That the cold March wind and the doctor and death, From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers, Our love was strong as a six-horse team, And possibly wiser than we, But Death, with the aid of doctor and steam, He closed the peepers, and silenced the breath And her form lies cold in the deep, proud mold, The foot of the hunter shall press the grave, In their odorous beauty, around it wave And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass, And the nectar laden bee With his dreamy hum on his gauze wings pass,— She wakes no more to me. Oh! never more to me, Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, She awakes no more to me. Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night, A vision of beauty I see; Gliding soft to my bedside-a phantom of light- My bride that was to be, And I wake to mourn that the Doctor and Death, Adorable Deborah Lee, That angels should want her up in heaven ABSENCE.-FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours How shall I charm the interval that lowers FF Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, - Weary with longing? Shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence Cheat myself to forget the present day? Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes paina. I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thing; OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR HOUSE. MAY MIGNONETTE. Sequel to "Over the Hill to the Poor-House "* OVER_the_hills to the poor-house sad paths have been made to-day, For sorrow is near, such as maketh the heads of the young turn gray, See No. 4, page 27. Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered breath The sorrow that leads to the chamber whose light has gone out in death. To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and Charley, word sped That Mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps when they hoard might be dead; But e'en while they wrote she was praying that some of her children might come, To hear from her lips their last blessing before she should start for her home. To Susan, poor Susan! how bitter the agony brought by the cail, For deep in her heart for her mother wide rooms had been left after all; And now, that she thought, by her fireside one place had been vacant for years,— And while "o'er the hills" she was speeding her path might be traced by her tears. Rebecca? she heard not the tidings, but those who bent over her knew That led by the Angel of Death, near the waves of the river she drew; Delirious, ever she told them her mother was cooling her head, While, weeping, they thought that ere morning both mother and child might be dead. And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was quiv'ring in aspenlike grief, While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him like billows of wind o'er the leaf; "Too late," were the words that had humbled his cold, Laughty pride to the dust, And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, crowned loving forgiveness with trust. Bowed over his letters and papers, sat Thomas, his brow lined by thought, But little be heeded the markets or news of his gains that they brought; His lips giew as pale as his cheek, but new purpose seemed born in his eye, And Thomas went "over the hills," to the mother that snortly must die. To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the mother's mes sage that morn, And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the sunlight blushed over the corn; And, strangest of all, by his side, was the wife he had "brought from the town," And silently wept, while her tears strung with diamonds her plain mourning gown. For each had been thinking, of late, how they missed the old mother's sweet smile, And wond'ring how they could have been so blind and unjust all that while; They thought of their harsh, cruel words, and longed to atone for the past, When swift o'er the heart of vain dreams swept the presence of death's chilling blast. So into the chamber of death, one by one, these sad children had crept, As they, in their childhood, had done, when mother was tired and slept, And peace, rich as then, came to each, as they drank in her blessing, so deep, That, breathing into her life, she fell back in her last blessed sleep. And when "o'er the hills from the poor-house, " that mother is tenderly borne, The life of her life, her loved children, tread softly, and silently mourn, For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as the ocean is deep, And into our lives, with sweet healing, the balm of their bruising may creep. For swift come the flashings of temper, and torrents of words come as swift, Till out 'mong the tide-waves of anger, how often we thoughtlessly drift! And heads that are gray with life's ashes, and fect that walk down 'mong the dead, We send "o'er the hills to the poor-house" for love, and, it may be, for bread. Oh! when shall we value the living while yet the keen sickle is stayed, Nor slight the wild flower in its blooming, till all its sweet life is decayed? Yet often the fragrance is richest, when poured from the bruised blossom's soul, And "over the hills from the poor-house" the rarest of melo Cincinnati Times and Chronicle. dies roll. EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH ON TEMPERANCE. SCHUYLER Colfax. I HAVE Come before you this beautiful Sabbath afternoon not to speak to you about political parties nor about the details of legislation. I come to speak to you, if pos sible, heart to heart, soul to soul, not to denounce, but, if possible, to persuade. I come not to demand, but to plead with every one of you. I come to speak for that liberty which makes us free; that liberty which elevates body and soul above the thraldom of the intoxicating cup. We have passed through scenes that have rocked this land to its centre, on the question whether human slavery should continue on our soil. It was but the slavery of the body. It was but for this life. But the slavery against which I speak to-day is the slavery of not only soul and body and talent and heart for this life, but is a slavery which goes beyond the gates of the tomb to an unending eternity. We speak of the horrors of war, and there are horrors in war. Carnage, and bloodshed, and mutilation, and broken frames, and empty sleeves, and widows' weeds, and childrens' woes, and enormous debts and grinding taxation, all come from war, though war may be a necessity for saving a nation's life. But it fails in all its horrors, compared with those that flow from intoxication. We shudder at the ravages of pestilence, and famine, but they sink into insignificance when compared with the sorrow and anguish that follow in the train of this conqueror of fallen humanity. I see before me many distinguished in political, social, and business life; and some of them I fear are to-day voluntarily enrolled in the great army of moderate drink ers. When you appeal to them to give the force of their influence and example to the prevention of the evil, their answer is that they have strength to resist they can quit when they please. Possibly you may have, but before you all I can frankly acknowledge, from what I have seen in public and private life, that I dare not touch or tasto or handle the wine bowl. You say you are strong. I can |