Chapter 50

OH! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,Be scattered around, and together be laid;And the young and the old, and the low and the high,Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.The infant a mother attended and loved;The mother that infant’s affection who proved;The husband that mother and infant who blessed,—Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;And the memory of those who loved her and praisedAre alike from the minds of the living erased.The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,Have faded away like the grass that we tread.The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weedThat withers away to let others succeed;So the multitude comes, even those we behold,To repeat every tale that has often been told.For we are the same our fathers have been;We see the same sights our fathers have seen;We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,And run the same course our fathers have run.The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;To the life we are clinging they also would cling;But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,We mingle together in sunshine and rain;And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.BY MISS JEWSBURY.AND this, O Spain! is thy returnFor the new world I gave!Chains!—this the recompense I earn!The fetters of the slave!Yon sun that sinketh ’neath the sea,Rises on realms I found for thee.I served thee as a son would serve;I loved thee with a father’s love;It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve,To raise thee other lands above,That thou, with all thy wealth, might beThe single empress of the sea.For thee my form is bowed and wornWith midnight watches on the main;For thee my soul hath calmly borneIlls worse than sorrow, more than pain;Through life, what’er my lot might be,I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee.My guerdon!—’Tis a furrowed brow,Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears,And blighted hope, and broken vow,And poverty for coming years,And hate, with malice in her train:—What other guerdon?—View my chain!Yet say not that I weep for gold!No, let it be the robber’s spoil.—Nor yet, that hate and malice boldDecry my triumph and my toil.—I weep but for Spain’s lasting shame;I weep but for her blackened fame.No more.—The sunlight leaves the sea;Farewell, thou never-dying king!Earth’s clouds and changes change not thee,And thou—and thou,—grim, giant thing,Cause of my glory and my pain,—Farewell, unfathomable main!THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.BY THEODORE O’HARA.Born in Danville, Kentucky, 1820; died in Alabama, 1867. This famous poem was written in honor of a comrade of the author, a Kentucky soldier, who fell mortally wounded in the battle of Buena Vista.THE muffled drum’s sad roll has beatThe soldier’s last tattoo;No more on life’s parade shall meetThe brave and fallen few.On fame’s eternal camping-groundTheir silent tents are spread,And glory guards with solemn roundThe bivouac of the dead.No rumor of the foe’s advanceNow swells upon the wind,No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow’s strifeThe warrior’s dream alarms,No braying horn or screaming fifeAt dawn shall call to arms.Their shivered swords are red with rust,Their plumed heads are bowed,Their haughty banner trailed in dustIs now their martial shroud—And plenteous funeral tears have washedThe red stains from each brow,And the proud forms by battle gashedAre free from anguish now.The neighboring troop, the flashing blade,The bugle’s stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade,The din and shout are passed—Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal,Shall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that never more may feelThe rapture of the fight.Like the fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gainCame down the serried foe—Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o’er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas victory or death.Full many a mother’s breath hath sweptO’er Angostura’s plain,And long the pitying sky has weptAbove its moldered slain.The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight,Or shepherd’s pensive lay,Alone now wake each solemn heightThat frowned o’er that dread fray.Sons of the dark and bloody ground,Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air!Your own proud land’s heroic soilShall be your fitter grave;She claims from war its richest spoil—The ashes of her brave.Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest,Far from the gory field,Borne to a Spartan mother’s breastOn many a bloody shield.The sunshine of their native skyShines sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes’ sepulchre.Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!Dear as the blood ye gave;No impious footstep here shall treadThe herbage of your grave!Nor shall your glory be forgotWhile fame her record keeps,Or honor points the hallowed spotWhere valor proudly sleeps.Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stoneIn deathless song shall tell,When many a vanished year hath flown,The story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,Nor time’s remorseless doom,Can dim one ray of holy lightThat gilds your glorious tomb.ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.BY ABRAHAM LINCOLN.Born 1809; died 1865.Mr.Lincoln always spoke briefly and to the point. The following short oration, delivered at the dedication of the Gettysburg Cemetery, is universally regarded as one of the greatest masterpieces, of brief and simple eloquence, in the realm of oratory.FOURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.MEMORY.BY JAMES A. GARFIELD.Born 1831; died 1881. The following poem was♦written by the late President Garfield during his senior year in Williams College, Massachusetts, and was published in the Williams “Quarterly” for March, 1856.♦“writen” replaced with “written”TIS beauteous night; the stars look brightly downUpon the earth, decked in her robe of snow.No lights gleam at the windows, save my own,Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comesAnd leads me gently through her twilight realms.What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayedThe enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells;It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree;And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathedIn heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,Are clustered joys serene of other days.Upon its gently sloping hillsides bendThe weeping willows o’er the sacred dustOf dear departed ones; yet in that land,Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,They that were sleeping rise from out the dustOf death’s long, silent years, and round us standAs erst they did before the prison tombReceived their clay within its voiceless halls.The heavens that bend above that land are hungWith clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shadeUpon the sunny, joyous land below.Others are floating through the dreamy air,White as the falling snow, their margins tingedWith gold and crimson hues; their shadows fallUpon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing.When the rough battle of the day is done,And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart,I bound away, across the noisy years,Unto the utmost verge of memory’s land,Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,And memory dim with dark oblivion joins;Where woke the first remembered sounds that fellUpon the ear in childhood’s early morn;And, wandering thence along the rolling years,I see the shadow of my former selfGliding from childhood up to man’s estate;The path of youth winds down through many a vale.And on the brink of many a dread abyss,From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulfAnd beckons toward the verge. Again the pathLeads o’er the summit where the sunbeams fall;And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along.ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.BY ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS.Born in New York, 1827; died in New Jersey, 1879. The following poem first appeared in “Harper’s Weekly” in 1861, and being published anonymously its authorship was, saysMr.Stedman, “falsely claimed by several persons.”ALL quiet along the Potomac, they say,“Except now and then a stray picketIs shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,By a rifleman hid in the thicket.’Tis nothing; a private or two, now and then,Will not count in the news of the battle;Not an officer lost—only one of the men,Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”All quiet along the Potomac to-night,Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,Or the light of the watchfires, are gleaming.A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-windThrough the forest leaves softly is creeping;While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s treadAs he tramps from the rock to the fountain.And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,Far away in the cot on the mountain.His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,Grows gentle with memories tender,As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,For their mother—may Heaven defend her!The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,That night when the love yet unspokenLeaped up to his lips—when low, murmured vowsWere pledged to be ever unbroken;Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,He dashes off tears that are welling,And gathers his gun closer up to its place,As if to keep down the heart-swelling.He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—The footstep is lagging and weary;Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary, good-by!”And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.All quiet along the Potomac to-night—No sound save the rush of the river;While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—The picket’s off duty forever.A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.BY EPES SARGENT.Born 1813; died 1880. The following beautiful and popular song, sung all over the world, like “Home, Sweet Home,” is by an American author. It is one of those bits of lyric verse which will perpetuate the name of its writer longer, perhaps, then any of the many books which he gave to the world.ALIFE on the ocean wave,A home on the rolling deep;Where the scattered waters rave,And the winds their revels keep!Like an angel caged I pine,On this dull, unchanging shore:O, give me the flashing brine,The spray and the tempest’s roar!Once more on the deck I stand,Of my own swift-gliding craft:Set sail! farewell to the land;The gale follows fair abaft.We shoot through the sparkling foam,Like an ocean-bird set free,—Like the ocean-bird, our homeWe’ll find far out on the sea.The land is no longer in view,The clouds have begun to frown;But with a stout vessel and crew,We’ll say, “Let the storm come down!”And the song of our hearts shall be,While the winds and the waters rave,A home on the rolling sea!A life on the ocean wave!THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.BY F. M. FINCH.Born in Ithaca, N. Y., 1827. Many of the women of the South, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They have strewn flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.BY the flow of the inland river,Whence the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,Asleep on the ranks of the dead:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the one, the Blue,Under the other, the Gray.These in the robings of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All with the battle-blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the laurel, the Blue,Under the willow, the Gray.From the silence of sorrowful hours,The desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowers,Alike for the friend and the foe:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the roses, the Blue,Under the lilies, the Gray.So, with an equal splendor,The morning sun-rays fall,With a touch impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Broidered with gold, the Blue,Mellowed with gold, the Gray.So, when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grainWith an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Wet with the rain, the Blue,Wet with the rain, the Gray.Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done;In the storm of the years that are fading,No braver battle was won:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the blossoms, the Blue,Under the garlands, the Gray.No more shall the war-cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Love and tears for the Blue,Tears and love for the Gray.ROLL-CALL.BY NATHANIEL P. SHEPHERD.Born in New York, 1835; died 1869.CORPORAL GREEN!” the orderly cried;“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,From the lips of the soldier who stood near—And “here!” was the word the next replied.“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—This time no answer followed the call;Only his rear-man had seen him fall,Killed or wounded, he could not tell.There they stood in the failing light,These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,As plain to be read as open books,While slowly gathered the shades of night.The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,And down in the corn where the poppies grewWere redder stains than the poppies knew;And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.For the foe had crossed from the other sideThat day, in the face of a murderous fireThat swept them down in its terrible ire;And their life-blood went to color the tide.“Herbert Kline!” At the call there cameTwo stalwart soldiers into the lineBearing between them this Herbert Kline,Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.“Ezra Kerr!” and a voice answered, “here!”“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke:“Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said;“Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,Just after the enemy wavered and broke.“Close to the roadside his body lies;I paused a moment and gave him drink;He murmured his mother’s name, I think,And death came with it and closed his eyes.”’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—For that company’s roll, when called at night,Of a hundred men who went into the fight,Numbered but twenty that answered, “Here!”THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS.BY J. A. MACON.Born in Alabama, 1851.Author of “Uncle Gab Tucker.”The following dialect verses are a faithful reproduction, not only of the negro dialect of the cotton sections of the South; but the genius ofMr.Macon has subtly embodied in this and other of his writings a shadowy but true picture of the peculiar and original philosophy and humor of the poor but happy black people of the section with which he is so familiar.NOW, I’s got a notion in my head dat when you come to die,An’ stan’ de ’zamination in de Cote-house in de sky,You’ll be ’stonished at de questions dat de angel’s gwine to axWhen he gits you on de witness-stan’ an’ pin you to de fac’s;’Cause he’ll ax you mighty closely ’bout your doin’s in de night,An’ de water-milion question’s gwine to bodder you a sight!Den your eyes’ll open wider dan dey ebber done befo’When he chats you ’bout a chicken-scrape dat happened long ago!De angels on the picket-line erlong de Milky WayKeep a-watchin’ what you’re dribin’ at, an’ hearin’ what you say;No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you’s gwine,Dey’s mighty ap’ to find it out an’ pass it ’long de line;An’ of’en at de meetin’, when you make a fuss an’ laugh,Why, dey send de news a-kitin’ by de golden telegraph;Den, de angel in de orfis, what’s a settin’ by de gate,Jes’ reads de message wid a look an’ claps it on de slate!Den you better do your juty well an’ keep your conscience clear,An’ keep a-lookin’ straight ahead an’ watchin’ whar you steer;’Cause arter while de time’ll come to journey fum de lan’,An’ dey’ll take you way up in de a’r an’ put you on de stan’;Den you’ll hab to listen to de clerk an’ answer mighty straight,Ef you ebber’ spec’ to trabble froo de alaplaster gate!RUIN WROUGHT BY RUM.(TEMPERANCE SELECTION.)GO, feel what I have felt,Go, bear what I have borne;Sink ’neath a blow a father dealt,And the cold, proud world’s scorn.Thus struggle on from year to year,Thy sole relief the scalding tear.Go, weep as I have weptO’er a loved father’s fall;See every cherished promise swept,Youth’s sweetness turned to gall;Hope’s faded flowers strewed all the wayThat led me up to woman’s day.Go, kneel as I have knelt;Implore, beseech and pray.Strive the besotted heart to melt,The downward course to stay;Be cast with bitter curse aside,—Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.Go, stand where I have stood,And see the strong man bow;With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,And cold and livid brow;Go, catch his wandering glance, and seeThere mirrored his soul’s misery.Go, hear what I have heard,—The sobs of sad despair,As memory’s feeling fount hath stirred,And its revealings thereHave told him what he might have been,Had he the drunkard’s fate foreseen.Go to my mother’s side,And her crushed spirit cheer;Thine own deep anguish hide,Wipe from her cheek the tear;Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,The gray that streaks her dark hair now,The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,And trace the ruin back to himWhose plighted faith in early youth,Promised eternal love and truth,But who, forsworn, hath yielded upThis promise to the deadly cup,And led her down from love and light,From all that made her pathway bright,And chained her there ’mid want and strife,That lowly thing,—a drunkard’s wife!And stamped on childhood’s brow, so mild,That withering blight,—a drunkard’s child!Go, hear, and see, and feel, and knowAll that my soul hath felt and known,Then look within the wine-cup’s glow;See if its brightness can atone;Think of its flavor would you try,If all proclaimed,—’Tis drink and die.Tell me I hate the bowl,—Hateis a feeble word;I loathe, abhor, my very soulBy strong disgust is stirredWhene’er I see, or hear, or tellOf theDARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!Anonymous.TO A SKELETON.TheMS.of this poem was found in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton, and sent by the curator to the “Morning Chronicle” for publication. It excited so much attention that every effort was made to discover the author, and a responsible party went so far as to offer fifty guineas for information that would discover its origin. The author preserved his incognito, and, we believe, has never been discovered.BEHOLD this ruin! ’Twas a skull,Once of ethereal spirit full.This narrow cell was life’s retreat,This space was thought’s mysterious seat.What beauteous visions filled this spot,What dreams of pleasure long forgot?Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,Have left one trace of record here.Beneath this moldering canopyOnce shone the bright and busy eye;But start not at the dismal void;If social love that eye employed,If with no lawless fire it gleamed,But through the dews of kindness beamed,—That eye shall be forever brightWhen stars and sun are sunk in night.Within this hollow cavern hungThe ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;If falsehood’s honey it disdained,And when it could not praise was chained;If bold in virtue’s cause it spoke,Yet gentle concord never broke,—This silent tongue shall plead for theeWhen time unveils eternity!Say, did these fingers delve the mine,Or with the envied rubies shine?To hew the rock or wear a gemCan little now avail to them.But if the page of truth they sought,Or comfort to the mourner brought,These hands a richer meed shall claimThan all that wait on wealth and fame.Avails it whether bare or shodThese feet the paths of duty trod?If from the bowers of ease they fled,To seek affliction’s humble shed;If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurned,And home to virtue’s cot returned,—These feet with angel wings shall vie,And tread the palace of the sky!PLEDGE WITH WINE.(A TEMPERANCE SELECTION.)PLEDGE with wine—pledge with wine!” cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. “Pledge with wine,” ran through the brilliant crowd.The beautiful bride grew pale—the decisive hour had come,—she pressed her white hands together,and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors.“Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once,” said the judge in a low tone, going towards his daughter, “the company expect it; do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;—in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me.”Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion’s principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits—and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman’s opinion so soon.Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of “Oh, how terrible!” “What is it?” cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm’s length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object.“Wait,” she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, “wait and I will tell you. I see,” she added, slowly pointing one jeweled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, “a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water’s edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brows; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast.“Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy-looking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh! hear him call piteously his father’s name; see him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister—his only sister—the twin of his soul—weeping for him in his distant native land.“See!” she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; “see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and leave the living and dying together.”There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup.“It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lie gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister—death is there. Death! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back! one convulsive shudder! he is dead!”A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping.“Dead!” she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and her voice more and more broken: “and there they scoop him a grave; and there, without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp, reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-dayin that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies—my father’s son—my own twin brother! a victim to this deadly poison. Father,” she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, “father, shall I drink it now?”The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered—“No, no, my child; in God’s name, no.”She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: “Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand; who watched over my brother’s dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?”His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer.The judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms.Those who were present at that wedding can never forget the impression so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass.SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA.BY ELIJAH KELLOG.Born in Portland, Maine, 1813. Spartacus was a Thracian soldier, who was taken prisoner by the Romans, made a slave, and trained as a gladiator. He escaped with a number of fellow-gladiators, an incident to which this speech is supposed to refer to. He was killed in battle 71 B. C., while leading the Servile War against Rome.IT had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dewdrops on the corslet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound was heard, save the last sob of some retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then all was as still as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their brows; when Spartacus, arising in the midst of that grim assembly, thus addressed them:“Ye call me chief; and ye do well to callhimchief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus,—a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd’s flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I claspedthe knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling!“To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died;—the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the prætor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome’s fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said: ‘Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans!’ And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay, thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;—to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!“Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? ’Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours—and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye arebeasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher’s knife! If ye aremen,—follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain-passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at Old Thermopylæ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master’s lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians!—if we must fight, let us fight forourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter ouroppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!”THE CRABBED MAN.BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.(Extract from a Lecture.)Born 1832. One of the most eminent orators of the American pulpit.

H! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant’s affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,—

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.

BY MISS JEWSBURY.

AND this, O Spain! is thy returnFor the new world I gave!Chains!—this the recompense I earn!The fetters of the slave!Yon sun that sinketh ’neath the sea,Rises on realms I found for thee.I served thee as a son would serve;I loved thee with a father’s love;It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve,To raise thee other lands above,That thou, with all thy wealth, might beThe single empress of the sea.For thee my form is bowed and wornWith midnight watches on the main;For thee my soul hath calmly borneIlls worse than sorrow, more than pain;Through life, what’er my lot might be,I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee.My guerdon!—’Tis a furrowed brow,Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears,And blighted hope, and broken vow,And poverty for coming years,And hate, with malice in her train:—What other guerdon?—View my chain!Yet say not that I weep for gold!No, let it be the robber’s spoil.—Nor yet, that hate and malice boldDecry my triumph and my toil.—I weep but for Spain’s lasting shame;I weep but for her blackened fame.No more.—The sunlight leaves the sea;Farewell, thou never-dying king!Earth’s clouds and changes change not thee,And thou—and thou,—grim, giant thing,Cause of my glory and my pain,—Farewell, unfathomable main!

ND this, O Spain! is thy return

For the new world I gave!

Chains!—this the recompense I earn!

The fetters of the slave!

Yon sun that sinketh ’neath the sea,

Rises on realms I found for thee.

I served thee as a son would serve;

I loved thee with a father’s love;

It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve,

To raise thee other lands above,

That thou, with all thy wealth, might be

The single empress of the sea.

For thee my form is bowed and worn

With midnight watches on the main;

For thee my soul hath calmly borne

Ills worse than sorrow, more than pain;

Through life, what’er my lot might be,

I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee.

My guerdon!—’Tis a furrowed brow,

Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears,

And blighted hope, and broken vow,

And poverty for coming years,

And hate, with malice in her train:—

What other guerdon?—View my chain!

Yet say not that I weep for gold!

No, let it be the robber’s spoil.—

Nor yet, that hate and malice bold

Decry my triumph and my toil.—

I weep but for Spain’s lasting shame;

I weep but for her blackened fame.

No more.—The sunlight leaves the sea;

Farewell, thou never-dying king!

Earth’s clouds and changes change not thee,

And thou—and thou,—grim, giant thing,

Cause of my glory and my pain,—

Farewell, unfathomable main!

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

BY THEODORE O’HARA.

Born in Danville, Kentucky, 1820; died in Alabama, 1867. This famous poem was written in honor of a comrade of the author, a Kentucky soldier, who fell mortally wounded in the battle of Buena Vista.

THE muffled drum’s sad roll has beatThe soldier’s last tattoo;No more on life’s parade shall meetThe brave and fallen few.On fame’s eternal camping-groundTheir silent tents are spread,And glory guards with solemn roundThe bivouac of the dead.No rumor of the foe’s advanceNow swells upon the wind,No troubled thought at midnight hauntsOf loved ones left behind;No vision of the morrow’s strifeThe warrior’s dream alarms,No braying horn or screaming fifeAt dawn shall call to arms.Their shivered swords are red with rust,Their plumed heads are bowed,Their haughty banner trailed in dustIs now their martial shroud—And plenteous funeral tears have washedThe red stains from each brow,And the proud forms by battle gashedAre free from anguish now.The neighboring troop, the flashing blade,The bugle’s stirring blast,The charge, the dreadful cannonade,The din and shout are passed—Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal,Shall thrill with fierce delightThose breasts that never more may feelThe rapture of the fight.Like the fierce northern hurricaneThat sweeps his great plateau,Flushed with the triumph yet to gainCame down the serried foe—Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o’er the field beneath,Knew well the watchword of that dayWas victory or death.Full many a mother’s breath hath sweptO’er Angostura’s plain,And long the pitying sky has weptAbove its moldered slain.The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight,Or shepherd’s pensive lay,Alone now wake each solemn heightThat frowned o’er that dread fray.Sons of the dark and bloody ground,Ye must not slumber there,Where stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong the heedless air!Your own proud land’s heroic soilShall be your fitter grave;She claims from war its richest spoil—The ashes of her brave.Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest,Far from the gory field,Borne to a Spartan mother’s breastOn many a bloody shield.The sunshine of their native skyShines sadly on them here,And kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe heroes’ sepulchre.Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!Dear as the blood ye gave;No impious footstep here shall treadThe herbage of your grave!Nor shall your glory be forgotWhile fame her record keeps,Or honor points the hallowed spotWhere valor proudly sleeps.Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stoneIn deathless song shall tell,When many a vanished year hath flown,The story how ye fell;Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,Nor time’s remorseless doom,Can dim one ray of holy lightThat gilds your glorious tomb.

HE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat

The soldier’s last tattoo;

No more on life’s parade shall meet

The brave and fallen few.

On fame’s eternal camping-ground

Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe’s advance

Now swells upon the wind,

No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow’s strife

The warrior’s dream alarms,

No braying horn or screaming fife

At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,

Their plumed heads are bowed,

Their haughty banner trailed in dust

Is now their martial shroud—

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms by battle gashed

Are free from anguish now.

The neighboring troop, the flashing blade,

The bugle’s stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,

The din and shout are passed—

Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that never more may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain

Came down the serried foe—

Who heard the thunder of the fray

Break o’er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was victory or death.

Full many a mother’s breath hath swept

O’er Angostura’s plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its moldered slain.

The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight,

Or shepherd’s pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height

That frowned o’er that dread fray.

Sons of the dark and bloody ground,

Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound

Along the heedless air!

Your own proud land’s heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war its richest spoil—

The ashes of her brave.

Thus ’neath their parent turf they rest,

Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast

On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky

Shines sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes’ sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave;

No impious footstep here shall tread

The herbage of your grave!

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While fame her record keeps,

Or honor points the hallowed spot

Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown,

The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,

Nor time’s remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.

BY ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Born 1809; died 1865.Mr.Lincoln always spoke briefly and to the point. The following short oration, delivered at the dedication of the Gettysburg Cemetery, is universally regarded as one of the greatest masterpieces, of brief and simple eloquence, in the realm of oratory.

FOURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.

MEMORY.

BY JAMES A. GARFIELD.

Born 1831; died 1881. The following poem was♦written by the late President Garfield during his senior year in Williams College, Massachusetts, and was published in the Williams “Quarterly” for March, 1856.

♦“writen” replaced with “written”

TIS beauteous night; the stars look brightly downUpon the earth, decked in her robe of snow.No lights gleam at the windows, save my own,Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comesAnd leads me gently through her twilight realms.What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayedThe enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells;It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree;And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathedIn heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,Are clustered joys serene of other days.Upon its gently sloping hillsides bendThe weeping willows o’er the sacred dustOf dear departed ones; yet in that land,Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,They that were sleeping rise from out the dustOf death’s long, silent years, and round us standAs erst they did before the prison tombReceived their clay within its voiceless halls.The heavens that bend above that land are hungWith clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shadeUpon the sunny, joyous land below.Others are floating through the dreamy air,White as the falling snow, their margins tingedWith gold and crimson hues; their shadows fallUpon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing.When the rough battle of the day is done,And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart,I bound away, across the noisy years,Unto the utmost verge of memory’s land,Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,And memory dim with dark oblivion joins;Where woke the first remembered sounds that fellUpon the ear in childhood’s early morn;And, wandering thence along the rolling years,I see the shadow of my former selfGliding from childhood up to man’s estate;The path of youth winds down through many a vale.And on the brink of many a dread abyss,From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulfAnd beckons toward the verge. Again the pathLeads o’er the summit where the sunbeams fall;And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along.

IS beauteous night; the stars look brightly down

Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow.

No lights gleam at the windows, save my own,

Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me.

And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comes

And leads me gently through her twilight realms.

What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,

Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayed

The enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells;

It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,

Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree;

And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed

In heaven’s own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs,

Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,

Are clustered joys serene of other days.

Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend

The weeping willows o’er the sacred dust

Of dear departed ones; yet in that land,

Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,

They that were sleeping rise from out the dust

Of death’s long, silent years, and round us stand

As erst they did before the prison tomb

Received their clay within its voiceless halls.

The heavens that bend above that land are hung

With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,

Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade

Upon the sunny, joyous land below.

Others are floating through the dreamy air,

White as the falling snow, their margins tinged

With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall

Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,

Soft as the shadow of an angel’s wing.

When the rough battle of the day is done,

And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart,

I bound away, across the noisy years,

Unto the utmost verge of memory’s land,

Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,

And memory dim with dark oblivion joins;

Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell

Upon the ear in childhood’s early morn;

And, wandering thence along the rolling years,

I see the shadow of my former self

Gliding from childhood up to man’s estate;

The path of youth winds down through many a vale.

And on the brink of many a dread abyss,

From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,

Save that a phantom dances o’er the gulf

And beckons toward the verge. Again the path

Leads o’er the summit where the sunbeams fall;

And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,

Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along.

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.

BY ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS.

Born in New York, 1827; died in New Jersey, 1879. The following poem first appeared in “Harper’s Weekly” in 1861, and being published anonymously its authorship was, saysMr.Stedman, “falsely claimed by several persons.”

ALL quiet along the Potomac, they say,“Except now and then a stray picketIs shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,By a rifleman hid in the thicket.’Tis nothing; a private or two, now and then,Will not count in the news of the battle;Not an officer lost—only one of the men,Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”All quiet along the Potomac to-night,Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,Or the light of the watchfires, are gleaming.A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-windThrough the forest leaves softly is creeping;While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s treadAs he tramps from the rock to the fountain.And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,Far away in the cot on the mountain.His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,Grows gentle with memories tender,As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,For their mother—may Heaven defend her!The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,That night when the love yet unspokenLeaped up to his lips—when low, murmured vowsWere pledged to be ever unbroken;Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,He dashes off tears that are welling,And gathers his gun closer up to its place,As if to keep down the heart-swelling.He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—The footstep is lagging and weary;Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary, good-by!”And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.All quiet along the Potomac to-night—No sound save the rush of the river;While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—The picket’s off duty forever.

LL quiet along the Potomac, they say,

“Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,

By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

’Tis nothing; a private or two, now and then,

Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost—only one of the men,

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.”

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,

Or the light of the watchfires, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;

While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,

Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.

There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain.

And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,

Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,

For their mother—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,

That night when the love yet unspoken

Leaped up to his lips—when low, murmured vows

Were pledged to be ever unbroken;

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—

The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle: “Ha! Mary, good-by!”

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night—

No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—

The picket’s off duty forever.

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

BY EPES SARGENT.

Born 1813; died 1880. The following beautiful and popular song, sung all over the world, like “Home, Sweet Home,” is by an American author. It is one of those bits of lyric verse which will perpetuate the name of its writer longer, perhaps, then any of the many books which he gave to the world.

ALIFE on the ocean wave,A home on the rolling deep;Where the scattered waters rave,And the winds their revels keep!Like an angel caged I pine,On this dull, unchanging shore:O, give me the flashing brine,The spray and the tempest’s roar!Once more on the deck I stand,Of my own swift-gliding craft:Set sail! farewell to the land;The gale follows fair abaft.We shoot through the sparkling foam,Like an ocean-bird set free,—Like the ocean-bird, our homeWe’ll find far out on the sea.The land is no longer in view,The clouds have begun to frown;But with a stout vessel and crew,We’ll say, “Let the storm come down!”And the song of our hearts shall be,While the winds and the waters rave,A home on the rolling sea!A life on the ocean wave!

LIFE on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep;

Where the scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep!

Like an angel caged I pine,

On this dull, unchanging shore:

O, give me the flashing brine,

The spray and the tempest’s roar!

Once more on the deck I stand,

Of my own swift-gliding craft:

Set sail! farewell to the land;

The gale follows fair abaft.

We shoot through the sparkling foam,

Like an ocean-bird set free,—

Like the ocean-bird, our home

We’ll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,

The clouds have begun to frown;

But with a stout vessel and crew,

We’ll say, “Let the storm come down!”

And the song of our hearts shall be,

While the winds and the waters rave,

A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wave!

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

BY F. M. FINCH.

Born in Ithaca, N. Y., 1827. Many of the women of the South, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They have strewn flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.

BY the flow of the inland river,Whence the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,Asleep on the ranks of the dead:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the one, the Blue,Under the other, the Gray.These in the robings of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All with the battle-blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the laurel, the Blue,Under the willow, the Gray.From the silence of sorrowful hours,The desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowers,Alike for the friend and the foe:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the roses, the Blue,Under the lilies, the Gray.So, with an equal splendor,The morning sun-rays fall,With a touch impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Broidered with gold, the Blue,Mellowed with gold, the Gray.So, when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grainWith an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Wet with the rain, the Blue,Wet with the rain, the Gray.Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done;In the storm of the years that are fading,No braver battle was won:—Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the blossoms, the Blue,Under the garlands, the Gray.No more shall the war-cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Love and tears for the Blue,Tears and love for the Gray.

Y the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep on the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the one, the Blue,

Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,

All with the battle-blood gory,

In the dusk of eternity meet:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,

The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the roses, the Blue,

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,

The morning sun-rays fall,

With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Broidered with gold, the Blue,

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain

With an equal murmur falleth

The cooling drip of the rain:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,

No braver battle was won:—

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

ROLL-CALL.

BY NATHANIEL P. SHEPHERD.

Born in New York, 1835; died 1869.

CORPORAL GREEN!” the orderly cried;“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,From the lips of the soldier who stood near—And “here!” was the word the next replied.“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—This time no answer followed the call;Only his rear-man had seen him fall,Killed or wounded, he could not tell.There they stood in the failing light,These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,As plain to be read as open books,While slowly gathered the shades of night.The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,And down in the corn where the poppies grewWere redder stains than the poppies knew;And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.For the foe had crossed from the other sideThat day, in the face of a murderous fireThat swept them down in its terrible ire;And their life-blood went to color the tide.“Herbert Kline!” At the call there cameTwo stalwart soldiers into the lineBearing between them this Herbert Kline,Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.“Ezra Kerr!” and a voice answered, “here!”“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke:“Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said;“Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,Just after the enemy wavered and broke.“Close to the roadside his body lies;I paused a moment and gave him drink;He murmured his mother’s name, I think,And death came with it and closed his eyes.”’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—For that company’s roll, when called at night,Of a hundred men who went into the fight,Numbered but twenty that answered, “Here!”

ORPORAL GREEN!” the orderly cried;

“Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier who stood near—

And “here!” was the word the next replied.

“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell—

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear-man had seen him fall,

Killed or wounded, he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn where the poppies grew

Were redder stains than the poppies knew;

And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire;

And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

“Ezra Kerr!” and a voice answered, “here!”

“Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke:

“Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said;

“Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,

Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him drink;

He murmured his mother’s name, I think,

And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—

For that company’s roll, when called at night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight,

Numbered but twenty that answered, “Here!”

THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS.

BY J. A. MACON.

Born in Alabama, 1851.

Author of “Uncle Gab Tucker.”

The following dialect verses are a faithful reproduction, not only of the negro dialect of the cotton sections of the South; but the genius ofMr.Macon has subtly embodied in this and other of his writings a shadowy but true picture of the peculiar and original philosophy and humor of the poor but happy black people of the section with which he is so familiar.

NOW, I’s got a notion in my head dat when you come to die,An’ stan’ de ’zamination in de Cote-house in de sky,You’ll be ’stonished at de questions dat de angel’s gwine to axWhen he gits you on de witness-stan’ an’ pin you to de fac’s;’Cause he’ll ax you mighty closely ’bout your doin’s in de night,An’ de water-milion question’s gwine to bodder you a sight!Den your eyes’ll open wider dan dey ebber done befo’When he chats you ’bout a chicken-scrape dat happened long ago!De angels on the picket-line erlong de Milky WayKeep a-watchin’ what you’re dribin’ at, an’ hearin’ what you say;No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you’s gwine,Dey’s mighty ap’ to find it out an’ pass it ’long de line;An’ of’en at de meetin’, when you make a fuss an’ laugh,Why, dey send de news a-kitin’ by de golden telegraph;Den, de angel in de orfis, what’s a settin’ by de gate,Jes’ reads de message wid a look an’ claps it on de slate!Den you better do your juty well an’ keep your conscience clear,An’ keep a-lookin’ straight ahead an’ watchin’ whar you steer;’Cause arter while de time’ll come to journey fum de lan’,An’ dey’ll take you way up in de a’r an’ put you on de stan’;Den you’ll hab to listen to de clerk an’ answer mighty straight,Ef you ebber’ spec’ to trabble froo de alaplaster gate!

OW, I’s got a notion in my head dat when you come to die,

An’ stan’ de ’zamination in de Cote-house in de sky,

You’ll be ’stonished at de questions dat de angel’s gwine to ax

When he gits you on de witness-stan’ an’ pin you to de fac’s;

’Cause he’ll ax you mighty closely ’bout your doin’s in de night,

An’ de water-milion question’s gwine to bodder you a sight!

Den your eyes’ll open wider dan dey ebber done befo’

When he chats you ’bout a chicken-scrape dat happened long ago!

De angels on the picket-line erlong de Milky Way

Keep a-watchin’ what you’re dribin’ at, an’ hearin’ what you say;

No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you’s gwine,

Dey’s mighty ap’ to find it out an’ pass it ’long de line;

An’ of’en at de meetin’, when you make a fuss an’ laugh,

Why, dey send de news a-kitin’ by de golden telegraph;

Den, de angel in de orfis, what’s a settin’ by de gate,

Jes’ reads de message wid a look an’ claps it on de slate!

Den you better do your juty well an’ keep your conscience clear,

An’ keep a-lookin’ straight ahead an’ watchin’ whar you steer;

’Cause arter while de time’ll come to journey fum de lan’,

An’ dey’ll take you way up in de a’r an’ put you on de stan’;

Den you’ll hab to listen to de clerk an’ answer mighty straight,

Ef you ebber’ spec’ to trabble froo de alaplaster gate!

RUIN WROUGHT BY RUM.

(TEMPERANCE SELECTION.)

GO, feel what I have felt,Go, bear what I have borne;Sink ’neath a blow a father dealt,And the cold, proud world’s scorn.Thus struggle on from year to year,Thy sole relief the scalding tear.Go, weep as I have weptO’er a loved father’s fall;See every cherished promise swept,Youth’s sweetness turned to gall;Hope’s faded flowers strewed all the wayThat led me up to woman’s day.Go, kneel as I have knelt;Implore, beseech and pray.Strive the besotted heart to melt,The downward course to stay;Be cast with bitter curse aside,—Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.Go, stand where I have stood,And see the strong man bow;With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,And cold and livid brow;Go, catch his wandering glance, and seeThere mirrored his soul’s misery.Go, hear what I have heard,—The sobs of sad despair,As memory’s feeling fount hath stirred,And its revealings thereHave told him what he might have been,Had he the drunkard’s fate foreseen.Go to my mother’s side,And her crushed spirit cheer;Thine own deep anguish hide,Wipe from her cheek the tear;Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,The gray that streaks her dark hair now,The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,And trace the ruin back to himWhose plighted faith in early youth,Promised eternal love and truth,But who, forsworn, hath yielded upThis promise to the deadly cup,And led her down from love and light,From all that made her pathway bright,And chained her there ’mid want and strife,That lowly thing,—a drunkard’s wife!And stamped on childhood’s brow, so mild,That withering blight,—a drunkard’s child!Go, hear, and see, and feel, and knowAll that my soul hath felt and known,Then look within the wine-cup’s glow;See if its brightness can atone;Think of its flavor would you try,If all proclaimed,—’Tis drink and die.Tell me I hate the bowl,—Hateis a feeble word;I loathe, abhor, my very soulBy strong disgust is stirredWhene’er I see, or hear, or tellOf theDARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!Anonymous.

O, feel what I have felt,

Go, bear what I have borne;

Sink ’neath a blow a father dealt,

And the cold, proud world’s scorn.

Thus struggle on from year to year,

Thy sole relief the scalding tear.

Go, weep as I have wept

O’er a loved father’s fall;

See every cherished promise swept,

Youth’s sweetness turned to gall;

Hope’s faded flowers strewed all the way

That led me up to woman’s day.

Go, kneel as I have knelt;

Implore, beseech and pray.

Strive the besotted heart to melt,

The downward course to stay;

Be cast with bitter curse aside,—

Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.

Go, stand where I have stood,

And see the strong man bow;

With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,

And cold and livid brow;

Go, catch his wandering glance, and see

There mirrored his soul’s misery.

Go, hear what I have heard,—

The sobs of sad despair,

As memory’s feeling fount hath stirred,

And its revealings there

Have told him what he might have been,

Had he the drunkard’s fate foreseen.

Go to my mother’s side,

And her crushed spirit cheer;

Thine own deep anguish hide,

Wipe from her cheek the tear;

Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,

The gray that streaks her dark hair now,

The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,

And trace the ruin back to him

Whose plighted faith in early youth,

Promised eternal love and truth,

But who, forsworn, hath yielded up

This promise to the deadly cup,

And led her down from love and light,

From all that made her pathway bright,

And chained her there ’mid want and strife,

That lowly thing,—a drunkard’s wife!

And stamped on childhood’s brow, so mild,

That withering blight,—a drunkard’s child!

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know

All that my soul hath felt and known,

Then look within the wine-cup’s glow;

See if its brightness can atone;

Think of its flavor would you try,

If all proclaimed,—’Tis drink and die.

Tell me I hate the bowl,—

Hateis a feeble word;

I loathe, abhor, my very soul

By strong disgust is stirred

Whene’er I see, or hear, or tell

Of theDARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!

Anonymous.

TO A SKELETON.

TheMS.of this poem was found in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton, and sent by the curator to the “Morning Chronicle” for publication. It excited so much attention that every effort was made to discover the author, and a responsible party went so far as to offer fifty guineas for information that would discover its origin. The author preserved his incognito, and, we believe, has never been discovered.

BEHOLD this ruin! ’Twas a skull,Once of ethereal spirit full.This narrow cell was life’s retreat,This space was thought’s mysterious seat.What beauteous visions filled this spot,What dreams of pleasure long forgot?Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,Have left one trace of record here.Beneath this moldering canopyOnce shone the bright and busy eye;But start not at the dismal void;If social love that eye employed,If with no lawless fire it gleamed,But through the dews of kindness beamed,—That eye shall be forever brightWhen stars and sun are sunk in night.Within this hollow cavern hungThe ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;If falsehood’s honey it disdained,And when it could not praise was chained;If bold in virtue’s cause it spoke,Yet gentle concord never broke,—This silent tongue shall plead for theeWhen time unveils eternity!Say, did these fingers delve the mine,Or with the envied rubies shine?To hew the rock or wear a gemCan little now avail to them.But if the page of truth they sought,Or comfort to the mourner brought,These hands a richer meed shall claimThan all that wait on wealth and fame.Avails it whether bare or shodThese feet the paths of duty trod?If from the bowers of ease they fled,To seek affliction’s humble shed;If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurned,And home to virtue’s cot returned,—These feet with angel wings shall vie,And tread the palace of the sky!

EHOLD this ruin! ’Twas a skull,

Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was life’s retreat,

This space was thought’s mysterious seat.

What beauteous visions filled this spot,

What dreams of pleasure long forgot?

Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,

Have left one trace of record here.

Beneath this moldering canopy

Once shone the bright and busy eye;

But start not at the dismal void;

If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed,—

That eye shall be forever bright

When stars and sun are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;

If falsehood’s honey it disdained,

And when it could not praise was chained;

If bold in virtue’s cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke,—

This silent tongue shall plead for thee

When time unveils eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,

Or with the envied rubies shine?

To hew the rock or wear a gem

Can little now avail to them.

But if the page of truth they sought,

Or comfort to the mourner brought,

These hands a richer meed shall claim

Than all that wait on wealth and fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod

These feet the paths of duty trod?

If from the bowers of ease they fled,

To seek affliction’s humble shed;

If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurned,

And home to virtue’s cot returned,—

These feet with angel wings shall vie,

And tread the palace of the sky!

PLEDGE WITH WINE.

(A TEMPERANCE SELECTION.)

PLEDGE with wine—pledge with wine!” cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. “Pledge with wine,” ran through the brilliant crowd.The beautiful bride grew pale—the decisive hour had come,—she pressed her white hands together,and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors.“Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once,” said the judge in a low tone, going towards his daughter, “the company expect it; do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;—in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me.”Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion’s principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits—and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman’s opinion so soon.Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of “Oh, how terrible!” “What is it?” cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm’s length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object.“Wait,” she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, “wait and I will tell you. I see,” she added, slowly pointing one jeweled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, “a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water’s edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brows; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast.“Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy-looking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh! hear him call piteously his father’s name; see him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister—his only sister—the twin of his soul—weeping for him in his distant native land.“See!” she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; “see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and leave the living and dying together.”There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup.“It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lie gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister—death is there. Death! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back! one convulsive shudder! he is dead!”A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping.“Dead!” she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and her voice more and more broken: “and there they scoop him a grave; and there, without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp, reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-dayin that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies—my father’s son—my own twin brother! a victim to this deadly poison. Father,” she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, “father, shall I drink it now?”The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered—“No, no, my child; in God’s name, no.”She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: “Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand; who watched over my brother’s dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?”His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer.The judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms.Those who were present at that wedding can never forget the impression so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass.

PLEDGE with wine—pledge with wine!” cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. “Pledge with wine,” ran through the brilliant crowd.

The beautiful bride grew pale—the decisive hour had come,—she pressed her white hands together,and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors.

“Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once,” said the judge in a low tone, going towards his daughter, “the company expect it; do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;—in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me.”

Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion’s principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits—and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman’s opinion so soon.

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of “Oh, how terrible!” “What is it?” cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm’s length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object.

“Wait,” she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, “wait and I will tell you. I see,” she added, slowly pointing one jeweled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, “a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water’s edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brows; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast.

“Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy-looking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh! hear him call piteously his father’s name; see him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister—his only sister—the twin of his soul—weeping for him in his distant native land.

“See!” she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; “see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and leave the living and dying together.”

There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup.

“It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lie gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister—death is there. Death! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back! one convulsive shudder! he is dead!”

A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping.

“Dead!” she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and her voice more and more broken: “and there they scoop him a grave; and there, without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp, reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-dayin that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies—my father’s son—my own twin brother! a victim to this deadly poison. Father,” she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, “father, shall I drink it now?”

The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered—“No, no, my child; in God’s name, no.”

She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: “Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand; who watched over my brother’s dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?”

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer.

The judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms.

Those who were present at that wedding can never forget the impression so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass.

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA.

BY ELIJAH KELLOG.

Born in Portland, Maine, 1813. Spartacus was a Thracian soldier, who was taken prisoner by the Romans, made a slave, and trained as a gladiator. He escaped with a number of fellow-gladiators, an incident to which this speech is supposed to refer to. He was killed in battle 71 B. C., while leading the Servile War against Rome.

IT had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dewdrops on the corslet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound was heard, save the last sob of some retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then all was as still as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were assembled; their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their brows; when Spartacus, arising in the midst of that grim assembly, thus addressed them:“Ye call me chief; and ye do well to callhimchief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus,—a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd’s flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I claspedthe knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling!“To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died;—the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the prætor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome’s fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said: ‘Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans!’ And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay, thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;—to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!“Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? ’Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours—and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye arebeasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher’s knife! If ye aremen,—follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain-passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at Old Thermopylæ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master’s lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians!—if we must fight, let us fight forourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter ouroppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!”

“Ye call me chief; and ye do well to callhimchief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus,—a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd’s flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I claspedthe knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling!

“To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died;—the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the prætor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome’s fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said: ‘Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans!’ And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay, thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;—to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!

“Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? ’Tis three days since he tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours—and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye arebeasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher’s knife! If ye aremen,—follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain-passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at Old Thermopylæ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master’s lash? O comrades! warriors! Thracians!—if we must fight, let us fight forourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter ouroppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!”

THE CRABBED MAN.

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.

(Extract from a Lecture.)

Born 1832. One of the most eminent orators of the American pulpit.

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