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His sombre face the storm defies,
“Hark, O! hark, O!” “Charco'!"_“Hark, 0!"-Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds. The dust begrimes his ancient hat; His coat is darker far than that; 'T is odd to see his sooty form All speckled with the feathery storm; Yet in his honest bosom lies Nor spot, nor speck,—though still he cries, –
“Charco'! charco'!” And many a roguish lad replies
“Ark, ho! ark, ho!" “Charco'!”—“Ark, ho!”—Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. Thus all the cold and wintry day He labors much for little pay; Yet feels no less of happiness Than many a richer man, I guess, When through the shades of eve he spies The light of his own home, and cries
“Charco'! charco’!” And Martha from the door replies-
“Mark, ho! Mark, ho!" “Charco?!"_“Mark, ho!”–Such joy abounds When he has closed his daily rounds. The hearth is warm, the fire is bright; And while his hand, washed clean and white, Holds Martha's tender hand once more, His glowing face bends fondly o’er
Then honored to be the charcoal man!
“ Charco'! charco'!”
“Hark, O! hark, O!" “Charco'!"_“Hark, O!”—Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds!
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING.
NUT of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
The fife's shrill note, the drum’s loud beat,
The answering tread of hurrying feet; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord roused, no longer tame,
Within its shade of elm and oak .
The church of Berkeley Manor stood There Sunday found the rural folk,
And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread Passed mid the graves where rank is naught, All could not read the lesson taught
In that republic of the dead.
How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,
The vale with peace and sunshine full, Where all the happy people walk,
Decked in their homespun flax and wool;
A bud whose depths are all perfume;
The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
He led into the house of prayer.
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
The other shouted, “ Nay, not so,
That frown upon the tyrant foe;
The warrior priest had ordered som The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,
Its long, reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
The great bell swung as ne'er before.
Was, “ War! WAR! WAR!"
THOMAS BUCHANAN RZAD
THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. TTOW sweet the chime of the Sabbach bells! II Each one its creed in music tella, In tones that float upon the air, As soft as song, as pure as prayer; And I will put in simple rhyme The language of the golden chime; My happy heart with rapture swells Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. “Ye purifying waters swell!" In mellow tones rang out a bell; “ Though faith alone in Christ cau save, Man must be plunged beneath the wave.