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THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

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 sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.—
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.—
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;—
The sooner the better for Roger and me!

181

A

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

DISTRICT school, not far away,

'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day,
Was humming with its wonted noise.
Of threescore 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—

182

DEFENCE OF THE SWORD.

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 didn't mean to be so bad;

But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, I 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-hoo--I ought to not,
But, somehow, from her looks-boo-hoo-
I thought she kind o' wished me to!"

DEFENCE OF THE SWORD.-THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER.

SIR

NIR, I dissent from the resolutions before us. I dissent because they would pledge me to the utter repudiation of physical force, at all times, in all countries, and under every circumstance. This I cannot do; for, sir, when national rights are to be vindicated, I do not repudiate the resort to physical force-I do not abhor the use of arms. There are occasions when arms alone willsuffice;--when political ameliorations call for a drop of blood— ay, for many thousand drops of blood.

The first article of a nation's creed should be the right to govern herself, and it is so in every land where freedom is justly estimated, and has been purchased by the blood of patriots.

Opinion, I admit, sir, may be left to operate against opinion, but force must be used against force. The soldier is proof against an argument, but not against a bullet. The man that will listen to reason, let him be reasoned with. But it is only the weaponed arm of the patriot that can prevail against battalioned despotism.

LOCHIN VAR.

183

Therefore, sir, I do not condemn the use of arms as immoral, nor do I conceive it profane to say, that the King of Heaven, the Lord of Hosts, the God of Battles, bestows his benediction upon those who unsheathe the sword in the hour of a nation's peril.

From that evening on which, in the valley of Bethulia, he nerved the arm of the Jewish girl to smite the drunken tyrant in his tent, down to this our day, in which he has blest the insurgent chivalry of the Belgian priests, his Almighty hand hath ever been stretched forth from his throne of Light, to consecrate the flag of freedom, to bless the patriot's sword!

Be it in the defence or be it in the assertion of a people's liberty, I hail the sword as a sacred weapon; and if it has sometimes taken the shape of the serpent, and reddened the shroud of the oppressor with too deep a dye, yet, sir, like the anointed rod of the High-Priest, it has, at other times, and as often, blossomed into celestial flowers to deck the freeman's brow.

Abhor the sword? Stigmatize the sword? No!-for in the passes of the Tyrol it cut to pieces the banner of the Bavarian, and through those craggy defiles struck a path to fame for the peasant insurrectionist of Innsbruck!

Abhor the sword? Stigmatize the sword? No!-for it swept the Dutch marauders out of the fine old towns of Belgium— scourged them back to their own phlegmatic swamps, and knocked their flag and sceptre, their laws and bayonets, into the sluggish waters of the Scheldt.

Abhor the sword? Stigmatize the sword? No!--for at its blow a giant nation started from the waters of the Atlantic, and by the redeeming magic of the sword, and in the quivering of its crimson light, the crippled colony sprang into the attitude of a proud republic-prosperous, limitless, and invincible!

LOCHINVAR.-SIR WALTER SCOTT.

YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West,—

O, Border his steed was the best;

And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,

He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

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He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word),
"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter,-my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered, ""Twere better, by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

EMMET'S DEATH.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran,
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

EMMET'S DEATH.

"E dies to-day," said the heartless judge,

"HE

Whilst he sate him down to the feast,

And a smile was upon his ashy lip

As he uttered a ribald jest;

For a demon dwelt where his heart should be,
That lived upon blood and sin,

And oft as that vile judge gave him food
The demon throbbed within.

"He dies to-day," said the jailer grim,

Whilst a tear was in his eye;

"But why should I feel so grieved for him?

Sure I've seen many die!

Last night I went to his stony cell,

With the scanty prison fare

He was sitting at a table rude,

Plaiting a lock of hair.

And he look'd so mild, with his pale, pale face,

And he spoke in so kind a way,

That my old breast heav'd with a smothering feel,
And I knew not what to say!"

"He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl—
She lacked the life to speak,

For sorrow had almost frozen her blood,

And white were her lip and cheek—
Despair had drank up her last wild tear,
And her brow was damp and chill,
And they often felt at her heart with fear,
For its ebb was all but still.

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