Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in-
Glanced as they passed at the hat he wore,
Then at the rifle his right hand bore;
And hailed him from out their youthful lore,
With scraps of a slangy reportoire :
"How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through !"
"Your head's level!" and, "Bully for you!"
Called him "Daddy”—and begged he'd disclose
The name of the tailor who made his clothes,
And what was the value he set on those;
While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff,
Stood thefe picking the rebels off--
With his long, brown rifle and bell-crown hat,
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.
'Twas but a moment, for that respect
Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand
Spake in the old man's strong right hand,
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown
Of his eyebrows under his old-bell crown;
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,
In the antique vestments and long white hair
The Past of the Nation in battle there.
And some of the soldiers since declare
That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their oriflamme of war.
Thus raged the battle. You know the rest;
How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed,
Broke at the final charge and ran.
At which John Burns-a practical man
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,
And then went back to his bees and cows.
This is the story of old John Burns;
This is the moral the reader learns :
In fighting the battle, the question's whether
You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather.
HOUR of an Empire's overthrow !
The princes from the feast were gone; The Idol flame was burning low;— 'Twas midnight upon Babylon.
That night the feast was wild and high;
That night was Sion's gold profaned;
The seal was set to blasphemy;
The last deep cup of wrath was drained.
'Mid jeweled roof and silken pall,
Belshazzar on his couch was flung;
A burst of thunder filled the hall-
He heard-but 'twas no mortal tongue :
"King of the East! the trumpet calls,
That calls thee to a tyrant's grave;
A curse is on thy palace walls-
A curse is on thy guardian wave:
"A surge is in Euphrates' bed,
That never filled its bed before;
A surge, that, ere the morn be red,
Shall load with death its haughty shore.
"Behold a tide of Persian steel!
A torrent of the Median car;
Like flame their gory banners wheel;
Rise, king, and arm thee for the war!"
Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past--
The lofty chamber filled with gloom;
But echoed on the sudden blast
The rushing of a mighty plume.
He listened; all again was still!
He heard no chariot's iron clang;
He heard the fountain's gushing rill,
The breeze that through the roses sang.
He slept; in sleep wild murmurs came;
A visioned splendor fired the sky;
He heard Belshazzar's taunted name;
He heard again the Prophet cry-
"Sleep, Sultan! 'tis thy final sleep,
Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies;
The wrongs of those who watch and weep,
Around thee and thy nation rise."
He started; 'mid the battle's yell
He saw the Persian rushing on:
He saw the flames around him swell;
Thou'rt ashes! King of Babylon.
I PITY the unbeliever-one who can gaze upon the grandeur, and glory, and beauty of the natural universe, and behold not the touches of His finger, who is over, and with, and above all; from my very heart I do commiserate his condition. The unbeliever! one whose intellect the light of revelation never penetrated; who can gaze upon the sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnifi cently above him, and say all this is the work of chance. The heart of such a being is a drear and cheerless void. In him, mind, the god-like gift of intellect-is debased, destroyed; all is dark-a fearful chaotic labyrinth-rayless-cheerless-hopeless! No gleam of light from heaven penetrates the blackness of the horrible delusion; no voice from the Eternal bids the desponding heart rejoice. No fancied tones from the harps of Seraphim arouse the dull spirit from its lethargy, or allay the consuming fever of the brain. The wreck of mind is utterly remediless; reason is prostrate; and passion, prejudice, and superstition have reared their temple on the ruins of his intellect.
I pity the unbeliever. What to him is the revelation from on high but a sealed book? He sees nothing above, or around, or beneath him that evinces the existence of a God; and he denies-yea, while standing on the footstool of Omnipotence, and gazing upon the dazzling throne of Jehovah, he shuts his intellect to the light of reason, and denies there is a God. Dr. Chalmers.
OUT of the tavern I've just stepped to-night-
Street! you are caught in a very bad plight;
Right hand and left hand are both out of place-
Street, you are drunk: 'tis a very clear case.
Moon! 'tis a very queer figure you cut;
One eye is staring while t'other is shut-
Tipsy, I see, and you're greatly to blame;
Old as you are, 'tis a horrible shame.
Then the street lamps-what a scandalous sight!
None of them soberly standing upright;
Rocking and staggering-why, on my word,
Each of those lamps is as drunk as a lord.
All is confusion! now isn't it odd ?
Nothing is sober that I see abroad :
Sure it were rash with this crew to remain;
Better go into the tavern again.
THE DRUMMER BOY.
A Touching Incident of the Crimean War.
"Captain Graham, the men were sayin'
Ye would want a drummer lad,
So I've brought my boy Sandie,
Tho' my heart is woful sad;
But nae bread is left to feed us,
And no siller to buy more,
For the gudeman sleeps forever,
Where the heather blossoms o'er.
"Sandie, make your manners quickly,
Play your blithest measure true-
Gives us Flowers of Edinboro','
While yon fifer plays it too.
Captain, heard ye e'er a player
Strike in truer time than he ?"
"Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray
Drummer of our corps shall be."
"I give ye thanks-but, Captain, maybe
Ye will hae a kindly care
For the friendless, lonely laddie,
When the battle wark is sair:
For Sandie's aye been good and gentle,
And I've nothing else to love,
Nothing but the grave off yonder,
And the Father up above."
Then, her rough hand gently laying
On the curl-encircled head,
She blessed her boy. The tent was silent,
And not another word was said;
For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming
Of a benisou, long ago,
Breathed above his head, then golden,
Bending now, and touched with snow.
"Good-bye, Sandie." "Good-bye, mother,
I'll come back some summer day;
Don't you fear-they don't shoot drummers
Ever. Do they, Captain Gra-
One more kiss-watch for me, mother,
You will know 'tis surely me
Coming home-for you will hear me
Playing soft the reveille."
After battle. Moonbeams ghastly
Seemed to link in strange affright,
As the scudding clouds before them
Shadowed faces dead and white;
And the night-wind softly whispered,
When low moans its light wing bore-
Moans that ferried spirits over
Death's dark wave to yonder shore.
Wandering where a footstep careless
Might go splashing down in blood,
Or a helpless hand lie grasping
Death and daisies from the sod-
Captain Graham walked swift onward,
While a faintly-beaten drum
Quickened heart and step together:
"Sandie Murray! See, I come!
"Is it thus I find you, laddie?
Wounded, lonely, lying here,
Playing thus the reveille?
See the morning is not near."
A moment paused the drummer boy,
And lifted up his drooping head:
"Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said.
"Morning! See, the plains grow brighterMorning-and I'm going home;
That is why I play the measure,
Mother will not see me come;
But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain--"
Hush, the boy has spoken true;
To him the day has dawned forever,
Unbroken by the night's tattoo.
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