"All the picture now to me how dear!

E'en this gray old rock where I am seated Is a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah, that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!

"Old stone school-house!-it is still the same;
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game.

Old stone school-house, it is still the same.

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;
Traps and trails!

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.
"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain:
Pond and river still serenely flowing :

Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing.
Mary Jane!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

"In the cottage yonder I was born;

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat and corn; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn!

In the cottage yonder I was born.

"Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-three!

Those two gateway sycamores you see.
"There's the orchard where we used to climb

When my mates and I were boys together,

Thinking nothing of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather: Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb.

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 lifeblood 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 nevermore 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,

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.

"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,

on),

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair 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;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed,

with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk!

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,— But we 'll meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,—his grasp was childish weak

His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn;

Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON.

ONG

AY, be not angry, chide her not, Although the child hast erred, Nor bring the tears into her eyes By one ungentle word.

And when she sits beside my chair,
With face so pale and meek,
And eyes bent o'er her book, I see
The tear upon her cheek.

"But now in grief she walks alone By every garden bed."

When that sweet linnet sang, before Our summer roses died,

A sister's arm was round her neck,
A brother at her side.

But now in grief she walks alone,
By every garden bed,
That sister's clasping arm is cold,
That brother's voice is fled.

THE VOICELESS.

E count the broken lyres that rest

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,

But o'er their silent sister's breast

The wild flowers who will stoop to number?

A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy fame is proud to win them;

Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone,

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story: Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break, and give no sign,
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his cordial wine,
Slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses!
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

HERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying;
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.