THE RETORT. The death song of her people. High it rose Her song grew faint; And as the rapids raised their whitening heads, She raised him in her arms, and clasped him close. 125 Down toward the unfathomed gulf, while chilling spray Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him, With a low, stifled sob. And thus they took Their awful pathway to eternity. One ripple on the mighty river's brink, Just where it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge, Mrs. Sigourney. THE RETORT. A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the east, Haughty and grave, and purse-proud, being rich, A governor or general at least, I have forgotten which, Had in his family a humble youth, Who went to India in his patron's suite; An unassuming body, and in truth A lad of decent parts and good repute. This youth had sense and spirit, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. 126 ETERNAL JUSTICE. One day at table, flush'd with pride and wine, To crack a joke upon his Secretary. "Young man," said he, "by what art, craft, or trade, And pray, sir, why didn't your father make Each parasite, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length, Modestus, bowing low, Said, craving pardon if too free he made, Your father's trade." "My father's trade? Why, sir, that's too bad; Anon. ETERNAL JUSTICE. (By permission of the Author.) THE man is thought a knave or fool, Who, for the advancement of his kind, For him the hemlock shall distil For him the axe be bared For him the gibbet shall be built, Him shall the scorn and wrath of man ETERNAL JUSTICE. And malice, envy, spite, and lies But truth shall conquer at the last, Pace through thy cell, old Socrates, Trust to the impulse of thy soul, They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay But they cannot quench the fire of thought Plod in thy cave, grey anchorite, And trust to coming years. They may call thee wizard and monk accurs'd, But not too soon for human kind- And the demons of our sires become The blind can see-the slave is lord: Keep, Galileo, to thy thought, And nerve thy soul to bear; 127 128 THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wring They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hide The heel of a priest may tread thee down, But the sunshine aye shall light the sky, And ever the wrong is proved to be wrong, And live there now such men as these, They toil in penury and grief, Unknown, if not maligned, Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn But yet the world goes round and round, And the genial seasons run, And ever the truth comes uppermost, And ever is justice done. Charles Mackay. THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night She had each folded flower in sight: THE PILGRIM AND THE PEAS. One 'midst the forests of the west The sea, the blue lone sea hath one, One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd He wrapt his colours round his breast And one-o'er her the myrtle showers And parted thus, they rest who play'd They that with smiles lit up the hall, Alas for love! if thou wert all, 129 Mrs. Hemans. THE PILGRIM AND THE PEAS. A BRACE of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes, so gentle, to amuse, The priest had ordered peas into their shoes; |