Washington dead? Is Hampden dead? Is David dead? Is any man that ever was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, and risen in the unobstructed sphere where passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life now is grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly life can be. Pass on, thou that hast overcome! Your sorrows, O people, are his peace! Your bells, and bands, and muffled drums sound triumph in his ear. Wail and weep here; God makes its echo joy and triumph there. Pass on! Four years ago, O Illinois! we took from your midst an untried man, and from among the people. We return him to you a mighty conqueror. Not thine but the nation's; not ours, but the world's. place, O ye prairies! any more, Give him In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty! Henry Ward Beecher. THE MODERN HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT. Behold the mansion reared by dædal Jack. See the malt, stored in many a plethoric sack, Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides, Lo! now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault, Here stalks the impetuous cow, with crumpled horn, Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn, Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast, that slew The rat predacious, whose keen fangs ran through The textile fibres that involved the grain That lay in Hans' inviolate domain. Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue, Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw Behold the man whose amorous lips incline, The old mordacious rat, that dared devour Lo! here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last, The emulgator of that horned brute morose That tossed the dog that worried the cat that kilt The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. GUARD THINE ACTION. When you meet with one suspected As a thing of evil fame, When you meet a brow that's awing Guard thine action; some great sorrow And the sunset of to-morrow May have left thee like to him. When you meet with one pursuing With his recklessness and sin, Win thee back to truth again? There are spots that bear no flowers,-- Sallie Ada Vance. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. At the terrible fight of Buena Vista, Mexican women were seen hovering near the field of death, for the purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. One poor woman was found surrounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies, ministering to the wants of Americans as well as Mexicans with impartial tenderness. Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!" Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain, rain." Holy Mother, keep our brothers! Look Ximena, look once more: "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course. Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon* wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." *Minon (pronounced min-yon) was a Mexican general. Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on. Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost and who has Won: "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall; O'er the dying rush the living; pray, my sisters, for them all! "Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting; Blessed Mother, save my brain! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain; Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes! "Oh, my heart's love! oh, my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Caust thou hear me? Canst thou see? Oh, my husband, brave and gentle! oh, my Bernard, look once more On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er." Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and faintly smiled; Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup. plied; With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died. |