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THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK.

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H! the old clock of the household stock

Was the brightest thing and the neatest;
Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold,
And its chime

rang

still the sweetest. ’T was a monitor, too, though its words were few,

Yet they lived through nations altered ; And its voice, still strong, warned old and young When the voice of friendship faltered ; “Tick, tick," it said—"quick, quick to bed

For nine I've given warning ; Up, up and go, or else you know,

You'll never rise soon in the morning."
A friendly voice was that old, old clock,

As it stood in the corner smiling,
And blessed the time, with a merry chime,

The Wintry hours beguiling ;
But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock,

As it called at daybreak boldly,
When the dawn looked gray on the misty way,

And the early air blew coldly ;
“ Tick, tick," it said--"quick, out of bed-

For five I've given warning;
You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth,

Unless you're up soon in the morning."

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THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK.

Still hourly the sound goes round and round,

With a tone that ceases never ;
While tears are shed for the bright days fled,

And the old friends lost forever ;
Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone

That warmer beat and younger ;
Its hands still move, though hands we love

Are clasped on earth no longer!
“ Tick, tick,” it said—“to the churchyard bed-

The grave hath given warning-
Up, up and rise, and look to the skies,
And prepare for a heavenly morning."

-Christian Intelligencer.

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A LITTLE WORD.

A little word in kindness spoken,

A motion or a tear, Has often healed the heart that's broken!

And made a friend sincere.

A word--a look-has crushed to earth,

Full many a budding flower,
Which had a smile but owned its birth,

Would bless life's darkest hour.

Then deem it not an idle thing,

A pleasant word to speak; The face you wear, the thoughts you bring,

A heart may heal or break.

I SAW THEE WEEP.

GEORGE G. BYRON.

I saw thee weep-the big bright tear

Came o'er that eye of blue:
And then methought it did appear

A violet dropping dew:
I saw thee smile—the sapphire's blaze

Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays

That fill'd that glance of thine.

As clouds from yonder sun receive

A deep and mellow dye, Which scarce the shade of coming eve

Can banish from the sky, Those smiles unto the moodiest mind

Their own pure joy impart; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind,

That lightens o'er the heart.

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NAPOLEON AT REST.

J. PIERPONT.

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IS falchion flashed along the Nile,

His host he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,

His eagle-flag unrolled-and froze!

Here sleeps he now, alone!—not one,

Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son

Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind the sea-girt rock, the star

That led him on from crown to crown Has sunk, and nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his tomb: the ocean flood,

Far, far below, by storms is curled-
As round him heaved, while high he stood,

A stormy and unstable world.

Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,

That night hangs round him, and the breath

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