NUMBER ONE. Yes! the world is full of sorrow And dismay; Joy lives always in to-morrow! Sweet phantoms rise to cheer our bleak existence, What boots it, that the earth makes show of joy? And though the leaves be musical, And, alas! they have no souls, Those little birds, whose melody so rolls. What boots it, that we ring the merry laugh, Sing the song, and crack the jest ; That we seek love-deem kisses more than chaff, The pleasure that we follow As a bell That now rings us to a wedding-with a chime; With a knell! And the jest seldom slips, But it strikes a tender chord! And a kiss was on the lips Of the wretch who sold his Lord! Do you sing?-the sweetest songs Light of heart, and light of head: -Nassau Magazine. EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH OF PARK GODWIN ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. The great captain of our cause-ABRAHAM LINCOLN―smitten by the basest hand ever upraised against human innocence, is gone, gone, gone! He who had borne the heaviest of the brunt in our four long years of war, whose pulse beat livelier, whose eyes danced brighter than any others, when "The storm drew off, Its scattered thunders groaning round the hills," in the supreme hour of his joy and glory was struck down. One who, great in himself, as well as by position, has suddenly departed. There is something startling, ghastly, awful, in the manner of his going off. But the chief poignancy of our distress is not for the greatness fallen, but for the goodness lost. Presidents have died before: during this bloody war we have lost many eminent generals-Lyon, Baker, Kearney, Sedgwick, Reno, and others; we have lost lately our finest scholar, publicist, orator. Our hearts still bleed for the companions, friends, brothers who "sleep the sleep that knows no waking," but no loss has been comparable to his, who was our supremest leader,-our safest counsellor-our wisest friend-our dear father. Would you know what Lincoln was, look at this vast metropolis, covered with the habiliments of woe! Never in human history has there been so universal, so spontaneous, so profound an expression of a nation's bereavement. Yet we sorrow not as those who are without hope. Our chief is gone, but our cause remains; dearer to our hearts, because he is now become the martyr; consecrated by his sacrifice; more widely accepted by all parties; and fragrant and lovely forevermore in the memories of all the good and the great, of all lands, and for all time. The rebellion, which began in the blackest treachery, to be ended in the foulest assassination; this rebellion, accursed in its motive, which was to rivet the shackles of slavery on a whole race for all the future; accursed in its means, which have been "red ruin and the breaking up of laws," the overthrow of the mildest and blessedest governments, and the profuse shedding of brother's blood by brother's hands; accursed in its accompaniments of violence, cruelty, and barbarism, and is now doubly accursed in its final act of cold-blooded murder. Cold-blooded, but impotent, and defeated in its own purposes! The frenzied hand which slew the head of the gov ernment, in the mad hope of paralyzing its functions, only drew the hearts of the people together more closely to strengthen and sustain its power. All the North once more, without party or division, clenches hands around the common altar: all the North swears a more earnest fidelity to freedom; all the North again presents its breasts as the living shield and bulwark of the nation's unity and life. Oh! foolish and wicked dream, oh! insanity of fanaticism, oh! blindness of black hate-to think that this majestic temple of human liberty, which is built upon the clustered columns of free and independent states, and whose base is as broad as the continent-could be shaken to pieces, by striking off the ornaments of its capital. No! this nation lives, not in one man nor in a hundred men, however eminent, however able, however endeared to us; but in the affections, the virtues, the energies, and the will of the whole American people. THE SLEEPING SENTINEL.-FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER. The incidents here woven into verse relate to William Scott, a young soldier from the State of Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death. "Twas in the sultry summer-time, as war's red records show, When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foe~ When, from the North and East and West, like the upheav ing sea, Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free. He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death. Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care, And waving elms, and grassy slopes, give beauty to Vermont. The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes war's hot breath, Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose husbandman is death! Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard; But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard, He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning found So in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod, 'Twas night. In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow, A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro; And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry Flashed back, from lines of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent blaze; While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air: Yet once again. In double file advancing, then, he saw And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound. Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels approach, And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach. On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was bent, Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President. He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair; "Twas Spring.-Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal tide Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side- A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense and dun, Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun; And shot and shell,athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead. Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command, "Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band, Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the flood, And upward o'er the rising ground, they marked their way in blood. The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his postWhile, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host! Then turning as the rallying ranks,with inurd'rous fire replied, They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide. The fallen! And the first who fell in that unequal strife, Was he whom mercy sped to save when justice claimed his life |