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"Tis done; the blazing pile is fir'd, the flames have wrapped her

round;

The owlet shrieked, and circling flew with dull, foreboding

sound;

Fate shuddered at the ghastly sight, and smil'd a ghastly smile ;
And fame and honor spread their wings above the funeral pile.
But, phoenix-like, her spirit rose from out the burning flame,
More beautiful and bright by far than in her days of fame.
Peace to her spirit! Let us give her memory to renown,
Nor on her faults or failings dwell, but draw the curtain down.

HOW A WICKED NEVY GOT HIMSELF INTO THE WILL,

J. T. FIELDS.

It was a wicked nephew bold
Who uprose in the night,

And ground upon a huge grindstone
His penknife, sharp and bright.

And while the sparks were flying wild
The cellar floor upon,

Quoth he unto himself, "I will
Dispatch my Uncle John!

'His property is large, and, if
He dies and leaves a will,
His loving nephew (that's myself)
Won't get a dollar bill.

"I'll hie unto my uncle's bed,

His chamber well I know,

And there I'll find his pocketbook
Safe under his pil-low,

"With this bright steel I'll slay him first Because that is the way

They do such things, I understand,
In Boucicault's new play."

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"Come forth, my trusty weapon, now y

(Or words to that effect)

He shouted to his little blade,
Whose power he did suspect.

Then out he starts. His uncle's door
Is thirteen doors from his;

He gains the latch, which upward flies
And straight inside he is!

One pause upon the entry stair,

And one upon the mat

How still the house at such an hour
How mewless is the cat!

“O, nephew, nephew be not rash ;
Turn back, and then turn in ;'
Your uncle still is sound asleep,
And you devoid of sin.

"The gallows tree was never built
For handsome lads like you—
Get to your bed! (as kind Macbet
Wished his young man to do)."

He will not be advised-he stands
Beside the sleeping form-
The hail begins to beat outside
A tattoo for the storm.

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WHO SHALL JUDGE MAN.

Who shall judge man from his manners 2 Who shall know him by his dress? Paupers may be fit for princes,

Princes fit for something less,

Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket
May beclothe the golden ore
Of the deepest thoughts and feeling-
Satin vests can do no more

There are streams of crystal nectar
Ever flowing out of stone;
There are purple beds and golden,

Hidden, crushed and overthrown.
God, who counts by souls, not dresses
Loves and prospers you and me,
While he values thrones the highest
But as pebbles in the sea,

Man upraised above his fellows
Oft forgets his fellows then ;
Masters-rulers-'ords, remember
That your meanest hinds are men !
Men of labor, men of feeling,

Men of thought and men of fame,
Claiming equal rights to sunshine
In a man's ennobling name.

There are foam-embroidered oceans;
There are little wood-clad rills ;
There are feeble inch-high saplings,
There are cedars on the hill.
God, who counts by souls, not stations,
Loves and prospers you and me;

For to him all vain distinctions
Are as pebbles in the sea.

Toiling hands alone are builders
Of a nation's wealth and fame,
Titled laziness is pensioned,

Fed and fattened on the same.
By the sweat of other's foreheads,
Living only to rejoice,

While the poor man's outraged freedom Vainly lifts his feeble voice.

Truth and justice are eternal,
Born with loveliness and light,
Secret wrongs shall never prosper
While there is a sunny right.
God, whose world-wide voice is singing
Boundless love to you and me,

Links oppression with its titles

But as pebbles in the sea,

DIRGE OF LOVELY ROSABELLE

SCOTT.

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell, Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
And gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

"The blackening wave is edged with white,
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishes have heard the Water-Sprite,
Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.

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'Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round a ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?”

"Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."—

O'er Roslin all that dreary night,

A wonderous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It rudied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

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