A Book For The Young by Sarah French

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"At any rate we must have him here."

The remainder of my tale, is soon told, viz.: that Helen and Mortimer,
were united, and Mrs. Falkner, insisted on removing to a place where
she would be more likely to settle her girls. Sir Horace bought the
villa which still retained its name.

IDLE WORDS.

"My God!" the beauty oft exclaimed,
In deep impassioned tone;
But not in humble prayer, she named
The High and Holy One;
'Twas not upon the bended knee,
With soul upraised to Heaven,
Pleading with heartfelt agony,
That she might be forgiven.

'Twas not in heavenly strains
She raised, to the great Source of Good,
Her daily offering of praise,
Her song of gratitude.
But in the gay and thoughtless crowd,
And in the festive Hall,
'Midst scenes of mirth and mockery proud
She named the Lord of All.

The idlest thing that flattery knew,
The most unmeaning jest,
From her sweet lips profanely drew,
Names of the Holiest!
I thought how sweet that voice would be,
Breathing this prayer to Heaven,
"My God, I worship only thee,
Oh be my sins forgiven!"

THE MANIAC OF VICTORY.

But here comes one, that seems to out-rejoice
All the rejoicing tribe! wild is her eye,
And frantic is her air, and fanciful
Her sable suit; and round, she rapid rolls
Her greedy eyes upon the spangled street.
And drinks with greedy gaze upon the sparkling scene!
"And see!" she cries how they have graced the hour
That gave _him_ to his grave! hail lovely lamps,
In honor of that hour a grateful land
Hath hung aloft! and sure he well deserves
The tributary splendor--for he fought
Their battles well--ah! he was valor's self--
Fierce was the look with which he faced the foe
But on his Harriet, when my hero bent it,
'Twas so benign! and beautiful he was--
And he was young; too young in years, to die!
'Twas but a little while his wing had thrown
Its guardian shadow o'er me--but 'tis gone--
Fall'n is my shield, yet see now if I weep.
A British warrior's widow should not weep--
Her hero sleeps in honor's fragrant bed--
So they all tell me, and I have nobly learned
Their gallant lesson--all my tears are gone--
Bright glory's beam has dried them every drop
No,--No,--I scorn to weep--high is mine heart!

Hot are mine eyes! there's no weak water there!
'Tis time I should have joyed--what mother would not?
To have shown him that sweet babe o'er which he wept
When last he kissed it--yes he did--he wept;
My warrior wept!--as the weak woman's tears
From off this cheek, where now I none can feel,
He kissed away--he wet it with his own;
Oh! yes 'twould--'twould have been sweet to have shown him
How his dear lovely boy had: grown, since he
Beheld it cradled, and to have bid it call him
By the sweet name that I had taught it utter
In softest tones, while he was thunder hearing,
And thunder hurling round him--for his hand
Would not be idle amid deeds of glory;
Yes _glory--glory--glory_ is the word--
See how it glitters all along the street!--
And then she laughs, and wildly leaps along
With tresses all untied. Fair wretch--adieu:
In mercy--heaven thy shattered peace repair.

--FAWCETT.

"GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL."

I remember how I loved her, as a little guileless child;
I saw her in the cradle, as she looked on me, and smiled.
My cup of happiness was full; my joy, no words can tell,
And I bless the Glorious Giver, "who doeth all things well."

Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour.
I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower.
So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell,
And waft its fragrance to His throne, "who doeth all things well."

Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me,
And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry.
I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell,
Forgetful of the praise of Him "who doeth all things well."

She was like the lovely Star, whose light around my pathway shone,
Amid this darksome vale of tears through which I journey on;
No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne doth dwell,
And I wandered far away from Him, who "doeth all things well."

That star went down, in beauty, yet, it shineth, sweetly now,
In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's brow,
She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel;
But we know, for God has told us, that "He doeth all things well."

I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed,
And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she was dead.
And, oh! that cup of bitterness--but let not this heart rebel,
God gave; he took; he can restore; "He doeth all things well."

HOW OLD ART THOU?

Count not the days that have idly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?
Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date,
Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age
Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage,
But in days that are _truly wise_.

ON TIME.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him
That flesh is grass! that earthly things, but mist!
What are our joys, but dreams? And what our hopes?
But goodly shadows in the summer cloud?
There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it
Some rainbow promise. Not a moment flies,
But puts its sickle in the fields of life,
And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.

'Tis but as yesterday, since on those stars,
Which now I view, the Chaldean shepherd gazed,
In his mid watch observant, and disposed
The twinkling hosts, as fancy gave them shape;
Yet, in the interim, what mighty shocks
Have buffeted mankind; whole nations razed,
Cities made desolate; the polished sunk
To barbarism, and _once_ barbaric states,
Swaying the wand of science and of arts.
Illustrious deeds and memorable names,
Blotted from record, and upon the tongues
Of gray tradition, voluble no more.

Where are the heroes of the ages past,--
Where the brave chieftans; where the mighty ones
Who flourished in the infancy of days?
Ah to the grave gone down! On their fallen fame
Exultant, mocking, at the pride of man,
Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame,
Hushed is the stormy voice, and quenched the blaze
Of his red eye-ball.

Yesterday, his name
Was mighty on the earth; to-day,--'tis what?
The meteor of the night of distant years,
That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld,
Musing, at midnight, upon prophecies,
Who at her only lattice, saw the gleam
Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly
Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up,
Safe in the charnel's treasure.

Oh! how weak
Is mortal man! how, trifling! how confined
His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence
His phrase grows big with immortality;
And he, poor insect of a summer's day,
Dreams of eternal honours to his name,
Of endless glory and perennial bays,
He idly reasons of eternity.
As of the train of ages; when, alas!
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries
Are in comparison, a little point,
Too trivial for account.

Oh it is strange;
'Tis very strange to mark men's fallacies.
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile,
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies,
And smile, and say, my name shall live with this,
Till time shall be no more; while at his feet,
Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust
Of the fallen fabric of the other day,
Preaches the solemn lesson.--He should know
That time must conquer; that the loudest blast
That ever filled renown's obstreperous trump,
Fades in the lap of ages, and expires.
Who lies, inhumed, in the terrific gloom
Of the gigantic pyramid? Or who
Reared its huge wall? Oblivion laughs, and says,
The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man,
Or memory burst its fetters.

Where is Rome?
She lives but in the tale of other times;
Her proud pavilions, are the hermits' home,
And her long colonades, her public walks,
Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet,
Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace
Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust.

But not to Rome, alone, has fate confined
The doom of ruin; cities numberless.
Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy,
And rich Phoenicia; they are blotted out
Half razed,--from memory razed; and their very name
And being, in dispute.

--WHITE

THE YOUNG MAN'S PRAYER.

One stood upon the threshold of his life;
A life all bright with promise,--and he prayed,
"Father of Heaven! this beautious world of thine,
Is trod in sorrow by my race." The shade
Of sin and grief darken the sunshine, Thou
Around us with a lavish hand, hast spread.
Man only walks this breathing glowing earth,
With spirit crushed,--with bowed and stricken head.
I ask not, Father, why these things be so,
I only ask, that thou will make of me
A messenger of joy, to lift the woe
From hearts that mourn, and lead them up to Thee.

THE END.

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