I We have no slaves at home-then why abroad? XVIII. THE BRIDGE. STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour; And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower; And, like the waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, oh! how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, I had wished that that ebbing tide For my heart was hot and restless, Throws its shadow o'er me; Yet, whenever I cross the river, On its bridge with wooden piers, And for ever and for ever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, The moon and its broken reflection, XIX. THE POLISH BOY. LENCE ANN S. STEVENS. HENCE come those shrieks so wide and shrill That cut like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair? Again they come, as if a heart Where cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence came they? from yon temple where Now forms the warrior's marble bed The dim funeral tapers throw What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek itt clasp? It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there. With pallid lip and stony brow The mother sprang with gesture wild, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread, Nor touch the living boy-I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!" “Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. "One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one ! Will land or gold redeem my son? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall! Take these!" and her white arms and hands, She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there; Down at the Russian's feet she cast. But the brave child is roused at length Of his young spirit fierce and bold. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Yes, wept! I was a child; but now My noble mother on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!" He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, "Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave "Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss- Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! -Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, I XX. WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE Ö PROUD? PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S FAVORITE POEM. H! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift floating meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and willow shall fade. Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, The infant and mother, attended and loved; The mother that infant's affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each, all are away to their dwellings of rest. XXI. DAMON AND PYTHIAS; OR, TRUE FRIENDSHIP. WILLIAM PETER. ERE, guards!" pale with fear, Dionysius cries, HERE 66 Here, guards, yon intruder arrest ! 'Tis Damon-but ha! speak, what means this disguise? And the dagger which gleams in thy vest?" "'Twas to free," says the youth, "this dear land from its chains!" 66 'I am ready to die-I ask not to live, Yet three days of respite, perhaps thou mayst give, For to-morrow my sister will wed, And 'twould damp all her joy, were her brother not there; Then let me, I pray, to her nuptials repair, While a friend remains here in my stead." With a sneer on his brow, and a curse in his breast, "Thou shalt have," cries the tyrant, "shalt have thy request; To thy sister repair, and her nuptials attend, Enjoy thy three days, but-mark well what I say— Return on the third; if beyond that fixed day, Then to Pythias he went, and he told him his case; But the heavens interpose, Stern tempest arose, And when the poor pilgrim arrived at the shore, Rushed in foam from the hills, And crash went the bridge in the whirlpool's wild roar. Wildly gazing, despairing, half frenzied he stood; Now with knees low to earth, and with hands the skies, The hours hurry by,-the sun glows on high; Yet the wrath of the torrent still went on increasing, Then by anguish impelled, hope and fear alike o’er, But new perils await him; scarce 'scaped from the flood As onward he sped, lo! from out a dark wood, A band of fierce robbers encompassed his way. What would ye?" he cried, "save my life, I have nought; Nay, that is the king's"-Then swift having caught A club from the nearest, and swinging it round With might more than man's, he laid three on the ground, While the rest hurried off in dismay. |