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Much he endured, and much he dared
The long hot doomsday of the nations:
He wore a trooper's scars; he shared
A trooper's rations;

Warned pickets, seized the Austrian spies, Bore the despatches; thro' the forces From fallen riders, prompt and wise,

Led back the horses;

Served round the tents or in the van, Quick-witted, tireless as a treadle: "This private wins," said Marshal Lannes, "Ribbon and medal."

("Moustache, a brave French dog," it lay Graven on silver, like a scholar's;

"Who lost a leg on Jena day, But saved the colors!")

At Saragossa he was slain;

They buried him, and fired a volley: End of Moustache. Nay, that were strain Too melancholy.

His immortality was won,

His most of rapture came to bless him, When, plumed and proud, Napoleon Stooped to caress him.

His Emperor's hand upon his head!
How, since, shall lesser honors suit him?
Yet ever, in that army's stead,
Love will salute him.

And since not every cause enrolls

Such little, fond, sagacious henchmen, Write this dog's moral on your scrolls, Soldiers and Frenchmen!

As law is law, can be no waste

Of faithfulness, of worth and beauty;
Lord of all time the slave is placed
Who doth his duty.

No virtue fades to thin romance

But Heaven to use eternal moulds it: Mark! Some firm pillar of new France, Moustache upholds it.

Louise Imogen Guiney.

MARION'S DINNER.

A British officer sent to negotiate an exchange of prisoners was conducted into Marion's encampment. There the scene took place which is here commemorated. The young officer was so deeply affected by the sentiments of Marion, that he subsequently resigned his commission and retired from the British service.

THEY sat on the trunk of a fallen pine, and their plate was a piece of bark,

And the sweet potatoes were superfine, though bearing the embers' mark;

But Tom, with the sleeve of his cotton shirt, the embers' had brushed away,

And then to the brook, with a step alert, he hied on that gala day.

The British officer tried to eat, but his nerves were out of tune,

And ill at ease on his novel seat, while absent both knife and spoon;

Said he, "You give me but Lenten fare, is the table thus always slim?

Perhaps with a Briton you will not share the cup with a flowing brim!"

Then Marion put his potato down, on the homely plate of bark

He had to smile, for he could not frown, while gay as the morning lark;

""Tis a royal feast I provide to-day, upon roots we rebels dine,

And in Freedom's service we draw no pay,—is that of ethics thine ?"

Then, with flashing eye and with heaving breast, he looked to the azure sky,

"And," said he, with a firm, undaunted crest, "our trust is in God on high!

The hard, hard ground is a downy bed, and hunger its fangs foregoes,

And noble and firm is the soldier's tread in the face of his country's foes."

The officer gazed on princely brow, where valor and genius shone,

And upon that fallen pine his vow went up to his Maker's throne,

"I will draw no sword against men like these, it would drop from a nerveless hand,

And the very blood in my heart would freeze, if I faced such a Spartan band."

From Marion's camp, with a saddened mien, he hastened with awe away,

The sons of Anak his eyes had seen, and a giant race were they.

No more on the tented field was he, and rich was the truth he learned,

That men who could starve for Liberty, can neither be crushed nor spurned.

Edward C. Jones.

THE DEAD DOLL.

You needn't be trying to comfort me-I tell you my dolly is dead!

There's no use in saying she isn't, with a crack like that in her head;

It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day,

And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.

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And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue,

As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?

You might make her look all mended-but what do I care for looks?

Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!

My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!

It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack

Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf,

Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself?

I think you must be crazy-you'll get her another head!

What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!

And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new spring hat!

And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat!

When my mamma gave me that ribbon-I was playing out in the yard

She said to me, most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."

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