his name.

Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with
harm,
(Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough
little farm,)
That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my
eyes,
That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there
is no appeal,
But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?
Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one;
Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is
done?

Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his
rest,
With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his
breast?
Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled
or scarred?
My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!

* * * * *

Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack
to-night,
Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in
flight;
Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is
higher than mine,
And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly
camp-fires shine.

Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide
down in the yard;
That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket
on guard.
Spirits of loving and lost ones--watch softly with Harry to-night,
For to-morrow he goes forth to battle--to arm him for Freedom and
Right!

AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.

BULWER.

The following magnificent description of perhaps the most
awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every
tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the
natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted,
pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize
the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of
desolation, and he cannot go amiss:

The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour
shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic
pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, fire, that shifted and
wavered in its hues with every moment: now fiercel