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Down the hill, up the glen,

O'er the bodies of men;
Then on with a cheer, to the roaring redoubt!

Why stumble so, Ned?

No answer : he's dead !
And there's Dutch Peter down, with his life leaping outy

Crimson and gory!

On! on! Do not think

Of the falling ; but drink
Of the mad, living cataract torrent of war!

On! on ! let them feel

The cold vengeance of steel !
Catch the Captain-he’shit ! 'Tis a scratch—nothing more!

Forward forever!
Huzza! Here's a trench !

In and out of it! Wrench
From the jaws of the cannon the guerdon of Fame!

Chargel charge ! with a yell

Like the shriek of a sliell-
O'er the abatis, on through the curtain of flame!

Back again! Never !
The rampart ! 'Tis crossed-

It is ours! It is lost !
No—another dash now and the glacis is won !

Huzza! What a dust!

Hew them down, Cut and thrust!
A T-i-g-e-r ! brave lads, for the red work is done-
Victory! Victory !

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

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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.

BACHELOR's hall! What a quare lookin' place it is!

Save me from such all the days o' my life!
Sure, but I think what a burnin' disgrace it is,

Niver at all to be gettin' a wife !

Pots, dishes, an' pans, an' such grasy commodities,

Asles and praty-skins, kiver the floor;
The cupboardis a storehouse of comical oddities -

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;
Niver a drop o' hot water will visit ye,

Och, let liim alone for a baste of a man!
Now, like a pig in a mortar-bed wallowin',

Say the ould bachelor, kneading his dough;
Troth, if his bread he could ate without swallowin',

llow it would help his digestion you know !
Late in the aiv’nin', he goes to bed shiverin’;

Niver a bit is the bed made at all;
Ile crapes like a terrapin under the kiverin ;

Bad luck to the picture of Bachelor's Hall !

NEARER HOME.

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.

September, 1871.
ONE sweetly solemn thought

Comes to me o'cr and oʻcr;
I'm nearer my home to-clay

Than I ever have been before ;
Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,

Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown!
But the waves of that silent sca

Roll dark before my siglit
That brightly the other side

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-
In the lap of that dim old forest,

He lieth in peace asleep.
Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there, the beautiful summers,

The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And one of the autumn cves,
I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly lis pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty

Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops briglit,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,

Asleep by the gates of light.

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