The little grave shall be opened by and by. The night is dark, but there is a flush of morn upon the mountains, and a gleam of sunlight glows along the distant hills. He who bears the keys of hell and of death, shall come back to open the little graves, and call the sleepers forth. Then cherub forms shall burst the silent tombs, and these green hillocks shall bear their harvest for the garner of our God.—Sel.
THE MOTHER'S WARNING.
Touch it not—ye do not know, Unless you've borne a fate like mine, How deep a curse, how wild a woe, Is lurking in that ruby wine. Look on my cheek—'tis withered now; It once was round and smooth as thine; Look on my deeply furrowed brow— 'Tis all the work of treacherous wine. I had two sons, two princely boys, As noble men as God e'er gave; I saw them fall from honor's joys To fill a common drunkard's grave. I had a daughter, young and fair, As pure as ever woman bore. Where is she? Did you ask me where? Bend low, I'll tell the tale once more. I saw that fairy child of mine Linked to a kingly bridegroom's side; Her heart was proud and light as thine, Oh, would to God she then had died! Not many moons had filled their horn, While she upon his bosom slept; 'Twas on a dark November morn, She o'er a murdered husband wept; Her drunken father dealt the blow— Her brain grew wild, her heart grew weak; Was ever tale of deeper woe A mother's lips had lived to speak? She dwells in yonder darkened halls, No ray of reason there does shine; She on her murdered husband calls. 'Twas done by wine, by cursed wine!
—Temperance Banner.
HARRY'S REMORSE.
It's curious, isn't it, chaplain, what a twelve months may bring? Last year I was in Chicago, gambling and living in sin; Was raking in pools at the races, and feeing the waiters with ten, Was sipping mint juleps by twilight, while today I am in the pen.
What led me to do it? What always leads a man to destruction and crime? The prodigal son you have read of has altered somewhat in his time. He spends his money as freely as the Biblical fellow of old, And when it is gone he fancies the husks will turn into gold.
Champagne, a box at the opera, high steps while fortune is flush; The passionate kisses of women whose cheeks have forgotten to blush. The old, old story, chaplain, of pleasure that ends in tears, The froth that foams for an hour and the dregs that are tasted for years.
Last night as I sat here and pondered on the end of my evil ways, There rose like a phantom before me the vision of boyhood days; I thought of my old, old home, chaplain, of the schoolhouse that stood on the hill, Of the brook that ran through the meadow—I can hear its music still.
And again I thought of my mother, of the mother who taught me to pray, Whose love was a precious treasure that I heedlessly cast away; And again I saw in my vision the fresh-lipped, careless boy, To whom the future was boundless and the world but a mighty toy.