Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest

Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,-

The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE LOST STEAMSHIP. “Ho, there! fisherman, hold your hand!

Tell me what is that far awayThere, where over the Isle of Sand

Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray? See! it rocks with a ghastly life,

Rising and rolling through clouds of spray, Right in the midst of the breakers' strife

Tell me, what is it, Fisherman, pray?” “That, good sir, was a steamer stout

As ever paddled around Cape Race, And many's the wild and stormy bout

She had with the winds in that self-same place; But her time had come; and at ten o'clock

Last night she struck on that lonesome shore,
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,

And at dawn this morning she was no more.
Come, as you seem to know, good man,

The terrible fate of this gallant ship,
Tell me all about her that you can,-
And here's

my

flask to moisten your lip. Tell me how

many

she had on board Wives and husbands, and lovers trueHow did it fare with her human hoard,

Lost she many or lost she few?"
“Master, I may not drink of your flask,

Ι
Already too moist I feel my lip;
But I'm ready to do what else you ask,

And spin you my yarn about the ship: 'T was ten o'clock, as I said, last night,

When she struck the breakers and went ashore, And scarce had broken the morning's light

Than she sank in twelve feet of water, or more.

“ But long ere this they knew their doom,

And the Captain called all hands to prayer; And solemnly over the ocean's boom

The orisons rose on the troubled air. And round about the vessel there rose

Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, Like angels in their ascension clothes,

Waiting for those who prayed below. “So those three hundred people clung

As well as they could to spar and rope; ;
With a word of prayer upon every tongue,

Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.
But there was no blubbering weak and wild-

Of tearful faces I saw but one,
A rough old salt, who cried like a child,

And not for himself, but the Captain's son. “ The Captain stood on the quarter-deck,

Firm but pale, with trumpet in hand, Sometimes he looked on the breaking wreck,

Sometimes he sadly looked on land. And often he smiled to cheer the crew

But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim'Till over the quarter a huge sea flew,

And that was the last they saw of him. “I saw one young fellow, with his bride,

Standing amidship upon the wreck; His face was white as the boiling tide,

And she was clinging about his neck.
And I saw them try to say good-bye,

But neither could hear the other speak;
So they floated away through the sea to die-

Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek. " And there was a child, but eight at best,

Who went his way in a sea we shipped, All the while holding upon his breast

A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.
And as the boy and the bird went by,

Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,
They were grappled by a man with a drowning cry;

And together the three went down to rest.

" And so the crew went one by one,

Some with gladness, and few with fear; Cold and hardship such work had done

That few seemed frightened when death was near. Thus every soul on board went down

Sailor and passenger, little and great; The last that sank was a man of my town,.

A capital swimmer—the second mate." “Now, lonely Fisherman, who are you,

That say you saw this terrible wreck? How do I know what you say is true, When

every mortal was swept from the deck?
Where were you in that hour of death?
How do

you
know what

you

relate?” His answer came in an under-breath“ Master, I was the second mate!”

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.

'T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud, is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle

The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,
O, who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THOMAS MOORE.

DEATH OF POOR JO. Jo is very glad to see his old friend, and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a crown, — that magic balm of his for all kinds of wounds.

" And how do you find yourself, my poor lad ?" inquires the stationer, with his cough of sympathy.

“I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am,” returns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumf bler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm werry sorry that I done it, but I did n't go fur to do it, sir."

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is so sorry for having done.

“Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, “I went and give a illness to the lady as wos and yit as warn't the tother lady, and none of 'em

says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good and my having been s’unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo! she ses.

“We thought we'd lost you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a smilin' so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him

Ι forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink for to ease me, wot he's allus a doin' on day and night, and wen he come a bendin' over me and a speakin' up so bold, I see his tears a fallin', Mr. Sangsby."

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than å repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings.

“Wöt I wos a thinkin' on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps ? " “ Yes, Jo, please God,” returns the stationer.

“Uncommon precious large, p'r’aps ?” says Jo, with eagerness.

never

“Yes, my poor boy.”

Jo laughs with pleasure. “Wot I was thinkin' on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I was moved on as fur as ever I could go and could n't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to do it; and that though I did n't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that I boped as he'd be able to forgiv me in his mind. If the writin' could be made to

say

it

wery large, he might.

“It shall say it, Jo. Very large.”

Jo laughs again. “ Thank’ee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore.”

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, -- he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he upon this little earth shall meet no more. No more.

For the cart, so hard to draw, is near its journey's end, and drags over stony ground. All round the clock, it labors up the broken steeps, shattered and worn. Not can the sun rise, and behold it still

upon
its weary

road. Jo is in a sleep or stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a while, he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face toward him, and touches his chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labors on a little more.

"Well, Jo? What is the matter? Don't be frightened.”

"I thought,” says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, _“I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot ?”

"Nobody.” “ And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir ? ” 6. No.” Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth

says to him in a low, distinct voice,

“Jo! Did you ever know a prayer? ”

many times

66

very near his

ear, and