alked within the silent city of the dead,
Which then with Autumn leaves was carpeted,
And where the faded flower and withered wreath
Bespoke the love for those who slept beneath,
And, weeping, stood beside a new-made grave
Which held the sacred dust that friendship gave.
That heart with milk of human kindness overflowed--
That sympathetic hand its generous aid bestowed
To lighten others' burdens on life's weary road!
And there no polished shaft need lift its head
In lettered eulogy above the sainted dead--
His deeds are monuments above the dust whereon we tread!
When from its fragile tenement of clay
To fairer realms his spirit winged its way,
With poignant grief we stood around the bier
Which held the lifeless form of one held dear,
And broken hearts that knew no comfort then
Still mourn the loss of one of Nature's noblemen!

TWILIGHT.

The sun is sinking where the western hills
The vision bounds with rugged summits old,
And with his latest beam he brightly gilds
And crowns with amethyst and gold.

The distant music of a tinkling bell
Is floating o'er the meadow's gentle sweep--
No discords mar the magic of the spell,
And stealthily the twilight shadows creep.

And gently falls upon the listening ear--
Like tones from voices of the long-ago--
The cadence of the murmuring waters near--
With rhythmic ripplings soft and low.

Now grow apace the shadows' slanting shapes
And fade the rugged hills to misty gray,
As dying day its calm departure takes
And yields to coming night her sable sway.

The vaulted dome above now glows afar
With many a soft and tender light,
Each sparkling gem it wears a jeweled star,
With sweet effulgence purely bright.

Sweet scene! Sweet hour! If to the heart
No quick'ning pulses they can lend,
And to the soul no rapture thus impart--
Vain were our lives--and vainer still the end!

O, such the time when he who will may feel
Release from care, vexation, toil, and strife--
And musing then will gently o'er him steal
The sweetest moments of the turmoil--life!

OUT UV "POLITICKS."

I.

"I'll tell yer what," said Uncle Zeke, down at the country store,
"I'd been a farmer all my life--fur twenty year or more--
Until one day my noddle here, it got plumb out o' fix,
Er-swellin' with the idy that I's made fur politicks.

II.

"I'd been ter hear them fellers speak, an' rip an' rant an' rave,
When 'lection time's er-comin' on, who tell