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Four hundred thousand of the brave
Have made our ransomed soil their grave,

For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !

In many a fevered swamp,

By many a black bayou,
In many a cold and frozen camp,
The weary sentinel ceased his tramp,

And died for me and you!
From Western plain to ocean tide
Are stretched the graves of those who died

For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you!

On many a bloody plain

Their ready swords they drew,
And poured their life-blood, like the rain,
A home-a heritage to gain,

To gain for me and you!
Our brothers mustered by our side;
They marched, they fought, and bravely died

For me and you!
Good friend, for me and you!

Up many a fortress wall

They charged-those boys in blue-
'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball;
The bravest were the first to fall!

To fall for me and you!
These noble men—the nation's pride-
Four hundred thousand men have died

For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you!

In treason's prison-hold

Their martyr spirits grew
To stature like the saints of old,
While amid agonies untold,

They starved for me and you!

The good, the patient and the tried,
Four hundred thousand men have died

For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !

A debt we ne'er can pay

To them is justly due,
And to the nation's latest day
Our children's children still shall say,

“They died for me and you !" Four hundred thousand of the brave Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave

For me and you !
Good friend, for me and you !

A PSALM FROM LIFE.

(LONGFELLOW.) Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

“ Life is but an empty dream !" For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem,

Life is real! life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; “ Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow,

Find us farther than to-day,

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating, Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Futnre, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,-act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

(ALEXANDER POPE.)
Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame;
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying-
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,

Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly,
O grave! where is thy victory?

o death! where is thy sting?

VAT YOU PLEASE.

(wM. B. FOWLE.) Two Frenchmen, who had just come over,

Half starved but always gay

(No weasels ere were thinner,) Trudged up to town from Dover,

Their slender store exhausted on the way,

Extremely puzzled how to get a dinner. From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve,

Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition;
Great was their need, and sorely did they grieve,

Stomach and pocket in the same condition.
At length by mutual consent they parted,
And different ways on the same errand started.

Towards night, one Frenchman at a tavern door topped, entered, all the preparation saw; 'he ready waiter at his elbow stands, Sir, will you favor me with your commands, Coast goose or ducks, sir, choose you that or these ?" — Sare, you are very kine, sare, vat you please."

; was a glorious treat, pie, pudding, cheese and meat; t last the Frenchman, having eaten his fill, repared to go, when,—“Here, sir, is your bill !” — 0, you are Bill— Vell, Mr. Bill, good-day !. My name is Tom, sir-you've this bill to pay."

Pay, pay, ma foi !
I call for notting, sare, pardonnez moi !
You show to me the pooden, goose and sheeze,
You ask me vat I eat-I tell you vat you please."
The waiter, softened by his queer grimace,
Could not help laughing in the Frenchman's face,
And generously tore the bill in two,
Forgave the hungry trick, and let him go.

Our Frenchman's appetite subdued,
Away he chaséed in a merry mood,
And, turning round the corner of a street,
His hungry countryman perchanced to meet,
When, with a grin,
He told how he had taken John Bull in.
Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops,
Makes his congee, and seeks this shop of shops
Entering, he seats himself as if at ease, -
“What will you have, sir?”—“Vat you please."

The waiter saw the joke, and slyly took
A whip, and with a very gracious look
Sought instantly the Frenchman's seat,
“What will you have, sir ?" venturing to repeat;-
Our Frenchman, feeling sure of goose and cheese.
With bow and smile, quick answers," Vat you pleas
But scarcely had he let the sentence slip,
When round his shoulders twines the pliant whip.

Sare! sare ! ah miséricorde ! parbleu !
O dear, monsieur, what for you strike me? huh!
Vat for is dis !"__"Ah, don't you know?
That's Vat I please exactly; now, sir, go!
Your friend, although I paid well for his funning,
Deserves the goose he gained, sir, by his cunning:
But you, monsieur, without my dinner tasting,
Are goose enough,—and only want a basting."

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