Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848

"In the village in which I was raised, lived one who shared with me the sports of childhood; and as we grew older, partook of the recreations and amusements of the young together. There was a strange similarity in our tastes and dispositions; and we consequently spent much of our time in each others society. There were those who sometimes smiled to see a young and sunny-haired youth so constantly with the sensitive, shrinking Mary Warner; but then they knew we were playmates from childhood, and thought no more. Mother was dead, and I was under the guidance of my remaining parent, an only child – an idolized and favored one; and in my sixteenth year, claimed as the bride of Samuel Wayland. Parental judgment frowned, and called it folly. What could I do? Our faith had long been plighted, but filial respect demanded that should be laid aside; yet what was I to find in the future, that would ever repay for the love so vainly wasted. It was all a blank. I nerved my heart for our last meeting – but the strings were fibrous, and they broke.

"'I shall go to the West, and then you must forget me,' said I, when we came to part.

"'Never, Mary, will you, can you be forgotten!'

"We parted there, forever. He is still living, a lone wanderer on the earth; we have never had any communications; but there is a unity of feeling, a oneness of spirit, that at times make me feel as if we were scarcely separated. I enjoy a pleasure in thinking of his memory, a confidence that would trust him any where in this wide world; and I now believe that wherever he is, his heart is still true to me. As for me, I have hurried through life like a 'storm-stricken bird,' no rest from the busy scenes in which I mingled. Since then, there have been proposals in which honor, wealth, and distinction were connected; and once I had well nigh sold myself for interest, and to please my father. We were promised, and I was congratulated on my happy prospects; but, alas! alas, for me; the more memory reverted to the past, my feelings revolted from the present. I sometimes used to stand where I could see him pass in the street, and exclaim 'oh, heaven! can I marry that man! can I stand before God's altar, and promise to love and honor him, when I abhor his presence.' Time was hasting; one night I went down into the study; father was sitting there.

"'Well, Mary,' said he, 'I suppose you will leave us soon.'

"That was enough for my pent-up feelings to break forth. 'I suppose so,' said I, 'but, oh! father, I would rather see my grave open to-morrow, than to think of uniting my destiny with that man. My very soul detests him."

"Mary, sit down now, and write a letter to Mr. M – , that you cannot keep your promise, and the reason why. Far would it be from me to place in the hands of my only daughter, the cup of misery unmixed. My judgment and your feelings differ.'

"It was late that night when I sealed the fated letter for M – ; but I retired and slept easy, there was a burden removed which had well-nigh crushed me. What I have experienced since, words may never tell; the young have deemed me impenetrable to the natural susceptibilities of our natures, while the old have called me trifling. But, Ella, depend upon it, a heart once truly given, can never be bestowed again. I have erred in trying to conceal my history in the manner I have. Instead of placing my dependance on the goodness of the Most High, and seeking for that balm which heals the wounded spirit, and acquiring a calmness of mind which would render me in a measure happy, I plunged into the vortex of worldly pleasure. But it is all over now; they say I have the consumption, and pity me, to think one so joyous should have to die. To-day has been spent mostly in meditation; and I have tried to pray that my Savior would give me grace for a dying hour; and, Ella, will you kneel at my bedside and pray as you used to, when a young, trembling girl?"

"Yes, I will pray for you again," said Ella; "but take this cordial to revive your exhausted frame."

As the friend raised the refreshing draught, she marked such a change in Mary's countenance, that her heart quailed at the thought of the terrible vigil she was keeping, in the silence of night, alone. She kneeled by the sick, and offered up her prayer with an energy unknown to her before, such a one as a heart strong in faith, and nerved by love and fear alone could dictate; a pleading, borne on high by the angel of might, for the strengthening of the immortal soul in prison-clay before her. There was a sigh and a groan; she rose hastily and bent over the couch – there was a gasping for breath, and all was still. Ella's desolate shriek of anguish first told the tale, that Mary was dead.

Thus passed again to the Giver, a mind entrusted with high powers, and uncontrolled affections, who, in the waywardness of youth, cast unreservedly at the shrine of idolatrous love, her all of earthly hopes, then wandered forth with naught but their ashes, in the treasured urn of past remembrance, seeking to cover that with the mantle of the world's glittering folly.

TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE RAVEN."

BY MISS HARRIET B. WINSLOW

Leave us not so dark uncertain! lift again the fallen curtain!Let us once again the mysteries of that haunted room explore —Hear once more that friend infernal – that grim visiter nocturnal!Earnestly we long to learn all that befalls that bird of yore:Oh, then, tell us something more!Doth his shade thy floor still darken? dost thou still, despairing, hearkenTo that deep sepulchral utterance like the oracles of yore?In the same place is he sitting? Does he give no sign of quitting?Is he conscious or unwitting when he answers "Nevermore?"Tell me truly, I implore!Knows he not the littlenesses of our nature – its distresses?Knows he never need of slumber, fainting forces to restore?Stoops he not to eating – drinking? Is he never caught in winkingWhen his demon eyes are sinking deep into thy bosom's core?Tell me this, if nothing more!Is he, after all, so evil? Is it fair to call him "devil?"Did he not give friendly answer when thy speech friend's meaning bore?When thy sad tones were revealing all the loneness o'er thee stealing,Did he not, with fellow-feeling, vow to leave thee nevermore?Keeps he not that oath he swore?He, too, may be inly praying – vainly, earnestly essayingTo forget some matchless mate, beloved yet lost for evermore.He hath donned a suit of mourning, and, all earthly comfort scorning,Broods alone from night till morning. By thy memories Lenore,Oh, renounce him nevermore.Though he be a sable brother, treat him kindly as another!Ah, perhaps the world has scorned him for that luckless hue he wore,No such narrow prejudices can he know whom Love possesses —Whom one spark of Freedom blesses. Do not spurn him from thy doorLest Love enter nevermore!Not a bird of evil presage, happily he brings some messageFrom that much-mourned matchless maiden – from that loved and lost Lenore.In a pilgrim's garb disguiséd, angels are but seldom prizéd:Of this fact at length adviséd, were it strange if he forsworeThe false world for evermore?Oh, thou ill-starred midnight ranger! dark, forlorn, mysterious stranger!Wildered wanderer from the eternal lightning on Time's stormy shore!Tell us of that world of wonder – of that famed unfading "Yonder!"Rend – oh rend the veil asunder! Let our doubts and fears be o'er!Doth he answer – "Nevermore?"

SONG OF THE ELVES.

BY ANNA BLACKWELL

When the moon is high o'er the ruined tower,When the night-bird sings in her lonely bower,When beetle and cricket and bat are awake,And the will-o'-the-wisp is at play in the brake,Oh then do we gather, all frolic and glee,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree!And brightly we hover on silvery wing,And dip our small cups in the whispering spring,While the night-wind lifts lightly our shining hair,And music and fragrance are on the air!Oh who is so merry, so happy as we,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree?

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

We sat within the farm-house old,Whose windows looking o'er the bay,Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,An easy entrance, night and day.Not far away we saw the port, —The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, —The light-house, – the dismantled fort, —The wooden houses, quaint and brown.We sat and talked until the nightDescending filled the little room;Our faces faded from the sight,Our voices only broke the gloom.We spake of many a vanished scene,Of what we once had thought and said,Of what had been, and might have been,And who was changed, and who was dead.And all that fills the hearts of friends,When first they feel, with secret pain,Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,And never can be one again.The first slight swerving of the heart,That words are powerless to express,And leave it still unsaid in part,Or say it in too great excess.The very tones in which we spakeHad something strange, I could but mark;The leaves of memory seemed to makeA mournful rustling in the dark.Oft died the words upon our lips,As suddenly, from out the fireBuilt of the wreck of stranded ships,The flames would leap, and then expire.And, as their splendor flashed and failed,We thought of wrecks upon the main, —Of ships dismasted, that were hailed,And sent no answer back again.The windows rattling in their frames,The ocean, roaring up the beach —The gusty blast – the bickering flames —All mingled vaguely in our speech;Until they made themselves a partOf fancies floating through the brain —The long lost ventures of the heart,That send no answers back again.O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!They were indeed too much akin —The drift-wood fire without that burned,The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

SONG FOR A SABBATH MORNING.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

Arise ye nations, with rejoicing rise,And tell your gladness to the listening skies;Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil,From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil;Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increaseTill one loud pæan hails the day of peace.Sing trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing;Ring ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring;Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swellsAnd heaven seems full of great celestial bells!Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide,With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride;The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hillsAnd every grove with choral welcome thrills.Rise ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers,With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers;Go youths and meet her with your olive boughs,Go age and greet her with your holiest vows; —See where she comes, her hands upon her breastThe sainted Sabbath comes, smiling the world to rest.

CITY LIFE.

BY CHARLES W. BAIRD

Forgive me, Lord, that I so long have dweltIn noisome cities, whence Thy sacred worksAre ever banished from my sight; where lurksEach baleful passion man has ever felt.Here human skill is shown in shutting outAll sight and thought of things that God hath made;Lest He should share the constant homage paidTo Mammon, in the hearts of men devout.O, it was fit that he 2 upon whose headWeighed his own brother's blood, and God's dread curse,Should build a city, when he trembling fledFar from his Maker's face. And which was worse,The murder – or departing far from Thee?Great God! impute not either sin to me!

THE CRUISE OF THE GENTILE.

BY FRANK BYRNE.

(Concluded from page 147.)

CHAPTER V.

In which there is a Storm, a Wreck, and a Mutiny

When I came on deck the next morning, I found that the mate's prediction had proved true. A norther, as it is called in the Gulf, was blowing great guns, and the ship, heading westward, was rolling in the trough of the tremendous sea almost yard-arm under, with only close-reefed top-sails and storm foretopmast-staysail set. We wallowed along in this manner all day, for we were lying our course, and the skipper was in a hurry to bring our protracted voyage to an end. We made much more leeway than we reckoned, however, for just at sunset the high mountains of Cuba were to be seen faintly looming up on the southern horizon.

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1

From a work now in press, and shortly to be published, entitled "The Military Heroes of the United States. By C. J. Peterson. 2 vols. 8vo. 500 pp."

2

Cain. – Genesis iv. 17.