ST. VIATEURS LECTIO CEJ.{TA
VOL. I.
COLLEGE JOURNAL.
PI~ODEST, VA I~I A
DELECTA'J:. Seneca.
BOURBONNAIS GROVE, ILL FRIDAY, May 25 1883 A MIDNIGHT STORM.
Thou howling wind- thou moaning voice of me: Thy lnnguage is of one who weeps and grvans, As if his soul was doomed to flam es eternal. What seek'st thou in this abode of peace Where solitude and silence ever cl well? Why disturb me thus in my sweet repose And interrupt my dream of future joy? Sending up cries of lamentations, Making night hideo us with thy presence, Filling my mind with thoughts beyond description. Thou would'st clare turn this room of bliss I n to a dungeon cell or hermit cave, Where wicked culprits pine away and die, For fou l crimes done in their days of nature; Or where some pious Monk at midnight, Does tell ilis beads in silent adoration. Go take thyself to some abbey quiet And play around the tombstones of the dead, Climb the mountain tops and silake her stm路ci.~ous Or cast thyself on the ocean bosom, And face the billows to roar ::mel sigh But cease repining at my humble door , Tily moans and sobs bring sorrow to my heart, Hush 1 pray, thy sad and mournfnl story \Vhy torment me thus with words heart rending, As I were the subj ect of thy woeful tale. Thou sce m'st to speak and tell me of my [.J::tst Thou >rould 'st feign recall those clays of pain , That I hav e seen enclosed by other walls, 路where too I ott have he:1.rd thy mournful v oice, \Vou ld 'st tllou bring me back to tile scenes of my yo uth , \ Vhen tlw :tnus of a loving mother pressed me, And on my cheek affec:tion's kiss imprint, Calling me her love and all her future hopes? Or to tile fields 11 nd d ells where I have roved , \ Vhere so sportiv e and gay I once did pl::ty , And s wcetly co n versed with the friends I've loved, O!J: thou most crue l one, spirit oi the deep; X o! tltO\\ art most unwilling, to ha,ve me elwell On such pleasant thoughts of youthful bliss; l3ut seck to lead me to another sphere, T o other clays that were not mm路kc<.l with joy,
No. 7.
Thou wouldst unfold tile pages of my life, And cause my poor !Je:1r t to bleed, and more Thou wo ulclst have me meditate and think, Oi1 days that never cease to giv e me joy: And thy lamenting voice does seem to speak And r emind me of that deadly blow, 路 Tllat has cru shed my heart, and sealed my fate Leaving me now ~ pine away and die, Like a tr~ e cut down by tile woodman's ax10. Oh ! that I co uld cast off til is heavy load : Whose weight no mortal man hath ever felt, And fling it far into oblivious depths, To perish witil the doings of tile past. Oil ! no tili~ is my fate, the late of all, Alone my sorrowful burden I must bear. Aml now Boreas, since thou wilt not cease To bowl and moan in wailing tones of pain, Cont inue thy lamenting groans and sobs, Moan on, moan on, thou has t my permission, F or soon thy cl ismal sound I'll hear no more ; Death seems impatient for its victim , The g rav e to fold me in her cold em brace. But wllen my fina l hour uf life will come, I will kindly welcome the hanrl of death Ancl roc:k myself to sleep in motiler eartl:r, Then thou fh.ther of t!Je winds may sigh and sou, L::tment and howl, wail and groan forev er, Thy blasts may f~tll as arrows on my heart. J t will i.Je dead and senseless to tileir stings A nd to my cars tily weary song as deaf, For in my silent grave I'll be sleeping.
Till~ Pl{ESKNT CO_NDITlON OF FRANCEDearing to many European nations the relati~11 of etfcct to en usc, or of children to parents, we, Amen cans, most natu ral! y feel in teres teLl in their proper concerns. If to Italy w~ must look for the genius who carried the torch of clisc:ov cry to o ur shores, til us leading our land fwm the clarknc~s of olJscurity; if to Spain we are inde b led for t he heroes who first scattered tile seeds of c:i l' ilization over our trackless phtins; if to Engl:tncl we m nst give tlle honor of lJeing our mo~t proximate parcut, and of having nwdt diredly c1 efin eL1 our natwnal