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Volume 3 (1858-1859) (592 pages)
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Page: of 592
454 HUTCHINGS’ CALIFORNIA MAGAZINE.
ern as in the ancient history of Persia.
There is a God that judgeth in the earth
in America, just as much asin Asia, His
eye and his laws are just as much over
London and San Francisco, as they ever
were over Babylon and Susa.
ODE TO CONTENTMENT,
Translated from the German of Mueller,
BY PROFESSOR JOUN COCHRAN.
What do I care, although my share
Were Croesus’ mighty store,
Where blood runs pure, and faith stands
T have than riches more. [sure,
Full many glide, down pleasure’s tide,
Have servants, hall and coaches,
Who are the prey of grief alway,
For conscience yields reproaches.
T’is such who call, this bright earth-ball,
To which heaven’s bounties flow;
Where God, for all, both great and small
Spreads gifts, “a house of woe.”
To me it seems that nature teemsa
With joy throughout her bounds,
Through hill and dale, through rock and
One trump of gladness sounds. [vale,
Hark! every tree drops melody,
The air’s alive with lays,
And songsters sweet do mankind greet
While they Jehovah praise.
Each day from far, a flaming car,
Sails high o’er sea and land ;
Here runneth up the Autumn’s cup,
And corn-fields laden stand.
When such I see, my God to thee
I sing, in raptured strain,
That goodness still, despite the ill,
Does through creation reign.
THE SPIRIT OF THE “LONG AGO.”
BY MRS. E. 8S. SHULTZ.
Wuo among us, that has not, buried
away down in the deepest recesses of his
heart, beyond the reach of the great action-throbbing hand of Now —a little
pulseless thing, but severed to all eternity—the spirit of the “ Long Ago!”
We do not mean Memory, for memory
but stands sentinel to guard the gates to
that invisible realm over which this shadowy spirit reigns supreme. We do not
mean Love, which though it far outlives
memory, is sure to lend either the delusive rose-tint of joy, or the purple hue of
grief. We mean the guest who comes
unbidden, when we have an assemblage
of sorrows, or a feast of happiness—who
lingers longest at the fireside, even after
all have departed—who brings with him
a host of attendants; and some are
shrouded in the drapery of death, and
some move silently about in the trailing
garments of despair; and some wear
withered faded wreaths, all wet with
tears; and some have long, flowing, golden hair, that gleams strangely in the
uncertain light, and the blue eyes haunt
us wondrously, and we sometimes wish
them gone — yet continually summon
them again, when we tire of the cold
stern features of the present.
It is a strange thing, this spirit of the
“Tong Ago.” Sometimes it rears itself
to the full stature of a thought; a milestone on the trackless desert of reality—
an obelisk, pointing to the chaotic margin of the past; a broken monument to
by-gones, and the dim hieroglyphicsmay
only be traced by the light of the soul;
and it scatters little mounds all over the
landscape of memory, and strews above
them the yellow and verdant leaves of
events, and then loves to rustle its pale
fingers among them at twilights, or send
the warm blood back to the cheek, as with
resurrecting hand it drags forth some