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RING DOWN THE DROP-I CANNOT PLAY.

J. W. WATSON.

O painted gauds and mimic scenes,
And pompous trick that nothing means!
O glaring light and shouting crowd,
And love-words in derision vowed!
O crowned king with starving eyes,
And dying swain who never dies!
Oh, hollow show and empty heart,
Great ministers of tragic art!

"There's that within which passeth show:"
The days they come, the days they go.
We live two lives, on either page-

The one, upon the painted stage,
With all the world to hear and gaze
And comment on each changing phase;
The other, that sad life within,
Where love may purify a sin.

Ring up the drop, the play is on;
Our hour of entrance comes anon!
Choke down the yearnings of the soul;
Weak, doting fool! art thou the whole?
The stage is waiting, take thy part;
Forget to-night thou hast a heart;
Let sunshine break the gathering cloud,
And smile thou on the waiting crowd.

Hear how their plaudits fill the scene!
Is not thy greedy ear full keen?
Is not a thousand shouts a balm
For all thy throbbing heart's alarm?
"To be or not to be "-the screed
Is listened to with breathless heed.
O painter with a painted mask!
Is thy brain wandering from thy task?

Can it be true that scores of years
Do not suffice to murder tears?

Can it be true that all of art

Has failed to teach the human heart?

Can gauds, and tricks, and shout, and glare,
The deafening drum, the trumpet's blare,
With all their wild, delirious din,
Not stifle this sad life within?

Pah, man! the eager people wait;
Go on with all thy studied prate;

Shalt thou not feed their longing eyes
Because-because a woman dies?
What cares the crowd for dying wives,
For broken hearts, or blasted lives!
They paid their money, and-they say―
Living or dead, on with the play!

What! staggering, man? why, where's thy art?
That stare was good; that tragic start
Would make thy fortune, were it not
That it rebukes the author's plot.
"My wife is dying!" He ne'er wrote
The words that struggle in thy throat.
"Take back your money," did'st thou say?
"Ring down the drop-I cannot play."
Ring down the drop; the act is o'er;
Her bark has touched the golden shore,
While reading from life's inner page,
Stands there the actor of the stage;
But not upon the cold, white corse
Falls there a word of sad remorse

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From all that crowd who heard him say,

'Ring down the drop-I cannot play."

THE GOLDEN STREET.-WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

The toil is very long and I am tired:
Oh, Father, I am weary of the way!

Give me that rest I have so long desired;

Bring me that Sabbath's cool refreshing day,
And let the fever of my world-worn feet

Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired! And I at times have seen,
When the far pearly gates were open thrown
For those who walked no more with me, the green
Sweet foliage of the trees that there alone

At last wave over those whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.
When the gates open, and before they close-
Sad hours but holy-I have watched the tide
Whose living crystal there forever flows
Before the throne, and sadly have I sighed

To think how long until my world-worn feet Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. They shall not wander from that blessed way;Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin,

Nor any clouds in that eternal day

Trouble them more who once have entered in ;—
But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.
Thus the gates close and I behold no more,—
Though, as I walk, they open oftener now
For those who leave me and go on before;-
And I am lonely also while I bow

And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired!--but I will patient be,
Nor will I murmur at the weary way:

I too shall walk beside the crystal sea,

And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day,

When thou, O Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

NATURE PROCLAIMS A DEITY.-CHATEAUBRIAND.

There is a God! The herbs of the valley, the cedars of the mountain, bless him; the insect sports in his beam; the bird sings him in the foliage; the thunder proclaims him in the heavens; the ocean declares his immensity;-man alone has said, There is no God! Unite in thought at the same instant the most beautiful objects in nature. Suppose that you see, at once, all the hours of the day, and all the seasons of the year, a morning of spring, and a morning of autumna night bespangled with stars, and a night darkened by clouds-meadows enameled with flowers-forests hoary with snow-fields gilded by the tints of autumn,-then alone you will have a just conception of the universe! While you are gazing on that sun which is plunging into the vault of the west, another observer admires him emerging from the gilded gates of the east. By what inconceivable power does that agéd star, which is sinking fatigued and burning in the shades of the evening, reappear at the same instant fresh and humid with the rosy dew of the morning? At every hour of the day, the glorious orb is at once rising, resplendent as noon-day, and setting in the west; or rather, our senses deceive us, and there is, properly speaking, no east or west, no north or south, in the world.

HOW THE DUTCHMAN KILLED THE WOODCHUCK.

Vell den, I dells you mit te dime I goed a huntin mit mine brodder Shake, ven ve vash boys not so biggerish ash ve ish now. Shake he vash smaller ash I pin, unt I vash bigger ash Shake. We vash dwin boys, but dere vash about two or dree years bigger ash vun anudder vash. Vell den, von day I dakes brodder Shake unt two udder togs, und I dells dem we go a huntin mit te woodchuck unt some oder dings. Ve go to te old barn past, unt te pack of te field behint us, unt pooty soon we kit te voots in te mittle of us, ten I vistles to Shake unt te udder two togs, unt py unt py somedings schart te togs, unt they roon shust so pig fasht ash dey neffer vas roon pefore. Shake he roon pooty fasht, unt I roon, for I dinks somedings vas schart mit de togs. Pooty soon te togs vash stop mit roonin, unt vash makin dere hets in te log mit a pig hole in, ven I comes up. Shake, he says, "Prodder Hans, ter ish a woodchuck in te log mit te hole." Den I tells Shake, "You shust vatch mit vun hole, unt to togs te udder hole, den I vill make vun udder hole, mit mine ax, in te mittle of te log, unt den, ven I see him, I vill schlock him un te koop, unt schmite his het off mit te ax." So Shake, he says, "I vill stop te hole mit mine foot, so he vill not mooch kit out mit dis hole." Den I dakes mine ax, unt a hole make in te log. Pooty soon I kits a hole, unt I dinks I see te woodchuck, unt I dells prodder Shake to still be, unt I shopped a little more, unt den I sees te dings het, so I makes te ax come down mit all my might-I dinks I vill make his het off-unt, mine gracious! vat you dink! Prodder Shake, he make von pig noise, unt he gommence a groanin, schwearin in Tuch unt English all togedder, unt he says, "Prodder Hans, dash ish not te woodchuck; you ish von biggest fool, you hash schmite mine foot off. Oh! mine gootness! I ish kill!" Vell, I vash schart mooch; I dinks I had kilt prodder Shake, unt I gried, unt schweared a leetle, den I looked in te hole, unt tere vash a bart of prodder Shake's poot, unt two or dree toes, all ploody, laying in te log, put dere vash no woodchuck or any udder dings in te log. Shake he croaned so pig lout, dat I dake his foot unt dies mine

shirt up mit it. Shake, he make him up on my pack, unt I garried him to te house. Py unt by his foot git well, put no more toes crowed out it, unt he say, "Prodder Hans, I vill no more go woodchuck hunt mit you;" unt he neffer did.

THE RED JACKET.-GEORGE M. BAKER.

"Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roar
The north winds beat and clamor at the door;
The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,
Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;
The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend
But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;
Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,
Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.

In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease,
Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;
In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet,
The weary traveler with their smiles to greet;
In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm
Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,
Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light-
"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"
But hark! above the beating of the storm
Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm.
Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,
And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;
From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,
The ready friend no danger can appall;
Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,
He hurries forth to battle and to save.

From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,
Devouring all they coil themselves about,
The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,
Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.
Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe
In vain attempts their power to overthrow;
With mocking glee they revel with their prey,
Defying human skill to check their way.
And see! far up above the flame's hot breath,
Something that's human waits a horrid death;
A little child, with waving golden hair,

Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,-
Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,
While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.

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