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VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.
would give him food when hungry, shelter him erful and thrilling appeal to his countrymen, when when cold, and always treat him as a brother.' they were on the eve of welcoming back the ty. · Would not this process attract such characters ? ranny and misrule which at the expense of so much How would you avoid being overrun by them?' blood and treasure had been thrown off, can ever • Such characters would either reform or not remain forget it? How nobly does liberty speak through with us. We should never speak an angry word, or him. If,” said he, “ye welcome back a monar. refuse to minister to their necessities; but we should chy, it will be the triumph of all tyrants hereafter, invariably regard them with the deepest sadness, as over any people who shall resist oppression, and their we would a guilty, but beloved son. This is harder song shall then be to others, How sped the rebelfor the human soul to bear, than whips or prisons. lious English, but to our posterity, · How sped the They could not stand it; I am sure they could not. rebels, your fathers.' How solemnly awful is his It would either melt them, or drive them away. In closing paragraph : “ What I have spoken, is the nine cases out of ten, I believe it would melt language of that which is not called amiss, The them.'
good old cause.' If it seem strange to any, it will I felt rebuked for my want of faith, and conse. not seem more strange I hope, than convincing, to quent shallowness of insight. That hard-handed la- backsliders. This much I should have said, though bourer brought greater riches to my soul than an I were sure I should have spoken only to trees and Eastern merchant laden with pearls. Again I re- stones; and had none to cry to but with the prophet, peat, money is not wealth.—Letters from New O earth, earth, earth! to tell the very soil itself York.
what its perverse inhabitants are deaf to; nay,
though what I have spoken should prove (which The following beautiful poem is from the December Thou suffer not, who didst create mankind free! nor number of Blackwood's Magazine It is a noble pic. Thou next, who didst redeem us from being servants ture of that sublime old man, who, sick, poor, blind, of men !) to be the last words of our expiring liberand abandoned of friends, still held fast his heroic ty.” It was the consciousness of having done all in his integrity, rebuking with his unbending republican power to save his countrymen from the guilt and ism the treachery, and cowardice, and servility of his folly into which they had madly plunged, the answer old associates. He had outlived the hopes and bea of a good conscience, which sustained him in his old tific visions of his youth ; he had seen the loud- age and destitution.- Joshua Leavitt. mouthed advocates of liberty throwing down a
BLIND OLD MILTON. nation's freedom at the feet of the shameless, debauched, and unprincipled Charles the Second, crouching to the harlot-thronged court of the tyrant, Place me, once more, my daughter, where the sun and forswearing at once their religion and their republicanism. The executioner's axe had been
May shine upon my old and time-worn head, busy among his friends. Cromwell's ashes had been For the last time, perchance. My race is run;
And soon amidst the ever-silent dead dragged from their resting place, for even in death the effeminate tyrant hated and feared the conqueror
I must repose, it may be, half forgot.
Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread of Naseby and Marston Moor. Vane and Hamp. den slept in their bloody graves. He was left alone
For many a year, with those who trembled not
To buckle on their armor for the fight, in age, and penury, and blindness; oppressed with the knowledge that all his pure heart and free soul And set themselves against the tyrant's lot; abhorred, had returned upon his beloved country: Nor knelt before him—for I bear within
And I have never bowed me to his might, Yet the spirit of the stern, old republican remained
My heart the sternest consciousness of right, to the last unbroken, realizing the truth of the lan
And that perpetual hate of gilded sin guage of his own Samson Agonistes.
Which made me what I am ; and though the stain of saints, the trial of their fortitude,
Of poverty be on me, yet I win
More honor by it than the blinded train
Who hug their willing servitude, and bow
Unto the weakest and the most profane. country. Harlotry and atheism sat in the high Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go places, and as the caresses of wantons and the jest of Before the footstool of my Maker, where buffoons regulated the measures of the government, I hope to stand as undebased as now ! which had just ability enough to deceive, just reli- Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair gion enough to persecute.” But while Milton mourn Borne up and wasted by the gentle wind ; ed over this disastrous change, no self-reproach I feel the odors that perfume the air, mingled with his sorrow. To the last he had striven And hear the rustling of the leaves behind. against the oppressor. Who, that has read his pow. Within my heart I picture them, and then
BY WILLIAM E. AITOON.
« Patience is the exercise
And victor over all
VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.
Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue, And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed
The secret of the heart from whence they sprung. Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven
Gave up an angel beautiful and young; Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven;
- A bright Aurora for the starry sphere Where all is love, and even life forgiven.
Bride of immortal beauty-ever dear! Dost thou await me in thy blest abode !
While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here, And count each step along the rugged road,
A phantom, loitering to a long made grave, And eager to lay down my weary load!
I, that was fancy's lord, am fancy's slaveLike the low murmurs of the Indian shell
Ta’en from its coral bed beneath the wave, Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,
Retains within its mystic urn the hum Heard in the sea-grots, where the Nereids dwell
Old thoughts that haunt me, unawares they come Between me and my rest, nor can I make
Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb.
I almost can forget that I am blind,
And old, and hated by my fellow men.
Of nature ere I die, and gaze again
Fain would I see thy countenance, my child, My comforter ! I feel thy dear embrace,
I hear thy voice so musical and mild, The patient, sole interpreter, by whom
So many years of sadness are beguiled ; For it hath made my small and scanty room
Peopled with glowing visions of the past. But I will calmly bend me to my doom,
And wait the hour which is approaching fast, When triple ligh: shall stream upon mine eyes,
And Heaven itself be opened up at last,
I have had visions in this drear eclipse
Striving to utter with my earthly lips
Even as the saint in his Apocalypse
Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven All outward strife and tumult from my mind,
And humbled me until I have forgiven My bitter enemies, and only seek
To find the straight and narrow path to heaven. Yet I am weak-0, how entirely weak,
For.one who may not love or suffer more! Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,
And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,
Which made the beautiful Italian shore
An Eden and a Paradise to me.
Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,
Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers ?
And Philomel her plaintiff chant prolong, 'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,
Making the summer one perpetual song ?
I walked in joy thy grassy meads among,
In whose bright eyes I looked-and not in vain ? O, my adored angel! 0, my bride!
Despite of years, and wo, and want, and pain, My soul yearns back toward thee, and I seem
To wander with thee, hand in hand, again, By the bright margin of that flowing stream.
I hear again thy voice, more silver sweet Than fancied music floating in a dream,
Possess my being; from afar I greet The waving of thy garments in the glade,
And the light rustling of thy fairy feetWhat time as one half eager, half afraid,
O, yet awhile, my feeble soul awake!
Nor wander back with sullen steps again !-For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take
In such a journey, nor endure the pain.
So let them ever uninvoked remain,
Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,
No second spring can come to make them blow, But in the silent winter of the grave
They lie with blighted love and buried wo. I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,
Nor slothful lay in the Circean bower; Nor did I yield myself the willing slave
Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power. No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;
For constant was my faith in manhood's dower; Man-made in God's own image-and I felt
How of our own accord we courted shame, Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,
And so renounced the great and glorious claim Of freedom, our immortal heritage.
I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim, Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage,
How Error stole behind the steps of Truth, And cast delusion on the sacred page.
So, as a champion, even in early youth I waged my battle with a purpose keen;
Nor feared the hand of Terror, nor the tooth
With starry Galileo in his cell,
Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell The wonders of the planetary sphere,
VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.
And trace the ramparts of Heaven's citadel stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up Mount Hor, in On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear. the sight of all the congregation, -for the pulpit
And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane, stairs were in front and very high. Names once so gracious to an English ear
Paul Femming will never forget the sermon he In days that never may return again.
heard that day,-no, not even if he should live to be as My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard old as he who preached it. The text was, · I know
Whenever freedom raised her cry of pain, that my Redeemer liveth.' It was meant to console And the faint effort of the humble bard
the pious, poor widow, who sat right before him at Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy, the foot of the pulpit stairs, all in black, and her heart To speak in words of thunder. What reward breaking. He said nothing of the terrors of death, nor
Was mine or theirs? It matters not; for I of the gloom of the narrow house, but, looking beyond Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,
these things, as mere circumstances to which the Without a hope or wish, except to die.
imagination mainly gives importance, he told his But truth, asserted once, must still abide,
hearers of the innocence of childhood upon earth, Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs
and the holiness of childhood in heaven, and how the Which day and night gash from the mountain side, beautiful Lord Jesus was once a little child, and Perpetual meteors, girt with lambent wings,
now in heaven the spirits of little children walked Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,
with him, and gathered flowers in the fields of ParaBut cannot conquer with the force it brings. dise. Good old man ! In behalf of humanity, I
thank thee for these benignant words !
And, still Yet I, who ever felt another's wo
more than I, the bereaved mother thanked thee, and More keenly than my own untold distress;
from that hour, though she wept in secret for her I, who have battled with the common foe,
child, yet. And broke for years the bread of bitterness ; Who never yet abandoned or betrayed
"She knew he was with Jesus,
And she asked him not again."
After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked forth A weak old man, deserted by his kind
alone into the churchyard. There was no one there, Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid ! save a little boy, who was fishing with a pin hook in
a grave half full of water. But a few moments af0, let me not repine! A quiet mind,
terward, through the arched gateway under the bel. Conscious and upright, needs no other stay; fry, came a funeral procession. At its head walkNor can I grieve for what I leave behind,
ed a priest in white surplice, chanting. Peasants, In the rich promise of eternal day.
old and young, followed him, with burning tapers in Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone, their hands. A young girl carried in her arms a Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away,
dead child, wrapped in its little winding sheet. The And the old pilgrim, weary and alone,
grave was close under the wall, by the church door. Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate A vase of holy water stood beside it. The sexton Now sits, his task of life-long labor done,
took the child from the girl's arms, and put it into Thankful for rest, although it comes so late, a coffin; and, as he placed it in the grave, the girl After sore journey through this world of sin, held over it a cross, wreathed with roses, and the
In hope and prayer, and wistfulness to wait, priest and peasants sang a funeral hymn. When Until the door shall ope and let him in.
this was over,
the priest sprinkled the grave and the crowd with holy water; And then they all went
into the church, each one stopping as he passed the FOOT-PRINTS OF ANGELS. grave to throw a handful of earth into it, and sprin
kle it with holy water.
A few moments afterwards, the voice of the priest It was Sunday morning ; and the church bells was heard saying mass in the church, and Flembells were ringing together. From all the neigh- ming saw the toothless old sexton treading the fresh bouring villages came the solemn, joyful sounds, earth into the grave of the little child, with his floating through the sunny air, mellow and faint and clouted shoes. He approached him, and asked the low, —all mingling into one harmonious chime, like age of the deceased. The sexton leaned a moment the sound of some distant organ in heaven. Anon on his spade, and shrugging his shoulders replied ; they ceased; and the woods, and the clouds, and the • Only an hour or two. It was born in the night, whole village, and the very air itself seemed to pray, and died early this morning ?' so silent was it everywhere.
"A brief existence,' said Flemming. - The child The venerable old men, -high priests and patri- seems to have been born only to be buried, and have archs were they in the land, --went up the pulpit (its name recorded on a wooden tombstone.'
BY HENRY W. LONGFELEOW.
VOICES OF THE TRUE - HEARTED.
The sexton went on with his work and made no , back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. reply. Flemming still lingered among the graves, Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, gazing with wonder at the strange devices, by which and with a manly heart.' man has rendered death horrible and the grave loath- It seemed to him, as if the unknown tenant of that
grave had opened his lips of dust, and spoken to him In the Temple of Juno at Elis, Sleep and his the words of consolation, which his soul needed, and twin-brother Death were represented as children which no friend had yet spoken. In a moment the reposing in the arms of Night. On various funeral anguish of his thoughts was still. The stone was monuments of the ancients the Genius of Death is rolled away from the door of his heart; death was sculptured as a beautiful youth, leaning on an invert. no longer there, but an angel clothed in white. He ed torch, in the attitude of repose, his wings folded stood up, and his eyes were no more bleared with and his feet crossed. In such peaceful and attrac- tears ; and, looking into the bright, morning heaven, tive forms, did the imagination of ancient poets he said : and sculptors represent death. And these were men I will be strong! in whose souls the religion of Nature was like the Men sometimes go down into tombs, with painful light of stars, beautiful, but faint and cold !- longings to behold once more the faces of their deStrange, that in later days, this angel of God, which parted friends; and as they gaze upon them, lying leads us with a gentle hand into the Land of the there so peacefully with the semblance that they great departed, into the silent Land,' should have wore on earth, the sweet breath of heaven touches been transformed into a monstrous and terrific thing! them, and the features crumble and fall together, Such is the spectral rider on the white horse-such and are but dust. So did his soul then descend for the . the ghastly skeleton with scythe and hour glass — last time into the great tomb of the Past, with pain. the Reaper, whose name is Death!
ful longings to behold once more the dear faces of One of the most popular themes of poetry and those he had loved ; and the sweet breath of heaven painting in the Middle ages, and continuing down touched them, and they would not stay, but crumbled even into modern times, was the Dance of Death. away and perished as he gazed. They, too, were In almost all languages is it written the apparition dust. And thus, far-sounding, he heard the great of the grim spectre, putting a sudden stop to all bu- gate of the Past shnt behind him as the Divine Poet siness, and leading men away into the « remarkable did the gate of Paradise, when the angel pointed him retirement of the grave. It is written in an ancient the way up the Holy Mountain ; and to him likeSpanish Poem, and painted on a wooden bridge in wise was it forbidden to look back. Switzerland. The designs of Holbein are well In the life of every man, there are sudden transiknown. The most striking among them is that, tions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. At where, from a group of children sitting round a cot-once as if some magician had touched the heavens and tage hearth, Death has taken one by the hand, and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind is leading it out of the door. Quietly and unresist- falls, and serenity succeeds the storm. The causes ing goes the little child, and in its countenance no which produce these sudden changes may have been grief, but wonder only; while the other children are long at work within us, but the changes themselves weeping and stretching forth their hands in vain to- are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient wards their departing brother. A beautiful design cause. It was so with Flemming; and from that it is, in all save the skeleton. An angel had hour forth he resolved, that he would no longer veer been better, with folded wings, and torch in. with every shifting wind of circumstance; no longer verted!
be a child's plaything in the hands of Fate, which And now the sun was growing high and warm. A we ourselves do make or mar. He resolved hence little chapel, whose door stood open, seemed to in- forward not to lean on others; but to walk self-convite Flemming to enter and enjoy the grateful cool. fident and self-possessed ; no longer to waste his ness. He went in. There was no one there. The years in vain regrets, nor wait the fulfillment of walls were covered with paintings and sculpture of the boundless hopes and indiscreet desires; but to live rudest kind, and with a few funeral tablets. There in the Present wisely, alike forgetful of the past, was nothing there to move the heart to devotion and careless of what the mysterious Future might but in that hour the heart of Flemming was bring. And from that moment he was calm, and weak,-weak as a child's. He bowed his stubborn strong; he reconciled with himself! His knees, and wept. And oh! how many disappointed thoughts turned to his distant home beyond the sea. hopes, ho'v many bitter recollections, how much of an indescribable, sweet feeling within wounded pride, and unrequited love, were in those him. tears, through which he read on a marble tablet in Thither I will turn my wandering foostetps,' said the chapel wall opposite, this singular inscrip- he ; and be a man among men, and no longer a
dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be wine a life Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not of action and reality! I will work in my own
VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.
Beautiful yet thy temples rise,
Though there profaning gifts are thrown; And fires unkindled of the skies
Are glaring round thy altar-stone.
Still sacred—though thy name be breathed
By those whose hearts thy truth deride ; And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed
Around the haughty brows of Pride.
sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness. This alone is life;
Life that shall send
And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!' Why have I not made these sage reflections, this wise resolve, sooner ? Can such a simple result spring only from the long and intricate process of experience ? Alas! it is not till Time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life, to light the fires of passion with from day to day, that Man begins to see, that the leaves which remain are few in number, and to remember, faintly at first, and then more clearly, that, upon the earlier pages of that book was written a story of happy innocence, which he would fain read over again. Then come listless irresolution, and the inevitable inaction of despair; or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain, a more noble history than the child's story, with which the book began.'— Hyperion.
0, ideal of my boyhood's time!
The faith in which my father stood, Even when the sons of Lust and Crime
Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood.
Still to those courts my footsteps turn,
For through the mists which darken there I see the flame of Freedom burn
The Kebla of the patriot's prayer!
MY SOUL IS FREE.
Disguise! and coward fear! away!
The generous feeling pure and warm,
Which owns the rights of all divineThe pitying heart—the helping arm
The prompt, self-sacrifice-are thine. Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,
How fade the cords of caste and birth! How equal in their suffering lie
The groaning multitudes of earth! Still to a stricken brother true,
Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; As stooped to heal the wounded Jew
The worshipper on Gerizim. By misery unrepelled, unawed
By pomp or power, thou see'st a Man In prince or peasant-slave or lord
Pale priest or swarthy artisan. Through all disguise, form, place, or name,
Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, Through poverty an'i squallid shame,
Thou lookest on the man within. On man, as man, retaining yet,
Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim, The crown upon his forehead set
The immortal gist of God to him.
And there is reverence in thy look ;
For that frail form which mortals wear The Spirit of the Holiest took,
And veiled his perfect brightness there.
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
“All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."- Matthew vii. 12. Spirit of Truth, and Love, and Light !
The foe of Wrong, and Hate, and Fraud ! Of all which pains the holy sight,
Or wounds the generous ear of God!
Not from the cold and shallow fount
Of vain philosphy thou art; He who of old on Syria's mount
Thrilled, warmed by turns the list'ner's heart. In holy words which cannot die,
In thoughts which angels lean'd to know, Proclaimed thy message from on high
Thy mission to a world of wo.