That the cold March wind and the doctor and death,

Took off my Deborah Lee,
From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers,

And tuuk her away from me.

Our love was strong as a six-horse team,

Or the love of folks older than we,

And possibly wiser than we,-
But Death, with the aid of doctor and steam,

Was rather too many for me;
He closed the peepers, and silenced the breath

Of my sweetheart, Deborah Lee,-
And her form lies cold in the deep, proud mold,

Silent and cold-ah me!

The foot of the hunter shall press the grave,

And the prairie's sweet wild flowers,
In their odorous beauty, around it wave

Through all the sunny hours ;
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 I never more to me,
Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring,

She awakes no more to me.
Yet oft in the lush of the dim, still night,

A vision of beauty I see;
Gliding soft to my bedside-a phantom of light-

Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,

My bride that was to be,
And I wake to mourn that the Doctor and Death,
And the cold March wind should stop the breath

Of my darling Deborah Lee,
Adorable Deborah Lee,
That angels should want her up in lieaven

Before they wanted me.


What shall I do with all the days and hours

That must be counted ere I sce thy face?
How sball I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of gracer


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 i 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 bear? How may I teach my drooping hope to live

Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold

Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told

While thou, beloved one! art far from ne. For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy straius; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently

Through these long hours, nor call their min:ites pains, 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; So may my love and longing hallowed be,

And thy dear thought an influence divine.



Sequel to “ Over the Hill to the Poor-House "*

OVER the hills to the poor-louse sad paths lavn been made

to-day, For sorrow is near, such as maketh the heads of the young Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered

tuin gray,

• See No. 4, page 27.

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

hoars 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

call, For deep in her heart for her mother wide rooms had been left

altei all; And now, that she thought, by her fireside one place had been

vacait for years, — And while “o'er the hills” she was speeding her path might

be t:uced 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 aspen

like grief, While apps 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 for

giveness 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 shortly must die.

To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the mother's mol

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 "broi ght

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 "v'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 thought

lessly drift! And heads that are gray with life's ashes, and feet that walk

down ʼmong the dead, We send “o'er tlie 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 dies roll.

Cincinnati Timcs and Chronicle.



I HAVE come before you this beautiful Sabbath afteruoon not to speak to you about political parties nor about the details of legislation. I come to speak to you, if possible, 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 borrors 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

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