and books, and where all was want and crime, and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty-they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars -they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers, living and dead-cheers for the living, and tears for the dead.

COL. K. G. INGERSOLL,

OVER THE RIVER.

Over the river they becken to me,

Loved ones who crossed to the other side;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide.

There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue,

He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.

We saw not the angels that met him there—
The gates of the city could not see;
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me;
Over the river the boatman pale,

Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale—
Darling Minnie! I see her yet;

She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We watched it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the further side,

Where all the ransomed and angels be;

Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail;

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream, and are gone for aye.

We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day.

We only know that their barke 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 the 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.

N. A. W. PRIEST.

THERE IS NO DEATH.

There is no death! The stars go down
To rise upon some fairer shore;
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown
They shine forevermore.

There is no death! The dust we tread

Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellow fruit,

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

The granite rocks disorganize

To feed the hungry rocks they bear; The forest leaves drink daily life

From out the viewless air.

There is no death! The leaves may fall,
The flowers may fade and pass away,
They only wait through the wintry hours,
The coming of the May.

There is no death! An angel form
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread;
He bears our best loved things away,
And then we call them "dead."

He leaves our hearts all desolate,

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers,
Transplanted into bliss, they now
Adorn immortal bowers.

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, Sings now an everlasting song

Amid the tree of life.

And where he sees a smile too bright,

Or hearts too pure for taint or vice,
He bears it to that world of light
To dwell in Paradise.

Born unto that undying life,

They leave us but to come again; With joy we welcome them—the same Except the sin and pain.

And ever near us, though unseen,
The dear immortal spirits tread;
For all the boundless universe

Is life-there are no dead.

E. BULWER LYTTON.

LANGUAGE.

[This piece should be carefully studied, special attention being given to the enunciation of the words, referring constantly to the dictionary for their proper pronunciation. Not only is this piece exceedingly humorous, but it will be found highly instructive.]

Some words on language may be well applied,

And take them kindly, though they touch your pride.
Words lead to things; a scale is more precise,—

Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice
Our cold North-easter's icy fetter clips

The native freedom of the Saxon lips;

See the brown peasant of the plastic South,
How all his passions play about his mouth!
With us, the feature that transmits the soul,
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole.

The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk
Tie the small muscles, when he strives to talk;
Not all the pumice of the polished town

Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down;
Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race

By this one mark,-he's awkward in the face;→
Nature's rude impress, long before he knew
The sunny street that holds the sifted few.

It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young,
We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue;
But school and college often try in vain
To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain;
One stubborn word will prove this axiom true-
No late-caught rustic can enunciate view.