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Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain.
In the midst of all stood Shammeryah,

The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the sheikh
A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls.

But when the evening meal was o'er, came Alimar,
The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love
Are sweeter than Bassora's nightingales,
Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood
Like war itself; who knows not Alimar?
Then asked the men, "O Poet, sing of Kubleh!
Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw,
Of wondrous Kubleh!" Closer drew the group,
With eager eyes, about the flickering fire,
While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars,
Sang to the listening Arabs: "God is great!
O Arabs! never since Mohammed rode
The sands of Beder, and by Mecca's gate,
That winged steed bestrode, with mane of fire,
Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk's wondrous mare.

"Who ever told, in all the desert land, The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tell Whence came she? whence her like shall come again? O Arabs! sweet as tales of Scheherazade Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried On the hot eve of battle, are the words That tell the marvels of her history.

"Far in the southern sands, the hunters say,

Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm.

The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eye
Glared red and sunken, and her slight young limbs
Were lean with thirst. He checked his camel's pace,

And, while it knelt, untied the water skin,

And when the wild mare drank she followed him;

Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle gird

Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear
About her shining head, that brooded no curb
From even him; for she, alike, was royal.

"The tribes of Tigris and the desert knew her;
Sofuk, before the Shammar bands she bore
To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not
To bid her welcome; and the savage Koord,
Chased from his bold irruption on the plain,
Had seen her hoof-prints in his mountain snow.
When hot and lurid haze

Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before
The whirling sand-spout till her gusty mane
Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay
Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste.
Never yet,

O Arabs! never yet was like to Kubleh!

"At last she died,

Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs,
Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved.
The base Jebours, on whom be Allah's curse!
Came on his path, when far from any camp,
And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprang
Against the javelin points, and bore them down,
And gained the open desert wounded sore;
She urged her light limbs into maddening speed,
And made the wind a laggard. On and on
The red sand slid beneath her, and behind,
Whirled in a swift and cloudy turbulence,
As when some star of Eblis, downward hurled
By Allah's bolt, sweeps with its burning hair
The waste of darkness.

"At last!

When through her spent and quivering frame
The sharp throes ran, our clustering tents arose,

IT

And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joy
O'ercame its agony, she stopped and fell.
The Shammar men came round her as she lay,
And Sofuk raised her head, and held it close
Against his breast. Her dull and glazing eye
Met his, and with a shuddering gasp she died.
Then, like a child, his bursting grief made way
In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe
Wept for the faithful mare.

"They dug her grave

Amid El-Hather's marbles, where she lies
Buried with ancient kings; and since that time
Was never seen, and will not be again,

O Arabs! though the world be doomed to live
As many moons as count the desert sands,
The like of glorious Kubleh. God is great!"

LYMAN BEECHER'S FIRST HOME.

From his Autobiography.

T was a two-story framed house, shingled instead of clap-boarded on the sides, the gable end to the street. I laid new pitchpine floors, had a new fire-place made, and finished the back rooms and chambers, also a small bed-room below.

There was not a store in town, and all our purchases were made in New York. We had no carpet; there was not a carpet from end to end of the town. All had sanded floors, some of them worn through. Your mother introduced the first carpet. Uncle Lot gave me some money and I went to a vendue, and bought a bale of cotton. She spun it, and had it woven; then she laid it down, sized it, and painted it in oils, with a border all around it, and bunches of roses and other flowers over the centre. She sent to New York for her colors, and ground and mixed them herself. The carpet was nailed down on the garret floor, and she used to

go up there and paint. She also took some common wooden chairs and painted them, and cut out figures of gilt paper and glued them on and varnished them. They were really quite pretty.

Old Deacon Talmadge came to see me. He stopped at the parlor door, and seemed afraid to come in.

"Walk in, deacon, walk in," said I.

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'Why, I can't," said he, "thout stepping on't."

Then, after surveying it awhile in admiration, “D'ye think ye can have all that, and heaven too?"

Perhaps he thought we were getting too splendid, and feared we should make an idol of our fine things!

FAREWELL ADDRESS.

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

N looking forward to the moment which is intended to termi nate the career of my public life, my feelings do not permit me to suspend the deep acknowledgement of that debt of gratitude which I owe to my beloved country, for the many honors it has conferred upon me; still more for the steadfast confidence with which it has supported me; and for the opportunities I have thence enjoyed of manifesting my inviolable attachment, by services faithful and persevering, though, in usefulness, unequal to my zeal.

If benefits have resulted to our country from these services, let it always be remembered to your praise, and as an instructive example in our annals, that, under circumstances in which the passions, agitated in every direction, were liable to mislead; amidst appearances sometimes dubious; vicissitudes of fortune often discouraging; in situations in which not unfrequently want of success has countenanced the spirit of criticism, the constancy of your support was the essential prop of the efforts, and a guarantee of the plans by which they were effected.

Profoundly penetrated with this idea, I shall carry it with me

to the grave, as a strong incitement to unceasing vows that Heaven may continue to you the choicest tokens of its beneficence; that your union and brotherly affection may be perpetual; that the free Constitution, which is the work of your hands, may be sacredly maintained; that its administration in every department may be stamped with wisdom and virtue; that, in fine, the happiness of the people of these States, under the auspices of liberty, may be made complete by so careful a preservation and so prudent a use of this blessing, as will acquire to them the glory of recommending it to the applause, the affection, and adoption of every nation which is yet a stranger to it.

THE YANKEE MAN-OF-WAR.

[The authorship of this fine old song is unknown. It has been "handed down" from near the time of the exploit it commemorates -Paul Jones's cruise in "The Ranger," 1778.]

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IS of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,

With her starboard backs aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale; On an autumn night we raised the light on the old Head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong,

As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow she buried her lee cat-head.

There was no talk of short'ning sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,

But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track,

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