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Not so; his crime's a fouler one;

God Made The Old Man Poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell—
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this, the boon for which he poured
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost,—
His blood-gained liberty is lost!

And so, for such a place of rest,

Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,

And Saratoga's plain?
Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars;
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument upreared to thee—
Piled granite and a prison cell,—
The land repays thy service well!

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,
And fling the starry banner out;

Shout " Freedom !" till your lisping ones
Give back their cradle-shout:

Let boastful eloquence declaim

Of honor, liberty, and fame;

Still let the poet's strain be heard,

With glory for each second word,

And every thing with breath agree

To praise "our glorious liberty!"

But when the patron cannon jars
That prison's cold and gloomy wall,

And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind and fall—

Think ye that prisoners aged ear

Rejoices in the general cheer?

Think ye his dim and failing eye

Is kindled at your pageantry?

Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb,

What is your carnival to him?

Down with the Law that binds him thus!

Unworthy freemen, let it find
No refuge from the withering curse

Of God and human kind!
Open the prison's living tomb,
And usher from its brooding gloom
The victims of your savage code,
To the free sun and air of God;
No longer dare as crime to brand
The chastening of the Almighty's hand.

PULPIT ORATORY—Daniel Dougherty.

The daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judgment, but to touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not enough to convert our belief to ChristiHiiity, but to turn our souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the armory of the feelings the weapons with which to defend against sin, assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. And oh, now infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this armory! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a master!

Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the boundless world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man—all his temptations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awake amid the glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. He can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer and his apostate legions; in letting loose the mighty waters until they swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the coming of that awful day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic voices tuned in celestial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never consumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of contrition start and stream from every eye; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as Felix quailed before St. PauL

SIGNS AND OMENS.

An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.

"Veil, I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don't pelieve everydings; but I dells you somedimcs dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sits und reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say,—

"'Fritz, de dog ish howling!'

"Veil I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine baper, und mine frau she say,—

"'Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,—der dog ish howling!'

"Una den I gets hup mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like everydings, und he park at de moon, dat vasn shine so bright ash never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say,—

"' Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish some pad ish happen. De dog uh howling J'

"Veil, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn,—

"'Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen. De dog vas howl all n4ght.'

"Und shoost den de newsbaper come in, und I opens him, und by shings, vot you dinks! dere vat a man died in Philadelphia J"

THE THREE FISHERS.—Charles Kingsley.

Three fishers went sailing out into the west—

Out into the west as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town,
For men must work, and women must weep;
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower.

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked it the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,—
And good-by to the bar and its moaning.

COUNT CANDESPINA'S Staxdard.—geo. H. Boker.

"The King of Aragon now entered Castile, by way of Soria and Osma, with a powerful army; and, having been met by the queen's forces, both parties encamped near Sepulveda, and prepared to give battle.

"This engagement, called, from the field where it took place, fde la EspinaJ i» one of the most famous of that age. The dastardly Count of Lara fled at the Arsl shock, and joined the queen at Burgos, where she was anxiously awaiting the w sue; but the brave Count of Candespina iGomez Gonzalez) stood his ground te the last, and died on the field of battle. His standard-bearer, a gentleman of tha house of Olea, after having hia horse killed under him, and l*ith hands cut of by sabre-strokes, fell beside his master, still clasping the standard in his arma, and repeating his war-cry of ' Olea!' "—Annai-*t Of The Qvr.zss or Spain.

Scarce were the splintered lances dropped,
Scarce were the swords drawn out,

Ere recreant Lara, sick with fear,
Had wheeled his steed about:

His courser reared, and plunged, and neighed,

Loathing thi' fight to yield;
But the coward spurred him to the bone,

And drove him from the field.

Gonzalez in his stirrups rose:
"Turn, turn, thou traitor knight I

Thou bold tongue in a lady's bower,
Thou dastard in a fight!"

But vainly valiant Gomez cried

Across the waning fray:
Pale Lara and his craven band

To Burgos scoured away.

"Now, by the God above me, sirs,

Better we all were dead,
Than a single knight among ye all

Should ride where Lara led!

"Yet ye who fear to follow me,

As yon traitor turn and fly; For I lead ye not to win a field;

I lead ye forth to die.

"Olea, plant my standard here—

Here on this little mound;
Here raise the war-c-y of thy house,

Make this our rallying ground.

"Forget not, as thou hop'st for grace,

The last care I shall have Will be to hear thy battle-cry,

And see that standard wave."

Down on the ranks of Aragon

The bold Gonzalez drove, And Olea raised his battle-cry,

And waved the flag above.

Slowly Gonzalez' little band

Gave ground before the foe;
But not an inch of the field was won

Without a deadly blow;

And not an inch of the field was won

That did not draw a tear
From the widowed wives of Aragon,

That fatal news to hear.

Backward and backward Gomez fought,
And high o'er the clashing steel,

Plainer and plainer rose the cry,
"Olea for Castile!"

Backward fought Gomez, step by step,
Till the cry was close at hand,

Till his dauntless standard shadowed him
And there he made his stand.

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