'Pity thee! So I do! I pity the dumb victim at the altar But does the robed priest for his pity falter? I'd rack thee though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine What were ten thousand to a fame like mine? Hereafter'! Ay-hereafter! A whip to keep a coward to his track! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back Come from the grave to-morrow with that story - 'No, no, old man! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, 'Yet there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 6 Ay- though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 'All I would do it all Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! Oh heavens! - but I appal Your heart, old man! forgive—ha! on your lives 'Vain vain Glazes apace. give o'er! His eye He does not feel you now— Stand back! I'll paint the death dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die But for one moment. Conception with the scorn of those calm lips! Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now - that was a difficult breath - Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders-gasps-Jove help him!-so-he's dead." THE BELFRY PIGEON. ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, I love to see him track the street, 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon— When the sexton cheerly rings for noon When the clock strikes clear at morning light – NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. Filling the spirit with tones of prayer — Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast, Then drops again with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird! I would that I could be But, unlike me, when day is o'er, TIRED OF PLAY. TO A PICTURE OF A CHILD AT PLAY. TIRED of play! Tired of play! The sun is creeping up steeple and tree; And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; How hast thou spent it restless one? Playing! But what hast thou done beside What promise of morn is left unbroken? There will come an eve to a longer day, Were as free from sin and shame as now! T |