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In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells-

To the tolling of the bells,
or the bells, bells, bells, bells-

Bells, bells, bells,
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

WOUNDED.-By Rev. William E. Miller.

LET me lie down
Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:

Let me lie down.

Oh, it was grand ! Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share; The tempest,-its fury and thunder were there: On, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and dead, With the foc under foot, and our flag overhead:

Oh, it was grand !

Weary and faint, rone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest, With this shot-shatter'd head and sabre-pierced breast ? Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought, Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,

Wounded and faint.

Oh, that last charge! Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, Through without faltering, --clear through with a yell! Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom, Like heroes we dash'd, at the mandate of doom!

Oh, that last charge!

It was duty!
Some things are worthless, and some others so good
That nations who buy them pay only in blood.
For Freedom and Union each man owes his part;
And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart:

It is duty.

Dying at last!
My mother, dear mother! with meek tearful eve,
Farewell! and God bless you, for ever and are!
Oh that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest!

Dying at last!


I am no saint;
But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,
“Our Father, and then says, “Forgive us our sins:"
Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, “ Amen!"

Ah! I'm no saint!

Hark! there's a shout! Raise me up, comrades! We have conquer'd, I knowl Up, on my feet, with my face to the toe! Ah! there flies the flag, with its star-spangles bright, The promise of glory, the symbol of right!

Well may they sliout!

I'm muster'd out.
O God of our fathers, our freedom prolong,
And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong,
O land of earth's hope, on thy blood-redden'd sod
I die for the nation, ihe Union, and God!

I'm muster'd out.


A FARMER once to London went,
To pay the worthy squire his rent.
lle comes, he knocks; soon entrance gains,-
Who at the door such guest detains ?

Forth struts the squire, exceeding smart-
“Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;
You've brought iny rent, then, to a hair!
The best of tenants, I declare!"
The steward's called, the accounts made even;--
The money paid, the receipt wils given.
“Well," said the squire, “now, you shall stay,
And dine with me, old friend, to-day;
I've here some ladies, wondrous pretty,

With often bidding, takes his seat, But at a distance mighty great. Though often asked to draw his chair, He nods, nor comes an inch more near. By madame served, with body bended, With knife and fork and arms extended, He reached as far as he was able To plate, that overhangs the table; With little morsels cheats his chops, And in the passage some he drops. To show where most his heart inclined, He talked and drank to John behind. When drank to, in a modishi way, "Your love's sufficient, zur,” he'd say: And, to be thought a man of manners, Still rose to make his awkward honors. "Tush!” says the squire;.“ pray keep you: zitting !" "No, no,” he cries, "zur, 'tis not fitting : Though I'm no scholar, versed in letters, I knows my duty to my betters.” Much mirth the farmer's ways afford, And hearty laughs went round the board. Thus, the first course was ended well But at the next--ah! what befell? The dishes were now timely placed, And table with fresh lux’ry graced. When drank to by a neighboring charmer, Up, as usual, starts the farmer. A wag, to carry on the joke, Thus to his servant softly spoke:'Come hither, Dick; step gently there, And pull away the farmer's chair." "Tis done;

his congee made, the clown Draws back, and stoops to sit him down; But, by posteriors overweighed, And of his trusty seat betrayed, As men, at twigs, in rivers sprawling, He canght the cloth to save his falling; In vain !--sad fortune! down he wallowed, And, rattling, all the dishes followed: The fops soon lost their little wits; The ladies squalled-some fell in fits; Here tumbled turkeys, tarts, and widgeons, And there, minced pies, and geese, and pigeona; Lord! what a do 'twixt belles and beaux ! Some curse, some cry, and rub their clothes ! This lady raves, and that looks down, And weeps, and wails her spattered gown. One spark bemoans his greased waistcoat, ne-"Rot him! he has spoiled my laced-coai !"

midst the rout, the farmer long ome pudding sucked, and held his tongue;

At length, rubs his eyes, nostrils twang, Then snaps his fingers, and thus began: “Plague tak’t! l’ze tell you how'd 'twould be;

Look! here's a pickle, zurs, d’ye see.” “Peace, brute, begone !" the ladies cry;

The beaux exclaim, “Fly, rascal, fly!" "I'll tear his eyes out!" squeaks Miss Dolly; “I'll pink his soul out!" roars a bully, At this the farmer shrinks with fear, And thinking 'twas ill tarrying here, Runs off, and cries, “Ay, kill me, then, Whene'er you catch me here again!"

THE OATH.-By Thomas Buchanan Reud.

Hamlet.-Swear on my sword.

Ghost (below).-Swear !"-SHAKSPEARE. YE freemen, how long will ye stifle

The vengeance that justice inspires ? With treason how long will ye tritie

And shame the proud names of your sires ? Out, out with the sword and the rifle,

In defence of your homes and your fires ! The flag of the old Revolution

Swear firmly to serve and uphold,
That no treasonous breath of pollution
Shall tarnisli one star on its fold.

And hark! the deep voices replying
From graves where your fathers are lying,

“Swear! Oh, swear!”
In this moment, who hesitates, barters

The rights which his forefathers won; He forfeits all claim to the charters

Transmitted from sire to son. Keel, kneel at the graves of our martyrs,

And swear on your sword and your gun; Lay up your great oath on an altar

As huge and as strong as Stonehenge, And then, with sword, fire, and halter, Sweep down to the field of revenge,

Swear! And hark! the deep voices replying From graves where your fathers are lying,

“Swear! Oh, swear!"

By the tombs of your sires and brothers,

The host which the traitors have slain
By the tears of your sisters and mothers,

In secret concealing their pain;
The grief which the heroine smothers

Consuming the heart and the brain;
By the sigh of the penniless widow,

By the sob of our orphans' despair,
Where they sit in their sorrowful shadow,
Kneel, kneel, every freeman, and swear!

And hark! the deep voices replying
From graves where your fathers are lying,

Swear! Oh, swear!”
On mounds which are wet with the weeping

Where a nation has bow'd to the sod,
Where the noblest of martyrs are sleeping,

Let the wind bear your vengeance abroad,
And your firm oaths be held in the keeping

Of your patriot hearts, and your God;
Over Ellsworth, for whom the first tear rose,

While to Baker and Lyon you look,
By Winthrop, a star among heroes,
By the blood of our murder'd McCook,

And hark! the deep voices replying
From graves where your fathers are lying,

“Swear! Oh, swear !"


OLD IRONSIDES at anchor lay,

In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on the bay,–

The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Hal, the Captain's son,

A lad both brave and good,
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,

And on the main truck stood ?
A shudder shot through every vein,-

All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,

Between the sea and sky;
No hold had he above, below;

Alone he stood in air:
so that far height none dared to go,

No aid could reach him there.

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