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This world is all a fleeting show

From many an ancient river;
For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.
On Linden when the sun was low,

With eyelids heavy and red,
Man wants but little here below,

As hath been sung or said.
“Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries,

To be, or not to be;
In this the art of living lies,

Come to the sunset tree.
Mary bad a little lamb,

With fingers weary and worn,
And everywhere that Mary went

Sh:ws man was made to mourn.
John Gilpin was a citizen

In poverty, hunger and dirt,
And so the teacher turned him out,

And sang the song of the shirt.
A nightingale that all day long

Made fields and forests bare,
As if he said, “I'm not afraid,”

And hoary was his hair.
And what is friendship but a name,

children cry
A charm that follows wealth or fame

Comin' through the rye.
And love is still an emptier sound

Where the scattered waters rave.
A chieftain to the Highlands bound

Cries, “A life on the ocean wave.”
Oh, swiftly glides the bonnie boat

With fainting steps, and slow;
He used to wear an old blue coat,

Its fleece was wbite as snow.

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain:

Oh, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave! Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again,

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Three fishers went sailing out into the west,

At the close of the day when the hamlet is still; Sweet Vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest

In the old oaken bucket that hangs in the well.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain,

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep. You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again;

Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,

With lovely young Jamie, the pride of the Dee; His footsteps are feeble-once fearless and bold

And away he went singing his chick-a-dee-dee. Will you come to the bower I've shaded for you?

I would not stay out in the cold and the snow, Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew,

Roderick Vic Alpine Dhu! ho iero.


A human form has many weaknesses. A mere inscription on paper, or on a monument, is nothing, for they involve only questions of material durability ; but when a man's name is heard and loved for a hundred years after he has ceased to use it, we conclude that it may live a thousand, and agree to respect that name forever. This, as men think, is to touch the top round of complete success.

True successes are not the result of accident; a man may blunder into a triumph, but he is a blunderer still. A world was discovered by one man; but he was not looking for it. The discovery of the birthplace of a dew-drop, by another man, was a greater piece of work.

And that man in the battle of Chesapeake Bay,—not the admiral, not he who opened his kennels, and unmuzzled his surly dogs, and crashed his way to glory,—but the man who never handled a lanyard in all his life, never heard of fame. who all through that storm of shot and shell, and splintered fire, calmly felt the good ship's way with lead and line, and cried, steady and strong, all through that thunder, “ Four fathoms three,” “ Five fathoms four;" in that day and hour, that man achieved a grand success.

Sir John Moore fell on the works at Corunna, and they buried him out of sight by the flicker of a lantern. The sods lay heavily on that dead hero's breast, until an obscure Irishman, one who preached to peasants, lifted the cumbering sods with his

"Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note;" and to-day Corunna's hero walks the world with the rhythmic march of his burial-song.

But the great successes of this world are not the works of one man. The great quadruple cylinder press is composed of the mingled brains of a thousand men.

Ten years ago they cleft the gray waters of the Atlantic, as the old Red Sea was cleft; and a few Pilgrim words of English speech came and went dry-shod; and the depths were still again. So men put on their hats like extinguishers, and the excitement died out like the briefest of candles. But the letter “A” of every great success is a failure; and repeated failures have made the alphabet that has spelled out the grandest pieces of orthography that the world

ever saw.

On the 28th of July, a few years after, another English voice came up out of the waters. Of a truth, great things have been done in the month of July. Wallace had a day in it at Falkirk ; Marston Moor claims one; Thermopylæ another; Prague, a third; Liberty, a fourth, Lundy's Lane and Gettysburg have filled it with thunder ; but this one triumph over land and sea, over time and space, has filled it with glory, and crowned them all. The lingering angel has set one foot on the sea, at last; and on the morning of the 28th, as the little breath of human greeting fitted westward, and left the sun behind, he proclaimed, “There shall be time no longer."

These are kingly successes, that it takes half the world to crown. These are they to whom the broad age turns, as wax to the seal, and bears an image and superscription greater than Cæsar's. These are they who maintain the right of the human race, despite all wrongs and weaknesses, to stand firmly upon that round of the ladder of being where God placed them at the first,“ a little lower than the angels,” and within speaking distance of His throne.



I haf von funny leedle poy
Vot gomes schust to my knee,-
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings
In all barts off der house.
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measels und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut;
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo
To make der schticks to beat it mit-
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart
He kicks oup sooch a touse;
But nefer mind, der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red ?
Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse ?
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss.

I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest
Und beaceful dimes enshoy.
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So quiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord,“ Dake anydings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

Ten small hands upon the spread,
Five forms kneeling beside the bed,
Blue-eyes, Black-eyes, Curly-head;
Blonde, Brunette-in a glee and glow,
Waiting the magic word. Such a row!
Seven years, six years, five, four, two!
Fifty fingers, all in a line,
Yours are thirty, and twenty are mine;
Ten sweet eyes that sparkle and shine.
Motherly Mary, age of ten,
Even the finger-tips again,
Glance along the line, and then-
“Intra, mintra, cutra, corn,
Apple seed and briar-thorn,
Wire, brier, limber lock,
Three geese in a flock,
Ruble, roble, rabble and rout,

Y.). U. T.

Out!” Sentence falls on Curly-head; One wee digit is “ gone and dead," Nine and forty left on the spread. "Intra, mintra,” the fiat goes, Who'll be taken nobody knows; Only God may the lot dispose. Is it more than a childish play? Still you sigh and turn away. Why? What pain in the sight, I pray? Ah, too true! As the fingers fall, One by one at the magic call, Till, at the last, chance reaches all, So in the fateful days to come, The lot shall fall in many a home That breaks a heart and fills a tomb;Shall fall, and fall, and fall again, Like a law that counts our love all vain; Like a fate, unheeding our woe and pain. One by one-and who shall say Whether the lot may fall this day, That calleth of these dear babes away?

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