I thought of Willie's clear blue eye, That clustered on a fearless brow Of Harry, with his raven locks, Of how they clasped each other's hand And left their mother's side; How hand in hand they bore my prayers And blessings on the way A noble heart beneath the blue, Another 'neath the gray. The dead, with white and folded hands, I've seen laid calmly, tenderly, I looked and saw his blood, and his; A swift and vivid dream Of blended years flashed o'er me, when A blindness of the eye and brain— When men are smitten suddenly Who overstare the sun; And while blurred with the sudden stroke That swept my soul, I lay, They buried Willie in his blue, And Harry in his gray. The shadows fall upon their graves; And through the twilight of my soul The starlight comes so silently, So hope's revealing starlight sinks They ask not there where yonder heaven Smiles with eternal day, Why Willie wore the loyal blue Why Harry wore the gray. MURILLO'S TRANCE.-MARGARET J. PRESTON. "Here, Pedro, while I quench these candles, hold From sun to sun. I wonder if they think That the dead knights,-Fernando and the rest,- And (mindful still He chid, at whiles, some lagging worshipper, Cheaper than waxlight, and 'twere best to pray So shuffling on, he neared Soul-harrowing picture of the stark dead Christ, A chasm of shadow clove the checkered floor, "Why, Pedro, only see! The boy kneels still! What ails him, think you? Here And all the while, as to and fro I've wrought,- Observe! he takes no heed of aught I say: As moveless as the statues Niched round, a youth before the picture knelt, His hands tight clenched, and his moist forehead strewn 1 With tossings of dank hair. Upon his arm "I wait,-I wait," he said, "Till Joseph bring the linen, pure and white, so long!" FATHER, LEAD ON. My Father God, lead on! Is dark as night, I stay Just as thou wilt; lead on! For I am as a child, and know not how Although I know not when I ask not why; lead on! Mislead, thou canst not. Though through days of grief And nights of anguish, pangs without relief Or fears that would o'erthrow My faith, thou bidst me go, With thee is light; lead on! When dark and chill at eve the night-mists fall, The gloom with dawn hath filed! Father, from thee shall break; lead on. Made heir of all things, I were yet unblest, Thou givest strength; lead on! A healing influence steal, 'Twill soon be o'er; lead on! Left all behind, earth's heartaches then shall seem The golden fruit appears, Amid the eternal years, Father, all thanks be thine! Lead on. A VENTRILOQUIST ON A STAGE-COACH. HENRY COCKTON. "Now then, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor❜ble, Simon?" "All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so, while the luggage was being secured. Jimp up, genelmen!” cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the passengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various parts of the coach,--Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the coachman. “If you please,” said an old lady, who had been standing in the gateway upwards of an hour, "will you be good enow, please, to take care of my darter?" "All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take no harm. Is she going all the way?" "Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "God bless her! She's got a place in Lunnun, an' I'm told—” "Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.Now, all right there?" 66 'Good-by, my dear," sobbed the old lady," do write to me soon, be sure you do,-I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself." "Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they pranced, as merrily as if they had known that their load was nothing when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle John, as he cried "Good-by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks. The salute was returned, and the coach passed on. The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to commence for his own amusement, the coach stopped to change horses. In less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his power as a ventriloquist. "Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill. "Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, assuming a voice, the sound of which appeared to have traveled some distance. 66 You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who had secured the box seat. "Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was to wait for every passenger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git over the ground in a fortnit." |