OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. 681 An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' then, I wrote to Rebecca,-my girl who lives out West, An it made me independent, an' then I And to Isaac, not far from her-some twenty miles at best; didn't try; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like An' one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, a blow, When Charlie turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go. I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, for any one so old, And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold, So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about And she was always a-hintin' how snug it So they have well nigh soured me, an' worn MAY MIGNONETTE. VER the hills to the poor-house sad Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered breathThe sorrow that leads to the chamber whose light has gone out in death, To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and That mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps To hear from her lips their last blessing before she should start for her home To Susan, poor Susan! how bitter the agony For deep in her heart for her mother wide her path might be traced by her tears. Rebecca! she heard not the tidings, but those 682 A PRAYER FOR MY LITTLE ONE. Delirious, ever she told them her mother was cooling her head, While, weeping, they thought that ere morning both mother and child might be dead, And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was quiv'ring in aspen-like grief, While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him like billows of wind o'er the leaf; "Too late," were the words that had humbled his cold, haughty pride to the dust, And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, crowned loving forgiveness with trust. Bowed over his letters and papers, sat Thomas, his brow lined by thought, But little he heeded the markets or news of his gains that they brought; His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new purpose seemed born in his eye, And Thomas went "over the hills." to the mother that shortly must die. To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the mother's message that morn, And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the sunlight blushed over the corn; And, strangest of all, by his side, was the wife he had brought from the town," And silently wept, while her tears strung with diamonds her plain mourning gown. For each had been thinking, of late, how they missed the old mother's sweet smile, And wond'ring how they could have been so blind and unjust all that while; They thought of their harsh, cruel words, and longed to atone for the past, When swift o'er the heart of vain dreams swept the presence of death's chilling blast. So into the chamber of death, one by one, these sad children had crept, As they, in their childhood. had done, when mother was tired and slept,- And peace, rich as then, came to each, as they drank in her blessing, so deep, That, breathing into her life, she fell back in her last blessed sleep. And when "o'er the hills from the poorhouse," that mother is tenderly borne, The life of her life, her loved children, tread softly, and silently mourn, For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as the ocean is deep, And into our lives, with sweet healing, the balm of their bruising may creep. G A PRAYER FOR MY LITTLE ONE. EDGAR FAWCETT. OD bless my little one! How fair Loore on the cradle-pillow there. God guard my little one! To me Life, widowed of his life would be As sea-sands widowed of the sea. God guard my little one! T was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages; from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, and from the capitals of various nations,-all of them saying in their hearts, we will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fury, and then we will embark; we will slide across the appeased ocean, and in the gorgeous month of October we will greet our longed for native land, and our heart-loved homes. And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was come. The signal-ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed; the great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes; the wheels revolve; the signal-gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand. And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur,-"Home is not far away.' And every morning it was still one night nearer home! Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it; and plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. At a league's distance, unconscious; and at nearer approach, unwarned; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration. and respect) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion, "Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved." They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters gaining upon the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind, had he stood to execute sufficiently the commander's will,—we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men, to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of sinking! Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial-service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. DOROTHY SULLIVAN. H! a wedding ring's pretty to wear, And if I were a girl I'd have They may court you to-day, sweet as birds in the May, But to-morrow look out they'll be all flown away." Old Dolly Sullivan shook her gray head, Lovers were now the last thing she need dread. But you never can tell who has once been a belle. "Sweethearts! I've had 'em! I know 'em!" she said. "Just as long as your company's new, There is no one that's equal to you. |
