No more around her thirty waists For she is dead; and from those eyes The fevers seized her all at once, With corns, hysterics, and the mumps, A dozen doctors made her worse; But ere she died, in countless throngs And waded through each other's tears And even then she thought of me, And summoned me beside her beds "Good-by, dear John," she feebly said; 66 "I'm going soon," said she; 'But, oh! don't marry Widow Smith, And, oh, don't mourn for me! For Widow Smith is forty-fold,— Too many, far, for you; And she is artful, sly, and bold, And quite designing, too. "And, John, don't leave your flannels off; And don't catch cold, my dear; Don't die of grief, but ca'mly live, Your children need you here. I shall not want you over there, I've had you here quite long enough; And then she closed her eyes in peace, And left me here to mourn her loss, Oh! Mary Anne and so forth Jones, Thy virtues, like thyself, were too There's no one now to mend my shirts, Or hear each other cry; I sew my buttons on alone, I'll have to marry Widow Smith; The children need a mother's care- Your souls are free from pain; I must relieve my own despair, And try my luck again. MAN'S MISSION.-MRS. W. R. WILDE. When Truth's banner is unfurled; Work is duty, while we live in This weird world of sin and dole. Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling, To the throne of heaven's King; Stronger natures, culminating When, like heaven's arch above, Sounds the perfect chord of love. We are struggling in the morning Seize the palm, nor heed the wound. We must bend our thoughts to earnest, Would we strike the idols down; With a purpose of the sternest Take the cross, and wait the crown; Sufferings human life can hallow, Sufferings lead to God's Valhalla. Meekly bear, but nobly try, Like a man with soft tears flowing, Like a God with conquest glowing, So to love, and work, and die! THE BAYONET CHARGE.-NATHAN D. URNER. Not a sound, not a breath! And as still as death, As we stand on the steep in our bayonet's shine; Surging friend, surging foe; But not a hair's breadth moves our adamant line, The battle smoke lifts From the valley, and drifts Round the hill where we stand, like a pall for the world; And a gleam now and then Shows the billows of men, In whose black, boiling surge we are soon to be hurled, There's the word! "Ready all!" The grim horizontal so bright and so bare. Then the other word-Ha! We are moving! Huzza! We snuff the burnt powder, we plunge in the glare, Down the hill, up the glen, O'er the bodies of men; Then on with a cheer, to the roaring redoubt! Why stumble so, Ned? No answer-he's dead! And there's Dutch Peter down, with his life leaping out, Crimson and gory! On! on! Do not think Of the falling; but drink Of the mad, living cataract torrent of war! On! on! let them feel The cold vengeance of steel! Catch the Captain-he's hit! "Tis a scratch, nothing more! Forward forever! From the jaws of the cannon the guerdon of fame! Like the shriek of a shell O'er the abatis, on through the curtain of flame! The rampart! 'Tis crossed- No-another dash now and the glacis is won! Hew them down. Cut and thrust! A t-i-g-e-r! brave lads, for the red work is done— DRUNKARDS NOT ALL BRUTES. I said when I began, that I was a trophy of this movement; and therefore the principal part of my work has been (not ignoring other parts) in behalf of those who have suffered as I have suffered. You know there is a great deal said about the reckless victims of this foe being "brutes." No, they are not brutes. I have labored for about eighteen years among them and I never have found a brute. I have had men swear at me; I have had a man dance around me as if possessed of a devil, and spit his foam in my face; but he is not a brute. I think it is Charles Dickens, who says: "Away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, and on that door is written 'woman."" And so in the heart of the vile outcast, away up a great many pairs of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, on which is written "man." Here is our business, to find that door. It may take time; but begin and knock. Don't get tired; but remember God's long-suffering for us and keep knocking a long time if need be. Don't get weary if there is no answer; remember Him whose locks were wet with dew. Knock on just try it-you try it; and just so sure as you do, just so sure, by-and-by, will the quivering lip and starting tear tell, you have knocked at the heart of a man, and not of a brute. It is because these poor wretches are men, and not brutes that we have hopes for them. They said "he is a brute-let him alone." I took him home with me and kept the "brute" fourteen days and nights, through his delirium; and he nearly frightened Mary out of her wits, once, chasing her about |