SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! FROM THE GERMAN. [Speak in a tender, soft tone of voice.] Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father watches his sheep; Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep, The little stars are the lambs, I guess, And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep! Our Saviour loves His sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high, Who for our sakes came down to die. THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER. JAMES T. FIELDS. [Forcibly, but with tenderness in the last stanzas.] We were crowded in the cabin, It was midnight on the waters 'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, So we shuddered there in silence- As there we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are losti" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, Just the same as on the land?" Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, TRUE FAME. JAY. How many there are who thirst for military glory; and what sacrifices would they not make to obtain it! We have long been spectators of the great tragedy which has been actedon the theatre of Europe, and our imaginations have become inflamed. We have beheld mighty hosts encountering each other, desperate battles fought and victories won. We think of the triumphant march, the blood stained banner, the captured artillery, and all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," till many of us would willingly face danger and death itself, to acquire a renown equal to that of some favorite hero. Yet the laurel of the conqueror grows only in a soil which is moistened with blood. It is stained with the tears of the widow, and it thrives in the midst of desolation. Nor is it durable. Amid all the annals of destruction, how few are the names which we remember and pronounce! But is there glory which is pure and enduring, and which deserves to be sought? Yes, the love of fame is a noble passion, given us not to be extinguished, but to be used aright. There is a glory which a wise man will covet, which a good man will aspire to, which will follow him from this world to the next; and there, in the presence of an assembled universe of angels, and of just men made perfect, place a crown upon his brow that fadeth not away. HOW THE GATES CAME AJAR. FROM THE ITALIAN. [Tenderly and with feeling.] "Twas whispered, one morning, in Heaven In the shade of the great white portal, How she said to the stately warden- แ O angel, sweet angel, I pray you, Only a little, I pray you— Set the beautiful gates ajar! "I can hear my mother weeping; The splendor will shine so far!' 3 Then rose up Mary, the blessed, "And this key, for further using, PARSON CALDWELL. [With vigor and distinctness.] Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word Down at Springfield? What, no? Come-that's bad; why he had Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians, that day, Who fired the shot! Enough! there she lay, You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball— RESOLUTION. HARPER'S MAGAZINE. [Give the two pieces following in a forcible manner.] |