And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown; And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown! Now, all those things are over-yes, all thy pretty ways, Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays; And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls, The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom; And, for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. The time is come. See he how he points his eager hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey! With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. THE GRATEFUL SLAVE. THE famous Oriental philosopher Lockman, while a slave, being presented by his master with a bitter melon, immediately ate it all. "How was it possible," said his master, "for you to eat so nauseous a fruit?" Lockman replied, "I have received so many favours from you, that it is no wonder I should once in my life eat a bitter melon from your hand." This generous answer of the slave struck the master to such a degree that he immediately gave him his liberty. With such sentiments should man receive his portion of sufferings at the hand of God. MOOMA. A LITTLE way alone into the wood The father gently moved toward the sound, Treading with quiet feet upon the grassy ground. Anon advancing thus, the trees between The strains which she had learnt from all sweet birds of spring. For these had been her teachers, these alone; At length into a descant of her own And now as blithe as bird in vernal bower, In joy had she begun the ambitious song As if the voice exulted there to dwell: That with the music of its dying strain When now the father issued from the wood Wherefore he came; his garb and beard she knew: All that her mother heard, had then indeed been true. Nor was the Father filled with less surprise: He too strange fancies well might entertain, When this so fair a creature met his eyes. He might have thought her not of mortal strain, Rather as bards of yore were wont to feign A nymph divine of Mondai's secret stream, Or haply of Diana's woodland train: For in her beauty Mooma such might seem, Being less a child of earth, than like a poet's dream. No art of barbarous ornament had scarred And stained her virgin limbs, or 'filed her face; In her sweet countenance the natural grace Across her shoulders was a hammock flung, eyes, And trembling like a leaf upon the spray, Even for excess of joy. IDEAL OF A WIFE. THE world must go on its own way: for all we can say against it, radiant beauty, though it beams over the organization of a doll, will have its hour of empire --the most torpid heiress will easily get herself married; but the wife whose sweet nature can kindle worthy |