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The license bought, he marries her in haste,

Brings home his bride, and gives his friends a guy day; All his relations, wondering at his taste,

Vowed he had better had the Pig-faced Lady! Struck with this monstrous lump of womankind, The thought of money never crossed their mind. The dinner o'er, the ladies and the bride

Retired, and wine and chat went round jocosely;
Sir Peter's brother took the knight aside,

And questioned him about the matter closely:
“Confound it, Peter! how came you to pitch
On such an ugly, squinting, squabby witch?
A man like you, so handsome and so knowing;
Your wits, my friend, must surely be a-going!
Who could have thought you such a tasteless oaf,

To wed a lump of odd-come shorts and bits,

That Madame Nature, in her merry fits, Had jumbled into something like a face! With skin as black as if she charcoal fed on, Crooked and crusty, like an outside loaf; A remnant of an ourang-outang faceEve's grandmother, with the serpent's head on! What spell could into such a hobble throw you?” “Just step upstairs,” says Peter,“ and I'll show you." Upstairs they went: "There, there's her picture! say, Is it not like her, sir?-Your judgment, pray.” “Like her, Sir Peter!-take it not uncivil'Tis like her-and as ugly as the devil; With just her squinting leer; but, hang it! what A very handsome frame it's got, So richly gilt, and so superbly wrought!” “You're right,” says Peter, “'twas the frame that caught: I grant my wife is ugly, squabby, old, But still she pleases-being set in gold; Let others for the picture feel a flame, I, my good brother, married for the frame.”

BEN FISHER.-FRANCES DANA GAGE,

Ben Fisher had finished his harvesting,

And he stood by his garden gate,
One foot on the rail, and one on the ground,
As he called to his good wife Kate.

There were stains of toil on his wamus red,

The dust of the field on his hat;
But a twinkle of pleasure was in his eye,

As he looked at his stock so fat.

“Here, give me the babe, dear Kate, you are tired,

And I fear you have too much care;
You must rest, and pick up a little, I think,

Before we can go to the fair.
I'd hate to be taking fat cattle, you know,

Fat hogs, fat sheep, and fat cows,
With a wife at my elbow as poor as a crow,

And care-wrinkles seaming her brows. "Can't go'! Why not? 'Can't afford the expense'!

I know, Kate, our crops aren't the best;
But we've labored together to keep things along,

And together we'll now take a rest.
The frost blighted the fruit, but ‘Brindle' is prime,

And 'Jinny' and 'Fan'are a show;
Your butter and cheese can't be beat in the State,

So up to the fair we will go.

“You've ne'er seen a city, and Cleveland is fine,–

Never seen the blue, billowy lake;
Ne'er rode in a rail-car, nor been in a throng,-

So, Kate, this short journey we'll take;
And gather new feelings, new thoughts, and new ways,

If we find those that suit, as we roam;
And garner up strength in head, heart, and hand,

For the loves and the duties of home.

“I sometimes have thought, as I plodded along,

For months, o'er the same weary round, That another who had such a real hard time,

In Ohio could nowhere be found.
But when I've been called from my home for a while,

And seen how the world gets along,
I've come back to toil with a light, cheerful heart,

And, “There's no place like home,' for my song. “Iwonder that mothers don't wholly despair,

Who ne'er from their cares get away,
But walk the same tread-wheel of duty for years,

Scarce stopping to rest, night or day.
No wonder they grow discontented sometimes,

Their feelings get raspy and cold;
For toil never ending, and labor uncheered,

Make women-and men sometimes-scold."

Kate looked up with a smile, and said, "Ben, we will go;

There may be stock fatter than ours,
Horses swifter of foot, cows finer by far,

Better butter and cheese, fruit and flowers;
But there's one thing, I claim, that can't be surpassed

In the whole Yankee nation to-day-
I would not exchange for a kingdom to boot'-

That's my 'gude man!'—and Kate ran away.

THE THREE BELLS.-John G. WHITTIER.

This poem refers to the well-known rescue of the crew of an American res. bel, sinking in mid-ocean, by Capts in Leightou, of the English ship Three Bells. Unable to take them off, in tho night and the storm, he stayed by them until morning, shouting to them from time to timo through his trumpet, “Never fear, hold on, I'll stand by you."

Beneath the low-hung night cloud

That raked her splintering mast,
The good ship settled slowly,

The cruel leak gained fast.
Over the awful ocean

Her signal guns pealed out;
Dear God! was that thy answer,

From the horror round about?
A voice came down the wild wind,-

“ Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:
“Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow

Shall stand till daylight by!”
Hour after hour crept slowly,

Yet on the heaving swells
Tossed up and down the ship-lights,-
The lights of the Three Bells.

And ship to ship made signals;

Man answered back to man;
While oft, to cheer and hearten,

The Three Bells nearer ran.

And the captain from her taffrail

Sent down his hopeful cry:
"Take heart! hold on!” he shouted,
“The Three Bells shall stand by!”

All night across the waters

The tossing lights shone clear;
All night from reeling taffrail

The Three Bells sent her cheer.

And when the dreary watches

Of storm and darkness passed,
Just as the wreck lurched under,

All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, Three Bells, forever,

In grateful memory sail!
Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,

Above the wave and gale!
As thine, in night and tempest,

I hear the Master's cry,
And, tossing throngh the darkness,
The lights of God draw nigh.

Atlantic Monthly.

A FOREST HYMN.-W. C. BRYANT.

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication.

For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty.

Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,

Here, in the shadow of this ancient wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy if it find
Acceptance in his ear.

Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forth with, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tals, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold
Cominunion with his Maker.

These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence.

Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of thee.

This mighty oak,
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem
Almost annihilated,- not a prince
In all that proud old world beyond the deep
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,

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