Come with your sunlit life,
Maiden of gentle eye!
Bring to the gloom of strife
Light by which heroes die.
Give, rich men, proud and free,
Your children's costliest gem!
For Liberty shall be
Your heritage to them.
O friend, with heavy urn,
What offering bear you on?
The figure did not turn;
I heard a voice, "My son."
The fire of Freedom burns,
Her flame shall reach the heaven:
Heap up our sacred urns,
Though life for life be given!
ONLY AN IRISH GIRL!
"Oh, it's only an Irish girl!"
I flamed into a wrath far too intense for restraint. My whole soul rose
up and cried out against the Deacon's wife. I answered,--
"True. A small thing! But are lies and murder small things, Mrs. Adams?
Murderers, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie, are to be left outside
of the heavenly city. And, Mrs. Adams, suppose it should appear that
a woman of high respectability, moving in the best society, and most
excellent housekeeper, has both those two tickets for hell? Do you
remember the others that make up that horrible company in the last
chapter of Revelation? Mrs. Adams, _the girl is_ DEAD!"
The Deacon's wife's hard face had blazed instantly into passionate
scarlet. But I cared not for her, nor for man nor woman.
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