T WAS BUT THE RAIN.
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��meanest act of his life, and he was not a man to commit a meanness often. Mr. Dearborn became an ar- dent Whig, and Pittston, under his influence, became one of the strong- est towns politically, of that party in Kennebec, which was a Whig strong- hold, noted all through the United States. When that party died he be- came a Republican, and found him- self in a Democratic town. This transformation is one of those singular events in human affairs that are hard to be understood.
It was my fortune to meet this good man last winter and talk over the events of " Lang Syne." It had been forty-two years since we met. He could not recall me, for I had in that time from a boy become a man with gray hair. He had gone from bright and active manhood close to the setting sun. It had been a life- time since I was resident of his town. We went over its history, and it was pleasant to see the interest he took in all of the movements of the day. I looked upon him with reverence, for his person would command the high- est respect.
The calm of that old reverend brow. The glow of its thin, silver locks — Was like a flash of sunlight in the pauses of a storm."
He came of a race remarkable lor its handsome men and women. He
��was, in his prime, one of the best look- ing men in Pittston. His ancestry had been noted for its longevity. The reader will notice the great age of his people. " What hast thou that thou didst not receive?" saith holy writ.
That Mr. Dearborn's spiritual taber- nacle was well completed there can be no question. His path increased in brightness until the curtain was drawn aside and he entered the land of the de- parted and took up his abode with all lovers of their race — for such only love God.
"Such was our friend, formed on the
good old plan, — A true and brave and downright honest
man. He blew no trumpet in the market-place, Nor in the church with hypocritic face, Supplied with cant the lack of Christian
grace. Loathing pretense he did with cheerful
will, ^Vhat others talked of while their hands
were still ; And while " Lord, Lord," ' the pious
tyrants cried — Who in the poor the master crucified — His daily prayer, farbettar understood In acts than words, was simply doing
good. So calm, so constant Avas his rectitude, That by his loss alone we know its
viorth, And feel how true a man has walked
with us on earth."
— Kennebec Reporter.
��'T WAS BUT THE RAIN.
��PA' ANNA L. LEAR.
��I was dropping into slumber — Losing sense of care and pain —
When soft fingers without number Tapping on the window-pane —
As if keeping time to music Of a solemn, sweet refrain —
Soothed me like a sound elysian, Tho' 't was but the autumn rain Beating on the roof and pane !
Then I seemed to hear the voices Of the loved and gone before ;
And I dropped my " daily crosses," As in happy days of yore !
��When but joy was in night's vision, When life's troubles, quickly o'er.
Passed with night and came no more ; And for me no mournful strain Sounded in the falling rain.
" Oh ! the lost — the unforgotten — In our hearts they perish not ! "
And the joys on earth begotten By their lives, are ne'er forgot !
Still in dreams that half are waking, Oft to us they speak again, —
Tho' no sound breaks on the silence Save the falling of the rain. And its rhythm on the pane !
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