EVENING AT THE FARM. Over the hill the farm-boy goes; The early dews are falling; Into the stone heap darts the mink; Cheerily calling, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Now to her task the milkmaid goes. About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, Soothingly calling: "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So, boss! so, boss! so! so!"' To supper at last the farmer goes. The housewife's hand has turned the lock; "Co', boss! co', boss, co'! co'! co'!" J. T. TROWBRIDGE. RAIN ON THE ROOF. When the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres, Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, Now in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone, Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed, cherub brother-a serene, angelic pair— Glide around my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue, There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, COATES KINNEY. NATIONAL CHARACTER. 1. The loss of a firm national character, or the degradation of a nation's honor, is the inevitable prelude to her destruction. Behold the once proud fabric of a Roman empire—an empire carrying its arts and arms into every part of the Eastern continent; the monarchs of mighty kingdoms dragged at the wheels of her triumphal chariots; her eagle waving over the ruins of desolated countries. Where is her splendor, her wealth, her power, her glory? Extinguished forever. Her moldering temples, the mournful vestiges of her former grandeur, afford a shelter to her muttering monks. Where are her statesmen, her sages, her philosophers, her orators, her generals? Go to their solitary tombs and inquire. She lost her national character, and her destruction followed. The ramparts of her national pride were broken down, and vandalism desolated her classic fields. 2. Such, the warning voice of antiquity, the example of all republics, proclaim may be our fate. But let us no longer indulge these gloomy anticipations. The commencement of our liberty presages the dawn of a brighter period to the world. That bold, enterprising spirit which conducted our heroes to peace and safety, and gave us a lofty rank amid the empires of the world, still animates the bosoms of their descendants. Look back to that moment when they unbarred the dungeons of the slave and dashed his fetters to the earth; when the sword of a Washington leaped from its scabbard to avenge the slaughter of our countrymen. Place their example before you. Let the sparks of their veteran wisdom flash across your minds, and the sacred altar of your liberty, crowned with immortal honors, rise before you. Relying on the virtue, the courage, the patriotism, and the strength of our country, we may expect our national character will become more energetic, our citizens more enlightened, and we may hail the age as not far distant when will be heard, as the proudest exclamation of man, I AM AN AMERICAN! MAXEY. MEIN VAMILY. Dimpled sheeks, mit eyes of blue, Curly hed und full of glee, Drowsers all oudt at der knee He vas peen playin' horse you see- Von hundred seexty in der shade, Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt, Von schmall young baby, full of fun, YAWCOB STRAUS. THE LABORER. [This piece, so full of true manliness and noble sentiment, should be delivered in a voice above the ordinary conversational style of speaking, though avoiding too loud a tone. The speaker is supposed to be reasoning with his auditor, hence should use somewhat of an appealing tone.] Stand up, erect! Thou hast the form And likeness of thy God!-who more? Of daily life, a heart as warm And pure, as breast e'er wore. What then?-Thou art as true a man Who is thine enemy? the high If true unto thyself thou wast, What were the proud one's scorn to thee? The light leaf from the tree. No!-uncurbed passions, low desires, These are thine enemies-thy worst; O stand erect! and from them burst! Thou art thyself thine enemy! The great!-what better they than thou? Has God with equal favors thee True, wealth thou hast not!-'tis but dust! Nor place, uncertain as the wind! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water may despise the lust Of both-a noble mind! |