THE MODERN CAIN.-E. Evans Edwards.
"Am I my brother's keeper ?"
When first the human heart-strings felt the touch Of Death's cold fingers-when upon the earth Shroudless and coffinless Death's first born lay, Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose :-" My son, my son! Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep; A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow: Awake, and bless her with thy wonted smile."
In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke. His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled A voice pursued him to the wilderness. "Where is thy brother, Cain ?”
"Am I my brother's keeper ?”
O, black impiety that seeks to shun The dire responsibility of sin—
That cries with the ever warning voice: "Be still-away, the crime is not my own- My brother lived-is dead, when, where, Or how, it matters not, but he is dead. Why judge the living for the dead one's fall ?”
"Am I my brother's keeper ?"
Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood Cries up to heaven against thee: every stone Will find a tongue to curse thee, and the winds, Will ever wail this question in thy ear:
"Where is thy brother ?"
Will mind thee of the lost.
I saw a man Deal Death unto his brother. Drop by drop The poison was distilled for cursed gold; And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death, Invisible to that poor, trembling slave. He seized the cup, he drank the poison down, Rushed forth into the streets-home had he noneStaggered and fell and miserably died.
They buried him-ah! little recks it where His bloated form was given to the worms. No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot; No mourner sorrowing at evening came,
To pray by that unhallowed mound; no hand Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest. Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew Above that sunken grave, and men forgot Who slept there.
A happy home was his, and love was his. His MARY loved him, and around him played His smiling children. O, a dream of joy Were those unclouded years, and, more than all, He had an interest in the world above. The big "Old Bible" lay upon the stand, And he was wont to read its sacred page And then to pray: “Our Father, bless the poor And save the tempted from the tempter's art; Save us from sin and let us ever be
United in thy love, and may we meet,
When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."
Thus prayed he-thus lived he-years passed, And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,
A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt Fell from that cloud. The towering tree Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke, And laid its coronal of glory low.
A happy home was ruined; want and woe Played with his children, and the joy of youth Left their sweet faces no more to return. His MARY'S face grew pale and paler still, Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul Went out through those blue portals. MARY died And yet he wept not. At the demon's call He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl, And when they buried her from sight, he sank In drunken stupor by her new made grave! His friend was gone--he never had another, And the world shrank from him, all save one, And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs And bade him drink, forget his God, and die!
Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now! Lives he still-if dead, still where is he? Where? In heaven? Go read the sacred page: "No drunkard ever shall inherit there."
Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down? Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped His gold-his health-his life-his hope-his all? Who saw his MARY fade and die? Who saw His beggared children wandering in the streets? Speak-Coward-if thou hast a tongue, Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.
"Where is my brother ?"
"Am I my brother's keeper ?”
Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul Was ripe for heaven; thrice accursed he Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.
A SOLILOQUY FROM HAMLET.-Shakespeare.
Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fye on't! Oh fye! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed: things rank, and gross in nature, Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead!-nay, not so much, not two; So excellent a king; that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? And yet, within a month--
Let me not think on't ;-Frailty, thy name is woman l→ A little month; or ere those shoes were old, With which she followed my poor father's body, Like Niobe, all tears;-why she, even she-
O heaven! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourned longer--married with my uncle, My father's brother; but no more like my father, Than I to Hercules:
It is not, nor it can not come to good;
But break my heart; for I must hold my tongue!
INDEPENDENCE BELL-JULY 4, 1776.
When the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Congress, the event was announced by ringing the old State-louse bell, which bore the inscription "Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabi tants thereof!" The old bellman stationed his little grandson at the door of the hall, to await the instructions of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the young patriot rushed out, and clapping his hands. shouted:-" Ring! RING! RING!"
There was a tumult in the city,
In the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down- People gathering at the corners,
Where they whispered each to each, And the sweat stood on their temples With the earnestness of speech.
As the bleak Atlantic currents
Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, So they beat against the State House, So they surged against the door; And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, Till the quiet street of Chestnut Was all turbulent with sound.
"Will they do it?" "Dare they do it?" "Who is speaking?" "What's the news?" "What of Sherman?"
"What of Adams?"
"Oh, God grant they won't refuse!”
"Make some way there!" "Let me nearer!"
"I am stilling!" "Stifle, then!
When a nation's life's at hazard,
We've no time to think of men!"
So they surged against the State House While all solemnly inside
Sat the "Continental Congress,"
Truth and reason for their guide.
O'er a simple scroll debating,
Which, though simple it might be, Yet should shake the cliffs of England With the thunders of the free.
Far aloft in that high steeple Sat the bellman, old and gray; He was weary of the tyrant And his iron-sceptered sway
So he sat, with one hand ready On the clapper of the bell,
When his eye could catch the signal, The long-expected news, to tell.
See! See! The dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy line, As the boy beside the portal Hastens forth to give the sign! With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark! with deep, clear intonation, Breaks his young voice on the air:
Hushed the people's swelling murmur, Whilst the boy cries joyously; "Ring!" he shouts, "Ring! grandpapa, Ring oh, ring for Liberty!" Quickly, at the given signal
The old bellman lifts his hand, Forth he sends the good news, making Iron music through the land.
How they shouted! What rejoicing! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of freedom ruffled The calmly gliding Delaware! How the bonfires and the torches Lighted up the night's repose, And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, Our glorious liberty arose !
That old State House bell is silent, Hushed is now its clamorous tongue;
But the spirit it awaken'd
Still is living-ever young;
And when we greet the smiling sunlight On the fourth of each July,
We will ne'er forget the bellman Who, betwixt the earth and sky, Rung out, loudly, "Independence; Which, please God, shall never die!
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