TELLme not, in mournful numbers,"Life is but an empty dream!"For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.Life is real! life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"Was not spoken of the soul.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act that each to-morrow,Find us farther than to-day.Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beating,Funeral marches to the grave.In the world's broad field of battle.In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead.Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time.Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuingLearn to labour and to wait.
TELLme not, in mournful numbers,"Life is but an empty dream!"For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.
T
ELLme not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"Was not spoken of the soul.
Life is real! life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act that each to-morrow,Find us farther than to-day.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow,
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beating,Funeral marches to the grave.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating,
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle.In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!
In the world's broad field of battle.
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act—act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead.
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead.
Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuingLearn to labour and to wait.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
Learn to labour and to wait.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
ALLworldly shapes shall melt in gloom, the sun himself must die, before this mortal shall assume its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep that gave my spirit strength to sweep adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould that shall Creation's death behold, as Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, the earth with age was wan; the skeletons of nations were around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight—the brands still rusted in their bony hands; in plague and famine some. Earth's cities had no sound or tread, and ships were drifting with the dead to shores where all was dumb. Yet, prophet-like, that LoneOne stood, with dauntless words and high, that shook the sere leaves from the wood as if a storm passed by, saying—"We are twins in death, proud Sun! thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'tis mercy bids thee go; for thou ten thousand years hast seen the tide of human tears—that shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee, man put forth his pomp, his pride, his skill; and arts that made fire, flood, and earth, the vassals of his will?—yet mourn I not thy parted sway, thou dim, discrownèd king of day; for all those trophied arts and triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, healed not a passion or a pang entailed on human hearts. Go! let Oblivion's curtain fall upon the stage of men! nor with thy rising beams recall life's tragedy again! Its piteous pageants bring not back, nor waken flesh upon the rack of pain anew to writhe, stretched in Disease's shapes abhorred, or mown in battle by the sword, like grass beneath the scythe! Even I am weary in yon skies to watch thy fading fire: test of all sumless agonies, behold not me expire! My lips, that speak thy dirge of death, their rounded gasp and gurgling breath to see, thou shalt not boast; the eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, the majesty of Darkness shall receive my parting ghost! The spirit shall return to Him who gave its heavenly spark; yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim when thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine in bliss unknown to beams of thine; by Him recalled to breath, who captive led captivity, who robbed the grave of victory, and took the sting from Death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up on Nature's awful waste, to drink this last and bitter cup of grief that man shall taste,—go! tell the night that hides thy face thou saw'st the last of Adam's race on earth's sepulchral clod, the darkening universe defy to quench his immortality, or shake his trust in God!"
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
ASTRONGand mighty Angel,Calm, terrible and bright,The cross in blended red and blueUpon his mantle white!Two captives by him kneeling,Each on his broken chain,Sang praise to God who raisethThe dead to life again!Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,"Wear this," the Angel said;"Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign—The white, the blue, the red."Then rose up John de MathaIn the strength the Lord Christ gave,And begged through all the land of FranceThe ransom of the slave.The gates of tower and castleBefore him open flew,The drawbridge at his coming fell,The door-bolt backward drew.For all men owned his errand,And paid his righteous tax;And the hearts of lord and peasantWere in his hands as wax.At last, outbound from Tunis,His bark her anchor weighed,Freighted with seven score Christian soulsWhose ransom he had paid.But, torn by Paynim hatred,Her sails in tatters hung;And on the wild waves rudderless,A shattered hulk she swung."God save us!" cried the captain,For naught can man avail:O, woe betide the ship that lacksHer rudder and her sail!"Behind us are the Moormen;At sea we sink or strand:There's death upon the water,There's death upon the land!"Then up spake John de Matha:"God's errands never fail!Take thou the mantle which I wear,And make of it a sail."They raised the cross-wrought mantle,The blue, the white, the red;And straight before the wind off-shoreThe ship of Freedom sped."God help us!" cried the seamen,"For vain is mortal skill;The good ship on a stormy seaIs drifting at its will."Then up spake John de Matha:"My mariners, never fear!The Lord whose breath has filled her sailMay well our vessel steer!"So on through storm and darknessThey drove for weary hours;And lo! the third gray morning shoneOn Ostia's friendly towers.And on the walls the watchersThe ship of mercy knew—They knew far off its holy cross,The red, the white, the blue.And the bells in all the steeplesRang out in glad accord,To welcome home to Christian soilThe ransomed of the Lord.So runs the ancient legendBy bard and painter told;And lo! the cycle rounds again,The new is as the old!With rudder foully broken,And sails by traitors torn,Our country on a midnight seaIs waiting for the morn.Before her, nameless terror;Behind, the pirate foe;The clouds are black above her,The sea is white below.The hope of all who suffer,The dread of all who wrong,She drifts in darkness and in storm,How long, O Lord! how long?But courage, O my mariners!Ye shall not suffer wreck,While up to God the freedman's prayersAre rising from your deck.Is not your sail the bannerWhich God hath blest anew,The mantle that de Matha wore,The red, the white, the blue?Its hues are all of heaven—The red of sunset's dyeThe whiteness of the moonlit cloud,The blue of morning's sky.Wait cheerily, then, O mariners,For daylight and for land;The breath of God is on your sail,Your rudder in His hand.Sail on, sail on, deep freightedWith blessings and with hopes;The saints of old with shadowy handsAre pulling at your ropes.Behind ye, holy martyrsUplift the palm and crown;Before ye, unborn ages sendTheir benedictions down.Take heart from John de Matha!—God's errands never fail!Sweep on through storm and darkness,The thunder and the hail!Sail on! The morning cometh,The port ye yet shall win;And all the bells of God shall ringThe good ship bravely in!
ASTRONGand mighty Angel,Calm, terrible and bright,The cross in blended red and blueUpon his mantle white!
A
STRONGand mighty Angel,
Calm, terrible and bright,
The cross in blended red and blue
Upon his mantle white!
Two captives by him kneeling,Each on his broken chain,Sang praise to God who raisethThe dead to life again!
Two captives by him kneeling,
Each on his broken chain,
Sang praise to God who raiseth
The dead to life again!
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,"Wear this," the Angel said;"Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign—The white, the blue, the red."
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,
"Wear this," the Angel said;
"Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign—
The white, the blue, the red."
Then rose up John de MathaIn the strength the Lord Christ gave,And begged through all the land of FranceThe ransom of the slave.
Then rose up John de Matha
In the strength the Lord Christ gave,
And begged through all the land of France
The ransom of the slave.
The gates of tower and castleBefore him open flew,The drawbridge at his coming fell,The door-bolt backward drew.
The gates of tower and castle
Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,
The door-bolt backward drew.
For all men owned his errand,And paid his righteous tax;And the hearts of lord and peasantWere in his hands as wax.
For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.
At last, outbound from Tunis,His bark her anchor weighed,Freighted with seven score Christian soulsWhose ransom he had paid.
At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed,
Freighted with seven score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.
But, torn by Paynim hatred,Her sails in tatters hung;And on the wild waves rudderless,A shattered hulk she swung.
But, torn by Paynim hatred,
Her sails in tatters hung;
And on the wild waves rudderless,
A shattered hulk she swung.
"God save us!" cried the captain,For naught can man avail:O, woe betide the ship that lacksHer rudder and her sail!
"God save us!" cried the captain,
For naught can man avail:
O, woe betide the ship that lacks
Her rudder and her sail!
"Behind us are the Moormen;At sea we sink or strand:There's death upon the water,There's death upon the land!"
"Behind us are the Moormen;
At sea we sink or strand:
There's death upon the water,
There's death upon the land!"
Then up spake John de Matha:"God's errands never fail!Take thou the mantle which I wear,And make of it a sail."
Then up spake John de Matha:
"God's errands never fail!
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail."
They raised the cross-wrought mantle,The blue, the white, the red;And straight before the wind off-shoreThe ship of Freedom sped.
They raised the cross-wrought mantle,
The blue, the white, the red;
And straight before the wind off-shore
The ship of Freedom sped.
"God help us!" cried the seamen,"For vain is mortal skill;The good ship on a stormy seaIs drifting at its will."
"God help us!" cried the seamen,
"For vain is mortal skill;
The good ship on a stormy sea
Is drifting at its will."
Then up spake John de Matha:"My mariners, never fear!The Lord whose breath has filled her sailMay well our vessel steer!"
Then up spake John de Matha:
"My mariners, never fear!
The Lord whose breath has filled her sail
May well our vessel steer!"
So on through storm and darknessThey drove for weary hours;And lo! the third gray morning shoneOn Ostia's friendly towers.
So on through storm and darkness
They drove for weary hours;
And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia's friendly towers.
And on the walls the watchersThe ship of mercy knew—They knew far off its holy cross,The red, the white, the blue.
And on the walls the watchers
The ship of mercy knew—
They knew far off its holy cross,
The red, the white, the blue.
And the bells in all the steeplesRang out in glad accord,To welcome home to Christian soilThe ransomed of the Lord.
And the bells in all the steeples
Rang out in glad accord,
To welcome home to Christian soil
The ransomed of the Lord.
So runs the ancient legendBy bard and painter told;And lo! the cycle rounds again,The new is as the old!
So runs the ancient legend
By bard and painter told;
And lo! the cycle rounds again,
The new is as the old!
With rudder foully broken,And sails by traitors torn,Our country on a midnight seaIs waiting for the morn.
With rudder foully broken,
And sails by traitors torn,
Our country on a midnight sea
Is waiting for the morn.
Before her, nameless terror;Behind, the pirate foe;The clouds are black above her,The sea is white below.
Before her, nameless terror;
Behind, the pirate foe;
The clouds are black above her,
The sea is white below.
The hope of all who suffer,The dread of all who wrong,She drifts in darkness and in storm,How long, O Lord! how long?
The hope of all who suffer,
The dread of all who wrong,
She drifts in darkness and in storm,
How long, O Lord! how long?
But courage, O my mariners!Ye shall not suffer wreck,While up to God the freedman's prayersAre rising from your deck.
But courage, O my mariners!
Ye shall not suffer wreck,
While up to God the freedman's prayers
Are rising from your deck.
Is not your sail the bannerWhich God hath blest anew,The mantle that de Matha wore,The red, the white, the blue?
Is not your sail the banner
Which God hath blest anew,
The mantle that de Matha wore,
The red, the white, the blue?
Its hues are all of heaven—The red of sunset's dyeThe whiteness of the moonlit cloud,The blue of morning's sky.
Its hues are all of heaven—
The red of sunset's dye
The whiteness of the moonlit cloud,
The blue of morning's sky.
Wait cheerily, then, O mariners,For daylight and for land;The breath of God is on your sail,Your rudder in His hand.
Wait cheerily, then, O mariners,
For daylight and for land;
The breath of God is on your sail,
Your rudder in His hand.
Sail on, sail on, deep freightedWith blessings and with hopes;The saints of old with shadowy handsAre pulling at your ropes.
Sail on, sail on, deep freighted
With blessings and with hopes;
The saints of old with shadowy hands
Are pulling at your ropes.
Behind ye, holy martyrsUplift the palm and crown;Before ye, unborn ages sendTheir benedictions down.
Behind ye, holy martyrs
Uplift the palm and crown;
Before ye, unborn ages send
Their benedictions down.
Take heart from John de Matha!—God's errands never fail!Sweep on through storm and darkness,The thunder and the hail!
Take heart from John de Matha!—
God's errands never fail!
Sweep on through storm and darkness,
The thunder and the hail!
Sail on! The morning cometh,The port ye yet shall win;And all the bells of God shall ringThe good ship bravely in!
Sail on! The morning cometh,
The port ye yet shall win;
And all the bells of God shall ring
The good ship bravely in!
ANN S. STEPHENS.
WHENCEcome those shrieks so wild and shrill,That cut, like blades of steel, the air,Causing the creeping blood to chillWith the sharp cadence of despair?Again they come, as if a heartWere cleft in twain by one quick blow,And every string had voice apartTo utter its peculiar woe.Whence came they? from yon temple whereAn altar, raised for private prayer,Now forms the warrior's marble bedWho Warsaw's gallant armies led.The dim funereal tapers throwA holy lustre o'er his brow,And burnish with their rays of lightThe mass of curls that gather brightAbove the haughty brow and eyeOf a young boy that's kneeling by.What hand is that, whose icy pressClings to the dead with death's own grasp,But meets no answering caress?No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?It is the hand of her whose cryRang wildly, late, upon the air,When the dead warrior met her eyeOutstretched upon the altar there.With pallid lip and stony browShe murmurs forth her anguish now.But hark! the tramp of heavy feetIs heard along the bloody street;Nearer and nearer yet they comeWith clanking arms and noiseless drum.Now whispered curses, low and deep,Around the holy temple creep;The gate is burst; a ruffian bandRush in and savagely demand,With brutal voice and oath profane,The startled boy for exile's chain.The mother sprang with gesture wild,And to her bosom clasped her child;Then with pale cheek and flashing eyeShouted with fearful energy,"Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to treadToo near the body of my dead;Nor touch the living boy—I standBetween him and your lawless band.Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,With Russia's heaviest iron bands,And drag me to Siberia's wildTo perish, if 'twill save my child!""Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,Tearing the pale boy from her side,And in his ruffian grasp he boreHis victim to the temple door."One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!Will land or gold redeem my son?Take heritage, take name, take all,But leave him free from Russian thrall!Take these!" and her white arms and handsShe stripped of rings and diamond bands,And tore from braids of long black hairThe gems that gleamed like starlight there;Her cross of blazing rubies lastDown at the Russian's feet she cast.He stooped to seize the glittering store—Upspringing from the marble floor,The mother, with a cry of joy,Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.But no! the Russian's iron graspAgain undid the mother's clasp.Forward she fell, with one long cryOf more than mortal agony.But the brave child is roused at length,And breaking from the Russian's hold,He stands, a giant in the strengthOf his young spirit, fierce and bold.Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,So blue, and yet so bright,Seems kindled from the eternal sky,So brilliant is its light.His curling lips and crimson cheeksForetell the thought before he speaks;With a full voice of proud commandHe turned upon the wondering band:"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can!This hour has made the boy a man!I knelt before my slaughtered sire,Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.I wept upon his marble brow,Yes, wept! I was a child; but now—My noble mother, on her knee,Hath done the work of years for me!"He drew aside his broidered vest,And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,The jeweled haft of poniard brightGlittered a moment on the sight."Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave!Think ye my noble father's glaiveWould drink the life-blood of a slave?The pearls that on the handle flameWould blush to rubies in their shame;The blade would quiver in thy breast,Ashamed of such ignoble rest.No! Thus I rend the tyrant's chain,And fling him back a boy's disdain!"A moment and the funeral lightFlashed on the jeweled weapon bright;Another, and his young heart's bloodLeaped to the floor, a crimson flood.Quick to his mother's side he sprang,And on the air his clear voice rang:"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!The choice was death or slavery.Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!His freedom is forever won;And now he waits one holy kissTo bear his father home in bliss—One last embrace, one blessing—one!To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.What! silent yet? Canst thou not feelMy warm blood o'er my heart congeal?Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!What! silent still? Then art thou dead?——Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, IRejoice with thee—and thus—to die!"One long, deep breath, and his pale headLay on his mother's bosom—dead.
WHENCEcome those shrieks so wild and shrill,That cut, like blades of steel, the air,Causing the creeping blood to chillWith the sharp cadence of despair?
W
HENCEcome those shrieks so wild and shrill,
That cut, like blades of steel, the air,
Causing the creeping blood to chill
With the sharp cadence of despair?
Again they come, as if a heartWere cleft in twain by one quick blow,And every string had voice apartTo utter its peculiar woe.
Again they come, as if a heart
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,
And every string had voice apart
To utter its peculiar woe.
Whence came they? from yon temple whereAn altar, raised for private prayer,Now forms the warrior's marble bedWho Warsaw's gallant armies led.
Whence came they? from yon temple where
An altar, raised for private prayer,
Now forms the warrior's marble bed
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
The dim funereal tapers throwA holy lustre o'er his brow,And burnish with their rays of lightThe mass of curls that gather brightAbove the haughty brow and eyeOf a young boy that's kneeling by.
The dim funereal tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.
What hand is that, whose icy pressClings to the dead with death's own grasp,But meets no answering caress?No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?It is the hand of her whose cryRang wildly, late, upon the air,When the dead warrior met her eyeOutstretched upon the altar there.
What hand is that, whose icy press
Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
But meets no answering caress?
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?
It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly, late, upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye
Outstretched upon the altar there.
With pallid lip and stony browShe murmurs forth her anguish now.But hark! the tramp of heavy feetIs heard along the bloody street;Nearer and nearer yet they comeWith clanking arms and noiseless drum.Now whispered curses, low and deep,Around the holy temple creep;The gate is burst; a ruffian bandRush in and savagely demand,With brutal voice and oath profane,The startled boy for exile's chain.
With pallid lip and stony brow
She murmurs forth her anguish now.
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is heard along the bloody street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep;
The gate is burst; a ruffian band
Rush in and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain.
The mother sprang with gesture wild,And to her bosom clasped her child;Then with pale cheek and flashing eyeShouted with fearful energy,"Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to treadToo near the body of my dead;Nor touch the living boy—I standBetween him and your lawless band.Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,With Russia's heaviest iron bands,And drag me to Siberia's wildTo perish, if 'twill save my child!"
The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom clasped her child;
Then with pale cheek and flashing eye
Shouted with fearful energy,
"Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead;
Nor touch the living boy—I stand
Between him and your lawless band.
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild
To perish, if 'twill save my child!"
"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,Tearing the pale boy from her side,And in his ruffian grasp he boreHis victim to the temple door.
"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side,
And in his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.
"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!Will land or gold redeem my son?Take heritage, take name, take all,But leave him free from Russian thrall!Take these!" and her white arms and handsShe stripped of rings and diamond bands,And tore from braids of long black hairThe gems that gleamed like starlight there;Her cross of blazing rubies lastDown at the Russian's feet she cast.He stooped to seize the glittering store—Upspringing from the marble floor,The mother, with a cry of joy,Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.But no! the Russian's iron graspAgain undid the mother's clasp.Forward she fell, with one long cryOf more than mortal agony.
"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!
Will land or gold redeem my son?
Take heritage, take name, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall!
Take these!" and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
And tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like starlight there;
Her cross of blazing rubies last
Down at the Russian's feet she cast.
He stooped to seize the glittering store—
Upspringing from the marble floor,
The mother, with a cry of joy,
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.
But no! the Russian's iron grasp
Again undid the mother's clasp.
Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mortal agony.
But the brave child is roused at length,And breaking from the Russian's hold,He stands, a giant in the strengthOf his young spirit, fierce and bold.Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,So blue, and yet so bright,Seems kindled from the eternal sky,So brilliant is its light.His curling lips and crimson cheeksForetell the thought before he speaks;With a full voice of proud commandHe turned upon the wondering band:"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can!This hour has made the boy a man!I knelt before my slaughtered sire,Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.I wept upon his marble brow,Yes, wept! I was a child; but now—My noble mother, on her knee,Hath done the work of years for me!"
But the brave child is roused at length,
And breaking from the Russian's hold,
He stands, a giant in the strength
Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,
So blue, and yet so bright,
Seems kindled from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.
His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks;
With a full voice of proud command
He turned upon the wondering band:
"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can!
This hour has made the boy a man!
I knelt before my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.
I wept upon his marble brow,
Yes, wept! I was a child; but now—
My noble mother, on her knee,
Hath done the work of years for me!"
He drew aside his broidered vest,And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,The jeweled haft of poniard brightGlittered a moment on the sight."Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave!Think ye my noble father's glaiveWould drink the life-blood of a slave?The pearls that on the handle flameWould blush to rubies in their shame;The blade would quiver in thy breast,Ashamed of such ignoble rest.No! Thus I rend the tyrant's chain,And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
He drew aside his broidered vest,
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
The jeweled haft of poniard bright
Glittered a moment on the sight.
"Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glaive
Would drink the life-blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame
Would blush to rubies in their shame;
The blade would quiver in thy breast,
Ashamed of such ignoble rest.
No! Thus I rend the tyrant's chain,
And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
A moment and the funeral lightFlashed on the jeweled weapon bright;Another, and his young heart's bloodLeaped to the floor, a crimson flood.Quick to his mother's side he sprang,And on the air his clear voice rang:"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!The choice was death or slavery.Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!His freedom is forever won;And now he waits one holy kissTo bear his father home in bliss—One last embrace, one blessing—one!To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.What! silent yet? Canst thou not feelMy warm blood o'er my heart congeal?Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!What! silent still? Then art thou dead?——Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, IRejoice with thee—and thus—to die!"One long, deep breath, and his pale headLay on his mother's bosom—dead.
A moment and the funeral light
Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright;
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang:
"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery.
Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!
His freedom is forever won;
And now he waits one holy kiss
To bear his father home in bliss—
One last embrace, one blessing—one!
To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.
What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er my heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!
What! silent still? Then art thou dead?
——Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, I
Rejoice with thee—and thus—to die!"
One long, deep breath, and his pale head
Lay on his mother's bosom—dead.
ANON.
WHENshe came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, book-peddlers, hat-rack men, picture sellers, ash-buyers, rag-men, and all that class of people, must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she'd repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in Detroit.
And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at 'em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after awhile that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.
The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn't expected to know this.
"Ah—um—is—Mrs.—ah!"
"Git!" exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.
"Beg pardon, but I would like to see—see—"
"Meander!" she shouted, looking around for a weapon; "we don't want any flour-sifters here!"
"You're mistaken," he replied, smiling blandly. "I called to—"
"Don't want anything to keep moths away—fly!" she exclaimed, getting red in the face.
"Is the lady in?" he inquired, trying to look over Sarah's head.
"Yes, the lady is in, and I'm in, and you are out!" she snapped; "and now I don't want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent any longer! Come lift your boots!"
"I'm not an agent," he said, trying to smile. "I'm the new—"
"Yes, I know you—you are the new man with the patent flat-iron, but we don't want any, and you'd better go before I call the dog."
"Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?"
"No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day."
"Didn't you know that I was a minister?" he asked as he backed off.
"No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings."
"But here is my card."
"I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!"
"I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate.
"It won't do any good!" she shouted after him; "we don't want no prepared food for infants—no piano music—no stuffed birds! I know the policemen on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'llsoon find out whether you are a confidence man or a vagrant!"
And she took unusual care to lock the door.
MRS. SIGOURNEY.
TOLL, toll, toll!Thou bell by billows swung,And, night and day, thy warning wordsRepeat with mournful tongue!Toll for the queenly boat,Wrecked on yon rocky-shore!Sea-weed is in her palace halls—She rides the surge no more.Toll for the master bold,The high-souled and the brave,Who ruled her like a thing of lifeAmid the crested wave!Toll for the hardy crew,Sons of the storm and blast,Who long the tyrant ocean dared;But it vanquished them at last.Toll for the man of God,Whose hallowed voice of prayerRose calm above the stifled groanOf that intense despair!How precious were those tones,On that sad verge of life,Amid the fierce and freezing storm,And the mountain billows strife!Toll for the lover, lostTo the summoned bridal trainBright glows a picture on his breast,Beneath th' unfathomed main.One from her casement gazethLong o'er the misty sea:He cometh not, pale maiden—His heart is cold to thee?Toll for the absent sire,Who to his home drew near,To bless a glad, expecting group—Fond wife, and children dear!They heap the blazing hearth,The festal board is spread,But a fearful guest is at the gate:—Room for the sheeted dead!Toll for the loved and fair,The whelmed beneath the tide—The broken harps around whose stringsThe dull sea-monsters glide!Mother and nursling sweet,Reft from the household throng;There's bitter weeping in the nestWhere breathed their soul of song.Toll for the hearts that bleed'Neath misery's furrowing trace;Toll for the hapless orphan left,The last of all his race!Yea, with thy heaviest knell,From surge to rocky shore,Toll for the living—not the dead,Whose mortal woes are o'er.Toll, toll, toll!O'er breeze and billow free;And with thy startling lore instructEach rover of the sea.Tell how o'er proudest joysMay swift destruction sweep,And bid him build his hopes on high—Lone teacher of the deep!
TOLL, toll, toll!Thou bell by billows swung,And, night and day, thy warning wordsRepeat with mournful tongue!Toll for the queenly boat,Wrecked on yon rocky-shore!Sea-weed is in her palace halls—She rides the surge no more.
T
OLL, toll, toll!
Thou bell by billows swung,
And, night and day, thy warning words
Repeat with mournful tongue!
Toll for the queenly boat,
Wrecked on yon rocky-shore!
Sea-weed is in her palace halls—
She rides the surge no more.
Toll for the master bold,The high-souled and the brave,Who ruled her like a thing of lifeAmid the crested wave!Toll for the hardy crew,Sons of the storm and blast,Who long the tyrant ocean dared;But it vanquished them at last.
Toll for the master bold,
The high-souled and the brave,
Who ruled her like a thing of life
Amid the crested wave!
Toll for the hardy crew,
Sons of the storm and blast,
Who long the tyrant ocean dared;
But it vanquished them at last.
Toll for the man of God,Whose hallowed voice of prayerRose calm above the stifled groanOf that intense despair!How precious were those tones,On that sad verge of life,Amid the fierce and freezing storm,And the mountain billows strife!
Toll for the man of God,
Whose hallowed voice of prayer
Rose calm above the stifled groan
Of that intense despair!
How precious were those tones,
On that sad verge of life,
Amid the fierce and freezing storm,
And the mountain billows strife!
Toll for the lover, lostTo the summoned bridal trainBright glows a picture on his breast,Beneath th' unfathomed main.One from her casement gazethLong o'er the misty sea:He cometh not, pale maiden—His heart is cold to thee?
Toll for the lover, lost
To the summoned bridal train
Bright glows a picture on his breast,
Beneath th' unfathomed main.
One from her casement gazeth
Long o'er the misty sea:
He cometh not, pale maiden—
His heart is cold to thee?
Toll for the absent sire,Who to his home drew near,To bless a glad, expecting group—Fond wife, and children dear!They heap the blazing hearth,The festal board is spread,But a fearful guest is at the gate:—Room for the sheeted dead!
Toll for the absent sire,
Who to his home drew near,
To bless a glad, expecting group—
Fond wife, and children dear!
They heap the blazing hearth,
The festal board is spread,
But a fearful guest is at the gate:—
Room for the sheeted dead!
Toll for the loved and fair,The whelmed beneath the tide—The broken harps around whose stringsThe dull sea-monsters glide!Mother and nursling sweet,Reft from the household throng;There's bitter weeping in the nestWhere breathed their soul of song.
Toll for the loved and fair,
The whelmed beneath the tide—
The broken harps around whose strings
The dull sea-monsters glide!
Mother and nursling sweet,
Reft from the household throng;
There's bitter weeping in the nest
Where breathed their soul of song.
Toll for the hearts that bleed'Neath misery's furrowing trace;Toll for the hapless orphan left,The last of all his race!Yea, with thy heaviest knell,From surge to rocky shore,Toll for the living—not the dead,Whose mortal woes are o'er.
Toll for the hearts that bleed
'Neath misery's furrowing trace;
Toll for the hapless orphan left,
The last of all his race!
Yea, with thy heaviest knell,
From surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living—not the dead,
Whose mortal woes are o'er.
Toll, toll, toll!O'er breeze and billow free;And with thy startling lore instructEach rover of the sea.Tell how o'er proudest joysMay swift destruction sweep,And bid him build his hopes on high—Lone teacher of the deep!
Toll, toll, toll!
O'er breeze and billow free;
And with thy startling lore instruct
Each rover of the sea.
Tell how o'er proudest joys
May swift destruction sweep,
And bid him build his hopes on high—
Lone teacher of the deep!
ANON.
WENyou come to see a owl cloce it has offle big eyes, and wen you come to feel it with your fingers, wich it bites, you fine it is mosely fethers, with only jus meat enuf to hole 'em to gether.
Once they was a man thot he would like a owl for a pet, so he tole a bird man to send him the bes one in the shop, but wen it was brot he lookt at it and squeezed it, and it diddent sute. So the man he rote to the bird man and said Ile keep the owl you sent, tho it aint like I wanted, but wen it's wore out you mus make me a other, with littler eyes, for I spose these eyes is number twelves, but I want number sixes, and then if I pay you the same price you can aford to put in more owl.
Owls have got to have big eyes cos tha has to be out a good deal at nite a doin bisnis with rats and mice, wich keeps late ours. They is said to be very wise, but my sisters young man he says any boddy coud be wise if they woud set up nites to take notice.
That feller comes to our house jest like he used to, only more, and wen I ast him wy he come so much he said he was a man of sience, like me, and was a studyin arnithogaly, which was birds. I ast him wot birds he was a studyin, and he said anjils, and wen he said that my sister she lookt out the winder and said wot a fine day it had turn out to be. But it was a rainin cats and dogs wen she said it. I never see such a goose in my life as that girl, but Uncle Ned, wich has been in ole parts of the worl, he says they is jes that way in Pattygong.
In the picture alphabets the O is some times a owl, and some times it is a ox, but if I made the picters Ide have it stan for a oggur to bore holes with. Itole that to ole gaffer Peters once wen he was to our house lookin at my new book, and he said you is right, Johnny, and here is this H stan for harp, but hoo cares for a harp, wy don't they make it stan for a horgan? He is such a ole fool.
HOWITT.
[In reciting this sweetly beautiful little poem its noble truths should be uttered with emphatic, but not noisy elocution. There is sufficient variety in the different stanzas for the speaker to display much taste and feeling.]
[In reciting this sweetly beautiful little poem its noble truths should be uttered with emphatic, but not noisy elocution. There is sufficient variety in the different stanzas for the speaker to display much taste and feeling.]
GODmight have bade the earth bring forthEnough for great and small,The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,Without a flower at all.We might have had enough, enoughFor every want of ours,For luxury, medicine and toil,And yet have had no flowers.The one within the mountain mineRequireth none to grow;Nor does it need the lotus-flowerTo make the river flow.The clouds might give abundant rain;The nightly dews might fall,And the herb that keepeth life in manMight yet have drunk them all.Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,All dyed with rainbow-light,All fashioned with supremest graceUpspringing day and night:—Springing in valleys green and low,And on the mountains high,And in the silent wildernessWhere no man passes by?Our outward life requires them not—Then wherefore had they birth?—To minister delight to man,To beautify the earth;To comfort man—to whisper hope,Whene'er his faith is dim,For who so careth for the flowersWill much more care for him!
GODmight have bade the earth bring forthEnough for great and small,The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,Without a flower at all.
G
ODmight have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enoughFor every want of ours,For luxury, medicine and toil,And yet have had no flowers.
We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.
The one within the mountain mineRequireth none to grow;Nor does it need the lotus-flowerTo make the river flow.
The one within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor does it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain;The nightly dews might fall,And the herb that keepeth life in manMight yet have drunk them all.
The clouds might give abundant rain;
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,All dyed with rainbow-light,All fashioned with supremest graceUpspringing day and night:—
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow-light,
All fashioned with supremest grace
Upspringing day and night:—
Springing in valleys green and low,And on the mountains high,And in the silent wildernessWhere no man passes by?
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness
Where no man passes by?
Our outward life requires them not—Then wherefore had they birth?—To minister delight to man,To beautify the earth;
Our outward life requires them not—
Then wherefore had they birth?—
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth;
To comfort man—to whisper hope,Whene'er his faith is dim,For who so careth for the flowersWill much more care for him!
To comfort man—to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim,
For who so careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him!
GOODmorning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of Walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst kind of a narvous head-ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived.
Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin.
(Coughs.) Doctor, do you think you can give meanything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?
Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.)
Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. (Coughs.)
Oh this cough—it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.
What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.)
But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day—and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood—you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to everything about the house herself.
I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out—as it was a raining at the time—but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridgeof my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face ain't well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes—and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar janders." (Coughs.)
BYRON.
[This sweetly mournful refrain, should be delivered with sad earnestness; as though the speaker was describing the fate of his own family.]
[This sweetly mournful refrain, should be delivered with sad earnestness; as though the speaker was describing the fate of his own family.]
THEYgrew in beauty side by side,They filled our home with glee;Their graves are severed, far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight,Where are those dreamers now?One, 'midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream is laid,—The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, but noneO'er his low bed may weep.One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain:He wrapt his colours round his breast,On a blood-red field of Spain.And one—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fanned;She faded 'midst Italian flowers,—The last of that bright band.And parted thus they rest, who playedBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee!They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth,—Alas! for love, if thou wert all,And nought beyond, oh, earth!
THEYgrew in beauty side by side,They filled our home with glee;Their graves are severed, far and wide,By mount, and stream, and sea.The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight,Where are those dreamers now?
T
HEYgrew in beauty side by side,
They filled our home with glee;
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight,
Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the West,By a dark stream is laid,—The Indian knows his place of rest,Far in the cedar shade.The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,He lies where pearls lie deep;He was the loved of all, but noneO'er his low bed may weep.
One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid,—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, but none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drestAbove the noble slain:He wrapt his colours round his breast,On a blood-red field of Spain.And one—o'er her the myrtle showersIts leaves, by soft winds fanned;She faded 'midst Italian flowers,—The last of that bright band.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain:
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one—o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,—
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who playedBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee!They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth,—Alas! for love, if thou wert all,And nought beyond, oh, earth!
And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,—
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh, earth!
PLEDGEwith wine—pledge with wine!" cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. "Pledge with wine," ran through the brilliant crowd.
The beautiful bride grew pale—the decisive hour had come, she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder.
"Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the Judge, in a low tone, going towards his daughter; "the company expect it, do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette;—in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me."
Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion's principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in hishabits—and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman's opinion so soon.
Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of "Oh, how terrible!" "What is it?" cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object.
"Wait," she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, "wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, slowly pointing one jewelled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, "A sight that beggars all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the waters' edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast.
"Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy looking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how he clutches at the form of hiscompanion, imploring to be saved. Oh! hear him call piteously his father's name; see him twine his fingers, together as he shrieks for his sister—his only sister—the twin of his soul—weeping for him in his distant native land.
"See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; "see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the men move silently, and leave the living and dying together."
There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup.
"It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lay gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister—death is there. Death! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back! one convulsive shudder! he is dead!"
A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping.
"Dead!" she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and her voice more and more broken; "and there they scoop him a grave; and there without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies—my father's son—my own twin brother! a victim to this deadly poison. Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, "father, shall I drink it now?"
The form of the old Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered—"No, no, my child, in God's name, no."
She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying:—"Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand; who watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?"
His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer.
The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued mannertook part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms.
Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impression so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass.
butterfly
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