THERE are jewels brighter far

Than the sparkling diamonds are;

Jewels never wrought by art,--

Nature forms them in the heart!

Would ye know the names they hold

Ah! they never can be told

In the language mortals speak!

Human words are far too weak

Yet, if you would really know

What these jewels are, then go

To some low, secluded cot,

Where the poor man bears his lot!

Or, to where the sick and dying

'Neath the ills of life are sighing.

And if there some one ye see

Striving long and patiently

To alleviate the pain,

Bring the light of hope again!

One whose feet do lightly tread,

One whose hands do raise the head,

One who watches there alone,

Every motion, every tone;

Unaware an eye doth see

All these acts of charity.

Know that in that lonely cot,

Where the wealth of earth is not,

These bright jewels will be found,

Shedding love and light around!

Say, shall gems and rubies rare

With these heart-shrined gems compare?

Constancy, that will not perish,

But the thing it loveth cherish,

Clinging to it fondly ever,

Fainting, faltering, wavering, never!

Trust, that will not harbor doubt;

Putting fear and shame to rout,

Making known how, free from harm,

Love may rest upon its arm.

Hope, that makes the future bright,

Though there come a darksome night;

And, though dark despair seems nigh,

Bears the soul up manfully!

These are gems that brighter shine

Than they of Golconda's mine.

Born amid love's fond caresses,

Cradled in the heart's recesses,

They will live when earth is old,

Marble crumble, perish gold!

Live when ages shall have past,

While eternity shall last;

Be these gems the wealth you share,

Friends of mind, where'er you are!

LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND.

HERE at thy grave I stand,

But not in tears;

Light from a better land

Banishes fears.

Thou art beside me now,

Whispering peace;

Telling how happy thou

Found thy release!

Thou art not buried here;

Why should I mourn?

All that I cherished dear

Heavenward hath gone!

Oft from that world above

Come ye to this;

Breathing in strains of love

Unto me bliss!

POOR AND WEARY!

IN a low and cheerless cot

Sat one mourning his sad lot;

All day long he'd sought for labor;

All day long his nearest neighbor

Lived in affluence and squandered

Wealth, while he an outcast wandered,

And the night with shadowy wing

Heard him this low moaning sing:

"Sad and weary, poor and weary,

Life to me is ever dreary!"

Morning came; there was no sound

Heard within. Men gathered round,

Peering through the window-pane;

They saw a form as if 't were lain

Out for burial. Stiff and gaunt

Lay the man who died in want.

And methought I heard that day

Angel voices whispering say,

"No more sad, poor and weary,

Life to me no more is dreary!"

THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT.

"THERE! Mr. McKenzie, I declare! You are the most oncommon, oncivil

man I ever sot eyes on!"

"Peace, my lady! I'll explain."

"Then do so."

"You must know, then, that I have a perfect hatred of bandboxes,--so

great, in fact, that if I see one on the walk, I involuntarily raise

my foot and kick it."

"So it appears," chimed in Mrs: McKenzie, with a significant hunch

of the right shoulder.

"Therefore,--"

"Well, go on! what you waitin' for?"

"Therefore, when I saw Arabella's bandbox in the entry, as I came

down, sitting, as it did, directly at the foot of the stairs, I

jumped on it, thinking I would come over it that time--"

"An' crushed a new spring bonnet, that cost-let me see!"

"No matter!" said Mr. McKenzie; "that will be in the bill."

Mr. McKenzie, having said thus much, placed his hat on his head and

rushed from the house, fearful of another onslaught of "oncommon

oncivilities."

A little shop at the North End,--seven men seated round said shop,--a

small dog growling at a large cat, a large cat making a noise

resembling that produced by root-beer confined in a stone bottle by

a cork bound down with a piece of twine. Reader, imagine you see and

hear all this!

[Enter Mr. McKenzie.] "Gentlemen, something must be done to demolish

the idea held by the 'rest of mankind' that they, the women, cannot

exist without owning as personal property an indefinite number of

bandboxes. I therefore propose that we at once organize for the

purpose; that a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, and

report a name for the confederacy."

Voted unanimously; whereupon, a committee being appointed, after a

short session, reported the following "whereas, etc."

"Whereas, WE, in our perambulations up and down the earth, are

frequently, oftentimes, and most always, beset with annoyances of

various kinds; and, as the greatest, most perplexing, most

troublesome and iniquitous of these, generally assumes the shape of

a bandbox, in a bag or out of one; and, whereas, our wives, our

daughters, our sisters, and our female acquaintances generally and

particularly, manifest a determination to put said boxes in our way,

at all times, and under all circumstances, therefore

"Resolved, That-we-wont-stand-it-any-longer!!!

"Resolved, That we form ourselves into a society for the purpose of

annihilating this grievous evil, and all bandboxes, of every size

and nature.

"Resolved, That this society be known by the name of 'The Bandbox

Extermination Association.'"

The chairman of the committee made a few remarks, in which he stated

that, in the performance of the duties which would devolve upon the

members, they would, doubtless, meet with some opposition. "But,

never mind," said he; "it is a glorious cause, and if we get the

tongs at one time, and the hearth-brush another time, let 'em come!"

He defined the duties of members to be,--first and foremost, to pay

six and a quarter cents to defray expenses; to demolish a bandbox

wherever and whenever there should be one; (for instance, if a fat

woman was racing for the cars, with a bandbox in her arms, that box

should be forcibly taken and burned on the spot, or whittled into

such minute particles that it could no more be seen; if, in an

omnibus warranted to seat twelve, fifteen men are congregated, and

an individual attempts to enter with a bandbox, the box shall have

notice to quit.)

"The manner of demolition," he said, further, "might be variously

defined. If the owner was a nervous lady, to kick the box would

wound her feelings, and it were best to apparently unintentionally

seat yourself on it; then beg a thousand pardons, and, as you, in

your efforts to make it better, only make it worse, give it up in

despair, and console the owner by a reference to spilt milk and the

uselessness of crying. As to the contents of the boxes, they must

look out for themselves. If they get injured, hint that they should

keep out of bad company."

The chairman sat down, and, the question being put, it was more than

unanimously voted (inasmuch as one man voted with both hands

That was McKenzie. ) to adopt the resolutions, the name, and all the

remarks that had been made in connection with them. Members paid

their assessments, and with a hearty good will.

Thus we see how "oaks from acorns grow." Mrs. McKenzie's fretfulness

on account of her husband's patriotism led to the formation of a

society that will make rapid strides towards the front rank of the

army now at work for the amelioration of the condition of mankind.

NEW ENGLAND HOMES.

I've been through all the nations, have travelled o'er the earth,

O'er mountain-top and valley, far from my land of birth;

But whereso'er I wandered, wherever I did roam,

I saw no spot so pleasant as my own New England home.

I've seen Italia's daughters, beneath Italian skies

Seen beauty in their happy smiles, and love within their eyes;

But give to me the fairer ones that grace New England's shore,

In preference to the dwellers in the valley of Lanore.

I've watched the sun's departure behind the "Eternal Hills,"

When with floods of golden light the vaulted heaven it fills;

But Italy can never boast, with its poetic power,

More varied beauties than those of New England's sunset hour.

I love my own New England; I love its rocks and hills;

I love its trees, its mossy banks, its fountains and its rills;

I love its homes, its cottages, its people round the hearth;

I love, O, how I love to hear New England shouts of mirth!

Tell me of the sunny South, its orange-groves and streams,

That they surpass in splendor man's most enraptured dreams;

But never can they be as fair, though blown by spicy gales,

As those sweet homes, those cottages, within New England vales.

O, when life's cares are ending, and time upon my brow

Shall leave a deeper impress than gathers on it now;

When age shall claim its sacrifice, and I no more shall roam,

Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home!

LOVE THAT WANES NOT.

O, WHEN should Love's true beacons glow the brightest,

If not when darkness shrouds the path we tread?

When should its tokens, though they be the slightest,

Be given, if not when clouds are overhead?

When light is 'round us, and when joys are glowing,

Some hand may press our own, and vow to cherish

A love for us which ne'er shall cease its flowing,--

And yet that love, when darkness comes, may perish.

But there is love which will outlive all sorrow,

And in the darkest hour be nigh to bless,--

Which need not human art or language borrow,

Its deep affection fondly to express.

The mother o'er the child she loveth bending

Need not in words tell others of her love;

For, on the wings of earnest prayer ascending,

It rises, and is registered above.

O, such is love-all other is fictitious;

All other's vanquished by disease and pain;

But this, which lives when fate is unpropitious,

Shall rise to heaven, and there an entrance gain.

ONWARD COURAGEOUSLY.

BEND thee to action-nerve thee to duty!

Whate'er it may be, never despair!

God reigns on high,--pray to him truly,

He will an answer give to thy prayer.

Shrinketh thyself from crosses before thee?

Art thou so made as to tremble and fear?

Confide in thy God; he will watch o'er thee;

Humbly and trustingly, brother, draw near!

Clouds may be gathering, light may depart,

Earth that thou treadest seem crumbling away;

New foes, new dangers, around thee may start,

And spectres of evil tempt thee astray.

Onward courageously! nerved for the task,

Do all thy duty, and strength shall be thine;

Whate'er you want in humility ask,

Aid shall be given from a source that's divine.

Do all thy duty faithful and truly;

Trust in thy Maker,--he's willing to save

Thee from all evil, and keep thee securely,

And make thee triumphant o'er death and the grave.

A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG.

WITHIN these woods, beneath these trees,

We meet to-day a happy band;

All joy is ours,--we feel the breeze

Blow gently o'er our native land.

How brightly blooms each forest flower!

What cheerful notes the wild bird sings!

How nature charms our festive hour,

What beauty round our pathway springs!

The aged bear no weight of years;

The good old man, the matron too,

Forget their ills, forget their fears,

And range the dim old forests through

With youth and maiden on whose cheek

The ruddy bloom of health doth glow,

And in whose eyes the heart doth speak

Oft more than they would have us know.

How pleasant thus it is to dwell

Within the shadow of this wood,

Where rock and tree and flower do tell

To all that nature's God is good!

Here nature's temple open stands,--

There's none so nobly grand as here,--

The sky its roof; its floor, all lands,

While rocks and trees are worshippers.

There's not a leaf that rustles now,

A bird that chants its simple lays,

A breeze that passing fans our brow,

That speaks not of its Maker's praise.

O, then, let us who gather here

Praise Him who gave us this glad day,

And when the twilight shades appear

Pass with his blessing hence away!

THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE.

CHAPTER I.

ROME was enjoying the blessings of peace; and so little employment

attended the soldier's every-day life, that the words "as idle as a

soldier" became a proverb indicative of the most listless

inactivity.

The people gave themselves up to joy and gladness. The sound of

music was heard from all parts of the city, and perfumed breezes

went up as an incense from the halls of beauty and mirth.

It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the seven hills; and

its people rejoiced as they had not for many a long, long year-ay,

for a century.

"Peace, sweet peace, a thousand blessings attend thy glad reign. See

you how quietly the peasant's flocks graze on our eternal hills? The

tinkling bell is a sweeter sound than the trumpet's blast; and the

curling smoke, arising from the hearth-stones of contented

villagers, is a truer index of a nation's power than the sulphurous

cloud from the field of battle. What say you, Alett,--is it not?"

Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood with one arm

encircling the waist of a lady, of whose beauty it were useless to

attempt a description. There are some phases of beauty which pen

cannot describe, nor pencil portray,--a beauty which seems to hover

around the form, words, and motions of those whose special

recipients it is; a sort of ethereal loveliness, concentrating the

tints of the rainbow, the sun's golden rays, and so acting upon the

mind's eye of the observer as almost to convince him that a visitant

from a sphere of perfection is in his presence.

Such was that of Alett. She was the only daughter of a distinguished

general, whose name was the terror of all the foes, and the

confidence of all the friends, of Italy-his eldest daughter; and

with love approaching idolatry he cherished her. She was his

confidant. In the privacy of her faithful heart he treasured all his

plans and purposes. Of late, the peaceful security in which the

nation dwelt gave him the opportunity of remaining at home, where,

in the companionship of a wife he fondly loved, children he almost

idolized, and friends whose friendship was not fictitious, he found

that joy and comfort which the camp could never impart.

Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or the young man whose

apostrophe to peace we have just given.

Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, in the worldly

acceptation of the term. It was noble, indeed, but not in deeds of

war or martial prowess. Its nobleness consisted in the steady

perseverance in well-doing, and a strict attachment to what

conscience dictated as right opinions. The general loved him for the

inheritance he possessed in such traits of character, and the love

which existed between his daughter and the son of a plebeian was

countenanced under such considerations, with one proviso; which was,

that, being presented with a commission, he should accept it, and

hold himself in readiness to leave home and friends when duty should

call him to the field of battle.

We have introduced the two standing on a beautiful eminence, in the

rear of the general's sumptuous mansion.

The sun was about going down, and its long, golden rays streamed

over hill and dale, palace and cot, clothing all in a voluptuous

flow of rich light.

They had stood for several moments in silence, gazing at the quiet

and beautiful scene before them, when the musical voice of Rubineau

broke forth in exclamations of delight at the blessings of peace.

Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme on which she

delighted to dwell. Turning the gaze of her large, full eyes up

towards those of Rubineau, she said,

"Even so it is. Holy Peace! It. is strange that men will love the

trumpet's blast, and the smoke and the heat of the conflict, better

than its gentle scenes. Peace, peace! blessings on thee, as thou

givest blessings!"

Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a soul of

admiration. He gazed upon her with feelings he had never before

felt, and which it was bliss for him to experience.

She, the daughter of an officer, brought up amid all the glare and

glitter, show and blazonry, of military life,--she, who had seen but

one side of the great panorama of martial life,--to speak thus in

praise of peace, and disparagingly of the profession of her

friends-it somewhat surprised the first speaker.

"It is true," he replied; "but how uncertain is the continuance of

the blessings we now enjoy! To-morrow may sound the alarm which

shall call me from your side to the strife and tumult of war.

Instead of your gentle words, I may hear the shouts of the

infuriated soldiery, the cry of the wounded, and the sighs of the

dying."

"Speak not so," exclaimed Alett; "it must not be."

"Do you not love your country?" inquired the youth.

"I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are warriors enough ready for

the battle. It need not be that you go. But why this alarm? We were

talking of peace, and, behold, now we have the battle-field before

us-war and all its panoply!"

"Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing trouble; but at times,

when I am with you, and thinking of our present joy, the thought

will arise that it may be taken from us." No more words were needed

to bring to the mind of Alett all that filled that of Rubineau. They

embraced each the other more affectionately than ever, and silently

repaired to the house of the general.

CHAPTER II.

"To remain will be dishonor; to go may be death! When a Roman falls,

the foe has one more arrow aimed at his heart; an arrow barbed with

revenge, and sent with unerring precision. Hark! that shout is music

to every soldier's ear. Hear you that tramp of horsemen? that

rumbling of chariot-wheels?"

Twelve months had passed since the time of the last chapter, and,

after repeated threatening, war had actually begun. Instead of idle

hours, the soldiers had busy moments, and every preparation was made

to meet the opposing array in a determined manner, and with a

steadiness of purpose that should insure success.

The general watched for some time the fluctuating appearance of

public affairs, and it was not until war was not only certain, but

actually in progress, that he called upon Rubineau to go forth.

A week hence Rubineau and Alett were to be united in marriage; and

invitations had been extended far and near, in anticipation of the

event. It had been postponed from week to week, with the hope that

the various rumors that were circulated respecting impending danger

to the country might prove untrue, or at least to have a foundation

on some weak pretence, which reasonable argument might overthrow.

Day by day these rumors increased, and the gathering together of the

soldiery betokened the certainty of an event which would fall as a

burning meteor in the midst of the betrothed and their friends.

The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and its answer admitted

of no delay.

"To remain," said the general, "will be dishonor; to go may be

death: which will you choose?"

It was a hard question for the young man to answer. But it must be

met. The general loved him, and with equal unwillingness the

question was presented and received.

"I go. If Rubineau falls--"

"If he returns," exclaimed the general, interrupting him, "honor,

and wealth, and a bride who loves and is loved, shall be his-all

his."

It was a night of unusual loveliness. The warm and sultry atmosphere

of the day had given place to cool and gentle breezes. The stars

were all out, shining as beacons at the gates of a paradise above;

and the moon began and ended her course without the attendance of

one cloud to veil her beauties from the observation of the dwellers

on earth.

Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, cultivated by the

fair hand of the latter.

The next morning Rubineau was to depart. All the happy scenes of the

coming week were to be delayed, and the thought that they might be

delayed long-ay, forever-came like a shadow of evil to brood in

melancholy above the place and the hour.

We need not describe the meeting, the parting.

"Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, Alett. Let us hope for

the best. Yet a strange presentiment I have that I shall not

return."

"O that I could go with you!" said Alett. "Think you father would

object?"

"That were impossible. Nothing but love, true and enduring, could

make such a proposal. It would be incurring a two-fold danger."

"Death would be glorious with you,--life insupportable without you!"

In such conversation the night passed, and when the early light of

morning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound of a trumpet

called him away.

The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the general, all

unused to tears as he was, mingled his with those of his family as

the parting kiss was given, and Rubineau started on a warfare the

result of which was known only to Him who governs the destinies of

nations and of individuals.

And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furiously.

Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none was more brave

than he. It seemed to his fellow-officers that he was urged on by

some unseen agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of good.

To himself but one thought was in his mind; and, regardless of

danger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and honor to

himself and friends.

Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his courageous action,

and followed like true men where he led the way.

They had achieved several victories, and were making an onset upon

numbers four-fold as large as their own, when their leader received

a severe wound, and, falling from his noble horse, would have been

trampled to death by his followers, had not those who had seen him

fall formed a circle around as a protection for him.

This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the soldiers;

they pressed on, carried the point, and saw the foe make a rapid

retreat.

The shouts of victory that reached the ears of Rubineau came with a

blessing. He raised himself, and shouted, "On, brave men!" But the

effort was too much for him to sustain for any length of time, and

he fell back completely exhausted.

He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed upon him.

As night approached, and the cool air of evening fanned his brow, he

began to revive, but not in any great degree.

The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to fear the

worst; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he was now but

poorly prepared to meet it.

"Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he proceeded quietly

among the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of the wounded.

And it was so. His friends had gathered around his couch, and,

conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he bade them all

farewell, and kissed them.

"Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that her

Rubineau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the closest,

and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew powerless; and,

O, tell her that it was all for her sake,--love for her nerved his

arm, and love for her is borne upward on his last, his dying prayer.

Tell her to love as I--"

"He is gone, sir," said the surgeon.

"Gone!" exclaimed a dozen voices.

"A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as he raised his arm,

and wiped the flowing tears from his cheek.

CHAPTER III.

At the mansion of the old general every arrival of news from the war

sent a thrill of joy through the hearts of its inmates. Hitherto,

every despatch told of victory and honor; but now a sad chapter was

to be added to the history of the conflict.

Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the messenger,

who, at all previous times, had come with a quick step. In her soul

she felt the keen edge of the arrow that was just entering it, and

longed to know all, dreadful though it might be.

Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure? If the reader has

followed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has presumed,

conjectured, and fancied,--followed all its hopes of future bliss,

and seen it revel in the sunshine of honor and earthly fame,--he can

form some idea, very faint though it must be, of the effect which

followed the recital of all the facts in regard to the fallen.

In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep feelings

of her soul with words that told how deep was her sorrow, and how

unavailing every endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs.

She would not believe him dead. She would imagine him at her side,

and would talk to him of peace, "sweet peace," and laugh in clear

and joyous tones as she pictured its blessings, and herself enjoying

with him its comforts.

Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to grief; and, with

her reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice.

And so passed her lifetime.

Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in which

she had hoped to be united indissolubly to Rubineau, she remained

seated in a large oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmet

and spear he had carried forth on the morning when they parted. At

such times, she was as calm as an infant's slumberings, saying that

she was waiting for the sound of the marriage-bells; asked why they

did not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness-the

Warrior's Bride.

THE ADVENT OF HOPE.

ONCE on a time, from scenes of light

An angel winged his airy flight;

Down to this earth in haste he came,

And wrote, in lines of living flame,

These words on everything he met,--

"Cheer up, be not discouraged yet!"

Then back to heaven with speed he flew,

Attuned his golden harp anew;

Whilst the angelic throng came round

To catch the soul-inspiring sound;

And heaven was filled with new delight,

For HOPE had been to earth that night.

CHILD AND SIRE.

"KNOW you what intemperance is?"

I asked a little child,

Who seemed too young to sorrow know,

So beautiful and mild.

It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand,

And to a church-yard near

It pointed, whilst from glistening eye

Came forth the silent tear.

"Yes, for yonder, in that grave,

Is my father lying;

And these words he spake to me

While he yet was dying:

"'Mary, when the sod lies o'er me

And an orphan child thou art,--

When companions ask thy story,

Say intemperance aimed the dart.

When the gay the wine-cup circle,

Praise the nectar that doth shine,

When they'd taste, then tell thy story,

And to earth they'll dash the wine.'

"And there my dear-loved mother lies,--

What bitter tears I've shed

Over her grave!-I cannot think

That she is really dead.

And when the spring in beauty blooms,

At morning's earliest hour

I hasten there, and o'er her grave

I plant the little flower.

"And patiently I watch to see

It rise from out the earth,

To see it from its little grave

Spring to a fairer birth.

For mother said that thus would she,

And father, too, and I,

Arise from out our graves to meet

In mansions in the sky.

"O, what intemperance is, there's none

On earth can better tell.

Intemperance me an orphan made,

In this wide world to dwell;

Intemperance broke my mother's heart,

It took my father's life,

And makes the days of man below

With countless sorrows rife."

"Know you what intemperance is?"

I asked a trembling sire,

Whose lamp of life burned dim, and seemed

As though 'twould soon expire.

He raised his bow‚d head, and then

Methought a tear did start,

As though the question I had put

Had reached his very heart.

He raised his head, but 't was to bow

It down again and sigh;

Methought that old man's hour had come

In which he was to die.

Not so; he raised it up again,

And boldly said, "I can!

Intemperance is the foulest curse

That ever fell on man.

"I had a son, as fair, as bright

As ever mortal blest;

And day passed day, and year passed year,

Whilst I that son carest.

For all my hopes were bound in him;

I thought, from day to day,

That when old age should visit me

That son would be my stay.

"I knew temptations gathered near,

And bade him warning take,--

Consent not, if enticed to sin,

E'en for his father's sake.

But in a fearful hour he drank

From out the poisonous bowl,

And then a pang of sorrow lodged

Within my inmost soul.

"A year had passed, and he whom I

Had strove in vain to save

Fell, crushed beneath intemperance,

Into a drunkard's grave.

O, brother, I can tell to thee

What vile intemperance is,

When one in whom I fondly hoped

Met such an end as his!

"This was not all; a daughter I

Was blest with, and she passed

Before me like an angel-form

Upon my pathway cast.

She loved one with a tender love,

She left her father's side,

And stood forth, in her robes of white,

A young mechanic's bride.

"She lived and loved, and loved and lived,

For many a happy year;

No sorrow clouded o'er her path,

But joy was ever near.

Ay, those were pleasant hours we spent,

Were joyful ones we passed;

Alas! too free from care were they

On earth to always last.

"Then he was tempted, tasted, drank,

And then to earth he fell;

And ever after misery

Within that home did dwell.

And soon he died, as drunkards die,

With scarce an earthly friend,

Yet one bent o'er him tenderly

Till life itself did end,

"And when life's chord was broken, when

His spirit went forth free,

In all her anguish then she came

To bless and comfort me.

Yet she, too, died, ere scarce twelve months

Had passed o'er her head,

And in yon much-loved church-yard now

She resteth with the dead.

That little child you spoke to is

The child she left behind;

I love her for her mother's sake,

And she is good and kind.

And every morning, early, to

Yon flowery grave she'll go;

And I thank my God she's with me

To bless me here below.

"I had a brother, but he died

The drunkard's fearful death;

He bade me raise a warning voice

Till Time should stay my breath.

And thousands whom in youth I loved

Have fallen 'neath the blast

Of ruin which intemperance

Hath o'er the wide world cast."

He spoke no more,--the gushing tears

His furrowed cheeks did leap;

The little child came quick to know

What made the old man weep.

He, trembling, grasped my hand and said

(The little child grasped his),

"May you ne'er know, as I have known,

What sad intemperance is!"

And since that hour, whene'er I look

Around me o'er the earth,

And see the wine-cup passing free

'Mid scenes of festive mirth,

I think how oft it kindleth up

Within its raging fire,

And fain would tell to all the truths

I heard from "Child and Sire."

A BROTHER'S WELCOME.

WELCOME, brother, welcome home!

Here's a father's hand to press thee;

Here's a mother's heart to bless thee;

Here's a brother's will to twine

Joys fraternal close with thine;

Here's a sister's earnest love,

Equalled but by that above;

Here are friends who once did meet thee,

Gathered once again to greet thee.

Welcome, brother, welcome home!

Thou hast wandered far away;

Many a night and many a day

We have thought where thou might'st be,

On the land or on the sea;

Whether health was on thy cheek,

Or that word we dare not speak

Hung its shadowy wing above thee,

Far away from those who love thee.

Welcome, brother, welcome home!

Here, where youthful days were spent

Ere life had its labor lent,

Where the hours went dancing by,

'Neath a clear, unclouded sky.

And our thanks for blessings rendered

Unto God were daily tendered,

Here as ever pleasures reign,

Welcome to these scenes again!

THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION.

IT is well for man to consider the heavens, the work of God's hands;

the moon and the stars, which he has created. To look forth upon the

universe, of which we form a part, fills us with high and ennobling

thoughts, and inspires us with an earnest desire to press onward in

the endless path, at every step of which new wonders and new joys

spring up to greet our vision, and to gladden our souls.

Whichever way we look, above or below us, to the right or the left,

we find a boundless expanse teeming with life and its enjoyments.

This earth, large as it may appear to us, is less than a grain of

sand in size, when compared with the vastness around it.

Take your soul away from earth, and send it on a mission of research

among other worlds. Let it soar far away to where the dog-star,

Sirius, holds its course; and then, though nineteen billion two

hundred million miles from earth, a distance so great, that light,

travelling, as it does, at the rate of six million six hundred and

twenty thousand miles a minute, would require three years to pass

it,--even then, when the journeying spirit had reached such a point,

it might pass on and on,--new worlds meeting its gaze at every

advance, and new wonders being seen as far beyond the point it had

attained as the inconceivable length of the path it had already

travelled multiplied a myriad of times.

We can scarcely comprehend the vast distance of Sirius; yet, great

as this distance is, it is the nearest star to our system, and stars

have been seen whose distance from the earth is estimated to be a

thousand times as great!

Can human mind mark that range? A thousand times nineteen billion

two hundred million! And were we to stand on the last of these

discovered stars, we might look yet far beyond, and see "infinity,

boundless infinity, stretching on, unfathomed, forever."

To have an idea of the vastness of creation, we must possess the

mind of the Creator. What are we? We live and move and have our

being on a grain of creation, that is being whirled through

boundless space with inconceivable rapidity. And we affect to be

proud of our estate! We build houses and we destroy them; we wage

war, kill, brutify, enslave, ruin each other; or, we restore,

beautify, and bless. We are vain, sometimes. We think the world was

made for us; the stars shine for us, and all the hosts that gem the

drapery of night created for our special benefit. Astonishing

presumption!-born of ignorance and cradled in credulity!

The mind grows dizzy as it attempts to conceive of constellation

beyond constellation, on and on, through endless space.

Commencing with this earth, the mind given up to serious reflection

muses upon its broad extent of territory, its continents and its

oceans, and it appears very large indeed. Forgetting, for a moment,

its knowledge of other planets, it believes that this world is the

whole universe of God; that the sun, moon and stars, are but lights

in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth. But truth

steps in and change the mind's view. It shows that, large and

important as this earth may appear, the sun, which is spoken of as

inferior, is three hundred and fifty-four thousand nine hundred and

thirty six times larger; and the stars, that seem like diamond

points above us, are, many of them, larger than the sun, one being

one billion eight hundred million miles in diameter. Yet, such a

bulk, when compared to the universe, is less than a monad.

A "monad" is an indivisible atom. It is as incomprehensible as the

mysteries of creation, or the duration of eternity.

Tripoli, or rotten-stone, an article used in every family, and tons

of which are daily employed in manufactories, is composed entirely

of animalcul‘. In each cubic inch there are forty-one billion, that

is, forty-one million-million of these living, breathing creatures,

each of whom has organs of sight, hearing and digestion. Think, if

you can, of the internal organization of beings a million of whom

could rest on the point of a cambric needle!

But there are more minute forms of creation than even those. Deposit

a grain, the four hundred and eightieth part of an ounce of musk, in

any place, and, for twenty years, it will throw off exhalations of

fragrance, without causing any perceptible decrease of weight. The

fragrance that for so many years goes forth from that minute portion

of matter is composed of particles of musk. How small must each of

those particles be, that follow each other in ceaseless succession

for twenty years, without lessening, to any perceptible degree, the

weight of the deposit! And yet we have not reached the monad. A

celebrated author

Niewentyt. made a computation which led to the conclusion that six

billion as many atoms of light flow from a candle in one second as

there are grains of sand in the whole earth, supposing each cubic

inch to contain one million!

Here we must stop. Further advances are impossible, yet our end is

not attained; we have not yet reached the monad, for the animalcul‘

and the less sentient particles of matter, light, are not, for they

are divisible.

The insect can be divided, because it has limbs with which to move;

and an intelligence higher than man can doubtless see emanations

from those particles of light. But a monad is indivisible! Think of

each cubic inch of this great earth containing a million grains of

sand, and those countless grains multiplied by one billion, or a

million-million, and that the product only shows the number of

particles of light that flow from a candle in one second of

time!-and not a monad yet! Minds higher than ours can separate each

of these particles, and yet perhaps they find not the indivisible,

but assign over to other minds the endless task.

With such thoughts let us return to our first point, and remark that

the star tens of billions of miles distant, one billion eight

hundred million miles in diameter, is but a monad when compared with

the creations of the vast universe of God!

Here the mind sinks within itself, and gladly relinquishes the

herculean task of endeavoring to comprehend, for a single moment, a

fractional part of the stupendous whole.

Deep below us, high above us, far as the eye of the mind can see

around us, are the works of our Creator, marshalled in countless

hosts. All animated by his presence, all breathed upon by his life,

inspired by his divinity, fostered by his love, supported by his

power.

And in all things there is beauty-sunbeams and rainbows; fragrant

flowers whose color no art can equal. In every leaf, every branch,

every fibre, every stone, there is a perfect symmetry, perfect

adaptation to the conditions that surround it. And thus it is, from

the minutest insect undiscernible by human eye, to the planet whose

size no figures can represent. Each and all the works of God order

governs, symmetry moulds, and beauty adorns.

There are all grades of beings, from the monad to the highest

intelligences, and man occupies his position in the endless chain.

Could you hear and see, as seraphs listen and behold, you would hear

one continuous song of glad praise go up from all creation; you

would see all things radiant with smiles, reflecting the joys of

heaven. And why? Because they follow nature's leading, and, in doing

so, live and move in harmony.

Who can scale the heights above us, or fathom the depths below us?

Who can comprehend the magnitude of countless worlds that roll in

space-the distance that separates the nearest orb from our earth,

the worlds of being in a drop of water, the mighty array of angel

forms that fill immensity?

Well may we exclaim, "Great and marvellous are thy works, O Lord of

Hosts, and that my soul knoweth right well!"

A VISION OF HEAVEN.

NIGHT had shed its darkness round me;

Wearied with the cares of day,

Rested I. Sleep's soft folds bound me,

And my spirit fled away.

As on eagle pinions soaring,

On I sped from star to star,

Till heaven's high and glistening portals

Met my vision from afar.

Myriad miles I hasted over;

Myriad stars I pass‚d by:

On and on my tireless spirit

Urged its ceaseless flight on high.

Planets burned with glorious radiance,

Lighting up my trackless way;

On I sped, till music coming

From the realms of endless day

Fell upon my ear,--as music

Chanted by celestial choirs

Only can,--and then my spirit

Longed to grasp their golden lyres

Stood I hear that portal wondering

Whether I could enter there:

I, of earth and sin the subject,

Child of sorrow and of care!

There I stood like one uncalled for,

Willing thus to hope and wait,

Till a voice said, "Why not enter?

Why thus linger at the gate?

"Know me not? Say whence thou comest

Here to join our angel band.

Know me not? Here, take thy welcome-

Take thine angel-sister's hand."

Then I gazed, and, gazing, wondered;

For 't was she who long since died,--

She who in her youth departed,

Falling early at my side.

"Up," said she, "mid glorious temples!

Up, where all thy loved ones rest!

They with joy will sing thy welcome

To the mansions of the blest.

Mansions where no sin can enter,

Home where all do rest in peace;

Where the tried and faithful spirit

From its trials finds release;

"Golden courts, where watchful cherubs

Tune their harps to holy praise;

Temples in which countless myriads

Anthems of thanksgiving raise."

I those shining portals entered,

Guided by that white-robed one,

When a glorious light shone round me,

Brighter than the noonday sun!

Friends I met whom death had severed

From companionship below;

All were there-and in each feature

Immortality did glow.

I would touch their golden lyres,

When upon my ear there broke

Louder music--at that moment

I from my glad vision woke.

All was silent; scarce a zephyr

Moved the balmy air of night;

And the moon, in meekness shining,

Shed around its hallowed light.

THERE'S HOPE FOR THEE YET.

WHAT though from life's bounties thou mayest have fallen?

What though thy sun in dark clouds may have set?

There is a bright star that illumes the horizon,

Telling thee truly, "There's hope for thee yet."

This earth may look dull, old friends may forsake thee;

Sorrows that never before thou hast met

May roll o'er thy head; yet that bright star before thee

Shines to remind thee "there's hope for thee yet."

'T is but folly to mourn, though fortune disdain thee,

Though never so darkly thy sun may have set;

'T is wisdom to gaze at the bright star before thee,

And shout, as you gaze, "There's hope for me yet."

SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE.

IT cannot be that thou art dead; that now

I watch beside thy grave, and with my tears

Nourish the flowers that blossom over thee;

I cannot think that thou art dead and gone;

That naught remains to me of what thou wert,

Save that which lieth here,--dust unto dust.

When the bright sun arises, and its rays

Pass noiseless through my chamber, then methinks

That thou art with me still; that I can see

Thy flowing hair; and thy bright glancing eye

Beams on me with a look none other can.

And when at noon life's busy tumult makes

My senses reel, and I almost despair,

Thou comest to me and I'm cheered again;

Thine own bright smile illuminates my way,

And one by one the gathered clouds depart,

Till not a shadow lies upon my path.

Night, with its long and sombre shadows, treads

Upon the steps that morn and noon have trod;

And, as our children gather round my knee,

And lisp those evening prayers thy lips have taught,

I cannot but believe that thou art near.

But when they speak of "mother," when they say

"'T is a long time since she hath left our side,"

And when they ask, in their soft infant tones,

When they again shall meet thee,--then I feel

A sudden sadness o'er my spirit come:

And when sleep holds them in its silken bands

I wander here, to this fair spot they call

Thy grave (as though this feeble earth could hold

Thee in its cold embrace), and weep and sigh;

Yet, trusting, look above to yon bright sphere,

And feel thou art not dead, but living there.

It is not thou that fills this spot of earth,

It is not thou o'er whom these branches wave,

These blooming roses only mark the spot

Where but remaineth that thou couldst not wear

Amid immortal scenes.

Thou livest yet!

Thy feet do tread the golden courts of heaven;

Thy hands have touched the harps that angels use;

Thy eyes have seen the glory of our Lord;

Thy ears have listened to that song of praise

Which angels utter, and which God accepts.

THE FUGITIVES.

THEY had escaped the galling chain and fetters,

Had gained the freedom which they long had sought,

And lived like men-in righteous deeds abettors,

Loving the truth which God to them had taught

Some at the plough had labored late and early;

And some ascended Learning's glorious mount;

And some in Art had brought forth treasures pearly,

Which future history might with joy recount

As gems wrought out by hands which God made free,

But man had sworn should chained and fettered be.

They lived in peace, in quietness, and aided

In deeds of charity-in acts of love;

Nor cared though evil men their works upbraided,

While conscience whispered of rewards above.

And they had wives to love, children who waited

At eve to hear the father's homeward tread,

And clasped the hand,--or else, with joy elated,

Sounding his coming, to their mother sped.

Thus days and years passed by, and hope was bright,

Nor dreamed they of a dark and gloomy night.

Men came empowered, with handcuffs and with warrants,

And, entering homes, tore from their warm embrace

Husbands and fathers, and in copious torrents

Poured forth invective on our northern race,

And done all "lawfully;" because 't was voted

By certain men, who, when they had the might,

Fostered plans on which their passions doted,

Despite of reason and God's law of right;

And, bartering liberties, the truth dissembled,

While Freedom's votaries yielded as they trembled.

Shall we look on and bear the insult given?

O, worse than "insult" is it to be chained,

To have the fetters on thy free limbs riven,

When once the prize of Freedom has been gained.

No! by the granite pointing high above us,

By Concord, Lexington, and, Faneuil Hall,

By all these sacred spots, by those who love us,

We pledge to-day our hate of Slavery's thrall;

And give to man, whoever he may be,

The power we have to make and keep him free.

THE UNIVERSAL JUBILEE.

WHAT shouts shall rise when earth shall hold

Its universal jubilee!

When man no more is bought and sold,

And one and all henceforth are free!

Then songs they'll sing,

That loud shall ring

From rock to rock, from shore to shore.

"Hurra!" they'll shout, "we're free, we're free,

From land to land, from sea to sea,

And chains and fetters bind no more!"

Let every freeman strive to bring

The universal jubilee;

All hail the day when earth shall ring

With shouts of joy, and men are free!

Then each glad voice

Shall loud rejoice,

And chains shall fall from every hand,

Whilst myriad tongues shall loudly tell

The grateful joy of hearts that swell,

Where Freedom reigns o'er sea and land.

TAPVILLE was situated on the borders of one of the most beautiful

rivers that grace and refresh the soil of New England. It was once a

quiet place, once as perfect in its character as any of its

sisterhood. A moral atmosphere pervaded it, and the glorious and

divine principle of doing unto others as they would have others do

unto them governed its inhabitants; and, therefore, it was not

strange that its farmers and storekeepers kept good the proverbial

honesty and hospitality of their progenitors. Tradition said (but

written history was silent) that a few of those who landed at

Plymouth Rock separated from the main body, and took up their abode

further in the interior; and that, from these "few," a flourishing

company arose, and the place they inhabited was "Springvale." But

time and circumstances having much to do with the concerns of

earth's inhabitants, changed the character as well as the name of

this ancient town, and "Springvale" became "Tapville."

One evening, in the year one thousand eight hundred and I don't

remember what, after a somewhat fatiguing ride on horseback all day,

my heart was cheered on coming in view of the town. I had never

visited Tapville, but, from accounts I had heard, judged it to be a

sort of Pandemonium-a juvenile Bedlam. As I entered, troops of

children greeted me with shouts, and my horse with stones. Despite

of my treatment, I could not but compare their appearance, to say

nothing of their conduct, with those I had last seen in another

town, thirty miles distant. These were attired in rags, those in

good clothing; these with unwashed faces, uncombed hair, and bearing

every mark of neglect,--those bright and smiling, happy themselves,

and making all around them so.

I did not much fancy my reception, I assure you. My horse seemed

wondering at the cause of it, for he suddenly halted, then turned

slowly about, and began to canter away with a speed that I thought

quite impossible for a beast after a long day's work. I reined him

in, turned about, and entered the town by a small and not much

frequented pathway.

There was a large building at my left, with a huge sign over its

principal door, from which I learned that "Good Entertainment for

Man and Beast" might be had within. Appearances, however, indicated

that a beast must be a very bad beast who would accept its

"entertainment."

A fat man, wearing a green jacket on his back, an old torn and

tattered straw hat on his head, and both hands in his pockets, stood

lazily at the door; before which half a score of dirty children were

playing with marbles, and a short distance from which a couple of

children were fighting, upon whose pugilistic exercises a woman,

with a child in her arms and a pipe in her mouth, was gazing with

intense interest.

The general appearance of the town was far from pleasing. At nearly

every window, hats, or shingles, or bundles of rags, took the place

of glass, and the doors, instead of being hung on hinges, were "set

up," liable to be set down by the first gust of wind.

Near one miserable shantee, poor, very poor apology for a

dwelling-house, one man was endeavoring to get another into the

house; at least, so I thought; but both were so much intoxicated

that I could not tell, for my life, which the latter was. At one

moment, the man with the blue coat with the tails cut off seemed to

be helping the man without a coat; the next moment, I thought the

coatless man was trying to help the other. The fact was, both needed

help, which neither could give; so they remained "in a fix."

Now and then, a bare-footed little child would run across my path,

and hurry out of sight, as if fearful of being seen where so much

that was neither of heaven nor of earth was discernible.

In striking contrast with the want and desolation around, stood a

beautiful mansion. Around it was a garden of choice flowers, and the

vine, with its rich clusters of luscious grapes, shaded the path to

the entrance of the house.

I continued on. Far up a shaded avenue I perceived a small, yet neat

cottage, so different in general appearance from those around it,

that I turned my way thither, in hopes of resting in quiet, and, if

possible, of learning something relative to the town. I alighted,

knocked, and soon an old lady requested me to enter, saying that

Tommy would see that my horse was cared for. It was a small room

that I entered; everything was as neat and clean as a New Year's

gift, and there was so much of New England about it, that I felt at

home. Near an open window, in an easy-chair, sat a young lady of

decidedly prepossessing appearance but evidently wasting beneath

that scourge of eastern towns and cities-consumption. There was a

hue upon her cheek that was in beautiful contrast with the pure

white of her high forehead, and the dark, penetrating eye that

flashed with the deep thoughts of her soul.

The old lady was one of those good-natured, motherly women, whom you

will find at the firesides of New England homes, generous to a

fault; and whom you cannot but love, for the interest she takes in

you, and the solicitude she manifests for your welfare.

A repast was soon at hand, and when it was over the lady said,

"You are from Boston, then?"

"Yes," I replied; "and, having heard considerable respecting this

place, have come hither to satisfy myself whether or not any good

would be likely to result from a temperance lecture here."

"Temperance lecture!" she exclaimed, as she grasped my hand. "Do,

sir, for Heaven's sake, do something, do anything you possibly can,

to stay the ravages of the rum fiend in this place!"

She would have said more, but she could not. The fountains of her

heart seemed breaking, and a flood of tears flowed from her eyes.

The daughter buried her face in her hands, and the sighs that arose

from both mother and child told me that something had been said that

deeply affected them.

Tommy at this moment came in, happy and joyous; but, as soon as he

saw his mother and sister weeping, his whole appearance changed. He

approached his mother, and, looking up in her face, said, "Don't

cry, mother. Jenny will be better soon, and Tommy will work and make

you and her happy. Don't cry, mother!"

The child's simple entreaty brought more copiously the tears to the

mourner's eyes, and some time elapsed before they became in the

least degree comforted.

"You will excuse me, sir," said she, "I know you will, for my grief;

but, O, if temperance had been here ten years ago, we should have

been so happy!"

"Yes," said the boy; "then father would not have died a drunkard!"

The surmises I had entertained as to the cause of this sorrow were

now confirmed; and, at my request, she told me her story, with a

hope that it might prove a warning to others.

"You must know, sir, that when we came here to live we were just

married. Alfred, my husband, was a good mechanic, industrious,

frugal and kind-hearted. He had by his labor and economy

accumulated a small amount, enough to purchase an estate consisting

of a house, shop and farm. He had many and good customers, and our

prospects were very fair. We attended church regularly, for we

thought that, after enjoying the bounties of a beneficent Ruler all

of six days, it was our duty, as well as privilege, to devote the

seventh to His praise.

"Years passed by, when one morning Jenny, who was then about seven

years old, came running in, and told me that a new store had been

opened; that the man had nothing but two or three little kegs, and a

few bottles and tumblers. I went out, and found it as she had

stated. There was the man; there was his store; there were his kegs,

bottles and tumblers.

"The next day some changes were made; a few signs were seen, and the

quiet villagers gazed in wonder, if not admiration, at the

inscriptions, 'Rum,' 'Gin,' 'Brandies,' 'Wines and Cigars.' Old men

shook their heads, and looked wise. Old women peered from beneath

their specs, and gave vent to many predictions. Children asked what

the words meant.

"That night I talked with my husband about it. He thought that there

was no danger; that social enjoyment would harm no one; and seemed

astonished, to use his own words, 'that such a sensible woman as I

was should express any anxiety about the matter.' That night, to me,

was a long and sad one. I feared the result of the too much

dependence on self which he seemed to cherish.

"The rumseller soon gathered a number of townsmen about him. His

establishment became a place of frequent resort by many, and soon we

had quarrelling neighbors, and disturbances at night. Boys became

dishonest, and thus the fruits of the iniquitous traffic became

visible.

"I noticed that Alfred was not as punctual in his return as

formerly; and my fears that he visited this pest-house of the town

were soon confirmed. I hinted to him my suspicions. He was frank,

and freely admitted that he visited the bar-room; said he had become

acquainted with a few choice spirits, true friends, who had sworn

eternal friendship. 'Danger,' said he, 'there is none! If I thought

I endangered your happiness, I would not visit it again.' I

recollect the moment. He looked me steadily in the face, and, as he

did so, a tear escaped my eye. He, smiling, wiped it away, promised

that when he saw evil he would avoid it, and left me alone to my

reflections.

"But I will be brief. I need not tell you how, step by step, he

descended that ladder whose end rested in the grave. I need not tell

you how I warned him of dander; how I entreated him to avoid it;

how I watched him in sickness, and bathed his fevered brow; how my

heart was gladdened when I saw his health returning, and heard his

solemn promise to reform.

"Nor need I tell you how he was again led astray, and his hand

encircled that cup which he had once dashed aside. O, sir, he was a

good man; and, in his sober moments, he would weep like a child, as

he thought of his situation! He would come to me and pour out his

soul in gratitude for my kindness; and would beg my forgiveness, in

the tenderest manner, till his heart became too full for utterance,

and his repentance found vent in his tears.

"What could I do but forgive him, as I did a hundred times!

"Disheartened, I became sick. I was not expected to survive; and

Jenny, poor, child, watched by my side, and contracted an illness,

from which, I fear, she will not be freed till the God she loves

calls her home to himself.

"When I recovered, Alfred remained for some time sober and happy.

But he fell! Yes, sir; but God knows he tried to stand, and would

have done so had not the owner of that groggery, by foul stratagem,

hurled him to the ground. I went, my daughter went, friends went, to

ask the destroyer of our happiness to desist; but he turned us away

with an oath and a laugh, saying, 'he would sell to all who wanted.'

"Frequent exposure brought disease; disease brought death, and my

husband died.

"All our property was sold to meet the demands of merciless

creditors, the principal one of whom was this very rumseller who

turned me from his doors. A friend furnished us with the cottage in

which we have since lived. Many kind-hearted friends have gathered

around us, and we have been happy, save when the recollections of

the past rise before us. Others, beside myself, have had cause to

mourn and our town, once inhabited by happy, quiet and contented

families, has become noted as a seat of iniquity.

"He who has caused this change is now the wealthiest man in town.

You might have seen his stately palace as you rode up, environed

with fruits and flowers. He lives there; but, within the shade of

that mansion, are the wretched hovels of those upon whose ruin he

sits enthroned. He has roses and fruits at his door, but they have

been watered by widows' tears; and the winds that reach his home

amid rich vines and laden trees may bear to his ears the orphan's

cry, from whose mouth he has taken the daily bread."

When the old lady had finished her narrative, she could restrain her

tears no longer, and they burst forth as freely as at first.

I inquired whether there were any beside herself who would become

interested in a temperance movement. She replied that there were

many, but they wished some one to start it.

I had left a gentleman at the town I last came from, who was an

eloquent advocate; and my first act, after listening to the widow's

narrative, was to write a note, and send it in all possible haste to

him.

The next day he came; and, if you could have seen the joy of that

family as I told them that we had announced a meeting, you would

have some faint idea of the happiness which the temperance reform

has produced.

From what I had learned, I expected that we should meet with some

opposition from the wealthy individual before alluded to, or from

his agents, who were so blinded to their own interests that they

could not be easily induced to move for their own good.

The evening came, and the room we had engaged was well filled. My

friend arose, when a stone, hurled at him from without, missed its

aim, and struck a lamp at his side, dashing it into a hundred

fragments. Little disconcerted at this, he began his address; and,

in a short time, gained the attention of the audience in so perfect

a manner, that they heeded not the attempts of a noisy crowd without

to disturb them.

He continued on. Men leaned forward to catch his words, and some

arose and stood as motionless as statues, with eyes fixed intently

on the speaker. Women wept; some in sorrow for the past, others in

joy for the future. A deep feeling pervaded all. The disturbance

without ceased, and one by one the disturbers came to the door; one

by one they entered, and began to feel the truths which the speakers

uttered.

The only interruption was made by an aged man, who bowed his silvery

head, and, in trembling accents, moaned out, "My son, my son!" These

words, uttered at the expiration of every few minutes, increased the

solemnity of the occasion, and added power to the lecturer's

remarks, for all knew the story of his son, and all knew that he was

carried home dead from the groggery.

When, at the end of the lecture, it was asked who would sign the

pledge, the whole assembly started to respond to the call, and each

one that night became pledged to total abstinence.

The next day a great excitement existed relative to the groggeries

in town; a meeting was called, and a committee appointed to act in a

manner they thought best calculated to promote the interests of the

people at large.

This committee determined to present the facts to the keepers of the

places in question, and request them to renounce the traffic.

The facts were presented. They saw that their customers had all left

them, and why should they continue? It would be a losing business.

The effect of the moral suasion had been powerful; it labored with

the very soul of the traffic, with those who put the pence in the

dealers' coffers. It was more powerful than all laws that could have

been enacted. Forbidding them to sell while customers crowded their

doors would have had no effect, unless to create riot; inducing

their customers to leave them soon induced them to leave the

business, for where there are none to buy there will be none to

sell.

In view of all this, the rumsellers of Tapville gave up; and,

strange to say, joined with the people that night in their

rejoicing, and made a bonfire of their stock in trade.

By the light of that fire my friend and I left the town; and when

far away we could see its glare, and hear the shouts of a

disenthralled people.

After a few months' travel in the south and west, I revisited

Tapville, or rather the place where it once stood; but no Tapville

was there. The town had regained its former sobriety and quiet, and

became "Springvale."

I called at the widow's cottage; Tommy ran out to meet me, and I

received a welcome I shall never forget. But Jenny was no more; with

her last breath she had blessed the temperance cause, and then her

pure spirit winged its way to that home where sorrows never come,

and where the troubles of earth are forgotten amid the joys of

heaven.

THE BATTLE OF THE RED MEN.

'T WAS cold, bleak winter, on a rock-bound coast,

When bands of exiles trod its frozen shore.

Who then stood forth to greet the coming host

And shelter freely give when storms did pour?

Old Samoset-peace to his memory still!-

He bade them welcome, welcome, with good will.

Then was the red man's nation broad and strong-

O'er field and forest he held firm control;

Then power was his to stay the coming throng,

And back the wave of usurpation roll.

He might have crushed them on old Plymouth's rock,

And freedom to this day have felt the shock.

Not so he willed it; he would have them sit

In peace and amity around his door;

The pipe of peace in friendship would have lit,

And, as its white cloud up towards heaven did soar,

Learned that like it the spirits pure and white

Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light.

But what return did they profusely give

Who were dependent on the red man's corn?

Not even to them the privilege to live,

But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn!

Hunted like wild beasts through the forests' track;

For food and welcome such they gave him back.

Then roused to madness was the Indian's soul,

Then grasped with firmness every one his bow;

No mortal power his purpose could control,

Till he had seen the traitors lying low.

Revenge! revenge! was sounded far and wide,

O'er every field and every river's tide.

The little child that scarce could lisp a word

Was taught to hate the white man; maidens fair

Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard

Their brothers' wrongs, and madly tore their hair;

Old men urged on the young, and young men fled

Swift to increase the armies of the dead.

And thus the war began,--the fearful war

That swept o'er happy homesteads like a flood;

The white and red man knew no other law

Than that which wrote its every act in blood.

Daylight beheld the ball and arrow's flight,

And blazing homes made terrible the night.

The rifle's sharp report, the arrow's whiz,

The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death;

Despair in him who saw the last of his,

And heard "good-by" from children's dying breath;

The last sad look of prisoners borne away,

And groan of torture, marked the night and day.

With arms more skilful-not with hearts more true,

Or souls more brave to battle for the right-

The white the unjust warfare did pursue,

Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight

From homes he loved, from altars he revered,

And left, forever, scenes to him endeared.

O, what an hour for those brave people that!

Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be;

Young men and maidens who had often sat

In love and peace beneath the forest tree;

Parents who'd planted flowers; and with warm tears

Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years!

From every tree a voice did seem to start,

And every shrub that could a shadow cast

Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part,

So closely twined was each one with the past.

O, was it strange they fought with furious zeal?

Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel.

And thus they went,--a concourse of wronged men,--

Not with a speedy flight; each inch they gave,

Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken,

Was sold for blood, and for a patriot's grave;

And white men paid the price-and now they hold

This broad, broad land for cost more dear than gold.

And yet 't is not enough; the cry for more

Hath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic's wave

Now blends with it the thunder of its roar,

And soon shall sound the requiem o'er the grave

Of the last Indian,--last of that brave band

Who once held sway o'er all this fertile land.

Methinks to-day I see him stand alone,

Drawing his blanket close around his form;

He hath braved all, hath heard the dying moan

Rise from the fields of strife; and now the storm

That hath swept all before it, age on age,

On him, the last, seeks to pour forth its rage.

Raising his hand appealing to the sun,

He swears, by all he hath or now could crave,

That when his life is closed, his life-race run,

A white man ne'er shall stand above his grave.

Shall he, the last of a once noble race,

Consign himself to such a dire disgrace?

Never! let rock to rock the word resound;

Never! bear witness all ye gods to-day;

Never! ye streams and rivers, as ye bound,

Write "Never" on your waves, and bear away;

Tell to the world that, hunted, wronged, abused,

With such reproach he ne'er shall be accused,

The red man's brethren, tell him where are they;

The red man's homes and altars, what their fate?

Shall he who stands the last, the last to-day,

Forget with his last breath to whisper hate?

Hate, deep and fathomless, and boundless too,

Such as to fiendish cruelty is due.

He cannot bear the white man's presence now,

Or bear to hear his name or see his works;

He thinks that wrong is stamped upon his brow,

That in his good deeds selfish purpose lurks.

Has he a cause for this?-review the past,

And see those acts which prompt hate to the last.

Sons of the Pilgrims, who to-day do boast

Of Freedom's favors, ye whose wealth doth lie

From the Atlantic to the Pacific coast!

Let not the race you have supplanted die;

Perish like forest-leaves from off their lands,

Without a just requital at your hands.

O, give them homes which they can call their own,

Let Knowledge light its torch and lead the way;

And meek Religion, from the eternal throne,

Be there to usher in a better day;

Then shall the past be blotted from life's scroll,

And all the good ye may do crown the whole.

SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL.

O, THAT some spirit form would come,

From the fair realms of heaven above,

And take my outstretched hand in hers,

To bathe me in angelic love!

O that these longing, peering eyes,

Might pierce the shadowy curtain's fold,

And see in radiant robes arrayed,

The friends whose memory I do hold

Close, close within my soul's deep cell!

O, that were well! O, that were well!

I've often thought, at midnight's hour,

That round my couch I could discern

A shadowy being, from whose eye

I could not, ah! I would not turn.

It seemed so sisterly to me,

So radiant with looks of love,

That ever since I've strove to be

More like the angel hosts above.

The hopes, the joys were like a spell,

And it was well! Yes, it was well!

And every hour of day and night

I feel an influence o'er me steal,

So soothing, pure, so holy, bright,

I would each human heart could feel

A fraction of the mighty tide

Of living joy it sends along.

Then why should I complain, and ask

Why none of heaven's angelic throng

Come to this earth with me to dwell,

For all is well,--all, all is well!

A SONG FROM THE ABSENT.

TO THE LOVED ONE AT HOME.

AWAY from home, how slow the hours

Pass wearily along!

I feel alone, though many forms

Around my pathway throng.

There's none that look on me in love,

Wherever I do roam;

I'm longing for thy gentle smile,

My dearest one, at home.

I walk around; strange things I see,

Much that is fair to view;

Man's art and Nature's handiwork,

And all to me is new.

But, ah! I feel my joy were more,

If, while 'mid these I roam,

It could be shared with thee I love,

My dearest one, at home.

Blow, blow ye winds, and bear me on

My long and arduous way!

Move on, slow hours, more swiftly move,

And bring to life the day

When, journey done, and absence o'er,

No more I distant roam;

When I again shall be with thee,

My dearest one, at home.

TWILIGHT FOREST HYMN.

THE HOUR OF PARTING.

FRIENDS who here have met to-day,

Let us sing our parting lay,

Ere we hence do pass away,

Ere the sun doth set.

As we've trod this grassy earth,

Friendships new have had their birth,

And this day of festive mirth

We shall ne'er forget.

Rock, and hill, and shading tree,

Streamlet dancing to the sea,

Gladly though we'd stay with thee,

We must leave you all;

On the tree and on the flower

Comes the evening's twilight hour,

And upon each forest bower

Evening's shadows fall.

Part we now, but through our life,

Hush of peace or jar of strife,

Memory will still be rife

With glad thoughts of thee;

Wheresoe'er our feet may stray,

Memory will retain this day;

Fare thee well-we haste away,

Farewell rock and tree!

THE SUMMER SHOWER.

UP from the lake a mist ascends,

And forms a sea of cloud above,

That hangs o'er earth as if in love

With its green vales; then quick it send

Its blessings down in cooling rain,

On hill and valley, rock and plain.

Nature, delighted with the shower,

Sends up the fragrance of each flower;

Birds carol forth their cheeriest lays,

The green leaves rustle forth their praise.

Soon, one by one, the clouds depart,

And a bright rainbow spans the sky,

That seems but the reflective part

Of all below, fixed there on high.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON.

EARLY one bright summer morning, as I was perambulating beneath

those noble trees that stand the body-guard of one of the most

beautiful places of which city life can boast,--Boston Common,--I

encountered a man who attracted my special attention by his apparent

carelessness of action, and humble bearing. He looked dejected

likewise, and I seated myself on the stone seat beside him.

He took me by the sleeve of my coat, and whispered in my ear, "I'm

an Automaton, sir." A few more words passed between us, after which,

at my request, he gave me a sketch of his life, which I propose to

give you in language as nearly his own as possible.

"I was born. I came into this world without any consent of my own,

sir, and as soon as I breathed the atmosphere of this mundane state

I was bandaged and pinned, and felt very much as a mummy might be

supposed to feel. I was then tossed from Matilda to Jerusha, and

from Jerusha to Jane, and from Jane to others and others. I tried to

laugh, but found I could n't; so I tried to cry, and succeeded most

admirably in my effort.

"'He's sick,' said my aunt; and my aunt called a doctor, who, wise

man, called for a slip of paper and an errand-boy.

"The next I knew, my head was being held by my aunt, and the doctor

was pouring down my throat, which he distended with the handle of a

spoon, a bitter potion; pouring it down without any consent of my

own, sir.

"Whether I got better or worse I don't know; but I slept for a time,

and had a strange dream, of a strange existence, upon which I seemed

to have suddenly entered.

"The subsequent year was one in which I figured not largely, but

considerably. I made a noise in the world, and was flattered so much

by my mother's acquaintances that my nose has been what is vulgarly

called 'a pug,' ever since. I did n't have my own way at all, except

when I screamed. In that I was not an Automaton. I was myself in

that particular; and the more restraint they put upon me, the more

freedom I had. I cried independently of all my aunts and cousins.

They could n't dictate me in that.

"Years passed on, and I grew older, as a matter of course. I grew

without any consent of my own, sir, and found myself in jacket and

trousers ditto. I was sent to school, and was told to study Greek

and Latin, and Algebra, and Pneumatics, and Hydrostatics, and a

dozen or twenty other things, the very names of which I have

forgotten, but which I well remember bothered me considerably in

those days. I had much rather have studied the laws of my own being;

much rather have examined and become acquainted with the

architecture of my own bodily frame; much rather have studied

something more intimately connected with the realities of my own

existence; but they made me study what was repulsive to my own mind,

and speak big words which I did n't understand, and which my teacher

could n't explain without the aid of a dictionary.

"My parents labored under the strange delusion that I was a

wonderful child. I don't know why, unless it was because I did n't

know anything of life, and I could repeat a little Latin, stumble

through a sentence of Greek, and, after having solved a problem

seventy-six thousand times to show my wonderful precociousness,

could do it again when called upon. Perhaps I'm extravagant. It was

n't more than half that number of times. At any rate, sir, I was

thought a prodigy--a most astonishing intellectual--I don't know

what,--call it mushroom,--because what I had done so many times I

could do again.

"I recollect there was a little youngster of my acquaintance,--a

charming, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy,--who told me, one day, that

he did n't care for the dead languages, he had rather know the live

ones. I thought so too, and we talked a long time, down behind old

Turner's barn, about what should be and what should n't. But I had

to go home. I had to be pulled about, this arm with this wire, and

that foot with that wire. I had to do this and that, to study this

and study that, because-why, because I was an Automaton, sir. I was

born such. 'T was in my bones to be an Automaton.

"My school-days passed, and the minister told my father that if he

was him he'd send me to college. He-my father-did n't sleep any,

that night. He and my mother kept awake till daylight

prognosticating my career, and fixing upon a day when I should go to

Cambridge.

"That day came. I remember it was a cloudy day. There was a dull

shadow over everything. Yes, even over my heart. I didn't want to go

to college. I knew I hadn't been allowed to learn anything I wanted

to learn out of it; and I knew I should n't do any better shut up

within its old dingy, musty, brick walls. I knew I should n't learn

anything there. I had rather be out in the world. I had rather be

studying in Nature's great college. I had rather graduate with a

diploma from God, written on my heart, than to waste years of life

away from the great school of human life; to be told by another how

I should go, what I should believe, and how I should act, in the

great drama of life. But I had to go, sir,--go to college; for I was

an Automaton.

"As I before said, the day was cloudy. Mother dressed me up. For a

week preparations had been making for my exit, and finally I went. I

was put in a stage where three men were smoking. I objected, and

intimated that it would be much better if those who smoked rode on

the outside; but my father said, 'hush,' and told me that smoking

was common at college, and I must get used to it. When the stage

stopped to change horses, the men got out, and swore, and drank

brandy; and I asked whether such things were common at college, and

whether I had got to get used to them too. But I could n't get any

answer.

"The wind blew cold, but my coat was made so small that I could n't

button it together. I would have had it loose and easy, and warm and

comfortable; but 't was n't fashionable to have it so. Father

followed fashion, and I suffered from the cold. I had a nice, soft

cap, that I used to wear to church at home; but father thought that,

as I was going to the city, I must have a hat; so he had bought me

one, and the hard, stiff, ungainly thing was stuck on my head. I had

as lieves have had a piece of stove-pipe there. It made my head ache

awfully.

"If I had n't been what I was, I should have worn a nice, easy pair

of shoes; but I was an Automaton. I was n't anybody; so I was made

to wear a pair of thin boots, that clung to my feet a great deal

closer than my skin did,--a great deal, sir.

"Well, we reached Cambridge. It's a pretty place, you know; and I

rather liked it until I arrived at the college buildings. Then I did

n't like the looks of anything, except the green trees, and the

grass, and the shady walks. And I wondered where I could learn the

most useful knowledge, within or without the college.

"I was ushered in, and my college life began. To narrate to you all

that made up that life, would be irksome to me and tedious to you. I

was taught much that I didn't believe then, and don't believe now,

and don't think I ever shall. I was made to subscribe to certain

forms, and with my lips to adopt certain views, which my heart all

the time rebelled against, and reason told me were false. But I said

I believed, and I did believe after the fashion of the times; for I

believe it's fashionable to believe what you don't know anything

about, and the more of this belief you have the better you are. So I

believed what my teachers told me, because-why, because I was an

Automaton.

"When I returned home, I found myself, quite unexpectedly, a lion.

All the neighbors flocked in to see the young man who'd been to

college, and in the evening a dozen young ladies--marriageable young

ladies--called on me. I tried to have a pleasant time; and should

have had, if I had n't been pulled and pushed, and made a

puppet-show of; made to go through all my college exercises, to

please the pride of my immediate relatives, and minister to the

wonder-loving souls of their friends. But, though I did n't want to

do all this, though I had much preferred to have sat down and had a

quiet talk with one or two,--talked over all that had taken place

during my absence, our lives and loves,--yet I was obliged to, sir. I

was an Automaton.

"One day,--it was but a week after I had returned,--my father took me

into his room, and said he had something to say to me. I knew very

well, before he said so, that something out of the usual course was

to take place; for, all the morning, he had been as serious and

reserved as a deacon at a funeral, and I had caught him holding sly

talks with my mother in out-of-the-way places.-I knew something was

to happen.

"I sat down, and he did. And then he went on to say that I had

probably had some thoughts of marriage. I merely responded, 'Some.'

"He then remarked that every young man should calculate to get a

wife and settle down; and that 'old folks' had had experience, and

knew a vast deal more about such things than young folks did; and

that the latter, when they followed the advice of the former, always

were well-to-do in the world, always were respected.

"I began to see what he was driving at. I looked very serious at

him, and he a great deal more so at me.

"He talked to me half an hour; it was the longest half-hour I had

known since I first measured time. He expatiated on the wisdom of

old people; told me I was inexperienced. I, who had been to college!

I, who had lived a city life! I was inexperienced! But I let him go

on-I could n't help it-you know what I was.

"He then drew his chair closer mine, lowered the tone of his voice,

and said,

"'I've picked out a wife for you. It's Squire Parsons' daughter,

Susan Jane Maria. She'll be an excellent wife to you, and mother to

your children.'

"If I had been anything else than what I was, I should have sprang

up and declared my own ability to choose a wife for me and 'a mother

for my children;' but I did n't do any such thing. I nodded a calm

assent to all he said; for you know, sir; I was an Automaton.

"I was to go with my father, that night, and see Susan,--she that was

to be my Susan,--O, no, not so; I was to be her Jacob. So, when tea

was over, and I had been 'fixed up,'-I was fixed, I tell you,--father

led the way over Higginses' rough pasture. I should have gone round,

in the road, where it was decent walking, if I had been anybody; but

I was n't any one; I was a--well, you know what. I got one of my

boots full of water, and father fell down and bruised his nose; but

I took off my boot and poured the water out, and he put a piece of

court-plaster on his nose,--a great black piece,--and we did n't look

as bad as we might, so he said; and so I said, 'of course.'

"Susan was at home, seated in the middle of a great room, as if on

exhibition; and perhaps she was,--I thought so. I had seen Susan

before, and always disliked her. There was nothing in her personal

appearance, or her mind, that pleased me. I never met her without

marking her future life as that of an old maid. But she was to be my

wife; father said so, mother shouted amen; and I was to love her,

and so I said I did, 'of course.'

"It seemed to me that she knew all about what I came for; for she

put out her little slim hand, that never made a loaf of bread nor

held a needle, but had only fingered the leaves of Greek and Latin

Lexicons, and volumes of Zoology and Ornithology, and thrummed

piano-keys,--all very well in their place (don't think I depreciate

them), but very bad when their place is so large that there's no

room for anything else,--very bad, sir.

"As she took my hand she attempted to kiss me; but, being rather

shy, I dodged when I saw her lips a-coming, and they went plump on

to father's nose, and exploded on his piece of court-plaster.

"It was all fixed that night, and I was to be married one week from

the ensuing Sunday.

"We went home. I received a smile from those who were so considerate

as to hunt me up a wife.

"If you'd seen the Greentown Gazette a fortnight after, and had

looked at the list of marriages, you might have read, 'Married: In

this town, by Rev. Ebenezer Pilgrade, Mr. Jacob Jenkins, Jr.

(recently from college), to Susan Jane Maria Parsons, estimable

daughter of Nehemiah Q. Parsons; all of this place.'

"We lived at home. My wife soon found out what I was, found out that

I was an Automaton, and she pulled the wires and put me in motion,

in any way she wished. I opened an office, put out a sign, and for a

time practised law and physic, and when the minister was sick took

his place and preached. I preached just what they wanted me to. I

felt more like an Automaton than ever, stuck up in a high box,

talking just what had been talked a thousand times from the same

place. It would n't do, I was told, to have any ideas of my own;

and, if had them, I must n't speak them. So my parish and me got

along pretty well.

"Of course I had joined the church. I was told that I must, and so I

did; but I won't tell you what my thoughts were in regard to what I

was told to believe, for that's delicate ground. I don't know what

your religion is, sir, and I might offend you, and I would n't do so

for the world. You see I am an Automaton yet. I'll do just as you

want me to. I hate to be so; but, somehow or other, I can't be

otherwise. It's my nature.

"You think I'm prosy. I won't say much more, for I see you take out

your watch as though you wished I'd stop, that you might go; so I'll

close with 'finally,' as I do in preaching.

"Well, then, finally, father died, mother died, Susan run off, and

I've become almost discouraged. I have three children to take care

of, but they are good children. They do just precisely as I tell

them, and won't do anything without asking me whether it's right;

and I ask somebody else. They have n't got any minds of their own,

any more than I have. They'll do just as I tell them. I've nobody in

particular now to tell me what I shall do; so I take everybody's

advice, and try to do as everybody wants me to do. I've come to

Boston on a visit, and shall go back to-night, if you think best.

"Now I've given you my autobiography. You can do just what you want

to with it,--print it, if you like. People, perhaps, will laugh at me

when they read it; but perhaps there are other Automatons besides

me."

He came to a full stop here; and, as it was getting late, I arose,

wished him well, bade him good-by, and left. I had proceeded but a

few steps, when I felt a touch on my shoulder, and, turning, found

it was the Automaton, who had come to ask me whether I thought he

had better go home that night.

TO THE UNKNOWN DONOR OF A BOUQUET.

RICHEST flowers of every hue,

Lightly fringed with evening dew;

Sparkling as from Eden's bowers,

Brightly tinted-beauteous flowers!

Thee I've found, and thee I'll own,

Though from one to me unknown;

Knowing this, that one who'll send

Such a treasure is my friend.

Who hath sent thee?-Flora knows,

For with care she reared the rose.

Lo! here's a name!-it is the key

That will unlock the mystery;

This will tell from whom and why

Thou didst to my presence hie.

Wait-the hand's disguised!-it will

Remain to me a mystery still.

But I'm a "Yankee," and can "guess"

Who wove this flowery, fairy tress.

Yea, more than this, I almost know

Who tied this pretty silken bow,

Whose hand arranged them, and whose taste

Each in such graceful order placed.

Yet, if unknown thou 'dst rather be,

Let me wish this wish for thee:

May'st thou live in joy forever,

Naught from thee true pleasure sever;

From thy heart arise no sigh;

May no tear bedew thine eye.

Joys be many, cares be few,

Smooth the path thou shalt pursue;

And heaven's richest blessings shine

Ever on both thee and thine.

Round thy path may fairest flowers,

As in amaranthine bowers,

Bloom and blossom bright and fair,

Load with sweets the ambient air!

Be thy path with roses strewn,

All thy hours to care unknown;

Sorrow cloud thy pathway never,

Happiness be thine forever.

TO A SISTER IN HEAVEN.

SISTER, in thy spirit home,

Knowest thou my path below?

Knowest thou the steps I roam,

And the devious road I go?

Many years have past since I

Bade thee here a sad farewell;

Many past since thou didst die,

Since I heard thy funeral knell.

Thou didst go when thou wast young;

Scarcely hadst thou oped thine eyes

To the world, and it had flung

Its bright sunshine from the skies,

Ere thy Maker called for thee,

Thou obeyed his high behest;

Then I mourned, yet knew thou 'dst be

Throned on high among the blest.

Gently thou didst fold thy wing,

Gently thou didst sink in sleep;

Birds their evening songs did sing,

And the evening shades did creep

Through the casement, one by one,

Telling of departing day;

Then, thou and the glorious sun

Didst together pass away.

Yet that sun hath rose since then,

And hath brought a joy to me;

Emblem 't is time will be when

Once again I shall see thee,--

See thee in immortal bloom,

Numbered with the ransomed throng,

Where no sorrow sheds its gloom

O'er the heart, or chills the song.

Spirit sister, throned on high,

Now methinks I hear thee speak

From thy home within the sky,

In its accents low and meek.

Thou art saying, "Banish sadness;

God is love,--O, trust him over!

Heaven is filled with joy and gladness-

It shall be thy home forever."

This thou sayest, and thy voice,

Like to none of earth I've heard,

Bids my fainting soul rejoice;

Follow God's reveal‚d word,

Follow that, 't is faithful true;

'Mid the trackless maze of this,

It will guide the pilgrim through

To a world of endless bliss.

Sister, in thy spirit home,

Thou dost know my path below,

Thou dost know the steps I roam,

And the road I fain would go.

If my steps would err from right,

If I'd listen to the wrong,

If I'd close my eyes to light,

Mingle with earth's careless throng:

Then wilt thou with power be nigh;

Power which angel spirits wield,

That temptation may pass by,

Be thou near my soul to shield!

As I close this simple lay,

As I over it do bow,

Sister, thou art round my way,

Thou art standing near me now.

I DREAMED OF THEE, LAST NIGHT, LOVE!

I DREAMED of thee last night, love,

And I thought that one came down

From scenes of azure light, love,

The most beautiful to crown.

He wandered forth where diamonds

And jewels rich and rare

Shone brightly 'mid the glittering throng,

Yet crown‚d no one there.

He pass‚d by all others,

Till he came to where thou stood;

And chose thee as the beautiful,

Because thou wast so good.

And said, as there he crowned thee,

That Goodness did excel

The jewels all around thee

In which beauty seemed to dwell.

For Goodness is that beauty

Which will forever last;

Then, crowning thee most beautiful,

From earth to heaven he passed.

THEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERS.

THEY tell of happy bowers,

Where rainbow-tinted flowers

Bloom bright with sweetest fragrance, and never, never die;

Where friends are joined forever,

Where parting hours come never,

And that that happier land is far beyond the sky;--

That when this life is ended

The spirit there ascended

Shall meet in happy unison the spirits gone before;

And all that here hath vexed us,

With seeming ill perplexed us,

We shall see was for the best, and God of all adore.

Then, brother, hope and cheer thee,

For glorious hours are near thee,

If thou but livest holy, and hope, and trust, and wait;

Soon, trials all departed,

Thou, heavenward, homeward started,

Shalt find a glorious entrance at heaven's golden gate.

MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT.

MAN cannot live and love not;

Around, beneath, above,

There is that's bright and beautiful,

And worthy of his love;

There is in every object

That works out nature's plan,

Howe'er so low and humble,

That's worth the love of man.

Each blade of grass that springeth

From earth to beauty fair;

Each tiny bird that wingeth

Its course through trackless air;

Each worm that crawls beneath thee,

Each creature, great and small,

Is worthy of thy loving;

For God hath made them all.

Should earthly friends forsake thee,

And earth to thee look drear;

Should morning's dark forebodings

But fill thy soul with fear,

Look up! and cheer thy spirit-

Up to thy God above;

He'll be thy friend forever-

Forever!-"God is Love!"

BETTER THAN GOLD.

"Find we Lorenzo wiser for his wealth?

What if thy rental I inform, and draw

An inventory new to set thee right?

Where is thy treasure? Gold says, 'Not in me!'

And not in me, the diamond. Gold is poor,

Indies insolvent-. Seek it in thyself,

Seek in thy naked self, and find it there."

GOLD is, in itself, harmless-brilliant, beautiful to look upon; but,

when man entertains an ungovernable, all-absorbing love of it, gold

is his curse and a mill-stone around his neck, drawing him down to

earth. How much sorrow that love has caused! O, there is love that

is angelic! But high and holy as love is when bestowed upon a worthy

object, in like proportion is it base and ignoble when fixed upon

that which is unworthy.

It may well be questioned whether, taking a broad view of the

matter, gold has not produced more evil than good. Point out, if you

can, one crime, be it the most heinous and inhuman of which you can

possibly conceive, that has not been perpetrated for the sake of

gold, or has not its equal in the history of the battle for wealth.

We can conceive of no worse a thing than a human soul idolizing a

mass of shining metal, and counting out, with lean and tremulous

hands, the coined dollars. Late and early the devotee bows at the

shrine. No motive can induce him to remove his fixed gaze from the

god he worships. No act too base for him to execute if gold holds

out its glittering purse. No tears of widows, no orphan's cry, no

brother's famishing look, no parent's imploring gaze, no wife's

loving appeal, doth he heed; but on, and on, day by day, night by

night, he rakes together the scattered fragments, rears his altar,

and lays his soul upon it, a burnt sacrifice to his God.

It was the first day of the trial, and the excitement was intense.

The court-house was filled at an early hour to its utmost capacity,

whilst the lanes leading to it were completely blocked up with

crowds of inquisitive inquirers. The professor left his study, the

trader his accounts, and the mechanic dismissed for a while the toil

of his avocation.

The judges had arrived; the counsel of both parties were at their

respective desks; all were eager to get a full sight-if not this, a

passing glance-at the prisoner's face. They were looking for his

arrival, and if a close carriage drew near, they believed he was

within, until the carriage passing by withered all their hopes, and

blasted their fond expectations. Such was the state of feeling when

a rumor began to pass round that he, the prisoner, had been

privately conveyed into court. Some believed, and some disbelieved;

some went away, whilst others remained, not giving up all hope of

having their desire gratified.-But why all this?

Pedro Castello, a young man, an Italian by birth, had been indicted,

and was soon to be tried, charged with two heinous crimes-murder and

robbery. The murdered was an aged person, one of a very quiet and

sedate character, whose every movement seemed to be by stealth, and

who seemed to care for none but himself, but who took particular

interest in what he did care for. This individual had, for quite a

number of years, been a resident in the town where the incidents we

now propose to relate transpired.

Lorenzo Pedan had the reputation of being wealthy. Whether he was so

or not, no one could positively determine; at least, many thought

so, and here a farmer, there a mechanic, offered to bet all that

he was worth that "Renzo," as he was called, could show his fifty

thousand. It was well known that he was once in prosperous business;

that then, as the saying is, he moved on "swimmingly." But, two or

three years previous to the time we now speak of, he suddenly gave

up business, closed his store, hired a small and retired house, and

lived in as secluded a state as living in the world and not in a

forest would admit of. He was his own master, his own servant, cook

and all else. Visitors seldom if ever darkened his door; and, when

necessity obliged him to leave his house, it was with the utmost

precaution he made fast his door before starting. Proceeding a short

distance, he became possessed with the idea that all was not right,

and would return to his dwelling closely to scrutinize every part.

This and many other characteristics of Pedan induced a belief in the

minds of his townsmen that he had by degrees become possessed of an

avaricious disposition, and that his miserly views of the "whole

duty of man" had induced him to secrete huge boxes of silver, and

bags, of gold in crevices of his cellar, vacancies in his chimney,

and musty and dusty corners of his garret.

Various were the tricks played upon Lorenzo by the boys of the town.

At times they would place logs of wood against his door, and arrange

them in such a position that when the door was opened they would

inevitably fall in; yet he did not care for this,--we mean he found

no fault with this trick, for he usually claimed the fuel for

damages occasioned by its coming in too close proximity with his

aged self.

Sometimes these "villanous boys," as widow Todd, a notorious

disseminator of town scandal, called them, would fasten his door;

then, having hid behind some bushes, laugh heartily as they beheld

Mr. Pedan exhibit himself at the window, at which place he got out.

We will not attempt to relate one half or one quarter of these

tricks; we will say nothing of sundry cats, kittens, etc., that were

crowded into boxes and marked "Pedro-this side up with infinite

care;" nor about certain black, white, and yellow dogs, that were

tied to all his door-handles, and made night hideous in the exercise

of their vocal powers. We will not weary our readers with such

details. Suffice it to say that they were all perpetrated, and that

he, the aforesaid Lorenzo Pedan, received the indignities heaped

upon him with a degree of patience and fortitude rivalled only by

that of the martyrs of the dark ages. He was, in fact, a martyr to

his love of gold; and a recompense for all his outward troubles was

the satisfaction of knowing that he might be rich some time, if he

was prudent.

Lorenzo was undoubtedly rich, yet he derived no enjoyment from his

abundance; on the contrary, it caused him much trouble, care, and

watchfulness; and not possessing any benevolent feelings, prompting

him to spend his gold and silver for his own good or the good of his

fellow-men, the poorest man, with all his poverty,--he who only by

his daily toil earned his daily bread,--was far more wealthy than he.

He passed on in this way for some time, when, on a certain morning,

he not having made his appearance for some days previous, his door

was burst open, and the expectations of not a few realized upon

finding him murdered. All the furniture and even the wainscotings of

the house were thrown about in dread disorder; scarcely an article

seemed to be in its right place. The robber or robbers were

undoubtedly on the alert for money, and they left no spot untouched

where possibly they might find it. They pulled up parts of the

floor, tore away the ceiling, and left marks of their visit from

cellar to garret.

Immediate efforts were made and measures taken to ferret out the

perpetrator of this daring crime. These were, for a considerable

length of time, fruitless, and, the excitement that at first arose

being somewhat quelled, some thought the search that had been

instituted was given, or about to be given, up, when a man by the

name of Smith came forward, and stated that, about nine days

previous to the discovery, as he was passing the house of the

deceased, he heard a faint cry, as of one in distress, and, turning

round, noticed a young man running in great haste. He, at the time,

thought little of this incident, as he supposed the boys were

engaged in some of their tricks. It had entirely passed his

recollection, until, hearing of the murder, he instantly recollected

the circumstance, and now he did not entertain a doubt that the

young man whom he saw was the murderer.

It appeared strange to some that this man had not made all this

known before; and that now, at so late a period, he should come

forward and with such apparent eagerness make the disclosures. Being

asked why he had not come forward before, he promptly replied that

he did not wish to suspect any person, for fear he might be

mistaken.

Efforts were now made, and excitement had again risen, to find out a

young man answering the description given by Smith, whom he alleged

to be one short in stature, and wearing a fur cap. Pedro Castello,

by birth an Italian, by trade a jeweller, who had resided in the

town a few years, was of this description. He was not very tall,

neither very short; but the fur cap he wore made up all deficiencies

in stature. Smith swore to his identity, and, at his instigation, he

was arrested, and with great coolness and self-possession passed

through a short examination, which resulted in his being placed in

custody to await his trial at the next session of a higher court.

The only evidence against him was that of Smith and his son; that of

the former was in substance what has already been stated, and that

of the latter only served to support and partially confirm the

evidence of the former. A host of townsmen appeared to attest to the

good character of the accused; and, with such evidence for and

against, he was committed.

Never was man led to prison who behaved with a greater degree of

composure. Conscious of his innocence, he acted not the part of a

guilty man, but, relying upon justice for an impartial trial, he

walked with a firm step, and unflinchingly entered a felon's cell.