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And he pointed to the laden board and to the

Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, “Will Gretchen

come with me?" The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her

eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her

dead mother's hymn : And she folded both her thin white hands and

turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, “With thee,

with thee, O Lord !” The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull

skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where

Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garments, with her back

against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered

as they said, “ It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen

dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more

redeemed from sin ; Men said, “It was a bitter night; would no one

let her in ?" And they shivered as they spoke of her, and

sighed. They could not see How much of happiness there was after that

misery.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful ;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers, –
One of Eve's family, -
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tressés
Escaped from the comb, -
Her fair auburn tresses, –
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other ?

ANONYMOUS.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
"Drowned i drowned 1" – HAMLET.
ONE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death !
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care !
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!
Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly, —
Not of the stains of her ;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful !
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed, —
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence ;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river, .
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver ;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river ;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled --
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world !
In she plunged boldly,-
No matter how coldly

The rough river ran -
Over the brink of it!
Picture it, – think of it !
Dissolute man !
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care !
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them ;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest!
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast !
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour !

THOMAS HOOD.

| It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ;
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around.
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.
How the wild crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, -
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye.

Ringing,
Swinging,

Dashing they go
Over the crest of the beautiful snow :
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by ;
To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet
Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street.

Once I was pure as the snow, — but I fell :
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven — to hell :
Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street :
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat.

Pleading,
Cursing,

Dreading to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating the living and fearing the dead.
Merciful God! have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like this beautiful snow !

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow;
Once I was loved for my innocent grace, —
Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.

Father,
Mother,

Sisters all,
God, and myself I have lost by my fall.
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh;
For of all that is on or about me, I know
There is nothing that's pure but the beautifulsnow.

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.
O THE snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below!
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,

Dancing,
Flirting,

Skimming along.
Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong.
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek;
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak.
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel and fickle as love!
O the snow, the beautiful snow!
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go !
Whirling about in its maddening fun,
It plays in its glee with every one. .

Chasing,
Laughing,

Hurrying by,..

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go !
How strange it would be, when the night comes

again, If the snow and the ice struck my'desperate brain !

Fainting,
Freezing,

Dying alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town,
Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down ;
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!

JAMES W. WATSON.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.
TREAD softly, — bow the head, -

In reverent silence bow,-
No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

| Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can:

Rattle his bones over the stones !

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and

din ! The whip, howitcracks! and the wheels, how they

spin!

Stranger ! however great,

With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed -
One by that paltry bed —

Greater than thou.

How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is

hurled !-
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!

Rattle his bones over the stones /
He's only a pauper whom nobody ovons !

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state.
Enter, no crowds attend ;
Enter, no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,

No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands

A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,

An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed, - again
That short deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.

Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach !
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast:

Rattle his bones over the stones !

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns !
You bumpkins! who stare at your brother con-

veyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid !
And be joyful to think, when by death you're

laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!

Rattle his bones over the stones !

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns !
But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend !

Bear soft his bones over the stones !
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet
owns /

THOMAS NOEL.

O change ! O wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars, –
This moment there so low,
So agonized, and now

Beyond the stars.

O change ! stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod ;
The sun eternal breaks,
The new immortal wakes,

Wakes with his God.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE PAUPER’S DRIVE.

THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round

trot, —
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ;]
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings :

Rattle his bones over the stones !
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns /

Is there for honest poverty

Wha langs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by ;

We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that ;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, -

The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, -

A man 's a man for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that ;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

0, where are the mourners ? Alas! there are none; He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,

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It is a weary interlude,
Which doth short joys, long woes include ;
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hopes and varied fears ;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but death.

HENRY KING

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April flowers,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
An honor that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name, -
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

THE END OF THE PLAY. The play is done, — the curtain drops,

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ;

And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask,

A face that's anything but gay.

THE DIRGE.

What is the existence of man's life
But open war, or slumbered strife ?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements ;
And never feels a perfect peace,
Till death's cold hand signs his release.

One word, ere yet the evening ends, —

Let's close it with a parting rhyme ; And pledge a hand to all young friends,

As fits the merry Christmas time; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts

That fate erelong shall bid you play ; Good night !--- with honest, gentle hearts

A kindly greeting go alway!

Good night !- I'd say the griefs, the joys,'

Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys,

Are but repeated in our age ;

It is a storm where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood;

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