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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (April 9, 1916)
THE SUNDAY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, APRIL 9, 1916. LOVERS OF POEMS OF DAYS AGONE SEND IN THEIR GEMS AM enclosing: you 'Rolling Home to Bonnie Scotland,' " writes Peter McKellar, of Seaside, Or. "How I used to Join heartily In this old-timer when homeward-bound In- a windjammer from the Antipodes on a two-year trip." ROLLI.VG HOME TO BOXME SCOT LAND. Up aloft amid the rigging. Sings the sweet exulting gale. Strong as springtime in the blossom. Filling out each flowing sail; And the wild winds cleft behind, us Seem to murmur as they flow There are kindly hearts that wait you Jn the land to which you go. Chorus. Rolling home, rolling home. Rolling home, dear land, to thee: Rolling home to Bonnie Scotland, Rolling home across the sea. Twice a thousand miles behind us And a thousand miles before Ancient oceans heave to bear us To that well-remembered shore. New-born breezes swell to waft ua x To our childhood's balmy skies, To the glow of friendly faces. To the light of loving eyes. Chorus. Eastward, ever eastward. Till the rising of the sun; Homeward, ever homeward. To the land where we were born. And we'll join in Joyous chorus In the watches of the night. For we'll see the shores of Scotland By the dawning; of the light. Chorus. "An Interested Reader" deplores the fact that Will Carleton's poems have not been contributed to the "old favor ites" page. "So I am going to give you 'The New Church Organ," which was very popular 40 years ago," the letter concludes. THE NEW CHl'RCH ORGAN". They've got a bran-new organ. Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done Just what they said they'd do, And fetched it into church. They're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preachers' right They've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight. They've got a chorister and choir. Again my voice and vote; For it was never my desire To praise the Lord by note, I've been a sister good and true For f ive-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do. And prayed my duty clear. I've sung the hymns both slow and quick. Just as the preacher read. And twice when Deacon Tubbs was sick. I took the fork and led. And now their bold new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days. Am fairly crowded out. Today-tho preacher, good old dear. With tears all in his eyes. Read, "I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies." I always liked that blessed hymn I s'pose I always will; It somehow gratifies my w,him x In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; ' They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard. Some worldly chaps was sfandin' near; And when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along An' tried with all my might; But though my voice is good and strong, I couldn't steer it right; When they was high, then I was low. An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they tod slow To "Mansions in the Skies." An' after every verse you know. They'd play a little tune; I didn't understand, an' so I started in- too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high I fetched a lusty tone But oh alas! I found that I Was singin" there alone. They laughed a little I am told; But I had done my best; And not a. wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast. An' sister Brown I could but look She sits right front of me: She never was no singin' book. An' never meant to be; But then she always tried to do The best she could, she said: She understood-the time right through. An' 4cep' it in her head; But when she tried this morin' oh! I had to laugh or cough. It kep' her head a bobbin' so. It e'en a'most came off An" Deacon Tubbs he all broke down. As one might well suppose; He took one look at sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn book through and through And laid it on the seat. And then a pensive sigh he drew. And looked completely beat. An' when they took another bout He didn't even rise. But drawed his red bandanner out An' wiped his weepin' eyes. I've been a sister good an true. For f ive-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do. An' prayed my duty clear. But death will stop my voice I know. For he is on my track. And some day I to church will go Aid never more come back. An' when the folks get up to sing Whene'er that time shall be I do not want no -patent thing A squealin' over me. THE FAREWELL. There's something in the parting hour Will chill the warmest heart Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends, Are fated all to part; m But this I've seen and many a pang Has pressed it to my mind The one who goes is happier Than those he leaves behind. No matter what the Journey be. Adventurous, dangerous, far. To the wild deep, or bleak frontier. To solitude or war Still something cheers the heart that dares In all of human kind. And they who go are happier Than hose they leave behind. The bride goes to the bridegroom's home With doubtings and with tears. But does not Hope her rainbow spread Across her cloudy fears? Alas! the mother who remains What comfort can she find But this? the gone is happier Than tone she leaves behind. God wills it so, and so it is; The pilgrims on the way. Though weak and worn, more cheerful are Than all the rest who stay. And when at last poor man, subdued, Lies down to death resigned. May he not still -tee happier far Thnn those he leaves behind? Mrs. Cora Rogers, Chico, Wise County, Tex. "Hannah Jane" wan written by David R.- Locke, whose pseudonym as author of much political satire during the war and reconstruction period was "Pe troleum y, Nasbjy It was, .very, popu a- lar in the East a generation ago. Mr. Locke was editor of the Toledo Blade or a long period, was a warm personal rriend of Lincoln, Seward ana btanton and w Haii tn hnv had fL uirli'i nr. qualntance with public men in their home lives than almost any other American. IIASXAH JANE. She isn't half so handsome as when At her old home in Pikiton, Parson Avery made us one; " The great house crowded full of guests or every oegree. The girls all envying Hannah Jane, the boys all envying me. Her fingers then were taper and her Bkin as white as milk. Her brown hair, what a mass, it was, 1 and soft and fine as silk; No wind-moved willow by a brook had ever such a grace. Her form of Aphrodite, with a pure Madonna face. She had but meager schooling,1 her little notes to me Were full of little pot-hooks and the worst orthography: Her "dear" he spelled with double "e" and kiss with but one "s"; But when one Is crazed with passion what's a letter more or less? She blundered in her writing, and she blundered when she spoke. And every rule of syntax, that old Murray made, she broke; But she was beautiful and fresh, and I well I was young; Her form and face o'er balanced all the blunders of her tongue. I was but little better; true, I'd longer been at school. My tongue and pen were run, perhaps. a little more by rule; But that was all, the neighbors round who both of us well knew,. Said, which I believed she was the better of the two. All's changed, the light of seventeen's no longer in her eyes. Her wavy hair is gone that loss the coifeur's art supplies. Her form is thin and angular, she slightly forward bends, Her fingers once so shapely, now are stumpy at the ends. She knows but very little, and In little are we one; The beauty rare, that more than hid that defect, is gone. My parvenu relations now deride my homely wife. And pity me that I am tied to such a clod for life. I know there is a difference; at reception and levee The brightest, wittiest and most famed of women smile on me; ' . And everywhere I hold my place among the greatest men. And sometimei sigh, with Whittier's judge, "Alas it might have been." When they all crowd around me. stately dames and brilliant belles. And yield to me the homage that all great success compels. Discussing art and statecraft, and literature as well From Homer down to Thackeray, and Swedenborg on "hell." I can't forget that from these streams my wife has never quaffed. Has never with Ophelia wept, nor with Jack Fals'taff laughed; Of authors, actors, artists why, she hardly knows the names? She slept while I was speaking on the Alabama claims. I can't forget just at this point another form appears The wife I wedded as she was before my prosperous years: I travel o'er the dreary road we traveled side by side And wonder what my share would be if Justice should divide. She had four hundred dollars left her from the old estate; On that we married, and. thus poorly armored, faced our fate, I wrastled with my books, her task waa harder far than mine, 'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine. At last I was admitted; then I had my legal lore, An office with a stove and desk of bonks perhaps a score; She had her beauty and her youth, and some housewifely skill; And love for me and faith in me, and back of that a will. I had no friends behind me no influence to aid: I worked and fought for every little inch of ground I made. And how she fought beside me! Never woman. lived on less; In two long years she never spent a single cent for dress. And how she cried for joy when my first legal fight was won. When our eclipse passed partly by and we stood in the sun; The fee was fifty dollars 'twas the work of half a year First captive, lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear. I well remember when my coat (the only one I had). Was seedy grown and threadbare, and in fact most "shocking bad." The tailor's stern remark when I a modest order made: "Cash is the basis, sir, on which we tailors do our trade!" Her Winter cloak was in his shop by noon that very day; She wrought on hickory shirts at night that tailor's skill to pay: I got a coat and wore it. but alas, poor Hannah Jane Ne'er went to church or lecture till warm weather came again. Our second season she refused a cloak of any sort. That I might have a decent suit in which t'appear in court: She made her last year's bonnet do, that 1 might have a hat: Talk of the old-time flame-enveloped martyrs after that! No negro ever worked, so hard, a servant's pay to save. She made herself most willingly a household drudge and slave. What wonder that she never read a magazine or book. Combining as she did in one, nurse, housemaid, seamstress, cook! What wonder that the beauty fled that I once so adored! Her beautiful complexion my fierce kitchen fire devoured: Her plump, fair, soft rounded arm was once too fair to be concealed: Hard work for me that softness into sinewy strength congealed. I was her altar, and her love the sacrificial flame. Oh! with what pure devotion she to that altar came And tearful flung theron alas! I did not know it then All that she was, and more than that all that she might have been. At last I won success! Ah. then our lives were wider parted:, I was far up the rising road; she poor girl where we started. I had tried .my speed and mettle and gained strength in every race, I was far urthe heights of life she drudging at the base. She made me take each Fall the stump; she said 'twas my career. She was no armored cruiser of twice six thousand tons, With the thirty foot of metal that make your modern guns ; She didn't have a freeboard" of thirty foot in clear, And she didn't need a million repairing; fund each year. ' She had no rackin' engines to ramp an' stamp and strain, To work her steel-clad turrets and break her hull in twain ; She did not have electric lights the battle-lantern's glare Was all the light the 'tween decks had an' God's own, good, fresh air. She had no gaping air-flumes to throw us down our breath, An' we didn't batten hatches to smother men to death ; She didn't have five hundred smiths two hundred men would do In the old-time Yankee frigate for an old-time Yankee crew, An' a fightin' Yankee captain, with his old-time Yankee clothes A cursin' Yankee sailors with his old-time Yankee daths. She was built of Yankee timber and manned by Yankee men, An' fought by Yankee sailors Lord send their like again ! - With the wind abaft the quarter and the sea-foam flyin' free, An' every tack and sheet housed taut an' braces eased to lee, You could hear the deep sea thunder from the knight heads where it broke, As she trailed her lee guns under a blindin' whirl o' smoke. She didn't run at twenty knots she wasn't built to run An' we didn't need a half a watch to handle every gun. Our captain didn't fight his ship 'from a little pen o' steel ; He fought her from the quarter deck, with two hands at the wheel, An' we fought in Yankee fashion, half-naked stripped to board An' when they hauled their red rag down we praised the Yankee Lord; We fought like Yankee sailors, an' we'll do it, too, again, You've changed the ships an' methods but you can't change Yankee men ! The wild applause of listening crowds was music to my ear. What stimulus had she to cheer her dreary solitude? For me she lived, and gladly, in unnatural widowhood. She couldn't read my speech, but when the papers all agreed 'Twas the best one of the session, those comments -she could read. And w-ith a gush of pride thereat, which I had never felt. She sent them to me in a note with half the words misspelt. I to the Legislature went and said that she should go To see the world with me, and what the world was doing know. With tearful smile she answered, "No! four dollars is the pay. The Bates' House rates for board for one is Just that sum per day." At twenty-eight the State House on the bench at thirty-three. At forty every gate in life was opened wioe to me; I nursed my powers and grew, and made my point in life, but she Bearing such pack horse weary loads, what could a woman be? What could she bo? O shame! I blush to think what she has been The most unselfish of all wives to the selfishest of men. Yes, plain and homely now she is, she is ignorant 'tis true: For me she rubbed herself quite out, I represent the two. , Well, I suppose that I might do as other men have done First break her heart with cold neglect. then shove her out alone. The world would say 'twas well aid more would give great praise to me For having borne with, "such a wife" so uncomplainingly. nd shall I? No! The contract 'twixt Hannah, uou ana me, Was not for one or twenty years, but for eternity No matter what the world may think; I know down in my heart. That if either I'm delinquent, she has bravely done her part. There is another world beyond this, and on the final day, Will intellect and learning 'gainst such devotion weigh? When the great One, made of us, two, is torn apart again, I'll fare the worst, for God is just, and he knows Hannah Jane. The prelude to this poem is a little sermon on sympathy that slips natural ly into the metrical lesson of the fol lowing verse. It is contributed by Mrs. Irene Heibel. The name of the author is missing from the yellowed clipping, but Mrs. Heibel is inclined to credit it to the pen of Klla Wheeler WTlcox. i You cannot reaUy syuipatliizj with (This spirited tribute to the American Navy of 1S12 appeared in the Phil adelphia. Record soon after Admiral George Dewey's victorious engagement with the Spanish fleet in Manila Bay. It was evidently written by some ob scure bard of the Record office, and its authorship is unknown. The poem was offered by G. L. Robinson, of this city.) any fellow being and treat him unjust ly, impolitely or ignorantly. The fully sympathetic soul acquires the knowledge necessary to exem plify the remaining virtues. Love much and largely. Do not pride yourself on ' loving very few." Cultivate, love for humanity at large, and look for the lovable qualities in all those whom you meet. Get in sympathy with your fel low men. Try to understand their point of view. And Love much. Karth has enough of bit ter in it; Cast sweets into its cup whene'er you can. No heart so hard but love at last may win it. Love is the grand primeval cause of man. All hate is foreign to the first great plan. - . Love much. Your heart will be led to slaughter On altars built of envy and deceit. Love on, fove on! 'tis bread upon the water; It shall be cast in loaves yet at your feet. Unleavened manna, most divinely sweet. Love much. Your faith will be de throned and shaken; Your trust betrayed by many a fair, false lure. Remount your faith, and let new trusts awaken. Though clouds obscure them, yet the stars are pure. Love is a vital force and must en dure. Love much. Men's souls contract with cold suspicion: Shine on them with warm love, and they expand. 'TIs love, not creeds, that from a low condition Leads mankind up to heights su preme and grand. Oh, that the world could see and un derstand! Love much. There is no waste in freely giving; More blessed is it, even, than to re ceive. He who loves much, alone finds life worth living; Love on, through doubt and darkness; and believe There is no thing which Love may not achieve. Copies of "The Face on the Barroom Floor" have been submitted in re sponse to the request published a shert time ago. and the verses are given herewith. One contributor cred its' the poem to "H. Antolne D'Arcy." but considerable doubt clusters about the authorship and there have been several claimants to it. The copy here 85 used was sent in by Miss Myrtle Jones, of Fortland. "THE FACE OTV THE BARROOM FLOOR." 'Twas a balmy Summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there. That well-nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square. And as songs and witty stories came through the open dcor: A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. "Where did it come from?" some one said: "the wind has blown it in." '"What does It .want?" another cried, "some whisky, beer, or gin?" "Here, Toby, seek him if your stom ach's equal to the work, .. "I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a Turk." This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace. In fact, he smiled as if he thought he'd struck the proper place, "Come boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd; To be in such good company would make a deacon proud." "Give me a" drink! That's what I want, I'm out of funds you know. When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow; What? you laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou: I once was fixed as well, my boys as any one of you." 'There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you one and all. Next time I pss this good saloon I'll make another call: Give you a song? No. I can't do that, my singing days are past. My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out and my lungs are going fast." "Say, give me another whisky and I'll tell you what I'll do I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact I promise too. That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think. But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give us another drink! Fill her up Joe, I want to put some life into my frame Such little drinks to a bum like me are misera.bly tame; Five fingers there that's the scheme and corking whisky, too. Well boya. here's luck, a'nd landlord, my best regards to you." "You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now; I told you. once I was a man. with muscle, frame and health. And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth." "I was a painter not one that daubed oa bricks and wood. But an artist, and. for my age, was rated pretty good; I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise. For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. "I made a picture, perhaps you'vo seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame'; It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name; And then I met a woman now comes the funny part With eyes that petrified my brain and sank into my heart. "Why don't you laugh? 'TIs funny that the vagabond you see Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me; But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given. And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven. "Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give. With form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live. With eyes that would beat the Koh- inoor and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half bo fair. "I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way. And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise. Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. "It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown My friend had, stole my darling and I was left alone, And ere a year of misery had passed above my head The Jewel I had. treasured so had tar nished and was dead. "That's why I took to drink, boys! -Why I never saw you smile! I thought you'd be amused and laugh ing all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear drop in your eye! Come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that should -cry. "Say, boys." If you'll give me another whisky. I'll be glad. And I'll draw right here the picture of tne face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score. And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor." Another drink, and. with the chalk In hand, the vagabond began To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head. With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead. This venerable song celebrates the Kentucky riflemen, of whom it was said that each felt shame if he missed the eye of a s-quirrel in the tallest hickory: THE HUNTERS OF KEXTltKY. By Samuel Woodworth. Ye gentlemen and ladies fair. Who grace this famous city. Just listen, if you've time to spare. While I rehearse a ditty; And for the opportunity. Conceive yourselves quite lucky. For 'tie not often that ye see A hunter from Kentucky. (Repeat last two lines of each stanza for refrain.) We are a hardy, freeborn race. Each man to fear a stranger, Whate'er the game, we Join in chase, Despising toil and danger. And if a daring foe annoys, Whate'er his strength and forces. We'll show him that Kentucky boys Are alligator-horses. I s'pose you've read it in the prints How Packenham attempted To make Old Hickory Jackson wir.ee. But soon his scheme repented. For we, with rifles ready cock'd, Thought such occasion lucky. And soon around the General flock'd The hunters of Kentucky. - You've heard. I s'pose, how New Orleans Is famed for wealth and beauty: There's girls of every hue, it seems. From Snowy white to FOoty. So Packenham, he made his brags. If he in fight was lucky. He'd have their girls and cotton bags. In spite of old Kentucky. But Jackson, he was wide-awake. And wasn't scared at trifles. For well he knew what aim we take With our Kentucky rifles. So he led us down to Cpyress swamp The ground was low and mucky There stood John Bull in martial pomp. And here was old Kentucky. A bank was raised to hide our breast. Not that we thought of dying. But then we always like to rest. Unless the game is flying. Behind it stood our little force. None wish'd it to be greater. For every man was half a horse And half an alligator. They did not let our patience tire Before they show'd their faces: We did not choose to waste our fire, So snugly kept our places. But when so near we saw them wink We thought It time to stop 'em. And 'twould have done you good, I think. To see Kentuckians drop 'em. They found, at last, 'twas vain to fight. Where lead was all their booty. And so they wisely took to flight And left us all the beauty. And now if danger e'er annoys. Remember what our trade is. Just send for us Kentucky boys And we'll protect ye, ladies. The following tender verses to the memory of a mother have been in the collection of Mrs. S. Frost. 936 East Ninth street, for more than 30 years. Many of her friends requested that she forward the poem for publication: ICLV HANDS. The roughened hands that never shirked. The plain brown hands that planned and worked. Are folded now in peace and rest Upon the wayworn, weary breast. O'er ivory keys they never strayed; Embroidery, lace, they never made Poor tired hands! On one of them Flashed never brilliant shining gein. They cooked and washed, they scrubbed and mended. Unto the children fondly tended: They soothed the head that ached and beat And gently bathed the fevered feet. They gladly toiled from morn till night That they might otler hands keep white And tried so hard to roses spread Adown the path for loved ones' tread. They were so tender, quiet, we Ne'er noticed how unselfishly They clasped each across with trust and prayer And burdens bore more than their share. Aye. ugly, coarse, unlovely quite. They look to our defective sight. But. to their mission dutiful. In God's eyes they are beautiful. New Orleans Picayune. Mrs. G. Buckley, of 537 Leo avenue, answers the request o JOrs. Vada Scott, of Albany. Or., with a complete version of the ensuing poem a favorite of years ago: r.SS l.VDER THE ROD. I saw a young bride in her beauty and pride. Bedecked in her snowy array. And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek And the future looked blooming and gay. And with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart On the shrine of idolatrous love; And she anchored her hopes to this perishing earth By the chain which her tenderness wove. But I saw when those heart-strings were bleeding and torn. And the chain had been severed in two. And the white roofs were changed for the sables of grief . And her joy for the paleness of woe; But the Healer was there pouring balm in her heart And wiping the tears from her eyes. He had strengthened the chain he had broken in twain And fastened it firm to the skies. There had whispered a voice, t'was the voice o( her God, "I love thee! I love thee! Pass under the rod." I saw a young mother in tenderness bend O'er the form of her slumbering boy And she kissed the soft lips as he murmured her name As the dreamer lay smiling in joy. Oh, sweet as a rosebud encircled with dew. As its fragrance It flung on the air. So fresh and so bright to the mother he seemed As he lay in his innocence there. But I saw when she gazed on that same lovely form Pale as marble and silent and cold. And paler and colder her beautiful boy And the tale of her sorrow was told. But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart And taken her treasure away. To allure her to heaven he had placed it on high And the mourner will sweetly obey. There had whispered a voice, t'was the voice of her God, "I love thee! I love thee! Pass under the rod." I saw, too, a father and mother who leaned On the arms of. a dear gifted son And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze As they saw the proud place he had won. And the fast coming evening of life promised fair And its pathway grew smooth to their feet. And the starlight of love glimmered. bright in the end And the whisperings of fancy were sweet. But I saw them again bending low o'er the grave Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid And the star had gone down in the darkness of night And the joy from their bosoms had fled But the Healer was there and his arms were around And he led them with tenderest care And he showed them a star in that bright upper world "Twas their star shining brilliantly fair. Then they each heard a voice, t'was the voice of their God "I love thee! I love thee! Pass under the rod." A request from E. F. Sias, of Hllls boro, for the words of the song, "He Doeth All Things We!!," has been an swered in the following contribution sent in by Mrs. J. B. Eletose. of Aber deen. Washington. The song was com posed by "F. M. Ev' and the music was composed by I. B. Woodbury: HE DOETH ALL THINGS WELL. I remember how I lov'd her, when a little guiltless child, I saw her In the cradle and she look'd on me and smil'd; My cup of happiness was full, my joy words cannot tell; And I hlpss'd the glorious Giver, "Who doeth all things well.'' Months pass'd that hud of promise was unfolding cv'ry hour, I thought that earth had never smil'd upon a fairer flower. So beautiful it well nitsrht grace the . bow'rs where angels dwell. And waft its fragrance to His throne. "Who doeth all things well." Years fled, that little sister then was dear as life to me. And woke, in my unconscious heart, a wild idolatry, I worshiped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell. Forgetful of the praise of Him. "Who doeth all things well." She was the lovely star whose light around my pathway shone. Amid this darksome vale of tears, through which I journey on. Its radiance had obscured the light, which round his throne doth dwell. And I wandered far away from Him, "Who doeth all things well." That star went down in beauty, yet it shineth sweetly now. In the bright and dazzling coronet, that decks the Savior's brow. She bowed to the Destroyer, whose shafts none may repel, But we know, for God hath told us, "He doeth all things well." I remember well my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed. And my deep and heartfelt anguish, when they told me she was dead; And oh! that cup of bitterness, let not my heart rebel, God gave. He took. He will restore, "He doeth all things well." "I have copied this song from mem ory, not having seen it in print since 1842," reads the letter that J. L. Jack son, veteran of the siege of Vicksburg. sent with the verses that stirred the North in the days "before the war." The missive concludes. "Excuse trem bling hand and pencil." Gladly granted! THE I'OOR L1TTI.K BLIND SLAVE BOV. Come back to me, mother; why linger away From thy poor little blind boy the long weary day? I mark every footstep, I list to each. tone. And wonder why mother should leave me alone. There are voices of sorrow and voices of glee. But no one to Joy or to sorrow with me; For each hath of trouble and sorrow his share. And none for the little blind boy will care. My mother, come back; and close to thy breast Let the heart of thy poor little blind boyv be pressed. Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek. And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak. Poor THind boy no mother tby wail- ings can hear; No mother thy sorrow and sufferings cheer; For the slave owner drives her o'er mountain and wild. And for one paltry dollar, hath sold th.ee, poor child 1