Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast; O, may my parting gaze be bless'd with the dear sight of you, Of those fond eyes-fond as they were when this old ring was new. W. C. BENNETT. TRUE HEROISM. 66 BEING THE INCIDENT OF BRAVE JOHN MAYNARD." IN North America once lived A skilful pilot he was bred; In God was his delight; His head was clear, his hands were strong, His hopes seem'd ever bright. Once from Detroit to Buffalo A steamer plied her way; And honest John stood at the helm, Well filled with joyous passengers, But suddenly her Captain starts, Oh! sight of dread, light wreaths of smoke Then rose the horrid cry of "Fire!" Appalling, wild, and drear, A boat the steamer carried not, Nor human aid was near. All hands to instant work were call'd; Alas all toil was vain, The fury of the raging flames No effort might restrain. I followed,-we both of us saw him once rise,- I dash'd into the spot where I saw him appear, I dived down-grasp'd the hair of his head— But mute were his lips, and closed were his eyes When I brought him to land, he was dead! Shall I ever forget, then, this heart-rending scene? How she tore the dear colorless child from my arms, I lifted her up, but her cheek had grown pale,— One grave and one coffin embraced their remains, As I thought of the cottage, and then of the wood, The thrush may now whistle, the black-bird may sing, But whene'er I walk there, shall I ever forget J. W. BARNES. THE HEDGE FEAST. WHERE the bees and butterflies Skim the meady down, Than a place of tombs. Ragged little Johnny, Merry little Jim, Crooked little Barney How sweet the fields to him! Matty with her white head, Bonnet all awry; Katie with sweet fancies Glittering in her eye. They have roamed the meadow, With their nuts and blackberries, And lumps of bread and cheese, On a mossy hedge-bank, Now they sit at ease. Fresh and bright and free- From the pure white blossoms Plump white lambs were gathered 'Neath its cloven stem, And the happy children On the hawthorn spray, And the brooklet ever Made music on its way. I watched unseen, oft sighing, Where Nature doth suffice; Wealth and grandeur are not Found in Paradise. ANONYMOUS. |