EXTRACT FROM HON. DANIEL S. DICKINSON'S SPEECH AT UNION SQUARE, N. Y., April 20, 1861. There is no time for hesitahaste and excitement. WE are called upon to act. tion or indecision-no time for It is a time when the people should rise in the majesty of their might, stretch forth their strong arm and silence the angry waves of tumult. It is time the people should command peace. It is a question between union and anarchy-between law and disorder. All politics for the time being are and should be committed to the resurrection of the grave. The question should be, "Our country, our whole country, and nothing but the country. 66 Nor all of death to die." We should go forward in a manner becoming a great people. But six months since, the material elements of our country were never greater. To-day, by the fiat of madness, we are plunged in distress and threatened with political ruin, anarchy and annihilation. It becomes us to stay the hands of this spirit of disunion. While I would prosecute this war in a manner becoming a civilized and a Christian people, I would do so in no vindictive spirit. I would do it as Brutus set the signet to the death-warrant of his son-"Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free." I love my country; I love this Union. It was the first vision of my early years; it is the last ambition of my public life. Upon its altar I have surrendered my choicest hopes. I had fondly hoped that in approaching age it was to beguile my solitary hours, and I will stand by it as long as there is a Union to stand by; and when the ship of the Union shall crack and groan, when the skies lower and threaten, when the lightnings flash, the thunders roar, the storms beat and the waves run mountain-high, if the ship of State goes down, and the Union perishes, I would rather perish with it than survive its destruction. THE BELLS.-Edgar A. Poe. HEAR the sledges with the bells- What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In the icy air of night! To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! On the Future! how it tells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells- What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, And a resolute endeavor, What a tale their terror tells How they clang, and clash, and roar ! On the bosom of the palpitating air! And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells- What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! From the rust within their throats And the people-ah, the people— And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone- And their king it is who tolls; Keeping time, time, time, To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the bells; As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. WOUNDED.-By Rev. William E. Miller. Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree, "Oh, it was grand! Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share; Weary and faint, Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest, Oh, that last charge! Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, It was duty! Some things are worthless, and some others so good Dying at last! My mother, dear mother! with meek tearful eye, I am no saint; But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins, Hark! there's a shout! Raise me up, comrades! We have conquer'd, I know!— I'm muster'd out. O God of our fathers, our freedom prolong, THE FARMER'S BLUNDER. A FARMER once to London went, You've brought my rent, then, to a hair! The best of tenants, I declare!" The steward's called, the accounts made even;- |