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"Wasted, and haggard, and old;

Old, and haggard, and thin;
Wasted and baggard with suffering untold;

Old and haggard with sin.
Steeped in crime to the lips;

With sorrow and anguish gray. Toll, mad winds toll, a human soul

Is passing from earth away.

“ Hark to the old church-bell

That swings in the church-tower gray; O'er meadow and hill, o'er dell and stream,

Its music calls away;
Away from carking care,

Away from strife and sin;
Come, come away, 'tis his own day,–

To his courts enter in.

“Brightly the sunlight gleams;

Softly the sweet airs blew; 'Mid verdant hills the happy streams

With tuneful babblings flow.
We pass the church-yard wall,

Mother, Effie, and I,
And the green grass waves o'er lowly graves,

And the trailing willows sigh.

“Hark! that is his step, I know;

Ali, no! it has passed me by;
Ah! white, cold moon, you are like the snow,

I shrink from your searching eye.
But you cannot know his love;

His kisses are not for you;
I pity you so, with your heart of snow,

On your throne in the starry blue..

“ Where am I? Oh, God! it is past,

The dream of guileless years;
Howl, fiends of night, on the whirling blasty

And mock these idiot tears.
I will not fear to die,

Though all beyond is gloom!
Toll! mad winds, tolll for my lost soul

Is passing unto doom.”

Wasted, and haggard, and old;

Old, and haggard, and thin; She's sleeping to-night ’neath the church-yard mould,

Crushed ’neath a weight of sin.

Not hers the deadly guilt;

Hers only the love and shame, –
Only the pang of a deathless love,

Only a blighted name.
Alone in the black midnight,

Haunted by goblin and ghoul;
The mad winds tolled, death's billows rolled

Across her shuddering soul.


Extract from a speech delivered by Edward Everett, October 27th, 1852

Among the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable are those which have been quoted by a previous speaker: "I still live.” They attest the serene composure of his mind,—the christian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in upon himself, and explore, step by step, the dark passage (dark to us, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above), which connects this world with the world to come. But I know not what words could have been better chosen to express his relation to the world he was leaving,—“ I still live.” This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections of the people to whose services I have consecrated my days. “I still live.” The icy hand of death is already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave them as the last bequest of a dying friend.

In the long and honored career of our lamented friend, there are efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one and days of expectation; the thoughtfulness for the public business when the sands of life were so nearly run out; the hospitable care for the reception of the friends who came to Marshfield; that affectionate and solemn leave separately taken, name by name, of wife, and chil. dren, and kindred, and friends, and family,—down to the humblest members of the household; the designation of the coming day, then near at hand, when“ all that was mortal of Daniel Webster should cease to exist;" the dimly-recollected strains of the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the soaring intellect; the feeblymurmured words of Holy Writ repeated from the lips of the good physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul; the clasped hands; the dying prayers. Oh! my fellow-citizens, this is a consummation over which tears of pious sympathy will be shed ages after the glories of the forum and the senate are forgotten.

“His sufferings ended with the day,

Yet lived he at its close,
And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose.
But ere the sun, in all liis state,

Illumed the eastern skies,
He passed through glory's morning gato,

And walked in paradise.”

TRUTHFUL JAMES.-( Table Mountain, 1870.)

From the Overland Monthly."
Which I wish to remark,-

And my language is plain, -
That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name;

And I shall not deny
In regard to the same

What that name might imply,

But his smile it was pensive and child-like,
As I frequently remarked to Bill Nye.
It was August the third,

Aud quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred

That Al Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.
Which we had a small game,

And Ah Sin took a land:
It was Euclire. The same

He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was child-like and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played

By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made

Were quite frightful to see,-
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had deait unto mo.

Then I looked up at Nye,

And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,

And said, “Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"
And he went for that heathen Chince.
In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed

Like the leaves on tlie strand

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.

F. Bret Harte.


The proudest now is but my peer,

The highest not more high;
To-day, of all the weary year,

A king of men am I.
To-day, alike are great and small,

The nameless and the known;
My palace is the peoples hall,

The ballot-box my throne.

Who serves, to-day upon the list

Beside the served shall stand;
Alike the brown and wrinkled fist,

The gloved and dainty hand.
The rich is level with the poor,

The weak is strong to-day;
And sleekest broad-cloth counts no more

Than home-spun frock of gray.

To-day let pomp and vain pretensa

My stubborn right abide;
I set a plain man's common senso

Against the pedant's pride.
To-day shall simple manhood try

The strength of golil and land;
The wide world has not wealth to buy

The power in my right hand,

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