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SPIRIT OF THE NATION.-E. D. BAKER—1861.
The national banners leaning from ten thousand windows in your city to-day, proclaim your affection and reverence for the Union. The ministers of religion, the priests of literature, the historians of the past, the illustrators of the present, capital, science, art, invention, discoveries, the works of genius—all these will attend us in our march, and we will conquer. And if, from the far Pacific, a voice feebler than the feeblest murmur upon its shore may be heard to give you courage and hope in the contest, that voice is yours to-day; and if a man whose hair is gray, who is well-nigh worn out in the battle and toil of life, may pledge himself on such an occasion and in such an audience, let me say as my last word, that when, amid sheeted fire and flame, I saw and led the hosts of New York as they charged in contest upon a foreign soil for the honor of your flag; so again, if Providence shall will it, this feeble hand shall draw a sword, never yet dishonored-not to fight for distant honor in a foreign land, but to fight for country, for home, for law, for government, for constitution, for right, for freedom, for humanity, and in the hope that the banner of my country may advance, and wheresoever that banner waves there glory may pursue and freedom be established.
YE PEDAGOGUE.-JOHN G. SAXE.
RIGHTE learned is ye Pedagogue,
Fulle apt to reade and spelle,
And strap ye urchins well.
For as 't is meete to soake ye feete,
Ye ailing heade to mende,
He beates yo other ende!
And one,-ye fairest maide of all,
To cheer his wayning life,
Ye Pedagogue his wife !
THE COURTIN'.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
God makes sech nights, all white an' stil.
Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.
Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown
And peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'Ith no one nigh to hender.
The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' little flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen’s-arm that gran’ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, First this one, an' then thet, by spells
All is, he couldn't love 'em.
She thought no v'ice hed such a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;
She knowed the Lord was nigher.
She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper, -
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
" THE BOYS."-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys ?
We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more ?
Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake !
We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
That fellow's the “Speaker,"—the one on the right;
That boy with the grave mathematical look
There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-décker brain,
And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,-