I seemed to bring her with me too, that once had been so dear.

I love these mountain summits, where the world is in the sky,

For she is in it too,-my love!-and so I bring her nigh."

Next week I rode with Jem again. The coach was full, that day,

And there were little children there, that pleased us with their play.

A sweet-faced mother brought her pair of rosy, bright-eyed girls,

And boy like one I left at home, with silken yellow curls.

We took fresh horses at Girard's, and as he led them out

A vicious pair they seemed to me-I heard the hostler shout:

"You always want good horses, Jem! Now you shall have your way.

Try these new beauties, for we sold your old team yesterday."

O'er clean-cut limb and sloping flank, arched neck and tossing head,

I marked Jem run his practised eye, though not a word he said;

Yet, as he clambered to his seat, and took the reins once more,

I saw a look upon his face it had not worn before.

The hostler open flung the gates. "Now, Tempest, show your pace,"

He cried, and with a careless hand he struck the leader's face.

The horse, beneath the sportive blow, reared as if poison-stung;

And, with his panic-stricken mates, to a mad gallop sprung.

We thundered through the gate, and out upon the stony road;

From side to side the great coach lurched, with all its priceless load:

Some cried aloud for help, and some, with terrorfrozen tongue,

Clung, bruised and faint in every limb, the weaker to the strong.

And men who oft had looked on death, unblanched, by flood or field,

When every nerve to do and dare by agony was steeled,

Now moaned aloud, or gnashed their teeth in helpless rage,

To die, at whim of maddened brutes, like vermin in a cage!

Too well, alas! too well I knew the awful way we went,

The little stretch of level road, and then the steep descent;

The boiling stream that seethed and roared far down the rocky ridge,

With death, like old Horatius, grim waiting at the bridge!

But, suddenly, above the din, a voice rang loud and clear;

We knew it well, the driver's voice,-without one note of fear;

Some strong, swift angel's lips might thrill with such a clarion cry,

The voice of one who put for aye all earthly passion by :

"Still! for your lives, and listen! See yon farmhouse by the way,

And piled along the field in front the shocks of new-mown hay.

God help me turn my horses there! And when I give the word,

Leap on the hay! Pray, every soul, to Him who Israel heard!"

Within, the coach was still. "Tis strange, but never till I die

Shall I forget the fields that day, the color of the

sky,

The summer breeze that brought the first sweet' perfume of the hay,

The bobolink that in the grass would sing his life away.

One breathless moment bridged the space that lay between, and then

Jem drew upon the straining reins, with all the strength of ten.

"Hold fast the babes!" More close I clasped the fair boy at my side.

"Let every nerve be steady now!" and "Jump for life!" he cried.

Sayed, every soul! Oh! dizzy-sweet life rushed in every vein,

To us who from that fragrant bed rose up to hope

again!

But, 'mid the smiles and grateful tears that mingled on each cheek,

A sudden questioning horror grew, that none would dare to speak.

Too soon the answer struck our ears! One moment's hollow roar

Of flying hoofs upon the bridge-an awful crash that tore

The very air in twain-and then, through all the world grown still,

I only heard the bobolink go singing at his will.

I was the first man down the cliff. There's little left to tell.

We found him lying, breathing yet and conscious, where he fell.

The question in his eager eyes, I answered with a word,

"Safe!" Then he smiled, and whispered low some words I scarcely heard.

We would have raised him, but his lips grew white with agony.

"Not yet; it will be over soon," he whispered. "Wait with me;

Then, lower, smiling still, "It is my last ride, friends; but I

Have done my duty, and God knows I do not fear to die.”

He closed his eyes. We watched his life slip, like an ebbing tide,

Far out upon the infinite, where all our hopes abide.

He spoke but once again, a name not meant for mortal ears,

"My Rose!" She must have heard that call, amid the singing spheres!

Mary A. P. Stansbury.

THE GALLEY SLAVE.

THERE lived in France, in days not long now dead, A farmer's sons, twin brothers, like in face;

And one was taken in the other's stead

For a small theft, and sentenced in disgrace
To serve for years a hated galley slave-
Yet said no word, his prized good name to save.

Trusting remoter days would be more blessed,
He set his will to wear the verdict out,
And knew most men are prisoners at best,
Who some strong habit ever drag about,
Like chain and ball; then meekly prayed that he
Rather the prisoner he was should be.