And, as he mused in his watch, A seventh-and lo! the poor imp has prevail'd And straightway shouted, eager for fight, III. And so, faint wrestler of life, Many times foil'd and thrown, If thou wouldst stand like a man in the strife Away with the faithless leaven! Onward, upward, never give in ! "Once more" is ever the watchword to win The crowns of Earth and Heaven! NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. (An American Poet and Essayist.) BORN 1817. DIED 1867. -0 OTHER WRITINGS:-Scripture Sketches; Pencillings by the way (an account of his travels in Europe). -0 A Child's first impression of a $tar. HE had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. How beautiful Must be the work of nature to a child In its first fresh impression! Laura stood By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That looked so still and delicate above, Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Absalom. THE pall was settled. He who slept beneath His helm was at his feet: his banner, soiled A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die ; Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair. How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy Absalom! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill. As to my bosom I have tried to press thee, Ilow was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet" my father" from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, "And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee :— And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My erring Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself |