Margaret Fuller [pp. 235-236]

THE LADIES' REPOSITORY.
CASA WAPPY.
WE publish below one of the sweetest effusions we
remember to have seen for many a month, from the
pen of D. M. Moir, the Delta of Blackwood's Magazine. It is written upon the loss of a beloved child.
"Casa Wappy" was the name by which his little
lisping boy always called himself. Father and child
are both now, side by side, sleeping the long, last
sleep.
Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eyes;
Tears of our anguish may not tell,
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathomed agony,
Casa Wappy!
Thou wert a vision of delight,
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight A type of heaven.
So dear to us thou wert; thou art
Even less thine own self, than a part
Of mine, or of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!
Thy bright, brief day knew no decline'Twas cloudless joy;
Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Casa Wappy!
Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that Time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy!
Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still A form of light;
I feel thy breath upon my cheek Till, 0, my heart is like to break;
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Casa Wappy!
Methinks thou smil'st before me now,
With glance of stealth;
The hair thrown back from thy full brow,
In buoyant health;
I see thine eyes' deep violet light Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright Thy clasping arms, so round and white Casa Wappy!
The nursery shows thy pictured wall,
Thy-bat-thy bow Thy cloak and bonnet-club and ball But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair,
Thy playthings idly scattered there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!
TEE BATTLE-FIELD.
STAND, reader, in imagination, on a summer's morning, upon a field of battle. Earth and sky melt together in light and harmony. The air is rich with
fragrance, and sweet with the song of birds. But
suddenly break in the sounds of fierce music and the
measured tramp of thousands. Eager squadrons
shake the earth with thunder, and files of bristling
steel kindle in the sun. And, opposed to each other,
line to line, face to face, are now arrayed men whom
God has made in the same likeness, and whose nature
he has touched to the same issues. The same heart
beats in all. In the momentary hush, like a swift
mist, sweeps before them the image of home. Voices
of children prattle in their ears. Memories of affection stir among their silent prayers. They cherish
the same sanctities, too. They have read from the
same book. It is to them the samne charter of life
and salvation. They have been taught to observe its
beautiful lessons of love. Their hearts have been
touched alike with the meek examples of Jesus. But
a moment, and all these affinities are broken, trampled under foot, swept away by the shock and shouting. Confusion now rends the air. The simmering
bomb plows up the earth. The iron hail cuts the
quivering flesh. The steel bites to the bone. The
cannon shot crashes through serried ranks. And
under the cloud of smoke that hides both earth and
heaven, the desperate struggle goes on. The day
wanes and the strife ceases. On the one side there is
victory, on the other a defeat. The triumphant city
is lighted with jubilee, the streets roll out their tides
of acclamation, and the organ heaves from its groaning breast the peal of thanksgiving. But, under that
tumultuous joy, there are bleeding bosoms and inconsolable tears. And, whether in triumphant or defeated lands, a shudder of orphanage and widowhood, a chill of woe and death runs far and wide
through the world. The meek moon breaks the dissipating vail of the conflict, and rolls its calm splendor above the dead. And see now how much woe
man has mingled with the inevitable evils of the
universe. See now the fierceness of his passion, the
folly of his wickedness, witnessed by the torn standards, the broken wheels, the pools of clotted blood,
the charred earth, the festering heaps of slain. Nature did not make these horrors, and when these fattened bones shall have moldered in the soil, she will
spread out luxuriant harvests to hide those horrors
forever.
MARGARET FULLER.
BY ~. GRE:ELEY.
THE name of Margaret Fuller is known, I presume,
to most of American readers. She was a native of
Philadelphia, and early desirous of foreign travel
embarked for Europe. In Italy she became acquainted with a young Italian named Ossoli, to whom
she was clandestinely married. A year or two after
her marriage, herself, her husband, and an only child,
a little boy about a year old, took passage on a packet
ship, and turned their pathway to the western world.
When within sight of the American shore a violent
storm arose, and the vessel, with Margaret, her husband, and child and its other freight of human
souls, sunk beneath the waters. Let me detain the
reader with an incident of her character.
Her love of children was one of her most prominent characteristics. She could narrate almost any
story in language level to their capacities, and in a
manner calculated to bring out their hearty and often
boisterously expressed delight. She possessed mar
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