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THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE.
For it saves its song till the end of life,
And then, in the soft, still even,
It sings as it soars into heaven.
You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one,
A greater and better than all ?
Before whom the hosts of them fall ?
For earth in its wailings and woes,
And die for the life of his foes ?
Have you heard this tale,-the best of them all,
The tale of the Holy and True ?
Lives on in the world anew.
As the stars fill the sky above;
For the sake of the life of love.
Now hear these tales, ye weary and worn,
Who for others do give up your all;
Into earth's dark bosom must fall,
And then will the fruit appear;
Will return manyfold in the ear.
THE MODERN BELLE.
THE MODERN BELLE.
THE daughter sits in the parlor,
1 And rocks in her easy-chair; She is dressed in silks and satins,
And jewels are in her hair;
And simpers, and giggles, and winks ;
It's vastly more than she thinks.
Her father goes clad in russet, .
All brown and seedy at that; His coat is out at the elbows,
And he wears a shocking bad hat.
So carefully, day by day,
Is squandering them all away.
She lies in bed of a morning
Until the hour of noon,
Because she's called too soon.
Her cheeks still dabbered with paintRemains of last night's blushes
Before she attempted to faint.
Her feet are so very little,
Her hands are so very white, Her jewels so very heavy,
And her head so very light; Her color is made of cosmetics—
Though this she'll never own; Her body is mostly cotton,
And her heart is wholly stone.
She falls in love with a fellow
Who swells with a foreign air;
He marries her for her money,
She marries him for his hair-
Both are well mated in life;
And he's got a fool for a wife.
THE VAGABONDS.J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
Roger's my dog :--come here, you scamp!
Over the table,-look out for the lamp !-
Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And ate and drank—and starved together.
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
The paw he holds up there's been frozen,)
(This out-door business is bad for strings,)
And Roger and I set up for kings!
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,
Well, something hot, then,-We won't quarrel.
What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!
And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.
The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
(Here's to you, Sir !) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. There isn't another creature living
Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,
To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir !—see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water ! That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter !
We'll have some music, if you're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) Shall march a little.-Start, you villain !
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer ! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!
(Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier! Comel
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
The night's before us, fill the glasses !
Some brandy,—thank you,—there!-it passes ! Why not reform ? That's easily said ;
But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform;
And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm,
To prop a horrible, inward sinking.
THE VAGABONDS. .
Is there a way to forget to think ? .
At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,
The same old story; you know how it ends.
You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not then
I was one of your handsome men !
Whose head was happy on this breast!
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
From door to door, with fiddle and dog.
To you to-night for a glass of grog !
She's married since,-a parson's wife :
'Twas better for her that we should part,-
Than a blasted home and a broken heart. .
On the dusty road; a carriage stopped :
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped !
You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
Is it amusing ? you find it strange ?
'Twas well she died before- Do you know
The ruin and wretchedness here below ?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start..
Aching thing, in place of a heart ?