Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleam

ing;

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far a-down the long aisle sacred music is streaming,

Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of Nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch, by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

DEACON HEZEKIAH.

Oh! Hezekiah's a pious soul,

With his phiz as long as a hickory pole,
And he wouldn't smile if you'd give him the whole
Of the gold in California.

There he sits, like a cloud, in his Sunday pew,
With his book in his hand, in his long-tailed blue,
And you'd better take care, or he'll look you through,
With a glance that says, "I scorn ye."

He is very straight, and narrow, and tall,
From the crown to the hem of his overall;
And he sings the psalm with a woful drawl,

And a mouth like a clam's when it's crying;
But when Monday comes he is up with the sun;
His religion is over, his work begun,

And you'd think that there wasn't a world but one,
And he hadn't a thought of dying.

You would think he was sorry he'd lost a day,
As he rushes and rattles and drives away,
As he gives the poor orphan a crusty "nay,"
And the widow a vinegar greeting;

And he bargains, and sells, and collects his rent,
Nor tears nor petitions can make him relent,
Till he gets in his pocket each doubtful cent,
Though he wouldn't be seen a-cheating!

And Tuesday, and Wednesday, and all the week,
He doesn't know Gentile, nor Jew, nor Greek,
Nor care whom he robs of the last beef-steak,
Nor the last poor hope of fire.

But Hezekiah is pious, very!

For who in the world ever saw him merry?
And he looks as forlorn as a dromedary,
And his voice, of itself, is a choir.

JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT.-B. DISRAELI. The broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers, and frequent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of bills, far more famous than those of Rome; for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are ignorant of the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts.

The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David; nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, alas! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; farther on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief, because there the most illustrious of the human as well as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son of the most favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering and shame, which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honor.

Passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedec built his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped before every altar in Rome.

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among the cypress groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe.

Is it the breeze that has traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea? Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that they could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on the land where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. Who can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city! There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands; but the lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed; the monarch whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth; the teacher whose doctrines have modeled civilized Europe; the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, the greatest of reformers;-what race, extinct or living, can produce three such men as these?

The last light is extinguished in the village of Beth

any. The wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads over the purple sky; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid; all becomes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David merges into obscurity; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon-light.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS.

A Frenchman once, who was a merry wight,
Passing to town from Dover, in the night,
Near the roadside an alehouse chanced to spy,
And being rather tired as well as dry,
Resolved to enter; but first he took a peep,
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap.
He enters; "Hallo! garçon, if you please,
Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese;
And hallo! garçon, a pot of porter, too!" he said,
"Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed."

His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left,
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft,
Into his pocket put; then slowly crept

To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept-
For on the floor some sacks of flour were laid,
To which the rats a nightly visit paid.
Our hero now undressed, popped out the light,
Put on his cap and bade the world good-night;
But first his breeches, which contained the fare,
Under his pillow he had placed with care.

Sans cérémonie, soon the rats all ran,

And on the flour-sacks greedily began;

At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round, Under the pillow soon the cheese they found;

And while at this they all regaling sat,

Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap;

Who, half-awake, cries out, "Hallo! hallo!
Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so?

Ah! 'tis one big, one very big, huge rat!
Vat is it dat he nibble, nibble at?"

In vain our little hero sought repose;

Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his nose;
And such the pranks they kept up all the night,
That he, on end, antipodes upright,

Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light.
"Hallo! maison! garçon! Here, I say!

Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay!"

The bill was brought, and to his great surprise,

Ten shillings was the charge: he scarce believed his eyes. With eager haste, he quickly runs it o'er,

And every time he viewed it thought it more.

"Vy, zounds and zounds!" he cries, "I sall no pay;
Vat! charge ten shelangs for vat I have mangé?
A leetel sop of porter, dis vile bed,

Vare all de rats do run about my head?"

"Plague on those rats!" the landlord muttered out;
"I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout:
I'll pay him well that can." "Vats dat you say?"
"I'll pay him well that can." "Attend to me, I pray:
Vill you dis charge forego, vat I am at,
If from your house I drive away de rat?"
"With all my heart," the jolly host replies.
"Ecoutez donc, ami ;" the Frenchman cries.
"First den-regardez, if you please,
Bring to dis spot a leetel bread and cheese:
Eh bien! and bring a pot of porter, too;
And den invite de rats to sup wid you:
And after dat-no matter dey be villing-
For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang;
And I am shure, ven dey behold de score,

Dey'll quit your house, and never come no more."