The last vestige of that feast is gone; the last garland has faded; the last arch has fallen; the last tankard has been destroyed, and Shushan is a ruin; but as long as the world stands there will be multitudes of men and women, familiar with the Bible, who will come into this picture-gallery of God and admire the divine portrait of Vashti, the Queen; Vashti, the veiled; Vashti, the sacrifice; Vashti, the silent.
A VISIT TO HADES.*-STOCKTON BATES.
As dozing I sat in my chair by the fire,
The flames, in forked jets, leaping higher and higher
In garrulous converse, while chill blew the blast,
I found myself sinking to slumber at last—
When, lo! from the blaze that went hopping about,
A red devil came, with a whoop and a shout,
And grinning, addressed me with such an odd leer,
I could not help laughing in spite of my fear.
"O ho! my fine fellow, at you I am winking;
I'll drink to your health, if you please, without shrinking,
And then, as you seem quite disposed to be civil,
I'll show you to Hades, the realm of the devil."
Thus speaking, he emptied my glass with a jerk,
And said: “Now, my boy, we are ready for work."
In less than a wink
Sink out of the atmosphere into the earth,
And heard the red devil's uproarious mirth;
And when my affright and my awful surprise
Permitted me slowly to open my eyes,
I found myself seated in Charon's old boat,
That seemed on a lake of dark fluid to float.
Around me the sounds of laborious toil,
Of dire confusion and endless turmoil,
In echoes re-echoed, unceasingly rung
From the walls of the cave with stalactites o'erhung.
My chaperon laughed with a hearty delight
To see me astonished at such a grand sight,
And said: "You observe, it's a pretty fine place, Though somewhat too hot for a warm-blooded race; *FromDream Life and other Poems," by permission.
We always employ this Cyclopean force,
Who hammer and scream till they make themselves hoarse;
And yonder you see the result of their toil;
That black bank is coal, and this lake is coal oil.
Now, all the old sinners
And evil beginners
Who worry the world
To this place are hurled
When they, out of breath,
Surrender to Death.
We seize each arrival and transform his soul
Into oil, anthracite and bituminous coal;
While good beings' souls are (at least I am told)
Transformed into nuggets of silver and gold.
This oil that we make, your companions of earth
Discovered to be of some value and worth;
And likewise the coal is exhumed from the mine,
And now takes the place of the hemlock and pine,
And burns in the homes of the rich and the poor,
The palace, the mansion, or cot on the moor.
There is a large class of your friends and relations,
Of every gradation from high to low stations,
Who'll argue until you are black in the face,
That Hades is a mythological place-
That those who are guilty of crime or of strife
Receive all their punishment during this life;
You see how absurd is this singular notion-"
Just here a confused and exciting commotion
Cut short his harangue; then I heard a fierce shout,
And saw through the smoke the red fiends run about;
Then I felt myself seized, swiftly hurried along,
Through a smeared-visaged, yelling, and turbulent throng,
Until a cool breeze fanned my feverish face,
And I found myself out of that horrible place-
When, lo! I was told that a coal from my grate
Had like to have ended my rhymes and my fate.
THE STORY OF REBEKAH.-THOS. M. ARMSTRONG.
The hand of time was heavy on the brow
Of Abraham, for he had walked with God
Full many years, and been in all things blessed;
Still was he not prepared to lay the frail
Remnant of his life,down at the feet of
Him he worshiped, and with his loved Sarah
Repose his ashes in the tomb at Hebron,
For yet his son, the child of his old age,
The given, and restored of God,
Was wifeless and alone.
Then called he to his side the tried servant
Of his house and said: " Put thou thy hand
Beneath my thigh, and I will make thee swear
Thou wilt not take a wife unto my son
Among the daughters of the Canaanites;
But from that country that was once-is still-
Mine own, and from among my kindred, where
In my father's house my happy youth was passed,
There shalt thou take a wife unto my son.
Go! The Angel of the Lord will go before
And prosper thee."
'Twas eve in Syria, and the city's wall
Was bathed in floods of radiant glory.
Midst the sweet sounds of the declining day
Was girlish laughter and the shepherds' call
To the returning flocks; and ancient story
Tells 'twas the hour when maidens wend their way
Unto the neighboring wells-the city's daughters-
And in short respite from the sun-scorched day
Pass merrily an idle hour away,
And fill their pitchers from the deep, cool waters.
Without the city gates, their shaggy knees
In grateful contact with the cooling sand,
Were grouped at sunset ten kneeling camels.
Their long enduring thirst yet unappeased,
They patiently await the slow command
To free their burdens and unloose their trammels
While heeding not their needs, their leader stood
The faithful servitor of Abraham,
And thus with fervor prayed the reverent man
To Abraham's God, the promise to make good:
"Behold me at the well; turn not away
Thy face, for thou hast led me to its brink.
Now be thou still my guide; may it please thee
That to the damsel unto whom I say
Pray set thy pitcher down, that I may drink,'
And who shall answer 'Drink, and it shall be
My task to feed thy camels too,' may she
The woman be, appointed to thy servant.
Grant this response to my petition fervent,
So shall the maid be Isaac's destiny."
And ere the words were spoken in his heart,
Behold! a damsel from the gate came out:
Rebekah, Bethuel's virgin daughter,
And she was very fair. He stood apart
Until she filled her pitcher; then, in doubt,
He said, "Let me, I pray thee, drink a little water."
The maiden lowered the pitcher to her hand
And hasted, saying, " Drink, my lord; I will
Draw more until thy camels have their fill;"
Then filled the trough, refreshing all his band.
And the man, wondering at her, held his peace
Until the caravan was given water,
Then said, "I pray thee tell who is thy sire?"
For yet he knew not if his search should cease;
And she said, answering him, “I am the daughter
Of Bethuel, son to Nahor." Nigher
To her he drew, and bending to the sod,
The fair descendant hailed of Abraham's line
As Isaac's wife. He saw the hand divine
And bowing down his head, he worshiped God.
And her people blessed Rebekah, saying,
"Thou art our sister. Be thou the mother
Of many millions!" And she arose, she
And her damsels, and rode upon the camels.
And she went forth from among her kindred
And from her country, pre-ordained of God
To become the mother of nations.
THE THREE TREES.*-ELLEN MURRAY.
[A Picture of a Garden.]
First voice.--There stands a tree.
The tree of knowledge, beautiful but weird,
With leaves that are not leaves, with flowers that show New lights: with strange bright fruits that tempt the lips *Wrillen expressly for this Collection.
Forbidden fruits, who tastes shall know of good,
By loss-of sin, by pain.
O tempted Adam! turning from the tree,
Leave Paradise. The desert dark and drear
Is now your home. Your troubled children cry:
"Alas! the fateful tree."
First voice.-There stands a tree.
What tree? That cross a tree? Third voice.-A tree! it has no leaves, no boughs, no root; Stiff, straight, with arms outstretched from east to west; It has no beauty that we should desire,
And yet and yet-'tis God's best gift to man,
The sign of Love that died to save the lost;
Worshiped with Christmas bells, lit up by rays
Of Easter suns. The earth, erewhile a den,
Where men, like wild beasts ravened, tore and killed,
Is now a home, where hand in hand, men help
Each other back to Paradise. O Cross! O holy Tree!
Firet voice (pointing upwards).—
There stands a tree.
Second voice.-A blessed tree!
Not one, nay-many trees,
Standing beside the river fair of life,
Unfading, beautiful, wide bough with bough,
Green leaf with greener leaf. No hot sun burns,
No frost shall wither them,-and, oh! the fruit!
The golden fruit, the rose red fruit, the fruit
Blushing with sweetness. To the lifted hand,
Mellow and ripe, they hang.
O blessed tree
Of Paradise.
THE RAREST PEARL.-S. F. FIESTER.
I met a youth whose brow was sad,
For searching many days he'd been
To find a pearl called gratitude,
Which by kind deeds he'd tried to win.
But searching long and finding not,
His heart grown weary, faint and sore,
|