Born at Beverly, Mass. in 1794-For twentyseven years was in the service of the Amer ican Sunday School Union-Died in 1849.

We come! we come! with sad array,
And in procession long,

To join the army of the lost-
Three hundred thousand strong.

Our banners, beckoning on to death,
Abroad we have unrolled;
And Famine, Care, and wan Despair,
Are seen on every fold.

Ye heard what music cheers us on-
The mother's cry, that rang
So wildly, and the babe's that wailed
Above the trumpet's clang.

We've taken spoil; and blighted joys
And ruined homes are here;
We've trampled on the throbbing heart,
And flouted sorrow's tear.

We come! we come! we've searched the

land,

The rich and poor are ours

Enlisted from the shrines of God,

From hovels and from towers.

And who or what shall balk the brave,
Who swear to drink and die?

What boots to such man's muttered curse
Or His that spans the sky

Our leader! who of all the chiefs,

Who've triumphed from the first, Can blazon deeds like his such griefs, Such wounds, such trophies curst.

We come! Of the world's scourges, who
Like him have overthrowni
What wo had ever earth, like wo
To his stern prowess known?

Onward! though ever on our march

Hang Misery's countless train;
Onward for hell'-from rank to rank
Pass we the cup again!

We come! we come! to fill our graves,
On which shall shine no star;
To glut the worm that never dies-
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!

A WHALING SONG.

JOHN OSBORN,

Born on Cape Cod Bay, Mass., in 1713-Educated at Harvard-Died in 1753-This song is widely popular with whalemen.

When spring returns with western gales,
And gentle breezes sweep
The ruffling seas, we spread our sails
To plow the watery deep.

For killing northern whales prepared,
Our nimble boats on board,
With craft and rum (our chief regard)

And good provisions stored,

Cape Cod, our dearest native land,
We leave astern, and lose

Its sinking cliffs and less'ning sands,

While Zephyr gently blows.

Bold, hardy men, with blooming age,

Our sandy shores produce;
With monstrous fish they dare engage,
And dangerous callings choose.

Now toward the early dawning east

We speed our course away,
With eager minds, and joyful hearts,
To meet the rising day.

Then, as we turn our wondering eyes
We view one constant show;
Above, around, the circling skies,
The rolling seas below.

When eastward, clear of Newfoundland,
We stem the frozen pole,
We see the icy islands stand,

The northern billows roll.

As to the north we make our way,
Surprising scenes we find;
We lengthen out the tedious day,
And leave the night behind.

Now see the northern regions, where
Eternal winter reigns;

One day and night fills up the year,
And endless cold maintains.

We view the monsters of the deep,
Great whales in numerous swarms;
And creatures there, that play and leap
Of strange, unusual forms.
When in our station we are placed,
And whales around us play,
We launch our boats into the main,
And swiftly chase our prey.

In haste we ply our nimble oars,
For an assault design'd.
The sea beneath ns foams and roars,
And leaves a wake behind.

A mighty whale we rush upon,
And in our irons throw;
She sinks her monstrous body down
Among the waves below.

And when she rises out again,

We soon renew the fight; Thrust our sharp lances in amsin,

And all her rage excite.

Enraged, she makes a mighty bound;
Thick foams the whiten'd sea;
The waves in circles rise around,
And widening roll away.

She thrashes with her tail around,

And blows her redd'ning breath; She breaks the air, a deaf'ning sound, While ocean groans beneath.

From numerous wounds, with crimson flood,

She stains the frothy seas,
And gasps, and blows her latest blood,

While quivering life decays.

With joyful hearts we see her die,

And on the surface lay;
While all with eager haste apply,
To save our deathful prey.

THE WIFE.

ANNA PEYRE DINNIES.

Born in Georgetown, S. C.-In 1845, pub lished a volume of poetry, entitled "The Floral Year."

"She flung her white arms around himThou art all

That this poor heart can cling to."

I could have stemm'd misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.

I could have smiled on every blow
From Life's full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be "alone."

I could-I think I could have brook'd

E'en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst look'd

With less of love than now;
For then, I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been "alone."

But thus to see, from day to day,

Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away
Unnumber'd, slowly, meek;
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,

And catch the feeble tone

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be "alone!"

To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
As, fill'd with heavenward trust, they say,
"Earth may not claim thee longer;'
Nay, dearest, 't is too much-this heart
Must break when thou art gone:
It must not be; we may not part;
I could not live "alone!"

"Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
'Tis not with me exactly so,
But 't is so in the song.
My wants are many, and if told
Would muster many a score;
And were each wish a mint of gold,
I still should long for more.

What first I want is daily bread,

And canvas-backs and wine;

And all the realms of nature spread

Before me wher I dine;

With four choice cooks from France, beside.
To dress my dinner well;
Four courses scarcely can provide
My appetite to quell.

What next I want, at heavy cost,

Is elegant attire:

Black sable furs for winter's frost,

And silks for summer's fire;

And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace,
My bosom's front to deck,

And diamond rings my hands to grace,
And rubies for my neck.

And then I want a mansion fair,
A dwelling-house, in style,
Four stories high, for wholesome air-
A massive marble pile;

With halls for banquetings and balls,
All furnished rich and fine;
With high blood studs in fifty stalls,
And cellars for my wine.

I want a garden and a park,
My dwelling to surround-

A thousand acres (bless the mark!)
With walls encompassed round-
Where flocks may range and herds may low,
And kids and lambkins play,

And flowers and fruits commingled grow,
All Eden to display.

I want, when summer's foliage fulls,
And autumn strips the trees,

A house within the city's walls,

For comfort and for ease;

But here, as space is somewhat scant,
And acres somewhat rare,
My house in town I only want
To occupy-a square.

I want a steward, butler, cook3;
A coachman, footman, grooms;
A library of well-bound books,
And picture-garnished rooms;
CORREGIO'S Magdalen, and Night,
The Matron of the Chair;
GUIDO's fleet Coursers, in their flight,
And CLAUDES at least a pair

I want a cabinet profusc

Of medals, coins, and gems;
A printing-press, for private use,
Of fifty thousand EMS;

And plants, and minerals, and shells;
Worms, insects, fishes, birds;
And every beast on earth that dwells,
In solitude or herds.

I want a board of burnished plate,
Of silver and of gold;
Tureens, of twenty pounds in weight,
And sculpture's richest mould;
Plateaus, with chandeliers and lamps,
Plates, dishes-all the same;
And porcelain vases, with the stamps
Of Sevres and Angouleme.

And maples, of fair glossy stain,
Must form my chamber doors,
And carpets of the Wilton grain
Must cover all my floors;
My walls with tapestry bedeck'd,
Must never be outdone;
And damask curtains must protect
Their colors from the sun.

And mirrors of the largest pane

From Venice must be brought; And saudal-wood and bamboo-cane, For chairs and tables bought;

On all the mantel-pieces, clocks
Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand,
And screens of ebony and box
Invite the stranger's hand.

I want (who does not want?) a wife,
Affectionate and fair,

"o solace all the woes of life,

And all its joys to share; Of temper sweet, of yielding will, Of firm, yet placid mind, With all my faults to love me still, With sentiment refined.

And as Time's car incessant runs,

And Fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sous
From eight to half a score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare

Such bliss on earth to crave?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair-
The boys all wise and brave.

And when my bosom's darling sings,
With melody divine,

A pedal harp with many strings
Must with her voice combine.
A piano, exquisitely wrought,
Must open stand, apart,

That all my daughters may be taught
To win the stranger's heart.

My wife and daughters will desire

Refreshment from perfumes,
Cosmetics for the skin require,
And artificial blooms.
The civet fragrance shall dispense,
And treasured sweets return;
Cologne revive the flagging sense,
And smoking amber burn.

And when at night my weary head
Begins to droop and dose,
A chamber south, to hold my bed,
For nature's soft repose;
With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet,
Maitress, and sack of down,
And comfortables for my feet,
And pillows for my crown.

I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour,
Who ne'er to flatter will descend,
Nor bend the knee to power;
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong.
My inmost soul to see;

And that my friendship prove as strong
For him, as his for me.

I want a kind and tender heart,
For others' wants to feel;

A soul secure from Fortune's dart,
And bosom arm'd with steel;
To bear divine chastisement's rod,
And, mingling in my plan,

Submission to the will of God,
With charity to man.

I want a keen, observing eye,
Au ever-listening ear,
The truth through all disguise tc spy,
And wisdom's voice to hear;
A tongue to speak at virtue's need,
In Heaven's sublimest strain;
And lips the cause of man to plead,
And never plead in vain.

I want uninterrupted health,
Throughout my long career,
And streams of never-failing wealth,
To scatter far and near-
The destitute to clothe and feed,
Free bounty to bestow,
Supply the helpless orphan's need,
And soothe the widow's wo.

I want the genius to conceive,
The talents to unfold,
Designs, the vicious to retrieve,
The virtuous to uphold;
Inventive power, combining skill,
A persevering soul,

Of human hearts to mould the will,
And reach from pole to pole.

I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command,
Charged by the people's unbought grace,
To rule my native land;
Nor crown, nor scepter would I ask,
But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,
And to be thought, in future days,
The friend of human kind;
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim,
In choral union to the skies,
Their blessings on my name.

These are the wants of mortal man;
I cannot need them long,
For life itself is but a span,

And earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summon'd to my final call—
The mercy of my God.

And oh while circles in my veins
Of life the purple stream,
And yet a fragment small remains
Of nature's transient dream,
My soul, in humble hope unsca
Forget not thou to pray,
That this THY WANT may be prepared
To meet the Judgment-Day.

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.'

W. C. BRYANT.

O, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man, has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.
The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of wo and pain

Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart,

Though life its common gifts denyThough with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every secret tear,
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.

THE DAY IS DONE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heart-felt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As show'rs from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eye lids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasur'd volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be fill'd with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

I ask no more than just to be From vice and folly wholly free; To have a competent estate, Neither too small, nor yet too great; Something of rent and taxes clear, About five hundred pounds a year. My house, though small, should be complete, Furnished, not elegant, but neat; One little room should sacred be To study, solitude, and me. The windows, jessamine should shade, Nor should a sound the ears invade, Except the warblings from the grove, Or plaintive murm'rings from a dove. Here would I often pass the day, Turn o'er the page, or tune the lay, And court the aid and sacred fire Of the Parnassian tuneful choir. While calmly thus my time I'd spend, Grant me, kind Heaven, a faithful friend In each emotion of my heart, Of grief or joy, to bear a part; Possess'd of learning, and good sense, Free from pedantic insolence. Pleas'd with retirement, let him be, Yet cheerful 'midst society; Know how to trifle with a grace, Yet in proper grave time and place. Let frugal plenty deck my board, So that its surplus may afford