« ZurückWeiter »
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: “Stop bim, alive oi dead!
T. B. Macaulay.
THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE.
Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant,
Away in the sunny clime ?
It reaches its blooming time;
Breaks into a thousand flowers;
Is the pride of the tropical bowers;
Have you further heard of this Aloe plant,
That grows in the sunny clime,
As they drop in the blooming time,
In the place where it falls on the ground;
Grow lively and lovely around?
Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan,
The snow-white bird of the lake?
It silently sits in the brake;
And then, in the soft, still even,
It sings as it soars into heaven.
You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one,
A greater and better than all?
Before whom the hosts of them fall?
For earth in its wailings and woes,
And die for the life of his foes?
Have you heard this tale,--tlie best of them all,
The tale of the Holy and True?
Lives on in the world anew.
As the stars fill the sky above;
For the sake of the life of love.
Now hear these tales, ye weary and worn,
Who for others do give up your all; Our Saviour hath told you the seed that would gi0w,
Into cartli's dark bosom must fall, -
And then will the fruit appear;
Will return many fold in the ear.
Henry Harbaugh. . FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE
Sitting in my humble doorway,
Gazing out into the niglit,
With a kind of sad delight,
Wait I for the loved who comes not,
One whose step I long to licar,
Still is dearest of the dear.
Soft! he comes,-now licart be quick,
Leaping in triumphant pride;-
Gone by on the other side.
All the night seems filled with weeping,
Winds are wailing mournfully,
Journey to the restless sea.
I can fancy, sea, your murmur,
As they with your waters flow,
Making up a nation's woe.
Branches, bid your guests be silent;
Hush a moment, fretful rain;
God grant not again in vain!
In my cheek the blood is rosy,
Like the blushes of a bride.
Goes by on the other side.
Ah! how many wait forever
For the steps that do not comel
Bear them to a peaceful home.
Many, in the still of midnight,
In the streets have lain and died, While the sound of human footsteps
Went by on the other side.
CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.
Now, Mr. Caudle,-Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; There's an end of the marriage state, I think,—an end of all confidence between man and wife, --if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudie, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still, -not that I care much about it,--still, I should like to know.
There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Jír. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?
And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say-you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion,—not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to bimself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason, when he keeps a secret that sets bim and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be al. lowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason, when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.
Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute !—yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creatur, when you might oblige me, and you won't.
I'm sure I i don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle;
I dare say it's a very good thing; Í dare say it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me, you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Candle. D. Jerrold.
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
Somewhat back from the village street
Half-way up the stairs it stands,