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next Northern mail to carry along, we saw that Kroller would be properly attended to, and then started on.
The rest of the trip we ran in safety, though I could see the passengers were not wholly at ease, and would not be until they were entirely clear of the railway. A heavy purse was made up by them for the German student, and he accepted it with much gratitude, and I was glad of it; for the current of gratitude to him may have prevented a far different current of feeling which might have poured upon my head for having engaged a madman to run a railroad train.
But this is not the end. Martin Kroller remained insensible from the efects of the blow nearly two weeks; and when he recovered from that, he was sound again, his insanity was all gone. I saw him about three weeks afterward, but he had no recollection of me. He remembered nothing of the past year, not even his mad freak on my engine.
But I remembered it, and I remember it still; and the people need never fear that I shall be imposed upon again by a crazy engineer.
ANSWER TO "FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING."
It is all very well for the poets to tell,
By way of their songs' adorning,
At five o'clock in the morning;
The charms of their straw beds scorning,
At five o'clock in the morning!
Believe not a word that they utier;
Bring beaux-or even bring butter;
Would do so, perhaps, in a horning,
At five o'clock in the morning?
It may not be wrong for the man in the song,
Or the moon--if anxious to settle, -
What if he popped down on a nettle?
If, in spite of friendly warning,
At five o'clock in the morning ?
But if I were a maid all forlorning,
At five o'clock in the morning,
If net, I'd turn on him with scorning, “Don't come here, you flat, with conundrums like that,
At five o'clock in the morning.”
A MIDSUMMER DAY SCENE.
The farmer sat in his easy chair,
Smoking his pipe of clay,
Was clearing the dinner away;
With a tear on his wrinkled face;
Had sat long ago in that place.
Where the sun, after noon, would steal;
Was turning the spinning-wheel;
While close to his heaving breast
Of his dear grandchild were pressed.
LEONA.-Jas, G. CLARKE.
Leona, the hour draws nigh,
The hour we've awaited so long,
Its voice in an infinite song.
Just now, as the slumbers of night
Came o'er me with peace-giving breath, The curtain half lifted, revealed to my sight Those windows which look on the kingdom of light
That borders the river of death.
And a vision fell, solemn and sweet,
Bringing gleams of a morning-lit land;
Who walked on the beautiful strand.
And I wondered why spirits should cling
To their clay with a struggle and sigh,
In a climate where leaves never die.
Leona, come close to my bed,
And lay your dear hand on my brow; The same touch that thrilled me in days that are fled, And raised the lost roses of youth from the dead,
Can krighten the brief moments now.
We have loved from the cold world apart,
And your trust was too generous and true For their hate to o'erthrow; when the slanderer’s dart Was rankling deep in my desolate heart,
I was dearer than ever to you.
I thank the great Father for this,
That our love is not lavished in vain; Each germ in the future will blossom to bliss, And the forms that we love, and the lips that we kiss,
Never shrink at the shadow of pain.
By the light of this faith am I taught
That my labor is only begun;
In the strength of this hope have I struggled and fought
The gleam of Eternity's sun.
From headland, from hillside, and deep,
And the dews are beginning to weep.
Down the broad-breasted mountains away;
I shall rise in a limitless day.
Oh! come not in tears to my tomb,
Nor plant with frail flowers the sod;
In the balm-breathing gardens of God.
Which bind me to you and to earth,
And visit the home of its birth. 'Twould even be pleasant to stay,
And walk by your side to the last;
And its tumult is hushed in the past.
That is gathering now, ever be
Over lowland and river to me.
ANSWER TO “LEONA."
My darling, I'm close to your bed,
My hand is still laid on your brow,
And my life seems all desolate now.
Oh, speak to me, arling, once more!
Once more lift your eyes to my face, With the same trusting glance that so blessed me of yore, And the same tender smile that to greet me you wore,
When I thrilled at your loving embrace.
Let me feel the caress of your hand,
Hear your voice in its sweet melody, Teach me more of that home in the “ morning-llt land,” Before you cross o'er to the beautiful strand,"
Leaving time and its trials to me.
All alone in the darkness I weep,
But you heed not my tears as they fall;
And cannot hear their soft call.
“Leona,"—the whisper comes low,
Like the soft summer wind through the trees, And I listen to catch the faint murmurous flow Of the musical words that are rippling so low,
While my spirit is fanned by the breeze
That is wafted on angels' white wings
From the “balm-breathing gardens” above;
And shows me the form that I love.
Oh, friend of my youth's happy hours!
Oh, love of my life's later years! As I gaze on you now, in those heavenly bowers, Where angels have welcomedandcrowned you with flowery
Enchanted I smile thronik my tears.
But the mist from life's river will rise
And hide the dear vision from view;
And light me o'er lowland to you.