The prince of that mysterious power
That keeps the ocean stewing,
Despatched a sprite at midnight hour,
To set a storm a-brewing.
And sure enough, it came blust'ring on
From snow-crowned Alleghany;
And though the morning brightly dawned,
The day was cold and rainy.
So round the cradle often beams
Bright rays of hope and gladness;
But oh, how changed are childhood's dreams,
When age brings scenes of sadness.
A prosperous sun may set at noon,
And leave the future hazy,
A fickle freak of fortune soon
May drive a mortal crazy.
In Jersey there lived, as I have been told,
When science was yet in its shell,
A worthy old Dutchman, who offered nruch gold
To any wise man who could tell
now to drive from his cellar a troublesome witch, Who nightly disturbed his repose,
By leading him forth o'er thorn-hedge and ditch, By a ring made fast in his nose.
"So droubled am I," said our hero one day,
"Tat I'd giff de pest hoss in me parn,
To any old wizard tat may dravel tis vay,
For to trive tis old hag from me varm.
"My cals tey run vild, my cows tey run try,
No putter my voman can make;
My pees leave de hives, my gattles dey dies,
No gomfort at all can I dake.'
One evening when all had retired to bed
And left the old man in his chair,
He sighed as the darkness grew thicker, and said,
"Ich wold garn ins bet ga won ich darf."
But the old mansion shook with a November gale,
Dread spectres were stalking without,
And howl'd through each crevice the horrible tale
That Mynheer was thinking about.
Dense wreaths of tobacco smoke curled round his head
While the old kitchen clock, that for years
Had measured each moment of time as it sped
Tick'd louder to banish his fears.
But the darkness grew thicker, the candle burnt blue,
A sulphurous smell filled the room,
While the tumult without waxed fiercer, as grew
The clock face more pale in the gloom.
While Van Hochtail thus mused (for that was his name)
The clock in the corner tolled one;
The candle went out, when a fit seized his frame
And he thought, sure the devil is come.
The door was thrown open, a figure rushed in,
A bellowing sound-then a crash;
All consciousness fled, while away on the wind
The Dutchinan was borne in a flash.
The whole of that night, in the form of a horse,
He scoured the country around,
With a witch on his back, as a matter of course,
And not until morning he found
Himself in his chair, his hat in his hand,
His pipe and his wig on the floor;
The storm had passed off, the morning was clear And the clock tick'd on as before.
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MESSRS. HALL AND ARTMAN BY FRANCES J. CROSBY.
Oh, speak not harshly to the humble poor,
Nor chide the wanderer that with trembling hand
Taps at your door, and in a feeble voice,
Choked with emotion, asks a simple crust,
Which human sympathy could not deny.
Ye little know the wrongs that heart hath borne;
The bitter anguish that hath rudely crushed
Its best affections. Nature is but weak;
And though it long may patiently endure,
May struggle hard to bear its toilsome lot,
Yet there are moments when the aching breast,
Robb'd of its dearest hopes and brightest joys,
· Feels like itself a burden, and would fain
Breathe its last sigh, and sleep its last long sleep.
The golden sun had set, and the blue sky,
Yet beautiful with rich crimson tints,
That softly lingered on its azure breast,
Seemed wooing nature to a sweet repose.
Calm and serene the evening star looked forth,
As if to chant His praise who gave her birth;
All, all was lovely; 'twas the hallowed hour
When memory whispers of long-absent ones,
And bears us back to days and years gone by.
A weary man, whose form was bent with age,
Whose silver locks were floating on the breeze,
That seemed to pity as it passed him by,
Had turned, dejected, from the busy throng,
And with a look which might have moved a heart
Of adamant, was wending his lone way
Towards his humble cottage. All day long
Through crowded streets his wild harp he had borns
And o'er and o'er its rustic airs had played,
To those who heeded not, till, sick at heart,
When the dim shadows of the twilight came,
He gathered up his scanty pittance, and
Covering his face with his shriveled hand,
He wept, not for himself, but for his child.
Within a drear and comfortless abode,
On a rude couch, a gentle girl reclined;
Her cheek was pale as marble, and her eye
Turned ever and anon, with restless glance,
Toward the open casement. Hark! 'tis he!
She faintly murmured, while a placid smile
O'erspread her pallid features. Yes; 'tis he;
My father! And the old man slowly bent
O'er that loved form, and pressed his lips to hers.
There was a change, a sad and fearful change,
Since he had left her at the early morn;
And he felt that the icy hand of death
Was at her heart. "Twas more than he could bear.
My child, he said, the
How can I lose thee?
staff of my old age,
Thou wert all to me;
And who will comfort me when thou art gone!
God will protect thee, (was the quick response,)
Father! she paused for breath, then suddenly,
As if a light had burst upon her soul,—
Father, ere from the world and thee I part,
There is a secret I would fain disclose.
Dost thou remember Rodolph? At that name
She slightly trembled, but her voice grew calm
As she proceeded: Near our happy cot, my childhood home, There was a shady nook, o'erhung with woodbines and the
And there at eve, with Rodolph by my side,
While the light zephyrs with their silken wings,
Fanned the sweet flowers that slept beneath our feet,
I listened to the gentle words he breathed.
He sought my hand-my heart had long been his;
But my mother from thine arms was torn,
And laid beneath the cold and silent tomb.
I felt 'twere wrong to leave thee thus alone.
Yet, Rodolph was unchanged; and when the storms Of adverse fortune drove us from our home,
To seek a shelter in a foreign clime,
I saw the tear-drop gather in his eye;
He clasped my hand convulsively in his,
And whispered, "Ella, thou shalt yet be mine."
Three long and weary years since then have passed,
And he perchance ere this hath wooed and won
A lovelier maiden. Oh, how I have prayed
And struggled to forget him, but in vain.
She ceased. The old man with attentive ear
Had listened to the long suspected cause
Of that deep sorrow, which too well he knew
Had nipp'd the rose-bud in its tender bloom,
And doomed his idol to an early grave.
Oh, what a sacrifice, he groaned aloud;
God bless thee, Elia; I have ill repaid
A love so holy and so pure as thine.
"Twas then a traveler on his jaded steed
Paused at that dwelling, and in breathless haste
Flew up the narrow staircase; hope and fear
Alternate whispering to his anxious heart.
The old man's last words fell upon his ear:
It is enough, he cried; thank heaven she lives!
And springing forward, in his trembling arms
He clasped that dying girl, now but the wreck
Of what he once had deemed so beautiful.
It was too late. One long and lingering gaze
From those deep eyes of mild ethereal blue,
And with her head pillowed upon his breast,
And his dear name upon her quivering lip.
Her gentle spirit passed from earth away,
With scarce a sigh to tell that she had gone.
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