_A Poem from the Autocrat's Lose Papers._ [I find the following note written in pencil on the MSS.--_Reporter Oc. Misc._] This is a true story. Avis, Avise, or Avice, (they pronounce it _Arris_,) is a real breathing person. Her home is not more than an hour and a half's space from the palaces of the great ladies who might like to look at her. They may see her and the little black girl she gave herself to, body and soul, when nobody else could bear the sight of her infirmity,--leaving home at noon, or even after breakfast, and coming back in season to undress for the evening's party. AVIS. I may not rightly call thy name,-- Alas! thy forehead never knew The kiss that happier children claim, Nor glistened with baptismal dew. Daughter of want and wrong and woe, I saw thee with thy sister-band, Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand. --"Avis!"--With Saxon eye and cheek, At once a woman and a child, The saint uncrowned I came to seek Drew near to greet us,--spoke and smiled. God gave that sweet sad smile she wore All wrong to shame, all souls to win,-- A heavenly sunbeam sent before Her footsteps through a world of sin. --"And who is Avis?"--Hear the tale The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell,-- The story known through all the vale Where Avis and her sisters dwell. With the lost children running wild, Strayed from the hand of human care, They find one little refuse child Left helpless in its poisoned lair. The primal mark is on her face,-- The chattel-stamp,--the pariah-stain That follows still her hunted race,-- The curse without the crime of Cain. How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate The little suffering outcast's ail? Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale. Ah, veil the living death from sight That wounds our beauty-loving eye! The children turn in selfish fright, The white-lipped nurses hurry by. Take her, dread Angel! Break in love This bruised reed and make it thine!-- No voice descended from above, But Avis answered, "She is mine." The task that dainty menials spurn The fair young girl has made her own; Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn The toils, the duties yet unknown. So Love and Death in lingering strife Stand face to face from day to day, Still battling for the spoil of Life While the slow seasons creep away. Love conquers Death; the prize is won; See to her joyous bosom pressed The dusky daughter of the sun,-- The bronze against the marble breast! Her task is done; no voice divine Has crowned her deed with saintly fame; No eye can see the aureole shine That rings her brow with heavenly flame.