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Blood ! blood! he found on every side but nowhere found the child !
“Hell-hound ! by thee my child's devoured !" the frantic father cried,
And to the hilt his vengeful sword he plunged in Gelert's side !-
His suppliant as to earth he fell, no pity could impart ;
But still his Gelert's dying yell, passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, some slumberer wakened nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell, to hear his infant cry!
Concealed beneath a mangled heap his hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep his cherub boy he kissed !
No scratch had he—nor harm, nor dread—but the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-tremendous still in death!
Ah ! what was then Llewellyn's pain! For now the truth was clear ;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain, to save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe: “Best of thy kind, adieu !
The frantic deed which laid thee low, this heart shall ever rue !"
-And now a gallant tomb they raise, with costly sculpture decked ; And marbles, storied with his praise, poor Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, or forester, unmoved; Here of the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; and oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear poor Gelert's dying yell!
And Xerxes, in a single bark,
Where late his thousand ships were dark,
Must all their fury dare.
What a revenge,
-a trophy, this,
For thee, immortal Salamis !
N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail--
If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart-
“Look aloft," and be firm and be fearless of heart.
If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are arrayed,
“Look aloft” to the friendship which never shall fade.
Should the visions which Hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
“Look aloft” to the Sun that is never to set.
Should they who are nearest and dearest thy heart-
Thy friends and companions-in sorrow depart,
“Look aloft” from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom.'
And, oh! when Death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, “LOOK ALOFT,” and depart.
XXV.-THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER.
JULIA C. R. DORR.
AY by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought ;
Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;
Till at last the work was ended; and no organ-voice so grand
Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.
Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride,
Who, in God's sight were well-pleasing in the church stood side by side,
Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,
And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.
He was young, the Organ-builder, and o’er all the land his fame
Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.
All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,
By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.
So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set :
Happy day-the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet !
But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride-
Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.
“Ah !" thought he; “how great a master am I! When the organ plays,
How the vast cathedral-arches will re-echo with my praise !"
Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,
With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love and prayer,
For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.
All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone,
And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone.
Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him
Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim !
Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side !
Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.
Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth ;
On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.
* Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name; For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame. Then his haughty heart grew softer and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray; Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good ; Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood; Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet. Ah ! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight ! Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread ; There he met a long procession-mourners following the dead. “Now why weep ye so, good people ? and whom bury you to-day? Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way
? “Has some saint gone up to heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore; “For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no more ; “And because her days were given to the service of God's poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See ! yonder is the door.” No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain. 66 Tis some one whom she has comforted, who mourns with us,” they said, As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head; Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while :
When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play
Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day !
All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear ;
All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near ;
And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head,
With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it-dead.
They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride ;
Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side ;
While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,
And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.
A Christmas Story.
HE ancient Kris Kringle was taking a nap,
All ready for travel, with furs for a wrap;
A cap of soft wool was drawn over his head ;
His cheeks you could see were both puffy and red,
For he lives at the north where the icy winds blow,
And his whiskers were white as the glistening snow,
His jolly, round figure in ermine was drest,
And robings of eider-down covered his breast,
While dreaming of Christmas, glad time of the year,
Of eyes he would brighten, of hearts he would cheer,
Bright, frolicksome beings in fancy drew nigh,
They pulled at his whiskers, they tugged at his eye,
They buzzed in his ear, and they tickled his nose,
They pinched his red cheeks and uncovered his toes.
A medley of faces, some roguish, some wise,
Such dear little dimples, such noses, such eyes,
And every one shouted with hope all elate,
“I wish it was morning, I never can wait.
Said drowsy St. Nicholas, rubbing his nose,
“These fairies are bent on disturbing my doze.
The reindeers are ready, I'm off in a trice,
Far over the mountains and rivers of ice.
Ho, Phantom! Up, Mista ! swift over the snow,
And steady and noiseless your step as we go.'
Like stars were the eyes of Kris Kringle that night;
Down chimneys he peered in his wonderful flight,
Close up to the bedside the newsboy had crept,
His mother's wan fingers he stroked as she slept ;
His eyelids were heavy with watching and woe,
So sleep came at last to poor Fatherless Joe.
In glow of the morning Kris Kringle had flown,
His coursers were nearing the far Northern zone,
Merry Christmas had come unto cottage and hall,
And St. Nicholas gifts were bestrewing them all.