Twy, and if' oo does it nicely, when I'm thent upthairs to theep,

I will bring 'oo up some goodies, which shall be for 'oo to keep."

Off the little angel flutters, but the burglar wipes his

brow;

He is wholly unaccustomed to a kindly greeting now. Never with a smile of welcome has he seen his entrance

met;

Nobody (except the policeman) ever wanted him as yet.

Many a stately home he's entered, but with unobtrusive tact,

He has ne'er, in paying visits, called attention to the fact. Gain he counts it, on departing, if he has avoided strife. Ah, my brothers, but the burglar's is a sad and lonely

life;

All forgotten are the jewels, once the purpose of his

"job,"

As he sinks upon the door-mat with a deep and choking sob!

Then, the infant's plea recalling, seeks the nursery above,

Looking for the Liliputian crib he is to crack for love. In the corner stands the doll's house, gaily painted

green and red;

And the door declines to open-even as the child had

said.

Out come centre-bit and jimmy;-all his implements are plied.

Never has he burgled better, as he feels with honest

pride;

Deftly now the task's accomplished, for the door will open well,

When a childish voice behind him breaks the silence like a bell

"Sank 'oo Missa Burglar, sank 'oo, and, betause 'oo's been tho nice,

See, I've bwought 'oo up a tartlet-gweat big gweedies eat the ice.

Papa says he wants to see 'oo; Partinthon is tummin'

too

Tan't 'oo stay-"

"Well, not this evenin', so, my

little dear, adoo!"

Fast he speeds across the house-tops, but his bosom throbs with bliss,

For upon his rough lips linger traces of a baby's kiss. Dreamily on downy pillow Baby Bella murmurs sweet: "Burglar, tum adain an' thee me; I will dive 'oo cakes to eat."

In his garret, worn and weary, Burglar Bill has sunk to rest,

Clasping tenderly a damson tartlet to his burly breast.

THE NATION'S DEAD.

BYRON. W. KING.

Sound a mighty, long reveille!

Let the fife and throbbing drum
Tell the world the marshaled heroes
Of our grand Republic come!
Strike the notes of "Hail Columbia!"
Wake the music that of old

Timed the tread of marching thousands
Where the battle surges rolled!
Fling to heaven our sacred banner,
Wave it high o'er field and flood;

Torn by many a fiery conflict,

Stained by many a hero's blood.

Open wide the mouldy portals

Where our mighty dead have slept; Bid them break the voiceless slumber That the solemn years have kept. Roll the years that tell their glory

Backward from the great unknown; Gather them once more around us

As when war's loud blast was blown. Once again the earth shall tremble 'Neath the tread of million feet, While the nation's heart exulting Times them with its pulsing beat. Mirrored in the deep of heaven See the spectral host sweep by; Regiment, and flag and banner, All of war's proud panoply.

They are coming! coming! coming!
How the music wakes and thrills!
All their mystic tents are gleaming
White upon their Country's hills!
They are coming! coming! coming!
East and West, and South and North!
Lo from every wind of heaven,

They are thronging, hurrying forth! They are coming! coming! coming! Fathers, brothers, husbands, sonsAnd the rushing tide of Memory Through the years still faster runs.

From the gory field of conquest,
From the rivers, crimson-dyed,

They return, our deathless heroes,
Sons of Freedom, glorified!

Bringing every tattered banner,

Bearing every honored name,
That for God, and Home, and Country
Won an everlasting fame!
High among them stands the figure
Of the Martyr, calm and brave,
Who in God's name and the Nation's
Struck the shackles from the slave.

Say not they are dead, forgotten,
Voiceless, speechless, silent dust;
No man's dead, whose toil and heart-blood
Speed a great God-given trust!

Dead, the millions upon millions

Who from fleeting sun to sun,

Quaffed the brimming cups of pleasure
Till their reckless years were run.
Dead, the man who gathered riches,
All his golden visions fled;
Dead and monuments he builded,
Crumbling dust upon his head;
Doubly dead and long forgotten,

Dust on head and dust on heart,
He who heard the call for battle-
Heard, but played the craven's part.

But of all we fondly cherish

All the mighty martyr host, Not the lowliest life or humblest Ever was or will be lost!

Bow the knee-their graves or holy,

Consecrated is this sod,

Hallowed deep through all the ages

In the sight of men and God.

Holy is the deathless freedom

By their great devotion bought;
Graven deep, illumed by glory,
Never shall they be forgot.

GLORY.

DR. WAYLAND.

The crumbling tombstone and the gorgeous mausoleum, the sculptured marble and the venerable cathedral, all bear witness to the instinctive desire within us to be remembered by coming generations. But how short-lived is the immortality which the works of our hands can confer! The noblest monuments of art that the world has ever seen are covered with the soil of twenty centuries. The works of the age of Pericles lie at the foot of the Acropolis in indiscriminate ruin. The plow share turns up the marble which the hand of Phidias had chiseled into beauty, and the Mussulman has folded his flock beneath the falling columns of the temple of Minerva. Neither sculptured marble, nor stately column, can reveal to other ages the lineaments of the spirit; and these alone can embalm our memory in the hearts of a grateful posterity.

As the stranger stands beneath the dome of St. Paul's, or treads, with religious awe, the silent aisles of Westminster Abbey, the sentiment, which is breathed from every object around him, is, the utter emptiness of sublunary glory. The fine arts, obedient to private affection or public gratitude, have here embodied, in every form, the finest conceptions of which their age was capable. Each one of these monuments has been watered by the tears of the widow, the orphan, or the patriot.