This moment there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!

O change!-stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;
The Sun eternal breaks-

The new immortal wakes-
Wakes with his God.

Eliza Cook.

THE OLD

ARM-CHAIR.

I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs
"Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near

The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed and God for my guide;

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew ain, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

"Tis past ! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

SONG OF THE HEMPSEED.

AY

Y, scatter me well, 'tis a moist Spring day,
Wide and far be the hempseed sown,

And bravely I'll stand on the Autumn land

When the rains have dropp'd and the winds have blown.

Man shall carefully gather me up,

His hand shall rule and my form shall change, Not as a mate for the purple of state,

Nor into aught that is "rich and strange." But I will come forth all woven and spun,

With my fine threads curled in serpent length,

And the fire-wrought chain, and the lion's thick mane,
Shall be rivalled hy me in mighty strength.

I have many a place in the busy world,
Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy;
I carry the freeman's flag unfurled,

I am linked to childhood's darling toy.
Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well,
For a varied tale can the hempseed tell.

Bravely I swing in the anchor ring

Where the foot of the proud man cometh not, Where the dolphin leaps, and the sea-weed creeps O'er the rifted sand and coral grot. Down, down below I merrily go

When the huge ship takes her rocking rest; The waters may chafe, but she dwelleth as safe As the young bird in its woodland nest. I wreathe the spars of that same fair ship

Where the gallant sea-hearts cling about,
Springing aloft with a song on the lip,

Putting their faith in the cordage stout.
I am true when the blast sways the giant mast,
Straining and stretched in a nor west gale;

I abide with the bark, in the day and the dark,
Lashing the hammock and reefing the sail.
Oh, the billows and I right fairly cope,
And the wild tide is stemmed by the cable rope.

Sons of evil, bad and bold,

Madly ye live and little ye reck,
Till I am noosed in a coiling fold
Ready to hug your felon neck.

The yarn is smooth and the knot is sure
I will be firm to the task I take;

Thinly they twine the halter line,

Yet when does the halter hitch or break?

My leaves are light and my flowers are bright—
Fit for an infant hand to clasp;

But what think ye of me 'neath the gibbet-tree,
Dangling high in the hangman's grasp?
Oh, a terrible thing does the hempseed seem
'Twixt the hollow floor and stout cross-beam!

The people rejoice, the banners are spread;
There is frolic and feasting in cottage and hall;
The festival shout is echoing out

From trellised porch and Gothic wall;
Merry souls hie to the belfry tower,

Gayly they laugh when I am found,

And rare music they make, till the quick peals shake
The ivy that wraps the turret round:
The hempseed lives with the old church-bell,
And helpeth the holiday ding-dong-dell.

The sunshine falls on a new-made grave!
The funeral train is long and sad;

The poor man has come to the happiest home
And easiest pillow he ever had.

I shall be there to lower him down

Gently into his narrow bed;

I shall be there, the work to share,

To guard his feet, and cradle his head.

I

may be seen on the hillock green,

Flung aside with the bleaching skull,
While the earth is thrown with worm and bone,

Till the sexton has done, and the grave is full.

Back to the gloomy vault I'm borne,

Leaving coffin and nail to crumble and rust,
There I am laid with the mattock and spade,

Moistened with tears and clogged with dust:
Oh, the hempseed cometh in doleful shape,
With the mourner's cloak and sable crape.

Harvest shall spread with its glittering wheat;

The barn shall be opened, the stack shall be piled;
Ye shall see the ripe grain shining out from the wain,
And the berry-stained arms of the gleaner-child.
Heap on, heap on, till the wagon-ribs creak,

Let the sheaves go towering to the sky,
Up with the shock till the broad wheels rock,
Fear not to carry the rich freight high.
For I will infold the tottering gold,

I will fetter the rolling load;

Not an ear shall escape my binding hold,
On the furrowed field or jolting road:
Oh, the hempseed hath a fair place to fill,
With the harvest band on the corn-crown'd hill.

My threads are set in the heaving net,
Out with the fisher-boy far at sea,
While he whistles a tune to the lonely moon,
And trusts for his morrow's bread to me.
Toiling away through the dry summer-day,

Round and round I steadily twist,
And bring from the cell of the deep old well
What is rarely prized but sorely missed.
In the whirling swing—in the peg-top string,
There am I, a worshipped slave.