Long to the slothful man's-the groveling herds
Who scarcely know they have a soul within,-
Long to all those who, creeping on to death,
Meet in the grave, the earth-worm's banquet-hall,-
And leave behind no monuments for good.

THE TWO ROADS.-By Richter.

Ir was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window. He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal-the tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

He looked towards the sky, and cried out, in his anguish :"O, youth, return! O, my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I may choose the better road!" But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such," he said, "were the days of my wasted life!" He saw a star shoot from Heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. "Behold an emblem of myself!" he exclaimed; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart.

Then he remembered his early companions, who had en tered life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy and honored on this New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared_no longer look towards that Heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, Come back, my early days! Come back!"

And his youth did return; for all this had been but a dream, visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young; his errors only were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny har

vests wave.

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will ery bitterly, but cry in vain, "O, youth, return! O, give me Lack my early days!"

ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, MARCH 7, 1862.
By George H. Boker.

"STAND to your guns, men!" Morris cried;
Small need to pass the word;
Our men at quarters ranged themselves
Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors' jests:
"What thing is that, I say?"
"A long-shore meeting-house adrift
Is standing down the bay !"

A frown came over Morris' face;
The strange, dark craft he knew:
"That is the iron Merrimac,

Mann'd by a rebel crew.

"So shot your guns and point them straight:
Before this day goes by,

We'll try of what her metal's made."
A cheer was our reply.

"Remember, boys, this flag of ours

Has seldom left its place;

And where it falls, the deck it strikes

Is cover'd with disgrace.

"I ask but this: or sink or swim,
Or live or nobly die,

My last sight upon earth may be
To see that ensign fly!"

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass
Came moving o'er the wave,
As gloomy as a passing hearse,
As silent as the grave.

Her ports were closed; from stem to stern
No sign of life appear'd:

We wonder'd, question'd, strain'd our eyes,
Joked-every thing but fear'd.

She reach'd our range. Our broadside rang;
Our heavy pivots roar'd;

And shot and shell, a fire of hell,
Against her side we pour'd.

God's mercy! from her sloping roof
The iron tempest glanced,

As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,
And round her leap'd and danced;

Or when against her dusky hull
We struck a fair, full blow,
The mighty, solid iron globes
Were crumbled up like snow.

On, on, with fast increasing speed,
The silent monster came,
Though all our starboard battery
Was one long line of flame.

She heeded not; no guns she fired;
Straight on our bows she bore;
Through riving plank and crashing frame
Her furious way she tore.

Alas! our beautiful, keen bow,
That in the fiercest blast
So gently folded back the seas,
They hardly felt we pass'd!

Alas! alas! my Cumberland,
That ne'er knew grief before,
To be so gored, to feel so deep
The tusk of that sea-boar!

Once more she backward drew apace;
Once more our side she rent,
Then, in the wantonness of hate,
Her broadside through us sent.

The dead and dying round us lay,
But our foeman lay abeam;
Her open port-holes madden'd us,
We fired with shout and scream.

We felt our vessel settling fast;
We knew our time was brief:

"Ho! man the pumps !" But they who work'd, And fought not, wept with grief.

"Oh! keep us but an hour afloat!

Oh! give us only time

To mete unto yon rebel crew

The measure of their crime!"

From captain down to powder-boy,
No hand was idle then:

Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,
Fought on like sailor men.

And when a gun's crew lost a hand,
Some bold marine stepp'd out,
And jerk'd his braided jacket off,
And haul'd the gun about.

Our forward magazine was drown'd,
And up from the sick-bay

Crawl'd out the wounded, red with blood,
And round us gasping lay;—

Yes, cheering, calling us by name,
Struggling with failing breath
To keep their shipmates at the post
Where glory strove with death.

With decks afloat and powder gone,
The last broadside we gave
From the guns' heated iron lips
Burst out beneath the wave.

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes-
As men-of-war's men should-
We placed within their proper racks,
And at our quarters stood.

"Up to the spar deck! save yourselves!"
Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men!
God grant that some of us may live
To fight yon ship again!"

We turn'd: we did not like to go;
Yet staying seem'd but vain,

Knee-deep in water; so we left;

Some swore, some groan'd with pain.

We reach'd the deck. There Randall stood:
"Another turn, men-so!"
Calmly he aim'd his pivot gun:
"Now, Tenny, let her go!"

It did our sore hearts good to hear
The song our pivot sang,
As rushing on from wave to wave
The whirring borib-shell sprang.

Brave Randall leap'd upon the gun,

And waved his cap in sport:

"Well done! well aim'd! I saw that shell
Go through an open port!"

It was our last, our deadliest shot;
The deck was overflown;

The poor ship stagger'd, lurch'd to port,
And gave a living groan.

Down, down, as headlong through the waves,
Our gallant vessel rush'd;
A thousand gurgling watery sounds
Around my senses gush'd.

Then I remember little more;
One look to heaven I gave,
Where, like an angel's wing, I saw
Our spotless ensign wave.

I tried to cheer. I cannot say
Whether I swam or sank;

A blue mist closed around my eyes,
And every thing was blank.

When I awoke, a soldier lad,

All dripping from the sea,

With two great tears upon his cheeks,
Was bending over me.

I tried to speak. He understood
The wish I could not speak.

He turn'd me. There, thank God! the flag.
Still flutter'd at the peak!

And there, while thread shall hang to thread,
Oh, let that ensign fly!

The noblest constellation set
Against the northern sky,-*

A sign that we who live may claim
The peerage of the brave;

A monument that needs no scroll,
For those beneath the wave.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.-By Thomas Buchanan, Reud.

Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,