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In short,-as it goes in the world,
They eat, and they drink, and they sleep;
They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;
(With other remarkable things :)
And that's what they do at the Springs!
AGONY CELLS.-ALLIE WELLINGTON.
It was formerly a custom in the Roman Catholic church to commence a solem toll of bells, --called " Agony-bells," --when any one connected with the church was supposed to be dying.
Somebody's dying to-night! Alas!
Hear ye those agony-bells,
The saddest of all sad knells;
Like a voice from the far-off heaven.
Somebody's dying !
Is it childhood, lovely and pure,
Whose spirit is cleaving ihis midnight air?
With its dreams of the future radiant and fair?
That's fallen in th' noontide strife ?
be a mother-a father--a child-
A stranger, far from love's tender care!
Welcomed? or greeted with startling fears?
There are other deaths,-there are other graves,
Than those spread o'er by the grassy mound;
And sepulchres else than on earth are found.
Whose corridors echo reproachful knells;
AS “OLD GILES” SAW IT.-D. S. COHEN.
Ay, lad, look on yon ocean, now, you see it's calm and still;
You wouldn't think its waves could rise,
An' take a ship of giant size,
I've lived near ocean all my life, nigh on to eighty years ;
I've seen the cruel billows leap
Their deadly weight, an' to the deep
I've seen staunch oak to splinters struck, an’seen the drown
An' then I've hid my eyes in fear,-
There's one sight as I seed, lad, and I wish I never had;
I've lived nigh on to eighty years,
But never did these eyes an' ears
It were a couple come down here, near 'bout the close a
It shows how wise 'tis folks can't see
They took that little cot-yon, there; you see the roof from
An' close up to it grows the sedge,-
That fancy kind, wi' which you've got
Sometimes she'd go, an' sometimes bide;
'Twere plain he were his father's pride,–
An' on the yacht a little gun,
Their colors, an' enjoy the fun
might be more;
Bes' liked-an' by us poor folk, mind-
One o' the days wi' blood-red sun,
To scorch, an' judge 't would be rare fun
I stood upon the beach the while,
The little fellow said, “Ol' Gile, We goin' to fish to-day.” 'Bout four o'clock the storm come up-I'd felt it sure since
An'round about the cot I stayed,
An' all the arternoon I prayed
An' what a storm! the billows raged-a storm, too, in the
The thunder roared, an' flashed again
Wi' glass in hand she scanned the shore,-
I couldn't hope to see 'em more,
An' on her knees she prayerful fell"O God! my dear ones save!" The storm waxed high, the billows rose like monsters in hot
The yacht, as through the waves she seemed
Thanked God, the fight seemed nearly won;
She seed her husband, tall an' fair;
The wind played wi' his flowin'hair,
His eyes, I judge, were blind wi' spray,
An' there above the water, sir,
She stood like dead-it seemed an age to those who were
An' for the moment sped away,
He chooses where shall be man's tomb;
An' all my limbs a-tremblin' shook
I felt my heart within me sink-
She walked right close up to the brink;
I'd walked about a rod-nay, less-
Her child I seed her closely press, -
Her anguished mind an' grief intense,
An' that they're joined forever, hence,
NOBLE REVENGE.-THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
A young officer (in what army no matter) had so far forgotten himself, in a moment of irritation, as to strike a private soldier, full of personal dignity (as sometimes happens in all ranks), and distinguished for his courage. The inexorable laws of military discipline forbade to the injurel sol