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COLUMBIA.-P. S. GILMORE,
Columbia! First and fairest gem
Columbia ! 'Twas in fire and blood Brave Washington the foremost stood; With banner high and sword in hand, He drove the tyrant from the land. Thy breast still sore, to thy heart's core, Till washed again in human gore-In martyr blood! Shed not in vain,It left thee whole, without a stain. Columbia! See, what thou art now, A crown of stars on Nature's brow: With fields of gold and teeming marts With fifty million loving hearts Who cling to thee, from sea to sea, To guard thy peace and liberty; Who, man to man, shall e'er be just, And in the Lord place all their trust. Columbia! Lift thine eyes on high, See Him who dwells in yonder sky, The King of Glory on His throne, Who looks on all, for all's His own! Our earthly gain would be in vain, A home in heaven to attain, If with our hearts we did not pay Our debt to Him. Then let us pray. At morn, at noon, at eventide, O Lord! be ever at our side, That we Thy voice may always hear, And feel that Thou art ever near. In mercy spare, from grief and care The nation, bowed in fervent prayer, Who with one heart and voice inplore, Thy blessir.g now and evermore.
SISTER AND I.
We were hunting for wintergreen berries.
One May-day, long gone by,
Little sister and I.
Black as a crow's wing, mine;
Wicked, black eyes are mine. Why, see how my eyes are faded
And my hair, it is white as snow! And thin, too! don't you see it is?
I tear it sometimes; so!
There, don't hold my hands, Maggie,
I don't feel like tearing it now; But-where was I in my story?
Oh, I was telling you how We were looking for wintergreen berries;
'Twas one bright morning in May, And the moss-grown rocks were slippery
With the rains of yesterday. But I was cross that morning,
Though the sun shone ever so brightAnd when sister found the most berries,
I was angry enough to fight! And when she laughed at my pouting
We were little things, you know-
And struck her the biggest blow!
And she fell right over below-
You needn't hold me so-
Down, down to the depths below! 'Tis deep and dark and horrid
There, where the waters flow! She fell right over, moaning,
“Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sad,
It drove me mad-mad!
Out on the rippling wave,
Up, for some one to save;,
I never saw her again,
And darkness and grief since then.
Down on the pebbly strand;
With halls and parlors grand;
In the little brook's clear waves; No more holding funerals
O'er dead canaries' graves; No more walking together
To the log school-house each morn; No more vexing the master
With putting his rules to scorn; No more feeding of white lambs
With milk from the foaming pail;
No more playing “ see-saw"
Over the fence of rail;
After we've gone to bed ;
Till we fairly shiver with dread ;
And hugging each other tight,
In the middle of the night;
Kneeling by mother's kneeFor, Maggie, I struck sister!
And mother is dead, you see.
Isn't she? Isn't it true?
And eyes like sister's, blue?
My eyes aren't blue, you see-
Could they make an angel of me?
Well, then, when I come to die, We'll play up there, in God's garden
We'll play there, sister and I. Now, Maggie, you needn't eye me,
Because I'm talking so queer; Because I'm talking so strangely;
You needn't have the least fear.
As I never felt before-
I never shall rave any more.
I've heard her calling, so sad,
It always drives me mad!
Bessie, oh, Bessie, oh! oh!"
"Bessie, oh, Bessie !" so low.
Come back, with the flowers and the sun, How the night-bird, singing, all lonely,
“Bessie, oh, Bessie !" doth moan; You know how it sets me raving
For she moaned, “ Oh, Bessie !" just so, That time I struck little sister,
On the May-day long ago!
Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you -
You know May-day is here--
The robins chirped Bessie !" so clear-
Perched on the garden wall,
I couldn't feel sorry at all.
Let me lean up to you close-
The heavens with yellow and rose ?
Sister's golden hair streaming out ?
Do you hear her little voice calling out
Bessie, oh, Bessie! Come, haste ?”
THE CARE OF GOD.
"Do you see this lock of hair ?” said an old man to me. “Yes ; but what is it? It is, I suppose, the curl from the
I head of a dear child long since gone to God.”
“ It is not. It is a lock of my own hair; and it is now nearly seventy years since it was cut from this head.”
"But why do you prize a lock of your own hair so much ?”
" It has a story belonging to it-a strange one. I keep it thus with care because it speaks to me more of God, and of His special care, than anything else I possess.
"I was a little child, four years old, with long, curly locks which, in sun or rain or wind, hung down my cheeks uncov. ered. One day my father went into the woods to cut up a log, and I went with him. I was standing a little behind him, or rather at his side, watching with interest the stroke of the heavy axe, as it went up and came down upon the wood, sending splinters in all directions at every stroke. Some of the splinters fell at my feet, and I eagerly stooped to pick them up. In doing so I stumble! forward, and in a moment my curly head lay upon the log. I had fallen just at the