Andante 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
LIFE. 
GOING ALONE 
Sat, what is life ? Is it to spend 
On earth a few short days ? 
To follow where the worldly throng 
Lead on in pleasure's maze 1 
Is it to wrap oitr better thoughts 
Far from the view of all. 
And never bid the feeling heart 
Respond to duty’s call? 
Is It to care and toil for self, 
And seek its good alone; 
And claims of suffering fellow man 
Upon our time disown? 
Is it to seek a fleeting name 
That soon would be forgot,,— 
To treasure wealth whose shining stores 
True happiness ne’er brought? 
No, 'tis to suffer, and to bear 
With man’s short-comings here; 
To help the needy; for the grieved 
To wipe the bitter tear; 
To cherish every noble thought 
That to onr bouIs is given; 
By help of Him who died to save, 
To fit ourselves for heaven; 
To offer daily the sweet song 
Of gratitude and love, 
For all the blessings of our lot, 
To God our Friend above. 
Elkhorn, Wis , 1867. B. 
With curls in the sunny air tossing, 
With light in the merrj- blue eyes, 
With laughter so Clearly outraging— 
A laugh of delight and surprise; 
All friendly assistance disdaining 
And trusting no strength but his own. 
The past fears and trials forgotten. 
The baby Is “ going alone !’* 
What woeful mishaps have preceded 
This day of rejoicing and pride! 
How often thu help that lie needed 
Has carelessly gone from bis side! 
He has fallen while teaching for sunbeams 
Which juat as be grasped them have flown, 
And the teat* of vexation have followed, 
But now he Is “going alone. 
And all through his lire be will study 
This lesson again and again; 
He will carelessly lean upon shadows, 
ne will foil, and weep over the pain. 
The hand whose fond clasp was the surest, 
WUi coldly withdraw from his own, 
The sunniest eyes will he clouded, 
And he will be walking alone 1 
He will learn what a stern world we live in, 
And he may grow cold like the rest; 
And jnst keep a warm sunny welcome, 
For those who seem truest and best; 
Yet chastened and taught by past sorrow, 
And stronger and manlier grown, 
Not trusting his all to their keeping, 
He learns to walk bravely alone. 
And yet not alone, for Our Father 
The faltering footsteps will guide, 
Through ail the dark mazes of earth-life, 
Andover the river's ’’ deep tide. 
Oh 1 here i* a helper unfailing, 
A strength we can perfectly trust, 
When all human aid unavailing 
“ The dust shall return unto dust.” 
Like a dream that dies a - way, Down the o - cean glid-in< 
Cheeks are bright, then fade and die ; Shapes of light are waft-ed 
Faintly flow, thou fall-ing riv - er 
Ro-ses bloom, and then they v. iih-er! 
a si - lent mo - tion, Floats a ■ 
at evening driv - en O’er the 
Keep thy calm, un - ruf-fled way; Time, with such 
Then, like vi - sions, hur- ry by, Quick as clouds 
-O" 
its treasures there, 
pi - ness and rest. 
ni - tv’s dark o - cean, Burying all 
ing us to hea-ven, Home of hap 
g on wings of air io e - ler 
- ny - colored west. Years are bear 
[From the Young Shawm , published by Mason Brothers. 
COMPLAINING 
ALLITERATION 
softly around your homos. Ou the home altar 
lay your richest gilts — they are treasures that 
will never dim before the searching eye of the 
All-loving One. The springs oflove welling up 
there will become broader and deeper all thro’ j 
the earthly years, until in the unshadowed i 
home above they shall be even as the river clear 
as crystal flowing from beneath the great white 
throne, and the clear shining waves will miugle 
and commingle at last in the ocean of God’s 
Infinite love. Grace G. Slough. 
Wellsville, N. Y„ 1367. 
Stoicism is a rare quality In human nature. 
There are few persons who cau receive whatever' 
comes Into their life, whether of good or had for¬ 
tune, with complete indifference. And there are 
few lives, however smoothly they may be fash¬ 
ioned, which are not often ruffled by vexatious 
circumstances that provoke to Impatience and 
murmurings. Too frequently these provocations 
are yielded to. Too frequently are individuals 
and households rendered unhappy in consequence 
of such yielding. 
“To suffer and bo Btill” may sometimes ex¬ 
ceed the limit of human patience. It may, even, 
come to be more than a Christian virtue. There 
are vexations aud trials that would move the 
stoic himself. Bnt they are not so numerous as 
many really good-lntentioned people think. 
Properly regarded, the majority of annoyances 
incident to humanity would not, in the least, 
disturb the equanimity of any one. More than 
any others, however, arc these minor circum¬ 
stances the cause of complaint.. It may seem 
strange, perhaps, that a nature which bears, 
with a calm fortitude almost heroic, the lose of 
fortune, or friends, should succumb to petty 
trifles of the hour, and give constant voice to 
complaining. And yet many such natures exist. 
They would bury their dead out of their sight— 
deep as the affliction might be — without a mur¬ 
mur, while the merest disappointment in the 
concerns of daily life would breed hours ot 
fault-finding. The great trouble would be con¬ 
sidered by them a dispensation of Providence, 
and therefore to be accepted with Christian res¬ 
ignation; the lesser ones would be treated as 
though hardly within the pale of Providence 
at all. 
Resignation to great afflictions is not half so 
fruitful of happiness as is resignation to those of 
comparatively little moment.. The former come, 
and, maybe, darken the life for a time, but they 
do not last always. The latter are continually 
coming, and if they produce any effect it is 
nearlv or quite continuous. To complain of 
Coleridge and De Quincey are rich in alliter¬ 
ation. De Quincey uses It with superb effect. 
In Coleridge’s poems it is often the best note in 
the music. For instance, in the “ Ancient Mar¬ 
iner,” the repetition, in the following stanza, 
heightens the picture of the hapless mariner’s 
ship: 
“ The fireezes Mew. the white /bam /'lew, 
The/urrow /olio wed /ree. 
We were the /?r«t that ever burst 
Into that silent sea.” 
And then again — 
“ His fiones were Mack with many a crack, 
All Mack and tiare I ween; 
Jet Mack and tare, save where with rust 
Of moldy damps and charnel crust 
They were patched with purple and green.” 
Once more — 
“And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the «alls did algh like sedge.” 
And again, with an indescribably exquisite 
cadence — 
“ To Mary, queen, the praise be giveD, 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 
That tlid into my soul.” 
In fact, Coleridge is rich, almost beyond com¬ 
parison, iu eup-htmiow? and af-onaat alliteration. 
Much of the wild and weird effect of the “ An¬ 
cient Mariner,” and of the mastery of its spell, 
is due to the subtle interlinking of the sounds 
of letters. The fascination is intensified by the 
congregation and commingling of similar voca¬ 
bles, and the coloring is thereby deepened. 
Written for Moore’? Rural New-Yorker, 
PERVERTED TASTES. 
Ode mental tastes are the subjects of diseased 
appetites, as well as our stomachs. We have 
flattered ourselves humanitarians when the bells 
have rung the alarm of lire, because our zeal at¬ 
tained extra locomotion, and have been conscious 
of knocking down various things anlmateVaud 
inanimate, valuable and valueless, in our path; 
but when we arrived at. the place and found the 
fire extinguished, our disappointed and vexed 
feelings could hardly be called humane. 
Neighborhoods and neighbors realize an un¬ 
comfortable sensation from the mountainous 
proportions a mole-hill of a story soon assumes. 
The greed and dexterity wc show in'the circula¬ 
tion of scandal would be more commendable and 
praiseworthy did not the wares we retail soil and 
burn our fingers. In order to show our zeal and 
sympathy for one party scandalized, or both, we 
must see well to It thatlkOt one iota of the orig¬ 
inal claim, Tjcitkw-ftr.y L i - addition*., ar* lost 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TREASURES THAT SHINE. <£& 
THE AGED LOVER 
No longer a lover! exclaimed an aged patri¬ 
arch; ah! you mistake me if you think age has 
blotted out my heart. Though silver hair falls 
over a brow all wrinkled, and a cheek all fur¬ 
rowed, yet I am a lover still. 1 love the beauty 
of the maiden’s blush, the soft tint of flowers, 
the singing of birds, and, above all, the silvery 
laugh of a child. 1 love the star-like meadows 
where the butter-cups grow, with almost the 
same enthusiasm as when, with ringlets flying 
loose in the wind, years ago, I chased the paint¬ 
ed butterfly. I lore yon aged dame. Look. at 
her. Her face is careworn, bnt it has over held 
a smile for me. Often have 1 shared the same 
bitter cup with her, and so shared, it 6eemed 
almost sweet. Years of sickness have stolen 
the freshness of life; but like the faded rose, 
the perfume of her love is richer than wheu iu . 
the full bloom ot' youth and maturity. Togeth¬ 
er we have wept over the graves. Through 
sunshiuc and storm we have clung together 
aud now she sits with her knitting, her cap 
quaintly frilled, the old-style kerchief crossed, 
white and prim, above the heart that beat so 
long and truly for me, the dim blue eyes that 
sbriukingly front the glad day, the sunlight 
throwing a parting farewell kisses her brow and 
leaves upon its faint tracery of wrinkles angelic 
radiance. I see, though no one else can, the 
bright, glad young face that won me first, and 
the glowing love of forty years thrills through 
my heart till tears come. Say not again that I 
can no longer be a lover. Though this form he 
bowed, God imparted eternal Life within. Let 
the ear be deaf, the eye blind, the hands palsied, 
the limbs withered, the brain clouded, yet the 
heart, the true heart may hold such wealth of 
love that all the powers of death and the vic¬ 
torious grave shall not be able to put out its 
quenchless flame. 
words “ sweet home” — I wonder not that eyes 
become misty with unshed tears, because of 
their holy melody,—that tar away over the later 
years, which have been all shadowed with sor¬ 
rowing and weariness, there comes a murmur 
stealing up from the place where yon and I were 
wont to kneel in childhood. O weary hearts, say 
not that earth is all darkness, all sin —there are 
words of purity and blessedness, falling soft and 
holy, like the whispers of angels — there are 
beacon-lights 6bining out from the darkness, 
even as the stars gleam out from the deep bine 
above, — the light of love’s watehflres by home 
hearthstones. How the young, untried soul 
goc6 forth to life's 6terner contest, clasping the 
precious memories more closely than the miser 
clasps his gold—folding each prayer and bless¬ 
ing of home-love away in the heart, where, when 
the shadows come, it may go and read the bless¬ 
ed words over and over again. 
O! ye upon whose high brows gleams a coro¬ 
net of worldly honor, are not the crowns heavy? 
Do ye not sometimes sigh for the hand that 
used to lay there so lovingly, away back in the 
days of your guileless childhood ? And ye who 
have listened so long to earth’s meaningless 
words, do ye not yearn sometimes to hear the 
blessed ones you were w ont to hear at nightfall 
in your homes of long-ago ? Ye go out into the 
dusty pathways of the world—yc may soil your 
garments with sin, but ever a sweet voice seems 
calling you—wooing you away from the hollow, 
to the true aud the blessed. 
Home—home 1 What wonder that hearts stir 
with strange, deep yearnings at the mention of 
the word for no heart is impervious to its holy 
influence. Sweet and soothing as the murmur 
of waters, it flows into our lives, binding them 
to purity and God. The weary laborer brashes 
the dust of toil from bis brow, and a strange 
light plays there as he sees far in the distance 
the home-lights gleaming to welcome him. How 
hi3 heart leaps for gladness when he clasps his 
treasures so closely. Ah, these are shining ones 
—these are wealth that rusts not. Cling to the 
treasures of the hearthstone, ye loving ones — 
home-love is better than riches of silver and 
gold. 
Not all homes have the priceless gem; too 
many, alas, are shadowed with sin and crime. 
There are mocking words where there should be 
loving ones, and cruel blows where hands should 
fall in blessing, for the tempter often creeps into 
this sweet holy of holies. Guard yc your homes 
then, dear ones; God hath blessed you richly in 
these precious, priceless gifts. The world has 
cruel thorns, and selfishness, and mockery that 
wound those whom ye love so well. Let your 
blessed words of truth, your lovings hands and 
lips fall tenderly above the aching hearts and 
hurniug brows. Fling sunlight and smiles along 
the dark pathways of the world. Yes, drop the 
healing balm oflove into the weary|heart, reach 
out your kindly hands to erring ones—they have 
need of it all—but let the blessed dews fall most 
SOMETIME 
It is a sweet, sweet »ODg, flowing to and fro 
among the topmost bows of the heart, and tills the 
whole air with such joy and gladness as the songs 
of birds do, when the summer morning comes out 
of the darkness, and thedayis born on the moun¬ 
tains. We have all our possessions in the future, 
which we call “Sometime.” Beautiful flowers 
and sweet singing birds are there, only our hands 
seldom grasp the one, or our ears hear, except 
in faint, far-off Btrains, the other. But oh, 
reader, be of good cheer, for to all the good 
there is a golden “Sometime!” When the 
hills and valleys of time are all passed, when the 
wear and the fever, the disappointment and the* 
sorrow of life are over, then there is the peace 
and the rest appointed of God. Oh, homestead, 
over whose blessed roof falls uo shadow even of 
clouds, across whose threshold the voice of sor¬ 
row is never heard; built upon the eternal hills, 
and standing with thy spires and pinnacles of 
celestial beauty among the palm trees of the city 
on high, those who love God shall rest under thy 
shadows, where there i3 no more sorrow, nor 
pain, nor the sound of weeping. 
that we look miserable—she don’t believe we 
will live a week The habit of staring sick peo¬ 
ple out of countenance, is not quieting to feeble 
nerves, and tends more to gratify a morbid curi¬ 
osity on our part than to enhance their comfort. 
Many of the fashions of the day show a love 
of torture that would be commendable in the 
most devoted doer of penance; and this torture 
is not endured by ns as a penalty for onr sins. 
If nature had designed the daughters of Eve to 
outdo the Poland breed of hens in their huge 
top-knots, there would have been indications 
and arrangements made on the crown of the 
head to that effect before the nineteenth cen¬ 
tury, and chignons would have been invented 
that would admit the use of the lower jaw. We 
do not admire the size, comeliness nor beauty 
ol the whale, because we patronize his bones 
so perseveringly. If they were used against 
pressure l'rotu without, instead of pressing li/e 
out) the use would be reasonable, and we should 
not. add fashionable suicide to our other fatten 
graces. Would it not be well to follow fashion 
with au eye to comfort and health, and not be¬ 
come its declared subjects to the utter giving 
up of both ? Maby N. Pinckney. 
South Onondaga, N. Y|, 1867. 
GOSSIPY PARAGRAPHS 
War are the Marys the most amiable of their 
sex? Because they can always be molly-lied. 
The Savanuah New Em says a half dozen young 
gentlemen of that place have entered into a com¬ 
pact to get married before the winter is over. 
They ought to get the same number of young 
ladies to enter into the compact. 
“English ladies,” says Erasmus, “are divine¬ 
ly pretty, aDd too good-natured. They have an 
excellent custom among them, that wherever you 
go the girls kiss you at intervening opportuni¬ 
ties, and their lips are soft, warm and delicious.” 
Pretty well that for a priest. 
A bashful young man escorted an equally 
bashful young lady. As they approached the 
dwelling of the damsel, she said entreatingly: 
“ Jeliiel, don’t tell anybody you beaued me 
home." “ Sary,” said he, emphatically, “ don’t 
you mind; I'm as much ashamed of it as you 
are.” 
A modern Amazon on her way to a conven¬ 
tion, asked for a seat in a crowded car. An old 
gentleman, with keen eyes, inquired, “ Be you 
one of the woman righters!” “ I be,” answered 
the undaunted heroine. “ Do you believe that a 
woman has the same rights as a man ?” “ I do!” 
(emphatically.) “ Well, then, stand up and en¬ 
joy ’em like a man!” 
At the marriage of the daughter of Gov. Den¬ 
nison of Ohio, recently, the officiating clergy¬ 
man made a very ludicrous mistake. Placing 
himself in front of the groomsman, he came near 
uniting him and one of the bridesmaids in mar¬ 
riage, in place of the bride and groom. In fact, 
he had progressed half way through the cere¬ 
mony before the mistake was discovered. 
SAYINGS OF DEAN SWIFT 
If a man will observe as he walks the streets, I 
believe he will find the merriest faces in mourn¬ 
ing coaches. 
The reason why so few marriages are happy, is 
because young ladies spend their time in making 
nets, not in making cages. 
The power of fortune is confused only by the 
miserable; for the happy impute all their suc¬ 
cess to prudence and merit. 
Ambition often puts men upon doing the 
meanest offices; so climbing is performed in the 
same posture with creeping. 
Small causes are sufficient to make a man un¬ 
easy, when gTeat ones are not in the way; for 
want of a block he will stumble at a straw. 
Every man desires to live long; hut no man 
would be old. 
Apollo was held the god of physic and sender 
of diseases. Both were originally the same trade, 
and still continue. 
If a man makes me keep my distance, the 
comfort is, he keeps his at the same time. 
Men are content to be laughed at for their wit, 
but not for their folly. 
A man would have but few spectators if he 
should offer to show for three pence how he 
could thrust a red hot poker into a barrel of gun¬ 
powder, and it should not take fire. 
How is it possible to expect that mankind will 
We have just enough religion to make us hate 1 take advice, when they will not as much as take 
but not enough to make us love one another. warning. 
AUTUMN DAYS 
NO FADING BEYOND 
Eternity has no gray hairs. The flowers 
fade, the heart withers, man grows old and dies; 
but time writes no wrinkles on eternity. Eter¬ 
nity! stupendous thought! The ever-present, 
unborn, undecaying and undying — the endless 
chain composing the life of God — the golden 
thread entwining the destinies of the universe. 
Earth has its beauties, but time shrouds them 
for the grave; its honors are but the sunshine 
of an hoar; its palaces, they are hut the gilded 
sepulcher; its pleasures, they are but bursting 
bubbles. Not so in the untried bourne. In 
the dwelling of the Almighty can come no foot¬ 
steps of decay. 
Blessedness is happiness transfigured. 
