The farmer went back to the field, and the wife,
In a smiling and absent way Sang snatches of tender little songs,
She'd not sung for many a day.
And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;
Her bread was light and her butter was sweet,
And as golden as it could be.
"Just think," the children all called in a breath, "Tom Wood has run off to sea!
He would n't, I know, if he only had
As happy a home as we."
The night came down, and the good wife smiled
To herself as she softly said:
"'T is so sweet to labor for those we love, It's not strange that maids will wed!"
OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?
[The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln, and which he was accustomed occasionally to repeat. Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in painting his picture at the White House, he was alone one evening with the President in his room, when he said: "There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterwards saw and cut from a newspaper and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain." He then repeated the poem, and on a subsequent occasion Mr. Carpenter wrote it down from Mr. Lincoln's own lips. The poem was published more than thirty years ago, was then stated to be of Jewish origin and composition, and we think was credited to "Songs of Israel."]
H, how the silent memories of years,
Are stirring in my spirit. I have been
A lone and joyless wanderer. I have roamed
Abroad through other climes, where tropic flowers
Were offering up their incense, and the stars
Swimming like living creatures; I have strayed
Where the softest skies of Italy were hung,
In beautiful transparency, above,
And glory floating, like a lovely dream,
Over the rich landscape; yet dear fancy still,
'Mid all the ruder glow of brighter realms,
Oft turned to picture the remembered home,
That blest its earliest day-dreams. Must I go
Forth into the world again? I've proved its joys,
Till joy was turned to bitterness - I've felt
Its sorrows, till I thought my heart would burst
With the fierce rush of tears! The sorrowing babe
Clings to its mother's breast. The bleeding dove
Flies to her native vale, and nestles there,
To die amid the quiet grove, where first
She tried her tender pinion. I could love
Thus to repose, amid these peaceful scenes
To memory dear. Oh, it were passing sweet,
To rest forever on the spot,
Where passed my days of innocence - to dream
Of the pure streams of infant happiness,
Sunk in life's burning sands to dwell
On visions faded, till my broken heart
Should cease to throb — to purify my soul
With high and holy musings — and to lift
Its aspirations to the central home
Of love, peace, and holiness in Heaven.
H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne ;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
As for Susan, her heart was kind
An' good-what there was of it, mind;
Nothin' too big an' nothin' too nice,
Nothin' she would n't sacrifice
For one she loved; an' that 'ere one
Was herself, when all was said an' done.
An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt,
But any one could pull 'em about.
An' all our folks ranked well, you see,
Save one poor fellow, and that was me
An' when, one dark an' rainy night,
A neighbor's horse went out of sight,
They hitched on me as the guilty chap
That carried one end o' the halter-strap.
An' I think, myself, that view of the case
Was n't altogether out o' place;
My mother denied it, as mothers do,
But I'm inclined to believe 't was true.
Though for me one thing might be said -
That I, as well as the horse, was led ;
And the worst of whisky spurred me on,
Or else the deed would have never been done.
But the keenest grief I ever felt,
Was when my mother beside me knelt,
An' cried an' prayed till I melted down,
As I would n't for half the horses in town.
I kissed her fondly, then and there,
An' swore henceforth to be honest and square.
I served my sentence - a bitter pill
Some fellows should take, who never will;
And then I decided to go out West,"
Concludin' 't would suit my health the best;
Where, how I prospered, I never could tell,
But Fortune seemed to like me well,
An' somehow, every vein I struck
Was always bubblin' over with luck;
An' better than that, I was steady an' true,
An' put my good resolutions through.
But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, "You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead,
And held back neither work nor gold,
To fix it up as it was of old;
The same big fire-place, wide and high,
Flung up its cinders toward the sky;
The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf-
I wound it an' set it a-goin' myself;
An', if everything was n't quite the same,
Neither I nor Manly was to blame;
Then -
-over the Hill to the poor house!
One bloomin', blusterin' winter's day,
With a team an' cutter I started away;
My fiery nags was as black as coal;
(They some'at resembled the horse I stole ;)
I hitched an' entered the poor house door-
A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor;
She rose to her feet in great surprise
And looked, quite startled, into my eyes;
I saw the whole of her trouble's trace,
In the lines that marred her dear old face;
"Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows are done!
You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son.
Come over the hill from the poor house!"
She did n't faint; she knelt by my side,
An' thanked the Lord till I fairly cried.
An' maybe our ride was n't pleasant and gay,
An' maybe she was n't wrapped up that day;
An' maybe our cottage was n't warm and bright;
An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight,
To see her agettin' the evenin's tea,
An' frequently stoppin' and kissin' me ;
An' maybe we didn't live happy for years,
In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers,
Who often said, as I have heard,
That they would n't own a prison bird
(Though they're gettin' over that, I guess,
For all of them owe me more or less ;)
But I've learned one thing, and it cheers a man
In always a-doin' the best he can :
That whether, on the big book, a blot
Gets over a fellow's name or not,
Whenever he does a deed that's white
It's credited to him fair and right.
An' when you hear the great bugle's notes,
An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats;
However they may settle my case,
Wherever they may fix my place,
My good old Christian mother, you'll see,
Will be sure to stand right up for me.
So over the hill from the poor house!
́HEN the starry vapors gather over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears,
'T is a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.
Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreary fancies into busy being start;
And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into
woof,
As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.
There in fancy, comes my mother, as she used to years
To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn. I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed cherub brother - a serene, angelic pair,
Glide around my wakeful pillow, with their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue.
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue;
I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.
There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell,
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, where the holy passions swell,
As that melody of nature,—that subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.
VER the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see; Over the river, over the river,
My brother stands waiting to welcome me. Over the river, the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be,
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river, and hill, and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.
I shall know the loved, who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.
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