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You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With HON. and LL. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see,-
Your fist, old fellow! off they go!-
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?
You've worn the judge's, ermined robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again:
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray,-
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means -
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!-
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling by his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-
Those calm stern eyes, that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.
Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?
The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,-
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill;—
'Tis poor old Joe's “God bless you, Bill!”
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

THE OLD MILL.

Thomas Dunn English. Here from the brow of the hill I look,

Through a lattice of boughs and leaves,
On the gray old mill with its gambrel roof,

And the moss on its rotting eaves.
I hear the clatter that jars its walls,

And the rushing water's sound,
And I see the black floats rise and fall

As the wheel goes slowly round.

I rode there often when I was young,

With my grist on the horse before,
And talked with Nelly, the miller's girl,

As I waited my turn at the door;
And while she tossed her ringlets brown,

And flirted and chatted so fee,
The wheel might stop or the wheel might go,

It was all the same to me.
'Tis twenty years since last I stood

On the spot where I stand today,
And Nelly is wed, and the miller is dead,

And the mill and I are gray.
But both, till we fall into ruin and wreck,

To our fortune of toil are bound;
And the man goes, and the stream flows,

And the wheel moves slowly round.

OUR HOMESTEAD.

Phoebe Cary.
Our old brown homestead reared its walls

From the wayside dust aloof,
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast

Their fruit upon its roof;
And the cherry tree so near it grew

That when awake I've lain
In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs

As they creaked against the pane;
And those orchard trees, oh those orchard trees!

I've seen my little brothers rocked
In their tops by the summer breeze.
The sweet-brier, under the window-sill,

Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden-fence,

Were all the flowers we had.
I've looked at many a flower since then,

Exotics rich and rare,
That to other eyes were lovelier

But not to me so fair;
For those roses bright, oh those roses bright!

i have twined them in my sister's locks,
That are hid in the dust from sight.
We had a well, a deep old well,

Where the spring was never dry,
And the cool drops down from the mossy stones

Were falling constantly,
And there never was water half so sweet

As the draught which filled my cup,
Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep

That my father's hand set up.
And that deep old well, oh that deep old well!

I remember now the plashing sound
Of the bucket as it fell.

Our homestead had an ample hearth,

Where at night we loved to meet;
There my mother's voice was always kind,

And her smile was always sweet;
And there I've sat on my father's knee,

And watched his thoughtful brow,
With my childish hand in his raven hair,-

That hair is silver now

But that broad hearth's light, oh that broad hearth's light!

And my father's look, and my mother's smile, They are in my heart tonight!

THE RAINY DAY.

Henry W. Longfellow.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary.
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary.
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad neart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.
Thy fate is the common fate of all;
Into each life some rain must fall;
Some days must be dark and dreary.

OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY.

Will Carleton. Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the new; All the hurry and worry is just as good as through. Only a bounden duty remains for you and IAnd that's to stand on the door-step, here, and bid the old house good-bye. What a shell we've lived in these nineteen or twenty years! Wonder it hadn't smashed in and tumbled about our ears; Wonder it stuck together, and answered till today; But every individual log was put up here to stay. Things looked rather new, though, when this old house was built;And things that blossomed you would've made some women wilt; And every other day, then, as sure as day would break, My neighbor Ager came this way, invitin' me to “shake.” And you, for want of neighbors, was sometimes blue and sad, For wolves and bears and wild cats was the nearest ones you had; But lookin' ahead to the clearin' we worked with all our might, Until we was fairly out of the woods and things was goin' right. Look up there at our new house!-ain't it a thing to see? Tall and big and handsome, and new as new can be; All in apple-pie order, especially the shelves, And never a debt to say but what we own it all ourselves. Look at our old log househow little it now appears! But it's never gone back on us for nineteen or twenty years; An' I won't go back on it now, or go to pokin' funThere's such a thing as praisin' a thing for the good that it has done.

Probably you remember how rich we was that night,
When we was fairly settled, an' had things snug and tight:
We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over the house that's new,
But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder, too.
Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun:
Kitchen and parlor and bedroom—we had 'em all in one;
And the fat old wooden clock that we bought when we come West,
Was tickin' away in the corner there, and doin' its level best.
Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' cheerin' words;
Loud was the squirrel's chatter and sweet the song of birds;
And home grew sweeter and brighter-our courage began to mount-
And things looked hearty and happy then, and work appeared to count.

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Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear;
Christenin's, funerals, weddin's—what haven't we had here?
Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got,
And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.
Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the new;
All the hurry and worry is just as good as through;
But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say,
There's precious things in this old house that we never can take away.
Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before:
Winds will whistle through it and rains will flood the floor;
And over the hearth, once blazing, the snowdrifts oft will pile,
And the old things will seem to be a mournin' all the while.

Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see,
But you seem like a human being—a dear old friend to me;
And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands,
Until we commence a-keepin' house in the house not made with hands.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

Eliza Cook.

I love it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Would you know the spell?—a mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
The gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die,' and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

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I sat, and watched her many a day,
When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled!
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,

And memory flows with lava tide.
Say 'tis folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Florence Percy. Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight, Make me a child again just for tonight! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears-
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain-
Take them, and give me my childhood again;
I have grown weary of dust and decay-
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed, and faded our faces between,
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep-
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shown;
No other worship abides and endures-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep-
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep-
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened to your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wait or to weep;-

Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep! 4

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