NUMBER TEN.

BY THE ALMA RIVER.-MISS MULOCK.

Willie, fold your little hands;

toy;

Let it drop, that "soldier"
Look where father's picture stands,-
Father, who here kissed his boy
Not two months since,-father kind,
Who this night may-
Never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear,
Call aloud that He may hear
Who is God of battles; say,
"Oh, keep father safe this day
By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,
Right of nations, or of creed,

Chance-poised victory's bloody work
Any flag i' the wind may roll
On thy heights, Sebastopol;
Willie, all to you and me

Is that spot, where'er it be,

Where he stands-no other word!
Stands: God sure the child's prayer heard
By the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells

Ringing through the town to-day: That's for victory. Ah, no knells

For the many swept away,

Hundreds, thousands! Let us weep,
We who need not,-just to keep
Reason steady in my brain

Till the morning comes again,

Till the third dread morning tell

Who they were that fought and fell
By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child;
Poor the bed is, poor and hard:
Yet thy father, far exiled,

Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries-Willie, mark-
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side

By the Alma River.

Willie, Willie, go to sleep,

God will keep us, O my boy!
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes- Child, say thy prayer
Once again, a different one:
Say, "O God, thy will be done
By the Alma River!"

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.-J. G. WHITTIER.

Look on him!--through his dungeon grate
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late.
As if it loathed the sight.

Reclining on his strawy bed,

His hand upholds his drooping head-
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, disheveled locks of snow.
No grateful fire before him glows,
And yet the winter's breath is chill;
And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague thrill!
Silent, save ever and anon,

A sound, half murmur and half groan,
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip;
Oh, sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age chained and desolate!

Just God! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison bed,
Whose eye-balls, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him, fierce and red;

And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,

And, or in wakefulness or sleep,

Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson with murder, touches him.

What has the gray-haired prisoner done?
Has murder stained his hands with gore?

Not so; his crime's a fouler one;
GOD MADE THE OLD MAN POOR!
For this he shares a felon's cell-
The fittest earthly type of hell!

For this, the boon for which he poured
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost,-
His blood-gained liberty is lost!

And so, for such a place of rest,

Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest, And Saratoga's plain?

Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars;
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument upreared to thee-
Piled granite and a prison cell,—
The land repays thy service well!
Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,
And fling the starry banner out;
Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones
Give back their cradle-shout:
Let boastful eloquence declaim
Of honor, liberty, and fame;
Still let the poet's strain be heard,
With glory for each second word,
And every thing with breath agree
To praise "our glorious liberty!"
But when the patron cannon jars
That prison's cold and gloomy wall,
And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind and fall-
Think ye that prisoner's aged ear
Rejoices in the general cheer?
Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry?

Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb,

What is your carnival to him?

Down with the LAW that binds him thus!
Unworthy freemen, let it find
No refuge from the withering curse
Of God and human kind!
Open the prison's living tomb,
And usher from its brooding gloom
The victims of your savage code,
To the free sun and air of God;
No longer dare as crime to brand
The chastening of the Almighty's hand.

PULPIT ORATORY.-DANIEL DOUGHERTY.

The daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judg ment, but to touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the armory of the feelings the weapons with which to defend against sin, assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. And oh, now infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this armory! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a master!

Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the boundless world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man-all his temptations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awake amid the glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. He can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer and his apostate legions; in letting loose the mighty waters until they swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the coming of that awful day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic voices tuned in celes

tial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never consumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of contrition start and stream from every eye; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as Felix quailed before St. Paul.

SIGNS AND OMENS.

An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.

'Vell, I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don't pelieve everydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sits und reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say,—

"Fritz, de dog ish howling!'

"Vell I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine baper, und mine frau she say,

"Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,-der dog ish howling!'

"Und den I gets hup mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin, und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up und down like everydings, und he park at de moon, dat vash shine so bright ash never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say,Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish some pad ish happen. De dog ish howling!'

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'Vell, I goes to ped, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn,

"Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen. De dog vas howl all night.'

"Und shoost den de newsbaper come in, und I opens him, und by shings, vot you dinks! dere vas a man died in Philadelphia!"