. Strathmore, or, Wrought by his own hand [electronic resource]: a life romance. ue ; in which all deeds ofsacrifice are done with a strength that is merciless only toitself; in which a sweet and sinless happiness sheds itsdivine radiance; yet in which the poignancy of one remorse,the memory of one crime, are never lulled to peace or 608 STRAThMORB. to oblivion, but, following the appointed travail of a silentexpiation offered only to the dead, and of a supreme duty,rendered only towards God, lay subject the stained great-ness of a grand guilty life, and lift it upwards into holierfight. By pa
. Strathmore, or, Wrought by his own hand [electronic resource]: a life romance. ue ; in which all deeds ofsacrifice are done with a strength that is merciless only toitself; in which a sweet and sinless happiness sheds itsdivine radiance; yet in which the poignancy of one remorse,the memory of one crime, are never lulled to peace or 608 STRAThMORB. to oblivion, but, following the appointed travail of a silentexpiation offered only to the dead, and of a supreme duty,rendered only towards God, lay subject the stained great-ness of a grand guilty life, and lift it upwards into holierfight. By passion his life fell, lost in darkness of the night, andsunk in the lowest deeps ; yet, though once fallen, who shalldare deny that, in the end, it shall not reach to that atone-ment which unceasingly is besought, obedient to the la\D CO., KEW-STEEET SQ7AILE. TUccucl mullet If Might Have Been Her Joy coas DutyArad Love ooas Laoo. For one of the brightest poetic gems. XffJLTJD MULLER. Maud Muller, on a sammers day, raked the meadowsweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee the mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town, white from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest and a nameless longing filled her breast,— A wish, that she hardly dare to own, for something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, smoothing his horses chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade of the apple-trees to greet the maid, And asked a draught from the spring that flowed through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, and filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down on her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. Thanks! sa
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