I sorrowfully wrung her hand,
My tears they did escape,

My sorrow I could not command,

And I was but a (sape-dape-fape-ape; well,

perhaps, I did feel like an ape).

I gave to her a fond adieu,

Sweet pupil of love's school;

I told her I would e'er he true,

And always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow, before I was gone a month).

YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE.

WITH

ITH sable-draped banners, and slow-measured tread,

The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love;

Once more through the gateway the saddened lines

move

A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief,

Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief;
Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child
Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild:

"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave—
Why! why did you pass by my dear papa's grave?
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true
As ever marched into the battle with you-

His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,

You may not have seen it. For my poor heart would there,

Oh, say you did not!
break if you knew he was

And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.
He didn't die lowly-he poured his heart's blood,
In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod
Of the breast work which stood in front of the fight—
And died shouting, Onward! for God and the right!'
O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,
But you haven't put one on my papa's grave.
If mamma were here—but she lies by his side,
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died."

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief,
This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."
Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,
He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate
The long line repasses, and many an eye
Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh.

"This way, it is here, sir-right under this tree;
They lie close together, with just room for me."

"Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green moundA love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground."

"Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too— I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day

How

you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest, And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble

breast;

And when the kind angels shall call you to come,

We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home,
Where death never comes, his black banners to wave,
And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave."
C. E. L. HOLMES.

HAMLET'S GHOST.

AM thy father's spirit;

Doomed for a certain term to walk the night;
And, for the day, confined to fast in fires,

Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature,
Are burned and purged away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house,

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ;
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand on end,
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.

But this eternal blazon must not be

To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, oh, list!—
If thou didst ever thy dear father love.

SHAKSPEARE.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

EXTRACT FROM A SERMON BY HENRY WARD BEECHER. EPUBLICAN institutions have been vindicated in

this experience as they never were before; and the whole history of the last four years, rounded up by this

cruel stroke, seems, in the providence of God, to have been clothed, now, with an illustration, with a sympathy, with an aptness, and with a significance, such as we never could have expected nor imagined. God, I think, has said, by the voice of this event, to all nations of the earth: "Republican liberty, based upon true Christianity, is firm as the foundation of the globe.”

Even he who now sleeps has, by this event, been clothed with new influence. Dead, he speaks to meu who now willingly hear what before they refused to listen to. Now his simple and weighty words will be gathered like those of Washington, and your children, and your children's children, shall be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep wisdom of utterances which, in their time, passed, in party heat, as idle words, Men will receive a new impulse of patriotism for his sake, and will guard with zeal the whole country which he loved so well. I swear you, on the altar of his memory, to be more faithful to the country for which he has perished. They will, as they follow his hearse, swear a new hatred to that slavery against which he warred, and which, in vanquishing him, has made him a martyr and a conqueror. I swear you by the memory of this martyr to hate slavery with an unappeasable hatred. They will admire and imitate the firmness of this man, his inflexible conscience for the right; and yet his gentleness, as tender as a woman's, his moderation of spirit, which not all the heat of party could inflame, nor all the jars and disturbances of this country shake out of its place. I swear you to an emulation of his justice, his moderation, and his mercy.

You I can comfort; but how can I speak to that twilight million to whom his name was as the name of an angel of God? There will be wailing in places which

no minister shall be able to reach. When, in hovel and in cot, in wood and in wilderness, in the field throughout the South, the dusky children, who looked upon him as that Moses whom God sent before them to lead them out of the land of boudage, learn that he has fallen, who shall comfort them? O thou Shepherd of Israel, that didst comfort Thy people of old, to Thy care we commit the helpless, the long-wronged, and grieved.

And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming. Cities and States are his pallbearers, and the cannon beats the hours with solemn progression. Dead, dead, DEAD, he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead? Is Hampden dead? Is David dead? Is any man that ever was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, and risen in the unobstructed sphere where passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life now is grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly life can be. Pass on, thou that hast overcome!

Your sorrows, O people! are his peace. Your bells, and bands, and muffled drums sound triumph in his ear. Wail and weep here! Pass on!

Four years ago, O Illinois! we took from your midst an untried man, and from among the people. We return him to you a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the nation's; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, O ye prairies!

In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty!