And the day brighten'd, and his time had come
Till Nan !—all else was silent, but the knell
Of the slow bell!

And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
And what I waited for I couldn't tell

At last there came a groaning deep and great
Saint Paul's struck "eight"

I scream'd, and seem'd to turn to fire, and fell !

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

one gun!

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span ;
Or in the Olympic pit sit, split

Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas upblazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But, frightened by Policeman B 3, flee,

And while they're going whisper low, "No go!"

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls,
Some feline foe. and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;

But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,

And that she hears- what faith is man's-Ann's banns
And his, from reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,

That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!
THOMAS HOOD.

"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED, SLEEP."

Of all the thoughts of God that are

Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep!"

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake.
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

"Sleep soft, beloved!

we sometimes say,

But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep.

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His beloved, sleep

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose,

Who giveth His beloved, sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall;
He giveth His beloved, sleep.'

MRS. BROWNING.

THAT HIRED GIRL.

THE CLERGYMAN'S RECEPTION ON HIS INITIAL CALL IN HIS NEW PARISH.

When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, book-peddlers, hatrack men, picture-sellers, ash-buyers, ragmen, and all that class of people, must be met at the front

door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she'a repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in Detroit.

And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at 'em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after awhile that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.

The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn't expected to know this. “Ah—um—is—Mrs.—ah!”

66

"Git!" exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.

66

Beg pardon, but I would like to see-see-"

"Meander!" she shouted, looking around for a weapon; we don't want any flour-sifters here!"

"You're mistaken," he replied, smiling blandly. "I called to-"

"Don't want anything to keep moths away-fly!" she exclaimed, getting red in the face.

"Is the lady in ?" he inquired, trying to look over Sarah's head.

"Yes, the lady is in, and I'm in, and you are out!" she snapped; “and now I don't want to stand here talking to a flytrap agent any longer! Come, lift your boots!"

"I'm not an agent," he said, trying to smile. "I'm the

new-"

"Yes, I know you-you are the new man with the patent flatiron, but we don't want any, and you'd better go before I call the dog!"

"Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?" "No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day."

"Didn't you know that I was a minister?" he asked as he backed off.

"No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings."

"But here is my card."

"I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flowerpot at you!"

66

'I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate. "It won't do any good!" she shouted after him; we don't want no prepared food for infants-no piano musicno stuffed birds! I know the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'll soon find out whether "ou are a confidence man or a vagrant!"

And she took unusual care to lock the door.

DETROIT FREE PRESS.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED.

Toll for the brave

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset-
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men