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Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea, -
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Marblehead!
Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head and fist and hat and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!”
Sweetly along the Salem road
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
Little the wicked skipper knew
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
Riding there in his sorry trim,
Like an Indian idol, glum and grim,
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
Of voices shouting far and near:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd heart,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!”
“Hear me, neighbors !” at last he cried,-
“ What to me is this noisy ride?
What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within?
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
Hate me and curse me-I only dread
The hand of God and the face of the dead!"

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Marblehead!
Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, “God has touched him, --why should we?”
Said an old wife, mourning her only son,
“Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!”
So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Ilalf scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart

By the women of Darblehead!

THE DRUMMER'S BRIDE.

Mollow-eyed and pale, at the window of a jail,
Through her soft, disheveled hair a maniac did stare, stare,

stare! At a distance, down the street, making music with their feet, Came the soldiers from the wars, all embellished with their

scars,
To the tapping of a drum, of a drum;
To the pounding and the sounding of a drum!
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!

The woman heaves a sigh, and a fire fills her eye.
When she hears the distant drum, she cries, “Ilere they

come! here they come!”
Then, clutching fast the grating, with eager, nervous waiting,
See, she looks into the air, through her long and silky hair,
For the echo of a drum, of a drum;
For the cheering and the hearing of a drum!
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!
And nearer, nearer, nearer, comes, more distinct and clearer,
The rattle of the drumming: shrieks the woman, “ He is

coming, He is coming now to me: quick, drummer, quick, till I see!” And her eye is glassy bright, while she beats in mad delight To the echo of a drum, of a drum; To the rapping, tapping, tapping, of a drum! Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum! Now she sees them, in the street, march along with dusty

feet, As she looks through the spaces, gazing madly in their faces; And she reaches out her hand, screaming wildly to the bard;

But her words, like her lover, are lost beyond recover,
Mid the beating of a drum, of a drum;
Mid the clanging and the banging of a drunı !
Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!

So the pageant passes by, and the woman's flashing eye
Quickly loses all its stare, and fills with a tear, with a tear,
As, sinking from her place, with her hands upon her face,
"Hear!” she weeps and sobs as mild as a disappointed child ;
Sobbing, “He will never come, never come!"
Now nor ever, never, never, will he come
With his drum, with his drum, with his drum! drum, drum,

drum!

Still the drummer, up the street, beats his distant, dying beat, And she shouts, within her cell," Ha! they're marching down

to hell, And the devils dance and wait at the open iron gate: Hark! it is the dying sound, as they march into the ground, To the sighing and the dying of the drum! To the throbbing and the sobbing of the drum! Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!”

A DYING HYMN.-ALICE CARY.

Mrs. Ames, in her touchingly beautiful Memorial of Alice and Phæbe Cary. tells us the last stanza Alice ever wrote was

" As the poor panting hart to the water-brook runs,

As the water-brook runs to the sea,--
So earth's fainting daughters and famishing sons,

O Fountain of Love, run to Thee!' “The writing is trembling and uncertain, and the pen literally fell from her hand; for the long shadows of eternity were stealing over her, and she was very near the place where it is too dark for mortal eye to see, and where there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge. She had written earlier what she called, "A Dying Hymn,' and it was a consolation to her to repeat it in her moments of agony:"

Earth with its dark and dreadful ills

Recedes, and fades away ;
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills!

Ye gates of death, give way!
My soul is full of whispered song;

My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long,

Are all alive with light.

The while my pulses faintly beat,

My faith doth so abound,
I feel grow firm beneath my feet

The green immortal ground.

That faith to me a courage gives

Low as the grave to go;
I know that my Redeemer lives:

That I shall live I know.

The palace walls I almost see,

Where dwells my Lord and King;
O grave, where is thy victory!

O death, where is thy sting!

STRONG DRINK.-J. A. SEISS.

The history of strong drink is the history of ruin, of tears, or blood. It is, perhaps, the greatest curse that ever scourged the earth. It is one of depravity's worst fruits, a giant demon of destruction. Men may talk of earthquakes, storms, conflagrations, famine, pestilence, despotism, and war, but intemperance in the use of intoxicating drinks has sent a volume of misery and woe into the stream of this world's history more fearful and terrific than any of them.

It is the Amazon and Mississippi among the rivers of wretchedness. It is the Alexander and Napoleon among the warriors upon the peace and good of man. It is an evil which is limited to no age, no continent, no nation, no party, no sex, no period of life. It has taken the poor man at his toil, and the rich man at his desk; the senator in the halls of state, and the drayman on the street; the young man in his festivities, and the old man in his repose,—and plunged them into a common ruin. It has raged equally in times of war and in times of peace, in periods of depression and in periods of prosperity, in republics and in monarchies, among the civilized and among the savages.

Since the time that Noah came out of the ark, and planted vineyards, and drank of their wines, we read in all histories of its terrible doings, and never once lose sight of its black and bloody tracks. States have recorded enactments against it, ecclesiastical penalties have been imposed upon it, societies have succeeded societies for its extermination, but, like him whose name was Legior, no man has been able to bind it.

It was strong drink that brought the original curse of ser. vitude upon the descendants of Ham, that has eaten away the strength of empires, wasted the energies of states, blotted out the names of families, and crowded hell with tenants. Egypt, the source of science; Babylon, the wonder and glory of the world; Greece, the home of learning and of liberty; Rome, the mistress of the eartlı,-each in its turn had its heart lacerated by this dreadful canker-worm, and thus became an easy prey to the destroyer.

It has drained tears enough to make a sea, expended treasure enough to exhaust Golconda, shed blood enough to redden the waves of every ocean, and wrung out wailing enough to make a chorus to the lamentations of the underworld. Some of the mightiest intellects, some of the most generous natures, some of the happiest homes, some of the noblest specimens of man, it has blighted and crushed, and buried in squalid wretchedness.

It has supplied every jail and penitentiary and almshouse and charity hospital in the world with tenants. It has sent forth beggars on every street, and flooded every city with bestiality and crime. It has, perhaps, done more toward bringing earth and hell together than any other form of vice.

Could we but dry up this one moral ulcer, and sweep away forever all the results of this one form of sin, we would hardly need such things as prisons, asylums, charity-houses, or police. The children of haggard want would sit in the halls of plenty. The tears of orphanage and widowhood and disappointed hope would dwindle in a goodly measure. Disease would be robbed of much of its power. The clouds would vanish from ten thousand afflicted homes, and peace breathe its fragrance on the world, almost as if the day of its redemption had come.

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