You see yon brawny, blustering sot, A man may own a large estate, It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,- The lie is gross, the cheat is plain, For a' that and a' that, 'Tis soul and heart and a' that IF WE HAD BUT KNOWN. IF we had but known, if we had but known, That one would stand next year alone, In the blazing July weather! Why, we trilled away the golden hours, Watching the glory of blossoming flowers, Seeing the children like sunbeams play, And the song of the murmuring flood, If we had but known, if we had but known, How one would sit by the hearth alone, Why, we sped those last hours, each for each, The careless, bright, delicious speech, So much unsaid, undone, Ah! priceless hours, forever flown, If we had but known, if we had but known! If we had but known, if we had but known, How a thoughtless look, a slighting touch Cold lies the turf for the burning kiss, The cross stands deaf to cries, Dull, as the wall of silence is, Are the gray unanswering skies! We can never unsay a thing we said, We can never staunch the wound that bled, If we had but known, if we had but known! The path before us seemed all our own, We had sown; the harvest was there to reap, With never a warning, sharp and strong, And love, and sorrow, and yearning, long Oh! keenest of pangs, and the mourner's moan,-- THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH.-CHARLES DICKENS. At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on the doorstep, faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and prof ligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. And now the long-forgotten scenes of a mis-spent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home-a happy, cheerful home-and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him-so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again. He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The street was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous yoice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chii struck through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep. But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake and conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice rich food-they were before him; he could see them all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them-and, though the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones; that death was coming upon him by inches-and that there were none to care for or help him. Suddenly he started up in the extremity of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what or why Hark! Á groan!-another! His senses were leaving him: halfformed and incoherent words burst from his lips; and. his hands sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. He raised his head and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river side. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life, half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river. The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet,-so quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the water against the barges, that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind, urged him onward. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the water. Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface-but what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings! Life-life-in any form, poverty, misery, starvation-anything but death. NN He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The shore-but one foot of dry ground-he could almost touch the step. One hand's breadth nearer, and he was saved-but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. Again he rose and struggled for life. For one instant-for one brief instant-the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast-flying clouds, were distinctly visible-once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its furious roar. A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was borne to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away! THE GREEN MOUNTAIN JUSTICE. "THE snow is deep," the Justice said; So hand me up the spade, my dear, "Now for the roof All snugly tied, and danger-proof! But no! |