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TALES, TRAVELS, HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, POETRY,
AND A GREAT VARIETY OF
PUBLISHED EVERY OTHER WEEK AS A PART OF THE CONNECTICUT COURANT.
HARTFORD, SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1853.
FOR THE COURANT. MOUNT LAMENTATION.*
BY E. W. BOBBINA.
And startling the rude echoes with his name.
Such is the legend of thee-such the tale
Mountain of Lamentations still lament!
There is enough to do. The world is full of wrong that requires bold, brave, wakeful men to crush ; . it is full of suffering that calls for kind, ten. der, affectionate women to alleviate. Will you do nothing but dream? Will you be the drones of the great hive of humanity, feeding upon others' labor, and adding nothing yourselves to the stock of honey? You have a place and a station in the world for other and better purposes, for higher and holier objects. “Dream not then, but work !"
The exigencies of the world require your assist. ance. There never was a time when energy and systematic labor for the good of community was 80 much needed.
Arise ! for the day is passing,
While you lie dreaming on;
And forth to the fight have gono;
Each man has a part to play;
In the face of the stern to-day. Action is what is needed. The day of idle con templation has passed-poetic reveries are but dreams. The times demand sober realities, powerful exertions, benevolent sacrifices.
“Dream pot, then, but work."
Blue mountain of my childhood I that afar
'Tis strange-the objects of material sense
I have a love of mountains and my soul
Mountain of Lamentations on thy top E'en now a memory lingers, and thy face Doth gather a dark shadow as it lies škirted with banks of clouds. My muse recalls That legend of old time when in these woods Wandered erewblle a Patriot of the Past, Roaming among these scenes, nor able yet To venture farther or retrace his steps, Plunged in the trackless gloom. Perplexed be stando Is the uncertain path, the distant forms Di wife and child appearing in his sight, tad now, alas ! lost in the forest depths. At band do belp succeeds. In vain his friends way to find the Wanderer pressing on, he tradition is, that in the early settlement of the y on the Connecticut River, Mr. Chester, of Weth. 1-an ancestor of the families of that name in that
town, was lost on a mountain some twelve miles
touthwest from his home, whence the name me. ration. The accounts differ as to his fate. The credible story le, that be was at length rescued by
Dream not, but Work ! There is great danger in some youthful minds, of spending life in a dreamy state of inactivity, with. out feeling the obligation resting upon every man to work. This is particularly true of those for whom fortune has already so scattered her profuse gifts as not to goad them on by necessity in the path of labor. To such, our motto speaks a word in season that should be heeded—"Dream not, but work!” There is a world of sin, of misery, before you that requires your efforts. There is work enough for every band and for every head among God's subjects. This work is a duty-is a requisition of your Maker. You cannot escape the responsibility of labor in this world. You cannot escape the penalty of its neglect in another. You are needed to teach the world its duties
to instruct the ig. norant, to lift up the bowed down, to strengthen the weak, to encourage the timid, to succor the needy. "Dream not, then, but Work."
"Dream not, but work! Be bold I be brave!
Escape from tasks allotted !
The vicious—the besotted." How many young men there are that need this exhortation, who are passing listlessly through life, dreaming as they move, with an intuitive shrinking from all labor-floating down the stream of time, engaged only in the sleepy observation of the bub. bles on the current! How many young women spend their hours in the same dreamy state of mere amusement, doing no good in the world in which God has placed them! How many there are among us, whose whole life is spent
"In dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up." “What shall I do ?" Ah! that querulous tope does not indicate that the dream is yet shaken off! Do? Young man! •
Wage ceaseless war 'gainst lawless might,
Shield the defenceless.
Crush it relentless !
Forget thy self, but bear in mind
So shall the welcome night
Wake in eternal light!
FOR THE COURANT. Scenes Here and There. The scenes and parties of the chapters of experience hereafter sketched, are familiar to many of your readers. The light-house keeper, spoken of in the last, has been mentioned in your columns before, and is well known to our sea-shore visitors. It was from his own lips that the story was derived.
In a bumble house an old man was lying. His withered frame had long withstood the assaults of disease, and his eye still glistened brightly, as in the dew of youth or the heyday of manhood, Scarcely a relative was left bim. No wife or child bent o'er him to relieve suffering nature. The faithful nurse and the attendant physician were at bis side. The power of sickness was now struggling with his enduring body, and the angel of death was waiting to shout victory over another of its myriads slain. He had long loved and worshipped money. While others, perhaps no less greedy of the precious dust, had carefully invested their gains in stocks and bonds, he had deposited his earnings in a strong chest, which now lay closely locked beneath his bed. Never had he said his head upon a pillow that did not cover that key. And now, as he felt a deuper sleep settling upon him than he had known before, his treasure seemed doubly precious. Alike unconscious of his physician's words and attentions, bis mind still trembles for the safety of his chest. But death's couvulsions are mastering him. In nervous paroxysm he thrusts out his arm wildly from the bed. His heart ceases to beat, and his lips have stopped quivering, but his long bony fingers still clasp the key, and the last sign of life passes away, as that hand relaxes silently, and the heavy key drops. The temptations of life and the calls of humanity had never been able to unloose that hold, and it was only the stern mastery of death which had conquered, but not persuaded.
It was a rough March day. The ice-fields once broken, were sealed again, as if winter, once de. parted, bud returned 10 bid farewell to ibe earth