The solemn joy of her heart's release
To own and cherish its love in peace.

"Dearest!" she whispered, under breath,
"Life was a lie, but true is death.

The love I hid from myself away
Shall crown me now in the light of day.

My ears shall never to wooer list,
Never by lover my lips be kissed.

Sacred to thee am I henceforth,
Thou in heaven and I on earth."

She came and stood by her sister's bed: "Hall of the Heron is dead!" she said.

“The wind and the waves their work have done, We shall see him no more beneath the sun.

Little will reck that heart of thine;

It loved him not with a love like mine.

I, for his sake, were he but here,"

Could hem and 'broider thy bridal gear,

Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet,
And stitch for stitch in my heart be set.

But now my soul with his soul I wed;

Thine the living, and mine the dead!"

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

FARM-YARD SONG.

OVER the hill the farm boy goes,
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a 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 farmer 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 plough;
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,
66 Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

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 hands 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!"

THE FORTUNE HUNTER.

Two village friends who chanced to meet
One morning in the public street,

When each had kindly hailed the other

With "How d'ye do?" and "How's your mother?" And "Shall we have a change of weather?"

Fell into grave discourse together

About Dame Fortune. One declared

His purpose,

- should his life be spared,

To seek the lady far and wide,

Until he found her. "Faith!" replied
The other, "Seek her if you choose;
For me, I'd rather save my shoes
For work at home. Perhaps she may

(Who knows?) come here some pleasant day?" Unmoved to hear his neighbor scoff,

That very day the man set off

In quest of Fortune.

"Sure the court

Must be her favorite resort,"
The fellow said unto himself;
"And there, the seat of power and pelf, -
I'll first inquire." With this intent,
Straight to the Capitol he went,
Assumed the manners of the throng,
He praised the monarch, right or wrong,

As fashion bade, talked, dressed, and danced,
But not a whit his aim advanced;

For, though he'd heard of some who'd seen
(Or said they had) the fickle queen,
Still, to his sorrow and surprise,
She never blessed his longing eyes.
"Good lack!" he cried, "tis very clear
I waste my time in loitering here."
And so, reflecting long, the man
Set sail, at last, for Indostan ;
For there, according to report,
Dame Fortune held perpetual court.
Now, having braved the ocean's storms,
And pallid Death in hideous forms
Of shipwreck, pirates, and a host
Of perils on a foreign coast,
They told him on the Indian shore
The same old tale he'd heard before, -
Some favorites of Fortune might
Have had, perhaps, a transient sight
Of her whom he so fondly sought,
But seeking there would come to naught:
They bade him go to China, — there
She flourished bravely everywhere.
To China, then, our tourist goes,
Though pains and perils thick oppose,
Still seeking Fortune. All in vain:
No glimpse of her could he obtain.
The pigtails all informed the man
He'd better go to Indostan ;
For there, if anywhere, they thought
The dame resided whom he sought.
Disgusted thus again to hear

The tail that cost his purse so dear,
And weary with the foolish quest
That gave him neither wealth nor rest,
He hastened home, and gazing round,
With joy to see his native ground,
Straight to his friend's abode he flies:
And there (could he believe his eyes?)
She whom he sought in vain before
Sat smiling at his neighbor's door!"

JOHN G. Saxe.

CURING A COLD.

friend told me to go to bed. I did get up and take Within the hour

THE first time that I began to sneeze, a go and bathe my feet in hot water, and So. Shortly after, a friend told me to a cold shower-bath. I did that also. another friend told me it was policy to feed a cold, and starve a fever. I had both; so I thought it best to fill up for the cold, and let the fever starve a while. In a case of this kind I seldom do things by halves: I ate pretty heartily. I conferred my custom upon a stranger who had just opened a restaurant on Cortland Street, near the hotel, that morning, paying him so much for a full meal. He waited near me in respectful silence until I had finished feeding my cold, when he inquired whether people about New York were much afflicted with colds. I told him I thought they were. He then went out and took in his sign. I started up toward the office, and on the walk encountered another bosom friend, who told me that a quart of warm salt-water would come as near curing a cold as any thing in the world. I hardly thought I had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The result was surprising. I believe I threw up my immortal soul. Now, as I give my experience only for the benefit of those of your friends who are troubled with this distemper, I feel that they will see the propriety of my cautioning them against following such portions of it as proved inefficient with me; and acting upon this conviction I warn them against warm salt-water. It may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is rather too severe. If I had another cold in the head, and there was no course left me,- to take either an earthquake or a quart of warm salt-water, I would take my chances on the earthquake. After this, everybody in the hotel became interested; and I took all sorts of remedies, hot lemonade, cold lemonade, pepper-tea, boneset, stewed Quaker, hoarhound sirup, onions and loaf-sugar, lemons and brown sugar, vinegar and laudanum, five bottles fir balsam, eight bottles cherry pectoral, and ten bottles of Uncle Sam's remedy; but all without effect. One of the prescriptions given by an old lady was—well, it was dreadful. She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, catnip, peppermint, aquafortis, turpentine, kerosene, and various other drugs, and instructed me to take a wineglassful of it every