GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.

FROM FARM BALLADS.

I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've been true;

But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man than you."

'VE worked in the field all
day, a-ploughin' the
"stony streak;'
I've scolded my team till
I'm hoarse; I've tramp-
ed till my legs are weak; A

I've choked a dozen swears
(so's not to tell Jane
fibs)

han'somer man than me!
ain't much to say;

Why, that

There's han'somer men than me go past here every day.

When the plough-p'int struck There's han'somer men than me--I ain't of

a stone and the handles
punched my ribs.

the han'some kind;
But a lovin'er man than I was I

never find.

Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is As sure as the world goes on, there'll come gone astray!

a time when she

The letter it says, "Good-bye, for I'm a-go- Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man than me;

ing away;

And there'll be a time when he will find, as | Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my

And here are her weekday shoes, and there is her weekday hat,

And yonder's her weddin'-gown: I wonder she didn't take that.

'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me her" dearest dear,'

And said I was makin' for her a regular paradise here;

O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,

Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!

Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.

You've lost a worshipper here, you've crushed
a lovin' heart.

I'll worship no woman again; but I guess
I'll learn to pray,

And kneel as you used to kneel before you

run away.

And if I thought I could bring my words on
Heaven to bear,

And if I thought I had some little influence
there,

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,

I'll take my hard words back, nor make a As happy and gay as I was a half an hour

bad matter worse;

She'll have trouble enough; she shall not have

my curse;

ago.

JANE (entering).

But I'll live a life so square-and I well Why, John, what a litter here! you've know that I canthrown things all around!

That she always will sorry be that she went Come, what's the matter now? and what've

with that han'somer man.

you lost or found?

And here's my father here, a-waiting for A race of slaves; he sets, and his last beam
supper, too;
Falls on a slave. Not such as, swept along
I've been a-riding with him he's that han'- By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
somer man than you.-
To crimson glory and undying fame,
But base, ignoble slaves-slaves to a horde

Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords
Rich in some dozen paltry villages,

kettle on,

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great In that strange spell a name. Each hour dark fraud

dear old John.—

Come,

Why, John, you look so strange!
what has crossed your track?
I was only a-joking, you know; I'm willing
to take it back.

JOHN (aside).

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter cream!

Or open rapine or protected murder
Cries out against them. But this very day
An honest man, my neighbor-there he
stands-

Was struck-struck like a dog-by one who

wore

The badge of Ursini, because, forsooth,

It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty tick- He tossed not high his ready cap in air
lish dream;
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts
And I think she "smells a rat," for she At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash

smiles at me so queer;

I hope she don't! Good Lord! I hope that they didn't hear !

not

The stain away in blood? Such shames are

common.

'Twas one of her practical drives-she I have known deeper wrongs-I, that speak thought I'd understand!

to ye:

But I'll never break sod again till I get the I had a brother once, a gracious boy
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,

lay of the land.

But one thing's settled with me-to appre- Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look Of heaven upon his face which limners give

ciate heaven well,

'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen To the beloved disciple. How I loved minutes of hell.

WILL CARLETON.

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.

FRIENDS,

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights

Have ye brave sons?
brave sons? Look in the next | Thou hast strewn the lordly palace
fierce brawl
In ruin o'er the ground,

To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? And the dismal screech of the owl is heard
Look
Where the harp was wont to sound;

To see them live, torn from your arms, But the selfsame spot thou coverest

distained,

Dishonored!

With the dwellings of the poor, dare call for jus- And a thousand happy hearts enjoy What one usurped before.

And if ye

tice, Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome, That sat on her seven hills and from her

throne

'Tis true thy progress layeth

Full many a loved one low,

Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are And for the brave and beautiful

Romans!

Why, in that elder day to be a Roman
Was greater than a king. And once again-
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus !-once again, I swear,
The Eternal City shall be free!

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Thou hast caused our tears to flow;
But always near the couch of Death

Nor thou nor we can stay,
And the breath of thy departing wing
Dries all our tears away.

WILLIAM H. TIMROD.

TIME, THE OLD TRAVELLER.

THEY slander thee, old Traveller,
Who say that thy delight
Is to scatter ruin far and wide

In thy wantonness of might;
For not a leaf that falleth

Before thy restless wings
But in thy flight thou changest
To a thousand brighter things.

Thou passest o'er the battle-field

Where the dead lie stiff and stark,
Where naught is heard save the vulture'sscream
And the gaunt wolf's famished bark ;
But thou hast caused the grain to spring
From the blood-enriched clay,
And the waving corn-tops seem to dance
To the rustic's merry lay.

THE PAINTER.

LEST men suspect your tale untrue,

Keep probability in view;

The traveller leaping o'er those bounds
The credit of his book confounds.
Who with his tongue hath armies routed
Makes even his real courage doubted,
But flattery never seems absurd:
The flattered always takes your word;
Impossibilities seem just;

They take the strongest praise on trust;
Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.

So very like a painter drew
That every eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just the life itself was there.
No flattery with his colors laid
To bloom restored the faded maid;