SLEEP, WEARY CHILD.-CARL PLOUGH.

SUNG AT THE FUNERAL OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

The love for fatherland was deep

That filial tie can ne'er be mended,
'Neath Nature's flowery carpet sleep,
Worldly praise and kindness ended.
Sleep, weary child!

God's wondrous mercy through thy life,
Dark childhood's weakness first protected;
Always a child, though years were ripe,
Bright honor's call was ne'er neglected.
Sleep, weary child!

The figures painted by thy hand,
Sparkle with thy matchless humor;
Dim shapes from heaven, they brightly stand
Now, all is o'er, "Life's fitful fever."
Sleep, weary child!

The dread great secret learned at last,
Now dawns a new and endless morning;
Through God's own gates thy soul hath passed,
Thy guileless soul required no warning.
Sleep, weary child!

But still, in this thy little world,

In faithful hearts forever shrined:
Praised by the old, by young adored,
For the rich treasures of thy mind.
Sleep, weary child!

May art and science in our land
'Gainst force and fraud for aye prevail;
Thy name on Denmark's banner stand,
And loadstar-like grow never pale.
Sleep, weary child!

THE OLD CHURCH BELL.

"Say! how canst thou mourn?

How canst thou rejoice?

Art but metal dull!"

High up within yon gray old tower

There hangs a massive bell;

LONGFELLOW.

It chimes with the wind, and each passing hour
Its flight by its tones doth tell.

As they melt away on the air so clear,
How mournfully linger they on the ear.

น

And as I gaze on that tower so gray,
Where the dove her circuit makes,
And the hooting owl at set of day
His nightly vigil takes,

I think of the songs that bell hath sung,
Of the mellow peals from its swinging tongue;
Its thrill of joy on a bridal day,

And its mournful tones o'er the lifeless clay;
Still linger they on my list'ning ear,

In their silvery tones so faint and clear.

'Tis a faithful monitor, that bell,

To the heart that knoweth its sounds so well;
Each passing hour of the "live-long day"
It calls to the mind ere it flies away:
The joys of love-the pangs of fear,
Though past, yet are not gone fore'er,-
At its mellow sound they hover near.
As it swings away by the pond'rous wheel
And its tongue beats the sides worn bright,
While the day streams in or shadows steal
Through the lattice that screens it from sight-
Thus sings it out its merry song,

The wild winds on their wings prolong,
While distant hills its echoes throng:-

Day follows day,
Years glide away,

Still onward marches Time;
His scythe I hear,

Its clang sounds near,
How solemn is the chime!

From out my screen
Life's busy scene

I reach with varied song;
The haunts of men,-
The fields,-the glen,
Its echoes clear prolong.

And o'er the soul
I have control,

Of feelings sad or gay;
The sympathy

Man holds with me,
Can ne'er be thrown away.

The hurried strife
Of mortal life

My merry peals excite;
But deep and long

A funeral song

I sing o'er death's sad blight.

Years roll away, yet its clear notes rise
Like incense to the arching skies;
While mortals live, then disappear,
Still rings it on so calm, so clear.

THE VILLAGE BELL.

High up in the tower of the old moss covered church, which the winds and storms of many years have beaten against, hangs the village bell. How many times it has

been rung in merriment and rejoicing, in sadness and mourning! And yet it is as faithful as if it had not stood sentinel over the little country town for half a century.

Fifty years! How long, and yet how short! In that time the little churchyard has been filled. The sleepers listened to the sound of the old bell in the days that are gone; and when they passed away, it tolled sadly and solemnly, as they were carried,-lovingly, regretfully, through the old gate-way, and silently laid down to their calm, sweet rest.

What a long, undisturbed rest it is! They hear not the tones of the old bell, as it tells that still another is being brought out to sleep with them, under the green mounds that mark their resting-place. Is it sounding an invitation from those already there, saying, with its hollow voice, Come-rest--with-us?" Is it sending up to the Great White Throne a deep-toned, agonized prayer from those who stand weeping by the open grave, supplicating, “God— help--us?" Is it the voice of the departed calling from the other shore, "Come--to-me ?" Which is it? Who can tell?

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We all know its solemn, tolling sends a sorrowful thrill to our hearts. Are we laughing? The laugh goes out on our lips at thought of the anguished father, or mother, or sister, or brother-the lonely-hearted, desolate husband or wife. God help them at such a time! It may be that he sends such terrible dispensations to show us how infinite is his power. As we listen we cannot help thinking in our hearts, and the words form themselves slowly with its deep sound of the old bell, "Will-it-be-my-turn-next?" Sometimes its tones seem almost human, so readily do we assimilate them with our own emotions.

It is a calm, beautiful morning-a lovely, sunshiny Sabbath morning-and our hearts are filled with solemn gratitude to the Great Giver. It is inviting us to come and worship. We fancy its loud, regular double strokes say, "Praise God! praise God!" Its tones seem to be inspired with the sacredness of its holy mission.

It is evening; and just while twilight is stealing over us, the bell's mellow tones come floating down, and thrill through our hearts, wandering in and out, till they grow faint and low, like the sweet, soft music of an Eolian harp.

How merrily it is ringing a welcome to the happy young bride and bridegroom! They are just coming up the aisle, the admired of all the simple, honest villagers assembled to witness their joy. His frank, manly face is bent down above hers, and her eyes are raised trustfully to his. What a perfect shower of music the bell is making! What a glad, joyous ring!

The day fades away. It is night, and then day again. Hark! What sound is that? What has so changed the tones of the old bell? Last night it was ringing in loud rejoicing; o-day it is slowly tolling, tolling, like great, deep, half-suppressed sobs. What a dreary sadness steals over us as we listen to its muffled sound! Another friend has passed away. The form, lately so full of life and gayety, is now cold and still in death; and now, in the beautiful springtime, the setting sun casts a golden, warm, and mellow light on the heavy sod that covers her breast, and the villagers sorrowfully mourn a loved one.

Every inhabitant of the village will tell you what the old bell is to him. Every peal awakens a responsive heartbeat in our breasts, for the recollection of half a century is sweetened by hallowed memories.

PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO.-SAMUEL LOVER.

In the gap of Dunlo
There's an echo, or so,

And some of them echoes is very surprisin';
You'll think in a stave

That I mane to desaive,

For a ballad 's a thing you expect to find lies in.
But visible thrue

In that hill forminst you

There's an echo as plain and as safe as the bank, too;
But civilly spake

"How d' ye do, Paddy Blake?"

The echo politely says, "Very well, thank you!”

One day Teddy Keogh
With Kate Conner did go

To hear from the echo such wondherful talk, sir;
But the echo, they say

Was conthrairy that day,

Or perhaps Paddy Blake had gone out for a walk, sir.

So Ted says to Kate,

""Tis too hard to be bate

By that deaf and dumb baste of an echo, so lazy;
But if we both shout

At each other, no doubt,

We'll make up an echo between us, my daisy!"

'Now, Kitty," says Teddy,

"To answer be ready."

"Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty then, sir; "Would you like to wed,

Kitty darlin'?" says Ted.

"Oh, very well, thank you," says Kitty again, sir.
"D' ye like me?"
me" says Teddy;

And Kitty, quite ready,

Cried," Very well, thank you!" with laughter beguiling. Now won't you confess,

Teddy could not do less

Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling.

Oh, dear Paddy Blake,
May you never forsake

Those hills that return us such echoes endearing:
And, girls, all translate

The sweet echoes like Kate,

No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fearing.
And, boys, be you ready,
Like frolicsome Teddy,

Be earnest in loving, though given to joking;
And, when thus inclined,

May all true lovers find

Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they're invoking.

WHAT WHISKEY DID FOR ME.-EDWARD CARSWELL

TO BE RECITED IN CHARACTER.

Kind friends, I'm glad to meet you here;
I stand before you all,

A soldier who has served his time
With old King Alcohol.

I've stood by him through thick and thin,
Until they call me sot,

And when for him I sold my

This was the coat I got.

coat

I fought for him, I bled for him,

As through the streets I'd rave,

And when through him I lost my hat
This is the hat he gave.