The man of many names went down,
Pierced by the sword of Peter Brown!
Kneeling down, I raised his head;
The cabellero faintly said,
"Senor Ingles, fly from Spain
With all speed, for you have slain
A Spanish noble, Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo

De Xymenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa

With the bleeding from his wound.
If he be living still, or dead,

I never knew, I ne'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I fled, Years and years ago.

Oft when autumn eve is closing,
Pensive, puffing a cigar,

In my chamber lone reposing
Musing half, and half a-dozing,
Comes a vision from afar

Of that lady of the villa
In her satin, fringed mantilla,
And that haughty caballero,
With his capa and sombrero,
Vainly in my mind revolving

That long, jointed, endless name;

'Tis a riddle past my solving,

Who he was or whence he came. Was he that brother home returned? Was he some former lover spurned?

Or some family fiance

That the lady did not fancy?
Was he any one of those?

Sabe Dios. Ah! God knows.

Sadly smoking my manilla,

Much I long to know

How fares the lady of the villa

That once charmed me so,
When I visited Sevilla

Years and years ago.

Has she married a Hidalgo?
Gone the way that ladies all go

In those drowsy Spanish cities,

Wasting life
Waking up for a fiesta
From an afternoon siesta,
To" Giralda" now repairing,
Or the Plaza for an airing;
At the shaded reja flirting,
At a bull-fight now disporting;
Does she walk at evenings ever
Through the gardens by the river?
Guarded by an old duenna
Fierce and sharp as a hyena,
With her goggles and her fan
Warning off each wicked man?
Is she dead, or is she living?
Is she for my absence grieving?
Is she wretched, is she happy?

a thousand pities

Widow, wife, or maid? Quien Sabe?

J. F. WALLER.

BROTHER WATKINS.

WE have the subjoined discourse, delivered by a Southern divine, who had removed to a new field of labor. To his new flock, on the first day of his ministration, he gave some reminiscences of his former charge, as follows:

"My beloved brethering, before I take my text I must tell

you about my parting with my old congregation. On the morning of last Sabbath I went into the meeting-house to preach my farewell discourse. Just in front of me sot the old fathers and mothers in Israel; the tears coursed down their furrowed cheeks; their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad —fare ye well, brother Watkins — ah! Behind them sot the middle-aged men and matrons; health and vigor beamed from every countenance; and as they looked up I could see in their dreamy eyes —fare ye well, brother Watkins — ah! Behind them sot the boys and girls that I had baptized and gathered into the Sabbathschool. Many times had they been rude and boisterous, but now their merry laugh was hushed, and in the silence I could hear-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! Around, on the back seats, and in the aisles, stood and sot the colored brethering, with their black faces and honest hearts, and as I looked upon them I could see a- -fare ye well, brother Watkins - ah! When I had finished my discourse and shaken hands with the brethering-ah! I passed out to take a last look at the old church-ah! the broken steps, the flopping blinds, and moss-covered roof, suggested only -fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! I mounted my old gray mare, with my earthly possessions in my saddlebags, and as I passed down the street the servant-girls stood in the doors, and with their brooms waved me a -fare ye well, brother Watkins- ah! As I passed out of the village the low wind blew softly through the waving branches of the trees, and moaned —fare ye well, brother Watkins - ah! I came down to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles a fare ye well, brother Watkins - ah! And even the little fishes, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight, I thought, gathered around to say, as best they could -fare ye well, brother Watkins — ah! I was slowly passing up the hill, meditating upon the sad vicissitudes and mutations of life, when suddenly out bounded a big hog from a fence-corner, with aboo! aboo! and I came to the ground

with my saddle-bags by my side.

As I lay in the dust of the

road my old gray mare run up the hill, and as she turned the top she waved her tail back at me, seemingly to say — fare ye well, brother Watkins ah! I tell you, my brethering, it is affecting times to part with a congregation you have been with for over thirty years

ah!"

JOHN B. GOUGH.

THE DESErted vilLAGE.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain; Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease, -
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

-

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whispering lovers, made!

How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending, as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground;
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round!

Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn!
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn:
Amid thy bowers, the tyrant's hand is seen;
And desolation saddens all thy green;

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day;
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way:
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

-

When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour!
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,

Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs and God has given my share
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amid these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return,

and die at home, at last.

O blessed retirement! friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must be mine!
How blessed is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labor with an age of ease;

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

So on he moves to meet his latter end,

Angels around befriending virtue's friend;