And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled;

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farm-yard wall;
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,-

A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the past,
Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S ADDRESS AT THE DEDIICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.-Nov. 1864.

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

SOCRATES SNOOKS.

Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation,
The second time entered the married relation.

Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand,

And they thought him the happiest man in the land.
But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head,

When one morning, to Xantippe, Socrates said,

"I think, for a man of my standing in life, This house is too small, as I now have a wife; So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey

Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy."

“Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied,
"I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd;

Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again,
Say, our cow-house, our barn-yard, our pig-pen."
"By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please
Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees."

"Say 'Our,'" Xantippe exclaimed in a rage,

"I wont, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!"

O woman! though only a part of man's rib,

If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib,

Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you,
You are certain to prove the best man of the two.
In the following case this was certainly true;
For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe,
And laying about her, all sides at random,
The adage was verified-Nil desperandum.

Mister Socrates Snooks-after trying in vain
To ward off the blows which descended like rain,
Concluding that valor's best part was discretion-
Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian;
But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid,
Converted the siege into a blockade.

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate,
He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate;

And so, like a tortoise protruding his head,

Said, "My dear, may we come out from under our bed?" "Ha! ha!" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates Snooks,

I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks.
Now, Socrates-hear me-from this happy hour,
If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour."

"Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church,
He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search.
Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches,
"My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?"

THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. (1863.) GEORGE H. BOKER.

"Give me but two brigades," said Hooker, frowning at fortified Lookout,

*And I'll engage to sweep yon mountain clear of that mocking rebel rout!"

At early morning came an order that set the general's face

aglow: "Now," said he to his staff," draw out my soldiers. Grant says that I may go!"

Hither and thither dashed each eager colonel to join his regiment,

While a low rumor of the daring purpose ran on from tent to tent;

For the long-roll was sounding through the valley, and the keen trumpet's bray,

And the wild laughter of the swarthy veterans, who cried, "We fight to-day!"

The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of the great jolting

gun,

The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds neighing, "Why's not the fight begun?"

All these plain harbingers of sudden conflict broke on the startled ear;

And, last, arose a sound that made your blood leap,-the ringing battle-cheer.

The lower works were carried at one onset. Like a vast

roaring sea

Of steel and fire, our soldiers from the trenches swept out the enemy;

And we could see the gray-coats swarming up from the mountain's leafy base,

To join their comrades in the higher fastness-for life or death the race!

Then our long line went winding round the mountain, in a huge serpent track,

And the slant sun upon it flashed and glimmered, as on a dragon's back.

Higher and higher the column's head pushed onward, ere the rear moved a man;

And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling volleys and single shots began.

Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and bellowed, and all its batteries woke,

And down the mountain poured the bomb-shells, puffing into our eyes their smoke;

And balls and grape-shot rained upon our column, that bore the angry shower

As if it were no more than that soft dropping which scarcely

stirs the flower.

Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, and runs through all his men!

The heart that failed beside the Rappahannock, it was itself again!

The star that circumstance and jealous faction shrouded in envious night,

Here shone with all the splendor of its nature, and with a freer light!

Hark! hark! there go the well-known crashing volleys, the long-continued roar,

That swells and falls, but never ceases wholly, until the fight is o'er.

Up towards the crystal gates of heaven ascending, the mor tal tempests beat,

As if they sought to try their cause together before God's very feet!

We saw our troops had gained a footing almost beneath the topmost ledge,

And back and forth the rival lines went surging upon the dizzy edge.

We saw, sometimes, our men fall backward slowly, and groaned in our despair;

Cr cheered when now and then a stricken rebel plunged out in open air,

Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms dropping, his God alone knows where!

At eve, thick haze upon the mountain gathered, with rising smoke stained black,

And not a glimpse of the contending armies shone through the swirling rack.

Night fell o'er all; but still they flashed their lightnings and rolled their thunders loud,

Though no man knew upon which side was going that battle in the cloud.

Night-what a night!—of anxious thought and wonder, but still no tidings came

From the bare summit of the trembling mountain, still wrapped in mist and flame.

But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more dreadful than the fierce sound of war,

Settled o'er nature, as if she stood breathless before the morning star.

As the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor boiled from the valley's deeps.

Dragging their torn and ragged edges slowly up through the tree-clad steeps,