New Century Speaker and Writer: Being a Standard Work on Composition and Oratory

EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

The Queen arrived in the hall of death. Pale but unflinching she contemplated the dismal preparations. There lay the block and the axe. There stood the executioner and his assistant. All were clothed in mourning. On the floor was scattered the sawdust which was to soak her blood, and in a dark corner lay the bier. It was nine o’clock when the Queen appeared in the funereal hall. Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, and certain privileged persons, to the number of more than two hundred, were assembled. The hall was hung with black cloth; the scaffold, which was elevated about two feet and a half above the ground, was covered with black frieze of Lancaster; the arm-chair in which Mary was to sit, the footstool on which she was to kneel, the block on which her head was to be laid, were covered with black velvet.

The Queen was clothed in mourning like the hall and as the ensign of punishment. Her black velvet robe, with its high collar and hanging sleeves, was bordered with ermine. Her mantle, lined with marten sable, was of satin, with pearl buttons and a long train. A chain of sweet-smelling beads, to which was attached a scapulary, and beneath that a golden cross, fell upon her bosom. Two rosaries were suspended to her girdle, and a long veil of white lace, which in some measure softened this costume of a widow and of a condemned criminal, was thrown around her.

Arrived on the scaffold, Mary seated herself in the chair provided for her, with her face toward the spectators. The Dean of Peterborough, in ecclesiastical costume, sat on the right of the Queen, with a black velvet footstool before him. The Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury were seated, like him, on the right, but upon larger chairs. On the other side of the Queen stood the Sheriff, Andrews, with white wand. In front of Mary were seen the executioner and his assistant, distinguishable by their vestments of black velvet with red crape round the left arm. Behind the Queen’s chair, ranged by the wall, wept her attendants and maidens.

In the body of the hall, the nobles and citizens from the neighboring counties were guarded by musketeers. Beyond the balustrade was the bar of the tribunal. The sentence was read; the Queen protested against it in the name of royalty and of innocence, but accepted death for the sake of the faith. She then knelt before the block and the executioner proceeded to remove her veil. She repelled him by a gesture, and turning toward the Earls with a blush on her forehead, “I am not accustomed,” she said, “to be undressed before so numerous a company, and by the hands of such grooms of the chamber.”

She then called Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, who took off her mantle, her veil, her chains, cross and scapulary. On their touching her robe, the Queen told them to unloosen the corsage and fold down the ermine collar, so as to leave her neck bare for the axe. Her maidens weepingly yielded her these last services. Melvil and the three other attendants wept and lamented, and Mary placed her finger on her lips to signify that they should be silent. She then arranged the handkerchief embroidered with thistles of gold with which her eyes had been covered by Jane Kennedy.

Thrice she kissed the crucifix, each time repeating, “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.” She knelt anew and leant her head on that block which was already scored with deep marks, and in this solemn attitude she again recited some verses from the Psalms. The executioner interrupted her at the third verse by a blow of the axe, but its trembling stroke only grazed her neck; she groaned slightly, and the second blow separated the head from the body.

Lamartine.

OVER THE RANGE.

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit,

I start and wake, it is so strange

To find myself alone, and Tom

Across the Range.

We brought him in with heavy feet

And eased him down; from eye to eye,

Though no one spoke, there passed a fear

That Tom must die.

He rallied when the sun was low,

And spoke; I thought the words were strange;

“It’s almost night, and I must go

Across the Range.”

“What, Tom?” He smiled and nodded: “Yes,

They’ve struck it rich there, Jim, you know,

The parson told us; you’ll come soon;

Now Tom must go.”

I brought his sweetheart’s pictured face:

Again that smile, so sad and strange,

“Tell her,” said he, “that Tom has gone

Across the Range.”

The last night lingered on the hill.

“There’s a pass, somewhere,” then he said,

And lip, and eye, and hand were still;

And Tom was dead.

Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit:

I start and wake, it is so strange

To find myself alone, and Tom

Across the Range.

J. Harrison Mills.

THE STORY OF CRAZY NELL.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and looked

Out on the road that passed my window wide,

And saw a woman and a fair-haired child

That knelt and picked the daisies at the side.

The child ran quickly with its gathered prize,

And, laughing, held it high above its head;

A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes,

And in that light a mother’s love I read.

She took the little hand, and both passed on;

The prattle of the child I still could hear,

Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone,

That came in loving words upon my ear.

“Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone,

But yet had left the recollection of that scene—

The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt

And picked the daisies on the roadside green.

I looked. The old familiar road was there—

A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too;

And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare

That fixed itself back where the daisies grew.

“Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child

Run from the daisies with its gathered prize;

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh

To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes.

“Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road

The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear;

Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now,

But full of loving words—I still could hear.

I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door;

He told the story—all there was to tell:

A little mound the village churchyard bore;

And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell.

Joseph Whitton.

LITTLE SALLIE’S WISH.

The following poem was written from facts, concerning a sweet little girl who lived in New York. When Summer came her parents took a cottage in the country, where the scene described was enacted.

I have seen the first robin of Spring, mother dear,

And have heard the brown darling sing;

You said, “Hear it and wish, and ’twill surely come true,”

So I’ve wished such a beautiful thing.

I thought I would like to ask something for you,

But couldn’t think what there could be

That you’d want, while you had all these beautiful things;

Besides you have papa and me.

So I wished for a ladder, so long that ’twould stand

One end by our own cottage door,

And the other go up past the moon and the stars,

And lean against heaven’s white floor.

Then I’d get you to put on my pretty white dress,

With my sash and my darling new shoes;

And I’d find some white roses to take up to God,

The most beautiful ones I could choose.

And you, dear papa, would sit on the ground,

And kiss me, and tell me “good-bye;”

Then I’d go up the ladder, far out of your sight,

Till I came to the door in the sky.

I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight?

If but one little crack I could see,

I would whisper, “Please, God, let this little girl in,

She’s as weary and tired as can be.

“She came all alone from the earth to the sky,

For she’s always been wanting to see

The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers;

Please, God, is there room there for me?”

And then when the angels had opened the door,

God would say, “Bring the little child here.”

But He’d speak it so softly, I’d not be afraid,

And He’d smile just like you, mother dear.

He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl,

And I’d ask Him to send down for you,

And papa, and cousin, and all that I love—

Oh, dear, don’t you wish ’twould come true?

The next Spring time, when the robins came home,

They sang over grasses and flowers,

That grew where the foot of the long ladder stood,

Whose top reached the heavenly bowers.

And the parents had dressed the pale, still child

For her flight to the Summer land,

In a fair white robe, with one snow-white rose

Folded tight in her pulseless hand.

And now at the foot of the ladder they sit,

Looking upward with quiet tears,

Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe

Of the child at the top re-appears.

DROWNED AMONG THE LILIES.

How the reeds and rushes quiver

On the low banks of the river,

And the leaning willows shiver

In a strange and deep affright,

And the water moans and murmurs

As it eddies round the lilies,

Like a human soul in sorrow,

Over something hid from sight.

How the shadows haunt the edges

Of the river, where the sedges

To the lilies whisper ever

Of some strange and awful deed!

How the sunshine, timid, frightened,

Dares not touch the spot it brightened

Yesterday, among the shadows

Of the lily and the reed.

What is that that floats and shimmers

Where the water gleams and glimmers,

In and out among the rushes,

Growing thick, and tall, and green?

Something yellow, long and shining

Something wondrous fair and silken,

Like a woman’s golden tresses,

With a broken flower between.

What is that, so white and slender,

Hidden, almost, by the splendor

Of a great white water lily,

Floating on the river there?

’Tis a hand stretched up toward Heaven,

As, when we would be forgiven,

We reach out our hands, imploring,

In an agony of prayer.

Tremble, reeds, and moan and shiver,

At your feet, in the still river,

Lies a woman, done forever,

With life’s mockery and woe.

God alone can know the sorrow,

All the bitterness and heartache,

Ended in the moaning river

Where the water lilies blow.

Eben E. Rexford.

THE FATE OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

The sunny land of France with streams of noblest blood was dyed,

Nor could a monarch’s royal veins suffice the insatiate tide;

And youth and beauty knelt in vain, and mercy ceased to shine,

And Nature’s holiest ties were loosed beneath the guillotine.

Wild war and rapine, hate and blood, and terror ruled supreme,

Till all who loved its vine-clad vales had ceased of peace to dream;

But there was one whose lover’s blood wrote vengeance in her soul,

Whom zeal for France and blighted hopes had bound in fast control.

Dark “Discord’s demon,” fierce Marat, his country’s fellest foe,

Belzance’s executioner, the fount of war and woe;

Demon alike in mind and face, he dreamt not of his fall,

Yet him the noble maiden doomed to vengeance and to Gaul.

O! had an artist seen them there as face to face they stand;

The noblest and the meanest mind in all that bleeding land;

The loveliest and most hideous forms that pencil could portray—

A picture might on canvas live that would not pass away.

“Point out the foes of France,” he said, “and ere to-morrow shine,

The blood, now warm within their veins, shall stain the guillotine.”

“The guillotine!” the maid exclaimed, the steel a moment gleams,

A moment more ’tis in his heart; adieu to all his dreams!

Before her judges Charlotte stands, undaunted, undismayed,

While eyes that never wept are wet with pity for the maid,

Unstained as beautiful she stands before the judgment seat,

Resigned to fate, her heart is calm while others wildly beat!

Alas! too sure her doom is read in those stern faces, while

Fear from her looks affrighted fled, where shone Minerva’s smile;

Hope she had none, or, if perchance she had, that hope was gone,

Yet in its stead ’twas not despair but brightest triumph shone!

“What was the cause?” “His crimes,” she said, her bleeding country’s foe,

Inspired her hand, impelled the steel, and laid the tyrant low;

Though well she knew her blood would flow for him she caused to bleed,

Yet what was death?—The crowning wreath that graced the noble deed!

Her doom is passed, a lovely smile dawns slowly o’er her face,

And adds another beauty to her calm majestic grace;

She does not weep, she does not shrink, her features are not pale,

The firmness that inspired her hand forbids her heart to fail!

’Tis morn; before the Tuilleries the dawn is breaking gray,

And thousands through the busy streets in haste pursue their way;

What means the bustle and the throng, the scene is nothing new—

A fair young lady, doomed to die, each day the same they view.

Before that home of bygone kings a gloomy scaffold stands,

Upreared in Freedom’s injured name to manacle her hands;

Some crowd to worship, some insult, the martyr in her doom,

But over friends and foes a cloud is cast of sombre gloom.

She stands upon the fatal spot angelically fair,

The roses of her cheek concealed beneath her flowing hair;

“Greater than Brutus,” she displays no sign of fear or dread,

But in a moment will be still and silent with the dead.

Her neck is bared, the fatal knife descends, and all is o’er,

The martyred heroine of France—of freedom dreams no more;

The insults of the wretched throng she hears no longer now,

But Death, man’s universal friend, sits on her pallid brow!

In life, fear never blanched her cheek; but now ’tis calm and pale,

Love and her country asked revenge, and both her fate bewail;

She fell, more glorious in her fall than chief or crowned queen,

A martyr in a noble cause, without a fault to screen!

Clare S. McKinley.

THE LITTLE VOYAGER.

Three little children in a boat

On seas of opal splendor;

The willing waves their treasure float

To rhythm low and tender;

Over their heads the skies are blue—

Where are the darlings sailing to?

They do not know—we do not know,

Who watch their pretty motions;

Safe moored within the harbor, though

They sail untraveled oceans;

They rock and sway and shut their eyes;

“No land in sight!” the helmsman cries!

“Oh, little children have you heard

Of ships that sail for pleasure;

And never wind or wave hath word

Of all their vanished treasure?

They were as blithe and gay as you

And sailed away as fearless, too!”

Then from the pleasure-freighted crew

One spake—a little maiden,

With sunny hair, and eyes of blue,

And lashes fair, dew-laden,

Her wise head gave a thoughtful nod—!

“Perhaps—they sailed—away to God!”

Mrs. M. L. Bayne.

THE DREAM OF ALDARIN.

This selection won a gold medal at a Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution in Philadelphia. It is a remarkable embodiment of tragedy and pathos.

A chamber with a low, dark ceiling, supported by massive rafters of oak; floors and walls of dark stone, unrelieved by wainscot or plaster—bare, rugged, and destitute.

A dim, smoking light, burning in a vessel of iron, threw its red and murky beams over the fearful contents of a table. It was piled high with the unsightly forms of the dead. Prostrate among these mangled bodies, his arms flung carelessly on either side, slept and dreamed Aldarin—Aldarin, the Fratricide.

He hung on the verge of a rock, a rock of melting bitumen, that burned his hands to masses of crisped and blackened flesh. The rock projected over a gulf, to which the cataracts of earth might compare as the rivulet to the vast ocean. It was the Cataract of Hell. He looked below. God of Heaven, what a sight! Fiery waves, convulsed and foaming, with innumerable whirlpools crimsoned by bubbles of flame. Each whirlpool swallowing millions of the lost. Each bubble bearing on its surface the face of a soul, lost and lost forever.

Born on by the waves, they raised their hands and cast their burning eyes to the skies, and shrieked the eternal death-wail of the lost.

Over this scene, awful and vast, towered a figure of ebony blackness, his darkened brow concealed in the clouds, his extended arms grasping the infinitude of the cataract, his feet resting upon islands of bitumen far in the gulf below. The eyes of the figure were fixed upon Aldarin, as he clung with the nervous clasp of despair to the rock, and their gaze curdled his heated blood.

He was losing his grasp; sliding and sliding from the rock, his feet hung over the gulf. There was no hope for him. He must fall—fall—and fall forever. But lo! a stairway, built of white marble, wide, roomy and secure, seemed to spring from the very rock to which he clung, winding upward from the abyss, till it was lost in the distance far, far above. He beheld two figures slowly descending—the figure of a warrior and the form of a dark-eyed woman.

He knew those figures; he knew them well. They were his victims! Her face, his wife’s! beautiful as when he first wooed her in the gardens of Palestine; but there was blood on her vestments, near the heart, and his lip was spotted with one drop of that thick, red blood. “This,” he muttered, “this, indeed, is hell, and yet I must call for aid—call to them!” How the thought writhed like a serpent round his very heart.

He drew himself along the rugged rock, clutching the red-hot ore in the action. He wanted but a single inch, a little inch and he might grasp the marble of the stairway. Another and a desperate effort. His fingers clutched it, but his strength was gone. He could not hold it in his grasp. With an eye of horrible intensity he looked above. “Thou wilt save me, Ilmerine, my wife. Thou wilt drag me up to thee.” She stooped. She clutched his blackened fingers and placed them around the marble. His grasp was tight and desperate. “Julian, O Julian! grasp this hand. Aid me, O Julian! my brother!” The warrior stooped, laid hold on his hand and drawing it toward the casement, wound it around another piece of marble.

But again his strength fails. “Julian, my brother; Ilmerine, my wife, seize me! Drag me from this rock of terror! Save me! O save me!” She stooped. She unwound finger after finger. She looked at his horror-stricken face and pointed to the red wound in her heart. He looked toward the other face. “Thou, Julian, reach me thy hand. Thy hand, or I perish!” The warrior slowly reached forth his hand from beneath the folds of his cloak. He held before the eyes of the doomed a goblet of gold. It shone and glimmered through the foul air like the beacon fire of hell.

“Take it away! ’Tis the death bowl!” shrieked Aldarin’s livid lips. “I murdered thee. Thou canst not save.” He drew back from the maddening sight. He lost his hold, he slid from the rock, he fell.

Above, beneath, around, all was fire, horror, death; and still he fell. “Forever and forever,” rose the shrieks of the lost. All hell groaned aloud, “Ever, ever. Forever and forever,” and his own soul muttered back, “This—this—is—hell!”

George Lippard.

IN THE MINING TOWN.

“Tis the last time, darling,” he gently said,

As he kissed her lips like the cherries red,

While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown.

“My own is the prettiest girl in town!

To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring

A joyful peal. Was there ever a king

So truly blessed, on his royal throne,

As I shall be when I claim my own?”

’Twas a fond farewell, ’twas a sweet good-by,

But she watched him go with a troubled sigh.

So, into the basket that swayed and swung

O’er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung.

And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe

As they lowered him into the depths below.

Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown,

Was the fairest face in the mining town.

Lo! the morning came; but the marriage-bell,

High up in the tower, rang a mournful knell

For the true heart buried ’neath earth and stone,

Far down in the heart of the mine, alone.

A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day,

For the breaking heart and the heart of clay,

And the face that looked from the tresses brown,

Was the saddest face in the mining town.

Thus time rolled along on its weary way,

Until fifty years, with their shadows gray,

Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes’ glow,

And had turned the brown of her hair to snow.

Oh! never the kiss from a husband’s lips,

Or the clasp of a child’s sweet finger-tips,

Had lifted one moment the shadows brown

From the saddest heart in the mining town.

Far down in the depths of the mine, one day,

In the loosened earth they were digging away.

They discovered a face, so young, so fair;

From the smiling lip to the bright brown hair

Untouched by the finger of Time’s decay.

When they drew him up to the light of day,

The wondering people gathered ’round

To gaze at the man thus strangely found.

Then a woman came from among the crowd,

With her long white hair and her slight form bowed.

She silently knelt by the form of clay,

And kissed the lips that were cold and gray.

Then, the sad old face, with its snowy hair

On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there.

He had found her at last, his waiting bride,

And the people buried them side by side.

Rose Hartwick Thorpe.

TOMMY’S PRAYER.

This beautiful poem is full of the pathos and suffering of poverty. It should be delivered with expression and feeling. Although lengthy the interest is sustained throughout.

In a dark and dismal alley where the sunshine never came,

Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate and lame;

He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was born,

Dragging out his weak existence well nigh hopeless and forlorn.

He was six, was little Tommy, ’twas just five years ago

Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled so.

He had never known the comfort of a mother’s tender care,

But her cruel blows and curses made his pain still worse to bear.

There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night,

Starved, neglected, cursed, ill-treated, naught to make his dull life bright;

Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love—

For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above.

’Twas a quiet summer evening; and the alley, too, was still;

Tommy’s little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, till,

Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inwards from the street,

Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh! so clear and sweet.

Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing nearer came—

Oh! that he could see the singer! How he wished he wasn’t lame.

Then he called and shouted loudly, till the singer heard the sound,

And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found.

’Twas a maiden, rough and rugged, hair unkempt and naked feet,

All her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat;

“So yer called me,” said the maiden, “wonder wot yer wants o’ me;

Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?”

“My name’s Tommy; I’m a cripple, and I want to hear you sing,

For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything.”

Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, “I can’t stay here very long,

But I’ll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the ‘Glory song’”

Then she sang to him of Heaven, pearly gates and streets of gold,

Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold;

But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end,

And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend.

Oh! how Tommy’s eyes did glisten as he drank in every word

As it fell from “Singing Jessie”—was it true, what he had heard?

And so anxiously he asked her: “Is there really such a place?”

And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face.

“Tommy, you’re a little heathen; why, it’s up beyond the sky,

And if yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die.”

“Then,” said Tommy; “tell me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love,

When I’m down in this ’ere cellar, and he’s up in Heaven above?”

So the little ragged maiden who had heard at Sunday-school

All about the way to Heaven, and the Christian’s golden rule,

Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love and how to pray,

Then she sang a “Song of Jesus,” kissed his cheek and went away.

Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold,

Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold;

And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room,

For the joy in Tommy’s bosom could disperse the deepest gloom.

“Oh! if I could only see it,” thought the cripple, as he lay.

“Jessie said that Jesus listens and I think I’ll try and pray;”

So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes,

And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies:

“Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as I didn’t know afore,

That yer cared for little cripples who is weak and very poor,

And I never heard of Heaven till that Jessie came to-day

And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray.

“You can see me, can’t yer, Jesus? Jessie told me that yer could,

And I somehow must believe it, for it seems so prime and good;

And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die,

In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky.

“Lord, I’m only just a cripple, and I’m no use here below,

For I heard my mother whisper she’d be glad if I could go;

And I’m cold and hungry sometimes; and I feel so lonely, too,

Can’t yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to Heaven along o’ you?

“Oh! I’d be so good and patient, and I’d never cry or fret;

And yer kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget;

I would love you all I know of, and would never make a noise—

Can’t you find me just a corner, where I’ll watch the other boys?

“Oh! I think yer’ll do it, Jesus, something seems to tell me so,

For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go;

How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright!

Come and fetch me, won’t yer, Jesus? Come and fetch me home to-night!”

Tommy ceased his supplication, he had told his soul’s desire,

And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire;

Then he turned towards his corner, and lay huddled in a heap,

Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep.

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could have seen his little face

As he lay there in the corner, in that damp and noisome place;

For his countenance was shining like an angel’s, fair and bright,

And it seemed to fill the cellar with a holy, heavenly light.

He had only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl,

He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to whirl;

But he took it as she told it, and believed it then and there,

Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His kind and tender care.

In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy,

She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy,

And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple’s face was cold—

He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold.

Tommy’s prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death had come

To remove him from his cellar, to His bright and heavenly home

Where sweet comfort, joy and gladness never can decrease or end,

And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend.

I. F. Nichols.

ROBBY AND RUTH.

Robby and Ruth strolled out one day,

Over the meadows, beyond the town;

The robins sang, and the fields looked gay,

And the orchards dropped their blossoms down:

But they took no thought of song or flower,

For this, to them, was love’s sweet hour;

And love’s hour is fleet,

And swift love’s feet,

When a lad and a winsome lassie meet!

Robby and Ruth in the church were wed,

Ere the orchard apples began to fall;

“Till death shall part,” were the words they said,

And love’s pure sunlight hallowed all.

Ah! never a bride more sweet and fair

Wore orange-blooms in her sunny hair!

The maiden sung,

And the joy-bells rung

And echoed the orchards and groves among.

Robby and Ruth kept house together,

Till both were old and bent and gray,

And little they cared for outside weather,

For home’s sweet light gilded all their way;

And many a precious nestling came

To be called by the dear old household name;

And the love that blessed

When first confessed

Remained in their hearts a constant guest.

Robby and Ruth grew weary at last—

Bobby went first the shining way;

And when the earth on his grave was cast,

The faithful Ruth could no longer stay;

And daisy ne’er blossomed or wild-rose grew

O’er hearts more tender, leal and true!

Love’s vows were sweet

When they sat at Love’s feet,

And Heaven makes love itself complete.

Louisa S. Upham.