The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1869-12-19

Like psuls &t Cofinth, Athens, Or at Rome;
While 1ofHe Epictetd6 or St6rhe esteem, -,
A graeipis Saviour ID the Gospel theme. W
It should be mixed with manyssan, ardent
10 reach heart ea and AK and fast fasten mt there
when God and man ara mutually addressed,
Ged grants blessing5 man 10 truly blest.
+ should be closely well applied at last,
T8make the ID oral nail aecrfeIy fast;
Thek srt tbS Hsn, and thou slGne will make2
A Fslix il treinble ,hl hi'd q David aaake! -
s,,,s ,insssa9 s.,,,,i IL La, lSy 1asiing, @
,dKspity that snostal-=5e il man, woman
g shildwwhS - dastas as meyer ats been called my
s1TS Da,liinI,ssgs 1. .heards I .tho, W., words to.
days They, doated ako me Through an
open wind q window, in O tiny, little,
uppretshdifg house across "a barren,
dusty garden FSatoh9 n INknow not to
whom, the tender Swordsiaere addressed; !;
hakpoR net what snapner OF lips framed
them;A only know that a human heart
was made gladby them, and know that
ths5e Sasi 2 sh home me within y those humble
fThs words swept me back ward or, me.
mory Is tide; until l. forgot that / L. was
lonely old maid Forgot that the hair
Was thin and white, whereon gentle
hands used fenderly to rest, as loving
lips called me ''daTling," in the long,
long ago. Forgot that the eyes that once
had8rOWn brighter at the soupd, were
faded now and dimmed by sorrow. For
got that the heart which was still 80
quick TO Eegpond TO loving words, was
beating in che bosom of one who stood
alone IN the world utterly, desolately
alone-aionelf forever. i al 80
Backward, memory bore me. until I
was once again little, tender child, with
no greater sorrow than the breaking of o
doll Withn .gfaver puzzle for my little
Santa Claus identity; no deeper ques-
ton to popder, than If'where aid the but.
yarfies tp?n Obi happy little child,
THRICE bed child. Biest in mother,
fS9an holle!
Arling." It is her voice L hear
In Tory sfarthest reoesses. A voice
SOY N SO soft, so sweet, that it sounded
like an echo from the Spirit Land.
x She was almost done with earth before
her child came to know her, and when
she went to join the angel band, I am
sure they welcomed her with hymns of
Joy, FOR she was Of them and not Of us.
How lonely we were without her. My
father and I; my stately father, whose
voice seemed to take on gentle tone
whenever he laid his hand on my curly
hair and asked God to bless his mother
less darling. o father, dear father, come
back from the land of shadows and bless
your lonely child once more. Come
back, and let the world-weary woman
forget her desolation in the thought that
she is once again somebody's darling.
My darling-once again hear the
magic words echoing through the cham
bers of my heart-chambers whose one
time guests lie Numbering with the dead
chambers whence the light of Joy has
fed forever. And to this echo my heart
responds with wild, quick, passionate
throbs, answering to the call Of my first,
my one, my eternal love. Here, too-O
ruthless memoryl-"I smell the mould
above the rose.''
No more. Memory's task grows bitter.
Come back, poor dreamer, to your work
a-day world. Come back to tho know
ledge that for you no moro is the bliss OF
loving and being loved. That for you
the flowers of life have ceased to bloom.
while the thorns stand out bleak and
sharp. But the joys I have tasted are
mine forever. My memories are mine,
and the dreary present is none the drea-
rier for calling to mind the time when
was somebody's darling.
NeU Orleans Sunday Times.