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THE SOUTHERN WORLD, MARCH 15,1884.
8EKD VISIONS.
BY FAUL HAMILTON 11AYNK.
Home and Farm.]
Surely from out some blasted South
Came that drear genius of the Drouth—
An Affreet, with dry, burning eyes,
Who laid his spell on earth and skies;
He drew all cooling moisture up,
He drained boon Nature's crystal cup,
Which clasped, but clasped alas in vain,
The fragrant life-draught of the rain.
And yet, it seemed more gaunt and grim
Urew the hot Hades born in him;
The poison of bis ruthless breath
Held withering potencies of death;
Sullen and stern we saw them pass
Athwart the sick and wilted grass,
Wind round the woodland’s mightiest boles,
To steal their power and sap their souIb;
Brood dully—like the misted steam,
That wrapped the wan Charonian Stream-
Above our drooping vales and dells,
Or, with a kindling curse like hell's,
Stare on each cultured harvest-row,
That caught a deep and feverish glow,
Until the shrunk, ullrighted plants
Gazed back ('twould seem), with eyes askance,
As if they felt, in torture dumb,
A tierce, consuming fate had come,
' And marked amid the murderous gluru
That veiled assassin of the air.
Through weary night and wearier day
That sullen genius kept his swuy,
Till half our year's hard labors lost,
Wo neared the hour of r'me and frost.
But while the evening airs were chill,
The hkakt ok Dkoutii ukat stkonuly still;
It pulsed along the dusty paths,
Twilled the Held’s frail aftermaths,
And sent Us hot consuming thrills
Down the dry hollows of the hills.
One moru from out the panting Bust
There rose a cloud—the cloud increased
Till the vast arcH of heaven grew dark;
Then came a red electric spark,
And thunder-roll of glorious sound;
Aud last, quick palteriugs on the ground,
That seemed, so soft their touch, and sweet,
The advent of the fairie’s feet—
A prelude to the resouunt strain,
The passion of the uuprisoued rain.
Thenceforth we wrought with zealous toil,
Outlined the furrows, plowud the soil,
Aud in the upturned loam could see
Home comforts lor the time to be:
Broadcast across our mellow lauds
Dropped the rich seed from cureful hands;
Each seed with inlcrocosmic fold
Guarding its germs of green uud gold—
Of harveat-luiidscupcB yet uuboru
That wait an uncreated moru;
Arcadian scenes, all vague and low,
Shrouded in twilight embryo!
Tho’ dull each liny seedling seems,
It clasps a universe of dreams;
Evoked by Fancy’s magic sweep.
Their dim suggestions rise from sleep—
O’er germs of wheut, aud germs of oat,
What visions, past and future, float!
They lead us fast, they lead us far:
First buckward, where earth’s morning-star
(What time God’s rescuelug vessel sat
On tho great slopes of the Ararat),
tihono round tho pale, enraptured few
Who hailed with hope a rainless Blue,
Aud from rare stores of rescued grulu
Mowed the unsullied Boll again.
They knew, thenceforth, for them and theirs,
Thro’ all the long mysterious years,
Meed-time and harvest, one by one,
Should greet the ilowers uud bless thu sun,
Down to that age when earth-enticed
By measureless pity, came our UhriBt,
Holding Ills heaven around him drawn,
And garmented in deathless dawn,
He plucked the corn while noontide yet
Gleamed over calm Geneseret,
Or journeyed slow with sandaled feet,
Half-tranced amid the twilight wheut,
Touched by a conscious waft of prayer,
Breathed from that strange, pathetic sea
Which swoons on sacred Gallilco!
They lead us far, they lead us fast,
These visions of the teeming past.
All fruitful verdures seem to dwell
Within one seed’s enchanted cell;
No matter what its race or kind,
It holds tho types of all enshrined;
Mere Helds regain their lost perfumes
In languid lands now scarred with tombs!
What perished springs reviving smile
By wasted places of the Nile,
Or cast their re-created gleams
Athwart the broad Assyrian streams!
We view their stately palms aspire,
Crowned by a sun of tameless Are,
While surges of resplendent green
Out roll their glittering crests between:
A sudden clang is on tho breeze,
That faintly stirs the royal trees,
A muffled trampling on the sand
With sounds of laughter aud command;
Then, ’mid a whirlwind rush of steeds,
Queen of the rout, a woman speeds
Like some bright meteor hurtling by—
8he comes, she goes so suddenly
We scarce can catch her eager face
Bent forward in the frantic chase—
But say! What sight unbound could miss
A beauty grand and fair as this ?
O! eyes, imperious, tender, sad,
0! eyes, that drove whole empires mad,
O! lips, kings lost their lives to kiss!
Behold! behold! Semiramis!
They lead as far, they lead as fast,
These visions of the storied past!
Broad is the Trojan’s planted plain,
And lo! half hid in rustling grain,
Tracking the greeneries’ tangled maze,
Blithe Helen turns her sunniest gaze
Backward on one, who strong and fleet,
Yet fails to match her Hying feet.
The wheat waves clasp her perfect form
Aud grow thereat, more bright and warm,
While she, with delicate finger-tips,
Wafts kisses from her roguish lips,
But still speeds on, until the sea
Silvers her bower of bloom and bee!
There Paris finds her Hushed and fair,
A wheat bud in her flickering hair.
I Old harvests wave serenely sweet
Along the murmuring shores of Crete;
A mystic wind the'wheat-gold thrills
Blown from the wild Thessalian hills;
| Aud where Dodona's oaks asceud,
< What stainless verdures bow and blend!
The holy millet tosses high
I Its tops beside the ripening rye,
I And glancing like freed souls above,
| Swoops many a white-winged temple dove,
Whose fragrant-nested home is made
Deep in Dodona's awful shade!
When the pale godB of Hellas fled,
Awed by the cry, “ Great Pan is dead! ”
11 think, tho’ lost the grateful stir
Of worship in the wealds for her—
Ceres, thick-veiled through glebe and glen,
| Still cheered the toils of swart-browed men;
Her empire born and bound in peace,
Clings to the soul of earth's increase;
Even as she saw (then unreveulcd
| To mortal thought, by grove or field),
Even as she saw her harvests wave
[ In ruthful balm, o'er Abel’s grave,
While lingering ’mid her bloodless grain,
I There dropped a transient calm on Cain,
Thus—for her sway is undeflled,
I As when earth beamed a planet child—
Thus, may she tread her fruitful round,
| God’s vassal, viewless,not discrowned,
Until earth’s latest harvest shines
Encompassed by the mountain pines,
I And her last Reaper’s task-work done,
Hu gently dies at set of sun.
fNoTE.—Some of the Greek poets write of
I Ceres as occasionally appearing, in person, to
her more fervent worshipers, but of course we
| can imagine her as a Viewless Force, outside
i the charmed circle of Helenic mythology.
THE DeSAUSSURES.
A Historical Romance.
BY B. F. SAWYER.
CHAPTER XX.
The parade dismissed the Colonel laid
[ aside nis jacket with its stars and the
sash and resumed his dress coat, report-
| ing with a smile to his guests.
‘ Now,I have laid off the cares of the
I command for the evening and am quite
I at your service again. We will return
i to the hotel and fancy ourselves at home
again. Colonel Coleman, are you quite
ready to walk? ”
“ Oh, papa, take my jtlace in the car-
I riage, and I shall walk with you Frank,”
I said Alias Coleman.
“ That will suit me as well,” assented
papa.
“And me much better,” said Frank.
“ You know the way Colonel and can
[ ride on, we will take our leisure.”
“Yes; you and Drucie take your
time.”
The carriage drove on; sauntering
I along, side by side, the young couple fol-
I lowed.
“-Well, I have made quite a day of it,”
| Baid the young lady.
“ One to he pleasantly remembered, I
hope.”
“ Yes; I do not think I shall ever for
get it, and the remembrance will always
be pleasant, and I do think, Frank, you
ought to he proud of your command. I
never saw so tine a looking body of men
I before.”
“And I am proud of them, Miss Drucie
—proud of the friendship they have
given me, the trust they reposed in
I me.”
“Yes; I could see last night when
| they saw you what a friendly spirit en
Ithused them. And this is something
to be proud of—the love and confidence
| of so many brave men.”
“Yes; and it is something almost to
| to be dreaded,too,” he answered soberly
1 The trust imposes a responsibility that
I almost appalls me. I wish I were better
| worthy tneir confidence.”
“ I am sure, Frank, you will always
I be equal to any duty you undertake.”
“ You are kind to think so.”
“ No; not kind. I know you too well
to doubt it,” she answered assuringly.
“ Only, Frank, I am not going to scold
you, you need not draw back so dis
mally.”
“Ah, I half wish you would. I feel
that I deserve a scolding for the little
disappointment implied in that qualify
ing adverb. How nave I offended, Miss
Drucie?” he interrupted with a smile.
“ Not offended, Frank, nor disappoint
ed. I was going to say that I feared to
day, when you seemed so indifferent to
all the—the what is it? ”
“ Pomp and circumstances of war.”
“ Yes; so careless of all display, that
you felt no pride in the work. Your at
titude was that of an disinterested spec
tator—‘ a looker on in Venice.’ ”
“‘In Vienna’—pardon the correc
tion.”
“Well, Vienna; but you must not
laugh at me or I shall scold you,” she
replied with a charming pout. “ I was
saying you seemed so indifferent that I
feared you had lost your pride in the
matter and were wishing you were in the
ranks again as you were.”
“Thank you, Miss Drucie, for your
friendly interest. I know it is friendly,
and I know it is your own sweet kind
ness that prompts you to speak. I will
he frank with you and will speak equally
as kindly. I am not so ungracious as to
despise the honor my comrades have
given me; but you were correct when
you thought me indifferent to the pomp,
and paraphernalia of the service. Of
course, I take a pride in the soldierly
bearing of the men, and their proficiency
in drill, for upon these depend, to a cer
tain extent their efficacy in battle; but
as for the fuss and feathers of parade, I
really care nothing, and am glad that I
have found one whose military training,
as well a6 inclination, so much better
fits him for its pompous details. As to
wishing myself back in the ranks, I
honestly believe it would have been best
at least for a while, had I remained there
It would have spared me a humiliation
that will sadden my life as long as I live.
But I must beg your pardon. Miss Cole
man, for indicting my lugubrious com
plaints upon you. Let us change the
subject, there are all too many daisies
and buttercups, and violets and pansies
in this beautiful world of ours for us to
go moping around hunting out the net
ties to worry over.”
“ I am glad you have the philosophy
to think so, Frank,’however much your
far-away face to-day dimmed its truth.”
“Was I really so absent? ”
“ Yes; and, Frank, you know not how
I longed to go to you and ask you to tell
me what it was that so heavily oppressed
you. Possibly I might have said some
thing to relieve you,” she said timidly
but frankly.
“Iam glad you did not, Miss Drucie
You must never ask that of me. But L
thank you for your kindly sympathy all
the same,” he added.
“Oh, it wasonly a little thing to offer
but what do you think of your orders ?’
she added discoursingly, “ do they im
ply an immediate danger? ”
“ Perhaps not,” he answered. “ It is
opine, to be prepared for it when
it does come—to mobilize the army—we
have much to do yet before we are ready
for battle. We have to be organized
into brigades, divisions and corps.
“Oh, and there remains chances yet
for still higher promotion? ” she asked
“If you call a possibility a chance
perhaps so.”
“ Oh, I do hope you will get it.” This
in all the earnestness of her heart.
“Not until I earn it.”
“Ah, that was what you said before!
“And it came sooner than I expected.
But it was the kindness of friends that
brought it. If it comes again it must
come from a more impartial source.”
“And will be all the more grateful for
that.”
“More deserving, perhaps, but not
more grateful. The Marshal’s baton from
the hands of Napoleon could be no more
grateful than the trust my comrades
have given me.”
“ But you are on the stepping stones
now, your opportunity for distinction are
greater now than before.”
“ Yes; if I were killed now, it would
count in the battle.”
“ But why will you say that. It seems
too sorrowful to speak of,” with a little
shudder.
“ Not to distress you, certainly.”
“ But it does distress me—the thought
of its danger and death takes from the
battle all of its glories.”
“And, yet, it is by its dangers and
death that all its glories are won. It ii
at the cannon’s mouth the bubble repu
tat ion is sought.”
“ I hope a kind providence may watch
over and guard you, Frank,” she Baid
involuntarily holding out his hand. It
was a remarkably pretty hand .statuesque
in its beauty. He took it in his own
broad palm and tenderly drawing it un
der his arm rested it there.
as
He did not answer otherwise Ho
almost distressed for words to sa\- "n
remembered what his mother ha.’i ♦ u
him of this sweet girl’s feelings towS
him—the many little marks of unm,
scious and unstudied affections she h i
shown him, confirmed her asservat ml
and revealed to his consciousness a imll
and virgma heart panting for the E
he gave another. He shrank back frni
it with an inward cry, but his own wan!!
heart was too brave and generous an
pure to despise such a love. I n
consciousness of his own sore bitterness
he pitied the heart that loved unloved
and as he wold have asked his own love
to pity him, he felt a yearning wish tn
)ity this girl who had so sweetly trusted
him. In the generous impulse of the
pitying tenderness, the purpose was half
ormed to tell her all his story—to tell
her how he had loved Miss Feaster how
his love was kindly, but firmly put aside
to languish and die—to show his heart
to her, bruised and bleeding as it was
and tell her if it would comfort her to
take the poor quivering thing, and in
the sweet sympathy of her own tender
love, bind it’s wounds, making it her
own, he would lay it at her feet, a poor
return for the warm and gracious heart
she had given him. Ah, but could she
do it: was the sweet alchemy of her
own love sufficient to reform the scoria
of his own—could she restore to life
that which was dead, and could she do
it, would not that ghost of that dead
love come up and stand a reproachful
shadow between them. Ah, would it?
Yes—would it? for here in the bright
sunlight of her presence it was even ris
ing now. The image of Mary Feaster
was now before him and her presence
could almost be felt as her sweet ma
donna eyes looked so pityingly upon
him. So vividly present did the absent
seem that he abruptly started back in
glad surprise at her coming.
It was only a second, as dreams are
dreamed, that all this flashed through
his mind, and the start at this sudden
apparition, recalled him as a start in our
dreams dispels the dream. “No,” lie
whispered, “ my love would well deserve
to be martyred could it bear its martyr
dom no better than this;” and then an
swered Miss Coleman.
“And do you know, Miss Drucie, that
in this assurance, the consciousness that
such prayers attend me, will be an in
spiration to me in the hour of danger.”
“Mine will never fail you, Frank,”
she replied; and then, as if restingundev
the holy influence of a benediction, they
walked on in silence.
- Their walk had been slow and the
carriage had reached the hotel and the
rooms had been brushed up and the
warm, stiff, and ceremonious silks had
been exchanged for more refreshing bo
rage, and Mrs. Coleman had discarded
her boots and was resting in the luxury of
slippers, and the mothers were looking
i prim as new pins when they arrived.
Excusing herself on the plea of ar
ranging her toilet, Drucie went to her
mothers’s room and Frank was again
with his mother.
“My son,” she said with a mother’s
tenderness in her voice. “You do not
know how glad you made me just now.
“How, mother? ”
“In asserting your command. It so
well befits you to command men. 1 was
really proud of you.” A smile was all
the answer he made.
“ But how is it you feel so little pride
in it yourself? You scarcely manifested
as much interest in the ceremonies to
day as did Tom Goff.” ..
“ And probably felt as little,” he said.
“ Well, why is it? Is it to punish me,
Frank? Have I so offended that yon
are reckless of your pride? ” she asked
feelingly.
“No, mother, it was no offense. It
was, perhaps, a want of proper pride. 1
can best explain it to you as I explained
it to Miss Drucie just now.”
“To Drucie. Ah, she noticed it then.”
“It seems so; at any rate she was
disposed to scold me, in her pretty
way, of course, for a lack of apprecia
tion of the dazzle and tinsel of parade-
And I answered truthfully that they hau
no charm for me, and that only as an
essential to the more serious work oi
fighting, I had no pride in it at all.
“ I am sorry to hear you say so, and i
suppose you will have no further pride
of promotion?” • ,
“None in the world, mother, except
as the service may possibly demand.
“You care nothing for your name,
nothing for fame ? ”
“ Why should, I mother, since every
step upward but lifts me farther away
from the woman I love—every h? 0 ®*
added to my life adds another cubit t
the depth and width of the chasm tna
separates me from the eden of my
soul?”
“Frank, you are cruel to thustaun
me. I thought it was understood tna
this wretched girl was never to be men