It is not all a dream, mamma—I know it must be true;
But have I been so bad a boy, God taketh me from you?
I don't know what papa will do, when I am laid to rest-
And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your
breast.

The New Year comes to-night, mamma-place your dear hand on my cheek,

And raise my head a little more-it seems so hard to speak.

I shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the sled;

But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my head?

He used to hide my books away, and tear the pictures, too, But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to do. And, if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-books and slate

To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you wouldn't let me

hate;

And, dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New Year's day,

The basketful of something nice for poor old Widow Gray ?

The New Year comes to-night, mamma-it seems so very

soon

I think God didn't hear me ask for just another June. I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much care,

And, maybe for your sake, mamma, God doesn't hear my

prayer.

There's one thing more: my pretty pets, the robin and the dove,

Keep for you and dear papa, and teach them how to love. The garden rake, the little hoe-you'll find them nicely laid

Upon the garret floor, mamma, the place where last I played.

I thought to need them both so much when summer comes again,

To make my garden by the brook that trickles through the glen;

It cannot be; but you will keep the summer flowers green, And plant a few-don't cry, mamma-a very few I mean, Where I'm asleep-I'll sleep so sweet beneath the apple

tree,

Where you and robin, in the morn, will come and sing to

me.

The New Year comes-good night, mamma-"I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord "tell dear papa-" my precious soul to

keep;

If 1"-how cold it seems-how dark-kiss me, I cannot

see

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year-dies with me.

THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING.
Thomas Buchanan Read.

OUT of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal* light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere

The answering tread of hurrying feet;
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elin and oak

The church of Berkley Manor stood;
There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
Passed mid the graves where rank is naught;
All could not read the lesson taught

In that republic of the dead.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,

The vale with peace and sunshine full,

Where all the happy people walk,

Decked in their homespun flax and wool

Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom;

And every maid, with simple art,

Wears on her breast, like her own heart,

A bud whose depths are all perfume;

While every garment's gentle stir

Is breathing rose and lavender.

Boreal, northern; pertaining to the north, or the north wind.

The pastor came; his snowy locks

Hallowed his brow of thought and care; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer

Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The Psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might-
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right !"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,

In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of tire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
IIis hands impatient lung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause-
When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease
God's temple is the house of peace!"
The other shouted, "Nay, not so,

When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers

That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!

יי! ז

And now before the open door-
The warrior priest had ordered so-
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
Its long reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.

And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before.
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue
Was,
"War! WAR! WAR!"

"Who dares ?"-this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came―
"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,
For her to live, for her to die ?”
A hundred hands flung up reply,
A hundred voices answered, "Ï!”

A TRIBUTE TO OUR HONORED DEAD.
H. W. Beecher.

How bright are the honors which await those who with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience have endured all things that they might save their native land from division and from the power of corruption. The honored dead!

They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. Their names are gathered and garnered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there. There is to be, ere long, in every village, and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements efface them. And the national festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose elder brothers dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it. Orphan children shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to love and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public.

Oh, tell me not that they are dead-that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism?

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It Das your son: but now he is the nation's. He made your tousehold bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: he is ours. He has died from the family that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected: and it shall by-and-by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life.

Neither are they less honored who shall bear through life the marks of wounds and sufferings. Neither epaulette nor badge is so honorable as wounds received in a good cause, Many a man shall envy him who henceforth limps. So strange is the transforming power of patriotic ardor, that men shall almost covet disfigurement. Crowds will give way to hobbling cripples, and uncover in the presence of feebleness and helplessness. And buoyant children shall pause in their noisy games, and with loving reverence honor those whose hands can work no more, and whose feet are no longer able to march except upon that journey which brings good men to honor and immortality.". Oh, mother of lost children sit not in darkness nor sorrow whom a nation honors. Oh, mourners of the early dead, they shall live again, and live forever. Your sorrows are our gladness. The nation lives because you gave it men that love it better than their own lives. And when a few more days shall have cleared the perils from around the nation's brow, and she shall sit in unsullied garments of liberty, with justice upon her forehead, love in her eyes, and truth upon her lips, she shall not forget those whose blood gave vital currents to her heart, and whose life, given to her, shall live with her life till time shall be no more.

Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shail their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of National Remembrance.

10

།