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Yea, with thy heaviest knell,

From surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living-not the dead,
Whose mortal woes are o'er

Toll, toll, toll!

O'er breeze and billow free;
And with thy startling lore instruct
Each rover of the sea.

Tell how o'er proudest joys

May swift destruction sweep,
And bid him build his hopes on high-
Lone teacher of the deep!

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

GOOD morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of Walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst kind of a narvous head-ache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived.

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit pain I have in my side?

Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.)

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Oh, dear! What shall I do! I have consulted almost

the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion.

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.)

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day-and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood-you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend to every thing about the house herself.

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out-as it was a raining at the time-but I thought I'd risk it any how. So I went out, pick’d ́up a few chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that aint all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes-and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar janders." (Coughs.)

THE NATION'S DEAD.

FOUR hundred thousand men

The brave-the good-the true,
In tangled wood, in mountain glen,
On battle plain, in prison pen,
Lie dead for ine and you!
Four hundred thousand of the brave
Have made our ransomed soil their grave,
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

In many a fevered swamp,
By many a black bayou,
In many a cold and frozen camp,
The weary sentinel ceased his tramp,
And died for me and you!

From Western plain to ocean tide

Arc stretched the graves of those who died
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

M

On many a bloody plain
Their ready swords they drew,
And poured their life-blood, like the rain,
A home--a heritage to gain,

To gain for me and you!
Our brothers mustered by our side;

They marched, they fought, and bravely died
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

Up many a fortress wall

They charged-those boys in blue'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball; The bravest were the first to fall!

To fall for me and you!

These noble men-the nation's pride-
Four hundred thousand men have died
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

In treason's prison-hold

Their martyr spirits grew
To stature like the saints of old,
While amid agonies untold,

They starved for me and you!
The good, the patient, and the tried,
Four hundred thousand men have died
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

A debt we ne'er can pay
To them is justly due,
And to the nation's latest day
Our children's children still shall say,
"They died for me and you!”
Four hundred thousand of the brave

Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave,
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.-Thomas Hood.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-

Stitch stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt [”

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work!

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work!

"Work-work-work!

Till the brain begins to swim! Work-work-work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in my dream!

"Oh! men with sisters dear!

Oh! men with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A SHROUD as well as a shirt!

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But why do I talk of death,

That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fast I keep :

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime; Work-work-work!

As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand!

"Work-work-work!

In the dull December light; And work-work-work!

When the weather is warm and bright:
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the Spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet;
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my
For only one short hour

feet:

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite, however brief!
No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would case my heart-
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread !"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread;
Stitch stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich !—
She sung this "Song of the Shirt !”

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