As memory's feeling fount hath stirred,
And its revealings there

Have told him what he might have been
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen.

Go to my mother's side,

And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide,

Wipe from her cheek the tear;

Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,
The gray that streaks her dark hair now,
The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth,
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
This promise to the deadly cup,

And led her down from love and light,

From all that made her pathway bright,
And chained her there mid want and strife,
That lowly thing,-a drunkard's wife!
And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild,
That withering blight,- -a drunkard's child:

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know
All that my soul hath felt and known,
Then look within the wine-cup's glow;
See if its brightness can atone;
Think if its flavor you would try,
If all proclaimed,-'Tis drink and die.

Tell me I hate the bowl,-
Hate is a feeble word;

I loathe, abhor, my very soul
By strong disgust is stirred
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell
Of that dark beverage of hell!

BUGLE SONG.-ALFRED TENNYSON.

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;

The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark, oh hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going;
Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

GENERAL GRANT TO THE ARMY.-1865.

Sadiers of the Armies of the United States! By your patriotic devotion to your country in the hour of danger and alarm, your magnificent fighting, bravery, and endurance, you nave maintained the supremacy of the Union and the Constitution, overthrown all armed opposition to the enforcement of the laws, and of the proclamations forever abolishing Slavery—the cause and pretext of the rebellion --and opened the way to the rightful authorities, to restore order and inaugurate peace on a permanent and enduring basis on every foot of American soil. Your marches, sieges, and battles, in distance, duration, resolution, and brilliancy of results, dim the luster of the world's past military achievements, and will be the patriot's precedent in defence of liberty and the right in all time to come. In obedience to your country's call, you left your homes and families and volunteered in its defence.

Victory has crowned your valor and secured the purpose of your patriotic hearts; and with the gratitude of your countrymen and the highest honors a great and free nation can accord, you will soon be permitted to return to your homes and families, conscious of having discharged the highest duty of American citizens. To achieve these

glorious triumphs, and to secure to yourselves, your countrymen, and posterity, the Llessings of free institutions, tens of thousands of your gallant comrades have fallen and sealed the priceless legacy with their lives. The graves of these a grateful nation bedews with tears, honors their memories, and will ever cherish and support their stricken families.

THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR.

A counsel in the "Common Pleas,"

Who was esteemed a mighty wit,
Upon the strength of a chance hit,
Amid a thousand flippancies,
And his occasional bad jokes,

In bullying, bantering, browbeating,
Ridiculing and maltreating
Women, or other timid folks,
In a late cause, resolved to hoax
A clownish Yorkshire farmer,—one
Who, by his uncouth look and gait,
Appeared expressly meant by fate
For being quizzed and played upon.

So having tipped the wink to those
In the back rows,

Who kept their laughter bottled down,
Until our wag should draw the cork,
He smiled jocosely on the clown,

And went to work.

"Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at York?" "Why-not, sir, as they do wi' you;

But on four legs instead of two."

"Officer," cried the legal elf,

Piqued at the laugh against himself,

"Do, pray, keep silence down below there!

Now look at me, clown, and attend,

Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?"
"Yees, very like, I often go there."

"Our rustic's waggish, quite laconic,"
The counsel cried, with grin sardonic,
I wish I'd known this prodigy,

This genius of the clods, when I

On circuit was at York residing.
Now, farmer, do for once speak true,
Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you
Who doubtless think yourself so clever,
Are there as many fools as ever

In the West Riding?"

"Why no, sir, no! we've got our share,
But not so many as when you were there."

THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND
TO-NIGHT.

An old wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro

In an easy chair, whose creaky craw
Told a tale of long ago;

While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,

Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score.

The good man dozed o'er the latest news
Till the light in his pipe went out;
And, unheeded, the kitten with cunning paws
Rolled and tangled the balls about;

Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.

But anon, a misty tear drop came

In her eyes of faded blue,

Then trickled down in a furrow deep

Like a single drop of dew;

So deep was the channel-so silent the stream

That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eve beam

Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light

Of her eye had heavy grown,

And marveled he more at the tangled balls,

So he said in a gentle tone:

"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,

Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there

Was filled to the very brim;

And now, there remained of the goodly pile

But a single pair--for him;

"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,

There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"I cannot but think of the busy feet,

Whose wrappings were wont to lay

In the basket, awaiting the needle's time-
Now wandering so far away;

How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,
Unheeded fell on the careless ear.

"For each empty nook in the basket old
By the hearth there's a vacant seat;
And I miss the shadows from off the wall,
And the patter of many feet;

"Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight,
At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

""Twas said that far through the forest wild,
And over the mountains bold,

Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door-
And I knew the shadows were only four.

"Another went forth on the foaming wave,
And diminished the basket's store;

But his feet grew cold-so weary and cold,
They'll never be warm any more.

And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me
To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

"Two others have gone toward the setting sun,
And made them a home in its light,

And fairy fingers have taken their share
To mend by the fireside bright;

Some other basket their garments will fill-
But mine, ah, mine is emptier still.

"Another-the dearest, the fairest, the best-
Was taken by angels away,

And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,
In a land of continual day;

Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,

When I mend the one pair of stockings to night."