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Will seek this Miss What's-her-name out, but pray how ?' “O 1 of course, ma, to you in this matter I bow; Whatever you do, I've no doubt, will be right,”
Said he with flushed cheek;
“ But I'm still rather weak : P'r’aps you'll try to find her out for me to-night ?” “Well, I will,” was the answer that Pigswiddy got ; “And I'll come back at nine, whether lucky or not.” 'Twere vain to relate how the hours that pass'd Till the lady returned were by no means so fast As Ferdinand wished them : no doubt you can guess it, Dear reader, much better than I can express it. At length she came back. “Have you found her ?” he said, “I have." He fell back in a swoon on his bed ; But after awhile he recovered, and then He asked her the very same question again.
She sighed, and she cried,
And at length she replied-
- Mamma, I shall die,
My last moments are nigh, But ere I depart, let me bid you good-bye !" Now, although Mr. Pigswiddy vowed he would die, And kept to that mind for a fortnight or nigh, On thinking it over again, and perceiving Before him nought better than what he was leaving, And seeing, moreover, that though he had fail'd Where he thought there wasn't a doubt he'd prevailedThere were many young ladies as pretty and sprightly As Jane—though, of course, he'd not speak of her lightlyQuite ready and willing his sorrows to cheer, And his pleasures to share with him, year after yearHe resolved he would not to his purpose adhere. So after a week or two's nursing and tending, Poor Pigswiddy found himself rapidly mending;
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Got well, and went out,
And gadded about,
He quickly got round again ;
Soon grew quite sound again ; And his heart—tho’he feard he had lost it-he found again
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollections present them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot that my infancy knew ! The wide-spreading pond and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, it rose from the well How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips !
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, das fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well-
THE MIUJIATURE.---THE VILLAGE PREACHER.
WILLIAM was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife-
With beauty, grace, and life.
Upon the treasure still ;
He view'd the artist's skill.
NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a-year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place. Unskilful be to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; For other aims his heart had learn'd to prizeMore bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train :
Thus to relieve the wretched' was his pride,
Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smilena His ready smile à parent's warmth exprest; Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven :