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Thy creatures, legions, day by day,

And then proclaim Thee just;
Deal desolation through the world,

Spread ruin at their nod,
And then by lightning have it hurl'd

“King William thanks his God ?”

If these are Thine annointed, Lord,

And thus they do thy will,
The lowly ones can ill afford

To work each other ill;
And would prefer, though little worth,

Obscurely on to plod,
Than telegraph, tlıroughout the earth,

Offensive thanks to God.



“Floy,” said Paul, “ what is that?" Wherc, dearest?“There! at the bottom of the bed.” “ There's nothing there except Papa !” The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said, "My own boy, don't you know me?” Paul looked it in the face, and thought, Was this his father? But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain; and, before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them and draw it toward him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart; but he knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed. he called to it. " Don't be so sorry for me dear saving in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall-how many nights the dark, dark river rolled toward the sea in spite of him—Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying; for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no—the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. “Floy, did I ever see mamma ?” "No, darling: why ?" · Did I ever see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?" he asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. “Oh, yes, dear.” “Whose, Floy?” “Your old nurse's, often." “And where is my old nurse?” said Paul. "Is she dead, too? Floy, are we all dead, except you ?"

There was a hurry in the room for an instant-longer, perhaps, but it seemed no more _then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head upon ber arm. Her arm trembled very much. “Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please.”

She is not here, darling. She shall come tomorrow “ Thank you, Floy." *

“And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the


kind, good face!” said Paul. “I am glad to see it again, Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here !”

Now lay me down," he said ; "and, Floy, come close to me and let me see you!” Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in and fell upon them, locked together." How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the wares! They always said so." Presently he told ber that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now! how bright the fiowers growing on them! and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on; and now there was a shore before them. Who stood on the bank? He put his bands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind ber neck. “Mamma is like you, Floy: I know ber by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!”

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race bas run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion-Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged when the swift river bears us to the ocean!

Charles Dickens.


As sunset's glow illumed the sea

One balmy day of June,
And golden stars shone o'er the lea

To greet the rising moon,
One light of wondrous brilliancy

Went out-alas! how soon !

Great England's son! Ilis nobie name

She'll proudly call her own,
Exalted on her roll of fame;

Yet not her pride alone;
All nations shall his worth proclaim,

The world his genius own.
E’en while his genial heart beat high,

Mid friendly smile and cheer,
An unseen guest was hov ring nigh, -

Death's shadow drawing near,
To bear him to his rest on high,

From love and labor here.

O’ershadowed by the angel's wing,

Unconsciously he lay,
Saw not the shaft, felt not the sting,

But gently passed away, –
And while the bells their vespers ring

He gains eternal day.

6 Out with the tide," his life of love

On to the sea shall flow,-
The boundless sea of God's pure love,

Nor waves of sorrow know;
But share with ransomed souls above

Bliss earth could ne'er bestow.

Ilis name indeed a houschold word"

Through ages now shall be, The cheerful sound of Chimes"' be leard

Like notes of melody; And “ Christmas Carol,” word for word,

“Keep green his memory.” Oh! could he, with his parting breatlı,

Have whispered what lie felt; Revealed his earnest thoughts of death

To those who near him knelt;As once he spake, through “lillle Pau!,


THERE lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclept Tom King, -
A fellow that was clever at a joke,
Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke;

In sliort, for strokes of humor quite the thing.

To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivalled shone;

Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood,
Would crowd, bis stories and bon-mots to lear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humor Blowed in such a copious flood.

To him a frolic was a high delight:
A frolic he would hunt for, day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown.
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,

Nor left the game till he had run it down.

One night, our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near fame St. Giles's chanced liis course to bend,

Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight.
"T was silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watclı, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp displayed a twinkling light. Around this place there lived the numerous clans Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans,

Known at that time by name of refugees. The rod of persecution from their home Compelled the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were sauntering through the street,
In hopes some food for humor soon to meet,

Wien, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seemed the prologue to some merry play,

So towards the gloomy dome our hero drow.

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