A perfect angel of a wife,
And gold enough to last a life
There never yet was mortal man
So blest as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"
Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet
A pompous funeral in the street,
And asking one who stood near by
What nobleman had pleased to die?
Was stunned to hear the old reply!
The Frenchman sighed and shook his head,
"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead!
With such a house, and such a wife,
It must be hard to part with life;
And then, to lose that Mammoth Prize.
He wins, and-pop!--the winner dies!
Ah! well-his blessings came so fast,
I greatly feared they couldn't last;
And thus, we see, the sword of Fate
Cuts down alike the small and great!"
THE drums are all muffled, the bugles are still;
There's a pause in the valley, a halt on the hill;
And bearers of standards swerve back with a thrill
Where sheaves of the dead bar the way;
For a great field is reaped, Heaven's garners to fill,
And stern Death holds his harvest to-day.
There's a voice in the wind like a spirit's low cry;
'Tis the muster-roll sounding-and who shall reply
For those whose wan faces glare white to the sky,
With eyes fixed so steadfast and dimly, As they wait the last trump, which they may not defy! Whose hands clutch the sword-hilt so grimly.
The brave heads late lifted are solemnly bowed,
As the riderless chargers stand quivering and cowedAs the burial requiem is chanted aloud,
The groans of the death-stricken drowning, While Victory looks on like a queen pale and proud Who awaits till the morning her crowning.
There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay;
The vain pomps of peace-time are all swept away
In the terrible face of the dread battle-day;
Nor coffins nor shroudings are here;
Only relics that lay where thickest the fray—
A rent casque and a headless spear.
Far away, tramp on tramp, sounds the march of the foe,
Like a storm-wave retreating, spent, fitful and slow;
With sound like their spirits that faint as they go
By the red-glowing river, whose waters
Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow
To the eyes of her desolate daughters.
They are fled they are gone; but oh! not as they came; In the pride of those numbers they staked on the game, Never more shall they stand in the vanguard of fame,
Never lift the stained sword which they drew; Never more shall they boast of a glorious name, Never march with the leal and the true.
Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and torn,
They stole on our ranks in the mist of the morn;
Like the giant of Gaza, their strength it was shorn
Ere those mists have rolled up to the sky;
From the flash of the steel a new day-break seemed born, is we sprang up to conquer or die.
The tumult is silenced; the death-lots are cast,
And the heroes of battle are slumbering their last:
Do you dream of yon pale form that rode on the blast?
Would ye see it once more, oh ye brave!
Yes-the broad road to honor is red where ye passed,
And of glory ye asked-but a grave!
CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY.-ADDISON.
IT must be so.-Plato, thou reasonest well;
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us,
'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity!-thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me!
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us-
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works-He must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures-this must end 'em.
Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to my end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
"AM I MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?"-EDWARDS.
LONG ago
When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
Of Death's cold fingers-when upon the earth
Shroudless and coffinless Death's first born lay,
Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose :-"My son, my son!
Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow:
Awake, and bless her with thy wonted smile."
In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke. His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled A voice pursued him to the wilderness:
"Where is thy brother, Cain ?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
O, black impiety that seeks to shun
The dire responsibility of sin-
That cries with the ever-warning voice:
"Be still-away, the crime is not my own—
My brother lived-is dead, when, where,
Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
Why judge the living for the dead one's fall?"
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
Cries up to heaven against thee: every stone
Will find a tongue to curse thee, and the winds,
Will ever wail this question in thy ear:
"Where is thy brother?"
Will mind thee of the lost.
Deal Death unto his brother.
The poison was distilled for curséd gold;
And in the wine-cup's ruddy glow sat Death,
Invisible to that poor, trembling slave.
He seized the cup, he drank the poison down
Rushed forth into the streets-home had he none-
Staggered and fell and miserably died.
They buried him-ah! little recks it where
His bloated form was given to the worms.
No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot;
No mourner sorrowing at evening came,
To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand
Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest.
Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew
Above that sunken grave, and men forgot
Who slept there.
A happy home was his, and love was his.
His Mary loved him, and around him played
His smiling children. O, a dream of joy
Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
He had an interest in the world above.
The big "Old Bible" lay upon the stand,
And he was wont to read its sacred page
And then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poor
And save the tempted from the tempter's art;
Save us from sin, and let us ever be
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