Avails it whether bare or shod ANONYMOUS. The Place where Man should Die. How little recks it where men lie, When once the moment 's past Or in its nakedness return Back to its mother's breast! Death is a common friend or foe, But when the spirit, free and warm, Deserts it, as it must, What matter where the lifeless form Dissolves again to dust? The soldier falls 'mid corses piled Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild But though his corse be grim to see, What recks it, when the spirit free The coward's dying eyes may close And softest hands his limbs compose, Or garments o'er them spread. 'T were sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, And, wafted upwards by their sighs, Or in the battle's van, The fittest place where man can die Is where he dies for man! MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. A Hundred Years to Come. WHERE, where will be the birds that sing, The flowers that now in beauty spring, A hundred years to come? The rosy lips, the lofty brow, The heart that beats so gayly now, Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, Who 'll press for gold this crowded street, Who 'll tread yon church with willing feet, Pale trembling age, and fiery youth, And childhood with its brow of truth; The rich and poor, on land and sea,— We all within our graves shall sleep, A hundred years to come. And others, then, our streets will fill, As bright the sunshine as to-day, A hundred years to come. WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN. The Song of Steam. HARNESS me down with your iron bands, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight, At the childish boast of human might, When I saw an army upon the land, Or waiting the wayward breeze,— With the toil which he daily bore, When I measured the panting courser's speed, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love, I could but think how the world would feel, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Ha, ha, ha! They found me at last, They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change The ocean pales where'er I sweep, I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, The thoughts of his godlike mind; The wind lags after my going forth, The lightning is left behind. In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine, My tireless arm doth play; Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, I bring earth's glittering jewels up I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, I hammer the ore and turn the wheel I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,- And all my doings I put into print On every Saturday eve. I 've no muscle to weary, no brains to decay, But harness me down with your iron bands, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands GEORGE W. CUTTER. Why thus Longing ? WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing, Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still; Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee To some little world through weal and woe; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten- |