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;

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vithin, 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

Tem 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;"

hen, lower, smiling still, “It is my last ride, friends; but I

[ave 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,

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

[e 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.

"HERE 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

et 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.

But best resolves are of such feeble thread,
They may be broken in temptation's hands.
After long toil the guiltless prisoner said:
Why should I thus, and feel life's precious sands
The narrow of my glass, the present, run,
For a poor crime that I have never done?

Such questions are like cups, and hold reply; For when the chance swung wide the prisoner fled,

And gained the country road, and hastened by Brown furrowed fields and skipping brooklets, fed

By shepherd clouds, and felt 'neath sapful trees
The soft hand of the mesmerizing breeze.

Then, all that long day having eaten naught,
He at a cottage stopped, and of the wife
A brimming bowl of fragrant milk besought.
She gave it him; but as he quaffed the life,
Down her kind face he saw a single tear
Pursue its wet and sorrowful career.

Within the cot he now beheld a man

And maiden, also weeping. "Speak," said he, "And tell me of your grief; for if I can,

I will disroot the sad, tear-fruited tree."
The cotter answered: "In default of rent,
We shall to-morrow from this roof be sent."

Then said the galley slave: "Whoso returns
A prisoner escaped may feel the spur
To a right action, and deserves and earns
Proffered reward. I am a prisoner!

Bind these my arms, and drive me back my way, That your reward the price of home may pay."

Against his wish the cotter gave consent,
And at the prison-gate received his fee,
Though some made it a thing for wonderment
That one so sickly and infirm as he,

When stronger would have dared not to attack, Could capture this bold youth and bring him back.

Straightway the cotter to the mayor hied,

And told him all the story; and that lord
Was much affected, dropping gold beside
The pursed sufficient silver of reward;
Then wrote his letter in authority,
Asking to set the noble prisoner free.

There is no nobler, better life on earth
Than that of conscious, meek self-sacrifice.
Such life our Saviour, in His lowly birth
And holy work, made His sublime disguise-
Teaching this truth, still rarely understood:
"Tis sweet to suffer for another's good.

Henry Abbey.

THE SEA BREEZE AND THE SCARF.

HUNG on the casement that looked o'er the main Fluttered a scarf of blue;

And a gay, bold breeze paused to flutter and

tease

This trifle of delicate hue.