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patriotism, that devoted love of country which his words have Commended, which his example has consecrated:

"Where may the wearied eye repose,

When gazing on the great;

Where neither guilty glory glows
Nor despicable state?
Yes-one-the first, the last, the best,
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom Envy dared not hate,
Bequeathed the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one."

BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-T. Hood.

ONE more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;-
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.-

Touch her not scornfully
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her

Now, is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family

Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily;

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings were changed; Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence

Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak winds of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurld—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,-
Over the brink of it,
Picture it, think of it,
Dissolute man!

Lave in it, drink of it

Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen so rigidly,
Decently, kindly,-

Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,

Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,-

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,

And leaving with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE
By Delia R. German.

THE ripe red berries of the wintergreen
Lure me to pause a while

In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean
Down where these wild flowers smile,

And rest me in this shade; for many a mile,

Through lane and dusty street,

I've walked with weary, weary feet;

And now I tarry 'mid this woodland scene, 'Mong ferns and mosses sweet.

Here all around me blows

The pale primrose.

I wonder if the gentle blossom knows

The feeling at my heart-the solemn grief
So whelming and so deep

That it disdains relief,

And will not let me weep.

I wonder that the woodbine thrives and grows,
And is indifferent to the nation's woes.

For while these mornings shine, these blossoms bloom,
Impious rebellion wraps the land in gloom.

Nature, thou art unkind,
Unsympathizing, blind!'

Yon lichen, clinging to th' o'erhanging rock,
Is happy, and each blade of grass,
O'er which unconsciously I pass,
Smiles in my face, and seems to mock
Me with its joy. Alas! I cannot find

One charm in bounteous nature, while the wind
That blows upon my cheek bears on each gust

The groans of my poor country, bleeding in the dust.

The air is musical with notes

That gush from winged warblers' throats,

And in the leafy trees

I hear the drowsy hum of bees.

Prone from the blinding sky

Dance rainbow-tinted sunbeams, thick with motes,
Daisies are shining, and the butterfly

Wavers from flower to flower; yet in this wood
The ruthless foeman stood,

And every turf is drenched with human blood.

O heartless flowers!

O trees, clad in your robes of glistering sheen,
Put off this canopy of gorgeous green!

These are the hours

For mourning, not for gladness. While this smart
Of treason dire gashes the Nation's heart,

Let birds refuse to sing,

And flowers to bloom upon the lap of spring.

Let Nature's face itself with tears o'erflow,

In deepest anguish for a people's woe.

While rank rebellion stands

With blood of martyrs on his impious hands;
While slavery, and chains,

And cruelty, and direst hate,

Uplift their heads within th' afflicted state,
And freeze the blood in every patriot's veins,—
Let these old woodlands fair

Grow black with gloom, and from its thunder-lair
Let lightning leap, and scorch th' accursed air,
Until the suffering earth,

Of treason sick, shall spew the monster forth,
And each regenerate sod

Be consecrate anew to Freedom and to God!

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

O. W. Holmes.

A DISTRICT School, not far away,
'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day,
Was humming with its wonted noise'
Of three-score mingled girls and boys;
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent..
The while the master's downward look
Was fastened on a copy-book:
When suddenly, behind his back,
Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!
As 'twere a battery of bliss

Let off in one tremendous kiss!
"What's that?" the startled master cries;
"That, thir," a little imp replies,

"Wath William Willith, if you pleathe-
I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!"
With frown to make a statue thrill,
The master thundered, "Hither, Will!”
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track,
With stolen chattels on his back,

Will hung his head in fear and shame,
And to the awful presence came-
A great, green, bashful simpleton,
The butt of all good-natured fun.

With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,
The threatener faltered-"I'm amazed
That you, my biggest pupil, should

Be guilty of an act so rude!

Before the whole set school to boot-
What evil genius put you to't?"
"Twas she, herself, sir," sobbed the lad,
"I did not mean to be so bad;

But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, was 'fraid of girls,
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I couldn't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot!
I know-boo-hoc-I cught to not,
But, somehow, from her looks-boo-hoo-
I thought she kind o' wished me to

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