Ye may see, if not foul-fettered If within be peace and gladness,— For an erring brother's fall,— Lowly breathed, Forgive them, Father, For they know not what they do!"— Humility, when wreath of laurel Crowns thee conqueror, in a field But martyr firmness, when thy spirit That has stemmed the raging tide;— And, withal, a hopeful nature, Ah! nearer, nearer for the crosses Nearer for the conquered strife; That leads thee rough-shod o'er the stone, Till thou canst bravely bear the real; And trusting say, "Thy will be done!" Never upward look for Heaven, M. Sophie Holmes. EUGENE ARAM'S DREAM 'Twas in the prime of summer-time, There were some that ran, and some that leapt Away they sped, with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin; To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they coursed about, But the usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch Heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease; So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees. Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside, For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide; Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome, Then leaping on his fect upright; Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook, And lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book. "My gentle lad, what is't you read, Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable ?" The young boy gave an upward glance, "It is "The Death of Abel!" " The usher took six hasty strides, And down he sat beside the lad, And, long since then, of bloody men And how the sprites of injured men And unknown facts of guilty acts He told how murderers walked the earth With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain; For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain. "And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme,— Woe, woe, unutterable woe,— Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought "One that had never done me wrong, A feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely fieid, The moon shone clear and cold; 'Now here,' said I. 'this man shall die, And I will have his gold! "Two sudden blows with ragged stick, One Lyried gash with a hasty knife, And then the deed was done; There was nothing lying at my foot "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, "And, lo! the universal air "O God! it made me quake to see "My head was like an ardent coal; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, A dozen times I groaned; the dead And now, from forth the frowning sky, "I took the dreary body up, "Down went the corpse with hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school. "O heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, Like a devil of the pit I seemed, "And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread; But guilt was my grim chamberlain, And drew my midnight curtains round, "All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep, "All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, "One stern tyrannic thought, that made Did that temptation crave, Still urging me to go and see "Heavily I rose up, as soon And I saw the dead in the river bed, "Merrily rose the lark, and shook But I never marked its morning flight, For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. |