"Our rustic's waggish-quite laconic," On circuit was at York residing. "Why no, sir, no! we've got our share, But not so many as when you were there." THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND TO-NIGHT. AN old wife sat by her bright fireside, In an easy chair, whose creaky craw Told a tale of long ago; While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, Stood a basket of worsted balls-a score. The good man dozed o'er the latest news But anon, a misty tear drop came Then trickled down in a furrow deep Like a single drop of dew; So deep was the channel-so silent the stream That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eye beam Yet marvelled he much that the cheerful light Of her eye had heavy grown, And marvelled he more at the tangled balls, "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the very brim; And now, there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair—for him ; "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "I cannot but think of the busy feet, How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, "For each empty nook in the basket old 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight, "Twas said that far through the forest wild, Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves Then my first-born turned from the oaken doorAnd I knew the shadows were only four "Another went forth on the foaming wave, But his feet grew cold-so weary and cold- And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me "Two others have gone toward the setting sun, And fairy fingers have taken their share Some other basket their garments will fill- "Another-the dearest, the fairest, the best- And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, THE CLOSING SCENE.--T. Buchanan Read. The following is pronounced by the Westminster Review to be unquestionably the finest American poem ever writ en. WITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees, The gray barns looking from their hazy hills All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew- Silent till some replying wanderer blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young: And where the oriole hung her swaying nest By every light wind like a censer swung; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew, Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, At last the thread was snapped-her head was bowed. Life drooped the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroudWhile Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. DEATH OF COPERNICUS.-E. Everett. AT length he draws near his end. He is seventy-three years of age, and he yields his work on "The Revolutions of the Heavenly Orbs" to his friends for publication. The day at last has come on which it is to be ushered into the world. It is the twenty-fourth of May, 1543. On that day-the effect, no doubt, of the intense excitement of his mind, operating upon an exhausted frame—an effusion of blood brings him to the gates of the grave. His last hour has come; he lies stretched upon the couch from which he will never rise. The beams of the setting sun glance through the Gothic windows of his chamber; near his bedside is the armillary sphere which he has contrived to represent his theory of the heavens; his picture painted by himself, the amusement of his earlier years, hangs before him; beneath it are his astrolabe and other imperfect astronomical instruments; and around him are gathered his sorrowing disciples. The door of the apartment opens; the eye of the departing sage is turned to see who enters: it is a friend who brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. He knows that in that book he contradicts all that had ever been distinctly taught by former philosophers; he knows that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world had acknowledged for a thousand years; he knows that the popular mind will be shocked by his innovations; he knows that the attempt will be made to press even religion into the service against him; but he knows that his book is true. He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth as his dying bequest to the world. He bids the friend who has brought it place himself between the window and his bedside, that the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he may behold it once more before his eye grows dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and expires. But no, he is not wholly gone. A smile lights up his dying countenance; a beam of returning intelligence kindles in his eye; his lips move; and the friend who leans over him, can hear him faintly murmur the beautiful sentiments which the Christian lyrist of a later age has so finely expressed in verse: Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all your feeble light; My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid. The pavement of those heavenly courts where I shall reign with God." So died the great Columbus of the heavens. |