The coward's dying eyes may close And softest hands his limbs compose, But ye who shun the bloody fray, 'T were sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, Or in the battle's van, The fittest place where man can die Is where he dies for man! MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. A Hundred Years to Come. WHERE, where will be the birds that sing, The flowers that now in beauty spring, A hundred years to come? The rosy lips, the lofty brow, The heart that beats so gayly now, Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, Who 'll press for gold this crowded street, Who 'll tread yon church with willing feet, Pale trembling age, and fiery youth, And childhood with its brow of truth; The rich and poor, on land and sea,— We all within our graves shall sleep, A hundred years to come. And others, then, our streets will fill, As bright the sunshine as to-day, A hundred years to come. WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN. The Song of Steam. HARNESS me down with your iron bands, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight, At the childish boast of human might, When I saw an army upon the land, Or waiting the wayward breeze,- When I measured the panting courser's speed, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love, I could but think how the world would feel, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Ha, ha, ha! They found me at last, They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change The ocean pales where'er I sweep, I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, The wind lags after my going forth, The lightning is left behind. In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine, My tireless arm doth play; Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, I bring earth's glittering jewels up I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, I hammer the ore and turn the wheel I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,- And all my doings I put into print I 've no muscle to weary, no brains to decay, And soon I intend you may "go and play," While I manage the world myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands GEORGE W. CUTTER Why thus Longing? WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing, Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still; Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee To some little world through weal and woe; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten— Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, When all nature hails the lord of light, Other hands may grasp the field and forest, Thou art wealthier-all the world is thine. Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, Nature wears the color of the spirit; Sweetly to her worshiper she sings; All the glow, the grace she doth inherit, Nothing to Wear. MISS FLORA M'FLIMSEY, of Madison Square, And her father assures me, each time she was there, |