The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will

come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge;
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

"Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath; From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroudOh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

(HOOD.)

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;-
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her

Now, is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily;

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen so rigidly,
Decently, kindly,-

Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,

Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,

Into her rest,

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behaviour,

And leaving with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

SCOTT AND THE VETERAN.

(BAYARD TAYLor.)

An old and crippled veteran to the War Department

came,

He sought the Chief who led him, on many a field of fame

The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his ban

ner rose,

And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes.

"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier

cried,

"The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side?

Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane?

'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again."

"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: "My brave old soldier, no!

And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so;

But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and gray,

And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."

"But General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his

brow,

"The very men who fought with us, they say are traitors now:

They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white, and blue,

And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true.

"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun,

To get the range of traitors' hearts, and pick them, one by one.

Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth while

to try;

I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my pow

der dry!"

"God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief,-“ God bless your loyal heart!

But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a

part;