Of mortal agony! In pain I sunk, Worn and disabled, 'mid the dead and dying; And there was one who passed me at this hour- From long-departed years. For we had met In early youth, with feelings unconcealed, At boyhood's happy voice and guileless smile, As though they mocked him. Now he sternly mark'd My well-remembered face, yet lingered not. There was a taunt upon his haughty lip, A fiery language in his scowling eye, My proud heart ill could brook! E'en like a vision of the fevered brain, His image haunted me-and urged to madness.- The blood-red sod my couch, the tempest-cloud My lullaby the moaning midnight wind,- Methought I heard the Messenger of Death Deep silence came,—and all the scene was changed And mocked the dazzled eye. In robes of light, High on a gorgeous throne, appeared a Form A silent and innumerable throng Of earth-born warriors bowed. That Form sublime In these benign and memorable words, Breathed holy consolation." Ye that owned The Family of Man, and toiled and bled For Liberty and Justice! Ye have fought A glorious fight, and gained a glorious meed, A bright inheritance of endless joy A home of endless rest!" Now straight appeared, With lineaments divinely beautiful, Fair shapes of bright-wing'd beings, holy guides Alas! how few of that surrounding host Were led to happier worlds! That hallowed band In radiant light departed; but the Form And this dread judgment gave-(while darkness wrapt "He that can love not man loves not his God! Now with triumphant howls of mockery, agony, Came on the roaring blast! A mighty voice, "On to the Hell of Battle, and the war Coeval with eternity!" That voice, Whose sound was thunder, breathed resistless spells, To join the strife of millions. One alone Amid that countless throng mine eye controlled. A wild thrust reached him.-Then he loudly shrieked, In fierce despair!-But he was victor now- 'Twas morning-and the sun's far-levelled rays GIPSIE S. I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke Or vermin, or at best, of cock purloin'd Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd The vellum of the pedigree they claim. Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. By which the world might profit and himself, Such squalid sloth to honourable toil. Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft, And vex their flesh with artificial sores, Can change their whine into a mirthful tone And music of the bladder and the bag Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, Need other physic none to heal the effects Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. THE INDIAN HUNTER. Longfellow. WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in, An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, Looked down where the valley lay stretched below. He was a stranger there, and all that day But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet, The moss was white on the maple's trunk, The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, When years had passed on, by that still lake side, THE DUEL.* Lober. Enter SQUIRE EGAN and DICK DAWSON. Dick. AND So he'll have a shot at you, instead of an action? Well, there's pluck in that: I wish he was more of a gentleman, for your sake. It's dirty work shooting attorneys. Squire. He's enough of a gentleman, Dick, to make it impossible for me to refuse him. Dick. Certainly, Ned. Squire. The impudence of the rascal! I told him I'd blister O'Grady, and he promised to send me a process-and then to send me a real blister instead. I couldn't do less than horsewhip him. Do you know, is he anything of a shot? Adapted for Recitation from Samuel Lover's "HANDY ANDY." Dick. Faith, he makes very pretty snipe shooting; but I don't know if he has the experience of the grass before breakfast. Squire. You must try and find out from any one on the ground; because, if the poor devil isn't a good shot, I wouldn't like to kill him, and I'll let him off easy-I'll give it to him in the pistol-arm, or so. Dick. Very well, Ned. Where are the flutes? I must look over them. Squire. Here, Andy! Enter ANDY. Andy. Did you call me, sir? Squire. Yes; fetch the mahogany box, out of the left-hand cupboard in my dressing-room. Andy. Yes, sir. Dick. I'll see, and get everything ready, Ned, rely upon it. Enter ANDY. Andy. Here it is, sir. [giving it to DICK.] [Exit. Dick [sitting down, opening the box, and examining the pistols.] At all events, they want a touch of oil. Squire. Well, keep them out of the misthriss's sight, Dick, for she might be alarmed. Dick. Divil a taste; she's a Dawson, [Exit SQUIRE] and there never was a Dawson yet that did not know men must be men. DICK commences cleaning the pistols, with ANDY at his elbow. Andy. Oh, my heavens! but that's a quare thing, Misther Dick, sir. [taking up one of the pistols.] Dick. Keep your fingers off it, you thief, do! [rapping ANDY'S knuckles.] ANDY. Sure I'll save you the throuble o' rubbin' that, Misther Dick, if you'll let me here's the shabby leather. Dick. I wouldn't let your clumsy fist near it, Andy, nor your shabby leather, you villain, for the world. Go, get me some oil, and bring me a pen. [Exit ANDY.] The blundering rascal makes more mistakes than half a dozen put together-and yet, somehow, I like him; perhaps for his blunders. Enter ANDY, with a can. Andy. I've brought you the oil, Misther Dick. Dick. The divil fly away with you; you never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol! Andy. Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin'. Dick. And who wants to burn it, you savage? Andy. Dick. Aren't you goin' to fire it, sir? Choke you, you vagabond! [laughing] be off, and get me some sweet oil, but don't tell any one what it's for. Enter ANDY. [Exit ANDY. Andy. Here's the oil, sir, and I brought you the ink, sir, but I can't find a pin. Dick. Confound your numskull! I didn't say a word about ink; I asked for a pen. |