Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves,So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept. l'erchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns the hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. Lo! when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, With costly marble dressed, In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall, And the choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; On the deathless page truths half so sage And had he not high honor? And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave; And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave?— In that deep grave, without a name, Shall break again,—Oh wondrous thought!— And stand, with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, O lonely tomb in Moab's land! Ways that we can not tell; He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well. THE OCTOROON. [The first part of this selection I found in an old volume of poems, by Carleton-not the well-known Mr. Will Carleton-the latter part is my own composition. I have also taken the liberty to change the first part somewhat.-B. W. KING.] In the palmy days of slavery, A score of years ago, A dainty, dimpled, fair-haired boy- Strange home for child or mother! But she never dreamed or thought Of any shame or sorrow For the wrongs he might have wrought. "He plays 'seven-up' 'till midnight," Comes home and counts his gold." So she was always happy, Singing French, songs, sweet and wild, As the laughter of a child. Came a sound of troubled voices, Cold and lifeless! Phil was dead! Oh, to escape the heart-ache, And the dumb, bewildering pain, Yet, she watched with heart near breaking As they talked of debts of honor, Then! Ah, then, what was the meaning Quickened ear and comprehension Caught each careless tone and word; Knew too well the tricks of trade To doubt the fearful truth she heard. But when they so roughly told her : "There will be a sale to-morrow!" Her voice broke forth in piteous wail Of bitterness and sorrow: "O, I know Phil never meant For me and baby to be sold! Why, I'se been his little woman Since I'se only twelve years old! He won me from the Captain, Playing "seven-up" one night, And he's told me more'n a thousand times He's sure to make it right. "The Captain was my father, Captain Winslow, of Bellair, And you can't sell me and baby— you can't! You never dare! And those men, so used to suffering, And callous as they were, But "many a case was just as bad, Tried in vain to sleep that night, Well she knew she was a prisoner, That the house was thronged with men; Knew, too, that for years this placé |