Sitting his big bay horse astride. 'Run for your lives to the hills!" he cried; "Run to the hills!" was what he said As he waved his hand and dashed ahead. "Run for your lives to the hills!" he cried, "Run to the hills! to the hills!" he cried; Run for your lives to the mountain-side!" 44 "Stop him! he's mad! just look at him go! Down through the valley the rider passed, Of the million feet and the millions more God alone might measure the force Of the Conemaugh flood in its V-shaped course. Behind him were buried under the flood Conemaugh town and all who stood Jeering there at the man who cried, Struck the bridge and swept it away Like a bit of straw or a wisp of hay. But over and under and through that tide The voice of the unknown rider cried. "Run to the hills! to the hills!" it cried"Run for your lives to the mountain-side!" JOHN ELIOT BOWEN. -Harper's Weekly, June 15, 1889. ON LIFE'S BANQUET STAIRS. WE pass each other on Life's banquet stairs; New guests are mounting to the festal light While we descend together to the night, Close muffled 'gainst the outside wintry airs. They tread upon our shadows as they climb With quick strong steps to join the crowd and crush. We see, in sparkling eyes and speaking blush, How expectation gilds the coming time. Young forms go by us, tossing rosy sprays Knew we such rest, true heart! when mounting up? Shall we stand by and carp at these-and say "Go giddy ones, and moth-like fire your wings,Pleasure is pain, and laughter sorrow brings." Shall we speak thus, who once were young as they? Nay-rather will we greet with smiles-our eyes For me-ah true! I've sung 'neath Heaven's dome Sung at my work-and bask'd in kindly rays That seem, when gleaming out of memory's haze, The efflorescence of an unseen Home. And I have known mute days of gloom and cloud When copse and wood were voiceless in the Spring To my shut ears.-When hope, outrun, took wing, And sorrow swathed my soul as with a shroud. |