Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall; Dying brothers, fighting demons,-drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint, and lacking food; Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh its Eden flowers; From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still Thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air! BEAUTIFUL SNOW. (WATSON.) O, the snow, the beautiful snow, O, the snow, the beautiful snow! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! It lights up the face, and it sparkles the eye; How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell; Selling my soul to whoever would by,- And yet I was once like the beautiful snow! How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone mad in their joy at the snow's coming down ; To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow! OVER THE RIVER. Over the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who crossed to the other side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet; She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the vail apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more And I sit and think when the sunset's gold And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall know the loved who have gone before, NOTHING TO WEAR. (BUTLER.) Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, Shopping alone and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather, Dresses for home, and the street, and the hall, Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall;— And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day All this merchandise went in twelve carts up Broadway, From this unsupplied destitution of dress; O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt Their children have gathered, their hovels have built; Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold; See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street, Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,— Spoiled children of fashion,-you've nothing to wear! And O, if perchance there should be a sphere, Where all is made right which so puzzles us here; Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime; Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; O, daughters of earth! foolish virgins, beware! Lest, in that upper realm,-you have nothing to wear! |