THE MANIAC OF VICTORY.

  But here comes one, that seems to out-rejoice
  All the rejoicing tribe! wild is her eye,
  And frantic is her air, and fanciful
  Her sable suit; and round, she rapid rolls
  Her greedy eyes upon the spangled street. 
  And drinks with greedy gaze upon the sparkling scene! 
  “And see!” she cries how they have graced the hour
  That gave him to his grave! hail lovely lamps,
  In honor of that hour a grateful land
  Hath hung aloft! and sure he well deserves
  The tributary splendor—­for he fought
  Their battles well—­ah! he was valor’s self—­
  Fierce was the look with which he faced the foe
  But on his Harriet, when my hero bent it,
  ’Twas so benign! and beautiful he was—­
  And he was young; too young in years, to die! 
  ’Twas but a little while his wing had thrown
  Its guardian shadow o’er me—­but ’tis gone—­
  Fall’n is my shield, yet see now if I weep. 
  A British warrior’s widow should not weep—­
  Her hero sleeps in honor’s fragrant bed—­
  So they all tell me, and I have nobly learned
  Their gallant lesson—­all my tears are gone—­
  Bright glory’s beam has dried them every drop
  No,—­No,—­I scorn to weep—­high is mine heart!

  Hot are mine eyes! there’s no weak water there! 
  ’Tis time I should have joyed—­what mother would not? 
  To have shown him that sweet babe o’er which he wept
  When last he kissed it—­yes he did—­he wept;
  My warrior wept!—­as the weak woman’s tears
  From off this cheek, where now I none can feel,
  He kissed away—­he wet it with his own;
  Oh! yes ’twould—­’twould have been sweet to have shown him
  How his dear lovely boy had:  grown, since he
  Beheld it cradled, and to have bid it call him
  By the sweet name that I had taught it utter
  In softest tones, while he was thunder hearing,
  And thunder hurling round him—­for his hand
  Would not be idle amid deeds of glory;
  Yes glory—­glory—­glory is the word—­
  See how it glitters all along the street!—­
  And then she laughs, and wildly leaps along
  With tresses all untied.  Fair wretch—­adieu: 
  In mercy—­heaven thy shattered peace repair.

  —­FAWCETT.

“GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL.”

  I remember how I loved her, as a little guileless child;
  I saw her in the cradle, as she looked on me, and smiled. 
  My cup of happiness was full; my joy, no words can tell,
  And I bless the Glorious Giver, “who doeth all things well.”

  Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour. 
  I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower. 
  So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell,
  And waft its fragrance to His throne, “who doeth all things well.”

  Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me,
  And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry. 
  I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell,
  Forgetful of the praise of Him “who doeth all things well.”