He paused and stood in the middle of that room like a statue. Slowly and by degrees every trace of excitement disappeared from his features, until they had assumed a sharp, rigid, fixed look; and then, he said, pursuing the same theme: 'Thwart them; thwart them, Michael Rust! Work, toil, cringe, lie, steal, murder—aye, do any thing—but thwart them, thwart them! Good Michael Rust, don't suffer yourself to be a by-word in their mouths! And if you fail, Michael, die fighting. There's something noble in that. Be it so; be it so!' said he, in a stern, abrupt tone. 'They've driven me to extremities. Nothing but desperate measures can save me. Desperate measures shall be tried. Does success require a life? Well, well; the world's overloaded; it shall have one. If I attain it, it will be another's; if I fail, it will be my own: the grave is a quiet resting-place; a better one than the world, when a man's foiled in all his aims. But I'm weary, I'm weary!' said he, in a low, desponding tone; 'my head's dizzy, and my brain confused, by the troubles which have come so thickly upon me to-day. I must rest.'
Drawing a chair to the table, he seated himself upon it; bent his head down upon the table, and exhausted by the excitement of the last few days, which had taxed even his iron frame beyond its powers of endurance, he soon slept heavily.
[THE SEASON OF DEATH.]
Oh! thou resistless and relentless power!
Mighty, mysterious in thy every form:
Unbidden thou com'st to mar the natal hour,
Stealing the heart's young pulse, with life scarce warm.
And thou art there where the green vine is turning
Its gentle fragrance from Love's rosy bower;
And thou art there where silent stars are burning,
Sweetly and calmly, o'er the bridal hour.
And thou art there where young Joy in his mirth
Presses his cup to lips of human wo,
And thou art there where Pleasure hath its birth,
Following its footsteps wheresoe'er they go!
And ah! where art thou not, mysterious Death!
The young, the fair, the pure in heart, are thine;
Beauty, and love, and power, these all have breath
But for thy conquering; and hope divine,
And bliss, and sweet affection, and the tear
That sparkles in the eye of love; the sigh
That moves soft pity in the soul sincere,
All, all are thine, O Death! for all must die!
Passing like blossoms from the earth away,
All that of life or being hath its share;
The heart hath scarce its hour of hope to pray,
For thy cold hand, O Death! is everywhere!
Edmund Brewster Green.
New-York, September, 1843.