Crown Jewels: Or Gems of Literature, Art and Music ; Being Choice Selections ...

Oh, the mocking chime of the old church bell!
It shall seem to peal from the mouth of hell;
Into thy dreams its echoes bringing,
Merrily, madly, ceaselessly ringing!

The white face shall haunt thee!

The bells they shall taunt thee!

Echoed and tossed on the withering breath

Of a curse that shall cling round thy soul till death.
CHARLOTTE M. GRIFFITHS.

THE WEAVER.

WEAVER sat by the side of his loom
A-flinging the shuttle fast,

He upward turned his eye to heaven,
And still wove on-on-on!

Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,

And about his grizzled head,

And gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Laid him down among the dead.

And after, I saw, in a robe of light,
The weaver in the sky;

The angels' wings were not more bright,
And the stars grew pale, it nigh.

And a thread that would last till the hour of And I saw mid the folds all the
doom

Was added at every cast.

His warp had been by the angels spun,

And his weft was bright and new,

Like threads which the morning upraids from the sun,

All jeweled over with dew.

And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers
In the rich soft web were bedded;

And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours,
Not yet were Time's feet leaded.

But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fell;

And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly;
For thought has a wearisome spell.

And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain
Was of a melancholy gray.

And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain
Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on,

Though the fabric all was gray;

And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were

gone,

And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark, and still darker, and darker grew
Each newly woven thread,

And some were of a death mocking hue,
And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in,

Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears,

And the web was broken, and poor and thin,
And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;

So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied,
A-weaving those life-cords in.

And as he wove, and weeping still wove,

A tempter stole him nigh;

And with glowing words he to win him strove,
But the weaver turned his eye-

iris-hued flowers
That beneath his touch had sprung,
More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,
Which the angels have to us flung.'

And wherever a tear had fallen down
Gleamed out a diamond rare,

And jewels befitting a monarch's crown
Were foot-prints left by care.

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh
Was left a rich perfume,

And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky
Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom.

And then I prayed: "When my last work is done,
And the silver cord is riven,

Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one
That I bear with me to heaven."

THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VIN.
DICATED.

EAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescribed, their present state;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits

know,

Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
O blindness to the future! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven;
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish or a sparrow fall;
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher, death; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always TO BE blest ;
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to coine.

Lo the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, a humbler heaven; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste,

Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
TO BE, contents his natural desire,

He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire:
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense
Weigh thy opinion against Providence;
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such,
Say, here he gives too little, there too much :
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust;
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there :
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the God of God.
In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,
Men would be angels, angels would be Gods.
Aspiring to be Gods, if angels fell,
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel;
And who but wishes to revert the laws
Of order sins against the Eternal Cause.

ALEXANDER POPE.

THE BRIDGE.

STOOD on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour;
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower ;
And, like the waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me,
That filled my eyes with tears-
How often, oh! how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight,

And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, oh! how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight,
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, oh! how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom,

O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care;

And the burthen laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear;
But now it has fallen from me

It is buried in the sea,
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me;
Yet, whenever I cross the river,

On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocear
Come the thoughts of other years;
And for ever and for ever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes,
The moon and its broken reflection,
And its shadows shall appear
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

THE POLISH BOY.

HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill
That cut like blades of steel, the air,
Causing the creeping blood to chill

With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart

To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple where
An altar, raised for private prayer,

Now forms the warrior's marble bed
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funeral tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,

But meets no answering caress?

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?

It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly, late, upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye
Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow
She murmurs forth her anguish now,
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is heard along the bloody street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep;

The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy-I stand Between him and your lawless band.

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,

With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild

To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side,
And in his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one !
Will land or gold redeem my son?
Take heritage, take name, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall!

Take these!" and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
And tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like starlight there;
Her cross of blazing rubies last
Down at the Russian's feet she cast.
He stooped to seize the glittering store.
Upspringing from the marble floor,
The mother with a cry of joy,
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.
But no! the Russian's iron grasp
Again undid the mother's clasp.
Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length,
And breaking from the Russian's hold,
He stands a giant in the strength

Of his young spirit fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,
So blue, and yet so bright,
Seems kindled from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks,
With a full voice of proud command
He turned upon the wondering band:
"Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can!

This hour has made the boy a man!
I knelt before my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.

I wept upon a marble brow,

Yes, wept! I was a child, but now

My noble mother on her knee

Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest,

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
The jeweled haft of poignard bright
Glittered a moment on the sight.

"Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glaive
Would drink the life-blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame
Would blush to rubies in their shame;
The blade would quiver in thy breast,
Ashamed of such ignoble rest.
No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain,
And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
A moment and the funeral light
Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright;
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang:
'Up mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery.

Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!
His freedom is forever won,
And now he waits one holy kiss
To bear his father home in bliss-
One last embrace, one blessing-one!
To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.
What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er my heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!
What! silent still? Then art thou dead?

-Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee-and thus-to die!" One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom-dead.

ANN S. STEPHENS

LABOR AND REFORM.

WORK.

WEET wind, fair wind, where have you been? "I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of

the sky;

I've been grinding a grist in the mill hard by ;

I've been laughing at work while others sigh;

For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down, They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the night rack came rolling up ragged and

brown!

But men must work, and women must weep,

Let those laugh who Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

win!"

Sweet rain, soft rain, what are Three corpses lay out on the shining sands you doing?

"I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells;

I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells;

I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;

Is that worth pursuing?"

Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?

"I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings

lie;

I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby;

By and by I shall teach them to fly,
Up and away, every one!"

Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going?
"To fill my basket with precious pelf;
To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;
To find out the sweetest flower that grows,
Be it a thistle or be it a rose-

A secret worth the knowing!"

Each content with the work to be done,
Ever the same from sun to sun:

Shall you and I be taught to work

By the bee and the bird, that scorn to shirk?

Wind and rain fulfilling His word!
Tell me, was ever a legend heard
Where the wind, commanded to blow, deferred;
Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred?
MARY N. PRESCOTT.

THE THREE FISHERS.

HREE fishers went sailing out into the West,
Out into the West as the sun went down ;
Each thought on the woman who loved him
the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the
town;

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hand
For those who will never come back to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
The sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep-

And good by to the bar and its moaning.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

ITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's O! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

Work-work-work

Till the brain begins to swim! Work-work-work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seamTill over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

O, men, with sisters dear!

O, men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt— Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt!

But why do I talk of death-
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own

Because of the fasts I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

Work-work-work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread-and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime! Work-work-work-

As prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band

Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand.

Work-work-work

In the dull December light!

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright!—

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweetWith the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet!
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

Oh! but for one short hour

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!

With fingers weary and worn,

And eyelids heavy and red,

Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing; More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing: Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

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