The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all.
Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with pen;
And I sometimes have asked, shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE Boys!

THE ANGEL FERRY.-H. S. CORNWELL.

Oh, when shall the boatman ferry me o'er
To the friends who wait on the further shore?
Along a wild and toilsome way,

I have journeyed for many a weary day,
Over the graves of early hope

And up misfortune's thorny slope,
Till my mortal sun hath past its noon,

And my heart beats time to a ceaseless tune:
When shall the boatman ferry me o'er

To the friends who wait on the further shore?

Through the wrecks of many a fairy dream
I come to the banks of the mystic stream;
I have waited so long for a tardy sail,

I can feel my strength begin to fail;

And while I faintly call and pray,

My wind-swept locks are turning gray.

But I know he is true, and will come ere quite

My deep'ning day shall sink to night;

And I walk the sands till he bear me o'er

To the friends who wait on the further shore.

He is fair and beautiful, I know,

And his shining robe is white as snow;
And the tender love of his starry eyes
Is caught from the glory of other skies;
And his silver-sandaled feet have trod
The banks of the crystalline river of God.
Oh, boatman, haste from the land of rest,
And pillow my head upon thy breast!
Speed thy swift shallop, and bear me o'er
To the friends who wait on the further shore!

The shadows deepen one by one,
The sun is set, the day is done;
And like a star on my growing sight,
I can see at last the signal light;
High over the rocking wave it rides,
And swiftly toward the margin glides;
I can hear the rush of that spirit barque,
And mellow splendors pierce the dark!
Adieu, dim world! ere I'm wafted o'er
To the friends who wait on the further shore.

CIVIL WAR.-CHARLES D. SHANLEY,

"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vedette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. "Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood,― A button, a loop, or that luminous patch

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!" 'Oh, captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vedette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. "But I snatched off the trinket,-this locket of gold; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

“Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!—'tis she,

My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon Was her husband-hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtue, weakness a sin;

There's a lurking and loping around us to-night-
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

THE BATTLE.-SCHILLER.

Heavy and solemn,

A cloudy column;

Through the green plain they marching came!
Measureless spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
Looks are bent on the shaking ground,
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breasts that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the Major along the front;

"Halt!"

And fettered they stand at the stark command,
And the warriors, silent, halt.

Proud in the blush of morning glowing,
What on the hill-top shines in flowing?
"See you the foeman's banners waving?"
"We see the foeman's banners waving!”
"God be with you, children and wife!"
Hark to the music,-the drum and fife!

How they ring through the ranks which they rouse to the strife!

Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone,-
Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone!
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,

Iu the life to come that we meet once more!

See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder! Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder!

From host to host with kindling sound,

The shouted signal circles round;
Ay, shout it forth to life or death,—
Freer already breathes the breath!
The war is waging, slaughter raging,
And heavy through the reeking pall
The iron death-dice fall!

Nearer they close-foes upon foes

66

Ready!"-from square to square it goes.

They kneel as one man from flank to flank,
And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank.

Many a soldier to earth is sent,

Many a gap by the balls is rent;

O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man,

That the line may not fail to the fearless van.

To the right, to the left, and around and around,
Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground.
God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight;
Over the hosts falls a brooding night!

Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more.

The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood,
And the living are blent in the slippery flood,
And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go,
Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below.
"What? Francis!-Give Charlotte my last farewell."
As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell-
"I'll give-O God! are their guns so near?

Ho! comrades! yon volley! look sharp to the rear!
I'll give to thy Charlotte thy last farewell!

Sleep soft! where death thickest descendeth in rain,
The friend thou forsakest thy side may regain!"
Hitherward, thitherward reels the fight;
Dark and more darkly day glooms into night.
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more!

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go!

The adjutants flying;

The horsemen press hard on the panting foe,
Their thunder booms in dying-

Terror has seized on the dastards all,

And their colors fall!

Victory!

Victory!

Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight;

And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night!
Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,

The triumph already sweeps marching in song.

Farewell, fallen brothers; though this life be o'er,

There's another, in which we shall meet you once more. Translation from the German by Bulwer.

BOMBASTIC APPEAL TO A JURY.

Gentlemen of the jury, it is with feelings of no ordinary communion that I rise to defend my injured client From the attacks that have been made on his hitherto

fore unapproachable character. I feel, gentlemen, that though a good deal smarter than any of you, even the judge himself, yet I am utterly incompetent to present this case in the magnanimous and heart-rending light which its importance demands; and I trust, gentlemen, that whatever I may lack in presenting the subject will be immediately made up by your own natural good sense and discernment-if you have got any.

The counsel for the prosecution, gentlemen, will undoubtedly attempt to heave dust in your eyes. He will tell you that his client is pre-eminently a man of function,that he is a man who would scorn to fotch an action against another merely to gratify his own personal corporosity, but, gentlemen, let me cautionate you how to rely upon such specious reasoning like this. I myself apprehend that this suit has been wilfully and maliciously fotcht, gentlemen, for the sole and only purpose of browbeating my client here, and in an eminent manner grinding the face of the poor; and I apprehend, also, that if you could but look into that man's heart, and read there the motives that have impelled him to fotch this suit, such a picture of moral turpentine and heart-felt ingratitude would be brought to light as has never before been exhibited since the falls of Niagara.

Now, gentlemen, I want to make a brilliant appeal to the kind symmetries of your nature, and see if I can't warp your judgments a little in favor of my unfortunate client here, and then I shall fotch my argument to a close. Here is a poor man, with a numerous wife and child, depending upon him for their daily bread and butter, wantonly fotcht up here, and arranged before an intellectual jury on the charge of ignominiously hooking -yes, hooking-six quarts of new cider. You, gentlemen, have all been placed in similar situations, and know how it is yourself," and you can therefore feel for the misfortunes of my client; and I humbly calculate that you will not permit the gushing of your symperthizing hearts to be squenched in the bud by the surrup