186 OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. OVER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudging my weary way— I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, Over the hill to the poor-house-I can't make it quite clear! But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day, To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; Once I was young and han'some-I was, upon my soul- 'Taint no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, And so we worked together: and life was hard but gay, OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 187 Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one; Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!— Strange, another thing; when our boys an' girls was grown, Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall—- She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile— She had an edication, an' that was good for her; So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done- And a very little cottage for one family will do, But I have never seen a house that was big enough for two. An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try: 188 FADED FLOWER AND WITHERED LEAF. But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; And what with her husband's sisters, and what with childr'n three, "Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, But all the childr'n was on me-I couldn't stand their sauce- An' then I wrote to Rebecca,-my girl who lives out West, So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about- FADED FLOWER AND WITHERED LEAF. THE evening breeze was sighing, an autumn day was dying, The yellow leaves were lying strewn before the cottage door; An old man was reclining, where childhood sat, entwining WATER. He soon again unstrung them,-a faded flower among them He cull'd, then careless flung them, all scattered, at his feet: Then in his father's bosom, this fondly cherish'd blossom 189 The dying rose plac'd gently—its fragrancy was sweet. The leaves were wafted by them, the river murmur'd nigh them, The pale cheek of his darling the father's tear receives, Two roses fade and wither, like beauteous twins togetherThe old man's days are passing, like the wreath of wither'd leaves. And while his child embracing, the dying flower caressing, His memory, retracing the path he once had trod, The fount of youth unsealing, its joyous haunts revealing, He saw the wither'd leaves of life, and rais'd his eyes to God. The murmur from the wildwood, as from the bowers of childhood, With the river rolling dreamily, a sadden'd vision weaves; Eternity before him, the future rises o'er him, A green and happy Eden, from the wreath of wither'd leaves. Another autumn dying, the evening breeze is sighing, The yellow leaves are lying strewn above a new-made grave; Eve's solemn shades are closing o'er age and youth, reposing In the stillness of the mystery which tries the heart most brave. A fading flower above them, by one who fondly loved them Is set to dress the grassy spot, which fragrant dews receives; And peacefully together they sleep, the child and father, Beneath their types-the Faded Flower and wreath of Withered Leaves. "THERE!" WATER.-JUDGE ARRINGTON. HERE!" he repeated, with a look terrible as lightning, while his enemy actually trembled at his feet; "there is the liquor which God, the Eternal, brews for all His children. Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life--pure, cold water; but in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it; and down, low down in the deepest 190 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. valleys, where the fountain murmurs and the rills sing; and high upon the mountain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunderstorms crash; and far out on the wide, wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big wave rolls the chorus, sweeping the march of God—there He brews it, that beverage of life-healthgiving water. "And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty—gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the icegem, till the trees all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in the glacier; folding its bright snowcurtain softly about the wintry world; and weaving the manycolored bow, that seraph's zone of the sky-whose warp is the rain-drops of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of rarefaction. No "Still always it is beautiful-that blessed life-water! poisonous bubbles are on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep not burning tears in its depths; no drunkard's shrieking ghost, from the grave, curses it in words of eternal despair! Speak out, my friends: would you exchange it for the demon's drink, ALCOHOL?" A shout, like the roar of a tempest, answered, "No!" THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-THOMAS HOOD. NE more Unfortunate, ON Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care;- |