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Unchanged in soul I wandered back—
A man in years—in heart a boy.

I thought upon its' cheerful hearth,
And cheerful hearts' untainted glee,

And felt, of all I'd seen on earth,
This was the dearest spot to me.

Anon.

MGRATITUDE.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude:
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friends remembered not.

Shakspbare.

TAT.TTTTA CUMI! *

"Talitha Cumi!"

The mother spoke;
And lightly from slumber

The child awoke.
* * *

In sweet dreams folded

At dawn of day,
As in dew a rosebud,

The maiden lay:

* Talitha, in the dialect of the people, a term of endearment used towards a young maiden."—Dean Alford on "St. Mark's Gospel."

The fair lids rounded

In calm repose; Long lashes shading

The cheek's soft rose:

The lips half parted,
. As though she smiled,
When with kisses the mother
Awoke the child.

"Talitha Cumi!

Damsel, arise!" And slowly opened

Those happy eyes.

In deep sleep buried,

At close of day, Silent and pallid

The maiden lay:

In the heart no beating,
On the cheek no rose;

Placid but rigid,
The pale lips close:

No gentle heavings

Of even breath;
And the mother sobbeth—

"Not sleep, but death!"

No need for hushing
Her anguish now,

No wailings will trouble
That placid brow.

No wild lamentings
The mourners make,

No tumult of minstrels
That sleep can break.

Silence those death-wails

Of wild despair! "Not dead, but sleeping!"

The Life is there!

Gentle His accents,

Mother, as thine; Yet Galilee's tempests

Know them Divine.

Kingly, He chaseth

The mocking band; Softly He toucheth

The clay-cold hand.

"Talitha, Cumi!

Damsel, arise!" And slowly open

Those death-sealed eyes!

With a name of endearment,

Tender and soft,
(Her mother had waked her

From sleep with it oft),

He calls her spirit,

Beyond the tombs, "Talitha Cumi!"—

She hears and comes.

And the gates of Hades,

The gates of brass, Which through the ages

None living pass,

Before those accents

Quake as with thunder, Quiver like aspens,

And part asunder; •

Open like flowers
Touched by the sun:

Yet through |
Passeth but

Fearless came

The soul of
Saw Him wb

Knew Him.
*
"Talillm C"

The Saviour
And as from 1

The dead a v.
Author of

THE WELL 01

[graphic]

The King was faint \\
With weary face and |
An exile from the city
The heat and burden <
And he must see, wit!
The sunshine fade fron
And twilight fold his 1
His captains stood an
Forgot the clangour ai
Of sword and spear, Bi
—Toward the sunset I

Of Bethlehem afar.
He saw a vision of the

When, as the custon His mother went aloin

By moonlight to the Even in the desert hot He felt again the toui'i He heard the murmur

That wave beside tl

Fair vision this, for war At hirst and weary fron

[graphic]

MISERIES OP ROYALTY.

> Hard condition, twin-born with greatness,
Subject to the breath of every fool,
Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing!
What infinite heart's-ease must kings neglect,
Chat private men enjoy!

Vud what have kings that privates have not too,
>a,ve ceremony, save general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony 1
What kind of god art thou, that suffrest more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers 1
What are thy rents 1 what are thy comings in?

0 ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is thy soul of adoration 1

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,

Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art less happy being feared

Than they in fearing.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,

But poisoned flattery? Oh, be sick, great greatness,

And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!

Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation 1

Will it give place to flexure and low bending 1

Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,

Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,

That play'st so subtly with a king's repose;

1 am a king that find thee; and I know
Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,—
No, not all these, thrice gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,

Who, with a body filled, and vacant mind,

Gets him to rest, crammed with distressful bread:

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