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A’ our friends are gane, Jean;

We've lang been left alane, Jean;

We'll a’ meet again
In the Land o' the Leal.

AS SHIPS BECALMED.

ARTHUR H. CLOUGH.

S ships becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail, at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried.

When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied; Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side:

E'en so—but why the tale reveal
Of those whom, year by year unchanged,

Brief absence joined anew, to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged 7

At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered;

THE O WL.

BARRY CORNWALL.

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Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean

This world's care is vain, Jean;

We'll meet, an' ay' be fain,
In the Land o' the Leal.

Ah! neither blame, for neither willed
Or wist what first with dawn appeared.

To veer, how vain' On, onward strain,
Brave barks —in light, in darkness too !
Through winds and tides one compass
guides:
To that and your own selves be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas
Though ne'er that earliest parting past,

On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought-
One purpose hold where'er they fare;

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there.

The boldest will shrink away
O, when the night falls, and roosts the
fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and

bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom; And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,

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THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 423

She awaiteth her ghastly groom; We know not alway Not a feather she moves, not a carol she Who are kings by day, sings,

As she waits in her tree so still; But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill ! O! when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owls

Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy
plight!
The owl hath his share of good:
If a prisoner he be in broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride;
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark
fate
Hath rent them from all beside!
So, when the night falls, and dogs do

howl, Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned But the king of the night is the bold owl! brown owl!

THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

of HE Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appropriated to a sj is very narrow defile, extending two miles in length, between two huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of ; nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or volcano in other countries of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have been accomplished by these agents. The change seems to have been effected when the surface of the earth extensively subsided; when countries and continents assumed a new face; and a general commotion of the elements produced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less than this will

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account for the sundering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast mountains; or for the existing evidences of the immense force by which the rupture' was effected.

The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, standing perpendicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from each other; one about twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by the brook mentioned as the head-stream of the Saco; the other half by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of fragments, partly blown out of the road, and partly thrown down by some great convulsion.

When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale on which all the objects in view were formed was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular manner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss which seemed the product of ages, recalling to the mind the saxum vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose to a mountainous height. Before us the view widened fast to the southeast. Behind us it closed almost instantaneously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassable barrier of mountains.

About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current; and yet so far disturbed as · to be perfectly white. The sun shone with the clearest splendor, from a station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect; and the cascade glittered down the vast steep like a stream of burnished silver.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

HIS is the Arsenal. From floor to | Ah! what a sound will rise-how wild and ceiling,

drearyI Like a huge organ, rise the burn When the death-angel touches those swift

keys! But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Startles the villages with strange alarms. Will mingle with their awful symphonies.

ished arms;

THE CHARCOAL MAN.

425

I hear'even now the infinite fierce chorus

The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone be

fore us, In long reverberations reach our own.

Is it, О man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly

voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?

terror,

On helmand harness rings the Saxon hammer,

Were half the power that fills the world with Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps man's song;

and courts, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

Given to redeem the human mind from error.

There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; I hear the Florentine, who from his palace The warrior's name would be a name abWheels out his battle bell with fearful

horred; din;

And every nation that should lift again And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

| Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents'

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain. • skin;

Down the dark future, through long generaThe tumult of each sacked and burning vil

tions, lage;

The echoing sounds grow fainter and then The shout that every prayer for mercy

cease: drowns;

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage; I hear once more the voice of Christ say, The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ;

"Peace!"

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched

asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,

The diapason of the cannonade.

Peace !-and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of war's great organ shakes the

skies;
But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

THE CHARCOAL MAN.

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

DAHOUGH rudely blows the wintry blast, | The dust begrimes his ancient hat; N And sifting snows fall white and fast. His coat is darker far than that; en Mark Haley drives along the street, 'Tis odd to see his sooty form

Perched high upon his wagon seat; All speckled with the feathery storm; His sombre face the storm defies,

Yet in his honest bosomn lies J And thus from morn till eve he cries,- | Nor spot, nor speck, though still he cries,“Charco'! charco'!".

“Charco'! charco'!" While echo faint and far replies

And many a roguish lad replies, "Hark, O! Hark, O!"

"Ark, ho! ark, ho!" "Charco'!"-" Hark, O !"-Such cheery sounds | "Charco' !"-" Ark, ho !"-Such various sounds Attend him on his daily rounds.

Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.

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Thus all the cold and wintry day

And in a coaxing tone he cries, He labors much for little pay;

"Charco'! charco' !" Yet feels no less of happiness

And baby with a laugh replies Than many a richer man, I guess,

“Ah, go! ah, go!" When through the shades of eve he spies "Charco'!”-“Ah, go;"—while at the sounds The light of his own home, and cries, The mother's heart with gladness bounds. "Charco'! charco' !"

Then honored be the charcoal man ! And Martha from the door replies

Though dusky as an African, “Mark, ho! Mark, ho!"

'Tis not for you, that chance to be "Charco' !"_" Mark, ho!"-Such joy abounds

A little better clad than he, When he has closed his daily rounds.

His honest manhood to despise,

Although from morn till eve he cries, – The hearth is warm, the fire is bright,

“Charco'! charco' !". And while his hand, washed clean and white, While mocking echo still replies Holds Martha's tender hand once more,

"Hark, O! hark, O!" His glowing face bends fondly o'er

“Charco'! Hark, O!" Long may these sounds The crib wherein his darling lies,

| Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds !

DOW'S FLAT-1856.

F. BRET HARTE.

ASOW'S Flat. That's its name,

And I reckon that you
Are a stranger ? The same ?

Well, I thought it was true,
For thar isn't a man on the river as

can't spot the place at first view.
It was called after Dow,-

Which the same was an ass,-
And as to the how

That the thing came to pass,-
Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and
sit ye down here in the grass :
You see this yer Dow

Hed the worst kind of luck;
He slipped up somehow

On each thing that he struck.
Why, ef he'd ha' straddled that fence-rail,

the derned thing 'ed get up and buck.
He mined on the bar

Till he couldn't pay rates ;
He was smashed by a car

When he tunnelled with Bates ;
And right on the top of his trouble kem his

wife and five kids from the States.

It was rough-mighty rough;

But the boys they stood by,
And they brought him the stuff

For a house on the sly;
And the old woman-well, she did washing,
and took on when no one was nigh.
But this yer luck o' Dow's

Was so powerful mean
That the spring near his house

Dried right up on the green ;
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but
nary a drop to be seen.
Then the bar petered out,

And the boys wouldn't stay :
And the chills got about,

And his wife fell away,
But Dow in his well, kept a peggin' in his

usual ridikilous way.
One day,-it was June,

And a year ago, jest, -
This Dow kem at noon

To his work, like the rest,
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and

a Derringer hid in his breast.

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