Ah, no! the poor and wretched There's work enough for Christians This was his charge to them,"Go, preach the word, beginning Here,-at Jerusalem." O Christian! God has promised, A cup of pure cold water, Shall find reward in heaven. PATRIOTISM. PATRIOTISM.-T. F. MEAGHER. 317 BEREFT of patriotism, the heart of a nation will be cold and cramped and sordid; the arts will have no enduring impulse, and commerce no invigorating soul; society will degenerate, and the mean and vicious triumph. Patriotism is not a wild and glittering passion, but a glorious reality. The virtue that gave to Paganism its dazzling lustre—to Barbarism its redeeming traitto Christianity its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives to console, to sanctify humanity. It has its altar in every clime-its worship and festivities. On the heathered hills of Scotland the sword of Wallace is yet a bright tradition. The genius of France, in the brilliant literature of the day, pays its high homage to the piety and heroism of the young Maid of Orleans. In her new Senate-Hall, England bids her sculptor place, among the effigies of her greatest sons, the images of Hampden and of Russell. In the gay and graceful capital of Belgium, the daring hand of Geefs has reared a monument full of glorious meaning to the three hundred martyrs of the revolution. By the soft, blue waters of Lake Lucerne stands the chapel of William Tell. On the anniversary of his revolt and victory, across those waters, as they glitter in the July sun, skim the light boats of the allied cantons. From the prows hang the banners of the republic, and, as they near the sacred spot, the daughters of Lucerne chant the hymns of their old poetic land. Then bursts forth the glad Te Deum, and Heaven again hears the voice of that wild chivalry of the mountains which, five centuries since, pierced the white eagle of Vienna, and flung it bleeding on the rocks of Uri. At Innspruck, in the black aisle of the old cathedral, the peasant of the Tyrol kneels before the statue of Andreas Hofer. In the defiles and valleys of the Tyrol, who forgets the day on which he fell within the walls of Mantua? It is a festive day all through his quiet, noble land. In that old cathedral his inspiring memory is recalled amid the pageantries of the altar-his image appears in every house-his victories and virtues are proclaimed in the songs of the people-and when the sun goes down, a chain of fires, in the deep red light of which the eagle spreads his wings and holds his giddy revelry, proclaims the glory of the chief, whose blood has made his native land a sainted spot in Europe. Shall not all join in this glorious worship? shall not all have the faith, the duties, the festivities of patriotism? TOO LATE.-FITZHUGH LUDLOW. HERE sat an old man on a rock, THERE And unceasing bewailed him of fate, That it could drown the old man's song For he sang the song, "Too late! too late!" "When we want, we have for our pains While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold, "When strawberries seemed like red heavens, When my brain was at sixes and sevens, When the goodies all came in a stream-in a stream! "I've a splendid blood-horse-and a liver That it jars into torture to trot; My rowboat's the gem of the river— LOVE AND AGE. I can buy boundless credit on Paris and Rome, Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at home, "How I longed, in that lonest of garrets Where the tiles baked my brains all July, A rose-bush-a little thatched cottage- With a woman's empty chair close by-close by! "Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, I have shared one seat with the great; I have sat, knowing naught of the clock, But the lips that kissed and the arms that caressed, I LOVE AND AGE. PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips growing, When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, We wandered hand in hand together; You grew a lovely, roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; 319 320 LOVE AND AGE. And I did love you very dearly How dearly, words want power to show; Then other lovers came around you; On rank and wealth your hand bestow; And I lived on to wed another; You grew a matron, plump and comely, No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearthstone's wintry glow, Time passed. My oldest girl was married, Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, And that is not ten years ago. |