^W^^'! ^-'W 'LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. |l»ap. /VNJSQRRPPCJQR AfSfaW Lm, UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. WW" '^5 rfrt. . fmfit^M ^M^fl^ «*w>&. f ut IH ^ THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. SELECTION OF LITERARY GEMS IN POETRY AND PROSE DESIGNED FOR THE USE OF COLLEGES, SCHOOLS, SEMINARIES, LITERARY SOCIETIES, AND ESPECIALLY ADAPTED FOR ALL PERSONS DESIROUS TO EXCEL IN DECLA- MATION AND PUBLIC SPEAKING. .--■-■ BY PHILIP LAWRENCE,X PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION, AND PRINCIPAL OF THE INSTITUTES OF ELOCtJ NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA. This work contains not only tho finest productions of Authors known to Fame, in both Prose and Poetry, but also a number of Anonymous Pieces of the highest merit, as well as Practical Hints anil Rules to be followed by all in the study of Elocution, as regards Articulation, Modulation, Emphasis, and Delivery. PHILADELPHIA: T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 306 CHESTNUT STREET. TO A NOBLE MAN, WHOSE ELOQUENCE I ADMIRE, WHOSE TALENT I HONOR, AND WHOSE WORTH I APPRECIATE, THE REY. E. H. CHAPIN, D.D., WITH THE WARMEST FEELINGS OF ESTEEM AND RESPECT I DEDICATE THIS BOOK, PHILIP LAWKEJSTCE. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. PREFACE The importance of the study of Elocution is now ac- knowledged by all persons of taste and refinement. Why is the study of Elocution of such importance? Because, Eloquence is Divine ! By this noble Art, Nations have been made free ; Chris- tianity has been extended over the greater part of the Earth ; Cities and Countries have become renowned from being the birthplace of the ''Children of Genius," whose names are household words in the land of their birth. Any eloquent youth may aspire to, and will be almost sure to obtain Renown and Fortune ; he may rise from the lowest step to the loftiest pinnacle of Fame : Henry Clay and Daniel "Webster are names that will live as long as the English Language is spoken. # Whose Orations (one on Mars Hill to the Philosophers, Stoics, and Epicureans of Athens, the other before King Agrippa) are considered to be models of Eloquence ? I answer, those of Paul, the educated Apostle. When Greece and Rome were in their glory, eloquence was studied and cultivated by all who aspired to honor and distinction. In the golden days of Greece, Pericles not only adorned (19) 20 PEEFACE. Athens with Paintings, Statuary, and magnificent Public Buildings, but he also glorified it by his sublime eloquence. Did not Cicero save Rome by his orations against Cati- line ? What roused the noblest emotions in the breasts of our forefathers, and caused them to dare all and do all for their Country's freedom V The burning words of Patrick Henry. In order to make the study of this sublime Art a labor of love, I wish to impress upon the minds of all desirous to learn, that there are but four Rules needing especial study ; — these are : Articulation, Modulation, Emphasis, and De- livery, the golden and infallible Rules on which all others depend. RULE FIRST. ARTICULATION. Articulation is the art of pronouncing not only every word, but also every syllable, and letter, clearly and dis- tinctly. Example. Say Gov'ern-ment, not Guv-ment ; say Is'ra-el, not Is-rale; say Ar-tic-u-la'tion, not Ar-tic-la-shun, etc. RULE SECOND. MODULATION. Modulation is the art of explaining by the tones of the voice the meaning of the Speaker or Reader. All persons ought to be aware how important it is to attend to modulation. The chief beauty of oratory is in the melody of the speaker's utterance. Every feeling and emotion of the human heart can be PKEEACE. 21 expressed by the tones of the voice ; and as, by appropriate gesture, everything we say can be made plain to the under- standing through the sight, so also, by giving every word its proper sound, can it be made perfectly intelligible to the ear. But remember ! as this can be done only by a finished reader or orator, the living teacher alone can instruct in Modulation. The study of Poe's wonderful poem, "The Bells," is recommended to all wishing to excel in this delightful art. RULE THIRD. EMPHASIS. The best rule for emphasizing correctly is to study the true meaning of the Author ; and by speaking the word meant to be emphatic in a louder tone of voice, or allowing the voice to dwell upon that particular word longer than the others, convey the real meaning to your hearers. Example. I know not what course Others may take, but as for Me, give me LIBEETY, or give me DEATH. RULE FOURTH. DELIVERY. The most celebrated Orator of the Ancients (Demos- thenes) called delivery not only the chief part of oratory, but oratory itself ; because, unless master of it, no man can be a perfect speaker. The eloquent writer, Orville Dewey, says : " When all the powers of Elocution are put in requisition, the voice with all its thrilling tones ; the eye through which, as a 22 PKEFACE. window, the soul darts forth its light ; the lips on which grace is poured ; the whole glowing countenance, the whole breathing frame ; when every motion speaks, every muscle swells with the inspiration of high thoughts, what instru- ment of music, what glories of the canvass can equal it ? It is sublimity, beauty, genius, power, in their most glorious exercise." After reading those eloquent and noble words, who can doubt the power of Oratory ? I say to every Minister of the Gospel, every Lawyer, every Statesman, and every Teacher, diligently study this sublime Art, and become useful members and ornaments of Society. " Speech is a glorious gift — the electric chain Through which the lightning of intelligence Transmits its flashes, when the kindling brain Would make its visions palpable to sense." A PEW PEACTICAL HINTS ON ELOCUTION. It may be asked, what plan I would recommend to those wishing to become good readers and eloquent speakers ? I reply: In the first place, make yourself master of the subject you intend to read or recite ; be certain you fully understand the author's meaning. In the second place, read or speak in the most natural manner, because the nearer we are to nature, the nearer we are to perfection ; endeavor to individualize yourself with what you are say- ing, for instance, when reciting the speech of Catiline, remember the character of the man, proud, unscrupulous, brave, ambitious, cruel, etc. ; and by your manner, as well as the tones of the voice, bring Catiline before the audience. Again, when Shakspeare describes Mark Antony delivering that celebrated oration — the most wonderful ever delivered by man, combining the deepest pathos, the most consum- PKEFACE. 23 mate art, the force, the fire, the grandeur, the polish of oratory, how can any one expect to recite it, as it should be recited, unless he fully appreciates and understands what he is saying ? He must bear in mind that Antony stood in the Eostrum in danger of his life if he said one word against Brutus ; that he was compelled to be careful of every word he uttered, lest he should be stoned to death where he stood. How should he utter the oft repeated words, "But Brutus is an honorable man ! " In the first instance it should be spoken as if he really meant what he said ; in the second, almost the same, but with the slightest shade of doubt in his manner ; in the third, it should be spoken as though he asked the people — If Brutus was an honorable man ? and in the fourth, with the keenest irony ; because he had gradually convinced the fickle populace that Brutus was not an honorable man. So in every case, you must individualize yourself if you wish to succeed as a Reader, Speaker, Lecturer or Teacher. In the third place, remember that every important word has a particular sound that expresses the meaning, for instance, in Poe's Raven, where he says : " Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." I should read it in this manner : "Deep into that dark- ness peering," in a full toned voice ; on the word " long," I should let the voice dwell for a short time, say about double the time that is usually taken in pronouncing the word, thus long, 1-o-n-g ; on the word "wondering," I should raise the voice, and prolong the sound to express the wonder felt ; on the word "fearing," I should let the voice fall, and if reciting it I should shrink back as if in fear ; on the word "doubting," I should let the voice have an uncer- 24 PEEFACE. tain sound, between a question and an affirmation ; the words " dreaming dreams," I should pronounce in a dreamy tone, as if just awakened from sleep ; then the word " dared " I should pronounce with emphasis. I have thus endeavored, in plain, simple, unadorned lan- guage to explain my meaning ; and I hope and believe that all desirous to learn, will find these few practical hints of real service in their intellectual and commendable endeavor to improve themselves. " Work ! for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labor I all labor is noble and holy." Philip Lawrence. CONTENTS < «»»« »■ » Abou Ben Adheni Leigh Hunt. 35 Abraham Lincoln Castellar. 46 Abraham and the Fire Worshiper Leigh Hunt. 533 Adam and Eve Milton. 455 Afar in the Desert Thomas Pringle. 347 After the Battle 76 Against the American War Lord Chatham. 318 Against Employing Indians in War.. Lord Chatham. 477 A Good Strong Heart E. H. Chapin. 41 A Glass of Cold Water J. B. Gough. 91 A Health Edward C. Pinckney. 385 Alfred the Great to His Men Sheridan Knowles. 370 An Alpine Storm at Lake Geneva Byron. 99 Another Enigma Jane Taylor. 533 Anthony's Address to the Romans Shakspeare. 73 A Parable James B. Lowell, 597 A Portrait 499 A Prayer in Sickness Bryan Waller Procter. 153 A Psalm of Life Longfellow. 213 A Pill from the Town Pump Hawthorne. 616 A Rill from the Town Pump, {continued) Haivthorne. 620 A Summer Evening Watts. 456 A Sublime Prayer Matthew Arnold. 158 A Thanksgiving Sermon Le Grand. 526 Auld Robin Gray Anne Barnard. 104 A Visit from Old Neptune J. 8. Sleeper. 604 A Yankee in Love Alfred Burnett. 397 Barbara Frietchie J. G. Whittier. 243 Be a Woman 42 Beautiful Snow J.W. Watson. 216 Beautiful Tales H. Harbaugh. 443 Belshazzar B. W. Procter. 186 Bernardo Del Carpio Mrs. Hemans. 178 Bernardo and King Alphonso J. G. Lockhart. 324 Betsy and I are Out W.M. Carleton. 578 Betsy Destroys the Paper P. V. Nasby. 581 Bingen on the Rhine Mrs. Norton. 240 Break, Break, Break Tennyson. 473 Bridge of Sighs Hood. 237 (25) 26 CONTENTS. Page. Bugle Song Tennyson. 429 Burial of Little Nell Dickens. 155 Casabianca Mrs. Hemans. 427 Cato's Soliloquy ' Addison. 293 Caudle has been Made a Mason Douglas Jerrold. 444 Charge of Pickett's Division at the Battle of Gettysburg William McMichael. 51 Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 189 Christ in the Tempest E. C. Embury. 413 Clarence's Dream Shakspeare. 341 Clerical Wit 576 Conversations after Marriage Sheridan. 362 Conversations after Marriage (Part Second) 365 Courage B . Cornwall. 476 Cowper's Grave E. B. Browning. 465 Cradle Song Tennyson . 428 Creation a Proof of Divine Existence 66 Damon and Pythias ; or True Friendship Wm. Peter. 43 David, King of Israel E. Irving. 108 Days of Childhood W. S. Peirce. 409 Deacon Stokes Thomas Quilp . 452 Death the Peacemaker E.H.Flagg. 129 Death of Lord Nelson Bobert Southey. 113 Death of Little Paul Dickens. 558 Despair Victor Hugo . 493 Destruction of Sennacherib Byron. 99 Dialogue between King Edward and the Earl of Warwick Dr. Thomas Franklin. 608 Drifting T. Buchanan Bead. 256 Dying Christian to His Soul Alexander Pope. 214 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard Thomas Gray. 487 Emir Hassan William Cullen Bryant. 601 Enigma Miss Fanshawe. 353 Excelsior Longfellow . 230 Extract from the "Celestial Country." Bernard of Cluni. 387 Farewell Address to the Senate Henry Clay. 602 Farm-yard Song J. T. Trowbridge. 547 Fine Brown Stout . . . , Horace Smith. 497 Fitz James and Roderick Dhu 371 Forgive and Forget '. 403 Forgive Bishop Heber . 362 Gambler's Wife Coates. 187 Gates Ajar Anne L. Buth. 548 Ginevra Bogers. 454 God , „ Derzhavine . 474 Goody Blake and Harry Gill Wordsworth. 342 Good Women Thackeray. 149 Greece 521 Hallowed Ground Campbell. 564 Hamlet's Soliloquy Shakspeare. 292 Harmosan 136 CONTENTS. 27 Pag;.. Harry Bluff 431 Heathen Chinee; — or Plain Language from Truthful James Bret Harte. 383 Heaven Mrs. Sophie Holmes. 484 Heroes and Martyrs Rev. E. H. Chopin . 126 Home Montgomery . 442 Hymn , William S. Peirce. 410 Images of God J. G. Lyons. 306 Independence Bell— July 4, 1776 47 In Memory of Charles Dickens Mrs. Gastavus Bemak. 561 Invective against Mr. Corry. —1800 Grattan. 368 Iron Mrs. Sarah J. Hale . 588 Irish Aliens and English Victories Shiel. 479 John Burns of Gettysburg Bret Harte . 500 Keeping His Word . 575 Lady Clare , . . . . Tennyson. 277 Lament of the Irish Emigrant JDuferin. 264 Last Words Elijah P. Lovejoy. 128 Last Words of John Quincy Adams W. H. Seward. 438 Let there be Light Horace Mann. 332 Liberty and Union Webster. 236 Lines on a Skeleton 436 Little Bennie Anne C. Ketchum. 53 Little Jim 333 Little Will 280 Lochinvar's Ride Scott. 289 Logan, a Mingo Chief to Lord Dunmore E. Everett. 529 Lord Dundreary on " Pwoverbs." 87 Lord Ullin's Daughter Campbell. 517 Love Coleridge. 274 Man's Immortality Bryon. 103 Marco Bozzaris Fitz Greene Halleck. 285 Maud Muller John G. Whittier. 245 Melnotte's Address to Pauline E. Bulwer Lytton. 283 Milton Macaulay . 121 Milton on his Loss of Sight Elizabeth Lloyd. 67 Monsieur Tonson 567 Moral Cosmetics Horace Smith. 530 Morning Hymn of Adam and Eve Milton. 430 Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc Coleridge. 295 Murder of King Duncan Shakspeare. 294 My Child Pierpont. 411 My Property H. W. Beecher. 536 My Welcome Beyond Allie Wellington. 574 Nature's Gentlemen Eliza Cook. 157 New England's Dead Isaac M'Lellan. 539 New Year's Eve 313 Nobody's Child Philo H. Child. 449 No Sects in Heaven 329 Nothing to Wear Butler. 218 On Being found Guilty of High Treason ... Bobert Emmett. 392 28 CONTENTS. Page. One Hundredth Psalm Watts. 457 One by One 152 One Niche the Highest Elihu Burritt. 349 Onward Christian Soldiers 541 Over the Eiver N. A. W. Priest. 71 Our Country 299 Our Relations to England Everett. 524 Parrhasius and Captive Willis . 192 Passing Away John Pierpont. 389 Patrick's Colt 48 Patrick Henry William Wirt. 584 Paul's Defense before King Agrippa 176 Paul Eevere's Ride H. W. Longfellow . 470 Pictures of Memory Alice Gary. 358 Portraits of the Poets Elizabeth Barret Browning. 147 Psalm of Marriage Phebe Gary 336 Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney. 327 Reply to the Duke of Grafton Lord Thurlow. 481 Reply to Sir R. Walpole, 1741 Wm. Pitt. 359 Richelieu and France Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. 374 Rienzi's Address M t B. Mitford. 270 Ring out, Wild Bells Tennyson. 486 Rum's Maniac T. W. Nott . 60 Sandalphon R. W. Longfellow. 606 Satan's Encounter with Death Milton. 516 Scene from Pickwick; — Sam Weller as a Witness. .Dickens. 503 Scott and the Veteran Bayard Taylor. 125 Shamus O'Brien, the Bold Boy of Glingall— A Tale of '98 Sheridan Lefanor. 249 Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Bead. 254 She Walks in Beauty Byron. 102 Sir Galahad Tennyson. 511 Socrates Snooks 406 Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua Elijah Kellogg. 180 Speech of Brutus on the Death of Csesar Shaksx>eare. 328 Speech of Cardinal Wolsey Shakspeare. 390 Speech of Patrick Henry 423 Speech of Sergeant Buzfuz Dickens. 271 Strive, Wait, and Pray Adelaide Anne Procter. 151 Stuart Holland Wallace. 319 Sunbeams and Shadows 35 Supposed Speech of a Chief of the Pocumtuc IndiansJS'vereW. 528 Tact versus Talent London Atlas. 427 Tell's Address to the Mountains Knovjles. 148 Think before you Speak 302 Thou Art, O God Moore. 116 True Manliness D. C. Eddy. 323 Tubal Cain Charles Mackay. 408 To the Evening Wind W. G. Byrant. 396 The American Flag , Drake. 140 The Angel in the Thunder Storm John Wilson. 346 CONTENTS. 29 The Angels of Buena Vista John G. Whittier. 375 The Baron's Last Banquet A. G. Greene. 79 The Battle Schiller. 132 The Battle of Hohenlinden, 1800 Campbell. 361 The Battle of Ivry Macaulay. 169 The Battle of Warsaw Campbell. 300 The Battle Hymn of the Berlin Landsturrn Korner. 483 The Bells Edgar A. Poe. 227 The Bells of Shandon Father Prout. 463 The Bible Adapted to All Mrs. Sarah S. Ellis. 426 The Blind Preacher W. Wirt. 163 The Boys O. W. Holmes. 557 The Bright Side M. A. Kidder. 554 The Burning Prairie Alice Cary. 446 The Burial of Moses C. F. Alexander. 68 The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe. 98 The Chameleon Merrick. 415 The Chamois Hunter Tupper. 309 The Charnel Ship 303 The Charge at Waterloo Scott. 130 The Character of Christ ...-. .Henry Rogers. 495 The Chestnut Horse 183 The Children Dickenson. 570 The Collegian and the Porter G. R. Planche. 461 The Coral Grove Dr. James G. Percival. 437 The Creeds of the Bells G. W. Bungay. 550 The Crucifixion Joseph Harrison, Jr. 425 The Cumberland , Longfelloio . 221 The Curse of Regulus 202 The Death of the Flowers W. C. Byrant. 405 The Dies Irse Thomas de Celano. 378 The Diver Schiller. 612 The Dog 52 The Dove Miss Townsend. 311 The Dream of Eugene Aram Hood. 196 The Duty of Man to be Content with the Rank which he holds in Creation Pope. 457 The East Byron. 100 The Eve of the Battle of Waterloo 101 The Execution Thomas Ingolsby. 418 The Fall of D'Assas Mrs. Hemans. 137 The Fall of Wolsey Shakspeare. 542 The Famine Longfellow . 231 The Farmer and the Counsellor 450 The Fate of Virginia T. B. Macaulay. 64 The Fireman Robert T. Conrad. 72 The Frenchman and the Flea-Powder 459 The Frenchman and the Rats 172 The Frost H. F. Gould. 386 The Ghost 259 The Gift of Tritemius 135 30 CONTENTS. Page. The Gladiator J. A. Jones. 400 The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger Horace Smith. 448 The Great Bell Roland Theodore Tilton. 141 The Heavens Declare the Glory of God Addison. 301 The Hermit and the Angel Parnell. 458 The Heroes of the Berkenhead Miss E. G. Barber. 519 The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, 1571. .Ingelow. 205 The Honored Dead H. W. Beecher. 492 The Hour of Prayer Mrs. Hemans. 171 The Immensity of Creation O. M. Mitchell. 316 The Immortality of Love Bobert Southey. 107 The Infant's Dream 416 The Inquiry Charles Mackay. 282 The Irish Picket Orpheus C. Kerr. 562 The Island Bev. W. T. Bacon. 338 The Knight's Toast .133 The Last Day of Creation Hugh Miller. 120 The Laborer W. _D. Gallagher. 308 The Launching of the Ship Longfellow . 145 The Life Boat 441 The Lord of Burleigh Tennyson. 439 The Loved and Lost 482 The Maniac— Madhouse 195 The Main-truck, or a Leap for Life .Morris. 144 The Men to Make a State George W. Doane. 434 The Messiah Pope. 34 The Miser fitly Punished Osborne. 572 The Modern Belle 298 The Mother Perishing in a Snowstorm 212 The Murderer's Secret Webster. 356 The Nature of True Eloquence Webster . 184 The Ocean Lord Byron. 354 The Old Arm Chair Eliza Cook. 156 The Old Clock on the Stairs 123 The Painter of* Seville. Susan Wilson. 81 The Parting of Marmion and Douglas Scott. 174 The Passage Uhland. 477 The Passions William Collins. 513 The Pauper's Death-bed Caroline B. Southey. 188 The Pentecostal Gift Hugh Miller. 119 The People's Advent Gerald Massey. 138 The Phantom Ship ■ 287 The Power of God . . 598 The Power of Heroic Example B. S. Storrs, Jr. 490 The Poet H. B. Wallace. 623 The Polish Bov Ann S. Stephens. 57 The Press. . . . ." Ebenezer Elliott. 337 The Prospects of California N. Bennett. 527 The Proud Miss Macbride J. G. Saxe. 591 The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius Shakspeare. 165 X The "Raven ." Edgar A. Foe. 222 The Reason Why 307 CONTENTS. 31 Page. The Retort 305 The Return of the Dead..- Edna Dean Proctor. 531 The Revolutionary Rising T. Buchanan Bead. 95 The Ride from Ghent to Aix '. Browning. 291 The Saviour 33 The Sea Procter . 154 The Seventh Plague of Egvpt Bev. George Croly. 380 The Seminole's Defiance G. W. Patten. 266 The Skeleton in Armor Longfellow . 506 The Smack in School 261 The Soldier's Dream Thomas Campbell. 451 The Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood. 209 The Star of Bethlehem Henry Kirke White . 97 The Star Spangled Banner Francis S. Key. 553 The Strength of the American G-overnment. .. .John Bright. 121 The Spectacle of the Heavens Everett. 315 The Superiority of Poetry over Sculpture and Painting James Montgomery . 117 The Throne of God Thomas Dick. 116 The Triumphs of our Language Ben. J. G. Lyons, LLP). 432 The Two Weavers Hannah More. 105 The True Reformers Horace Greeley. 339 The Way to Heaven J. G. Holland. 540 The Way to be Happy 432 The Weathercock J. T. Allingham. 467 The Well of St. Keyne Bobert Southey. 545 The Wife J. G. Whittier. 88 The Wreck of the Hesperus Longfellow. 160 The Vagabonds J. T. Trowbridge. 267 The Village Preacher Oliver Goldsmith. 402 Vat You Please 215 Verres Denounced Cicero. 555 Vulture and Infant : 190 Warren's Address Bev. John Pierpont. 185 Washington's Sword, and Franklin's Staff J. Q. Adams. 523 We meet upon the Level, and we Part upon the Square 86 What I Live for G. Linnceus Banks. 219 What might be Done Charles Mackay. 220 Which shall it be 55 William Goetz 38 Will the New Year come to-night, Mamma ? .Cora M. Eager. 92 Wounded William E. Miller. 262 Wreck of the Arctic H. W. Beecher. 321 Your Mission 334 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. THE SAVIOUR. DESCRIPTION" OF JESUS, BY PUBLIUS LENTTTLUS, PRESI- DENT OF JUDEA IN THE REIGN OF TIBERIUS CJESAR. There lives at this time in Judea a man of singular vir- tue, whose name is Jesus Christ, whom the barbarians es- teem as a prophet, but his followers love and adore him as the offspring of the immortal God. He calls back the dead from their graves, and heals all sorts of diseases with a word or a touch. He is a tall man and well shaped; of an amiable and reverend aspect; his hair, of a color that can hardly be matched, falling into graceful curls, waving about, and very agreeably couching upon his shoulders, parted on the crown of the head, running as a stream to the front, after the fashion of the Nazarites. His forehead high, large and imposing ; his cheeks without spot or wrin- kle, beautiful with a lovely red. His nose and mouth form- ed with exquisite symmetry. His beard thick, and of a color suitable to his hair, reaching below his chin, and part- ing in the middle like a fork. His eyes bright blue, clear and serene ; look, innocent, dignified, manly and mature. In proportion of body, most perfect and captivating. His hands and arms most delectable to behold. He rebukes with majesty, counsels with mildness ; his whole address, whether in word or deed, being eloquent and grave. No man has seen him laugh, yet his manners are exceedingly pleasant; but he has wept frequently in the presence of men. He is temperate, modest, and wise. A man, for his extraordinary beauty and divine perfections, surpassing the children of men in every sense. 2 (33) 34 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. THE MESSIAH. (pope.) The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold — Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold ! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eyeball pour the day; 'Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear; The dumb shall sing ; the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear — From every face He wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By- day o'ersees them, and by night protects; The tender lambs He raises in His arms — Feeds from His hand, and in His bosom warms: Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage — The promised father of the future age. Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings, And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See heaven its sparkling portals wide display^ And break upon thee in a flood of day ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 35 No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, O'erflows thy courts ; the Light Himself shall shine Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; But fixed His word, His saving power remains; Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! ABOU BEN ADHEM. (leigh hunt.) Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou ?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made all of sweet accord, Answered — "The names of those who love the Lord." " And is mine one ? " said Abou ; " Nay, not so," Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And shewed the names whom love of God had bless'd— And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest." SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. I saw a little maiden, Playing with the sunbeams bright. How her merry blue eyes sparkled As with innocent delight ! 36 THE LAWREKCE SPEAKER. She gathered, in her childish glee, Her apron-full, with care, Then, peeping archly in to see, She found no sunbeams there ! I saw her but a moment, Yet that vision pure and bright, Is shrined within my memory, As some fair thing of light. I seem to hear her silvery laugh Still ringing in my ear, As looking in her apron folds, She found no sunbeams there. Once more, she stood before me, A happy, trusting bride ; A wreath was on her snowy brow, Her chosen, by her side. The dark and silken lashes Shaded those eyes of light, That danced in joy, when years ago, She caught the sunbeams bright. Again the vision passed away, As it had done before, And from that joyous wedding-day, I saw her face no more, Till ten long years had glided on, Since last, with joy and pride, I saw that beauteous child of earth, A young and blooming bride. I mingled with the gathered throng That round the altar stood; The memories of other years, Bushed o'er me like a flood. Before me in her snowy robes, As on her bridal day, In calm and passionless repose That lovely earth-child lay. No wreath was on her marble brow, No sparkle in her eye j THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 37 'Twas Heaven's decree that this sweet flower Should only bloom to die. Yet not to die, but live again, In far off worlds of light, To dwell once more in happiness Amid the sunbeams bright. The locks are changed from brown to gray, That erst adorned my head ; Since those three visions passed away — The child — the bride — the dead. I'm dreaming now, I'm dreaming, And the vision I behold Is the city of the ransomed, Where the streets are paved with gold. And as I look and listen, Falls upon my ravished ear, Music, not of mortals' breathing, Such as only angels hear. And I see bright forms around me Floating in the perfumed air, Clad in robes of snowy whiteness Such as only angels wear. One there is among the number, Whom on earth I used to know, When a child she watched the sunbeams, Watched them come, and saw them go. By her golden hair I know her, By her pure and radiant brow J For I saw the little maiden, As I see the angel now. Little change had come upon her, Save the eyes, on earth so bright, Now are beaming on her sisters, With a calmer, holier light. And the Saviour's smiles are resting On that being, bright and fair, As she whispers to the angels She hath found her sunbeams "there!" 38 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. WILLIAM GOETZ. It chanced one pleasant afternoon in town, That on the pavement gaily sailing down, Steering amid the throng, A woman passed along. She carried extra sail, for in her arms She held a looking-glass, new gilt and large, To her a rare and precious charge, On which she often slily looked askance, To catch a glance, Quite comforting, to female charms. Diverted by an organ-grinder's playing, Who showed a monkey, for a time delaying, She leaned the glass beside a fence, And laughed to see the monkey's impudence. Just then a goat came up behind ; And when the frolicsome and saucy elf Within the mirror saw himself, He thought the thing another of his kind, A goat of the male gender, Whose presence scorning, He shook his head with wrathful warning. The other goat, the challenge taking, Returned the shaking, As if he meant to stand his own defender. Now Billy rears upon his hinder legs, And sees the other rising on his pegs; Then suddenly, as lightning flashes, Headforemost dashes, And in one moment smashes The precious mirror, making havoc wide, His head protruding on the other side. Here was a scene. At once the woman flew Into a passion, making great ado. "What, what! There, there ! You thing ! You creature, you! Take that! larks! just see what's come to pass! It's broke ! Get out I It's all, all gone, my glass ! THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. 39 Shivered to shivers ! Fool ! 0, what a pity ! I swear me, if there's justice in the city, I'll make your owner smart for this. I'll go ; I'll swell his head with hornets; yes, I'll sting him! Indeed, I'll show him up ! If I don't string him! Now, did you ever ! Did you ? did you ? No ! I never! Who'd have thought it ? Who? O! 01" Betwixt the frantic efforts of the dame, And Billy's struggling, she secured the frame. He, in a stubborn mood, When she unyoked him, still was unsubdued, And reared again, to make an onset rude. She saw hirn come, and turning in a fright, She caught a butt behind, which helped her flight. Near by there was a station of police, And some who saw this breach of peace Came running, headed by their chief, To give the persecuted dame relief. They caught the goat, and shut him in a cell; A place it was where rogues do dwell Considerably against their will A night or so, until Abroad they go again, released on bail ; Or if not that, until they go to jail. They left him in this situation To give him time for meditation Upon the evil tenor Of his demeanor, Especially the vice of butting, A silly fellow, shut in To serious contemplation. But soon the officers about the station, Wishing to play a joke, sat down and wrote A little note, And sent it off to Lawyer Hornor, Who kept an office round the corner, To give him timely information That William Groetz, a client of his own, Was held a prisoner at the station, And wished to see him in the cell alone. 40 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. He came, and asked for Mr. William Goetz. "Goetz?" said the chief, in doubt. "Goetz? Groetz? yes; I see ! Great rascal that, I must confess. A fellow with a beard, a scamp that doats On mischief, troublesome and rough, One of the biggest scoundrels in the ring." "I beg your pardon, sir; 'tis no such thing !" Cried Horn or, in a huff. "A rascal ! doats on mischief! stuff! A better man than he cannot be found The city round. I'll not stand here and see my client wronged. Do you not know, sir, that he once belonged To the common council, sir?" "Weil, well, No matter," said the chief; " here, take the key, You'll find him waiting for you in his cell, In number three." The lawyer now no more abides, But thither strides, Important as a horse that feels his oats, And in the passage calls "Oh, Mr. Goetz! Goetz, Mr. Goetz ! " The passage being dark, He nothing sees at first that's worth remark. Now Billy, chafing in his quarters close, Peels bellicose ; And seeing Hornor come, the brute Deals him a rough salute ; Returning from the shock, Prepares to give another knock, But flings himself the lawyer's legs between, Who now, in uttermost confusion lost, Is lifted from his feet and tossed, And pushed about, and rolled Over and over, by his client bold, Till the policemen intervene, And with a peal of laughter end the scene. Participating in the laugh, and knowing Both how to take a joke and keep it going, A special message Hornor sends To bring his partner first, then other friends, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 41 Versed in the criminal law, Who all in turn their client saw. They to headquarters hastened to repair, And of headquarters took their legal share. On all did Billy play his funny capers, And some made quick retreat with rumpled papers, With dinted hats and dusty coats, With eye-teeth cut, Each man the butt Of all the company, and William Goetz. A GOOD STRONG HEART. (e. h. chapin.) As an instance of the good that may ensue from the. writings of such noble men as the author of " A Good Strong Heart," I will rebate what I know to be true. A man of middle age, with a family of seven children, by an un- fortunate speculation, lost all his fortune: distracted at the thought of the misery he had brought upon the objects of his love, in his madness he contemplated Suicide ! By chance he read Dr, Chapin's noble words. As if a new spirit was breathed into his breast, he felt courage to face his fate ; he applied all his energies to the task of retrieving his fortunes ; and, by God's help, suc- ceeded. " All honor to the worthy servant of his God ! " But there is one respect in which men differ, and that is in strength and capacity of heart; so that some men are distinguished by the fact that, in all calamities, in all trials, they gather out of their hearts the resources of a new and better life. It is just like a perpetual spring within them. If one form of contemplated good perishes, if one hope drops away, if one resource fails, down they go, down into their hearts again, and call up something else, A great, strong heart is never overcome. It finds its own resources, and falls back into its own possibilities. It is sad to find a man who says, " I have no heart ; " to see a forlorn creature who says " I have no power to struggle any more ; " but as long as there is no blight or taint, the power, the possibility of the man is left. There was our gifted Prescott, who died so sud- denly the other day. See how that physical calamity which occurred to him in his early years would have affected some 42 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. men. They would have crouched literally by the wayside of life ; and if they had that man's powers, they would have made their calamity an excuse for a life of idleness and waste. How was it with him ? He fell back into his own great and noble heart, and out of it he brought up new life, which became to him a strength and power, that perhaps he never would have exhibited, had not that misfortune hap- pened to him. But for that, he might have been a scholar, or, much worse, a politician ; but the twilight of almost total blindness having fallen on him, he called up those powers, and concentrated them upon the great and noble work of history; and, when building up this historical structure, just as an architect builds up a great cathedral, like that of Cologne, standing forth majestic and glorious, he profited by the very calamity that excluded him from other pursuits and aims. Yea, and with a still nobler spirit, when others lamented his calamity and sought to condole with him in his misfortune, he sang songs in the night, and spoke noble words of cheer and encouragement. Now, I say it was not out of the intellect, but out of a no- ble and faithful heart, that streamed forth that beautiful life, which made this man one of the glorious stars in the constellation of our literature. BE A WOMAN. Oft I've heard a gentle mother, As the twilight hours began, Pleading with a son on duty, Urging him to be a man. But unto her blue-ej'ed daughter, Though with love's words quite as ready, Points she out the other duty — Strive my dear to be a lady." What's a lady ! Is it something Made of hoops, and silks, and airs, Used to decorate the parlor, Like the fancy rings and chairs ? THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 43 Is it one that wastes on novels Every feeling that is human? If 'tis this to be a lady, ; Tis not this to be a woman. Mother, then, unto your daughter Speak of something higher far. Than to be mere fashion's lady — " Woman" is the brightest star. If you, in your strong affection, Urge your son to be a true man, Urge vour daughter no less strongly To arise and be a woman. Yes, a woman ! brightest model Of that high and perfect beauty, Where the mind and soul and body Blend to work out life's great duty. Be a woman ! naught is higher On the gilded crest of fame ; On the catalogue of virtue There's no brighter, holier name. Be a woman ! On to duty ! Raise the world from all that's low, Place high in the social heaven Virtue's fair and radiant bow. Lend thy influence to each effort That shall raise our nature human ; Be not fashion's giddy lady — Be a brave, whole-souled, true woman. DAMON AND PYTHIAS; OR, TRUE FRIEND- SHIP. (WM. PETER.) " Here, guards ! " pale with fear, Dionysius cries, " Here, guards, yon intruder arrest ! 'Tis Damon — but ha ! speak, what means this disguise ? And the dagger which gleams in thy vest ? " 44 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. " 'Twas to free," says the youth, " this dear land from its chains ! " "Free the land! wretched fool, thou shalt die for thy pains." " I am ready to die — I ask not to live, — Yet three days of respite, perhaps thou may'st give, For to-morrow, my sister will wed, And 'twould damp all her joy, were her brother not there J Then let me, I pray, to her nuptials repair, While a friend remains here in my stead." With a sneer on his brow, and a curse in his breast, " Thou shalt have," cries the tyrant, " shalt have thy re- quest ; To thy sister repair, and her nuptials attend, Enjoy thy three days, but — mark well what I say — Return on the third; if, beyond that fixed day, There be but one hour's, but one moment's delay, That delay shall be death to thy friend ! " Then to Pythias he went ; and he told him his case; That true friend answered not, but, with instant embrace, Consenting, rushed forth to be bound in his room; And now, as if winged with new life from above, To his sister he flew, did his errand of love, And, ere a third morning had brightened the grove, Was returning with joy to his doom. But the heavens interpose, Stern the tempest arose, And when the poor pilgrim arrived at the shore, Swoll'n to torrents, the rills Rushed in foam from the hills, And crash went the bridge in the whirlpool's wild roar. Wildly gazing, despairing, half frenzied he stood; Dark, dark were the skies, and dark was the flood, And still darker his lorn heart's emotion ; And he shouted for aid, but no aid was at hand, No boat ventured forth from the surf-ridden strand, And the waves sprang, like woods, o'er the lessening land, And the stream was becoming an ocean. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 45 Now with knees low to earth, and with hands to the skies, " Still the storm, God of might, God of mercy ! " he cries — "0, hush with Thy breath this loud sea ; The hours hurry by, — the sun glows on high ; And should he go down, and I reach not yon town, My friend — he must perish for me!" Yet the wrath of the torrent still went on increasing, And waves upon waves still dissolved without ceasing, And hour after hour hurried on ; Then by anguish impelled, hope and fear alike o'er, He, reckless, rushed into the water's deep roar ; Rose — sunk — struggled on — till, at length, the wished shore, — Thanks to Heaven's outstretched hand — it is won!" 'Tis sunset; and Damon arrives at the gate, Sees the scaffold and multitudes gazing below ; Already the victim is bared for his fate, Already the deathsman stands armed for the blow ; When hark ! a wild voice which is echoed around, "Stay ! — 'tis I — it is Damon, for whom he was bound ! " And now they sink in each other's embrace, And are weeping for joy and despair ; Not a soul among thousands, but melts at their case, Which swift to the monarch they bear ; Even he, too, is moved — feels for once as he ought — And commands that they both to his throne shall be brought. Then, — alternately gazing on each gallant youth, With looks of awe, wonder, and shame ;— "Ye have conquered!" he cries, "yes, I see now that truth, — That friendship is not a mere name. G° ; — you're free ; but, while life's dearest blessings you prove, Let one prayer of your monarch be heard, That his past sins forgot — in this union of love, And of virtue — you make him the third." 46 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER, ABEAHAM LINCOLN. (CASTELLAR.) Abraham Lincoln was born in a cabin of Kentucky, of parents who could hardly read; born a new Moses in the solitude of the desert, where are forged all great and obsti- nate thoughts, monotonous like the desert, and, like the desert, sublime ; growing up among those primeval forests, which, with their fragrance, send a cloud of incense, and, with their murmurs, a cloud of prayers to heaven ; a boat- man at eight years in the impetuous current of the Ohio, and at seventeen a woodman, with ax and arm felling the immemorial trees to open a way to unexplored regions for his tribe of wandering workers; reading no other book than the Bible, the book of great sorrows and great hopes, dictated often by prophets to the sound of fetters they dragged through Nineveh and Babylon ; a child of Nature, in a word, by one of those miracles only comprehensible among free peoples, he fought for the country, and was raised by his fellow-citizens to the Congress at Washington, and by the nation to the Presidency of the Republic ; and when the evil grew more virulent, when those States were dissolved, when slaveholders uttered their war ciy and the slaves their groans of despair — the woodcutter, the boatman, the son of the great West, the descendant of Quakers, hum- blest of the humble before his conscience, greatest of the great before history, ascends the Capitol, the greatest moral hight of our time, and strong and serene with his conscience and his thought; before him a veteran army, hostile Europe behind him, England favoring the South, France encourag- ing reaction in Mexico, in his hands the riven country; he arms two millions of men, gathers a half million horses, sends his artillery twelve hundred miles in a week from the banks of the Potomac to the shores of Tennessee ; fights more than six hundred battles; renews before Richmond the deeds of Alexander, of Csesar; and, after having emancipated three millions slaves, that nothing might be wanting, he dies in the very moment of victory — like Christ, like Socrates, like all redeemers, at the foot of his work. His work ! Sublime achievement! over which hu- manity shall eternally shed its tears, and God his benedic- tions ! THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER 47 INDEPENDENCE BELL— JULY 4, 1776. There was tumult in the city, In the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down — People gathering at the corners, Where they whispered each to each, And the sweat stood on their temples With the earnestness of speech. As the bleak Atlantic currents Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, So they beat against the State House, So they surged against the door; And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, Till the quiet street of Chestnut Was all turbulent with sound. Ear aloft in that high steeple Sat the bellman, old and gray ; He was weary of the tyrant And his iron-sceptred sway. So he sat, with one hand ready On the clapper of the bell, When his eye could catch the signal, The long-expected news to tell. See ! See ! The dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy line, As the boy beside the portal Hastens forth to give the sign ! With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, Breaks his young voice on the air: Hushed the people's swelling murmur, Whilst the boy cries joyously ; "Ring!" he shouts, "Ring! grandpapa, King ! oh, ring for Liberty \ 3i 48 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Quickly, at the given signal The old bellman lifts his hand, Forth he sends the good news, making Iron music through the land. How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of freedom ruffled The calmly gliding Delaware ! How the bonfires and the torches Lighted up the night's repose, And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, Our glorious liberty arose ! That old State House bell is silent, Hushed is now its clamorous tongue ; But the spirit it awaken'd Still is living — ever young; And when we greet the smiling sunlight On the fourth of each July, We will ne'er forget the bellman Who betwixt the earth and sky, Rung out, loudly, " Independence ; "■ Which, please God, shall never die ! PATRICK'S COLT. Patrick O'Flanigakt, from Erin's isle Just fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while, With open mouth and widely staring eyes, Cried " Och ! n and " Whist ! " at every new surprise. He saw some laborers in a field of corn ; The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory; Of all that he had hoard since being born, Nothing had equalled this in song or story. " The holy mither ! and, sirs, would ye plaise To be a telliu' me what might be these ? An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees, But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase." THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 49 "Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand, Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill ; "Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse; Take one and try it ; it will pay you well." "Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould Ireland I always had my Christmas pig so nate, Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate ; But only gintlemen can own a horse. Ameriky's a great counthry indade. I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse, Have me own land, and shanty without rint, An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint; But sure I niver thought to own a baste. An' wont the wife an' childer now be glad ? A thousand blissings on your honor's head ! But could ye tell by lookin' at the egg What color it will hatch ? It's to me taste To have a dapple gray, with a long tail, High in the neck, and slinder in the leg, To jump a tweF feet bog, and niver fail, Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races — " Just then the merry look on all their faces Checked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blush, That swept his face as milk goes over mush, He added, " Sure, I know it is no use To try to tell by peering at an egg Tf it will hatch a gander or a goose ; " Then looked around to make judicious choice. " Pick out the largest one that you can hide Out of the owner's sight there by the river; Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone ; Carry it gently to your little farm, Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm." Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one, "Faith, sure, an' I'll do ivery bit of that, The w T hole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed, An' kape it warrum as your honor said ; Long life to yees, and may you niver walk, Not even to your grave, but ride foriver ; 50 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. Good luck to yees," and without more of talk He pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat, And started off; but plans of mice and men Gang oft agley, again and yet again. Full half a mile upon his homeward road Poor Patrick toiled beneath his heavy load. A hill top gained, he stopped to rest, alas ! He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass; When down the steep hillside it rolled away, And at poor Patrick's call made no delay. Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump, It struck and split upon a hollow stump, In which a rabbit lived with child and wife. Frightened, the timid creature ran for life. "Shtop, shtop my colt! " cried Patrick, as he ran After his straying colt, but all in vain. With ears erect poor Bunny faster fled As " Sthop my colt!" in mournful, eager tones Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead He hid away among some grass and stones. Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon, Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse, Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat; "For won't the young thing want his mither soon. And come to take a bit of something t'eat?" But vain the tender accents of his call, No colt responded from the broken wall ; And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on To tell how he had got and lost his horse. u As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on," He said to Bridget and the children eight, After thrice telling the whole story o'er, "The way he run it would be hard to bate, So little too, with jist a whisk o' tail, Not a pin-feather on it as I could see, For it was hatched out just sax wakes too soon! An' such long ears were niver grown before On any donkey in grane Ireland ! So little too, you'd hold it in your hand ; Och hone ! he would have made a gay donkey." THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 51 So all the sad O'Flanigans that night Held a loud wake over the donkey gone, Eating their i ( pratees " without inilk or salt, Howling between whiles, " Och ! my little colt!" While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright, Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon, And told the story of his scare and flight : And all the neighboring rabbits played around The broken mare's egg scattered on the ground. CHARGE OF PICKETT'S DIVISION AT THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG. (WILLIAM Mo MICHAEL.) It is twelve o'clock, July 3d, and to-morrow will be the anniversary of our Independence. What tidings of joy or of sorrow shall its bells proclaim to the people. Gird your loins, ye yeomen of our legions, for it is honor, and liberty, and a nation for which you are contending. Twelve o'clock, and the heart of nature seems almost to cease its beating in the intensity of dread expectation, while the effulgent sun looking down at high meridian seems as of old to stand still in its course, as though shrinking appalled from the fearful slaughter it shall witness. The pause of carnage, the brink of fate, for as the great orb bends slowly toward the "west- ern horizon and marks the single hour upon the dial, a sig- nal gnu breaks the solemn stillness. And then from the line of the enemy all along those hills where his masses lie waiting, there bursts forth a tempest of flame and smoke, and terrific cannonading, such as this continent never before witnessed; nor seems to slacken its thundering death-hail until from the sulphurous canopy, a part of the rebel front is seen advancing. Now for the tug of war ! Now for the death-grip of the battle ! For yonder come Pickett's men, who swear by the Lone Star they never have been beaten and never will be, and on their either flank warriors of a score of fights. Eighteen thousand tested veterans, wrought into a titanic war -bolt — shaft of adamant, edges of steel — hurled forth to crush our centre with ponderous onslaught. 52 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. As they start, down rideS Hancock along our line, superb that da} T in the beauty of his valor. "Here they come ! " he cries out cheerily, " Here they come, in three lines of battle! Steady, men, steady ! " "All right, General ! we are ready ! We hold this line, or die on it ! " But as the}' develop in the fields and move forward, our artillery rains destruction. It rakes them with shot, it rends them with shell, until on right and left they falter and stagger. Their flanks are crumbling, but their centre keeps firm. Oh ! stay them, Pickett. Your men of iron, they seem too brave to kill! But on they come, and on, and on, till we see their faces and hear their yells. These are not men ; they are furies, maddened with treason, frenzied with hate. Now, fire ! comrades ! fire ! — up and at them ! Fight, men, fight for your wives and your children and your homes. They sweep on us like demons — are at the guns, are on the wall! — hand to hand, steel to steel, knife to knife. Now, dishing, give them your canister! Now, Woodruff, tear them with your grape. Hall, to the rescue ! — 72d, down on them like tigers. Flank them, Stannard ! crush them, Gibbon ! mash them, Webb ! They reel, they waver, their colors are going ! They break, they break ! — they retreat, they retreat ! The charge is repulsed, the battle is won. All honor to our heroes who survive — all reverence for those who have fallen — all praise to their gal- lant leader, and all thanks unto God who gave us the victory ! THE DOG. The dog possesses incontestably, all the qualities of a sensible man ; and I grieve to say, man has not, in general, the noble qualities of the dog. We make a virtue of gratitude, which is nothing but a duty; this virtue, this duty, are inherent in the dog. We brand ingratitude, and yet all men are ungrateful. It is a vice which commences in the cradle, and grows with our growth ; together with selfishness, become almost alwa}^, the grand mover of human actions. The dog knows the word virtue; that which we dignify by this title, and admire as a rare thing — and very rare it is, in truth — constitutes his normal state. Where will you find a man always grateful, never selfish, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 53 pushing abnegation of self to the utmost limits of possi- bility ; without gain, devoted even to death; without ambi- tion, rendering service ; in short, forgetful of injuries, and mindful only of benefits received ? Seek him not, it would be a useless task ; but take the first dog you meet, and from the first moment he adopts you as his master, you will find in him all these qualities. He will love you without calcu* lation entering into his affections. His greatest happiness will be to be near you ; and should you be reduced to beg your bread, not only will he aid you in this difficult trade, but he would not abandon you to follow even a king into his palace. Your friends will quit you in misfortune ; but your dog will remain always near you ; or if you depart be- fore him on the great voyage, he will accompany you to your last abode. LITTLE BENNIE. (ANNIE C. KETCHUM.) I had told him, Christmas morning, As he sat upon my knee, Holding fast his little stockings, Stuffed as full as full can be, And attentive listening to me, With a face demure and mild, That old Santa Claus, who filled them, Did not love a naughty child. " But we'll be good, won't we, moder?" And from off my lap he slid, Digging deep among the goodies In his crimson stockings hid. While I turned me to my table, Where a tempting goblet stood, Brimming high with dainty custard, Sent me by a neighbor good. But the kitten, there before me, With his white paw, nothing loth, Sat, by way of entertainment, Lapping off the shining froth; 54 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. And, in not the gentlest humor At the loss of such a treat, I confess I rather rudely Thrust him out into the street. Then how Bennie's blue eyes kindled; Gathering up the precious store He had busily been pouring In his tiny pinafore, With a generous look that shamed me Sprang he from the carpet bright, Showing, by his mien indignant, All a baby's sense of right. " Come back, Harney/' called he loudly, As he held his apron white, " You shall have my candy wabbit;" But the door was fastened tight. So he stood, abashed and silent, In the center of the floor, With defeated look, alternate Bent on me and on the door. Then, as by some sudden impulse, Quickly ran he to the fire, And, while eagerly his bright eyes Watched the flames grow high and higher, In a brave, clear key he shouted, Like some lordly little elf, " Santa Kaus, come down the chimney, Make my moder 'have herself." "I will be a good girl, Bennie," Said I, feeling the reproof; And straightway recalled poor Harney, Mewing on the gallery roof. Soon the anger was forgotten, Laughter chased away the frown, And they gambolled 'neath the live oaks, Till the dusky night came down. THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER. £5 In my dim, fire-lighted chamber Harne}^ purred beneath my chair, And my plaj'-worn boy beside me Knelt to say his evening prayer : " God bless fader, God bless inoder, God bless sister," then a pause, And the sweet young lips devoutly Murmured, " God bess Santa Kaus." He is sleeping ; brown and silken Lie the lashes, long and meek, Like caressing, clinging shadows, On his plump and peachy cheek; And I bend above him, weeping Thankful tears ; undefiled! For a woman's crown of glory, For the blessing of a child. WHICH SHALL IT BE? The following beautiful home-circle poem is founded upon an incident where a rich neighbor offered to make a poor family com- fortable, and provide for the child, if one of the seven were given to him. "Which shall it be? which shall it be?" I looked at John,— John looked at me. (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet.) And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak; u Tell me again what Robert said;" And then I listening bent my head. " This is his letter : '■'■ " 1 will give A house and land while you shall live, If, in return, from out your seven, One child to me for aye is given.' 7 I looked at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that John had borne 56 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Of poverty, and work, and care, Which T, though willing, could not share j Of seven hungry mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. " Come John," said I, " We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep;" so walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band. First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, the baby slept; Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white ; Softly her father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way, When dream or whisper made her stir, And huskily he said, "Not her." We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so pitiful and fair. I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek A tear undried ; ere John could speak, " He's but a baby too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robby's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace ; "No, for a thousand crowns, not him," He whispered, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick ! sad Dick ! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one, — Could he be spared ? Nay, he who gave Bids us befriend him to the grave; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he ; "And so," said John, "I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above, And knelt by Mary, child of love ; THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 57 " Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl, that lay Across her cheek in wilful way, Aud shook his head: " Nay, love, not thee ; w The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad, — So like his father: "No, John, no ; I cannot, will not, let him go ! " And so we wrote, in courteous way, We could not give one child away ; And afterwards toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed; Happy, in truth, that not one face We missed from its accustomed place ; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting then to One in heaven. THE POLISH BOY. (ANN S. STEPHENS.) Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair? Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence came they ? from yon temple where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, 58 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER. And burnish with their nays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by. What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress ? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there. With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street; Nearer and nearer yet they come, With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep ; The gate is burst ; a ruffian band Bush in, and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain. The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child ; Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, Shouted with fearful energy, " Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead ; Nor touch the living boy ; I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " " Peace, woman, peace ! " the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, THE LA WHENCE SPEAKER. 59 And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. " One moment ! " shrieked the mother ; " one ! Will land or gold redeem my son ? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall ! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there ; Her cross of blazing rubies, last, Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store ; — Up springing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no ! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony. But the brave child is roused at length, And, breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks j With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band : " Ye hold me not ! no ! no, nor can ! This hour has made the boy a man ! I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept ! I was a child ; but now ; My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me ! " 60 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jewelled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. " Ha ! start ye back ! Fool ! coward ! knave ! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave? The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame ; The blade would quiver in thy breast Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No ! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " A moment, and the funeral light Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang : " Up, mother, up ! I'm free ! I'm free ! The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up ! Look on thy son ! His freedom is forever won ; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss, One last embrace, one blessing, — one ! To prove thou k no west, appro vest thy son. What! silent yet? Can'st thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ? Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head ! What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead Great God, I thank thee ! Mother, I Rejoice with thee, — and thus — to die." One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom, — dead. BUM'S MANIAC. (t. w. nott.) Why am I thus? the maniac cried, Confined ? mid crazy people ? Why ? THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEE. 61 I am not mad, — knave, stand aside ! I'll have my freedom, or I'll die ; It's not for cure that here I've come ; I tell thee, all I want is rum, — I must have rum ! Sane ? yes, and have been all the while ; Why, then, tormented thus ? 'Tis sad : Why chained, and held in duress vile ? The men who brought me here were mad ; I will not stay where spectres come ; Let me go home ; I must have rum, — I must have rum ! 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! my aged sire ! What has disturbed thee in thy grave? Why bend on me that eye of fire ? Why torment, since thou canst not save ? Back to the church-yard whence you've come ! [Return, return ! but send me rum ! Oh, send me rum ! Why is my mother musing there, On that same consecrated spot Where once she taught me words of prayer ? But now she hears, she heeds me not. Mute in her winding-sheet she stands ; Cold, cold, I feel her icy hands, — Her icy hands ! She's vanished ; but a dearer friend, — 1 know her by her angel smile, — Has come her partner to attend, His hours of misery to beguile ; Haste, haste ! loved one, and set me free ; 'Twere heaven to 'scape from hence to thee, — From hence to thee. She does not hear ; away she flies, Regardless of the chain I wear, Back to her mansion in the skies, To dwell with kindred spirits there. 62 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Why has she gone ? Why did she come ? God I'm ruined ! give me rum, — Oh, give me rum ! Hark, hark ! for bread my children cry, A cry that drinks my spirits up ; But 'tis in vain, in vain to try ; Oh, give me back the drunkard's cup ! My lips are parched, my heart is sad ; This cursed chain ! 'twill make me mad,— 'Twill make me mad ! It won't wash out, that crimson stain ! I've scoured those spots, and made them white ; Blood reappears again, again, Soon as the morning brings the light ! When from my sleepless couch I come, To see, to feel, — oh, give me rum ! I must have rum. 'Twas there I heard his piteous cry, And saw his last imploring look. But steeled my heart, and bade him die, Then from him golden treasures took; Accursed treasure ! stinted sum ! Be ward of guilt ! — Give, give me rum,— Oh, give me rum ! Hark ! still I hear that piteous wail ; Before my eyes his spectre stands ; And when it frowns on me I quail ! Oh, I would fly to other lands ; But, that pursuing, there 'twould come; There's no escape ! Oh, give me rum, — Oh, give me rum ! Guard, guard those windows ! bar that door ! Yonder I armed bandits see ! They've robbed my house of all its store, And now return to murder me ; They're breaking in ; don't let them come ! Drive, drive them hence ! but give me rum, — Oh, give me rum ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 6g See how that nig those reptiles soil ; They're crawling o'er me in my bed ; I feel their clarnm}', snaky coil On every limb, — around my head ; With forked tongue I see them play ; I hear them hiss ; — tear them away, — Tear them away ! A fiend ! a fiend, with many a dart, Glares on me with his bloodshot eye, And aims his missiles at my heart, — Oh ! whither, whither shall I fly ? Fly ? No, it is no time for flight ; Fiend ! I know thy hellish purpose well ; Avaunt ! avaunt, thou hated sprite, And hie thee to thy native hell ! He's gone, he's gone ! and I am free : He's gone, the faithless, braggart liar ; He said he'd come to summon me — ■ See there again, my bed's on fire ! Fire ! water! help ! Oh haste, I die ! The flames are kindling round my head ! This smoke ! — I'm strangling ! — cannot fly ! Oh ! snatch me from this burning bed ! There, there, again ! that demon's there, Crouching to make a fresh attack ; See how his flaming eyeballs glare ! Thou fiend of fiends, what's brought thee hack ? Back in thy car ? for whom ? for where ? He smiles, he beckons me to come : "What are those words thou'st written there ? " In hell they never want for rum ! " Not want for rum ? Read this again ! I feel the spell ! haste, drive me down Where rum is free, where revellers reign, And I can wear the drunkard's crown. Accept thy proffer, fiend ? I will ; And to thy drunken banquet come ; Fill the great cauldron from thy still With boiling, burning, fiery rum. 64 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. There will I quench this horrid thirst; With boon companions drink and dwell ; Nor plead for rum, as here 1 must, — There's liberty to drink in hell. Thus raved that maniac rum had made ; Then, starting from his haunted bed, On, on ! ye demons, on ! he said, Then silent sunk, — his soul had fled. THE FATE OF VIRGINIA. (t. b. macaulay.) In order to render the commencement less abrupt, six lines of introduction have been added to this extract from the fine ballad by Macaulay. "Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Eome ? " ■' Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from her home. On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight; The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right, 0, shame on Roman manhood ! Was ever plot more clear? But look ! the maiden's father comes ! Behold Virginius here!" Straightway Yirginius led the maid a little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood piled up with horn and hide. Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down, — Virginius caught the whittle up and hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, " Farewell, sweet child, farewell ! The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls, — The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, Now for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice the silence of the tomb. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 65 " The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way ; See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey; With all his wit he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, be- reft, Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left ; He little deems that, in his hand, I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave ; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow, — Foul outrage, which thou knowest not, — which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss ; And now mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!" With that, he lifted high the steel and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. Then for a little moment, all the people held their breath ; And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death; And in another moment brake forth from one and all A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall ; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment seat and held the knife on high: "0, dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line ! " So spake the slayer of his child ; then where the body lay, Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way. Then up sprang Appius Claudius : " Stop him, alive or dead ! Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who bring his head ! » 4 C6 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEK. He looked upon his clients, — but none would work his will, He looked upon his lictors, — but they trembled and stood still. And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left ; And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home, And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome. CREATION A PROOF OF DIVINE EXISTENCE. Of this universe we can only form an approximate idea by comparing one small portion of it with another, and by allowing the mind to dwell for a considerable time on every scene we contemplate. We must first endeavor to acquire a comprehensive conception of the magnitude of the globe on which we dwell, and the numerous diversity it contains ; we must next stretch our view to some of the planetary globes, which are a thousand times greater in magnitude ; and to such an orb as the sun, which fills a space thirteen hundred thousand times more expansive. Ranging through the whole of the planetary system, we must fix our attention on every particular scene and object, imagine ourselves trav- ersing the hills, the plains, and immense regions of Jupiter, and surveying the expansive regions of Saturn in all their vast dimensions and rapid motions, until we have obtained the most ample idea which the mind can possibly grasp of the extent and grandeur of the planetary system. Leaving this vast system, and proceeding through boundless space until all its planets have entirely disappeared, and its sun has dwindled to the size of a small twinkling star, we must next survey the thousand stars that deck the visible firma- ment, every one must be considered as a sun, accompanied with a system of planets no less spacious and august than others. Continuing our course through depths of space immeasurable by human art, we must penetrate into the centre of the Milky Way, where we are surrounded by suns not only in thousands, but in millions. Here the imagina- tion must be left for a length of time, to expatiate in this amazing and magnificent scene, and try if it can form any faint idea of twenty millions of planets. Suppose one of THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 67 these bodies to pass before the eye or the imagination every minute, it would require nineteen hundred years before the whole could pass in review, and each produce a distinct impression as a separate object. MILTON ON HIS LOSS OF SIGHT. (ELIZABETH LLOYD.) There are three poems in the English Language that should make the names of their authors immortal! viz: "Milton's Last Lines," by Elizabeth Lloyd ; " The Burial of Moses," by Cecil Frances Alexander; and "Over the River," by Nancy A, W. Priest. I am old and blind ! Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ; Afflicted and deserted of my kind, Yet I am not cast down. I am weak, yet strong ; I murmur not,, that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, Father Supreme ! to Thee, merciful One ! When men are farthest, then Thou art most near, When men pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear. Thy glorious face Is leaning toward me, and its holy light Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place — And there is no more night. On my bended knee, I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown ; My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may see Thyself, Thyself alone. 1 have naught to fear; This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing; Beneath it I am almost sacred — here Can come no evil thing. 68 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER, O ! I seem to stand Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in the radiance from Thy sinless land, Which eye hath never seen. Visions come and go, Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; From angel lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song. It is nothing now, When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes— • When airs from Paradise refresh my brow ; That earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime, My being fills with rapture — waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit — strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me now my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine ; Within my bosom glows unearthly fire Lit by no skill of mine. THE BURIAL OF MOSES. (C. F. ALEXANDER.) "And he buried him in the valley of Moab, over against Beth- peor; but no man knowetk of his sepulchre unto this day." — Deut. xxxiv. 6. By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave ; But no man dug that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. 69 That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the tramping, Or saw the train go forth ; Noiselessly as the daylight Comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun, — Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves, — So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns the hallowed spot ; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. Lo ! when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And giv-e the bard an honored place, With costly marble dressed, In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall, 70 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. And the choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword ; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor ? The hillside for his pall ; To lie in state while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall ; And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave ; And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave, — In that deep grave, without a name, Whence his uncofSned clay Shall break again, — most wondrous thought !- Before the judgment day ; And stand, with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, With the incarnate Son of God. lonely tomb in Moab's land ! dark Beth-peor's hill ! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, — Ways that we cannot tell ; He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 71 OVER THE RIVER. (n. a. w. priest.) Over, the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who crossed to the other side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels that met kirn there — The gates of the city we could not see ; Over the river, over the river, My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — Darling Minnie ! I see her yet ! She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the further side, Where all the ransomed and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shored, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the vail apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 72 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. And I sit and think when the sunset's gold Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the waters cold And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for the gleam of the flapping sail; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land. I shall know the loved who have gone before. And jo3'fulty sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me. THE FIKEMAK (ROBERT T. CONRAD.) The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls Night's dusky mantle, soft and silent, falls ; Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead, And ready torpors wrap each sinking head. Stilled is the stir of labor and of life ; Hushed is the hum, and tranquilized the strife. Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears ; The young forget their sports, the old their cares ; The grave are careless ; those who joy or weep All rest contented on the arm of sleep. Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now, And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow ; Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide, Her heart's own partner wandering by her side; 'Tis summers eve; the soft gales scarcely rouse The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs ; And, faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone Breathes to her heart a music like its own. When, hark ! 0, horror ! what a crash is there ! What shriek is that which fills the midnight air? Tis fire ! 'tis fire ! She wakes to dream no more; The hot blast rushes through the blazing door; THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEK. 73 The dun smoke eddies round ; and, hark ! that cry: " Help ! help ! Will no one aid ?' I die, I die ! ; ' She seeks the casement ; shuddering at its height She turns again ; the fierce flames mock her flight ; Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play, And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey. " Help ! help ! Will no one come ? " She can no more: But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor. Will no one save thee ? Yes, there yet is one Remains to save, when hope itself is gone : When all have fled, when all but he would fly, The fireman comes, to rescue or to die. He mounts the stair, — it wavers 'neath his tread; He seeks the room, flames flashing round his head : He bursts the door ; he lifts her prostrate frame, And turns again to brave the raging flame. The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath: The falling timbers menace him with death ; The sinking floors his hurried step betray ; And ruin crashes round his desperate way ; Hot smoke obscures, ten thousand cinders rise, Yet still he staggers forward with his prize ; He leaps from burning stair to stair. On ! on ! Courage ! One effort more, and all is won ! The stair is passed, — «the blazing hall is braved; Still on ! yet on ! once more ! Thank Heaven, she's saved ! ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. (SHAKSPEARE.) Friends, Romans, countrymen ! lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them ; The good is oft interred with their bones: So let it be with Csesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you, Csesar was ambitious ; If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Csesar answered it. 74 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, — For Brutus is an honorable man, So are they all, all honorable men, — Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransom did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept ; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause : What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ? judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world ; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. Masters ! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them w T rong ; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet ; 'tis his will. Let but the commons hear this testament,— THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 75 Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,— And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle ; I remember The first time ever Csesar put it on ; 7 Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent; That day he overcame the Nervii. — Look ! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through ; See what a rent the envious Casca made ; Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed, And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it ! As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel ; Judge, 0, ye gods, how dearly Csesar loved him ! This was the most unkindest cut of all ; For when the noble Csesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart j And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 0, what a fall was there, my countrj'meiij Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. Oh ! now you weep ; and I perceive you feel The dint of pity ; — these are gracious drops. Kind souls ! What, weep you when you but behold Our Csesar's vesture wounded ? Look ye here ! Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable ! What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not, 76 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. That made them do it. They are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; I am no orator, as Brutus is ; But as you all know me, a plain, blunt man, That love my friend ; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action or utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood; — I only speak right on ; I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; Show you sweet Csesar's wounds poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Koine to rise and mutiny ! AFTER THE BATTLE. Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so ; There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow; There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair. Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight ? You're his wife ; you love him — you think so; and 1 Am only his mother ; my boy shall not lie In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear His form to a grave that mine own may soon share. So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth, While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me the light, And follow my footsteps, — my heart will lead right. Ah, God ! what is here? a great heap of the slain, All mangled and gory ! — what horrible pain These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep, Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep ! THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER 77 More ! more ! Ah ! I thought I could never more know Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below, Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell How brave was my son, how he gallautly fell. Did they think I cared then to see officers stand Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand ! Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, That your red hands turn over toward this dim light These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you had kept Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left, You had heard that his place was worst of them all, — Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he would fall. There's the moon through the clouds : Christ what a scene ! Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean, And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine ? Hark, a groan ! there another, — here in this line Piled close on each other ! Ah, here is the flag, Torn, dripping with gore ; — bah ! they died for this rag. Here's the voice that we seek: poor soul, do not start; We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart ! Is there aught we can do ? A message to give To any beloved one ? I swear, if I live, To take it for sake of the words my boy said, " Home," " mother," " wife," ere he reeled down 'mong the dead. But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood? Speak, speak, man, or point ; 'twas the Ninth. Oh, the blood Is choking his voice ! What a look of despair ! There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own, My hands were both idle when you died alone. He's dying — he's dead! Close his lids, let us go. God's peace on his soul ! If we only could know Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has turned sick ; Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick ? 78 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War. He's not here, — and not here. What wild hopes flash through My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew, And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky ! Was it you, girl, that shrieked ? Ah ! what face doth lie Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white ? God, my brain reels ! 'Tis a dream. My old sight Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, my son ! Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! There, lift off your arms ; let him come to the breast Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn, to rest. Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this ? He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes, you're right. Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. Don't moan so, dear child ; you're young, and your years May still hold fair hopes ; but the old die of tears. Yes, take him again ; — ah ! don't lay your face there ; See, the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair. How quiet you are ! Has she fainted ? — her cheek Is cold as his own. Say a word to me, — speak ! Am I crazed ? Is she dead ! Has her heart broke first ? Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead ; Those corpses are stirring ; Grod help my poor head ! I'll sit by my children until the men come To bury the others, and then we'll go home. Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, don't move. Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. Lullaby, lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! (rod and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 79 THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. (ALBERT G. GREENE.) O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay, — The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. " They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er; That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more ; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I, — ha ! ha ! — must die. "And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Pay- nim spear; Think ye he's entered at my gate, — has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot ; — I'll try his might, I'll brave his power ; defy, and fear him not. u Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the cul- verin ; Bid each retainer arm with speed ; call every vassal in ; Up with my banner on the wall ; the banquet board pre- pare ; Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!" An hundred hands were busy then : the banquet forth was spread, And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread, While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er theproud old Gothic hall, 80 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the hoard ; While at its head, within his dark, carved oaken chair of state, Armed cap-a-pie, stern, Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. "Fill every beaker up, my men; pour forth the cheering wine ; There's life and strength in every drop ; — thanksgiving to the vine ! Are ye all there, my vassals true ? mine eyes are waxing dim ; Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim. " Ye're there, but yet I see you not ; draw forth each trusty- sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board ; — I hear it faintly : — louder yet ! What clogs my heavy breath ? Up, all ! and shout for Rudiger, l Defiance unto death ' ! " Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafen- ing cry, That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high. " Ho ! cravens ! do ye fear him ? Slaves ! traitors ! have ye flown? Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone ? " But I defy him ; let him come ! " Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half- way up ; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat, — dead! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 81 THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. (SUSAN WILSON.) Sebastian Gomez, better known by tbe name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of tbe most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in tbe churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630. 'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed The early sunlight in one chamber there ; Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where Murillo, the famed painter, came to share With young aspirants his loug-cherished art, To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. The pupils came, and glancing round, Mendez upon his canvas found, Not his own work of yesterday, But, glowing in the morning ray, A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, It almost seemed that there were given To glow before his dazzled sight, Tints and expression warm from heaven. ? Twas but a sketch — the Virgin's head — Yet was unearthly beauty shed Upon the mildly beaming face; The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, Had separate, yet blended grace — A poet's brightest dream was there ! Murillo entered, and amazed, On the mysterious painting gazed; ''Whose work is this? — speak, tell me! — he Who to his aid such power can call," Exclaimed the teacher eagerhy, " Will yet be master of us all ; 5 82 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Would I had done it 1 — Ferdinand ! Isturitz ! Mendez ! — say, whose hand Among ye all?" — With half-breathed sigh, Each pupil answered, — '* ? Twas not 1 1" " How carne it then ? " impatiently Murillo cried ; " but we shall see, Ere long, into this mystery. Sebastian ! " At the summons came A bright-eyed slave, Who trembled at the stern rebuke His master gave. For, ordered in that room to sleep, And faithful guard o'er all to keep, Murillo bade him now declare What rash intruder had been there, And threatened — if he did not tell The truth at once — the dungeon-cell." "Thou answerest not," Murillo said; (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) " Speak on ! " — At last he raised his head, And murmured, " No one has been here." " 'Tis false ! " Sebastian bent his knee, And clasped his hands imploringly, And said, " I swear it, none but me ! " u List ! " said his master. " I would know Who enters here — there have been found Before, rough sketches strewn around, By whose hold hand, 'tis yours to show; See that to-night strict watch you keep, Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. If on to-morrow morn you fail To answer what I ask, The lash shall force you — do you hear? Hence ! to your daily task." Twas midnight in Seville ; and faintly shone From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 83 Within Murillo's study — all were gone Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, One bright-eyed-boy was there — Murillo's little slave. Almost a child — that boy had seen Not thrice five summers yet, But genius marked the lofty brow, O'er which his locks of jet Profusely curled ; his cheek's dark hue Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, To Africa and Spain allied. "Alas! what fate is mine!" he said. " The lash, if I refuse to tell Who sketched those figures — if I do, Perhaps e'en more — the dungeon-cell ! " He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid ; It came — for soon in slumber laid, He slept, until the dawning day Shed on his humble couch its ray. " I'll sleep no more ! " he cried ; " and now, Three hours of freedom I may gain, Before my master comes ; for then I shall be but a slave again. Three blessed hours of freedom ! how Shall I employ them ? — ah ! e'en now The figure on that canvas traced Must be — yes, it must be effaced." He seized a brush — the morning light Gave to the head a softened glow ; Gazing enraptured on the sight, He cried, " Shall I efface it ?— No ! That breathing lip ! that beaming eye! Efface them ? — I would rather die ! " 84 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. The terror of the humble slave Gave place to the o'erpowering flow Of the high feelings Nature gave — Which only gifted spirits know. He touched the brow — the lip — it seemed His pencil had some magic power ; The eye with deeper feeling beamed — Ssbastian then forgot the hour! Forgot his master, and the threat Of punishment still hanging o'er him; For, with each touch, new beauties met And mingled in the face before him. At length 'twas finished ; rapturously He gazed — could ought more beauteous be !- A while absorbed, entranced he stood, Then started — horror chilled his blood ! His master and the pupils all Were there e'en at his side ! The terror-stricken slave was mute — Mercy would be denied, E'en could he ask it — so he deemed, And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. Speechless, bewildered — for a space The}' gazed upon that perfect face, Each with an artist's joy ; At length Murillo silence broke, And with affected sternness spoke — " Who is your master, boy ? " "You, Senor," said the trembling slave. "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, Before that Virgin's head you drew?" Again he answered, " Only you." u I gave you none," Murillo cried ! " But I have heard," the boy replied, " What you to others said." " And more than heard," in kinder tone, The painter said ; "'tis plainly shown That you have profited." "What (to his pupils) is his meed? Be ward or punishment ? " THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. 85 " Reward, reward ! " they warmly cried, (Sebastian's ear was bent To catch the sounds he scarce believed, But with imploring look received.) " What shall it be ? " They spoke of gold And of a splendid dress; But still unmoved Sebastian stood, Silent and motionless. " Speak ! " said Murillo, kindly ; " choose Your own reward — what shall it be ? Name what you wish, I'll not refuse : Then speak at once and fearlessly." " Oh ! if I dared ! "—Sebastian knelt, And feelings he could not control, (But feared to utter even then) With strong emotion, shook his soul. u Courage ! " his master said, and each Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, To soothe his overpow'ring dread. He scarcely heard, till some one said, " Sebastian — ask — you have your choice, Ask for your freedom ! " — At the word, The suppliant strove to raise his voice : At first but stifled sobs were heard, And then his prayer — breathed fervently— " Oh ! master, make my father free ! n " Him and thyself, my noble boy ! " Warmly the painter cried ; Raising Sebastian from his feet, He pressed him to his side. " Thy talents rare, and filial love, E'en more have fairly won ; Still be thou mine by other bonds— My pupil and my son." Murillo knew, e'en when the words Of generous feeling passed his lips, Sebastian's talents soon must lead To fame, that would his own eclipse; 86 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. And, constant to his purpose still, He joyed to see his pupil gain, Beneath his care, such matchless skill As made his name the pride of Spain. WE MEET UPON THE LEVEL, AND WE PABT UPON THE SQUARE. We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square — What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are ! Come, let us contemplate them — they are worthy of a thought — In the very soul of Masonry those precious words are wrought. We meet upon the level, though from every station come— The rich man from his mansion, and the poor man from his home; For the one must leave his heritage outside the Mason's door, While the other finds his best respect upon the checkered floor. We part upon the square, for the world must have its due ; We mingle with the multitude — a faithful band, and true ; But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, And we long, upon the level, to renew the happy scene. There's a world where all are equal — we are journeying toward it fast, We shall meet upon the level there when the gates of Death are past, We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be there To try the blocks we offer with his own unerring square. We shall meet upon the level there, but never thence depart ; There's a Mansion — 'tis all ready for each faithful, trusting heart — There's a Mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is there Who have met upon the level, and been tried upon the square. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 87 Let us meet upon the level, then, while laboring patient here — Let us meet and let us labor, though the labor be severe ; Already, in the Western sky, the signs bid us prepare To gather up our working tools, and part upon the square. Hands round, ye faithful Masons, in the bright, fraternal chain ! We part upon the square below to meet in Heaven again. ! what words of precious meaning those words Masonic are — We meet u^bn the level, and we part upon the square. LORD DUNDREARY ON "PWOVERBS." A fellah once told me that another fellah wrote a book before he was born — I mean before the first fellah was born (of course the fellah who wrote it must have been born, else how could he have written it?) — that is, a long time ago — to pwove that a whole lot of pwoverbs and things that fel- lahs are in the habit of quoting were all nonsense. I should vewy much like to get that book. I — I think if I could get it at one of those spherical — no — globular — no, that's not the word — circle — circular — yes, that's it — circulating libwawies (I knew it was something that went round) — I think if I could just borwow that book from a circulating libwawy — I'd — yes, upon my word now — I'd twy and wead it. A doothed good sort of book that, I'm sure. I — I always did hate pwoverbs. In the first place, they, they're so howwibly confusing — I — I always did mix 'etn up together — somehow, when I twy to weckomember them. And besides, if evewy fellah was to wegulate his life by a lot of pwoverbs, what — what a beathly sort of uncomfortable life he would lead ! I remoleckt — I mean remember — when I was quite a little fellah — in pinafores — and liked wasbewwy jam and — and a lot of howwid things for tea — there was a sort of col- lection of illustwated pwoverbs hanging up in our nursery at home. They belonged to our old nurse — Sarah — I think — and she had 'em fwamed and glazed. " Poor Richard's," I think she called 'em — and she used to say — poor dear — 88 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. that if evewy fellah attended to evewything Poor Richard wote, that he'd get vewy wich, and 1-live and die — happy ever after. However — it — it's vewy clear to me that — lie couldn't have attended to them — himself, else, how did the fellah come to be called Poor Richard ? I — I hate a fellah that pweaches what he doesn't pwactice. Of courth, if what he said was twue, and he'd stuck to it — he — he'd have been called — Rich Richard — Stop a minute — how's that? Rich Richard? Why that would have been too rich. Pwaps that's the reason he preferred being Poor. How vewy wich ! But, as I was saying, these picture pwoverbs were all hung up in our nursery, and a more uncomfortable set of makthims — you never wead. For instance, there was one vewy nonthensical pwoverb which says : " A B-BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH." Th-the man who invented that pwoverb must have been a b-born idiot. How the dooth can he t-tell the welative v-value of poultry in that pwomithcuous manner ? Sup- pothe I've got a wobbing wed-bweast in my hand — (I nearly had the other morning — but he flew away — confouud him !) — well — suppothe the two birds in the bush are a bwace of partwidges — you — you don't mean to t-tell me that that wobbin wed-bweast would fetch as m-much as a bwace of partwidges ? Abthurd ! P-poor Richard can't gammon me in that sort of way. THE WIFE. (j. G. WHITTIER.) From school, and ball, and rout, she came, The city's fair, pale daughter, To drink the wine of mountain air Beside the Bearcamp Water. Her step grew firmer on the hills That watch our homesteads over; On cheek and lip, from summer fields, She caught the bloom of clover. THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER. 89 For health comes sparkling in the streams, From cool Chocorua stealing, There's iron in our northern winds, Our pines are trees of healing. She sat beneath the broad-armed elms That skirt the mowing-meadow, And watched the gentle west-wind weave The grass with shine and shadow. Beside her, from the summer hat To share her grateful screening, With forehead bared, the farmer stood, Upon his pitchfork leaning. Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face Had nothing mean or common — Strong, manly, true, the tenderness And pride beloved of woman. She looked up, glowing with the health The country air had brought her, And, laughing said : " You lack a wife, Your mother lacks a daughter. "To mend your frock and bake your bread You do not need a lady : Be sure among these brown old homes Is some one waiting ready — " Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand And cheerful heart for treasure, Who never played with ivory keys, Or danced the polka's measure." He bent his black brows to a frown, He set his white teeth tightly. " 'Tis well," he said, " for one like you To choose for me so lightly. " You think, because my life is rude, I take no note of sweetness ; I tell you love has naught to do With meetness or unmeetness. 90 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. " You think me deaf and blind j you bring Your winning graces hither, As free as if from cradle-time, We two had played together. " You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheek of sundown's blushes, A motion as of waving grain, A music as of thrushes. " The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around me, You cannot at your will undo, Nor leave me as you found me. " You go as lightly as you came, Your life is well without me ; What care you that these hills will close Like prison-walls about me ? " No mood is mine to seek a wife, Or daughter for my mother; Who loves you loses in that love All power to love another ! " I dare your pity or your scorn, With pride your own exceeding ; I fling my heart into your lap Without a word of pleading." She looked up in his face of pain, So archly, yet so tender : "And if I lend you mine," she said, " Will you forgive the lender ? " " Nor frock nor tan can hide the man ; And see you not, my farmer, How weak and fond a woman waits Behind this silken armor ? "I love you : on that love alone, And not my worth, presuming, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 91 Will you not trust for summer fruit The tree in May-day blooming ? " Alone the hang-bird overhead, His hair-hung cradle straining, Looked down to see love's miracle — The giving that is gaining. And so the farmer found a wife, His mother found a daughter; There looks no happier home than hers On pleasant Bearcamp Water. Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty ; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty. Our homes are cheerier for her sake, Our door-yards brighter blooming, And all about, the social air Is sweeter for her coming. We send the squire to General Court ; He takes his young wife thither ; No prouder man election-day E-ides through the sweet June weather. A GLASS OF COLD WATER. (j. B. GOUGH.) Where is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his children ? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play ; there God brews. it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; 92 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. and high upon the tal'l mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun ; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thuuder-storms crash ; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar; the chorus sweeping the march of God: there he brews it — that beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty; gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain ; shining in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels ; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun ; or a white gauze around the midnight moon. Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world ; and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven ; all check- ered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of re- fraction. Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water; no poison bubbles on its brink ; its foam brings not madness and murder ; no blood stains its liquid glass ; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depth ; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it demon's drink, alcohol ! WILL THE NEW YEAR COME TO-NIGHT, MAMMA? (COR A M. EAGER.) Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? I'm tired of waiting so — My stocking hung by the chimney-side full three long days ago; I run to peep within the door by morning's early light — 'Tis empty still : oh, say, mamma, will the New Year come to-night ? Will the New Year come to-night, mamma ? — the snow is on the hill, And the ice must be two inches thick upon the meadow's rill. THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEK. 93 I heard you tell papa, last night, his son must have a sled, (I didn't mean to hear, mamma,) and a pair of skates, you said. I prayed for just those things, mamma. Oh, I shall be full of glee, And the orphan boys in the village school will all be envy- ing me; But I'll give them toys, and lend them books, and make their New Year glad, For God, you say, takes back his gifts when little folks are bad, And won't you let me go, mamma, upon the New Year's day, And carry something nice and warm to poor old Widow Gray ? I'll leave the basket near the door, within the garden gate — Will the New Year come to-night, mamma ? — it seems so long to wait. The New Year comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my sleep ; My stocking hung so full, I thought — mamma, what makes you weep ? — But it only held a little shroud — a shroud, and nothing more ; And an open coffin, made for me, was standing on the floor ! It seemed so very strange indeed, to find such gifts, instead Of all the toys I wished so much — the story-books and sled ; And while I wondered what it meant, you came with tear- ful joy, And said, " Thou'lt find the New Year first : God calleth thee, my boy ! " It is not all a dream, mamma — I know it must be true ; But have I been so bad a boy, God taketh me from you? I don't know what papa will do. when I am laid to rest — And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your breast. The New Year comes to-night, mamma — place your dear hand on my cheek, And raise my head a little more — it seems so hard to speak. 94 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER, I shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the sled; But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my head ? He used to hide my books away, and tear the pictures, too, But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to do. And, if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-books and slate To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you wouldn't let me hate ; And, dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New Year's day, The basketful of something nice for poor old Widow Gray ? The New Year comes to-night, mamma — it seems so very soon — I think God didn't hear me ask for just another June. I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much care, And, maybe for your sake, mamma, God doesn't hear my prayer. There's one thing more : my pretty pets, the robin and the dove, Keep for you and dear papa, and teach them how to love. The garden rake, the little hoe — you'll find them nicely laid Upon the garret floor, mamma, the place where last I played. I thought to need them both so much when summer comes again, To make my garden by the brook that trickles through the glen ; It cannot be ; but you will keep the summer flowers green, And plant a few — don't cry, mamma — a very few I mean, Where I'm asleep — I'll sleep so sweet beneath the apple- tree, Where you and robin, in the morn, will come and sing to me. The New Year comes — good night, mamma — " I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord " — tell dear papa — " my precious soul to keep; THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER 95 If I" — how cold it seems — how dark — kiss me, I cannot see — The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year — dies with me. THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING. (THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.) Out of the North the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington ; And Concord roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour. Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood. The pastor came ; his snowy locks Hallowed his brow of thought and care; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer. Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong; The Psalm was warrior David's song ; The text, a few short words of might — "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!" He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. 96 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEK. The stirring sentences he spake Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king. Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Jftose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher ; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise. A moment there was awful pause — When Berkley cried, " Cease, traitor! cease; God's temple is the house of peace ! " The other shouted, " Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray ! " And now before the open door — The warrior priest had ordered so — The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Bang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, It's long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 97 It seemed as it would never cease ; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant tongue Was, "War! War ! WAR ! " "Who dares?" — this was the patriot's cry. As striding from the desk he came — " Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die ? " A hundred hands flung up reply A hundred voices answered, " I ! ; ' THE STAE OF BETHLEHEM. (henry kirke white.) When", marshall'd on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye : Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks From every host, from every gem ; But one alone the Saviour speaks : It is the star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode; The storm was loud, — the night was dark ; The ocean yawn'd, — and rudely blow'd The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze : Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem, When suddenly a star arose : It was the Star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm and dangers' thrall It led me to the port of peace. 6 98 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEE. "Now, safely moor'd, my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, Forever and for evermore, The Star,— the Star of Bethlehem! THE BURIAL OF SIE JOHN MOORE. (CHARLES WOLFE.) Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, — By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimty burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow : But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun Of the enemy sullenly tiring. THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. 99 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory : We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. AN ALPINE STOEM AT LAKE GENEVA. (byron.) The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! And this is in the night : — most glorious night ! Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee ! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. DESTBUCTION OF SENNACHEEIB. (btron.) The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea "When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 100 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still ! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! THE EAST. (byroist.) Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 101 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In color though varied, in beauty may vie ; And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the sun, — Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell ; But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it? — No ; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 2^o sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts; and choking sighs, Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 102 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar ; And, near, the beat of the alarming drum Housed up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng' d the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, — " The foe ! They come ! they come ! " ****** And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn, the marshalling in arms — the day, Battle's magnificently stern array ! The thuuder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider, and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. (byron). She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 103 One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so cairn, so eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. MAN'S IMMORTALITY. (BYRON.) - When coldness wraps this suffering clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? It cannot die, — it cannot stay, But leaves its darkened dust behind. Then, unembodied, doth it trace By steps each planet's heavenly way ? Or fill at once the realms of space, A thing of eyes, that all survey ? Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, A thought unseen, but seeing all, — All, all in earth or skies display'd, Shall it survey, shall it recall: Each fainter trace that memory holds So darkly of departed years, In one broad glance the soul beholds, And all that was, at once appears. Before Creation peopled earth, Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; And where the furthest heaven had birth, The spirit trace its rising track j 104 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEK, And where the future mars or makes, Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quench'd or system breaks, Fix'd in its own eternity. Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure : An age shall fleet like earthly year ; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing. O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly ; A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die. AULD KOBIN GKAY* (ANNE BARNARD.) Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of James Lindsay, Earl of Balcarres, was born in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1750, and was mar- ried in 1793 to Mr. Andrew Barnard, who was secretary under Lord Macartney at the colony of the Cape of Good Hope, where she died in 1825. This is about all we know of the life of the au- thoress of one of the sweetest, most tender, and most affecting bal- lads in our language, and which deserves a place in any collection of its gems, — the ballad of Auld Robin Gray. When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, And a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, Unkent by my gudeman, wha soundly sleeps by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, But saving ae crown-piece he'd naething else beside; To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound, — they were baith for me. Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day, My father brake his arm, — our cow was stown away ; * Of this ballad Leigh Hunt has truly said " It has suffused more eyes with tears of the first water than any other ballad that ever was written." THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEK. 105 My mither she fell sick, — my Jamie was at sea, An 1 Auld Robin Gray, he came a-courting me. My father couldna work, — my mither couldna spin, — I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, Said, '• Jeanie, oh, for their sakes, will ye marry me ? " My heart it said Na, and I look'd for Jamie back, But hard blew the winds, and his ship it proved a wrack ; His ship it was a wrack, — Why didna Jamie dee, And wherefore am I spared to cry, wae is me ? My father urged me sair,— my mither didna speak, But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break; They gied him my hand, — but my heart was in the sea, — And so Auld Robin Gray was a gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, — I couldna think it he, Till he said, " I'm come hame, my love, to marry tbee ! Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', Ae kiss we took, nae mair — I bad him gang awa' : I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to dee, For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, — Wae is me ! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin, But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, For Auld Robin Gray, oh, he is sae kind to me. THE TWO WEAVERS. (HANNAH MOKE.) As at their work two weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touch'd upon the price of meat, So high, a weaver scarce could eat. 106 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER, "What with my brats and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, " I'm almost tired of life; So hard my work, so poor my fare, ? Tis more than mortal man can bear. " How glorious is the rich man's state ! His house so fine ! his wealth so great ! Heaven is unjust, you must agree ; Why all to him ? why none to me ? " In spite of what the Scripture teaches, In spite of all the parson preaches, This world (indeed, I've thought so long) Is ruled, methinks, extremly wrong. " Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange ; The good are troubled and oppress'd, And all the wicked are the bless'd." Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause Why thus we blame our Maker's law ; Parts of his ways alone we know; 'Tis all that man can see below. " Seest thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun; Behold the wild confusion there, So rude the mass, it makes one stare ! "A stranger, ignorant of the trade, Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ; For where's the middle, where's the border? Thy carpet now is all disorder." Quoth Dick, " My work is yet in bits, But still in eveiy part it fits ; Besides, you reason like a lout : — Why, man, that carpet's inside out ! " Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I mean, And now I hope to cure thy spleen; THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 107 This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt, Is but a carpet inside out. " As when we view these shreds and ends We know not what the whole intends, So, when on earth things look but odd, They're working still some scheme of God. " No plan, no pattern, can we trace ; All wants proportion, truth, and grace ; The motley mixture we deride, Nor see the beauteous upper side. " But when we reach that world of light, And view those works of God aright, Then shall we see the whole design, And own the workman is divine. " What now seem random strokes will there All order and design appear ; Then shall we praise what here we spurn'd, For then the carpet shall be turn'd." " Thou'rt right," quoth Dick ; " no more I'll grumble That this sad world's so strange a jumble j My impious doubts are put to flight, For my own carpet sets me right." THE IMMOETALITY OF LOVE. (ROBERT SOUTHEY.) They sin, who tell us love can die, With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity; In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth ; But love is indestructible j 108 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Its holy flame forever burnetii, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times oppress'd, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there. Oh, when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight ? DAVID, KING- OF ISRAEL. (EDWARD IRVING.) If it be asked, Who was the greatest man this world ever pro- duced? I answer, in my humble opinion, David, King of Israel. Was there ever a hero worthy to be compared with him ? When a youth, did he did not slay a lion and a bear? and when the hosts of Israel stood in terror and astonishment, not one of their mighty men of valor daring to accept the haughty challenge of Goliah of Gath, that immense giant, more than eleven feet in height, and whose armor weighed three hundred pounds; did not this true hero, armed only with a sling, and without armor of any kind, advance against him and slay him? Was he not victorious in every fight? And when he was made King of Israel, although he found his country surrounded by powerful enemies on every side, and almost at the mercy of the Philistines, who had slain Saul and Jonathan, and utterly defeated the Israelites, yet in a few years, he subdued all the nations that dared oppose him ; and when he died, left to his son Solomon the richest and most powerful king- dom on the face of the earth. But let Edward Irving,, in words of true eloquence, describe this wonderful man. — p. L, There never was a specimen of manhood so rich and ennobled as David, the son of Jesse, whom other saints haply may have equalled in single features of his character; but such a combination of manly, heroic qualities, such a flush of generous, godlike excellencies, hath never yet been seen embodied in a single man. His Psalms, to speak as a man, do place him in the highest rank of lyrical poets, as THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEE. 109 they set him above all the inspired writers of the Old Testa- ment, — equalling in sublimity the flights of Isaiah himself, and revealing the cloudy mystery of Ezekiel ; but in love of country, and glorying in its heavenly patronage, surpass- ing them all. And where are there such expressions of the varied conditions into which human nature is cast by the accidents of Providence, such delineations of deep affliction and inconsolable anguish, and anon such joy, such rapture, such revelry of emotion in the worship of the living God ! such invocations to all nature, animate and inanimate, such summonings of the hidden powers of harmony and of the breathing instruments of melody! Single hymns of this poet would have conferred immortality upon any mortal, and borne down his name as one of the most favored of the sons of men. But it is not the writings of the man which strike us with such wonder, as the actions and events of his wonder- ful history. He was a hero without a peer, bold in battle and generous in victory: by distress or by triumph never overcome. Though hunted like a wild beast among the mountains, and forsaken like a pelican in the wilderness, by the country whose armies he had delivered from disgrace, and by the monarch whose daughter he had won, — whose son he had bound to him with cords of brotherly love, and whose own soul he was wont to charm with the sacredness of his minstrelsy, — he never indulged malice or revenge against his unnatural enemies. Twice, at the peril of his life, he brought his blood-hunter within his power, and twice he spared him, and would not be persuaded to injure a hair upon his head, — who, when he fell in his high places, was lamented over by David with the bitterness of a son, and his death avenged upon the sacrilegious man who had lifted his sword against the Lord's anointed. In friendship and love, and also in domestic affection, he was not less notable than in heroical endowments, and in piety to God he was most remarkable of all. He had to flee from his bedchamber in the dead of night; his friendly meetings had to be concerted upon the perilous edge of captivity and death ; his food he had to seek at the risk of sacrilege ; for a refuge from death to cast himself upon the people of Gath, to counterfeit idiocy, and become the laughing-stock of his enemies. And who shall tell of his hidings in the cave of 110 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEK. Adullam, and of his wanderings in the wilderness of Ziph, — in the weariness of which he had power to stand before his armed enemy with all his host, and, by the generosity of his deeds and the affectionate language which flowed from his lips, to melt into childlike weeping the obdurate spirit of King Saul, which had the nerve to evoke the spirits of the dead ? King David was a man extreme in all his excellencies, — a man of the highest strain, whether for counsel, for expression, or for action, in peace and in war, in exile and on the throne. That such a warm and ebullient spirit should have given way before the tide of its affections, we wonder not. We rather wonder that, tried by such extremes, his mighty spirit should not often have burst control, and enacted right forward the conqueror, the avenger, and the destroyer. To conceive aright of the gracefulness and strength of King David's character, we must draw him into comparison with others in a similar condition, and then we shall see what hero in the vain world is to cope with him. Conceive a man who had saved his country and clothed himself with graceful- ness and renown in the sight of all the people by the chivalry of his deeds, won for himself intermarriage with the royal line, and by unction of the Lord's prophet been set apart to the throne itself; such a one conceive driven with fury from house and hold, and through tedious years deserted of every stay but heaven, with no soothing sympathies of quiet life, harassed forever between famine and the edge of the sword, and kept in savage holds and deserts ; and tell us, in the annals of men, of one so disappointed, so bereaved and straitened, maintaining not fortitude alone, but a sweet composure and a heavenly frame of soul, inditing praise to no avenging deity, and couching songs in no revengeful mood, according with his outcast and unsocial life ; but inditing praises to the God of mercy, and songs which soar into the third heavens of the soul, — not, indeed, without the burst of sorrow and the complaint of solitariness, and pro- phetic warnings to his blood-thirsty foes, but ever closing in sweet preludes of good to come, and desire of present con- tentment. Find us such a one in the annals of men, and we yield the argument of this controversy. Men there have been driven before the wrath of kings to wander out- laws and exiles, whose musings and actings have been THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. HI recorded to us in the minstrelsy of our native land. Draw these songs of the exile into comparison with the Psalms of David, and know the spirit of the man after God's own heart; the stern defiance of the one, with the tranquil acquiescence of the other; the deep despair of the one, with the rooted trust of the other ; the vindictive impreca- tions of the one, with the tender regret and forgiveness of the other. Show us an outlaw who never spoiled the country which had forsaken him, nor turned his hand in self-defence or revenge upon his persecutors, — who used the vigor of his arm only against the enemies of his country, — ■ yea, lifted up his arm in behalf of that mother which had cast her son, crowned with salvation, away from her bosom, and held him at a distance from her love, and raised the rest of her family to hunt him to the death ; in the defence of that thankless, unnatural mother-country, find us such a repudiated son lifting up his arm and spending its vigor in smiting and utterly discomfiting her enemies, whose spoils he kept not to enrich himself and his ruthless followers, but dispensed to comfort her and her happier children. Find us, among the Themistocles and Coriolani and Crom wells and Napoleons of the earth, such a man, and we will yield the argument of this controversy which we maintain for the peerless son of Jesse. But we fear that no such another man is to be found in the recorded annals of men. Though he rose from the peasantry to fill the throne and enlarge the borders of his native land, he gave himself neither to ambition nor to glory; though more basely treated than the sons of men, he gave not place to despondency or revenge; though of the highest genius in poetry, he gave it not license to sing his own deeds, nor to depict loose and licentious life, nor to ennoble any worldly sentiment or attachment of the human heart, however virtuous or honorable, but constrained it to sing the praises of God and the victories of the right hand of the Lord of hosts, and his admirable works which are of old from everlasting. And he hath dressed out religion in such a rich and beautiful garment of divine poesy as be- seemeth her majesty, in which, being arrayed, she can stand up, before the eyes of her enemies, in more royal state than any personification of love or glory or a plearure to which highly-gifted mortals have devoted their genius. 112 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. The force of his character was vast, and the scope of his life was immense. His harp was full-stringed, and every angel of joy and of sorrow swept over the chords as he passed ; but the melody always breathed of heaven. And such oceans of affection lay within his breast as could not always slumber in their calmness. For the hearts of a hundred men strove and struggled together within the nar- row continent of his single heart. And will the scornful men have no sympathy for one so conditioned, but scorn him because he ruled not with constant quietness the unruly host of divers natures which dwelt within his single*soul ? Of self-command surely he will not be held deficient who endured Saul's javelin to be so often launched at him, while the people without were willing to hail him king; who endured all bodily hardships and taunts of his enemies when revenge was in his hand, and ruled his desperate band like a company of saints, and restrained them from their country's injury. But that he should not be able to enact all characters without a fault, the simple shepherd, the con- quering hero, and the romantic lover; the perfect friend, the innocent outlaw, and the ro} T al monarch; the poet, the prophet, and the regenerator of the church ; and withal the man, the man of vast soul, who played not these parts by turns, but was the original of them all, and wholly present in them all, — oh ! that he should have fulfilled this high- priesthood of humanity, this universal ministry of manhood, without an error, were more than human ! With the defence of his backslidings, which he hath himself more keenly scrutinized, more clearly discerned against, and more bitterly lamented than any of his censors, we do not charge ourselves ; but if, when of these acts he became convinced, he be found less true to God, and to righteousness ; indis- posed to repentance and sorrow and anguish ; exculpatory of himself; stout-hearted in his courses; a formalist in his penitence, or in any way less worthy of a spiritual man in those than in the rest of his infinite moods, then, verily, strike him from the canon, and let his Psalms become monkish legends, or what you please. But if these peni- tential Psalms discover the soul's deepest hell of agony, and lay bare the iron ribs of misery, whereon the very heart dissolveth ; and if they, expressing the same in words, which melt the soul that conceiveth and bow the head that THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 113 uttereth them, — then, we say, let us keep these records of the psalmist's grief and despondency as the most precious of his utterances, and sure to be needed in the case of every man who essayeth to live a spiritual life. DEATH OF LORD NELSON". (ROBERT SOUTHEY.) It had been part of Nelson's prayer, that the British fleet might be distinguished by humanity in the victory he expected. Setting an example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing on the Redoubtable, supposing that she had struck, because her guns were silent; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly ascertain- ing the fact. From this ship, which he had thus twice spared, he received his death. A ball fired from her mizzen-top, which, in the then situation of the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from that part of the deck where he was standing, struck the epaulette on his left shoulder, about a quarter after one, just in the heat of action. He fell upon his face, on the spot which was covered with his poor secre- tary's blood. Hardy, who was a few steps from him, turn- ing round, saw three men raising him up. " They have done for me at last, Hardy," said he. "I hope not," cried Hardy. "Yes!" he replied; "my back-bone is shot through." Yet even now, not for a moment losiug his presence of mind, he observed, as they wefe carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller-ropes, which had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new oues should be rove immediately: then, that he might not be seen by the crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered his face and his stars. Had he but concealed these badges of honor from the enemy, England, perhaps, would not have had cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle of Trafalgar. The cock-pit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over whose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid upon a pallet in the midshipman's berth. It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants. He himself being certain, from the sensation in his back, 7 114 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER, and the gush of blood he felt momently within his breast, that no human care could avail him, insisted that the sur- geon should leave him and attend to those to whom he might be useful ; " for," said he, " you can do nothing for me." All that could be done was to fan him with paper, and frequently to give him lemonade to alleviate his intense thirst. He was in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the action, which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck, the crew of the Victory hur- raed; and at every hurra, a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the dying hero. But he became impatient to see Hardy; and as that officer, though often sent for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared that some fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one bring Hardy to me? he must be killed ! he is surely dead ! " An hour and ten minutes elapsed from the time when Nelson received his wound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence ; Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful and yet sub- limest moment. " Well, Hardy," said Nelson, " how goes the day with us ? " " Very well," replied Hardy ; " ten ships have struck, but five of the van have tacked, and show an intention to bear down upon the Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing." " I hope," said Nelson, " that none of our ships have struck." Hardy answered, "there was no fear of that." Then, and not till then, Nel- son spoke of himself. "I am a dead man, Hardy," said he ; "I am going fast : it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer to me." * * * Hardy then, once more, shook hands with him, and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened on deck. * * * His articulation now became difficult ; but he was distinctly heard to say, "Thank God, I have done my duty ! " These words he repeatedly pronounced ; and they were the last words which he uttered. He expired at thirty minutes after four,— three hours and a quarter after he had received his wound. The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public calamity : men started at the intelli- THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. H5 gence, and turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us ; and it seemed as if we had never till then known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero — the greatest of our own and of all former times — was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end. The fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but destroyed ; new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possi- bility of their invading our shores could again be contem- plated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him : the general sorrow was of a higher character. The people of England grieved that funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and posthumous rewards, were all which they could now bestow upon him whom the king, the legislature, and the nation would have alike delighted to honor ; whom every tongue would have blessed ; whose presence in every village through which he might have passed would have wakened the church-bells, have given schoolboys a holiday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him, and "old men from the chimney-corner" to look upon Nelson ere they died. The victory of Trafalgar was cele- brated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy ; for such already was the glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most sig- nal victory that ever was achieved upon the seas ; and the destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to our security or strength ; for, while Nelson was living to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence. There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening his body, that in the course of nature he might have attained, like his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose work was done ; nor ought he to be lamented, who died so full of hon- 116 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. ors and at the height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most splendid, that of the hero in the hour of victory. THOU ART, GOD. (moore.) Thou art, God, the life and light Of all this wonderous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine ! When Day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven, — Those hues, that makes the sun's decline So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine ! When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with un number 'd eyes, — That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord, are Thine ! When youthful Spring around us breathes, Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; And every flower the Summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine ! THE THRONE OF GOD. (THOMAS DICK.) The Scriptures frequently refer to a particular place, cir- cumstance, or manifestation, termed the throne of God, as in THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. H7 the following passages : — u Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool." " The Lord hath prepared his throne in the heavens." "A glorious high throne, from the beginning, is the place of thy sanctuary." " Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple." "Blessing, and honor, and glory, and power, be unto Him that sits upon the throne." These and similar expressions and representations must be consid- ered either as merely metaphorical, or as referring to some particular region of the universe where the Divine glory is reflected, in some peculiarly magnificent manner, from ma- terial objects, and where the manifestations of the Divine character are most illustriously displayed. If there be a reference to the splendor and magnitude of a particular por- tion of creation, there is an astronomical idea which may help us to form some conception of this "glorious high throne " which is the peculiar residence of the Eternal. It is now considered by astronomers as highly probable, if not certain, from late observations, from the nature of gravi- tation, and other circumstances, that all the systems of the universe revolve round one common centre ; and that this centre may bear as great a proportion, in point of magni- tude, to the universal assemblage of systems, as the sun does to his surrounding planets; and since our sun is five hundred times larger than the earth and all the other planets and their satellites taken together, on the same scale such a central body would be five hundred times larger than all the systems and worlds in the universe. Here, then, may be a vast universe of itself, an example of material creation exceeding all the rest in magnitude and splendor, and in which are blended the glories of every other system. If this is in reality the case, it may, with the most emphatic propriety, be termed the throne of God. THE SUPEEIOKITY OF POETRY OVER SCULP- TURE AND PAINTING. ( J AMES MONTGOMERY.) Let us bring — not into gladiatorial conflict, but into honorable competition, where neither can suffer disparage- 118 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEK. ment — one of the masterpieces of ancient sculpture, and two stanzas from Childe Harold, in which that very statue is turned into verse which seems almost to make it visible : — THE DYING GLADIATOR. " I see before me the Gladiator lie ; He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony; And his droop'd head sinks gradually low; And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him, — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout that hailed the wretch who won, Now, in all this, sculpture has embodied in perpetual mar- ble, and every association touched upon in the description might spring up in a well-instructed mind while contem- plating the insulated figure which personifies the expiring champion. Painting might take up the same subject, and represent the amphitheatre thronged to the height with ferocious faces, all bent upon the exulting conqueror and his prostrate antagonist, — a thousand for one of them sympa- thizing rather with the transport of the former than the agony of the latter. Here, then, sculpture and painting have reached their climax; neither of them can give the actual thoughts of the personages whom they exhibit so palpably to the outward sense, that the character of those thoughts cannot be mistaken. Poetry goes further than both ; and when one of the sisters has laid down her chisel, the other her pencil, she continues her strain ; wherein, having already sung what each has pictured, she thus reveals that secret of the sufferer's breaking heart, which neither of them could intimate by any visible sign. But we must return to the swoon of the dying man : The arena swims around him, — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout that hail'd the wretch who won. " He heard it, but he heeded not, — his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize, — But, where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother; he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday: All this rush'd with his blood." * * * THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 119 Myriads of eyes had gazed upon that statue ; through myr- iads of minds all the images and ideas connected with the combat and the fall, the spectators and the scene, had passed in the presence of that uuconscious marble which has given immortality to the pangs of death; but not a soul among all the beholders through eighteen centuries — not one — had ever before thought of the "rude hut/' the " Dacian mother," the " young barbarians." At length came the poet of passion, and, looking down upon "The Dying Gladi- ator" (less as what it was than what it represented), turned the marble into man, and endowed it with human affections ; then, away over the Apennines and over the Alps, away, on the wings of irrepressible sympathy, flew his spirit to the banks of the Danube, where, " with his heart," were the " eyes " of the victim, under the night-fall of death ; for " there were his young barbarians all at play, and there their Dacian mother." This is nature ; this is truth. While the conflict continued, the combatant thought of himself only, he aimed at nothing but victory; when life and this were lost, his last thoughts, his sole thoughts, would turn to his wife and his little children. THE PENTECOSTAL GIFT. (HUGH MILLER.) I remember being much struck, several years ago by a remark dropped in conversation by the late Rev. Mr. Stew- art of Cromarty, one of the most original-minded men I ever knew. " In reading in my Greek New Testament this morn- ing," he said, " I was curiously impressed by a thought which, simple as it may seem, never occurred to me before. The portion which 1 perused was in the first Epistle of Pe- ter ; and as I passed from the thinking of the passage to the language in which it is expressed, ' This Greek of the un- taught Galilean fisherman,' I said, ' so admired by scholars and critics for its unaffected dignity and force, was not -ac- quired, as that of Paul may have been, in the ordinary way, but formed a portion of the Pentecostal gift ! ' Here, then, immediately under my eye, on these pages, are there embod- ied, not, as in many other parts of the Scriptures, the mere 120 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER details of a miracle, but the direct results of a miracle. How strange ! Had the old tables of stone been placed before me, with what an awe-struck feeling would I have looked on the characters traced upon them by God's own ringers ! How is it that I have failed to remember that, in the language of these Epistles, miraculously impressed by the Divine power upon the mind, I possessed as significant and suggestive a relic as that which the inscription miraculously impressed by the Divine power upon the stone could possibly have fur- nished?" THE LAST DAY OF CEEATION. (HUGH MILLER.) Again the night descends, for the fifth day has closed ; and morning breaks on the sixth and last day of creation. Cattle and beasts of the fields graze on the plains ; the thick-skinned rhinoceros wallows in the marshes ; the squat hippopotamus rustles among the reeds, or plunges sullenly into the river; great herds of elephants seek their food amid the young herbage of the woods ; while animals of fiercer nature — the lion, the leopard, and the bear — har- bor in deep caves till the evening, or lie in wait for their prey amid tangled thickets, or beneath some broken bank. At length, as the day wanes and the shadows lengthen, man, the responsible lord of creation, formed in God's own image, is introduced upon the scene, and the work of crea- tion ceases forever upon the earth. The night falls once more upon the prospect, and there dawns yet another mor- row, — the morrow of God's rest, — that Divine Sabbath in which there is no more creative labor, and which, " blessed and sanctified" beyond all the days that had gone before, has as its special object the moral elevation and final re- demption of man. And over it no evening is represented in the record as falling, for its special work is not yet com- plete. Such seems to have been the sublime panorama of creation exhibited in vision of old to " The shepherd who first taught the chosen seed, In the beginning how the heavens and earth Kose out of chaos ; " THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 121 and, rightly understood, I know not a single scientific truth that militates against even the minutest or least prominent of its details. MILTON. (macaulat.) There are a few characters which have stood the closest scrutiny and the severest tests, which have been tried in the furnace, and have proved pure, which have been weighed in the balance, and have not been found wanting, which have been declared sterling by the general consent of mankind, and which are visibly stamped with the image and super- scription of the Most High. These great men we trust that we know how to prize ; and of these was Milton. The sight of his books, the sound of his name, are refreshing to us. His thoughts resemble those celestial fruits and flowers which the Virgin Martyr of Massinger sent down from the gardens of Paradise to the earth, distinguished from the productions of other soils, not only by their superior bloom and sweet- ness, but by their miraculous efficacy to invigorate and to heal. They are powerful not only to delight, but to elevate and purify. Nor do we envy the man who can study either the life or the writings of the great poet and patriot without aspiring to emulate not indeed the sublime works with which his genius has enriched our literature, but the zeal with which he labored for the public good, the fortitude with which he endured every private calamity, the lofty disdain with which he looked down on temptation and dangers, the deadly hatred which he bore to bigots and tyrants, and the faith which he so sternly kept with his country and with his fame. THE STRENGTH OE THE AMERICAN GOVERN- MENT. (JOHN BRIGHT, OF ENGLAND, 1863.) Will anybody deny that the Government at Washington as regards its own people, is the strongest Government in 122 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. the world at this hour ? And for this simple reason : be- cause it is based on the will, and the good will, of an instructed people. Look at its power ! I am not now dis- cussing why it is, or the cause which is developing this pow- er; but power is the thing which men regard in these old countries, and which they ascribe mainly to European institu- tions ; but look at the power which the United States have developed ! They have brought more men into the field, they have built more ships for their navy, they have shown greater resources than any nation in Europe at this mo- ment is capable of. Look at the order which has prevailed at their elections, at which, as you see by the papers, fifty thou- sand, or one hundred thousand, or two hundred and fifty thousand persons voting in a given State, with less disorder than you have seen lately in three of the smallest boroughs in England. Look at their industry. Notwithstanding this terrific struggle, their agriculture, their manufactures and commerce proceed with an uninterrupted success. They are ruled by a President, chosen, it is true, not from some worn-out royal or noble blood, but from the people, and the one whose truthfulness and spotless honor have claimed him universal praise ; and now the country that has been vilified through half the organs of the press in England during the last three years, and was pointed out, too, as an example to be shunned by many of your statesmen, that country, now in mortal strife, affords a haven and a home for mutitudes fly- ing from the burdens and the neglect of the old governments of Europe ; and, when this mortal strife is over — when peace is restored, when slavery is destroyed, when the Union is cemented afresh — for I would say, in the language of one of our own poets addressing his country, " The grave's not dug where traitor hands shall lay, In fearful haste, thy murdered corse away " — then Europe and England may learn that an instructed democracy is the surest foundation of government, and that education and freedom are the only sources of true great- ness and true happiness among any people. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 1^3 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashion' d country-seat : Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs alas ! With sorrowful voice, to all who pass— " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! n By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall — Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber-door — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " In that mansion used to be Free-hearted hospitality : 124 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. His great fires up the chimney roar'd; The stranger feasted at his board; But like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " There groups of merry children play'd, There youths and maidens dreaming stray'd precious hours ! golden prime, And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told — u Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding-night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; And, in the hush that follow'd the prayer, Was heferd the old clock on the stair — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " All are scatter' d now and fled — Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, " Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? " As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " Never here, forever there— Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear — Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly— " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! n THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 125 SCOTT AND THE VETERAN. (BAYARD TAYLOR.) An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came, He sought the chief who led him on many a field of fame — The chief who shouted " Forward ! " where'er his banner rose, And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes. " Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried, " The days of Eighteen Hundred Twelve, when I was at your side ? Have you forgotten Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane? 'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again." " Have I forgotten ? " said the chief; "my brave old sol- dier, No ! And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so ; But you have done your share, my friend ; you're crippled, old and gray, And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to- day." " But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow, " The very men who fought with us they say are traitors now ; They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane — our old red, white and blue ; And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true. u I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun To get the range of traitors' hearts, and pick them, one by one. Your Minie rifle, and such arms, it ain't worth while to try ; I couldn't get the hang of them, but I'll keep my powder dry ! " " God bless you, comrade !" said the chief; " God bless your loyal heart ! But younger men are in the field, and claim to have their part; 126 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. They'll plant our sacred banner in each rebellious town, And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down ! " " But, General," — still persisting, the weeping veteran cried, "I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide; And some, you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least, can I ; So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die! "If they should fire on Pickens, let the Colonel in com- mand, Put me upon the rampart, with the flag-staff in my hand ; No odds how hot the cannon smoke, or how the shells may fly; I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die! tl I'm ready, General, so you let a post to me be given, Where Washington can see me, as he looks from highest heaven, And say to Putman at his side, or, may be, General Wayne, " There stands old Billy Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane ! ' " And when the fight is hottest, before the traitors fly, When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky, If any shot should hit me, and lay me on my face, My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place ! " HEROES AND MARTYRS. (rev. e. h. chapin.) Heroes and martyrs ! they are the men of the hour. They are identified with the names that live upon the lips of millions. It is of these, more than all others, that the people talk, around their firesides and in their assemblies. It is of these that we may freely speak, even in the sanctuarj^. Our heroes and martyrs ! a cloud of witnesses for the spirit THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 127 and worth of the nation. Our heroes ! named in the homes of all who have left home and occupation, comfort and kin- dred, and stood in the midst of the battle ; — presented to us in glorious clusters on many a deck and field. An entire discourse might be made up of instances. Our memories run backward and forward through this war, collecting files of illustrious deeds. We remember the man who covered the threatened powder with his body — the gunner who, bleeding to death, seized the lanyard, fired his cannon, and fell back dead — the gallant captain, who, when his artillery- men were killed, and himself left alone, sat calmly down upon his piece, and, with revolver in hand, refusing to fly, fought to the end, and died the last man at his gun — the old Massachusetts 2nd at Gettysburg, who, in the fierce fighting on the right, on the morning of the 3rd of July, had their commanding officer killed at the head of the regi- ment, and five standard-bearers shot down in succession ; but the colors dropped by one were grasped by another, and never touched the ground. These are instances, hastily gathered from glorious sheaves — not exceptional, but repre- sentative instances. These are the men of the hour, who illustrate the value of our country by the richest crop that has ever sprung from her soil. But where the hero stands, there also the martyr dies. With the chorus of victory blends the dirge — mournful aud yet majestic, too. The burden of that dirge, as it falls from the lips of wives and mothers, of fathers and children, is sad and tender like the strain of David weeping for those who fell upon G-ilboa. That burden is still mournful but as it passes on and it reissues from a nation's lips, it swells also into exultation and honor — that same burden — "How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle ! " Some of us perhaps have read of that company whom their brave officer had so often conducted to victory, and who would never part with their dead hero's name. Still day by day, at the head of the regimental roll, it is called aloud ; the generation that loved him have passed away ; but their sons and their sons' sons, will ever and always love the honored name. " Cornet Latour D'Auvergne " still first of the brave band, is summoned ; and ever and always a brave soldier steps from the ranks to reply : " Dead on the field of honor ! " 128 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. LAST WORDS. (ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY.) Men of Alton, you come together for the purpose of. driving out a confessedly innocent man, for no cause but that he dares to think and speak as his conscience and his God dictate. Will conduct like this stand the scrutiny of your country, of posterity, — above all, of the judgment- day? For remember, the Judge of that day is no respecter of persons. Pause, I beseech you, and reflect. The pres- ent excitement will soon be over ; the voice of conscience will at last be heard. And in some season of honest thought, even in this world, as you review the scenes of this hour, you will be compelled to say, " He was right, he was right." But you have been exhorted to be lenient and compas- sionate, and in driving me away, to affix no unnecessary disgrace upon me. Sir, I reject all such compassion. You cannot disgrace me. Scandal and calumny and falsehood have already done their worst. My shoulders have borne the burthen till it sits easy upon them. You may hang me up as the mob hung up the martyrs of Vicksburg ! you may burn me at the stake, as they did Mcintosh at St. liouis ; or you may tar and feather me, or throw me into the Mississippi, as you have often threatened to do ; but you cannot disgrace me. I, and I only, can disgrace myself; and the deepest of all disgrace would be, at a time like this, to deny my Master, by forsaking His cause. Again, you have been told that I have a family, who are dependent on me ; and this has been given as a reason why I should be driven off as gently as possible. It is true, Mr. Chairman, I am a husband and a father; and this it is that adds the bitterest ingredient to the cup of sorrow I am called to drink. Yet I am not unhappy. I have counted the cost, and stand prepared freely to offer up my all in the service of God. I am commanded to forsake father and mother and wife and children for Jesus' sake; and as his professed disciple I stand prepared to do it. The time for fulfilling this pledge, in my case, it seems to me has come. Sir, I dare not flee away from Alton. Should I attempt it, I should feel that the angel of the Lord with his THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 129 flaming sword was pursuing me wherever I went. It is because I fear God that I am not afraid of all who oppose me in this city. No, sir, the contest has commenced here, and here it must be finished. Before God and you all, I here pledge myself to continue it, if need be, till death. If I fall, my grave shall be made in Alton. DEATH, THE PEACE MAKER. (ellen h. flagg.) Two soldiers, lying as they fell Upon the reddened clay — In daytime, foes ; at night, in peace, Beathing their lives away. Brave hearts had stirred each manly breast ; Eate only made them foes, And lying, dying, side by side, A softened feeling rose. " Our time is short," one faint voice said ; " To-day we've done our best On different sides. What matters now? To-morrow we're at rest. Life lies behind. I might not care For only my own sake, But far away are other hearts That this day's work will break. " Among New-Hampshire's snowy hills There pray for me to-night A woman and a little girl — With hair like golden light" — And at the thought broke forth, at last, The cry of anguish wild That would no longer be repressed — " God ! my wife and child ! ' ' " And," said the other dying man, "Across the Georgia plain There watch and wait for me loved ones I'l 130 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEE. A little girl, with dark, bright eyes, Each day waits at the door; The father's step, the father's kiss, Will never meet her more. " To-day we sought each other's lives ; Death levels all that now, For soon before God's mercy-seat Together we shall bow. Forgive each other while we may, Life's but a weary game, And right or wrong, the morning sun Will find us, dead, the same." The dying lips the pardon breathe, The dying hands entwine ; The last ray dies, and over all The stars from heaven shine ; And the little girl with golden hair And one with dark eyes bright, On Hampshire's hills and Georgia plain, Were fatherless that night. THE CHAEGE AT WATERLOO. (SIR WALTER SCOTT.) On came the whirlwind — like the last But fiercest sweep of tempest blast ; On came the whirlwind — steel-gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke ; The war was waked anew. Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud, And from their throats, with flash and cloud, Their showers of iron threw. Beneath their fire, in full career, Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier, The lancer couched his ruthless spear, And, hurrying as to havoc near, The cohorts' eagle flew. In one dark torrent, broad and strong, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 131 The advancing onset moved along, Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim, That from the shroud of smoke and flame, .Peaied wildly the imperial name. But on the British heart were lost The terrors of the charging host ; .For not an eye the storm that viewed Changed its proud glance of fortitude; Nor was one forward footstep stayed, As dropped the dying and the dead. Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, Fast they renewed each serried square And on the wounded and the slain Closed their diminished files again ; Till from their lines scarce spears' lengths three, Emerging from the smoke they see Helmet and plume, and panoply — Then waked their fire at once ! Each musketeer's revolving knell As fast, as regularly fell, As when they practise to display Their discipline on festal day. Then down went helm and lance, Down went the eagle-banners sent, Down reeling steeds and riders went, Corselets were pierced and pennons rent ; ' . And to augment the fray, Wheeled full against their staggering flanks, The English horsemen's foaming ranks Forced their resistless way. Then to the musket-knell succeeds The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds; As plies the smith his clanging trade, Against the cuirass rang the blade ; And while amid their close array The well-served cannon rent their way. * And while amid their scattered band Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand, Recoiled in common rout and fear Lancer and guard and cuirassier, Horsemen and foot — a mingled host — Their leaders fallen, their standards lost. 132 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. THE BATTLE. (SCHILLER.) Heavy and solemn, A cloudy column, Through the green plain they marching came ! Measureless spread, like a table dread, For the wild grim dice of the iron game. Looks are bent on the shaking ground, Hearts beat low with a knelling sound; Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt, Gallops the major along the front ; — " Halt ! " And fettered they stand at the stark command, And the warriors, silent, halt ! See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder! Hark ! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder ! From host to host, with kindling sound, The shouting signal circles round ; Ay, shout it forth to life or death, Freer already breathes the breath ! The war is waging, slaughter is raging, And heavy through the reeking pall The iron death-dice fall ! Nearer they close — foes upon foes ; " Ready ! " — from square to square it goes. The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood; And the living are blent in the slippery flood, And the feet as they reeling and sliding go, Stumble still on the corses that sleep below. " What ! Francis ! "— " Give Charlotte my last farewell." As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell, "I'll give — God ! are their guns so near? Ho ! comrades ! — yon volley ! — Look sharp to the rear ! I'll give th} 7 Charlotte thy last farewell ; Sleep soft! where death thickest descendeth in rain, \ The friend thou forsakest thy side may regain!" Hitherward, thitherward reels the fight; Dark and more darkly day glooms into night, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 133 Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er, In the life to come, that we meet once more ! Hark to. the hoofs that galloping go! The adjutants flj'ing — The horsemen press hard on the panting foe, Their thunder booms in dying — Victory ! Terror has seized on the dastards all, And their colors fall ! Victory ! Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight ! And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night. Trumpet and fife swelling choral along, The triumph already sweeps marching in song, Farewell, fallen brothers ; though this life be o'er, There's another, in which we shall meet you once more! THE KNIGHT'S TOAST. The feast is o'er ! Now brimming wine In lordly cup is seen to shine Before each eager guest ; While silence fills the crowded hall, As deep as when the herald's call Thrills in the loyal breast. Then up arose the noble host, And smiling cried : " A toast ! a toast ! To all the ladies fair ! Here before all, I pledge the name Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame,- The Ladye Gundamere ! " Then to his feet each gallant sprung And joyous was the shout that rung, As Stanley gave the word ; And every cup was raised on high, Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry, Till Stanley's voice was heard. 134 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. ' "Enough, enough." he smiling said, And lowly bent his haughty head; " That all may have their due, Now each in turn, must play his part, And pledge the lady of his heart, Like gallant knight and true ! " Then one by one, each guest sprang up, And drained in turn the brimming cup, And named the loved one's name ; And each, as hand on high he raised, His lady's grace or beauty praised, Her constancy and fame. 'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise ; On him are fixed those countless eyes j — A gallant knight is he ; Envied by some, admired by all, Far-famed in lady's bower and hall, — The flower of chivalry. St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high : " I drink to one," he said, "Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead. " To one, whose love for me shall last, When lighter passions long have passed,- So holy 'tis and true : To one, whose love hath longer dwelt, More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, Than any pledged by you." Each guest upstarted, at the word, And laid a hand upon his sword, With fury-flashing eye ; And Stanley said ; " We crave the name, Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, Whose love you count so high." THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER. 135 St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood, Thus lightly to another; Then bent his noble head, as though To give that word the reverence due, And gently said : " My mother ! " THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. Tritemius of Herbipolis one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice, Heard from beneath a miserable voice — A sound that seemed of all sad things to tell, As of a lost soul crying out of hell. © Thereat the abbot rose, the chain whereby His thoughts went upward broken by that cry, And, looking from the casement, saw below A wretched woman, with gray hair aflow, And withered hands stretched up to him, who cried For alms as one who might not be denied. She cried: "For the dear love of Him who gave His life for ours, my child from bondage save : — My beautiful, brave first-born chained with slaves In the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit waves Lap the white walls of Tunis ! " " What I can I give," Tritemius said — "my prayers." "0 man Of God ! " she cried, for grief had made her bold, " Mock me not so ; I ask not prayers, but gold ; Words cannot serve me, alms alone suffice ; Even while I plead, perchance my first-born dies." " Woman ! " Tritemius answered, " from our door None go unfed ; hence we are always poor. A single soldo is our only store — Thou hast our prayers, what can we give thee more ? n II Give me," she said, " the silver candlesticks On either side of the great crucifix ; 136 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. God may well spare them on His errand sped Or He can give thee golden ones instead." Then said Tritemius, "Even as thy word, Woman, so be it ; and our gracious Lord, Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice, Pardon me if a human soul I prize Above the gifts upon his altar piled ! Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child." But his hand trembled as the holy alms He laid within the beggar's palms ; And as she vanished down the linden shade, He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed. So the day passed ; and when the twilight came He rose to find the chapel all aflame, And dumb with grateful wonder to behold Upon the altar candlesticks of gold ! HARMOSAK Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won : Harmosan, the last of foemen, and the boldest to defy, Captive, overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die. Then exclaimed that noble Satrap, "Lo, I perish in my thirst; Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst." — In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught for- bore, Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the victors to explore. " But what fear'st thou ? " cried the Caliph ; " dost thou dread a secret blow ? " Fear it not ; our gallant Moslems no such treacherous deal- ings know. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 137 Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely ; for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water : this reprieve is thine-~ Quick the Satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, Asid the liquid sunk,— forever lost, amid the burning sand : "Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup I have drained : — then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up ! " For a moment stood the Caliph, as by doubtful passions stirred : Then exclaimed, " For ever sacred must remain a Monarch's word. Bring forth another cup and straightway to the noble Per- sian give : Drink, I said before, and perish ; — now, I bid thee drink and live ! " THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. (MRS. HEMANS.) Alone through gloomy forest shades, a soldier went by night, No moon-beam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed guid- ing light. Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly passed ; Unchecked by aught of boding sound, that muttered in the blast. Where were his thoughts that lonely hour ? — In his far home, perchance — His father's hall — his mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines of France.. 138 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Hush ! bark ! did stealing steps go by ? came not faint whispers near? No ! — the wild wind bath many a sigh, amidst the foliage sere. Hark ! yet again ! — and from bis band, what grasp batb wrenched the blade ? 0, single, 'midst a hostile band, young soldier, thou'rt be- trayed ! " Silence ! " in under-tones they cry ; " No whisper — not a breath ! The sound that warns thy comrades nigb shall sentence thee to death ! " Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet the blow; And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, " Arm ! — arm ! — Auvergne — the foe ! " The stir — the tramp — the bugle-call — he heard their tu- mults grow ; And sent his dying voice through all — " Auvergne ! Au- vergne ! the foe ! " THE PEOPLE'S ADVENT. (GERALD MASSEY.) 'Tis coming up the steep of time, And this old world is growing brighter ; We may not see its dawn sublime, Yet high hopes make the heart throb lighter. We may be sleeping 'neath the ground When it awakes the world in wonder, But we have felt it gathering round, And heard its voice of living thunder — 'Tis coming! yes, 'tis coming! 'Tis coming now, the glorious time Foretold by seers, and sung in story, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 139 For which, when thinking was a crime, Souls leaped to heaven from scaffold's gory ! They passed, nor saw the work they wrought, Nor the crown'd hopes of centuries blossom — But the live lightning of their thought, And daring deeds, doth pulse earth's bosom ; 'Tis coming ! yes, 'tis coming ! Creeds, Systems, Empires rot with age, But the great People's ever j^outhful ; And it shall write the Future's page To our humanity more truthful. The gnarlish heart hath tender chords To waken at the name of " Brother ; " The time will come, when scorpion words We shall not speak to sting each other — 'Tis coming! yes, 'tis coming! Out of the light, ye Priests, nor fling Your dark, cold shadows on us longer! Aside ! thou world-wide curse called King, The People's. step is quicker, stronger. There's a divinity within That makes men great, whene'er they will it; God works with all who dare to win, And the time cometh to reveal it — 'Tis coming ! yes, 'tis coming ! Aye, it must come ! The tyrant's throne Is crumbling, with our hot tears rusted; The sword earth's mighty have leant on Is canker' d, with our heart's blood crusted. Room ! for the Men of Mind make way ! Ye robber-rulers, pause no longer ; Ye cannot stop the opening day ; The world rolls on, the light grows stronger, The People's Advent's coming! 140 THE LAWK EN CE SPEAKEE. THE AMERICAN FLAG. (drake.) When Freedom from her mountain high © Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night. And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light. Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumping loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its Mendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high. When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier-eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn ; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 141 And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabers rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Elag of the free heart's hope and home ! By angel-hands to valor given ! , Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Eor ever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! THE GEEAT BELL ROLAKD. (THEODORE TILTON.) Toll ! Boland, toll ! — High in St. Bavon's tower, At midnight hour, The great bell Roland spoke, And all who slept in Ghent awoke. — What meant its iron stroke ? Why caught each man his blade ? Why the hot haste he made? 142 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. Why echoed every street With tramp of thronging feet — All flying to the city's wall ? It was the call, Known well to all, That Freedom stood in peril of some foe : And even timid hearts grow bold, Whenever Roland tolled, And every hand a sword could hold ; — For men Were patriots then, Three hundred years ago ! Toll ! Roland, toll ! Bell never yet was hung, Between whose lips there swung So true and brave a tongue ! — If men be patriots still, At thy first sound True hearts will bound, Great souls will thrill — Then toll ! and wake the test In each man's breast. And let him stand confessed ! Toll ! Roland, toll ! — Not in St. Bavon's tower, At midnight hour, — Nor by the Scheldt, nor far off Zuyder Zee ; But here — this side the sea ! — And here, in broad, bright day ! Toll ! Roland, toll ! For not by night awaits A brave foe at the gates, But Treason stalks abroad — inside ! — at noon ! Toll ! Thy alarm is not too soon ! To arms ! Ring out the Leader's call ! Re-echo it from East to West, Till every dauntless breast Swell beneath plume and crest ! Till swords from scabbards leap ! — What tears can widows weep THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. 143 Less bitter than when brave men fall ? Toll ! Eoland, toll ! Till cottager from cottage-wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun — The heritage of sire to son, Ere half of Freedom's work was done ! Toll ! Eoland, toll ! Till son, in memory of his sire, Once more shall load and fire ! Toll ! Eoland, toll ! Till volunteers find out the art Of aiming at a traitor's heart! Toll ! Eoland, toll ! — St. Bavon's stately tower Stands to this hour, — And by its side stands Freedom yet in Ghent ; For when the bells now ring, Men shout, " God save the King ! " Until the air is rent ! — Amen ! — So let it be ; For a true king is he Who keeps his people free. Toll ! Eoland, toll ! This side the sea ! No longer they, but we, Have now such need of thee ! Toll ! Eoland, toll ! And let thy iron throat Eing out its warning note, Till Freedom's perils be outbraved, And Freedom's flag, wherever waved, Shall overshadow none enslaved ! Toll ! till from either ocean's strand, Brave men shall clasp each other's hand, And shout, " God save our native land ! " — And love the land which God hath saved ! Toll ! Eoland, toll ! 144 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. THE MAIN-TEUCK, OE A LEAP FOE LIFE. (morris.) Old Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon ; A dead calm rested on the bay — ■ The waves to sleep had gone ; When little Hal, the captain's son, A lad both brave and good, In sport, np shroud and rigging ran, And on the main-truck stood 1 A shudder shot through every vein, All eyes were turned on high ! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky ; No hold had he above, below ; Alone he stood in air : To that far height none dared to go: No aid could reach him there. We gazed ; — but not a man could speak ! With horror all aghast, In groups with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, ■ And of a liquid hue ; — As riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew. - The father came on deck : — he gasped, " Oh God ! thy will be done ! " Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son : " Jump, far out, boy, into the wave ! Jump, or I fire ! " he said ; " That only chance your life can save ! Jump, jump, boy ! " — He obeyed. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 145 He sunk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved, — And for the ship struck out; On board, we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck — Then folded to his heart his boy, And fainted on the deck. THE LAUNCHING OE THE SHIP. (LONGFELLOW.) All is finished ! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched ! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, Aud o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendor dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontroled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest ; And far and wide With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a vail descending, Readj T to be The bride of the gray, old sea, 9 146 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Then the Master, With a gesture of command Waved his hand ; And at the word Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see ! she stirs ! She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms ! And lo ! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say, " Take her, bridegroom, old and gray ; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms." How beautiful she is ! how fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Thou too, sail on, ship of State ! Sail on, Union, strong and great ! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel, What workman wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, and what a heat, Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 147 Fear riot each sudden sound and shock, — 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock ; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea : Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,— are all with thee ! POKTBAITS OF THE POETS. (ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.) There, Shakspeare ! on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world. Oh, eyes sublime — With tears and laughters for all time ! * # Here, Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim: The shapes of suns and stars did swim Like clouds from them, and granted him God for sole vision. # # # And Sappho, with that gloriole Of ebon hair on calmed brows, — O poet woman ! none foregoes The leap, attaining the repose ! * # # And Burns, with pungent passionings Set in his eyes. # * * And Shelley, in his white ideal All statue blincL* And visionary Coleridge, who Did sweep his thoughts as angels do Their wings with cadence up the Blue. 148 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. And poor, proud Byron, — sad as grave, And salt as life : forlornly brave, And quivering with the dart he drave. TELL'S ADDKESS TO THE MOUNTAINS. (knowles.) Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again ! I hold to you the hands you first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome to his home Again ! — sacred forms, how proud you look ! How high you lift your heads into the sky ! How huge you are, how mighty, and how free ! Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile Makes glad — whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty, I'm with you once again ! — I call to you With all my voice ! — I hold my hands to you, To show they still are free. I rush to you As though I could embrace you ! Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow, O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wings Laj>\ calm and motionless upon the air, As if he floated there without their aid, By the sole act of his unlorded will, That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still His airy circle, as in the delight Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about ; absorb'd, he heeded not The death that threaten'd him. I could not shoot— ; Twas Liberty ! I turn'd my bow aside, And let him soar away! Heavens ! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God, And think the land was free. Yes, it was free — THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEE. 149 From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free — Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks And plough our valleys without asking leave ; Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow In very presence of the regal sun. How happy was I then ! I loved Its very storms. Yes, I have often sat In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake — The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think I had no master save his own. — On the wild jutting clift, o'ertaken oft By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along ; And while gust follow'd gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, Then I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wish'd me there ; the thought that mine was free Has check'd that wish; and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on ! This is the land of liberty ! GOOD WOMEN. (THACKERAY.) I do respect, admire, and almost worship good women ; and I think there is a very fair number of such to be found in this world, — wives graceful and affectionate, matrons tender and good, daughters happy and pure-minded, and I urge the society of such to you, because I defy you to think evil in their company. Walk into the drawing-room of the Duchess of Sutherland, that great lady ; look at her charm- ing face, and hear her voice. You know that she can't but be good, with such a face and such a voice. She is one of those fortunate beings on whom it has pleased Heaven to bestow all sorts of its most precious gifts and richest worldly favors. With what grace she receives you ! with what a frank kindness and natural sweetness and dignity ! Her 150 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEE. looks, her motions, her words, her thoughts, all seem to be beautiful and harmonious quite. See her with her children : what woman can be more simple and loving? After you have talked to her for a while, you very likely find that she is ten times as well read as you are : she has a hundred accomplishments, which she is not in the least anxious to show off, and makes no more account of them than of her diamonds, or of the splendor round about her, — to all of which she is born, and has a happy, admirable claim of nature and possession, — admirable and happy for her and for us too ; for is it not a happiness for us to admire her ? Does anybody grudge her excellence to that paragon ? Sir, we may be thankful to be admitted to contemplate such consummate goodness and beauty ; and as, in looking at a fine landscape or a fine work of art, every generous heart must be delighted and improved, and ought to feel grateful afterwards, so one may feel charmed and thankful for having the opportunity of knowing an almost perfect woman. Now, transport yourself in spirit into another drawing- room. There sits an old lady of more than fourscore years, serene and kind, and as beautiful in her age now as in her youth, when history toasted her. What has she not seen and is she not ready to tell ? All the fame and wit, all the rank and beauty of more than half a century have passed through those rooms where you have the honor of making your best bow. She is as simple now as if she had never had any flattery to dazzle her : she is never tired of being pleased and being kind. Can that have been anything but a good life which, after more than eighty years of it are spent, is so calm ? Could she look to the end of it so cheer- fully if its long course had not been pure ? Respect her, I say, for being so happy, now that she is old. We do not know what goodness and charity, what affections, what trials, may have gone to make that charming sweetness of temper and complete that perfect manner. But if we do not admire and reverence such an old age as that, and get good from contemplating it, what are we to respect and admire ? Or shall we walk through the shop (while !N". is recom- mending a tall copy to an amateur, or folding up a twopen- ny worth of letter-paper, and bowing to a poor customer in THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER, 151 a jacket and apron with just as much respectful gravity as he would show while waiting upon a duke), and see Mrs. N. playing with the child in the back parlor until N. shall come in to tea? They drink tea at five o'clock, and are actually as well-bred as those gentlefolks who dine three hours later. Or will you please to step into Mrs. J.'s lodg- ings, who is waiting, and at work, until her husband comes home from Chambers? She blushes and puts the work away on hearing the knock, but, when she sees who the visitor is, she takes it with a smile from behind the sofa- cushion, and behold, it is one of J.'s waistcoats on which she is sewing buttons. She might have been a countess blazing in diamonds, had fate so willed it, and the higher her station the more she would have adorned it. But she looks as charming while plying her needle as the great lady in the palace whose equal she is in beauty, in goodness, in high-bred grace and. simplicity, — at least, I can't fancy her better, or any peeress being more than her peer. STKIVE, WAIT, AND PEAY. (ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.) Strive ; yet I do not promise, The prize you dream of to-day, Will not fade when you think to grasp it, And melt in your hand away ; But another and holier treasure, You would now perchance disdain, Will come when your toil is over, And pay you for all your pain. Wait ; yet I do not tell you, The hour you long for now, Will not come with its radiance vanished, And a shadow upon its brow ; Yet far through the misty future, With a crown of starry light, An hour of joy you know not Is winging her silent flight. 152 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Pray ; though the gift you ask for May never comfort your fears, May never repay your pleading, Yet pray, and with hopeful tears ; An answer, not that you long for, But diviner, will come one day ; Your eyes are too dim to see it, Yet strive, and wait, and pray. ONE BY ONE. (ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.) One by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall ; Some are coming, some are going ; Do not strive to grasp them all. One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each ; Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach. One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) Joys are sent thee here below ; Take them readily when given, Beady too to let them go. One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an armed band ; One will fade as others greet thee ; Shadows passing through the land. Do not look at life's long sorrow ; See how small each moment's pain j God will help thee for to-morrow, So each day begin again. Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or b&ar ; Luminious the crown, and holy, When each gem is set with care. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 153 Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond ; Nor the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond. Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven ; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done. A PBAYEE, IN SICKNESS* (BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.) Send down thy winged angel, God ! Amid this night so wild ; And bid him come where now we watch, And breathe upon our child ! She lies upon her pillow, pale, And moans within her sleep, Or wakeneth with a patient smile, And striveth not to weep. How gentle and how good a child She is, we know too well, And dearer to her parents' hearts Than our weak words can tell. We love, — we watch throughout the night, To aid, when need may be ; We hope, — and have despair' d, at times ; But now we turn to Thee ! Send down thy sweet-soul'd angel, God ! Amid the darkness wild, And bid him soothe our souls to-night, And heal our gentle child ! * And his daughter Adelaide Anne was healed, and became one of the sweetest sacred lyric poets of the nineteenth century. 154 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. THE SEA. (PROCTER.) The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea ! — I'm on the sea ! I am where I would ever be, With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence whereso'er I go : If a storm should come, and awake the deep, What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou' west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more, And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was and is to me, For I was born on the open sea ! The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born ! And the whale it whistled, the porpoise roll'd, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean child ! I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 155 With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sigh'd for change; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded sea ! BUEIAL OF LITTLE NELL. (CHARLES DICKENS.) And now the hell — the bell she had so often heard by- night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice — rung its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life — to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing, — grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old,— the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and forms, — to see the closing of that early grave. Along the crowded path they bore her now, — pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it, — whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade. They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the colored window, — a window where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some — and they were not a few — knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave before the 156 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. pavement-stone should be replaced. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pen- sive face upon the sky. Another told how he had won- dered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold ; how she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet ; and even to climb the tower-stair, with no more light than that of the moon-rays stealing through the loop-holes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about among the oldest there that she had seen and talked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so, indeed. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whisper- ing groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place, — when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monu- ment, on pillar, wall, and arch, and, most of all (it seemed to them) upon her quiet grave, — in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assur- ances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, — then, with tranquil and submissive hearts they turned awaj T , and left the child with God. i THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. (eliza cook.) I love it ! I love it ! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs ; ; Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there, And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 157 In childhood's hour I linger'd near The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die and teach me to live : She told me shame would never betide With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child. Years roll'd on, but the last one sped, — My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled ; I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died : And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it ! I love it ! and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. NATURE'S GENTLEMAN. (eliza cook.) Whom do we dub as gentleman ? — the knave, the fool, the brute, — If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a costly suit ! The parchment scroll of titled line, — the ribbon at the knee, Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree: But Nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born, And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn ; She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half divine, And cries, exulting, "Who can make a gentleman like mine ? " 158 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. She may not spend her common skill about the outward part, But showers beauty, grace, and light upon the brain and • heart ; She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to illume, — ■ The sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom; Should fortune pour her welcome store, and useful gold abound, He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round ; The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end design'd, When held by Nature's gentleman, — the good, the just, the kind. Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are, Each shining in his hallow'd sphere, as virtue's polar star; Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark, Yet, yet some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark ; There are some spirits nobly just, unwarp'd by pelf or pride, Great in the calm, but greater still, when dash'd by adverse tide : They hold the rank no king can give, no station can dis- grace ; Nature puts forth her gentlemen, and monarchs must give place. A SUBLIME PBAYEE. (MATTHEW ARNOLD.) Thou, who dost dwell alone, — Thou, who dost know thine own,- Thou, to whom all are known From the cradle to the grave, — Save, oh, save ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 159 'From the world's temptations, From tribulations ; From that fierce anguish Wherein we languish; From that torpor deep Wherein we lie asleep, Heavy as death, cold as the grave ; Save, oh, save ! When the Soul, growing clearer, Sees God no nearer : When the Soul, mounting higher, To God comes no nigher: But the arch-fiend Pride Mounts at her side, Foiling her high emprize, Sealing her eagle eyes, And, when she fain would soar, Makes idols to adore ; Changing the pure emotion Of her high devotion. To a skin-deep sense Of her own eloquence ; Strong to deceive, strong to enslave,— Save, oh, save ! From the in grain' d fashion Of this earthly nature That mars thy creature ; From grief, that is but passion ; From mirth, that is but feigning ; From tears that bring no healing j From wild and weak complaining; Thine own strength revealing, Save, Oh, save ! From doubt, where all is double; Where wise men are not strong; Where comfort turns to trouble ; Where just men suffer wrong; Where sorrow treads on joy ; Where sweet things soonest cloy ; Where faiths are built on dust ; Where Love is half mistrust, 160 THE LAWEEHCE SPEAKER. Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea, Oh, set us free ! Oh, let the false dream fly- Where our sick souls do lie Tossing continually. Oh, where thy voice doth come Let all doubts be dumb ; Let all words be mild ; All strife be reconciled ; All pains beguiled. Light bring no blindness ; Love uo unkindness ; Knowledge no ruin ; Pear no undoing. From the cradle to the grave, Save, oh, save ! THE WEECK OF THE HESPERUS. (HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.) It was the schooner Hesperus, Had sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth ; And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke, now west, now south. Then up and spake an old sailor Had sailed the Spanish Main, u I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 161 "Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see." The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the north-east ; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeasfc. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, Th»n leaped her cable's length. " Come hither, come hither, my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For T can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar And bound her to the mast. ■ "0 father, I hear the church bells ring ; O, say, what may it be ? " " 'Tis a fog-bell, on a rock-bound coast j " And he steered for the open sea. " father, I hear the sound of guns ; 0, say, what may it be ? " "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea." "0, father, I see a gleaming light ; 0, say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word : A frozen corpse was he. 10 162 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow, On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight, dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. # And ever, the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows ; She drifted a dreary wreck ; And a whooping billow swept the crew, Like icicles, from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool ; But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts, went by the board; Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank : Ho ! Ho! the breakers roared. "ZT TV "7$ *?v TV *?f Tf At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, A fisherman stood aghast To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. * A reef of rocks on the northern coast of Massachusetts, be- tween Manchester and Gloucester. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 163 The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow : Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe. THE BLIND PBEACHEK. (w. WIRT.) It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, old wooden house in the forest, not far from the road-side. Having frequently seen such objects before in travelling through these States, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious worship. Devotion alone should have stopped me to join in the duties of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curios- ity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness, was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy ; and a few moments ascer- tained to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled pity and veneration. But ah ! how soon were all my feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the pas- sion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times: I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose, that in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. 164 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more*than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Savour ; his trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his crucifix- ion, and his death. I knew the whole history ; but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored ! It was all new : and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable ; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of description, that the orig- inal scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews : the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet ; my soul kindled with a flame of indignation ; and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clenched. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness of our Saviour ; when he drew to the life, his blessed eyes, streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice breath- ing to God, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his ene- mies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," — the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his hand- kerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audience down from the hight to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or per- haps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. But, no ! the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the eleva- tion had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sentence, with which he broke the awful silence, was a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died like a phi- losopher, but Jesus Christ, like a Grod." THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 165 I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely under- stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher; his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses ; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, sol- emn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the pitch of pas- sion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised ; and then the few minutes of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house ; the preacher remov- ing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and, slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, "Socrates died like a philosopher," then, pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both clasped together with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his " sightless balls " to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his trem- ulous voice, — " but Jesus Christ, like a God ! " If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. (SHAKSPEARE.) Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this ; You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; Wherein my letters, praying on his side Because I knew the man, were slighted of. Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemed to have an itching palm ; 166 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption. And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. Cas. Chastisement ! Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember ! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man in all this worlds But for supporting robbers; shall we now, Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? And sell the mighty space of our large honors, For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me, I'll not endure it ; you forget yourself To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to ; your're not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say, you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. Bru. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is't possible ? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frightened when a madman stares ? Cas. ye gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this ? Bru. All this ? aye, more ; fret, till your proud heart break ; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor ? By the gods You shall digest the venom of your spleen, THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. 167 Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this ? Bru. You say you are a better soldier : Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well ; for mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus ; I said an elder soldier, not a better : Did I say better ? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. JSru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not ! Bru. No. Cas. What ? durst not tempt him ? Bru. For your life, you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; For I can raise no money by vile means ; Ye Gods ! I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash, By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me : was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces ! Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not : — he was but a fool 168 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart; A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's eye would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius. For Cassius is aweary of the world : Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, To cast into my teeth. 0, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes. There is my dagger, And here my naked breast ; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart ; Strike as thou didst at C§esar; for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou loveds't Cassius Bru. Sheathe your dagger ; Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief or blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand Bru. And my heart too. Cas. Brutus ! Bru. What's the matter ? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER. 169 When that rash humor which rny mother gave me, Makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. THE BATTLE OF IVEY* (MA CAUL AT.) Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre. Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, pleasant land of France ! And thou, Kochelle, our own Eochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eye of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who would thy walls annoy. Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war ; Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and King Henrj? of Navarre ! Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears ! There, rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand! And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's em- purpled flood, * Pronounced E-vree. 170 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. And good Coligni's* hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; lie looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our Lord, the King ! " 11 And if my standard-bearer fall, and fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where you see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme,t to-day, the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies, now upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- white crest ; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guid- ing star, Amidst the thickest carnage, blazed the hemlet of Navarre. Now, God be praised ! the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned his rein, — D'Aumales hath cried for quarter ; the Flemish count is slain, * Coligni, (prononnced Co-leen-yee,) a venerable old man, was one of the victims in the massacre of St. Bartholomew, t Oriflamme, (pronounced or-ree-flam,) the French standard. / THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEE. 171 Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, " Remember Saint Bartholomew," was passed from man to man ; But out spake gentle Henry, then, " No Frenchman is my foe ; Down, down with every foreigner; but let your brethren go." Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ! "Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, the Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear- men's souls ! Ho ! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright ! Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night ! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ! And honor to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. THE HOUR OF PRAYER. (MRS. HEMANS.) Child, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away; Mother, with thine earnest eye, Ever following silently ; Father, by the breeze at eve Call'd thy harvest-work to leave ; — 172 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEE. Pray ! — Ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart, and bend the knee. Traveler, in the stranger's land, Far from thine own household band ; Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone ; Captive, in whose narrow cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; Sailor, on the darkening sea ; — Lift the heart, and bend the knee. Warrior, that from battle won, Breathest now at set of sun ; Woman, o'er the lowly slain, Weeping on his burial plain ; Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie ; Heaven's first star alike ye see, Lift the heart, and bend the knee. THE FRENCHMAN AND THE EATS. A Frenchman once, who was a merry wight, Passing to town from Dover in the night, Near the roadside an ale-house chanced to spy: And being rather tired as well as dry, Resolved to enter ; but first he took a peep, In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap. He enters : " Hallo ! Garcon, if you please, Bring me a little bit of bread and cheese. And hallo ! Garcon, a pot of porter too ! " he said, " Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed." His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left, Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft, Into his pocket put; then slowly crept To wished-for bed ; but not a wink he slept — For, on the floor, some sacks of flour were laid, To which the rats a nightly visit paid. Our hero now undressed, popped out the light, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 173 Put on his cap and bade the world good-night ; But first his breeches, which contained the fare, Under his pillow he had placed with care. Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran, And on the flour-sacks greedily began ; At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round, Under the pillow soon the cheese they found ; And while at this they regaling sat, Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap; Who, half awake, cries out, " Hallo ! hallo ! Vat is dat nibbel at my pillow so ? Ah ! 'tis one big huge rat ! Vat de diable is it he nibble, nibble at ? " . In vain our little hero sought repose ; Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his nose ; And such the pranks they kept up all the night, That he, on end antipodes upright, Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light, " Hallo ! Maison ! Garcon, I say ! Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay ! " The bill was brought, and to his great surprise, Ten shillings was the charge, he scarce believes his eyes : With eager haste, he runs it o'er, And ever} 7 time he viewed it thought it more. " Vy zounds, and zounds ! " he cries, " I sail no pay; Vat charge ten shelangs for vat I have mange ? A leetal sup of porter, dis vile bed, Vare all de rats do run about my head ? " " Plague on those rats ! " the landlord muttered out ; "I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout : I'll pay him well that can." " Vat's dat you say ? " " I'll pay him well that can." "Attend to me, I pray : Vil you dis charge forego, vat I am at, If from your house I drive away de rat ? " " With all my heart," the jolly host replies, " Ecoutez done, ami ; " the Frenchman cries. " First, den — Regardez, if you please, Bring to dis spot a leetle bread and cheese: 174 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEE. Eh bien ! a pot of porter too ; And den invite de rats to sup vid you ; And after — no matter dey be villing — For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang : And I am sure, ven dey behold de score, Dey'll quit your house, and never come no more." THE PABTING OE MAKMION AND DOUGLAS. (WALTER SCOTT.) Not far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array, To Surrey's camp to ride ; He had safe conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide. The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : " Though something I might 'plain," he said, " Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by the king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I staid, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloke, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — "My manors, halls, and towers shall still Be open at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation stone ; — The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall, in friendly grasp, The hand of such as Marmion clasp." Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 175 And " This to me," he said, " And 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head ! And first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland, or Highland, far, or near, Lord Angus, thou — hast — lied ! " -On the Earl's cheek, the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age : Fierce he broke forth ; " And dar'st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall ? And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bryde of Bothwell, no ! Up drawbridge, grooms, — what, warder, Let the portcullis fall," Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need, — And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the arch-way sprung; The ponderous gate behind him rung ; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, grazed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembles on the rise ; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim ; And when Lord Marmion reached his band He halts, and turns with clinched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. " Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, "and chase!" 176 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. But soon he reined his fury's pace ; " A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name ; Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too," he cried ; " Bold he can speak, and fairly ride ; I warrant him a warrior tried." With this, his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle walls. PAUL'S DEFENSE BEFOKE KING- AGEIPPA. Then said Agrippa unto Paul : " Thou art permitted to speak for thyself." Then Paul stretched forth his hand and answered for himself. I think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself, this day, before thee, touching all the things whereof I am accused of the Jews; especially, because I know thee to be expert in all customs and ques- tions which are among the Jews : wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently. My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among mine own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews ; who knew me from the beginning, if they would testify, that, after the most straitest sect of our religion, I lived a Pharisee. And now, I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made of God unto our fathers ; unto which promise our twelve tribes, instantly serving God day and night, hope to come. For which hope's sake king Agrippa, I am accused of the Jews. Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead? I verily thought with myself, that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. Which things I also did in Jerusalem : and many of the saints did I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief- priests, and when they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. And I punished them oft in every synagogue, and com- THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 177 pelled them to blaspheme ; and being exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them, even unto strange cities. Whereupon, as I went to Damascus, with authority and commission from the chief-priests, at mid-day, king, I saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me and them which journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking unto me, and saying in the Hebrew- tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? it is hard for thee to kick against the goads. And I said, Who art thou Lord ? And he said, I am Jesus, whom thou persecutest. But rise and stand upon thy feet : for I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister and a witness both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in the which I will appear unto thee; delivering thee from the people and from the Gentiles, unto whom now I send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God ; that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified, by faith that is in me. Whereupon, king Agrippa, I was not disobedient unto the heavenly vision; but showed first unto them of Damas- cus, and at Jerusalem, and throughout all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes the Jews caught me in the temple, and went about to kill me. Having, therefore, obtained help of God, I continue unto this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did say should come; that Christ should suffer, and that he should be the first that should rise from the dead, and should show light unto the people, and to the Gentiles. And as he thus spake for himself, Festus said with a loud voice, " Paul, thou art beside thyself, much learning hath made thee mad." But he said, ' k I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness. For the king knoweth of these things, before whom I speak freely ; for 1 am persuaded that none of these things are hid- den from him ; for this thing was not done in a corner. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest." 11 178 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEK. Then Agrippa said unto Paul, " Almost thou persuad- est me to be a Christian." And Paul said, " I would to God that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except these bonds." BEBNAEDO DEL CAEPIO. (MRS. hemans.) The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire ; "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — Oh ! break my father's chain ! " " Eise, rise !" even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day : Mount thy good horse ; and thou and I will meet him on his way." — Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glitter- ing band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land ; — " Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to His dark eye flashed, — his proud breast heaved, — his cheek's hue came and went, — He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there dis- mounting bent, A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEK. 179 That hand was cold, — a frozen thing, — it dropped from his like lead, — He looked up to the face above, — the face was of the dead. A plume waved o'er the noble brow, — the brow was fixed and white ; — He met at last his father's eyes, — but in them was no sight! Up from the ground he sprang and gazed ; — but who could paint that gaze ! They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze : — They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood ; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. " Father ! " at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then — Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men ! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young re- nown, — He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mourn- ful brow, "No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for now, — My king is false, my hope betrayed ! My father — oh ! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth ! " I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire ! beside thee yet! — I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! — Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then ; — for there my fields were won ; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son ! " 180 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Then starting from the ground once more, he seized the mon- arch's rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ; And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war- horse led, And sternly set them face to face, — the king before the dead : — u Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss ? — Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me what is this ? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, — give answer where are they ? — If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay ! (t Into these glassy eyes put light, — he still, keep down thine ire ! — Bid these white lips a blessing speak, — this earth is not my sire : — Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, — Thou canst not? — and a king ! — his dust be mountains on thy head ! " He loosed the steed, — his slack hand fell ; — upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place : His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain : His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain. SPABTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA. (ELIJAH KELLOGG.) It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of rev- THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 181 elry had died away ; the roar of the lion had ceased ; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet; and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drops on the corslet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a wavy, trem- ulous light. No sound was heard save the last sob of some retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach ; and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gla- diators were assembled, — their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their brows, — when Spartacus, start- ing forth from amid the throng, thus addressed them: "Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tortgue, let him stand forth, and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. "And yet, I was not always thus, — a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage ffien ! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported : and when, at noon, I gathered the, sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shep- herd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. " One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was ; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerahle man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. 182 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. " That very night, the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse ; the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling ! To-day I killed a man in the arena; and when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold ! he was my friend. He knew me, — smiled faintly, — gasped, — and died ; — the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. "I told the pretor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay ! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at the sight of that piece of bleeding clay ! And the pretor drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said,— ' Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans !' And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like " Rome ! Rome ! thou has been a tender nurse to me ! Ay, thou hast given, to "that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, mus- cles of iron and a heart of flint : taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe ! — to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl ! And he shall pay thee back, till the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled ! " Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews ; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood ! Hark ! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? J Tis three days since he tasted flesh ; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, — and a dainty meal for him ye will be! "If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 183 for tbe butcher's knife : if ye are men, — follow me ! strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at Old Thermopylae ! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash ? comrades ! warriors ! Thra- cians ! — if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves ; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors ; if we must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle ! " THE CHESTNUT HOESE. An Eton stripling, training for the law, A dunce at Syntax, but a dab at taw, One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf, With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. Beturn'd and past the usual how-dy'e-does, Inquiries of old friends, and college news : " Well, Tom, the road ; what saw you worth discerning ? How's all at College, Tom ? — what is't your learning? " " Learning ! — 0, logic, logic ! — not the shallow rules Of Locke and Bacon — antiquated fools ! But wits' and wranglers' logic ; for d'ye see, I'll prove as clear, — as clear as A, B, C, That an eel pie's a pigeon ; to deny it, Is to say black's not black." " Come, let's try it ! " " Well, sir; an eel pie is a pie of fish." "Agreed." "Eish pie may be a jack pie." " Well, well, proceed." " A jack pie is a John pie — and, 'tis done ! Eor every John pie must be a pie-John." — (pigeon.) " Bravo ! bravo ! " Sir Peter cries ; " logic forever ! That beats my grandmother and she was clever ; But now I think on't, 't would be mighty hard If merit such as thine met no reward ; To show how much I logic love in course, I'll make thee master of a chestnut horse." " A horse ! " quoth Tom, " blood, pedigree, and paces ! 0, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races ! " 184 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Tom dreamt all night of boots and leather breeches, Of hunting caps, and leaping rails and ditches ; Hose next morn an hour before the lark, And dragged his uncle, fasting, to the park ; Bridle in hand, each vale he scours, of course, To find out something like a chestnut horse; But no such animal the meadows cropt, Till under a large tree Sir Peter stopt, Caught at a branch, and shook it, when down fell A fine horse chestnut, in its prickly shell. "There, Tom, take that."— "Well, sir, and what beside?" "Why, since your'e booted, saddle it and ride." " Ride ! what, a chestnut, sir ?" — " Of course, For I can prove that chestnut is a horse ; Not from the doubtful, fusty, musty rules Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools, Nor old Malebranch, blind pilot into knowledge, But by the laws of wit and Eton college ; As you have prov'd, and which I don't deny, That a pie John's the same as a John pie, The matter follows as a thing of course, That a horse chestnut is a chestnut horse." THE NATURE OF TRUE ELOQUENCE. (DANIEL WEBSTER.) When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong pas- sions excited, nothing is valuable in speech further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declama- tion, all may aspire after it : they cannot reach it. It THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 185 comes, if it come at all, like the out-breaking of" a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their child- ren, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent ; then, self-devotion is elo- quent. The clear conception, out-running the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking ou the tongue, beaming from the eye, in- forming every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his object — this, this is eloquence ; or, rather it is something greater and higher than all eloquence —it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. WAEEEFS ADDKESS. (REV. JOHN PIERPONT.) Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves- Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will ye look for greener graves ? Hope ye mercy still ? What's the mercy despots feel ? Hear it in that battle peal ! Read it on yon bristling steel ! Ask it, ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? Will ye to your homes retire ? Look behind you ! they're a-fire ! And before you, see Who have done it ! From the vale On they come ! and will ye quail ? — Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be ! 186 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. In the God of battles trust ! Die we may— and die we must ; But, Oh, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell ? BELSHAZZAE. (l5. W. PROCTER.) Belshazzar is king ! Belshazzar is lord ! And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board ; Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood Of the wine that man loveth runs redder than blood ; Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth : And the crowds all shout, till the vast roofs ring — "All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king! " (t Bring forth," cries the monarch, " the vessels of gold Which my father tore down from the temples of old : Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone ; Bring forth !" and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine ; While the trumpets bray, and the cymbals ring, — " Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! " Now what cometh — look, look! — without menace, or call? Who writes with the lightning's bright hand on the wall ? What pierceth the king like the point of a dart ? What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart ? " Chaldeans ! Magicians ! the letters expound ! " They are read — and Belshazzar is dead on the ground! Hark! The Persian is come on a conqueror's wing; And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 187 GAMBLER'S WIFE. (COATES.) Dark is the night ! How dark ! No light : No fire ! Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire! Shivering, she watches, by the cradle side, For him, who pledged her love — last year a bride ! " Hark ! 'Tis his footstep ! No ! — 'tis past ! — 'tis gone ! " Tick !— Tick ! — " How wearily the time crawls on ! Why should he leave me thus ? — He once was kind ! And I believed 'twould last ! — How mad ! — How blind ! u Best thee, my babe ! — Rest on ! — 'Tis hunger's cry ! Sleep ! — For there's no food ! — The font is dry ! Famine and cold their wearying work have done. My heart must break ! And thou ! " The clock strikes " Hush ! 'tis the dice-box ! Yes ! he's there ! he's there ! For this — for this he leaves me to despair ! Leaves love ! leaves truth ! his wife ! his child ! for what? The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot! " Yet I'll not curse him. No ! 'tis all in vain ! 'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again ! And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, My child !— his child ! Oh, fiend ! " The clock strikes two. " Hark ! How the sign-board creaks ! The blast howls by. Moan ! moan ! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky ! Ha ! 'tis his knock ! he comes ! — he comes once more ! " 'Tis but the lattice flaps ! Thy hope is o'er ! "Can he desert us thus? He knows I stay, Night after night, in loneliness, to pray For his return — and yet he sees no tear ! No ! no ! It cannot be ! He will be here ! 188 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. " Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart ! Thou'rt cold ! Thou'rt freezing ! But we will not part ! Husband ! — I die — Father ! — It is not he ! Oh, God ! protect my child ! " The clock strikes three ! They're gone, they're gone ! the glimmering spark hath fled!— The wife and child are number'd with the dead. On the cold earth, outstretch'd in solemn rest, The babe lay, frozen on its mother's breast : The gambler came at last — but all was o'er— Dread silence reigned around : — the clock struck four ! THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. (CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.) Tread softly, — bow the head, — In reverent silence bow ; ISTo passing bell doth toll, — Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger, however great, With holy reverence bow ; — There's one in that poor shed, — One by that paltry bed, — Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! death doth keep his state ; Enter, — no crowds attend ; Enter, — no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands, A dying head. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 189 No mingling voices sound, — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppressed, — again That short, deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh, change ! — oh, wondrous change ! Burst are the prison bars, — This moment, there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars ! Oh, change ! — stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod ; . The sun eternal breaks, — The new immortal wakes, — Wakes with his God ! CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. (ALFRED TENNYSON.) Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death JR-ode the six hundred. " Forward the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns ! " he said : Into the valley of Death Bode the six hundred. " Forward the Light Brigade ! n Was there a man dismayed ? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered : Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not the reason why, Theirs but to do and die, — Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 190 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKER. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well ; Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabreing the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered : Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered: — Then they rode back — but not, Not the six hundred. When can their glory fade ? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered ! Honor the charge they made, Honor the light brigade, Noble six hundred ! VULTURE AND INFANT. I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered thro' their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers — relate their dismal tales, As round the cotters' blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 191 And there, I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear ; The tears were standing in his eye, his voice was tremulous; But wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus : "It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey, which from afar he smells ; But, patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief, and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek ; and, from my frenzied sight, I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care ; But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing thro' the air. Oh ! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye, His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descr}" ; And know, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac rave, That earthly power could not avail that innocent to save ! My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free : At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed ! Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed. The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew ; A mote, upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view ; But once, I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight,— 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. 192 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From thence, upon a rugged crag — the chamoise never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached ! I clambered up that rugged cliff — T could not stay away, — I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay ; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred : The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head." That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers, passing by, "Who often stand, and musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh ; And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. PABKHASIUS AND CAPTIVE. (WILLIS.) Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian cap- tives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man ; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with ex- treme torture and torment, the better by his example to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint. There stood an unsold captive in the mart, A gray#haired and majestical old man, Chained to a pillar. It was almost night, And the last seller from his place had gone And not a sound was heard but of a dog Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, As the faint captive changed his weary feet. 'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun Tipped with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere THE LAWEENCE SPEAKEE. 193 Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through which the captive gazed. The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere, Like forms and landscapes, magical they lay. Parrhasius stood gazing forgetfully, Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus — The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, his fine earnest eye Plashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight. " Bring me the captive now ! My hands feel skillful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens — round me play Colors of such divinity to-day. Ha ! bind him on his back ! Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here ! Quick — or he faints ! stand with the cordial near ! Now bend him to the rack ! Press down the poison'd links into his flesh ! And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! So — let him writhe ! How long Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil now ! What a fine agony works upon his brow! Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! 194 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. "Pity thee! Soldo! I pity the dumb victim at the altar — But does the rob'd priest for his pity falter ? I'd rack thee though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine — What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? Yet there's a deathless name ! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And like a steadfast planet mount and burn — And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! Ay — though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first, Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet ehild, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild- All — I would do it all — Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot — Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! heavens — but I appal Your heart, old man ! forgive — ha ! on your lives Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow Gods ! if he do not die But for one moment — one — till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh, Death ! Look ! how his temples flutter ! Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head I He shudders, gasps, Jove help him ! so, he's dead. THE LAWKEKCE SPEAKER. 195 THE MANIAC— MAD-HOUSE. Stat, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! She is not mad who kneels to thee; For what I'm now, too well I know, For what I was, and what should he. I'll rave no more in proud despair ; My language shall be mild, though sad: But yet I'll firmly, truly swear, I am not mad ;— I am not mad. My tyrant husband forged the tale, Which chains me in this dismal cell ; My fate unknown, my friends bewail ; Oh ! jailer, haste, that fate to tell ; Oh ! haste, my father's heart to cheer : His heart, at once 'twill grieve, and glad, To know, though kept a captive here, I am not mad ; — I am not mad. He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp, still, still I see — ? Tis gone, and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! Life, — all thy comforts once I had ; Yet here I'm chaiued, this freezing night, Although not mad j no, no, not mad. ? Tis sure some dream, — some vision vain ; What ! I — the child of rank and wealth, Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends and health ? Ah ! while I dwell on blessings fled, Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head ; But 'tis not mad ; — no, 'tis not mad. Hast thou, my child, forgot ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue? She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; 196 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Nor how with me you sued to stay ; Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ; They'll make me mad ; — they'll make me mad. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! None ever bore a lovelier child : And art thou now forever gone ? And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? I will be free ! unbar the door ! I am not mad ; — I am not mad. Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells, and cries ? His chains some furious madman breaks ; He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; And, now my dungeon-grate he shakes. Help ! help ! — He's gone ! Oh ! fearful wo, Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! N My brain, my brain — I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon ; for, lo you ! while I speak Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare ! He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror ! the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; I feel the truth ; Your task is done ! I'm mad ! I'm mad ! THE DEEAM OF EUGENE AEAM. (THOMAS HOOD.) 'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 197 Away they sped, with gamesome minds, And souls untouch'd by sin ; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in : Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran, Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can ; But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man ! His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease : So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees ! Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor even glanced aside, For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide : Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome, With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close, And fix'd the brazen hasp : " Oh, God ! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp !" Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took, — Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook, And, lo ! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book ! 198 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEE. "My gentle lad, what is't you read — Romance or fairy fable ? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable ? " The young boy gave an upward glance,-— "It is < The Death of Abel.' » The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again ; And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with hiin of Cain ; And long since then, of bloody men Whose deeds tradition saves ; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves ; Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves ; And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod, — Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod ; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from G-od ; He told how murderers walked the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, — With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain : For blood had left upon their souls Its everlasting stain ! " And well," quoth he, " I know for truth, Their pangs must be extreme, — Woe, woe, unutterable woe, — Who spill life's sacred stream ! For why ? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 199 / u One that had never done me wrong — A feeble man and old ; I led him to a lonely field, — The moon shone clear and cold : * "Now here/ said I, ' this man shall die, And I will have his gold ! ? " Two sudden blows with ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife,— And then the deed was done : There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone ! "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill ; And yet I fear'd him all the more, For lying there so still : There was a manhood in his look, That murder could not kill ! " And, lo ! the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame : — Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame : I took the dead man by his hand, And call'd upon his name ! " 0, God ! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain ! But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, The blood gush'd out amain ! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain ! " My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice ; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price : A dozen times I groan'd ; the dead Had never groan'd but twice ! 200 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEK. " And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the Heaven's topmost hight, I heard a voice — the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite : — ' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight ! ' " I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream, — A sluggish water black as ink, The depth was so extreme : — My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream ! " Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool ; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school. " Oh, Heaven ! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim ! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn : Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd, 'Mid holy cherubim ! And Peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread ; But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain That lighted me to bed ; And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red ! " All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep, My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep : For Sin has render'd unto her The keys of Hell to keep ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 201 All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time : A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime ! i " One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave ; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The Dead Man in his grave ! " Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye ; And I saw the Dead in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry. " Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing ; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing : For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran ; — There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began : In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murder'd man ! "And all that day I read in school, But my thought was other where ; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there : And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare ! 202 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Then down I cast me on my face And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep ; Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. " So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones ! AyJ though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh The world shall see his bones ! " Oh, God ! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake ! Again — again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take ; And my right red hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake, " And still no peace for the restless clay, Will wave or mould allow ; The horrid thing pursues my soul, — It stands before me now ! n The fearful boy look'd up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist ; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist. THE CUKSE OF KEGTJLUS. The palaces and domes of Carthage were burning with the splendors of noon, and the blue waves of her harbor were rolling and gleaming in the gorgeous sunlight. An THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 203 attentive ear could catch a low murmur, sounding from the centre of the city, which seemed like the moaning of the wind before a tempest. And well it might. The whole people of Carthage, startled, astounded by the report that Regulus had returned, were pouring, a mighty tide, into the great square before the Senate House. There were mothers in that throng, whose captive sons were groaning in Roman fetters; maidens, whose lovers were dying in the distant dungeons of Rome ; gray-haired men and matrons, whom Roman steel had made childless ; men, who were seeing their country's life crushed out by Roman power ; and with wild voices, cursing and groaning, the vast throng gave vent to the rage, the hate, the anguish of long years. Calm and unmoved as the marble walls around him, stood Regulus, the Roman ! He stretched his arm over the surg- ing crowd with a gesture as proudly imperious, as though he stood at the head of his own gleaming cohorts. Before that silent command the tumult ceased — the half-uttered execration died upon the lip — so intense was the silence that the clank of the captive's brazen manacles smote sharp on every ear, as he thus addressed them : "Ye doubtless thought, judging of Roman virtue by your own, that I would break my plighted faith, rather than by returning, and leaving your sons and brothers to rot in Roman dungeons, to meet your vengeance. Well, I could give reasons for this return, foolish and inexplicable as it seems to you ; I could speak of yearnings after immortality — of those eternal principles in whose pure light a patriot's death is glorious, a thing to be desired ; but, by great Jove ! I should debase myself to dwell on such high themes to you. If the bright blood which feeds my heart were like the slimy ooze that stagnates in your veins, I should have remained at Rome, saved my life and broken my oath. If, then, you ask, why I have come back, to let you work your will on this poor body which I esteem but as the rags that cover it, — enough reply for you, it is because I am a Roman ! As such, here in your very capital I defy you ! What I have done, ye never can undo; what ye may do, I care not. Since first my young arm knew how to wield a Roman sword, have I not routed your armies, burned your towns, and dragged your generals at my chariot wheels ? And do ye now expect to see me cower and whine with dread of 204 THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEE. Carthaginian vengeance? Compared to that fierce mental strife which my heart has just passed through at Rome, the piercing of this flesh, the rending of these sinews, would be but sport to me. "Venerable senators, with trembling voices and out- stretched hands, besought me to return no more to Car- thage. The generous people, with loud wailing, and wildly- tossing gestures, bade me stay. The voice of a beloved mother, — her withered hands beating her breast, her gray hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing down her fur- rowed cheeks — praying me not to leave her in her lonely and helpless old age, is still sounding in my ears. Com- pared to anguish like this, the paltry torments you have in store is as the murmur of the meadow brook to the wild tumult of the mountain storm. Go ! bring your threatened tortures! The woes I see impending over this fated city will be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve should tingle with its agony. I die — but mine shall be the tri- umph ; yours the untold desolation. For every drop of blood that falls from my veins, your own shall pour in tor- rents ! Wo, unto thee, Carthage ! I see thy homes and temples all in flames, thy citizens in terror, thy women wail- ing for the dead. Proud city ! thou art doomed ! the curse of Jove, a living, lasting curse is on thee ! The hungry waves shall lick the golden gates of thy rich palaces, and every brook run crimson to the sea. Eome, with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart-strings, and all thy homes shall howl in wild response of anguish to her touch. Proud mis- tress of the sea, disrobed, uncrowned and scourged — thus again do I devote thee to the infernal gods ! Now, bring forth your tortures ! Slaves ! while ye tear this quivering flesh, remember how often Regulus has beaten your armies and humbled your pride. Cut as he would have carved you! Burn deep as his curse ! THE LAWEENC1 SPEAKEK, 205 THE HIGH TIDE OK THE COAST OF LIN- COLNSHIRE. (1571.) (jean ingelow.) The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers rang by two, by three ; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best/ 7 quoth he. " Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe < The Brides of Enderby.' " Men say it was a stolen tyde — The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall : And there was nought of strange, beside The flight of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My threads brake off, I raised myne eyes ; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies, And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My son's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth. Faintly came her milking song — "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, " For the dews will soone be falling ; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; 206 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head ; Come uppe Whitefoot come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong ; And all the aire, it seemeth mee Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene ; And lo ! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where there sedges are Moved on sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kindly message free, The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows, They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Enderby ! THE LAWRENCE SPEAKEE. 207 " For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping downe; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne : But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring < The Brides of Enderby ? ' " I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding down with might and main : He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) " The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift on yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death : " God save you, mother ! '' strait he saith ; " Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " " Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long ; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, " Ho Enderby ! " They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " With that he cried and beat his breast For, lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud ; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, Then madly at the eygre' s breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 208 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — Then beaten foam flew round about — Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet, The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high — A lurid mark and dread to see ; And awesome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang " Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; And I — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, " come in life, or come in death ! lost ! my love, Elizabeth." And did'st thou visit him no more ? Thou did'st, thou did'st, my daughter deare ; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear, Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith), And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 209 I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling ; I shall never hear her song, " Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth ; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore ; I shall never hear her calling, " Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow ; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head ; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the niilking-shed." THE SONG- OF THE SHIET. (THOMAS HOOD.) With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — 13 210 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" a Work ! work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof ! And work — work — work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, When woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work ! " Work — work — work Till the brain begins to swim ; Work — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream ! " Oh, men, with sisters dear ! Oh, men, with mothers and wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out But human creatures' lives! Stitch — stitch — stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt. " But why do I talk of Death ? That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own — It seems so like my own, — Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap ! THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEE. 211 " Work — work — work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread-r— and rags. That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! " Work — work — work • From weary chime to chime, Work — work — work — As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. " Work — work — work, In the dull December light, And work — work — work, When the weather is warm and bright- While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. " Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour. To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal ! " Oh ! but for one short hour ! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief? 212 THE LAWEENCE SPEAKER. A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread ! w With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " THE MOTHEE PEBISHING IN A SNOW-STORM. In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snow-storm in the night-time, while travelling over a spur of the Green Mountains in Vermont. She had an infant with her, which was found alive and well in the morning, being carefully wrapped in the mother's cloth- ing. The cold winds swept the mountain's hight, And pathless was the dreary wild, And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night, A mother wander' d with her child : As through the drifting snow she press'd, The babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow : Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was gone: "Oh, God!" she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!" She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm, And round the child she wrapp'd the vest, And smiled to think her babe was warm. With one cold kiss one tear she shed, And sunk upon her snowy bed. THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 221 All Slavery, Warfare, Lies, and Wrong, All Vice and Crime, might die together ; And wine and corn To each man born Be free as warmth in summer weather. The meanest wretch that ever trod, The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, Might stand erect In self-respect, And share the teeming world to-morrow. What might be done ? This might be done, And more than this, iny suffering brother, — More than the tongue E'er said or sung, If men were wise and loved each other. THE CUMBERLAND. (H. W. LONGFELLOW.) At anchor in the Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast Erom the camp on the other shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course, To try the force, Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, Erom each open port. 222 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. We are not idle but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside ! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each Iron scale Of the monster's hide. " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; "It is better to sink than to yield !" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of the men. Then, like the kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day ! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without seam ! THE EAVEK (edgar a. poe.) Once upon a midnight dreary as I ponder' d, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 223 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " ? Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each seperate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly 1 wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple cur- tain, Thrill'd me — fllPd me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, u 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber- door, — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; That it is, and nothing more.'* Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I im- plore ; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber- door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I open'd wide the door, Darkness there, and nothing more. 224 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, won- dering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, " Lenore ! »■ This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, " Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within mo burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window- lattice ; Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore, — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." ■ Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber- door,- — Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber- door — Perched and sat and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven ; Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ? " Quoth the raven ; " Nevermore ! " THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 225 Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber- door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber- door, With such name as "Nevermore !" But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- pour. Nothing further then he utter' d — not a feather then he flutters- Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, " Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Follow' d fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of — Never — nevermore !" But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel' d a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore ! " This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core. 14 226 THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I im- plore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore*! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore, Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " THE LAWKENCE SPEAKEE. 227 »» "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting —