he birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said,
At palace couch and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears.
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth
Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
For thou art Freedom's now and Fame's,
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine--

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE.

[From _Lecture on the Mormons_.]

Brother Kimball is a gay and festive cuss, of some seventy summers, or
some'er's there about. He has one thousand head of cattle and a
hundred head of wives. He says they are awful eaters.

Mr. Kimball had a son, a lovely young man, who was married to ten
interesting wives. But one day while he was absent from home these ten
wives went out walking with a handsome young man, which so enraged Mr.
Kimball's son--which made Mr. Kimball'a son so jealous--that he shot
himself with a horse-pistol.

The doctor who attended him--a very scientific man--informed me that
the bullet entered the parallelogram of his diaphragmatic thorax,
superinducing hemorrhage in the outer cuticle of his basilicon
thaumaturgist. It killed him. I should have thought it would.

(_Soft Music_.)

I hope this sad end will be a warning to a