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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, 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

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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.

NUT of the North the wild news came,

Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum’s loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere

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,
Forgot her old baptismal name,
Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swelled the discord of the hour.

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;
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
Is breathing rose and lavender.

The pastor came; his snowy locks

Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,

He led into the house of prayer.
Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might-
“ The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!”
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured ;

Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on the theme's broad wing,

And grasping in his nervous hand

The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fing
Defiance to a tyrant king.
Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient Aung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.
A moment there was awful pause-
When Berkeley cried, “Cease, traitor! cease!
God's temple is the house of peace!”

The other shouted, “ Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers

That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray !”
And now before the open door-

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
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before.
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, “ War! WAR! WAR!"
“Who dares ?”—this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came-
“Come out with me, in Freedom's name,
For her to live, for her to die!"
A hundred hands flung up reply,
A hundred voices answered, “I!"

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.

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