Spike started in his bed; then he buried his face in the coverlet—and he actually groaned. In bitterness of spirit the woman turned away and wept. Her feelings had been blunted by misfortune and the collisions of a selfish world; but enough of former self remained to make this the hardest of all the blows she had ever received. Her husband, dying as he was, as he must and did know himself to be, shrunk from one of her appearance, unsexed as she had become by habits, and changed by years and suffering.
[To be continued.]
[AN HOUR.]
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
I've left the keen, cold winds to blow
Around the summits bare;
My sunny pathway to the sea
Winds downward, green and fair,
And bright-leaved branches toss and glow
Upon the buoyant air!
The fern its fragrant plumage droops
O'er mosses, crisp and gray,
Where on the shaded crags I sit,
Beside the cataract's spray,
And watch the far-off, shining sails
Go down the sunny bay!
I've left the wintry winds of life
On barren hearts to blow—
The anguish and the gnawing care,
The silent, shuddering wo!
Across the balmy sea of dreams
My spirit-barque shall go.
Learned not the breeze its fairy lore
Where sweetest measures throng?
A maiden sings, beside the stream,
Some chorus, wild and long,
Mingling and blending with its roar,
Like rainbows turned to song!
I hear it, like a strain that sweeps
The confines of a dream;
Now fading into silent space,
Now with a flashing gleam
Of triumph, ringing through the deeps
Of forest, dell and stream!
Away! away! I hear the horn
Among the hills of Spain:
The old, chivalric glory fires
Her warrior-hearts again!
Ho! how their banners light the morn,
Along Grenada's plain!
I hear the hymns of holy faith
The red Crusaders sang,
And the silver horn of Ronçeval,
That o'er the tecbir rang
When prince and kaiser through the fray
To the paladin's rescue sprang!
A beam of burning light I hold!—
My good Damascus brand,
And the jet-black charger that I ride
Was foaled in the Arab land,
And a hundred horsemen, mailed in steel,
Follow my bold command!
Through royal cities speeds our march—
The minster-bells are rung;
The loud, rejoicing trumpets peal,
The battle-flags are swung,
And sweet, sweet lips of ladies praise
The chieftain, brave and young.
And now, in bright Provençal bowers,
A minstrel-knight am I:
A gentle bosom on my own
Throbs back its ecstasy;
A cheek, as fair as the almond flowers,
Thrills to my lips' reply!
I tread the fanes of wondrous Rome,
Crowned with immortal bay,
And myriads throng the Capitol
To hear my lofty lay,
While, sounding o'er the Tiber's foam,
Their shoutings peal away!
Oh, triumph such as this were worth
The poet's doom of pain,
Whose hours are brazen on the earth,
But golden in the brain:
I close the starry gate of dreams,
And walk the dust again!