Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest BAYARD TAYLOR. THE LOST STEAMSHIP. "Ho, there! fisherman, hold your hand! Rising and rolling through clouds of "That, good sir, was a steamer stout As ever paddled around Cape Race, And many's the wild and stormy bout She had with the winds in that self-same place; But her time had come; and at ten o'clock Last night she struck on that lonesome shore, "Come, as you seem to know, good man, "Master, I may not drink of your flask, When she struck the breakers and went ashore, And scarce had broken the morning's light Than she sank in twelve feet of water, or more. "But long ere this they knew their doom, And the Captain called all hands to prayer; And solemnly over the ocean's boom The orisons rose on the troubled air. And round about the vessel there rose Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, "So those three hundred people clung A rough old salt, who cried like a child, "The Captain stood on the quarter-deck, And that was the last they saw of him. "I saw one young fellow, with his bride, But neither could hear the other speak; "And there was a child, but eight at best, All the while holding upon his breast A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped. And as the boy and the bird went by, Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, They were grappled by a man with a drowning cry; And together the three went down to rest. "And so the crew went one by one, Some with gladness, and few with fear; Cold and hardship such work had done That few seemed frightened when death was near. "Now, lonely Fisherman, who are you, FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. "T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. "T is the last rose of summer, Are faded and gone; To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, When true hearts lie withered, This bleak world alone? THOMAS MOORE. DEATH OF POOR JO. Jo is very glad to see his old friend, and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a crown, - that magic balm of his for all kinds of wounds. "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationer, with his cough of sympathy. “I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumf bler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm werry sorry that I done it, but I did n't go fur to do it, sir." The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is so sorry for having done. "Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and give a illness to the lady as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a smilin' so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink for to ease me, wot he's allus a doin' on day and night, and wen he come a bendin' over me and a speakin' up so bold, I see his tears a fallin', Mr. Sangsby." The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than à repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. "Wot I wos a thinkin' on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'r'aps ?" "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. "Uncommon precious large, p'r'aps?" says Jo, with eagerness. "Yes, my poor boy." Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I was thinkin' on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I was moved on as fur as ever I could go and could n't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'r'aps, as to write out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to do it; and that though I did n't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgiv me in his mind. If the writin' could be made to say it wery large, he might. "It shall say it, Jo. Very large." Jo laughs again. "Thank'ee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, -- he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, - and is fain to depart. And Jo and he upon this little earth shall meet no more. No more. For the cart, so hard to draw, is near its journey's end, and drags over stony ground. All round the clock, it labors the broken steeps, shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise, and behold it still upon its weary road. up Jo is in a sleep or stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a while, he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face toward him, and touches his chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labors on a little more. "Well, Jo? What is the matter? Don't be frightened." "I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, "I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" "Nobody." "And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?” "No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful.” After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "Jo! Did you ever know a prayer?" |