MY WIFE AND CHILD. BY GEN. HENRY R. JACKSON. THE tattoo beats-the lights are gone, I think of thee, O darling one, Whose love my early life hath blestOf thee and him-our baby sonWho slumbers on thy gentle breast. God of the tender, frail and lone, Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest. And hover gently, hover near To her whose watchful eye is wet— To mother, wife-the doubly dear, In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love so deep and clear, And cheer her drooping spirits yet. Now, while she kneels before Thy throne, That thou canst stay the ruthless hands The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; That from the distant sea or land Thou bring'st the wanderer home again. And when upon her pillow lone Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon The brightening current of her breast, No frowning look nor angry tone Disturb the Sabbath of her rest. Whatever fate these forms may show, Loved with a passion almost wild, By day, by night, in joy or woe, By fears oppressed or hopes beguiled, O God, protect my wife and child! THE DYING HEBREW. BY KIMBIE. The following poem, a favorite with the late Mr. Edwin Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first published in Boston in 1858. A HEBREW knelt in the dying light, His eye was dim and cold; The hairs on his brow were silver white, And his blood was thin and old! He lifted his look to his latest sun, For he knew that his pilgrimage was done; And as he saw God's shadow there, His spirit poured itself in prayer! "I come unto Death's second birth A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth, As all my fathers were! And men have stamped me with a curse, I feel it is not Thine; Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made "And therefore dare I lift mine eye Oh, take my latest sacrifice Look down and make this sod "I have not caused the widow's tears, The songs of Zion in mine ear Have ever been most sweet, I have known Thee in the whirlwind, I dreamt Thee in the shadow, I blessed Thee in the radiant day, "I have not felt myself a thing, Shut off from Thee and heaven. But I will not take my curse from man- Oh, bid my fainting spirit live, And what is dark reveal, And what is evil, oh, forgive, And what is broken heal. And cleanse my nature from above, "I know not if the Christian's heaven Shall be the same as mine; I only ask to be forgiven, And taken home to Thine. I weary on a far, dim strand, Whose mansions are as tombs, And long to find the Fatherland, Where there are many homes. Oh, grant, of all yon starry thrones, Some dim and distant star, Where Judah's lost and scattered sons May love Thee from afar. Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet In choral praise and prayer, Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet, Alone be wanting there? Yet place me in Thy lowest seat, Though I, as now, be there, The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest;. From some dim mansion in the sky, The vision of a dark-eyed girl, (Oh, say they not that angels tread His child-his sweet and sinless child And as he gazed on her He knew his God was reconciled, And this the messenger, As sure as God had hung on high The promise bow before his eye Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung, To point his heavenward faith, And life's most holy feeling strung To sing him into death; And on his daughter's stainless breast A SOCIABLE! ANONYMOUS. THEY carried pie to the parson's house, And scattered the floor with crumbs, And marked the leaves of his choicest books With the prints of their greasy thumbs. They piled his dishes high and thick With a lot of unhealthy cake, While they gobbled the buttered toast and rolls Which the parson's wife did make. They hung around Clytie's classic neck Their apple-parings for sport, And every one laughed when a clumsy lout Next day the parson went down on his knees, O no; 'twas to scrape the grease and dirt HERVÉ RIEL. BY ROBERT BROWNING. On the sea and at the Hogue sixteen hundred ninety-two, 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick-or, quicker still, Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they; "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable' here, with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at fall beside? Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring. Rather say, |