Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung;The latchless gate behind him swung;The knocker of that startled door,Struck as it never was before,Brought the whole household pale with fright;And there, with blushes on his cheek,So bashful he could hardly speak,The farmer met their wondering sight.The groom goes in, his errand tells,And, as the parson nods, he leansFar o'er the window-sill and yells,"Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"Oh! how she jumped! With one glad boundShe and the bean-bag reached the ground.Then, clasping with each dimpled armThe precious product of the farm,She bears it through the open door;And, down upon the parlour floor,Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.
Ah! happy were their songs that day,When man and wife they rode away.But happier this chorus stillWhich echoed through those woodland scenes:"God bless the priest of Whitinsville!God bless the man who took the beans!"
R. M. Streeter.
* * * * *
'Tis a cold bleak night! with angry roarThe north winds beat and clamour at the door;The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend,But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.
In lofty hails, where fortune takes its ease,Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;In happy homes where warmth and comfort meet.The weary traveller with their smiles to greet;In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarmRound starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light—"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"
But hark! above the beating of the stormPeals on the startled ear the fire alarm!Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,The ready friend no danger can appal;Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,He hurries forth to battle and to save.
From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,Devouring all they coil themselves about,The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foeIn vain attempts their power to overthrow;With mocking glee they revel with their prey,Defying human skill to check their way.
And see! far up above the flames hot breath,Something that's human waits a horrid death;A little child, with waving golden hair,Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,A mother screams, "O, God! my child! my child!"
Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throngA hardy fireman swiftly moves along;Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!
Gone to his death. The wily flames surroundAnd burn and beat his ladder to the ground,In flaming columns move with quickened beatTo rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,Crowned with all honours nobleness can give.
Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,Bearing the tender child, his jacket warmFlung round her shrinking form to guard from harm.Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!Behold how fast the roaring flames advance!Quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly;Up! up! by heavens! this hero must not die!
Silence! he comes along the burning road,Bearing, with tender care, his living load;Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy saveThe good, true heart that can so nobly brave.He's up again! and now he's coming fast!One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed!And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain!A happy mother clasps her child again!
George M. Baker.
* * * * *
"Build me straight, O worthy Master!Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel,That shall laugh at all disaster,And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"The merchant's wordDelighted the Master heard;For his heart was in his work, and the heartGiveth grace unto every art.And with a voice that was full of glee,He answered, "Ere long we will launchA vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunchAs ever weathered a wintry sea!"
All is finished! and at lengthHas come the bridal dayOf beauty and of strength.To-day the vessel shall be launched!With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched;And o'er the bay,Slowly, in all his splendours dight,The great sun rises to behold the sight.
The ocean oldCenturies old,Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled,Paces restless to and fro,Up and down the sands of gold.His beating heart is not at rest;And far and wide,With ceaseless flow,His beard of snowHeaves with the heaving of his breast.
He waits impatient for his bride.There she stands,With her foot upon the sands,Decked with flags and streamers gay,In honour of her marriage-day,Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,Round her like a veil descending,Ready to beThe bride of the gray old sea.
Then the Master,With a gesture of command,Waved his hand;And at the word,Loud and sudden there was heard,All around them and below,The sound of hammers, blow on blow,Knocking away the shores and spurs,And see! she stirs!She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feelThe thrill of life along her keel,And, spurning with her foot the ground,With one exulting, joyous bound,She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowdThere rose a shout, prolonged and loud,That to the ocean seemed to say,—"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,Take her to thy protecting arms,With all her youth, and all her charms!"
How beautiful she is! how fairShe lies within those arms that pressHer form with many a soft caressOf tenderness and watchful care!Sail forth into the sea, O ship!Through wind and wave, right onward steer!The moistened eye, the trembling lip,Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, O Union, strong and great!Humanity, with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast and sail and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge, and what a heat,Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock;'Tis of the wave, and not the rock;'Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest's roar,In spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea;Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee:Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee,—are all with thee!
Longfellow.
* * * * *
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Sang the lady, soft and low,And her voice's gentle flowRose upon the evening airWith the sweet and solemn prayer:"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Yet she sang, as oft she hadWhen her heart was gay and glad,Sang because she felt alone,Sang because her soul had grownWeary with the tedious day,Sang to while the hours away:"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Where the fitful gaslight fallsOn her father's massive walls.On the chill and silent streetWhere the lights and shadows meet,There the lady's voice was heard,As the breath of night was stirredWith her tones so sweet and clear,Wafting up to God that prayer:"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Wandering, homeless thro' the night,Praying for the morning light,Pale and haggard, wan and weak,With sunken eye and hollow cheekWent a woman, one whose lifeHad been wrecked in sin and strife;One, a lost and only child,One by sin and shame defiled;And her heart with sorrow wrung,Heard the lady when she sung:"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Pausing, low her head she bent,And the music as it wentPierced her blackened soul, and broughtBack to her (as lost in thoughtTremblingly she stood) the past,And the burning tears fell fast,As she called to mind the daysWhen she walked in virtue's ways.When she sang that very songWith no sense of sin or wrong:"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee!"
On the marble steps she knelt,And her soul that moment feltMore than she could speak, as thereQuivering, moved her lips in prayer,And the God she had forgotSmiled upon her lonely lot;Heard her as she murmured oft,With an accent sweet and soft:"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Little knew the lady fair,As she sung in silence there,That her voice had pierced a soulThat had lived 'neath sin's control!Little knew, when she had done,That a lost and erring oneHeard her—as she breathed that strain—And returned to God again!
F. L. Stanton.
* * * * *
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called on Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said, "what sound is that? It is from my symphony in F," he said eagerly. "Hark, how well it is played!"
It was a little, mean dwelling; and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice sobbing: "I can not play any more—it is so beautiful, it is so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!"
"Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."
"You are right; and yet I wish, for once in my life, to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."
Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling— genius—understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it!" And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us as we entered.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.
"I—I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.
"Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."
"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the fraulein—"
He paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind.
"I—I entreat your pardon," he stammered; "but I had not perceived before.Then you play from ear?"
"Entirely."
"And where do you hear the music; since you frequent no concerts?"
"I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."
She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow—how grand he would be that night! And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands, pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sunk, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.
At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently—"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?"
The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly. "Listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony in F.
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming,"Then, you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties, "Play to us once more —only once more!"
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious rugged head and massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars—then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swiftagitato finale—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all emotion and wonder.
"Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning towards the door; "farewell to you."
"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.
He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "I will come again, and give the fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again'"
They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.
"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it!" We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.
* * * * *
I, who was always counted, they say,Rather a bad stick any way,Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"I, the truant, saucy and bold,The one black sheep in my father's fold,"Once on a time," as the stories say,Went over the hill on a winter's day—Over the hill to the poor-house.
Tom could save what twenty could earn;Butgivin'was somethin' he ne'er would learn;Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak—Committed a hundred verses a week;Never forgot, an' never slipped;But "Honour thy father and mother" he skipped;Soover the hill to the poor-house!
As for Susan, her heart was kindAn' good—what there was of it, mind;Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice,Nothin' she wouldn't sacrificeFor one she loved; an' that 'ere one,Was herself, when all was said an' done;An' Charley, an' Becca meant well, no doubt,But any one could pull 'em about;
An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see,Save one poor fellow, and that was me;An' when, one dark an' rainy night,A neighbour's horse went out o' sight,They hitched on me, as the guilty chapThat carried one end o' the halter-strap.An' I think, myself, that view of the caseWasn't altogether out o' place;My mother denied it, as mothers do,But I'm inclined to believe 'twas true.Though for me one thing might be said—That I, as well as the horse, was led;And the worst of whiskey spurred me on,Or else the deed would have never been done.But the keenest grief I ever feltWas when my mother beside me knelt,An' cried and prayed, till I melted down,As I wouldn't for half the horses in town.I kissed her fondly, then an' there,An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.
I served my sentence—a bitter pillSome fellows should take who never will;And then I decided to go "out West,"Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best;Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,But Fortune seemed to like me well,An' somehow every vein I struckWas always bubbling over with luck.An' better than that, I was steady an' true,An' put my good resolutions through.But I wrote to a trusty old neighbour, an' said,"You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more,Than if I had lived the same as before."
But when this neighbour he wrote to me,"Your mother's in the poor house," says he,I had a resurrection straightway,An' started for her that very day.And when I arrived where I was grown,I took good care that I shouldn't be known;But I bought the old cottage, through and through,Off some one Charley had sold it to;And held back neither work nor gold,To fix it up as it was of old.The same big fire-place, wide and high,Flung up its cinders toward the sky;The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf—I wound it an' set it agoin' myself;And if everything wasn't just the same,Neither I nor money was to blame;Then—over the hill to the poor-house!
One blowin', blusterin', winter's day,With a team an' cutter I started away;My fiery nags was as black as coal;(They some'at resembled the horse I stole);I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door—A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;She rose to her feet in great surprise,And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;I saw the whole of her trouble's traceIn the lines that marred her dear old face;"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done!You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son,Comeover the hill from the poor-house!"
She didn't faint; she knelt by my side,An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried.An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay,An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day;An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright,An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea,An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me;An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,In spite of my brothers and sisters' sneers,Who often said, as I have heard,That they wouldn't own a prison-bird;(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,For all of them owe me more or less;)But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a manIn always a-doin' the best he can;That whether on the big book, a blotGets over a fellow's name or not,Whenever he does a deed that's white,It's credited to him fair and right.An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats;However they may settle my case,Wherever they may fix my place,My good old Christian mother, you'll see,Will be sure to stand right up for me,Withover the hill from the poor-house.
Will Carleton.
* * * * *
Did you ever stand in the crowded street,In the glare of a city lamp,And list to the tread of the millions feetIn their quaintly musical tramp?As the surging crowd go to and fro,'Tis a pleasant sight, I ween,To mark the figures that come and goIn the ever-changing scene.
Here the publican walks with the sinner proud,And the priest in his gloomy cowl,And Dives walks in the motley crowdWith Lazarus, cheek by jowl;And the daughter of toil with her fresh young heartAs pure as her spotless fame,Keeps step with the woman who makes her martIn the haunts of sin and shame.
How lightly trips the country lassIn the midst of the city's ills,As freshly pure as the daisied grassThat grows on her native hills;And the beggar, too, with his hungry eye,And his lean, wan face and crutch,Gives a blessing the same to the passer-byAs they give him little or much.
Ah me! when the hours go joyfully by,How little we stop to heedOur brothers' and sisters' despairing cryIn their woe and their bitter need!Yet such a world as the angels soughtThis world of ours we'd call,If the brotherly love that the Father taught;Was felt by each for all.
Yet a few short years and this motley throngWill all have passed away,And the rich and the poor and the old and the youngWill be undistinguished clay.And lips that laugh and lips that moan,Shall in silence alike be sealed,And some will lie under stately stone,And some in the Potter's Field.
But the sun will be shining just as bright,And so will the silver moon,And just such a crowd will be here at night,And just such a crowd at noon;And men will be wicked and women will sin,As ever since Adam's fall,With the same old world to labour in,And the same God over all.
* * * * *
Ye banks, and braes, and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry!For there I took the last farewellO' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!How rich the hawthorn's blossom!As, underneath their fragrant shade,I clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow, and locked embraceOur parting was fu' tender';And, pledging aft to meet again,We tore ourselves asunder;But oh! fell death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lipsI aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly!And mouldering now, in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still, within my bosom's core,Shall live my Highland Mary.
Robert Burns.
* * * * *
Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of "pastimes," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet the motherseemsto go at it in the right way. She opens the stair door and insinuatingly observes, "Johnny.", There is no response. "Johnn_y_." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, "John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made; and the mother is encouraged to add, "You'd better be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to sleep again; and the operation has to be repeated several times. A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-water bottle ejects its cork, and the "JOHN HENRY" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature, and he pops out of that bed, and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness.
* * * * *
O good painter, tell me true,Has your hand the cunning to drawShapes of things that you never saw?Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields a little brown,—The picture must not be over bright,—Yet all in the golden and gracious lightOf a cloud when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,Woods upon woods, with fields of cornLying between them, not quite sere,And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,When the wind can hardly find breathing roomUnder their tassels,—cattle near,Biting shorter the short green grass,And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,With bluebirds twittering all around,—Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!
These and the little house where I was born,Low, and little, and black, and old,With children, many as it can hold,All at the windows, open wide,—Heads and shoulders clear outside,And fair young faces all ablush;Perhaps you may have seen, some day,Roses crowding the self-same way,Out of a wilding, way-side bush.
Listen closer. When you have doneWith woods and cornfields and grazing herds;A lady, the loveliest ever the sunLooked down upon, you must paint for me;Oh, if I only could make you seeThe clear blue eyes, the tender smile,The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,The woman's soul and the angel's faceThat are beaming on me all the while!I need not speak these foolish words;Yet one word tells you all I would say,—She is my mother: you will agreeThat all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her kneeYou must paint, sir; one like me,—The other with a clearer brow,And the light of his adventurous eyesFlashing with boldest enterprise;At ten years old he went to sea,—God knoweth if he be living now,—He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"Nobody ever crossed her trackTo bring us news, and she never came back.Ah, 'tis twenty long years and moreSince that old ship went out of the bayWith my great-hearted brother on her deck;I watched him till he shrank to a speck,And his face was toward me all the way.Bright his hair was, a golden brown,The time we stood at our mother's knee;That beauteous head, if it did go down,Carried sunshine into the sea!
Out in the fields one summer nightWe were together, half afraid,Of the corn leaves' rustling, and of the shadeOf the high hills, stretching so still and far,—Loitering till after the low little lightOf the candle shone through the open door,And, over the hay-stack's pointed top,All of a tremble and ready to dropThe first half hour the great yellow starThat we, with staring, ignorant eyes,Had often and often watched to seePropped and held in its place in the skiesBy the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree,Which close in the edge of our flax field grew,Dead at the top,—just one branch fullOf leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,From which it tenderly shook the dewOver our heads, when we came to playIn its handbreath of shadow, day after day,—Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us boreA nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,Not so big as a straw of wheat:The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,But cried and cried, till we held her bill,So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother's knee.Do you think, sir, if you try,You can paint the look of a lie?If you can, pray have the graceTo put it solely in the faceOf the urchin that is likest me;I think 'twas solely mine indeed;But that's no matter,—paint it so;The eyes of our mother—(take good heed)—Looking not on the nest-full of eggs,Nor the fluttering bird held so fast by the legs,But straight through our faces, down to our lies.And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise,I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as thoughA sharp blade struck through it.You, sir, knowThat you on the canvas are to repeatThings that are fairest, things most sweet,—Woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree,—The mother,—the lads with their birds at her knee;But, oh, the look of reproachful woe!High as the heavens your name I'll shout,If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
Alice Cary.
* * * * *
I think that look of Christ might seem to say—"Thou, Peter! art thou then a common stone,Which I at last must break my heart upon,For all God's charge to His high angels mayGuard my foot better? Did I yesterdayWash thy feet, my beloved, that they should runQuick to deny me, 'neath the morning sun?And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray?The cock crows coldly. Go and manifestA late contrition, but no bootless fear!For when thy deadly need is bitterest,Thou shall not be denied as I am here;My voice, to God and angels, shall attest—Because I knew this man let him be clear!"
Elizabeth B. Browning.
* * * * *
One of the kings of Scanderoon,A royal jester,Had in his train, a gross buffoon,Who used to pesterThe Court with tricks inopportune,Venting on the highest of folks hisScurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.It needs some sense to play the fool,Which wholesome ruleOccurred not to our jackanapes,Who consequently found his freaksLead to innumerable scrapes,And quite as many kicks and tweaks,Which only seemed to make him fasterTry the patience of his master.
Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,Incurred the desperate displeasureOf his serene and raging highness:Whether he twitched his most reveredAnd sacred beard,Or had intruded on the shynessOf the seraglio, or let flyAn epigram at royalty,None knows: his sin was an occult one,But records tell us that the Sultan,Meaning to terrify he knave,Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath:Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!Thou stand'st condemned to certain death:Silence, base rebel! no replying!But such is my indulgence still,That, of my own free grace and will,I leave to thee the mode of dying.""Thy royal will be done—'tis just,"Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;"Since my last moments to assuage,Your majesty's humane decreeHas deigned to leave the choice to me,I'll die, so please you, of old age!"
Horace Smith
* * * * *
In the little southern parlour of the house you may have seenWith the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green,At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night.
Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came!What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame,When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas,With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys!
Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy,For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy,Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way,But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play."
For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm;She had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow calm,In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quillsOr carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic trills.
So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please,Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys.Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim,As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn."
—Catherine, child of a neighbour, curly and rosy-red,(Wedded since, and a widow,—something like ten years dead,)Hearing a gush of music such as none before,Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door.
Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies,—"Open it, open it, lady!" the little maiden cries,(For she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in a box she heard,)"Open it, open it, lady! and let me see thebird!"
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
* * * * *
A Lion to the Squirrel said:"Work faithfully for me,And when your task is done, my friend,Rewarded you shall beWith barrel-full of finest nuts,Fresh from my own nut-tree.""My Lion King," the Squirrel said,"To this I do agree."
The Squirrel toiled both day and night,Quite faithful to his hire;So hungry and so faint sometimesHe thought he should expire.But still he kept his courage up,And tugged with might and main."How nice the nuts will taste," he thought,"When I my barrel gain."
At last, when he was nearly dead,And thin and old and grey,Quoth Lion: "There's no more hard workYou're fit to do. I'll pay."A barrel-full of nuts he gave—Ripe, rich, and big; but oh!The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks.He'dlost his teeth, you know!
Laura Sanford.
* * * * *
We watched her breathing through the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad,And chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
Thomas Hood.
* * * * *
The sails were furl'd; with many a melting close,Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose,—Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of dayWhen setting suns o'er summer seas displayA path of glory, opening in the westTo golden climes and islands of the blest;And human voices on the silent airWent o'er the waves in songs of gladness there!Chosen of men! 'Twas thine at noon of nightFirst from the prow to hail the glimmering light?(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret rayEnters the soul and makes the darkness day!)"Pedro! Rodrigo! there methought it shone!There—in the west! and now, alas, 'tis gone!—'Twas all a dream! we gaze and gaze in vain!But mark and speak not, there it comes again!It moves!—what form unseen, what being thereWith torch-like lustre fires the murky air?His instincts, passions, say, how like our own!Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown?"Long on the deep the mists of morning lay;Then rose, revealing as they rolled awayHalf-circling hills, whose everlasting woodsSweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods:And say, when all, to holy transport given,Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,—When one and all of us, repentant, ran,And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man,—Say, was I then deceived, or from the skiesBurst on my ear seraphic harmonies?"Glory to God!" unnumber'd voices sung,—"Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rung,Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn,And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we boreThe sacred cross, and kneeling kiss'd the shore.
Rogers.
* * * * *
There are three lessons I would write—Three words as with a burning pen,In tracings of eternal lightUpon the hearts of men.
Have Hope. Though clouds environ roundAnd gladness hides her face in scorn,Put off the shadow from thy brow—No night but hath its morn.
Have Faith. Where'er thy bark is driven—The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth—Know this; God rules the hosts of heaven—The inhabitants of the earth.
Have Love. Not love alone for one,But man, as man, thy brother call;And scatter like the circling sun,Thy charities on all.
Thus grave these lessons on thy soul—Hope, Faith, and Love—and thou shalt findStrength, when life's surges rudest roll,Light, when thou else wert blind.
Schiller.
* * * * *
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly—any dear friend of Cæsar's—to him I say, that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer:—Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honour, for his valour; and death for his ambition! Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
None? Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth: as which of you shall not? With this I depart:—that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.
Shakespeare.
* * * * *
A youth went out to serenadeThe lady whom he loved the best,And passed beneath the mansion's shade,Where erst his charmer used to rest.
He warbled till the morning lightCame dancing o'er the hill-tops' rim,But no fair maiden blessed his sight,And all seemed dark and drear to him.
With heart aglow and eyes ablaze,He drew much nearer than before,When, to his horror and amaze,He saw "To Let" upon the door.
* * * * *
If thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance,To Modena, where still religiouslyAmong her ancient trophies is preservedBologna's bucket (in its chain it hangsWithin that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate.Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,Its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses,Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpseOf knights and dames, such as in old romance,And lovers, such as in heroic song,Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,Venturing together on a tale of love,Read only part that day. A summer sunSets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go,Enter the house—prithee, forget it not—And look awhile upon a picture there.'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,The very last of that illustrious race,Done by Zampieri—but by whom I care not.He who observes it—ere he passes on,Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,That he may call it up, when far away.She sits, inclining forward as to speak,Her lips half open, and her finger up,As though she said, "Beware!" Her vest of goldBroidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,An emerald stone in every golden clasp;And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,A coronet of pearls. But then her face,So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,The overflowings of an innocent heart—It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,Like some wild melody!Alone it hangsOver a mouldering heirloom, its companion,An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,But richly carved by Antony of TrentWith Scripture stories from the Life of Christ,A chest that came from Venice, and had heldThe ducal robes of some old ancestor.That by the way—it may be true or false—But don't forget the picture: and thou wilt not,When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.She was an only child; from infancyThe joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.Her mother dying of the gift she gave,That precious gift, what else remained to him?The young Ginevra was his all in life,Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;And in her fifteenth year became a bride,Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,She was all gentleness, all gaiety;Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.But now the day was come, the day, the hour;Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;And, in the lustre of her youth, she gaveHer hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,When all sat down, the bride was wanting there,Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,Laughing and looking back and flying still,Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger,But now, alas! she was not to be found;Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,But that she was not!Weary of his life,Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwithFlung it away in battle with the Turk.Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seenAn old man wandering as in quest of something,Something he could not find—he knew not what.When he was gone, the house remained awhileSilent and tenantless—then went to strangers.Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,When on an idle day, a day of search'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas saidBy one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,"Why not remove it from its lurking place?"'Twas done as soon as said; but on the wayIt burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.All else had perished—save a nuptial ring,And a small seal, her mother's legacy,Engraven with a name, the name of both,"GINEVRA."
There, then, had she found a grave!Within that chest had she concealed herself,Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy;When a spring lock that lay in ambush there,Fastened her down for ever!
Samuel Rogers.
* * * * *
He had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys on the road had dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as dangerous; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered and he did not recognize them.
It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard- engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted:
"Kal-a-ma-zoo!"
One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet for a time. Then the wind whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he lifted his hand and cried out:
"Jack-son! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change cars!"
The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes and called out:
"Ann Arbor!"
He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and conductor.
One of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called out:
"Yp-silanti! Change cars here for the Eel River Road!"
"He's coming in fast," whispered one of the men.
"And the end of his 'run' will be the end of his life," said a second.
The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head and faintly said:
"Grand Trunk Junction! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change cars!"
He was so quiet after that, that all the men gathered around the bed, believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, and whispered:
"De—"
Not "Detroit," but Death! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring.
Detroit Free Press.
* * * * *
St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;And being ever courteously inclinedTo give young folks a sober turn of mind,He fell into discourse with him; and thusThe dialogue they held comes down to us.
ST. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.ST. And when you are one, what do you intend?Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the endST. Suppose it so,—what have you next in view?Y. That I may get to be a canon, too.ST. Well; and how then?Y. Why, then, for aught I knowI may be made a bishop.ST. Be it so—What then?Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree—And yet my lot it possibly may be.ST. Suppose it was, what then?Y. Why, who can sayBut I've a chance of being pope one day?ST. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,And triple crown, what follows after that?Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,Upon this earth that wishing can procure;When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,As long as God shall please, then I must die.ST. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the bestBut wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest!Take my advice—whatever may betide,For that which must be, first of all provide;Then think of that which may be, and indeed,When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.
Dr. Byrom.
* * * * *
"Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite,To a pretty little tune,Holding up her dainty mouth,Sweet as roses born in June.Will was ten years old that day,And he pulled her golden curlsTeasingly, and answer made—"I'm too old—I don't kiss girls."
Ten years pass, and MargueriteSmiles as Will kneels at her feet,Gazing fondly in her eyes,Praying, "Won't you kiss me, sweet?"'Rite is seventeen to-day,With her birthday ring she toysFor a moment, then replies:"I'm too old—I don't kiss boys."
* * * * *
Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced to flee,Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.
Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when theyShould return from their long exile to those homes so far away.
But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their primeVanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of time.
Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.
Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth,For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.
We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then,Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our youth again.
"We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee,Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!
Bessie Chandler.
* * * * *
My soul to-day is far awaySailing the Vesuvian Bay;My winged boat, a bird afloat,Skims round the purple peaks remote.
Round purple peaks it sails and seeksBlue inlets and their crystal creeks,Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim;While on Vesuvius' misty brim,With outstretched hands, the gray smoke standsO'erlooking the volcanic lands.
Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles,And yonder, bluest of the isles,Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gatesBeguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, if my rippling skiffFloat swift or slow from cliff to cliff:With dreamful eyes my spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls where swells and fallsThe Bay's deep breast at intervals,At peace I lie, blown softly byA cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day so mild is heaven's own child,With earth and ocean reconciled:The airs I feel around me stealAre murmuring to the murmuring keel.
Over the rail my hand I trail,Within the shadow of the sail;A joy intense, the cooling sense,Glides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyes my spirit fliesWhere summer sings and never dies—O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shinesAmong her future oils and wines.
Her children, hid the cliffs amid,Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;Or down the walls, with tipsy calls,Laugh on the rock like waterfalls.
The fisher's child, with tresses wild,Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,With glowing lips sings as she skips,Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows,From lands of sun to lands of snows;This happier one its course has run,From lands of snow to lands of sun.
Oh! happy ship, to rise and dip,With the blue crystal at your lip!Oh! happy crew, my heart with youSails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no more the worldly shoreUpbraids me with its loud uproar!With dreamful eyes my spirit liesUnder the walls of Paradise!
T. Buchanan Read.
* * * * *
Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Red-breastBoasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no otherThat had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithelyAll the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting,Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and onlySang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests theywere building.With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth HaddenSang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless.Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music,Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowlyUp the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims,Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly MeetingIn the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, John Estaugh.At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alightingTasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honeyBrought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden,Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaningOver her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh:"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee,Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others;Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth."And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together.It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morningThen Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance,As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded:"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee;I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken:"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit;Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness,Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning,But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me.When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completedHe hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillnessOf my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for His guidance."
Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,"So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it further,It hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrowThou art going away, across the sea, and I know notWhen I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it,Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me."And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.
Longfellow.
A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls in the place,—they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures—our friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ASK her tomorrow,—and not one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless they would not have treated him so. However, next day to fair Fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?" but she thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. She did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "Yes," all at once— the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greatereclat, she said, "Dear Mr. Friendly,—you'd best, ask mamma!" Good morning, then, Fanny, I'll do what you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of the day. Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did not know which to do first—laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "O, what will mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her beautiful curls. "I wish I had said Yes at once,—'twas too bad—not to ease his dear mind—O, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give him a kiss,—but he can't be in doubt of my feeling—that's bliss! O, I wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she will never refuse! There's the bell—here she is…. O, mamma!"—"Child, preserve us! What ails you dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I really can't tell you just now,—bye and bye Mr. Friendly will call—and he'll tell you—not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "O, mamma,—he's to call—in the course of the day. He was here just this minute,—and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me. I declare he has seen you come home—that's his ring; I will leave you and him, now to settle the thing" Fanny left in a flutter: her mother—the gipsy—she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as Fanny could be; he asked the dearwidowto change her estate;—she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in—overloaded with pleasure—but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "Dear Fanny," said Friendly, "I've done what you said," but what he had done, never entered her head—"I've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;" Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said,—as he kissed her mamma,—"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!" Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! She determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say "Yes!"
A. M. Bell.
* * * * *
She stood at the bar of justice,A creature wan and wild,In form too small for a woman,In features too old for a child,For a look so worn and patheticWas stamped on her pale young face,It seemed long years of sufferingMust have left that silent trace.
"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed herWith kindly look yet keen,"Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir,""And your age?"—"I am turned fifteen.""Well, Mary," and then from a paperHe slowly and gravely read,"You are charged here—I'm sorry to say it—With stealing three loaves of bread."
"You look not like an offender,And I hope that you can showThe charge to be false. Now, tell me,Are you guilty of this, or no?"A passionate burst of weepingWas at first her sole reply,But she dried her tears in a moment,And looked in the judge's eye.
"I will tell you just how it was, sir,My father and mother are dead,And my little brother and sistersWere hungry and asked me for bread.At first I earned it for themBy working hard all day,But somehow times were bad, sir,And the work all fell away.