will teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty universal Truth. When Death strikes down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it with their light. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven.

THE PICKET-GUARD.

ANONYMOUS.

"ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,
Except now and then a stray picket

"6

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost,-only one of the men,

Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming:
Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND.

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,-
For their mother, may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips,-when low, murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken,
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,—
The foot-step is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-bye!'
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,-
The picket's off duty forever.

THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND.

REV. MR. MACLELLAN.

A FIEND once met a humble man
At night, in the cold dark street,
And led him into a palace fair,

Where music circled sweet;

And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's heart, From frost and darkness screened,

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Till his brain grew mad beneath the joy,
And he worshipped before the Fiend.

Ah! well if he ne'er had knelt to that Fiend,
For a task-master grim was he;

And he said, "One-half of thy life on earth
I enjoin thee to yield to me;

And when, from rising till set of sun,

Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow,
Let thy gains on mine altar an offering be;"
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

The poor man had health, more dear than gold; Stout bone and muscle strong,

That neither faint nor weary grew,

To toil the June day long;

And the Fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud, Thy strength thou must forego,

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Or thou no worshipper art of mine;"
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

Three children blest the poor man's home-
Stray angels dropped on earth-

The Fiend beheld their sweet blue eyes,
And he laughed in fearful mirth :

'Bring forth thy little ones," quoth he,

""

My godhead wills it so!

I want an evening sacrifice;"

And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

A young wife sat by the poor man's fire,
Who, since she blushed a bride,

Had gilded his sorrow, and brightened his joys His guardian, friend, and guide.

Foul fall the Fiend! he gave command.
"Come, mix the cup of woe,

Bid thy young wife drain it to the dregs;"
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

Oh! misery now for this poor man!
Oh! deepest of misery!

Next the Fiend his godlike Reason took,
And amongst beasts fed he;

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

And when the sentinel Mind was gone,

He pilfered his Soul also;
And-marvel of marvels!-he murmured not;
The poor man ne'er said "No!"

Now, men and matrons in your prime,
Children and grandsires old,

Come listen, with soul as well as ear,

This saying whilst I unfold;
Oh, listen till your brain whirls round,
And your heart is sick to think,
That in England's isle all this befell,

And the name of the Fiend was-DRINK!

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

LAY down the axe, fling by the spade :
Leave in its track the toiling plough;
The rifle and the bayonet-blade

For arms like yours were fitter now;
And let the hands that ply the pen

Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green. Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That Time in all its course has seen.
See, from a thousand coverts-see

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;
They rush to smite her down, and we
Must beat the banded traitors back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,

And moved as soon to fear and flight,

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Men of the glade and forest! leave

Your woodcraft for the field of fight.
The arms that wield the axe must pour
An iron tempest on the foe;
His serried ranks shall reel before
The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form

A bulwark that no foe can break.
Stand, like your own grey cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defence:
The blast as soon shall move the rock,

As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,

Come from the depths of her green land
As mighty in your march as they;
As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye who throng beside the deep,

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when o'er his brim

He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim
A helpless wreck against his shore.

Few, few were they whose swords of old
Won the fair land in which we dwell;
But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well.