WIND AND RAIN. THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD. HE cottage was a thatched one, its outside old Yet everything within that cot was wondrous The night was dark and stormy-the wind was blow ing wild; A patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child- It was a collier's only child-they called him "Little And oh! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her 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: 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; 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 N the church-yard, up in the old high town, And then as he delved he sang right lustily, In de angel-tended garden of de Big Plantation "It's nine o' the clock, and I have begun "An' dey ask him, 'Was your feet sore?' an' take off The settled task that is daily mine; 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 "And the first of the graves in a row of three And such has been ever the custom here." And they saw him buried and went their way; 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- He sat him down on its brink to rest, "Who will fill it, I wonder, and when? It does not matter: whoe'er they be, 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, If ye dig, no matter when, 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 Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, And, though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, 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, 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 None but the brave None but the brave deserves the fair! With flying fingers touched the lyre: 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 When no star twinkles with its eyes of glory And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary Will there be then one, versed in misery's story, It may be so-but this is selfish sorrow A meekness and a wickedness, to borrow Such is the power of mighty love! And while he sought her snowy breast; 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! The monarch hears, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung- The jolly god in triumph comes! Flashed with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! 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 ! And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 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; 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, With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, The various turns of chance below; The mighty master smiled to see Take the good the gods provide thee! The many rend the skies with loud applause; Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, At length with love and wine at once opprest, Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, Ye that glance 'mid ruins old, That know not a past, nor expect a morrow By sculptured cave and speaking river, Ever thy phantoms arise before us, Wail for Dædalus, earth and ocean! Stars and sun, lament for him! Ages quake in strange commotion ! Wail for Dædalus, awful voices, From earth's deep centre mankind appall! a DICKENS IN CAMP. He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell." Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy-for the reader But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall; The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows, While the whole camp, with "Nell," on English meadows Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story And on that grave where English oak and holly, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— 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, 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: Alas! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying, 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. |