Yea, with thy heaviest knell, Toll, toll, toll! O'er breeze and billow free; Tell how o'er proudest joys May swift destruction sweep, And bid him build his hopes on high- THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. GOOD morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of Walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst kind of a narvous head-ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived. Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side? Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that does me the leastest good. (Coughs.) Oh this cough-it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; its getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion. What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.) But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day-and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood-you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to every thing about the house herself. I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out-as it was a raining at the time-but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes-and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar janders." (Coughs.) THE NATION'S DEAD. FOUR hundred thousand men In tangled wood, in mountain glen, Lie dead for me and you! Four hundred thousand of the brave Good friend, for me and you! In many a fevered swamp, By many a black bayou, In many a cold and frozen camp, From Western plain to ocean tide Arc stretched the graves of those who died Good friend, for me and you! M On many a bloody plain Their ready swords they drew, And poured their life-blood, like the rain, To gain for me and you! Our brothers mustered by our side; They marched, they fought, and bravely died Good friend, for me and you! Up many a fortress wall They charged-those boys in blue— These noble men-the nation's pride- Good friend, for me and you!" In treason's prison-hold Their martyr spirits grew To stature like the saints of old, They starved for me and you! Good friend, for me and you! A debt we ne'er can pay And to the nation's latest day Four hundred thousand of the brave Good friend, for me and you! THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.-Thomas Hood. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the " Song of the Shirt [” "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work! Till the brain begins to swim! Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "Oh! men with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, “But why do I talk of death, Because of the fast I keep : O God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A shatter'd roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime ; Work-work-work! As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand! "Work-work-work! In the dull December light; And work-work-work! When the weather is warm and bright: While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet; To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, "Oh! but for one short hour! A little weeping would ease my heart- My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch- |