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den and mysterious impulse, and Cowper's beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

The smoked herring was scarce laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door and loud barking of a dog attracted the attention of the family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveler, in tattered garments, and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged a lodging and a mouthful of food. Said he, "It is now twenty-four hours since I tasted bread." The widow's heart bled anew, as under a fresh complication of distresses; for her sympathies lingered not round her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest and share of all she had, she proffered to the stranger. "We shall not be forsaken," said she, "or suffer deeper for an act of charity."

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The traveler drew near the board; but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes towards heaven with astonishment. And is this all your store?" said he; "and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? Then never saw I charity before! But, madam," he continued, “ do you not wrong your children by giving a part of your last mouthful to a stranger?" "Ah," said the poor widow, and the teardrops gushed from her eyes as she said it, "I have a boy, a darling son, somewhere on the face of the wide world, unless heaven has taken him away, and I only act towards you as I would that others should act towards him. God, who sent manna from heaven, can provide for us as he did for Israel; and how should I this night offend him, if my son should be a wanderer, destitute as you, and should have provided for him a home even poor as this, were I to turn you unrelieved away!"

The widow ended, and the stranger springing from his seat clasped her in his arms. "God indeed has provided just such a home for your wandering son, and has given him wealth to reward the goodness of his benefactress. mother! O my mother!"

My

It was her long-lost son, returned to her bosom from the Indies. He had chosen that disguise, that he might the

more completely surprise his family; and never was surprise more perfect, or followed by a sweeter cup of joy. That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one comfortable, indeed beautiful, in the valley, and the widow lived long with her dutiful son in the enjoyment of worldly plenty and in the delightful employments of virtue; and at this day, the passer-by is pointed to the luxuriant willow that spreads its branches broad and green above her grave, while he listens to the recital of this simple and homely, but not altogether worthless tale.

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SCHNEIDER'S RIDE.-GUS PHILLIPS.

From agroos der rifer, ad der broke of day,
Bringin' of Brooklyn vresh dismay,

Der noos vas broughd by a Dootchman dhrue,
Dot der officers of der refenue

Voult be ofer in less as a' hour or two,

To confershkate all der vhiskey dher got
In Schneider's blace, or near dot shpot.

Und vilder yet der roomers flew,

Dill Schneider didn't know vhat ter do;

So he glosed der door, und he barr't 'em dight,
Saying," Dhey may hammer avay mit all dheir might;
But ofe dhey got in, dhen ve shall see,

Vhich vas der shmartest-dhem or me."
For a' hour or dhree no resht he got,
Shtill Schneider shtayed right on der shpot.

But dhere is a shtreed in Brooklyn town,
Dot ishn't bafed-dot leads right down

To Coney Island; und vot ish more,

It's a voonder dot nefer vas used pefore

It vas right in vrondt of der back of der shtore;

Und dhere on dot shtreed vos nine drucks und a card,

All loaded mit vhiskey und ready to shtard;

Dhey're most all loaded, und Schneider ish gay,
For in ten minutes he'll be more as a mile avay.

Dhey're ofe, und nodings ish left ter show
Vich vay dhey made up dheir mints ter go;

Efery dhinks ish mofed, yet not a sound
But der noise of der wheels agoin' around,
Ash so shwiftly dhey go ofer der ground;
Und Schneider turns round und says, "Good-day,"
For now he vas more as fife miles avay.

Shtill shumps der horses, shtill on dhey go,
Und der vay dhey mofes dot ishn't shlow;
Dhey're goin' down hill, und faster und faster
Dhey're drifen aheadt by Schneider, dheir master,
Who shtucks to 'em now like a poor-man's blaster;
For vell he knows dot if now he vos dook't,

He could make up his mint dot his goose vas gooked-
So efery muscles he prings in blay,

'Cause dhey ain'd any more as ten miles avay.

Under dheir vlyin' hoofs der roat

Like a great big mud-gutter dot flowed,
Und efen der flies dot comed from town,
Got tired at last, und had to lay down
Und dook a shmall resht on der ground;

For Schneider und der horses dhey vent so fast
Dot efen der flies gited oud at last;

Und der dust vas thick and der horses vas gray,
Und Schneider vas fifteen miles avay.

Der very first dhing vhat Schneider saw

Vas der sant, dhen he heard der ocean roar;
He shmelt der salt in der goot old preezes

Vhat wafed ofer vhere dhere vashn't some dreeses,

Und his heart velt glad und his shpirits vas gay,
Und der very horses dhem seemed to say:

"Ve prings you, Schneider, all der vay
From Irishtown, und safe der vhiskey,
But 'pon our vorts, it vas rader risky!"

Den hurrah! hurrah! for Schneider dhrue,
Und hurrah! hurrah! for der horses too!
Und vhen dheir shadders vas high und dry,
Let some bully boy mit a grockery eye
Get up on der top of a parrel und gry-
"Dhese ish der horses vhat safed der day
By cartin' dot vishkey und Schneider avay
From Irishtown, dwendy miles avay!"

LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

"It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."

Methinks it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build--but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!

Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pen him below

In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets
The charms which she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of pride?

To the trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain!

Who hid, in their turns have been hid:

The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,

The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveler here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah no! they have withered and died,

Or fled with the spirit above.

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-the dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve.

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.

LAY OF THE MADMAN.

Many a year hath passed away,
Many a dark and dismal year,

Since last I roamed in the light of day,
Or mingled my own with another's tear;
Woe to the daughters and sons of men-
Woe to them all when I roam again!

Here have I watched, in this dungeon cell,
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;
Here have I shrieked in my wild despair,

When the damned fiends, from their prison came,
Sported and gamboled, and mocked me here,

With their eyes of fire, and their tongues of flame,
Shouting forever and aye my name!

And I strove in vain to burst my chain,
And longed to be free as the winds again,
That I might spring in the wizard ring,

And scatter them back to their hellish den!
Woe to the daughters and sons of men-
Woe to them all when I roam again!

How long I have been in this dungeon here,
Little I know, and nothing I care;

What to me is the day, or night,
Summer's heat, or autumn sere,

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