Do you suppose dey could eber hab succeeded in dere wish,
And reached de promised land at last, if they had stopped to fish?
My frien's, dere was a garden once, where Adam libbed wid Eve,
Wid no one roun' to bodder dem, no neighbors for to thieve;
An' ebery day was Christmas, an' dey had dere rations free,
An' eberyting belonged to dem except an apple-tree.

You all know 'bout de story,-how de snake come snookin' 'round,
A stump-tail, rusty moccasin, a crawlin' on de ground,

How Eve an' Adam ate de fruit, an' went an' hid dere face,
Till de angel oberseer came an' drove dem off de place.
Now, s'pose dis man an' 'ooman, too, hadn't 'tempted for to shirk,
But had gone about dere gardenin', an' tended to dere work,
Dey wouldn't have been loafin' whar' dey had no business to,
An' de debble nebber'd got a chance to tell 'em what to do.

No half-way doin's, bredren, 'twill neber do, I say!
Go at your task, an' finish it, an' den's de time to play;
For even if de crap is good, de rain will spoil de bolls,
Unless you keeps a-pickin' in de garden ob your souls.
Keep a-plowin', an' a-hoein', an' a-scrapin' ob de rows;
An' when de ginnin's ober you can pay up what you owes;
But if you quits a-workin' ebery time de sun is hot,
De sheriff gwine to leby upon eberyting you's got.

Whateber you's a-dribin' at, he sure an' dribe it t'ro',
An' don't let nothin' stop you, but do what you's gwine to do;
For when you see a nigger foolin', den, sure as yon are born,
You's gwine to see him comin' out de small end ob de horn.

IRWIN RUSSELL.

THE APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

[Lord George Gordon Byron was born in London January 23, 1788, and died in Greece April 20, 1824. His poetry is acknowled red to be of the highest literary order. This poem should be delivered in the orotund quality of voice, effusive form, with slow time and long quantity. The reader should fully realize the emo tions which animated the author at the time he wrote it.]

Oh! that the desert were my dwelling place,
With one fair spirit for my minister,

That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye elements! in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted-can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err

In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
Though, with them to converse, can rarely be our lot

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but nature more
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel

'What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,

Ile sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole; or in the torrid clime

Dark heaving;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible, even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone

And I have lov'd thee, ocean and my joy

Of youthful sports, was, on thy breast to be

Born, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers; they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear;
For I was, as it were, a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near,

And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here.

My task is done-my song has ceased-my theme
Hath died into an echo; 'tis fit

The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp-and what is writ, is writ,—
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been—and my visions flit
Less palpably before me, and the glow

Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering faint and low.

LORD BYRON.

THE SCHOOL-MASTER'S GUESTS.

I.

The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk, Close watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and gro tesque.

As whisper the half leafless branches, when Autumn's brisk breezes

have come,

His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum.

Like the frequent sharp bang of a wagon, when treading the forest

path o'cr,

Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck the floor.

There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was with

standing a drouth;

And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth.

There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they wore names that could bloom;

And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in

the room.

With a countenance grave as a horse's and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,

Queer-bent on a deeply laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins' skin.

There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into the brain,

Loud puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train.

There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,

And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate,

And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short

twist,

As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!"

There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some

beauty possessed,

In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best.

A class in the front with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains, How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;

And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood, Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could.

II.

Around were the walls gray and dingy, which every old schoolsanctum hath,

With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood grating of lath.

A patch of thick plaster just over the school-master's rickety chair, Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a

hair.

The square stove puffed and crackled, and broke out in red-flaming sores,

Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out. o'-doors.

White snow flakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks;

And the children's hot faces were steaming, the while they were freezing their backs.

III.

Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his sufferings were o'er, And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door;

And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row, And stood themselves up by the hot fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow;