No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.

THE TRUE SOURCE OF REFORM.-EDWIN H. CHAPIN.

The great element of reform is not born of human wisdom, it does not draw its life from human organizations. I find it only in CHRISTIANITY. "Thy kingdom come!" There is a sublime and pregnant burden in this prayer. It is the aspiration of every soul that goes forth in the spirit of Reform. For what is the significance of this prayer? It is a petition that all holy influences would penetrate and subdue and dwell in the heart of man, until he shall think, and speak, and do good, from the very necessity of his being. So would the

institutions of error and wrong crumble and pass away. So would sin die out from the earth; and the human soul living in harmony with the Divine will, this earth would become like heaven. It is too late for the reformers to sneer at Christianity, it is foolishness for them to reject it. In it are enshrined our faith in human progress,-our confidence in reform. It is indissolubly connected with all that is hopeful, spiritual, capable, in man. That men have misunderstood it, and perverted it, is true. But it is also true that the noblest efforts for human melioration have come out of it,-have been based upon it. Is it not so? Come, ye remembered ones, who sleep the sleep of the just,-who took your conduct from the line of Christian philosophy,—come from your tombs, and answer!

Come, Howard, from the gloom of the prison and the taint of the lazar-house, and show us what philanthropy can do when imbued with the spirit of Jesus. Come, Eliot, from the thick forest where the red man listens to the Word of Life;-come, Penn, from thy sweet counsel and weaponless victory, and show us what Christian zeal and Christian love can accomplish with the rudest barbarians or the fiercest hearts. Come, Raikes, from thy labors with the ignorant and the poor, and show us with what an eye this faith regards the lowest and least of our race; and how diligently it labors, not for the body, not for the rank, but for the plastic soul that is to course the ages of immortality. And ye, who are a great number,-ye nameless ones, who have done good in your narrow spheres, content to forego renown on earth, and seeking your reward in the record on high, come and tell us how kindly a spirit, how lofty a purpose, or how strong a courage the religion ye professed can breathe into the poor, the humble, and the weak. Go forth, then, Spirit of Christianity, to thy great work of REFORM! The past bears witness to thee in the blood of thy martyrs, and the ashes of thy saints and heroes; the present is hopeful because of thee; the future shall acknowledge thy omnipot

ence.

ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS.

SINGING FOR THE MILLION.-THOMAS HOOD.

Amongst the great inventions of this age,

Which every other century surpasses,

Is one, just now the rage,

Called "singing for all classes,"

That is, for all the British millions,
And billions,

And quadrillions,

Not to name Quintilians,

That now, alas! have no more ear than asses,
To learn to warble like the birds in June,-
In time and tune,

Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!
In fact, a sort of plan,
Including gentleman as well as yokel,
Public or private man,

To call out a militia,-only vocal
Instead of local,

And not designed for military follies,
But keeping still within the civil border,
To form with mouths in open order,
And sing in volleys.

Whether this grand harmonic scheme
Will ever get beyond a dream,
And tend to British happiness and glory,
May be no, and may be yes,

Is more than I pretend to guess;

However, here's my story.

In one of those small, quiet streets,
Where business retreats,

To shun the daily bustle and the noise.
The shoppy Strand enjoys,

But land, joint companies, and life insurance,
Find past endurance,-

In one of these back streets, to peace so dear,
The other day a ragged wight

Began to sing with all his might,

"I have a silent sorrow here!"

Heard in that quiet place,
Devoted to a still and studious race,
The noise was quite appalling;
To seek a fitting simile, and spin it,
Appropriate to his calling,

His voice had all Lablache's body in it;

But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,

And was in fact

Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling!

"Twas said indeed for want of vocal nous,

The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it, For though his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it. However, there he stood Vociferous-a ragged don! And with his iron pipes laid on, A row to all the neighborhood.

In vain were sashes closed,

And doors, against the persevering Stentor; Though brick and glass and solid oak opposed, The intruding voice would enter,

Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,

Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum;
Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools,
Ladies, and masters who attend the schools,
Clerks, agents all provided with their tools,
Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,
With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em,—
How it did bore 'em!

Louder and louder still

The fellow sang with horrible good-will;
Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities,
From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw
In deeds of law

They had to draw;
With dreadful incongruities

In posting ledgers, making up accounts
To large amounts,

Or casting up annuities,

Stunned by that voice so loud and hoarse,
Against whose overwhelming force

No invoice stood a chance, of course.

From room to room, from floor to floor,
From Number One to Twenty-four,
The nuisance bellowed; till, all patience lost,
Down came Miss Frost,
Expostulating at her open door:
"Peace, monster, peace!

Where is the new police?

I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,

Don't stand there bawling, fellow, don't!

You really send my serious thoughts astray,
Do-there's a dear, good man-do go away."

Says he, "I won't!"

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam
That sounded like a wooden d―n;
For so some moral people, strictly loth
To swear in words, however up,

Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,
Or through a door-post vent a banging oath;
In fact, this sort of physical transgression
Is really no more difficult to trace,
Than in a given face

A very bad expression.

However, in she went,

Leaving the subject of her discontent
To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten,
Who, throwing up the sash,

With accents rash

Thus hailed the most vociferous of men: "Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant; I cannot write a sentence--no one can't!

So pack up your trumps,
And stir your stumps."
Says he, "I shan't!"

Down went the sash,

As if devoted to "eternal smash,"
(Another illustration

Of acted imprecation,)

While close at hand, uncomfortably near,
The independent voice, so loud and strong,
And clanging like a gong,
Roared out again the everlasting song,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand,

The music-master could not stand it,
But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand,

As savage as a bandit,

Made up directly to the tattered man,

And thus in broken sentences began:

But playing first a prelude of grimaces,

Twisting his features to the strangest shapes,

So that, to guess his subject from his faces, He meant to give a lecture upon apes,"Com-com-I say!

You go away!

Into two parts my head you split;
My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,