(April 7th, 1868.)
There is mourning to-day in the halls of the great, And homes of the people of lowly estate. A deed has been done which o’ershadows the heart With a darkness and horror that will not depart.— The Poet and Statesman lies cold in his gore, His eloquent accents will thrill us no more: No more, with our hearts to all charities strung, Shall we listen to catch the sweet sounds of his tongue. That tongue, whose enchantment could hold us in thrall Will never more gladden the close, crowded hall; But the light of his genius will shine o’er the land, And his fame, like Mount Royal, forever shall stand, For his thoughts were the lights of our northern sky, And the soul’s spoken melody never can die. O God! could no virtue, no pity restrain The wretch who has sown such a harvest of pain? What though on the scaffold he die for the deed That causes fond hearts, like his victim, to bleed? A million such lives no atonement can make For the star that is quenched, for the sorrows that shake Our trust in the highest and holiest plan, Our faith in the ultimate goodness of man.
THE NEWS-BOY.
Hark on the street the News-boy’s call, Above all other sounds it rings; “Great news by telegraph”[9] he brings, A luxury devoured by all; And some with vacant visage laugh;— Laugh while they read of ruthless war, Of huge disasters, near and far, Of crimes that give the world a jar, O wondrous news by telegraph!
The Press is modern Jove, and he Swift Mercury, who bears abroad The utterance of the sleepless god, Wherever thriving cities be; Wherever steeples pierce the sky; Where desperate politicians bawl, Responsive to their country’s call, And drunkards reel against the wall, There peals the eager News-boy’s cry.
Through central and suburban part He hurries on, and who may tell What hopes his little bosom swell, What distant visions warm his heart. At times you see him—hapless one! With elbows out, a tuft of hair Seeking, through crown-rent hat, the air, His feet half shod, or wholly bare, And buttons of importance gone.
But whether ragged, spruce or grand, Proudly his pile of pence he jinks, And, reckoning his profits, thinks:— “The day may come when I shall stand Among the richest and the best.” And then his troubles, light as chaff, Pass from him; he could leap and laugh; “Great news, great news, by telegraph!” Again he shouts with swelling chest.
And thus his rill of boyhood runs; And oft dependent on his mite, A widowed mother waits at night, Waits with her famished little ones, And listens for his homeward tread. A happy smile illumes her face; The mother and the boy embrace, And, all within the humble place, A sudden light from Heaven is shed.