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SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.

(J. G. WHITTIER.)

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story, or sung in rhyme,-
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,—

The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's out of Marblehead!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl,

Wings a-droop, like a rained-on fowl,

Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Captain Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing in shrill refrain:

"Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futhered, an' corr'd in a corrt,
By the women o' Morble'ead!”

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief, and loose of hair,

With conch-shells blowing and. fish-horns' twang,

Over and over the Monads sang:

"Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futher'd, an' corr'd in a corrt, By the women o' Morble'ead !”

Small pity for him!-He sailed away
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,-
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,

With his own town's people on her deck!
"Lay by lay by !" they called to him.
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"

And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea,
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain that sailed away?

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horns' bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple bound,
Hulks of old sailors, run aground,
Shook head and fist, and hat and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd hoort,
Torr'd an' futher'd, an' corr'd in a corrt,
By the women o' Morble'ead !"

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Sweetly along the Salem road,

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.

Little the wicked skipper knew

Of the fields so green, and the sky so blue.

Riding there in his sorry trim,
Like an Indian idol, glum and grim,
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
Of voices shouting far and near:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd hoort,
Torr'd an' futher'd, an' corr'd in a corrt,
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,—
"What to me is this noisy ride?

What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within?
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck
And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
Hate me and curse me,-I only dread

The hand of God and the face of the dead!”

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, "God has touched him! why should we?"
Said an old wife mourning her only son,

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Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
So, with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead.

WHAT I LIVE FOR.

(G. LINNEUS BANKS.)

I live for those who love me,

Whose hearts are kind and true,-
For the heaven that smiles above me,
And awaits my spirit too;

For all human ties that bind me,-
For the task by God assigned me,-
For the bright hope left behind me,
And the good that I can do.

I live to learn their story,
Who've suffered for my sake;
To emulate their glory,

And follow in their wake.
Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages,
The noble of all ages,

Whose deeds crowd history's pages, And time's great volume make.

I live to hold communion

With all that is divine; To feel there is a union

"Twixt Nature's heart and mine;

To profit by affliction,

Reap truth from fields of fiction,
Grow wiser from conviction,
And fulfil each grand design.

I live to hail that season,

By gifted minds foretold,
When men shall live by reason,
And not alone by gold,-
When man to man united,
And every wrong thing righted,
The whole world shall be lighted
As Eden was of old.

I live for those who love me,

For those who know me true,— For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too,For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance,

And the good that I can do.

WHAT MIGHT BE DONE.

(CHARLES MACKAY.)

What might be done if men were wise!
What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,
Would they unite,

In love and right,

And cease their scorn of one another!

Oppression's heart might be imbued

With kindling drops of loving kindness,
And Knowledge pour,

From shore to shore,

Light on the eyes of mental blindness.

All Slavery, Warfare, Lies, and Wrong,
All Vice and Crime, might die together;
And wine and corn

To each man born

Be free as warmth in summer weather.

The meanest wretch that ever trod,

The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow,
Might stand erect

In self-respect,

And share the teeming world to-morrow.

What might be done? This might be done, And more than this, my suffering brother,More than the tongue

E'er said or sung,

If men were wise and loved each other.

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.

(GRACE GREENWOOD.)

I'm thinking, Charles, 'tis just a year,

Or will be, very soon,

Since you first told me of your love,
One glorious day in June.

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