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ABRAHAM LINCOLN

THE ATONEMENT OF MR. PUNCH

ou lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier:
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer,

His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face.

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

His lack of all we prize as debonair,

Of power or will to shine, or art to please;

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,

Of chief's perplexity or people's pain,

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?-

Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil and confute my pen;
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,

Noting how to occasion's height he rose ;

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true;
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in good fortune and in ill the same:
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work,- such work as few

Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,

As one who knows, where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work his will,

If but that will we can arrive to know,

Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle, on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his pleasant boyhood he had plied

His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights:

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,

The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train; Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it: four long-suffering years' Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through;

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood,— Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

The words of mercy were upon his lips,

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,

When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse

To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,

Utter one voice of sympathy and shame.
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat free!
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!

A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt

If more of horror or disgrace they bore!

But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out,

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven,
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

TOM TAYLOR,

A MIRROR

HOU art a mountain stately and serene,
Rising majestic o'er each earthly thing,

THO

And I a lake that round thy feet do cling, Kissing thy garment's hem, unknown, unseen.

I tremble when the tempests darkly screen

Thy face from mine. I smile when sunbeams fling Their bright arms round thee. When the blue heavens lean Upon thy breast, I thrill with bliss, O King!

Thou canst not stoop,- we are too far apart;

I may not climb to reach thy mighty heart:
Low at thy feet I am content to be.

But wouldst thou know how great indeed thou art,
Bend thy proud head, my mountain love, and see
How all thy glories shine again in me!

SUSAN MARR SPALDING.

THE DAY AFTER THE BETROTHAL

WHAT troubleth thee, Sweetheart?

"W"

For thine eyes are filled with tears.".
I have dwelt in Arcadia, Love,

So many, many years!

"Is Arcadia fair, Sweetheart?

When I called, wert thou loth to go?»—

Nay, ask me not that, I pray,

For truly I do not know.

"Is Arcadia dear, Sweetheart,

That thine eyes are so heavy and wet?" —

Dear? O Love, how dear

I may not tell thee yet!

"Wouldst fain go back, Sweetheart?

It's only a step to take."—

No, no! not back! but hold me close,

For my heart is like to break.

Not for Arcadia lost

Ah, Love, have I not thee?

But oh, the scent of those wind-swept hills

And the salt breath of that sea!

EVA L. OGDEN LAMBERT.

A

TWICKENHAM FERRY

HOY! and Oho! and it's who's for the ferry? »

(The brier's in bud and the sun going down;) "And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town." The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, With just a soft tang in the turn of his tongue; And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and Oho! and it's I'm for the ferry;"
(The brier's in bud and the sun going down;)
"And it's late as it is, and I haven't a penny:

Oh, how can I get me to Twickenham Town?» She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she looked sweet As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat, With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherry — "And sure, but you're welcome to Twickenham Town." "Ahoy! and Oho!-> You're too late for the ferry; (The brier's in bud and the sun has gone down;) And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady,It seems quite a journey to Twickenham Town. "Ahoy! and Oho!" you may call as you will: The young moon is rising o'er Petersham Hill; And with Love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town.

'Tis rumored chocolate creams
Are the fabrics of her dreams-
But enough!

I know beyond a doubt

That she carries them about
In her muff.

With her dimples and her curls
She exasperates the girls
Past belief:

They hint that she's a cat,
And delightful things like that,
In their grief.

It is shocking, I declare!
But what does Dollie care
When the beaux

Come flocking to her feet

Like the bees around a sweet

Little rose!

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

DOROTHY

HEY tell me 'tis foolish to prate of love

THEY

In the sweet and olden way:

They say I should sing of loftier things,
For Love has had his day.

But when Dorothy comes
I cannot choose,-

I must follow her

Though the world I lose;

My very soul

Pours forth in song
When dainty Dorothy

Trips along.

It is all very well to say to me
That Browning's noble strain

Rises and swells with the tide of thought
Or throbs with the pulse of pain;
But if Dorothy once

Had crossed his path,