He slept at last,

A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well,-had he slept
Never to waken more! His hours are few
But terrible his agony.

ATHERSTONE

81. THE SAME.-PART SECOND.

LOUDLY the father called upon his child:-
No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously

He searched their couch of straw:—with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,
Groped darkling on the earth :-no child was there.
Again he called :—again, at farthest stretch

Of his accursed fetters, till the blood

Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes
Fire flashed: e strained with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch.
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil!
Yet still renewed :-still round and round he goes,
And strains, and snatches,—and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy. Mad phrensy fires him now:
He plants against the wall his feet;-his chain
Grasps, tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven staple :-yells and shrieks with rage,
And, like a desert lion in the snare

Raging to break his toils, to and fro bounds.
But see! the ground is opening :-a blue light
Mounts, gently waving,-noiseless :-thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame;
But by its lustre, on the earth outstretched,
Behold the lifeless child!-his dress is singed,
And o'er his face serene a darkened line
Points out the lightning's track.

Silent and pale

The father stands :-no tear is in his eye :-
The thunders bellow, but he hears them not:-
The ground lifts like a sea,—he knows it not :—
The strong walls grind and gape:-the vaulted roof
Takes shapes like bubble tossing in the wind:-
See! he looks up and smiles;—for death to him

Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace
Be given, 'twere still a sweeter thing to die.

It will be given. Look! how the rolling ground,
At every swell, nearer and still more near

:

Moves towards the father's outstretched arm his boy:-
Once he has touched his garment;-how his eye
Lightens with love, and hope, and anxious fears!
Ha! see! he has him now!—he clasps him round,
Kisses his face ;-puts back the curling locks,
That shaded his fine brow:-looks in his eyes,
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands,
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont
To lie when sleeping, and resigned awaits
Undreaded death.

And pangless.

And death came soon, and swift,

The huge pile sunk down at once

Into the opening earth. Walls, arches, roof,
And deep foundation-stones, all mingling fell!

ATHERSTONE.

82. THOUGHT WITHOUT UTTERANCE.

COME, I will show thee an affliction, unnumbered among this world's sorrows,

Yet real and wearisome and constant, embittering the cup of life. There be, who can think within themselves, and the fire burneth at their heart,

And eloquence waiteth at their lips, yet they speak not with their tongue;

There be, whom zeal quickeneth, or slander stirreth to reply,
Or need constraineth to ask, or pity sendeth as her messengers,
But nervous dread and sensitive shame freeze the current of

their speech;

The mouth is sealed as with lead, a cold weight presseth on the heart,

The mocking promise of power is once more broken in performance,

And they stand impotent of words, travailing with unborn thoughts;

Courage is cowed at the portal: wisdom is widowed of utter

ance;

He that went to comfort is pitied; he that should rebuke, is silent.

And fools who might listen and learn, stand by to look and laugh; While friends, with kinder eyes, wound deeper by compassion, And thought, finding not a vent, smouldereth, gnawing at the heart,

And the man sinketh in his sphere, for lack of empty sounds. There be many cares and sorrows thou hast not yet considered, And well may thy soul rejoice in the fair privilege of speech; For at every turn to want a word,-thou canst not guess that want;

It is as lack of breath or bread: life hath no grief more galling.

M. F. TUPPER.

83. THE POWER OF ELOQUENCE.

COME, I will tell thee of a joy, which the parasites of pleasure have not known,

Though earth and air and sea have gorged all the appetites of

sense.

Behold, what fire is in his eye, what fervor on his cheek!

That glorious burst of winged words!-how bound they from his tongue!

The full expression of the mighty thought, the strong triumphant argument,

The rush of native eloquence, resistless as Niagara,

The keen demand, the clear reply, the fine poetic image,

The nice analogy, the clenching fact, the metaphor bold and free, The grasp of concentrated intellect wielding the omnipotence of

truth,

The grandeur of his speech, in his majesty of mind!

Champion of the right,-patriot, or priest, or pleader of the innocent cause,

Upon whose lips the mystic bee hath dropped the honey of persuasion,

Whose heart and tongue have been touched, as of old, by the live coal from the altar,

How wide the spreading of thy peace, how deep the draught of thy pleasures!

To hold the multitude as one, breathing in measured cadence,
A thousand men with flashing eyes, waiting upon thy will;
A thousand hearts kindled by thee with consecrated fire,

Ten flaming spiritual hecatombs offered on the mount of God: And now a pause, a thrilling pause,-they live but in thy words,

Thou hast broken the bounds of self, as the Nile at its rising. Thou art expanded into them, one faith, one hope, one spirit, They breathe but in thy breath, their minds are passive unto thine,

Thou turnest the key of their love, bending their affections to thy purpose,

And all, in sympathy with thee, tremble with tumultuous emo

tions.

Verily, O man, with truth for thy theme, eloquence slall throne thee with archangels.

M. F. TUPPER.

84. TRIFLES.

YET once more, saith the fool, yet once, and is it not a little one? Spare me this folly yet an hour, for what is one among so many ?

And he blindeth his conscience with lies, and stupifieth his heart with doubts ;

Whom shall I harm in this matter? and a little ill breedeth much

good;

My thoughts, are they not mine own? and they leave no mark behind them ;

And if God so pardoneth crime, how should these petty sins affect him ?

So he transgresseth yet again, and falleth by little and little, Till the ground crumble beneath him, and he sinketh in the gulf despairing.

For there is nothing in the earth so small that it may not produce great things,

And no swerving from a right line, that may not lead eternally astray.

A landmark tree was once a seed; and the dust in the balance maketh a difference;

And the cairn is heaped high by each one flinging a pebble;
The dangerous bar in the harbor's mouth is only grains of sand;
And the shoal that hath wrecked a navy is the work of a colony
of worms:

Yea, and a despicable gnat may madden the mighty elephant;

And the living rock is worn by the diligent flow of the brook. Little art thou, O man, and in trifles thou contendest with thine

equals,

For atoms must crowd upon atoms, ere crime groweth to be a giant.

What, is thy servant a dog ?—not yet wilt thou grasp the dagger, Not yet wilt thou laugh with the scoffers, not yet betray the innocent;

But if thou nourish in thy heart the reveries of injury or passion
And travel in mental heat the mazy labyrinths of guilt,

And then conceive it possible, and then reflect on it as done,
And use, by little and little, thyself to regard thyself a villain,
Not long will crime be absent from the voice that doth invoke
him to thy heart,

And bitterly wilt thou grieve, that the buds have ripened into
poison.
M. F. TUPPER.

85. THE GOOD MAN.

ANGELS are round the good man, to catch the incense of his prayers,

And they fly to minister kindness to those for whom he pleadeth ; For the altar of his heart is lighted, and burneth before God

continually,

And he breatheth, conscious of his joy, the native atmosphere of heaven,

Yea, though poor, and contemned, and ignorant of this world's wisdom,

Ill can his fellows spare him though they know not of his value.
Thousands bewail a hero, and a nation mourneth for its king,
But the whole universe lamenteth the loss of a man of prayer.
Verily, were it not for One, who sitteth on his rightful throne,
Crowned with a rainbow of emerald, the green memorial of
earth,-

For one, a meditating man, that hath clad his Godhead with mortality,

And offereth prayer without ceasing, the royal priest of Nature,
Matter and life and mind had sunk into dark annihilation,
And the lightning frown of Justice withered the world into

nothing.

M. F. TUPPER.