He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,— For his estranged, misguided Absalom, The proud, bright being who had burst away The heart that cherished him,-for him he poured, The pall was settled. He who slept beneath As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still The pall from the still features of his child, "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! "Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father !' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself 9. William Gilmore Simms (1806-1870) was a talented Southern novelist and poet. His tales show the influence of Brown and Cooper. The Partisan, published in 1835, is numbered among his best stories. One of his poems follows. Not in the sky, Where it was seen THE LOST PLEIAD So long in eminence of light serene, Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, Nor down, in mansions of the hidden deep, Though beautiful in green And crystal, its great caves of mystery, Shall the bright watcher have Her place, and, as of old, high station keep! Gone! gone! Oh! nevermore, to cheer The mariner, who holds his course alone When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, With the sweet-loving certainty of light, The upward-looking shepherd on the hills And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways! Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills And lone, Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die, All their concerted springs of harmony Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone! Ah! still the strain Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky; Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone IO. 10. Richard Henry Dana, Jr. (1815-1882) was born in Cambridge, Mass., and was educated at Harvard. While at college he interrupted his course to take a two years' voyage to the Pacific coast on account of his health. He shipped as a common sailor, and his experiences form the subject-matter of Two Years Before the Mast (1840), the book which has made his name famous. Mr. William J. Long calls this book a veritable classic and says: After more than half a century we can still recommend it as a virile, wholesome story, and as probably the best reflection of sailor life in the old days when American ships and seamen were known and honored the world over." A FLOGGING AT SEA (From Two Years Before the Mast) (CHAPTER XV) For several days the captain seemed very much out of humour. Nothing went right or fast enough for him. He quarrelled with the cook, and threatened to flog him for throwing wood on deck, and had a dispute with the mate about reeving a Spanish burton; the mate saying that he was right, and had been taught how to do it by a man who was a sailor! This the captain took in dudgeon and they were at swords' points at once. But his displeasure was chiefly turned against a large, heavy-moulded fellow from the Middle States, who was called Sam. This man hesitated in his speech, was rather slow in his motions, and was only a tolerably good sailor, but usually seemed to do his best; yet the captain took a dislike to him, thought he was surly and lazy, and "if you once give a dog a bad name" as the sailor-phrase is "he may as well jump overboard." The captain found fault with everything this man did, and hazed him for dropping a marline-spike from the mainyard, where he was at work. This, of course, was an accident, but it was set down against him. The captain was on board all day Friday, and everything went on hard and disagreeably. "The more you drive a man, the less he will do," was as true with us as with any other people. We worked late Friday night, and were turned-to early Saturday morning. About ten o'clock the captain ordered our new officer, Russell, who by this time had become thoroughly disliked by all the crew, to get the gig ready to take him ashore. John, the Swede, was sitting in the boat alongside, and Mr. Russell and I were standing by the main hatchway, waiting for the captain, who was |