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But throngs of painful memories rise.
That I would fain forget,
Disease Its seal had set;
The eye's unearthly ray,
Dire signal of decay;
Its death-knell on my ear,
I start, and seem to bear.
Ahl hast thou fallen, our youngest one,
Fallen from the parent tree.
This same shall comfort me?
And dress my burial mould T
To close thine eyelids cold,
At morn and eventide,
That I, for thee, had died I"
Fade, memories, fade I Ye rend my heart!
I bid ye hence, away,
The Btrong-beaked birds of prey;
That morbid thoughts alloy,
A strain of grateful joy.
As best the wounded may,
My desolated way.
There! there I Ye've laid him in the tomb,
And closed the vaulted door;
And he returns no more.
Ye dead! who there abide,—
To slumber by your side;
And felt the intruder's fear,
With ill-dissembled tear.
Ahl weak and selfish earthly grief!
Restrain tby tides! Be still! When He who lent reclaims his loan.
Revere the Unerring Will. Father! I yield him back to Thee,
Compassionate, and strong;
Thou wilt not do him wrong.
His infant temples blest,
BY ELIZA L. 8PR0AT.
On, my first is like a fancy,
Or a fairy whisper mild,
As the breathing of a child.
Or a demon on his path,
Thundering down his tones of wrath.
He will kiss you in the morning
With a fragrant dainty breath; He will touch your lips at even,
And the vapour shall be death, lie will creep to you at noontide,
With a whisper and a sigh;
As he roars along the sky.
Oh, my second's tones are gentle
As the advent of a dream, Melting on the heart as softly
As the snow upon a stream: She can lead you with a whisper,
Sim can fright you with a frown; She is sharper than a thistle,
Sbo is softer than its down.
She will plague you in your pleasure,
She will soothe you in your woe; She can bo your guiding angel,
She may be your fiercest foe. He who takes her to his bosom,
Welcomes doubt, and care, and strife: He who takes her not, had better
End at once bis wretched life.
Lo, a cottage, nestled sleeping
In a swaying dream of leaves; Where the sidelong sun is creeping,
Inch by inch, across the caves. With my whole a child was playing,
Looking down the cottage well, Laughing out with hearty pleasure,
As the bucket rose and fell.
Sank the sun, all flushed and weary,
Like a hero sick of wars;
Keenly forth the eager stars.
Gazing in the mossy well,
As the bucket's drlppingi fell.
(From the German of Langbein.)
XllilSLlTXD BT THE EEV. C- T. BR00E8.
■ What bell-bouse, yonder, towers In Bight
Above the market-square r
Xo gate nor door is there.
When neighbours hear the bell t
What doth the statue tell t"
■ Not the Srst stranger, friend, art thou,
That hath such knowledge sought;
To thee be freely taught
The precious relic's name;
Their memory is its fame.
"Ingratitude was, even then,
An envious world's base meed;
This warning sign decreed:
To him was giTen the power
The doom-bell in the tower.
"Then came the ministers of law
Together,—though 'twere night,—
Where lay the injured right.
Unknowing lord or slave,
The honest judges gave.
"A hundred years ago, or more,
A citizen lived here,
Were famed both far and near.
His wealth might well declare;
A steed of beauty rare.
"Once on a time, as he rode by
A forest, late at night,
8ix robbers hove in sight.
Hung trembling by a hair,
Soon snatched him "Tom the snare.
"The faithful beast, all white with foam,
Brought off without a wound
His horse's praise did sound.
'Henceforth I'll give my gray
Until he turns to clay.'
"But the good beast fell sick at last,
Grew lame, and stiff, and blind*
Renounced bis grateful mind.
And what was worst of all, 0 When none, at any price, would bay,
lie kicked bim from the stall!
"For seven long hours, with drooping head,
Close to his master's gate,
That patient beast did wait.
Out on the icy stones.
"Ami when uprose another morn,
There the poor nag still stood,
To stir in quest of food.
But midnight Toils hii head;
Now creeps with dubious tread.
"Before each tread his lifted hoo(
Its soundness to assay.
Grazed with his mouth the ground;
"Once, thus urged on by hunger's power,
All skin and bone, oh, shame!
Up to the bell-house came.
Near where the hemp-rope hangs;
And, hark! the doom-bell clangs!
"The judges hear the midnight cry,
Straight to the tower repair,
To see such plaintiff there.
To curse the untimely clang:
When the stern doom-bell rang I'
"And the rich man is summoned now
Straight to the market-square; Half-waked, he fiercely knits his brow,—
'You dream! who wants me there V He went defiant; but his mood
To meekness changed with speed, When in the judges' midst he stood,
Confronted with his steed.
** Know you this beast?' from his high seat
Thus the chief justice said:
Your life long since had fled!
Thou s^urneet him away:
And gaunt starvation's prey I
''The doom-bell sounded out its call,
The plaintiff here you see,
And so we do decree:
Homo to your stable take,
Till doath, for mercy's sake!'
"The mean rich man dumbfounded stood,
The verdict vexed him sore; Yet felt he his ingratitude,
And took his steed once more.—
The story, plain and fair;
The stone-hewn statue there."
THE HEART AND THE WORLD.
BY HISS AUGUSTA BROWNE.
Heart, with thy pulses highly beating;
What concord can ye have?
Thine an oblivious grave.
Heart, canst thou grasp thy hope's fruition!
Gushing In music's tone?
Tho answerest back a moan.
Heart, hast thou found thy joys all sparkling? World, then withhold thy shadows darkling,
Spare the untainted breast! Trump-like, I hear, 'mid scenes of pleasure, A voice proclaim, in solemn measure,—
"But, soul, is not thy rest!"
Heart, dost thou thirst for kindred union?
Guerdon of thine, is none;
Seize thou the victor crown!
Heart, fix on high thy sphere of action;
All baseless as the wind;—
The pinions of the mind.
Heart, guard thy treasures rich and trusting; World, crowned with gauds, bcmoulded, rusting,
Hence! with thy specious rays;— Soul! up, and strain thy whole endeavour, Relax the momentous combat neverl—
Till mortal might decayi.
"So you have changed your seamstress, I see,'.' said Mrs. Mayhew to her fashionable friend, Mrs. Harris.
"0 yes, and you cannot think what a difference it makes in our expenses; you know I paid Chilson half a dollar a day, and she only came at eight and worked till seven."
"That was reasonable, certainly," interrupted Mrs. Mayhew; "I am sure I don't see how any one could well work cheaper."
"Tou don't; well then, I only pay the girl I have now, two and sixpence, and she works an hour later, and sews beautifully; what do you think of that?" exclaimed Mrs. Harris, triumphantly.
"I think that it is not enough," answered her friend. "Only consider, my dear Mrs. Harris, twelve hours of steady labour, for the
pitiful sum of two and sixpence; surely, it is hardly just!"
"If I pay the girl all she asks, I don't see why it is not just!" replied Mrs. Harris, reddening. "She is a better judge, probably, than either you or I, of what she can, or cannot afford; if she chooses to do my sewing for two and sixpence, I don't know why I should offer her more."
"Poor girl; probably she is afraid to demand the price which is by justice hers, lest, from that grasping and overbearing spirit with which such demands are too often met, she would be refused all employment," said Mrs. Mayhew. "There is a pitiful oppression exercised toward this class of persons, Mrs. Harris; there are those, even among the most wealthy, who will bargain and chaffer with the poor