Of the great heavens above, through which at times
We seem to hear such music, as was heard
When the glad stars of morning sang together,
And all the sons of God shouted for joy,-
Then comes the sudden thought, "Remember death!"
And all the glory fades. We cannot die,
And leave this wonderful world, that azure dome,
This infinite of beauty,-and lie down,
Cold, frozen, lifeless, in the dark, damp earth.
Our whole flushed being, body and soul and spirit,
Recoils as with a shock- -as if some head,
Fleshless and eyeless, suddenly at the feast,
Had risen before our sight, and cried aloud,
"Come hence with me!" and with its skeleton arm
Had sought to clutch our robes, and drag us down,
Down, down, from light, and all this sweet, grand world,
To the dark, dreary horror of the tomb.
We will not hear thee, Death! We will not hear
Thy dull, sepulchral voice; nor will we see
Thy ghastly, horrible face.
Avaunt, thou fiend!
With thy"Memento Mori!" Not to youth,
Gay, gladsome youth, should come thy fearful front.
Leave us to welcome thy stern foeman, Life,
And his sweet sister, Love, the starry-eyed,
With the fair nymphs which follow in their train,
And wreathe with roses all the walls of time.
We walk amid the fields in manhood's prime.
Our grand deeds lie before us and around.
In our firm hands we hold the guiding reins
Of mighty plans-plans which shall make us tower
Above our fellows; give us fame and gold.
Fortune and power are ever to be gained
By the bold heart and hand; a few more years,
And the great game is won. "Remember death "
Says a still voice from out a just-dug grave.
We shudder. Then we cry: "Avaunt thee, fiend!
We have no time now to remember death!
Our plans would perish-all our great emprise
Would fall to pieces, shatter into dust.
"Memento Mori!" Yes, but not just now.
We cannot, will not die! Close up that grave!
It pains our sight. Put that dull crape aside.
This is the time for life, and not for death!
Dread portent of the tomb, carry afar
Thy face and form of ill! We will not go,
And leave this mighty world, so grand, so fair,
So full of wondrous deeds!-and lie down thus
In poverty and weakness, where our hands
Shall not have strength to push aside the worm,
The crawling worm, slow creeping up our face.
No, gracious God! We cannot come to this!
Not yet! not yet! Grant us our full of time!"
Again at eve we walk amid the fields.
Our strength has failed us, and we pause to rest,
And lean upon the gate, and watch the stars
Flash faintly forth, as fade the western fires.
How hallowed seems the night, when day is done,
And toil is done, and silence settles down
Upon the world, and all seems gathered in
Beneath the wing of the eternal love!
The hopes of youth-those gorgeous, glorious hopes―
Where are they? Vanished, like the rainbow's light,
Or the aurora's unsubstantial forms,
Such as the pillared domes and porphyry towers
The sunset builds with blocks of purple and of gold.
And manhood's schemes, born of the ripened brain,
Those plans by which we hoped to pluck the fruit
Of wealth or fame, or win the heights of power,-
Where now are they? Either not won, or else
Found scarcely worth the winning, like a game
Whose sole good seems the playing, not the stake;
Merely the sports of children, nothing worth,
Save as they strengthen body and mind, and build
The being up for nobler future ends.
What we have gained, whether we've won or lost,
Is wisdom-teaching us that naught of earth
Can satisfy the spirit, quench the thirst,
The thirst divine, of the immortal soul."
"Memento Mori !" Yes, O beautiful Death,
Rapt now we think of thee. Behind thy mask-
Thy ghastly, horrible mask-we see thy face,
Thy glad, sweet face, beloved child of God!
Thou messenger from heaven !-so beautiful,
That, wert thou not disguised, poor, suffering man
Would love thee all too well, and seek thy lips
Of sweetness, and would cling to thy soft robe,
And would not be denied thy cool embrace,
But rush uncalled to the vast realms of joy.
"Memento Mori!" Ah! most beautiful Death.
Think not that we who stand within the shade
Of eventide can ever dread thy coming.
Reason and faith, those two eyes of the soul,
Have pierced thy mask, and seen thee as thou art,
Blest guide to the immortals! Perfect love
Casts out all fear. We wait thy guiding hand,
To lead in God's good time from life to life,
From earth to higher spheres of thought and deed.
This fragile form may sink beneath the mould, —
Let dust melt back to dust-but the quick soul,
Dissevered from the mortal, at thy touch
Shall break its bonds, and mount on high with thee.
There our lost youth awaits us. There, renewed,
Our vanished manhood waits, and plumes its wing.
There children, friends, the loved of long ago,
Shall fly to greet us with wide-opened arins.
There those who love us now shall also come,
When this first harvest of the Lord is reaped.
There we shall walk the hills of glory, breathe
The pure, entrancing air; shall know no more
The heart-ache, sorrow, tears, and blinding pain;
Have fuller vision, work to nobler ends;
With higher powers of feeling and of thought;
Ascending thus from heavenly mount to mount,
According to the great design of God.
ONE OF THE SIX HUNDRED.
A paragraph recently appeared in the New York Sun announcing the death of John Fitzpatrick, one of the Light Brigade, who died of starvation in England. He had received a pension of sixpence a day, which, however, was withdrawn several years ago, and he endeavored to eke out a miserable existence by riding in circus pageants. Old age and disease had unfitted him for this or any other work; the only refuge for the disabled soldier was the work house, from which he shrank in horror. The verdict of the coroner's jury was: "Died of starvaion, and the case is a disgrace to the War Office."
Speed the news; speed the news!
Speed the news onward!
"Died of starvation," one
Of the Six Hundred:
One who his part had played
Well in the Light Brigade,
Rode with six hundred.
Food to the right of him,
Food to the left of him,
Food all around, yet
The veteran hungered;
He, who through shot and shell
Fearlessly rode, and well,
And when the word was "Charge,"
Shrank not nor lingered.
"Off to the workhouse, you!"
Back in dismay he drew,-
Feeling he never knew
When cannon thundered.
His not to plead or sigh,
His but to starve and die,
And to a pauper's grave
Sink with a soul as brave
As through the vale of death
Rode the Six Hundred.
Flashed a proud spirit there,
Up through the man's despair,
Shaming the servile there,
Scaring the timid, while
Sordid souls wondered;
Then turned to face his fate
Calmly, with a soul as great
As when through shot and shell
He rode with six hundred!
With high hope elate,
Laughing in face of fate-
Rode with six hundred.
Hunger his mate by day,
Sunday and working day,
Winter and summer day-
Shame on the nation!
Struggling with might and main,
Smit with disease and pain,
He, in Victoria's reign,
"Died of starvation."
While yet the land with pride
Tells of the headlong ride
Of the Six Hundred;
While yet the welkin rings,
While yet the laureate sings,
"Some one has blundered;"
Let us with bated breath
Tell how one starved to death-
Of the Six Hundred.
What can that bosom hide?
Oh the dread death he died!
Well may men wonder-
One of the Light Brigade,
One who that charge had made,
Died of sheer hunger.
I own a mule. It is the first mule I ever had, and will be the last one. My mind is my mule.
I suppose many other people have mules of the same kind. I notice that in every phrenological picture-chart
of the human head the mule has the top place among the hieroglyphics.
A mule, according to the prevalent opinion, does not regulate his movements strictly according to the will of his owner. The mule's business hours do not always correspond to those of his driver, and some inconvenience is often occasioned thereby to both parties. I think Mark Twain slanders the mule, and yet we must allow that the mule is troublesome at times.
Sometimes when I am most anxious that my mule shall go, he deliberately stands still. I try to spur him forward, but he refuses to budge. I have seen men in the pulpit and on the rostrum very much in the plight of the driver of a rebellious mule. They stormed, they hammered, but they could not get under way. I would rather be the gazingstock on Broadway, hammering and clubbing a stubborn mule, than to stand before an audience in a vain attempt to force my mind into action when it doesn't want to go. I have tried it.
I have tried patting and coaxing, and I have tried jerking and spurring. Now I make a desperate effort. I summon all my strength; I determine that my mind shall go. It does move as though it would go. It makes a few wild plunges, and away I go on a flight of imagination that I think must give me a fair start. I begin an ambitious sentence. Forward I am carried with a rush. I am goinggoing. I am not just sure where I am going,—I add one word after another, and suddenly-the mule stops. But down comes whip and spur, and with a bound I am off into another bold, emphatic sentence-yip-yip
"Now it goes, now it goes,
Now it stands still."
The mule has stopped, and I get off very ungracefully. My mule is troublesome in another way. He gets started, goes like a whirlwind or tempest, and refuses to stop at my bidding.
Bed-time comes. I go to bed. I want to sleep. Whoa! whoa!-but on the mule goes, and I can't get off. I shift from side to side. I determinedly resolve to think about nothing. I lie very still, I almost stop breathing, but it does not stop the thinking. I might as well try to stop the
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