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THE TROUBLESOME WIFE.
A truce without doors, or within,
Or rest from her eternal din, he found not.
He every soothing art displayed;
Tried of what stuff her skin was made:
Once, walking by a river's side,
In mournful terms, "My dear," he cried,
"No more let feuds our peace divide: I'll end them.
"Weary of life, and quite resigned,
To drown, I have made up my mind,
So tie my hands as fast behind as can be;
"Or nature may assert her reign,
My arms assist, my will restrain,
And swimming, I once more regain my troubles."
With eager haste the dame complies,
While joy stands glistening in her eyes:
Already, in her thoughts, he dies before her.
"Yet, when I view the rolling tide,
I would not be a suicide, and die thus.
"It would be better far, I think,
While close I stand upon the brink,
You push me in-nay, never shrink, but do it."
To give the blow the more effect,
Some twenty yards she ran direct,
And did what she could least expect she should do.
He slips aside, himself to save,
So souse she dashes in the wave,
And gave, what ne'er before she gave, much pleasure.
"Dear husband, help! I sink!" she cried;
"Thou best of wives," the man replied,
"I would, but you my hands have tied: Heaven help you."
THE DEATH OF O'CONNELL.
THE DEATH OF O'CONNELL.-WILLIAM H. SEward. HERE is sad news from Genoa. An aged and weary pilgrim,
who can travel no further, passes beneath the gate of one of her ancient palaces, saying, with pious resignation, as he enters its silent chambers, "Well, it is God's will that I shall never see Rome. I am disappointed. But I am ready to die. It is all right." The superb though fading Queen of the Mediterranean holds anxious, watch, through ten long days, over that majestic stranger's wasting frame. And now death is there-the Liberator of Ireland has sunk to rest in the Cradle of Columbus.
Coincidence beautiful and most sublime! It was the very day set apart by the elder daughter of the Church for prayer and sacrifice throughout the world, for the children of the sacred island, perishing by famine and pestilence in their homes and in their native fields, and on their crowded paths of exile, on the sea and in the havens, and on the lakes, and along the rivers of this fardistant land. The chimes rung out by pity for his countrymen were O'Connell's fitting knell; his soul went forth on clouds of incense that rose from altars of Christian charity; and the mournful anthems which recited the faith, and the virtue, and the endurance of Ireland, were his becoming requiem.
It is a holy sight to see the obsequies of a soldier, not only of civil liberty, but of the liberty of conscience--of a soldier, not only of freedom, but of the Cross of Christ-of a benefactor, not merely of a race of people, but of mankind. The vault lighted by suspended worlds is the temple within which the great solemnities are celebrated. The nations of the earth are mourners; and the spirits of the just made perfect, descending from their golden thrones on high, break forth into songs.
Behold now a nation which needeth not to speak its melancholy precedence. The lament of Ireland comes forth from palaces deserted, and from shrines restored; from Boyne's dark water, witness of her desolation, and from Tara's lofty hill, ever echoing her renown. But louder and deeper yet that wailing comes from the lonely huts on mountain and on moor, where the people of the greenest island of all the seas are expiring in the midst of
HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS.
insufficient though world-wide charities. Well indeed may they deplore O'Connell, for they were his children; and he bore them "A love so vehement, so strong, so pure,
That neither age could change nor art could cure."
HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS.-SHAKESPEARE.
HAT'S he that wishes for more men from England?—
W My cousin Westmoreland?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin ;
If we are marked to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;-
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, 'faith, my Lord, wish not a man from England:
As only one man more would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O! do not wish one more.
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
HERE SHE GOES-AND THERE SHE GOES. 39
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,—
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;
HERE SHE GOES-AND THERE SHE GOES.
WO Yankee wags, one summer day,
Stopped at a tavern on their way;
The breakfast over, Tom and Will
Sent for the landlord and the bill;
Will looked it over; "Very right-
But hold! what wonder meets my sight?
Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!"
"What wonder? where?" "The clock! the clock!"
Tom and the landlord in amaze
Stared at the clock with stupid gaze,
And for a moment neither spoke;
At last the landlord silence broke:
HERE SHE GOES-AND THERE SHE GOES.
"You mean the clock that's ticking there?
I see no wonder, I declare;
Though may be, if the truth were told,
But, if you please, what wonder's in it?"
"Tom, don't you recollect," said Will,
"The clock in Jersey near the mill,
The very image of this present,
With which I won the wager pleasant?"
Tom scratched his head, and tried to think.
It happened, Tom, in last December,
In sport I bet a Jersey Blue
That it was more than he could do,
"Don't make us wait;
Begin, the clock is striking eight."