His beating heart is not at rest;
And far and wide,
With ceaseless flow,
His beard of snow
Heaves with the heaving of his breast.
He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands,
With her foot upon the sands!
Decked with flags and streamers gay,
In honor of her marriage day,
Her snow-white signals, fluttering, blending,
Round her like a veil descending,
The bride of the gray old Sea.
Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand:
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs!
She starts she moves
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray;
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth and all her charms!"
How beautiful she is! how fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!
Sail forth into the sea, O, ship!
Through wind and wave, right onward steer!
The moistened eye, the trembling lip,
Are not the signs of doubt or fear.
Sail forth into the sea of life,
Oh, gentle, loving, trusting wife,
And safe from all adversity,
Upon the bosom of that sea
Thy comings and thy goings be!
For gentleness, and love, and trust,
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
And in the wreck of noble lives
Something immortal still survives!
Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all its hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What workman wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge, and what a heat,
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.
Fear not each sudden sound and shock;
'Tis of the wave, and not the rock;
'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale;
In spite of rock and tempest roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee;
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
are all with thee!
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout, For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,We who have worked together so long as man and wife
Must pull in single harness the rest of our natʼral life.
What is the matter," says you? I swan! it's hard to tell!
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well;
I have no other woman she has no other man;
Only we've lived together as long as ever we can.
So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;
And we've agreed together that we can never agree;
Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime;
We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a time.
There was a stock of temper we both had, for a start;
Although we ne'er suspected 't would take us two apart;
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,
And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.
The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed,
Was somethin' concerning heaven - a difference in our creed;
We arg'ed the thing at breakfast - we arg'ed the thing at tea-
And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we could n't agree.
And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow;
She had kicked the bucket, for certain the question was only
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had;
And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad.
And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.
And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;
And she said I was mean and stingy, and had n't any soul.
And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way;
Always somethin' to arg'e and somethin' sharp to say,-
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o' dozen strong,
And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.
And there have been days together and many a weary weekWhen both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;
And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the summer and fall,
If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all.
And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;
And we have agreed together that we can never agree;
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;
And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign.
Write on the paper, lawyer — the very first paragraph —
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;
For she has helped to earn it, through many a weary day,
And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay.
Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam,
But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.
And I have always determined, and never failed to say,
That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.
There's a little hard money besides, that 's drawin' tol'rable pay,
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,-
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;
Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.
I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' her so much;
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;
True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and young,
And Betsy was always good to me, exceptin' with her tongue.
When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;
And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken down,
And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.
Once, when I had a fever - I won't forget it soon
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.
And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen;
And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her acts,
Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other facts.
So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to-night,
And read the agreement to her and see if it's all right;
And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a tradin' man I know
And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll
go.
And one thing put in the paper, that first to me did n't occur;
That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,
And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,
When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.
And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;
And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we 'll then agree;
And if ever we meet in heaven, I would n't think it queer
If we loved each other the better because we 've quarreled here..
-Will M. Carleton.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel.— Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
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