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To the great God who made and feedeth all.
The god of gods; and seeing him not here,
Sitting in heaven.
Oh, foul idolater!
[A violent storm is heard rising.] Fire-worshiper.
What! unhoused !
A hundred years of age !
The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence.
Houseless, and cuffed by such a storm as this.
And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it,
I pray thee, strike us not both down.
God made Husband and wife, and must be owned of them, Else he must needs disown them.
We have children
She's a good creature, and not strong.
Who will this night condemn thee.
For if ever
An inward utterance coming by itself.
[A dead silence; and then a still small voice.] The Voice. Abraham ! Abraham. Where art thou, Lord and who is it that speaks
So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn
And dare to face thy presence?
Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn?
Where is the stranger whom thou tookest in ? Abraham. Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth. • The Voice. Then didst thou what God himself forbore.
Have I, although he did deny me, borne
And couldst thou not endure him one sole night,
And such a night as this?
And will go forth, and if he be not dead,
Both to himself and me.
Behold and learn. [The voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold of the tent is turned back, disclosing the Fire-worshiper, who is calmly sleeping, with his head on the back of
And on his forehead is a balmy dew,
L.-THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
Startles the villagers with strange alarms.
2. Ah, what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the Death-Angel touches those swift keys !
Will mingle with their awful symphonies !
3. I hear, even now, the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
In long reverberations reach our own.
4. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud amid the universal clamor,
O’er distant deserts, sounds the Tartar gong.
5. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ;
6. The tumult of each sacked and burning village ;
The shout, that every prayer for mercy drowns ;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
7. The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
The diapason of the cannonade.
8. Is it, O Man, with such discordant noises,'
With such accursed instruments as these,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies !
9. Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals and forts.
10. The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation that should lift again
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain !
11. Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; And, like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “ Peace!”
12. Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies !
The holy melodies of Love arise.
MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK. 1. My son! What! Drafted ? My Harry! Why, man,
'tis a boy at his books ; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie—as delicate, too,
in his looks. Why, it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in
my kitchen at tasks ; He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President
knows what he asks?
2. He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as
brave as the best ; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has
long been at rest. Too slender for over-much study—why, his master has
made him to-day Go out with his ball on the common-and you have
drafted a child at his play!
3. “Not a patriot?” Fie! Did I whimper when Robert
stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening
we heard of Bull Run? Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the
wall, “ There's a staff growing up for your age, mother,” said
Robert, “if I am to fall.” 4. “Eighteen ? " Oh I know! And yet narrowly ; just
a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last
ballot for Clay