Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre !

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne !

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's

souls!

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright!
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the
slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ;
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

A MODEST WIT.

The reciter should quietly read the beginning of this piece in an ordinary conversational tone. The flippant taunts of the nabob should be spoken with a supercilious drawl-the replies of Modestus with a calm, slightly veiled, but yet perceptible, irony:

A supercilious nabob of the East

Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich

A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which

Had in his family a humble youth,

Who went from England, in his patron's suite,

An unassuming boy, and in truth

A lad of decent parts and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet, with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence

Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His honor, proudly free, severely merry,

Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade

Did your good father gain a livelihood? "—

"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,

"And in his time was reckoned good."

No. 7.-See Arpendix.

THE LABORER.

"A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you?"

Each parasite then, as in duty bound,

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
At length Modestus, bowing low,

Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),
"Sir, by your leave, I fain would know

Your father's trade?"

'My father's trade! Come, come, sir! that's too bad!
My father's trade! Why, blockhead, are you mad?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low-

He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take,"

Modestus said, with archness on his brow,-
"Pray, why did not your father make
A gentleman of you?"

87

THE LABORER.

WM. D. GALLAGHER.

This piece, full of noble sentiment, expressed in nervous, manly language, should be declaimed with a rather loud, and somewhat appealing tone, as if the speaker was reasoning with his auditor:

Stand up, erect! Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God!-who more?
A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? the high
In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee?
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No:-uncurbed passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,

Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus checked;

These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labor and thy life accursed.

O, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great!-what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?

True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust!
Nor place, uncertain as the wind!

But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water may despise the lust

Of both-a noble mind!

With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then: that thy little span
Of life may be well trod!

DRAFTED.

MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK.

The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted-in the end the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart:

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;

No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie-as delicate, too, in his looks.