On high,
their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channelled rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-walled distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down;
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing,
Of gentle breath and hue.

The fish swam by the castle wall,

And they seemed joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seemed to fly;
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled, and would fain
I had not left my recent chain;
And, when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o'er one we sought to save,
And yet my glance, too much opprest,
Had almost need of such a rest.

XIV.

It might be months, or years, or days,
I kept no count, - I took no note,
I had no hope my eyes to raise

And clear them of their dreary mote;
At last men came to set me free;

I asked not why, and recked not where; It was at length the same to me, Fettered or fetterless to be,

I learned to love despair.

And thus when they appeared at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage, and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home:
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watched them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill, - yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learned to dwell, -
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are: even I
Regained my freedom with a sigh.

BY CAROLINE NORTON.

SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood

ebbed away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might

say:

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's

hand,

And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native

land:

Take a message, and a token to some distant friends of

mine;

For I was born at Bingen, - at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was

done

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting

sun;

And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old in

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn

decline,

And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother, that her other son shall comfort her old age;

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce

and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen, calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with droop

ing head,

When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast

eye,

For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to

die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword
and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen, - dear Bingen on the Rhine.

66

'There's another, --not a sister; in the happy days

gone by

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry, - too fond for idle scorning, — O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be

risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), -
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight

shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, sweet Bingen on the Rhine.

“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard, or seemed

to hear,

The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and

clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still;