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She bloomed through all the summer days
As sweetly as the fairest flowers,
And till October's softening haze
Came with its still and dreamy hours.

So calm the current of her life,
So lovely and serene its flow,
We hardly marked the deadly strife
Disease for ever kept below.

But autumn winds grew wild and chill,
And pierced her with their icy breath;
And, when the snow on plain and hill
Lay white, she passed, and slept in death.

Tones only of immortal birth

Our memory of her voice can stir; With things too beautiful for earth Alone do we remember her.

She came in Spring, when leaves were green, And birds sang blithe in bower and tree, And flowers sprang up and bloomed between Low branches and the quickening lea.

The greenness of the leaf is gone,
The beauty of the flower is riven,
The birds to other climes have flown,
And there's an angel more in heaven.

[graphic]

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

[Born in 1808 at Haverhill, Massachusetts, where his ancestors, of the Quaker denomination, had long been settled. Mr. Whittier was early engaged in farming operations; and afterwards as a political, and more especially a protectionist, journalist. In 1836 he became one of the secretaries of the Anti-Slavery Society: and some of his most vigorous and rousing poems are devoted to that noble cause. He has also written various prose works; one of the chief among which is Supernaturalism in New England, published in 1847. The bulk of Mr. Whittier's poetical writings is considerable. His name stands high in the United States, and ought in England to be better known than as yet it is. An upright manly energy, and the tenderness of a strong yet delicate nature, are constantly conspicuous in his writings. These fine qualities are mostly associated with a genuine poetic grace, and in many instances with art truly solid and fine].

CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK.1 To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to

day,

From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil

away,

Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful

three,

And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid

free!

Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison

bars,

Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam

of stars;

1 This ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young persons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which they were unable to pay. The case being represented to the General Court at Boston, that body issued an order which may still be seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was "fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English nation at Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the West Indies.-Vide Sewall's History, pp. 225-6.

In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night time,

My grated casement whitened with Autumn's early rime.

Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be

The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea.

All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the mor

row

The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my

sorrow,

Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and

sold,

Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold.

Oh the weakness of the flesh was there-the shrinking and the shame ;

And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me.

came:

"Why sit'st thou thus forlornly?" the wicked murmur

said,

"Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed?

"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant

street?

Where be the youths, whose glances the summer Sabbath through

Turned tenderly and timidly into thy father's pew?

"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?-Bethink thee with what mirth

Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth;

How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair,

On eyes of merry girlhood half hid in golden nair.

"Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind

words are spoken,

Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing

boys are broken;

No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunters braid.

"Oh weak, deluded maiden !-by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and

sound;

And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth-bound.

"Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine,

Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory

lame,

Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame.

"And what a fate awaits thee!-a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave!

Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless

thrall,

The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all !"

Oh ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's

fears

Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing

tears,

I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent

prayer

To feel, O Helper, of the weak! that Thou indeed wert

there!

I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell,

And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison-shackles

fell,

Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of

white,

And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight.

Bless the Lord for all His mercies !-for the peace and love I felt,

Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt; When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my

heart,

And I felt the evil Tempter with all his doubts depart.

Slow broke the grey cold morning; again the sunshine

fell,

Flecked with the shade of bar and grate, within my lonely cell;

The hoarfrost melted on the wall, and upward from the

street

Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing

feet.

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open

cast,

And slowly at the sheriff's side up the long street I

passed;

I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not

see,

How, from every door and window, the people gazed

on me.

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my

cheek,

Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak;

"O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul

cast out

The fear of man which brings a snare-the weakness and the doubt."

Then the dreary shadows scattered like a cloud in morning's breeze,

And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these:

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