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ally to perish. The respect of the neighborhood, his selfrespect, and, more than all, the respect of Mrs. Blifkins, whom he still saw watching him from the opposite side oi the way, forbade so cowardly a thing. He seized his cudgel with a firmer grasp, and was lifting his foot to take a step nearer the door, when he heard a step upon the stairs inside, and the door opened. He was relieved by seeing that it was the boy, who said,— "It's all right."

"What's all right?" cried Blifkins, taking him by the collar, and dragging him across the street to where the impatient group were awaiting the denouement of the scene.

"It's only mother," said he, as soon as he could speak; "you see she wears a wig, and was sitting there where you saw her, pulling out the short hairs that were growing on her head—she's as bald as a plate."

"Just as I thought," said Mrs. Blifkins, " and anybody but a fool would have seen it at once. I declare I believe Blifkins is growing stupider and stupider every day. I'm thankful none of the children take after him."

"True, dear," chimed in his mother-in-law; "but it couldn't be expected any different, because men are never so considerate as women. Though he hadn't ought to try your feelings so at such a time."

"Oh! my feelings are not of any consequence," said Mrs. Blifkins; '' I never expect any consideration for them."

Blifkins with a tried spirit went into the house, the light had disappeared from the pane opposite, he heard his children say their prayers as he put them to bed, and sat down in velvet slippers and tranquil meditation, thanking his lucky stars that he had been saved from participating in what might have been a tragedy, had the fates so willed it.

Pnrtingtonian Patchwork.

THE OLD CLOCK AGAINST THE WALL.

Oh! the old, old clock of the household stock,
Was the brightest thing, and neatest;

Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,
And its chime rang still the sweetest;

Twas a monitor too, though its words were few,

Yet they lived though nations altered;
And its voice, still strong, warned old and young,

When the voice of friendship faltered:
"Tick ! tick !" it said—" quick, quick to bed,

For ten I've given warning;
Up! up! and go, or else you know,

You 11 never rise soon in the morning!"

A friendly voice was that old, old clock,

As it stood in the corner smiling,
And blessed the time with a merry chime,

The wintry hours beguiling;
But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock,

As it called at day-break boldly;
When the dawn looked gray o'er the misty way,

And the early air blew coldly:
"Tick! tick!" it said, "quick out of bed,

For five I've given warn.ng;
You'll never have health, you'll never have wealth,

Unless you're up soon in the morning!"

Still hourly the sound goes round and round,

With a tone that ceases never;
While tears are shed for bright days fled,

And the old friends lost forever;
Its heart beats on—though hearts are gone,
Its hands still move—though hands we love

Are clasped on earth no longer!
"Tick ! tick !" it said—" to the "church-yard bed,

The grave hath given warning:
Up! up! and rise, and look at the skies,

And prepare for a heavenly morning!"

THEBES.—William Whitehead.

And Thebes, how fallen now! Her storied gates
Resistless all! Where sweeps the Nile's swift wave,

Relentless sands embattling, she awaits
Her final sepulture and gathering grave:—

For Lybia there her wide dominion brings,
More powerful than Severus to entomb,

And vaster than the sculptur'd place of kings,
That pierces far the mountain's inmost womb,
Her moral breathes from out a sterner wilder gloom.

The city rose where wandering paths were traced,—
Robed by the Graces she came forth a queen;—

Man in his virtue took her frojn the waste,
Man in his wrath turned her to waste again;

He conquered whilst his passions were aflame,
But he became relentless 'mid the glare

Of his wild conquests, and his conquerors came;
All that he worshipped perished—all that were
Of his, swept through the rapid tideway of despair.

Methinks I see her serried legions march,

And hear the cadent tramp of many feet; Proud banners wave upon the sculptur'd arch;

The drum's stern tempest and its stirring beat Invoke to ardor where the fearless meet.

The fierce steed prances to the trumpet's note With flushing nostrils and disdainful feet,

And tossing mane and battle-breathing throat,

To make the poet's theme, and history's pen provoke.

And here, where ruin peers, the lover wooed
And won his bride—brave men and beauteous maids

Trod proudly through the vestibules—here stood
In stern command, within the pillar'd shades,

Imperious monarchs, whose ensanguin'd blades
Defied the gods—and here remorseless war,

Sedition's rage, inexpiable dee<"s,
And conquering crime, made her the servitor
Of baseness—she became the handmaid of the boor.

And now she is a lone, deserted one,—

The tears of Niobe are hers, for she
Has lost her children—fate they could not shun,

Or from the shafts of stern Latona flee.
Wrapt in her griefs, she owns the dark decree,

And bows where Amphion left his bloody stains; Requiting gods from thraldom do not free,

>o tides of life swell through her pulseless veins,

Where she was turned to stone in gloom she still remains.

She was a city of a thousand years

Ere Homer harped his wars, yet on her plain,

Crumbling, the riven monument appears,
To mourn that glory ne'er returns again:

Her front of graven epics vainly tells
How long she conquered—lonely musings bound

The storied place—where deep ranks gathered, swells,
Of fallen architraves, the saddening mound,
And many a worshipp'd pile bestrews the silent ground.

She dreams no dream of greatness now, doth mourn

No dim rcmember'd past—dominion, hope,
And conquest's ardor long have ceased to burn

Where ruthless Cambyses her warriors smote;
Her horsemen, columns, gates, together lie,
And moulder into elemental clay;

Nor wish to breathe her being into day—

Upon her fields revive great Carute's bold array!

Why hath she fallen? Men die but to yield

To others all their legacies of thought; Sires give to sons the palace and the field,

The muniments by ripened vigor wrought! Ages in all their bright success have taught

To brave the whelming torrent of events; And lading centurie-j gather not for nought;—

Yet where the architraves and pediments

Appear and linger still, I mark but wasting rents.

Why hath she fallen? Who the tale shall tell?

When Saturn's golden age was wrapt in story,
Ere time revenged and ruin wove her spell,

Existence was computed by her glory!
Why, when her towers with crowning years were hoary,

Should she be doomed to night and cerement gory,
And dim remembrance linger at her tomb,—
A voiceless phantom 'mid the cold and pulseless gloom? ^

Not that her legions through her hundred gates

Went out to conquer—not that virtue rose To guard her from the shafts of venom'd fates,

And save her from the wrath of leaguer'd foes. Her stormy memories light her dull repose.

And warning voices linger through her shades; Her vices were the parents of her woes—

The gods in justice turned her sweeping blades

To her own bosom, ending thus her masquerades.

Forever and forever flows the river,

Forever and forever looms the plain; Forever shall the pale stars o'er them quiver,

But never shall her past return again! Hyperion dawns but light her frieze in vain,

And moons peer sadly thiough her column'd way; The mid-day glares on what doth yet remain

Of faded glory, with a mocking play,—

Thus passeth into shadow man's imperious sway!

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What recks it that Sesostris dared to thrall
His fellow kings, and haughty Cheops raised

The everlasting pyramid! the pall
Of night now hangs where distant glories blazed!

How shall fame last when all her monuments
Are in the dust ?—The same blue bending sky

Serenely smiles through time's despairing rents,
And lengthened colonnades the storm defy,—
But there's no sceptre now, or kingly footfall nigh.

DEATH OF HENRY CLAY—Rev. Dr. Butler.

Before all hearts and minds in this august assemblage, the vivid image of One Man stands. To some aged eye, he may come forth, from the dim past, as he appeared in the neighboring city of his native state, a lithe and ardent youth, full of promise, of ambition, and of hope. To another, he may appear as, in a distant state, in the courts of justice, erect, high-strung, bold, wearing fresh forensic laurels on his young and open brow.

Some may see him in the earlier and some in the later stages of his career on this auspicious theater of his renown; and to the former he will start out, on the background of the past, as he appeared in the neighboring chamber, tall, elate, impassioned, with flashing eye, and suasive gesture, and clarion voice, an already acknowledged " Agamemnon, King of Men ;" and to others, he will again stand in this chamber "the strong staff" of the bewildered and staggering state, and " the beautiful rod,'' rich with the blossoms of genius, and of patriotic love and hope, the life of youth still remaining to give animation, grace, and exhaustless vigor, to the wisdom, the experience, and gravity of age.

To others he may be present as he sat in the chamber of sickness, cheerful, majestic, gentle—his mind clear, his heart warm, his hope fixed on heaven, peacefully preparing for his last great change. To the memory of the minister of tiod, he appears as the penitent, humble, and peaceful Christian, who received him with the affection of a father, and ioined with him in solemn sacrament and prayer with the

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