SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 535 "So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear,-as the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, to tell you that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.' "I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously. "No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point. 66 6 Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam. "That's rayther a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller. "Not a bit on it," said Sam: "she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'." Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I vish your Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?" name. "That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to sign it." Sign it-Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that "Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name." "Sign it Pickvick then," said Mr. Weller; "it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell." "The wery thing," said Sam. "I could end with a werse: what do you think?" "I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule." But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter— "Your love-sick Pickwick." Thou from primeval nothingness didst call, First chaos, then existence ;-Lord! on Thee Eternity had its foundation;-all Sprung forth from Thee;-of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin;—all life, all beauty, Thine. Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround; Upheld by Thee; by Thee inspired with. breath! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death! And as the spangles in the sunny rays A million torches lighted by Thy hand Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Pyres of crystal light A glorious company of golden streamsLamps of celestial ether burning bright— Suns lighting systems with their joyful beams? But Thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost; What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then? Heaven's unnum bered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! Naught! But the effluence of Thy light Divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom, too; Yes, in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine, Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high Even to the throne of Thy Divinity, I am O God! and surely Thou must be! Thou art! directing, guiding all! Thou art! Direct my understanding then to Thee. Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand! I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realm where angels have their this clod Lives surely through some higher energy; For from itself alone it could not be ! Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me! Thou source of life and good! Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! Thy light, Thy love, in the bright plenitude, Filled me with an immortal soul to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere, Even to its source-to Thee-its author there. O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 539 Though worthless our conception all of Thee, soar; Thus seek Thy presence-Being wise and Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; I REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. SIR WALTER SCOTT. OOK from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath-Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." beneath. With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from "What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight. "Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." "That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be." "I see him not," said Rebecca. "Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?" "He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Rebecca, "I see him now; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain.-They have made a breach in the barriersthey rush in-they are thrust back!-Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of Jacob it is the meeting of two fierce tides-the conflict of two oceans. moved by adverse winds!" |