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AWAY FROM THE WINE-CUP, AWAY!
"Away from the wine-cup, away, my boy,
From the revelers' haunt, away!
Ere he claim you as his prey!"
Twas a mother's warning, loving voice, that bade her son
For her faithful heart foresaw in the cup a hidden, lurking snare;
And she dreaded the convict's weary cell—the drunkard's unwept grave.
For she knew the vigils mothers keep for those they would die to save;
And again her tones of saintly love, that thrilled with accents mild,
With clarion power rang out that night, to guard her erring child.
"Haste, haste, my boy, for a serpent lurks
In that vintage rare and old,
His victim, fold on fold!"
But her son still sat in the hall of mirth while sport and
jest were high; For what cared he for her pleading words, or her bitter wailing cry?
The shrill night wind went shrieking past, and the mockers
laughed with joy, A.s they pledged m the wine-cup's ruddy red, " The widow's
And they said, " Here's warmth, and life, and cheer; and
the chains her fancy sees Are but links of flowers—the daisy chains! We'll snap them
when we please!"
They shouted in glee, until there arose
A drunkard, with age bowed down,
Their unseemly words to drown.
"Behold," cried he, " the piteous wreck a thirst for strong drink has made!
What I am now you yet may be, by the self-same foe betrayed!
You look on me as a loathsome wretch, a thing for scoffs and jeers,
To be hooted at by boys in the streets—too low for a woman's tears!
But a mother's love once plead for me, as now your mother pleads—
As I thmk how I broke her faithful heart, my heart with anguish bleeds!"
His palsied hand then dropped to his side,
And the old man gasped for breath;
For they felt 'twas the stroke of death!
Then over the form of the poor old man, whom they had oft abhorred,
With right hands raised in sight of death, they pledged,
with one accord, To taste no more of the flowing bowl, or " look on the wine
Lest they should fill unhonored graves or lie as the un
mourned dead; And by the fait h of a mother's love, that had plead for her
son that night,
They pledged henceforth, their hearts and lives to temperance, truth, and right.
New York Weekly.
BENEATH THE SURFACE.—W. F. Fox.
Beneath the surface there is wealth,
Though often hid from view:
And miss the good and true.
As deepest currents ever glide
Where scarce a ripple floats,
And souls their sweetest notes.
We see the light that faintly beams;
But, from its feeble glow,
Beneath the outward flow.
We deem the mountains proud and grand;
Their wealth is not in show:
Lies deep and far below.
We ever judire by outward show
And by the surface we would know
The prize we seek to win.
The rank and dress will oft deceive
The worth of soul to tell,
Where birth unkindly fell.
We gather stones that round us lie,
And shells of dullest ray,
And fling the pearls away.
And many thoughts that fill the mind,
And virtues of the soul,
Deep hid within their goal.
And many hearts beat warm with love
We never heed, nor pause to prove,
The objects that we cherish most
Are clear to us, we know;
Because 'tis hid below.
THE OFFICE-SEEKER'S PLATFORM.
No man can be truly great without money, and the easiest way to get money is to take it on every occasion, no matter whose it may be. I mean to be truly great.
It is safe to say, the way society is now constituted, that an honest man is a foul; and if a knave is not the noblest work of God, then what is he? I think that is very well put—what is he? Look at him as he moves in the highest circles of society, swaggers along the sidewalk, talks of stocks, bonds, and mortgages, and boasts his untold wealth, and say what is he?
As for me, I mean to move in the highest circles of society. I am going to Congress to make money. I shall refuse no bribe, and .shut my eyes to corruption. I care nothing for my constituents; let them look out for themselves. That is their business; my business is to get money, and bo truly great, and move in the highest circles of society. Honesty is the best policy for everybody but me. I'll none of it. Not I.
I do not purpose to steal from any private individual, and make myself answerable to the laws; but if any man wants a job put through,by which the people can bo robbed, and a large share of the plunder find its way into my pocket, you may count on me. I am not a common ruffian; I am a hightoned congressman. I do not knock a man down with a bludgeon, and go through his pockets; but I offer my congressional services, and then it is nothing to me who knocks him down after that. I can only say that I fear he would be poor picking after I get through with him.
I am a man of enterprise. I go in for railroads and canals—not so much because these things are public benefits, r.s because they open a channel for wealth to flow into my coffers from the pockets of the unsuspecting public. There is nothing better than money. My religion is money. My patriotism is money. I am perfectly willing to be a patriot, if I am paid for it. I am for sale. Whoever pays my price can have me.
I am not the only public-spirited patriot of this kind in the United States. You can find hundreds of them in every place of public trust, from a petty postmaster up to the most dignified senator. They all love their country—-for money.
Grab and grasp is the watchword of the day. Steal while you can, for when you are dead, politically or physically, you cannot. A few addle-pates talk about putting honest men in office; but it can't be done. We have got the power, for we have got the money; and the more money we get the more power we shall have. We have struck a mine, >nd we don't mean to let go our grip. Honest men can't sope with us, because they are not up to all the tricks of the professional politician. Oh, no! I tell you honesty is at a fearful discount. The people don't want it. They prefer being bled by knaves and rogues; and I, for one, am perfectly willing to let them have their way. Let them bleed if they like it.
Fellow-citizens, these are not my sentiments. They are not the outipoken words of any office-seeker. Oh.no; but actions speak louder than words.
LAUGH AND GROW FAT— W. M. Phaed.
There's nothing here on earth deserves
One half the thought we waste about it, And thinking but destroys the nerves,
When we could do as well without it. If folks would let the world go round,
And pay their tithes, and eat their dinners, Such doleful looks would not be found
To frighten us poor laughing sinners.
One plagues himself about the sun,
And puzzles on, through every weather, What time he'll rise—how long he'll run,
And when he'll leave us altogether. Now matters it a pebble-stone,
Whether he dines at six or seven? If they dou't leave the sun alone,
At last they'll plague him out of heaven I Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!
Another spins from out his brains
Fine cobwebs to amuse his neighbors, And gete, for all his toil and pains,
Reviewed and laughed at for his labors; Fame is his star! and fame is sweet:
And praise is pleasanter than honey— /write at just so much a sheet.
And Messrs. Longman pay the money.
My brother gave his heart away
To Mercandotti, when he met her, She married Mr. Ball one day—
He's gone to Sweden to forget her; I had a charmer, too—and sighed
And raved all day and night about her r
And I—am just as fat without her.
For tears are vastly pretty things,
And sighs are music's sweetest strings,