THE BALLAD OF ISHMAEL DAY.

ONE summer morning a daring band
Of rebels rode into Maryland,

Over the prosperous peaceful farms,
Sending terror and strange alarms,

The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.

Fresh from the South, where the hungry pine,
They ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;

They swept the land like devouring surge,
And left their path, to its farthest verge,
Bare as the track of the locust-scourge.

"The rebels are coming," far and near
Rang the tidings of dread and fear;

Some paled, and cowered, and sought to hide;
Some stood erect in their fearless pride;
And women shuddered, and children cried.

But others-vipers in human form,
Stinging the bosom that kept them warm-
Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,
Hurried to offer the friendly hand,
As the rebels rode into Maryland,-

Made them merry with food and wine,
Clad them in garments rich and fine,—
For rags and hunger to make amends,-

Flattered them, praised them with selfish ends: “Leave us scathless, for we are friends!”

Could traitors trust a traitor? No!
Little they favored friend or foe,

But gathered the cattle the farms across,
Flinging back, with a scornful toss—
"If ye are friends, ye can bear the loss !"

Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey,
They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,
A sturdy veteran, gray and old,

With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,
Strong and steadfast-unbribed, unsold.

And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare,
His white locks tossed by the morning air,
Fearless of danger, or death, or scars,
Went out to raise, by the farm-yard bars,
The dear old flag of the Stripes and Stars.

Proudly, steadily, up it flew,

Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue:

His withered hand, as he shook it freer,
May have trembled, but not with fear,
While, shouting, the rebels drew more near.
"Halt!" They had seen the hated sign
Floating free from old Ishmael's line-
"Lower that rag!" was their wrathful cry.
"Never!" rung Ishmael Day's reply;
"Fire, if it please you I can but die!"

One, with a loud, defiant laugh,
Left his comrades, and neared the staff.
"Down!"-came the fearless patriot's cry-
"Dare to lower that flag, and die!
One must bleed for it-you or I!"

But caring not for the stern command,
He drew the halliards with daring hand;
Ping! went the rifle-ball-down he came
Under the flag he had tried to shame-
Old Ishmael Day took careful aim !

Seventy winters and three had shed
Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head;

But though cheeks may wither, and locks grow gray,
His fame shall be fresh, and young alway-
Honor be to old Ishmael Day!

YORKSHIRE ANGLING.

IT happened once that a young Yorkshire clown, but newly come to far-famed London town, was gaping round at many a wondrous sight, grinning at all he saw, with vast delight; attended by his terrier Tyke, who was as sharp as sharp may be: and thus the master and the dog, d'ye see, were very much alike.

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After wandering far and wide, and seeing every street and square, the parks, the plays, the Queen, and the Lord Mayor, with all in which your Cockneys" place their pride; and, being quizzed by many a city spark for coat of country cut and red-haired pate, he came at length to noisy Billingsgate. He saw the busy scene with mute surprise, opening his ears and wondering eyes at the loud clamor, and the monstrous fish, hereafter doomed to grace full many a dish.

Close by him was a turbot on a stall, which, with stretched mouth, as if to pant for breath, seemed in the agonies of death. Said Lubin, "What name, zur, d'ye that fish call?"

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"A turbot," answered the sarcastic elf; " a flat, you see-so something like yourself." "D'ye think," said Lubin, "that he'll bite?'' Why," said the fishman, with a roguish grin, "his mouth is open; put your finger in and then you'll know." Why, zur," replied the wight, "I shouldn't like to try; but there's my Tyke shall put his tail there, an' you like. Agreed," rejoined the man, and laughed delight. Within the turbot's teeth was placed the tail, and the fish bit with all its might. The dog no sooner felt the bite, than off he ran, the dangling turbot holding tight. The astonished man began most furiously to bawl and rail; but, after numerous escapes and dodgings, Tyke safely got to Master Lubin's lodgings. Thither the fishmonger in anger flew. Says Lubin, "Lunnon tricks on me won't do! I'ze come from York to queer such flats as you; and Tyke, my dog, is Yorkshire, too!" Then, laughing at the man, who sneaked away, he had the fish for dinner that same day.

RIENZI'S ADDRESS.—By M. R. Mitford

Ye know toe well

FRIENDS: I come not here to talk.
The story of our thraldom;—we are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave !-not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads.
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves-slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,

Rich in some dozen paltry villages—

Strong in some hundred spearsmen-only great

In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark fraud
Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day,

An honest man, my neighbor-there he stands—
Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to you-
I had a brother once,-a gracious boy,

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give

To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son ! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? Look, in the next fierce brawl,
To see them die! Have ye daughters fair? Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored! and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman

Was greater than a king!—and once again—
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus !-once again I swear,
The eternal city shall be free! her sons
Shall walk with princes!

THE BLACK REGIMENT. PORT HUDSON, May 27, 1863. Geo, H. Boker.

DARK as the clouds of even,
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dread mass, and drifts
Tempest and falling brand
Over a ruined land;-
So still and orderly,
Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event
Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine,
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling, and firmly set,
Flashed with a purpose grand,
Long, ere the sharp command'
Of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sargeant cried,
"Though death and hell betide,
Let the whole nation see
If we are fit to be free
In this land; or bound
Down, like the whining hound,-
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our old chains again !" -
Oh! what a shout there went
From the black regiment!

Charge!" trump and drum awoke,
Onward the bondmen broke:
Bayonet and sabre stroke
Vainly opposed their rush.
Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel,
All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,-
"Freedom! or learn to die !"
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party shout:
They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod
Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death."
Praying-alas! in vain !-
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!

This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.