There is n't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin ! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter! We'll have some music, if you're willing, And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir !) Shall march a little. Start, you villain! She's married since, a parson's wife; 'T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life : Than a blasted home and a broken heart. Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change! Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your offi- I had a mother so proud of me! 'T was well she died before Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can sec The ruin and wretchedness here below? I'm better now; that glass was warming. For supper and bed, or starve in the street. But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; The sooner the better for Roger and me! THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND. A FIEND once met a humble man Where music circled sweet; And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's From frost and darkness screened, Ah! well if he ne'er had knelt to that fiend, And when, from rising till set of sun, Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow, O sweet content! The poor man had health, more dear than gold; | Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring? To toil the June day long; And the fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud, Three children blest the poor man's home, - The fiend beheld their sweet blue eyes, Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears T. DECKER. SWEET IS THE PLEASURE. SWEET is the pleasure Itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure One with true toil? Thou that wouldst taste it, Still do thy best; Wouldst behold beauty Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere. "T is the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean After its life. Deeper devotion Nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion Heart never felt. "T is loving and serving JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. |