We'll have some music, if you 're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little. - Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer ! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle !

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentleman gives a trifle,

To aid a poor, old, patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes, When he stands up to hear his sentence.

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink;
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,
You need n't laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures;
I was one of your handsome men :

If you had seen HER, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the song I sung

When the wine went round, you would n't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying,

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since ;- - a parson's wife :

'T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. Have I seen her? Once: I was weak and spent

On a dusty road: a carriage stopped:

But little she dreamed as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change! What do you care for a beggar's story?

Is it amusing? You find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!

'T was well she died before - Do you know

If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start,

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,
No doubt remembering things that were, —

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a respectable cur.

They walk about the new ploughed ground Where mud in plenty lies;

They roll it up in marbles round,

They bake it into pies,

And then, at night upon the floor.
In every shape it dries

To-day I was disposed to scold,

But when I look to-night,

At those little boots before the fire,
With copper toes so bright,

I think how sad my heart would be
To put them out of sight.

For in a trunk up-stairs I've laid
Two socks of white and blue;
If called to put those boots away,
Oh God, what should I do?

I mourn that there are not to-night
Three pairs instead of two.

I mourn because I thought how nice
My neighbor 'cross the way,
Could keep her carpets all the year
From getting worn or gray;

Yet well I know she'd smile to own
Some little boots to-day.

We mothers weary get, and worn,
Over our load of care;

But how we speak to these little ones
Let each of us beware;

For what would our firesides be to-night,
If no little boots were there?

WHICH SHALL IT BE?

HICH shall it be? which shall it be?" I looked at John-John looked at me (Dear patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet,) And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak. "Tell me again what Robert said;" And then I listening bent my head. "This is his letter:"

"I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven
One child to me for aye is given."

I looked at John's old garments worn,

I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty and work and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this.

"Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them, as they lie
Asleep;" so walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepped
Where Lilian the baby slept,
Her damp curls lay like gold alight
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly her father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way
When dream or whisper made her stir
And huskily, John said, "Not her

We stooped beside the trundle bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Across the boyish faces, three,

In sleep so pitiful and fair;

I saw, on Jamie's rough, red cheek,

not her.

A tear undried. Ere John could speak,

"He's but a baby, too," said I,

And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face,
Still in his sleep, bore suffering's trace.
No, for a thousand crowns, not him,"
We whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one —
Could he be spared? “Nay, He, who gave,
Bids us befriend him to his grave;
Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he;

And so," said John, "I would not dare

To send him from her bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above,
And knelt by Mary, child of love.

THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND

TO-NIGHT.

N old wife sat by her bright fireside,

Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,

In an ancient chair whose creaky frame
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,
Till the light of his pipe went out,
And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,
Rolled and tangled the balls about;

Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.

But anon a misty tear-drop came

In her eye of faded blue,

Then trickled down in a furrow deep,

Like a single drop of dew;

So deep was the channel

- so silent the stream.

The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light

Of her eye had weary grown,

And marvelled he more at the tangled balls;
So he said in a gentle tone,

"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,
Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there
Was filled to the very brim,

And how 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.

66

For each empty nook in the basket old, By the hearth there's a vacant seat; And I miss the shadows from off the wall, And the patter of many feet;

'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "T was said that far through the forest wild, And over the mountains bold,

Was a land whose rivers and dark'ning caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,
And I knew the shadows were only four.
"Another went forth on the foaming waves
And diminished the basket's store-

HAT shall I do with all the days and hours

That must be counted, ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense -

Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time?
Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

O, how, or by what means may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back, more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live

Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee; for thy sake, I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told,
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.
For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ;
For thy dear sake, I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time; and will therein strive

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought, an influence divine.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

BY THOMAS GRAY.

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the subborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fireHand, that the rod of empire might have swayed. Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: