more ado, she rose from her chair and flung her arms around Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.

"Bless my soul!" cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; "Mrs. Bardell, my good woman-dear me, what a situation-pray consider, Mrs. Bardell, don't—if anybody should come—”

"O let them come!” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; “I'll never leave you-dear, kind, good soul;" and with these words Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.

(6 Mercy upon me,” said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, “I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing, for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms, and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell, entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.

CHARLES DICKENS.

THE SEXTON.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral-train at the open gate.

A relic of by-gone days was he,

And his locks were gray as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
"I gather them in-I gather them in-
Gather-gather-I gather them in.

"Many are with me, yet I'm alone;

I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne
On a monument slab of marble cold-

My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,

I gather them in-I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"

And the sexton ceased as the funeral train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain;
And I said to myself: When time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old,
Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din;
"I gather them in-I gather them in—

Gather-gather-gather them in."

PARK BENJAMIN.

WARREN'S ADDRESS.

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will

ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,-ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you!-they're afire!

And, before you, see

Who have done it! From the vale
On they come!—and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,—and die we must:
But, O, where can dust to dust

Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dew shall shed

On the martyred patriot's bed,

And the rocks shall raise their head,

Of his deeds to tell.

JOHN PIERPONT.