THERE ONCE WAS A TOPER.

THERE once was a toper-I'll not tell his name---
Who had for his comfort a scolding old dame;
And often and often he wished himself dead,

For if drunk he came home, she would beat him to bed.
He spent all his evenings away from his home,
And when he returned, he would sneakingly come
And try to walk straightly, and say not a word-
Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord;
For, if he dared say his tongue was his own,
'Twould set her tongue going, in no gentle tone,
And she'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him hard names.
And he'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old dames.

It happened, one night, on a frolic he went,
IIe staid till his very last penny was spent,
But how to go home, and get safely to bed,

Was the thing on his heart that most heavily weighed.
But home he must go: so he caught up his hat,
And off he went singing, by this and by that,
“I'll pluck up my courage, I guess she's in bed,

If she aint, 'tis no matter, I'm sure: Who's afraid ?"
He came to his door: he lingered until

He peeped and he listened, and all seemed quite still;
In he went, and his wife sure enough was in bed!

"Oh !" says he, "it's just as I thought: Who's afraid?"

He crept about softly, and spoke not a word,

His wife seemed to sleep, for she never e'en stirred!
Thought he, "for this night, then, my fortune is made!
For my dear scolding wife is asleep! Who's afraid ?”
But soon, he felt thirsty; and slyly he rose,
And groping around, to the table he goes.

The pitcher found empty, and so was the bowl,

The pail and the tumblers-she'd emptied the whole!
At length in a corner, a vessel he found!

Says he, "here's something to drink, I'll be bound !”
And eagerly seizing, he lifted it up-

And drank it all off, in one long hearty sup!

It tasted so queerly: and, what it could be,

He wondered :--it neither was water, nor tea!

Just then a thought struck him and filled him with fear,
"Oh! it must be the poison for rats, I declare !"
And loudly he called on his dear sleeping wife,
And begged her to rise: "for," said he, on my life-

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I fear it was poison, the bowl did contain

Oh ! dear! yes-it was poison, I now feel the pain !" "And what made you dry, sir ?" the wife sharply cried : “Twould serve you just right if from poison you died : And you've done a fine job, and you'd now better march, For just see, you brute, you have drank all my starch !"

THE CUMBERLAND.-H. W. Longjellow.

AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,

On board of the Cumberland sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,

Or a bugle-blast

From the camp on the shore.

Then, far away to the South, uprose

A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course

To try the force

Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs,

Silent and sullen, the floating fort;

Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,

With fiery breath,

From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale

Of the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the Rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
Never!" our gallant Morris replies;
"It is better to sink than to yield !"
And the whole air pealed

With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath

For her dying gasp.

Next morn as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the main mast-head,
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!

Every waft of the air

Was a whisper of prayer,

Or a dirge for the dead."

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream.
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,

Thy flag, that is rent in twain,

Shall be one again,

And without a seam!

THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX.-Robert Browning.

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed !" echoed the wall to us galloping through Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit-
Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Acrschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one.
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track:
And one eye's black intelligence-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix "-for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongrés, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!”

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking around

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from

Ghent.

A GLASS OF COLD WATER.

Where is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his children? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play; there God brews it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the tall mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar; the chorus sweeping the march of God: there he brews it-that beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels ; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun; or a white gauze around the midnight moon.

Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world; and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven; all checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction.

Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water; no poison bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depth; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it demon's drink, alcohol!

DEACON STOKES.-Thomas Quilp.

There once lived one Asa Stokes,

One of those men whom everything provokes,
A surly-tempered, evil-minded, bearish,
Ill-natured kind of being;