« 上一页继续 »
Banker Green got off a speech;
Told 'em how I bore the flag,
Set me blushin' with his brag.
Saved for Sergeant Jim to fill,
Almos' 'shamed me to the ground;
Asked 'em all to wait around.
But ye see, I didn't care
'Cross the field a-walkin' slow,
“ Lean on me,” she whispered low.
Side by side with 'Tilly there,
A GOOD NAME MORE DESIRABLE THAN RICHES.
LOUIS B. COLEY.
[From the Criterion, by permission of the publishers.)
She wears jes' the finest clothes
Cost a lot, I guess-
Is a gingham dress.
She has the most b'u'ful hats
My! but they is fine;
A dollar more 'n mine.
She has ponies 'at she drives
Almost ev'ry day,
Takes your bref away.
She is rich, but I jes' bet
'At she envies me, 'Cause her name is Maggie Smif
An' mine is Althea Penelope d'Arcy Lee.
(From the New England Magazine, by permission of the publishers.)
ARRY him out and put him away.
Reveille no more wakes him now;
We've sounded his last lights out to-day, And the dust has fallen on lips and brow. So leave him there, leave him there, resting still,
With hced no more for retreat or drill.
Lead his horse back to the camp again.
Lead the beast kindly, for, don't you see, He frets at the guidance of other men.
He misses th press of familiar knee, So lead him back ver the glarirg sand
Kindly for saka och oth hand.
Three volleys over the trooper's grave,
And he moved no eyelid at noise of the three. "Ave" the first, to the soul of the brave,
And the second “God speed” from the Company, And the last said “Vale," and then we turned
And left him waiting the peace he had earned. We shed no tear and we make no moan
For the man who has left us, to rest awhile.
We recall old gesture and quiet smile;
Wanted "lights out" through eternity?
WHAT'S THE GOOD ?
HARRY C. WEBBER.
HAT'S the good o' shinglin'
When there ain't no rain ?
What's the good o'pleasin' folks When 't's easier ter complain?
What's the good o' shoveling
When the sun'll melt the snow ?
When someun else'll go?
What's the good o' splittin' wood
wife can use the axe? What's the good o' tellin' truth
When 't's easier stretchin' facts?
What's the good o' ridin'
When cheaper 'tis ter walk?
When there's no charge for talk?
What's the good o' keepin' house
When ye can bum a meal?
What's the good o' earnin' cash
When easier 'tis ter steal?
What's the good o' breathin'
When it only saves yer life?
An' charge it ter yer wife?
A SLAVE'S AUCTION.
W. A. EATON.
upon which the following recitation is founded occurred in Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, on Sunday, June 1, 1856. The story and the reason of the sale are given in Mr. Beecher's own words: There was a girl named ' Pinky,' a fair and beautiful child, who was about to be taken from her grandmother, an old slave that had bought her freedom. Those interested in the girl wrote to me to see if I could purchase her. I replied, 'I can not unless you send her north.' So she was brought here and placed upon this platform. The scene was one of intense enthusiasm, and the child was bought and over-bought. The collection taken on the spot was more than enough to purchase her. It so happened that a lady known to literary fame as Rose Terry was present; and as, like many
others, she had not with her as much money as she wanted to give, she took a ring from her hand and threw it into the contribution-box. That ring I took and put on the child's hand and said: Now, remember that this is your free
' dom ring.' Eastman Johnson, the artist, was so interested that he painted her looking at her freedom ring. So the girl was redeemed. I lost sight of her until 1864, when she was at ChiefJustice Chase's, and I received word that she wished to see me. She had changed her name, taking 'Rose,' Miss Terry's first name, and 'Ward,' my middle name, which combined made a very nice name. She wished to become a missionary among her own people, so Plymouth Church raised enough to send her to school at Lincoln University, Washington.”]
UNDAY morning in Plymouth Church,
A rustle of silk or a whispered word,
Though thousands thronged the sacred fane, Were the only sounds that could be heard.
And heads were bowed in silent prayer,
And a solemn hush fell on them all,
And by his side a slave girl, tall.
A quadroon girl, with olive cheek
And a wavy mass of jet-black hair, Clothed in white, with her hands crossed, meek,
And her bosom heaving as if in prayer.
She was told to loosen the coils of jet,
And her hair fell down like a glittering veil; A very Venus, she stood as fair
As sculptured marble, though not so pale.
They stood a moment in silence there;
The congregation held their breath. Crammed to the doors, the house of prayer
Was as quiet as a house of death.
This happened in the slavery days,
When women were sold in public day, Before the noble president
Had dashed the negroes' chains away.
The preacher spake in gentle tone:
“This girl you see was bought and sold, Made of your selfsame flesh and bone,
Traded with, bartered, for yellow gold.
God made of one blood all the earth,
All tribes of men to him belong!
Be trampled downward by the strong?