Break the band, and all is danger,
Mutual fear and dark distrust;
But you know me for a brother
And a friend who speak from far;
Be as one, then, with each other,
Sister States, as now ye are !

If it seems a thing unholy
Freedom's soil by slaves to till,
Yet, be just, and sagely, slowly,
Nobly cure that ancient ill:
Slowly, haste is fatal ever;
Nobly,-lest good faith ye mar;
Sagely, not in wrath to sever
Sister States, as now ye are!

Charmed with your commingled beauty,
England sends the signal round,

"Every man must do his duty"

To redeem from bonds the bound.
Then indeed your banner's brightness,
Shining clear from every star,
Shall proclaim your joint uprightness,
Sister States, as now ye are!

So, a peerless constellation

May those stars forever blaze!
Three-and.ten-times-threefold nation,
Go ahead in power and praise!
Like the many-breasted goddess
Throned on her Ephesian car,
Be-one heart in many bodies!
Sister States, as now ye are!

MARTIN F. TUPPER.

THE READING CLASS.

I cannot tell you, Genevieve, how oft it comes to me—
That rather young old reading class in District Number Three,

That row of elocutionists, who stood so straight in line,
And charged at standard literature with amiable design.
We did not spare the energy in which our words were clad;
We gave the meaning of the text by all the light we had;
But still I fear the ones who wrote the lines we read so free
Would scarce have recognized their work in District Number Three.

Outside the snow was smooth and clean-the winter's thick-laid dust;
The storm it made the windows speak at every sudden gust:
Bright sleigh-bells threw us pleasant words when travelers would

pass;

The maple trees along the road stood shivering in their class;
Beyond, the white-browed cottages were nestling cold and dumb,
And far away the mighty world seemed beckoning us to come—
The wondrous world, of which we conned what had been and might

be,

In that old-fashioned reading class of District Number Three.

We took a hand at History-its altars, spires, and flames—
And uniformly mispronounced the most important names;
We wandered through Biography, and gave our fancy play,
And with some subjects fell in love—"good only for one day;"
In Romance and Philosophy we settled many a point,
And made what poems we assailed, to creak at every joint;
And many authors that we love, you with me will agree,
Were first time introduced to us in District Number Three.

You recollect Susannah Smith, the teacher's sore distress,
Who never stopped at any pause—a sort of day express?
And timid young Sylvester Jones, of inconsistent sight,
Who stumbled on the easy words, and read the hard ones right?
And Jennie Green, whose doleful voice was always clothed in black?
And Samuel Hicks, whose tones induced the plastering all to crack ?
And Andrew Tubbs, whose various mouths were quite a show to see?
Alas! we can not find them now in District Number Three.

And Jasper Jenckes, whose tears would flow at each pathetic word (He's in the prize fight business now, and hits them hard, I've heard); And Benny Bayne, whose every tone he murmured as in fear (His tongue is not so timid now: he is an auctioneer);

And Lanty Wood, whose voice was just endeavoring hard to change, And leaped from hoarse to fiercely shrill, with most surprising range; Also his sister Mary Jane, so full of prudish glee,

Alas! they're both in higher schools than District Number Three.

So back these various voices come, though long the years have grown,
And sound uncommonly distinct through Memory's telephone;
And some are full of melody, and bring a sense of cheer,
And some can smite the rock of time, and summon forth a tear;
But one sweet voice comes back to me, whenever sad I grieve,
And sings a song, that is yours, O peerless Genevi ve!
It brightens up the olden times, and throws a smile at me—
A silver star amid the clouds of District Number Three.

WILL M. CARLETON.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

[This piece should be spoken in a low key, slow time, and full voice-"as solemn and sweet as the gravest tones of an organ." The speaker should carefully avoid drawling, or, as Shakspeare warns us against, "mouthing our words."]

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory!
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

THE PILOT.

John Maynard was well known in the lake district as a Godfearing, honest and intelligent man. He was a pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One summer afternoon-at that time those steamers seldom carried boats-smoke was seen ascending from below; and the captain called out, " Simpson, go below and see what

the matter is down there."

Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire!"

Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard.

All hands were called up; buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, "How far are we from Buffalo?"

"Seven miles."

"How long before we can reach there?"

"Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam."
"Is there any danger?"

"Danger! Here, see the smoke bursting out!—go forward, if you would save your lives."

Passengers and crew-men, women and children-crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose.

The captain cried out through his trumpet, "John Maynard!"
Ay, ay, sir!"

"Head her southeast, and run her on shore," said the captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore.

captain cried out, "John Maynard!"

Again the

The response came feebly this time, “Ay, ay, sir!"
"Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?” he said.

66 'By God's help, I will!"

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp; one hand was disabled; his knee upon the stanchion, his teeth set, his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to God.

JOHN B. GOUGH.

DEITSCHE ADVERTISEMENT.

Mine horse is shloped, and I'm avraid
He has been taken, shtolen or shtrayed;
Mine pig plack horse dat looks so sphry,
Pout fourteen oder twelve hands high;
He hash been got shoot four feet plack,
Mit shtriped shpots all down his pack,
Two legs before, and two behind—
Pe sure you keep all this in mind.
He's plack all over, dat is true,
All but his vace, and dat's plack too;