Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848

"He left the bars down that led into my largest, best field of wheat, and half the cattle in the country have been devouring it. They have ruined at least a couple of hundred dollars worth. The money is not what I care so much for, but it was the best wheat-field for miles around, and I had a pride in having it yield more than any field of my neighbors. I have borne with him day after day, hoping he might do better. Poor fellow! he is sorry enough always for his mistakes. The other day he left the garden-gate open, and the cows got in and eat all my cabbages and other vegetables; then he leaves the barn-door open, and the hogs go in and the calves come out."

"We will see," said our dear mamma.

The next morning at the breakfast-table said our dear mother —

"You will have a delightful day to ride in, dear nephew."

Cousin Jehoiakim opened wide his eyes, inquiringly.

"Richard, my son, I hope you did not forget to tell Mr. Grimes to let the stage stop here this morning. It will be very inconvenient for your cousin to be obliged to stay another day. I packed your trunk this morning early, dear nephew, just after you left your room, knowing how you disliked the trouble."

Still wider opened my cousin's eyes.

"Harry, my son," said mamma to my little brother, "those cakes and dough-nuts are for your cousin to take with him for his lunch."

"Mayn't I have a piece of pie then?"

"Go and get what you want of Mercy, my dear. I put some runs of yarn in your trunk, dear nephew, you may give them with my love to sister Abigal, and tell her the wool is from white Kitty. She will remember the sheep. Give my love to brother Abiram with this letter."

Still wider opened Cousin Jehoiakim's eyes.

"You will find also in your trunk a dozen and a half of new linen shirts that I have taken the liberty of putting there instead of your old ones."

"Thank you, dear aunt, you are very kind. I really am very sorry to leave you all. I have enjoyed myself very much here; but Aunt Abigail will feel hurt if I do not pay her a visit. I shall come again as soon as I can, so do not cry your eyes out, Cousin Clarry."

The stage came and Cousin Jehoiakim went.

And the way I lured back my flown bird would make quite an interesting sentimental little story of itself. Bless his bright eyes! they are shining on me now, full of mischief at this sketch I am giving you, beloved reader. But didn't we have a nice wedding time? There was Anna and her brave lieutenant, Brother Dick and his bright little Fanny, the beautiful, majestic Jane, and my beautiful, majestic Cousin Clarence, and my darling, good Edgar, and, dear reader, your very humble servant.

CORIOLANUS

BY HENRY B. HIRST

How many legends have been told or sung
Since Rome – the nursling of the wolf – arose,
Lean, gaunt and grim, and lapped the bubbling blood
Of fallen and dying foes.

How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heard
At dawn, when, clad in steel, the long array
Of marshaled armies glittering in the sun
Stretch, like the skies, away.

But none so golden, chivalric and holy
As that of thine, Coriolanus – none
In the imperial purple of old days
But pale before its sun.

True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base,
Prone to idolatry of those who sought
Their April smiles – who fawned to win their votes,
Nor dreamed them dearly bought.

Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king,
First in Corioli – thy wounds in front —
Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms,
The battle's deadly brunt,

To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance,
And festal follies in Etruscan halls —
Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down,
Beyond the city walls,

Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye,
Demanding as a right their voice, and blush
To bare thy scars, while thy patrician scorn
Made cheek and forehead flush.

The base cabals – the hate which drove thee forth
A wanderer, ennobled thee: thy fame
Looked lightning on the curs that dared abuse,
But lacked the power to shame.

Prouder thy spirit in that trying hour
Than theirs who stung thee: well might'st thou go forth
Undaunted, for thy fame was not of Rome,
But, rather, of the earth.

Yet it was hard to leave thy wife and babe —
Virgilia and thy little one – hard to break
The bonds that held thee to them: Rome grew dear —
Most dear for their sweet sake.

But as their forms waxed dim, thy festering heart
Looked from thine eyes; thy swelling nostrils told
The inward struggle, and thy heaving chest
A human ocean rolled.

Kneeling upon the ground, thy sinister arm
Adjuring heaven, thy soul broke forth in tones
Of thunder; but thy agony in that hour
Pale Rome repaid with groans.

Coldly, with stately step and placid brow —
A lull – the herald of the approaching storm —
Thou went'st thy way toward Antium – trod its streets
Without the thought of harm.