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His hair is crisp, and black and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat-

He earns whatever he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow-

Like the sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among the boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach--
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!

..He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward thro' life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close-
Something attempted, something done,

earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought-
Thus, on the sounding anvil, shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

GREAT LIVES IMPERISHABLE.

EDWARD EVERETT.

[Boldly.]

To be cold and breathless-to feel not and speak not-this is not the end of existence to the men who have breathed their spirits into the institutions of their country, who have stamped their characters on the pillars of the age, who have poured their hearts' blood into the channels of the public prosperity. Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred height, is Warren dead? Can you not still see him, not pale and prostrate, the blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over the field of honor, with the rose of heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye? Tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to the shades of Vernon, is Washington, indeed, shut up in that cold and narrow house? That which made these men, and men like these, cannot die. The hand that traced the charter of Independence is, indeed, motionless; the eloquent lips that sustained it are hushed; but the lofty spirits that conceived, resolved, and maintained it, and which alone, to such men, "make it life to live," these cannot expire:

"These shall resist the empire of decay,

When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away;
Cold in the dust the perish'd heart may lie,

But that which warm'd it once can never die."

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ABOU BEN ADHEM.

LEIGH HUNT.

[Solemnly and tenderly.]

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great awakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed-
"And, lo! Ben Adhem's name lead all the rest!

THE UNLUCKY LOVERS.-A Tale of Japan.

ANON.

[In a lively vein.]

Fanny Foo-Foo was a Japanese girl,

A child of the great Tycoon;

She wore her head bald, and her clothes were made

Half petticoat, half pantaloon;

Her face was the color of lemon peel,

And the shape of a table spoon.

A handsome young chap was Johnny Hi-Hi,
And he wore paper muslin clothes;

His glossy black hair on the top of his head
In the form of a shoe brush rose,

His eyes slanted downward, as if some chap
Had savagely pulled his nose.

Fanny Foo-Foo loved Johnny Hi-Hi,
And when, in the usual style,

He popped, she blushed such a deep orange tinge,
You'd have thought she'd too much bile,
If it hadn't been for her slant-eyed glance

And her charming wide mouth smile.

And oft in the bliss of their new born love,
Did these little pagans stray

All around in spots, enjoying themselves
In a strictly Japanese way:
She howling a song to a one string lute,

On which she thought she could play.

Often he'd climb to a high ladder's top,

And quietly there repose,

As he stood on his head and fanned himself
While she balanced him on her nose,

Or else she would get in a pickle tub,
And be kicked round on his toes.

The course of true love, even in Japan,
Often runs extremely rough,

And the fierce Tycoon, when he heard of this,

Used Japanese oaths so tough

That his courtiers' hair would have stood on end If only they'd had enough.

So the Tycoon buckled on both his swords,
In his pistol placed a wad,

And went out to hunt for the truant pair,
With his nerves braced by a "tod,"

He found them enjoying their guileless selves
On top of a lightning rod.

Sternly he ordered the gentle Foo-Foo
To"
come down out of that there!"

And he told Hi-Hi to go to a place

I won't say precisely where.

Then he dragged off his child, whose spasms evinced Unusually wild despair.

But the Tycoon, alas! was badly fooled,

Despite his paternal pains,

For John, with a toothpick, let all the blood

Out of his jugular veins;

While with a back somersault on to the floor
Foo-Foo battered out her brains.

They buried them both in the Tycoon's lot,
Right under a dogwood tree,

Where they could list to the nightingale and
The buzz of the bumble-bee;

And where the mosquito's sorrowful chant
Maddens the restless flea.

And often at night, when the Tycoon's wife
Slumbered as sound as a post,

His almond shaped eyeballs looked on a sight
That scared him to death almost-
'Twas a bald headed spectre flitting about
With a paper muslin ghost!

A NIGHT WITH A WOLF.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

[With expression and awe.]

Little one, come to my knee!
Hark how the rain is pouring
Over the roof, in the pitch black night,
And the wind in the woods a roaring!

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