In luxury, lolled on a silk divan,
Dreaming the idle hours away
In a cloud of smoke from his nargile.
Weary with nothing to do in life,
He thought, as he watched the smoky whirls,
"'Twill be diversion to choose a wife
From my peerless bevy of dancing-girls.
There are beauties fair from every land--
Lustrous eyes from Samarcand,
Dusky forms from the upper Nile,
Teeth that glisten when red lips smile,
Gypsy faces of olive hue,
Stolen from some wild wandering clan,
Fair complexions and eyes of blue,
From the sunny isles of Cardachan,
Regal beauties of queenly grace
And sinuous sirens of unknown race;
Some one among them will surely bless
Hours that grow heavy with idleness."
Then the slave that waited his lightest need,
Fell on his knee, by the silk divan,
And the swarthy, listening ear gave heed
To the will of the lord of Ispahan.
"Send hither my dancing-girls," he said,
"And set me a feast to please the eye
And tempt the palate, for this shall be
A wedding breakfast before us spread,
If the charm of beauty can satisfy
And one of their number pleaseth me.
I will wed no maiden of high degree
With the tips of her fingers henna-stained
And the dew of youth from her life-blood drained,
But a child of nature wild and free."
Then the slave bent low and said: "O Sire,
A woman lingers beside the gate;
Her eyes are aglow like coals of fire
And she mourns as one disconsolate;
And when we bid her to cease and go,
Each eye grows bright, like an evening star,
And she sayeth: 'The master will hear my woe,
For I come from the deserts of Khandakar.'"
"Bid her to enter," the master said,
And the frown from his forehead swiftly fled.
The hasty word on his lip way stayed
As he thought of his youth, in the land afar,
And the peerless eyes of a Bedouin maid,
In the desert places of Khandakar.
The woman entered and swift unwound
The veil that mantled her face around,
And in matchless beauty, she stood arrayed,
In the scant attire of a Bedouin maid.
The indolent lord of Ispahan
Started back on the silk divan,
For in form and feature, in very truth,
It seemed the love of his early youth.
The almond eyes and the midnight hair,
The rosebud mouth and the rounded chin--
Time had not touched them; they still were fair,
And the passion of yore grew strong within.
Then she made him the secret Bedouin sign,
Which only dishonor can fail to heed;
The solemn pact of the races nine,
To help each other in time of need.
But her eyes beheld no answering sign,
Though a crimson tide to his forehead ran,
And the trembling maiden could not divine
The will of the lord of Ispahan.
With the sound of a rippling mountain brook,
The voice of the woman her lips forsook;
And thus her tale of despair began
In the lordly palace of Ispahan:
"On a stallion black as the midnight skies,
From a desert I come, where my lover lies
At death's dark verge; and the hostile clan
That struck him down, are in Ispahan
With slaves to sell, in the open street;
And only because my steed was fleet
Am I now free; but here I bide,
For this morning the hard-rid stallion died.
Out of your opulence, one swift steed
Only a drop from the sea will be;
A grain of sand on the shore, to my need;
But the wealth of the whole, wide world to me.
My soul to the soul of my loved one cries,
At dawn or in darkness, whate'er betide,
And the pain of longing all peace denies,
To the heart that strains to my lover's side."
"You shall mourn no more, but sit with me
And rejoice in a scene of revelry;
For the pleasures of life are the rights of man,"
Said the indolent lord of Ispahan.
The curtains parted and noiseless feet
Of dusky slaves stole over the floor.
Their strong arms laden with burden sweet
Of fruits and flowers a goodly store.
Luscious peaches and apricots,
Plucked from the sunniest garden spots;
Syrian apples and cordials rare;
Succulent grapes that filled the air
With heavy sweetness, while rivers ran,
From beakers of wine from Astrakhan;
Cooling salvers of colored ice;
Almonds powdered with fragrant spice;
Smoking viands, on plates of gold,
And carven vessels of price untold,
Kindling the appetite afresh
For dainty morsels of fowl and flesh.
The musical notes of the mellow flute,
From a source remote, rose higher and higher,
With the quivering sounds from a hidden lute,
The plaintive sweep of the tender lyre.
Then a whirlwind of color filled the air--
A misty vapor of filmy lace,
With gleams of silk and of round arms bare,
In a mazy whirl of infinite grace;
And the lustrous glow of tresses blent
With the shimmer of pearls, from the Orient.
The half-sobbed, breathless, sweet refrain,
A swelling burst of sensuous sound,
Sank lower to swell and sink again,
Then died in silence most profound.
The panting beauties with cheeks aglow,
Scattered about on the rug-strewn floor,
Like bright-hued leaves when the chill winds blow,
Or tinted sea-shells along the shore.
But the lord of the palace turned and cried;
"Heavy and languid these maidens are."
And he said, to the Bedouin at his side:
"Teach them the dances of Khandakar."
Her dark eyes lit with the flash of fire,
And she said: "You will pity my need most dire?
You will give me steed to fly afar,
To my love in the deserts of Khandakar?"
"Half that I own shall be yours," he said,
"If the love of my youth that was under ban
Comes back to me like a soul from the dead
Bringing joy to the palace of Ispahan."
She sprang to the floor with an agile bound.
The music broke in a swirl of sound,
Her hair from its fillet became unbound.
And the dancing-girls that stood apart,
Gazed rapt and speechless, with hand to heart,
At the wild, untrammelled curves of grace
Of the dancing-girl from the desert race.
Not one of them half so fair to see;
Not one as lithe in the sinuous twist
Of twirling body and bending knee,
Of supple ankle and curving wrist.
The wilder the music, the wilder she;
It seemed like the song of a bird set free
To thrill in the heart of a cloud of mist
And live on its own mad ecstasy.
Spellbound and mute, on the silk divan,
Sat the lord of the palace of Ispahan.
But the thoughts of the master were drifting far
To his youth in the deserts of Khandakar;
To the time when another had danced as well,
And listened with tenderness in her eyes,
To the burning words his lips might tell,
With kisses freighting her soft replies.
And he had thought that her smile would bless
His roving life, in the land afar,
And cheer him in hours of loneliness,
In the tents of the deserts of Khandakar.
But the tribe had chosen the maid to wed
With the powerful chief of a hostile clan,
And the flattered woman had turned and fled
From the pleading voice of a stricken man;
Then out of the desert the lover sped,
To become a great lord of Ispahan.
And now this child, with the subtle grace
Of the mother that bore her, had come to him
With the desert's breath upon her face,
Rousing within him a purpose grim.
"By the beard of the Prophet! but you shall be
The light and the joy of my life to me!
As your mother was, you are to-day.
Your lover, perchance, hath lived his span;
You shall dry your maidenly tears and stay
As the wife of the lord of Ispahan."
That night, when the dusky shadows crept
Across the tiles of the banquet-room,
They found the form of a man who slept
On a silk divan, in the gathering gloom.
The window screens were wide to the air,
And the hedge, where the fragrant roses grew,
Was cleft and trodden to earth, just where
A frightened fugitive might pass through.
And the groom of the stables, heavy with wine,
Wakened not at the prancing tread
Of the milk-white steed and made no sign,
As the Bedouin maid from the palace fled.
And the indolent lord of Ispahan
Seemed resting still, on the silk divan;
But his heart was beating with love no more,
In his eyes no light of passion gleamed;
His listless fingers touched the floor,
Where the crimson tide of his life-blood streamed,
And he slept the last, long, dreamless sleep;
For the end had come to life's brief span;
And his jewelled dagger was handle deep,
In the heart of the lord of Ispahan.
HORNETS.
BY BILL NYE.
Last fall I desired to add to my rare collection a large hornet's nest. I
had an embalmed tarantula and her porcelain-lined nest, and I desired to
add to these the gray and airy house of the hornet. I procured one of the
large size, after cold weather, and hung it in my cabinet by a string. I
forgot about it until spring. When warm weather came something reminded me
of it; I think it was a hornet. He jogged my memory in some way, and called
my attention to it. Memory is not located where I thought it was. It seemed
as though when ever he touched me he awakened a memory,--a warm memory,
with a red place all around it.
Then some more hornets came, and began to rake up old personalities. I
remember that one of them lit on my upper lip. He thought it was a rosebud.
When he went away it looked like a gladiolus bulb. I wrapped a wet sheet
around it to take out the warmth and reduce the swelling, so that I could
go through the folding doors, and tell my wife about it. Hornets lit all
over me, and walked around on my person. I did not dare to scrape them off,
because they were so sensitive. You have to be very guarded in your conduct
toward a hornet.
I remember once while I was watching the busy little hornet gathering honey
and June-bugs from the bosom of a rose, years ago, I stirred him up with a
club, more as a practical joke than anything, and he came and lit in my
sunny hair;--that was when I wore my own hair--and he walked around through
my gleaming tresses quite a while, making tracks as large as a water-melon
all over my head. If he hadn't run out of tracks my head would have looked
like a load of summer squashes. I remember I had to thump my head against
the smoke-house in order to smash him; and I had to comb him out with a
fine comb, and wear a waste-paper basket two weeks for a hat. Much has
been said of the hornet; but he has an odd, quaint way after all, that is
forever new.
SINCE SHE WENT HOME.
BY R. J. BURDETTE.
Since she went home--
The evening shadows linger longer here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear,
Since she went home.
Since she went home--
The robin's note has touched a minor strain,
The old glad songs breathe but a sad refrain,
And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain,
Since she went home.
Since she went home--
How still the empty room her presence blessed;
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed;
My lonely heart has nowhere for its rest,
Since she went home.
Since she went home--
The long, long days have crept away like years,
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears,
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears,
Since she went home.
THE CHILDREN WE KEEP.
The children kept coming, one by one,
Till the boys were five and the girls were three,
And the big brown house was alive with fun
From the basement floor to the old roof-tree.
Like garden flowers the little ones grew,
Nurtured and trained with the tenderest care;
Warmed by love's sunshine, bathed in its dew,
They bloomed into beauty, like roses rare.
But one of the boys grew weary one day,
And leaning his head on his mother's breast,
He said, "I'm tired and cannot play;
Let me sit awhile on your knee and rest."
She cradled him close in her fond embrace,
She hushed him to sleep with her sweetest song,
And rapturous love still lighted his face
When his spirit had joined the heavenly throng.
Then the eldest girl, with her thoughtful eyes,
Who stood where the "brook and the river meet,"
Stole softly away into paradise
Ere "the river" had reached her slender feet.
While the father's eyes on the grave are bent,
The mother looked upward beyond the skies;
"Our treasures," she whispered, "were only lent,
Our darlings were angels in earth's disguise."
The years flew by and the children began
With longing to think of the world outside;
And as each, in his turn, became a man,
The boys proudly went from the father's side.
The girls were women so gentle and fair
That lovers were speedy to woo and win;
And with orange blossoms in braided hair,
The old home was left, the new home to begin.
So, one by one, the children have gone,--
The boys were five and the girls were three;
And the big brown house is gloomy and lone,
With but two old folks for its company.
They talk to each other about the past,
As they sit together in eventide,
And say, "All the children we keep at last
Are the boy and the girl who in childhood died."
AMERICA FOR GOD.
BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE.
But now what are the weapons by which, under our Omnipotent Leader, the
real obstacles in the way of our country's evangelization, the ten thousand
mile Sebastopols, are to be leveled? The first columbiad, with range enough
to sweep from eternity to eternity, is the Bible, millions of its copies
going out, millions on millions. Then there are all the Gospel batteries,
manned by seventy thousand pastors and home missionaries, over the head of
each one of whom is the shield of Divine protection, and in the right hand
of each one the gleaming, two-edged sword of the Infinite Spirit! Hundreds
of thousands of private soldiers for Christ, marching under the
one-starred, blood-striped flag of Emanuel! On our side, the great and
mighty theologians of the land the heavy artillery, and the hundreds of
thousands of Christian children the infantry. They are marching on!
Episcopacy, with the sublime roll of its liturgies; Methodism, with its
battle-cry of "The sword of the Lord and John Wesley;" the Baptist Church,
with its glorious navy sailing up our Oregons and Sacramentos and
Mississippis; and Presbyterians, moving on with the battle-cry of "The
sword of the Lord and John Knox." And then, after awhile will come the
great tides of revival, sweeping over the land, the five hundred thousand
conversions in 1857 eclipsed by the salvation of millions in a day, and the
four American armies of the Lord's host marching toward each other, the
Eastern army marching west, the Western army marching east, the Northern
army marching south, the Southern army marching north; shoulder to
shoulder! Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! until they meet mid-continent, having taken
America for God!
The thunder of the bombardment is already in the air, and when the last
bridge of opposition is taken, and the last portcullis of Satan is lifted,
and the last gun spiked, and the last tower dismantled, and the last
charger of iniquity shall have been hurled back upon its haunches, what a
time of rejoicing!
OUR OWN.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
If I had known, in the morning,
How wearily all the day
The words unkind would trouble my mind
That I said when you went away,
I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you needless pain;
But--we vex our own with look and tone
We might never take back again.
For though in the quiet evening
You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet it well might be that never for me
The pain of the heart should cease;
How many go forth at morning
Who never come home at night,
And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken
That sorrow can ne'er set right.
We have careful thought for the stranger,
And smiles for the sometime guest,
But oft for our own the bitter tone,
Though we love our own the best.
Ah, lip with the curve impatient,
Ah, brow with the shade of scorn,
'T were a cruel fate were the night too late
To undue the work of morn.
BEHIND TIME.
BY FREEMAN HUNT.
A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was
just ahead, and beyond it was a station, at which the cars usually passed
each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which
the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the
curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an
instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in
eternity; and all because an engineer had been _behind time_.
A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for
eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The
summer sun was sinking to the west; re-inforcements for the obstinate
defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position
with one final charge, or everything would be lost. A powerful corps had
been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all
would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed
his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy.
The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial
guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St.
Helena because one of his marshals was _behind time_.
A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy.
As it had enormous assets in California, it expected remittances by a
certain day; and, if the sums promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and
its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed
without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had
bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at
daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the
house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the
insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in
remitting, had been _behind time_.
A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but
under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was
active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve; a
favorable answer had been expected the night before; and, though it had not
come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season.
Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger. The last
moment had come. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn
over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in
the wind. Just at that moment a horse-man came into sight, galloping down
hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand,
which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with the
reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died
an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow,
making its bearer arrive _behind time_.
It is continually so in life. The best-laid plans, the most important
affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor,
happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is "behind
time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply
because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation
year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because
forever "_behind time_."
Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it
has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that
should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it
is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being
_behind time_.
KITTENS AND BABIES.
BY LIZZIE M. HADLEY.
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,
And grandmamma said, with a frown,
"It never will do to keep them both,
The black one we'd better drown."
"Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess,
"One kitten's enough to keep;
Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late
And time you were fast asleep."
The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet
Came little Bess from her nap.
The nurse said, "Go into mamma's room
And look in grandma's lap."
"Come here," said grandma, with a smile,
From the rocking-chair where she sat,
"God has sent you two little sisters;
Now! what do you think of that?"
Bess looked at the babies a moment,
With their wee heads, yellow and brown,
And then to grandma soberly said,
"_Which one are you going to drown_?"
AN UNACCOUNTABLE MYSTERY.
BY PAUL DENTON.
Intemperance is the strangest and most unaccountable mystery with which we
have to deal. Why, as a rule, the human soul is passionately jealous of its
own happiness, and tirelessly selfish as to its own interest. It delights
to seek the sunshine and the flowers this side the grave: ardently hopes
for heaven in the life to come. It flashes its penetrating thought through
the dark chambers of the earth; or lighted by the lurid flames of
smouldering, volcanic fires, wings them through buried ovens. It lights up
the ocean's bed, melting its mysteries into solution, detecting its coral
richness, and causing its buried pearls, which have rested for long
centuries beneath the black waves, to glow with their long-hoarded beauty.
It holds converse with the glittering planets of the skies and compels them
to tell it of their mountain ranges, their landscapes, and their utility.
It toys with the mad lightnings which break from the darkness, and guides
death and destruction through the earth, until it allures the impetuous
element into docility and subserviency. It bids the panting waters breathe
their hot, heavy breath upon the piston-rod and make the locomotive a
beautiful thing of life, majestically thundering its way over continents,
screaming forth the music of civilization in the midst of wild forests and
the heat of burning deserts, beneath scorching, torrid suns. It leaps over
burning plains and scalding streams; restless and daring, it lights its
casket over arctic zones and seas; and perhaps tiring of such incumbrance,
deserts it in the cold shade of the ice mountain and speeds on untrammeled
and alone. Franklin followed the beckonings of his tireless spirit until
worn out and weary, his body laid down on the cold ice and slept. Kane
coaxed himself home to the old churchyard, and then bade his spirit drop
the machine it had so sadly wrenched and fly through earth or the
eternities, as God might will. Livingstone marched through the jungles and
cheerless forests of uninviting Africa, but his limbs were too feeble to
keep up with his hungry soul, which tore itself from its burden and left it
to crumble beneath the burning sun. And thus the soul flies from zone to
zone and from world to world, sipping the sweets of wisdom, as the bee
sucks honey from the flowers; reading lessons from the leaflet on the tree,
studying the language of the soft whispering zephyr, and of the hurricane
which springs from nothing into devastating power; and it is ever restless
in its researches, for it seeks its own happiness and improvement in its
new discoveries, and in a better knowledge of God's creation. Speak to the
human soul of liberty, and swell it with gratitude, and, beaming with
smiles, it will follow whereever you lead. Speak to it of its immortality
and of the divine grandeur of its faculties, and, warmed by your
appreciation, it will strive harder for a fuller development and brighter
existence. Lead it among the roses, and it will seldom fail to light your
pathway with smiles and to remind you of its gratitude. It loves to be
noticed; loves to be assisted; loves to be made happy; loves to be warned
of danger, and yet, with reference to that which pierces it with the most
bleeding wounds, which more than anything else bars from it the sunlight
and robs it of happiness--Intemperance--IT IS AS HEEDLESS AS THE STONE.
IMPERFECTUS.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
I wonder if ever a song was sung,
But the singer's heart sang sweeter!
I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung,
But the thought surpassed the meter!
I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought,
Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought!
Or if ever a painter, with light and shade,
The dream of his inmost heart portrayed!
I wonder if ever a rose was found,
And there might not be a fairer!
Or if ever a glittering gem was ground,
And we dreamed not of a rarer!
Ah! never on earth do we find the best,
But it waits for us in a Land of Rest,
And a perfect thing we shall never behold,
Till we pass the portals of shining gold.
A WOMAN'S POCKET.
BY JAMES M. BAILEY.