And so the hours drag on and on,
And so the night goes by,

And at last the east is gray with dawn,
And the sun is in the sky.

Hark! hark! the barricades are down,
The torchlights further spread,
The doubt is past-they are found at last-
Dead, dead! two hundred dead!
Face close to face, in a long embrace,
And the young and the faded hair-
Gold over the snow, as if meant to show
Love strayed beyond despair.

Two hundred men at yester-morn

With the work of the world to strive;
Two hundred yet when the day was set,
And not a soul alive!

Oh, long the brawny Plymouth men,
As they sit by their wintry fires,
Shall tell the tale of Avondale

And its awful pyre of pyres

Shall hush their breath, and tell how Death

His flag did wildly wave,

And how in shrouds of smoky clouds
The miners fought in their graves;

And how in a still procession

They passed from that, fearful glen,
And there shall be wail in Avondale,
For the brave two hundred men.

GREENWOOD CEMETERY.-WILLIAM WALLACE. (BROOKLYN, N. Y.)

Here are the houses of the dead. Here youth

And age and manhood, stricken in his strength,
Hold solemn state and awful silence keep,

While Earth goes murmuring in her ancient path,
And troubled Ocean tosses to and fro

Upon his mountainous bed impatiently,
And many stars make worship musical
In the dim-aisled abyss, and over all
The Lord of Life, in meditation sits

Changeless, alone, beneath the large white dome
Of Immortality.

I pause and think

Among these walks lined by the frequent tombs;

For it is very wonderful. Afar

The populous city lifts its tall, bright spires,
And snowy sails are glancing on the bay,

As if in merriment,--but here all sleep;

They sleep, these calm, pale people of the past:
Spring plants her rosy feet on their dim homes,-

They sleep! Sweet Summer comes and calls, and calls
With all her passionate poetry of flowers

Wed to the music of the soft south-wind,

They sleep! The lonely Autumn sits and sobs

Between the cold white tombs, as if her heart

Would break,-they sleep! Wild Winter comes and chants
Majestical the mournful sagas learned

Far in the melancholy North, where God
Walks forth alone upon the desolate seas,-
They slumber still!

Sleep on, O passionless dead!
Ye make our world sublime: ye have a power
And majesty the living never hold.

Here Avarice shall forget his den of gold,
Here Lust his beautiful victim, and hot Hate
His crouching foe. Ambition here shall lean
Against Death's shaft, veiling the stern, bright eye
That, overbold, would take the height of gods,

And know Fame's nothingness. The sire shall come,
The matron and the child, through many years,
To this fair spot, whether the pluméd hearse
Moves slowly through the winding walks, or Death
For a brief moment pauses: all shall come
To feel the touching eloquence of graves.
And therefore it was well for us to clothe
The place with beauty. No dark terror here
Shall chill the generous tropic of the soul,
But Poetry and her starred comrade Art
Shall make the sacred country of the dead
Magnificent. The fragrant flowers shall smile
Over the low, green graves; the trees shall shake
Their soul-like cadences upon the tombs;
The little lake set in a paradise

Of wood, shall be a mirror to the moon
What time she looks from her imperial tent

In long delight at all below; the sea

Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe
Over dead nations, while calm sculptures stand
On every hill, and look like spirits there
That drink the harmony. Oh, it is well!
Why should a darkness scowl on any spot
Where man grasps immortality? Light, light,
And art, and poetry, and eloquence,
And all that we call glorious are its dower.

A LITTLE GIRL'S VIEW OF LIFE IN A HOTEL.

I'm only a very little girl, but I think I have just as much right to say what I want to about things as a boy. I hate boys, they're so mean; they grab all the strawberries at the dinner-table, and never tell us when they're going to have any fun. Only I like Gus Rogers. The other day Gus told me he was going to let off some fireworks, and he let Bessie Nettle and me go and look at them. All of us live in a hotel, and his mother's room has a window with a balcony, and it was there we had the fireworks, right on the balcony. His mother had gone out to buy some creme de lis to put on her face, and he'd went and got eleven boxes of lucifer matches, and ever so many pieces of Castile soap; he stealed them from the housekeeper. Just when she was going to put them in her closet, Gus went and told her Mrs. Nettle wanted her directly a minute, and while she was gone he grabbed the soap and the matches, and when she came back we watched her, and she got real mad, and she scolded Delia, that's the chambermaid, and said she knowed she did it; and I was real glad, because when I was turning somersets on my mother's bed, the other day, Delia slapped me, and she said she wasn't going to make the bed two times to please me; then Bessie and me sticked the matches in the soap like tenpins, and Gus fired them off, and they blazed like anything, and they made an awful smell, and Gus went and turned a little of the gas on so's his mother would think it was that.

We get our dinner with the nurses, 'cause the man that keeps the hotel charges full price for children if they sit at the table in the big dining-room. Once my mother let me go there with her, and I talked a heap at the table, and a gentleman that sat next to us said "little girls should be seen and not heard." The mean old thing died last week and I was real glad, and I told Delia so, and she said if I went and said things like that, I couldn't go to heaven; much she knows about it. I wouldn't want to go if dirty things like she went there. Yesterday Mary, our nurse, told Bessie Nettle's nurse, that she heard Larry Finnegan

FFFFF

was going to marry her. Larry is one of the waiters, and he saves candies for me from the big dining-room. And Bessie Nettle's nurse said, “O Lord! what a lie!" and Bessie Nettle went in her mother's room, and her little brother said she nipped him, and Bessie said, “O Lord! what a lie!" and you should have heard how her mother did talk to her, and went and shut her up in a dark room where she kept her trunks, and didn't let her have nothing but bread and water, and Gus Rogers went and yelled through the keyhole, and said, "Bessie, the devil is coming to fetch you," and Bessie screamed and almost had a fit, and her mother told Mrs. Rogers, and got Gus licked, and Gus says he's a good mind to set the house on fire some day and burn her out.

One day I went in the parlor, and creeped under a sofa, and there wasn't anybody there. They don't let dogs or children go in the parlor, and I think its real mean-and I creeped under the sofa, so's nobody could see me; and Mr. Boyce came in and Miss Jackson. I don't like Miss Jackson; she said one day childrens was a worse nuisance than dogs was. And Mr. Boyce and Miss Jackson came and sitted down on the sofa, and he said, "O Louisa, I love you so much," and then he kissed her. I heard it smack. And she said, "O Thomas, I wish I could believe you; don't you never kiss anybody else?" and he said, "No, dearest,” and I called out, "Oh, what a big story, for I saw him kiss Bessie Nettle's nurse in the hall one night when the gas was turned down." Didn't he jump up, you bet-Gus always says you bet-and he pulled me out and tored my frock, and he said, “Oh, you wicked child, where do you expect to go for telling stories?" and I told him, "You shut up, I ain't going anywhere with you." I wish that man would die like the other did, so I do, and I don't care whether he goes to heaven or not.

Gus Rogers' mother had a lunch party in her parlor, and they had champagne, and they never gave him any, and when his mother wasn't looking he founded a bottle half full on the sideboard, and he stealed it and took it in our nursery, and Mary wasn't there, and Gus and me drinked it out of the glass Mary brushes her teeth in, and it was real nice, and we looked in Mary's wardrobe and finded her

frock she goes to church in, and Gus put it on, and Mary's bonnet, too, and went in the hall, and we tumbled down and tored Mary's frock, and made my nose bleed, and Gus said, "Oh, there's a earthquake," 'cause we couldn't stand up, and you should see how the house did go up and down, awful; and Gus and me laid down on the carpet, and the housekeeper picked me up and tooked me to my mother, and my mother said, "Oh my, whatever have you been doing?" and I said, “Oh my, I drinked champagne out of Gus Rogers' mother's bottle in the glass Mary brushes her teeth in," and the housekeeper says, "Oh my goodness gracious! that child's as tight as bricks," and I said, “You bet, bully for you," and then I was awful sick, and I have forgotten what else.

THE BALLAD OF A BUTCHER AND THE DEAR LITTLE CHILDREN.

It was a gruesome butcher,

With countenance saturnine;

He stood at the door of his little shop,
It was the hour of nine.

The children going by to school

Looked in at the open door;

They loved to see the sausage machine,
And hear its awful roar.

The butcher he looked out and in

Then horribly he swore,

Next yawned, then, smiling, he licked his chops;
Quoth he: "Life's a awful bore!

"Now here's all these dear little children,

Some on 'em might live to be sixty;

Why shouldn't I save 'em the trouble to wunst

An' chop 'em up slipperty licksty ?”

So he winked to the children and beckoned them in:
"Oh, don't ye's want some candy?

But ye see ye'll have to come in to the shop,
For out here it isn't handy!"

He 'ticed them into the little shop,

The machine went round and round;

And when those poor babes came out again,
They fetched ten cents a pound.