FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE

Sitting in my humble doorway,
Gazing out into the night,
Listening to the stormy tumult
With a kind of sad delight,-

Wait I for the loved who comes not,
One whose step I long to hear,
One who, though he lingers from me,
Still is dearest of the dear.

Soft! he comes,-now heart be quick,
Leaping in triumphant pride;—
Oh! it is a stranger footstep,

Gone by on the other side.

All the night seems filled with weeping,
Winds are wailing mournfully,
And the rain-tears together
Journey to the restless sea.

I can fancy, sea, your murmur,
As they with your waters flow,
Like the griefs of single beings
Making up a nation's woe.

Branches, bid your guests be silent;
Hush a moment, fretful rain;
Breeze, stop sighing,-let me listen,
God grant not again in vain!

In my cheek the blood is rosy,
Like the blushes of a bride.
Joy! Alas! a stranger footstep
Goes by on the other side.

Ah! how many wait forever

For the steps that do not come!
Wait until the pitying angels
Bear them to a peaceful home.

Many, in the still of midnight,
In the streets have lain and died,
While the sound of human footsteps
Went by on the other side.

CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.

Now, Mr. Caudle,-Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; There's an end of the marriage state, I think,—an end of all confidence between man and wife, —if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still,-not that I care much about it,—still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say-you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion,-not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason,-when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be al lowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason,-when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!—yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me,-you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle. D. Jerrold.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And, from its station in the hall,
An ancient time-piece says to all,
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fail,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say at each chamber door,
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,

And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, "Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,——
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

There groups of merry children played;
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-.

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay, in his shroud of snow;

And, in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,-

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

All are scattered, now, and fled,-
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time, shall disappear,―
Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

H. W. Longfellow.

Strange we never prize the music

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair

As when winter's snowy pinions

Shake their white down in the air.

Lips from which the seal of silence
None but God can roll away,
Never blossomed in such beauty
As adorns the mouth to-day;
And sweet words that freight our memory

With their beautiful perfume,

Come to us in sweeter accents

Through the portals of the tomb.