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We only know that their barks no more

Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold

Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the waters cold

And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ;

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale

To the better shore of the spirit-land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,

The angel of death shall carry me.

NOTHING TO WEAR.

(BUTLER.) Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square,

Has made three separate journeys to Paris; And her father assures me, each time she was there,

That she and her friend, Mrs. Harris, Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping; Shopping alone and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather, For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist: Or that can he sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bor. In front or behind, above or below; Dresses for home, and the street, and the hall. Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall ;

And yot, though scarce three months have passed since

the day All this merchandise went in twelve carts up Broadway, This same Miss Mc Flimsey, of Madison Square, When asked to a ball was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear! But the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising ;

I find there exists the greatest distress In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress; Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear !"

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt Their children have gathered, their hovels have built ; Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered

skirt, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half starved and half paked, lie crouched from the

cold; See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street, Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare, Spoiled children of fashion,- you've nothing to wear!

And 0, if perchance there should be a sphere, Where all is made right which so puzzles us here ; Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime; Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Inscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; 0, daughters of earth! foolish virgins, beware! Lest, in that upper realm,-you have nothing to wear! SKIPPER TRESON'S RIDE.

(J. G. WHITTIER.)
Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story, or sung in rhyme,
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,-
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's out of Marblehead!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop, like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Captain Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing in sbrill refrain:

“ Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futhered, an' corr'd in a corrt,
By the women o' Morble'ead !”

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief, and loose of hair,
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang.
Over and over the Mænads sang:

“ Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futher'd, an' corr'd in a corrt.
By the women o' Morble'ead !”

Small pity for him !-He sailed away
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,-
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town's people on her deck!
“ Lay by ! lay by!” they called to him.
Back he answered, “Sink or swim !
Brag of your catch of fish again !"
And off he sailed through the fog and rain!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea,
Looked for the coming that might not be !
What did the winds and sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain that sailed away ?

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horns' bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple bound,
Hulks of old sailors, run aground,
Shook head and fist, and hat and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:

“ Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd hoort,
Torr'd an' futher'd, an' corr'd in a corrt,
By the women o' Morble'ead !"

Sweetly along the Salem road,
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
Little the wicked skipper knew
Of the fields so green, and the sky so blue.

Riding there in his sorry trim,
Like an Indian idol, glum and grim,
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
Of voices shouting far and near :

“Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd hoort,
Torr'd an' futher'd, an' corr'd in a corrt,
By the women o' Morble'ead !"

“Hear me, neighbors l" at last he cried,
" What to me is this noisy ride?
What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within ?
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck
And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
Hate me and curse me,-I only dread
The hand of God and the face of the dead !"

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, "God has touched him! why should we?"
Said an old wife mourning her only son,
“ Cut the rogue's tether and let him run !"
So, with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart,
By the women of Marblehead.

WHAT I LIVE FOR.

(G. LINXÆUS BANKS.)
I live for those who love me,

Whose hearts are kind and true,
For the heaven that smiles above me,

And awaits my spirit too;

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