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XLIII.-FARMER GRAY.

You may envy the joys o' the farmer,
An' talk o' his free, easy life;
You may sit at his bountiful table,
An' praise his industrious wife:

Ef you worked in the woods in the winter,
Or follered the furrow all day,

With a team o' unruly young oxen,

An' feet heavy-loaded with clay-
Ef you held the old plow, I'm a thinkin'
You'd sing in a different way.

You may dream o' the white-crested daisies,
An' lilies that wear such a charm;
But it gives me a heap o' hard labor
To keep 'em from spoilin' my farm;

You may picter the skies in their splendor,
The landscapes so full o' repose,

But I never git time to look at 'em,
Except when it rains or it snows;
You may sing o' the song-birds o' summer:
I'll tend to the hawks an' the crows.

You may write o' the beauties o' natur',
An' dwell on the pleasures o' toil;
But the good things we hev on our table
All hev to be dug from the soil.
An' our beautiful bright golden butter,
Perhaps you never hev learned,

Makes a pile o' hard work for the wimmin,-
It has to be cheerfully churned.

An' the cheeses, so plump in the pantry,
All hev to be lifted and turned.

When home from the hay-field, in summer, With stars gleaming over my head; When I milk by the light o' my lantern, An' wearily crawl into bed;

When I think o' the work o' the morrow,

An' worry for fear it might rain,
While I list to the roll o' the thunder,
An' hear my companion complain;
Then it seems as if life were a burden,
With leetle to hope fur or gain.

But the corn must be planted in spring-time,
The weeds must be kept from the ground,
An' the hay must be cut in the meader,
The wheat must be cradled an' bound-
Fur we are never out of employment,

Except when we lie in the bed

An' the wood must be chopped in the winter,
An' patiently piled in the shed;

An' the grain must be hauled to the market,
The stock must be watered and fed.

But the farmer depends upon only
The generous bounty o' God;
An' he always is sure o' a livin'
By turnin' an' tillin' the sod.
When his wearisome work is all over,

With conscience all spotless and clear,
He may leave the old farm-house forever

To dwell in a holier sphere;

An' the crown that he wears may be brighter,
Because o' his simple life here.

XLIV. EDMUND BURKE AND HIS SON'S HORSE.

IN the decline of Mr. Burke's life, when he was living in retirement on his farm at Beaconfield, the rumor went up to London that he had gone mad, and the fact that was stated in support of this rumor was that he went round his park kissing his cows and horses. A friend, a man of rank and influence, hearing this story, and deeming it of too much importance to be left uncorrected, hastened down to Beaconfield, and sought an interview with the view of ascertaining the truth of the rumor.

.

Mr. Burke entered into conversation with him, and read to him some chapters from his " Letters on a Regicide Peace." His friend immediately saw that though the earthly tenement was verging back to its native dust, the lamp of reason and genius shone with undiminished luster within. He was accordingly more than satisfied as to the object of his coming down, and in a private interview with Mrs. Burke told her what he had come for, and received from her this pathetic explanation:

Mr. Burke's only child, a beloved son, had not long before died, leaving behind him a favorite old horse, the companion of his excursions of business and pleasure, when both were young and vigorous. This favorite animal was turned out by Mr. Burke, the father, into the park, with directions to all his servants that he should in every respect be treated as a privileged favorite. Mr. Burke himself, of course, in his morning walks, would often stop to caress the favorite animal. On one occasion, as he was taking his morning walk through the park, he perceived the poor old animal at a distance, and noticed in turn that he was recognized by him.

The horse drew nearer and nearer to Mr. Burke, stopped, eyed him with a most pleading look of recognition, which said, as plainly as words could have said: "I have lost him, too," and then the poor dumb beast deliberately laid his head upon Mr. Burke's bosom! Struck by the singularity of the occurrence, moved by the recollection of his son, whom he had never ceased to mourn with a grief that would not be comforted, overwhelmed by the tenderness of the animal, expressed in the mute eloquence of holy Nature's universal language, the illustrious statesman for a moment lost his self-possession, and, clasping his arms around the neck of his son's favorite animal, lifted up that voice which had filled the arches of Westminster Hall with the noblest strains that ever echoed within them, and wept aloud!

This was seen and was heard by the passers-by; and the enemies of Burke, unappeased by his advancing years, by his failing health, by his domestic sorrows, made it the ground of a charge of insanity. "Burke had gone mad."

Sir, so help me heaven, if I were called upon to designate the event or the period in Burke's life that would best sustain a charge of insanity, it would not be when, in a gush of the holiest and purest feeling that ever stirred the human heart, he wept aloud on the neck of his dead son's favorite horse; but it would rather be when, at the meridian of his fame, when the orb of his imperial genius rode highest in the heavens, amidst the scoffs of cringing courtiers, and the sneers of trading patriots, he abased his glorious powers to the scramblings and squabblings of the day, and,

"Born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind."

XLV. IT NEVER PAYS.

Ir never pays to fret and growl
When fortune seems our foe;
The better bred will push ahead
And strike the heavier blow;
For luck is work,

And those who shirk
Should not lament their doom,

But yield the play,

And clear the way

That better men have room.

It never pays to wreck the health

In drudging after gain;

And he is sold who thinks that gold
Is cheapest bought with pain.

An humble lot,

A cosy cot,

Have tempted even kings
For station high,

That wealth will buy,

Not oft contentment brings.

It never pays! a blunt refrain
Well worthy of a song;

For age and youth must learn the truth,
That nothing pays that's wrong;
The good and pure

Alone are sure
To bring prolonged success;
While what is right

In Heaven's sight

Is always sure to bless.

ADVICE TO AN ADVOCATE.

BE brief, be pointed; let your matter stand

Lucid, in order, solid, and at hand;

Spend not your words on trifles, but condense;
Strike with mass of thoughts, not drops of sense;

Press to the close with vigor, once begun,

And leave (how hard the task!) leave off when done; Who draws a labored length of reasoning out,

Puts straw in lines for winds to whirl about;

Who draws a tedious tale of learning o'er,

Counts but the sands on ocean's boundless shore;
Victory, if gained, is gained by battles fought,
Not by the numbers, but the forces brought.
What boots success in skirmish or in fray,
If rout or ruin, following, close the day?

What worth a hundred posts, maintained with skill,
If, these all held, the foe is victor still?

He who would win his cause, with power must frame
Points of support, and look with steady aim;
Attack the weak, defend the strong with art,
Strike but few blows, but strike them to the heart;
All scattered fires but end in smoke and noise,-
The scorn of men, the idle play of boys.

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