My little boy-I'll give 'em leave to match him, if they can; My little girl-I can't contrive how it should happen thusThat God could pick that sweet bouquet, and fling it down to us! My wife, she says that han'some face will some day make a stir; And then I laugh, because she thinks the child resembles her. She'll meet me half-way down the hill, and kiss me, any way; And light my heart up with her smiles, when I go home today! If there's a heaven upon the earth, a fellow knows it when But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it as it may, THE WORLD FOR SALE.-RALPH HOYT. The world for sale!-Hang out the sign; 'Tis going!-yes, I mean to fling I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring;- It is a glorious thing to see,- It is not what it seems to be: For sale! It shall be mine no more. I would not have you purchase dear: "Tis going! GOING!—Ï must sell! Who bids?-Who'll buy the splendid tear? Here's WEALTH in glittering heaps of gold;- A baser lot was never sold; Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care? Once, twice, and THRICE!-'tis very low! How much for fame?-How much for fame? Sweet star of HOPE! with ray to shine Who bids for man's last friend and best? But hope and I are now at strife, And SONG! For sale my tuneless lute; Or e'en were mine a wizard shell, Yet now a sad farewell!-farewell! Must on its last faint echoes die. Ambition, Fashion, Show, and Pride,— Has taught my haughty heart to bow. And still its aching throb to bear;— No more for me life's fitful dream;— My FAITH, my BIBLE, and my GOD. WHEN DUTY BEGINS.-CHARLES DICKENS. O fate-remembered, much-forgotten, mouthing, braggart duty! always owed,-and seldom paid in any other coin than punishment and wrath,-when will mankind begin to know thee! When will men acknowledge thee in thy neglected cradle and thy stunted youth, and not begin their recognition in thy sinful manhood and thy desolate old age! O ermined judge! whose duty to society is now to doom the ragged criminal to punishment and death, hast thou never, MAN, a duty to discharge in barring up the hundred open gates that wooed him to the felon's dock, and throwing but ajar the portals to a decent life. O prelate, prelate! whose duty to society it is to mourn in melancholy phrase the sad degeneracy of these bad times in which thy lot of honors has been cast, did nothing go before thy elevation to the lofty seat, from which thou dealest out thy homilies to other tarriers for dead men's shoes, whose duty to society has not begun. O magistrate!-so rare a country gentleman and brave a squire,-had you no duty to society before the ricks were blazing and the mob were mad; or did it spring up armed and booted from the earth, a corps of yeomanry, full grown. MMM THE MENAGERIE.-J. HONEYWELL. Did you ever! No, I never! Children! don't you go so near! There's the lion!-see his tail! To hear the horrid creatures roar! Here's the monkeys in their cage, Wide awake you are to see 'em ; Funny, ain't it? How would you Like to have a tail and be 'em? Johnny, darling, that's the bear That tore the naughty boys to pieces; Horned cattle!-only hear How the dreadful camel wheezes! That's the tall giraffe, my boy, Who stoops to hear the morning lark! "Twas him who waded Noah's flood, And scorned the refuge of the ark. Here's the crane,-the awkward bird! As ever met one from the tailor's. There's the bell! the birds and beasts So, my little darlings, come, "Mother, 'tisn't nine o'clock! Want to see the monkeys more!" Exit father, muttering "bore!" Exit children, blubbering still, "Want to see the monkeys more!" A SISTER PLEADS FOR A BROTHER'S LIFE SHAKSPEARE. Isabella. I am a woful suitor to your honor, Please but your honor hear me. Angelo. Well; what's your suit? Isab. There is a vice, that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; For which I would not plead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war 'twixt will and will not. Ang. Well; the matter? Isab. I have a brother is condemned to die : I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it! Why, every fault's condemned, ere it be done: Mine were the very cipher of a function, To fine the faults, whose fine stands in record, And let go by the actor. Isab. Oh just, but severe law! Must he needs die? Ang. Maiden, no remedy. Isab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. Ang. I will not do 't. Isab. But can you if you would? Ang. Look! what I will not, that I cannot do. Isab. But might you do 't, and do the world no wrong. If so your heart were touched with that remorse As mine is to him? Ang. He's sentenced; 'tis too late. |