The gaslight glarin' in my eyes,
I couldn't help a thinkin'
How things were changed since you and I,
In other winter weather,
Drove o'er the snow-bound Eaton pikes
To spellin' school together.
Again the bleak New England hills
Re-echoed to the singing
Of Yankee girls, with hair in curls,
Who set the welkin ringing;
They wan't afraid to sing when asked,
And never would refuse to;
Somehow the singing now-days, Jane,
Don't sound much as it used to.
Twelve couple then a sleigh load made,
Packed close to keep from freezin';
Lor' bless the black eyed, rosy girls,
They didn't mind the squeezin';
Your sweetheart never would complain
Because you chanced to crowd her,
They'd more of flesh and blood them days,
And less of paint and powder.
Down past the Quaker meetin' house,
And through the tamarack holler, 'Mid mirth and song we sped along With other loads to foller,
Until (the gaslight dimmer grew,—
I surely wa'n't a dreamin',)
Upon the distant hill I see
The school-house lights a gleamin'.
The pedagogue gave out the words,
His steel-bowed specs adjustin',
To linsey girls, with hair in curls,
And boys in jeans and fustian;
The letters rang out sharp and clear,
Each syllable pronouncin',
For he who broke the master's rule
Was certain of a trouncin'.
Brave hearts went down amid the strife;
The words came thicker, faster,
Like body-guard of veterans scared,
The boys closed round the master--
All down but two! Fair Lucy's locks
Swept over Rufus' shoulder,
The room is still, the air grows chill,
The winds blow fiercer, colder.
"P-h-t-h-y-s-i-c,"
Lisped Lucy in a flurry; "P-h-t-h-i-s-i-c,"
Cried Rufus in a hurry.
No laurel wreath adorned his brow,
Twined by a blood-stained Nero;
Yet in his homespun suit of blue,
Young Rufus stood a hero.
The master sleeps beneath the hill,
The voice of Rufus Bennet,
Who snapped the word from Lucy Bird,
Was heard within the Senate.
And countless millions bless the name
Of him who set in motion
The tidal wave which freed the slave
From ocean unto ocean.
The girls who charmed us with their songs
'Mid heavenly choirs are singin';
Their feet have pressed the shining street,
Where golden harps are ringin'.
We've both grown old and feeble, Jane,
Our views may not be true ones;
Yet somehow all the old ways seem
Much better than the new ones.
THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR. RUTHVEN JENKYNS.
First published in the Greenwich Magazine for Mariners in 1701 1702.
Sweet heart, good-bye! that flutt'ring sail
Is spread to waft me far from thee,
And soon before the favoring gale
My ship shall bound upon the sea.
Perchance, all desolate and forlorn,
These eyes shall miss thee many a year;
But unforgotten every charm-
Though lost to sight, to memory dear.
Sweet heart, good-bye! one last embrace;
O, cruel fate, two souls to sever!
Yet in this heart's most sacred place
Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever;
And still shall recollections trace
In fancy's mirror, ever near,
Each smile, each tear,-that form, that face—
Though lost to sight, to memory dear.
Is it nothing to you, O Christians,
As ye sit around the board,
Where the feast is spread before you,
And the rich-hued wine is poured,
That a mighty spirit of evil
Dwells in that bright wine's flow,
That pleasure floats on the surface,
But danger is hiding below?
Is it nothing to you, though that spirit
Walks to and fro through the land,
Scattering the seeds of mischief
Broadcast on every hand?
Those seeds are yielding a harvest
Of poverty, death, and woe,
Of ignorance, crime, and madness,
And you are helping to sow!
Yes; still does the wily tempter
Whisper his oft-told lie
Into the ears of his victims,
"Ye shall not certainly die!
Ye may drink; for look at the righteous,
Do they not drink of it too?"
And the listeners fall as they listen--
And is this nothing to you?
Ye have the gift of knowledge,
Ye are standing fast in your strength;
But that which is now your servant
May be your tyrant at length.
For art has lost its cunning,
And learning ceased to shine,
And the light of religion been darkened,
Before that spirit of wine.
Will you teach your children's voices
To utter the Saviour's prayer,
"Lead us not into temptation,"
And then, lead, and leave them there?
The path is slippery and treacherous,
Which they see you safely pursue;
But they may follow, and perish-
And is this nothing to you?
There are thousands struggling before you
In the dark and fearful wave
*This poem is printed on tinted paper and circulated as a tract of appeal among ie sturdy Scotch. We are indebted to MARGARET E. PARKER, of Dundee, Scotn, for forwarding it.
Which hurries them on to destruction-
Will you stretch out no hand to save?
Will you turn from the wife's wild anguish,
From the cry of the children, too,
And say from your place of safety,
That this is nothing to you?
But if, with a generous effort,
A rope to their aid you send,
That help will be unavailing,
If you hold not the other end.
Would you draw the perishing drunkard
Back to the shore of hope,
Yourselves must give him courage,
And yourselves must hold the rope.
Ye are called with a holy calling,
The lights of the world to be,
To lift up the lamp of the gospel,
That others the path may see;
But if you bear it onwards,
Leading the feeble astray
Till they sink in hidden pitfalls,
What will your Master say?
Is it nothing to you, O Christians,
By the blood of Christ redeemed,
That through you the name of Jesus
Is by the heathen blasphemed;
Because along with the gospel,
Your poison-draught ye bring,
And ruin them, soul and body,
With that accursed thing?
Arise in your Master's honor,
And cleanse your hands from the stain,
And let not the shadow of darkness
On that name of light remain.
Away with each false pleasure,
Which makes your lamps burn dim!
He gave His life for your ransom ;
Will you give up nothing for Him?
Up, Christians, up and be doing!
Rise from your base repose:
If you take not the part of your Saviour,
You take the part of His foes.
Fling the bondage of evil custom,
And the fetters of self aside,
Nor destroy, with your strength and knowledge, The souls for whom Jesus died.
ART THOU LIVING YET?-JAMES G. CLARK.
Is there no grand, immortal sphere
Beyond this realm of broken ties,
To fill the wants that mock us here,
And dry the tears from weeping eyes;
Where winter melts in endless spring,
And June stands near with deathless flowers;
Where we may hear the dear ones sing
Who loved us in this world of ours?
I ask, and lo! my cheeks are wet
With tears for one I cannot see;
Oh, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?
I feel thy kisses o'er me thrill,
Thou unseen angel of my life;
I hear thy hymns around me trill
An undertone to care and strife;
Thy tender eyes upon me shine,
As from a being glorified,
Till I am thine and thou art mine,
And I forget that thou hast died;
I almost lose each vain regret
In visions of a life to be;
But, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?
The springtimes bloom, the summers fade,
The winters blow along my way;
But over every light or shade
Thy memory lives by night and day;
It soothes to sleep my wildest pain,
Like some sweet song that cannot die,
And, like the murmur of the main,
Grows deeper when the storm is nigh.
I know the brightest stars that set
Return to bless the yearning sea;
But, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?
I sometimes think thy soul comes back
From o'er the dark and silent stream,
Where last we watched thy shining track,
To those green hills of which we dream;
Thy loving arms around me twine,
My cheeks bloom younger in thy breath,
Till thou art mine and I am thine,
Without a thought of pain or death;
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