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And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from that
bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, “With thee, with thee, O
Lord !" The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garment, with her back against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, "It was a bitter, bitter night I the child is frozen dead.” The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin; Men said, “It was a bitter night; would no one let her in ?!! And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could How much of happiness there was after that misery.
ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.
In the sunshine bright and strong,
Massa won't be with you long;
Bring once more the sound to me
On the shores of Tennessee.
As they still the story tell,
That l've loved so long and well,
Dreaming that again I see
Sailing up the Tennessee.
Fór death's last despatch to come,
Should come proudly sailing home,
Over yonder Missis sleeping
No one tends her grave like me; Mebbe she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee. "'Pears like she was watching, Massa,
If Pompey should beside him stay; Mebbe she'd remember better
How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder
White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of heaven
While he lived in Tennessee.”' Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master,
In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree, Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee;Master, dreaming of tlie battle
Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride; Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee. Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silvery hair; Still the bondman, close beside him,
Stands behind the old arm-chair. With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Turns aside the Tennessee.
Glide from tree to mountain crest,
To the river's yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free! "Mássa! Massa! Hallelujah!
The flag's come back to Tennessee!" “Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.
Yere's the paper signed that frees you ;
Give a freeman's shout with me-
Evermore in Tennessee."
And the limbs refused to stand;
Glided to that better land.
Man and master both were free,
With the rippling Tennessee.
SPARTACUS TO TIIE GLADIATORS AT CIPU...
YE call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years bas met upon the arena every shape of unan or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one ainong you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, 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 men. My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vineclad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sportce; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd'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 know not why, and I clasped faintly, gasped, and died ;--the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph! I told the prætor that tho 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, anid '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 sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the prætor 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 80 must I, die like dogs. ,, Romel Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gen. tle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles 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 foc;—to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until 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 brası 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? 'Tis three days since he has tasted flesh; but tomorrow he shall break his fast upon yours,—and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye arc men, follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopylæ! 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? O, comrades! warriors ! Thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle !
A MODEST WIT.
A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East
Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich A governor, or general, at the least,
I have forgotten which-
Who went from England in his patron's suite,
A lad of decent parts, and good repuie.
This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet, with all his sense,
Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.
One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade,
Did your good father gain a livelihood ?”'“He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,
And in his time was reckon'd good.”
"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew ! Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you ?”
Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,
At length Modestus, bowing low,
“Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade !"
“My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad !
“ Excuse the liberty I take,"
Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make
A gentleman of you?”