ROBERT T. CONRAD. MY BROTHER.* FOREVER gone! I am alone-alone! Yet my heart doubts; to me thou livest yet: For I thy praise could win-thy praise sincere. And thou to me wert e'en as honor dear! And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with The sunshine of our boyhood! I bethink How we were wont to beat the briery wood; And how we plunged in Lackawana's wave; Bright dreams-forever past! I dream no more! [one! "He was asked whom he loved most, and he answered, 'His brother;' the person who put the question then asked him, whom he loved next, and again he said his brother.' Whom in the third place?' and still it was 'My brother,' and so on till he put no more questi is to him about it." -PUTARCH'S CATO. 'T was not by those who loved thee first and best. here; We shared a world, bright with the dew of youth, Knew, in their love, nor selfish taint, nor fear: Must it be ever thus? The festive hour The tear-drop trickling, turns my cup to gall; Oh, may not men, like strings that chord in tone, One in their nature, in their being one? And may I not be blended thus with thee? THE PRIDE OF WORTH. THERE is a joy in worth, A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm; It asks, it needs no aid; It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne: No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid, The stoic was not wrong: Worshipped or scorned, alone or 'mid the throng, Power and wealth and fame Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide: A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame, HENRY R. JACKSON. [Born 1810.] HENRY R. JACKSON is a native of Savannah, Georgia, and was educated at the Franklin College, in Athens. He was several years one of the editors of the "Savannah Georgian," but on the invasion of Mexico, in 1846, joined the Georgia volunteers, as a colonel, and continued in the army until the close of the war. In 1849 he was elected by the legislature one of the judges of the Georgia eastern circuit, for four years, and in 1853 received the appointment of Minister Resident of the United States at the court of Austria. Mr. JACKSON is the author of Tallulah and other Poems," published in Savannah in 1850. In this volume are several pieces of uncommon merit. That entitled "My Father," and one addressed from the battle-field of Camargo, "To My Wife and Child," are marked by simplicity and genuine feeling, as others are by an enthusiastic affection for his native state, her scenery, traditions, and institutions. MY FATHER. As die the embers on the hearth, And o'er the floor the shadows fall, And creeps the chirping cricket forth, And ticks the deathwatch in the wall, I see a form in yonder chair, That grows beneath the waning light; There are the wan, sad features-there The pallid brow, and locks of white! My father! when they laid thee down, And heap'd the clay upon thy breast, And left thee sleeping all alone Upon thy narrow couch of rest- Which settles tearless on the soul! Thine idle hat upon the wallThy book-the pencilled passage where Thine eye had rested last of all— The tree beneath whose friendly shade Thy trembling feet had wandered forthThe very prints those feet had made, When last they feebly trod the earthAnd thought, while countless ages fled, Thy vacant seat would vacant stand, Unworn thy hat, thy book unread, Effaced thy footsteps from the sandAnd widowed in this cheerless world, The heart that gave its love to theeTorn, like a vine whose tendrils curled More closely round the fallen tree!— Oh, father! then for her and thee Gushed madly forth the scorching tears; And oft, and long, and bitterly, Those tears have gush'd in later years; For as the world grows cold around, And things take on their real hue, "Tis sad to learn that love is found Alone above the stars, with you! MY WIFE AND CHILD, THE tattoo beats; the lights are gone; The camp around in slumber lies; The night with solemn pace moves on; The shadows thicken o'er the skies; But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. I think of thee, oh, dearest one! Whose love mine early life hath blest; Of thee and him-our baby sonWho slumbers on thy gentle breast:God of the tender, frail and lone, Oh, guard that little sleeper's rest! And hover, gently hover near To her, whose watchful eye is wetThe mother, wife-the doubly dear, In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love, so deep and clearAnd cheer her drooping spirit yet! Now, as she kneels before thy throne, Oh, teach her, Ruler of the skies! That while by thy behest alone Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, No tear is wept to thee unknown, Nor hair is lost, nor sparrow dies; That thou canst stay the ruthless hand Of dark disease, and soothe its painThat only by thy stern command The battle's lost, the soldier slain; That from the distant sea or land Thou bring'st the wanderer home again. And when, upon her pillow lone, Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon The brightening currents of her breast,Nor frowning look, nor angry tone Disturb the sabbath of her rest! Wherever fate those forms may throw, Loved with a passion almost wild— By day, by night-in joy or wo By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiledFrom every danger, every foe, Oh, God! protect my wife and child! |