Do not invoke the avenging rod,
Come here and learn the way to God;
Say to the world, farewell! farewell!"
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell.

"In after life there is no hell!"
In raptures rang a cheerful bell;
"Look up to heaven this holy day,
Where angels wait to lead the way;
There are no fires, no fiends to blight
The future life; be just and right,
No hell! no hell! no hell! no hell!"
Rang out the Universalist bell.

"Ye workers who have toiled so well,
To save the race!" said a sweet bell;
“With pledge, and badge, and banner, come,
Each brave heart beating like a drum;
Be royal men of noble deeds,

For love is holier than creeds;

Drink from the well, the well, the well!"
In rapture rang the Temperance bell.

-George W. Bungay.

EXTRACT FROM A SERMON ON THE DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Republican institutions have been vindicated in this experience as they never were before; and the whole history of the last four years, rounded up by this cruel stroke, seems, in the providence of God, to have been clothed, now, with an illustration, with a sympathy, with an aptness, and with a significance, such as we never could have expected nor imagined. God, I think, has said, by the voice of this event, to all nations of the earth: "Republican liberty, based upon true Christianity, is firm as the foundation of the globe."

Even he who now sleeps has, by this event, been clothed with new influence. Dead, he speaks to men who now willingly hear what before they refused to listen to. Now his simple and weighty words will be gathered like those of Washington,

and your children, and your children's children, shall be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep wisdom of utterances which, in their time, passed, in party heat, as idle words. Men will receive a new impulse of patriotism for his sake, and will guard with zeal the whole country which he loved so well. I swear you, on the altar of his memory, to be more faithful to the country for which he has perished. They will, as they follow his hearse, swear a new hatred to that slavery against which he warred, and which, in vanquishing him, has made him a martyr and a conqueror. I swear you, by the memory of this martyr, to hate slavery with an unappeasable hatred. They will admire and imitate the firmness of this man, his inflexible conscience for the right; and yet his gentleness, as tender as a woman's, his moderation of spirit, which not all the heat of party could inflame, nor all the jars and disturbances of this country shake out of its place. I swear you to an emulation of his justice, his moderation, and his mercy.

You I can comfort; but how can I speak to that twilight million to whom his name was as the name of an angel of God? There will be wailing in places which no minister shall be able to reach. When, in hovel and in cot, in wood and in wilderness, in the field throughout the South, the dusky children, who looked upon him as that Moses whom God sent before them to lead them out of the land of bondage, learn that he has fallen, who shall comfort them? O thou Shepherd of Israel, that didst comfort thy people of old, to thy care we commit the helpless, the long-wronged, and grieved.

And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming. Cities and states are his pall-bearers, and the cannon beats the hours with solemn progression. Dead, dead,

DEAD, he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead? Is Hampden dead? Is David dead? Is any man that ever was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, and risen in the obstructed sphere where passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life now is grafted upon the_infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly can be. Pass on, thou that hast overcome!

Your sorrows, O people, are his peace! Your bells, and bands, and muffled drums sound triumph in his ear. Wail and weep here; God makes its echo joy and triumph there. Pass on!

Four years ago, O Illinois! we took from your midst an untried man, and from among the people. We return him to you a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the nation's; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, O ye prairies!

In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty. —H. W. Beecher.

FARM-YARD SONG.

Over the hill the farm boy goes;
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in giant hand;

In the poplar-tree above the spring
The Katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone-heap darts the mink,
The swallows skim the river's brink,

And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm boy goes,

Cheerily calling

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

Farther, farther over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still—

'Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The cooling dews are falling;

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling-

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away,

Goes seeking those that have gone astray-
Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

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Now to her task the milkmaid goes;
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,
While the pleasant dews are falling;

The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes.

Soothingly calling

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So, so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes;
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed;
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;

The heavy dews are falling;

The housewife's hand has turned the lock
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;

The household sinks to deep repose;

But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling

;

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

-J. T. Trowbridge.

MODULATION.

'Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear,
"Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
When desperate heroes grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,
The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
That voice all modes of passion can express
Which marks the proper words with proper stress;
But none emphatic can that speaker call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some, o'er the tongue the labored measures roll,
Slow and deliberate as the parting toll;

Point every stop, mark every pause so strong,
Their words, like stage processions, stalk along.

All affectation but creates disgust;

And e'en in speaking, we may seem too just.
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to prose;
Repeating what the poet sets not down,
The verb disjointing from its favorite noun,
While pause and break, and repetition join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill the allotted scene
With lifeless drawls, insipid and serene;
While others thunder every couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft, and finer strokes are shown
In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone;
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he who, swollen with impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage.

He who, in earnest, studies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all

In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A single look more marks the internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthened Oh!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes;
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions, all the soul is there.—Lloyd.

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