Imatges de pÓgina
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Do you ask what I found in the valley ?

'Tis my trysting-place with the Divine;
And I fell at the feet of the Holy,

And above me a voice said, “ Be mine."
Then rose from the depths of my spirit

An echo: “My heart shall be thine."
Do you ask how I live in the valley ?

I weep, and I dream, and I pray;
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops

That fall on the roses of May:
And my prayer like a perfume from censers

Ascendeth to God night and day.
In the hush of the valley of silence

I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim valley

Till each finds a word for a wing
That to men, like the dove of the deluge,

The message of peace they may bring.
But far on the deep there are billows

That never shall break on the beach,
And I have heard songs in the silence

That never shall float into speech,
And I have had dreams in the valley

Too lofty for language to reach.
And I have seen thoughts in the valley-

Ah me! how my spirit was stirred!
And they wore holy veils on their faces,

Their footsteps can scarcely be heard;
They pass through the valley like virgins,

Too pure for the touch of a word.
Do you ask me the place of the valley,

Ye hearts that are harrowed by care?
It lieth afar between mountains,

And God and his angels are there;
And one is the dark mount of sorrow,

And one the bright mountain of prayer.

THE OLD CHURCH-YARD TREE. There is an old yew tree which stands by the wall in a dark quiet corner of the church-yard.

And a child was at play beneath its wide-spreading branches, one fine day in the early spring. He had his lap full of

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nowers, which the fields and lanes had supplied him with, und he was humming a tuue to himself as he wove them into garlands.

And a little girl at play among the tombstones crept near to listen; but the boy was so intent upon his garland, that he did not hear the gentle footsteps, as they trod softly over the fresh green grass. When his work was finished, and all the flowers that were in his lap were woven together in one long wreath, he started up to measure its length upon the ground, and then he saw the little girl, as she stood with her eyes fixed upon him. He did not move or speak, but thought to himself that she looked very beautiful as she stood there with her flaxen ringlets hanging down upon her neck. The little girl was so startled by his sudden movement, that she let fall all the flowers she had collected in her apron, and ran away as fast as she could. But the boy was older and taller than she, and soon caught her, and coaxed her to come back and play with him, and help him to make more garlands; and from that time they saw each other nearly every day, and became great friends.

Twenty years passed away. Again, he was seated beneath the old yew tree in the church-yard.

It was summer now; bright, beautiful summer, with the birds singing, and the flowers covering the ground, and scenting the air with their perfume.

But he was not alone now, nor did the little girl steal near on tiptoe, fearful of being heard. She was seated by his side, and his arm was round her, and she looked up into his face, and smiled as she whispered: “The first evening of our lives we were ever together was passed here: we will spend the first evening of our wedded life in the same quiet, happy place.” And he drew her closer to him as she spoke.

The summer is gone; and the autumn; and twenty more summers and autumns have passed away since that evening in the old church-yard.

A young man, on a bright moonlight night, comes reeling through the little white gate, and stumbling over the graves. He shouts and he sings and is presently followed by others like unto himself, or worse. So they all laugh at the dark solemn head of the yew tree, and throw stones up at the place where the moon has silvered the boughs.

Those same boughs are again silvered by the moon, and they droop over his mother's grave. There is a little stone which bears this inscription :-“HER HEART BRAKE IN SILENCE.”

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But the silence of the church-yard is now broken by a voice -not of the youth-nor a voice of laughter and ribaldry.

“Myson! dost thou see this grave? and dost thou read the record in anguish, whereof may come repentance ?"

"Of what should I repent ?" answers the son; “and why should my young ambition for fame relax in its strength because my mother was old and weak ?”

* Is this indeed our son ?" says the father, bending in agony over the grave of his beloved.

"I can well believe I am not;" exclaimeth the youth. “It is well that you have brought me here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our courses must be opposite. Your way Jieth here,-mine yonder!"

So the son left the father kneeling by the grave. Again a few years are pissed. It is winter, with a roaring wind and a thick gray fog. The graves in the church-yard are covered with snow, and there are great icicles in the church-porch. The wind now carries a swath of snow along the tops of the graves, as though the “sheeted dead" were at some melancholy play; and hark! the icicles fall with a crash and jingle, like a solemn mockery of the echo of the unseemly mirth of one who is now coming to his final rest.

There are two graves near the old yew tree; and the grass has overgrown them. A third is close by; and the dark earth at each side has just been tlırown up. The bearers come; with a heavy pace they move along; the coffin heaveth up and down, as they step over the intervening graves.

Grief and old age had seized upon the father, and worn out his life; and premature decay soon seized upon the son, and gnawed away his vain ambition, and his useless strength, till he prayed to be borne, not the way yondər that was most opposite to his father and his mother, but even the same way they had gone,-the way which lead in the old church-yard tree.

LITTLE BY LITTLE.

Little by little, sure and slow,
We fashion our future of bliss or woe,

As the present passes away
Our feet are climbing the stairway bright,
Up to the region of endless light,
Or gliding down ward into the night;

Little by little, and day by day.

CONEY ISLAND DOWN DER PAY.

HENRY FIRTH WOOD. Vonce I dook a trib to Coney,

Coney Island down der pay.
On der poat I eat some grullers

Vor to pass der dime avay;
Buu I tole you, dem same grullers

Dey vas so rich, dey vould not sthay;
So I lefd dem down to Coney,

Coney Island down der pay. Dhen I dook a schwim ad Coney,

I dook a bath vile I vas dhere; Und der first ding dot dey tole me,

Vas to jump und vet mine hair;
So I douk me py dose billows

Dot game ribbling ub dot vay,
Und said, " Id's nice to pe ad Coney,

Coney Island down der pay.”
Dey hafe nice bath-clothes down ad Coney,

Bud mine, dey would not fid at all; I heard a feller say pehind me,

Fids like der paber on der vall!" I dought me dot I'd dake a reef in,

Und tied a knot I dought vould sthay;
Den I dook a dive ad Coney,

Coney Island down der pay.
Maype you have schwimmed ad Coney,

Und knows yust how id vas yourself;
Ven I gum up-I dought I'd nefer-

I vanted to lay on a shelf.
Und my clothes-dey most forsook me;

Dey really, almost got avay,
Ven I vas oud of sight ad Coney,

Coney Island down der pay.
Do I dought me down ad Coney,

I dinks dot I hafe got enuff;
I don'd fancy dhem schmall vavelets

Ven dhey handle me so rough.
So I settled for my bath-clothes,

Der clothes dot almost vent asthray,

2FFITT*

Und said, “I could not schwim at Coney,

Coney Island down der pay.
Dhen I watched der folks ad Coney;

Dey dought dot I vas General Grant;
Dey said, “ Come ub, und have some dinner;"

Bud I had to say, “I can't.” For you see I vas unsettled ;

I couldn't gife der grub fair play;
Yust see vot I lost ad Coney,

Coney Island down der pay.
I set me on der sand ad Coney;

I vas not dinking of der sea,
Ven der vaves, dey dook a tumble,

Dey dook a tumble over me. Oh, I feld me like der misch

I didn't, I couldn't know vat to say.
Dhere I stood, vet through ad Coney,

Coney Island down der pay.
I said, “ I'fe got enuff of Coney,"

Und struck a bee line for der train;
Der peoples come out on der platform,

Und dhey all asked me—“Did it rain ?" Ad home, mine frau says, “ Vat's der matter

Jakey, vat makes you look dot vay?” I says, “Katrine, I'fe been to Coney,

Coney Island down der pay."

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