Part 4

I was a bride, a happy bride, My gentle Malcolm’s joy and pride. Though poverty was in our cot, Love dwelt there, and we fear’d her not. But sickness came—our daily toil Alone had fed life’s lamp with oil. O’er my poor Malcolm’s feverish bed I watch’d all night, then sleepless sped To labor for our wants. Oh! why Did Heaven forbid us both to die? The sleepless night, the scant repast, The toilsome day—this could not last; Unknown, uncar’d for, by his side Sickening I lay, and Malcolm tried, While yet pale cheek and tottering limb Told how disease had prey’d on him, His hireling task to ply. Alas! the eager will in vain Struggled with lassitude and pain; Desperate, he sought his home again To see his Marian die.

From fearful dreams I frenzied woke; As famish’d nature crav’d, I spoke. Unconscious of his soothings meek, Of the hot tears that bath’d my cheek, I pray’d for food. He could not bear The wo of that delirious prayer; He went, return’d—with gold he came— But branded with a robber’s name.

They tore him from my wild embrace, They dragg’d him to a prison cell; I sought him in that fearful place, I gaz’d once more upon his face, Exchang’d one sad farewell— And then, a crime-stain’d exile, he Was sent to dwell beyond the sea.

Then, then, I was indeed alone— Sense, duty, reason, all were gone, Life was one racking sense of pain, One only thought dwelt in my brain, To see my victim-love again. To soothe his grief, support his care, His shame, his punishment, to share. But how, from whom assistance claim? Banish’d, disown’d—my very name Forbidden to my father’s ear, Would he my plaint or purpose hear? Friendless and poor—one desperate thought Amid my wilder’d musings wrought. _If mine the crime, the sentence too_, Whisper’d the demon. Oh! how few Of those who bask in fortune’s glare, Can fancy poverty’s despair! On splendor’s gilded couch reclin’d, With luxury-sated frame and mind, They talk of _labor_ and _content_, And o’er the _snares of wealth_ lament. Oh! could they for brief time endure The legion temptings of the _poor_, Their fiery trial once gone o’er, They’d mourn the _snares of wealth_ no more.

—I spurn’d the sinful thought away, I wept, I knelt, I strove to pray; But Heaven is deaf to rebel prayer, And mine sent no submission there. Day after day crept torturing by, And brought no hope, no comfort nigh. Should I the penance seek to shun, For whom the guilty deed was done?— The urging fiend was at mine ear, Maddening with sorrow, love, and fear, ’Twas done, detected—I am here.”

· · · · ·

Her haven the stately ship has won, The convict crew to their toils have gone. There’s a grove of palms in that southern isle, Through their coronaled tops the moonbeams smile On a fairy hut, where vine-boughs throw Their cluster’d wealth o’er the lattice low, And dim the silvery rays that pour Their brightness aslant the humble floor. Hark!—the accents of weeping prayer Upon the vesper stillness glide; The voices are yonder hut within, They plead for pardon, and mourn for sin— There Marian kneels at Malcolm’s side.

* * * * *

Now for the moral of my tale.—Although of heavenly birth, Love sometimes deigns to fold his wings, and find a home on earth. _He_ strengthens woman’s hand to deeds that make the warrior quail, _He_ raises woman’s mind to thoughts that turn stout manhood pale; The feeble frame, the fearful heart, for him grow strong, to brave The tempest or the battle-field, the desert or the grave; _He_ led poor Malcolm’s faithful bride across the stormy sea: So loves fond woman’s martyr-heart—so, dearest, love I thee.

The above poem is founded on an anecdote which appeared some years ago in an English gazette.

TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.

I.

Bird of the lone and joyless night, Whence is thy sad and solemn lay? Attendant on the pale moon’s light, Why shun the garish blaze of day?

II.

When darkness fills the dewy air, Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone amid the silence there Thy wild and plaintive note is heard.

III.

Thyself unseen, thy pensive moan Poured in no loving comrade’s ear; The forest’s shaded depths alone That mournful melody can hear.

IV.

Beside what still and secret spring, In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sitt’st thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away.

V.

Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me, That life’s deceitful gleam is vain; And well the lesson profits thee, Who will not trust its charms again!

VI.

Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill, To listening night when mirth is o’er: I, heedless of the warning still, Believe, to be deceived once more! E. F. E.

THE CHILD’S BEST FRIEND.

Nay, start not so, nor turn thy head away, Fair infant, from thy comrade’s boisterous play; Thy fond and faithful friend! thy guard by night. Thy toy by day! thy playmate and delight! Oh! may’st thou never—through the changeful years Which pass thou must in this dark vale of tears— Oh! may’st thou never find a friend less true, Whose love nor time nor distance may subdue— Nor cruelty estrange, nor falsehood shake! Who, treat him as thou may’st, for thy dear sake Fearless will leap where swiftest currents flow— Fearless will strive against the fiercest foe! Will bear all worst extremes of earthly ill, Famine, and weariness, and wintry chill! Who, though thine all, on this side heaven, were lost— Thy friends proved false, thy fortunes ocean-tost— Thy nearest kinsmen coldly turned aside— Would love thy want, even as he loved thy pride— Would lick thy hand, though it had nought to give, Nor leave thy poverty with kings to live! Q.

NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

He sat with haughty men about his throne, Himself the greatest king. The monarchy That he held o’er the nations was his own. It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye— It was the monarchy of soul, that beamed From every chiseled feature—till command, With a strange power upon the spirit, seemed To speak as with a voice from loftier land; And each who heard it, tho’ he wore a crown, To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!

It was a golden crown—its iron band The brows had girdled of a race of kings; He bore it to his own with his white hand, As some ringed bauble of those weary things Great hearts despise—e’en when they spell the world With their poor lustre. As he lifted it, His pallid lip with pride imperial curled, And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit— “GOD _gave it me. Beware who touches_,” fell On the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell!

It had been lifted to the warrior head Of the whole line of Lombardy; and now It towered above the marbles of the dead Upon the unchanging paleness of a brow That frowned on worlds in mastery. It shone With sapphire and with emerald without, In bravery of its radiance alone: Within that iron band went dark about, Untouched by grayling Time; tho’ centuries Had fled ere yet that crown gleamed o’er Napoleon’s eyes.

And how tradition gathered as you gazed! What relic of such holiness has man Beheld, with spirit silenced and amazed, Since awful story of the past began! It was the “Iron Crown” that from the nail Of the red Cross on Calvary, for kings Was fashioned thus! And as we read the tale E’en now, some memory like an echo rings Thro’ the astonished heart, until we feel A reverence with the mystery about us steal!

Crown of the Crucifixion! O that He, On whose aspiring brow it sat, had felt And fought the spirits of his Destiny! Then had a palsied world beheld him melt In tears for mortals, where he strode in blood, And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier path Had been above the dashing of that flood That broke about the highway of his wrath, And Glory, like an angel, beckoned on To summits nobler than the proudest that he won!

O, had he felt that that which then did bind His beating temples with its iron band, Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind, That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand; Had vision wafted him to those dim years, When Christ was bowing to the Agony, And pouring upon Man his farewell tears, Ere His triumphal parting for the sky— What then had been the story of thine eye, Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”

Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name, In the mad morning of his opening days, And his best music was the voice of Fame, Merging each accent of a lowlier praise— How changed along the ice-path of that land, The mountain-barrier of an empire, then, Had that stern spirit strode—the loud command Sunk to that suasion that makes captive men, By its great moral harmony, and pours New light from that far fount it draws from, and adores!

Then—ere the earthquake summons of red War Had lured him to that passion-field, where Man, Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for, Ended in blackness what in blood began— Forth, with his pilgrim-staff, and book, and prayer, From citadel to wilderness, his way Had lain through paths of Solitude and Care. The forest midnight and the glare of day— Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue, The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him rung!

Then had he crushed the Conq’ror to the dust— And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet— Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst, And fled as pestilence the monarch’s seat! Then had the gilded helm and warrior steed Been banished, as the necromance of dreams— The sceptre spurned as some unwelcome reed, Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems! Then had the world seen rest—and with its years Virtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears!

Then had that mighty creature, that no prayer Could stay upon his mountain-march to win All that he dreamt of—for no mercy there Would breathe her whisper mid the tramp and din Of shaking armies—with a reverence, then, Had he looked up to God, and asked of Heaven What in his broad companionship with Men, Of loftier Duty with his Power was given— What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies, All Earth might look for from its hallow’d energies!

THE BARLOW KNIFE.

BY ROBERT JONATHAN.

There was one event of my boyish days which is the cause of such amusing reminiscence in my later years, that I cannot refrain, dear reader, from making you acquainted with it. It happened upon a time, after I had worn out my first frock coat, and got tired of trundling hoops and wagons, and drawing sleds, that I felt, as many boys do, an inordinate desire to experience the comforts of _whittling_; but I had no knife—always excepting an old _case-knife_ which mother used to lend me. But then, this was not _the thing_; for, besides being inconvenient, I could not _shut it up_, and put it in my pocket, and walk about with the proud consciousness that it was _my own_—not _borrowed_ from any one, but MINE—sacred to _my_ individual use and behoof. However, believing that my youthful happiness depended upon the gratification of this desire, I treated with mother to negotiate with father upon the subject of procuring me a knife. This was on a Saturday afternoon in the month of July. Mother told me that, if I would be a good boy, and _keep_ that night and the next day (Sunday) as I ought, and go to school every day, and study hard, and mind the schoolmistress, and divers other conditions—to all of which I eagerly consented without considering the possibility of fulfilling them—on these conditions, I say, she, on her part, promised to ask father to give me a _knife_. Accordingly, in pursuance of our stipulations, I kept Saturday night very well—went to bed early—went to sleep, and straightway to dreaming of the glorious fruition of all my hopes. I dreamed that I had a new knife—that I “_sharpened it up_” until it would _cut a hair_—that I had a soft piece of seasoned white pine—that, in fact, I was _whittling_! And how inexpressible was the delight which I experienced! Surely moral philosophers should give mankind—at least the _boy_ part of it—credit for a new and additional sense, which they should term _Whittleation_, and upon which they should base a new science and denominate it _Whittleology_. For what natural sensation is there which can be compared with that which is experienced while drawing the keen-edged blade through the delicate fibres of some soft, well-seasoned wood? So far as my boyish experience extends, there is no enjoyment so deep, so soothing, and so satisfactory as that derived from _whittling_; whether it be upon a shingle or a school-bench—upon the squire’s picket-fence or the village sign-post. But to my dream. All things went on charmingly until an unfortunate turn of my shingle brought my knife-blade in contact with one of my fingers, and the pain of the wound thus inflicted, dispelled the delightful vision which had enthralled me. And so impatient was I to have Monday morning come round, that I could sleep no more that night, and, although it was but an hour before daybreak, still it appeared to me that weeks were crowded into that short period, while I was waiting and watching for the blessed dawn of the Sabbath. Finally, daylight appeared; and with its earliest dawn I arose and began to whistle “Heigh Betty Martin,” in great glee; but on recollection of my treaty with mother, I ceased whistling and walked down into the sitting-room with all the assumed gravity of a Friar Tuck, and with a face long as a grape-vine, and sombre as a dying cypress. I attended church all day, and did not take my eyes off the minister, except during prayers; but sat up in the pew straight as a new pin, the big drops, (not _tear_ drops, however,) following each other down my cheeks and neck at stated intervals, much as though a frozen squash was _thawing_ on my head. After returning from church I took up my catechism, and when I thought mother’s eyes were on me, my own were on the book; but when she was out of the room I amused my little brother Dick, by telling him in a whisper sufficiently loud to be heard over all the room, that

“In Adam’s fall We made stone-wall, But ever _sense_ We’ve made brush-fence.”

And

“By Washing_ton_ Great deeds were done When he did run With his big gun ’Gainst the Hes_shun_,” etc. etc.

But as mother did not hear me, my youthful conscience was perfectly at ease—considering, of course, that there was no wrong done when there was no knowledge, on her part, of any transgression.

At length, after many weary hours, _sun-down_ was proclaimed through the house by my little sister Mary, who had been watching its approach, for an hour or more, from one of the garret windows. I then made noise enough to remunerate me for keeping half a score of Sabbaths. I mounted my Eclipse broomstick with a determination to run him on the course for the last time, previous to giving up the pleasures of the chase for the quiet comforts of _whittling_. And, indeed, it _was_ the last time; for, in the last quarter of the third heat, in the exuberance of my spirits I reared up, and, my foot slipping, I came with such force on to my wayworn charger that I broke him down, and into two pieces besides; and, in addition, I got a severe thump on my cranium, which sent me weeping to bed, where I slept quietly until Monday morning. On that morning I was, of course, in very good spirits, and did not fail to give mother a gentle hint touching her part of the contract, by taking _particular pains_ to have her _accidentally_ discover that the handle to the clothes-pounder had come out, and by _carelessly_ observing, in a very _emphatic_ manner, that _if_ I had a penknife, I would make a wedge and fasten in the pounder handle, etc. However, that day and the following night were doomed to be hours of anxious suspense to me—hope and fear holding alternate sway in my excited breast. But words have not power to express the fulness of my joy when, after breakfast on Tuesday morning, father called me to him, and, taking a new knife from his pocket, placed me on his knee, after which he gave me several sections of good advice and kind admonitions, to which I listened with all the attention bestowed by a barn upon a whirlwind, so deeply was I engaged in scrutinizing the new object of my desire.

When father had finished his lecture, it was _school-time_; so, after _greasing_ the spring of my new knife, grasping it firmly in my right hand, and thrusting said hand into my pantaloons pocket, I started for school, anticipating a “glorious triumph” in exhibiting my newly-acquired property to my less fortunate playmates. But, just as I stepped on to the school-house green, the schoolmistress _rattled the window_ and called the children in; and thus my thrilling hopes were prematurely blighted. Still firmly holding my knife in my pocket as I entered the school-house, I took my seat on the “_big bench_” where I usually sat, and after the school operations had fairly commenced, I turned round to the desk with my back to the mistress and my book before me. I then took out my new knife for the purpose of examining it more particularly than I had hitherto done. It was of that kind commonly called _Barlow_ knives, one half of the handle being of polished iron and the other half of bone; the blade about four inches long, half an inch wide near the handle, and tapering to a point. Bill Williams, who sat next to me, soon got a glimpse at it, and we soon got _whispering_ about it; and the consequence was, we both got shut up in the _dungeon_, and were kept there until noon. Great was my joy during the _noon-spell_ in exhibiting my new treasure; and many were the congratulations which I received upon the pleasure of possessing it. In the afternoon, not profiting at all by my morning’s experience, I took it out in school-time and tried its shaving powers by cutting the bench; which the schoolmistress happening to discover, she took it away from me, gave me a feruling, kept me half an hour after school was out; then, after giving me a long lecture, and at the end of it my knife, she sent me home. There I had a fine opportunity to indulge my whittling propensities during the whole evening; but finding my knife rather dull, I stole into the dining-room and stole out of a drawer in the sideboard my father’s razor-hone, which I took out under the wood-house and there gave my knife a grand rubbing. Unfortunately for me, however, the more I sharpened it the duller it grew, and the more it spoiled my father’s hone; for, on bringing this latter to the light, I found it was a good deal worn and very much scratched. Here was a new difficulty; a good scolding, and perhaps a “_dressing_,” for spoiling a nice razor-hone. However, I put it slyly back into the drawer and determined to say nothing about it, knowing that father would discover it the next time he shaved himself; at which time I should endeavor—accidentally, of course—to be _absent_.

I next tried to sharpen my knife upon a scythe-stone; but, as Dan O’Rourke would say, “the more I tried to give it an edge, the more it would ‘not take one,’” until, finally, from desperate necessity, I came to the grievous conclusion that my knife was good for nothing. Consequent upon this conclusion, was a determination to get rid of it as soon as possible. But, alas! here was only the beginning of my sorrows, as the sequel will show.