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“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.
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
An old wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro
Told a tale of long ago ;
The good man dozed o'er the latest news
Till the light in his pipe went out ;
Rolled and tangled the balls about ;
But anon, a misty tear drop came
In her eyes of faded blue,
l'hen she spoke of the time when the basket there
Was filled to the very brim ;
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
Now wandering so far away ;
"For each empty nook in the basket old
By the hearth there's a vacant scat;
And the patter of many feet ;
"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,
And over the mountains bold,
Were gemmed with the rarest gold ;
“Another went forth on the foaming wave,
And diminished the basket's store;
They'll never be warm any more--
"Two others have gone toward the setting sun,
And made them a home in its light,
To mend by the fireside bright;
THE CLOSING SCENE.--T. Buchanan Rend. The following is pronounced by the Westminster Recien to be un. questionably the finest American poem over writen.
WITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills
O’er the dim waters widening in the vales,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.
The hills seemed further and the streams sang low; As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muilled blow. The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad beated host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.
On slumberous wings the vuiture tried his flight
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint, And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew -
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than beforeSilent till some replying wanderer blew
Ilis alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest
Made garrulous trouble round the untledged young : And where the oriole hung her swaying nest
By every light wind like a censer swung;
Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,
An early harvest and a plenteous year;
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
A.one, from out the stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; alone the pleasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing tlie floor with his inverted torch
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a Fate, and watched the tiying thread. She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust;
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
Re-ga ve the swords to rust upon her wall.
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ;
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped-her head was bowed : And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroudLife drooped the distaff' through his hands serene; While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.
DEATH OF COPERNICUS.-E. Everett. Ar length he draws near his end. He is seventy-three years of age, and he yields his work on “ The Revolutions of the Heavenly Orbs "' to his friends for publication. The day at last has come on which it is to be ushered into the world. It is the twenty-fourth of May, 1543.
On that day—the effect, no doubt, of the intense excitement of his mind, operating upon an exhausted frame-an effusion of blood brings him to the gates of the grave. His last hour has come; he lies stretched upon the couch from which he will never rise.
The beams of the setting sun glance through the Gothic windows of his chamber; near his bedside is the armillary sphere which he has contrived to represent his theory of the heavens; his picture painted by himself, the amusement of his earlier years, hangs before him; beneath it are his astrolabe and other imperfect astronomical instruments; and around him are gathered his sorrowing disciples.
The door of the apartment opens; the eye of the departing sage is turned to see who enters : it is a friend who brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. He knows that in that book he contradicts all that had ever been distinctly taught by former philosophers ; he knows that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world had acknowledged for a thousand years; he knows that the popular mind will be shocked by ins innovations ; he knows that the attempt will be made t" press even religion into the service against him; but he knows that his book is true.
IIe is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth as his dying bequest to the world. He bids the friend who has brought it place himself between the window and his bedside, that the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he niay behold it once more before his eye grows dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and expires.
But no, he is not wholly gone. A smile lights up his dying countenance; a beam of returning intelligence kindles