The stockings (so lately St. Nicholas' care) And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap, When out in the nursery there arose such a clatter, Tore open the curtains and threw off the clothes, I turned from the sight, to my bed-room stepped back, her, "Don't you think you had better, love, go for the doctor?" I went, and was scarcely back under my roof, When I heard the sharp clatter of old "Jalap's" hoof; I might say that I hardly had turned myself round, And he looked like a Falstaff half-fuddled with sack. Sherry; He hadn't been shaved for a fortnight or so, And his beard nor his skin was n't as "white as the snow;" But inspecting their tongues, in spite of their teeth, He felt each pulse, saying, "Each little fellow Must get rid "-here he laughed-" of the rest of that jelly." I gazed on each chubby, plump, sick little elf, A PARODY. THE boy stood on the back-yard fence, whence all but The flames that lit his father's barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat, With piteous accents loud he cried, "I never thought of that!" A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he'd tied; The dog in anguish sought the barn, and 'mid its ruins died. The sparks flew wide and red and hot, they lit upon that brat; They fired the crackers in his hand, and e'en those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound-the boy! Where was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone, And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and hooks, and yarn The relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father's barn. THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS. ΚΙ IND was my friend who, in the Eastern land, Remembered me with such a gracious hand, And sent this Moorish Crescent, which has been Worn on the haughty bosom of a queen. No more it sinks and rises in unrest To the soft music of her heathen breast; No barbarous chief shall bow before it more, I place beside this relic of the Sun A Cross cf cedar brought from Lebanon, Once borne, perchance, by some pale monk who tro Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds, That for the Moslem is, but this for me! It gives me dreams of battles, and the woes But when this Cross of simple wood I see, T. B. ALDRICH. REFLECTIONS ON WESTMINSTER ABBEY. HE last beams of day were faintly streaming through THE the painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poets' Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole. building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation, a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of Death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. “Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, "find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand, and |