His hair is crisp, and black and long; His brow is wet with honest sweat- And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, Like the sexton ringing the village bell, And children, coming home from school, They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, 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 .. He needs must think of her once more, 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, earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 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." ABOU BEN ADHEM. LEIGH HUNT. [Solemnly and tenderly.] Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 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 blessedAnd, 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, Fanny Foo-Foo loved Johnny Hi-Hi, And when, in the usual style, He popped, she blushed such a deep orange tinge, And oft in the bliss of their new born love, All around in spots, enjoying themselves She howling a song to a one string lute, Often he'd climb to a high ladder's top, 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, The course of true love, even in Japan, 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, He found them enjoying their guileless selves Sternly he ordered the gentle Foo-Foo To "come down out of that there!" Then he dragged off his child, whose spasms evinced But the Tycoon, alas! was badly fooled, Despite his paternal pains, For John, with a toothpick, let all the blood While with a back somersault on to the floor They buried them both in the Tycoon's lot, Where they could list to the nightingale and And where the mosquito's sorrowful chant And often at night, when the Tycoon's wife His almond shaped eyeballs looked on a sight 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, |