Prison Pains.BY HARRISON.Oh! to be heart hungry,To feel that never againShall the heart pulsate with raptureTo the music of love's strain!To feel o'er the senses stealingA grief for words too deep,And know the heart's best instinctsAre locked in fathomless sleep.To hear the piteous wailingsThat rise from an empty heart,While every breath is tortureAnd every thought a dart.Oh, list to the wondrous musicAs it floats from the world above:"There is balm for the broken-hearted:The gift of my Son is—love."Aye, prayer to heaven ascending,Tho' winged from a convict cell,Shall find in heaven a welcomeNo tongue can ever tell.
BY HARRISON.
Oh! to be heart hungry,To feel that never again
Shall the heart pulsate with raptureTo the music of love's strain!
To feel o'er the senses stealingA grief for words too deep,
And know the heart's best instinctsAre locked in fathomless sleep.
To hear the piteous wailingsThat rise from an empty heart,
While every breath is tortureAnd every thought a dart.
Oh, list to the wondrous musicAs it floats from the world above:
"There is balm for the broken-hearted:The gift of my Son is—love."
Aye, prayer to heaven ascending,Tho' winged from a convict cell,
Shall find in heaven a welcomeNo tongue can ever tell.
The under Dog.BY BARKER.I know that the world—the great, big world,From the peasant up to the king,Has a different tale from the tale I tellAnd a different song to sing.But for me—and I care not a single figIf they say I was wrong or am right—I shall always go in for the weaker dog,For the under dog in the fight.I know that the world—the great, big world—Will never a moment stopTo see which dog may be in the fault,But will shout for the dog on top.But for me—I never shall pause to askWhich dog may be in the right—For my own heart will beat, while it beats at all,For the under dog in the fight.
BY BARKER.
I know that the world—the great, big world,From the peasant up to the king,
Has a different tale from the tale I tellAnd a different song to sing.
But for me—and I care not a single figIf they say I was wrong or am right—
I shall always go in for the weaker dog,For the under dog in the fight.
I know that the world—the great, big world—Will never a moment stop
To see which dog may be in the fault,But will shout for the dog on top.
But for me—I never shall pause to askWhich dog may be in the right—
For my own heart will beat, while it beats at all,For the under dog in the fight.
Kindness.BY ROTH.A kind word for the prisoner,A smile to cheer his heart,For he bears a grievous burden,Tho' he bravely plays his part.From the world he hides his sorrows,Stifles the groan of distressThat struggles oft for utteranceBeneath his convict dress.The alert night watch could tellOf the burning sighs they hearWhile making midnight roundsThrough corridors so drear.Then cheer his lot with kindness,E'en though he be depraved:If, wakened from his blindness,The worst one may be saved.
BY ROTH.
A kind word for the prisoner,A smile to cheer his heart,
For he bears a grievous burden,Tho' he bravely plays his part.
From the world he hides his sorrows,Stifles the groan of distress
That struggles oft for utteranceBeneath his convict dress.
The alert night watch could tellOf the burning sighs they hear
While making midnight roundsThrough corridors so drear.
Then cheer his lot with kindness,E'en though he be depraved:
If, wakened from his blindness,The worst one may be saved.
There Is No Death.There is no death! The feeble body, slumbering,Seems but to waste and fade away;In future years that God is numbering'Twill spring from slumber and decay.And clothed with beauty everlasting,With not a stain of earth to mar,'Twill voice a music more entrancingThan anthem of the morning star.A thing of beauty is immortal;Each line once lost to mortal sight,Soars upward to heaven's august portal,Glad to escape earth's cankering night.Earth's best and brightest can not perish—Death is decreed alone to strife.The good we love and fondly cherishGod has endowed with endless life.Grieve not for those now calmly sleeping,Rocked by the slow, revolving earth:Angelic hosts around them sweepingShall wake them to an endless birth.In heaven above there is no seeming:God feeds immortal souls on bliss;On earth we linger, sadly dreaming,Till death awakes us with a kiss.Then fear thee not death's friendly slumbers:Guardian angels watch thy rest;Jehovah all thy days shall numberAnd do for thee whate'er is best.
There is no death! The feeble body, slumbering,Seems but to waste and fade away;
In future years that God is numbering'Twill spring from slumber and decay.
And clothed with beauty everlasting,With not a stain of earth to mar,
'Twill voice a music more entrancingThan anthem of the morning star.
A thing of beauty is immortal;Each line once lost to mortal sight,
Soars upward to heaven's august portal,Glad to escape earth's cankering night.
Earth's best and brightest can not perish—Death is decreed alone to strife.
The good we love and fondly cherishGod has endowed with endless life.
Grieve not for those now calmly sleeping,Rocked by the slow, revolving earth:
Angelic hosts around them sweepingShall wake them to an endless birth.
In heaven above there is no seeming:God feeds immortal souls on bliss;
On earth we linger, sadly dreaming,Till death awakes us with a kiss.
Then fear thee not death's friendly slumbers:Guardian angels watch thy rest;
Jehovah all thy days shall numberAnd do for thee whate'er is best.
Dreams.Dreams are but glimpses of the powerDeep hidden in the human soulThat, like some enchanted flower,Withers 'neath reason's stern control.They come not as invited guestsTo while away the tedious hours—Are they not lights from heaven sentTo teach the soul its wondrous powers?And best they love to lead us backO'er scenes to memory doubly dear,For those we, waking, love the mostIn dreams will seem most near.While reason sleeps the soul, awake,Lives o'er each precious hour,And woos us with a gentle strainOf pathos and of power.Dreams index to our waking thoughtPlans on which the heart is set,And he who heeds their warning voiceHas in life least to regret.In waking hours we sow the seed,In dreams we reap the grain:Sometimes the harvest all is joy,Sometimes, alas! 'tis pain.What marvel then that sleep is sweet,If dreams bring bliss to view—Perhaps the afterglow of deathWill prove most dreams are not untrue.
Dreams are but glimpses of the powerDeep hidden in the human soul
That, like some enchanted flower,Withers 'neath reason's stern control.
They come not as invited guestsTo while away the tedious hours—
Are they not lights from heaven sentTo teach the soul its wondrous powers?
And best they love to lead us backO'er scenes to memory doubly dear,
For those we, waking, love the mostIn dreams will seem most near.
While reason sleeps the soul, awake,Lives o'er each precious hour,
And woos us with a gentle strainOf pathos and of power.
Dreams index to our waking thoughtPlans on which the heart is set,
And he who heeds their warning voiceHas in life least to regret.
In waking hours we sow the seed,In dreams we reap the grain:
Sometimes the harvest all is joy,Sometimes, alas! 'tis pain.
What marvel then that sleep is sweet,If dreams bring bliss to view—
Perhaps the afterglow of deathWill prove most dreams are not untrue.
The Great "O. P.""Forward, march!" the left foot first,The heel down mighty hard,Your head erect and turned to the left,As you slyly watch the guard.Tramp, tramp, three times each day,Back and forth to our meals,While the fellow behind, with his "State brogans,"Scrapes the skin all off our heels.The visitors in amaze at us gazeAs we march gayly by,The ladies fair, with many a stare,Will slyly say, "O my!"Some "Hayseed" old, with a chronic cold,Will suddenly say, "I swow!There goes the man—do you see him Ann?—What took our brindle cow!"They say we are "cut-throats" and "robbers,"And would be worse if we could;But it's false—we're noble-hearted patriots,Here for our country's good,And the honor came to us, you know:We didn't go to it—In other words, we were forced hereTo "do" our little "bit."Uncle Sam's domain has been ransackedFor men with blue-blooded veins,For we don't want any persons hereWith any mortal stains.We are all old sons of Irish lords—Or at least we'd like to be—But instead we are only "cons," you know,Doing time in the great "O. P."
"Forward, march!" the left foot first,The heel down mighty hard,
Your head erect and turned to the left,As you slyly watch the guard.
Tramp, tramp, three times each day,Back and forth to our meals,
While the fellow behind, with his "State brogans,"Scrapes the skin all off our heels.
The visitors in amaze at us gazeAs we march gayly by,
The ladies fair, with many a stare,Will slyly say, "O my!"
Some "Hayseed" old, with a chronic cold,Will suddenly say, "I swow!
There goes the man—do you see him Ann?—What took our brindle cow!"
They say we are "cut-throats" and "robbers,"And would be worse if we could;
But it's false—we're noble-hearted patriots,Here for our country's good,
And the honor came to us, you know:We didn't go to it—
In other words, we were forced hereTo "do" our little "bit."
Uncle Sam's domain has been ransackedFor men with blue-blooded veins,
For we don't want any persons hereWith any mortal stains.
We are all old sons of Irish lords—Or at least we'd like to be—
But instead we are only "cons," you know,Doing time in the great "O. P."
Coming in and Going Out.BY CARR.Coming in to penal slavery,Coming in from liberty;Going out to joy and freedom,Going out the world to see;Coming in, oh, how unhappy!Going out with many a doubt—Endless stream of wretched mortalsComing in and going out.From the many charms of home life,From beneath the humble cot,To this penal institutionWhere the felon mortal's broughtFrom some distant homes perhaps tornBecause grim justice took a fit—Coming in with sighs and sadness,A bondsman for his life or "bit."Far his loving wife and children,While their eyes with tears are wet;Though his family needs him daily.And there are bills that must be met,To this convict world about us,With its heartless woe and din,Endless stream of restless mortalsAdding to its load of sin.Time goes on so very slowly,Though we try hard not to grieveFor the dear old family homesteadAnd for those we're forced to leave;Weary are we very often,Weary when we try to winNews of those who loved us dearlyEre we took this step in sin.Coming in, alas! to neverSee the outside world again!Some there are that have my pity:Naught for them but toil and pain;Doomed life's golden hours to fritterFar from home and friends most dear—God's pity on the poor full-termerComing in to die, we fear.Coming in to serve our sentence,Going out, we hope, to cheer;Coming in to do hard labor,Going out to family dear—Careless stream of wretched mortalsFrom all stations 'long life's route—Hovel, mansion and the hamlet—Coming in and going out.
BY CARR.
Coming in to penal slavery,Coming in from liberty;
Going out to joy and freedom,Going out the world to see;
Coming in, oh, how unhappy!Going out with many a doubt—
Endless stream of wretched mortalsComing in and going out.
From the many charms of home life,From beneath the humble cot,
To this penal institutionWhere the felon mortal's brought
From some distant homes perhaps tornBecause grim justice took a fit—
Coming in with sighs and sadness,A bondsman for his life or "bit."
Far his loving wife and children,While their eyes with tears are wet;
Though his family needs him daily.And there are bills that must be met,
To this convict world about us,With its heartless woe and din,
Endless stream of restless mortalsAdding to its load of sin.
Time goes on so very slowly,Though we try hard not to grieve
For the dear old family homesteadAnd for those we're forced to leave;
Weary are we very often,Weary when we try to win
News of those who loved us dearlyEre we took this step in sin.
Coming in, alas! to neverSee the outside world again!
Some there are that have my pity:Naught for them but toil and pain;
Doomed life's golden hours to fritterFar from home and friends most dear—
God's pity on the poor full-termerComing in to die, we fear.
Coming in to serve our sentence,Going out, we hope, to cheer;
Coming in to do hard labor,Going out to family dear—
Careless stream of wretched mortalsFrom all stations 'long life's route—
Hovel, mansion and the hamlet—Coming in and going out.
Soul Sculpture.BY BISHOP DOANE.Sculptures of life are we as we stand,With our souls uncarved before us,Waiting the hour when, at God's command,Our life dream shall pass o'er us.If we carve it, then, on the yielding stoneWith many a sharp incision,Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,Our lives the angel vision.
BY BISHOP DOANE.
Sculptures of life are we as we stand,With our souls uncarved before us,
Waiting the hour when, at God's command,Our life dream shall pass o'er us.
If we carve it, then, on the yielding stoneWith many a sharp incision,
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,Our lives the angel vision.
Weight and Immortality of Words.Who knows how heavy his words may be,Or watches, when he has set them free,Their poising, their flight, their rise and fallIn the world of thought? We are careless all.We fathom our own, not another's mind.And are all near-sighted among our kind,While words of ours and words of theirsAre meeting and wrestling unawares.Words are types of our moral trend,The blooms of our daily lives, that lendTo others the fragrance of what we are—The outward semblance that goes afar.The part of ourselves that is not our own,When set afloat in the vast unknown,The something we give to the moving wheelsOf the mighty force that grows and feels.No words are lost as they float away:On some life ever they rest and weigh,Unbound in public or depths obscureTheir immortality is secure.Deep in our hearts we often findWords lips long closed have left behind:They live in the chambers of the brain,The source of endless joy or pain.Words may be soft as evening airOr fierce as sultry noonday's glare,But soft or fierce, be sure they restA curse or blessing in some one's breast.How deep soever their meaning may lie,Not every soul will pass them by!No anger, nor passion, nor malice so greatBut a match 'twill meet in a world of hate.No love so deep, no word so kindBut lodges at last in a kindred mind,No thought so vast, nor high nor lowBut a parallel meets in a world of woe.A heedless word a heart may break,A thoughtful one a fortune make;One, hurl a soul in endless night;Another, lead to heaven's delight.One word may nerve a murderer's arm,Another still a raging storm—One, sow the seeds of endless strife;Another, sanctify a life.Our words outline the feeble tongueFrom which their outward being sprung,Or, written on the stainless page,They live to bless or curse an age.How careful, then, ought we to beBefore we let such engines free!Once free, no power can call them back,Nor human genius trace their track.We loose them 'mid the wide expanse'Neath joyous spell or sorrow's trance,But if their fruitage all could knowWe would not deem them half so low.
Who knows how heavy his words may be,Or watches, when he has set them free,Their poising, their flight, their rise and fallIn the world of thought? We are careless all.We fathom our own, not another's mind.And are all near-sighted among our kind,While words of ours and words of theirsAre meeting and wrestling unawares.Words are types of our moral trend,The blooms of our daily lives, that lendTo others the fragrance of what we are—The outward semblance that goes afar.The part of ourselves that is not our own,When set afloat in the vast unknown,The something we give to the moving wheelsOf the mighty force that grows and feels.No words are lost as they float away:On some life ever they rest and weigh,Unbound in public or depths obscureTheir immortality is secure.Deep in our hearts we often findWords lips long closed have left behind:They live in the chambers of the brain,The source of endless joy or pain.Words may be soft as evening airOr fierce as sultry noonday's glare,But soft or fierce, be sure they restA curse or blessing in some one's breast.How deep soever their meaning may lie,Not every soul will pass them by!No anger, nor passion, nor malice so greatBut a match 'twill meet in a world of hate.No love so deep, no word so kindBut lodges at last in a kindred mind,No thought so vast, nor high nor lowBut a parallel meets in a world of woe.A heedless word a heart may break,A thoughtful one a fortune make;One, hurl a soul in endless night;Another, lead to heaven's delight.One word may nerve a murderer's arm,Another still a raging storm—One, sow the seeds of endless strife;Another, sanctify a life.Our words outline the feeble tongueFrom which their outward being sprung,Or, written on the stainless page,They live to bless or curse an age.How careful, then, ought we to beBefore we let such engines free!Once free, no power can call them back,Nor human genius trace their track.We loose them 'mid the wide expanse'Neath joyous spell or sorrow's trance,But if their fruitage all could knowWe would not deem them half so low.
Which Loved Her Best?Two votaries of love's maddening dreamAt twilight sat beside a stream,Each painting scenes of future bliss,Dependent on their darling's kiss.Both were young and both were fair,With noble hearts and manly air,And both were members of a bandWho bled to free his native land.Each was bound both heart and soulBeneath fair Nellie's sweet control,Yet they were friends both true and tried,If such ere lived, if such ere died.Each loved her much, yet neither knewHow well each loved her, nor how true,For each was dreaming of the hourThathewould cull this priceless flower.At last Ned turned and gayly said,"Next Wednesday I and Nellie wed—God knows I am the happiest manIn all this joyous Western land."I could not keep this back from you—That would be unjust—untrue.I feel whatever shall betideThatyouwill e'er defend my bride."Harvey turned aside his face,Lest his friend should see some traceOf the anguish and despairThe hopeless suffering mirrored there.Each word had sunk within his heartLike adder's tooth or poisoned dart;Joyful love and hope had fled,And left his withered heart—stone dead.He raised his haggard face aboveUntil an angel mother's loveSent comfort to her suffering child,That made him calm and meek and mild.By memories of the tented fieldWhere patriots died, but dared not yield,He knew that Ned his arm had lentTo stop steel for his bosom meant,And oft had watched beside his bedWhen others in dismay had fled;When he spoke, his voice was lowAnd soft as rippling streamlets flow:"I wish you peace and joy, Ned;You best deserve this queen to wed.I only crave in future lifeTo serve you and your peerless wife."The loyal look in Harvey's eyesWas to Ned a new surprise;And in a moment all was plain—His friend's devotion and his pain.They stood and wrung each others handTo reinforce their friendship's band—Their hearts were full, their eyes were wet,Yet who can such a scene regret?Their friendship stood the cruel test,And sank triumphant into rest;They parted, but to meet againWhere life was torture, memory pain.One year passed, and war had sweptO'er the spot where these two wept,While they, with Meig's galland band,Were held by Santa Anna's hand.Behind Satillo's gloomy walls,Whose history stoutest heart appalls,Here base deeds were hourly wroughtWith hell's intensest malice fraught.Two hundred patriots true and triedTo Santa Anna's shame here diedSimply because they leapt the wallAnd strove to go beyond recall!Ned and his comrades planned their flightWhile careless sentries slept at night,And in safety reached the distant plainWhere hope and life revived again.Across the arid plain they sped,Half clothed, half starved and almost dead;Without a guide to lead them rightThey toiled by day and prayed by night.The blistering soil bold cactus bredTill every toil-worn foot was bled,And one by one the hapless bandFell prostrate on the glittering sand.Pursuing soldiers found them thus,And drug and drove them to the "truss,"There to await the "tortures grand"That Santa Anna would command."Nine of ten shall now be shot;Choose the guilty dogs by lot:This law for ages now untoldHas defied both fraud and gold!"Nine blackbeans andonesnowwhiteWere placed within a box at night—Every captive must draw one,Blindfolded, ere the work begun.Ifwhite, he lived, if black, he died—Thus were the Texas patriots tried!By sons of Gantimozin's race—Man's caricature and heaven's disgrace!Harvey drew one of faultless white,Ned drew one as black as night."I'm lost—oh, God, my wife!" Ned gasped,As Harvey sprang his hand to clasp."Not so," he cried, "your bean is white—See, mine isblack, thank God! 'tis right!"E'er Ned could draw a conscious breath—Harvey had met a hero's death!Which loved her best, the man whodiedOr he wholivedto cheer his bride?Please answer me; O heart, awake—Such liberty I dare not take.
Two votaries of love's maddening dreamAt twilight sat beside a stream,Each painting scenes of future bliss,Dependent on their darling's kiss.Both were young and both were fair,With noble hearts and manly air,And both were members of a bandWho bled to free his native land.Each was bound both heart and soulBeneath fair Nellie's sweet control,Yet they were friends both true and tried,If such ere lived, if such ere died.Each loved her much, yet neither knewHow well each loved her, nor how true,For each was dreaming of the hourThathewould cull this priceless flower.At last Ned turned and gayly said,"Next Wednesday I and Nellie wed—God knows I am the happiest manIn all this joyous Western land."I could not keep this back from you—That would be unjust—untrue.I feel whatever shall betideThatyouwill e'er defend my bride."Harvey turned aside his face,Lest his friend should see some traceOf the anguish and despairThe hopeless suffering mirrored there.Each word had sunk within his heartLike adder's tooth or poisoned dart;Joyful love and hope had fled,And left his withered heart—stone dead.He raised his haggard face aboveUntil an angel mother's loveSent comfort to her suffering child,That made him calm and meek and mild.By memories of the tented fieldWhere patriots died, but dared not yield,He knew that Ned his arm had lentTo stop steel for his bosom meant,And oft had watched beside his bedWhen others in dismay had fled;When he spoke, his voice was lowAnd soft as rippling streamlets flow:"I wish you peace and joy, Ned;You best deserve this queen to wed.I only crave in future lifeTo serve you and your peerless wife."The loyal look in Harvey's eyesWas to Ned a new surprise;And in a moment all was plain—His friend's devotion and his pain.They stood and wrung each others handTo reinforce their friendship's band—Their hearts were full, their eyes were wet,Yet who can such a scene regret?Their friendship stood the cruel test,And sank triumphant into rest;They parted, but to meet againWhere life was torture, memory pain.One year passed, and war had sweptO'er the spot where these two wept,While they, with Meig's galland band,Were held by Santa Anna's hand.Behind Satillo's gloomy walls,Whose history stoutest heart appalls,Here base deeds were hourly wroughtWith hell's intensest malice fraught.Two hundred patriots true and triedTo Santa Anna's shame here diedSimply because they leapt the wallAnd strove to go beyond recall!Ned and his comrades planned their flightWhile careless sentries slept at night,And in safety reached the distant plainWhere hope and life revived again.Across the arid plain they sped,Half clothed, half starved and almost dead;Without a guide to lead them rightThey toiled by day and prayed by night.The blistering soil bold cactus bredTill every toil-worn foot was bled,And one by one the hapless bandFell prostrate on the glittering sand.Pursuing soldiers found them thus,And drug and drove them to the "truss,"There to await the "tortures grand"That Santa Anna would command."Nine of ten shall now be shot;Choose the guilty dogs by lot:This law for ages now untoldHas defied both fraud and gold!"Nine blackbeans andonesnowwhiteWere placed within a box at night—Every captive must draw one,Blindfolded, ere the work begun.Ifwhite, he lived, if black, he died—Thus were the Texas patriots tried!By sons of Gantimozin's race—Man's caricature and heaven's disgrace!Harvey drew one of faultless white,Ned drew one as black as night."I'm lost—oh, God, my wife!" Ned gasped,As Harvey sprang his hand to clasp."Not so," he cried, "your bean is white—See, mine isblack, thank God! 'tis right!"E'er Ned could draw a conscious breath—Harvey had met a hero's death!Which loved her best, the man whodiedOr he wholivedto cheer his bride?Please answer me; O heart, awake—Such liberty I dare not take.
The Storms of Life.BY SAM LAW.The oak strikes deeper as his boughsBy furious blasts are driven;So life's vicissitudes the moreHave fixed my heart in heaven.All gracious Lord, whate'er my lotIn other times may be,I'll welcome still the heaviest griefThat brings me near to Thee.
BY SAM LAW.
The oak strikes deeper as his boughsBy furious blasts are driven;
So life's vicissitudes the moreHave fixed my heart in heaven.
All gracious Lord, whate'er my lotIn other times may be,
I'll welcome still the heaviest griefThat brings me near to Thee.
Love's Victim.She was no dainty city belle,Half art and half deceit,And yet no fairer visionThe human eye could greet.Naught knew she of city lifeOr fashion's changing art—Nature created her a belleAnd blessed her with a heart.Her eyes were large and soulful,Her face divinely fair;Her form was lithe and gracefulAnd a golden dream her hair.Her voice was full of melody:Each tone to listening earSeemed to awake such musicAs angels delight to hear.Beautiful, pure and guileless,With the faith of a trusting child,She worshiped the God of natureWith a spirit undefiled.She lived with honest parentsIn a home on the mountain side,Where peace and plenty lingeredAnd love was true and tried.Parental duress was unknown,For love's restraints are mild:A mother's love and father's hopeWere centered in this child.The acknowledged belle of the mountain,She spurned the coquette's art,Determining never to promiseHer hand without her heart.She could not love her suitorsWith the love a wife should give,And deemed it sin without such loveIn wedlock's bonds to live.The idol of many a noble heart,None dared their suit to press:Thus they wound the gentle spiritThat pitied, but could not bless.Grateful for each friendly smileThat o'er her face would beam,She reigned an empress absoluteIn each fond lover's dream.A petted child of fashion,The heir to boundless wealth,Came one day among themTo recruit his waning health.These hospitable mountain peopleWelcomed the haggard boy,And strove to make his visitOne radiant scene of joy.They bade their darling daughterTo be the stranger's guide,And show him all the beautiesOf her loved mountain side.Together they scaled the mountains,With many a merry shout;Together they garnered the flowersOr angled the nimble trout.He spake of his home in the city,Of the wealth he soon would own;Promised to make Lenora his wifeEre the summer days had flown.Lenora loved this strangerWith a soul-absorbing love,And trembled 'neath his caressesAs helpless as a dove.He was a master of the artThat robs the halls of TruthTo gain what passion courts,Tho' it blasts the hopes of youth.His honied words of flattery,Uttered with seductive art,Were music to the listening earAnd soon deceived the heart.Lenora confided in his worth,Receiving each promise as truth—How could she doubt her only loveIn the trustful hours of youth?Assured of an early marriage,She yielded to him one dayThat priceless germ of innocenceAnd fell—to trust a prey.She hoped this sacrifice would gainHer lover's every thought;This were a boon, if death could buy.She deemed not dearly bought.Little she dreamed that fatal hourThat love had sped the dartThat stamped her as an outcast,With a withered, broken heart.Eugene went to his city home,Swearing to soon returnAnd claim as wife the girl he knewHis parents proud would spurn.Summer and autumn days passed byAnd the winter's cold set in,Yet the recreant lover came notTo the child he taught to sin.A mother's ever watchful eyeDiscovered her daughter's shame,Heard her story with breaking heart,But uttered no word of blame.She knew her daughter's downfallWas the fruit of love beguiled,But hated the heartless strangerWho ruined her trusting child.God alone can measure the painThat child and mother felt,As, locked in lingering embrace,In agony they kneltAnd poured in heaven's listening earTheir heart-destroying grief;And who so bold as to denyThat Heaven sent relief?The father learned his daughter's sinAnd drove her from his door."Go!" he said, "you guilty wretch,You are my child no more."Stung by these cruel, terrible words,She fled in wild affrightIn search of the heartless lover,Her fearful wrongs to right.She tracked the guilty miscreant down,And he, to save his name,Hid her till her child was bornIn a house of doubtful fame.The world looked on the helpless childWith cold, unpitying eye.The villian bade his dupe go home,"Repent of her sin and die."She heard, and from her glittering eyeNo tear of anguish sped—With dagger drawn she reached his side,And struck the villaindead!With her babe she sought her father's doorAnd pled with a piteous cryA shelter for her hapless babeWhile the storm was raging high."Begone, you wretch!" the father cried,"I curse the hour that gaveBirth to a wretch whose sin has laidMy wife within the grave.""My mother dead! and I still live?Ah! whither shall I fly?O God! protect my hapless babe,And suffer me to die."The storm increased; she wandered onAlmost till break of day,Till weary, wet and almost dead,She knelt in the path to pray.The sky was lit from end to endBy the lightning's awful glare,And a falling tree pinned both to earthAs they knelt in the act of prayer!They found them thus in the morning light,And the father's grief was wild.He tenderly looked on the touching sceneAnd at last forgave his child!They buried Lenora and her nameless babeClose beside her mother's clay,And each one spake in kindly tonesOf the hapless ones that day.The arm that sent the dagger homeWas nerved by a brain dethroned:'Tis Lenora's was an awful deed,But her terrible death atoned.Aye, let us hope the much-wronged childHas reached a home aboveWhere babes can live who have no nameAnd 'tis not sin to love.
She was no dainty city belle,Half art and half deceit,
And yet no fairer visionThe human eye could greet.
Naught knew she of city lifeOr fashion's changing art—
Nature created her a belleAnd blessed her with a heart.
Her eyes were large and soulful,Her face divinely fair;
Her form was lithe and gracefulAnd a golden dream her hair.
Her voice was full of melody:Each tone to listening ear
Seemed to awake such musicAs angels delight to hear.
Beautiful, pure and guileless,With the faith of a trusting child,
She worshiped the God of natureWith a spirit undefiled.
She lived with honest parentsIn a home on the mountain side,
Where peace and plenty lingeredAnd love was true and tried.
Parental duress was unknown,For love's restraints are mild:
A mother's love and father's hopeWere centered in this child.
The acknowledged belle of the mountain,She spurned the coquette's art,
Determining never to promiseHer hand without her heart.
She could not love her suitorsWith the love a wife should give,
And deemed it sin without such loveIn wedlock's bonds to live.
The idol of many a noble heart,None dared their suit to press:
Thus they wound the gentle spiritThat pitied, but could not bless.
Grateful for each friendly smileThat o'er her face would beam,
She reigned an empress absoluteIn each fond lover's dream.
A petted child of fashion,The heir to boundless wealth,
Came one day among themTo recruit his waning health.
These hospitable mountain peopleWelcomed the haggard boy,
And strove to make his visitOne radiant scene of joy.
They bade their darling daughterTo be the stranger's guide,
And show him all the beautiesOf her loved mountain side.
Together they scaled the mountains,With many a merry shout;
Together they garnered the flowersOr angled the nimble trout.
He spake of his home in the city,Of the wealth he soon would own;
Promised to make Lenora his wifeEre the summer days had flown.
Lenora loved this strangerWith a soul-absorbing love,
And trembled 'neath his caressesAs helpless as a dove.
He was a master of the artThat robs the halls of Truth
To gain what passion courts,Tho' it blasts the hopes of youth.
His honied words of flattery,Uttered with seductive art,
Were music to the listening earAnd soon deceived the heart.
Lenora confided in his worth,Receiving each promise as truth—
How could she doubt her only loveIn the trustful hours of youth?
Assured of an early marriage,She yielded to him one day
That priceless germ of innocenceAnd fell—to trust a prey.
She hoped this sacrifice would gainHer lover's every thought;
This were a boon, if death could buy.She deemed not dearly bought.
Little she dreamed that fatal hourThat love had sped the dart
That stamped her as an outcast,With a withered, broken heart.
Eugene went to his city home,Swearing to soon return
And claim as wife the girl he knewHis parents proud would spurn.
Summer and autumn days passed byAnd the winter's cold set in,
Yet the recreant lover came notTo the child he taught to sin.
A mother's ever watchful eyeDiscovered her daughter's shame,
Heard her story with breaking heart,But uttered no word of blame.
She knew her daughter's downfallWas the fruit of love beguiled,
But hated the heartless strangerWho ruined her trusting child.
God alone can measure the painThat child and mother felt,
As, locked in lingering embrace,In agony they knelt
And poured in heaven's listening earTheir heart-destroying grief;
And who so bold as to denyThat Heaven sent relief?
The father learned his daughter's sinAnd drove her from his door.
"Go!" he said, "you guilty wretch,You are my child no more."
Stung by these cruel, terrible words,She fled in wild affright
In search of the heartless lover,Her fearful wrongs to right.
She tracked the guilty miscreant down,And he, to save his name,
Hid her till her child was bornIn a house of doubtful fame.
The world looked on the helpless childWith cold, unpitying eye.
The villian bade his dupe go home,"Repent of her sin and die."
She heard, and from her glittering eyeNo tear of anguish sped—
With dagger drawn she reached his side,And struck the villaindead!
With her babe she sought her father's doorAnd pled with a piteous cry
A shelter for her hapless babeWhile the storm was raging high.
"Begone, you wretch!" the father cried,"I curse the hour that gave
Birth to a wretch whose sin has laidMy wife within the grave."
"My mother dead! and I still live?Ah! whither shall I fly?
O God! protect my hapless babe,And suffer me to die."
The storm increased; she wandered onAlmost till break of day,
Till weary, wet and almost dead,She knelt in the path to pray.
The sky was lit from end to endBy the lightning's awful glare,
And a falling tree pinned both to earthAs they knelt in the act of prayer!
They found them thus in the morning light,And the father's grief was wild.
He tenderly looked on the touching sceneAnd at last forgave his child!
They buried Lenora and her nameless babeClose beside her mother's clay,
And each one spake in kindly tonesOf the hapless ones that day.
The arm that sent the dagger homeWas nerved by a brain dethroned:
'Tis Lenora's was an awful deed,But her terrible death atoned.
Aye, let us hope the much-wronged childHas reached a home above
Where babes can live who have no nameAnd 'tis not sin to love.
A Prisoner's Lamentation.A poor convict in his cell lay dying:He thought of home and loved ones dear,He asked his cell-mate, in a whisper,"Do you think the end is drawing near?""If I should die before I see themTell them how I longed tonightTo have my mother's blessed careTo leave this world of sin and strife."Oh! how he longed to see his motherAnd the cottage on the hill—"God bless them all," I heard him whisper,As with tears his eyes did fill."Will they think of me—a prisoner—I, who was once their pride and joy?While I sleep in the churchyard yonderWill they think of their wayward boy?"I know I've caused them lots of troubleIn wild and reckless boyish day,But I hope that God will now forgive meWhen from this earth I'm called away."I know it broke my mother's heartWhen she heard of me, her wayward son,Who five long years did serve in prisonFor a highway robbery he had done."Has Sister "Minn," whom I used to play withIn days of youth, forgotten me?If she has, I vow I can not blame her,For I've caused her pain and shame, not glee."There's but one wish I now shall mention—That Mother's days may be days of joy,And when she asks for me in prisonSpeak mildly of her convict boy."Here, take this to my dear old mother!I know 'tis but a lock of hair,But it's all I've got to give her now—I know she'll treasure it with care."And when he handed me the keepsakeHis spark of life had nearly fled.He clenched my hand and uttered "Mother!"And a poor convict there lay dead.May all young men now take fair warningFrom one who's had experience long:Guard strong against temptation's dawning—Cast off evil and do no wrong.In your younger dayscourtgood,shunevil;Be careful who you companions choose;When you make life's start then do not cavil—March manfully on to win, not lose.
A poor convict in his cell lay dying:He thought of home and loved ones dear,
He asked his cell-mate, in a whisper,"Do you think the end is drawing near?"
"If I should die before I see themTell them how I longed tonight
To have my mother's blessed careTo leave this world of sin and strife."
Oh! how he longed to see his motherAnd the cottage on the hill—
"God bless them all," I heard him whisper,As with tears his eyes did fill.
"Will they think of me—a prisoner—I, who was once their pride and joy?
While I sleep in the churchyard yonderWill they think of their wayward boy?
"I know I've caused them lots of troubleIn wild and reckless boyish day,
But I hope that God will now forgive meWhen from this earth I'm called away.
"I know it broke my mother's heartWhen she heard of me, her wayward son,
Who five long years did serve in prisonFor a highway robbery he had done.
"Has Sister "Minn," whom I used to play withIn days of youth, forgotten me?
If she has, I vow I can not blame her,For I've caused her pain and shame, not glee.
"There's but one wish I now shall mention—That Mother's days may be days of joy,
And when she asks for me in prisonSpeak mildly of her convict boy.
"Here, take this to my dear old mother!I know 'tis but a lock of hair,
But it's all I've got to give her now—I know she'll treasure it with care."
And when he handed me the keepsakeHis spark of life had nearly fled.
He clenched my hand and uttered "Mother!"And a poor convict there lay dead.
May all young men now take fair warningFrom one who's had experience long:
Guard strong against temptation's dawning—Cast off evil and do no wrong.
In your younger dayscourtgood,shunevil;Be careful who you companions choose;
When you make life's start then do not cavil—March manfully on to win, not lose.
Our Board of Managers.Long have we lived in misery and woe;Long have we suffered from "kindness" cold as snow;Long has pernicious influence been keptHovering 'round our misery, while in dungeons we have slept.Long have we suffered from want of human care:Long have we been bearded as the tiger in his lair:Long have we went hungry for want of proper food,And felt the sting of th' master's lash, as o'er our task we stood.As the dark and gloomy cloud, that hovered o'er our past,Has been wafted off by humane hands—'tis swept away at last.We now emerge from darkness into a welcome light,And live in brighter future hopes—a day made out of night.We hail you, noble, honest men, whose hearts beat five as one,Thus far in your prison work your duty you have done;Eternal God will always right the brutal wrongs of man,And therefore He did send you here to do the best you can.A Cherrington, for the chairman, is a master stroke, you know.And a Rose is always welcome, 'cause virtue he will sow;A McConica, of democrat fame, is a power behind the throne,While a Hoffman, sent from Cleveland, is a father to the home;A Muscroft from old "Cincy" is a rattler for the place;They all do join their hands and thoughts and duty bravely face,While a McAdow records their acts with a gentlemanly grace.They issue mandates right and left and order what is just;They raise poor fallen, helpless man to a place of welcome trust;They seek to lead him on the way to a nobler, better life,And restore him to his children and his broken hearted wife.Their Coffin always sits close by to lend a helping hand,And faithfully their trust does keep—a leader of their band.Well they know the awful fruitage of each harsh and brutal planIs to rouse the lurking tiger in the breast of erring man.Now they rule, whose every impulse ripened by enlightened thought,And it leads to many actions that with highest good is fraught.And they use with great discretion measures that are just and kind,Hoping to reform the erring through the agency of mind.They have learned the useful lesson taught men from the power above,That the greatest force in nature is the power of inspired love.They have learned that rank dissension from all evil nature flows,And they deem that man the greatest who can ease most mortal woes.Let us ever sing enchanting of our now official corpsAs they lift us from dark ruin as it has been heretofore.See! the clouds so lately darkening o'er the prisoner's gloomy past,Mercy's hand is fast dispelling—Reasontakes the reins at last!
Long have we lived in misery and woe;
Long have we suffered from "kindness" cold as snow;
Long has pernicious influence been kept
Hovering 'round our misery, while in dungeons we have slept.
Long have we suffered from want of human care:
Long have we been bearded as the tiger in his lair:
Long have we went hungry for want of proper food,
And felt the sting of th' master's lash, as o'er our task we stood.
As the dark and gloomy cloud, that hovered o'er our past,
Has been wafted off by humane hands—'tis swept away at last.
We now emerge from darkness into a welcome light,
And live in brighter future hopes—a day made out of night.
We hail you, noble, honest men, whose hearts beat five as one,
Thus far in your prison work your duty you have done;
Eternal God will always right the brutal wrongs of man,
And therefore He did send you here to do the best you can.
A Cherrington, for the chairman, is a master stroke, you know.
And a Rose is always welcome, 'cause virtue he will sow;
A McConica, of democrat fame, is a power behind the throne,
While a Hoffman, sent from Cleveland, is a father to the home;
A Muscroft from old "Cincy" is a rattler for the place;
They all do join their hands and thoughts and duty bravely face,
While a McAdow records their acts with a gentlemanly grace.
They issue mandates right and left and order what is just;
They raise poor fallen, helpless man to a place of welcome trust;
They seek to lead him on the way to a nobler, better life,
And restore him to his children and his broken hearted wife.
Their Coffin always sits close by to lend a helping hand,
And faithfully their trust does keep—a leader of their band.
Well they know the awful fruitage of each harsh and brutal plan
Is to rouse the lurking tiger in the breast of erring man.
Now they rule, whose every impulse ripened by enlightened thought,
And it leads to many actions that with highest good is fraught.
And they use with great discretion measures that are just and kind,
Hoping to reform the erring through the agency of mind.
They have learned the useful lesson taught men from the power above,
That the greatest force in nature is the power of inspired love.
They have learned that rank dissension from all evil nature flows,
And they deem that man the greatest who can ease most mortal woes.
Let us ever sing enchanting of our now official corps
As they lift us from dark ruin as it has been heretofore.
See! the clouds so lately darkening o'er the prisoner's gloomy past,
Mercy's hand is fast dispelling—Reasontakes the reins at last!
A TRIBUTE TOAssistant Deputy Warden L. H. Wells.BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.Comrade, may the God of heaven ease the maddening painThat has swept across your bosom since your son was slain;Think not of him as a mortal mouldering into dust;—God, too, loved him and, my comrade, He betrays no trust.You shall see him when the morning breaks above the night of death,And your parting, O, my comrade, will but seem a passing breath.Well I know the awful pressure grief exerts upon the soul,But I know it will but whiten what it can't control.You have met on field of battle many a gallant foe,And, with patriotism burning, gave them blow for blow,You have fought till every rebel bent the suppliant knee,And the land you loved and cherished once again was free.You despise no gallant fellow who once wore the blueWhen it cost both blood and treasure if a man was true.You forgive the trivial errors of that noble band,And you meet a loyal comrade with extended hand.You have friends in every station where your worth is known;You have showered acts of kindness that but few have known.Since your advent in this prison you have daily wonHearts that ever will rememberacts of kindness nobly done.Comrade, time is passing swiftly, and Jehovah his reveilleSoon will sound upon the hilltops of a vast eternity.May we gather with our comrades on that ever beautiful shoreAnd, like conquering heroes, listen to Heaven's plaudits ever more.
BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.
Comrade, may the God of heaven ease the maddening pain
That has swept across your bosom since your son was slain;
Think not of him as a mortal mouldering into dust;—
God, too, loved him and, my comrade, He betrays no trust.
You shall see him when the morning breaks above the night of death,
And your parting, O, my comrade, will but seem a passing breath.
Well I know the awful pressure grief exerts upon the soul,
But I know it will but whiten what it can't control.
You have met on field of battle many a gallant foe,
And, with patriotism burning, gave them blow for blow,
You have fought till every rebel bent the suppliant knee,
And the land you loved and cherished once again was free.
You despise no gallant fellow who once wore the blue
When it cost both blood and treasure if a man was true.
You forgive the trivial errors of that noble band,
And you meet a loyal comrade with extended hand.
You have friends in every station where your worth is known;
You have showered acts of kindness that but few have known.
Since your advent in this prison you have daily won
Hearts that ever will rememberacts of kindness nobly done.
Comrade, time is passing swiftly, and Jehovah his reveille
Soon will sound upon the hilltops of a vast eternity.
May we gather with our comrades on that ever beautiful shore
And, like conquering heroes, listen to Heaven's plaudits ever more.
One and a Few.BY 21069.Of all the pet pleasures so pleasing to manIn his present degenerate state,I doubt if there's any can make him so gladAs the one I'm about to relate.While here he's confined he's troubled in mindWith his "fifteen" or "twenty" to do,And he longs for the day when he boldly can say:"I've only got one and a few."Then keep a strong heart. With courage don't part,But manfully fight your way through;Be it "five" or it "ten" or twice that again,'Twill come down to "one and a few."How often at night when I sit in my cell,After working quite hard all the day,My memory goes back to the time that I fell,For the "bit" which I now have to stay.And sometimes, I own, while sitting aloneI feel sad and disconsolate, too;But it makes me feel gay when I think I can say,"I've only got one and a few."Oh, many's a home that's cheerless tonight,And many's the mother feels drear;When she thinks of the one far away from her sightIt causes her many a tear.Though others may cleave to her, you are the same;Misfortune but makes her more true;She may now be quite sad, but won't she feel gladWhen you've only got "one and a few?"Then, don't be discouraged. No matter how longIn this prison you may have to stay,You know that to worry and fret is quite wrong,Far better drive dull care away.Old Time is the boy your "bit" to destroyAs he jogs along, contented and true;And so, in the end, you'll find he's the friendThat brought you to "one and a few."
BY 21069.
Of all the pet pleasures so pleasing to manIn his present degenerate state,
I doubt if there's any can make him so gladAs the one I'm about to relate.
While here he's confined he's troubled in mindWith his "fifteen" or "twenty" to do,
And he longs for the day when he boldly can say:"I've only got one and a few."
Then keep a strong heart. With courage don't part,But manfully fight your way through;
Be it "five" or it "ten" or twice that again,'Twill come down to "one and a few."
How often at night when I sit in my cell,After working quite hard all the day,
My memory goes back to the time that I fell,For the "bit" which I now have to stay.
And sometimes, I own, while sitting aloneI feel sad and disconsolate, too;
But it makes me feel gay when I think I can say,"I've only got one and a few."
Oh, many's a home that's cheerless tonight,And many's the mother feels drear;
When she thinks of the one far away from her sightIt causes her many a tear.
Though others may cleave to her, you are the same;Misfortune but makes her more true;
She may now be quite sad, but won't she feel gladWhen you've only got "one and a few?"
Then, don't be discouraged. No matter how longIn this prison you may have to stay,
You know that to worry and fret is quite wrong,Far better drive dull care away.
Old Time is the boy your "bit" to destroyAs he jogs along, contented and true;
And so, in the end, you'll find he's the friendThat brought you to "one and a few."
Midnight Musings.'Tis midnight! The sentry's muffled treadIs heard within these walls:As silent as the living deadHe makes his regular calls.I try to sleep, but all in vain;I try to close—I weep,I hear that muffled tread again—The sentries on me peep.I hear a voice so clear and plain—It calls to me aloud—It calls to me again, again;That voice comes from a shroud.Hist! Hist! vile heart, be still! No fear,My angel sister's voice I hear!It speaks to me in accents clearAnd bids me shun a vile career.She bids me meet her once againAnd live in Heaven's fairest clime.Nor shall her pleading be in vain—Resolved, I'll do no crime.Oh, could I feel her warm embraceAs when, in days of old,I gazed into her angeled face—It gave happiness untold.Oh, let me live my boyhood daysAs in the time gone by!And let me consecrate her waysWhen for this boy she'd cry.But, hist! again the muffled treadComes gliding, silent as the dead,Along the beat within these walls—Hark! Hark! again dear sister calls.
'Tis midnight! The sentry's muffled treadIs heard within these walls:
As silent as the living deadHe makes his regular calls.
I try to sleep, but all in vain;I try to close—I weep,
I hear that muffled tread again—The sentries on me peep.
I hear a voice so clear and plain—It calls to me aloud—
It calls to me again, again;That voice comes from a shroud.
Hist! Hist! vile heart, be still! No fear,My angel sister's voice I hear!
It speaks to me in accents clearAnd bids me shun a vile career.
She bids me meet her once againAnd live in Heaven's fairest clime.
Nor shall her pleading be in vain—Resolved, I'll do no crime.
Oh, could I feel her warm embraceAs when, in days of old,
I gazed into her angeled face—It gave happiness untold.
Oh, let me live my boyhood daysAs in the time gone by!
And let me consecrate her waysWhen for this boy she'd cry.
But, hist! again the muffled treadComes gliding, silent as the dead,
Along the beat within these walls—Hark! Hark! again dear sister calls.
A Query.BY MORSE.When the long weary days are overAnd the front gates open to you,Are you again to be a wild rover?What are you going to do?Have you plans or dreams for the future?Have the days any brightness for you?Will you be a poor homeless creature?What are you going to do?Should your old-time friends forsake you—Those who were strong and true—And leave you helpless, homeless—What are you going to do?But you have one friend who is faithful,Who is always kind and true.Read His word and study His gospel—He'll tell you what to do.
BY MORSE.
When the long weary days are overAnd the front gates open to you,
Are you again to be a wild rover?What are you going to do?
Have you plans or dreams for the future?Have the days any brightness for you?
Will you be a poor homeless creature?What are you going to do?
Should your old-time friends forsake you—Those who were strong and true—
And leave you helpless, homeless—What are you going to do?
But you have one friend who is faithful,Who is always kind and true.
Read His word and study His gospel—He'll tell you what to do.
Stray Thoughts.In the fathomless depths of the mighty deepWhat wonders live, what mysteries sleep!What mind can name the sightless thingsThat live in the ocean's hidden springs,Where treasures heaped on treasures lie,Forever secure from the human eye;Where creatures sport, that God aloneCan know their joy or hear their moan?Who knows but the bride of the Dublin BayMay walk in the ocean's depths today,Arm in arm with her own dear RoyIn the conscious flush of honeymoon joy?Who knows but the hearts that sadly yearnedFor the gallant ship that never returned,Have met, in the ocean's unknown bed,The loved, tho' lost, we all thought dead?Science has proved the human frameIs water and salt by another name!Hydrography yet may teach mankindThe open door of heaven to find."Davie Jones' locker" may prove to beInstinct with life, by death set free!Knew we the tongue of the deep sea shellWhat wondrous news its notes might tell!The myriad stars in yonder skiesMay be the beams of death-freed eyesThat watch us from an unknown shore,Still faithful to the vows of yore!The vaulted blue of heaven may beThe looking glass of the mighty sea,Where deathless souls their vigils keepO'er fast decaying world, asleep.Atlantis, the fabled city of old,Whose gates inspired poets behold,May now be resting beneath the wave,Triumphant o'er a watery grave!Its pearly gates and glittering spiresArouse the poet's mad desires.He sees—and sings in tongue unknown—The mysteries by the Muses shown.Conducted by a sybil fair,He penetrates each demon lairAnd pictures hell, in golden speech,Beyond imagination's reach.To highest heaven his thought has flownAnd measured and admired the throne;Made angels bow beneath his rodAnd dared to mould the mind of God!Who knows but legends the Muses tellAre truths encased in a mighty dream?Who knows but the angels of earth and airAre the beautiful nymphs beside each stream?Each singing bird and nodding flowerMay be imbued with potent power;And stars an influence, too, may wieldAnd bless or curse our natal hour!Who knows but what we call a bruteIs with immortal reason blest?Who knows man is alone divineAnd destined to immortal rest?Theorize and reason as we may,How little we can really know;We only learn to live, then die,And who may say to what we go?
In the fathomless depths of the mighty deepWhat wonders live, what mysteries sleep!What mind can name the sightless thingsThat live in the ocean's hidden springs,Where treasures heaped on treasures lie,Forever secure from the human eye;Where creatures sport, that God aloneCan know their joy or hear their moan?Who knows but the bride of the Dublin BayMay walk in the ocean's depths today,Arm in arm with her own dear RoyIn the conscious flush of honeymoon joy?Who knows but the hearts that sadly yearnedFor the gallant ship that never returned,Have met, in the ocean's unknown bed,The loved, tho' lost, we all thought dead?Science has proved the human frameIs water and salt by another name!Hydrography yet may teach mankindThe open door of heaven to find."Davie Jones' locker" may prove to beInstinct with life, by death set free!Knew we the tongue of the deep sea shellWhat wondrous news its notes might tell!The myriad stars in yonder skiesMay be the beams of death-freed eyesThat watch us from an unknown shore,Still faithful to the vows of yore!The vaulted blue of heaven may beThe looking glass of the mighty sea,Where deathless souls their vigils keepO'er fast decaying world, asleep.Atlantis, the fabled city of old,Whose gates inspired poets behold,May now be resting beneath the wave,Triumphant o'er a watery grave!Its pearly gates and glittering spiresArouse the poet's mad desires.He sees—and sings in tongue unknown—The mysteries by the Muses shown.Conducted by a sybil fair,He penetrates each demon lairAnd pictures hell, in golden speech,Beyond imagination's reach.To highest heaven his thought has flownAnd measured and admired the throne;Made angels bow beneath his rodAnd dared to mould the mind of God!Who knows but legends the Muses tellAre truths encased in a mighty dream?Who knows but the angels of earth and airAre the beautiful nymphs beside each stream?Each singing bird and nodding flowerMay be imbued with potent power;And stars an influence, too, may wieldAnd bless or curse our natal hour!Who knows but what we call a bruteIs with immortal reason blest?Who knows man is alone divineAnd destined to immortal rest?Theorize and reason as we may,How little we can really know;We only learn to live, then die,And who may say to what we go?
Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged.BY SAM LAW.Art thou so good, so free from sinThat thou should'st judge thy fellow men?Look well to self before the stone,Aimed at thy brother's faults, be thrown,Behold in theeA Pharisee.If thou art not so low, perchance thou'rt only so from circumstance;Perhaps, if tempted, thou would'st fall. Thy nature's sinful, after all.Thou knowest not, most righteous scribe,The struggles, trials, patience tried;The battles fought, the vict'ries gained,The bleeding heart, the soul tear-stained,More human be,Have charity.
BY SAM LAW.
Art thou so good, so free from sinThat thou should'st judge thy fellow men?Look well to self before the stone,Aimed at thy brother's faults, be thrown,
Behold in theeA Pharisee.
If thou art not so low, perchance thou'rt only so from circumstance;
Perhaps, if tempted, thou would'st fall. Thy nature's sinful, after all.
Thou knowest not, most righteous scribe,The struggles, trials, patience tried;The battles fought, the vict'ries gained,The bleeding heart, the soul tear-stained,
More human be,Have charity.
The Convict's Prayer.BY 21269.At midnight, in a prison cell,On bended knee the convict fell,And poured in heaven's listing earA prayer for those he held most dear.Oh, God; defend my absent wife,Whose breaking heart and blighted lifeSpring not from conscious guilt within,But from a reckless husband's sin.Spare her, indulgent heaven, the blow,That oft has laid an angel low;Still may her ever angel faceReflect the presence of Thy grace.Be it well pleasing in Thy sightThat she may rear my babes aright,And teach them, in the bloom of youth,The laws of kindness and of truth.Help me discharge, on every hand,The duties right and law demand;And may I live to dwell once moreHonored among the friends of yore.
BY 21269.
At midnight, in a prison cell,On bended knee the convict fell,And poured in heaven's listing earA prayer for those he held most dear.Oh, God; defend my absent wife,Whose breaking heart and blighted lifeSpring not from conscious guilt within,But from a reckless husband's sin.Spare her, indulgent heaven, the blow,That oft has laid an angel low;Still may her ever angel faceReflect the presence of Thy grace.Be it well pleasing in Thy sightThat she may rear my babes aright,And teach them, in the bloom of youth,The laws of kindness and of truth.Help me discharge, on every hand,The duties right and law demand;And may I live to dwell once moreHonored among the friends of yore.
Wine vs. Water.There stood two glasses, filled to the brim,On a rich man's table, rim to rim,One was ruddy and red as blood,And one as clear as the crystal flood.Said the glass of wine to the paler brother:"Let us tell the tales of the past to each other.I can tell of banquet, revel and mirth,And the proudest and grandest souls on earthFell under my touch as though struck by blight,Where I was a king, for I ruled in night.From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.I have blasted many an honored name;I have taken virtue and given shame.I have tempted youth with a sip, a tasteThat has made his future a barren waste.Far greater than a king am I,Or than any army beneath the sky.I have made the arm of the driver fail,And sent the train from the iron rail.I have made good ships go down at sea,And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me,For they said, "Behold! how great you be!"Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall,For my might and power are over all.Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine,"Can you boast of deeds so great as mine?"The water said proudly, "I cannot boastOf a king dethroned or a murdered host;But I can tell of a heart once sad,By my crystal drops made light and glad—Of thirsts I've quenched, of brows I've laved;Of hands I've cooled and souls I've saved;I've leaped thro' the valley, dashed down the mountain,Formed beautiful rivers and played in fountain,Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the skyAnd everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.I've eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,I've made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;I can tell of the powerful wheel of the millThat ground out flower and turned at my will;I can tell of manhood, debased by you.That I lifted up and crowned anew.I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;I gladden the heart of man and maid;I set your close-chained captive freeAnd all are better for knowing me."These are the tales they told each other—The glass of wine and its paler brother—As they sat together, filled to the brim.On the rich man's table, rim to rim.
There stood two glasses, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim,
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to the paler brother:
"Let us tell the tales of the past to each other.
I can tell of banquet, revel and mirth,
And the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch as though struck by blight,
Where I was a king, for I ruled in night.
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown;
From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
I have blasted many an honored name;
I have taken virtue and given shame.
I have tempted youth with a sip, a taste
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than a king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me,
For they said, "Behold! how great you be!"
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall,
For my might and power are over all.
Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine,
"Can you boast of deeds so great as mine?"
The water said proudly, "I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned or a murdered host;
But I can tell of a heart once sad,
By my crystal drops made light and glad—
Of thirsts I've quenched, of brows I've laved;
Of hands I've cooled and souls I've saved;
I've leaped thro' the valley, dashed down the mountain,
Formed beautiful rivers and played in fountain,
Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.
I've eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I've made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill
That ground out flower and turned at my will;
I can tell of manhood, debased by you.
That I lifted up and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set your close-chained captive free
And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other—
The glass of wine and its paler brother—
As they sat together, filled to the brim.
On the rich man's table, rim to rim.