HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.-Shakspeare.

To be or not to be-that is the question!
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them. To die-to sleep ;-
No more? and, by a sleep, to say we end

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd! To die-to sleep :

To sleep! perchance to dream! Ay; there's the rub;
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause!

There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?

Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,-
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns,-puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

"ALL WE ASK IS TO BE LET ALONE.”—By H. H. Brownell.

As vonce I valked by a dismal swamp,
There sot an old cove in the dark and damp,
And at everybody as passed that road
A stick or a stone this old cove throwed.
And venever he flung his stick or his stone,
He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."

"Let me alone, for I loves to shy
These bits of things at the passers-by;
Let me alone, for I've got your tin,
And lots of other traps snugly in;
Let me alone-I am rigging a boat
To grab votever you've got afloat;
In a veek or so I expects to come,
And turn you out of your ouse and ome;
I'm a quiet old cove," says he, with a groan;
"All I axes, is Let me alone."

Just then came along, on the self-same vay,
Another old cove, and began for to say:
"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!
You've ben let alone-a blamed sight too long!
Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!

Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.) Let go that stone! If you once show fight,

I'll knock you higher than ary kite."

You must have a lesson to stop your tricks,
And cure you of shying them stones and sticks;
And I'll have my hardware back, and my cash,
And knock your scow into tarnal smash;
And if ever I catches you round my ranch,
I'll string you up to the nearest branch.
The best you can do is to go to bed,
And keep a decent tongue in your head;
For I reckon, before you and I are done,
You'll wish you had let honest folks alone."

The old cove stopped, and the other old cove,
He sot quite still in his cypress grove,
And he looked at his stick, revolvin' slow,
Vether 'twere safe to shy it or no;

And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,

"All that I axed vos, Let me alone."

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.-By Myra Townsend.

WHAT! Would ye swing your brother's form

High up in Heaven's free air,

And place the image of your God

A dangling victim there?

Who gave you pow'r to read his heart,

Or know how deep his guilt,

Or judge what provocation came
Ere blood by him was spilt?

Can ye retrace the length of years
Since he commenced this life,
And mark the coursing of events,
His wrongs, his woes, his strife?
His battles with untoward fate,
His blasted hopes and schemes,
His longings for the pure and right,
His visionary dreams?

Perhaps, from life's first early dawn
ILL nestled by his side,

His teachings may have been in wrong,
And sin his childhood's guide;
No mother's voice, perhaps, for him
Sent up an earnest pray'r,

No father at the mercy seat
Asked his acceptance there;

No sister twined around his heart
A soft, and gentle spell,

Which made an atmosphere of love
Wherever he might dwell;
Virtue, perhaps, to him was known
But as an empty name,

And truth, and justice, but the guise
Of cowardice and shame;
Religion's winning, earnest tones
May ne'er within his soul

Have spread their influence divine,

To purify the whole

Then, would ye swing your Brother's form

High up in Heaven's free air,

And place the image of your God

A dying victim there?

With all his sins upon his head
Before his destined hour;
Is your's the fiat of his days,
Your's the avenging pow'r?

Did not THAT EYE that saw his deed
Take note when it was done,

And read the thought that caused the act
Ere yet it was begun?

And could He not with vengeance swift,

Have laid the culprit low,

If, in His wisdom, he had seen

It meet to deal the blow?

Think you His hand less strong than yours? Are you more just, more wise,

That ye with daring hands unrobe

The soul that never dies?

He whom your God in mercy spared
No mercy meets in

you,

And yet we pray-"Forgive us, Lord,
As we all others do."

Perhaps no guilt your pris'ner knows
Although for crime arraigned,
And proofs may cluster thickly round
By circumstance maintained;
He may be innocent and stand
Before his Maker's sight

A spotless one, more pure than you,
Who THINK you act the right.
And can ye give him life again,
Or mete him right for wrong,
If future time should prove the guilt
May somewhere else belong?
Then, DARE ye swing your Brother's form
High up in Heaven's free air,
When time may tell, an innocent
Has been suspended there?

Suppose he did it—and suppose
Your priests around him placed,
Teaching, repentance may atone,
And sinners may be graced-
Suppose he does repent, and lies
Washed clean before the throne,
Becomes a saint, and purified,
And Heav'n he feels his own;
With anxious zeal his spirit craves
To fill life's little span

With calling all to turn, and see
God's love to guilty Man.

And who, than he once sunk in sin

Can more that love portray?

Who preach more truly-sinners turn,
Crime may be washed away?

Then, could ye hang that, saint redeemed
High up in Heaven's free air?

Is earth so full of righteous ones
That ye have some to spare?

And where your Father mercy showed,
Can ye no mercy show?

Have ye ne'er sinn'd, that ye must thus
Deal the avenging blow?

But, if repentance should NOT come
Before his hour of doom,

If, unregenerate you should send
Your Brother to the tomb,

Think you that ye will guiltless stand
Before your Father's eye?

Did ye not MURDER when ye said

Your prisoner should die?

Or are your prison-houses full?

Have ye no room for one?

Is bread so scant ye cannot feed

'Till life's short course is run? Have ye not bolts and bars enough To hold the victim fast,

When burglars with their thousand wiles
Are there securely cast?
And are ye sure, no changing fate
May give to you HIS place?
Are you so sanctified in good
Ye cannot fall from grace?
Can no temptation have the pow'r
To urge the hasty blow?
Have ye so conquered evil thoughts
That sin no more ye know?
Or may not circumstances charge
Your innocence with crime?
Full oft we know it has been thus
From immemorial time.
Then, by the danger all must share
That his may be our lot,

By all the bonds of human kind
Aid to wipe out this blot!
Cease not from striving, till our law
Is clear from bloody stain,

And REFORMATION,-NOT REVENGE,—
In principle sustain !

MAUD MULLER.-J. G. Whittier.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast―
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.