Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun! Till swords from scabbards leap! What tears can widows weep Less bitter than when brave men fall! In shadowed hut and hall Shall lie the soldier's pall, And hearts shall break while graves are filled! Amen! so God hath willed! And may His grace anoint us all! Toll! Roland, toll! The Dragon on thy tower Stands sentry to this hour, And Freedom so stands safe in Ghent, And merrier bells now ring, And in the land's serene content, Men shout, "God save the King!" So let it be! A kingly king is he Who keeps his people free! Ring out across the sea! No longer They, but We, Have now such need of thee! Toll! Roland, toll! Nor ever may thy throat Keep dumb its warning note, Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved, From northern lake to southern strand! Till friend and foe, at thy command, CATO'S SOLILOQUY.—By Addison. Ir must be so.-Plato, thou reasonest well!—— Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Eternity!-thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! Through all her works,-He must delight in virtue; But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar. [Laying his hand on his sword.]· Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death and life, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE. "THAT'S the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold? Indeed! He does not look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better takeɛ cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And, as I am alive, if it isn't Saint Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the You can't windows? Nonsense, you don't impose upon me. be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it. I say? Oh, you do hear it? Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella! There-do you hear it? Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks-always six weeks. And no um brella! "I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather. I'm determined. No! they shall stop at home and never learn anything-the blessed creatures!-sooner than go and get wet. And, when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing-who, indeed, but their father. People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. 66 But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's tomorrow, you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me, you hate to have me go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No: and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least sixteenpence ?-two-and-eightpence, for there and back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em? I can't pay for 'em; and I'm sure you can't if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children-buying umbrellas! "Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care-I'll go to mother's to-morrow, I will, and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way,-and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; it's you that's a foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and, with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold-it always does. But, what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent your umbrella for. Of course. "Nice clothes, I shall get too, trapesing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt, quite. Needn't I wear 'em then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows, it isn't often that I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once-better, I should say. But, when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. Ugh, that rain-if it isn't enough to break in the windows. "Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow. How I am to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But, if I die I'll do it. No, sir, I won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle, only listen to this, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. "Ha! and it was only last week I had a nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you, you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife and your own dear children. You think of nothing but lending umbrellas. Men, indeed!-call themselves lords of creation!-pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella! "I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want; then you may go to your club, and do as you like and then nicely my poor dear children will be used; but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you never would have lent that umbrella! "You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and of course you can't go. No, indeed, you don't go without the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care-it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes-better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas. "And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go-that's nothing to do with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and the little money we were to have we shan't have at all-because we've no umbrella. "The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for they shan't stay at home; they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't; you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school: mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault: I didn't lend the unbrella. Caudle, are you asleep? (A loud snore is heard.) Oh, what a brute a man is! Oh, dear, dear, d-e-a-r.” ADDRESS TO THE SOLDIERS.-By Rev. Jacob M. Manning. SOLDIERS from the army and navy, once soldiers but now again citizens, we hail you to-day as our benefactors and deliverers. We welcome you home from the fatigues of the march, the wearisome camp, and the awful ecstacy of battle. Through four terrible years you have looked without quailing on the ghastly visage of war. You have patiently borne the heats of summer and the frosts of winter. You have cheerfully exchanged the delights of home for the hardships of the campaign or blockade. Not only the armed foe, but the wasting malaria has lurked along your resistless advance. You know the agony and the transport of the deadly encounter. How many times, standing each man at his post in the long line of gleaming sabres and bayonets, every hand clenched and every eye distended, you have caught the peal of your leader's clarion, and sprung through the iron storm to the embrace of victory! But all that has passed away. The mangled forests are putting on an unwonted verdure, the fields once blackened by the fiery breath of war are now covered with their softest bloom, and the vessels of commerce are riding on all the national waters. The carnage, the groans, the cries for succor, the fierce onset and sullen recoil, the thunders of the artillery, and the missiles screaming like demons in the air, have given way to pæans, civic processions and songs of thanksgiving. The flag of your country, so often rent and torn in your grasp, and which you have borne to triumph again and again, over the quaking earth or through the hurricane of death in river and bay, rolls out its peaceful folds above you, every star blazing with the glory of your deeds, in token of a nation's gratitude. We come forth to greet you-sires and matrons, young men and maidens, children and those bowed with age; to own the vast debt which we can never pay, and to say, from full hearts, we thank you, God bless you! But while we thus address you, you are thinking of the fallen. With a soldier's generosity you wish they could be here to share in the hard-earned welcome. Possibly they are here from many a grave in which you laid them after the strife; pleased with these festivities, and with the return of joy to the nation, but far above any ability of ours either to bless or to injure. You may tarnish your laurels, or an envious hand may pluck them from you. But your fallen comrades are exposed to no such accident. They are doubly fortunate, for the same event which crowned them with honor has placed them beyond the possibility of losing their crown. Many of them died in the darkest hours of the republic; others in the carly dawn of peace, while the morning star D |