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FOR THE YEAR 1855:
TALES, TRAVELS, HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, POETRY,
PUBLISHED EVERY OTHER WEEK AS A PART OF THE CONNECTICUT COURANT.
HARTFORD, SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1855.
FOR THE COURANT.
BY 2. W. BOBBINI.
And startling the rude echoes with his name.
Such is the legend of thee-such the tale
Mountain of Lamentations still lament!
There is enough to do. The world is full of wrong that requires bold, brave, wakeful men to crush ; . it is full of suffering that calls for kind, ten. der, affectionate women to alleviate. Will you do nothing but dream! Will you be the drones of the great hive of humanity, feeding upon others' labor, and adding nothing yourselves to the stock of honey? You have a place and a station in the world for other and better purposes, for higher and holier objects. “Dream not then, but work!"
The exigencies of the world require your assistance. There never was a time when energy and systematic labor for the good of community was 80 much needed.
Arise for the day is passing,
While you lie dreaming on;
And forth to the fight have gono;
Each man has a part to play;
In the face of the stern to-day.
“ Dream pot, then, but work."
Blue mountain of my childhood I that afar
'Tis strange-the objects of material sense
I bave a love of mountains and my soul
Mountain of Lamentations ! on thy top
Dream not, but Work !
"Dream not, but work! Be bold I be brave!
Escape from tasks allotted !
The viciousthe besotted."
“In dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up."
Wage ceaseless war 'gainst lawless might,
Shield the defenceless.
Crush it relentless!
Forget thy self, but bear in mind
So shall the welcome night
Wake in eternal light!
FOR THE COURANT. Scenes Here and Thero. The scenes and parties of the chapters of experience hereafter sketched, are familiar to many of your readers. The light-house keeper, spoken of in the last, has been mentioned in your columns before, and is well known to our sea-shore visitors. It was from his own lips that the story was derived.
In a bumble house an old man was lying. His withered frame had long withstood the assaults of disease, and bis eye still glistened brightly, as in the dew of youth or the heyday of manhood, Scarcely a relative was left him. No wife or child bent o'er him to relieve suffering nature. The faithful nurse and the attendant physician were at his side. The power of sickness was now struggling with his enduring body, and the angel of death was waiting to shout victory over apother of its myriads slain. He had long loved and worshipped money. While others, perhaps po less greedy of the precious dust, had carefully invested their gains in stocks and bonds, he had deposited his earnings in a strong chest, which now lay closely locked beneath his bed. Never had he laid his head upon a pillow that did not cover that key. And now, as he felt a deeper sleep settling upon him than he had known before, his treasure seemed doubly precious. Alike unconscious of his physician's words and attentions, his mind still trenibles for the safety of his chesi. But death's couvulsions are mastering him. In nervous paroxysın he thrusts out his arm wildly from the bed. His heart ceases to beat, and his lips have stopped quivering, but his long bony tingers still clasp the key, and the last sign of life passes away, as that hand relaxes silently, and the heavy key drops. The temptations of life and the calls of humanity had never been able to unloose that hold, and it was only the stern mastery of death which had conquered, but not persuaded.
Roaming among these scenes, nor able yet
To venture farther or retrace his steps,
Plunged in the tracklege gloom. Perplexed he stando le the uncertain path, the distant forms
of wife and cbild appearing in his sight, lod now, alas ! lost in the forest depths. il band do help succeeds. In vain his friends way to find the wanderer pressing on, se tradition is, that in the early settlement of the on the Counecticut River, Mr. Chester, of Weth. -an ancestor of the families of that name in tha
flow,-was lost on a mountain some twelve miles
luthwest from his home, wbence the name Mt. Station. The occounts differ as to bis fate. The sredible story ie, that he was at length rescued by
It was a rough March day. The ice-fields once broken, were sealed again, as if winter, once departed, bud returned to bid farewell to ibe earth