The third gate is of lead, and there sits, ever Humming her tedious tune, Monotony, Tired of herself; about her on the ground Sermons and psalms and hymns lie numerous strew'd, To the same import all, and all almost In the same words varied in form and order To cheat, if possible, the weary sense, And different seem, where difference is none. At th' opposite doorpost, on her knees, Routine Keeps turning over still the well-thumbed leaves Of the same prayer-book, reading prayers, not praying; Behind them waiting stand Conformity And Uniformity, Oneness of faith, Oneness of laws and customs, arts and manners, And Self-development's unrelenting foe, Centralization; and behind these still, Far in the portal's deepest gloom ensconced, A perfect, unimprovable Paradise Of mere, blank naught, unchangeable forever-- These, as _I_ count them, are the Gates of Sleep. THE BUGLE.--_Tennyson._ The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story; The long light shines across the lake, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going; Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and spar, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky; They faint on field, or hill, or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. A HOODISH GEM. The little snarling, caroling "babies," That break our nightly rest, Should be packed off to "Baby"-lon, To "Lapland," or to "Brest." From "Spit"-head, "Cooks" go o'er to "Greece," And while the "Miser" waits His passage to the "Guinea" coast, "Spendthrifts" are in the "Straits." "Spinsters" should to the "Needles" go, "Wine-bibbers" to "Burgundy;" "Gourmands" should lunch at "Sandwich Isles," "Wags" at the Bay of "Fun"-dy. "Bachelors" flee to the "United States," "Maids" to the "Isle of Man;" Let "Gardeners" go to "Botany" Bay, And "Shoe-blacks" to "Japan." Thus emigrate, and misplaced men Will they no longer vex us; And all who ain't provided for Had better go to "Texas." PURITY OF THE AMERICAN STRUGGLE. _By Hon. Henry Wilson. 1859._