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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.
I have seen her? Once I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped;
But little she dreamed, as on she went,

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!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your offi- I had a mother so proud of me!

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'T was well she died before Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can sec

The ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were,
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

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!
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND.

A FIEND once met a humble man
At night, in the cold dark street,
And led him into a palace fair,

Where music circled sweet;

And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's
heart,

From frost and darkness screened,
Till his brain grew mad beneath the joy,
And he worshipped before the fiend.

Ah! well if he ne'er had knelt to that fiend,
For a taskmaster grim was he;
And he said, "One half of thy life on earth
I enjoin thee to yield to me ;

And when, from rising till set of sun,

Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow,
Let thy gains on mine altar an offering be";
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

O sweet content!

The poor man had health, more dear than gold; | Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?
Stout bone and muscle strong,
That neither faint nor weary grew,

To toil the June day long;

And the fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud,
"Thy strength thou must forego,
Or thou no worshipper art of mine";
And the poor man ne'er said "No!"

Three children blest the poor man's home, -
Stray angels dropped on earth,

The fiend beheld their sweet blue eyes,

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Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine

own tears?

O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

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;
Use it, not waste it, —
Else 't is no rest.

Wouldst behold beauty
Near thee? all round?
Only hath duty
Such a sight found.

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
The highest and best;
"T is onwards! unswerving,
And that is true rest.

JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

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