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SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.-JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Of all the rides since the birth of Time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,—

On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human hack,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,—
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl,

Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase;
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,

Over and over the Mænads sang:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Small pity for him! He sailed away
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,

With his own towns-people on her deck!
"Lay by lay by!" they called to him;
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!

Brag of your catch of fish again!"

And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea,-

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Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head and fist and hat and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Sweetly along the Salem road

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.

Little the wicked skipper knew

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.

Riding there in his sorry trim,

Like an Indian idol, glum and grim,
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear

Of voices shouting far and near:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd heart,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,-
"What to me is this noisy ride?

What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within?
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,

And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
Hate me and curse me,-I only dread

The hand of God and the face of the dead!"
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, "God has touched him,-why should we?"

Said an old wife, mourning her only son,
"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

THE DRUMMER'S BRIDE.

Hollow-eyed and pale, at the window of a jail,

Through her soft, disheveled hair a maniac did stare, stare, stare!

At a distance, down the street, making music with their feet, Came the soldiers from the wars, all embellished with their

scars,

To the tapping of a drum, of a drum;

To the pounding and the sounding of a drum!

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!

The woman heaves a sigh, and a fire fills her eye.

When she hears the distant drum, she cries, "Here they come! here they come!"

Then, clutching fast the grating, with eager, nervous waiting, See, she looks into the air, through her long and silky hair, For the echo of a drum, of a drum;

For the cheering and the hearing of a drum!

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!

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And nearer, nearer, nearer, comes, more distinct and clearer, The rattle of the drumming: shrieks the woman, He is coming,

He is coming now to me: quick, drummer, quick, till I see!" And her eye is glassy bright, while she beats in mad delight To the echo of a drum, of a drum;

To the rapping, tapping, tapping, of a drum!

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!

Now she sees them, in the street, march along with dusty feet,

As she looks through the spaces, gazing madly in their faces; And she reaches out her hand, screaming wildly to the band;

But her words, like her lover, are lost beyond recover, 'Mid the beating of a drum, of a drum;

'Mid the clanging and the banging of a drun!

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!

So the pageant passes by, and the woman's flashing eye
Quickly loses all its stare, and fills with a tear, with a tear,
As, sinking from her place, with her hands upon her face,
"Hear!" she weeps and sobs as mild as a disappointed child;
Sobbing, "He will never come, never come!"

Now nor ever, never, never, will he come

With his drum, with his drum, with his drum! drum, drum, drum!

Still the drummer, up the street, beats his distant, dying beat, And she shouts, within her cell," Ha! they're marching down

to hell,

And the devils dance and wait at the open iron gate:

Hark! it is the dying sound, as they march into the ground, To the sighing and the dying of the drum!

To the throbbing and the sobbing of the drum!

Of a drum, of a drum, of a drum! drum, drum, drum!”

A DYING HYMN.-ALICE CARY.

Mrs. Ames, in her touchingly beautiful Memorial of Alice and Phoebe Cary, tells us the last stanza Alice ever wrote was-

"As the poor panting hart to the water-brook runs,

As the water-brook runs to the sea,

So earth's fainting daughters and famishing sons,

O Fountain of Love, run to Thee!'

"The writing is trembling and uncertain, and the pen literally fell from her hand; for the long shadows of eternity were stealing over her, and she was very near the place where it is too dark for mortal eye to see, and where there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge. She had written earlier what she called,

A Dying Hymn,' and it was a consolation to her to repeat it in her moments of agony:"

Earth with its dark and dreadful ills
Recedes, and fades away;

Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills!
Ye gates of death, give way!

My soul is full of whispered song;
My blindness is my sight;

The shadows that I feared so long,
Are all alive with light.

The while my pulses faintly beat,
My faith doth so abound.
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
The green immortal ground.

That faith to me a courage gives
Low as the grave to go;

I know that my Redeemer lives:
That I shall live I know.

The palace walls I almost see,
Where dwells my Lord and King;
O grave, where is thy victory!
Ŏ death, where is thy sting!

STRONG DRINK.-J. A. SEISS.

The history of strong drink is the history of ruin, of tears, or blood. It is, perhaps, the greatest curse that ever scourged the earth. It is one of depravity's worst fruits, a giant demon of destruction. Men may talk of earthquakes, storms, conflagrations, famine, pestilence, despotism, and war, but intemperance in the use of intoxicating drinks has sent a volume of misery and woe into the stream of this world's history more fearful and terrific than any of them.

It is the Amazon and Mississippi among the rivers of wretchedness. It is the Alexander and Napoleon among the warriors upon the peace and good of man. It is an evil which is limited to no age, no continent, no nation, no party, no sex, no period of life. It has taken the poor man at his toil, and the rich man at his desk; the senator in the halls of state, and the drayman on the street; the young man in his festivities, and the old man in his repose,—and plunged them into a common ruin. It has raged equally in times of war and in times of peace, in periods of depression and in periods of prosperity, in republics and in monarchies, among the civilized and among the savages.

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