"But there's one exception, painter,
(I spoke of it before), A little mark on a panel
Behind a closet door! Only a mark on a panel
Behind a closet door,
And the pencilled words below it
Are 'Mabel, aged four.'
"You have my order, painter,
You know my secret, too!
No hand may touch that panel
Till heaven and earth are new,'
And I go to meet my darling,
Not lost, but gone before;
I shall know her when I see her,
My 'Mabel, aged four,'
[This was President Lincoln's favorite poem. He knew every word and line of it, and it is said that he often took great pleasure in his meditative moods in repeating the poem. The words in themselves are well worth any one's attention, but since having been the favorite poem of our martyred President it finds a warmer spot in all our hearts.]
Он, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He
passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed,
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come;
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.
They died,-ay! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear and the song and the dirge
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
"Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
"Big time to-night," the drummers said,
As to supper they sat them down;
"To-morrow's Sunday, and now's our chance
To illuminate the town."
"Good!" cries Bill Barnes, the jolliest
The favorite of all;
"Yes; let's forget our troubles now
And hold high carnival."
The supper done, the mail arrives;
Each man his letters scanning,
With fresh quotations-up or down—
His busy brain is cramming.
But Bill-" why, what's come over him—
Why turn so quick about?"
He says just as his pards start forth,
"I guess I won't go out."
His letter bore no written word,
No prayer from vice to flee;
Only a tracing of a hand-
A baby's hand-of three.
What a picture comes before his mind
What does his memory paint?
A baby at her mother's knee-
His little white-robed saint.
What cares a man for ridicule
Who wins a victory grand?
Bill slept in peace, his brow was smoothed
By a shadowy little hand.
Naught like the weak things of the world
The power of sin withstand;
No shield between man's soul and wrong
Like a little baby hand.
LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North Church tower, as a signal light,One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."
Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack-door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
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