Nath. Not found where he has sought it, and has led Thy wandering fancy.
Tam. O, might I relate―
But I bethink me, father, of a thing
Like that you asked.-Sometimes, when I'm alone,-
Just ere his coming,-I have heard a sound,
A strange, mysterious, melancholy sound,-
Like music in the air. Anon, he enters.
Nath. Ha! is this oft?
Tam. 'Tis not unfrequent.
Nath. Only
When thou'rt alone?
Tam. I have not heard it else.
Nath. A sound like what?
Tam. Like wild, sad music, father;
More moving than the lute or viol touched
By skillful fingers. Wailing in the air,
It seems around me, and withdraws as when
One looks and lingers for a last adieu.
Nath. Just ere he enters ?
Tam. At his step it dies.
Nath. Mark me.-Thou know'st 'tis held by righteous men,
That Heaven intrusts us all to Holy Watchers,*
Who ward us from the Tempter.
Some intimation of an unseen danger.
Tam. But whence?
Nath. Time may reveal; meanwhile I warn thee
Trust not thyself alone with Hadad.
Tum. Think'st thou
Nath. I scarce know what I think,-my thoughts are troubled
If some lewd spirit, taken with thy beauty,
Or plotting to deceive and disunite us,
Could put on human semblance, this were he.
Tam. O father, father!
Nath. Inscrutable he seems, yet ever busy;
His mocking eye insults, while it emits
The malice of the serpent; snake-like, too,
He slinks away, even while his looks dart fury.
Nay, nay-I lay not to his charge-I know
Little of him, though I have supplicated,—
I will not wound thee with my dark suspicions-
But shun the peril thou art warned of, shun
What looks like danger though we haply err.
Be not alone with him, I charge thee.
Tam. Seer,
I will avoid it.
Nath. All is ominous:
The Oracles are mute, dreams warn no more,
Urim and Thummim' keep their glory hid,
My days are dark, my nights are visionless,
Jehovah hath forsaken, or, in wrath,
Resigned us for a season. Times like these
Are jubilee in Hell. Fiends walk the Earth,*
Misleading princes, tempting poor men's pillows,
Supplying moody hatred with the dagger,
Lust with occasions, treason with excuses,
Lifting man's heart, like the rebellious waves,
Against his Maker. Watch, and pray, and tremble;
the Highest overshadow thee !
JOHN GODFREY SAXE, one of the wittiest of American poets, was born in Franklin County, Vermont, June 2d, 1816. His lines are full of verbal fclicities, often sparkling with genuine wit and humor, and ever abounding in "graceful and poetical puns." We select the following, as best exhibiting his manner, and, at the same time, showing a definite purpose underlying all this fun.
O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
The very personification of pride,
As she minced along in fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway-on the proper side-
When the golden sun was setting;
There was pride in the head she carried so high,
Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye,
And a world of pride in the very sigh
That her stately bosom was fretting!
O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,
And proud of fifty matters beside-
That wouldn't have borne dissection;
Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk,
Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk,
Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk,"
On a very slight inspection!
Proud abroad, and proud at home,
Proud wherever she chanced to come-
When she was glad, and when she was glum;
Proud as the head of a Saracen
Over the door of a tippling-shop!—
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
"Proud as a boy with a bran-new tof,”
Proud beyond comparison!
It seems a singular thing to say,
But her very senses led her astray
Respecting all humility;
In sooth, her dull, auricular drum
Could find in humble only a "hum,"
And heard no sound of "gentle" come,
In talking about gentility.
What lowly meant she didn't know,
For she always avoided "everything low,"
With care the most punctilious;
And. queerer still, the audible sound
Of "super-silly" she never had found
In the adjective supercilious!
The meaning of meek she never knew,
But imagined the phrase had something to do
With "Moses," a peddling German Jew,
Who, like all hawkers, the country through,
Was "
a person of no position;"
And it seemed to her exceedingly plain,
If the word was really known to pertain
To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane
To a lady of high condition!
Even her graces-not her grace—
For that was in the "vocative case”-
Chilled with the touch of her icy face,
Sat very stiffly upon her!
She never confessed a favor aloud,
Like one of the simple, common crowd—
But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed,
As who should say, "You do me proud,
And do yourself an honor!"
And yet the pride of Miss MacBride,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,
Had really no foundation;
But, like the fabrics that gossips devise―
Those single stories that often arise
And grow till they reach a four-story size-
Was merely a fancy creation!
Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high-
For Miss MacBride first opened her
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But pride is a curious passion
And in talking about her wealth and worth,
She always forgot to mention her birth
To people of rank and fashion!
Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth,
Among our "fierce democracie!"
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers-
Not even a couple of rotten peers—
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!
English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish
In one conglomeration;
So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,
No heraldry-Harvey will ever succeed
In finding the circulation!
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