EXTRACT FROM HON. DANIEL S. DICKINSON'S SPEECH AT UNION SQUARE, N. Y., April 20, 1861.

There is no time for hesitahaste and excitement.

WE are called upon to act. tion or indecision-no time for It is a time when the people should rise in the majesty of their might, stretch forth their strong arm and silence the angry waves of tumult. It is time the people should command peace. It is a question between union and anarchy-between law and disorder. All politics for the time being are and should be committed to the resurrection of the grave. The question should be, "Our country, our whole country, and nothing but the country.

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""Tis not the whole of life to live,

Nor all of death to die."

We should go forward in a manner becoming a great people. But six months since, the material elements of our country were never greater. To-day, by the fiat of madness, we are plunged in distress and threatened with political ruin, anarchy and annihilation. It becomes us to stay the hands of this spirit of disunion. While I would prosecute this war in a manner becoming a civilized and a Christian people, I would do so in no vindictive spirit. I would do it as Brutus set the signet to the death-warrant of his son-"Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free." I love my country; I love this Union. It was the first vision of my early years; it is the last ambition of my public life. Upon its altar I have surrendered my choicest hopes. I had fondly hoped that in approaching age it was to beguile my solitary hours, and I will stand by it as long as there is a Union to stand by; and when the ship of the Union shall crack and groan, when the skies lower and threaten, when the lightnings flash, the thunders roar, the storms beat and the waves run mountain-high, if the ship of State goes down, and the Union perishes, I would rather perish with it than survive its destruction.

THE BELLS.-Edgar A. Poe.

HEAR the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells-

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor,
Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar !
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.

And the people-ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells—
Of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells,

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

WOUNDED.-By Rev. William E. Miller.
LET me lie down

Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:
Let me lie down.

"Oh, it was grand!

Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share;
The tempest,-its fury and thunder were there:
On, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and dead,
With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead:
Oh, it was grand!

Weary and faint,

Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest,
With this shot-shatter'd head and sabre-pierced breast?
Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought,
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,
Wounded and faint.

Oh, that last charge!

Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell,
Through without faltering,-clear through with a yell!
Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom,
Like heroes we dash'd, at the mandate of doom!
Oh, that last charge!

It was duty!

Some things are worthless, and some others so good
That nations who buy them pay only in blood.
For Freedom and Union each man owes his part;
And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart:
It is duty.

Dying at last!

My mother, dear mother! with meek tearful eye,
Farewell! and God bless you, for ever and aye!
Oh that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest!
Dying at last!

I am no saint;

But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,
"Our Father," and then says, "Forgive us our sins:"
Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, "Amen!"
Ah! I'm no saint!

Hark! there's a shout!

Raise me up, comrades! We have conquer'd, I know!—
Up, on my feet, with my face to the foel
Ah! there flies the flag, with its star-spangles bright,
The promise of glory, the symbol of right!
Well may they shout!

I'm muster'd out.

O God of our fathers, our freedom prolong,
And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong
O land of earth's hope, on thy blood-redden'd sod
I die for the nation, the Union, and God!
I'm muster'd out.

THE FARMER'S BLUNDER.

A FARMER once to London went,
To pay the worthy squire his rent.
He comes, he knocks; soon entrance gains,―
Who at the door such guest detains?
Forth struts the squire, exceeding smart-
Farmer, you're welcome to my heart;

You've brought my rent, then, to a hair!

The best of tenants, I declare!"

The steward's called, the accounts made even;-
The money paid, the receipt was given.
"Well," said the squire, "now, you shall stay,
And dine with me, old friend, to-day;
I've here some ladies, wondrous pretty,
And pleasant sparks, too, who will fit ye."
Hob scratched his ears, and held his hat,
And said "No, zur; two words to that;
For look, d'ye zee, when I'ze to dine
With gentlefolks, zo cruel fine,
I'ze use to make,-and 'tis no wonder,-
In word or deed, some plag'y blunder
Zo, if your honor will permit,
I'll with your zarvants pick a bit."
"Poh!" says the squire, "it sha'n't be done;"
And to the parlor pushed him on.
To all around he nods and scrapes;
Not waiting-maid or butler 'scapes;