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“ Trus' dis ere nig, massa! Yah! yah! There's a beauty that thrills in the seeming yah! Dis ere nig knows a ting or two.
life Ise show you de way!
Of Art's creations grand ;
In the chiselled forms of sculptured birth, (To be continued.)
That spring from Genius's hand ;
In the tints that give to the canvas life
And ever-varying shade.
'Tis startling, wildering, strangely fair,
What hands of men have made ! THERE's a beauty that flashes along the heavens
But, oh! there's no beauty on earth that can In the lightning's fearful chain ;
vie There's a beauty that surges from height to With the pictures that float o'er America's sky.
The sunlight glances by ;
And the soul looks up, in wonder lost,
At the beauty all on high..
My dim eyes long to see
Through the waves of the upper sea. 'Tis not of the morn, in Orient born,
Oh! say not there's beauty on earth that can Where fiery tints unfold,
vie Nor of sunset dies, in western skies,
With the beauty that dwells in our sunlit sky! All liquid with purple and gold ; 'Tis not of these, where Splendor weaves A thousand gorgeous rays,
Oh! many and sweet are the thoughts that And starting forth to the gaze of earth,
rush Her banners proudly wave.
Through my beauty-haunted brain, All hail to their beauties earth may not belie!
Till my soul goes forth like floods that gush But lovelier far is our noonday sky.
From the surging realms of pain.
I think on harmony's rapturous swell; There's a beauty that flutters from flower to When, roused to the battle by tyrant or traitor,
On Liberty's pulses high, flower
She calls on her sons to die. On the humming-bird's light wings ; There's a beauty that glows in the blended dyes of the beautiful world in our arching sky.
Yet oft do I think, as the swift clouds go by, Of the garden offerings ; In the silver light of the moon, at night, In the violet's purple glow,
As the young hart pants for the water-brooks, In the varying sheen of the mountain stream,
As the slave burns to be free, In the glance of the crystalled snow,
As the pilgrim sighs for the prophet's tomb, There is beauty ; but where is the beauty to vie
As the dumb birds turn to Thee, With the gilded depths of our sapphire sky?
As the prisoner longs for the sunshine fair,
And the soft wind whispering by, There's a beauty that glances from peak to So waiting, O my God, I pine peak,
For that beautiful world on high. Where mountains lift their heads ;
Oh, no! there's no beauty on earth that can There's a beauty that awes the soul within,
With the beauty that dwells in the sapphire Where icebergs make their beds ;
sky! There's a beauty that's winning, passing fair,
Chili, N. Y.
And the glacier, is only snow.
No religious ship or sect would like to vie
be responsible for all the barnacles and With the radiant depths of our summer sky.
seaweed on its hull.
OVER THE RIVER.
Over the river, and we would walk,
hand in hand, through the one always By C. A. S, OVER THE RIVER ; OR, PLEASANT quiet, but then seemingly deserted, street, WALKS INTO THE VALLEY OF Shadows, ed the banks. Once there, we would
on and on, till, past the village, we reachAND BEYOND: a Book of Consolation
wander for a mile or two, now stopping for the Sick, the Dying, and the Be- to write our names and the morning text reaved. By Thomas Baldwin Thayer. in the white sand, now gathering pearly Boston: Tompkins & Co., 25 Corn- pebbles and tiny shells, and now sitting hill. 1864.
down, or standing still, in mute sympaTo myself, this touchingly beautiful ti thy with the beauty of the day, the majtle has a significance which every one may esty of the river, and the grandeur of the not appreciate. Years ago, when life mountains that loomed up in the distance was in its dawning, and I was the petted more like huge shadows than anything as child of idolizing parents, as often as tangible as rock and forest. I would come home from school of a After awhile, we would turn away Friday night, sick with the headache, from the bank and ramble through narworn out with intense application, or row paths in grain-fields, across green suffering from the lassitude consequent meadows and singing streams, till we upon a naturally delicate constitution, my came to our favorite resting-place, father would take me on his knees, and as “side hill” with a stream of icy coldness he folded me to his heart and stroked my running at its foot, a grove of solemn hair in his own gentle, caressing way, say, pines lining its ascent, and a plateau of sometimes soothingly, oftener cheerily, emerald moss close to its summit. There “Never mind, Carrie, we'll go over the we would sit the whole long spring, sumriver Sunday afternoon." And when mer, or autumn afternoon, seldom speakSunday came, - when the morning service ing a word, but listening in rapt intensity was over, and the frugal dinner eaten, - to the hum of insects, the song of birds, he would take me by the hand, and to the tinkle of the waters, and the moaning gether we would go down to the South of the wind, as it floated to and fro in Ferry, and unmooring one of the little the boughs of the tall old pines, -a boats that ever lay anchored there, he weird music which we have ever since would lift me in, push it from shore, and wished might be murmuring over that row across the Hudson to the quiet little spot of earth in the depths of which my village of Greenbush, a name whose friends shall one day pillow my head. quaintness had a meaning then, - a mean- As we recrossed the river, crimson then ing lost now to the careless traveller who with reflections from the setting sun, our whirls through it in the hot and dusty car. soul would be full of beautiful things.
As I write, I seem to feel again that The sound of the wind, the talk of the delicious trepidation of nerve, half-fear, leaves, the voice of the wild birds and half-exhilaration, which always accompa- the laugh of the wild flowers, the ripnies the first tremulous motion of a canoe. pling of streams and the color of pebAs I sit awhile, with my pen resting idly bles, the shape of the clouds and the hue upon the sheet, the quiver subsides into a of the sunbeam, - all these would have cilm, secure sense of pleasurable emotion, woven their spell over our girlish thoughts,
I feel myself gliding over the blue and we would return home a poet in feel
us at the threshold of our home, the lit- my boy was dead. I saw him cared for tle sister who would run to meet us, the by stranger hands, shrouded in the uniwhite-haired grandmother who would lift form he had worn but six short weeks, her eyes from her Bible with a gentle placed in a soldier's coffin, and left alone smile of welcome as we came in, — they in the dead-house, no mother, sister, or
and have been for years, brother to watch and weep beside him. gone over the river"
To-day, I count the hours, and as the “ To the better shores of the spirit land.”
clock strikes four, I say, “ A year ago One only is left me, - the sister near
they were burying Henry now.”
God, est my age, she who used sometimes to
“ Thou gavest, and I yield to thee." take my father's other hand and go with
But, ah! “ Over the river!” Do you wonder
“ How large a place his presence filled ;
How vacant it appears?" that the “ beautiful metaphor" has to me a holy significance ?
“Oh, was he loved too well the while, Do you wonder
Ere he was called above?" than I think first of the broad, deep, and
“ Give me the hope to meet him there, calmly-flowing Rhine of my American
When life's full task is done !" heart and the fields and woods and hills
6. Over the river!” I turn the leaves on the opposite side from the city of my tenderly, tearfully. I cannot but weep, birth, and of pleasant wanderings there, hand in hand with one who loved
as I read it; and yet, as often as I close and me,
it, I feel that I am the stronger and betafterward, by a natural transition from the temporal to the spiritual, of that through many days and weeks of pain,
ter for its perusal. Written by one who, narrow sea” which divides “the heavenly learned the lessons which sickness teaches, land from ours,” and that I behold
and who, in his ministry, has been much “ Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, with the dying and bereaved, I feel that All dressed in living green"?
every sentence is significant of some great “ A land upon whose blissful shore
truth learned from experience. The title There rests no shadow, falls no stain ; of every chapter in the first part is an Where those who meet shall part no more, inspiration wrought out of pain, and to And those long-parted meet again.”
those who languish in sickness, each one “Over the river !” Welcome at any must come directly home and tend to time as a pillow-book for sad and suf- quicken the diviner sensibilities of the fering hours, of which, alas! earth has heart. so many now-a-days, this last offering of In the second part, “ The Revelations friendship has come to me with peculiar for the Dying,” I have been especially meaning now. Yesterday I sat and moved by the chapter, “ Falling Asleep.” watched the clock with strange intensity of the many figures used to symbolize of feeling. As the hands pointed to death, this, to me, is the most beautiful; eight, I saw, oh, with what vividness, a and now, when the burden of life lies so boy's form on a narrow, hospital cot, and heavily on my shoulders that I have at two white hands upraised in supplicating times scarcely patience to bear it another agony, as without one warning pang, there rod, — when I am oppressed with a weagushed over the pallid lips a scarlet stream riness that no bed can ease, with a pang hot from the lungs. As the hands point that no medicine can alleviate, I think, ed to ten, I saw again the scarlet stream with a yearning almost irrepressible, of gush over the quivering lips and throat that sleep which has no waking for the and breast, deluge the pillow and sheets, aching muscles and tortured nerves. The and ebb and flow till the last drop was grave does not look to me like a deep and spent; and I saw the surgeon bend his narrow and dark cleft in the earth, but as ear and weep, as he heard the half-uttered one of our loved ones said, “a cool, flowerword, — "my mother !” and then, -0 wreathed chamber,” in which it would be God, have mercy on my heart !- I knew I be blissful to lie down and go to sleep.
In the third part, the “ Consolations The sick, the dying, the bereaved, we for the Bereaved," my eyes linger longest have always with us, even as it is said we on the chapter entitled “The Death of have the poor ; and a work like this is Children.” It may not be the most consequently never out of place. But touching, the best; but at this time, as just now, in this hour of our country's the anniversary of my own child's death peril
, it seems a peculiarly appropriate comes to me with so many sad and holy time to issue a volume of this consolatory memories, every word of the author on character. Stretchers and ambulances this theme has a tender meaning. I rec- and hospitals and coffins and graves make ognize my own departed one in these up a panorama that is not only symbolic words, “A pleasant, manly, robust boy, of a patriotism that is divine and a herofull of life, full of generous impulses, ism that is sublime, but also of agony genial, affectionate, ambitious, always sore and crimson, of sorrow deep and hopeful and happy, making the house lasting. Our soldiers, as they pass "over merry with his songs and jests ;” and my the river,” or gird themselves for the batown experience in these words, “ The tle that may leave them on its banks, child that Death has taken in his arms need a book like this to lie beside them and borne away from you, -oh, what a on their cot and to roll up in their knapdifference it has made in your home and sack; while the waiting ones at home heart! How it has changed the tone and those who linger in the anguish of suscolor of your thoughts, and taken the pense, or the bitterness of reality — need warmth and beauty out of your life, and it as much, if indeed not more; for after darkened all the hopes and ambitions that all, it is those who are left behind that were linked in the future of the beloved suffer most. Oh, the darkened homes of child! How tasteless and unsatisfying is our land! Oh, the spoils of our battleall pleasure! How dull and uninteresting fields! Thank God, — the book you are reading! How little
“ Over the river, the peaceful river, you sympathize in the idle talk of your visitors! How everything in the world
“ Each agonized cry, cach desolate wail,
Each fearful and piteous moan, has lost its point and meaning for you!” Shall be swept away by the murmurous waves;' And these, quoted from the discourse of
» « foe" and a ministering friend, — " I supposed that And “federal”, and “freedman, Heaven was dear to me, that my Fa- “ Await the clasp of an angel hand, ther was there, and
friends And dwell in the light of the glory-land.” there, and that I had a great interest in July 3, 1864. heaven; but I had no child there! Now I have; and I never think, and never shall think, of heaven, but with the mem- How little do we appreciate a mother's ory of that dear boy, who is to be among tenderness while living! How heedless its inhabitants forever!”
are we, in childhood, of all her anxieties “ The Dead never grow Old” is also and kindness! But when she is dead a chapter of touching interest. Truly and gone, — when the cares and coldness does the author say, “This is one of of the world come withering to our hearts; God's kindly compensations for the loss when we learn how hard it is to find true which death inflicts. The bereaved, only, sympathy, how few love us for ourselves, have friends who never change." The how few will befriend us in our misforhoys snared to me will
thon it is we think of the mother
THE BURIAL OF BIRNEY.
TOILING! tolling ! hark the knell
One whose deeds -- the brave, the bold By ten thousand lips were told, Wheresoe'er the voice of fame Trumpeted a hero's name,
One who, like a glorious star, O'er the lurid fields of war, Swiftly to the zenith rose, Bringing terror to his foes, –
One whose heart was grand and true,
Resteth now. His work is done ;
Among the touching events of the day, connected with the war, is the death of MajorGeneral Birney, who died of fever occasioned by over-exertion at the battle of Chapin's Farm, fought within the last two or three weeks. He was a kind and noble gentleman, gallant soldier, and a brave and successful leader, beloved by the soldiers who fought un. der him as few generals are, and courned by them with an almost filial sorrow. When the news of his death reached the army in which he has so faithfully served, and the Tenth Corps, which he so ably commanded, universal grief was the prevailing sentiment. A correspondent of one of the New York papers thus speaks of its effect:
“A profound gloom settled upon the corps, and indeed upon the whole army of the James, at the announcement of the sad tidings. By the commanding general of this army, the loss of this able and fearlegs soldier will be deeply felt. Throughout all the movements of this command, since its advance to the north of the James, General Birney has been a moving spirit. As a corps commander, he was especially invaluable. In all respects, he was a great soldier, and clearly caught and understood the spirit of this most exciting and active campaign against Richmond, in whose complete success his greatest hopes were wholly wrapped.”
“The news of General Birney's death fell like a pall over the whole army. But few suspected his danger, and many were anxiously awaiting his return.
“ Few officers have left a better reputation behind them than he, and perhaps none hare risen so rapidly in public opinion within the last three months. Loved by his corps, and respected and trusted by all who knew him, his death is a public calamity.”
That“ Death loves a shining mark" has been more than once demonstrated during this war for the suppression of the rebellion ; for he has stricken down some of our bravest and brightest. While the country can illy afford to lose such leaders as General Birney, let us be grate.
He has perished in his pride ;
Other chiefs may lead them on,
Yet amid the cheers that rise,
Kingly heart, we bid thee sleep! Be thy slumbers calm and deep ! While the land thou died 'st to save
Wreathes its laurels o'er thy grave! Oct. 21,