A SUNNIT TO THE BIG OX.

COMPOSED WHILE STANDING WITHIN 2 FEET OF HIM, AND A
TUCHIN' OF HIM NOW AND THEN.

All hale! thou mighty annimil— all hale!
You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty wel
Perporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit!
I wonder how big you was wen you

Wos little, and if yure muther wud no you now
That you've grone so long, and thick, and phat;
Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspring
And his kaff; thou elefanteen quodrupid!
I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big,
And if you grode it in a month or so.
I spose wen you wos young tha didn't gin
You skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuff
Into your little stummick, jest to see

How big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubt
Fed you on otes and ha and sich like,
With perhaps an occasional punkin or squosh;
In all probability yu don't no yure enny
Bigger than a small kaff; for if you did,
Yude brake down fences and switch your tail,
And rush around, and hook, and beller,
And run over fowkes, thou orful beast!
Oh, what a lot of mince pize yude maik,
And sassengers! and your tale,-
Whitch kan't wa fur from phorty pounds,-
Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop;
And cudn't a heep of stakes be cut oph yu,
Whitch, with salt and pepper and termater
Ketchup, wouldn't be bad to taik.

Thou grate and glorious inseckt!

But I must close, O most prodijus reptile!
And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di,
I'le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes,
Pernouncin' yu the largest of yure race;
And as I don't expect to have a half a dollar
Agin to spare for to pay to look at yu, and as
I ain't a ded head, I will sa, FAREWELL.

t

HERVÉ RIEL.-ROBERT BROWNING.

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,-woe to France!

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks

pursue,

Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.

"Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;

Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;

And they signalled to the place,
"Help the winners of a race!

Get us guidance, give as harbor, take us quick,—or, quicker still,

Here's the English can and will!"

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board.

"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they;

"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,

Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside?

Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!"

Then was called a council straight;

Brief and bitter the debate:

"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take

in tow

All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound?

Better run the ships aground!”

(Ended Damfreville his speech.)

"Not a minute more to wait! Let the captains all and each

Shove shore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France ust undergo her fate."

Was ever spoke or heard;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these, A captain? A lieutenant? A mate,-first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet

With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,

A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel;

Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell

"Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disem bogues?

Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day,

Have I piloted your bay,

Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.

Burn the fleet, and ruin France?

fifty Hogues!

That were worse than

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's a way!

Only let me lead the line,

Have the biggest ship to steer,

Get this Formidable clear,

Make the others follow mine,

And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well,

Right to Solidor, past Greve,

And there lay them safe and sound;

And if one ship misbehave,

Keel so much as grate the ground,

Why, I've nothing but my life; here's my head!” cries Hervé Riel.

Not a minute more to wait.

"Steer us in, then, small and great!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief.

Captains, give the sailor place!

He is Admiral, in brief.

Still the north-wind, by God's grace.

See the noble fellow's face

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's

profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock.

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground.

Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see, is past,

All are harbored to the last;

And just as Hervé Riel hallóos "Anchor!"-sure as fate,
Up the English come, too late.

So the storm subsides to calm;

They see the green trees wave

On the heights o'erlooking Greve:

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

"Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance

As they cannonade away!

Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!” How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! Outburst all with one accord,

"This is Paradise for Hell!

Let France, let France's King

Thank the man that did the thing!”

What a shout, and all one word,

"Hervé Riel,"

As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard:
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the king his ships,
You must name your own reward.
Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,

Since on board the duty's done,

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?

Since 'tis ask and have I may,

Since the others go ashore,Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"

That he asked, and that he got,-nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost;

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.

Go to Paris; rank on rank

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank;

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse,

Hervé Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Hervé Kiel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore.

THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED.-J. D. ROBINSON.

I am all alone in my chamber now,
And the midnight hour is near,

And the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick
Are the only sounds I hear;

And over my soul, in its solitude,

Sweet feelings of sadness glide;

For my heart and my eyes are full, when I think
Of the little boy that died.

I went one night to my father's house-
Went home to the dear ones all,-
And softly I opened the garden gate,
And softly the door of the hall;