The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1878-06-26

! pregnant Win Il cOmOlneu simplicity
earnestness, and pathos, which canno
fail to arouse our feelings the hundredtl
time if well rendered. We feel our sym
pathies going out with his electric appea
TO the populace, and we almost wish il
our wrapt attention and apparent uncon
sciousness of its known sequel, that An
tony's words may indeed cause the stones
of Rome to rise in mutiny against hi
coward murderers.
There has been sold all over the lane
during the past two years, the portrait
of beautiful woman, whom the travel
ling agents selling the pictur only know
as Beatrice Cenci. There is a look oil
| almost sadness in the clear brown italian
! face, and an expression IF soft tender
ness in the large dark eyes, that has
| commended it to all classes alike. 1t is
not purchased because of the history il
bears, for many who buy it know naught
of that history, but because it is like
ness combining innocence and beauty in
its greatest perfection. And yet that
picture is not more beautiful than By
ron's picture in verse of Dante's love for
its youthful possessor, after the perfumed
breath of many Italian summers had
been floating DER her grave. But Meth
er death, nor time, nor prison bars could
shut out her image from his heart, and
from his gloomy noisome cell, he thus
imprisoned cries:
Oh Beatrice! whose sweet limbs the sod
Solong hath prest, and the cold marble stone,
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love,
Love so inffable, and so alone,
That naugbt on earth could more my bo-
som move
And meeting thee In heaven was but to meet
less dove,
Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet
Relieved her wing till found; without thy
light
NV paradise had still been still incomplete.
Since my tenth sun gave summer to my
sight
Thou vert my life, the essence ofmy thought
Loved ere | knew the name OF love, and
bright
Still in these film old eyes, now overweight
With the worlds war, and years and ban
ishment,
Are tears for thee, by other woes untaught.
One of the most touching narratives in
the New Testament, is told by St. Mark
of the daughter of Jairus, ruler of the
Synagogue. The narrative opens by
picturiDg the young girl, just twelve
years of age, at the point to die. The
fond parent after doing all that human
skill could suggest to keep away the grim
monster death, at last gives up all hope,
unless the Master of whose fame he had
heard, would give back life to the dying
child With heart brimfull of faith,
he leaves his daughters bedside, and goes
into the noisy street,
-,ol- 81, ,,yb,,.,
No tale of sorrow could unheeded fall;
And kneeing at his feet thus he calls on
him:
"Smitten with death my little daughter
lies,
But thou canst heal? Lay Thy hand on her
And she shall live!" But quickly one draws
With ashen face and trembling lips, ana
said:
"why trouble ye the Master? she is dead ~
They seek the chamber where the child is
Peaceful and still; the weary eyes are clos
ed
AS if in slumber, and the lovely hands
Are meekly folded on the quiet breast
she is not dead, but sleepeth - bitter scorn
Curled each eontemptuous lip, and one re-
NAY but the child is dead! :"
He gently touched
L ne snowy manu. anu tic HulCh SbtdIl Vi
With g.. irnpatience bounded through the
veins
And warmed the icy clay.
'Tabehi cumi rand the low sweet tones,
Scarce heard by those beside him, reached
to heaven,
Were heard before the throne; the parted
soul
Obeyed the mandate, and obedient came
Back TO its tenement of clay again"
A similar type of affection is por-
trayed in Longfellow's Footsteps of
Angels" the masterpiece of his many
writings. The scene he describes is so
accurately pitured that we fancy we can
see the sadened poet, seated in his room
alone, musing on the past, its happi-
nesses and its sorrows. The day is al
most ended, and it is that hour,
ERE the evening lamps are lighted
when we would naturally reflect most
solemnly about life and its many trials.
With his fervid fancy, while sitting there,
as the
shadows from the freight, dance upon
the parlor wall
angel messengers glide in at the door,
and among them the spirit Of his gentle
wife,
''With slow. and noiseess footstep.
Come that Messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Lii e the stars so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not yet com pretended
Is that spirits voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukeS in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips Of air.
All tho Oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
When | but remem her only,
Such as these have lived and died."
Probably some of the best poems that
have appeared in America have been
dedicated to our Confederate dead. The
ancient Greeks believed that the soul of
the warrior, who died bravely in battle,
always went to the Elysian Fields, and
though the belief is unfounded, both in
reason and Christianity, yet we are i'm
bued with an ill-defned, vague idea,
closely resembling the superstition of the
Greeks, and it does seem that if there is
a haven blest, beyond life's sea, prepar-
ed for the faithful voysger here, that il
| is not place more fit for any, than the
noble soldier, who engraving Right,
| upon his honest heart, strikes till it be-
comes effaced, with its own warm pour
ings. The following beautiful extract
is from little poem, which is doubtless
familiar to many of the citizens OF
Vicksburg.
''The low sun seems to linger,
| With touch almost supernal,
| Where lines of OravpS