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,
And cold and livid brow;

Go, catch his wandering glance, and see
There mirrored his soul's misery.

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
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen.

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.
The gray that streaks her dark hair now,
The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth,
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
This promise to the deadly cup,

And led her down from love and light,
From all that made her pathway bright,
And chained her there 'mid want and strife,
That lowly thing,-a drunkard's wife!
And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild,
That withering blight,-a drunkard's child!

Go hear, and see, and feel, and know
All that my soul hath felt and known,
Then look within the wine-cup's glow;
See if its brightness can atone;
Think if its flavor you would try,
If all proclaimed,-'Tis drink and die!

Tell me I hate the bowl,-
Hate is a feeble word;

I loathe, abhor,—my very soul
By strong disgust is stirred

Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell

Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!

GOLDEN HAIR.

Golden Hair sat on her grandfather's knee;
Dear little Golden Hair, tired was she,
All the day busy as busy could be.

Up in the morning as soon as 'twas light,
Out with the birds and the butterflies bright,
Flitting about till the coming of night.

Grandfather toyed with the curls on her head;
“What has my baby been doing,” he said,
"Since she arose with the sun from her bed?"

"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,
And I climbed up on grandpapa's knee,
And I jes as tired as tired can be."

Lower and lower the little head pressed,

Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast;
Dear little Golden Hair, sweet be thy rest!

We are but children; things that we do
Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view,
That marks all our weakness, and pities it too.

God grant that when night overshadows our way,
And we shall be called to account for our day,
He shall find us as guileless as Golden Hair's lay.

And O, when aweary, may we be so blest,
And sink like the innocent child to our rest,
And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast!

ANONYMOUS.

THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER.

We were crowded in the cabin;
Not a soul would dare to sleep;

It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,

And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence;

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.

And as thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy in his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,
Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer;
And we anchored safe in harbor,

When the morn was shining clear.

JAMES T. Fields.

LITTLE JIM.

The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean,
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean;
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild,
As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child:
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim:
It was a collier's wife and child-they called him little Jim.

And, oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek,
As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak,
Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life;
For she had all a mother's heart - had that poor collier's wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed,
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead,

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,
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry."
With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip;
He smiled to thank her as he took each little, tiny sip.

"Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him,
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim!
She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear,
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear:
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard,
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word.

He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead,
He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed;
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal,
And see, his wife has joined him-the stricken couple kneel:
With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him,
In heaven once more to meet again their own poor little Jim.

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.