84 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. If ever a hasty word he spoke, But vanished like tobacker smoke And since it was my lot to be To ketch me if they can. If I was sick a single jot, That's a fact, he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think,-widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott,—and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin,—so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh! If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. A wonderful tender heart he had, It made him feel amazin' bad Whiskey and rum he tasted not That's as true as the Scripturs, but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 85 how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth-besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See, where had I got to? Oh, I remember now, Whiskey and rum he tasted not, He thought it was a sin, I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. But now he's dead! the thought is killin', My grief I can't control He never left a single shillin' His widder to console. year afore But that wa'n't his fault-he was so out o' health for a number o' he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin'-however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,-he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back,-begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,-used to swear like all possest when he got mad,—and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't true),-I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder to console,"-ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,-" What did you stop so soon for?"—but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun,-she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern,-I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't,—said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell 86 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as follers:— I'll never change my single lot, I think 'twould be a sin, The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Don't intend to get married agin. Excuse my cryin' —my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry-0-0-0-0-0-0! Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around "Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, To hear my mournful story in the pleasant When the troops come marching home again, vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun; And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline: And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine! with glad gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine,) For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine! SONG OF THE DECANTER. "There's another, not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning, Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison,) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yel low sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine! "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!" His voice grew faint and hoarse- his grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look,―he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign landwas dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses strown; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine! 87 SONG OF THE DECANTER. There was an old decanter, and its mouth was gaping wide; the rosy wine had ebbed away and left its crys tal side; and the wind went hnmming, humming; up and down the sides it flew, and through the reed-like, hollow neck the wildest notes it blew. I placed it in the window, where the blast was blowing free, and fancied that its pale mouth sang the queerest strains to me. They tell me puny conquerors-the Plague has slain his ten, and War his hundred thousands of the very best of men; but I"-'twas thus the bottle spoke-"but I have conquered more than all your famous conquerors, so feared and famed of yore. Then come, ye youths and maidens, come drink from out my cup, the beverage that dulls the brain and burns the spirit up; that puts to shame the conquerors that slay their scores below; for this has deluged millions with the lava tide of woe. Though, in the path of battle, darkest waves of blood may roll; yet while I killed the body, I have damned the very soul. The cholera, the sword, such ruin never wrought, as I, in mirth or malice, on the innocent have brought. And still I breathe upon them, and they shrink before my breath; and year by year my thousands tread THE FEARFUL ROAD ΤΟ DEATH. T WASHINGTON IRVING. HE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would |