The soldier falls mid corses piled
Upon the battle-plain,

Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild
Above the mangled slain;

But though his corse be grim to see,
Hoof-trampled on the sod,

What recks it, when the spirit free
Has soared aloft to God?

The coward's dying eyes may close
Upon his downy bed,

And softest hands his limbs compose,
Or garments o'er them spread.
But ye who shun the bloody fray,
When fall the mangled brave,
Go-strip his coffin-lid away,
And see him in his grave!

"Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes
With those we cherish near,
And, wafted upwards by their sighs,
Soar to some calmer sphere.

But whether on the scaffold high,
Or in the battle's van,

The fittest place where man can die
Is where he dies for man!

THE CHARCOAL MAN.-J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

Though rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat;
His sombre face the storm defies,

And thus from morn till eve he cries,—
"Charco'! charco'!"

While echo faint and far replies,—

"Hark, O! hark, O!"

"Charco' !"-" Hark, O!"-Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds.

The dust begrimes his ancient hat;
His coat is darker far than that;
'Tis odd to see his sooty form

All speckled with the feathery storm;

Yet in his honest bosom lies

Nor spot, nor speck,-though still he cries: "Charco'! charco'!"

And many a roguish lad replies,— "Ark, ho! ark, ho!"

"Charco'!"—"Ark, ho!"-Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.

Thus all the cold and wintry day

He labors much for little pay;
Yet feels no less of happiness

Than many a richer man, I guess,

When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries,—
"Charco'! charco'!"

And Martha from the door replies,

'Mark, ho! Mark, ho!"

"Charco'!"-" Mark, ho!"-Such joys abounds
When he has closed his daily rounds.

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright
And while his hand, washed clean and white,
Holds Martha's tender hand once more,

His glowing face bends fondly o'er

The crib wherein his darling lies,

And in a coaxing tone he cries,"Charco'! charco'!"

And baby with a laugh replies,— "Ah, go! ah, go!"

"Charco'!"-"Ah, go!"—while at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds.

Then honored be the charcoal man!

Though dusky as an African,

"Tis not for you, that chance to be

A little better clad than he,

His honest manhood to despise,

Although from morn till eve he cries,—

"Charco'! charco'!"

While mocking echo still replies,

"Hark, O! hark (!"

"Charco' !"—" Hark, O!"-Long may the sounds

Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds!

-Our Young Folks.

THE NATIONAL BANNER.-EDWARD EVERETT. All hail to our glorious ensign! courage to the heart, and strength to the hand, to which, in all time, it shall be intrusted! May it ever wave in honor, in unsullied glory, and patriotic hope, on the dome of the capitol, on the country's stronghold, on the entented plain, on the wave-rocked topmast!

Wherever, on the earth's surface, the eye of the American shall behold it, may he have reason to bless it! On whatsoever spot it is planted, there may freedom have a foothold, humanity a brave champion, and religion an altar! Though stained with blood in a righteous cause, may it never in any cause, be stained with shame!

Alike, when its gorgeous folds shall wanton in lazy holiday-triumphs on the summer breeze, and its tattered fragments be dimly seen through the clouds of war, may it be the joy and pride of the American heart! First raised in the cause of right and liberty, in that cause alone may it forever spread out its streaming blazonry to the battle and the storm! Having been borne victoriously across the continent and on every sea, may virtue and freedom and peace forever follow where it leads the way!

FIRST APPEARANCE IN TYPE.

Ah, here it is! I'm famous now;
An author and a poet.

It really is in print. Hurrah!
How proud I'll be to show it.

And gentle Anna! what a thrill

Will animate her breast,

To read these ardent lines, and know

To whom they are addressed.

Why, bless my soul! here's something wrong;
What can the paper mean

By talking of the "graceful brook,"
That "ganders o'er the green?"
And here's a t instead of r,

Which makes it "tippling rill,"
We'll seek the "shad" instead of "shade,"
And "hell" instead of "hill."

"Thy looks so"-what?-I recollect;
"Twas "sweet," and then 'twas "kind;"
And now, to think,-the stupid fool
For "bland" has printed "blind.”
Was ever such provoking work?
('Tis curious, by the by,

That anything is rendered blind
By giving it an i.)

The color of the "rose" is "nose,"
"Affection" is "affliction;"
(I wonder if the likeness holds
In fact as well as fiction?)
"Thou art a friend." The r is gone;
Whoever would have deemed

That such a trifling thing could change

A friend into a fiend?

"Thou art the same," is rendered "lame;" It really is too bad!

And here because an i is out,

My lovely "maid" is "mad."

They drove her blind by poking in

An i-a process new

And now they've gouged it out again,
And made her crazy, too.

I'll read no more. What shall I do?
I'll never dare to send it.

The paper's scattered far and wide,
'Tis now too late to mend it.

O fame! thou cheat of human life,
Why did I ever write!

I wish my poem had been burnt,
Before it saw the light.

Was ever such a horrid hash,
In poetry or prose?

I've said she was a "fiend!" and praised

The color of her "nose."

I wish I had that printer here

About a half a minute,

I'd bang him to his heart's content,
And with an h begin it.

HELVELLYN.-SIR WALTER SCOTT.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful dog, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, And, starting around me, the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot mid the broad mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay;
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh! was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-
Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: