TO MY MOTHER FORRESTER. [It is hardly necessary to say that too much tenderness cannot be imparted to the voice while reading these beautiful lines. The heart that rocals a departed mother's memory will be the best monitor.] GIVE me my old seat, mother, With my head upon thy knee: I've passed through many a changing scene, O! let me look into thine eyes; I've not been long away, mother; Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek, Tis but a little time, I know, But very long it seems; Though every night I came to thee, Dear mother, in my dreams. The world has kindly dealt, mother, Which made that path so dearly bright; Which strewed the roses there; Which gave the light, and cast the balm I bear a happy heart, mother; And, even now, new buds of hope Oh! mother! life may be a dream; I bear a happy heart, mother! And hear soft tones and winning words, And then, the tears my spirit weeps And, like a houseless dove, I long Then I am very sad, mother, O! there's no heart whose inmost fold Though sunny smiles wreath blooming lips, Then with a closer clasp, mother, Come oft-too oft thou canst not come! And for thy darling pray. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. LONGFELLOW. [Like most of the poems of this master-spirit of lyric art, this speci men is pervaded by a tone of sad sweetness, like the odor of flowers which blossom upon children's graves. It should be recited with a modulated cadence, and at times the voice should be slightly tremulous.] When the hours of day are numbered, Wake the better soul that slumbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Shadows from the fitful firelight Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the being beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep, And she sits and gazes at me, With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saintlike, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! Sees THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS ANONYMOUS. [The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the shepherd-parent as he the youngest of his babes " borne in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his golgotha of a nest. Much force of attitude and gesture is not only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans forward following the flight of the vulture.] I'VE been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more. And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear: The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous. But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus: "It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, "One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again." "I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care, But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air. "Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye! "My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free, At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed: Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.` "The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view : But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight; "T was only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. "All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached! "I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away; I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to de cay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred, The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head." That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh. And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. |