For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves! The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, Yet everything within that cot was wond'rous neat and clean; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, A patient mother watched beside the death-bed of her child A little worn-out creature-his once bright eyes grown dim; It was the collier's wife and child-they called him "Little Jim." And oh, to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek, As she offered up a prayer of thought-she was afraid to speak, Lest that might 'waken one she loved far better than her life, For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife With hands uplifted, see! she kneels beside the sufferer's bed And prays that God will spare her boy, and take herself instead. She gets her answer from her child-soft fell these words from him "Mother, the angels they do smile, and beckon 'Little Jim.' I have no pain, dear mother, now, but oh! I am so dry— Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't ye cry." With gentle, trembling haste she held a tea-cup to his lips; He smiled to thank her as he took three little tiny sips— “Tell father, when he comes home from work, I said goodnight to him; And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor "Little Jim." She saw that he was dying-the child she loved so dear, Had uttered the last words that she might ever hope to hear, The cottage door is opened-the collier's step is heard— The father and the mother meet, but neither spake a word. He felt that all was over— r-he knew his child was dead, He took the candle in his hand, and walked toward the bed; His quivering lips give token of the grief he'd fain con ceal And see! his wife has joined him—the stricken couple kneel; With hearts bowed down with sadness they humbly ask of Him In heaven once more to meet again their own poor "Little Jim." DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. (NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.) The pall was settled. He who slept beneath His helm was at his feet: his banner, soiled And left him with his dead. The king stood still "Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom! 66 The grave hath won thee! I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ;— But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee! And thy dark sin!-oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer home, My lost boy, Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. (H. W. LONGFELLOW.) It was the schooner Hesperus, And the skipper had taken his little daughter Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south. Then up and spake an old sailor, "Last night the moon had a golden ring, The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, Colder and louder blew the wind, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, |