NUMBER TWO.

Rising, she nearer stepped;

How easy it all had been!

The gates had unclosed as the sleeper slept, And an angel had drawn her in.

THE MEETING PLACE.

Where the faded flower shall freshen,
Freshen never more to fade;
Where the shaded sky shall brighten,
Brighten never more to shade;
Where the sun-blaze never scorches;
Where the star-beams cease to chill;
Where no tempest stirs the echoes
Of the wood, or wave, or hill;
Where the morn shall wake in gladness,
And the moon the joy prolong;
Where the daylight dies in fragrance
Mid the burst of holy song,-

Brother, we shall meet and rest
Mid the holy and the blest.

Where no shadow shall bewilder;
Where life's vain parade is o'er;
Where the sleep of sin is broken,

And the dreamer dreams no more;
Where the bond is never severed,-
Partings, claspings, sobs, and moan;
Midnight waking, twilight weeping,
Heavy noontide-all are done.
Where the child has found its mother,
Where the mother finds the child;
Where dear families are gathered
That were scattered on the wild,-
Brother, we shall meet and rest
Mid the holy and the blest.

Where the hidden wound is healed;
Where the blighted love re-blooms;
Where the smitten heart, the freshness
Of its buoyant youth resumes;
Where the love that here we lavish
On the withering leaves of time,
Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on,
In an ever spring-bright clime;

Where we find the joy of loving,
As we never loved before;
Loving on unchilled, unhindered,
Loving once and evermore,—

Brother, we shall meet and rest
Mid the holy and the blest.

Where a blasted world shall brighten
Underneath a bluer sphere,
And a softer, gentler sunshine
Shed its healing splendor here;
Where earth's barren vales shall blossom,
Putting on their robe of green,
And a purer, fairer Eden

Be where only wastes have been;
Where a King, in kingly glory

Such as earth has never known,

Shall assume the righteous sceptre,
Claim and wear the heavenly crown,-
Brother, we shall meet and rest
Mid the holy and the blest.

ASLEEP.-STOCKTON BATES.

Hush! lightly tread; the weary eyes now close;
The little hands unclasp the cherished toy;
And in that blest elysium of repose

Sleeps peacefully the darling household joy.
No grief or wearing care in furrows deep

Has set its mark upon that fair young brow;
In peace it slumbers with a dreamless sleep,
As only childhood's innocence knows how.
Remembered are its childish woes no more;
The toys that pleased its happy waking hours
Lie scattered in confusion on the floor,

While sleep restores its young and budding powers.

Years hurry by upon their rapid wings

Sleep comes, but not as in the vanished pastWoe, want, or misery a shadow flings,

That sits a horrid incubus at last.

Again, tread lightly! close the sunken eye!
Asleep? Yes, in death's cold and rigid guise;
Toys that have pleased the riper years now lie
For other hands to fondle, hearts to prize.

A DRUNKEN SOLILOQUY IN A COAL CELLAR. ALF BURNETT.

Let's see, where am I? This is coal I'm lying on. How'd I get here? Yes, I mind now; was coming up street; met a wheelbarrow wot was drunk, coming t'other way. That wheelbarrow fell over me, or I fell over the wheelbarrow, and one of us fell into the cellar, don't mind now which; guess it must have been me. I'm a nice young man; yes, I

Well, I can't help it; 'taint

am; tight, tore, drunk, shot! my fault. Wonder whose fault it is? Is it Jones's fault? No! Is it my wife's fault? Well it an't! Is it the wheelbarrow's fault? N-0-0-0! It's whisky's fault!! Whisky! who's whisky? Has he got a large family? Got many relations? All poor, I reckon. I won't own him any more; cut his acquaintance. I have had a notion of doing that for the last ten years; always hated to, though, for fear of hurting his feelin's. I'll do it now for I believe liquor is injurin' me; it's spoilin' my temper. Sometimes I gets mad and abuses Bets and the brats. I used to call 'em Lizzie and the children; that's a good while ago, though. Then, when I come home, she used to put her arms around my neck and kiss me, and call me dear William!" When I come home now she takes her pipe out of her mouth, puts the hair out of her eyes, and looks at me and says, "Bill, you drunken brute, shut the door after you! We're cold enough, havin' no fire, 'thout lettin' the snow blow in that way." Yes, she's Bets and I'm Bill now; I an't a good bill neither; I'm counterfeit; won't pass -a tavern without goin' in and getting a drink. Don't know wot bank I'm on; last Sunday was on the river bank, at the Corn Exchange, drunk! I stay out pretty late,--sometimes out all night, when Bets bars the door with a bed-post; fact is, I'm out pretty much all over,-out of friends, out of pocket, out at elbows and knees, and outrageously dirty. So Bets says, but she's no judge, for she's never clean herself. I wonder she don't wear good clothes? Maybe she an't got any! Whose fault is that? "Taint mine! It may be whisky's. Sometimes I'm in: I'm in-toxicated now, and in somebody's coal cellar I've got one good principle: I never runs in debt-'cause no

body won't trust me. One of my coat tails is gone; got tore off, I expect, when I fell down here. I'll have to get a new suit soon. A feller told me t'other day I'd make a good sign for a paper-mill. If he hadn't been so big I'd licked him. I've had this shirt on nine days. I'd take it off, but I'm 'fraid I'd tear it. Guess I tore the window-shutter on my pants t'other night, when I sot on the wax in Ben Sniff's shoe-shop. I'll have to get it mended up or I'll catch cold. I an't very stout neither, though I'm full in the face; as the boys say, "I'm fat as a match, and healthy as the smallpox." My hat is standin' guard for a window-pane that went out the other day at the invitation of a brickbat. It's getting cold down here; wonder how I'll get out? I an't able to climb. If I had a drink, think I could do it. Let's see, I an't got three cents; wish I was in a tavern, I could sponge it then. When anybody treats, and says, "Come fellers!" I always thinks my name is fellers, and I've too good manners to refuse. I must leave this place, or I'll be arrested for burglary, and I an't come to that yet! Anyhow, it was the wheelbarrow did the harm, not me!

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.-W. C. BRYANT.

Lay down the axe, fling by the spade;
Leave in its track the toiling plough;

The rifle and the bayonet-blade

For arms like yours are fitter now!

And let the hands that ply the pen
Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green;

Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That time in all his course has seen.

See, from a thousand coverts,—see,

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;

They rush to smite her down, and we

Must beat the banded traitors back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,
And moved as soon to fear and flight;
Men of the glade and forest, leave

Your woodcraft for the field of fight!
The arms that wield the axe must pour
An iron tempest on the foe;

His serried ranks shall reel before

The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form

A bulwark that no foe can break.
Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defence!
The blast as soon shall move the rock,
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,

Come from the depth of her green land
As mighty in your march as they;

As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne,
With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye who throng beside the deep,
His ports and hamlets of the strand,
In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck against his shore.

Few, few were they whose swords of old,
Won the fair land in which we dwell:

But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land,

Blow after blow, till men shall see

That might and right move hand in hand,
And glorious must their triumph be!

K*