Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

ANSWER TO THE "HOUR OF DEATH.” Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson.

TRUE, all we know must die,

Though none can tell the exact appointed hour;
Nor should it cost the virtuous heart a sigh,
Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening
flower.

The Christian is prepared,

Though others tremble at the hour of gloom!
His soul is always ready on his guard;

His lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom come.

It matters not the time

When we shall end our pilgrimage below;

Whether in youth's bright morn, or manhood's prime, Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er our brow.

The child has blossomed fair,

And looked so lovely on its mother's breast,

The source of many a hrope, and many a prayer, Why murmur that it sleeps, when all at last may rest?

Snatched from a world of woe,

Where they must suffer most who longest dwell,
It vanished like a flake of early snow,

That melts into the sea, pure as from heaven it fell.

The youth whose pulse beats high,

Eager through glory's brilliant course to run,
Why should we shed a tear or breathe a sigh,

That the bright goal is gained—the prize thus early won!

Unstained by many a crime,

Which to maturer years might owe their birth,

In summer's earliest bloom, or morning's prime, How blessed are they who quit this chequered scene of earth!

And shall no tear be paid

To her, the new-made bride-the envied fair,

On whose fond heart death's withering hand is laid, Checking each pulse of bliss Hymen has wakened there.

Joy scattered roses, while

The happy slumberer sank in calm repose

In death's embrace, e'er Love withdrew his smile ; And 'scaped those chilling blights the heart too often knows.

Yes! all we know must die.

Since none can tell the exact appointed hour,

Why need it cost the virtuous heart a sigh, Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening flower?

A YANKEE IN LOVE.—Alf. Burnett.

ONE day Sall fooled me; she heated the poker awful hot, then asked me to stir the fire. I seized hold of it mighty quick to oblige her, and dropped it quicker to oblige myself. Well, after the poker scrape, me and Sall only got or middlin' well for some time, till I made up my mind to pop the question, for I loved her harder every day, and I had an idee she loved me or had a sneaking kindness for me. But how to do the thing up nice and rite pestered me orful. I bought some love books, and read how the fellers git down onter their knees and talk like poets, and how the girls would gently-like fall in love with them. But somehow or other that way didn't kinder suit my notion. I asked mam how she and dad courted, but she said it had been so long she had forgotten all about it. Uncle Jo said mam did all the courting.

At last I made up my mind to go it blind, for this thing was farely consumin' my mind; so I goes over to her dad's, and when I got there I sot like a fool, thinkin' how to begin. Sall seed somethin' was troublin' me, so she said, says she, "An't you sick, Peter ?" She said this mity soft-like. "Yes! No!" sez I; "that is, I an't zackly well

I thought I'd come over to-night," sez I. I tho't that was a mity purty beginnin'; so I tried agin. "Sall,” sez I— and by this time I felt kinder fainty about the stommuck and shaky about the knees-"“ Sall,” sez I. "What?" sez she. "Sall," sez I agin. "What?" sez she. I'll get to it arter awhile at this rate, thinks I. "Peter," says she, "there's suthin' troublin' you; 'tis mighty wrong for you to keep it from a body, for an inard sorrer is a consumin' fire." She said this, she did, the sly critter. She knowed what was the matter all the time mighty well, and was only tryin' to fish it out, but I was so far gone I couldn't see the point. At last I sorter gulped down the big lump a risin' in my throat, and sez I, sez I, "Sall, do you love anybody ?"Well," sez she, "there's dad and mam,” and a countin' of her fingers all the time, with her eyes sorter shet like a feller shootin' off a gun, "and there's old Pide [that were their old cow,] and I can't think of any body else just now," says she. Now, this was orful for a feller ded in love; so arter awhile I tried another shute. Sez I, "Sall," sez I, “I'm powerful lonesome at home, and sometimes think if I only had a nice, pretty wife to luv and talk to, move, and have my bein' with, I'd be a tremendous feller." Sez I, "Sall, do you know any gal would keer for me?" With that she begins, and names over all the gals for five miles around, and never once came nigh naming of herself, and sed I oughter git one of them. This sorter got my dander up, so I hitched my cheer up close to her, and shet my eyes and sed, "SALL, YOU are the VERY gal I've been hankering arter for a long time. I luy you all over, from the sole of your head to the crown of your foot, and I don't care who nos it, and if you say so we'll be jined together in the holy bonds of hemlock, Epluribusunum, world without end, amen!" sez I; and then I felt like I'd throwed up an alligator, I felt so relieved. With that she fetched a sorter screem, and arter awhile sez, sez she, "PETER !" "What, Sally ?" sez I. "YES!" sez she, a hidin' of her face behind her hands. You bet a neap I felt good. "Glory! glory!!" sez I, "I must holler, Sall, or I shall bust. Hurrah for hooray! I can jump over a ten-rail fence !" With that I sot rite down by her and clinched the bargain with a kiss. Talk about your blackberry jam; talk about your sugar and merlasses; you wouldn't a got me nigh 'em-they would all a been sour arter that. O, these gals! how good and bad, how high and low they make a feller feel! If Sall's daddy hadn't Bung out 'twas time all honest folks was a bed, I'd a sot there two hours longer. You oughter seed me when I got home! I pulled dad out of bed and hugged him! I pulled mam out of bed and hugged her! I pulled aunt Jane out

of bed and hugged her! I larfed and hollered, I crowed like a rooster, I danced round there, and I cut up more capers than you ever heerd tell on, till dad thought I was crazy, and got a rope to tie me with. "Dad," sez I, "I'm goin' to be married!" "Married!" bawled dad. "Married!" squalled mam. "Married!" screamed aunt Jane. Yes, married," sez I; "married all over, married for sure, married like a flash-joined in wedlock, hooked on for life, for worser or for better, for life and for death-to SALL! I am that very thing-me! Peter Sorghum ESQUIRE !"

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With that I ups and tells 'em all about it from Alfer to Ermeger! They was all mighty well pleased, and I went to bed as proud as a young rooster with his first spurs.

EXTRACT FROM THE DEDICATORY ODE FOR THE GETTYSBURG NATIONAL CEMETERY, July 1st, 1869.-Bayard Taylor.

After the eyes that looked, the lips that spake
Here, from the shadows of impending death,
Those words of solemn breath,

What voice may fitly break

The silence, doubly hallowed, left by him?

We can but bow the head, with eyes grown dim,
And as a nation's litany, repeat

The phrase his martyrdom has made complete,
Noble as then, but now more sadly-sweet:
"Let us the Living, rather dedicate

Ourselves to the unfinished work, which they
Thus far advanced so nobly on its way,
And save the periled State!

Let us, upon this field where they, the brave,
Their last full measure of devotion gave,
Highly resolve they have not died in vain !-
That, under God, the Nation's later birth
Of Freedom, and the People's gain

Of their own Sovereignty, shall never wane
And perish from the circle of the earth !"
From such a perfect text, shall Song aspire
To light its faded fire-

And into wandering music turn

Its virtue, simple, sorrowful and stern?

His voice all elegies anticipated;

For whatsoe'er the strain,

We hear that one refrain;

"We consecrate ourselves to them, the consecrated !"

After the thunder-storm our heaven is blue;
Far off, along the borders of the sky,

In silver folds the clouds of battle lie,

With soft consoling sunlight shining through;
And round the sweeping circle of your hills
The crashing cannon-thrills

Have faded from the memory of the air;

And Summer pours from unexhausted fountains
Her bliss on yonder mountains:

The camps are tenantless, the breastworks bare;
Earth keeps no stain where hero-blood was poured:
The hornets, humming on their wings of lead,
Have ceased to sting, their angry swarms are dead,
And, harmless in its scabbard, rusts the sword!

Oh, not till now-oh, now we dare, at last,
To give our heroes fitting consecration!
Not till the soreness of the strife is past,
And Peace hath comforted the weary nation!
So long her sad, indignant spirit held

One keen regret, one throb of pain, unequalled,
So long the land about her feet was waste,
The ashes of the burning lay upon her.

We stood beside their graves with brows abased,
Waiting the purer mood to do them honor!
They, through the flames of this dread holocaust,
The patriot's wrath, the soldier's ardor lost:
They sit above us and above our passion,
Disparaged even by our human tears

Beholding truth our race, perchance may fashion⚫
In the slow judgment of the creeping years.
We saw the still reproof upon their faces;
We heard them whisper from the shining spaces:
"To-day ye grieve: come not to us with sorrow!
Wait for the glad, the reconciled To-morrow!
Your grief but clouds the ether where we dwell;
Your anger keeps your souls and ours apart:
But come with peace and pardon, all is well!
And come with love, we touch you, heart to heart'

Immortal Brothers, we have heard!

Our lips declare the reconciling word:
For Battle taught, that set us face to face,
The stubborn temper of the race,