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Volume 3 (1858-1859) (592 pages)
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Page: of 592
OUR SOCIAL CHAIR. 139
the body be immured in a dungeon, where
the light of day is not permitted to enter.
’ The mind is free and unfettered, and
roams at will over every loved spot dear
to memory; and in sleep, the poor convict in his cell is as free as the king upon
his throne. And, can the spirit ever be
said to be alone, since each is a link in the
great magnetic chain of mind, reaching
from the lowest order of created intelligence up to the eternal fountain of wisdom, every electric thought vibrating
through the whole? Luna.
McDonatp’s paper, the Trinity Journal,
always brings us something fresh and
good. ‘ Mary Brown,” which we find in
a recent issue, is really a gem. The
Journal truly says, that “if such poems
appeared originally in the Atlantic Monthly, they would speedily find their way to
the ears and hearts of thousands, who
would pause to listen to the musical footsteps that go out from the mine.
MARY BROWN.
BY L. F. WELLS.
She dwelt where long the wintry showers
Hold undisputed sway,
Where frowning April drives the flowers
Far down the lane of May.
A simple, rustic child of song,
Reared in a chilling zone,
The idol of a household throng—
The cherished one of home.
None sang her praise, or heard her fame
Beyond her native town ;
She bore no fancy-woven name,
*Twas simply Mary Brown.
Her eyes were not a shining black,
Nor yet a heavenly blue,
They might be hazel, or alack!
Some less poetic hue;
Indeed I mind me, long ago,
One pleasant summer day
A passing stranger caught their glow,
I think he called them gray.
Yet when with earnestness they burned
‘Till other eyes grew dim;
Their outward tint was ne'er discerned
The spell was from within.
A novelist with fancy’s pen
Would scarcely strive to trace
From her a fairy heroine
Of matchless mein, and grace.
A model for the painter's skill,
Or for the sculptor’s art
Her form might not be called; yet still
It bore a gentle heart;
The while it fondly treasured long
Love’s lightest whispered tone,
In other hearts she sought no wrong—
She knew none in her own.
Though never skilled in fashion’s school,
To sweep the trembling keys;
Or strike the heart by studied rule,
A listening throng to please;
Yet still when anguish rent the soul,
And fever racked the brain,
Her fingers knew that skillful touch
Which soothed the brow of pain—
And widow thanks, and orphan tears
Had owned her tender care,
While little children gathered near
Her earnest love to share.
I might forget the queenly dame
Of high and courtly birth,
Descending from an ancient name
Amoug the sons of earth;
I scarce recall the dazzling eyes
Of her, the village belle,
Who caused so many rural sighs
From rustic hearts to swell;
Yet never can I cease to own
While future years shall roll,
Thy passing beaty, Mary Brown—
The beauty of the soul.
Hz who writes what is wrong, wrongs
what is right.
Learn to govern thy tongue. Five
words cost Zacharias forty weeks’ silence.
Wuen is the weather favorable to haymakers? When it rains pitckforks.
Wuen are writers like cattle? When
they are driven to the pen,