" It was this," he said and coming near,
He kiss'd from her brow the frown ;
" 'T was this," he said, " that you were the best,
And the dearest wife in town."
SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.
The farmer went back to the field, and the wife,
In a smiling and absent way
Sang snatches of tender little songs, .
She 'd not sung for many a day.
And the pain in her head vas gone, and the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea ;
Her bread was light and her butter was sweet,
And as golden as it could be.
' Just think," the children all called in a breath,
" Tom Wood has run off to sea !
He would n't, I know, if he only had
As happy a home as we."
The night came down, and the good wife smiled
To herself as she softly said :
1 'T is so sweet to labor for those we love,
It 's not strange that maids will wed ! "
BY GEORGE D. fRENTICE.
H, how the silent memories of years,
Are stirring in my spirit. I have been
A lone and joyless wanderer. I have roamed
Abroad through other climes, where tropic flowers
Were offering up their incense, and the stars
Swimming like living creatures ; I have strayed
Where the softest skies of Italy were hung,
In beautiful transparency, above,
And glory floating, like a lovely dream,
Over the rich landscape ; yet dear fancy still,
'Mid all the ruder glow of brighter realms,
Oft turned to picture the remembered home,
That blest its earliest day-dreams. Must I go
Forth into the world again ? I've proved its joys,
Till joy was turned to bitterness I've felt
Its sorrows, till I thought my heart would burst
With the fierce rush of tears ! The sorrowing babe
Clings to its mother's breast. The bleeding dove
Flies to her native vale, and nestles there,
To die amid the quiet grove, where first
She tried her tender pinion. I could love
Thus to repose, amid these peaceful scenes
To memory dear. Oh, it were passing sweet,
To rest forever on the spot,
Where passed my days of innocence to dream
Of the pure streams of infant happiness,
Sunk in life's burning sands to dwell
On visions faded, till my broken heart
Should cease to throb to purify my soul
With high and holy musings and to lift
Its aspirations to the central home
Of love, peace, and holiness in Heaven.
OH ! WHY SHOULD THE SPJRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD ?
[The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln,
and which he was accustomed occasionally to repeat. Mr. F. B.
Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in painting his picture
at the White House, he was alone o.ie evening with the President in
his room, when he eaicl: "There is a poem which has Ixen a great
favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young
man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a news-
paper and learned hy heart. I would," he continued, "give a great
deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to am rtain."
He then repeated the poem, and on a subsequent occasion Mr. Car-
penter wrote it down from Mr. Lincoln's own lips. The poem was
published more than thirty years ago, was then stated to be of Jewish
origin and composition, and we think was credited to "Songs of
\H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid ;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved ;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye
Shone beauty and pleasure her triumphs are by ;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn ;
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap ;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goafs up the steep ;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed ;
So the multitude conies, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
SELECTIONS FEOM THE POETS.
For we are the same our fathers have been ;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen,
We drink the same stream and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think ;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,
To the life we are clinging they also would cling ;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come ;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, aye ! they died : and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain.
We mingle together in sunshine and rain ;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath ;
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?
CORPORAL Green!" the orderly cried ;
" Here ! " was the answer loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier who stood near,
And " Here ! " was the word the next replied.
' Cyrus Drew ! " ^hen a silence fell
This time no answer followed the call ;
Only his rear man had seen him fall,
Killed or wounded, he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew ;
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
For the foe had crossed, from the other side,
That day in the face of a murderous fire,
That swept them down in its terrible ire ;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
1 Herbert Kline !" At the call, there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
' Ezra Kerr ! " and a voice answered, " Here ! "
" Hiram Kerr !" but no man replied.
They were brothers, these two, the sad winds sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
' Ephraim Deane ! " then a soldier spoke :
" Deane carried our Regiment's colors," he said ;
" Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke."
' Close to the road-side his body lies ;
I paused a moment and gave him to drink ;
He murmured his mother's name, I think,
And Death came with it and closed his eyes."
'T was a victory ; yes, but it cost us dear,
For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men jvho went into the fight,
Numbered bat twenty that answered " Here !"
OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR HOUSE.*
BY WILL M. CARLETON.
WHO was always counted, they say,
Rather a bad stick any way,
Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,
Known as the " worst of the deacon's six; "
I, the truant, saucy and bold,
The one black sheep in my father's fold,
" Once on a time," as the stories say,
Went over the hill on a winter's day
Over the hill to the poor house.
Tom could save what twenty could earn ;
But givin' was somethin' he ne'er could learn ;
Isaac could half o' the Scriptures speak,
Committed a hundred verses a week ;
Never forgot, an' never slipped ;
But " Honor thy father and mother" he skipped.
So over the hill to the poor house.
* From "Farm Ballads," by Will M. Carleton; published by Harper
SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.
As for Susan, her heart was kind
An' good what there was of it, mind ;
Nothin' too big an' nothin' too nice,
Nothin' she would n't sacrifice
For one she loved ; an' that 'ere one
Was herself, when all was said an' done.
An' Charley an"Becca meant well, no doubt,
But any one could pull 'em about.
An' all our folks ranked well, you see,
Save one poor fellow, and that was me
An' when, one dark an' rainy night,
A neighbor's horse went out of sight,
They hitched on me as the guilty chap
That carried one end o' the halter-strap.
An' I think, myself, that view of the case
Was n't altogether out o' place ;
My mother denied it, as mothers do,
But I 'm inclined to believe 't was true.
Though fur me one thing might be said
That I, as well as the horse, was led ;
And the worst of whisky spurred me on,
Or else the deed would have never been done.
But the keenest grief I ever felt,
Was when my mother beside me knelt,
An' cried an' prayed till I melted down,
As I would n't for half the horses in town.
I kissed her fondly, then and there,
An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.
I served my sentence a bitter pill
Some fellows should take, who never will ;
And then I decided to " go out West,"
Concludin' 't would suit my health the best ;
Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,
But Fortune seemed to like me well.
An' somehow, every vein I struck
Was always bubblin' over with luck ;
An' better than that, I was steady an' true,
An' put my good resolutions through.
But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said,
' You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,
An' died a Christian ; 't will please 'em more
Than if I had lived the same as before."
But when this neighbor he wrote to me,
Your mother is in the poor house," says he;
I had a resurrection straight way,
An' started for her that very day ;
And when I arrived where I was grown,
I took good care that I should n't be known ;
But I bought the old cottage, through and through
Of some one Charley had sold it to ;
And held back neither work nor gold,
To fix it up as it was of old ;
The same big fire-place, wide and high,
Flung up its cinders toward the sky ;
The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf
I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself ;
An', if everything was n't quite the same,
Neither I nor Manly was to blame ;
Then over the hill to the poor house !
One bloomin', blusterin" winter's day,
With a team an' cutter I started away ;
My fiery nags was as black as coal ;
(They some'at resembled the horse I stole ;)
I hitched an' entered the poor house door
A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor ;
She rose to her feet in great surprise
And looked, quite startled, into my eyes ;
I saw the whole of her trouble's trace,
In the lines that marred her dear old face ;
1 Mother !" I shouted, "your sorrows are clone !
You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son.
Come over the hill from the poor house ! '
She did n't faint ; she knelt by my side,
An' thanked the Lord till I fairly cried.
An" maybe our ride wasn't pleasant and gay,
An' maybe she was n't wrapped up that day ;
An' maybe our cottage was n't warm and bright
An' maybe it was n't a pleasant sight,
To see her agettin' the evenin's tea,
An* frequently stoppin' and kissin' me ;
An' maybe we did n't live happy for years,
In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers.
Who often said, as I have heard,
That they would n't own a prison bird
(Though they 're gettin' over that, I guess,
For all of them owe me more or less ;)
But I 've learned one thing, and it cheers a man
In always a-doin' the best he can :
That whether, on the big book, a blot
Gets over a fellow's name or not,
Whenever he does a deed that's white
-It's credited to him fair and right.
An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,
An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats ;
However they may settle my case,
Wherever they may fix my place,
My good old Christian mother, you '11 see,
Will be sure to stand right up for me.
So over the hill from the poor house !
SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.
BY EBEN E. REXFORD.
You are dying, my friend !
| OUR bark will go drifting, ere breaking of day,
Toward the shores lying over the shadowy bay ;
And at morn you will see, rising fair through the mist,
The hills which the sunshine eternal has kissed.
You are going away !
You will meet on the shores, which your vessel will find,
Dear friends who sailed outward, and left us behind ;
You will know them, and clacp them, and kiss them once
Grown young again there, on the Beautiful Shore.
Dear friend, when you meet
The woman I loved, on the shore far away,
Will you give her the message I give you to-day?
You will know her, I know, by her face, that was fair
As the face of an angel, and beautiful hair.
And her eyes, like a star,
In a clear summer night, shining out through the dew,
Falling down, like a kiss, from the furthermost blue.
And her voice ; when she greets you, you '11 know as of old,
Her voice, and her face in its tresses of gold.
O, tell her, my friend,
That I miss her so much since she left me that night,
When the mists of the sea drifted over my sight,
And hid her in shadows, so dense and so deep,
That, remembering the time, even now I must weep.
And tell her for me,
That I wait for the morn, which for hex has begun,
When our ways, which were severed on earth, shall be one ;
I shall come to her, over the wide solemn sea,
And clasp her, and claim her that tell her for me.
Friend, you will not forget ?
Already your bark is afloat on the tide,
That shall bear you out over the waters so widej
At morn you will see her, and tell her for me,
That I love her, I miss her, this side of the sea.
'IIOM first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
Time rules us all. . And life, indeed, is not
r)The thing we planned it out, ere hope was dead ;
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.
Much must be borne which it is hard to bear ;
Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
God help us all ! who need, indeed, His care :
And yet, I know the Shepherd loves His sheep.
My little boy begins to babble now,
Upon my knee, his earliest infant prayer ;
He has his father's eager eyes, I know ;
And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair.
But when he sleeps, and smiles upon my knee,
And I can feel his light breath come and go,
I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !)
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago ;
Who might have been .... ah ! what, I dare not think !
We are all changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.
But blame us women not, if some appear
Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light.
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?
Ah ! were we judged by what we might have been,
And not by what we are too apt to fall !
My little child he sleeps and smiles between
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all.
WE PARTED IN SILENCE.
BY MRS. CRA.WFORD.
'E parted in silence, we parted by night,
On the banks of that lonely river ;
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite
We met and we parted forever !
The night-bird sung, and the stars above
Told many a touching story,
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.
We parted in silence, our cheeks were wet,
With the tears that were past controlling ;
We vowed we would never, no, never forget,
And those vows, at the time, were consoling ;
But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine,
Are as cold as that lonely river
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,
Has shrouded its fires forever.
And now, on the midnight sky I look,
And my heart grows full of weeping ;
Each star is to me a sealed book,
Some tale of that loved one keeping.
We parted in silence, we parted in tears,
On the banks of that lonely river ;
But the odor and bloom of those bygone years
Shall hang o'er its waters forever.
SELECTIONS FROM TtfE POETS.
RAIN ON THE ROOF.
BY COATES KINNEY.
'HEN the starry vapors gather over all the starry
) And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy
'T is a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed,
And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.
Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreary fancies into busy being start ;
And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into
As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.
There in fancy, comes my mother, as she used to years
To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.
I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair,
And her bright-eyed cherub brother a serene, angelic
Glide around my wakeful pillow, with their praise or mild
As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue.
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue ;
I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.
There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, where the holy passions
As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain,
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.
OVER THE RIVER.
BY NANCY AMELIA PRIEST.
jVER the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who 've crossed 1 o the farther side ;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There "s one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue ;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see ;
Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me-
Over the river, the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet ;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be ,
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river, and hill, and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.
I shall know the loved, who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.
Co Represent tfje
HIS Book is attaining an immense circulation,
the printing of the fiftieth thousand having
been called for within a short period from the
time of its first publication ; and its sale is con-
stantly increasing with unparalleled rapidity, the
prospect being that in time it will reach nearly
every household in the land.
SPECIAL feature of this book favorable to
agents, is, that it has a more rapid sale in any
locality the more fully people become acquainted
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town is more profitable to the agent than the
first. For terms to agents, address MOSES WAR-
REN & Co., Publishers, 103 State St., Chicago, 111.
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clearly the fundamental principles of a Com-
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SOUTH BE>D ( IM>.
MY DEARSIR: I have examined with interest,
and also with surprise, vour "Manual of Social
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From W. W. Chandler, General Agent
(Star Union Line, Chicago.
It is indeed a wonderful production, and I am
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HILL'S MANUAL is EMPHATICALLY THE
MOST COMPLETE. COMFREHKNSIVE, AND RE-
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BEYOND THE SHADOW OP A DOUBT.
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