My sweet one, thou art starting now
In life's heart-saddening race,
With Innocence upon thy brow
And Beauty in thy face;
A tiny star among the host
That fleck the arc of life;
A tiny barque on ocean tossed,
To brave its billowy strife.
May Virtue reign supremely o'er
And round thy footsteps cling;
While Faith and Hope for evermore
Celestial numbers sing.
O may thy life be one glad dream
Of bright unclouded joy;
Thy love one pure and sunny theme
Of bliss without alloy.
Should Fate or Fortune's dazzling rays
Lead thee to other climes,
Then, darling, let this meet thy gaze,
And think of me sometimes.
THE ORATOR AND THE CASK
A FABLE.
INTRODUCING A CHARACTER FROM LIFE.
A speaker of the suasive school,
Who more resembled knave than fool,
His prospects gauged once on a time,
And sought how he might upward climb.
The scheme Political had failed;
The star of Piety had paled;
The Convert Drunkard would not tell—
His friends the cheat had learnt to smell.
All things our changeful friend had tried—
Had spouted far and shouted wide.
When all at once—ah! happy thought:
The Temp'rance cause in tow was brought.
And with it, up and down the land,
Our hero roamed with lofty hand,
Consigning to a dreadful place,
Whose name this fable must not grace,
All men—the one who touched a drop,
With him who knew not when to stop.
Arriving in a town one day,
He on his string began to play;
And mounted on a brandy cask
With noisy speech went through his task.
The barrel on whose head he stood
At length gave vent in warmth of blood:
"Ungracious varlet—stay thy hand:
"What! run down those on whom you stand?"
Then, utterance-choked, he tumbled o'er,
Casting the speaker on the floor.
And as he rolled along the street—
"Let me consistent teachers meet!"
He said—"or give me none at all
To teach me how to stand or fall!"
Thus seekers after Truth declaim
'Gainst teachers—teachers but in name—
Who live by what they deprecate,
And love the thing they seem to hate—
Who like the speaker raised on high
On barrel-top, 'gainst barrels cry:
Who, though of others Temp'rance ask,
Are slaves themselves to th' brandy flask.
THE MAID OF THE WAR.
SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED ON THE DEPARTURE OF MISS FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE AND HER STAFF OF NURSES FOR THE CRIMEA.
When the cannon's loud rattle
Told tales of the battle,
And the nations turned pale at the rout;
When the clarion rang madly,
And maidens wept sadly,
And swords leapt with fire-flashes out;
One frail girl of beauty
Shrank not from her duty,
But raised her sweet voice 'bove the roar;
Her bright smiles of kindness
Played o'er the dark blindness:
'Twas Florence, the Maid of the War.
When thousands, down-falling,
For help were out-calling—
Neglected, on straw-pallet cast—
A fair form drew near them
To aid and to cheer them;
Her shadow they kissed as it passed, (a)
When they droopt in their sadness,
Or raved in their madness,
She left her glad home from afar
To heal up their sorrows,
And tell of bright morrows;
'Twas Florence, the Maid of the War.
(a) So impressed were some of the wounded soldiers in the hospital at the kindness and gentle treatment received at the hands of Miss Nightingale, that, unable otherwise to testify their gratitude, they kissed her shadow as it fell upon the pillow of the pallets, on which they lay. One poor fellow is said to have done this with his latest breath.