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THE OLD SWEET SONG.

I remember a song whose numbers throng
As sweetly in memory's twilight hour
As the voice of the blessed in the Realm of Rest,
Or the sparkle of dew on a dreaming flower.

'Tis a simple air, but when others depart,

Like an angel whisper, it clings to my heart.

I have wandered far under sun and star,
Heard the rippling music in every clime,
From the carol clear of the gondolier

To the wondrous peal of a sacred chime;
I have drunk in the tones which bright lips let fall
To thirsting spirits in bower and hall;

The anthems bland of the masters grand

Have borne me aloft on their sweeping wings;
And the thunder-roll of the organ's soul
Drowns not the murmur of fairy strings;
Or the shepherd's pipe, whose music thrills
With the breath of morn o'er the sleeping hills;

But none remain like the simple strain

Which my mother sang to my childish ears, As nightly and oft o'er my pillow soft

She gently hovered to soothe my fears.

I can see her now with her bright head bent
In the light which the taper so feebly lent.

I can see her now with her fair, pure brow,

And the dark locks pushed from her temples clear, And the liquid rays of her tender gaze

Made eloquent by a trembling tear,

As she watched the sleep that is sweet for all

Like rose leaves over my spirit fall.

And the notes still throng of that old sweet song,

Though silent the lips that breathed them to me,

Like the chimes so clear which mariners hear
From the sunken cities beneath the sea;
And never, ah! never can they depart
While shines my being and beats my heart.

That song, that song, that old sweet song!
I gather it up like a golden chain,
Link by link, when to slumber I sink,

And link by link when I wake again;

I shall hear it, I know, when the last deep rest
Shall fold me close to the earth's dark breast.

METAPHORICAL PAPERS.-BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

Some wit of old,-such wits of old there were,-
Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care,
By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Called clear blank paper every infant mind;
Then still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a seal or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I (can you pardon my presumption), I-
No wit, no genius-yet for once will try.
Various the papers various wants produce,
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.
Men are as various; and if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray note the fop,-half powder and half lace,-
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place;
He's the gilt paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in th' escritoire.
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper of inferior worth:

Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlars choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.
Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought

Deems this side always right, and that stark naught:
He foams with censure; with applause he raves,-

A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves;

He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure,-
What's he? What? Touch-paper, to be sure.
What are our poets,--take them as they fall,-
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?

Them and their works in the same class you'll find;
They are the mere wasie-paper of mankind.
Observe the maiden, innocently sweet;
She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I'll bring;

'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing,

Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone;
True genuine royal paper is his breast;
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

DADDY'S BOY.

In a certain small town on the Mississippi lived a man who made horse-trading a business. He bought up horses for a city market, and was considered pretty good on a trade. One day a long, lean, queer, green-looking specimen of the western country, arrived at the dock with a boat load of horses. He inquired for the horse jockey.

"Daddy sent me down with some horses," he said, in a half-idiotic tone.

"Who's he?"

"Daddy."

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"What do you want for your horses?"

Daddy said you could set your price," was the reply.

"Let me go down and look at your horses," said Brown, and accordingly they were soon on the boat.

Brown examined the horses, and named the price he would give for this one and that, and the country bumpkin made no objections, although some of the offers were not more than one-half of the real value of the animal. One of the bystanders gently suggested to the countryman that he was being cheated, but he returned:

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Daddy said Brown would set the price himself.” And so Brown had it all his own way.

At last they came to an animal which did not look much superior to the rest.

"I must have more for that anermal,” said he, “ daddy says he can run some."

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Run!" said Brown, " that nag can't run worth a cent."
Daddy says so, and daddy knows."

Why, I've got one up at the stables that can beat it all hollow."

"Guess not," said the fellow, "Let's try 'em. I'll bet the whole boat-load of horses on 'em."

Brown smiled.

"I'll stake five thousand dollars against your boat-load," said Brown, winking to the crowd, "and these men," selecting two, "shall hold the stakes."

Brown's five thousand was entrusted to one, and the other went on board the horse-boat.

One of the crowd started to remonstrate with the poor idiotic fellow, but he only responded:

"Golly! dad told me he could run some, and daddy ought to lose 'em if he was such a tarnal fool to tell me that when he couldn't.”

Brown's sleek racer was brought down, and Brown mounted him. The countryman led out his animal and climbed on his back, looking as uncouth and awkward as the horse he proposed to ride.

The word was given, and they started amid the laughter of the crowd. At first Brown was ahead, and it looked as though the poor fellow was to be badly beaten, when his horse suddenly plunged forward and the jockey was left far behind. Such going had not been seen in those parts for a long time, and poor Brown was crestfallen, as the cheers of the bystanders fell on his ears.

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"I'll take the spondulix," said the countryman, riding up, "dal was right. The anermal can get around a little."

Brown tried to say it was all a joke, but the fellow would have his money.

66 I guess I won't trade to-day," he said, as he put it in his old, rough leather pocket-book. "I'll go back to daddy."

In vain Brown tried to induce him to trade, but he pushed off his boat resolutely saying, "I'd best go back and tell daddy." Brown was completely "sold," for he knew at once that the green countryman was shrewder than people imagined him, and just came there purposely to win his money from him. Next time he didn't ridicule a horse that "daddy said could run some."

66 'NOW!"-FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.

A night of danger on the sea,

Of sleeplessness and fear;
Wave after wave comes thundering
Against the strong stone pier;
Each with a terrible recoil,

And a grim and gathering might,
As blast on blast comes howling past,
Each wild gust wilder than the last,
All through that awful night.

Well for the ships in the harbor now
Which come with the morning tide,
With unstrained cable, and anchor sure,
How quietly they ride!

Well for the barque that reached at eve,
Though watched with breathless fear;
It was sheltered first ere the tempest burst,
It is safe inside the pier!

But see! a faint and fitful light

Out on the howling sea;

'Tis a vessel that seeks the harbor mouth, As in death-agony.

Though the strong stone arms are open wide
She has missed the only way.

'Tis all too late, for the storm drives fast,
The mighty waves have swept her past,
And against that sheltering pier have cast
Their wrecked and shattered prey.

Nearer and nearer the barque is borne,
As over the deck they dash,

Where sailors five are clinging fast
To the sailless stump of the broken mast,
Waiting the final crash.

Is it all too late? is there succor yet
Those perishing men to reach?

Life is so near on the firm-built pier,
That else must be death to each.

There are daring hearts and powerful arms And swift and steady feet,

And they rush as down to a yawning grave. In the strong recoil of the mightiest wave, Treading that awful path to save

As they trod a homeward street. Over the bowlders and foam they rush

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