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Tuey took that little cot-yon, there; you see the roof from

here;
It stands upon a kind o’ ledge,
As overlooks the ocean's edge,

An' close up to it grows the sedge, -
Too dangerously near.
They liked it 'cause they thought they'd get such healthy,

bracin' air;
He made a palace o' the cot,
An' bought a jaunty little yacht,

That fancy kind, wi' which you've got
To take the weather fair.
He went out sailin' in the yacht,---well, e’enmost ev'ry day;

Sometimes she'd go, an' sometimes bide;
The boy were allus at his side,

'Twere plain he were his father's pride,-
His very heart's sun-ray.
They had a set o' signal flags, o'silk, an' made by her;

An' on the yacht a little gun,
He'd fire off, an' up they'd run

Their colors, an' enjoy the fun
Like children, which they were.
I guess they'd lived here 'bout three month, or maybe,

might be more;
'Twere long enough for folk to find
How good an' true they were, an' kind;

Bes' liked-an' by us poor folk, mind-
O' all along the shore.
It were a hot an’ heavy day, barely a touch o' breeze;

One o' the days wi' blood-red sun,
As makes you think the world's begun

To scorch, an' judge 't would be rare fun
To sail due North-an' freeze.
He went out early in the yacht-I seed him put away-

I stood upon the beach the while,
He nodded, wi' a pleasant smile;

The little fellow said, “Ol' Gile, We goin' to fish to-day." 'Bout four o'clock the storm come up--I'd felt it sure since

noon-
An' round about the cot I stayed,
For truth I felt a bit afraid;

An' all the arternoon I prayed
It wouldn't come so soon.

An' what a storm! the billows raged-a storm, too, in the

skies-
The sea wind blew wi' might an' main,
Well, fact, eenmost a hurricane;

The thunder roared, an' flashed again
The lightnin' in our eyes.
Oh! lad, the terror in the cot my tongue can ne'er relate;

Wi' glass in hand she scanned the shore, -
I tell you, lad, it grieved me sore,

I couldn't hope to see 'em more, 1 couldn't doubt their fate. But soon she thought she saw the yacht, a speck upon the

wave,
A little more-an’ she could tell;
It were—the signal waved, “All's well,”

An' on her knees she prayerful fell"O God! my dear ones save!" The storm waxed high, the billows rose like monsters in hot

wrath;
The air wi' heavy vapors teemed;
We saw, as bright the lightnin' gleamed,

The yacht, as through the waves she seemed
To cut hersel' a path.
As fixed we gazed, wi' beatin' hearts, the air grew bright a

spell;
The little yacht kep' bravely on,
An' faintly then we heerd the gun,

Thanked God, the fight seemed nearly won;
The signal waved—“All's well.”
Nearer and nearer still it come, she seed her darlin' boy,

She seed her husband, tall an' fair;
He stood erect, his head were bare,

The wind played wi' his flowin’hair,
Her heart were full wi' joy.
Don't mind me, lad—there, look ahead; you see yon jagged

rock?-
They'll put a safeguard there some day,
When more dear lives are dashed away ;-

His eyes, I judge, were blind wi' spray,
He only felt the shock.
Down like a stone! I heerd the scream, the terrible death

knell;-.
It were the folk as stood wi' her-
She didn't speak and didn't stir;

An' there above the water, sir,
The signal waved, “All's well."

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She stood like dead-it seemed an age to those who were

around, -
Although it may seem strange to say,
I b’lieve her soul had fled its clay,

An' for the moment sped away,
To whisper wi' the drowned.
At las' she turned; wi' tearless eye, an' face like sculptured

stone,
She bade 'em all to leave the room ;
Said she, “We can't avert God's doom,

He chooses where shall be man's tomb;
Pray leave me, frien's, alone.”
The storm now ceased, its fury spent, the air were still once

more;
The men went out wi' rope an' hook-
Too ol' to go, I stood to look,

An' all my limbs a-tremblin' shook
To see her at her door.
Her babe lay sleepin' in her arms, an' stony still her face;

I felt my heart within me sink-
I told you 'bout that ledge, I think-

She walked right close up to the brink;
I since ha' marked the place.
I started to come near her, for I feared o' somethin' ill;

I'd walked about a rod-nay, less-
When to her, wi' a crazed caress,

Her child I seed her closely press,
A plunge-an' all were still.
Well, God is good! an' let us hope that in his realms above,

Her anguished mind an' grief intense,
Atone in mercy her offence,

An' that they're joined forever, hence,
In constancy an' love.

NOBLE REVENGE.-THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

A young officer (in what army no matter) had so far forgotten himself, in a moment of irritation, as to strike a private soldier, full of personal dignity (as sometimes happens in all ranks), and distinguished for his courage. The inex oral;le laws of military discipline forbade to the injurei sol, dier any practical redress--he could look for no retaliation by acts. Words only were at his command, and, in a tumult of indignation, as he turned away, the soldier said to his of ficer that he would “make him repent it.” This, wearing the shape of a menace, naturally rekindled the officer's anger, and intercepted any disposition which might be rising within him toward a sentiment of remorse; and thus the irritation between the two young men grew hotter than before.

Some weeks after this a partial action took place with the enemy. Suppose yourself a spectator, and looking down into a valley occupied by the two armies. They are facing each other, you see, in martial array. But it is no more than a skirmish which is going on; in the course of which, however, an occasion suddenly arises for a desperate service. A redoubt, which has fallen into the enemy's hands, must be recaptured at any price, and under circumstances of all but hopeless difficulty.

A strong party has volunteered for the service; there is a cry for somebody to head them; you see a soldier step out from the ranks to assume this dangerous leadership; the party moves rapidly forward; in a few minutes it is swallowed up from your eyes in clouds of smoke; for one half hour, from behind these clouds you receive hieroglyphic reports of bloody strife-fierce repeating signals, flashes from the guns, rolling musketry, and exulting hurrahs advancing or receding, slackening or redoubling.

At length all is over; the redoubt has been recovered; that which was lost is found again; the jewel which had been made captive is ransomed with blood. Crimsoned with glorious gore, the wreck of the conquering party is relieved, and at liberty to return. From the river you see it ascending. The plume-crested officer in command rushes forward, with his left hand raising his hat in homage to the blackened fragments of what was once a flag, whilst with his right he seizes that of the leader, though no more than a private from the ranks. That perplexes you not; mystery you see none in that. For distinctions of order perish, ranks are confounded ; " high and low” are words without a meaning, and to wreck goes every notion or feeling that divides the noble froin the noble, or the brave man from the brave.

But wherefore is it that now, when suddenly they wheel into mutual recognition, suddenly they pause? This soldier, this officer-who are they? O reader! once before they had stood face to face—the soldier that was struck, the officer that struck him. Once again they are meeting; and the gaze of armies is

upon

them. If for a moment a doubt divides them, in a moment the doubt has perished. One glance exchanged between them publishes the forgiveness that is sealed forever.

As one who recovers a brother whom he has accounted dead, the officer sprang forward, threw his arms around the neck of the soldier, and kissed him, as if he were some martyr glorified by that shadow of death from which he was returning; whilst, on his part, the soldier, stepping back, and carrying his open hand through the beautiful motions of the military salute to a superior, makes this immortal answer—that answer which shut up forever the memory of the indignity offered to him, even while for the last time alluding to it: “Sir," he said, “I told you before, that I would make you repent it.”

FRIAR PHILIP.

Poor friar Philip lost his wife,
The charm and comfort of his life,
He mourned her,-not like modern men,
For ladies were worth having then.
The world was altered in his view,
All things put on a yellow hue;
Even ladies, once his chief delight,
Were now offensive to his sight;
In short, he pined and looked so ill,
The doctor hoped to make a bill.

At last he made a vow to fly,
And hide himself from every eye;
Take up his lodgings in a wood,
To turn a hermit, and grow good.
He had a son, now you must know,
About a twelvemonth old or so;

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