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Low in Ringsted, with the cross that tarried
Still upon her breast, the queen they laid;
Home to rest beneath the church's shade.
Oped the tomb; and since death knows no loss,
Than the young Queen Dagmar's holy cross.
CURING A COLD.
The first time that I began to sneeze, a friend told me to go and bathe my feet in hot water, and go to bed. I did so. Shortly after, a friend told me to get up and take a cold showerbath. I did that also. Within the hour another friend told me it was policy to feed a cold, and starve a fever. I had both; so I thought it best to fill up for the cold, and let the fever starve awhile. In a case of this kind I seldom do things by halves: I ate pretty heartily. I conferred my custom upon a stranger who had just opened a restaurant on Cortland street, near the hotel, that morning, paying him so much for a full meal. He waited near me in respectful silence until I had finished feeding my cold, when he inquired whether people about New York were much afflicted with colds. I told him I thought they were. He then went out and took in his sign. I started up toward the office, and on the walk encountered another bosom friend, who told me that a quart of warm salt-water would come as near curing a cold as anything in the world. I hardly thought I had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The result was surprising. I believe I threw up my immortal soul. Now, as I give my experience only for the benefit of those of my friends who are troubled with this distemper, I feel that they will see the propriety of my cautioning them against following such portions of it as proved inefficient with me; and acting upon this conviction I warn them against warm salt-water. It may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is rather too severe. If I had another cold in the head, and there was no course left me,—to take either an earthquake or a quart of warm salt-water, I would take my chances on the earthquake. After this, everybody in the hotel became interested; and I took all sorts of remedies,—hot lemonade, cold lemonade, pepper-tea, boueset, stewed Quaker, hoarhound syrup, onions and loaf-sugar, lemons and brown sugar, vinegar and laudanum, five bottles fir balsam, eight bottles cherry pectoral, and ten bottles of Uncle Sam's remedy; but all without effect. One of the prescriptions given by an old lady was—well, it was dreadful. She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, cat nip, peppermint, aquafortis, turpentine, kerosene, and various other drugs, and instructed me to take a wineglassful of it every fifteen minutes. I never took but one dose: that was enough. I had to take to my bed, and remain there for two entire days. When I felt a little better, more things were recommended. I was desperate, and willing to take anything. Plain gin was recommended, and then gin and molasses, then gin and onions. I took all three. I detected no particular result, however, except that I had acquired a breath like a turkey-buzzard, and had to change my boarding place. I had never refused a remedy yet, and it seemed poor policy to commence then; therefore I determined to take a sheet-bath, though I had no idea what sort of an arrangement it was. It was administered at midnight, and the weather was very frosty. My back and breast were stripped; and a sheet, (there appeared to be a thousand yard3 of it,) soaked in ice-water was wound around me until I resembled a swab for a columbiad: It is a cruel expedient. When the chilly rag touches one's warm flesh, it makes him start with a sudden violence, and gasp for breath, just as men do in the death-agony. It froze the marrow in my bones, and stopped the beating of my heart. I thought my time had come. When I recovered from this, a friend ordered the application of a mustard-plaster to my breast. I believe that would have cured me effectually, if it had not been for young Clemens. When I went to bed, I put the mustard-plaster where I could reach it when I should be ready for it. But young Clemens got hungry in the night, and ate it up. I never saw any child have such an appetite. I am confident that he would have eaten me if I had been healthy.
KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR.—Francis Davis.
The battle blood of Antrim had not dried on freedom's shroud,
And the rosy ray of morning was but struggling through the eloud;
When, with lightning foot and deathly cheek, and wildly waving hair,
O'er grass and dew, scarce breathing, flew young Kathleen ban Adair.
Behind, her native Antrim in a reeking ruin lies;
But, oh! thy heart is deeper rent, young Kathleen ban Adair.
And Kathleen's heart but one week since was like a harvest mora
When hope and joy are kneeling round the sheaf of yellow corn;
But where's the bloom then made her cheek so ripe, so richly fair?
Thy stricken heart hath fed on it, young Kathleen ban Adair,
And now she gains a thicket where the sloe and hazel rise; But why those shrieking whispers, like a rush of worded sighs?
Ah, low and lonely bleeding lies a wounded patriot there, And every pang of his is thine, young Kathleen ban Adair.
"I see them, oh! I see them, in their fearful red array;
I know, I know they mean to track mv lion to his lair;
"May heaven shield thee, Kathleen!—when my soul has gone to rest;
May comfort rear her temple in thy pure and faithful breast; But to fly them, oh! to fly them, like a bleeding hunted hare; No! not to purchase heaven, with my Kathleen ban Adair.
"I loved, I loved thee, Kathleen, in my bosom's warnest core—
And Erin, injured Erin, oh! I loved thee even more; And death I feared him little when I drove him through their square,
Nor now, though eating at my heart, my Kathleen ban Adair."
With feeble hand his blade he grasped, yet dark with spoilers' blood;
And then, as though with dying bound, once more erect he stood;
But scarcely had he kissed that check, so pale, no purely fair, When flashed their bayonets round him and his Kathleen ban Adair 1
Then up arose his trembling, yet his dreaded hero's hand, And up arose, in struggling sounds, his cheer for mother
A thrust—a rush—their foremost falls; but ah! good God i see there,
Thy lover's quivering at thy feet, young Kathleen ban Adair!
But heavens! men, what recked he then your heartless
taunts and blows, When from his lacerated heart ten dripping bayonets rose? And maiden, thou with frantic hands, what boots it kneeling
The winds heed not thy yellow locks, young Kathleen ban Adair.
Oh! what were tears, or shrieks, or swoons, but shadows of the rest,
When torn was frantic Kathleen from the slaughtered hero's breast?
And hardly had his last-heaved sigh grown cold upon the air, When oh! of all but life they robbed young Kathleen ban
But whither now shall Kathleen fly ?—already she has gone; Thy water, Kells, is tempting fair, and thither speeds she on; A moment on its blooming banks she kneels in hurried prayer—
How in its wave she finds a grave, poor Kathleen ban Adair I
From the low prayer of want and plaint of woe,
Oh never, never turn away thine ear!
Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to bear.
To others do—the law is not severe,—
What to thyself thou wishest to be done;
And friends and native land;—nor these alone;
PASSING AWAY.—John Pierpont.
Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,
That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear^ When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, And he his notes as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore T Hark! the notes on my ear that play, Are set to words: as they float, they say, "Passing away! passing away!
But no; it was not a fairy's shell,
Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear;
Striking the hour, that filled my ear,
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
Oh! how bright were the wheels that told
Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow! And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
When I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade
Like that by a cloud on a summer's day made,
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;