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Only one for the bridal pearls,
The robe of satin and Brussels lace,-
At the sight of a lover's face.
For you the revel has just begun;
The revel of life is done!
Queen of heaven and bride of the sun,
The kisses another hath won!
COME BACK.-TUOMAS Dunn ENGLISH.
You say the poor-house is a mile ahead;
It once stood yonder-—" that was years ago." True, true! They'll give me supper and a bed; A job at picking oakum too, I know,
For that's their way.
And plenty, for the traveling tramp to do;
Old Potter, eh?
I made poor-masters and such things just then; For, strange as it may seem, I'd have you know That I have ranked among the “solid men”
Of Brantford town.
When I can get it. Thirty summers since
But now I'm down.
And from the distance feels the more the hurt.
And feel no ill.
These parts long years ago, and I have been From east to west since then, have felt the heft
Of years of trouble, and the sights I've seen
A book would fill.
Or labor, may be, helped to fill his purse-
At least a dimne.)
Abandoned by your father? Why, how mean
A long, long time.
What! Abner Brown? Your mother? Dead, you say! (There are her eyes and hair-the very same) These are not tears--the raw east wind to-day
Moistens the eyes.
By giving me your hand? You mind me much
As manhood flies.
Had sun-light in it; zephyrs in his breath-
His father came.
Be shadowed by my half-forgotten crime;
All but my shame.
And the pine coffin, and the noteless grave.
Who soiled his name.
CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND.--VICTOR Hugo. It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick in it; it is sand no longer; it is glue.
The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from tliat which is no longer so; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland.
He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in.
lle sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right road; he stops to take his bearings; now he looks at his feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the leftthe sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over.
lle is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to husten ; which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which draws you by the feet; which, at every cffort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags you a liitle deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upor: the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him; he straightens up, he sinks in; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs.
Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath; sobs frenziedly; the sand rises; the sand reaches his shoulders; the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it --silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them--night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand; a hand comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears.
It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave.”
HOW HE WHIPPED HIM.
A young John Phænix tells how it was, as follows:
"I'll tell you how it was. You see, Bill and me went down to the wharf to fish; and I felt in my pocket and found my knife and it was gone, and I said, Bill, you stole my knife; and he said I was another; and I said go there yourself; and he said it was no such thing; and I said he was a fraud, and I could whip him, if I was bigger'n him; and he said he'd rock me to sleep, mother; and I said he was a bigger one; and he said I never had the measles; and I said for him to fork over that knife or I'd fix him for a tombstone on Laulrel Hill; and he said my grandmother was no gentleman; and I said he darsen't take it up; but he did, you het; you never-well, you never did; then I got up again, and said he was too much afraid to do it again, and he tried to, but he didn't; and I grabbed him and threw him down on top of me like several bricks; and I tell you it beat all-and so did he; and my little dog got behind Bill and bit him; ana Bill kicked at the dog, and the dog ran, and I ran after the dog to fetrh him hick, and I didn't catch him till I got clear home; and I'll whip him more yet. Is my eye black ?”
Peace through the mountain and the vale, the night,
With silent shadows o'er the hill-tops crept; The first faint star of eve shed doubtful light;
It seemed all nature slept. Hark! what is that which crashes through the trees ?
The women shriek and strong men's faces blanch, And in the cloister cowled monks seek their knees.
It is the avalanche!
Before the horror stares him in the face,
Changed in a moment's space.
Crushing the firs, and slaying man and beast; Nor strength, nor prayer, may stem that sweeping tide,
Once from its boards released. “Christ, save us! Mary, mother, hear our prayer!"
That long, shrill cry rings through the hills afar. Then all is hushed; and through the trembling air
The silence smites the star. Peace through the mountains and the vales; the night
In solemn sadness o'er the still land swept; The large moon robbed the small stars of their light;
The restful valley slept.
A CATASTROPHE.- PELEG ARKWRIGAT.
No human being
Who saw that sight
Of pale affright.
Three stories high,
With no one nigh.
And stopped to stare:
To watch him there.
In airy flight,