MY WIFE AND CHILD.

BY GEN. HENRY R. JACKSON.

THE tattoo beats-the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies,
The night with solemn pace moves on,
The shadows thicken o'er the skies;
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

I think of thee, O darling one,

Whose love my early life hath blestOf thee and him-our baby sonWho slumbers on thy gentle breast. God of the tender, frail and lone, Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest.

And hover gently, hover near

To her whose watchful eye is wet— To mother, wife-the doubly dear,

In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love so deep and clear, And cheer her drooping spirits yet.

Now, while she kneels before Thy throne,
Oh, teach her, ruler of the skies,
That, while by Thy behest alone
Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise,
No tear is wept to Thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!

That thou canst stay the ruthless hands
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by Thy stern commands

The battle's lost, the soldier's slain;

That from the distant sea or land

Thou bring'st the wanderer home again.

And when upon her pillow lone

Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed,

May happier visions beam upon

The brightening current of her breast,

No frowning look nor angry tone

Disturb the Sabbath of her rest.

Whatever fate these forms may show,

Loved with a passion almost wild,

By day, by night, in joy or woe,

By fears oppressed or hopes beguiled,
From every danger, every foe,

O God, protect my wife and child!

THE DYING HEBREW.

BY KIMBIE.

The following poem, a favorite with the late Mr. Edwin Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first published in Boston in 1858.

A HEBREW knelt in the dying light,

His eye was dim and cold;

The hairs on his brow were silver white,

And his blood was thin and old!

He lifted his look to his latest sun,

For he knew that his pilgrimage was done;

And as he saw God's shadow there,

His spirit poured itself in prayer!

"I come unto Death's second birth
Beneath a stranger air,

A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth,

As all my fathers were!

And men have stamped me with a curse,

I feel it is not Thine;

Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made
On me, as them, to shine;

"And therefore dare I lift mine eye
Through that to Thee before I die!
In this great temple, built by Thee,
Whose pillars are divine,
Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly
Lights up Thine own true shrine,

Oh, take my latest sacrifice

Look down and make this sod
Holy as that where, long ago,
The Hebrew met his God.

"I have not caused the widow's tears,
Nor dimmed the orphan's eye;
I have not stained the virgin's years,
Nor mocked the mourner's cry.

The songs of Zion in mine ear

Have ever been most sweet,
And always when I felt Thee near,
My shoes were off my feet.

I have known Thee in the whirlwind,
I have known Thee on the hill,
I have loved Thee in the voice of birds,
Or the music of the rill;

I dreamt Thee in the shadow,
I saw Thee in the light;

I blessed Thee in the radiant day,
And worshipped Thee at night.
All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,
Still made my soul rejoice,
And my spirit bowed within itself
To hear Thy still, small voice!

"I have not felt myself a thing,
Far from Thy presence driven,
By flaming sword or waving wing

Shut off from Thee and heaven.
Must I the whirlwind reap, because
My fathers sowed the storm?
Or shrink, because another sinned,
Beneath Thy red, right arm?
Oh, much of this we dimly scan,
And much is all unknown;

But I will not take my curse from man-
I turn to Thee alone!

Oh, bid my fainting spirit live,

And what is dark reveal,

And what is evil, oh, forgive,

And what is broken heal.

And cleanse my nature from above,
In the dark Jordan of Thy love!

"I know not if the Christian's heaven Shall be the same as mine;

I only ask to be forgiven,

And taken home to Thine.

I weary on a far, dim strand,

Whose mansions are as tombs, And long to find the Fatherland, Where there are many homes.

Oh, grant, of all yon starry thrones,

Some dim and distant star,

Where Judah's lost and scattered sons

May love Thee from afar.

Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet

In choral praise and prayer,

Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,

Alone be wanting there?

Yet place me in Thy lowest seat,

Though I, as now, be there,

The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest;.
But let me see and hear,

From some dim mansion in the sky,
Thy bright ones and their melody."
The sun goes down with sudden gleam,
And-beautiful as a lovely dream
And silently as air-

The vision of a dark-eyed girl,
With long and raven hair,
Glides in-as guardian spirits glide-
And lo! is kneeling by his side,
As if her sudden presence there
Were sent in answer to his prayer.

(Oh, say they not that angels tread
Around the good man's dying bed?)

His child-his sweet and sinless child

And as he gazed on her

He knew his God was reconciled,

And this the messenger,

As sure as God had hung on high

The promise bow before his eye

Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung,

To point his heavenward faith,

And life's most holy feeling strung

To sing him into death;

And on his daughter's stainless breast
The dying Hebrew found his rest!

A SOCIABLE!

ANONYMOUS.

THEY carried pie to the parson's house,

And scattered the floor with crumbs, And marked the leaves of his choicest books With the prints of their greasy thumbs.

They piled his dishes high and thick

With a lot of unhealthy cake,

While they gobbled the buttered toast and rolls

Which the parson's wife did make.

They hung around Clytie's classic neck

Their apple-parings for sport,

And every one laughed when a clumsy lout
Spilled his tea on the piano-forte.

Next day the parson went down on his knees,
With his wife-but not to pray;

O no; 'twas to scrape the grease and dirt
From the carpet and stairs away.

HERVÉ RIEL.

BY ROBERT BROWNING.

On the sea and at the Hogue sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French-woe to France !
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue.
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,
With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase,
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville,
Close on him fled great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signalled to the place,
"Help the winners of a race!

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick-or, quicker still,
Here's the English can and will!"

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board;

"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they; "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable' here, with her twelve and eighty guns,

Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at fall beside?

Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide.

Reach the mooring. Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!"
Then was called a council straight;
Brief and bitter the debate;