same arm shelters each and all;
The shadow of the Curse and Fall
Alike impends. Ah! truly great,
Who strivest earnestly and late,
A single atom to abate,
Of helpless wo and misery.
For very often thou dost see
How sadly and how helplessly
A pleading face looks up to thee.
Therefore it is, thou canst not choose,
With petty tyranny to abuse
Thy higher gifts; and justly fear
The feeblest worm of earth or air,
In thy heart's judgment to condemn,
Since God made thee, and God made them.
DEATH: – AN INVOCATION
Thou art no king of terrors – sweet Death!
But a maiden young and fair;
Thine eyes are bright as the spring starlight,
And golden is thy hair;
While the smile that flickers thy lips upon
Has a light beyond compare.
Come then, Death, from the dark-brown shades
Where thou hast lingered long;
Come to the haunts where sins abound
And troubles thickly throng,
And lay thy bridal kiss on the lips
Of a child of sorrow and song.
For I can gaze with a rapture deep
Upon thy lovely face;
Many a smile I find therein,
Where another a frown would trace —
As a lover would clasp his new-made bride
I will take thee to my embrace.
Come, oh, come! I long for thy look;
I weary to win thy kiss —
Bear me away from a world of wo
To a world of quiet bliss —
For in that I may kneel to God alone,
Which I may not do in this.
For woman and wealth they woo pursuit,
And a winning voice has fame;
Men labor for love and work for wealth
And struggle to gain a name;
Yet find but fickleness, need and scorn,
If not the brand of shame.
Then carry me hence, sweet Death —my Death!
Must I woo thee still in vain?
Come at the morn or come at the eve,
Or come in the sun or rain;
But come – oh, come! for the loss of life
To me is the chiefest gain.
GOLD
Alas! my heart is sick when I behold
The deep engrossing interest of wealth,
How eagerly men sacrifice their health,
Love, honor, fame and truth for sordid gold;
Dealing in sin, and wrong, and tears, and strife,
Their only aim and business in life
To gain and heap together shining store; —
Alchemists, mad as e'er were those of yore.
Transmuting every thing to glittering dross,
Wasting their energies o'er magic scrolls,
Day-books and ledgers leaden, gain and loss —
Casting the holiest feelings of their souls
High hopes, and aspirations, and desires,
Beneath their crucibles to feed th' accursed fires!
FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION
There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris' streets were in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had taken possession, at an early hour of the day, of all the environs of the Bastile, and lined the way which led thence to the Place de Greve in solid and almost impenetrable masses.
People of all conditions were there, except the very highest; but the great majority of the concourse was composed of the low populace, and the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of women were there, too, from the girl of sixteen to the beldam of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed to bring their infants in their arms into that loud and tumultuous assemblage.
Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, unless they are convened by purposes too resolutely dark and solemn to find any vent in noise. When that is the case, let rulers beware, for peril is at hand – perhaps the beginning of the end.
But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it had learned the use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and sometimes even violent in the demonstrations of its impatience, was any thing but angry or excited.
On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleasurable expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions to notre bon roi, which circulated among the better order of spectators, it would appear that the government of the Fifteenth Louis was for the moment in unusually good odor with the good folks of the metropolis.
What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward with so much glee – which had brought forth young delicate girls, and tender mothers, into the streets at so early an hour – which, as the day advanced toward ten o'clock of the morning, was tempting forth laced cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats, and here and there, in the cumbrous carriages of the day, the proud and luxurious ladies of the gay metropolis?
One glance toward the centre of the Place de Greve was sufficient to inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, horrible, a tall stout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a huge wheel affixed horizontally to the summit.
Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaffold hung with black cloth, and strewed with saw-dust, for the convenience of the executioners, about three feet lower than the wheel which surmounted it.
Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two companies of the French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing outwards, with muskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they apprehended an attempt at rescue, although from the demeanor of the people nothing appeared at that time to be further from their thoughts than any thing of the kind.
Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent-looking assistants, making preparations for the fearful operation they were about to perform, or leaning indolently on the instruments of slaughter.
By and bye, as the day wore onward, and the concourse kept still increasing both in numbers and in the respectability of those who composed it, something of irritation began to show itself, mingled with the eagerness and expectation of the populace, and from some murmurs, which ran from time to time through their ranks, it would seem that they apprehended the escape of their victim.
By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked the precincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble blood has been shed through so many ages, were occupied by persons of both sexes, all of the middle, and some even of the upper classes, as eager to behold the frightful and disgusting scene, which was about to ensue, as the mere rabble in the open streets below.
The same