184 THE DYING SENECA Be still my worshipped Being, In mind and heart, in mind and heart. And bid thy song that found me— My minstrel maid, my minstrel maid! Be winter's sunbeam round me, And summer's shade, and summer's shade. I could not gaze upon thee, And dare thy spell, and dare thy spell, And, when a happier won thee, Thus bid farewell, thus bid farewell. wwwwwwww THE DYING SENECA. He died not as the martyr dies, Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; A gentler passage to the grave Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles To fill the fiery scroll of wrath ; The field was sown with noble blood, The harvest reaped in bitter tears, PAINTING. When rolling up its crimson flood Broke the long gathering tide of years; His diadem was rent away And beggars trampled on his clay. None wept-none pitied-they who knelt At morning by the despot's throne, At evening dashed the laurelled bust 185 And spurned the wreaths themselves had strown; The shout of triumph echoed wide, The self-stung reptile writhed and died! PAINTING. BY P. M. WETMORE. "Tis to the pencil's magic skill The lineaments beloved so well; "Tis thine, o'er history's storied page, 186 PAINTING. To shed the halo-light of truth; With mailed men to people forth; The images of sacred lore; That told life's agony was o'er- To dry the widowed mother's tear: And wondering rapture fills mankind' THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR. 187 THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR. BY MRS. S. J. HALE. ONE day-it is a trifling theme, "Tis but a welcome-an adieu- And with to-morrow's hopes in view, To-day like bird in tethering string, With faded eye, and folded wing, Such are the dreams of early youth, I trust, my loved ones, still ye see 'The vine, even when its prop is lost, 188 THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR. Its tendrils torn and tempest-tost, May shield the little flower; And thus I bide the world's rude strife, 'Tis sad, as years grow short, to know But saddest of all earthly wo, Is childhood bowed in grief; In sunny skies let fledgings fly; Ere the young fawns come forth to try And thus doth feeling's signet prove Man's origin divine, When eye meets eye in trusting love, We feel the sacred sign; Of life, immortal life! how mild The glorious promise shines, When the young mother o'er her child, First reads the deathless lines The spirit on its clay impresses, |