The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip,

And ghastly faces everywhere

Looked from the doomèd ship.

"Is there no hope-no chance of life?"

A hundred lips implore;

"But one," the captain made reply, "To run the ship on shore."

A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal

By name John Maynard, eastern bornStood calmly at the wheel.

“Head her south-east!" the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar,

"Head her south-east without delay!

Make for the nearest shore!"

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,

Or clouds his dauntless eye,

As in a sailor's measured tone

His voice responds, "Ay, Ay!"

Three hundred souls-the steamer's freight--Crowd forward wild with fear,

While at the stern the dreadful flames

Above the deck appear.

John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
But still, with steady hand

He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly
He steered the ship to land.

"John Maynard," with an anxious voice,
The captain cries once more,

"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we will reach the shore."

Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly, still

Unawed, though face to face with death,
"With God's good help I will!"

The flames approach with giant strides,
They scorch his hands and brow;
One arm disabled seeks his side,
Ah, he is conquered now!
But no, his teeth are firinly set,

He crushes down the pain-
His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
He guides the ship again.

One moment yet! one moment yet!
Brave heart, thy task is o'er!
The pebbles grate beneath the keel,
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voices rise,
In praise to God, that He

Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
And from the ingulfing sea.

But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel-

His nerveless hands released their task,
He sunk beside the wheel.

The wave received his lifeless corpse,
Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Hero never had
A nobler funeral pyre!

HORATIO ALger, Jr.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN.

OHN GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A train-band captain eke was he

Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton

All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child,

Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we."

He soon replied, "I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear;
Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said;
And for that wine is dear,

We will be furnished with our own,

Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheek, Were never folk so glad;

The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride,
But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew
Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!"

Good lack!" quoth he-" yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !)
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be

Equipped from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones
With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.
So fair and softly, John he cried,
But John he cried in vain ;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must

Who cannot sit upright,

He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.

His horse, which never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought:
Away went hat and wig:
He little dreamt when he set out
Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;

A bottle swinging at each side,
As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
Up flew the windows all;

And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin-who but he?

His fame soon spread around; He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!

And still, as fast as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike men
Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,

Which made his horse's flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced :
For all might see the bottle necks
Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington

These gambols he did play,
Until he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the wash about
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife

From the balcony spied

Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin !-Here's the house' They all aloud did cry;

"The dinner waits, and we are tired:" Said Gilpin "So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there;
For why? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,

Shot by an archer strong;

So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song,

Away went Gilpin out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calender's
His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see

His neighbor in such trim,

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,

And thus accosted him :

"What news? what news? your tidings tell— Tell me you must and shall—

Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all ?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,

And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender

In merry guise he spoke :

"I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forbode,

My hat and wig will soon be here-
They are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find

His friend in merry pin,

Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in.

Whence straight he came with hat and wig ;

A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,

Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit,
"My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
"But let me scrape the dirt away

That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding day,
And all the world would stare
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said,

"I am in haste to dine;

'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine."

Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast,
For which he paid full dear;
For, while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear.
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,

And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first;
For why?-they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down,

Into the country far away,

She pulled out half a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell,

"This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back again!

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,

By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away,

Went post-boy at his heels,

The post-boy's horse right glad to miss

The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry :-

'Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman !" Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking as before
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.

Now let us sing, "Long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he;

And, when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!"

WILLIAM COWPER.

FALL OF TECUMSEH.

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, With a rudely-built tumulous o'er him;

The steel-bit impatiently champing.

'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein,
Conducting the free and the fearless.

Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain,
Through paths unfrequented and cheerless.

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death,
Announcing the chivalrous sally;

The savage was heard, with untrembling breath,
To pour his response to the valley.

One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard,
And nought but the war-whoop given ;

The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred,
As if by the lightning riven.

The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke,
The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,
Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke,
That upward went wildly flying.

In the mist that hung over the field of blood,
The chief of the horsemen contended;
His rowels were bathed in the purple flood,
That fast from his charger descended.

That steed reeled, and fell, in the van cf the fight,
But the rider repressed not his daring,

Till met by a savage, whose rank and might
Were shown by the plume he was wearing.

The moment was fearful; a mightier foe

Had ne'er swung a battle-axe o'er him;

But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow,
And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him.

O ne'er may the nations again be cursed
With conflict so dark and appalling !-
Foe grappled with foe, till the life blood burst
From their agonized bosoms in falling.
Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot
Where the hopes of the red man perished;
But the fame of the hero who fell shall not,
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king,
With a spirit most loving and loyal;
And long shall the Indian warrior sing
The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal.

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,
In his arm slept the force of the thunder,
But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by,
And left the freed captive to wonder.

sweeps

By the mound where his followers bore him.

12

THE ENGINEER'S STORY.

O, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling

A tugging pain i' my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,
That'll ring in my head forever,
Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was dropping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored--
Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,

Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight-
Ten minutes behind the time!
Lost in the slackened motion

Of the up-grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,

So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,

Thirty an hour, or so,

The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;

But to me-ahold of the lever—
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready

My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four,
As the up train passed, oft called me,
A playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle

As we swept around the curve,
When something afar in the shadow,
Struck fire through every nerve.

I sounded the brakes, and crashing
The reverse lever down in dismay,
Groaning to Heaven-eighty paces
Ahead was the child at its play!

JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW.

'HE journals this morning are full of a tale
Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail;
And people are called on to note and ad-
mire

How a hundred or more, through the smoke cloud and fire,

Were borne from all peril to limbs and to livesMothers saved to their children, and husbands to

wives,

But of him who performed such a notable deed
Quite little the journalist gives us to read.
In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold,
There is nothing except, in few syllables told,

His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew.
Away in Nevada-they don't tell us where,
Nor does it much matter-a railway is there,
Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines,
With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes—
Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread,
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head,
Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within,
Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din;
And ran every day with its train o'er the road,
An engine that steadily dragged on its load,

And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew. With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train, While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain,

As he came to a spot where a curve to the right Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight,

And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken,

Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then.
Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire-
The further extreme of the tunnel on fire!
And the volume of smoke as it gathered and rolled,
Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold,
But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew.
Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still,
And his nerves felt a jar but no tremulous thrill;
And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly
closed lashes,

And his lips—not with fear-took the color of ashes.
"If we falter, these people behind us are dead!
So close the doors, fireman-we'll send her ahead!
Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings!
Open the throttle-valve! Give her her wings!"
Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room,
Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom,

This man they call Johnny Bartholomew.
Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath,
On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death,
On, on through that horrible cavern of hell,
Through flames that arose and through timbers that
fell,

Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and

ire,

With a rush and a roar like a wild tempest's blast,
To the free air beyond them in safety they passed!
While the clang of the bell and the steam pipe's shrill
yell,

Told the joy at escape from that underground hell
Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.
Did the passengers get up a service of plate?
Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate?
Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his
knees?

Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze?
And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he
A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee?

Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short?
Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort,
And all that they give us about him to-day,
After telling the tale in a commonplace way,
Is the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

THE FRENCH ARMY RETREATING FROM MOSCOW.

AGNIFICENCE of ruin! what has time
In all it ever gazed upon of war,

Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime,
Seen, with that battle's vengeance to com-
pare?

How glorious shone the invader's pomp asar! Like pampered lions from the spoil they came ; The land before them silence and despair, The land behind them massacre and flame; Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now? A name.

Homeward by hundred thousands, column-deep, Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood, When mighty torrents from their channels leap, Rushed through the land the haughty multitude, Billow on endless billow; on through wood, O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale, The death-devoted moved, to clangor rude Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail, Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale.

Again they reached thee, Borodino ! still Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay, The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill, Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to clay ; In vain the startled legions burst away; The land was all one naked sepulchre; The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay; Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear, Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses mould ering drear.

GEORGE CROLY.