Yes, noble Galileo, thou art right. "It DOES move. Bigots may make thee recant it, but it moves, nevertheless. Yes, the earth moves, and the planets move, and the mighty waters move, and the great sweeping tides of air move, and the empires of men move, and the world of thought moves, ever onward and upward, to higher facts and bolder theories. The Inquisition may seal thy lips, but they can no more stop the progress of the great truth propounded by Copernicus, and demonstrated by thee, than they can stop the revolving earth.

Fran

Close, now, venerable sage, that sightless, tearful eye; it has seen what man never before saw; it has seen enough. Hang up that poor little spy-glass; it has done its work. Not Herschel nor Rosse have, comparatively, done more. ciscans and Dominicans deride thy discoveries now, but the time will come when, from two hundred observatories in Europe and America, the glorious artillery of science shall nightly assault the skies; but they shall gain no conquests in those glittering fields before which thine shall be forgotten.

Rest in peace, great Columbus of the heavens ;-like him, scorned, persecuted, broken-hearted!-in other ages, in distant hemispheres, when the votaries of science, with solemn acts of consecration, shall dedicate their stately edifices to the cause of knowledge and truth, thy name shall be mentioned with honor.

OWED TO THE STEEM FIRE ENGINE.-By A. Stoie,
Suggested by Seaing it Skwirt.

GRATE ingine you have eradicated Fire machines
Worked by human mussel-Grate ingine You
skwirt on tops of houses where the flames
Protrude, and.you immediately eckstinguish.
Grate Ingine!—

Stupendoowus steam pump. You suck. You
Draw up, and you skwirt water on the raging
and devowring elament commonly knowne as
Fire. And you suckseat in kwenching the aforesede.
Stupendoowus Steem pump.

Mitey destroyer of ignited kumbustibuls when you
Get to a sistern, you run your sucktions in.

Your Enjinear puts on adishional steem,

And you proceed forthwith to darken down calighted matter
Mitey destroyer of ignited kombustibuls.

Grand ecksterminator of blaseing material. You
Must feal prowd bekase you have plenty

of water on hand and don't use

Spiritous lickers-You don't work much
Bekause you have nothing to do.

Grate exterminator of blaseing material!

Wonderful Infantile Water Works. You have
Superseaded the laboring efforts of inde-
viduals to perfect hand pumps. And you
Now stand out in bass relievus to the enemy
Of Flame. Because you always come out first best!
Wonderful Infantile Water Works!

Thou spreader of the akweous Fluid-You
Know full well, your hundred ef feet of pipe in
Your biler, big wheals, little walves,

&c., are death to the old fire boys and

useful to Insurance Companies.

Thou spreader of the akweous Fluid!

Steem Fire Engine-your useful.

You

use wood and koal-you make

a big noise with your whistle, and
You leave a streak of fire behind you
in the streat. But steam Fire Ingine your
Useful. Your a-a trump-Go on-

Go on Steam Fire Ingine.

Go on-Grate old Skwirt!

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.—By John G. Whittier.

UP from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand,
Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall,
When Lee march'd over the mountain wall,

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

B*

24

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon look'd down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men haul'd down.

In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouch'd hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast;
"Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shiver'd the window-pane and sash,
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf.
She lean'd far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirr'd
To life at that woman's deed and word.
"Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on !" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long that free flag toss'd
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And, through the hill-gaps, sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town.

THE STUDENT.

"I have seen the pale student, bending over his written volume, or studying the exhaustless tomes of nature, until the springs of life were dried up, and--he died!"

"POOR FOOL!" the base and soulless worldling cries,

"To waste his strength for naught,-to blanch his cheek, And bring pale Death upon him in his prime.

Why did he not to pleasure give his days,

His nights to rest, and live while live he might?"
What is't to live? To breathe the vital air,
Consume the fruits of earth, and doze away
Existence? Never! this is living death,-
'Tis brutish life,—base groveling. Een the brutes
Of nobler nature, live not lives like this.
Shall man, then, formed to be creation's lord,
Stamped with the impress of Divinity, and sealed
With God's own signet, sink below the brute?
Forbid it, Heaven! it can not, must not be!

Oh! when the mighty GoD from nothing brought
This universe,-when at His word the light
Burst forth, the sun was set in heaven,-
And earth was clothed in beauty; when the last,
The noble work of all, from dust He framed
Our bodies in His image,-when He placed
Within its temple-shrine of clay, the soul,-
The immortal soul,--infused by His own truth,
Did He not show, 'tis this which gives to man
His high prerogative? Why then declare
That he who thinks less of his worthless frame,
And lives a spirit, even in this world,
Lives not as well,-lives not as long, as he

Who drags out years of life, without one thought,—
One hope,-one wish beyond the present hour?

How shall we measure life? Not by the years,—
The months, the days,-the moments that we pass
On earth. By him whose soul is raised above

Base worldly things,-whose heart is fixed in Heaven,--
His life is measured by that soul's advance,-
Its cleansing from pollution and from sin,—
The enlargement of its powers,-the expanded field
Wherein it ranges,-till it glows and burns
With holy joys, with high and heavenly hopes.

When in the silent night, all earth lies hushed
In slumber,-when the glorious stars shine out,
Each star a sun,-each sun a central light
Of some fair system, ever wheeling on
In one unbroken round,—and that again
Revolving round another sun,-while all
Suns, stars, and systems, proudly roll along,
In one majestic, ever-onward course,
In space uncircumscribed and limitless,-
Oh think you then the undebased soul
Can calmly give itself to sleep,-to rest?

No! in the solemn stillness of the night,
It soars from earth,-it dwells in angels' homes,-
It hears the burning song, the glowing chant,
That fills the sky-girt vaults of heaven with joy!
It pants, it sighs, to wing its flight from earth,
To join the heavenly choirs, and be with God.
And it is joy to muse the written page,
Whereon are stamped the gushings of the soul
Of genius;—where, in never-dying light,
It glows and flashes as the lightning's glare;

Or where it burns with ray more mild,-more sure,
And wins the soul, that half would turn away
From its more brilliant flashings. These are hours
Of holy joy,—of bliss, so pure, that earth
May hardly claim it. Let his lamp grow dim,
And flicker to extinction; let his cheek
Be pale as sculptured marble,—and his eye
Lose its bright lustre,-till his shrouded frame
Is laid in dust. Himself can never die!

His years, 'tis true, are few,-his life is long;
For he has gathered many a precious gem;
Enraptured, he has dwelt where master minds
Have poured their own deep musings, and his heart
Has glowed with love to Him who framed us thus,—
Who placed within this worthless tegument

The spark of pure Divinity, which shines

With light unceasing.

Yes, his life is long,

Long to the dull and loathsome epicures,