THE BLIND BOY.
Oh, mother, is it spring once more—
The same bright laughing spring
That used to come in days of yore
With glad and welcome wing?
And is the infant primrose born,
And peerless daisy child
Beneath the bowed and budding thorn,
All beautiful and wild?
And does the sky break out as blue
Between the April show’rs,
And smilingly impart its hue
To her young vi’let flow’rs?
And is the sun, the blessed sun,
As dazzling in his might,
As glorious now to look upon,
As when I loved his light?
As when, with clear and happy eye,
Beneath that light I strayed,
Or in the noonday brilliancy
Sought out some cooling shade?
And when the spring flow’rs drop away,
Will summer days come fast,
All rich with bloom—oh, mother, say!—
As when I saw them last?
Will merry children gambol o’er
The meads, or by the brooks—
Seek out the wild bee’s honey store
In some deep grassy nook?
Or where the sparkling waters flow
Go wand’ring far away,
To cull the tallest reeds that grow,
And weave them all the day?
And will they climb the tall old trees,
And at the topmost height
Find birds of beauty, such as these
That charm my long, long night?
Or ranging o’er the wild morass
Pluck the fair bog-down’s head?
Or o’er the long and slender grass
String berries ripe and red?
They will!—but I shall not be there:
For me, oh! never more
Shall spring put forth her blossoms fair,
Or summer shed her store!
Yet think not, mother, if I weep,
’Tis for the seasons’ gleam;
Or if I gladden in my sleep,
’Tis of such things I dream.
No, mother, no?—’tis that thy cheek,
Thy smile of tender joy,
Thine eye of light, that used to speak
Such fondness to thy boy—
It is the thought that that dear face—
Oh, bitter, bitter pain!—
Is blotted out through time and space
For ever from my brain!
My mother, darling, lay my head
Upon thy own lov’d breast,
And let thy voice low music shed
To lull thy child to rest;
And press thy soft and dewy kiss
Upon his beating brow,
And let him feel, or fancy bliss—
’Tis all that’s left him now.
What though the noonday’s sunny prime
Can yield unnumbered charms,
Give me the silent midnight time
That lays me in thy arms.
For there I dream of joy and light,
The things I once could prize,
Ere darkness threw its dreary blight
Upon my glad young eyes.
And in the same bright dreamy thought,
I gaze upon once more
My mother’s face, with feeling fraught
E’en deeper than of yore.
Yet do not weep, my mother dear,
Thy love is more than light—
Thy soothing hand, thy tender tear,
More blessed e’en than sight!
And while that hand is clasped in mine,
My fault’ring steps to guide,
I will not murmur or repine,
Or grieve for aught beside.
But, mother, when I soar away,
From life’s drear darkness free,
Oh! shall I not through heaven’s long day
Live gazing upon thee!
W. C. L.
THE REAL “TEMPERANCE CORDIAL.”
BY MRS S. C. HALL.
“Well,” said Andrew Furlong to James Lacey, “well! that ginger cordial, of all the things I ever tasted, is the nicest and warmest. It’s beautiful stuff; and so cheap.”
“What good does it do ye, Andrew? and what want have you of it?” inquired James Lacey.
“What good does it do me!” repeated Andrew, rubbing his forehead in a manner that showed he was perplexed by the question; “why, no great good, to be sure; and I can’t say I’ve any want of it; for since I became a member of the ‘Total Abstinence Society,’ I’ve lost the megrim in my head and the weakness I used to have about my heart. I’m as strong and hearty in myself as any one can be, God be praised! And sure, James, neither of us could turn out in such a coat as this, this time twelvemonth.”
“And that’s true,” replied James; “but we must remember that if leaving off whisky enables us to show a good habit, taking to ‘ginger cordial,’ or any thing of that kind, will soon wear a hole in it.”
“You are always fond of your fun.” replied Andrew. “How can you prove that?”
“Easy enough,” said James. “Intoxication was the worst part of a whisky-drinking habit; but it was not the only bad part. It spent TIME, and it spent what well-managed time always gives, MONEY. Now, though they do say—mind, I’m not quite sure about it, for they may put things in it they don’t own to, and your eyes look brighter, and your cheek more flushed than if you had been drinking nothing stronger than milk or water—but they do say that ginger cordials, and all kinds of cordials, do not intoxicate. I will grant this; but you cannot deny that they waste both time and money.”
“Oh, bother!” exclaimed Andrew. “I only went with two or three other boys to have a glass, and I don’t think we spent more than half an hour—not three quarters, certainly; and there’s no great harm in laying out a penny or twopence that way, now and again.”
“Half an hour even, breaks a day,” said James, “and what is worse, it unsettles the mind for work; and we ought to be very careful of any return to the old habit, that has destroyed many of us, body and soul, and made the name of an Irishman a by-word and a reproach, instead of a glory and an honour. A penny, Andrew, breaks the silver shilling into coppers; and twopence will buy half a stone of potatoes—that’s a consideration. If we don’t manage to keep things comfortable at home, the women won’t have the heart to mend the coat. Not,” added James with a sly smile, “that I can deny having taken to TEMPERANCE CORDIALS myself.”
“You!” shouted Andrew, “you, and a pretty fellow you are to be blaming me, and then forced to confess you have taken to them yourself. But I suppose they’ll wear no hole in your coat? Oh, to be sure not, you are such a good manager!”
“Indeed,” answered James, “I was anything but a good manager eighteen months ago: as you well know, I was in rags, never at my work of a Monday, and seldom on Tuesday. My poor wife, my gentle patient Mary, often bore hard words; and though she will not own it, I fear still harder blows, when I had driven away my senses. My children were pale, half-starved, naked creatures, disputing a potato with the pig my wife tried to keep to pay the rent, well knowing I would never do it. Now——”
“But the cordial, my boy!” interrupted Andrew, “the cordial!—sure I believe every word of what you’ve been telling me is as true as gospel; ain’t there hundreds, ay, thousands, at this moment on Ireland’s blessed ground, that can tell the same story. But the cordial! and to think of your never owning it before: is it ginger, or anniseed, or peppermint?”
“None of these—and yet it’s the rale thing, my boy.”
“Well, then,” persisted Andrew, “let’s have a drop of it; you’re not going, I’m sure, to drink by yerself—and as I’ve broke the afternoon”——
A very heavy shadow passed over James’s face, for he saw that there must have been something hotter than even ginger in the “temperance cordial,” as it is falsely called, that Andrew had taken, or else he would have endeavoured to redeem lost time, not to waste more; and he thought how much better the REAL temperance cordial was, that, instead of exciting the brain, only warms the heart.
“No,” he replied after a pause, “I must go and finish what I was about; but this evening at seven o’clock meet me at the end of our lane, and then I’ll be very happy of your company.”
Andrew was sorely puzzled to discover what James’s cordial could be, and was forced to confess to himself that he hoped it would be different from what he had taken that afternoon, which certainly had made him feel confused and inactive.
At the appointed hour the friends met in the lane.
“Which way do we go?” inquired Andrew.
“Home,” was James’s brief reply.
“Oh, you take it at home?” said Andrew.
“I make it at home,” answered James.
“Well,” observed Andrew, “that’s very good of the woman that owns ye. Now, mine takes on so about a drop of any thing, that she’s as hard almost on the cordials as she used to be on the whisky.”
“My Mary helps to make mine,” observed James.
“And do you bottle it or keep it on draught?” inquired Andrew, very much interested in the “cordial” question.
James laughed very heartily at this, and answered,
“Oh, I keep mine on draught—always on draught; there’s nothing like having plenty of a good thing, so I keep mine always on draught;” and then James laughed again, and so heartily, that Andrew thought surely his real temperance cordial must contain something quite as strong as what he had blamed him for taking.
James’s cottage door was open, and as they approached it they saw a good deal of what was going forward within. A square table, placed in the centre of the little kitchen, was covered by a clean white cloth—knives, forks, and plates for the whole family, were ranged upon it in excellent order; the hearth had been swept, the house was clean, the children rosy, well dressed, and all doing something. “Mary,” whom her husband had characterised as “the patient,” was busy and bustling, in the very act of adding to the coffee, which was steaming on the table, the substantial accompaniments of fried eggs and bacon, with a large dish of potatoes. When the children saw their father, they ran to meet him with a great shout, and clung around to tell him all they had done that day. The eldest girl declared she had achieved the heel of a stocking; one boy wanted his father to come and see how straight he had planted the cabbages; while another avowed his proficiency in addition, and volunteered to do a sum instanter upon a slate which he had just cleaned. Happiness in a cottage seems always more real than it does in a gorgeous palace. It is not wasted in large rooms—it is concentrated—a great deal of love in a small space—a great, great deal of joy and hope within narrow walls, and compressed, as it were, by a low roof. Is it not a blessed thing that the most moderate means become enlarged by the affections?—that the love of a peasant within his sphere, is as deep, as fervent, as true, as lasting, as sweet, as the love of a prince?—that all our best and purest affections will grow and expand in the poorest worldly soil?—and that we need not be rich to be happy? James felt all this and more when he entered his cottage, and was thankful to God who had opened his eyes, and taught him what a number of this world’s gifts, that were within even his humble reach, might be enjoyed without sin. He stood—a poor but happy father within the sacred temple of his home; and Andrew had the warm heart of an Irishman beating in his bosom, and consequently shared his joy.
“I told you,” said James, “I had the true temperance cordial at home—do you not see it in the simple prosperity by which, owing to the blessings of temperance, I am surrounded?—do you not see it in the rosy cheeks of my children, in the smiling eyes of my wife—did I not tell truly that she helped to make it? Is not this a true cordial,” he continued, while his own eyes glistened with manly tears, “is not the prosperity of this cottage a true temperance cordial?—and is it not always on draught, flowing from an ever-filling fountain? Am I not right, Andrew; and will you not forthwith take my receipt, and make it for yourself? You will never wish for any other: it is warmer than ginger, and sweeter than anniseed. I am sure you will agree with me that a loving wife, in the enjoyment of the humble comforts which an industrious sober husband can bestow, smiling, healthy, well-clad children, and a clean cabin, where the fear of God banishes all other fears, make
THE TRUE TEMPERANCE CORDIAL!”