His sombre face the storm defies, And thus from morn till eve he cries "Charco'! charco'!" While echo faint and far replies"Hark, O! hark, O!" "Charco'!"-" Hark, O!"-Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds. The dust begrimes his ancient hat; His coat is darker far than that; All speckled with the feathery storm; Nor spot, nor speck,-though still he cries,- 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 Than many a richer man, I guess, When through the shades of eve he spies And Martha from the door replies- "Charco'!”—“Mark, ho!"-Such joy abounds When he has closed his daily rounds. The hearth is warm, the fire is bright; The crib wherein his darling lies, 66 Charco' charco'!" And baby with a laugh replies, "Ah, go!-ah, go!" "Charco'!"—"Ah, go!"-while at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds. Then honored to be the charcoal man! Though dusky as an African, 'Tis not for you, that chance to be A little better clad than he, His honest manhood to despise, Although from morn till eve he cries,— "Charco'! charco'!" While mocking echo still replies, "Hark, O! hark, O!" "Charco'!"-" Hark, O!"-Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds! J. T. TROWBRIDGE. THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING. UT of the North the wild news came, OUT Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And Concord roused, no longer tame, Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkeley Manor stood 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; Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom; And every maid, with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart, A bud whose depths are all perfume; While every garment's gentle stir The pastor came; his snowy locks Hallowed his brow of thought and care; Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong; Then from his patriot tongue of flame Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; A moment there was awful pause- The other shouted, "Nay, not so, His holiest places then are ours, That frown upon the tyrant foe; The warrior priest had ordered soThe 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 Was, "War! WAR! WAR!" "Who dares ?"-this was the patriot's cry, A hundred voices answered, "I!" THOMAS BUCHANAN READ, THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. OW sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells! How sweet that Each one its creed in music tella, In tones that float upon the air, As soft as song, as pure as prayer; "Ye purifying waters swell!" |