Sit down close beside me, darling,

Let me clasp thy warm, strong hand,
Thine that ever has sustained me
To the borders of this land.

For thy God and mine-our Father,
Thence shall ever lead me on,
Where upon a throne eternal
Sits His loved and only Son;
I've had visions, and been dreaming
O'er the past of joy and pain;
Year by year I've wandered backward,
Till I was a child again,-

Dreams of childhood, and the moment
When I stood thy wife and bride-
How my heart thrilled with love's triumph
In that hour of woman's pride!
Dreams of thee and all the earth cords
Firmly twined about my heart,-
Oh, the bitter, burning anguish,

When first I knew that we must part!

It has passed, and God has promised
All thy footsteps to attend;
He that's more than friend or brother,
He'll be with thee to the end.
There's no shadow o'er the portal
Leading to my heavenly home,-
Christ has promised life immortal,
And 'tis He that bids me come.

When life's trials wait around thee,
And its chilling billows swell,

Thou'lt thank heaven that I'm spared them,
Thou wilt feel that "all is well."

Bring our boys unto my bedside;

My last blessing let them keep

But they're sleeping, do not wake them-
They'll learn soon enough to weep.

Tell them often of their mother,
Kiss them for me when they wake;
Lead them gently in life's pathway,
Love them doubly for my sake.
Clasp my hand still closer, darling,
This, the last night of my life,
For to-morrow I shall never

Answer when thou call'st me "wife."

Fare thee well, my noble husband;

Faint not 'neath the chastening rod;

Throw your strong arms 'round our children,
Keep them close to thee-and God!

ANSWER TO "I AM DYING."-REV. WM. LAURIE

DEAREST Wife, I've raised thy pillow,
And I watch thy failing breath;
O'er my heart fall deep, dark shadows
As I gaze on thee, and death.
At thy side I'm seated, darling,
And I feel thy feeble grasp
As, in anguish, I release thee

From my trembling, loving clasp.

I, too, dream of that bright moment
When thou stood'st my bride and wife;
Then thy blessedness I'd purchase,
Had it cost me e'en my life.

From that dream here's a rude waking,
Crushing down both mind and heart;

Must I learn this painful lesson?

Here and now, Oh, must we part!

Soon my sorrows will not reach thee;
Thou'lt be far beyond their power-
With the God in whom thou trusteth,-
Ere time marks another hour.
That thy future's bright and blessed
Is a daily joy to me;

It wil lighten every sorrow,

To know it is not shared by thee.

Round thy bed our boys are gathered,
And with me they stand and weep;
A last blessing give unto them,

That they evermore may keep.
In our hearts thou'lt live forever,
On our lips thou'lt daily be,
Till we too shall cross the river,

And with thee our Saviour sec.

I shall gaze upon our children,
Night by night when thou art gone;
No one else is left to love them,
I must guide them all alone.

Night and day from harm I'll shield them,
And love's vigils I shall keep;
Gently through life will I lead them
Until by thy side I sleep.

Close the hand I'm clasping, darling,
As I watch thy ebbing life;
Shall I no more hear thee auswer,
When I whisper, dearest wife?
Life is dark, and bleak, and dreary,
I am left without a home-
Broken-hearted, weak, and weary;
Oh, that He'd to me say, "Come!"

But our children need my presence,
And for them I fain would stay
Till my work in time is finished,
Till I close life's weary day.
When 'tis done and Jesus calls me
To the rest prepared above,
Oh, the joy that there awaits me,
Dwelling with thee in His love!

Then we'll have the joy of loving
"As we never loved before,
Loving on unchilled, unhindered,
Loving once and evermore."

NOTHING AT ALL IN THE PAPER TO-DAY.

NOTHING at all in the paper to-day!
Only a murder somewhere or other-

A girl who has put her child away,
Not being a wife as well as a mother.

Or a drunken husband beating a wife

With the neighbors lying awake to listen,Scarce aware he has taken a life

Till in at the window the dawn-rays glisten.

But that is all in the regular way

There's nothing at all in the paper to-day.

Nothing at all in the paper to-day!

To be sure there's a woman died of starvation,

Fell down in the street-as so many may
In this very prosperous Christian nation.

Or two young girls, with some inward grief
Maddened, have plunged in the inky waters,
Or a father has learnt that his son's a thief,

Or a mother been robbed of one of her daughters.
Things that occur in the regular way--
There's nothing at all in the paper to-day.

There's nothing at all in the paper to-day,

Unless you care about things in the city-
How great rich rogues for their crimes must pay,
(Though all gentility cries out "pity !")
Like the meanest shop-boy that robs a till-
There's a case to-day, if I'm not forgetting,
The lad only "borrowed" as such lads will
To pay some money he lost in betting.

But there's nothing in this that's out of the way—
There's nothing at all in the paper to-day.

Nothing at all in the paper to-day

But the births and bankruptcies, deaths and marriages, But life's events in the old survey,

With Virtue begging, and Vice in carriages;

And kindly hearts under ermine gowns,

And wicked breasts under hodden gray,

For goodness belongs not only to clowns,

And o'er others than lords does sin bear sway.

But what do I read ?--“ drowned! wrecked!" Did I say
There was nothing at all in the paper to-day?

A SKETCH OF THE "OLD COACHING DAYS." JOHN POOLE,

I Do not call him an early riser who, once in his life, may have been forced out of his bed at eight o'clock on a November morning, in consequence of his house having been on fire ever since seven; nor would I attach such a stigma to him who, in the sheer spirit of foolhardiness and bravado, should for once and away "awake, arise," even three or four hours earlier, in the same inclement season: I, myself, have done it! But the fact is, that the thing, as a constant practice, is impossible to one who is not 'te the manner born.' He must be taught, as a fish is taught to swim, from his earliest infancy. * *

I know it may be objected to me that chimney-sweepers,

dnstmen, &c., are early risers; but this I would rather take to be a vulgar error than admit it as a fact; what proof can you adduce that they have yet been to bed? For my own part, I am unwilling to think so uncharitably of human nature as to believe that any created being would force another to quit his bed at five o'clock on a frosty morning. *

*

I have confessed that once, in the sheer spirit of bravado, I myself rose (or promised to rise,) at that ignominious period of the night, known, or rather heard of, by the term, four in the morning.' My folly deserved a severe punishment, which, indeed, it received in its own consequences; but since I have lately been informed that 'a good-natured friend' is of opinion that it merits the additional chastisement of public exposure, I will (to spare him the pain of bestowing it upon me,) inflict the lash with my own hand.

I had the pleasure of spending, years ago, my Christ mas holidays very agreeably with a family at Bristol.

Having an appointment of some importance for the eighth of January, in London, I had settled that my visit should terminate on Twelfth-night. On the morning of that festive occasion, I had not yet resolved on any par ticular mode of conveyance to town; when, walking along Broad-street, my attention was brought to the subject by the various coach-advertisements which were posted on the walls. The Highflyer' announced its departure at three in the afternoon-a rational hour; the 'Magnet' at ten in the morning-somewhat of the earliest; whilst the 'Wonder' was advertised to start every morning at five precisely!!!-a glaring impossibility. * * *

We often experience an irresistible impulse to interfere in some matter, simply because it happens to be no business of ours; and the case in question being clearly no affair of mine, I resolved to inquire into it. I went into the coach-office, expecting to be told, in answer to my very first question, that the advertisement was altogether a ruse de guerre.

"So, sir," said I, to the book-keeper,." you start a coach to London at five in the morning?"

"Yes, sir," replied he-and with the most perfect nonchalance!