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And next,—what a load! it will split the old gun,—
Bump! bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,—
Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed!
Old P , as we called him,—at fifty or so,—
Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow;
Oh, say, can you look through the vista of age
And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed
But where are the Tutors, my brother, Oh, tell!—
"—They are dead, the old fellows" (wecalled them so then, Though we since have found out they were lusty young men). —They are dead, do you tell mo?—but how do you know? You've filled once too often. I doubt if it's so.
I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight?
"By George!" as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,—
Is JackRon not President? What was't you said?
It can't be ; you're joking; what,—all of 'em dead?
Jim,—Harry,—Fred—Isaac,—all gone from our side?— They couldn't have left us,—no, riot if they tried. —Look,—there's our old Preses,—he can't find his text; —See—P rubs his leg, as he growls out, " The Next!" I told you 'twas nonsense. Joe, give us a song!
Go harness up " Dolly," and fetch her along!—
Dead! Dead! You fals^ gravbeard, I swear they are n»ti
Hurrah for Old Hickory! —Oh, I forgot!
Well, one we have with as (how could he contrive
—And now as my load was uncommonly large,
Bibamia ad Classcm rocat,im " The Boys"
THE DEATH OF MOSES.*—Jessie G. M'caktei:.
Led by his God, on Pisgah's height,
The pilgrim-prophet stood—
And Jordan's crystal flood.
Behind him lay the desert ground
His weary feet had trod;
Still guarded by their God.
With joy the aged Moses smiled
On all his wanderings past,
Upon the mountain-blast:
"I see them all before me now—
The city and the plain,
To yonder boundless ma n.
"Oh! there the lovely promised land
With milk and honey flows;
Shall find their sweet repose.
"This i*tom will form a worthy prelude tjj Sirs. C. Y. Alexander' s "Burial 'il Mom." Seo No. 3, page !>4.
"There groves of palm and myrtle spread
O'er valleys fair and wide; The lofty cedar rears its head
On every mountain-side.
"For them the rose of Sharon flings
Her fragrance on the gale;
The lily of the vale.
"Amid the olive's fruitful boughs
Is heard the song of love, for there doth build and breathe her vows
The gentle turtle-dove.
"For them shall bloom the clustering vine.
The fig tree shed her flowers, The citron's golden treasures shine
From out her greenest bowers.
"For them, for them, but not for me—
Their fruits I may not eat;
Shall lave my pilgrim feet.
"Tis well, 'tis well, my task is done,
Since Israel's sons are blest: Father, receive thy dying one
To thine eternal rest!"
Alone ho bade the world farewell,
To God his spirit fled. Now, to your tents, O Israel,
And mourn your prophet dead I
Our sires were rocked in Faneuil Hall,
The famous cradle of the free; And shall we hear our brothers call
For help, and never heed the plea? We heap the granite to the skies,
Over the graves on Bunker's hill; But if the heroes there could rise,
While Rum is king, would they be still?
They would again renew their vows
To wipe away a nation's stain; *O. w. Boxoii.
And Warren's thrilling voice would rouse
The iron will of mighty men.
On old Waehusett's naked brow,
And sow their votes like storms of snow)
Where are t he sons of sires who cast
The taxed tea-chests in the sea? Where is the spirit of the past,
That moved the deep of sympathy? Would not intemperance have been driven
From us, like a loathsome curse,
Their mantles had been worn by us?
Descendants of the good old stock,
By all the free blood in your veins, By all the prayers at Plymouth Rock,
Strike off the drunkard's galling chains! By all the blood your fathers shea,
By all the laurels they have won, Stand up for Temperance as they did
For liberty at Lexington!
Strike out the statutes which disgrace
Our land before a wondering world I Enact a law to lift the race!
Let vice into its gulf be hurled! Strike, for the glory of our land!
Strike for the victims bound in chains!_ Strike, when the heart beats to the hand;
Strike, for the cause the foe disdains I
Go bravely to the ballot-box,
And cast a freeman's honest vote; Be never like the stupid ox.
Led by the halter at the throat. Trust not the men who did betray
Our cause for office, power, or gold; The promises they make to-day
They'll break to-morrow, as of old.
Men who make politics a trade
Will stoop to-day to tie your shoes;
And crucified by bitter foes.
And nail it to the cursed tree,
And make of it a mockery.
THE STORY OF THE BAD LITTLE BOY WHO DIDN'T COME TO GRIEF—Mark Twain.
Once there was a bad little boy whose name was Jim; though, if yon will notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always called James, in your Sunday-school books. It was very strange, but still it was true, that this one was called Jim.
He didn't have any sick mother, either,—a sick mother who was pious, and had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave and be at rest, but for the strong love she bore her boy, and the anxiety she felt that the world would be harsh and cold towards him when she was gone. Most bad boys in the Sunday-school books are named James, and have sick mothers who teach them to say, "Now I lay me down," <Scc., and sing them to sleep with sweet, plaintive voices, and then kiss them good-night, and kneel down by the bedside and weep. But it was different with this fellow. He was named Jim; and there wasn't any thing the matter with his mother,—no consumption, or any thing of that kind. She was rather stout than otherwise; and she was not pious: moreover, she was not anxious on Jim's account. She said if he were to break his neck, it wouldn't be much loss. She always spanked Jim to sleep; and she never kissed him good-night: on the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him.
Once this bad little boy stole the key of the pantry, and slipped in there, and helped himself to some jam, and filled up the vessel with tar, so that his mother would never know the difference; but all at once a terrible feeling didn't come over him, and something didn't seem to whisper to him, "Is it right to disobey my mother? Isn't it sinful to do this? Where do bad little boys go who gobble up their good, kind mother's jam?" and then he didn't kneel down all alone and promise never to be wicked any more, and rise up with a light, happy heart, and go and tell his mother all about it, and beg her forgiveness, and be blessed by her with tears of pride and thankfulness in her eyes. No; that is the way with all other bad boys in the books; but it happened