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Familiar to his touch for threescore years,
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master's will.
And thus had passed from its unequal frame
A soul of fire.-a sun-bent eagle stricken,
From his high soaring, down,-an instrument
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies,
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked,—
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.

SOLILOQUY OF KING RICHARD III.-SHAKSPEARE

GIVE me another horse-bind up my wounds-
Have mercy, Jesu !-soft: I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afilict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? Myself! There's none else by.
Richard loves Lichard: that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here? No: yes; I am.

Then fly. What! From myself? Great reason: why!
Lest I revenge. What? Myself on myself?

I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
Oh, no alas! I rather hate myself,
For hateful deeds committed by myself.

I am a villain: yet I lie: I am not.

Fool, of thyself speak well-fool, do not flatter-
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues;
And every tongue brings in a several tale;
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury in the highest degree;
Murder, stern murder in the direst degree,
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty!
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me,
And, if I die, no soul will pity me;

Nay; wherefore should they; since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?-

Methought the souls of all that I had murdered
Came to my tent, and every one did threat

To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.

THE SILVER WEDDING.-MRS. C. M. STOWE.

DID you think I could forget it,

Five and twenty years a-gone?

On a beautiful May morning,

Flowers were blooming on the lawn;
My heart was filled with gladness,

And my cheeks were flushed with pride
While I waited for your coming-
I was soon to be a bride.

Five and twenty years, my darling,
Since that morn, have passed away;
Let us count them, looking backward;
Till we reach our wedding day.

Do you see the sun above us,

And the blue and cloudless sky, And remember how that morning, We were happy, you and I?

Do you see the low-roofed dwelling,
With its white and shining floor,
And the hewed logs matched so nicely,
And the rose-tree by the door?
And the wedding guests, I see them
Through the five and twenty years,
Sitting quietly around us,

Smiling fondly through their tears.

They were only those who loved us,
As we stood there, you and I,
Looking forward to the future,
Through a clear and cloudless sky.
Ah, to-day in looking backward,
I can see you standing there,
In your pride of youthful manhood,
With your brow unmarked by care!

And I stood that day beside you,
In my robe of simple white,
Without gems or costly jewels,
Flashing in the morning light.
Just a loving heart I gave you,
As our hands were clasped that day,
With no cloud upon our future-
Only sunshine in our way.

Five and twenty years, my darling,
Through the sunshine and the shade,
We have walked beside each other,
In the path our love has made.
But the clouds have gathered o'er us,
Drifting down the stream of life,
And our liearts have throbbed with sorrow,
Since you claimed me as a wife.

But to-night, in looking backward,
Looking backward all the way,

Through the clouds, the storms, the sunshine,
That have gathered since that day,

There is more of good than evil,

Though our feet have tired grown;
Five and twenty years, my darling,
Since our wedding day has flown.

CALIFORNIA OBITUARY.

BOODLEPOPSTER is dead! The bare announcement will plunge the city into unspeakable gloom. The death of Boodlepopster was most untimely; he should have died twenty years ago. Probably no man of his day has exerted so peculiar an influence upon society as the deceased. Ever foremost in every good work out of which anything could be made, an unstinted dispenser of every species of charity that paid a commission to the disburser, Mr. Boodlepopster was a model of generosity, and weighed at the time of his death one hundred and ninety odd pounds. Originally born in Massachusetts, but for ten years a resident of California, and partially bald, possessing a cosmopolitan nature that loved a York shilling as well, in the proportion to its value, as a Mexican dollar, the subject of our memoir was one whom it was an honor to know, and whose close friendship was a luxury that only the affluent could afford. It shall ever be the writer's proudest boast that he enjoyed it at less than half the usual rates. Mr. B., was the founder of the new, famous Boodlepopster Institute, and for some years preceding bis death suffered severely from a soft corn, which has probably done as much for agriculture as any similar

concern in the foothills of our State. In 1868, he was elected an honorary member of the Society for the Prevention of Humanity to Mongolians, and but for the loss of an eye in carrying out its principles, would have been one of the handsomest whites that ever resided among them. But there is little doubt that he might have aspired to any office in the gift of the people, so universal was the esteem in which he was held by those he voted for. In an evil moment he was induced to associate himself in business with the Rev. Albert Williams, and though he speedily withdrew from the firm, he was never able wholly to eradicate the disgrace from his constitution, and it finally carried him to his grave. His last words, as he was snuffed out, were characteristic of the man; he remarked: "Fetch me the catnip tea!" The catnip consolation arrived too late to be of any use; he bad gone where the woodbine twineth. Farewell, noble heart, my soul, bright intellect! We shall meet again.

WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE.

How little recks it where men die, when once the moment's past

In which the dim and glazing eye has looked on earth its last Whether beneath the sculptured urn, the coffined form shall

rest,

Or, in its nakedness, return back to its mother's breast!

Death is a common friend or foe, as different men may hold, And at its summons each must go, the timid and the bold; But when the spirit, free and warm, deserts it, as it must, What matter where the lifeless form dissolves again to dust?

"Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes with those we cherish

near,

And, wafted upwards by their sighs, soar to some calmer sphere;

But whether on the scaffold high, or in the battle's van,

The fittest place where man can die is where he dies for man,

THE CHARCOAL MAN.-J. T. TROWBRIDGE

THOUGH rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat;
His sombre face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve he cries,—
"Charco'! charco' !"

While echo faint and far replies,-
"Hark, O! hark, O!"

"Charco' !"-"Hark, O!"-Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds.

The dust begrimes his ancient hat;

His coat is darker far than that;

'Tis odd to see his sooty form

All speckled with the feathery storm;
Yet in his honest bosom lies

Nor spot, nor speck,-though still he cries,

"Charco'

charco'!"

And many a roguish lad replies,

"Ark, ho! ark, ho!"

"Charco'!"-" Ark, ho !"-Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.

Thus all the cold and wintry day

He labors much for little pay;

Yet feels no less of happiness

Than many a richer man, I guess,

When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries,-
"Charco'! charco'!"

And Martha from the door replies,-
"Mark, ho! Mark, ho!"

"Charco' !"-"Mark, ho!"-Such joy abeunds When he has closed his daily rounds.

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright

And while his hand, washed clean and white,

Holds Martha's tender hand once more,

His glowing face bends fondly o'er

The crib wherein his darling lies,

And in a coaxing tone he cries, "Charco' charco' !"

And baby with a laugh replies,

"Ali, go! ah, go!"

"Charco' -"Ali, go!"—while at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds.