BY THE ALMA RIVER.-MISS MULOCK. Willie, fold your little hands; Let it drop, that "soldier" toy; Ask no more, child. Never heed Chance-poised victory's bloody work Is that spot, where'er it be, Where he stands-no other word! Willie, listen to the bells Ringing through the town to-day: That's for victory. Ah, no knells For the many swept away,Hundreds, thousands! Let us weep, We who need not,-just to keep Reason steady in my brain Till the morning comes again, Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and fell Come, we'll lay us down, my child; Sleeps upon the open sward, By the Alma River. Willie, Willie, go to sleep, God will keep us, O my boy! By the Alma River!" THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.-J. G. WHITTIER. Look on him!--through his dungeon grate Reclining on his strawy bed, His hand upholds his drooping head- A sound, half murmur and half groan, Just God! why lies that old man there? And the rude oath and heartless jeer And, or in wakefulness or sleep, Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep What has the gray-haired prisoner done? Not so; his crime's a fouler one; GOD MADE THE OLD MAN POOR! And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, And Saratoga's plain? Look forth, thou man of many scars, Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, Is kindled at your pageantry? Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb, What is your carnival to him? Down with the LAW that binds him thus! No refuge from the withering curse Open the prison's living tomb, PULPIT ORATORY.--DANIEL DOUGHERTY. The daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judg ment, but to touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the armory of the feelings the weapons with which to defend against sin, assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. And oh, now infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this armory! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a master! Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the boundless world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his cominand. He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man-all his temptations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awake amid the glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. He can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer and his apostate legions; in letting loose the mighty waters until they swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the coming of that awful day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a scroll, and, ascending to heaven, pieture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic voices tuned in celes tial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never consumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of contrition start and stream from every eye; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as Felix quailed before St. Paul. SIGNS AND OMENS. An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens. "Vell, I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don't pelieve everydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sits und reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say,— "Fritz, de dog ish howling!' "Vell I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine baper, und mine frau she say, "Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,-der dog ish howling!' "Und den I gets hup mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like everydings, und he park at de moon, dat vash shine so bright ash never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say,— "Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish some pad ish happen. De dog ish howling!' "Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn, "Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen. De dog vas howl all night.' Und shoost den de newsbaper come in, und I opens him, und by shings, vot you dinks! dere vas a man died in Philadelphia!" |