eralds that gleam among the waves,-those stars of ocean that mock the beauty of the stars of night?

Mountains! I know who built you.

It was God! His name is written on your foreheads. He laid your cornerstones on that glorious morning when the orchestra of heaven sounded the anthem of creation. He clothed your high, imperial forms in royal robes.

He gave you a snowy garment, and wove for you a cloudy vail of crimson and gold. He crowned you with a diadem of icy jewels; pearls from the Arctic seas; gems from the frosty pole. Mountains! ye are glorious. Ye stretch your granite arms away toward the vales of the undiscovered: ye have a longing for immortality.

But, Mountains! ye long in vain. I called you glorious, and truly ye are; but your glory is like that of the starry heavens, it shall pass away at the trumpet-blast of the angel of the Most High. And yet ye are worthy Ye were the lovers of

of a high and eloquent eulogium. the daughters of the gods; ye are the lovers of the daughters of Liberty and Religion now; and in your old and feeble age the children of the skies shall honor your bald heads.

The clouds of heaven-those shadows of Olympian power, those spectral phantoms of dead Titans-kiss your summits, as guardian angels kiss the brow of infant nobleness. On your sacred rocks I see the footprints of the Creator; I see the blazing fires of Sinai, and hear its awful voice; I see the tears of Calvary, and listen to its mighty groans.

Mountains! ye are proud and haughty things. Ye hurl defiance at the storm, the lightning, and the wind; ye look down with deep disdain upon the thunder-cloud; ye scorn the devastating tempest; ye despise the works of puny man; ye shake your rock-ribbed sides with giant laughter, when the great earthquake passes by. Ye stand as giant sentinels, and seem to say to the boisterous billows,-"Thus far shalt thou come, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed!"

Mountains! ye are growing old. Your ribs of granite are getting weak and rotten; your muscles are losing their fatness; your hoarse voices are heard only at distant intervals; your volcanic heart throbs feebly and your lava-blood is thickening, as the winters of many ages gather their chilling snows around your venerable forms. The brazen sunlight laughs in your old and wrinkled faces; the pitying moonlight nestles in your hoary locks; and the silvery starlight rests upon you like the halo of inspiration that crowned the heads of dying patriarchs and prophets. Mountains! ye must die. Old Father Time, that sexton of earth, has dug you a deep, dark tomb; and in silence ye shall sleep after sea and shore shall have been pressed by the feet of the apocalyptic angel, through the long watches of an eternal night.

THE ONE-LEGGED GOOSE.-J. R. PLANCHE.

A wealthy gentleman in Herefordshire,

Not troubled with an overplus of brains,

Like many a worthy country squire,

Whose craniums give them very little pains,
Lived quietly upon his own estate.

He was a bachelor, but whether that
Argues in favor of his understanding,
Ör militates against it, is a question
That I would wish to have no hand in,
But leave it to your cool digestion.
He ne'er perplexed his pate
With the affairs of state,

But led a calm, domesticated life,

Far from the noise of town and party strife.
He loved to smoke his pipe with jovial souls,
Prided himself upon his skill at bowls,
At which he left his neighbors in the lurch;
On Sundays, too, he always went to church
(As should each penitential sinner),
Took, during sermon-time, his usual snore,
And gave his sixpence at the door,

And then walked comfortably home to dinner.

As there are many, I dare say,

Who into such affairs have never looked,

I think I'd better mention, by the way,

That dinners, ere they're eaten, should be cooked!
At least our squire's were so before he took 'em,
And consequently he'd a cook to cook 'em.
Now, as I shall have work enough

For this most gracious queen of kitchen-stuff,
It may not be amiss to tell you that

(Of lusty beauty quite a masterpiece) This modern maid of Fat

Surpassed the famous ancient dames of Greece.
Of course, then, she had lovers plenty-
Ay, that she had, sir, nearly twenty!

But none did she so doat upon

As our squire's lusty gardener, John.

It chanced one year, as almanacs can tell,
St. Michael's day on Sunday fell;

The squire, the night before, as was his use,
Gave Peggy orders to procure a goose;

Then went to church next morning cheerfully,
And ordered dinner to be done by three.

'Twas half-past two-the cloth was laid,

Peggy the apple-sauce had made;

The bird was done, and she for master wishing; When, lo! attracted by the luscious gale,

And somewhat elevated with strong ale,

John popped into the kitchen.

"What, cookee, got a goose! well, come, that's nice! Faith, cookee, I should like to have a slice! And apple-sauce, too, there's a darling, Peg! Do take a knife, and cut me off a leg." "Cut off a leg! that would be pretty fun; What! serve it up to squire with only one?" “Ay, to be sure; why, master durstn't kill you: I'll cut it off!"-" Adone, you fool! now will you?"

What arguments he used, I cannot say;

But love, whose sceptre's all-commanding sway
Cookmaids, as well as countesses obey,

Ordained it so, that, spite of all her reasoning,
John stole the leg, with lots of sauce and seasoning.
Though Peg, poor girl! was rather vexed

At this unlooked-for, sad disaster,
She was not quite so much perplexed

As you may think: she had been used to gull
The squire, and knew the thickness of his skull;
And consequently this conclusion fell,—
They who could do a goose so well,

Would not be troubled much to do her master.

Home came the squire to the moment true,
And rang for dinner in a hurry;

She browned the mutilated side anew,
And put it on the table in a flurry.

Soon as it met his eye, the squire
Exclaimed with wonderment and ire,
"Why, see here, what do you call this, Peg?
Zounds, girl! where is the other leg?"
Peg curtsied, and replied in modest tone,
"An't please you, sir, it never had but one!"
"Only one leg! where did you buy it, pray?"
At Farmer Grains's, sir, across the way;
And if to-night, sir, you will go along with me,
I'll pledge my life that you shall see

66

A number of the farmer's geese,

Which, like this bird, have only one a-piece!"
"Well, prove it, and that alters quite the case;
But, if you don't, mind you shall lose your place."

He ate his dinner, and began to doubt it,
And grumbled most decidedly about it:

The place was brown like all the rest, he saw;
"Hang it, she surely never ate it raw!"
Evening arrives, Peg puts her bonnet on,
And with her master to the farm is gone;
With expectation big, they softly creep
Where Farmer Grains's geese are fast asleep.

Now to your recollection I would bring,

That when these pretty creatures go to roost, They draw up one leg close beneath their wing, And stand upon the other, like a post!

"There, sir,” cries Peg, "now, pray, sir, cease your pother; There, sir, there's one; and there, sir, is another!"

"Pooh! nonsense! stuff!" exclaims the squire, "now look ye St, St-there, now they've got on two legs, cookee,—" "Ay, sir," cried Peg, "had you said that at home,

Nor you, nor I, had cause to roam;

But, recollect, sir, ere you think I'm beaten,
You didn't say St, St, to the one you've eaten !"

EARTH'S ANGELS.

I never saw an angel,
Except the one in books.
I don't believe a mortal
Knows how an angel looks.
We guess at something misty,
With trailing wings of white;
With amber tresses floating,
And garments strangely bright.
But I believe earth's angels
Walk here in mortal guise,
Though we discern but faintly
Through heavy-lidded eyes.

I can remember angels

Who seemed like common folks, Who wore old-fashioned bonnets, And faded winter cloaks; Who came when dire disaster Crowned lesser home mishaps, Or tired young claimants crowded The dear maternal lap,—

With curving arms wide open

To take the weary in, With patient heart to listen To childish want or sin. What more could any angel For childish sinners do, Than listen to their story,

And bid them promise new?

I think of fireside angels,
Upon whose faded hair
There shone no crown of glory,
And yet the crown was there!
When tender love, true-hearted,
Forgave the wrong it knew;
And patient voice gave answer
The daily trials through.

Ah! me, the childish angel
Who beckons as I write,-
Perhaps I should not know him
In robes of mystic white.