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Arming all her gallant sons,
Thundering with her flaming guns,
Is the BATTLE ship-and she
Is our defence upon the sea.
In a broad wake of sparkling light,
A path of glowing stars at night,
Is a noble ship whose swelling sails
Float like the clouds in summer gales.
Over the knight-heads flies the spray;
To helm and give her the right of way!
It is the TEMPERANCE ship-and she
Will never spring a leak at sea.
There is a ship no storm can whelm,
Truth is the pilot at the helm;
Its sails are filled with the breath of praise,
Its master is the “Ancient of days;”
Its flag is the snow-white flag of peace,
It will wave when wars and strife shall cease :
It is the Gospel ship, and will be
Safe when others founder at sea.

THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.

Mrs. Opie, in her “ Illustrations of Lying,” gives, as an instance of what she terms “the lie of benevolence,” the melancholy tale of which the following is the conclusion. Vernon is a clergyman in Westmoreland, whose youngest son, at a distance from home, had in a moment of passion committed murder. The youth had been condemned and executed for his crime. But his brothers had kept the cause and form of his death concealed from their father, and had informed him that their brother had been taken suddenly ill, and died on his road homeward. The father hears the awful truth, under the following circumstances, when on a journey.

The coach stopped at an inn outside the city of York ; and, as Vernon was not disposed to eat any dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came to a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered the church-yard to read, as was his custom, the inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, he saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and entered into conversation with him. He found it was the sexton himself; and he drew from him several anecdotes of the persons interred around them.

During their conversation they had walked over the whole of the ground, when, just as they were going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck some weeds from a grave near the corner of it, and Vernon stopped also,-taking hold, as he did so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the corner by itself.

As the man rose from his occupation, and saw where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and said, “ I planted that willow; and it is on a grave, though the grave is not marked out.”

“Indeed!”
“Yes; it is the grave of a murderer.”

“Of a murderer!" echoed Vernon, instinctively shuddering, and moving away from it.

“Yes," resumed he, “ of a murderer who was hanged at York. Poor lad !-it was very right that he should be hanged; but he was not a hardened villain! and he died so penitent! and as I knew him when he used to visit where I was groom, I could not help planting this tree for old acquaintance' sake.” Here he drew his hand across his eyes.

“Then he was not a low-born man?“Oh! no; his father was a clergyman, I think." “Indeed! poor man: was he living at the time?” said Vernon, deeply sighing.

“Oh! yes; for his poor son did fret so, lest his father should ever know what he had done; he said he was an angel upon earth; and he could not bear to think how he would grieve; for, poor lad, he loved his father and his mother too, though he did so badly." “Is his mother living ?”

“No; if she had, he would have been alive; but his evil courses broke her heart; and it was because the man he killed reproached him for having murdered his mother, that he was provoked to murder him." "Poor, rash, mistaken youth! then he had provocation ?”

Oh! yes ; the greatest : but he was very sorry for what he had done; and it would have done your heart good to hear him talk of his poor father."

“I am glad I did not hear him," said Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice (for he thought of Edgar).

“And yet, sir, it would have done your heart good, too."

“Then he had virtuous feelings, and loved his father, amidst all his errors ?”

"Aye.” "And I dare say his father loved him, in spite of his faults?”

“I dare say he did," replied the man; “ for one's children are our own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is said and done; and may be this young fellow was spoiled in the bringing up.”

“Perhaps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply.
“However, this poor lad made a very good end.”

“I am glad of that! and he lies here,” continued Vernon, gazing on the spot with deeper interest, and moving nearer to it as he spoke “ Peace be to his soul! but was he not dissected ?"

“Yes; but his brothers got leave to have the body after dissection. They came to me, and we buried it privately at night.”

His brothers came ! and who were his brothers ? " “Merchants, in London; and it was a sad cut on them; but they took care that their father should not know it.”

“No!” cried Vernon, turning sick at heart.

“Oh! no; they wrote him word that his son was ill; then went to Westmoreland, and—”

“Tell me,” interrupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and laying his hand on his arm,“ tell me the name of this poor youth!”

Why, he was tried under a false name, for the sake of his family; but his real name was Edgar Vernon.”

The agonized parent drew back, shuddered violently and repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven, at the same time, with a look of mingled appeal and resignation. He then rushed to the obscure spot which covered the bones of his son, threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, while his he:en] rested on the grass, and he neither spoke nor moved. But be uttered one groan ;-then all was stillness!

His terrified and astonished companion remained motionless for a few moments,—then stooped to raise him ; but the FIAT OF MERCY had gone forth, and the paternal heart, broken by the sudden shock, had suffered, and breathed its last.

THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING.
We parted by the gate in June,

That soft and balmy month,
Beneath the sweetly-beaming moon,

And (wunth-hunth-sunth-bunth--I can't find a rhyme to month).

Years were to pass ere we should meet;

A wide and yawning gulf
Divides me from my love so sweet,

While (ulf-sulf-dulf,mulf-stuck again; I can't get any rhyme to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself).

Oh, how I dreaded in my soul

To part from my sweet nymph,
While years should their long seasons roll

Before (hymph-dymph-symph-I guess I'll have to let it go at that).

Beneath my fortune's stern decree

My lonely spirits sunk,
For I a weary soul should be,

And a (hunk-dunk-runk-sk-that will never do in the world).

She buried her dear lovely face

Within her azure scarf,
She knew I'd take the wretchedness,

As well as (parf-sarf-darf-harf-and-harf-that won't answer either).

Oh, I had loved her many years,

I loved her for herself;
I loved her for her tender fears,

And also for her (welf-nelf—helf-pelf—no, no; not for her pelf).

I took between my hands her head,

How sweet her lips did pouch!
I kissed her lovingly and said-

(Bouch-mouch-louch-ouch-not a bit of it did I say ouch!).

I sorrowfully wrung her hand,

My tears they did escape,
My sorrow I could not command,

And I was but a (sape-dape— fape-ape; well, perhaps I did feel like an ape).

I gave to her a fond adieu,

Sweet pupil of love's school,
I told her I would e'er be true,

And always be a (dool--sool-mool-fool; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow before I was gone a month).

THE BARTENDER'S STORY.-PELEG ARKWRIGHT.

When I knowed him at first there was suthin',

A sort of a general air,
That was wery particular pleasin',

And what you might call-debonair.
I'm aware that expression is Frenchy,

And highfalutin, perhaps,
Which accounts that I have the acquaintance

Of several quality chaps,
And such is the way they converses.

But speakin' of this here young man,
Apparently nature had shaped him

On a sort of a liberal plan.
Had guy him good looks and good language,

And manners expressin' with vim
His belief in hisself, and that others

Was just as good fellers as him.
Well, this chap wasn't stuck up, by no means,

Nor inclined to be easy put down;
And was thought to be jolly agreeable

Wherever he went around town.
He used to come in for his beverage

Quite regular, every night;
And I took a consid'able interest

In mixin' the thing about right.
A judicious indulgence in liquids

It is natural for me to admire;
But I hev to adınit that for some folks

They is pison complete and entire;
For rum, though a cheerful companion,

As a boss is the devil's own chum; And this chap, I am sorry to state it,

Was floored in a wrastle with rum.

For he got to increasin' his doses,

And took 'em more often, he did;
And it growed on him faster and faster,

Till inter a bummer he slid.
I was grieved to observe this here feller

A-lettin' hisself down the grade,
And I lectured him onto it sometimes,

At the risk of its injurin’trade. At last he got awfully seedy,

And lost his respect for hisself;

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