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"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child ?—Will He not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?

And in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God—the God that gave thee,
A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart!

And precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be his child.

"Therefore, farewell!—I go,—my soul may fail me,
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks—
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the shadow of the rock shalt dwell,—

The rock of strength.—Farewell!"


Tis with our judgments as our watches,—none

Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

In poets as true genius is but rare,

True taste as seldom is the critic's share;

Both must alike from heaven derive their light,

These born to judge, as well as those to write.

Ixit such teach others who themselves excel,

And censure freely who have written well.

Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;

But are not critics to their judgment, too?


DAVY THE TEAMSTER.—Esteixk Thomson.

Honest Davy, the teamster, lives down by the mill,

In a cottage thatched over with straw; You would say, if you looked on its queer, battered walls,

Twas the drollest home ever you saw. But more strange than all else, is that Davy ne'er seems

To suspect he's not envied by all, For he talks to his friends of" my wife " and " my home,"

As though living in palace or hall.

It is true that the Judge, on the top of the hill,

Boasts proudly, while flushed with his wine,
Of " my wife and her jewels so costly and rare."

And " my mansion so spacious and fine."
And the people all listen, and look with an awe

On the handsome-faced lady—his wife—
Who sweeps her rich robes once a week into church,

Quite ignoring all commonplace life.

Her hands are as white and as soft as the lace
That falls in such dainty-like frills

O'er the bosom that covers her own selfish thoughts,
Never touched by humanity's ills.

With a ladylike grace she moves ever through life,
As the mistress of lands and of gold;

3ut the heart in her breast never shines through her eyesLike her gems, it is polished and cold.

You would laugh to see Margery, Davy's young wife;

She has never a garment that's fine;
And she does up her hair in a queer little knot,

Because she cannot find the time
For braidings and puffings and crimpings, like those

That the Judge's wife loves to display;
And Margery's hands are not spotless and white,

For they toil all the long, busy day.

Then she tucks up her gown at the dawning of morn,

And goes merrily off with her pail,
While the song that she sings in the green meadow lane

Wakes the echoes in mountain and dale.
Ah! Margy is useful; we know that full well,—

But the Judge's wife says, for her life,
She could never imagine what charm there could be

In such a plain girl for a wife.

"Oho-ho!" laughs out Davy, when nearing his home,

And Margy comes down to the gate,
While her voice takes a tender, caressing-like tone,

As she tells him he's working too late.

Then her own Bun browned hands help unfasten the bars,

And lead the worn horse to the stall,
And they dust Davy's coat, and draw out his rude chair,

And he loves them—though hardened by toil.

Ah, the wife of the Judge I She is pacing to-night

Through her parlors, whose tropical glow
Should carry a thrill of warm love to her heart,

Yet her face tells of bitterest woe;
And she pauses anon, as the clock on the stairs

Tells the hours, as they slowlv pass by;
But he comes not to cheer the lone vigil she keeps,

And we turn from her grief with a sigh.

We know but too well where his revels are spent;—

The Judge is a man of the world—
And many a one, through the dread " social glass,"

To a grave of dishonor is hurled.
Then may ours be the hearts that find ever sweet peace,

Though humble and toilsome our lot;
Still content, like friend Davy, to work if there's need,

And like Margy—make home of a cot.


A story is told of a clothing merchant on Chatham Street New York, who kept a very open store, and drove a thriving trade, the natural consequence being that he waxed wealthy and indolent. He finally concluded to get an assistant to take his place on the sidewalk to "run in" customers, while he himself would enjoy his otium cum dig within the store. Having advertised for a suitable clerk, he awaited applications, determined to engage none but a good talkei who would be sure to promote his interest.

Several unsuccessful applicants were dismissed, when a smart looking Americanized Jew came along and applied fot the situation. The "boss" was determined not to engage the fellow without proof of his thorough capability and sharpness. Hence the following dialogue:

"Look here, young man! I told you somedings. Ivillgone up de street und valk me back past dis shop yust like I vaa coundrymans, and if you can make me buy a coat of you, I vill hire you right away quick."

"All right," said the young man, "go ahead, and if I don't sell you a coat I won't ask the situation."

The proprietor proceeded a short distance up the street, then sauntered back toward the shop, where the young man was on the alert for him.

"Hi! look here! Don't you want some clothes to-day?"

"No, I don't vant me nothing," returned the boss.

"But step inside and let me show you what an elegant stock we have," said the " spider to the fly," catching him by the arm, and forcing him into the store.

After considerable palaver, the clerk expectant got down a coat, on the merits of which he expatiated at length, and finally offered it to " the countryman " at thirty dollars, remarking that it was " dirt cheap."

"Dirty tollar? My kracious! I vouldn't give you dwenty. But I don't vant de coat anyvays."

"You had better take it, my friend; you don't get a bargain like this every day."

"No; I don't vant it. I gone me out. Good-day."

"Hold on! don't be in such a hurry," answered the anxious clerk. "See here, now; the boss has been out all day, and I haven't sold a dollars worth. I want to have something to show when he comes back, so take the coat at twenty-five dollars; that is just what it cost. I don't mako a cent on it; but take it along."

"Young mans, don'd I told you three, four, couple of dimes dat I don't vant de coat?"

"Well, take it at twenty dollars; I'll lose money on it, but I want to make one sale anyhow, before the boss comes in. fake it at twenty."

"Veil, I don't vant de coat, but I'll give you fifteen tollar, and not one cent more."

"Oh, my friend, I couldn't do it! Why, the coat cost twentyfive; yet sooner than not make a sale, I'll let you have it for eighteen dollars, and stand the loss."

"No; I don't vant it anyvays. It ain't vurth no more as fifteen tollar, but I vouldn't gif a cent more, so help me kracious."

Here the counterfeit rustic turned to depart, pleased to think that he had got the best of the. young clerk; but that Individual was equal to the emergency. Knowing that he must sell the garment to secure his place, he seized the parting boss, saying:

"Weil, I'll tell you how it is. The man who keeps this store is an uncle of mine, aml as he is a mean old cuss, I want to bust him! Here, take the coat at fifteen dollars."

This settled the business. The proprietor saw that this was too valuable a salesman to let slip, and so engaged him at once; and he may be seen every day standing in front of the shop, urging innocent countrymen to buy clothes which are " yust de fit," at sacrificial prices.

GOIN' HOME TO-DAY.—Will Carleton.

My business on the jury's done—the quibblin' all is through-' I've watched the lawyers, right and left, and give my verdict true;

I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in;
And if I do not know myself, they'll get me there ag'in.
But now the court's adjourned for good, and I have got my

I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm goin' home to-day.

I've somehow felt uneasy, like, since first day I come down;
It is an awkward game to play the gentleman in town;
And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine, on Sunday rightly sets,
But when I wear the stuff a week, it somehow galls and fi-ets.
I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper-salt and gray—
I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home to-day.

I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one—
As well as any woman could—to see that things were done:
For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't set her foot out

She's very careful, when I'm gone, to 'tend to all the chores.
But nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay,
And I will put things into shape, when I get home to-day.

The mornin' that I come awiy, we had a little bout;
I coolly took my hat and left," before the show was out.
For what I said was naught whereat she ought to take of-

And she was always quick at words, and ready to commence. But then, she's first one to give un when she has had her say;

And she will meet me with a kiss, when T go home to-day.

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