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ON A PORTRAIT OF SERVETUS.
MHOU grim and haggard wanderer who dost look 1 With haunting eyes forth from the narrow page, I know what fires consumed with inward rage
Thy broken frame, what tempests chilled and shook! Ah, could not thy remorseless foeman brook
Time's sure devourment, but must needs assuage
With that dark crime which virtue's semblance took! Servetus! that which slew thee lives to-day,
Though in new forms it taints our modern air;
Still in heaven's nanie the deeds of hell are done:
The fires of hate are lit for them who dare
T AM the spirit of the morning sea;
I am the awakening and the glad surprise;
I am the wind that shakes the glittering wave,
I light the sea and wake the sleeping land.
With the wind and the day
And every wave and every blade of grass
O sea, whereon the passing sun doth lie!
I love not the night Save when the stars are bright, Or when the moon Fills the white air with silence like a tune. Yea, even the night is mine When the Northern Lights outshine, And all the wild heavens throb in ecstasy divine;Yea, mine deep midnight, though the black sky lowers, When the sea burns white and breaks on the shore in starry showers..
I am the laughter of the new-born child
My sword is quick, my arm is strong to smite
ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
THIS bronze doth keep the very form and mould
That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.
As might some prophet of the elder dav,
Brooding above the tempest and the fray
A power was his beyond the touch of art
W HAT is a sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell
V That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea;
It is a little picture painted well.
From a great poet's hidden ecstasy;
Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell.
The solemn organ whereon Milton played,
For like a fjord the narrow floor is laid
THE poet died last night;
1 Outworn his mortal frame. He hath fought well the fight,
And won a deathless name.
Hushed is that piercing strain,
Who heard, for pleasure wept. His were our joy and pain:
He sang-our sorrow slept.
Bring laurel for his bier,
And flowers to deck the hearse. The tribute of a tear
To his immortal verse.
Yes, weep for him; no more
Shall such high songs have birth: Gone is the harp he bore
Forever from the earth.
TUST adjoining the old Café de Poésie on the corner, stood the little onee story, yellow-washed tenement of Dr. Mossy, with its two glass doors protected by batten shutters, and its low, weed-grown tile roof sloping out over the sidewalk. You were very likely to find the Doctor in, for he was a great student and rather negligent of his business-as business. He was a small, sedate, Creole gentleman of thirty or more, with a young-old face and manner that provoked instant admiration. He would receive you-be you who you may-in a mild, candid manner, looking into your face with his deep-blue eyes, and reassuring you with a modest, amiable smile, very sweet and rare on a man's mouth.
To be frank, the Doctor's little establishment was dusty and disorderlyvery. It was curious to see the jars, and jars, and jars. In them were serpents and hideous fishes and precious specimens of many sorts. There were stuffed birds on broken perches; and dried lizards, and eels, and little alligators, and old skulls with their crowns sawed off, and ten thousand odd scraps of writing-paper strewn with crumbs of lonely lunches, and interspersed with long-lost spatulas and rust-eaten lancets.
All New Orleans, at least all Creole New Orleans, knew, and yet did not know, the dear little Doctor. So gentle, so kind, so skilful, so patient, so lenient; so careless of the rich and so attentive to the poor; a man, all in all, such as, should you once love him, you would love him forever. So very learned, too, but with apparently no idea of how to show himself to his social profit,-two features much more smiled at than respected, not to say admired, by a people remote from the seats of learning, and spending most of their esteem upon animal heroisms and exterior display.
“Alas !” said his wealthy acquaintances, “what a pity; when he might as well be rich.”
“ Yes, his father has plenty.” “Certainly, and gives it freely. But intends his son shall see none of it." “His son ? You dare not so much as mention him."
“Well, well, how strange! But they can never agree—not even upon their name. Is not that droll ?-a man named General Villivicencio, and his son, Dr. Mossy !”
“Oh, that is nothing; it is only that the Doctor drops the de Villivicencio.”
“Drops the de Villivicencio? but I think the de Villivicencio drops him, ho, ho, ho,-diable!”
Next to the residence of good Dr. Mossy towered the narrow, red-brickfront mansion of young Madame Délicieuse, firm friend at once and always of those two antipodes, General Villivicencio and Dr. Mossy. Its dark, covered carriage-way was ever rumbling, and, with nightfall, its drawing-rooms always sent forth a luxurious light from the lace-curtained windows of the second-story balconies.
It was one of the sights of the Rue Royale to see by night its tall, narrow outline reaching high up toward the stars, with all its windows aglow.
The Madame had had some tastes of human experience; had been betrothed at sixteen (to a man she did not love, “being at that time a fool," as she said); one summer day at noon had been a bride, and at sundown-a widow. Accidental discharge of the tipsy bridegroom's own pistol. Pass it by! It left but one lasting effect on her, a special detestation of quarrels and weapons.
The little maidens whom poor parentage has doomed to sit upon street door-sills and nurse their infant brothers have a game of “choosing" the beautiful ladies who sweep by along the pavement; but in Rue Royale there was no choosing; every little damsel must own Madame Délicieuse or nobody, and as that richly adorned and regal favorite of old General Villivicencio came along they would lift their big, bold eyes away up fo her face and pour forth their admiration in a universal—“Ah-h-h-h!”
But, mark you, she was good Madame Délicieuse as well as fair Madame Délicieuse : her principles, however, not constructed in the austere AngloSaxon style, exactly (what need, with the lattice of the Confessional not a stone's throw off?). Her kind offices and beneficent schemes were almost as famous as General Villivicencio's splendid alms; if she could at times do what the infantile Washington said he could not, why, no doubt she and her friends generally looked upon it as a mere question of enterprise.
She had charms, too, of intellect—albeit not such a sinner against time and place as to be an “educated woman”-charms that, even in a plainer person, would have brought down the half of New Orleans upon one knee, with both hands on the left side. She had the whole city at her feet, and, with the fine tact which was the perfection of her character, kept it there contented. Madame was, in short, one of the kind that gracefully wrest from society the prerogative of doing as they please, and had gone even to such