In every cottage porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.

4. And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weeping's heard where only joy has been ;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

5. And such is Human Life ;-so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone !
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full methinks of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretched in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old in hall or bower
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!
SAMUEL ROGers.

Caudle-cup-i.e., A cup for holding caudle, which was a liquor made with water, oatmeal, spices, and a small dash of wine, used on the occasion of a birth in a family. Gossips.-Gossip comes from the Anglo-Saxon god-sibbe, meaning kin through God. "Our Christian ancestors, understanding a spiritual affinity to grow between the parents and such as undertook for the child at baptism, called each other by the name of god-sib-that is, kin through God; and the child, in like manner, called such his godfather and godmother." The word is now used to describe any one who repeats the news or small scandal of society.

Holy earth.-Churchyards in England are consecrated by special religious services.

Wandering tribes.-Such as the Bedouin Arabs, or other nomadic tribes, who delight in telling tales when encamped round the evening fire.

THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC.

[MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY was an American lady, who wrote a variety of works in prose and verse. She was born 1st September, 1791, and died 10th June, 1865. She resided for many years in Hartford, Connecticut.

The steamboat Atlantic, plying between Norwich, in Connecticut, and New York, was wrecked on an island near New London. Many of the passengers were on their way to join in the celebration of the annual Thanksgiving in New England. The bell of this boat, supported by a portion of the wreck, continued for many days and nights to toll as if in mournful requiem of the lost.]

1. TOLL, toll, toll,

Thou bell by billows swung;

And, night and day, thy warning words,
Repeat with mournful tongue!

Toll for the queenly boat,

Wrecked on yon rocky shore !
Sea-weed is in her palace halls;
She rides the surge no more.

2. Toll for the master bold,

The high-souled and the brave,
Who ruled her like a thing of life
Amid the crested wave!

Toll for the hardy crew,

Sons of the storm and blast,
Who long the tyrant ocean dared ;
But it vanquished them at last.

3. Toll for the man of God,

Whose hallowed voice of prayer
Rose calm above the stifled groan
Of that intense despair!
How precious were those tones
On that sad verge of life,

Amid the fierce and freezing storm,

And the mountain billows' strife!

4. Toll for the lover lost

To the summoned bridal train !
Bright glows a picture on his breast,
Beneath th' unfathomed main.
One from her casement gazeth
Long o'er the misty sea:
He cometh not, pale maiden-
His heart is cold to thee.

5. Toll for the absent sire,

Who to his home drew near,
To bless a glad expecting group—
Fond wife and children dear!
They heap the blazing hearth;
The festal board is spread ;
But a fearful guest is at the gate:
Room for the pallid dead!

6. Toll for the loved and fair,

The whelmed beneath the tide-
The broken harps around whose strings
The dull sea-monsters glide!
Mother and nursling sweet,

Reft from the household throng;
There's bitter weeping in the nest
Where breathed their soul of song.

7. Toll for the hearts that bleed

'Neath misery's furrowing trace!
Toll for the hapless orphan left,
The last of all his race!
Yea, with thy heaviest knell,
From surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living,-not the dead,
Whose mortal woes are o'er!

8. Toll, toll, toll,

O'er breeze and billow free,

And with thy startling lore instruct
Each rover of the sea:

Tell how o'er proudest joys

May swift destruction sweep,

And bid him build his hopes on high

Lone teacher of the deep.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

[THOMAS CAMPBELL, born in Glasgow, 27th July, 1777, is the author of "Pleasures of Hope," published in 1799, when he was only twenty-two years of age, "Gertrude of Wyoming," published in 1809, and some of the most spirited lyrics in the language. He died 15th June, 1844.]

1. OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

2. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dream'd it again. 3. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

4. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young:

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

5. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to

part;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart;

6. "Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn!" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear- -melted away. CAMPBELL.

Fagot. A bundle of sticks or brushwood, bound together for fuel, and kept burning during the night to scare away the wolves from feeding on the unburied dead.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.

[ROBERT BURNS, the greatest of Scottish poets, was born 25th January, 1759, and, after a brief and chequered existence, died 21st July, 1796.]

1. Is there for honest poverty

That hangs his head, and a' that?

The coward-slave we pass him by ;
We dare be poor for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

t;

Our toils obscure, and a' that

The rank is but the guinea's stamp—
The man's the gowd for a' that.

2. What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden gray, and a' that;

all.

gold.

homely.

coarse.

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine- give. A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

3. You see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' thatTho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

So.

young fellow.

fool.