If the soul, with its woes, when it flies to G.o.d, Leaves all its pain, in the earth's cold breast!

Or whether we feel, as we do to-day, That joy holds sorrow in hand, alway.

I wonder if, after the kiss of death, The love that was sweet, in days of yore.

Departs with the last, faint, fleeting breath, Or deeper grows than ever before!

I wonder if, there in the great Unknown, Fond hearts grow weary when left alone!

I think of the daily life I lead, Its broken dreams and its fitful starts, The hopeless hunger, the heart's sore need, The joy that gladdens, the wrong that parts, And wonder whether the coming years Will bring contentment, or toil and tears.

SPEECH OF PATRICK HENRY.

[Delivered before the Convention of Delegates of Virginia, March 23, 1775.]

Mr. President: It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth,--to know the worst, and to provide for it!

I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House? Is it that insidious smile with which our pet.i.tion has been lately received?

Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet! Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss! Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our pet.i.tion comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love?

Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation,--the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen a.s.sign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this acc.u.mulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them?--Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that, for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain.

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not already been exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have pet.i.tioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our pet.i.tions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne.

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the n.o.ble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained,--we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms, and to the G.o.d of Hosts, is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak,--unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the G.o.d of nature hath placed in our power.

Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just G.o.d who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.

Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come!

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry: Peace, peace!--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty G.o.d! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!

MUTATION.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

Upon the sh.o.r.es of No-man's-land, I met an angel, one whose wings Shed beams of light on either hand, As radiant as the sunrise brings.

And happy souls, with eager tread, Pa.s.sed up and down the sandy slope; "Oh, tell me your fair name!" I said; She turned and smiled, and answered: "Hope."

Along the sh.o.r.es of No-man's-land, The angel walked, with folded wings, And shadows fell on every hand, The burden that the night-wind brings.

With head turned backward, sad and slow She paced the sands, her eyelids wet, "Hope mourns," I said, and soft and low, The angel sighed: "I am Regret."

SIX LOVE LETTERS

"Are there any more of those letters?"

When her father asked this question in an awful tone, Lucilla Richmond could not say No, and dared not say Yes, but as an intermediate course burst into tears and sobbed behind her handkerchief.

"Bring them to me, Lucilla," said her father, as if she had answered him, as indeed she had; and the girl, trembling and weeping, arose to obey him.

Then Mrs. Richmond, her daughter's own self grown older, came behind her husband's chair and patted him on the shoulder. "Please don't be hard with her, my dear," she said, coaxingly. "He's a nice young man, and it's all our fault, after all, as much as hers."

"Perhaps you approve of the whole affair, ma'am," said Mr. Richmond.

"I--no--that is I only--" gasped the little woman; and hearing Lucilla coming, she sank into a chair, blaming herself dreadfully for not having been present at all her daughter's music lessons during the past year.

"It was inexcusable in a poor music teacher, who should have known his place," Mr. Richmond declared; and he clutched the little perfumed billet which had fallen into his hands, as he might a scorpion, and waited for the others with a look upon his face which told of no softening. At last six little white envelopes, tied together with blue ribbons, were laid at his elbow by his trembling daughter.

"Lock these up until I return home this evening," he said to his wife; "I will read them then. Meanwhile Lucilla is not to see this music teacher on any pretence whatever."

Mr. Richmond put on his hat and departed, and Lucilla and her mother took the opportunity of falling into each other's arms.

"It is so naughty of you," said Mrs. Richmond. "But oh, dear, I can't blame you. It was exactly so with your father, and my father objected because of his poverty. He used to be very romantic himself in those old times. Such letters as he wrote to me. I have them in my desk yet. He said he'd die if I refused him."

"So does Fred," said Lucilla.

"And that life would be worthless without me, and about my being beautiful,--I'm sure he ought to sympathize a little," said Mrs. Richmond.

She went into her own room to put the letters into her desk; and as she placed them into one of the pigeon holes, she saw in another a bundle, tied exactly as these were, and drew them out. These letters were to a Lucilla also, one who had received them twenty years before. A strange idea came into Mrs. Richmond's mind.

When she left the desk she looked guilty and frightened. The dinner hour arrived, and with it came her husband, angered and more determined than ever. The meal was pa.s.sed in silence; then, having adjourned to the parlor, Mr. Richmond seated himself in a great arm-chair, and demanded, in a voice of thunder: "Those absurd letters, if you please."

"Six letters--six shameful pieces of deception, Lucilla," said the indignant parent. "I am shocked that a child of mine should practice such duplicity. Hem! let me see. Number one, I believe. June, and this is December. Half a year you have deceived us then, Lucilla. Let me see--ah!

'From the first moment I adored you,' bah! Nonsense. People don't fall in love in that absurd manner. 'With your smiles for a goal, I would win both fame and fortune, poor as I am!' Fiddlesticks, Lucilla. A man who has common sense would always wait until he had a fair commencement before he proposed to a girl. Praising your beauty, eh? 'The loveliest creature I ever saw!' Exaggeration, my dear. You are not plain, but such flattery is absurd. 'Must hear from you or die!' Dear, dear, dear--how absurd!" And Mr.

Richmond dropped the first letter and picked another. "The same stuff," he commented. "I hope you do not believe a word he says. Ah! now in number three he calls you 'an angel!' He's romantic, upon my soul! And what is this? 'Those who forbid me to see you can find no fault with me but my poverty. I am honest--I am earnest in my efforts. I am by birth a gentleman, and I love you from the depths of my soul. Do not let them sell you for gold, Lucilla.' Great heavens, what impertinence to your parents!"

"I don't remember Fred saying anything of that kind," said poor little Lucilla. "He never knew you would object."

Mr. Richmond shook his head, frowned and then read on until the last sheet lay under his hand. Then with an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of rage, he sprang to his feet.

"Infamous!" he cried! "I'll go to him this instant--I'll horsewhip him, I'll--I'll murder him! As for you, by Jove, I'll send you to a convent.

Elope--elope with a music teacher! Here, John, call a cab, I----"

"Oh, papa! you are crazy!" said Lucilla. "Frederick never proposed such a thing. Let me see the letter. Oh, that is not Fred's--upon my word it is not. Do look, papa, it is dated twenty years back, and Frederick's name is not Charles! Papa, these are your letters to mamma, written long ago.

Mother's name is Lucilla, you know."

Mr. Richmond sat down in his arm-chair in silence, very red in the face.

"How did this occur?" he said, sternly; and little Mrs. Richmond, retreating into a corner, with her handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed: