Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

I think our old captains in heaven,

As they look'd upon those deeds,
Were proud of the flower of that navy

Of which they planted the seeds.
Paul Jones, the knight-errant of oceau,

Decatur, the lord of the seas,
Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle,

Aud Perry, the peer of all these.
If Porter beheld his descendant

With some human pride on his lip,
I trust, through the mercy of Ileaven,

His soul was forgiven that slip.
And thou, living veteran, “Old Ironsides,"

The last of the splendid line,
Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory,

I know what feelings were thine.
When the sun look'd over the tree-tops,

We found ourselves-Heaven knows howAbove the grim forts; and that instant

A smoke broke from Farragut's bow ; And over the river came floating

The sound of the morning gun,
And the Stars and Stripes danced up the halliards,

And glitter'd against the sun.
Oh! then what a shout from the squadrons,

As flag follow'd tlag, till the day
Was bright with the beautiful standard,

And wild with the victors' huzza !

But three ships were missing ; the others

Had pass’d through that current of flame; And each scar on their shatter', bulwarks

Was touch'd by the finger of Fame.

In vain the town clamor'd and struggled,

The flag at our peak ruled the hour; And under its shade, like a lion,

Were resting the will and the power.

[ocr errors]

TIIE HOUR OF DEATII.-F. Hemans.

LEAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-
But all for Thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ;

There comes a day for grief's o’erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears—but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee--but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sen,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-
But who shall teach us when to look for thec?

Thou art where friend mects friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets lend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And Aowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set- but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

ANSWER TO THE "HOUR OF DEATII."

Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson.

TRUE, all we know must die,
Though none can tell the exact appointed hour;

Nor should it cost the virtuous heart a sigh,
Whether death doth crush the oak, or pip the opening

flower.

The Christian is prepared,
Though others tremble at the hour of gloom!

His soul is always ready on his guard ;
Ilis lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom come.

It matters not the time
When we shall end our pilgrimage below ;

Whether in youth's bright morn, or manhood's prime, Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er our brow.

The child has blossomed fair,
And looked so lovely on its mother's breast,

The source of many a hope, and many a prayer,
Why murmur that it sleeps, when all at last may rest ?

Snatched from a world of woe,
Where they must suffer most who longest dwell,

Unstained by many a crime,
Which to maturer years might owe their birth,

In summer's earliest bloom, or morning's prime,
How blessed are they who quit this chequered scene of

earth!

And shall no tear be paid
To her, the new-made bride-the envied fair,

On whose fond heart death's withering hand is laid, Checking each pulse of bliss Hymen has wakened there.

Joy scattered roses, while
The happy slumberer sank in calm repose

In death's embrace, e'er Love withdrew his smile ;
And 'scaped those chilling blights the heart too often

knows.

Yes! all we know must die.
Since none can tell the exact appointed hour,

Why need it cost the virtuous heart a sigh,
Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening

flower ?

A YANKEE IN LOVE.-Alf. Burnett.

ONE day Sall fooled me; she heated the poker awful hot, then asked me to stir the fire. I seized hold of it mighty quick to oblige her, and dropped it quicker to oblige myselt. Well, after the poker scrape, me and Sall only got or middlin' well for some time, till I made up my mind to pop the question, for I loved her harder every day, and I had an idee she loved me or had a sneaking kindness for me. But how to do the thing up nice and rite pestered me orful. I bought some love books, and read how the fellers git down onter their knees and talk like poets, and how the girls would gently-like fall in love with them. But somelow or other that way didn't kinder suit my notion. I I thought I'd come over to-night,” scz I. I tho't that was a mity purty beginnin'; so I tried agin. "Sall,sez Iand by this time I felt kinder fainty aboat the stommuck and shaky about the knees—“Sall,” sez I. " What?" sez she. Sall,” sez I agin. "What?"sez she. I'll get to it arter awhile at this rate, thinks I. “Peter,” says she, “there's suthin' troublin' you ; 'tis mighty wrong for you to keep it from a body, for an inard sorrer is a consumin fire." She said this, she did, the sly critter. She knowed what was the matter all the time mighty well, and was only tryin' to fish it out, but I was so far gone I couldn't see the point. At last I sorter gulped down the big lump a risin' in my throat, and sez I, sez I, “Sall, do you love anybody ?; “Well,” sez słe, “there's dad and mam,” and a countin' of her fingers all the time, with her eyes sorter shet like a feller shootin' off a gun, “and there's old Pide [that were their old cow,] and I can't think of any body else just now,” says she. Now, this was orful for å fellec ded in love ; so arter awhile I tried another shute. Sez I,

Sall,” sez I, “ I'm powerful lonesome at home, and sometimes think if I only had a nice, pretty wife to luv and talk to, move, and have my bein' with, I'd be a tremendous feller.” Sez I, “Sall, do you know any gal would keer for me?" With that she begins, and names over all the gals for five miles around, and never once came nigh naming of herself, and sed I oughter git one of them. This sorter got my dander up, so I hitched my cheer up close to her, and shet my eyes and sed, “SALL, You are the VERY gal I've been hankering arter for a long time. I luv yon all over, from the sole of your head to the crown of your foot, and I don't care who nos it, and if you say so we'll be jined together in the holy bonds of hemlock, Epluribusunum, world without end, amen!" sez I; and then I felt like I'd throwed up an alligator, I felt so relieved. With that she fetched a sorter screem, and arter a while sez, sez she, “PETER !" "What, Sally ?» sez I. “YES!" sez she, a hidin' of her face behind her hands. You bet a neap I felt good. “Glory! glory!!” sez I, “I must holler, Sall, or I shall bust. Xurrah for hooray! I can jump over a ten-rail fence 1% With that I sot rite down by her

« ZurückWeiter »