THE CIRCUIT PREACHER.

407

"Aggressive with the zeal of youth, in many a warm requite
I terrified Immersionists, and scourged the Millerite;
But larger, tenderer charities such vain debates supplant,
When the dear wife, saved by my zeal, loved the Itinerant.

"No cooing dove of storms afeard, she shared my life's distress,

A singing Miriam alway, in God's poor wilderness:

The wretched at her footstep smiled, the frivolous were still; A bright path marked her pilgrimage, from Blackbird to Snow hill.

“A new face in the parsonage, at church a double pride!· Like the Madonna and her babe they filled the 'Amen side.' Crouched at my feet in the old gig, my boy, so fair and frank, Nascongo's darkest marshes cheered, and sluices of Choptank.

"My cloth drew close; too fruitful love my fruitless life out

ran;

The townfolk marveled, when we moved, at such a caravan! I wonder not my lads grew wild, when, bright, without the

door

Spread the ripe, luring, wanton world, and we within so poor!

"For down the silent cypress aisles came shapes even me to

scout,

Mocking the lean flanks of my mare, my boy's patched roundabout,

And saying: Have these starveling boors, thy congregation,

souls,

That on their dull heads Heaven and thou pour forth such living coals?'

"Then prayer brought hopes, half secular, like seers by Endor's witch:

Beyond our barren Maryland God's folks were wise and rich; Where climbing spires and easy pews showed how the

preacher thrived,

And all old brethren paid their rents, and many young ones wived!

"I saw the ships Henlopen pass with chaplains fat and sleek; From Bishopshead with fancy's sails I crossed the Chesapeake;

In velvet pulpits of the North said my best sermons o'er,— And that on Paul to Patmos driven drew tears in Baltimore.

"Well! well! my brethren, it is true we should not preach for pelf,

(I would my sermon on St. Paul the Bishop heard himself!) But this crushed wife, - these boys, — these hairs; they cut me to the core;

Is it not hard, year after year, to ride the Eastern Shore?

"Next year? Yes! yes! I thank you much! then my reward may fall.

(That is a downright fine discourse on Patmos and St. Paul!) So, Brother Riggs, once more my voice shall ring in the old

lists,

Cheer up, sick heart, who would not die among these Methodists?"

GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND.

The Song of the Shirt.

W

ITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,

Stitch stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

And work

work

work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's, oh, to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"O men with sisters dear!

O men with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you 're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch — stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt!

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

My labor never flags ;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

VOL. III.

A crust of bread — and rags,

18

409

That shattered roof - - and this naked floor-
A table -a broken chair

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work - work
From weary chime to chime!
Work-work - work

As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work — work

In the dull December light!

And work-work - work

When the weather is warm and bright!
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh, but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, -
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet!
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want

And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour,

A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,

But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!"

Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still in a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the rich!

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

411

THOMAS HOOD.

'TW

The Song of Rorek.

WAS on the night of Michaelmas that lordly Orloff's heir

Wed with the noble Russian maid, Dimitry's daughter fair.

With mirth and song, and love and wine, that was a royal

day;

The banners streamed, the halls were hung in black and gold

array.

The Twelve Apostles stood in brass, each with a flambeau bright,

To blaze with holy altar sheen throughout the festive night.

The rings were changed, the tabor rolled, the Kyrie was said; The boyard father drew his sword, and pierced the loaf of bread.

Soon as the priest did drain his cup, and put his pipe aside, He wiped his lip upon his sleeve, and kissed the blushing bride.

That very night to Novgorod must hasten bride and heir, And Count Dimitry bid them well with robe and bell prepare.