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Rebecca? she heard not the tidings, but those who | For swift come the flashings of temper, and torrents bent over her knew of words come as swift,

That led by the Angel of Death, near the waves of Till out 'mong the tide-waves of anger, how often we the river she drew; thoughtlessly drift!

Delirious, ever she told them her mother was cooling And heads that are gray with life's ashes, and feet her head, that walk down 'mong the dead,

While, weeping, they thought that ere morning both We send "o'er the hills to the poor-house " for love, mother and child might be dead. and, it may be, for bread.

And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was quiv'ring Oh! when shall we value the living while yet the in aspen-like grief, keen sickle is stayed, While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him like bil- Nor slight the wild flower in its blooming, till all its lows of wind o'er the leaf; sweet life is decayed?

"Too late," were the words that had humbled his Yet often the fragrance is richest, when poured from cold, haughty pride to the dust, the bruised blossom's soul,

And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, crowned And "over the hills from the poor-house" the rarest loving forgiveness with trust. of melodies roll.

Bowed over his letters and papers, sat Thomas, his brow lined by thought,

But little he heeded the markets or news of his gains that they brought;

His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new purpose

seemed born in his eye,

And Thomas went "over the hills," to the mother that shortly must die.

To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the

mother's message that morn,

And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the sunlight blushed over the corn;

And, strangest of all, by his side, was the wife he had "brought from the town,"

And silently wept, while her tears strung with diamonds her plain mourning gown.

For each had been thinking, of late, how they missed the old mother's sweet smile,

And wond'ring how they could have been so blind and unjust all that while;

They thought of their harsh, cruel words, and longed to atone for the past,

When swift o'er the heart of vain dreams swept the presence of death's chilling blast.

So into the chamber of death, one by one, these sad children had crept,

As they, in their childhood, had done, when mother was tired and slept

MAY MIGNONETTE.

MONA'S WATERS.

H' Mona's waters are blue and bright
When the sun shines out like a gay young
lover;

But Mona's waves are dark as night
When the face of heaven is clouded over.
The wild wind drives the crested foam
Far up the steep and rocky mountain,
And booming echoes drown the voice,
The silvery voice, of Mona's fountain.
Wild, wild against that mountain's side

The wrathful waves were up and beating,
When stern Glenvarloch's chieftain came;
With anxious brow and hurried greeting
He bade the widowed mother send

(While loud the tempest's voice was raging) Her fair young son across the flood, Where winds and waves their strife were waging. And still that fearful mother prayed,

"Oh! yet delay, delay till morning, For weak the hand that guides our bark,

Though brave his heart, all danger scorning.' Little did stern Glenvarloch heed;

"The safety of my fortress tower

Depends on tidings he must bring
From Fairlee bank, within the hour.

And peace, rich as then, came to each, as they drank "See'st thou, across the sullen wave,

in her blessing, so deep,

That, breathing into her life, she fell back in her last blessed sleep.

And when "o'er the hills from the poor-house," that mother is tenderly borne,

The life of her life, her loved children, tread softly, and silently mourn,

For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as the ocean is deep,

And into our lives, with sweet healing, the balm of their bruising may creep.

A blood-red banner wildly streaming? That flag a message brings to me

Of which my foes are little dreaming. The boy must put his boat across,

(Gold shall repay his hour of danger,) And bring me back, with care and speed, Three letters from the light-browed stranger." The orphan boy leaped lightly in;

Bold was his eye and brow of beauty, And bright his smile as thus he spoke. "I do but pay a vassal's duty;

Down came the storm, and smote amain

The vessel in its strength;

She shudder'd, and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leap'd her cable's length.

Come hither, come hither, my little daughter,

And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."

He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat,
Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

O father, I hear the church-bells ring!
O say, what may it be?"
...Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast,"
And he steer'd for the open sea.

"O father, I hear the sound of guns!
O say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father, I see a gleaming light!
O say, what may it be?"

But the father answer'd never a word-
A frozen corpse was he!

Lash'd to the helm all stiff and stark,
With his face to the skies,

The lantern gleam'd thro' the gleaming snow
On his fix'd and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and prayed,
That saved she might be;

And she thought of Christ, who still'd the waves,
On the lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept,
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever, the fitful gusts between,
A sound came from the land;

It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks, and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew,
Like icicles, from her deck.

She struck, where the white and fleecy waves
Look'd soft as carded wool;

But the cruel rocks they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice,
With the masts, went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank-
Ho! ho! the breakers roar'd.

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,

To see the form of a maiden fair
Lash'd close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight, and the snow;

Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe;

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

AFTER BLENHEIM.

T was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,

For there s many hereabout; And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out, For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said,” quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory.

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THE STREAM OF LIFE.

STREAM descending to the sea,

Thy mossy banks between,
The flow'rets blow the grasses grow
The leafy trees are green.

In garden plots the children play,
The fields the laborers till,
The houses stand on either hand,
And thou descendest stil.

O life descending into death,

Our waking eyes behold, Parent and friend thy lapse attend, Companions young and old.

Strong purposes our minds possess, Our hearts affections fill,

We toil and earn, we seek and learn,
And thou descendest still.

O end to which our currents tend,
Inevitable sea,

To which we flow, what do we know,
What shall we guess of thee?

A roar we hear upon thy shore,
As we our course fulfil;

Scarce we divine a sun shall shine
And be above us still.

WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS.

HEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented,

(The list of what Fate for each mortal intends),

At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented,
And slipped in three blessings-wife, children and
friends.

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated,
For justice divine could not compass its ends;
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,
For earth becomes heaven with-wife, children and
friends.

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,
The fund. ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends;
But the heart issues bills which are never protested,
When drawn on the firm of-wife, children
friends.

and

Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers,
The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends,
Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers
How blessed was his home with-wife, children and
friends.

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory

For one happy day with-wife, children, and friends.

Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover,
Though for him all Arabia's fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
The bower where he sat with-wife, children and
friends.

The dayspring of youtn, still unclouded by sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;

But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow

No warmth from the smile of-wife, children and friends.

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish
The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends;
O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish,
Bedewed with the tears of-wife, children and friends.
Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver,
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;

Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavor
The glass which I fill to-wife, children and friends.
WILLIAM Robert Spencer.

HOME VOICES.

AM so home-sick in this summer weather! Where is my home upon this weary earth? The maple trees are bursting into freshness Around the pleasant place that gave me birth. But dearer far, a grave for me is waiting,

Far up among the pine trees' greener shade; The willow boughs the hand of love has planted, Wave o'er the hillock where my dead are laid. Why go without me-oh, ye loved and loving? What has earth left of happiness or peace? Let me come to you, where the heart grows calmer; Let me lie down where life's wild strugglings cease. Earth has no home for hearts so worn and weary; Life has no second spring for such a year; Oh! for the day that bids me come to meet you! And, life in gladness, in that summer hear!

R

HOME OF THE WORKINGMAN.

ESOLVE-and tell your wife of your good reso lution. She will aid it all she can. Her step will be lighter and her hand will be busier all day, expecting the comfortable evening at home when you return. Household affairs will have been well attended to. A place for everything, and everything in its place, will, like some good genius, have I made even an humble home the scene of neatness. arrangement and taste. The table will be ready a the fireside. The loaf will be one of that order which says, by its appearance, You may cut and come again. The cups and saucers will be waiting for supplies The kettle will be singing; and the children, happy with fresh air and exercise, will be smiling in their glad anticipation of that evening meal when father is at home, and of the pleasant reading afterwards.

Not long lived the baron; and none, since that time,

To inhabit the castle presume;

For chronicles tell that, by order sublime,

There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight, four times in each year does her sprite,
When mortals in slumber are bound,
Array'd in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight,
And shriek as he whirls her around!

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

Dancing round them the spectres are seen;
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave
They howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his consort, the Fair Imogine!"

MATTHEW GREGORY Lewis.

OLD GRIMES.

LD Grimes is dead, that good old man-
We ne'er shall see him more;
He used to wear a long black coat,
All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day,

His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray-
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burned;
The large round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design;

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;

His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes

He passed securely o'er,

And never wore a pair o' boots
For thirty years or more.

But good Old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown;
He wore a double-breasted vest-
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert;
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse--
Was sociable and gay;

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,
Nor make a noise town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

THE SLEEPING SENTINEL.

The incidents here woven into verse relate to William Scott, a young soldier from the State of Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death.

'WAS in the sultry summer-time, as war's red records show,

When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foe

When, from the North and East and West, like the upheaving sea,

Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free.

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