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WIND AND RAIN.

THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD.

HE cottage was a thatched one, its outside old
and mean;

Yet everything within that cot was wondrous
neat and clean:

The night was dark and stormy-the wind was blow

ing wild;

A patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child-
A little, worn-out creature-his once bright eyes grown
dim:

It was a collier's only child-they called him "Little
Jim."

And oh! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her
cheek,

As she offered up a prayer in thought!-she was afraid to speak,

Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than her life;

For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched collier's wife.

With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed,

And prays that God will spare her boy, and take herself instead:

She gets her answer from the child, soft falls these

words from him—

"Mother! the angels do so smile, and beckon Little Jim!

I have no pain, dear mother, now; but, oh! I am so dry:

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Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild,

On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child.

Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more; and, mother, I could picture him when living-curly hair, protruding

do not cry!"

With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to his lips

He smiled to thank her-then he took three little tiny sips.

lip

And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried southern trip.

But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death "Tell father, when he comes from work, I said 'good That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his flutnight!' to him;

And, mother, now I'll go to sleep.".

Little Jim!

tering breath; Alas! poor And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound

She saw that he was dying! The child she loved so Than was in the chain of tear drops that enclasped dear

Had uttered the last words she'd ever wish to hear.

The cottage door is opened-the collier's step is heard;

those mourners round.

Rose a sad old colored preacher at the little wooden desk,

The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance word:

He felt that all was over-he knew the child was dead! He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the bed:

His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal;

And see, the mother joins him!-the stricken couple kneel;

With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly ask, of Him

grotesque;

With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face;
With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying

race.

And he said, "Now, don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay,

For de little boy who lived there, he done gone and run away!

He was doin' very finely, and he 'precitate your love; In heaven, once more that they may meet their own But his sure 'nuff Father want him in de large house up poor "Little Jim!"

above.

NINE GRAVES IN EDINBORO'..

"Now, He didn' give you dat baby, by a hundred

thousand mile!

He jist think you need some sunshine, an' He lend it Robert Arnim says concerning the death of Jemmy Camber, one for a while! of the jesters of King James I, during his reign in Scotland: An' He let you keep an' love him till your heart was "Jemmy rose, made him ready, takes his horse, and rides to the bigger grown; An' dese silver tears you're sheddin's jest de interest women, and three for children; and whoso dyes next, first come, on de loan.

"Here yer oder pretty chilrun!-Don't be makin' it appear

Dat your love got sort o' 'nopolized by this little fellow here.

Don't pile up too much your sorrows on deir little mental shelves,

So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves?

"Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin'

'long o'er sorrow's way,

What a blessed little picnic dis yere baby's got to-day! Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fellow round

churchyard in the high towne, where he found the sexton (as the custom is there) making nine graves-three for men, three for

first served. 'Lend me thy spade,' says Jemmy, and with that
digs a hole, which hole he bids him make for his grave; and doth
give him a French crowne. The man, willing to please him (more
for his gold than his pleasure), did so; and the foole gets upon his
horse, rides to a gentleman of the towne, and on the sodaine with.
in two houres after dyed; of whom the sexton telling, he was
buried there indeed."

N the church-yard, up in the old high town,
The sexton stood at his daily toil,
And he lifted his mattock and drove it down,
And sunk it deep in the sacred soil.

And then as he delved he sang right lustily,
Aye as he deepened and shaped the graves
In the black old mold that smelled so mustily,
And thus was the way of the sexton's staves:

In de angel-tended garden of de Big Plantation "It's nine o' the clock, and I have begun
Ground.

"An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off
his little shoes.

The settled task that is daily mine;
By ten o' the clock I will finish one-
By six o' the clock there must be nine:

An' dey wash him, and dey kiss him, and dey say, "Just three for women, and three for men ; 'Now, what's de news?'

An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say:

'All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de hebenly way.'

"An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things. he view;

Den a tear come, and he whisper : paryents, too!'

'But I want my

But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song;

Says, 'If only dey be faithful, dey will soon be comin' 'long.'

"An' he'll get an education dat will proberly be worth Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth;

He'll be in de Lawd's big school-house, widout no contempt or fear,

While dere's no end to de bad tings might have happened to him here.

"So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest,

An' don't go to critersizin' dat ar One wot knows the best!

He have sent us many comforts-He have right to take away

To the Lawd be praise an' glory, now and ever! Let us pray."

WILL M. Carleton.

And, to fill the number, another three
For daughters of women and sons of men
Who men or women shall never be.

"And the first of the graves in a row of three
Is his or hers who shall first appear;
All lie in the order they come to me,

And such has been ever the custom here."
The first they brought was a fair young child,

And they saw him buried and went their way;
And the sexton leaned on his spade and smiled,
And wondered, "How many more to-day?"
The next was a man; then a woman came :

The sexton had loved her in years gone by; But the years had gone, and the dead old dame He buried as deep as his memory.

At six o' the clock his task was done;

Eight graves were closed, and the ninth prepared-
Made ready to welcome a man-what one
'Twas little the grim old sexton cared.

He sat him down on its brink to rest,
When the clouds were red and the sky was gray,
And said to himself: "This last is the best
And deepest of all I have digged to-day.

"Who will fill it, I wonder, and when?

It does not matter: whoe'er they be,
The best and the worst of the race of men
Are all alike when they come to me."

They went to him with a man, next day,

When the sky was gray and the clouds were red, As the sun set forth on his upward way;

They went-and they found the sexton dead. Dead, by the open grave, was he;

And they buried him in it that self-same day,
And marvelled much such a thing should be;
And since, the people will often say:

If ye dig, no matter when,
Graves to bury other men,

Think-it never can be known

When ye'll chance to dig your own.

Mind ye of the tale ye know

Nine graves in Edinbro.

IRWIN RUSSELL.

WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD RED EARTH

AM SLEEPING.

From hearts that bleed
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow
Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart!

And, though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
Let no tear start;

It were in vain-for time hath long been knellingSad one, depart!

WILLIAM MOtherwell

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF

MUSIC.

'WAS at the royal feast for Persia won

By Philip's war-like son—

Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate

On his imperial throne;

HEN I beneath the cold red earth am sleep- His valiant peers were placed around,

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ing,

Life's fever o'er,

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned ;)

Will there for me be any bright eye weeping The lovely Thais by his side

That I'm no more?

Will there be any heart still memory keeping

Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless orests rushing,

Like full hearts break—

When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,

Sad music make

Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing, Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining

With purest ray,

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
In flower of youth and beauty's pride:-
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave

None but the brave

None but the brave deserves the fair!
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove,

And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twin- Who left his blissful seats above

ing,

Burst through that clay

Will there be one still on that spot repining

Lost hopes all day?

When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping Of her dark pall,

The world and all its manifold creation sleepingThe great and small

Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping
For me for all?

When no star twinkles with its eyes of glory
On that low mound,

And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary
Its loneness crowned,

Will there be then one, versed in misery's story,
Pacing it round?

It may be so-but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed—

A meekness and a wickedness, to borrow

Such is the power of mighty love!
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode
When he to fair Olympia prest,

And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curled,

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world,

-The listening crowd admire the lofty sound!

A present deity! they shout around:

A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound!
With ravished ears

The monarch hears,
Assumes the god;
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung-
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:

The jolly god in triumph comes!
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!

Flashed with a purple grace

He shows his honest face:

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain ;

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure :

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Soothed with the sound, the King grew vain;

Fought all his battles o'er again,

Now strike the golden lyre again :

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain !
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark! that horrid sound

Has raised up his head:

As awaked from the dead

And amazed he stares around.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,

See the furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear

How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew Behold a ghastly band

the slain !

The master saw the madness rise,

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied

Changed his hand and checked his pride.

He chose a mournful muse

Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius great and good,

By too severe a fate

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,

Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his altered soul

The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
Honor but an empty bubble,
Never ending, still beginning;
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee!

The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So love was crowned, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair

Who caused his care,

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked and sighed again :

At length with love and wine at once opprest,
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast.

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Statues, bend your heads in sorrow,

Ye that glance 'mid ruins old,

That know not a past, nor expect a morrow
On many a moonlight Grecian wold!

By sculptured cave and speaking river,
Thee, Daedalus, oft the nymphs recall;
The leaves with a sound of winter quiver,
Murmur thy name, and withering fall.
Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest
Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed eye,
Though, Daedalus, thou no more commandest
New stars to that ever-widening sky.

Ever thy phantoms arise before us,
Our loftier brothers, but one in blood;
By bed and table they lord it o'er us,
With looks of beauty and words of good.
Calmly they show us mankind victorious
O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base;
Their presence has made our nature glorious,
Unveiling our night's illumined face.

Wail for Dædalus, earth and ocean!

Stars and sun, lament for him!

Ages quake in strange commotion !
All ye realms of life be dim!

Wail for Dædalus, awful voices,

From earth's deep centre mankind appall!
Seldom ye sound, and then death rejoices,
For he knows that then the mightiest fall.
JOHN STERLING.

a

DICKENS IN CAMP.

He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy-for the reader
Was youngest of them all-

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall;

The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,

While the whole camp, with "Nell," on English meadows

Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken
As by some spell divine-

Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?—
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly,
And laurel wreaths intwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—
This spray of western pine.

BRET HARTE

JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD.

NE time my soul was pierced as with a sword, Contending still with men untaught and

wild,

When He who to the prophet lent his gourd, Gave me the solace of a pleasant child.

A summer gift, my precious flower was given,
A very summer fragrance was its life;

BOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race of wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure,

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, To hear the tale anew;

When home I turned, a weary man of strife.

With unformed laughter, musically sweet,

How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss · With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet! O, in the desert, what a spring was this!

A few short months it blossomed near my heart:
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad;
But that home-solace nerved me for my part,
And of the babe I was exceeding glad.

Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying,
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night !)

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying, And as the firelight fell,

Took gently home the child of my delight.

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