Stilled is the stir of labor and of life;

Hushed is the hum, and tranquillized the strife.
Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears;
The young forget their sports, the old their cares;
The grave are careless, those who joy or weep
All rest contented on the arm of sleep.

Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now,
And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow;
Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide,
Her heart's own partner wandering by her side.
"Tis summer's eve: the soft gales scarcely rouse
The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs:
And, faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone
Breathes to her heart a music like its own.

When, hark! Oh, horror! what a crash is there!
What shriek is that which fills the midnight air?—
'Tis fire! 't is fire! She wakes to dream no more!
The hot blast rushes through the blazing door!
The dun smoke eddies round; and, hark! that cry!
"Help! help! Will no one aid? I die I die!"
She seeks the casement: shuddering at its height,
She turns again; the fierce flames mock her flight:
Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play,
And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey.

"Help! help! Will no one come!" She can no more, But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor.

Will no one save thee? Yes, there yet is one
Remains to save, when hope itself is gone;
When all have fled, when all but he would fly,
The Fireman comes, to rescue or to die!
He mounts the stair-it wavers 'neath his tread;
He seeks the room-flames flashing round his head;
He bursts the door; he lifts her prostrate frame,
And turns again to brave the raging flame.
The fire-blast smites him with his stifling breath;
The falling timbers menace him with death;
The sinking floors his hurried step betray;

And ruin crashes round his desperate way.

Hot smoke obscures - ten thousand cinders rise
Yet still he staggers forward with his prize.
He leaps from burning stair to stair. On! on!
Courage! One effort more, and all is won!

The stair is passed - the blazing hall is braved!
Still on! yet on! once more! Thank Heaven, she's saved.

SPEECH OF SERGEANT BUZFUZ.

OU heard from my learned friend, Gentlemen of the Jury,

Y fun a

which the damages are laid at fifteen hundred pounds. The plaintiff, gentlemen, is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, some time before his death, became the father, gentleman, of a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell street; and here she placed in her front-parlor window a written placard, bearing this inscription -"APARTMENTS FURNISHED FOR A SINGLE GENTLEMAN. INQUIRE WITHIN."

Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear-she had no distrust all was confidence and reliance. "Mr. Bardell," said the widow, "was a man of honor - Mr. Bardell was a man of his word - Mr. Bardell was no deceiver - Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and consolation; in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let."

Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen,) the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor window. Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlor window three days, gentlemen a being,

erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house! He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick-Pickwick the defendant!

Of this man I will say little. The subject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villany. I say systematic villany, gentlemen; and when I say systematic villany, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, further, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Nokes, or Stoaks, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.

I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washer-woman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that on many occasions he gave half-pence, and on some occasions even sixpence, to her little boy. I shall prove to you that on one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms offered her marriage previously, however, taking special care that there should be no witnesses to their solemn contract; and I am in a position to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own friends most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen, most unwilling witnesses that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments.

And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties- letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eve-letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third

parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: “Garraway's, twelve o'clock.— Dear Mrs. B.-Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick." Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce! Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! And tomato sauce. Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as these?

The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious: "Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home to-morrow. Slow coach." And then follows this very remarkable expression: "Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan." The warmingpan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan! Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire- -a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you!

But enough of this, gentlemen. It is difficult to smile with an aching heart. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down; but there is no tenant! Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass; but there is no invitation for them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps.

But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell street-Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans - Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made! Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit him—the only recom

pense you can award to my client! And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen!

BE

BRING FLOWERS.

RING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured;

Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the Southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path —
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;

They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,

And a dream of his youth - bring him flowers, wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-

Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!

For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed.