SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. (J. G. WHITTIER.) Of all the rides since the birth of time, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, The strangest ride that ever was sped Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop, like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, With conch-shells blowing and. fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Monads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futher'd, an' corr'd in a corrt, By the women o' Morble'ead !” Small pity for him!-He sailed away With his own town's people on her deck! And off he sailed through the fog and rain! Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart, Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Through the street, on either side, Sweetly along the Salem road, Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green, and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd hoort, "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,— What is the shame that clothes the skin The hand of God and the face of the dead!” Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, WHAT I LIVE FOR. (G. LINNEUS BANKS.) I live for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true,- For all human ties that bind me,- I live to learn their story, And follow in their wake. Whose deeds crowd history's pages, And time's great volume make. I live to hold communion With all that is divine; To feel there is a union "Twixt Nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truth from fields of fiction, I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, I live for those who love me, For those who know me true,— For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too,For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do. WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. (CHARLES MACKAY.) What might be done if men were wise! In love and right, And cease their scorn of one another! Oppression's heart might be imbued With kindling drops of loving kindness, From shore to shore, Light on the eyes of mental blindness. All Slavery, Warfare, Lies, and Wrong, To each man born Be free as warmth in summer weather. The meanest wretch that ever trod, The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, In self-respect, And share the teeming world to-morrow. What might be done? This might be done, And more than this, my suffering brother,More than the tongue E'er said or sung, If men were wise and loved each other. THE WIFE'S APPEAL. (GRACE GREENWOOD.) I'm thinking, Charles, 'tis just a year, Or will be, very soon, Since you first told me of your love, |