition AND Prayer . . . Clemens and Warner 121 United in Death Anonymous 137 Useful Studies Jeremy Taylor 292 Voices of the Dead John Cumming 298 Voltaire and Wilberporce William B. Sprague 661 Washington, The Birthday of Pufus Choate 444 Washington, Character of Thomas Jefferson 559 Washington's Address to His Troops .... George Washington 408 What is a Minority ? John B. Gough 270 Widow Bedott's Poetry F. M. Whitcher 82 Winter Douglas Jerrold 55 Winter Sports • Anonymous 667 Worse THAN Civil War Senator Baker 516 Yankee and the Dutchman's Dog, The . . . Anonymous 131 Zeph Kiqgins' Confession Harriet Beecher Stowe 24?' INDEX OF POEMS (TITLES ) SUBJECT. Abou Be:s Adhem Leigh Hunt A First Sorrow Adelaide Anne Proctor . . . A Hundred Years from Now Mary A. Ford Airy Nothings Shakespeare A Kiss at the Door Anonymous "A Lion's Head" O. Weatherly American Aristocracy John O. Saxe American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake . . . A Mother's Love Anonymous Annabel Lee Edijar Allan Poe Annie Laurie Anonymous Annie and Willie's Prayer Sophia P. Snow Answer to THE " Hour of Death " Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson A Portrait Elizabeth Barrett Browning . A Prayer for my Little One Edgar Fawcett Arsenal at Springfield H. W. Longfellow A Snow-Storm Charles O. Eastman . . . . As Ships Becalmed Arthur H. Clough A Sufi Saint Translated from the Persian . 226 179 187 325 401 ISl 71 467 703 553 385 395 675 388 682 424 409 422 284 840 850 TITLES OF POEMS. A. Tailor's Poem of Evening Oliver Wendell Holmes 445 AuLD Robin Gray Amie Barnard 173 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea Allan Cunningham 587 A Woman's Love Anonymous 702 A Woman's Question Adelaide A. Proctor 356 Baby Oeorge Macdonald 82 Baggage-Fiend Anonymous 300 Barbara Frietchie John G. Whittier 317 Barefoot Boy John G. Whittier 416 Battle of Lookout Mountain George H. Boker 570 Battle Song of Gustavus Adolphus Michael Alternburg 430 Beautiful Snow James W. Watson 443 Belfry Pigeon Nathaniel Parker Willis 61,^ Bell of " The Atlantic " . .' Mrs. Lydia Sigourney 184 Bells of Shandon Father Prout 573 Bells Edgar A. Poe 593 Benedicite , . John Greenleaf Whittier 350 Betsy and I are out Will M. Carleton 381 Betsy Destroys the Paper Will M. Carleton 383 Betty and the Bear Anonymous 171 Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping .... Horatius Bonar ■ . 268 Bill and Joe Oliver Wendell Holmes 458 Bill Mason's Bride F. Bret Harte 518 Bingen on the Rhine Caroline E. Norton 86 "Blessed are They THAT Mourn" William Oullen Bryant 242 Blind Boy, The Colley Gibber 365 Blind Men and the Elephant . .• John G. Saxe 398 Borrioboola Gha Orrin Goodrich 525 Bread on THE Waters George L. Catlin 612 Break, break, break Alfred Tennyson 348 Bridge OF Sighs Thomas Hood 354 Bugle, The Alfred Tennyson 436 Burial of Moses Mrs. C. F. Alexander 289 Buried Flower W. Edmonstone Aytoune 272 Buried To-Day Dinah Maria Mulock 243 Byron's Latest Verses Lord Byron 485 By the Shore of the River Christopher Pearse Cranch 517 Call me not Dead T-anslated from the Persian 269 Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey 248 Cato on Immortality Joseph Addison 391 Cave of Silver Fitz James O'Brien 362 Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Tennyson 59 Charley's Opinion of the Baby Anonymous 120 Charcoal Man John Townsend Trawbridge 425 Chemist to His Love Anonymous 469 Chinese Excelsior From the " Boy Travelers " 324 Church Window Johann Wolfgang Goethe 358 Civil War Anonymous 318 TITLES OF POEMS. 85] Clear the Way Charles Mackay 623 Cleon and I Charles Mackay 597 Clerical Wit Anonymous 401 Closing Scene T. Buchanan Read 556 Cloud, The Percy Bysshe Shelley 437 Cobbler Keezar's Vision John G. Whittier 44 Cockney, The ^ John G. Saxe 193 Comet, The Thomas Hood 2G0 Coral Insect Mrs. Sigoumey 146 Cradle Song Josiah Gilbert Holland 277 Creed of the Bells George W. Bungay 309 Day Dawn Henry W. Longfellow 661 Day-Dream Alfred Tennyson 480 David's Lament for Absalom Nathaniel Parker Willis 305 Deacon's Prayer William 0. Stoddart 320 Death-Bed Thomas Hood 199 Death of the Flowers William Cullcn Bryant 349 Death OF THE Old Year Alfred Tennyson 316 Der Drummer Charles F. Adams 297 Destruction of Sennacherib Lord Byron 296 Dies Irve Thomas of Celano 456 Djinns Victor Hugo 468 Doing Good True Happiness Carlos Wilcox 219 Door-Step, The Edmund Clarence Stedman 368 Dorothy Sullivan Anonymous 685 Dot Lambs what Maby haf got Anonymous 567 Dove-Cote Aunt Efjie 232 Dow's Flat F. Bret Harte 426 Dreams and Realities Phcebe Gary 485 Drifting T. Buchanan Bead 210 Drummer Boy Anonymous 616 Duncan Gray cam' here to Woo Robert Bums 336 Dust on Her Bible Robert Lowry 666 Dying Alchemist Nathaniel Parker Wdlis 497 Eagle, The Alfred Tennyson 364 Early Rising John G. Saxe 341 Ebb Tide Robert Southcy 418 Echoes Thomas Moore 645 Embarkation of the Exiles Henry Wadsworlh Longfellow .... 90 Engineer's Story Anonymous 295 Enoch Arden at the Window Alfred Tennyson 252 Evangeline on the Prairie H. W. Longfellow 505 Evening Brings vs Home Anonymous 502 Excelsior Henry W. Longfellow 322 Extract from Gray's Elegy Thomas Gray 203 Fairies William Arlington 515 Fate ^- Bret Harte 258 " Father, take MY Hand" Henry N. Cobb 333 852 TITLES OF POEMS. SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE. Faithless Nelly Geay .......... c Thomas Hood . 405 Farm-Yard Song John Townsend Trowbridge 352 Farmer and the Counsellor Anonymous 100 Father Time's Changeling Anonymous 324 Fire-Bell's Story, The George L. Catlin 554 Fire-Fiend CD. Oardette 160 First Party Jose^ine Pollard 414 First Snow-Fall James R. Lowell . 137 Fisher's Cottage Henry Heine . 253 Florence Vane , Philip P., Cooke 281 Foe Charlie's Sake John W. Palmer 641 Forest Hymn William Oullen Bryant 37 Frenchman and the Rats Anonymous 335 Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder . Oeorge Canning 228 Funeral of Lincoln Richard Henry Stoddard 600 Gems from Shakespeare Shakespeare 634 German Trust Song Lampertius 589 Gladiator J. A. Jones 565 God From the Russian of Derzhaven . . . 537 God in the Seas Wilham Oullen Bryant . 694 God's Acre Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 498 Go, Feel what 1 have Felt Anonymous 319 Goin' Home To-Day Will. M. Carleton 265 GoNW with a Handsomer Man . Will. M. Carlton 139 Gracious Answer, The. Henry N. Cobb 334 Gradatim John O. Holland 558 Gouty Merchant and the Stranger Horace Smith 216 Hans and Fritz Charles F. Adams 311 Hark ! hark ! the lark Shakespeare 319 He Knows Mary O. Brainard 577 Hermit James Beattie 595 Hero of the Commune Margaret J. Preston 278 Hiawatha's Journey Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 342 Hiawatha's Return Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 345 Hiawatha's Wooing Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 344 Hide and Seek Julia Goddard 454 Highland Mary • Robert Burns 262 Homes of England Felicia D. Hemans 64 Home, Sweet Home John Howard Payne 628 Hour of Death Mrs. F. Hemans 674 Housekeeper's Soliloquy Mrs. F. D. Gage 78 How's my Boy ? . . Sydney Dobell 353 Hymn to the Flowers Horace Smith 255 I Love the Morning Sunshine Robert Lowry 276 I'm Growing Old John O. Saxe 438 Indian Death-Song Philip Freneau 518 Intimations of Immortality William Wordsworth 206 I Would not Live Alway William A. Muhlenberg 353 TITLES OF POEMS. 85.- I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 273 I See Thee Still Charles Sprague 114 Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem Henry Hart Mlman 502 Jim F. Bret Harte 339 Joe Alice Rabbins 514 John Anderson, My Jo Robert Burns 466 John and Tibbie Davison's Dispute Robert Ldghton 572 John Jankin's Sermon Anonymous 543 John Maynard H. Alger, Jr 406 Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold 258 Kate Ketchem Phoebe Cary 461 King of Denmark's Ride Caroline E. Norton 379 Kissing her Hair Algernon Charles Swinburne .... 52 Kit Carson's Ride Joaquin Miller 472 Korner's Sword Song Charles Theodore Earner 312 Labor is Worship Frances S. Osgood 619 Lady Clare Alfred Tennyson 631 Lament of the Irish Emigraitt Lady JDufferin 62 Landing of the Pilgrims Felicia Hemans 205 Land o' the Leal Lady Carolina Nairne 421 Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes 542 Laugh of a Child Anonymous 549 Launching of the Ship Henry W. Longfellow 389 Law James Bcattie 649 Law of Death John Hay 547 Learning to Pray Mary M. Dodge 331 Left alone at Eighty Alice Rabbins 372 Legend of Bregenz Adelaide Anne Proctor 52 Life Lines selected from thirty-eight authors 496 Life Henry King . 642 Life From Death Horatius Bonar 170 Light-House Thomas Moore 513 Lines on a Skeleton Anonymous 417 Lion's Ride Ferdinand Freiligrath 455 Little and Great Charles Mackay 441 Little Conqueror Charles F. Adavis 165 Little Margery -Afrs Sallie J. White 330 London Churches Richard Moncktan Milnes 237 Lord Ullin's Daughter Thomas Campbell 551 Lost Doll C- Emgsley 341 Love Lightens Labor Anonymous 182 Love me Little, Love me Long Anonymous 191 Mabel Martin John G. Whittier 488 Maidenhood Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 246 Mary Garvin John G. Whittier 560 Maud Muller John O. Whittier 459 Measuring the Baby Emma Alice Brown 520 Meeting of the Ships Felicia Hemans 230 854 TITLES OF POEMS. SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE. Meeting of the Waters Thomas Moore 484 Mercy Shakespeare 379 Merry Lark Charles Kingsley 463 Milkmaid Jeffreys Taylor 199 Minuet, The Mrs. Mary M. Dodge 340 Miser, The Oeorge W. Gutter 226 Miss Edith Helps Things Along F. Bret Harte 254 Model Church John H. Yates 544 Moravian Requiem Harriet B. MKeever 225 Mother in the Snow-Storm Seha Smith 513 Motherhood Anonymous 229 Mountain and Squirrel . Ralph Waldo Emerson 590 Mrs. Lofty and I Anonymous 596 Murdered Traveler William Cullen Bryant ....... 402 My Childhood Home B. P. Shillaber 196 My Country James Montgomery 179 My Creed Alice Cary 266 My Mother's Bible Geo. P. Morris 523 My Playmate John Q. Whittier 582 Mystery of Life in Christ Mrs E. Prentiss 233 Mystic Weaver Anonymous 587 Nation's Dead, The Anonymous 266 Nell • Robert Buchanan 393 New Church Organ Will. M. Carleton 588 New Year's Eve Alfred Tennyson 387 Niagara Lydia Huntley Sigoumey 647 Night James Montgomery 301 No Thomas Hood 506 Nobody's Child Phila H Case 302 Nocturnal Sketch Tfiomas Hood 609 " No more Sea " William H. Henderson 644 No Sects in Heaven Ano?iymous 500 Not on the Battle-Field John Pierpont 531 " Now I Lay ME Down to Sleep '' Anonymous 332 Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd Sir Walter Raleigh . 381 Old Ralph Hoyt 431 Old Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 285 Old Oaken Bucket Samuel Woodworth 549 Old School Punishment Anonymous 209 Old Times and New A. C. Spooner 429 Old Ways and the New John H Yates 104 Orient, The Lord Byron 224 Out of the Old House, Nancy Will. M. Carleton 697 Our Lambs Anonymous 629 Our Skater Belle Anonymous 597 Over the Hill to the Poor-House Will. M. Carleton 679 Over the Hills from the Poor-House .... May Mignonette 681 Over the River Nancy A. W. Priest 142 TITLES OF POEMS. 355 Owl, The Barry Cornwall .... 422 Paddy's Excelsior Anonymous 323 Palace 0', the King William Mitchell 286 Papa's Letter Anonymous 168 Parting Lovers Translated from the Chinese So'j Patient Stork Lord Thurlow 450 Patriotism Sir Walter Scott 233 Pat's Criticism Charles F. Adams 154 Pauper's Death-Bed C. B. Southey 216 Paying her Way Anonymous 452 Pelican, The James Montgomery 446 " Penny YE Meant TO GiE " Anonymous 581 Per Pacem ad Lucem Adelaide Anne Proctor 553 Pleasure Boat, The Richard Henry Dana 60 Poet's Reward John G. Whittier 402 Poet's Song to his Wife Barry Cornwall 63 Poor Indian, The Anonymous 227 Poor Little Joe P. Arkwright 358 Prayers of Children Anonymous 329 Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longj'cUow .... 241 Potting up o' the Stove Anonymous 290 Puzzled Dutchman Charles F. Adams 151 Quaker Widow Bayard Taylor 110 Quarrel of Brutus and Cassios Shahpcare 476 Quilting, The Anne Baclie 56 Rainy Day Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 88 Ramblings in Greece Rossiter W. Raymond 696 Ranger, The John G. Whittier 507 Raven, The Edgar A. Poe 158 Reaper, The William Wordsworth 368 Resignation Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 251 .Reveille T. B. Hart 618 Ring the Bell Softly Dexter Smith 282 River Path John G. Wiitticr 5('.6 River Time, The Benjamin F. Taylor 64 Robert of Lincoln Wm. Cullen Bryant 387 Rock me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers 274 Roll on. Thou Sun Anonymous 234 Ruined Merchant Cora M. Eager 197 Ruth '. Thomas Hood 367 Sabbath, The .• James Grahame 610 Sands 0' Dee Charles Kingsley 392 Scatter the Gems of the Beautiful Anonymous 195 Searching for the Slain Anonymous 602 Sea, The Lord Byron 262 Sea, The Barry Cornwall 362 Servant of God, well done James Montgomery 254 57 850 TITLES OF POEMS. Seven Times Two Jean Imjduw 619 Shall we know each other there / . . . . Anonymous -. 69 Shibboleth E. A. J. Cleveland 583 Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read 536 Skipper Ieeson's Ride John G. WJiittier 79 Sleep of the Brave William Collins 605 "Sleighing Song G. W. Fettee 338 Snow-Flakes Harriet B. M'Keever 243 Show-Storm, The Ealph Waldo Emerson 63 Socrates Snooks Anonymous 124 Soldier's Dream Thomas Campbell 578 Soldier's Pardon James Smith 236 Sometime Mary Riley Smith 373 Song for Hearth and Home William R. Duryea 548 Song op Birds Thomas Heywood 374 Song of Marion's Men Wm. Cullen Bryayit 133 Song of Saratoga • • . . John G. Saxe 95 Song of Spring • Edward Youl 98 Song of the Brook Alfred Tennyson 222 Song of the Decanter Anomjmous 87 Song of the Forge Anonymous 304 Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood 282 Song of the Stormy Petrel Anonymous 440 Sonnet from the Portuguese Elizabeth B. Browning 370 Soul of Eloquence Johann W. Goethe 97 Stabat Mater Translation of Dr. Abraham Coles . . 504 Star of Bethlehem Henry Kirk White 469 ^ Stae-Spangled Banner Francis Scott Key 466 'St. John the Aged Anonymous 575 Stormy Petrel, The Barry Cornwall 439 Sunrise in the Valley of Chamounix .... Samuel Taylor Coleridge 663 Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant 214 The American Boy Caroline Gilman 268 The Angel's Story Adelaide A. Froctor 637 The Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover 277 The Angler • ■ John Chalkhill 205 The Bald-Headed Tyrant May E. VanDyhe 687 The Bride Sir John Suckling 642 The Bridge . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 51 The Blood Horse Barry Cornwall 42 The Brook Side Richard Monckton Milnes 247 The Celestial Country Bernard De Morlaix 650 The Chamber over the Gate H W. Longfellow 693 The Changeling John G. Whittier 654 The Children's Church From the German of Faul Gerot ... 692 The Children's Hour H. W. Longfellow 656 The Coral Grove James G. Fercival 678 TITLES OF POEMS. 357 The Countess John G. Wiitticr GOo The Crowded Streets WUUatn Cullen Bryant o07 The Cry of the Children Elizabeth Barrett Browning GU9 The Day is Done H. W. LomjfeWm 706 The Eggs and the Horses Anonymous fj04 The Gambler's Wife Reynell Coates 688 The Grasshopper King From the Greek of Anacreon 42 The Home of Peace Thomas Moore 337 The Lost Church Johann Ludwig Wiland 622 The Lost Love William Wordsworth 670 The Lull of Eternity Francis Ridley Havergal 626 The Maple Tree Anonymous 099 The Ministry of Angels Edmund Spenser 702 The Ministry of Jesus Edward Bickersteth 703 The Old Clock on the Stairs Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 40 The Old Village Choir Benjamin F. Taylor 677 The One-hoss Shay Oliver Wendell Holmes 69 There is no Death Lord Lytton 451 The Rose James R. Lowell 6G9 The Sun is Warm, the Sky is Clear Percy Bysshc Shelley 601 The Tempest James T. Fields . . -X 20S The Three Sons John Moultrie 528 The Tiger Wdliam Blake 357 The True Temple Anonymous 615 The Unbolted Door Edward Garrett 129 The Vagabonds J. T. Trowbridge 130 The Water-Mill D. C.M'Callum 200 The Whistle Robert Story 283 Through Trials Roscngarten 658 Tim Twinkleton's Twins Charles A. Bell 106 To a Friend in Affliction Wdliam Munford 689 To a Water Fowl W. C. Bryant 526 To Night ■> Percy Bysshe Shdlcy 242 To THE Silent PiIVEH Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 220 Trust John G. Whittier 230 Twenty Years Ago Anonymous 261 Two Little Kittens Anonymous 229 Two Views Anonymous t>25 Under the Violet? Oliver Wendell Holmes 267 Union and Liberty Oliver Wendell Holmes 273 Vaudois Teacher John G. Whittier 405 Vision of Monk Gabriel Eleanor C. Donnelly 659 Voices at the Throne T Westwood 527 Waiting by the Gate . William Cidlen Bryant 77 What Constitutes a State ? • Sir William Jones 367 When Susan Coolidge 450 When Sparrows Build Jean Ligclow 471 858 TITLES OF rOEMS. Where Shall the Baby's Dimple be ? . . . . J. Q. Holland 689 Whistling IN Heaven W.S.Ralph 116 Why? Ethel Lynn , 655 Why should THE Spirit OF Mortal BE Proud ? . William Knox 411 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles F. M. Whitcher 548 Widow M alone Charles James Lever 375 Wind and Rain Richard H. Stoddard 414 Winter Song Ludwig Holty 596 Wounded William E. Miller 188 Yawcob Strauss Charles F. Adams 418 You Put no Flowebs on my Papa's Grave . . C. E. L. Holmes 192 INDEX OF POEMS (FIRST LINES) PAGE. A BABY was sleeping 277 Abou Ben Adhem — may his tribe . . 225 A care-worn widow sat alone 129 A chieftain to the highlands bound . . 551 A cottage home with sloping lawn . . , 197 A counsel in the "Common Pleas " . . 100 Across the level table-land 488 A Frenchman once 335 A good wife rose from her bed one morn 182 A little child 527 All is finished and at length 389 Alone, in the dreary, pitiless street . . 302 Along the frozen lake she comes . . . 597 A milkmaid who poised a full pail . . 199 Among professors of astronomy .... 260 A mother's love ! Oh, soft and low . . 703 And is there care in heaven '! 702 Announced by all the trumpets ... 63 An old farm home with meadows wide 625 [ An ol<i man sat by a fireless hearth . . 226 I A parson who a missionary had been . 401 PAOE. A picture memory brings to me . . . . 230 Arise ! this day shall shine 179 A soldier of the Legion lay dying . . 86 As ships becalmed at eve, that lay . . . 422 A stranger preached last Sunday . . . 525 As unto the bow the cord is 342 At early dawn I marked them in the sky 446 At heaven approached a Sufi Saint . . 284 A thousand miles from land are we . . 439 A traveler through a dusty road . . . 441 At the close of the day when the . . , 595 At the feet of Laughing Water .... 344 At twilight hour, when memory's power 225 Awake my soul ! >'ot only paseive . . 663 A wet sheet and a flowing sea .... 587 A wind came up out of the sea .... 661 Backward, turn backward, Time . 274 Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! . . 243 Beautiful was the night 505 Before I trust my fate to thee 356 8o9 860 FIRST LINES OF POEMS. PAGE. Behold her single in the field 368 Behold this ruin ! 'tis a skull 417 Ben Battle was a soldier bold 405 Beside the massive gateway built up . 77 Between the dark and the daylight . . G56 Beyond the smiling and the weeping.. . 268 Blessings on thee, little man 416 Break, break, break 348 Breathes there a man with soul so dead 233 Buried to-day 243 But Enoch yearned to see her face again 252 By Nebo's lonely mountain . . . • . 289 By the wayside on a mossy stone ... 431 Captain Graham, the men were sayin' 616 Calmly see the mystic weaver 587 Clang, clang ! the massive anvils rang . 304 Cleon hath a million acres — not a one 597 Come, dear old comrade, you and I . . 458 Come hoist the sail, the fast let go . , . 60 Dark is the night, and fitful 548 Dark is the night ! How dark ! .... 688 Day hath put on his jacket, and around 445 Day of wrath ! that day of burning . . 456 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes ait morn. 255 Deep in the wave is a coral grove- . .. . 678 Did you hear of the Widow Malon« . . 375 Dong, dong ! — the bells rang out . . . 554 Down on the stream they flying go . . 583 Dow's Flat, That's its name 426 Do ye hear the children weeping . . . 699 Draw up the papers, lawyer 381 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo .... 336 Even is come ; and from the dark Park, 609 Fear not, little flock ! the foe . . . 430 First time he kissed me 370 -J'lag of the heroes who left us their gloiy 273 Flow on forever, in thy glorious robe . 647 For thee, dear, dear country .... 650 For the fairest maid in Hampton . . . 654 Four hundred thousand men 266 From the heart of Waumbek Methna . 560 From his lips . 703 Full knee-deep lies the winter snow . . 316 Full many a gem of purest ray serene . 203 Gamarra is a dainty steed 42 Garcon ! — you, you 278 Girt round with rugged mountains . . 52 " Give me but two brigades !" . . . . 570 God bless my little one. How fair . . 682 God bless the man who first invented 341 God of the thunder 502 God's love and peace be with thee . . . 350 Go, feel what I have felt 319 Golden head so lowly bending .... 332 Grandma told me all about it 340 Half a league, half a league 59 Half an hour till train-time, sir ... . 518 Hans and Fritz were two Deutschers 311 Hark, hark! the lark 319 Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands . 618 Happy insect, what can be 42 Have you heard of the . . . one-boss shay ? 69 Hear the sledges with the bells .... 593 Heaven is not reached at a single bound 558 He clasps the crag with hooked hands . 364 Here's a big washing to be done ... 78 ' Her hands are cold ; her face is white . . 267 I He who dies at Azim sends 269 j Hide and seek ! Two children at play . 454 ! Hold the lantern aside, and shudder 602 Ho, sailor of the sea ! 353 How dear to this heart are the scenes . 549 How does the water come down .... 248 How kind Reuben Esmond is growing. 655 How many summers, love ? 68 How shall we learn to sway the minds » 97 How sleep the brave who 605 How still the morning of the hallowed 610 How sweet the chime of the Sabbath 309 How sweet the answer Echo makes . . 645 I BRING fresh showers 437 I come from haunts of coot and hern . 222 I do not ask, Lord ! that life may be 553 I haf von funny leedle poy 418 I have a son, a little son 528 I have fancied sometimes the Bethel . 677 I hold that Christian grace abounds . . 266 I knew by the smoke 337 I know not what will befall me ! . . . 577 If 1 were told that I must die ... . 450 FIRST LINES OF POEMS. 861 PAGE. If that the world and love were young . 381 I know in grief like yours 689 I know him by his falcon eye 227 I like that ancient Saxon phrase . . . 498 I love it, I love it, the laugh of a child . 549 I love it, I love it, and who shall dare . 285 I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me . 469 I love the morning sunshine 276 I loved thee long and dearly 281 I loved them so 629 I'm a proken-hearted Deutscher .... 151 I met her where • folly was queen of the 666 I'm growing very old. This weary head 575 I'm sitting on the stile, Mary 62 I'm wearin' awa', Jean 421 In a pioneer's cabin out West .... 171 In Broad Street buildings . . • . - . 216 In his tower sat the poet 669 In PLBStum's ancient fanes I stood . . . 696 In the deepest dearth of midnight . . . 160 In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower 422 In the quiet nursery chambers .... 329 In the regular evening meeting .... 320 In the silence of my chamber 272 In yon dense wood full oft a boll . . . 622 I once had a sweet little doll, dear . . 341 I remember, I remember 273 I rock'd her in the cradle 144 I saw him once before 542 Is it so far from thee 693 I stood one Sunday morning 237 I stood on the bridge at midnight ... 51 It must be so— Plato 391 It's a bonnie, bonnie warl' ..... 286 It was the time when lilies blow . . . 631 It was many and many a year ago . . 553 It was in my foreign travel 193 It was six men of Indostan 398 I've brought back the paper, lawyer 383 I've just come in from the meadow, wife 104 I've wandered to the village, Tom . . . 261 I've worked in the field all day .... 139 I walk along the crowded streets . . 233 I wandered by the brook side 247 I was sitting in my study 168 I will paint her as I see her : . . . . 388 I would not live alway ; I ask not to stay 353 Jingle, jingle, clear the way 338 John Anderson, ray jo, John 466 John Davison and Tibbie, his wife . . 572 John Dobbins was so captivated .... 694 Just as God leads me I would go . . . 589 Kate Ketchem, on a winter's night . . 461 Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet . 52 Kneeling fair in the twilight gray . . 331 Kneeling, white-robed, sleepy eyes . . 330 Know ye the land where the cypress . . 224 Laud the first spring daisies 98 Laws, as we read in ancient sages . . . 679 Leaves have their time to fall 674 Let me lie down 188 Let me move slowly through the street 567 Like the falling of a star 642 Look up, ray young Araerican .... 268 Love me little, love me long ! 191 Maiden! witn the meek, brown eyes . . Man knows not love — such love as . . Many a voice has echoed the cry . . . Mary haf got a leetle lambs already . . Maud MuUer, on a summer's day . . . Maxwelton braes are bonnie Men of thought be up and stirring . . Merrily swinging on brier and weed . . Mid pleasures and palaces though we . Miss Annabel McCarty Mister Socrates Snooks " Mister," the little fellow said .... Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage Muzzer's bought a baby My business on the jury's done . . . My days pass pleasantly away .... My neighbor's house is not so high . . My sister '11 be down in a minute . . . My soul to-day I Needt knife-grinder ! ' Night is the time for rest .... No bird-song floated down the hill No, children, my trips arc over . . No sun — no moon ! Not where high towers rear . . . 246 702 626 567 459 385 623 387 628 414 124 012 596 120 265 438 229 254 210 301 566 506 615 O deem not they are blest alone Of all the noUble things on earth 242 71 862 FIRST LINES OF POEMS. PAGE. Of all the rides since the birth of time . 79 Oh ! a wedding ring's pretty to wear . . 685 Oh ! a wonderful stream is the river . 64 Oh, lady fair, these silks of mine . . . 405 Oh ! listen to the water-mill 200 Oh ! say, can you see 466 Oh ! the quietest home on earth had I . 687 Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal . . 411 Old master Brown brought his ferule . 209 0, lonely, exiled one 644 Mary go and call the cattle home . . 392 melancholy bird, the long, long day . 450 Once upon a midnight dreary 158 One day in summer's glow 324 One more unfortunate 354 no, no — let me lie 531 On the cross-beam under the old South 613 reverend sir, I do declare 548 Rosamond, thou fair and good . . . 485 say, what is that thing called light . 365 the gallant fisher's life 205 the snow, the beautiful snow .... 443 Thou Eternal One ! whose presence 537 Our band is few, but true and tried . . . 133 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting 209 Our bugles sang truce 578 Our revels now are ended 325 but of the old house, Nancy 697 Over the cradle the mother hung . . . 689 Over the hill the farm-boy goes .... 352 Over the hill to the poor-house .... 679 Over the hills to the poor-house .... 681 Over the river they beckon to me . . . 142 Over the wooded northern ridge. . . . 605 Pack clouds, away! and welcome, day! 374 Pause not to dream of the future before us 619 Peace! let the long procession come . 600 Pleasant was the journey homeward . 345 Pray what do they do at the Springs ? . 95 Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey .... 358 Rattle tlie window, winds 414 Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot . . . 318 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky . . 387 River that in silence windest 220 Robert Rawlin ! Frosts were falling . 507 Roll on, thou Sun, forever roll .... 234 Run? Now you bet you 472 page. Say, there ! P'r'aps 339 Scatter the gems of the beautiful . . . 195 Seek me the cave of silver 362 Servant of God, well done 254 She dwelt among the untrodden ways . 670 She says, " the cock crows, — hark !" . . 356 She stood breast high amid the corn . . 367 Slowly thy flowing tide 418 Some one has gone 282 Sometime, when all life's lessons . . . 373 Somewhat back from the village street. 40 Stood the afflicted mother weeping . . 504 Summer joys are over 596 Swiftly walk over the western wave . . 242 Sword at my left side gleaming .... 312 Talking of sects till late one eve . . . 500 Tell me not, in mournful numbers . . 241 Thanks untraced to lips unknown . . . 402 That nightee teem he come chop-chop . 324 That you have wronged me 476 The Assyrian came down like a wolf 296 The beaver cut his timber 44 The bells of the church are ringing . . 692 The breaking waves dashed high . . . 205 The cold wind swept 513 The conference meeting through at last 368 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary . 88 The day is done 706 The day is set, the ladies met 56 Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah . 110 The groves were God's first temples . . 37 The lark sings for joy 440 The lion is the desert's king . . . . • 455 The maid, and thereby hangs a tale! . . 642 The melancholy days have com© . . . 290 The melancholy days are come .... 349 The merry, merry lark was up . . . . 463 The minster window, richly glowing . 358 The minister says last night, says he . 543 The mountain and the squirrel .... 590 Then disorder prevailed, and the tumult 90 The night wind with a desolate moan 497 The night is Tate, the house is still . . 641 The pines were dark on Ramoth Hill . 582 The quality of mercy is not strained . . 379 There is a land, of every land the pride 179 There is a j^leasure in the pathless woods 262 There is no death I The stars go down . 451 FIRST LINES OF POiiMS 868^ PAGE. There is no flock, however watched . . 251 There is not in this wide world . . . 484 There's a little low hut by the river side 196 There's a story that's old 154 There's a funny tale of a stingy man . 581 There was an old decanter 87 The scene was more beautiful 513 The sea! the sea ! the open sea! . . . 362 These restless surges eat away .... 694 The shades of night were falling fast . . 322 The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare . 258 The snow had begun in the gloaming . 137 The song of Kilvany. Fairest she . . 547 The splendor falls on castle walls . . • 436 The star is not extinguished when it sets 170 The stately homes of England 64 The sun is warm, the sky is clear . . . 601 The sun sets at night, and the stars shun 518 The surging sea of human life .... 187 The varying year with 480 The waters slept. Night's silvery veil 305 The way is dark, my child 334 The way is dark, my Father 333 They led a lion from his den 565 They've got a bran new organ, Sue . . 588 They well deserve to have 634 This book is all that's left me now . . 523 This is the arsenal 424 Though rudely blows the wintry blast . 425 Through night to light. And though . 658 Through the blue and frosty heavens . 637 Through the gray willows 517 Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright 357 Tim Twinkleton was 106 'Tis a fearful night in the winter time . 409 'Tis the soft twilight. Round the . . . 659 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 484 To him who in the love of nature holds 214 Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train . . 146 Toll, toll, toll, toll . . . 184 Town, tower 468 Tread softly, bow the head True, all we know must die 'Twas a ferocious baggage-man .... 'Twas growing dark so terrible fasht . 'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago . 'Twas in my easy chair at home .... 'Twas midnight, not a sound was heard 216 675 : 300 ' 323 258 429 165 I See Summary on PAGE. 'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse . . 40ti 'Twas the eve before Christma* 395 Two barks met on the deep mid-sea . . 230 Two little kittens, one stormy night . . 229 Up from the south at break of day . . 536 Up from the meadows rich with corn . 317 Up the airy mountains 515 Upon the hills the wind is sharp . . 502 Upon the wall it hung 181 Very high in the dove-cote 232 We are two travelers, Roger and I . . 130 We don't take vagrants in, sir ... . 514 Well, wife, I've found the model church 544 We measured the riotous baby .... 520 We sat by the fisher's cottage 253 We watched her breathing 199 We were crowded in the cabin .... 208 We were standing in the doorway . . . 401 What constitutes a state 367 What did you say, dear — breakfast ? . . 372 What has my darling been doing . . . 452 What is the little one thinking about ? . 277 When Freedom from her mountain . . 467 When, marshalled on the nightly plain . 469 When on the world's first harvest day . 699 When sparrows build 471 When spring, to woods and wastes 402 When the sheep are in the fauld ... 173 When we hear the music ringing ... 69 Where did you come from, baby dear . 82 Whither midst falling dew 526 Who puts oup at der pest hotel .... 297 Why all this toil for triumphs .... 496 Wild blew the gale in Gibraltar . . 236 With deep affection 573 With fingers weary and worn ..... 282 With sable-draped banners 192 Within this sober realm of leafless trees 556 Word was brought to the Danish king . 379 Wouldst thou from sorrow find .... 219 Ye banks and braes and streams around 262 You bells in the steeple ring, ring out . 619 " You havo heard," said a youth . . • 283 You're a kind woman. Nan ! . . . . 393 You're surprised that I ever 116 following page. 912 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. Indexes of Authors, First Lines, Etc 54 Pages. Gems fi74 Biographical Sketches 72 Living Thoughts 58 Sentiments for Autograph Albums 6 Full Page Plates 4.S Total Number of Pag 912 Note. — The full page plates are not enumerated in the printed paging of the hook, lience tlie actual number of pages is 'J12, not Slil as would seem from the consecutive paging. UNmRSITV OP C^XrORNU UBRAKV BERKELEY ^^^^^AKY — ____ "" *^ '"»' "ace damped below. LD21- 100m-9,'48(B399sl6)^ VD 03t06 M'^97212 "in T -'*'^^,.