The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes like the flowers or the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold.
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died: and we things that are now
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,— O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

W. KNOX.

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

A district school, not far away,
'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day,
Was humming with its wonted noise
Of threescore mingled girls and boys.
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent,

The while the master's downward look

Was fastened on a copy-book;

When suddenly, behind his back,

Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!

As 'twere a battery of bliss

Let off in one tremendous kiss!

"What's that?" the startled master cries;
That, thir," a little imp replies,

Wath William Willith, if you pleathe—
I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!"
With frown to make a statue thrill,
The master thundered, “Hither, Will!"
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track,
With stolen chattels on his back,

With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,
The threatener faltered-"I'm amazed
That you, my biggest pupil, should

Be guilty of an act so rude!

Before the whole set school to boot-
What evil genius put you to't?"
"'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad
"I did not mean to be so bad;

But when Susanna shook her curls,
And whispered I was 'fraid of girls,
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I couldn't stand it, sir, at all,

But up and kissed her on the spot!

I know-boo-hoo-I ought to not,
But, somehow, from her looks-boo-hoo-

I thought she kind o' wished me to!"

WILLIAM PITT PALMER.

HOME.

[This delightful piece should be read in a tone expressive of mingled pride and delight, the eye beaming with pleasure, the voice full and melodious.]

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;

A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,

Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air,

In every clime the magnet of his soul,

Touched, by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benighly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life!
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man?—a patriot?-look around;
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.

SAM SMITH'S SOLILOQUY ON MATRIMONY.

Well, no

CERTAINLY-matrimony is an invention of matter who invented it. I'm going to try it. Where's my blue coat with the bright brass buttons? The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too: may I be shot if I don't offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. 66 'Pardiggle!" Phoebus! what a name for such a rosebud. I'll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She'll have me, of course. She wants a husband,—I want a wife: there's one point already in which we perfectly agree.

What the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand tremble so: there-that'll do; that's quite an inspiration. Brummel himself couldn't go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I'm immensely obliged to old

Pardiggle for giving her a quit-claim. I'll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think I'd bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I'd sit, after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up chimney for three hours together? Do you think I'd leave her little blessed side to dangle round oystersaloons and theatres? Do I look like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up street? No! Mr. and Mrs. Adam were not more beautiful in their nuptial bower than I shall be with the Widow Pardiggle.

Refused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well, there's one comfort: nobody'll believe it. She is not so very pretty, after all: her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy : -not so very ready either, confound the gipsy! What amazing pretty shoulders she has! Well, who cares? Ten to one, she'd have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. Who wants to be a Pardiggle 2d? I am glad she didn't have me. I mean, I'm glad I didn't have her!

FANNY FERN.

DRAFTED.

[The opening verses should be recited in an agitated, broken voice-the voice changing to a firmer, gentler tone toward the end-as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart.]

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at

his books.

No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie-as delicate, too, in his looks, Why, it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks;

He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at

rest.

Too slender for over-much study-why, his master has made him to-day

Go out with his ball on the common—and you have drafted a child at his play!