SUMMER FRIENDS.

Theycame—like bees in summer-time,When earth is decked with flowers,And while my year was in its primeThey reveled in my bowers;But when my honey-blooms were shed,And chilling blasts came on,The bee had with the blossom fled:I sought them—they were gone.They came—like spring-birds to the grove,With varied notes of praise,And daily each with other stroveThe highest strain to raise;But when before the frosty galeMy withered leaves were strown,And wintry blasts swept down the vale,I sought them—they were gone.I. G. B.

Theycame—like bees in summer-time,

When earth is decked with flowers,

And while my year was in its prime

They reveled in my bowers;

But when my honey-blooms were shed,

And chilling blasts came on,

The bee had with the blossom fled:

I sought them—they were gone.

They came—like spring-birds to the grove,With varied notes of praise,And daily each with other stroveThe highest strain to raise;But when before the frosty galeMy withered leaves were strown,And wintry blasts swept down the vale,I sought them—they were gone.I. G. B.

They came—like spring-birds to the grove,

With varied notes of praise,

And daily each with other strove

The highest strain to raise;

But when before the frosty gale

My withered leaves were strown,

And wintry blasts swept down the vale,

I sought them—they were gone.

I. G. B.

LINES.

———

BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

———

Sweetmoon, I love thee, yet I grieveTo gaze on thy pale orb to-night;It tells me of that last dear eveI passed with her, my soul’s delight.Hill, vale and wood and stream were dyedIn the pale glory of thy beams,As forth we wandered, side by side,Once more to tell love’s burning dreams.My fond arm was her living zone,My hand within her hand was pressed,And love was in each earnest tone,And rapture in each heaving breast.And many a high and fervent vowWas breathed from her full heart and mine,While thy calm light was on her browLike pure religion’s seal and sign.We knew, alas! that we must part,We knew we must be severed long,Yet joy was in each throbbing heart,For love was deep, and faith was strong.A thousand memories of the pastWere busy in each glowing breast,And hope upon the future castHer rainbow hues—and we were blest.I craved a boon—oh! in that boonThere was a wild, delirious bliss —Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon,Upon a more impassioned kiss?The parting came—one moment briefHer dim and fading form I viewed —’Twas gone—and there I stood in griefAmid life’s awful solitude.Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell,If passion still unchanged is hers —Do thoughts of me her heart still swellAmong her many worshipers?Say, does she sometimes wander nowAt eve beneath thy gentle flame,To raise to heaven her angel-browAnd breathe her absent lover’s name!Oh when her gentle lids are wet,I pray thee, mark each falling gem,And tell me if my image yetIs pictured tremblingly in them!Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrillAs wildly as of yore for me —Does her young heart adore me still,Or is that young heart changed like thee?Oh let thy beams, that softest shine,If still my love to her is dear,Bear to her gentle heart from mineA sigh, a blessing, and a tear.

Sweetmoon, I love thee, yet I grieveTo gaze on thy pale orb to-night;It tells me of that last dear eveI passed with her, my soul’s delight.

Sweetmoon, I love thee, yet I grieve

To gaze on thy pale orb to-night;

It tells me of that last dear eve

I passed with her, my soul’s delight.

Hill, vale and wood and stream were dyedIn the pale glory of thy beams,As forth we wandered, side by side,Once more to tell love’s burning dreams.

Hill, vale and wood and stream were dyed

In the pale glory of thy beams,

As forth we wandered, side by side,

Once more to tell love’s burning dreams.

My fond arm was her living zone,My hand within her hand was pressed,And love was in each earnest tone,And rapture in each heaving breast.

My fond arm was her living zone,

My hand within her hand was pressed,

And love was in each earnest tone,

And rapture in each heaving breast.

And many a high and fervent vowWas breathed from her full heart and mine,While thy calm light was on her browLike pure religion’s seal and sign.

And many a high and fervent vow

Was breathed from her full heart and mine,

While thy calm light was on her brow

Like pure religion’s seal and sign.

We knew, alas! that we must part,We knew we must be severed long,Yet joy was in each throbbing heart,For love was deep, and faith was strong.

We knew, alas! that we must part,

We knew we must be severed long,

Yet joy was in each throbbing heart,

For love was deep, and faith was strong.

A thousand memories of the pastWere busy in each glowing breast,And hope upon the future castHer rainbow hues—and we were blest.

A thousand memories of the past

Were busy in each glowing breast,

And hope upon the future cast

Her rainbow hues—and we were blest.

I craved a boon—oh! in that boonThere was a wild, delirious bliss —Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon,Upon a more impassioned kiss?

I craved a boon—oh! in that boon

There was a wild, delirious bliss —

Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon,

Upon a more impassioned kiss?

The parting came—one moment briefHer dim and fading form I viewed —’Twas gone—and there I stood in griefAmid life’s awful solitude.

The parting came—one moment brief

Her dim and fading form I viewed —

’Twas gone—and there I stood in grief

Amid life’s awful solitude.

Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell,If passion still unchanged is hers —Do thoughts of me her heart still swellAmong her many worshipers?

Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell,

If passion still unchanged is hers —

Do thoughts of me her heart still swell

Among her many worshipers?

Say, does she sometimes wander nowAt eve beneath thy gentle flame,To raise to heaven her angel-browAnd breathe her absent lover’s name!

Say, does she sometimes wander now

At eve beneath thy gentle flame,

To raise to heaven her angel-brow

And breathe her absent lover’s name!

Oh when her gentle lids are wet,I pray thee, mark each falling gem,And tell me if my image yetIs pictured tremblingly in them!

Oh when her gentle lids are wet,

I pray thee, mark each falling gem,

And tell me if my image yet

Is pictured tremblingly in them!

Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrillAs wildly as of yore for me —Does her young heart adore me still,Or is that young heart changed like thee?

Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrill

As wildly as of yore for me —

Does her young heart adore me still,

Or is that young heart changed like thee?

Oh let thy beams, that softest shine,If still my love to her is dear,Bear to her gentle heart from mineA sigh, a blessing, and a tear.

Oh let thy beams, that softest shine,

If still my love to her is dear,

Bear to her gentle heart from mine

A sigh, a blessing, and a tear.

SPIRIT OF HOPE.

———

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

———

Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest.Howshall I lure thee to my side again,Thou, who wert once the Angel of my Youth?Thou, who didst woo me with thy blandest strain —Tinting wild Fancy with the hues of Truth;Whose plumy shape, floating in rosy light,Showered purest pearl-drops from its fairy wing,Making earth’s pathway like the day-star bright,Thou charmer rare of life’s enchanted spring!Fair were the scenes thy radiant pencil drew,When on my eyes the early beauty broke:And thy rich-ringing lyre, when life was new,A glowing rapture in my bosom woke.Then thy gay sister Fancy made my dreamsLovely, and lightsome as the summer-hours,And in her fairy loom wrought hues and gleamsThat clothed the Ideal in a robe of flowers.Now, thou hast vanished from my yearning sight —Thou comest no more in melting softness drest —No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight,No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest.The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope —The light is lost—the shadow comes not back!Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope,To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years!Thy early memory stands before me now:Ah! bythatmemory, which so fair appears,Unveil once more the beauty of thy brow;Come—if I have notquiteoutlived thee—come!And bid thy rival dark Despair depart —Histouch has left me blind and deaf and dumb —Bringthouone ray of sunshine to my heart!

Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest.

Howshall I lure thee to my side again,Thou, who wert once the Angel of my Youth?Thou, who didst woo me with thy blandest strain —Tinting wild Fancy with the hues of Truth;Whose plumy shape, floating in rosy light,Showered purest pearl-drops from its fairy wing,Making earth’s pathway like the day-star bright,Thou charmer rare of life’s enchanted spring!

Howshall I lure thee to my side again,

Thou, who wert once the Angel of my Youth?

Thou, who didst woo me with thy blandest strain —

Tinting wild Fancy with the hues of Truth;

Whose plumy shape, floating in rosy light,

Showered purest pearl-drops from its fairy wing,

Making earth’s pathway like the day-star bright,

Thou charmer rare of life’s enchanted spring!

Fair were the scenes thy radiant pencil drew,When on my eyes the early beauty broke:And thy rich-ringing lyre, when life was new,A glowing rapture in my bosom woke.Then thy gay sister Fancy made my dreamsLovely, and lightsome as the summer-hours,And in her fairy loom wrought hues and gleamsThat clothed the Ideal in a robe of flowers.

Fair were the scenes thy radiant pencil drew,

When on my eyes the early beauty broke:

And thy rich-ringing lyre, when life was new,

A glowing rapture in my bosom woke.

Then thy gay sister Fancy made my dreams

Lovely, and lightsome as the summer-hours,

And in her fairy loom wrought hues and gleams

That clothed the Ideal in a robe of flowers.

Now, thou hast vanished from my yearning sight —Thou comest no more in melting softness drest —No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight,No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest.The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope —The light is lost—the shadow comes not back!Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope,To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.

Now, thou hast vanished from my yearning sight —

Thou comest no more in melting softness drest —

No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight,

No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest.

The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope —

The light is lost—the shadow comes not back!

Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope,

To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.

Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years!Thy early memory stands before me now:Ah! bythatmemory, which so fair appears,Unveil once more the beauty of thy brow;Come—if I have notquiteoutlived thee—come!And bid thy rival dark Despair depart —Histouch has left me blind and deaf and dumb —Bringthouone ray of sunshine to my heart!

Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years!

Thy early memory stands before me now:

Ah! bythatmemory, which so fair appears,

Unveil once more the beauty of thy brow;

Come—if I have notquiteoutlived thee—come!

And bid thy rival dark Despair depart —

Histouch has left me blind and deaf and dumb —

Bringthouone ray of sunshine to my heart!

A GALE IN THE CHANNEL.

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” ETC.

———

Itwas on a sunny day in the winter of 183-, that we dropped down the Mersey and took our leave of Liverpool. Our vessel was a new ship of seven hundred tons; and as she spread, one after another, her folds of white canvas to the breeze, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight. The scene around was lively and inspiriting. Innumerable craft of all sizes covered the waters far and near: here, a large merchantman moving like a stately swan, there, a light yacht skimming along with the swiftness of a swallow. The sunlight sparkled and danced on the billows; the receding coast grew more picturesque as we left it astern; and the blue expanse of the Irish channel stretched away in front, until lost in a thin haze on the opposite horizon.

I had been reading below for several hours, but toward nightfall went on deck again. How I started at the change! It was yet an hour to sunset, but the luminary of day was already hidden in a thick bank of clouds, that lay stretched ominously along the western seaboard. The wind had increased to a smart gale, and was laden with moisture. The billows increased in size every minute, and were whitening with foam far and near. Occasionally as a roller struck the ship’s bows, the white spray flew crackling over the forecastle, and sometimes even shot into the top: on these occasions a foreboding, melancholy sound, like the groan of some huge animal in pain, issued from the thousand timbers of the vessel. Already, in anticipation of the rising tempest, the canvas had been reduced, and we were now heading toward the Irish coast under reefed topsails, courses, a spanker and jib.

“A rough night in prospect, Jack!” I said addressing an old tar beside me.

“You may well say that, sir,” he replied. “It’s bad on the Norway coast in December, and bad going into Sandy Hook in a snow-storm; but both are nothing to a gale in the channel here,” he added, as a sudden whirl of the tempest covered us with spray.

“I wish we had more sea room,” I answered musingly.

“Ay! I’d give the wages of the voyage if we had. How happy you all seemed in the cabin, sir, the ladies especially, an hour or two ago—I suppose it was because we are going home—ah! little did any of us think,” he added, with a seriousness, and in a language uncommon for a sailor, “that we might be bound to another, and a last home, which we should behold first.”

At this moment the captain shouted to shorten sail, and our conversation was of necessity cut short. The ship, I ought to have said, had been laid close to the wind, in order to claw off the English coast, to which we were in dangerous propinquity; and, as the gale increased, the heavy press of canvas forcing her down into the water, she struggled and strained frightfully. While the crew were at work, I walked forward. The billows, now increased to a gigantic size, came rolling down upon us one after another, with such rapidity that our good craft could scarcely recover from one before another was upon her. Each time she struck a head-sea she would stagger an instant, quivering in every timber, while the crest of the shattered wave would shoot to the fore-top like the jet of a fountain: then, the vast surge sinking away beneath her, she would settle groaning into the trough of the sea, until another billow lifted her, another surge thundered against her bows, another shower of foam flew over her. Now and then, when a more colossal wave than usual was seen approaching, the cry “hold on all” rang warningly across the decks. At such times, the vast billow would approach, its head towering in the gathering twilight, until it threatened to engulf us; but, just when all seemed over, our gallant ship would spring forward to meet it, like a steed started by the spur, and the mountain of waters would break over and around us, hissing, roaring and flashing by, and then sinking into the apparently bottomless gulf beneath us.

Meanwhile the decks were resounding with the tread of the sailors, as they hurried to and fro in obedience to the captain’s orders; while the rattling of blocks, the shouts of command, and the quick replies of the seamen, rose over the uproar of the storm.

“Let go bowlines,” cried the stentorian voice of the captain, “ease off the tack—haul on the weather-braces.”

Away went the huge sail in obedience to the order.

“Ease off the sheet—haul up to lee!”

The crew redoubled their quickness; and soon the immense courses were stowed. In a few minutes the ship’s canvas was reduced to reefed topsails, spanker, and fore-topmast staysail. By this time evening had set in, though the long twilight of that latitude prolonged a sickly radiance.

But even this contraction of sail was not sufficient. The thick duck tugged at the yards, as if it would snap them in two. Every moment I expected to see the spanker go.

“We must take in that sail,” said the captain finally, “or she will tear herself to pieces. All hands in with the spanker.”

In an instant the men were struggling with the huge sheet of canvas; and never before had I been so forcibly impressed with the power and usefulness of discipline. In an incredibly short interval the gigantic sail, notwithstanding its struggles, was got under control, and safely stowed.

The ship now labored less for awhile, but, as the storm increased, she groaned and struggled as before.The captain saw it would not do to carry even the little sail now remaining, for, under the tremendous strain, the canvas might be continually expected to be blown from the bolt-ropes. And yet our sole hope lay in crowding every stitch, in order to claw off the English coast! The sailor will understand this at a word, but to the landsman it may require explanation.

Our danger, then, consisted in having insufficient sea room. If we had been on the broad Atlantic, with a hundred or two miles of ocean all around us, we could have lain-to under some bit of a head-sail, or fore-topmast sky-sail for instance, or a reefed fore-sail. But when a vessel lies-to, or, in other words, faces the quarter whence the wind comes, with only enough canvas set to steer her by, she necessarily drifts considerably, and in a line of motion diagonal to her keel. This is called making lee-way. Most ships, when lying-to in a gale, drill very rapidly, sometimes hundreds of miles if the tempest is protracted. It is for this reason that a vessel in a narrow channel dares not lie-to, for a few miles of lee-way would wreck her on the neighboring coast. The only resource, in such cases, is to carry a press of sail, and head in the direction whence the wind comes, but not near so close to it as in lying-to. This is called clawing off a lee-shore. A constant struggle is maintained between the waves, which set the vessel in the same track they are going themselves, and the wind, which urges her on the opposite course. If the canvas holds, and the ship is not too close to the shore under her lee, she escapes: if the sails part, she drives upon the fatal coast before new ones can be got up and bent. Frequently in such cases the struggle is protracted for hours. It is a noble yet harrowing spectacle to see a gallant ship thus contending for her life, as if an animated creature, breasting surge after surge, too often in vain, panting, trembling and battling till the very last.

The captain did not appear satisfied with taking in the spanker; indeed, all feared that the ship could not carry what sail was left. Accordingly, he ordered the topsails to be close-reefed. Yet even after this, the vessel tore through the waters as if every moment she would jerk her masts out. The wind had now increased to a perfect hurricane. It shrieked, howled and roared around as if a thousand fiends were abroad on the blast.

In moments of extreme peril strong natures gather together, as if by some secret instinct. It was in this way that the captain suddenly found himself near the old topman, whom I had been conversing with in the early part of the evening, and who, it appeared, was one of the oldest and best seamen in the ship.

The captain stood by the man’s side a full minute without speaking, looking at the wild waves that, like hungry wolves, came trooping down toward us.

“How far are we from the coast?” he said at last.

“Perhaps five miles, perhaps three, sir!” quietly replied the man.

“And we have a long run to make before we get sea-room,” said the captain.

“We shall all be in eternity before morning,” answered the man, solemnly.

The captain paused a moment, when he replied,

“Our only hope is in the topsail-clews—if they give way, we are indeed lost—God help us!”

“Amen!” I answered, involuntarily.

Silence now ensued, though none of us changed our positions. For myself, I was occupied with thinking of the female passengers, soon, perhaps, to be the prey of the wild waters. Every moment it seemed as if the topsails would give way, she strained so frightfully. It was impossible to stand up if exposed to the full force of the gale. So we sheltered ourselves in the waist as we best could. The wind as well as spray, however, reached us even here, though in diminished violence, the latter stinging the face like shot thrown against it. It seemed to me, each minute, as if we made more lee-way. At last, after half an hour’s suspense, I heard the surf breaking, with a noise like thunder, on the iron-bound coast to the eastward. Again and again I listened, and each time the awful sound became more distinct.

I did not mention my fears, however, for I still thought I might be mistaken. Suddenly the captain looked up.

“Hark!” he said.

He stood with his finger raised in the attitude of one listening intently, his eyes fixed on the face of the old sailor.

“It is the sound of breakers,” said the seaman.

“Breakers on the lee-quarter!” cried the look-out at this instant, his hoarse voice sounding ominously across the night.

“Breakers on the lee-beam!” answered another.

“Breakers on the lee-bow!” echoed a third.

All eyes peered immediately into the darkness. A long line of foam was plainly visible, skirting quite round the horizon to leeward.

“God have mercy on our souls!” I involuntarily ejaculated.

The captain sprung to the wheel, his eye flashing, his whole frame dilated—for he had taken a sudden and desperate resolution. He saw that, if no effort was made, we should be among the breakers in twenty minutes; but if the mainsail could be set, and made to hold for half an hour, we might yet escape. There were nine chances to one that the sail would split the instant it was spread, and in a less terrible emergency he would have shrunk from the experiment; but it was now our only hope.

“Keep her to it!” he shouted; “keep her well up. All hands to set the main-course!”

Fortunately we were strong-handed, so that it would not be necessary to carry the tack to the windlass, notwithstanding the gale. A portion of the crew sprung to man this important rope; the remainder hurried up the rigging, almost disappearing in the gloom overhead.

In less than a minute the huge sail fell from the yard, like a gigantic puff of white smoke blown from the top. It struggled and whipped terribly, but the good ropes held fast.

“Brace up the yard—haul out the bowline!” thundered the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir!” and it was done.

“Haul aft!”

The men ran off with the line, and the immense sheet came to its place.

This was the critical moment. The ship feeling the additional propulsion, made a headlong plunge. I held my breath. I expected nothing less than to see the heavy duck blown from the yard like a gossamer; but the strong fabric held fast, though straining awfully.

“She comes up, don’t she?” interrogated the captain of the man at the helm.

“Ay, ay, sir—she does!”

“How much?”

“Two points, sir!”

“If she holds for half an hour,” ejaculated the captain, “we may yet be saved.”

On rushed the noble ship, seeming to know how much depended on her. She met the billows, she rose above them, she struggled perseveringly forward. In five minutes the breakers were visibly receding.

But hope had been given only to delude us. Suddenly I heard a crack, sharper than an explosion of thunder, and simultaneously the course parted from its fastenings, and sailed away to leeward, like a white cloud driven down the gale.

A cry of horror rose from all. “It is over!” I cried; and I looked around for a plank, intending to lash myself to it, in anticipation of the moment for striking.

When the course went overboard, the head of the ship fell off immediately; and now the wild breakers tumbled and roared closer at hand each moment.

Suddenly the captain seized my arm, for we were holding on almost side by side.

“Ha!” he cried, “is not that dark water yonder?” and he pointed across our lee-bow.

I looked in the direction to which he referred. Unless my eyes deceived me, the long line of breakers came to an abrupt termination there, as if the shore curved inwards at that point.

“You are right—there is a deep bay ahead,” I cried, joyfully. “Look! you can see the surf whitening around the cape.”

The whole crew simultaneously detected this new chance of escape. Though unable to head to the wind as before, there was still a prospect that we could clear the promontory. Accordingly, the next few minutes were passed in breathless suspense. Not a word was spoken on board. Every eye was fixed on that rocky headland, around which the waters boiled as in the vortex of a maelstrom.

The ship seemed conscious of the general feeling, and struggled, I thought, more desperately than ever. She breasted the huge billows with gallant perseverance, and though each one set her closer to the shore, she met the next wave with the same stubborn resolution. Nearer, nearer, nearer we drilled toward the fatal cape. I could now almost fling a biscuit into the breakers.

I had noticed a gigantic roller coming for some time, but had hoped we might clear the cape before it reached us. I now saw the hope was in vain. Towering and towering, the huge wave approached, its dark side almost a perpendicular wall of waters.

“Hold on all!” thundered the captain.

Down it came! For an instant its vast summit hovered overhead, and then, with a roar like ten thousand cataracts, it poured over us. The ship was swept before it like a feather on a gale. With the waters dashing and hissing over the decks, and whirling in wild eddies under our lee, we drove in the direction of the cape. I held my breath in awe. A strong man might almost have leaped on the extreme point of the promontory. I closed my eyes shuddering. The next instant a hurrah met my ear. I looked up. We had shot by the cape, and miles of dark water were before us. An old tar beside me had given vent to the cheer.

“By the Lord!” he said, “but that was close scraping, sir. Another sich would have cracked the hull like an egg-shell. But this craft wasn’t made to go to Davy Jones’ locker!”

And with all the coolness imaginable, he took out a huge piece of pig-tail, leisurely twisted off a bit, and began chewing with as much composure as if nothing unusual had happened.

A year ago, when in New York, I met the captain again, unexpectedly, at the Astor. We dined together, when I took occasion to ask him if he remembered our winter night’s experience in the Irish Channel ten years before.

“Ay!” he said. “And do you know that, when I went out to Liverpool on my next trip, I heard that search had been made all along the coast for the fragments of our ship. The escape was considered miraculous.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve had enough of the Irish Channel.”

TO MRS. E. C. K.

———

BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN.

———

Lady, when first upon my listening earThy song harmonious fell, subdued, entranced,And spell-bound by the strain, my spirit glancedAdown Time’s darkening track, and as it hungUpon the magic numbers, seemed to hearThe lay that erst to Lycidas was sung,By Siloa’s rapt bard, whose visual orbsWere quenched in the intenser brilliancyOf Truth’s divinest radiance, that absorbsAll lesser brightness; thus I mused of thee;But when I saw thee, fair as Hope’s young dream,Freshness like Morning’s on thy brow and cheek,Through which the soul’s celestial light doth beamAs through a sculptured vase, I felt how weakAre images of manhood’s pride and fameThat birth-right’s priceless value to proclaim,Where genius, wit, and poesy divine,Make woman’s heart of love their best and holiest shrine.

Lady, when first upon my listening ear

Thy song harmonious fell, subdued, entranced,

And spell-bound by the strain, my spirit glanced

Adown Time’s darkening track, and as it hung

Upon the magic numbers, seemed to hear

The lay that erst to Lycidas was sung,

By Siloa’s rapt bard, whose visual orbs

Were quenched in the intenser brilliancy

Of Truth’s divinest radiance, that absorbs

All lesser brightness; thus I mused of thee;

But when I saw thee, fair as Hope’s young dream,

Freshness like Morning’s on thy brow and cheek,

Through which the soul’s celestial light doth beam

As through a sculptured vase, I felt how weak

Are images of manhood’s pride and fame

That birth-right’s priceless value to proclaim,

Where genius, wit, and poesy divine,

Make woman’s heart of love their best and holiest shrine.

VALENTINE HISTORIES.

———

BY S. SUTHERLAND.

———

Florence Hastingssat alone in one of the spacious apartments of her uncle’s stately mansion in —— square. The luxuriously cushioned sofa was drawn quite close to the cheerful grate-fire, while the pale cheek of its occupant, and the slight form almost hidden in the folds of a large shawl, betokened an invalid. And such in reality was our young heroine. Fresh in her memory, and consequently in its effects upon her personal appearance, was a lingering and dangerous illness, and barely three weeks had elapsed since the crisis was safely past, and she had been pronounced convalescent.

Books and writing materials were now scattered carelessly upon a table beside her—but they did not claim her interest. She seemed in an unusually nervous, restless mood. At times her eyes would wander around the apartment with a strangely dissatisfied look, (for every thing before her wore an appearance of splendor very agreeable to the gaze of the beholder,) then she would bury her face in her hands, while something glittering and dewy—something greatly resemblinga tear-drop, would trickle slowly through those slender fingers. Could it, indeed, be a tear-drop? What cause for sorrow had Florence Hastings, the young and accomplished heiress? Florence was an orphan. At the early age of ten years she had lost both the tender father, and the sweet mother who had watched over her steps in infancy, and since that period she had felt too deeply that there was no one to whom she could look for the true love and sympathy for which her spirit pined. Her uncle and guardian, absorbed in the duties of an extensive mercantile establishment, troubled himself little about his niece. He was well assured that her own goodly inheritance amply supplied all her desires—and the morning salutation with which he honored Florence as she took her accustomed seat beside him at the breakfast table, and the gracious smile of approbation when he beheld her at evening bending over her studies in the parlor, were generally sufficient to relieve his mind of all scruples concerning the duties of personal intercourse. On this point, however, no one who knew Mr. Hastings would have rested any blame upon him. He was to all a man of few words—naturally cold and calm in manner. His wife resembled him greatly in every respect—being of a quiet, placid temperament, which no emotion was ever observed to ruffle—pursuing the tenor of her way by rule rather than by impulse. So in this case, at least, it was plainly evident that “Love’s delight” had not consisted in “joining contrasts.” Casual observers might have said that a similar description would apply to Mr. Hastings’ niece—but in doing so they wronged her. Florence was, indeed, reserved, and apparently cold, but it was from habit and education—not by inheritance. Once she had been a sunny, glad-souled child, whose bounding footstep and merry laugh resounded gayly through a home where she was tenderly loved and cherished—but she was sensitive, too, beyond her years; and when the light of that pleasant hearth was forever extinguished, and she sat in affliction and desolation of spirit by the fireside of those who till then had been strangers to her, the chilling atmosphere of her new home effectually checked the return of that animation of manner, which, from the fortunate inability of childhood to retain a lasting remembrance of sorrow, might have been expected. So the gleeful laughter of the once happy-hearted little Florence was hushed, and her joyous, springing step exchanged for a slower and more measured tread. It was a mournful thing for one so young and gentle and loving in spirit as Florence, to be obliged to repress all exhibition of the sweet, frank impulses of her nature, and live on with no voice to whisper words of encouragement and affection. Yet the orphan succeeded in moulding her manner in accordance with her new and strange existence. A weary task it was, and oftentimes did her rebellious soul

“Beat the barsWith burning wing and passionate song,And pour to the benignant starsThe earnest story of its wrong.”

“Beat the bars

With burning wing and passionate song,

And pour to the benignant stars

The earnest story of its wrong.”

But the “benignant stars” alone looked down upon these struggles; no human ear ever caught the moan of that fettered and wounded spirit. Mrs. Hastings never dreamed, nor is it to be supposed she would havecared, that the quiet and apparently passionless child who came with such seeming carelessness to receive her customary good-night kiss, would have clung to her fondly, and returned the caress with impassioned earnestness, had it been impressed upon her brow with the slightest token of feeling.

Till Florence had attained her fourteenth year her education had been superintended by a governess who came daily to her uncle’s dwelling, and with whom, being devoted to books and study, she had made rapid progress. But for many reasons which I have not space here to enumerate, it was at length thought advisable to send her to a celebrated seminary located in the neighborhood of her residence. About the same period, Mr. Hastings’ family received an addition, by the arrival of a niece of his wife’s, who had also been consigned to his guardianship. Ida Hamilton was about a year the senior of Florence, and a bright, frank, gay-spirited creature, who had passed her life hitherto under none but genial auspices. She was exactly what Florence would have been had her soul always dwelt in the kindly atmosphere of affection. At the school which they attended together, Ida was called “the Sunbeam,” and Florence “the Iceberg;” andthe society of the former was courted by all, while the latter was uncared for, though none dared to think her neglected, for they said she was cold and proud —

“Proud of her pride,And proud of the power to riches allied;”

“Proud of her pride,

And proud of the power to riches allied;”

and when in the hour of recreation she sat apart from all, apparently absorbed in a book, and paying little heed to what passed around her, what token had they for suspecting that it was the indifference of a heart only too proud to seek for sympathy where she believed she would meet with no return. Ida Hamilton had been an orphan from infancy; but the place of her parents had been supplied by near and kind relatives, who had petted and cherished her as their own. Her first grief had been her separation from these relatives, when by the ill health of one of its members the family circle was broken up, and a residence in the South of Europe advised by the physicians. Ida was, meanwhile, left to the care of her guardian, Mr. Hastings; and deeply as she at first mourned the departure of her beloved friends, hope painted in glowing colors her reunion with them at some future day, and so by degrees the young girl became reconciled to the change. For awhile she felt, indeed, a restraint upon her happy spirit, for the constraint and formality which seemed the governing powers of her aunt’s domestic circle formed a vivid contrast with that free-hearted and universal cordiality of feeling to which she had been accustomed. But it was scarcely to be supposed that she would long be daunted at the unpromising aspect of things around her. Confiding, affectionate and yielding to those who loved her, Ida was “as careless as the summer rill that sings itself along” with those who had no claim upon her heart, and possessed withal of a certain independence of manner which rendered all caviling out of the question. If Mrs. Hastings felt any surprise when her niece gradually cast aside the awe with which her presence had at first inspired her, as usual, she gave no manifestation of it. But the servants, well-trained as they were, looked exclamation points at one another when, while engaged in active duties, they heard Miss Ida’s lively sallies to their master and mistress, andtalkedtheir astonishment when, while in their own distinct quarters, they caught the sound of her voice as it rang out dear and free in laughter, or warbled silvery and sweet, wild snatches of some favorite song.

It may be supposed that with such pleasant companionship the life of Florence Hastings had become more joyous. But it was not so. Though for more than three years Ida Hamilton and Florence had been domesticated beneath the same roof, upon the morning on which my sketch begins (the ever memorable Fourteenth of February, 1850,) they were to all appearance scarcely better acquainted than upon the day of Ida’s introduction to Mr. Hasting’s dwelling. Bending daily, as they had done, over the same studies, they had never sought one another’s sympathy; and when they left school, it could scarcely be expected that the bond of union would be more closely cemented. Mutually calculated though they were to become warm-hearted friends, beyond the common civilities of life, no intercourse had subsisted between them. Ida never jested with Florence, or strove to provoke a smile by the thousand little witcheries that she sometimes practiced upon others—not excepting her stately uncle and aunt, and at intervals even in this case with success. Florence often wished that she had but possessed a sister like Ida; her heart throbbed with a deep, irrepressible yearning whenever that little, soft hand by chance touched hers; but she had learned too perfectly the art of keeping her feelings in check to betray them now, even “by faintest flutter of a pulse, by lightest change of cheek, or eyelid’s fall.”

As I have said, Florence was but just recovering from a lengthened and dangerous illness, from the effects of which she was still weak. During that illness she had been constantly attended by Mrs. Hastings; and while deeply grateful for her care, she had, though unobserved, moments of irritability when the immobile features of her aunt were an absolute annoyance. And it was enhanced by the striking contrast of Ida’s bright face, who daily paid a ceremonious visit to the sick-room—Ida, who was never cold to any one but her! Then she would wish that Ida Hamilton would not come near her at all—she was never so wretched as after the reception of her unconscious visiter; and yet when Ida delayed her coming an hour later than usual, she was restless and uneasy! And these spells of feverish excitability greatly retarded her recovery. It was the return of one of them upon the present occasion, by which the tears that filled her eyes may be explained.

Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her, and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following, characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds previously.

This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers,That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring;And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers,Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring;Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by —Must sunless ever bemyspirit’s sky?And yet they deem me reckless of the loveOf kindred spirits, while they gaze with painAt the strange picture of a mind aboveAll thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;Oh! can they think my proud, high heart wouldshowThe wish for blessings it may never know?Watchful and wary of each look and word,Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learnThe feelings that within so oft are stirred,That such emotions in my bosom burn,Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way,And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.Alone!What weary thoughts at that word throng,Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave,Yet it shall be the burthen of my songUntil I rest within the quiet grave;No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known —And I must still live on unloved—alone!They call me cold and reckless of the loveOf kindred spirits, while they gaze with painAt the strange picture of a mind aboveAll thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;How can they dream my proud, high heart would showThe wish for blessings it may never know!

This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers,

That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring;

And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers,

Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring;

Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by —

Must sunless ever bemyspirit’s sky?

And yet they deem me reckless of the loveOf kindred spirits, while they gaze with painAt the strange picture of a mind aboveAll thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;Oh! can they think my proud, high heart wouldshowThe wish for blessings it may never know?

And yet they deem me reckless of the love

Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain

At the strange picture of a mind above

All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;

Oh! can they think my proud, high heart wouldshow

The wish for blessings it may never know?

Watchful and wary of each look and word,Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learnThe feelings that within so oft are stirred,That such emotions in my bosom burn,Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way,And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.

Watchful and wary of each look and word,

Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learn

The feelings that within so oft are stirred,

That such emotions in my bosom burn,

Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way,

And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.

Alone!What weary thoughts at that word throng,Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave,Yet it shall be the burthen of my songUntil I rest within the quiet grave;No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known —And I must still live on unloved—alone!

Alone!What weary thoughts at that word throng,

Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave,

Yet it shall be the burthen of my song

Until I rest within the quiet grave;

No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known —

And I must still live on unloved—alone!

They call me cold and reckless of the loveOf kindred spirits, while they gaze with painAt the strange picture of a mind aboveAll thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;How can they dream my proud, high heart would showThe wish for blessings it may never know!

They call me cold and reckless of the love

Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain

At the strange picture of a mind above

All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;

How can they dream my proud, high heart would show

The wish for blessings it may never know!

Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world could have taken the trouble to writehera valentine? But the query was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for a reply.

When the package was unclosed, the following verses met the gaze of the astonished and delighted Florence. They were entitled “A Supplication to Florence.”

Hearest thou my spirit chantingAt the portals of thy heart?’Tis to cross that threshold panting—Pining—bid it not depart.List not to its prayer unheeding,Entrance though it seeks to win—When it rises softly pleading,Prithee, prithee take me in!From a world of care and sadness,From its shadows and its sin,For Love’s sake, with love and gladness,Prithee, prithee take me in!Ah! within that mansion holy,May its nobler life begin?Turn not from its pleadings lowly,Prithee, prithee take me in!

Hearest thou my spirit chantingAt the portals of thy heart?’Tis to cross that threshold panting—Pining—bid it not depart.

Hearest thou my spirit chanting

At the portals of thy heart?

’Tis to cross that threshold panting—

Pining—bid it not depart.

List not to its prayer unheeding,Entrance though it seeks to win—When it rises softly pleading,Prithee, prithee take me in!

List not to its prayer unheeding,

Entrance though it seeks to win—

When it rises softly pleading,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

From a world of care and sadness,From its shadows and its sin,For Love’s sake, with love and gladness,Prithee, prithee take me in!

From a world of care and sadness,

From its shadows and its sin,

For Love’s sake, with love and gladness,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

Ah! within that mansion holy,May its nobler life begin?Turn not from its pleadings lowly,Prithee, prithee take me in!

Ah! within that mansion holy,

May its nobler life begin?

Turn not from its pleadings lowly,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

Accompanying this playful but deeply earnest little strain—doublyearnest, as coming from Ida to Florence—was an explanatory letter. Ida Hamilton wrote thus:

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