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Down the hill, up the glen,
O'er the bodies of men;
Why stumble so, Ned?
No answer : he's dead !
Crimson and gory!
On! on! Do not think
Of the falling ; but drink
On! on ! let them feel
The cold vengeance of steel !
In and out of it! Wrench
Chargel charge ! with a yell
Like the shriek of a sliell-
Back again! Never !
It is ours! It is lost !
Huzza! What a dust!
Hew them down, Cut and thrust!
Nathan D. Urner.
DRUNKARDS NOT ALL BRUTES.
I said when I began, that I was a trophy of this movement; and therefore the principal part of my work has been (not ignoring other parts,) in behalf of those who have suffered as I have suffered. You know there is a great deal said about the reckless victims of this foe being “brutes." No, they are not brutes. I have labored for about eighteen years among them and I never have found a brute. I have had men swear at me: I have had a man dance around me as if possessed of a devil, and spit his foam in my face; but he is not a brute.
I think it is Charles Dickens, who says: "Away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, and on that door is written "woman.
?•° And so in the heart of the vile-outcast, away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, on which is written “man." Here is our business, to find that door. It may take time; but begin and knock. Don't get tired; but remember God's long suffering for us and keep knocking a long time if need be. Don't get weary if there is no answer; remember Him whose locks were wet with dew.
Knock on-just try it-you try it; and just so sure as you do, just so sure, by-and-by, will the quivering lip and starting tear tell, you have knocked at the heart of a man, and not of a brute. It is because these poor wretches
men, and not brutes that we have hopes of them. They said “he is a brute—let him alone.” I took him home with me and kept the “brute” fourteen days and nights, through his delirium; and he nearly frightened Mary out of her wits, once chasing her about the house with a boot in his hand. But she recovered her wits, and he recovered his.
He said to me, “You wouldn't think I had a wife and child ?" Well, I shouldn't.” “I have, and–God bless her little heart-my little Mary is as pretty a little thing as ever stepped,” said the “brute.” I asked, "" where do they live?" They live two miles away from here." “When did you see them last?" " About two years ago." Then he told me his story. I said, "you must go back to your home again."
“I musn't go back-I won't—my wife is better without me than with me! I will not go back any more; I have knocked her, and kicked her, and abused her; do you suppose I will go back again ?" I went to the house with him; I knocked at the door and his wife opened it. “Is this Mrs. Richardson ?" Yes sir.” “Well, that is Mr. Richardson. And Mr. Richardson, that is Mrs. Richardson. Now come into the house." They went in. The wise sat on one side of the room and the "brute" on the other. I waited to see wbo would speak first; and it was the woman. But before she spoke she fidgeted a good deal.
She pulled her apron till she got hold of the hem, and
then she pulled it down again. Then she folded it up closely, and jerked it out through her fingers an inch at å time, and then she spread it all down again; and then she looked all about the room and said, “ Well, William?" And the “ brute” said, “ Well, Mary?" He had a large handkerchief round his neck, and she said, “You had better take the handkerchief off, William ; you'll need it when you go out.” He began to fumble about it.
The knot was large enough; he could have untied it if he liked; but he said, “Will you untie it, Mary?” and she worked away at it; but her fingers were clumsy, and she couldn't get it off; their eyes met, and the lovelight was not all quenched; she opened her arms gently and he fell into them. If you had seen those white arms clasped about his neck, and he sobbing on her breast, and the child looking in wonder first at one and then at the other, you would have said " It is not a brute; it is a man, with å great, big, warm heart in his breast.”
John B. Gough.
BACHELOR's hall! What a quare lookin' place it is!
Save me from such all the days o' my life!
Niver at all to be gettin' a wife !
Pots, dishes, an' pans, an' such grasy commodities,
Asles and praty-skins, kiver the floor;
Things that had niver been neighbors before.
Say the ould bachelor, gloomy an' sad enough,
When his meal's over, the table's left sittin' so;
Dishes, take care o' yourselves if ye can;
Och, let liim alone for a baste of a man!
Say the ould bachelor, kneading his dough;
llow it would help his digestion you know !
Niver a bit is the bed made at all;
Bad luck to the picture of Bachelor's Hall !
This beautiful poem, which has comforted so many Christian hearts, will ho prizet, not only for its own sake, but as a litting memorial to the gifted writer, who has so recently gone to her "Father's House," to join her sister in their HOME beyond "the crystal sea.” It was written in 1812, and is in accordance with the Author's latest revision.
Comes to me o'cr and oʻcr;
Than I ever have been before ;
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the crystal sea;
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer gaining the crown!
Roll dark before my siglit
Break on a shore of liglit.
PICTURES OF MEMORY.
AMONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all. Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Drk with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant hediye, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland
Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother
With eyes that were dark and deep-
He lieth in peace asleep.
Free as the winds that blow,
The summers of long ago;
And one of the autumn cves,
A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly lis pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
Silently covered his face;
Lodged in the tree-tops briglit,
Asleep by the gates of light.