She walked among the debris, and the dead, As some sweet mercy-sister on her round, Scanning each up-turned face with nameless dread, For aught of life; her tireless searching found

A babe--a waif with tawny tangled locks, And great blue eyes with wonder br.i.m.m.i.n.g o'er; Of all the human freight wrecked on the rocks, The only living thing that washed ash.o.r.e.

A pearl-gemmed golden case upon its breast She oped, then stared, her eyes a-sudden wild, A name, a pictured face told all the rest; His name--his face--his child!

UNCLE SAM'S SOLILOQUY.

I'm a century old and more to-day-- A ripe old age for a modern man,-- Yet they who rocked my cradle, they say, Predicted a thousand years my span; They christened me at the fount of prayer, And gave me a star-gemmed robe to wear.

My first free breath was battle-smoke A prayerful nurses did not abhor The sounds that first my ear awoke-- The clash and din and shout of war.

They pressed in my hand a crown of might And pointed my way to the eagle's flight.

Cannon and sword were my playthings to bless, (Dangerous toys for a babe to try,) The stirring reveille my more caress, The wild tattoo was my lullaby; And well, methinks, as they years have run, Have I wrought the work my sires begun.

An infant prodigy I, and ere Expired a tenth of my granted day, I wrested from lion-grasp the spear-- A nation's power I held in sway; I broke the gives from freedom's graves, And steam and lightning I bound my slaves.

I flung my starred robe on the breeze, From burning tropic to arctic cold.

On distant isles, in distant seas, A foot-hold gained with sword and gold.

Atlantic's slope and Pacific's strand I bound together with an iron band.

But of late I've premature grown old; There's something wrong with the clothes I wear; There is something wrong with the helm I hold, Else I hold it wrong,--there's wrong somewhere.

Disease too has thrown me his poisoned dart; His workman are "striking" right at my heart.

My head is so strangely vision thrilled With plans to evade the demon's stay, But all the plots that my brain have filled Only have served to augment his sway, And on my feet, at the sunset's door, Is spreading a troublesome grievous sore.

I'm growing ill I can plainly see, And many prescribe my pain to ease, But somehow each medicine proves to be "A remedy worse than the disease."

Though strong as ever, should once my strength Give way, I must fall a fearful length.

My doctors say they know the cause, And they've gone to work with eager zest, Probed and expounded with weighty straws, And leeches attached to my troubled breast; I fee them well, as attests my purse But day after day I'm growing worse.

Though they have not yet touched the cause they knew, And are wrangling over its direful flood, They promise to build me better than new, And stop the drain on my famished blood; But lest they're careful while building the dam They'll scoop out a grave for "Uncle Sam."

NAY, DO NOT ASK.

Nay, do not ask me, Sweet, if I have loved before, Or if, mayhap, in other years to be, A younger, fairer face than thine I know, I'll love her more than thee.

What should it matter if I've loved before, So that I love thee now, and love thee best?

What matters it that I should love again If, first, the daisy-buds blow o'er thy breast?

Love has the waywardness of strange caprice, One can not chain it to a recreant heart, Nor, when around the soul its tendrils twine, Can will the clinging, silken bonds to part.

It is enough, I hold thee prisoned in my arms, And drink the dewy fragrance of thy breath; And earth, and heaven, and hades, are forgot, And love holds carnival, and laughs at death.

Then do not ask me, Sweet, if I have loved before, Or if some day my heart might turn from thee; In this brief hour, thou hast my soul of love, And thou are _Is_, and _Was_, and _May be_--all to me.

A PICTURE.

A little maid, with sweet brown eyes, Upraised to mine in sad surprise; I held two tiny hands in mine, I kissed the little maid farewell.

Her cheeks to deeper crimson flushed, The sweet, shy glances downward fell; From rosy lips came--ah! so low-- "I love you, do not go!"

I see it through the lapse of years-- This picture, ofttimes blurred with tears.

No tiny hands in mine are held, No sweet brown eyes my pulses wake-- Only in memory a voice E'er bids me stay for love's sweet sake.

HANG UP YOUR STOCKING.

Laugh, little bright-eyes, hang up your stocking; Don't count the days any more; Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking, Knocking, Knocking at the door.

Through the key-hole slyly peeping, Down the chimney careful creeping, When the little folks are sleeping, Comes he with his pack of presents.

Such a grin! but then so pleasant You would never think to fear him; And you can not, _must_ not hear him.

He's so particular, you know, He'd just pick up his traps and go If but one little eye should peep That he thought was fast asleep.

Searching broomstick, nails, and shelf, Till he finds the little stocking-- Softly lest you hear his knocking-- Smiling, chuckling to himself, He fills it from his Christmas store, And out he slips to hunt for more.

Then laugh, little bright-eyes, and hang up your stocking; Don't count the days any more; Old Santa Claus will soon be knocking, Knocking, Knocking at the door.

OPENING THE GATE FOR PAPA.

Hurrying out to the gateway Go two little pattering feet; Eagerly out through the palings Peer two eyes bright and sweet.

A footstep as eager is answering The sweet eyes that patiently wait And papa is kissing, and blessing The baby that opens the gate.

And every day all the long Summer, At noontime and evening late, The little one's watching for papa-- Waiting to open the gate.

And now the bright Summer is ended, And Autumn's gay mantle unrolled; The maple leaves wooing the breezes Are gorgeous in crimson and gold.

At noonday the face at the gateway Is flushed with a feverish glow, At night the bright head on the pillow Is tossing in pain to and fro.

The father kneels down in his anguish, And stifles the sobs with groan; He knows that his idol is going-- Going out in the midnight alone.

He buries his face in the pillow, Close, close, to the fast failing breath; A little arm clasps his neck closely, A voice growing husky in death