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And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,
Come back in her winter time, Till her feeble pulses tremble,
With the thrill of spring-time's prime.
And looking forth from the window,
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
Though dimmed her eve's bright azure,
The love of her girlhood plighted
They sat in peace in the sunshine
Till the day was almost done, And then at its close, an angel
Stole over the threshold stone.
He folded their hands together—
And their last breath floated outward,
Like a bridal pair they traversed
The unseen mystical road, That leads to the beautiful city
Whose builder and maker is God.
Perhaps, in that miracle country,
And the (lowers of the vanished spring-time
One draught from the living waters
And eternal years shall measure
But the shapes that they left behind them,
The wrinkles and silver hair— Made holy to us by the kisses
The angel had printed there—
We will hide away 'neath the willows,
Where the sunbeams cannot tind them,
And we'll suffer no tell-tale tombstone,
With its age and date to rise
In the Father's house in the skies.
TRUE AND FALSE GLORY—D. C. Eddy.
The world ascribed to Napoleon great and noble qualities. His banner waved in triumph over many a bloody field; carnage, and famine, and death attended his steps, and like the genius of evil, he stalked abroad. He was doubtless a splendid general and a brilliant emperor; but the child who wandered over the field, after his most tru umphant charge, and moistened with water the lips of the dying soldiers there, was far more exalted in the scale of being than was the plumed and epauletted chieftain.
Nelson was a skillful officer, and died, as the world says, "in all his glory." His banner was his shroud, the roar of fannon was his dirge, and the shout of victory was his requiem. In the list of naval heroes his name stands foremost, and they who love the navy have learned to honor him. But the poor sailor who, a few months since, in yonder city, braved the fire, and at the risk of his own life saved a mother's only child, gained a truer glory than ever shone around the victories of the famous admiral.
How false, how unjust the estimate which the world places upon the actions of men! He who dies upon the battle-field—who rushes to strife and carnage—whose hands are dripping with human gore—is a man of honor! Parliaments and senates return him thanks, and whole nations unite in erecting a monument over the spot where rest his remains. But he whose task it is to dry up the stream of blood—to mitigate the anguish of earth—to lift man up, and make him what God designed him to be—dies without a tongue to speak his eulogy, or a monument to mark his fall.
If you would show yourself a man in the truest and noblest sense, go not to yonder tented field, where death hovers, and the vulture feasts himself upon human victims! Go not where men are carving monuments of marble to perpetuate names which will not live in our own grateful memory! Go not to the dwellings of the rich! Go not to the palaces of kings! Go not to the halls of merriment and pleasure! Go rather to the poor and the helpless. Go to the widow, and relieve her woe. Go to the orphan, and speak words of comfort. (Jo to the lost, and save him. Go to the fallen, and raise him up. Go to the sinner, and whisper in his ear words of eternal life.
THE OLD MAN IN THE WOOD.
There was an old man who lived in the wood,
As you shall plainly see,
Than his wife could do in three.
"With all my heart," the old woman said,
"And if you will allow, You shall stay at homo to-day,
And I'll go follow the plough.
"And you must milk the tiny cow,
Lest she should go dry;
That are within the sty.
"And you must watch the speckled hen,
Lest she should go astray; Not forgetting the spool of yarn
That I spin every day."'
The old woman took her stick in her hand,
And went to follow the plough;
And went to milk the cow.
But Tiny she winced, and Tiny she flinched,
And Tiny she tossed her nose,
Till the blood ran down to his toes.
And a " ho, Tiny!" and a " lo, Tiny!"
And a " pretty little cow stand still;" And " if ever I milk you again," he said,
"It shall be against my will."
And then he went to feed the pigs
That were within the sty;
And made the blood to rly.
And then he watched the speckled hen,
Lest she should go astray;
That his wife spun every day.
And when the old woman came home at night,
He said he could plainly see,
Than he could do in three.
And then he said how well she ploughed
Said his wife could do more work in a day
To the scaffold's foot she came:
She had heard her lover's doom.
"Blue-eyed Annie loves him too,
To the scaffold now she came,
Over Annie's face he bent,
Round her waist his fingers went;
"Wife" he called her—called her " wife!"
Simple word to cost a life!
In Ruth's breast the pardon lay;
"He has sealed his traitor fate,
"Annie is his wife," they said.
"What their sin? They do but love;
"Mercy!" still Ibey cried. But she:
From the scaffold stairs she went,
Back she looked, with stifled scream,
"From the king. His name—behold!"
Glad the cry, and loud and long:
There against Ruth's tortured breast
THE LIGHT-HOUSE—Thomas Moork.
The scene was more beautiful far to the eye,
Than if day in its pride had arrayed it:
Looked pure as the spirit that made it:
On the shadowy waves' playful motion, From the dim distant hill, 'till the light-house fire blazed
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,