peaches and pears; but it was always sure to boast of an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough fried in hog's fat, and called dough-nuts,—a delicious kind of cake, at present scarce known in this city, excepting in genuine Dutch families. The tea was served out of a majestic delft tea-pot, ornamented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs, with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other Dutch fantasies.

8. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot from a huge copper tea-kettle, which would have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate days sweat merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup, and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady, which was to suspend a large lump directly over the tea-table by a string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth, an ingenious expedient, which is still kept up by some families in Albany, but which prevails without exception in Communipaw, Bergen, FlatBush, and all our uncontaminated Dutch villages.

1.

LESSON CXCVIII.

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

J. W. WATSON.

STEADY, boys, steady!

Keep your arms ready,

God only knows whom we may meet here.
Don't let me be taken-

I'd rather awaken

To-morrow, in-no matter where,

Than lie in that foul prison-hole-over there.

Step slowly!

Speak lowly!

The rocks may have life;

Lay me down in the hollow;
We are out of the strife.

Good heavens! the foeman may track me in blood,
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood.
No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid;
The surgeon I want is a pickaxe and spade.
What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on you, man!
I thought you a hero; but since you began

To whimper and cry, like a girl in her teens,

Old fellow! I don't know what the mischief it means.

3. Well! well! I am rough, 'tis a very rough school,
This life of a trooper-but yet I'm no fool!

I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe ;
And, boys, that you love me, I certainly know.
But wasn't it grand,

When they came down the hill over sloughing and

sand?

But we stood-did we not ?-like immovable rock,
Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock.
Did mind the loud cry,

you

When, as turning to fly,

Our men sprang upon them determined to die?

Oh, wasn't it grand?

God help the poor wretches who fell in the fight;
No time was there given for prayers or for flight.
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,

And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and sand.

Huzza!

Great heaven! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave;
Ah! sure was the aim of the traitorous knave!
Is there never a one of you knows how to pray,
Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?

Pray! Pray!

4. Our Father! our Father! why don't you proceed? Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed! Ebbing away!

Ebbing away! The light of the day is turning to gray. Pray! Pray!

Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest,

While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my breast.

There's something about the forgiveness of sin;

Put that in! put that in!—and then

I'll follow your words and say an amen.

5. Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand, And, Wilson, my comrade-oh! wasn't it grand

When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud,

And were scattered like mist by our brave little crowd? Where's Wilson-my comrade-here, stoop down your

head,

Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead?

6. "Christ-God, who died for sinners all,
Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry;
Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall

Unheeded by thy gracious eye;
Throw wide thy gates to let him in,

And take him pleading to thine arms;
Forgive, O Lord, his life-long sin,

And quiet all his fierce alarms."

7. "God bless you, my comrade, for singing that hymn,
It is light to my path,-now my sight has grown dim-
I am dying-bend down-till I touch you once more;
Don't forget me, old fellow-God prosper this war!
Confusion to enemies!-keep hold of my hand-
And float our dear flag o'er a prosperous land!"

4.

LESSON CXCIX.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

1. O'ER a low couch a setting sun
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where, in his last strong agony,
A dying warrior lay,-
The stern old Baron Rudiger,

Whose frame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil
Its iron strength had spent.

2. "They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o'er,—
That I shall mount my noble steed
And lead my band no more;

They come, and to my beard they dare
To tell me, now, that I,

Their own liege-lord and master born,
That I-ha! ha!-must die!

3. "And what is death? I've dared him oft Before the Paynim's spear;

Think ye he's enter'd at my gate,-
Has come to seek me here?

I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot:

I'll try his might; I'll brave his power,
Defy, and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from the tower,

And fire the culverin!

Bid each retainer arm with speed;

Call every vassal in !

Up with my banner on the wall!

The banquet board prepare!
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armor there!"

5.

A hundred hands were busy then;
The banquet forth was spread,
And rang the heavy oaken floor
With many a martial tread;
While, from the rich, dark tracery
Along the vaulted wall,

Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear,
O'er the proud old Gothic hall.

6. (Fast hurrying through the outer gate,
The mail'd retainers pour'd,-

On through the portal's frowning arch,—
And throng'd around the board.
While at its head, within his dark,
Carved oaken chair of state,
Arm'd cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger,
With girded falchion, sate.

7.

f*p*.

"Fill every beaker up, my men!

Pour forth the cheering wine!
There's life and strength in every drop;
Thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true? p2 Mine eyes are waxing dim;

ƒ*p* {

S Fill round, my tried and fearless ones,
Each goblet to the brim!

8. "Ye're there, but yet I see you not! Draw forth each trusty sword, f*p* And let me hear your faithful steel Clash once around my board!