162 Come in her crowning hour,-and then Of sky and stars to prison'd men; Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one The memory or her buried joys,- Talk of thy doom without a sigh; SOLDIERS AID SOCIETIES. To the quiet nooks of home, To the public halls so wide, To fight for their native land, With womanly weapons girt, For dagger a needle, scissors for brand, O women with sons so dear, It is not money you work for now, Stitch-stitch-stitch Under the sheltering roof, To the men who are shedding their blood, Whose action is honor, whose cause is good, We pledge our strong right hand. Work-work-work, With earnest heart and soul- To keep the Union whole. And 'tis O for the land of the brave, Brothers are fighting abroad, Husbands and wives with one accord Serving the cause so dear. Stand by our colors to-day Keep to the Union true Under our flag while yet we may Hurrah for the Red, White, and Blue. THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY. ONE summer morning a daring band Over the prosperous peaceful farms, The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms. Fresh from the South, where the hungry pine, "The rebels are coming," far and near Some paled, and cowered, and sought to hide; But others-vipers in human form, Made them merry with food and wine, For rags and hunger to make amends, Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends. "Leave us scathless, for we are friends!" Could traitors trust a traitor? No! But gathered the cattle the farms across, With heart of a patriot, firm and bold, Proudly, steadily, up it flew, Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue: His withered hand, as he shook it freer, One, with a loud, defiant laugh, But caring not for the stern command, Seventy winters and three had shed But though cheeks may wither, and locks grow gray, YORKSHIRE ANGLING. IT happened once that a young Yorkshire clown, but newly come to far-famed London town, was gaping round at many a wondrous sight, grinning at all he saw, with vast delight; attended by his terrier Tyke, who was as sharp as sharp may be: and thus the master and the dog, d'ye see, were very much alike. After wandering far and wide, and seeing every street and Square,--the parks, the plays, the Queen, and the Lord Mayor, with all in which your Cockneys" place their pride;—and, being quizzed by many a city spark for coat of country cut and red-haired pate, he came at length to noisy Billingsgate. He saw the busy scene with mute surprise, opening his ears and wondering eyes at the loud clamor, and the monstrous fish, hereafter doomed to grace full many a dish. Close by him was a turbot on a stall, which, with stretched mouth, as if to pant for breath, seemed in the agonies of death. Said Lubin, "What name, zur, d'ye that, fish call? 66 "A turbot," answered the sarcastic elf; "a flat, you see-so something like yourself." "D'ye think," said Lubin, “that he'll bite?" Why," said the fishman, with a roguish grin, “his mouth is open; put your finger in and then you'll know," Why, zur," replied the wight, "I shouldn't like to try; but there's my Tyke shall put his tail there, an' you like." Agreed," rejoined the man, and laughed delight. Within the turbot's teeth was placed the tail, and the fish bit with all its might. The dog no sooner felt the bite, than off he ran, the dangling turbot holding tight. The astonished man began most furiously to bawl and rail; but, after numerous escapes and dodgings, Tyke safely got to Master Lubin's lodgings. Thither the fishmonger in anger flew. Says Lubin, Lunnon tricks on me won't do! I'ze come from York to queer such flats as you; and Tyke, my dog, is Yorkshire, too!” Then, laughing at the man, who sneaked away, he had the fish for dinner that same day. RIENZI'S ADDRESS.—By M. R. Mitford FRIENDS: I come not here to talk. Ye know too well Rich in some dozen paltry villages Strong in some hundred spearsmen-only great In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark frand, Cries out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor-there he stands- He tossed not high his ready cap in air, At sight of that great ruflian! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, |