THE MOTHERLESS.

———

BY MISS LOUISA OLIVIA HUNTER.

———

“Henceforth thou wilt be all alone—What shalt thou do, poor weeper?Oh human love! oh human wo!Is there a pang yet deeper?”Mary Howitt.

“Henceforth thou wilt be all alone—

What shalt thou do, poor weeper?

Oh human love! oh human wo!

Is there a pang yet deeper?”

Mary Howitt.

Her eyes are closed—she sleeps at last!We catch with joy that quiet breathing,Her first dark day of wo hath passed,A happier dream her soul is wreathing.Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,Perchance with love there glides another!We cannot hear that spirit-tread—Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”But four bright summers o’er her headHave softly, sweetly breathed their blessing,And yet she mourneth for the deadWith anguish to our souls distressing.All day by every wile we’ve soughtFrom sorrow’s stern control to lure her,Her mind to win from painful thought,Scarce meet for mind and heart maturer.With feeling far beyond her years,We tried in vain her grief to smother,For still burst forth those burning tears,With this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”And last, as ’neath affliction’s blight,She coldly turned from game and story,We told her of the spirit’s flightTo realms of endless light and glory.That vision of a clime so rare,Brought out this thought anew to grieve her,E’en for a home so wondrous fair,Could one wholoved her wellthus leave her?We strove in vain to lull her fears;We sought in vain such doubts to smother,More wildly came those bitter tears,And this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”It ceased at length—those weary eyesWe marked with languor faintly closing,And now on yonder couch she lies,In slumber deep and sweet reposing.Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,Perchance with love there glides another!We cannot hear that spirit-tread—But in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

Her eyes are closed—she sleeps at last!We catch with joy that quiet breathing,Her first dark day of wo hath passed,A happier dream her soul is wreathing.

Her eyes are closed—she sleeps at last!

We catch with joy that quiet breathing,

Her first dark day of wo hath passed,

A happier dream her soul is wreathing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,Perchance with love there glides another!We cannot hear that spirit-tread—Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,

Perchance with love there glides another!

We cannot hear that spirit-tread—

Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

But four bright summers o’er her headHave softly, sweetly breathed their blessing,And yet she mourneth for the deadWith anguish to our souls distressing.

But four bright summers o’er her head

Have softly, sweetly breathed their blessing,

And yet she mourneth for the dead

With anguish to our souls distressing.

All day by every wile we’ve soughtFrom sorrow’s stern control to lure her,Her mind to win from painful thought,Scarce meet for mind and heart maturer.

All day by every wile we’ve sought

From sorrow’s stern control to lure her,

Her mind to win from painful thought,

Scarce meet for mind and heart maturer.

With feeling far beyond her years,We tried in vain her grief to smother,For still burst forth those burning tears,With this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

With feeling far beyond her years,

We tried in vain her grief to smother,

For still burst forth those burning tears,

With this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

And last, as ’neath affliction’s blight,She coldly turned from game and story,We told her of the spirit’s flightTo realms of endless light and glory.

And last, as ’neath affliction’s blight,

She coldly turned from game and story,

We told her of the spirit’s flight

To realms of endless light and glory.

That vision of a clime so rare,Brought out this thought anew to grieve her,E’en for a home so wondrous fair,Could one wholoved her wellthus leave her?

That vision of a clime so rare,

Brought out this thought anew to grieve her,

E’en for a home so wondrous fair,

Could one wholoved her wellthus leave her?

We strove in vain to lull her fears;We sought in vain such doubts to smother,More wildly came those bitter tears,And this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

We strove in vain to lull her fears;

We sought in vain such doubts to smother,

More wildly came those bitter tears,

And this sad wailing—“Mother! mother!”

It ceased at length—those weary eyesWe marked with languor faintly closing,And now on yonder couch she lies,In slumber deep and sweet reposing.

It ceased at length—those weary eyes

We marked with languor faintly closing,

And now on yonder couch she lies,

In slumber deep and sweet reposing.

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,Perchance with love there glides another!We cannot hear that spirit-tread—But in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,

Perchance with love there glides another!

We cannot hear that spirit-tread—

But in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”

ALICE LISLE.

A SKETCH FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

———

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

———

There is perhaps no data in the annals of English History marked with a more bloody significance of the fearful extent to which the evil passions of mankind will reach, when not held in check by religious or civil discipline, than that characterized as the “Bloody Assizes,” in the reign of James the Second—1685—which, even from out the lapse of two centuries, still stands forth in loathsome and horrible distinctness. When the savage and bloody-minded Jeffreys, empowered by a vindictive and arbitrary monarch, stalked like a demon through the land, tracing his passage with blood and tears, while the music of his infernal march, was the groans and death-shrieks of his victims. And as he strode onward—behind him he left horrible, eye-blasting, soul-harrowing proofs of his cruelty—corpses swinging in the wind at the corners of the cross-roads—gibbets stuck up in every market-place—and blackening heads and limbs impaled, even before the windows of the holy house of God!

Such was the more than brutal ferocity with which this fiend in human shape, George Jeffreys, Chief Justice of the Court of King’s Bench, prosecuted his commission.

Through all those districts where the inhabitants had either taken up arms in the Monmouth Rebellion against the king, or who had been known five years before to have received the unfortunate duke with favor and homage, when assuming the rank of a rightful prince he passed with almost regal triumph through the land, did Jeffreys and his well-picked myrmidons pursue their murderous track, sparing neither sex nor age—the death-blow descending alike upon the silver head of tottering age, or lisping, helpless infancy “And,” says Macaulay, “his spirits rose higher and higher as the work went on. He laughed, shouted, joked, and swore in such a way that many thought him drunk from morning to night, but in him it was not easy to distinguish the madness produced by evil passions, from the madness produced by brandy.”

In such a frame of mind he entered Southampton and proceeded toward Winchester, which, although not the scene of any warlike encounter with rebel and royalist, had nevertheless been resorted to by many of the former as a place of safety, among whom was their unhappy leader, the infatuated Monmouth himself. It was here, near the borders of the New Forest that the unfortunate man was taken prisoner. Worn out by fatigue—crushed by disappointment—his high hopes blasted by defeat, the ill-fated son of Charles was discovered concealed in a ditch, where all through a long, long day, and a weary night, without food or drink, the unhappy fugitive had vainly hoped to evade the search of his pursuers.

Hither, then, came Jeffreys, tainting the air as with a pestilence, and causing great terror and dismay, particularly among the peasantry, no one knowing who next might prove the victim of the tyrant’s insatiate thirst for blood.

He was now, however, in hot pursuit of two men—one a Nonconformist divine, named Hicks; the other a lawyer, Richard Nelthorp, an outlaw, who had made himself obnoxious by being concerned in the Rye House plot. These men, it is needless to say, Jeffreys was resolved to pursue to the death.

In a fine old mansion, encompassed by a closely wooded park of a century’s growth, dwelt the Lady Alice Lisle. She was the widow of John Lisle, who had held a commission under Cromwell, and had also sat in the Long Parliament. He had been created a Lord by Cromwell, and the title of Lady was still courteously assigned to his widow, for she was one greatly beloved by all persons and parties, both Whig and Tory, for her many excellent qualities, and was also nearly allied to many noble families.

It was near the close of a beautiful autumnal day, that the Lady Alice, clad in deep mourning weeds, might be seen passing slowly beneath the dark foliage of those venerable trees, stretching in such primeval grandeur far on either side her domain. The chastened radiance of the setting sun here and there burnished the almost motionless leaves with gold, or stealing athwart the mossy trunks, and over the deep green sward, mildly illumined the forest aisles, seeming thereby as paths angels might love to tread. The only companion of the lady was a child—a beautiful boy of perhaps six years old—an orphan, whom the kind Lady Alice had taken under her protection, and who now, far from partaking in the seriousness of his benefactress, skipped and gamboled before her in wild and happy recklessness—now springing like a fawn into the path before her from behind some leafy screen, where for a moment he had lain concealed, or striving to attract attention by his childish prattle as he bounded playfully at her side.

As heedless to the deepening twilight as she seemed to all else around her, the Lady Alice had proceeded further into the depths of the wood than was her usual custom, when she was suddenly aroused to the lateness of the hour by a scream from little Edwin, who, burying his face in the folds of her mantle, cried,

“O run, dear lady, run—bad men—ah, they will kill us!”

“What are you talking of, Edwin?” she answered, taking his hand—“who will kill us? We shall soon be at the Hall; fie, boy, are you afraid because the sun has set, and the old woods grown dark! Ah, is this my little hero!”

“But, lady, I see men—bad, wicked men; there, lady, there,” pointing, as he spoke, to a clump of low oaks.

“Foolish boy, it is only an owl!” said the lady, now turning to retrace her steps.

At that moment two men sprung from out the thicket and stood in her path. Well might that lady tremble, alone and unprotected in the deep, dark wood, yet in tones well belieing her fears, she unfalteringly bade them stand aside, and give passage to herself and the pale, timid child she led by the hand.

“We mean not to harm or frighten you, madam,” said one of the men, lifting his goatskin cap, and stepping aside, “we seek at your hands shelter and food. For three days we have lain concealed within these woods, not daring to venture forth even to satisfy the cravings of hunger. We are neither thieves nor murderers—slight offences may be in these signal times of despotism and injustice—but men hunted down like wild beasts in the cause of civil and religious freedom. It is for our lives we implore your aid.”

“Yea, for our lives—that we may be spared to trample the sons of Belial under our feet, and smite, and slay and destroy the arch tools of oppression!” interrupted the other, with violent gesticulations; “and thou, woman, art the chosen vessel of the Lord to shield his servants from the man of blood against that dreadful day of retribution!”

“I ask not to know why you are thus thrown within peril of your lives,” answered the Lady Alice, “it is enough for me that you are fellow beings in distress, and as such must claim my sympathy, and the shelter of my roof. God forbid the doors of Alice Lisle should be closed against misfortune. Follow me, then, friends, and such food as my house affords, and such security as its walls can give, may the Lord bless unto you.”

Confident in the attachment and fidelity of her domestics, the Lady Alice, in a few words, made known to them that the lives of these unfortunate men were in jeopardy, and that they sought from her kindness safety and concealment, and sharing in the benevolence of their mistress, each one of that well-tried household regarded the fugitives with generous sympathy.

An excellent supper, such as their famishing natures required, and a bottle of old wine, was soon placed before the weary men. They were then conducted by the Lady Alice herself to a room on the ground floor.

“Observe,” she said, “this oaken panel—press your finger thus; a door opens, leading into a secret passage, connected with the vaults of the old chapel, where, in case of emergency, you will be perfectly secure from search. Sleep, then, my friends, in peace, one of my most faithful servants will this night keep watch, and upon the least alarm, you will be notified in time to avail yourselves of the way of escape I have pointed out.”

As she bade them good-night, one of the men, seizing the hem of her mantle, carried it to his lips with a grace not unfitting the presence of a queen, while in the canting oratory of the day, his companion devoutly prayed the Most High to bless the woman, through whose assistance vengeance was yet to be heaped on the head of the scorner, and those who now sat in high places to be brought low.

And thus fortified and encouraged by the assurances of their noble benefactress, the fugitives took heart, and throwing themselves upon the bed, were soon soundly sleeping.

Not so the Lady Alice. True, these men had not revealed their names, neither had she sought to discover who they were, or for what crime they were driven to their present strait—yet that they fled the wrath of the cruel-minded Jeffreys she felt persuaded, and fearful that with his myrmidons he might be close on the track of these unhappy men, she, too, sat watching all the night, or pacing with light footfall the long galleries, ever and anon stepping out upon the balcony and listening to every sound, her fears magnifying the whispers of the wind stealing through the branches of the old trees, into the suppressed murmurs of an armed force. All, however, remained quiet. Just as the day began to dawn, she threw herself upon her couch—not meaning to sleep. But, overcome with the fatigue of her lonely night-watch, and lulled perhaps by the security which almost always comes to the watcher with the dawn of day, she soon unconsciously sunk into a deep sleep, from which, alas! she was but too rudely aroused; for even in that brief half hour when tired nature claimed its own, the wily Jeffreys had surrounded the house with his no less brutal soldiers.

“Come, come, madam, bestir yourself—you are wanted,” cried the leader, seizing the Lady Alice by the shoulder, and rudely shaking her; “methinks you sleep well this morning—long watching makes sound slumbers,eh! Come, up with you, woman, and tell us in what corner of this rebel’s nest you have stowed away the Presbyterian knave and his worthy friend?”

In a moment the lady was fully awake, and comprehended at once her perilous situation. But her self-possession did not forsake her, and breathing an inward prayer for the safety of the two unhappy men so closely pursued, she said, as she drew herself proudly up,

“What means this unmannerly intrusion? Off, sir! unhand me, or your audacity shall be punished as it deserves!”

“Ho-ho, my brave wench, words are cheap! you will find proofs not so easy! Know, mistress, yourself and your servants are my prisoners,” replied Jeffreys.

“Yourprisoners!” cried the lady, with cutting contempt; “and who areyou, and by whose authority do you dare to lay hands on me or any beneath my roof!”

“Who am I? That you shall soon know to your cost,” said Jeffreys, with a horrible oath. “George Jeffreys has a peculiar way of making himself known, my mistress. Now deliver up these two arch rebels—the canting, whining priest, and the traitor Nelthorpe, into our hands, and mayhap I’ll not press my further acquaintance upon your ladyship, except to taste the quality of your wine, for I’ll warrant you, my men, (turning to his followers) these old cellars are not dry.”

“I know no such persons as those you seek,” replied the Lady Alice, firmly; “and what reason have you to suppose they are within my house?”

“We know it, and that is enough,” replied Jeffreys. “They are known to have lain hid within your neighborhood; and we know they have been secreted byyou; and now, by G—d, madam, unless you lead us to their kennel, your body shall writhe in flames, or be hacked in pieces by my soldiers!”

“Infamous, cowardly wretch,” replied Alice Lisle, undaunted, “think you your threats would induce me to betray, more especially into your blood-thirsty hands, any unhappy individual who had sought my protection! Know Alice Lisle better.”

“Ho-ho, are we so brave! here, my men, take this boasting mistress, and give her a dance upon hot coals!” cried the ferocious Jeffreys.

At that instant little Edwin, still in his night-dress, opened the door of his little bed-room, and ran terrified toward the Lady Alice; but he was not permitted to reach her; a soldier rudely seized the poor boy by the shoulder, and notwithstanding his shrieks, held him with such a grip as left the print of his fingers upon the tender flesh.

“Ruffian, unhand the child!” exclaimed the lady, attempting to rise, but held back by the iron hand of Jeffreys.

“Ha!a pretty hostage, truly!” he said. “Here, Ratcliffe, draw your dagger across his pretty white throat, unless this stubborn woman yields up our prey—do you hear that?” turning to the Lady Alice.

“O save me—save me! don’t let them kill me!” screeched the poor little fellow, striving to break away; then turning his beautiful eyes upon the hard, stern features of the man who held him, he clung piteously around his knees, repeating his cry for mercy, his face uplifted, and his soft, golden curls falling over his white shoulders, from which the loose night-dress had slipped away.

Tears, which neither her own danger, or the insults heaped upon her could draw forth, now streamed down the pallid cheek of the Lady Alice.

“Are you men?” she cried, turning to the rude soldiers, “are you men, and can you stand by and see that innocent, helpless lamb inhumanly murdered before your eyes!”

“Ah!” cried Jeffreys, with a hideous leer, “we are used to butchering lambs, madam; bless you, we do it so easy the poor things don’t have time to bleat! Strike, Ratcliffe!”

A scream—a wild scream of agony burst from the heart of Alice Lisle; then dashing off the arm of Jeffreys, in the strength of her despair, as but a feather’s weight, she sprung to the boy, and threw her arms around him.

There was heard at the moment a loud shout from the court-yard, coupled with oaths and imprecations, and one of the troop burst in, waving his cap.

“Hurra, your honor! they’re caught, your worship; we’ve got the rascals—hurra! hurra!”

“Now God help them!” murmured Alice.

“Your life shall answer for this, vile traitress!” muttered Jeffreys, in a voice hoarse with rage, and shaking his fist at the unshrinking heroine. “But where found you the knaves?” he added, turning to the bearer of such fiendish joy.

“Ha, ha, your worship—but I can’t help laughing; we found his reverence, chin-deep, in a malt-tub—ha, ha, ha! and the other rogue we hauled from the kitchen chimney, as black as his master, the Devil!”

“And to his master he shall soon be sent with a crack in his windpipe,” said Jeffreys.

“Wounds, your honor, you loves a joke!” said one, who might be called the Trois Eschelles of the company, edging up to Jeffreys with a horrid grin; “shall we string the rascals up below there—yonder is a good strong beam; or shall we leave their heads in the market-place, as a kind of warning to all traitors!”

“Peace, knave!” replied Jeffreys, with a frown which made the villain turn pale; “attend to your duty, and see that the prisoners are well secured; these fellows are slippery rascals—and now, madam,” (turning to Alice Lisle,) “up with you, and prepare to follow either to the scaffold or the stake, as suits my pleasure.” Then, with a brutal blow with the back of his sword, he rudely pushed his victim on before him.

Her weeping and terrified domestics would have approached their beloved mistress, but were thrust back by the drawn swords of the soldiers, and when the unfortunate lady crossed her threshold, it was over the dead body of her aged butler, brutally struck down before her.

“Farewell, my friends,” said the Lady Alice, turning to her faithful attendants, “I look for no mercy at the hands of these cruel men, whose pastime is death; yet though they may torture the body, unto the mercy of my Redeemer do I humbly commit my soul. May God forgive these my enemies, for in their blind rage they know not what they do; pray for them, my friends.”

“Come, none of your cant here, if you please, madam; if we want any praying done, we’ll call on yonder long-nosed, whining saint,” cried Jeffreys pointing to Hickes, who, with Nelthorpe at his side, and both closely bound together with ropes, and guarded on either side, was now brought forward.

Lest by appearing to recognize the Lady Alice they might increase her danger, the prisoners took no notice whatever of her who for their sakes was now in such peril, and met her glance as they would that of a stranger. Nelthorpe, indeed, essayed once to speak, for the purpose of acquitting the Lady Alice of all knowledge of himself and companion, but his speech was cut short by vile taunts and curses.

These wretched men had slept soundly through the night, and with the stupor of heavy fatigue still hanging about them, heard too late the tramp of their pursuers, and forgetting in their sudden alarm the secret panel, sprung through a window, and endeavored to conceal themselves in some of the outbuildings; but vainly—they were soon dragged forth, and knew that from the jaws of the blood-hound Jeffreys,deathwas to be their only release.

And now, without any delay, the prisoners were brought to trial, the Lady Alice being first placed at the bar, charged with treason, in concealing or harboring persons disaffected to the king, and known to have been concerned in the late insurrection.

Many of the jurors were of the most respectable men of Hampshire, and all shrunk from convicting anamiable and exemplary female, for a crime (if crime it could be called) which certainly arose from the purest and noblest emotions of the heart. But Jeffreys was not to be so robbed of his prey.

Witnesses, forestalled by his vindictive spirit, appeared against her, and those who would have testified in her favor, were so put down by the bold-faced cunning of these hirelings, as to do more injury than good to the cause which they came to sustain.

The Lady Alice was then called upon for her defence. In a modest and dignified manner she addressed the Court. She began by saying that she knew not the men who had sought her protection, nor had she asked for what offence they were thus hunted down; it was enough that famished and weary they required her assistance, and that assistance she had freely rendered them; “Yet for this, gentlemen,” she continued, “I am arraigned for treason. Has charity, then, become a crime? Is it a capital offence to relieve the wants of our suffering fellow beings; and must the cold voice of prudence overcome the Divine precepts of Jesus? Now God forbid!”

She was here interrupted by an insolent remark from the judge; and if allowed again to speak, it was only to draw upon herself his coarse, unfeeling ribaldry.

The jury retired, their sympathies more than ever excited for the unhappy lady.

Their consultation was too long for the patience of the judge. He grew furious at their delay—stamping and swearing like a madman. “He sent a messenger to tell them that if they did not instantly return, he would adjourn the Court, and lock them up all night. Thus put to the torture, they came, but came only to say they doubted whether the charge had been made out. Jeffreys expostulated with them vehemently, and after another consultation, they gave a reluctant verdict of ‘Guilty!’ ”[1]

This was received by demoniac joy by Jeffreys, who immediately proceeded to pass sentence, which was, that the most unfortunate Alice Lisle should that very afternoon beburned alive!

This dreadful sentence caused universal horror, and moved the pity even of the most devoted supporters of the king. The judge was overwhelmed with petitions and prayers for mercy; but the only mercy he granted was a few days’ delay ere the dreadful sentence should be accomplished.

During that time the royal clemency was eagerly solicited, and many persons of the highest rank interceded with James for the release of Alice Lisle. Ladies of the Court entreated his mercy. Feversham, flushed with recent victory, pleaded for her; and even Clarendon, the brother-in-law of the king, spoke in her behalf.

It was all in vain.

Scarcely less cruel than his cruel judge, James was inexorable, and only so far showed his clemency as to commute the sentence fromburning to beheading!

But peace—peace, such as the world can neither give or take away, went with Alice Lisle into that dark, cold prison, to which her enemies consigned her. Those damp walls, in whose crevices the slimy lizard made its bed; though they shut her out from the world—from friends—from freedom—they could not imprison her soul, nor crush the spirit of the martyred Alice, as it ascended in prayers to the Heavenly Throne. Divine love and holy trust in the promises of her Redeemer illumined her dark dungeon with the brightness of heaven; and when led forth to the scaffold—death was swallowed up in victory.

Alice Lisle was beheaded in the Market Place at Winchester, Anno Domini, 1685.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

[1]Macaulay.

[1]

Macaulay.

WE ARE DREAMERS ALL.

———

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

———

We are dreamers all! the babe that liesAsleep on its mother’s breast,In a dream of peace will sweetly smile,As if its spirit were e’en the whileBy angel ones caressed!We are dreamers all!We are dreamers all! the lover dreamsOf a fair one by his side;Of the happy hour when he shall standBefore the altar, to claim the handOf his bright and beauteous bride!We are dreamers all!We are dreamers all! the poet dreamsOf the laurel-wreath of fame;He struggles and toils for weary years,And awakes at last with sighs and tears,To grasp but an empty name.We are dreamers all!We are dreamers all! the Christian dreamsOf a promised rest above;Of the pleasant paths of Paradise—Of a home of peace beyond the skies,Prepared by the Saviour’s love!We are dreamers all!We are dreamers all! but oh! to meThe Christian’s dream be given!For bright as his dream on earth may be,He wakes to a blest realityWhen he opes his eyes in Heaven!We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the babe that liesAsleep on its mother’s breast,In a dream of peace will sweetly smile,As if its spirit were e’en the whileBy angel ones caressed!We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the babe that lies

Asleep on its mother’s breast,

In a dream of peace will sweetly smile,

As if its spirit were e’en the while

By angel ones caressed!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the lover dreamsOf a fair one by his side;Of the happy hour when he shall standBefore the altar, to claim the handOf his bright and beauteous bride!We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the lover dreams

Of a fair one by his side;

Of the happy hour when he shall stand

Before the altar, to claim the hand

Of his bright and beauteous bride!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the poet dreamsOf the laurel-wreath of fame;He struggles and toils for weary years,And awakes at last with sighs and tears,To grasp but an empty name.We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the poet dreams

Of the laurel-wreath of fame;

He struggles and toils for weary years,

And awakes at last with sighs and tears,

To grasp but an empty name.

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the Christian dreamsOf a promised rest above;Of the pleasant paths of Paradise—Of a home of peace beyond the skies,Prepared by the Saviour’s love!We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! the Christian dreams

Of a promised rest above;

Of the pleasant paths of Paradise—

Of a home of peace beyond the skies,

Prepared by the Saviour’s love!

We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! but oh! to meThe Christian’s dream be given!For bright as his dream on earth may be,He wakes to a blest realityWhen he opes his eyes in Heaven!We are dreamers all!

We are dreamers all! but oh! to me

The Christian’s dream be given!

For bright as his dream on earth may be,

He wakes to a blest reality

When he opes his eyes in Heaven!

We are dreamers all!

MARY NORRICE.

———

BY JEANNIE DEANE.

———

Mary Norrice! With that name how many blessed memories come flitting by, like bright-winged passage-birds, leaving in their flight a sadness—a feeling of brightness gone!

It was the bright and merry autumn-time when I met thee, Mary, and thou wert in thy girlhood—beautiful and care-free.Anotherautumn-time—the time when withered leaves go whirling over barren places where flowers erst were blooming, and dancing to a wild mournful measure over the graves wherehumanflowers are meekly sleeping—thensaw I thee, sweet Mary, on thy bridal morning, and orange-flowers were in thy hair. And then another autumn-time—a sad and withering autumn-time, and they laid thee in thegrave. Alas! that one so pure, so good as thou wert, should liethere! Alas! for thee, sweet Mary Norrice!—and yetjoyfor thee! Joy! joy for thee!

“An airy fairy Lillian” was my friend Mary—so “innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,” that she was an especial favorite, the “bright particular star” among that joyous band of school-girls where I saw her first. Dark, roguish eyes, soft brown curls clustering about a low sweet forehead, and a sunny, bright complexion had Mary Norrice.

For two bright years that went by on an angel-wing, she was my constant companion—my best, dearest friend, and in this time, I became well acquainted with the beauty, trustfulness, and purity of her character. If there wasanyfault in Mary, we girls used often to say, it was in her adoption of the Catholic religion. It might have been Mary’s imaginative disposition which inclined her to this belief; or perhaps because it was the faith of her mother, who had died when Mary was very young, and whose memory she cherished in her heart’s “holy of holies.” Beautiful it was to see that fair child kneeling at morning before an elegantly wrought crucifix, her mother’s dying gift; her white fingers straying among the pearls of her rosary: or at evening, her slight form bending in the moonlight, the white night-robe falling gracefully about her, a few curls escaping from the delicately laced cap! her white hands crossed on her beating breast—and her dark eyes full of prayer—as she commenced with “Mary Mother.” It was a scene to look upon, and feel that a pure spirit dwelt in her heart, and beamed forth from the child-like, sinless face which looked in pure devotion up to Heaven.

Years are gone since the sweet voice of Mary Norrice washushed—but often when I sit alone in the thoughtful twilight, a “smiling band of early hours come clustering about my memory,” and I can almost believe that those soft brown curls touch once more my cheek! that dear head seems again to nestle lovingly down upon my shoulder—and the little hand feels warm in mine—as looking out together upon the evening-star, I hear the now stilled voice, singing once more, so unutterably sweet and spiritual, its evening song—“Ave Sanctissima!”

One evening when quiet, an unusual guest, seemed to reign throughout the seminary of G——; when the hum of subdued voices, and the softened tones of some distant harp or guitar echoed through the halls only at intervals, we sat together in the big, old-fashioned parlor—Mary, her cousin Claude Norrice, who was the pastor of the village, and myself. Mary was looking from the window somewhat sadly—Claude was gazing into her large dark eyes fondly and earnestly, while my poor foolish heart was weaving a bright fabric for those two gifted beings who sat beside me—a dream which I was to waken from, even before that bright ray of moonlight which was sleeping in its holiness upon Mary’s brow, and which I had been watching for the last ten minutes, should pass away. So golden and so fleeting is the light which hope flings on the fairy fabric oflove.

“Sing us something, Cousin Mary,” said Claude, and her musical voice stole upon our hearts in its magic sweetness, chanting softly that song she loved, “Ave Sanctissima!” Insensibly my heart was yielding to the strain, and I walked in old cathedrals “high and hoary,” listening to some fair nun, as she chanted her mysterious vesper-hymn; when my fancies were suddenly dispelled by Claude’s voice, begging Mary would choose some other song.

“It is very beautiful,” said he, “and seems doubly so, Mary, sung by your dear voice; but the devotion it expresses for an ideal object is very disagreeable to me.”

I was called from the room at that moment, and when I returned an hour later, I knew that Claude Norrice had told his cousin how dearly and truly he loved her, how indispensable was her presence—her affection to his life’s pathway. Mary stood before him, her head erect, as she said proudly and with flashing eyes —

“I’m not to be treated as a mere child, Claude Norrice—I tell you again that nothing you can say to me—no professions of affection you have made, shall lure my heart from the faith of mymother.”

And she bowed her head in veneration as she spoke that name, and crossed her fair white arms upon her breast as if she would still its wild beatings. But I saw her cheek grow white as he bowed down and kissed her forehead, and I saw her lips quiver fast, as he said:

“The shadow is on my heart, Mary—the shadow which your cruel words have cast there, and it can never be effaced. God forgive you, Mary—and Father in Heaven, help me! help me!”

Again he bowed down and kissed her, long and wildly—turned his face toward me pale with agony, and rushed from the room.

“Claude!dearClaude, forgive me,” murmured Mary as she slept that night; raising her pale face from her pillow, and clasping her hands as if she prayed. And often in that long, weary night she would wake with a sudden start, and lifting her eyes toward the crucifix, pray wildly—“Ave Mary! Madonna! help me!” When she would place her hand beneath her pale cheek, weary with her grief, and sleep again, murmuring all the while of Claude—her mother and Heaven.

There were no vows of eternal affection exchanged when Mary Norrice and I stood on the shaded piazza of G—— Seminary, watching for the old green coach, which was momentarily expected to take her to her city home. No vows were needed—we loved each other with that trustfulness, that confidingness which asks no pledge. Mary had promised to write me very often, and this I assured her would be a panacea for every human ill.

Not quite three months after we left school, I received from Mary the following hastily written letter:

“You will make big eyes, Jeannie, dear, when I tell you that I am just about to commit matrimony—only think ofthat! In one little week I am to slip my head into the sacred noose, and who think you is to help me bear the gentle yoke? Arthur Monterey, of whom you have often heard me speak, is the “lucky man,” and though he is a deal older than myself, I dare say we shall learn to love each other very much. He is very handsome, talented, and very much esteemed; but more than all, he is of my own religion—of the same faith as my sainted mother. You will “haste to the wedding” Jeannie, because you remember you long ago promised to act as bride’s-maid on the occasion of this bit of a ceremony.Au revoir, Jeannie dear, come to your own,“Mary.”

“Mary.”

I was not surprised that Mary was to marry a catholic, but Iwassurprised to hear her speak of learning to love Arthur Monterey—learnto love him! Mary Norrice with her loving, enthusiastic nature,learnto love the man who was to be her husband!

The sunlight fell in through the windows of stained glass, glancing upon the high forehead of her betrothed, and bathing in its warm rich light the snowy bridal robes of Mary Norrice.

The vows were spoken; a golden circlet glistened on Mary’s finger, and she was bound in joy and sorrow, for “weal or wo,” to go through life’s pathway by the side of Arthur Monterey. Mournfully fell the tones of the organ upon my ear, for in my heart it was two years agone, since I saw Mary standing in the moonlight, and I heard Claude Norrice say in a voice low with despair—“God forgive you, Mary!”

Arthur Monterey was a very handsome man, but there was a stern expression on his proudly curved lip, and about his high intellectual forehead, which made me fear for Mary. In the few weeks of gayety which followed their marriage, I saw but little of him, though when with us, he seemed very proud of his wife’s rare beauty and fascinations, and was wholly devoted to her.

Winter, spring, and summer passed away, and in the autumn I received a letter from Mary, saying that her husband was traveling, and begging me to come to her. There was a terrible feeling at my heart as it looked once more into those once merry eyes, now so large and sad—and somehow a thought ofdeathas I kissed those lips so mournful and resigned in their expression.

One evening we sat together in Mary’s room, at twilight—her head rested on my shoulder, one pale hand supporting her soft cheek, as the other swept the chords of her harp, with her own peculiar grace and magic. Mournful and low was the prelude; and sad, and spirit-like the dear voice which sang once more to me “Ave Sanctissima!” Midnight had passed, and yet we sat by the open window—the moonlight falling in through the curtains of snowy muslin, its beams as pure, as spiritual as the frail creature who sat beside me, and whose face I fancied grew paler in its light.

We stood within the church again—and Mary’s robes were snowy white; but her brow was paler than before—the long dark lashes fell upon a lifeless cheek—and the pale hands were crossed upon a hushed breast.

With mourning for the young and fair, solemnly echoed the deep tones of the organ through the high arches; and there were white faces, and stilled sobs around the coffined—beautiful—the coffined—dead.

In a package directed to me, which I opened after her death, Mary wrote these lines —

“I trusted in ideal worth, dear Jeannie—I have laid my heart’s best and holiest affections as a sacrifice upon the altar of my religion. I am dying now, and promise me you will bring some of those deep-blue violets from my mother’s grave, and plant them on my own—thenI shall sleep. My husband has been kind to me—but his love is not that for which my heart has yearned.

“If you do not think it wrong, Jeannie dear, you may give my bible to cousin Claude, that same bible which he gave me so long ago. I have placed a curl among its leaves—in Heaven I shall be hiswife—there are notearsthere.”

Bitterly did Claude Norrice weep as he held that long bright curl first in the sunshine, then in the shade; but there was a glance of joy in his dark religious eye as he murmured, “Mine in Heaven—Mary Norrice! in Heaven—mineforever!”

I stood beside him in the spot where Mary’s earthly part is lying. The shadow of the willow-tree waved sadly to and fro upon the white marble cross, on which was graven “Mary Monterey, aged seventeen—there are no tears in Heaven.” As I saw Claude Norrice gather a tuft of violets from the grave, and press them to his lips in an agony of grief, I wept that one so young and beautiful should die. But when I thought of the many high imaginings, the lofty hopes, and holy aspirations the sleeper there had taken hence to Heaven—when I thought how fair the flowers are, how sweet the music, and how white are the angel’s wings in Paradise, I said in my heart—joy for thee, dear Mary Norrice! Thou art gonehome!

“Joy! joy forever! thy task is done,The gates are passed—and Heaven is won.”

“Joy! joy forever! thy task is done,

The gates are passed—and Heaven is won.”

DEATH OF THE PATRIARCH

[Genesis. Chap. xlix.]

———

BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.

———

The day declined in Egypt, and the faintly fluttering breezeDrooped, with dew-laden pinion, ’mid the dark pom’granate trees;The purple grapes, like clustering gems, hung heavy on the vine,Half bursting with their luscious pulp, and rich with ruddy wine,The broad green leaves that shadowed them throughout the noontide glare,Now, quivering, fanned their glowing rinds, and cooled the brooding air;While hitherward, and thitherward, the date tree and the palm,Their graceful branches, slowly swayed, majestically calm.The day declined in Egypt, and the sun had sought the west,Where, like a king whose destiny was done, he sunk to rest,While palace, dome, and pyramid, gleamed with celestial fire,And heaven’s burnished battlements, glowed like a funeral pyre.But in the zenith of the sky, transparent clouds, and white,Rolled hurriedly athwart the blue, their billowy zones of light,And parting in translucent waves, as the sea was doomed to do,A throng of white-winged angels, swept that gate of glory through.The day declined in Egypt, and an old man looked his lastUpon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast;And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright,And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light.Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth,His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth;Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away,And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day.Nations unborn around him thronged, with all theirdeedsanddoom,And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.The day declined in Egypt, and the Patriarch’s sons drew nigh,To hear their father’s parting words, receive his parting sigh.A noble band of brothers they, the princely twelve, who cameAnd bowed their stately heads before that worn and weary frame.“Draw near, my sons,” the old man said, “while I reveal to ye,The hidden things, of old ordained, in latter days to be.“Reuben!beginning of my strength! my first born and my flower,The excellency of dignity, the excellency of power!But what are lofty gifts to thee, while thy impulsive heartWill prompt alike the generous deed, or choose the baser part!Unstable as the waves thou art, I read thy nature well,And dignity and power arevain, forthou shalt ne’er excel.“LeviandSimeon, brethren ye, in wickedness and wile!My soul abhors your cruelty, mine honor shuns your guile!Lost and accursed shall ye be by God’s avenging wrath,And scattered wide, like sifted chaff, upon the whirlwind’s path.“Thou, princelyJudah, nearer draw, my proud and peerless one,Mine eyes would rest once more on thee, my lion-hearted son;I see thy calm, majestic front, thou generous, true, and just!Intheethe children of thy sire, for aye shall place their trust.The gathering of the nations aroundthyhouse shall be;And untilShiloah’scoming the sceptre rests with thee!”And thus, as round their prophet sire, the awe-struck brethren wait,To each of all the listening twelve, he speaks, unfolding fate.The brawny breast ofIssacher, heaves heavily and high,As years of cruel servitude arise before his eye;LuxuriousAsher’scurving lip, half wreaths into a smile,As visions of voluptuousness, flit o’er his brain the while;AndBenjamin, exulting hears of his successful toil —“At morn thou shalt pursue the prey, at eve devour the spoil.”ButJoseph, of the steadfast soul, triumphant over wrong,Round thee, the best belovéd one, the choicest blessings throng.Of the deep that lieth under, of the far spread heavens above;Of thy home and of thy household, in thy life and in thy love,The words wherewith he blesseth thee, o’er all prevaileth still —Unto the utmost boundary of the everlasting hill.The day declined in Egypt, and from fertile mound and plain,The golden sunlight fades away—night gathers dark again.The clouds roll their dark billows back, and through the rifts on high;The solemn stars, in marshaled hosts, tread up the midnight sky;While chanting, through the firmament, the errant angels come;They lead the unfettered spirit up, in triumph to its home.

The day declined in Egypt, and the faintly fluttering breeze

Drooped, with dew-laden pinion, ’mid the dark pom’granate trees;

The purple grapes, like clustering gems, hung heavy on the vine,

Half bursting with their luscious pulp, and rich with ruddy wine,

The broad green leaves that shadowed them throughout the noontide glare,

Now, quivering, fanned their glowing rinds, and cooled the brooding air;

While hitherward, and thitherward, the date tree and the palm,

Their graceful branches, slowly swayed, majestically calm.

The day declined in Egypt, and the sun had sought the west,Where, like a king whose destiny was done, he sunk to rest,While palace, dome, and pyramid, gleamed with celestial fire,And heaven’s burnished battlements, glowed like a funeral pyre.But in the zenith of the sky, transparent clouds, and white,Rolled hurriedly athwart the blue, their billowy zones of light,And parting in translucent waves, as the sea was doomed to do,A throng of white-winged angels, swept that gate of glory through.

The day declined in Egypt, and the sun had sought the west,

Where, like a king whose destiny was done, he sunk to rest,

While palace, dome, and pyramid, gleamed with celestial fire,

And heaven’s burnished battlements, glowed like a funeral pyre.

But in the zenith of the sky, transparent clouds, and white,

Rolled hurriedly athwart the blue, their billowy zones of light,

And parting in translucent waves, as the sea was doomed to do,

A throng of white-winged angels, swept that gate of glory through.

The day declined in Egypt, and an old man looked his lastUpon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast;And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright,And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light.Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth,His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth;Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away,And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day.Nations unborn around him thronged, with all theirdeedsanddoom,And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.

The day declined in Egypt, and an old man looked his last

Upon evening’s fading glories, for his life was ebbing fast;

And dim, to him, the rosy earth, though beautifully bright,

And dark, to him, the western heaven, though bathed in golden light.

Yet, though his feeble sight no more might trace the forms of earth,

His kindling soul looked from its clay, prophetically forth;

Futurity’s enfolding shroud rolled heavily away,

And ages, yet to be revealed, their secrets to the day.

Nations unborn around him thronged, with all theirdeedsanddoom,

And the Patriarch glowed with prophecy, on the confines of the tomb.

The day declined in Egypt, and the Patriarch’s sons drew nigh,To hear their father’s parting words, receive his parting sigh.A noble band of brothers they, the princely twelve, who cameAnd bowed their stately heads before that worn and weary frame.“Draw near, my sons,” the old man said, “while I reveal to ye,The hidden things, of old ordained, in latter days to be.

The day declined in Egypt, and the Patriarch’s sons drew nigh,

To hear their father’s parting words, receive his parting sigh.

A noble band of brothers they, the princely twelve, who came

And bowed their stately heads before that worn and weary frame.

“Draw near, my sons,” the old man said, “while I reveal to ye,

The hidden things, of old ordained, in latter days to be.

“Reuben!beginning of my strength! my first born and my flower,The excellency of dignity, the excellency of power!But what are lofty gifts to thee, while thy impulsive heartWill prompt alike the generous deed, or choose the baser part!Unstable as the waves thou art, I read thy nature well,And dignity and power arevain, forthou shalt ne’er excel.

“Reuben!beginning of my strength! my first born and my flower,

The excellency of dignity, the excellency of power!

But what are lofty gifts to thee, while thy impulsive heart

Will prompt alike the generous deed, or choose the baser part!

Unstable as the waves thou art, I read thy nature well,

And dignity and power arevain, forthou shalt ne’er excel.

“LeviandSimeon, brethren ye, in wickedness and wile!My soul abhors your cruelty, mine honor shuns your guile!Lost and accursed shall ye be by God’s avenging wrath,And scattered wide, like sifted chaff, upon the whirlwind’s path.

“LeviandSimeon, brethren ye, in wickedness and wile!

My soul abhors your cruelty, mine honor shuns your guile!

Lost and accursed shall ye be by God’s avenging wrath,

And scattered wide, like sifted chaff, upon the whirlwind’s path.

“Thou, princelyJudah, nearer draw, my proud and peerless one,Mine eyes would rest once more on thee, my lion-hearted son;I see thy calm, majestic front, thou generous, true, and just!Intheethe children of thy sire, for aye shall place their trust.The gathering of the nations aroundthyhouse shall be;And untilShiloah’scoming the sceptre rests with thee!”

“Thou, princelyJudah, nearer draw, my proud and peerless one,

Mine eyes would rest once more on thee, my lion-hearted son;

I see thy calm, majestic front, thou generous, true, and just!

Intheethe children of thy sire, for aye shall place their trust.

The gathering of the nations aroundthyhouse shall be;

And untilShiloah’scoming the sceptre rests with thee!”

And thus, as round their prophet sire, the awe-struck brethren wait,To each of all the listening twelve, he speaks, unfolding fate.The brawny breast ofIssacher, heaves heavily and high,As years of cruel servitude arise before his eye;LuxuriousAsher’scurving lip, half wreaths into a smile,As visions of voluptuousness, flit o’er his brain the while;AndBenjamin, exulting hears of his successful toil —“At morn thou shalt pursue the prey, at eve devour the spoil.”

And thus, as round their prophet sire, the awe-struck brethren wait,

To each of all the listening twelve, he speaks, unfolding fate.

The brawny breast ofIssacher, heaves heavily and high,

As years of cruel servitude arise before his eye;

LuxuriousAsher’scurving lip, half wreaths into a smile,

As visions of voluptuousness, flit o’er his brain the while;

AndBenjamin, exulting hears of his successful toil —

“At morn thou shalt pursue the prey, at eve devour the spoil.”

ButJoseph, of the steadfast soul, triumphant over wrong,Round thee, the best belovéd one, the choicest blessings throng.Of the deep that lieth under, of the far spread heavens above;Of thy home and of thy household, in thy life and in thy love,The words wherewith he blesseth thee, o’er all prevaileth still —Unto the utmost boundary of the everlasting hill.

ButJoseph, of the steadfast soul, triumphant over wrong,

Round thee, the best belovéd one, the choicest blessings throng.

Of the deep that lieth under, of the far spread heavens above;

Of thy home and of thy household, in thy life and in thy love,

The words wherewith he blesseth thee, o’er all prevaileth still —

Unto the utmost boundary of the everlasting hill.

The day declined in Egypt, and from fertile mound and plain,The golden sunlight fades away—night gathers dark again.The clouds roll their dark billows back, and through the rifts on high;The solemn stars, in marshaled hosts, tread up the midnight sky;While chanting, through the firmament, the errant angels come;They lead the unfettered spirit up, in triumph to its home.

The day declined in Egypt, and from fertile mound and plain,

The golden sunlight fades away—night gathers dark again.

The clouds roll their dark billows back, and through the rifts on high;

The solemn stars, in marshaled hosts, tread up the midnight sky;

While chanting, through the firmament, the errant angels come;

They lead the unfettered spirit up, in triumph to its home.

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