Go, weep as I have wept O'er a loved father's fall. See every cherished promise swept, Youth's sweetness turned to gall; Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way That led me up to woman's day. Go, kneel as I have knelt Implore, beseech, and pray, Strive the besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay; Be cast with bitter curse aside, Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. Go, stand where I have stood, And see the strong man bow, With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, Go, catch his wandering glance, and see Go, hear what I have heard, The sobs of sad despair, As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, And its revealings there Have told him what he might have been Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide, Wipe from her cheek the tear; Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow. And led her down from love and light, Go hear, and see, and feel, and know Tell me I hate the bowl,- I loathe, abhor,—my very soul Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL! GOLDEN HAIR. Golden Hair sat on her grandfather's knee; Up in the morning as soon as 'twas light, Grandfather toyed with the curls on her head; "Pitty much," answered the sweet little one; "I cannot tell, so much things have I done; Played with my dolly, and feeded my 'bun,' ANONYMOUS. "And then I jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made out of some water and soap Bootiful worlds, mamma's castles of hope. "Then I have readed in my picture-book, And Bella and I, we went to look For the smooth little stones by the side of the brook. "And then I comed home and eated my tea, Lower and lower the little head pressed, Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast; We are but children; things that we do God grant that when night overshadows our way, And O, when aweary, may we be so blest, ANONYMOUS. THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER. We were crowded in the cabin; It was midnight on the waters, 'Tis a fearful thing in winter And to hear the rattling trumpet So we shuddered there in silence; For the stoutest held his breath, And as thus we sat in darkness, But his little daughter whispered, Then we kissed the little maiden, When the morn was shining clear. JAMES T. Fields. LITTLE JIM. The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, And, oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek, She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words from him, “Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O! I am so dry, "Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him, He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE. How bright are the honors which await those who with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience have endured all things that they might save their native land from division, and from the power of corruption. The honored dead! They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. Their names are gathered and garnered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there. There is to be, ere long, in every village, and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements efface them. And the national festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose eider brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it. Orphan children shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to love and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public. |