Then honored be the charcoal man! Though dusky as an African, 'Tis not for you, that chance to be A little better clad than he, His honest manhood to despise, Although from morn till eve he cries,- "Charco' charco' !" While mocking echo still replies, "Hark, O! hark O!" "Charco'!"-"Hark, O!"-Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds! From "Our Young Folks JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT.-B. DISRAELI. THE broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers, and frequent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous than those of Rome; for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are ignorant of the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts. The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David; nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham,)but built, alas! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; farther on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief, because there the most illustrious of the human as well as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son of the most favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering and shame, which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honor;) passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisadek built his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped be fore every altar in Rome. The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have travelled over the plain of Sha ron from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among the cypress groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as ifit were a spirit of woe.) Is it the breeze that has travelled over the plain of Sharon from the sea? Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that they could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on the land where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. (Who can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city? There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands; but the law-giver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed; the monarch whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth; the teacher whose doctrines have modelled civilized Europe; the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, and the greatest of reformers;' what race, extinct or living, can produce three such men as these? The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads over the purple sky; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid; all becomes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat.. The tower of David merges into obscurity; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon-light. FIRST APPEARANCE IN TYPE.-O. W. HOLMES. AH, here it is! I'm famous now; An author and a poet, It really is in print. Hurrah! How proud I'll be to show it. And gentle Anna! what a thrill Will animate her breast, To read these ardent lines, and know, To whom they are addressed. Why, bless my soul! here's something wrong; What can the paper mean, By talking of the "graceful brook," That "ganders o'er the green ?” And here's a t instead of r, Which makes it "tippling rill," We'll seek the "shad" instead of "shade," "Thy looks so"-what ?—I recollect, 'Twas "sweet," and then 'twas "kind;" And now, to think,-the stupid fool For "bland" has printed "blind." Was ever such provoking work? That any thing is rendered blind The color of the "rose" is "nose," I wonder if the likeness holds "Thou art a friend." The r is gone; That such a trifling thing could change "Thou art the same," is rendered "lanie," And here because an i is out My lovely "maid" is mad. They drove her blind by poking in And now they've gouged it out again, I'll read no more. What shall I do? The paper's scattered far and wide, Oh, fame! thou cheat of human life, I wish my poem had been burnt, Was ever such a horrid hash, In poetry or prose? I've said she was a "fiend!" and praised The color of her "nose." I wish I had the printer here About a half a minute, I'd bang him to his heart's content, HELVELLYN.-SIR WALTER SCOTT. IN the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful dog, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide: All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, And, starting around me, the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot 'mid the broad mountain beather, Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, How long did'st thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft did'st thou start? How many long days and long weeks did'st thou number, When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming; But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, And more stately thy couch, by this desert, lake lying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. DEACON HEZEKIAH. OH! Hezekiah's a pious soul, With his phiz as long as a hickory pole, And he wouldn't smile if you'd give him the whole There he sits, like a cloud, in his Sunday pew, |