this. "Toiling in tears, aspiring in despair," is but a poor preparation for the enjoyment of popular honors or the performance of public trusts. And there is an exceedingly better way. It is to climb, young men, with buoyant heart, the hill of knowledge. It is to boldly scale the Alps and Apennines which ever rear themselves in your pathway. It is to feel your sinews strengthen, as they will, with every obstacle you surmount. It is to build yourself,—developing mental strength, untiring energy, sleepless zeal, fervent patriotism, and earnest principle,-until the public shall feel that you are the man they need, and that they must command you into the public service. And if perchance that call should not happen to come, and you should be forced to remain an American sovereign instead of becoming a public servant, you shall have your reward in the rich stores of knowledge you have thus collected, and which shall ever be at your command. More valuable than earthly treasure, while fleets may sink, and storehouses consume, and banks may totter, and riches flee, the intellectual investments you have thus made will be permanent and enduring, unfailing as the constant flow of Niagara or Amazon—a bank whose dividends are perpetual, whose wealth is undiminished however frequent the drafts upon it; which, though moth may impair, yet thieves cannot break through nor steal. Nor will you be able to fill these storehouses to their full. Pour into a glass a stream of water, and at last it fills to the brim and will not hold another drop. But you may pour into your mind, through a whole lifetime, streams of knowledge from every conceivable quarter, and not only shall it never be full, but it will constantly thirst for more, and welcome each fresh supply with a greater joy. Nay, more, to all around you may impart of these gladdening streams which have so fertilized your own mind, and yet, like the candle from which a thousand other candles may be lit without diminishing its flame, your supply shall not be impaired. On the contrary, your knowledge, as you add to it, will itself attract still more as it widens your realm of thought; and thus will you realize in your own life the parable of the Ten Talents, for "to him that hath shall be given." JOE JONES.-A PARODY. Don't you remember lame Sally, Joe Jones- In the old goose-pond in the orchard, Joe Jones, Under old Sim's brush fence, Joe Jones, That winds at the foot of the hill, Together we've seen the old camel go round, Grinding cider at Appleton's mill; The mill-wheel is oven-wood now, Joe Jones, The rafters fell on to a cow, And the weasels and rats that crawl round as you gaze, Are the lords of the cider-mill now. Do you remember the pig-pen of logs, Joe Jones, And the shirt button trees, where they grew on the boughs, The pig-pen has gone to decay, Joe Jones, And the lightning the tree overcome; And down where the onions and carrots once grew, Don't you remember the school, Joe Jones? And the nice shady nook by the crook of the brook, Mice live in the master's wig, Joe Jones, The brook with the crook is now dry, And the boys and the girls that were playmates then, There's a change in the things I love, Joe Jones; Twelve times twelve months have passed, Joe Jones, THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.-T. WESTWOOD. A little child, A little meek-faced, quiet village child, Sat singing by her cottage door at eve A low, sweet Sabbath song. No human ear That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed "Praise God! Praise God!” A seraph by the throne In full glory stood. With eager hand He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood Of harmony on the celestial air Welled forth, unceasing. There, with a great voice Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts Higher yet Rose the majestic anthem, without pause, Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, But even then, While the ecstatic song was at its height, Of the reverberate thunder. Loving smiles Lit up the beauty of each angel's face At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, NUMBER SEVEN. And when the seraph's song Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice HAVE CHARITY. If we knew the cares and crosses, Sorely grievous day by day, Would we then so often chide him If we knew the clouds above us If we knew the silent story Quivering through the heart of pain And the cheeks tear-washed are whitest,- Let us reach within our bosoms HOW JAMIE CAME HOME.~WILL M. CARLETON. Come, mother, set the kettle on, And make it neat, To please our Jamie's mouth and eye; I say for 't! 'twas a cur'us thing With hopes and fears, And gloomy, hopeless tidings filled; I say for 't! 'twas a cur'us thing That Jamie was not maimed or killed! With blood and tears, With cruel, bloody battles filled; We've thought of him and breathed a prayer Nay, Addie, girl, just come away, Just how it goes, Mother shall set it all herself! There's nothing to a wanderer's looks, |