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[ From The Minstrel.] DEATH AND RESURRECTION.

Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool.

And meads, with life, and mirth, and beauty crowned?

Ah! see, the unsightly slime, and sluggish pool.

Have all the solitary vale embrowned;

Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound,

The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray.

And hark! the river bursting every mound,

Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway

Uproots the grove, and rolls the shattered rocks away.

Yet such the destiny of all on earth:

So flourishes and fades majestic man.

Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth.

And fostering gales a while the nursling fan.

(> smile, "ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,

Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime.

Nor lessen of his life the little span.

Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,

Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

And be it so. Let those deplore

their doom Whose hope still grovels in this dark

sojourn;

But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,

Can smile at Fate, and wonder how

they mourn. Shall Spring to these sad scenes no

more return'! Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal

bed?

Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,

And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,

Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,

When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?

Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,

Bid him, though doomed to perish,

hope to live? Is it for this fair Virtue oft must

strive

With disappointment, penury, and pain?

No: Heaven's immortal spring shall

yet arrive, And man's majestic beauty bloom

again,

Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant reign.

Ethel Lynn Beers.

De PICKET-GUARD.

"all quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except, now and then, a stray picket

Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing — a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost —only one of the men

Moaning out, all alone, the deathrattle."

All r|lii?t along the Potomac to-night. Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming: Ttn-Ir U"ndi, in the rays of the clear autumn union or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous Ugh, as the gentle nightwi ml

Through the forest-leaves softly is

creeping; While the stars up above, with their

glittering eyes, Keep guard — for the army is

sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,

And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, Kar away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack — his face, dink and grim, Grow, gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — For their mother—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, Thai night when the love yet unspoken,

Leaped up to his lips — when lowmurmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

he dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heartswelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree. The footstep is lagging and weary;

1 Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light. Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle—"Ah! Mary, good-by!" And the life-blood is ebbing aud plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac tonight,

No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — The picket's off duty forever!

WE Will NO THE IIADY.

"How many pounds does the baby weigh—

Baby who came but a month ago? How many pounds from the crowning curl

To the rosy point of the restless toe?"

Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot. Tenderly guides the swinging weight,

And carefully over his glasses peers To read the record, "only eight."

Softly the echo goes around:

The father laughs at the tiny girl; The fair young mother sings the words,

While grandmother smooths the golden curl.

And stooping above the precious thing.

Nestles a kiss within a prayer. Murmuring softly " Little one. Grandfather did not weigh you fair."

[blocks in formation]

An aged woman in a wintry room — Frost on the pane, without the

whirling snow — Reading old letters of her far-off

youth,

Of sorrows past and joys of long ago.

SUMMER RAIN.

O Gentle, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine,

The drooping lily pine in vain
To feel that dewy touch of thine,

To drink thy freshness once again,

O gentle, gentle summer rain!

In heat, the landscape quivering lies;

The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies

The earth looks up in vain for

thee:

For thee, for thee it looks in vain,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams,

And soften all the hills with mist; O falling dew from burning dreams. By thee shall herb and flower be kissed:

And earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle summer rain!

James Berry Bensel.

IN ARABIA.

"Choose thou between!" and to his enemy

The Arab chief a brawny hand displayed.

Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea,

Gleamed the gray scimetar's engraven blade.

"Choose thou between death at my

hand and thine! Close in my power my vengeance

1 may wreak; Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like

mine

Is noble still. Thou hast thy choosi ng — speak!''

And Ackbar stood. About him all

the band That hailed his captor chieftain.

with grave eyes. His answer waited, while that heavy

hand

Stretched like a bar between him and the skies.

Straight in the face before him Ackbar sent

A sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head;

"Strike!" and the desert monarch, as content, Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.

Then Ackbar nearer crept and lifted high

His arms toward the heaven so far and blue.

Wherein the sunset rays began to

die,—

While o'er the band a deeper silence grew.

"Strike! I am ready! Didst thou think to see A son of Ghera spill upon the dust

His noble blood? Didst hope to have my knee Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust

"The life thou hatest flee before thee here?

Shame on thee! on thy race! art

thou the one Who hast so long thy vengeance

counted dear? My hate is greater; I did strike thy

son.

"Thy one son, Noumid, dead before my face:

And by the swiftest courser of my stud

Sent to thy door his corpse. Aye, one might trace Their flight across the desert by his blood.

"Strike! for my hate is greater than thy own!" But with a frown the Arab moved away,

Walked to a distant palm and stood alone,

With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.

This for an instant: then he turned again

Toward the place where Ackbar waited still, Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain,

Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.

"Strike, for I hate thee!" Ackbar cried once more, "Nay, but my hate I cannot find!" said now

His enemy. "Thy freedom I restore. Live; life were more than death to such as thou."

So with his gift of life the Bedouin slept

That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through The purple East, and o'er his eyelids crept The long, thin fingers of the light, he drew

A heavy breath and woke: above him shone

A lifted dagger—"Yea, he gave thee life,

But I give death!" came in fierce
undertone.
And Ackbar died. It was dead
Noumid's wife.

William Blake.

THE TIGER.

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thine heart?

And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand forged thy dread feet?

What the hammer? what the

chain?

In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did He smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make

thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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