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A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.-A. A. PROCTOR.
Girt roun 2 with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance
lies; In her blue heart reflected, shine back the starry skies; And watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow, You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below! Midnight is there: and silence enthroned in heaven, looks
down Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town: For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand years and more. Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadows for ages on the deep; Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know, of how the town was saved one night, three hundred years
ago. Par from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread; And every year that fleeted so silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past. She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change; Her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed
no more strange; And when she led her cattle to pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay. She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears; Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years; She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war or strife; Each day she rose contented, to the calm toils of life. Yet, when her master's children would clustering round her
stand, She sang them the old ballads of her own native land; And when at morn and evening she knelt before God's
throne, The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. And so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed
near. The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down
The men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the
ground; With anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round; All talk of fax, or spinning, or work, was put away; The very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. One day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town, Some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down. Yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain
gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the
stream, At eve they all assembled, all care and doubt were fled; With jovial laugh they feasted, the board was nobly spread. The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, “We drink the downfall of an accursed land! "The right is growing darker, ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our The women shrank in terror, (yet pride, too, had her part,) But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more her towers arose; What were the friends beside her? Only her country's foes! The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown, The echoes of her mountains reclaimed her as their own! Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth
again, Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pasture, and the
plain; Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry, That said,“ Go forth, save Bregenz, and then if need be, die!" With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step
she sped; Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed; She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her
hand, She mounted and she turned his head toward her native land. Out-out into the darkness— faster, and still more fast ; The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is
passed; She looks up; clouds are heavy: Why is her steed so slow ?-Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass them as they go. “Faster!" she cries, “Oh, faster!" Eleven the church-bells
chime; "O God," she cries, “help Bregenz, and bring me there in
But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine,
tower, The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour : Nine," "ten,” “ eleven," he cries aloud, and then (0 crown
of fame!) When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's
CHARLES SUMNER.-CARL SCHURZ.
There was in Charles Sumner, as a public man, a peculiar power of fascination. It acted much through his eloqnence, but not through his eloquence alone. There was still another source from which that fascination sprang. Behind all he said and did there stood a grand manhood, which never failed to make itself felt. What a figure he was, with his tall and stalwart frame, his manly face, topped with his shaggy locks, his noble bearing, the finest type of American senatorship, the tallest oak of the forest !
And how small they appeared by his side, the common fun of politicians, who spend their days with the laying of pipe, and the setting up of pins, and the pulling of wires; who barter an office to secure this vote, and procure a contract to get that; who stand always with their ears to the wind to hear how the Administration sneezes, and what their constituents whisper, in mortal trepidation lest they fail in being all things to everybody!
How he stood among them! he whose very presence made you forget the vulgarities of political life, who dared to differ with any man ever so powerful, any multitude ever so numerous; who regarded party as nothing but a means for higher ends, and for those ends defied its power; to whom the arts of demagogism were so contemptible that he would rather have sunk into obscurity and oblivion than descend to them; to whom the dignity of his office was so sacred that he would not even ask for it for fear of darkening its lustre!
Honor to the people of Massachusetts, who, for twentythree years, kept in the Senate, and would have kept him there never so long, had he lived, a man who never, even to them, conceded a single iota of his convictions in order to remain there.
And what a life was lis! a life so wholly devoted to what was good and noble! There he stood in the midst of the grasping materialism of our times, around him the eager chase for the almighty dollar, no thought of opportunity ever entering the smallest corner of his mind, and disturbing his high endeavors; with a virtue which the possession of power could not even tempt, much less debauch ; from whose presence the very thought of corruption instinctively shrank back; a life so unspotted, an integrity so intact, a character so high, that the most daring eagerness of calumny, the most wanton audacity of insinuation, standing on tiptoe, could not touch the soles of his shoes
They say that he indulged in overweening self-appreciation. Ay, he did have a magnificent pride, a lofty selfesteem. Why should he not? Let wretches despise themselves, for they have good reason to do so; not he. But in his self-esteem there was nothing small and mean; no man
lived io whose very nature envy and petty joalousy were more foreign. His pride of self was like his pride of country. He was the proudest American; he was the proudest New Englander; and yet he was the most cosmopolitan American we have ever seen.
He is at rest now, the stalwart, brave old champion, whose face and bearing were so austere, and whose heart was so full of tenderness; who began his career with a pathetic plea for universal peace and charity, and whose whole life was an arduous, incessant, never-resting struggle, which left him all covered with scars. And we can do nothing for him but remember his lofty ideals of liberty, and equality, and justice, and reconciliation, and purity, and the earnestness, and courage, and touching fidelity with which he fought for them-so genuine in his sincerity, so singleminded in his zeal, so heroic in his devotion.
People of Massachusetts ! He was the son of your soil, in which he now sleeps; but he is not all your own. He belongs to all of us in the North and in the South-to the blacks he helped to make free, and to the whites he strove to make brothers again. Over the grave of him whom so many thought to be their enemy, and found to be their friend, let the hands be clasped which so bitterly warred against each other. Let the youth of America be taught, by the story of his life, that not only genius, power, and success, but more than these, patriotic devotion and virtue, make the greatness of the citizen. If this lesson be understood, more than Charles Sumner's living word could have done for the glory of America, will be done by the inspiration of his great example. And it will truly be said, that although his body lies moldering in the earth, yet in the assured rights of all, in the brotherhood of a reunited people, and in a purified Republic, he still lives, and will live forever.
“I'm after axin', Biddy dear—"
And here he paused awhile
With something of a smile