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Show "Whilethe poets of f.iine, ..f the ages past, will live in national name and story, and their marble forms in the temple's vane be ever crowned with glory, K-t us not forget the meed of praise and the honorable mention of our own, for, good though it bo to honor the dead who have pictured the just and true, the living who write the soul's good thoughts deserves our men-j tion too." Our "devil" had been ! reading "CasseU's" number for March, and had dropped upon Bob- ert Buchanan's ballad, "(Jrand-dad in' the Ingle." What a beautiful and1 simple picture of the very old man by 1 the fireside of "the cottage by the ceo:" As still he int an a cold gcay i'unn L'pm the lone itca sands, , His thin gray hair as white as fbam, Like drifting weeds his hniidi. His eves were d"fid and dull nnd cold Ab the jelly fish on the rock; I Jlii ears were closed and bia heart kept time To the ticking of the clock. His cheeks were pale, his lips were dumb, Tie Bat in the ingle glow, Still as a stone on the low sea sand, Though the tide doth come and gu; Though the sun may come on its cold moist side, And make a glistening gleam; Thoogh the storm may dash and tlio lightning light-ning flah And the startled fmi bird scream. Too Intel too late! he is old, so o'd, He hears no human call, Ho cannot smile, he cannot wcop, Uis blood flowa on as dark as s eep, Ho lives and that u all. |