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Then shall come the judgment sign;
In the east the King shall shine,
Flashing from heaven's golden gate,
Thousands, thousands, round his state:
Spirits with the crown and plume;
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb!
Heaven shall open on thy sight,
Earth be turned to living light, -
Kingdom of the ransomed just :
“ Earth to earth, and dust to dust."
Then thy mount, Jerusalem,
Shall be gorgeous as a gem!
Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise ;
Earth by angel feet be trod,
One great garden of her God!
Till are dried the martyr's tears,
Through a thousand glorious years !
Now in hope of him we trust--
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust.”

A MODEL LOVE-LETTER.

MY DEAR MRS. M-: Every time I think of you, my heart flops up and down like a churn-dasher. Sensations of exquisite joy caper over it like young goats on a stable-roof, and thrill through it like Spanish needles through a pair of tow linen trowsers. As a gosling swimmeth with delight in a mud-paddle, so swim I in a sea of glory. Visions of ecstatic rapture thicker than the hairs of a blacking-brush, and brighter than the hues of a humming-bird's pinions, visit me in my slumbers, and borne on their invisible wings, your image stands before me, and I reach out to grasp it like a pointer snapping at a blue-bottle fly.

When I first beheld your angelic perfections, I was bewildered, and my brain whirled around like a bumble-bee under a glass tumbler. My eyes stood open like cellar doors in a country town, and I lifted up my ears to catch the silvery accents of your voice. My tongue refused to wag, and in silent adoration I drank in the sweet infection of love as a thirsty man swalloweth a tumbler of hot whisky punch.

Since the light of your face fell upon my life, I sometimes feel as if I could lift myself up by my boot-straps to the top of the church-steeple, and pull the bell-rope for singing. school.

Day and night you are in my thoughts. When Aurora, blushing like a bride, rises from her saffron colored couch; when the jay-bird pipes his tuneful lay in the apple-tree by the spring-house; when the chanticleer's shrill clarion heralds the coming morn; when the awaking pig ariseth from his bed and grunteth, and goeth for his morning's refreshments; when the drowsy beetle wheels his droning flight at sultry noontide; and when the lowing herds come home at milking-time, I think of thee; and like a piece of gum-elastic, my heart seems stretched clear across my bosom.

Your hair is like the mane of a sorrel horse powdered with gold; and the brass pins skewered through your waterfall fill me with unbounded awe. Your forehead is smoother than the elbow of an old coat; your eyes are glorious to behold; in their liquid depths I see legions of little Cupids bathing, like a cohort of ants in an old army cracker. When their fire hit me upon my manly breast, it penetrated my whole anatomy, as a load of bird-shot through a rotten apple. Your nose is from a chunk of Parian marble, and your mouth is puckered with sweetness. Nectar lingers on your lips, like honey on a bear's paw; and myriads of unfledged kisses are there, ready to fly out and light somewhere, like blue-birds out of their parents' nest. Your laugh rings in my ears like the wind-harp's strain, or the bleat of a stray lamb on a bleak hillside. The dimples on your cheeks are like bowers on beds of roses, or hollows in cakes of home-made sugar.

I am dying to fly to thy presence, and pour out the burning eloquence of my love, as a thrifty housekeeper pours out hot coffee. Away from you I am melancholy as a sick rat.

Sometimes I can hear the June bugs of despondency buzzing in my ears, and feel the cold lizards of despair crawling down my back. Uncouth fears, like a thousand minnows, nibble at my spirits; and my soul is pierced with doubts, as an old cheese is bored with skippers.

My love for you is stronger than the smell of Coffey's pat. ent butter, or the kick of a young cow, and more unselfish than a kitten's first caterwaul. As a song-bird hankers for the light of day, the cautious mouse for the fresh bacon in the trap, as a mean pup hankers after new milk, so I long for thee.

You are fairer than a speckled pullet, sweeter than a YanRee doughnut fried in sorghum molasses, brighter than a topknot plumage on a muscovy duck. You are candy, kisses, raisins, pound cake, and sweetened toddy all together.

If these remarks will enable you to see the inside of my soul, and me to win your affections, I shall be as happy as a woodpecker on a cherry tree, or a stage-horse in a green pasture. If you cannot reciprocate my thrilling passion, I will pine away like a poisoned bedbug, and fall away from a flourishing vine of life, an untimely branch; and in the coming years, when the shadows grow from the hills, and the philosophical frog sings his cheerful evening hymns, you, happy in another's love, can come and drop a tear and catch a cold upon the last resting-place of Yours affectionately,

H.

TIIE DEATH-RIDE.- WESTLAND MARSTON.

A TALE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

“We sat mute on our chargers, a handful of men, As the foe's broken columns swept on to the glen,

Like torn trees when the whirlwind comes : Cloven helm and rent banner grew dim to our ken,

And faint was the throb of their drums.

“But, no longer pursued, where the gorge opens deep, They halt; with their guns they crowd level and steep,

Seems each volley some monster's breath,
Who shows cannon for teeth as he crouches to leap,

From his ambushed cavern of death.

“Their foot throng the defile, they surge on the bank;
Darts a forest of lances in front; o'er each flank

Peer the muskets--a grisly flock:
They have built their live tower up, rank upon rank,

And wait, fixed, for an army's shock.

" Far in front of our lines, a dot on the plain:
Mute and moveless we sat till his foam-flecked rein

At our side gallant Nolan drew:
They still hold our guns, we must have them again,

Was his message-'Advance, pursue!'

“Pursue them!- What, charge with our hundreds the foe Whose massed thousands await us in order below!

Yes, such were his words. To debate
The command was not ours; we had but to know
And, knowing, encounter our fate.

“We ride our last march-let each crest be borne high! We raise our last cheer--let it startle the sky

And the land with one brave farewell; For soon nevermore to our voice shall reply

Rock, hollow, fringed river, or dell.

“Let our trump ring its loudest; in closest array,
Hoof for hoof, let us ride: for the chief who to-day

Reviews us, is Death the Victorious:
Let him look up to Fame, as we perish, and say,

* Enrol them—the fall'n are the glorious!'

"We spur to the gorge, from its channel of ire
Livid light bursts like surf, its spray leaps in fire;

As the spars of some vessel staunch,
Bold hearts crack and fall; we nor swerve nor retire,

But in the mid-tempest we launch.

“We cleave the smoke-billows, as wild waves the prow; The flash of our sabres gleams straight like the glow

Which a ploughiny keel doth break
From the grim seas around, with light on her bow,

And light in her surging wake.

"We dash full on their guns--through the flare and the roar Stood the gunners bare-armed; now they stand there no

more; The war-throat waits dumb for the ball: For those men pale and mazed to the chine we shore,

And their own cannons' smoke was their pall.

“That done, we're at bay; for the foe, with a yell Piles his legions around us. Their bayonets swell

Line on line; we are planted in steel: 'Good carbine! trusty blade! Each shot is a knell,

Each sword-sweep á fate--they reel!'

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“One by one fall our men, each girt with his slain, A death-star with belts! Charge! we break them!'-In

vain! From the heights their batteries roar! The fire-sluices burst; through that flood, in a rain

Of iron, we strike for the shore.

"Thunder answers to thunder, bolts darken the air, To breathe is to die; their funeral glare

The lit hills on our brave ones rollel: What of that? They had entered the lists with Despair,

And the lot which they met ey foretold.
" Comrade sinks heaped on comrade. A ghastly band
That fell tide, when it ebbs, shall leave on the strand:

Of the swimmers who stemmed it that day,
A spent, shattered remnant we struggle to land,

And wish we were even as they."

O Britain, my country! Thy heart be the tomb
Of those who for thee rode fearless to doom,-

The sure doom which they well foreknew;
Though mad was the summons, they saw in the gloom

DUTY beckon-and followed her through. She told not of trophies,---of medal or star, Or of Glory's sign-manual graved in a scar,

Or how England's coasts shall resound
When brothers at home greet their brothers from war

As they leap upon English ground.
She told not of streets lined with life up to heaven,
One vast heart with one cry till the welkin is riven-

“Oh, welcome, ye valiant and tried ! ”
She told not of soft arms that clasp the re-given;

She only said “Die!” and they died.
Let Devotion hencefoth Balaklava own,
No less than Thermopylæ, meet for her throne;

And thou, Britain-thou mother bereft-
By thy grief for the sleepers who hear not thy moan
Count the worth of the sons thou hast left.

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