We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. Wings for the angels, but feet for the men! Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. Heaven is not reached at a single bound; MISCHIEF MAKERS. Он, could there in this world be found How doubly blest that place would be, Of gossips' endless prattling. If such a spot were really known, Forever and forever: There, like a queen, might reign and live, "Tis Mischief-Makers that remove What gives another pleasure They seem to take one's part--but when Mixed with their poisonous measure. And then they've such a cunning way Oh, that the mischief-making crew That every one might know them! With things so much below them. We ought to love and cherish. While friendship, joy, and peace abound, THE LAST MILE-STONES. PEARL RIVERS. SIXTY years through shine and shadow— Sixty years, my gentle wife, You and I have walked together Down the rugged road of life. From the hills of Spring we started, And through all the Summer land, We have borne the heat and burden, Leave the uplands for our children, 'Tis a dreary country, darling, No more hills to climb, true friend; We have had our time of gladness; We have had our time of sorrow- When we could not see the mile-stones Far behind us, little May, Then darling Willie, too, grew weary, Are you looking backward, mother, And-what is it, wife, you say? Cheer thee! cheer thee! faithful-hearted! Just a little way before Lies the great Eternal City Of the King that we adore. I can see the shining spires; And the King,-the King, my dear! We have served him long and humbly, He will bless us, do not fear! Ah! the snow falls fast and heavy; DEAF AS A POST. A WESTERN paper tells a capital story of a deaf gentleman's mistake. It seems that in the procession that followed good Deacon Jones to the grave, last summer, the Reverend Mr. Sampler, the new clergyman of East Town, found himself in the same carriage with an elderly man whom he had never met before. They rode in grave silence for a few moments, when the clergyman endeavored to improve the occasion by serious conversation. "This is a solemn duty in which we are engaged, my friend" he said. "Hey? what do you say sir?" the old man returned. "Can't you speak louder? I'm hard of hearin'." "I was remarking," shouted the clergyman, "that this is a solemn road we are traveling to-day." "Sandy road! You don't call this 'ere sandy, do ye? Guess you ain't been down to the South deestric.-There's a stretch of road on the old pike that beats all I ever see for hard travelin'. Only a week before Deacon Jones was tuk sick, I met him drivin' his ox-team along there, and the sand was pretty nigh up to the hubs of the wheels. The deacon used to get dretful riled 'bout that piece of road, and East Town does go ahead of all creation for sand." The young clergyman looked blank at the unexpected turn given to his remark; but quickly recovering himself and raising his voice to its highest pitch, he resumed the conversation. "Our friend has done with all the discomforts of earth," he said, solemnly. "A small spot of ground will soon cover his poor senseless clay." Did you say clay, sir?" cried the old man, eagerly. "Tain't nigh so good to cover sand with as medder loam. Sez I to Mr. Brewer, last town-meetin' day, 'if you'd cart on a few dozen loads, there's acres of it on the river bank,' sez I, 'you'd make as pretty a piece of road as there is in Har'ford county.' But we are slow folks in East Town, sir." It was perhaps fortunate for the clergyman at that moment that the smell of new made hay from a neighboring field suggested a fresh train of thought. "Look," said he, with a graceful wave of the hand, "what an emblem of the brevity of human life! As the grass of the field, so man flourisheth, and to-morrow he is cut down." 66 'I don't calculate to cut mine till next week," said his companion. “You musn't cut grass too 'arly; and then again, you musn't cut it too late." "My friend," shrieked the clergyman, in a last desperate attempt to make himself understood, "this is no place for vain conversation. We are approaching the narrow house appointed for all the living." They were entering the graveyard, but the old man stretched his neck from the carriage window in the oppo. site direction. "Do you mean Squire Hubbard's over yonder? Tis rather narrer. They build all them new-fangled houses that way now-a-days. To my mind they ain't nigh so handsome nor so handy as the old-fashioned square ones with a broad entry runnin' clear through to the back door. Well, this is the getting-out place, ain't it? Much obleeged to ye, parson, for your entertaining remarks." THE LAST MAN.-THOMAS CAMPBELL. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,— Before this mortal shall assume |