I HAD a dream: Methought one cameAnd bade me with him go;I followed, till, above the world,I wondering gazed below.One moment, horror filled my breast;Then, shrinking from the sight,I turned aside, and sought for rest,Half dying with affright.My guide with zeal still urged me on;"See, see!" said he, "what sin hath done;How mad ambition fills each breast,And mortals spurn their needed rest,And all their lives and fortunes spendTo gain some darling, wished-for end;And scarce they see the long-sought prize,When each to grasp it fails and dies."Once more I looked: in a lonely room,On a pallet of straw, were lyingA mother and child; no friends were near,Yet that mother and child were dying.A sigh arose; she looked above,And she breathed forth, "I forgive;"She kissed her child, threw back her head,And the mother ceased to live.The child's blue eyes were raised to watchIts mother's smile of love;She was not there,—her child she sawFrom her spirit-home above.An hour passed by: that child had goneFrom earth and all its harms;Yet, as in sleep, it nestling layIn its dead mother's arms.I asked my guide, "What doth this mean?"He spake not a word, but changed the scene.I stood where the busy throngWas hurrying by; all seemed intent,As on some weighty mission sent;And, as I asked what all this meant,A drunkard pass‚d by.He spake,—I listened; thus spake he:"Rum, thou hast been a curse to me;My wife is dead,—my darling child,Who, when 't was born, so sweetly smiled,And seemed to ask, in speechless prayer,A father's love, a father's care,—He, he, too, now is gone!How can I any longer live?What joy to me can earth now give?I've drank full deep from sorrow's cup,—When shall I drink its last dregs up?When will the last, last pang be felt?When the last blow on me be dealt?Would I had ne'er been born!"As thus he spake, a gilded coachIn splendor pass‚d by;And from within a man looked forth,—The drunkard caught his eye.Then, with a wild and frenzied look,He, trembling, to it ran;He stayed the rich man's carriage there,And said, "Thou art the man!"Yes, thou the man! You bade me come,You took my gold, you gave me rum;You bade me in the gutter lie,My wife and child you caused to die;You took their bread,—'t was justly theirs;You, cunning, laid round me your snares,Till I fell in them; then you crushed,And robbed me, as my cries you hushed;You've bound me close in misery's thrall;Now, take a drunkard's curse and fall!"A moment passed, and all was o'er,—He who'd sold rum would sell no moreAnd Justice seemed on earth to dwell,When by his victim's hand he fell.Yet, when the trial came, she fled,And Law would have the avenger dead.The gilded coach may rattle by,Men too may drink, and drunkards die,And widows' tears may daily fall,And orphans' voices daily call,—Yet these are all in vain;The dealer sells, and glass by glassHe tempts the man to ruin pass,And piles on high his slain.His fellows fall by scores,—what then?He, being rich (though rich by fraud),Is honored by his fellow-men,Who bend the knee and call him "lord."
Again I turned;
Enough I'd learnedOf all the misery sin hath brought;I strove to leave the fearful spot,And wished the scene might be forgot,'T was so with terror fraught.
I wished to go,
No more to know.I turned me, but no guide stood there;Alone, I shrieked in wild dismay,When, lo! the vision passed away,—I found me seated in my chair.The morning sun was shining bright,Fair children gambolled in my sight;A rose-bush in my window stood,And shed its fragrance all around;My eye saw naught but fair and good,My ear heard naught but joyous sound.I asked me, can it be on earthSuch scenes of horror have their birth,As those that in my vision past,And on my mind their shadows cast?Can it be true, that men do pourFoul poison forth for sake of gold?And men lie weltering in their gore,Led on by that their brethren sold?Doth man so bend the supple kneeTo Mammon's shrine, he never hearsThe voice of conscience, nor doth seeHis ruin in the wealth he rears?Such questions it were vain to ask,For Reason whispers, "It is so;"While some in fortune's sunshine bask,Others lie crushed beneath their woe.And men do sell, and men do pour,And for their gold return men death;Though wives and children them implore,With tearful eyes and trembling breath,And hearts with direst anguish riven,No more to sell,—'t is all in vain;They, urged to death, by avarice driven,But laugh and turn to sell again.
THERE are jewels brighter farThan the sparkling diamonds are;Jewels never wrought by art,—Nature forms them in the heart!Would ye know the names they holdAh! they never can be toldIn the language mortals speak!Human words are far too weakYet, if you would really knowWhat these jewels are, then goTo some low, secluded cot,Where the poor man bears his lot!Or, to where the sick and dying'Neath the ills of life are sighing.And if there some one ye seeStriving long and patientlyTo alleviate the pain,Bring the light of hope again!One whose feet do lightly tread,One whose hands do raise the head,One who watches there alone,Every motion, every tone;Unaware an eye doth seeAll these acts of charity.Know that in that lonely cot,Where the wealth of earth is not,These bright jewels will be found,Shedding love and light around!Say, shall gems and rubies rareWith these heart-shrined gems compare?Constancy, that will not perish,But the thing it loveth cherish,Clinging to it fondly ever,Fainting, faltering, wavering, never!Trust, that will not harbor doubt;Putting fear and shame to rout,Making known how, free from harm,Love may rest upon its arm.Hope, that makes the future bright,Though there come a darksome night;And, though dark despair seems nigh,Bears the soul up manfully!These are gems that brighter shineThan they of Golconda's mine.Born amid love's fond caresses,Cradled in the heart's recesses,They will live when earth is old,Marble crumble, perish gold!Live when ages shall have past,While eternity shall last;Be these gems the wealth you share,Friends of mind, where'er you are!
HERE at thy grave I stand,But not in tears;Light from a better landBanishes fears.Thou art beside me now,Whispering peace;Telling how happy thouFound thy release!Thou art not buried here;Why should I mourn?All that I cherished dearHeavenward hath gone!Oft from that world aboveCome ye to this;Breathing in strains of loveUnto me bliss!
IN a low and cheerless cotSat one mourning his sad lot;All day long he'd sought for labor;All day long his nearest neighborLived in affluence and squanderedWealth, while he an outcast wandered,And the night with shadowy wingHeard him this low moaning sing:"Sad and weary, poor and weary,Life to me is ever dreary!"Morning came; there was no soundHeard within. Men gathered round,Peering through the window-pane;They saw a form as if 't were lainOut for burial. Stiff and gauntLay the man who died in want.And methought I heard that dayAngel voices whispering say,"No more sad, poor and weary,Life to me no more is dreary!"
"THERE! Mr. McKenzie, I declare! You are the most oncommon, oncivil man I ever sot eyes on!"
"Peace, my lady! I'll explain."
"Then do so."
"You must know, then, that I have a perfect hatred of bandboxes,—so great, in fact, that if I see one on the walk, I involuntarily raise my foot and kick it."
"So it appears," chimed in Mrs: McKenzie, with a significant hunch of the right shoulder.
"Therefore,—"
"Well, go on! what you waitin' for?"
"Therefore, when I saw Arabella's bandbox in the entry, as I came down, sitting, as it did, directly at the foot of the stairs, I jumped on it, thinking I would come over it that time—"
"An' crushed a new spring bonnet, that cost-let me see!"
"No matter!" said Mr. McKenzie; "that will be in the bill."
Mr. McKenzie, having said thus much, placed his hat on his head and rushed from the house, fearful of another onslaught of "oncommon oncivilities."
A little shop at the North End,—seven men seated round said shop,—a small dog growling at a large cat, a large cat making a noise resembling that produced by root-beer confined in a stone bottle by a cork bound down with a piece of twine. Reader, imagine you see and hear all this!
[Enter Mr. McKenzie.] "Gentlemen, something must be done to demolish the idea held by the 'rest of mankind' that they, the women, cannot exist without owning as personal property an indefinite number of bandboxes. I therefore propose that we at once organize for the purpose; that a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, and report a name for the confederacy."
Voted unanimously; whereupon, a committee being appointed, after a short session, reported the following "whereas, etc."
"Whereas, WE, in our perambulations up and down the earth, are frequently, oftentimes, and most always, beset with annoyances of various kinds; and, as the greatest, most perplexing, most troublesome and iniquitous of these, generally assumes the shape of a bandbox, in a bag or out of one; and, whereas, our wives, our daughters, our sisters, and our female acquaintances generally and particularly, manifest a determination to put said boxes in our way, at all times, and under all circumstances, therefore
"Resolved, That-we-wont-stand-it-any-longer!!!
"Resolved, That we form ourselves into a society for the purpose of annihilating this grievous evil, and all bandboxes, of every size and nature.
"Resolved, That this society be known by the name of 'The BandboxExtermination Association.'"
The chairman of the committee made a few remarks, in which he stated that, in the performance of the duties which would devolve upon the members, they would, doubtless, meet with some opposition. "But, never mind," said he; "it is a glorious cause, and if we get the tongs at one time, and the hearth-brush another time, let 'em come!" He defined the duties of members to be,—first and foremost, to pay six and a quarter cents to defray expenses; to demolish a bandbox wherever and whenever there should be one; (for instance, if a fat woman was racing for the cars, with a bandbox in her arms, that box should be forcibly taken and burned on the spot, or whittled into such minute particles that it could no more be seen; if, in an omnibus warranted to seat twelve, fifteen men are congregated, and an individual attempts to enter with a bandbox, the box shall have notice to quit.)
"The manner of demolition," he said, further, "might be variously defined. If the owner was a nervous lady, to kick the box would wound her feelings, and it were best to apparently unintentionally seat yourself on it; then beg a thousand pardons, and, as you, in your efforts to make it better, only make it worse, give it up in despair, and console the owner by a reference to spilt milk and the uselessness of crying. As to the contents of the boxes, they must look out for themselves. If they get injured, hint that they should keep out of bad company."
The chairman sat down, and, the question being put, it was more than unanimously voted (inasmuch as one man voted with both hands That was McKenzie. ) to adopt the resolutions, the name, and all the remarks that had been made in connection with them. Members paid their assessments, and with a hearty good will.
Thus we see how "oaks from acorns grow." Mrs. McKenzie's fretfulness on account of her husband's patriotism led to the formation of a society that will make rapid strides towards the front rank of the army now at work for the amelioration of the condition of mankind.
I've been through all the nations, have travelled o'er the earth,O'er mountain-top and valley, far from my land of birth;But whereso'er I wandered, wherever I did roam,I saw no spot so pleasant as my own New England home.I've seen Italia's daughters, beneath Italian skiesSeen beauty in their happy smiles, and love within their eyes;But give to me the fairer ones that grace New England's shore,In preference to the dwellers in the valley of Lanore.I've watched the sun's departure behind the "Eternal Hills,"When with floods of golden light the vaulted heaven it fills;But Italy can never boast, with its poetic power,More varied beauties than those of New England's sunset hour.I love my own New England; I love its rocks and hills;I love its trees, its mossy banks, its fountains and its rills;I love its homes, its cottages, its people round the hearth;I love, O, how I love to hear New England shouts of mirth!Tell me of the sunny South, its orange-groves and streams,That they surpass in splendor man's most enraptured dreams;But never can they be as fair, though blown by spicy gales,As those sweet homes, those cottages, within New England vales.O, when life's cares are ending, and time upon my browShall leave a deeper impress than gathers on it now;When age shall claim its sacrifice, and I no more shall roam,Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home!
O, WHEN should Love's true beacons glow the brightest,If not when darkness shrouds the path we tread?When should its tokens, though they be the slightest,Be given, if not when clouds are overhead?When light is 'round us, and when joys are glowing,Some hand may press our own, and vow to cherishA love for us which ne'er shall cease its flowing,—And yet that love, when darkness comes, may perish.But there is love which will outlive all sorrow,And in the darkest hour be nigh to bless,—Which need not human art or language borrow,Its deep affection fondly to express.The mother o'er the child she loveth bendingNeed not in words tell others of her love;For, on the wings of earnest prayer ascending,It rises, and is registered above.O, such is love-all other is fictitious;All other's vanquished by disease and pain;But this, which lives when fate is unpropitious,Shall rise to heaven, and there an entrance gain.
BEND thee to action-nerve thee to duty!Whate'er it may be, never despair!God reigns on high,—pray to him truly,He will an answer give to thy prayer.Shrinketh thyself from crosses before thee?Art thou so made as to tremble and fear?Confide in thy God; he will watch o'er thee;Humbly and trustingly, brother, draw near!Clouds may be gathering, light may depart,Earth that thou treadest seem crumbling away;New foes, new dangers, around thee may start,And spectres of evil tempt thee astray.Onward courageously! nerved for the task,Do all thy duty, and strength shall be thine;Whate'er you want in humility ask,Aid shall be given from a source that's divine.Do all thy duty faithful and truly;Trust in thy Maker,—he's willing to saveThee from all evil, and keep thee securely,And make thee triumphant o'er death and the grave.
WITHIN these woods, beneath these trees,We meet to-day a happy band;All joy is ours,—we feel the breezeBlow gently o'er our native land.How brightly blooms each forest flower!What cheerful notes the wild bird sings!How nature charms our festive hour,What beauty round our pathway springs!The aged bear no weight of years;The good old man, the matron too,Forget their ills, forget their fears,And range the dim old forests throughWith youth and maiden on whose cheekThe ruddy bloom of health doth glow,And in whose eyes the heart doth speakOft more than they would have us know.How pleasant thus it is to dwellWithin the shadow of this wood,Where rock and tree and flower do tellTo all that nature's God is good!Here nature's temple open stands,—There's none so nobly grand as here,—The sky its roof; its floor, all lands,While rocks and trees are worshippers.There's not a leaf that rustles now,A bird that chants its simple lays,A breeze that passing fans our brow,That speaks not of its Maker's praise.O, then, let us who gather herePraise Him who gave us this glad day,And when the twilight shades appearPass with his blessing hence away!
ROME was enjoying the blessings of peace; and so little employment attended the soldier's every-day life, that the words "as idle as a soldier" became a proverb indicative of the most listless inactivity.
The people gave themselves up to joy and gladness. The sound of music was heard from all parts of the city, and perfumed breezes went up as an incense from the halls of beauty and mirth.
It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the seven hills; and its people rejoiced as they had not for many a long, long year-ay, for a century.
"Peace, sweet peace, a thousand blessings attend thy glad reign. See you how quietly the peasant's flocks graze on our eternal hills? The tinkling bell is a sweeter sound than the trumpet's blast; and the curling smoke, arising from the hearth-stones of contented villagers, is a truer index of a nation's power than the sulphurous cloud from the field of battle. What say you, Alett,—is it not?"
Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood with one arm encircling the waist of a lady, of whose beauty it were useless to attempt a description. There are some phases of beauty which pen cannot describe, nor pencil portray,—a beauty which seems to hover around the form, words, and motions of those whose special recipients it is; a sort of ethereal loveliness, concentrating the tints of the rainbow, the sun's golden rays, and so acting upon the mind's eye of the observer as almost to convince him that a visitant from a sphere of perfection is in his presence.
Such was that of Alett. She was the only daughter of a distinguished general, whose name was the terror of all the foes, and the confidence of all the friends, of Italy-his eldest daughter; and with love approaching idolatry he cherished her. She was his confidant. In the privacy of her faithful heart he treasured all his plans and purposes. Of late, the peaceful security in which the nation dwelt gave him the opportunity of remaining at home, where, in the companionship of a wife he fondly loved, children he almost idolized, and friends whose friendship was not fictitious, he found that joy and comfort which the camp could never impart.
Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or the young man whose apostrophe to peace we have just given.
Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, in the worldly acceptation of the term. It was noble, indeed, but not in deeds of war or martial prowess. Its nobleness consisted in the steady perseverance in well-doing, and a strict attachment to what conscience dictated as right opinions. The general loved him for the inheritance he possessed in such traits of character, and the love which existed between his daughter and the son of a plebeian was countenanced under such considerations, with one proviso; which was, that, being presented with a commission, he should accept it, and hold himself in readiness to leave home and friends when duty should call him to the field of battle.
We have introduced the two standing on a beautiful eminence, in the rear of the general's sumptuous mansion.
The sun was about going down, and its long, golden rays streamed over hill and dale, palace and cot, clothing all in a voluptuous flow of rich light.
They had stood for several moments in silence, gazing at the quiet and beautiful scene before them, when the musical voice of Rubineau broke forth in exclamations of delight at the blessings of peace.
Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme on which she delighted to dwell. Turning the gaze of her large, full eyes up towards those of Rubineau, she said,
"Even so it is. Holy Peace! It. is strange that men will love the trumpet's blast, and the smoke and the heat of the conflict, better than its gentle scenes. Peace, peace! blessings on thee, as thou givest blessings!"
Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a soul of admiration. He gazed upon her with feelings he had never before felt, and which it was bliss for him to experience.
She, the daughter of an officer, brought up amid all the glare and glitter, show and blazonry, of military life,—she, who had seen but one side of the great panorama of martial life,—to speak thus in praise of peace, and disparagingly of the profession of her friends-it somewhat surprised the first speaker.
"It is true," he replied; "but how uncertain is the continuance of the blessings we now enjoy! To-morrow may sound the alarm which shall call me from your side to the strife and tumult of war. Instead of your gentle words, I may hear the shouts of the infuriated soldiery, the cry of the wounded, and the sighs of the dying."
"Speak not so," exclaimed Alett; "it must not be."
"Do you not love your country?" inquired the youth.
"I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are warriors enough ready for the battle. It need not be that you go. But why this alarm? We were talking of peace, and, behold, now we have the battle-field before us-war and all its panoply!"
"Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing trouble; but at times, when I am with you, and thinking of our present joy, the thought will arise that it may be taken from us." No more words were needed to bring to the mind of Alett all that filled that of Rubineau. They embraced each the other more affectionately than ever, and silently repaired to the house of the general.
"To remain will be dishonor; to go may be death! When a Roman falls, the foe has one more arrow aimed at his heart; an arrow barbed with revenge, and sent with unerring precision. Hark! that shout is music to every soldier's ear. Hear you that tramp of horsemen? that rumbling of chariot-wheels?"
Twelve months had passed since the time of the last chapter, and, after repeated threatening, war had actually begun. Instead of idle hours, the soldiers had busy moments, and every preparation was made to meet the opposing array in a determined manner, and with a steadiness of purpose that should insure success.
The general watched for some time the fluctuating appearance of public affairs, and it was not until war was not only certain, but actually in progress, that he called upon Rubineau to go forth.
A week hence Rubineau and Alett were to be united in marriage; and invitations had been extended far and near, in anticipation of the event. It had been postponed from week to week, with the hope that the various rumors that were circulated respecting impending danger to the country might prove untrue, or at least to have a foundation on some weak pretence, which reasonable argument might overthrow.
Day by day these rumors increased, and the gathering together of the soldiery betokened the certainty of an event which would fall as a burning meteor in the midst of the betrothed and their friends.
The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and its answer admitted of no delay.
"To remain," said the general, "will be dishonor; to go may be death: which will you choose?"
It was a hard question for the young man to answer. But it must be met. The general loved him, and with equal unwillingness the question was presented and received.
"I go. If Rubineau falls—"
"If he returns," exclaimed the general, interrupting him, "honor, and wealth, and a bride who loves and is loved, shall be his-all his."
It was a night of unusual loveliness. The warm and sultry atmosphere of the day had given place to cool and gentle breezes. The stars were all out, shining as beacons at the gates of a paradise above; and the moon began and ended her course without the attendance of one cloud to veil her beauties from the observation of the dwellers on earth.
Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, cultivated by the fair hand of the latter.
The next morning Rubineau was to depart. All the happy scenes of the coming week were to be delayed, and the thought that they might be delayed long-ay, forever-came like a shadow of evil to brood in melancholy above the place and the hour.
We need not describe the meeting, the parting.
"Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, Alett. Let us hope for the best. Yet a strange presentiment I have that I shall not return."
"O that I could go with you!" said Alett. "Think you father would object?"
"That were impossible. Nothing but love, true and enduring, could make such a proposal. It would be incurring a two-fold danger."
"Death would be glorious with you,—life insupportable without you!"
In such conversation the night passed, and when the early light of morning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound of a trumpet called him away.
The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the general, all unused to tears as he was, mingled his with those of his family as the parting kiss was given, and Rubineau started on a warfare the result of which was known only to Him who governs the destinies of nations and of individuals.
And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furiously. Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none was more brave than he. It seemed to his fellow-officers that he was urged on by some unseen agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of good.
To himself but one thought was in his mind; and, regardless of danger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and honor to himself and friends.
Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his courageous action, and followed like true men where he led the way.
They had achieved several victories, and were making an onset upon numbers four-fold as large as their own, when their leader received a severe wound, and, falling from his noble horse, would have been trampled to death by his followers, had not those who had seen him fall formed a circle around as a protection for him.
This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the soldiers; they pressed on, carried the point, and saw the foe make a rapid retreat.
The shouts of victory that reached the ears of Rubineau came with a blessing. He raised himself, and shouted, "On, brave men!" But the effort was too much for him to sustain for any length of time, and he fell back completely exhausted.
He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed upon him. As night approached, and the cool air of evening fanned his brow, he began to revive, but not in any great degree.
The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to fear the worst; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he was now but poorly prepared to meet it.
"Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he proceeded quietly among the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of the wounded.
And it was so. His friends had gathered around his couch, and, conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he bade them all farewell, and kissed them.
"Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that her Rubineau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the closest, and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew powerless; and, O, tell her that it was all for her sake,—love for her nerved his arm, and love for her is borne upward on his last, his dying prayer. Tell her to love as I—"
"He is gone, sir," said the surgeon.
"Gone!" exclaimed a dozen voices.
"A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as he raised his arm, and wiped the flowing tears from his cheek.
At the mansion of the old general every arrival of news from the war sent a thrill of joy through the hearts of its inmates. Hitherto, every despatch told of victory and honor; but now a sad chapter was to be added to the history of the conflict.
Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the messenger, who, at all previous times, had come with a quick step. In her soul she felt the keen edge of the arrow that was just entering it, and longed to know all, dreadful though it might be.
Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure? If the reader has followed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has presumed, conjectured, and fancied,—followed all its hopes of future bliss, and seen it revel in the sunshine of honor and earthly fame,—he can form some idea, very faint though it must be, of the effect which followed the recital of all the facts in regard to the fallen.
In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep feelings of her soul with words that told how deep was her sorrow, and how unavailing every endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs.
She would not believe him dead. She would imagine him at her side, and would talk to him of peace, "sweet peace," and laugh in clear and joyous tones as she pictured its blessings, and herself enjoying with him its comforts.
Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to grief; and, with her reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice.
And so passed her lifetime.
Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in which she had hoped to be united indissolubly to Rubineau, she remained seated in a large oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmet and spear he had carried forth on the morning when they parted. At such times, she was as calm as an infant's slumberings, saying that she was waiting for the sound of the marriage-bells; asked why they did not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness-the Warrior's Bride.
ONCE on a time, from scenes of lightAn angel winged his airy flight;Down to this earth in haste he came,And wrote, in lines of living flame,These words on everything he met,—"Cheer up, be not discouraged yet!"Then back to heaven with speed he flew,Attuned his golden harp anew;Whilst the angelic throng came roundTo catch the soul-inspiring sound;And heaven was filled with new delight,For HOPE had been to earth that night.
"KNOW you what intemperance is?"I asked a little child,Who seemed too young to sorrow know,So beautiful and mild.It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand,And to a church-yard nearIt pointed, whilst from glistening eyeCame forth the silent tear.
"Yes, for yonder, in that grave,Is my father lying;And these words he spake to meWhile he yet was dying:"'Mary, when the sod lies o'er meAnd an orphan child thou art,—When companions ask thy story,Say intemperance aimed the dart.When the gay the wine-cup circle,Praise the nectar that doth shine,When they'd taste, then tell thy story,And to earth they'll dash the wine.'"And there my dear-loved mother lies,—What bitter tears I've shedOver her grave!-I cannot thinkThat she is really dead.And when the spring in beauty blooms,At morning's earliest hourI hasten there, and o'er her graveI plant the little flower."And patiently I watch to seeIt rise from out the earth,To see it from its little graveSpring to a fairer birth.For mother said that thus would she,And father, too, and I,Arise from out our graves to meetIn mansions in the sky."O, what intemperance is, there's noneOn earth can better tell.Intemperance me an orphan made,In this wide world to dwell;Intemperance broke my mother's heart,It took my father's life,And makes the days of man belowWith countless sorrows rife.""Know you what intemperance is?"I asked a trembling sire,Whose lamp of life burned dim, and seemedAs though 'twould soon expire.He raised his bow‚d head, and thenMethought a tear did start,As though the question I had putHad reached his very heart.He raised his head, but 't was to bowIt down again and sigh;Methought that old man's hour had comeIn which he was to die.Not so; he raised it up again,And boldly said, "I can!Intemperance is the foulest curseThat ever fell on man."I had a son, as fair, as brightAs ever mortal blest;And day passed day, and year passed year,Whilst I that son carest.For all my hopes were bound in him;I thought, from day to day,That when old age should visit meThat son would be my stay."I knew temptations gathered near,And bade him warning take,—Consent not, if enticed to sin,E'en for his father's sake.But in a fearful hour he drankFrom out the poisonous bowl,And then a pang of sorrow lodgedWithin my inmost soul."A year had passed, and he whom IHad strove in vain to saveFell, crushed beneath intemperance,Into a drunkard's grave.O, brother, I can tell to theeWhat vile intemperance is,When one in whom I fondly hopedMet such an end as his!"This was not all; a daughter IWas blest with, and she passedBefore me like an angel-formUpon my pathway cast.She loved one with a tender love,She left her father's side,And stood forth, in her robes of white,A young mechanic's bride."She lived and loved, and loved and lived,For many a happy year;No sorrow clouded o'er her path,But joy was ever near.Ay, those were pleasant hours we spent,Were joyful ones we passed;Alas! too free from care were theyOn earth to always last."Then he was tempted, tasted, drank,And then to earth he fell;And ever after miseryWithin that home did dwell.And soon he died, as drunkards die,With scarce an earthly friend,Yet one bent o'er him tenderlyTill life itself did end,"And when life's chord was broken, whenHis spirit went forth free,In all her anguish then she cameTo bless and comfort me.Yet she, too, died, ere scarce twelve monthsHad passed o'er her head,And in yon much-loved church-yard nowShe resteth with the dead.That little child you spoke to isThe child she left behind;I love her for her mother's sake,And she is good and kind.And every morning, early, toYon flowery grave she'll go;And I thank my God she's with meTo bless me here below."I had a brother, but he diedThe drunkard's fearful death;He bade me raise a warning voiceTill Time should stay my breath.And thousands whom in youth I lovedHave fallen 'neath the blastOf ruin which intemperanceHath o'er the wide world cast."He spoke no more,—the gushing tearsHis furrowed cheeks did leap;The little child came quick to knowWhat made the old man weep.He, trembling, grasped my hand and said(The little child grasped his),"May you ne'er know, as I have known,What sad intemperance is!"And since that hour, whene'er I lookAround me o'er the earth,And see the wine-cup passing free'Mid scenes of festive mirth,I think how oft it kindleth upWithin its raging fire,And fain would tell to all the truthsI heard from "Child and Sire."
WELCOME, brother, welcome home!Here's a father's hand to press thee;Here's a mother's heart to bless thee;Here's a brother's will to twineJoys fraternal close with thine;Here's a sister's earnest love,Equalled but by that above;Here are friends who once did meet thee,Gathered once again to greet thee.Welcome, brother, welcome home!Thou hast wandered far away;Many a night and many a dayWe have thought where thou might'st be,On the land or on the sea;Whether health was on thy cheek,Or that word we dare not speakHung its shadowy wing above thee,Far away from those who love thee.Welcome, brother, welcome home!Here, where youthful days were spentEre life had its labor lent,Where the hours went dancing by,'Neath a clear, unclouded sky.And our thanks for blessings renderedUnto God were daily tendered,Here as ever pleasures reign,Welcome to these scenes again!