OW gather all our Saxon bards-let harps and hearts be strung,

To celebrate the triumphs of our own good Saxon tongue!

-Far as Orkney's breakers roar."

For stronger far than hosts that march with battleflags unfurled,

It goes with freedom, thought, and truth to rouse and rule the world.

Stout Albion hears its household lays on every surfworn shore,

And Scotland hears its echoing far as Orkney's breakers roar;

It climbs New England's rocky steeps as victor mounts a throne;

Niagara knows and greets the voice, still mightier than its own;

It spreads where winter piles deep snows on bleak Canadian plains;

And where, on Essequibo's banks, eternal summer

reigns.

It tracks the loud, swift Oregon, through sunset val

leys rolled,

And soars where California brooks wash down their

sands of gold.

It kindles realms so far apart that while its praise you

sing,

These may be clad with autumn's fruits, and those with flowers of spring.

It quickens lands whose meteor lights flame in an Arctic sky,

And lands for which the southern cross hangs orbit fires on high.

It goes with all that prophets told and righteous kings desired;

With all that great apostles taught and

glorious Greeks admired;

With Shakespeare's deep and wondrous verse, and Milton's lofty mind: With Alfred's laws and Newton's lore, to

cheer and bless mankind.

Mark, as it spreads, how deserts bloom, and error flees away,

As vanishes the mist of night before the
star of day!

Take heed, then, heirs of Saxon fame-
take heed, nor once disgrace,
With recreant pen nor spoiling sword,
our noble tongue and race!

Go forth, and jointly speed the time, by
good men prayed for long,
When Christian states, grown just and
wise, will scorn revenge and wrong;
When earth's oppressed and savage tribes
shall cease to pine or roam,

-Lands whose meteor lights flame in an Arctic sky." All taught to prize these English words-FAITH, FREEDOM, HEAVEN, and HOME.

on the profits of to-morrow.

J. G. LYONS.

Hope is always reveling to-day

HE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE.

X

E are two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog:-come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye!
Over the table,-look out for the lamp!-
The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and
weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank-and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!

The paw he holds up there 's been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir,-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,—

Are n't we, Roger?-see him wink!

Well, something hot, then,—we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head!
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that 's said,-

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There is n't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!)
Shall march a little.-Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer!
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!
(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!—
Quick, sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!

Some brandy,—thank you,—there!—it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love, but I took to drink;

The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,-
You need n't laugh, sir, they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you would n't have guessed

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since,-a parson's wife:

"T was better for her that we should part,— Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped:
But little she dreamed, as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry:

It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!

"T was well she died before- Do you know

If the happy spirits in heaven can see

The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were,-

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;The sooner the better for Roger and me!

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

ATHER of all! in every age, In every clime adored,

By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou Great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined

To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind:

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill:
And binding nature fast in fate,

Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do;

This teach me more than hell to shun, That more than heaven pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives Let me not cast away;

For God is paid when man receives:
To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,

And deal damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my heart
To find that better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride
Or impious discontent,

At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see:
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath;
O lead me, wheresoe'er I go,
Through this day's life or death!
This day be bread and peace my lot:
All else beneath the sun
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar earth, sea, skies!
One chorus let all being raise!
All nature's incense rise!

ALEXANDER POPE.

And the first evil that

Ah me! my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the years!
E'en flattery's honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in "How young you are!"
I'm growing old!

Thanks for the years!—whose rapid flight
My sombre muse so sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light

That tint the darkness of their wings! The light that beams from out the sky, Those heavenly mansions to unfold, Where all are blest, and none may sigh, "I'm growing old!"

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

UR bugles sang truce,-for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; "Twas autumn,—and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to

part;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. "Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn;" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;— But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THOMAS CAMPBELL.

A

BOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised his head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had
blessed,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

HEN barren doubt like a late-coming snow
Made an unkind December of my spring,
That all the pretty flowers did droop for woe,
And the sweet birds their love no more would
sing;

Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith,
Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart;
Fond feeling saved me from that utter scathe,
And from thy hope I could not live apart.

Now that my mind hath passed from wintry gloom,

And on the calméd waters once again Ascendant Faith circles with silver plume, That casts a charméd shade, not now in pain, Thou child of Christ, in joy I think of thee, And mingle prayers for what we both may be.

ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM.