Abbildungen der Seite

wealth, and, in the shade of obscurity, the path to greatness; in the maturity of manhood, disarming the thunder of its terrors, the lightning of its fatal blast; and wresting fron, the tyrant's hand the still more afflictive sceptre os oppression : while descending into the vale of years, traversing the Atlantic Ocean, braving, in the dead of winter, the battle and the breeze, bearing in his hand the charter of Independence, which he had contributed to form, ani tendering, from the self-created Nation to the mightiest monarchs of Europe, the olive-branch of peace, the mercurial wand of commerce, and the amulet of protection and safety to the man of peace, on the pathless ocean, from the inexorable cruelty and merciless rapacity of war.

And, finally, in the last stage of life, with fourscore winters upon his head, under the torture of an incurable disease, returning to his native land, closing his days as the chief magistrate of his adopted commonwealth, after contributing by his counsels, under the Presidency of Washington, and recording his name, under the sanction of devout prayer, in voked by him to God, to that Constitution under the authority of which we are here assembled, as the Representatives of the North American People, to receive, in their name and for them, these venerable relics of the wise, the valiant, and the good founders of our great confederated Republic—these sacred symbols of our golden age. May they be deposited among the archives of our Government! And may every American, who shall hereafter behold them, ejaculate a mingled offering of praise to that Supreme Ruler of the Universe, by whose tender mercies our Union has been hitherto preserved, through all the vicissitudes and revolutious of this turbulent world ; and of prayer for the continuance of these blessings, by the dispensations of Providence, to our beloved country from age to age, till time shall be no more !

Dinner to get for six or more,

No loaf left o'er from Sunday; And baby cross as he can live

He's always so on Monday.

'Tis time the meat was in the pot,

The bread was worked for baking, The clothes were taken from the boil

Oh dear I the baby's waking !

Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sh!

I wish he'd sleep a little, 'Till I could run and get some wood,

To hurry up the kettle.

Oh dcar! oh dear! if P. comes home,

And fiuds things in this pother, He'll just begin and tell me all

About his tidy mother!

How nice her kitchen used to be,

Her dinner always ready Exactly when the noon-bell rang

Hush, hush, dear little Fredily!

And then will come some hasty words,

Right out before I'm thinking--
They say that lasty words from wives
Set sober men to drinking.

Now, is not that a great idea,

That men'should take to sinning, Because a weary, half-sick wife,

Can't always smile so winning ?

When I was young I used to earn

My living without trouble,
Had clothes and pocket money, too,

And hours of leisure double.

I never dreamed of such a fate,

When I, a-lass! was courted

TIIE BRAVE AT HOME.-T. Buchanan Reed

Tin maid who binds her warrior's sash,

With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-irop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,

And fame shall never know the story,
Her heart has slied a drop as clear

As e'er bedew'd the field of glory.
Che wife who girds her hushand's sword,

Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
and bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomd nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattle,
Uath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was pourl upon a field of battle!
The mother who conceals hier grief,

While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as c'er the sod

Received on Freedom's tield of honor!


THERE stood an unsold captive in the mart,
A gray-hair'd and majestical old man,
Chain'd 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.
Ile had stood there since morning, and had borne
From every eye in Athens the cold gaze

And touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer
Pass'd on; and when, with weariness o'erspent,
He bow'd bis head in a forgetful sleep,
The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats
Of torture to his children, summond back
The ebbing blood into his pallid face.

'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipp'd with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazel. lle had borne up
With a stout heart that long and weary day,
Hlaughtily patient of his many wrongs ;
But now he was alone, and from his nerves
The needless strength departed, and he lean's
Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts
Throng on him as they would.

Unmuk'l of him,
Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stool,
Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's check
Flush'd as he measured with a painter's eve
The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs,
Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins
Swollen to purple fullness; the gray hair,
Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eye's;
And as a thought of wilder bitterness
Rose in his memory, his lips grew white,
And the fast workings of liis bloodless face
Tuld what a tooth of fire was at bis heart.

The golden light into the painter's room
Stream'd 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 lav.
The walls were hung with armor, and about
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,

Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ;
And as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye,
Flash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,
Were like the wing'd godis, breathing from his flight.

“Bring me the captive now!
Víy hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,

And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens-around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

“Ila ! 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 poisond links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh !

"So-Jet him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now !
What a fine agony works upon his brow !

Ila ! gray-hair’l, and so strong! How fearfully le stifles that short moan! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan !

"Pity' thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar---
But does the rohed 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?

“ Hereafter ! Ay-hereafter !
A whip to keep a coward to his track !
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back

To check the skeptic's laughter ?
Come from grave to-morrow with that story
And I may take some softer path to glory.

"No, no, old man ! we die
Even as the tlowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they !

Strain well thy fainting eye--.
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

« ZurückWeiter »