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In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

(ALEXANDER Pope.)

Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame;
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying-
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,

Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly,
O grave! where is thy victory?
Ŏ death! where is thy sting?

VAT YOU PLEASE.

(WM. B. FOWLE.)

Two Frenchmen, who had just come over,
Half starved but always gay

(No weasels ere were thinner,) Trudged up to town from Dover,

Their slender store exhausted on the way,
Extremely puzzled how to get a dinner.
From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve,
Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition;
Great was their need, and sorely did they grieve,
Stomach and pocket in the same condition.
At length by mutual consent they parted,
And different ways on the same errand started.

Towards night, one Frenchman at a tavern door
Stopped, entered, all the preparation saw;
The ready waiter at his elbow stands,—
"Sir, will you favor me with your commands,

Roast goose or ducks, sir, choose you that or these ?"—
Sare, you are very kine, sare, vat you please."

It was a glorious treat, pie, pudding, cheese and meat;
At last the Frenchman, having eaten his fill,
Prepared to go, when," Here, sir, is your bill !”—
"O, you are Bill- Vell, Mr. Bill, good-day !"—
My name is Tom, sir-you've this bill to pay."-

"Pay, pay, ma foi!

I call for notting, sare, pardonnez moi!

You show to me the pooden, goose and sheeze,
You ask me vat I eat-I tell you vat you please."
The waiter, softened by his queer grimace,

Could not help laughing in the Frenchman's face,
And generously tore the bill in two,
Forgave the hungry trick, and let him go.

Our Frenchman's appetite subdued,
Away he chaséed in a merry mood,

And, turning round the corner of a street,
His hungry countryman perchanced to meet,
When, with a grin,

He told how he had taken John Bull in.

Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops,
Makes his congee, and seeks this shop of shops
Entering, he seats himself as if at ease,—
"What will you have, sir?"-"Vat you please."

The waiter saw the joke, and slyly took
A whip, and with a very gracious look
Sought instantly the Frenchman's seat,

"What will you have, sir?" venturing to repeat ;-
Our Frenchman, feeling sure of goose and cheese.
With bow and smile, quick answers-" Vat you please!”
But scarcely had he let the sentence slip,
When round his shoulders twines the pliant whip.
"Sare! sare! ah miséricorde! parbleu!

O dear, monsieur, what for you strike me? huh!
Vat for is dis!"—" Ah, don't you know?
That's Vat I please exactly; now, sir, go!
Your friend, although I paid well for his funning,
Deserves the goose he gained, sir, by his cunning;
But you, monsieur, without my dinner tasting,
Are goose enough,-and only want a basting."

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.

(J. G. WHITTIER.)

A letter-writer from Mexico states that, at the terrible fight of Buena Vista, Mexican women were seen hovering near the field of death, for the purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. One poor woman was found surrounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies, ministering to the wants of Americans as well as Mexicans with impartial tenderness.

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away.

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far, or come they near?

Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance!

Right against the blazing cannon shiver Puebla's charging lines!

Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;

Like the ploughshare in its furrow, through them ploughs the northern ball."

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O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me, canst thou see?

O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look

once more

On the blessed Cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;

Let his hands be meekly folded; lay the Cross upon his breast;

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses

said;

To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,

Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;

But, as tenderly before him then the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the northern hostile Eagle shining on his pistol-belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head;

With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her

dead;

But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his strug gling breath of pain.

And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.

"A bitter curse upon them, boy, who to battle led thee

forth,

From some gentle, saddened mother, weeping lonely in the North!"

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,

And turned to soothe the living still, and bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind:

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! O, thou Christ of God, forgive!"

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