Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.

[Delivered at Gettysburg, Pa., Nov. 19, 1863. The speaker should deliver this oration in a solemn and impressive tone of voice, enunciating distinctly each word.]

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now, we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that the nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a large sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate -we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion for that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

O a wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between,

And the year in the sheaf, so they come and they go,
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are straying.

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow;
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air,

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before. When the wind down the river is fair.

O remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life until night;

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

THE GEOGRAPHY DEMON.

I hate my geography lesson!

It's nothing but nonsense and names
To torture me so every morning,

I think it's the greatest of shames.

The brooks they flow into the rivers,
And the rivers flow into the sea;
For my part I hope they enjoy it,
But what does it matter to me?

Of late, even more I've disliked it,
And more disagreeable it seems,
Ever since that sad evening last winter,
When I had the most frightful of dreams.

I thought that a great horrid monster
Stood suddenly there in my room-
A frightful Geography Demon,

Enveloped in darkness and gloom;

His body and head like a mountain,
A volcano on top for a hat;

His arms and his legs were like rivers,
With a brook round his neck for cravat.

He laid on my poor trembling shoulder
His fingers, cold, clammy and long;
And fixing his red eyes upon me,

He roared forth this horrible song:

"Come! come! rise and come
Away to the banks of the Muskingum!

It flows o'er the plains of Timbuctoo,

With the peak of Teneriffe just in view.
And the cataracts leap in the pale moonshine,
As they dance o'er the cliffs of the Brandywine.

"Flee! flee! rise and flee

Away to the banks of the Tombigbee!

"We'll pass by Alaska's flowery strand,
Where the emerald towers of Pekin stand;
We'll pass them by and will rest awhile
On Michillimackinac's tropic isle;

While the apes of Barbary frisk around,
Ahd the parrots crow with a lovely sound.

"Hie! hie! rise and hie

Away to the banks of Yangtzeki!

Where the giant mountains of Oshkosh stand, And the icebergs glean through the falling sand; While the elephant sits on the palm tree high And the cannibals feast on bad boy pie.

"Go! go! rise and go

Away to the banks of the Hoangho;

There the Chickasaw sachem makes his tea,
And the kettle boils and waits for thee.
We'll smite thee ho! and we'll lay thee low,
On the beautiful banks of the Hoangho!"

These terrible words were still sounding

Like trumpets and drums through my head, When the monster clutched tighter my shoulder, And dragged me half out of the bed.

In terror I clung to the bedpost; but the
Faithless bedpost it broke;

I screamed out aloud in my anguish,
And suddenly,-well, I awoke!

He was gone, but I cannot forget him,
That fearful geography sprite,

He has my first thought in the morning,
He has my last shudder at night.

Do you blame me for hating my lesson?
Is it strange that it frightful should seem?
Or that I more and more should abhor it
Since I had that most horrible dream?

ANONYMOUS.

THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS

TO MEND TO-NIGHT.

[This should be spoken in a simple, unaffected manner; at times the voice should sink to low, soft, tremulous tones, as the good wife recalls memories of the dear departed.]

An old wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,

In an ancient chair whose creaky frame
Told a tale of long ago;

While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,

Stood a basket of worsted balls-a score.

The good man dozed o'er the latest news,
Till the light of his pipe went out,
And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,
Rolled and tangled the balls about ;

Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro in the firelight glare.

But anon a misty tear-drop came

In her eye of faded blue,

Then trickled down in a furrow deep,

Like a single drop of dew;

So deep was the channel-so silent the stream

The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet he marveled much that the cheerful light

Of her eye had weary grown,

And marveled he more at the tangled balls;