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And she folded both her thin white hands and turned from that bright board,

And from the golden gifts, and said, “With thee, with thee, O Lord!”

The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies

On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies.

In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, “It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead.” The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin; Men said, “It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?” And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see

How much of happiness there was after that misery.

BEFORE THE GRATE. From the Cincinnati Commercial Tribune.

A song that's old and always new,
A story none can quite explain,

A woof of dreams that stretches through
The farthest deeps of joy and pain;

A bit of music men have sung,
And still must sing, till Time is late—

Is that old song I find among

The blazing embers in the grate.

A power that is more than art,
Yet homely with the soul of home,

That brings to every human heart
Tales of old times where'er we roam;

Old faces, forms, old loves, perhaps,

Old hopes and fears that wreathed our fate, Come flooding back, when Memory taps My shoulder at the blazing grate.

Old, and yet sweeter for its age,
Like growing wealth of aged wine;

Thrice-told, yet, for the oft-turned page,
Dearer to hearts like yours and mine.

Old song, I sing you o'er again,
With welcome to your ancient state;

Old dreams, now may you long remain
To cheer us at the blazing grate.

Or, the Solitude of Binnorie.

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald
All children of one mother:
I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland of seven lilies wrought!
Seven sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold knight as ever fought,
Their father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,
Across the wave, a rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right—
Of your fair household, father knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over hill and hollow,
With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful rovers follow.
Cried they, “Your father loves to roam:
Bnough for him to find
The empty house when he comes home;
For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!”
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,
They run, and cry, “Nay, let us die,
And let us die together.”
A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;
They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

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