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EVENING AT THE FARM.

Over the hill the farm-boy goes;
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar tree, above the spring,
The katy-did begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,

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.
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Looing, pushing, little and great;

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicksome yearlings frisk and jump,
While the pleasant dews are falling;
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

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 apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes,
Singing, calling--

"Co', boss! co', boss, co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

RAIN ON THE ROOF.

When the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed,
And to listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start;
And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof,
As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.

Now in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agone,
To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn.
O! I see her bending o'er me, as I list to the refrain
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

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,
I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue;
I remember that I loved her with a rapture kin to pain,
While my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell,
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy passions well,
As that melody of nature-that subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain!

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,
Mout' like it was mois'd mit dew,
Und leedle teeth shust peekin' droo-
Dot's der baby.

Curly hed und full of glee,

Drowsers all oudt at der knee

He vas peen playin' horse you see-
Dot's leedle Otto.

Von hundred seexty in der shade,
Der oder day ven she vas veighed—
She beats me soon, I vas afraid—
Dot's mine Gretchen.

Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt,
Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt,
Fond off his beer und sauer-kraut-
Dot's me himself.

Von schmall young baby, full of fun,
Von leedle, pright-eyed, roguish son,
Von frau to greet ven vork vas done-
Dot's mine vamily.

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?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm

Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? the high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No!-uncurbed passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus checked;

These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labor and thy life accursed.

O stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great!-what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?

Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow?

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!

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