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LITTLE NELL'S FUNERAL. In its mest pathetic and beautiful passages, the prosc of Dickens runs eas. lly and naturally into rhyme and meter, and shows him to be a poet no les tban a novelist, of high order, This tendency of his writing is very vividly Illustrated by the account of the funcral of Litile Nell, in the "Old Curiosity Shop," which is appended exactly as it stands in the book, with the exception of a lew slight verbal alterations.
And now the bell,—the bell
E’en as a living voice,
So young, so beautiful, so good.
Decrepit age, and vigorous life,
And health, in the full blush
Of promise, the mere dawn of life, -
Whose cyes were dim
And senses failing, -
What was the death it would shut in,
Along the crowded patlı they bore her now;
Pure as the new fallen snow
Had been as fleeting.
She passed again, and the old church
They carried her to one old nook,
The light streamed on it through
Of trees were ever rustling
& RTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE.
I've been lingerin by the Tomb of the lamentid Shakspeare.
It is a success.
You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit
. If you think its publication will subswerve the causo of litteratoor, you may publicate it.
I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the birthplace of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as long as I kept out of Newgate she didn't care where I went. “But,” I said, you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived ? Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter, about the Roses as growses, and the breezes as blowses- but a Boss poit—also a philosopher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything."
Yes. I've been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birthplace of Shakspeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been dead over three hundred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of him. They cherish his men’ry, and them as sell picturs of his birthplace, &c., make it prof'tible cherisin it. Almost everybody buys a pictur to put into their Albiom.
"And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford, beside a Tombstone, “this marks the spot where lies William W. Shakspeare. Alars! and this is the spot where”
You've got the wrong grave," said a man,-a worthy villager; "Shakspeare is buried inside the church."
Oh," I said, “a boy told me this was it.” The boy
agreed on this, which is about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that his mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these commentaters and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare's career, we shall not, in doo time, know any. thing about it at all. When a mere lad little William attended the Grammer School, because, as he said, the Grammer School wouldn't attend him. This remarkable remark, coming from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin there might be something in this lad. He subsequently wrote llamlet and George Barnwell. When his kind teacher went to London to accept a position in the offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little William was chosen by his fellow pupils to deliver a fare. well address. “Go on, sir,” he said, “in a glorus career. Be like a cagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall all be gratified! That's so.”
C. F. Brown.
THE IRISIIVOMAN'S LETTER.
And slure, I was tould to come in till yer honor,
To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat, He's gone for a soger, is Misther O'Conner,
Wid a sthiripe on his arm, and a band on his hat.
And what ’ill ye tell him ? shure it must be aisy
For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen, Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy,
(The baby, yer lionor,) is better again.
Tell him to sind us a bit of his money,
For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake, Andshure there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey,
l' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake.
I'm over much thrifling, I'll not give ye trouble,
I'll find some one willin-ol, wliat can it be? What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer lionor, don't lide it, but rade it to me.
Dead! Patrick O'Conner ! O God, it's some ither,
Shot dead! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by, And the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin mother,
It hasn't had time yet, yer honor, to dliry.
Dead! dead! O God, am I crazy?
Shure it's brakin my heart ye are, tellin me so, And what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy ?
O what can I do? where can I go?
This room is so dark I'm not seein yer honor;
I think I'll go home. And a sob, hard and dry, Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner,
But never a tear drop welled up to her eye.
NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.
O no, no,-let me lie
Let not the iron tread
Nor let the reeking knife,
The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings,
To sparkle in my sight,
I know that beauty's eye
And brazen helmets dance,
I know that bards have sung,
In honor of the brave
I know that o'er their bones
Some of those piles I've seen:
Where the first blood was shed,
And others on our shore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.
Thy “tomb” Themistocles,
And which the waters kiss
And thine too have I seen, -
That like a natural knoll,
Watched by some turbaned boy,
Such honors grace the bed,
And hears, as life elbs out,
But, as his eye grows dim,
What, to the parting soul,
Of drums? No, let me die
And the soft summer air,
And from my forehead dries
Seem waiting to receive .